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#nurse call systems report

narraboths · 8 months

Text

“You got anything to tell me about yesterday’s interview, Ponytail?”

Being cornered by one’s editor is rarely a good sign. Being cornered by a harried Snapper Carr one month into her tenure as a rookie reporter would be enough to give others nightmares for a month. Maybe ulcers. Kara, though, she’s been having a great week, and she’s not about to let anyone ruin it.

“Nope.” She pops the p a little. Something about Snapper’s moroseness always pushes her to be spitefully chipper.

“Nothing out of the ordinary?”

“Not at all.”

“Hm.” Snapper nurses the thought with that dour, toothachey look that Kara’s come to learn is directed at her just as much as it is a sign of his general displeasure with the world. He pulls out his phone, jabbing at the screen. “So do you mind explaining to me why my cub reporter is on the front page of every gossip rag from here to Metropolis as the Mystery Blonde Caught in Luthor’s Web?”

That can’t be right is immediately the tip of Kara’s tongue but it freezes there, along with the incredulous laugh threatening to burst out of her, because Snapper is shoving his phone in her face and–

“It’s not what it looks like,” she blurts out, instinctively, then winces at her own choice of words. Great save. “I was just being considerate.”

It’s true, really. She was only holding the door open for Lena as they left L-Corp (Lena was on the move the whole day, they did half of the interview in the back of her Range Rover, flitting between offices), and it only happened that Lena’s hand fell to her forearm, a completely innocent gesture, as innocent as Lena’s smile, as the way she swayed a little closer, saying thank you as she strode by. And sure, Kara may have felt mesmerized for a single, fleeting moment, suddenly so deeply flustered by the gentle weight of Lena’s hand that she almost cracked the door handle in two, but who wouldn’t? Lena Luthor just has a remarkable presence. Why are they letting paparazzi camp out at the L-Corp doorstep, anyways?

“I’ve never seen Luthor that affectionate with anyone.” Snapper eyes Kara suspiciously, his face screaming why you of all people, bumbling rookie who can barely even spell?. “I’ve never seen any of the Luthors affectionate with anyone at all.”

“Guess it’s just my natural charm, sir.” Kara flashes the most annoyingly innocent smile she can, then squares her shoulders. “Did you actually read my article?”

There’s a beat of silence, Snapper staring daggers at her. Then finally, finally, he lets out an annoyed huff.

“Of course I read it. It’s going out first thing tomorrow.” He pockets his phone, then rubs his face with a tired motion. “Make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

“You got it, boss.”

It happens again.

It happens again a bunch, really. (Kara at the L-Corp gala, at Lena’s table, the two of them in lively conversation, shoulders pressed together – she was telling me about L-Corp’s new green energy initiative, sir –, the fond smile and almost-teasing tone when Lena calls “yes, Miss Danvers?” at her press conference – she’s just nice! It’s not a crime! –, the candid of them on the CatCo balcony when Lena’s in house for her cover shoot, Kara gesturing excitedly and Lena leaning against the railing, hanging onto every word, a jacket two sizes too big wrapped around her shoulders – you know it gets cold out there. At least there’s no photos of her wrapping the jacket around Lena, their hands brushing together, the faint blush along the lines of Lena’s throat. That’d probably look pretty suspicious.) Snapper’s face takes on increasingly vivid shades of purplish red.

“Do we need to go over the meaning of journalistic integrity again, Danvers?”

Kara decides to take graduating from “Ponytail” as a win.

“We’re not– it’s not anything untoward,” she shoots back, arms crossed, only slightly blushing. In anger, certainly. “I’m doing my job. I grilled her on L-Corp still holding a contract with the government for anti-alien defense systems that Lex negotiated, just last week. There’s footage.”

“Yeah,” Snapper grinds his teeth so vehemently that Kara’s afraid he might crack a crown. “Footage of her hugging you in the hallway afterwards, too. What the hell were you doing?”

“She just thanked me, sir.” The vein on Snapper’s neck looks ready to burst. Kara makes a mental note to recommend meditation at a less belligerent time. “She said my question made it possible for her to make a public stance and really send a message.”

Snapper looks like he’s nearing an aneurysm.

“Hell, Danvers, that sounds even worse!”

It sounded pretty great, actually, Kara thinks, after the borderline unprofessional row they had in Lena’s office when Kara first broached the subject. It felt pretty great, too, not just Lena’s declaration, her renewed commitment to reject everything Lex and Lillian stand for, but the warmth of Lena’s pressed against her, her lips brushing against Kara’s cheek, the low murmur of “you’re such a wonderful friend” in her ear that gave her such a strange shiver. At least that much thankfully escaped the prying eyes and cameras.

“Either I don’t go near her, or CatCo continues to have the leading stories on one of National City’s most high-profile citizens.” She gives Snapper the steeliest look she can muster without letting her heat vision flare up. “And my covers are currently bringing in our biggest numbers. Sir.”

Snapper grinds his teeth again, but his shoulders sag just a touch, and Kara knows she’s won this round.

“You’re on thin ice, Danvers. Back to your desk.”

Kara complies with a grin and a thumbs up, and decides to take a break half an hour later, when Alex forwards her an article titled Bosom Buddies: Lena Luthor Out And About With CatCo Gal Pal with a subtle mix of skull, knife, and eyeroll emojis. She does save one of the photos, though, the one where Lena’s head’s thrown back in adorable, delightful laughter.

“Can you explain this one, Danvers?”

Snapper doesn’t look angry this time. No, he’s strangely calm, somewhat elated, even, slamming a whole bundle of newspapers down on her desk, jolting Kara out of her reverie. Half of them are National City publications, Kara vaguely notes, but there’s Metropolis and Gotham and Central City in the mix, too, as if it was the story of the century. Must be a slow news day.

“Of course, sir. I think the proper term is ‘first date’?”

To her greatest surprise, Snapper barks out a laugh, loud and gruff.

“You’re now barred from any future reporting on the Luthors or L-Corp,” he tells her, not without a touch of satisfaction. If Kara hadn’t been walking on sunshine for the past thirteen hours, twenty-eight minutes and forty-one seconds, since the first tentative press of Lena’s lips against her own, she might’ve felt a bit miffed. “Cat Grant’s setting aside a little time later in the afternoon to chew you out personally.”

Kara nods happily along. Withering tones and grim disapproval, the usual spiel, as if anything could dull that buzzing, electrifying feeling coursing through her body since last night, the weightless, feverish joy that grips her every time she thinks of Lena’s last text and everything can’t wait to see you again tonight could possibly entail.

“Yessir.”

“Congratulations, Danvers.” Snapper raps his knuckles against her desk. “Let’s spare each other the heartburn from now on.”

(Kara shows up with a hickey on her neck and the headlines of Lena Luthor Packs PDA With New Girlfriend the next day. Snapper refuses to look her in the eyes for the rest of the week.)

#supercorp #supercorp fic #my fic

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fatehbaz · 1 year

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Today, as you read this [...], there are almost 2 million people locked away in one of the more than 5,000 prisons or jails that dot the American landscape. While they are behind bars, these incarcerated people can be found standing in line at their prison’s commissary waiting to buy some extra food or cleaning supplies that are often marked up to prices higher than what one would pay outside of those prison walls. [...] If they want to call a friend or family member, they need to pay for that as well. And almost everyone who works at a job while incarcerated, often for less than a dollar an hour, will find that the prison has taken a portion of their salary to pay for their cost of incarceration. [...] These policymakers and government officials also know that this captive population has no choice but to foot the bill [...] and that if they can’t be made to pay, their families can. In fact, a 2015 report led by the Ella Baker Center for Human Rights, Forward Together, and Research Action Design found that in 63 percent of cases, family members on the outside were primarily responsible for court-related costs [...].

Rutgers sociology professor Brittany Friedman has written extensively on what is called “pay-to-stay” fees in American correctional institutions. In her 2020 article titled, “Unveiling the Necrocapitalist Dimensions of the Shadow Carceral State: On Pay-to-Stay to Recoup the Cost of Incarceration,” Friedman divides these fees into two categories: (1) room and board and (2) service-specific costs. Fees for room and board -- yes, literally for a thin mattress or even a plastic “boat” bed in a hallway, a toilet that may not flush, and scant, awful tasting food -- are typically charged at a “per diem rate for the length of incarceration.” It is not uncommon for these fees to reach $20 to $80 a day for the entire period of incarceration. The second category, what Friedman refers to as “service-specific costs,” includes fees for basic charges such as copays or other costs for seeing a doctor or nurse, programming fees, email and telephone calls, and commissary items.

In 2014, the Brennan Center for Justice documented that at least 43 states authorize charging incarcerated people for the cost of their own imprisonment, and at least 35 states authorize charging them for some medical expenses. More recent research from the Prison Policy Institute found that 40 states and the federal prison system charge incarcerated people medical copays.

It’s also critical to understand how little incarcerated people are paid for their labor in addition to the significant cut of their paltry hourly wages that corrections agencies take from their earnings. Nearly two-thirds (65 percent) of incarcerated people work behind bars. According to the Prison Policy Initiative, those who work regular jobs in prisons such as maintaining the grounds, working in the kitchen, and painting the walls of the facilities earn on average between $0.14 and $0.63 an hour. [...] Arkansas and Texas don’t pay incarcerated workers at all, while Alabama only pays incarcerated workers employed by the state’s correctional industry. [...]

For example, if someone sends an incarcerated person in Florida $20 online, they will end up paying $24.95. [...]

Dallas County charges incarcerated people a $10 medical care fee for each medical request they submit. In Texas prisons, those behind bars pay $13.55 per medical visit, despite the fact that Texas doesn’t pay incarcerated workers anything. Texas is one of a handful of states that doesn’t pay incarcerated people for their labor.

In Kentucky’s McCracken County Jail in Paducah, it costs $0.40 a minute for a video call; this translates into $8.00 for each 20-minute video call. [...] For those who need to use email, JPay charges $2.35 for five emails for people in the Texas prison system ($0.47 an email). [...]

People in Florida prisons pay $1.70 for a packet of four extra-strength Tylenol and $4.02 for four tampons. And with inflation, commissary items are priced higher than ever. For example, according to the Kentucky Center for Investigative Reporting, incarcerated people in Kentucky experienced a 7.2 percent rise in already-high commissary prices in July 2022. Researchers noted that a 4.6-ounce tube of Crest toothpaste, which costs $1.38 at the local Walmart, is $3.77 at the prison commissary. [...]

In Gaston County, North Carolina, incarcerated individuals who participate in state work release may make more than the state’s $0.38 an hour maximum pay, but they pay the jail a daily rate based on their yearly income of at least $18 per day and up to $36 per day. In fact, Brennan Center research indicates that almost every state takes a portion of the salary that incarcerated workers earn to compensate the corrections agency [...].

These room and board fees are found throughout the nation’s jails and prisons. Michigan laws allow any county to seek reimbursement for expenses incurred in relation to a charge for which a person was sentenced to county jail time -- up to $60 a day. Winnebago County, Wisconsin, charges $26 a day to those staying in its county jail.

---

Text by: Lauren-Brooke Eisen. “America’s Dystopian Incarceration System of Pay to Stay Behind Bars.” Brennan Center for Justice. 19 April 2023. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

#abolition

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doctorbitchcrxft · 5 days

Text

Something Wicked | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, implications of verbal parental abuse

Word Count: 4885

Series Rewrite Masterlist

The two boys were bickering over coordinates Dean had received from an anonymous number.

“Dude, I ran LexisNexis, local police reports, newspapers, I couldn't find a single red flag. Are you sure you got the coordinates right?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, I double checked. It's Fitchburg, Wisconsin. Dad wouldn't have sent us coordinates if it wasn't important, Sammy.”

“Well, I'm telling you, I looked, and all I could find was a big steamy pile of nothing. If Dad's sending us hunting for something, I don't know what.”

“Well, maybe he's going to meet us there.”

“Yeah. ‘Cause he's been so easy to find up to this point.”

You sighed. You weren’t about to get in the middle of this argument and tuned the rest of it out. Alas, Dean won the argument, as he often did.

You stopped for some coffee along Fitchburg’s main street. The town itself was small, but it was quaint. A little too Middle America for your taste.

“Well… the waitress thinks the local freemasons are up to something sneaky, but other than that, no one's heard about anything freaky going on,” Dean sighed, handing you and Sam your respective coffee orders.

“Dean, you got the time?” you asked him.

“Ten after four. Why?”

You nodded in front of you at the playground you were looking at. “What's wrong with this picture?”

It was deserted aside from one child climbing on the jungle gym.

“School's out, isn't it?” Dean questioned.

“Yeah. So where is everybody?” Sam added. “This place should be crawling with kids right now.”

You and the Winchesters walked over to a woman on a park bench reading a magazine. Dean approached her, saying, “Sure is quiet out here.”

The woman sighed, “Yeah, it’s a shame.”

“Why's that?”

“You know, kids getting sick, it's a terrible thing.”

“How many?”

“Just five or six but serious, hospital serious. A lot of parents are getting pretty anxious. They think it's catching,” she explained.

All four of you watched the little girl playing by herself, and the wheels in your head began to turn. Why would John send you all the way to Fitchburg over a few sick kids?

The three of you made your way up to the pediatrics ward of the hospital to investigate the sick children. Dean and Sam donned suits, and you wore a pencil skirt and heels. You couldn’t lie to yourself, Dean looked amazing in his suit, but you much preferred his usual leather jacket and biker boots.

“See something you like?” Dean smirked at you.

Your mouth opened and closed, unsure of what to say. He just snickered in response while your cheeks burned.

A doctor approached you and the boys before Dean could taunt you any further. You introduced yourselves and headed down the corridor with the man. “Well, thanks for seeing us, Dr. Hydecker,” Dean said.

“Well, I'm glad you guys are here. I was just about to call CDC myself. How'd you find out anyways?” the doctor asked.

“Oh, some GP— I forget his name— he called Atlanta, and, uh, he must've beat you to the punch,” Dean lied.

“So you say you got six cases so far?” you asked.

“Yeah, five weeks. At first we thought it was garden variety bacterial pneumonia. Not that newsworthy. But now…”

“What?”

“The kids aren't responding to antibiotics. Their white cell counts keep going down. Their immune systems just aren't doing their job. It's like their bodies are... wearing out.”

“Wait, but are there any signs of leukopenia?” you asked. “Any history in these kids of that?”

Dean looked over at you, confused by what you were saying. You continued to talk to the doctor.

“No, actually,” Hydecker answered.

“What about neutropenia?”

He shook his head as a nurse handed him a clipboard full of papers.

“Then, whatever this is would have to be attacking the bone marrow as well as the respiratory system… Have you done biopsies?”

“No, we haven’t,” Hydecker answered. “I’ll give that a try.”

“You ever seen anything like this before?” Sam questioned.

“Never this severe,” the doctor said. “And the way it spreads… that's a new one for me.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sam.

“It works its way through families. But only the children, one sibling after another.”

“You mind if we interview a few of the kids?” Dean questioned.

“They’re not conscious,” the doctor replied.

You were shocked. “None of them?”

“No.”

“Can we, uh, can we talk to the parents?” tried Dean.

“Well, if you think it'll help.”

“Yeah. Who was your most recent admission?”

Hydecker directed you to a man sitting on a chair against the wall in the waiting room. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He explained to you the oldest girl was first, and then his youngest. He told you that her window had been opened, but there was no one who could’ve done so except for his daughter because her room was on the second floor.

