Work Text:
The fever had come swiftly, a creeping heat that left Sir weak and vulnerable. He had been silent for hours, sweat slicking his brow, his body trembling with each temperature rise. His usual strong presence had been replaced with the frail, pitiful version of himself that Gabi had seen only once before—a man stripped of his power, confined to the chains he had put around others.
Gabi stood in the corner of the dimly lit room, her arms crossed, her jaw tight as she stared at him. She hated him. She hated the way he had taken everything from her—her life, her freedom, her peace of mind. And yet, there was something inside her, something she refused to acknowledge, that felt a twinge of concern as she watched him suffer.
It was absurd, she told herself. He had held her captive for months. He had manipulated her, lied to her, and twisted her life into a nightmare. But now, here he was, feverish and broken, and she was forced to care for him.
Her gaze flickered to the basin of water she had prepared, a rag resting beside it. She had no choice but to take care of him—he was in no condition to help himself, and leaving him to languish in his fever would only make him worse. For some reason, that thought stirred something in her. He deserved to suffer, she thought, but even as she stood there, feeling the weight of her resentment, she knew that leaving him in such a state was... wrong.
Gabi let out a heavy sigh, walking over to where Sir lay sprawled on the bed, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. His eyes were closed, his face flushed with fever. She could see the vulnerability in him now, a side of him that made him human, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she wondered if he truly understood the depths of the hell he had dragged her into.
“Sir,” she muttered, her voice rough with disdain, though she could not hide the underlying softness. “You’ve made your bed. Now lie in it.”
But as she moved closer, she could see the discomfort in his face—the way his brow furrowed as if he was in pain. It made her hesitate for a moment, that brief, involuntary flicker of sympathy. She hated that part of herself. She hated it with every fiber of her being. But she couldn’t stop it.
“Dammit,” she muttered under her breath.
With a sigh, she dampened a rag in the basin and began to gently wipe his forehead. His skin was burning, feverish to the touch, and though every part of her wanted to pull away, she didn’t. Instead, she continued to care for him, her movements gentle despite the fury that churned inside her.
His eyelids fluttered, and for a moment, he appeared almost vulnerable—just a man, sick and helpless. His voice cracked, barely a whisper. “Gabrielle… Please…”
Her stomach twisted at the sound of her name slipping from his lips. She hated that it felt like a plea, even though she knew it was nothing more than weakness. Sir never begged. He never showed weakness. But here he was, feverish and fading, his once unyielding control slipping through his fingers.
“What is it, Sir?” she asked, her tone cold, but it lacked the sharpness it usually had when she addressed him. She hated that she was giving him this moment of care, hated that she was offering him any kind of attention at all, but she couldn’t stop herself.
His eyes opened slightly, and she saw the intensity in them—the same obsession that had always been there, even now, when his body was weak. "Don't..." he murmured, his voice hoarse. "Don't leave me. Not now. Not like this."
Gabi's breath caught in her throat, a wave of disgust rushing over her. The audacity. How dare he—after everything—ask her to stay? To care for him?
She pressed the rag more firmly against his forehead, taking out her frustration on the task. “I’m not leaving, Sir,” she said, her voice low and controlled. “But I’m not doing this because I care. You’re just sick, and I’m not heartless.”
For a moment, there was silence between them. Sir's body shifted slightly, the faintest of tremors running through him. He reached up weakly, his hand grazing her wrist as if to steady himself. The touch, though light, made her stomach flip. She resisted the urge to pull away, but her chest tightened.
“I know you hate me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But you’re here. You’re here, Gabrielle. I don’t want to be alone.”
Gabi felt a strange, disorienting tug in her chest at the sound of his words. She didn’t want to care; she didn’t want to feel any of the emotions he was invoking in her. Yet, she couldn’t stop herself from responding. Deep inside, a part of her could still hear his vulnerability, his plea.
