( better now that you're here is a cliche that has no place existing outside of her bodice rippers, but it isn't untrue. bedrest is a return to form alina resents more than the ill shiver that ravages through her, unwelcome nostalgia in staringly forlornly at the ceiling, wishing she was healthy enough for — anything, really. to be a normal girl doing normal-girl things, most of all, and not the sick little orphan who looks one bad gust of wind away from certain death. self-pity and boredom are easy to exile as her familiar bedfellows, with paul to take their space.

fever-bright eyes blink back at him, like big jewels embedded on a dopey, delirious smile. it's infinitely better than keramzin's treatment plan already — no one had ever brought flowers to beautify her bedside, when alina's limbs were too weak to carry her to the meadow. mostly, they'd just let her be, like a soul destined for a tomb. )

A little. ( her head lolls as she nuzzles into his palm, forehead clammy. the thing about sickness, when you're a furnace of warmth — alina's skin is concerningly cool and shivery, as if touched by an invisible draft. his little squak of indignation doesn't stop alina from rectifying it by squirming to curl around kettlewing, forced to play the role of heating pad and stuffed animal alike, as he nests into her stomach. ) I have a very attentive nurse, you see. He's hard at work curing me.

( she inhales deeply, lets the delicate scent of iris stick sweetly in her lungs. her stomach is still a twisting vortex, but alina's hand crinkles the bag of gummy worms under her fingertips, anyway, working at opening it with weak, distracted fingers. her other hand tugs at his sweatshirt, equally pitiful in strength. )

Thank you. ( sweetly, if not a clear delay in remembering proper manners. ) Will you lie with me?