Ship: Imelda x Julia x Poppy
Imelda has a strain of the entire Imelda.
That was what Julia said over lunch, looking dreary and evidently tired—more, than she usually did. Poppy thought, it was just her usual quip.
"She's tucked away upstairs," Julia said in a distant voice.
"Tucked away," repeated Poppy. "Are you tripping over the cat that crosses between you now?"
Julia's answer was short, "Yes."
Once upstairs, Poppy saw nothing out of the ordinary. For someone tucked away, Imelda was napping among puffy bedding and pillows, lying in there like on the soft cloud of warmness, that also smelled like freshly cut grass with a bitter undertone of medical herbs and alcohol, may as well be a potion. Few empty vials were still standing on the bedside table, glistening in the evening sunlight.
Imelda looked so peaceful.
If not for that loose strand of hair, wet, going on her tensed face like an ugly crack, underlining her exhaustion, Poppy would've thought she was just soundly asleep after the training session on the Pitch early in the day. Perhaps, Julia didn't joke; Imelda did look… strained.
Imelda's forehead felt normal. Maybe, slightly warmer than it should have. Poppy gently brushed her forehead with a thumb, catching the loose strand and pulling it to the temple.
The palm of her hand had briefly covered Imelda's face from her sight, and as she put herself away, she had suddenly met a hazy look, peeking from underneath Imelda's half-opened eyelids, at the bright colours of her office dress, not upping itself to meet her own worried expression.
Poppy babbled, "I am so sorry, Melly, I didn't mean t—"
"Tell your wife," Imelda's voice was coarse, "that I just need to sfleep."
"I will but—" Poppy noticed a motion underneath the blanket, and dug Imelda's weak hand to hold it, hot, in her cool arm. "But do you feel alright?"
"Like a blue bum." She smirked, tiredly. "I fell from a few meters. Fucking slipped and landed like a potato sack." Her voice dropped, suddenly, "I was always able to stand up and hop back up. I… I don't know what happened to me today. Hadn't ever plopped like a dung."
"Accidents happen." Poppy shrugged.
"Just don't tell me that story again, you. About kneazles and torn tendons. I hear you. You are sheepish."
Poppy snorted and squeezed, fidgeted her palm, clutching the palm it rested on, "I won't," and shortly pecked her in the cheek, happy to had heard Imelda's soft grin. "Get well, love."
She thought if adding a cheeky bit about the cat that crosses her and Julia and what it could do to their tendons one day would cheer Imelda up, but.
Imelda drifted back to sleep as quickly as she awoke; her hand went limp, barely clinging to Poppy's fingers anymore.
Tell your wife, she said, Poppy recalled.
The poor beast must've lost a piece of tail to whatever commodity ensued.
I will have you an earful, Poppy thought, and added, to both of you.
