Slashers x Reader One-Shot Book

Vincent Sinclair | Get Well Soon

The night before you'd had nothing more than a stomach ache, thinking it would go away overnight and you'd be a-okay, but the moment you'd peeled your eyes open the next morning you knew you were sick like a dog. The thin trickle of light seeping through the curtains was blinding, making your head pound and throb like you'd been hit over it with a hammer. You're stomach churned and roiled with turmoil, a constant bile sitting in the back of your throat. You were weak, and freezing despite your layers and layers of blankets. The room around you was cluttered, candles and gifts from your wax-carver boyfriend on every surface. Blindly you patted around on your bedside table in search of your glass of water, only feeling the small statues and no cup. You let out a groan, wondering where Vincent is, as well. He wasn't beside you like he usually is on the odd occasion that he does sleep, which he had yesterday, wanting to comfort you when you were feeling slightly ill. Now, you craved his presence, something to ground you and stop you from wanting to throw up a lung.

You didn't know what time it was and didn't want to stand to cross your room and check your phone, so instead you decided to just lay there and wait for someone to wonder why you hadn't gotten up to make breakfast yet. Suddenly, your body temperature sky-rocketed and you were boiling, kicking off your blankets with aching legs and letting out another groan, the previously-cold-sweat now normal, overheated sweat. You honestly felt like you were dying or something! You laid, in utter despair, kicking off your blankets one minute and then burrowing back underneath them the next, your muscles and limbs screaming with every little movement, your stomach threatening to eject it's contents every little shift. You had no idea how long had passed until, through plugged ears, you heard a door open and shut, followed by heavy footsteps.

"(Y/N), how's that breakfast comin' along? I gotta head out onto the road any minute now!" it was Lester, one of Vincent's brothers. If he was leaving soon then it was almost 9 am. When you didn't answer, you heard Lester thump down the stairs towards the kitchen, calling out your name. Still no answer, obviously, since if you made any sound it would be accompanied by a scream of anguish or a waterfall of bile all over your blankets. Not exactly what you wanted to happen. Lester hurried right back up the stairs and you let out a weak sigh of relief as he knocked on your door. "Vince? (Y/N)?" he called through the door, you forcing out a weak, painful,

"L-Lester?" at the sound of your strained voice Lester shoved open the door.

"My lord in heaven- Vincent? Bo?" he called out, spinning on his heel and hurrying away to find someone to help you. Your entire body screamed as you sat up, or at least tried to; you collapsed back into a laying down position when you failed. "(Y/N)'s dead, or dying or... something!" Lester's voice echoed from down the hall near Bo's room. You could hear Bo respond in a much quieter tone than Lester's shouting, unable to make out his words. You did hear his footsteps, though, seconds later. Loud and hurried, Bo came to stand in your door frame with a smirk.

"Well, look at you, poor thing!" he couldn't help but chuckle, making you weakly flip him the bird with a shaking hand. "Where's Vincent at, I thought he'd be all over you," Bo drawled, his smirk turning into a more concerned one.

"Probably at the Museum." Lester pointed out- of course! Of course he was at the museum, he was currently in the middle of another wax figure, another trapped victim and he wanted to finish coating and smoothing the base form before the body began to stink. He wanted it covered in a thick layer of wax before the scent of death could get too unbearable. "I can send him home on my way out of town." Lester's drawling voice carries light concern as he flicks his gaze back to you and your despair. Bo simply nods.

"I'll take care o' breakfast today, don't worry yourself." he waves a hand dismissively, shutting the door before you can thank him. "Vincent'll be here soon!" he calls, the door distorting his words again as he leaves to head downstairs and make something half-assed to get Lester through the busy morning of shoveling roadkill into the back of his truck. You close your eyes and try to sleep, escape this hellish world of consciousness for at least a while until Vincent arrived. At last, you fell into a pitiful doze, being shaken awake every few minutes by the slightest sound like the chirp of a bird or the slam of a door. You hadn't even noticed the second time the front door open and shut, signalling Vincent's arrival. You also didn't notice his silent footsteps approaching your door until the handle to your room twisted and the door was pushed open. You were dragged awake once more, your gaze landing on Vincent as he stood timidly in the doorway, long, black hair covering the majority of his face.