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There was a discernible place between being asleep and being awake.
For most people, it was a blurred, jagged line, something that could be walked along, crossed slowly, and often reluctantly. These people held onto the calmness of their sleep with both hands for as long as they could, putting off their obligations, no matter how important, in favor of a few more minutes of rest.
Matt was not one of those people. For him, that edge was as sharp as a razor blade. It could not be walked along; it would leave the soles of his feet, the foundation of his life, torn and bloody if he tried. There was no soft transition between the heavy sleep he dropped into every morning with all the grace of a brick through a window and the sudden awareness brought on by his verbal alarm no more than three hours later.
While unconscious, he couldn’t accomplish anything, so he didn’t mind the abruptness of his waking; there was too much work to be done to waste any more time resting than he absolutely had to. He wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened, but his body was wired to spring into motion just mere minutes after waking. He did not waste time relishing in the warmth of his bed like other people did. He was aware of it, as he had to be of everything in his surroundings, but most mornings, no special attention was paid to it.
But that morning was different.
Matt knew there was something wrong with him, his body, within moments of crossing over that hair-thin line from sleep.
His silk sheets were hot and damp beneath him, coarse in places where that moisture had dried into stiff wrinkles. His hypersensitive senses latched onto that observation, narrowing his usually broad field of perception into a small fraction of what it should have been. He shifted on his mattress, flexing his back and rolling his hips. A groan tore out of him when his rugged sheets grated against his skin like shards of glass.
He inhaled sharply, partly from discomfort and the pain that lanced across his body and partly to get a sense of what was going on with him.
The warm, rancid scent of his sweat coated his tongue and nostrils, the taste of it thick and choking. Wincing, he forced a swallow, and it drew the underlying notes of old blood and a sickly wrongness down his throat.
Infection.
Of course. That was what he deserved for driving himself to the brink of exhaustion over the weekend. When he’d gotten home on Saturday, he’d barely taken the time to shed the black mask of his Devil suit before he’d collapsed onto the couch, wounds unattended. He supposed the cuts he’d won that evening were made with knives dirtier than he’d thought.
A fever had taken hold of him through the night, wracked his body so intensely that he’d sweated through his sheets. As much as he didn’t want to move, the infection coursing through him like a height of summer heat wave that was causing his senses to stumble along at half power, he had to be at the office in an hour. He was getting so close to pinning Fisk to a wall; he couldn’t afford to miss even a day, not now.
Matt gritted his teeth and lifted himself up onto his elbows, breathing harshly through his nostrils as he funneled that pain into energy, as he so often did. He flung his legs over the side of his bed and moved to stand before his feet even hit the ground.
If he had taken a moment to let his bare feet rest on the floor—taken just a few seconds to get an idea of what he was stepping out onto, he might have been able to keep his balance.
But he hadn’t—too focused on keeping momentum to consider an alternative.
The floor of his apartment was as cold as ice beneath his feverish skin. It was a shock to what remained of his senses, and a startled gasp tumbled from his lips. He stumbled and fell, his knees cracking loudly as he landed on them.
Kneeling, he shook his head like a dog as he tried to reorient himself. The sounds and smells beyond his apartment were muffled, distant, offering little stimuli to help him. He could just barely hear the electric buzz of the billboard on the next building’s roof, but he couldn’t manage to single out a pair of footsteps out on the sidewalks, something that was usually as easy as breathing for him.
But even breathing had become hard.
The knife wound beneath his rib cage pulled and protested every time he drew air into his lungs—air that tasted thickly of sweat and blood and infection. He pressed a hand to it, hissing sharply at the burning heat that met his palm, the slickness that he assumed was discharge. He pried his hand away gently and turned his attention towards the other wound on his bicep. It was just as hot, just as slick, and with its closer proximity to his nose, reeked something fierce that had him scrunching his face in disgust and fighting a gag.
He needed to shower, to wash the sticky feeling of sweat off his skin. Nearly every last remaining scrap of his senses were focused on the fever that was wracking his body, that coat of sweat. He needed to get up, even when the mere thought of rising, of walking, caused a debilitating shudder to skate down his back.
Cursing under his breath, Matt latched onto those feelings and the aches that were hell-bent on keeping him down and reached behind him for his metal bed frame. It was just as cold as the floor, biting into his palm like a set of sharp teeth, but he directed the pain through himself, strengthening his resolve, and pushed up to his feet.
