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It all happens very quickly, at least that is the story you are going to use once John sees you.
You raise your hands to your head, rubbing your temples, eyes closed, hoping to make the throbbing stop with such a simple gesture. It doesn’t work. At all. Shit.
It’s almost as if he could feel it. The barn door creeks. A few moments later, you hear him walking up to you. Boots scuff the dirt behind you, faster than usual, less measured.
You’re in trouble.
“What are you doing?” he demands, though he lowers his voice as soon as he notices the look on your face.
“Oh, you know, just resting,” you try, voice thin, hands still holding your head.
“You don’t do that,” he says, a little too serious for your liking.
You try to chuckle, but it comes out wrong, clipped short, like your body cuts it off before it can finish.The fact that you don’t use your usual charm ticks him off.
He raises his hand to your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” he says, before looking around the barn quickly. His jaw tightens.He notices a bale of hay close to you, and he guides you to it, hand steady on your lower back. “Sit.”
“John—” you weakly try to argue.
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“That means that whatever bullshit you’re going to throw at me next doesn’t count,” he says, sharper than he means to, frustration evident. “Where does it hurt besides your head?”
“Everywhere,” you mutter under your breath.
He kneels down, sitting in front of you, eye height.
“When did it start?” His voice is softer now.
“Last night.”
His nostrils flare. He looks away for half a second. When he looks back, his voice is quieter, controlled to the edge of breaking.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“John, I am familiar with your sleeping schedule. You needed those few hours.”
“You should’ve woken me up.”
“Could’ve, would’ve—”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Make it less than it is. You’re sick,” he states, like it’s a fact carved into the land. “And you don’t get points for working through it.”
“Are you sure? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure that’s exactly how it works. People will admire me for my resilience—”
“Shut it.” He says it without heat, but there’s a crack underneath. His thumb drags once across your temple, like he’s grounding himself as much as you.
“That’s not very nice.”
‘’I’m not a very nice man.’’
‘’That’s not true.’’
“You’re resting,” he says. “That’s not a suggestion.”
He gives you a quiet, immovable stare. One that says you should know better than to argue with him. Luckily, you’d already had some training on that part.
“Rip,” he calls.
Rip dismounts a moment later, horse abandoned near the end of the barn, eyes flicking between the two of you.
“Boss.”
“Water.”
Rip nods once and disappears without a word.
“You’re burning up,” John says. No accusation. Just fact.
Rip’s back fast, cold bottle in hand. He twists the cap off and passes it to you.
“She okay?” Rip asks.
“I’m not a horse. You can talk to me while I’m here.”
The men both chuckle at that.
“Good, that means you’re not dead yet.” Rip asks, looking at you now. ‘’Besides. You haven’t lost your wit just yet. You okay?’’
“Yeah.” At the same time, John says, “She’s not.”
Rip eyes the both of you. “Do you two need my help?”
“Depends on whether she can stand on her own two feet.” John mutters, already assessing her body, waiting for it to give him a sign.
“Of course I can stand,” you sputter.
“Damn it, woman,” he murmurs.
“You love it,” you manage to get out before the black spots in your vision take over.
“Oh, she’s—” Rip starts before you slump over, John’s hand instantly on your waist, keeping you from hitting the ground.
Stay with me, you hear him say, before another line of cusswords are thrown your way.
It all blurs a little after that. You can feel yourself being carried by strong hands, hands that don’t argue, hands that feel familiar and grounding.
If you weren’t feeling so crappy, you probably would’ve loved every single second of it.
The next thing you remember is being in bed and the door slowly opening.
“You’re back.”
“I am,” you say softly, throat a little dry.
“You scared the daylight out of me,” he says, setting down the tray he was holding on the nightstand and sitting down next to you on the bed.
He raises his hand to your face, running his thumb over your cheek before checking your temperature once again.
“It looks like it settled a little,” he says, mostly to himself, adjusting the blanket so you’re fully covered again.
He hands you a glass of water. You sip it like it has all the answers in the world.
“That’s good. Thank you.” you say, almost choking on the drink because you’re trying to drink it too fast.
“Slow down.’’ he says, taking the glass from you. ‘’I also got you some chicken soup. The way you like it.”
“I thought Gator was gone for the week?”
“I can manage.”
“Yes, and I’m the First Lady.” you say sarcastically, knowing fully well this man can only make a steak and fries. And maybe some scrambled eggs if he’s feeling extra generous that day.
“Technically, you are.” The question mark is apparently evident on your face because he continues. “Of the Yellowstone, I mean.”
“I like whatever is wrong with you,” you say, motioning vaguely at him.
Maybe you’re still a little delirious from the fever.
“Good,” he says with a chuckle.
“You mean to say you made me chicken soup?”
“Yes. Why is that so hard to believe?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember the last time you cooked for me.”
“Hm. Is that right?” He feels your forehead again, brows knitting just slightly. “Definitely delirious. I might just call a doctor.”
“No, please don’t,” you protest weakly, motioning for him to hand you the bowl of soup.
“Sit up first.”
“Bossy.”
He doesn’t even react, simply raises an eyebrow. You do as he says anyway, sitting up against the headboard. The blanket slips a little and you feel a breeze on your leg.
“John… did you undress me?”
He smirks and gets off the bed, walking around it.
God, he’s handsome, you think, even now. Even like this.
If it weren’t for the damn fever.
“Couldn’t let you get in the bed with your boots on, darlin’.”
“I’m not talking about my boots, and you know it.” He laughs at that.
“Eat.”
You do. You enjoy a couple of spoonfuls before your eyelids start to droop again. He notices immediately and takes the bowl from your hands.
“John.”
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“I don’t feel too well.”
“I know.”
“Will you stay for a little while? Not too long. I know you have stuff to do, but…”
“No other place I have to be now except right here.”
“I thought you had that meeting.”
“I called them. Rescheduled.”
“You don’t do that.”
“I do, for you,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, lingering just a second longer than necessary.
“Thank you,” you murmur, already drifting.
He nods, then walks over to the couch, gathering the papers spread across the coffee table. Apparently he had been with you the entire time you’d been sleeping. The thought of it makes your heart swell.
After a minute or so, he returns to the bed and settles beside you, reading glasses now perched on his nose, the familiar weight of responsibility still clinging to him even here.
You shift instinctively, laying your head in his lap.
He chuckles softly, one hand coming down to rest in your hair, steady and sure.
“You don’t have to be tough with me,” he tells her, low and steady. Fingers threading through your hair. “I’ve got that covered.’’
You hum faintly, barely more than a breath. “You always say that.”
“And you never listen,” he replies, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to feel.
You smile against him, eyes fluttering closed. The steady rise and fall beneath your cheek feels like something you could follow anywhere.
“Can’t help it,” you murmur. “I was raised feral.”
A soft huff of laughter leaves him. “Yeah. I noticed.”
His hand keeps moving through your hair, slow and unhurried, the kind of touch that doesn’t ask for anything in return. The papers he brought back from the couch remain untouched on the nightstand, forgotten in favor of the weight of you resting there.
“You don’t have to prove anything today,” he says quietly. “Just rest.”
Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his shirt, holding on more out of instinct than intention.
“Stay,” you whisper, the word slipping out before you can stop it.
“I’m right here,” he answers without hesitation.
Sleep pulls at you again, heavier this time. The ache in your body dulls to a distant throb, the world narrowing to the warmth of his presence. His hand remains steady in your hair, anchoring you as the last edges of consciousness slip away.
The lamp clicks off at some point. You don’t notice when.