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The front door squealed open — Esme needed to oil the hinge, she had needed to oil the hinge for months now — and a soft thump came from the entryway as shoes were gently kicked off.
She made no move to get up from where she had practically collapsed on the couch, finding she could barely keep her eyes open while trying to make dinner. She listened as familiar footsteps made their way through the house, growing louder as they approached and then stopped in front of her.
Cool lips touched her forehead. “You are burning up, Essie,” the gentle voice whispered.
“I know,” she groaned.
The lips were replaced by his hand, cold as always, and comforting against her fevered skin. After a minute, maybe two, he pulled his hand away, she caught it pulling it back to her forehead. He laughed softly, “Will you allow me to fetch you a cold rag, my dear?”
“Your hand was working fine,” she muttered, dropping her own to pinch the bridge of her nose, a vain attempt to relieve the shooting pain behind her skull.
“I will return quickly,” he promised. The protest she wished to file required far too much energy and so she lay, eyes clenched shut, and listened as he made his way about the kitchen. The oven door opened, the smell of smoke rushed through the house, she could hear him laugh and cough as the loaf of bread she had forgotten, which could now be used as a doorstop, was tossed in the garbage.
He eventually returned, only after she had fallen back to an unrestful sleep, softly shaking her awake. “Lean up for me, sweetheart,” he said, a hand coming to her shoulder to help guide her to sit. She reluctantly did as he instructed, resting her weight largely against him. It felt as if someone was slamming a mallet into her head over and over. “Will you take this for me, please?” He asked so sweetly she would have swallowed poison if he asked.
She barely opened her eyes, taking the little pill from his palm and swallowing it. He brought a glass of water to her lips, not allowing her to take the glass which was probably for the best, and guided her into taking a drink. Not for the first time, the gentleness of which he treated her made her feel as if she would cry if she thought about it too long.
“Hopefully that will quell the fever in time,” he said, brushing stray hairs off her sweaty forehead. “Would you allow me to run you a bath?”
“I am unsure if I am strong enough to take a bath by myself,” she said, unable to fully suppress her smile.
He grinned. “I would be glad to assist you,” he promised. “In the spirit of your health, of course,” he smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to her cheek.
“I hope none of your other patients get this sort of treatment,” she said, as he helped her lay back down. He held her up for a second, fluffing a pillow with his free hand, before letting her fully recline.
“Just you, Mrs. Cullen.” He pressed another kiss to her forehead before retreating to run her the promised bath. She peacefully drifted back to sleep before she even heard the water running.
Esme awoke to heavy boots against the front porch, the squeal of the front door — the hinge needed to be oiled but served as a warning for when he was home — was followed quickly by a slam. His heavy footsteps pounded against her skull as he made his way into the living room.
“You look like shit,” Charles muttered when he saw her.
“I feel like it,” she groaned.
“You taken anything?”
“I wouldn’t even begin to know what to take,” she sighed.
He left the room with a loud thump-thump-thump. She massaged her temples as she listened to him curse, finding the burnt bread and unfinished dinner. Winced as it was thrown in the garbage. She knew she ought to have powered through whatever illness had plagued her, that whatever ache in her joints could likely be made worse by a hungry husband if the wrong mood found him.
“Drink this,” he said gruffly, shoving a glass in her face. She struggled to sit up, propping herself up with her elbow and taking the glass with her other hand. She did as she was ordered, gulping down the drink with a grimace. “That is not medicine.”
“It’s a medicine of a sort,” he shrugged, with a slight lopsided smile.
“You know I hate whiskey,” she whined, leaning forward to set the glass on the coffee table, winching with the effort the movement took.
“I figured it’ll knock you out soon enough.”
Past being prologue, she should have known her husband was far more likely to bring her a dark liquor that made her throat burn on a good day and him laugh as she grimaced than any form of medicine or even a cool glass of water.
“Will you help me to bed, please?” She asked, widening her eyes in a way she was hoping would find desirable enough to oblige the request.
“No,” he said, taking her grandmother’s quilt off the armchair by the fireplace, and tossing it to her. “I don’t want you bringing this to bed. I’m going to go out for dinner, I might play a round of billiards after. Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you. I’m sorry about dinner,” she said, tucking herself under the quilt, stretching on the just-too-small couch to hopefully lay comfortably.
“At least you had a reason for ruining it tonight,” he laughed, picking up his coat from where he had abandoned it on the coffee table. “Feel better,” he wished her as he walked out of the room.
She was asleep by the time his automobile started, praying to meet the gentle doctor once more in the land of fever-riddled dreams.