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Sick Days with: Housewardens

One where you're sick and they're trying their best to care for you

Riddle Rosehearts

The first sneeze earns you a sharp glance, like you just admitted you’d committed tax fraud. The second sneeze, however, is when his world starts to end.. Riddle immediately concludes you’re deathly ill. Forget that sneezes can come from dust or pollen—he is already imagining pneumonia, bronchitis, scarlet fever, and illnesses that haven’t existed since the medieval era. He starts reciting medical jargon he only half understands, and you’re stuck listening to him spiral while still holding a crumpled tissue.

He brings a medical kit that looks like it could be used to perform battlefield triage. Bandages, antiseptic sprays, a thermometer, multiple hot water bottles, four types of lozenges, and—very suspiciously—a scalpel. You are afraid to ask why he has a scalpel. He insists it’s “for emergencies,” though the way his hands shake when you cough makes you doubt he could hold it steady enough to slice butter, let alone anything else.

He starts saying things like, “I’ll call a healer—no, a surgeon—”. You try to tell him it’s just a cold, but he glares at you like you’re minimizing a capital offense. He cannot fathom a world in which he underestimates the seriousness of your sniffles. If anything, he’d rather prepare for your funeral and be wrong.

Riddle has memorized every Heartslabyul rule about illness. He quotes them at you while physically tucking you into bed, hands trembling as though you’re made of glass. Every cough makes him double down, tugging the blankets tighter, smoothing the sheets, fussing with the pillows. At some point, you’re swaddled so tightly you can’t move your arms. You point this out. He insists immobilization is “for your own good.”

Riddle decides tea is the solution to all things. Chamomile for rest, ginger for nausea, peppermint for congestion. The problem is that his hands shake every single time you cough or sniffle. Which means every time he brings you a cup of tea, at least some of it ends up on the saucer, the tray, the blanket, or—worst case—directly on you. He apologizes profusely, panics harder, then attempts to make another cup, repeating the cycle until you’re sitting in bed surrounded by half-spilled mugs.

He doesn’t leave. Not for classes, not for food, not even to use the bathroom until you beg him to. He insists someone must “stand guard” to ensure you stay properly rested. You tell him you’re not planning to run a marathon while sick. He ignores you and continues sitting stiffly in a chair by your bed, book in hand, occasionally dozing off and jerking awake the moment you shift in the blankets.

He would never admit how much it terrifies him, but his eyes keep darting to you like he’s waiting for the Grim Reaper to materialize at your bedside.

When you finally start to look a little better, Riddle visibly deflates with relief—but he still insists you remain in bed another full twenty-four hours “just in case.” He’s pale, exhausted, and clearly more worn out than you, but refuses to rest himself until he’s confident you’re back to perfect health. And even then, you catch him sneaking in at night to check your breathing, like a he's scard you will stop existing if he looks away.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona refuses to acknowledge the words “worried” or “caretaker” exist in his vocabulary. If anyone suggests he’s looking after you, he’ll snort and roll over, acting like you’re the one imagining things. In his head, this is all about convenience. According to him, he’s not climbing into bed to check your temperature or make sure you’re not sweating bullets—he’s doing it because you are hogging the comfortable blanket and if you’re going to be pathetic and contagious, then clearly he deserves to be pathetic and contagious too. He announces this while already plopping into bed and stealing half your pillow.

He won’t tuck you in or fuss, but he will grumble, shove at your hip, and say, “Move over, herbivore.” When you protest that he’s going to catch whatever you have, he just scoffs and throws an arm over you, muttering that he's immune to “stupid little colds.” He smells faintly like sun-warmed grass and the faint spice of his cologne, and the warmth radiating from him is way more comforting than any blanket. Not that he’ll ever admit that’s the point.

Leona insists he doesn’t do caretaking. That he doesn’t fetch water, doesn’t prepare tea, doesn’t fluff pillows. But if anyone else dares to try—whether it’s Ruggie bringing soup or another dormmate checking in—Leona sits up like a guard dog and growls, “I’ve got it handled.”

He will show up with a plate of sliced fruit like he’s doing you the biggest favor in the world. He also eats at least two slices for every one he gives you. If you complain, he tells you you’re “too slow” and you should’ve grabbed the mango before he did. When he finally passes you a slice, though, he holds it up to your lips like feeding you is the most normal thing in the world, then pretends he’s not secretly waiting to see you eat it.

