A Tinn Thing (1/1)
“Peter?” Rose pushed the door to behind her, turning the bolt before moving further into the flat. Peter’s car had been downstairs, and his keys were on the floor next to the small table by the door.
But there was no answer to her call.
“Peter?” Rose heard the tension in her voice as she called his name again. A quick glance showed he wasn’t in the parlour, and the door to the loo was open, showing it, too, was empty. She set down her briefcase-full of paperwork-and slipped her shoes off, padding down the hallway to their bedroom.
The curtains had been drawn-she always opened them right before she left for work--and she could make out a prone form in the bed. “Peter?” she asked, softly, moving over to where he lay curled on his side.
His eyes were closed, and even in the dim light, she could see his skin was even paler than usual. She brushed her fingers over his forehead, stroking his damp hair back from his forehead. He was running a fever, his skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat.
She glanced over to the bedside table-he’d not brought a glass of water in with him, and she sighed in gentle exasperation. She wondered if he’d taken anything at all when he came home; knowing him, he’d assumed he’d take a nap and be able to shake off whatever he had.
She moved to the kitchen, pouring a glass of water, rooting through the cabinets for some form of snack for him. She settled on an orange, leftover from the picnic they’d had over the weekend; oranges might not be as good as a banana, she thought with a slight smirk, but they were better than the packet of crisps Peter had hidden in the cupboard. She left a light on in the kitchen, and moved to the en-suite to damp down a flannel before returning to the bedroom.
Peter had kicked off the duvet, rolling onto his back and splaying across the bed in an effort to cool off. Rose turned on the small lamp on her side of the bed, setting the water and orange on the table, and then gently sat on the bed next to Peter. She rested her hand on his forehead-warm and damp, but not hot, which was promising-and reached for the flannel.
He awoke not a second after she rested the cool cloth on his forehead. “Nmph,” he muttered, opening an eye to glare at her.
“H’lo.”
He closed the eye, making an effort to move her hand away.
“No, Peter. You need to cool off.”
“Mm hot,” he protested, opening both of his eyes and glaring at her.
“Which is why you need to cool down.”
He huffed out a sigh, too tired to fight.
“When’d you get home?” she asked softly, re-folding the flannel before laying it back on his forehead.
“Two? Three? It was bright out,” he murmured, shutting his eyes once again.
Almost four hours ago. “Have you eaten?”
He gave another weary sigh. “Soup. Lunch.”
“You need to eat something, then.” She removed the flannel from his head, setting it next to the glass of water.
“I need to be left alone to sleep,” he snapped. He winced, his forehead wrinkling.
“You’ll be left alone as soon as you have something to eat. You need to keep your electrolytes up.”
He pursed his lips, his dimple appearing.
“Please?” Rose whispered. She brushed her fingertips over the beloved feature; Peter relaxed his mouth.
“Will you let me sleep after that?”
“Yes.”
He opened his eyes, his eyes a deep brown in the light. He propped himself onto his elbows slowly, and turned to Rose. “Water.”
She reached for the glass, passing it to his outstretched hand. She picked up the orange, peeling it, ignoring the glare he gave her as the fresh scent of the fruit filled the room. He took several small sips from the glass, and passed it back to her.
“You need to drink all of it!” she protested.
“Give me the blasted food, Rose,” Peter ground out.
He was a terrible patient, she decided as she peeled off a section of the orange.
He had enough energy to raise a dubious eyebrow as she passed him the section. “This is meant to sate my hunger?”
“It’s good for you, Peter.”
He glowered as he popped the fruit into his mouth, chewing it with a frown. She smiled at him as she passed him another section.
“I’ll reward you, Peter...” she whispered, leaning into him.
He glanced at her sceptically, and she added, “When you’re better.”
“Delayed gratification is hardly the way to get me to bend to your wishes,” he muttered. “Water?”
She passed him the glass. “I love you, Peter, but not enough to catch whatever you’ve got.”
“’s Elias’s fault.”
“I hardly believe that.”
“He brought it into work. Got the lot of us ill.” Peter was sulking, slouching as he sat, the glass of water clutched in his hands.
She reached over, gently brushing his fringe off of his forehead. “I’ll be sure to have a word with his missus about her care and feeding of him.”
“Do that,” he muttered.
“Is Elias still ill?”
Peter sniffed. “No, the bastard. Was sick one day, came back the next right as rain.”
