The Executive & The Artist (H.S)

[high temperatures]

v.

o c t o b e r

"You feeling better, Duck?"

Leo shook his head, shifting the blond curls there slightly to the right. His pinkened bottom lip is pushed out in something that looks like a pout and little tears are gathering in his big eyes. Harry imitates his facial expression in sympathy. "My tummy hurts" Leo tells him, hugging around his torso and pulling his legs up to shield it. The blankets underneath his body have already long since been shucked off in favour of cooling his skin down, so the four-year-old is cuddled up in a thin sheet, sweating through his clothes with chattering teeth.

"Mummy made some soup with superman noodles." Harry shifts to grab the bowl off Leo's nightstand. "I heard that superman noodles have special healing powers, you know."

Leo's pout fades a bit, his back not slouching as much against the headboard. He croaks out a quiet "really?" and scooches closer to his dad, their knees touching as they sit criss-cross atop the mattress. It sinks beneath their combined weight, pushing all the stuffed animals into the dip of where the pair is sitting, and Leo absentmindedly strokes the ear of Mr. Hoppers as he looks at the superman noodles in awe.

"Oh yeah, totally" Harry assures, nudging the bowl into his son's hands gently, following it up with a Winnie-the-Pooh-printed plastic spoon. "Mum made me some last month when I was sick and I felt as good as new."

"Is Mummy a superhero too?"

Harry smiles as he grabs a headband from the drawer to keep Leo's hair from his eyes. "Of course. She keeps us in line, yeah? Has to have some kind of magical thing going on." The headband slips into his curls and Leo nods solemnly, thinking deeply about the aspect of his mother's potential superpowers.

And as soon as he takes a bite of his magical noodles, he coughs it all back up onto the sheets.

...

Nat doesn't want to leave.

It's cold in the flat but her kids are nothing but toasty with Britt nestled into Harry's blanket-clad chest and Leo nuzzling into his dad's side, softly snoring. Harry's lips are moving but Nat can't hear anything, can only see the way Britt's face lights up when he rubs her little nose with his, letting out happy squeals that make The Artist's heart ache. And they're just so warm and comfortable like that, all cozied up in front of the fireplace with the television on above it. The news is playing - there are tsunamis and murders and robberies but the only tragedy Nat can think of right now is how she won't let herself join them.

Her bare feet pad across the hardwood and she finds herself sat on the ottoman Harry's feet previously occupied, now on the floor in favour of letting the woman he loves be comfy. His eyes scan her up and down (white button-up, maroon pencil skirt, neat blonde curls), and he winces when he finds nothing of The Artist he met in London all those years ago.

"Settled?" she teases, smile playing at her lips as the whisper-soft words leave them. Nat's legs are crossed because she's a lady but there's lipgloss on her teeth because she's still Nat, just a bit more grown up. And since she's always been able to decipher his moods she says "s' just for the firm. I don't usually dress like this - I just need to at least look the part, right?"

Harry nods in agreement but then wrinkles up his nose when Britt fists the curls at the nape of his neck. "Britton, dear, that hurts." And when her grip goes white knuckled : "Daddy quite likes his hair and would like to keep it on his head." The baby huffs as Harry's fingers unravel her own and instead let the small extremities wrap around his thumb.

Nat melts.

"Think you look lovely" he smiles, eyes still locked on his daughter's until they rise to meet up with Nat's, clear and bright.