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evilkennedy · 2 years ago

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Midnight Visitor

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x GN!Reader

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of blood (brief), mentions of guns and violence, slight fluff me thinks

Word Count: 3.1k +

Requested: Nope! Came straight from this noggin of mine.

Summary: You’re injured on a case and Hotch blames himself? I’m bad at descriptions and titles bear with me.

You want to pretend like you know why you can’t sleep, mind preoccupied with the knowledge that you could’ve easily died… Of course you hadn’t, but there were always questions as to whether or not you could have should anything within the scenario have shifted even slightly. What would have happened should you have not stepped in front of the gun? Hotch would have been shot instead. What would have happened if the unsub held his gun slightly higher, a quarter of an inch further to the right…? If you weren’t undercover, if you had worn your vest, if Aaron had worn his— etcetera.

Your room is dark and your gaze rests on the ceiling, illuminated by the moonlight alone. It wasn’t that late, despite not looking at the clock or your phone, you’d known that much. Well aware of how much time was passing you by as you rested your weary bones. You’d been… ready. To give up; to let the bullet finish the job and take your life. Before Hotch had arrived at the scene, only a few houses down from where you’d been undercover, feigning the lives of a newly wedded couple, you’d been more than roughed up. You were barely aware of the way you’d gotten back up on your feet at his arrival, adrenaline taking over as the man that you'd come to care for, much more than what was normal between a boss and employee, was threatened. You could feel his gaze on you, even as you laid in your bed now, the way he silently pleaded you to get out of the way, to let him handle the rest— to stall him until the other agents got there, but you weren’t having it. Not only would you never forgive yourself for remaining idle and losing him, losing whatever potential relationship you so deeply hoped to develop, you’d never forgive yourself for allowing Jack to go without another parent, to lose him the same way he’d lost Haley. Even as you’d considered it now, your throat constricted with metaphorical barbed wire, you’re certain you wouldn’t have done anything different.

You sigh, closing your aching eyes against the phantom vibration of a gunshot soaring through the air. You’d still go through it a million times over to ensure that Hotch would remain alive, safe and sound. Even if that meant he was angry with you for now. Your chest seized with pain, more so at the idea that you’d ruined everything that the two of you had built between the other, the trust, the affection, the concern, the honesty, all of it, less than of any medical affliction or after effects of the trauma. Part of you wanted to message him, to tell him that you were sorry for not following his orders or for anything else he might be angry over except for the fact that it had been you instead of him. You refused to let him mourn over the fact that you’d gotten injured in his place, for his safety, but you knew that’s where his mind had been since. He hadn’t texted or called or even come by, and you wonder how correct that assessment had been. Would he be angry if you messaged now? The thought makes you feel ridiculous and you ignore it, succumbing to the sleep that had been threatening to pull you under since the sun had set. The last thought on your mind was of glazed hazel eyes and large trembling hands.

Aaron looks between you and the unsub, attempting to keep his gaze calculated and professional, but he hasn't been able to keep steady without knowing the extent of your condition. All he could tell was that it was bad. He doesn’t think you can stand, almost hopes that you can’t stand. If you stayed down, he could keep the attention off of you and onto him. He refused to lose someone else at the hands of a narcissistic psychopath. His heart skips a beat when he notices the way you make an attempt to push yourself up, only to lose your momentum part of the way up, falling back into the floor.

You hear him call your name, it’s quiet, a warning. You could tell it was a command, one in which you took as a suggestion, knowing exactly what kind of violence the unsub was capable of. You couldn’t allow him to be on the receiving end of that force, not when you were on your last leg. You were certain this would be the end for you and it didn’t have to be the end for him. You feel as though you imagined the panic laced in his tone, sheer anxiety gripping at his vocal chords as he pleads that you stay down, eyes glossy with the promise of unshed tears.

“Upset that I’ve discovered you both, Agent?” The unsub’s voice sounds like venom, hateful and acidic and cruel, his methodology had been specific, calculated— Aaron had never been more terrified than he was now and it wasn’t for his own life.

“I think you’ve got the wrong idea… you’re confused.” He was unarmed, at least physically. He’d have to stick with the profile for now, belittle the man so that he’d focus all of his anger and attention on him. You wish he’d stop talking and get to a safe place, but you weren’t naive enough to believe he’d get out of here unscathed, even if you could stand. Still, you worked on mustering every ounce of strength into your arms, hoping that you can pull yourself up before it was too late. You were well aware of your supervisor’s agenda.

“You know very well that I’m not confused, just like I know you’ve got something to live for while this one…” He gestures vaguely to you with his gun, “Doesn’t.”

He doesn’t allow Aaron to consider a response before speaking again, “I would almost think you’re a failure like me, making mistakes and losing the person you loved way earlier than you needed to, don’t look at me like that.” Hotch is glaring, defensive and tense. The unsub continues regardless, trying to get under his skin, “But something about the way you stand, the way you look and behave, you’ve got kids, huh? You’re a dad and after you fucked up with their mom or whoever, you place all of your worth in what you can do for them, huh? You think you’re so good and so righteous, playing the hero, saving the damsel in distress, but you’re no better than me. I know you think I’m a low life, but there’s purpose in what I do. Just like there’s purpose in you. I see it.”

It makes Aaron feel absolutely sick. He’d always hated when these unsalvageable, soulless bastards would sympathize with him like they understood the weight that rested on his shoulders, like they understood his pain. He knew they never would, not in the same way, not if he killed you now. He doesn’t let him speak again.

“You’re pathetic. I’m nothing like you. You’re nothing like me, you never will be. You get off on killing married couples, taking away something you could never have and that is love isn’t it? You’ll never be loved because you’re too fucking self absorbed to see that no one is as interested in you as you are in of yourself. You’re so mediocre, Kenny. You’re ordinary and worthless and you think you’re righteous because of what you do but you have never been more wrong, this is the work of a coward and a bully.” He’s shaking from rage, but he can feel the relief of having the gun pointed at himself instead of you. He’s no longer paying attention to your form on the ground, and he continues, egging on the angered man even further, hoping that the rest of the unit would arrive soon. They were in his ear saying as much.

“But you know that, don’t you? You’ve spent your entire life trying to prove yourself, to your mom and your dad and friends, partners, coworkers, hell, even strangers. You’ve been ignored and honestly, it’s for very good reason. You were never more than a pawn in someone else’s game and even now you’re going to go down and no one will remember you for the senseless crimes you’ve committed, you’re no Jeffrey Dahmer-“ With that, he knows he has said too much, riled him up too far, but he doesn’t even flinch when the gun goes off. He does, however, fly into action once the rest of the agents surround the small building they’d been in. He isn’t sure why he doesn’t feel the sting of a gunshot wound to the hip until he notices your body, now unmoving on the ground below him. He allows Morgan to apprehend the killer, knees giving way to his trembling as he falls to the ground beside you, immediately placing his larger hands on top of the gunshot wound that was meant for him.

He has to fight through tears, not willing to appear distressed as he makes an attempt to comfort you.

“Hey, you’re okay.” He can’t smile, even as you do. You’re content with knowing he’s safe, it hadn’t hit him instead. You were barely sure of what had happened yourself until you were lying in a puddle of your own cooling blood. You could barely feel it as you shivered, gaze fixed on Aaron. You want to tell him that you’re not okay and that he will be. You want to tell him not to blame himself, but as your mouth fills with copper you find that all you can do is tilt to the side to spit it out.

Your chest heaves and he has already called for medics and for someone to please just help, but you’d been so out of your mind that you didn’t hear it. You shake your head, tears falling freely from your eyes, either from the shock or from the pain, you weren’t entirely sure.

“Why would you do that? You were already so hurt, God, I-“ He stops, focuses on pressing against your wound again. It was bad, you could both tell. So this time, you force yourself to say something— anything to urge him into feeling a bit better or just a bit less guilty even if the attempt was futile.

“C-Couldn’t- You have J-Jack.” That would have to do. Your eyes were barely opened and you could feel your breaths slowing down, teeth clattering as you shivered, cold either from the blood loss or the wooden floor beneath you. Most likely both.

His eyes furrow together, multiple emotions pass over his features at once, you focus on the warmth of his hands against your abdomen, wishing that he’d relax his eyebrows or smile. Anything that wasn’t showing how utterly terrified he was of losing you. You just supposed you would have to be okay with seeing his face under any circumstances, and you would have to be because you begin to lose consciousness soon after that.

“No, no.” He speaks your name, it’s desperate but not in the way you’d been waiting for your entire career, it was bargaining, begging for you to stay. “Please don’t sleep yet, tell me something.”

While you want to, your tongue feels like lead in your mouth and your eyes roll into the back of your head. You didn’t know if you’d ever be waking up again.

———————————

You roll over, groaning at the noise that you hear from the living room of your apartment. It brings you fully back into the waking world, and despite looking over at your phone to see that it’s midnight, you’re happy to have been woken up from that particular dream. It was the last time you’d seen Aaron and you didn’t need to feel that guilt in your sleep as it had already been enough during the waking hours of the day.

You bury your face into the pillow, blinking away tears that threatened to fall. Another noise from the living room echoes through your hallway and this time, you think it’s a knock. You scrunch your eyebrows in confusion, thinking that it had been your pet to make that noise originally, but that second knock had sounded awfully like someone being at the door. You sit up, slipping on your slippers as you walk through the apartment, not sure of anyone that would be knocking on your door at this hour. You almost wanted to grab the gun that you’d kept in the kitchen by the door, but you resort to looking out of the peephole first. You’re shocked to see a disheveled looking Hotch at your door, and the ache in your body at seeing him makes you pause. You almost don’t want to open the door. You knew he visited you while you were out of commission in the hospital but he hadn’t seen you awake yet. He didn’t come by after you woke up and you didn’t hear or see anything of him. You barely understood why he stood at your door now, but you unlock it, opening it slowly so as to not bother your injured shoulder.

“Hotch.” You breathe out his name, almost choking on the syllables. The way he looks at you, still in his suit from work, has you weak, your eyes water upon seeing him standing in front of you. He looks so relieved and so worried at the same time, pretty hazel eyes filled to the brim with emotion.

He breathes out your name in response. Not your last name, not something professional, but your first name. It sounds so good coming from him and you just want to pull him into a hug, to apologize for being so reckless, just as he wanted to lecture you for the same. Upon seeing you, especially in the condition that you were in, he couldn’t. He could, however, admire how beautiful you still looked. His gaze wracks your entire frame and it pulls a blush out of you. It’s not sensual or lustful, but one of concern and remorse, you invite him in.

Closing the door behind him, you speak again, “I haven’t… I was worried that you were mad at me.” It feels lame to say, there’s so much more to be worried about, but that’s all that you can think to say now that he’s here.

Hotch has already hesitantly walked into your dark apartment, leaning against the small wall that separated your kitchen from the doorway, you can see how tense his shoulders are, even in the dim lighting.

He shakes his head, putting down his go bag before turning in your direction. You hadn’t dared to move from the position you’d welcomed him in, scared of what’s to come. You almost hope that it’s a lecture because you aren’t sure that you can handle the gentler tone he usually takes with you right now.

“At that moment, I was terrified.” He punctuates the end of the sentence with a whisper of your name. It’s coated with so much fear and anxiety and all you want to do is take it all away, ease it any way that you knew how, but instead, you listened.

“All I could see was your blood coating my hands… You were… cold to the touch, breathing, but so close to death that if I closed my eyes it was almost like holding Haley’s limp body to mine again. If I had done anything different in that moment or even before— you would’ve slipped through my fingertips before I even had the chance to tell you that you are the world to me. I would have done anything, and I still would do anything, to assure that you made it home in one piece, but I- I failed.” Towards the end of his rambling, his voice became more unstable, no doubt because tears welled up in his eyes as his throat thickened from the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

“I didn’t visit because if I did I would have said that I loved you, but putting that on anyone feels like a damn curse.” He lets out a humorless laugh and that’s when you step into action, walking a few slow steps forward to look him in the eyes. He’s a bit taller than you and you’re glad that your non-dominant hand was injured so that you could bring your dominant hand to cup his cheek. He leans into your touch as you wipe the tears away.

“Oh, Aaron.” You don’t look at him with pity, more so a melancholic fondness, one of great understanding and love. You smile at him, your own tears welling up in your eyes as you blink them away.

“Your love couldn’t be so much farther from a curse.” There’s more you need to say, more that the two of you would have to work on if you went from here, but you’d relish this moment, even as it’s tinged with a sort of despair. It feels Shakespearean in portrayal.

“It was my decision to take that bullet, Aaron. Not yours. I was… I already didn’t think I was going to make it and I wasn’t going to let Jack grow up without his father too.” He sighs, hand coming up to rest atop the one you kept firmly against his cheek, thumb caressing the height of the bone there.