“So you’ll be fine in a day or so.” Rose was relieved-it appeared that Peter had caught something inconvenient, but minor. The medical system in this universe wasn’t a patch on the one she’d grown up with; people still routinely died from viruses or infections which had been easily treated back home. There was always the chance that what was a minimal bug for Elias would bother Peter to a greater extent, but she doubted it: Peter’s immune system was something else. In the year-plus that they’d been dating, she’d only heard of him catching cold once, and that in the middle of winter.
Peter harrumphed. He was fading.
“Finish your water, have one more bite of orange, and we’ll get you snuggled in,” she said, softly.
She rested her fingers against his forehead once more, ignoring his disgruntled look as she pulled her hand back. As he slowly sipped his water, she ducked out to the en suite for some paracetamol.
He had the orange in his hand when she returned, and had scarfed down all but one of the remaining sections. She didn’t miss the guilty look he gave her when she spotted him-he looked like John caught out with a packet of biscuits.
She tactfully ignored the evidence that he actually enjoyed the orange.
“Take these,” she ordered, holding the two small white tablets out to Peter. He eyed them warily, leery of any medicine-a direct result of the troubles Martin had with pills. “Paracetamol, Peter. For your fever.”
“I don’t have a fever.” He popped the last section of orange into his mouth, handing the rind to Rose.
“You do. These will help.” She turned, setting the detritus on the table.
“Will you stop nagging me if I take them?”
“Yes.”
He snatched them from her hand, placing them on his tongue and then taking a large gulp of water.
“Good lad,” she offered. He glared at her, the effect ruined by how boyish he looked. His fringe, still damp from the flannel and sweat, was now sticking out from his head at a variety of angles. His skin was pale with the exception of his cheeks, which were pink with fever, and his eyes were their usual deep brown, slightly glassy from his illness.
Peter finished the water, handing her the glass, clearly grumpy now. She took it, setting it out of the way; Peter slid down the bed, stretching out across the mattress. He sighed, his eyes drifting shut as he relaxed. She ghosted her fingers over his cheek before moving to the end of the mattress to neaten the duvet.
“Leave it,” he drawled, his eyes closed.
“Just in case you-”
“Leave it, Rose.”
Rose did, moving to rejoin him on the bed. She stretched out next to him, her head propped on her hand so she could simply look at him. She stroked his cheek, the pads of her fingers drifting across the fair skin; she’d pause, moving her hand up to his cheekbone, then stroke her knuckles along the same path. Peter continued to relax, his lips parting slightly as he eventually fell back asleep.
She brushed a kiss over his cheek, noting that his skin was slightly cooler, before sliding out of the bed. She needed to make a quick run to the market-juice would be a necessity, as well as some soup-and she wanted to be back before Peter awoke.
Peter was still asleep when she returned. After changing into loose cotton pants and a t-shirt, Rose settled onto the sofa, spreading her work out before her. The paperwork she had brought home simply couldn’t wait, but she took breaks every half hour to check on Peter-to drift her fingers across his forehead to check his temperature, to make sure he was comfortable.
She had three pages left on the last bit of paperwork, when she was startled by a noise in the kitchen. She tossed her pen down, standing, and moved over to the doorway.
She fought down a laugh at the sight that greeted her. Peter was in his pyjamas, the waistband of them hanging precariously low on his hips, and he was grimacing in the general direction of the contents of the cupboard. She suspected he was looking for his crisps-he’d hidden them on a high shelf where he thought she’d not notice them. She’d relocated them upon her return from the market.
“I bought some soup.” Rose walked into the kitchen, stopping to brush a kiss over Peter’s (clammy) shoulder before leaning down to open the chiller.
“Don’t want soup.” He was still grumpy, then-and thus still not feeling well.
“Tough. It’s good for you.” She placed the plastic container of soup on the counter, and moved to find a saucepan.
He glared at her, closing the cupboard and moving on to the next.
“Peter, please?”
He opened the chiller when she moved away, pulling out the container of juice she’d bought. He glanced at it askance, prepared to deride it; she didn’t miss the small quirk of a smile that appeared as he saw that she’d hunted down his favourite juice combination.
Peter found a glass without comment, and poured out some of the juice. He left the container open as he set it down, and turned to lean against the counter as he drank his find.
“You could sit, you know,” Rose offered lightly, adjusting the flame on the burner. She didn’t want to burn the soup.
