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I'm trying to recall everyone's tea orders, but my brain's gone a bit swampy from the day. With all the running around and lifting twenty-foot trees and overall being upright more than I have in the past three weeks, the dizziness I was feeling earlier is becoming a bit harder to navigate without alerting Jonathan to my state. And there's a sharp ringing in my ears that's started, but I don’t have time to dwell on it because suddenly everyone's in the kitchen and Jonathan is scowling at nothing in particular and BJ is griping at him about something and Del is bickering and Wendy is trying to placate everyone and it's enough of a distraction that I force myself to blink away the fog in my head and get back to my task.
Taking out mugs and lining them up beside the kettle, I turn to ask Del how he takes his tea because his is the only one that's not coming to me at the moment, and there's the unmistakable delicate, high-pitched clink of china falling and immediately shattering into an impossible number of pieces that's about to be a nightmare to clean up.
Someone's dropped a mug. I look around to see who's done it, but see everyone is looking at me, and I've no idea why. So I turn to look at Jonathan, and I can see his mouth is moving but all I can hear is a loud, shrill whine and—well, that's strange, isn't it?
He's staring at me, and so is everyone else, so l look down at myself to see what the fuss is all about and, through my empty hands, see the offending piece of shattered porcelain laid out at my feet.
“Oh dear,” I mean to say, but by the blank, startled look on Jonathan's face I don't think I've actually said anything, and then my legs have turned to porridge and the ground rushes up around me.
My vision has gone staticky and my ears are full of cotton. There's a bit of squabbling and loud squawking that's making my head pound a great deal and I'd like to tell everyone to shut it, respectfully, but my mouth isn't working. My head and limbs are lead and I can’t move from where I’ve collapsed in the middle of the kitchen of Jonathan’s massive luxury home.
Jonathan's voice cuts above the others, I think only because it's closest, somewhere beside my ear.
“...knew he'd overexerted himself....some breathing room, for God's sake.”
He sounds angry, like proper angry, and I want to make a jab at him, to show him it's nothing to be worked up about, but my mouth is full of steel wool and my head just a big bowl of soup.
There's a bustle around me but it all sort of fades away and I guess I must actually pass out because next thing I know, I'm airborne and moving up the staircase.
My eyes crack open a fraction and all I can see is an ear and the neat line of an obscenely overpriced haircut. I realize I'm scooped up in Jonathan’s arms bridal style, and though I can't seem to control my muscles so my head has fallen limp onto his shoulder, it ends up putting my face very close to his neck, which I rather think is where I would have put it myself, if given the choice. I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, smell his soap and aftershave, all spicy and warm and wrapping me up in a big soft hug.
I feel safe, and protected, and I think I'd like to stay here in his arms, or at least make it more of a regular occurrence. Maybe on top of amnesia I should've been faking fainting spells as well, if this would have been the end result all along.
“Christ, you're heavier than you look,” he's muttering as he readjusts his grip.
As he shifts me, my face ends up a little closer to him and I frown against his neck. As soft as I’d imagined. “It's impolite to comment on a bird's weight,” I say back. Or I mean to, but I can't tell if the words have actually made it out intelligently. Judging by his silence…well, actually that's never a good judge, as he's gotten good at ignoring me, so honestly I can't tell.
He plops me on a bed with a little less grace than someone who's just collapsed deserves, but the bed is soft under me and I bounce a little. Only, this jostles me a bit and I'm realizing my head is thundering and I feel rather nauseous and fear I'm going to vomit all over my boss slash housemate who I've been growing somewhat fond of, and wouldn't that be right embarrassing.
I try to take a few grounding breaths, letting my eyes fall closed, commanding the contents of my stomach to stay right where they are. It finally settles and when I open my eyes again…Jonathan is gone. And I'm annoyed to realize I'm disappointed at that. Though I don’t know what I had expected; he’s been playing nurse for weeks now, despite how shit his bedside manner is, so I can’t expect him to have endless patience for my recurring issues.
Closing my eyes again, I try to quell both the nausea and the disappointment, both of which are at war, fighting for my attention. I don’t want to give either the time of day.
