Medical Misadventures

When consciousness returns with more clarity this time, it comes accompanied by the unmistakable pinch of an IV in her hand and the crisp feel of her own cotton sheets. When Mae finally manages to pry her eyes open, she finds herself in her bedroom—and, unexpectedly, Eli occupying the armchair by her bed.

"Was Jamie here earlier?" Her voice comes out raspy. "Had to maintain your doting husband act, did you?"

Eli's head snaps up, his expression darkening. "You think this is amusing? You took the wrong medication, failed to mention you were ill, and then proceeded to choke on your own vomit in. Dr. Harrison says you're lucky Maliah found you when she did."

Mae frowns, trying to piece together the fuzzy memories. "I only took paracetamol from my cabinet... three tablets."

"Wrong cabinet," Eli bites out. "You took Theron's old prescription migraine medication. The ones that specifically warn against mixing with fever reducers."

"Oh." That explains the blackout then. "Well, that was rather stupid of me."

"Rather stupid?" His laugh holds no humor. "That's putting it mildly, wouldn't you say?"

"Did the deal fall through?"

"No."

"Then what's the problem?" Mae shifts against her pillows, confused by his intensity. "It's not as if I died. And it's not like I took the wrong medication on purpose." She pauses, studying his rigid posture. "Besides, you weren't exactly taking no for an answer this morning, were you? Any protest would have been pointless."

Eli goes completely still. He stares at her for what feels like an eternity, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

Then, without a word, he stands and stalks out of her room. The door slams with enough force to rattle her collection of vintage cups on the shelf.

Mae blinks at the closed door, thoroughly bewildered. "Well, that was melodramatic," she mutters to herself, settling back against her pillows.

The next time she wakes, it's already Sunday, 12:06 am. After the pharmaceutical cock-up, she's climbed up to abysmal to merely awful, especially since the doctor had finally freed her hand from its IV prison earlier that day. The bruises from Maliah's contribution had been conveniently written off as souvenirs from her "fever-addled tumble"— convenient for everyone involved.

Though still moving like a stiff pensioner, she embarks on a midnight raid of the kitchen. Her contraband haul includes a slice of Matilda's chocolate cake, leftover meatball spaghetti, a can of soda, and she makes a mental note to brew some vanilla tea later at her personal tea station.

The art room—her sanctuary, really—lights up automatically as she shuffles in. Over the past eight months, she'd transformed it into what could generously be called a proper flat, complete with an en-suite bath, wardrobe, tea and coffee station, and enough snacks to outlast a zombie apocalypse. Whether out of total apathy or unspoken agreement, Eli never mentioned the remodeling

She settles in to finish Joanna's Mother's Day piece, perching on her stool, bringing the finishing touches to life between mouthfuls of slightly-too-cold pasta and liberal swigs of her soda. Three cups of tea later, she's scratching her cheek, studying her work with critical eyes that would make her old art teacher proud.

Would Joanna even appreciate it? Bit late for existential artistic crises now, but the woman does fancy art and customised gifts, so perhaps it wouldn't end up in the rubbish bin immediately.

Well, what does she care if Joanna likes it or not? It isn't as if she's her actual mother, was it?

With a frustrated groan that sounds close to a whinge, she drops the dirty brush into the holding pot. Sure, Joanna can be a right piece of work with her initial jabs about Mae's "regrettably pedestrian" appearance and whatnot, but she'd kept Mae company. Visited more than anyone else had bothered to, granted likely for her own need to vent since no one else would give her the time of day, but it was... something. Better than the emotional wasteland she'd left behind at the Chamberlain estate, at any rate.

Mae heads to the en-suite for a shower, scrubbing away any lingering art residue before changing into a clean grey singlet and shorts. Catching her reflection, she notices the impressive collection of love bites from their nighttime liaison alongside the fresher bruises— courtesy of sister dearest— on stark display. She tugs a cardigan over herself to hide those mementos.

Being the semi-responsible adult she occasionally pretends to be, Mae doesn't fancy leaving her art sanctuary looking like a student cafeteria. Matilda's the only soul permitted entry for her weekly Thursday cleaning ritual, but even that doesn't justify leaving a monument to her midnight feast scattered about. So she gathers her collection of paint-smudged dishes and empty cups, conducting a stealth mission to the kitchen—until she stumbles right into Eli and Joanna's weekend breakfast session.

"Mae dear, Eli said you were ill. What on earth are you doing wandering about with dishes?" Joanna's eyebrows furrow in concern, her bread-buttering operation coming to an abrupt halt.

Eli spots the mess coating the dishes and levels a withering stare at her. "Really? Doctor prescribes rest, and you go off finger-painting in your cave? Have you no sense of self-preservation whatsoever?"

Mae dumps the dishes in the sink with perhaps more force than necessary. "I did rest," she says.

