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misserabella · 9 months ago

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two geniuses (don’t get along)

enemies to lovers;; spencer reid x fem reader!

masterlist!

note; in this fic lila’s episode happens after elle’s departure to make the story have more sense. (S1 E18). also there have been some changes :))

synopsis; spencer reid; doctor spencer reid. some of them (mostly of them), would say he’s a genius. but if he was, then so you were. maybe that’s why you hate each other. maybe that’s why you can’t stand him.

cw;; +18 content! minors dni!, reader and spencer’s competitive asses, talk of murder, graphic scenes, weapons, guns, blood, shots being fired, lila flirting, spencer kissing lila, lots of fighting, lots of tension, teasing, apologies, reader getting hurt (mentions of stitches), threats, murder of secondary characters, talk about kinks and trauma (spencer being a smartaas), mention of spencer’s childhood and her mom… ( i bet there’s so much more but i can’t remember rn) angst, fluff and smut in upcoming chapters!!!

“another coffee, pretty boy? you wanna die?” morgan inquired the puppy eyed profiler, whose right hand held a cup of freshly brewed coffee.

“actually, the caffeine in coffee has been found in animal and cell studies to protect cells in the brain that produce dopamine. in a large prospective cohort of more than 500,000 people followed for 10 years, an association was found between drinking higher amounts of coffee and lower rates of death from all causes.” he easily spat in less than a mere minute, making morgan scoff.

“it’s not considered coffee if a 99% of it is sugar, reid.” you barged into their conversation, taking a look at the files of new cases.

“sugar is one type of carbohydrate, as are fiber and starch. carbohydrates are essential macronutrients.” he defended himself, taking a sip of his coffee-sugar.

“wrong. although carbohydrates are essential macronutrients since the body uses them in large amounts, something wrong about your thesis is that sugar is not one of those macronutrients. the body doesn’t use it. in fact, the effects of added sugar intake which are higher blood pressure, inflammation, weight gain, diabetes, and fatty liver disease, are all linked to an increased risk for heart attack and stroke. so yeah. technically, morgan was right. you might die.” you nodded towards the man, who smiled at you, walking towards you and taking your face in between his hands.

“have i told you how much i love that brain of yours?” he inquired, leaving a kiss to your forehead. “brilliant.” he smiled, raising his hands in victory since for once he had won spencer and his extensive knowledge. the profiler simply rolled his eyes.

“thanks.” spencer spat at you, to what you smiled.

“you’re very welcome, agent.”

“it’s doctor.”

“yeah, yeah. whatever.”

spencer reid. with an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory, and the ability to read 20,000 words per minute, he was considered a real walking genius. maybe that’s why the two of you seemed to despise each other so much. people say geniuses actually like each other. well, you and spencer were the exception. it was easy to get on his nerves. he was not used to having someone smart enough to actually suppose a threat to his intelligence. yet there you were. you had been jumping your way up to college since you were twelve, and at the ripe age of 22, and numerous phds later, you had found yourself working at the BAU.

you had been hired after elle had left the team, and everyone had seemed happy greeting you. you had specially made quick friends of penelope and morgan. something reid didn’t seem to like. well… he didn’t exceptionally like you. something that seemed stupid ‘cause you two were the perfect pair. there was nothing the two of you didn’t know, nothing you wouldn’t catch or realize. maybe that’s why spencer despised you. ‘cause now they had you too, not only him.

it was actually a pity. you liked smart people. you liked to share opinions and learn new things you might not know with the help of others. but spencer was borderline narcissistic, and that made your body cringe in disgust. and worst of all, he was really attractive. curly caramel hair, hazel puppy eyes, full lips, small straight nose, tall stature, pretty hands… also his voice…

well, anyways. you were losing focus.

so you’d decided to match his energy. and that only seemed to make the situation worse. sure, you two worked together, but only because you had to, if you could you’d much prefer to do everything alone rather than have to share office with reid.

hotch caught your attention as he pushed a file on your table.

“and what’s this…?” you sung as you took it, inspecting it.

“training program in los angeles.” you looked at him. he was leaning against your table. “want you to go with gideon and reid.” you let out a single chuckle, tossing the paper on your table.

“no.” you simply said, watching the man sigh. “tell jj to go! or prentiss!” you offered.

“can’t. jj is helping penelope to trace an unsub and prentiss is new, need someone who has been on the ropes longer.”

“then what about morgan? he’s not doing anything.” you pointed at the man who played with a mini football.

hotch looked at you. “please? you are the only one who gets reid. you know how he can be…”

“a narcissistic, egocentric, babbling, childlike, fourteen looking mess? yeah, i know.” you smiled. “but what do i win in this situation? i mean i must gain something if i’m gonna spend more time than necessary with him.”

“a free weekend.”

“done.” you gave him your hand. “a pleasure doing business with you, sir.”

“spencer! spencer reid!” you hear someone call for your work-mate, a tall smiling man approaching him and shaking his hand just as the three of you entered an art exhibition. “look at you. you look just the same.” he chuckled as he gives him a quick hug. “nothing changed… spencer was the only 12-year-old in our graduating class. just the same.”

“thanks.” spencer awkwardly says, giving the man a tight smile. “these are special agents jason gideon and (y/n) (l/n). this is parker dunley. we went to high school together as you can probably gather.” he introduces all of you.

“hey. it’s a beautiful gallery.” jason gives him his hand in a shake.

“oh, thank you, thank you. parker smiles, later on turning towards you.

“contemporary art… right?” you inquire offering him your hand, to what he nods. “contemporary modern art includes a wide range of mediums and genres. it is often characterized by its use of new media, such as video and installation art, as well as its rejection of traditional art forms. contemporary modern artists often experiment with form and content, and their work can be highly conceptual.” you say, making the man chuckle.

“i see you brought your computers.” parker jokes with gideon about spencer and you. “another genius like spencer?”

“oh no, men are just smart. woman are the geniuses.” you smile, making him chuckle.

“and funny, huh? i see, i see.”

spencer coughs to grab the man’s attention. “jason’s a big contemporary art enthusiast.”

“well, we’re exhibiting four up-and-coming artists in this show. everything is for sale. and i could definitely swing a nice discount for a friend of…” he loses focus as a blonde beautiful woman enters the exhibition. “lila! hey. guys, come on.” he invites you three towards his friend, coming up to her to say hello.

“do i look 12-years-old to you?” spencer inquired gideon, to what you scoffed, thanking the waiter that offered and served you a glass of champagne.

“oh, totally.” you said as you took it, taking a sip as you heard spencer crack a fake laugh.

“real funny.”

you three made your way towards parker and… lila. she was a beautiful blue eyes-blonde young girl. the basic american beauty standard.

“spencer. you ever met a real movie star?” the man asks, to what the girl beside the blonde scoffs.

“movie star? please. she has a supporting role on a television series about beach volleyball. totally blue-collar.” your eyebrows slightly rise.

