Chapter Text
It was a typical feast thrown for some departing minister. He was well-known and well-loved, apparently. Maomao couldn’t have cared less. She was only there to serve as the poison tester for a certain fox strategist and his adopted son. Jinshi was in attendance, of course, because he had so much free time already. Maomao wasn’t surprised nor discomfited by his presence. Rather, as soon as he spotted her, she scowled so as to tell him, ‘Don’t make Lakan angry’. Of course, in typical Jinshi fashion, he misunderstood her and frowned.
Lakan crowed, “What are you so sad for, Moon Prince? Sad that Maomao is with her Papa?”
Lahan quickly stepped in to simultaneously defend and assist his honored father. The rest was an entirely pointless squabble that took a lot of strong-arming from Maomao to diffuse. She dragged her so-called biological family to the other side of the room and continued to herd the two away from Jinshi’s contingent. It was an admittedly difficult task—the building was small and the attendants many, all packed together and pressing into each other. She could barely find her footing, let alone herd two grown men.
Yet, somehow, Maomao was in the right place and time to watch a servant pull a feifa from his robes, hold it up towards the other side of the room, and shoot.
And then the bullet, miraculously, horrendously, hit its mark on the right side of Jinshi’s chest.
The rest Maomao remembers was screaming. A wave of bodies that she had to fight through. Ducking under arms and shoving as hard as she could to reach the fallen Moon Prince. For once, her size was helpful—nobody seemed to notice or mind the petite woman tearing up the skirt of her robes to apply pressure to the prince’s wound. But over all the shouting, nobody could hear Maomao begging for clean water and something sharp she could use. She needed to clean and asses the wound—nobody was helping.
Then she remembers the feeling of being tugged by the nape of her jacket off Jinshi and further out of the building. Her hands were covered in blood. Luomen was there, talking to her. He looked completely exhausted. A few familiar faces followed him, trying to speak with her, as well. Maomao thinks she answered. She’s not sure. Someone cleaned her hands for her at some point. She slept in the dormitories she shared with En’en and Yao, who kept checking in periodically throughout the night while Maomao was packing. She could tell they disapproved. She didn’t particularly care.
When she finished packing, she hurried out towards the Moon Prince’s palace. She didn’t have a special token that would allow her access past the front gates, but she wanted to be there when the medical team arrived with Jinshi. He certainly wouldn’t be kept for long in the very public medical offices. No, his palace would be the safest place to keep him, thanks to his status, already limited staff, and proximity to the site of the assumed assassination attempt. His status grants him the protection of the esteemed Ma clan. The limited staff promises little chance of internal betrayal. The proximity—well, it’s generally not safe to move a patient in serious condition, but in this case, it’s vital.
Maomao, to her relief, had little trouble insinuating herself with the medical team once they arrived. Her abilities and skill have been recognized by them by now, after all. Yet Luomen was quick to catch her before she could approach the carriage. She huffed, but Luomen kept talking and talking with her—for so long, she didn’t even notice when the patient was hauled out of his carriage and into the palace. Maomao was only aware after the fact, when she followed her father all the way to the Moon Prince’s chambers.
There Jinshi is, already laid up in his bed. Suiren and Maamei are bringing over throw pillows from nearby couches to raise the patient and help the blood drain from his wound. Maomao moves to help them, but Luomen keeps a steady hand on her shoulder, locking her in place.
Just as Maomao scowls, ready to argue with her father, he begins to explain, “Surgery had to be done.”
Ah. Maomao knew it would likely be necessary. The confirmation chills her heart nonetheless.
“The bullet didn’t go much further than the fat,” Luomen continues to explain. Maomao turns to listen. “But it broke upon impact, so we had to cut out the pieces we couldn’t reach with our instruments.” He notices something behind Maomao (she doesn’t bother to check what), and begins to mime out the incisions he made. In all, it occurs to Maomao that the surgery would not have been short. It would have hurt. She can hardly imagine the stress both Luomen and Jinshi had to endure.
Maomao catches one of Luomen’s moving hands and holds it with both of her own. “I’m okay,” her father reassures her. “I won’t be taking first watch.”
No, that’ll be her. “I prepared some medicine to encourage rest. I’ll ask someone to bring some to you later,” Maomao says as she releases her father’s hand.
“I take it you will be keeping watch of the Moon Prince?”
Luomen really knows her best! “Yes.”
Maomao turns around to do begin just that, but in the time she spent talking with her father, a small group of court physicians have gathered along Jinshi’s bed. Luomen goes to join them, which means they are likely the surgical team. If her intuition is right (which, to her misfortune, it usually is), they are doing some last checks of the stitchwork before releasing the patient to his rest. If so, then she is not welcome.
Maomao holds up her sack of herbs, apothecary tools, and a day’s change of clothing. She needs to set it down somewhere.
She’s just about to start unpacking right then and there when Maamei captures her and brings her to an adjoining room. It’s not a sleeping chamber—rather, it seems to be a place to receive highly honored guests. Suiren is there with a few lacquered boxes already laid out on a table. Maomao has the feeling there are more boxes somewhere, but she doesn't inquire; only finds a table to put down her sack.
