Imagine Patsy taking care of you when you’re sick.
You knew you were properly ill when even the smell of cigarette smoke didn’t phase you. Normally, the haze that followed Patsy from room was unmistakable, but today, curled miserably on the sofa with a blanket pulled up to your chin, the faint curl of smoke drifting from her hand made no difference to you.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Patsy said at finding you, though her voice lacked its usual bite.
You didn’t bother answering. Your throat felt like sandpaper, your head pounded in time with your pulse, and every joint ached.
From somewhere behind you came the sharp clink of glass. You cracked one eye open just in time to see her sweep into the living room holding what looked suspiciously like a tumbler of vodka.
“You cannot possibly think that’s medicine,” you rasped.
She paused mid step, lips pursing. “It’s a disinfectant,” she said firmly, as though that settled the matter.
You gave her a look that probably would have been more effective if you weren’t pale and sweaty and wrapped like a burrito. Patsy sighed dramatically, rolled her eyes, and set the glass down on the side table instead.
A moment later, she disappeared again, heels clicking down the hall. You heard cupboards opening, something clattering to the floor, followed by a string of muttered curses.
When she returned, she carried a mug. Steam rose from it. Actual steam. You blinked, startled.
“What is that,” you asked.
“Tea,” she said. “Or some sort of herbal swamp water.”
You pushed yourself upright with a groan, accepting the mug with shaky hands. The warmth seeped into your fingers, oddly comforting.
Patsy hovered nearby, trying—and failing—to look casual. She lit another cigarette, then immediately stubbed it out halfway through. Her gaze flicked toward you every few seconds, like she was concerned you may melt right off of the sofa.
“You look dreadful,” she said bluntly.
“Thank you,” you croaked.
She shifted her weight, crossing her arms tightly. For a long moment, she just stood there, watching you sip the tea.
“You’re not… you know. Dying, are you,” she asked suddenly.
You glanced up at her and sat the tea down, surprised by the tightness in her voice. Beneath the usual lacquer of indifference, her eyes held a look unmistakably close to worry.
“No,” you said gently. “Just sick.”
“Well,” she snapped, recovering quickly. “Don’t make a habit of it.”
Then she sat beside you and tugged the blanket higher around your shoulders, pretending the gesture annoyed her.
“You’d better get well quickly,” she added, voice softer now. “You’re absolutely useless to me like this.”
You hid your face in the blanket so she wouldn’t see you smile.
For anon
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