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mamabearcat · 3 years

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9: a missing moment from canon 💜

Okay. Sorry in advance. This ended up a lot angstier than I'd planned.

The thing is, Kagome is a modern girl in a very violent and unforgiving time period, and I'm sure she saw a lot of things that she wasn't emotionally prepared for. And she's such an empathic character, she would take those situations to heart, and they would affect her a lot.

I'm going to put this under a read more. Contains a death (not main character) and canon level violence. I'm going to put it in my AO3 one-shot collections as well.

“Kagome? Can I get the kettle out of your backpack?”

Kagome startled at the sound of Sango’s voice so close to her, and the soft touch of a hand on her shoulder. Suddenly she realised that everyone had been setting up the camp around her while she’d been sitting on a tree root, silently staring into space.

“Oh Sango-chan, I’m sorry, let me help!”

Sango smiled at her wanly, her lips barely turning up at the corners, squeezing Kagome’s shoulder gently.

“It’s fine Kagome-chan. Just rest here a moment.”

“O-okay.”

And she was left alone with her thoughts again. Swirling thoughts she didn’t really want. Thoughts she wished she could bleach out of her mind, like Mama did with the stains on white tablecloths. Soak her whole self in a bucket of bleach to be hung out on the line, and go back to being sunny carefree Kagome, who’s main worry of the week was if she managed to remember the quadratic equation for that math quiz. Not the Kagome who had just seen that village. That hut. Not the Kagome who had held that boy. Not the Kagome who… killed.

“Here, there’s someone alive over here!” Shippou called out frantically, his tiny paws incapable of pulling aside the ruins of the toppled and still smouldering hut. In a flash Inuyasha was there, lifting heavy boards, kicking aside matting and broken furniture until he could make his way inside.

“Inuyasha!”

Kagome followed him into the partially collapsed hut, medical kit in hand, but Inuyasha turned to block her view.

“Don’t go in Kagome, you can’t do no good in there.”

There was a faint, gurgling cry, and Kagome slipped under his outstretched arm to glance around the room. There had been fire. There were arrows. There was blood. There was a woman, her eyes open but no longer seeing, her torn clothing no longer protecting either her modesty or the horrific end she had come to. And there was a boy.

He was young, probably around Souta’s age. But the gash across his throat and horrific burns covering half his face and chest made him look monstrous, and Kagome had to clench her teeth hard against the bile forcing it’s way up her throat. The smell was horrific, and she panted for a moment as she knelt next to the boy, trying to get herself under control. His one eye focused on her face.

“Ma…” he gurgled. Kagome glanced aside to the woman on the floor and then back to the boy, concentrating her gaze on the unmarked side of his face, smoothing the blood soaked hair off his forehead as she gathered her courage, then forced herself to take stock of his injuries for a moment. She blinked quickly, fighting back tears. Even if she tried to treat those burns, the amount of blood he’d lost from where his throat was cut, the actual cut itself – she had no way to fix this. Even a modern hospital would have trouble fixing this. She took a deep breath.

“I’m Kagome, and I’m going to give you something to take the pain away”, she said softly.

She reached into her medical kit and took out the tiny dark bottle that Kaede had given her. The one that came with extremely strict instructions and should only be used in very specific circumstances. There was no way she could save this boy. Left for dead by samurai soldiers and then horrifically burnt by the hut they’d set alight. The hut that had once been his home, his safe place. They had arrived too late to help, long after the samurai had left. She couldn’t do anything to take those violent memories away for him. But at least she could take his pain away.

Being as gentle as she could she dribbled the mixture into the child’s mouth, humming softly to him and stroking back his hair as she waited for the medicine to take effect. Gradually the ragged breathing slowed and his eye rolled back as a great sigh, and then another left his body.

Her trembling hand slid down his face to close his eye as the silent tears came. Tears for a little boy she would never know, a boy from a different time, but who in essence was probably very similar to the little brother she loved.

Inuyasha stood behind her silently, waiting for her to be ready to move aside. For a while, he’d sat in the hut with Kagome and the boy, listening to her quiet hum and the gasping breaths of the boy, watching the movement of the gentle hand. But in the end, he hadn’t been able to sit still any longer, his fingers twitching helplessly, and had gone outside to dig the graves. At least with that he was useful.

When Kagome finally wobbled to her feet, he picked up the little boy, barely a weight in his arms, and carried him outside to place in the grave. When he came back for the mother, Kagome had found a charred blanket to wrap her in, and had closed her eyes.

When the graves for all the villagers had been filled and Miroku had chanted the sutras, with Sango laying some wildflowers she’d managed to find not far away, Kagome had leaned on Inuyasha bonelessly, holding Shippou in her arms. It felt like she should still be crying, but her tears had dried up to be replaced by a feeling of emptiness. A hollow rage that had no where to go.

And that rage still filled her. The unfairness of it. There had been no reason for the people in that small village to have died. There had been barely twenty of them. It had obviously been a small farming community, a poor one, with nothing worth stealing. The only thing stolen had been their lives, their dignity, by men who had no compassion or soul.

“Kagome?”

Little Shippou was standing there in front of her, holding out a plate. Plain rice, with fish cooked over the fire.

But one look at the blackened blistered skin that she usually loved to eat had her bolting into the darkness as far from the camp as she could manage before she collapsed over a large tree root, hurling the meagre contents of her stomach onto the forest floor. The dry sobs came then as she gripped the bark under her fingernails, feeling them bend and crack as she put all her strength into it.

“Hey.”

Inuyasha was there, holding back her hair, his hand warm on her back.

“It’s not fair”, she gasped. “They didn’t deserve that. It’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not fair”, he said, his usually gruff voice gentle.

“And I know what you’re going to say. And I know it too. I need to be tougher, harder. I need to get used to seeing things like that. I need to be stronger.”

The hand on her back rubbed gently.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything of the sort.”

He sighed then, and she felt herself being pulled backwards into his arms as he picked her up and moved away from the meagre pile of vomit, sitting down against a tree closer to the campsite, holding her tightly against him, kissing her forehead.

“You are a good person Kagome. Kaede woulda done the same.”

“I’m not a good person”, she whispered. “I killed him Inuyasha. That little boy.”

“No you didn’t.” He ignored her shaking head. “He woulda died anyway, all alone. You gave him peace, and you were there for him when he needed someone the most.”

Kagome shut her eyes, and he turned her face to his.

“Look at me. Kagome look at me.”

His eyes were the most earnest she’d ever seen them, and she couldn’t help the small sob that escaped her.

“You don’t need to be hard. You don’t!”

He stroked her hair gently as she pressed her face into his chest, tears streaming.

“Your heart, your… softness. It’s one of the things I like about ya the most. Because that soft heart a yours looked at a shitty hanyou like me and decided I was okay.”

She snorted at him through her tears, pushing at his chest with a weak fist.

“You’re better than okay, dummy!”

“Better than okay”, he chuckled. “I’ll take that. But I'm be'in serious here, you don’t gotta change, alright? Not one bit a you. You stay the same Kagome. I could never have sat beside that kid like you did. You keep be’in you, and I’ll be here to look after you.”

“O-okay…”

They sat silently for a while in the darkness, the only sounds the crackling of the nearby campfire and the wind in the leaves.

“Do ya think you could eat a little, or do ya need to go to sleep.”

“Maybe… just… not the fish.”

“Fair enough. Can ya walk?”

“Yeah.”

When they got back to the campsite, Shippou was crying in Sango’s arms as she murmured soft words to him, and Kagome’s heart lurched. Letting go of Inuyasha’s hand she held out her arms.

“Shippou, I’m okay", she said, trying to make her tone light and encouraging. "You didn’t do anything wrong, I was just sad. But I bet if you gave me a hug, I’d feel much better?”

Seeing her, Shippou bounded over to her and into her arms, hugging her tight, sobbing out his apologies for making her ill, and she hummed to him, stroking his soft hair away from his forehead. Here was a little boy who needed her right now, who she could help. And that made the rage lessen a little.

But she would never forget.

#mamabearcat fanfics #i'm sorry #inukag snippet #inukag writing ask

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mallowstep · 3 years

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📖 (foxstride)

ask thingy

@foxstride

okay i mentioned this to you on discord but i didn't go into it but. okay. okay. the au where mistyfoot is hawk, moth, and tadpole's mother. this has been just. it's been chewing on my brain and i don't know when i'm going to write it so since u gave me a blank canvas, i'm going to ramble about it for as long as i can.

cw: implied/referenced sexual assault; brief suicidal ideation; standard tigerclan content (abuse, child abuse, starvation, dehumanization, etc.); referenced force feeding

okay oh my gosh okay. this has. so obviously i've been thinking about riverclan lately. a lot. it's rcam. anyway. i don't want. i'm trying to get to the point and not loop around aimlessly for two hundred words but okay but okay. anyway.

i've been thinking of all the different ways i can deeply traumatize misty, storm, and feather. and maybe stone. maybe i'll let stone live at some point. that'd be fun.

right so i've been thinking of that and my ideas are all over the place. i'm going to let primrosepaw live at some point. at one point i'm going to have stormpaw, and maybe primrosepaw or reedpaw (and...what's the other one? is it perchpaw or pikepaw? whatever) the point is i'll have some collection of stormpaw and some or all of mistyfoot's kits escape but not misty and feather so we can do survivor's guilt and.

anyway so i was writing the excerpt for the primrosepaw is definitely there au (it's kind of not Tethered because most of these aren't mutually incompatible like that au could be any of the others), and tigerstar has that dialogue about kits yeah?

so when i was writing it, i was thinking about just. he's trying to dehumanize all of them, right? that's his goal with that line. he's separating mistyfoot from her kits, trying to erase the meaning of their relationships. that's like. that's what i was considering when i was writing it.

buuuuuuut. y'know. my brain is chewing on it. and it just. hm. Hm. what if. what If tadpole, moth, and hawk were misty and tiger kits. hm. hmm. hm.

and so i am just instantly. very on board with this. there's so much potential.

so i Think the point of canon divergence is the rescue attempt. i haven't decided if stormpaw is successfully rescued or not. featherpaw doesn't for reasons i'm circling around to, but stormpaw may or may not. it certainly Matters in a broad sense but i haven't made up my mind, and i doubt i'm going to write Multiple aus about this. i mean i might u never know but it'd b like writing an alternate stolag: i mean i suppose i Could but it would feel weird.

okay almost burnt my dinner i said i'm very this has just been slowly rotting my brain out. i like Angst and it's been a while since i've written any.

okay there was fmtws but really that got me started. i'm not a fluff person. and y'all know that by now.

so Back On Topic. so Anyway after the rescue attempt fails/partially fails, tigerstar takes his anger out at the apprentices being Alive on featherpaw and she gets to. uh. help tigerclan practice fighting.

"Let me see her," Mudfur hissed. "No," Tigerstar said. "I've told you." Mudfur growled. Featherpaw dragged herself to her feet, and Mistyfoot glanced back at her. They would leave they would leave they would leave and then she could lie down again and try not to think. "You're not my leader," Mudfur said, and Featherpaw winced. Mistyfoot could see what was going on, but she was sitting still as a stone. Mudfur pressed into their — Mudfur pressed in, laying a wrapped bundle at Mistyfoot's feet. "Let me—" "No," Mistyfoot said. "Just go." Mudfur dipped his head. Tigerstar's steps moved away from them, but the shouts and arguments surrounding Mudfur were just buzzing noise in Featherpaw's head. She made out, "She's going to die," and she thought, that wouldn't be the worst thing.

thank You featherpaw. you will suffer for the au as a whole. anyway this takes place...i'm not Quite sure but mistyfoot does have a reason for not letting mudfur in. and that reason is she is in Denial about being pregnant.

if mudfur comes in he'll know (i have not forgotten that cats can smell unlike the erins), and mistyfoot is acting in denial. altho she rationalizes it to herself as being for mudfur's protection: runningnose is a medicine cat too, and so tigerstar could off mudfur without much effort.

(also i tend to mix up mudfur and mudclaw sometimes understand i am talking about the riverclan medicine cat, not the windclan deputy. i just mistype them sometimes.)

anyway so she has a legitimate reason (mudfur's continual survival, which is better for her and featherpaw longterm), and she does not want mudfur to know.

yeah.

all in all, this happens before the great battle. mistyfoot fights in it (again, denial), featherpaw and stormpaw are reunited (yes i think i made up my mind), (wait maybe stonefur lives too, and then both pairs of siblings reconnect, and stonefur is like "oh Shit" and. okay yes. maybe. i don't know.)

(there's a Lot. ohh maybe. wait best of both worlds okay. mistyfoot Thinks stonefur is dead. but stonefur doesn't get a proper burial but at the same time riverclan is Not going to go for their deputy on bonepile and even if they do go for it, they're not going to stripe his bones nor are they going to let a Physical Cat Corpse rot in camp. so when firestar and greystripe rescue stormpaw, stormpaw Insists they go back for his body, and then they realize he's Alive but obviously mistyfoot doesn't know.)

(there then i get the Best of both worlds. and stonefur and feathertail are in the Chronic Pain club.)

(also the thing w/ fighting is also what happens in "someday when the world is much brighter". not that Particular scene or in that Particular way, but it does happen. i mean almost exactly in that particular way. but that scene is from a different fic.)

anyway okay moving on i did add too much chili powder to my dinner but that's fine i'm still not over when someone refused to give me more harissa because "it's spicy" like yes i know i guarantee my mom makes it spicier.

back on topic sorry. i've been writing this as i do other things bc i have so much to say about this and i don't want to wait for tomorrow to share this because it's been just Rotting away my brain.

anyway so siblings reunite. it's...terse. it's complicated.

there's some parallels going on right? like because both featherpaw and stormpaw are basically in the mindset of looking after their mentors (which mistyfoot and stonefur feel Terrible about), everyone has survivor's guilt (i don't know what to call like, survivor's guilt when it's not actually survivor's guilt so if someone has a correct word please let me know) except for Maybe featherpaw.

featherpaw might be the Only one here who doesn't have survivor's guilt. i don't really want to explore the one way she could end up with it. that's past my comfort level at the moment.

but stormpaw and mistyfoot are the most physically healthy, and stormpaw and stonefur escaped.

stormpaw: i have not been hurt by this in any way

everyone around stormpaw: you have definitely been hurt by this

stormpaw: i have not been hurt by this in any way

stormpaw and featherpaw become warriors, leopardstar makes mistyfoot deputy (because stonefur is still recovering and also no longer wants the position. mistyfoot doesn't either but she's in denial and she doesn't want anyone else to have it. mistyfoot is visibly pregnant and still kind of in denial at this point. like it's been at least a moon and she is refusing to talk about it.)

right so i think stormpaw's name is going to be stormheart because i don't know it was always weird to me that stormfur and stonefur have the same suffix. like given Everything that's going on it feels weird to me. ig it'd actually be less weird in this, given that stonefur is still alive, but do you know How Close stonefur and stormfur are. they're one consonant cluster off. they're One consonant cluster off.

so leopardstar names him stormheart. feathertail can keep her name because it's pretty.

mistyfoot is a moon away from kitting. she refuses to talk about it. to anyone. whatsoever.

feathertail and stonefur decide to stage an intervention.

(they leave stormheart out not because he's not part of the found family, but because mistyfoot literally will not tolerate a single word about this. like a single word. like she will growl at you if you look at her stomach for too long.

so given the fairly high odds that mistyfoot gets violent, they keep stormheart out of it. she's the least likely to attack stonefur and feathertail.

stormheart finds out about this later and is like "do you guys realize if this went south you had absolutely 0 control over the situation. like what are you guys going to do. you incapable of doing anything to stop her if something goes wrong."

feathertail is like "yes. that's the point."

feathertail is both kind of right and also very internally messed up from being used for "training" when she wasn't allowed to fight back. feathertail also hates if you call her by just her prefix. she does not tell anyone this. misty is aware of this, and she tells stone and storm, and riverclan does eventually figure it out. plus it's not like feathertail is close enough to anyone else for them to call her "feather".

okay i'm getting off topic sorry i've been working on a tpb thing for swtwimb, and the one scene i have is cats making fun of her for not fighting back (again she is not allowed to they might kill her if she does), so they call her "featherkit" and that eventually gets brought down to feather and i'm rambling anyway On topic again.)

so stonefur and feathertail are like. "mistyfoot you are like. a half moon away from kitting. it is impairing your ability to do warrior duties. you need to like. acknowledge this."

anyway after a very terse conversation. after a veeery terse conversation, where mistyfoot is like. very close to just absolutely abandoning riverclan. they get her to admit that yes she is pregnant and yes she needs to stop doing warrior duties for the moment.

she wasn't exactly Healthy when she was pregnant because even tho tigerstar made a Point of making her like. eat enough to be healthy and also not violently attacking her. she had still been starved for...idk long enough for her ribs to show. i'm not sure what the exact timeline on this is yet.

also then After Tigerclan she did not eat as much as she should have because (a) denial and (b) she had been forcefed and so now she's. not doing that.

oh wow i've written long enough for my grammar checker to turn off again. that hasn't happened in ages.

all bets are off from here on out re grammar and spelling.

okay so mistyfoot isn't going to move into the nursery. i believe mosspelt has had a litter of 3 kits, or will have one as we see in asir, but mistyfoot isn't. she's not moving into it. stone, misty, storm, and feathertail share a den. no one else is allowed into it for Any Reason.

so anyway, they expand the den. riverclan as a whole might? i'm not sure who's good at weaving bc i don't have headcanons for this time period. probably not feathertail, but possibly stonefur. hm. anyway, they expand the den, mistyfoot will raise the kits in this den, everyone is on board with this.

mostly because it's this or mistyfoot like. runs away. which obviously no one wants. riverclan is on the side of...the four? riverclan is on the side of the four. even if they're not like, even though the four don't trust them, feathertail and misty especially (stone and storm tolerate it much better). but even tho things are complicated, riverclan is certainly going to do actions. they're certainly going to try to demonstrate their support.

okay so mistyfoot gives birth to her kits, and she is. not feeling good. about it. she's feeling terrible about it actually. she's feeling terrible about things. she doesn't want to name them.

usuuually in this situation, after the queens (collective) decided its in the best interest of the kits to be raised by someone other than their birth mother, the kits would be given to another queen.

but see. feathertail, stonefur, and stormheart are All attatched to these kits. deeply attatched to them. and mistyfoot is not willing to give them up either.

so mistyfoot isn't willing to give them up to another riverclan queen, and feathertail, stone, and storm all Want to raise them, and also don't want to give them to another queen.

the queens confer with mudfur that it is absolutely the worst possible thing they could do to forcibly remove the kits from mistyfoot. like that is the Worst option. they'd be lucky to get the kits alive, feathertail and mistyfoot are likely to abandon riverclan, and if misty and feathertail abandon riverclan, stone and storm will follow.

they're stuck in a standstill for a while. the four eventually do name them hawkkit, mothkit, and tadpolekit. the kits are about a moon old and ready to be weaned. mistyfoot is still extremely tense about the affair, but she's willing to part with them. she's able to recognize that's in the best interest of the kits, mosspelt's litter is about the same age, moving them into the nursery is going to give them a more normal upbringing, everyone is on the same page.

feathertail, who's having a lot of self worth issues, decides that moving into the nursery is her best bet for clan usefulness (which (a) feathertail you cannot keep up with kits and (b) the whole Place she's in is bad to begin with), moves in with them.

the kits decide feathertail is their mother now (they're old enough to understand that she didn't give birth to them, altho i haven't decided if they remember misty as their mother and if they're told any information re their birth parents depends exactly What kind of angst i want to write), and feathertail is. okay with this.

unlike asir, she's not blindsided with the tigerstar-is-their-father reveal, so she does have some issues with hawkkit reminding her of tigerstar, he's not really her Big Bad Trauma Nightmares. she has way more issues with the riverclan warriors directly involved in her abuse.

anyway, i don't know what happens tnp era stuff. i haven't gotten that far yet. maybe this will be another au where hawk and/or moth is a prophecy cat. i'm not sure. i haven't gotten farther than this.

but here you go i started writing this like an hour and a half ago and while i did stop to eat, i also just finally put everything i have for this au on one page and i hope and pray that will stave off the brainrot until i have a chance to actually write it.

