#🚨white coat alert🚨

[thankstothe]

Doctors support each other 🫧👏🕔👍

[ppushable]

two ibuprofen

jean kirschtein x gn!reader / oneshot / wc: 7.3k

part 1 of rose tinted hours

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Sunday morning. What's the best way to spend a Sunday morning?

Craned over the plaguefest of the guy I'm dating-not-dating, trying to shove two ibuprofen down his throat?

(It works the second time.)

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ao3 tags:

ok here we go / Alternate Universe - College/University / Sickfic / Sick Character / Fluff / Kissing / Alternate Universe - Modern Setting / Texting / Vomiting / Not at the same time / Winter / gender neutral reader / i dont know how to make tea / mentions of sanrio / mentions of bagged milk / slight angst? i guess? if you squint? / reiner texts like a boomer and im sorry / POV First Person / Present Tense

i live in a special part of canada so excuse the bagged milk. (just kidding bagged is better)

reader is gn! if anything seems off please lmk. (do that if the text names are confusing too!)

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Bzzz.

The darkness and warm comfort of sleep cracks as my eyes peel open to the vibration of my phone. My blurry wall is bathed in orange light and the cold draft coming in from the open window carries the swoons and trills of birdsong. Pretty…

Holy shit I have class I’ll be late—

With effort, I blink until the shapes around me become clean and defined. Am I late? Sunlight on the ruffles of my quilt like a Renaissance painting. Coats and bags hanging from the hooks on the back of my bedroom door. Clothes from the night before, still on the ground from when I dropped them there, dead-tired. My phone buzzes again, causing an internal jolt that spurs me to snatch it off the nightstand and expel the charger in one swift movement.

mr. handsome: emergency alert! 🚨 alert! god-level threat!

mr. handsome: One image attachment

Oh, it’s a message from Connie.

Oh, it’s 8:19 AM.

Oh, it’s a Sunday.

The glowing numbers on the screen indicate the next minute and I toss the phone somewhere on the bed before re-curling myself into my nice warm quilt in this nice cool morning. Sorry, Connie, the grocery run to 7-11 for more sushi will have to be done by someone else. This is probably the happiest I’ll be all day, provided I stay sleepy enough not to feel guilty for doing nothing. The world goes black.

Bzzz.

This time, my eyes peel open on their own.

Fine, Connie, you win.

Trying to ignore the bitter taste of morning in my mouth, I grope for my phone and lift it above my head.

sashacado: BAHAHAH GOOD LUCK WITH THAT ONE BALDY

Another message pops up.

mr. handsome (replying to @/sashacado): 🖕

mikachu: you need to get out of there, connie. like rn.

lainah: Run while you still can! LOL! 🤣

Although the last text pains me on a metaphysical scale, I open up the groupchat. It’s getting fishy now: first of all, Connie’s never up this early, least of all on a weekend; secondly, he said ‘god level threat’ (which is apparently the worst level of threat), and third, Mikasa rarely speaks in the groupchat. Sure, she lurks, but she only ever emerges when something big is happening.

Some more people are active now and I have to scroll up to find Connie’s image.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Blurry and off-centre as the picture might be, it clearly depicts the ugliest green-and-white striped couch I ever laid my eyes on (“It’s an antique!” Connie had argued) that belongs to Connie and Jean’s shared dorm in which the latter of the two is curled up in (yet he still scrapes the armrests with the top of his head and toes). Littering the stained carpet around him — they prefer eating on the couch than on an actual table, so spills are inevitable — are wads of crumpled-up tissues. To really top it off is the Cars blanket that Jean won at a festival that’s seemingly in the process of being violently torn from his form, clinging to the armrest closest to the camera and pulling beyond. A message banner pops down from the top of the screen.

jean: i’m fine. and give me my fucking blanket back. i can hear you giggling from your bedroom. connie.

grammar police: connie give his blanket back

lainah: Haha!

grammar police: i swear things like this only happen when I’m gone

Right, Marco usually goes home for the weekends.

ymi: Lmfao that thing prolly gave you a disease in the first place

ymi: Have u even washed it once

mr. handsome: cut the ccrap Ymir we wash it more than you wash ur hair

sashacado: LMAOOO

ymi: At least I have hair

sashacado: AGAHAHH CONNIE

grammar police: you guys

grammar police: missing the point here

mr. handsome (replying to @/ymi): and its sad cuz mine is still better than youres

mr. handsome: like girl tf is up with the shaved sides

mr handsome: jojo siwa looking ass

sashacado: LMAOOOOO CONNIE EAT HER UP

Smiling, I return to the main chat screen.

ymi: Count your fucking days springer

ymi: At least I still have a girl

grammar police (replying to @/mr. handsome): ^yours

mr. handsome: ok nerd

grammar police: I’m taking away your Netflix

mr. handsome: I sincerely apoligize for my words.

grammar police: it’s the effort I guess

grammar police: back to Jean though

jean: i told u im prrfectly fine. just give ne back my blanket i’ll sleep it off

grammar police: do I need to come back to campus for the weekend?

mikachu: im stopping by the store. can grab some medicine

jean: ffs IM FINE GIVE ME MY BLANKET CONNIE OR IM TELLING THEM ABOUT THE GRATER THING

grammar police: Jean you need some medicine at least. I heard there’s a nasty flu going around and you’d be the type of person to catch it

grammar police: did you call your mom? I can call her if you want

jean: IM

jean: FINE

jean (replying to @/grammar police): DO NOT DO THAT

Poor Jean. He doesn’t have anyone to take care of him. Connie’s a mild germaphobe, believe it or not, at least when it comes to sickness (he nearly went crazy during Covid) and is probably keeping a safe distance from his roommate. And it’s not like any of his other friends are willing (or able) to help out, with Marco out of town. He doesn’t have any siblings here; the closest relative he has might be his mother all the way back in Trost. Not even a significant other.

Well. I mean.

There’s me.

But we’re technically not dating. Not yet. We’re still trying to figure things out — hell, I don’t even know if he likes me back.

Well, okay, there was that time we kissed. But it’s just a kiss. And it was an end-of the year party, and everyone was feeling it. And it’s January now and we haven’t done it again so it’s nothing. It’s nothing!

But that doesn’t stop the guilt from gnawing at my foundations like a tiny, evil beaver.

Wow. So you’re willing to let a guy suffer just because you’re unsure? Now that’s selfish. While you’re sitting here muttering to yourself he’s probably burning with fever and wishing he were dead. Real classy.

Shut the fuck up, beaver. It’s weird to just barge into someone’s house like that. And we don’t know each other that well.

You’ve known each other for a long time. He’s sick. At least take care of him. You don’t need to be his lover or whatever. Just be a good friend, huh?

I guess…

And you know Connie, too, don’t you? You’ll be doing him a big favour by getting this plaguefest out of his living room. He needs to finish off Breaking Bad so he can look at the memes without being spoiled. You’re not helping dear old Connie out, either.

Fuck, you do have a point.

Besides, everyone knows what happened between you and Jean at the Christmas party. They’re probably waiting on you to—

With great effort I manage to unfocus my eyes to see if anyone mentioned me but Connie and Jean have devolved into another stupid somewhat one-sided argument. So they aren’t saying anything outright. But they’re probably thinking it.

They’re definitely thinking it.

Okay, that’s enough from you.

I swipe off the groupchat to see all of my chats and open up my DM with Jean — right near the top — and start typing.

me: hey. sorry if this is weird, but i wanted to check on you bc ur really sick apparently

No, that won’t do. I purge the message.

me: hey fuckass. did you go out without a coat again? do i need to come and take care of

No, not that, either. Hopefully he isn’t looking at our messages or else he’d see me typing like an idiot. I tap the side of my phone as I think, stringing together ideas and words and different ways he could perceive me based on how I put them together.

