Tears of Themis; Artem Wing x Reader
Hello! I’ve been so addicted to Tears of Themis these days, so I ended up writing a one-shot for Artem. This is my altered (kind of) version of Artem’s SR Card “In Sickness or in Health” because I’ve always dreamt that a special someone will take good care of me when I’m having severe period cramps. I’ll also be writing one-shots for the other three love interests!
The broken shards of expensive glass across the carpeted floor snap in you one thing: that you should’ve gone home and doze into a revitalizing sleep. But you did not, and instead insisted on staying late in the firm to work on your latest case. It is one of the most challenging cases you’ve handled, and being Artem’s partner in this one drives you to work even harder.
Gritting your teeth, you grip onto the marble sink for support, then crouched down to clean off the mess. “I’ll replace this one, I promise. I’m sorry, Mr. Wing… This must have been expensive.” You shake your head, wanting to punish yourself for the foolish action.
Carefully, you remove the larger bits of the glass. By doing this, it will be easier to sweep off the remaining tiny shards.
You didn’t get to do it, though.
“No,” is all you manage to say as the pain strikes again. Like hard punches; killer knives. You press a hand onto your abdomen, mumbling a prayer for it to fade away.
Your dysmenorrhea is no simple thing. The pain is tolerable for some, lasting only a few minutes, an hour or so. But to you, it’s a curse. You dread it every month, and even the over-the-counter pills are no soldiers to the excruciating pain.
You try to clench the inside of your belly but it only throbs even more—and before you can even stand and race to the couch, you are too weak to pull yourself from collapsing to the floor.
You gasp when you feel a sting from your hand. You glance at it. It was bleeding from all the tiny shards, and now you start to drown in the exhaustion.
“Mr. Wing,” you say as loud as possible. You only wish he would hear you since he’s in the opposite room. But it’s 1:15 in the morning and the firm’s a quiet space, so you have your hopes up. “Mr. Wing,” you say again.
You feel a stray, hot tear pass across your cheek when you feel that agonizing pain again. It’s like a heartbeat, pumping and pumping, each pound of it more wretched than the last.
You shut your eyes, and only then did you hear quick footsteps from the other side, on their way to you in the lobby.
The door slams open. Your heart gives a little thump. On the last few seconds of your consciousness, you could only think of one thing: A disheveled Artem, calling your name before he took you in his arms.
“Damn it, make yourself useful and…”
You breathe in, breathe out, slowly… Your eyes are still closed, the exhaustion still weighing on you. Then you feel it again. The throbbing of your abdomen. You immediately press a hand on it, gritting your teeth through the pain.
You hear distant murmurs, and every once in a while, curses, complaints. The voice is familiar; gentle, kind… warm. Like a lover’s caress.
“Useless infirmary… No pills…”
You finally recognize whom the frustrated voice belongs to. It’s Mr. Wing.
You open your eyes, carefully at first, blinking repeatedly as you get used to the bright fluorescent light. Mr. Wing is leaning against the kitchen sink of the lobby and is anxiously stomping the heel of his foot. His fingers are tapping lightly on the counter, waiting impatiently for something.
He sighs in relief upon hearing the kettle’s rough click, immediately pouring the newly-boiled water onto a hot compress container.
You try to sit up but to no avail. You are still weak. Instead, you turn to where Artem is standing, his back facing you, and called for him. “Mr. Wing…”
Artem twirls around too abruptly that his hand accidentally rams onto a wooden utensil organizer. The steel spoons, forks, along with some knives, plummet to the carpet with a deafening clang.
You expect him to fix the mess first, but he doesn’t even spare them another glance and instead rushes straight to you on the couch.
He breathes your name as he kneels on the floor across you, his features grave and absolutely worried. He suddenly, absent-mindedly takes your hand in his.
You sense your cheeks burn. You did not expect Artem to hold your hands. To avoid awkwardness, you break your gaze from your entwined hands—only to end up staring at a tender, sapphire-blue that is Artem’s eyes.
