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myckicade · 9 months

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WARNING: Contains reworked spoilers for Season Four.

Prompt: Can you do a Coco imagine and fix it please????

A/N: Ugggh. I still wish that I could properly fix it. I do. I'm so, so sorry that I can't, loves. All I can offer is this, and a massive hug.

As a further warning, I've played with canon (clearly), in order to fit the wider universe that this story follows. Since the events of Meth Mountain never would have taken place, Oakland wasn't a bitch detail for Coco.

P.S. This is over a year old, but I finally finished the bastard!!!!

Title: Catalyst

Pairing: Coco/Reader (F, Wife)

Teaser: You don't really know the realities of being a biker's wife, a fact that is becoming painfully clear. You can prepare for injuries, for accidents and scrapes and broken bones and concussions and-... Fuck, this? No, no, there's been no preparing for this.

There’s a high-pitched chirping coming from the nightstand, and it’s everything in you not to reach across the bed and fling the source of the noise against the wall. Fucking Club. They always need Coco at the strangest of hours, out to do fuck knows what, only fuck knows where. Under normal circumstances, you would let it slide, even at two in the morning. Unfortunately, normal circumstances are on holiday.

“Coco,” you groan, burying your face futher into your pillow. It muffles your words, but you know he’ll understand you, regardless. “Your phone…” You’re practically whining, but it’s… That sound, it’s grating on your nerves, ringing in the space between your eyes in a way that makes you want to cry. Another complaint is about to meet your pillowcase, when the tone abruptly cuts out. Thank fuck.

And, yes, you’ve counted those stars too soon. Almost as quickly as it stopped, the chirping starts again.

“Coco, what the fuck?” you hiss, pushing yourself up on your arms, to look over at the other pillow… Only to find it empty.

Oh. Oh, right. Coco’s still in Oakland. Sadly, this isn’t the first time you’ve gone to reach for him in the night, only to realize… Well. This is going to do nothing to rescue your mood. Because, for all you’ve been complaining to your husband’s temporary ghost, it’s most decidedly your phone that’s interrupted your sleep. Guilt settles in around the edges of your slowly-forming sense of consciousness. Eh. You’ll apologize to him when he gets back. You’ll say you’re sorry for yelling at him when he wasn’t around to hear it. He’ll laugh, and call you adorably crazy, and that will be that.

One more day, you tell yourself. Just one more day, and he’ll be home.

You stretch your arm toward the nightstand, intent to grab hold of the offending hunk of plastic and metal. Just as your fingers touch the surface, the ringing stops again. Huh. You’re beginning to grow concerned, the more alert you become. Coco wouldn’t call you in the middle of the night, not unless it was an emergency. Letty… Letty is safe in her bed, further shortening your list of potential callers. What if it’s from back home? It can’t be good, no matter who it is. Swallowing down a wave of honest terror, you pick up your phone, and-

Ding-ding.

The display lights up, alerting you to an incoming text message. It’s Gilly. Gilly never messages you. Your heart climbs into your throat, thumb shaking as you swipe up, and tap the icon to open your messages. You don’t want to know, and you can’t wait another second to find out what’s happened-

GET HERE NOW.

Your next breath catches in your chest, as you pull yourself upright in your bed. Get where? What the fuck is-

Ding-ding. Another message. It’s an address. You copy the address, and open it into your web browser, only to freeze up again as you realize... It's an address to a hospital.

A hospital? Oh, no, no, you’re going to be sick. The nausea is creeping up, burning in fear-

Ding-ding.

Tears fill your eyes. No, you can’t look. You just can’t. But…

COCO IN SURGERY. CALL ME.

Eyes frantically scanning the screen before you, you locate the appropriate icon, and smash your thumb against it. Every part of you is shaking, warmth slipping from your eyes, a sob fighting harder and harder to break free with every passing ring.

“Come on, come on, Gilly,” you whimper. The shaking has taken over every limb, so violent your bones are beginning to ache.

Ring…

“(Y/n)?!” It’s Gilly. His voice is such a relief, that sob finally forces its way out in a harsh cough.

“Gilly,” you plead. “What the hell happened?!”

The path before you opens up slowly, accompanied by a too-loud woosh of sound, and a burst of chilled air. You hate that you have to stop, even for the two or three seconds it takes for the glass doors to part far enough that you and Letty can get through them. Side by side, that's been the way since you'd had to wake her up, not an hour prior. Hands clasped together, a lifeline for one another. With a deep breath, you step through a second set of doors, and into the hospital's emergency department.

Six gunshot wounds. Fractured right tibia. Some kind of skull fracture. Gilly hadn't been terribly clear after that. Trying to get hold of a medical professional was a fuck of a struggle the entire way up, a wash of dropped calls, hold music, and after-hours answering services. Still, thanks to what Gilly was able to tell you, you aren't walking into it completely blind. Neither is Leticia, but, feeling the girl's hand tremble in yours, and hearing her half-stifled sniffles, you can't help but wonder which would really be worse.