When you’re asleep, his mask slips completely. He’ll shift closer, propping his head on his arm and watching you like he’s making sure you’re still breathing. If your face scrunches up in discomfort, his fingers wander into your hair, stroking slowly and rhythmically until your features relax again. He’d never admit it while you’re awake—if you teased him about it, he’d deny it so hard you’d think you hallucinated the whole thing—but it’s the one thing that gives away how much he actually cares.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul has no real frame of reference for land-dweller colds. He knows human bodies are fragile, but he didn’t realize they were this fragile. The first sneeze makes him flinch; the second has him wringing his hands and whispering, “What if you never recover and it’s my fault??” He cycles through guilt, panic, and sheer horror in the span of thirty seconds, eyes darting to you like you’re about to keel over. Meanwhile, you’re just trying to reach for a tissue.

Azul convinces himself that your cold is not a cold at all but a rare land-dweller illness that’s about to rob him of his most precious person. He reads symptoms off a medical text he clearly hasn’t finished, occasionally stopping mid-sentence with a horrified gasp. “It says here prolonged congestion could be a sign of… of…” He refuses to say the word. Instead, he clamps the book shut and starts pacing, mumbling about worst-case scenarios.

He is genuinely ready to mobilize an entire medical unit. Three doctors, a nurse, and at least one sorcerer. Possibly two. He starts writing out a contract to ensure priority service. You sneeze again mid-monologue, and he rips the page in half and starts a new draft, voice wobbling. “We can’t waste time, what if this turns rare? What if it mutates?” You try to remind him it’s literally just a cold, but he’s already halfway through calculating how much it’ll cost to build a private infirmary.

Azul pulls out a thermometer like it’s a holy relic and insists on checking your temperature every five minutes. He records each number in a notebook, frowning with every fraction of a degree change. “Your fever went from 37.2 to 37.3… that’s an increase. That’s significant.” He looks on the verge of fainting every time he writes something down, as though the mere act of cataloguing your condition is proof you’re deteriorating. You tell him to stop, he insists he can’t—someone has to keep an accurate log “in case of medical emergencies.”

Azul tries to bring you soup. Emphasis on tries. He spends twenty minutes fussing over the bowl, making sure it’s the perfect temperature, stirring it nervously until it’s lukewarm at best. When he finally hands it to you, he hovers so close you feel like you’re under a microscope. “Does it taste all right? Not too salty? Not too hot? Not too cold? What if it upsets your stomach?” You end up patting his back and reassuring him that the soup is fine, while he wrings his hands and mutters that maybe he should have asked Jade to cook instead.

Azul never leaves your side. He claims it’s to “monitor your condition” but really he’s just catastrophizing in real time. He sits at the edge of the bed wringing his gloved hands, eyes flicking to you every few seconds, waiting for you to stop breathing. The circles under his eyes deepen because he’s too afraid to sleep. If you so much as shift, he leans in instantly with a strangled, “Are you all right? Should I fetch someone?” You have to repeatedly reassure him that yes, you’re fine, and no, you don’t need a full surgical team.

When you finally start to recover, Azul looks like he has been the one ill. He’s pale, exhausted, and emotionally drained from keeping vigil at your bedside. He tries to brush it off, acting like it was “only natural” for him to take notes, hover, and plan for your funeral just in case. If you tease him about how he screamed when you sneezed, his face flushes and he insists you must have been delirious from fever.

Kalim Al-Asim

He comes barreling into your room with more blankets than the average textile shop. Twelve at minimum. He drapes them all on you at once like he’s preparing you for hibernation, absolutely convinced he’s helping. The result is that you’re buried alive under a colorful mountain of woven fabrics. Only your nose is visible, poking out like a survivor waving a white flag. You try to protest that you can’t breathe—he just beams and tucks the edges tighter. “Warmth cures everything!” he insists, while you quietly suffocate.

