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autisticlancemcclain · 7 months

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fic rec friday 41

hello and welcome to fic rec friday! where, on friday, i rec five of my favourite fics.

Won't you lie with me a while? by notverystraight

When their laughter finally died down, their eyes found each other, the two falling into an intimate kind of quietness. Keith realised their bodies were now so close that his bangs tickled Lance’s forehead, the warmth of their skin mingling, Lance’s every exhale grazing his lips. If he tilted his head ever so slightly, their noses would brush. Lance’s gaze was magnetic. All of a sudden, the air felt much heavier than it had been a minute ago. Keith was hyper aware of the arm curled around his middle, fingers ghosting beneath his shirt. The slow, burning heat that was beginning to pool in his gut was mirrored in Lance’s eyes as they roamed over Keith’s face, his neck, his chest, pausing where his fingers lay against the sliver of exposed skin at his waist. Keith’s breath hitched. - Or, Lance and Keith hang out in Lance’s bedroom. That’s it, that’s the fic.

i LOVE this one. all the little details are so cute. y'all know @mothmanavenue 's recent post with keith and lance's room?? this is like an older fic version of that, almost. the percy jackson poster in lance's room, the bed, the way they're squished together on it.....it's just so sweet and transitory i'm in love

2. In (Almost) Every Reality by notverystraight

When Lance finds himself face to face with alternate universe versions of himself and all his friends, he’s excited to talk to them – who wouldn’t want to see just how different their life could have turned out? However, that feeling begins to sour when Lance notices that, out of all his alternate selves, he seems to have the most underwhelming life. And another unexpected thing. He and Keith seem to be a lot more, um… friendly with each other in the other realities…

early season dynamics when lance is still like fully insisting on the rivalry thing while also being super attracted to keith and mad about it, and then finding out that he and keith are literally soulmates?? like in love in every reality?? ENDLESSLY funny. also lance being a big nerdy fic reader is so so real

3. Speak in Tongues by laidellennt

Lance learns Altean from Coran. Keith's kind of weird about it.

keith getting like lowkey horny when lance speaks different languages is SO real and SO funny 💀💀 like of course this whipped dumbass is just like so hugely attracted to lance in all his strange awkward competency and of course he has no idea how to handle it. of course lance is offended by it. i love early season dynamics

4. 5 things Lance was surprisingly good at +1 thing that should be obvious by orphan_account

5 things Lance was surprisingly good at +1 thing that should be obvious, it's pretty self-explanatory.

i love this one bc its just a way to headcanon lance as being good at random stuff. like yes obviously he can throw knives. of course he can bake. duh he can sing. the world would be a better brighter place if we just talked all the time about how good lance is. also side note but do any of yall remember when clicking the orphan account link on ao3 would bring you to a massive account that had archived every fic to every be abandoned instead of an error page?? bc i do lol

5. Would You Like A Sticker? by delaneym_15

Lance has been working hard these past few weeks. Getting the newly set up infirmary being one of his most pressing concerns. Gone are the days of being put in a healing pod for every little injury. Of course that means someone has to run it, and what better person than the paladin who has been all but officially apprenticing under Coran since the Blue lion first brought him to the castle. If only the rest of the paladins would take him seriously.

i fucking love the medic lance tag. well and truly it is the gift that never ever ever stops giving. he is just so well suited for it!! i love him so!! let him be competent and judgmental and pretty as he does it!! like!!!

that’s it for today!! i’ll see y’all back next friday for the next fic rec post!!!

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nico-di-genova · 16 days

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In My Mind, You are Safe

A/N: What was meant to be a one chapter drabble has spiraled out of my control and now become a fic that requires timelines and setting. Anyway, enjoy part 2 from Lawrence's POV. Registered AO3 Users can read here, if they want! :)

Lawrence thought the worst sound he could hear was that of his son’s tears – the frightened sobs when he called after his bike accident and apologized first before even explaining what had happened. He thought it would be the hitch in Lance’s breath when he asked what to do, what he should do. In reality, the worst sound is the absence of it.

He finds himself missing the simplicity of two broken wrists. Now, Lance has broken ribs, a fractured skull, a jagged line of angry red stitching that runs from lower sternum to his hip. It all makes a broken toe look juvenile. Lawrence feels stupid for even panicking over hairline fractures and a two-week recovery time. He feel stupid for putting a six year old in an unpredictable machine in the first place and letting him grow an appetite for it.

Lance’s mother pushed for golfing, tennis, swimming even at one point. Lawrence should have listened.

Lance still cannot breathe on his own, and Lawrence is already forgetting the natural sound of it – instead he has grown familiar with the steady beep of a heart monitor and the snoring habits of Fernando Alonso.

The man is curled over in a chair he is two days away from establishing residency in, head resting alongside Lance’s bruised thigh, finger looped through his son’s limp pinkie. It is a sight that Lawrence wishes wasn’t familiar. A sight that forces him to confront the truth of their relationship, not that they were doing a phenomenal job at hiding it in the first place.

Lance only smiles, genuinely smiles, at things he cares about – that he’s deemed worthy of expending the energy on. Chloe’s dog, Chloe, his mother, good food, the first snow fall in Montreal that promises decent skiing and now apparently Formula 1 veteran, Fernando Alonso. Lawrence knows his son, knows he is a bad liar because his tell is written in the very core of him. He’s spent too many years and too many billions trying to make Lance smile the way Fernando has so easily managed it.

But now Lance smiles at nothing, and Lawrence finds he doesn’t mind if Fernando beats him to it. He just wants his son back.

“His, um, his eyebrows. I think they twitched today,” he tells the nurse when he comes to check Lance’s vitals.

“They could have,” the nurse says, not dismissive, but not validating to Lawrence’s optimism either. He lifts Lance’s sheets to inspect the healing along Lance’s stomach and disturbs Fernando from his sleep in the process. Bandages and gauze are peeled away with careful fingers and then there is the sight of Lance’s mutilated abdomen, just as gruesome as the night they first wheeled him out of surgery. Pink skin, still raw and angry and raised against the stitching holding him together. Skin yellowing around the cut, only marginally better than the dark bruising that was once there. It is the visible reminder that the steering column of Lance’s car, a car Lawrence had given him and deemed safe, nearly took him away for good.

