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“You haven’t eaten today,” was the first thing he said with his usual customary frown of disapproval as Mel answered the door, pale and nearly disappearing in the comforter she had wrapped around her shoulders.
“Hurts to swallow,” she huffed in a croaky whisper, and Donovan's grip on the bowl in his hands tightened from worry. She sounded terrible.
Upon entering, he vaguely realized that he’s never been in her dorm before. It was well-kept for the most part, save for the scattered makeup items on her roommate’s desk and the trash can on Melinda’s side overflowing with used tissues. He took a seat at her desk while she crawled back onto her bed, crisscrossing her legs as she tiredly accepted the offered meal.
“Chicken soup,” she said in a little raspy laugh as she identified the bowl’s contents. “Really?”
“Yes, really. There was only that and minestrone, and I know your palate is too childish to eat real vegetables.” Donovan hunted for her tiny electric kettle (“It’s on Olka’s side,”) and started boiling some water.
“I like minestrone, just not your minestrone,” Melinda grumbled, her face tilted over the bowl so that the faint steam could help decongest her sinuses.
“You're nothing but ungrateful. Just eat your damn soup,” he said irately, tearing open the wrapper for a tea bag. She stuck her tongue out at him cheekily, sniffling as she took a few bites. The hand that held the spoon trembled slightly, weak from fever.
Her face scrunched in pain as he used a tissue to dab at the runny mucus leaking from her nose. It was bright red and raw, no doubt from her sniffling all day.
“Ow,” she complained. “That's gross.”
“Will you quit moving?” Donovan sighed in exasperation. “It's more gross watching you season your food with snot. There, okay. all done.”
The kettle whistled its completion, and he took it off the boiler, pouring into the single mug she somehow owned between her and her roommate to steep the tea. Melinda finished her soup and pushed it to the side, looking a little better with some color returning to her features.
“I don’t want tea,” she said a little petulantly.
“You're going to drink the tea.”
“But I already had soup.”
“You’re going to drink the tea,” he repeated.
“No I'm not.”
“This is why you’re always sick, Mel,” he snapped with a lecturing index finger in her face. “You consistently underdress for the weather, and then when you inevitably fall ill you’re always dehydrated and don’t eat enough. You are drinking the goddamn tea.”
Melinda made a disgruntled sound and hid under her blanket. She let out a yelp of surprise as he snatched it from her, standing up and flapping out the comforter to straighten the bunched-up insides.
“Cold!” she wailed.
“If only there was something warm you could drink,” he said, completely unfazed, unzipping a corner of the comforter to do it by hand. No wonder she was freezing, with half the actual blanket only being a thin layer of cotton sheet. Rich people had absolutely no instinct for survival. Other than him, of course. But perhaps being a bastard was indicative enough.
When he turned around, she had her hands begrudgingly cupped around the mug. “I like watching you do stuff,” she mumbled placidly, apparently smoothed over from the brief spat. “You’re like a little housemaid.”
“Like mother, like son, I suppose,” he responded in kind, smoothing the blanket over the expanse of the quaintly-sized bed.
He would never say something like that in any other company. But thankfully, Olka had gone “home” for the evening, or rather, her sketchy boyfriend’s place. There was a private running gag between them that if she ever was kidnapped or assassinated by the organized crime of Berlint, all of her belongings would be gifted to the surviving roommate. Donovan was only mildly disconcerted at the morbidity of that statement.
She was still cold even after finishing her drink. Donovan took off his imperial cloak, thick and warm for the winter season, tucking it over her before layering the blanket on top.
“You should take a warm shower,” he advised. “It’ll help a lot.”
“I really don’t think I have the strength to walk all the way there and back,” Melinda whined. “my whole body hurts, like one big bruise.”
“Aw, poor little Mel Mel,” he crooned, ruffling her hair.
Ears pink, she shyly took hold of the end of the blanket, lifting it up in a clear offer. Stay?
He hesitated. On one hand, he technically wasn’t allowed to be there, imperial prefect or not. And she could get him sick. On the other hand…
Melinda scooted back to make room as he laid down, trying really hard to not think about how many germs he was signing up to be in close contact with. But he wasn’t due for his floor’s roll call for an hour, at least. She probably hasn’t talked to anyone all day.
And the way she clung onto him with the tiniest giggle, one leg slotting between his, cemented his decision. She snuggled into his warmth.
“If I get sick after this, you will be getting another tonitrus bolt. I don't know how or when, but I'll make it happen,” he threatened half-heartedly.
“Whatever, Donnie Wonnie,” she hummed into his armpit. She’d rather die than admit it, but this cuddling thing was her favorite new development of theirs.
All practice for their future partners, of course.