Her eyes open through her coughing fit, flicking his way as she tries to figure out what he's doing. It sinks in a few moments later. Oh. The sheets. Just like his words take a moment to sink in, and her coughing almost sounds like laughter before it tapers off and she's breathing with ragged regularity.
"No," she admits, wheezing a last half laugh, "You're right. It really isn't." Something she's glad for right now. She doesn't even mind that he's the more modest out of the two of them. It's a better balance, she figures, but she's never been properly appreciative of the fact before now.
She's also never been more acutely aware that he cares, and that, more than the embarrassment she also feels, turns her feverish cheeks even more red. She hopes it doesn't show. He's probably not going to look at her face, or any of her that he can avoid, but she just hopes it doesn't have some magical neon-sign like obviousness.
"Um, I can move." She shifts the blanket, feeling cool air on her back as she presses her elbow into the bed and uses her opposite hand to help prop herself up. "If you tug, I can move." I'm not that weak yet, is what she means. I'm not deadweight. I can help. You don't have to worry about taking care of me. It wasn't his job, and she doesn't really want it to be.
She needs to apologize to the nurses. It's scary -- for her, for them -- to have a patient turn into something entirely unexpected without warning.
"I should," she starts, coughing and swallowing. Whatever else she meant to say is left unsaid for now as she keeps herself modest with one hand's grip on the blanket, and keeps herself propped up with the other arm. She hopes Caesar just trusts her on this one. If he tugs, she'll move, section by section. Between the two of them, they can pull these stupid sheets out.
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"No," she admits, wheezing a last half laugh, "You're right. It really isn't." Something she's glad for right now. She doesn't even mind that he's the more modest out of the two of them. It's a better balance, she figures, but she's never been properly appreciative of the fact before now.
She's also never been more acutely aware that he cares, and that, more than the embarrassment she also feels, turns her feverish cheeks even more red. She hopes it doesn't show. He's probably not going to look at her face, or any of her that he can avoid, but she just hopes it doesn't have some magical neon-sign like obviousness.
"Um, I can move." She shifts the blanket, feeling cool air on her back as she presses her elbow into the bed and uses her opposite hand to help prop herself up. "If you tug, I can move." I'm not that weak yet, is what she means. I'm not deadweight. I can help. You don't have to worry about taking care of me. It wasn't his job, and she doesn't really want it to be.
She needs to apologize to the nurses. It's scary -- for her, for them -- to have a patient turn into something entirely unexpected without warning.
"I should," she starts, coughing and swallowing. Whatever else she meant to say is left unsaid for now as she keeps herself modest with one hand's grip on the blanket, and keeps herself propped up with the other arm. She hopes Caesar just trusts her on this one. If he tugs, she'll move, section by section. Between the two of them, they can pull these stupid sheets out.