Archive of Our Own ^beta

It starts as a slight headache.

Flins wakes to a slight pounding sensation in his head, throbbing minutely with the barest of pains. He sits up, wincing slightly as his vision blacks out for a moment before returning to normal. Strange, he thinks.

He looks out the solitary window in his quarters and can tell from the barely noticeable streak of orange in the sky that it’s late afternoon, nearing the evening, and that his shift is starting soon. At best, he could return to the lighthouse by midnight, assuming there was no sighting of the Wild Hunt on his patrol.

It’s only an hour later that he finds himself strolling along Starsand Shoal, the familiar lurking silhouette of the Fatui’s Experimental Design Bureau in the corner of his eye. There’s seashells where the waves meet the sand, in varying shades of pink and blue. If he strains himself just a little bit, he can hear the loud sounds of machinery from where Aino’s craftshop was located, a distance away from the cliffs on his left.

There is little to no evidence of the Wild Hunt’s prescence on the beach, despite it being a hotspot for them to linger. The last time he was here, he and the Traveler had barely managed to block the kuuvhaki cannon’s beam, and ended up facing one of the five Sinners as well…

Flins winces as pain lanced through his head. This headache of his has been persisting since he’s woken up, even if it was just a barely noticeable ache. He felt hot, too — an unusual feeling, given that Nod-Krai was always cool and temperate…that is, if you didn’t count the winter season’s nights.

He sighs, turning back to the direction of Paha Isle. He wants to scour the eastern coast of the island before heading back to the cemetery, where he can hopefully sleep this headache away. He turns on his heel, ready to return, when a familiar earthy smell wafts into the air; his lantern flares an unearthly red as a growl pierces the silent night—

Flins barely manages to summon his spear in time as the claws of a Rifthound whelp scrape against the metal, sparks flying at the friction. He ignores the way he stumbles as he’s pushed back, and registers how three of the Wild Hunt have suddenly appeared out of nowhere, their purple flames for heads glowing ominously. Two lunge for him and he knocks them against each other, sending them flying off somewhere.

The third being takes the opportunity to attack from behind, managing to dislodge his lantern before scratching at his sleeve and leaving a thin line of red against his skin. He thrusts his spear forward to pierce the ghostly being, eyes lighting up as he uses his Vision to summon a thundercloud. Three simultaneous bolts of lilac and pale-blue lightning strike the three beings before they dissolve into red-flecked ashes.

Flins sighs after the small skirmish, crouching down to take his lantern. His arm throbbed slightly, but nothing a few bandages and some salve couldn’t fix; the flame in his lantern, on the other hand, was dim and struggling to burn which concerned him. There were quite a few dents in the metal and glass as well…which meant that he needed to visit Aino the following day.

However, as he gets caught up in his plans for the next morning, he fails to take note of the Rifthound whelp that had attacked him just five minutes ago.

His already injured arm burns as the whelp sinks its dark claws into his flesh (moons, why was it his dominant arm that had gotten hurt?) and stubbornly clung to it. He grits his teeth, holding his lantern up with his other hand and sending a wave of Electro through the flame, making it flare.

The whelp shrieks and retreats back to the Abyssal depths, and Flins lets himself sink down onto one knee as his form trembles; the adrenaline is leaving him and making him take stock of how exhausted he feels, including how he currently feels like a furnace running on overdrive.

He stands on shaky feet, stumbling a bit to regain his balance. The headache sends bolts of pain through his head as his vision blots out, sunspots merrily dancing. He sticks his spear into the sand, leaning onto it for support as he blacks out entirely for what feels like dozens of minutes before blinking. He can’t go back to the lighthouse looking like death warmed over, especially not with how close the rout back is to the Experimental Design Bureau…

Flins looks up at the cliffs hovering above him, the faint sound of machinery in the distance confirming his destination. If anything, at least Aino’s craftshop is safe enough for him to recuperate for a while…

He sheathes his spear and starts his trek towards the craftshop.

The journey there is hazy, the spaces between his memory as blank as canvas. He can vaguely recall passing by the Barrowmoss Barrens with its heavy kuuvhaki, climbing cliffs that left him sapped of strength and strolling through the short grasslands that indicated how close to Aino’s craftshop he was.

He blinks, and finds himself standing unsteadily in front of the craftshop entrance. The night has stretched into its peak, the last of the Moons hanging high above. He takes a step forward and crashes straight into the ground, although he feels nothing. The splitting pain in his head has increased tenfold, throbbing in intervals with his arm, which has been sluggishly bleeding.

Most prominent of all is how his body is switching from sweltering to freezing. The flame in his lantern still burns low, and he lets out an involuntary shiver as a gentle breeze passes by, burying his chin into his collar. His vision gets hazier as he blinks, and he sees the way his breath condenses in the air — short, small puffs that remind him of the harsh winters further up north, closer to the heart of Snezhnaya.

