Chapter Text
Pollen in the air danced around in the waning sun's light like glittering promises of a season's change, like sparkling magic atoms from the close surface of a glow pathbut in the sky instead. The earliest signs of lightly-laden mold spores from fresh-fallen leaves, sat out just long enough to begin their decomposition under autumn's guidance, drifted through the breeze, adding to the eye-watering mix. Her eyes were puffy and her nose ran, sniffling droplets into the crook of her arm; fall was here.
Lethargically placing the back of one hand, fingertips slightly cooled (a sign of the changing season, crisp air reigning over core temperatures or simply a lack of circulation perhaps), across her warm forehead, she grimaces. Her self-suspected fever has most certainly not gone down; at this rate, she will have to take something for fear of her mild headache developing into a full migraine should it progress any further. Eyes downcast toward the ready-to-be-picked herbs in front of her as she ponders, slowly, thoughts like sticky molasses as the world sways around her, she barely notices the footsteps rustling in the grass beyond the atelier's little garden nearby.
The voice she knows best, gentle the same way riverbank-smoothed stone is, gruff but tender, reaches through her allergy-induced stupor. Quietly, he is trying and can tell she needs him to be, it calls to her.
"Oi, headache getting worse, love?"
Olruggio's voice soothes almost immediately, an unconscious response ingrained into her after years of finding safety and solace and love in the man beside her (and returning it to him tenfold, as friends and lovers and partners oft do) letting her drop her shoulders slightly and take a deeper breath. He stands beside her, tilting ever so slightly over her crouched form to lightly guide her by her shoulders upward and leaning her against his own. Making a sound, lazy and shrill in the back of her throat, to voice her displeasure at being jostled however softly, he shushes her gently.
Leading her back toward the atelier, back toward hia own dark workshop and its waiting bed and quietness (passing by Qifrey who decides to let him handle it while he finishes making dinner in the kitchen, sure to catch up to the tired pair later when he is done), does not take long. Steps evenly matched and in pace with each other after working together and loving each other for so many years has made them efficient in this sort of endeavor; if not him helping her, then in her helping him, as they both take care of the other frequently. Today seems as though it is his turn to take care of her, although they do not keep track (this is love, not favors, and they both treasure that; it extends to all three of them in their home, really), and a balanced and light aromatic incense that Qifrey once left here soon wafts through the room, spread by the evening breeze trickling through the small windows above.
She coughs through the mucus as he lays her down on the bed, attempting yet again to get her to rest (they bicker about this frequently, more than anything else in truth, both would benefit from more frequent rests but neither, never either, will truly give in; there is too much good to be done in the world that will not wait, and they are, both at their cores, desperate to do good, to help; Qifrey is just as bad, but chagrins them both the same, they will get him to rest with them one of these days). Soothing her when she shifts, trying to get comfortable after accepting the blunt truth of the matter (that she must rest; the body will always try to return itself to better functioning, sometimes too much, sometimes too little, but it will always make its demands known sooner or later), Olruggio hums a small tune that makes her eyelids begin to flutter shut.
Falling asleep to the sound of his voice, his hand carding through her hair, caressing the most tender points of her scalp in calming circles and intricate patterns meant to ease her pain, she drifts. He places something cool and soft on her forehead, although she cannot really distinguish the finer details at the moment, and her fever begins to break soon after. Dreaming of everything and nothing, floating in the waves of a wispy breeze of half-consciousness that illness tends to bring, she hears him chuckle when her hand clutches at his attire, instinctively seeking to pull him closer to her own body. Seeking safety and solace and love, the things he brings her, the things she brings him, she continues to rouse and toss and turn through the clinging vestiges of sleep.
Taking her hand in his, as he lays beside her to prevent her from falling off of the bed in her stupor (and because he is a professional with a history that forbids him from walking away from a friend so close to his heart, ever, always, even if some days he cannot remember the finer details) he switches his focus from her head to her hands. A simple massage to the tender muscles of her fingers and palms and wrists makes her groan as she blearily blinks, half-awake. Their eyes meet.
"Shh, now. Easy, hush. You're alright, back to sleep with you."
And she does, slipping back into a dream (this one or that one, the one she lives in or the ones she visits, who is to say) as he carefully works out the worst of the tension between her joints. The incense in the room lightens the air in a such a way that she can breathe better, deeper, easier, as he continues. His own hands are beginning to get stiff, he notes, when he is nearly done with his methodical task, and he mentally reminds himself to take something for it later.
Snoring lightly, the wheezy sort of an allergy flare-up given earnest sound, she is out cold next to him still and he chuckles a light note to himself over it. Shaking his head slightly and gently removing his cap, setting it with a light thunk against the bedside stoo nearby for just this purpose, he tucks himself in ever closer beside her; sleep beckons. Sleep calls them both, together. With her breathing easier, a content smile on her lips as she dozes, he finds himself capable of relaxing for the time being. Intent on spending time with her while he is able, no more crafting or instructing for the day or errands to run when he is like this with her, he too, drifts off.
Qifrey smiles fondly when he finds them, after dinner is portioned and packaged away carefully for later, spells to reheat it left close nearby, before deciding to join them afterall.
They both reach for him on instinct in their deep slumber, and he, too, finds himself well and truly rested come next morning. The pollen outside continues to fall.