You're so fragile.

Ivy marvels at it, sometimes. The fragility of life. It isn't that you aren't strong - privately, she thinks you are one of the strongest people she's ever known. Fragility isn't a matter of strength, it's how easily that strength can be compromised.

When everything is working right, you're strong and fit and healthy. It's the same with plants - in an ideal environment, with proper sun and water and nutrients, they thrive completely on their own. But it can be so easy to throw off that balance, for some outside influence to come in and disrupt the way things are supposed to work, and then suddenly... everything falls apart. A flower can grow perfectly fine on its own, until pollution creeps in.

And something has, indeed, thrown off the balance. You're so sick. Curled in bed like a wilting flower, beautiful and fragile and tragic. Well, Ivy knows how to care for wilting flowers, but wilting people are a separate matter. But what she does know is that intervention is needed. And in theory, the approach is the same - environment, hydration, nutrition. But leave even the most tenacious plant to the mercies of hostile outside influences, and it may die, no matter how strong it is.

And that would be a completely unacceptable outcome for you. She won't allow it.

She stifles a sigh, moving to sit beside you on the bed and reaching to lay the back of her hand against your forehead. "You need to drink something, sweetpea. Should I make some tea? I've got your medicine ready." Making medicines was not identical to making toxins, but it was in the same wheelhouse, it turned out. Ivy was not a medical doctor, but she was finding herself quite grateful for the tangential knowledge she did have.