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The first time the Royal Guard’s up-and-coming golden boy hobbled into the palace’s sick ward, George barely batted an eye. He had been running off his feet for the better part of the morning, attempting—fruitlessly, it so seemed—to quell the minor epidemic of flu that had swept through the servant’s hall. As of an hour ago, he was also, on the sly, sorting out the case of one visiting dignitary that he feared might’ve gotten the clap. His cots were full, people were near coughing up lungs left and right, and the room positively stank of fragrant steam, but he couldn’t pry open a window lest he added pneumonia to his ever-growing list of problems.
Safe to say, George was in a horrid mood, so by the time the notorious Dream limped into the sick ward, a deep gash gushing blood down his leather training gear, it took every holy power within George not to scream.
Unsubtly glaring at the man with the vengeance of a thousand suns, George took a deep breath before snapping, “What do you bloody want?” The harsh, demanding tone was a far cry from his usual bedside manner, but he was almost certain all his patience had leaped bodily out the window. He took another deep breath and attempted to suppress his frustrations with some sort of dignity.
Dream cleared his throat and straightened to his full height, his left leg bent awkwardly to avoid any weight. “Well, um, ‘bloody’ being the key term there. I had a bit of an accident sparring with Techno.”
George rolled his eyes and wordlessly yanked open his cabinet to retrieve some supplies. He’d forgotten the guard had grown up in another kingdom, though, why he insisted on being obtuse when he’d had two, long years to adapt to the local colloquialisms, it alluded George. What further stumped him was Dream’s suicidal drive to best the king’s most senior guardsman in combat. Oh, they were around the same age, sure, but Technoblade had an eerie, supernatural edge to him that caused warning sirens to blare in George’s head whenever he saw the man fight. It was an adeptness in combat that was inhumane. A shiver racked through George’s body at the thought, but when he turned back around, arms loaded with gauze and disinfectant to find Dream leaning against a wall sheepishly, twiddling with the cuffs of his gear, all his prior irritation came flooding back.
“Well, take a seat, won’t you?” he commented sarcastically, gesturing to a wooden chair just right of where Dream stood.
Dream shuffled over cautiously and all but collapsed in the chair.
“Idiot,” George muttered venomously when Dream craned his head back and sighed with blissful relief.
George glanced at the spot where he once stood. There was blood on the floor. Marvelous.
Dumping his supplies on the low table next to Dream, George haphazardly scrunched up a fistful of gauze and shoved it against his wound. Dream flinched violently above him, but George continued to apply as much pressure as he could, unfazed.
“Gonna stop the bleeding first,” George mumbled. Frequently, he’d explain his methods in common terms to his patients as he worked. It was a brilliant tactic for easing their minds and giving them something to focus on while George jammed a needle into their arm or reset a bone. His irate mood meant that his tone was less than gentle, but he didn’t abandon the practice entirely.
A pained groan sounded from the far side of the ward. Vague mumbling. The shuffle of feet.
“Medic!” someone shouted. George snapped his gaze up to find Ranboo jogging towards him. The lanky boy was a strange but rather sweet addition to the hall staff, and with so many patients to look after, he had been assigned to assist George with his work.
“Yes, Ranboo?” George replied, trying to keep the exasperation from his voice. He gritted his teeth when the boy flushed a bit red. He hadn’t succeeded.
“It’s Tubbo, mister medic… sir.” He curled in on himself and fiddled anxiously with his hands. For such an imposingly tall figure, he was an expert at making himself appear small. “His fever’s risen, and nothing he’s saying makes any sense.”
George groaned and swore colorfully, causing Ranboo’s heterochromatic eyes to widen.
“He’s delirious. Let me…” He looked up at Dream and into the unsettling grin plastered across his porcelain mask. “Here.”
George seized Dream’s wrist. The man jumped nearly out of his seat and twisted out of George’s grip. George huffed a suffering sigh. Guardsmen. He reached for Dream’s wrist again, this time clasping a tad too tight, and guided his hand down to his wound. Stuffing the bundle of gauze into his calloused hand, George ordered,
“Keep this here. Apply as much pressure as you can— it should hurt. I need to deal with something.”
