hi! i’m not sure if your requests are still open, but if they are feel free to ignore!
its been getting so cold recently (especially where i live) and the weather change has been messing with my immune system. i rarely ever get sick but when i do it’s BAD! Coughing, sneezing, fever, all of that but almost like hospital level bad!
so we all know vanitas is a doctor, mainly one who specializes in vampires, but what if his s/o (who rarely ever gets sick) suddenly fell ill? but instead of just your average person’s sickness, they get terribly ill! you can do a fic or headcanons, i’m not picky!
Fandom: The Case Study of Vanitas
Pairing: Vanitas x GN!Reader
Theme/Type + TW: Hurt/Comfort Oneshot + descriptive writing regarding illness, ooc Vanitas...
WC: I must confess with great regret, that I didn't check the count on Microsoft Word and it is now 2:46 a.m., so excuse the missing word count </3 Just be warned, it's loooooooong ^^
Summary: You have caught the cold of the millenia, and Vanitas looks after you.
When Does Vanitas Notice?
• Vanitas notices before you do... or, more accurately, before you admit it to yourself
• It's not that he notices because of you dramatically collapsing on the streets, but because your body starts to betray you in small ways
• It starts with your breathing, to be precise
• The sound is oddly shallow, and sightly uneven
• A single sneeze earns only a glance from him
• The second one earns a raised brow
• The third, followed by the way you rub your nose as if annoyed, makes him go quiet
• Mostly he notices how your behavior changes first:
- You sit closer to heat sources, because you have the perpetual chill clinging to your limbs
- You stop arguing with him over trivial things, much unlike your usual way of going about your day
- You actually forget to eat, or you eat mechanically and slowly
- You fall asleep too quickly, and a little too deeply at that, as well
Does He Confront You, or Wait?
• That depends entirely on where you are
• If You’re Among People:
- He waits at first, it's no one else's business
- It's not out of politeness, but because he refuses to let others see you vulnerable before he understands what’s exactly happening
• If You’re Alone Together:
- He confronts you immediately lol
- Vanitas gathers a few facts from you:
How long you’ve been coughing
Whether the cold feels inside your bones
The Moment He Realizes It’s Bad
• The shift is immediate and don't even try to brush him off
• You rarely get sick, which means your body likely doesn’t know how to handle it
• Vanitas knows exactly how dangerous that is, so he will stick to you like a barnacle now, friend
How Does Vanitas Care for You?
• You are removed from whatever you were doing, whether you protest or not
• He insists you lie down somewhere warm, dark, and quiet
• Your layers are adjusted constantly, which means blankets are added or removed every now and then, and he checks your temperature repeatedly
• When you drift in and out of sleep, he talks more quietly and explains to you what he's doing to not do anything without your knowledge
Practices Vanitas Swears By
• Despite his usually unconventional methods, Vanitas is quite well-read when it comes to medicine
- Mustard plasters, which are applied to the chest or back to draw blood to the surface and ease congestion
- Chamomile to calm your nerves and help you sleep
- Linen soaked in hot water and herbs, placed over aching joints or your chest
- Windows will be cracked just enough to prevent stagnation, never enough to chill you
(I googled all late 19th century remedies there are, mind you. I'm so glad some of these're not used anymore.)
• What He Refuses to Use on You:
- Excessive laudanum consumption
His Personal Rules While You’re Ill
• You actually do not get out of bed unassisted, you stay where you are ffs
• You do not minimize your symptoms if he is supposed to help you, so be honest about what ails you (Doctor Vanitas is here to help, after all)
• You do not apologize for being sick, it's actually so grating <3
• He stays awake through most of the night
• Sometimes he counts your breaths to see if you're alright
• If you deliriously call his name, he answers immediately
• If you reach for him without seeing him, he takes your hand and doesn’t let go to assure you he's here without having to say much
• He may enforce rest long after you feel "perfectly fine and dandy"
• Only when you laugh again, properly at that, does he allow himself a teensy wee little smirk
• “Next time you decide to nearly die, give me a little warning ahead, yeah?”
The Chimère Heureuse, the quaint tavern, which was located right down the street was packed to its rafters tonight.
Warm light shimmered off the brass fixtures and fogged the small, round windows with the breath of a dozen different conversations from across the spacious main room.
Laughter rolled across the hall in waves, the occasional clinking of glasses keeping time beneath it all.