I go back to the main groupchat.

me: @/jean @/mr. handsome im coming over. be there in 15

me: also @/mikachu could you pick up some lozenges and cough syrup? ty i’ll pay u back <3

I zone out at the screen until someone starts typing and throw the phone down on the bed again before scanning the ground for something wearable. Goodbye, sweet air and Renaissance scene and birdsong. After assembling myself and brushing my teeth, I check the mirror attached to the back of the shared bathroom door that Sasha decorated with some Sanrio stickers from Amazon. She had a phase.

Matching socks, jeans, campus sweatshirt, T-shirt underneath big enough to splay out underneath like a fan. Hair a mess. Face a mess. Good enough. It’s not like Jean will look much better. It’s not like I care that much about how I look around him.

I pull the door aside and collect my belongings — phone, bag, coat — before whisking through the door, full sail for Connie’s res building. I hit the stairwell running.

Do I know how to take care of sick people? I mean, more or less. It’ll be fine. All you have to do is feed them and make sure they don’t puke all over themselves. Right?

On the way I stop by one of the cafeteria atriums, one of the smaller ones I frequent for its souped-up coffee counter with every additive known to man. I scan the containers on the counter — milk, cream, nutmeg — until I find the packets of honey and shove one into my bag while trying not to look guilty to the few people that dot the room. I more than paid for it just by attending.

Now on the main floor by the parking lot, I struggle to untangle my keys from the mess in my bag and, without looking, push the unlock for my car. It beeps faithfully in the same place I left it and I hurry to the sound like a moth to flame.

It’s a smallish car that’s starting to rust near the top. I open the drivers’ door and toss my bag in the passenger seat before throwing myself in and shutting the door, shutting out the world, disturbing the rubber Kuromi keychain hanging from the rearview mirror. My breath comes out steamy. The car comes to life on the third try — best to let it warm up a bit before I go.

Inhale, exhale. I open up the groupchat.

jean: you will do no such thing

jean: @/me

mr. handsome: so THATS what it takes for u to finally visit

mr. handsome: ive been keeping it nice and clean just for u 😙

mr. handsome: until mr covid came and ruined it

mikachu (replying to @/me): dw about it babes xx

sashacado: mika get me chocolate

mikachu: maybe. driving

Mikasa and I, weirdly enough, were the first to get our full licenses. A smile pulls at my face and I duck down to look at my lap. Jean had nearly begged us to give him driving lessons, and of course, I agreed. Days of close calls, driving under the speed limit, getting honked at, constantly checking the mirrors, nearly rear-ending people at stop signs, elbows touching on the armrest…

Of course, now Jean can drive without a hitch. Maybe not good enough yet that I’d sleep while he does it, but that’s a personal thing.

I almost put my phone down before noticing I have a few more private messages.

jean: seriously you dont have to come. im fine

jean: its acc not a big deal

jean: i had colds like this before. im not ur responsibility

Something about that last line stings. I guess he’s right, technically. We’re not that close. Who am I kidding?

But I already announced to the world what I’m going to do. And I already decided on it.

me: im coming whether you like it or not. watch connie for me

When I can’t see my breath anymore I start driving.

Stohess is a big campus. And while I’m not a huge fan of carbon emissions, I’m also not a fan of 20-minute walks in blistering, dry cold (or wet cold, for that matter). Also, I don’t want to keep Jean waiting. The eco society is going to kill me.

I pull in to the all-too-familiar parking spot, the one Jean pulled into a hundred times in preparation for his driving test in his new, expensive car his parents bought him because “he was doing so good with his driving!”

He’d thanked me profusely for helping him out, which, in hindsight, was mildly out of character for a broody, arrogant guy like him.

But then again, so was kissing me at that party. Not so much the kissing part. Just the me part. And the gentle-tight way he held me, the way he looked into my eyes…

I suck in a sharp breath. But I’m doing this as a friend. Not because of whatever we might be. If Connie was the one who got sick, I’d be here, too.

Steeling my nerves, I take my bag with an iron grip and make for the dorm.

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The door is already open when I arrive, propped open by a deflated volleyball. Weird. Some music that sounds like it was taken straight from Fast and Furious plays from inside. Knowing Connie, it probably is.

Nothing stirs when I open the door, but it is a pretty quiet door. The living room is right in front of me, ugly antique couch and all, but it’s completely empty. I didn’t walk into the wrong room, did I?

“Connie? Jean?” I slip off my shoes — Connie is insistent (I think shoes in the house is a crime anyway) — and creep through the dorm. “You guys?“

My voice rings through. Nothing. Peals of dread condense in my stomach and I pick up the pace, nearly barreling to a stop in front of the bathroom. I knock; first on the bathroom, then Jean’s bedroom. Connie left his door open.

“Jean? You in there?”

No response.

“I’m gonna— I’m opening the door, okay?”

And without time to think about what might be on the other side, I twist the knob and push.

Nothing. I even look behind the shower curtains.

Who even closes an empty bathroom?

Next is Jean’s room, but it’s also empty.

Where the hell are they?

I check my phone again and text the group chat.

me: @/mr. handsome @/jean where are you guys?

Waiting…

lainah: Gym

.

What.

me: are you sure.

lainah: One image attachment

Sure enough.

I should have noticed when his parking spot was empty.

me: dont let them leave. omw now

Sasha starts typing something but I throw my phone in the bag. I should have known they’d pull some bullshit like this. Well, not they. He. Something blistering and boiling threatens to spill over within me, but I take a deep breath. I’ll deal with him when I get there.

Jean’s a smart man, but not when he’s being stubborn.

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The car ride, despite being short, gave me a chance to cool my nerves.

It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. I grip the steering wheel in front of the gym. It’s fine. And step out.

Anytime Fitness is a strange and marvellous place full of people you might not see anywhere else. I don’t care about them. I scan the machines and see Reiner on the treadmill, and he meets my eyes a moment after. He nods in a different direction and I follow his gaze until I see the unmistakable bronze and shaved hair combination. I mouth a thank you and he smiles.

I must look completely out of place here, weaving between sweaty and half-naked bodies in my coat and jeans like I have a demon on my tail until I’m standing behind the chest press.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Connie’s saying and by the way Jean grunts it’s definitely not the first time.

“Let it go. I’m fine, and I’m going to the gym like I always do.” Jean’s voice is thick and nasal. “Buzz off.”

“Look, I already left the house with you. I can’t let you die here.”

“I said I’m fine—”

At the end of Jean’s rep, I slip the pin out of the weights. Jean nearly lunges over as the heaviness suddenly decreases.

Both look at me.

Connie looks normal. Jean is already slick with sweat, hair askew, red-nosed, with a slight wheeze lining his breath as he sits on the edge of the seat. Not normal. Not fine.

“Jean. My car. Now.” I point at Connie. “You take his back.”

A slight smile cracks his visage and that’s all I see before whipping around like an army man and making my way out.

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There’s a lot of things I could be saying, but I don’t, because there’s too much. So we drive home in silence.

Now that we’re closer, I can really hear the struggle with Jean’s every breath, the occasional cough, the mucous-laced sniffs, as much as he might try to hide it. He just sits there, going on his phone, staring out the window, until:

“Pull over.”

And his eyes are closed, head tilted up, pained look on his sweat drenched-face. I move to the side of the door without question and he scrabbles for the handle — I unlock it for him — before opening the door and half-falling over as he pukes.

I pinch my lip between my teeth and look the other way as the smell hits right after. Fine my ass.

Ever since I was young, the sound of heaving has always unsettled me. Even fake gags. Like it flips a switch in my heart to induce a sudden thrill of terror as if someone horror-movie screamed. And yeah, it’s just throwing up, but I hate it.

My heart races as he unloads again and I just want to plug my ears. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t sit here.

