It was cold. Too cold. Locke was freezing, and he felt strangely like he was drowning at the same time. His eyelids were heavy, his brain felt like mush.
After a few moment of hazy confusion -Had he been poisoned and kidnapped?- his mind supplied him the answers. Fever. He was on a ship, after he fled from Camorr...
After the fight with the Gray King... after Jean carried him in his strong arms like he was nothing more than a puppet to him. After he was pressed into that broad chest so gently, so carefully.
"Jean..." he managed to get out, his voice weak and groggy.
In his fever induced mind, it suddenly became very important to make sure Jean was safe. That he was alright, and very much alive. He couldn't lose him.
The big man was by his side in a second, before his panic could even rise.
Good. That was good. He would have reached out, but his movements were currently heavily restricted.
Still, a wave of fondness rushed through him at the sight of the gentleman bastard by his side. Jean... Jean would always be there. Just as he would always be there for him.
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