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Every time that he catches a cold, it’s always the plague, at first. It’s never just sniffles from the dry weather, or a sore throat because of a minor illness, or even a headache from the air pressure. It’s always, always the plague.
This time, he’s not in Ketterdam. This time, he’s in Lij, on his farm with Inej.
It starts with the burning in his throat, the space beneath his eyes sticky and warm, his nose beginning to itch. It comes on suddenly, and his first instinct is to run away, lock himself in a room to try and quarantine. He’s had the plague, he might survive. Inej might not.
She notices something’s wrong before he can even really say it, because she notices everything. Or, maybe he just looks that bad already, maybe he’s actually sweating from a fever instead of the stress, maybe he’s…
“Everything okay?” she asks, looking up and smiling. Smiling. He’s not seeing her smiling, he’s seeing her in the water, skin dull and with that purple hue to it. He’d have killed them both, then. He can’t kill them both.
He nods, swallowing hard and wincing as it burns.
“Are you sure? You look a little pale,” she says, leaning in a bit, tilting her head. She always does that, tries to get him to look at her. Usually, it works. But usually, he’s not fighting the urge to bury himself alive before letting her catch whatever version of viral murder he’s managed to catch.
“I don’t feel well,” he mumbles, shoving his chair back and standing, snatching up his cane, trying to make it outside before the walls close in on him. They feel like they could. Like they might.
The fresh air is nice, even when he’s not feeling well. Nothing like the stagnant, humid air of Ketterdam. Here, outside is a place to escape to, rather than one to hide from. It’s a place to hide away, rather than a place to fear.
He stands just outside the door for a moment, trying to catch his breath. It’s not a real panic attack yet, and if he just closes his eyes, just takes a few deep breaths, he feels like he might be able to fight it off. If Inej doesn’t come after him, he feels like he might be able to fight it off.
He doesn’t remember the last time that he wished she wasn’t there when he lost control like this.
A few minutes pass, and he finds himself on the wooden stairs, pulling apart a flower from the planters and hoping to any god that might answer that he’s not sick with anything too contagious. That this is just another false call, that it’s a cold or some minor strain of a flu. That he hasn’t just killed the two of them.
He thinks about how there’s almost no way he could’ve -- how would the plague get to Lij? Not even his hit-or-miss luck has ever been that harsh to him. It has to be something else; maybe there’s a different kind of plague here. Maybe it’s something that won’t kill them.
It feels like hours pass, but the door creaks open behind him.
He turns, his head spinning with the motion, and finds her standing in the doorway. She’s poking her head through the door, and he catches the faintest glimpse of something in the hand that’s not protecting her face from getting smashed.
“Can I join you, or are you still hiding from me?” she teases.
Well, if he’s been living with her, he supposes that she’s already been exposed to whatever he has. That, and he’s found himself wishing for her company even more, in the past few minutes, hours, however long.
But then, wouldn’t it be best to limit exposure? To keep away from her, no matter how close they’ve been the past few days?
If he did, she’d probably feel as though he was putting his armor back on. He would, too. To hide away for her safety has always been half of that, after all. Keep himself safe, keep her safe, and do damage control once he’s already hurt her and she’s already angry at him for it.
But, well. The one of the first symptoms of the plague is the boils, the ones that itch and burn beyond anything he’s felt since. He doesn’t have those; he sure as hell would know if he did.
If he didn’t, maybe she’d curl up under a blanket with him later. Maybe she’d read to him, like his papa and Jordie used to. Maybe he’d be able to forget, for just a short while, that Jordie thought it was a cold, too.
He looks up at her and nods, still hesitant, still scared shitless, but this time a little less resistant. He doesn’t want to be alone, after all -- it’s been a while since he was so terrified of being vulnerable that he’d push her away when he’s hurt.
She pulls the door open all the way, stepping out into the summer air, revealing the cup of tea in her hand. He wonders which one of them it’s for, and if she’d be willing to show him which tea would feel the best on his throat later.
“I was hiding myself from you,” he corrects, watching as she sits down beside him. “You know that I’d never hide from you.”
She chuckles, passing the mug over to him. “Maybe if I threatened to steal all of your kruge.”
