Chapter Text
The sickness comes as the leaves change colour, leaving fevers and coughs in its wake. As the only apothecary the village has, the three of them quickly get swept up in caring for their ailing community.
Mila, far more confident after two and a half years in their care, follows Henry around like a duckling when the first of their neighbours fall ill, but the numbers don’t stay low for long. When the cases grow exponentially, she and Henry split the work between them.
Hans worries, of course. After taking in Mila, he is distraught to find that he is a worrier. Henry, he knows, can take care of himself, though Hans still worries that he’ll overwork himself in a crisis. Mila is a different story. She’s only fifteen and still uncertain about her belonging here. It’s better than it used to be—thank Christ, she doesn’t act like every mistake will lead to them throwing her out—but it’s obvious she’s lonely and not nearly as social as the rest of the village’s youth. He doesn’t know how she’ll react under pressure, or, God forbid, if people die.
Because people have died. The oldest in their village, Stefen, and Luda’s youngest, an infant only a few months old. It hits Henry hard the way all deaths do, the way watching people gasp for air they can’t breathe does, but he’s better than he was when they lost little Val to sugar sickness all those years ago. He can cope, now, and he does, even if he cries into Hans’ shoulder at night.
It needs to be done, though, so Hans bites his tongue and tends the shop while he watches them come and go, refilling their bags with herbs and tonics. He does what he can to help, preparing ingredients to Henry’s precise standards to speed up the brewing process and makes sure Mila doesn’t burn herself when brewing her own—she’s much better at it than Hans is despite her relative lack of practice. He asks how she’s doing and is met with the same flat stare he always is, the one that says, “I’m fine, Hans. Stop worrying so much.”
As if it’s that easy. Hans has spent three years worrying about her and over a dozen worrying about Henry. He isn’t about to change now.
“You’re hovering,” Henry mutters softly as they lay together late at night.
Hans’ head rests on Henry’s chest, their fingers threaded together. He can feel the comfortable beat of Henry’s heart beneath his ear.
He grunts in response.
Henry huffs a laugh, his breath tickling Hans’ hair. He’s exhausted after a day of caring for coughs and fevers, but still willing to entertain Hans’ concerns.
It strikes Hans now, as it does everyday, how lucky they are to have this life they built together. They can lay together in a way they couldn’t, fear and memories keeping them apart even when they longed for nothing more than touch. Surprisingly, it's Mila who helped chase away most of those days. She changed things, but for the better. Hans can’t imagine a life without either of them.
Sleep takes him easily, lulled by Henry’s warmth against the autumn chill outside.
He’s awoken the next day by a hacking cough, his eyes straining against the dim light. It takes a moment to register the sound coming from the other side of the bed where Henry is curled tightly.
Hans pushes himself up with one hand, his heart leaping into his throat.
“Jesus,” he mutters, his free hand reaching out to rub Henry’s shoulder—not his back, Henry still hates being touched there. He can feel heat radiating through Henry’s skin and curses a second time.
“You’re feverish,” Hans says, moving his hand to confirm the temperature of Henry’s forehead. He starts combing his fingers through Henry’s hair after.
Henry groans. “I feel it,” he mutters, burying face in the pillow. He’s holding himself carefully, his body unnaturally tense. He’s always in some amount of pain, but this is worse than usual.
Hans bites the inside of his cheek. “I suppose it’s unsurprising that you’ve fallen ill, all that bad air around the sickbeds,” he says.
He receives a grunt in response, which only sets off another deep coughing fit. It sounds wet and painful, the type of cough that tears at somebody’s throat.
“Is your neck swollen?” Hans asks when Henry finishes. He won’t touch it, but he needs to know.
“Think so,” Henry whispers. His hand clenches where it rests on the blanket, but he makes no move to check himself. Hans doesn’t know if it’s because of the pain, or if even Henry’s own hand might set him off.
“I’ll get you something to help,” Hans says. He kisses Henry’s temple before standing and grabs his shirt from where he abandoned it the night before.
“I can do it,” Henry rasps, pushing himself up trembling arms.
“Absolutely not,” Hans says. He catches Henry's arm. It’s a good thing, too, since Henry doesn’t seem particularly steady today. The last thing they need is his already less-than-average balance further impaired.
Henry stares at Hans. “I have work to do,” he says flatly, but the effectiveness of his glare is lost by the way he can’t quite keep his eyes open.
“Not if you’re sick, you don't."
“Hans-”
“Henry.”
Hans is generally a permissive partner. Henry doesn’t like being controlled and Hans doesn’t like controlling him, but on this, Hans won’t budge. Henry’s health is too important, and he knows now that Henry won’t look after it himself. It’s exactly what he’s been worrying about.
There might have been more of an argument, but another coughing fit leaves Henry gasping, unable to lift his head without vertigo making the room dance. It still takes time, begging, and bartering, with half a dozen promises to pass on any news about his patients before Henry acquiesces to rest.
Hans has only just prodded him back beneath the covers when they hear a gentle knock on their door. They exchange a look. Henry closes his eyes but nods.
“Come in, Mila,” Hans calls.
