frances whines loudly as she's laying on the couch, covered in three blankets, a layer of sweat, and a major cold. "daaaaaaaaad. make me tea please. i'm /sick/. i need tea." her voice is nasally, and she immediately hacks a lung out after speaking, whining again. "i'm /dying/ dad." she grumbles, voice hoarse and throat dry. she /hates/ the fact that she gets sick so often, but she /loves/ the fact that her father is so quick to dote on her completely.
“Oh, querida.” John cooed, smiling a little in amusement as she whined and stated her death. “Shall I plan the funeral then?” He asked, going over just so he could gently brush her curls off her forehead, feel her temperature before pecking the top of her head and quickly walking off to make her some tea in hopes it’d make her feel better. John absolutely adored Frances - she meant the world to him, he’d do anything for her, even if it apparently meant being at her every beck and call, but he didn’t mind one bit. Within minutes, he returned stirring the tea in it’s mug carefully as he sat on the edge of the coffee table and smiled at her. “Can you sit up, carina? I don’t want you to accidentally spill or choke on it.” He told her softly. “It’s hot, so you’ll have to be careful, alright?”