Now you just want to set your gaze on your hands instead. It is a hardship for you to meet those diamond eyes and not swoon, not melt in it.
His grip on your cold fingers tighten, as if he doesn’t want to let go. “You’re all right. You’re… You’re all right.” He pulls one hand from yours. He presses the back of his hand on your burning forehead. “Your temperature has improved, but you still have a fever.”
You can feel the worry, the fear tracing his voice. You notice he’s trying to appear unfazed, professional; as if he wants to conceal what he really feels about this. He need not lie, though; because his eyes were enough doors to what his heart yearns to.
Don’t look at me like that, Mr. Wing…
“Mr. Wing… What happened? I don’t remember… What time is it?” you ask in confusion, as well as a tactic to beat an awkward (or rather heart-quickening) situation. Suddenly your piled-up tasks flood into you. “Oh, no. Mr. Wing, I’m sorry! The case—”
“—is on me. Let me do the work. It is my case, after all,” he cuts you off sternly, but still has hints of softness in it. “You…” he hesitates, “you collapsed, and when I came into the lobby, your hand was bleeding. I carried you and you were burning with fever.”
Fever? But I had dysmenorrhea…
Artem lets out a strained sigh, looking deeply into your eyes. “How long have you been working overtime? Have you been eating?”
You look away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wing… I caused too much inconvenience.” You try to dodge the question, but knowing Artem, he is stubborn as you.
“There is nothing to be sorry about.” He shifts slightly his body, and now he’s in very close proximity to you. You feel your cheeks burn again. “How long? Since when?”
Biting your lower lip, you manage to say, “One week. I really wanted to work well on this case…”
“You stay here until two in the morning?”
“I saw the takeout boxes in the bin. What have you been eating these days?”
“I’ve been busy, and I had no time nor energy to cook my food. So I ordered take-outs often.”
“I—” you halt. You nod slowly. “Yes, Mr. Wing.”
You lower your head, afraid that he will scold you for not taking care of yourself. But to your surprise, Artem gently brushes his thumb across the skin on your hand—and you swear deep down you’d faint again because he leans closer, tucking a stray strand of your hair behind your ear.
“Wait for me,” he says with a quaint smile. “I have prepared your medicine. Well, the doctor, rather.”
Your brows furrow. “The doctor?”
“From the infirmary.” He draws away from you, and even though you know he’s going to fetch your medicine, you feel your heart sink. Ugh! Why am I thinking like this? It has to be the fever…
You hear the clinking of the glass, the utensils, the sound of opening caps and pills. You observe Artem as he does his thing with your medicine. You are in awe for a moment, admiring how Artem isn’t a master of one but of many. He’s a workaholic, but he does know how to take good care of someone…
Mr. Wing’s future girlfriend is a lucky one.
Suddenly, your abdomen throbs. Again. You try to suppress a gasp, but it came out of your lips on its own.
Artem rushes towards you. “What is wrong?” he asks. His face is a calm sea, but you are not mistaken when you hear the anxiousness in his tone.
You clutch your stomach, the part where it hurts. You unknowingly curl your body up in a ball. Your eyes are shut, and you feel chillier even when you are wrapped up in Artem’s warm coat.
Without a word, Artem takes your hand from your belly, and slowly replaces it with a hot compress. The heat stings at first, but you won’t deny its help. You feel slightly better now.
Wait, hot compress? But how did Mr. Wing…
“Better?” he asks. You nod.
“Mr. Wing… Where did you get a hot compress? And…” you break mid-sentence, trying to regain your energy. “Mr. Wing… I’m sorry…”
“I called the infirmary when I saw you passed out. Perhaps you were still slightly conscious because you were clutching your stomach.” He takes the empty space beside you. You wait for him to finish, but he contemplated for a few seconds before he continued, “I saw some pills on the counter. I suppose you were about to take them before you knocked your glass of water. During those times, you probably were dealing with a lot of pain. Aside from over-fatigue, I informed the doctor that you may be experiencing… severe dysmenorrhea.”