“You'll be with us for awhile, right, Xiaomao?” Suiren asks. Despite the terrible circumstances, she appears remarkably calm. Perhaps it's a difference in age, for Maamei is puttering around near Suiren and, with nothing else to do, picking at her nails.
“Yes.” Maomao holds up her sack. “This has all the medicine I could prepare last night. And some of my medical tools.” Just her mortar and pestle, actually.
The unspoken question, Where do I put this?, hangs in the air.
“What about a change of clothes?” Maamei inquires.
“I have an extra pair in here,” Maomao intones.
The two older women sigh in unison. Suiren glances at the lacquer boxes and says, “It's good I still have so many of my daughter's clothes. I'll lend you some, Xiaomao.” Maamei takes the sack while Suiren approaches Maomao. “Did you sleep?”
“Yes,” Maomao lies.
Suiren frowns. “Don't make me look after the both of you,” she gently chides while leading Maomao out of the room and back by Jinshi’s chambers. “You wait here for a little.”
Really, must everyone keep Maomao from seeing Jinshi? To pass the time, she checks all her pockets, re-confirming with herself what she has and where it is. She has a few simple salves, one made with the sole purpose to be slathered onto square-cut pieces of cloth. She has no idea if the surgical team already noticed a particular brand burned into the Moon Prince’s abdomen, but it still behooves her to hide it from prying eyes.
Besides that, she has a few sachets of herbs and a variety of analgesics, made to treat different kinds of aches. Serious injuries require long, uninterrupted days of rest, which means any number of small bodily pains that will crop up from inactivity. Maomao wonders if the doctors have any plans for ensuring Jinshi maintains his physical health. If not, Maomao is aware of a few stretches she can help him with from his rest bed—even small bits of activity can make a world of difference.
Just as Maomao is beginning to wonder what will be needed for mental exercise (surely, Jinshi will get bored at some point), the medical team shuffle out of the Moon Prince’s bedchamber. She feels their stares on her, but her eyes are only on her father, who steps out of the small crowd to speak with her.
“Come now,” Luomen gently bids, placing a hand between Maomao's shoulders and leading her inside.
And, finally, there Jinshi is.
Numbness pervades her fingertips, snaking up her arm and down her chest. “Maomao?” Luomen calls from somewhere far away. She feels someone grab her shoulder, another someone talk into her ear.
Over the years, Maomao has seen much of Jinshi. As a eunuch, as a prince, working himself to an early grave, or finding a new way to get on her nerves. She's seen him wear a beautiful mask for others, then smile just for her. She's heard him chuckle, felt him cry against her back, had his lips on her neck. He is a regular, intense, annoying presence that has flitted through her life so often that she can scarcely imagine her world without his occasional interruptions.
She looks and looks for that Jinshi. He’s not here now, not on this bed.
Maomao presses her thumb on his wrist. A good, steady pulse. She holds her other hand under his nose. Good, steady breathing. She cups his cheek. He is cold, but not enough to frighten her. Jinshi is alive. That offers little comfort, somehow.
Maomao turns to Luomen. To her surprise, a small contingent has formed in the room, all eyes on her. She hides her hands in her sleeves and asks her father, “When did the surgery end?”
Luomen thinks. “The surgery ended just past mid-afternoon, so–” it's been less than a full day since the bullet fragments were pulled from Jinshi's skin.
No wonder he looks so horrible, Maomao concludes. “What was done afterwards?”
“We cleaned him, as best we could.” Luomen's usually placid grin changes to a chagrined frown.
So even near-death doesn't diminish his beauty to others. Maomao has half a mind to hunt down the perverted physicians in question and hit them on the head with a broom. But she can't exactly do that now, so she takes another long look at the body on the bed, then looks around the room. The curious eyes follow her stare.
“You can sit here, Xiaomao,” Suiren soon says, pulling herself from the chorus. “Just say the word and I'll bring you whatever you need.”
“Can I have a small bowl with warm water and a towel?” Maomao requests as she sits. She can give him a cursory cleaning.
“Certainly. I'll bring you some breakfast, too.” Suiren pats Maomao on the shoulder and begins her exeunt, taking the curious contingent and Luomen with her.
When the door closes, so too does Maomao's eyelids. She slouches in the provided chair, willing it to keep her upright. There has been an uneasy, sick, all-consuming feeling that has sat in Maomao’s shadow since yesterday. She’s ignored it so far, but in privacy with a sleeping patient, she relents. Levies thus broken, it floods her chest, a heavy weight on her lungs and a heavier weight on her heart. She breathes despite the burden, opens her eyes to harsh reality, and directs her sight upon the man before her.
“Listen close! I'm going to make you my wife!”
Unbidden, the memory of that night, of that promise, surfaces in her mind. Maomao clicks her tongue.
“For you, I will remove every obstacle that keeps us apart. One day. Just know that.”
“Is this what you wanted?” she asks nobody in particular.