Caretakers who have been taught to think they're unkind and uncaring, some force intentional or not bowing them into stony silence, convinced of their awful nature, their apathy. A deep blunt worthlessness
Something happens with Whumpee and they do what little best they can until someone better and gentler can come see about them, but they finally arrive they don't understand why Whumpee clings to them or begs them to still stay.
They don't see the gentleness inherent to the very core of their soul as they try to blot away the heat of the fever with a damp cloth or the way they tuck the bedclothes around whumpee's shaking form.
They only hear the rasp of disuse in their voice, not the patience in each repetition of assuring whumpee's safety or the earnest care as they offer each sip of water.
They call it merely a duty of care to knead out the sharp cramps and dull aches of the fever, to brew the tea, to sit up the night. To read aloud, to hold their hand.
Do they not see that SweetCaretaker is here now? That there is no more need to cling to thorns? That they may now feel kindness?
It's been a while, so you want to see how your poor sickie's doing. You quietly enter their bedroom. When you cast your gaze over at the bed it looks as though there's just a massive heap of blankets. However, that heap is your poor sickie, swaddled up and looking like they're in a cocoon. You see the mass shudder slightly. No doubt your poor sickie is still suffering with the chills. They'd been running a temperature of around 101.8 before you'd soothed them to sleep. Seeing them shiver, you move to get a closer look at them. Undoubtedly, their cheeks are still flushed, and beads of sweat dot their furrowed brows. You tentatively press the back of your fingers to their rosy cheeks. Sure enough, they still feel pretty warm. As quietly as possible, you reach for the infrared thermometer as you don't wish to rouse them from their slumber by making them take the oral thermometer. You shush the thermometer as it beeps when you turn it on as though it can heed your warning. You glance worriedly over at your sickie, but they're still dead to the world. You exhale with relief and move in carefully so that you can get a read on their temperature. The thermometer beeps thrice, indicating that it's picked up an alarming temperature. You feel your heart sink as you flip the monitor around so that you can read its verdict. You feel a little relief when you see that your sickie's temperature has at least gone down to 100.6. Still much too high for your liking, but you're so relieved that the fever reducer seemed to have helped a little. You gingerly retrieve the now tepid washcloth from their forehead and pad over to the bathroom with it, intending to run it under the coolest water possible before placing it back on their forehead. You feel worry twist your heart as you wring out the sodden cloth. When you return to your sickie's side and tentatively replace the washcloth, you can't help but smile as you see their sleeping expression ease. You know that they're absolutely loving that cool touch to their poor, fiery head. You brush their slightly dampened hairs away so that you can press a kiss to their forehead. You pause to take a moment to pet their brows with your thumb, affectionately stroking the fine little hairs.
You cast a glance at what's supposed to be your side of the bed. You see that it's occupied with several of the things you brought to your sickie. Their laptop and a novel are laying on the mattress, and you grin as you realize that your sickie looks like they're almost cuddling the box of tissues you gave them earlier as though it were a beloved teddy bear. When you look over at the bedside wastebasket and see it practically overflowing with used tissues you make a mental note to bring them a fresh box soon. Their poor nose has been much too runny, and their sneezes and blows have been obliterating the poor tissues that have had to stand up to snotty storm. On the nightstand rests a tray you'd brought them earlier. You see that they failed to finish both their tea and soup. They'd practically fallen asleep hovered over their mug earlier, so you'd moved it to safety so that it wouldn't fall and shatter and hurt them. As for the soup, their appetite has appeared to be rather weak ever since they got sick. You think to yourself that maybe you should rely on BRAT diet essentials instead since they'd likely be easier on your sickie. Maybe I'll cook some rice in chicken broth and add a little of the broth overtop. Maybe I'll add in some garlic to help them, too you muse as you collect the half-eaten bowl of soup. When they wake you'll ask them if they're hungry. If they are you'll make that for them along with a fresh mug of tea.
