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You feel like absolute shit.
You’re home for the day, having called in sick this morning. You’ve been battling nausea and congestion since last night, and when you woke up today the idea of going into the Institute seemed so monumental a task that you’d nearly cried. The problem is, of course, that not going into the Institute means that your fatigue has worsened greatly. Beholding is not pleased, it seems, and it’s only noon. You’ve got a good while before you’ll be able to feed your god again.
You’re curled up on your couch, wrapped in your duvet, when you hear a knock at your door. You contemplate just ignoring it, but there’s another, more insistent knock, so you reluctantly stand and shuffle over.
Whoever you’re expecting to be on the other side, it’s not Elias Bouchard. He’s dressed as always in his impeccable three-piece suit, his hair coiffed; the perfection of him is almost ridiculous in comparison to the shabby hallway of your building. You’re suddenly hyperaware of how you look at the moment: you haven’t brushed your hair, much less showered, and beneath the duvet you’re wearing the flannel pajamas that your grandmother had sent you for Christmas. And Elias is looking at you; you feel your cheeks heat up and you thank God that your face was already flushed from your cold.
“I’m sick,” you say by way of greeting. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”
“They didn’t need to.” Which. Of course. “Are you going to let me in, or should I stay in your hallway all day?”
You glance back over your shoulder. “It’s not a pretty sight. I wasn’t expecting company.”
“I know.”
Because he knows everything. Part of you wants to close the door in his face and go curl up on your sofa, but instead you step aside and allow him to enter. As you close the door and head back to the living room, he looks around your flat. Your face heats up even more as you examine your home with new eyes; you’ve never seen where Elias lives, but you’re sure that your home is quaint and shabby by comparison. You may be the budding servant of an eldritch horror, but that doesn’t mean you’re rich.
“What are your symptoms?” he asks when you’re seated once more.
“Um. Nausea, congestion… and fatigue, now.”
“Yes, that would be from not coming into the Institute.”
You grimace. “I’m aware. But I’m probably contagious, and I don’t want anyone to catch this.”
“Are you running a fever?”
“What? I don’t know.”
Elias sighs: “Don’t you have a thermometer?”
“No?” You’ve never bothered to buy one. Usually when you get sick, you just take DayQuil and deal with it.
“And have you taken DayQuil?”
You pause. “No. I ran out last time I was sick and I forgot to get more.”
He gives you the look of a long-suffering man, and crosses the distance between you, peeling off one of his leather gloves as he does so. Startled, you scramble to the side of your sofa to get away. Elias rolls his eyes. “Honestly. I’m just going to take your temperature.”
“Oh.” You hold still as he presses the back of his hand to your forehead, though you glance down to avoid his intense gaze.
“37.7 degrees,” he says after only a second, and withdraws his hand. “Do you have a water bottle?”
“What? Why?”
He slides his glove back on. “Do you have a water bottle?”
You feel a tingling at the back of your skull. You frown. “Stop trying to compel me. Yes, I have a water bottle, but Elias, you have work to be doing—”
He’s already walking into your kitchen and pulling the bottle out of your dish drainer. Insufferable bastard. “My work will still be there in a few hours. You, however, may not be, as you seem completely incapable of caring for yourself.”
Your face burns hotter. “I’m not a child, Elias.”
“And yet you keep acting like one.” He finishes filling the bottle and returns to the couch, passing it to you. “Drink this. I’m going to the store to get you medicine and food. And a thermometer.”
“I have food.” He’s babying you.
“Do you like chicken noodle soup?” You stare at him. “Yes, that’s what I thought. And stop pouting.”
You’re not pouting. You’re just frustrated and you feel positively infantilized by his swooping in and criticizing your ability to take care of yourself. Honestly, why does he insist he has to take care of you? It’s not like he actually cares. You don’t think Elias cares about anyone.
Elias sighs again and tilts your chin up with one finger. You have no choice but look into his bright green eyes. “I am taking care of you because you are mine. Don’t forget that.”
How could you? You have the golden eye earring to prove it, the match to the one that currently dangles from Elias’s ear—though yours is currently laying on your nightstand. “Okay,” you say. Your voice is barely a whisper.
“I do not let that which is mine fall into disrepair. Understood?”
“Yes.”
He smiles at you, and it feels a little—a lot—like the sun coming out from behind clouds. It sends a wave of warmth through you. “Good.” He releases your chin, withdraws a manilla folder from within his coat. “I brought you a statement. Read it while I’m gone, it’ll ease the fatigue. And drink that water.”
You take it as if it’s something precious. In a way, it is. It feels almost like a gift. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be back soon.” And he’s gone almost as soon as he came, leaving behind the statement and the faint smell of his cologne.
He’s right. Reading the statement does make you feel better, though not much. You’re not quite so tired, though your head still pounds and your stomach protests at even the thought of eating. Even contemplating the bottle of water that he left you deepens the pit in your stomach, but the pit only grows when you imagine disappointing Elias, so you drink. It doesn’t help the nausea, but it does help the headache.
