Damien had only come over to see if Craig had a mandolin, really. For the life of him, he couldn't find where his was, despite checking the sink, dishwasher, and all of the cabinets multiple times over. It was with a heavy sigh that he'd resigned himself to bothering his neighbors about it, but now that he's here, he thinks that it might have been a good idea to go out. Dinner can wait, and Craig looks more sick than Damien thinks he's ever seen him.
He had wasted no time in firmly marching Craig back to a comfortable spot on the couch, and had since set about getting him a glass of water. As he sets the glass down, Craig's statement draws so much incredulous concern out of him that he physically cannot resist crossing his arms and tapping his foot on the floor. "You hardly look fine to me," he says, voice still gentle as wound up as he is, and presses the back of his hand to Craig's forehead, "You have a fever. Have you been letting yourself rest? Drinking enough fluids? Are you able to keep any food down? How long have you been this sick?" He paces in a short line in front of the couch, chewing at his own lip.
"Let me make you something," Damien says, and it's more of a demand than a request, "Even if it's something small. You shouldn't have to cook for yourself in the state you're in right now."
