The Painter of Stars

“You broke my nose!”

“Theo would find this one particularly…what did he say? Vibrant?” He snorts. “My baby brother…makes it sound like I’m really all that…” 

“Vibrant, indeed!” she agreed, her attention with whatever it was shortly fixated to Vincent’s direction, a quiet admiration to the bursts of color on canvas - and the admiration to him as well? “Also - I didn’t know that you had a little brother!”

“I havent told you of him yet?” He asked in a curious, forgetful way, before giving a little snort and setting away the painting, getting to his feet and hurrying to find something within a drawer nearby. He retrieved a photo, showing her a scrawny man beside him, far younger in age but the two looked *very* similar. “Baby Theo- he’s married now, has a baby and everything!”

He gave a slow nod as he continued to wipe him down, the shivers catching his eye, never letting the caution slip from his mind. Keep him warm, let the fever take its tole, but keep him comfortable. That was the hard part. Keeping him content.  Carefully, he put his arms back beneath the blankets, setting the blankets just beneath his chin, patting his chest softly. “Try to rest- if nightmares take you, I’ll be here.” He whispered, before pulling the book back up. He flipped back to his page, and quietly continued to read to him. 

Vincent glanced up to him, lifting a brow at the other’s murmured words, before a soft smile appeared on his face and he nodded, shifting a bit closer to the other  so that his elbows leaned on the bed. He opened the book up, flipping to the first page, and began to read in that hushed, soft tone of his. His voice was careful, calming, weaving through each word as it came from his lips, while those blue eyes glanced from the page to his friend, to see how he was doing.  After a while, he paused, and set the book aside with the pages marked with a hankie, moving to where the bowl settled and wringing out the towel again. “How do you feel.” He asked quietly, dampening the Doctor’s forehead and slipping the covers down to do the same to his upper chest and arms. 

Doctor Who - Vincent and the Doctor (2010)

Vincent could see it in him, the way he trembled from the fever and the cold now settled to his dampened skin, but he knew the storm must break at its peak, and so he gently fluffed his pillows, helped him lay beneath the blankets and tucked him in. “Dont say that, you big baby.” He rolled his eyes, before going in search of a book, only to return with a few. The rough faced painter drew up a chair, and settled beside his friend’s sick bed.  “You have three choices- haven’t rightfully heard of either of these two, but I did read just a bit of this as a child.” He offered over three books, two, the lord of the rings and some other science fiction, while the one Vincent recognized was Oliver Twist. 

With careful movements, Vincent rung out his towel, slipping the other’s shirt off of him and to the side, before gently taking his hand in his own and rubbing the other down with the damp clothe. He knew soon the fever would be taking over, and the Doctor would need more than just a wet clothe to dampen him. But for now, it would have to do.  He finished one arm, before moving to the next, quiet for the time being, before speaking up. “I will read to you.” He murmured softly. “Its not an adventure-” He grunted, shifting the Doctor up to sitting, pulling back the blankets. “But its something to keep your mind busy.” 

It wasnt often that the painter had to do for others like this- he would do so if need be but he never really truly had anyone there to take care of- But the Doctor- one of his only friends in this or any other world, was in need, and So Vincent bent to the need of his friend. He Ignored his all but whining words, careful as he went to take the other’s shoes off, and unwavering leaned up to undo the other’s bowtie. Once it was set aside, he began to quickly undo his shirt, furrowed brows never unfurling, and lines still tracing his face. He was unfazed- after all, they were just men. 

A moment or two later, he returned with a cold clothe and bowl, sleeves rolled up and a stern look still upon his face. He’d take good care of him, having to struggle through bouts of the fever himself. He’d be sure to keep his friend healthy. 

“I didn’t promise anything.” The Doctor said denying he had said he would go to bed and recover from his illness after saving the planet they had been on. He walked over to the console and sneezed again. The time lord was dizzy and pale and was using a cane to balance and support his weakened body. He needed rest but was too stubborn for any of that. He had a coughing fit before speaking again “So where to?”

With a stern look, Vincent stiffened his usually lax shoulders, brow furrowed as those deep blue eyes bore into the Doctor’s face. He hadn’t been on more than one adventure with the other and his friend was already ill. He set down his bag, his jacket slipping off of him and onto the grated flooring, before marching over to him. When Vincent wanted to, he could look big.  “Bedroom.” He ordered sternly, gripping the other’s arm tightly in his hand. “Before you fall down and die-” 

“I’m my opinion, you should stop over thinking things, and just DO it.”

“You know, miss Pond-- I think you’re right...” He stands up, back stiffened, brow furrowed as he fixes his sweater and sets his hands on his hips. “I think I shall--” 

Image and text courtesy NYPL Digital Gallery.