#referenced hospitalization | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lady-bess · 11 days

Text

Fallout - Chapter 3 "Out Into The Light"

Jack Daniels x F!Reader Explicit/ 18+ (Minors DNI please) Chapter Word Count: 6.3k Chapter Tags: Description of injuries, description of hospital equipment, punishment, anger, frustration, angst, reference to trauma, reference to death, recovery.

Series Masterlist | A03 Link | Tumblr Masterlist

<- Previous Chapter (Ch. 2 - "A Curious Affair")

Still in his hospital bed, Jack gets a long awaited visit from Champ, who details the punishment he now has to endure as a result of his crimes. But even in spite of losing his moniker, and facing the wrath of Agent Tequila's anger, Jack remains positive for what his new life might look like.

2:17pm. February 8 th , 2018.

The road ahead for Jack was going to be a long one - this morning had already made that abundantly clear. His body ached and cried out in pain and exhaustion every time he tried to move any more than just simply sitting. Even stretching out fatigued muscles sent shocks through his body as his nerves and tendons all got used to proper movement again.

After sleeping for another few hours, Clara had taken small steps with Jack to establish where he was at physically. Slowly she had sat him up in bed, taking time and adjusting the backrest of where he lay so that his body could acclimatise to being upright again, and not pass out from any more sudden movement. It took almost an hour, but she eventually got him sitting upright.

Normally, patients who were reliant on ventilators or in any kind of comatose state, would need weaning off their oxygen steadily. Half an hour increments daily, followed by the smallest bits of exercise in conjunction. Any more could risk further internal injury, or delays in overall progress to recovery.

Jack had a slight upper hand in that the Statesman technology which had kept him alive these last few months was far superior to any standard hospital equipment that he would have been using had he not been in the lab. His body had been preserved much more efficiently than it could have been, and as such things were not as dire as they could have been when he finally woke up properly.

Electrostimulation had been administered gently throughout his muscles while he slept, preventing a lot of atrophy he would experience for being out cold for so long. He still would need some form of rehab to develop what had been lost, and the side effects of not breathing autonomously for so long would take a long time to be completely over. But things could be a lot more dire for Jack if he had found himself anywhere other than Statesman.

Jack sat in silence after Clara excused herself for a moment to go run some blood tests on him - although he was smart enough to know that this was definitely a ruse to just be out of the way. He knew that Champ would need to come by soon and speak to him, but in a sense Jack could hardly bear waiting any longer for that to happen. It felt like he was waiting for his own day of reckoning, and the sooner he knew what fate he was going to face, the better.

His prayers would soon be answered.

The elder Statesman agent stepped out of the barrel-shaped elevator and walked down the long corridor of the labs. It had been a few hours since he’d had word from Clara about needing to be down here, but that she would need a while to make sure Jack was completely stable before he would be able to bear being questioned.

Champ had waited as long as he could. He had spent most of the morning itching with a feeling akin to excitement, nervousness, and also dread. For as happy as he was that Jack was back in the land of the living, he knew that he was about to face up to the reality that was the betrayal of his most senior agent - not only someone who he regarded as trustworthy in the field, but also someone he had come to know so intimately that he would be able to consider him a friend.

But he’d had the benefit of time on his side, and ever since Jack’s accident he’d mulled over how best to treat the former agent. Anger had blinded him in the first few weeks, wanting nothing more than to cut ties with Jack and send him packing at the first opportunity. But the guilt at what had caused Jack to snap had eaten away at the older man for far too long, and he’d had time to process that perhaps he had some accountability to take for what happened.

Inhaling sharply, Champ pushed open the door to the lab and stepped inside. He had wanted to remain a confident figure of authority today, and to maintain the kind of stature he was known for - stoic, no nonsense, and would absolutely kick you to the curb if needed. But all that faded away the second he laid eyes on Jack across the room of the lab, almost stopping him dead in his tracks.

Propped up in bed, still with a ventilator and IV tracks feeding into him, he looked rough . The colour in his face had long since faded, replaced by a look of fatigue under heavy eyes and a solemn brow. Someone, Jack looked more dead now than he had in the four months he’d been laid unconscious.

Champ bit on his bottom lip gently as he shuffled his feet along the crisp white floor of the lab, then cleared his throat to get the attention of Jack. Two dark brown eyes scanned over to the noise before setting on Champ, and he was met with a melancholic smile from the younger man. A smile which shattered Champ from the inside.

“Hey, kid,” he said, snapping himself out of his daze and slowly wandering over to Jack. He tried not to let it show, but Champ carried so much guilt towards the former agent that sat before him now. He had wondered, for so long since the accident, if any of it was preventable. Could he have done more to prevent Jack from going down this road? Was this the fault of the organisation Jack worked for so many years to uphold, and protect?

Had he failed to protect his own?

Jack smiled faintly towards Champ, his brow softening as the older man approached him. He thought, at first, that he might feel differently when this time finally came - when judgement came knocking at his door. But, for as much as Champ tried, he could never fully hide his feelings. Not from Jack, anyway. He didn’t know if it was regret, remorse, or sympathy that was painted across his face, but Jack knew that whatever he was about to say would not be the aggressive screaming match that he anticipated.

“Hey, boss,” he said weakly, his voice cracking with each syllable he pushed out of his mouth. He’d spoken in small parts to Clara and Jane since waking up, but on the whole this morning had been focused on making sure he was stable and well rested. There would be a lot of rehab to come, so he needed to save his energy.

“How are you doing?” Champ asked, pulling an office chair across the room from an empty desk, and situating it next to Jack’s bed. He sat down, grunting slightly as he did, old age and the stress of running this organisation without his most senior agent by his side having taken its toll on the older man.

“Been better, if I’m honest,” Jack said, just about forcing out a small chuckle. Champ smiled sympathetically, nodding in understanding.

“Yeah, I figured, kid. Sorry for asking such a dumb question,” he said, laughing faintly along with Jack.

Jack smiled towards the older man, someone he had respected and looked up to for so long. What he had tried to do was wrong, and it didn’t take a genius to tell him that, but somehow the thing that hurt most was that he had let down Champ - a man who represented a team that had done nothing but have Jack’s back for the last two decades, and yet he still betrayed them.

“No change there then,” he joked, winking at Champ. He smiled back at him earnestly, and for a brief moment anyone could be forgiven into thinking that there was nothing amiss between the two men. That Jack had just had an unfortunate accident, and here was his boss coming to check on his condition.

But none of that was the case, and the sobering reality of the situation couldn’t be ignored for long. A weight sat on both the men’s shoulders the longer they chose to keep sweeping this conversation under the rug, putting it off, and off, until eventually one of them had to address the elephant in the room.

Jack didn’t want it to be him which broke the veil of denial that lay across them both in this moment. He wanted to enjoy what could potentially be his last few civil moments with the man who he had betrayed - he had turned his back on Statesman for the sake of his own fucked up principles, and wouldn’t blame Champ for cutting ties and leaving him out in the dust somewhere.

Forgotten. Unloved. But probably deserved.

Champ didn’t want it to be him, either. He wanted to still believe, for just a moment longer, that this entire situation had been an unfortunate misunderstanding. That Jack hadn’t acted out how he did, that Eggsy and Harry had lied.

But the video footage from the Kingsman agent’s glasses was proof enough. For as much as he wanted to bury his head in the sand, and pretend like their British cousins were lying for some reason, he could not deny the evidence so plainly in front of him.

And now, Jack had to face the music.

“Jack, I’m sorry to do this, but I gotta ask. What was the last thing you remember?” Champ asked.

Jack sighed softly, but nodded. The silence couldn’t last forever - this question was always going to have to come one way or another. He could see in Champ’s face he didn’t like asking it as much as Jack was going to hate answering it. He inhaled sharply, preparing himself for the words he needed to own up to; the reason he was here today.

“I remember most of it, unfortunately. My last memory is getting into a fight with Eggsy and Galahad when I tried to stop them from releasing the antidote to Poppy’s laced narcotics. Leading up to that point, I was in a bit of a haze. Anger blinded me, Champ,” he said.

No words Jack could say could ever begin to make up for the damage he almost caused. Clara had gone over her estimations with how many people had been affected, and how many would have perished had Jack been successful with his own personal mission. It pained him to know that he almost cost the lives of hundreds of thousands of innocent people - something he could only see now, four months after the accident.

Champ nodded, staying silent for a moment as he processed what Jack had said. In a way he was glad that he remembered a good portion of the details, as it made it easier to go straight into questioning him as to why he acted like he did, rather than starting from square one and having to fill in the blanks.

Champ had an idea as to why Jack ended up snapping. He knew about what happened with Lela, and had seen over the years Jack’s defiance of anyone using recreational drugs. But to Champ, that wasn’t enough of a reason. He had to know what set it off this time.

“Were you always like this? Were we truly just so stupid that we didn’t see it?” Champ asked, his hands clasped together on his lap. Jack shook his head.