“I know that it scared you, it scared me too, and I’m sorry for being so reckless, I didn’t mean to make you feel like a failure.” You pause, “You’re anything but, and I wish you could see that for yourself. Haley’s death and my injuries aren’t on you.” You both knew that it would take some time for the other to heal, you’d both been through entirely too much shit to be considered normal, but you always had the other. And now that you both knew the extent of what that meant for each of you, and how that felt, this could be a new beginning.

Aaron nods, finally feeling like he can breathe again. “Can I stay?” He knows the answer, but he asks anyway.

You nod easily, “Please.” You go to remove your hand from his face, but he grasps it in his own, taking a moment to give your palm a kiss before bringing it down between the two of you. You take this as an opportunity to lead him into your room with his go bag so that he can change into whatever he has brought. The air feels lighter and you know that everything will be okay with time. No matter what, you’ll figure it out together.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds #fluff #hurtcomfort #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner whump #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fic #gn reader #female reader #male reader #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotchner x y/n #y/n isn’t used #how many more tags do I need

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aliceintheworld · 2 months ago

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PURE ATTRACTION | JJK | TATTOO ARTIST

Pairing: TattooArtistJungkook X NaiveReader

Summary: "I shouldn't be watching a man undressing, especially not from the house next door."

Warning: Suicide (this is a serious topic, please be careful), depression, alcoholism, toxic relationship, intolerance, shy reader (this will pass someday), extremely cute Jungkook 😊 and Gureum (JK's former dog) 😫🙏

A/N: Hi again! I came back earlier than expected, but since I already have a good part of the story written, it wasn't too much work (this won't happen all the time). The themes of this chapter are difficult, so please be careful while reading. It's a short chapter because it’s still an introduction to the story. Things will start happening quickly from now on. Just know that in advance 👀

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Chapter 2

I read the words from my favorite book, The Notebook, and even though every time I open its pages, I’m transported to another dimension, this time it doesn’t happen. I shift uncomfortably in my bed, feeling anxious. My mind is filled with thoughts yet simultaneously empty.

After dinner tonight, I couldn’t accomplish much. I took a shower and tried to watch a documentary I was excited to start, but it failed to capture my attention and did nothing to ease my worries about my neighbor, Misuk. Like her, my father also suffered from depression. I was just a child of 11 when I remember the first time he attempted to take his own life. I was young, but the weight of caring for him, even in terms of his mental health, felt heavy. My father would lie in bed all day, and not knowing what to do, I tried to bring him some comfort: getting good grades, making him proud, being affectionate and smart, asking for nothing from him except for what was essential for my survival.

My mother was incredibly strong; she worked at a marketing company almost all day, and when she came home, she would cook and help me with my math homework. I would sometimes catch her crying while cooking or cleaning up the daily mess, but she always said she was fine and put on a smile. I also remember that my father would occasionally have bursts of happiness. For at least a day, the man he used to be would return—energetic, funny, playful. It was only after some time that I, in my innocence, realized that this was worse. It gave us hope that the hard times would pass, that it was just a difficult moment, and that we didn’t need to worry because the turbulence would eventually subside.

But it didn’t pass. It got worse. With depression, came dependency. My father refused to take his prescribed medication and drank heavily every day. He would start in the morning and continue until nightfall. I felt fortunate if he collapsed on the couch and lost consciousness. Sometimes he would become aggressive, and I would retreat to my room, practically staying there all day. That’s how I began to find solace in reading. Books transported me to another world, more colorful and beautiful. My father, inebriated, didn’t exist in any other universe but my own, and that was comforting.

My parents started to argue; my mother was exhausted from holding everything together for months. One night, she pleaded with him to return to who he used to be, or else she would kick him out. He became so furious that he destroyed my grandmother's old wardrobe, and the only reason he didn’t hurt my mother was that he was too drunk to even reach her. I remember her grabbing my arms and dragging me upstairs, as we heard the car start and speed away from the garage. We only learned hours later that my father had died because he had my mother’s emergency contact saved on his phone. He had suffered a severe accident, crashing his car into a tall concrete wall.

A week after the funeral, my mother went to church for the first time. It became her balm, her ark in the midst of that flood, and I accompanied her without questioning or hesitating. I was so young and didn’t understand much; it felt like a relief. I wasn’t sad; I was happy. Happy that my father, the one I loved so much, was finally gone. The weight of worry, of caring for him, no longer existed. Confessing this to myself, much later, was difficult, but it was the truth. I was happy he had died because, for the first time in a long while, I didn’t have to sacrifice my childhood to look after him. I only had to take care of myself, and no one else.

I think of Misuk once more and find her depression reminiscent of my father's. Aside from that, she is completely different from him. I visited her house last month, and I would never have known what had happened if it weren’t for Jungkook. A tear rolls down my face uncontrollably. My throat tightens as I taste bitterness in my mouth. I feel relief that she hasn’t been able to follow through with her plan, relief because now I understand what she’s going through, and I can finally help her. I was a child when my father died and didn’t comprehend much, but now I can do things differently. I can help her, support her, and be there for her during tough times.

I rise from my bed with newfound energy as an idea flashes in my mind. I sneak into the kitchen in the early hours, trying not to make much noise and wake my mother. I walk through the dark hallway of my house to the kitchen, searching the cupboard for an old recipe book my grandmother left for my mother and me.

My mother never liked cooking, but I do. I’ve always enjoyed making desserts, and knowing I can brighten my neighbor’s day, I decide to prepare a treat. Patbingsu, a frozen dessert with sweet red bean, takes a few hours to make, but it’s easy to follow. I begin gathering the ingredients and organizing everything, only realizing how much time has passed when a deep sleepiness overtakes me and the sun begins to rise through the window.

I glance at my phone’s clock, my eyes widening. It’s now 6 a.m. I look at the dessert, adorned with fruits in a pot I set aside, and panic when I realize that the ice, if not consumed promptly, would become terrible. I smack my forehead in disbelief at my own foolishness. Biting my lower lip, I’m at a loss for what to do. It’s very early, and my neighbors might still be asleep. On the other hand, if I don’t deliver the dessert to them, I’ll likely lose both my recipe and the hours of sleep I sacrificed to make it.

I curse myself, weighing the pros and cons of each option. I decide to peek out the window into the neighboring house, searching for any lights on or signs of movement that might indicate my neighbors are awake. Nothing happens. I huff in disappointment. I decide not to deliver my dessert to Misuk; the mistake was mine for being impulsive and not thinking things through before acting. I step away from the window, feeling disheartened and sad, when suddenly the front door of the neighboring house swings open. Jungkook appears out of nowhere, barefoot and wearing a sweatshirt that nearly covers his hands.

I smile as I watch his sleep-laden face while he stretches and rubs his eyes, still groggy from sleep. He seems to be waking up a bit, opening the door to the house again. That’s when my trance breaks. This is the perfect moment to deliver the pot of sweets to his mother. I dash forward like a madwoman, not bothering to take off my apron or put on my slippers, grabbing everything in a hurry. I nearly trip over the flowers in front of my door, but I don’t stop.

“Jungkook! Jungkook!” I shout desperately. A few seconds later, I realize it’s still morning, and I might wake everyone up, so I run even faster to his door. I use all my body and agility to get there before the door closes, thinking he didn’t hear me and that, like an idiot, I wouldn’t make it in time. But the door opens again, and he only sticks his head out, one eye closed as if the sunlight is too much for him at this hour.

A happy, proud smile spreads across my face. I refrain from jumping with joy, knowing that would be excessive and he might think I’m crazy.

“Y/N?” he asks, his voice hoarse as if he’s seeing a mirage. “Good morning, how are you?”

“Good morning,” I reply with a smile. Then I realize I must be interrupting him with all this shouting, and finally, the embarrassment washes over me. “I’m sorry, it’s morning.”

“Yes, it is,” he says, looking me up and down; my apron is crooked, and my hair is a mess. I don’t blame him; he looks awake but not entirely ready. It’s almost as if he just crawled out of bed to greet the morning sun. I must be ruining his peace.

“I’m really sorry again, it’s just that…” I trail off, glancing at the pot in my hands. “I made a little something to sweeten your mother’s day. I hope she likes it.”

“You cooked?” he asks, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “What time?”

“Almost now,” I reply softly, my voice short and hesitant. “I can deliver it to her later, if you want.”

“It’s 6:30 now,” he says, as if still trying to wrap his head around things. He doesn’t seem like a morning person, judging by his demeanor. “Come in, please.”

“No!” I respond quickly, my voice rising. My eyes widen in embarrassment. “You don’t have to; I just came to drop this off for her.”

“Just come in. I just need to wash my face and brush my teeth.” He smiles for the first time, a dimple forming on his cheek, and his doe dark eyes squint. “Come on, I insist.”

“Alright,” I whisper, feeling shy. I take small steps toward the door. I realize I have to pass by him to enter the house, and before I know it, I’m inside. The house is silent, and a small white puppy scurries around my feet, recognizing my presence. I smile, bending down to his level.

“This is Gureum,” Jungkook says from behind me. I nod.

“Your mom told me she adopted him.” I pet his ear, finding it amusing how his fluffy tail wags back and forth. “He wasn’t here last night.”

“Actually, he was, but in my room. My dad is allergic, so until we can get the medication, we keep him mostly to my room.” He explains. I turn to him, nodding in agreement. “I’ll wash my face and be right back.”

“You don’t have to bother; I just want to deliver this.” I repeat, feeling awkward.

“It’s no bother. You can sit on the couch; I’ll be right back.” Before I can respond, he hurries up the stairs, as if afraid I might vanish if he takes too long.

I sit on the couch, hearing the sound of tiny paws behind me. Gureum is so adorable and affectionate, and being small, he has to lift both front paws to reach my hands for pets. I laugh when he licks my hand, tilting his head as if expecting more affection. Minutes pass until Jungkook appears again, this time wearing a tight black t-shirt and a headband that keeps his dark hair pushed back. I forget about Gureum, mesmerized. He is incredibly handsome—almost like a literary character come to life right in front of me. My cheeks flush, and my heart races. For some reason, I like him very much. Since the first time I saw him, I have this feeling.

“Now we can talk,” he smiles, pulling up his gray sweatpants. “I really needed to brush my teeth… you know.”

“Yeah,” I agree, unsure of what to say. He sits on the couch, just a few inches away from me, and that alone makes me nervous. “I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to give this to your mom, but at the same time, I didn’t want to wake her. When I saw you, I just…”

“Wanted to hand it over,” he finishes, smiling. I nod in agreement. “It’s alright. It’s really kind of you to do this. My mom has been waking up later because of her medication, so it was a good idea to talk to me.”

“Thank you,” I say sincerely. He laughs suddenly at my answer, throwing his head back. His white teeth show, and curiously, his two front ones are slightly larger than the others, giving him a cute smile. It's very funny. I want to laugh with him, even though I’m still confused about why he’s laughing.

“Why are you thanking me? You made the sweets!” He justifies his laughter, still chuckling. I grin in embarrassment, hiding my face with my hands.

“I don’t know. I guess I feel guilty for coming to talk to you at this hour.” I shrug.

“Is that the kind of person you are?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, not understanding.

“A nice person,” Jungkook clarifies, smiling at me. His eyes meet mine for a few seconds, and the nervousness I felt earlier comes back stronger. I try to smile, fiddling with my nails, feeling awkward. “Thank you for bringing this dessert. What is it?”

“Patbingsu,” I say, feeling a bit more at ease. Talking about food calms me down. “It’s made with sweet beans and fruits; it’s very healthy.”

“Can I try some? I love patbingsu,” he asks, tilting his head to the side. I nod, opening the glass pot’s lid. He reaches for a fruit, and I can’t help but notice the tattoos adorning his pale arm. I swallow hard, feeling a shiver run down my spine.

His right arm is covered in various designs that stretch down to his fingertips. A flower, a tiger and a phrase that reads “Winners Never Quit” are the only things I can distinguish quickly. I try to focus on something else, but it’s nearly impossible. He is incredibly handsome, much taller than me, exuding confidence and assurance. His scent is the same as yesterday, so good that I wish I could close my eyes to concentrate and feel more; his breath is even fresher from the toothpaste he just used. His hair pushed back draws even more attention to his smooth neck, speckled with beauty marks that, if it weren’t for genetics, I’d say were strategically placed to drive me wild. One specific mole, just below his lower lip, takes my breath away. He moans as he chews on a blueberry, and my already shallow breath nearly escapes me completely. He opens his eyes, frowning as if the fruit were the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted.