The place was loud enough to jostle one's senses, yet the longer you sat, the more the noise seemed to melt together into something shapeless, deeply muffled, and strangely distant.
At your table, the evening had begun with your usual group gathering after too many days of errands and work, but it had slowly unraveled into its usual chaos. Who would have guessed?
Dominique’s purple fan snapped open like a banner of victory as she laid her final card on the table.
“I win, dear Dante,” she declared slyly, leaning back with a sort of dazzling pride that had always fascinated you.
Dante groaned as if she had personally stabbed him through the heart. He had already lost two rounds before.
“No, no... hold on, time OUT. You’re cheating somehow. I don’t know how, but you’re doing it. You’ve gotta be,” his hands hovered over the cards like he expected to spiritually gain an answer about what card it could have been that had betrayed him.
Dominique only fluttered her eyelashes at him, a sort of antic that always brought you amusement. “Members of the House de Sade don’t cheat. We simply win.”
Noé, who had been valiantly following the match for the first half hour, was now slumped sideways, elbow on the table, chin in hand.
His eyes drifted half-lidded, already having grown soft with drowsiness and the room’s heat. Every now and then, his head dipped forward, hovering dangerously close to landing atop Dominique’s shoulder.
“If… if you’re cheating,” he murmured, voice trailing, “you’re very good at it…”
“Merci, Noé, mon cœur.” She patted his shoulder without looking, as though used to catching a falling Noé mid-collapse.
Across from them, Vanitas watched the game with a bored expression, exaggerated, but bored all the same, cheek propped on his gloved knuckles. His drink, still nearly full, reflected the amber light, while standing untouched.
He had made a single attempt to sip it an hour ago and had refused to entertain the concoction ever since.
“You’re remarkably untalented,” he commented toward Dante, though the corner of his mouth twitched briefly. “It's almost fascinating, non?” he added toward Dominique.
“It's called having fun,” Dante grunted with a frown. “I could defeat you in a heartbeat, Quack.”
“Fun,” he repeated flatly, as if it were a concept he fundamentally rejected.
You had laughed earlier. You were pretty sure you had. But now you couldn’t quite grasp the humor the way you normally did.
The edges of the room felt softly blurred in your mind. The laughter coming from all sides and corners, the clatter of mugs, and the shuffle of cards as Dante arranged another match, all of it blended together in a slow, swimming haze.
Even the warmth of the taverne seemed to become too hot and then too cold in swift waves, pricking your skin with alternating sweat and chills.
Your small glass of wine, half-finished and really nothing you weren’t accustomed to handling, felt like it weighed a hundred pounds at your elbow.
You swallowed, throat tight. The heaviness in your limbs made even that small motion feel so awkwardly sluggish.
Earlier, you’d brushed off Amelia’s comment when you stopped by Hotel Chouchou to collect Vanitas and Noé, “You’re looking a bit pale today, chéri. Are you sure you’re feeling well?”
But now the memory scraped at you. Maybe she had seen something you hadn’t.
A bead of sweat rolled down your spine despite the room’s warmth, and moments later goosebumps prickled across your arms again. You blinked slowly, trying to clear the fog gathering behind your eyes.
Tired. You felt so impossibly, bone-deep tired.
Across the table, Vanitas finally shifted. His gaze, bright and sharp even in dim lighting, flicked toward you for the first time in several minutes.
You weren’t sure what you looked like to him, but his brows pulled together by a hair’s breadth, a rare, subtle crack in his otherwise careless, brooding mask.
And still, the tavern’s sounds throbbed in your ears like they were coming from underwater, far away, too far away, and getting farther, still.
By the time the pub's clientele began to thin out, Paris had sunk into its usual late-night hush.
Lamps glowed weakly through a creeping cold fog, their light stretching long and tired across the pavement in a jaundiced sheen.
Dante was already halfway into his wool coat, still muttering under his breath about the game of cards, until he announced that he had important business to attend to with Riche. What exactly that business entailed was unclear, although Dominique had already made her guesses, much to Dante's chagrin.
Noé, meanwhile, looked like he had reached the absolute limit of his consciousness. He swayed gently on his feet, blinking slowly, head drooping forward until Dominique caught him by the collar of his scarf with a sigh.
“That’s quite enough for tonight,” she decided calmly, looping his arm through her shoulders. “Before you fall asleep standing up and embarrass us all, my dear...”
