Work Text:
It must have been the pain. He’d been woozy, he slept wrong, he woke up in a strange place – all of those are perfectly valid explanations for the tightness in his chest. Maybe he had a mild allergic reaction to the potion the man who found him on the shore fed him. Or perhaps making his escape while injured had caused his brain to confuse the adrenaline of the moment with attraction. Yes, that must have been it.
The door swings open, revealing the harengon from before, and Oli’s jaw plummets so hard it leaves a crater. Damn, those arms.
He’s so distracted by ogling him without blinking until his eyes burn, he doesn’t even notice the tray in the man’s hands until he gives it to Oli. He jolts, then quickly accepts it with open palms, nearly unbalancing the enticing smelling bowl on top of it before getting it settled on his lap.
He wants to say something. Even a ‘thank you’ would be enough. But every time he tries, the smarter parts of his mind reel him in: his brain-to-mouth filter got stuck in a permanent off position sometime around his mid-twenties, so he needs to be extra careful. He knows nothing about this world, so there’s nothing he could say that would be interesting to the harengon, or even relevant. Which would make him leave and that, in turn, would make the feeling in Oli’s chest stop. Not the worst of consequences, in itself. Except it also feels like being condemned to death every time that door closes on him.
It’s maddening. It’s exactly why Oli doesn’t fall in love. Much too stressful.
He needs to stop thinking about this. With a huff, he starts shoveling soup – mushroom soup – into his mouth. He half expects to be reprimanded for it, since sick people aren’t supposed to inhale their food, but the harengon just tilts his ear at him. Then he sits down on the edge of Oli’s bed. The mattress dips under his weight. He’s so much heavier than Oli. His bulk could cover him from head to toe. Oli shudders and draws his eyebrows together, sulking into his bowl.
Okay, fine. Fine. He’s head-over-heels. Doesn’t mean he has to like it. Or him.
He drops the spoon. It clatters onto the tray.
‘So, what’s your story?’
The long, rounded ears rotate once. ‘Mm?’
‘You’re not the one who found me. Unless these,’ he gestures above his own head, ‘are a recent thing.’
‘Ah.’ The harengon shrugs. ‘I like helping out. Not much to it.’
Nobody’s story is that simple. Oli narrows his eyes. ‘Speaking of which, where is that guy?’
‘Busy.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Helping out other people.’
Oli blinks. ‘That’s what he does? Pick up strays and stragglers and – what? Nurse ‘em back to health?’
The harengon shoots him a funny look. ‘Yes.’
‘What does he want in return?’
A laugh. ‘Nothing.’
Bullshit. There’s no such thing as a free sandwich. The thought must show on Oli’s face, because his companion’s smile turns bright as the sun.
‘Sanctuary was built as a safe place for people who need it.’
Savior complex, then. Oli grunts. ‘Okay, what do you get out of it?’
‘I told you, I like helping. Speaking of which, now that you’re done eating, I’d like to take a look at your leg.’
‘I’d like to see a medical license before you come any closer.’
The harengon’s whiskers twitch. ‘Can’t show you that one, I’m afraid, but if you need proof of my work, I did the bandages already on you. They’re not meant to last, though.’
Oli grimaces. ‘If it gets infected, I’m blaming you.’
Best to draw the lines in the sand early. They’re not friends. Even if the guy is kind of funny.
He takes the bowl from Oli and puts it back onto the tray, which he places on the nightstand. Then he pulls down Oli’s blanket.
That is, of course, exactly the moment Oli remembers he stinks like a butcher’s dumpster in the summer. The thin blond hairs on his free leg are caked with dried sweat. Heat shoots into his cheeks.
The harengon holds up a finger, gets up and fetches something from just outside the door. It turns out to be a bowl of water, along with several pieces of cloth and a glass jar. He places his bounty by Oli’s knees.
‘I’m going to open the bandage now, okay?’
Oli, feeling uncharacteristically naked, crosses his arms in front of his chest.
‘It shouldn’t hurt,’ says the harengon. He pinches the end of the gauze by Oli’s ankle and eases it off the layer below. He goes slow, carefully lifting each bit to make sure it doesn’t stick before pulling it loose.
The wound underneath is… Oli gulps.
A long, dark streak spirals up his leg from his heel to his hip. It’s as wide as three of his fingers and almost black in the middle. The color bleeds into purple and red, and from there into a yellow-ish green around the edges. In the center, his skin has already started to burst, ready to peel off like a snake’s scales.
Oli turns his eyes away before the soup can make a reappearance. ‘What happened?’
‘Giant tiger squid, if I had to guess. Although it could have been a different sea creature entirely. You’re lucky you escaped.’
Yeah, lucky. That’s me, Oli thinks, heart pounding in his throat.
The harengon curls a hand under his foot and lifts it up a little, so the bottom of the wound doesn’t brush the blanket when he takes off the bandage. ‘Does it hurt?’
Oli shakes his head. ‘As long as nothing’s touching it.’
‘Okay. I’m going to clean you up with water now, which is probably going to feel cool or cold, since your skin seems a little feverish. Then I’m going to cover the worst parts with this ointment,’ he taps the jar, ‘to speed up the healing process. That alright with you?’
‘Why not just give me another potion?’
‘I’d rather not have you pass out for three days twice in a row.’ The harengon picks up a cloth from the bowl, squeezes it until the remaining water stops dripping out and holds it over Oli’s leg. ‘May I?’
