#winter 2024

John’s shoulders drop as the door closes softly behind him. He lets out a long sigh, and he would never let you know, but he’s very worried about you. He knows you will likely be alright, and he’s doing his best to be there for you. Still, he’s never had to care for another person like this. Sure, he could patch you up, any wound or scrap or cut, but not many people in his life have been just plain sick. It was a strange feeling. He knows that all he can do is keep you hydrated, administer medications, and let you get lots of rest, but somehow the waiting game of seeing if you’ll be alright is killing him. He closes his eyes, not getting a lot of rest himself as he’s been up watching over you all night and leans against the wall for a moment, before pushing off and heading to the kitchen.

Soon, he returns to the room, a tray of soup and tea and assortments that he thought you might like in one hand. John gently opens the door with his freehand, the other balancing the tray precisely and his dark eyes gaze across the still room, his lavish home and bed hiding you in a million different blankets that you requested when your chills got too bad earlier. You don’t stir as he enters the room. John carefully pads across to you, setting the tray down next to the bedside, and softly pulling back one of the covers you’ve cocooned yourself with.

Your breathing is slow, rhythmic, through your mouth since your nose is so stuffed up. He can hear a low rattle from your lungs, a sound that makes his brows furrow deeper, and his worry gather. You cough for a moment there, and he sighs. He doesn’t like the sound of this at all, but he’s utterly helpless. He’s had you examined by the best doctor he knows, and been assured it’s just a common cold, and that it will pass, but he hates seeing you have to go through this.

The Babayaga has found something that he cannot simply kill.

Something he cannot take over with violence, but instead requires a gentle hand.

A new territory for him, all this love, all this kindness.

All he can do now is try his best not to wake you, as he knows how much you need your rest, while he sits down next to you on the bed. The tea and soup give soft flutters of steam as they cool, and John doesn’t mind having to remake whatever it is you desire when you wake up. The back of his hand flits against your forehead, as light as a butterfly's wing, and he wonders if your head is hot, or his hands are just cold. He’s not sure he has the instinct for knowing such things.

You stir just a moment as he touches you, and John freezes, before you mumble something. He worries you have some request that he’s not fulfilling so he leans his ear in closer to you.

“John…?” You say weakly, barely awake.

“Yes, my dear?” His voice brushes against your cheek cool and sweet.

“Will you hold me?”

In calculated, but soft movements, John gently eases himself next to you, wrapping his arms around you until you’re completely safe and sound there.