“I’m not asleep…” Noé mumbled in a weak attempt at protest, eyes already on their best way to closing again. “…just resting my eyelids, Domi.”
You had your coat on as well, a thick scarf pulled up to your nose, fingers numb from the sudden bite of cold outside.
But you were fine. You had to be. The fresh air was already doing wonders, was it not? And a full night's rest would be the cherry on top, before you would be feeling as right as rain again.
Vanitas hooked two fingers into the back of your coat collar and yanked you back quite effortlessly.
“—HEY!” You yelped, stumbling backward into him, before he steadied you with a grunt.
It startled you more than it hurt, really. Vanitas wasn’t rough with you ever, but he was strong when he wanted to be, and the ease with which he had just stopped you short made your heart jump unpleasantly into your throat.
“Vanitas!” you snapped in offense, whirling around instantly. “What the actual hell is wrong with you—!”
Your retort dissolved into a sudden, violent cough. Shit. That actually sounded horrifying. And maybe just a little disgusting, too...
It hit you hard enough to fold you slightly at the waist, shoulders jerking as air tore itself painfully from your lungs. The sound was wet and quite ugly, echoing faintly in the quiet street. You barely had time to turn your head before another cough followed, thick and rattling, and something warm and unpleasant slid up your throat.
You fumbled for your handkerchief just in time, coughing again as something sticky splattered into the fabric with a distinctly unglamorous sound.
Vanitas recoiled instantly.
“—Ah.” He grimaced, twisting away with visible offense, lifting his free hand as if warding off a crime against nature. “That’s revolting. Absolutely vile. You couldn’t warn me?”
You glared at him over the handkerchief, eyes watery and unfocused. “You’re the one who assaulted me from behind, you damned idiot!”
He ignored your accusations entirely, turning back only to squint at you with open suspicion. “You look a little sick there.”
“Well, I am not,” you said quickly, nose now blocked enough that the tone of your voice came out slightly nasal. “For your information, I haven’t been sick in...” You paused, frowning as you tried to remember. “…almost seven years!”
Vanitas stared at you. Did he believe you? Even asking that is absurd! Because, why would he not?
Then, very pointedly, his eyes flicked down to the handkerchief still clutched in your hand, now unmistakably damp.
As if on cue, another cough clawed its way out of you, shorter this time but just as wet. You pressed the fabric tighter to your mouth, preventing another escape of your bacteria upon the cobblestones.
“…Seven years,” he repeated flatly, sounding entirely unconvinced.
“That doesn’t...” You sniffed, then winced. “That doesn’t count. I felt fine all day!”
“It just… crept over me,” you insisted weakly, shoulders hunched against another shiver, heat and cold warring miserably beneath your skin.
Vanitas pinched the bridge of his nose, keeping his head turned slightly away as if the mere attempt of your excuse offended him.
“Heavens above, would you please blow your nose?” he snapped, eyes pulled wide as a frown bloomed on his forehead. “Do you hear yourself?”
You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “You’re a pest, Vanitas.”
“I’m not the one gargling snot in the street.”
That earned him another glare, but you turned away anyway, shoulders hunching as you pressed the handkerchief to your nose and blew. The sound was verily undignified, your nose stinging immediately afterward. You sniffed once, then again, eyes watering from the effort and the cold.
Vanitas waited with earnest impatience, arms crossed above his chest. Still, his gaze never quite left you.
“…There,” you muttered, stuffing the used handkerchief away as far from civilization as possible.
“Thank you,” he said dryly. “Now, come.”
You huffed, but the motion made your head swim faintly.
Before you could comment on that, Vanitas reached out and caught your hand, always firm, but familiar, and quite warm even through your gloves. Notably, he took only the hand that hadn’t touched your handkerchief.
You blinked at the contact. “What are you—”
“Walking,” he said, already tugging you along beside him. “You're going home.”
“Well, I'm taking you there, as you can see.”
He didn’t slow his pace, and you found yourself matching it automatically, feet moving automatically rather than by actual will. The night air felt harsher now, every breath scraping a little too sharply at your throat, but Vanitas’s grip was somewhat grounding through it all. Comforting even.
Neither of you spoke much after that.
It didn’t take long before the familiar stretch of street came into view, quieter than the main roads, tucked away between shops long since closed. Your house stood there as it always did, narrow and painted a soft, time-worn green, two floors tall and leaning just a little to the side.