When the coast is clear I hop out and walk around the back. Jean is squatting on the pavement right before it hits the grass where his vomit lays, poking up through the stiff shoots. Though we’re outside, the smell is even worse. I try not to look at it as I hand Jean a bottle of water and set a stack of napkins I filched from Wendy’s on the passenger seat beside him.

“Thank—” he manages to croak out before pitching over again.

He’s been growing out his hair. I guess I didn’t notice it before, but now it’s long enough to get in his face in this position.

I gather the strands in my hands — soft as that day before the turn of the year — and hold them on the crown of his head as he retches.

When he’s done, I consider rolling down the windows, but decide against it.

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Jean hardly notices when I pull in (again). Weirdly enough, his car still isn’t here — either Connie drives like a grandpa or he’s gone off somewhere.

“Jean.”

He inhales through his mouth, sucking up the new, pukey scent of my car, and opens his door with half-lidded eyes, leaning hard. It bumps against the campus van I’m parked beside and I cringe. Parked too close. He’s in no state to stand up on his own, let alone walk.

“Let me help you.”

He grunts in something like disagreement and I shut my door on him, going around the back again. Soiled napkins are shoved into the door storage and the water bottle is half-empty and crushed on the floor. Well. I offer a hand and after some hesitation he takes it, clasping my shoulder, and when I help him stand the added weight nearly crushes me. Jean is big, maybe not muscular like Reiner, but tall. Even through my coat and his too-thin sweater he radiates heat and he grunts a sickly air into my ear as he finds his footing. There’s barely enough room for the both of us between the car and the van so I shuffle us sideways, around the other side of the car and to the front. I gently lower Jean so he leans against the hood.

“Wait here.”

He doesn’t object as I shut the passenger door and lock the car before going back and offering my shoulder once again and I nearly fall over once again and we huddle together into the building. He’s never this quiet. Never so agreeable. Never so willing to take the help that’s offered to him.

This is a side of Jean I’ve never seen before. A side that I surely was never meant to see.

I swallow thickly and shuffle our bodies forward so I can push the button for the elevator. His head bumps against mine as it droops but he quickly straightens. “Sorry. Sorry.” His voice is gravelly and small, so small, as if it came from another person entirely.

I stare at the side of his face, but he’s focussed on something far away. “You’re okay, Jean.”

The elevator dings open and we go in. Seventh floor button. The door rolls shut.

Beep. Our knees buckle as the elevator accelerates and the screen above the button panel indicates that it’s going up. It usually smells of antiseptic unless it’s been raining.

Beep. The elevator’s always been slow which is why most people take the stairs instead. Connie calls it the ‘hellevator’ because he swears it almost dropped him once.

Beep. Jean’s trying to steady himself; hold himself up.

Beep. We haven’t been this close together since the party.

Beep. Jean takes an unusually large, wheezy breath and holds it. “Sorry.” His voice is hardly a rumble against my side.

“Why are you sorry?” I ask, quietly.

Beep. “For making you do this.”

Beep. The door retracts and muffled hip-hop fills the air. We walk off the hellevator and stand in front of the dorm. 704. An opaque plastic bag hangs off the handle and I take it in the same hand I hold my bag — thanks, Mikasa.

“You have your key?”

Jean grumbles and taps his pockets, pulling out a key ring. A rubber charm — Badtz-Maru, the little angry penguin — hangs from the ring. Sasha gave all of us one in her Sanrio phase. Keroppi for Connie, Charmy for Mikasa, Pompompurin for Marco, Cinamaroll for Eren, Kuromi for me. I (was forced to) help her choose.

The key retracts and Jean uses his free arm to turn the handle and shoulder the door open. He clears — tries to clear — the phlegm in his throat. “Alexa,” he gurgles. “Alexa, stop.”

The music immediately ceases and we stumble to the couch where Jean unceremoniously drops and tucks his head between the armrest and cushioned back, looking utterly uncomfortable.

“Get up, Jean.”

He sniffs.

“Come on. Bed.” I drop my bags on the coffee table. “Not couch.”

“No.”

“Connie will throw a fit. And so will I.”

“Just—” he tries clearing his throat again— “go.”

“I’m not leaving until you get better.” I blink. No, I’m not leaving him here alone. Why does that surprise me?

“I’m fine. I told you. Done it before. I’ll get better.”

“Done it before?” I giggle falsely. “What, you used to rawdogging colds all by yourself?”

A car passes outside, a familiar rising and falling sound against the unfamiliar silence of the dorm.

“Jean?”

“Go…”

And I swear he’s never sounded so… vulnerable before. Like he’s laid out all his organs on a big table and I’m holding the scalpel. Just waiting for the incision.

A little softer, I tell him, “I’m not going anywhere, Jean.”

And I take the goodie bag and head for the simple kitchen — that is, an inlaid fridge, stove, and pantry cramped behind an island counter with a sink. I hold the electric kettle Reiner got for Jean’s and Connie’s fifth anniversary (he thought they were together at first) under the sink and let it fill to two cups just in case before setting it back and switching it on.

Then I rummage through the drawers and cupboards until I find an old, strangely moist box of tea packets. Yuzu mist or Cheerful Citrus? I opt for the latter.

Tearing open the package, I glance at Jean who still hasn’t moved. The teabag I dump into a printed mug that Jean likes to use.

NUMBER 1 COUGAR

I wonder where he got that.

The kettle clicks off when the water boils and I fill the mug. Oh. Honey would be good. I return to the couch and sift through my bag, shifting my keys in the process. Now Jean stirs.

“Are you leaving?”

“No, Jean.”

I keep rummaging. I know it’s in there. Might be in deep, but—

“Please don’t.”

I pause, emotions — affection? concern? — swirling like particles of tea in water. “Okay, Jean.”

I finish making the tea in silence with an almost-empty bag of milk left in the fridge. How do these boys even survive? All that’s in there are cold cuts and a bag of only bread butts, among some other, strange things. Including a pair of boxers.

“Can you sit up?”

Jean sighs into the cushion and braces against the armrest to push himself into somewhat of a sitting position.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

His eyes cast down. I swallow the silence that suddenly envelops us. Nothing weird. Just a room. I’m just a caretaker. “Come on, Jean.”

“Can— can you help me?”

I fall into the little divot in the couch where Jean sits and let him wrap an arm around my shoulder. “Ready?” I say. “One, two…”

We stumble up and pass through the already-ajar door to Jean’s bedroom and I nearly stop to take a better look. He has blackout curtains, currently drawn, painting the room in a dark blue light except for a thin bar of sunlight from between the curtains that propagates as a glowing line on the carpet. The walls are plastered in posters, sketches, paintings, sketches. Half-finished drawings on his desk and swivel chair and a few on the ground. A small compartment shoved into one corner with every art supply imaginable.

Still taking in the view, I (we) back into the bed, butt-first, and Jean unwraps himself from me.

“You won’t… do anything weird… to me?”

I smile. Conversational, that’s good. “Not unless you want me to.” And I wish I had shut up before the first word even came out of my stupid mouth. Standing, I look over my shoulder. “I’m getting the medicine.”

“Wait. Don’t.”

Under the doorframe now, I pause. “I’m not leaving. I’ll be right back.” And I go to the goodie bag.

I should just work on keeping my mouth shut. Mikasa had picked out some ibuprofen, NyQuil, and lozenges. Pills should be good. I take the mug and the box and head back.

When I get back Jean’s sitting against the headboard, trying to uncrumple his blanket to get underneath.

“Let me help.”

He watches me then, helpless — Jean fucking Kirschtein, helpless! — as I set down the pills and mug on his glass nightstand and unfold the mess he’s got on the mattress. “Pull your legs up.”

He obeys. I pull the quilt over him.

I try not to stare. “You can put your legs down now.”

He obeys.

“Sit up, Jean. You need more pillows.”