“His neurological activity has been improving since we took him off the sedatives,” the nurse says, when he glances at Lawrence and seems to see the guilt. It is meant as a piece of good fortune, instead it reminds Lawrence of the medically induced coma they are working to ease Lance out of. The coma he was in to prevent seizures caused by the swelling on his brain. Because he’d hit the wall at a top speed of nearly 200 KPH and his helmet had done an admirable job of keeping him together but could only manage so much.

“So when can the tube be removed?” Fernando asks, wiping at the sleep crusted at the corners of his eyes. He looks annoyed to be woken, like he was having a particularly wonderful dream. Lawrence envies his ability to sleep at all.

“We’re not there yet.”

Fernando grumbles something in Spanish. The nurse, unfortunately, is fluent, “If you want him to keep breathing, then yes.”

“Is choking him. He would hate it.”

“Well, he’s not really in a position to make requests.”

A strange position for both Lance and Lawrence to be in. The first instance where money does not hold sway, other than affording Lance the luxury of a private suite and all the comforts that can be provided while he remains unconscious and unmoving. It also secures a lounge that neither Fernando nor Lawrence have made much use of. Other than to make cheap cups of coffee from the Keurig and complain about the taste.

“Breakfast?” Fernando asks, once the nurse deems Lance safe and unchanged, leaving both men to sit awkwardly with Lance being the divide between them.

Lawrence shrugs, “Sure.”

“Shit coffee?”

“Is there anything else?

“Shit tea I think.”

Lawrence laughs, dry and humorless, “Coffee’s fine.”

If you put enough milk in it, it’s almost drinkable. But Lawrence doesn’t actually care about the taste, it’s more the caffeine he needs – or, more accurately, the sleep he is fighting. There is a fear in him that if he closes his eyes Lance will somehow stop breathing for good in his absence. Like he’s only still here because Lawrence’s unwavering control is willing him to be, and not the ventilator.

“You sleep yet?” Fernando asks when he returns with two steaming styrofoam cups of joe, offering one to Lawrence with the milk already added. Fourteen days is a long time to get to know someone when you’re both tied to an unconscious twenty-five year old.

Lawrence shakes his head and sips from the coffee gratefully, it’s clear he’s been here too long because the sludge has begun to go down easier. “No, not yet. Didn’t want him to wake up alone.”

It’s clear from Lance’s condition that he will not be alert anytime soon, but Lawrence doesn’t want to risk it. He hadn’t been there after Spain, had only gotten to the hospital two days later when Lance was already post-op and loopy from the pain meds.

“Hi dad,” he’d slurred, “I’m all good now.” He’d proceeded to try to give Lawrence two thumbs up, but the casts they’d cemented his wrists in were clunky and his body uncoordinated. Lawrence had spent the flight speaking with Lance’s doctor, discussing everything from cost to recovery plan. Everything had been clinical and controlled until he was faced with the sight of Lance, disheveled and clad in a hospital gown half hanging off one shoulder, that made it all hit him like a freight truck.

He can’t miss being here when Lance wakes up, not again. He had his assistant bring him his laptop and any pressing work, has Fernando bring him coffee, has his wife bring him changes of clothes and the occasional cup of decent espresso, and he sometimes dozes off in the straight-backed chair, but waking up with a crick in his neck and pain in his back is enough to keep him fighting against it. He knows it’s all starting to take a toll though. When he goes to the bathroom he is faced with the sight of a man who sits just outside of death’s door, hollow-eyed and sunken-cheeked. Sometimes he thinks Lance might be waiting there with him, it’s not always easy to chalk that up to sleep deprivation.

“I will watch him,” Fernando says, sipping from his coffee, “Wake you up if anything changes.”

“No, no. I’m okay.”

“You will end up in a hospital bed beside him soon,” Fernando shrugs, like he’s unbothered by the thought, “If you do not rest.”

He’s right, Lawrence knows it, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Besides, he is not the only one who has found it impossible to leave Lance’s side. It’s race day in Hungary and Fernando isn’t in a car. Both of the Aston drivers have been replaced by their reserves, morale in the garage has reached an all-time low. Fernando isn’t in the headspace to race though, so Lawrence doesn’t press it. He doesn’t need two drivers on life support.

“I’m okay for now.”

Fernando shrugs again, and then drops it. He is not the sort to hold someone’s hand and coax them into doing something. Lawrence thinks that’s maybe why Lance might like him. His son has always been stubborn, always pushed against those who try to guide him, or those who try to tell him he’s somewhere he does not belong. Lawrence has learned he performs best under pressure, when he has something to prove, which was why he had wanted Fernando as their second driver to begin with. The downside to Lance’s unwavering drive is that he often ignored the limit, pushed where he shouldn’t, took risks that were unneeded, and then ended up paying the price for his mistakes.

Silverstone wasn’t Lance’s first crash, it was just the first where he hadn’t managed to get out on his own. At first Lawrence hadn’t been all too worried. In the small span of time where he’d known Lance had gone off, but the cameras hadn’t found him yet, he’d been disappointed, frustrated because they both, Lance and Fernando, had been doing so well. Fernando was pushing, ignoring team orders, but Lance was responding, defending, winning. It had felt, at first, like a confirmation of all that Lawrence knew to be true. That Lance was good, great even, he just needed a fire lit under his ass and something to work for.

And then the cameras found him.

‘Stroll is in the wall!’

‘Lance? Lance are you alright? Lance. Respond. Confirm you’re alright.’

The silence had stretched on, the crackle in Lawrence’s headphones sending a chill down his spine. Lance’s race engineer had radioed him again and again, but each time the empty crackle only seemed to grow in length.

‘Lance, confirm you are alright. Confirm.’ It stopped becoming a question, but a hopeful demand.