#long #like 2.5k words of me just Talking #but this has just been consuming my brain holy shit #thanks for giving me unrestrained access to just talk about it #also like for anyone interested in this ask game #i'm not going to give you something this dark #unless you ask off anon and i know you're okay with that #i already mentioned this to fox #usually i don't talk about anything above pg-13 on tumblr but this has been literally rotting my brain away #i have never meant brain rot so literally #ask #ask game #mine #txt

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voidstilesplease · 3 years

Text

baby, let’s go home

part six

viii.

When they are sixteen, and in junior year, it turns upside down for Theo.

His father's prostate cancer returns more potent, and within only three months, he's gone. His mother flings herself to more work to exhaust herself to numbness. She checks on them at least once daily by calling or through an email. Tara is a freshman in college at Berkeley, studying political science, and despite being in the same state, she finds excuses not to come home. Tara had been a daddy's girl. She frequently calls, skypes, and leaves voicemails to both Stiles and Theo. Even so, Theo doesn't know what to do with all the space in the house.

He lost everyone all at once.

Stiles pulls Theo to share the lower bunk with him one night. They're a narrow fit, but it's the most comfortable he's been in a while. Theo opens his arm to Stiles, and there's a brief moment of hesitation in his expression before Stiles lays his head on Theo's chest. Their proximity feels much more intimate now than when they were children, and Theo's pulse quickens.

They're unmoving, unspeaking, afraid to collide within the tension blanketing them.

But Stiles, always the braver one, moves to take Theo's hand in his like they've held a million times before. Their fingers fit well, even back when they were twelve. They match well together.

"You still got me, okay?"

And Theo believes him.

But when morning comes and sunlight streams in through the open blinds, he looks down at the boy in his arms. His eyes roam the expanse of Stiles's face. He's grown out of his bony cheeks and eternal pale skin and has developed attractively with time. His lashes are fluttering softly in his sleep, and the even sink and rise of his chest are reassuring.

But then Theo's eyes travel lower and find the healing bruise on his collarbone. His breath hitches, gaze locking on the offending mark and what it alludes.

After Stiles's confession of him and Isaac kissing a year ago, there's no more talk about it evolving into something more. And although it's obvious to his eyes, Theo dismisses the notion every time. If something is going on between them, Stiles would tell him. As long as Stiles hasn't breathed a word to Theo's face, he's not going to let it eat away at his brain -until now.

That hickey is a brand -a declaration loud enough for Theo to hear.

He abruptly tears his arm around Stiles, nudging him awake, and sits. Anger bubbles and rises from the pit of his stomach, blocking his airways. Theo, at least, expected to know about it before seeing any concrete evidence. Stiles can't even give him that.

"Theo?" Stiles asks, groggy from sleep. He reaches to touch Theo's arm, but he jerks away. His reaction clears the sleep-induced fog in Stiles's brain because he immediately sharpens. His expression changes to worry. "What's wrong?"

Theo attempts to choke on the words, but they come tumbling out of his mouth. "Are you sleeping with Lahey?" he asks it with unmasked contempt.

The question throws off Stiles, as his eyes widen and mouth falls open. For a moment, he only stares at Theo. Then his shoulders droop, and he turns to pull his legs from the mattress to the floor. His face twitches, calculating.

"I," he begins, then cuts. Stiles grappling with an explanation is an answer on its own. The boy cups the side of his neck and rubs. "He's, sort of, my boyfriend now."

"And you didn't think to tell me?" Theo accuses, crawling off the bunk to tower over Stiles. His fists ball at his sides.

Stiles looks like he's wincing as he nibbles on his lip, "It didn't seem important with everything going on," he points out. "I want to be there for you because I know what it feels like."

Theo knows deep where his logic sits, that what Stiles says is sensible. But jealousy is a monster that doesn't listen to reason -it only knows to rage.

"Well, it's important to me," Theo snaps, face flushing. "You said I still got you."

Stiles gives in and frowns, "You do," he insists, confusion written in his face. "I only have a boyfriend, Theo. It doesn't change anything between us."

"Yeah?" Theo scoffs in ridicule. "Well, tell that to me after."

Stiles is losing his patience, cheeks starting to blotch in crimson. He doesn't appreciate condescension, Theo knows. "After what?"

In a single step forward, Theo closes the distance between them and sinks to the floor in front of Stiles. Theo grabs his face with both hands, partially notes the shock in brown eyes, and kisses Stiles.

Theo only lingers for a few seconds before pulling away like he's burnt. Stiles is so stunned that he can only gape and stare stupidly at Theo.

Theo curls his lips, "It hasn't been the same to me for a long time,"

Stiles closes his mouth, various emotions flickering in his face at the same time. Before he can gather his wits and reject Theo, he beats Stiles to it.

Crossing his arms tightly, he tells Stiles. "You can use Tara's room. She won't be coming back and won't run out of excuses to make. " Theo diverts his gaze behind one of Stiles's shoulders. He doesn't want to keep watching Stiles's growing disbelief mixing in with the other conflicting emotions crossing all over features.

"Are you," Stiles blinks rapidly, flinging his hands in the air. "Are you throwing me out?"

Clenching his jaw, he meets Stiles's eyes. "Did I stutter?"

Stiles falters, standing at once. The red in his face has spread down to his collarbones. He grinds his teeth when his eyes fall to the spot where the mark is visible. Stiles exhales a sharp breath, "Don't you think this is unfair? We can talk-"

Theo's eyes flash, "I don't care for fair, Stiles. And talk is the last thing I want to do. Just pack and get the hell out of my room." he turns on his heels and yanks the door open. The smallest voice of sanity in himself tries to halt Theo from making a stupid decision while at the summit of his temper. But he places a silencer on it. He slams the door to Stiles's pleading voice.

~•~

Stiles moves into Tara's old bedroom, and Theo lays at night fuming -at himself, at Stiles, everything. He had a good life. Why does it have to be fucked over?

He barely answers his mother and Tara's calls anymore. He lets Stiles talk to them and lie that everything's okay back home. Nothing is.

Theo brings people around, none of their mutual friends, all strangers and for a specific purpose only, and invites them back to his room when he knows Stiles can hear. He doesn't know what he hopes to achieve, but this yearning for retaliation gnaws at his skin until he gives in and fucks meaningless faces in Stiles's old bunk bed. After, Theo isn't even satisfied, and it enrages him more by tenfold.

He throws these random people out -girls and boys alike- in the middle of the night because he feels nauseous just looking at them. He's chewing half-heartedly at a leftover pizza, having just kicked the latest insignificant fuck, when Stiles bounds down the stairs, hoisting a backpack. He pauses in his tracks when he spots Theo.

They haven't acknowledged each other, much less talk, since that morning of Theo's confession -mostly by Theo's avoidance efforts. He looks at Stiles now and sees the difference in his appearance. There are rings around his reddish eyes, and the vibrance in his color is turning back to sickly pale. He even seems thinner and in a permanent state of exhaustion.

Stiles looks down, fingers fidgeting around an unlabeled medicine bottle. Theo recognizes that. It's the same prescription drugs his mother is taking since his father's death -she also keeps them in an unnamed container. He's sure Stiles shouldn't have access to it, though.

"Why are you taking pills?" Theo nods at the bottle in his hands.

Stiles opens his mouth to deny but thinks better of it. "I'm having trouble sleeping,"

Theo lifts his eyebrows, gauging for an elaboration.

Stiles shrugs, darting his gaze around. "The usual when I was a kid: insomnia, parasomnia, extreme anxiety. My mind is just all over the place and nowhere at the same time."

Theo frowns, "I thought those were gone,"

"Not entirely," Stiles peers up, looking hopeful that they've exchanged more than a few words for the first time in long, dragging weeks. "They've just gone dormant."

"What, like a volcano?"

Stiles detects the gibe in Theo's tone because his face closes off again like a switch. He purses his lips, bearing his gaze straight on Theo. "Exactly,"

Negative tension simmers amidst them, so Stiles decides to drop the conversation and advances toward the door. Before he opens it, he glances back to Theo, who is following his retreating figure.

"I'll be-"

Theo rudely interrupts with a sneer, "I don't care if you come home or not."

Stiles's eyes begin to water, but he smiles tight-lipped all the same. "Well, I am. That sucks for you. I'll always come home even when it's not much anymore."

Stiles bangs the door on his way out.

~•~

title from: Hold On by Chord Overstreet

#steo #steo au #steo fic #steo ficlet #baby let's go home #part 6 #stiles stilinski #theo raeken #stiles x theo #teen wolf #side: stisaac #fics tag

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boogiewrites · 4 years

Text

No. 9: The Body

Chapter One

Characters: Diego Hargreeves & OFC Eve Corpuz

Summary: Eve, once a rebellious runaway had turned her life around through the help of others to now be a doctor. She tries to return the favor these days. When a mysterious man keeps popping up in her life, what will her natural talent for healing become when it finally meets someone else with abilities like hers? The introductory chapter.

Warnings/Tags: Meet Cute. Some medical/blood/injury stuff.

Click on my icon then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

From the view from her apartment window, only slightly obscured by the fire escape, Eve looked out on the gloomy sunrise falling over the New York City street below. The fog and steam from the light drizzle on the street grates blended with the haze of her coffee cup as she took a moment to gather herself, feel the calm at the moment before the chaos of her job began.

Eve was all about function over fashion these days. Her childhood had held many questionable punk ensembles and thrifted, or even stolen pieces that were worn down to bare threads. But now her clothes usually consisted of scrubs, so she opted for comfort usually. She savors the last of her coffee and the peace of her small home and makes her way out into the world to begin another long, chaotic 12-hour shift.

The phrase, “business as usual” couldn’t really apply to work in an Emergency Room but when you worked an ER in New York, literally anything could be called as such. So the day began, and so did the rush of decisions, needles, charts, and blood as the job called for. She changed out her off duty uniform of pants that compromised mostly of spandex. For the season warm fleece-lined leggings were her go-to currently. Her boots needed replacing, as she’d bought new sneakers for work but neglected her everyday ones. What a metaphor for her life that was. You couldn’t really wear anything but boots in the city winter as the mess on the streets would seep through anything else. She peeled off her layers of a tank top, t-shirt, hoodie, and jacket to stuff into her locker and got into her sterile looking and feeling scrubs that served as her protection from whatever the wild night of New York emergency room drama would unfold. “Doctor Corpuz to the ER please.” She heard the intercom over her headphones. It was already starting. —

The night had been average, traffic accidents, assault, chest pains, overdose, nothing that would throw Eve off her game. Her years of residency had assured that. As usual, she became drained the longer the night went on, hitting the caffeine hard to make it through the last hours.

“Uh, hey, Eve we’ve got this guy in room 3 and he’s being…. a bit belligerent,“ the woman rolled her eyes as she casually leaned on the counter “He’s scaring the intern, you might wanna go help deescalate.” A half-smile that made it clear that the news delivered was something said more times than either of them could count now. “Since you’re so good at it and all.” She cracks her gum and even though it’s delivered sarcastically, the jab was actually true.

“Ugh.. why do I have to be the one that’s good at this?” She huffs and shrugs with heavy arms as she throws a playful pout her friend’s way. “Why can’t you just go yell at them? It sure scares me.” Eve quips as she stretches to prepare herself.

“I already did and he did not respond well to authority so… in you go Mr. Rogers.” She hits Eve on the shoulder with the patient’s file and she dramatically grasps it.

“Tired of being good cop. Let me yell at the next one alright?” She says back as she walks away.

“Got it Doc.” She answers as she begins to walk away.

Eve takes a deep breath and focuses before entering the room, trying to bring up that positive side of herself for the task at hand.

“I told you what I told ya, alright?” She could see from the chart and the bleeding man lying on a bed in front of her in a stance all black and leather ensemble. Her first thought was oh god what did he get stabbed with? He looks like he’s been at some BDSM party that went south, in the bad sense, and fast. It was multiple stab wounds to the abdomen and he was ready to be sewn up but wasn’t agreeing to be still despite the pain medicine he’d been given.

“Hey, dude we can we just shhh a little? Bring down the volume a touch?” She asks as the black-haired man turned his head her way. His dark brown eyes were glazed and he was clearly feeling the pain pills. A heavy brow lay low and angry as he sized her up a bit slower than he was accustomed to.

“Who are you?” He asks with a bite.

“I could ask you the same thing. I’m the ER Doctor tonight, Eve Corpuz. And you are?”

“I’m nobody.” He answers at a lower volume.

“Well Nobody, looks like I’ve got to stitch you up. Would you mind if I got to it?” She snaps on her gloves as the nurse pushes a tray with her instruments on it towards her.

“I need to get out of here.” He says, voice now at a more acceptable volume.

“If you let me sew you up you’ll be out of here right after and then we’ll all be happy, alright?” She gives smile his way that was softer than her tone. “I think I’ve got it from here Sherry. I won’t be needing any help will I Nobody? I can sew you up real quick and we can get on with our nights? Since you seem so busy and all?”

He looks to the other nurse and back to the doctor, muscles still tense but in a much more passive body language. “Yeah…okay.” He nods and his clearly scowling eyes kept on the nurse.

“Alright we’re good here. I’ll finish up and you can get Mr. Nobody here some pain control to take home ready?”

“I’ll be back in with the forms.” She responds, another way to let the doctor know she would be close by. After a shared nod, they said, “Yes I’m sure.” She was left alone with the scowling stranger.

“I don’t like her.” He pointed and laid back down on the table.

“That’s fair.” Eve shrugs, seeing a calm and casual approach was working best. “I just want to get you as best prepared as I can to heal up well, alright? I’m not gonna hound you for info like they were. That’s not my job.” She gives a humorous smile as she preps the areas on his stomach.

He blinks at her, looking down at her hands as she touches the wounds, and his nose twitches from pain. He says nothing as his attention is averted and her tone not aggressive and being reasonable with him.

“This part is gonna hurt. I’m not gonna bullshit you alright? But it’s not as bad as being stabbed so… Got me?”

His eyes meet hers. his round and partially, deep-set against full dark brows and goatee against his brown skin. “What kind of doctor says bullshit?” He asks with a head tilt.

“The kind that gets shit done.” She smiles and shrugs. “I’ve been on the other side of this situation before, I know it sucks and I’m not here to be the bad guy. I’m not a snitch… a narc or whatever, I’m just Eve and I wanna help. Because I know what it’s like.” She says earnestly and he doesn’t detect any bullshit as she’d said. He could read people, and he found her a little odd but… genuine.

“You been stabbed before?”

“I have.” She nods. “It fuckin hurts doesn’t it?” She laughs and nods, testing the equipment.

“Yeah. It does.” He gives a huff with a more relaxed expression before wincing.

“Where did you get stabbed?” He asks, brain still trying to read her.

“In the arm.” She nods casually.

“Ow.”

“Yeah ow.” She smiles he continues keeping her focus on cleaning up her space and open her tools.

“Why?” he asks.

“Why did you get stabbed?” she gives him a no-nonsense glance

“I was saving a cat from a tree.” his testy tone was full of pain med induced confidence.

“So did the tree stab you or the cat stab you with a 4-inch blade?”

“The cat.” He responds was as snarkily as she had in their back and forth.

“Mean cat.” She replies with a more casual smile as they begin to feel each other out.

“Yeah. He was a real asshole.”

She begins tapping the area and he doesn’t react. “Think we’re good now. Don’t move, please?”

“Kay.” He nods and lets his head fall back. As she works he watches her face. “So how did you get stabbed?”

“Would you believe a cat got me too?”

He gives a little confused smile. “I wouldn’t actually.”

“Then we have that in common.”

He grunts in appreciation for her attitude. Guess he’d have to work harder to figure her out. She looked warm, yet severe and her faded tattoos peeking out from her collar and sleeves were proving very interesting to him. She didn’t look or more interestingly feel like a doctor to him. He was used to pretending to be things he wasn’t, but if she was, she was better than him at it.

“Looks like I need to get more stuff.” She mutters, looking around the room. She covers two of three wounds and sighs. “I’ll be right back okay?”

“Okay.” He says with a face that she believed. But it wasn’t the first time her caring nature would’ve been taken advantage of, and the entertaining stranger was gone when she returned to the room. Nothing but the blood left behind and a warm indent on the bed. He was good, she thought. Actually, she was downright impressed he got past her. It’d be a headache for paperwork later but a good story to tell at least.

————————————

The next night the stranger named Nobody was the farthest thing from Eve’s mind. She was enjoying her take out, the container in hand, and chopsticks tapping to the playlist titled “classical: chill”. She’d made it to play when she studied in school and during residency and apparently she’d conditioned herself to be more relaxed while she played it.

