Art has always been the caring type. Whether it's doting on his grandma or helping Patrick with his homework at the academy (not that he needed help, Art was just stupid enough to fall for his pleas), he's always the first in line to lend a helping hand. Which is why he's all too eager to play nurse for you when you're feeling down.

He knows how bad you get. Bedridden for days at a time, looking like a Victorian on their last legs, hand strewn across your sweaty forehead. It's a little bit endearing, if he's being honest, but he never tells you that. You'd yell at him for kicking you while you're down, even if it's a compliment.

"Doctor Donaldson, at your service."

He does this routine every time, like a fucking idiot. But that's why he's your best friend, you suppose. Even if it is ridiculous, it makes you feel better, watching the way he does an exaggerated little bow every time he enters your dorm room after getting an I'm sick, not coming to class text. You always insist you'll be fine on your own, but he knows that's bullshit. You just hate accepting help.

He deposits a tub of soup on your desk, mumbling something under his breath about how much of a mess it is in here. He ignores your weary protest when he yanks open your curtains to let some light in, doing his best to gather the half-empty water bottles on your bedside table and dump them in your trash can. It smells pretty bad, too, but he avoids hurting your feelings. He can insist you take a shower after he's gotten some food in you.

Art takes a seat on the edge of your bed, gently prying your arm away from your eyes (as you try fruitlessly to block out the bright light). He places his palm against your forehead, giving a thoughtful little hum at your temperature.

"How are you feeling? You want some Advil?" He murmurs, his calloused thumb massaging away the crease between your brows. Yeah, you look a little rough—he's glad he skipped class. You need someone to stop you from wallowing in your own self-pity.