The check-in desk is only a few steps away, but they seem to drag on for far longer than that. There's someone ahead of you, because, yes, of course, there is. Letty doesn't say a word of it, not right away, doesn't tell anyone to hurry their ass, or get the fuck out of the way, which says enough about how fearful the both of you are, concerning this discussion. The woman behind the desk could say anything, could be forced to direct you anywhere that would shatter the hope that Gilly left you with.

He's alive, though. Those were Gilly's exact words, and that's what you keep telling yourself. That's what got you into your clothes, and your coat, out the door and to the gas station. That's what kept you on the road, and not in a ditch, too blinded by tears and shaken with nausea to keep it between the lines. You're holding onto it now, grasping it with every last shred of your sanity. Coco's alive. He's alive, and he's a fighter, and if you find out who the fuck is responsible for this, you'll-

"Fuck this," Letty grumbles under her breath, taking a single step forward. Her mouth is open, surely ready to spout some obscenity that you can't find it in you to fault her for, when someone shouts from the left.

"(Y/n)!"

You jerk your head up, legs weakening at the sight of Gilly and Bishop hurrying over from the waiting area. They're still here, you tell yourself, as Gilly pulls you and Letty into a tight hold. That has to be a good sign, right? No one is off seeking... Shit, you don't know. Revenge or balance, whatever response the M.C. would typically have in this sort of a situation.

It strikes you suddenly. You don't know what the fallout from this is going to be. You don't really know the realities of being a biker's wife, a fact that is becoming painfully clear. Bits and pieces of conversation overheard during parties, and Coco failing at whispering over the phone, and that's it. He's never let you know, and you've always been fine with that, but now... Now, you'd give your left arm to understand, at the same time that you just don't fucking care. It wouldn't change a fucking thing, either way. You can prepare for injuries, for accidents and scrapes and broken bones and concussions and-... Fuck, this? No, no, there's been no preparing for this.

"What the fuck happened?!" Letty shouts, the second she's able to pull back from Gilly's arm. She looks between both men standing before you, expectant. You can't help but do the same.

Bishop sighs. "We don't know very much-"

"Bullshit," Letty spits. Reaching out, you place your hand on her forearm. She doesn't shrug you off, but it doesn't stop her argument. "You fuckers always know shit."

"Well, in this case," Bishop replies, tone firm, but not entirely unkind, "we weren't given much to go on." He glances your way, expression somber. "We know he's still in surgery. Bullets in his back, and his right leg. Fucked up the bone."

"G-Gilly," you begin, nodding, "Gilly said it was the tibia?"

Bishop nods, and Gilly hangs his head. "Right."

"The skull fracture?" Letty demands, when Bishop doesn't continue. You glance up, and find your daughter blinking back tears. Admirably, you might add.

Gilly shrugs, miserably. "Cracked his head when he fell, maybe. He was near his bike. Mighta' landed on it." Letty reaches out to grab your hand in hers. Good timing. It's all you can do not to bury your face away from the rest of the world. "The doctors've been waitin' on you. Won't give us the full story without family present."

Yeah, that makes sense. You look between the two men apologetically. Poor bastards. They've surely been trying to get every scrap of information they can, and here you two are, grilling them for details they've been prevented from learning.

Shaking your head, you sigh, a fragile, shaky sound. "Where is he?" you ask, glancing down the hallway from which they had emerged. You want to know what waiting room to pace, what nurse's station to post up at. Taking a deep breath, you focus as best you can. This is terrifying, but not all-together unfamiliar territory. "Where were you guys waiting?"

Bishop places a hand at your back, guiding you down the hallway. Gilly swings an arm around Letty's shoulders, leaning in to murmur something you don't bother trying to hear. Now that the fear of the unknown is simmering a little lower, the numbness is beginning to creep in.

Alive.

Surgery.

Shattered.

Christ, Coco, you pray, silently, as you lower yourself into an open waiting room chair. You had better be okay.

There are more tubes and wires attached to your husband than should be possible for one human being. Your cousin hadn't looked this bad after his car accident in '09, you can't help but remember, as your eyes wander across what little of Coco's skin is visible. A bit of forearm, between medical attachments. Shoulders, neck, and chin. Forehead. There are bruises across his face, and it looks as though the doctors have reset his nose. You've seen Coco through scrapes before, from bar fights to dumping his bike while intoxicated. Even then, even with bleeding legs and a bruised tailbone, he hadn't been this beaten up.

It's everything in you not to burst into tears, all over again.