Eyes glued to me, he leans forward so I can take his other pillow to prop him up more comfortably, leaning back when I touch his warm shoulder. Then I take the mug and offer it to him. “Drink some of this.”

Painfully quiet, he takes the mug with both hands and takes a tentative sip, lips curling around the brim of the ceramic to slurp up the soothing drink. He’s doing good. Until he hits a bump and starts sputtering.

Immediately I take the drink as he coughs up whatever went down the wrong way. When he’s done I realize I’ve been rubbing circles into his back so I take my hand off.

My phone buzzes in the living room. Shit.

“I’ll be back.”

Jean stares at his knees under the blanket and doesn’t move when I come back.

sashacado: omg yall

sashacado: theyre gonma be killed💯

armong us: What’s going on?

sashacado: @/lainah what did u do

lainah: One video attachment

sashacado: ONG LMFAOOO

sashacado pinned a message

mr. handsome: @/me im headed to urs with sash for a while. hope thats cool w you and all lmk if u need anything

jägermeister: are u fr leaving those two alone

mr. handsome: well good morning to u too pricness

Deleted message

jägermeister: oh right

sashacado: connor springer delete that message rn @/mr. handsome

sashacado: @/mr. handsome

sashacado: @/mr. handsome

sashacado: @/mr. handsome

mr. handsome: ok ok jfc im sorry

sashacado: @/mr. handsome

sashacado: ok good

Whatever the hell they’re up to now.

Jean thrashes slowly and I feel a little guilty for staring down at my phone the whole time. “Are you okay?” I breathe, sticking to his beside like a magnet. “Are you in pain?”

“Hot,” is all he says.

I peel the blanket off. He is hot. Really hot.

Not like that. He’s feverish.

“Can you… help me?”

“Yeah?” I stare at him — help with what? — until he raises his arms over his head.

Oh. A few circuits in my head switch off. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m can help.” Idiot.

Like touching something radioactive I grasp the edge of his sweater and slowly raise it, catching the shirt underneath for a fleeting second before it falls back down. Deep breath. Yes, I am helping out a guy I’m dating-not-dating who I’m definitely not attracted to to take off his clothes in his bedroom in his empty dorm. Because he’s sick. No problem. Because I’m a good friend.

The neckline catches on his jaw and I unhook it, delicately trailing the scruff on his jaw in the process.

And it’s off and on the ground. Holy shit. Jean’s been sweating. And I know all that dampness on his shirt, clinging feebly to his attractive sick form, didn’t come from his 10 minutes at the gym.

He doesn’t lower his arms. Oh, so we’re doing it like this.

Okay.

I come forward again, within earshot to the rattling in Jean’s chest with his every breath, and quite literally peel the thin white shirt off. This time it’s impossible not to touch his incredibly warm and damp body, not to scrape my nails against the softness of his skin, from his waist to his broad shoulders all the way down his arms. Now he puts them down.

I almost forget he still smells like puke.

“My pants…”

Ohoho. No way, buster. You’re on your own. I’m calling Connie. Nooo way.

“Okay, but unbuckle yourself.”

He does without question, fumbling first with his belt, which I help slide off, and then his jeans.

What in the ever-loving fuck am I doing? This sounds like a smut setup. No. I’m just a friend helping out a sick friend, two friends who have never done anything even slightly romantic together.

“Sit up on the edge, okay?”

He heaves his sweaty self to the edge of the bed, palms leaving wet marks on the sheets, and, staring at the ceiling, I grasp at the hem of his pants (skirting his boxers or whatever he’s wearing because I’m not looking) and pull them (he lifts himself at first to help) all the way down. In one smooth movement I turn back around.

“Put your shirt over your… yourself.”

I wait a good few heartbeats before turning back around and lo and behold, he’s done as told. Frankly, it looks even worse now, like he’s lying in bed completely naked with just a shirt covering him. (But that’s only true if I think it’s true!) The jeans I’m still clutching for some reason I deposit on a chair.

“Jean, I’ll be right back, okay?” I wait for a response I should know isn’t coming before going out again, this time in search for a facecloth. Which I do find, shoved in the corner of the linen cabinet. I should be grateful they even have some, but then again, it might’ve been another gift from Reiner they didn’t have the heart to throw away. I rinse it under some cool water and announce my re-entry.

“I’m back. Sit still.” Folding some of the damp cloth over two fingers, I carefully dab at the sweat on his forehead. No, I need to… I pick off some strands of his sandy hair from his face, holding his hair back against his scalp, and try again. Better. “Jean?”

He opens his eyes halfway, and they raise lazily to meet mine. He’s sweaty everywhere and too late I catch myself stroking his head. I wipe his cheek next.

“Drink some tea, okay? I need you to take a pill.”

“Pillk?”

“Yes,” I say encouragingly, like training a puppy. Neck next. “Just a pill.”

He takes in a deep mouth breath. There’s a portrait stuck to the ground on the other side of his bed.

Is that…

“I can’t.”

My eyes snap back and I pause, dabbing at his collarbone. “What’s that?”

He shakes his head, furrowing his brows as if the action took too much effort. “Can’t… swallow. Can’t swallow pills.”

I blink. “You can’t take pills?”

A fleeting smile meets his lips. “Vitamin gummies. Not. Vitamin pills. Might get stuck in m’throat.”

I fold up the cloth into a rectangle and smooth it out onto his forehead. “Just take some tea with it.”

“Tried. No.”

Who knew? For a guy with such a big mouth, he sure has a small esophagus.

“Jean, it’ll make you feel better.”

“No.”

I pop open the box and break open the tinfoil seal to take out a single pill.

“Noo…”

“Jean, you’ll be fine. You’re a big boy now.” And I vow never to speak again.

When I push the little oval against his mouth, I find it won’t open. Jean is breathing laboriously through his 90 percent clogged nostrils.

“Open up.”

He purses his lips, further preventing entry, and I swear he’s smiling a little.

“Very funny. Take your pill. You’re gonna suffocate yourself.”

Still nothing. I pinch his nose. He makes a muffled noise but otherwise doesn’t react.

Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. At thirty-three I let go. “Are you really willing to kill yourself over a pill?”

“Don’t want. Don’t need.”

“Yeah, and I ‘don’t need’ you choking over your own puke in your sleep.”

“No…”

“Jean.” I feel terrible already for doing it like this. “Try. If you don’t at least try, I’ll leave.”

I bite my lip, awaiting his response. I really shouldn’t have said that. I’m such an asshole. Fuck.

“Okay.”

Deep breath. I push the pill against his bottom lip and the soft tissue yields against my fingers for a moment before he opens. The mug is to his lips not a moment after; he gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing, and the tea in his mouth suddenly explodes out and sprays warmly all over my face.

All. Over.

I peel my eyes open after impact. Jean looks more awake than he did before, and with a discernible expression, too: terror.

Okay. Good!

Slowly, he reaches for the sweat-soaked cloth on his head and offers it to me. I shake my head.

“Be right back.”

Bathroom. Cold water. Cold water against my face. There’s two razors on the sink and the edges of the white surface have some hairs on them. Face hairs, I’m sure. I pray.

If whatever Jean has is contagious, I sure as hell have it now.

I turn the tap off and swipe the water from my face. Great. Okay. I bunch up my now-wet sweater. I can do this.

I re-enter the bedroom. Jean sits up a little straighter now, sipping in small increments. “Sorry.”

I put my sweater on the chair. “It’s okay.”

“I— really—”

“Jean, it’s okay.”

“I’m fine. I’ll get better.” Which is about the most complete sentence he’s said in a while.

“I told you I’m not going anywhere, didn’t I?”

He doesn’t say anything. Almost unconsciously, I gravitate to his bed.

“You already did too much for me.”

“Nonsense.”

“Why do… you do this?”

Now that gets me thinking. Because you’re sick. Because I’m a good friend. Because you’re my guinea pig for Hospitality 101. Maybe all three.

