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"You've a fever." She says it decisively, taking her hand off his forehead. She's worried about him, but not quite to fretting yet. Caring for people is kind of her thing, and he is her lover. He's more deserving of her caring and fussing than anyone.
"How's the rest of you? Stomach all right?"
"How's the rest of you? Stomach all right?"
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"I'd love a lesson. And you'll have to teach me what a casserole is."
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"Oh, a casserole is great for beginners. Just toss in some leftovers and voila!"
He makes a grand flourish, then groans, touching a hand to his stomach. He lets his head fall back on the pillow with a sigh.
"I wish I could kiss you silly."
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"You'll have to save it for later." She lays her hand over the one on his stomach, a gentle weight, careful not to press to hard. "You should rest, or you'll never get well."
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"If you weren't so ill, I'd tickle you for such a poor attempt at feigning sleep. Surely there's a better actor in you than this."
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He waits for her to be impressed for .2 seconds before going "Wait. Have you read Shakespeare?"
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That's the problem with getting involved with someone from a completely different plane of existence. She has no idea what he means when he makes common references.
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"If they're any good, I'll put on shows just for you if you like."
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"Oh? Like what?" His expression says he means something that will make her blush, she just knows it. But how can she not ask?
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"You are far too ill to be thinking such things." Though the seed is planted. She'll absolutely be thinking about that for a good while now.
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"I can think ahead," he says with a sly smile. "But yes, I suppose that's for another night."
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"Go to sleep, wicked man."
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He takes her hand and kisses it softly before curling up on his side and closing his eyes.
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She isn't going anywhere any time soon.