Like a Horse Made of Air

Ready (Steady) Go

The only reason Wren doesn't complain about her forced bed rest is because it's plain to see how worried everyone has been about her.

She shouldn't have panicked.

If she'd kept her head after the gun went off she would have known the shot wasn't fatal. Wouldn't have spent weeks believing she'd killed him. Wouldn't have left him tearing himself apart while he looked for her. But she hadn't.

However, as Rosie is fond of saying: you can only live in one direction.

She tries to sink herself into the work Tommy had finally consented to let her do, the books for her business and some for the shop spread around her. She's only been herself for a few days but she's restless, unused to idleness. Her mind drifts to ways to convince Tommy to at least allow her to sit downstairs.

As if summoned by her thoughts the man himself appears.

He has a tray balanced in his hands and a cigarette between his lips—unlit. He's been paranoid about any smoke near her, won't light up in the bedroom at all. She still feels ridiculous for what happened. She knows that people can get sick from the smoke from the chimneys. Has read about different remedies for the ailments the ash can cause. And yet she's never bothered to take precautions when she's gone on the rooftops. She'd been asking to get ill. She's just grateful it hasn't killed her.

She knows what that would do to him, there are shadows in his eyes that speak volumes.

She offers him a smile, "lunch time already?"

"So the clock says," he smiles back at her as he sets the tray aside to give her a kiss.

She tucks the cigarette behind his ear and cups his face in her palms to hold him there, desperately grateful she still has this. He readily indulges her, wrapping her in his arms and pressing soft kisses to her lips.

She hates as the building itch in her chest makes her turn away.

"Don't fight the cough," he chides her. "It's what pushes the bad air out of your chest."

"Who's the nurse?" she grumbles before succumbing.

She spits the disgusting phlegm in the cup he gives her, and sighs as she leans back against the headboard. She aches, and her breath comes short, everything tastes like ash, and she doesn't dare kiss Tommy properly. He sets the cup aside and grabs the wide shallow bowl and sets it into her lap. She tilts her head back as he grabs the kettle and pours the hot water before measuring the medicinal powder and mixing it in. The water turns milky and the steam smells sharp and bitter.

She doesn't fight him when he drapes the towel over her and the bowl saying, "five minutes of deep breathing."

She forces herself to lean over the bowl a bit and take the deepest breaths she can. It doesn't' ache so much as outright hurt as the medicine pushes into the raw spaces in her chest and loosens the clinging ash. By the time the five minutes are up she's choking on mucus, but Tommy holds her steady as the coughs rack her and she spits up mouthful after mouthful of black yuck. He gives her a bit of whiskey to clean her mouth out with and then removes the bowl and towel from her space.

And just like that she's exhausted.

He gives her long moments as he rubs soothing circles along her back. They'd learned the hard way that food has to come well after the medicine, or she won't be able to keep it down. At least he's heeded her request to feed her primarily cornmeal porridge. She wasn't the fondest of the dish—would rather have any other kind of porridge really—which means when she inevitably can't eat it once she's better it won't be much of a loss.