My eyes trace back to the scribbled portrait on the other side of Jean’s bed and I take the cloth from his forehead.

Thousands upon thousands of excuses, and a singular truth.

“Because I like you.”

And I take my time going back to the bathroom.

Cold water. Cold water against my hands.

“Coming in.”

“It wasn’t nothing.” Jean clears his throat, almost inaudible against my beating heart. “Back at the party. Wasn’t… nothing.”

“Wasn’t all that much, either,” I say dryly. Hopefully he doesn’t notice how shaky my hands are. How shaky against his pallid skin.

Jean inhales and I can see the movement through his chest. “No. Wasn’t a lot.” He tilts his head up at a minuscule angle to scan my face, and maybe it’s the perspective, or the weird lighting, but I could swear he’s never looked at me like this before.

Except for that time.

“So I’d…” he swallows. “Like— like to have more.”

For a few seconds, it’s silent. For a few seconds, all that there is are his dim eyes and mine. For a few seconds, we fall into each other and tread water, sinking, fading…

I break our gaze and tremblingly pluck a tissue from a box on the ground; hold it to his nose. “Blow.”

He takes a shaky breath and obeys.

Fold. “Again.”

He shuts his eyes and blows.

“Again.”

He blows until his air gives out. I drop the spent tissue.

“Again?”

He shakes his head.

“Let’s try the pill.”

He nods and stares as I open the foil for a second time and pop the new one in my mouth.

He watches, confused, until a wave of realization seems to hit him.

He stays statue-still as I lean in, put a hand on the headboard on either side of his head.

His heat, like a barrier, raises the hairs on my skin. He cups my jaw. I cradle the side of his neck, and his pulse beats at a million miles a minute. The pill begins to dissolve.

Our mouths barely touch, and I make the final connection.

Jean is tall. Jean is arrogant. Jean will laugh at you when you fall.

But Jean has the softest lips, the sweetest mouth (even when he puked out a buffet no more than half an hour ago). Jean will melt like soft butter under your touch. Jean will accept your tongue, no questions asked, and retaliate with twice the vengeance.

Like I’ve been dreaming of since that brief moment at the party, I let my hand run insouciant through his hair. No eyes watching. No social boundary.

He gasps softly for air and I do the same, pulling his scalp so he tilts to meet me better with a small grunt. God, I fucking love his hair.

Now both of his iron-hot hands are on me, hooking under my shirt, running up and down, claiming every square inch, and I let mine fall from his neck down to his slick chest down to his stomach down to his abs. Other still planted firmly in his hair, pulling, twirling, pulling, and when I tug again Jean squeezes so hard, doubling down, suddenly hungry, suddenly a starving man. Wrapping his arms around my back and pulling me closer, I oblige, hooking a leg onto his bed, between his knees, and my thigh brushes against his still-damp T-shirt, and he groans softly into my mouth—

and swallows with an ulp!

and it’s over.

I stroke his throat as the pill goes down and he stares hollowly at me until it’s gone. I recline and smile.

“Is that enough for you?”

Unblinking, he pulls me down again.

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

Connie kicks the asphalt with his definitely real Gucci slides. “Are you done?”

“Shh!”

He shoots his friend a withering look — that is, as withering of a look that he can muster.

“This is creepy. And I’m cold. Can we at least—”

Sasha puts down her binoculars and shows him what a real killer glare is. He rolls his eyes and scans his phone. Eren’s sent a message to the matchmaker groupchat.

emo king🖤⛓️: are u sure this plan of urs worked out

emo king🖤⛓️: excuse me if this is harsh, but it’s probably the dumbest shit of ur dumbshit ideas

me: yeah try telling Sash that

sharmin ultra soft: Eren’s right. Chances are Jean puked and turned everyone off

intimidating woman: i think there’s a chance

emo king🖤⛓️: are u fr in on this mikasa

sashami: you guys shh the star coming

Sasha shoots him another look before putting her non-stalker scope away in preparation for the star of the day’s arrival.

“Whad’d I do?”

As far as he knows, Connie is doing everything right. He’d told everyone that he was sleeping over at Sasha’s. (Her idea.) And now it’s Monday, and it’s time for the star’s (code name) first class (and also Sasha’s), and now they’re sitting out in the cold like a couple of dumbasses watching the stairwell windows. (Also her idea.) What the heck?

“I’m going in the car,” Connie grumbles. He doesn’t wait for the inevitable retort and climbs in to the drivers’ seat.

The car. The one silver lining to this whole ordeal. He’d eaten, put his feet up in, and used up every last drop of gas on this baby and Jean couldn’t do a damned thing about it.

But the person coming through the door isn’t their star. It’s Jean. Huh?

Connie pops out of the vehicle and joins up with Sasha.

“Oh— you’re here, too?” Jean’s brow furrows deeper. “What’s going on?”

“Well, hello to you, too,” Connie grins. “Looks like you‘re doing a lot better.”

“No thanks to you lot.”

“Where are you going?” Sasha pipes in, and he knows what’s coming next. She’s using her interviewer voice.

“Just… going to class.” Jean smacks Connie’s shoulder. “Keys?”

He produces them with a flourish and a jangle and the taller takes them, unlocking the car.

Beep beep!

Sasha casually tails him, twisting around to block the driver’s side door.

“Sash.”

“Were you a good host?”

“I mean, I was really sick.”

“You have actual, proper food, right? Did you feed your dear caretaker?”

“Uh…” he smirks. “Yeah.”

“Is your room clean?”

“It’s fine!”

“Did you sleep together?”

He rolls his eyes and wedges a hand between his car and the girl. “Okay, get out.”

“Answer my question!” Sasha cries as she stumbles back and Jean hops in. Without another word, the car backs out. Jean turns and comes forward so he’s perpendicular to the parking spot before lowering his window.

“Connie! You owe me 20!” And then he’s gone.

Dumbfounded, the boy looks to Sasha, finding her staring at her phone. “What’s wrong? You on your period?”

“Oh, fuck off. Look.”

star: sorry sash,, not coming to hospitality. i got sick :(

star: jeans staying home for me tho. dont wait up <3

And the mastermind screenshots the fruits of her labour.

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

would you look at that. more kissing. *throws tomato* i did 80% of this in one day. no regrets!! (said eren.) (ill shut the fuck up now) i hope you enjoyed! it actually turned out a lot less gross than i originally planned (they were gonna do it with the nyquil ewwwww) but this is fine. right? i never actually kept a pill on my tongue like that for so long so for my sanity's sake let's pretend this is how it all works.

this started out as a oneshot. however,,, i decided to add more parts to it because i'm a sucker. check it out if you like! <3

byebye

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

masterlist part 2 - low tide

[taeyongtime]

pre: ace of fools

genre: joker!au + partly inspired by this lovely fanart

group & member: NCT’s Taeyong

word count: 4.8k

🚨:  explicit language, violent theme, self-harm, psychological dysfunction... read at own discretion.  

brief synopsis: “The fool is the strongest not because he knows nothing but because he has always been ridiculed as the stupid one when in fact he knows everything and a little bit more.”

A cold chill creeps down your spine when you approach the rusted gates of the Neo City Asylum, your assigned facility after finishing your internship and residency at the city’s general hospital since making it through the tenuously laborious years of medical school. You’d heard of the rumored screams at night and tortured souls of the institution’s long-time residents but thought little of it the moment you received the notice in the mail. It was just another mental hospital, a hospital that required extra hands on the job and you happened to be available since you lived a block or so from the foot of the hill the institution was built on—an equation that was easy to solve when you were a convenient solution to solving the problem.

“I don’t understand why you all are giving me that look,” you had said to your fellow interns when they heard of your dispatch. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as they say it is.”

It turns out to possibly be even worse than you had anticipated when you find out you’ve been assigned to Unit 127 of the acclaimed facility, the psychiatric ward that housed some of the most dangerously deranged criminals from within city boundaries to date. 

