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“I’m going to die.”
“You are not going to die!”
“This is the end, Tewksbury. I will die far too young, in the least noble way possible.”
“Enola! Would you please take a breath?”
She stared at him. He was sitting on the small sofa in his apartment, staring up at her as she paced in front of him.
“I am not going to let you die, okay?” He said, trying to calm her down.
“How are you going to do that?”
“Just, go lie down. I’ll be there in a bit.”
“Fine. If I die in that bit, none of my assets are going to you, my dear.”
He rolled his eyes at her and shooed her towards the door to his bedroom. She made a face, but wandered in.
Instead of crashing onto his bed, which was an almost annoyingly inviting option, she walked around for a few minutes, examining. His room was shockingly clean, and reflected him beautifully.
Eventually, she settled down, perching at the end of his bed. She felt at home, sitting on the cream-colored sheets in the middle of his green bedroom. There were less plants than in his living room, although they certainly weren’t absent from the windowsills and shelves. She didn’t really have anything better to describe it than him. Unequivocally Tewksbury.
She wanted to stay there forever, for a moment. She thought of growing up and growing old with him, being loved and supported for the rest of her life, and being the love and support for him. Making the world better together. Then reality hit her, and she shook herself out of the stupid fantasy. There was no way to know that any of it would last. At any rate, in her line of work, there was no way to know that she would last.
He walked back in, interrupting her thoughts. “You can lay down all the way, you know.”
She sat up straighter, then laughed a little. “Ah, yes, sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Just lay back.”
She did as he asked, feeling more somber than usual. Maybe it was the fire in her throat, or the pounding in her head, or the way her chest was aching, but she knew she wasn’t fully herself.
He sat next to her, sitting on the edge of the bed as she laid down on his pillows, feeling utterly stupid, and even more helpless.
“You are not going to die, Enola,” He said again, pulling her to the present.
She really wasn’t herself. She hadn’t noticed the assortment of small bowls he was holding.
“What is that?” She asked, watching as he mixed an assortment of powders together in one of the bowls.
“This is, hopefully, going to make you feel better.”
“Yes, but what is it?”
She attempted to sit up and peer over the edge of the bowl, but he rested a hand on her shoulder, gently guiding her back down.
“Herbs, and, if you’ll let me finish, some honey.”
“What do I do with it?”
“I’m going to have you drink it in some ginger tea.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Ginger?”
“Will you trust me, please? It helped me get better the time I was ill.”
“I’m not ill,” she scoffed. “I’m dying.”
He gave her a look. “What are your symptoms?”
“My-- my head is pounding, my throat is burning, and everything aches. Especially my chest, my lungs.”
“And where have you been, in the past 24 hours?” He asked, pouring honey into the bowl.
“Around,” she said slowly, unsure of his trajectory. "Many places."
“In the city?”
“Yes.”
“Where it was cold, and raining?”
She understood where he was going. “I’m not just sick because of the weather, Tewksbury!”
“Are you certain?”
She glowered, thoroughly offended. “You really don’t think that I would misread my own symptoms!”
“I just think that you tend to… overthink, sometimes.”
Enola raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
“Think of it like a case,” he said, stirring the mixture of herbs rhythmically. “Your so called 'diagnosis' might be over-complicating an answer that is really quite simple. It’s easy to miss the loose threads hanging in front of you, right? You, especially, tend to pull from the back to the front.”
He knew her too well. Mostly because she couldn't stop herself from sharing everything with him, but that wasn't important. Although Enola didn’t want to admit that he was right, he was, undoubtedly, correct. There was a possibility she had overlooked a simpler answer. She watched as he set the honey mixture on the bedside table and gathered the other bowls.
“Fine,” she conceded. “I might tend to over-think, as you call it. But—“ she interrupted before he could applaud himself— “I have also been in contact with at least three known diseases in the past month.”
She gave him a smug look. He gave her a horrified one.
“Enola— what?” He asked, frozen in place, mouth agape.
“Two in the past week," She said. "You don’t need all the mangy details, but— oh, don’t give me that look! You know my work is dangerous.”
He slowly continued to stack the bowls, eyes wide. “We will be revisiting this later,” he said, voice slightly shaky, “but for right now, I need to get your tea.”
“Alright.”
Tewksbury disappeared for a few minutes. Enola normally could’ve estimated the time, but she had been drifting off. Despite the conscious effort she was making, her body was shutting down. She wanted to work on her case, to at least think through the events of the past week, but her body seemed to insist on resting. And for the first time in quite a while, she was safe, with her love, in a warm bed. After a few minutes, her eyes fluttered shut.
She was startled awake by Tewksbury, resting lightly on the edge of the bed beside her. He placed a hand on her cheek, tracing through her hair gently.
“Enola.”
“Hmm?” She muttered sleepily.
His voice was soft. “You should drink this while it’s warm.”
She nodded slowly, not fully comprehending. The warmth seemed to have seeped into her brain, fogging up any remaining thoughts.
“Can you sit up?”
“Help me,” Enola said, blinking slowly.
He wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her gently, propping her up on a pile of pillows.
“Now, drink some of this," He instructed.
A cup was held up to her lips, and she wrapped a hand around it. The side was warm, and so was the tea, soothing against her throat as she drank slowly.
Once she finished, he took the cup from her and set it on the bedside table, then helped her lay back down. If she had been drifting off before, she was almost plummeting into sleep now. The bed was soft, and warm, and the tea had made her insides warm, and Tewksbury was beside her, and she thought of nothing more than him.
“Will you stay?” She asked quietly, gesturing limply at the rest of the bed.
“If you want me to, love,” Tewksbury responded, laying next to her.
She reached over, pulling him towards her.
He swatted at her jokingly. “Don’t you go trying to get me sick.”
“I’m not sick!” She protested, still pulling him to her.
Tewksbury gave in, wrapping his arm around her again, chest pressed against her back. She closed her eyes again, letting herself fall towards unconsciousness again.
“I love you,” he whispered against her hair.
“I love you, too,” She mumbled.