Another gasp forced its way out of his mouth and he blinked rapidly against the sparks of discomfort, the aches of his muscles stretching taut over his bones. The room seemed to spin around him, the floor suddenly unstable, and he squeezed his eyes shut, like that would do anything to stop the sensation. He wrapped an arm around his abdomen, pressing his palm against the wound on his side, and waited for the nausea to pass. He couldn’t remember when he ate last, so even if he did throw up, he wasn’t sure there would be anything to give.
As he fought the wave of sickness, he blinked his eyes open, a trail of heat following the gesture because of the fever in his sightless eyes. He ran a hand over his face, then slid it back into his hair as he lurched into a stumble towards the bathroom.
Shower first, he thought to himself, mentally listing the tasks he had to follow to get himself to the office; it was a way of orienting himself when he was like this, scattered and vulnerable. He tripped and almost went sprawling onto the bathroom floor before he caught his chest on the edge of the door frame. Then tend to the wounds, the infection.
Today was going to be hell, but his days so often were that it hardly fazed him anymore. He did, after all, live in Hell’s Kitchen, and it was his duty to protect it. With little more than his fists and wits, he protected it, with his body and his life. He could handle a minor infection from a dirty blade if it meant the horrors that went on in his city were thinned by his actions.
=+=
The commute to the office he shared with Foggy felt like the worst thing Matt had ever experienced, including the time, not long ago, when he’d fought Nobu, almost died, and took an unsolicited swim in the Hudson. The infections that should have debilitated him that night had been staved off by Claire, and he seemed to have gotten spoiled by her and grew lazy when it came to tending to his wounds himself.
He walked to the office. He did it every morning, knew the path forward and backwards, his mental map of Hell’s Kitchen so complete there was hardly a square foot in it that he hadn’t charted. But with his senses as broken and disordered as they were, it took him twice as long to get there than it should have.
He relied more on his cane than he’d ever had to before. He struggled to gather cues from the people around him, especially when it came to the crosswalks. It was harder for him to stay out of the way of other commuters, and more than once, someone would accidentally brush up against him. The pressure of their arms on his was unbearable, the fever of his skin already uncomfortable against the texture of his shirt made even worse with the contact. It ripped the breath from his lungs, forced him to pause and bite back a scream of frustration that clawed its way up his throat.
Once he made it into the safety of the elevator that would take him up to the office, Matt allowed himself to slump. He crouched down, braced his elbows on his knees, and focused on his breathing. He knew that he had to compose himself—had to make it seem like there was nothing wrong with him before he entered the office. Foggy would not tolerate him being out of bed if he knew that Matt was struggling to keep himself upright.
But Matt had to be here, had to stop Fisk before the man tore his city apart any further, damaged it beyond repair. He wasn’t going to let Foggy stop him from being here today.
The elevator slid to a stop and Matt rose from his crouch, a bit more composed now than he was out on the streets and away from all the stimuli out there.
He left the elevator after the doors parted, tapping his cane across the floor as he made his way to the office door. Beyond it, he could faintly hear Foggy moving around, muttering under his breath to himself. Karen was notably absent, the faint smell of her perfume in the hall faded, leading him to believe she hadn’t been here yet today. He opened the door when he reached it, the smell of cheap coffee and old paint hitting him square in the lungs as he stepped into the space.
“Hey, there you are. I was just about to call you and ask where you were and if you needed a rescue. I’m not saying I have a hero complex or anything, but you can’t blame me if I worry about you.” Foggy was off to his left, standing in their tiny kitchenette and stirring what sounded like a cup of coffee.
Matt cleared his throat, the taste of Foggy’s coffee sitting thick in the air with the smell of ink. He leaned his cane against the wall by the front door before he started towards his office, hoping to escape before Foggy got a good look at him. “Slow commute. You shouldn’t worry.”
Foggy lifted his head, dragged his attention away from the mug, and Matt felt the shift of his expression, the fall of his smile, the second he looked at Matt properly.
“Woah there, buddy. You look absolutely terrible—”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“You’re all pasty, and sweaty. What did you do, run here? Was there a marathon this morning that I didn’t know about? Come on, I’ve told you before—”
“I’m fine, Foggy,” Matt cut him off again and reached for his doorknob. He knew he was sweating again. It had started not long after he left his apartment building and the scent of it was a constant slap in the face every time he moved, his stomach churning threateningly at the smell of the infection, the antiseptic that barely put a dent in the stench.
“Well, that’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard.” Foggy followed a step behind Matt as he entered his little office. He counted the paces to his desk, but he still startled when his thigh bumped into the edge. Foggy came closer, and the air around Matt’s shoulder stirred when his friend reached for him. Matt shifted out of the way before Foggy could make contact, rotating his body so his injured bicep was out of Foggy’s reach.
