Chapter Text
Joaquin wheezed as he rolled over in bed, sweat slowly trickling down his temple from his hair line to drip off of his jaw. He licked parched lips as he cracked open his eye, squinting at his room which blurred as he tilted his head. He grunted as he closed it again, resisting the urge to scratch at his eye patch, which itched and dug into his skin to the point of near unbearable irritation.
"I think I’m dying," he gasped to the room at large, fingers digging into his blankets.
"You’re not dying."
Joaquin squinted his eye back open to peer up at Maria, who had a mildly exasperated, but sympathetic look on her face as she cradled a bowl of soup in her lap. She swirled the spoon around in the broth, before offering it to Joaquin. The soldier obligingly let her spoon the liquid into his mouth, letting out a little moan of pain as it slid down his irritated throat.
"You’re just sick. It will pass," she reassured him, reaching out to pet at his hair once the spoon was back in the bowl. "If we get enough soup and water into you, you take your medication, and you get enough rest, you should be back on your feet in no time flat."
"I hate it," he grumbled in reply, letting his eye slide shut once more as the bright light of the room began to make keeping it open hurt. "This is terrible. I feel like death, and I’m useless."
"Death really doesn’t feel like the flu," Manolo’s cheerful voice was accompanied by the quiet sound of Joaquin’s bedroom door opening and shutting, "It really doesn’t feel like much of anything, really. Falling, maybe."
"That is not reassuring, Manny," Joaquin sighed, flinching a little when a cool hand came into contact with his warm brow. He relaxed as he recognized the familiar callouses of Manolo’s fingers. "Not in the least."
"It should be. It means Maria’s right, and you’re not dying. Just running a fever. I brought you more medication from the doctor."
Another disgruntled sound left Joaquin as he shifted in bed, perpetually feeling uncomfortable thanks to his body’s rise in temperature, and subsequent increase in sweat production. “It tastes like dirt.”
"And you would know how dirt tastes, how? Did you make a habit of eating it on the road?" Manolo’s joke was followed by a short laugh from Maria, and a quiet sound of skin on skin as Joaquin assumed Maria smacked Manolo’s arm.
"Hush. Joaquin doesn’t need your sass. Perhaps a song. Something nice. And Joaquin, you have to take your medicine, whether you think it tastes like dirt or not," Maria chided, tapping the soldier on the nose and earning a slight jump from him as he squinted his eye back open.
"Mean," he muttered, tilting his head to watch as Manolo tuned his guitar slightly, a small smile on his face as quiet music began to fill the room. He settled against his pillows as Manolo began to sing, a quiet, momentarily contented sigh leaving his lips as Maria moved from the chair she’d been sitting on to the side of his bed, her weight settling next to Joaquin’s shoulder as her fingers began to brush gently through his hair. He could feel the pull of sleep as the two did their best to sooth him in his illness, his eye drifting shut as Manolo’s weight settled on his other side.
"Thank you, mis amores," he murmured as he began to drift off.
"Sleep well, quierdo," Maria cooed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.