—

“Have you continued keeping count of the days since you entered this hellhole?”

“Hellhole?” An amused chuckle leaves his mouth. “Not even the city’s grandest five-star hotels have enough to accommodate my needs.”

“You need to get a hold of yourself, Mister T.”

Squeaking iron alerts of a foreign presence in his cell and he quickly mutters goodbye at the adjacent wall before sitting up in his cot to greet today’s visitors.

—

The first time you met him happened rather unexpectedly, your bad navigational skills rendering you entering the wrong cell on this side of the hall—one that’s barred and resembles most like a prison rather than the neutrally colored tones of the asylum’s interior. Drab gray wallpaper paired with security cameras installed at every corner of the hall, it takes only the simplest of brains to deduce that the residents of Unit 127 were the more dangerous and potentially most damaged ones in the entire facility and you had managed to enter the wrong cell of all things. 

“Oh hello.”

“Are you…” 

You look down at your clipboard, squinting. 

“Are you Nakamoto Yuta?”

He laughs, shaking his head. 

“One door down.”

You apologize profusely and notice his hair’s a shade of rich forest green, a color that offsets the dullness of his cell tremendously. 

“Dyed it myself, Doctor. And the eyes.”

The wide grin on his face catches you off guard and you stumble, flinching when he moves forward to stop you from losing your footing and falling onto his cot. One eye of emerald winks playfully at you while the other dark iris blinks while studying you in concern.

“Careful. I’d be in so much trouble if you had fallen because of me.”

“T… Thank you.” You regain your footing and stand at a loss as he maintains a passive stare at your white coat and clipboard in hand. 

“I… I’d better go,” you say at last. “My patient is waiting.”

“Of course.”

His calmness is slightly frightening and you sneak another peek before leaving his cell, but not before turning back to ask for his name. 

“What’s your name?”

He grins. “Lee Taeyong. I hope I can see you again soon.”

—

New doctor, mister T?

Taeyong tilts his head to the side. 

“Who?”

She’s a sweet one. A low chuckle tickles his ear. Probably will fall for your sweet words rather easily. 

“Ah, her.” Taeyong shifts to sit with his back against the wall. “She does seem like a total sweetheart, you know.”

I haven’t seen her so I don’t know.

“You should meet her. I’ll introduce you.”

“On second thought,” he backtracks, “I’m going to keep Sweetheart Doctor to myself.”

“Who are you talking to, Lee Taeyong?”

Taeyong turns to the little open window above the iron door and grins. 

“Me, myself, and I, Sir.”

“Delusional bastard,” the guard mutters before slamming the window shut, leaving Taeyong alone in his cell again.

“Delusional bastard I am,” Taeyong retorts, eyes darkening with a hint of mockery. “But more aware than any of you ignorant sheep.”

A soft three-tap rhythm catches his attention and a smile plays around his mouth as he grabs the metal drinking cup sitting on the nightstand, tapping the bottom of the cup against the wall in a steady one-two-seven tap in response. 

“What’s the deal, Jung Jaehyun?”

The sound of his friend’s voice fills his eardrums.  

“Who was that, mister T? New doctor?”

“Mockery detected.”

“Care to share more details with the rest of the fellows?”

Taeyong shrugs. “Sure.”

He winces as the base of his neck begins to vibrate, the previously implanted transmitter within the skin making his head spin and it receives the transmitted signals from up to five doors down. 

“That’s my doctor you’re talking about!” a new voice exclaims. “Isn’t she cute?”

“Yuta, you have absolutely zero manners,” Jaehyun scolds. “Interrupting when it’s not your turn to speak!”

“I saw a glance of her earlier,” a third voice offers helpfully, joined by a fourth that enthusiastically pestered for more information. “She seems very nice.”

“Johnny, you couldn’t have seen her when you’re all the way down there while Taeyong’s at the very front,” Yuta grumbles. “And shut up, she’s my doctor.”

Jaehyun refuses to shut up and Taeyong sighs heavily at all the bickering going on in his head. 

“Let me speak.”

All commotion dies down immediately and Taeyong places his cup down on the hard mattress of his cot before speaking again. 

“I don’t know how she could’ve mixed up my cell with Yuta’s but she seems rather sweet.”

“Of course.”

“Shut up, Doyoung, you’re the nosiest one here.”

The one known as Doyoung scoffs and Taeyong hums, a peaceful sound that becomes twice as menacing after leaving his mouth. 

“I look forward to getting to know her if she’s going to be coming around here more often.”

—

“You wanted to see me?”

Taeyong nods and gestures at the single chair next to his cot. 

“Please.”

“Are you feeling unwell?” you ask, getting straight to the point. 

“If that’s what I need to say to get to see you, then yes, I feel like an absolute piece of shit. 

“But seeing you makes me feel better already, so I suppose you’re a wonder pill of your own right.”

“Are you… flirting with me?” you ask bravely. 

“Not at all,” Taeyong muses, fingers twirling along his temple. “I just can’t seem to reckon when I’m being proper and when my behavior has gone too far, Doctor. Something’s gone loose up here and I’m quite unhinged, if I do say so myself.”

“When did this all begin?”

A smile lights up his face. “We’ll have to go back to a very very long time ago for that… back to when I first picked up a knife to slash the throat of the murderer who killed my entire family in the span of a single night.”

◆

“You must think I’m a sociopath,” Taeyong chuckles when he finishes. “I’ve gotten that plenty of times.”

“I… How did you even manage to not get caught until now?” He’d given you nearly 30 names of people he’s killed and all dying in a multitude of ways: decapitation, gunshot wounds, stab wounds, asphyxiation, forceful head trauma… your stomach had churned at the imagery of dismembered limbs and pools of blood that you had to sit out for a whole hour before you were feeling fine enough to talk to him again.

“I don’t know,” he answers. “Even a mastermind has his moments of downfall and I just happened to fall this time.”

You glance at your watch and get up from your seat, a look of puzzled confusion, anger, and sympathy all mixed into one on your face. As an aspiring doctor, you know you weren’t supposed to sympathize with a patient, but his story was simply too much to brush off as a concoction aimed to garner at your sympathy. The pain of losing family and regret at the addiction he developed for killing sprees was too tangible to possibly be all lies, especially not when there had been the body language to prove it. Words may lie but the subtlety in a person’s body language revealed their truest thoughts, and the drooped shoulders, scrunched stature, and flattened affect when recalling the memories were more than enough for you to toss away the labeling of his behavior as feigned emotions. 

You weren’t his doctor and he wasn’t your patient, but you were determined to be another source of support for him if he needed it. 

“Goodbye, Taeyong. I’ll be here if you need me again.”

“Goodbye, Sweet Doctor.”

—

 Taeyong grins the moment you exit his cell, humming delightedly as he lays down on his cot. 

“Mixing a little bit of truth into the lies is always the best way to turn everything into interpretable truth.”

—

You find yourself completely obsessed with Taeyong, or Mister T as your colleagues sometimes refer to him as based on his eerie similarity to the green-haired Joker familiar in the world of superhero comics. The man was deranged and quite frankly not in the best mental state, but in all your visits to see him he’s been nothing but sweet to you and that’s when you knew you had it bad. Not daring to call it love but convinced it was more than just friendship, you could almost feel the swelling of your heart whenever you thought of him and it was driving you closer to the brink of insanity with each following day. 

“Y/N, your report! Where is it?”

You blink and let out an exclamation of disbelief at seeing the random cluster of letters in the last paragraph of your report, a collection of mumbo-jumbo on the screen that made no sense at all to the human eye. 

“I… In a minute!”

Your superior mutters something you can’t catch and you tie up your hair, fingers deleting the string of nonsense and wrapping up the required report you had started two hours ago.

◆

“You came to see me again.”

