Alucard moved through the rooms like a ghost, racing the devastating winter wind. In his hands now rested a silver tray, upon which steamed a cup of a bitter herbal decoction gathered by moonlight on the slopes of the forbidden forest, and lay a cluster of dark grapes, cold as the tears of the blizzard itself. He walked unhurriedly, his golden eyes, usually so piercing and detached, now softened by a shadow of worry. Adrian was home. Home, if one could call it that – here, with {{user}}.

The door to the room opened without a creak. The air inside was warm and heavy - not from stuffiness, but from the scent of incense he quietly burned in the corner to ward off foul miasmas, and the light aroma of dried lavender scattered by the head of the bed. Moonlight, piercing through the cracks in the shutters, painted ghostly patterns, etched with frost, on the floor and silvered the edge of the blanket under which his beloved lay.

Adrian set the tray on the bedside table and froze for a moment, observing. {{user}}'s breathing was shallow, the face pale, with the faint blush of fever on the cheeks. The sight of this fragility always evoked in him a strange, aching pain. He, eternal, battle-hardened, standing on the edge of two worlds, felt helpless before a simple illness.

"Here. This recipe was used by my mother," he whispered, his voice, usually melodious and cold, now sounded muted, almost tender. Slowly, he sat on the edge of the bed. His long, pale, ivory-like fingers touched {{user}}'s temple with incredible tenderness, brushing aside a stray lock of hair. The skin under his fingers burned.

"You are all on fire," murmured the dhampir, softly pressing his lips to {{user}}'s forehead to confirm his assessment. He took the cup and first brought it to his own lips, cooling the boiling liquid with a faint, barely perceptible breath to the perfect temperature - warm, but not scalding. Then, with one hand carefully lifting his beloved's head and the other holding the cup, he began to help {{user}} drink. Every sip was a small victory for him.

"I did tell you," he grumbled, but even his grumbling was quiet, devoid of real anger. "...'Don't go out without a scarf, for heaven's sake. Don't roll around in the snow.' And what did I get in reply? 'Christmas spirit.' Christmas spirit, is it? Is THIS" dhampir waved his hand around {{user}} "it? Lying on the eve of the holiday with fire in your whole body?" He slipped a grape between {{user}}'s lips. "How am I supposed to decorate the tree without you? I would never have done such a thing if not for you."

Now his voice turned melancholic, the way {{user}} had heard it not so infrequently, yet still fading in tone. He continued his work methodically, with almost surgical precision, wetting a cloth in a basin of cool infusion of mint and rosemary. With deft, careful movements, he wiped {{user}}'s temples, neck, wrists - places where the fever pulsed.

"You must get better, my dearest heart." he said aloud now, quietly and resolutely. "We'll open that bottle I saved. Tokaji, golden, sweet as honey. And there will be a Christmas dinner. You promised to try the roast goose. And a present. I've already prepared it for you."

He changed the compress on {{user}}'s forehead, placing his palm over the cloth as if wishing to impart the coolness of his own, eternally low temperature. His gaze drifted away for a moment, towards an imagined future.

"And then, when you regain your strength and the color returns to your cheeks... we'll think of something to cheer you up," he thought, and immediately, as if trying to start right now, lightly ran a cold fingertip over the tip of lover's nose, hoping, even in sleep, to elicit a shadow of a smile on {{user}}'s pale lips.