Work Text:
When influenza wracks Pelican Town, even the farmhouse is not immune from its effects. During one of his trips into the forest and the docks to visit Leah and Willy, Elliott succumbs to the virus that has infected nearly the entire populace of the small town within five days. Thus far, only the famed farmer, Sebastian, and Harvey have remained uninfected by the current bout of illness. This is due in part to the doctor's immunity, the farmer's hectic schedule on her land, and Sebastian's introverted existence. As she awakens for the morning, the brunette farmer can’t help but feel her heart constrict at the deep sniffs and forceful coughs currently wracking through her husband as he attempts to rest in their bed. She quickly swipes the auburn hair from Elliott’s brow, feeling the sticky sweat on his forehead against her fingertips nearly immediately.
The farmer lets out a small sigh, truly distraught at the thought of her beloved bard made so puny by fever and a variety of other symptoms from his illness. She wets a cloth from their bathroom, resting the fabric against his forehead, the cold water meant to help aid in taming his fever as he slumbers, exhausted from fighting the influenza wreaking havoc on his body. Elliott stirs slightly in his sleep, reaching out instinctively for his wife as he feels her touching his face. He groans piteously in his sleep before a strong cough startles him awake before he sits up rather quickly, resting his back against their oak headboard.
“Darling?” he inquires, his normally sharp emerald eyes glazed over with sickness and betraying how weak he actually is in this moment.
“Yes, my dearest?” she questions, pressing a kiss to her husband’s cheek as she resituates the damp cloth to Elliott’s forehead, still hoping to tempt the fever out of him.
“Please don’t go,” Elliott practically begs, such a tone of voice typically below him, but he is currently out of his sensibilities at the moment. “I do not wish to be alone,” he explains, a beleaguered sigh leaving him as another cough violently escapes his lips, this one bringing him closer to nausea than any of the rest. “Not again,” the writer insists, fear shining on his pale face as he thinks back to a childhood where if he was anything less than perfect he was cast aside, not worth his father’s glance nor his mother’s tenderness despite being a mere boy.
“I am just going to the kitchen, love,” the farmer explains, grasping his hand in her own and giving it a strong, comforting squeeze. “Then I shall go out to the barn to feed the animals and will come right back to pass the day with you,” she promises, affection shining deeply in her azure eyes.
“The kitchen? Whatever for this early?” the auburn-haired writer asks, blowing his nose rather forcefully into the handkerchief his wife had the foresight to put on Elliott’s bedside table.
“Well, how else will I make Tom Kha Soup for you, hmm?” she murmurs, rising from the bed and holding a glass of water to her husband’s lips since he currently lacks the strength to hold it without his hands shaking violently.
“All of that work for me?” Elliott breathes. “No one has ever cared that much for me, not even when I was ill as a child.”
“You’ll find that I am not like anyone else, beloved,” the farmer reminds.
“I love you,” Elliott whispers, his green eyes already closing again as his wife gently strokes his hair.
“I love you, too, Elliott. Always.”