The Pet Tiger, #17 [nsfwhump AU]
Prev | Masterpost | Next
CW: carewhumper, (implied) indoctrination, medical exam, sedation, extremely blurry boundaries and fucky family dynamics
-
17: Obedience
The pet must have slept fitfully the night before; his body lays at odd angles, and sweat permeates the air in his cage. As Faye crouches down to unlock the door, she can feel the waves of heat radiating off his body. He doesn’t even stir when she reaches in to press the back of her hand to his forehead—burning hot.
Poor thing must have a fever, she notes. Worry stirs up in her heart—has she failed to take care of him properly? What will Papa do with him?
Ash groans and tries to lift himself to all fours, but his muscles seem to give out. He slumps back to the bedding, shivering so deeply that it rattles his teeth. His eyes flutter open briefly—glassy and wet—but he can’t keep them open long before he slips back into feverish sleep.
Faye anxiously twists the oak-leaf pendant on her necklace, a nervous habit she knows she should break. It’s not proper to let her emotions control her, but can she really be blamed? She’s not even 200 years old—practically a child among elves. She still has so much to learn.
Papa will know what to do.
She calls out to Ozmund, who leaves his breakfast with a sigh. When he sees the pet, shivering and sweating in a heap, his annoyance softens a bit.
“Oh, the poor dear got himself sick. I can see you’re worried about him, aren’t you?” he asks, dropping a comforting hand on the top of her head. Ducking to hide her face, she replies with a small nod. “And I suppose you want me to make it all better?”
The condescension in his tone shames her just as intended. She swipes the tear pricking in the corner of her eye and collects herself. “No, sir. Not unless that is your wish as his master. But . . .” She hesitates, unable to stop herself. “I would like to at least make him more comfortable, if his master allows it.”
She wouldn’t dream of disobeying Ozmund. To go against her father is like going against the Weave itself: unnatural, impossible to fathom. If she wants to be powerful like him some day, to be an heir worthy of his legacy, she must learn everything she can from him—even the parts that hurt her tender heart.
He smiles, patting her head carefully so as to not displace her braid. “Alright, then. You may take him to my lab. We’ll see what we can do about this fever. Cover up, though—it won’t do for both of you to get sick.”
Faye clasps her hands in front of her chest, as if in prayer. “Thank you, Father!” She withdraws a handkerchief from her pocket and ties it over her mouth and nose. Though she doubts he’s contagious, Ozmund is right to suggest caution.
She conjures a cloud of shimmery green magic to slip beneath Ash and gently lift him from his cage. With its help, she can carry him like a bride with ease, despite his enormous size. What a gift such magic can be—allowing her to care for a pet so much larger than herself. Faye is grateful for it as she carries him down the winding corridors, deep into the lower levels of the estate.
The last time Ash was in Ozmund’s lab, he was much more . . . feisty. He hadn’t yet learned how a pet is supposed to behave, or exactly what Ozmund was asking of him. He fought back, struggled, even cursed at his master—Faye recalls how shocked she was to witness it. At the time, he swore he wouldn’t let them study him. Ozmund reassured her that he would come around in time. She still hopes that’s true; what could be better than learning everything there is to know, especially about her favorite pet?
She carefully lowers Ash onto the stone table in the middle of the room. For a moment, she considers whether she should secure him with the restraints at each corner, but decides against it. The poor thing remains curled into himself, hugging his own shoulders as if to hold himself together through the violent shivers.
Although she knows it won’t do much, she brushes his sweaty hair off his skin. Even with his brows so furrowed—either from pain or his fitful dreams—Faye is transfixed with Ash’s face. Papa always had good taste in pets; handsome faces and beautiful figures were a common sight in these halls. But something about the rugged, animalistic nature of Ash’s appearance was different to her. If only she could see those pretty green eyes—not the jeweled emerald green of her father’s magic, or the newly-sprouted leaf green of hers, but a distinctly human green. The kind she’s never seen in an animal. Touched by nature, but not quite a part of it.
“I see you still haven’t broken that habit, then.”
Ozmund’s voice breaks Faye’s unfortunate focus. She fiddles with her braid nervously, unable to make eye contact.
“Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.” She’s grateful for the makeshift mask covering most of her face; it would be impossible to hide the embarrassed pink staining her cheeks.
“You can’t go getting yourself all in a fuss every time a pet so much as sneezes,” he chides, searching the cabinets for various tools, which clink one by one onto a clean metal tray. With his back still turned, he continues, “It’s just like the girl, with the broken leg. She might’ve never walked again if I didn’t stop you from carrying her everywhere.”
Faye couldn’t help herself—then or now. Any wounded little creature, no matter how wild or how civilized, called to her deep down in her soul. She likes to think herself a scholar, but truthfully . . . Her sincerest desires are much more domestic. If only she had something of her own to care for, someone to dote on and spoil! Then, perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard to focus on her duties. Perhaps she could compartmentalize this yearning and be as detached as Ozmund. But when she looks at Ash—so frail and pitiful in this state—it seems impossible to put emotion aside.
