Work Text:
Qian Cao Peak was silent, cloaked in the soft velvet of night. Outside the medical pavilion, moonlight pooled in pale blue puddles on the stone paths, brushing over medicinal gardens asleep in the cool air.
Inside the building, however, one man refused to rest. His disciples had disappeared into their dorms after a long day of healing injuries and taking notes. He had taken in ten new ones and sent off one of his personal disciples to be married. Zhangmen-shixiong had kindly given money for a dowry, and An Ding had brought up the wedding dress.
Mu Qingfang sat hunched over his desk, a set of amber-rimmed spectacles sliding down his nose, a quill in one ink-stained hand, and a steaming mug of something dark and suspicious in the other. He took a sip, immediately grimaced, and muttered something under his breath.
He’d been experimenting again. This time, with a blend of roasted jujube, aged licorice root, fermented astragalus, and (he sniffed the cup and coughed) probably a bad idea.
Still, it kept him awake. For hours. He could possibly sweeten it with crushed sugarcane though...hm.
His desk was a mess of scrolls, herb bundles, ink pots, and half-written medical recipes. An oil lamp flickered beside him, its light dancing over the curve of his cheek and casting shadows on the walls.
A soft knock came at the door.
Mu Qingfang looked up, adjusting his glasses.
His head disciple, a young woman with warm eyes and too much worry in her brow for her age, poked her head in.
“Shizun? It’s nearly the hour of the rat. Please go to bed.”
Mu Qingfang waved a hand. “Later Yanmei. I need to finish the ratios for this new tonic. It might help with late-stage qi fatigue.”
“You said that three hours ago.”
“I was optimistic.”
She huffed but smiled fondly. “At least drink water with...whatever that is.”
He raised his bitter brew with a soft smirk. “Hydration, it's close enough to water."
She made a face and stepped into the room, setting a proper cup of water on the edge of his desk. “Sleep eventually. I’m going to bed. Please don’t die of self-inflicted poison.”
“I’ll try Yanmei, now go rest.”
She had to, since it was training day for new disciples tomorrow. Cang Qiong accepted twelve year olds for training, and most disciples ended up going away from the peak to make names for themselves or find a partner. Many found their partner on the mountain. Even if Mu Qingfang's children– disciples were to leave, they could always come back to their home sect.
With a soft sigh, she bowed and left, shutting the door gently behind her.
Mu Qingfang took another sip, gagged, and then—BANG.
The door slammed open.
Mu Qingfang leapt to his feet, robes tangling around his ankles. His cup flew from his hand and landed with a wet splatter on the floor. His jaw dropped.
In the doorway stood his Shidi, Liu Qingge.
Soaked in blood.
Holding a severed beast’s head by the horn.
Mu Qingfang’s first thought was, “Not again.”
Liu Qingge blinked at him, expression as flat and grumpy as always, though a small flicker of—was that nervousness?—crossed his face when he stepped inside, tracking gore across the formerly spotless floor.
Mu Qingfang stared at the trail of blood and viscera with a strangled noise of mourning.
“…Shixiong,” Liu Qingge said, voice gravelly. “I brought you something.”
The “something” dripped onto the floor.
Mu Qingfang pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and inhaled deeply through his mouth. “Did it ever occur to you, Shidi, to clean the head before entering my infirmary?”
Liu Qingge glanced down at the monstrous head, something canine-ish, with thick fangs and a black pelt mottled with ash, and made a thoughtful grunt. “Didn’t want to waste time.”
It looks like the severed head of a mutated wolf-demon spider...those horns do have medicinal properties.
Mu Qingfang sighed again, deeper this time, a long-suffering exhale. But his eyes caught on something far worse than just the blood.
“Your arm.”
Liu Qingge tilted his head.
“Your arm,” Mu Qingfang repeated, stepping forward and grabbing his good shoulder. “It’s mangled, did you not notice?"
“Oh.” He looked down at it like he’d forgotten it was there. “Wolf demon got a bite in.”
There was a long tear through muscle and skin, bleeding sluggishly now but deep and twisted. The bone might even be bruised. Mu Qingfang’s face turned cold in an instant.
“Sit.”
Liu Qingge blinked.