Then I startle as something cool and damp appears on my forehead. My eyes snap open (a terrible idea—everything goes blurry and tilted for a second, like I’m trapped on a carnival ride I don’t have a ticket for). Squinting upwards, I see Jonathan is back, anxiously adjusting the washcloth he’s just put on. I try very very to ignore the hard thump of my heart against the inside of my ribcage.
“You all right?” he asks, in his hesitant I'm-not-sure-I'm-doing-this-right voice. “You feel…clammy.”
“Huh,” is all I manage. I just look up at him, because he's leaning over me, the creases in his forehead deep but not in an inconvenienced-and-irritated-business-Jonathan way, but rather in a concerned, compassionate way. Which feels different and…nice, to imagine that maybe he's starting to care about me in a more genuine way, and not just because I'm an employee he backed into a Nexa by MERLYN 8mm Sliding Door Enclosure.
Where he's standing, he's backlit by the soft lamplight and his eyes are dark and searching as they flit about my face, and I find myself just staring back at him. There's a floaty feeling in my stomach I can only hope is attributed to the nausea from fainting.
“Must have another concussion,” I start, and watch his face go slack, eyes becoming wide and anxious. “Cause you look awfully nice right now, taking care of me.”
His face twists, and there's the Jonathan I remember, all scowl and harsh lines and a downturned, puckered mouth. He only says, “you don't have another concussion. I caught you before you hit the floor.”
And that's a nice image as well. I say as much, and his face contorts even more and now he doesn't look quite as sweet, but my head is all swimmy and I think I just smile stupidly up at him.
He goes to move from where he’s leaning over me on the bed, hands splayed flat on the quilt, but before he can pull away, I catch his hand tight in mine.
Jonathan looks as startled as I feel, as I have no idea what compelled me to do it. But feeling his hand in mine, big and warm and grounding, I have no desire to let go.
I hear myself whisper, “stay?”
And I watch in mixed shock and apprehension at my own boldness as his eyes, which had turned hard at the sudden physical contact, slowly go warm and a bit doe-y. The lines in his face soften and he looks almost-human, his dark brows a little less severe, his mouth a little less parabolic in a downwards direction, his posture less rigid. His mouth opens just a tiny bit as if he’s about to say something, but then his jaw clenches again as if he’s only just realized and he closes it again.
In fact, he says nothing at all, but leaves his hand in mine and lowers himself onto the edge of the bed.
* * *
My hand is full of pins and my head's got a full drumline marching through it in formation, the snare and bass and…other kinds of drums making quite a racket.
I peel my eyes open though they feel heavy and full of sand. The only light in the room now is the bright, milky moonlight seeping in through a gap in the curtain, softly illuminating the unfamiliar room around me.
I’m laying on my back, my arm pulled taut across my chest; my hand is caught up in something and that's what's made it go numb. I look over and am gobsmacked to see Jonathan laying next to me, on his side facing me, his fingers threaded through mine. He’s fast asleep, thank God, because I’m not sure what reckless, silly thing I might do if he were awake and only a few inches from my face and looking right at me. He’s still in a button down, but the sleeves and top button are undone, and his hair’s all mussed from sleeping, leaving that silver piece of hair loose in the way that drives me absolutely mad, and it takes every ounce of willpower I possess to not push it off his forehead and let my fingers trace the curve of his face, down his ear, across his cheekbone, his jaw—
And then I realize we're in his bed. I don't know what it means that he brought me to his room rather than mine, and—maybe it means nothing, maybe his feet took him here by default and I was a bit too heavy to backtrack to my guest room. But I think I’d like it to mean something, and that’s a very scary thought to have while Jonathan Forest is looking sleep-rumpled and adorable and peaceful next to me while I’m having rather inappropriate thoughts about caressing his face.
The washcloth has slipped off my head and left a damp spot on the pillow that chills me, so I roll away from it, right into Jonathan. He doesn't stir, and that's for the best, as I'm too knackered to get into a squabble over invading his personal space.
I curl up into him, bringing our joined hands up between us, considering them for a moment in the quiet, soft midnight. I let myself wonder what it could be like to have him like this every night, sleepy and soft and caring, all to myself. To bask in his warmth, to pull him close to me so we can fall asleep to each other’s heartbeat, to know the bits about him that no one else does.
It's not something I can have, I know that. But for the night, it's nice pretending, so with his breath puffing softly against my cheek and his heat warming me through, I let myself just imagine, and sleep.