Chapter Text
A series of dry coughs was the first thing greeting Damon as the door slid open. The second was Maeve's grumpy face peeking from under a thick blanket. The book she'd been reading when he’d left her this morning was now lying on the floor, having most likely fallen off her lap during her last coughing fit.
“Hey,” he called out softly. “How are you doing, Princess?”
“I'm fine,” she said, sounding like her throat had gone through a meat grinder.
He couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or just plain stubborn. She was clearly not fine, but her voice lacked the bite that usually accompanied such comments. It reminded him of a conversation he'd had with Vexx earlier. He'd explained how Maeve had been raised in a strict and controlling environment and had spent her entire life feeling like a burden to other people. She wasn’t going to ask for help unless it was an emergency—and even then, he wasn’t sure their definitions of ‘emergency’ matched.
Balancing a food tray in one hand, Damon brought the other to her forehead to check her body temperature, the way he’d seen parents do with their children. Not his parents, mind you, but he vaguely remembered Alisa taking care of him like that the one time he'd gotten so sick he'd thought he might die. He'd been homeless at the time, and if she hadn't been there he probably would have. It had been the first (and for years the only) time he'd felt like he actually mattered to someone.
“You might have a mild fever.” He placed the tray onto her lap and watched her eye its content—a hot cup of herbal tea, accompanied by an assortment of medicinal sweets, some tablets, and a tall glass of water—with suspicion. “I'm not sure. I think we should ask Ry to—”
“There’s no need to bother her. I'm not sick,” she mumbled stubbornly. “Princesses don't get sick.”
She punctuated her sentence with a few sniffles, and Damon couldn’t help but let out a derisive snort. “All those crumpled tissues scattered across the bed must be a new decorative fad, then?” he teased, grabbing the already half-full waste basket to throw said tissues away. “And I guess I wasn't up all night listening to you coughing your lungs out.”
Maeve glared at him, but her puffy eyes and red nose dampened the effect considerably. In fact, it made her look downright adorable—though he refrained from telling her as much.
“Take the damn medicine, Maeve,” he ordered her, “or I'll ask Ryona to come over and force them down your throat.”
“I'm not made of sugar,” she pouted. “You don't have to worry about me so much.” But the threat proved effective, and she reluctantly put a pill into her mouth, washing it down with water.
Damon sat down on the edge of the bed, a hand resting gently over her knee. “I hate to say I told you so,” he said with a smirk, “but if you hadn't spent so much time in the rain—”
“Come on,” she cut him off weakly. “I’m half-kitalphan. A little water can’t hurt me.”
He gave her an unimpressed look. “You're also half-human, Maeve.”
She pursed her lips. “I used to go for midnight swims all the time when I lived at the palace—even in the middle of winter—and it never made me sick.”
“It’s not the same thing. Temperatures rarely drop below twenty-five in Silta Vie. And I bet the water in your little palace was warmed for your royal asses.”
She eyed him up with a frown. “How come you’re not sick, then? You stayed in the rain far longer than I did.”
“I grew up on Cursa. I'm pretty much immune to the cold.”
“That's not what Alisa says.” She smirked, bringing the cup of tea to her lips.
He clicked his tongue. “When did you two become so chummy?”
“It turns out we both have a lot of juicy stories to share with each other. It's like a never-ending well.”
He'd bet a thousand credits that half of Alisa's stories were bullshit, though you could never be sure with that woman.
“How would you like it if me and carrot-head started to share embarrassing stories about you?” he taunted her. “Like that time you tried to kill me with a smoke stick.”
She arched an eyebrow, utterly unimpressed. “I once fell into a fountain in front of him and two hundred other people. It was the Harvest Festival, I had drunk too much wine,” she explained. “And I was wearing a white dress.” A blush crept across her cheeks at the memory. “Nothing you’ll tell him can ever beat this moment.”
Damon might have applauded the way she’d cut the ground from under him had a small detail not piqued his interest.
“A white dress, you say?” His face split into a grin. He could easily picture his princess soaking wet, her now see-through dress clinging to her curves. Too bad she was currently indisposed. “It must have been quite a sight. I wish I could have been there.”
“I bet you do.”
She began to laugh, but her laughter turned into a cough, then into a struggle to catch her breath. Damon tensed. He handed the glass of water to her, lightly rubbing her back as she took small gulps. He was ready to carry her to Ryona kicking and screaming if he had to, and didn’t relax until after her coughing fit had fully stopped and she’d leaned back against her pillow.
