12. Old Wives Tale
Fred had to smile, taking the copy from her. It had been his copy, dog eared and worn, a gift from his brother years ago. She'd not managed to get much further than where they'd left; wanting to wait until they were back together, curled up and reading separately. She figured that her curled up on him and Fred reading to her was just as good (if not better), and she pulled out the puppydog eyes.
He never could resist her, and opened the book to start to read aloud, his voice soft so she could fall back asleep if she needed.
Sheila ended up dozing, content in Fred's arms. His voice was soft and home, making her feel better. The paracetamol had helped, too, bringing her fever down a little. When she woke, it was late afternoon, and Fred was nowhere to be found. She stretched out with a sigh, trying to build the energy to get up.
"Fred?" She called, padding through the house, her blanket cocooned around her. "Fred?"
"Kitchen!" He called, his voice carrying.
"You left me." She grumbled good-naturedly; whatever he was cooking smelled too good to argue with him.
"Oh, I'm sorry." He met her in the doorway, wrapping his arms around her. "How are you feeling at the moment?"
She leaned into him. "Mm, better. Still rubbish."
"That's a bit better, you look better than you did before." He said softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I'm just making some tea for us."
"It smells good."
"It's an old family recipe, it'll make you feel better."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, it’s chicken soup. It'll fix all your illnesses."
She laughed. "That's just an old wives tale."
"So you don't want it?" He teased.
"No, no." She said quickly, her stomach rumbling. "I didn't say that."
He laughed. "Pull up a chair? I've gotta finish stirring."
She reluctantly peeled herself away from him, perching on the counter instead of a chair. "You'll have to teach me."
"Of course, when you’re better, though. It wouldn’t stick right now." He chatted away to her as he finished up, tidying away the pots and pans, and decanting a few portions into some tupperware.
"Want some bread with it?" Fred asked, rubbing her knee.
"Mm?" She blinked at him, rubbing her eyes. "What?"
He laughed. "I thought you'd gone quiet. You'd fallen asleep up there."
"I wasn't asleep." She protested.
He wrapped his arms around her, picking her up. She nestled into him, holding onto him like a koala. He carried her through to the living room, setting her on the sofa.
"Put something on the TV? I'll bring your soup through."
She grinned at him, tucking her feet up. "Thank you."
Fred returned to the kitchen, pouring her a glass of apple juice before carrying both their teas through. He settled the tray on her lap and curled up next to her. "So, what have we got?"
Sheila looked up at him with a smile, sheepishly taking the tray. “Just whatever I could find on.”
"Good enough for me. Careful, it's hot."
“Thank you.”
He stretched forward to steal a kiss, quickly settling back down to eat. "There's some for the freezer too, and enough for tomorrow."
“You shouldn’t kiss me.” She mumbled.
"I'm gonna get sick anyway." He shrugged. "Well, I'm not, because this is gonna cure us both."
She made no effort to move away, snuggling against him the best she could with her bowl of soup. The first spoon was heaven, warm and comforting, and she sighed happily.
"Better?"
“Much. You’ve cured me.”
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