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Meg sort of drifts awake, mind still shaking itself free of a muddled dream about trying to pitch a tent in the desert with Alain.

She has felt worse.

At least, she's pretty sure she's felt worse.

Meg opens her eyes and then comes the taking stock of things -- strange bed, strange room, not home, Milliways, chickenpox, quarantined, Carlisle, feel dreadful, too hot, fever, Edward --

She stops, eyes coming back to focus on the other person in the room.

Hello, Edward. You weren't here before, were you?

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"Before this exact minute, yes," Edward said, as he drew a quarter note precisely with the Montblanc fountain pen held delicately between his fingers. He'd felt the stirring of her conscious thoughts, but he wasn't rushing her, or her being aware, and the melody was compelling.

If not quite as much, when his gaze flicked up without the movement of most of his face. "But, no. I was not here last few times you woke up and fell back asleep."

That's what I meant.

The last couple of days have been fuzzy and fairly disjointed and not a little bit dream-like.

How are you?

"Good," Edward said, sitting back in the chair he hadn't left for quite a while now. The pen idle in his hand, as he considered her. "Do you think you can manage some water?"

Meg nods.

Hydration is important.

Give her a second, Edward, and she'll even sit up.

He won't push for it this second. It's why he hasn't left the chair. He wouldn't be surprised if she simply slipped back into unconsciousness within the minute or two either. But for Carlisle's sake, he had to try.

Edward mouth quirked, one side tugged up. "For you, right now, yes."

Meg very slowly pushes herself up until she's mostly sitting up (if partly propped against the pillow behind her).

She won't reach for the water, but she'll take it if he hands it to her.

So how bad do I look?

Edward stood up as she started moving. Picking up both the carafe and cup sitting not too far from her bedside. He poured from one to the other.

"Nothing a shower, after far more sleep, won't fix." As he had seen her far worse already. He walked closer and held out the glass, finger tips only holding the top of it, so that she'd have to make as little movement as possible to get to it herself.

And waiting two weeks for all the spots to fade?

Meg takes the water glass. Thank you.

She'll even make herself drink most of it.

This all makes me feel about six years old.

"You're far more collected than the six-years-old's who go through this." A whole lot less frightened, or consumed with the helplessness of it, too.

"Quieter." Beat.

Wry. "And quite taller still."

Edward set the carafe back down.

Well, somewhat taller, anyway.

Meg's not really "quite taller" than anyone.

She also a lot more ill than most six-year-olds who go through this.

Meg takes small sips from her water cup.

I suspect I'm in better hands that than most six-year-olds who go through this, too.

I have my own personal physician.

I feel very important.

It's like being the Queen or the Prime Minister or something.

Edward nearly laughed. A solid breath out his nose, the drew his chest in, as his mouth curved, hazily nearing, but never completely reaching, his first smile since arriving in Milliways that day. "He's glad to be able help."

He walked over to where his chair was and moved it closer, with very little effort to it. "You couldn't be left downstairs. This place doesn't need a chicken pox epidemic of all the people who've never even heard of it."

"On second thought. A good portion of them would be quieter."

He held a hand out, far too far away for her to take it.

"You're feeling up to taking a stroll, right?"

Sure. Just let me finish my water and sleep for a week first.

Though I can't say I really want to be remembered as Milliways's answer to Typhoid Mary.

I'm very glad Carlisle found me when he did.

Edward nodded. Maybe the fact he did it so close to after her words, it may have verged to being on them. Or on the millisecond right after. It might be as close as he got to saying he felt the exact same sentiment.

"Is there anything you'd like? Books, puzzles? Stationary? Or music, perhaps?" He sat finally in the chair, only halfway on the cushion. "To have on hand when you are awake through all of this."

Yes, please.

She's contagious till all the spots crust over, which is probably another five days, anyway.

Anything by Montgomery except the books about Emily, some kind of notebook, I don't know that I feel up to crossword puzzles yet. Music . . . Tchaikovsky's violin concerto, Vivaldi's Four Seasons, The Beatles' Help!, and any of Sting's solo albums.

Thank you.

Edward barely inclined his head.

"I'll see that it all gets here."

Because you're a good friend.

Followed almost immediately by a sorry as she starts coughing.

If Edward could just give her a moment?

And possibly take the water glass before she spills what little is left in it over the blanket?

There's still something uncertain, that strikes his posture, and how he's holding his shoulders at her very easy use of that word. Enough that he can almost be grateful for the sudden distraction that follows right on its heels. But barely almost.

When he's frowning, taking the steps toward her in less than seconds, to retrieve the glass from it, before she's soaked as well as in pain. The minorest of things that he can do while waiting out this so very human turn of her events.

"I do what I can. Maybe you should lay back down?"

Fragile, is the word he didn't say earlier. That's what she looks like right now to him. When other ignored senses screams sick, diseased, unpalatable. The part that isn't ignored, see so clearly how easily her whole life cold be snuffed again.

As soon as I'm done coughing.

Coughing and lying down don't mix well.

And really, the coughing really does seem, to Meg, to be an annoyingly needless symptom. Aren't spots, fever, headache, fatigue, general aches, and a more or less complete loss of appetite enough to be getting on with? To say nothing of itching.

But once she's reasonably certain this coughing spell has passed, Meg lies back down.

Please don't be offended if I fall asleep while I'm talking to you. I promise it's not a reflection on your skills as a conversationalist.

More just that her body keeps shutting down all non-essential functions.

Edward's mouth tugged a little lopsided, watching her sink back into the bed. He reached out and set the cup on her bed table, an inch or two from the edge. "And here I had worked out the perfect plan for being mortally wounded."

That gets him a moment of Meg's trying to imagine his being huffy.

He gets a very tired and somewhat apologetic smile from her.

Oh?

And what was your perfect plan for mortally wounded?

"Emulate Rose." It's dry. Mouth staying crooked. "Walk around huffily. Sigh dramatically throughout places you could not avoid hearing it. Ignore you while working tirelessly at something, or even absolutely nothing."

Well, if you feel you absolutely must, go ahead.

Meg yawns.

I'll be asleep through it, anyway.

Edward didn't quite smile. He leaned back in the seat, listening to her. Her breaths, thoughts, heartbeat. The clouded muddled of sickness and the very human fight, against something he had seen but could little remember feeling himself.

"It'll wait until you wake. I'm quite patient."

Pretty sure 'patient' is my job right now, Edward.

Meg's eyes, which had drifted closed, open to focus on his face.

Don't just stay here that whole time, okay? Visit or look in, but don't just sit there and watch me have the chickenpox for the next however many days.

I don't want you to have hours of memories of this. I look dreadful and I know it.

Though it's not really a request motivated by vanity.

"You should focus more on just resting, and getting better."

Edward would take care of the real world, Bella and his family included, around all of this. Plus, in the end, he'd seen far, far worse than this in medical contexts just while studying and interning over time.

Even if it was a kind thing she was dictating.

Which it would be easier for me to do without an audience, Edward.

"Please."

Edward stood, barely two seconds later, pen and composition book in hand. Chair already back across the room where it had started.

"Alright." Beat. "Rest well, Meg."

He has her list of requests at present, too.

Thank you.

Meg's eyes close again.

I'm sure I'll see you soon.

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