“I never in my wildest imagination saw myself as being the kind of agent to go rogue. I still can’t believe I did,” he said, sighing to himself. All morning his mind had replayed to him the final mission he was on. What got him there, how he tried so hard to deal with the feelings that resurfaced because of it, and his subsequent idea as to how he could work against Statesman and Kingsman for his own benefit.

“When did it start, then?” Champ queried, leaning forward slightly in his seat, asking a question Jack had been trying to answer himself all morning. He’d never wholeheartedly supported the use of narcotics, especially given what happened to Lela, but for so many years it had never been a point of contention.

But finally, he had an answer.

“It was just after Poppy’s case landed on our doorstep. Something just clicked in my brain. I’m not an idiot, Champ, I know drugs are all around me. Hell, I know Jefferson used them from time to time. I didn’t like it , but I at least knew he was being fairly safe with it,” he began, trying to explain his reasoning.

Champ furrowed his brow, sucking his lip in as he mulled over what Jack had to say. He’d seen the tiffs he and agent Tequila had over the past few years in regards to drug use, but it had never escalated beyond a shouting match. Something still didn’t fully make sense.

“So what about Poppy tipped you over the edge?” he asked. Jack gave his former boss a taut smile, followed by a breathy laugh through his nostrils.

“Champ, this is gonna come out sounding like the most fuckin’ misogynistic thing in the world. Please, bear with me,” he said. Champ couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Go on?” he said.

“I think the fact that Poppy, a well educated woman who yearned for that traditional American aesthetic…the fact it was her behind all of this, shattered the illusion I had of what a drug dealer was,” he said, before pausing to take a breath. It was only now he realised that he so rarely spoke about his wife out loud, and to other people, that he was getting choked up at just the thought of mentioning her name.

“Since my wife passed, and they busted the guy who had dealt those guys that meth, I think it got ingrained into my head that drug dealers were all horrible, brutish men. Guys most people would avoid on the street, you know?” he said.

“I think I’m picking up what you’re putting down, but continue?”.

“The fact this operation, one that was so fuckin’ massive it affected people globally …and it was Poppy running it…it completely knocked me for six. Suddenly this ideology I had built in my mind of what these people were was destroyed, and it was abundantly clear that literally anyone had the ability to distribute drugs and destroy lives in the process,” he said.

“So, for you, it was less about the drugs and more about the dealers?”. Jack nodded.

“I was blinded by anger, and confusion. I didn’t really care about the people who used those substances, but the ones who shipped ‘em out, even if they were harmful…they were the people I wanted to see gone,” he said.

That was always his rationale, he’d come to realise. The people who made money from those who would go on to make reckless decisions; they were the ones to blame. Tequila had shown him time and time again that drugs could be taken sensibly, if done properly. He still didn’t like the potential risks he posed to himself, but never once had Tequila acted out of sorts because of what he took.

But those who sold it, even if they knew a client might potentially do themselves or other people harm - they were the ones he couldn’t stand. The ones who needed wiping off the face of the earth.

The way in which he had intended for that to happen, by essentially drying up and eradicating their customer base, was not the best course of action. Jack could see that so clearly now that he almost couldn’t comprehend that it was something he ever considered logical in the first place. But blinded by his anger and grief, emotions he so often chose to bury, it all became too much to rationalise.

Champ nodded, slowly starting to see where Jack was coming from. He still didn’t agree with his actions, he’d never be able to do that, but it was gradually becoming clearer what happened in his mind. What made him snap. He opened his mouth again to inhale, about to speak again, but the two men would have to wait for that.

The doors to the labs burst open, making both Champ and Jack jump in their skin slightly as the door whipped back and slammed into the concrete wall. Both their heads turned to face the entrance, and simultaneously their hearts plummeted to the pit of their stomachs as they saw the younger man striding towards them.

“Is it true? The son of a bitch is alive ?” Tequila said, storming into the room.

Jack figured something like this was coming, though. If he had been successful, Tequila wouldn’t be here today – he deserved this anger. That still didn’t mean he was quite prepared for the rage which came tumbling towards him at a hundred miles an hour.

Flinching at the sound of Tequila’s boots hitting the ground, Jack’s knuckles went white as he screwed up the bedding of his hospital bed in his fists. For the first time in his life he was truly frightened - something he had not been for so many years. He never had anything to lose when he hurtled himself head first into a mission, never caring about the potential ramifications to his own life - but this , Tequila’s anger, made him almost sweat.

“Tequila I thought I told you to calm the fuck down before you came into this room?!” Clara asked, her jaw clenched with frustration as she followed her younger colleague, barely keeping up with the pace he strode ahead with. He rolled his eyes as he stormed over to the other side of the room where Champ and Jack were, not even paying attention to look back at Clara as he spoke.

“How the hell can you expect me to be calm about this?” he asked, venom laced in his words, a redness in his face creeping up from his neck as tempers rose.

“Tequila, I-,” Jack began. He wasn’t sure what he was going to try and say – hell knows he didn’t get the chance to even get half a sentence out before being cut off.

“I nearly fucking died because of you, Jack!” Tequila shouted, visibly enraged. His skin was red as anger coursed through him, and his jaw was clenched so tight that the veins in his neck were visible. Clara turned to him, her eyes silently pleading with him, hoping and praying that he would see sense and calm down. But Tequila could only see red - silent pleas were not going to suffice this time.

“Tequila, calm down, please ,” she said softly, her hand reaching out to take hold of him by his elbow. She tugged gently, hoping the pull of her fingers around his arm would be enough to snap him out of the upset and rage he had towards Jack. But even that was no use. He shrugged his arm away from her, not even turning to look back at her as he responded.

“No,” he snapped, his breathing sharper as fury continued to bubble just under the surface, threatening to spill out into all-out violence the longer he stood there staring at Jack. A man who, for the longest time, he trusted with his life. A man who, as he came to learn a few months ago, was more than happy to sacrifice Tequila’s life in an effort to rid the world of drug users.

He wanted to hurt him so badly. He’d been waiting months for the chance, and seeing him lay in his bed with all manner of wires and tubes plugged into him, keeping him alive - the temptation to rip them from his body was high. But the only thing that stopped him was the hope that Champ would deliver a punishment which Jack deserved - something he could not endure if he were already dead.

Clara could understand his anger, and for a long time she had carried that similar weight on her shoulders of betrayal. She understood how he felt, with Jack being someone she had for so long looked up to and admired. For him to turn out like this - it was still slightly beyond belief. But the one thing she would not tolerate from Jefferson was his rudeness towards her . Eyebrows raised, she retracted her hands and rested them on her hips, glaring disapprovingly up at the younger man.

“Tequila, I will kick you out if you don’t fuckin’ can it ,” she said, now almost yelling herself. At those words, with a sharpness to her threat, Tequila finally turned his head. Clara rarely spoke ill of anyone, nor did she idly make threats. For her to have threatened to kick him out the labs, her labs , snapped him out of the daze he had slipped into.

Turning to face Clara, with a slightly softer gaze, he shook his head apologetically.

“Sorry, doll,” he whispered, his breathing still ragged from anger. She wasn’t completely going to let him off the hook, but for the time being she’d let it slide until he was in a better headspace. She nodded, smiling taut, and Tequila returned the gesture with a small grin, then turned back to face Jack and Champ.

“My apologies, sir. Although I’m sure you can understand where my anger stems from, I shouldn’t have acted as such,” he said, removing his stetson and tipping his head towards Champ.

“It’s alright, kid. This day was never gonna be easy,” Champ said. Tequila nodded, placing his stetson back on his head.

“Might I ask what punishment Mr. Daniels will be facing?” he asked, eyes locking with the former senior agent. Jack swallowed harshly at Tequila’s gaze, eyes that were so often sparkling and filled with life now pierced into him like the first harsh frost of a winter.

Champ sighed to himself under his breath - he had imagined in his head how delivering this news would go, always planning in the back of his mind how he would speak to the man before him after all that he’d done. Like Clara and Jefferson, it was difficult to understand that Jack would ever want to go rogue, but he hoped that over time he could come to understand his reasoning. But the one eventuality he did not account for was the one in which an enraged and flustered Tequila would be present at the delivery of such information.

“I really wish I could have done this in private, Jack,” he said, smiling apologetically down at the former senior agent.

“Do what?” Jack asked. He had figured as soon as he had woken up, and regained the crucial memories which helped him piece together how he came to be here, that there would be some form of punishment for his actions. It only seemed right, and even Jack could see that. Whatever Champ was about to deliver would be well deserved, and perhaps not punishment enough.

“You’ve lost your moniker, Jack. You’re no longer Agent Whiskey,” he said. “I’m sorry, kid.”

Jack nodded, solemnly, as he listened carefully to what Champ said. He couldn’t lie and say he expected to wake up and everything be okay - there would be consequences to his actions, and he had made peace with that. He might have only been back in the land of the living for a short while, but he’d had long enough to already be racked with the guilt and remorse of the actions he’d taken to get him into this position. That didn’t mean finding out he had essentially lost his identity didn’t still sting, though.