His eyelashes flicker as he tries to and fails to fight sleep, the numbness from his arm stretching all throughout his body.

So I was sick all this while, he thinks, the sudden realisation cut short as he drifts away.

Aino only realises how short on groceries she is when she’s getting ready for bed. Somehow, Ineffa shares the same thought.

“We stocked up just last week! How did we run out of supplies already?!” Aino whisper-screams, head clutched between her over-sized coat sleeves. Ineffa hums in lieu of an actual response, running calculations. “If we were to go out now, it would take approximately forty-five minutes for us to return to the craftshop, considering how the night life is particularly active this time of year. However, it would deduct your sleep time by 3 hours, which is likely to disrupt you when you wake up tomorrow morning.”

“It’s fine, Ineffa! I’ll just sleep in tomorrow and work on the mechanics until the evening—”

“You always sleep in, Aino.”

“Aaaaanyways, as I was saying, if we can get the groceries tonight, it’d definitely be better for us tomorrow right? Especially since it’d cut down the amount of work time I’d be having?”

Ineffa stays silent before she sighs, conceding. “Fine, we can go tonight. But no sweets or pastries.”

“Not even ingredients to make pastries?” Aino whines, running after Ineffa as the robot moves to open the door. “I’m gonna die from sugar deprivation—Eek!”

As Ineffa unlocks the door, she and Aino see that there is something blocking the entrance. The dark lump then moves, which prompts the pink-haired child to squeak, scurrying to hide behind Ineffa’s legs. A breathy wheeze permeates the silence of the night, and Aino realises that the dark lump is actually a person. But it wasn’t just someone, it was Flins; she’s repaired the dimly glowing lantern beside the man far enough times to recognise its shape — however dented and scratched it may be right now.

Aino slowly extracts herself from behind Ineffa’s legs, tiptoeing past the lantern to reach out for Flins — only to gasp as she feels the heat emitting from his body. Ineffa crouches down beside Aino, wordlessly pushing Flins onto his back and putting her arms under his arms. Aino sees how the Lightkeeper’s breath condenses in the air, coming out in short puffs as Ineffa drags him into the workshop. By the time Aino closes the door and rushes back into the craftshop, Ineffa’s settled him on the couch, wrestling his cloak off.

Up close, the two realise just how bad Flins’ condition is. His breaths still come out as faint wisps of air despite it being much warmer in the craftshop, and Ineffa leans over to inspect the small laceration on his arm that has stopped bleeding. Sweat beads on his brow, which is slightly scrunched up, and the most worrying thing is the heat that is radiating off of him. Despite this, Aino still asks, “Is he okay?”

“Assessing physical condition: exhaustion, dehydration, laceration on dominant arm — infection of said laceration occurred recently, which has caused his currently most severe ailment of a 39 degree fever.” Ineffa drones out the problems in Flins’ current state almost conversationally, before standing up and heading towards the door.

“Are you going to get the groceries?” Aino asks. She’s considering following Ineffa despite knowing how bad Flins is right now; she’s never exactly felt safe home alone. Ineffa nods and opens the door. “You can help lower Flins’ fever while I can get supplies to take better care of him, on top of the groceries we still need. It won’t be long.” And then she was gone.

Aino stands up and heads towards where Ineffa keeps the medkit, running through her memory. She recalls asking Ineffa about what she did to help take care of Aino when the pink-haired girl got sick for the first time since she built Ineffa. The least one can do is soak a cloth in water, wringing out the excess water and then placing it on top of the sick person’s head. They often relax into the coolness of the water, so it helps them calm down as well.

She tiptoes to reach the medkit, wobbling over to the coffee table and dumping the box onto it. She grabs a small towel and pail from whatever corner of the craftshop and house, filling the latter up with water and soaking the former into it, wringing the excess away and scurrying back towards the couch.

Aino can tell that Flins has gotten even worse; his breaths have become shallow and fast, still coming out in hot puffs. The hand on his uninsured arm grips the cotton of the couch. She swears his temperature has gotten even higher as she brushes away the hair sticking to his sweat-slicked forehead, neatly folding the damp cloth and placing it there. He visibly relaxes, the crease in his brow unraveling as his hand stops gripping the couch. Aino grips that hand in between her small palms, rubbing along the knuckles that stick out from pale skin.

Ineffa returns from the supply run 15 minutes later, carrying two bags filled to the brim with groceries. She dumps them on the floor of the kitchen before gathering the materials she needed to clean and stitch up the infected gash on Flins’ arm, dragging a chair over to the couch and plopping down onto it. The robot makes quick work stitching up the gash, cleaning the blood around the wound before threading the needle through flesh; when Flins occasionally stiffens, winces or lolls his head to the side during the process, Aino pats and lays her head down on his legs with worried eyes in an attempt to comfort him — and herself. Her eyes stay fixed away from Ineffa’s hands, slightly stained with blood from where the wound lightly bleeds.

