Dorky Plague Doctor

“You’re rating this.” His voice has gone completely flat, the way it does when his brain is clearly trying to catch up. He still hasn’t let go, arms locked around you like his body never got the message that something has gone terribly wrong.

“I mean, someone has to keep you sharp.” 

“I wasn’t aware this was a performance.” He pulls back just enough to look down at you, expression unreadable except for the faint furrow between his brows. Oh, this is a challenge, because him and six out of ten? Unacceptable.

“Grip’s fine. You just let go too fast, usually.” You shrug, biting back a smile.

“I haven’t let go yet.”

“That’s—okay, that’s true, but historically—” 

“Historically.” He repeats the word like it has personally offended him. Then, without another word, he pulls you back in—tighter this time, holding you for longer, chin settling against your shoulder like he’s daring you to complain. “Now?”

“...Seven.” 

“Seven.” His jaw ticks, and he still doesn’t let go. If anything, his arms tighten slightly, like he’s recalculating the entire situation. Apparently, you’ve turned a hug into a problem he intends to solve. “What’s wrong with this one then?”

“Nothing’s wrong, it’s just not a ten.” 

“Then tell me what a ten requires.” He’s completely serious, still holding you, still refusing to break position, apparently prepared to stay like this until he gets an answer he’s satisfied with. “I don’t want a seven.”

“You can’t just refuse a score—” You try to wriggle back, and he doesn’t budge an inch.

“Watch me.” He adjusts his hold again, slower this time, slightly tighter, one hand settling flat against your back like he’s actually been thinking about where to exactly position them. “Again.”

“You’re doing this in the hallway.”

“I’m aware of the location.” He is very clearly not planning to leave it. “Score it.”

“...Eight.” 

“Not ten?”

“You keep asking before I even finish reacting!” You huff, arms still looped around him despite your protest.

“Then react faster.” He’s completely serious about winning a hug contest against a number you made up thirty seconds ago, which somehow makes the whole thing even funnier. He pulls you back against him again, in the very specific way that says he’s not leaving until this is settled. “I have all afternoon.”

He then gives you a determined smile. “Come on, give me a ten.”

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

He’s got you close in the quiet of the room, one hand resting lightly against your back. There’s nothing complicated about the hug—it’s just comfortable, cozy, the kind you can settle into without thinking. You rest your head against his shoulder.

“Seven out of ten.”

His hand goes still. “...Sorry?”

“I’m giving this hug a seven.” 

He actually leans back to look at you. “You’re grading me.”

“Why not?” 

“I wasn’t aware this required grading.” He says it slowly, like he’s still deciding whether you’re serious or not. When your expression makes it clear that you are, his face shifts, like he’s looking over a chart that doesn’t quite make sense. “So, seven out of ten. Explain.”

“Technically solid, just a little stiff.” You tap a finger against his chest, as if marking notes on an invisible clipboard.

“Stiff.” He repeats the word like he’s not particularly pleased with the diagnosis. He doesn’t pull away, if anything, he holds you a little longer, clearly thinking it over like this is a problem he can actually solve. Then, he asks again, quieter; “Tell me what to fix.”

“That’s not really the p—” 

“Tell me.” His hands stay steady against your back as he waits for an answer. “I don’t like being average at giving you comfort.”

“It’s not a medical procedure, Doctor Zayne.” 

“Everything can be improved with the right method.” He draws you back in, and this time the hug feels different. His hand settles more fully against your back, and he dips his head until his cheek rests against your head. “Better?”

“...Nine.” 

“Not ten?”

“You’re overthinking it now. I can feel you overthinking it.” You poke lightly at his side.

That earns the faintest huff from him, almost a laugh. It’s quiet enough that you feel it more than hear it. “I’ll want the notes later. In writing, if possible.”

You blink up at him, half sure he’s serious. “You want a hug rubric?” 

“I want to not be a seven.” His arms settle around you again, like he’s already decided this is something he’ll figure out. “Help me get there.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

He’s got you tucked against the studio window, watching the half-full moon above the ocean. The whole thing feels soft and familiar, almost domestic, until you break the silence.

“Eight out of ten.”

He freezes. His hands stop halfway through whatever they were doing against your back. “Did you just rate me?”

“Mhm,” you bite back a grin, watching his expression crumble in real time, before correcting, “your hug, specifically.”

“You just rate my loving hug…” He pulls back so quickly you nearly get startled, staring at you like you’ve just delivered a devastating review of his entire body of work, “...an eight?”

“It was good! Just not perfect.” You hold your hands up in mock defense.

“Nothing I do is an eight.” He looks at you like you’ve personally betrayed him and insulted his hugging skills. “I’m a ten minimum in every category, always, that’s not ego talking, that’s just fact—”

“So prove it.” You cross your arms, egging him on.

That’s all it takes. He pulls you right back in, arms tightening immediately, and before you can even react, he presses an audible smooch to your cheek with a smug little flourish. “There. Bonus points.”

“That’s not part of a hug, that’s cheating!” You squirm, though you don’t actually pull away. How could you?

“It’s innovation.” Another kiss lands at your temple, delivered with the confidence of someone adding one last stroke to a painting. “Artists don’t follow the rules.”