What am I expecting, that he’s a mind-reader? Of course he noticed the pills, the broken glass. My period calendar, even, but he chose not to mention it. Ah! This is so embarrassing…
You tilt your head a bit higher to meet his eyes. “Mr. Wing… Thank you so much,” you say with a smile, the best you could do for now. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“There is no need. You are mine. You are my responsibility—” he stops abruptly, his eyes widening for a second, but he quickly changes his features. He clears his throat. “I meant, you are my partner, and that makes you mi—my, responsibility.”
You see his cheeks stained light pink. He is looking away, his body a little stiff.
You are mine… Ah, Mr. Wing! Stop it! It’s the fever… It has to be the fever. It’s the fever, right?
He suddenly shoots you a tired smile. He looks so exhausted. Suddenly you feel this urge to ask him…
“What time is it already, Mr. Wing?”
He peeks at his watch. “Five in the morning.”
“What?” You sit up straight instantly. Your head spins, drilling in agony, but you only press the heel of your hand against your forehead, ignoring the pain. “We have work at seven, and the case, I need to… The case… Mr. Wing, oh my god.”
You blink repeatedly, trying to drink in the situation. Five in the morning means you only have two hours before it’s work time again, and your ride home takes thirty minutes to forty-five, you haven’t taken a bath, haven’t brushed your teeth, and… Oh god, Mr. Wing stayed with me and took care of me the whole time, which means he didn’t go home. He hasn’t slept yet, that’s why he looks so tired and disheveled! This is all my—
You were so distracted by your swirling thoughts that you didn’t notice Artem walk away to the sink, then returning with a glass of tap water and two pills. You can’t help but feel sorry and guilty for him, staying here the entire morning just to take care of you…
Artem hands you the pills. You take them, then the glass of water. You sigh afterward, closing your eyes, the drilling in your head kicking in again.
“You’ve been working hard. Take the day off. Two or three days of rest. I can work on the case while you do so,” he says softly, and you almost want to just listen to his voice all night; like a lullaby cradling you to sleep.
Even as you feel his weight shift on the couch, you don’t dare open your eyes. You still don’t, even when you already feel his hot, even breaths on your face.
You don’t feel him for a few moments—then a sigh escapes your lips when you feel his delicate fingers carefully massaging your temples. Mr. Wing, is there anything you’re not good at?
“Take the leave,” he whispers to you.
You want to take the leave, but what about the case? You are anxious to leave it to him. Artem has a lot on his shoulders already, and it’s the least you could do to help—as a junior attorney, as his partner, a friend…
A friend? You open your eyes, immediately setting them on his beautiful sapphire ones. You can’t quite place where you stand. Do I really see Mr. Wing as a friend? But… Ah—Stop! The! Foolish! Daydreams!
You try to persuade him. “Mr. Wing, I promise—”
“Please,” he says in a vulnerable tone. “You need it. Take the sick leave. Please.”
You feel your heart sink. Mr. Wing…
“Okay,” you finally tell him. “Okay. I’ll take the sick leave, Mr. Wing.”
His eyes light up. He lets out a sigh of relief upon hearing you take the day off. Artem offers you a genuine smile, then stops rubbing your temples.
His hands now make their way into your dark, tangled waves, his fingers brushing your locks with the utmost gentleness. You couldn’t suppress the small smile that forms on the corner of your lips.
Artem absent-mindedly slides his fingers down your hot cheek, and now you don’t really care whether he sees your flushing face. Suddenly a smile plasters across his face—a smile so radiant as if all the burden was gone.
“I… prepared hot soup for you.” He departs his gaze from yours for a second, his cheeks slightly pink. “It’s still too hot for you to eat, though. Would you like to take a—”
An agonized moan escapes you, and you clutch your abdomen instinctively. You feel better now, but it throbs every once in a while as if someone’s throwing heavy punches on you.
Artem immediately holds your arms. “Lay down for a while. Come here.” He eases you to lie on the couch, but every move is a living hell—even when you only need to lie down.
