Caring For A Sick Diluc
Tags: Diluc x Gn!Reader, Oneshot, Sickfic, Stubborn Patient
Warnings: None
Diluc has seemed to come down with some sort of severe cold, and only you can drag the workaholic away from his duties to treat him.
* ˚ ✦ 2048 Words • Read below the cut
╭┈─────── ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-╰┈➤ ❝ [30/12/25] ❞
It was incredibly late at night, but work never stopped for Diluc. The imposing oak doors to his office muffled any sounds from the rest of the manor, leaving the room in stifling silence. The only source of light on the desk was a single candle, its golden flames flickering in the air and casting Diluc's tall shadow across the rows of burgundy leather-bound ledgers.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
His quill maintained an unrelenting rhythm. Diluc sat ramrod straight, his cravat loosened just slightly, the smallest evidence of his uncharacteristic discomposure. Perhaps he was too enthralled with whatever work he was doing to notice the sound of the heavy door creaking open, but you studied him from the doorway for a brief moment.
You noted how his gloved hand gripped the pen with excessive force, turning his knuckles white. Suddenly, the rhythm of his quill froze. Diluc clutched at his chest, hunching his shoulders and tucking his face in the dip of his elbow. It was a muted, wet cough that he tried to swallow back into his lungs, but it cut through the silence anyway.
When he pulled his arm away, he did not look up; instead, he stared at the parchment again, his eyes hazy and unfocused.
"Diluc," you said softly, stepping into the circle of candlelight.
He didn't flinch, but his voice was dry. "The trade logs from Liyue... they're behind schedule. I just need to verify the tax stamps."
"The stamps aren't going anywhere," you countered, reaching the edge of his desk. "But your handwriting is. Look at that last line, Diluc. It’s a mess."
He reluctantly looked up, and the sight of him made your heart sink. His normally porcelain-fair skin was stained a furious, mottled crimson over his cheekbones, and his breath came in quick, shallow puffs that hitched in his throat. You could swear his skin looked hotter than his vision normally made him.
Your gaze shifted briefly to the forgotten grape juice on his desk, raising an eyebrow. Diluc never left anything half finished.
"I’m fine," he lied, the words catching on another suppressed cough. "It’s just... the dust from the archives. Go to bed. I'll join you when the ink is dry."
He reached for the ink container, but it seemed his fingers underestimated the distance. His hand trembled so much that the quill clattered against the wood. He stared at the dropped pen as if it were a traitor, a disgruntled frown forming between his brows. Before he could grant you permission, he felt your palm on his forehead and froze.
It was so cold in comparison to the way he was burning up.
"I said, I’m fine," Diluc repeated, his voice dropping into a stubborn rasp. To prove his point, he gripped the edge of the mahogany desk and pushed himself upward.
For a second, he stood tall.
Then, the blood drained from his face.
His lower extremities buckled, and the world appeared to tilt on its axis. He sputtered one second, and began to tip forward the next. You moved before he became acquainted with the floor, stepping into his space and seizing him by the shoulders. The heat radiating from him was unnerving, soaking through his vest and into your palms.
Diluc did not pull away for an unusually long time. He collapsed into you, his head resting on your shoulder as he battled dizziness. You felt his hot breath fan over your neck.
"See?" you murmured. "Even you can't fight a head spin."
"Just... a momentary lapse," he managed to choke out, though he didn't have the strength to push you off.
You knew logic was your only weapon. You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, keeping your hands steady on his arms. "Diluc, look at me. If you stay here and faint in this chair, you’ll be bedridden for three days, minimum. If you come upstairs and rest now, you’ll be back at this desk by tomorrow afternoon. Which is the more efficient use of your time?"
His eyes wandered slowly across your lips, absorbing the words through the fog of his fever. He loathed it when you were correct, especially when you used his own rhetoric against him. After a beat, his shoulders sank in dismay.
"Tactical... retreat," he muttered, a faint scowl twitching at his lips.
"Exactly. Now, move."
The trek to the master suite proved to be a tedious and cumbersome one. You nestled yourself beneath his arm, serving as a human crutch. He tried to preserve some dignity, but as you moved through the poorly lighted hallway, his weight became increasingly heavy on you.
"This is an unnecessary fuss," he grumbled into his collar, his footsteps heavy and uneven. "I have a constitutional resilience to... kh… kh-kt!... common ailments. Adeline could have brought me a tea... you didn't need to..."
"Quiet, Diluc." Your voice was firm as you steered him through his bedroom door.
"Inefficient," he muttered a final time, but when the edge of the bed crested above the back of his knees, he stumbled onto the mattress, finally allowing the shadows of the room to envelop his exhausted vision.
The master bedroom had been lit by the dwindling embers of the fireplace. Diluc sat at the edge of the mattress, his head hung low. After some fumbling with his clothes, he appeared diminutive without the crisp silhouette of his frock coat; he felt too weak to take hold of the silver buckles on his boots himself, so you softly pushed his hands aside to do it for him.
He had not complained, instead coughing dryly as he flopped back against the pillows. You only left for a second to go fetch a basin of cool water, a cloth, and some tea. The master suite's air was laden with the aroma of dried cedarwood and the strong, medicinal fragrance of the herbal tea steeping on the nightstand.