Lawrence had watched as Fernando stumbled out of his own car, barely waiting until the vehicle had stopped moving before he was sprinting across the gravel toward where Lance’s car was crumpled against the wall. There was smoke, flames breaking out at the rear end. He turned away when Fernando pulled Lance from the wreckage, had seen the flash of blood spreading rapidly across the green of Lance’s suit and knew there would be no response.

He hasn’t thanked Fernando for saving his son, hasn’t forgiven him for the crash either. They speak around it in the same way they speak around Fernando’s finger around Lance’s pinkie. It is becoming harder as the days stretch on, harder to ignore the desperate way Fernando looks at Lance sometimes, like he is willing him back into consciousness with the same force he pulled him from the car with.

“His mother is coming by today,” he says instead, pointedly ignoring how Fernando is sipping from his coffee with one hand and holding Lance with the other.

“How long?”

“She hasn’t said, probably no more than an hour.”

Claire can’t stand to see Lance like this. Singapore had been bad enough for her, this has been her worst nightmare. She visits Lance in short bursts, where she can ensure he is still breathing, even if it’s not of his own will yet. They don’t speak, in the same way he and Fernando hardly do, too much tension that threatens to boil over and they don’t want any of it to land on Lance. People in comas can sometimes hear what’s going on around them, at least that is what Lawrence has been told, so they all play nice in hopes it will mean the kid will come back to them faster.

Claire visits, Fernando leaves. Claire leaves, Fernando returns. Lawrence sits immovable through it all and Lance remains unchanged. A system.

“I will go, text me when I can come back?”

Lawrence nods. He ignores the way Fernando casts one last look at Lance, the longing, the worry, the guilt that is imbedded there. He is mad at Fernando in the same way he is mad at himself, he blames Fernando for causing the crash, blames himself for putting Lance in the car, like they were both responsible for Lance being here in the first place. But Lance has broken two wrists biking, ruptured his eardrum wakeboarding, sprained his ankle snowboarding, and he’d returned to all of those sports without pause afterward. If time could be reversed, neither he nor Fernando could have kept Lance out of that car. Because Lance is stubborn, it’s who he is. He doesn’t give up, even when the odds are stacked against him, and that’s how Lawrence knows he will wake up. He has unwavering faith.

———————————-

“We should have cards,” Fernando says, two days later, when they’re both sitting in silence watching the third rerun of Jumanji on the tv. “Or that game, the hippo one, something to do.”

“Hungry hippos?” “That one, yes.”

Lawrence knows it, knows Lance and Chloe used to play it because he can still remember the chaotic noise of it – Lance’s frustrated yells when he lost. It used to give him a headache.

The sparsely used lounge, it turns out, has a deck of cards stored in a cabinet. Lawrence finds it when he’s searching for spare sugar for his third cup of coffee that day, since they’d exhausted the packets stocked at the coffee bar.

“Do you have a 2?” Fernando asks, leaning forward in his chair, propping his chin on one hand and his large collection of cards in the other.

“Go fish.”

Fernando groans, reaches out to grab a card from where they’ve balanced them on Lance’s knee. There’s four threes spread across his thigh and four sixes along his calf, both of them are Lawrence’s wins.

“You have a four?”

Annoyed, Fernando resignedly passes the card over Lance’s body.

—————————

On day seventeen, Lawrence sleeps. It is not entirely his choice, but rather his body’s refusal to operate any further without rest. He stands to go to the bathroom, and when he does the room spins. Fernando catches him, guides him to the couch in the lounge.

When he wakes up there’s a blanket thrown over him and a stiff pillow beneath his head. It is dark out, Lawrence is thrown by the lack of light because it had been distinctly morning when he had gone to pee. It takes him a moment to get his bearings, to wipe the sleep from his eyes and blink until the room comes into focus.

Distantly, he can still hear the steady beep of the heart monitor, the hiss of the ventilator, the sounds that reassure him Lance did not give up while Lawrence slept soundly. It is only comforting for a moment, until he remembers the dream he had in which Lance was screaming for help and Lawrence could not reach him. The way he kept trying to claw his way through debris and rubble to reach his son, but the screams only seemed to grow further and further away until they tapered off into whimpers and then into the crushing sound of silence.

He stumbles from the couch, pulling the twisted blanket from his body as he goes, and only breathes when Lance is in his sight once more.

In the dark, the shadows of his face seems more prominent, the paleness of his skin more ghostly. Lance doesn’t tan, he goes from white to burned in the span of a few hours, but he is not normally the color of a piece of paper either. It’s eerie, discomforting, makes Lawrence think of his choked off screams from the dream.

Fernando seems to have also lost his battle with sleep, the man is passed out once more with his head pillowed on Lance’s bed. His hand rests around Lance’s wrist, an upgrade from the pinkie, fingers resting along the kid’s pulse point.

Lawrence, for the first time, truly tries to take stock of his son’s injuries. He studies the bruising on his face, the swelling that has gone down and been replaced with bruised eyes and tender skin. The yellowing marks around his neck that continue below the line of his hospital gown. The two splinted fingers of his right hand that Fernando has been so careful to avoid. It’s better than it had been, easier to look at, but still makes Lawrence taste bile at the back of his throat.

‘He’s lucky to have survived at all,’ he’d overheard one of the nurses say while Lance was still confined to the ICU. He’d been on the phone with Claire and had to physically hold himself back from saying something nasty. But he supposes, now that he really looks at Lance, they hadn’t been wrong. A skull fracture, major blunt force trauma, the g-forces he’d sustained to his body in the crash, it is a miracle he’s even still here.

Lawrence feels suddenly grateful, to God, or to Fernando, he isn’t sure which.

“Lance?” he whispers, like the boy will suddenly open his eyes. Like he’s a child asleep in his bed and Lawrence can rouse him with a gentle shake to his shoulder and a kiss to his temple. Like it’s an early morning where he can pull a groggy Lance from his bed and bring him to the track before the dew has even dried from the grass, watch him do laps in a kart that still sits on the side of too big for him.