When Ineffa is done with the stitches, the tension melts out of Flins’ body, and he sinks further into the couch when Aino replaces the cloth on his forehead. He breathes slowly now, face lax and muscles no longer taught. Aino yawns as Ineffa, who had finished with cleaning up, walks back towards the couches.

“Aino, you should go sleep now. There is a high chance you will sleep in until late morning, given how much you have yawned in the past 15 minutes.” Aino surprisingly doesn’t counteract Ineffa’s statement, and nods in lieu of a response, before her head droops down onto Flins’ legs. Ineffa picks her up and goes to her bedroom, pulling the covers over Aino as she snuggles into them. Flins is just as deeply asleep when the robot returns, and she makes one final scan of his condition before returning to her port in the corner.

When his consciousness comes back, Flins does not immediately open his eyes.

Instead, he takes note of how his surroundings are not of cold, hard ground and chilly night breezes; the material he is lying on is soft and slightly itchy, the air still and the warmth caressing him accompanied by the quiet work of machinery. His dominant arm is tight, as if it’s been wrapped in something, and the fragrance of krumkakes makes itself known to his sense of smell…

Wait, krumkakes and machinery?

He snaps his eyes open and finds himself staring into powder and aqua lenses.

Ineffa blinks once before straightening, placing something on the coffee table. “Good morning, Flins. You have been sleeping for 11 hours. How do you feel?”

Flins blinks, twisting his head languidly to look at whatever Ineffa’s brought. A tray filled with pastries, which included krumkakes, sat serenely beside a juice box, glass of water, and cup of tea and it’s only when Flins sees the slightly steaming liquid that he realises how parched he is; his lips are slightly cracked when he brushes them against each other.

“I…” His voice cracks when he starts, and he winces slightly at how sore his throat is. “I suppose I am feeling better. It seems I managed to make it to the front door, then.”

The corners of Ineffa’s mouth quirk up at his attempted humour. “Aino and I wanted to go for a supply run after Aino realised we had run out of resources. You had collapsed in a heap at the front door and scared Aino quite a bit.” Flins’ gaze snaps back to Ineffa at the last sentence; he didn’t accidentally traumatise Aino, did he?

Ineffa notices his internal dilemma and speaks again. “Aino has not woken up yet, but I prepared breakfast in case she did. The water and tea is meant for you. I thought you might want to it since you were quite dehydrated when you passed out outdid of the house.”

Flins laughed softly albeit hoarsely. “Indeed I am. I don’t suppose you could help me up…?”

Ineffa does just that, help in to prop Flins up against some pillows before helping to steady the glass as Flins drank its contents. He leans back against the pillows when he’s done, inspecting the bandage on his arm. So that’s why it felt tight…

“Yout wound had become infected by the time we found you, likely accelerated by the Corruption that lingered around the wound. You had a high fever as a result, and it broke 6 hours ago.” Flins hums, processing the information. Frankly, he would’ve gotten a fever anyway if he didn’t decide to go to the Craftshop. Speaking of the Craftshop…

“Is Aino still sleeping?” Flins asks. Ineffa gives him a nod, which is actually more of a dip of her head. “Yes. She went to sleep an hour and a half after midnight, so I think she won’t wake up until—”

”Fliiiiiiiiiiiinsssssssss!!”

Flins has time to let out a surprised huh before a pink-haired figure clad in a white lab coat launches herself at him, and he groans at the sudden impact; some of Aino’s metal accessories dig painfully into his ribs as she wraps him in a bear hug. “You scared me! I thought someone dumped a body or something outside the house!” Aino whined, pouting. Flins laughed softly, a small, gentle smile forming on his face. He didn’t like to scare Aino at any given moment, but her concern for him always made him feel much warmer and better in a way that medicine couldn’t possibly compare to.

“I apologise, Miss Aino. The Craftshop was the first place I thought of to recover, hence your finding of my body outside your front door.”

Aino stuck her tongue out. “You make it sound as if you were dead! Your jokes aren’t funny if you phrase it like that, you know.”

Flins chuckles. There goes his dark humour again.

“Aino, it would be wise to let Flins drink something, espcially after being out for so long,” Ineffa interrupts. “I made breakfast for you, too.” Aino perks up at the idea of breakfast, and her eyes sparkle as she spots the pastries and krumkakes; Flins catches the minuscule smile that Ineffa sports as she watches Aino scarf down the food.

“Your tea.” Ineffa says, passing Flins the plain cup. His hands are now steady enough to hold the cup, as compared to when he had just woken up. He can smell the gentle fragrance of chamomile wafting through the air, and watches as Ineffa admonishes Aino for eating too fast but still takes out a handkerchief to wipe the crumbs away from the pink-haired girl’s mouth.

He turns his gaze down to the cup of tea in his hands, still warm and steaming. A smile makes itself known on his lips.

Perhaps it’s not so bad to be taken care of.