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Beatrice sits at the Stardrop waiting patiently, idly stirring the ice around her glass of water as she glances from her book at the clock on the wall.
Twenty minutes late. Very unlike him, but not entirely unheard of. Perhaps a bout of inspiration has struck?
“Your writer planning on showing up, my dear?” The soft baritone of Gus rumbles in question from across the bar.
She shrugs with a smile. “Think I’ll bring lunch to him today. Can I have two orders of the Tom Kha soup to go, Gus?” she asks, stuffing her paperback novel back into her satchel. “Extra hot sauce on the side too!”
He shakes his head affectionately as he walks to the back. “I don’t know how you can stand that stuff,” he sniffs.
“Clears the sinuses, and it’ll put hair on your chest!” She laughs, standing with a stretch while Gus prepares their meals to go.
By the time she’s shrugged on her jacket and wrapped her scarf around her neck, he’s handing her the brown paper bag.
“Certainly, don’t need any help in that department,” he laughs. “All the more reason for me to stay away from the stuff.”
Gus gets serious in that fatherly way of his as he continues. “Threw some extra crackers in there for the two of you. He’s lucky you take such good care of him. You make sure he realizes that,” Gus says sternly, the warmth in his voice evident.
Bea gives him a no-nonsense nod and salutes him like a general. “Will do, Augustus!”
He stutters at that, shushing her in the quiet of the empty restaurant. “Just Gus, my dear, or you’ll be Beatrice until the day I retire!”
They share a quick laugh before she’s on her way, boots clicking over the cobbles before the soft crunch of cold sand kicks up little clouds on the beach.
His cabin is still dark, the curtains all drawn when she knocks and lets herself inside with a little “hello?” It’s odd for this time of day, but not completely unheard of. Beatrice goes around, pulling back the blinds and shutters, letting natural light float softly into the cabin. The soup rests soundly on his kitchen table, waiting for attention.
It’s not until she enters his room, that Bea finds Elliott still curled up in bed. Every available quilt in the cabin is piled on top of him, pulled all the way up to his chin. He’s making soft whimpering noises, like he’s caught somewhere between waking and a bad dream.
She sits on the edge of the mattress, raising a hand to his brow to brush back a damp lock of hair stubbornly clinging to his forehead. Elliott’s face contorts in discomfort, his eyes fluttering open to greet her. She’s worried. He looks exhausted There are dark circles under his eyes, he’s shivering and yet his skin feels like it’s on fire.
“My muse,” he croaks. Voice raw and scratchy. Bea searches for water or tea or lozenges; anything she can hand him to alleviate the pain, but his nightstand is bare. His house is cold, the fire dwindled down to embers, and her heart clenches thinking about how long he’s felt like this all alone in here.
“Have I slept through our lunch date?” He asks meekly, waking further now, trying to push himself up in bed. “I’m sorry. If you give me a moment, I’ll ready myself. I didn’t mean—”
She presses him gently back against his pillow. “No, my bard. You’re not going anywhere like this. You’re feverish. You need rest.”
As if to prove her point, he starts coughing into the crook of his arm. He turns on his side with a groan as Bea rubs comforting circles along his back before retreating to the kitchen to make him a cup of tea.
She’s just got the kettle to boil when he wanders in behind her.
Blast him for not staying in bed.
He looks so ill, having made it to the kitchen with barely any fuel left in his tank. His robe and hair are askew, hands trembling as he leans against the wall for support.
“It’s no trouble, really. You probably have somewhere to be. Please. Don’t worry about me.”
Why was he so insistent on refusing help?
“Sit down, my love,” she insists, tugging him gently to the table. “Have you eaten today? Had any liquids at all? When did your symptoms start?”
She listens as he dutifully answers her checklist of questions, flinching every time he provides an honest answer that makes her tisk with worry.
No, he hasn’t eaten. He did manage a cup of tea this morning, but nothing since. The symptoms started yesterday afternoon. Elliott had thought going to bed early would set him right, but it only got worse through the night.
She’s removing the soup from the paper bag and travel containers, placing a piping hot bowl in front of him. “Eat, Elliott. It’s your favourite.” Bea goes about making tea, listening to ensure he at least tries to keep something down.
A soft sigh before the sound of a spoon is heard clinking against the porcelain dish and a loud, pained gulp as he takes that first mouthful. By the time the tea is made, his nose is running, sniffles uncontrollable as the soup helps ease his congested airways.
Bea also notices he’s still shivering, despite the warmth going into him. Without a word, she retrieves a blanket from his bedroom and drapes it over his shoulders.
“It’s fine. You’ve already gone through too much trouble for me,” he says, sounding weak, nervous.
“Elliott, my darling,” she says, sitting across from him with her own bowl of soup and mug of tea in hand. “Why do you find it so hard to accept care?”
There. Best to get it out in the open and cleared up now, because she’s not leaving; and the sooner he accepts that, the sooner he can start to relax and get well.
“Oh uhh,” he coughs, reaching for the tea to help settle his throat before going on. “It’s not that. It’s just that you run a farm, you have so many chores and things that need doing. I don’t want to take up your time, my sweetest Bea.”
“The farm will survive one night without my assistance.”