The sun had just gone down and the winter chill was heavy around her windows. In her functional fashion, she wore sweats and slippers and layers topped with a hoodie. She was swaying and focusing on how good cold lo mein could be. The light of her standing lamp illuminating the solid rectangle of open space that was her kitchen and living room. Much like her fashion, it was cozy and functional. Nothing brash or bold, just neutral colors and lots of comforts.

Eve was winding down to sleep off her last shift, making some time to eat and enjoy herself before having to get back to it the next morning. Her dark hair was damp and twisted on top of her head, glasses mended with floss sat unsecured on her nose as she ate with her eyes closed. During the weeks where she had close shifts she usually took it easy on herself, her hours could vary wildly, and sometimes that worked in her advantage and sometimes it didn’t. But it wasn’t anything new to her. She figured if she made it through residency she could make it through anything, and right now the coziness, the juxtaposition of inside her little warm home and the biting January cold that lay just outside the windows. They sat with curtains that fell ceiling to floor, mostly drawn. Being on the third floor she had never been too worried about anyone seeing into her windows. But perhaps she should have been.

That, forgotten in this moment, Nobody was taking full advantage of the small space left by the curtains. He peered in, watching her. He drummed his gloved fingers over two healed fresh scared marks near his ribs. He could find anything sinister about her. She wasn’t any sort of plant in the hospital and she wasn’t there looking for him. She seemed like a nice enough woman actually, but he knew there had to be something he was missing.

He continued this for days. He would follow her around, trying to figure out what her deal was. He’d become a bit preoccupied with it, as was his nature. Since his return to the city, he’d been going from vigilante case to case to distract himself. It felt like old times in fleeting moments, but when the chaos that had surrounded him recently came rushing back at him, he wasn’t one to wallow in his sadness. Rather it hung around as he decided to go back to doing the thing he knew best. Without connects at the police anymore he was left with that familiar feeling of being a lone wolf . He still wasn’t sure how he felt about it, and it wasn’t on his list of things to contemplate soon. So a mystery woman, ironically enough was what the doctor ordered when it came to distractions.

So far she was pretty boring. As far as people with powers went, he guesses. She liked coffee, take out. Nothing that interesting, except that he was now totally healed, scarred and the pain was only a memory. She was a doctor, sure, but he’d never healed that fast in his life. He’d worked himself up to conspiracy theories of her using some new medicine that was being tested on civilians without their knowledge. But he found nothing of the sort. There wasn’t a lot on her when he searched her name. First-year doctor at a hospital, went to medical school and college, what you’d expect. She spent most of her time working, goes out with some women she works with on occasion, then went home. No following her to a seedy alley for a secret meeting or her making coded phone calls. No, she was just a woman who left her curtains open and he felt like he’d hit a wall on the investigation. So for now, she remained a collection of scribbled notes in his apartment.

His other antics, most that involved fighting and men with guns and knives, understandably led to frequent injuries for him, most ones he could handle. But it just so happened next time he got really hurt, he knew exactly which doctor to go to.

—————

Eve got there early, a shoulder gunshot wound and a split open brow. A not unusual combination. She approached the room, and no one but her seemed to recognize the man that lay in the bed.

She noticed he looked almost relieved at the sight of her, which she wasn’t used to.

“I got it.” She says a nod to the nurse as he approaches him.

“Listen, Doc you gotta get me out of here.” He begins.

“Yeah I knew that was you…” she gives him a side-eye. “I think you need either new hobbies or new friends because this is the second time in what… a month you’re in here?

“You do recognize me.”

“Of course I do you know how much of a pain in the ass paperwork is when you disappear?”

“No.”

“Clearly since you ran last time.” She says more severely as she begins the usual process again.

“Look, I saw an opportunity and I took it. Nothing personal.” he offers with a shake of his head. “ This time there’s gonna be cops and you can’t let them in here. They’ll see me and arrest me and I don’t want that.”

“What’d you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why do they want to arrest you?”

“Because they think I did something.”

“Did you…?”

“No.”

She considers his eyes for a moment, whether he was being honest or not. “…What’s your name?”

“So you can tell the cops, yeah no thanks.”

“Fair…Then tell me how you got stabbed.” It was more of a demand than a request. A terms of service agreement for her involvement.

“I was after a bad guy and he fought back, then more bad guys showed up and one of them got me.” his response was as vague as he could get away with, they both knew that.

“You’re the good guy in this instance?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you some undercover…something-er-other?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Just a wanted criminal?”

“Wanted. Not a criminal.”

She sighs and he hisses as she begins to work on him. He notices her lips purse and her eyes making a decision beyond watching the work she was doing?

“Doctor Corpuz, there are some policemen that want to ask you some questions.

“Tell them I’m finishing up a procedure, to stay by the front desk and I’ll be out.”

“Yes, Doctor.” the nurse bows.

“Are you gonna help me or not?”

She stays quiet, finishing up sewing and reaching for a bandage. “Yeah.” she nods.

“Good, I didn’t want to have to hurt you.”

She swings her eyes his way in a clear glare that told him she did not find his joke funny. “You aren’t helping your case any random nobody who’s been stabbed multiple times in the past month. You clearly are good at making decisions, maybe I should tell them about you.” she retorts with more sting and she gives his stomach a harsher pat before moving away.

“Uh…it was..it would be funny if you knew me. I don’t want to hurt you…Eve Corpuz.” he glances at the tag and then her face.

“No, we’re back on a Doctor-patient relationship now.”

“But you’re still gonna help me get out?”

“Yes, fuck, I said I would already.” she shakes her head at him and motions for him to sit up. “I’ll have them at the front desk and distract them, and you go out the back way. You’ll get some attention, but not from them.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re the coolest doctor they’ve ever met?”

“They haven’t actually. Usually, they’re too busy screaming in pain when we meet.” she cleans the space and begins to walk out the door as he catches her wrist.

“Thanks. Doctor. Eve. Whatever.”

“Well, you’ll owe me I guess. What good that does me when I don’t even know you’re name, huh? Just get out as quietly as possible, alright? Don’t make me regret this.”

“You won’t.” he nods and releases his grip on her.

#diego hargreeves #diego hargreeves fanfic #diego gargeeves x ofc #tua fanfic #david castaneda #tua fandom #tua fan fic #tua fan fiction #diego hargreeves fic #diego hargreeves fan fiction

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angst-king · 3 years

Text

Misery loves Company

((this is a chronic illness AU for BNHA, no quirks. Tw contains mention of vomit, and seizuring) He wakes up every morning feeling tired, achy, and weak. His throat is sore and his nose is stuffy, his breathing is very wheezy and labored. He grumbles but that doesn’t stop his morning routine coughing fit. He would cough and cough until his body decided it was done, or that he was gonna throw up like today. Gagging after one last cough, he covered his mouth with one hand and grabbed the trash can with the other and vomited. This is the time Ito comes in to check on him. Knocking on the door, she calls out. “Eijirou honey, you awake?” Through a raspy voice when he could stop vomiting he would answer “yes! I’m awake” Which would be followed by another coughing fit, today though he felt worse. His head was hurting, his throat was very painful and scratchy, his entire body was so weak that just sitting up was a chore. He was cold and feld more congested than usual. Ito opens the door a little as she hears her son coughing, peaking in she frowned seeing Eijirou coughing.

She’d grown used to this a few years ago but that didn’t keep her numb from feeling so bad for this boy. Her morning routines always consisted of checking up on her son to see how he was feeling, seeing if he needed help with getting ready in the morning or just checking his vitals. She approaches her son and sits besides him rubbing his back in gentle soothing circles with soft pats to help him cough. “Good job Eiji, good. I know this sucks first thing in the morning.” She says in a quiet voice to calm him, when he stopped coughing, she then asked. “Feel like you might vomit again, hun?” Eijirou shook his head before making a little whimpering sound, Ito got up and went to grab the trash can and tell him. “I’ll go and clean this out, let yourself rest before you start doing anything okay.” Clearing his throat Eijirou nods and lays back into the pillows of his bed. Ito walks out of his room leaving the sick boy alone to clean out the trash can.

While she was gone, Eijirou assessed his current condition and how he was feeling. He felt like utter crap at the moment and he’s been feeling like this for about a week now and he knows that if he gets any worse then he’ll end up in the ER. He doesn’t wanna go there, and he and Ito have made an agreement that if he gets too sick for a certain amount of days or shows a horrific change in symptoms then no matter if he wants to or not, he needs to go to the ER. He hoped he wouldn’t get that bad but with the way he was feeling today it may be a slim chance but so far it's been a steady flare, no fever high fever, no persistent seizures, vomiting, or struggling to breath but. Today he felt worse, maybe by ten percent but that wasn’t a bad thing? It would sort itself out right? Oh he hoped it would.

He knew he needed to take his medicines but he was so tired that he just went back to laying down. Rubbing his temples he sunk back under the warm inviting covers. Sighing he pushed his messy case of bedhead out of his face, closing his eyes hoping to go back to sleep. He really needed to rest as vomiting like that took the energy out of him. By the time Eijiro had fallen completely asleep again his mom had come back, she sighed seeing him asleep. She came over and set the trash can back in its usual spot for just in case reasons and reached over to feel Eijirou’s forehead. It was a tad bit warm but this was normal with a flare up, as long as it didn’t get any worse he would just have to let this run its course.

There were many days where Ito felt so bad for Eijirou. On nights where he was coughing up his dinner, or having a seizure day, or was in so much pain that it made him seizure and tremor the entire day. Where it left him wheelchair bound, where it brought Eijirou to his knees with small tears raining down his flushed face. She was there for him, she was there to witness the good, the meh, the bad and the horrible. She wished every night for a miracle that at least one of his illnesses would just disappear and never come back! Though she knew it wasn’t possible, that didn’t stop her from praying every night. She was so proud, her son was so strong for being so brave and not giving up due to his conditions.

Letting him sleep in, the teen didn’t wake up until ten thirty am, now he really needed to start his medicines. He didn’t feel any better but there was no point in procrastinating even if he didn’t have much motivation or strength to do it. So he got ready for the day, getting out of bed on shaky aching legs, he had to hold onto the night stand so he could stand up properly. He made his bed partially enough for if he wanted to crawl back in it or just lay on top of it. Then he went and brushed his teeth to try and get the horrible acidic taste of vomit out of his mouth and washed out the slimy mucus in his mouth. Blowing his nose to try and give himself a chance to breathe through his nose was a fruitless attempt. Leaving his hair down for this he just tied some of it back and out of his face. He wasn’t going to bother changing out of his pajamas, that was way too much effort that would most likely go to waste today.

Before he started his medicines and airway clearing therapy, he grabbed his thermometer from the nightstand and took his temperature. Keeping the tool under his tongue until it beeped, muffling coughs long enough for the results. “39 c (100.5 F) not bad at all, this is normal for days like this” He sighed while talking to himself, he wiped the thermometer with a sanitizer wipe and put it back in its tiny casing and back on the nightstand. He then gets up and heads over to his closet and grabs his vibrate vest and kit, he also grabs his medicines for his breathing treatment therapy. Moving around wasn’t helping his head ache, his coughing, or his aching limbs but. Things had to be done and he didn’t wanna ask his mom to get stuff for him, he didn’t think that was manly.

First he slipped the vest on, then grabbed his nebulizer and put in the medicines before turning on both machines. He sticks the nebulizer into his mouth and grabs at his nose, shutting it so the medicine would go down and into his lungs. The vest vibrated his entire body like a massage chair but not for the same usage. The vibration of the vest was to shake up the mucus enough for him to cough it up, the breathing treatment thinned it out so he wasn’t coughing up such thick sludge. It was an hour long process of hacking and coughing but he wanted to get better. It felt like there was more mucus for him to cough up though, like his body was just getting sicker. The hour long process had him spent in the end, he was still gasping for air and his lungs still felt clogged. His throat was on fire, and his arms were trembling so much.

Even though he didn’t want to, he got ready for breakfast. He grabbed his epilepsy medicine, his vitamins, and his other cystic fibrosis medications, and went down to the kitchen. Each step he takes causes shock waves of tingles and pain up his legs, but it's tolerable. Finally getting downstairs he sees Ito in the kitchen video chatting while drinking her coffee. “Hi momma, who ya talking to?” He asked after clearing his throat, she looked over and smiled “I’m talking to mommy” She said gesturing to her phone, Kirishima peered over and gave a tired smile seeing his other mom through the video chat. “Hi Eiji, momma told me you’re not feeling too good.” “hey mommy, y-yeah I’m not feeling all that great today, haven’t been for almost a week now but, it’ll pass like always.” He reassures his moms as he sets his medicines down on the kitchen island, he goes into the fridge and grabs a chocolate protein shake.

He goes back to the island while his parents talk and he takes his medicine. “I hope so Eiji, but you always manage to pull through.” “yup, he’s tough just like you Emily.” Ito chuckles, smiling fondly while ruffling Eijirou’s hair playfully. “You mean you Ito dear, I don’t know how you do it, I don’t know how I’d do it all on my own with him.” “That's what I thought, but I managed.” Looking over at Eijirou as he swallowed his pills, Ito makes the comment “Eiji honey, I think you’ve been losing weight.” Raising a brow at this, Eijirou looked down at himself and shrugged “maybe?” Emily giggles and comments “Eiji you need to pay more attention to your body, i know that weight loss isn’t gonna be very visible for you since you live in your pajamas most of the time.” Eijirou nods before grunting and putting down the half-drink protein shake to grab at his head. Ito knew something was wrong when he did this “you okay hun?” “N-no, my head hurts so much.” He coughed and began to stumble, Ito immediately grabs ahold of him, she knows what’s gonna happen next and sets Eijirou on the floor. “Sweetheart, I need you to lay down okay, you’re gonna have a seizure.” Ito instructs, Eijirou lays on his side like he always did in these situations. It made it harder for him to breath but this was safer than laying on his back or stomach. Ito stood up momentarily to tell Emily she’d call her later, Emily understood the situation and wished them luck.

It was just as Ito turned her phone off when Eijirou began to convulse on the floor. Ito rushes down to help him, keeping him on his side, holding his head so it doesn’t bang against the wood floors. There wasn’t much she could do for him except keep him safe. She has to wait this out and luckily she doesn’t have any appliances running except the fridge so there’s no worry of time. When the seizure ended she sighed in relief, he was safe to move. So she lifted him up and into her arms and carried him up the stairs back to his room. Putting him on his bed she lays him on top of the covers and plays the pillows in a way to keep him on his side so he can’t roll over and suffocate. When she could, she would stay with Eijirou during his recovery times, especially times where he was feeling extra ill. Once he was situated on his bed, she went into his closet and grabbed his medical supplies bag that had stuff for going out places. The boy is homeschooled but he could go places like the store, restaurants, and other places but. He always wore a mask in those types of places and was rather cautious.

Grabbing the weighted blanket from the bag she loosely places it on Eijirou knowing it would keep him relaxed when he wakes up. She checked his temp with an ear thermometer when he’s not awake enough to use an oral one. It was still 39 c (100.5F), but it didn’t rise. Now she had to wait for him to wake up which shouldn’t take very long. She stayed on the bed with him, combing her fingers through his messy tangled red hair. She couldn’t help but think of how much her son looked with red hair. At first his hair was black like hers and Emily's but he wanted to dye it red because he needed a change to make him feel a little less miserable. His favorite music artist, Crimson riot, had red hair and he’d becomes Kirishima’s idle cause he promoted the great idea that ‘everyone’s got set back, it's what you do about it that counts, do your best and live your life without regrets’ Eijirou loved it so much he lived by in and in his own words that’s how he wanted to be as a man and in one word he called it manly. Some think it's silly but this was one of the few things keeping him alive.

When Eijirou woke up, he was dazed and confused. Looking around he sees his mom and hesitantly reaches out for her, touching her arm to alert her he’d woken up. Ito’s eyes dart down at him and she smiles “hey there Eijiro” eijirou returns the smile with a tired one of his own before he says. “i-i’m gonna go to sleep..m’tire” His words slurred with exhaustion and his eyes drooped. Ito nods, kisses her son’s forehead and gets up from the bed. “Alright love, I’ll let you rest okay, seems like you need it.” Getting comfortable on the bed and curling up under his weighted blanket, he coughs himself back to sleep.

#chronically ill Kirishima #kirishima has two moms #chronic illness au #bnha

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writingblock101 · 4 years

Text

Flu Season (Jason Todd x Reader)

In this time of quartine, a sick fic seemed appropriate.

Word Count: 1,100

You woke up sweaty with a pounding headache in an empty bed. You groan, rolling over and curling into Jason’s pillow. He’s away with the Outlaws, but with the way you’re feeling right now, you wish he was here. You pull the comforter closer around you to help with the shivering and drift back to sleep.

When you wake up again, your throat is burning, your nose is stuffy, and your head feels as if it’s filled with cotton. You’re still sweaty, yet shivering and your body aches, but the nail in the coffin is when you feel bile forcing its way up your throat.

You throw back your covers frantically and sprint into the bathroom, promptly throwing up into the toilet. Once you finish puking, you groan, resting your head against the cool bowl then weakly flush the toilet.

Great. I have the flu.

While you wish Jason was here to take care of you, you’re partially relieved he isn’t here because the last thing you want is for Jason to get sick. You drag yourself to your feet, bracing your hands on either side of your sink to brush your teeth.

After rising your mouth out and thoroughly brushing away the taste of puke, you grip the sides of the sink again, feeling a wave of dizziness. For a brief moment, you make eye contact with yourself in the mirror then the next thing you know you’re on the floor.

“What the…?” You look around your bathroom in dazed confusion, your head pounding and your elbows sore from your apparent fall?

Did you pass out? Well, that’s not good. The room spins around you, the floor is freezing, and wow, you really hope you don’t puke again. You take a moment, laying back on the floor to get your bearings and beg for your head to stop spinning for one moment.

Just breathe, in through your nose and out through your mouth. Breathing always helps right? You groan again, curling into yourself. You’re shivering, but the cool tile feels so nice on your face, but holy crap, your body is so cold!

The conflict between your burning face and freezing body reminds you of being sunburnt, but still trying to sleep under the covers. One minute, you’re burning up, but then you get rid of the covers and your whole body starts shivering.

Once it seems that the room has stopped spinning, you shakily get to your feet, gripping the sink again. Man, that was a stupid idea.

. . .

“Y/N,” You hear someone call you name. “Y/N, can you hear me? Shit,” Wait… You know that voice.

You open your eyes blearily to discover you are laying on the bathroom floor again but this time, a worried Jason is kneeling over you.

