Work Text:
Geeta sneezed. Again.
Not that Diantha minded much, only that she had been so determined to sleep in. It hadn't been easy to talk Geeta into turning off her alarm, but she had. And now they were both awake anyway.
Diantha slid her foot across the mattress, fitting the arch of it over Geeta's ankle.
"Are you coming down with something, querida?"
Geeta sniffled, breaking eye contact with her work phone to give Diantha a brief apologetic look. "I'm afraid I might be."
"Then you need to rest," Diantha said pointedly, drawing her foot up the length of Geeta's leg, to her knee. "Paldea will have to find a way to go on without you."
"I am resting," Geeta said, while typing. "This is very restful." She shot Diantha a sideways glance. "I feel rested."
Slowly, giving Geeta plenty of time to stop her if she wanted, Diantha reached over and pushed her phone down to her chest. "I mean it. I'm going to make breakfast. Put that down and take care of yourself."
Geeta pulled away and sneezed again, then slumped against the pillows, clearly defeated. "Alright."
Diantha fetched the tissue box from her en suite, then meandered down to the kitchen with a soft toe-heel gait. Geeta spread herself too thin as a matter of habit. Had she ever known the pleasure of a sick day? One of those days where you were too ill too work, but not so ill you couldn't enjoy lounging around in your robe all day? It sounded like exactly the kind of cold Geeta had. Diantha would just have to teach her to enjoy it.
She started on coffee first, casting vague glances at the fridge. Mm, coffee first. Breakfast after.
The soft shuffle of feet drew her attention across the bar into the living room, where Geeta was just kneeling in front of the carry-on bag she had forgotten to take to the bedroom.
"What are you doing out of bed, querida?" Diantha called to her, sing-song and reproachful all at once.
Geeta stood up, clutching her laptop to her chest. And sneezed again. And sniffled again. The poor dear. "I'll rest once I've answered my emails."
"My dear," Diantha said, taking on the posture of a schoolteacher, "whatever gave you the impression that this was a negotiation?"
"What?" Geeta said breezily, heading back for the bedroom. A resounding sneeze followed her there.
Diantha sighed.
The breakfast tray she delivered had to compete for space in Geeta's lap with her laptop. The backlight was on low, and still she squinted at it with itchy-looking eyes, typing one-handed since the other had a tissue pressed to her equally itchy-looking nose.
"Rest," Diantha said. "Is it getting lost in translation? Shall I consult a Kalosian-Paldean dictionary?"
"It's a cognate," Geeta said, sounding suddenly very stuffed up.
"Have some tea," Diantha said, pressing the cup into Geeta's hands, but carefully, so she didn't spill any on the keyboard.
Geeta sighed —yes, very stuffy!— and inhaled some of the steam, sniffling like even that soothing balm irritated her nose. "Oh! I just remembered—" She set the teacup aside and started to work her legs up under the tray.
"What are you doing?" Diantha asked, sitting up straighter to hold the corner of it steady as Geeta got up again and started for the door. "And where are you going?"
"I just remembered!" she called back, like that answered anything, and then had to cough.
She came back after a moment holding a slightly rumpled container of almond biscuits, a brand exclusive to Paldea that Diantha absolutely loved. She had forgotten her carry-on once again. No doubt it was still sitting open in the living room.
"In your carry-on?" Diantha asked, then "And thank you."
"I didn't want them to get crushed," Geeta explained, already squinting in the direction of her laptop again.
Diantha spread herself on her side of the mattress, sighing from the depths of her soul. "What's so important, hm? What is it that can't possibly wait another day?"
"Emails," Geeta said after a pause. And then sneezed.
"They don't expire, do they?"
"One day," Geeta said with a gusty sigh, "you'll meet Larry. And then you'll understand."
Diantha put on her most winning red carpet smile. "I'll make him love me, querida, and then I'll make him love you."
Geeta's cheeks turned a ruddier shade of brown, and she dropped her gaze. "I don't need him to love me, I need him to love work."
"I'm not a miracle worker." Diantha straightened up again and beckoned Geeta. "Come on, come here. Stop getting
out of bed."
—
Geeta kept finding excuses to get up. It was like she physically could not relax, like some stubborn switch in her brain refused to flip. At Diantha's urging, she watched TV, started several books of different genres, even dug out her personal phone and installed a mahjong app. But none of it kept her attention for longer than a few minutes. If Diantha chanced to leave the room, Geeta would surely be out of bed by the time she returned.
It stood to reason, then, that Geeta felt a little too well. Not so well, of course, that she should subject herself to the rigors (and cortisol!) of work emails, but certainly too well to relax.
Diantha sat up in bed and turned to Geeta, who had started folding up a tissue into increasingly tiny rectangles. "Get up!"
"Get up?" Geeta raised her eyebrows, giving an amused (and congested) little huff. "I was just about to take a nap."
Diantha felt her face fall. "Were you?"
"Of course not, mi tesoro."
"Wonderful!" Diantha leapt to her feet. "Get dressed. I've had a change of heart."
It took Geeta a little longer than usual to get ready. She was sick, after all. There was a great deal of snuffling and sneezing, and she kept forgetting where she had put things (more so than usual), and she looked at her suit like it might bite her (ironically, since she looked good enough to eat standing there in her underwear).
Diantha came up behind her and nuzzled her neck. "Let me dress you." Geeta took a breath and she added: "I know, I know. No pink."
"I trust you," Geeta said, and sat on the edge of the bed while Diantha rifled through her closet.
Geeta would have to wear her own pants, being significantly taller, but she could borrow a nice blouse. Something softer than her cotton shirt— linen or silk. And a sweater, since the spring breeze might chill her.
She ended up dressing Geeta in light, feminine colors, because that was really all she owned. Soft colors, soft fabrics, soft silhouettes.
"Does it smell like you?" Geeta asked, dipping her head and pressing her nose to the collar of the lilac sweater Diantha had lent her.
"Get better and find out." Diantha took her by the hand and led her out of the door, and held her a little closer in the confines of the elevator. "It occurred to me that not everyone relaxes the same way," she said. "I think bed rest is more of a torture for you."
Geeta draped an arm around Diantha's shoulders, solid and steady despite the drag of congestion in her breath. "You weren't torturing me."
"But I think," Diantha said, tugging her forward as the elevator doors opened onto the bottom floor, "you'll find this much more agreeable."
On the street, the spring breeze greeted them, and a burst of sunlight that had them both reaching for their aggressively chic oversized sunglasses (aggressively chic because Diantha had picked them out, of course). Geeta swiped her hair from her face and obediently followed Diantha the few meters down the sidewalk to Café Rosa.
The street was bustling but not packed, buzzing with the quiet conversation of passers-by and the gentle clink of silverware. Diantha pulled put Geeta's chair for her beneath the shade of a patio umbrella and couldn't resist pressing a kiss to the top of her head, though they ran the risk of getting their sunglasses and hair tangled together. "Is this better, querida?"
Geeta nuzzled her like a cat, sniffling a little. "It's perfect."