He gulps. Gives a nod.
The moment the cloth touches his skin, burning agony flares up his leg. He flinches and hisses.
‘Ow!’
The harengon’s ears droop. ‘Sorry, sorry.’
The sting lingers. ‘Ow. Fuck, that’s – hnng.’
‘I’m so sorry. I’ll be more careful now.’
He shifts a little, bringing the cloth to a less damaged area. Once again, he waits for Oli’s permission before he touches him.
It doesn’t hurt as much on the yellow patches, compared to the flaming red bits. His skin still hums like he has fire ants under it, but it’s manageable. It’s only when the other approaches the deep, damaged gouges in his skin that Oli’s fingers clench in the bedding. He holds his breath to avoid making a noise. It’s a losing game. ‘Aw, fuck. Fuck. Ow.’
The hand on his ankle gives a squeeze. Oli desperately forces his mind to focus on the warmth of the harengon’s fingers on his overheated skin. A whimper slips form his throat.
The cloth disappears.
Oli blinks, vision blurry. ‘Huh?’
The eyes that meet his are a sparkling cyan, stormy like the Aegean sea. Staring into them, a fractured memory stirs: wind that’s not there cards through his hair, cooling the sweat. Salt tickles his nose. The old, seasoned wood of a warship creaks below his soles, mighty sails crack above his head and–
‘I think we’re going to leave it at that.’
Oli swallows down a sob of relief.
‘It’s not ideal,’ the harengon says. ‘But I’m here to help you recover, not to make you hurt more.’
He drops the cloth into the bowl. Red tints the water. Oli has no clue where it comes from; whether it’s old or new. The man picks up the jar with the hand that’s not holding Oli’s foot. He brings it up and hooks his teeth into the lid, then spins it round once. The lid pops off. He turns the jar so Oli can see what’s inside. The white mixture is about the consistency of whipped cream.
‘We use nether wart as a base here, like we do for potions,’ the harengon explains. ‘I’ve added ghast tears and warped fungus to stimulate healing, numb the pain and to absorb any poison that might linger in the wound. Is that alright with you?’
Numbing sounds amazing right about now. Oli nods.
The other scoops up two fingers full of cream and applies it to the edges of Oli’s lesions. It must be a quick acting chemical – or maybe his skin is just too thin – because it feels much better than the water almost immediately. The harengon manages to cover most of the wound’s surface area without making him scream in pain. Then he claps his hands.
‘All done. Now we just have to wrap it up again.’ He pulls a roll of fresh gauze from his apron pocket. ‘Tell me if it’s too tight.’
He hooks the end under the palm that’s still holding Oli’s foot and starts to work his way upwards from there.
Oli doesn’t feel it. The pain has simmered down into a dull throb, all but gone. What’s not gone is the sensation of those hands on him, so much more intense now that he doesn’t have any searing agony to focus on. It’s like Oli can pick out the brush of every hair of his fur against his thigh as the bandage climbs higher until it reaches the lower edge of his shorts. Dirty shorts.
Oli’s cheeks burn. For more than one reason.
Gentle fingers tie off the gauze. The harengon smells of hot iron and dry wheat and Oli holds his breath.
The other’s lips curve. ‘That worked better than I expected.’
‘Uh. Huh?’
‘You were pretty grumpy earlier.’
He lets go of Oli’s leg, which only twinges a little when it hits the bed, then screws the lid back onto the jar and collects the various cloths, bowls and other paraphernalia. Oli fidgets. Fuck, he’d been real rude, hadn’t he? Yet, the harengon had been gentle with him. He’d stopped when the pain got too much.
‘S-sorry about that,’ Oli stammers.
The harengon beams. ‘No need. Grumpy is good. Means you have enough energy to be something other than miserable.’
He stands, wipes his fingers on a fresh cloth and reaches into his pocket. He hands Oli a little package wrapped in beeswax.
Oli eyes it. ‘Huh?’
‘It’s a tradition we have here in Sanctuary.’ The man winks. ‘For the bravest of patients.’
Raising a brow, Oli opens the package. The scents of sugar and cinnamon hit his nose, making his mouth water. Pumpkin pie! He doesn’t even think about it, he just sticks his face in it. It melts on his tongue, perfectly caramelized. Oh yes!
‘Good?’
There’s a definitive note of amusement in his voice. Oli looks up and startles at the light in the other’s expression. His chest gives a squeeze. All of a sudden, it’s perfectly clear: he doesn’t hate this man. He could never. He’s a fucking angel and Oli’s in love.
He must have made a noise, muffled through a mouthful of pie, because the harengon straightens. He grabs the tray from the nightstand and the water bowl from the end of Oli’s bed and heads for the door.
Oli’s heart leaps into his throat. ‘Wait!’
The man freezes.
Oli swallows, hoping it’ll unstick the pumpkin pie from his teeth. It doesn’t. ‘I, uh. I don’t even know your name.’
The harengon’s eyes soften. ‘It’s Eddie.’
‘H-hi. I’m Oli.’
A grin. ‘Nice to meet you, Oli.’
Then he’s gone, leaving Oli with sticky teeth and a chewed-on piece of the best pie he’s ever eaten in his lap. ‘Likewise… Eddie,’ he mouths to himself. The name tastes sweet on his tongue – and that’s not just the sugar.