***
Miranda is out of bed now, which I hate her for, because Jonas has still not moved. He's opened his eyes, but he has not so much as rolled over on his own. I've stayed home to tend to him, Miranda, and Apollon, while Neveah works in the marketplace. So, for days now, I've been perched by his side, waiting for some sign that he will be OK. A couple of days ago, when I rolled him over, he looked up at me through eyes that seemed to want to cross. He frowned, and mumbled at me, something like, "Mmflb lilll." I stroked his face, and nodded, and, since it seemed he thought he was telling me something important, I replied softly, "Yes, you're very ill. But you'll be OK. We gave you medicine and you're on the mend." He closed his eyes. He hasn't looked at me since.
My fingers graze his face again now. His fever is mostly gone, but he doesn't look right. He needs me, and Neveah, and Oscar to do everything for him. To turn him over and move his arms and legs so he doesn't get bedsore. To try to trickle broth into his mouth, hoping he'll swallow it. To clean him when he urinates, which is not often, because he has so little fluid in his body. Miranda was the same way, for a day or so. Apollon was as well, but now, surprisingly, he wakes fully, and can help us a bit in our endeavors. He's sleeping, now, stretched on the couch. How we ever got him there I'm not sure. But he hasn't been up, and I doubt he will anytime soon. Nor has he been forthright in answering our questions about the men who attacked him. I suspect it's because he knows how guilty I already feel. It had to be Donegan.
Miranda is sitting in the chair at the table, huffing and puffing over walking to the counter to pick up a piece of bread. I've been trying to ignore her, but now I glance at her and she's a little pale.
"Do you need anything?" I ask quietly.
"Five minutes ago, maybe," she snaps. "Thanks."
I turn my face away from her and look at Jonas. His chest rises and falls quickly, making me feel breathless. My back and shoulders burn with tension. I straighten and roll my shoulders in slow circles, press my fingers into the back of my neck. The pressure hurts and feels good at the same time, but raising my arms still makes my ribcage protest with a sharp stab of pain. I look at Jonas again, and sigh. I can't help it. How much longer will he be like this?
"You don't fuss over me like that," comes Apollon's low voice from around the end of the bed. I have to stretch and lean sideways to see him, but when I do he's grinning at me. He's been in a great mood, for someone who's been stabbed.
"You do too good of a job pretending not to be hurt," I say, walking to him. I sit on the edge of the couch, careful not to jar him.
He looks up at me thoughtfully, speculatively. But he says, "I thought girls liked the tough-guy thing."
"We like it better when our tough guys avoid being skewered," I say, squeezing his hand.
His face stretches into a smile, but he suppresses the laugh. Laughing is not a good thing for Apollon right now. He's quiet for a long moment, then he mumbles, "I'm bored."
"I bet."
"If I didn't have your pretty face to look at..."
I roll my eyes. "Drink something?"
He shakes his head. We sit and look at each other. In a moment, his eyelids are drooping. He blinks a few times, and he's asleep. I slide my hand out of his, stand up. There's really not enough room in our house for pacing. Miranda is giving me a dirty look, so I stop. I consider my perch beside Jonas, but I'm so tired of sitting there. Instead, I crawl up into the bed, and stretch out beside him. Facing him, a couple of feet away, I watch his still features, watch him breathe. I reach out and touch his face, run my fingers down his cheek.
"Stop bothering him," Miranda says. "He doesn't like that."
I grind my teeth rather than jump up and beat her. She's right. When she did the same thing yesterday, he frowned and twitched away from her. Reluctantly, I draw my hand away. As my fingers leave his face, Jonas moves his hand. It's a clumsy, tired swipe, but he manages to get his hand over mine, mid-air, and lets it drop. Our hands flop onto the bed between us, and stay there, his covering mine. I look at them, and look at his face. His eyes are closed, but he's awake. Possibly more awake than he's been. He seems so peaceful. There's the vaguest suggestion of a smile across his lips. Amusement lingering under the exhaustion. Does he think this is funny?
The corners of my mouth quirk into a smile and I suppress a laugh. For the first time in so long, I feel like Jonas is here with me. Joy rushes in. Instead of laughing, I sigh, and close my eyes. My body, my tired muscles, sink into the bed. Sleep comes for me quickly, and this time, I don't struggle against it. I let the dreams take me because I know, if they turn into nightmares, there will be someone to keep them from claiming me.