“I— um—” Dream stuttered, almost dropping the gauze in surprise.
George clambered to his feet and gave him a sardonic grin. Leaning in close to Dream’s obscured face, he stated, his words dripping with sarcasm,
“You’re a big boy. You can handle it.”
Dream made a choked-off sound in the back of his throat. George simply turned away and headed for Tubbo’s cot, gesturing for Ranboo to follow.
If Dream’s cheeks were on fire beneath his mask, it was nobody’s business but his own.
---
“Alright,” George began, strolling back over to the chair he had abandoned Dream in. Upon later reflection, he would chastise himself for leaving a member of the Royal Guard to his own devices with a gaping leg wound, but he was beyond sparing a thought for propriety at the moment. “Let’s get you patched up.”
George knelt down in front of Dream—with the ward still at full capacity he couldn’t transfer him—and pried the gauze from his hand. Dream’s palm was slippery with blood and the liquid had crept beneath his nails, but the wad of cloth was barely soaked through. He glanced questioningly at Dream.
“I had to use two,” the man hastily explained, pointing to a grotesque, blood-saturated ball of gauze that sat on the table next to him.
Huh, not a complete fool then. Though, the used material in question was a touch too close to the clean roll for George’s liking. George nodded in reluctant approval before directing all focus on his work. The worst of the bleeding had halted and the risk of infection was low with the way guardsmen in the palace fastidiously wiped and polished their weapons, but the wound still needed to be cleaned. This inevitably led to Dream hissing and wincing as George ruthlessly took a bottle of disinfectant to the large gash. When he was satisfied, George inquired,
“Want something stiffening? I’m off to get the needle.”
Dream tensed. “It needs stitches?”
“Yes, do you want the malt or not?” Hesitantly, Dream nodded. George couldn’t resist a parting shot. “You’d think a guardsman would be able to handle a bit more gore than this.” His voice was cool and his words were scathing.
Dream visibly prickled. “I can handle my fair share,” he snapped. His posture deflated an instant later, immediately regretting his harsh tone. George didn’t catch it, and when he turned his back, he privately rolled his eyes. Military types.
---
The next day, George’s new apprentice arrived, and although the boy was untrained, having an extra pair of hands made the situation much more manageable. Between him, his new charge, and Ranboo, they were able to nurse all the affected servants back to health and clear out the overwhelmed ward. After the last of the servants had recovered, George finally released Ranboo from his command and sent him back to the hall staff to wreak havoc with a healthy and rather stir-crazy Tubbo.
With the ward blissfully quiet (barring a few minor emergencies), George could finally focus on acquainting his apprentice, a clever, young boy named Fundy, with the basics. They had started the day with hygiene for personal safety and various practices to prevent cross-contamination—a tedious but essential topic. The ongoing lesson ran right up until the servant’s dinner, after which George had relieved Fundy of all responsibilities while he went to supervise the ward until his off-time.
Now, having just clocked off (as much as a live-in medic can), George was heading down into the servant’s hall to await the arrival of his friend, Sapnap, for a game of cards.
“Holy shit, where’d you get that?” an ecstatic voice yelled from inside the hall.
“Nicked it from my dad. He’s got dozens. He’ll never notice,” someone replied.
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea to have that—”
“Right, you are, Ranboo,” George interrupted loudly, swooping into the room and liberating the offending item from Fundy’s grasp. George slid open the cartoon, stubbornly ignoring the indignant cries from both Fundy and Tubbo. Four cigarettes, one filter-side down, and a couple of matches tucked next to them.
He let out a chastising tsk before stuffing the pack into his pocket. “As your resident medical professional, trust me when I tell you that you don’t want any of this garbage in your body. It’s practically lung disease in a stick.” Tubbo crossed his arms childishly and pouted at him, and Fundy slumped sullenly at having his grand streak of rebellion ripped from him. Ranboo, on the other hand, flicked his eyes back and forth between George and his friends, transparently guilty that he had spoiled their fun but relieved that they hadn’t actually smoked anything.