“It’s delicious. Really sweet,” he says, licking his lips. “You should try some.” He picks up a strawberry, dipping it in the sweet milk and sugar ice and brings it close to my mouth. I can’t refuse, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. I bite into the red fruit, trying not to graze the tips of his fingers, but Jungkook seems unbothered by it and offers the whole thing without hesitation. I can almost taste his skin along with the food, the way he hands it to me without much care. I try not to choke, overwhelmed by what he’s doing to me, unable to say a word.

I swallow everything without uttering a peep. He leans back on the couch, spreading his legs, pausing for a moment to observe me. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, incapable to meet his gaze. He draws me in like some sort of supernatural force, and I can’t fathom how I’ll manage to be near him every time I see him.

“You’re so kind,” he suddenly whispers to himself. I turn to look into his eyes, trying to understand him. “Thank you so much for caring for my mom in this way. I’m at a loss for words.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” he insists without hesitation. “My mom needs more people like you around her. I’m glad to have you here with her.”

“Jungkook... I... Your mom is very important to me. You really don’t have to thank me. I couldn’t sleep thinking about her, and I decided to bring this because I know she’s feeling deep pain right now.” I say, feeling brave and determined. I need to tell him this. “I appreciate you confiding in me about what you told me last night. I promise I’ll do everything I can to take care of her and be there for her. Her secret is completely safe with me.”

“I know that,” he assures, smiling slightly. He bends down to give Gureum a gentle pat, who is now lying near his feet. He looks back at me, nodding. “I’ll make it up to you somehow. You can count on that.”

Ask for a TAGLIST in the comments.

@ttipa @ane102

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fairyniceyeah · 7 months ago

Text

⌛🧸🐿️ I know, I’m with you, lean on

Title from Better (ATEEZ)

Summary: Jongho and Hongjoong suffer from food poisoning on the way to an MV filming.

CW: emeto

Sickie: Jongho + Hongjoong Caretakers: Seonghwa + Mingi + Yunho + San

It was dark outside, the only light coming from the few buildings they were passing and the occasional car that drove in the opposite direction. It was calm and quiet and Jongho was reminded of the car trips with his parents when he was younger, where he would watch the streets passing by until he fell asleep curled up under a blanket and his dad carried him inside to his bed.

He missed them.

Despite his parents living in Seoul he barely saw them, the last time nearly three months back. He supposed he couldn’t complain, San’s parents were all the way in Namhae and Seonghwa’s in Jinju. His oldest hyung hadn’t seen his family in over a year and hadn’t even met his older brother’s daughter yet.

Jongho turned his attention to his sleeping members. Their day had been exhausting between recording and dance practice and now they were on their way to some remote location for their next M/V shooting.

He could see all of them from where he sat in the back row where he was squished between the window on his left and Mingi on his right. Their normal van had to be repaired so they were left in a regular nine-seater divided in three rows, which was a tight fit especially for their taller members. Mingi was resting partially against San, his long legs entangled with Jongho��s in the younger’s footrest. San, for his part, was asleep against the window, using Shiber as a pillow.

In the middle row Yeosang and Wooyoung were curled up against each other, having fallen asleep while listening to music together. Seonghwa was leaning against the door, his neck bent in an uncomfortable position which surely would leave him aching when he woke up. Jongho didn’t want to disturb him and possibly the others when they got so little sleep in total to get him to sit in a better position.

Yunho was asleep in the front row, leaning against the door, the only place where he could at least somewhat stretch out his legs. Hongjoong, who was talking quietly with the manager driving them, was resting his head against Yunho’s upper arm.

Originally they had decided that Mingi would sit in the front with Yunho so he too could stretch his legs.

Their plans were crossed when Hongjoong had woken that morning with a headache which had gradually gotten worse over the day. At one point their captain had even taken pain medication, which he normally refused since they made him drowsy, and let Eden do the recording with them while he napped on Seonghwa’s shoulder until it was his turn.

Their second oldest hyung had still looked pale and ashen when they had made their way down to the garage and had quietly asked Mingi if they could switch places as he wasn’t feeling well and whenever he was not feeling good it was a sure thing he would get motion sick. Mingi had agreed immediately, worried for his favorite hyung, and proclaimed that he wanted to sit next to Jongho.

The maknae smiled faintly at the memory until without much warning dizziness overcame him, making him feel hot and cold at the same time. He was confused, he had been feeling completely fine one second and now he had to rest his head firmly against the headrest as the world tilted around him. Nausea made itself known in his stomach and he took a deep breath. He tried to breathe through it, hoping it was a momentary fluke.

But no, with his eyes closed he felt even more dizzy, his brain not sure where up, down, left and right were. It was disorientating and not knowing what else to do, he tried to reach out for his Mingi-hyung, wanting some purchase and comfort. His hands trembled and he let them fall back to his lap, whining lowly in his throat in frustration. He really wasn’t feeling good.

“Mingi-hyung”, he whispered. No reaction.

“Mingi-hyung”, he tried louder. Still, Mingi only shifted slightly but kept on sleeping.

“Mingi-hyung, I don’t feel well”, he said loudly. If he wasn’t so distressed and focused on staying upright, he would have thought it funny when suddenly most of his hyungs jerked awake.

Still staring straight ahead to abate the vertigo he saw how Yeosang and Wooyoung’s heads collided painfully as they startled. Ordinarily he would have laughed at them. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have felt sick from the disturbance as Mingi in his confusion detangled their legs rather violently.

“Jongho-yah?”, Hongjoong asked from the front, apparently the only person not completely disoriented as he hadn’t been in deep sleep a few seconds ago, “what’s going on?”

Jongho tried to speak, but his tongue wouldn’t move and his mouth was filling with saliva. He tried to lean forward, as he hoped that putting his head between his knees might help the nausea but he hadn’t accounted for the seat belt pressing against his stomach.

He gagged violently and suddenly his stomach contents were escaping from his mouth, splattering on his hands, jeans, shoes and the back of Yeosang’s seat. He was vaguely aware of loud and confused shouting but the only things he could focus on was the lack of air in his lungs, the warm vomit on his body and the hand rubbing his shoulder blades.

He cried, frustrated as his body betrayed him and left him feeling so so sick.

⌛

The next thing he was really aware of was gentle hands pulling him from his seat between two bouts of retching, soft voices coaxing him towards them. He blindly trusted his hyungs, not knowing how else to feel. Somebody was helping him slide out of the car but his knees buckled the moment they had to support his weight. Strong hands caught him and helped him to the ground, where he continued getting sick.

Yet, the fresh air was helping with the dizziness and - while he was still extremely nauseous - for the first time since it started he was mostly aware of what was going on. He was leaning against a strong chest, the person behind him definitely taller than him, so he supposed it was Mingi holding him. Seonghwa was kneeling next to him, softly smiling when Jongho lifted his head to look around. San, Yunho, Hongjoong and their manager were standing a few meters away, far enough to give him some semblance of privacy but close enough to help should they need it. He couldn’t see Wooyoung and Yeosang from his position on the ground.

As the vertigo started to abate Jongho became acutely aware of how embarrassed he was. Yellowish sick was covering the ground around him, his jeans, shirt and hands and even worse, some parts of Seonghwa’s pants as well. If he had to guess Mingi probably also wasn’t spared.

“Hey, baby”, Seonghwa said, a sad smile on his face, “are you feeling better?”

Jongho took a moment to take stock of his body. He wasn’t as dizzy anymore and the slight queasiness he was still feeling stemmed more from the disgust than actual nausea, he thought. His head was aching faintly and his stomach was feeling a bit weird but otherwise he felt … fine.

He nodded reluctantly. “Yes, hyung”, he said quietly.

“How about we move to the picnic table?”, his oldest hyung suggested, gesturing at the sitting area a few meters away. Luckily it was completely empty, like the whole rest stop they were at, so nobody else had witnessed his … episode. God, if somebody had recognized him and posted it. Tears welled up in his eyes but he refused to cry over something that hadn’t even happened.

Instead he nodded yes to Seonghwa’s question.

Gently, like Jongho might break, he was lifted to his feet by Seonghwa and Mingi who, as expected, had been the one to sit behind him. They took it slow, walking a wide berth around the sick on the grass and letting Jongho decide the tempo and rest his weight on them.

As he stared at the ground, unable to look up in embarrassment, he noticed how Mingi’s lower pants were completely covered in sick, causing the older man to walk slightly awkwardly so it wouldn’t stick to his legs. Now tears were falling down Jongho’s cheeks again in earnest.

“I’m sorry”, he whispered, feeling like he had reached a new low. Sure, he had been sick during the time he knew the others but he wasn’t sick often. Especially not this terribly, disgustingly sick. Not like Yunho and Seonghwa who seemed to catch every illness going around or even Hongjoong who wasn’t ‘sick sick’ often but often enough sick from his food intolerances, motion sickness and migraines. This was the worst time for Jongho yet.

⌛

“It’s fine, maknae. Don’t worry”, Mingi assured him, following his gaze downward to his pants, despite wincing a bit, “everybody gets sick sometimes.”

If the situation wasn’t as bad as it was, Jongho might have laughed at the timing. His other hyungs and the manager were coming closer now that Jongho was done playing the exorcist but apparently it wasn’t enough that he had stopped vomiting.

Hongjoong, who was trailing a bit behind the others, lost all of his color then (considering that he could probably see and smell everything, Jongho couldn’t blame him), placed a hand in front of his mouth and gagged, looking panicked.

“Oh, God”, he groaned, barely loud enough for them to hear, and turned on his heel to run towards the bathroom signs illuminating the side of the rest stop. Hongjoong managed to take a few steps before he stumbled and crashed to his hands and knees. He coughed loudly and even from the distance Jongho was able to sick the sick splattering onto the ground in front of him.

Yunho and San worriedly and a bit overwhelmed looked at each other, apparently not having expected that. Then San followed their captain, kneeling down beside him and rubbing his back. Yunho and the manager knew that Hongjoong hated attention when he was ill, so they turned their backs and came closer to Jongho.

“Shit”, Seonghwa, on the other hand, cursed but tugged Jongho to the bench where they helped the maknae sit down, Mingi sitting to hug him from behind again. They both glanced towards Hongjoong a few times but tried to focus on the maknae.

“Baby, can we clean you up?”, Mingi asked carefully.

Tearing his gaze away from the sick captain as well, Jongho nodded blankly. Seonghwa squeezed his shoulder, probably the only part of Jongho that was not soiled.

“Hey, don’t worry. Joong-ah will be fine, you know he hasn’t been feeling well all day. It’s not your fault”, the eldest comforted, squatting down in front of Jongho.

“If I hadn’t gotten sick…”, Jongho started, body starting to shake in the cold air. He was still glad that despite being treated to the sounds of retching and gagging, as well as the sight of his captain vomiting, he wasn’t feeling sick again himself.

“Yunho-yah, can you go get Jongho-yah some fresh clothes?”, the manager said, leaving no time for arguments. “And maybe some towels and water?”

The manager crouched down to look up at Jongho and gave him a sad smile: “For what it’s worth, Joong-ah asked me to stop at this gas station anyways because he wasn’t feeling well even before that. It’s not your fault, I’m surprised he held out this long.”

“Hm, do you think it’s a virus or food poisoning?”, Seonghwa asked then. “I mean”, he offered when they all looked at him, “maknae here doesn’t get motion sick normally. Hongjoong-ah wasn’t feeling well all day, yes, he could be motion sick but considering that Jongho was also sick I think that’s unlikely.”

The manager shrugged. “Did you and Hongjoong-ah share food that nobody else ate, Jongho-yah?”

Jongho bit his lip and tried to think back. “I mean, we had some eggs for breakfast today which Wooyoung didn’t manage to eat because he was so slow in getting ready but I could have sworn they were good.”

“Maybe they were, maybe they weren’t”, the manager said and groaned as he got to his feet, “it doesn’t matter really. I will see if I can get the car clean, you three take care of Jongho-yah, hm?”

At that moment Yunho appeared next to the manager, holding towels, water bottles and fresh clothes as instructed and the manager patted his shoulder before leaving. Out of the corner of his eyes Jongho saw San lead Hongjoong into the gas station, probably to help him clean up too. San was carrying a towel too, so Yunho must have stopped to give it to them before.

Jongho was too tired to protest when Seonghwa wet the towel with a water bottle and started to clean his face and hands, while Yunho helped Mingi get out of his pants and held a big towel around him so he could change without being seen. There was nobody there except them but being idols they had learned not to assume things like that.

Jongho was bundled up in one of Yunho’s large sweaters and a pair of sweatpants he didn’t recognize who they belonged to. When he looked up he saw San and a pale Hongjoong approaching them. The captain truly looked awful, face washed out and his hairline was covered in sweat. San had wrapped an arm around the captain’s shoulders and held an honestly impressive amount of plastic bags in one hand.