As you leaned over him, the heat emanating from Diluc's body was tremendous. Less like a fever, and more like the glistening air above a forge. Most likely a direct cause of his vision; it typically responded to his internal discomfort by raising his body temperature until he was truly miserable.
At least he's great to cuddle with.
When you finally laid the damp cloth on his forehead, the contrast was startling; a slight hiss of steam seemed to rise from his skin. His eyes, which were normally bright and calculating, fluttered shut as a result of the cold compress. The stiffness in his jaw subsided, and the lines of constant stress on his brow smoothed out, leaving him looking nothing more than human - and profoundly fatigued.
"You shouldn't stay..." he muttered, his fingers brushing your wrist with a heat that felt like a brand. "You'll... get sick, too. Go back to your own wing."
"I'm a lot stronger than you give me credit for, Master Diluc," you countered with a teasing laugh, gently nudging his hand back down to the sheets. He was far too delirious to chide you for the use of that title. You reached for the steaming mug, the scent of valberry and mint rising to meet you.
"Now be quiet and drink this tea. That’s an order from your temporary physician."
He begrudgingly let you guide the cup to his lips.
...
By midnight, the fever had peaked. His chambers were silent, save for the occasional crackle of the dwindling fire and Diluc's strained breathing. He tossed and turned, his head against the damp pillow, locks sprawled in a wild, scarlet tangle across the white linen.
You'd think he looked pretty if it weren't for the fact that he wasn't fully present anymore, mind foggy and between awakening and a nightmare. This was a rare sight.
"The sky... it’s the wrong colour," he rasped, his eyes snapping open, though they didn't seem to see you. They swam with the heat of his delirium. "It’s too dark. I can't..."
"Diluc, you're at the winery. You're safe," you whispered, leaning over to replace the cloth on his brow.
He did not seem to hear you. He began to mumble, pieces of ideas he normally kept hidden behind iron gates. He described his father's final breath, the weight of a heritage that felt more like a shackle than a gift, and the crushing loneliness of a man who fought in a battle the city was unaware was taking place.
"I have to keep them out," he choked out. "If I stop... if I close my eyes... who stays behind?"
You shushed him while rising up to refill his mug, ignoring whatever it was he was rambling about. Then, his hand sprung from beneath the sheets, his calloused fingers clamping onto your wrist. They fell down into your hand, clutching it desperately and white-knuckled.
"Wait," he breathed, the command cracking into a plea. "Don't... don't go back to the city yet. Not tonight."
His thumb rubbed a frantic, uneven circle over your knuckles, his skin practically searing yours. You were concerned, of course, but it was somewhat amusing the way he clung onto you.
"Just... stay," he whispered, his eyes heavy and pleading as they began to slip shut again. "Stay until the sun comes up. Please. I don't want to wake up alone."
You sighed, sinking into the armchair at his bedside. The inferno within him flickered momentarily as your hand closed around his, a quiet tether pulling him from the past’s relentless grip, grounding him to the now, in this room, in you.
...
The morning light filtered into the room in pale, thin fragments, piercing the heavy velvet curtains and lighting the dust motes swirling in the air. Diluc moved, his eyelids heavy but no longer scorched by the heat of his own blood. His head was clear, but his body felt like stone. As he shifted, memories of the previous night resurfaced in disjointed spurts.
The flavor of bitter tea, the cool touch of a cloth, and the sound of a voice all helped to keep the dreams at bay. He carefully moved his head to find you. You were slumped in the recliner near his bed, your chin tucked into your chest and fast asleep. You were still dressed in yesterday's clothes, tired after your all-night vigil.
Diluc's face softened slightly, which was unusual for him. He was too proud, too hesitant to wake you with great expressions of thanks, but seeing you quiver slightly in the morning chill touched him. He sat up slowly, disregarding the objections of his sore muscles. He reached for his discarded frock coat, the heavy, fur-lined one you had helped him out of hours earlier, and leaned over the edge of the bed.
With a firm, gentle touch, he placed the coat over your shoulders and tucked the collar around your neck to keep you warm. His fingers swept the hair away from your face, the touch emitting a pleasant warmth rather than a burning fever. When you finally opened your eyes, the first thing you noticed was his familiar, comfortable scent.
Smoke and expensive wine.
Diluc was sitting up against the headboard, alongside a tray of light breakfast and water already on his lap. His ponytail was unkempt, and his face looked pallid, but the glassy look in his eyes had vanished. He looked like himself again.
"You’re awake," he said, his voice quiet and much smoother than that of the night before.
"Diluc? You're sitting up," you mumbled, still half lost in sleep. "How do you feel?"
He looked away for a moment, his gaze fixed on the steam rising from a fresh cup of tea. "Better. Much better. The... efficiency of your methods proved more effective than my own resilience." He paused, his expression turning sincere as he looked back at you. "Thank you. I... suppose I was more fatigued than I realized. I was foolish to ignore the signs."
He reached out, his palm briefly hovering over yours before giving it a quick, anchoring squeeze.
"I've already sent word to Elzer," he added, a small, rare shadow of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "He is to cancel my meetings for the morning. I’ll stay here. With you."