Lance doesn’t wake up, but Lawrence is almost positive he sees his finger’s twitch, curling instinctively in his sleep. He doesn’t miss that it’s fingers from the hand Fernando is clinging to, the same pinkie the Spaniard had made his lifeline.

———————————

The next morning he proposes Fernando return to racing. Media day starts in Belgium tomorrow and they could have Fernando there in time if he left within the hour.

“No,” Fernando states, not even considering, not even bothering to have emotion in his voice.

Lawrence grinds his teeth, “We can’t keep making excuses, Fernando. There’s money tied-up in this, my money. You have a contract-.”

“And? Fuck your money. I do not care about your money, or the sponsors. Have Felipe race the rest of the season. I will not go.”

Lawrence is standing at the foot of Lance’s bed, arms crossed, anger beginning to course through him. Fernando, relaxed in his chair, with his hand around his son’s wrist looks right at home. Lawrence thinks of those same hands pulling Lance from his burning car, those hands pressing forcefully to Lance’s wound, blood coating his gloves and soaking through to his fingers. He thinks of Lance holding those hands, kissing them, knowing them because Lance has idolized Fernando since he was a child and Lawrence knows the look he gives Fernando now is not that of an awed fan but that of someone who has grown into something more.

“What are you,” Lawrence finds himself blurting out, asking not because he really wants to know, but because he needs to, “to him, what are you?”

Fernando looks at him, blinks, shrugs, “I do not know.”

The resigned honesty of it makes him even angrier.

“But more than teammates?” He demands, “More than a mentor? I know my son, Fernando, do not lie to me.” Lance once dated a girl who he was convinced he was going to marry. Took her to races, to dinners, to birthdays and parties and every family event he could conceivably sneak her into. He’d looked at her with the same wide-eyed wonder Lawrence sometimes caught him looking at Fernando with, like he couldn’t believe they would settle for someone like him. Like he was only worth settling for.

“More, yes,” Fernando concedes, but doesn’t expand.

“He loves you, I think,” Lawrence says, because he has never seen Lance look at anyone, since that girl, the way he looks at the man.

Fernando finally looks sad then, face falling, eyes filling with that familiar guilt.

“I know.”

“He’s almost half your age.”

“I know,” the guilt deepens. He finally drops Lance’s wrist, pulls away and keeps his hands curled in his lap, like he realizes this is finally the moment Lawrence stops ignoring the truth of them.

Lawrence thinks about asking him to leave, knows he could force him to go to Belgium if he wanted, bring out terms like ‘breach of contract’ and ‘lawsuit’, but Lawrence is not a cruel man, especially not where Lance is concerned. He allowed that girl into their lives, into his own birthday party that was meant only to be for close family, all because Lance had asked. And when they’d broken up, he’d put Lance back together – let him cry and scream and throw the belongings of his room around until there was no more energy left in the kid and then he’d sat Lance down and told him it would all be okay. He kept saying that. Through Formula 3 when Lance would win and still not feel like it was enough because the other boys would say he bought the trophy. When he hit Formula 1 and would go to his driver’s room instead of the media pen after a race because the tears wouldn’t stop flowing and his own frustration at himself became too much. Lawrence would be there, he would always be there. But Fernando was here now too, and he guessed that counted for something.

He uncrosses his arms, drops the fight because he’s tired and the room is too small for such arguments, “You stay now, and you better mean it.”

Fernando swallows, nods, “Okay.”

Felipe and Stoffel race in Spa on Sunday.

——————————

By week four, Lawrence is beginning to lose it. He’s become immune to the antiseptic smell of the hospital, the bland taste of the cafeteria food, the beeping of machinery that keeps Lance alive. It all becomes background noise, until he’s numb to it all, just existing. The coffee doesn’t taste bad anymore, it tastes like nothing at all.

He watches Jumanji for the sixth time and finds that the film is growing on him.

Fernando has not left.

“So how did it start?” Lawrence asks one night. He’s twirling hospital spaghetti on a fork, picking at hamburger meat listlessly with the metal prongs.

Fernando slurps one of the noodles, “Me and him?” he asks, pointing to Lance with his own silverware.

Lawrence nods. He has gone past avoiding the topic to wanting to understand it.

“Um,” Fernando starts, “Bahrain, I think.”

“This year?”

“No, uh, last.”

So when Fernando had sang Lance’s praises to the cameras. Lawrence had assumed that was all for show. He’d been warned of the drivers poor sportsmanship, his un-teammate-like behavior.

“So you weren’t trying to impress me?”

“No I was,” Fernando admits, “wanted you to think you had gotten your money’s worth at first.”

Fernando had not come cheap, but he still wasn’t as much as Newey was shaping up to be. He’d taken a good chunk from Lawrence, but not enough that he would seem like a bad investment so early on. He maybe had been laying the groundwork for a contract extension, if the car proved to be a challenger.

“So when did it-?”

“Become serious? Summer break.”

Lawrence thinks he remembers that, Lance mentioning something about a yacht, his voice lilting with obvious joy over the phone. You could hear when Lance smiled, his voice changing with the shape of it. They’d had lunch a few days later and there was an obvious mark on Lance’s neck, something he kept trying to hide with a hand when he would lean an elbow on the table and rest his neck against his palm. Lawrence didn’t care to know about his son’s sex life, in the same way he cared little about Chloe’s, he cared only that both of his kids were happy. And at the time, Lance had seemed to be. He hadn’t questioned it past that, even when he'd seen Fernando’s name pop up as a text notification on Lance’s phone and seen the way Lance blushed over his salmon and orzo.

“And you’ve talked about it, you and him? About the future? He’s young, Fernando. He can make his own choices, yes, but I don’t know if he’s thinking in the long-term yet, not really.”

He doesn’t meant to imply Fernando is old, but they’ve both been twenty-five, both known how it seems like you are weathered and just beginning all at once. Like you have the answers, you just haven’t figured out where to apply them yet.

Fernando bites at another noodle, “Yes, we have talked. Some. But it’s not- we are not- I don’t know.”

“Serious?”

“Maybe.”

“But you’re here. You don’t have to be.”

