The Boy Movie Brahms Heelshire x reader FanFic

Part 33 - Silent Night

Brahms is sick for three days.   There are several times when you think you're going to have to call an ambulance as you fear for his life.   The head wound heals, but slowly.   You fret about taking out the stitches but decide to leave them in for at least seven days.   He gets feverish, and talks in his sleep.   Jumbled words of nonsense mostly, peppered with things that make you cry. 

"Please, don't leave me..."   "I'm not ugly!"  "I'll be good..."   "I love you, Y/N."

You take him to the bathroom.  You clean him up.   You feed him.   You fear.

You managed to get him upstairs to your bedroom where he lies now, soaked in sweat.   He gets hot and cold, for some reason, but you make sure he's always covered with the duvet.  Instinctively, you know to keep him warm, even when he's sweating.   You Google his symptoms, but can't seem to find any answers.  You presume it's his body fighting  a mixture of shock and infection?   You fear the impact of the bullet has done unseen damage. He has a  temperature and when he opens his eyes they are too bright and sparkly.  You give him Ibuprofen.  It helps a little.  But not enough.  He won't eat solid food, so you  spoon feed him broth.  You keep him hydrated.  You give him love.  It's all you can do. 

Please get better...

Brahms has concussion and bruising to his brain.  Neither of you know this but you both know something feels seriously wrong.   On the fourth morning, he wakes and takes your hand.

"Thank you," he whispers.

"For what, Brahms?"

"For being you."

You smile and stroke a strand of hair from his forehead.   You kiss him gently.  He's too weak to respond and his mouth feels soft, slightly open like a baby's.  You so miss his caresses, his kisses, his lovemaking; his strong embrace, and his passion.  You long to just curl up against him, to lie with your head cradled in the crook of his shoulder.  But he needs his space and needs to heal.    "You're going to get well.  You're young and strong, Brahms.  You can fight this."

He stares up at you, those green eyes searching your face.   

"You have to get well, Brahms.  What will I do without you?"

There's a ghost of a smile on his face, his voice is a harsh whisper.   "Nobody's ever needed me before..."

"Oh, Brahms..."

You lie down on the bed next to him.  He inclines he head towards you, as though seeking extra comfort.  Outside, it's snowing. In two days' time, it's Christmas Eve.   You wonder whether you should read him a story.  He always liked that.  But instead you decide to just share your thoughts with him, because you need that too.  To share how you feel.  

"I love Christmas, don't you?" you ask.  You know he's really too tired to converse but you decide to talk enough for both of you.

"I love the build up to it, you know?  That feeling of anticipation.  Getting all the food in.  Decorating the tree.  I'm so glad it's snowing.  It makes everything...well...more Christmassy.  I'm gonna cook dinner with all the trimmings.   If you can't get that down, I'll turn it into soup.  Ugh, how disgusting does that sound?   Maybe not..."

"Silent Night," he murmurs.

You misunderstand and blurt, "I know I should shut up."

"Silent Night." he repeats.

"What?  You mean, Silent Night the carol?"

 "I love that song."

"You do?"

"Franz Xaver Gruber wrote it."

"Who's he?"

"Don't you know anything?"

You smile into his hair as you kiss his head.  "I'm a dummy!"

"No, you're not."

He takes your hand in his and squeezes.   "I'll be fine, Y/N.  Don't worry."

You nod tearfully.   "Look at us," you say.  "Who'd have thought we'd be like this on that night you chased me through the cellars."

He closes his eyes and sighs.  "I'm sorry."

"Isn't it it funny how life twists and turns.  One moment you're doing this and next minute, it can all change so drastically.   Even now, I wonder how it came to this?"

"I was someone else," he murmurs.   "That person is gone."

"That person is held in abeyance," you tell him gently.   "You have to acknowledge that, Brahms.  To deny you were that person, or think that person doesn't exist anymore, is to risk him coming back.  Always know he's there.  That way you can control him, and  keep the doors locked and barred."

He nods.  "Sing to me..."

"I have a voice like Donald Duck!"

"No, you don't."

"You haven't heard me trying to sing!"

"Sing to me."

So you do.   A little self consciously at first.  Surprisingly, the words come back to you with no faltering.   

Silent night, holy night
All is calm and all is bright...  

You watch the thick flakes of snow bat gently against the leaded panes of the bedroom window.   Brahms's fingers slowly relax in yours.   His breathing deepens and slows.  

Sleep in heavenly peace....
Sleep in heavenly peace. 

He's snoring softly.  Anxiously, you sit beside him, afraid to leave.  You press your palm tentatively against his damp forehead.  He feels cool.  The fever is gone.   You pray that  this is where the healing begins.