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He startled when the soft blossoms bounced off his face and tumbled into his hair. He sighed, eyes still shut, as his heart slowed to a canter. A gently pungent, musty scent, a whispered apology.
He felt for the stalk, feather-like leaves catching too painfully on individual strands of his hair as he fought to ignore the fatigue and the dim light burning closed eyes. He didn’t need to open them to know it was yarrow, fuzzy and sun-warmed, drawing the soft petals over his lips and rolling the frayed stem between his fingertips. Angel flower, dog’s daisy, the devil’s mustard, or otherwise, it didn’t matter, their supplies and medicines had long run dry, expired, burned and abandoned, along with their hill-top sanctuary, friends and foes alike long gone, quiet and hunger and grief gnawing their guts and nipping their heels.
He heard Daryl quietly setting a pot on the hot plate, the burner clicking to life, burning precious fuel because they couldn’t risk the smoke, water sloshing into a bowl, strong hands meticulously rinsing the herbs. He said nothing while the water in the pot came to a boil, simply turned off the heat and added the bundle to the water to steep, careful to place the lid down quietly.
Whether the sprig he dragged clumsily over his face meant everlasting love, swift healing, or simply wake up, asshole, he didn’t care, too grateful for the remedy the hunter prepared, for the green aroma masking that of his sweat-soaked clothes.
He could follow the man by the sound of his breath alone, his intense presence palpable as he searched the trailer’s narrow kitchen to collect a bowl, cup, and a sieve, bare feet silent save for the creak and groan of old linoleum and steel sub-floor.
They had kept one another at arm’s length, never closer but never too far. Now Daryl tried to care for him, had to, leaving trails to cool, hopes to scatter in the wind, stirring the rage in his heart.
It’s too late.
The back of Daryl’s hand felt cool against his cheek, forehead, he heard it in the tense exhale, felt it in the goosebumps prickling painfully over his body, leaving him shaking as though icy winds swirled throughout his marrow. He hardly had the strength to force the spit that pooled in his mouth down his stiff and aching throat. This fever might be the fight of his life.
He caught the cool, limp hand as it swung back to its side, placed a kiss against smooth, salty knuckles, felt fingers twitch, and remembering his hideous state, released it just as quick.
“Better wash that off with soap,” he rasped, and coughed. Shit, that was stupid.
Silence. He decided not to open his eyes just yet.
“How’s the headache?”
Paul breathed in deep and winced, raising his hands to cover his eyes, to rub the silt from his lashes, testing their sensitivity by peeking at the strips of red light between closed fingers. It hurt in a good way, like stretching sore limbs.
“Hope this is the worst of it,” he whispered, not wanting to trigger another cough.
There was a heavy pause, Daryl made no motions to serve him anything just yet.
“Sure y’ain’t been scratched?”
Again with the twinge of worry, one more barb catching on the ruined walls of his heart.
He smirked, shaking his head, certain it wasn’t that bad. It had started in the dusty silo they’d busted open to find nothing but sacks of mildew and rats. He should have mentioned the tickle in his throat as they found their way back through the rain to the abandoned, rusted-out airstream camper now sheltering them, but exhaustion and defeat won over any desire to share.
“But you’re welcome to check,” he coughed.
Daryl sucked air through his teeth and walked away to pour his tea.