“Jason?” You ask groggily, holding your head.

“How long have you been laying here?” Jason asks, helping you into a sitting position.

“Uh…” You look around the bathroom. “I dunno… What time is it?”

Jason raises his eyebrows.

“Three o’clock.”

You grimace. You came into your bathroom around 1:30.

“Like… An hour and a half?” You groan.

Jason frowns, feeling your forehead.

“You’re burning up,” He runs his fingers through your hair, pausing to lightly scratch at your scalp.

“Yeah, I think I have a fever,” You mutter back, leaning into Jason’s absentminded touch, but you quickly pull away when you start coughing.

Your throat burns and your chest aches as each cough rattles your ribs to the point where you are barely pulling in air. You gasp for air, another cough forcing itself out of your throat while Jason rubs your back until you finally stop coughing, collapsing backward against him, exhausted.

“Alright, well let’s get you off the floor then,” He decides, scooping you up and carrying you back to bed. “Have you drank anything today?”

“No,” You respond horsely while he helps you under the covers. “I’ve been unconscious on the floor for most of the day.”

Jason chuckles with a shake of his head then stands up and goes into the kitchen. You doze off, your head still pounding, but your stomach wasn’t rolling anymore. He returns with a cold glass of water and a box of tissues.

You gratefully gulp down the water, soothing your burning throat and blow your nose a few times, grimacing at the thick mucus.

“Gross,” You groan, tossing the tissues in the trash can Jason is holding out to you. “I thought you didn’t get back for a few more days.”

Jason shrugs.

“The mission didn’t take as long as we expected. I’m guessing you haven’t ate today?”

“I don’t wanna eat anything,” You grumble. “I’ll just puke it up again.”

Jason frowns, pushing back a few stray strands of hair sticking to the sweat on your forehead.

“You need to eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know, but if you throw up again, it’s better to throw up food instead of straight stomach acid.”

You grumble, but you know he’s right.

“Fine,” You mumble.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make some of that soup you like,” Jason promises, kissing your forehead then heads to the kitchen to make your promised soup.

You doze off again, breathing through your mouth since your nose was too stuffed up to let any air in when a cool rag across your head wakes you up. You open your eyes to Jason wiping a cool rag across your head and holding a bowl of soup.

“Just eat a little of this then you can take some medicine, okay? Trust me, you don’t want to take anything on an empty stomach.”

Despite the soup tasting delicious, you’re only able to eat a few spoonfuls before your stomach starts rolling again. Jason frowns but gives you a few pills which you take with a sip of water before you resettle in bed.

He joins you in bed, sitting behind you so you can lean against his chest then turns on the TV in your shared room, enjoying a mindless show.

“You know, you probably shouldn’t be laying with me right now,” You murmur to him.

Jason chuckles, wrapping his arms around you.

“If I get sick it’ll be worth it. Besides, I already have your cooties,” He kisses the side of your head while you roll your eyes.

“Oh yeah, gotta be careful of those cooties, they’re a killer.”

“A very serious epidemic,” Jason agrees thoughtfully.

You giggle, tucking your head under Jason’s chin. While you still feel like hell, it’s nice to have Jason with you. He runs his fingers through your hair, occasionally kissing the side of your head. Eventually, between listening to his steady breathing and feeling his fingers in your hair, you drift off.

You’ll still feel terrible in the morning, but at least your nurse is cute.

Request are open! I’ll be posting a prompt thing soon to celebrate 450 followers so check that out too!

#Jason is really good at taking care of sick people because he took care of his mom a lot #so theres a fun head cannon that I'm sure someone has done before for ya'#bruh this quarantine sucks #i have no inspiration #i need PEOPLE #i need OUTSIDE #maybe I'll go for a run just to get inside my head a little bit #I come up with so many plots in the car and walking around #BUT I HAVE NO WHERE TO DRIVE TO #and I'm not walking to class cause now I'm home for the semester #btw online classes suck #I hate it #thanks for coming to my TED Talk #if you read all these tags #you are the strongest avenger and I love you #shoot me a message if you do just cause I'm curious if anyone reads my tags #I read y'alls tags #they are very encouraging and I love them #PLEASE put tags when you reblog #and I don't mean my tags #I love seeing how y'all tag stuff #my fav tag was on i think For the Kingdom and it was I am shook #I started cracking up it was great #jason todd #red hood #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #sick fic!#jason todd headcanon #red hood headcannon

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thelastspeecher · 4 years

Text

I can’t think of a good title, so I’m not gonna give this a title.

A little while ago, I got in a major mood for my Stay-at-Home Stan AU (my AU where Stan becomes a stay-at-home dad), to the point that I wanted to write a thing for it, but couldn’t think of one. Luckily, @bluestuffeh came up with a premise. So, here’s Stan, the legendary stay-at-home dad, helping Ford, the legendary mess, with a parenting problem.

Enjoy.

——————————————————————————————

Stan strolled into the house, whistling. He dropped his keys in the bowl by the door.

Well, this is what life is gonna be like when the girls finally start school. His hands on his hips, he looked around the living room. Danny and Daisy had just been dropped off at some summer program being thrown by the local library. They were finally old enough to do the activities alone, so Stan was trying to get used to spending the day at home on his own. After all, they would be starting kindergarten in the fall.

“What am I supposed to do?” Stan muttered to himself.

It’s been so long since I did something other than take care of them. I forgot what I can do with free time. Stan frowned thoughtfully. Hobbies are a thing, right? I haven’t been able to have hobbies for five years. What did I like before I became a dad? I know there was at least one thing.

“You could always do some cleaning,” Angie’s voice said in the back of Stan’s mind. Stan thought on that for a moment.

Nah. Trying to remember what hobbies I have is better. Before Stan could spend any more time thinking, the phone rang. He sighed in relief. Good. Coming up with hobbies sucks. He walked over to the phone.

“McGucket residence,” he said, picking up the phone. “Stan speaking.”

“Stanley, good, I- I need your help,” Ford’s voice said desperately. Stan pinched the bridge of his nose.

“What did you do this time?”

“Nothing!”

“Really? The last two times you needed my help, it was ‘cause ya made a deal with a demon or weren’t observing proper lab safety.”

“I disagree with Angie’s assessment of my behavior in the lab.”

“She’s got a PhD, too, Ford. And I trust her a bit more with science, since she’s never grown wings.”

“Despite you calling her your angel,” Ford muttered. Stan flushed. During his last visit, Ford had overheard Stan trying out new pet names for Angie. And he refused to let Stan live it down.

“All right, guess ya don’t need my help, then,” Stan said briskly.

“No, wait! I- I really do,” Ford said quickly. “But it’s not because of something affecting me. It’s Tate.” That got Stan’s attention. He straightened.

“Did another supernatural whatsit try to adopt him?” he asked.

“No, he’s sick.”

“Okay. What’s he sick with?”

“He claims it’s the flu, but his symptoms don’t align with influenza.” Ford’s panic was evident in his voice. Stan could picture Ford running his hands through his hair, practically pulling it out in distress. “He also says he’s had it before! Stanley, what’s-”

“Geez, Sixer, calm down,” Stan said, exasperated. “Kids get sick all the time. Don’t you remember how often we puked our guts up when we were Tate’s age?”

“Um. Yes?”

“Look, it’s probably nothing. Just ask Fidds what to do.”

“He’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“A conference.” Ford’s voice rose in pitch. “Stanley, it’s the first time I’ve been left in charge of Tate on my own!”

“Really?” Stan asked. “He’s lived in Gravity Falls with you and Fidds for a year.” Ford spluttered for a few moments.

“I- his ex-step-mother doesn’t have much faith in my childcare abilities, and she still has partial custody of him, so legally she has a say in who watches him.”

“Right.” Stan rubbed his forehead. “Jenny still hates your guts, huh?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Stanley, I don’t know what to do, what if Tate’s seriously ill? He’s clearly delirious if he’s claiming he has influenza and he’s vomiting,” Ford said in a rush. Stan raised an eyebrow.

“He’s puking?”

“Yes! I know we vomited as children, but-”

“Ford. He doesn’t have the actual flu.”

“Of course not, his symptoms-”

“He’s got stomach flu.”

“…What?” Ford asked, dumbfounded. Stan leaned against the wall, playing with the phone cord.

“Stomach flu. The girls had it last year. I’ve seen some messes, but twin toddlers exploding from both ends? Might have been the worst.”

“What’s a stomach flu?”

“You-” Stan kneaded his forehead. “How do you not know what the stomach flu is? You’ve got a doctorate!”

“Not in medicine!”

“Yeah, but-” Stan huffed. “You’re falling into that trap of having so much education you forgot the basics.”

“Pardon?”

“Angie does it sometimes. She says that because she’s learned so much in her specialty, she sometimes forgets the things people first learn.” Stan adjusted his position. “Anyways, stomach flu is called…I forget the science word for it. It’s not the actual flu, it’s an infection of your digestive tract. Or something like that.” Stan frowned. “Uh, the girls had…I think it’s called a rotavirus. Most adults aren’t very vulnerable to it, but kids get them a lot. Could be what Tate has. If it is, all ya gotta do is manage his symptoms and wait for him to get better on his own.” Ford was silent for a moment.

“How do you know so much about this?” he asked quietly.

“Whenever anyone in her family gets sick, Angie goes nuts researching the illness.” Stan sighed. “It always makes her more paranoid, so I don’t really like it.”

“Why do you let her do it?”

“I can’t ‘let’ my wife do anything, Stanford.” Stan stretched. “It’s not super harmful for her to do, so I just complain a bit. She usually backs off once she realizes what she’s doing. Anyways, when the girls got their stomach bug, she rattled off all sortsa stuff about it. Even while she was sleeping.”

“She’s a sleeptalker?”

“Yeah.” Stan grinned. “It’s somethin’ else when someone who’s dead asleep is giving you a science lecture.”

“Hmm.” Ford cleared his throat. “So, this is likely a viral intestinal infection?”

“Probably.”

“So there’s no reason for me to take him to the emergency room?”

“Sweet Moses, Ford, no! Don’t do that!” Stan yelped.

“Wh-”

“You’ll just run up a bill and the docs ‘ll send ya away with Pepto-Bismol. Not to mention, shit sometimes goes down at ERs. Just keep him home and make sure he drinks plenty of fluids. Make him soup, give him juice and water. Has he had the Hershey squirts yet?” Stan asked. Ford let out a long-suffering sigh.

“No, Tate has not had any diarrhea.”

“He probably will. Be prepared for that.”

“Great,” Ford mumbled. “…Thank you, Stanley.”

“No problem, Sixer.” Stan chewed on his lip. “Next time-”

“Next time?!”

“Ford, I literally told you five minutes ago that kids get sick all the time. Kids are germ factories that play with other germ factories and don’t know not to eat dirt.”

“I knew not to eat dirt,” Ford muttered.

“Well, not all kids do. Tate’s gonna get sick again. And again. And again. Part of being a parent is dealing with that. Calmly. You can’t act like the world’s ending every time Tate pukes. Take it in stride. Give him some 7-Up and crackers, let him lay down and watch TV, and just keep an eye on him. Nine times outta ten, kids puke once and then they’re fine.”

“What if Tate gets worse?”

“Then you take him to see the doc. But you don’t make a big deal outta it. Kids pick up on how grownups act. If a grownup is panicking, kids are gonna panic, too. Even if you wanna scream, you keep it to yourself.” Ford was silent.

“I feel I’ve become a fool, Stanley,” he said after a moment.

“Nah. You’re just a first-time parent. You think I was this good at being a dad when I started out? No! I freaked out all the time! You get used to it. And if you feel like you’re doing something wrong, you can always call me. The girls are doing a thing at the library all summer, so I’m home alone during the day.” Stan grinned. “I kinda like telling my genius brother things he didn’t know, anyways.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Ford said. Stan could hear the eye roll in Ford’s voice. “I…I really do appreciate that, though. Fiddleford will be gone for a few more days. I’ve prepared as best as I can, but-”

“Kids torpedo all your plans,” Stan said, nodding.

“Yes.”

“Now that you’ve calmed down a bit, you should probably go check on Tate. Make sure you set him up near a bathroom and make him some soup. Tate likes the canned cream of chicken.”

“I believe we have some of that in the kitchen.”

“Warm it up for him, then. And get off the phone. I’ll help you with big things, but I’m not gonna hold your hand for this part. You know how to take care of a stomach bug.”

“…Yes, I do.” Ford chuckled softly. “Suddenly, I can recall all of the times we became sick with clarity.”

“Yep. Panicking makes you ignore things sometimes.”

“You are correct.” Ford took a breath. “Thank you, again.”

“No problem. Go take care of your kid.”

“I will. Goodbye.”

“Bye.” Stan hung up the phone. He looked up at the ceiling blankly for a few minutes, wistfully remembering some of Danny and Daisy’s firsts. After a while, he broke free of the memories. He was glad to have had those moments with his daughters, but he was also glad they were in the past. Panicked phone calls to Angie’s parents weren’t something he missed. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“So…what hobbies do dads have?”

#I've said it before and I'll say it again: dad Stan is best Stan #DAD STAN IS BEST STAN HE'S SO QUALITY #that man was MEANT to be a dad #Stanley Pines #Stanford Pines #Stay at Home Stan AU #ficlet #my writing #my stuff #speecher speaks

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dabiapologist · 5 years

Text

[My Hero Academia Fanfiction]: Fever Dream, Chapter 2

Pairing: Dabihawks, hawksdabi, hotwings, spicywings

Characters: Dabi (My Hero Academia), Hawks (My Hero Academia), Todoroki Enji | Endeavor, Shigaraki Tomura | Shimura Tenko, Usagiyama Rumi | Miruko, Toga Himiko

Rated T

Word Count: 3.4k

Chapter 2/3(?)

Tags: i've always wanted to write a sick fic, Don't Judge Me, Sick Fic, Fluff, bratty dabi is my favorite dabi, chock full of cliched tropes, and im not sorry, tfw you catch feelings for your annoying villain liaison

Summary:

"Endeavor-san? Quick question."

"What is it? I'm busy right now."

"How do you know if you're sick?"

"...excuse me?"

"Like, how do you know if you're running a fever? Do you even get fevers?"

"Why?"

"Uh, um, just curious?"

On the other end, he hears Endeavor sigh in annoyance. "Of all the things, Hawks, Why would you be curious about that?"

"Well," Hawks chews his lip anxiously as he turns to look back over his shoulder, back at the sizzling bundle of blankets on his couch.

Sizzling.

Oh. That's probably not a good sign.

// Chapter 1: In Good Conscience //

Read it on || AO3

Chapter 2: Sick Day

It is way too quiet right now.

That is Hawks’ first conscious thought when he wakes up. The fact that he even managed to squirrel away a few hours of uninterrupted rest is already worrying in and of itself, though he’s not ungrateful for it. It’s been ages since he got a good night’s rest. Or any rest, for that matter.

Hawks’ eyes crack open and he bolts upright in bed, fully awake and immediately on his guard, still wearing his hero costume and even his boots. Though at the moment, he is glad for that, as the double doors that lead out to his balcony are still propped open, allowing the freezing morning air to filter in unencumbered into his bedroom.

He walks over and gently closes them, shivering when one final draft enters through the tiny slit in the door before he brings them together.

And now, with the doors closed tight and the noise of the city traffic below effectively blocked out and silenced, the silence throughout Hawks’ apartment is even more pronounced. And eerie.

Knowing who is sleeping just over in the next room, Hawks wasn’t sure what to expect come morning, but it definitely wasn’t this unnerving quiet.

“He’s probably still out cold,” Hawks jokes to himself, somewhat anxiously. Fuck. Thinking back on it, he did headbutt Dabi kind of hard. And for all of his attitude and apathy and hair-trigger pyromania, Dabi really isn’t all that hardy of a person, physically speaking.

Hawks makes a worried noise as he feels the small but painful bump on his own forehead. Crap. Hope I didn’t give him a concussion.

He quickly sheds his hero costume, still somewhat damp and vaguely weird-smelling from the heavy rains last night and changes into a long sleeved thermal shirt and sweats. He lets out a pleased sound as he feels some warmth immediately start to seep back into his frame.

“I wonder if he’s really still out,” He wonders out loud as he leaves the room, cracking a grin,“I bet I could just lay on him for a few minutes and not be cold anymore.”

He promptly shuts up, however, when he sees that the door to his guest bedroom is cracked open slightly. Last night was a blur, for sure, but Hawks is certain that he did close the door after depositing Dabi’s lifeless husk onto the bed and tossing a bunch of blankets over him. He looks down the hall, to the bathroom. The door is open and the light is off. He’s not there, either.

Hawks turns his attention back to the guest room, listening for any sign of the villain. Nothing.

“Dabi?” He whispers into the thin crack in the door, “You up?”

His voice rises an octave. “You alive?”

No answer.

“Yo!” He calls a bit louder, gently pushing the door open with a finger. “Dabi, are y- uh…”

Nervous quickly turns to annoyed. “...What the fresh fuck…” Hawks scoffs as he takes in the state of the room. The lamp and nightstand are both overturned on the floor, and the glass of water and medicine he had so kindly set out for Dabi are also on the floor, though thankfully at least the medicine is still capped and unopened. One of the fancy carved spires of the headboard has been somehow knocked clean off and is sitting next to his foot. How the hell Dabi even managed to do that, or why, is beyond Hawks.

Also, and most notably, there is a giant burn spot in the middle of his very nice, very expensive guest mattress. Hawks’ eye starts to twitch. That mattress was almost a hundred and twenty-five thousand yen.

But amidst the surprisingly not on fire wreckage that was once his expertly decorated guest room, Dabi himself is nowhere to be found. And for that matter, neither is any of Hawks’ bedding.

Hawks blinks once. Twice.

“Did this motherfucker really just make off with all my blankets?”He asks himself, shaking his head, trying to wrap his brain around the idea, and failing. Unbelievable. “What a dick. This is what I get for trying to be nice. ”

He grumbles loudly, combing his fingers through his hair as he leaves the room. Well, Dabi was never one to show any type of consideration or respect for anyone, let alone any understanding of basic social etiquette. Hawks supposes he really shouldn’t be surprised, in that respect. It’s not like Dabi would suddenly become a considerate person just because he was sick.

But still. Did he really have to run off with all of Hawks’ extra sheets? Where the hell would he even put any of it?

Actually, he takes it back. He’s seen the state of Dabi’s so called apartment building. It’s basically condemned, and barely has power. Yeah, he figures, Dabi probably needs all those extra sheets way more than he does.

