Work Text:
"Love, I'm heading out."
The first delicate beams of morning light begin to pierce the edges of the heavy curtains, weaving through the fabric like threads of molten gold, as Saul carefully sinks one knee onto the mattress. His movements are slow and deliberate as he leans in to press a gentle, lingering kiss against his wife's temple, the familiar scent of her hair and the warmth of her skin grounding him before the day begins.
Beneath the thick blanket, Farah stirs with the sluggish resistance of someone wrapped in the last threads of a dream, her body curled inward. Her breath is shallow and raspy, a faint cough catching in her throat as she turns her face toward the pillow, half-hiding from the world while one sleep-heavy arm lifts just enough to find him and pull him nearer, her fingers brushing clumsily at the fabric of his shirt.
"Five more minutes?" she whispers, her voice hoarse and laced with the drowsy warmth of someone not quite ready to relinquish the safety of sleep.
Saul smiles, a soft, lopsided curve that reaches his eyes and lingers there, even as he glances toward the bedside clock with theatrical guilt, then leans back just enough to meet her gaze, his voice playfully conspiratorial. "My boss is a real monster, you know. I'm not entirely sure she'll be thrilled if I show up late again," he murmurs, but his body betrays him, sinking down beside her with no real intention of leaving just yet, wrapping his arms around her with a practiced grace.
Farah lets out a small, amused hum, her smile sleepy but unmistakably sly as she nestles herself deeper into his embrace, her face pressed against the cotton of his shirt, her words muffled but laced with affection. "I heard she's on sick leave," she says, the corners of her mouth quirking as she speaks, her breath warm against his chest.
Saul laughs quietly, the sound low and rich and vibrating through both of them like a shared secret, and he dips his head to rest his chin gently atop her hair, the smell of lavender balm still clinging faintly to her skin. "Yeah, well... she’s got this ridiculous superpower—she always knows exactly what’s going on at school, even when she’s not there. It’s terrifying, honestly," he says with mock dread, though the amusement in his voice gives him away.
Farah shifts slightly, her limbs heavy with the weight of sleep but her resolve suddenly sharpened by the warmth of him beside her, and with a sleepy but determined groan, she curls herself tighter around his body, both arms now wrapped around his torso like ivy clinging to the last strong beam in a storm. Her fingers find the hem of his shirt and grip it with the quiet desperation of a person who knows this moment is fleeting and intends to stretch it just a little longer, just a little further into the morning light.
“No,” she murmurs, voice muffled against the steady thrum of his heartbeat, “you’re not going anywhere just yet,” and though her words are still softened by sleep, there's a subtle steel beneath them, the kind that makes him smile into her hair, because he knows that tone well—commanding, playful, and just a little bit smug.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through her like a lullaby, and shifts onto his side to face her more fully. One large hand slides gently along the length of her back in slow, soothing arcs, the way he always does when she’s not feeling well, or when words won’t do.
“You planning to hold me hostage, Mrs. Principal?” he teases, the corners of his mouth tugging into a grin as he nuzzles against her hair, inhaling the familiar scent that clings to her like home.
“I’m planning to file an official complaint,” she replies, still not lifting her head, her voice now steadier, thick with mock-seriousness as she tightens her grip around him. “That boss of yours? She’s clearly heartless. Making you leave your poor, sick wife to suffer alone while you go chase wild children and wrestle paperwork all day?”
Saul lets out a soft laugh, his chest rising against her with the sound, and his fingers still on her back as if memorising the exact rhythm of her breath. “I told you,” he says, brushing a kiss against her forehead, “she’s got eyes everywhere. I wouldn't be surprised if she were listening right now.”
Farah finally lifts her head just enough to meet his gaze, her eyes heavy-lidded and gleaming with affection, lips curling into a lazy smile. “Then she'd better hear this loud and clear,” she says, and though her voice is still hushed, it carries the unmistakable authority of someone used to being obeyed. “I’m going to have a very serious conversation with her about work-life balance. And about the importance of caring for one’s partner in times of need.”
“Oh?” Saul raises an eyebrow, his grin spreading wider now, the game too sweet to end.
“Yes,” she says, eyes narrowing with mock sternness. “In fact, I’ll make absolutely sure you don’t get into any trouble for being ten, maybe twenty, maybe ninety minutes late—especially since you're tending to your gravely ill wife, who, if you haven’t noticed, is bravely battling this life-threatening cold with only blankets and love to sustain her.”