Ozmund is right, though. Papa is always right. And she must lean on his guidance, lest she be led astray.
“There’s no need to pout, child. Look at me,” Ozmund softly orders; an almost hypnotic force pulls her eyes up to attention. “Keep yourself busy and let the urge pass. If you want to help him, you’ll take advantage of this opportunity, instead of wearing yourself thin by fretting.” He crosses over to her, tapping her hand where it twists the end of her hair and presenting the tray of tools. “Now, be a good nurse and check his vitals, please.”
A task. Tasks are good. Faye can focus when she has something to do. She can’t worry about this pet and treat his illness at the same time; a scholar must remain unbiased, unburdened.
Still, she muses as she warms the thermometer in her hand, a little kindness never hurt. He hardly seems to notice when she slips it into his bum, and she’s glad for it. At least he’s sleeping.
While she waits for the thermometer to reach its final measurement, she listens to his heart and lungs. Just like most animals, his pulse is much faster than a typical human’s—and even more so now. His breathing is labored, but relatively clear. His skin is clammy and a sickly off color; though he’d become paler from all the time away from the sun, the only color that’s returned now is a worrisome red to his cheeks. When she finally retrieves the thermometer, it’s just as expected: a fever, and quite a high one at that. She recalls that his baseline temperature was higher than expected as well; perhaps that is another quirk of his biology. Before she loses the numbers in the jumble of her thoughts, she jots them down on her notepad.
As she hands over her findings to Ozmund, Ash begins to stir. Reflexively, she casts a blanket of heavy, leaf-green magic over him, holding his weak form in place. His hands sweep the stone table as his eyes struggle to wrench open, and she can hear the hitch in his breath as his fingers trace the drainage channel. Panic overwhelms him, and he fights against the magic to pick his head up.
“Wh-where—?” he whimpers, before horror dawns on his face. “No. No! Please! Plea-please don’t kill me!”
Kill him? Faye’s hand shoots to her heart in shock. She would never! But then again . . . Papa has put down pets before. Only if they were dangerous, though, or outlived their usefulness. Or, she realizes with renewed fear, if they were too sick to be healed.
She steals a glance to Ozmund, watching his expression for some kind of answer. Denial, she hopes, but even a confirmation would at least assuage the anxiety of not knowing. Instead, all she finds is the same smooth, calculating nonchalance he always wears.
Ash continues to babble pleas and apologies as Ozmund crouches down to pet his feverish cheek.
“Hush, darling,” Ozmund soothes. “Your body isn’t used to the outdoors anymore, is it, pet?” He strokes Ash’s sweaty hair and tuts in disapproval. “No, that’s right. The shock of it all has made you quite ill. But don’t fret, my little housecat. You belong right here with me, don’t you?”
In the haze of delirium, Ash half-nods. Faye can see that he’s too far gone to understand, but at least he seems settled. His incoherent begging quiets to occasional sniffles and squeaks, and he sinks back under the weight of the magic holding him in place. As Ozmund leaves his side and returns to his brewing potions, Faye catches Ash almost reach to grab at the hem of Ozmund’s sleeve, but he seems to change his mind at the last moment.
“Here,” Ozmund calls from behind her. He hands over a vial of ugly yellow liquid. “Give this to him. Make sure he drinks it all.”
“Yes, sir.”
She doesn’t immediately recognize the foul-smelling concoction; it doesn’t appear to be any potion he’s taught her yet. Is it new—or just so niche she hasn’t had a need to learn it yet? It doesn’t matter now. Just focus on the task at hand, she reminds herself.
Ash’s bleary eyes follow her as she reaches to lift his head. His mouth lulls open almost on instinct, and she nudges his chin to encourage him.
“That’s it: open wide for me, sweetie. This should help you feel better.” She tips the contents of the container into his mouth, pressing his chin back into place and pressing her thumb to his lips. At the turn in his expression, she smiles apologetically. “I know, baby. I know. You have to drink it, though. Be good boy.”
Having little other choice, Ash chokes the potion down. His throat briefly protests, but the effects of the potion soon become evident. Before she can even take her hand away from his face, his muscles start to droop. His eyelids sag, and his breathing slows to low, effortful huffs. Barely a moment later, he’s already deeply asleep.
An errant thought overtakes her, and she finds her fingers slipping to the curve of his neck. Yes, definitely asleep. His pulse still thuds vigorously under her touch, just less franticly than before. It’s not that she doesn’t trust her father, but . . .
Ash is special. Special to her, certainly, but also different from Ozmund’s other pets. Though she doesn’t know all the details, Faye is aware of the history between them—how Evius was ungrateful for Ozmund’s tutelage and ultimately rejected his love, and how Ash was the one to seduce him away. No other pets have had such a direct tie to her father; none have been someone he might consider an enemy. Despite how well he’s cared for his newest acquisition so far, she can’t help but wonder if revenge is part of the agenda. Does it serve Ozmund better to simply eliminate him, rather than rehabilitate him?