“I can’t move, Mr. Wing. It hurts.”
Artem shakes his head in disdain, his hands running up and down your arms to bring warmth into your body. The sweet gesture sends knots down the pit of your belly. “I’m sorry. This must be really difficult for you, to women. To the point that it is severe enough to incapacitate you…”
You grit your teeth as you feel another throb. “You are the best lawyer I’ve ever known, Mr. Wing,” you manage to say, “but right now, I think I want you to be a doctor.”
Artem’s face falls. Oh no! He must’ve taken that seriously, and I haven’t even finished my joke yet! You feel panic rise inside you when Artem’s features turn into a slight scowl.
You were about to say something when he interrupts you. “Vyn is a doctor,” he said flatly.
Mr. Wing… are you… are you jealous? No, no. I really think it’s the fever. Why would Mr. Wing be jealous of Dr. Richter? He’s his teammate and co-worker…
You clear your throat. “No, not Dr. Richter, he’s a psychiatrist,” you correct. “I need a surgeon, Mr. Wing.”
His eyes widened, his body growing stiff again. He asks in an anxious tone, “A surgeon? What is wrong? Why do you need a surgeon?”
You chuckle, amused by his panicked expression. “So you can get a scalpel,” you say, gesturing a hand to your abdomen, “and take this out. The devil inside me.”
Artem lets out an all-too-relieved sigh. “Even if I was a surgeon, I cannot possibly do that.” He shoots you a gentle, comforting smile. “What can I do to ease your discomfort?”
You frown. “You’ve done too much for me already, Mr. Wing,” you reply. “I’ll be fine. You can take some rest…”
You notice Artem, his eyes looking distant, staring at the wall. And as if awakening from a daze, he cranes his head to face you, his eyes of sea meeting yours once again.
“Do you… mind if I hold you?”
Your mouth hangs slightly. You get this weird feeling inside, down your belly, and you know it’s not the fever nor your dysmenorrhea. The butterflies, you think. But why… it’s Mr. Wing…
“Yes,” you say, still in a state of shock. Then you realize you said the wrong thing. “I mean, no. I meant it’s okay, but if—”
“All right.” He smiles at you. Again. Mr. Wing, why do you keep on smiling at me like that? Ugh, then you give me this weird feeling… What are you doing?
You are busy with your thoughts that you don’t notice Artem positioning himself so close to you that there is no space left. His hands find their place on your bare shoulders, easing you onto him.
Is Mr. Wing… asking me to lay myself on him?
You follow his guide, slowly inclining your back against his warm chest. “Mr. Wing…”
“Yes?” he asks softly. “Can you lift your legs back to the couch?”
You do as he says, and now you’re lying on the couch, your back against Artem’s torso. He tucks you in, his long arms finding their way around your small, frail body. When his hands touch yours, you feel yourself melt under him.
It is only then you realize your hand is bandaged, and Artem is massaging your palm. The one that bled earlier.
As Artem cradles you like a fragile child, you only hear quickened heartbeats; both yours and his. You notice you’ve been calmer since he held you, and that Artem, too, shows no distress anymore.
You feel his quiet, even breaths on your hair, and you feel tingles all over. Now you’re more confused as to where you stand with Artem—but right now, all you want to do is get some rest, and savor this intimate, peaceful time with him.
Until you feel another jolt of pain. You immediately press a hand onto where it hurts, almost wanting to cry because of it. But Artem brings the hot compress into place, and as you sense yourself dozing off, you feel the agony slowly slipping away, too.
Artem’s hold of you tightens, and he shifts slightly for your head to rest against the space between his neck and shoulder. His hands caress your arms so gently that his warmth reaches to your soul.
The next moment, his fingers are brushing your hair. You lose yourself in his comfort, and before you finally fall into slumber, you hear him whisper.
His calm voice is enough to stave off the chill of your fever. You smile, nuzzling more into him.
“Yes, Mr. Wing,” you whisper back. “Very much.”