“what a friend…” you whisper to your glass, taking another sip of the champagne.

“i’m lila.” the girl gives a sweet smile to spencer, and you almost roll your eyes.

it’s only a matter of time.

“hi, im doctor spencer reid… i’m spencer. you don’t have to call me doctor.” he corrects himself.

lila chuckles. in 3… 2… 1… and tucks her hair behind her ear. there we go.

“cool.” you say, turning around without even introducing yourself, it’s not as if she’d pay attention to you. she’s too focused on spencer to care as you make your way through the gallery, taking the artwork in, trying to scape the probable flirting that was about to go down.

later on you found the two of them chatting in front of a picture in which the blue and green dominate.

“does it make you feel anything?” the blonde asked him, and you silently expect an answer from spencer.

“like what?” he asks. god he sucks.

“i can’t tell you how to feel.” lila chuckles at his frown.

“right now i feel pretty good.” he smiled and you roll your eyes.

“lila? can i talk to you for a moment?” parker interrupts their chatting and the girl nods, quickly glancing at spencer.

“excuse me.”

“sure!” he gently says, and you make your way towards him.

“feeling pretty good, huh?” you inquire him, teasingly, and he groans. “you totally suck.” you take a sip of your glass and he looks at you. “poor girl seems desperate.”

“desperate for what?” he inquires, frowning.

“oh come on, reid. and you call yourself a profiler? it’s obvious she likes you. she was trying to flirt with you.” you obviously state. “she was trying so hard and you were not catching on…” you laugh, and he sighs.

“you know ogling on other’s business is rude, right?” he questions you.

“we’re the fbi. we’re on everybody’s business. that’s our job, reid.” you ignore him, taking a look at the photograph lila and him were staring at. “calming, isn’t it?” you say and he looks at the photograph as well, taking it in.

“sometimes, the color blue is associated with loneliness and sadness. it usually happens when you combine it with specific elements, like rain.” he spits and you chuckle.

“i know that, genius. the thing is not how it’s supposed to make you feel, it’s how it really makes you feel.” he looks at you as you sip from your cup. “with lila, you might feel good, ‘cause you enjoy her company, with me on the other side, you might not even want to be here, staring at a photograph that you’ve probably seen before. that’s because you focus on everything too much. you need to see what the picture actually tells you, not focus on the person you’re staring at it with.”

spencer’s hazel eyes go back to the picture, trying to focus on it, not on your presence, or the amount of voices that surrounded him.

the exhibited photograph shows an empty gas station, lights of green engulfing it as the nightlight blue sky surrounds it. it takes spencer back to his childhood. to those days in which even if he loved his mother, he couldn’t spend another minute by her side and left his house late in the afternoon for a walk. it helped him get out of his head. he remembers watching the sun go down as the night took over the sky, studying and calling out the constellations above his head, trying to find a solution to his mother’s illness. the stars never worked, and he was always left…

“it makes me feel alone.”

“you know, we really can get ourselves to the airport.” gideon said, reid and you trailing behind him as the police officer guided you to his car.

“i didn’t invite the fbi here to let them make their own way around town.” he says, never minding gideon.

“we really appreciate it.” reid says and you whistle.

“so you have manners, huh?” to what he groans.

“oh, shut up.”

“hey, i can’t thank you guys enough for conducting the seminar.” kim smiles.

“well, don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything we can help with.” gideon offered, putting his bags on the trunk of the car.

you stretched your arms after having pushed in your own. “can’t wait for that free weekend.” you muster happily, to what spencer frowns.

“free weekend? what are you talking about?”

“a special thanks from hotch for coming all the way here and putting up with you.” his mouth falls open at your words.

“i didn’t get any free time and i had to put up with you!”

“that let’s you know who’s the problem in this equation.” you falsely smiled at him, patting her shoulder, and you relished on the way his jaw tightened.

your conversation ends as the three of you watch officer kim end a phone call with a not very enthusiastic ‘great’.

“everything alright?” jason asks.

“double murder at hollywood bungalow.” he informs. “a celebrity. a young movie star, natalie ryan, and her fiancé shot to death.”

“very romantic.” you mutter.

“it’s gonna be a major pain in the ass. hey, you guys care to take a quick look before i drive you to the airport? it’s on the way.” he asks, and gideon accepts the offer.

“absolutely.”

you sigh as you get on the back of the car along with spencer.

“seems like that weekend is gonna have to wait.” he happily and teasingly smiles and you send daggers in his direction.

“i’ll choke you with my bare hands.”

“did you get that kink by exposure or trauma?” your mouth falls and your eyes widen.

“what?” you almost yell, watching him ponder.

“maybe it’s because you like to have power and control. have you talked about this with a therapist?”

“you’re gonna have to see a therapist after the torture i’m gonna put you through if you don’t stop that fucking nonsense.” you warn him, and he raises his hands.

“i’m just saying, there’s nothing bad about seeking mental help-”

“spencer!”

“no sign of forced entry.” reid points out as the four of you enter the murder scene.

“same weapon.” gideon informs watching at the two bodies.

you stare at the female, getting closer. “the girl was shot execution style, once in the head. the male three times in the torso.”

“so you have two different MOs.” jason wonders before going back to officer kim, talking about the case. you crouch down to take a better look at the man’s corpse.

“what? you found anything?” spencer inquired from behind you, to what you shook your head.

“nah. just fantasizing.” he frowns.

“fantasizing. what the- what would you possibly be fantasizing about in a murder scene?”

“oh you know… you… in that position… you know? it’s really sexy, you should try it. here don’t move let me get my gun.” you offer while getting up, and he just rolls his eyes, leaving you behind.

“what do you think?” gideon asks the officer about the case, wanting his insight.

“i’ve had a couple other cases recently, past few months. same type of weapon, 22 caliber handgun, both shot in the head.” you look at the bodies. “the first was an established film producer, wally melman, and the second was chloe harris, another young actress. though not as well-known as natalie here.”

“any forensic evidence?” reid asks as you step away from them, taking in your surroundings.

“no, and the guys have been going through this place all morning and haven’t come up with anything.”

“so he clearly knows how to cover his tracks.”

“or hers.” you mutter to yourself.

“twenty-two’s are small but efficient. they bounce around inside a person like a pinball.” jason said.

“preferred weapon of the mafia.” spencer added. “you know, there’s no obvious sexual component to these crimes, which is usually the case with serial murders.”

“so you’re thinking this is a serial killer?” kim asks.

“well, it’s certainly a series of murders. we don’t know enough yet to call them serial.” you step into the conversation.

“would you consider hanging out in LA a little while? let me lean on your expertise until we do figure out what we’ve got?” the officer inquires and gideon nods.