“I expected as much. Please tell me what else will happen to me,” he asked, mentally preparing himself for what would be coming his way.

Champ shifted where he sat, looking like he was pondering what it was that he wanted to say. He gently sucked his bottom lip under his top teeth, now seemingly a bit reluctant to talk, with all eyes in the room firmly pinned on him. He sighed, softly.

“Let me talk you through a couple of things, Jack. The initial plan was to get you healed up here, then ship you off somewhere with a brand new identity. Essentially, reinvent you, then leave you somewhere alone, with no ties to Statesman,” he said, eyes unable to focus on Jack. For as firm as Champ was, and as sure of himself as he so often was, this was one thing that he had tormenting him for months. That plan no longer felt right.

“But, I came to see that the initial plan was something that was made only out of anger, and rage. It was a knee jerk response to the actions you had taken, and while I will never be able to condemn what it was that you did, I cannot in good faith punish you in such a way like that anymore,” he said.

Jack smiled faintly, a pang of guilt tearing through him again, and tears welled up in his eyes. Champ was a mentor to Jack, and had been such a constant presence in his life for two decades now. He would take a long time to be able to forgive himself for what he did, but his biggest regret was that he had the burden of feeling like he’d let Champ down to carry around with him. Gaining back his trust, and forgiveness, would be a hard battle to fight.

Tequila, still thoroughly unimpressed at Jack even daring to breathe the same air as him, scoffed at Champ’s words. Jack understood why Jefferson would be so bitter towards him, and he knew if the shoe were on the other foot he’d probably be just as resentful towards him. He didn’t take it personally, but it still was enough of a visceral reaction to make Jack turn his attention towards his former colleague.

“You’ve all gone fuckin’ soft,” Tequila said under his breath, his arms folded tight against his chest.

“Shut the fuck up,” Clara quipped, her head snapping round to Tequila the second he dared open his mouth and interrupt Champ. He rolled his eyes at her, but did as she asked, not uttering another word for a while longer.

“So, what’s the new plan then, Champ? Whatcha gonna do with me?” Jack asked. Champ smiled faintly, his thumb and forefinger on his right hand gently twirling the end of the bolo tie that he had on, something which all agents in the room had realised was something Champ did when he was anxious about something.

Champ might be someone who came across like he had a hand on everything, but when it came to his closest agents, the most senior ones who had been with Statesman for over a decade, there would always be some decisions which would leave him feeling slightly unsure he was taking the right action. These people were like a family to Champ, and one wrong move had the possibility of jeopardising his adoptive family. In a job like this, where personal relations were hard to maintain outside of work, having any kind of rift in the team was never something he wanted. Life was hard enough for them without it.

“I’m giving you another chance, Jack. You’ll undergo a course of intense psychological treatment once you’re physically healed, and all the while we’ll keep you bound to these grounds. Consider it a form of house arrest, given what you tried to do,” Champ said.

Clara furrowed her brow, now turning her attention back to Champ.

“Champ, I didn’t think that was part of the plan?” she asked. Tequila scoffed, again .

“It ain’t enough, if you ask me,” he said. Clara didn’t want to detract from any point Champ might be about to give in response to her question, so she didn’t make all that much of a deal of his quip; although that didn’t stop her from muttering “ nobody asked you” under her breath.

“I changed my mind. I want to give you another chance, Jack, but I need to be sure that you won’t go rogue again. We had guys from the FBI on our case not long after the antidote got released, wanting to know what the delay was all about. I managed to get them off your trail, but fuck , it was a close one. Put my neck on the line for you, Jack, so I gotta be a hundred percent sure whose side you’re on before I even think about giving you a proper job back here,” he said.

“What makes you think we can ever trust him again, Champ? Are you forgetting how he was quite happy to just let me fuckin’ die ?!” Tequila said, that anger rising in him anew. Champ shrugged.

“Only time will tell that much, Tex. But my decision is final,” he said, turning back to Jack. “So, what do you say, kid?”.

Jack smiled faintly, nodding at the older man, choosing to ignore Tequila’s outburst. He’d come around one day - or maybe he wouldn’t; who knew? He probably deserved it if his old friend could never look at him the same again.

“Statesman is all I’ve ever known, for so long. I want to make it work, Champ. I’ll serve my time,” he said.

Champ smiled, nodding as he stood to his feet, holding onto the lapels of his jacket as he returned to the strong stature he so liked to maintain.

“Very well. Tequila, may I see you outside for a moment?” Champ asked. Tequila scoffed, still completely bemused at the solution to Jack’s punishment, but nodded nonetheless. He’d never been one to question Champ’s authority, so he sure wasn’t about to start now - regardless of his personal feelings towards the decision.

The two men began walking away from Jack’s bed, but before they could leave he had just one final burning question that he needed answering.

“Hey Champ, if I’m not Whiskey, then who is?” Jack asked. Champ turned on his heels, ignoring the fact that Tequila kept walking towards the door, and smiled.

“Clara, can you fill Jack in on those details?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Very good,” he grinned, then nodded towards Jack, “Rest up, kid. I’ll see you soon”.

Jack watched as Tequila and Champ left the room, the lab doors swinging behind them as they left. A silence fell across the lab once they had departed, the gentle sound of machinery beeping and whirring behind his head the only thing he noticed for a while. Jack felt his mind slowly wandering away from the physical space in which he resided, the reality of everything crashing down around him.

He’d lost his moniker.

The man he fought for years to become, the stoic and immovable Agent Whiskey - just like that, gone . A part of his life, so big that he didn’t even know who he was without it, had been taken away. He didn’t disagree with Champ, he would have acted the same in his shoes - but the feeling of loss left a vacant hole deep inside his chest, and for a moment Jack wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to piece himself back together.

Clara sat down besides Jack’s bed and sighed quietly, the weight of that conversation heavy in the air surrounding them both. She could see that he’d wandered elsewhere, his eyes almost empty as she looked over at him. This was a conversation that she didn’t want to have, especially given how heartbroken he looked - but the band aid would need to come off sometime.

She slowly slid her hand atop of Jack’s, caressing the back of his hand while she waited for him to come back to her. He didn’t react at first, the dissociation taking hold and carrying him far out of this room. Far away from the reality he was having to acknowledge.

“Jack?” she whispered, finally snapping him out of his daze and bringing him back to her in the room. He turned to look at her, his eyes filled with tears, but yet he still managed a small smile.

“Sorry,” he whispered, sniffling to himself and wiping his eyes with his free hand. Clara shook her head, lacing her fingers between his and squeezing his hand.

“Don’t be,” she said, “This is a lot to process all at once. We can always revisit this conversation another day?” she suggested, but Jack shook his head.

“No, Clara, I need to know. Who is the new Agent Whiskey?” he asked.

Clara bit her lip, still unsure if she felt ready to tell him. But one look into those deep brown pleading eyes, and she was a goner. Her and Jack might have never been intimate with one another, but that didn’t make her totally immune to the looks and glances he could pass around.

“It’s me, Jack. I’m Agent Whiskey,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry”.

Jack had never been keen on Clara becoming a senior agent, even though he knew as well as anyone else that she would have been deserving of the position. But being one of the only women he worked closely with on a daily basis for so many years, he’d so long wanted to protect Clara and keep her safe - denying her the chance to work her way up the ranks was his way of crudely preventing her from putting herself in harm's way.

He knew it was wrong. Truthfully, the fact his old moniker had been passed to her felt like an ironic sense of justice being delivered - a karma given to him for all the times he had denied Clara the right to do what she was more than capable of, what she was more than deserving of , in the name of protection.

Jack smiled at Clara, trying to reassure the evident worry that was dancing across her face. With her hand still in his, he returned the affection she’s given, squeezing her fingers between his.

“No, Clara. I’m sorry,” he said. She furrowed her brow, not expecting an apology to come from his lips - in fact, she expected anger. A sense of betrayal, even, that after all this time working together that it was her who would be the one to take his moniker the second he were to lose it. But no; instead Jack looked remorseful, and genuinely sorry.

“What for?” she asked.

“You mean aside from causing all this mess?” he chuckled, motioning to the bed in which he lay with his other hand.

“Oh, shut up,” she giggled, wanting to playfully slap his arm but knowing that was probably not the best idea given his current condition.

“I’m sorry for ever denying you the chance to become an agent. You never deserved that,” he explained.

She’d get an explanation from him one day as to why he did. That didn’t matter right now - for the first time in her life, Clara had just heard Jack apologise to her.

“It’s okay. In a way it all worked out in the end,” she said. Jack shrugged.

“Yes, but I should have never stood in your way. For what it’s worth, I’m glad my moniker has gone to you, of all people,” he said. “You deserve the title.”

Clara smiled at Jack, tears stinging in the corners of her eyes. He lifted her hand, still within his, up to his lips. Softly he placed a kiss on the back of her hand, all the while his deep brown eyes staying firmly on hers, his own tears starting to seep from the edges and trickle down his face.

