There are flames that feel like ice, and birds with eyes of flame, and though Wesley can't see them with his eyes open he knows they're there. He's trying to be good but the sobs won't stop.
Mummy's beside him, saying "hush," stroking his hair. He tries to tell her about the birds, but speaking hurts so much he starts to cry harder.
"Isabel!" Father looms huge in his dressing gown. "Leave him."
"He's burning up, Roger..."
"He needs asprin, then, not cossetting. You'll make him soft."
There's a bitter pill, and a closed door, and the birds are waiting.
"It's dashed inconvenient, I must say." Father glared disapprovingly at the book open in his hands. "What's the infirmary for if they can't keep a student there, eh? Still," he set it down on Wesley's bed tray, "Can make yourself useful in some way. I'll need section one by teatime."
Wesley shifted uncomfortably, swallowed a cough, and reached for his pen. His heart sank when he saw the text. "Sanskrit?"
"Naturally. The Greek's corrupt and your Sumerian's disgraceful." With an > irritated sigh he turned away.
"Yes, Father. Father, c-could I please have some... water...?"
Father's retreating footsteps gave the answer.
"Here's your tea." Giles set the mug down, then straightened the covers. "Warm enough? I've more blankets..."
"Thank you... yes... sorry..." Wesley sniffled. "Don't need to bother, just a cold..." He muffled a sneeze in his handkerchief.
"Bless you!" Giles rubbed his shoulder. "Rather a bad cold... quite deserving of some attention, and not at all a bother."
"...bit contradictory..." Wesley sneezed again.
"Bless. Not at all. Unless..." he looked hesitant. "You'd rather be alone? Don't mean to annoy..."
"No! No," Wesley repeated. "I-it's lovely. How you take care of me."
Giles kissed him. "I love you," he murmured.