This shouldn't be happening.

Branch plunged the cloth back down into the bowl – he had to suppress a small shiver when the frigid water in the dish flowed up over his bare hands, and his skin prickled in response; he was so cold, right down the air he breathed, stinging his lungs like tiny, icy needles.

He drew the cloth back out of the bowl, and paused to wring it out before returning it to Poppy's scorching, sweat-soaked forehead, her pink skin dull and pasty-looking, her rosy lips cracked, her bright eyes glassy and flat.

This shouldn't be happening.

Poppy jerked violently when the rag touched her head, struggling in her rumpled sheets. "N-no—no, stop—stop it—it's c-cold…"

"I know." Branch swallowed hard, his throat growing tight, and reached for Poppy's hand, lacing his fingers through hers. "I know. I'm sorry."

This shouldn't be happening.

Every time he closed his eyes, the last few days would rise up and crash over him with all the force of an ocean swell – the cough spreading, like a series of ripples on a calm lake, from one troll to the next until suddenly it was much more than a cough, until what seemed the entire village lay in makeshift cots of leaves and grass in Dr. Plum's hastily-constructed, emergency sickbay; how they tossed and turned in the grip of the terrible, nameless illness, sweating with fever but shuddering with chills, and all the while, a strange sort of rash crawled up their every limb like overgrown, untended ivy, and this shouldn't be happening, this shouldn't be happening, this wasn't the way it was supposed to be.

It was supposed to be a quick, easy, simple trek back to Troll Village to retrieve Dr. Plum's medicine chest with Poppy and her friends – the lucky handful that had remained healthy despite the odds, right up until yesterday, and maybe longer than that. Then it would be off again, right back to Bergentown, and the Troll Tree blooming proudly in the center of it, as if it had lain, withering, in wait for its former inhabitants all these years. And then Dr. Plum would find something in that chest, some sort of magical, miracle cure, and then everyone would get well, and life would be all cupcakes and rainbows again, at least, according to Poppy.

They were supposed to be on their way back by now – instead, they were all stuck here, in the abandoned village, with empty pods swinging violently in the fierce gale that had sprung up outside, and Poppy was shivering and dull-eyed, and Suki shifted restlessly over in the corner, mumbling incoherently, and Smidge's fever was so much higher than it should have been, and they were supposed to be on their way back by now, and they weren't, and it was all Branch's fault.

If he'd just listened to them on the way to the village, if he'd listened when they said they were tired, when they said they were cold, if he hadn't urged them on, if he hadn't been so caught up worrying about the trolls back in Bergentown, if he'd just looked at them even once, if he'd just listened—but he hadn't, he hadn't, and now they were sick, and they could be dying, and it was all his fault.

He should have seen that something was wrong—he shouldn't have let himself be fooled when Poppy forced a smile and told him she felt "amazingtastic", he should have seen it, but he didn't, because he didn't want to see, so they'd pushed on and made themselves even worse and it was all his fault.

This shouldn't be happening, but it was, and it was all because of him.

Another roar of thunder sounded from outside the pod, and Branch glanced at the door, inwardly cursing the weather; he'd sent a glowbug to Bergentown the minute he realized just how bad off Poppy and the others really were – he'd hoped, at the time he'd sent it, that there might still be a few trolls well enough to make the journey back to the tree with the medicine chest, and he wouldn't have to leave the others – but with the tempest raging right outside the door…no troll in their right mind would go out in this. To tell the truth, Branch wouldn't want any troll out in this.

He shivered slightly, suddenly grateful he'd decided to get everyone settled here, in Poppy's pod, instead of his bunker – not that he hadn't considered it, but he'd spent enough time fighting off fevers in its depths to know it could be miserably cold and damp to a sick troll who wasn't yet used to the underground climate.