“Sit, now, or I’ll sedate you with something experimental.”
“…alright.”
Mu Qingfang led him to one of the recovery beds and sat him down, movements efficient but careful. He summoned clean water with a wave of a talisman, set aside a sterilizing tincture, and began unraveling bandages from a linen box.
The entire time, Liu Qingge sat quietly, his tall frame hunched awkwardly to avoid making a mess. His long dark hair was a mess of blood and wind, sticking to his cheeks and shoulders. A cut ran from temple to jaw. Mu Qingfang cleaned it with surprisingly gentle fingers.
“You’re lucky you didn’t sever a tendon,” Mu Qingfang murmured as he worked, binding the wound in clean cloths and dabbing salve along the edge. “This will take days to heal fully even with spiritual energy. Don’t use it until I say so.”
Liu Qingge scowled. “I’m not weak.”
“Correct. But you’re injured, and I am the physician here. You’ll listen to me, or I’ll lace your medicine with something to make you drool on your sword.”
A silence fell again. Liu Qingge didn’t argue, just watched Mu Qingfang’s face as he worked, eyes intent and oddly soft.
Mu Qingfang glanced up, caught the look, and faltered.
“…what is it Shidi?”
Liu Qingge cleared his throat. “Do you…like it?”
Mu Qingfang blinked. “The head?”
Liu Qingge nodded. “It’s rare. Has regenerative blood. Thought it might be useful for your research.”
Mu Qingfang stared at him.
Then he smiled.
A small one at first, but it bloomed slowly into something warm and utterly fond. He leaned forward and gently kissed Liu Qingge on the forehead.
The man went rigid like he’d been struck by lightning.
“I like it,” Mu Qingfang said, brushing hair out of his eyes. “Thank you. But next time, please bring only the parts I can use, not the entire thing. And maybe…in a bag.”
Liu Qingge was bright red. “Okay,” he muttered, ears almost glowing. “Just…wanted to bring you something you’d like.”
Mu Qingfang turned to clean his tools, smile still tugging at the corners of his lips. “If you really want to impress me, next time, try herbs.”
Liu Qingge grunted. “But those can’t fight back.”
“Exactly.”
There was a pause.
“…so you want me to fight the herbs?”
Mu Qingfang snorted and turned back to face him with one eyebrow raised. “Try not to.”
Liu Qingge went silent, contemplating this boring request.
He stood, twitching as the movement pulled at his arm. Mu Qingfang reached out instinctively, steadying him.
“Where are you going?”
“To take the head out. Separate the organs. I know the medicinal bits.”
Mu Qingfang blinked, mildly impressed.
“You memorized a Qian Cao manual?”
“…I asked Shen-shixiong which bits were useful.”
“And he told you?”
“No. But I followed him when he was training some junior disciples and took notes.”
“…you stalked Shen-shixiong to learn what medicinal organs I might want?”
Liu Qingge shrugged.
Mu Qingfang rubbed a hand over his face, then looked up and caught Liu Qingge still standing there, awkwardly holding the head by a single horn like a shy child clinging to a stick of candy.
He sighed. "I'm surprised Luo-shizhi didn't catch you staring, or you'd have even more injuries."
“Leave it in the basin outside. I’ll have a disciple clean it in the morning. You’re going home to rest.”
Liu Qingge opened his mouth.
Mu Qingfang raised a finger. “No arguments. You’re injured, and I don’t want you bleeding all over my floor again.”
Liu Qingge’s mouth closed.
“…you’ll still use it?”
“Yes. It was a thoughtful gift. Disturbing, but thoughtful.”
A faint smile tugged at Liu Qingge’s lips.
As he left, the door shut quietly behind him, and Mu Qingfang was left alone again in the low light of his study.
He stared at the mess on the floor, sighed, and then sat back down.
Tonic still spilled across his desk.
He picked it up, sniffed, winced, and dumped the rest into the waste bowl.
Later that week, a courier arrived from Bai Zhan Peak. In his hands was a box tied with a haphazard silk ribbon. Inside was a dried black pelt (thoroughly cleaned), a carefully labeled organ, and tucked into the corner—a single, slightly squashed chrysanthemum.
Mu Qingfang placed the flower in a cup on his desk.
And didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.