Feeling a headache coming on, Hawks decides to wash his hands of the whole situation. Dabi’s gone, so it’s no longer his concern. “Whatever, I tried. I guess it’s not my problem anymore, then.” He mutters to himself.

He stops in the bathroom and goes about his morning routine, pushing all thought of the night before from his mind, instead focusing on what he’s going to busy himself with today. His days off are few and very, very, very far between, by his design mostly, and only really happen when his sidekicks gang up on him and bully him into taking a day off before he burns out.

He knows deep down that they’re right, but fuck. That doesn’t make it any less boring.

With a wide yawn, he leaves the bathroom, scratching under his shirt as he ambles towards the kitchen. “I guess I could just get some takeout, and catch up on that sh-fwwwahh!”

Thankfully, he lives alone, so there is no one around to hear the loud, undignified squawk Hawks lets out when he trips over something on the floor and falls face-first onto the carpeted floor.

God, if his sidekicks could’ve seen that.

Hawks knows he isn’t the most graceful creature in the morning, but he’s not messy either. Wondering just what the hell it was he tripped over, he sits up on his knees and looks back.

A black boot.

A very familiar black boot.

“Uh…”

Hawks rises to his feet, still staring down at it, puzzled. “He left without one of his shoes. Okay.”

Now mulling that over, unsure of whether he’s amused by it or not, Hawks continues on his way to the kitchen.

And it’s not long before he stumbles across the other boot. The other boot, plus Dabi’s overcoat and belt, seem to make a beeline across his carpet, past the kitchen into the living room.

Feeling a distinct heaviness beginning to weigh in his belly, Hawks pads curiously along the fabric trail, following the haphazardly discarded garments out into his living room. There he finds Dabi’s pants, sitting on the steps that lead down to the entertainment room.

Hawks’ eyebrows rise at that.

“He’s not wearing pants…?” Hawks asks aloud, hands on his hips. What the actual fuck is happening right now?

He never took Dabi for that kind of guy, yet here he is, staring down at Dabi’s dingy and ill-fitting pants, lying in a heap on the floor. Curiously, he toes at them, and Dabi’s box of cigarettes slides out of one of the pockets. The burner phone he uses to contact Hawks is already sitting some feet away, face down and probably cracked.

The window shades are all down, casting a somber but peaceful grey over the room, and, Hawks notices, the TV is on but both dimmed to the darkest setting and the volume is very low.

“Huh.”

He walks over and tugs on one of the shades, allowing some sunlight into the room.

“Close it,” A new, albeit familiar voice suddenly groans from somewhere behind him, nearly startling Hawks out of his own skin. Hawks could slap himself. He really needs his morning red bull, he thinks, because this is just shameful. Even with his quirk, he didn’t feel another presence in the room. He either needs an energy drink or he needs to go back to sleep for another twelve hours.

Slowly pulling the shade back down, Hawks chances a glance over his shoulder, looking in the direction of the couch. He already has a feeling he knows what he’s going to find. And sure enough, tucked in the L of the couch, with all of Hawks’ missing bedding piled on top of him in a giant nest of fabric, is Dabi. Although at the moment, the only way Hawks knows that it’s Dabi is by his voice, albeit much lower and more hoarse than normal, and by the familiar shock of black hair poking out from the bottom of the mound. The visible portion of his face is partially burrowed into one of the couch throw pillows. Hawks can just make out one bleary blue eye, glaring at him.

“Close it,” Dabi mumbles again.

“I did.”

“Close it!”

“I di-- It is closed!” Hawks says loudly, pointedly motioning to the closed shade. But Dabi is already groaning exaggeratedly as he rolls over under his blanket pile, facing his back to Hawks and curling more into himself.

Hawks exhales loudly.

Oh, boy.

Briefly taking in the scene, if it were anyone else... it could almost be called cute. Like a little kid staying home from school, Dabi is all bundled up and watching infomercials on TV until the good stuff comes on. All he needs is a bowl of soup and a nice, nerdy set of pajamas.

There is a faint sense of nostalgia in it, too. Hawks used to do the same thing when he was small. Hell, he still does it now, as an adult, on those rare instances where the planets align perfectly and he allows himself to acknowledge that he’s feeling under the weather.

Although to be honest, he’s not exactly sure how he feels about having that in common with Dabi, of all people. They’re more alike than he is comfortable admitting; pushing through whatever is in their path, stubbornly trudging forward until they either overcome it by sheer willpower alone or they are overtaken by it. They’re a lot alike, he discovers more and more everyday, and it irks him.

Still, despite his feelings towards the other man, there is a weird sort of… something, to it, seeing a more vulnerable side of Mr. Big Bad Blue Fire, something that Hawks can’t quite put into words. But it’s intriguing; the man behind the villain, demystified somewhat. Under the scars and the smug attitude and flames, Dabi is still a human being, he supposes.

A human being that is still simpering and whining, even though the fucking shade is down.

Risking Dabi’s temper in this unpredictable state, he walks over and clambers up onto the couch too, perching himself on the back of the couch with his wings draped neatly behind him.

He stares down at Dabi for a beat, shaking his head before saying, “You’re not looking too hot there, cupcake,” as he brings his legs up to his chest, balancing perfectly on the back of the couch.

He waits for a second. And then another, and then another. A full minute passes with no movement.

Hawks frowns.

Oof. No reaction to the ‘cupcake’. At all. Dabi hates nicknames, especially the purposely cutesy and condescending ones Hawks likes to give him when he feels like picking a fight. And right now, he is most definitely picking a fight, if only to get Dabi out of whatever sickness haze he’s in and to start acting more like himself.

Then at least Hawks would feel a little better, knowing it’s not really anything serious.

But Dabi doesn’t even move, let alone do what Hawks was fully hoping he’d do, which was jump up from the couch in a huffy ball of blue fire and expletives, challenging him to call him that again.

That’s not good.

They remain like that for a long while; Dabi lying down, possibly asleep, and Hawks staring down at him while twiddling his thumbs, wondering where the hell he goes from here.

He has a sick villain in his apartment. A sick, very dangerous, very wanted villain. A high-ranking member of the organization in which it is his mission to infiltrate and bring down from the inside.

Hawks cradles his head in hand, unpacking all of that in his mind. Yeah, there is a slight chance that, maybe, he did not think this through quite as much as he should have.

“I’m gonna go make some coffee,” He says out loud, more to himself than to Dabi, who he is sure probably didn’t even hear him. He doesn't even really like coffee, but he just needs something pointless and mechanical to focus on for a few minutes, so he can sort this ordeal out in his head.

This is fine, he thinks as he rips open the package of coffee grounds, this is okay. So far, it doesn’t seem like he’s gonna make a scene or anything. Hopefully, he’ll just lie on the couch all day in a borderline coma, and if he’s conscious by tonight, I can maybe sneak him out. Of course, I'll need to blindfold him or something, so he doesn’t know where I live… fuck. I didn’t even think of that.

Hawks freezes, mid-scoop. How the hell had that not occurred to him before? That bringing Dabi up to his apartment would mean letting the villain know where he lived, giving him and the League an extra advantage over him?

Last night he had been so focused on not leaving Dabi half-dead on the street, that he didn’t think of the consequences his little act of kindness could bring for him in the immediate future. And just now, he had been so focused on finding Dabi that he didn't realize that the other man trashing his guest room and passing out on his couch instead was actually the best possible case scenario he could have hoped for in this situation. The last thing he needs, he realizes in a cold sweat, is Dabi, whose face is extremely recognizable, wandering around his apartment building, deliriously sick and liable to cause all sorts of mayhem.

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” He chants to himself. But what if he was up at night when I was asleep, checking out the surroundings? He continues setting the coffee maker to boil.

Hawks looks back over his shoulder, out over the island and into the living room, where the top of Dabi’s blanket mound is just barely visible.

Then again, he’s so out of it right now, and was last night, too. I mean, I can’t imagine another reason he’d trash the guest room, other than he woke up and was disoriented and freaked out.

“Nah, he couldn't have. Not in his condition.”

He barely made it to the living room, let alone outside or to the windows. Surveillance is the last thing on his mind, right now. Hawks stares at the coffee as it drip, drip, drips down into the coffee pot, condensation beginning to form on the outside from the heat. It’s weirdly calming.

Hawks sighs to himself.

Well, I guess it’s too late to worry about that now. What’s done is done. For now, I just have to figure out how to work this situation to my advantage.

Hawks ceases his mental calculating when he feels a certain vibration ripple through his smaller feathers, along with the near silent rustle of fabric along the kitchen's tiles behind him. At least this time, Dabi doesn’t surprise him. Although, he has to admit, how Dabi manages to move so quietly even while sick to point of delirium is quite impressive.

“Is it ready yet?” He hears the other man ask over his shoulder.

“You were awake?”

“Mmn. Barely.”

Hawks turns, and almost can’t believe his eyes.

Wow.

Dabi, to be blunt, looks like a straight up corpse that was freshly rolled out of a grave. His eyes are glassy and squinted somewhat, sensitive to the light in the kitchen, and his skin, the parts that aren’t scarred and unhealthy, are so pale he looks almost otherworldly. Save for his nose, which is a little pink around the nostrils. And, just like last night, he still seems unsteady on his feet; there is a noticeable side to side sway as Dabi stands there, eyes unfocused.

Still, Hawks can’t fight the smile that is creeping onto his face. When he first met Dabi, never did he imagine that one day in the near future, that same smug, lying bastard face would be in his kitchen, staring back at him while cocooned in what Hawks is sure is no less than ten different blankets and bed sheets. Currently, the entire bottom half of Dabi’s face is covered, allowing Hawks to only really see him from the nose up.

“Are you cold?”

“Yeah.”

Hawks snorts to himself as he turns back to the coffee pot, shutting it off after it chimes. “I didn’t even think you got cold.”

“When I’m sick, I do.” Dabi says, without much fanfare. Huh. It’s a little unnerving, Dabi giving straight answers, for once. He’s certainly being a lot more forthcoming than last night, that’s for sure.

Ah, the straightforwardness that comes with realization and the cessation of denial.

“Is it ready?” Dabi asks, already reaching for the coffee pot.

“Yeah, it’s rea- Hey! What the fuck are you doing, you lunatic?!”

Hawks quickly but carefully wrestles the still scalding hot coffee pot out of Dabi’s bare hands, managing to catch him just seconds before he upends the open pot over his face and into his mouth.

“I’m cold,” Dabi moans, glaring at him. Hawks glares back in disbelief.

“Okay, can I put the shit in a cup first? God!” Still holding the coffee pot tightly by the handle, Hawks shoves past Dabi to get to the cupboard and pulls out two mugs.

“This ain’t Game of Thrones, you fucking jackass,” Hawks snaps as he pours the coffee out into the mugs, “You're not a dragon. And you don't need anymore third degree burns.”

Dabi mumbles something rude but thankfully unintelligible as he lumbers closer, still keeping a tight grip on the blankets around him.

“What the fuck does that even mean?” He mutters as he bumps Hawks out of his way, “Move. I want coffee.”

He swipes one of the mugs before Hawks can even protest --that was his mug-- and does exactly what he had intended to do before: he chugs the piping hot liquid so fast he upends the mug over his face, eyes rolling shut blissfully. He doesn’t even stop to breathe.

Hawks watches the scene with saucer-wide eyes, and silently accepts the empty mug back when Dabi hands it to him some ten odd seconds later, a sated little grin on his face.

“I… stand corrected…” Hawks says in shock. Did he even feel that? Hawks has so many questions. But right now, he only settles for a few. “You good now?”

“Mm, yeah.”

“Are you still cold?”

“M’no.”

Hawks slowly raises a finger and points over to the couch. “Will you go back to sleep now?”

Dabi follows his finger. “Mm-hm,” He mumbles before he abruptly turns and ambles out of the kitchen. Hawks watches him go, not quite believing how easy of an interaction that was. Dabi and easy are two words that don’t belong in the same sentence. Ever.

He watches him go until he sees Dabi tumble face first down onto the couch. Hawks listens for a few seconds, to the rustle of sheets and blankets and Dabi’s little muttered curses as he makes himself comfortable in his blanket nest again.

When he finally settles down, Hawks lets out a loud exhale, allowing himself to take a sip of his now warm coffee.

He doesn’t like coffee all that much, but still, he already recognizes this as a rare moment of peace; one of the few, if any, he’s going to get today, so he takes advantage of it.

Halfway through the cup, he hears Dabi groaning from the living room and rolls his eyes. Rare, and so very, very brief.

He sets the cup down on the counter loudly.

What now?

That, he realizes as he walks out the living room, is not a question he really wanted an answer to.

#dabihawks #hawksdabi #hotwings #spicywings #bnha fic #fanfiction meme #bnha fanfiction #expect chapter 3 by this time next week most likely!

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justanoutlawfic · 6 years

Text

Open Up Your Eyes: Chapt. 9

Story Summary: A toss of a coin separated not only twin brothers, but a mother from her son. Decades later, they try to find healing and strength.

Chapter Summary: Emma learns that she, her father and uncle all share a similar medical backstory.

Probably the crackiest installment to this angst fic. Based on the line from Rumple in Murder Most Foul about David and James having weak lungs. For @anotherhappybeginning, who wanted some David!Asthma Whump and for @loboselinaistrash who created the Emma has asthma headcanon.

It was no secret that while the curse would never be considered a good thing, that it had overall improved the standard of living for the Enchanted Forest and the realms it encompassed. There was free healthcare, with doctors that could provide medicine and surgery. Heck, in the Enchanted Forest, someone in David’s condition under the curse would’ve died within a few days. There was no such thing as life support back there.

The medical practices were why David and James were separated in the first place. They were born with weak lungs, which would be defined as asthma in their current world. Despite how hard he tried, Robert hadn’t been able to afford the medicine. The king could, however, and he had arranged with Rumpelstiltskin to make them a deal. It didn’t just last that night, however. While their farm failed, whenever David would get sick (which tended to happen multiple times a winter), a vile of medicine would appear in their little cottage.

David never quite understood how they could afford it, in fact some winters he would try to pretend he wasn’t so his mother could focus on getting them food or warm clothes. Ruth promised him that she had it taken care of, that she had an arrangement with someone, a trade of sorts. David knew how coveted medicine was, especially in their impoverished area, and wondered what of value his poor mother could have for trade.

Little did he know, she had paid the biggest price. Her second child.

When he went to live with George, he found out that James had the same condition and therefore, had left behind plenty of medicine. When Snow caught wind, she always found a way to get it during battle. She’d trade anything she had to, in order to keep her one true love protected.

David Nolan had asthma, at least that’s what David’s cursed memories told him. It was in his records and many believed that when he was found unconscious, that he had been running and had an asthma attack when he passed out. Once the curse broke, David realized that he had a name for the condition, along with his cursed persona’s inhaler. He’d get it refilled as needed, but over the past few years, the need for it was slowly going away. He didn’t think he’d need it anymore.

Until the day he found himself chasing after a troll. He wasn’t sure how one got into Storybrooke, but they had long given up questioning things by that point. With Emma and Regina, he chased after it, slowly starting to feel different. His lungs were closing up and his knees were getting weaker. He fell behind the pack, barely being able to watch his daughter use the skills she had learned from her mother to shoot it in the eyes with a bow and arrow. It collapsed to the ground, causing some trees around them to fall.

“We better make sure he doesn’t have any friends,” Regina said.

“You take east side, Dad and I will take west. Right, Dad? Dad…” She turned to find her father kneeling on the ground, wheezing. “Dad!” She ran to his side. “Are you okay?”

“Inhaler,” he managed to choke out.

“Where’s your inhaler?” She didn’t even know that he needed one until this point.

“Truck.”

“That’s all the way at the front of the woods. We won’t make it in time…” Before she could finish her sentence, Regina had magicked the blue medical instrument into her palm. “Thanks.”

Emma put it in her dad’s hand and held it up to his mouth, allowing him to take some puffs from it. The color returned to his face and he was soon breathing normally again. Emma finally allowed herself to breathe.

“Jesus, I’m the kid, I should be scaring you,” she only half-joked.

David partially smiled. “Sorry, kiddo. I’m fine now.”

“I didn’t know you had asthma.”

“James and I were born with weak lungs, both of us developed it, though of course they didn’t call it that where we’re from. Thanks to Regina’s healthcare, I ended up getting a proper diagnosis and inhaler under the curse.” He smiled over at her.

Regina chuckled. “Well, you can thank me for my universal healthcare later. For now, we need to make sure there are no more trolls.”

David allowed Emma to help him up. “Alright, let’s go.”

“Oh no, not you. You’ve got a mommy now and if I let you run around town after that, she’ll have my head on a spike.”

“Regina! I’m a father now.”

“Yeah and I’m a mother, doesn’t mean I’m also not a daughter. I’ll call Zelena and ask her for help with this. Emma, take the village idiot home.”

Emma snorted a bit, but lead her father off to his truck, despite his protests. She took the keys from him and gave him a look when he tried to give her lip over it.

“Geez, you do remember I am your dad, right?” David grumbled as he climbed into the passenger seat.

“Yeah, and if this were me with my asthma, you’d be having a field day.”

“You have asthma?”

Emma’s hand paused as she stuck the key into the engine. “Um…no.”

“Emma!”

“Well, now we know where I got it from.”

“I’m telling your mother.”

“Fine, I carry my inhaler on me like a sane person, though.” She patted her jacket pocket.

“I can’t believe you never told us.”

Emma shrugged. “Never came up. You never told me about yours.”

“Can we stop having secrets?”

“Yes. Now come on, let’s get you home.”

Emma drove the truck back to the farmhouse and David followed her inside to the living room, where they found James laying on the couch, being fussed over by Ruth.

“What happened here?” Emma asked.

“She’s overreacting,” James said.

“I am not. You had an asthma attack,” Ruth interjected. “You should’ve known better than to agree to unpack those dusty books.”

“Well, idiocy runs through the family,” Emma jerked her thumb to David. “This one ran after a troll without his inhaler.”

Ruth’s eyes widened. “You did what?”

“Mother, I’m fine…” David tried to explain.

“On the other couch, now.”

“Mother…”

“David, I swear.”

She fixed him with a look that even Emma had seen before, but it made her grown father look a little scared. He went to the loveseat and laid down on it, obediently. Emma had to smile to herself. Having her grandmother around could be fun sometimes.

“Emma Ruth Swan!”