“I’d rather watch you in the novel act of cooking.” He turned, setting the glass down and pouring another half-glass of juice.
“Just so long as you don’t criticize,” she responded lightly.
“It’s soup, Rose.”
“You’d find a way, grumpy as you are.”
“I’m ill.”
“Indeed you are. Which is why you’re having soup.”
He sighed, setting the again-empty glass on the counter before slowly walking out.
She turned her attention to the soup, using a spoon to stir the liquid as it warmed. It smelled delicious, and she felt her stomach growl. She’d be sorely tempted to eat Peter’s portion if he didn’t want it.
The soup was ready a few minutes later. She paused long enough to put the juice container away, then carried two bowls containing the steaming meal out to the dining table. Peter was curled up on the sofa, tucked under one of the many blankets she kept handy; he was awake, at least, and was watching the telly.
“Would you prefer to stay there?” she asked, fighting down a smile as she saw what he was watching. It was one of the many serialised police dramas-the exact ones that Peter usually sniffed at, deploring as brainless, inaccurate drivel.
She didn’t wait for a response, picking up the bowls and moving them to the coffee table. Peter sat up, wrapping himself in the blanket before accepting the bowl Rose handed to him. She sat on the floor, leaning against the sofa, her soup bowl cradled in her hands.
She watched as Peter sniffed the soup dubiously, before taking a small sip. He grimaced slightly-he was terribly picky about his soup-but slowly began to eat it. Rose, satisfied, turned her attention to her own bowl and likewise began to dine. The awfulness of the show Peter was watching pulled her in, and she was hard-pressed to stifle several guffaws.
Peter set his empty bowl next to her as the show finally ended; she stacked hers in his, and turned to see how he was doing.
“Feelin’ better?” She gave him a searching glance before meeting his gaze.
“A bit. Still a bit…hot and cold. And I have a headache.”
“That could easily be from the show,” Rose offered, wryly. She moved to kneel, scooting so she was facing Peter; she reached forward, her hand resting briefly against his forehead. “You feel cooler, at least.” She cupped his cheek. “You want some more juice?”
He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “No.”
She rubbed her thumb over his cheekbone. “How about some sleep?”
“’d be nice,” he said sleepily.
Rose stood. “Let’s get you all tucked in, then.” She reached down for Peter’s hands, gently pulling him up. He stood, the blanket falling to the sofa, and slowly shuffled after her as she led him down the hall. “Get settled in, and I’ll get you some more paracetamol.”
She poured him a small glass of juice-she’d need to buy more, at the rate he was going through it--and walked back to the bedroom with the pain reliever in her hand.
Peter had snuggled under the duvet, the dark red of it offering sharp contrast to the starkness of his features. She felt her breath catch as she simply looked at him; even ill, he was beautiful.
He noticed her standing in the doorway, and raised an eyebrow. Sick he may still be, but he was already much improved from how she’d found him that afternoon.
She smiled, walking to the bed and sitting on the edge. “Sorry. Couldn’t help starin’.”
Peter had no witty reply for the comment as he sat up-a rarity, and a true indication of how tired and ill he must still feel.
“Here you are. You’ll be right as rain, soon enough.”
He took the pills, washing them down with the juice, gulping down the sweet liquid.
“I hope so. I loathe being ill,” he replied, handing her the glass.
Rose leaned forward, brushing a kiss over his cheek. “I hope you’re better soon, too. I miss my Peter.”
“I’m right here,” he said, laying back against the pillows, his body relaxing.
“I know.” Rose drifted her knuckles along his jaw. “Get some sleep. I’ll be to bed as soon as I’m done working.”
He reached up, holding her wrist. “Stay with me until I sleep?” His voice held an oddly desperate note, and she nodded.
“K.” Rose slid down the bed, her body above the duvet and parallel with Peter’s below.
He rolled onto his side, his dark eyes gazing at her; she held his gaze, her hand once again stroking his face. She watched as he fought sleep, intent on watching her; sleep finally won, his eyes closing peacefully just before his breathing evened out.
Sod work-the report could be dealt with in the morning.
Rose found Peter’s hand and folded it into hers before tucking their joined hands under her chin. She watched him, his warmth and rhythmic breathing lulling her, causing her eyes to drift shut and her mind to fully relax. He’d be fine-and, with luck, be back to his usual self in no time at all.
