Lay the Heart Bare, Leaf by Leaf by IdleLeaves  

Fortunate

Finrod is wounded. Curufin is mad about it.

Triple drabble.

"Get out," Curufin snaps as he passes through the doorway. The healer retreats at once; Edrahil takes longer, distrust etched across his face as he exits, door open wide behind him. Curufin closes it with a thud, then turns to stand, arms crossed, at Finrod's bedside.

There's blood on the blankets. The bandages around Finrod's torso are clean, at least, but his face and chest are sweat-dampened and fever-flushed.

Curufin is seething. "Idiot," he says, and waits until Finrod's eyes flicker open, soft and hazy. "Idiot," Curufin repeats. "Riding out alone - alone, in winter, with reports of orcs at every-" He breaks off with a huff. "You are fortunate - very fortunate - that you didn't get yourself killed," he continues.

It takes Curufin a moment to realise that the quiet, choked sound Finrod makes is a laugh. It's followed quickly by a cough when he tries to speak, then a hushed, trembling inhale. Curufin sighs, and sits carefully on the edge of the bed; he grabs the cup of water on Finrod's bedside table, and slides his hand under Finrod's head to help him take a few small sips.

"Are you done?" Finrod rasps.

"No," says Curufin. "Why would you-" he begins, but stops as he finds his fury fading into nothing more than a simmering exasperation.

"Had to get your attention somehow," Finrod says, with a miserable excuse for a smile. His eyes drift closed, then open for a heartbeat before closing again.

"Pain?" Curufin asks.

"Tolerable," says Finrod.

"Liar," says Curufin. He takes a fresh cloth from the pile on the bedside table and submerges it in a basin of cool water, wringing it out before laying it across Finrod's too-warm forehead.

"Thank you," Finrod says, and reaches for Curufin's hand.

"Shut up," says Curufin, threading their fingers together.