Foggy’s hand fell back to his side briefly, then the fabric of his suit coat brushed against itself as he reached into his pocket. Matt cocked his head, struggling to figure out what it was Foggy was doing.
“If you’re not going to tell me what’s the matter with you, then you’re giving me no choice but to call—”
Matt lurched towards Foggy, reaching for Foggy’s phone as he brought it out of his pocket.
Any other day it would have been an easy thing to do, to move faster and with more ease and precision than Foggy could, take him off guard and get his hands on his phone before he could make the call, but he was barely at half strength, weak and sluggish in his own skin.
Foggy easily sidestepped out of Matt’s reach. He also should have been able to catch himself, but the muscles in his thighs were burning, the bones of his ankles protesting the weight they were bearing, and he stumbled into the wall beside the door frame.
“Okay, yeah, there is definitely something wrong with you. I know I shouldn’t have just escaped that, and you do too. I’m feeling generous this morning so I’ll give you the chance to fess up before I call in reinforcements.”
“Don’t call her,” Matt groaned as he pushed himself away from the wall and staggered back to his desk. It was bad enough that Foggy was on his case; he didn’t need anyone else involved, more concerned for his well-being than the whole ordeal with Fisk. That was what was important. He would be fine, once he got seated, but his city wouldn’t be if he didn’t take Fisk down.
“Then tell me what’s going on, Matt. I can’t let this go, not now that I know about…your alter ego and…what you do with your nights. You could be seriously injured again and I can’t—” Foggy paused to clear his throat. His voice had grown tighter with every word he spoke, the worry in his tone ratcheting up until it almost swallowed the sound of his determination.
Matt felt his way around his desk, fingers trailing over the top, and he nearly sighed in relief when he bumped into his chair. He sank down, barely hiding his wince, before he braced his forearms on the edge of the desk. He tilted his head back to face Foggy’s direction. He was glad for his glasses then, hiding his fever-ridden eyes from Foggy.
“I’m fine, Foggy,” he repeated, plastering on a smile. “I’m not bleeding out under my shirt if that’s what you’re worried about. I’d offer to let you check—”
Foggy’s fist slammed down onto his desk, startling Matt out of his skin. His senses were so disordered by the fever that he hadn’t been able to anticipate the move until it was already executed. His body locked up, tension winding tightly through his torso, his arms, braced for a fight that might come for him when he was vulnerable, unable to anticipate it
“Damnit, Murdock, this isn’t funny! As the only sighted person present, you’re going to have to trust me when I say you look like absolute shit, and that’s to say nothing of the fact that you’re as skittish as a mouse and as graceful as a…I don’t know, okay, something that isn’t graceful!”
Foggy’s phone beeped quietly, then started to ring before the sound was muffled slightly by his hair as he held it up to his ear. Matt’s heart rose into his throat and started to race, the tension in his body rising to the point of pain. He started to shake, but whether it was the fever or just him, he didn’t know.
“Foggy, please. Don’t call her. I need to be here. You know I have to be here.” The phone continued to ring despite his pleading. He pressed his palms flat against his desk as he struggled to get Foggy to end the call before it could connect. “It’s just a minor infection from a knife wound. I’ll—”
“A what?” Foggy burst out. The ringing on his phone stalled, and Matt managed to get a decent breath down. “Minor infection my ass, Murdock. Minor. You wouldn’t be sweating like that if it was minor.”
Foggy’s hair shifted as he readjusted his phone over the side of his face, and it was then that Matt realized his mistake.
He pushed himself up, forced his feet to bear his weight, but there was nothing he could do to stop what was coming for him.
“Foggy…” This time it wasn’t him who said it. Thea’s voice was tentative, slow with restraint, and muffled against Foggy’s ear.
Matt could hear the grin in Foggy’s voice when he responded. “There she is, the other half of the Keep An Eye on Matthew Murdock Because He Doesn’t Know How to Take Care of Himself group and one of the only people in Hell’s Kitchen that our Mr. Murdock might be even slightly afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid of her,” Matt protested.
“Sure you’re not. Why didn’t you want me to call her then? If there’s nothing to be afraid of—”
“Foggy,” Thea said again, with more force. “What’s going on?”
“Matt has an infected knife wound, apparently. He came stumbling in here, sweating like a pig, though I don’t know if that’s an accurate statement since I have no idea if pigs actually sweat—”
“I’m fine!” Matt raised his voice enough for her to hear him through the phone. The air in front of him shifted, and he got the feeling Foggy was waving him off, though neither he nor Thea could see him do it.