He shakes his head, biting back laughter, and kisses her again—this time on the lips, slow and lingering, tasting the honey-warm humour in her breath, the ease that lives between them even in weakness, even in the still-soft hours of daybreak.
“Well then,” he murmurs when they part, their foreheads resting against each other, “I guess I’ll have to trust in your professional connections to get me out of trouble.”
“You do that,” she whispers, her eyes fluttering closed again, a contented sigh escaping her lips as she tucks herself under his chin. “You’ve got friends in high places.”
Farah holds on a moment longer, clinging to him with the stubborn affection of someone who knows time is running thin but wants to steal every last second from the clock. Her arms wrapped tightly around his middle, her cheek pressed to his chest where his heartbeat offers the rhythm of comfort she has known for years—but when he shifts again, this time with greater finality, she releases him with an exaggerated, theatrical sigh, the kind that makes her shoulders rise and fall like a tragic actress taking her final bow on a dimly lit stage.
"Fine," she whines, dragging out the word as if it physically pains her to let it go, her voice thick with resignation but sweetened by a thread of indulgent humour. "Abandon me, like every great man does. Leave me to my fate... in this bed of sorrow, surrounded by tissues and despair."
Saul laughs softly, already rising to his feet, his hands smoothing down the rumpled front of his shirt as he casts her a long-suffering look. The one that says you’re ridiculous, and I adore you anyway, the one that’s lived between them like a familiar houseguest all these years.
“You’re not dying, Farah,” he says with that unmistakable note of husbandly authority that walks the fine line between teasing and concern. Then, leans over once more, planting a kiss on her forehead with gentle finality. “But—and I want you to really hear me now—if that fever so much as thinks about coming back today, you are going straight back to bed. No laptop, no emails, no checking in on teachers. No pretending you're fine while you slowly burn up like a martyr."
She opens her mouth to protest, but he’s already one step ahead.
“I mean it,” Saul says, his voice firm now, though his eyes are still kind, still softened by love and worry that he doesn’t quite mask. “You’re not proving anything by pushing through it. You’ve already done more than enough.”
Farah groans, flopping dramatically onto her back, one arm flung over her face like she’s shielding herself from the weight of his logic. “You know I hate it when you’re right.”
“I know,” he says, grinning as he straightens up fully, adjusting his collar. “But I’m used to it.”
He walks toward the door, but pauses with his hand on the frame, turning back just briefly, just long enough to let his voice drop into something low and full of warmth. “I already made you breakfast, it’s in the kitchen—tea, toast, and those god-awful vitamin gummies you pretend to like but never eat unless someone’s watching.”
Farah peeks at him from under her arm, lips twitching into a reluctant smile.
“And Sky’ll be heading to school later today, because, apparently, your class is not covered as you are irreplaceable,” he adds, already halfway down the hall, calling over his shoulder. “He promised me he’d make sure you ate every last bite. So if you want to get away with leaving those gummies behind, you’ll need to work on your acting skills.”
Farah groans again, louder this time, pulling the blanket up over her head with exaggerated woe. “I’m surrounded by spies!”
Saul laughs, and it echoes through the quiet house like sunlight spilling through the cracks in the curtains—brief, golden, and full of a promise.
The morning at Alfea high school unfolds in its usual blur of bustling hallways, echoing laughter, and the distant squeal of sneakers against tile floors. Somewhere between a half-drunk coffee and a clipboard full of lesson plans, Saul barely has a moment to catch his breath. His classroom hums with the soft chaos of children settling into their rhythm, but in the short lull between periods—when the classroom is suddenly, blessedly quiet—he reaches for his phone, more out of habit than hope.
One new message.
Fa ❤️
Subject: Regarding your concern about my work ethic
Time: 10:42 AMTo my concerned husband,
I would like to officially report that I am, as of this writing, lying flat on my back in bed, buried under what can only be described as a small mountain of blankets.
I am not wearing pants. I am, however, drinking the tea you made—which is now lukewarm because I fell asleep between sips—and I have eaten 1.5 slices of toast and all but two of the vitamin gummies (those last two taste like fermented sadness, and I reserve the right to leave them untouched as a matter of dignity).