Seonghwa raised his eyebrow at him as they arrived and the younger man grinned. “I think the cashier likes me. I asked for a few bags and he gave me like at least fifteen.”

“Don’t you think it’s rather because Hongjoong-hyung still looks really bad?”, Yunho asked teasingly, hoping to lighten the mood.

Hongjoong just weakly stuck out his tongue, lacking his normal enthusiasm at disciplining unruly dongsaeng. He must still be feeling really awful and Jongho noticed his hand hovering over his stomach. Yeah, definitely still nauseous.

Before the mood could get awkward San offered: “Well, anyway, I figured the bags might come in handy. Since Jongho-yah normally doesn’t get carsick and he and Hongjoong-hyung shared breakfast we think they might have food poisoning.”

“Yeah, we came to the same conclusion”, Mingi agreed, having managed to change himself and now was helping Seonghwa.

“I’m really sorry, Jjongie”, Hongjoong whispered sadly, a vast difference to his normally loud and happy voice, “I should have been more careful. Next time please tell me to wear my glasses and check the best-before date.”

San sighed, obviously unhappy with the captain blaming himself but he kept quiet and helped Hongjoong sit down on the bench next to Jongho. Then he handed a few of the bags to Seonghwa who put the soiled clothing inside to be discarded.

Most of Jongho’s and Mingi’s clothes couldn’t be saved anyways and Seonghwa probably wanted to get rid of the memory with the clothes.

“It’s alright, hyung”, Jongho said, feeling bad that his captain was feeling bad. He had genuinely enjoyed their morning. It wasn’t often that the two of them had uninterrupted time with just each other with their hectic schedules so he had relished in just talking with his hyung about not-work related stuff. It hurt, feeling unfair, that their amazing time had turned into this disaster. “I should have been more careful too. I don’t regret having spent time with you this morning for once.”

He beckoned Hongjoong closer and wrapped an arm around the smaller man. Hongjoong relaxed into his side and nodded faintly, letting Mingi wrap an arm around him too. It was clear that the captain was exhausted by the ordeal and likely long nights spent at the studio.

“That’s all very nice”, Seonghwa interrupted them, turning his oldest-hyung mode on, “but how are you two feeling now?”

Jongho took a second to check in with his body and he was very surprised. He was still slightly queasy, but it was more of an empty feeling. His vision had stopped swirling some time ago. Honestly, if he hadn’t thrown up half an hour ago he would have assumed he was just fine.

“I feel okay”, Jongho said and, when Hongjoong and Seonghwa stared at him with similar looks of disbelief, he added: “Truly! I’m not dizzy anymore and my stomach feels okay, just empty but not nauseous. I’m just really tired.” As if to prove his point, he yawned.

“Okay”, Seonghwa agreed, “that’s good. What about you, Joong-ah? Also the truth, please.”

Hongjoong grimaced, looking dazed. “My head still hurts and I’m a bit queasy still. I think I just need some more pain medication. I took some like half an hour ago but I threw it up just now, so…” He trailed off, looking at the manager who was walking up towards them. “I can go on though. No use in staying here of all places.”

“Alright”, the manager said, “Sadly they don’t have a pharmacy inside the station, so I couldn’t get any medication. We can stop later if you need us to. I bought some cleaning supplies though and the car is as clean as it gets. We can go on if you’re ready. Anybody who needs the bathroom better go now and somebody please go find Woo and Sang-ah.”

“Oh, well, they are inside in a booth”, San explained, “Wooyoungie wasn’t so good with the puking, so Sang-ah is distracting him with ice cream and games. I’ll go get them.”

The manager nodded and they split up with Jongho, Seonghwa and the manager going towards the bathroom while Mingi and Yunho, both having wrapped an arm around Hongjoong’s waist, walked towards the car which the manager had moved away from the puddle of vomit.

⌛

When they returned Yunho, Mingi, San, Wooyoung and Yeosang were standing next to the car with Hongjoong sitting in the footwell in the middle row, legs pulled up to his chest and leaning sideways against the middle row seat. He looked incredibly tiny and young that way, making Jongho feel extra bad for him. It was unfair really how much he was suffering while Jongho was fine after throwing up once.

In all seriousness Jongho was surprised that Hongjoong had been so sick while the maknae had eaten way more eggs than him but he supposed the elder’s exhaustion, headache and motion sickness didn’t make his situation better. Still, he wished that the captain would feel better soon. Jongho knew that Hongjoong had looked forward to the filming a lot, able to escape his stressful everyday life for a more relaxed atmosphere with his friends.

“We weren’t really sure how we should do the seating arrangement”, Yunho explained sheepishly, “technically Jongho-yah and Hongjoong-ah should both be in the front to help with the nausea but we don’t think it’s a good idea since they might get sick again and can’t help each other.”

“I can sit in the back row again”, Jongho said immediately, “I don’t feel sick anymore.”

“That’s very good, Jongho”, Seonghwa placated, shaking his head, “but I agree with Yunho. You already got so sick, we should try to avoid a repeat of that.”

Jongho nodded, too exhausted to discuss this in detail. He knew his overprotective hyungs would do everything to protect him even if there was nothing to protect him from. Also, he wasn’t sure if the motion of the car might set his stomach off again.

“Jjongie can go in the front, with either Mingi or Yunho”, Hongjoong said tiredly and without lifting his head from the seat, “Wooyoung and Yeosang should go in the middle row, we all know that Wooyoungie feels better when he feels like he can escape easily out of the door as soon as we stop. San can go with them. I’ll go in the back with Seonghwa and either Yunho or Mingi. I can take Jongho’s old seat so I’m furthest away from Wooyoungie as possible.”

Jongho couldn’t help but be impressed with their captain. He had put some obvious thought to the seating arrangement, despite still looking in pain and queasy.

San would be able to help Yeosang calm Wooyoung down should he have another emetophobia-fuelled panic attack. Mingi and Yunho needed the space the front provided. Seonghwa always felt best when helping members so he would go with Hongjoong (though Jongho supposed it was also a slightly selfish longing on the captain’s part, wanting his only hyung close). And Jongho would feel best in the front should the illness return.

The only flaw was that Hongjoong looked all sorts of ashen and green already and Jongho didn’t doubt he would be sick again, no matter if it was motion sickness or food poisoning.

Seonghwa seemed to think along the same lines as Jongho. “Joong-ah, you can’t be serious? I’m sorry to be so frank but you look like you’re about to hurl again and sitting in the back won’t help.”

Hongjoong sighed. “I feel like it too but whatever we do, if this is food poisoning I will be sick again no matter where I sit. Jongho might avoid getting sick again if he is in the front, considering he feels better, and Wooyoungie can’t sit in the back row, no matter how much it was cleaned. I’m sorry that you have to suffer our stupidity, Wooyoungie.”

Wooyoung just silently nodded in thanks, squeezing Yeosang’s hand tightly.

“Alright”, the manager interjected, “let’s get in everybody.”

Seonghwa sighed and helped Hongjoong up, so they could crawl into the back where the captain immediately rested his aching head against the cool window and clutched a plastic bag in his hands. Without looking at Mingi, Yunho jumped into the last empty seat in the back. When Mingi tried to protest he was shushed: “Go sit in the front with our maknae, Mingi-yah, I know you want to be with him. Besides I already had the privilege of not being a sardine in a box.”

Mingi grinned and thanked him before hopping into the front seat and pulling Jongho to sit next to him. Within minutes of exiting the rest stop, Jongho was asleep on his hyung.

⌛

During the drive he vaguely woke up when the car stopped and the members in the back got out of the van but Mingi guided his head back to his shoulder, whispering that he should go back to sleep, Hongjoong was just sick again, but he needed to rest.

It was early in the morning when they arrived at the filming location. Jongho had slept through the rest of the drive, he was told, through Hongjoong getting sick a few times until they arrived.

They had Hongjoong sit out from the filming for an hour or two, letting him sleep curled up in the middle row of the van with a member occasionally checking on him. But when he woke up, claiming to feel much better, he basically begged the manager to film with them and the manager agreed since he hadn’t thrown up since the drive.

When they returned to their dorms a few days later they found the carton of eggs to toss, which mocked them with a best-before date that was still in the future.

At least they weren’t to blame.

Masterlist links: Fairy's Full Masterlist Fairy's Masterlist - ATEEZ

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omniseurs-blog · 5 months ago

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My YouTube comment reposted - mental illness, schizospec, psychosis, ADHD, distrust of doctors, rage/anger vent, loss of childhood, drug use

I was diagnosed with emotional behavioral disorder NOS and ADHD at 4, depression at 10, schizophrenia at 14, changed to schizoaffective bipolar and PTSD at 15. Here's my (and my family's) story.

Before any of my immediate family was born, my paternal great grandpa was... "Quirky", aka delusional and had hallucinations, and my great grandma refused to get him help, because it meant institutionalization or lobotomy. She never told her kids (my paternal grandpa) about it, they simply divorced when the kids were old enough to work. This is still all I will ever know about my great grandpa. My grandpa had his first psychotic break in his 20s or 30s (all I know is my grandma saying he's been insane for a long time, which is why she divorced him) and hid it well enough until his 50s where he was institutionalized and diagnosed "early onset dementia without Alzheimer's features" or something along those lines, he used to call my dad up all the time talking about the mafia and how my mother was poisoning him. My father had his first break in his 20s as well after the birth of my older brother and the death of his brother, but he didn't get treatment until his 30s well after my mother divorced him when I was 3. For a long time I didn't know a single thing about him besides what my mother told me, "he's abusive, he's evil, he's crazy, he's a terrible person" (my mother got diagnosed with BPD recently, so I don't even know if those were lies or not), but one thing she did teach us was that he was schizophrenic.

And then there's me. I was a shy kid, never trusted anybody, didn't play, didn't socialize, took a long time to start speaking, and... Held a very negative view of schizophrenia all the way until I was diagnosed. I was put on ADHD meds at 4, 20mg of adderall, the same age I was diagnosed. I began hallucinating full visible dead and bleeding people because of them and I had paranoia of being followed and watched. My mother did warn the psychiatrist that schizophrenia ran in the family, but my psychiatrist just raised the dose higher, this time 30mg of Ritalin, and put me on risperidone, 5mg... I hallucinated even worse, had crying fits from the delusions, but I was completely and utterly zombified. Why was I zombified on "such a low/starter dose"? Because I was a maybe 60lb F O U R (4) year old. Since the hallucinations and delusions didn't stop, and my mother insisting that I had schizophrenia, the doctor ensured my mother "children can't have schizophrenia" and diagnosed me emotional behavioral disorder NOS, switched me to Vyvanse at 25mg, and switched my risperidone to a common antidepressant I can't remember the name of (Prozac?). Of course, I was perfectly happy then, absolutely off the walls running around, wandering around, all that, so the SCHOOL system said they were going to call CPS because they didn't believe my parents were giving me my medications... Which meant they were the ones dishing out my medications to me and I missed the doses I was supposed to take before bed.

Thankfully, we ended up moving when I turned 10, and the new school never threatened CPS or demanded proof I'm taking my meds, so on my own account, I quit my own meds. I went unmedicated aside from taking a different antidepressant (genuinely can't begin to guess the name) around 12-13. I completely forgot I had any mental illness other than obviously having attention problems, fidgeting more than everyone else, severe anxiety that I thought was normal, and frequent nightmares and bedwetting, and a lack of awareness that I didn't fit in with others (mostly because I didn't have the urge to socialize with anyone). Then... the teenage years hit. My brother was experimenting with dr*gs, weed, LSD, computer duster, m*th, all of the dr*gs that were said to be bad in dare, and I did them too. We got past computer duster and weed, my brother got into worse drugs, new years swung around at 14 and they had some "high quality acid" that turned out to be NBOME, or fake bitter acid that makes even the most mentally stable freak out.

New years 2015, I was 14 years old, we took the fake acid, all 6 of us. People became manifestations of my mental illness, my brother was ADHD, his friends sister was depression, his best friend was anxiety, his best friends gf was PTSD... And his friend was schizophrenia. I was only diagnosed with ADHD, anxiety, and depression. The TV was talking to me, the music was about me, the universe was going to collapse if I made the wrong move. Sure, a bad trip is a bad trip, but the bad trip didn't end after 12, 24, 48 hours, a week, 2 weeks, a month, 5 months, a year, 2 years, 4 years. 4 years is what it took to START recovering, dozens of different combinations of meds, 20 hospitalizations, 4 different hospitals, 3 different states, countless amounts of doctors, and 3, going on 4, disability applications. From 10th to 12th grade, I missed an average of 100 days per year, had a 0.0gpa, and just barely graduated through GED while experiencing active psychosis

What could've been diagnosed at age 4, what I could've been properly medicated for, what didn't take a genius to figure out. 14 to roughly 18 were all a delusional mess, I'm 23 now. I still act like a 14 year old because... I'm still there. I should still be a kid.