“yeah, just cancel the flights. we’ll have the rest of pit team out here ASAP.”

the unsub seemed to follow his victims, since he knew their schedules. there was not a single witness, he knows how to blend in and hide in plain sight. he’s meticulous.

and everybody is watching.

just like everybody was watching spencer and lila.

after finding out that the unsub was actually stalking the blonde, and killing people to help her with her career, she had somehow scurried her way under spencer’s protection. it actually bothered you. ‘cause spencer seemed so distracted. and it was totally unprofessional to get involved with a target being their agent.

you were on her studio, studying everyone surrounding her. but it was one person that caught your attention.

“who’s that?” you question prentiss.

“that’s maggie, maggie lowe. for what i know she just works here.” she answers you. “why?”

“they seem pretty close, don’t you think?” you ponder, watching her physical language. “she also seems nervous, she avoids lila’s eyes.”

“maybe she’s just shy.” she shrugs, but knows what you’re pointing out.

“maybe…” then, jj appears.

“what are you guys talking about?”

“lila and possible unsubs.” emily fills her in, accepting the coffee she offers her, you take the one she handles you too with a thanks.

“talking about lila… look who’s approaching her.” she devilishly smiles. you almost groan at the sight of spencer talking to the blonde. “they seem to have hit it off.”

“ugh don’t start. he’s so focused on her when in reality he should be focused on his job…” you sip at your coffee, not realizing the shared look the other two girls send each other. “so unprofessional.” you shake your head.

“are you really mad because he’s distracted from his job or by the fact that a pretty girl is distracting him?” jj asked you, taking in your frown and confused expression.

“what?”

“oh come on, really? do you really not feel it?” emily pushes in too, and you look at them.

“feel what? i-i don’t understand.”

“there’s this weird tension in between the two of you.” the brunette explains, being backed up by the blonde.

“it’s like when two little kids like each other and they don’t know how to show it so they just mess with each other.” you scoff.

“you’re saying that spencer and i are attracted to each other?” you inquired them both and they looked at the other. “come on guys, have you seen him? have you actually worked with him? he’s a fucking narcissist, he makes my life impossible just because i’m as smart as him. i don’t like him. at all. i can’t even stand him!” you rant. “he does this thing when he’s focused, playing with his hands and pencils, it’s so distracting. and when i state a fact, he just has to find something to actually make it wrong. every single time. and let’s not talk about how fucking childish he is, if you guys had been here for the training program, i swear to god he said this stupid things about kinks and me having trauma, oh my god i wanted to fucking kill him. he diminishes me, and thinks he’s better than me. and it just makes me sick…” you take a deep breath when you notice how much you had actually talked and your friends’ looks. “what i mean to say is, no. i don’t like spencer reid. and if he wants to fuck his job up, i’d be more than happy.”

morgan suddenly appeared, hotch right behind him.

“guys. there’s something you have to know…” the first talked.

“michael ryer’s dead.” the second finished.

“oh shit.” emily cursed.

“does lila know?” jj asked.

they shook their head.

“she’s gonna be devastated.” jj said to what you sipped at your coffee.

“well at least she has spencer, right?”

“oh, yeah. can we talk about that real quick?!” morgan inquired, astonished.

“no, morgan!” the girls stop him and he raised his hands.

“okay… but the kid has game.”

“woah. i like your house.” spencer said as you two entered lila’s house.

how had you managed to end up with the two of them alone, you didn’t know, and you didn’t like.

“i rent it.” the girl smiled.

“nice.” he nodded.

“lila, you should probably change all your phone numbers.” you said, messaging your team, they’d found something concerning nude photos of the young artist.

“i’m unlisted.”

“anytime you call an 800 or an 888 number your phone number’s put into a data bank that’s then sold to telemarketers. if someone gets your phone number they can go online and research all your records.” you actually responded.

“woah, are you a genius like spencer too?” spencer.

“no. i’m actually smarter.” you gave her a small smile, making her chuckle.

“uh… you should probably carry a piece of paper and pen with you wherever you go in case you see any suspicious license plates that often reappear.” spencer tries to change the conversation as you two followed the blonde towards her kitchen. “and a security dog too.”

“allergic.” she simply answered. “do you guys want some tea?”

you shrugged. “yeah, sure. thanks.” spencer nodded as well. it was already getting late, the sun leaving the city’s sky.

“i’m gonna go change while the water boils, make yourselves comfortable.” she said while making her way upstairs.

you went back towards the salon, your eyes wandering towards a collage on lila’s wall. spencer got your left side, his white stripped button up shirt’s sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“feel anything yet?” you asked him.

“there is something definitely appealing about this one.” he said and you nodded.

“like lila?”

he looked at you, his mouth falling open to say something, but just as the words were to fall from his lips, the blonde returned in a a more comfortable outfit, making her way towards the patio of her house, beside the pool.

“what are you doing?” spencer inquired her.

“i just need some air. the tea is on the kitchen.” she responded.

“what? no, lila…” your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you watched him go after her.

you could hear them talk and spencer beg her to come inside since there was a psychotic killer aiming at her. you made your way back to the kitchen just as fast as you saw the blonde lean into him, one of her hands tugging at his tie to pull him down. great.

your hands took the cup of steaming tea that lila had prepared you, your eyes on spencer’s as you took a sip. but the warm liquid was poured all over the floor of the kitchen, your head spinning at the blunt trauma that stroke you. your hands went to the side of your forehead as you fell, taking in the sight of your blood. you groaned as someone took you from your hair, pulling you and dragging you across the floor, your hands getting cuts from the smashed cup of tea.

“come here.” the unsub said, taking away your gun, and… you knew that voice. your eyes met the blonde’s.

“maggie lowe?” you muttered to yourself. so you were right. she was the killer and stalker.

you got dragged all the way to the salon, where you could see lila and spencer kissing from the distance. but the kiss quickly broke when maggie fired a shot up into the ceiling, capturing their attentions. spencer quickly pulled out his weapon, pointing at maggie, whose gun’s barbell was right against your head.

“maggie?” lila inquired as they slowly made their way towards you two.

“why’d you have to bring these people here?” she asked lila. “put down the gun.” she ordered spencer, clocking the weapon that kissed your skin. he quickly lowered it, calling out for the killer. “don’t call me maggie! you don’t know me!” “come on lila, let’s go. we gotta go baby, let’s go.” she ordered the actress in a soft yet hurt voice.

“maggie don’t hurt her, you don’t need to hurt her.” you didn’t know if he was talking about lila or you. or maybe both.

“you don’t know anything. i would never do anything to hurt lila. i created her.”

“no, you didn’t.” lila said.

“yes, i did!” you closed your eyes when the barbell dug harsher against your temple. “i did everything for you! and you betray me by bringing these people here… to our house!!!”

“so ungrateful…” you say, loud enough for maggie to hear you. “look at you… you gave her everything and you saw what she did to you… she kissed him. she told him she loved him.” you lied, looking at spencer. he caught on.

“what?” maggie incredulously said.

