When bb and vampy are laying in bed facing each other, and both just holding one another, they were talking about their day but bb is so so sleepy she’s using all her energy to keep her eyes open and she’s just looking at vampy and running her thumb up and down his cheek slowly. Trying so hard to stay awake cus she wants to spend more time with him since she was at work all day but eventually her eyes are just to heavy for her and she closes them 😔 and vampy is just bursting at the seams like he fucking can’t she’s his BABY and he just pulls her even closer and puts her face in his neck cus he knows she likes to sleep like that 😭 kissing her head one million times 😞
Harry can tell Y/N is about to fall asleep.
She's been resisting the pull of rest for the last forty-five minutes, fighting valiantly against the drag of her eyelids as she's relayed her day to him. Her speech has been drifting in and out of coherence for the last fifteen minutes, her words falling off the edge of her tongue like a rock off a cliff— quickly plunging further and further down, until out of sight completely. And yet, just when Harry thinks that she's finally dropped into a chasm of sleep, her even breaths stutter, and she begins her story anew, her topics drifting like her speech.
"And there was this other customer today," Y/N stifles a yawn against Harry's shoulder as she moves her thumb slowly and evenly over the stubble on his cheek. "Who threw a fit because we were out of cream for their coffee. They said—" another yawn interrupts her speech. "—that milk didn't..."
Her voice trails off again, just as it did two minutes ago. Harry suppresses a smile, rubbing her back in time with her breaths. "The milk didn't what?"
"Hm?" Y/N's eyes flutter open again, although not quite to the same degree that they were before they fell shut. "It didn't taste the same. And I reminded them that...it's milk, not cream, so of course it...doesn't..."
Despite the warmth spreading through Harry's immortally frozen chest as he watches his lover battle her exhaustion, he hates to see her deny herself of her needs. He can't help but think that she wouldn't be so resistant to things like sleep if he could participate in the human habit with her. If he were to fall asleep first, Y/N would have no trouble curling into his side and closing her eyes without argument.
It's crossed Harry's mind once or twice to fake it. He's an excellent actor— he's had to be, to survive two centuries pretending to be mortal. He's sure he'd have no trouble closing his eyes, evening out the breaths he doesn't actually need, and lying still enough to convince Y/N that he's lost in a sea of sleep. But the idea plants a seed of discontent in his chest. He lies to his love so much, and so often. He can't bring himself to weave another deception at her expense.
"Angel," Harry keeps his voice low, barely a whisper echoing around his bedroom. "You're exhausted. Go to sleep."
As expected, this statement of truth is met with stubbornness. "Not tired."
Y/N can feel vibrations roll through Harry's chest as he fights back laughter. "You can barely finish your sentences, love. You can tell me more about your shitty customers in the morning, over breakfast. But for now, you need some rest."
"Don't wanna," Y/N tugs herself closer to Harry by his shoulders, inhaling the tobacco and vanilla scent of his cologne as she does so. "Barely saw you today, H. Wanna keep—" Another stifled yawn. "Talking."
"You know you undermine your arguments when you can't even open your eyes to make them, right?"
Y/N blinks her eyes open, unaware that she had let them fall close again. "They're open, asshole. Maybe it's yours that aren't open."
She feels one of Harry's dimples appear under her thumb as she strokes his cheek, and knows that he's laughing at her. If she had more energy, she'd push him away. But it's late, and despite running cold, being pressed tightly against his body is still the most comfortable place to rest. The only thing missing is—
Harry gently guides her head to rest in the crook of his neck, and the sigh of content that falls from Y/N's lips seizes his undead heart like a vice.
"My eyes are open. Which you would be able to tell if you could do the same."
Y/N hums in acknowledgement of his response, but doesn't form a counter argument. Instead, she lets her hand fall from her lover's cheek to his chest, too tired to note the unnatural stillness where his heart should beat.
"That's a good girl." Harry's lips press to the top of her head as her breathing evens out for the final time that night, and she finally drifts off the edge of consciousness. "Sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."
Despite not being awake to hear this promise, Y/N knows that it's true.
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Wait I know we always talk about how protective vampy would be when bb got sick but what would nialls reaction be to her getting sick? I feel like Harry would mention it in the groupchat so Niall would rush over and H would be like “what are you doing go home” and hes like “ok but......shes not gonna die right?” And Harry’s like “....should we call Mitch” and bb would yell from His bed “I LITERALLY JUST HAVE A COLD CALM DOWN” then h would be like “…do you think we should take her to the ER just in case?”
the way they would make each other's anxiety worse PLS
...
