Work Text:
“The only way this works is if you stop trying to be a saint and start being a servant,” Gemma rasps, her voice a jagged piece of glass scraping against the silence of the bedroom.
She is sprawled across the Egyptian cotton sheets, her body a landscape of fever-heat and shivering contradictions. The June air in Charming is a thick, oppressive blanket, but Gemma is trapped in a private winter. A cold sweat has glued her silk nightgown to the small of her back, and every pulse of her heart feels like a rhythmic hammer against her temples.
Nero stands over her, his expression a mixture of profound devotion and bewilderedness. He is fifty-five, robust and steady, a sharp contrast to the fragile, trembling state of the woman in the bed. He holds a tray of tea and lemon, the steam curling around his face, but his focus is on the ledger she has clutched to her chest like a shield. Gemma coughs, a deep, racking sound that vibrates through her ribs and leaves her breathless. She feels the visceral ache of her own anatomy; she is fifty-three, her body navigating the volatile shifts of perimenopause, compounded by the crushing weight of the summer flu.
Deep within her, the corpus luteum of a recent cycle has faded, leaving her hormones in a chaotic tumble that makes the fever feel even more predatory, more invasive.
“Now, listen,” she wheezes, pointing a shaking finger at a line of figures. “The payroll for the shop—this is the money we owe the mechanics. You don't need to know the tax codes, Nero. Just look at the bottom line. When the paper says ‘Accounts Payable,’ it means the money is leaving. Do you understand, or do I need to draw it in crayon?”
Nero doesn't take offense; he simply leans in, the scent of sandalwood and expensive soap cutting through the medicinal tang of eucalyptus. He reaches out, pressing a cool, damp cloth to her burning forehead. The contact is electric, a shocking contrast of temperatures that makes Gemma moan softly.
“I understand, my love,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that she feels in her marrow. “Just tell me who to pay, and I will ensure the wheels keep turning.”
Gemma closes her eyes, the effort of explaining the basic mechanics of the business leaving her utterly spent. She is the general of Teller-Morrow Automotive, but today, she is a casualty of her own biology, clinging to Nero's strength as the room spins in a slow, feverish circle.