“i heard them. i saw them kissing each other like animals!” you yelled. “he abandoned me… and now i’m here. about to be killed because of him!” you spat, meeting maggie’s eyes. “you don’t have to hurt me. they don’t deserve us. i’m on your side maggie… i know how you feel. i know how it feels to be betrayed like this…” you nodded, seeing her eyes change. “give me my gun… i’ll kill him for you. and then you can have lila back. i’ll let the two of you go.” you promised, slowly rising up to your feet, extending your hand.

and just as she pointed her gun down, you tackled her, taking the weapons from her and throwing them aside as she fought against your hold.

“reid!” you called out for your work mate, who quickly came to you and handcuffed maggie, who just started crying and begging for you to kill her.

“i gave her everything…”

you looked at spencer, wiping off the blood from your eyes.

“and that’s why we need to stay professional.”

“are you okay, pretty girl?” morgan came to you as the paramedics wiped clean your wound.

“yeah, they say i have a light concussion. a couple of stitches and i’ll be alright.” you gave him a small smile.

“what happened in there, huh? we only got what the paparazzi had on camera, which is…” you nodded.

“yeah. well, maggie got into the house with lila’s spare keys, and basically almost killed me. it was good luck that spencer kissed lila, or else i don’t know what i would’ve done.” the rest of the team had gathered around you.

“you did good. spencer told me how you got into her head.” gideon said.

“thanks.” you responded.

“make sure you’re on the clear before getting up. we’ll be right back, gotta fill in the other officers.” hotch informed you, to what you nodded.

they all left except spencer, who silently looked at you.

“i’m sorry.” spencer said, looking at his feet. “this shouldn’t have happened, if i hadn’t…”

“… played barbie?” you finished off for him, catching his attention. “look spencer. i don’t really care about it. it’s your life and you make your own decisions, just… make sure to not put any of us in danger while doing it. even lila. one of us three could have died tonight.” he nodded. you reached on your back pockets, pulling out the films of the paparazzi’s camera. “i guess this is yours.” he called out for you once again, probably to apologize one more time, but you were still pretty shaken up and you were still pretty mad at him. “would you mind? my head is killing me.” you asked of him and he nodded, silently turning around and walking its way towards morgan and emily. your mind went back to her words the moment the needle punctured your skin. oh ‘come on, really? do you really not feel it?’ ‘there’s this weird tension in between the two of you.’. and then back to jj’s. ‘it’s like when two little kids like each other and they don’t know how to show it so they just mess with each other’. you couldn’t help but chuckle.

you liking spencer? no way.

if there was anything you felt for spencer reid that was hate.

a/n; im so excited for this series!!!! so much angst and fluff and smut yet to come!🤭

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sycamorelibrary754 · 1 year ago

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Guardian Angel

Chapter 7: Pinot's Palette

Summary: Your recovery is coming along nicely and it’s finally time for your first official date with Wanda. You go to great lengths to ensure that it is perfect.

Warnings: Mentions of injuries.

Word Count: 5k

A/N: This has been my favorite chapter to write so far. I hope you enjoy!

Guardian Angel Masterlist

The gentle chime of your phone broke your focus from the gripping novel in your hand. Glancing at the screen, you were met with the latest reminder in your schedule - the second follow-up appointment with Helen. A sense of dread washed over you as you realized that you were still unable to walk, making the journey to the Med Bay in your wheelchair a daunting challenge as usual. Adding to the difficulty, your left arm remained in a sling, magnifying your reliance on the newfound friends helping you with even the simplest tasks around the compound. The constant need for assistance left you weary, but you held onto hope for positive news today. It had been over a month since the accident, and you yearned to return to work as soon as possible.

Wanda had taken Billy and Tommy to soccer practice, leaving you all alone. Luckily, Natasha stepped in and offered to accompany you to your appointment. Standing with her arms crossed, she reluctantly observed as you attempted to persuade her that you could manage without her help. You demonstrated how you maneuvered the wheelchair with your right hand and relied on gravity to propel yourself forward.

Natasha entertained your demonstration for only ten seconds before her patience wore thin. She seized the wheelchair handles and began propelling you down the hall. Annoyed, you muttered but let Natasha take charge.

Nat called, 'Beep, beep,' as she rolled into the Med Bay.

"Y/N, everything's ready for you," a nurse announced.

Nat offered, "Do you want me to come in with you?"

"Absolutely," you replied as the nurse began to wheel you away.

You had grown accustomed to the routine. Every time, you would undergo X-rays and an MRI to assess your progress. Luckily, Med Bay provided instant test results, which you deeply appreciated. Shortly after, a gentle knock was on the door, and Dr. Cho entered the room.

“Hey, Y/N,” she greeted you as she sat beside the hologram interface and pulled up your patient file. "How are you feeling today?”

You sighed, feeling a bit worn out. This week has been a challenge. The soreness on my left side, both in my stomach and chest, persists, but I've noticed that my headaches are becoming less frequent.

"The discomfort you're feeling on your left side is totally normal after the splenectomy and the procedure on your punctured lung. It's expected that you may have some residual and referred pain for a while. And hey, remember to take it easy on the screen time while you're still dealing with concussion symptoms," Helen said, arching an eyebrow with a knowing look.

“Don’t worry,” Nat interrupted. “We’ll make sure she stays off the screens.”

Your recovery is progressing very well," remarked Helen as she reviewed the MRI images. She pointed at the screen, explaining, "The cradle has significantly accelerated the healing process following your surgery. As you can see, there is very little scar tissue and no inflammation around your abdomen or chest. This is exactly the kind of progress we were hoping for.”

You were grateful for Helen's positive and composed attitude. From the moment you were wheeled into her operating room, she has been by your side through every stage of this journey. Her support has been invaluable to you over the past month.

So, that was the good news," she said, rubbing her hands together eagerly. "But do you want to hear the great news?

“That wasn’t the great news?” You inquired.

“Your fractured ankle has healed remarkably well in the past month. This means you're ready to say goodbye to the wheelchair," Helen said with a smile, displaying the before-and-after X-ray images. "Instead, we'll have you fitted with a walking boot for the next couple of weeks. You can take it off at night, and if all goes according to plan, you can bid farewell to the boot and your sling in just two weeks.”

Phew," you breathed out, running a hand over your face, feeling a wave of relief wash over you. "Helen, I can't thank you enough for this.

"If everything goes smoothly, I can see you returning to work in approximately a month," she remarked.

*^~^*

As you and Natasha stepped off the elevator and entered the lounge room, you couldn't help but be struck by the sensation of walking. It had been long since you could walk freely, and you made a mental note to never take that simple act for granted again. Finding a comfortable spot on the sofa, you reached for your phone to check for any missed calls from Wanda. After your open and honest conversation about your feelings, you found it difficult to go long without speaking to the redhead.

Nat's hand swiftly reaches out from behind and snatches your phone. "Nope," she declared with a mischievous grin.

“Hey!” You shouted.

“Remember what Helen said - no screens while you're still experiencing concussion symptoms.”