You and the boys headed out of the pediatrics ward and back toward the car.

“(Y/N), how’d you know all that stuff?” Sam asked you, referencing your conversation with the doctor.

“I like to read,” you shrugged. Sam smiled at your response and walked a little ahead of you.

Dean came up next to you. “You were really serious about nursing, huh,” he said softly enough so Sam wouldn’t hear.

“I guess. I really do just like to read, though,” you smiled. “I think I just wanted to stick it to my dad. I always thought I’d be happier not hunting. But, uh, I just don’t think I could ever go back to being ‘normal’.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he responded.

Sam turned back to you and his brother. “You know, this might not be anything supernatural. It might just be pneumonia.”

“No way,” you shook your head, “pneumonia wouldn’t be lowering white blood cell count. It’d have to be elevated for it to be true pneumonia. Infection and all that.”

Sam hummed. “Okay, so then what’s your theory?”

“Honestly? Not sure.”

“I'll tell you one thing,” said Sam. “That dad we just talked to? I'm betting it'll be a while before he goes home.”

***

“You got anything over there?” Sam asked Dean. The three of you had climbed through the home of the last two kids who had gotten sick looking for clues.

“Nah, nothing,” the older brother answered.

“Yeah, me neither,” you chimed in. You moved over to the window and paused. “Hey guys? I really don’t think it’s pneumonia.”

The boys came over and followed your line of sight to a rotted handprint with long, tendril-like fingers.

“What the hell leaves a handprint like that?” Sam asked.

Dean seemed to get pulled away into his own mind for a moment before he began to look a little sick. “I know why Dad sent us here. He's faced this thing before. He wants us to finish the job.”

Dean raced down the stairs to the window on the back of the house you’d climbed through. You followed him close behind. You would ask him what had happened to him in the little girl’s bedroom later.

Dean explained to you on the ride to the motel what he thought you were hunting: a shtriga.

“So what the hell is a shtriga?” Sam asked as Dean pulled into a motel parking lot. This motel was a little cuter than the ones you’d visited previously; centered around a white cabin with green shingles.

“It's kinda like a witch, I think. I don't know much about 'em,” explained Dean.

“Well, I've never heard of it. And it's not in Dad's journal.”

“Dad hunted one in Fort Douglas, Wisconsin, about sixteen, seventeen years ago. You were there. You don't remember?”

Sam shook his head.

“And I guess he caught wind of the things in Fitchburg now and kicked us the coordinates,” Dean went on.

“So wait, this…” Sam paused, waiting for Dean to remind him how to pronounce it.

“Shtriga.”

“Right. You think it's the same one Dad hunted before?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“But if Dad went after it, why is it still breathing air?” Sam’s brows furrowed together.

“ ‘Cause it got away.”

Sam scoffed. “Got away?”

Dean was beginning to get frustrated, and you knew it was a cover-up for whatever was going on inside his head. “Yeah, Sammy, it happens.”

“Not very often.”

“Well, I don't know what to tell ya, maybe Dad didn't have his wheaties that morning,” snarked the older brother.

“What else do you remember?”

“Nothin'. I was a kid, alright?” Dean said defensively. You followed him into the motel lobby only to see a little boy watching TV in one room and a boy around ten or eleven walking out of it.

“A king or two queens?” The boy asked, looking between you and Dean.

“Two queens,” you and Dean answered quickly. “And one king, actually,” you added, stepping aside to reveal Sam behind you.

A woman entered smiling at you both. “Checking in?”

You nodded to her.

“Do me a favor, go get your brother some dinner,” the woman instructed the boy.

“I'm helping a guest!” he protested, but turned away under his mother’s hard stare. “Two queens. And a king.”

“Will that be cash or credit?” she asked you.

Dean took out his card. “You take MasterCard? Perfect. Here you go.”

You watched him look behind the woman at the boy pouring his younger brother a glass of milk. And there he went again; pulled into what you could only assume was memories of himself and Sam.

The woman before you held out his card to zoned-out Dean, and you took it from her instead. “Uh, thanks.” She handed you the keys, and you nudged Dean to bring him back to reality.

***

Dean explained to you and Sam what shtrigas fed off: children, most commonly. The only thing that could kill them were specially designed wrought-iron rounds while the thing was feeding. They often take the form of something unsuspecting; like an old woman.

“Hang on,” Dean said. “Check this out. I marked down all the addresses of the victims. Now these are the houses that have been hit so far and dead center?”

“The hospital,” you noted.

“Now, when we were there, I saw a patient; an old woman,” Dean continued.

“An old person huh?” questioned Sam. “In a hospital? Phew. Better call the Coast Guard.”

You giggled at Sam.

“Well, listen, smart-asses, she had an inverted cross hanging on her wall.”

You and Sam stopped snickering and looked up at Dean. He raised an eyebrow at you.

And so, you headed to the hospital. Fortunately for her— but unfortunately for your hunt— the old woman with the upside down cross on the wall was just cataract-ridden and crotchety. Upon your return to the motel after thoroughly freaking out the old woman, you pulled Dean to your motel room for a talk before bed.

“What’s up?” he asked, sitting on a chair in your room.

You sat on the bed across from him. “Where do you keep going?” you asked.

“Huh?”

“Sorry, I just realized how stupid that sounded. You keep, like, disappearing into your own brain,” you responded. “Like in the motel lobby. You zoned out looking at that kid and his brother.”

“Oh, that,” he said quietly. “I, uh, it’s stupid.”

“Dean,” you leaned over your crossed legs and rested your hand on his knee. “I’m asking you. It’s not stupid. I just care.”

“Oh, come on—”

“Dean,” you said. “You made me a pinky promise at that scary asylum. You promised you’d tell me. Please?”

He huffed out a small laugh. “You know how I said my dad hunted this thing before?”

You nodded.

“Well, I’m the reason it got away.”

“How? Didn’t you say it was sixteen, seventeen years ago? You would’ve been ten, dude,” you responded.

“Yeah, but it’s complicated. My dad left us alone in motel rooms all the time. He made me repeat to him what I was and wasn’t supposed to do every time he would go out on a hunt. Sam and I would fight over the last bowl of Lucky Charms from the groceries Dad got us for the week; y'know, stupid kid stuff,” he chuckled. “But it’d been days. I was climbin’ the walls, (Y/N). I had to get some air. I went to an arcade to just… blow off some steam, I guess.

"When I came back, the thing was over Sammy’s bed. I was frozen. My dad came in and shot it a couple times, but it got away. Dad just... grabbed us and booked. Dropped us off at Pastor Jim's about three hours away, but by the time he got back to Fort Douglas, the shtriga had disappeared; it was just gone. It never surfaced until now. Y'know, Dad never spoke about it again, I didn't ask." He looked away from you attempting to swallow his emotions. "But he, ah, he looked at me different, you know? Which was worse. Not that I blame him. He gave me an order, and I didn't listen; I almost got Sammy killed.”

“Dee, you were a kid,” you said softly. He went to cut you off, but you stopped him. “No, let me talk. I know how that feels. My parents left me with Stevie all the time. I would've done the same thing you did. We were kids. We had to take on parental responsibilities. Anybody would be going stir crazy, especially at ten years old like you were.”

“(Y/N)—”

“No,” you told him, grabbing his hand. “You cannot blame yourself. I won’t let you. Would you let me?”

He shook his head.

“Exactly.”

He held your intense stare and rubbed a thumb over your hand. The two of you awkwardly pulled away from each other, and Dean cleared his throat. “Uh, thank you, for, y’know—”

“Yeah, any time,” you said, walking him to the door.

***

The next morning, you and Sam were teasing Dean about the old woman from the hospital the night before. You were headed to the car to go get some breakfast.

“ ‘I was sleeping with my peepers open’?” Sam laughed heartily, remembering the old woman's strange way of talking.

“I almost smoked that old girl, I swear. It's not funny!” Dean grunted.

“Oh man, you shoulda seen your face,” you giggled.

“Yeah, laugh it up. Now we're back to square one.” He looked over to the ten-year-old blond boy sitting on the bench behind his mother’s office. “Hang on.” He led you over to the child. “Hey, what's wrong?”

“My brother's sick,” he replied.

“The little guy?”

He nodded. “Pneumonia. He's in the hospital. It's my fault.”

“Ah, c'mon, how?” You could tell Dean’s mind was racing just based on his tone.

“I should’ve made sure the window was latched. He wouldn't've got pneumonia if the window was latched,” the boy lamented.

You watched, frowningly thoughtfully, as Dean looked away from the boy.

“Listen to me. I can promise you that this is not your fault. Okay?” Dean assured him.

“It's my job to look after him,” the boy frowned, tearing up.

His mother hurried out of the motel toward her minivan. “Michael, I want you to turn on the 'no vacancy' sign while I'm gone. I've got Denise covering room service, so don't bother with any of the rooms.”

“I'm going with you,” he protested.

“Not now, Michael.”

“But I gotta see Asher!”

Dean responded before his mother could. “Hey, Michael. Hey. I know how you feel— I'm a big brother, too— but you gotta go easy on your mom right now, ok?”

His mom dropped her handbag in haste, cursing under her breath. You rushed to pick it up for her.

“Listen, you're in no condition to drive. Why don't you let me give you a lift to the hospital,” Dean offered.

“No, I couldn't possibly—” she answered.

“No, it's no trouble. I insist.”

Michael’s mother handed Dean the keys and thanked him before addressing her son. “Be good.”

Dean turned to you before he went over to the car. “We're gonna kill this thing. I want it dead, you hear me?”

You and Sam watched Dean pull out of the motel parking lot, driving much more carefully than he ever did when you and Sam were in the car.

“C’mon,” you said. “You got the keys?”

“Yeah,” he threw them to you. “Where we goin’?”

“Wait, you’re letting me drive?” you asked Sam.

He shrugged.

You squealed childishly and jumped into the driver’s seat. You couldn’t lie, you loved this car. You loved how the steering wheel felt in your hands and the way the engine rumbled.

“Seriously, where we going?”

“The library,” you answered. “Town records, national records, internet, anything and everything. Dean wants this thing dead, and I intend to get it done tonight. And I gotta tell you, dude, something’s really bothering me about this whole thing. I mean, I never even formally went to nursing school, but I knew it couldn’t be pneumonia immediately. Why would pediatric doctors be unable to figure that out?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, but I get you. Something isn’t right.”

***

You and Sam poured through as many books you possibly could as quickly as you could. Sam was at his computer, scrolling with a furrowed brow when his phone rang. “ Hey. How's the kid?... We’re at the library. We've been trying to find out as much as we can about this shtriga… Well, bad news. I started with Fort Douglas around the time you said Dad was there?... Same deal.

"Before that, there was, uh, Ogdenville, before that, North Haverbrook, and Brockway. Every 15 to 20 years, it hits a new town. Dean, this thing is just getting started in Fitzburgh. In all these other places, it goes on for months. Dozens of kids before the shtriga finally moves on. The kids just languish in comas, and then they die… Ah, I don't know. The earliest mention I could find is this place called ‘Black River Falls’ back in the 1890s. Talk about a horror show.”

Your brain began to make connections between all of those events. “Wait, Sam, put Dean on speaker.”

He did so.

“Okay, you’re gonna have to stay with me on this one. This could just be me spitballin’, but—”

“Just say it, (Y/N),” Dean said through the phone.

“I’ve been thinking, why wouldn’t Hydecker immediately rule out pneumonia? If he’s such a spectacular and caring doctor, why wouldn’t he know that pneumonia ups your white blood cell count; not depletes it? And the chance of all six kids having a pre-existing condition that lowers your WBC is incredibly low. I mean, why else wouldn’t he biopsy the kids?”

“Okay, WebMD, what does that have to do with anything?” Dean asked.

“I told you to stay with me.” You began typing in your computer searching for articles on the earliest case Sam had found in Black River Falls. “The point is, I think Hydecker’s our guy. Think about it— the center of the kidnappings is the hospital. And any pediatric doctor would be familiar with what pneumonia actually does to a kid’s body.” You smiled sourly at a photo you pulled up of doctors surrounding a child’s bed in 1893. You turned the computer around to Sam. “Boom.”

“(Y/N), that is huge.” He leaned over and lightly punched your shoulder. “Good going.”

“Thanks!” you grinned. “Dean, meet us back at the motel. Don’t deck the guy in the face, please. Not yet, anyway.”

“No promises,” he grumbled.

“Dean—”

“Fine.” He hung up the phone.

“Alright, we gotta get back before Dean explodes,” you told Sam. “Can I drive again?”

“Sure, why not. Just don’t tell my brother.” He tossed you the keys and you giggled.

***

“We should have thought of this before. A doctor's a perfect disguise. You're trusted, you can control the whole thing,” Sam said.

You and the brothers were back in the motel room.

Dean threw off his jacket and paced agitatedly. “That son of a bitch.”

“I'm proud of you for not drawing on him right there,” you said.

“Yeah, well, first of all, I'm not going to open fire in a freakin' pediatrics ward.”

Sam nodded. “Good call.”

“Second, wouldn't have done any good, because the bastard's bullet proof unless he's chowing down on something. And third, I wasn't packing, which is probably a really good thing, ‘cause I probably would've just burned a clip in him on principle alone.”

Despite the situation, you found Dean aggressively grumbling about guns very attractive.

“You're getting wise in your old age, Dean,” Sam quipped.

“Damn right. 'Cause now I know how we're going to get it,” replied Dean.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“Shtriga works through siblings, right?”

You knew what he was getting at. “No, Dean, I don’t like that.”

“What?” Sam asked, clearly not picking up where you and Dean were at.

“(Y/N)—”

“No, dude, we gotta get Michael out of here. I’m not letting you use him as bait.”

“Dean, what?! That’s out of the question!” Sam protested.

“It's not out of the question, Sam, it's the only way. If this thing disappears it could be years before we get another chance.”

“Michael's a kid. And I'm not going to dangle him in front of that thing like a worm on a hook,” Sam scoffed.

“Dad did not send me here to walk away.” Dean turned away from you and Sam and gripped the edges of the dresser.

“Send you here? He didn't send you here; he sent us here,” Sam replied.

“This isn't about you, Sam. I'm the one who screwed up, all right. It's my fault. There's no telling how many kids have gotten hurt because of me.”

“What are you saying, Dean? How is it your fault?” Sam paused, taking a moment to calm down. “Dean. You've been hiding something from the get-go. Since when does Dad bail on a hunt? Since when does he let something get away? Now talk to me, man. Tell me what's going on.”

Dean proceeded to explain what he had to you last night. Sam gave him the same lecture about how it wasn’t his fault, but Dean began to protest again. “Don't. Don't. Dad knew this was unfinished business for me. He sent me here to finish it.”

You were surprised at the tough facade he gave his brother in contrast to the way he was vulnerable with you.

“But using Michael— I don't know Dean. I mean, how 'bout one of us hides under the covers, you know, we'll be the bait,” Sam tried.

“No, it won't work. It's gotta get close enough to feed— it'll see us. Believe me, I don't like it, but it's gotta be the kid.”

***

Michael was completely against the idea and even threatened to call the cops on you. You and the boys returned to their motel room dejectedly.

“Well, that went crappy. Now what?” Dean groaned.

“What did you expect? You can't ask an adult to do something like that, much less a kid,” the younger brother sighed.

There was a knock at the door, and you opened it to reveal Michael.

