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sucker-for-sniffles · 17 days

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AN: 2000 words! 2/2 Journalling POV fics!! This one is for Maud >:3c Again, I LOVE the journalling style of writing bc it's very introspective (admittedly writes a lot about biddley but that's because 1. I love him as the author lol 2. they're rarely together!!! 24 years apart and they're both dual income no kids working all the time therefore SHe can write about him indulgently!! 3. i still feel a bit awkward writing women snzfic so pls forgive me) anyway enough rambling, ugh, i love old married couples. last note: Maud calls Biddley by his first name, it's Mortimer! (or M.) so just clearing that up!

Writing In The Interim

Apr. 11, 1931 - M. Dorashen

I haven’t been able to write all morning because my head aches.

I’ve woken up properly now, since the last time I did. Finally a morning where I stay in my pyjamas and don’t leave the bed. I finally have a reason for why I was so exhausted yesterday, and therefore missed my entry — I’ve got a fever. I must have picked it up somewhere during my time at the bank as there’s been so many more people coming in now that the weather is warmer and I'm up to my neck in clients.

It’s not serious (is it ever?) but it may as well have been because Mortimer had started worrying about it the second I woke up.

“You’re never up this late!” he gawked at me, cant a girl sleep in?

He ought to have gone fully grey because when I told him I felt dizzy he leapt to the conclusion something was seriously the matter. Then I coughed and sniffled my way through my morning routine and we came to the conclusion I’ve probably caught a cold instead. which he handled with such surprising indifference it surprised me. Maybe he’d gone soft over the years.

When I asked him just now about it, he shook his head and answered truthfully, practically ignoring the subject as he read the paper — shame, I miss the colour of red he’d turn when I used to bring it up. He still had a bit of a niche for it but he said in the most righteously monotone matter-of-fact tone that he cared more about my health and well being. I am both touched and frustrated and I suspect he’s putting on an act to be chivalrous. I’m going to put a pin in that.

I really haven’t anything better to do. I’ve been meaning to reread the books in my library, which I had him bring up, so I can decide which are worth keeping and which I can donate to the library. When I had woken (which was after him, for a change) my sinuses stung and I felt so fuzzy between the ears. Now I’m stuck here blowing my nose until I’m flushed in the cheeks and have tears in my eyes, but I guess it garners sympathy. M brought tea up, Earl grey, and had his morning coffee beside me while staring out a window.

His eyes are a little manic again. They’re so brown they sometimes look read red. Exhuasted, but always bright and darting around looking at every detail, despite the physical age it’s the one part of him that’s always struck me as eternally youthful, though at some point I’m saddened to know he may have gone mad. When he finished his coffee he turned back to me looking like a dog with his tail between his legs and unsure of what to do. When I asked him what's wrong he mumbled something about what he could do for me. I didn’t expect him to take the day off just to look after me, but his worries are acting up again about me and I’m still adjusting to the fact he doesn’t have a regular schedule to clock into, so I asked him to bring me some more reading material and maybe a drink. It’s rather nice, I can feel the wear on his palm when he felt my forehead before he shuffled down the stairs. I’m going to knit for a while, I’ll journal later.

M has gone back to laying in bed. He’s burnt his hand on the kettle when trying to make another cup of tea because I distracted him. I don’t know what’s come over me but I bawled and found myself so quickly out of breath I couldn’t get ahold of myself (embarrassing!) but I’m quite fine now, it was such a little thing. It’s not pretty, it’s left a sear on his palm, but he insists it’s painless. If he’s laying in bed just to accompany me, I’ll be selfish just this once. I can tell he’s troubled, just the way he clenches his jaw and picks at the bandage, but it’s probably because my fever got worse. It's because I've dehydrated myself, and left a considerable patch of tears on both my pillow and M's shirt (again, embarrassing!!!)

maybe I've gone soft. I used to bite my lip whenever he does something reckless, but now that he's tangible again it frightens me. I'll tell him about it when Im better, I can't speak a sentence now without sounding like I've half drowned.

Ive noticed something as he lays here, and I can rest my back against his shoulder. He's quite muscular. I mean I've always known that. I'm writing too much about my husband today, but rarely do I spend this much time with him at such regular hours — he always comes back at the late hours of night and I'm only awake briefly enough to welcome him. What i mean to note is that I like it when his arm is over me, it feels like a good weight. Soft enough to knead with my hands but firm underneath. He keeps his hand over my forehead as he does his own things, reading old novels and such. I've missed it.

God help me I’m miserable, I can’t breathe. My eyes look puffy and I’ve been reduced to a pile of Kleenex and handkerchiefs, limper than a ragdoll and breathing out my mouth. I can’t blow my nose anymore or else my head will fall off. It makes my throat hurt and my sinuses hurt, and my nose, and I’ve gone as far as to taking M’s suggestion of swallowing a spoonful of honey which was nauseating. Worst of all I’m bored. Writing is boring, my hands feel too tired for my brain and one is often preoccupied by holding a handkerchief anyway, it is a level of boring that makes me so dull in the head I can’t stand it.

