Ilde is about ninety percent sure that she didn't do anything.
Probably.
One minute they're having a perfectly ordinary conversation (which absolutely did require she sit down on the edge of the desk so he couldn't avoid her and because the angle is so flattering), and then he - he doesn't look well, and he's not responding right, and it doesn't make any sense. Her hands hover uncertainly in the space near his shoulders, like there's probably something she should do, but she isn't sure what's wrong or how it became wrong, they were just - talking. She was just talking to him. She talks to lots of people, they don't start looking at her like that, or like they might be ill in a moment.
(She swivels her knees. He's not going to be ill on her shoes. She likes these shoes.)
He looks ill, he feels worse and he can't help but to look up at her because she'd called his name.
He can't control his body, but he can control his eyes and he glares up at her with pure murder. Ow ow. ow ow ow. OW. Also what did you do to me and if you ever do this again I will rip you to shreds with my bare hands.
Rather understandably, Ilde recoils from that expression - her hesitating hands pull back like she's a little afraid, but she doesn't have the presence of mind to just bolt, steeling herself to try and actually get a response out of him. The clutch of her power around him loosens with one brief spike of empathically shared confusion and fear; the impulse that had driven it in the first place dissipates, and with it, the grip of magic she still doesn't know she has.
If he didn't know her as well as he does, she'd be pressed up against a wall with his hand at her throat. But he does. And he can tell easily enough that her confusion was genuine. Which meant that either she was acting unconsciously or someone else was acting on him remotely in a way he couldn't sense until it was happening.
All the same, he takes the moment to suck in a breath.
"You don't get sick," she objects, immediately, despite the fact that moments ago she'd been sufficiently convinced he was about to be to move her favourite pair of shoes out of the firing line. (Every pair of shoes is her favourite when she's wearing them.) "I've never seen you get sick."
After a moment, she concedes, "Before," because there's only so much point-blank arguing with reality she can do in a day, and she wasn't expecting.
The look he gives her is more than a little heated.
"No, I don't," because he doesn't like it anymore than she does. Considerably less, honestly. "As a matter of fact, there's really only one thing that can MAKE me sick like that."
And the composure resumes as he settles and begins to sit back.
Sort of par for the course with people Ilde spends this much time with, actually. She sorts through a variety of ways she could respond to that, and ultimately settles on the most immediately practical one: "Do you think you're going to be sick again?" very reasonably. "Should I get you something?"
Or, more realistically, have someone else get something.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
in media res.
Probably.
One minute they're having a perfectly ordinary conversation (which absolutely did require she sit down on the edge of the desk so he couldn't avoid her and because the angle is so flattering), and then he - he doesn't look well, and he's not responding right, and it doesn't make any sense. Her hands hover uncertainly in the space near his shoulders, like there's probably something she should do, but she isn't sure what's wrong or how it became wrong, they were just - talking. She was just talking to him. She talks to lots of people, they don't start looking at her like that, or like they might be ill in a moment.
(She swivels her knees. He's not going to be ill on her shoes. She likes these shoes.)
"--Clark?"
no subject
He can't control his body, but he can control his eyes and he glares up at her with pure murder. Ow ow. ow ow ow. OW. Also what did you do to me and if you ever do this again I will rip you to shreds with my bare hands.
no subject
"What is it?" she tries, uneasy. "Are you -"
'Okay' seems like a stupid question. She revises.
"Do you need anything?"
no subject
All the same, he takes the moment to suck in a breath.
"Something just made me... very ill."
no subject
After a moment, she concedes, "Before," because there's only so much point-blank arguing with reality she can do in a day, and she wasn't expecting.
no subject
"No, I don't," because he doesn't like it anymore than she does. Considerably less, honestly. "As a matter of fact, there's really only one thing that can MAKE me sick like that."
And the composure resumes as he settles and begins to sit back.
no subject
Sort of par for the course with people Ilde spends this much time with, actually. She sorts through a variety of ways she could respond to that, and ultimately settles on the most immediately practical one: "Do you think you're going to be sick again?" very reasonably. "Should I get you something?"
Or, more realistically, have someone else get something.