Not that the trolls' pods were better than his bunker – that was an argument he was never going to let Poppy win, and the day before they left the tree might be the last time they'd ever have it; she was sick, she was really, really sick, sicker than he'd ever seen her, they were all sick with something no one could even name, and what if he woke up tomorrow to find that they hadn't—to find that they never would again—to find their eyes would never open—they'd never sing again—never dance again—never throw another party—never smile again—never laugh again—they could be dying, and he couldn't do a thing about it, he just had to sit here and watch—and maybe they wouldn't be so sick if he'd just listened to them, if he'd just paid attention to them, if he hadn't just assumed they were airing empty complaints, if he'd just listened—

Guy Diamond let out a ragged, painful cough from where he slept over by the wall, and Branch shot to his feet – a wave of dizziness swept through him, threatened to send him tumbling back to his seat, but he stayed standing. He hastily picked his way through the tangled disarray of fevered trolls, sprawled all around the pod in various states of slumber – he paused a second to fill a glass with a few mouthfuls of cool water from the pitcher – and over to Guy, violent coughs still ripping from his throat, body trembling from the force of it.

"H-Here, drink this," Branch knelt down beside him, and held out the glass – the water within jumped slightly as another shiver ripped through him. A few more hours of this, and he'd forget what it felt like to be warm. Maybe he already had. He'd barely finished the thought before he pushed it out again – a little draft was nothing compared to what the trolls around him were suffering.

Guy took the glass from Branch, and tipped his head back.

"Uh," Branch raised a hand, "you—you probably shouldn't—

Guy drained the glass in one swallow.

"Never mind."

"Can I have some more?" Guy glanced hopefully at him.

"Uh, give it a little while. You don't want to drink too fast – it could come back up." Branch pulled the glass from his hands – he couldn't completely suppress a wince at the glitter scraping and scratching painfully against his fingers – and hauled himself back to his feet. The darkened room spun, and he had to put a hand on the wall to keep from falling, and turn his head as a sudden cough forced its way out of his mouth.

Guy frowned. "Hey, are you okay? You don't look too good."

"What?" Branch turned to look at him, and another rush of guilt ripped through him like a blade. Was he—was he okay? What kind of question was that? He wasn't shaking helplessly in a make-do bed on the floor, barely able to even lift his head. He wasn't dying from some unknown illness, completely cut off from help. He wasn't the one anyone needed to be worrying about. He was fine. He wasn't sick.

But he might as well be the reason they were.

"I—y-yeah, I'm fine." He swallowed – his throat felt tight again – pushed off the wall, and headed for the table. "If you're still awake in thirty minutes, let me know. I'll bring you some more water." He put the glass down as he spoke.

A second's hesitation, and then Guy nodded, easing himself back onto the pillow. "Thanks, Branch."

And now Guy was thanking him, like this wasn't all his fault—like he hadn't put them in these beds with his carelessness—his inattention—his negligence—oh, God, it was all his fault—

Branch drew in a ragged, shuddering breath, and made one final pass around the pod – dropping to his knees beside Smidge's tiny, quaking form to check her fever and readjust the cold cloth on her head, pausing beside Suki to shush her drowsy murmurs, plucking Cooper's hat from his head as it threatened to slip down his face for the thousandth time – before collapsing back into the chair beside Poppy's bed, and brushing a loose strand of pink hair off her face.

No one looked to be getting any worse.

But they weren't getting any better, either.

And it was all his fault.

The storm broke two days later and it must have been sometime around dawn, because the sun was rising and the birds were singing and the sky was orange, and the whole pod was flooding with light, but Branch's head hurt, and he couldn't think, and every inch of him ached like he'd gone a few hundred rounds with a Bergen—err, sorry, Bridget, Gristle. Oh, wait, they weren't here. They were back in Bergentown. He wasn't in Bergentown. He was in Troll Village. In Poppy's pod. In Poppy's pod in Troll Village where no one was getting any better, and it was all his fault, and he forced himself across the room, away from Satin and Chenille – they'd gotten restless in the night – and back to Poppy's bedside, and he prayed to any god that would listen that Dr. Plum would find a cure soon.

When he took his seat, Poppy's eyes fluttered open, and she gazed blearily at him for several long moments, a tiny frown on her face, before she spoke at last, in a low, hoarse voice. "Th' village."

Branch paused, trembling hand halfway to her forehead. "What?"