On one side sat the boulangerie Moulin, dark now but still faintly smelling of the last bread sold. On the other side sat the luthier’s shop, Savatier, its window crowded with violin shapes and curled wood shadows.
Vanitas slowed only slightly as you reached the front door.
“I'll be fine,” you murmured, half-dazed, noticing the lights on in the apartmemt below your own. “You don't need to escort me like—”
“Humor me,” he replied without looking at you.
Below your apartment, a window creaked open.
Madame Doux, the elderly woman that lived below your quaint little home, appeared at her window, peering out through the beige lace curtains like a well-timed... apparition. Her eyes lit up immediately upon spotting the two of you, specifically, your joined hands.
“Oh! Bonsoir, my dears!” she called warmly, already smiling from ear to ear.
Vanitas stiffened almost imperceptibly. He knew this old Madame well by now, and preferred not to run in to her as often as he did.
You managed a weak wave. “Good evening, Madame.”
She leaned further out, her gaze bouncing between you and Vanitas with open delight behind her big, round spectacles. “It’s very cold tonight, isn’t it? Good thing you have such... attentive company.”
Vanitas muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse, so you elbowed him in the side.
Madame Doux only smiled wider. She had caught him every time he had attempted to smuggle himself into your lodgings, although she had made no more attenpts to stop him, after learning you two are an item.
The door had barely shut behind you before Vanitas was already guiding you further inside, steering you past the narrow sitting area and straight toward the bedroom.
Madame Doux’s voice still lingered in your ears, “Repose-toi bien, mon ange, and listen to that cute doctor of yours!” before Vanitas had practically hauled you up the stairs to spare you both the rest of her commentary.
Now, you sat on the edge of your bed, the sheets soft and crisp beneath your hands. The astermite lamp on your desk cast a gentle, bluish glow across the room, catching on your stacked books, the folded clothes on the canapé, and the faint shadow of the window frame against the wall. The warmth inside made your skin prickle uncomfortably, heat rising beneath your coat even as you shivered.
Vanitas crouched down in front of you without any ceremony whatsoever, fingers already worrying at your shoelaces.
“Hey... what are you doing?” you murmured weakly, but there was no real protest in it.
“Quiet,” he replied, already untying your boots with quick, practiced fingers.
The laces came loose one after the other, his movements swift yet unexpectedly gentle. He slid the first boot off your foot, then the second right after, careful not to jostle you too much. The relief was immediate, your legs felt lighter, though the rest of your body was still heavy with exhaustion.
He gathered the boots in one hand and stood, carrying them to their usual place without needing to ask. He knew your apartment well enough by now, knew where things belonged, how the floor creaked on that one specific spot by the wardrobe, which shelf held exactly what.
“Thank you, Vanitas,” you said quietly, your voice coming out rougher than you intended.
He paused only long enough to hum, “Mm.”
Then, more firmly, “Change. And get in bed.”
You frowned faintly, a headache slowly coming over you. “Vanitas, there’s really no need—”
“I’ll be back in a bit,” he cut in smoothly, already heading towards the door again. “I’m getting my bag.”
That snapped your attention fully to him. “What? No. Vanitas, seriously, you don’t—”
He crossed the space in two strides.
Before you could finish, his hand came up to the back of your head, fingers threading briefly into your hair. He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss there, so fleeting it barely registered as touch at all, gone almost as soon as it was there.
“Don’t argue,” he said lightly, but there was no mistaking the firmness beneath it. “Just do as you’re told for once.”
You opened your mouth, still ready to protest.
He was already turning away.
“I’ll be right back,” he added casually, not bothering to entertain any of your little protests for long.
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
When would he be back? The time felt to be passing in the pace of an incapacitated snail, while he was gone.
You lay on your back, sheets drawn up to your chest, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer answers to your untimely misery.
The moonlight slipped in through the window in narrow, wavering bands, briefly illuminating the white above you before clouds smothered it again. Each change in light felt harsher than it should, like your senses had been rubbed raw.
Not just tired, but heavy, as though someone had filled your limbs with damp sand. Every part of you pressed into the mattress with uncomfortable insistence, muscles aching even in stillness. The simple act of breathing felt deliberate now, rather than your body's automatic action. Your chest tightened on each inhale, a dull pressure sitting just behind your sternum, and every exhale rattled faintly in your throat.
