Nochelle - Our Stories

S I C K 2

~Season 6~ same as last part

When Noah quietly lets himself into Richelle's house that afternoon with a grocery bag in hand, it looks deserted at first. He makes sure to greet her mum before letting himself wander the home and look for Richelle. He doesn't see her downstairs and the lights are off, but a second later a wheezy noise alerts him to her presence. Noah follows it to the couch where Richelle is curled up in a fuzzy blanket, asleep. It would be cute if not for the pallid face, runny nose, and—actually, it's pretty cute either way, Noah decides.

He's about to go to the kitchen and put the food in there when Richelle starts to stir, coughing. She fumbles about blearily for a tissue, and Noah pushes the box into her hands. She automatically gives a muffled grunt of thanks, then pauses to look up at Noah and stare blinking in confusion.

"You're not my mum?"

"Very true." He laughs, moving her water bottle within reach too. "She's in her office, how are you doing?"

"Mmph," she says eloquently, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. "How long've you been here?"

"Just a minute or so, did I wake you?"

"No, I keep waking myself up coughing." Richelle readjusts her blankets so that she's completely wrapped in them, shivering slightly.

"I brought you ice pops. Piper said you have a fever."

She looks confused for a moment, thinking hard, before a dawning realization washes over her face, as she seems to suddenly remember the events of that morning. "Oh God—Noah—I'm so sorry." She scrambles to sit up more.

"It's okay."

"I just—I wasn't—it was—"

"Hey," he sits beside her and rests a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay, all right? We can talk about it when you're feeling better."

She's shaking her head. "No, this is important. I didn't mean what I said—I really do appreciate everything you've been doing for me. I shouldn't have been short with you all day and I shouldn't have snapped."

"Richelle, it's fine. You're sick."

"That doesn't mean I should take it out on you."

"Well then, I forgive you. Okay?"

Squinting at him until she's sure he's being honest, Richelle sniffles. "Okay."

"So how are you feeling?"

She rubs her eyes tiredly. "Sick."

Noah feels her forehead. He doesn't know exactly what to look for, but he's pretty sure she's not supposed to feel so warm. "You hot?"

She shakes her head. "Cold."

"You want tea? Soup? I can heat some up." Noah stands and grabs the grocery bag and starts showing her what he'd brought. Richelle shakes her head. "You sure? It's past lunchtime, and it'll warm you up. When's the last time you ate?"

She shrugs. "'M not hungry."

"You gotta eat, Richelle."

She keeps shaking her head, looking faintly repulsed. "Not now. I don't feel good."

"Okay. You wanna—I dunno—change out of your dance clothes or something?" She's still wearing a very wrinkled leotard, black hoodie discarded across the ottoman.

She considers it, nods, and shuffles—blankets and all—up the stairs.

Richelle emerges about half an hour later dragging the same blankets, but now her hair is down and she's wearing blue fleece pajamas with snowflakes and fuzzy socks.