Work Text:
January 2018
Someone knocks, quietly, on the door.
Dagur, mumbling sleepily, drags himself out of bed almost instantly. Only one person would be knocking this time of night, and it just so happens to be the one person in the world he truly cares about.
“Heather?” She looks up at him, with soft, birdlike eyes, and he already feels a pang of sorrow in his heart. “Are you okay?”
She seems to freeze up for a moment, as if contemplating what to say. He’s about to repeat the question when she says “I was sick.”
His nursing training kicks into action. “Go sit on your bed, I’ll help you clean it up.”
“I was sick on my bed,” she says quietly.
“Go to the bathroom and sit on the bathtub edge by the sink,” he instructs. “I’ll be right back.”
Trying to be quiet, he jogs downstairs, and grabbed a bucket from under the sink, a cloth and cleaning spray. Worry churns in his gut. She has to be fine . It’s just a stomach bug, right? He’s seen people go through worse and be fine.
But this is all different, because it’s Heather . His sister , who he’d only had custody over for six months, but he already knew he’ll die for her. And even pain as small as a paper cut makes him want to do anything he can to take the pain away.
Depositing the bucket to Heather in the bathroom, he goes to her room and made swift work of cleaning the sick up. He’s seen -and dealt with- worse, in all honesty. Being only a trainee nurse, his job mostly consister of cleaning up bodily fluids and delivering drugs and patients to other nurses. In another world, he could be delivering very different drugs to very different targets, cleaning up blood from knife wounds instead of IVs gone wrong. His life had taken a vastly different course since thatday, that call, that moment where he’d realised he had a purpose.
“Heather?” He slowly nudges the bathroom door open. “Are you okay?”
She nods, her shoulders hunched in the way people are when they want to crawl out of their skin.
Dagur notices bits of spit stuck to her face, and reaches for a face flannel to clean them. “Sorry for keeping you up,” Heather says, as he wipes her face clean.
“Don’t worry about it.” He smiles brightly. “You are my sister, after all. Besides, cleaning puke and stuff is kind of my job. Besides, everyone gets sick. Even me.”
""In what way?" Heather asks, her eyes dark and intelligent, and he knows she'll work it out sooner or later, his rock hard immune system and resistance to almost any sickness clueing her on the intent behind his words.
"You know people get unwell in the head, just like the body. Medically speaking, we call it mental illness, and you see a therapist instead, or as well as, a doctor to deal with it," he explains clearly but eloquently, careful not to dumb it down. Something about her told him that wouldn't slide.
"Do you have a therapist?" She asks.
"Yeah. Just started seeing him a few months back. He's nice, really nice. But he's not quite sure what's wrong with me yet. Probably quite a few things. It's nice, though. To feel less crazy and more like what's wrong is just a problem to live with."
“That makes sense." And, with the intuition and sensitivity of someone far beyond thirteen years old, she changes the subject. "Did you clean my bed?”
He nods proudly. “Changed the sheets and everything, if you want to get back to bed.”
On cue, she yawns, her mouth stretching like a cat. “What time is it?”
“Half two.”
“Oh.”
Dagur scans for a solution. “We can watch a movie if you’re don’t feel like going back to sleep.”
“No thanks. I’m pretty tired,” she says. Dagur offers her his forearm, and she takes it, clutching muscle and sinew as she walks back to her room. He gently guides her into bed, where he’s laid not only fresh sheets but a towel in case she’s sick again.
It’s almost frightening how naturally it comes to him. But then again, she is his sister.
“You feel better now?”
“Much better.” Her face relaxes, and she begins to settle, when a wave of nausea sweeps over her once again. She clamps a hand to her mouth, and Dagur rushes to sit her up, or she might choke on the vomit.
He swipes the bucket from beside her bed, and aims as gracefully as he can. “That’s right. Better out than in. Good job,” he soothes.
She splutters, spitting saliva into the bowl, and through the choking, gasping for air, she croaks out “ help me ” and Dagur’s heart breaks.
He can’t do this. He can’t stay strong and pretend she’s another patient. This is his sister , his strong, brilliant, smart, wonderful sister. He swore no harm would come to her from the moment he laid eyes on her, and six months in, that vow breaks like glass, shattered before his eyes.
“You-” his voice breaks, “you’re ok. I’m here.” He rubs her back, giving it the occasional pat the dislodge whatever’s caught in her throat.
Heather stops throwing up, and takes deep, shuddering breaths. She pushes the bowl away, her fingers trembling, and Dagur promptly empties it into the toilet and rinses it.
“Sorry about that,” is the first thing she says when he re-enters.
“Don’t be silly,” he scolds her gently. “It’s no big deal. Like I said, cleaning puke and other gross stuff is my job. Not that you’re gross, at all,” he adds hastily, seeing her downcast expression. “Now you, little lady, need to drink. I can let you rinse your mouth and spit, or you can drink a bit. Do you think you can hold water?”
She shakes her head.
“Okay. Then try this for a minute.” He hands her a glass with a straw, and instructs her to drink. She takes a few sips and spits into the bucket.
“Better?”
“A little.”
Dagur sits by her bed, grinding to a halt as he realises he’s not quite sure what to do now the medical aspect’s been taken care of.
He goes the safe route. “Do you think you’ll be up for much tomorrow?”
“Do I have to go to school?”
“I never said school,” he says, his voice conspiratory. “I was thinking more along the lines of a movie marathon in our pyjamas until tomorrow’s night shift.”
“Sounds good,” she says, her eyelids fluttering shut.
“Get some rest until then.” He pulls his knees to his chest. “I’ll stay here for as long as you need.”
“Thank you,” she breathes into the darkness. “I love you, brother.”
“Love you too, sis.”
That is the last thing Heather hears before she falls asleep.