For a long moment, she stood there, staring at him. The temperature of his skin was alarming—he was burning up. As much as she hated it, as much as she wanted to walk away and leave him to his fate, she knew she couldn't. She had to finish this.
“Don’t get any ideas,” she muttered bitterly, her hands trembling as she gently adjusted the covers around him. “This doesn’t change anything. You’re still a monster. But I’m not heartless enough to let you die in my presence.”
There it was again—the bitter truth she was trying to deny. She hated him. She loathed him with every ounce of her being. But there was something about his fevered weakness, about the way he needed her in this moment, that broke through the walls she had carefully built around herself. She found herself... taking pleasure in caring for him, just a little bit. A sick, twisted part of her found some strange satisfaction in this role reversal.
And that terrified her more than anything else.
The hours passed slowly, the silence broken only by the occasional sound of Sir’s labored breathing. Gabi found herself checking on him often, adjusting the damp cloth on his forehead and giving him small sips of water, though every movement felt like a reminder of how much she resented being in this position. She hated that she had to be here, taking care of him after everything he had done.
Still, there was a part of her—small but undeniable—that couldn’t shake the strange weight of responsibility pressing down on her. Sir was gravely ill, and although he had been the one to ensnare her in his trap, she found it impossible to abandon him to his suffering. That was the dilemma of being human, wasn’t it? No matter how deeply she loathed him, she couldn’t completely extinguish the flicker of compassion that remained within her.
“You don’t deserve this,” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible, tinged with conflict. Nevertheless, her hands moved instinctively to wipe the beads of sweat from his brow, her fingers cool against his feverish skin. She focused on ensuring that his temperature didn’t climb any higher, feeling the heat emanating from him like a furnace. The way he lay there, vulnerable and weakened, tugged at her heart. Despite the turmoil churning inside her, she couldn’t bring herself to act with cruelty. Everything within her urged her to step back, to turn away, and to walk out the door, leaving him to face the consequences of his actions alone. Yet, she remained there, caught between her resentment and her unwillingness to let cruelty take over.
Sir stirred slightly as she adjusted the cloth, his eyes fluttering open for a moment. He looked up at her with a weak, unfocused gaze. There was no strength in him now, no commanding presence, just a man in pain, needing something from her she wasn't sure she was willing to give.
Her fingers hovered over the water glass before she held it to his lips. She didn’t want to help him. She didn’t want to feel anything for him. But when his hand reached out, weak and trembling, she found herself holding the cup steady, despite her anger and disgust.
"Drink," she said, her tone clipped, even as her hands trembled ever so slightly.
He drank slowly, his eyes fixed on hers the entire time. When he finished, he let out a quiet, tired sigh.
“I never wanted to hurt you, Gabrielle,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and barely audible. “I… I didn’t.”
Gabi paused, her heart skipping a beat before she forced herself to breathe and regain her composure. It was all too easy to get caught up in his words when he was vulnerable. She knew she couldn’t fall for it again.
“You’re delusional,” she declared icily, a chill in her voice as she rose to her feet, the need for space pulling her away. With measured steps, she turned her back to him, feeling his piercing gaze burn into her skin—intense and searching, even through the feverish haze clouding his thoughts. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to envision a life where she could simply walk away, leaving him behind, a distant memory fading into the background. The thought was tantalizing, a liberation she craved. But deep down, she knew that wasn’t who she was—at least, not entirely.
She couldn’t just abandon him, even though he deserved it. So, with a sigh, she came back to his side, adjusting the blankets around him, making sure he was comfortable, even though every part of her was telling her not to.
“You’re lucky you’re not dying,” she muttered under her breath, though she knew he could hear her. His hand twitched as if he wanted to reach for hers again, but Gabi quickly pulled back. She didn’t want him to think this was more than it was. She wanted him to see her as someone who was simply doing what needed to be done. Yet, when she noticed the faint look of gratitude in his eyes—so subtle, yet unmistakable—something within her shifted.
It was a small thing, but it lingered, bothering her more than she cared to admit.