“It's because of that stupid heater,” she whined, pulling the blanket a little closer to herself. “It's been broken for ages.”
“Bash is working on it,” he said.
“Tell him to work faster,” she grumbled.
Damon rolled his eyes. The heater had only been malfunctioning for the past three days, and it was hardly what he'd call broken. It would stop working at irregular intervals and remain shut down for an hour before powering back up. It was annoying, yes, but not as bad as she made it out to be. And while the situation might actually become alarming if the piece of machinery wasn't fixed soon, he wasn’t particularly willing to tell her as much.
“It's not the heater's fault if you're sick,” he chuckled.
She brought a new tissue to her face and turned away to blow her nose. “Let's agree to disagree, then.”
Aiming for the bin, she tossed the ball across the room. It bounced on the edge of the container before falling onto the floor. “Sorry,” she mumbled with a wince.
He sighed and rose to his feet, throwing the disgusting thing away himself before hopping back onto the bed to lie down next to her.
“Maybe you should keep some distance,” she said hoarsely as he made himself comfortable. “I wouldn't want you to get sick because of me.”
“Oh? What happened to ‘princesses don’t get sick’?” he teased. Then, seeing that she was not amused, he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her against his chest. “I'll take the risk if it means you don’t have to be alone.”
He wasn't sure if it was the sickness or if she was overwhelmed with emotions, but she looked up at him, her eyes shining with a soft and tender expression, and sniffled. “Thank you.”
He hugged her tighter, his head resting on top of hers. She might not have been on death's door, but he wanted to care for her like Lisa had done for him all those years ago.
“Be honest with me, Princess,” he said. “How bad is it, really?”
“I've had menstrual cramps that were more bothersome,” she replied flatly. “It's only a cold. I should be fine in a couple of days. I just need to rest for a little while.”
“Okay.” He gave her a slight, understanding nod. “But promise me you’ll go see Ryona if you don’t feel better soon.” She opened her mouth to protest, but Damon pressed a finger to her lips to stop her. “It's her job to help you recover. Trust me, she'll be a lot more pissed if you wait until you're half-dead.”
“I know. It's just—” She stared into her cup as if the answers to her life's troubles were written in the tea leaves. “I'm still not used to it. To people caring, I mean.”
“Yeah, I can relate.” He placed a small kiss on her forehead. “I know it can be hard to ask for help, but believe me, it's harder to go through life alone. We're here for you, Princess. That's what friends are for.”
“You sound like Alisa,” she mumbled.
“That's how you know I'm right.”
Settling into a comfortable silence, she leaned into him and let her head fall onto his shoulder, her eyes drooping. Drowsiness seemed to be overcoming her, probably a side effect of the medicine she'd taken. So Damon took the cup of tea from her and pulled the tray away. Sliding a pillow over his lap, he laid her head down, letting her curl up against him.
“You can rest now, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
She sighed softly as he began to thread his fingers through her hair. “This feels nice.”
Sleep overtook her fairly quickly after that. Damon waited a few minutes, making sure she was comfortable, before closing his eyes and dozing off too. They slept until noon, and even he didn't wake until the door swooshed open and Vexx walked in with Maeve's lunch.
“Heard you were sick,” he stated as she sat up. “So I brought you some soup.”
She groaned, throwing her head back onto the headboard in exasperation. “I'm not so sick that I can't walk to the kitchen myself, you know.”
“And since I knew you'd be stubborn, I also have a surprise for you when you're done.”
She perked up. “What is it?”
“I'm not telling you until you've emptied the bowl,” Vexx replied with a laugh.
“Fine. Give it to me.”
She grabbed the bowl a little too forcefully but, to Damon’s surprise, managed to keep it steady enough not to spill half of its content onto the sheets. The smell of chicken and spice tickled his nose, and his stomach grumbled in response. Of course, Vexx had only bothered to bring lunch to her. It was probably for the best, all things considered. He was hungry for something a little more consistent than broth.
“Alright, I'll be back soon.” He kissed Maeve's rosy cheek before climbing off the bed. “Try not to die while I'm gone,” he quipped, earning eye rolls from his partners.
Vexx took his place on the bed, and as the door closed behind him, Damon overheard Maeve start to complain again.
“I'm not staying in bed all day. I'm really not that sick.”
“Eat your meal, Maeve, and then maybe I'll consider letting you walk to the infirmary on your own.”
“Ugh! You're as bad as Damon.”