Chapter Text
"Damn." Lysithea looks up. Claude's kicked his boots up on her table as he sifts through correspondence, which is unfortunate but common enough that Lysithea has stopped complaining about it. "Edmund is as stingy as ever," he explains.
“We need the gold. Apply more pressure,” she says, and returns to her reading. “You’re the Duke Riegan. Threaten a tariff, or lift protections on their merchants, or something. Edmund’s wealth means nothing without your trade routes.”
Claude sighs. “I’ll have to. Never fun, though.”
“War is hell.” She flips to the next page.
“No, this is just typical Roundtable bullshit. Still hell," he adds, and laughs at his own bad joke.
The kettle starts bubbling vigorously where it hangs above the fireplace. Claude rises. “Finally. I was falling asleep over here." Porcelain clinks. "Would milady like some tea with her sugar?”
“Don’t mock me,” she says, which means yes.
She sees Claude blow on the surface of her teacup before delicately bringing it over to her bedside. “Careful, it’s hot.”
“I’m bedridden, not a toddler," Lysithea says, accepting the drink into two cupped hands. Claude makes a strange face at that. She can tell he doesn't like it—sees some thought flash in his eyes, bright and sharp. But then he lets it go. Sighs, a little resigned, and kisses the crown of her head.
It's easy to tell when you're being conceded to.
"Your pity helps no one, least of all me." Lysithea knows she's being harsh: feels that ever-present seed of guilt, gnawing away at her insides. She can't quite help it. She never enjoys when others play caretaker for her, least of all Claude.
“Come on, Lys,” Claude says, and then falls silent. They’ve been together long enough that Claude knows the difference between her true grievances and her petty attempts to pick a fight. Silence gives her little to dig her claws into, which is probably for the best, because she doesn’t actually feel like arguing.
She’s surprised when he speaks again. “I love you and you’re in pain. You don’t have to accept my sympathy, but let me feel how I want about it, OK?”
Lysithea's more or less immune to Claude at this point, but she hasn't yet managed to inoculate herself against his sincerity. She sips her tea in lieu of a response. The generous helping of sugar barely masks the bitter, medicinal taste. “Claude,” she says, “I don't want pain herbs.”
“Aw, is the flavor that bad? Sorry.”
“Claude!” she snaps. “I’m serious. Stop wasting the healers’ resources on me. We’re at war, in case you forgot.”
“Right, and who’s the commander of the army? I think I’ll continue distributing medical supplies as I see fit, thanks.”
“Favoritism is a poor quality in a leader,” she says, and takes another sip of tea because it’s not like she’s going to waste it.
“Favoritism?” Claude says, incredulous. “Lysithea, this isn't because we’re—it's because you refuse to take care of yourself. I’d do this for any member of our army, it’s just that you’re the only one of us stubborn enough to refuse medicine when you’re clearly ill.”
“I’ve lived nearly two decades with my condition, Claude. I’ll thank you for letting me manage it as I see fit.”
“You mean ignore it."
“I’m prioritizing!” she explodes. “I’m in some amount of pain every hour of every day. But I can’t have herbs all the time because I'd poison myself and burn through our stores faster than a family of weevils. I can work from my room,” she says, brandishing her book at him, “and conserve the army’s resources for true emergencies.”
“Doesn’t this count as an emergency? You can’t walk, Lysithea." Maybe unconsciously, Claude starts rubbing soothing circles into her calf, even as his voice grows tight. “Just because you might need herbs more frequently than others doesn’t make you any less deserving of using them. Stop acting like your body is an inconvenience just for the fact that it’s yours.”
“My body seems to be the root of a lot of our problems,” Lysithea grumbles.
“Hey, your body is great. I love your body.” He buries his nose into the crook of her neck, and it takes her aback enough that she laughs, softly, pressing her ear to her shoulder to push him away.
"You're clearly a biased party," she says, and Claude finally lets up with a kiss to the corner of her mouth.
"As long as I've made my point," he grins.
Lysithea isn’t sure how to fill the vacuum left in the comedown of their argument. She isn’t good at apologizing. Instead, she tells Claude, “Bring your work here. I’ll read it to you.”
It’s an olive branch. Lysithea knows Claude reads about half as fast as she does. He hasn’t explained why—Lysithea has her own guesses, but…
“Really, Lys? Thanks. I was starting to get a headache from the eyestrain.” He fetches his own Cortania tea and settles into the bed beside her. “Though I might just fall asleep. You have a very relaxing voice.”
“Yeah, right,” she says, rolling her eyes, and breaks the seal on the first envelope. “This one is from Lord Acheron,” she begins, biting back a smile at Claude’s theatrical groan.
—
She gives him a real apology later that night, after their teacups are drained to the dregs and Claude’s started distracting her with featherlight kisses all over. He tells her it's okay, with a wan smile.
This is how it tends to go. Lysithea is prickly and Claude is guarded. They choose to love each other anyway. They fight and they make up, hoping, in the end, that they're better together than they are apart.