“It’s serious enough for this. I need to be here, when he wakes up, not racing circles. I would be no good in the car right now. My head is-“ he motions vaguely in the air with his fork, a piece of tomato soaked hamburger falls off of it and plops onto the white linens of Lance’s sheets. Lawrence understands that. Can respect it even. He also maybe isn’t the one to judge a relationship. Not with a divorce under his belt and his own wife younger than him. He just has the inherent need to make sure Lance is safe, cared for. He’s had the same need since he first held Chloe in his arms and realized what it was to be a father.

Fernando picks up the hamburger, drops if back onto his own plate, but the red stain it leaves behind stays.

————————

Twenty-nine days after Lance’s crash Lawrence is returning from making his daily Keurig coffee, stirring the milk into the sludge with a stir stick when he looks up to see Lance blinking back at him.

The cup falls from his hands, splatters against the linoleum and spreads in a puddle across the floor. Specks of it land on his dress pants, some of it on his hands, he hardly notices the burn of it. Lance, bleary-eyed and groggy stares at him, blinks slowly.

“Lance,” Lawrence sobs. Lance’s eyebrows furrow, the movement so startling because he has been without any for so long that Lawrence cannot help the strangled sound that escapes him. The noise pulls Fernando from his sleep, he lifts his head from the bed and looks from Lawrence to Lance before letting out a cry of his own.

Lance lifts a lethargic hand to the tubing at his mouth, tries to pull it out with muddled fingers.

“Aye, no,” Fernando panics, pulling Lance’s finger away and trapping them in his own grip, “We’ll get someone, we take it out now, yes?”

Lance nods, makes a choked sound around the polyvinyl. His fingers curl around Fernando’s hand, gripping, responding to the touch. Lawrence can’t stop looking at the movement as he stumbles for the call button beside Lance’s bed. He can’t stop shaking. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” Fernando soothes, brushing Lance’s hair back from his forehead in an intimately calming gesture.

Lance’s panicked breathing through his nose worsens. He looks from Fernando to Lawrence with ever-widening eyes.

“You’re okay, son,” Lawrence tries, kneeling beside Lance’s bed and pressing a firm hand to his shoulder when Lance tries to rise against the wires and tubing keeping him down.

The coffee soaks into the knee of his pants. Lance chokes again.

“You’re okay,” they both repeat, hoping that it will be true.

#strollonso #strollonso fic #probably so many medical inaccuracies but whatever ya know #google was my friend but also probably lied to me at points #lance stroll #fernando alonso #my fic

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eirianerisdar · 8 months

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As a supporter of Daniel and as a doctor, I'm gonna break this down for you guys

He broke his metacarpal. Not his wrist.

The metacarpals are the five long bones in your palm, an example of which has K wires as shown here:

2. I don't know which metacarpal he broke or how he broke it. The site, severity, and displacement of the break will all determine how best to handle it. But usually, there are two choices Daniel and the team can make.

Option A: he could opt for a closed reduction and EXTERNAL fixation, or CREF for short, which involves straightening the bone without any operation and securing the break with a splint. In this scenario he would be out of commission for at least 6-8 weeks while the fracture heals completely.

Option B: If he opted (or if it is necessary because the fracture is comminuted) for closed reduction and INTERNAL fixation (CRIF) with K wires (seen in the xray example above) which would go through the back of his hand and into the bone to hold it in place while it heals, this would negate the need for a splint and mobilisation of the hand could start immediately.

HOWEVER, it is important to note that mobilisation DOES NOT equal driving an F1 car.

As we saw with Lance over the summer, he had an operation immediately. This meant he didn't need to have a cast as the bone was fixed internally and not externally. However he still needed a solid week and a half of physio to be deemed fit to drive.

I don't know how bad Daniel's break is. Even if it was necessary or he was given the option for K wire fixation, the last thing anyone would want would be for him to be pushed to drive too early and for the break not to heal properly/there to be other complications.

TLDR: If he is given the option to splint and he chooses that, he's out for 6-8 weeks. If he choses to K wire, he may return sooner (even arguably next week in Monza) but he would need an orthopaedic doctor to SERIOUSLY commit that the K wire fixation will stand up to the stresses of driving an F1 car.

Edit 27/8/23: Follow up post here after Daniel's surgery

#daniel ricciardo #f1 #dutch gp 2023 #alpha tauri #my post #This is of course unless the break is severe enough that the K wire isn't so simple and it needs a longer time to make sure it unifies #properly #Also the image of Daniel driving an F1 car with a plaster over the wire sticking out of the back of his hand is just. um #I know it's POSSIBLE I've seen stable K wire fixations it's just I am as medically squicky about an early return here as I was with Lance

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scattered-winter · 8 months

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Keith sprinted down the corridor, heart pounding and pulse racing. He held his sword in one hand and his knife in the other. Both blades were wet with blood, and Keith was certain he had more on his clothes. None of it was his.

The smell of smoke hung heavy in the air, and it was all Keith could do to keep running. His vision kept overlaying with the burning farmhouse, the charred bodies—it took every bit of his focus to stay anchored in the present.

But for all the adrenaline coursing through his veins, there was fear there, too.

He’d encountered and brought down a few enemies already, but there were more; he could hear the screams, the shouts, the sounds of battle echoing through the castle halls.

Lance. He had to find Lance.

Keith rounded a corner and stopped short, blades snapping up as a figure materialized from the shadows. The figure dropped into a defensive stance when he caught sight of Keith, but held it for only a moment before relaxing and lowering his bloodied sword.

“Keith!” Shiro cried, relief clear in his tone. “Are you okay?”

Keith’s defensive posture melted away, but he didn’t sheathe his blades. “I’m fine. What’s going on?”

“Bandits,” Shiro answered, expression grim. “A lot of them. I’ve been trying to establish a perimeter, but there’s too much chaos and not enough knights. We’re spread too thin.”

Keith’s heart plunged into his stomach. They’d just sent most of their forces out to take care of skirmishes on the border; the castle was defended by a skeleton crew at best. Had the bandits planned this?

