8. Clamor
It’s rare that he gets sick--but somewhat inevitable, given what he does for a living. Even rarer is how he’s stuck now, banished to their bedroom under the threat that Itonne or Ladroix will bash him over the head if he tries to go about as he normally would. The fever is concerning but they’re being a touch over dramatic, in his opinion.
Still, he rests as he’s told--ordered, rather--and the bells are a touch hard to track with the fever having him in and out through the day. Somewhere between waking and not he hears the door open and it may be shortly after or ages before someone is crawling onto the bed. It has to be Evine, as his spouses are far heavier. She’s sitting next to his side when he blinks his eyes open, small little bag in her lap.
She’d wanted one to match the one he always carries and he’d eventually relented. Usually, it’s filled with very important rocks or sticks. Snow, once, though she hadn’t shared that detail until it was dripping onto the floor in the evening. Now, she pulls a number of vials from it and he might be having a heart attack--
“Where did you get those?” His voice is rough and talking makes him cough, so he has to turn away and cover his mouth while she answers.
“I took them from your shelf,” she admits, digging in her bag again.
“How--?”
“I stood on a chair.”
“What, where is your mother?”
“Bu-usy~,” she sing-songs. He huffs, suddenly even more tired than before as he props up on his elbow and peers through the doorway. Itonne and Ladroix are in the kitchen, leaning over the counter and staring at something in a bowl. “They can’t make bread.”
“Oh,” he sighs, flopping back down. He reaches and gathers up the vials, tucking them under his own side just so they’re out of her reach for now. “Don’t touch the medicine, dearheart. Some of them can be dangerous.”
“Well you need them! Momma said so.”
“And your mother knows which ones. Don’t worry, I’m fine.”
“I’m going to make you better!” She’s pulled bandages from the little bag now and reaches for his hand. He suspects there will be a roll or two missing from his things, because where else would she have gotten them? It’s far easier to simply give his hand to her, so she settles it in her lap and starts looping the cloth around his palm and fingers.
“Does your mother know where you are?”
She shrugs and starts humming, head tilting back and forth as she “works”. He could do a countdown, he thinks, before--
“Where… Evine? Ladi, where is she?”
“I thought you were watching her?”
“How could I be watching her, I’m standing here trying to read a recipe that I’m almost positive is written in another language--”
“I was cooking just fine before you came along and started trying to put your little mitts into everyth--”
“Oh don’t you even start!”
They’ve already started, he thinks, but the thought is lost as they truly start to argue, talking over each other louder and louder until he isn’t sure who is even trying to make what point anymore, never mind the fact that they’re so caught up in who is at fault that they haven’t actually tried to solve the question of where the child is.
This is why he’s better at the childcare aspects of the home, really.
After letting them go for a while he sighs, giving Evine’s leg a poke.
“Cover your ears.”
After she’s done as much he brings his non-wrapped hand to his mouth, whistling sharp between two fingers. It works as it always does, making the two stop. They poke their heads around the opened door a few moments later and he simply gives them a look, one they know by now. I’m not mad, just disappointed. They slink off--quietly, thankfully.