"We have to—we have to get to the village," she coughed, squirming weakly on the bed. "We have to—we have to get the m-medicine—for the—for the trolls—we have to keep moving—we have to…have to…" She faltered before she fell silent.

"N-no." Branch's voice threatened to break, lungs constricting until he could barely breathe – this was all his fault. He'd done this to her. To everyone. He'd put them in these beds. He hadn't been careful enough. He hadn't been careful enough. "No, Poppy, no, you don't have to—you don't have to anything right now, okay?" He swept her hair back from her face. "Not a thing."

"Mmm." Poppy turned her head, and let out a little breath. "Mmkay." Barely a minute passed before sleep reclaimed her, and her eyes slid shut.

"You just—you just have to get better," Branch whispered, and his heart felt heavy with the weight of blame. If he hadn't pushed them on, if he hadn't convinced them to keep going long after they mentioned how much they wanted to stop, she wouldn't have to get better, because she wouldn't have gotten sick at all and everything would have been fine, and they probably would have been on their way back to the Troll Tree by now, and it was all his fault they weren't, because he hadn't been careful enough, he hadn't been careful enough…

"You just have to get better," he repeated, in a shaking voice. "You have to get better, Poppy, you have to get better. Y-you can do that." He coughed, and put a hand to his throbbing temple. "You can do that. You can. I've seen you do the impossible too many times for you to stop now." He swallowed, and his throat burned. "You have to get better. You have to."

Someone was talking.

No, scratch that, someone was yelling. Someone was yelling a lot. Someone was yelling loud. It hurt to hear it, and Branch winced, and rubbed at his ears, and he wanted to tell them to stop, except it hurt worse to move than it did to hear the yelling, and every time he'd tried to stand up lately, he'd find himself facedown on the floor, Poppy's pink carpet scratching at his cheek, and there was a pain in his head, like fireworks exploding inside his skull, and it got worse whenever he closed his eyes, and he was colder than he'd ever been in his entire life, and his skin was tingling and the tips of his fingers felt hot, and he was so tired—and oh, they were still yelling, somewhere outside the pod, and okay, fine, if they weren't going to stop on their own, Branch would go and yell back, and no, Poppy, don't look at me like that, why should I ask them nicely?

He stumbled to his feet – had to grab onto the back of the chair to steady himself, but he managed it – and over to the door, and he opened his mouth to yell, but then he looked out and King Peppy?

King Peppy – well, just Peppy, now that he'd stepped down, but old habits died hard – squinted up at him a minute before he threw out a thick tendril of hair as pink as Poppy's, and swung himself up into the pod.

Branch stepped away from the door to let him in, blundering and unsteady on his feet, legs trembling slightly; the older troll breezed right past him, eyes on his daughter.

"K-King Peppy?" Branch forced out through numb lips. "What—what are you doing here?" He suppressed a shudder at the blast of cold air the ex-ruler's entrance had brought in.

King Peppy bent to press a quick, gentle kiss to Poppy's forehead before he glanced up at Branch, thrusting one hand into the leather pouch at his waist and drawing it out again to display a fistful of emerald green leaves. "Dr. Plum—the Troll Tree—it was like nothing I've ever seen—it was like a miracle—the leaves on the Troll Tree," he added, when Branch opened his mouth to interrupt, "are healing this sickness! It's incredible, Branch, trolls are recovering by the dozens back in Bergentown!"

It took a minute to sink in – there was a heavy kind of fog, swirling thick and fast in his head, and it was hard to think beyond it, but the full meaning of the words finally reached him, and a joy that, for all its intensity could have been delirium, swept over him.

The leaves—the leaves were going to cure them. The leaves were going to cure them. They were going to be okay. They were going to get better. They weren't going to die. They were going to see tomorrow—they were going to sing more songs, and throw more parties, and—and—

"Poppy!" Branch bolted over to the bed, skirting around Peppy to reach her, and put a hand on her shoulder, elation giving him an energy he'd half-forgotten he possessed. "Poppy! Poppy, wake up!"

Poppy groaned, lashes fluttering as she opened up her eyes. She rubbed at them a little, and blinked. "D-Dad?"