From the look on Shiro’s face, he’d reached the same conclusion, but it wasn’t like either of them had time to worry about it.

“Where’s Lance and Allura?” Shiro’s tone was clipped, all business. It was only because Keith knew him so well that he could see the underlying fear, the tightness around his eyes. “We need to get them both to safety.”

“I was with Allura when the attack started; I left her with Shay and Romelle, in the armory." Keith exhaled shakily. "I—I don’t know where Lance is. I’m trying to find him.”

Shiro gave a short nod. “Okay. We’ll establish a perimeter around the armory and medical wing; if you come across anyone else, send them there.”

Keith nodded and opened his mouth to ask another question, but movement at the corner of his vision caught his eye.

A group of heavily armed bandits on the other end of the hallway were bounding up the spiraling staircase, one after another. Blood-covered blades flashed red in the moonlight.

Keith’s blood turned to ice. They were heading for Lance’s rooms.

He sprinted after them without a backward glance, fear and adrenaline singing high and wild in his veins. Behind him, he could hear Shiro on his heels.

An explosion rocked the castle, and Keith stumbled, glanced back.

Outside the window, smoke plumed from the medical wing, trailed by bright tongues of flame. The infirmary was burning, and an entire section had collapsed in on itself.

Shiro had stopped in the middle of the corridor, eyes on the smoke and face white.

Matt.

Keith didn’t hesitate. “Shiro, go! I’ll get Lance!”

Shiro didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted in the opposite direction toward the medical wing, and Keith adjusted his grip on his blades and kept running. He reached the stairs and started bounding up them, two at a time.

The smoke only got thicker the higher he got, and Keith could barely breathe from the primal, instinctual terror.

But Lance was up there. And Keith would tear his way through fire and smoke to get to him, no matter how terrified he was.

He skidded to a stop as a bandit appeared around the corner, brandishing his weapons with a battle cry.

Keith ducked beneath the swing, arced his knife forward, felt the blade slice through leather and flesh. The bandit screamed and collapsed, blood spraying Keith’s tunic to join the rest.

Keith kept running. Another bandit leapt at him, swords flashing in the moonlight. Keith danced to evade, his own blades clanging against the bandit’s as they fought.

He sidestepped to avoid a strike, but his exhaustion was getting the better of him. Pain hissed through his side as one of the blades sliced through his tunic, and Keith ground his teeth. He stepped in close, knocking aside the blades, and kicked the bandit in the stomach to send him tumbling down the stairs.

Above, Keith could hear fighting—grunts, shouts, metal on metal. The bandits had reached Lance. Keith had to hurry.

He continued to sprint up the steps, battling bandit after bandit the entire way up. It was taking too long. They were trying to slow him down, stop him from reaching the top.

The fear was a living thing, crackling beneath Keith’s skin like a live wire. The last time he’d been this afraid, his world had been on fire.

Above, the sounds of battle tapered off, leaving nothing but terrible, deafening silence.

Keith bounded up the last few steps and burst through the door at the top, blades in hand, Lance’s name on his lips.

Bandits clustered in the room around a fallen, crumpled blue figure. Keith could see blood on Lance’s tunic.

He brandished his swords, a low growl that didn’t even sound human rising from the back of his throat. “Get away from him.”

One of the bandits just grinned toothily at Keith. “I don’t think so.”

He tossed something underhand toward Keith; it rolled across the ground and came to a stop at Keith’s feet.

A round orb, topped with a lit fuse.

Keith’s eyes widened, and he leapt backward, arms flying up to shield his face.

And the world went white.

Keith’s senses returned one by one. Pain, so acute it throbbed with every beat of his heart, lancing through every limb. He could taste dust and smoke on his tongue, and the coppery tang of blood. There was a high-pitched ringing in his ears.

Keith painfully peeled his eyes open.

He was lying on the floor in a crumpled heap. All around him, the tower room was in shambles; flames licked at the curtains, and the far wall was gone, leaving a gaping hole staring out into the night sky.

Bandits were clambering through the hole one by one, shouting to one another; Keith could only hear muffled noise over the ringing in his ears.

A bandit in the last group had Lance’s limp body slung over his shoulder. Lance’s face was streaked with blood and soot, and his tunic was torn and burnt.

Desperately, Keith clawed for his knife, just a few feet away in the midst of smoldering rubble. His fingers curled around the hilt; he was lying halfway across burning embers, so hot it was cold, but he didn’t care. All he could see was Lance, his limp body outlined by the moon as the bandits prepared to leave with him.

Keith flipped the knife in his grip so he held the blade and threw it, end over end.

But he was dazed and wounded and weak, and the knife barely made it three feet before skittering pitifully across the floor.

Black spots danced in Keith’s vision, but he tried to push himself up, tried to stand. Desperation and terror pounded through him like a drumbeat, overwhelming every other sense, every other thought.

The bandit holding Lance saluted over his shoulder at Keith and disappeared.

Keith’s chest heaved with the effort to stand. A high-pitched wail echoed in the small room, raw with pain and fear, and it took Keith a moment to realize it was coming from him.

Something slammed into the small of his back, pushing him down, and Keith screamed, ragged and raw.

Someone rolled him over. Moonlight flashed on a blade.

A bandit stood above him, grinning as she angled her sword down to rest the point against Keith’s sternum. He couldn’t move; he could feel himself losing consciousness.

The bandit’s grin sharpened, and her blade arced downward.

_______________________

Shiro sprinted down the hallway toward the med wing. Terror like he’d never known filled his lungs with ice. He ran past battles, knights, bandits; he didn’t slow down to even process any of it. The only thought in his head was Matt. Matt. Matt. Over and over again, like a mantra, like a prayer.

Smoke plumed in the corridor from the medical wing, thick and black and choking. Shiro didn’t even hesitate before plunging into it headfirst.

It was like another world. Flames licked at the walls, bright and blinding; the smoke hung so heavy in the air that Shiro could barely breathe. An entire section of wall had crumbled, leaving a pile of charred rubble.

“Matt!” The name was torn from his lips, ragged and desperate and barely piercing the blanket of smoke and crackling fire. “MATT!”

