Who: Kendall and Nona
Where: Sitting in a tree
What: K-i-s-s-i-n-g
When: Valentine's Day (FIRST COMES LOVE!)
Status: Finishing in comments (THEN COMES MARRIAGE COMMENTS!)



To say that Kendall was disappointed when he got word that Nona was sick and unable to attend the carnival was a bit of an understatement. He had been looking forward to spending more time with her. How unfortunate for her to fall ill. Kendall personally hated being sick more than anything in the world. Well, mostly anything.

Whenever he was sick he spent every moment wrapped up in a duvet on the couch whining for Thomas to bring him soup. Except Thomas’ soup was terrible. Reheated from a can. Blech.

He sat up quickly from where he was lazing on the couch since he learned that his previous plans were canceled. Soup. Every sick person deserved delicious soup, and Kendall made the best soup. Within two hours, Kendall was tapping lightly on Nona’s door, hoping that it was her that answered the door and not her roommate that he had yet to meet.

“I made you soup,” he said with a small smile when the door finally swung open. “Just because you feel a little under the weather, doesn’t mean our date has to be canceled.” They hadn’t actually established that was a date, but Kendall was on cooking high and was feeling a bit bold.

Nona was miserable. She did not tend to sickness, she tended sickness, and had certainly never been off her feet for more than a day, if that. She might not have been as ill as Howell (who she was going to kill), but that only meant she didn't look as if she expected Death to come knocking at her door any moment.

Stranded on the sofa for about seven days (seven days, eight hours, and about thirty-three minutes, if one was counting), Nona honestly thought she might expire from boredom. She was so weak, she couldn't even muster up the strength to be restless, which was a feeling not even her magnificent brain could comprehend. One night, she'd deliriously thought she was fine to tinker with one of her potions and nearly singed her eyebrows off. But, more, had nearly blown up the house.

Saoirse (who was fine) had banished her to her choice of the sofa or her bed.

So, desperate for any chance at activity, she raced (or hobbled at the pace of crippled beggar) to open the door when the knock sounded. Who she found on the other side was not Death, in fact, but—

"Kendall!" she squeaked, clapping her hand to her mouth and nose. Too late, of course, because she'd already breathed on him, but Nona kept her hand where it was. He'd made her soup? The idea of real food warred with her good sense to keep nice, good-looking, apparently healthy men in that same condition by not exposing them to virulent, killing germs.

"You shouldn't be here," she whispered through her fingers.

Kendall tried to suppress the grin that creeped onto his face at her squeaking his name. He should not find it adorable that was talking through her fingers out of concern that she would get him sick, but he did. She probably also wouldn’t appreciate him finding her general unkemptness cute either, but it wasn’t like there was much he could do about that.

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” he said shrugging off her concern. “Besides, good soup is key to a quick recovery. And I make the best soup.” Kendall offered her the bag. He wasn’t sure which kind of soup she prefered so he made both chicken noodle and potato. It was the polite thing to do, offering her choices of soup. He frowned slightly when she didn’t immediately take the bag or step aside to let him in. Maybe she really didn’t want him here. Or perhaps she already had company and he was imposing.

Shifting from one foot to the other, Kendall peered past her into the flat. Not seeing anyone else in the immediate area, he ventured a bit farther. “May I come in? Or do I need to sign a wavier first stating that I understand the risks of keeping a very pretty sick girl company?”

It was lucky for Nona that she was not a particularly vain woman, because she had no illusions about her crazed-looking topknot, the fever-fueled glint of maniacy in her eyes, or her generally pallid pallor. Still, the two stains of pink on her cheeks deepened slightly at Kendall's words. In her wise estimation, a sick person was entitled to act a bit goofy.

Her tongue worked at her cheek as she tugged the blanket closer around herself, thinking, weighing pros and cons (it was a slightly skewed list as the pro of being able to stare at him and soup outweighed everything on the con side). "I suppose you've already been exposed. Prolonged exposure would increase the rate of infection, but," she tilted her head and studied him, "you seem hearty enough that the severity of infection would be less. So you might as well come in."

Brightening slightly, she gave the bag in his hand a lusty look, and added, "And I really like soup." Or any meal that she didn't attempt to make herself.

Nona nudged the door open wider in invitation.

“You are cute when you talk all healery like.” He said stepping into her flat. Glancing around, he found a table near the couch to put the soup down on before turning back to Nona. “And your are correct, I am very hearty. Don’t you know, Broadmoors don’t get sick.” Kendall made a small show of flexing his arms to prove his ridiculous point.

“We are also apparently terrible influences. You should be resting, and here I have you up and answering the door.” He moved quickly and scooped Nona up in his arms before she could protest. “There, problem solved,” he said once he had her settled back on couch and took up residence on the floor in front of it.

He pulled out the containers of soup, lifting off the lids pleased to find that his charm to keep them warm worked as well as he had hoped it would. “So what kind of soup would you like? Chicken Noodle? Potato?”

Stupefied, Nona barely remembered to grab on until she felt the slightest touch of vertigo. She needn't have worried, she quickly surmised, as Kendall had arms that were not only nice to look at but quite competent also. Not entirely sure how she felt about being swept up into even a very good-looking man's arms without so much as a by-your-leave. Sick as she was, she still had her delightfully tarty brain and a moment later could only focus on how she looked like a wild thing that might hide under a sofa and that she couldn't quite recall the last time she had bathed. Mortified, she wriggled in his hold enough to pull her blanket up over her head.

At the mention of the soup (or soups!) again, however, she poked her head out. "You brought kinds?" Nona asked in awe, positively salivating. Saoirse and she had agreed they should impose a quarantine on themselves and not infect their then-hearty Cook. While that had been thoughtful of them, they had also all been slowly dying of hunger (Cook kept a very well-stocked larder, but that was hardly the point).

"Potato," she said after a moment of deep thought. "No, chicken— no, I—both?" She tilted her head and ignored the sharp pain in her ear as she let out a humming sound. "Together?"

Kendall couldn’t help but feel a little guilty at the small smile that he couldn’t seem to rid himself of since he walked through the door as he was sure it wasn’t her aim to be this cute. He looked from his soups to the head that had popped back out from where Nona had burrowed in her covers. He looked up pondering her suggestion of both together before nodding his head and conjuring a third bowl. “Done.” Kendall made sure to be careful not to spill anything on her coffee table and he combined a bit of each.

Sticking a spoon in the bowl, he handed over the newly created soup to Nona. “Tada! Potato Chicken Noodle. One of a kind soup for a one of a kind girl.” Grinning once again, he tucked the blanket away from her face a bit more, before combining some of the leftover soup for himself feeling he should try the combo out for himself. Leaning back on the couch, he took a bite of his soup and grinned. “Excellent idea.”