Dwight Enys - “you’re shivering. Come here.”
You’re shivering. Come here.
A/N: This could be set anywhere to be honest, but I’d say around season 2-3.
“My God, Y/N—are you quite mad?”
Dwight Enys lurched forward to grasp your arm, pulling you none too gently inside his cottage before hastening to shut the door, which protested greatly against the raging wind outside.
It slammed shut and he locked it, frowning briefly at the pools of rainwater dotting the doorway. Then, he turned to you, stood stiffly a short way in front of him. Your arms were extended in a way that showed lowering them would make the discomfort rise. He could tell you’d tried to protect your head with your cloak, but the thin material hadn’t helped much, and your hair was drenched, as was the rest of your body.
Remembering himself, he stepped quickly towards you and worked on removing your cloak. Remaining in cold and wet clothes only increased the chance of flu, and if there was one thing the village did not need, it was an infection.
“I’m not,” you mumbled, immediately wrapping your arms around yourself. “Mad. I’m not.”
Dwight doubted that, in this instance, those words were particularly true, but he didn’t comment on it. He stood with your sopping cloak in his hand, briefly wondering what it was Ross had done this time that’d driven you from your home and to his. It’d happened before, of course, though typically on less wet days, with Seamus tied outside his front door. This time, it seemed you’d run the whole way.
“You’re shivering,” he noted, his medical instincts kicking in. “Come here.” He headed for the room which held a soft couch and a blazing fire, glancing over his shoulder to ensure you were following. You took a moment to remove your boots before you did, always careful not to track mud along his house
He bent to stoke the fire once you’d curled up onto his couch. “I’ll make you a cup of tea—”
“I don’t want tea,” you interrupted. “I just…” You wanted him, and luckily, he knew you well enough to know that.
“Alright,” he said, “well, let me get some blankets. I’ll be right back.”
Dwight’s home provided an atmosphere you were all too glad to soak in. You took advantage of the quietude, the flicker of the flames in the fireplace breaking down the reminder of why you’d run. You shook your head free of them and instead flicked your eyes to the wall opposite, above the fireplace, where the orange flames cast dancing silhouettes you could watch and focus on, just to distract yourself.
When Dwight returned with an armful of blankets, you were still watching them with drooping eyes. He put them on the floor and picked one up to drape over you, ensuring it was pulled up to your chin before he sat beside you. He turned, reaching a palm up to your forehead. “You’re quite hot,” he said more to himself.
“That’s because I ran straight for ten minutes,” you told him. You moved to face him, blinking slowly. “I jumped over quite a few fences. Almost got chased by a bull.”
Your words were dazed. You were exhausted. And, after mentally scanning you to assure himself you hadn’t scraped any knees or grazed any elbows—or worse—he allowed himself to smile at your words. “Ever the adventurer, is our Y/N,” he said, securing the blanket around your shoulders. “Am I right in assuming it was something Ross did?” An eyebrow arched slightly, almost unconsciously, and you nodded without hesitation.
“He always argues,” you tried to explain, staring at the space between you both. “With Prudie, with Demelza... about meaningless things.” You glanced up at him, grateful to see him listening with an attentiveness few could possess. “He’s so angry, Dwight. With everyone. Even me. I don’t know what it is lately, but... he has a weak hold on his temper.” He noticed you swallow at that, and he frowned.
“Did he do something to you?” he questioned. He loved Ross like a brother, and he doubted very highly that he would ever do anything to hurt his beloved sister, but men were capable of much when rage was on their side.
You shook your head immediately. “No. No, I promise, Dwight. He-just... he yelled at me. But I could see he regretted it.” You sighed and fell back against the couch, biting your bottom lip. “I didn’t want to be there anymore, so I came here. And now I regret it, because I’ve probably made him worry, and I’ve interrupted your evening, and I’ve made your cushions and your floor wet, and I—”
“Stop there.” Dwight put up a hand, and once you’d stopped, he lowered it to rest on your arm. “Y/N. A wet floor means nothing to me when the result is your happiness and safety. Surely you know that?” He ducked his head a little to try and catch your eyes, reaching a hand under the blanket to grasp your own. “And if you do not, then you must know that I much prefer having you here with me in my uneventful, quite frankly dull, evenings.” He squeezed your hand and smiled when you breathed a short laugh, finally looking at him.
“Well, I appreciate you saying so,” you said quietly.
“There is no harm in saying what should be common knowledge between you and I.” He turned so his back was against the couch, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankles. The fire still crackled ahead, and the rain slammed harshly against the window panes. If Ross had any sense, which he didn’t, he would wait for the storm to pass before he even attempted a search for his sister. But if Dwight knew Ross, and he did, the man would be at his door within the hour, perhaps even less. He would let out some choice words, only built up over a much longer period of worrying than there should have been, and then crush you in a hug.
He felt you twist within your blanket and rest your head against his shoulder.
“Never regret coming to me,” he whispered to you. “I know Ross has a temper, and he says things he sometimes does not mean... If you do not want to be at Nampara, you find me, always. I will be here.”
You shut your eyes and nodded, breathing out a hardly audible whisper of: “Thank you.”
Dwight reached for another blanket and spread it out across his legs, settling in for the evening. He kept his eyes on the window, knowing the darkness of the oncoming evening would be no match for the tricorn hat and long coat he’d doubtlessly see sometime soon.
But, for now, he would sit with the girl he considered his own sister, and listen to your breaths even out as you slept.
Poldark Masterpost
