[𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐳𝐞𝐧] Wornhardt x Reader One Shot
Summary: After an intimate moment that confuses Wornhardt, he can’t choose between closing the gap between you two and running away.
warnings: intense hand holding
"(Y/N), I know you don't want to hear it, but you really shouldn't be doing this. You're more banged up every time I see you— I'm worried." Wornhardt's tone is low as he finishes cleaning your wound. he refuses to look up; refuses to make eye contact.
"You know I don't want to. If I could melt down my sword or burn my bow I would have. But if I don't do this, no one will." Your conversations with Wornhardt are typically a bit more lighthearted, with you surprising him with little gifts from your adventures and him talking about whatever mischief Charlie's been up to. It's mundane, but during moments like these where the air is heavy and you both feel a bit guilty and nothing can fix it, you miss the mundane more than ever.
"You could at least be more careful — you're lucky you don't need stitches." He holds your hand gently as he examines your arm. the cut is deep, clean, and so close to the brachial artery. Wornhardt pauses, only for a moment, at the thought of what could have happened. if you were slashed just a little deeper. If you lost just a bit more blood. If you couldn't reach the town in time and he was just a bit too late to help you.
He shakes his head and says nothing else. He's nothing if not professional, after all. But as he reaches for the bandage to begin wrapping you up, you notice the slight tremble in his hand. You're nothing if not observant, but you don't know what to say. You can't apologize; you’re far too headstrong to actually be more careful, and apology without change is manipulation. You can't comfort him; He's just a friend. Your doctor. A kind man who's worried about his patient. Nothing deeper, surely.
You both want nothing more than to say something you shouldn’t, and so you settle for jagged breathes and awkward eye contact as he inches closer to continue his work. his touch lingers a bit too long during the wrapping, abruptly followed by him pulling away the moment you both notice as though you’re hot to the touch.
You've slain more monsters than you could count, but reaching out to retrieve his hand was perhaps the bravest thing you've done.
"Thank you." You say, before loosening his grip in case you've crossed a boundary. He doesn't pull away, but doesn't say anything either. He doesn't want his voice to betray him. He can't crack in front of a patient. But as he looks into your eyes one more time, you can see just a glimpse of all the affection and worry he's been hiding behind his friendly demeanour and pristine coat. It's not just that he can't speak; He's that not sure what to say even if he could.
And so there you both stay — frozen, silent, with you sitting on the cot you've come to know all too well and him sitting in front of you, hunched over in his chair, one hand gently holding yours and the other gripping a bandage roll.
You both know the drill. Nights like these aren't spoken of again. Wornhardt will discharge you the following morning, recommending you hold off on as much farm work as you can until your wound closes. You'll thank him for his advice, head back home, and ignore it entirely. The both of you will convince yourself the intimacy and tension in that hospital room was wishful thinking, and in a couple days, you'll both go back to your regular routine of pathetic pining the entire town can see, with Wornhardt fussing over a scrape you got from an berry bush or you bringing him a coffee or whatever else you can find to bring a smile to his face.
Except, that doesn't happen this time. It's been a day or two now, but you can still feel his hand in yours. Still see the worry in his eyes. Still sense that stillness of the room, a result of neither of you knowing whether to close the gap or back away.
It's been a week. you can't even bear to step into his office anymore to chat; it only ever devolves into this strange silence between the two of you where you ask about his day and he responds with as few words as possible.
You two haven't gone to the tavern together since before that night but it’s been three times now that you’ve sat at an empty table and spotted him at the bar, shooting not-so-subtle glances at you before feigning interest about his drink, or whoever’s sitting next to him, or really anything but you. Not that you’re jealous - it’s just weird going from closest friend status to stranger. And you’re jealous on top of that.
After a few minutes of this game you’ve been playing with him where you both stare at each other and try not to get caught, Anne eventually catches onto this ridiculous behaviour between you two and wastes no time plopping down beside you to interrogate you on this new drama.
"So," She gestures over to Wornhardt who's now flitting through some sort of notebook, "Spill."
"I have no idea what you're talking about." You'd almost sound convincing were it not for your dreamy tone as you stare at him; the average person might find bringing work to a tavern a little off putting, but you can't help but admire his dedication.
"Oh, come on. It's obvious something happened otherwise he'd be sitting in this chair instead of me." She pries. "So? Did you tell your boyfriend you needed some space or something?"
"Huh?" You jump at the accusation and finally face her instead of the doctor. "We're not even dating!"
"Oh." She concedes only for a moment, a bit miffed she was given bad information on your relationship. You think she might actually stay quiet until she perks up with her next guess, "Weird hookup, then?"
"But I'm getting closer, right?" She pries once more.
You sigh. She's not known for keeping secrets, but you've wanted to get this off your chest for a while and Anne honestly isn't a bad listener. You finally cave, "Hardly. I held his hand the last time I was admitted to the hospital, and now he freezes up when he sees me. He won't even talk to me. I'm totally lost." You break eye contact with Anne to look down at your hand as if there might be something wrong with it.
Anne only makes a sort of gagging noise in response; this situation is so boring and mushy she can't even gossip about it later. You roll your eyes before continuing, "Come on, you don't even have advice? Since you asked, give me something back."