“Hey,” you said, surprised.

“If you kill it, will Asher get better?”

“Honestly? We don't know,” Dean told him.

“You said you were a big brother,” Michael started, “You'd take care of your little brother? You'd do anything for him?”

“Yeah, I would,” Dean replied quietly. Your heart swelled at how much Dean and Sam cared for each other.

The young boy nodded. “Me, too. I'll help.”

Dean had hooked up a security camera to the boy’s room, and you and he watched the monitor closely. You were beginning to feel cross-eyed from how tired you were. It was around three in the morning, and your body protested against your will to stay awake.

“You sure these iron rounds are gonna work?” Sam asked his brother.

“Consecrated iron rounds, and yeah, it's what Dad used last time.”

“Hey, Dean? I’m sorry,” the younger brother said softly. “You know, I've really given you a lot of crap, for always following Dad's orders. But I know why you do it.”

“Oh, god, kill me now,” Dean groaned.

You giggled to yourself, eyes returning to the screen. “Dean, look.”

There was a bit of movement off to the right of the screen outside of the window. You and the boys picked up your guns, holding them tightly and waiting for the right moment.

“Now?” you asked.

“Not yet.”

The shtriga moved closer and leaned over the bed. You could see Michael tense under the covers and draw them closer to himself. The creature leaned over the bed, pushing the covers down.

“Now?!”

“Now.”

You and the boys burst through the door and began to shoot the creature after Michael rolled away. It flew off Michael’s bed and fell to the side you couldn’t see.

“Mike, you alright?” Dean asked the kid.

“Yeah,” came his muffled reply from under the bed.

“Just sit tight.” Dean approached the shtriga, his gun at the ready. There was no movement for just a moment, before the shtriga shot up and grabbed Dean by his throat, throwing him across the room.

“Dean!” you cried, trying to run to him. The shtriga threw you to the side against Michael’s bed. Your back protested as you tried to roll and grab your gun that had fallen out of your hand in the chaos. You noticed the shtriga leaning over the top of the younger Winchester. Sam’s body went limp and began to go gray as the shtriga began to suck out his life force.

“Hey!” Dean gruffly spat. The shtriga turned to the older brother just to get shot straight between the eyes.

“Nice!” you said. You rushed to Sam’s side and smoothed a hand over his messy hair while he tried to catch his breath. “Are you okay?”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

“You okay, little brother?” Dean called from behind you. You thought it was adorable how much he cared.

You and Sam stood and you tried to help hold the tall man up on his unsteady legs. You guided him over to the shtriga, and Dean shot it three times at point-blank range. The shtriga’s body fell in on itself, disintegrating.

You looked up at Dean, whose face was still set in hard lines.

“It's okay, Michael, you can come on out,” Dean told the boy peeking out from under his bed. He rose to stand beside you, smiling tentatively. Dean put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. You looked on, feeling your heart swell at what you knew was a full-circle moment for Dean. You knew these moments were few and far-between in a profession like yours, and you had learned to savor them in your memory.

***

You and the brothers returned to your rooms to pack now that the monster was dead. As usual, you were finished packing before the boys were and leaned against the Impala waiting for them.

You watched Michael’s mom’s car pull up in the motel parking lot. At that moment, the boys came out to join you.

“Hey, Joanna. How's Asher doing?” Dean asked the mother of the two boys.

“Have you seen Michael?” she asked him.

“Mom! Mom!” the child in question ran up and hugged him. “How's Ash?”

“Got some good news. Your brother's gonna be fine,” she smiled down at the boy.

“Really?” Michael grinned.

“Yeah. Really. No one can explain it; it's a miracle. They're going to keep him overnight for observation, and then, he's coming home.”

You smiled as Sam asked, “How are all the other kids doing?”

“Good. Real good. A bunch of them should be checking out in a few days. Dr. Travis says the ward's going to be like a ghost town,” she explained.

“Dr. Travis? What about Dr. Hydecker?” you asked.

“Oh, he wasn't in today. Must have been sick or something.”

You shot a knowing look to the boys.

“So, did anything happen while I was gone?” Joanna asked her son.

The boy looked to Dean before responding, “Nah, same old stuff.”

“Okay.” Joanna smoothed a hand over Michael’s blonde hair. “You can go see Ash.”

A wide grin spread across the boy’s face. “Now?!”

She nodded at her son, who ran into the car. “I, ah, I'd better get going before he hotwires the car and drives himself,” she told you and the boys. The three of you watched as Joanna’s car pulled out of the parking lot. Sam and Dean turned to you and placed their bags in the trunk next to yours.

“It's too bad,” said Sam.

“Oh, they’ll be fine,” you assured him.

“That's not what I meant,” he shook his head. “I meant Michael. He'll always know there are things out there in the dark— he'll never be the same, you know?” He paused. “Sometimes I wish that....”

“What?” Dean questioned.

“I wish I could have that kinda innocence.”

Dean walked to the driver’s side door. He leaned on the roof of the car and said, “If it means anything, sometimes I wish you could too.”

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @iloveshawn @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @davina-clairee @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @stephshaww @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @here-for-the-extravaganza @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @rei0812 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @more-espresso-less-depresso-og @mysticmyth @favoritefandoms27 @star-yawnznn

hi hi! quite a few tags were broken :( please let me know if i've misspelled your tag! make sure you have notifs for my blog on so you don't miss an update!

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean winchester #supernatural #spn #supernatural series rewrite #spn series rewrite

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ms-hells-bells · 1 year

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surgical abortion really shouldn't be called surgical abortion, i think it does so much harm. i hear and read so many stories, where the majority of women choose the abortion pill over 'surgical abortion' (sometimes because it's their only option but also) because 'surgery is more risky and invasive, it'll just be easier taking a pill', but then go through days, sometimes WEEKS of bleeding and painfully passing large clots, and sometimes they are still unable to pass all of the tissue, and so have to get the procedure done anyway.

PROCEDURAL abortion (or aspiration as some call it, but that term can be difficult to parse what it is for some, and accessibility is key) does not involve any cutting of tissue, it is not surgical. it is quicker (taking only a few minutes) and more effective at tissue removal than medical abortion. many women who choose procedural abortion report being pleasantly surprised by how one and done it is, and receive the comfort and support of a nurse during the procedure, which if you are secretly getting the abortion and so not informing family, friends, or partners, it can make the whole ordeal much more emotionally bearable.

of course, it's all about what's best for an individual woman, and some may prefer the abortion pill if they want thee privacy of staying in their home, with their support system, and quietly dealing with it as quickly as possible, but i do really think that the misnomer and stigma around procedural abortion causes a lot of women to go through unnecessary physical and emotional pain when if given all the information, a simple term change (and a shift from its association with exclusively later term abortions), and hospitals/clinics being more patient focused, they would have potentially chosen procedural abortion.

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traveler-at-heart · 11 months

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Hi 🥰

🐾

Thank you for the prompt!

High on love

“Landing in 5 minutes” Clint announced as he checked over the screen.

“Thank God” Natasha muttered. It’s been almost six weeks since the mission started and she’s eager to see you.

“Are you going to see your girl?”

“She’s not my girl”

“Yet”

As soon as they landed, Fury walked up to them.

“Let’s debrief now”

“Oh, Fury… I actually have to get to the medbay” Natasha began to limp. Clint hid a smile as she pretended to be in pain.

“You once stayed at a meeting while stitching yourself up” the man reminded her, unimpressed.

“What can I say, not all of us are super soldiers. We’re getting old, right, Barton?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer and limped away, as Clint and Fury watched her committ to the lie.

“She’s going to see that chick doctor, isn’t she”

“Yeap”

—

“Agent Romanoff, how can we help you?” A nurse greeted as soon as Natasha walked in. She’s no longer pretending to limp but she figures there might be another way to get your attention.

“Just reporting after a mission for a general check up. Doctor Y/L/N is usually in charge”

“Oh, she’s getting prepped for surgery”

Well, damn. As head of the department, you were usually in and out of the OR at any given hour.

“I’ll come back when she’s out then”

“Yeah, it’s gonna take a while for her to wake up from the anesthesia”

“Wait, what? I thought you meant she was performing surgery, not being the one…”

“Well, she was feeling sick this morning and after running some tests we found her appendix was the issue” Natasha stared at the woman and she could immediately telll the spy was worried. “It’s a very simple procedure. They’re starting in ten minutes. Would you like to see her?”

Natasha nodded and walked behind the nurse to one of the patient rooms.

“She’s heavily sedated so… uh… yeah” the nurse warned before knocking.

“Come iiiiin. Oh my God, is this a dream? Natty!! It’s been so long since I’ve seen you” you smiled and raised a hand, hoping Natasha would take it.

She blushed at the nickname. So far, all she had heard you call her was Agent Romanoff and a very stern “Natasha” when she insisted on going on a mission with broken ribs.

“How was your mission, darling?” you sighed and she chuckled. “My God, you have the loveliest smile”

“The mission went great. I came here to see you but it seems like you’ll need me to take care of you for a change”

“I hate needles, Natty. And I’ll have a scar. Bye bye bikinis” you pouted, lifting your hospital gown to show your still intact skin.

“Let’s not…” she pulled it down just in time for the nurse to open the door and take you to the OR.

“Natty, walk with me” you pleaded as you were wheeled away. “If I die…”

“You’re not gonna die, Y/N”

“But if I do… I just want you to know that I think you’re beautiful and smell really, really nice and anyone would be lucky to have you. And do you like Italian food because I can make an amazing lasagna and then we’ll make out in my couch”

“Oh my God” the intern walking next to your bed was desperately trying to make it stop. He knew how much you’d regret saying all of that to Natasha, in front of several staff members.

“Please rush Doctor Y/L/N to OR 1. This is as far as you can go, Agent”

“She’s gonna be ok, right?”

“I’ll let you know as soon as she’s out of surgery, if you’d like”

“Yes, please”

He nodded once again, following your bed as you waved and screamed.

“Byeee, Natty”

—

Natasha stared at her empty cup of coffee, still wondering what she should do with the things you’d said.

Considering how many drugs were on your system, it could all be meaningless.

Should she act on it?

“Agent Romanoff” the intern stood before her, trying to appear casual. The truth was, most of the Medbay’s staff was scared of her. “She’s back in her room, we’re just waiting for her to wake up. It could take a while”

“But everything went ok? She’s gonna be fine?”

“Yes. She just needs bedrest for at least two weeks. Which I suspect she won’t like”

Natasha chuckled and followed him back to your room. You were sleeping peacefully, your vitals stable.

Still, Natasha disliked the sight of you in a hospital bed.

“You can tell nurse Richards to page me once she wakes up. A-assuming you’ll wait here for her…”

“I will, thank you”

He nodded once again and closed the door behind him. Natasha approached your side and placed a small strand of hair behind your ear.

Aside from some physical exams, she’d never been so close to you. Free to examine your face, she noticed a small scar right above your left eyebrow, a birth mark near your right cheek….

She could stare at you forever, and she almost did, dragging a chair to sit next to your bed.

An hour and a half later, your eyes struggled to open.

“Mmm”

“Hey, I’m here, Y/N. You’re ok.” the redhead took your hand, her thumb drawing soothing circles.

“Nat?”

“Hi, detka. How are you feeling?”

“Like a bus ran me over several times. But it’s good to see you” you admitted with a smile. You weren’t as forward as before, probably because the anesthesia was wearing off.

“Right back at you” she smiled softly.

“I had the weirdest dream while I was all high” you chuckled. “That you were here and I practically flashed you in my hospital gown and then asked you out in the least romantic way possible…”

Natasha looked to the ceiling, trying to hide her blush.

“Natasha, that was a dream, right? RIGHT?”

“Uhmmm…”

“OH MY GOD”

“What’s wrong?” the intern walked in at that moment. “I told you to page me when she woke up” he scolded Natasha but one glare from the redhead and he was back to being scared. “Your heart rate is way up right now”

“Yeah, that’s nothing medical, trust me” you answered, mortified. The intern looked between the two of you and nodded.

“Right. I think we can discharge you tomorrow, Chief”

“Thanks, George”

He nodded and left you alone again, in the middle of a very awkward silence.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable”

“Go out with me” Natasha said as you spoke.

“What?” you smiled, and she squeezed your hand.

“Would you go on a date with me?” she said and you nodded.

“Lasagna at my place” you offered, trying to raise yourself from the bed. “Ouch”

“For now, let’s stick to take out”

“Deal”

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x y/n #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff fluff

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useless-catalanfacts · 4 months

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A new rule to increment discrimination

Context:

Public healthcare is one of the places where the most Catalanophobic interactions are reported. In 4 years, more than 100 Catalan speakers have reported that they have been denied healthcare or otherwise discriminated against for speaking Catalan, or were unable to access any healthcare in Catalan in a Catalan-speaking territory.

From disabled people who only speak Catalan being refused any medical attention unless they speak Spanish (which they don't know how to speak), to a man calling the ambulance but the healthcare worker who answers the phone spends the time scolding the caller for not speaking Spanish instead of calling for the urgently-needed ambulance, to many, many, many, many, many, many doctors telling patients "either you speak in Spanish or you leave", and many others given choices that link their language to shame: "would you rather speak Catalan or your son get cured?", "do you want to speak Catalan or do you want a vaccine appointment?", or being told "[derrogatory/infantilizing word for "woman"], you're making me waste time" for seeking medical attention as a Catalan-speaker.

Lack of access to healthcare is a systemic problem for Catalan people, who are often forced to use Spanish if we want medical treatment in our own country.

People should have the right to access public services (that they pay for with their own tax money) in the language of the country. Can you imagine an English speaker in England not being able to see any doctor or nurse who can attend them in English? Or in French in France, or German in Germany? It doesn't happen because speakers of the dominant language have the State on their side, but Catalan speakers have the Spanish (and French, in the case of Northern Catalonia) Government actively working against us.

And, more than anywhere else, in a moment of great vulnerability like the medical setting, it's very important that patients can speak their own language and not have to worry about translating concepts, they need to have the confidence to speak clearly on what happens to them and be focused on the issue, not on word choice or accent of this second language. Even less be worried about possibly facing discrimination for it.

The new rule:

The new Government of the Valencian Country (a coalition of the right-wing party PP and the fascist party Vox, both Spanish supremacist parties who make the hatred against Catalan/Valencian one of their main campaign points) has announced yet another way to increment that discrimination.

Until now, to decide who to hire for public jobs, there was a system of points, where each kind of certificate and qualification gave you some points. Speaking the local language (Valencian/Catalan) was already not a requisite —legally creating the situation where doctors and nurses can not know any of the language spoken in the place where they work. But, until now, speaking the local language at least gave some extra points.

Now, this new Spanish supremacist regional government has decided that knowing Valencian in the Valencian Country to work in a job with public interaction is worth less than speaking any language of an independent EU state. This means that you get more points for speaking, for example, Latvian, Swedish, Maltese, Slovak or Lithuanian, than for speaking the language of the place where you will be working and where you will be talking to people.

My full respect for speakers of all these languages, but (as an example) a hypothetical Estonian speaker who you might never even encounter in a Valencian town should not be worth more than the very real Valencian speakers that you will surely encounter working in the Valencian Country.

This rule is another step to legally protect systemic discrimination and to make it continue in the future.

Note: Valencian and Catalan are two names for the same language. They're being used interchangeably.