It’s not her place to make that call, of course. It’s not even proper for her to express how much she enjoys this pet’s company, though she can’t ever seem to tamp down her excitement over it. If only she’d had the chance to meet him before all of this, back when he still had those adorable stripes and furry little ears. Would he have been more pliable back then—so much easier to train, more receptive to the care she has to give? Could she have had him for herself, if he hadn’t slighted Ozmund?
His pulse still thumps under her finger, steady and peaceful now in sleep. She hopes he rests more soundly than before—it seemed like he was struggling with a nightmare when he awoke. Does he not feel safe and provided for? Does his subconscious still fear them? Faye had thought they’d made progress; selfishly, she thought he’d started to think of her fondly, too.
No, she corrects herself, I must not covet what hasn’t been given to me. His devotion must be first and foremost to his master. She shakes off her wild, wandering thoughts and settles back into her proper role. What was that new potion, anyway?
“Sir?” she asks as she returns the empty vial. “What is this? It smells familiar—almost like an herb, perhaps?”
His eyes crinkle when he smiles. She likes that; not many people make her father smile that way. “Good observation. It’s made with coriander—far too much of it, in fact. I call it ‘devil’s herb.’ I’m sure you can guess why.” The proud glint in his silvery eyes sharpens into something more . . . malicious.
It takes a moment, but Faye puts the pieces together. “Did he make this with you? Evius, I mean?” It makes sense; after all, Evius had trained under Ozmund as his apprentice for many years before their romantic relationship began. Of course, he’d only been a teenager at the time, so she supposes mistakes were bound to happen. “I know coriander often has a mild sedative effect, but I never thought it could work so quickly.”
“That’s right. Evius was practicing with a sleep potion—nothing too complicated. His mistake in measurements led to that foul concoction. I’ve been perfecting the formula ever since.” He rests his hip against the counter and folds his arms. “Nothing to be done for the taste, unfortunately, but that’s what makes it so effective. I’ve found much success with it as a sedative, with the knock-on effect of hydration and improving overall constitution. Now, what else does the little patient need?”
She runs down the checklist in her head. “Well, his vitals are mostly okay, but the fever is quite bad. I should probably also do a physical exam to check for injuries or signs of infection. Assuming there’s nothing else going on, I’d like to bring down the fever and, if it’s alright, maybe something for pain?” Her teeth worry a ridge into her bottom lip, and she once again fiddles with the end of her braid.
For a moment, she very nearly holds her breath, awaiting Ozmund’s reply. She locks in on the quiet, even sound of Ash’s breathing, slowing her own in response. If her father says no, she will obey. If he corrects her or chastises her, she will accept his criticism with grace. That is what it means to be a good pupil; that is what it means to be a good daughter.
After an agonizing second of contemplation, Ozmund speaks. “Alright, then. I’ll leave this to you.” He pats her shoulder as he passes by, heading for the door. Before he leaves, though, he turns back for a moment. “Make him as comfortable as you like, but do remember: never, ever remove those bindings. Even in the state he’s in now, that boy is stronger than you can imagine. Be smart, child.”
A small part of her resents that remark; does he not trust her? Has she not proven herself to be faithful and obedient? She thinks better of that feeling, though—as always, he’s right. One can never be too careful, after all. Besides, there’s more important things to focus on: her patient needs her. So, she simply smiles behind her handkerchief and promises, “Of course, sir.”
When he finally leaves, she catches her breath. His watchful eye always makes her jittery and prone to mistakes. She works best left to her own devices. And now, without appearances to keep, she winds her long brain into a bun to keep it off her shoulder, pinning back her bangs as well. Though she dislikes the boyish effect it has on her face, keeping her hair out of the way helps her think clearly. But with Ash deeply sedated and no one to watch her, she can relax.
Her shoulders sag from their stiff, perfect posture, and she sighs. “Just the two of us now, pet,” she says, though she knows he can’t hear her. For just a moment, she allows herself to rest against the table, her fingers brushing against his bright pink cheek. “You’ll feel better soon, sweetheart. I’ll take good care of you.”
-
Taglist: @whumped-by-glitter@lumpofsand @corbytheking @scoundrelwithboba@tired-human09 @darke-phoenix515 @jumpywhumpywriter@torturedsamaritan @theloveofwhump
-
A/N: If you like sickfics/medical whump, definitely check out my Son of Bat series on my main masterpost. The original version of this story (The Caged Tiger) also leans hard into the lab rat stuff if you haven't read that yet! Little housekeeping note: I have officially made a rough outline of the next 15ish chapters, and I'm still figuring out how to set up the ending, so...lots of story left to cover! It only gets worse from here! (/pos) I'm hoping to come back to my Son of Bat project as well, but that's a bit harder for me to put on the page, so expect that to be very slow.
