Hi hi!!! First off I want to say I loooveee your work and your art is sooo cool
And also If you’re taking requests I was wondering what do you think the harbringers would be like when they’re sick?? Especially if the man fever thing affects them and they’re on their death bed with a mild fever and are in desperate need of tea and a nap but they refuse to acknowledge it until reader forces them to rest :33
Ofc you don’t need to write ts but it’s a funny idea I wanted to share🫶
This is an excellent idea, thank you sm for this lovely ask! I didn’t want to make the same scenario for all the harbinger, so I sat down thinking… wait, can some of them even get sick? From what, even? Anyway, please enjoy:
✦ When they are sick or hurt, so you take care of them
(Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Tartaglia)
Note: mentions of scars and the curse of immortality with some. Sniffles, sneezing.
✧ You weren’t supposed to see this. A moment prior, Pierro stood before you, ever the composed Director in his pristine suit and half-mask. Next, you find him in an unlit room, mask tossed to the ground, and his hands clutching at his face in agony. You wouldn’t have even assumed something was wrong when he courtly excused himself. Yet you always noticed when something troubled his poise. Hence, with the muffled crash of furniture behind a closed door, you forced yourself to intrude upon him.
“Please, you mustn’t perceive me like this,” – he’d plead with you, the light from the hallway cascading onto his hunched form, half of his face mystified by the shadows.
You stared in horror as veins of deep blues and black seized the other side of his face. Still, you refused to turn away. Instead, your hands rushed to his fallen form, grasping his shoulders with hushed whispers. You got him; he didn’t want you to glimpse at his face, but you got him. Aiding his weight up, you ushered him to the privacy of your shared bedroom.
There he lay upon the bed, left in a half-unbottened blouse and feverish skin. The curse of importality plagued the Jester, his breathing erratic as his brow drawn tight beneath the onslaught of pain. You knew his affliction was silent, perhaps invincible to mere mortals. But it was a ruthless one. It would flare up unbidden in surges of anguish or abyssal scars to mar his skin, sometimes worsening, and sometimes taking root silently. Alas, Pierro had mastered the art of concealment behind pearly suits and gloves after five centuries.
You clutched at his hand, caressing it. Even when you stayed up all night, planting a palm to his forehead and dipping a soaked towel to aid his temperature, you know it was temporary precautions to a helpless condition.
“Pierro, dear. I told you not to overdo it if you suspect a flare-up soon. You need rest, I can give you a moment of respite.”
“Do not pity this old fool, a-as he toils… Please, stay with me.”
He didn’t need to utter any further. You just scooted closer to him in bed, the chambers steeped in soothing darkness. You let his head lean onto you, while your hand didn’t shy away from caressing the skin haunted by ancient scars. Your touch - warm, familiar, ever-loving. It was his sole balm against the spasm of this wretched curse. Instead, he closed his eyes and let your touch weave his dreams.
So how does one battle a curse with no cure? You knew it not only suspends the march of age, but it could also seize cognitive functions or erode memories. Thus, you began reciting all the tender memories you had together:
“... Do you recall the first time you invited me to a dance? I was so nervous in front of you. I didn’t even know you were more so than I was that day.”
And still, you continued, reciting everything you two did. Reminiscing about every kiss, every embrace, every date. From the first ones to the least remarkable ones. It didn’t matter what you were speaking about in that hushed tone of yours. You just tried to anchor Pierro’s mind, not to let it succumb to the slow corrosion of his constitution. You need to only speak and hold him.
His breathing gradually calmed down. You watched as his spasms ceased, and eventually, slipping into dreamless slumber. At last, the flare-ups calmed down, and Pierro was resting. A sigh escaped you. Leaning down, you pressed a kiss to his forehead. One day, you swear upon your sword and blood that you’d make the heavens pay the price for the suffering brought upon the one man you hold dear.
✧ You had long been aware of Capitano’s peculiar circumstances regarding his mechanical heart and the curse bestowed upon him by the Heavens. So much so that you are the first to recognize the strain he had borne lately.
“Dear, a word,” – your hand came to grace his shoulder. “Remember to be cautious. We may have a lot of work today, but you are a seasoned Captain, not a rookie. Remember what you carry.”
Such tender tone may ground the Harbinger to not just his duties, but the consequences of carrying souls within his immortal body. But alas, being on dangerous reconnaissance missions sent by Her Majesty means Capitano was first to unsheath his sword at the hint of danger. And when danger stirred, fighting ensued. Fighting leads to injuries.