“Sorry, Matt,” she said, confident he could hear her. “But I will always trust Foggy’s judgment of your well-being over yours. Fog, I’m en route. Sit tight.”
Matt was shaking, his fever wracking his body once more, and he had no more strength to keep himself standing. He fell back into his seat, reeling.
His best friend was calling in the woman he was falling for as backup in order to corner him. He would have felt betrayed if he wasn’t so confused by the fact that it could work. If it had been just his will against Foggy’s, he would’ve been able to hold out, would’ve been able to sway Foggy into letting him stay. Foggy must have known that, must have known that Thea stood a far better chance at getting through to him than he did.
She must have been close, because before he knew it, the front door to their office was opening.
The soft, muted scent of her perfume wafted into the space as she blew in and beelined for his office, her heavy steps telling him all he needed to know about her mood. Foggy hadn’t moved from his place beside Matt’s door, standing guard like he planned on stopping him if he tried to leave before reinforcements arrived.
“Oh, for the love of God, look at you,” she complained as she entered his office, passing Foggy, and came around his desk to stand at his side.
He turned his head towards her, if only to keep her from glimpsing his eyes through the sides of his glasses. “I’m afraid that’s not something I’m capable of, sweetheart.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d called her that, but it was the first time he’d said it since things had started to change between them. If she realized that, she made no comment on it—said nothing of the softer way he said it. There was no reaction to his words that he could detect, save a small exhale through her nose.
She came closer, her body a solid presence on his right side. And, just like he had when Foggy punched his desk, he jumped in his skin when her fingers brushed his brow. Her skin was always colder than his, but his fever made her touch feel absolutely frigid.
Her touch was light at first, barely detectable, but when he showed no obvious reaction to it, she pressed down a little harder, the soft tips of her fingers smoothing over his sweaty skin. His eyes drifted closed as he focused on her, marveling in the fact that she knew him well enough to know that his skin was currently hyperactive, well enough to know that the slightest brush of the wrong thing against it could cause him to fall into a panic, knew to watch him for signals, knew how to decipher the little tells of his body.
When she was confident that her touch wouldn’t be rejected, she laid the back of her hand over his forehead, reading his temperature like a mother might.
He wished he could tell her that her touch would never be unwelcome.
She hummed deep in her throat, and it was because she did that he was able to track her movement as she came closer, the sound of it reverberating. She slid her hand over to carefully cup the side of his head, her chilly fingers pressed into his hair, before she leaned in and laid her cheek gently against the center of his forehead.
He wasn’t sure he was breathing. His body was shaking still, the shudders coming and going in sporadic bursts, but he wasn’t sure of the cause anymore.
“Yeah, okay,” she muttered as she pulled back. He pressed his palms down onto his thighs to keep from reaching for her, to keep from pulling her back to him. “That’s quite a fever you’ve got there, Matt. You should be home, resting. I know the concept is foreign to you, but we’re going to have to reacquaint you.”
“I have work to do,” he said firmly, his sentence punctuated by a shudder.
“Not this again,” Foggy complained from where he was by the door. “We have nothing to do today that I can’t handle alone. Besides, Karen will be in shortly and the two of us are more than capable of holding the fort down while you rest up.”
“I should be here.”
“No, you shouldn’t be. I’m pretty confident that our clients aren’t going to be comfortable sitting across the table from you when you look like you do. Not to mention we have no idea if you can even think straight enough to be dealing with the legal system—”
“I know it like the back of my hand, Foggy.”
“Which isn’t saying much because you’re blind—”
“Enough,” Thea cut in, firmly enough that they both fell silent. “Matt, I’m taking you home. Your work will be here tomorrow, I promise you.”
He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his mouth. “I’ll admit it, that’s not how I thought you’d ask me to come home with you for the first time.”
Like before when he’d called her sweetheart, there was little reaction, and he couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or not. Not when he was working with half of the input he usually had.
“Matt. You’re of no use to Hell’s Kitchen like this.”
His smile fell.
Damn her.
She knew that she couldn’t get him to care about himself, not when there were bigger things to be worried about, so she twisted her argument into something that he would be less likely to fight.
Foggy whistled low, sounding impressed. Matt swept his hand over his desk, searching for something to throw at his friend, but Thea caught his wrist and pinned it down, halting him.