#actualitat #país valencià #coses de la terra #valencià #catalanophobia #catalanofòbia #discrimination #language rights #minoritized languages #minority languages #valencian #langblr #languages #cultures #human rights #healthcare #medblr #european union #imperialism

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ghost-whump · 6 months

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Hello hello!! <3 When you have the opportunity, and if this prompt sparks inspiration, could you write a scenario or a scene in which the whumpee is afraid of their friends/caretakers and is actively trying to escape, meanwhile the caretakers are genuinely trying to help their friend but they're making it really hard by not cooperating? Cause of said fear could be due to brainwashing, trauma, or general confusion...? Or perhaps the whumpee is a dangerous individual and the sadistic whumper had deliberately set them up to be found by the caretakers, knowing that they would trigger whumpee into harming/eliminating them?

...that's way, way too specific, isn't it?

oh sweet anon you have activated one of my favorite tropes of all time. unfortunately i’m not too happy with this one (probably from just not having a clear idea for what i wanted) but i still would like to post it! i hope you enjoy anyway <3

You’re Not Real

CW: hospital setting (though not particularly hospital whump), in-recovery, restraints, implied past drugging, delirious whumpee, self inflicted injuries, Let me know if I’m missing anything!

“Whumpee!”

Caretaker rose from their chair, where they’d stationed themselves next to Whumpee’s bed. For the last seven hours — since Whumpee had been mysteriously returned by some mysterious captor, battered and delirious — the terrified patient had not stopped fighting.

The hospital staff had at first tried to restrain them to the bed. That only agitated Whumpee further, giving way to a bout of trying to bite and plead and struggle harder, hard enough to cause the bruises on their wrists to worsen.

Now, after somehow managing to escape their padded restraints, Whumpee scrambled off the bed. Their IV and breathing tube fell to the floor before Caretaker could even fully stand.

“Whumpee,” They approached slowly, hands in the air, “Calm down, please? I won’t hurt you, it’s okay.”

Whumpee furiously shook their head, scrambling backwards. Teeth bared like an animal, Whumpee pressed their back into the farthest corner they could get.

Caretaker momentarily considered calling a nurse into the room, but eventually decided against it. Officials would only panic Whumpee more. Another step forward. Caretaker spoke, “See? I’m not going to hurt you. I’m your friend, Whumpee. It’s Caretaker.”

“No!” Whumpee shouted. They gripped their hair and tugged, staring up with wild, crazed eyes. “No! Go away!”

“Whumpee-”

“Go away! You’re—You’re not real! Go away!” They continued to shout, surprising not alerting hospital staff outside the room. “P-Please! I don’t want to see Caretaker! I don’t, I don’t, I don’t!”

“…You- You don’t?” Caretaker started to lower their hands. Whumpee said they weren’t real.

Whumpee pounded on their temples with the palms of their hands. “Get out of my head! Stop—Stop making me see- Get out, get out, getoutgetoutgetout!” Furiously, Whumpee babbled incoherent nonsense. But only when they started bashing their head on the wall behind them did Caretaker finally come to.

They began bashing the button to call nurses to the room, a few flooding in almost instantly. The staff quickly and efficiently restrained Whumpee once again, preventing them from hurting themselves further.

Once the ordeal was over, and Whumpee passed out from exhaustion, the weight of what had happened finally hit Caretaker. They grabbed onto the remaining nurse’s sleeve, looking up at them, furrowed.

Cautiously, “Has Whumpee been… drug tested?”

The nurse nodded, “Yes. The toxicology report was clear. They could have been drugged in the past, but nothing is in their system now.” She explained, then paused with a skeptical look, “Why?”

“It’s—It’s just… Earlier, when they were fighting, they said I wasn’t real. They were begging someone to get out of their head, like—like they thought they were hallucinating or something.”

Nodding slowly once again, the nurse looked back at their clipboard, then up at Whumpee’s sleeping form. “I’ll see what I can do.” A determined look fell over her face, “If they wake up again, call us in right away.”

Then, without another word, the nurse was gone.

Caretaker fell back into the chair. God, Whumpee, what have you gotten yourself into?

thank you for reading, even if it’s not my best work! there may be more errors than usual, since this was written very quickly.

if anyone’s interested, i’d very much like to keep exploring this topic!!

General Tag: @morning-star-whump

#my stuff #whump scenario #whump tropes #whump #whumpee #caretaker #hospital whump #recovery whump #whump writing #defiant whumpee

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thebramblewood · 6 months

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Read an exclusive excerpt of "Chapter 5: The Mysterious Cal and Lily" from Tangled Vines: A Complete Investigation of the Vatore Disappearances, the bestselling phenomenon sweeping Sim Nation!

The advent of the Roaring '20s put a new city on the map. Prohibition was in full swing across the nation (though often loosely and selectively enforced), but citizens were more eager than ever to revel in excess. Producers of alcoholic beverages (including the Vatore family itself, having swiftly resumed business operations despite the loss of its future inheritors) transitioned to an outward emphasis on medical spirits while moving recreational production underground. Equally clandestine speakeasys began cropping up by the dozens, but one city's winding sidewalks, grimy storefronts, and labyrinthine system of underground tunnels made it particularly well-suited to hosting these secret locales. Soon enough, San Myshuno was the pinnacle of glitz, glamor, and elegant debauchery. All who attended a party wanted to be seen. Curiously, though, two of the names most often uncovered in tabloid archives, Cal and Lily, seemed to fully avoid the increasingly ubiquitous flash of the camera. While other frequenters of the speakeasy circuit often found their grainy black and white faces in print, providing endless fodder for the burgeoning gossip rag industry, this pair remained elusive, which of course sold even more papers. Fellow partygoers pitched first-hand accounts to the highest bidders, and readers clung onto every salacious word. Lily and Cal were always observed to arrive together, but she would soon make a beeline for the gramophone while he settled in at the bar. Nearly every report calls Lily an exquisite beauty with an almost supernatural ability for drawing men into her orbit. In some instances, partygoers describe a herd of suitors nearly erupting into fisticuffs as they competed for her attention. It is impossible to say how many of these accounts are exaggerated or even fabricated. Nevertheless, it is clear she was quite the force. At the end of the night, she would leave with her chosen companion, stupefied by his stroke of good luck, on her arm. Meanwhile, Cal would watch listlessly from a distance, nursing a glass of whiskey he was never observed to actually drink. The relationship between the two was unclear, as was his reason for accompanying her, as he seemed to have little interest in the raucousness surrounding him. He rarely engaged with other guests or even Lily herself, though there is at least one report of an argument in which he seemed with little success to be dissuading her from leaving with yet another man. One cannot help but draw parallels to a certain set of siblings with suspiciously similar names. Despite being younger, Caleb Vatore was always said to be protective over his sister Lilith's interests, even if she rarely heeded his advice. Digging into the newspaper archives at Myshuno Meadows Library unearths several more disturbing accounts. Increasingly, there were whispers that the men Lily seduced completely vanished from San Myshuno society after coming into contact with her. While there was a small spike in unsolved murder cases at the time, a concrete connection between the victims and the mysterious Lily cannot be made. In one story, which admittedly reads like a hallucinatory drug trip, Lily is described as a succubus with glowing red eyes and sharp blood-stained teeth. This account was clearly dismissed, for its revelations were never entertained further. All at once, the champagne and glitter dissolved into a more sober era, and these socialites vanished from public life just as swiftly. In isolation, similarities between Cal and Lily and the disappeared Vatore siblings may seem like mere coincidences. In truth, it cannot even be proven that they existed. No official records matching either individual have been discovered. One could argue that they were works of fiction concocted to boost sales or composites drawn from several individuals. However, considered alongside the evidence to be presented in later chapters, the theory that this duo and the Vatores are one and the same becomes too tantalizingly probable to dismiss.

#ts4 #sims 4 #sims 4 story #ts4 story #simblr #story: hzid #lilith vatore #caleb vatore #oops i dropped something #thanks to the magic of storytelling i've obtained the footage #anyway i've decided lilith only kills men (on purpose anyway)#she doesn't count the accidents #also i realized while writing this that it was very subconsciously inspired by this kind of obscure british film called bright young things #(which is itself based on the novel vile bodies by evelyn waugh)#i remember it mainly being about vapid awful people in a downward spiral of increasingly debauched behavior #(in other words highly recommended)#but specifically there's a reporter character played by james mcavoy who picks up intel at parties #and then feverishly dictates his reports by phone in the middle of the night to ensure they make the morning edition #that's exactly what i'm picturing here #it's like the '20s version of celebrities being papped #anyway if you read everything under the cut and then also made it this far you're a real one #gonna cool it on the lore for now and hold onto the more interesting bits a while longer

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gumnut-logic · 2 months

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It started with a bang.

Lots of bad things start with a bang, but this one wasn’t obvious.

A stray meteor hit Five. Wasn’t the first time, doubtful it would be the last, but Brains had built her strong enough to resist the majority of non-dinosaur-extincting rock events.

Most of them.

This one got through.

It was tiny, but it was enough to mess with some critical systems and it had both a worried Scott on the line and Brains jumping up and down as both John and Eos hurried to make repairs.

Virgil asked John to come down, but he chose not to.

Apparently his ‘bird needed nursing and Virgil, if he was honest, could respect that.

He really wished he hadn’t.

Being on the more paranoid end of the spectrum considering International Rescue’s history of getting the not so lucky end of anything, Virgil checked in with his space brother every half hour.

For the next twenty-four.

John was sympathetic until about the eighteen-hour mark. After that, he became snarlier each time Virgil poked him.

“Virgil, the damage has been repaired.”

“Humour me.”

“Why?”

Why? Virgil wasn’t sure, but he was sure that he needed to check on his brother. “Because it is my job.”

“Then maybe you should check your own readings because you are being beyond ridiculous.” And John cut the connection.

Great. He’d pissed John off – never a good thing to do.

But half an hour later, Virgil prodded him again. “John, report.”

“I’m fine, Virgil. Go to bed.”

Virgil peered closer at his brother’s hologram and frowned. “John?”

“What?!”

Virgil’s fingers darted over the sensor readouts from his brother’s spacesuit. “How are you feeling?”

“Annoyed. If you don’t stop this, I’m going to ask Scott to stop you from doing this.”

“Go for it.” He frowned at the oxygen saturation stat. “You sure you are feeling okay? Eos, can you give me an atmospheric reading on Five?” The numbers were all good, but something felt wrong.

Something had his hackles up, but he couldn’t identify what.

“All atmospheric reading are within the expected range, Virgil. John needs his rest, why are you continuing to disturb him?”

He stared at his brother floating far above. “I’m not sure, Eos.”

John rolled his eyes. “Then get back to me when you are.” His brother cut the connection.

Virgil sat back in his father’s chair. Maybe John was right. Maybe he was just edgy because of the meteor collision, a reminder of the brutality of space and his brother’s vulnerability so far above them. Maybe it was time for bed.

He lasted another hour before he commed John again.

“Virgil, whyyyy?”

Again, he ran his fingers over the sensors, again they tried to reassure him everything was okay.

But nothing was okay. Virgil was sure of it.

He just didn’t know what or why.

“I’m coming up.”

John stared at him. “What? Why?”

“Can’t I drop in to see my brother?”

“It’s 3am!”

“I’m a night owl.”

“I’m going to kick your ass, Virg. I’m tired. You’ve been bugging me for hours. Leave me alone!” The comm line cut again.

And Virgil’s hackles hit orbit.

John never called him ‘Virg’.

Ever.

“Eos?”

It took a moment. “Yes, Virgil?”

“Could you please lower the elevator?”

“He doesn’t want to see you.”

“Too bad. I need to check on his health.”

Eos didn’t answer.

“His health is important, Eos.”

Another long moment where Virgil considered waking Alan or Scott.

“Lowering elevator.”

There was no clarity in Eos’ voice as to her opinion but she was doing what he requested and that was all that mattered.

Half an hour and several layers of atmosphere later, Virgil was thankful for whatever sense that set him off.

He found John floating aimlessly in the central hub of Five. Above the vista of the planet, the holographics system was displaying a three-sixty view of family photos.

Scott grinned at him from the east, a baby Allie from the south pole, his father from the north, Gordy dressed in squid-print swimwear to the west and their beloved mother smiled her familiar smile from somewhere near Africa.

Virgil’s own picture took out South America next to Grandma in the South Pacific.

“John?”

His brother startled. “You! What do you want?”

Virgil eyed him. “Eos, can you give me those atmospheric readings again?”

“Yes, Virgil.” She rattled off the necessary numbers.

Unfortunately, they did not match the portable air sensor Virgil held in his hand. “Your readings are incorrect, Eos. Run a diagnostic.”

There was a pause as John continued to frown at him.

“Diagnostic complete. There are no errors in the sensor network, Virgil.”

“There is a contaminant in your air supply, John.”

“So you finally found an excuse for being annoying.” His brother flipped mid-air and stared up at the hologram of their father. “You hear that, Dad? Virgil finally has a reason for driving us all insane!” That last was shouted in Virgil’s direction along with a glare.

Virgil ignored it.

“John, I want you to come down to Tracy Island.”

“Why?” It was belligerence itself.

“Because you aren’t safe up here. And I miss you.”

“How can you miss me when you never leave me alone?!”

Virgil pressed his lips together and hit his comms. “Tracy Island, we have an Alert Gold.” The command would wake Scott and probably the rest of the house. It was an alert designed to help protect their most remote family member.

“You’re kidding.”

“No, John, I’m not.”

And John burst out laughing. “Do you ever hear yourself?”

Virgil didn’t answer.

“Obviously not. Other wise you would be insane by now. Or you would nag yourself to death.”

John didn’t mean it. He was under the influence. At a guess, there might be a leak in the thruster assembly, leaking oxidiser into Five. But why the sensors hadn’t picked it up…

“So are you going to tie me up and strap me to a bed because I don’t meet your standards of what I should be? Trample me until the numbers add up correctly?”

“John, Virgil is trying to help you.” Eos’ voice rang like a bell throughout the station.

John flinched. “So, you’re on his side now?”

“I wasn’t aware Virgil had a side.”

John grunted and glared his brother again. “You’ve infected her with your nagging.”

“We are just concerned about you. You are not yourself.”

His brother closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Thunderbird Five, status?!” Scott’s voice practically screamed a combination of worry and command over comms.

“You told! Dobbed me into big brother so he can nag me, too! Why can’t you all just leave me alone?!” John pushed off from the wall and threw himself towards the exit.

Virgil caught him mid-air.

It was a mistake. John was in his native environment. He flipped and slipped out of Virgil’s grasp. The engineer grabbed at his brother and missed as John used him as a launch point to finally reach the exit.

Before Virgil could regain his equilibrium, John had slammed the airlock shut and sealed him in.

Damnit.

“Eos!”

“Working on it.”

What could be stopping the AI from unsealing an airlock was a growing concern.

Dad glared at him from the ceiling.

“Thunderbird Five, answer me!”

Virgil drew in a breath, thankful for his uniform’s standalone air supply. “There is an atmospheric contaminant present in Five’s life support systems. I’m guessing we have an oxidizer leak from the thruster assembly. John is…not himself. I’m working on it.”

“Do you need Three?” In other words ‘can I come up there and join you before I melt from worry?’

“Give me ten and ask again.” He flicked off comms. “Eos, any luck?”

“I have contained him in his sleeping quarters, but you will need to hurry as he is currently attempting to override my program.” The speaker gave a little squawk and went silent.

