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Of all creatures he struggles to defeat, it’s almost ironic that a Pyro-aligned Abyss Mage, a creature of his same element, could do so much damage to him.
The raised, pink outlines of the freshly-healed burns sting, as Diluc shifts slightly. It’s not as excruciating as it was hours ago, when Jean had dragged him into the cathedral and had Barbara heal him.
Such urgent treatment would usually be reserved for a Knight of Favonius. And as much as his skin crawls at the implications of her actions, Jean refused to let him walk away, when she somehow stumbled across him in the woods. Well, she stumbled across him, with the sleeves of his coat turned to ash, and the smoldering body of an Abyss Mage laying at his feet. And according to Barbara, the damage done by the Abyss Mage runs irritatingly deep.
Diluc glares down at his arms. They took the brunt of the blows, especially his hands. Really, he should have stepped back when he recognized the attack that the mage was building up for, and yet, he rushed in, fueled by tired rage, and struck out at it anyway. And it had cost him dearly.
Mild nerve damage, Barbara told him. She looked nervous, refusing to look him in the eye. Nothing that couldn’t be healed by a few consistent visits to her, but he wouldn’t be able to swing a sword, much less a claymore, for more than a week.
And it’s not just in his arms. The muscles in his legs suffered from his reckless actions, too. Even Barbara’s healing didn’t dampen the soreness pulsing through his lower half, though he’s just sitting down on one of the cathedral’s pews.
Diluc scowls down at his hand. His coat and gloves were disintegrated in the final blow, leaving him sorely underdressed, for his tastes. Not to mention how his shirt was, quite literally, cut from his body, when Jean had shoved him off on the young deaconess. The air in the church isn’t cold, but it’s uncomfortable against the bare skin of his upper torso.
He tries to curl his fingers into a fist. They close halfway, before the shaking starts. Diluc scoffs, though, it’s more of a frustrated growl. Useless. He never should have taken that tip about a supposed Fatui meet-up spot in the woods near Wolvendom. Perhaps his contacts weren’t at fault, but he’ll be sure to take their information with a grain of salt next time.
“Master Diluc,”
Diluc looks up, already recognizing the voice, and the worried tone. Jean’s footsteps are eerily quiet, as she approaches. The doorway to the basement of the cathedral is ajar, with the warm glow of a lantern coming from within.
He tries to let his face relax, but his muscles refuse to comply, instead setting his features into his usual glower.
“Jean,” he replies curtly. Suddenly, he’s very aware of how pathetic he must look—with bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulders, shirtless, and potentially shivering, in the night-colored, lightless dome of the church.
Jean’s eyes wander to the rest of his form, too. The space between her eyes creases, just slightly, as her gaze drifts down to the new scar tissue that traces up his collarbone. But, for her credit, she quickly meets his gaze once again.
“How are you faring?” She asks. Now, it’s not the worried tone he heard before, but a professional one. Though, the worried look doesn’t leave her features. “Deaconess Barbara told me the extent of your injuries. Are you….” she trails off for just a moment, eyes flicking to his bare arms, and then up at him, with an almost….guilty look in her eye. “If you’re still in pain, I can secure a potion to he—“
“ Thank you for the offer,” he interrupts. “But I’ll be fine. If you’ll return my coat to me, I’ll be leaving now.”
Jean’s eyes widen, and she pauses, now only a few footsteps away from him. “Of course,” she says. “However, I’ll be escorting you back to your place of residence. You’re in no condition to travel, with those injuries.”
Diluc tries not to outright glare at her. Persistent as always. For a Knight, she’s much less lax than some of her useless underlings. “That won’t be necessary.” He says carefully, trying not to let frustration seep into his voice. “I can make it just fine. Thank you for your assistance, Acting Grand Master Jean, but I won’t impose any further.”
Diluc tightens his grip on the edge of the pew as much as he can, and attempts to push himself into a standing position. He stands, though Jean’s face is tight, and simply purses his lips in a facsimile of a smile. It’s painful, but he would rather not receive any more help from a Knight tonight. And it may just be pride, but somehow, the idea of accepting help from Jean after all that’s happened tonight makes his stomach churn.
He takes one step, towards the large doors of the cathedral. His foot lands on the floor, and suddenly, his legs both give out completely.
Jean catches him just moments before his knees would have made painful contact with the tiled ground, yanking him upright. The sudden contact causes him to stiffen.
“Sir—Diluc!” Jean pulls him back up to his feet. He pushes her away sharply, ignoring the shaking in his knees. Jean’s eyes are wide and bright, and filled with worry that’s about to spill over. “Are you alright?” She says.
“F-fine.” Diluc replies. He can’t help but break eye contact with her—it’s too much, and it’s not as if he didn’t notice that slip of titles.
