"... oh, it's you. What, ya came to laugh?"

That's how Jude greeted you as soon as you entered his room. His voice maintains his usual hint of sarcasm, but it also doesn't seem to hold the same bite — which can only mean one thing: he is really ill. His forehead is damp with sweat and he looks particularly pale. Despite yourself, you can't help but worry about him. When you say you want to take care of him, you expect him to dismiss you immediately, acting like he doesn't need anyone's help. But to your enormous surprise, he doesn't protest.

"Hah, what? Thought I'd just kick ya right out? You'd keep comin' back anyway."

Oh, he knows you. He knows how stubborn you are, he knows how damn good natured you are — and he hates it. Or rather, he hates the fact that it doesn't matter how hard he tries, he just can't find you as detestable as he wishes. Quite the opposite, but that's something he's not ready to admit, not even to himself.

He will tease you though, doesn't matter how weakened he feels because of that freaking cold. As soon as you start unbuttoning his shirt to wipe off his sweat, you start fumbling with those annoyingly small buttons, so hard to undo. Jude smirks, relishing in the knowledge that you're getting more and more nervous.

"Ya need me to show ya how?"