Come on, Nat," you said, grabbing your phone. "I'm feeling fine at the moment. Wanda was supposed to call me after my appointment, and I really don't want to miss it.”

“I will hold onto your phone and let you know if she calls,” she said, holding it above her head.

Rising to your feet, you used your uninjured arm to reach for your phone.

"Maria heads up!" Natasha called to her girlfriend as she burst into the room.

The Deputy Director skillfully snatched the phone just before it could collide with her face.

"Please, I'm begging you, just give me my phone," you pleaded.

"Wow, look at you standing up! That's fantastic," Maria exclaimed.

"Thank you, Maria. May I have my phone as a reward?" You eagerly asked.

She gazed beyond you towards Natasha, who defiantly shook her head.

"Sorry, y/n," she was just about to throw your phone back to Nat when it suddenly started ringing.

Maria's smile widened as she held up your phone, Wanda's name lighting up on the screen.

"GIMMEE!" You shouted as Maria tossed it over your head to Nat.

Natasha was quick to answer the phone and switched over to the speakerphone.

"Hey, Wands," she said, resting her head in her hand while leaning on the counter.

Nat?" Wanda asked nervously. "Why are you answering y/n's phone? Is she okay?

"She's fine. Helen advised her to take a break from screens for a while due to lingering concussion symptoms,” Natasha explained.

"Y/N is still having concussion symptoms?! We FaceTimed for an hour last night, and she didn’t mention a thing,” Wanda groaned. “You tell her that we will have a long discussion about following Helen’s orders after I drop the boys off at soccer practice.”

"Don't worry, she'll get the message," Natasha replied confidently.

Thanks, Nat," Wanda replied. "I should be there in about 20 minutes.”

Natasha ended the call with a quick "Okay, bye," and swiftly stashed her phone in the back pocket of her black tactical pants. With a sly smile, she turned to face you. "You could certainly try to come and take it," she taunted, "but just a word of warning: I've dispatched Hydra agents in less time than it'd take me to push you over."

You grumbled and trudged back to the sofa, the widow following closely behind.

That's more like it," Natasha said, affectionately patting the top of your head. "How about a delicious peanut butter sandwich?

"Sure, with chocolate milk?" You inquired with a sheepish grin.

"Oh my God, what are you, eight?" Nat exasperated.

"Says the superhero offering me a peanut butter sandwich,” you countered.

Maria snickered as she plopped down next to you on the couch. “She’s got you there, babe.”

"Fine," Natasha muttered as she turned on her heels and made her way back into the kitchen.

As Maria smiled, she remarked, "So, you and Wanda," causing you to turn red at mentioning her name. "That’s wonderful," she said, patting you on the shoulder. Then she smirked and called out, "Hey, watch this. Nat! Y/N wants marshmallow fluff on her peanut butter sandwich."

"Hell no! Do I look like I work at the Candy Bar?" Natasha hollered from the kitchen.

You both dissolved into laughter on the couch.

*^~^*

You were enjoying our lunch with Natasha and Maria in the kitchen when suddenly, FRIDAY interrupted.

"Ms. Y/L/N, Ms. Maximoff is on her way up."

Taking another sip of your chocolate milk, you say, “Thank you, FRIDAY.”

“Get ready," Natasha whispered to Maria, "this is going to be amazing.”

The elevator doors slid open, and all eyes turned to the common area. "Alright, where is she?"

"In here!" you called out, standing up and taking physical inventory just before Wanda entered the kitchen.

"Put the phone down and turn off the TV now, because—" Wanda suddenly halted when she saw you standing there.

"Wow, you're... you're standing," she said, her shock apparent in her voice.

"Just two more weeks with the walking boot and the sling, and then I'll be back on my feet," you said with a hint of a smile playing at the corners of your lips.

Wanda stood still, her eyes filled with emotion, before she suddenly broke into a broad smile and dashed towards you. "This is amazing, y/n. I am thrilled for you," she exclaimed, enfolding you in a warm and heartfelt embrace.

You let out a small grunt as she unintentionally squeezed your left side.

“I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, stepping back abruptly. "Are you okay?”

"I'm doing okay. I'm just feeling tender on this side, but I'll be alright," you reassured.

Wanda's fingertips traced a delicate path along your side, her gaze locking with yours before drifting down to your lips. You felt the tender intention behind her gentle kiss as she leaned closer.

Maria's voice shattered the intimate moment: "Well, that was anticlimactic.

Wanda exclaimed, 'Nat, Maria, when did you get here?'

"Oh my God," Natasha exclaimed, clearly exasperated. She swiftly reached into her back pocket, grasped your phone, and handed it to Wanda with a look of disbelief. With an amused expression, Maria subtly raised her eyebrows and flashed you a knowing smile as she strolled after Nat out of the room.

*^~^*

You lay propped up on Wanda's bed. You didn't change any of the decor, but the simple addition of your favorite books and fluffy blanket made her room feel more like home to you. Truthfully, you relished the opportunity to learn more about Wanda as you took in the intricacies of her favorite things meticulously placed with care around the space. Wanda traced shapes on your arm as she rested her head in your lap.

"That painting is stunning," you remarked, gazing at the breathtaking landscape above her armoire.

It's the Valley of Sokovia," Wanda said, tilting her head to meet your gaze. "My grandmother Katerina was an extraordinary painter. Before the war tore our country apart, she captured the beauty of Sokovia in her paintings. She used to tell me that each stroke of her brush was a whisper of her soul, a tale of vibrant hues and unwavering optimism.

"Every day I've spent here, I've admired it. It's gorgeous," you exclaimed.

"It was on my grandparents' wall forever. It felt like it spoke directly to my soul in a language I knew at birth. I wanted so much to paint like my grandma when I was a little girl, but Pietro and I had to grow up quickly, and suddenly, learning to paint didn't seem so important anymore," Wanda said, fidgeting with her hands. "After they passed, my mother hung the painting in mine and Pietro's bedroom to remind us that our home was beautiful. Not just a war-torn country forgotten by the rest of the world."

Your expression softened as you heard her story. “I'm sorry you had to grow up under those circumstances.”

Wanda released a heavy sigh, her thoughts drifting back to the past. "Despite the chaos, there were moments of pure joy and happiness that I hold dear. Playing with Pietro, the scent of our mother's homemade Paprikash. The evenings spent watching classic American sitcoms with our father to brush up on our English."

You listened to Wanda reminisce so vividly that you could almost see the memories dancing in the reflection of her eyes.

“They were simple yet beautiful moments that instilled a sense of gratitude in me. They remind me of all the blessings I have in my life—my health, newfound family, and adorable boys. She hesitated for a moment before adding, "And you."

You looked down at Wanda, who was staring up at you and couldn't help but smile.

"I agree. The little things make all the difference," you whispered, gently running your fingers through her hair. "I've been thinking... we haven't had our first proper date yet, and I would love to take you out this weekend," you said, looking down at Wanda nestled in your lap. "If you're up for it, of course," you quickly added shyly.