For Clara, it was an acceptance that she hadn’t anticipated, but one she had so desperately needed. For as long as Jack had been asleep, carrying his former moniker had felt more like a burden than a privilege. A metaphorical ball and chain clamped around her ankle, weighing her down and scraping at the ground beneath her with every step. It had been an unbearable weight.

But looking back at Jack now, whose features seemed softer than she’d ever seen before, there was not a doubt in her mind that everything would eventually work out. Whatever became of Jack, however well he would cope with the upcoming months and years of rehab, she could leave this room today as Agent Whiskey with her head held high. Something she had yearned for since September.

“You better rest now, Jack. We’ll be getting you into physical rehab in the morning, so you’ll need your energy. I think you’ve had enough for one day now,” Clara said.

Jack nodded, setting Clara’s hand back down onto the bed and loosening his grip, allowing her to pull away. She stood up from his bedside and adjusted her lab coat, before heading off in the direction of the door.

“Thank you, Clara,” Jack said weakly, smiling over at his former co-worker as he felt his body relax into the bed. She turned her head back towards him, chuckling to herself as she saw his eyes go heavy and begin to close, fatigue taking over his body. On her way out, Clara dimmed the lights, and by the time she came to leave the labs Jack had already slipped away again into a deep slumber.

As Jack slept that night, he dreamt of his old life. A life he would no longer see again, but perhaps for the better. He had been a wayward soul for far too long, and his unpredictability had led him to ruin. For him to feel happiness again, to have a new lease of life, change was inevitable.

“All great changes are preceded by chaos”.

Series Masterlist | A03 Link | Tumblr Masterlist

9 notes · View notes

cyndherrsuggestions · 7 months

Text

Sayonara you sons of bitches

#(cyn dherr) through the fire and flames #(OOC: this is referencing canon events)#sparklecare #sparklecare hospital #suggestion blog

23 notes · View notes

pigeonwhumps · 9 months

Text

Hospital stay

Immortal Cannon Fodder masterlist

Taglist: @extrabitterbrain @wolfeyedwitch @whumpinggrounds @painful-pooch

Whumptember day 28: "I never should have let it come this far" | failed hero | hospital stay | begging for help

Set in the future, when Phoenix has been with Kai's team a while. After being kidnapped together and tortured for, Phoenix and Aaron have been rescued, Kai injured while doing so.

Joseph belongs to @i-eat-worlds, from their story Alex and Friends. Please go read it if you haven't yet!

1.5k

CWs: immortal whumpee, hero whump, caretaker turned whumpee, trans whumpee, mentions of superpower overuse, mentions of waterboarding and whipping, past torture, medical setting, coma, low self-esteem, self-degradation, wish to have committed self sacrifice, something that could potentially come across as a death wish but isn't, past self sacrifice, emeto, past temporary character death, past whump reveal (I guess? Idk how to label it)

Phoenix blinks back tears as they watch Aaron, still and silent in the medbay bed in front of them. He's lying on his stomach, trailing with monitors and IVs and all manner of medical equipment, swathed in bandages. They should've done better. They should be there instead of Aaron, but their stupid healing factor, their immortality that's been so useful in the past, means that he was the one who almost died.

It's not fair. He could've escaped if it wasn't for them. But they're stupid and they failed, and now people are worried about them, too.

"They're definitely out of the coma?" whispers Phoenix to the nurse currently taking Aaron's vitals.

"Yes. Just asleep now. They're safe, everyone is."

"It's my fault."

"No. No, it's not, kiddo."

"It *is*. They used me to control him, he could've, um, escaped. And to check they were right. If I'd died quicker then he would've been less hurt, I should've, um, I should've–"

"Don't you dare. Don't you dare talk about yourself like that."

Phoenix blinks, then bursts into tears. The nurse is so fierce.

"Why do you care? Aaron's yours, I got him hurt, you should–"

A hand falls onto their shoulder. "Do you think that after what we've seen of you over the past few years, how much you've helped, how much you've hurt, do you honestly think that we wouldn't care for you too?"

Phoenix cries. They watch Aaron's too-still body and they cry. Everyone else shouldn't care. But as they watch the nurse tend to Aaron, they can't bring themself to point it out again.

"You're sure they'll, um, they'll be okay?"

"Yes. He's recovering nicely. They should be awake in about six to twelve hours."

They're still too bandaged, too still, too too too, too little Aaron in there. Phoenix tries to comfort themself with the thought that he'll be awake soon, but it doesn't help much. What if he doesn't want to see them again? It's all their fault. They're a failure of a hero, a useless, stupid–

"Hey. Whatever you're thinking, that's enough. Joseph's sent you another cat meme if you want a distraction. Are you in pain?"

The answer is yes, everywhere still aches and hurts whenever they shift (and when they don't), but they can't say that. They know why the nurse is asking. But they're a waste of resources and they deserve this anyway.

"No, sir."

"Are you saying no because you really aren't in pain or because you don't want painkillers? I have standing orders from Aaron to remind you that, although you can of course refuse medication, it's perfectly fine to take painkillers or anything else and it's not a waste of resources."

"I'm, um, I'm okay without, sir," murmurs Phoenix, unsure whether they want the nurse to call them out on it or not. She sighs knowingly.

"Alright. Let me know if you need any. Do you want to see Joseph's cat meme?"

Phoenix nods. "Please. And, um, can I move over to Kai's bed? It's, um, it's his turn."

"Of course."

The nurse fetches Phoenix's phone and wheels them over to Kai's bed, then adjusts their saline IV.

"We'll start you off trying to drink again soon. No water for a while yet though."

Phoenix nods, feeling a burning shame. There's no physical reason they can't drink, they're fine. But mentally...

Mentally, they've spent too long without Kai or Aaron reassuring them on anything, and they didn't realise just how much they relied on that. They're useless on their own.

They clutch Mr Frosty to their chest, smiling weakly at Joseph's new message and making sure to reply. They barely see it, but they know now that he'll worry if they don't answer for too long.

It's their daily cat photo. They don't know what they ever did to deserve Joseph.

They slide their phone onto their lap and sink their chin down onto Mr Frosty's head, observing Kai. He's unconscious too, but a lot of that's because he overused his powers. The medics weren't worried about his unconsciousness so much as the stab wound.

Kai looks peaceful. Phoenix isn't sure if that's true.

They look between their two best friends and guilt wells up inside them. Guilt, and grief for something unknown, bubbling over like an old stone well, overflowing and unstoppable. They've both been hurt, everyone's been hurt, because of them.

"I wish I'd been tortured instead of Aaron," murmurs Phoenix, stroking Mr Frosty's fur. "He didn't deserve it. But it's partly so I wouldn't have to watch, so maybe that makes me selfish. What do you think, Mr Frosty?"

"Mr Frosty thinks you shouldn't be so hard on yourself," croaks a voice from the closest bed, and Phoenix looks up, heart in their throat, to see Kai squinting at them.

"Kai! You're awake! Oh." They press a small red button on the side of Kai's bed. "The nurse said to call if you woke."

"How long have I been out?" he asks weakly, as Phoenix helps him with a sippy cup of water.

"A few days? Not entirely sure," they reply quietly. "I was unconscious too for some of it."

Kai tries to sit up, a concerned look on his face, but he can't manage it. "Are you okay? I thought you'd be healing faster, what's wrong?"

"Dehydration, mostly. I'm fine." Kai's gaze flickers pointedly to the IV line in their arm and back, and they sigh. Can't Kai ever miss anything? "I'm... struggling to drink, after... well. It's simpler this way." Phoenix hesitates, and then reaches out a hand hopefully, laying it on top of Kai's uninjured one. Kai turns his own over and squeezes it gently.

Kai's hand is rough, and warm, and large, and it fills Phoenix with relief, to be able to hold it again.

"Where's Aaron? How are they holding up? I don't remember that well but I'm pretty sure they were in bad shape."

Phoenix's eyes dart to the next bed, and Kai struggles in another fruitless attempt to sit up.

"He... he, um, he took the last whipping for me. After everything else he took it, I don't know why, I'm, um, I'm immortal, I'd have been fine, but he– anyway, they're, um, they're out of the induced coma now. Asleep. They're healing. I've, um, been switching between you."

Phoenix is dreading the point where they have to find out exactly how bad things are, how much Aaron hates them now, but they know they deserve it.

"Okay. Phoenix? Firstly, being whipped and waterboarded counts as torture, yes, to you too. Stop being mean to yourself."

Phoenix frowns. "How do you, um, know about the waterboarding?"

Kai squeezes their hand. "They sent videos. To anyone who might care that they had you both. Our team, Joseph, Electrocus, Aisling and Gemma... and Aaron's parents and Alicia. Nobody's told you, huh?"

Phoenix shakes their head, but everything's muted, like they're underwater. They're drowning and they have no idea how to come up for air.

They understand why no-one would tell them. Everyone knowing... that's far too much for their mind to hold.