"I'm here, Poppy," King Peppy took her hand in his and smiled warmly down at his daughter. "I'm right here."

"No—no…" She drew back, shaking her head. "Sh-shouldn't be here—you'll get sick—

"No, no, he's going to make you better." The words tumbled out of Branch's mouth almost before he could stop them – he felt giddy, almost drunk with the relief of it. They were going to get better. They were going to get better. Everything was going to be fine. "He's going to make you better, Poppy."

A small crease appeared between her brows. "You—you mean—?"

"Yes," Branch interrupted, because something inside him was terrified that if he stopped talking, he'd wake up and realize this had all been an amazing, incredible dream. "You're gonna be okay. You're gonna be fine. You're gonna be fine." His voice trembled slightly on the last word, but it went unnoticed as King Peppy held the leaves out to his daughter.

Poppy looked at them for a second with a tiny frown on her face. "Are there enough for everyone?"

Branch glanced at Peppy – he hadn't thought of that, he'd just assumed – but the former king shot them a reassuring smile, and patted the pouch at his side. "Not to worry, Poppy, there's plenty for everyone."

Poppy smiled, took the leaves from her father, and stuck them without hesitation in her mouth – she frowned again as she chewed them. "They're…they're really sweet."

"Are they—are they supposed to be?" Branch looked anxiously to Peppy again, heart pounding fit to burst in his chest – what if the leaves had gone bad on the way here? What if there was some sort of trick to them, and Poppy had done it wrong? What if—what if they only made her worse, what if they—?

Peppy only laughed, and smoothed Poppy's bangs back from her forehead. "The other trolls had the same thought, but I don't think the Bergens agreed."

Branch let out a breath – it was fine, the leaves were fine, Poppy was fine, everything was fine, everyone was going to get better, everything was fine. Or everything would be fine, just as soon as everyone had gotten some of the leaves.

The others. The leaves. The others needed the leaves.

"My friends!" Poppy gave voice to Branch's thoughts, throwing a quick glance over her shoulder at them, still slumbering soundly on the other side of the pod – still firmly in the grasp of fever, they tossed and turned, but didn't wake; even the noise of Peppy's entrance hadn't roused them. "They need the leaves—they need—we have to give them the leaves—

"I'll go wake them," Branch promised, putting a hand on her arm to still her. "You just—you just take it easy."

"No, no, I'm fine," she nudged him away, and pushed herself off the bed; already, the color was returning to her cheeks, and her eyes had regained their familiar sparkle. "I want to help!"

Before he could protest, or at least tell her to be careful, for God's sake, she'd started across the pod and went to her knees beside the twins, who were closest, and set to work rousing them.

Peppy patted Branch reassuringly on the shoulder. "I'll look after her. Here, take a few of these," he opened his pouch, and brought out a handful of the leaves. "It shouldn't take a lot."

"Th-thanks." Branch, with difficulty, tore his eyes from Poppy's kneeling form, and took the leaves from Peppy with a small, grateful nod; he made his way over to Smidge, crouched down beside her, and tapped her lightly on the shoulder.

"Hey," he started talking almost before she'd opened her eyes, "c'mon. Sit up. I need you to eat this, okay?"

Smidge groaned out something that sounded like dissent.

"I know," Branch didn't know, but he gave a sympathetic grimace anyway. "I know, but come on, this is gonna make you feel a hundred times better, okay?"

She groaned again, but braced her palms against the floor and pulled herself up; he instinctively put his free hand on her back to steady her, and held out the leaves in the other.

Smidge looked at them. "What—what is this?"

"They're from the Troll Tree," Branch explained. "They're gonna make you better."

She gave him a skeptical look, but she took the leaves from his open palm, and brought them to her mouth.

The improvement was immediate – mere moments after she'd swallowed the last bite, her shallow breaths eased, and the shudders that had wracked her small frame dissipated. "That really works."