Shiro caught a glimpse of something moving in the smoke—someone, moving toward him.

A bandit materialized, blade held aloft. He ran at Shiro with a shout. Shiro was too dazed with overwhelming fear to even raise his sword.

The bandit’s cry turned to a strangled gasp, and he stopped short and crumpled.

Matt stood behind him, breathing hard, long knife clutched in one hand. He had blood on his face and was barely staying upright.

Relief swept through Shiro, heady and overwhelming. Matt was alive.

“Takashi, come on!” Matt grabbed Shiro’s arm and tugged him back the way he’d come.

Shiro shook himself and followed, forcing the overwhelming emotion down and away; now wasn’t the time to lose control. He had to stay focused if they were all going to make it out of this alive.

Outside the medical wing, the other medics and several knights stood in groups, dazed and soot-smeared. There were no bandits in sight, but Shiro could hear the sounds of battles still raging elsewhere in the castle.

“We’re setting up a perimeter around the armory,” Shiro said.

Matt nodded sharply, amber eyes steely. “We’ll head there.”

He waved to get the other medics’ attention, and made a few sharp, hurried hand signals. The other medics nodded and set off toward the armory.

“We’ll set up a field hospital,” Matt said, starting after them. “I have a feeling we’re gonna need one.”

Shiro made to follow him, but another explosion rippled through the castle, making him lose his footing.

When he regained it, he raised his eyes to meet Matt’s horrified expression.

“That came from the east tower,” Matt said quietly.

East tower. Lance’s rooms. Where Keith had just gone.

For the second time that night, ice-cold terror swept through Shiro like a wave. He whirled and sprinted back the way he’d come.

He could vaguely hear Matt following behind, but Shiro outpaced him easily. All his senses were overwhelmed with bone-chilling fear for his little brother.

Shiro reached the spiral staircase in record time and bounded up them, heart pounding in his chest like a drum.

He reached the top and had only a split second to take in the scene that met him.

The tower room, charred and crumbled. Keith on the ground, bloodied and half-dead. A bandit standing above him, sword drawn.

Shiro threw his sword, end over end. It wasn’t designed to be thrown, but his aim was true; the blade sunk to the hilt in the bandit’s back, and she gurgled and collapsed.

Keith was trying to push himself up, a high-pitched whine of pain rising strangled and ragged with every movement, and Shiro burst forward, dropping to his knees and wrapping an arm around Keith’s shoulders to support him.

Keith was shaking, head to toe, and his chest heaved with every breath.

“Woah, hey, slow down, okay? Just—just breathe. You’re okay.” Shiro’s voice cracked, but he swallowed back the wave of emotion. Keith was in bad shape. Really, really bad shape.

But Keith just struggled harder. “Shiro, they—they took him.” His voice was raw with desperation, with pain, with fear.

Dread pooled in Shiro’s stomach, and his mouth ran dry. “What? Took who?”

Keith shuddered in Shiro’s arms, slumping against his chest as his adrenaline was spent at last. “They took Lance. Shiro, they took Lance.”

Hurried footsteps announced Matt’s arrival; he was out of breath and panicked, and his eyes only widened further when he took in Keith’s state.

Keith swallowed thickly. “We have to—we have to go after them,” he said, pushing weakly against Shiro’s chest. “We have to—”

“Hold still,” Shiro ordered, pushing past the fear to grasp desperately for control, for calm. “You’re in no condition to—”

Keith’s eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped against Shiro’s chest, unmoving.

Shit.

Shiro met Matt’s eyes above Keith’s head. “What’s the situation down there?” If Matt noticed the tremble in his voice, he said nothing, for which Shiro was grateful.

“The bandits have pulled out,” Matt said grimly. “The fighting has stopped.”

They’d gotten what they had come for. They’d gotten Lance.

But there was no way they could go after him, not now. There was too much to do, too many people who needed help.

Shiro slipped an arm beneath Keith’s knees and pulled his little brother into his arms, letting Keith’s head loll against his shoulder. “Come on. I hope that field hospital is set up.”

#WOE!!!! FANTASY AU BE UPON YE #winter writes #long post #voltron #klance #keith #lance #shiro #matt #shatt #for context lance and allura are both royalty in this scenario. matt is a combat medic. everyone else is a knight <3 #cant wait to get into the worldbuilding huehuehuehuehHEUHUEHUEHUEHUEHUEHEU #validate me please i am sooo so so so so so so so unfathomably sleepy #voltron fantasy au

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yesterdayiwrote · 1 year

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I don't care what the medic said and has signed off, Lance Stroll had to be hoisted out of the car by his team after FP2, there's no way on this earth he should be racing. It's absolute clownery

#F1 #Sorry lance fans #Why would he risk making it worse?#It's not even safe I mean he'd fail a jump test like that #Do NOT get me started on the legitimacy of some of these medics because it's sus as hell #Some doctors will sign whatever you pay them to...

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lithefider · 2 years

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Engiespy Week 2022: Day 4 - Angst Day / Opening up

I decided to draw one of the most angsty scenes from my OC Engiespy fic for this day. This scene is where Lance is thinking Domi was just a blu (using red spy as a disguise) trying to get close to him for Intel, and everything romantic they did together was just a lie...so he goes into the infirmary to try and talk to the medic's restrained captive, but can't find the words to say anything, and Domi is so exhausted and shocked to see him there he can't say anything either. Lance turns to leave, his heart pounding, but Domi calls out to him in desperation. Lance stops and comes back. Domi just wants to apologize and explain it WAS all genuine.

Bonus version:

This one's actually more accurate to the scene, because it has the improvised water respirator unit the medic threw together to put water trickling into Domi’s lungs to keep them moist. I just didn't want it distracting from Domi’s expression for the feels on the initial illustration.

#engiespyweek2022 #engiespy #tentaspy #tw: medical #tw: restraints #dominique #Lance #Don't worry Lance believes him 🥺💕 and accepts his apology #art

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dorakoryusei · 2 months

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Great. I don’t want to and my parents have been avoiding me for 14 and a mutual 6 years respectively. The first two. The first one of the two I don’t care about really in the long run. The second one, hmph.