“I’d give you all of my kruge willingly, if it meant I didn’t have to hide from you,” he says. He means it, as much as he’s meant every secret he’s told her, every piece of his story that he’s had to choke out.
She shakes her head, sighing with that pleased smile still sitting on her lips. She tilts her head, resting it on his shoulder.
For a split second, all he can hear is plague sirens and crying and the sounds of those body-wracking coughs. He thinks that he might actually feel that itching, that he might need to shove her away and go hide before he makes it worse, even if she would certainly, certainly have caught it by now.
Then, it’s nice, and she’s sitting with him on the porch, and he’s holding the mug she gave him, and there's a breeze passing over them, and he’s forgetting that any part of him is sick.
“What is this?” he asks, looking down into the cup. “There are flower petals in it. Did you put flower petals in this, Inej?” he teases, nudging her a little bit with his elbow.
She groans, turning her face down, avoiding his gaze. He’d bet all the money that he has that she’s smiling through the embarrassment, that she’s hiding her face so he doesn’t see her blushing. “Don’t make fun of me. I thought it would make you feel better.”
Has anyone ever put flowers in his drink before? He’s almost certain that he would remember if they had.
“They do,” he mumbles, wrapping his free arm around her waist and pulling her closer. “Thank you.”
He nearly turns his head. Nearly presses his lips to her hair. Then, he remembers that while he might not be sick with the plague, he still is sick with something else. Regardless of its severity, he doesn’t want to give it to her.
He keeps his head straight and tilts to rest against hers. His eyes close, and he tries to focus on the sun on his skin, the weight of her head on his shoulder, the slight rise and fall of her shoulder against his arm as she breathes.
They’re alive and safe. Far enough from the dangers of Ketterdam that he still wants to cry from relief when he wakes up from a nightmare in his childhood home instead of his attic at The Slat. (There have been times when he has cried, but that’s between the two of them and the calming spirits of Lij.)
He lets himself fall far enough into those thoughts that he nearly forgets the one of his sickness. When he sneezes, it’s a surprise to both of them. His whole body shakes, and Inej only pulls her head back once it’s been violently nudged upward by his shoulder moving.
She laughs as he sniffles, rubbing his face. “You sneeze like a gun firing,” she laughs, resting her hand on his back. “Drink some of your tea, it’ll help.”
He does, and he’s only a little shocked. It tastes as nice as it feels on his throat, which probably means that she’s dumped at least an entire spoonful of sugar -- maybe two -- into it. It’s almost strange that it makes him feel better at all, since it also burns his mouth as he drinks it.
Another sneeze a few seconds later has Inej laughing once more, reaching over and taking his tea from him before standing and tugging on his arm. “Come on, let’s go inside. I have a theory, and I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
He’s confused, but he follows her anyway, picking his cane up off the deck as he stands. “What’s your theory?” he asks as she opens the door, holding his arm all the while.
“I think that you were outside yesterday while it was raining, you didn’t wear a coat, and now you have a cold.”
His mind’s first reaction is that no, she’s wrong, it’s the plague and this is so, so horrible.
His second thought is of him and Jordie when they were younger, playing in the puddles. Then, the next day, curling up on the couch with cups of warm water while their father rubbed cream on their chests to help their stuffy noses go away faster.
Okay, maybe she’s right, on second thought.
He pauses as they enter the kitchen. “Well, that’s not the plague.”
She smiles softly, tilting her head a bit. “Definitely not the plague,” she affirms. “Just the rain and you being too stubborn.”
She sets the mug down behind her on the table before stepping forward, wrapping her arms around him. “We should go sit by the fire,” she says. “You shouldn’t be cold while you’re sick. We could read that book while you rest, hm?”
She knows him so, so well. Possibly too well. She might be a mind-reader.
“You don’t have to sit with me,” he says, because she really doesn’t, and he doesn’t want her to feel like she does, even if he would appreciate it. “I promise I won’t go and jump in the lake if you leave me unattended.”
She chuckles, squeezing him tight around the waist before pulling back. “No, but you’ll find something that needs repairing inside,” she says, poking him in the chest. “Besides, it sounds nice, cuddling up and not doing anything.”
He couldn’t think of anything he wants to do more.