Branch couldn't help but smile. "Be careful. You've been really sick, and you don't want to overdo it." He straightened up with a wince – Peppy's arrival had given him a burst of energy, however momentary, and he'd almost forgotten how much it hurt to even breathe, let alone move. He'd forgotten about the throbbing in his temples, too. And he'd forgotten about how cold it was in here, come to that – why did Poppy keep her pod so cold? – and he'd forgotten how hard it was to stay on his feet when all he really wanted to do was collapse somewhere quiet and sleep for the next hundred years, and Smidge was staring up at him, head cocked and eyes wide, and she said…something…Branch didn't hear all of it, he'd forgotten how hard it was to hear, but he thought maybe it might have been something like are you okay, except it couldn't be, because he was fine, maybe he didn't feel fine right now, but he didn't have time to think about it because he was, he was fine, he was, it was everyone else who wasn't.

And then Smidge said it again, a little louder this time, and yeah, that was definitely an are you okay if he'd ever heard one, not that he'd heard very many because most trolls didn't ask, not that he blamed them, except now someone was asking and he tried to say yes, but nothing came out save a loud, painful cough that tore his burning throat, and he wanted it to stop and it wouldn't and now Poppy was looking at him, too, and Satin, and Chenille, and then someone put a hand on his arm—he flinched, tried to fight, but it was only Peppy—they were looking at him, they were all looking at him, and he tried to say he was fine, but he couldn't, his tongue just felt so heavy—everything was heavy—it was like the air was pressing down on him—pushing him to the ground—

The last thing he heard was Poppy's voice, distorted and shrill, crying something that sounded like his name, before the darkness clinging to the edges of his vision consumed him.

There were—there were hands on him. Someone was touching him. Someone was touching him, there were hands on him, on his shoulder, on his arm, on his forehead, carding gently through his hair, there were hands on him, and he did not like it.

He struggled, for several seconds that felt like an eternity, to pull away, but he found he couldn't – his body, it was too heavy. It felt like his bones were made of lead.

He cracked his eyes open – if someone was going to be touching him, he might as well see them – but all he caught was a flash of something decidedly very pink before his vision blurred, and a groan slipped from his lips faster than he could suppress it. He snapped his eyes shut again.

"Branch?"

Oh. Great. Now they were talking to him. Couldn't they tell he wanted to be left alone?

"Branch, come on!" The hand on his shoulder moved slightly, shaking him.

The motion, however small, sent a wave of pain flooding through his aching limbs, and he tried to move away again, choking out a weak protest.

"No, come on, you gotta sit up, buddy, you gotta sit up—you gotta have a couple of these leaves."

Something in the words, hard as Branch tried to ignore them, stirred something in his pounding head. Leaves. Leaves—there was something about leaves—something really important, something to do with leaves—

"No," he muttered, so quietly he barely heard himself. The leaves—the leaves were making everyone better. He didn't need any leaves. He was okay. They shouldn't be wasting leaves on people who didn't need them, and he had to make sure they knew that, so he forced his eyes open – Poppy stared back at him, face pinched in anxiety so evident she was almost unrecognizable, because Poppy never worried, it was part of what made her Poppy, but he didn't have time to think about that – and pushed the words up out of his burning throat. "No—no leaves—I don't need any leaves—my friends—you guys—I mean—you guys need them—you guys are sick— you guys—give 'em to you guys—don't need any—you guys need them, you guys are—my friends are sick…" This wasn't coming out right, this wasn't coming out right at all, but it hurt to talk, and his head felt fuzzy and his tongue felt heavy, and he really just wanted to sleep, but he couldn't because what if they needed him—he had to be there in case they needed him—he couldn't be careless with them again, he—

Wait.

"Wh-what are you doing out of bed?" Branch sat upright – whoa, wait, he was on a bed. He was on a bed and Poppy wasn't. That wasn't right, she was sick, she needed the bed—and hang on a second, it wasn't just Poppy, it was all of her friends, too, plus her father, when had they gotten there? Had they been there this whole time? What were any of them doing, standing around staring at him like this? They'd been delirious, they'd been dying not twelve hours ago! They were the ones who should be in this bed, not him! He wasn't the one who needed to be here! "What are any of you doing out of bed? You guys—you guys have been sick! You guys need to rest! You guys need to get better!" He twisted around to look at each of them in turn, ignoring the ardent protests of his sore muscles.