"You're so cute," Wanda said, reaching up and caressing your cheek. "That is something I would very much like to do."

Your stomach erupted with a jumble of butterflies. "Alright, don't worry, I've got this covered. How about Saturday? Does Saturday work for you?" you asked excitedly, unable to contain your happiness.

“Great," Wanda said with a smile. "With Billy and Tommy having a sleepover at a friend's place, I'm all yours. What do you have in mind?”

“Hmm, I think you'll have to wait and see," you smirked. "I want it to be a surprise.

*^~^*

"Help me!" you yelled as you barged into Yelena's room.

I would advise you to exercise caution before shouting that particular phrase in this building," Yelena responded calmly. Without looking up, the blonde focused on polishing her widow bites. "You might find yourself facing an assortment of weapons aimed at you, candy maker.

“Yelena, I could use your advice," she said.

“Is that so?” Putting down her widow bite and raising an eyebrow at you. “Well, it just so happens that I am excellent with the advice.”

Kate burst into the room, bow in hand and arrow drawn, Carol by her side, her hands glowing with a mysterious blue light. "What happened?!" she exclaimed, eyes scanning the room for any sign of danger.

You tried to duck a potential shot, but you still didn’t have your balance and proceeded to fall back on your butt.

Yelena smirked, saying, "See what I mean?"

Jesus!" Your heart was racing. "Don't worry, everything is fine. I just needed Yelena's advice on something.

Kate let out a sigh of disappointment as she lowered her bow.

“We’ll just go then,” Carol declared.

“Wait, you can stay too," you said eagerly. "I could use all the help I can get.

Kate circled back to Yelena's bed, and Carol kindly assisted you in getting up onto the couch with her.

“Wanda and I have our first official date this weekend, and I was wondering," you began.

Wow, that is so exciting!" Kate exclaimed, unable to contain her excitement. "Where exactly are you planning to take her? It must be somewhere absolutely incredible, don't you think? After all, it has to be impressive to leave an impression on someone like the Scarlet Witch. That's a pretty high bar to meet. Are you feeling anxious about it? What do you have in mind for the occasion?”

You blinked a couple of times, trying to process everything Kate had just said. It hit you like a ton of bricks.

I can't believe I agreed to this. What was I thinking? I have no idea what I'm doing. She deserves someone better than me. I should tell her I need to cancel," you mumbled as the blonde widow stood up and slowly approached where you were. "What excuse should I use? Maybe I could say... Ouch!”

Yelena had playfully delivered a gentle slap across your face.

"Why did you do that?!" You touch your cheek in shock.

You seemed to be in a downward spiral. It's fair to say that it all started because of Kate Bishop," she said, shooting an accusatory look at the young archer. "Believe me when I tell you this, Y/N. Wanda's life perspective has significantly transformed in the past year. Her top priority now is her boys, and everything else comes second. So, by bringing you into her world, she must care about you. Trust your instincts because she'll appreciate anything you plan as long as you're together.

Wanda is a sentimental person," Carol remarked. "She would appreciate a thoughtfully planned date that holds special meaning.

"Sentimental and meaningful," you contemplated as the gears slowly churn in your mind.

Thanks a bunch, guys. This was helpful,” you exclaimed as you slowly got up from the sofa. “I'll catch you later.”

*^~^*

Nat's voice rang out as she threw punch after punch, "You're supposed to be resting!"

You shouted from the side of the ring, 'I was! I need your advice!'

The widow skillfully evaded her opponent's incoming punch, swiftly pivoted, and seized his arm, exerting just enough force to bring him to his knees. With efficient precision, she deftly pinned him to the mat.

"Take a breather, Bennett," she said, tousling the trainee agent's hair as she got up and walked over to you. "What's on your mind?" Stepping out of the ring, she wiped her face with a towel.

“Wanda and I are going on our first proper date this weekend, and I was hoping you could give me some insight into what she would appreciate.” You asked.

Ah," she said, taking a refreshing sip from her water bottle. "Wanda values thoughtfulness. It might sound a bit vague, but it's the truth. Just demonstrate that you're tuned in to her.”

*^~^*

The vintage Racing Green Aston Martin pulled up to Wanda's house right at 7:00 pm. Initially, you had planned to drive over to pick her up personally, but Helen and Bruce were adamant that you should prioritize your recovery and avoid any unnecessary strain. And so, you ended up seated in the luxurious back of Stark's 1959 Racing Green Aston Martin, feeling the supple leather and breathing in the scent of the fine craftsmanship.

"Pepper, I can't thank you enough for volunteering to be our designated driver tonight," you exclaimed gratefully.

"Not a problem at all! We're thrilled to be able to contribute to your special evening," Pepper responded.

"Not to mention, your destination is just a stone's throw away from one of our absolute favorite restaurants," Tony said from the front seat.

You reached for the solitary red rose beside you and inhaled deeply.

"You can do it, Willy Wonka!" Tony cheered.

You stepped out of the car with a dismissive roll of your eyes in response to his pet name for you. As you made your way up the intricately adorned concrete pathway to her front door, a flutter of nervousness danced in your stomach. Upon reaching the porch, you stole a quick glance back at Tony and Pepper, who smiled and flashed a thumbs-up in your direction.

You stood on the doorstep, taking one last deep breath to calm your nerves. As you pressed the doorbell, the sound echoed through the quiet hallway, signaling your arrival. A few moments passed, and then you heard the distinct sound of footsteps approaching from the other side of the door. You swiftly adjusted your suede coat, ensuring every fold and seam was in place, and ran a hand through your hair to present yourself as confidently as possible. Just then, the door swung open, and Wanda stood, her warm smile putting you at ease.

"Hi," she whispered, her cheeks rosy as she looked at you.

"Wow, you look stunning," you exclaimed, admiring her presence.

Her red hair was styled in an updo bun, with a few loose strands falling down the sides of her face. She completed the look with a white peasant blouse, light-wash jeans, and brown boots.

"I appreciate it. I was uncertain about this because you kept the destination a secret. All you said was that it's a casual date night..." her voice trailed off as she donned a stylish rust-colored corduroy jacket.

You handed her the rose, saying, “It's perfect.”

"Thank you, Y/N, this is lovely," Wanda exclaimed.

"I wanted to buy you a big bouquet, but I didn't want you to carry it around or take a break to put it in water," you rambled.

She echoed your words, saying, 'It's perfect!'

As you both stepped off the porch, you extended your hand to her.

She glanced down at you and let out a giggle. "Looks like I should be lending you a hand, sweetheart. You're down to just two working limbs."

"I believe in chivalry," you declared with a charming smile directed at the lovely redhead.

You strolled over to the car and graciously held the door open for Wanda. As she smoothly slid into the seat, you followed closely behind.

"Hey Wanda, it's great to see you," Pepper greeted warmly.

"It’s great to see you too. Thank you so much for driving us tonight," Wanda replied.

