♬ ◎
send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse ---♬ = singing to them && ◎ = taking care of them while ill
had she been more lucid, the natural domesticity of their current position would have frightened her. fever has suffocated all logic and reason, and all she can do is enjoy the moment. he presses the cool rag to her searing forehead, pulls it away, submerges it in the basin of cool water, and repeats. all the while, he’s singing a sea shanty. at least, she thinks it is, from what little her fevered mind knows of sea shanties. it’s endearing to say the least, and it earns a few giggles that bubble out of her, before spurring a few coughs.
mindlessly, as he turns to press the cloth against her forehead, her hand reaches up and brushes loose curls away from his face, and lazily comb finders through his hair. yes, that fondness that swelled in her would have been terrifying. she means to say something, looking up at his face. many things. soft, sweet words of devotion that she would have regretted once her sanity recovered from it’s sluggish affliction. but her mouth doesn’t obey, instead, she just smiles. after a moment, in a weak and strained voice, she murmurs “perhaps your true calling was as a bard.”