Though the mission met with success, and the first of the Fatui Harbinger prevailed as ever, it was he who ended up limping in your arms. You caught his taller stature, your mind already working overtime to ascertain the damage. Was he alright? No fatal wounds? Not too close to his heart…?
“I… I apologize, my cherished. You warned me, yet I still pay the price a-all the same,” – Capitano’s voice was hoarse, and it was clear he tried to keep the pain at bay before you. So you softly hushed him, drawing his forearm across your shoulder, and supported him to safety.
Thus did Capitano come to be bedridden, entrusted wholly to your care.
For a Harbinger of his rank, Capitano does not indulge in servants, for none can witness his true countenance behind the helmet. This privilege goes only to the Captain’s beloved – you. In a quiet bedroom with shut-off curtains, you ensure the helmet is safely discarded by the dresser. Now, all your focus was on patching him up.
“You must be angry at me,” – he whispered, feeling your gentle touch as you meticulously changed a new bandage around his arm. He lay flat on his back, his black hair tousled on the pillows. “Speak to me, dear. Even if you want to reprimand me, I’d much rather bear your reproach than this silence.”
“Capi, sweetie,” – a huff escaped you. “You know what I will say. You’re immortal, not indestructible. Putting yourself in physical danger further corrodes your body. Your skin is almost entirely marred, and you are at further risk with all the souls you are carrying.”
Capitano tried to listen; he truly did. But even when your voice carried that hint of stern scolding, busying yourself disinfecting another scab on his skin, he ends up staring at you in hazed adoration. Just his blue, khaeni’rhn pupils following your motion as you fussed and cared for him. Were it not for his lack of a helmet, he’d be able to hide how often he gazes at you with dazed appreciation.
But he did not listen much to what was being said. You muttered something about food and left him resting in bed. Yet solitude was not yet reachable, for new voices now scolded him in his head. Familiar, old voice of weary ghost:
“If you fumble things with them, you would be the biggest idiot in the history of all of Teyvat.” – An old friend, Guthred. Even though he wasn’t physically present, Capitano could still imagine his displeased silhouette within his peripheral vision.
“I… I am aware. No need to scold me on personal matters regarding my love life.”
“No, I will actually. Maybe listen to them instead of having your head in the clouds like a lovesick knight. Do your sweetheart a favor and watch over yourself, Thrain.”
The knight in question had no opportunity to defend himself, because at least a couple of dozen apparitions echoed Guthred’s words. They say voices of the dead torment the living, and the voices of Capitano’s old comrades sure haunted him. Half agreed that he must be grateful and listen to you. The other half echoed their own adoration towards the Captain’s beloved. These restless souls become too brazen when they are denied entry to the Leylines.
“Capi, dear,” – Your return hailed a merciful pause from such voices. In your hands is a silver tray of home-cooked soup and toasted bread. “As promised, I brought food.”
All the voices inside Capitano’s heart cheered. You couldn’t see or gleam at them, but they all beamed at your return and loving care. The Harbinger was grateful you could not witness your ghostly fans, for he could not possess the mental capacity to explain how they acted as matchmakers before he persuaded you romantically.
He really has to get better for your sake, and to quell the snarky voices of these ghosts.
✧ Il Dottore, a man of science. A scholar who defied the laws of physical restrictions. Anything his once-mortal body lacked would be improved upon by newer segments. Something as trifling as a cold or flu is beneath his scientific pursuits. So why is your beloved, brilliant scholar, confined to bed, unable to lift his head without getting dizzy?
Motion sickness.
Perhaps some things are so genetically encoded within a person’s biology that even Il Dottore may overlook them. In his student days, young Zandik was still a mortal boy who yearned for the forbidden knowledge of ancient Khaneri’ahn technology. There is nothing unusual about being motion sick when forced into rapid head movements or when vision is disrupted. Yet the dizziness he experienced when he first tried to manually control that colossal Ruin Guard in the desert was inhumane. The vertigo had been so merciless that the poor boy spent hours groveling on the floor, ready to puke.
Surely now, as a Harbinger, he has conquered something so minute as motion sickness?
You were there when you witnessed Dottore devise the artificial moon marrow. To possess and control one means to control the gravitational pull and laws of physics. This was all part of his future mission before heading to Nod-krai. So imagine the astonishment when, one second, you see Dottore successfully levitate and physically command space, and the other, he is on the ground, pale and wordless.
“Ah, it’s working! So an artificial moon marrow is no different than… Dear? Hello, are you okay?”
Oh no, he is on his knees, hunched down. Was he about to throw up?
