Work Text:
You rolled over and curled up on your side, sleep ruptured by the dull ache blossoming into searing pain that seemed to radiate through your entire being. Beneath you, the sheets felt damp. Not now. Why now?
Next to you, the bed was cold. Dottore had long since gotten up. He slept so rarely, and although he didn’t necessarily need it, he deserved to rest more. The last few weeks had been rough in finalizing the Tsaritsa’s most recent plans.
You willed yourself out of bed and into the washroom to clean up. The tiles were warm beneath your feet and the pain ran down your legs and seemed to sit in your very hip bones, gnawing at you like a rift hound’s claws tearing at a leyline root.
Every damn month.
After washing up and chucking the wrapper into the garbage, you sank to the floor, doubled over. Just a few minutes, you reasoned. At least the floor wasn’t as cold as the land outside, the Palace wrapped in what felt like an eternal blizzard.
Getting up a second time felt impossible.
Exactly what you didn’t need today. Your schedule was packed, one diplomatic meeting after another, a day full of smiles and watching your words like a hawk over its prey.
You weren’t sure how long you laid there, absorbing the radiating heat once you found the best position that took the edge off of the pain. You knew you didn’t have to endure this. Your lover had already worked through several viable options for precisely this reason; some permanent, others not. Some months were better than others, though. Not all of them were this bad.
“What are you doing down there?”
You didn’t have to pull your head up to know Dottore was standing in the doorway of the washroom, looking down at you. This scene was nothing new. The question was redundant, although teasing, and its answer was one you didn’t need to give.
Warm hands helped you up and supported you as you bit back a whine, your legs protesting.
“How long were you laying there?” Dottore asked, breath tickling your forehead.
“Not sure,” you replied. “Hurts too much.”
“We’ll take care of that.”
“Dottore, I’m fine, I just need some time to—”
He kissed your forehead, silencing you as a hand pressed against your lower abdomen. For someone with such a cold demeanor, he had the warmest hands. Your muscles eased ever so slightly and you felt yourself slump a little.
“One of my Segments can take your schedule. There’s no reason you need to bother yourself with the inane whining of the nobles that can’t solve their own problems.”
You relented, knowing full well that it was easier to just let him help than push back. You didn’t have the energy, anyway. He led you back down the hall to bed, pulling the covers back on his side and ushering you back under the protective warmth of the blankets with a kiss before leaving the room.
He returned with a small sampling of your favorite breakfast options before retreating into the other rooms of your shared quarters. Within a few minutes, you heard the sound of running water and caught the scent of your favorite bath oil, too. A scent that was no longer in circulation, one he’d developed himself when you lamented you’d been unable to find a suitable replacement some years prior.
A bath did sound nice, you admitted. Much nicer than a day full of meetings and grinning through your organs revolting against you.
You finished the small plate of food, savoring the last of the tiny and flaky peach-filled pastry that you still never learned the name of. You heard the water stop and Dottore’s footsteps, the Harbinger returning again, this time with a vial containing a pearlescent liquid. It was familiar, a usual anti-inflammatory compound that he kept on hand for these exact occasions, and therefore by now needed no instructions. Or so you thought.
You held out your hand to take it but Dottore shook his head, his free hand gently holding your chin to keep your head steady.
“It’s not the usual dosage, darling. A little will go a long way. Open, please.”
You obeyed, opening your lips as the cold glass met your bottom lip and you felt the cool liquid across your tongue and down your throat. It tasted sweet, like sunsettia. Dottore capped the vial and placed it on the bedside table; he’d given you about half, you gathered, based on what was left.
Before you could ask anything further, Dottore pulled the covers back and slipped his arms beneath you, lifting you from the bed with ease.
“I can walk, Dottore.”
He silenced your protests with another kiss to the forehead. “No one said you couldn’t, darling.”
You found yourself back in the washroom, heated tiles beneath your feet as Dottore lowered you back to the ground. You spotted fresh clothes, a cup of herbal tea, and your favorite book; a new publication you hadn’t gotten around to reading yet.
“But what about the—” you gestured to the other room, where the sheets were stained, more appropriate for his lab than your bedroom.
“It’s nothing that needs your attention,” Dottore replied. “For now, relax.”
You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. His unmasked face was close to yours, mouth upturned in a playful smile. Your lips met his once, twice, soft and eager kisses that you hoped conveyed your appreciation for the gesture and care. His tongue brushed yours, all of once, before the Harbinger pulled away and helped you out of your pajamas.
Out of habit, you bundled them to hide the blood, as though the man next to you had sensibilities too fragile for such things. You saw him covered in viscera, elbows deep in a specimen you had no name for, among other things; he was quite literally the last person to be bothered by the presence of blood.
Dottore helped you into the tub, the heat from the water enveloping you.
“Thank you, Zandik,” you murmured.
At the mention of his given name, the one long forgotten, you watched as the tips of his ears turned pink.
“Take your time. I’ll come back and check on you in a bit.”
The warm water didn’t rid you of the pain entirely but the edge was already disappearing. The medication, and maybe a nap together, would do the rest.