________
tinn-Scots Gaelic for “ailing, ill, sick, or unwell”
But there was no answer to her call.
“Peter?” Rose heard the tension in her voice as she called his name again. A quick glance showed he wasn’t in the parlour, and the door to the loo was open, showing it, too, was empty. She set down her briefcase-full of paperwork-and slipped her shoes off, padding down the hallway to their bedroom.
The curtains had been drawn-she always opened them right before she left for work--and she could make out a prone form in the bed. “Peter?” she asked, softly, moving over to where he lay curled on his side.
His eyes were closed, and even in the dim light, she could see his skin was even paler than usual. She brushed her fingers over his forehead, stroking his damp hair back from his forehead. He was running a fever, his skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat.
She glanced over to the bedside table-he’d not brought a glass of water in with him, and she sighed in gentle exasperation. She wondered if he’d taken anything at all when he came home; knowing him, he’d assumed he’d take a nap and be able to shake off whatever he had.
She moved to the kitchen, pouring a glass of water, rooting through the cabinets for some form of snack for him. She settled on an orange, leftover from the picnic they’d had over the weekend; oranges might not be as good as a banana, she thought with a slight smirk, but they were better than the packet of crisps Peter had hidden in the cupboard. She left a light on in the kitchen, and moved to the en-suite to damp down a flannel before returning to the bedroom.
Peter had kicked off the duvet, rolling onto his back and splaying across the bed in an effort to cool off. Rose turned on the small lamp on her side of the bed, setting the water and orange on the table, and then gently sat on the bed next to Peter. She rested her hand on his forehead-warm and damp, but not hot, which was promising-and reached for the flannel.
He awoke not a second after she rested the cool cloth on his forehead. “Nmph,” he muttered, opening an eye to glare at her.
“H’lo.”
He closed the eye, making an effort to move her hand away.
“No, Peter. You need to cool off.”
“Mm hot,” he protested, opening both of his eyes and glaring at her.
“Which is why you need to cool down.”
He huffed out a sigh, too tired to fight.
“When’d you get home?” she asked softly, re-folding the flannel before laying it back on his forehead.
“Two? Three? It was bright out,” he murmured, shutting his eyes once again.
Almost four hours ago. “Have you eaten?”
He gave another weary sigh. “Soup. Lunch.”
“You need to eat something, then.” She removed the flannel from his head, setting it next to the glass of water.
“I need to be left alone to sleep,” he snapped. He winced, his forehead wrinkling.
“You’ll be left alone as soon as you have something to eat. You need to keep your electrolytes up.”
He pursed his lips, his dimple appearing.
“Please?” Rose whispered. She brushed her fingertips over the beloved feature; Peter relaxed his mouth.
“Will you let me sleep after that?”
“Yes.”
He opened his eyes, his eyes a deep brown in the light. He propped himself onto his elbows slowly, and turned to Rose. “Water.”
She reached for the glass, passing it to his outstretched hand. She picked up the orange, peeling it, ignoring the glare he gave her as the fresh scent of the fruit filled the room. He took several small sips from the glass, and passed it back to her.
“You need to drink all of it!” she protested.
“Give me the blasted food, Rose,” Peter ground out.
He was a terrible patient, she decided as she peeled off a section of the orange.
He had enough energy to raise a dubious eyebrow as she passed him the section. “This is meant to sate my hunger?”
“It’s good for you, Peter.”
He glowered as he popped the fruit into his mouth, chewing it with a frown. She smiled at him as she passed him another section.
“I’ll reward you, Peter...” she whispered, leaning into him.
He glanced at her sceptically, and she added, “When you’re better.”
“Delayed gratification is hardly the way to get me to bend to your wishes,” he muttered. “Water?”
She passed him the glass. “I love you, Peter, but not enough to catch whatever you’ve got.”
“’s Elias’s fault.”
“I hardly believe that.”
“He brought it into work. Got the lot of us ill.” Peter was sulking, slouching as he sat, the glass of water clutched in his hands.
She reached over, gently brushing his fringe off of his forehead. “I’ll be sure to have a word with his missus about her care and feeding of him.”
“Do that,” he muttered.
“Is Elias still ill?”
Peter sniffed. “No, the bastard. Was sick one day, came back the next right as rain.”