I have not opened my email, nor have I attempted to remotely monitor the school security cameras, and I only gave one (1) piece of unsolicited advice to Sky, who rolled his eyes and told me to “stay in my lane, mum.” He then brought me more tea, so I believe I’m forgiven.
You win. I am resting.
Don’t let it go to your head.
With begrudging love,
The Gravely Ill Principal
Saul lets out a soft laugh through his nose, his eyes lingering on the screen a moment longer than necessary, the grin stretching slowly across his face. The classroom is still quiet, just dust floating in shafts of light, the air filled with that brief, sacred pause between bells.
Then, he types back, thumbs quick:
Saul
Glad to hear you’ve surrendered to the mountain of blankets. Sky’s already reported back—the spy network has turned on you.
PS: I’ll be home by 5. Keep the tea warm. I’m bringing soup. And possibly more fermented sadness in gummy form. I love you too.
The front door clicks open just after five, the latch catching with its usual soft resistance before swinging inward, letting in a breeze of warm afternoon air and the faint scent of the outside world—sun on pavement, something blooming in a neighbour’s yard, the lingering trace of chalk dust and school sanitiser still clinging to Saul’s shirt. He steps inside carefully, one hand balancing a takeout bag full of steaming containers, the other holding the keys he forgets to drop into the bowl by the door.
The house is quiet in that distinct way it only ever is when people are resting—TV off, no music playing, just the hush of still air and the occasional creak of the old floorboards settling into themselves. Saul shuts the door with his shoulder and exhales, the silence settling over him like a blanket.
He toes off his shoes by instinct, not wanting the thud of them hitting the floor to break whatever peace he’s just walked into. The bag rustles as he sets it down on the kitchen counter, next to an empty mug and the unmistakable crumbs of toast someone valiantly tried to eat before surrendering to sleep.
“Wow. She really did it,” he murmurs, half to himself, smiling at the proof.
From down the hall, a soft voice calls out, rough with sleep but unmistakably hers. “Saul?”
He follows the sound like a thread through the house, his footsteps quiet, careful, reverent—like walking into a sacred space.
The bedroom door is half open, the light inside muted and golden, filtered through drawn curtains and the soft flicker of a bedside lamp. Farah is tucked beneath a small empire of blankets, hair a tangle on the pillow, cheeks still warm with the remnants of sleep and fever. Her eyes squint against the light, but when she sees him, a slow smile spreads across her face—drowsy, crooked, but unmistakably delighted.
“You’re early,” she says, voice low and scratchy, but fond.
“I said five,” he replies, stepping inside and setting a hand lightly on the edge of the bed, leaning down to press a kiss to her lips. “And you actually listened for once. Miracles do happen.”
Farah rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. Her hand finds his wrist, fingers curling gently around it, and for a long second, neither of them says anything. The silence is the kind that doesn’t need filling—the kind that grows between people who know each other so well that presence alone does all the speaking.
“I brought soup,” he says finally, brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes. “Carrot-ginger, the one you like. And those fancy crackers that taste like cardboard but make you feel bougie.”
Farah hums approvingly. “God, I love you.”
“I know,” he says with mock arrogance, grinning. “And I have documentation now—your message was basically a signed confession.”
“I was feverish. It wouldn’t hold up in court.”
“Too late. I already showed it to the board of trustees.”
She laughs, coughing a little between breaths, and he helps her sit up with the kind of practiced ease that says this isn’t the first time they’ve gone through this script together. He piles pillows behind her, tucks the blanket around her shoulders again, and presses a warm palm briefly to her forehead, frowning with the soft weight of concern that never quite leaves him.
“Still warm,” he mutters, more to himself than to her.
“I’m fine,” she replies, too quickly, then adds, with a guilty smile, “Mostly.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
“I stayed in bed,” she insists. “I drank the tea. Sky interrogated me like an overzealous nurse and threatened to tell you if I even looked at my laptop. I barely even argued.”
Saul shakes his head fondly. “I think I owe him extra pocket money now.”
Farah leans her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes for just a moment as he pulls her close again. “Well, he’s gone now. Apparently, he has a date with Bloom,” she murmurs. “You’re good at this. The caretaking. The loving me part.”
He smiles against her hair, his arms wrapped securely around her. “That’s the easiest job I’ve ever had.”