Kalim firmly believes the cure to illness is food.He brings enough food to cater a wedding banquet. Plates of fruit, steaming bowls of soup, bread, rice, pastries, five kinds of juice—you name it, he’s stacked it on your nightstand until it looks like a buffet line. “Sick people need to eat more!” he says proudly, shoving a plate into your hands before piling three more bowls in your lap. You try to argue that your stomach can’t handle this much food, but he’s already halfway through ladling more stew.

He’s so focused on you that he forgets basic self-care. He keeps checking if you’ve eaten, if you’re warm, if you’re comfortable—but he never once stops to drink water or grab a bite for himself. His eyes get a little glassy, his movements sluggish, and finally, mid-sentence, he just tips over and passes out beside you. You jolt in alarm, thinking he’s caught your cold, but no—he just forgot to eat dinner because he was too busy making sure you ate four full ones.

Once he’s out cold, Kalim becomes the coziest little heater in existence. He curls up against you instinctively, wrapping his arms around you and nestling his head on your shoulder. Even asleep, he fusses—he shifts blankets higher over your chest, or tucks his knees against yours to keep you warm. His body heat is ridiculous; he’s like a living hot water bottle.

When he does wake up, it’s with a jolt of panic. “Did you get worse while I was asleep?!” he blurts, eyes wide. He immediately presses his forehead against yours to check your temperature. He repeats the gesture every ten minutes, more for his peace of mind than any real accuracy.

When night falls, he refuses to leave. He curls up right beside you again, arms protectively snug around your waist, and stays half-awake all night. Every time you stir or cough, he murmurs something reassuring and strokes your back until you settle again. His determination to keep watch means he’s the one who ends up looking exhausted in the morning, but if you try to tell him to rest, he just grins and says, “I’ll sleep when you’re better!”

By the time you’ve recovered, Kalim looks like the one who’s been through a war—dark circles under his eyes, slightly hoarse voice, hair sticking up from staying awake too much. He waves it off with a smile, saying it was “worth it” if you’re healthy again. And then, right before you can scold him for neglecting himself, he cheerfully plops another bowl into your lap. “One more bowl of soup! Just in case!”

Vil Schoenheit

The very first thing out of his mouth when he sees you sick is a flat, “Darling, you look atrocious.” Which, translated from Vil-language, really means: you’re pale, your nose is red, you look fragile and i am absolutely terrified. He says it like a critique, but the way his hands tremble slightly as he brushes your hair out of your face gives him away. He isn’t used to feeling powerless, and watching you in bed with a fever makes him feel like the world is suddenly off-balance.

Naturally, Vil does not trust ordinary medicine. No, he goes straight into apothecary mode, brewing you something incredibly effective. The potion works miracles; your fever drops within an hour. Unfortunately, it tastes exactly like you scooped up dirt from the garden, sprinkled some crushed aspirin on top, and blended it into a smoothie. You choke it down while Vil watches you with narrowed eyes, already lecturing you about the importance of prevention over treatment.

He scolds you constantly. “How could you let yourself get this run-down? Honestly, do you know what stress and fatigue do to your skin? To your immune system? To your future?” And yet, even as he’s lecturing, he’s adjusting your blanket so you don’t get chilled, fluffing your pillow, and silently swapping the cool cloth on your forehead. The words may sting, but the hands betraying him are gentle.

At some point, when your fever breaks and you drift in and out of sleep, you wake to find Vil carefully applying moisturizer to your hands. He 's telling you that hydration is essential for recovery, but the truth is that fussing over little things helps him feel like he’s doing something useful when he can’t control the illness itself. You’re barely conscious, but the soft press of lotion into your skin feels oddly comforting.

Vil is a perfectionist, which extends even into caretaking. He sets an alarm for every thirty minutes to check your temperature, make sure you’re hydrated, and fluff your pillow. By the time the second night rolls around, he’s exhausted, but refuses to leave your side. Eventually, you catch him dozing off in a chair beside your bed, posture still elegant, hair untouched by sleep, hand loosely holding yours as though making sure you don’t slip away while he rests. It’s the one unguarded glimpse of how much he really love you.

Idia Shroud

When you text him that you're sick, the door creaks open slightly, a glowing blue flame of hair slips through the gap, and you hear the most hesitant: “…are you… still alive?” He looks like a raccoon caught raiding trash, torn between curiosity and terror, except the “trash” in this case is your bed and the very real threat of germs.