She doesn’t always come inside. On Henry’s bad days, if she comes to them at all, Hans will greet her at the door, sometimes even slipping outside to give Henry some quiet. Today, he suspects Henry wants to see her.
She’s already dressed for the day in her faded yellow dress, the colour closer to cream than the buttercups it once was. Her apron is somehow still white, at least. It’s something to do with lye and bread--the intricacies of laundry is something Hans never learned, despite living with Henry for nine years before she came along. Her brown hair is braided and tucked beneath a kerchief, though a few strands already fly free.
“I thought I heard coughing,” she says, stepping into the room. She has two mugs, bless her.
Hans helps Henry sit up; even that leaves Henry trembling with exertion. Mila hovers anxiously until Hans takes the mugs from her. He can tell them apart just by their smell, and he presses one into Henry’s hand. Mila lingers, not touching but watching Henry closely, probably cataloguing all his symptoms with the same eyes Henry trained her to use. Even if Hans could somehow be persuaded to let Henry up, he doubts the same could be said of Mila.
“You need a tonic for that cough,” she says eventually. “Don’t worry, Hans and I can handle things.”
Henry doesn’t look entirely convinced.
“If you have any questions-” he starts.
“I’ll come to you,” she finishes with a tone that says she doesn’t think she’ll run into any problems. Oh the overconfidence of youth.
She disappears after that. Hans shakes his head and takes a sip of his drink. It’s made exactly the way he likes it, of course.
For a few minutes, they drink their morning brews in silence. Hans can already tell the warm water is doing wonders for Henry’s throat. Mila probably mixed honey into it.
He hopes she brings something for pain up as well. Henry would never admit to needing it in front of her—some of his old, stubborn pride still lingering—but Mila is perceptive. If she doesn’t, Hans will do it later.
“Promise you’ll keep an eye on her?” Henry eventually asks. His eyes are closed; his head tilted back against the wall like he doesn’t have the energy to keep it up. “And come get me if it gets to be too much? She’s too young to handle it all alone.”
Hans would love to tell Henry that rest is more important, but that isn’t quite true. They can’t leave Mila floundering.
“Of course,” Hans says. He leans closer to kiss Henry’s cheek. “Rest. Mila will be back in a moment and then I want you to get some sleep. I’ll check on you in a few hours.”
Henry sighs but nods. He sips on his drink as Hans finally levers himself up and begins getting ready for the morning. When Mila returns not long after, he accepts the phial from her--Henry’s painkiller brew mixed with feverfew. They’ve used a lot of it recently, poppy is as food with pain as it is with cough.
With another stern instruction to go back to sleep from Mila, they leave Henry be. Maybe, between the two of them, they’ll actually be able to convince Henry to listen to them.
A muffled cough, followed by Mila’s quiet voice calling, “Hans?” cuts through his sleep like a knife.
He wakes all at once, his eyes snapping open to the dim room illuminated only by the light of the banked fire. It’s enough to see Mila where she clings to the door frame, trembling in her white shift.
Hans is out of bed in a moment and across the room in another, uncaring that he is clad only in his braies. He reaches for her, one hand on each of her shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, but he can already feel it. Her skin is too hot, her shift damp with sweat.
“I don’t feel well,” she mutters, followed by a painful cough, the sound torn from her throat as she doubles over with the force of it.
Hans wraps an arm around her to steady her. He can feel the force of it shaking her body.
When she’s finished, Hans presses the back of his hand to her forehead. It burns, just like Henry’s the day before.
Behind him, Henry stirs.
“Hans? What’s going on?” he croaks groggily, still not over his own bout of illness.
Hans doesn't look back. “Mila’s sick.”
“What?” Henry is more alert now, pushing himself up. At least he isn’t dizzy anymore.
“‘m fine,” Mila mutters even as she wavers on her feet. Stubborn to a fault, that one.
“Bring her here,” Henry says, gesturing with his hand.
Hans guides her to the bed. She’s shivering, her legs weak—he’ll need to get her a fresh shift, and maybe a cloth to clean the sweat from her face. A tonic for the fever too.
“How long have you been feeling ill?” Henry asks, testing her temperature himself.
“Since yesterday,” Mila says quietly.
Dammit, he should have kept a better eye on her. Mila would never admit to feeling unwell, especially not when Henry is already sick.
Except she just did; somehow, that’s even more worrying.
He lets Henry fuss over her in favour of tracking down their flint to light their nearby lamp. He brings it closer to where Henry frowns as he examines Mila. She looks absolutely miserable with her hair messy and her skin flushed with heat.
“What changed?” Henry asks. His voice is growing hoarse the more he uses it.
She closes her eyes and leans against Henry’s touch. The poor thing looks exhausted.
“I woke up coughing and I felt like I couldn’t breathe,” she says.
Sakra.
Hans leaves the lamp burning and goes to the pitcher, pouring her a cup of water. Lukewarm isn’t as good as water heated with honey, but it will have to do for now.