Oh, that did not sound good. Emma turned around to find her mother standing there, not looking very happy.

“You have asthma?!?”

“What…how did you…”

“Your father texted me.”

“Well, he didn’t have his inhaler on him!”

“Yes, and it seems Ruth has taken care of that. You, however,” Snow walked over to her. “Need to sit down and relax yourself. You shouldn’t be chasing after trolls.”

“I had my inhaler on me.”

“Emma.”

With that voice, Emma knew not to mess with her mother. She dropped down in the armchair and folded her arms over her chest. She, James and her father shared the same look.

You don’t mess with mothers. Ever.

#open up your eyes verse #daddy charming #daddy charming au #evil charming #evil charming au #mama snow #mama snow au

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fluffyllamas-23 · 6 years

Text

Here’s some stress writing lmao. Shoutout to @embriumtea for being so excited for/loving my bois and just being a generally lovely human being

This is more towards the beginning of their relationship - they had only been dating about 6 months at this point

Matteo had texted Declan last night that he thought he might be coming down with something, and that they should postpone date night for the following Thursday. When Declan had called him the next morning before leaving for the day, Matteo’s accent was much thicker than Declan was accustomed to (although he wasn’t complaining), and sounded fifty shades of miserable. Declan promised he would stop by with soup and tea after work, despite Matteo telling him to stay away so he wouldn’t get sick.

“Matteo, that is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Declan had said, switching the phone to his other ear, “do you really think I care if you get me sick? I don’t. I just care that you’re okay. You don’t take care of yourself on a good day, I highly doubt you will when you’re sick.”

“That’s...a fair assumption,” he croaks.

“I’ll be there when I’m off. Get some rest, sleep, drink some water, try and eat food if you can stomach it.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve gotta go. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

The moment it hits five pm, Declan is on his feet and out the door. He had stopped at Panera on the way over, and now is standing on Matteo’s doorstep, holding a cup of soup in one hand, and cup of hot tea in the other. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek, bouncing on his heels anxiously as he waits for Matteo to come to the door.

As it takes longer and longer, the temptation to kick the door in grows, and all Declan can imagine is Matteo passed out somewhere.

Finally, though, it opens partially. When Matteo shuffles into view, Declan’s heart drops, because he looks awful. His face is five shades too pale (at least), with dark smudges beneath his bleary, bloodshot eyes (the poor guy probably hasn’t slept in far too long).

“Oh, sweetheart,” he frowns.

He looks even worse than he sounded on the phone, and Declan suspects that he’s been getting steadily worse as the day progressed.

He’s leaning heavily against the door, cheek pressed against it as he stares blankly at Declan through half lidded eyes.

He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes before recognition flashes through his eyes, “when’d you get here?”

He sounds so bleary and congested, Declan grimaces. Matteo reaches up to rub at one of his eyes, blinking heavily as he fights to stay awake and resists the urge to lie on the floor. The blanket slides off his shoulder, and a shiver goes down his spine as he tugs it back up.

“You didn’t realize I’m here? You need to by laying down, honey.”

“What’re you doi’gg here?” He croaks, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

Declan steps forward. He balances the so that he can put a hand on the small of Matteo’s back and guide him back inside.

“I called this morning, remember? I brought you soup and tea.”

He looks so adorably confused, that all Declan wants to do is wrap him up in a hug and put him back to bed.

“...Oh yeah.”

Once he’s on the couch, Declan helps him rearrange the blanket so that it’s draped over his entire body and not just his shoulders.

“Alright, what do you need, honey? Would some soup feel good? It sounds like your throat is a wreck.”

“Hurts to swallow,” he mumbles with a wince.

“Yeah? Bad?”

“S’like I swallowed kndives.”

Declan presses a hand to his forehead, “do you want to go see a doctor? I’m not sure how you aren’t running a fever….do you feel feverish at all? You’re shivering.”

“Ndo doctor,” Matteo sniffles, “s’just...a cold or sombethi’gg. I’mb finde.”

“You look a lot better now that you’re lying down...but you still seem entirely too miserable for this to just be a cold.”

Matteo inhales sharply, curling in on himself as he lets out a few scattered sneezes into the blanket. The fit seems to drag on forever, and finally after the fifth sneeze, he itches at the side of his nose and sniffles tentatively.

“Bless you.”

“I feel awful.”

“I gathered.”

Matteo looks at him with bleary, tired eyes and reaches out weakly for him, “combe cuddle.”

Declan shakes his head, and when he sees Matteo’s eyes fill with tears, he cups his burning cheek and kisses his forehead, “not yet, honey. I want to get the thermometer and medicine and water, then we’ll cuddle.”

Matteo’s breath catches, which throws him into a spluttering coughing fit. Declan pulls him into a sitting position in an instant, and rubs his back soothingly.

“Just breathe,” Declan says gently, “do you need water?”

Matteo nods, still coughing into his fist as he slumps back into the cushions.

“I dond’t evend kndow how I got sick,” he groans, “I havend’t had work in two weeks...ndobody I kndow is sick.”

“This stuff happens,” Declan sighs, shooting him a sympathetic smile.

When he finally gets medicine and water into him, Declan sits next to him on the couch, and Matteo almost immediately attaches himself to his side.

He falls asleep quickly, face tucked into the crook of his neck. His breath is hot, fanning against Declan’s skin as he snores lightly, too congested to breathe through his nose.

Declan frowns at the heat radiating off of him, “Matty, wake up.”

“Mbambãe?” He mumbles tiredly, nuzzling his face into Declan’s neck even more.

Declan’s breath catches in his throat. Matteo never wants to talk about his mom - all he knows is that she passed away a year and a half ago, and anytime Declan to bring her up and ask him questions, Matteo changes the subject.

“It’s just me, honey,” Declan says gently, feeling Matteo’s cheek with the backs of his fingers, “can you wake up for me?”

“Eu sindto sua falta,” he rasps, voice breaking on the last word. Tears spring to his eyes, and he lets out a shaky sigh

“Sweetheart...I can’t understand you,” Declan says softly, brushing the hair out of Matteo’s face.

Matteo stares at him in confusion, blinking heavily as he gives a few stuffy coughs.

Once Declan gets his fever down, things feel like they’ve shifted, and he hates it. He just wants Matteo to talk to him, but that hasn’t happened in nearly four hours, and he can feel the frustration building.

Matteo has been sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, unmoving and nearly unresponsive, with his hood pulled over his head, and his cheek pressed to the tops of his knees.

“Honey,” Declan tries again softly, putting a hand on Matteo’s back, “come on. Talk to me, what’s the matter?”

Matteo clears his throat, and looks up at Declan with glassy, fever-bright eyes.

“I mbiss her.”

His heart drops, “your mom?”

Matteo nods, shifting his position so he’s curled up and slumped against the cushions.

“Do you want to talk about her?”

“I dond’t….umb...I just...I dond’t...I cand’t,” he whimpers, “ndot right ndow. Whend I’mb feeli’gg better.”

“Okay,” Declan says gently, “what can I do to take your mind off of her?”

“I dond’t kndow...I’mb just...tired,” he mumbles, rubbing at his itchy nose. He buries his face in the sleeve as a trio of sneezes tumble out. He groans and rubs at his aching forehead, trying not to think about how aggressively awful he feels. It’s impossible, though, because he feels truly horrendous.

“Do you want to go to bed?”

“Too tired...I’mb just goi’gg to stay here...you should go hombe and get some sleep.”

Declan frowns, “you’re kicking me out?”

“I’mb sorry...I just...wandt to be alonde.”

Declan chews on his bottom lip, “are you sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay...um...let me know if you need anything.”

When Declan wakes up the next morning, his heart sinks at the number of texts and missed calls he has from Matteo.

(2:07)

‘I really don’t feel well can you come back?’

(2:08)

‘Declan I need you. Are you awake?’

(2:12)

‘Please wake up’

(2:35)

‘Will you please just answer your goddamn fucking phone?’

(3:09)

‘I think I need to go to the emergency room...i feel really really sick, please pick up your phone’

Declan’s heart is threatening to beat out of his chest as he dials Matteo’s number with shaky hands.

When he doesn’t answer, Declan is out the door and trying not to panic. There are no calls or texts after four thirty, and he hopes it’s because he fell asleep, not because he’s unconscious somewhere.

He should have stayed. He shouldn’t have left - he knew that, but he still went anyways, because he’s a fucking idiot.

He dials Matteo’s number over and over again as he drives, the sick feeling in his stomach grows with each passing moment, and when he finally reaches Matteo’s apartment (it’s only a seven minute drive, but it feels like it takes hours).

Even though the door is open (by some miracle), he nearly busts it down in his panic to get inside.

“Matty!” He calls out, slamming to door behind him, “I’m so fucking sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, please be okay.”

Matteo doesn’t answer, and Declan hurries into his bedroom, hoping to find him asleep on his bed.

He’s not, and Declan can feel the panic rising again.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” He hisses when he pushes the bathroom door open and finds Matteo sprawled out on his stomach on the floor, eyes closed. Declan drops to his knees, shaking Matteo’s shoulder roughly, “Matty, wake up, open your eyes for me, honey. I’m so, so sorry.”

Matteo groans, jerking his head away from Declan’s hand as he smooshes his cheek into the floor even more.

His eyes flutter open, and they flick around the room.

“Oh, thank God,” Declan breathes. He presses a hand to Matteo’s cheek, and inhales sharply at how much he’s burning.

“Decland?” He rasps.

“Yeah, hi, I’m so sorry. How are you feeling? Did you pass out? Is your head alright? Are you dizzy?”

He mumbles something unintelligible that Declan thinks sounds vaguely like Portuguese, but he’s not entirely sure. Judging by the fever, the assumption that it is his first language is probably not that far off.

Declan gets him to his feet, and he’s just glad that Matteo is smaller than him, because if he was larger, this would have been a lot more difficult.

Matteo is shivering so hard that his entire body is trembling, and once he’s on the bed, he tries to grab the blankets to burrito himself into them, but Declan stops him.

“Not until your fever is lower.”

Matteo whines at him, but Declan pulls all the blankets off the bed before he goes off in search of the thermometer. The panic has dulled some, now that he knows that Matteo isn’t dead, but Declan is still worried.

Matteo drifts in and out of consciousness, only waking for a few minutes at a time for the next few hours.

Finally though, he opens his eyes, and doesn’t completely feel like death.

“Matty?” Declan asks anxiously, hovering over Matteo and putting his hands on either side of Matteo’s head, “how are you feeling?”

“Dizzy,” he mumbles, voice nearly gone.

“Yeah? You were on the floor...did you pass out?”

“I...huh?”

Declan puts a finger underneath his chin and tilts his head up, “look at me.”

“No...I didnd’t...I was dizzy so I laid downd...didnd’t pass out undtil I was already ond the ground.”

“Oh,” Declan breathes, “okay, good. You’re still dizzy, though?”

“Uh-huh...dond’t feel good.”

“Yeah, no kidding, You had a one hundred and four degree fever when I got here.”

“Mbaybe you should have andswered your phonde,” Matteo gripes weakly, coughing into the blanket. The sound is low and grating, like his lungs are trying to eject themselves from his chest. When the fit subsides, he presses his hand to the center

Declan winces, “I know, I’m sorry...but in my defense, it was the middle of the night and you know I’m a heavy sleeper.”

“I kndow.”

“How about some tea?”

“Ndo...hurts.”

“Throat still?”

“Yeah...a lot.”

“And it hurts to swallow?”

“Yeah.”

“So do you want me to take you to the emergency room in your car or mine?”

“Umb...yours,” he mumbles.

Declan inhales sharply, “I didn’t think you’d agree that fast...do you think it might be strep?”

“Uh-huh...or mby tondsils...sombethi’gg.”

“Can you walk?”

“Dond’t kndow...probably.”

“I’ll help. We’ll go slow.”

“The flu and strep. Fuck, you really go all out, huh?” Declan says, pulling the blanket over the both of them.

Matteo is laying on top of him, head on his chest as he drifts in and out of sleep. He’s completely exhausted from spending close to five hours in the emergency room. An hour and a half in, he had begged Declan to just take him back home, but Declan convinced him to stick it out, and while he did, he wishes that he hadn’t. He feels even worse than he had before, which is saying something, because he didn’t think that was possible.

“This is awful.”

“Just sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

Translations:

Eu sinto sua falta - I miss you

Mamãe - momma

#ocs #sickfic #Declan and Matteo #sneezing #coughing #flu #strep #this is just a garbage fire I'm sorry lmao #it's all over the place whoops

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anonthenullifier · 6 years

Note

Fic suggestion: Wanda has trouble falling asleep/staying asleep and Vision tries to help her. This is completely coming from the fact that I’ve been having problems sleeping lately and usually turn to scarlet vision stories when that happens 😂 It also seems like it would be insanely adorable/fluffy

Hello! I’m not sure I went in the direction you were wanting, but I still hope it fulfills your prompt in that it is 1. fluffy 2. that it is something you can read while you are, unfortunately, not sleeping and 3. That you enjoy it! Also, sorry this is so late!

Insomnia is the type of friend that arrives uninvited with impeccable timing to descend when mental fortitude is at its weakest. It also has the uncanny ability to make itself comfortable, sprawling along the mattress, its ghastly arms stretched out in such an expansive way Wanda cannot escape curling into its embrace. Despite the toxic, one-sided relationship, it is also the friend that perhaps knows her the best. Sure she shares the intimate fears and shrouded thoughts with some others, Pietro had always been her source until, well, he decided to be a hero, and now she has her husband, his strong arms and gentle, spinning eyes a comfort, but she’s never as open with them as she is in the dark of night, the drone of the television muffled as her thoughts careen around the hypotheticals of life. Tonight is one of the worst in a long time, her eyes wide and burning from the oppressively stale air.

It has been six months since Thanos, since losing so many teammates, since losing Vision, and since discovering in herself an ability to alter reality, set things right. Which is why she feels unfounded in her agony, most of the losses from the battle no more, life set back to rightness (though the scars remain), yet still the specter of the what if, of the what was, will not leave her alone. Right now is particularly bad, not because the memories are stronger or the traces left from briefly being a widow are more biting, it’s because, for the first time since everything, he’s not beside her, arms protectively wound around her waist, refusing to let go. When she is reminded that she isn’t alone in her fears, can feel his own restlessness at coping with all the psychological and physical effects of the cosmic war, sleep comes easier, the waft of vibranium and the reassuring brush of his breath along her cheek soothing her into a restful slumber.

Wanda rolls over with a grunt, pulling the spare pillow to her face in hopes the frigid touch of the unused threads can chase away her thoughts. It doesn’t work, just as it didn’t work the ten times she’s done it already tonight. The mission has been going for four days, not a single one of those has she slept, eyes growing heavier every day, weighing her face down which causes her lips to respond, a perennial arc of displeasure on display (something both Carol and Strange have pointed out numerous times, which only deepens the frown). Sleep hasn’t been this difficult since losing Pietro, before Vision offered his mind to aid her, how fitting that Vision is now the reason she can’t sleep. It’s not, she has reasoned night after night, so much his physical absence as it is the reminder of how it wasn’t when they were on a mission when their lives fell into nightmares, it wasn’t during training, or anything Avenger related. They were on a date, holding hands, he’d just told her a painfully corny joke that curled his mouth up into an adorably proud smile and then it all shattered, the pieces still scattered, not fully put back together even now. The knowledge had always been there, since she was ten, but it was reiterated tenfold that day, no part of life is immune from incursion. Briefly she wonders if it she’d be in the same quandary if their roles were reversed, if she was at the compound and he on the mission, but though her brain says maybe her heart still screams, shriveling at the notion.

A frustrated groan precedes the swing of her body, an exaggerated movement that ends with her bare feet on the carpet, toes curling into the rough fibers of the seedy hotel floor, and then Wanda stands, arms opening to the side as she stretches all the way up onto the tips of her toes. She paces the room four times, legs impatient and breath annoyed as she attempts to expel the extra energy from the tumbling blackhole of other realities. It’s on the fifth lap (not truly a lap, more of a horseshoe shaped circuit) that she decides to do what she’s put off the other nights, for reasons that seemed logical before but right now are idiotic. If she can’t sleep because her husband is back at the compound, then why not bring him along, at least in some sense. It’s reasoning not even he could find fault with, she thinks. Her decision made, Wanda journeys back to the bed, lowering herself onto the edge as she rummages through the nightstand, fingers unplugging her phone to give her free reign of movement, and then she lays down, a commanding “Call Vision” leads to his still face popping up and the steady four beat rhythm of the transmission tone. The moment the picture morphs into an actual moving face, one marred by worry, eyes squinted and mouth pursed, she smiles. “Hey Maximoff.”

“Wanda,” his voice is conflicted, half her name warm and loving and the other half reflecting concern at the odd hour of the call. “Is everything okay?”

She’d estimate perhaps a third of her worries are sloughed away by seeing his face and allowing the precise, quiet flow of his voice to wash over her. “Yeah,” one word and the wrinkles near the Mindstone ease back into a serene landscape of crimson, textured skin. “Just can’t sleep.”

“Ah,” the lack of surprise is expected, as is the subtle, cheeky shift of his mouth that is already spurring a roll of her eyes, “I am having the same issue.”

It’s at least the hundredth time he’s said it, the words no longer funny in their unexpectedness, and yet she still feeds the behavior, a breathy chuckle joining the shake of her head because she treasures the carefree satisfaction that erupts in the wild twist of his irises. “You’re not funny.”

The phone is held a bit too close to his face for her to actually see the shrug, but she knows it exists, can parse it out from the practiced nonchalance of his mouth and the slight tilt of his head. “The available data suggests otherwise.” This too is the same argument, the intonation perfected, such an integral aspect to their conversations that it encases her in joy. “Have you slept at all during the mission?” A small, reserved shake of her head kickstarts his features, morphing them into the serious lines of contemplation that develop anytime he encounters a problem, lips set into a subtle scowl that makes it known he will, no matter how long it takes, solve the enigma of what lays before him. “Have you tried tea or warm milk?”

Wanda weakly tries to stop the grin from appearing on her face, the litany of remedies is one she has memorized, its creation occurring the first time he inquired (long before they would ever call themselves acquaintances, much less friends, and definitely not lovers) if he could aid her in sleeping. The clasped hands and nervous stutter of his voice no longer go along with the items, but the content is barely changed and the routine of it is medicinal, her limbs already growing slightly heavier in anticipation. “Yes, but the only tea we have is black.”

“Which is counterproductive to sleep.”