"We're fine, Branch," Poppy interrupted, impatience edging her tone.

DJ Suki nodded, confirming her friend's words. "The leaves work pretty fast. I think we're in the clear now."

"But you're not," Poppy continued as though the other hadn't spoken. "You're—you got sick, Branch, really sick. You passed out, and you're burning up, and you need to eat some of these leaves, too."

Branch blinked. He wanted—he wanted to say something back, but it was really hard to follow the conversation, everything was just going too fast…at least the others were better now. Right? Right?

"You guys…" He had to be sure. "You guys are okay now?"

Poppy let out a little breath. "Yes. You can stop worrying about us now, Branch. We're all right."

"N-no." Branch shook his head – if these past few days had taught him anything, it was that he needed to keep worrying about them, because what if he stopped and something like this happened again and…and… "Didn't—didn't worry about you guys—before. Didn't worry enough, I—I got you guys into this mess." His eyes stung suddenly at the thought – it was his grandma all over again. He was careless, and somebody else had paid the price. "This—this was all my fault."

Everyone just kept staring at him. Smidge and Poppy exchanged a loaded glance.

"Branch," Biggie frowned, "sorry, but what are you talking about?"

"You—you guys…" Branch swallowed, and turned his head as a cough forced its painful way out of his throat. "You guys said—you didn't—didn't feel right—and I just kept going—didn't listen—I wasn't thinking about you guys, just thinking about the village—all I c-cared about—gettin' back to the tree—wasn't thinking about you guys—n' then you guys got sick—and—and—s'all my fault." He swallowed again. "Could have died—you guys could have died—all my fault." It was too hard to keep his eyes open anymore, so he let them slip shut again, but the darkness wasn't half so blissful as he'd imagined it would be – everyone was silent, everyone had gone completely silent, he didn't think he could even hear them breathe, and that wasn't right because Poppy and her friends just didn't do silence.

He tugged his eyes open again, just to be sure everyone was okay, but Poppy, without warning, grabbed his hand up in hers and said, in that voice she always used that brooked no argument, "No."

Branch glanced, briefly, to their entwined hands before dragging his gaze up to hers. "What?"

"We got sick because we spent an entire week before we left around all the other sick trolls in Dr. Plum's sickbay! None of what happened was your fault! You didn't do a thing!" She gave his fingers a quick, light squeeze, as if to emphasize the point.

"No, but—but—should have listened to you guys…" Branch insisted, struggling with everything in him to speak despite the murky mental haze still hovering over him. Why couldn't he think straight? "Should have—should have paid attention—wasn't careful enough—should have been more careful…"

"You were worried about the village," Poppy said softly, and squeezed his hand again. "You can't expect yourself to worry about everything." She paused. "Please don't take that as a personal challenge."

Branch chuckled, albeit a bit painfully. "Should have—I should have—have looked after you guys, though. Just—just so caught up in thinking about the sickness…" He coughed into his free hand. "Didn't see it even when it was right in front of me."

"You did look after us," Poppy said firmly. "And you did it really well! There was nothing you could have done, so stop beating yourself up." Then, before he could protest – not that he was completely sure he would have, anyway – she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a steady, warm hug.

Branch closed his eyes, too exhausted to pursue the subject – it occurred to him, distantly, that he should probably push her away before he fell asleep on her, but he was too comfortable to move just yet – and then a pair of small but strong arms twined their way around his own, and someone's hand started rubbing his back, and then, suddenly, everyone was touching him as they dragged him into yet another of their annoyingly frequent group hugs – even Peppy joined in.

A sigh slipped from between Branch's teeth and he wondered for a minute whether he should pull away, but it really did hurt to move, and they probably wouldn't let him go, anyway—and then he sneezed, and suddenly he didn't have to worry about pulling away from anyone as everyone pulled away from him with a collective cry of disgust.

Branch sniffled a little, and rubbed at his nose, but he refused to be repentant. "S-serves—serves you guys right."

"You are dead to me," Chenille said dangerously, jabbing a finger in his face.