“Eos?”

The airlock suddenly hissed open.

Virgil didn’t hesitate. He was through the exit and throwing himself after his brother without a second thought. He grabbed a spare helmet along the way. It was time to end this.

He found John yelling at the ceiling and pulling a control panel out of his shower cubicle. Why he thought that was a productive thing to do, Virgil didn’t know, but since Eos hadn’t said a word since, it was concerning enough.

The airlock to John’s quarters unsealed at his touch and Virgil slipped through, sealing it again behind him.

His brother didn’t look up from what he was doing. “So the brat let you out, did she?”

“John, you need help.”

“What I need is silence. No more nagging from annoying brothers. Didn’t you guys get the hint when I moved up here in the first place? All my life it has been the four of you in my ears, always bugging me. Now I’m in space and I still can’t escape you. Why can’t you leave me alone?!”

Virgil swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. “We care, John.”

“Only enough to satisfy your own concern. Not how I feel having to listen to all your caterwauling.”

He’s not himself. It became a mantra echoing through Virgil’s head, but a little voice asked if it was really the truth.

“I can’t believe that.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” John continued to rip electronics out of the wall of his shower.

“What are you doing?”

“Silencing the dawn.”

“In the shower?”

John finally looked up at him but his smile was eerie. “No better place.”

“Then I’m going to have to stop you.”

His brother snorted. “You can try.”

Virgil didn’t move immediately. Instead, he pulled up a schematic on his HUD and confirmed the wiring behind the shower unit. Most of it was innocuous, but one of the main power distribution relays was nearby and that relay supported the main computer. There was sense in John’s statement, of an extreme kind. Taking out Eos by taking out his Thunderbird.

He had no idea what kind of logic was churning in his little brother’s brain, but he had to stop this. He had to get John’s helmet on his head and his body and brain off the cocktail of whatever was in the air.

Virgil pushed off from the wall and barrelled into him. John saw him coming and leapt ceiling-ward. Virgil anticipated the move and compensated enough to grab his brother around the waist.

Virgil had the brute strength, but John had flexibility. Virgil’s only chance lay in hanging on.

So he did.

And John did not like it.

At all.

“Get off me!”

He struggled, shoving at Virgil’s arms. When that didn’t work, he tried to knee his brother in the gut.

Virgil grit his teeth and in return, wrapped his legs around his slippery space-suited brother and began climbing him inch by inch, to get that damned helmet on his head.

John yelled in his ear. Tried a few moves that Kayo, no doubt, taught him. The bruises were beginning to mount up and yet, Virgil still hung on.

John wasn’t himself.

Not himself.

The proof was in the fact he hadn’t yet really employed the solid and attacker-crippling techniques Virgil knew his brother was fully capable of. Instead, they spun around in a totally uncoordinated tumble hitting walls and furniture until Virgil was able to get enough of a grip on his brother to shove his helmet on his head.

The helmet hung loose as John took the opportunity to jab him in the ribs as a result and for a moment Virgil thought he was going to lose his grip and hence the battle, but he managed an extra push and his brother’s suit engaged, automatically switching to its portable air supply exactly as it was designed to do in an emergency.

Virgil continued to cling to his brother to keep that helmet in place long enough to do its job. It earned him an aching kidney and some creaking ribs, but eventually John stopped struggling and fell quiet. A glance through the plexiglass of his helmet and Virgil found John’s eyes scrunched shut.

“John?” Virgil’s voice was hoarse. His belly had taken a beating, literally. Thank goodness for his baldric and all the equipment that came with it.

“V-Virgil? God, my head.” John groaned, his gloved hand scratching at his helmet.

Virgil let out a breath and drew his brother closer. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” He brought John’s head down to his shoulder and held him safe in his arms. There was a need to grab the medscanner. He…he would do that in a moment. “Tracy Island, can we take you up on that offer of a pick up?”

“Virgil, launching now. What’s your status?” Scott was all worry and clipped syllables.

“We’re okay.” He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on John’s shoulder. “We’re okay.”

-o-o-o-

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #virgil tracy #john tracy #nuttyfic reblog #I have the next week off #here's hoping I can write something that is not a reblog

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theperfectawful · 12 days

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Blind Item / Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Malibu Rating: Mature

Chapter Summary: You check in to rehab and run into a familiar face.

Word Count: 11.1k

Content/Warnings: Descriptions of drug use/overdose, detoxing/coming down, talk of sex, Hollywood misogyny, angsty angst.

Notes: Hello! Thank you guys again for the warm reception to Chapter 1, it was very encouraging. If you're not familiar with what a blind item is, it is a gossip column with any major identifying details about the subject removed. Every now and then this story will be broken up by excerpts of blind items and other gossip columns about Dieter and our reader. Enjoy! Sorry it's so long!

You felt like you slept for an hour and a half. If that. Your head was pounding when you woke up, the muscles behind your eyes searing red hot when they opened. You snapped them closed again right away, the room blindingly white, bathed in the early morning sun.

To your left, you could hear a soft beeping and the murmur of muffled voices. Your mouth felt as dry as a bone as you propped yourself up on your elbows, blinking your eyes open and squinting to look around the room. Instantly, recognition flooded in.

With a jolt, you sat upright, the pace of the beeps increasing as you grabbed at the tube attached to your arm in confusion. Your eyes darted around the hospital room, looking for any indication of where you were or how you got there. The hum of a news show on tv drew your attention to the upper corner of the room.

“She’s now upped the ante from alcohol to alcohol and cocaine and accelerated, uh, frequency of incidents. Alleged– Allegedly, uh, alcohol and cocaine. This isn’t her first drug related incident and the judges in Los Angeles won’t look favorably on a DUI like this. This is not the atmosphere, after Paris, after Lindsay’s, uh, debacle, to be playing with these judges. They have a strict no-nonsense policy for these little starlets and she’s going to be looking at 30 to 60 days, at least, minimum in jail, and three to six months in a drug rehab.”

On the screen, footage of you and Natalie running frantically into the intersection after your car played on a loop. You, snarling at the camera. You, spinning around. You, hauling ass towards Sunset and Fairfax. This was a dream. This wasn’t happening.

You felt it first in your jaw, a blood-draining feeling, spreading and burning hot across your face. Your heart was pounding, panic surging through your nervous system and tightening in your chest.

“Hello?!” Your voice cracked as you called out, unsure who you were even looking for. Your fluorescent dress and your shoes from the night before were in a plastic bag on the chair across from your bed. The voices in the hallway quieted for a moment and then started up again, the conversation quickly wrapping up.

The door opened and a woman in scrubs entered, greeting you with a smile that felt fucking inappropriate, all things considered.

“Well, good morning!” The nurse loudly greeted you, rolling a stool in from the doorway.

“Why am I here?” You answered harshly. “Sorry, I… Hello. How did I get here? Is anyone here with me?”

“You’re at Cedars,” She answered, her tone still a little too casual for your liking. “And you’re lucky. If that young lady hadn’t brought you in when she did, you could’ve been in a lot of trouble.”

You’d kill that bitch Natalie. She freaked out and called 911, no wonder it was already on the news. Corinne must be somewhere having an aneurysm. A wave of nausea washed over you and you swallowed hard, desperately trying to calm your racing heartbeat. You should’ve just left without her.

A reporter on TV used your name and you looked back up, the nurse following your gaze and chuckling. On the screen, you were a spectacle, struggling to climb back into your car, limbs and glittery heels flailing out the door as you clumsily clamored into the driver’s seat.

“Look at that. Boy, imagine ending up on the news on a night like that,” she remarked, her hand on her hip as she watched. “The whole world seeing it...”

You shot her a glare as she turned off the TV, recognition dawning on her face when she looked back at you, chuckling once more.

“Ha! Well, I suppose you don’t have to imagine it, do you?”

This was unbelievable. This was a joke. It had to be. You were being Punk’d. Incredulously, you began looking around the room for hidden cameras.

“Well, now that you’re up,” She says, sitting down on the stool she brought in and rolling towards your bedside. “Can you recount your night for me? Where’d all the fun begin?”

Your brow furrowed, your attention suddenly snapping back to the nurse. You squinted as you looked at her standing with the window behind her - this room was way too bright.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, pinching the skin between your eyes. “What do you want to know?”

“Give me the highlights.” She said. She was peeling off and replacing a piece of tape keeping a tube fixed to your arm.

After a long pause, you recounted the evening to her as you tried to remember it. Don Antonios. God, you were there forever, your table was completely packed with people you barely knew. It was always like that in LA - an exponential group of people attached themselves to you and everyone just shrugged when you asked who someone was.

One of the guys who showed up kept insisting you try all these different flavors of some vodka company he worked with. Cherry, Grape, Caramel. The nauseating memory of a shot of Blue Raspberry chased by a shot of Peppermint bubbled up in your throat and you choked down a dry swallow.

“Caramel vodka and tacos?” She prodded. “What sommelier came up with that pairing?”

Jesus, what is this lady, a comedian? You glared at her to keep from rolling your eyes.

“Had you taken anything at that point?”

“What?”

“Any pills, marijuana, cocaine…”

You mustered your best offended expression.

“I don’t know. No. I just take the stuff I’m prescribed.” You answered defensively. This was none of her business. Were you seriously here all alone?

“How much had you been you drinking?”

“Not much. Only a little.”

She hummed, not satisfied. “Was that everything?”

You let the question hang. “Yes.”

You really didn’t remember. You remembered texting Andy. You remembered him never fucking answering. There were shots at Don Antonios. That girl gave you some Xanax, which did nothing. You didn’t even drink that much at Lush, just some champagne and tequila and…

Oh, shit. And Dieter Bravo. What the hell had he given you? You knew it was something, but the night was a blur after you got up from his booth. You went to the bathroom with him and… oh, my god, wait, did you have sex with him? Please say you didn’t fuck Dieter Bravo in the bathroom at Lush. Corinne might literally, actually kill you if anyone finds out that happened.

The nurse cleared her throat and you blinked and looked up, feeling her scrutinizing gaze.

“I don’t remember. That was it. I don’t do drugs.”

“At all?” She was so condescending with her stupid clipboard.

“No, not at all,” - bitch, you continued in your head. Impatience now replaced the panic in your voice. “Hey, listen, is anyone here with me now? Like, is there someone in a waiting room somewhere? I really don’t feel like talking to you about this.”

She stopped writing, making a big deal of clipping her pen and putting down the clipboard and looking at you with her lips pursed, her lingering stare irritating you even further. You hated when people did that - nothing closed you off faster than someone trying to make a big show of how serious they are about getting information out of you.

“Did you deliberately try to kill yourself last night?”

What the fuck? Was this bitch serious?

“Excuse me?”

“We ran tests and pumped out the contents of your stomach last night. We found a combination of opioids and amphetamines in your system. That, in addition to the alcohol, is a very dangerous combination.”

“No, I did not try to kill myself.” You spat, your voice much louder. “I was out with friends and I messed up. Someone gave me something and I had a reaction. I don’t know. I’m not suicidal. That’s insane.”

You had to get out of here. You needed to figure out who the hell dropped you off at the hospital and then went home. You shuffled in the hospital bed, weakly trying to remove whatever tubes were attached to your body.

There were two quick knocks at the door, followed by Corinne hurrying into the tiny hospital room, concern pulling at her Botox-frozen forehead.

“Oh, god, honey,” she said, sitting at the edge of your bed. “Thank god you’re alright.”

Oh, this was too much. It was just a night out. You may have blacked out but it wasn’t the end of the world, Natalie must have just freaked out and brought you here. Why was everyone acting like you almost died?

You rolled your eyes, frustrated with all the fuss and the concerned act Corinne was putting on for the hospital staff. Your voice softened and heightened in pitch. "I'm fine, Corinne. I just want to go home. Please tell them to let me go."

Corinne paused, grabbing your hand and looking into your eyes.

“Honey…” she started, cupping your hand with both of hers. She looked over at the nurse, who was still staring at you with that stupid, serious expression.

“Could you give us a moment, please?” Corinne asked. The nurse obliged, seemingly just now realizing that she wasn’t part of this conversation. She quickly gathered her things and left the room.

Once she was gone, Corinne’s face fell immediately, her tone shifting to something much angrier.

“Are you out of your mind?” she began, whispering harshly. “Do you remember a single thing about last night?”

“Oh, my god, what?! What does everyone want to know about last night?! I went out with Natalie. We danced. I drank a little and I guess I blacked out. It’s that stupid antidepressant they put me on.”

“You don’t remember driving home?”

“I didn’t drive, Natalie drove”

“Oh,” Corinne scoffed, her patience with you clearly nonexistent. “Oh, you drove. You drove your car through three red lights and straight into a BMW.”

She was fully whisper-yelling now, recounting the evening for you. The runaway car, the speeding, the swerving, the driving with your eyes closed. Your stomach sank, Corinne successful in jogging your memory.

She explained how you passed out on your bathroom floor and Natalie couldn’t wake you up, how she went to wake up Rhea and Rhea had to drive you to the hospital at four in the morning. You waited for her to bring up your hooking up with a notorious movie star at least ten years your senior in the bathroom, but, somehow, it didn't come up.

Her Blackberry was vibrating near-constantly, and she quickly glanced down to silence it before looking back at you. The Botox in her forehead was dissolving in real-time, a crescent-shaped wrinkle emerging between her eyebrows.

“Thank God Rhea called me and told me what was happening or you might be in jail right now instead of here.”

Your face sunk, horror washing over you remembered what you’d just heard on TV.

“Corrine, they’re not going to arrest me, right?”

She sighed, the look on her face not inspiring reassurance in you.

“I’ve been on the phone with the chief of the LAPD since 5 trying to work this out for you.” Corinne explained. “You apparently totaled that car, although I’m not sure how a car with no driver is even capable of that. The owner has already gone to the press saying they’re going to press charges.”

She craned her head to the side to confirm that the door to your room was shut, then her voice sank even lower as she leaned in closer to you and whispered. “The police searched your car and found a gram of cocaine in the cupholder.”

Oh my god, Dieter’s cocaine.

“That wasn’t mine!” You blurted out. The cliche felt pathetic on your tongue. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But it wasn’t! I don’t even do coke anymore! They can test me!”

Now, why the fuck would you say that?

“It was in your car. Your car that you drove, that you sent careening into an intersection. It doesn’t matter whose it was, honey.”

You covered your face with your hands, your headache intensifying. This wasn’t fucking happening.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You felt like you were going to cry. “I messed up, Corinne, I’m sorry. Tell them to let me go home and work and I’ll be fine. I’ll focus on the reboot and I won’t go out.”

She didn’t speak right away, and you couldn’t get a read on whether she was furious with you or scared shitless.

“You’re not going back to work,” She finally explained. “Production has told me that they can’t take the risk on you. This is already out. We can’t even say for sure yet that we’ve avoided jail time here.”

The room was spinning. Your stomach felt like a brick. You rolled your eyes - a reflex you immediately regretted - and blinked over and over as fearful tears rolled down your cheeks.

“It’ll be fine, Corinne, we can talk to them. We can renegotiate,” you offered, your voice breaking despite your attempt to remain stoic. “I can be good.”

“The studio won’t take the risk. I’m sorry, honey.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks, hot and shameful, blurring the room around you. This would be the second production you’d been fired from this year.

It felt like a testament to your failure. You, weak and out of control, sobbing in bed like a pathetic child.