“Come on, sir, everyone smokes, though. We just wanna try it,” Fundy whined, hitting George with large, pleading eyes.
George smirked a bit at Fundy’s dramatics, taking a seat a couple of chairs to the boy’s right. “Not for long, they won’t be. I didn’t realize I’d have to acquaint you with the Smoking Lecture so early, Fundy, but you won’t be scowling when I showed you the ghastly images they captured of smokers’ lungs this year.”
“Do tell,” a light, teasing voice entered the conversation. George turned to the right to see Niki enter from the kitchen, both hands clutching a tea tray. There was a small, pleasant smile adorning her thin lips and a streak of flour was smudged across her cheek. A stained apron was tied tightly around her waist and her pastel pink hair was gathered in a messy bun. She set the tray down in the middle of the table between Ranboo, Tubbo, and Fundy, and took a seat next to Fundy. The boys’ expressions lit up when they realized that a plate piled with sweets accompanied the regular pot of tea. They were no doubt “flawed” products that weren’t sent up to the nobility’s dinner for being unsightly or unevenly baked but tasted delicious nonetheless.
George grinned at her, watching mischievously as the kids dug in. “Oh, it’s horrible, Niki. Lungs all shriveled up, the tissue misshapen and inflamed, gone black all over, and just oozing tar into your innards.” Ranboo blanched at the description, his face going a bit pale. Fundy’s eyes widened comically. Tubbo froze—mid-bite of a fruit tart. George steamrolled on,
“In fact, I could go get it right now—”
“No!” all three boys yelled in unison. Niki and George exchanged an amused glance. Success.
“Think fast!” someone shouted from the hallway, giving George a precious five seconds before he got smacked in the head with a dense object. He whipped around in his chair, a few select curses on his tongue, to find Sapnap. The man had changed out of his guardsmen training gear, but his mop of black hair, eternally held back by a white band, was still saturated with sweat. His suit jacket was slung over his shoulder, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up on his elbows. There was an irritatingly smug grin on his face.
“Evening, everyone,” he greeted, nodding respectfully at the other occupants of the servant hall. He turned to George. “I see your reflexes still haven’t improved,” he taunted.
George rolled his eyes. “You always give me like two seconds to react. It’s ridiculous,” he grumbled, bending down to retrieve the full pack of cards that Sapnap had chucked at him as the man strode around the table to sit on the opposite side.
George shook the deck out of the pack and slid the stack over to Sapnap, who separated and shuffled the cards with professional agility. He folded and bridged the deck thrice before setting up the game. When they were both situated, cards in hand, Sapnap asked,
“So, you finally got to meet Dream the other day, right? I saw his leg all wrapped up. It looks nasty.” He placed a pair of cards on the table.
George rolled his eyes and scoffed as he took his turn. “You want to talk about Dream?” he responded incredulously. “He’ll certainly live, though, you wouldn’t know it the way he was acting when I had to stitch it.” He slapped a couple of cards down on the table and swiped one from the picking stack.
Sapnap raised a bemused eyebrow. “Shit, what’d he do to trigger your claws?”
George looked up from his hand to glare at Sapnap. He gritted his teeth hard, feeling the dull ache in his molars. “First of all, stop calling them ‘my claws.’ I’m not a cat.” He rearranged a few of his cards. “Second, he came in, bleeding all over the floor, when I had nearly two dozen patients because he thought it was a good fucking idea to spar with Technoblade of all people. He’s a complete idiot.”
An amused smirk crept onto Sapnap’s face. He picked a card. “Come on, he’s not that bad. You’re just pissed because you were up for like twenty hours that day.”
“He’s an egotistical prick who clearly doesn’t have any respect for my work. My job isn’t any less important just because it doesn’t involve swinging a sword at someone. He’s got no right to snip at me,” George huffed.
