Work Text:
Cala was unusually quiet as they returned to their quarters. Once there, he said, "Thou hast a headache?"
Deret almost denied it reflexively, but as his partner, Cala deserved honesty. He said, "Mild, needst not worry."
"From clenching thy jaw too much," Cala teased, going to make them tea. "Didst want to shout at them so badly?"
Since Cala shared his exasperation at various members of the Court, Deret didn't bristle, but admitted, "Would rather give them a good hard shake, in truth." Cala snorted with laughter.
Deret hoped the tea would chase away the headache, but the pain lingered, his neck and shoulders stiff with it. "Wouldst like a healing spell?" Cala asked as he picked up a book to read.
"Harbor thy strength," Deret said. For emergencies, for Edrehasivar.
Cala acceded with a nod, but countered, "If it persists to our next shift -- "
"Then I would appreciate one, yes," Deret agreed.
Usually while Cala read, Deret maintained his gear, tidied, or wrote letters. Today, he sat like a lump. Cala looked up and frowned at him, then moved to their small kitchen. He came back with a damp cloth, smelling of lavender. “Lie down awhile,” he said, “with this over thine eyes.”
Deret obeyed, but having his eyes covered made him twitchy. He kept hearing some small sound and checking for danger.
“Deret,” Cala said, mildly exasperated. “Leave it alone. Thou trusteth me to watch Maia, canst not trust me to watch over thee?”
“Thou art reading,” Deret said sulkily, but added, “Perhaps –- wouldst read aloud?”
“...this author likes very circuitous phrasing,” Cala warned, but he began to read. The prose was in fact dreadful, something to be endured. Deret felt the tension ease anyway: from the darkness, the scent, the steady rise and fall of Cala’s voice.