The world would love you like this. Defeated, ashamed, exhausted. A cautionary tale, a trainwreck. You could already hear the chorus of “I told you so”’s, of “stupid girl”’s. Any hope you had of establishing yourself as a serious actress was crumbling right there in front of you - no, you were tearing it apart with your bare hands.

A disheveled Dieter Bravo checked himself into rehab Tuesday morning, looking solemn and despondent following a life-threatening overdose over the weekend. The veteran actor reclined in the passenger seat of his vehicle on the drive to Malibu, sporting dark sunglasses and his signature messy mop of curls. LAPD responded to a call from his housekeeper on Saturday morning. The actor was found unresponsive in his Hollywood home, and was quickly attended to by emergency services. “I respectfully ask that the media allow me to receive care and heal in private during this difficult time,” the Cliff Beasts star said in a statement released by his representative. Bravo, who won an Academy Award for his performance in 2004’s Fragile Bonds, has recently been plagued by personal and professional struggles, including a failing marriage to actress Heidi Alcott and an arrest for a violent altercation earlier this year. This will be his third stay in a rehab facility since 2005. Hours before the overdose, the actor was rumored to have been forcibly removed from Hollywood’s Lush nightclub, allegedly ejected by the club’s owner for canoodling and using drugs with another young actress in a staff restroom. Dieter will spend 90 days at Promises Malibu, a swanky rehab facility where daily activities include yoga, meditation, horseback riding and acupuncture.

The next week was exactly as bad as you’d feared it’d be.

You were arrested in the hospital, which you didn’t even realize was possible. That same, horrible nurse took your blood pressure again and again as two police officers read you your rights. Hospital staff lingered in the hallway outside of your room, just far away enough for them to think you wouldn’t notice, their murmurs were complemented by the cops’ walkie talkies, staticky voices discussing what to do with you.

Corinne wasn’t allowed to come with you for processing. You traded your hospital gown for the dress you’d worn the night before along with a hoodie Corinne gave you, slipping your stupid, clunky heels back on to follow the cops into the parking garage. Corinne used the contents of the makeup bag she’d brought with her, wiping mascara smudges from your cheeks and tapping powder under your eyes to try and make you look somewhat presentable for your mugshot. She walked with you to the police van, all the while assuring you that she’d arrange representation, that this would all be over as soon as it possibly could be.

Faces and cameras pressed to the windows of the car and didn’t let up for the entire drive to the station. You squeezed your eyes shut at red lights, letting the tears run down your face and sinking as far as you could into the back seat.

Fluttering camera clicks and flashing lights surrounded you on all sides as you were led up the stairs of the police station. You were processed, fingerprinted and booked. People gawked at you from holding cells. A security guard asked for an autograph for his daughter. Your bail had been posted by the time you’d taken your mugshot.

You were allowed to go home and detox while you awaited next steps, but, as Chateau staff had politely requested you not return for the time being, Corinne insisted that you stay with her. You spent the next week in Corinne’s guest bedroom, sleeping through headaches and shakes and waking up to change the channel when your name came up on late-night talk shows.

The come-down from amphetamines was not for the weak. You cried and cried for days. Any time you were conscious, you were sobbing. You’d had a taste of this before, long weekends leading up to busy weeks with minimal opportunity to refill prescriptions, but nothing like this. Never this uncomfortable. Never this helpless.

After a couple days, Natalie called. She told you she was sorry. She wouldn’t say for what. Tears tore from your eyes, burning hot and angry down your cheeks. When you hung up she didn’t call back.

You tried to talk to Corinne, but all that came out was a tearful slew of apologies for what you’d dragged her into. You soaked in her giant bathtub, running the water scalding hot and trying to focus on anything but the fear tearing at your mind.

Her home was perfect - a shiny, ultramodern thing tucked in the hills of Beachwood Canyon. Her guest bedroom looked like something out of Architectural Digest. Your place in it was chaotic, your belongings haphazardly packed up by Chateau staff and now piled in a corner of the otherwise extremely chic bedroom. Club dresses, hair straighteners, bedazzled clutches. You, in her bed, sobbing until your face was puffy, dripping tears and snot onto her 800 thread count sheets. You and the wreckage you carried with you were out of place in a home like this.

When your body wouldn’t let you sleep anymore and your tears slowed down, you stared at the ceiling, clammy and anxious. You peeked out the windows, watching conspicuous vans circle Corinne’s home, big camera lenses perched and waiting for a glimpse of you. You tried to sleep. You rifled through your things, organizing and reorganizing clothes and accessories. You were going nuts.

Rhea spent a lot of time with you - when your schedule was wiped clean, hers was, too. She sat next to you in bed while you watched her play her Nintendo DS for hours.

“You’re all they’ve been talking about on The View for three days,” she told you one morning as she made her Animal Crossing character catch fish over and over. “Joy Behar is veeeerrrry concerned about you.”

“Is she?” You asked. “That’s so nice.”

“Mmhm,” Rhea replied. She cast her line, reeling it in too soon and spooking the fish. “Damn.”

Silence hung between you for a moment as she made her character walk up and down the beach.

“Can you give me something, Rhea, please?” You looked up at her, pleading softly. "No," she answered immediately. “Please, Rhea. I can’t sleep. I’m going insane. I think even just an extra antidepressant would work.”

She put the device down in her lap and gave you a look that told you you should know better. It had always been a not-so-secret secret that Rhea was the one who brought you drugs when you couldn’t get them yourself. She was still in college when you hired her and seemed to know how to get her hands on whatever you wanted.

Corinne was never supportive of your drug use, per se, but she was aware of how your engine ran, and you were certain that she knew Rhea supplied them to you. Under her extremely watchful eye since you’d been discharged from the hospital, you figured Rhea’d been instructed to cut that shit out, but it was worth a try. Plus, she was kind of your friend.

“I’m allowed to give you melatonin,” She answered. “And it wouldn’t, by the way.”

You sighed, defeated. “I was prescribed Xanax before.”

“You were prescribed a lot of things before.”

She wasn’t wrong. You picked at the skin around your thumb nail, rolling onto your back and staring up at the ceiling, watching the fan spin.

“You know, people die this way.”

She scoffed, looking back at her game.

You weren’t dying. You were just excruciatingly bored. More bored than you’d been in years. Maybe in your entire life. The hours were unbearable, but soon they turned to days, then a week. You weren’t in a good mood, but you could at least say you’d gone from negative to zero.

The ache didn’t go away, but you got used to it being there. You wanted drugs - hard ones. You fantasized about them when Corinne would wake you up at 6am to go on neighborhood walks with her. As you laced up the running shoes she let you borrow, you reminisced on doing angel dust at warehouse parties in Miami and about the time some rock star from the 80s showed up at your 20th birthday party and showed you and your friends how to freebase heroin. You’d spent the morning after that throwing up and had vowed to never touch it again, but even that morning sounded preferable to wearing lycra leggings and enduring the big, goofy smiles Corinne’s neighbors gave you as they jogged by.

You woke up early one morning to the sound of Corinne’s excited, unusually high voice outside your door. In her usual fashion, she knocked quickly, opening the door without waiting for an answer. She held a finger up to you as she wrapped up her call.

“Uh huh. Uh huh. Okay,” she looked at you, lifting her finger up slightly higher in response to your questioning expression. “Oh, I can’t tell you how great this is. We’re so excited. Uh huh. Okay. Thanks. Okay. Bye, now.”

“What’s happening?” You asked as she hung up.

“This is a best case scenario,” She answered. “This is fantastic.”

You sat up straight in bed. “Is the show back on?!”

Corinne’s smile faltered as she settled on the bed. “Oh, honey, no.”

You deflated slightly. “Then what?”

“You’re not going to jail.”

“Yaaaay,” you cheered weakly.

“That’s a miracle, by the way.”

“Yay! I mean it.” You tried again, a little more convincingly this time.

Her phone buzzed, and she quickly glanced at the name on the screen and silenced the ring. She sighed again, her demeanor turning serious.

“You’re going to rehab.” She continued. “You’re going to the best facility, it’s the Four Seasons of rehab centers, it’s going to–”

“Excuse me?” you interjected, disbelief in your voice. There was that feeling again, the same one you got at the hospital. Tingly jaw, burning hot cheeks.

“Rehab,” she repeated. “You’ve been given the option to complete 90 days in rehab and avoid all jail time. Most people do not get that choice. You should be thanking me right now.”

She paused, presumably expecting you to stand up and start doing cartwheels. The lid of your coffin was in place - it had been for days now - so you should have expected the nails.

“Where?” You asked after a moment.

“Promises - it’s in Malibu. You’ll do yoga and meet with lifestyle coaches who can help us figure out what you need to get everything back on track. It’s going to be great, honey. It’s where Lindsay went!”

You groaned, throwing yourself backwards onto your pillow.

Which fading starlet is trading red carpets and VIP sections for rehab? This former child star recently checked into a luxurious Malibu facility, not for a rejuvenating spa weekend, but as part of a plea deal to dodge jail time. At least she's in good company! Perhaps she and a fellow famous patient at the swanky rehab facility will find solace in ‘growing together’ during their time in recovery. Hopefully, this stint helps her avoid following in the footsteps of fellow socialites.

Promises was impressive. You could give Corinne that. You told her as much when she dropped you off at intake.

“You’re going to be okay,” she told you, giving you a tight hug in the entryway. “I’ll call you soon.”

It was a huge, sprawling property with a big Spanish-revival monstrosity smack-dab in the middle of it. You’re sure she was thoroughly impressed by the tennis courts and meditation studios and panoramic ocean views.

Intake was less glamorous. You were instructed to remove your clothes and put on a paper gown, and then to open your suitcase and put it on this big, metal table at the back of an office. The woman checking you in gave you a full pat-down, making you bend over and cough to check for contraband before giving you an outfit to change back into. It occurred to you that you should have been humiliated by this whole ordeal, but at this point, you were so beyond that. Humiliation was for the version of you from a week ago. This was just your life now. She then proceeded to take a TSA-level look at all of your belongings.

“We’re a strictly cell phone-free facility,” she explained, removing your Sidekick from your purse. “If you’re caught with a cell phone in your room, we’ll do a full search of your property - if you’re caught again, you’ll be discharged. Phone calls can be made at the booths in the hallway.”

You nodded, not having the willpower to argue with their stupid policies at the moment. You crossed your legs and tried to warm yourself by rubbing your hands up and down your arms.

“Can’t bring these in,” she said as she took three bras out of your suitcase. “Underwire. You’ll get them back when you leave.”

Sure. Whatever.

“You’ll have to hand these over, too,” she held up a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke-free facility.”

“Wait,” you started, interrupted by another staff member entering the office.

“Well, well!” He said, his voice booming in the tiny room, glimmer-white smile beaming at you. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Todd.” He paused, taking a long moment to stare deeply, creepily, into your eyes. “I’m so happy you’re here to grow with us.”

You limply shook his hand.

“Hi.”

“Hi. I know it’s been quite a journey getting here. I’m sure you’re ready to relax,” he replied, his giant smile not faltering for a second. He broke his unblinking gaze and looked over at the woman zipping up your suitcase. “If you’re finished, I’d like to show our movie star to her room.”

“Oh, another movie star,” she said dryly as she zipped up your suitcase and put her hands up, finished.

“Yes, yes,” Todd said, still smiling like a maniac. He looked like he had more teeth than a normal person, and for a moment you tried to count them before he turned back to face you. You flinched slightly at the intensity of his expression. “Shall we?”

The entire facility was co-ed - a detail that Todd told you repeatedly, each time with a slightly more discernible degree of warning in his voice, like he was a parent instructing you not to throw any parties when they left for the weekend. He walked you across the property, pointing out various amenities to you on the way to your room.

The gym, the pool, the zen garden, the library. The various meeting rooms - men’s meetings, women's meetings, family meetings. The kitchen, the internet cafe. The saltwater pool. It was like a resort, except that there wasn’t any alcohol, and there were copies of The 12 Steps & 12 Traditions all over the place.

“You’ll attend workshops here,” he said, gesturing to the deck on the far end of the swimming pool. “Journaling, vision boarding, knitting. Anything you want. We’re even doing an acting workshop this month - maybe you could help us with that. We have some fantastic facilitators - just fantastic.”

“Juuust fantastic…” you repeated.

You followed him back inside, walking through a long corridor towards your room.

“Ah, this’ll be our noon men’s meeting,” he explained as you approached an open door to your left. He took a look at the oversized silver watch on his wrist. “They should just be getting started now.”

Peeking into the room, you observed the setup - a classroom-like setting with a whiteboard, low, tan carpeting, and a circle of wicker chairs. Men milled about, chatting as they waited for the meeting to begin.

Just as you started to turn your head away from the door, you caught a glimpse that made you snap back immediately. In a fraction of a second, even though they were hidden halfway behind dark wayfarers, you instantly recognized the deep, brown eyes that locked with your own. You slowed down slightly to confirm your suspicion, but quickly looked away when he craned his neck to follow you.

No way.

There was no way.

You sped up, now walking in step with Todd.

"Hey, Todd?" you interjected, cutting off his explanation of the gym or the pickleball court or whatever it was. "Did the lady at intake mention another actor being here?"

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckled. “Lucky us!”

Your eyes darted to the ground, then back and forth as you tried to process what was happening.

“Who is it?”

“Sorry,” he answered, his smile faltering into something more serious for the first time since you’d met him. “I can’t share that with you. But we’re a friendly bunch here - I’m sure you’ll run into each other soon enough. Here we are!”

You’d arrived at your room, the last door at the end of the corridor.

“I’ll give you some time to settle in, but please don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything you need,” he said, smiling and staring unblinkingly. His spray-tan was extra orange around the corners of his mouth. “We’re so glad you’re here.”

You broke his intense eye-contact to look back down the hallway towards the meeting room. An arm extended from the doorway, pulling the door shut as the meeting began. You bit the skin on your bottom lip, looking back at your door.

“Yeah, thanks,” you mumbled, quickly shuffling into your bedroom and shutting the door behind you.

It probably wasn’t Dieter. I mean, most likely, it wasn’t him, right?

It wasn’t like he was the only wannabe-bohemian, homeless-looking, disheveled-just-so actor in this town, let alone the only one who’d end up in rehab.

It probably wasn’t him.

And even if it was him, what were the odds he remembered you, anyway? A guy like him slept with so many people, it had to just be a huge blur for him. You probably weren’t even the only one fucked that night.

It wasn’t him. You laughed to yourself as you unpacked, feeling silly for getting so worried.

You shoved your clothes into the dresser that stood across from your bed. Your room was nice, and only reaffirmed your feeling that this was more resort than rehab. The bed was huge, an actual bed with crisp white sheets and big pillows. When you sat in it, you had a beautiful view of the pacific ocean from your window. You also got it to yourself, one of the only single bedrooms in the entire facility. You’d have to remember to thank Corinne for that.

On top of the dresser was a schedule detailing the week’s activities:

10/03/07 - WEDNESDAY

6AM - SUNRISE HORSEBACK RIDE - EAST HILL

6AM - SUNRISE YOGA - SALTWATER POOL DECK

7AM - OPEN GYM

8:30AM - WOMEN’S MEETING - ROOM A

9AM - SPEAKER SERIES - WE DO RECOVER! - ROOM C … But what if it was him?

