This chapter is basically just Maggie looking after Jocelyn, and tea seems to feature heavily for some reason (who I am kidding, I love tea). Anyway, this is what I had chance to write in my 3-hour train journey, so I hope you enjoy it!

By 9 o'clock, Maggie's assertion of not having a peaceful evening turns out to be entirely accurate. If Jocelyn is demanding normally (a trait which admittedly holds her in good stead when arguing a case in the courtroom), that is nothing in comparison to when she is ill. Maybe demanding is the wrong word, Maggie amends mentally, insufferable is probably closer to the truth. And the worst part is that it's not even Jocelyn's fault. No, the fault lies entirely with Maggie, because she can't bear to see Jocelyn suffering.

What had started out as simply a sore throat, has, over the course of the evening, become a blocked nose and a headache as well. It is now Maggie's third run to grab some more painkillers and make tea - because tea, as she herself had proclaimed, makes everything better.

(Probably the largest and most fervent dispute they'd had since Maggie moved in had been on the correct way to make tea; prior to this, Maggie had always made tea for the two of them, no matter whose house they'd been at. So imagine first the shock when Jocelyn had been the one to offer to make the tea upon the first evening of Maggie's moving-in, and then the abject horror when Maggie had watched Jocelyn pouring the water on top of the milk and then adding the tea bag.

"What was that?" She had proclaimed, her face twisted in a grimace.

Jocelyn had whirled around to look at her, something akin to a challenge in her eyes. "Tea," she said, as if daring Maggie to disagree.

Maggie never was one to back-down from a challenge, and Jocelyn knew it. "A southern abomination, I think you mean." She shook her head, and put on the broader accent from her youth. "Up north we put the bag in first, then the water, let it brew, then add the milk." As Jocelyn opened her mouth to refute this, Maggie interrupted with: "Don't argue, I've been making your tea that way for years and you've never complained, so don't try and start now." Jocelyn had closed her mouth with an audible snap. 1-0 to Maggie in the Battle of Tea-Making. Maggie still holds onto that win - with Jocelyn they are few and far between.)

Jocelyn is reclined on the sofa when Maggie returns. She quirks a brow, "Comfy?"

"Yes thank you." Jocelyn accepts the tea and painkillers gratefully.

"How are you feeling?"

"Awful." Trust Jocelyn not to sugar-coat it. "I still blame you," she continues petulantly.

Maggie flops down next to her. "If we're playing that game, I blame Olly, considering I caught it from him. But anyway, I don't remember you paying much attention to the possibility of getting ill when you insisted on kissing me - I don't remember coercing you into it." Her smile is teasing and Jocelyn catches the twinkle in her eyes.

"Ah you see, for that I blame you again - you're too irresistible."

Maggie rolls her eyes: somehow Jocelyn knows exactly what to say to prevent Maggie from arguing (and if she finds the words extremely exciting, well she doesn't mention it).

Perhaps it's a weakness somewhere in Maggie's genetic make-up, but she has always found herself unable to deny Jocelyn anything (the fact that she can't think of an instance where she would have denied her something is entirely beside the point, of course).

So when they'd woken up, and Jocelyn had pushed out her bottom lip in a pout (and no, Maggie definitely didn't find that attractive, not at all), in an attempt to seem feeble and pathetic, well somehow Maggie had found herself agreeing to making Jocelyn breakfast in bed.

She stares tiredly at the mugs while she waits for the kettle to boil, as if the ceramic can possibly yield the secret as to how Maggie ended up so completely enamoured with, and entwined into the life of, such a glorious, frustrating, beautiful, maddening woman as Jocelyn. Early-morning philosophical musings are often the most revealing, she finds. Today however, the elemental truths of life are surprisingly elusive. Instead she takes to watching the toaster carefully, because in her experience, the moment you take your eyes off the blasted thing, the toast goes from pale white bread to a blackened crusty mess in a second (and if you think she's bad, you should see Jocelyn - at least Maggie can actually cook, toast is just a delicate art-form).

Jocelyn looks marginally better when Maggie enters the room bearing a tray: she has at least propped herself up in bed.

"How're you feeling this morning?" Maggie asks.

"Awful," Jocelyn replies, echoing her own words from last night, but this time there is a small smile playing across her lips.

"Liar," Maggie murmurs fondly, climbing back into bed next to her. "I think you just like being looked after by me."

"I couldn't possibly comment." She feigns ignorance whilst eating a piece of toast - a skill Maggie is fairly certain only Jocelyn could carry off. She resumes her argument after a minute, as though no time has passed at all: "And anyway, I looked after you when you were ill."

Maggie smiles, remembering Jocelyn's attempt to make their dinner three nights in a row, insisting that Maggie shouldn't over-exert herself - on one hand, the oven will probably never recover, but on the plus side, the smoke alarms got in a lot of practice tests. She helpfully doesn't mention the fact that she had to step in to ensure that they actually ate at all, good-naturedly putting the temporary lapse in memory down to Jocelyn's illness. The smile on Jocelyn's face tells her that she knows anyway.

"I know of another way I looked after you," Jocelyn murmurs, the suggestive note in her voice sending a thrill through Maggie. Jocelyn takes both of their empty plates and sets them on the bedside table, before leaning forwards.

"I might catch cold again." Maggie says, putting up a token protest, even as she leans in herself. (Truth be told she's pretty sure that's not how colds work, but she sometimes has to try and deny Jocelyn, even if it always fails immediately as soon as she turns those impossibly blue, begging eyes on her). Their lips are millimetres away as Jocelyn's words ghost across Maggie's.

"Oh shut up, and kiss me."

So she does.