You’re hot. Unbearably so.
Yet your hands trembled under the blankets, goosebumps rippling across your arms as if you’d been left out in the cold. Sweat clung to your skin, sticky and cooling too fast, leaving you shivering seconds later. The sheets felt simultaneously too warm and not warm enough, the fabric irritating against oversensitive skin.
Your head throbbed. When was the last time you had felt this awful?
It wasn’t a sharp pain, but it was worse, somehow. A deep, pulsing ache that bloomed behind your eyes and seeped outward, making it difficult to focus on anything for more than a few seconds.
Your eyes burned, lids heavy, vision slightly blurred no matter how often you blinked. When you swallowed, your throat scraped painfully, raw and inflamed, like you had swallowed dust and glass.
Your nose was completely blocked, pressure building behind it until your face felt swollen from the inside. Every breath through your mouth dried your throat further, leaving an unpleasant, sour taste lingering on your tongue. Mucus clung stubbornly at the back of your throat, thick and unpleasant, forcing you to swallow repeatedly or cough weakly into the quiet room.
Every cough sent a sharp, exhausted pain through your ribs and chest, leaving you breathless afterward, heart racing for no good reason.
Your stomach churned faintly, unsettled, appetite completely absent yet uncomfortably hollow. Even shifting your legs an inch felt like too much effort, your joints ache as if bruised from the inside, bones sore and uncooperative.
You tried to relax, but your body wouldn’t let you.
It all came so sudden, no? And now your skin felt too tight, too sensitive. Your pulse was loud in your ears, uneven and distracting. Sleep hovered just out of reach, your mind foggy, drifting, but never quite slipping under.
Every few moments, awareness dragged you back: the ache, the heat, the chill, the pressure, the exhaustion that didn’t ease no matter how still you lay.
You felt so small in your own body, entirely trapped inside it.
Meanwhile, Vanitas made it halfway through the motions of picking the lock before the front door swung open.
Madame Doux, your downstairs neighbour, stood there in her night shawl, eyes sharp despite the hour.
The stairs creaked softly under his shoes as he rushed past her and climbed, every step swift, a little quieter than usual.
He stopped outside your bedroom door, fingers hovering near the handle. For a brief moment, he hesitated, half expecting to open it to find you sitting up or moving around, stubborn and defiant as he knew you, pretending nothing was wrong.
Instead, when he eased the door open and peered inside, he found you exactly where he’d told you to be.
Looking half-dead, no less.
The sight hit harder than he expected.
Earlier that morning, you’d been fine, annoyingly so. Bright-eyed over coffee, sharp-tongued to match him in tone, lively in that way he always pretended not to notice. Even when you’d stopped by Hôtel Chouchou later to collect him and Noé, there had still been traces of it. That spark, dimmer maybe, was still there, albeit weak.
Then, over the course of the evening, it had slipped away piece by piece.
Where had you even caught this? The temperatures had been worsening lately, yes, but you were normally resilient to a fault. You didn’t get sick. Especially not like this.
Vanitas set his medical bag down on your desk with care and stepped fully into the room, nudging the door shut behind him.
The soft click startled you anyway.
You jolted upright with a sharp intake of breath, eyes wide and unfocused, hair mussed, face flushed an unhealthy red beneath pallor.
“Hey,” Vanitas hissed immediately, a crease between his brows. “Easy.”
He crossed the room in two strides, pressing a brief finger to his lips. “Be still.”
Your shoulders sagged slightly, the effort of sitting up already costing you more than it should have. He turned away before you could say anything, moving instead to the window. With a quick tug, he pulled the curtains closed, blocking out the harsh glow of the street lamps and leaving the room bathed in softer, dimmer light.
He didn’t come to you right away.
Instead, he went to your drawers, pulling one open, then another, rummaging in silence. The apartment wasn’t cold, not truly, but he could feel it all the same. The way the air lingered just a little too crisp was probably a little too much for your body, which likely couldn’t regulate itself properly right now.
He found what he was looking for. Two woolen blankets.
Vanitas returned to the bed and draped the first over your duvet, smoothing it down without thinking. Then he wrapped the second around your shoulders, tucking it in securely and handing you the edges to hold onto.
At the same time, you simply sat there, eyes dull, breathing shallow, letting him do as he pleased.
That unsettled him far more than any of your usual arguments would have.
You looked so unbearably pitiful.
