Work Text:
I was miserable.
I was burning up. My cheeks were flushed. My throat was coated in fire.
I was sick.
“I thought Fae didn’t get sick,” I sniffled.
Rhys ran a hand over my back, massaging the tense muscles. He had been fussing over me all morning: forcing me to stay in bed and rest, covering me in a mountain of blankets, and making me chamomile tea. No one had ever attended to me when I was sick as a human; it was nice that I had Rhys to take care of me.
“It’s rare, but not impossible,” he said, fingers brushing away the sweaty strands of hair stuck to my forehead.
I suddenly erupted into a coughing fit, my lungs burning. Rhys continued to rub my back, getting me through it.
“I’m dying,” I croaked.
Rhys laughed softly. “You’re not dying. You’ll be feeling better soon enough.”
I curled my body into his side, bringing the blankets up to my nose. I laid my head on his chest and closed my eyes. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
Rhys kissed my forehead. “Rest,” he said softly. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”