“Matt, please. We’re just worried about you. Let me take you home so you can get some rest. After that, I promise I’ll help you with whatever was so pressing that you came in this morning.”
He didn’t think he would ever be able to deny her when she said please like that, tacked after his name and thick with emotion.
=+=
The return trip to his apartment was far quicker than the trek Matt had taken to his office less than an hour ago.
Thea hailed a cab outside of his office and shoved him into it before he could even think about protesting. He slid along the seat at her command, the movement jerky and halting, the aches in his body making it more painful than it should have been. He fought a gag after she closed the door behind her, trapping him in that small space where the scent of his sweat and infection were quick to overtake the air.
When the cab pulled up to the curb in front of what he assumed was his building, she paid the fare and leapt out before he really processed the fact that he was back home, away from his office and the work that needed to be done. Before he could process that she had managed to persuade him to leave, managed to convince him to take the day to rest. He felt like he’d been tricked, blindsided, like it was someone else entirely who had agreed to leave with her.
She helped him out of the cab, and he was silently grateful for the anchor she provided in the far narrower world he was operating in. Despite the current hypersensitivity of his body, he was craving the chill of her skin, the feel of her, bad enough that he took her elbow in his hand. He decided to let her lead him up to his apartment that way, folding his cane and carrying it in his other hand. She told him before they reached stairs, directed him in front of the doors she opened, giving him any and all verbal cues he might need to navigate his way to his apartment.
The moment he was through his door and the lock was turned, he was shifting his way out of his suit jacket, unable to take the constriction any longer. He was distantly aware of the fact that Thea took his cane before helping him with his jacket, pulling the fabric from him by the cuffs once he had it off his shoulders. He loosened his tie and yanked it over his head, and before he could decide what to do with it, her fingers brushed his as she took it from him.
His shoes went next, but as he tried to kick them off, his balance wavered. Half a second later and Thea was there, slotting herself up beneath his arm, against his side, for support. He dropped his arm around her shoulders, accepting her help. And he might have leaned his cheek against the side of her head unnecessarily, just to inhale the scent of her hair, to draw the smell of something other than his infection into his lungs.
She bent with him when he leaned for his socks, her arm looping around his waist to steady him when the room started to tilt around him.
“Bed,” she told him plainly, with no room for argument, when they straightened. He heard her kick his shoes over and out of the way before she tugged him down the front hall of his apartment.
“Can’t,” he replied as he started undoing the buttons on his shirt, one-handed, since he was unwilling to let her go just yet. She led him into the main living space of his apartment. He trusted her to guide him, since he was in no state of mind to be counting his steps with anything close to accuracy, and since his senses were offering him no feedback on the state of the room around him.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t. I didn’t have time to change the sheets this morning.”
She didn’t ask him to elaborate, which told him, yet again, how in-tune to him she had gotten over the last months.
Matt was taken to the couch and forced to sit—forced because he had to relinquish his hold on her in order to drop down onto the cushions where she wanted him, and that was one of the last things he wanted to do. He sat on the edge of the couch as he shifted out of his shirt, sighing when the cool air of his apartment brushed against his heated skin. Thea took his shirt from his grip without a word, and a moment later, he heard the stack of his clothes drop down into one of the chairs that faced his couch.
“Where do you keep your extra sheets?”
“You don’t have to—”
“Not what I asked, Murdock.”
He hesitated. He wasn’t used to the kind of attention, the kind of affection, she was trying to give him—wasn’t used to accepting it. It took him a moment to adjust to the idea that she must care for him if she was this worried about him. Another moment to consider and accept that she wanted to do these things for him—wanted to take care of him.
He told her where to find his clean sheets and she immediately left in search of them. Tilting his head so his ear was in her direction, he tracked her through his apartment the best he could as she found his sheets and went to work.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” she warned from his bedroom. The mattress bounced against the metal frame as she tugged the sweat-soaked sheets off. “Your ass is coming straight to bed once the fresh sheets are on.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he muttered in acceptance. The cool leather of his couch felt incredibly good against his feverish skin and he couldn’t help but sink back into it. He took his glasses off, set them on the couch next to him, and rubbed his hands over his face.
As he waited, he reached across his stomach and laid a hand over the knife wound on his side. It was still unnaturally warm, he could just barely feel it through the gauze he’d wrapped it in before he left for work. From what he could tell, it at least sounded less sticky and irritated than it had earlier. He shifted his bicep closer to his face so he could inhale the scent off the wound there; it reeked less than it had earlier. An improvement, even if it was a small one.