He feels his face flush slightly, but tries to ignore it. The look she’s giving him is pitiful, like she actually feels sorry for him.
Jean quickly rights herself, but her hands don’t leave him as she steadies him. Her hands are ice-cold, or perhaps it’s just that he’s too warm. “Alright,” Jean says grimly. He looks up, recognizing that determination in her voice, and her expression matches it. “Master Diluc, I mean no disrespect, but….as a Knight of Favonius, I can’t let you leave here alone in this state.”
He looks up at her incredulously, trying to hide the disbelief that he’s feeling. But there’s no malice behind her words, no intent to humiliate. And at this hour, any reasonable citizen of Mondstadt would be at home in their beds.
He scowls. Come to think of it, it’s well past midnight. Even the most dedicated drunks would have been kicked out of Angel’s Share and Cat’s Tail by now, so there’s no one out there to see him like this.
And as much as he hates it, he wouldn’t be able to make it out of the cathedral. Diluc sighs, and rights himself, though Jean doesn’t let him go.
“Fine,” he says. “I have an apartment above Angel’s Share. But once we arrive, I can handle myself.”
Jean's tight features relax, and he can almost swear he sees the Acting Grand Master’s shoulders sag a little. “Understood,” she says. It sounds far too much like she’s talking to a superior, but he doesn’t comment. At this hour, any argument would be wasted on both of them.
Jean drapes his coat over his shoulders carefully, avoiding the new, pink skin that’s just formed around his upper arms. No shirt, but he’s too tired to protest, even as she pulls one of his arms over his shoulder, and walks him out of the doors of the church.
Jean shows no sign of unbalance, even as she leads him down the many stairs of the cathedral. She’s strong, despite how slight she looks.
Diluc idly remembers her, many years ago, considering a claymore as her weapon of choice. Ultimately, she went with a classic sword, stating that Lady Venessa had used one as well.
And then he remembers Kaeya, whose hair was short-cut at the time, teasing her for idolizing a long dead hero of Mondstadt, and he pushes the memory away. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
There are a few candles still lit in the tavern, likely left behind by Charles. Charles knows that Diluc often comes to clean up after hours, and he’s made a habit of keeping the lights on for him. But cleaning up after drunkards will have to wait.
Jean carries him up the spiraling stairs, and he uses a key to unlock the door to the second set of stairs, leading to the third floor apartment where he spends most of his nights.
The journey from Mondstadt to Dawn Winery isn’t exactly perilous, especially for Diluc, but on some nights, he’s too tired to make the trip. Lately, more than usual.
Jean rests him on a dusty couch next to windows, with the curtains drawn. Despite the warmth of the lanterns he uses to light the room, Diluc shivers.
It feels….embarrassing, to be half naked in front of anyone. The leader of an organization he despises, even moreso. Jean casts him a glance, still with the pinched look on her face. She sets a bundle of bandages and salves down on the table in the small kitchen, courtesy of Barbara.
The silence hangs heavy, in a way that puts him slightly on edge. Normally, when he’s out at this time of night, it’s to deal with more….gruesome matters.
“Thank you, Jean.” He says. His voice sounds more tired than he’d like, but he doubts she cares. “I wish you a good rest of your night.”
Jean hesitates for a moment, but then she bows lightly, a look of dissatisfaction on her face. “That’s….what the Knights are here for, Master Diluc,” she says. “I’ll take my leave, if you don’t need anything else.”
Finally. He doesn’t let on how relieved he is to know that she’s leaving. So he can be alone, and not ashamed of the weak state his own recklessness has landed him in.
Without anymore words, Jean reaches for the doorknob, and Diluc stands. He feels as if his bones are cracking under his own weight, but at least his knees don’t buckle this time.
Out of habit, he reaches to brush away the locks of hair falling around his shoulders. Usually, they would be tied up, but his hair tie disappeared once he made it to the cathedral.
His hand brushes against a frizzy, split clump of hair. The greasy texture makes him glare. Before he retires for the night, he needs to wash it. Of all the things in life he has adjusted to, he has never been able to sleep if his hair is as disgusting as it is right now. His Pyro abilities make it hard enough to maintain as it is.
Then he notices that he never heard the click of the knob, or Jean’s footsteps leaving the apartment. And when he turns around, she’s still there.
Her eyes are fixed on the mess that’s his hair. With a pang, Diluc remembers the times when she used to tie it back for him, and he did the same with hers.
Since then, he can’t remember the last time he shared such a moment with anyone. A moment of….vulnerability.
He raises an eyebrow at her, tried to scowl, to get her to leave, but….somehow, his face just doesn’t move the way he wills it.
“Do you….” Jean says suddenly, cutting the thick silence, “do you need help with that, Diluc?”
He stills, unsure of how to respond. Jean’s face becomes tight once more, and she straightens, perhaps in an ashamed way.
