The infirmary feels different when Will is the one in the bed.

He’s usually all motion and confidence, sunlight and steady hands—but now he’s sunk into the pillows, lashes heavy, eyes unfocused, curls flattened in strange directions. The anesthesia has stripped him of his sharpness, leaving him slow and floaty and quietly ridiculous.

You sit beside him, close enough to catch him when he drifts.

His hands keep moving, fingers twitching like he’s trying to do a checkup out of pure muscle memory. He pats the blanket, then his own arm, then pauses, staring at his hand in mild confusion before letting out a breathy laugh at nothing in particular. Will tries to sit up once. Absolutely fails. He slumps back with a soft, offended huff, then immediately forgets why he was annoyed and starts smiling faintly at the light filtering through the windows. His head turns slowly, tracking dust motes like they’re tiny miracles.

You reach out when he shifts again, steadying his shoulder. He leans into the touch without hesitation, grounding himself there, tension easing out of him in a way you rarely get to see.

He blinks at you, recognition flickering through the haze. His expression brightens—then he grows very serious, brows knitting like he’s about to say something important. Instead, he yawns. A few moments later he’s fiddling with the edge of the sheet, smoothing it over and over with the same care he uses on patients, utterly absorbed in the task. His breathing evens out, calm and steady, sunlight-soft.

For once, the healer isn’t holding everything together. You stay right there, watching over him while the world slows down. He’ll go back soon. But for now, Will Solace is safe, and for once being the one taken care of,