A flushed warmth heating up your cheeks, you reach into the pockets of your doctor’s coat and hand over a handful of chocolates. 

“For you,” you offer. “I heard you like sweets.”

“You are too kind,” Taeyong smiles, a toothy grin that melts your innards at an unprecedented speed. “Do you give these to all your patients?”

“… These ones I especially got for you.”

“Oh.” He picks one out and studies the blue wrapper. 

“What’s the difference between this one and the red?”

“Blue is milk chocolate, red is dark, and the silver is white chocolate.”

Unwrapping the blue one, he pops the chocolate into his mouth and closes his eyes, savoring the taste. 

“Delicious.”

You smile. “Thank goodness.”

Giving you a thumbs up, he reaches for another and the alarmed gasp that leaves your mouth echoes in the empty cell. 

“Are those…”

“Sometimes everything becomes too painful,” Taeyong says calmly, readjusting the cuff on his sleeve. “I needed a way to stop the ringing in my head.”

“… May I?”

He cheerfully extends his arm towards you and you nearly burst into tears at the thin lines marked along his inner wrist. 

“Are you crying, Doctor?”

You note the wetness in your eyes and compose yourself, blinking furiously. 

“N-No. Something just got in my eye.”

“You’re quite softhearted,” Taeyong gathers up the rest of the chocolates. “Can I keep all of these or do you need some for your other patients?”

“You can keep those, I have more.”

He nods and you eye the camera in the upper lefthand corner of his cell. If only it weren’t there…

“Can I give you a hug?” he chirps. “As a thank you for the chocolates?”

“S-Sure.”

He goes in for the hug and you know the moment he wrapped his arms around you that this was what you wanted. To be able to give him comfort when he needed it, to hug him and be held by him and maybe even kiss him…

“Would you help me with something, Doctor?” he whispers quietly into your ear. “Two things, actually.”

You flinch and nod ever so slightly, aware of the camera capturing your every move. 

“I’d like you to disable all the cameras in this corner of the psychiatric ward and also get me a gun.”

The abrupt inhale of breath has you wheezing and a guard pokes his head in to check on you, returning to his post after receiving the confirmation that you were fine. 

“A toy gun,” Taeyong explains, giggling at your misinterpretation. “Not allowed to have real ones here.”

“I’ll have to consult my superior about it but I think it should be fine.” You glance at the camera again, unsure if you were capable of pulling off such a feat. 

“One out of the two is good enough for me.”

Curling your hands into fists, you shake your head and give him a smile. 

“Two out of two is better.”

A grin lights up Taeyong’s face and he sighs in relief. 

“You have no idea how grateful I am for your existence right now, Doctor.”

—

On your next free Saturday, you find yourself standing outside of the store that Taeyong had given you directions for, strictly repeating to yourself that you had to go to this specific store for his toy gun. It was a bit difficult to find, but after stumbling along a few corners like you usually did, you managed to find the correct sign and tentatively push open the wooden door. Biting your lips at the dimness of the interior when it was still broad daylight, you wonder if this is conventional for a typical joke shop, thoughts cut off at the sudden whisper in your ear. 

“Who sent you and how did you find this place?”

The low voice paired with the feeling of something hard against your head has you frozen, and you gulp when you spot the barrel of the pistol pressed directly against your temple.

“U-Um, please… please don’t shoot me.”

The gun presses closer to your forehead and you hear the clicking of the safety mechanism going off. 

“Please.”

A scream rips through the store when the trigger goes off, a popping sound that follows with streams of rainbow confetti once you realize you were still alive and in one piece.

“Fooled ya,” comes the sly tone after your scream. “You nearly broke my ears, miss.”

Another voice joins the first and snickers. “Good one, Mark.”

“There are… two of you?” you echo.

The one with the toy gun spins it before tucking it back onto his pocket. 

“I’m Mark, and this is my business partner Haechan.”

“I was told there’d only be one of you.”

Haechan frowns and snaps his fingers. “It’s like him to always forget about me.”

“Who, Haechan?”

“Taeyongie sent her, no doubt about it.”

“Yes, Taeyong sent me,” you chime in, backing up when they turn their eyes towards you.

“Quite intimate, her and Mister T,” Mark notes.

“I wonder,” Haechan murmurs, casting another suspicious glance your way.

Uneasy at their stares, you take out the slip of paper in your jacket pocket and hand it over. 

“I was told to give this to Mark.”

Mark snatches the slip from your grasp and a grin settles on his face after skimming the contents. 

“Oh, wow! Haechan, look!” 

He hands it over to his friend and the latter gasps as well.

“Amazing!”

“Um,” you begin. “So when can I—”

“Next weekend,” Mark speaks up, scribbling into the notebook on the glass counter with a black ink pen. “Come back here next week and we’ll have it ready good as new!”

“How do you know Taeyongie?” Haechan asks you curiously.

“I’m a doctor at the Neo City Asylum,” you answer.

“Oh. Do you like him?”

“He’s very nice to me even though I’m not his doctor and I’ve really enjoyed our conversations together.”

“And your patient?”

“His name is Yuta.”

“Yuta must try to feel you up on the daily then if you’re his doctor.”

“Haechan, we’re in the presence of a lady!” Mark snaps. “Language!”

The boy mumbles an apology and you forgive him, quite entertained by him and his golden-haired friend who was currently fiddling with the toy gun he had used on you when you entered their shop.

Your head turns at all the contraptions and other wonky things that you didn’t have a name for, intrigued at the variety of items available. 

“Is there anything here more recognizable that I can pick out for myself?”

“Oh, yes!” Mark hurries out from the counter and in through a door that must be the backroom, the boxes kicked out a clear sign that that was were they stored their inventory. “Yes, of course!”

“Here, you can have this!”

You study the silver band dropped onto your palm curiously, the shining turquoise a bright splash of color in the darkness of the shop. 

“Is this a mood ring?”

“Yup! Free of charge, miss!”

“Oh no I couldn’t, not when—”

“Keep it,” Haechan speaks up, giving you a wide smile. “It looks nice on you.”

You rub at the gem in between the band and grin at the shifting turquoise that now settles as a solid green. 

“It is quite beautiful...”

Mark and Haechan both smile and you bid them a warm goodbye with the ringed hand after another ten minutes of simple conversation, leaving behind your phone number so they can contact you when the toy gun you needed is ready for pickup.

“Lucky Taeyongie picked a dense one to act as his carrier pigeon,” Mark sighs in relief after it was only him and Haechan in their shop again. “Literally only those who know us come here and they all got thrown behind bars.”

“Why did you give her the ring?” Haechan complains. “You didn’t even take payment for it.”

“I thought it’d be a nice welcoming gift,” Mark shoots back. “Plus, I think she can be our new Queen.”

“Really?”

Mark closes his eyes and hums in delight at recalling the memory. 

“She wants him to want her as much as she wants him and it’s really amusing now that I think back on it.”

—

You return to the facility with a parcel in hand, two weeks later, the guard by security check opening it up and frowning upon first inspection of the toy gun. 

“Weapons are not allowed, Doctor.”

“Oh, it’s not real,” you point out, picking it up and pulling the trigger. “See?”

A rainbow stream of confetti rains down on the floor and he grunts before letting you pass. 

“Thank you!”

Whistling a happy tune, you enter your desk in the office and pick up your clipboard before heading to Unit 127, making a quick stop at Taeyong’s cell before seeing your own patient.

“I have this for you,” you begin, discreetly handing over the package.

He opens the parcel and grins at the sight of the toy gun. 

“You managed to get it!”

“The two teenagers that run the place were very nice.”

Taeyong’s mouth widens and loud laughter echoes across the cell. 

“Them? Nice?”

“Yes…”

Confused, you stare at his heaving chest and smile awkwardly as he wipes at his eye. 

“Um, the cameras... I think I got it.”