For now you choose to just sit at their bedside with a book. You wonder if maybe they'd like to be read to when they wake. They always want to hear your voice whenever they're not feeling well, after all. Plus, a distraction might be just what the doctor ordered.
Something Something When the feverish whumpee is crying and caretaker wipes their forehead and face with the cool damp cloth to give them some semblance of relief and dignity while showing that they care about their suffering on both fronts
A Fiery but Cozy Date (Husker/Dust sickfic drabble)
Cw: fever, fainting, soft caretaking
Angel woke, fully aware that his appearance was unbecoming of him. He felt his hair tousled yet lifeless, limply draping about his face instead of neatly styled. He could practically feel the depth of his under-eye bags and knew that they were most certainly defined to the point that he'd need to lay concealer on them if he had any hope of hiding them. He raised his hands to his cheeks, noticing that the bones beneath his fingers felt more pronounced than usual. His skin was fiery beneath his palms. He cast a glance at his shoulder which peeked out of the sweater he wore. Sure enough, the fur covering the area visible to him was mussed and looked like it needed a good combing. Within his chest, his heart tied itself in a knot. He couldn't let himself be seen in such a state, especially not on a date. He had to pry himself out of bed and get to his vanity. Angel's body felt leaden, though, and the mere acts he'd just performed had been more than enough exertion. Husk was going to come by. They'd planned a get-together. He wanted to look stunning for his grumpy little boyfriend. With resolve, he shakily propped himself up on his elbows, and did his best to rely on his lower arms to push him up as high as they could. His vision wavered with the fast movement, everything spinning and distorting as he tried to get his bearings. Fat Nuggets was eagerly on Angel, grunting and snorting in protest with his tiny hooves against his chest as if in a vain attempt to push him back against the bed. "Nuggsy, daddy's gotta get ready...heee's guh-gottah date..." His words slurred as he tried to reassure the little pig. He gently moved his pet off his torso and made to stand up. Fat Nuggets let out a worried shriek as he watched his master's eyes glaze over and his body crumple just beside the bed. The little pig practically flew out of the room, urgently squealing as he went to try to alert somebody.
Hours later, Angel’s eyes fluttered open. His vision was still bleary as though obscured by a milky filter. His head pulsed and swam much in the way it did when he was way too far in a trip. The first thing he saw was Fat Nuggets, dutifully laying at his side. Through his strange vision he scanned the place almost like he didn't realize he was in his own bedroom. Suddenly Charlie seemed to almost materialize in front of him. Where'd she come from? Maybe he just hadn't noticed her. "Oh, Angel!" she started tearily. "Fat Nuggets ran into me, literally, and kept tugging at my pant leg. He was so scared. He brought me here, and you were on the floor! You'd hit your head and were so, so hot. I told Fat Nuggets to go get Husk." She worriedly loomed over him, looking almost like a peppermint in that swirl of red and white. When he made out the pile of fuzz and realized it was his boyfriend, Angel’s cheeks flushed even more. Sluggishly he'd started trying to untousle his sweat-dampened hair. A clawed hand suddenly fell over one of his forearms.
"Angel, you're always pretty to me. Ya don't gotta fuss all the time. You are even now. Don't worry about that. Jus' take it easy, alright? You're runnin' 103.1 an' ya got a pretty good gash on your temple when ya fell." Husk’s baritone voice set Angel at ease. Husk smiled when he watched his feverish boyfriend stop his fretting. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to his burning forehead, ignoring Charlie's fangirlish squeals. "Why don't we jus' stay in for that date? Seems like a good day for a book, anyhow. How 'bout I jus' read to ya since you probably feel like ya knocked back one too many shots?" Husk bit back a chortle as he saw Angel's cheeks grow hotter. He leaned backwards towards the goo-goo eyed princess. He lowered his voice to almost a whisper, "Can ya make him summa that Minestrone stuff? What ya helped me make for 'im when he had that cold a while ago?"
Charlie lit up like a Christmas tree, giggling gleefully at seeing the gruff bartender be so gentle and doting. She gave an enthusiastic nod and skipped out of the room.