“I…..” he swallows, forces down the shaky, fragile feeling that’s forming in his chest, and tries to set his face straight.
Before he can, Jean speaks again. “Please,” she says, surprisingly soft. “I...I know you don’t like to go to sleep with dirty hair. Lisa’s the same way.”
Somehow, he feels like that’s not what she’s saying.
Maybe it’s a moment of weakness—hopes, prays that’s all it is—but without meaning too, Diluc responds.
“....Fine.”
Jean looks more relieved than him. And before he can even process it, Diluc finds himself in the washroom. There’s a white, porcelain basin pushed against a wall, one that’s about level with his waist. Usually, he would fill it with water himself and wash his hair, but the stiffness in his shoulders doesn’t allow him to raise his arms more than a few inches.
He stiffens as Jean positions the basin behind him, and sits him in an old chair that she dragged from the kitchen.
“Are you alright, Diluc?” She asks. It’s off-putting to hear someone speaking out of his line of view, and every inch of him screams for him to find something to defend himself with.
Diluc doesn’t answer. He doesn’t get the chance, because Jean pours a pitcher of steaming-hot water into the basin behind his head, and the heat is just intoxicating. Like it were a balm for his burns, he feels himself relax just a little at the change of temperature. He’s not used to being without his coat anywhere, even in his own home.
He holds back a flinch when he feels Jean’s hands, deftly combing his curls. She tugs lightly on his hair, making him lean back, as she dips the blood-colored locks into the hot water. He shivers as it soaks into his hair, and onto his scalp.
Her nails scrape against his scalp. The hot water is divine, and Diluc doesn’t even notice as his eyelids begin to droop, and his breathing evens out.
As Jean gently washes his hair, he tries to hold on. The feeling of her fingers on his skin—it isn’t right, something about it is just….it’s just not right. He can’t remember the last time someone did something like this, the last time that Kaeya brushed his hair or helped him pull it back, or teased him about letting it get too long.
It feels…..weak. Far too vulnerable, in a way that would usually have him simmering with fire just under his skin, and shying away from another’s hands. But yet he still unconsciously leans into her touch.
Maybe, he’s too tired to care. Too beaten and battered, finally burnt out. Or maybe, somewhere inside him, he’s willing to trust someone, just this once.
For the first time in a long time, Diluc lets the darkness take him without a fight.
She knows the exact moment when he falls asleep.
The air is thick with the scent of cecilias, the flower that scented the shampoo she used on his hair. Jean sighs, more relived than anything else, as she stands.
Diluc’s chest, bare and scarred, rises and falls slowly. His face is hidden by wild red curls, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that he’s finally succumbed to exhaustion.
She drains the water from the basin as quietly as she can, patting the ends of his hair with a clean towel. He doesn’t stir. A miracle, considering Jean knows for a fact that he’s always been a light sleeper.
Or maybe that, too, has changed. So much about him has changed. It’s like a jolt of lightning through her chest whenever she sees him. Gone is the young, hopeful boy who became the Knights’ youngest captain.
In many ways, she thinks that a part of him died with his father.
Jean closes her eyes. No. It’s too late for such thoughts. She’s just glad that he allowed her this far.
The water spirals down the sink drain, and she wipes her hands off. Diluc sits, slumped in the chair she placed him in, fast asleep. His face is…..surprisingly calm, in his slumber.
To think that Lisa accuses her of never getting rest. If she hadn’t dragged his burnt self to see Barbara, she doubts that he would’ve made it back to the winery.
And Barbatos only knows what he was doing out there in the first place, hunting Abyss Mages. For all his harsh words about the Knights, he still acts like he’s one himself, sometimes. And even despite that, his dedication to Mondstadt rivals that of even most of their official knights.
Barbara also advised Jean not to leave him alone until she was sure he was safe, and in a familiar location. Possible head injury, her little sister had said. With all the other injuries Diluc sustained tonight, she wouldn’t be surprised.
Jean picks him up, with one arm under his knees, and the other cushioning his neck and head. He isn’t a light man by any means, but she’s not a weak woman, either. And even despite his size, she carried him into the final doorway of the apartment, the last room that she hasn’t seen. It’s a bedroom, of course. Angel’s Share likely has this apartment for the owner to stay overnight in. It’s perfumed by the smell of dandelion wine, from the barrels downstairs in the tavern.
The bed looks undisturbed, but there’s no layer of dust on the covers. She sets him down, pulling the blankets up over his waist. The worst of the burns are on his upper body, and she doesn’t want to risk disturbing the healing process.
Jean straightens, and takes one last look at Diluc’s face. He looks….comfortable. Tired. Really, more tired than anything else. The faint bruises under his eyes attest to that.
Before she leaves, Jean allows herself a small smile. One of satisfaction, and perhaps even bittersweet memory.
At least he’s getting some rest.