if i stand up, i'll break my bones
and everybody loves to see a fall unfold

His compliments hit closer to her heart than she would like to admit, and as she helps him through the trees, his words float to the surface of her mind like a whisper, teasing her with their sweetness and eliciting a strange smile to soften the corners of her mouth. "You are pretty when you frown." She hadn't thought much of it in the moment, too busy trying to stall the blood flow from the gash in his side. Now, she recalls the warm touch of his fingers on her brow as she labored at fixing his bandages and a tingling sensation arises, reminding her of the way his skin felt on hers.

For a moment, she forgets to push these thoughts away. For a moment, she allows the weakness of happy thoughts to invade her mind - and it costs her. She jokes with him, pulling him along and all the while, he grows paler, weaker with every step that they take towards home. Had she been paying attention to his face, she might've noticed the color draining away like water from a bath, the sheen of sweat rising to pepper across his forehead. But no, her brief lapse in judgement had distracted her, and now?

Archer sags against her, his weight suddenly much heavier against her shoulder than before as the poison wreaks havoc on his body, rushing through his bloodstream like a tidal wave of fire; she's felt it before, as have all her training partners in the Unseelie court. She doesn't need him to say the word, but he does - though it is a struggle, a stuttered mess that ignites a hollow feeling in her chest, in her bones. "Icarus," she says, the name spat from her mouth like a curse and she stops, wrapping her arm more tightly around Archer to take more of the burden from him.

Funny how a person's body could turn against them when tainted with poison.

She curls her fingers into his shirt and uninjured side, her strength flaring with the surge of adrenaline and fear rushing through her. A wild heartbeat rages in her chest. Hurry, hurry, hurry it seems to say, and she thinks of the herbs at home in her cupboard, the tea she'll make to pour down Archer's throat when his body becomes too weak to swallow. She'll have to make a poultice for the wound to draw out some of the poison. She'll have to clean the wound, clean him, keep his fever from raging too high.

She grits her teeth and holds in a desperate cry by reminding herself that this was his duty, his promise. She reminds herself that he is expendable even as her heart rebels against the idea.

"You're going to be fine," she murmurs against his skin as she drags him, her muscles straining to work harder, faster. Perhaps it is a lie and he will be dead by morning, but she doesn't accept that possibility. Instead, she reaches inside for a last surge of energy, pushing with all her might until they break from the line of trees and into eyeshot of Hyde Park, the street lights a glittering beacon of hope because they are almost home. "Stay awake just a little bit longer," she coaxes, quite aware that his feet hardly move more than to drag through the dirt, that he feels limp against her.

And the fever... She winces, finally allowing a melancholy sob to shake her chest. But they're almost home, they can make it...

She's nearly carrying him when they burst through her front door, the doorknob cracking against the wall as she hauls him to the couch, the same couch he'd inspected her knees on. The place where he'd sworn to protect her with his life, and who knew he might have to give it so soon?

"Archer, I swear on my soul, I will fix you," she says, the words a determined growl as she rests him amongst the cushions, not caring that his blood as seeped through the bandages and would surely spread to the couch beneath him. She doesn't even think about it as she dashes to the kitchen, setting a kettle to heat warm water on the stove as her fingers fumble through the cupboard, pulling out milk thistle, burdock, and ipecac. As an afterthought, she grabs the last bit of echinacea. By the time the kettle whistles, she's halved the ingredients, one half for the poultice, and the other in a mug that she pours the steaming water into.

Her fingers close around the mug and she starts for the living room, grabbing a dropper from the silverware drawer on her way. The poultice is propped in the crook of her arm, a mixture of herbs and a dash of the hot water, swaddled in cheesecloth.

When her green gaze settles on his face, her heart constricts and she sets to work, dropping to her knees again before him. A dropperful of the tea shakes in her hand as she raises it to his mouth, her expression pinched with worry. "This will be disgusting and I'm sorry," she murmurs, parting his mouth with the edge of the glass dropper.