“We know that, Gogs,” Sapnap said gently, attempting to placate him. “And I know for a fact that Dream doesn’t think like that.”
George scoffed again. “Whatever. Maybe if you introduced me to your friends properly I’d actually know what they’re like.”
Sapnap let out a heavy sigh and flicked a card onto the table. “You’ll get to meet them properly soon. We’ve all been busy.”
The reminder caused a smirk to grow on George’s face, and he teased, “I’d especially love to meet the Karl and Quackity that you talk about all the time.”
“I don’t… talk about them all the time,” Sapnap mumbled, fiddling with the corner of a card. His cheeks were flushing redder by the second.
George grinned mischievously, keenly aware that Niki and the boys were still at the table. He remarked loudly, “Come on, I think I’ve heard enough about Karl’s smile to write a whole poem about it, and I won’t even get you started on Quackity—”
“Shut up!” Sapnap hissed, leaning across the table to slap a hand over George’s mouth. George stared at him with a devious look in his eyes before brazenly licking the palm of Sapnap’s hand.
“What the fuck!” Sapnap yelled, yanking his hand away and frantically scrubbing his hand against his trousers. George cackled at the expression of pure disgust on his friend’s face. “Gross. You’re literally a medic, you little shit, you know how unsanitary that is.”
“Worth it,” George declared, placing his last pair of cards on the table. “And I win.”
Sapnap glared maliciously at him as he swept up the cards and aligned the deck. He dealt the cards again.
---
It was a beautiful day. Though the weather was cool, the sun shone brightly in the sky, casting a heavenly glow upon the stunning reds, oranges, and yellows of the molting trees. The residents of the capital were in high spirits as they counted down the days to the Harvest Festival, and the jovial mood was seeping into the palace from every nook and cranny. Everything was serene and content… so, of course, Sapnap was bothering him.
“George!” Sapnap screamed, spotting him from across the courtyard. George winced at the jarring shout, mentally berating himself for taking the path past the guardsmen’s training yard. Due to the recent epidemic of flu that had him dead on his feet for days, loads of the ward’s supplies were running low, so George had taken the liberty of popping into the city to replenish the items that they desperately needed, and if the trip enabled him to enjoy the day’s wonderful atmosphere as he perused the city’s spice market and hunted down various medicines at the pharmacy, he wasn’t exactly complaining. Now, returning from his little jaunt through the urban jungle, George decided to loop around the right side of the palace to get to the servant’s entrance. Gods, what a mistake that was.
“George!” Sapnap shrieked his name again, waving wildly and drawing the attention of all the other people in the courtyard. Some of them turned to stare at George; he gave them a tight-lipped smile before marching around the outside of the training ground to reach Sapnap.
“You’re so embarrassing,” George hissed when Sapnap was finally in hearing range. He began depositing his canvas bags of medical supplies along the far wall, sensing that this conversation would go on longer than he both needed or wanted it to.
Sapnap smiled mockingly at his dramatic declaration. “Oh, Sapnap, my dearest, most handsome friend, how lovely it is to see you this afternoon,” he jeered in bad intimidation of George’s accent before switching to a tone of exaggerated politeness in his own foreign drawl. “Oh, Gogy, my most esteemed companion, I’m delighted to have stumbled upon you.”
George shot him a murderous glare. Sapnap crossed his arms and stared right back.
Sapnap broke first. He always does. “So,” the man started, elongating the word in an imitation of sickly sweetness. “Care for a quick spar?”
George raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Sapnap, I don’t have time to—”
“Come on, you’ll spar with the medic, but not with me?” Dream swooped in from nowhere and interrupted. His voice sounded suspiciously like he was pouting beneath the mask.
George gritted his teeth, his remark filled with thinly veiled rage, “My name is George, which you would know if you ever bothered to ask, and I could kick Sapnap’s ass any day.”
Sapnap let out a brash bark of a laugh. “As if.”
“Well, I bet you could never beat me,” Dream declared smugly, straightening his posture and crossing his arms in an intimidating manner.