Anne thinks for a moment before finally responding, "He must just be nervous. Maybe it’s Doctor-Patient whatever boundaries. You have to make the first move if you want something to happen."
"What type of move should I make?" You're doubtful she's right, but advice is advice.
"I don't know. Go to his house and give him a good night for all I care. You know - hold his hand or something wild like that," She stands up and turns away, "Good luck with your flaming-hot romance." She teases you one more time before sauntering back to her table, but you can't help but appreciate her nosiness. Yeah, you're embarrassed, but Anne's advice is still leagues better than no advice at all.
You lie awake in bed that night, one hand in the other, mind mulling over every detail of that evening in the hospital. You felt how close he was to you. You think about his breath hovering just over your lips - there's no way he needed to be so close during a wrapping, right? So why are his replies so short? Why won't he invite you to the tavern anymore? Why does he stare when you enter a room? Could Anne actually be right about this?
You check your wall clock; it’s well past midnight, but you know you're not sleeping without closure. And you know Wornhardt well enough to know he's not sleeping right now either.
With a final, frustrated huff, you jump out of bed, throw on a coat and some boots, and stomp out your front door, pyjamas and all.
'You're getting an answer out of him whether he likes it or not,' you convince yourself as you march through the streets of the town. You try your hardest to keep that confidence up, but which each step you take you can feel it drain from your chest out into the chilly autumn air. By the time you reach his home, you're so focused on stopping the shivering you have to re-steel yourself just to knock on the door.
It takes a moment, but you finally manage to knock. And to no surprise, he answers. He's wearing a tight T-shirt and pyjama pants, and your confidence falters once more as you quickly pry your eyes off his muscles and meet him at eye-level.
"Wha-" his voice catches in his throat after realizing who paid him a visit.
"Who do you think you are?" You blurt. It comes out harsher than you wanted, and you consider covering your mouth and apologizing before remembering how angry you're supposed to be. After a moment of silence, you realize that's a hard thing for Wornhardt to respond to, so you clear your throat and continue, "We haven't went a day without talking to each other for the past year! Now you can't even say 'hi' when you run into me at the grocer? what gives?"
No response other than a bewildered expression on his face. You study him, looking for any hint of an answer. His eye bags are darker than usual and his hair is just a bit more wild than you're used to - he hasn't been sleeping well either. But as you look into his eyes for anything more, you notice that same look you caught a glimpse of at the hospital; affection, fear. It's just the information you need to do exactly what Anne told you to do — make a move.
You take a step closer. Now that you're chest to chest you notice just how much taller he is as you crane your neck upward, refusing to be the one to break eye contact.
Your goal was to prevent this "freeze" response of his and make him either make a move himself or step back; either way you'd have your answer. But as you stand pressed against him, one hand on his chest, you worry, just for a moment, that maybe you're being way, way to forward. Luckily, that uncertainty is slowly washed away by Wornhardt wrapping an arm around the small of your back and pulling you just a bit closer; partially because he can tell you're both chasing that intimacy you experienced at the hospital, partially because he can tell you're cold and doesn't want you to get sick. It takes a moment longer, but he eventually speaks.
"I can't love someone who will just self destruct, but I can’t just be friends with you either. Either option is killing me." You had expected more vulnerability in his voice as he spoke softly with your head buried in his chest, but he sounds as confident as ever as he uses his free hand to softly trace up and down your healing arm. You want to fight back, to tell him it's your duty, to tell him you need to save Sun Haven at whatever cost, but you pause before you speak.
You listen to his heart beat. It's even more rapid than yours; he's probably practiced this line, worried he wouldn't be able to speak if you chose to confront him. You feel his free hand trace over every scar you have on that arm, and then on your side, even over your sweater. You realize he remembers every single scratch cut and bruise he's helped you heal from.
You don't try to convince him your safety is a worthwhile sacrifice. You're not that strong a person. In fact, you crumble under all that love he's shown in just a few simple touches.
"Then I'll be more careful. For you." You whisper it as though you’re ashamed to treat your life with respect; to love someone enough to even consider not being a martyr for the Sun Dragon.
You hear him let out a sigh as he processes what you said. He takes just a moment to let your words wash over him before promptly guiding you inside his home, closing his door, and kissing you up against it. Both his hands are now tight at your waist and you waste no time frantically kissing back, wrapping your arms around his neck.
"I can't watch you get hurt so often." He says between kisses. He's wanted this much longer than you first realized.
"I'll pack more health potions. I'll pack 50. I'll be the healthiest adventurer the world has ever seen if it means you'll stop avoiding me." You giggle a bit, and your words make their way directly to his heart.
While you're in his arms he knows you're safe, and he briefly considers never letting go as he pulls you closer once again for another kiss. In the sheer moment of bliss between the two of you, with each kiss somehow conveying even more love than the last, he forgets why he ever froze at your touch in the first place.
-sorry for the mid end i had to stop myself before we got into softcore porn territory
-not my greatest work and yet probably the best wornhardt one shot ever (there are no other wornhardt one shots) ALL THREE WORNHARDT FANS RISE UP
