“Oh, Ew—Whats happened to you?” (Dieter Hellstrom / Reader.)
| dieter hellstrom / a sick reader
| a/n requested any character taking care of a sick reader (y/n perspective,) hope you enjoy this, whoever you are lol. also, first ever fic!!
| context: dieter and reader have a very casual relationship, couple of dates here and there, etc.
September 12th, 1942. A very cold and rainy September 12th, actually.
The wind pattered against the fogged-over glass window, the one which was cold to the touch, covered in condensation that made you shiver, if that was even possible at this point. You were absolutely freezing. This random ailment that you’d’ve woken up to was not kind at all. Fever, chills, a nose that just couldn’t stop running, and a pounding headache.
It was hell, absolute misery. Nothing you tried helped, nor distracted you from your state. Sleeping it off, tea, reading, nothing. The reading made your headache worse, tea made you nauseous, and sleeping just wasn’t an option—Your annoyingly stuffy nose woke you up each time.
As you lie in bed, you reminisced about your week. Thought about a time where you were well and could breathe through your nose. A time where getting out of bed wasn’t painful. As you thought, the weird little situationship flashed through your mind. That odd Major fella—What was his name again? Dieterich? No! Dieter. Yeah, that dude. He was kinda cute to you? A bit abrasive, but better than the other guys roaming around Paris during these times.
You’d’ve gone on about 2 or 3 dates with the man. Always a dim restaurant or small cafe. He was acceptable, to say the least. Why was he popping into your mind so often? Shit! You had a date with him that day. He was also so goddamn specific about being punctual. Dieter wouldn’t appreciate you being late.
You glanced at the clock in your blurred vision, trying to make your eyes focus. Grabbing your eyeglasses, the clock finally focuses. 6:30 pm. You had a date scheduled thirty minutes before that. Not only were you late, but you were also absolutely not getting there at all. Letting out a soft, congested sigh, you leaned your head back against your pillow, shutting those tired eyes that just couldn’t drift off.
Minutes pass—You can feel yourself drifting off. Finally, some relief. This relief turned out to be short lived. A sharp knock from the front door of your little apartment echoes through the room. You hold your pounding head.
You slowly get out of bed, adjusting the cardigan you have on. Your hand extends to open the door. The eyes behind your glasses haven’t focused fully, so in your disheveled state, you see a figure in black swoopy leather. A voice pipes up, low, controlled.
The voice replied as it looked as you. When your eyes focus, you notice it’s Dieter. He grimaces a bit as he takes in your appearance, instinctively backing away slightly. “Oh, ew! What’s happened to you?!”
You heard the slight disgust in his voice, even when masked by the sheer shock and arrogance in his tone. You sniffle—He backs away, brattily pushing your head away with his index finger. He examines your face while holding you in a manner that screams ‘Yuck.’ He ran a thumb over your flushed cheeks, but again—Backed away disgustedly when you sniffle again.
Hellstrom ushers you back inside, taking off his hat. He gestures to your bed, again with his usual bratty expression. “You look horrid.” He added, as he tucked your sickly frame back into your bed. Dieter scoffs at the amount of teacups on your nightstand, all half-finished. “Ach du liebe, what a waste!” He says, flicking your cheek softly.
You flinched at his tone, holding your pounding head and wincing. The Major mistakes this for you crying, and his demeanour softens a bit. He stumbles for a few beats, something Dieter never tended to do. He hesitantly reaches out, pushing your hair back away from your face, mistaking your flushed cheeks for you actually starting to tear-up.
“Oh—wait-! Fraülein-?” He interjected, meekly. You glance back up at him, your eyes tired, bags appearing under them. He sits on the edge of your bed, sighing softly. Before placing his hand to your forehead and checking for a fever.
As he checked your temperature and felt the heat radiate to his palm, he sighed gently. “You feel far too warm, Schatz.”
A pet name. That was new. No complaints from you, though. It felt nice to have someone care for your sorry ass. You’d been tossing and turning in your cold bed for about a day or so, wallowing in your misery. You sniffle again, curling into the blanket. The Major moves your head to face him again. You scowl at the interruption from your comfort and glare at the man.
“Leave me alone-!..” You reply, sleepily.
He shushes you gently, taking his handkerchief out of his pocket. “Shhh—Enough. You need to blow your nose. This incessant sniffling isn’t helping you, nor me.” Before you even have time to react, the man is literally wiping your nose for you. It’s humiliating, you feel like a child. But you can’t even protest! He just shushes you again.
Your constant protests throughout the exchange have clearly made the man a bit frustrated. He sighs, a bit firmer this time, before shedding his coat, and climbing into bed next to you. Anchoring his arms firmly around your waist.
“Dieter—What are you doing-?!”
You ask him, confused. He just shushes you again. By this point, both of you are grumpy and sighing firmly. But him holding you is quite warm. Comforting, even. “Holding you in place.” He mutters. You ask why, calling the action restricting. He blames it on not letting you get up and overexerting yourself. You just sigh, no point arguing with him.
After a sneeze or two, followed by the sound of someone elses annoyed grumble before they practically rub the damn handkerchief over your nose, you drift off. Being held by your situationship. The one who you forgot his name in your sleepy little state. You roll over and inhale a bit, recognizing the scent of somebody’s hairgel.
“Oh, Dieter-..” You say, finally finding the name from the tip of your tongue.
“Yes, liebe?” He responds, gently. Only to no reply, your sleepy outburst had one piece of dialogue and that’s it.
He lets out a sigh, but it’s soft this time. Not firm. In fact, he smiles softly—Glancing down at your sleeping self.
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