Work Text:
Each medicine box was placed neatly next to the others on the tray. Alongside, Walter had put the teapot and moved to grab two cups from the pantry.
His expression seemed as polite as ever, buffed only by a tremble on his lips. Which, upon closer examination, were glued together, hiding them effectively.
As he finally finished decorating the tray, the tea set guarding the sugar cubes and boxes, Walter took it to your room.
The hallway remained silent. The cups clicked a little with the plates, following a strange rhythm. The same as an animal's run. Like the monkey on the wallpaper, who jumped on the door frames before swirling down on the floor. It was stupid. The butler almost laughed, and the wild animal kept its shenanigans.
Unfortunately, the monkey ran away after the door of your chambers closed behind him. There, you lay on the bed, sheets up to your shoulders, arranged in such a way by Walter's own hands upon leaving for the teacups, nose ready to explode, eyelids down with small drops of water compelled to go beneath them.
'Such a shame,' Walter thought while the tray stayed on the nightstand, near a scarf. The one he insisted that you had to wear, but you still didn't. And his work was paused because you lay half-dead in bed.
He retrieved a pill from the box. "Stand up, dear. Time to take your medicine."
You tried to get up, your elbows shaking a little before falling back on the bed. A groan escaped you. Walter wanted to punch you. But didn't. Instead, he came beside you with the pill and glass of water, slowly helping you take it.
With a gulp, it was gone.
Then, Walter brought you a biscuit, leaving the teapot lid full of steam. You took it, eyes blinking slowly.
"Are you feeling any better?" he asked, arms behind him. Sometimes he felt like talking to Integra and not you. Well, he did, in a way. Those practised words don't go anywhere. The smiles neither. Certainly not the illusions.
"Walter."
The sound of his name made the butler blink once; his head snapped automatically towards you. "What?"
"Won't you get sick as well?" you asked, a frown once again moulding your face. Under bags red, almost purple, you looked worse. So, so much so. Walter mused whether he had responded. For a moment, he wasn’t certain whether he had spoken at all. Regardless, he shook his head, strolling to pour some tea.
"Well?" you said. Arms reaching towards the cup.
"Because," he responded while stirring his tea, "I took care of Integra several times, with even worse colds. And I didn't get sick once. You are a piece of cake."
You gave him a look.
Walter lied to himself. Thoroughly. His mind did, and so did his body. Not once did he get sick. Not when Integra got sick three times during the winter she was 14, nor when she was 9.
Yet, now, each ankle and elbow could happily be ripped. The aching of his muscles signalled this anyway. His eternally straight spine was curved, bending into the pillow's shape.
You sat beside him, handing him a teacup. A smile plastered across your features. "Come on, drink."
He looked at it for a few moments before doing so. His mouth closed right away, nearly spitting out.
'This is disastrous,' he thought before thanking you politely.
Then, his eyes scanned the tray beside him. "Could you at least try to stack things better, though?"