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A plague doctor's mask with a black bird-like beak covered his entire face. Usually, his appearance alone was enough to make a healthy person suddenly feel ill. A long, dark coat wrapped around his body, nearly brushing the floor, while his black leather gloves moved calmly as he mixed something at the table.
The Doctor's voice came muffled from behind his mask. "You should be in bed."
You glared from behind your pillow, trying to fight the dizziness pounding at your temples. "I just have a fever. I'm not dying."
"You also vomited on Harlequin's leather shoes," he replied. "He nearly cried because the stain is hard to remove."
Instantly, you pulled the blanket up to your nose, wishing you could disappear from the universe out of sheer embarrassment. "Oh God… tell him I'll buy him a new pair."
The Doctor let out a long sigh, as if dealing with a stubborn child. He rose from his chair and moved closer with steps so silent it felt unnatural for a man over two meters tall. In his hand, he carried a ceramic cup filled with a thick black liquid that emitted a bitter, pungent aroma—a smell that instinctively made your body recoil.
"Drink this. All of it."
"It looks like something that could cleanse a person's sins."
"It's medicine."
"That's clearly poison."
"The line between the two is only a matter of dosage," replied the Doctor. "The effects are almost the same. You'll recover faster."
"That sounds suspicious coming from you."
To be honest, your irritation wasn't just because of the disgusting concoction. The Doctor had locked you inside this medical tent since the afternoon, cutting off your access to the outside world as if you were a prisoner of war. He had even ordered Pierrot to stand like a statue at the entrance, ensuring there was no gap for you to escape. This level of protection felt too suffocating for mere fever.
The man sat beside the cot where you lay, then shoved the cup toward you again.
With a slow movement, you reached for something on the small table beside the bed. A red apple.
The Doctor glanced briefly. "You want to eat?"
You lifted the apple slowly toward his mask, staring directly at the blue lenses behind the eye holes of his mask. In the softest voice you could muster, you whispered, "They say an apple a day keeps the doctor away."
The Doctor did not move, but you could feel the atmosphere around you shift, growing more tense. Suddenly, his large, leather-gloved hand snatched the apple from your grasp before you could even blink.
"That's my apple!" you protested, trying to sit up even as your head spun.
"It's mine now," he retorted.
"It was to chase you away!"
"Then your strategy failed."
You glared in frustration, while the Doctor remained seated calmly, the red apple in his hand contrasting with his dark black gloves. The situation was so absurd it felt like a strange nightmare: you were arguing about fruit with a figure who literally looked like a manifestation of death.
You were still glaring, annoyed that your apple had been confiscated, but your courage suddenly waned when the Doctor placed the apple back on the table. His black leather gloves felt cold and smooth against your feverish skin. He forced you to look directly into the dark lenses that hid his eyes.
"Drink. Or I'll have to use more… forceful methods."
"Try me," you challenged in a hoarse voice, even though your heart was now beating faster than the fever had made it all day.
The Doctor did not answer with words. Instead, he moved closer until you could feel his breath through his mask. He took the cup of medicine, then placed his leather-clad thumb on your lower lip, pressing gently until your mouth opened slightly.
"I don't like wasting time," he murmured, "and I like seeing you suffer even less."
The man helped lift your head from the pillow, resting it against his sturdy arm wrapped in his heavy coat. When the rim of the cup touched your lips, he didn't pour right away. He waited until you were completely still in his embrace.
"Slowly," he whispered in your ear.
You drank the bitter liquid with a wince, yet strangely, the acrid taste no longer felt so bad. After the cup was empty, he didn't pull away immediately. His leather-gloved fingers wiped the remaining drops from the corner of your lips with an incredibly gentle motion—a puzzling contrast to his macabre appearance.
"Good," he praised.
You rested your head against his firm chest, feeling both exhausted and safe at the same time.