Work Text:
The third time she tried to put the key in the lock, the keychain fell from her trembling fingers on the pink rug. A bad word slipped from Lily’s mouth, whose stamina was reaching its end after walking from The Songbird Theater to the new, small residential building where she had moved after dumping her now ex-fiancé.
It was usually a pleasant fifteen-minute walk, but this time, with an invisible hammer striking her skull and provoking an unbearable migraine, her body boiling with fever, it took her almost twice as long.
Lily eyed the baby blue, pointe-shoe-shaped keychain on the floor, and mewled feebly. She didn’t bend over to get the keys, even though she had all the flexibility and strength one needed to perform this simple task. Instead, she leaned against the hall's yellow walls and slipped to the cold floor, staying there like a beat-up human rug.
Everything hurt — breathing, walking, swallowing. Suddenly, the fluffy pink rug in the corridor seemed very soft. She regretted not having lain there instead, like a cat getting ready to sleep for thirteen hours straight.
Lily closed her eyes, took a deep breath, trying to recharge her battery momentarily. She tried to picture her bed, comfortable and warm, ready to receive her.
Yoba, if she could only get up and unlock that ridiculous door…
After a minute, or maybe an hour, she heard a door clicking, steps echoing in the hall, then a gasp.
“Miss Duncan, what on Earth…?”
Lily opened her eyes to find Mrs. Bublitz, the landlady, watching her with wide eyes. She looked concerned, and before Lily could try to get on her feet, the old lady crouched down and pressed the back of her hand against the ballerina’s head.
“Oh my, you’re burning,” then her eyes, as narrow as the cracks in Lily’s bathroom mirror, dropped to Lily’s face, studying her. “And you’re paler than the curtains that I got as a wedding gift from my mother-in-law. That woman lacked taste…”
If Lily weren’t feeling as if her soul was planning to get out of her body and join the ghosts that, according to Mrs. Bublitz, lived rent-free in the building, she’d have laughed. Instead, she opened her mouth to declare that she was fine; she only needed to lie down a bit. Unfortunately, her tongue couldn’t deliver the message, the words got caught in her throat, and a stream of dry, loud cough came out of her mouth.
“Here, let me help you,” Mrs. Bublitz offered her skinny hand, and Lily wondered if her soul had come with her body when the fifty-nine-year-old lady pulled her up from the floor like a garbage bag. “Are you alone today, dear?” She asked, opening the door - Yoba, when did she get the keys? - and turning on the lights in the small living room.
Lily nodded, supporting herself in the doorframe as she entered the apartment. She was aiming to get to her bedroom when her body protested the effort, and her feet were able to take only three tiny steps before she collapsed on the couch like a dead weight. Defeated, the ballerina stood there, curled like a ball, her hands protecting her eyes from the white lamps.
Cough, cough, cough, cough, coug-
“Oh, what a poor thing,” she heard Mrs. Bublitz say. “Don’t you have anyone to call? Your boyfriend? A friend? You can’t stay like this, sweetie.”
Dread pooled in Lily’s stomach at the idea of Harvey spending his day off taking care of her. He worked so damn much, and she didn’t feel like overwhelming him with her personal problems. His day off was his day off — to do whatever he pleased and not babysit her like an extra shift. It wasn’t that complicated; she just needed to take an aspirin, drink plenty of liquids — the peppermint tea her mother sent from her hometown was right in the kitchen cabinet, she recalled — rest, and ta-da.
The magic would work, and she would be feeling better the next day.
“I’ll call him,” she said, and was sure Mrs. Bublitz could see the lie through her words. “Thanks for your help, Mrs. Bublitz. Would you please turn off the lights after you leave?” She mumbled, almost incoherently.
When the slumber swallowed her and the click of the door echoed in the silent apartment, Lily fell asleep almost instantaneously.
A kaleidoscope of voices — that's how she would describe it.
The sounds danced in her throbbing head, sometimes as softly as a whisper or as if they were afraid to be caught. In her sleep, she could distinguish two distinct tones. The first was a feminine voice — clear, gentle, and older. The second was definitely male — deep, smooth, likely a baritone, and very pleasant to listen to. The kind of voice that would lull Lily to sleep, like Harvey did when he needed to read an article from some medical journal and Lily wanted to spend some time together.
A light from a lamp cut through the slumber in the living room — white, and piercing, and unpleasant. Her skull protested, the pain behind her eyelids becoming sharp like a knife’s edge.
She was starting to fall asleep again when a thought crossed her mind.
Wait, wasn’t she supposed to be alone? Could ghosts turn lamps on? A shiver ran down her spine, and Lily’s eyes cracked open.
“Don’t worry, she’s awake,” she heard Harvey say, then his face appeared in front of her. Jaw clenched, a line between his brows, eyes studying her face. Shit, she was in trouble. “Thank you for calling me, Mrs. Bublitz. I’ll take care of her now.”
She heard Mrs. Bublitz — traitor, vile, strong Mrs. Bublitz — mumble something and shut the door. Silence filled the space between the couple. Lily stared at Harvey through narrowed eyes because even the faint light from the lamp was too much. Harvey returned the analysis, staring at Lily with wide, concerned, what-am-I-gonna-do-with-you? eyes.
He was upset. And concerned.
And Lily’s body hurt like a tractor had run over her.
Maybe she deserved it. Maybe it was the price to pay for lying to Mrs. Bublitz. Maybe it was-
Cough, cough, cough, cough, cough.
“Choking on your lies, I see,” Harvey said, stepping closer and kneeling by the couch. He gently pressed the back of his hand against Lily’s forehead. His touch was cool, refreshing, like the first day of spring. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you call me?”
