How to Help the Unhelpable
Words: 2.6k
Isolde x Julian oneshot based a few months before Isolde gets the Plague. Just fluff and longing.
Notes: I have not written fanfic, or really anything substantial for fun, for years and years, so feedback is appreciated but please be gentle.
Isolde rubs her eyes blearily, digging the first knuckle of her balled-fists into the corner of her eye in a way that she is sure will cause wrinkles in a few years but feels too satisfying to stop. A few minutes ago she had woken alone, the space in the bed next to her empty and cold, an unpleasant surprise after her too-convincing dream of Julian laying beside her. She remembers the pleasant, slightly scratchy feeling of the hair on his chest under her fingertips, and the heat of skin-to-skin contact as if it had happened moments ago, instead of in her imagination.
She crumples the bed sheets in her hands, scrunching her eyes shut and lightly shaking her head in a half-hearted attempt to forget the dream. This is far from the first time she had needed an escape from her thoughts, but it is the most pleasant by a mile. Although, these last few months she does often find her mind wandering to the doctor. The more the city becomes overcome by the plague, the more hours she pours into researching alongside other volunteers and Julian. The way his eyes narrow, gaze focusing on parchment that may contain just a hint at a cure, and how his jaw tightens when it turns out to be nothing, haunts her. Except for be there, be another pair of hands to help, she isn’t sure there is anything to be done to ease the pressure that so clearly weighs on him. And that weighs on her.
There is no returning to sleep now. The only thing for it, Isolde decides with a determination that comforts her, even if only superficially, is to go for a walk and clear her head. She sits up, stretching her arms and rolling her shoulders, allowing herself a small groan at the feeling of her muscles waking up. Only a small one though, it wouldn’t do to wake Asra in the next room. She is quite sure they would settle her down with a cup of tea. Well intended, but an interruption to her impromptu trip that she does not think she would welcome.
She reaches out to the small bedside table, waving her hand lightly over the candle and whispering a spell to light the wick. Her hand hovers over it for a moment longer than necessary, as she savours the warmth on her palm and watches the light flicker, casting a soft glow around her small room. Meticulously tidy, but with perhaps a few too many trinkets, it is a cosy and comforting place. Over the head of her bed hang dried flowers and herbs of every variety, filling the space with a sweet and slightly earthy smell – contrasting with the fresh, crisp, night air that creeps in through the not-quite-shut window. She glances over her shoulder to check the height of the waning moon, seeing that she has woken in the very early hours of the morning. Good. She will be able to get in a few more hours rest when she returns then, hopefully with a head free of longing.
A white cotton dress is quickly shrugged on, and falls loosely over her hips, down to her shins. It will only be a short walk, and if anyone sees her out at this time of the night surely they will be too drunk to recognise her. There is no need to dress to any degree of propriety. Besides, she thinks, teasing her fingers through her hair as she creeps towards the door to her room, there isn’t anyone around here I’m trying to impress.
She eases her way gently down the wooden stairs, carefully avoiding the spots where she knows they will creak, and especially the splinter that Asra keeps promising he will remove. Perhaps she should just do it herself in the morning... She had resolved to let them get to it, but in the end she is quite sure it will be her or not at all. Downstairs, the carefully organised belongings become a little more... scattered. Isolde was always gathering Asra’s items up; arranging them neatly on the second step, or the counter, so that they could put things away in the proper place. Somehow they always ended up in the same wrong places she had collected them from. Not long ago, 13 months, almost 14, she had done the same for Arthen... She thinks he had always put them away, but perhaps that was just because she misses him now, and it renders her unable to recall any frustrations.
Thick woollen socks wait next to the back door, ready for her and Asra to protect against the autumn chill outside. That was Asra’s idea, to leave them by the door so they wouldn’t forget, and she thinks she must be rubbing off on him. She makes a mental note to thank them again in the morning, and to forgive them for the stair-splinter. Quickly pulling the socks on, followed by her not-quite-so-sensible brown boots, she slips out of the shop, and hearing the latch click into place, steps away.
