Oliver's scowl was a perfect picture of wounded indignation.
"Kick me while I'm down why dornt ye, Spinnet," he rasped out, attempting a stern frown whose effect was immediately nullified by the cough that shook his whole body. By the time he was done, eons later if you asked Oliver, his eyes were watering from the strain and his chest felt as if a cat were scratching it up from the inside. For a moment he looked as pathetic as he felt – and considering his tousled hair, the red nose and eyes and his pallid complexion, it was safe to say that Oliver looked very pathetic.
He struggled into a position that said plainly 'Look at me facing my impending doom with dignity' and betrayed one profound truth: Oliver desperately longed for someone to feel sorry for him and make a fuss. It was a bonus that he had the chance to get Alicia to fuss over him instead of his mother whose reaction would have been more along the lines of berating him for acting like an idiot. Oliver sighed and reached for a tissue.
"Ye can have my broomsticks." He said bravely. "But I want tae be buried wi' my Nimbus 3000! I swear it, if ye folk bury me without my broom, I'll come back an' haunt ye!" He started coughing again, for emphasis.