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this was a while ago but i forgot to post it

Eliot is ill and injured, and Quentin comes to him in a dream. Written pre-season 3.

———

Margo fretted above him, straightening his blankets, fluffing his pillows, and making sure that he was generally comfortable. Tick stood nearby with that peculiar forced smile on his face, watching as the High Queen frantically tried to help her King.

"My Queen, it is...ah, unwise to make such a fuss over His Highness. He is strong and young and will get over this bout of ill health and injury in time. Please, my Queen–" He held out his hands to try and calm Margo down. Had Eliot been slightly less feverish he may have snickered. There was no calming Margo down when she got like this.

"Are you kidding me?!" Margo snapped. Tick flinched. "Eliot was stabbed in the fucking leg." She growled, eyes flashing with anger and exasperation. "He's burning up, asshole. Telekinetics can't take this much heat or their powers will–"

As if on cue, an expensive-looking vase fell and crashed on the floor. Tick gasped and a few castle aides came to clean up the shards of porcelain and glass.

"See!!" Margo cried. "His powers will go completely haywire, making shit fall and break. We need to get this fever down, now." She drenched a cloth in ice water from the bowl on a nearby table and folded it before placing it gently on Eliot's forehead. "Hey...hey, El?" Her voice softened and she cupped his warm cheek with her cold hands. "El?"

Eliot's eyes fluttered closed. He had no desire to be here, in this stiflingly hot bedroom waiting for his fever to break. His leg ached, throbbing with each unsteady beat of his heart. Damn Fillory and their stupid underdeveloped medicine.

Gradually, Margo and Tick's voices dissolved to give way to silence.

His eyes snapped open. Margo and Tick were gone. Early morning sunlight filtered in through the large window, a stark contrast to the moonlight that had been struggling to make it through the lace curtains a few moments ago. Eliot blinked.

"Eliot." A familiar voice spoke. Eliot knew that voice. He never thought he'd hear that voice again. He sat up abruptly, causing the cold compress to fall into his lap.

"Quentin?" Eliot called, surprised to find out that his voice held none of the painful hoarseness that it had before.

He directed his gaze to the doorway. There, with his hands tucked modestly in his pockets, stood Quentin Coldwater. He looked the way he had when Eliot first met him: eyes glittering and mouth quirked up in a funny sort of half smile, like he was afraid of smiling the whole way. His brown hair was straighter than Eliot would ever be. Quentin leaned with one shoulder against the doorway.

"I never thought I'd see you again."

His voice was steadier than Eliot had ever heard it. Gone were the intermittent stutters that adorned his speech back at Brakebills.

"Q..." Eliot threw the covers to the side and tried vainly to make sure he looked presentable. He looked down at his leg and blinked. The bandages were gone. The pain had disappeared. "Oh my God, Q, you don't understand how hard it is here without you." He stepped in front of Quentin in his satin pajamas, and even though he towered over the former king, he still felt like a child. When he put weight on his injured leg, he felt nothing.

"I'm sure I don't." There was an icy undertone to Quentin's words, but Eliot ignored them. Who cares, it was Quentin, for God's sake! He was here! In Fillory! Right when Eliot needed him the most!

"You've missed so much, Q," Eliot spoke quickly, trying to catch Quentin up on everything that had happened since he was trapped on Earth. "The faeries, they're gone, we fought them off, and oh--" He took a breath, absentmindedly straightening Quentin's collar like he used to do while speaking to him back at Brakebills. "You...I've...I've missed you...so much."

"Don't touch me." Quentin whispered. His words were sharp, but his tone suggested something softer. Like he was saving Eliot from something.

"Why not?" Eliot stepped even closer. "Quentin, why can't I..."

Quentin sighed. "You're delirious."

He murmured. "Dance with me." His hands found their way to Eliot's waist and pulled him closer. The room darkened.

"You're shaking." Quentin observed. He was so calm and collected, Eliot thought. It was strange.

"I guess I am." Eliot frowned.

"You're scared, Eliot." Quentin nodded slightly, his brown eyes boring into Eliot's glassy amber ones. "You still don't think you're ready to be a king."

"I was stabbed in the leg while practicing with Bingle." Eliot glanced down, embarrassment softening his voice. "I'm barely fit to be a swordsman."

"You have to trust in yourself, Eliot." Quentin cupped Eliot's cheek just as Margo had and rubbed his thumb in little circles. "For me."

Eliot swallowed hard and blinked back burning tears. "Thank you, Quentin."

The ghost placed one hand on Eliot's forehead while keeping the other hand pressed firmly to his cheek.

"El," He whispered. "You're on fire."

Suddenly, Quentin let go of Eliot's waist and disappeared.

The pain in his leg returned and he crumpled to the floor.

#the magicians syfy #the magicians #the magicians fanfiction #eliot waugh #quentin x eliot #eliot x quentin #quentin coldwater #angst #suffering #queliot #ship: queliot #sac.art