I’ve grown restless. Once he’s out of the shower I’ll pester him to take me on a walk. A short one.

We’re going after lunch. M says it’d be better for my temperature if we don’t leave until it’s lowered. We paced around the living room for a bit listening to records that Sadie gave us. This new sofa feels better on my back, I can write while propped up. He’s making a call, I believe, but it better not be to a doctor because I don’t feel like going so far. I've asked him to leave me be as I do some paperwork and he cooks.

I’ve been lent his old trench coat and he made us something light — broth, with pasta and simple vegetables. I know my husband isn’t a bad cook (but not as good as I) he has a very unsettling palette though and tones it down when he cooks for us both because it makes me turn pale sometimes the combinations he makes (ive seen him mix jam and katsup, but don't ask me to put on what. it will make you ill, and i do not need to be sicker than i already am) Not that anyone would read this anyway. He also set a bit of honey and lemon out for me, and recommended we share a nightcap later.

Anyways, the coat, I got off topic. He rarely wears it anymore but it’s warmer than most of my own coats, aside from the winter ones — it’s much too big, but I like the way my hands rest under the cuffs. I can see he’s done patching up to it, especially over the part where his badge used to sit. I’ll write again when we come back from our walk.

It really is to my detriment I can only write in retrospect. The weather was good but that didn’t stop my eyes from tearing up and what wind there was found it’s way into my collar. What little makeup I wore had painted my handkerchief peach, and my nose was so red it startled me when I opened my compact. We went to the park and strolled around for a while, but my ankles started to ache and we went to sit. I thought about the bank and how much I wished I was sick more often to take days off. Not in a self-depreciating way, I mean simply I work too hard. I ought to promote myself more as the breadwinner, but I don't like the attention of boasting. Even now, I wish I didn't get looked at with pity when I sneeze too loudly. It's not my choice though.

When we watched the others in the park, I thought about getting a pet like a cat. We haven't the time to care for a cat but I would very much like to have one to snuggle up with in the evenings in bed. Then I thought about what I wanted to eat for dinner, which ultimately was borscht, which sold at a nearby bistro.

M. brought us to the bistro after a while, but only to get a jar to heat up for later. I was shivering again and the sneezing had come back because of the dry air.

Oh god what I’ve missed. I wish I brought my writings even if my hands would’ve shook too much. I can’t recount all of it but we sat for the most part. We shared a smoke, watched other couples wander, and when I started feeling chilly again he undid his scarf to double up on my shoulders. I’m hanging onto it for now, as I have to launder it afterwards — wool is not a suitable replacement for a handkerchief but I didn’t want to keep drawing attention to my runny nose in public. Only on the walk back did I regret my decision to go out; I think I ought to blame him partially, for indulging my request.

I tease (obviously?), but I came back with chills and a worsening headache. As I tried to write in the foyer, my fingers were stiff. Its much past that which I'm writing, after he’d rushed me into the bath and covered me in towels and threw me into bed. I cannot believe the strength he still exhibits, literally threw — I don’t know what I expected. Maybe we’re both younger than I see us as, but he lifted me like I weighed nothing. Even so, my hands shake and I haven’t stopped sneezing since, it’s tiring me. He’s sat next to me, with compresses and spare handkerchiefs and my scarves. Warming up one’s hands is the most intimate thing I can think of, and if I cared a smidge more about what others think, I’d be shy about it.

We shared hot toddies in bed.

I’m a bit awake. I woke a few times, swore I heard him asking me something. One time it was for taking my temperature which he was very apologetic about (nonsense, he apologizes too much for all the wrong things! apologize for coming home covered in storm drain debris for once because that was definitely his fault; inconveniencing me is not) This time he was, and it was to ask me if I wanted menthol for my chest. I couldn’t refuse, as I felt downright lousy at this late hour. Rubbish…’rest is good for you’. I feel awful. Even with my borscht.

I could have teared up at the feeling of his hand on my chest. While he washes up I've a moment to let my eyes water and gather up myself for being so sentimental. that might be the menthol actually now that i think about it, I am not much of a sap. feeling someones palm on your sternum is deeply comforting.

I am not Mortimer and therefore am not too proud to ask him to spend the night apart. Under no circumstance do I wish for him to fall ill, but I would rather he be sleeping beside me. He’s always very warm, and when he snores it feels like purring. Why would I give that up? He’s too stubborn to admit he enjoys the pampering I give him whenever he’s taken ill, but I know he sometimes plays it up so I'd pamper him — which I would, because he'd return it, as he does now. therefore! I don’t see why I shouldn’t!

That’s all for now. I’m tired and my head needs somewhere to lay.

#so obsessed with the image of a concerned and loving Biddley physically throwing his beloved ill wife into bed

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