BPD, then? Borderline personality disorder. It can come with many struggles, some I'm familiar with, some I'm not. Did you know more than 3 million people are diagnosed with BPD per year? It's more common than most people think!

BPD can make it hard to control your emotions at times, and think or act irrationally. Fear of abandonment is a common fear in people with this disorder. It's important to try and be patient with yourself, no matter what you may have!

#rotomblr #asks #lance posts #anon #[ note: i am not a medical professional nor do i know 100% of what im talking about ]#[ always remember to do your own researcher for yourselves :] ]

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jcryptid · 2 months

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Not even gonna pretend that this thing is only getting posted because my brain is currently be hijacked by a feral whump raccoon that needs me to just post this one fic before I get to work on anything else.

please, please, please for the love of god read the tags, i get graphic in this.

#voltron whump fic #voltron fic #whump fic #lance whump #lance whump fic #cw: gore #cw: body horror #cw: surgery #whump #medical whump #whump fanfiction

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icypantherwrites · 1 year

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Fanfiction: Tender

Summary: Lance knows his injury isn’t fatal but it’s not a papercut either. When his options though are either treating it himself or the dark, narrow, cold cryo-pod that the very thought of makes his stomach clench more than looking at this wound, he knows there’s really only one choice. But as he wakes up now with a fever and wound pulsing and hot to the touch, he’s starting to fear he’s made the wrong one.

Story snippet:

A knock sounded on his bedroom door along with with a peppy call of “Number Three? Are you in there? I am looking for taste-testers for my newest creation,” and Lance jolted and that made him groan before he could hold it back as his leg violently protested.

“Number Three?” Coran called again and there was a clear undercurrent of worry now his voice as he’d no doubt heard the groan. “Are you all right?”

Lance gave a silent shake of his head to that.

But, but the moment Coran came in and saw him…

He’d put him in a pod and Dios, he didn’t want to go into the pod.

But, but if he didn’t say anything and he told Coran to leave and somehow the infection got worse…

A tear trickled down his cheek, his hands spasming at his sides.

“Number Three, I am coming in,” Coran announced, no longer giving Lance the option, “please pardon my intrusion,” and then the door was opening and Lance was squeezing his eyes shut at the too bright hallway light.

He still heard Coran’s sharp inhalation as Coran spotted him in his bed.

“Oh, my boy,” Coran’s footsteps were soft as he crossed the room, the door closing with a soft hiss behind him, “what has happened?”

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formulavroom · 1 year

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i’m sorry but if you can’t turn the car properly or get out of the car without the help of your mechanics then you should NOT be sitting in that car

#f1 #let the man rest #how the hell did they declare him medically fit to race?#lance stroll

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gawayne · 2 years

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if you haven't gotten lancelot for character bingo, then LANCELOT. if you have, then whatever morally questionable arthuriana woman you love most <3 (also p.s. when I reblogged that photo of the wet lil man on the beach I was like. this is tumblr user jetiisse's lancelot. he doesn't know it but that's what he is)

poor wet bastard is doomed to a life of suffering and doesn't even know it 😔✊

SO all lancelots are fun and i enjoy when he's horribly violent and tortured about it especially the way lou writes him, when i mess with him i tend to lean more into the sad pathetic angle with the violence as a bit of an afterthought. he is my biggest blorbo. i'll project issues i don't even have onto him. i'll give him issues that no one has ever had. he Has to be carried in a handbag otherwise he gets overwhelmed and starts trembling and barking at strangers. i'm sure we're all aware that he has chemistry with a lot of people but a/g/l is still my unrivalled favourite because i Need him to angst over it for like twenty years and then it turns out to be like not a big deal at all and then they're happy <3

okay Now i'm gonna get unhinged so everyone stop reading if u don't wanna hear about elaine (of corbenic) and lancelot's many mental illnesses. so obviously my favourite thing is when he's very very distressed and i think more media should lean into this plot point bc it's very interesting. one of toafk's best features imo was that white went fairly hard on describing how deeply lancelot was upset by his assault and how long that stuck with him. i also liked when guinevere was dismissive or downright cruel about his struggles, for one because lancelot thinks this is a reasonable response and for another because it hits to me like she's uncomfortable acknowledging the fact that her very best special knight Is vulnerable and Could vanish forever just because his brain doesn't work quite right. i also also liked when he almost hanged himself to avoid public embarassment <3

in conclusion my opinion is that he should and does suffer!

#and that doesn't even touch on my au opinons. so now i will!#in my head tgk verse lancelot has sort of passed the worst of his instability and mostly settled down #galahad has returned to camelot without the grail and is struggling to figure out what to do with his life #neither of them expected to coexist for this long and lancelot is still upset by galahad's existence but really doesn't wanna #see him Descend Into Despair too #so he very awkwardly tries to start reconciling with galahad. arthur mediates a lot #and the far more fucked up au is a modern one i talk abt with my dead dove pals #in which (EVERY TW AHEAD) elaine is a pastor's daughter of the entitled cultlike-christian variety #who fucks lancelot while he's drunk and blames him for the backlash when she gets pregnant #he's guilted into staying with her once galahad is born but she mostly resents him. he has his typical psychotic break from the stress #which more or less makes her medically responsible for him and ruins his life #arthur eventually insists that he come stay with him and guinevere and he's basically just on suicide watch for a while #he decides he wants custody of galahad after it becomes clear that galahad is austistic and elaine is pushing for really inappropriate #treatments basically treating him as contaminated by his father's 'sin' or psychosis #so arthur and guinevere help him thru the custody battle and he narrowly wins #he and galahad go to family therapy a lot and kay is here and they all help raise galahad #and lancelot discovers that his new passion is being a househusband and going to pottery classes and taking galahad to soccer practice #and they're happy 💕#so that's my lancelot opinion!#oh also none of this reflects how i actually interpret the story jsdfhsdjshj the point is purely to torture lance

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