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Bard's singing more closely resembles the dying throes of a crow than anything human. When the kids are being less than cooperative, he's been known to use his particular ability (not that “ability” is the word for it) to annoy them into behaving. Thranduil loves it, even Bard does sound like a cat in distress.
Objectively, he knows Bard's singing is awful, but the twinkle in Bard's eyes as he soulfully sings along with old eighties songs on the car radio is worth it. Sometimes Thranduil even lingers outside the bathroom door while Bard sings in the shower. Thranduil thinks his singing is adorable (so long as it isn't in public).
***
Bard's husky baritone is barely a whisper this morning. Thranduil hovers and clucks in full mother hen mode, periodically taking Bard's temperature and pumping Bard full of chicken noodle soup (ordered from a local deli, of course, no need to make Bard sicker with his own cooking).
Thranduil's not good at dealing with illness. He could count on one hand the number of times he's been sick in his whole life. The most Legolas had ever had was a bout of the chicken pox and an occasional cold. Even his wife had been exceptionally healthy before she was suddenly taken in a car wreck.
Thranduil can feel the panic begin to rise in him. It's unreasonable and he knows it. It's probably only strep throat, after all, but the thought that he may never hear Bard's horrible singing voice, or kiss his lips, or share his bed, or feel the heated press of his body is more than he can bear. He knows it's an irrational fear, but he's been incredibly lucky to be given a second chance at love – at life – and he's already lost too much to lie to himself about how very wrong it could go. It's not that Bard will die; it's that Bard could die. He prays Bard doesn't notice his discomposure as he desperately tries to cling to reason, to keep himself from going to pieces.
Thranduil heads downstairs with the tray bearing the remnants of chicken soup. While he loads the dishwasher, Sigrid comes to lean against the counter.
“How's Da?” she asks softly, glancing over to the kitchen table, where Tilda is hunched over her homework.
Thranduil only know realizes that they haven't really seen Bard in two days, as both Thranduil and Bard agreed to keep him under a kind of quarantine. Whatever it is Bard has, neither of them wants the kids to catch it.
“I'm not sure.”
Sigrid glances up at him, worry in her eyes. Thranduil isn't the only one unaccustomed to illness. He hugs her and Sigrid clings tight.
***
When Bard's fever reaches 103, Thranduil half carries Bard to the car. He feels a slight pang of guilt for leaving the kids by themselves, but Sigrid and Legolas are more than capable of looking after them. Bard protests the entire way to the hospital, but Thranduil can see the relief written all over his face. The ride is silent, Bard doing his best to breathe evenly and not move around too much, Thranduil doing his best to keep his irrational fears at bay.
When the doctor finally returns with his diagnosis, Thranduil only picks up one word in every ten, although he could swear he's never paid more attention to anything in his entire life. “Infection,” “dehydrated,” “fluids,” and “observation” seem to be the more important points anyway. Thranduil smiles at the doctor and offers him his thanks.
They take Bard up to a private room where he'll be spending the night. Thranduil makes small talk with the nurse as she helps settle Bard in. He feels spectacularly useless just standing here while the nurse does everything. He can't even hold Bard's hand for fear of getting in the way. He breathes a sigh of relief when the nurse finally leaves. The door is barely closed before Bard motions for a notepad and pen. Thranduil duly hands over them over and strokes Bard's hair while he scribbles.
You don't have to stay if you don't want to, sweetheart.
“Like hell I'm leaving you here on your own. You don't have a voice left. Who'd argue with the doctor?” Thranduil is rewarded with a small smile.
If you're sure. There's only that little couch thing.
“I've had worse.”
Bard gives him another small smile, but there's concern there now, too. Are you okay? I worried you, didn't I?
Thranduil doesn't respond immediately, even though he can feel Bard's eyes watching him. It makes it especially hard to ignore the blurriness of his own vision. He's not sure he can say what he wants to say without saying it all. As the tears begin to leak out of the corner of his eyes, Bard reaches up to brush them away. They both know how much there is to lose and how quickly they could lose it.
Thranduil steps back a moment to dry the remainder of the moisture left on his cheeks and quickly compose himself. He looks down to see Bard's face scrunched up with concern. That certainly won't do. Swooping down with characteristic grace, Thranduil presses little kisses all over Bard's face, ignoring his playful attempts at swatting him away. It's not until Bard croaks out “Germs!” that Thranduil finally relents. Bard's delighted smile makes it worth it.
You can finish that later, after I'm better.
“You can count on it,” Thranduil says with a grin. He holds Bard's hand while he falls asleep.
***
When Thranduil catches Bard singing in the shower three weeks later, he thinks it's probably the most glorious sound he's ever heard.