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Ichabod has experienced his fair share of adversity over the years - wounds, fatigue, illness. He has never experienced a cold of this magnitude, though, and he just doesn't know what to do to shake it. He has ensconced himself in the library for the time being, dozing between doses of tea and soup, and there are any number of books scattered around him.

He is simultaneously trying to research demonology while correcting a so-called history of the Revolutionary War (Paul Revere was not the hero of the entire revolution and Franklin was, for the most part, an insurmountable ass) and neither is going well. It's as if his entire brain is fuzzy and thoughts are slow and dull. He doesn't do well when his keen intellect has been blunted and he hopes that the sickness passes soon.

First and foremost, he wants to be cared for and cossetted. It is times like these that Ichabod misses his wife the most. Katrina, for all her power and glory as a witch, had been his wife first and had been very good at making him feel better even when it seemed all the world was crashing down around his ears. What he wouldn't give to have Katrina caring for him now, to have Katrina making him tea and soup and tending to him while he relaxed.

He would simply have to make do with cooling tea and a slightly-scratchy blanket in a library for the time being.

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There is an awkwardness that persists in Hal whenever around Ichabod due to their unfortunate incident upon the ship. It is something he wishes to undo from his memories, but Hal is not given easily to forgetting. No, it is recollection that he excels in and five hundred years of memories are often plaguing. Still, the profuse look of unwellness gives Hal relief for the most terrible of reasons.

Hunger is secondary when sickness is at play. "Are you ill?" Hal asks, from the doorway. He cannot catch human illness, but he still finds it off-putting and untidy and keeps a mild distance.

"I am, in spite of my best efforts to deny it." This is punctuated with a long-drawn out sneeze that has quite the buildup and echoes throughout the room. It's embarrassing and Ichabod surreptitiously wipes his nose with his handkerchief.

"I wouldn't suppose it's something you can catch, seeing as what you are."

Hal winces at the thought of the microbial things swarming around in that handkerchief. He had carried his own around for many years, with elegant and perfect stitching, but he had welcomed disposable face tissues with aplomb. "No, I cannot catch illness, as such," he admits, though he still looks terribly off-put. "I do have an issue with gems," he says, standing downwind from Ichabod. "The thought of them in this room, this is a hot water and bleach sort of clean-up."

Ichabod covers his mouth with his hand and laughs lightly. "Well, if you'd like, I want to get back into bed anyway. You can disinfect this place to your heart's content after I've gone. I doubt the staff is going to mind."

Ichabod thinks they might even be grateful. He's been here for several hours and he can imagine he's steering off others who might want to use the library.

He twitches and thinks he might need to. There is one thing that Hal cannot abide and it is the uncleanliness of a place. There are so many germs lingering in all places that can be vanquished with the application of disinfectant and cleaners. It would be a shame not to use them. "Perhaps I ought to see you to your bed, first," he offers. "Come," he encourages. "At a pace's distance, of course."

Ichabod nods, tamping down his desire to laugh. A man's fear is no thing to trifle with, even if it seems inconsequential to someone else. Hal has a genuine fear of being unclean and being even within a pace's distance, he suspects, must push at that fear.

"Did you have this fear when you were alive? The fear of uncleanliness?"

"I honestly cannot recall," Hal admits, for his human life is so very long ago. Offering a brief smile to Ichabod (though it is strained and sags under the weight of his daily struggle), he thinks back and cannot even remember the place he had been born. All he remembers is the Gdansk and then the battle. "I'm over 530 years old," he says. "I'm afraid after five centuries, even what you try to remember fades away."

"I could only imagine. I am two centuries old, of course, but I slept most of those." It is not anywhere near the same situation since Ichabod did not live the years between then and now.

"Sometimes, I think it would be best if I could sleep away or ignore some of the years. There were unfortunate stretches within them spent whiled away in captivity. Churches, abbeys...in the 1600's, there was a particular determination to eradicate things like me," he says, though obviously it hadn't worked.

Hal had left quite the bloodshed in his path. "Tea," he says suddenly. "We should fetch you some tea and we'll soon see your illness fade."

"Tea can cure a lot of ills," Ichabod agrees. "I think tea helps even when it does nothing but soothe a savage soul and ease the mind. I can't speak much to the medicinal purposes aside from clearing the sinuses. All of those would be good right about now."

"In my time, there were many teas that could render a man inept," Hal says, thinking fondly back on those pharmaceutical teas that were quite potent and powerful. "Though, I think at this moment, all you require is a Honey Lemon," he says. "I assure you, drugging is not in my mind."

"I trust you." Ichabod is not sure if this is wise, considering what happened beyond the door, but he likes to think that this version of Hal is the true one and the one he encountered beyond the door was an aberration.

"Honey Lemon sounds like an excellent remedy."

Hal does not point out the error of such a statement. While he might be helpful in this moment, Hal should absolutely never be trusted, lest something terrible happen as a result of such a trust. "Then let us find you some, in a place where you do not have to sneeze or cough on me," he notes with mild disgust.