"Come join us, darling," Joanna interjects, shooting her son a quelling look as Eli opens his mouth to undoubtedly challenge Mae's definition of 'rest'. Which, honestly, she had rested. Twelve hours straight, in fact. The seven hours spent in her 'cave', as his lordship so eloquently phrased it, were merely a bonus round.

She pulls out the chair beside Joanna because Eli's clearly got a butter knife lodged somewhere up his arse, judging by his expression. He settles for glaring at her instead, and for once she notices he isn't wearing his usual armor of bespoke suits. It's Sunday, true, but this is Eli she's talking about. She pointedly ignores this aberration in favor of the tea that's appeared before her, only to have an omelette with sausage and tomatoes materialize alongside it.

"Er, Matilda?" she ventures.

"Yes, madam?"

"Could you possibly take the omelette back and bring some plain toast instead?"

"Of course, madam."

"Not much of an appetite, dear?" Joanna asks.

"No, I've eaten. Last night's leftover dinner."

Joanna's face contorts as though Mae's just admitted to dining on raw slugs. "Leftovers?"

"When?" Eli demands, evidently less troubled by the concept of reheated food than his mother.

"Around midnight," she answers Eli, because dealing with Joanna's horror at the concept of eating day-old food requires more emotional energy than she currently possesses.

"You've been holed up in there since midnight?" Eli's voice climbs an octave higher than his usual tone.

"That's what concerns you, son? Mae ate leftovers—has this mansion run out of functioning staff?" Joanna says, her voice shrill enough for the maids nearby to flinch.

"There's nothing wrong with leftovers, mother," Mae attempts to placate her as Matilda arrives with the plain toast like a guardian angel.

"There's everything wrong with that, my dear," Joanna responds tightly, fixing Matilda with a look that could strip paint.

"It's not her fault," Mae jumps to defend the poor woman. "Can we please just eat?"

"You," Eli snaps at Matilda, "call the doctor."

"For what?" Mae questions, though she's beginning to suspect she won't like the answer.

"For your abysmal care of your own health," Eli bites out, his fingers tightening around his utensils, "Doctor's orders were to rest while you did God knows what in your paint-splattered cesspit."

"It's just a fever, Eli—" Mae starts.

"You overdosed," he cuts through her protest. "That's not 'just a fever.'"

"Overdosed?" Joanna's catches on the word like silk snagging on rough wood. She's been watching their verbal sparring match with quiet interest, much like an excellent tennis match.

"With Theron's old migraine pills, which—might I add—were bloody well expired," Eli continues, his voice rising with each word. "It's potent medication, and she took three, mistaking it for paracetamol. Who in their right mind takes three pills at once?!"

Mae watches his righteous indignation building. It's rich, coming from the man who wouldn't let her stay home to sleep off what had started as a perfectly manageable fever.

Joanna presses her fingers to her forehead. "He's quite right, you know. You shouldn't neglect your health so dreadfully. You're still rather warm, dear. And that was incredibly foolish of you. Whatever possessed you to take three paracetamol at once?"

"We had an event to attend," Mae fixes Eli with a pointed look, watching him go rigid as a board, "something which couldn't possibly be postponed." She lets the implication hang in the air like an unfinished brushstroke. "It all ended well, didn't it? Eli got his deal, I'm not dead—all absolutely spiffing."

Joanna's gaze flickers between them, her frown deepening. But predictably, she says nothing. Of course not. Why would Joanna side with her when Eli was her precious son? Even when she could clearly sense what had really happened, even when her eyes held that knowing look. Instead, she does what blue-blooded matrons do best—changes the subject with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer through a stained-glass window, "Well, you seem well enough now. What were you doing in the art room anyway?"

Eli attacks his breakfast, having exhausted his quota of morning criticism. Mae manages a smile at Joanna, even as the twinge of disappointment paints another layer over her heart. "That's a surprise."

"You're painting something for me?" Joanna brightens.

Mae only smiles, refusing to confirm or deny. Then the doctor arrives, and Mae finds herself shepherded back to her room for another check-up. Eli trails after her, self-appointed health guardian that he is. She wonders if he's feeling guilt, then immediately dismisses the notion. Do arrogant toffs with veins of frost even experience such mundane emotions? Probably as often as they deign to enter a budget store.

The doctor clears her of immediate danger with instructions for more rest and light meals. Which naturally prompts Eli to issue commands to Matilda.

"A bowl of chicken soup," he orders tersely, "And you," he fixes Mae with a glacial stare, "any artistic endeavors before medical clearance, and your precious studio will become kindling"

Mae meets his glare with one of her own. A muscle ticks in his jaw—a subtle movement she's sketched countless times in her 'Eli in his natural habitat' series, though revealing those sketches would earn her more than threats of pyromania

He glares back for one more second before storming off, closing the door hard enough to show his anger but not quite childish enough to slam it this time.