John
Reverberating through the third-floor dorm well were two sounds- battered high tops hitting the floor, and one concerned voice, juvenile and out of breath, crying out,

*"UuuUUUURRRIIIIIEEEEEELLL!!!"*

Their knight in battered jeans and a green hoodie skidded to a sudden halt- almost dropping his precious cargo- and knocked very politely on a familiar door.
Carla
Three knocks later, and the sound of shuffling feet and sniffles gradually gets closer before the door opens itself. Standing in front of Owen is a *Comically* Sick Uriel— swaddled in blankets, red with fever, eyes drooping with fatigue. 

If they looked pale and sickly before, it was nothing compared to how they looked *Now* — it was a bit ghoulish, actually. A comparison to a zombie wouldn't be... Inaccurate. 

They eye Owen and the goods up and down, looking a bit like a confused puppy. 

"Come in." They wheezed, and stand to the side to allow him to enter. 

"You, *Cough*, arrived pretty quickly." Uriel gives a small laugh, and it's even more breathy than usual.
John
"Aw, Uri..." A small giggle, just at the *Sight* Of them- a sorry sight indeed, that tugged at his heartstrings and the corners of his mouth alike. "I speedwalked!"

Happily padding into their room, he gave a nod to the lizard giving him stinkeye for disturbing the quiet, and nudged the door closed with his hip. If Uriel had ever met his mam, they would have snickered at the resemblance.

"Soup! Fresh garden stuff. More on the stove. And sit *Down*, love!" 

Owen gently but insistently thrust a bowl, wrapped in a soft potholder and covered by a plate, containing something hot and savoury-smelling into their horribly weak-looking hands. A shaky smile for them as well, the glimmer of sympathy (and a little humour) behind his eyes.
Carla
Uriel's brain was too tired, too foggy to do anything besides comply with Owen's motherly demands. (A lot like their own mother, actually— but missing the telltale smell of cigarette smoke and garden herbs, as well as the bite all French people had.) 

And so, Uriel *Plops* Back onto their bed, legs dangling off of the side to face Owen. 

"Soup..." They mutter absentmindedly, eyes entranced by the meal in front of them. Almost on cue, their stomach rumbles, *Loudly*.

Uriel's already red face grows redder, and they look down at their toes, slightly embarrassed. 

"Ah... T-thank you, Owen." Another sniffle. "Apologies for the, um..." 

Uriel rests the soup on their lap and gestures to the swaddling of blankets around them. 

"Unseemly appearance."
John
"Don't even think about it, Uri."

A just-barely-held-back chuckle escaped Owen's throat as a faint wheeze at their total wet-cat demeanour. Looking at them like this, practically blinking one eye at a time, he just wanted to squeeze them so tightly-

Perhaps he should put himself to work doing something else helpful, rather than stand there and stare at them staring at their spoon. At the very least, he moved to kick his shoes off by the door.

"Sheesh, mate, you're still all done up- you want pyjamas? Tea? They're both somewhere in here..."

Over in their closet, where they kept the boxes to tea that helped the most when they would be sick, and the soft fluffy sheep pants that would feel nicer than the uncomfortable sensory clashing of outside-pants and blankets. He knew, he'd seen them rummage around here before-

"Hmm!"

Owen leaned on his back foot, rested his hands on his waist, and stared in disbelief at a month of missing T-shirts.
Carla
Uriel's sin was caught. Perhaps the cold was karma for their parasitic conquest of Owen's wardrobe... 

At Owen's shocked expression, Uriel began babbling whatever incoherent explanation they had told themselves over and over while cladding themselves in reminders of their dear friend when their nightmares took a turn for the worse.

Not that they would ever tell him that, how they felt stronger when he was around, how it was easier to withstand the *Bad* When he was by their side... 


"You lended them to me when I was sleeping over. You didn't explicitly state I had to return them, so I..." Uriel trailed off, looking around the corners of the room. "Didn't." 

"I was going to return them. Eventually. And wash them, too..." 

Uriel snuffs the sheepish, embarrassed expression growing on their face by shoveling as much soup into their mouth as quickly as possible. 

They swallow *Way too much soup* At one time with a loud gulp. Cold, shaking hands place the now-empty bowl of soup on top of their nightstand, and swaddle themselves farther into their blankets to avoid meeting Owen's gaze. 

"And, in my defense... They're comfortable." A sly smile at that. It was clear they felt little remorse at their scheme.
John
"Th-that they are, comfortable, t-true..."

...

"*Fiend!* Oooh, sneaky diawl, *You*," He squeaked out between peals of crackling laughter, after two solid seconds of contemplation (and almost-audible static). His palm was hot near his face as he covered half of the no-doubt stupid-as-all-hell look on his face, which in return was hot near his palm.