“So you’ll be fine in a day or so.” Rose was relieved-it appeared that Peter had caught something inconvenient, but minor. The medical system in this universe wasn’t a patch on the one she’d grown up with; people still routinely died from viruses or infections which had been easily treated back home. There was always the chance that what was a minimal bug for Elias would bother Peter to a greater extent, but she doubted it: Peter’s immune system was something else. In the year-plus that they’d been dating, she’d only heard of him catching cold once, and that in the middle of winter.
Peter harrumphed. He was fading.
“Finish your water, have one more bite of orange, and we’ll get you snuggled in,” she said, softly.
She rested her fingers against his forehead once more, ignoring his disgruntled look as she pulled her hand back. As he slowly sipped his water, she ducked out to the en suite for some paracetamol.
He had the orange in his hand when she returned, and had scarfed down all but one of the remaining sections. She didn’t miss the guilty look he gave her when she spotted him-he looked like John caught out with a packet of biscuits.
She tactfully ignored the evidence that he actually enjoyed the orange.
“Take these,” she ordered, holding the two small white tablets out to Peter. He eyed them warily, leery of any medicine-a direct result of the troubles Martin had with pills. “Paracetamol, Peter. For your fever.”
“I don’t have a fever.” He popped the last section of orange into his mouth, handing the rind to Rose.
“You do. These will help.” She turned, setting the detritus on the table.
“Will you stop nagging me if I take them?”
“Yes.”
He snatched them from her hand, placing them on his tongue and then taking a large gulp of water.
“Good lad,” she offered. He glared at her, the effect ruined by how boyish he looked. His fringe, still damp from the flannel and sweat, was now sticking out from his head at a variety of angles. His skin was pale with the exception of his cheeks, which were pink with fever, and his eyes were their usual deep brown, slightly glassy from his illness.
Peter finished the water, handing her the glass, clearly grumpy now. She took it, setting it out of the way; Peter slid down the bed, stretching out across the mattress. He sighed, his eyes drifting shut as he relaxed. She ghosted her fingers over his cheek before moving to the end of the mattress to neaten the duvet.
“Leave it,” he drawled, his eyes closed.
“Just in case you-”
“Leave it, Rose.”
Rose did, moving to rejoin him on the bed. She stretched out next to him, her head propped on her hand so she could simply look at him. She stroked his cheek, the pads of her fingers drifting across the fair skin; she’d pause, moving her hand up to his cheekbone, then stroke her knuckles along the same path. Peter continued to relax, his lips parting slightly as he eventually fell back asleep.
She brushed a kiss over his cheek, noting that his skin was slightly cooler, before sliding out of the bed. She needed to make a quick run to the market-juice would be a necessity, as well as some soup-and she wanted to be back before Peter awoke.
Peter was still asleep when she returned. After changing into loose cotton pants and a t-shirt, Rose settled onto the sofa, spreading her work out before her. The paperwork she had brought home simply couldn’t wait, but she took breaks every half hour to check on Peter-to drift her fingers across his forehead to check his temperature, to make sure he was comfortable.
She had three pages left on the last bit of paperwork, when she was startled by a noise in the kitchen. She tossed her pen down, standing, and moved over to the doorway.
She fought down a laugh at the sight that greeted her. Peter was in his pyjamas, the waistband of them hanging precariously low on his hips, and he was grimacing in the general direction of the contents of the cupboard. She suspected he was looking for his crisps-he’d hidden them on a high shelf where he thought she’d not notice them. She’d relocated them upon her return from the market.
“I bought some soup.” Rose walked into the kitchen, stopping to brush a kiss over Peter’s (clammy) shoulder before leaning down to open the chiller.
“Don’t want soup.” He was still grumpy, then-and thus still not feeling well.
“Tough. It’s good for you.” She placed the plastic container of soup on the counter, and moved to find a saucepan.
He glared at her, closing the cupboard and moving on to the next.
“Peter, please?”
He opened the chiller when she moved away, pulling out the container of juice she’d bought. He glanced at it askance, prepared to deride it; she didn’t miss the small quirk of a smile that appeared as he saw that she’d hunted down his favourite juice combination.
Peter found a glass without comment, and poured out some of the juice. He left the container open as he set it down, and turned to lean against the counter as he drank his find.
“You could sit, you know,” Rose offered lightly, adjusting the flame on the burner. She didn’t want to burn the soup.