Heaven help you, that you should cry anymore. Your throat is already so dry you're going hoarse. For better or worse, there's no one around to hear your voice, anyhow. Letty wandered off to the cafeteria a while ago, intent to get you something to drink, and a snack. You didn't have the heart to fight her on it. She's every bit as anxious as you are, and she needs something to do, something she can control to keep herself from falling apart. If she can seize the opportunity to keep one of her parents going, and healthy, you won't stand in the way.

A loud tone chimes in from the machine behind you, followed by a series of pulsating beeps. Time for vitals. When the results are displayed, you can't help but glance up. No change. In this instance, it's as good as gold. He's living off of so many aids - breathing tube, I.V. solution, anesthetics - any little change could be explained by just about any detail.

You sigh, low and slow. Fuck. You knew this could happen. You've told yourself as much at least half a dozen times tonight, alone. That doesn't change the reality. And didn't it just figure? It feels like you've been married for five minutes, and everything is going to shit. It had seemed so... Ugh, so fucking perfect, much as you hate to be that doe-eyed, but that's what it's been. Fucking. Perfect.

It's just your luck, Santo Padre doesn't allow for perfect.

Looking back to the bed, to Coco's closed eyes, and his exhausted form... Well, you smirk, just a tad. "Didn't need to go getting shot, just to get a good rest, y'know," you murmur, before blowing out a breath. Levity isn't going to make you feel any better, much as you'd like to try. The nurse said to talk to him, which makes perfect sense, but... You don't have much to go on, besides nervous joking, and desperate pleas.

"Maybe I ought to take a page from Leticia's book, and break something," you continue, now talking to yourself, just as much as to your husband. "You'd be so pleased." You reach out, and slowly slide your fingers into Coco's palm. He's a little chilly, unsurprising between the loss of blood, and the air conditioning blasting down from the ceiling. You grip his fingers as tightly as you dare, and lean in. "Come on, mi rey," you whisper, barely loud enough to reach Coco's ears, even if he was awake. "I have faith in you. You keep fighting. No matter who, or what comes after you, baby, you fight." Your voice catches, as you slide your free hand into your purse. "We need you to be okay, Johnny." It might sound selfish to anyone else's ears, but you know Coco would want to hear it, to hear that he is needed, and loved, and wanted. All the things he knows, but sometimes forgets.

The things you will work even harder to keep him from forgetting.

"We all need you to. Me, and Letty..." Bringing your hand up, you prop a small slip of paper on Coco's chest, tilting it in front of his face. Your jaw trembles, and your voice cracks as tears flood your eyes. "And your son, baby." You pause to get yourself together, which doesn't amount to much. There's more guilt behind this conversation than you wish you felt, the feeling drawing a sob from your throat. "I was gonna' tell you when you got back. I swear, I was." He's waited for this for so long. You both have. "So, you've gotta' fight it, okay? Take whatever time you need, but-..." Taking a deep breath, you steady yourself. "You need to get better," you instruct, in as commanding a voice as you can manage. "I'm not raising this baby without you, you hear me?"

There's no response. You don't expect one. This isn't a sappy romance movie, or the daily soaps. Coco will wake up when he's good and ready. And you'll be here, holding his hand, and chatting about what he's sleeping through all the while. You lean down and press your lips to his fingers, thumb brushing along the back of his hand. "I love you, baby," you murmur, pressing another kiss to his skin before you sit back up. Lean back. Try to relax.

Vitals sound again.

Someone wheels a cart by, just outside the room.

You sniffle. Just once.

"Y'know, I thought I'd be bailing our Princess out of jail, by now," you admit, thoughtfully. "She really kept it together. You'd be proud as hell of her."

Letty stands in front of a cafeteria display case, filled with questionable-looking salads and tempting baked treats in plastic clamshell containers. Each one makes her stomach turn. She's not here for her, though, is she? She's here for you. She's here to make sure her mother, after six straight hours of waiting in a lousy fucking hospital chair, isn't going to drop on her, too, from something as stupid as low blood sugar. If that was to happen? Jesus Christ, she doesn't know what the fuck she'd do. End up in the psych ward, more than likely. Or break someone's worthless neck. Yeah, that sounds more like it.

She's just about to reach for a slice of what she thinks is chocolate cake, when a hand comes to rest on her arm. It startles the living shit out of her, but when she looks up, ready to gouge out a motherfucker's eye with one of the plastic-wrapped sporks within her reach, Letty finds Gilly staring down at her.

Fuck. Yeah, that tracks. She's been in here for a good little while.

"Find anything for your Mom?" he asks quietly, removing his hand from her person to tuck it back in the pocket of his kutte. Letty turns back toward the display case, staring into the middle space for a moment.

"You're gonna' get the motherfucker responsible, right?" Behind her, Gilly sighs. She's expecting a comment about her language, or about how this isn't the time to be worried about something like vengeance. A truly ugly response is on the tip of her tongue, when Gilly surprises her.

"Yeah," he promises, voice quiet, but sure. "Yeah, kid, we're gonna' get 'em."

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