Alright, everyone, let's get moving," Tony declared. "I want to remind you all to keep your hands, legs, feet, and arms safely inside the car at all times.”

*^~^*

The car rolled to a stop at the intersection of Washington Street and Chester Avenue.

"Alright. Have a blast, you two," Tony smirked.

Pepper chimed in, "We'll pick you up later.”

"Thanks once more for the ride," you said. Have a wonderful time at dinner!

As the car drove off, you took Wanda's hand in yours. She met your gaze with a smile.

"Wanda couldn't contain her curiosity any longer. "So, are you finally going to tell me where we're going?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

As you strolled down the sidewalk, hand in hand, you sang, "You'll see," before you halted in front of a charming shop.

As Wanda gazed up at the storefront, it shimmered with twinkling fairy lights, and she couldn't help but be drawn to the sign that read:

Pinot's Palette

"What's this, Y/N?" inquired the redhead.

"You said you always wanted to learn to paint like your grandmother. I thought you might like to start tonight," you explained. "I signed us up for a 45-minute Paint and Sip class. They give you step-by-step instructions on painting a beautiful picture, and there's wine and appetizers. I thought it could be fun," you trailed off shyly.

Wanda was at a loss for words, "I don't know what to say, I- this is so thoughtful, Y/N. Truly," she stammered.

"Shall we?" you asked, opening the door for her.

As soon as you walked in, a friendly, tall brunette with stylish glasses greeted you with a warm smile. "Hello and welcome to Pinot's Palette! I'm Sarah, and I'll be your instructor tonight. Your class will begin in about 20 minutes, but in the meantime, feel free to grab a glass of wine and enjoy some delicious appetizers."

Wanda exclaimed, "This place is adorable!"

"Absolutely," you responded, taking in the cozy and inviting atmosphere. The walls were adorned with various paintings from previous classes, each telling its unique story.

Wanda carefully poured a generous amount of Pinot Noir into each glass, its rich aroma filling the room. You swirled the glass, watching the deep red liquid dance, before finally bringing it to your lips for a sip.

"Mmm, this is delicious," you exclaimed.

Definitely on the dryer side. This wine has a medium body with bright acidity," Wanda remarked, carefully allowing the wine to breathe before taking another delightful sip. "I can sense the silky tannins, and subtle hints of raspberries, cherries, and vanilla. It's a beautiful medley of flavors.

You were left in awe. "Wow, that was incredibly sexy. How did you become such a wine expert?"

"You don't know everything about me yet," Wanda teased with a smirk before strolling over to the food spread.

You trailed behind her like an adoring puppy, captivated by her every move.

*^~^*

“Hey there, fellow art enthusiasts!” Sarah greeted. “Get ready for an awesome Saturday Night Sip and Paint class. We're diving into the serene beauty of a full-moon lake scene tonight. Let's unleash our creativity and make some magic happen!”

As Sarah guided the class, Wanda and you attentively observed her every move. You were relieved that my non-dominant arm was the one in the sling, allowing me to participate in the painting session.

Beginning with mixing the perfect tints for your art pieces, you struggled to get it just right. Your colors were uneven and messy, while Wanda effortlessly achieved solid and smooth results.

Feeling frustrated, you mutter, "This shouldn't be this difficult. I mix chocolate for a living; I should be able to mix paint." As you glance up, you catch Wanda giggling at your struggles.

"Are you getting a kick out of this?" You inquired.

“Just a little bit,” Wanda smirked.

You find it impossible to resist the chance to bring a smile to her face. You reach into the white paint on your palette and whimsically touch Wanda's nose, leaving a small white dot. She gazes at you with a blend of astonishment and delight.

"Y/N, stop it. You're going to get us in trouble," she whispered.

"Okay, but seriously, you look adorable," you muttered.

*^~^*

“Wow, your backgrounds are amazing!" Sarah exclaimed as she walked by and admired what you and Wanda had painted. "Oh, Wanda, I love how you added a touch of Prussian blue in the corners. It gives the painting so much depth!”

The radiant redhead glowed with pride as you flashed her a grin. The two of you had such a good time that you wished it would never end.

That looks gorgeous," you remarked. "And it happens to be my favorite color.

“Is it?” The redhead inquired.

"I've always been captivated by the depth of a bold blue," as you gently rinse your brush in the clear water glass.

“Any particular reason?” Wanda asked.

You sighed and shrugged your shoulders. “It’s tranquil and calm. Two things that I’ve tried to bring more of into my life over the years.”

The redhead took a thoughtful sip of her wine, nodding in understanding. "I completely get where you're coming from," she said. "After a chaotic year, I promised myself only to have people and things around me that bring a sense of calm and peace.

You nodded in understanding as Sarah grabbed the attention of the class again.

“Alright, everyone. We will add the moon to our paintings. It’s straightforward: Everyone picks up a spare paper plate,” holding one up. “Then, trace around the edge like this to make a circle.”

You watched as Wanda traced her moon. Her tongue adorably poking out of the side of her mouth in concentration.

“There we go!” She said to herself.

She looked over at you, still sitting with your paper plate in your one good hand, looking down at your sling.

“Oh, I’m sorry y/n. Here, let me help you.” Wanda said, as she reached for your plate.

“It’s okay, Wanda. I got it,” you replied.

You put down the plate, picked up your small brush, and dipped it in the off-white paint. In one fluid motion, you painted a perfect circle.

Wanda was shocked. “Wow, that was smooth. How did you do that?”

“When you work in a sweet shop and you make a living scooping ice cream or frosting cupcakes all day, it bodes well if you can make a perfect circle,” you giggled.

“Hmm, I see,” lips pursed to stop herself from smiling. “I wonder what other hidden talents you’re keeping from me.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Wiggling your eyebrows and taking a sip of your wine.

After you added the silhouette of the pine trees to your paintings and the reflections and ripples in the water, you were on to the final touch of adding stars and a comet to the sky.

You dipped your fan brush in the white paint and flicked it toward the canvas to create a random star pattern. Picking up your liner brush, you added a comet to your sky. Everyone signed and dated their paintings. You added a small heart in the corner of your canvas to serve as a reminder of your first date with Wanda. You looked over at the redhead to see that she was adding a second comet into her sky.

��Two comets? Now that is a miracle,” you said.

“One for Billy and one for Tommy,” Wanda explained. “They’re my miracles.”

“They certainly are,” kissing her cheek as she finished her painting. “I hope I get to meet them someday.”

“I think you will,” smiling at you.

After class, everyone had a photo taken with their finished painting. You both held them up proudly as Sarah used Wanda’s phone to take the picture.

“Thank you so much, Sarah. We had a wonderful time,” you said, hugging the young woman.

“Yes, I’m going to tell all my friends about this place. It was wonderful,” Wanda added.

“It was my pleasure. You two come back anytime,” Sarah said.