Something she knows quite well given the list taped inside the cabinet where the teas are stored, one he painstakingly crafted as a guide to responsible steeping. “You also know I’m not a milk before bed type of person.”

A nod of agreement, “Yes, but I determined to inquire in case you are truly desperate.”

“Not yet.”

Vision smirks at the admission which, counter to her hopes of calling him, only stokes the need within her to have him there next to her. “I hear the television.” The delicate way humans can imbue a sentence with different meanings and emotions was a skill he developed quite slowly, but once he grasped the use of purposeful inflection, he, unsurprisingly as he does with everything else, excelled at it. The good-natured but judgmental quality of the observation sparks an embarrassed ember underneath each cheek, her hand flicking to turn off the television. “Have you tried meditating?”

“Yes,” for about ten minutes but every time she closed her eyes, instead of finding a calm, centering blankness, she heard the sickening snap of Thanos’ hand around Vision’s body, her heart racing and stomach unsettled at the recollection of his screams and how suddenly they were silenced. “But that failed.”

The knowing downcast of his eyes confirms he understands why it failed, might even suggest he himself, though he isn’t trying to sleep, is ruminating as well. “Some research suggests verbalizing the worries interrupting your sleep can be helpful.”

“It’s the same thing we’ve talked about a million times, Vizh.” She says the words in a way to convey that this is not something she has any interest in right now.

“I know.”

There are five more checkboxes on his mental list, but Wanda decides to cut him off, at least reveal the one thing she knows would help. “I just,” the swirling of his irises stops her, mesmerized at the pure adoration and concern for her well-being clicking with each turn of the gear, “want you.”

His face softens, a requited desire evident in the slightly pained smile on his lips. “Captain Danvers is quite stringent concerning extraneous bodies on missions.”

“I know.”

The image on the phone bounces as he thinks, a marginally disorienting experience that thankfully stops as he stares hard into her eyes. “Perhaps we try something unconventional.”

Vision’s very existence is unconventional, yet it is not a word she would often use to describe his behaviors, her husband partial to routines and knowing precisely when and why things occur. “You going off list?” A nervous huff confirms his intent to shirk the norm. “What do you have in mind?”

“Do you have extra pillows or blankets?”

The question is odd, well not terribly odd given she’s in a bed, but without reaching into his mind (a feat that is difficult when they are an entire world apart) she finds herself in a state of ignorant vertigo, both thrilling and uneasy. “I have,” Wanda stands from the bed to assess everything, wandering into the tiny closet, the door broken so she has to use her powers to shove it aside, and then returning to the bed with her bounty. “Two pillows and three blankets.”

“Excellent,” the extra sleep aids fall onto the bed, forming a heap once she removes her powers and resumes sitting on the mattress, legs crossing as she stares at Vision’s face, curious at the jitteriness developing in his movements. “I have been unable to find empirical support for this supposition,” hence the jitters, “but perhaps we could, to the best of our abilities, replicate your typical sleeping environment.”

Wanda’s eyes narrow as she processes the words, gaze inching towards the mound of pillows and then back to his face, mind going through the routine they have set for bedtime with particular focus on how she slides into bed, head coming to rest on his chest, one arm thrown over his waist, and her leg snaking between his. “You want me to make a fake-Vision, don’t you?”

A self-conscious, dubious shrug confirms his thoughts. “It is possible you have become dependent upon physical contact in order to fall asleep.”

“Pillows and blankets are not quite the same.”

The hard, unmoving stare coupled with the unamused stillness of his features is his version of an eye roll. “I was also going to suggest I read to you, thus replicating another aspect.” The tight line of his mouth crawls into a wry smirk, “The only aspect I cannot help with is my fingers in your hair, but perhaps your powers will suffice.”

Now it’s her turn to roll her eyes, shaking her head at his attempt at levity, “I’ll pass on that.” Given nothing else has been successful, Wanda decides to play along, knowing that, even if it fails, at least it will keep him on the phone for longer. She arranges the pillows and blankets, deciding the pillows are needed for the “torso” of her “faux”sband and the blankets can wrap around her feet. His face hovers at the top of the pillow, held in place with a tendril of scarlet. “Vizh, I feel ridiculous.”

“You look quite comfortable.”

She almost counters back, informing him she’d be more comfortable if he was there, but that’s already known and thus unnecessary. “So what are we reading?”

The background on the phone changes, the picture frames on the walls of their room rotating out of view as he retrieves the book, the dark headboard of the bed filling the space behind him once he sits down. “End of Eternity by Isaac Asimov.”

“Vizh,” the zh is held out with a threatening waver, “I thought you agreed not to read anymore Asimov.”

Another hard stare and his voice develops a tinge of defensiveness, but not enough to overtake the amusement that exists as well, “This novel does not concern robots or artificial intelligence.”

Wanda mutters a “Fine,” before he begins, voice calm, developing a steady, conversational rhythm as he reads, filling her mind with Eternity and clean cut uniforms, assessing time (both past, present, and future) and controlling all of reality, razing civilizations with one small change. She is enthralled but that is antithetical to the purpose, her eyelids should be growing uncontrollable in their desire to close, breath evening out, and body sinking into the pillows. Instead she cannot stop staring at Vision’s face, tracking the emotions that flit through his eyes, longing to curl her powers into his thoughts, follow the pathways of information as he sorts through it, questions it, and then places it in the appropriate cubby. There is no doubt he’s also running hypotheticals, questioning the structure of this Eternity and the logic of the changes, but she can’t feel it, lacks the ability to do so, and it is distracting.

The story cuts out with a, “Wanda,” her thoughts tumbling into a muddied but centralized focused on his brilliant blue stare. “I believe this attempt can be marked as another failure.”

“Not all experiments work.” Unfortunately.

Vision’s shoulders move as he no doubt delicately inserts the bookmark, lining up the bottom edge with the word he last read. “There is only one more solution to try, but I will need to disconnect long enough to prepare it.”

“Okay?” The image cuts out without an I love you, she hopes because he will be back momentarily, but the seconds stretch into a minute, balloon into ten minutes, fifteen, twenty, and there is nothing, her heart sinking all the way to her toes, mouth dry, desperate for water, and her mind is aflame with concern. Then there is a sound, a memory of sitting on Clint’s front porch, the warm summer sun tickling her toes as she stretches her feet out of the shade, the wind whispering its greetings, stirring the chimes above her. It is one of her favorite sounds, not because of the memory (though that helps), but because it is strikingly similar to the noise created when vibranium passes through a solid object, a pre-warning song it took her months to actually notice (her surprise at a body phasing through the wall had suppressed any noise up until then). “Vizh!” Wanda bounds out of the bed, feet racing across the carpet until she can toss herself into his welcoming stance, drown herself in his embrace as she cinches her arms around his waist, refusing to let go. Thankfully he doesn’t try to move, simply holds her, a long, reverent kiss placed against the part of her hair.

“I-,” reluctantly she loosens her grip as he shifts his feet enough to meet her gaze, his palms cupping her cheeks and face hovering just above her own, “believe this may be the best option,” she begins to agree but her words drop away as he finishes, “for both of us.” Now that he is here, body pressed against hers, the comforting thump of his pulse guiding her own heart to match its rhythm, she doesn’t hesitate in entering his mind, notes the restlessness of his own thoughts, the disquiet at being separated, still convinced (despite the fact he verbally contradicts this) Thanos will return.

Wanda inches up onto her toes, just enough to close the distance between them, her lips meeting his with conviction, a surety that they are here, together, alive, and nothing will ever take that away again. The scrunch of his fingers along her cheeks and the deliberately slow move of his mouth to deepen the kiss is enough to fulfill his side of the promise. She pulls away, hand tracing his chest as he takes in a long breath, and smiles at him, “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

She nods towards the bed, heart beating rapidly despite the lids of her eyes sprouting weights, “Do you want,” a yawn interrupts her sentence and she can’t seem to find it in herself to finish it, fairly certain the intent is clear.

“Gladly.” A peck to her forehead is his parting as he steps around her before easing himself onto the mattress, hands meticulously placing the pillows so that he can prop himself up at a comfortable level to read. Wanda moves with a lethargic giddiness, crawling into the bed, sliding seamlessly under his right arm, cheek pressed into the silken synthetic fibers of his sweater, and she wraps herself around him, sprawling across the expanse of his body. “Goodnight, my love.”

Another yawn mangles her, “Night,” the tingle of his fingers along her scalp the final attack against the last of her insomniac defenses. Her mind calms, worries shoved aside for another time, and finally she sleeps.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11189247/chapters/31635333

#scarlet vision #vision #wanda maximoff #insomnia #vision tries to be helpful #post-infinity war #i wanted to try something sort of different for the prompt #hopefully it works #unrelated?#there might be a small hint at something that will be part of the White Vision fic #have to start playing with some ideas #but it's tiny #anyway #hope you enjoy!#ao3 #fanfic #mine #evermorewonderss

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alwayssunnyprompts · 7 years

Note

Can you write a fic, or short story, or oneshot, or anything like that about a sick scenario? Like, Dennis being sick and Mac taking care of him? Or the other way around. Sick or anything with like vulnerability? (Also the way you describe sounds in your work is great I love it a lot so maybe stuff like that?) if you don't want to that's totally okay I understand. Thank you! xo

Thank you so much! This is one of my favorite asks I’ve gotten and I loved writing it! Set while Mac and Dennis are still living together, maybe around season 5. Enjoy some very sick Mac and very caring Dennis!

Dennis glances at the clock for the third time in half an hour. Mac should have been back 15 minutes ago.

Not that he’s counting.

Outside is the worst blizzard that’s hit Phillyin a while. There’s almost a foot on the ground already, double what there’d been a couple hours earlier when he’d sent Mac to buy movie night provisions.

Mac finally trudges home at 8:30 pm, bursting in with a groan, shivering and covered in melting snow. He tosses the grocery bags haphazardly onto the kitchen counter and plops down on the couch next to Dennis. He’s breathing heavily, his head resting on the back of the couch andhis eyes shut. Dennis can see the redness of windburn on the tip of his nose and his cheeks.

“Hey, bud,” Dennis says cautiously.

“Bro, that place was insane. I forgot people got nuts when the weather gets bad. Everybody was running around like it’s the end of the world. Some shelves were just totally empty. Ugh, it was a mess,” he coughs a little, “come on, let’s just watch some movies."

Dennis smiles, clapping Mac on the shoulder.

"Sure, pal."

Four hours later, they’re still going strong. Well, Dennis is. Mac’s spent the last 10 minutes nodding off, forcing himself awake. They’re finishing up Alien vs. Predator when he decides that he’s done for the night.

"Dennis, I’m exhausted. I need to go to sleep, bro.”

“C'mon, man. What kind of lame excuse is that? Just one more!” Dennis rolls his eyes.

“I’m serious, Dennis. I feel weird. My joints are super stiff and I can’t breathe very good. I think I might be coming down with something."

"Well, then stay the hell away from me, dude. I’m not letting you get me sick. One sneeze and you’re on your own. Understand?” Does he really mean that? Probably not. However, the idea of getting sick is not only time-consuming and disgusting, it’s uncomfortable and stressful and he wants nothing to do with it.

He looks back at Mac, who sways a little, seeming unfazed by Dennis’s remarks.

“I–I have to go lay down,” he mutters,“I’ll see you later, Den."

He starts to walk to his room and loses his balance, leaning on the arm of the couch for support. Dennis is at his side ina second, all previous thoughts of abandonment and quarantine forgotten. He rests a hand on the small of Mac’s back.

"Hey, you good?"

Mac looks pale, but more alert.

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry, dude. I must have tripped."

Dennis doesn’t have to look at the empty living room to know he didn’t trip on a damn thing.

"Okay. Well, how about I help you so youdon’t trip again. How does that sound?”

A blush colors Mac’s cheeks and he nods, leaning into Dennis’s side. He grabs around Mac’s waist and leads him to the bed.

“Do you want to change?” He’s still fully clothed, winter jacket and all.

He looks down at himself, considering the outfit.

“Yeah, I probably should, huh?"

Dennis sighs, and grabs Mac some pajamas from his dresser. He grabs his robe too, partially because he might get cold, but also because he likes seeing Mac wear it.

"Here. Do you need…help?”

Mac grabs the clothes from his hands.

“No, dude! I can do it myself."

Dennis can hear the congestion in his chest, and see his legs quivering under the pressure of standing. He rolls his eyes.

"Okay, fine, asshole. I’ll be right here if you need me, though."

Watch Mac struggle to the bathroom is as hilarious as it is pathetic. He finally makes it, swinging the door almost-shut behind him. Dennis hears him breathing heavily, and grunting as he takes off his layers of clothes. A full 20 minutes pass before Mac emerges, sweaty and exhausted. He drops his street clothes in a rumpled pile on the floor and collapses onto the bed.

"Ughh, Dennis, I think I’m dying.” He groans, rolling over to sprawl out. Dennis can tell he’s getting worse. His nose sounds clogged and gross, and his chest is making crackling noises if hetakes too deep of a breath. He groans, burying his face in a pillow.

“Dennis?"

"What is it?”

“I think I might get a migraine. I feel that pressure you asked me to watch out for.”

Dennis feels a pang of anxiety. Ever since Mac had crashed Dee’s car trying to fake his and Charlie’s deaths, he’d been getting debilitating migraines. They weren’t frequent, but a few times a year he’d be totally out of commission. The rest of the gang didn’t know about it. He’d been doing so well, too—it had been more than six months since his last one. Dennis doesn’t think they have any medicine left in the apartment.

“Okay, we’ll deal with this,” he liftsMac’s quilt and motions for him to get under, “come on, you should get as comfortable as you can.”

Mac scoots slowly under the covers, grabbing one of his pillows and holding it against his chest.

“Dennis, what are we gonna do? I’ve never had the flu and a migraine at the same time. How does that even happen? Jesus Christ, this is bad, dude.” He grips the pillow tighter.

“Hey,” Dennis lays down on his side, so he’s face-to-face with Mac. He reaches over and ruffles his hair gently, “we can deal with this. It’ll be okay. We’ve done this before. Right?”

Mac nods. “Yeah."

"Do you want the hot or cold pack?"

"Not yet.”

“Alright. Try and get some sleep, okay?You’ll need it. I’m gonna go look for some meds and food for when you wake up. Call me if you need anything."

Mac nods.

"Okay…thanks Dennis.”

Dennis leaves the door open just a crack, enough that he’ll be able to hear if something happens or Mac yells for him.

Aside from his own meds, their cabinets are virtually empty. They have a few cough drops, some ice packs, Band-Aids, Mac’s hot pack, but not a single painkiller to speak of. Dennis drags a hand over his face. He thought they were better than this. At the very least Mac’s overprotective nature should mean there’s at least a Tylenol or two somewherein the house. But he’s not seeing anything. He glances out the window, the piles of snow illuminated by the street lights. There must be a couple feet at least, and it’s still coming down. The roads are covered now too. Neither of them are getting out of the house anytime soon.

He goes to the kitchen and pours a glass of water, and searches the pantry. He takes out some tea bags, honey, and a few cans of soup (the shitty chicken noodle that Mac loves so much) that they keep on hand for situations like this. He sets it on the counter and goes to lay on the couch. He lets his eyes close for a little while.

When he opens them again, his mouth feels like cotton and his back is aching.

“Jesus,” he mutters, stretching.

The clock in the kitchen reads 3:45. He’d slept longer than he’d planned to. He stands up and gets a glass of water, and then shuffles over to check on Mac, peeking into his room silently.

Mac is curled in the fetal position. He’s shivering, his hands resting limp on the blankets in front of him. Dennis sits down on the edge of the bed as quietly as he can, reaching over to brush sweaty strands of hair from his face. The darkness under his eyes looks reddish and bruised, and he’s burning up. Dennis’s fingers brush against his forehead and he shudders at the touch, unconsciously moving closer. He whimpers softly, shifting with discomfort.

“Mac?” Dennis tests the waters. He really doesn’t want to have to wake him up, but if something else is wrong, he needs to know. “Mac?”

Mac moans, his eyelids fluttering as he looks up at Dennis as best he can. His eyes are dazed as hell.

“Den?” He sounds absolutely awful. His voice is rough and quiet, like even talking takes a tremendous amount of energy. Guilt settles like a stone in Dennis’s chest.

“Hey, asshole,” he whispers affectionately, trying to push past his discomfort and worry to smile reassuringly, “how are you feeling?"

He keeps his hand gently stroking Mac’s hair, pausing for a few seconds to rest it against his forehead again, and his cheek, feeling the heat radiating off his skin. Mac still looks zoned, taking time to process the answer. A weird expression is spreading across his face. But, to Dennis’ surprise, he simply sniffs in response. At first, he thinks it’s just because of the virus, then he takes a quick breath in, sniffling again. In a few seconds, he’s gasping and sniffling and… goddamnit. Tears start to fall, dropping over where Dennis is still cupping his face.

"Ah, shit,” Dennis says under his breath, moving to brush the tears away as they fall, “shh, no… hey, it’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here. Tell me what’s wrong."

The words slip out so naturally that he doesn’t realize what he’s saying until he’s said it. If Mac hears the term of endearment he shows no sign of it. His breath hitches and gives way to a wet sob and he brings his hands up to cover his face. The shaking returns. He presses his body against Dennis, his head putting pressure on Dennis’ thigh. The sobbing alone is broken and pathetic, but on top of it, his lungs sound like shit, mucus-filled and wheezing with every breath.

Despite himself, Dennis finds his own throat tightening and his eyes misting over at the strangled, congested sounds. Mac doesn’t cry often, and when he does it’s never this random and uncontrolled. It’s usually soft and stifled after a nightmare, or a few tears escaping if it’s been a particularly hard day for them. But this is different.

Dennis can see angry red blotches forming on Mac’s cheeks as he rubs at his eyes violently, his breathing starting to sound erratic. Dennis swallows his welling emotions.

"Mac,” he takes his face in both hands, “look at me."

Mac rubs at his eyes one last time before lowering his hands. Tears are still flowing steadily, and Dennis can see that tiny blood vessels have burst under his right eye. The rest of his face is pinched and pale as he continues crying.

"Is it your head? Or something else?”

Mac nods.

“Both?”

Another nod, quicker this time.

“Okay. Come here.” He opens his arms, gesturing. Mac slowly crawls onto his lap, burying his face in Dennis’s shirt. He’s hot as a goddamn space heater and he’s heavy as shit. Dennis can feel his legs aching under the weight of a full-grown man lying on top of him, but he sure as hell isn’t going to say anything about it.