"Y-you could've-" He spluttered- "Asked? I would've-"

Would've *What?* Smiled and said, *'oh yeah, no big deal, you can have one of these, take your pick!'* The thought itself wasn't even all that amusing, but combined with the look on their face (of someone who would *Totally* Have gone along with that, he realized), it killed him for a second round of giggles.

"Contest bloody faerie logic, I can't," He wheezed, selecting one of his artfully 'borrowed' treasures from the drawer and chucking it lightly at their face. *Surely I have thoughts about them stockpiling my clothes. Somewhere in there. Later! Later.*

"Before you get too comfy like that."

His eyes flushed with warmth. They really did make him smile.
Carla
"Fairy logic... It's helpful in some circumstances." A twinkle in their eye, the corner of their mouth turning upward in a smile. 

"Uweh—" A surprised noise wrangled itself out of their mouth as the familiar shirt hits them square in the face.

It wasn't painful, but is certainly was *Startling.* They fall over on their back, mockingly pretending to be gravely wounded by the article of clothing. 

"But, alas... Your strike has brought me close to deaAAA*Achoo!*" A sudden, high pitched mousy sneeze interrupts their monologue. It's almost... Cute. 

The tips of their ears turn red, the sudden wind out of their sails causing them to falter. 

"I'll... Go put this on..." They mumble, wrangling their poncho and button-down off. They almost look like an inflatable dancing noodle, with the way they wiggle into the shirt thrown their way.
John
"Alas, deft and clever one, so young, so beautiful... A tragedy I'll never forgive myself for," Giggled he, chucking the pants with the jumping sheep pattern at their chest this time.

A snort, and a bit-back remark about their ridiculous sneeze. *How are they* Even *Real.*

"Yeah, yeah," He sighed, through an audible grin. To give them some privacy, he turned back into the closet and found something with lemons and ginger printed on the box, and picked through his brain for the memory of how to operate the electric tea kettle. Humming something idly in the pleasantly quiet room, Owen padded about, doing laps around the room like he *Totally knew where everything was*. He found the cups easily enough, didn't he?

A palm, warm and solid, plopped down on the top of Uriel's head as the familiar noises of the fantabulous tea machine started up. It rested there, not really inclined to move; its owner kept humming.
Carla
Now changed into the horrible clashing patterns of a shirt emblazoned with some sort of graphic cover on it and their usual, sheep adored pajama pants, Uriel was Properly Snug (TM). 

Margo's electric kettle was humming quietly, Owen's hand was on their head... Uriel was *Content*, and something warm in their chest felt happy to be doted over like this. 

Would they have ever trusted anyone their age to do something like this for them, in the past? Uriel didn't know. The shapes and crevices of their personality had molded and changed with age— they were smoother now. Now, they were able to enjoy simple pleasures, like not feeling afraid when someone *Looked* At them, or waking up and knowing you were safe. 

*Taking a nap...* Uriel's eyes follow the contours of Owen's legs, before they make the split second decision of resting their head on his lap. 

They looked a bit like a cat, curled into a ball and resting on his leg. A softly sniffling, sick cat... But a cat, nonetheless. 

"T-thank you." They mutter, interrupting themselves with tiny sniffles. 

He was warm... And more than that, he was comforting. A part of them ached at just how desperate they were for comfort— a familiar door in their head once again threatened to open, the rusted hinges keeping the memories from spilling out from where they laid, hidden away in closets and places-to-not-be-seen. 

A flutter of white eyelashes, and they gently closed the door. Not now, during such a good moment— maybe later, but not now.
John
There was a warm pile of something precious in Owen's lap. As one was compelled to do when caught in situations like these, he scooted a little closer, and then the warm weight of his hand on their head found its place again. The green-clad boy's heart warmed every time they did this. The gentle pressure, the trust in his hands, and how casual they were about it- he felt loved when they flopped over onto him, and he savoured it deeply.

He knew that sometime soon Margo would be back, perhaps with Vi on her arm and an eyebrow cocked at his predicament; or the kettle would whistle, and he would try to operate it without moving and shake them awake anyhow; but, right now, there was a warm pile of someone precious on his lap, and the feeling was good.

Their soup-bringer and apparent night shirt-supplier wasn't thinking much, really, when he planted that light kiss on their forehead, but that was probably why he did it. Right behind their hairline, on a little downy curl, where it felt right to do so (and where, perhaps, they might doubt they felt anything at all, if they weren't yet asleep). 

Owen adjusted a pillow behind his back, relaxed against their headboard, and felt loved.