#mental illness #actually mentally ill #mental health #schizophrenia #schizoaffective #schizospec #actually schizophrenic #psychosis #childhood #blog #anti psychiatry #psychiatry #trauma #adhd #actually adhd #complex ptsd #actually ptsd

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space-mermaid-writing · 6 months ago

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I didn't realise you are the author of vamp and the were! Love the fic and how unique it is. And so fun to read. Thank you for writing it.

A generic hospital prompt for ironstrange. I know its generic but its fascinating to see how different its interpreted and also since its canon that as characters both of them have a distaste for it. It can be taken so many ways. I leave it upto you unless you want me to be more specific :)

Thank you! I'm happy you liked The Vamp And The Were <3

For your generic hospital prompt I went with pre-powers. If you had something more specific in mind, feel free to drop that in my inbox. Until then you get a Tony who picks up Stephen at work for a lunch :)

Ko-fi | Masterlist | Word count: 0.5k

It was safe to say that Tony hated hospitals. He had never been a fan of doctors who were way too eager to check and touch his body. He didn’t like it as a kid when he was sick and his parents called them, and he still didn’t like them now. Hospitals were even worse; with the ever present smell of antiseptic and their overall aesthetic of white and gray.

The fact that Tony had just entered a hospital voluntarily was nothing short of a miracle. He wasn’t in actual need of medical attention, so that was a plus. No, he was here to pick up a certain doctor.

Tony took the elevator to the fifth floor. He knew the way to the surgeon’s floor by heart.

Curious glances still followed him – something that would never change no matter where he went. But he also got some friendly nods from members of the staff who were by now used to his visits. Tony returned them, even if the sunglasses on his nose hid his lack of interest.

Tony tolerated being here. But only because of one man.

He stepped out of the elevator and walked to the office.

Halfway he heard the familiar deep voice as Stephen stepped out of it, talking to a nurse. When he noticed Tony his face lit up noticeably.

Tony smiled. This was what made it worth it to endure being in a hospital. And he liked having this effect on the doctor. It stirred something in his belly; feelings he wasn’t yet ready to deal with. So he shoved them deeper down.

The nurse seemed confused about his reaction and followed his gaze. As soon as her eyes landed on the approaching Tony, she understood.

“I’m here to pick you up for our meeting, Doctor Strange.” That was their code for a lunch date. Tony knew Stephen preferred to keep their relationship professional in front of co-workers and Tony respected that. Except in the presence of Christine, who called them out on their bullshit. And she often sided with Tony; one of the reasons he liked her so much.

Stephen handed the chart he was carrying to the nurse. “Take that to Doctor Robinson for the blood test.”

“Yes, Doctor Strange.” The nurse left, not without throwing an amused and knowing smile at Tony.

Only when she was gone Stephen spoke again, keeping his voice down. “A surgery came in an hour. A transfer from Huntington with a pituitary tumor. The transnasal transsphenoidal operation has to be done.“ It almost sounded like an apology – only that Stephen didn’t do apologies.

„We can go to Papa John’s down the street and you can take your book for the read up of the case with you. It will just be a quickie.” Tony winked at him. He knew any surgery that Stephen was involved with would take at least a few hours and Tony felt better knowing he had eaten beforehand.

Stephen scoffed because Tony had brought that innuendo into his workplace. A quick look around reassured him that no one was within earshot. He thought about the offer. “Alright, I’ll get my coat,” he then agreed.

Tony had already learned that Stephen had a hard time refusing Tony’s offers – as long as they were well-thought-out and convenient.

He followed Stephen into his office. Maybe he could convince him into another kind of quickie before lunch as well.

#IronStrange #tony stark #doctor strange #tony stark x doctor strange #ask prompt #prepower #date #SpaceMermaid #Spacemermaid writes #marvel #stephen strange x tony stark #short #oneshot

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bellysoupset · 1 year ago

Note

popping in with a prompt/suggestion for vince cause i love me a lactose intolerant boy with lil tummy and his gf is also very hot so it’s a win win :) i was thinking it’d be fun if they were staying in a hotel for the weekend (maybe for a medical convention that wendy is going to?) and so they go to an unfamiliar coffee shop and the barista makes vince’s drink with regular milk. as the hours tick by and the convention draws closer, he’s miserable because his tummy is getting more and more upset and he doesn’t know why. he doesn’t want to disappoint wendy but he really doesn’t want to go because he’ll just end up spending the whole evening locked in a bathroom stall :(

Alright, this spiraled out of control. Anon, have some Vince and Wendy in NYC, him meeting her parents, having a lactose intolerance episode in the most inopportune moment and learning more about Wendy's past.

TW: discussions of transphobia and mental health issues, but nothing actually happens in the fic.

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Vince wasn't a heavy sleeper, he had never been. He was an insistent sleeper, meaning he refused to open his eyes at every little noise that woke him up.

Like the thunders that shook the structure of the building or Wendy's little rushed whispers. He rolled on the bed and let out a happy noise when his cheek met her thigh. Vince snuggled closer, wrapping an arm around her waist and felt her gentle fingers stroke over his cheek, then start playing with his hair.

He wasn't paying any attention to what Wendy's whispered conversation on the phone, so he was genuinely lost when she leaned in and planted a kiss on his forehead, saying just a little louder, "what do you think?"

"Uhm?" Vince forced his eyes open and then opened a smile when he met her face leaning over his, "hi..."

"Hi," she smiled, leaning back against the pillows, "what do you think?"

"About?" Vince yawned, rolling around so he could bury his face on Wendy's stomach. She giggled, starting to scratch his naked back instead of his scalp.

"Going to NYC this weekend," Wendy answered, "there's a medical convention on neurology and Jon's got tickets, but he doesn't want them anymore."

"Sounds boring," Vince scoffed, giving up on sleep and sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

"Well, duh, but it's only going to be one evening... We could go to the Broadway, you like theater..." Wendy said, her voice gaining that whiny consistency that worked so well on him.

Vince rolled his eyes, he knew how to pick his battles and this was not even a parking lot fight. She'd get whatever she wanted, no matter how boring the convention sounded... "Wait," he interrupted his own thoughts and Wendy raised her eyebrows, almost as shocked as him that he hadn't folded immediately.

"Yeah?"

"Aren't you from NYC?" Vince frowned, "am I meeting your folks?"

She blushed, shrugging and avoiding his eyes, "if you want to meet them, sure..."

"Do you want me to?" he grabbed her chin, forcing their eyes to meet and Wendy shrugged again.

"I guess...? I don't know, I want you to meet them, but they also... They're not a good time, Vin," she bit her lip, seeming torn, so Vince made the executive decision for both of them.

"I don't care," he said, pushing a strand of messy hair away from her eyes, "I wanna meet them, alright? It can be just a dinner."

"Just a dinner sounds fine," Wendy agreed eagerly, cheeks turning even redder, "it kinda sucks that your parents are just... So amazing. They make mine suck by simple comparison."

Vince rolled his eyes, shutting her up with a kiss, "they're not that awful, I'm sure. Besides, I don't care even if they are... It's about getting to know you better, not them."

"Uhmmm," Wendy mumbled, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him back, "so NYC this weekend?"

"Sure, sure, sure," Vince said barely paying attention, pushing her back against the pillows.

----------

"You look fine, stop fiddling with your blouse," He said, wrapping an arm around Wendy's shoulders and tugging her to him. His girlfriend let out an unhappy noise, once more pulling on the front cords of her top.

It was rare he got to see Wendy be this out of sorts, normally she was so sure of herself. Not today. She had been on a manic state since morning, despite the flight between Maine and New York only taking an hour and the convention starting at midday, they had left to the airport at 7 AM. She had picked his clothes, she packed and then re-packed at least twice and no amount of flirty banter had won Vince more than a lukewarm smile.

"Hey," he sighed, pressing his lips to the top of her head, "it's going to be fine, honey. I'm great with parents."

"You are not the one I'm worried about," Wendy groaned, sinking in his embrace, "I'm sorry, I just... I just don't want them to scare you away, that's all."

"They couldn't even if they tried," Vince squeezed her against him as they approached the convention center where the event was being hosted, "I'll meet your back here in five hours?"

"Are you sure you don't wanna stick around?" Wendy sounded all hopeful, but as much as Vince loved her, a neurology convention was not his idea of a good day. He shook his head.

"I love you, but absolutely not. Google Maps says we're close to the Cloisters, so I have my plans laid out for me," Vince said, pecking Wendy's pout, "honey, I'd be a cardboard cut out in a neurology convention."

"I know," Wendy sighed, nodding, "don't cheat and visit the Met without me."

"I wouldn't even know how to get there," Vince lied cheekily and she rolled her eyes, tip toeing to kiss him again.

"I'll see you in five hours. Text me if something happens or you get lost."

"I'm not gonna get lost," he huffed, biting her bottom lip and pulling back with a wink, "have fun looking at brains, weirdo."

"Have fun looking at old bricks, nerd," she answered, smiling as Vince turned around and left her.

The Cloisters were more than just old bricks, although it had its fair share of those too. It was the US' only museum dedicated to Middle Ages art and architecture and Vince was almost bouncing on his feet as he got to indulge his nerdy side.

He was a sucker for medieval history and Vince was completely sucked in as he followed the tour guide around, enjoying the role reversal of him being the visitor instead of the one talking endlessly.

The building had a Romanesque section that had him almost vibrating with excitement and snapping a million pictures, bombarding their friend's group chat. The Early Gothic Hall had him tripping over himself to catch up with the tour guide, as Vince got lost gazing at the mosaics.

Finally, after a two hours and a half long tour, he hit the gift shops and cafe.

He ordered a croissant and a latte, then happily went to inspect the overpriced gifts the museum offered. Vince wasn't much of a gift giving person, but he knew Wendy loved all sorts of trinkets, so he bought her a Tudor decorated fountain pen and a silk neckerchief with a Degas painting printed on it.

Deciding he'd buy other trinkets for their friends once the trip was over, Vince happily took his order from the cafe and started walking back to the subway station.

By the time he reached the convention center, he had long finished his food and was starting to not feel so hot. He wasn't sure if it was motion sickness from the thirty minutes long journey from uptown to midtown or if the cafe food hadn't been good, but regardless his stomach was feeling iffy.

He grimaced as a cramp hit him just as he entered the convention center, showing his ticket and ID to the lady at the entrance. It was a big place, with three different floors and Vince let out a sigh of relief as he felt the freezing A/C cool him down.

Maybe it was just some weird motion sickness, he sure as hell wasn't used to subways back in their town.

He fished out his phone, shooting Wendy a text and then wandering around, trying to find a water fountain. There wasn't one, of course, but there was a vending machine, so he bought a can of tonic water, which he was still sipping when he spotted Wendy's dark head among the crowd that was just leaving one of the lecture rooms.

Vince let out a sigh of relief, power walking in her direction, ready to ask if they could cut the trip 30 mins shorter so he could go to their hotel and just rest a bit before dinner with her parents, when he realized Wendy had company.

She spotted him the minute he stopped walking, opening a big smile and gesturing as she exclaimed, "Vince!"

He knew exactly who her companions were, before even being introduced.

Wendy's mom had wavy honey colored hair reaching the middle of her back, with dark eyebrows and lashes, so he knew she wasn't a natural blonde. She was shorter than her daughter, but not by much, and she was pale, wearing impeccable make up, with the same heart shaped face as Wendy.

Next to her, Wendy's father was completely bald, with his daughter's striking green eyes. He also had Wendy's bright smile and looked friendly as he zeroed in Vince.

"You must be Vincenzo," he presumed, raising a hand for Vin to shake, as if Wendy hadn't just said Vince's name, "I'm Sheldon, this is my wife Lydia. We're Wendy's parents."

"Nice to meet you, sir," Vince shook the man's hand, noticing just how tiny it felt in his. Both her parents were shorter than Vince by a lot and he felt all the more out of his element, the stumbling giant compared to these tiny, polite doctors.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Lydia said, stepping forward so Vince could shake her hand too.

There was a brief, awkward pause, that Vince quickly ended by asking, "I thought we were meant to meet you for dinner?"

"I just ran into them!" Wendy answered, moving away from her mom so she could take Vince's hand in hers, "I should've guessed you'd come to the convention."

"You'd have known if you had asked," Lydia answered and although she didn't seem to be antagonizing Wendy, her voice had none of the warmth either. Vince opened an uneasy smile.

"I thought it was a neurology convention? Wendy told me you're a dermatologist, ma'am. And you're an... Anesthesia doctor, right, sir?"