The streets of Vesuvia are just as empty as she expected. The moonlight is only faint but a few stars can be seen, picking out dots of light through the sparse cloud coverage. She feels a familiar, but faint, tug from the natural river flowing through the heart of the city and turns away, walking instead towards one of the canals and beginning her stroll along the edge of it. The canals are man-made. They are safe.
Her boots tap, tap, tap along the paving slabs, the slight echo coming from the buildings softening as soon as it bounces to the water beside her. The wisps of hair falling into her face lift lightly in the breeze and she turns her face towards it, inhaling deeply the smell of the city. There is something sour under the fresh night air. Something sour underlies everything in Vesuvia this past year.
She isn’t quite sure where she’s going, but she lets instinct lead her, constantly catching herself thinking of Julian in a way that she knows is very inappropriate, given that he is essentially her boss. But she can’t help herself. It’s not just that she can see him suffering and is desperate to help. It’s a lot to do with that, but there’s more. With a heavy sigh, she resigns herself to the crush. In the beginning she hadn’t tried half as hard to resist, but he remained oblivious, seemingly wilfully so, to her flirtations, and as the stress mounted she realised what he needed was support, not a fling to meet her whims. So, she supports.
Out of the corner of her eye she sees a glimmer of warm candlelight and a small, pleasurable shiver crawls its way up her spine, seeming to take it’s time in a way that a shiver of fear never does. She has arrived at the destination she didn’t know she had: Julian’s Clinic. And light is flickering inside. Of course it is, because no matter how strong Isolde’s work ethic, no matter how strong her drive to find a cure, it is nothing compared to Julian’s. She peers through the window, the glass appearing slightly frosted from the condensation on the inside. It must be a lot warmer in there than it is out here she thinks, and the shiver returns for a different reason.
She moves carefully once again, slowly turning the handle and squeezing in through the crack she opens up. She doesn’t want to let any of the cold inside. Julian sits at his desk, papers strewn over it, the nearby table, the floor under his feet... His head is in one hand, elegant fingers twisting into his thick hair, turned to burnished copper in the firelight. The other hand scrawls across the page, words forming like spiderwebs, appearing from where Isolde stands to have no rhyme or reason. He looks desperate.
Isolde flicks her head, her hair sweeping back over her shoulders and tumbling down her back as she murmurs very softly “Hello Julian.”
His head snaps up.
“Isolde, Darling, what are you doing up and out at this time of night? You’ll catch a chill and we can’t have that!” Julian sweeps towards her, swinging his jacket from his shoulders as he moves and quickly wrapping it around her, “Theeere we are...”
They stand like this for a moment, Julian’s chin almost resting on Isolde’s head, and Isolde’s nose almost brushing Julian’s chest. She can smell parchment and sandalwood and salt on his skin. His warm breath stirs her hair, and he gives her arms a slight squeeze with his un-gloved hands. For a second she can't stop the thought, surely he is getting ink stains on my dress, he always gets absolutely covered with the stuff. But then he inhales through his nose and makes a barely audible “mmm” noise, and it is all she can do to keep from leaning into him. Isolde holds as still as she can, terrified of breaking the spell, but then just as quickly as he had reached her from his desk, he steps away again, putting an uncomfortable, comfortable distance between them.
She takes a steadying breath before saying quietly “I’m not sure. I woke up and my feet just brought me here. I suppose the clinic is on all our minds a lot recently...”.
Will he believe me? she wonders. Do I even believe myself?
“Besides,” her voice is a little stronger, a little firmer than before, “you’re one to talk! I’m sure you haven’t slept at all.”
“Ooohoho,” he chuckles, a deep rumbling in his chest that makes Isolde dig her fingernails sharply into her palms, “you know me! A glutton for punishment, and how could I ever sleep on a beautiful night like this!”
His jovial, almost suggestive tone falters then, “There is so much work to do, and I thought I was so close...”.
Isolde rocks forward on the balls of her feet, about to take a step towards him, but thinks better of it. “Well good thing I’m here then, perhaps I can make some sense of the mess of notes. Unless this is a new look for the Clinic you’re working on, and I have the wrong end of the stick?” She tries to lighten his mood again.