He looks up in dismay. “An entire night? Truly I must insist—"
“Elliott,” she says, firm but gentle. “I’m not leaving you alone this sick…”
“I just don’t want to be a burden.”
“You aren’t,” she tries to reassure him at the same time he blurts out “I’m not worth it.”
The silence hangs heavy in the air, as he looks down almost guiltily into his soup.
“Elliott,” she begins quietly, reaching out to take his hand.
He flinches for the briefest of moments before looking up at her. There’s a pained expression on his face – one that cuts deeper than whatever is currently ailing him– suggesting this is an old wound; learned behaviour from long ago.
“You can stay,” he whispers, squeezing her hand back in return.
The rest of the afternoon passes with Beatrice taking the helm on his care. She stokes the fire while he eats his soup, finishes his tea, and all but collapses back into bed exhausted; but not before she insists Elliott change out of the clothes he managed to sweat through, putting him into something fresh and warm, teeth slowly ceasing their chattering as the cabin becomes cozy again.
Before falling asleep, he even sits up, letting her to crawl behind him at her gentle insistence and begin the slow, careful process of detangling his hair. She places a cool cloth on the back of his neck as his breathing finally starts to even out, slumping forward to let her work.
It’s quiet at first. The soft shhk, shhk of the bristles dragging through his hair, releasing knot after knot as she gets into a rhythm. Beatrice starts at the ends, slowly working her way up the long vibrant strands with patience.
Eventually, Elliott speaks.
“I had to learn to self-soothe at a… very young age,” he quietly admits.
Beatrice holds her breath. Wants to know more – wants to know him so completely it aches sometimes – but worries if she speaks now, the spell will be broken. Eventually, she’s rewarded for her patience. Elliott continues as a knot starts slowly twisting in the pit of her stomach.
Yet another reason to despise his family…
“I must have been eight, perhaps nine when I had the misfortune of catching a bad flu. It’s funny, how illness always seems to accost us at the most inconvenient of times,” he laughs, but there’s no joy behind it. Just a memory running through his head that he doesn’t have the luxury of forgetting.
“This particular flu happened over the autumn holidays. My parents were set to meet friends in Paris for fashion week. My mother, in particular, was greatly looking forward to the trip.”
He sighs, coughing from the strain of talking so much as Beatrice hands him his tea from the nightstand.
“Thank you, my muse,” he says, passing her back the mug once his throat is settled. “May I continue my story by posing a question?” he asks shyly.
Bea stops brushing, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. Pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck, she nods against his skin. “Ask away, love.”
He deflates, like he’s finally made up his mind to let go and accept her help. “I admit, it’s mainly because I do not know how most families would have handled the situation. You know how… unique my upbringing was. When one has a sick child and all they want is their mother, is it not normal to… well, for lack of a better term, mother them?”
Bea picks up the hairbrush again and continues her work. “Of course it is. What child wouldn’t want their mother to take care of them? Especially when they’re sick?”
“I was told to toughen up. That I was being selfish, and that if I was not well enough to make the trip, then I could stay behind. Alone.” He grows quiet again, shoulders slumped forward, looking so small, like he’s curled in on himself.
Beatrice is shocked. Has completely stopped brushing his hair, too preoccupied with the clench of her heart silently breaking for him.
“They didn’t—”
“They did, I’m afraid,” he whispers. “Mind, I wasn’t alone, alone. There were still staff on. The maids, the cook… though I suppose they had to draw straws to see who would stay behind for the lone March child who couldn’t make the trip.”
“Oh, Elliott,” she whispers, body wrapping around his back, holding him from behind like a protective shield. “That was incredibly cruel of them.”
“I did not mean to upset you, my love,” he says quietly. “I merely wanted to explain my earlier reaction to your care. I am not… accustomed to seeking out help. Have a hard time not feeling like a burden, even when the need is real. Sickness, in particular, brings me right back to that time decades ago where I cried myself to sleep for nights on end until they returned.”
He sounds lost. Tired in a way that sleep cannot fix, as Beatrice runs her fingers through his hair; putting it in a loose braid to keep from knotting up in his sleep, before gently lowering him to the mattress. Wordless, she slips in behind him, pulls the blankets up around them both, and draws his back firmly against her chest.
“You were never a burden, Ell,” she whispers. “You were just a little boy seeking comfort. You deserved to be loved and cared for then, just as you deserve to be now.”
Bea’s breath hitches. She doesn’t mean for him to hear it – doesn’t want him to know just how upset she is – but stars, she needs him to know he never has to be alone again.
“I’m sorry for distressing you, my muse,” he murmurs, voice taking on a honeyed warm quality to it as he yawns. It’s almost as if the acceptance of her care has allowed him to let his guard down and simply be loved.
“No, Elliott. I’m glad you told me. I always want you to come to me when you need something. I never want you to think you’re a burden or aren’t ever worth it… because that’s so far from the truth. You’re everything to me,” she whispers.
He hums softly in reply, a barely murmured “okay, love, okay…” uttered from his lips before sleep finally claims him.
Before Beatrice drifts off too, she leans over, lips resting above the shell of his ear and whispers “I promise, you’ll never be left wanting like that again. Not with how fiercely I love you, Elliott.”
And even though he’s asleep, she still catches the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, knowing her words will follow him into his dreams.