Five minutes later, he returns kitted out like he’s entering Chernobyl. Face mask, rubber gloves, possibly even a rain poncho because “droplet precautions.” He stands planted in the doorway, dramatically muttering: “Oh no. You’re contagious. I’m next. This is it. The end. My immune system is literally NPC-tier. If I go down, there’s no respawn.” He makes a big show of not crossing the threshold, but his hair flickers nervously every time you cough.

Eventually, pity (and guilt) overrides fear. He rolls into your room with a wheeled cart like some kind of half-baked nurse, stacked with snacks, bottled water, vitamin gummies, and exactly one (1) wet washcloth. He refuses to admit how much thought he put into stocking the “supply cart,” but it’s basically his way of saying he’s worried sick without having to say it.

Then you whimper. And instantly Idia gives in. All his protective gear hits the floor in record time because he cannot stand to see you in distress. Gloves gone. Mask ripped off. He practically dives into bed beside you, mumbling something like, “Screw it, take me too.” The fear of germs evaporates the second he registers you need him, and suddenly this socially-avoidant gremlin is your biggest source of comfort.

Once curled up next to you, he defaults to what he knows: gaming. He brings his handheld and sits quietly, pixels flickering in the dark, while you doze beside him. He tries to play it cool—“I’m just here because my room’s lagging and I needed…uh, better wifi”—but in reality, he’s monitoring every twitch.

He pretends to grumble when you lean on him, saying things like “Ugh, don’t use me as a pillow,” but the tips of his hair go soft pink, and he doesn’t move an inch. In fact, he tilts ever so slightly to support your weight better. He may act like he’s doing you a reluctant favor, but the truth is he’ll stay glued there as long as you want, controller in one hand, your fevered body pressed against him on the other, guarding your rest like the most anxious watchdog in the world.

Malleus Draconia

You sneeze just once. And Malleus’ expression shifts from mild curiosity to solemn despair, like he’s just witnessed the tragic fall of a hero in an ancient ballad. “You sneezed. Is this… death?” he whispers, voice trembling with unshakable gravitas. He genuinely believes human bodies are that fragile.

Of course, he tries to help. Unfortunately, his knowledge of “remedies” comes exclusively from fae traditions and half-remembered tales Lilia told him. He arrives with a steaming cup of liquid that looks suspiciously green and smells like a wet battery. “This draught has been passed down through generations,” he assures you solemnly, “it will purge all weakness from your body.”

You laugh nervously and tell him there’s no way you’re drinking it, and his face falls like you just refused the crown of Briar Valley itself. “You mock my people’s cure?” he asks, deeply, deeply offended. You end up sipping it just to soothe his pride, instantly regretting it when your tongue goes numb.

Still determined to “nurse” you, he begins bringing gifts. Human remedies? Absolutely not. Instead, you are offered:

A perfectly ripe dragonfruit.

Several logs of firewood, because “warmth is vital to recovery.”

A large, jagged “sacred rock” that he insists must go under your pillow to ward off “malevolent spirits of illness.”

Your room quickly turns into something between a farmer’s market and a survivalist's campsite. But Malleus is so proud of his contributions that you don’t have the heart to tell him Advil would’ve sufficed.

At night, he stations himself at your bedside like a knight keeping watch over a monarch. His back is ramrod straight, his gaze fixed, and he looks ready to battle Death itself should it try to collect you prematurely. When you stir or whimper, his hand instantly reaches for yours, cool and careful, stroking your hair or brushing your forehead with infinite gentleness.

For someone so fearsome, his touch is startlingly delicate. He murmurs reassurances in that deep, rich voice: “Rest easy, my treasure. I shall not allow illness to take you from me.” You drift off feeling like you’re being guarded by both a dragon and a devoted lover.

What he doesn’t realize is how endearing all this is to you. Yes, he may wildly overestimate the lethality of a common cold. Yes, he may have nearly poisoned you with battery-acid tea. But the sight of this great prince keeping vigil at your bedside, stroking your head with reverence and whispering like you’re the most precious thing in his world, is more healing than any medicine could ever be. And when your fever finally breaks, you wake to find him still there, still watching, still ready to fight the common cold with all the fury of a fae prince.

wrote to comfort myself because i got sick twice in the same month 😔

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland

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