“Drink it slowly,” he says when he returns, passing it to her. He lets go only when he’s sure she has a grip on it, a habit from living with Henry, then sits on her other side, keeping her sandwiched between them. He brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and sighs. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
Mila tenses; Henry shoots him a look over her head. They both know the answer already; asking will only make her feel guilty, but it’s as close to scolding as Hans can bring himself to.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” she says quietly, staring down at the water. Her shoulders are tense. “‘m sorry.”
“It’s alright, I’m just glad you told us now,” Henry says soothingly. He pulls her into a hug and presses a kiss to the crown of her hair. She relaxes at the contact.
Christ, what if she didn’t tell them? It’s awful to imagine: Hans waking up tomorrow to find her still abed, struggling to breathe and suffering with the same fever that struck down Henry. He would much rather she wake them up than that alternative.
At least Henry is feeling well enough that Hans can reasonably leave Mila in his care. It might even keep him here long enough to actually rest alongside if it means being alongside her. God knows they both need it.
“I’m going to get you some fresh clothes,” Hans says, squeezing her shoulder so she knows he isn’t upset with her. He looks at Henry.
“Fever tonic as well,” Henry says with a nod to his unasked question. It’s what Hans suspected, but he’s glad to hear Henry confirm.
He leaves the two of them be. Downstairs, his feet are cold on the old wood. The shop is a bit of a mess after the last few days; Henry will probably spend hours putting it to rights when recovered, but Hans and Mila haven’t had time between the two of them. At least they've managed to keep up on their supply of medicines, which is practically a miracle given how many people have fallen ill.
Tonic in hand, it’s back upstairs to the kitchen. The straw pallet Mila sleeps on is a mess of blankets twisted from her restless sleep. He’ll need to air them out tomorrow, or see if one of the women can wash them with their own laundry. For now, Hans opens the shutters and lets in the cool night air to clear out the scent of sickness.
Her coughing is muffled through the wall separating the kitchen from the bedroom. Hans winces at the painful sound. It’s a wonder he didn’t hear her sooner. He hopes she didn’t wait too long after waking to come to them. Thinking of her laying here sick and alone hurts his heart too much.
The chest she uses to store her belongings is tucked in the corner behind the table. Hans and Henry don’t go through it unless necessary. She deserves some privacy, after all. He avoids looking thoroughly now, focusing only on finding one of her clean shifts folded neatly inside. It’s old and worn, stained and patched even before it landed in Mila’s hands. He holds it for a moment, wishing he could drape her in fine linens and silk, dresses cut to the latest fashions, instead of fabric barely fit to be more than rags. But dresses are expensive, even more so than tunics and shirts.
Hans knows Mila doesn’t mind what they have, but then, as the daughter of an impoverished hired hand, she’d never known anything else. He does, though; he still remembers the dresses Rosa had worn. Even Katherine’s were better than this. He just wishes they could give her more, but any life in which Hans could is a life where Mila isn’t.
It isn’t worth dwelling on, especially right now. He closes the chest and brings both the shift and tonic back to the bedroom. There, he finds Henry leaning against the pillows, Mila’s head in his laps as he cards through her hair. She looks so young like this.
She stirs at the sound of the floor creaking beneath his feet. Not yet asleep, then, but almost.
“Here, drink this,” Hans says softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. It was less poppy than the tonic she brought Henry days ago, but there should be enough to help with the cough. He helps her sit up, frowning at how light headed she seems. It’s no wonder Henry had her lying down, then.
When she finishes the tonic, Hans gets her another cup of water to sip at. He hopes it will soothe her throat, though she doesn’t have as serious of a cough as some of the others. That could be a good sign or a very bad one. They’ll have to keep an eye on her lips and fingertips to make sure they don’t turn blue.
They avert their eyes so she can change clothes. Hans brings her a cool cloth to clean the stale sweat from her skin, and then she sits quietly as he does his best to wrangle her hair back into a loose braid. Alena would have made fun of him relentlessly if she saw; Yvette would kindly offer to redo it, but it keeps her hair out of her face, and that’s all that really matters right now.
Henry pulls back the covers for her. It’s an unspoken agreement: if she’s feeling badly enough to come to them, they’re going to keep her close until she’s well again.
“What about you?” she asks as Hans guides her to his spot.
“I’ve spent more than one night in that chair or on the floor,” Hans tells her. It’s where he ends up on Henry’s worst days, rare as they were now, or when he’s restless to sleep. Sometimes he sits in the chair by the fire and pressed his ear to the wall, listening to make sure Mila’s sleep was peaceful--not that he’ll tell her that.
It’s a testament to how badly she feels that she doesn’t argue with him. Hans spreads the blanket over her shoulders when she curls into a ball. Between the sickness and the medicine, she’s asleep before long.
“You too,” Hans tells Henry. He seeks out the chamberpot and puts it within reach, should Mila wake up needing to be sick.
Henry sighs, and, unlike Mila, only avoids arguing because he knows it’s one he can’t win.
“Make sure you sleep too,” Henry says.
Hans rolls his eyes. “Yes, because you’re exactly who I should take advice from on that. The two of you, really.” He throws his hands up in mock frustration and is rewarded with a small smile on Henry’s lips.
Henry falls back asleep quickly, his hand covering Mila’s. Hans stays seated on the edge of the bed for a long time, just watching them breathe.