It's not that Harry didn't know Niall was fond of Y/N.
He'd spent months running interference between the two, trying to squash Niall's every attempt of establishing contact with the mortal girl before Harry was ready. He'd stopped multiple attempts to crash dates, suffered through his phone being stolen four times, and lost three fingernails in a battle to prevent Niall from adding Y/N to their group chat affectionately titled "The Fang Gang." Once Harry did start allowing contact between his mortal lover and immortal friends, Harry could see the playful relationships bloom immediately. He was glad for it, even— it was much easier to have a relationship with Y/N once the two sides of his life began to merge. And he knew there was a certain degree of protectiveness that went along with that. He'd appreciated his friends understanding his need to make sure she was safe, that he sometimes had to leave a hangout early to make sure Y/N had a ride home when working a closing shift. He'd been thankful for it during certain nights in certain clubs. He knew there was affection there.
He just didn't expect that affection to bring Niall to his door thirty-two seconds after texting in the group chat that he and Y/N would have to miss dinner on account of her having a cold.
The Irishman looks at Harry with an expression he hasn't seen on the carefree vampire's face in years, peering anxiously over Harry's shoulder as if expecting to see the sick girl there. "Is Y/N okay?"
Harry blinks at him. "Is she— what?"
"Is Y/N okay?" Niall repeats the question, his eyes focusing back on Harry's face. "You said she was sick, and that's— humans are fragile. Getting sick means—"
"It means she has a cold, Niall," Harry's own brow furrows in confusion as he looks his friend up and down. "Just a cold. She just needs some rest."
Niall steps into the apartment, and the unease rolling off the vampire in waves convinces Harry to let it happen. He's never seen Niall go so long without smiling, or cracking a joke in greeting.
"You know people die of colds, Harry," Anxiety is threaded through Niall's voice as he speaks. "All it takes is one big cough, and suddenly your lungs are on the outside of your body! Human's don't do well with lungs on the outside of their body! That's literally the opposite of where they're supposed to be!"
"I really don't think that's how coughing works, mate," Harry touches Niall's shoulder with a measured movement. "Calm down. She's fine. Just a bit congested, has a small cough and a headache. Mostly she just needs sleep."
"What if she can't breathe? Congestion means—"
"It means she has a stuffy nose! That's it!"
Niall pulls out his phone. "Have you checked her temperature?"
"Five minutes ago. It's only 38.1 degrees—"
"Google says that's a fever! You know what happens when humans have fevers?"
Harry sighs. "They die?"
"They die, Harry! Fevers are bad! Fevers mean infection!"
"It's a cold!"
And yet.
Harry feels his stomach twist within his abdomen as he snatches Niall's phone from his hands and reads through the Google search results about fevers.
"Mitch doesn't seem concerned," Harry says the words almost as a comfort for himself.
Niall makes a noise of mocking in the back of his throat. "Mitch barely batted an eye when Sarah wound up in a body bag. Should we use him as the gauge for how concerned we should be?"
Harry can identify two faults to that argument right away, the first being that Mitch was distraught for days when Sarah met her untimely mortal end, and the second being that if anyone shouldn't be the gauge for concern, it's Niall, who's prone to overexcitement and overreacting. But then he hears Y/N coughing upstairs, and pictures her fragile body shivering beneath the blanket's he's layered on top of her, and all his counterarguments go out the window.
"I'll go get Y/N while you bring the car around, alright? You think I can bribe the ER staff with a Gucci watch?"
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Yesterday, as well, had been an example of how well Harry is doing with this arrangement the two of them have. He’d picked her up in the early afternoon and taken her to the Museum of Contemporary Art, where they’d spent the rest of the day wandering the exhibits and debating the artistic merits of each piece. Of course, their discussions were less educated and more humour based, as Harry tended to list every painting as reminding him of sex, while Y/N said that every sculpture she saw was a comment on capitalism, but it had made them laugh nonetheless. And while the security guards standing by didn’t seem to think their overheard conversations were amusing— nor how they posed with the paintings, trying to mimic the various expressions depicted in the artwork— Harry could tell that Y/N was entertained. It was obvious in how sugary her blood had been after she’d fallen asleep hours later. And if Harry were a better artist, he would’ve created his own sculpture dedicated to the honey and lavender liquid that he’d become so tied to over these last few months, but it appears his position as a collector is what he was suited for— both for literal artwork, and the metaphorical pieces he’d paint on Y/N’s body with his lips.