They gasp, trying to grasp onto something, anything, looking for a lifeline their mind can hold. Everyone knowing...

And they don't even know how much.

"My... my parents?"

"No idea. We haven't contacted them, they haven't contacted us. If they know they're not saying. But no-one can share either of your identities further."

Phoenix takes a deep breath, trying to steady themself. This means Aaron doesn't know either.

Of course he doesn't. Of course he wouldn't. He hasn't woken since the rescue.

"Stop, um, stop trying to reassure me when you were stabbed."

"Then stop claiming you weren't tortured."

"Wasn't bad torture."

They were experiments anyway. That doesn't count as torture.

There's footsteps from behind Phoenix and they cower down, throwing their arm above their head even though it'll do no good. He's going to hurt them, he's going to stretch their limits and kill them and hurt Aaron and–

"Easy. It's just me, I'm here to check on Kai, breathe."

Phoenix does so obediently, blood rushing past their ears still but seeing the medbay as if from miles away, someone in a white coat entering their field of vision.

"Hello Kai," the voice says warmly. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"

"Tell Phoenix there's no such thing as "not bad" torture."

"There isn't. But Kai, I asked about *you*."

"Thirsty, tired, sore. Not dying." He coughs. "What happened?"

"Let me check your vitals and monitors." There's a pause. Phoenix puts their head between their knees, trying to remember how to breathe. "You remember the rescue? Well, you got Phoenix and Aaron, but you had a dagger thrown in your back on your way out. You're damned lucky you were in wolf form. The healers patched you up, but you had a way to go on your own."

"And the others?"

"Lian's been in and out of sleep, Morfydd's in a sensory deprivation chamber, and Santhiya's recovering in a power-blocking room. You all overused your powers drastically, but you'll be okay."

The floor is mostly white with splatters of colour, swirling swirling splatter, and Phoenix throws up on the medbay floor.

31 notes · View notes

toxik14 · 9 months

Text

Awful Bulletin Board: Lots of missing people.

#awful hospital #awful hospital: seriously the worst ever #there is a reference to #strange school: even stranger #here #should i have referenced rose too? idk #bogleech

30 notes · View notes

writersmorgue · 3 months

Text

Febuwhump Day 23 - Presumed Dead

Read Part 1 first!!! This is a continuation of Day 4

TWs in tags || read on Ao3 || wc: 921

◈━◈━◈━◈━◈

Katsuki opens his eyes the second the nurses' voices are out of earshot.

He rolls over, tucking the shitty hospital blanket up to his chin.

Luckily whatever healing Recovery Girl had been able to do worked wonders, and he could freely move when he wanted to despite the extensive bandaging. His shoulder had been nearly unrecognizable when he’d been admitted to the hospital, from what he’d inferred from his chart.

He’s been conveniently asleep when anyone comes to visit- no one suspecting otherwise when his eternally angry face is peaceful with sleep.

Two days now he’d been coherent. He’d awoken a few times before that, still heavily under the cocktail of drugs they had him on.

It wasn’t enough to keep him from seeing Uraraka’s dead body out of the corner of his eye no matter where he turned.

He looks over at the corner, the murky figure of her dead body disappearing when he looks directly at it.

His mind can’t seem to completely erase her blood from the walls, sticking hotly like his guilt in his hospital prison.

Aizawa had tried to come to talk to him, but he’d freaked the fuck out and the nurses had kicked him out before he could say anything.

Now he just gets to sit in his reality. He killed one of his best friends, he killed her with his quirk from his arm.

He can still see her face right after he fired, the betrayal in her expression. There was anger there, something he would never forget. She would never forgive him for it, and her friends wouldn’t either.

Maybe Aizawa will expel him like he deserves.

His name is whispered in the quiet room.

Another one of her tricks, something he’d put too much hope in the first time.

Naïvely he thought she may have lived, maybe he’d hallucinated the entire thing? As soon as he’d turned around he was met with her horrified face, blood coming from her mouth. The glazed-over look in her eye broke something in his heart that would never be fixed.

And he’s not falling for it again.

“Bakugo are you awake?” It calls again.

The voice is uncanny, the little warble her breath gives when she’s trying to be quiet. His brain must be trying to torture him.

“Aizawa, I think I should come back later…”

“No, he needs to see you.”

You need to face what you’ve done, Katsuki.

He groans, squeezing his eyes closed and scrubbing them with his palms.

“Oh,” The voice gasps, soft footsteps padding toward his bed.

No no no no, go away!

The softest touch on his shoulder, the soft velvet of her finger pads unmistakable.

Fuck.

Tears fall onto his pillow without his permission, he reaches out to the hand when it leaves his arm, grabbing her wrist like a lifeline.

“Bakugo you’re awake!”

His eyes fly open and he sits up, looking first to the door where his teacher stands, then to the girl by his bedside.

She’s pale, the light from his window hitting the back of her head like a halo. Her chocolate brown eyes looked at him with so much innocent concern. He liked the bloody one better.

Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut, jerking his hand back to tug on the back of his head as he folds into himself.

“Not real, you’re not real, she’s not real.” He mumbles, whining into the dark of his safe cave when Uraraka places her hand on his back, rubbing gently.

“Bakugo, they got Eri just in time, I’m okay.” She explains, “You’re the one I’m worried about.”

His teacher clears his throat, “This is what I was trying to tell you before, but you had a panic attack.”

“I was at home, but I came as soon as I could. Now that you’re awake- Bakugo, can you look at me?”

Her hand moves to his shoulder and she squeezes gently.

It’s too good to be true, but he wants so badly for it to be real. His skin burns where she’s touching him and his breathing is uneven.

His mind is screaming at him to run, to hide so deep inside himself that they never find him again, but he wants so desperately to see her again.

His neck creaks when he raises it, the room fuzzy as it comes into focus.

Uraraka takes the opportunity to bend down to sit at his eye level, crawling partially onto his bed.

He looks into her eyes, trying to confirm what his mind refuses to acknowledge.

She’s okay.

She allows him to reach out to her, letting his arm rest tentatively on her shoulder.

Dressed in a sweater and leggings, it looks like she has been okay the whole time.

“There’s no way- I blasted a hole straight through you.” He whispers, gaze drifting down to her chest.

She winces, “Well, I was dead. Or enough so that the mind control quirk was convinced. I’m fine now though!” Her eyes soften, and she takes his hand in hers, “Bakugo, I want you to know that I don’t blame you for what happened. It was a terrible situation and, as Aizawa has already assured me, it was not either of us at fault.”

He pulls her into his chest without a word, ignoring her squawk of protest to press their bodies together.

He can feel her erratic heartbeat against his own, and he feels like he can finally breathe.

“You promise?” He mumbles when she finally relaxes.

“I promise.

7 notes · View notes

gootube · 2 years

Text

Tomorrow and certainly from this point forward,

This hell will continue to the bitter end

Here are some transparents just to see the art by itself, if you want to use these in anything other than an icon please ask first, PLZ give credit! 💚 Do not repost (as in taking the image and posting it on ither social media) without my permission 🤬🤬🤬

#I heavily referenced the music video but i did bust my ass over this one i loved drawing it so much #digital #lobotomy corporation #lobotomy corporation spoilers #ask to tag #I’m sooo normal about this song associated with this character #I played it in project sekai again today and lost my mind #Anyways here’s this all i ask is you don’t tag as kin because i put my whole kinussy into this #drugs tw #hospitalization tw #best

148 notes · View notes

serickswrites · 7 months

Note

Hey it's been quite long I haven't asked, can you please write about what Caretaker would do with whumpee everyday when they are both in the icu room while Whumpee recovers from injuries.

Absolutely, I can write this! (And I haven't forgotten to finish your other request, it's just marinating so I can finish it, lol).

Please enjoy!

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced torture, referenced wounds, referenced forced to watch, referenced restraints, hospital, unconsciousness, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery

Caretaker stared down at the healing wounds on their wrists. It was either stare there, stare at the wall, or stare at Whumpee. And they'd been staring at Whumpee for the last few hours and couldn't take anymore. It was too hard.

They could barely swallow around the lump in their throat when they thought about the only thing they walked away with from their time with Whumper were these scars on their wrists from the rope rubbing. While Whumpee walked away with much worse.

Whumpee hadn't woken since they slipped into unconsciousness as Caretaker ran to the ambulance with them. Hadn't woken since EMTs worked tirelessly to save their life. Hadn't woken since arriving that the hospital and being ripped away from Caretaker and into emergency surgery. Hadn't woken since Caretaker was guided into the ICU room where they lay, tubes coming out of them in various places.

Caretaker had been powerless to help Whumpee. Had been powerless to do anything except watch Whumpee suffer at Whumper's hands. Watch Whumpee grow weaker and weaker. And finally watch Whumpee succumb to unconsciousness.

They were still powerless and could only watch.

The nurses were kind and assured Caretaker that Whumpee's body just needed some time to heal. That being in a coma helped. That the medical team felt it was very likely that Whumpee would wake again.