Rehab was not like detox at Corinne’s. Here, you were expected to be up early, to follow a strict schedule of meetings and activities, to act like a functional adult. It felt kind of like summer camp, if at summer camp you were constantly under surveillance and forced to confront your deepest insecurities instead of making friendship bracelets.

You thought that you'd have a late start on your first morning at Promises. You figured you’d sleep in, go get breakfast at the cafe, then maybe hit up the 11am meditation session. Instead, you were woken up at 7 sharp by a cheerful staff member gently knocking on your door, reminding you that you were to be in the cafeteria no later than 8, and that a nurse would be in shortly to take your vitals.

After groggily going through the motions of having your blood pressure taken and your heart rate checked, you threw on an outfit and headed down the hall to get breakfast.

You were excited. That was one thing about being sober - you actually had an appetite for the first time in forever, and you were constantly hungry. As you made your way towards the cafeteria, you began to fantasize about omelets and bagels and pancakes and…

“Morning!” A voice called out to you as you padded down the hallway. Emerging from the room next to yours was a woman who looked to be slightly older than you. She had a cute, cropped pixie cut and was wearing a stack of bangles all the way up her arms.

“Morning,” you replied, smiling at her.

She introduced herself as Sadie. She’d been at Promises for a month already, so she practically owned the place. You had a lot in common - including what brought you here.

“God, I’m obsessed with Adderall,” she said, stabbing her fork into the fruit salad on her plate. She popped a piece of cantaloupe in her mouth and kept talking. “There’s just nothing better for getting shit done. Did you know it’s literally meth? Methamphetamine! And they give it to kids.” “Really?” You asked. Honestly, this was how you knew you didn’t belong here. You didn’t know anything about drugs. You liked adderall, too, but these people were drug addicts.

She nodded.

“God, no wonder.”

“I was a writer. Am a writer,” She continued on. “In the real world.”

“Right,” you laughed. “I’m an actor in the real world.”

“I’ve seen you in things,” she nodded. “The 80s show with, uh… Bob Saget?”

“That’s Full House. I was on Growing Together.”

“That’s it!” She snapped her fingers and pointed at you. “Hey, so do you know Dieter?”

Your cheeks went hot, stopping mid-chew when she mentioned his name. You were having so much fun with Sadie that you’d almost forgotten all about yesterday.

“Dieter Bravo?” You asked, mouth full of food.

“Yeah, him. He’s been here for, like, a week now,” she confirmed. “You know him?”

“He’s here?”

She nodded, giving you a funny look.

“No, not really.” You answered. Which was true.

She hummed in response, moving on quickly to tell you more about the magazine she wrote for, but you fully stopped listening. Oh, shit, it was him. You scanned the faces gathered around the tables throughout the room, looking for him, suddenly paranoid that he’d be watching you from somewhere. You weren’t all on the same schedule here, right?

You couldn’t avoid him. Todd said there were something like 30 residents here right now. There was no shot. You tried to tune back into what Sadie was saying - something about Hearst, something about a blog - and immediately dropped her again.

You could avoid him. You could stick to womens meetings. God, why was seeing him making you this anxious? This was so unlike you.

The idea of running into anyone you encountered in the state you were in that evening was humiliating. Maybe that was it. How were you supposed to get a fresh start if there was a reminder of the worst night of your life creeping around the halls here? It was unsettling. Corinne and Rhea were practically family, so that didn’t matter, but the idea of even seeing Natalie at this point made your stomach turn. You needed one of those things from Men In Black to zap everyone who was at Lush that night and make them forget that they’d even seen you.

“Sadie,” you interrupted. “Sorry. Do you see him around a lot? Dieter?” She thought about it for a moment. “Yeah. He’s all over the place, if that’s what you mean. I think he’s been here before. He's like the mayor.”

You scoffed, leaning back in your seat. Of course this is no big deal to someone like him. It probably didn’t even get reported on.

“And you said he’s been here for a week?”

“Mmhm,” she nodded.

That meant he’d checked in here right after that night at Lush. He seemed fine that night, though - he was at least with it enough to hook up with you. He wasn’t even really partying - you remembered him sitting alone in that chair when you noticed him. He looked bored. Why would he even need to come here?

All morning, you looked for him in the corner of your eye. You peeked around during your yoga class, scanning the room through your legs during downward dog.

Your first full day was consumed with resident onboarding tasks, which, fortunately, gave you a lot of opportunities to hide. You tried your best to forget about him during your first one-on-one meeting with your counselor.

Jane, your counselor, was nice enough. She at least seemed more normal than Todd - she smiled less, anyway - so it was reassuring to know that not everyone here was straight out of The Twilight Zone. You went through your story with her - how you got started, what happened that led you here. Blah, blah, blah.

“Growing up in Hollywood, that must have been challenging. Were your parents supportive?”

“I guess so. My mom was really into the whole acting thing,” you told her. “Maybe too into it.”

“Tell me more,” she encouraged.

You shrugged. “I don’t know. She liked that I was good at it. It was all we really talked about.”

She nodded, clearly expecting you to tell her more. Suddenly, you really didn’t want to talk about your mom.

“I don’t know. The usual stage mom stuff. That’s all.” You paused, shifting uncomfortably in your seat. "It's not like it matters now anyway." She nodded again, jotting something down. "It's okay if you're not ready to talk about it. We can focus on what's happening in the present and how we can support you moving forward."

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you mumbled.

Fortunately, she let it go, taking a few more notes.

“When did you know you were an addict?” Your eyebrows shot up, shock rippling through you at the audacity of her question. A drug addict?

“I am not a drug addict. That’s insane. I’m twenty-two years old.”

She eyed you skeptically, which only made you angrier.

“You can’t just call people that,” you continued.

“It’s not my intention to offend you,” she replied calmly. “And it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It's important for us to address the behaviors and patterns that led you here.”

You crossed your arms in front of you defensively, looking out the window at the ocean. Several moments dragged by, Jane patiently waiting for you to break your stubborn silence.

“You could start by not calling me names,” you finally said.

“I apologize,” she said. She talked like a robot. You were wrong, everyone here was a freak.

Despite your best efforts, tears were beginning to roll down your cheeks. Your eyes darted up at the clock for the hundredth time since this meeting began.

“That’s time.”

Dieter recognized you right away, too.

It didn’t take long for confirmation - word about you checking in traveled very quickly. Suddenly, he was no longer the most famous person in rehab. Shame.

The story was that you’d had a bad night after you’d crossed paths at Lush - something that only made him feel worse about his role in the whole thing. He had a lot of time on his hands to feel guilty these days, and he spent most of it reflecting on that evening.

He was sure you didn’t remember him. At least, he hoped you didn’t.

That night had been a low point for him. The realization struck on Wednesday afternoon, shortly after his intake process, when that post-overdose glow had finally worn off and he slowly readjusted to reality. With each passing day, the picture of what he’d done only grew clearer.

He had no business pursuing you that night. He may have been pretty far gone himself, but the image in his memory of him attempting to shake you awake so he could try to fuck you was something that made him feel a kind of shame he hadn’t felt in years.

He remembered waiting for you for a while after you’d both been kicked out of the bathroom, lingering around your table trying to figure out where you went. It wasn’t long, though, before Clint was urging him to leave. Apparently the owner of the club was not happy with the commotion he’d caused and wanted him out. Not that it was a major disappointment - he’d been ready to go since he’d arrived.

Following the lead of Clint and the two models from his table, Dieter climbed into the backseat of the SUV parked outside and promptly pulled a tab of acid from his pocket, slipping it onto his tongue when no one was looking. During the drive home, he remembered the black-haired model climbing onto his lap, her whispers in his ear barely registering through the haze he was in. He wasn't in the mood for any of it. He peeled her off of him once they arrived in his driveway, climbing out of the car and saying goodnight without any invitation to keep the party going.

He was restless. The coke, the alcohol, the acid - none of it made any difference. He shuffled around the house - the enormous, Spanish-style place he’d bought when he was still a bachelor. Or, the last time he was a bachelor, he supposed. It felt so empty, so staged, like it was perpetually about to be put on the market. The feeling that he didn’t belong here anymore gnawed at him. Maybe it was time to go back to New York for a while.

He decided to go to bed, at that point completely uninterested in trying to get anything else out of the evening. Sifting through the medicine cabinet in his bathroom, he mixed up a cocktail of Valium and Percocet and climbed into his empty bed, his curtains wide open to watch the city lights swim as he waited for the curtain to fall.

The next thing he remembered was waking up with a gasp that rattled his entire chest, coming to life to see his bedroom full of paramedics. There was a crust on his cheek and pillow and he was drenched in sweat. His housekeeper stood in the corner, clearly shaken, clutching her hands to her chest.

And now, here he was, back in rehab. It marked his second stint at Promises, returning to confront the shitshow that his life had become through the routine of Pilates classes, group therapy sessions and journaling. Kumbaya.

His agent wasn’t happy with him. This little holiday of his interrupted production of Cliff Beasts 4, the project he was currently working on. He was set to begin shooting in a week - that date now pushed back indefinitely.

Dollar amounts were something that was discussed in meetings he didn’t care to go to, but he figured this interruption cost some producer somewhere a pretty penny. Good. Fuck those guys. It wasn’t that he wanted to make a habit out of nearly killing himself, but he’d be lying if he said the idea of making one of those suits sweat didn’t bring a smile to his face.

So, here he was. His afternoon yoga class was ending. He decided to skip out during shavasana, looking to avoid any post-vinyasa mingling. He returned his mat and block to the table by the door and headed inside. Pushing the door open with a huff through his teeth, he headed straight towards his room, needing a shower before taking on the rest of his day. When he heard the door at the end of the hall thrown open, he looked up to see you storming out, tears running down your cheeks. Shit.

You both stopped when you noticed one another, frozen in an unexpected moment of mutual recognition. You definitely remembered him, he quickly realized. Dieter’s gaze lingered on you, caught off guard by your emotional state. Why were you crying? He hesitated, unsure of what to say or do, while you stood across the hall and debated whether to say something or retreat to the safety of your room.

Finally, Dieter managed a tentative nod in your direction, attempting to break the ice. You blinked rapidly, hastily wiping tears from your eyes. Before he could utter a word, though, you abruptly turned and hurried away, disappearing around the corner without another glance back.

He sighed, continuing down the hallway towards his room. The message from God or the universe or whatever all-powerful being was orchestrating this mess was clear - he hadn’t just fucked up his own life this time. He’d managed to drag you down with him.

“I’m glad it’s working out, honey,” Corinne said, her voice coming in staticky through the receiver.

“It is…” you tentatively agreed before putting on your best sales-pitch voice. “I think I’m going to do well. I might not even need to stay three whole months.”

“Nice try.” Worth a shot.

“Have you talked to the producers at all?” You asked, tapping a pen on the desk.

“I’m going to meet with Kevin on Friday,” she said, uncertainty in her voice. “Let’s not get our hopes up about Growing Together, honey, but if this doesn’t work out I do think another series down the line might be a good path out of this. I think the–” “I just don’t understand how they think they’re going to make it without me,” you interrupted, your voice growing louder and attracting the attention of a group of residents at a nearby table. Embarrassed, you turned your head away from them, scooting in closer to the desk. “It doesn’t make any sense. How are they going to write off their daughter?” You continued, voice lowering.

“They don’t like the optics of the reboot drawing any negative attention. It’s not what they had in mind,” she explained. “We’ll discuss it.”

“I mean, Jesus, it’s not like I’m the first actor in the history of the world to get a DUI,” you continued, your tone hushed. “I’m not even the first actor on Growing Together with a DUI! What about Peter?”

Peter Moinihan played your uncle Bobby on the show. The man had a reputation that put yours to shame before you were even born. He was constantly partying and constantly hungover, which was a running joke among the cast and crew that you didn’t understand until you were much older.

During the show’s run, he went from hiding his weed-smoking from you, to sneaking you weed, to smoking with you, to, by the final season, asking you where to buy it. Last you heard, he was a cast member on The Surreal Life. Despite all of that, there seemingly wasn’t any question about whether or not he’d be returning for the reboot. So why were they making such a big deal about having you back?

“Believe me, I’ll be bringing that up. You know I’ll fight for you, honey,” Corinne said. “So you fight for you too, alright?”

“Okaaay,” you agreed, rolling your eyes.

“I know you just rolled your eyes. Are you sick of all the Hallmark-ism’s yet?” She asked with a smile in her voice.

“I think if I can’t get any more work, I’ll have a promising career in motivational posters…” you laughed.

After a pause, Corinne’s tone got all serious and sincere. “Are you okay, honey?” You thought about it. No, I’m not. I’m unemployed, I’m a national punchline, and I have to spend the next three months airing my most vulnerable secrets with a guy I had an awkward one-night-stand with a week ago. I’m stuck in this place with a bunch of drug addicts and therapists from Stepford. I want to snort a line of cocaine the size of my middle finger. I want to drink a bottle of Grey Goose alone in my bed. No, I’m not fucking okay.

“I’m fine,” you answered. “Really.”

“Good.” She said.

With a promise to be good, you hung up the phone. Your face fell quickly, though, the absence of Corinne’s voice reminding you where you were and how much longer you had left in this place.

Optimistically, after a couple of days of successfully avoiding him, you found yourself believing that the people in charge here might’ve actually had the sense to keep you and Dieter apart. Surely, having to celebrities in an AA meeting together would be too much of a distraction - they had to keep you apart somehow.

You were wrong. When you and Sadie walked into your Sunday afternoon meeting, there he was. He sat in a chair at one end of the room, in a thick, hole-y wool sweater, nursing a paper cup of coffee and wearing those stupid dark sunglasses indoors like always. God, everything about him was so typical Hollywood bro-hemian. He probably lived in Venice.

Still, when your eyes fell to his lips, you flashed on a memory of how good they felt peppering kisses along your neck, how his hands felt on your thighs. The way the flashing lights accentuated his hooded gaze as it drank you in when you were in his lap. You snapped yourself out of it, shaking your head and focusing on pouring yourself a cup of coffee before sitting down as far away from him as you possibly could, directly across the room.

Truthfully, you zoned out for the first half of the meeting. The loosely defined topic of the afternoon - fear - was, frankly, not something you were interested in diving into at the moment.

You fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, agitated. Inevitably, your mind wandered back to your career, to the reboot you didn’t even care to be associated with a week ago. How could they even consider making it without you? You had poured years of your life into playing Courtney, your entire childhood. The show was practically synonymous with you and your character. It was ridiculous. What, were they just going to say Courtney died or something? They wouldn’t replace you, would they?

“I feel like my family is disappointed… not so much in the behavior, in me being an alcoholic, but… in the way I’ve hidden, the way I’ve had to hide everything from them,” a man to your left shared. You managed a sympathetic nod.

If they wrote you off, it wasn’t like you’d just disappear. People would know why you weren’t there, and if they didn’t know, they’d look for the reason why. Their wholesome little reboot was tarnished whether they liked it or not, so they might as well have you back.

The room went silent as the guy to your left finished up his share. You crossed your legs and picked at the distressing on your jeans. Across the room, Dieter cleared his throat. You snapped your head up immediately, then looked back at your pants, trying to play it off.

“Hi, my name is Dieter Bravo, and I’m an addict,” he recited.

“Hi, Dieter,” the room answered back.

“Uh, yeah, fear,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fear has kind of, uh, been in charge here for a while now, I think. I’m afraid of a lot of things. Afraid of failing, of losing what little I have left. I think I’ve spent the majority of the last, I don’t know, twenty years, just afraid – scared shitless – and operating from that place.”

