I should -
I should say something, right?
Before my courage flees me, I sit up, clutching the blankets around me. "Ah. Uh. I -"
He glances at me in surprise, and for a moment that smile grows a little.
"You're finally awake. Good, that means it's time for the patient to get their medicine. You seem to have developed quite the fever, as well. I have some herbs for a tea that should help with that as well."
He holds up a kettle, smiling at me with a warm, mischievous glint in his eyes. "Careful, it's quite hot."
I give him a miserable pout, even if I take the cup he eventually offers me. It makes sense to me, at least, and when I speak, the answer for my sulking - I think - is clear. "Soup..."
The pouty, sulky thing only seems to amuse him, and his hand comes down to lightly ruffle my hair, as if to comfort me. I let my eyes shut as his fingers comb through my hair, tucking strands behind my ear, his touch soft and gentle.
Sick or not, I am enjoying the hell out of this.
He removes his hand after a few moments and gestures toward the broth. "After this. Your body has to adjust to the medicine before it can handle anything more substantial."
"Not a child," I grumble. I still dutifully sip on the...weird bitter, gross thing he gave me. This is not the delicious soup I fantasized about. This is disgusting. "...Medicine...not good."
"Tastes aren't an indicator of usefulness in medicine. Nor is whether or not you like the flavor of a tea or drink," he reminds me with a grin, the hint of his canine visible on the upper lip.
"You have -" I try to find a good, eloquent, dignified, grown woman way to phrase this "-bad taste in tea."
"If bad tea was what was prescribed to help people feel better, I would recommend it despite the taste. When I was growing up my Grandmother always added a pinch of mint and honey to make it easier to tolerate. Would you like to try that?"
"That would be acceptable." I'm trying very hard to be dignified with a red, drippy nose.
It doesn't quite work out that way, and the resulting laughter from Viktor is worth it, even as he stifles it behind a hand. "Ah. I see. Yes, I think I can spare the time to accommodate such a very noble demand."
He chuckles and walks over to his desk to mix in some things. I pretend I can't see his shoulders still shaking from suppressed mirth.
I still appreciate it, though, as I curl up in the blankets and sip the bitter tea. It's...sweeter but still gross. Nevertheless, I prefer Viktor's home remedy of a sweetened honey mint concoction to the original.
"...I still want soup."
"First." His voice is stern, and I'm worried he's figured out I want the soup enough to use it as a carrot on a stick. "What in the world were you doing out there in the rain, barely dressed, sick as you are?"
I raise my chin, jutting out my lip. I've done nothing wrong. "I wanted to bring you your ticket to the opera."
I wanted to see him.
I mean that, but I can't admit it to him, not so baldly, so I instead lay blame on the tickets.
He's looking at me, waiting for some other reason. And...well...it's not as if I can hide my motives completely from him, with this cold. "I...missed you," I mumble into the rim of my tea, keeping my eyes averted.
I hear him sigh, and suddenly he lifts the teacup out of my hands and places it on the bedside table.
Then I feel his arms wrap around my shoulders, his forehead against my hair. His voice is soft, almost unbearably so. "Next time...send a note. Please? I would rather not worry."
"...Yes, Viktor. I apologize," I mutter into the front of his shirt. He smells good, like medicine and earth. His shirt's warm. The way he's holding me is nice.
The ache in my throat and body starts to fade, replaced by a pleasant warmth. "I just..."
I'm sick, but I'm not so feverish I have no filter.
I know how bad it would sound to tell him I was lonely. That if I'm not with him my heart is aching, that I love him so much more than he realizes but I just have to keep pretending I don't so that I won't scare him away.
Instead-...instead I take the chance to start digging around for...
for the...
the ticket.
I-
I left the ticket at home.
I blame the fever for why that, of all things makes me start to cry, and why I sob, "I'm s-sorry I don't have your ticket here! I really am! I really meant to bring it!!"
His fingers run through my hair as he rests his forehead on mine, shushing me gently. "Shhh, it's alright, it's alright, calm yourself, Ophelia. I believe you."
I keep shaking my head in denial. "It's true!!"
"I believe you. Calm down." He runs a hand through my hair, and I let out a quiet hiccup as I try to settle back down. I can't stop thinking about the stupid ticket and how I could be so careless to go and leave it behind and-
He pinches my cheek gently, tugging on it to try to distract me from my thoughts.
"Didn't I warn you I'd pinch you if you kept hurting yourself? But. You've been a very brave patient today...so you should have something nice as a reward."
He leans over, his smile warm, and he presses his lips against my brow, stroking my hair back gently. I'm still teary, but my breathing's gone soft as I look at him in awe and wonder.
Before I can even try to respond to this sudden show of affection, he speaks in that gentle, amused tone of his again. "Soup."
He feeds me the promised soup himself, taking care not to spill on my nightgown as I remain bundled in the warm sheets of the clinic bed. He stays at my bedside for hours, reading, giving me medicine and more soup, until I eventually fall back asleep.
This time when I wake he's not at my side, but in the other room.
The rest of the day passes in a haze. I don't remember him carrying me out of the bed. I don't remember being taken to the carriage, and getting home.
The next thing I do recall is being in my bedroom, and seeing Nessa frowning as she puts a cloth on my head. "I was worried sick, Ophelia! Don't you ever pull a stunt like that again!"
She pays remarkably little attention to my grumbling protests, for being a servant.