Trigger warning: unenthusiastic consent
*****
"We have to do something." Rhiannon's eyes bored into Vincent's, despite the pitch-dark night, practically glowing with intensity. "He coughed so hard he vomited twice today."
Tucked in a shabby rookery was the home of the growing Fitz family. It wasn't perfect. The roof leaked since their room was on the top floor, mice droppings weren't uncommon, and it struggled to keep heat in, but it was sturdy, and something. Rhiannon had seen and lived in worse. Vincent probably had not, but he had been a real soldier about it. She appreciated him for that a lot. What did she do to deserve him? It certainly was not her charisma, or any sort of nurturing, maternal charm.
"He's young." Vincent rubbed the back of his neck anxiously, despite his laissez-faire tone. "He doesn't know how to control his coughing yet."
As if on cue, faint, high-pitched coughing from several stories above them echoed through the narrow street.
"Eliott's had that cough for weeks now." Rhiannon crossed her arms. "Haven't you heard the wheezing? It sounds like the hundred-day cough."
"Darling, you know we can't afford..." Vincent's voice trailed off, then he sighed. "Are you certain it's not a cold? Or the flu. Or... or any of those other common illnesses they get when they're young. Children are sick all the time."
"And if it gets worse?" Her voice went sharp, the same tone she used when she was scolding the kids. "Don't be stupid. Erina and Edmund can barely sleep with all the noise. What if Eliott breaks a rib from all that coughing? A damned two-year-old. Your damned two-year-old. Will we be able to afford it then?"
The coughing turned into crying. Vincent looked up; Rhiannon continued staring at him with a hard look in her eye.
He heaved another sigh. "Point made."
She started up the stairs. "I'll visit the physician tomorrow morning."
There was a hint of ire in Vincent's voice: "You sound like you already had your mind made up."
Rhiannon didn't turn. "While you've been away, I've had to make some judgment calls in the upbringing of our children." It was a low blow and she knew it; he'd been in the mountains cutting ice.
He barked a dry laugh. "And now that I'm here?"
She spun on her heel and spat, "I'll knock some common sense into you until you agree that taking our two-year-old child who coughs so hard that he vomits to a physician is a good idea."
"I am thinking of our family, Rhiannon." She scoffed and continued up the stairs, but Vincent began to follow her, voice raising. "Winter is coming. We need clothes and blankets. Neither Edmund nor Eliott have proper shoes, and Erina's shirt has so many holes in it that she may as well not be wearing one."
Rhiannon clenched her fist, spinning toward him again. "I know!" She took a deep breath. He was trying to look out for them, she thought, even if he was being an utter moron about it. "I know."
She put her hand on her hip as Vincent reached her. There was a break in the crying.
"Maybe I'll ask some friends if they have cough syrup," he said, reaching for her hand.
The crying resumed.
"Don't bother. I'll take care of it." Rhiannon held up a hand dismissively.
Vincent looked at her. To most, his expression would look innocently confused (he was good at pretending to be irritatingly stupid when he wanted), but she could sense the edge to it.
She laced her fingers in his. "Trust me."
Vincent squeezed her hand once, then retracted his hand, walking up the stairs ahead of her, alone. Her heart cracked, but she kept her chin high. She was prepared to do whatever was necessary, even if Vincent wasn't.
*****
The wallpaper of the physician's office was peeling, but, otherwise, it was clean, and all of the odd tools, vials, and balms that made Rhiannon's skin crawl were stored neatly in white-painted cabinets. She may have mistaken it for a regular office if she didn't know it was a physician's office. The undertone of alcohol was an oddly reassuring scent, because Rhiannon couldn't identify what the other, stronger pungent odor was. It unnerved her—reminded her of death, like a rabbit in a fox's den. She wrapped her shawl tighter around herself.
The physician—a Mr. Val Duke—took off his glasses as he sat down in front of her. "The symptoms do indeed sound like the hundred-day cough. But I would have to see the lad for myself to confirm."
Rhiannon forced herself to ask: "How much would it cost?"
Val Duke told her the price. Vincent was right; they really couldn't afford it.
"I can't afford that," she said stiffly.
"Then I cannot help you, and I bid you good luck, Ma'am." Val Duke nodded cordially.
Pretentious bastard, Rhiannon thought. "How else can I pay you?"
Val Duke cocked his head. "Are you proposing some sort of trade or barter?"
"I am proposing," Rhiannon leaned forward and touched his knee, "a more personal form of payment."
Val Duke went red up to his ears. She wanted to roll her eyes. He stammered, "If you're saying what I think—"
"I am."
He blustered and stuttered for a moment more, then swallowed, pushing up his glasses. "That is... a-amenable."
She slipped off her shawl. "Just take care of my son."