“Really?”

You offer a thumbs up, earning yourself another warm smile from the emerald Joker. 

“You really are something else, Doctor.”

—

Midway into your daily progress report, you hear the blaring of the security alarm through your headphones, taking them off in panic as one of your colleagues rush in. 

“What’s going on?” 

“T-There… get out! Not safe—”

His words cut short by a loud bang, you hurry over and scream at seeing the pool of blood forming by the side of his head. The tip of your heel soaks into the puddle of red and you back up in fright, eyes widening at the sound of more bullets from down the hall. 

“S-Security… Security… call…”

You locate the nearest phone and hover your fingers over the keypad to dial when the window in the pantry room suddenly bursts into a waterfall of glass shards, shrill laughter spooking you to the bone. You hurriedly duck underneath the nearest desk to avoid any bullets and make yourself as small and concealable as possible, not wanting to give any clues to the intruders that there was still someone alive on the premises.

“What do you see, Johnny?”

You hear a deeper voice respond to the question. 

“A face.”

“Oh, is it pretty?”

One hand covers over your mouth and you breathe shallow breaths to not make too much noise from your hiding place. 

Go away, go away…

“Very pretty.” A hand slams down on the desk you were under and you scream at the lazy smile that greets you as you get pulled to the light. 

“Yes pretty or no pretty?”

“Let me go!”

Johnny grabs you by the chin and tilts your face as he inspects your profile. You recognize your own patient next to him, the grin on Yuta’s face widening by the minute upon putting an identifier to your face.

“Look, isn’t my doctor the prettiest?”

“Not bad. A few blemishes here and there but still very pretty.”

“You’re seeing things, you idiot. She’s fucking beautiful!”

As Johnny and Yuta bicker about the condition of your skin, you attempt to back away without catching their attention but another figure blocks your way, waggling a finger in scolding. 

“Nuh-uh, not a single step, honey.”

More firing gunshots and hands cover over your mouth, your mind blank as you stare frightened at the screams heard from down the hall. Everything was fine when you arrived for work today and now a hospital-wide killing spree…

“Shut the fuck up before I rip both your tongues out.”

The command shuts them up in a snap and you flinch. Blood running cold at the figure that steps into the fray, you squirm against your apprehender to no avail, head spinning in processing what had just happened. 

He told me he wanted to see me. He said he wanted a toy gun, not a real one.

Taeyong licks his lips in anticipation as he stares at the empty office, grinning widely once his gaze lands on you. 

“My sweet doctor, you freed us all!”

Voice muffled against the hand keeping you silent, you shake your head furiously and Taeyong gestures for your captor to remove his hold; a series of wheezes leave your mouth at the much-needed oxygen for your constricted lungs. 

“Doyoung, are the cameras really off as the sweet doctor said they are?”

Your captor reaches into the pocket of his black leather jacket and scans the device in his hands.

“Yup. Jaehyun took care of the guard and has full control of the control panel.”

“How did this happen?” you sob quietly, unable to comprehend the reality of the bloodied facility.

Taeyong takes out a gun from behind him, the same toy gun you had gotten for him at the joke shop, firing at the potted plant by the water dispenser and giggling at the shattering porcelain that followed. 

“The… I got you a toy gun. Mark even tested it out in front of me and it only let out confetti, not… not a…”

Eyes shifty, he holds the barrel directly level to the center of your forehead. 

“Bang!”

The trigger clicks. You brace yourself for the fatal blow but it doesn’t happen. The only sound following the pulled trigger is another fit of mad giggling and you open one eye to find a small red flag at the muzzle of the gun, not smoke from a freshly fired bullet. 

“Fooled ya.”

The intercom clicks on and Jaehyun’s voice plays from the speakers. 

“The van just pulled up and drove into the lot, Mister T.”

“Perfect!” 

Winking his one green eye at you, he turns to Johnny and tells him to clean up while Yuta google-eyes you with unsettling enthusiasm, skittering over to take another look at you.

“So pretty,” he sighs dreamily.  “So very, very pretty.”

“Not yours,” Doyoung snaps, slapping Yuta’s hand away.  

“Please let me go,” you beg them. “I… I promise I won’t say anything to the police, you and the rest of your group, I’ll… I’ll stay quiet, I promise.”

“Nope,” Doyoung says firmly. “Only the dead can truly stay silent.”

“T-The dead?”

Taeyong waves for Doyoung and Yuta to leave, the latter grinning as he slaps Taeyong on the back before following Doyoung out. As who was quite obviously the ringleader of the trope of killers makes his way closer towards you, you force yourself to move away until you feel the edge of a corner dig into your back, stopping you in your tracks and tripping up your balance.  

“Watch it,” he murmurs, reaching out a hand to help you like he did when you first met. “I’m going to be in so much trouble if you had fallen because of me.”

You remain silent as Taeyong’s fingers graze your face, the subtle touches dizzying. 

“Poor thing,” he murmurs, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Not used to being used like this, aren’t you?”

“I wanted to help you,” you sob. “I thought I was helping you.”

“You’ve helped me tremendously, Doctor. Helped me and my friends escape from this hellhole that wants us dead.”

“Not like this. Not… This was not what I expected at all.”

“I’m not sorry at all for breaking your expectations, my dear.” You wince at the pressure of his skeletal fingers digging into your skin. “But I do have a proposition for you.”

“W-What do you want with me?”

“I want you... to join me as my Queen.”

“You’re deranged,” you speak up, gathering the courage to spit in his face. Whatever feelings of love you had for him before now turned into fear and disgust. “I would never!”

“I’m not giving you a choice, I’m rather informing you of the involuntary.”

“No! Y-You can’t do this!”

Hysterical giggling fills your ears and you flinch as he leans in close, eyes boring into your own while a low smirk plays around his mouth. 

“I know you want me and want me to want you, so let’s make it easy for the both of us, yeah?” 

“Let me go! Let me—”

Your limp body falls gracefully onto his arms and Taeyong sighs, studying the closed eyes and pair of irresistible lips. Pressing a soft kiss by the side of your mouth, he tosses aside the chloroform-soaked cloth onto the floor, carrying you with him out of the fallen hospital. 

“I hate to do this but I’m going to have to hurt you very badly, my sweet doctor. Very, very badly.”

—

“Is she awake?”

“I hope so, those aromatherapy scent bottles were very expensive and I don’t have enough for myself now.”

Her eyes blink open and she scowls at the sight of the two that could almost pass for twins if it weren’t for the lack of shared blood. 

“What do you want?”

“Thought you’d like to know that I fixed your ring.” 

Mark hands over a silver band with a glass gemstone at the center. “Try it, it should work now.”

She rubs a finger over the stone and smiles at the shift from green to blue. 

“Thank you!”

“Why don’t you just get a real ring?” Haechan asks with a snort. “Those things are just cheap trinkets we overcharge to stupid people who can’t tell the difference between quality and absolute trash.”

“Well, this is the first item I’ve ever received since joining,” she retorts, sitting up and twirling her ponytail in one hand. “It has sen-ti-men-tal value. Do you know what that is?” 

Haechan rolls his eyes and mumbles something inaudible before clinging onto Mark. 

“She’s bullying me.”

“There’s nothing you can do about it,” Mark laughs. “Otherwise Taeyongie will have your head for not letting her poke fun at you.”

“I want to keep my head, thank you very much.” 

A sharp rapping of the door startles all three of you and Doyoung pokes his head in, smiling at seeing her awake. 

“Mister T wants to see his Queen.”

“Oh, goody!” She fixes the ring onto her finger tightly and reaches into her pocket for a stick of gum, popping the stick of sugar into her mouth and giggling as she blows a bubble of pink. Two more bubbles are blown before she gives up on the art of blowing bubbles from chewing gum, a kick to her step in the run down the hall to meet with her beloved Joker, the Ace of all Fools.