"Anesthesiologist," Sheldon nodded, seeming amused, "not half as glamorous as a dermatologist."

"But any hospital would come to a halt without one," Vince said, winning a genuine smile. Lydia crisped her lips.

"Yes, but some of our family friends were lecturing today," she explained, "we had to congratulate them."

Wendy squeezed Vince's fingers tightly between hers, "alright, uhmm... Mother, did you pick where we're having dinner?"

Lydia frowned, light brown eyes turning into little beads as she squinted, "pardon me? We're having dinner at home, of course."

Vince caught Wendy's grimace before she quickly covered it up with a polite smile, "I thought you said you were craving french food..."

"Yes, one of Michel's specialties," Lydia rolled her eyes, "besides, your boyfriend's never been to our place, it's only polite."

Vince wasn't so sure about polite. If he could take a hunch, he'd go with intimidating. As Sheldon led the way and Wendy squeezed his arm, looking vastly uncomfortable, he knew there was no way he could take a detour at the hotel. He'd just have to suck up his stomachache and gobble up whatever fancy food her parents put in front of him.

Instead of getting the subway again, they got into an SUV and Vince grimaced as he slid in alongside Wendy. Despite the spacious car, he could never sit in a backseat, since he was too much of a giant. He felt even more trapped, his knees up to his chest and Wendy muffled a chuckle, planting a small kiss on his bicep.

"I'm sorry," she whispered and he shook his head, smiling at her, but keeping his eyes in the horizon. The last thing he wanted was to get carsick on top of the already uneasy ache in his belly.

Wendy's place, or rather, her parent's place wasn't that far from the conventions center. Only twenty minutes, painful twenty minutes where Vince was acutely aware of the car's heavy silence and the fact his guts were being very vocal. He wasn't sure if he was the only one hearing the noises or not, but to him they were very clear.

It was so weird the fact these people didn't talk.

Their place, a parisian style townhouse in Carnegie Hill, was simultaneously underwhelming and overwhelming. Vince wasn't sure what to do with the information that this house that was upper middle class for sure, was probably worth up to millions because of its location alone. To him, it seemed like a regular 4 rooms house, if a little fancy.

"C'mon," Wendy tugged on his arm, circling the car. He tried to imagine her living there, walking to school... A much younger version of herself. He couldn't.

Lydia walked ahead of them, dropping off her coat with a maid who rushed to open the door and Vince cringed. Even in Italy, where he was aware they had been at a very expensive place, he hadn't seen any staff. Be it because Luke's house was abandoned or not, Vince preferred it that way.

He wasn't sure what to do with himself, if he should hang his jacket or hand it to the poor girl who was looking at him with a puzzled frown. Wendy solved it by grabbing the jacket with a yank and handing it to the girl, all the while smiling, "Hi Mary! How are you? How are the kids?"

Vince studied her, feeling like he was watching a movie. It was Wendy all right, friendly and extroverted, but... More quiet. Her gestures not as dramatic, as if she was holding herself back.

He turned away, while her parents disappeared inside the house. There were only art pieces in the foye, no pictures, so he had to pretend he was very interested in the messy red painting and not dividing his attention between overhearing Wen's conversation and focusing on his upset stomach.

A gurgle ran down his tummy and he pressed his eyes closed, gulping down. It was starting to cramp.

"I'd hate to interrupt your art nerd moment," Wendy whispered, bumping her arm against his, clearly reading right through his pretense, "but do you wanna maybe take a look around the place? I can show you my old room."

"Please," Vince said, relieved. Standing still was just making him hyperaware of how awful he felt.

Wendy grabbed his hand, pulling him forward. He couldn't pay attention. Vaguely Vince heard "this is the reading nook" and "mother's office" and "dining room", but all he could think about was the fact that sweat was starting to run down his back.

She pulled him up the stairs, bouncing on her feet, "and here to the right is my old room, unless they converted it into a dance studio," Wendy said with an eyeroll, before pushing the door open.

It was nothing like her.

Vince would know, he was well versed on her decor tastes by now. Instead the whole room was in shades of beige and cream, with wooden details. It was delicate, but there was no pink, no lilac, no flowers or busy wallpaper or anything that remotely reminded him of his girlfriend.

"Are you sure we're in the right room?" Vince frowned, following her in and looking around. It was a really nice, spacious room, with a small walk in closet and a suite. Still... "Where's the color?"

Wendy snorted, fiddling with the books in the shelves near her big bed, "my parents would have a stroke if I had a bubblegum pink bedroom... What would our relatives think?" she rolled her eyes and Vince frowned.

Back at his parents home, his room was still the same. Messy, with his three motorcycle posters up in the walls, his pile of books and all the nerdy shit he had collected over the years. Wendy's room felt like it was ready to have its picture taken for some decoration magazine.

"Have your parents been to your place yet?" He asked, moving around. She had almost no books, the few he could see were about high school biology or chemistry...

"Could you imagine them there?" Wendy snickered, hugging him by the middle, "my mother would implo- Aww honey, you must be starving."

Vince grimaced, sure she had felt the upset rumbling of his stomach. He made a noncommittal noise, still hellbent on pretending it was fine. It was fine, even if he was feeling more than a little nauseous and shaky with all the cramping.

"Oh look at you..." Vince cooed, instead of addressing what she said, reaching forward to grab a pictured frame. He could easily identify Wendy between two other girls, even if she was different. She was much skinnier in the picture, the dress hung awkwardly on her and there were no boobs, her brown hair twice as long and draping on her front, with heavy bangs, "Joni Mitchell herself."

"Oh shut up!" Wendy squealed, her whole face ablaze. She bit her lip nervously, "I look terrible..."

"No, you don't," Vince rolled his eyes, studying the little Wendy in the picture, "alright, where are the baby pictures?"

Wendy rolled her eyes, turning around in the half hug so she could press her cheek to his chest and Vince winced when that pushed a queasy burp one, that he swallowed back down. He pressed his eyes closed, forcing down a moan over how disgusting his mouth felt, the latte from before creeping up his throat.

"I'm glad you're here with me," Wen whispered, blissfully unaware of his conundrum. Vince grimaced, running a hand up her back and feeling a twinge of self loathing. He hated that his belly was acting up in such an important moment for her.

He knew by now that surely the food at the museum had been bad, his best guess being the barista had used whole milk in his latte and not oat milk.

Unable to answer her, Vince opted for kissing the top of her head and then they peeled apart.

Dinner was hellish. He didn't expect it to be remotely enjoyable, but he didn't expect it to suck so badly. Wendy had warned her parents he was lactose intolerant, so there were plenty of options for him to eat from, much to Vince's absolute horror.

He almost gagged at the creamy sauce that was planted in front of him, his stomach churning and intestines squeezing as he kept a painful smile on and tried to listen to her parents weird overly polite conversation.

The Marshalls were weird people, Vince thought bitterly. Wendy's mother barely spoke, only made little disdainful noises and wrinkled her nose at every single answer Vin gave to Sheldon's questions.

What's your major? What do you work with? Where is your family from?

"Oh you're an immigrant?" Was the first thing she said after at least thirty minutes of painfully awkward silence and Vince silently praying for his death. He hated the silence above all, because he was sure everyone could hear the upset gurgles in his tummy.

He jammed his fork through the fish he had been pushing around his plate for the past half hour, fingers squeezing the metal and forced his voice to remain steady as he said, "yeah, we moved here when I was ten."

"Legally?" Lydia raised an eyebrow and Vince glared at her, the fork sliding on the plate with how much force he was applying and almost sending his fish flying.

"Yes, legally, ma'am," he answered through his teeth, letting the fork clank back down on the porcelain plate and deciding that there was no way he could pretend to be feeling fine, not with these questions, not when it felt like his body was trying to explode on him, "excuse me."

He pushed back from the table, avoiding Wendy's worried gaze and hearing her exclaim "mother! What the fuck was that question!?" and her father scoff "oh great, he's bulimic too," as Vince sped down the hall.

He didn't remember the bathrooms downstairs from Wen's tour, but he did remember her room was a suite, so Vince all but sprinted up the stairs, as fast as he could on shaky legs.

A fierce cramp went through his intestines just as he burst in her room and he clutched his tummy, folding forward and letting out a choked noise as vomit flooded his mouth, dangerous gurgles warning him he had even more pressing issues than that though.

Vince barely had time to shove the bathroom door locked, before collapsing on the seat, pants pooling around his knees, frantically looking for the trashbin as he couldn't manage to swallow the foul liquid in his mouth.

Why didn't rich people ever have visible waste baskets!?

He couldn't find it and another gag made his spine roll, his stomach squeezing again - He reached forward and grabbed a towel, holding it like a cocoon on his lap and finally opening his mouth.

It was humiliating and painful. His intestines were cramping like hell, it felt like there was an iron hand squeezing his insides like a squeak toy. His stomach churned as more of the dinner he had forced down came up, barely digested, staining Wendy's fluffy white towel.

Vince coughed and whimpered, unable to keep the tears at bay. He felt horrible and horrified he'd have to face the Marshalls after this... Vince groaned out loud, struggling to breath, bent in half over the mess, unable to close his mouth with how queasy he felt.

His belly let out a sad whine, cramping and churning, but also feeling hollow and raw. Vince spluttered for air, dry heaving for another handful of minutes before he managed to get his stomach on check.

There was a little knock on the door and then Wendy's voice traveled through, "Vin, can I come in?"

Fuck no.

"No," he answered roughly, glaring at the mess on his lap and folding the ends of the towel, the movement causing him to feel just how sore his middle was. It felt like he had done a million abdominals... The mere act of moving making him pause and breathe through it.

There was another timid knock, "okay... Can I call the car to get us back to the hotel? Or do you need more time?"

He wasn't sure. Vince wanted to get the hell out of this house, preferably before her parents saw the mess, but he also wasn't sure if he trusted his belly to stay in check. He leaned over the towel again, bringing up a small, wet burp and gulping down the bile with a shudder.

"Vin?"

"Just give me a minute!" Vince snapped, before promptly sniffling, swallowing the knot in his throat. He didn't want to yell at her or be sitting on the toilet with a puddle of his own vomit or to be in her parents fucking house where he was so out of place. He didn't want to be there.

Crying — or trying his best not to cry — was not a good added strain on his belly and soon he found himself heaving over the towel again, trying to cough up his stomach lining. His lower belly was still gurgling bloody murder, even though he felt wrung dry, fruitlessly trying to get rid of anything else.

Vince straightened up as best as he could, spitting a pathetic amount of frothy saliva and unsure of what to do with himself. He wiped at his face, brushing away the tears and the drool still clinging to his lips, clearing his throat twice before croaking a pathetic, "Wendy?"

"Yes?" it sounded like she was glued to the door, which was both heartwarming and mortifying. Vince's shoulders fell in defeat.

"Can you help me?" He needed to clean up, but he was afraid of moving with the soiled towel on his lap and cause an even bigger mess. If he dripped vomit on the ground or her ridiculously fancy bathmat, Vince decided he'd jump out of a window.

"Of course," she pushed the door open and Vince looked away immediately. He didn't want to see a disgusted frown or her gagging on instinct because of the smell and the visuals.

Instead her cold hands came to cup his cheek, thumbs rubbing in circles before she dropped her hands to his shoulder, pushing him back slightly, "aw, my darling..."

"I'm so sorry-" Vince groaned, his eyes stinging, "I swear I tried not to make a mess, I just- I don't know where the trash is and I was feeling so horr-"

"Honey, I don't care about the towel," Wendy scoffed, planting a kiss on the top of his head, "you poor thing..." she rubbed his back up and down and Vince leaned forward, hiding his face against her stomach and trying not to break down crying.

"I wanna go home," he groaned and yeah, he meant home, but the hotel was good enough. Wendy let out another sympathetic coo.

"I already called the car," she undid his loose manbun on the base of his neck, pulling his curls up and tying them back again, "lean back, let me handle this..."

Carefully she grabbed the ends of the ruined towel, balling it up and quickly moving it to the sink. Vince heard another loud growl coming from his stomach and cursed, hugging his middle.

"Wendy... I need you to get out. Please, get out-"

She opened her mouth to complain, but it was already far too late. With another loud whine, his intestines finished emptying in the bowl, all the while Vince's blushed cheeks turned white to match the rest of his face and he gagged against his hand.

"Here, here, I got you," Wendy hurried, leaving the towel inside the sink and opening the cabinet. Instead of it opening to the side, it opened forward, concealing a bin shutter. One she promptly grabbed out of it's placement and held under his chin to catch a little dribble of vomit and a load more of empty heaves.

"Shhhh," she held his forehead with one hand, the other one supporting the bin, "honey, you need to breathe..." Vince was a trembling mess under her hand, tears leaking from the corner of his eye.