The waiting was killing Caretaker. They dragged their gaze up once more so they could stare at Whumpee. Stare at the consequences of their failing to stop Whumper. Stare at their consequences of failing to save Whumpee sooner. Stare at their world that was slowly crumbling.

Caretaker took Whumpee's hand in theirs. "Please, please forgive. I'm so sorry. Please don't leave me. I need you. Please, Whumpee. I'm so sorry."

#serickswrites #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump community #tw referenced captivity #tw referenced torture #tw referenced wounds #tw referenced forced to watch #tw referenced restraints #tw hospital #tw unconsciousness #hurt/aftermath #hurt/recovery #queue

76 notes · View notes

sentanixiv · 1 year

Text

The One To Call (wc: 2,068) Spent my lunch break today scratching out this modern AU test-write based on a exes-to-lovers prompt:

They are still each other's emergency contact. Which becomes apparent when one of them ends up in the hospital.

Morston, modern AU; reference to injuries sustained, but no details or visuals. John reacting to being the one called when Arthur turns up at the hospital, beat to shit and no one knows how. Plenty of vague/inaccurate medical terms because I am bone-tired and braindead.

Streetlights stretch and streak overhead, a blurred mirror to the dotted lines demarking the lanes on the freeway. Recently refreshed, the paint burns bright under the headlamp, waits for the grease and dirt of the daily grind to dull it into the same muted hues of the cityscape's south end. Rush hour's petered out, though plenty of vehicles still cut between lanes, seeking to make the small gains that'll save them thirty seconds on their commute home. Their pace is sedate in comparison to the streak of copper-and-chrome that routes through without care nor caution.

Wind whips at the hem of his jeans, tangling with threads worn loose from the denim weave. Arms half-bared make targets for bug bodies to strike, stinging as they collide and crash away from the lone motorcycle rider. Ducked low, making the best of his bike's swift profile, John shifts the gear and lets go the clutch. Uneven, the frame jerks beneath him before the tires grab at asphalt and rip him forward faster.

The steady, streaking lights count out a tempo that matches the beating of his heart, but it can't hope to catch the racing of his thoughts. He drives on instinct and reflex, tearing through the narrow spaces between cars, earning hollers and honks that curse his lineage back to the beginning, but he ignores them. Lets muscle memory guide as he counts the miles and urges the speedometer to edge just a little bit further beyond its max.

Internally, there's a litany of thoughts that demand he go faster, be there sooner, and a dizzying spiral of questions to why him, what's happening, and who's responsible. Two he can't answer, but the first has the audacity to make sense. 'Why him' is because he's named on the file - the only name - and it's best he comes to talk with the doctor per the voice what'd called him.

Green highway signs with white lettering catches his attention and he gears down, crosses three lanes and leans to balance the curve as he takes the ramp at an ungodly speed. The red light at the intersection exists as an afterthought, traffic slower here, with fewer cars to obstruct him and he takes full advantage to push the limits.

Too long still passes before the backlight sign emblazoned with The Blackwater-McCourt Memorial Hospital zips overhead. There's an anthem of sirens accompanied by flashing lights that surrounds the area, but there's no blue to slow him and so he don't. Rides straight up onto the concrete walk and kicks down the stand, kills the engine and grabs the keys before he's through the front doors. Ignores the unhelpful call of a bystander telling him he can't park there, focus intent on the front desk. A sleepy-eyed volunteer sits there, turning the yellowed pages of a bodice-ripper romance. She blinks and looks up when he stops there and demands the room number.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't quite hear you," she says, apologetic as she dog-ears the page and leans forward with a helpful smile. "The, ah. The helmet doesn't help."

Right. He loosens the latched belting and pulls it off, dragging a gloved hand back through his sweat-streaked hair. "I said: Got me a call about an 'Arthur Morgan' being here?" he repeats, breathing slow and steady against the rising anxiety that hospitals bring about. "Whereabouts should I-"

The name stills her, the rosy hue of her complex fades brief before she shakes it off and smiles wanly. "I'll call the doctor," she says, hand automatically lifting the phone from its cradle. An older model, push-tone and connected to a landline, she manipulates it smoothly, whispers into the mouthpiece and nods at what she hears.

John sets his helmet down on the counter, fingers tapping erratic beats against it. His leg twitches, foot bouncing as he holds down the need to move, to do something, to get answers without asking half so nicely.

"Doctor Roberts is on the way," the young woman tells him, an interruption to his reverie and John swears.

"You gotta be kiddin' me," he mutters.

The lady - Mary-Beth, by the volunteer's tag she wears - looks up at him with wide, serious eyes. "She won't be more than a moment."

"No, I bet she won't," he grumbles, dragging his helmet off the counter. John paces, walks the five steps across the hall and back again at least a dozen times before an exasperated noise jars him out of the motion.

"You meanin' to wear a hole in my floor?"

Doctor Abigail Roberts walks up and near past him, grabbing his elbow to pull him along as she nods to Mary-Beth. "I got this from here," she says sharply and there's no fight against it. Mary-Beth sinks back into her chair, novel absent from her attentions as she digs out a phone. Whatever's gone on, it's about to hit the shitfan of social media and that makes him groan.

"Ain't you gonna stop her?" he asks Abigail, wrenching his arm free. John keeps pace with her, lets her maintain the half step lead needed to guide them both.

Abigail shakes her head and points down the hall that'll route them past trauma care. Her hair's pulled back, messy wisps plastered along her temple; sign that she's been in the OR, not long done. They were together for a while, once upon a darker time; one of them whirlwind romances what happened when she was the trauma care doctor and he was the trauma-suffering fool that'd needed care. John knew her well, knew she liked to look at least a bit composed before starting her rounds, so knew this hectic break from habit meant something real and something that weren't apt to be good.

"You know as good as I that there ain't no point," she reminds him. True, there ain't. Mary-Beth is no doubt connected to the same network that most of them are and won't be long for her to rouse the rest of the gang now that John's been dragged into it. "Let it happen, John. It'll make things easier."

"Nothing's gonna be easy here, Abigail," he tells her flat out. "You know I ain't been 'round Arthur for three years now, so why's I the one that got the call?"

Crisp steps on smooth linoleum and Abigail does not look at him, only holds her head high and keeps her eyes forward. There's a clarity to them, the sort of shine that comes on when she's feeling something fierce and that makes his gut clench because the thing they're talking about, the man Arthur Morgan? Well, he's means something to a lot of people, and it sets a poor stage to have that mist about her eyes before they get into the meat of it.

"Arthur ain't never updated his emergency contacts," she says quickly, checks the chart she's been carrying. Taller than her, John can make out details on the patient's file and sees his name listed there, like she's just said. "There weren't no one else I could call."

"That ain't telling me why I'm here." Why he got a call; don't matter to him if Arthur took his name off his file or not. They'd had a good run and ruined it, but it ain't so easy to change all the records, all the details to strike the other from their lives. Hell, he'd found out week before last that Arthur's name still sat on the lease when he went to renew it, had to explain to the landlord that weren't no one but John there no more. Had to endure the lamenting that Arthur'd been the best thing to happen to him and John never disagreed, but that ain't changed that Arthur'd done the best thing for himself by ending it.

"Well, John," Abigail begins, taking a breath, "that's 'cause it ain't good."

John reaches out, grips her arm to stall them both and turn her towards him. "What's that mean?" he asks, eyes seeking to pry something from her gaze that'd answer that. "I been told that already, but it don't mean shit without more. You know that."

"It means that it ain't good," she replies, unflinching under the stop, under the inspection. "I done what I could and he's stable now, but..."

The words don't trail off so much as his grip tightens. All these words, this dance around it, tells him more than he wants to know already. "What happened?"

Abigail pulls herself free and gestures him ahead, pointing to the left hall. "We ain't sure and I don't got details, but Sadie came by not long after he showed up, says he went missing a week ago, maybe more." She shrugs, leaves out the why of Sadie being there, but the woman ain't family, so must've been present for function. That meant the police were getting involved, sending her out to get a bead on it.

They slow up outside a door closed, lights dimmed in the hall and the profile of a police guard half hidden in the shadows. John didn't recognize him, didn't much care to because Abigail stopped with her back to the door, keeping him from crossing the threshold. Beyond it comes the muffled melody of medical equipment, monitoring the someone there what'd been hurt. "All I know's that he walked up to ER looking a right mess," she explains, fingers pale in their grip on the chart. "Blood and bruising and, well. You know Arthur. Anyone else'd not be able to walk, but he managed it. Said something about gettin' away, keepin' folk safe before we lost him."

John feels the jerk in his chest, his heart threatening to up and stop on him. "Lost?"