George’s head snapped up, and he locked eyes with the painted dots on Dream’s mask. This fucking— “Bet!” he hissed. George ripped open the buttons on his waistcoat and yanked the sleeves of his undershirt up to his elbows. “Let’s find out. Spar me.”
Dream froze while Sapnap turned to him with a manic grin. “What— right now?” Dream stuttered out.
George matched Sapnap’s grin. “Yep, right now. Unless… you’re scared.”
George could see the moment his words registered in Dream’s brain. The man physically prickled, his whole body squaring up as his hands curled into tight fists.
So, that’s how George found himself face-to-face with an experienced, highly trained guardsman, readying himself to potentially get his ass beat into the sandy surface of the palace’s training ground.
They had decided on hand-to-hand combat only, and in the interest of “fairness,” Dream had shed his leather practice gear. Blatantly ignoring that any attempt to balance the fight was nullified by their sheer gap in skill, they situated themselves within the confines of a circular ring painted into the ground and waited for the signal of a frighteningly ecstatic Sapnap.
George inhaled deeply, his sensing focusing on where Dream stood ahead of him. Tension was building in his mind, anxiously anticipating the start of their mock fight. George dug his nails into the palm of his hands. Sapnap swung his hand down. “Go!”
Immediately, George advanced on Dream, viciously swinging his arm around to smack his forearm into Dream’s skull. Dream, not expecting the agile, brutal attack, barely dodged it. He twisted to the side, ducking under George’s arm, only for George’s left leg to slam into the side of his knee. Dream’s knee buckled slightly, but he recovered and swiftly retreated a few steps. George could tell that Dream expected nothing of his combat skills and was prepared to go easy on him. He grinned, planting his feet and putting his arms up to block his face. Courteous but unnecessary.
Visibly reassessing his strategy, Dream crept cautiously towards George, scanning his stance for weaknesses. Unexpectedly, Dream ran directly at George, who, in a moment of panic, lurched back and unbalanced himself. Dream took advantage of this by attempting to shove George backward and onto the floor. Flailing a bit, George latched into Dream’s arms and jumped, using the leverage to thrust both his feet into Dream’s stomach. Dream released George and stumbled back, a wheeze escaping his throat. George could hear Sapnap screaming nonsense from the sideline.
They traded blows for a bit longer, George lasting longer than he honestly expected to. If it was a product of Dream being caught off guard by George’s abilities or the guardsman tempering his attacks so as not to grievously injure George, he was unsure, but eventually, the sparring match ended. Dream pulled out a much more advanced move than those he had previously been using. Taking repeated shots to George’s sides, he backed him up until he was frantic and unbalanced before sweeping his feet out from under him. George crashed to the floor with Dream on top of him. His breath left his body in a pained “oof,” and while he was temporarily stunned, Dream pinned him with an arm pressed against his throat and a knee digging into his stomach.
All the fight drained out of George’s body, and he slammed his hand into the ground a few times, admitting defeat. Dream planted his feet on the ground and slowly clambering off of George. Even though he was the one sprawled on the ground, George smirked deviously up at Dream, noting his furious panting and the sweat dripping down his neck.
Sapnap let out an elated whoop and jogged up to them, rambling a mile a minute about how cool their fight was. Dream didn’t take his gaze off George, though. He titled his head as if observing him, considering him in a new light. George slowly propped himself into a sitting position, acutely feeling the bruises forming all over his body.
Dream cleared his throat, halting Sapnap’s rant. “Hey, um, good match,” he said, offering a hand to pull George to his feet. George considered it for a moment before conceding. He took Dream’s hand and allowed himself to be tugged to his feet. He clasped Dream’s hand in both of his own as he responded,
“Yeah, good one.” They separated their hands, and George turned to collect his supplies, a farewell on the tip of his tongue.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” Dream blurted out, his words knocking together in their rush to escape to his mouth. George stopped and turned to look at Dream. A small, almost modest smile graced his lips.
