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Nearly ten years, they’ve lived together, and yet he’s hardly ever been in his Master’s room before. Still, needs must, as he’s now watching over him, waiting for him to recover from his most recent brush with death.

(As smart as his Master is, he can be a little rash on occasion. Patience has never been one of his most prominent qualities, but Patrick knows better than to point this out to his face.)

He can honestly say he never meant to go through Colin’s personal stuff; but the vial of revitalising fluid he once referred to as an antidote to most varieties of deadly poisons was buried at the bottom of his trunk, under heaps of other stuff he’s not entirely sure his Master would have wanted any stranger to lay their eyes on. And he knows he should definitely put that picture back where he’s found it, but he can’t stop staring at it for some weird reason.

The Master looks so happy and carefree in that one, and that’s saying something, considering how little Colin Denham ever worries about anything at all. He’s not sure who the other person in the photograph is, but if he had to take a guess, he’d say it’s that young assistant of Colin’s that he occasionally slips and mentions, only to immediately cut himself off, a troubled look momentarily clouding his face. He sure looks quite cute, and young, and very much into whatever Colin is whispering in his ear.

“Wake up, Master,” he murmurs, as he finally places the picture on top of the pile, and closes the lid of the trunk on it. “Please?”

Colin mutters something indistinct in his sleep, then lies still again. Patrick sighs and retreats to the other end of the room, preparing for a long and lonely vigil.

At least he knows his Master is going to be alright, soon.