“I… Didn’t want to- Disturb you…” Lily declared, her voice even raspier than earlier. She tried to swallow, but her throat was like sandpaper. Then she added, feebly: “It’s your day off…”
“Precisely, sweetheart,” he expressed, with a neutral face, but there was something in his tone. Not rage, not disdain. Disappointment, maybe? Lily tried to read him, but the discomfort was too much. “Earlier in the afternoon, you told me that you weren’t feeling so good, but when I asked about your symptoms, you didn’t reply to my messages, nor did you answer my calls.” Lily heard a zipper, then she noticed that he had a black-leather satchel with him. “Now, imagine my surprise when Mrs. Bublitz called me… And I’m not even sure how she has my number.” He retrieved some medical instruments from the bag, each of them in a tone between white and beige. Lily was sure he heard her unsuccessful attempt to swallow hard. “I need to examine you. Let me help you sit.”
Delicately, like she was made of glass, or porcelain, or some very fragile material, Harvey helped Lily sit on the couch. She felt tired from that small movement she didn’t perform, even though she hadn’t done it entirely by herself, and shut her eyes to meet fake stars once again.
Oximeter, thermometer, something to measure her blood pressure…
“Open your mouth,” Dr. Vance instructed, because that was who she was facing now. She felt a popsicle stick pressing her tongue, but didn’t feel the taste of wood. “Sore throat, fever, cough… What else are you feeling?”
“Fatigue, body pain, migraine, and… Shame…” Harvey arched his eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.
Something twisted inside Lily, and she felt her heart falling in her chest at the thought, but she decided not to voice her concerns. Miraculously, she kept her mouth shut and silently followed Harvey’s instructions while trying to analyze him, but nothing in his expression seemed to be off.
If he were mad, he’d tell her… Right? Would he hide it?
They’ve known each other for over a year now and have been officially dating for two months and nine days — yeah, she was accurately keeping track of the numbers. He had never explicitly told her that, but she knew that Harvey valued dialogue and respect as naturally as she knew the sky was blue or that the grass was green. Unlike her ex-fiancé, Harvey didn’t need self-affirmation — his actions spoke for themselves.
Even so, a small voice in the back of her head said that, this time, she had fucked up. Lily shook her head, then hissed. Fucking migraine.
“Take this,” Harvey put one white, big pill on her palm, then offered her a tall glass of water, which she gladly chugged.
It took around twenty minutes for the medicine to kick in, lowering the fever and reducing the migraine to a mild headache. In the meantime, Harvey had prepared dinner, checking on Lily every five minutes. When the dish was ready — pumpkin soup and scalding peppermint tea — he sat by her side on the couch so they could have dinner together.
But in complete silence this time.
Lily’s stomach pooled with dread, but before her thoughts could spiral, Harvey’s voice cut through the silence.
“You’re very easy to read, sweetheart,” he commented in between spoonfuls of orange soup. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”
Sweetheart.
Lily’s stomach fluttered, as it always did when he called her that, even after all those months. His gaze was open and kind, the brown in his eyes so warm and gentle, inviting her to open herself, to talk to him.
“It’s stupid,” Lily shook her head, and suddenly the greenish liquid inside the mug seemed more interesting than her own feelings.
Bowl of soup finished, Harvey drew closer and put a strand of Lily’s hair behind her ear. His hand stayed there, caressing her cheek with his thumb. After a year together, his touch still sent sparks down her body.
“Please, do tell me. Let me fix it.”
Holding the mug firmly between her fingers, Lily took a deep breath. The heat of the porcelain burned her fingertips, but she paid no attention, trying to organize the stream of thoughts that waged a war inside her head.
Then she tried to explain.
How she didn’t want to overwhelm him with her personal issues; how she feared he’d be unhappy about taking care of another patient on his day off; how she didn’t want him to see her like that — a weak, clingy woman, always demanding too much from him.
Harvey listened in silence. And when Lily finished, he stated a sentence that almost made her choke on the tea.
“If I ever gave you the impression that you were, somehow, too much,” he frowned at the word, as if even the idea was completely nonsense, “I apologize.”
“No, it’s nothing to do with you,” she sipped the tea, “I just thought… Well, it isn’t fair. You work too much; you should be resting on your day off, not babysitting me.” Lily paused, and her eyes burned with tears.
Harvey got the empty mug from her hands and laced their fingers.
“Sweetheart, will you look at me, please?” He asked softly. Lily turned her head to meet kindness, affection, and tenderness in his eyes. Not rage, not disdain, which she had met plenty of times in the past. Not from Harvey, of course. Never from him. “You’re not too much. Taking care of you is not an inconvenience or a waste of time, as someone might have tried to make you think in the past. I love you,” he said, planting a kiss on the top of her head, “and that’s what people who love each other do. How many times have you taken care of me after a long, exhausting day? Did you think I was too much?”
“Never,” Lily whispered, and felt his fingers swiping tears she didn’t even notice she shed.
“So, if you need me, or even if you don’t,” he shrugged, and a smile spread on his face, “call me. You know I’ll run to you.”
Harvey didn’t let Lily get up. Dishes? He did it. Bath? He cupped her to the bathroom, washed her body and hair with the softest touch, and even blow-dried her hair later. Bed? He got the fluffiest blankets he could find in her closet, preparing a warm nest for her. At 9 p.m., the couple lay in bed, Lily curled against Harvey, who had a cup of decaf coffee in one hand and a book in the other.
“Read for me?” Lily asked, voice slurred, eyelids too heavy.
Then his voice filled the silence in the bedroom — soothing, tranquilizing. It didn’t take much for the words to lack their meaning.
Lily could feel Harvey’s warmth through his pajamas, through the blankets, and after their talk, she was sure he wouldn’t be mad when she told him that she had set him as her emergency contact in the contract she signed when she rented the place. But that was something for tomorrow. For now, she just closed her eyes and surrendered to a peaceful slumber.