Vanitas finally sat down beside you, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He lifted one gloved hand to his mouth and caught the tip of the middle finger between his teeth, tugging the material off with a short pull. The glove slid free, exposing his bare hand, a pale, calloused, warm thing, with elegant, slim fingers.
The back of his hand pressed gently to your forehead.
He sucked in a quiet breath through his teeth.
“My,” he muttered. “You’re burning up.”
Against your skin, his hand felt almost cool. Not cold, just pleasantly grounding against the feverish heat pooling beneath your scalp. You leaned into it without thinking, eyelids fluttering shut for a moment.
“What a silly thing,” he added, tone firm and clipped, as though irritation were easier than worry.
You shifted a little closer, your temple coming to rest against his shoulder. The contact was more tentative at first, as if you were waiting to be pushed away. The rejection never came.
Vanitas stiffened for half a second, just long enough for the thought to flicker, unwanted but present, I really don’t feel like getting sick, and then he exhaled, shoulders easing. He let you stay there, his hand coming to rest against the duvet, right on your thigh.
“Vanitaaaaas,” you swallowed thickly, the ache in your throat grating. “I feel awful,” you murmured.
“Yes, yes, you don't say...” he replied with a sliver of sarcasm, his voice then softening a fraction. “We’ll see what we can do.”
Normally, this would have been the part where you bristled. Where you insisted you were fine, that you didn’t need to be examined, that you’d survive without a professional, little prodding and muttering over your symptoms.
You always felt strangely awkward when Vanitas slipped fully into the role of doctor, too aware of his focus and the way his attention sharpened.
You were too tired to fight it.
The warmth that bloomed in your heart settled over you like another blanket, unexpected and heavy, but so so comforting. Safe even. Your body ached less when you leaned into him, even if only by a small degree.
Your mind drifted, foggy and slow, and with it came the memory of the last doctor who’d treated you seriously. He was an old, burly man with a bristling beard and hands like meat cleavers.
His grand solution to your ailment had been nothing short of horrifying, much more so to the young child you had been at that time. Bleeding you slightly, followed by a mustard plaster slapped onto your chest that burned like hellfire and smelled awful too.
Vanitas stood. “I’ll get a wet rag,” he said, already moving away. “Might help take the edge off before I...”
You made a small sound of acknowledgment, barely audible.
He disappeared into the narrow bathroom, leaving the room quiet once more, except for the dribbling of water when he wrung out the cloth he had fetched.
The cold cloth felt damp and soothing on your forehead, the chill seeping just deep enough to take the edge off the fever’s relentless burn. It smelled faintly of your soap and clean water.
You focused on that sensation, on the gentle contrast between the cool fabric and your overheated, boiling skin, letting it anchor you.
Vanitas had seated himself beside the bed on a small wooden stool, his posture still but slightly slouched. His bare fingers circled your wrist carefully, thumb resting against your pulse point. You could feel it clearly, far too clearly actually, fluttering fast beneath his touch.
“It starts racing when I move,” you murmured pitifully, voice low and raspy. “Even just… sitting up feels like I just ran a marathon. This sucks.”
“Hm.” His brows knit slightly as he counted, eyes unfocused in that way that meant he was doing math in his head. After a few seconds, he released a quiet click of his tongue.
“Well,” he said, tone firm but not unkind, “that’s because your body’s working itself ragged right now. Fever, inflammation, a nasty cough, it’s all demanding energy. Of course your heart’s picking up the slack.”
You tensed a little. “So… that’s bad?”
He shot you a warning look. “Relax, it's a cold, not the plague.” His grip loosened, fingers still resting lightly against your wrist. “It just means you don’t get to run around for a while. Take it slow. And don’t get up unless you absolutely have to.”
Vanitas withdrew his hand and straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders once. “My notebooks do mention a few remedies,” he mumbled, almost offhandedly. “Though I’m not sure you'll be thrilled about some of them.”
The second he muttered, “There is an entry abour how to apply a mustard plaster—”
“No,” you croaked immediately, sharp despite your exhaustion. “Absolutely not!”
He paused mid-motion, blinking at you with mild irritation. “You didn’t even let me finish.”
“I don’t need to,” you argued, eyes half-lidded but resolute. “No mustard. No… to whatever else nonsense you’re thinking of.”
Just for a moment, he looked torn between arguing and respecting your answer. Mild annoyance flickered across his face, followed by reluctant acceptance.