Abigail shows a flicker of annoyance, smacks one hand against his chest. "Not like that, y'fool!" she hisses. "Charles got him breathing again, Tilly and Karen got him stable, Sean processed him while Lenny paged me." It's a report, a buffer to give him a chance to breathe again before she provides more details. "I spent seven hours working on him," she adds, shaking her head. "Ain't much that weren't busted or broke; looks to me like he got worked over real good. Shoulder torn up, ribs broke, couple fingers were twisted up bad. I ain't sure all what's wrong. Seven hours to step the bleeding, pull the mess of debris from his shoulder, and cut out the infection, John. Could be worse, but I won't know more 'til diagnostics gets me the details. And I ain't sure it'll be smart to put him on the table again too soon."

The flicker of panicked fear calms at the assurance the man's alive, but the small spark of it feeds the fires of his temper at whomever attacked Arthur. Once he knows the extent of it, John will find them - ain't no point denying it, not when the heat of his anger near as burns in him. John'll find them and revisit it on them, but first-

"I talked to him some in Recovery, but weren't long," Abigail says, stepping away from the door, up closer to John where she can drop her voice and give an air of privacy. "Arthur said somethin' about Colm O'Driscoll."

Everything hones in on the name, the target of what'd been a man and was now, in John's eyes, a dead man walking. He jerks back, makes to leave, but Abigail stops him with a hold on his arm.

"Not yet." Her voice is insistent, a steady pressure to keep him from leaping off into the dark void wherein the violence beckoned to him. "I ain't had you called to mess with no stupid vengeance," she tells him, nails pressing against his skin where it's pockmarked with the remains of bugs that crossed his motorcycle's path.

"Then why's I even here?" he demands. "Arthur and I ain't nothing, no matter what no file says. You know that well as I do."

Abigail hesitates, the sharp edges of her softening, her expression one she'd used when trying to calm him. "He asked for you," she says quietly. "Fevered and dying and barely nothing, but as he was coming out in Recovery, weren't no name but yours on his lips. Weren't awake long, weren't real coherent, but you're the one he wanted here."

#kichi writes #rdr2 #morston #modern au #red dead redemption #john marston #arthur morgan #(referenced)#abigail roberts #that's DOCTOR roberts to you tyvm #hospitals #implied physical trauma #references to blood and infection #nothing visceral or seen

23 notes · View notes

dykevanny · 2 months

Text

Ohh my god I’m the ultimate sicko

#MY MOM REFERENCED FNAF AT THE HOSPITAL RECOVERING FROM SURGERY APPARENTLY !?

3 notes · View notes

ollieofthebeholder · 6 months

Text

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 75: September 2012

There should be more people here.

Actually, there shouldn’t be any people here; this isn’t a place anyone should want to be, or really needs to be. But if they have to be here at all, Gerry thinks, there ought to be more than just six people in the room.

Well. Seven if you count the one in the box.

At least, Gerry assumes there’s a body in the box. Or what’s left of one, anyway. The casket is firmly closed and sealed, has been since they arrived. There wasn’t even a viewing this time around, although given the nature of…what happened, that’s not surprising. Melanie wanted to go for a cremation, for a couple of reasons—at least one of which, Gerry knows, is so he can be buried with both his wives—but Lily is his next of kin and isn’t yet considered unable to handle her own affairs, so the final decision for disposition of the remains lay with her. A normal person with half a heart would at least consider the wishes of his only living child. Lily, however, is neither normal nor in possession of any fraction of a heart.

And so, Roger Henry King is getting a full burial with honors.

There’s a man in a clerical collar with a tiny pair of round spectacles who looks more like he’s dressed up as a priest than that he actually is one standing behind the coffin, leading the service. Lily sits in the place of honor, front and center, wearing the same mourning outfit Gerry remembers from her father’s funeral fifteen years ago, this time with the veil covering her face. The only real difference is the absence of her cane, either the silver-tipped fancy one or the sturdy nickel-plated claw-footed piece of equipment she used to drag herself around the last time Gerry saw her—has it really been five years? Instead, she sits in a large, uncomfortable-looking hospital chair with PROPERTY OF ROSEWOOD FOREST HOSPITAL AND CARE HOME stenciled in flaking white on the back, the arms of which she is gripping very tightly indeed. Sitting behind her, one chair over, is a muscular middle-aged woman in black scrubs with a slightly bored look on her face—at least she had the decency to wear black, even if she didn’t dress up. Gerry gets it; she’s a nurse, and she needs to be able to keep herself clean and sanitary if she has to assist Lily, but still.

Melanie sits in the front row directly opposite Lily, dressed up for the first time in a while, the only splash of color the teal streak in her hair and the gigantic glittery bright pink butterfly clipped to it. Beside her sits Martin, it’s a miracle he was able to get the time off work for this, wearing the only black outfit he owns—a calf-length dress with half-sleeves and a high collar that fits him like it was made for him, which, well, it was. It looks good on him, but Gerry knows he’s internally panicking over what Lily might say. She’s not exactly the most accepting person in the world and she’s never been particularly thrilled about Martin’s “inclinations”, as she always puts it, and that’s just her knowing that he’s gay; seeing her only son in a skirt, especially a tailored one, is likely to send her into the stratosphere. Gerry’s just thankful what’s left of his mum isn’t able to get here.

Gerry’s suit doesn’t fit him quite so well, but then, it’s one he found in the back of one of the closets at the bookshop; from the fact that it’s forty years out of style, he guesses that it once belonged to his father. With his hair back in a neat braid and a touch of makeup pilfered from Melanie, he looks different enough that he won’t attract undue attention, even four years after his face got plastered across the papers. In the seat next to Gerry is the only really surprising one there. Evan only ever met Roger once, as far as Gerry knows. Still, the fact that he’s here means a lot. It either means that he cared about Roger, or that he’s there to support Melanie. Either one is fine with Gerry.

There isn’t another soul in the room.

It’s obvious the man leading it has never met Roger, and when he talks about how much Roger brightened the halls of Rosewood Forest before quickly correcting himself to Ivy Meadows, Gerry realizes he’s the chaplain for the nursing home where Lily lives. He’s probably used to running funerals, comforting the bereaved, all of that, but it does mean he never met Roger. And it means he’s doing this service completely on Lily’s memories, or Melanie’s, or possibly just making it up as he goes along. The latter seems more probable, since he’s droning on about things like great worker and brilliant mind and man of God. Gerry doesn’t know what religious beliefs Roger might have held, if any, but even his and Lily’s wedding hadn’t been in a real church, and he’s never known any of them to attend one. Maybe Lily’s found religion since moving into a home, which, honestly, good for her, Gerry hopes it might make her a bit nicer, but as far as he knows Roger never did. As for his being brilliant, or a great worker…maybe it’s just the poetic license of not speaking ill of the dead, but truthfully, even before he lost his job, Roger was never what anyone would call a genius. He’d had his A-levels but not a university degree, and while he’d been a diligent and steady worker, he hadn’t exactly been impressive. Sort of mediocre, really.

The important things about Roger are the things the chaplain doesn’t even know to discuss. Like how Roger taught himself to bake so Melanie—and later Martin—would get homemade cakes on their birthdays, and braved a phone call to his mother-in-law—his first mother-in-law, Adeline Yuen, to get her to walk him through making a traditional New Year’s Eve dish. Or how he took a spinning class one summer in the hopes of being able to give Martin some homespun yarn for his project and been genuinely upset when all his efforts failed. Or how he never, not once, no matter what else was going on, missed one of Melanie’s boxing matches or one of Martin’s concerts. Or how, even when his brain failed him completely, even when he couldn’t consistently remember his own name on a daily basis, he always remembered his “little moth”.

Their absence from the eulogy makes it fall a little flat.

At last, the chaplain comes to a merciful halt. He prays, gives a blessing, and dismisses the gathering. A pair of men Gerry assumes to be employees of the funeral home come in, lift the coffin onto a weird sort of cart-like contraption, and wheel it out of the room. As the rest of them get to their feet to follow, he notices Lily beckon to the nurse and say something. She listens, then nods, then crosses over to where Martin stands.

In a low, genteel murmur, she says, “Miss Liliana asked me to tell you that she is feeling unwell and needs to get back to her room. This is all a bit much for her. She will visit once he has been interred.”

Martin’s voice betrays none of the emotions he must be feeling as he murmurs back, “Of course.”

They wait for Lily and her nurse to leave before they follow. The funeral home has a memorial park attached, meaning there are no headstones rising from the grass—only flat plaques set into the ground, some of which are studded with flowers or flags—but somehow Gerry isn’t surprised to be directed along a paved path to a large stone mausoleum. Assuming Lily ever actually does come to see Roger, she wouldn’t be able to get her chair over the grass. At least with it being a stone vault, there won’t be the whole thing with throwing dirt into the grave, which Gerry is grateful for. Roger, of all people, doesn’t deserve to be covered in dirt.