After a quick moment of panic, alarm, confusion, and utter laughter, the mad doctor ended up being the patient for the day. He rested in bed, his arm thrown over his eyes as he grumbled in discomfort.
“This is intolerable. Outrageous! A scholar like me, managing to build and wield an artificial moon marrow to bend nature’s laws into our favor… and my obstacle of the day is motion sickness? How utterly pathetic.”
“Every experiment invites obstacles and variables,” – You chuckled, setting some medicine and a glass of water on the table beside him. “I’d say you were successful. Far better to test this artificial moon marrow before you accidentally humiliate yourself amidst your evil, scholarly speech.”
“I am glad you are having fun imagining that, darling.”
The doctor was already chafing under the indignity in front of you, but your chuckles were one of sympathy, not mockery. You don’t ever remember seeing Dottore so afflicted with any illness. Alas, here he was, in bed, if not grumbling then half pouting in dissatisfaction. It was an endearing sight; you couldn’t help but dote on him.
“You already provided me with dimenhydrinate.” – The Harbinger concluded warily, already trying to get up too abruptly from bed. “It should start taking effect soon, I can return to wor-”
“Sit your ass down,”
He indeed sat his gluteus maximus back down.
Getting up so proudly proved ill-advised, for another wave of nausea washed over him. When you tucked the covers around him, you cautiously checked whether physical touch would make him more dizzy. Dottore, intrinsically, guided your palm on his forehead to stay.
“I know your patience is thin where work is concerned, but sit this one through. The medicine will take effect soon, and as you know, it has a sedating effect. So maybe sleep a little, and your nausea will finally go away.”
“... Whichever new segment I’ll create, I will erase this humiliating oversight in the future.”
“I am sure you will, Dottore. Shall I leave you to your rest?”
The doctor grumbled again, unwilling to relinquish your hand. A plain no; your proximity is his medication. The solitude of this bedroom afforded a moment of respite, away from scientific research and discussion of future missions in Nod-krai. Instead, you entertained him with idle precautions on what not to eat or drink when struggling with swirling visions. Yet when you turned to glance upon him, you found Dottore already asleep.
The medicine was effective. He looked oddly peaceful in such a state.
✧ Scaramouche is a puppet, carved and perfected from ancient Irmunsul branches. An artificial humanoid cannot contract mortal ailments. And why would he? Would a being free from the toils of human flesh be capable of even getting sick just for the sake of mock authenticity?
Today, the two of you learned that he can, when his first sneeze ever escaped his mouth.
It happened again. Another sneeze. Shortly after, achoo… For the first time in his long life, the Balladeer was sick with fever, tormented by a stuffy nose. The cause? Neither of you could figure it out for several days. You had Scaramouche resting in a warm futon, a set of tissues sat aside for him, and a hot cup of barley tea.
“I-is this how you struggle whenever you get ill? How can you even tolerate…t-this,” – he sneezed again, his head dipping to hide under the covers. You heard his muffled sniffles. “This has to be a twisted joke. This constant discomfort underneath my skin is unbearable.”
“It’s okay, Scara. I am not even sure what this could be from,” – You patted his covered form. “We didn’t bring any new food to say it’s an allergy. You can’t even get cold in the traditional sense. And you were fine a couple of days ago. What happened?”
“Well, I sure wish to know what happened as well. I physically can’t get allergies or get sick like other people, remember?”
Another sneeze. You decided to make him another proper cup of tea, with extra lemon and ginger as a home remedy. House duties and dinner were left in your care, your mind clocking how the Harbinger was taking this sickness badly, not because of the physical affliction that naturally comes with being ill, but because he simply never experienced it like a regular human.
So he’d accept your cup of tea with lemon and ginger, he’d listen to your comforting words that this unfortunately happens, he’d see you change covers and fuss when he could barely move. Were it not for his humility of being so physically weakened, he would have been guilty of being useless when you fussed over him. You even humbly refused to share a room with him, in hopes of letting him get a wink of sleep undisturbed.
“...I am feeling better. Stay here.”
He did not look any better. But with a lowered gaze, hand holding onto you, this weakness truly made him yearn not for medication and homemade remedies, but your touch. You knelt and gently guided his head onto your lap.
“You do so much for me. I hate this state. I hate that you have to see me like that,”
“But Scara, you often took care of me when I got sick myself. Nothing wrong with that. If anything, you saw the worst of me when I am tired and limp as a veggie.”
But he shook his head with a sniffle. This was different, and the Harbinger had to endure this experience like any organic being. Though if it got him extra caresses of your caring hands and soothing words, he did not mind your pity.