“Oh, Dear,” a smile spreads on his lips like honey and her breath catches at the sight, “I couldn’t possibly trouble you to help me work this late at night. You should remember this is, well, this is my job! Not yours, Isolde. But I do insist you don’t go back into the cold. Your company will be appreciated.”
He makes a sweeping gesture to the sofa just in front of his desk, and returns to sit on the wooden chair, which looks like it was built for a child under his gangly frame.
Well, I can’t complain, the fire will be more than pleasant and what a lovely view. As long as I can stay awake. Isolde thinks as she sits on the worn red velvet, rubbing the tips of her fingers - which are longing to touch something - over the fabric, and stretching her legs out to reach the other end. The cushions are ever so slightly lumpy from years of use, but they are comfortable as she sinks into them.
She can see the ink spots on Julian's hands now. She knew they were there, but that doesn’t stop the corners of her mouth from twitching up, assured of her familiarity with him. The veins on the backs of his hands bulge slightly, straining from countless hours of writing non-stop, and her eyes follow the green-blue paths under his almost translucent skin to the cuff of his shirt. He is paler than usual. He hasn’t been outside enough. But how could she convince him?
“Tell me what you’re working on. It might help to say it out loud, to bounce your ideas about a bit?” Always trying to help. She knows realistically she can’t add anything here he hasn’t thought of, but perhaps she can get him out of his head.
He flashes her a grin, but she knows it’s nothing more than bravado. “I am convinced the plague is carried in the blood, and so bloodletting must do something. But as you well know, so far: nothing. I was reading through some very old, ancient even, manuscripts earlier today. Oh, Isolde you should have seen them, the illuminations were flawless, and the work they have done with different species of leeches. Well it’s truly something else.”
He pauses for breath, the excited, desperate tone fading. “Anyway, I’m getting off track. I was looking for similarities between what is happening now and past plagues. And there are many, but there are many with all of them and I just... I don’t know what to do.”
Isolde’s eyelids are becoming heavy, but she looks at him earnestly, gazing into his downcast eyes. “This isn’t all on you. It can’t be all on you.”
“I-” he shakes his head and looks up at her. “Thank you. You should shut your eyes my Dear, you look exhausted, and I won’t be blamed for your lack of beauty sleep.” The deep chuckle returns, and this time Isolde joins in, just for a moment.
“You think I look this good because of sleep?" She tries, and fails, to stifle a yawn, "I have some bad news Doctor Devorak. It’s a spell.” She barely gets the last few words out, shutting he eyes and shuffling down into the sofa.
The sound of shuffling papers becomes muffled, the light through her eyelids darkens and she has almost sunk into sleep when she thinks she hears Julian say, ever-so-quietly, “Well, the spell is working.”
***
Isolde’s eyes flutter open as a misty kind of morning light hits them. Looking up at the ceiling she can see a few spiderwebs here and there amongst the dark beams. Not her room. The blanket covering her is utilitarian, grey and slightly wiry, but welcome nonetheless. And it hadn’t been there when she fell asleep. She starts to stretch, but suddenly becomes aware of a weight on her legs.
She leans up slightly, looking down to her feet and half expecting to see her cat. But no. The rickety wooden chair has been pulled up next to the sofa, and in it, doubled over with his arms folded on her shins and his head on his arms, sleeps Julian. One of his fingers grazes the sliver of skin between her thick socks and her unsuitable dress, and she thinks how very glad I am that I didn’t get properly dressed. The loose white shirt has slipped off his shoulder, and curls of dark auburn hair brush his exposed neck. Reaching out as slowly as she can, trying hard not to move her legs, she pulls his shirt back up, and shrugs the jacket off her back to gently lay it on his instead.
Her heart aches, and it feels as though every breath she takes is freezing with the strain it seems to put on her ribcage. Sinking back down into the sofa, she watches him, making sure he doesn't stir. She knows how she can help, for now. At least until he wakes, she will stay.