Melanie checks briefly at the threshold, but with Martin’s supportive hand at her back, she braves her way in for the rest of them to follow. There is a stone sarcophagus open off to one side; the priest stands next to it, the casket before it on the wheeled contraption. Gerry can’t see the two workers who must have brought it in, but after the chaplain says a few words of the ashes to ashes, dust to dust variety, they emerge out of the shadows, lift the casket, and drop it unceremoniously into the sarcophagus, like they’re delivering a package instead of interring a body. Melanie flinches and takes a half-step back to press against Martin and Gerry. Both of them, without saying a word, wrap an arm around her shoulders. She takes a handful of Gerry’s suit jacket on one side and a handful of Martin’s skirt in the other, but stays silent and stone-faced as the workers lift the gigantic slab for the top and, with surprisingly minimal effort for as heavy as it must be, slide it into place. With a final blessing, the chaplain dismisses them, and they re-emerge into what little sunlight there is today.

Melanie takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and turns to Evan. “There’s a café a few blocks away,” she says, her voice rough, like she’s been gargling glass. “If you like to join us.”

Evan nods, but doesn’t say anything. Gerry’s never been up here, not this part of Devon, so he just trusts Melanie and Martin to know where they’re going and follows them to a quaint little place, very white and clean and tidy, with both indoor and outdoor seating. It’s not exactly crowded, but all the same, Gerry isn’t surprised when they elect to sit outside. A waitress comes to take their orders, but after she leaves, they all sit in silence for a while, broken only by the chirping of late-summer birds and the light breeze rustling the leaves of the big, showy rosebushes planted around the edges of the patio.

Finally, Melanie speaks again. “Thanks for coming. You didn’t…have to.”

“Of course I did,” Evan says gently, because all of them know damn well she’s not talking to Martin or Gerry. “What else are friends for?”

“Yeah, but you’ve got…work or, or class or something, right?”

“Right. And I told them I was going up to Devon for my mate’s dad’s funeral and wouldn’t be in today.”

“And they didn’t give you grief?”

Evan shrugs, obviously unconcerned. “Couple of them did. All I had to say to the lab supervisor was Ivy Meadows and suddenly I had the whole week if I wanted it, and I just told my thesis advisor where he could shove it. There are more important things than a master’s degree, and there will be other jobs.” He hesitates, then adds, “I…kind of expected there to be more people, if I’m honest. I, I thought your dad was pretty well liked.”

“He’s been out of a job seven years now,” Melanie says. “And…it’s not like anyone from Ivy Meadows who knew him was left to come. Maybe Hannah, I think she’s…but we lost touch after she quit, and that was before…you know.”

Evan winces, but nods. Martin sighs heavily. “She might’ve been able to come, if this had been in London, but…well, Mum insisted.”

A delivery van trundles by, and for a second, Gerry wonders if it slows down to look at them, but it moves on quickly enough, so probably not. He refocuses on the conversation as Evan says, hesitantly, “Well, it makes sense she’d want to visit, right?”

Martin shrugs. “Maybe, but I doubt she will, honestly. It’s mostly because Melanie and I live in London, and because that’s where the Yuen family plot is.”

Evan blinks. “The who?”

“It was Mama’s maiden name.” Melanie stares at the tablecloth like it holds the secrets of the universe. “Before she married Dad. Amy Yuen Xinyi. What of her family didn’t make it back to Fatshan to die is buried in Kensal Green. But Lily’s not really one for tradition and this is closest to where she is, so it’s probably where she’ll end up buried when her time comes. And she doesn’t like us.”

“She likes you,” Martin mutters.

“Bullshit. She thinks I get you in trouble.”

“Neens, seriously, Mum doesn’t think I need any help to get in trouble. As far as she’s concerned, ‘bad kid’ is my default state and always has been. I can’t tell you how many lectures I got before they got married about why I wasn’t more like you and Gerry.” Martin winces and glances at Evan. “Sorry, you don’t…”

Evan just raises an eyebrow. “Martin, I’ve known you since we were sixteen. Do you really think I didn’t know by now that Melanie is the only person at this table who wasn’t a complete disappointment to her parents? If it weren’t for the fact that mine don’t socialize, and that I don’t talk to them, I’d have suggested they come up here and meet her.”

Martin gives a surprised-sounding laugh. “That would probably be a disaster waiting to happen.”

The delivery van rolls by again, or maybe it’s another one for the same company. Gerry watches it less because he’s concerned about it and more for somewhere to look as Melanie sighs. “Mama died when I was seven. I’m sure she’d have been plenty disappointed in me given time.”

“Hey, don’t say that.” Gerry’s head snaps back around to frown at her. “You’re a goddamn delight and any mother would be proud of a daughter like you.”

“Any mother should be proud of a son like you or Martin or Evan, too, and we all know how that worked out,” Melanie points out. “It’s immaterial. I’ll never know.”

Martin and Evan both blush. Gerry shakes his head at Melanie. “The difference is that our mothers never loved us in the first place, only what we represented for them, and that ended pretty quickly when they decided we weren’t going to be what they wanted. From what I’ve seen, yours liked you for being you.”

“You never met her.”

“No, but I’ve seen that picture of her taking you skating for your birthday,” Gerry reminds her. “You know, the woman who’s smiling and laughing with you, for you, knowing she’s so sick that in less than a week she’s going to have to go into a hospital and that she’s likely not coming out? That woman? That’s not someone who would ever have been disappointed in you.”

Gerry still, despite having known Melanie for sixteen years and loved her for fifteen of them, doesn’t speak Cantonese, but he recognizes every single one of the words that flow from her glossy lips as an obscenity. He also sees the suspicious brightness in her eyes and the slump of her shoulders and knows it’s only halfheartedly directed at him. He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles and murmurs softly, “Je t’aime, ma petite soeur.”[1]

Melanie’s French is about on par with Gerry’s Cantonese, but from the tiny smile she gives him, he knows she understands that much, at least. Evan smiles, too, then it morphs into a puzzled frown and he stands up. “Hang on. Those guys must be lost…I swear that van’s been by four times already, and now it’s slowing down.”

He starts towards the street, but the delivery van accelerates, quite naturally, as if the driver was just waiting for something to get out of the road and is continuing its journey. Martin frowns in its direction. “You’d think whoever runs the company would give them better directions to deliver.”

Gerry shrugs. “This is outside their normal route.”

“How do you know?”

“Mum used to use Breekon and Hope for deliveries all the time. They’ve got a pretty broad delivery range and branch offices in a couple different places, but Devon isn’t one of them, as far as I know.”

Martin shivers slightly. “That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.”

Gerry pats his arm as reassuringly as he can. “I promise, Martin, she just used them for delivering the…normal stuff. Not that she had a lot of that, but still.”

“Yeah, okay.” Martin sighs.

The waitress finally comes back with four cups of tea and the sandwiches they ordered. As she sets them down and gives them all a brilliant smile, she asks, “And what brings you four up here? I don’t think I’ve seen any of you before.”

Gerry frowns, because it looks like she’s flirting with either Martin or Melanie and he’s not about that—Martin won’t be interested, he’s gay, and Melanie is probably not in the mood—but Melanie doesn’t seem to notice. “We came up to bury my dad.”

That fast, the waitress’s smile vanishes, and she looks slightly horrified. “Oh. Oh, I’m—I’m so sorry to hear that.” She gathers her tray to her and scurries off awkwardly.

Evan snorts. “You seem to have broken her.”

“Eh.” Melanie shrugs. “She asked. I wasn’t going to sugarcoat it.” She picks up her tea and adds sugar to it.

Martin holds up his own. “To Roger.”

“To Roger,” the other three echo, clinking their cups against his, and they start telling Evan stories about Roger he hasn’t heard before. Melanie doesn’t exactly relax, and she certainly doesn’t look cheerful, but at least she looks less lost by the time they finish their meals and Evan solves the squabble between Martin and Gerry over which one of them will cover Melanie’s part by taking the check and paying the whole thing. He offers them a ride back to London, too, but they already have their tickets, so in the end he just gives them a lift to the train station and leaves them with a promise to see them the next time they’ll all be at the pub.

The trains don’t have compartments or three-across seating anymore, haven’t for years, but Melanie is skinny enough that doesn’t usually stop her from squeezing in between them if she needs it. Sure enough, when they find their seats, she sits on the hard plastic gap between them and curls against Martin’s side. Martin doesn’t let her do that for long, though. Instead, he just sweeps her onto his lap and holds her like a little kid.

“I’m not a baby,” she mutters, but makes no effort to get away from him.

“You just buried your dad,” Martin says in a gentle but firm voice. “You don’t have to be a baby to want to be held after that.”

Melanie sighs and flops her head against his chest. “I love you,” she says softly, reaching out a hand for Gerry. “Both of you.”

“We know,” Gerry assures her. He takes her hand and puts his free one on Martin’s shoulder, closing the circle, so that both of them know he’s there and that he cares about them. “We love you, too.”

[1] "I love you, little sister."

#ollie writes fanfic #tma fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#gerard keay #melanie king #martin blackwood #evan lukas #loss of a parent #grief #funerals #hospital mention #implied/referenced homophobia #implied/referenced parental abuse #burials #French

3 notes · View notes