“I’d rather watch you in the novel act of cooking.” He turned, setting the glass down and pouring another half-glass of juice.
“Just so long as you don’t criticize,” she responded lightly.
“It’s soup, Rose.”
“You’d find a way, grumpy as you are.”
“I’m ill.”
“Indeed you are. Which is why you’re having soup.”
He sighed, setting the again-empty glass on the counter before slowly walking out.
She turned her attention to the soup, using a spoon to stir the liquid as it warmed. It smelled delicious, and she felt her stomach growl. She’d be sorely tempted to eat Peter’s portion if he didn’t want it.
The soup was ready a few minutes later. She paused long enough to put the juice container away, then carried two bowls containing the steaming meal out to the dining table. Peter was curled up on the sofa, tucked under one of the many blankets she kept handy; he was awake, at least, and was watching the telly.
“Would you prefer to stay there?” she asked, fighting down a smile as she saw what he was watching. It was one of the many serialised police dramas-the exact ones that Peter usually sniffed at, deploring as brainless, inaccurate drivel.
She didn’t wait for a response, picking up the bowls and moving them to the coffee table. Peter sat up, wrapping himself in the blanket before accepting the bowl Rose handed to him. She sat on the floor, leaning against the sofa, her soup bowl cradled in her hands.
She watched as Peter sniffed the soup dubiously, before taking a small sip. He grimaced slightly-he was terribly picky about his soup-but slowly began to eat it. Rose, satisfied, turned her attention to her own bowl and likewise began to dine. The awfulness of the show Peter was watching pulled her in, and she was hard-pressed to stifle several guffaws.
Peter set his empty bowl next to her as the show finally ended; she stacked hers in his, and turned to see how he was doing.
“Feelin’ better?” She gave him a searching glance before meeting his gaze.
“A bit. Still a bit…hot and cold. And I have a headache.”
“That could easily be from the show,” Rose offered, wryly. She moved to kneel, scooting so she was facing Peter; she reached forward, her hand resting briefly against his forehead. “You feel cooler, at least.” She cupped his cheek. “You want some more juice?”
He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “No.”
She rubbed her thumb over his cheekbone. “How about some sleep?”
“’d be nice,” he said sleepily.
Rose stood. “Let’s get you all tucked in, then.” She reached down for Peter’s hands, gently pulling him up. He stood, the blanket falling to the sofa, and slowly shuffled after her as she led him down the hall. “Get settled in, and I’ll get you some more paracetamol.”
She poured him a small glass of juice-she’d need to buy more, at the rate he was going through it--and walked back to the bedroom with the pain reliever in her hand.
Peter had snuggled under the duvet, the dark red of it offering sharp contrast to the starkness of his features. She felt her breath catch as she simply looked at him; even ill, he was beautiful.
He noticed her standing in the doorway, and raised an eyebrow. Sick he may still be, but he was already much improved from how she’d found him that afternoon.
She smiled, walking to the bed and sitting on the edge. “Sorry. Couldn’t help starin’.”
Peter had no witty reply for the comment as he sat up-a rarity, and a true indication of how tired and ill he must still feel.
“Here you are. You’ll be right as rain, soon enough.”
He took the pills, washing them down with the juice, gulping down the sweet liquid.
“I hope so. I loathe being ill,” he replied, handing her the glass.
Rose leaned forward, brushing a kiss over his cheek. “I hope you’re better soon, too. I miss my Peter.”
“I’m right here,” he said, laying back against the pillows, his body relaxing.
“I know.” Rose drifted her knuckles along his jaw. “Get some sleep. I’ll be to bed as soon as I’m done working.”
He reached up, holding her wrist. “Stay with me until I sleep?” His voice held an oddly desperate note, and she nodded.
“K.” Rose slid down the bed, her body above the duvet and parallel with Peter’s below.
He rolled onto his side, his dark eyes gazing at her; she held his gaze, her hand once again stroking his face. She watched as he fought sleep, intent on watching her; sleep finally won, his eyes closing peacefully just before his breathing evened out.
Sod work-the report could be dealt with in the morning.
Rose found Peter’s hand and folded it into hers before tucking their joined hands under her chin. She watched him, his warmth and rhythmic breathing lulling her, causing her eyes to drift shut and her mind to fully relax. He’d be fine-and, with luck, be back to his usual self in no time at all.
________
tinn-Scots Gaelic for “ailing, ill, sick, or unwell”