Okay, so maybe he does know a little better than you when it comes to easing symptoms. Your pride smarts at the realization, but better hurt pride than a constant migraine. You keep drinking.
By the time your door creaks open again, announcing Elias’s return, you’ve finished most of the water.
“Still alive?” As if he doesn’t know. You make a noise of confirmation, since you’re mid-sip and can’t exactly speak. “Good.”
He’s laden with bags, far more than he should have considering he just went out to buy soup and cold medicine. “What else did you get?”
Elias sets the bags down in your kitchen, then takes off his jacket and hangs it by your door. “Your groceries were, frankly, pitiful.”
“Pitiful?!” Can’t even catch a break when you’re ill, it seems. “I’ve been busy with work.”
“Busy. Of course. I suppose that’s why you have three large McDonald’s Coca-Colas in your fridge?”
“It’s included with the meal!” You’re mumbling a little, but in your defense, Elias is rolling up his sleeves and you are, consequently, a little distracted. He looks at you looking at him and smiles a smile that might have been unnerving were you not so familiar with it: indulgent, pleased. You can’t stop yourself from staring, and your face burns red because Elias is Watching, and he knows what you’re thinking because he knows you; he Knows you.
“When was the last time you ate a vegetable?”
You sigh, lean your head back against the couch, but don’t stop looking at him. “I ate a salad yesterday.” He hums. You sit back up, glaring at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re being childish.”
“You’re making me be childish!” He simply arches an eyebrow at you, and you can do nothing but pout in return. You know it’s not helping your case, but you don’t have the energy to do anything else; you slump back into the couch, defeated. “I hate you.”
“Would you like some tea?”
“Sure.” You’re still pouting, but tea does sound good. It’ll warm you up, at least, even if it makes you feel even more pathetic. Can’t even boil your own water.
“Stop it.”
“What?”
He just looks at you as if you’re playing dumb, which of course you are. You know your thoughts are unfair to yourself, but that hasn’t ever stopped you. You said you’re mad at him for making you feel like a child, but you always feel like a child when you’re sick. The littlest stuffy nose and you’re out of commission for days.
“You are not useless,” he says—firmly, though not unkindly.
“Right.” Pretty words, of course, but certainly just telling you what you need to hear. “You don’t have to pretend to care,” you mumble. “I know I’m a wreck when I’m like this.”
He rolls his eyes and gives a long-suffering sigh. “I do not hold onto that which is useless, darling.”
Darling. Darling now, yes, but once he gets what he wants, where will you be? Lord of your own realm of fear? Alone while he watches from his high tower? No darling then; you aren’t a fool. He does not care about you, not beyond what use you are to him. You don’t think Elias has ever cared about anyone. He certainly doesn’t love you, yet you, fool that you are, love him. And how could you not? He plays the hapless overseer so well, but as soon as you catch a glimpse of his power you cannot possibly ignore it. And it was that power that drew you in. Hungry young thing that you were, chasing anything at all to satisfy you, it must have been beyond ease for him to scoop you up and make you his disciple. You went willingly, happily, starved for affection; every smile and every scrap of approval only left you more in love.
When he walks in, you feel alive. When you are at his side, you feel powerful, important, nearly as beautiful as he. You want to be seen with him, and you want to be Seen by him.
He’s got his back to you now, fiddling with something, but he stops and glances back at you.
“What?”
He doesn’t say anything, only turns and presents you with a dose of DayQuil. He’s bought the liquid for some reason, and you grimace in remembrance of the taste. “You’re being a child again.”
“DayQuil is gross. You wouldn’t know, I assume.” You’ve never seen him sick. You don’t think he can get sick. Not anymore, at least.
“The liquid acts faster.” Which, fair enough. You take it from his hand and down it like a shot; he Watches you the whole time. Warmth settles in your stomach and you bite back a smile, but he must notice because he cards his fingers through your hair before he takes the cup back. It’s the most grounded you’ve felt all day. You would hate yourself for leaning into his touch, except when he sets the DayQuil down, he sits beside you and guides you to lay your head in his lap.
“I thought you were getting me tea,” you say, unable to resist a smart comment even as his hand settles back in your hair and gives your scalp a gentle scratch.
“I was, until your self-loathing distracted me.”
You pull a face at him. “So no tea, then?”
“You don’t want me to move.” He says it like it’s a fact, because it is. He is warm, and his touch is grounding, and you are so very comfortable like this. Elias glances down at you and smirks. Smug bastard. Beautiful with those green eyes, but a smug bastard nonetheless. “But you do want tea. I suppose I could—”
“It can wait.” And you’re just comfortable enough, just out of it enough, that you don’t care if you sound desperate to have him stay. “Five minutes.”
“Hm. You aren’t going to fall asleep on me, are you?”
You roll your eyes. “You know I won’t.”
“True.” You’re still looking up at him, and he’s still looking down at you, and he brushes more hair out of your face. “Five minutes, then.”
You hope those five minutes last forever.