“I was a field medic for the army. Captain NotFound, 3rd Medical Regiment, at your service,” George answered, theatrically going into parade stance and snapping a quick salute. “Now, I’ve got to get back to work,” and with that, he walked over to the wall, hauled his collection of canvas bags onto his shoulders, and set course for the sick ward.
Dream and Sapnap were left in the courtyard surrounded, once again, only by their fellow guardsmen. Dream stared after George in a daze as Sapnap looked between the two and chuckled condescendingly.
“Oh, man,” Sapnap said, breaking the silence. He clapped a hand on Dream’s shoulder. “You are so fucked.”
---
The next time Dream graced the sick ward with his presence, George was instructing Fundy on herbal remedies for common ailments. He was currently testing Fundy on the knowledge they had already reviewed and watched with silent approval as the boy rattled off the effects of poppy seeds, hitting every piece of information. George was about to hand Fundy another jar to lecture on when, in his peripheral vision, he saw something stir in the doorway. He glanced over to find Dream staring back at him—mask still fixed on his face. He was dressed casually this time—shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and grey trousers comfortably loose—and cradled his left wrist in his other hand.
George set down a jar of lavender before addressing Fundy,
“You’ve done an excellent job here. Why don’t you go take tea with the hall boys? It’s about that time.”
Fundy’s eyes lit up in delight, and he gave George a wide grin. “Thank you, sir!” he chirped as he slipped past Dream and down the hall.
“Now, what seems to be the problem?” George directed the question at Dream with a strained, polite smile.
Dream’s gait stuttered at George’s formal tone, but he quickly recovered. “I— um— I’ve messed up my wrist.” He held it up awkwardly.
George was at least attempting to bend to the proper formalities this time, but he couldn't rein in the blunt, unimpressed look that he shot Dream. He could already tell that Dream's wrist was swollen, and it was a touch redder than could be considered normal. The man really made it impossible to put any respect on his name. “I was hoping not to see you in here until next month—” when he’d have to check out how his cut was healing, “—but have a seat.”
“You didn’t want to see me?” Dream blurted out, his shoulders curling dejectedly inward.
George rolled his eyes, fed up enough to chuck formalities out the window. “Not because you’re injured, idiot.”
Dream stilled for a beat, subtly pleased, before plopping down on the edge of an empty cot. His emotions were always so… loud, George noticed. He wondered if Dream’s facial expressions betrayed his every thought as transparently as his body language did.
George crowded up in front of Dream—a tad closer than medically necessary, but he could get away with fooling himself—and held out a hand. Dream lifted his injured wrist, and George began to examine it. He rolled the joint this way and that, applying pressure to specific points and noting the extent of the swelling. Dream had kept up a steady—unprompted—rant about his day, the new recruits for the Guard, and how desperately it ached as George worked, but when he finally asked Dream what had caused the injury, the man went suspiciously silent.
George raised an eyebrow. Dream cleared his throat.
“I was helping Niki—the cook’s assistant—” George’s jaw twitched, and he nearly rolled his eyes again. He probably talked to Niki more in a week than Dream did in a year. “—carry in a delivery and I…” Dream mumbled the rest unintelligibly.
“What?” George prompted impatiently, his snappish tone contrasting wildly the way his fingertips brushed tenderly over Dream’s skin.
Dream turned away from George even though his face was still concealed by a layer of porcelain. He visibly swallowed. “I fell down the stairs.”
George froze, his fingers digging into Dream’s forearm. Don’t do it.
He burst out laughing.
“Hey— wait! This— this is serious!” Dream stuttered, his voice cracking with embarrassment.
George could barely hear Dream, though. He was cackling madly, hiccuping with the force of trying to suppress it. He brought a hand up in front of his mouth, palm out, as if to muffle it, but it was no use. His other hand went to the cot, to hold himself up, but he missed. His hand slipped off the mattress, and he pitched forward, knocking his head into Dream’s shoulder. They both stiffened.