You glanced up, surprised by the vulnerability. He leaned forward, his forearms settling on his thighs. As his head tilted down you could see his eyes behind his glasses, fixed on the ground in front of him.

“I know it’s me, you know, making the decisions, ultimately,” he continued, his voice unsteady. “But the filter that every thought and every decision is going through is just afraid. Before I came here, I was working on a project, a project that a lot of people are counting on, people who have been very good to me. And now I think I've fucked that up.”

You perked up. That sounded like you. For a minute, you forgot who was speaking, instead caught up in hearing your own experience validated.

“And when I think about how I’ve messed that up now, how I’ve delayed that project indefinitely, it’s tempting to get caught up in the guilt… like, feeling guilty is, I guess, easier than admitting I was afraid. I can – uh, I’ve gotten very good at figuring out how to treat guilt, if you know what I mean.”

He tapped the side of his nose, eliciting a few knowing chuckles from around the circle. Wait – ‘delayed indefinitely’? As in, ‘resuming eventually’?

“Anyway, that production is very upset with me, and knowing that I’m holding that up puts the pressure on me to find something that works. So I now have the next three months to do something, anything, other than reacting in fear. I think–”

“You’re going back to work?” You interrupted. Heads around the room turned in unison to look at you.

“No cross-talk, please,” the meeting facilitator said.

“Yes, I am.” Dieter answered, his brows raising, eyes meeting yours and lingering there for a moment before continuing. “I think - I hope, that I’m in a position this time around to do something differently, and that maybe examining those, uh, fearful reactions will help me do that. But even saying that kind of makes me worry. In the last few years, I’ve become an tolerated eccentric at best, and a liability at worst. I almost feel like I’ll let people down if I take away the behavior they’ve grown accustomed to disapproving of.”

Unbelievable. He was going back to work. Here you were begging to be allowed back onto a stupid reunion special and he had a production waiting for him when he got out of here. A movie, too, probably - he didn’t do TV. You huffed quietly, crossing your arms and leaning back in your chair. Sadie tapped your knee with hers, giving you a questioning look. You shook your head and turned your attention back in front of you.

“I was sober for months when I was married - really, for a long time, longer than I’d ever been off anything. This summer we started shooting, everything was going great, then I got home and… I just imploded. I don’t know what happened. Even I wanted to stop. It was like I was on a plane that was fuckin’ nosediving and I had no idea who was in the cockpit."

You snorted. You couldn’t hold it in anymore. This was unbelievable.

Dieter, along with everyone else in the room, turned his head to look at you. He was leaning forward in his chair with his forearms on his thighs, raising his eyebrows at you inquisitively as his glasses rode down his nose.

This was interesting, he thought. It wasn’t ideal, but he liked that you were finally talking to him. His instincts told him to push.

“Something funny?” He asked.

“So, what is this, a vacation to you?” You spat. “I mean, what, you’ve been to rehab, like, 6 times now, right? You summer in Ibiza and winter in Aspen and spend a few weeks somewhere like this whenever you need a little damage control, then it’s back to work.”

Aspen? You thought he was an Aspen guy?

“It isn’t exactly that simple.”

“Guys,” the facilitator attempted, unsuccessfully.

“But you go back to work, right? Everyone on that project is just waiting for you to finish up here?” The resentment was spilling out of you.

Fuck, you were mad at him. He raised his palms outward slightly, half-shrugging.

“It doesn’t even matter to them that you’re in rehab and that everyone knows?”

“It’s a project I’ve worked on before,” he clarified. “A sequel. So I guess they’re being easy on me.”

“Unbelievable,” you scoffed again, shaking your head. “That’s not fair.”

A woman seated to your left chuckled, and you whipped your head around to glare at her.

“What?” You snapped.

“You’re one to talk, princess.” She replied coolly. “You know, most of us ‘little people’ would’ve been arrested for a DUI, not in a luxury rehab.”

You froze, jaw dropping open as you stared back at her.

"Alright, everyone, let's settle down," the facilitator interjected, trying to regain control of the room. "We're all here with the same goal, remember? ‘Restoring ourselves to sanity’?"

You slumped back in your chair, pulling your knees up to your chest, while she continued. Dieter adjusted his glasses to cover his eyes but maintained his posture, watching you for the remainder of the meeting.

The veneer of Promises had worn off quickly. You were frustrated, you were restless, but now more than anything, you were humiliated. If they didn’t have the sense to keep you and Dieter separated before, hopefully they did now.

It didn’t help that the main thing that occupied your time here was a nonactivity - not doing drugs, not drinking alcohol. That’s what you did in rehab: not drugs, not drinking. So on a night like tonight, after a day like today, during which you normally would’ve called someone up and took shots until you blacked out, all you could do was ruminate on what happened.

You snuck out the meeting early, sulked through a therapy session and then immediately headed to the gym to get on the treadmill and run for as long as you could - which admittedly, wasn’t very long. Turns out long-term drug use affects your stamina. Who knew.

You slowed down to a walk, huffing and bracing yourself on the arms of the machine.

You regretted snapping at him, but still - it wasn’t fair. It was bad enough that he was here. You felt embarrassed even being in the same room as him, knowing the condition he saw you in the last time you met. There was no way you were going to be able to reap any of the benefits of rehab because there was no fucking way you were going to share anything personal with a dude you hooked up with when you were wasted. Now he had to rub his flourishing career in your face, too?

How was it so much easier for him? What was he doing differently? Dieter was as famous as you were, you figured, if not more. He was a bona-fide movie star. Why wasn’t it a massive scandal that he was here? That it wasn’t even the first time?

You slowed to a stop, stepping off the treadmill and wiping the sweat from your face. The gym was quiet at night, which you liked. You wiped down the machine and threw on your robe, heading back towards your bedroom to shower and turn in.

As if it couldn’t get any worse, this entire facility had a 10pm curfew. You stared at your feet as you walked, counting tiles aimlessly. You had to get out of here. In your head, you devised various plans to escape. Jumping out the window and making a run for it wasn’t totally off the table, but you might need to get more creative.

You could call Corinne in the morning and tell her about Dieter. It’d be embarrassing, but you could explain what happened at Lush, tell her that he’s a reminder of your past that’s hindering your recovery. Some bullshit like that.

It’d been almost a week, anyway. That was an eternity in a place like this. Maybe if you really sold it she’d even let you off the hook and you wouldn’t have to go to another rehab, either - you could just go back to ‘house arrest’ at her place until someone decided to hire you again. It could work.

You rounded the corner, looking up and immediately stopping short. Dieter was headed down the hallway in the opposite direction, his gray t-shirt, thick cardigan, and soft pajama pants complemented by a pair of Crocs that squeaked on the linoleum. When your eyes met his, he looked weary, like he had just been roused from sleep for the last nightly check-in, but the glimmer when he saw you was unmistakable.

You furrowed your brow, shifting your gaze back down to the ground and shuffling past him quickly.

“Hey,” he called after you. “Wait a minute.”

He followed you, footsteps growing closer behind you as he rounded the corner, and just before he could put his hand on your shoulder, you turned around to face him.

“What do you want?” You asked, your tone sharp.

He stopped just short of where you stood. When your eyes darted at his outstretched hand he pulled it away, raising both hands up before shoving them into the pockets of his sweater.

“Look, I understand if you don’t want to talk to me,” he began, exasperated. “You don’t have to. Really. But we’re both here for the next ninety days, and as–”

“Eighty-four,” you corrected.

“Eighty-four,” he repeated. “As long as we’re both here, I think it’s gonna make things easier if we can at least be friendly. You can hate me, that’s fine, but in the interest of making this worthwhile, and, uh, step 9, I just want to apologize to you.”

You lifted an eyebrow, your arms crossed at your chest inside the oversized terry cloth sleeves of your robe. He did?

“You do?”

“I do.”

“For what?”

“For…” He hesitated, confusion apparent in the tilt of his head. “For the last time I saw you. For taking advantage of you at Lush.”

He paused for a moment, trying to get a read on your expression.

“Oh, man, if you were too drunk to even remember meeting me, I really have to beg for your–”

“I remember,” you interrupted, shaking your head. “I wasn’t that fucked up.” Three-quarters of a lie.

He nods. “Anyway, I’m sorry for taking advantage of you like that. I know better,” he pauses. “It was, uh… a dark time.”

You let it sit for a moment. He really seemed sorry - or at least he looked it. Big brown eyes finally free of dark sunglasses and looking into yours, searching for your mercy. It was strange. It hadn’t even occurred to you to be upset with him for that - you were just embarrassed. Most of the hook-ups you’d experienced as an adult had taken place under the influence to some extent, and nobody had ever apologized to you afterwards.

“It’s okay. Thanks.” You finally said. “Although, really, I guess we can just call it even.”

His eyebrow cocked upwards, the shadow of a smirk and tilt of his head silently requesting an explanation.

“I stole a bag of your coke that night, that's what I was after when I went to your table,” you explained, amusement growing on his face at the confession. “If it makes you feel better, I got a DUI that night, and when the police searched my car they found it. That’s why I’m here. If it hadn’t been for that, I probably could have just spent the weekend in the hospital being treated for ‘exhaustion’ and been back to work Monday morning. So, I guess I took advantage of you, too.”

“Yeah, well, it’s what we do,” he laughed, vaguely gesturing at the hallway before planting his hand on the wall behind you.

Only now did you realize that he had subtly cornered your body into a doorway. He smelled the same as you remembered, minus the alcohol, and the way his broad frame was caging yours felt familiar and comforting. You caught yourself staring as you let the silence hang, taking in the lines around his dark, soft eyes, and you fought the urge to drag your thumb along the patch in his beard. God, he was handsome. You might not have been completely out of your mind that night.

Encouraged by your big, beautiful eyes gazing up at him and against his better judgment, he leaned down to purr lowly in your ear.

“I was disappointed that you didn’t come find me, though,” his said, the hair on his chin barely grazing your cheek and sending goosebumps down your spine. “I should be apologizing for not finishing the job.”

On a reflex, you giggled, but then the thought caught up to you.

“Wait a minute,” you put your hands to his chest and pushed away slightly to look him in the eye. “You mean we didn’t…”

He shook his head. “No, we didn’t.”

“Oh, my god, thank god!” You exclaimed, throwing your head back, unable to contain your laughter. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, relief that you hadn’t slept with this man (who you, admittedly, really wanted to sleep with) flooding through you. Tentatively, he hugged you back, wide palms going flat at the small of your back.

“Sorry, not ‘thank god,’ no offense, just… that wasn’t exactly my finest hour,” you explained as you pulled away.

“Yeah, I heard,” he started to respond, but he’s cut off by a staff member at the end of the hallway.

“To your rooms, please,” she ordered, firmly.

He turned to acknowledge her, then back to you, following as you made your way toward your bedroom.

“So, we’re okay?” He asked as you reached your door. “Promise you’re not going to yell at me at any more meetings?”

“I promise.”

“Good. ‘Cause I think people are starting to choose sides, and I’m not sure I stand a chance against you.”

“Yeah, right, they hate me,” you said, dipping your head to laugh. The two of you stood there in your doorway for another moment, hand lingering on the door as you stood inches from one another.

“Goodnight, Dieter,” you finally said, all low and decisive.

“Goodnight.”

You peeked out at him until the door shut completely. When it did, you folded against it, clutching your hands at your chest and smiling wider than you had in weeks.

#blind item #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x ofc #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo fic #pedro pascal characters

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brf-rumortrackinganon · 4 months

Text

“If you don’t know, there is a certain Spanish reporter who is claiming that Kate was actually in a coma during her hospitalization.”

The Spanish “reporter” claimed that Catherine, due to unexpected complications, had to be put into an induced coma THE DAY BEFORE (lol) her discharge from the hospital. As an RN with much experience in the ICU, this is 100% false! There is NO WAY that a patient would be put into an induced coma (which means they are put on a ventilator, under extreme sedation) and then released the next day! The “step-down” protocols after being weaned off a ventilator take days, if not weeks/months, depending on the severity of the underlying medical condition. This didn’t happen, at least “as reported” by the Spanish whatever she calls herself.

A professional speaks!

The extent of my medical knowledge is limited to reading about these protocols during the COVID years and roughly 20 years’ experience watching Grey’s Anatomy and ER, so I feel particularly qualified to say that if the actual fictional soap operas aren’t dreaming up this scenario, especially when they take way too much creative liberty, you know it’s gotta be totally fake or a serious timejump. And since timejumps don’t exist in real life...

Thank you for your work, anon. Nurses are the backbone of our healthcare system.

#submission #ask #brf

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macgyvermedical · 2 months

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Hi! I am working on a fic in which the main character (superhero in the MCU) gets hit by a villain's unknown gas that causes extreme and irritational fear/paranoia/anxiety (sort of similar to the DCU's fear toxin, I guess). I'm just wondering how this would work medically, as the character will obviously see a doctor after the fact. I'd like the conclusion to essentially be "you'll just have to let the toxin/drugs run their course," but what kind of tests would be run, and would they be able to determine what exactly is in the character's system? (Since it's a reality-flexible universe, there can be elements of the toxin that aren't actually real or familiar/recognizable to make it cause some of the reactions I'm wanting.) Is there any sort of meds they might give the character? Any insights you might have to make the conversation with the doctor at least a little realistic would be very helpful, thank you! :)

Sounds like a pretty standard day on my observation unit haha.

There are lots of drugs, particularly stimulants, club drugs, and THC, that can cause paranoia and anxiety. The thing is, none of them do it consistently enough that you could easily make them into a chemical weapon like you're describing.

The closest IRL chemical weapon to a fear toxin is called QNB (aka BZ). QNB is a deliriant/incapacitant, meaning that it causes incapacitating confusion, hallucinations, and probably paranoia and anxiety as well without causing death. There is no antidote that has been identified, and the drug really does just need to run it's course.

Let's say your character went to the emergency room. They'd probably draw some blood and take a urine sample. The blood would mostly be used to see how the person was doing physically (what their electrolyte levels were, how many red and white blood cells they have, what their blood glucose is, etc...) and maybe get an alcohol level. The urine would be used to do a urinalysis (basic test to determine whether someone has a UTI or has things in their urine that shouldn't be there, like blood or mucous) and a urine tox screen.

Unlike what most people think, a urine tox screen won't identify everything. It will just identify the top 10 commonly abused drugs. It's the same test that they run when people start a new job. If the fear toxin is a common problem in-universe, though, they might have a specific test for that that could also be run on the blood or urine. We don't have a specific test for QNB.

Once they got all the tests back and they were normal, they would know this was probably either a drug they couldn't identify or a psych problem. They might gets seen by a psychiatrist in the emergency department, but if intoxication was suspected (as in, the patient reported that their symptoms started when they were exposed to a drug), psych would probably want to wait until the person was sober.

For this they may be admitted to an observation unit to let the drug run its course. They might also be given an antipsychotic medication like olanzepine or haloperidol, or a benzodiazepine like lorazepam to decrease agitation/paranoia/anxiety.

If the person was a flight risk due to their paranoia and it was deemed that they couldn't make good decisions for themselves, they might also have a 1:1 sitter or a video sitter to stay with them and stop them from leaving (or in the case of a video sitter, alert nursing staff to them trying to leave).

#whump reference #writing reference #superheroes #fear toxin #psych #paranoia #anxiety

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