“Rafayel—” 

“Shh, I’m working.” He sways you both slightly, far too pleased with himself, then drops a third kiss somewhere near your jaw purely because he feels like it. “Rescore me.”

“You haven’t stopped touching me long enough for me to think.” 

“Good. That’s the strategy.” He tightens his hold, cheek pressed against yours, making absolutely no effort to give you the space needed for an ‘objective evaluation’. “Now, was that an eight?”

“Mhm… ten.”

“Was that an eight, I hear?” He pretends not to hear you.

“Eleven! It was an eleven! Are you happy now?” 

“Ecstatic.” He finally loosens his grip, only to steal one more kiss at the corner of your mouth, grinning the entire time. “Should’ve started there. Would’ve saved us both the trouble.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

He pulls you into his side without a word, arm slipping around your waist like he’s already decided that’s where it belongs. It’s easy and effortless, the kind of certainty that seems to follow everything he does, including a simple hug. You let your head rest against him.

“This is nice... Seven out of ten.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Come again?”

“You heard me. Seven.” You keep your tone breezy, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

“So you’re reviewing me.” He tilts his head down to look at you properly, and the smirk in his expression quickly gives way to something almost delighted, like he wasn’t expecting this, but he’s already decided he’s going to have fun with it. “Didn’t peg you for the type to grade a hug.”

“Someone’s gotta keep you humble.” You pat his chest twice, like closing a case file.

“Bold assumption that you can.” He doesn’t loosen his hold. If anything, his arm settles a little more firmly around you, casual and completely sure of itself. “Seven, though. What knocked off the points?”

“Your hands are cold.”

“Noted.” His hands do not move. “Anything else, or was that the whole review?”

“You’re not even trying to fix it.” 

“Didn’t say I was trying to fix it.” A low chuckle brushes your ear, completely unbothered. There’s something smug about the way he says it that makes you want to argue just to see where he’ll take this. “I’m doing something better. My turn.”

“Your turn for what?” You narrow your eyes, already suspicious.

“To review you.” He tilts his head, looking you over like he’s already made up his mind. “Grip’s a bit loose. You keep almost pulling away, like you’re hesitating.”

“I’m not hesitating,” and you tighten your arms around him as if to prove it.

“You are.” He hums casually. “Six. For now.”

“You’re supposed to be the one under review here.” You huff, though you don’t loosen your hold either.

“We can do both.” He pulls you a little closer, chin settling on top of your head, perfectly comfortable there. “Besides, someone’s got to keep the scoring honest. You gave me a seven with a complaint in the same breath. Numbers don’t add up.”

“They add up just fine.” 

“Prove it.” His voice drops, just enough to make it sound like a challenge. His arms don’t move, so you tighten your grip just to make your point, and for half a second he actually goes still, slightly caught off-guard before that familiar smugness returns. “There it is. Eight, maybe. Getting warmer.”

“You’re not letting go either, you know. You’re still a seven.” 

“Never said I would.” He pats your lower back a few times. “Keep going. I’ve got time to wait for a ten.”

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

He wraps you up the second you’re close enough, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other rests warm against your back. It’s the same hold you always seem to melt into, familiar enough that neither of you has to think about it anymore. You hum contentedly and mumble against his collar;

“Ten out of ten.”

“Obviously.” He shrugs it off, like you’re confirming something he already knew.

“Wait, you’re not even surprised I gave your hug a rating?” 

“Should I be?” He pulls back just enough to grin down at you, looking far too pleased with himself. “Experience over years, you know, like how long before you get squirmy and pretend it’s because you’re ’busy.’”

“I don’t get squirmy.” 

“You are squirming right now.”

“That’s different.” 

“Sure it is.” He pulls you back against him. It’s obvious he’s done this enough times to know exactly what works, and he’s clearly not tired of it. “Ten out of ten and no notes. Kind of a boring review, though.”

You pull back just enough to give him a look. “Excuse me?” 

“You’ve given me the same score for months.” His tone stays lighthearted with just enough complaint to make it obvious he’s fishing for something more interesting. “I want a challenge. Give me something to improve.”

“You’re asking me to critique a perfect score.” 

“I’m asking you not to let me get complacent.” His eyes narrow with interest, the expression he gets right before he does something that is probably going to be both reckless and charming. “Come on. Surprise me. What’s the next level?”

“I don’t know, variety, maybe? You do the exact same hug every single time.” You shrug, only half expecting him to take the bait.

“Say less.” He doesn’t even give you time to brace. He lifts you clean off your feet for a moment, spins you, then catches you again, pulling you in tighter and laughing at the surprised yelp that escapes you. “New variant. Rate it.”

“That’s just showing off!” You cling to his shoulders, breathless from the surprise of it.

“That’s a ten with flair.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Don’t tell me you didn’t like it?”

“...I liked the original just fine.” 

“Liar.” He settles back into that same familiar hold anyway, the one he knows works, arms loose and warm around you. “Give it a minute, and you’ll be asking for the variant again by tomorrow.”

You already know he’s probably right. You just aren’t going to give him the satisfaction of saying so.

Hope you enjoyed this one as much as I enjoyed writing it! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