Work Text:
He had heard the guard. Knew the words that were said were "seems unwell", not "is injured". And yet it did nothing to stop him from storming out of his meeting, cane thumping resoundingly (his expression must have been more terrifying than usual, no one had dared to make a single sound in protest, and some were likely to still be sitting there until he got back). He had made such an effort to ensure your safety since your arrival in Obsidian. No one knew the dangers better than he did after all, and he knew he’d never recover if something happened to you whilst in his care. The cogs in his mind were turning, his brain trying to make the usual connections and leaps that he was renowned and feared for, but every idea came at him in such a rush that he found he couldn’t settle on a logical conclusion. First, he had to establish the facts, with his own eye, preferably. The repetition of the words he actually heard, not the ones he feared, did nothing to curb the feeling of dread in his chest, the need to see you with his own eye, the worry, the fear, the old memories--
Turning the corner, he found you, to the side of the corridor, slumped against the wall. For a moment he almost faltered (were you conscious?), felt his chest beat out of rhythm (had you passed out?). Two more guards were hovering over you, clearly wanting to help but also aware they were not permitted to. In the last twenty steps it took to reach you, he could hear your chiding tone in his mind, a conversation you had shared multiple times ("Gilbert, the decree is ridiculous, what if I need help when you're not around?" "And where exactly would you be going without me, little rabbit?"), and if he felt just a little chagrined at the situation playing out exactly as you said, only you might be able to figure it out (later). And that would be fine.
For now, the worry overpowered everything. You had looked up when you heard him approaching (not unconscious, awake and aware), had known it was him before he could even call for you (had you recognised the sound of his footsteps? It would be delightful if you did, though it was more likely his cane that gave him away). You smiled at him, leaning against the wall as you were, and you seemed fine, bar sitting against the wall in a random corridor. Your voice didn't waver when you called his name and you seemed more embarrassed at the attention than in pain. Your face was paler than usual though.
She seems unwell sir.
He knew from the look on your face that you'd be apologizing for interrupting his work the second he was close enough (as if it mattered, as if anything mattered more to him than you, but you still didn't quite believe that, no matter how many times he insisted it was true). You were pushing yourself up before he could reach you, support reaching out from well-meaning but unacceptable hands. They stopped short and their owners seemed to leap away in response to his presence and you acknowledged it all with a huff and a pointed look in his direction. He could hear your voice as clearly as if you had shouted the words down the hall at him ("what did I tell you? This is silly Gilbert").
It didn't matter though. In the next moment, he was beside you, arms out to catch you, legs braced to support your weight. Your hands landed on his arms, holding gently, not clutching (not in need of support). As he looked you over, confirming for once and for all that there was no injury (though you were definitely pale and your temperature was higher than usual and he had ultimately found you sitting in the corridor so something was clearly wrong; if not physically then--). Your hand on his cheek brought him back and you smiled ruefully as his eye locked with yours. You truly did seem fine and he felt some of the tension give way.
"I'm okay, I promise Gil, it's nothing serious-"
Which means there was Something. The tension was back. He could feel his smile become sharper, his eye narrowing, and you stroked his cheek, thumb brushing softly under his one eye, in response. There was a look on your face asking him to not go overboard - though you expecting him to control himself when Something was an issue now hovering between you asking for a bit much considering who he was, in his opinion. The thought must have shown on his face because you made a small noise in your throat, your smile exasperated but affectionate. It eased him down again; he knew what you were like when you were actually unwell - you had little energy for joking and your smile never conveyed as many feelings at once (in his heart of hearts, he considered that maybe that was one of the scariest things he had ever witnessed. Your eyes glazed over with fever, your smile so hollow in comparison to what he knew of you and so brief, fading after barely a moment as the pain and discomfort took you again. He had decided to do everything he could to prevent you from getting so sick again, Walter's professional bewilderment at his "advancing medical technology by another hundred years" meaning barely anything in the face of you waking up, fever finally broken, and reaching for him, calling his name so gently, so affectionately).
You did seem fine. Perhaps it was a momentary thing, with you pushing yourself to help around the castle. He might have believed it, if you hadn't taken a step towards him and he hadn't watched your eyes lose focus as you tilted and half stumbled into him. His arms were already around you, bearing most of your weight, as you breathed sharply against his neck. There was the smallest groan on discomfort at the back of your throat, though it was loud enough in his ears to drown out the worried exclamations from beside him. You were unwell then. There was Something.
Almost like you knew what was about to happen, your hands clamped down on his before he could reach low and lift you. There was a panicked look on your face as you locked eyes with him, minutely but frantically shaking your head. His patience was fraying; the lack of explanation was aggravating him. He could almost feel the pieces of the puzzle coming together, but somehow couldn’t quite grasp what the look on your face meant. But you knew him so well, better than anyone ever could. One hand smoothing over his chest, you glanced at the two guards still standing nearby.
"Could you get me a painkiller from Walter? And maybe some hot water and a towel? Please."
Their responses were immediate, a quick and sharp salute at both of you before they immediately rushed down the hallway. Gilbert watched them go, feeling the threads in his mind finally pull taunt with understanding. A glance at you as you turned back to him and your expression tied the knot, the answer settling, the picture crystal clear.
"Help me to bed please?" Your smile was small and apologetic (and still undercut with embarrassment – teasing you now would be exceptionally mean, especially with your legs still shaky), soft fingers reaching up to his face again to brush through black strands. You almost definitely knew how far you had pushed him in the past few minutes, though now he understood why you were trying to avoid providing any explanations (you had expected him to figure it out, clearly, though he suspects a part of you might have hoped he wouldn’t – loving relationship or no, appearing vulnerable in front of him was like asking him to play with you and you both knew it, and while you knew it was all in good fun and with all his affection, perhaps you wanted to spare yourself the embarrassment of the current circumstances). He doubts he would have taken well to you announcing the issue either, considering his possessiveness over you and your body. The decree was not winning him any points in this argument.
Still, as he wrapped an arm around your waist and you both turned towards the bedrooms, he couldn't quite let you get away unscathed. You had scared him after all.
"At least the sheets are all black; you’ll have nothing to worry about little rabbit."
Your groan sounded down the hallway, mixing with the unfamiliar echoing sound of his genuine laughter.