Then, a high-pitched wheeze escaped Dream’s throat, and he was shaking with laughter himself. George grinned widely, laughing along with him at Dream, at himself, at the absurdity of the scenario, and everything in between. Their elation echoed through the otherwise silent ward.
---
Unfortunately—and rather fortunately, George would admit in private—Dream became a consistent presence in the sick ward in the weeks following. George saw Dream back a few days after he had fashioned a brace for his wrist to check how it was healing, as well as to firmly remind him that he couldn’t do any sword work that hand for at least a week. (“It’s okay, Georgie. My weapon of choice is an axe.” “You know that’s not what I mean, idiot.”)
Dream wandered back in a couple of days later, supporting a strikingly young (and foul-mouthed) Guards apprentice by the name of Tommy. The kid was leaning heavily on Dream, and his face twisted up in pain whenever his right leg was jostled. Apparently, Tommy had been training acrobatics with the leader of the Guard, one well-regarded Captain Puffy, but wasn’t nearly limber enough for it and twisted his ankle badly on some landing. Frankly, it was a much more dignified reason for jacking up one’s joints, and George was forced to muster all his professionalism in order to quell the explosive urge to laugh when his eyes drifted to the brace still clasped around Dream’s wrist. After George had finished his examination and had left Tommy to rest, George turned to Dream—who had lingered at the side of Tommy’s cot, fidgeting and humming softly—and informed him that Tommy would be back in top shape in a week. (“You can go now, Dream.” “Right! I’ll… just be on my way.”) He looked back three times.
Later in the week, after George had administered annual vaccinations to dozens of servants in a flurry of activity, Dream barged into the sick ward again. In the split moment when Dream’s figure appeared in the doorway, George couldn’t decide whether the man was his savior or his nightmare.
What came out of his mouth decided it.
“Gogy!” Dream screamed into the sick ward, empty but for a feverish valet at the far end of the room. George flinched violently, splashing the floor with water from the basin he was carrying. He shushed Dream harshly, his face twisted in rage. He whipped around to check on Mister Ruen. Luckily, they hadn’t stirred. Then, he fully registered what Dream had said.
He whirled on him. “Where the fuck did you learn that?” he demanded, his eyebrows furrowed and his cheeks hot.
Dream’s lips curled into a smirk as he proudly declared, “Sapnap.”
George inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, trying to quell his fury. Oh, Sapnap was a dead man.
George set the basin on the floor and took another breath. “You can leave if you’re just here to torture me. I have a job to do.” He quirked a pointed eyebrow at Dream, clearly implying that the man should be getting back to his own.
Dream bit the inside of his cheek. “I have a headache.”
George’s eyebrow crept even higher. “You have… a headache,” he repeated, his words drowning in skepticism.
Dream nodded hesitantly and then hurriedly, growing in confidence. “Yes, yes, I have a headache.”
“This headache must be absolutely unbearable by the way you were bloody screaming when you came in,” George intoned in mock gravity, his eyes wide and theatrically innocent.
Dream fumbled at that, clumsily retorting, “Just— can I please get a tonic?” He was refusing to look at George now.
George smirk, amused. “It’ll take me a while to mix,” he responded, his words deliberate and laced in subtle meaning.
Dream caught on and visibly perked up—like a dog about to receive a treat. He chirped, “I don’t mind!” and trailed after George as he went to unlock the medicine cabinet.
The glass door swung open, and George began to methodically remove jars of various herbs. He set a couple on the countertop before looking up and cursing softly. Fundy had placed one of the key components on the top shelf—the one that George could barely reach and, therefore, usually reserved for rarely used commodities. His gaze darted sideways, keenly aware that Dream was lounging against the counter next to him, fiddling with a beaded bracelet that he usually wore with his casual clothes.
