Participants:
| Scene Title | Up In The Air |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Alexander is manning The Den while Delilah can't seem to stay still. She does, eventually. |
| Date | March 10, 2010 |
Delilah has been shut away for a couple of days straight, wavering between falling into fever and moaning about her concussion state. Though she should be resting herself, Delilah cannot help but wander between the rooms in the hall where she was put. The flu hasn't taken full hold of her quite yet, so she thinks that she has to still make an effort to take care of the others. The kids had toys, and she stayed to play for a while, before sneaking herself down towards the common areas. More specifically, where the kitchen is, and where she can find a glass of water.
It's kind of odd to see Delilah in pants, much less a pair of bizarrely colored flannel ones. She has a t-shirt on otherwise, and over both a thin, frayed nightrobe. Only warm socks for slippers. Considering that it has taken her way too long to get down to the kitchen, when she gets there, Dee has to lean herself wearily on the counter. Her red hair is lank, and the bruises on her face and neck are sickly mixes of violet and yellow. The girl seems to sway in place even when standing still, headaches making her woozy between coughing into her robe sleeves. Everything hurts, and when she coughs it just makes it worse.
"You need to be in bed." Al, peculiarly, is in robust good health these days. Pale from winter, but then, when is he not pale, really? He's in the kitchen, reading a ragged newspaper, sitting around in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. "You kill yourself nursing, you won't be any good to anyone. I'm here, it'll be fine." His tone is gentle, for all that he's delivering a scolding.
Delilah nearly jumps out of her skin. She didn't even see him there, having been totally concentrated on getting to the glass cabinet. The newspaper even helps him blend into the wall, thanks. She turns her head with a gasp of air, looking like a diseased deer in the headlights. "I have to do something. I can't just lie around, that's stupid." And exactly what she needs! She moves to the cabinet, tugging it quickly open and reaching to take and touch- only one glass. She feels like she has the black plague.
He levels a dry look at her. "It's what you need to do, when you're sick. And you're definitely sick. Dee, don't make me hold you down until you sleep. It's really no fun, and I prefer to use that power that way in much more pleasant circumstances, you know?"
She moves like an old woman, shuffling footsteps to struggling to keep still the glass she fills with water from the fridge. Condemned, there's no running water on this side. "I'm not that sick, I can still move." For now. She knows that, but doesn't want to accept it. "It's no fu- whu?" Delilah stops, glass of water to her lips moving back down as she looks over at him, squinting. "You- you use-" Uhh. The fever seems to also make her lethargic enough to be flustered, for once. Possibly because it takes energy to be so open-armed with one-liners.
It's that fox's smirk that he turns on her, blue eyes nearly vanishing in his smugness. "Yes," he says, before looking down to his newspaper, oh so demurely.
If she drinks any water she will just dribble it all over herself. So she sets the glass down and stares at him, studious. Delilah bites at her lip, obviously torn between being turned on and embarrassed. It's awkward to be the former when she is sick, but the latter isn't really her as it is. "Um. How often do you- er- do that?"
"As often as asked," replies Alex, and there should be sugar crystal crunching between his teeth, his tone is that sweet. "Though that's rather a personal question, isn't it?" he says, laying aside the paper with one smooth motion of his hand.
Delilah snorts, faking offense. She manages it, despite looking like hell. "You are the one that brought it up, mister. And it just so happens that I find it interesting." In other words, maybe she likes that kind of thing. TMI. "So dun'gimme that gab about getting personal, you started it."
He lifts one copper-colored brow. "Indeed. Well, then, you'd better hurry and get better, hadn't you?" suggests Alex, voice oh-so-casual.
She can't answer that. She just can't! So Delilah puts the glass to her face and starts chugging water. Weird initial reaction. She sputters, however, and water flushes back out of her mouth when she starts coughing up the droplets. A hand goes flat to her chest as she bends at the waist, still coughing. The itch and the water- now Lilah is simply hacking up a lung.
His smile fades, leaving him scowling. "You. Bed. Now. No argument. Whatever task you were gonna do, I can take care of."
Delilah catches her breath, eyes watering when they blink up and look to the glass of water that she's spilled mostly over herself and the floor. "Gotta find someone t'take Samson. Some'uns been walkin'him-" Her demeanor goes from stalwart to pleading in a matter of a minute or less. Once she speaks she starts coughing again, covering her mouth up with her hand and putting down the water.
"Ssshhh," he says, gently, rising and moving to her. Papertowels waft over of their own accord, mop up the spill. "I'll take care of him," he assures her. "Come on, angel, let's get you to bed."
While feverish, things moving by themselves is just completely weird. Delilah glimpses this out of her watery blinking while she coughs, and when she shifts to stand up again it is with a strange noise. Something like a moan, a groan, and with a dose of gloom. Oh no. Her palm has a tongueful of spittle on it, and the transparency is mixed with an unmistakable pink tinge, and red upon her skin. It's not much, but just enough.
That's when she's swept summarily off her feet, to float prone. He's going to literally carry her to bed. "You got it bad, doll," he says, unhappily. "You been workin' too hard,and now you're gonna pay for it."
Waaaaah. Delilah lets out a noise of protest when she is suddenly floating in the air, hand still wiping her mess on the hem of her robe. After a second of this she goes slack, though, breath coming with the whistling wheeze of tired lungs. "Ugghhh." Groaning is hard. "No g'deed unpunished, huh?"
"Relax, don't fight it," Al's tone is businesslike, rather than teasing. It's no longer funny, it's in earnest. He bears her back to her bed with those invisible hands.
Her bed is really a couple mattresses and a nest of blankets; it looks like she had actually made a nest, too, at some point, judging by the circular shapes of the quilts wadded together. Delilah lets out a short cough when he spirits her to the room and into the bed. The redhead is already looking worse than she did a couple minutes back, a slight fever sweat having beaded on her hairline. "Y'such a sweetie. When I have a kid 'm gonna put y'name in theirs somewhere, I swear."
It's a terribly eerie promise to make, but she doesn't know that. Delilah just thinks that she is being as honest about her thankfulness as she can!
"No need," he assures her, as he kneels down beside the bed, lays a thoughtful palm on her forehead. "Just rest. I'll bring you some more water, some ice, in just a bit."
"M'head feels like a boiled egg." Dee admits, the mixture of fever and injury making keeping her eyes focused on him very hard. "Wash your hands, Jesse." She says this after he puts his hand to her head. Even now she is trying to mother him. Wow. That says a few things about her, not limited to that she doesn't know anything else in situations like this. Delilah is supposed to be the one taking care of people- that's how its always been.
And now everything's reversed. All up in the air, both literally and figuratively. It'd be funny, if it weren't so terribly unpleasant. "I will," he promises.