He let out a pitiful moan, head handing and now openly crying, "this is so gross and humiliating and- I'm s-sorry..."

"It's not your fault, Vin," Wendy scoffed, running her free hand under the tap and pressing it back to his forehead, hand wet and cool, "are you done?"

"I think so... I need to clean up, can you step outside?"

"Yeah," she put the bin back in place, stepping back, "don't worry about the towel, I'll get it to laundr-"

"No, your parents-"

"I don't care about my that, just focus on cleaning up so we can get back to the hotel, alright?" Wendy rolled her eyes, grabbing the ruined towel and rushing out of the room.

Vince met her back in the bedroom a handful of minutes later, face milky white and hunched onto himself, one arm wrapped around his stomach as if to protect it.

"Where are your parents...?"

"Upstairs," Wendy rolled her eyes, wrapping an arm around his back, "sulking. They'll get over it," she guided him to the first floor, "really Vin, I swear it's all fine... I'm the one who's sorry."

"Whatever for?" His voice sounded like he had gargled with glass shards and Vince winced, massaging his throat and following Wendy out of the house, breathing out in relief at the cool air.

"I didn't realize you weren't feeling well, if I had known I would've come up with an excuse so we didn't stay for dinner..." Wendy held the backseat door open for him and he slipped inside the car, relaxing against the leather seats, mumbling a small "good evening" to the driver.

"That's not on you," Vince groaned, pressing his forehead to the cool glass and muffling a small belch as the car started back up, the driver checking the address with Wendy, "it's my fault for not speaking up."

Wendy sighed, leaning in so she could rub his arm and planting a kiss to his shoulder, "you wanted to impress them and me, I don't hold it against you either..." she moved her hand to his belly and Vince let out a groan, leaning back on the seat and closing his eyes and she rubbed small, discreet circles on his tummy.

He must've dozed off, because next he opened his eyes, they were parking before the hotel and Wendy was ushering him out of the car. She didn't say anything as he hugged her closer, like a teddy bear, during the entire elevator trip and not even when he beelined to the bathroom and locked the door.

Vince came out almost an hour later, face flushed from the hot water, with a towel wrapped around his hip, wet hair dangling on either side of his face. He sat down on the bed with a sigh, with no energy to dress himself and Wendy crawled on the bed, draping herself on his back.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she whispered, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He leaned back, opening a little smile as he felt her fingers untangling his hair.

"Your dad said something," he said slowly, almost melting under the hair pets, "when I left the dining room."

"My dad said a lot of things," Wendy teased, but her voice was suddenly tense. Vince rolled his eyes, collapsing back, so he was half lying down, head on her lap.

He played with her hand, giving her time, "he said something about me being another bulimic."

Wendy's hand froze in his and Vince winced, knowing he had heard that right and assumed it correctly. He intertwined their fingers, "Wen?"

She shrugged, looking away as if his knee was suddenly the most interesting part of the room, "it was a long time ago, my parents just seem to think I'm eternally sixteen."

"Can you tell me?"

She hesitated, seeming to think about it, before carefully saying, "before I transitioned, before I even realized I was trans, things were... Weird. Well, bad. I knew something was different and I knew something was different with me. I wasn't like the other boys... My parents definitely could tell I was different, they sent me to an all boys school, probably hoping it would stop me from being gay."

"Sounds counterintuitive," Vince said lightly and she chuckled, moving on the bed so his head was resting on her thigh, but she could drape herself down and look him in the eye.

"I know, right? So they just started to cut all of my interests and hope they could fix me, which obviously they couldn't because there was nothing broken to begin with. Eventually mom even came to terms with I was possibly gay. Except I wasn't," Wendy rolled her eyes, "when I realized I was trans, I told them."

"And they weren't cool about it," Vince guessed and she shook her head, playing with one of his curls.

"Not in the least. So I spiraled... I spiraled bad. It was one thing to know something was different about me, it was another to know what I needed in order to be happy and have it denied and them calling me crazy. I hated my body and I hated my life and it snowballed... Bulimia, self harming, my journals were... Well, much worse than teenage drama. I was hopping from therapist to therapist, because my parents still thought I was straight up delusional, I was dropping weight like crazy, I was drinking..."

Vince frowned, looking at her, "and how did it stop?"

"...I downed one of my mom's bottle of pills, on my sixteenth birthday," Wendy said with a grimace, watching Vince's eyes widen in horror.

"Wendy..."

"I know," she sighed, "so that gave them quite the scare and they stopped being fucking assholes... I got therapy, real therapy, not conversion therapy. I got on antidepressants and had a nutritionist and all that... And then I left for college and I got gender affirming surgery, that helped like a fuckload, and I got to legally change my name and change universities... And things got better."

"I'm so so sorry your folks are such asses and that you went through all this, honey," Vince pouted, tugging her closer, "thank you for telling me, though... For trusting me."

Wendy opened a teary smile, looking away to get herself in check, before she scooted even closer. She traced a hand up and down his naked chest, biting her lip, "I was scared of telling you."

"Why-"

"No, not this," she shrugged, "before, when we first started flirting. I was sooo scared of telling you I was trans and you ruining things. I mean, you're a football player, Vince, I was expecting to get hate crimed."

He flinched, while she rolled her eyes, causing Vince to pout.

"I'd never-"

"I know," Wendy smoothed a curly chest hair back down, straightening it under her fingers, "but you can't blame a girl for looking out for herself."

Vince let out an unhappy noise, before squinting, "is that why you kept vanishing whenever we sexted...? And then texting back the next day?"

Wendy's whole face turned red and she pinched his side, causing him to squirm, opening a smug smile at her reaction.

"I thought you promised to never mention that again!"

"I'm just wondering!" Vince giggled, grabbing at her wrist and pulling her closer, "viene qui — viene qui, amore mio," he scoffed, forcing Wendy to close the space between them and kissing her, "you're amazing and I love you."

"Yeah?" she bumped her nose with his, "e ti amo... too?"

His face lit up at the broken Italian, "close enough," Vince sighed with a big smile, pulling her back in for a kiss.

#i had to end this somewhere #vince monacelli #lactose intolerance #i am literally so nervous about this fic #mywriting

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schrijverr · 1 month ago

Text

I Didn’t Mean to Say I Do, but I Do. I Do. 9

Chapter 9 out of 50

Secret marriage of convenience buddie slow burn AU, where Buck and Eddie have been married for years so Buck could adopt Chris and no one at the 118 knows.

In this chapter, the 118 gets closer through a car accident and a plane crash, while the little family unit Buck has with Chris and Eddie also remains. However, it’s all still on unstable ground, impermanent.

On AO3.

Ships: Buddie (slow burn)

Warnings: internalized misogyny, injury, minor character death mention, addiction mention, referenced sexual assault (vague)

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Chapter 9: Almost a Family

Buck is at the station when he is called again by a number he saved as Abby 911. When she called the first time, it felt nice. Someone checking in on him, giving him some advice, some reassurance, making him feel less like a failure.

However, as he watches the phone ring now, his stomach is filled with nothing but dread.

She got his number from the file. She saw him on the news. She sought him out and called him and is now calling him again. She probably wants something from him.

Maybe if Eddie hadn’t been there, he wouldn’t have had the stupid crush – or deep love but who’s counting – and he wouldn’t have thought about what Dr. Wells did. Maybe he wouldn’t have noticed without Eddie pointing it out. Maybe he would be lonely now and flattered by someone liking him enough to seek him out. Maybe then he would have liked to be called again

But he doesn’t. None of that happened. Instead he’s here and the thought of answering that phone makes him a little nauseous. So, he hangs up the call without picking up, then blocks her number, trying not to feel rude about it. Buck isn’t ready to be back in the dating game. Or the sleeping with people game.

Instead, he tries to focus on his friendships, because he does have a lot of good friendships even if he wishes one of them would be a romance. And one day that non-romance will disappear, so he should cling to what he has, make a proper family out of the 118, so he won’t be alone when he gets left behind again.

And the others reach back. It’s not how Buck would’ve wanted it to happen, because it starts with Chimney getting a piece of rebar stuck through his head. It’s harrowing to see one of their own like that and he doesn’t even feel the usual mixture of butterflies and guilt when he crushes Eddie in a hug when he gets home, just needing his friend to be close.

Waiting for Chimney to wake up is the worst. They’re all climbing the walls and Buck is sure Hen is annoying Karen as much with her worrying as he does Eddie. He is glad to get a call so he can let the nervous energy out, even if he hates people being in danger.

When they get there and get the truck open, the relief to be doing something, anything, dissipates immediately. The truck is filled with immigrants, all in need of medical attention due to the conditions.

Buck and Hen work together to bring a kid back. As he does chest compressions all he can think is how this kid is about Chris’s age. How easily it could have been Chris there. He’s pretty sure Hen is thinking of Denny too.

He talks to their patient and his parents in Spanish, encouraging the boy to wake up, to breathe, then assuring the parents that he’s alive, that he’s okay when they finally get him back.

“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,” Hen comments when the boy is in the ambulance.

“Lived in Texas before this, picked somethings up,” Buck tells her, because it’s close to the truth anyway. Eddie wants Chris to speak Spanish, so Buck has been trying to learn more right alongside the boy – who is more skilled at the language – Helena and Ramon didn’t care much about him learning, but Abuela and Pepa have taken to trying to teach him, refusing to speak English with him from time to time so he can learn.

“Aren’t you from Pennsylvania?” Hen frowns.

“Yeah, but I traveled. Lived in Peru too, was a bartender there,” Buck smiles.

“Okay,” Hen says after a moment, studying him. It’s as if she is still processing that he can do that and he rolls his eyes slightly.

He knows he doesn’t look it, but he can’t help but be slightly annoyed that his frat boy exterior prevents them from thinking he can’t have his intelligent moments. Sulkily, he thinks, if I took Eddie’s last name, they wouldn’t be so surprised. Before his face becomes beet red at the thought of having Eddie’s last name.

Fortunately, Hen is distracted by arresting the driver after spotting him, so she doesn’t notice his flushed look or thinks to ask more about his Spanish speaking skills.

They’re all relieved when Chimney wakes up that evening. When he seems to understand them and is capable of reacting to their input. It can still go horribly, horribly wrong, but there are positive signs. They need positive signs.

However, they find out the hard way that positive signs doesn’t mean the positivity will last. A plane crashes and Bobby almost gets himself killed to rescue a mom.

Buck gets it, he would die a hundred painful deaths if it meant Chris got out of a situation like that alive. But he also would want someone to fight for him, to fight so he wouldn’t have to abandon Chris, not leave him behind like Shannon had.

Still, he selfishly doesn’t want Bobby to die for her either. Doesn’t want someone he cares about to die, not when he can help. Doesn’t want to be abandoned himself either. So, he helps and together they do one of the most hair brained rescues that Bobby would have never signed off on, if Buck had suggested it under any other circumstance.

These big casualty events always make him want to call Eddie to check up on him and Chris, but he can’t yet. They still have work to do, this call isn’t over yet. So, he’s checking people’s vitals with wet shivering hands, ignoring the way his waterlogged uniform clings to him.

He’s not the only who’s out of it, when they’re finally relieved, the atmosphere in the engine is subdued. Bobby seems to be off in another world with how deep in thought he is and Hen is quietly calling her wife.

Buck wants to call Eddie, wants to hear him be okay and talk to Chris for a bit. But it’s late and unlike Karen, Eddie didn’t marry him out of love. He has no right calling Eddie awake and wanting him to wake up Chris, just for him. So, he just sits there and wraps the blanket that Hen shoved into his hands when she saw him shivering a little tighter around himself.

When they get back to the station, his phone rings, Eddie’s contact lighting up the screen. The others are trudging off to the locker rooms so Buck doesn’t waste a moment fumbling with his numb fingers to pick up. “Eddie? Are you okay?”

“Am I okay? What about are you okay?” Eddie replies, sounding stressed. “I saw your unit on the TV at the crash and then I didn’t hear anything from you.”

Oh, Eddie has been worrying about him. The thought makes something warm bloom in his chest, he never considered the feeling around these kind of accidents would be mutual. The worry makes him feel loved and he smiles: “I’m sorry, Eds. Didn’t wanna wake you or Chris.”

“Well, that- that’s nice, but wake me up next time, alright?” Eddie says. “And you didn’t answer my question, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Little wet and a little cold, but fine,” Buck promises. He’s shaken up slightly and he’s exhausted to all hell, but those are details.

“Stay there, I’m picking you up.”

“No, Eddie, you don’t-”

“Buck, you’re in no condition to drive.”

“You don’t know that,” Buck pouts.

“I do know that. You’re a stubborn shit and your definition of ‘fine’ and ‘little’ are off, so you’re gonna stay there and let me pick you up,” Eddie says forcefully.