Distracted and disoriented, he didn’t hear Thea come over, and he jerked in surprise when she put her hand on his knee, her touch cold even through the material of his pants.
“Please tell me you took antibiotics.”
“I’m not that out of it, sweetheart.”
“When was the last time you ate something? Or had any water?”
“I had a glass this morning.”
“And when did you eat last?”
“I...I don’t know.”
“Matt.”
Sighing, he reached out clumsily for her with the hand that wasn’t monitoring his wound. Despite the irritation she must’ve been feeling towards him, she took his wrist, understanding what he wanted, and guided his palm to her cheek. He curled his fingers around her ear, enjoying the feel of her skin against his, and she leaned into his touch, like she enjoyed it as much as he did.
She let him remain like that even when her focus returned to the task at hand. “Let’s get you to bed. After you get some rest, we’ll worry about getting you something to eat, okay?”
This was Thea’s show now and Matt was helpless to do anything but agree to whatever she wanted of him. He wouldn’t be allowed to return to the office; both Thea and Foggy had made it very clear he was banished from his own workplace until he met their idea of better. As upset as he was about that, his body was exhausted, treading on the verge of shutdown and in desperate need of a few more hours of sleep. And now that he’d been forced back home, he didn’t have the strength to resist the demands of his body anymore.
His acceptance of his fate wasn’t only caused by the realization that he’d already tried to carry on despite his fever and had been effectively stopped by his friends; it was mostly caused by the fact that it was Thea’s concern blanketing him.
It was because it was her asking that he nodded and pushed himself up to his feet one last time. Once he was standing, Thea ducked into position beneath his arm for support before she led him into his bedroom. The room smelled less like his sweat and infection now and more like her soft perfume, though she hadn’t spent much time in there. He sighed as the scent of it, the scent of her, filled his nostrils, his lungs, and eased some of the strain in his shoulders.
She helped him settle down onto his mattress. Her hands flitted about his bare torso and arms as she monitored his progress, leaving behind echoes of her touch that he treasured. He sighed when he laid flat on his back, the feel of the fresh, clean silk soothing to his irritated skin. With his attempt to be still, his chills returned with a vengeance. He crossed his arms over his chest, gripped his elbows, as if he could hold the shudders in, curb them with his will alone.
“Do you want me to cover you up?”
“No. Thank you.”
She hovered there beside his bed. “Is there anything else you need?”
“You’ve done too much for me already.”
Her voice was solemn when she said, “Matt. I’m happy to take care of you, really. I want to be here because I care about you. I understand that my help isn’t easy for you to accept, and I recognize the effort you’re putting in to allow this. I’m glad you’re trying and I’m glad you’re letting me be here.” She spoke calmly and clearly with absolutely no room for misinterpretation. Proving again how much she understood him, she left no room for him to even attempt to think she meant anything other than exactly what she was trying to say. It caused a shudder to rock down his body that had nothing to do with his fever.
He startled only slightly when her fingers returned to his forehead and brushed his sweaty hair back. After adjusting to the sudden sensation, he leaned into the touch, the affection, resting his temple in the cradle of her palm. He might have even rolled a bit towards her, the mattress creaking softly beneath him as he gravitated towards her and the comfort she was offering.
She rose from the crouch she had sunk into at his bedside, the fabric of her clothes shifting with the movement. He couldn’t tell her he wanted her to stay, that he wanted her in bed beside him, pressed up against his shivering, heated body. That he wanted her scent on his sheets, in his lungs, blocking out the smell of his infection and sweat. He didn’t know how to tell her that he wanted her as close as he could get her so that her skin, her heartbeat, gave him something else to think about other than the work he wasn’t doing and the fever that was waging war on his hypersensitive body.
He couldn’t say any of those things—couldn’t risk what they had, so he said nothing.
It was unlikely that she could read any of those thoughts on his face, in his body language, but with the way he was scattered, he couldn’t be sure. For whatever reason he couldn’t figure out in his current state, before she walked away, she leaned down and brushed her lips over his forehead, tracing the same path her fingers had.
His breath hitched, stalled, caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. It was such a soft sensation, her whisper of a kiss, that he almost could have missed it, almost could have imagined it. But when she drew away, stepped towards the doorway, he could still feel the chill her lips left on his skin, burning like a brand with their difference in temperatures and the implications of the gesture.
“Please, Matt. Try to get some rest. I won’t be far if you need something, okay?”
Thea left his bedroom, but the ghost of her kiss lingered, sticking in the forefront of his mind and giving him something pleasant to think about as he tried to rest for her.