"Could you get me a bag of frozen blueberries from the freezer, please?" Tina muttered and opened her eyes.

Wow, that's too close for her comfort! Holyoake was kneeing near her, leaning to her face. His bright eyes - the colour would be called cerulean in a romance novel - were framed by thick fluffy lashes. Like a husky dog.

"Maybe I should ring up the surgery," he said in an uncertain tone.

Tina tried to sit up and groaned. She felt his palm lay on her back between her shoulder blades - blimey, that's one bloody large hand! - and he pushed her up gently.

"I'm alright," she said. "No need to bother Dr. Fenton."

"You might have a concussion," he said.

"Wouldn't be my first one," she muttered.

Her hand flew up to her forehead. Oh no, is this a goose egg?!

"Clementine– I mean, Ms. Popplewell, I highly recommend you to call a medical specialist," he said.

What's with the robotic voice?! 'Highly recommend' and 'a medical specialist.' Posh git. Tina touched the bump growing on her forehead and hissed.

"Blueberries, please," she reminded him, and he grudgingly got up and went to the fridge, throwing her alarmed looks.

He rummaged in the freezer and returned with her bag.

"And no, I don't need a 'medical specialist,'" she mocked his intonation.

She'd gesture quotation marks too, but her hands were busy: she was pressing the blueberries to her forehead, while trying to pull herself up grabbing the oven door handle.

"Here, let me– Allow me–"

He was still talking in this odd tense voice, and she grasped his - scorching, massive - hand and got up. Suddenly the buttons on the placket of his shirt were in front of her. He smelled like something citrusy and expensive.

"Do I have a bruise on–" she started to ask and lifted the bag off her forehead.

His skin grew suddenly greenish pale, his eyes rolled back, and he started sinking on the floor. Tina gasped, dropped her blueberries, and tried to support the man - 'tried' being the key word. He was probably four times heavier than her! He swayed - and took her down to the floor with him.

"Oh bugger," Tina breathed out and decided to let go of his log-like arm.

She wasn't helping his situation one bit anyroad. He was now sitting, his back against the oven, breathing in short shallow pants, his eyes closed.

"Mr. Holyoake?"

No matter what they showed on telly or described in books, fainting was a very slow process. Tina had seen it before, and had gone through it herself. To her it usually felt like she was on a boat, sloshed, and both her legs had fallen asleep. Then the world would go sepia coloured, and the floor would lunge towards her face. She didn't envy the man at the moment.

"Mr. Holyoake?" she tried again. "John?"

Tina shortly wondered if her urge to slap him across the face was simply the manifestation of her sharp dislike for the man, since she knew one wasn't supposed to slap, shake, or throw water on a fainting person.

"Just a–" he muttered and swallowed. He was now ashen and perspiring. "A moment. I'm– I'm not good with blood."

He swallowed again.

"Am I bleeding? Why didn't you say so?"

Tina grabbed the edge of her counter, pulled herself up, and looked at her reflection in the kettle.

Pfft, he calls this bleeding? She did have a giant bruise on her forehead, but there was just one drop of blood on it. Tina shrugged, picked up her blueberries, and placed them back on her goose egg.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"I'm– I'll be alright–" He lifted a visibly shaking hand and pressed his palm to his forehead. "Just a moment..."

Tina snorted.

"I might have a concussion, Mr. Holyoake," she said sarcastically. "You're the one who should be nursing me to health." He didn't answer her, and she shook her head in amusement. "I'll go, put an Elastoplast on my gaping wound, and I'll check on you in said moment, alright?"

He hummed low in his throat, and Tina left for the bathroom. On the way, she started laughing. Bear man, my arse.

The bruise was promising to grow into a Sicilian aubergine, both in size and colour. Tina closed the medicine cabinet, threw herself one last mournful look, and returned to the kitchen.

Holyoake was still sporting the same tortured grimace on his face, his lids still lowered.

"I've washed off my sanguine liquid," Tina announced dramatically. "You're safe to open your eyes."

"It's not the view– I'm just feeling sick," he groaned. His Adam's apple bobbed spasmodically.

"Please, don't sick up on my kitchen floor," Tina said. "I'm a sympathetic vomiter."

His eyelashes fluttered, and he slowly opened his eyes. Awww. She felt almost sorry for him. Almost. Alright, she did commiserate. He was probably nauseous, dizzy, and he looked properly pasty. She looked around in search of a glass or a mug to offer him water.

"'Sympathetic' isn't the word I'd use to describe you," he muttered.

Tina immediately bristled. "You scared me, and I hit my head! It's your fault!"

He gave her a blank look, and Tina jerked a cabinet open and pulled out a glass.

"I'll get you water," she grumbled.

While he drank, she stood, arms crossed on her chest, glaring at him, while trying to suss out whether her blooming headache was indeed a concussion - or she just hated the bloke so much it gave her migraine!

"Do you need a hand to get up?" she asked when he put the glass aside.

"It's alright," he said. "Don't want to topple you over the second time."

"Technically it would be the fourth time I'd fall because of you today," Tina pointed out, but grabbed him under his arm. "C'mon, don't rush it. Here you go."

He slowly got up, still pretty unsure on his feet. Suddenly, her nose was once again as much as pressed to his chest.

"You should sit down," she said. "You're still somewhat... off-colour."

She maneuvered him towards the table, and he heavily lowered his backside on a chair.

"More water?" she asked.

He nodded weakly.

"You should take the pilaf out," he said when he was done hydrating. "I shouldn't be trusted with a heavy pot right now."

"I shouldn't be trusted with a heavy pot at any time," Tina grumbled and picked up the oven mitts.

She was being coy, to be fair. She wasn't a complete lummox when it came to baking stuff. It's frying and sautéing and so on that gave her habdabs.

"Can I open it?" she asked.

Blimey, it smells so good!

"It needs to rest a few minutes," he said. "But then you should definitely help yourself. As opposed to this ungodly sugar-loaded rubbish."

He pointed at Tina's cereal box on the table. Tina saw red.

"Listen, you tosser!" she barked, stepped in front of him, and pressed her fists into her hips - the daft polka dotted over mitts were spoiling the effect unfortunately. "Can you possibly keep your judgy tude to yourself? Because if we start comparing, then maybe, just maybe," she jeered venomously, "getting bladdered and climbing into a chick's bed and purring all sorts of 'Come back here, love' and 'You're warm, love,' while we both know you don't know the meaning of the word and actually never sleep in the same bed with a woman even if you shag her, seems like a much less healthy lifestyle choice than my cereal!"

While she was flailing her hands and hollering, the mitts had conveniently flown off. Tina grabbed her box, the bowl, and the spoon, and marched out of the kitchen and back into her study. She could eat at her desk! Whatever!

***

After she finished two bowls, loudly crunching with some sort of a vengeful zeal, she decided she needed a shower. Now that she'd had a sniff of his shower gel, which definitely matched his cologne - pompous supercilious pillock! - it was as if she could smell it on her skin! She commanded herself to stop thinking about how it could have gotten onto her skin. By the means of rubbing herself to him. Stop it, Tina! The rubbing had been justified: she'd thought he was Tom Hiddleston or a man-size version of Mr. Tickles the Teddy Bear!

Tina picked up a pair of her favourite ColieCo smalls - she needed the moral support their so-called 'french knickers' provided - and stepped out of her bedroom.