Even if the context is off, Buck’s inside flutter at Eddie telling him he’ll pick him up. However, he is used to that feeling when around Eddie.

It’s been months since he realized he’s in love with his best friend and he’s learned to live with it. It’s a pleasant background feeling that sometimes pokes through the surface, making him painfully aware of it, but most of the time it’s just there.

Right now, he mostly feels fond affection and the fuzzy feeling of being cared for. Even without the romantic aspects of his feelings, he and Eddie are closer friends than average and he cares deeply about him. So, he lets Eddie care for him in turn too, smiling as he gives. “Alright, I’ll wait.”

They hang up and Buck goes to move to the shower, wanting to get that over with so he can crawl into his bed as soon as possible when he gets home. Maybe he can even nap in the car.

He runs into Hen on his way there, who is already dressed. When she spots him in his still wet clothes, she frowns: “Are you okay, Buck?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he smiles tiredly. It’s even true after his call with Eddie. “Just called for a ride, my arms feel like they’re going to fall off.”

“I hear you, I’m gonna sleep so hard when I get home,” Hen smiles back. “Want me to wait on your ride with you?”

Again affection blooms in his chest at the offer. The 118 truly is a family sometimes and Buck has been brought into the fold entirely with little moments like these showing how much they care, how much they all care.

Despite that fondness, he finds himself shaking his head: “Nah, I’m gonna shower real quick, ride should be here by then. Besides, you had a long day too. Go home to your wife, Hen.”

“Alright. Goodnight, Buck.”

“Goodnight.”

Buck doesn’t see Bobby when he goes to the shower, nor when he goes to change or leaves. He wanted to check up on him, but he supposes he’s probably gone home for the night. Buck can’t blame him for that, so he leaves the firehouse in the very capable hands of the B-shift.

Eddie’s truck is right there and he throws open the door with little grace, tossing his bag on the backseat, before collapsing in the passenger seat. It’s only when he’s sitting that the exhaustion sets in and he lets out a long groan.

“Still think you could have driven home?” Eddie asks smugly.

Buck sends him a half hearted glare. “Oh shut up.”

“I think the words you’re looking for is ‘you were right, thank you, Eddie, for picking me up instead of letting me do something stupid,’” Eddie retorts with a bad impression of him, as he drives away.

“Oi, I don’t sound like that,” Buck complains.

“You do a little.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes-”

“Ugh, stop it,” Buck cuts him off, before he can go on. Too tired to argue. Instead he asks: “How was Chris’s day? And yours?”

Eddie doesn’t have it in him to play offended at Buck adding his day as an afterthought. He knows from the army how on some hard days, you just want to know your kid is okay. He doesn’t begrudge Buck for that or deny him the comfort.

So, he talks about the failed pancakes then cereal for breakfast, what Chris talked about on the drive to school, then repeats what Chris told him during dinner. Beside him, Buck sinks off into sleep pretty soon. He looks exhausted and Eddie doesn’t want to wake him. If Chris wasn’t waiting at home, he would have taken a detour, but as it is now, he drives home and sits in the drive way for a few minutes.

He was really worried today. He’s not used to being on this side. To being home while someone you care about is out there and in danger. Buck has had dangerous calls, but not like this. Not where Eddie knows about it while Buck is still out there, instead of hearing about it in hindsight.

Eddie wonders if this is what it was like for Buck when he was off fighting, if he worried like this too, if he was relieved any time he answered the phone. It makes him grateful all over again for Buck’s presence. That Buck stayed.

For a second, he doesn’t know what to do with the feelings that overwhelm him. He has never had a friend like this, never had a person like this. Someone that chooses him over and over and always sticks by his side. Today, he thought something might have happened to Buck and he could have lost that. It scares him. It makes him realize just how much he has. How much he can lose.

So, he sits there and watches Buck for a moment, tracking the way his chest rises and falls, how his face is slack, ridding itself of the worry and exhaustion.

Then he shakes his head. He’s acting weird. He didn’t lose Buck and he was just worrying for nothing. There is no reason to be all- all emotional about it. He can just suck it up. It’s just the job, the same job he’s going to have soon. Getting stuck on those kinds of things won’t help.

Still, his hands are gentle when he prods Buck awake and he shoos him inside, grabbing Buck’s bag to carry in, because he doesn’t want Buck to exert himself. Buck rolls his eyes at it, but lets him, going on ahead. When Eddie joins him inside after putting his bag in the proper place and getting the dirty clothes out, he finds him at Chris’s door, peeking in through a crack.

“Just wanted to make sure he’s okay. Irrational, I know,” Buck whispers.

He sounds apologetic, he often does when doing something for himself in regards to Chris. Eddie wants to get it into his thick skull that he can do that as much as Eddie does, that there is a reason Chris calls him papi. However, every time he tries the words get stuck and it feels weird. “I get it, I check on him all the time.”

Buck is quiet, just nodding. He doesn’t seem to be fully there mentally, staring at Chris for a little longer. Eddie is about to suggest going to sleep when Buck says: “Me and Bobby saved this kid and his mom.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, prompting him to continue.

“We got the kid out pretty easy, but the mom was stuck. Bobby ordered everyone out, but he was going to stay behind himself to save her. I, uh- I stayed behind too. Against orders. It was stupid, but I couldn’t leave them, I had to try and save her. She had a kid to come home too, I couldn’t let her abandon him. I’d want someone to try and get me back too.”

“You made the right call.”

“Did I? Because right now, all I can think is how I nearly died and left Chris to save someone I don’t know.”

“That’s your job, Buck. It’s who you are. You save strangers despite what will happen to yourself, you always try to help. It’s what you did for me and Chris.”

He can see that Buck doesn’t really know what to do with that honesty. “Oh, uh- well… I mean, Chris wasn’t exactly a stranger. You were. I wanted to help Chris, I just kinda got stuck with you.”

“Oh fuck off,” Eddie replies, a grin on his face. It’s a joke to deflect, he knows that Buck is doing it, but he’s not going to push.

“Shush, there are children nearby.”

“Chris is asleep and you should be too. Come on, let’s get you to bed, big guy, you look dead on your feet.”

Buck does shut up at that and Eddie is confused about why he’s red, there isn’t anything too embarrassing about being tired. But he doesn’t point it out and lets his friend save face, instead following him to the bathroom so they can brush their teeth side by side, before they wish each other goodnight and retreat to their respective bedrooms.

The next day, Buck is up with the others. He is still sore, but he has the next day off, he can sleep later. He wants to spend this morning with Chris and Eddie.

He makes them breakfast and drives Chris to school with Eddie in the passenger seat, so he can drop him off at PT. He would like to stay, but he’s buying decorations and gifts for Chris’s birthday that is coming up.

He is half playing with inviting the 118. Chim is in recovery and things might settle down. He wants to open up more, maybe share this part of him and he feels a bit better about it after last night with Eddie saying he saved them.

However, that idea goes flying out the window when he comes in to work and Bobby isn’t there for his shift. Bobby is always there for his shift.

Finding Bobby the way they do is absolutely heartbreaking. He is in clear need of help, of someone to be there for him.

So they’re there for him. They check up on him after rough calls, reign him in when he snaps and sit with him in the quiet hours – though none of them will ever dare to use the word quiet.

Still, they don’t know anything about him, about why he started drinking and why he stopped. Much like Buck, Bobby has a tight grip on his personal life, but Buck now learns that might be because he doesn’t have a personal life. Just a job.

He can’t imagine what that is like, what not having people to come home to is like. He probably wouldn’t have survived some of the things he saw these past few months if he couldn’t come home and hug Eddie or watch Chris breathe.

However, it also makes him realize that no matter how close they’re all getting and how nice it is in the firehouse, he has no clue what these people are like outside of team drinks.

Of course he has faith that they’re good people and with time, they will probably become proper family. But not now. Not yet. It feels too early for something like inviting them to Chris’s birthday party. He needs to know more about who they are outside of work, before he exposes his son to them. Maybe next year.

And it feels like he makes the right call when things get frosty between Bobby and Hen. He doesn’t know exactly what went down on the call at the wedding, but something must have. Now, the team feels out of balance.

Much like them, he can’t wait for Chimney to get back. He hopes the other’s presence can pull things in balance once more. He can’t have this falling apart on him.

Despite his reservations, he has not felt more at home anywhere but with Eddie and the 118. He knows what he has with Eddie is temporary, so he needs this to be permanent. He needs the 118 to survive.

Buck doesn’t really know how to make a family survive.

He never could make his mom or dad love him, only succeeding in temporarily gaining their attention. He couldn’t get Maddie to stay with him. Couldn’t convince Shannon that him being there would make a difference. Could only convince Eddie to build this life with him because there literally wasn’t another option and he married the man with the promise of an easy divorce, even if that hasn’t happened yet.

For him, family has never been permanent, no matter how hard he tries. It all feels unsteady, so he does what he does with Eddie, pretends that he doesn’t feel the way the ground shakes and hopes that the building is strong enough not to collapse in the aftershocks.

And he is thankful for Hen, who despite her frostiness, is capable of making it work. Of making a family.

Through working with her, he has heard about her wife and her son. He loves hearing about her and Karen. He himself isn’t out at work, but hearing her always makes him happy – albeit a little wistful too – and confident that when he wants to share, it’ll be okay.

Hen made her family. He doesn’t know exactly how they got Denny, but she mentioned once he was a child of her ex. Getting to where she is now, she must have worked for that.

So, it makes sense that she’s the one that gets through to Bobby and gets Bobby to open up to them a little over family dinner that day.

He is incredibly grateful to her for that, but he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t want to mess up the good thing they have going on. Doesn’t want to mess up the work she put in. So, he just gives her a nod and a smile and carries on as if this is normal, as if he never thought anything else would happen. As if people always stay, instead of leave.

However, just because he doesn’t mention anything, doesn’t mean he isn’t desperately clinging to it all in the background.

When Hen asks for help planning Chimney’s welcome back get together, he jumps in feet first, doing anything she asks to make sure it’s all good. Up to her standard. Up to what Chimney deserves.

Sure, they’re getting closer, but Chimney is a glue, a heart and they need him back. He can deal with Hen when she gets snippy due to stress, he’s been there long enough that he back talks to Bobby, and is social and open in a way that allows him to pull Buck into the fold easily without it being awkward or forced.

Meanwhile, he’s also planning Chris’s birthday parties with Eddie, since that is coming up soon.

Both are kind of anxious about it. It’ll be the first birthday where no one has recently left or can’t attend and the first where Chris will have a kid’s party at an earlier date, before family comes. Because, yes, Helena and Ramon are flying in for Chris’s birthday.

Chris is thrilled and excited to see them again, Buck and Eddie less so. It’s the first time they’ll be there after the two of them basically fled the state to get away from them. This party has to impress them. Has to prove they’re capable of raising Chris without them.

Buck is glad Eddie isn’t starting the fire academy yet. He will soon, but he’s still getting his strength back and gamely taking Buck’s house wife jokes in stride.

For now it helps that Eddie is available to pick things up and organize things, while Buck busts out his planning skills. However, Buck is jittery and stressed. This has an added layer now. He’s in love with Eddie and he already knows his in-laws hate him, hell, they hate that they’re his in-laws to begin with.

He still remembers Shannon complaining about her horrid ex-in-laws in the Johnson farm kitchen, how he listened to her sympathetically, glad it wasn’t him. Now it is him and, unlike Shannon, he actually wants a family, a life with Eddie, and that sadly involves in-laws. He’s never going to get their approval, he knows that, but he at least wants to impress them.

It’s stupid and he knows it, but he stresses about it and to forget stressing about it, he lets himself drown in party planning.

And it works.

Chimney’s welcome back party goes well, the cake is done one time and everyone from the A and B shift is there. Athena shows up too. Everyone has a good time. He doesn’t even get weird when they talk about Valentine plans, happy that he has a shift then, so he can’t get in his head about it. Plus, they get to enjoy the party, before the alarm goes.

Chris’s party with friends from school goes well too. Both Buck and Eddie are familiar faces from pick up and they’re somewhat friendly with the parents from the other kids. It is a sweet kind of torture to be seen as an actual married couple by them, neither of them having ever felt like explaining the whole situation, since it’s complicated and personal.

The important part is that Chris enjoys himself and no one gets hurt and the house is in one piece at the end. When everyone is home, Chris is in bed, and he and Eddie are cleaning up the house, Buck relaxes a little bit.

He has survived two out of the three parties he planned. The full moon is this week, so that’ll be over by the time party three rolls around. He’s going to be fine.

A/N:

The horrible balancing act of Buck being a chronic over-sharer, but needing him to keep a secret for the sake of plot lmao

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