HELLO H/C SLASH WINDOW A FORTNIGHT (OR MORE) WIDE.
Ugh. I have all sorts of feelings about Athelstan taking turns with Lagertha and others, mopping Ragnar's brow while he's all feverish. Crammed in Loki's place like that, it's all puppy piles all the time, which means Athelstan waking up with his nose in Lagertha's hair, and the kids' arms slung over him. And when he's watching over Ragnar, sometimes Ragnar rests his big, calloused hand on Athelstan's knee, and starts idly playing with it while he rambles feverishly. There is just a single layer of cloth between them, and it's neither as coarse nor as thick as a monk's robe.
Athelstan takes Ragnar's hand to keep it from ... roaming when he's so out of it he thinks it's Lagertha watching him. And so there is lots and lots of holding of Ragnar's restless hand, with the touching and petting of palms and knuckles and wrists and fingertips. Athelstan has to just sit there take it.
Lagertha notices. She comes over one chilly afternoon, and he holds up Ragnar's hand, expects her to take it. But she only stands behind him, cups his forehead and pulls him back until he's cushioned back against her stomach. She brushes her palm back and forth over the soft bristle on the crown of his head, and he lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Ugh. I have all sorts of feelings about Athelstan taking turns with Lagertha and others, mopping Ragnar's brow while he's all feverish. Crammed in Loki's place like that, it's all puppy piles all the time, which means Athelstan waking up with his nose in Lagertha's hair, and the kids' arms slung over him. And when he's watching over Ragnar, sometimes Ragnar rests his big, calloused hand on Athelstan's knee, and starts idly playing with it while he rambles feverishly. There is just a single layer of cloth between them, and it's neither as coarse nor as thick as a monk's robe.
Athelstan takes Ragnar's hand to keep it from ... roaming when he's so out of it he thinks it's Lagertha watching him. And so there is lots and lots of holding of Ragnar's restless hand, with the touching and petting of palms and knuckles and wrists and fingertips. Athelstan has to just sit there take it.
Lagertha notices. She comes over one chilly afternoon, and he holds up Ragnar's hand, expects her to take it. But she only stands behind him, cups his forehead and pulls him back until he's cushioned back against her stomach. She brushes her palm back and forth over the soft bristle on the crown of his head, and he lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
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