“…Fine,” he grumbled at last, a touch of passive-aggressiveness entering his tone. “Whatever the highness wishes.”
He stood and moved to your desk, pulling the swivel chair with him before sitting down. The astermite lamp cast a soft glow over his hands as he opened his medical bag, rummaging through it.
Glass clinked softly against glass as he grabbed a small vial. He retrieved a small notebook, the worn pages already yellowed with age, and flipped through it, scanning the lines written in his father’s neat, precise hand.
“There... has to be something about a tincture,” he muttered. “Something to ease your breathing, help loosen whatever... sludge is sitting in your lungs.”
He measured his contents carefully, pouring drops from one bottle into a small cup, then another. It’s been a while since he had last treated anything other than a vampire’s malnomen, and the shift showed itself in the way he paused now and then, reread a line, and adjusted a measurement.
While he worked, he kept talking to you, attempting to keep you awake.
“Don’t close your eyes just yet,” he told you without looking up. “Actually, tell me, what did you have for breakfast this morning?”
You blinked blearily. “…Tea.”
“And... bread with cheese.”
You frowned at him, annoyed by his banal questioning. “Why does it matter?”
“Because I asked,” he replied. “Answer.”
“…It was a slice of Flûte from the bakery near Hôtel Chouchou.” You opened one eye, watching him from your peripheral vision. “That’s not even medical. Why do you ask?”
“I'm asking you to humor me, once again.” Vanitas chided you, before adding, “You need to start eating more. No wonder you look like death warmed-over.”
“Why are you being mean?”
By the time he was finished, the mixture in the cup was cloudy and a little ominous looking, the smell alone enough to make your stomach twist.
Vanitas stood and approached the bed, tapping his glass with a careful touch of his finger. “All right. Sit up.”
You groaned abruptly, sinking further into the plush pillows. “No.”
“It’s going to taste disgusting,” you complained weakly, nose wrinkling. “It already smells like a rotten carcass.”
“You don't know what a rotten carcass smells like.”
You squinted at the cup. “Are you trying to poison me? Is that it? Have I already served my purpose?!”
He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for your shoulder, expression entirely unimpressed by your little display.
You resisted immediately, sluggish and stubborn, “No, I don’t want it.”
Vanitas’s tone sharpened, not directly angry, but firm and unyielding. “You don’t get to refuse help when you look like this. Drink it. Now. Before I make you.”
He holds the cup just a little closer to your lips, and you know he means it, “You know I will.”
In short, the medicine tasted exactly as bad as you had expected.
Bitter and sharp, with an aftertaste that clung stubbornly to the back of your tongue even now, like chewed roots and something metallic you didn’t want to identify.
You swallowed it down with visible effort, forcing yourself not to make a face. The last thing you needed was Vanitas mocking you for it.
“Don’t tell me you liked it,” he said dryly.
You shook your head once and handed the cup back without comment, throat burning faintly as the bitterness lingered. He watched you for a moment longer, as if gauging your reaction, then finally nodded to himself.
Time blurred a little after that.
Vanitas shifted against the headboard and settled himself more comfortably, one of your small, yellow cushions placed against his abdomen. Your head rested peacefully on top, your body fitting there as though it had done so many times before.
You still felt awful, heavy, sore, and feverish, but the edge of it had dulled a little bit for now. After having taken the medicine, your breathing came a little easier now, less strained. The pounding in your chest slowed, just enough for you to notice.
You tilted your head slightly and looked up at him. “Stay a bit longer, will you?” you murmured sleepily. “Noé won’t notice.”
Vanitas scoffed quietly. “Noé won’t notice anything until noon tomorrow,” he replied. “He’s probably already passed out.”
Vanitas's hand rested loosely near your shoulder, warmth seeping through the layers of fabric. The room was quiet now, dim and still, the moonlight softened by the drawn curtains on the other side of your bedchambers.
“Don’t overdo it tomorrow,” he said after a moment. “When I’m gone, you rest. No errands. No nonsense.”
You meant to answer, but you didn't.
Instead, your breathing slowed, evening out as sleep finally claimed you. The tension in your body eased, your weight settling more fully against him. Your thoughts drifted, then dissolved entirely.
Vanitas glanced down at you when your grip slackened and your breathing deepened. He exhaled softly and stayed where he was, letting you sleep.