This is going to be so embarrassing, George thought, his mouth twisting into a grimace. Nevertheless, he rocked onto toes and reached for the jar, pressing a hand on the countertop in a fruitless attempt to stretch higher. He gritted his teeth as his fingertips fumbled with the surface of the jar. A warm mass pressed against the right side of his body. George stiffened. Dream had slid up next to him and was now batting his hand away to retrieve the jar. He did it with ease. The jar made a small clink when it met the surface of the countertop. Dream pivoted his whole body to face George—still painfully close. All George could do was blink at him.
“Well,” Dream began, tilting his head. The corners of his mouth twitched. Both usually prefaced something ridiculously cocky leaving his mouth, as George had discovered. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”
George snapped out of his daze to scoff. There it is. “As if, idiot. It is, in fact, your moral-bound duty as a tall person to help out the less vertically gifted.”
Dream wheezed at that, mouthing the words “vertically gifted” and laying a hand on the counter. He leaned further into George’s space, still chuckling softly. His breath ghosted George’s cheek when he spoke,
“Just make the headache tonic, Gogy. My head’s splitting.” His smirk was uncontainable at that point, and his tone was utterly devious.
A small smirk pulled at George’s lips in turn. Teasingly, he quipped, “Whatever you say, Dweam.”
---
Dream was back not even a day later.
Gods, he’s so endearingly obvious, was the first thought that popped into George’s head when Dream strolled into the sick ward—his usual bravo dialed up by ten and transparently fake.
“How ‘bout I deliver the pills to the Duke?” Fundy asked, pulling George’s attention back to his task. There was a knowing smile curled on Fundy’s lips as his gaze flickered between Dream and George. He extracted the bottle from George’s grip and was heading out the door before George could even agree. Along the way, Fundy tactfully nudged George in Dream’s direction and stared semi-threateningly at Dream as he passed him. George tracked Fundy with his eyes as he left, unsure whether to be heartened or utterly mortified.
George glanced at Dream, and they stared at each other in perplexed silence. From the open window, George could hear birds chirping a mellifluous tone and the notes of an emotional violin piece were drifting into the ward from somewhere down the hall. Fundy’s display had made the arrogance in Dream’s stance falter a tad, but his tone was still frightfully obnoxious when he demanded,
“Bandage this for me.” He held up his right arm, where his left hand was wrapped around his forearm, covering the wound. A bit of blood leaked out from between his fingers.
George raised an eyebrow at him. “Not with that attitude I won’t.”
Dream’s smugness further receded, and his teeth dug deep into his lip before he added, “Please.”
George pursed his lips, barely containing a smug expression, and he ordered Dream to sit. He then gently pulled Dream’s hand away from the wound. He was nearly startled to laughter. Instead, his gaze snapped up, and he stared into the eyes of Dream’s mask, a fond smile dancing on his thin lips. The cut was minuscule, yet, Dream’s motivations for seeking out the sick ward were irrefutable.
“I know you know how to bandage this yourself, Dream. You can do field dressings.” The comment was a taunt.
The veneer crumbled. Dream let out a nervous chuckle. “Um— I—” He tugged at the leather cuffs protecting his other arm. Finally, he relented. “I… just wanted to see you.”
George’s grin grew, his heart hammering in his chest. “You don’t have to keep faking illness to come and see me, you know?” As he spoke, he collected the plaster for Dream’s cut, anyway.
Dream’s body flooded with energy; his hands trembled with it. “Then, how about a picnic? Your next free day?”
George tried to school his expression into one of polite interest but to no avail. His grin was near manic, and all his thoughts seemed fuzzy. “I’d love to.”
A squeal that he would later venomously deny escaped Dream’s throat, and he ran at George, drawing him into a tight hug that literally swept him off his feet. George chuckled softly into Dream’s shoulder. His heart felt near bursting.
After a moment, Dream lowered George back down to the floor and took a step back. He wrung his hands together, head tilted down. “Sorry, I’m so excited! I… wasn’t sure you were going to say yes.”
George rolled his eyes and pried Dream’s hands apart, holding them reverently in his own. “Of course I did, idiot,” he whispered affectionately, lacing their fingers together and grinning up at Dream. “I’ll always say yes to you.”