He can feel Mac blinking against the crook of his neck, his breath hot and fast against Dennis’ collarbone. He wishes they had something he could give him. Even just ibuprofen or some shit that did enough to dull the pain that he could calm down and get a couple hours of uninterrupted sleep.

He runs a hand up and down Mac’s back, pausing togently rub the nape his neck and then reaching with both to stroke his temples. Mac immediately recoils from the touch.

“It hurts,” he chokes out.

"Mac, don’t be–” he pauses, takes a deep breath, “I know. But, it’ll make your head feel better, I promise. If it doesn’t, I’ll stop right away. Okay?"

"Okay.”

He pushes himself into a better position and places his hands back on Mac’s temples, massaging so lightly he’s sure that it isn’t helping anything. Mac gasps at the pressure, his eyes starting to well up again. He works with a little more purpose, and Mac closes his eyes, tries to breathe around the gunk in his lungs. His chest is heaving with exertion.

“Dennis, do you hate me?” His voice is so quiet.

“Where did that come from? Wh–Mac, that’s…” he sighs, “that’s ridiculous. Of course I don’t hate you.”

He knows it’s just the pain and the fever talking, but it’s more than that. There’s genuine sadness behind the delirium. His heart pounds as he holds Mac’s head with the gentleness he’s reserved only for him, wishing he could transplant his feelings directly into Mac so that he’d be able to understand. He presses his cheek against the top of his head.

After a few minutes, Mac sags against him. Dennis carefully lifts his hands and pulls him closer, holding him as his eyelids droop. He murmurs something unintelligible, head nodding against his chest.

“What’d you say, buddy?” He asks softly.

“I love you,” his words slur together like he’s drunk.

Dennis’s heart swells, and he feels a hot blush color cheeks. He chuckles.

“Of course you do. Close your eyes try to go back to sleep. I’ll be right here."

#iasip #its always sunny #mac mcdonald #dennis reynolds #macdennis #sickfic #prompts #this is one of my favorite things I've written #i love writing sickfics and i love gentle macdennis #dennis taking care of him? priceless

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elfgrove · 7 years

Text

Bad Diagnosis - Part 1/6

Rating: T - angst, facing mortality, friendship, lion-paladin bond Word Count: 1742 Characters: Katie “Pidge” Holt, Green Lion, Takashi “Shiro” Shirogane, Allura Notes: angst, female pronouns for Pidge AO3: [link] Next >

She rolled over in the bed, pressing her forehead against the mattress harder, hoping the pressure might provide some relief.

She waited.

Two long breaths.

Ten.

It didn't help.

Everything pounded. The lights, low set as they were, made it worse. Laying here wasn't accomplishing anything. She couldn't sleep through this.

She groaned, pushing herself up from the mattress with an effort, and tapping the nearby tablet to get the current time. She kept her eyes squeezed shut for a long moment, gathering her nerves to handle the light of the screen, of the room.

03:23h

A little after 3 am.

Okay. Even Shiro would be asleep in his quarters at this hour. She could do this.

Her head gave a defiant lance of pain, arguing to the contrary, and she leaned into the wall, pressing the heel of her hand to her temple. It didn't really help, but the effort should count for something. The moment passed, lapsing back into the constant pounding, and she forced herself to stand up.

She dragged on her what was becoming an increasingly threadbare sweater as she passed into the night-dimmed hallway, thankfully no brighter than her room, and began the slow trek to the med bay.

This headache had been persisting on and off for almost a full spicolian movement now. It was time to do a quick scan and see if the supplies had some sort of Advil equivalent that maybe wouldn't have terrible side effects on a human body.

At this point, she'd take a few annoying side effects.

She couldn't take another quintant of her head doing this without any relief.

Three scans, a small bottle of pills stuffed into her pocket, and a wipe of the med bay logs later, she was back in her room, curled under a blanket and trying not to panic.

“Try” being the operative word.

It wasn't going well.

Upshot, the scans had showed her exactly what she needed to medicate with for the headaches and the Altean medicine had helped immensely.

On the downside, the scan had told her what was wrong. The diagnosis wasn't good. It was extremely bad. And there was no way in the three laws of thermodynamics she was telling any of her fellow Paladins. They might tell her to stop piloting. Separate her from Green and the search for her family...

That wasn't going to happen.

She'd rather die.

She was going to die.

...

OH MARIE SKLODOWSKA CURIE. She was going to die out here. Not a maybe. Not a distinct possibility. She was without a doubt going to die. And it probably wasn't going to be very flashy and heroic near the end.

She was at least going to die on her own terms then.

Green radiated concern through their bond, and she patted the console as reassuringly as she could.

Her hands were still shaking.

“It’s not your fault, Girl.”

There was an uncertain timber to the ancient space cat’s answering rumble.

“It’s not,” She bit off the words stubbornly. “This is on me. My genetics. Runs in the family every couple of generations.”

She was hiding in the cockpit. When she’d realized that the other Paladins would be getting up for breakfast soon, she’d scrambled down to the Lion hangar and into Green. She was still processing the news. She needed to collect herself before she saw the others. She needed Green.

The Lion growled a light challenge, and she brought up a screen to see what had her partner’s attention.

Shiro stood down in the bay, one hand on his hip, looking up at Green calmly, with one eyebrow quirked, “Good Morning to you too. Is Pidge with you?”

Green turned her head away from Shiro, pointedly snubbing him, and Pidge felt the comforting weight of the Lion’s protective mental presence wrap around her. She could feel it. The Lion, her Lion, was willing to let her hide in here for as long as she needed. Her hands still shook with nerves as she reached for the console, but she managed to grit her teeth, take a deep breath, and sound something close to normal.

“I’m here Shiro. Did you need something?”

“0700 hours. Breakfast. Come down and eat.”

“No thanks.”

“What?”

Okay. That had not been smooth. She’d spent over half a year at Galaxy Garrison, convincing people, convincing Iverson who had met her before, that she was a boy named Pidge Gunderson. She could convince Shiro, who couldn’t even see her right now that she was skipping breakfast to fidget with her Lion yet again.

“I said no thanks. Green and I are working on something. I’m not hungry.”

Not even a lie.

“Pidge, you need to eat.”

“I’ll get something later. Promise.”

“Pidge...”

“I’m busy. You can complain if I don’t eat lunch.”

She could hear his sigh, and she curled up into the pilot’s chair, pulling her knees to her chest, afraid he would push the issue, insist on coming up to see what she was doing. She wasn’t collected enough to put on a normal face around the others yet, and she couldn’t let them know. This secret was between Green and her.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Shiro finally answered patiently. “Have fun with Green.”

Green made a friendlier short rumble, and they both watched Shiro leave the hangar. Green’s presence curling more protectively around her.

She buried her head on her knees, and let out a long shuddering breath, “I’m scared Green.”

Green started purring, the engines vibrating all around her and the cockpit warming by a few degrees.

“I’m scared, but I don’t want to stop either. Fighting alongside you. The team. Searching for Dad and Matt. Seeing new worlds and new technology. Helping people. Saving the universe. I don’t want to give any of this up. But knowing I’m dying is still scary. Brain tumors are scary.”

The rumbling purr changed and she couldn’t help but feel a little comforted. She raised her head and reached both hands out to touch what parts of the Lion she could easily reach.

“Not being with you is scarier though.”

She chuckled at the inquisitive press of the Lion’s mind.

“Yeah, so it’s going to be a while before we see any big effects. Let me tell you what to expect...”

By the time she’d finished talking through what was going to happen with Green, she was starting to feel more like herself. More put together. The headaches were under control. Green had her back. She could do this.

She felt ready to act like everything was normal around the rest of Team Voltron.

She joined the team for lunch, discussing the latest repairs the Castle needed and the next planet they were likely to visit to find parts.

She thought Shiro was looking at her strangely a couple of times, but dismissed it.

She took in a deep shuddering breath, shifting the controls to bring Green coasting into formation with the other Lions as they approached the Castle. It hadn’t been a hard battle, but it had been longer than usual, and she was feeling worn out. Probably a little too much.

“Can you bring us in, Green?”

The answering rumble was concerned but affirmative.

“I just feel... off. Probably need to adjust my dose or something.” She leant forward to pat the console reassuringly. “I’ll sneak down to the med bay toni--"

Her body shuddered involuntarily, her vision blurred, and a wave of vertigo hit, sending her pitching forward against the console.

She felt Green register alarm, but couldn’t get herself to respond. She clung to the console, her vision swimming in a blur of green lights and silver metal. The smell of cinnamon seemed to permeate everything.

When she came back to herself, she felt Green growling all around her, and the comm in her helmet bringing Shiro and Allura’s voices into sudden focus.

Allura’s voice was still calm, reasonable, “Green Lion, what is wrong?”

Shiro’s wasn’t, he sounded on the edge of being panicked, “If Pidge is hurt, you need to let us in to help her.”

Okay. She must have had a seizure. That was expected. Bound to happen eventually. She hadn’t completely lost consciousness, didn’t seem to have had any significant, prolonged muscle spasms, so probably a complex partial one. She’d need to run a few scans to be sure. Later tonight. After she’d mitigated the immediate issue. She and Green had talked about this. Green was doing exactly what she’d asked, not let the others see her like this.

“I’m fine, Shiro.”

“Pidge?! What’s happening?”

“Nothing!” She wiped sweat from her neck, and moved slowly, making sure she hadn’t hurt herself when she’d fallen out of the pilot’s chair. “I was adjusting some new code on Green. Must have accidentally blocked the comms. Sorry about that.”

“Can you please come out now,” Allura sounded relieved. “We were starting to become concerned.”

“Yeah. Sure. On my way.” She pulled the helmet off, patting Green as she started towards the ramp, down, feeling Green move to give her access even as she did. She felt unsteady on her feet, but damned if she was going to show it. “Thanks Girl. You did good.”

Shiro met her at the bottom of the ramp, his eyes darting back and forth, checking her for injuries. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine! It wasn’t like there was even a close call out there. Come on.”

Shiro’s expression tightened, “Green isn’t usually this antisocial, she’s definitely not usually one to growl at Allura and I.”

“We were doing some delicate adjustments; she just didn’t want you messing with her.”

“She’s been more closed off for a while now. You’re sure something isn’t going on?”

“Nothing. You’re overthinking things,” She patted Shiro’s shoulder lightly and stepped past. “I’m going to hit the showers.”

No one stopped her, and she was grateful for it as she slumped against the shower wall, letting the recycled water wash away the sweat and prodding at a bruise she’d earned in her fall. Well, first seizure survived more or less smoothly. Live and learn.

It was 0300 hours when she snuck back to the med bay. The new scans didn’t tell her anything she hadn’t expected. The tumor had grown. The programs calculated a new dosage for her, and she downloaded the scans to her personal tablet before deleting them from the med bay’s system.

#Voltron #Voltron Legendary Defender #Pidge #Katie Holt #Shiro #Takashi Shirogane #Allura #fanfic #my VLD fic #art by elfgrove #Green Lion #LION PALADIN BONDING

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mechgymleaderalar · 7 years

Text

Dear Mom, Put Me Out of My Missouri

Friday came, Friday passed. And, finally, Alar sat down for the weekend. More so, he laid himself down on his couch, face down, and burrowed his face down against the cushions and pillows. His hands were under his head, palms pressed up against his cheeks and eyes.

In fact, this is how he had spent most of the week leading up to Thursday, as well as Thursday night after he'd gotten home from being with Calliope. While Thursday night ended absolutely wonderful, the next day he woke up feeling less than stellar. It only made sense that such a magnificent high would be followed by such a magnificent low, and this time seemed to be the first time in a long time he felt this bad.

As Friday afternoon dwindled into Friday evening, he only moved a few times to make himself something simple for dinner and to use the bathroom. At some point, he found himself staring blankly at the television, still laying on his stomach, but head tilted just enough to where he could peer around the fabric he was pressed against.

He fell asleep like that with only the pillows and his throw blanket, and woke up early Saturday morning with little understanding of what time it was and even littler understanding of where he was, a headache the size of Texas, and not only nausea but as if he hadn't drank any water in weeks. Somewhere, in the folds of his clothing and the couch and pillows, his house phone was ringing, and that was the source of him being awoken.

He shuffled to try and find the phone, and as he did, he found the source of his bleary-headedness. His bottle of bourbon sat on the floor by the couch, but at least he hadn't drank the whole bottle. Just... well, most of it. Okay, so. Hangover. That cleared that confusion up.

He tugged the phone out from the crease in between two of the cushions and answered it. "Hello?" He sure sounded tired.

"Alar! Hon, you called last night? Sorry, I was out with Matzy."

Alar sat up on his couch, slow at first, but then forcefully. He leaned back against the cushion and switched the phone to the other side of his head and dug around for his remote. "Mom, hey." He... didn't remember calling her. He clicked the television off.

He could only assume it had to do with going out with Callie, and, by extension, ultimately about Finn.

"Alar sweetie?" She only used words like that when she was worried.

"Mom, did I leave you any messages or anything?" She was going to find out sooner or later that he had drunk-called her, might as well get that over with.

The hesitation in her reply was more than enough of an answer. "No, love, what's wrong? You haven't done this in a while." He knew otherwise--he could only imagine what kind of drunk and depressed things he had spilled out to her over her voicemail.

He breathed out slowly and ran his hand over his face, through his hair. Hesitantly he began to speak. "Mom, I keep thinkin' about him." He let his hand settle against his eye, fingers up in his hair, the bottom of his palm almost muffling his lips. Lightly, he began to apply pressure to the pain in his temple.

"What? Why, what for? Has he contacted you?"

"No mom, no. He's not, but I..." He sighed and pushed into his hand. He had a headache, now that he was awake to realize it. "I just can't stop thinking about him lately. He keeps infecting my thoughts. I was doing so good--"

"Alar, what happened?"

An awkward silence fell over the phone line as she waited for him to answer. He knew the reason. He couldn't say 'I don't know' and leave it at that. He knew exactly what was making all the bad memories come back. And it sure as hell wasn't Calliope's fault, not in the least. It was, in all honesty, his own.

"Mom, I met someone."

"Do they remind you of him?" She sounded worried.

"No!" He blurted the word out, quickly mumbled an apology, and continued. "No, no she's... incredible."

Beryl started a sentence, a few utterances, but Alar quickly interrupted her. "Sorry--it's really early, mom, I'm sure you don't wanna talk about this, do you?" He ran his fingers back through his hair.

"Alar! You haven't talked about meeting someone in almost three years... of course I want to." Her voice grew softer as she spoke to encourage him.

In response, he shifted and tugged the phone back to the original side of his head, then fell over the arm of the couch with a quiet oomph. He spent a few minutes talking about Calliope, describing what she looked like, her personality, how they met.

Beryl listened intently and encouraged him to continue, and a five minute conversation grew into a thirty minute conversation, then far over an hour as he continued to explain to her everything that had happened over the course of Spring, starting with her randomly coming to the shop for help with her truck, all the way up through the Fireworks Festival just days prior. Conveniently, for the moment, he decided to leave out the... rather embarrassing situation that had happened. Not that the kisses had been embarrassing, but everything that came after. He still felt like a complete idiot.

Finally, after he'd finished, she asked a rather important question, one he immediately answered of course, but it left him questioning the obvious.

"Are you two seeing each other?"

"No--no, I don't think so. We're just, you know, hanging out." What were they? They hadn't addressed that, not really. There was that awkward moment--two awkward moments, actually--in her barn loft. There was the entire evening of the festival--the kiss, her almost running away (for the third time, mind you), his awkward confessions to her, and then the third kiss.

He was feeling... conflicted, to put it gently.

He must have grown quiet without realizing it because his mom was repeating his name.

"Alar?"

"Yeah, sorry, I'm here."

"I asked if you liked her."

Hoo.

"...Yes. Yeah, I really do. God, mom, I'm terrified." He blurted the whole answer out, then sunk into his palm.

"Because of what happened with... you know, him?"

"Exactly."

"Darling, she isn't him."

"I know, I know. Light mom what if she doesn't like me..."

He swallowed as she replied. "Alar, even if she doesn't, what's more important?" His head tilted as his eyes glanced around the room--the coffee table with the partially finished puzzle still spread across it, his floor where they had ate dinner and worked on the puzzle together. "You like her as a friend first and foremost, right?"

"Of course," he managed.

"Then that's important. It's okay, even if she doesn't. This is a big step for you. Don't worry too much--don't push yourself, okay?"

"Right, mom, I won't. You're right." That was entirely true. His and Calliope's friendship was more important, and whatever he felt for her would have to come second because right now he just could not handle that. He didn't even want to admit it to his mother, much less himself. He hadn't been with someone since he left Finn. Hell, he hadn't even so much as talked to someone since he left Finn.

But... then Thursday happened. That was his first kiss in... Finn didn't even make a habit of kissing him after a certain point. Three, four years. More? That was possible.

And there had been so much to that evening, as it was. It wasn't just an awkward kiss, an awkward confession. She had... all but confessed to him as well. She had shown interest in him, and if he weren't being presumptuous, she had shown just the same amount of interest that he had in her.

"Mom," he started, then realized he had interrupted her. He didn't know what she was saying, considering he wasn't paying attention. "Mom, I need to talk to her about him, I think."

"...In detail you mean?"

"What if she doesn't want to be with me because of it?"

"She won't judge you based on him, Alar."

He quietly told her that she was right; he knew she was right. He also began to realize he could barely focus on this conversation right now.

"Love, did I wake you up?"

"Yeah... sorry. I don't know when I started drinking, but I guess that's how I called you. Mom, I'm really hung over." He laughed, awkward. "I'm sorry, I thought I was past this."

"Why don't you get some rest, Alar. Drink some water, use the bathroom, try to get some more sleep. Take some medicine. Call Calliope, invite her over."

"Mom..."

"Never know, love. I'll let you go do all of that, okay?"

He hesitated. He didn't want to hang up yet, but he really couldn't focus on the conversation anymore. "Yeah, yeah I'll go do that. I love you, thank you."

"I love you, sweetie. I'll tell Matzy you said hi and love."

"Thanks mom."

He clicked the phone off and leaned onto his couch, head still hurting, eyes burning. He rolled himself back over and curled up, fingers grasping for his throw blanket to tug around himself, then spent the next few hours trying to nap away his hangover.

#clearwell ic archived #clearwell freewriting archived #(in which alar has a two day crisis on his couch)

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