“Now, I am limp as a veggie here.”
“Hm… A limp lavender melon. But a cute one.”
✧ Oh no, Pantalone had worked himself into illness and been struck with a common cold. Does the wealthiest man in Teyvat take it with dignity and let himself rest for a couple of days? If dignity means being the whiniest, clingiest baby you could ever witness, then that is precisely what he shall be.
Sniffling into a tissue, the regrator treated his bedridden state as if it were prison, lamenting audibly: “I do not want to be confined to this room for days. Sweetie, darling, my miracle life savior, please don’t leave to sleep in the spare bedroom. Can you not stay the night with me?”
“Well, dear, we spoke about this.” – You took your pillow in your arms, “you’re sick, and I would rather not catch it myself. Besides, a sick person needs their own quiet and peace. Either I disturb your sleep, or you wake me up with a sneeze.”
“What a puny, pathetic state… Can’t cuddle with my darling. Can’t come and kiss them. Instead, I have to sleep in our bed alone with all this space. What is this punishment for?”
He had to be so dramatic. A common cold would trouble him for scarcely more than a few days, and Pantalone was ordinarily meticulous in all matters of health. Yet, in the rare moments that he does get sick, he has to announce it every five minutes.
“Oooh, the agony.” sniffle, “If only I had a beautiful darling to pity me.”
“My throat is sore. If only someone would cook me a delicious home-cooked noodle soup. The kind that only my beloved knows how to make properly. That would cure me in minutes.”
“A day of me being sick is millions of Mora squandered when I could be working. And if I remain sick and do not bring in the money, my darling would think I am incompetent and leave me!”
Such theatrics were becoming insufferable as Pantalone’s soliloquys echoed in the whole hallway for an audience of one. But you came with a genius plan. With an overly saccharine smile and a bowl of home-cooked noodle soup, you came back to the bedroom and treated him with extra sweet words:
“Why, how could I leave my baby so sick and lonely. Here you go, Pantalone. Your favorite noodle soup.”
“Darling, you’re an angel! It’s the perfect remedy.”
“But alas, I confess myself troubled. You’ve already taken your medicine and been treated with home-made remedies. If things continue to be so bad, I’ll have to call our dear friend Dottore to treat you. He’s a doctor, he will know what to do.”
Pantalone bolted up in bed – “...Don’t. Do not even dare.”
“I already contacted him. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
That was all you needed to say. Somehow, Pantalone was already feeling much better by the next day and had healed quite amicably without the necessity of any hahahehehohos.
✧ Tartaglia had already suffered a lousy day. Dealing with any unruly subordinates was rare, but when needed, the eleventh of the Fatui Harbinger could be stern to put his people in place. Then, his mission in the outskirts of Snezhnaya was far from smooth. Dealing with the lingering Wild Hunt that made it from Nod-krai didn’t take a few minutes. To make matters worse, the weather was far harsher than usual.
Safe to say, by the time Tartaglia made it home, he felt sick and tired.
When he made it safely into the humble doors of your shared abode, he made no mention of it. He greeted you in his customary tender manner, and you embraced him lovingly in return. However, you caught onto his slumped shoulder. His usually vivid smile felt forced, and instead of entering home with endless stories of today’s events, Childe only showered and stayed in bed to rest.
You didn’t push him to speak. Sometimes, solitude is required to rejuvenate the mind.
The young Harbinger did not notice how you turned off the lights in the room, for he was already fast asleep. His body felt sore, and the painful lump in his throat did not allow him to sleep for long. As he tossed in bed, he felt a familiar hand on his forehead, beckoning him back to reality:
“Ajax…? Ajax, dear. You have a slight fever,”
He opened his eyes, and you sat on a chair beside him. On the nightstand, a delicious waft of homemade soup steamed into the air. A bowl of vegetable bullion with extra leeks. In his sickly state, Childe only glanced at you quietly.
“I had a hunch you’ll get sick with the way you got back home. Here, can you sit up? Dinner is ready.”
The Harbinger made no allusions to his state, his troubles, or irritation; you simply knew already. Even when he pushed himself upright, his ginger hair tousled and his temperament diminished from feeling sick, you still smiled at him so fondly. Forget hot meals, maybe this temperature was caused by your warmth?
“There, there. I’ll look in our medicine cabinet to find something for your-... Ah, Ajax, are you crying? Sweetie!”
He simply sat and ate his dinner, sniffing. He loved you so much for reading him like an open book, yet his condition made him all the more pathetic. He’d have to wait and get better if he wanted to kiss you in appreciation.