A small ripple of laughter spread through the group – though Satin quickly fell silent when her twin turned the murderous glare on her instead – but Poppy drew their attention again when she rose from her seat, one hand still entangled in Branch's. "All right, c'mon, guys, let's give him some space—Dad, where'd you put the leaves—?"

"D-Don't need any leaves," Branch tried to say, but that was as far as he got before everyone started shouting at him at once.

"—what are you talking about—

"—you're sick, too—

"—you passed out—

"—look like you got run over—

"—if you say you're fine while you sit there looking like death itself, I swear I'm gonna—!" Smidge pounded her fist energetically into her palm, but Poppy sent her a stern look, and she hastily fell silent.

After a minute or so where she fumbled with the pouch, Poppy finally opened it, and scooped out a handful of rich green leaves; with another glance at Smidge, Branch swallowed his protests – this was still completely unnecessary and absolutely ridiculous, because he wasn't sick at all, for God's sake, he'd know if he was sick – and swallowed the leaves.

The effects weren't exactly immediate, but when they came, they were swift and sudden and powerful, breaking over him like a wave, a soothing rush of something like relief sweeping through him, his pain receding like the tide. It didn't hurt to breathe—it didn't hurt to move—it didn't hurt to swallow—and the room didn't feel so cold—and it wasn't nearly so hard to think anymore—it was like some sort of fog had just cleared—like a haze had lifted, like something previously blurry and just out of sight had sharpened and come into focus, and—

Oh.

"I guess I was sick." He didn't even realize the words had actually left his lips until Poppy sputtered something that sounded something like, "You guess?!"

He lifted his head, a retort ready on his tongue, but when his gaze fell on her – on all of them, really, crowded around the bed and still peering worriedly at him even though he'd eaten the leaves and he was okay, now, really – the words died in his throat, chest flooding with warmth at the sight.

They'd been fading less than twenty-four hours ago, slowly surrendering their last shreds of lucidity, fevers raging so high he'd lost all hope, and now—now they were here, not even a full day later, looking after him, caring for him, even though they didn't have to, even though they needed someone to care about them, too, even when no one in their right mind would blame them for thinking of themselves, and only themselves, just this once.

They'd always been like this, so kind and selfless, always going the extra mile for their fellow trolls, always ready to lend a hand, always looking to help no matter the cost to themselves, and without really consciously deciding to speak, Branch heard himself saying, as if from a very long way away, "Thank you." The words fell awkwardly from his tongue, still clumsy and heavy with retreating fever.

But then they looked at him, and he could tell they didn't understand, and he didn't know how to explain, and he didn't want to anyway, but he did – though stumblingly, ineptly so.

"For—for…this." He gestured to them, still gathered in a knot at his bedside. "You didn't have to—you just—you guys are—you guys are really great." Heat rose in his cheeks before he had even finished speaking – he'd never been good with stuff like this, and it was coming out all wrong, and he was stuttering now, and God, he sounded like such an idiot—

"We are pretty awesome," Guy Diamond said thoughtfully.

Poppy plopped herself down on the bed beside Branch, and flashed him a smile. "What are friends for? 'Sides, gotta repay the favor, buddy. You were pretty great to us these past couple days."

Branch looked away – he couldn't hold her gaze. "I—I don't know about that." Maybe it wasn't his fault that they'd gotten sick in the first place, but he'd still driven them to complete exhaustion and never even noticed until they reached the outskirts of the village – he hadn't been great to them, not at all.

"Well," Poppy bumped his shoulder with her own, pulling him from his thoughts, and he hesitantly brought his eyes back to hers. "I do." She straightened up suddenly, a sparkle in her eye. "And as your queen, I hereby declare that you did everything you could, and you are absolved of all guilt, and also, that you're great, because I say so, so there." For emphasis, she stuck her tongue out at him, and it was so unexpected and so childish and so Poppy that Branch laughed for the first time since they'd reached the edge of Troll Village, and he'd seen what he'd done to them – it suddenly seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Come on," Poppy pushed herself off the bed, and held out a hand to help him do the same. "Let's clear out. It's time to get home."

A/N: FUCK this is shitty. i hate it. but i cant keep staring at it. im sorry.