*^~^*

As you left the shop and stepped into the cold night air, you quickly sent a text to Pepper to let her know that you were finished. She responded promptly, telling you that they had just paid the bill and would be there shortly.

"Tony and Pepper will be here in a few minutes. Shall we sit?" you asked, gesturing to a green metal bench a few yards away.

"Sure. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you still need to take it easy just because we’re out and about tonight,” Wanda said, leading you to the bench.

You sat down next to her and took in her profile, feeling a surge of affection. You had always felt that Wanda was different, not just because she was one of Earth’s mightiest heroes, but because she was sweet and genuine. You couldn’t wait to see where your journey together would take you. Wanda looked over at you, sensing that you were staring.

"Are you okay?" Wanda asked.

"Yes, I'm just so happy to be here with you,” you said softly.

"Me too,” loose strands of her red hair blowing in the soft night wind.

Slowly, you leaned in and kissed her, feeling her warmth and love. Your stomach exploded with joy at Wanda's touch. Suddenly, the sound of a car horn broke you from your reverie as Tony pulled up beside you and rolled down the window.

"Excuse me, hi. I'm looking for a witch and a candy maker for a live-action Hansel and Gretel," Tony joked.

"You're an idiot," Wanda deadpanned, sliding into the backseat next to you.

"No funny business in the backseat, you two," Tony warned as he pulled away from the curb.

“How was the painting class?” Pepper asked.

“It was wonderful,” Wanda said, holding up her painting.

"You painted that? Wanda, that is gorgeous!" Pepper exclaimed.

"She's a natural," you said, stroking her hand with your thumb.

"You flatter me,” Wanda blushed.

“It’s true,” you insisted. “Your grandmother would be proud.”

Wanda blushed at your compliment as you leaned over and kissed her cheek.

*^~^*

Tony slowed to a stop in front of the redhead’s house. You stepped out of the car and walked the her to the front door, clutching her painting and the single red rose you gifted her. She unlocked the door and set the painting and rose down just inside the entryway.

"I had an amazing time tonight, y/n. It was so special, I couldn't ask for anything more," Wanda said, smiling at you.

"Me too, it was wonderful. I asked everyone for advice because I wanted our first date to be perfect. Then I remembered the story you told me about your grandmother’s painting, and I knew-" You were cut off by Wanda's lips on yours. The kiss was filled with passion, a million loving thoughts condensed into a moment.

As you pulled apart, her hand trailed down your cheek and she smiled, biting down on her lower lip. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, y/n."

"Okay. Goodnight, Wanda," you said, watching her walk inside and close the door behind her.

You turned around to see Tony and Pepper ducking down in their seats, pretending they weren't watching you from the car. "Subtle," you said, sliding into the backseat and shutting the car door.

“We didn’t say anything,” Tony said, holding his hands up in defense.

Once you arrived back at the compound, you immediately got into your pajamas and removed your walking boot. You were exhausted from the excitement of the night, but it was worth it. As you snuggled into your covers, your phone dinged. You opened the notification to see the picture Sarah took of you and Wanda holding up your paintings. Wanda had texted you: "I had a great time tonight. Every moment with you is a work of art."

You blushed profusely as you read her text before sending back your reply: "I have a beautiful muse.

Placing your phone on back on your nightstand, you laid back down. Adjusting your sling, you placed your good hand behind your head and stared up at the darkness of the ceiling, lost for words. You couldn't believe that Wanda Maximoff had left you speechless. It was the first of many times she would do so.

#guardian angel #wanda maximoff #wanda maxmoff x y/n #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x you #natasha romanoff #maria hill #yelena boleva #kate bishop #carol danvers #tony stark #pepper potts #mcu #the avengers #fluff #romance #first date

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verdemoun · 7 months ago

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who in the gang is the first to be hospitalised but like for a serious issue like illness or an accident that would have absolutely killed them in 1899

this is such a fun ask because things that would have killed them in 1899 is such a wide catergory.

lenny was in a car crash

the first one who was hospitalized for something that should have killed them in canon era? i have to give that honor to hosea

hosea has lung issues. inflammation, asthma, smoking despite knowing it's bad but also it's such a part of his life quitting seems impossible but something gives him a horrible cough.

it's horrible for years, but roughly 5 years after timewarp, it worsens. hosea's lips turn blue. he can barely get a sentence out without coughing when he finally agrees to bessie's pleaded suggestion to go to a doctor: the doctor, the poor, suffering doctor who sees them all in time warp. hosea is convinced, completely convinced, he is only going to receive a death sentence. an estimate of how long he has left to make sure his boys are taken care of - how long he has left to spend with his wife

his doctor very casually asks how often he uses his inhaler. hosea asks what an inhaler is. the doctor is shocked his primary care physician hasn't recommended one to him. hosea corrects this doctor, that he has seen once in 5 years, once since he timewarped, that he is his 'primary care physician'.

the doctor proceeds to have a near fit and makes it clear a man in hosea's health should be seeing a doctor at least every 6 months at bare minimum. a chest infection that would have been a death sentence in 1899, or even in modern era if left untreated, is cleared up in less than 2 weeks thanks to a combination of anti-biotics, pro-biotics and steroids.

hosea spends two nights in hospital on oxygen. he absolutely hates it and constantly complains and goes to take out the breathing tube until he wakes up the next morning feeling like he's high because he actually got a good night's sleep and is not feeling short of breath for once

arthur, who had been preparing himself to lose hosea and fell asleep with head on the hospital bed, is shocked by hosea shaking him awake trying to convince him to smuggle his cigarettes into the room with the cheekiest grin only for bessie to walk in and give a very panicked lecture you can't smoke in hospitals but especially when you're on oxygen please you will blow something up

not only does hosea no longer look ashen grey, but he has energy again. he nags daily for any chance to house and stretch his legs. convinced he can sprint again. goes for a jog that rivals han escaping the law sprint and is stopped multiple times by concerned onlookers thinking he's in trouble. truly feels alive again while the gang is begging him to remember he is still considered post-prime even by modern era standards

kieran will wake up at the ripe hour of 5am, hear hosea already awake and roll over in a desperate attempt to get a few more hours of sleep before the old man drags him on a too long walk through the park. hosea is feeling better than he has in 20 years and it is everyone's problem

bessie is enjoying the full benefits of modern era hosea treating his bronchitis

#rdr2 timewarp au #hosea matthews

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newhologram · 5 months ago

Text

New's unexpected new diagnosis

A whole month after surgery, I finally got my results. Lots to talk about here.

Based on my symptoms and medical history, the surgeon said he went in fully expecting severe endometriosis with adhesions. He identified the cyst on my left ovary and removed it (kicking myself because I forgot to ask what kind of cyst it was). My uterine tubes were also easily removed, so sterilization was successful. I asked about my chart reading “unilateral oophorectomy” but he assured me that was a typo, they did not in fact have to remove one of my ovaries. Phew. (Also re: being sent home without pain meds, he was like WHAT. He pulled up the records and there it was, he had it noted that I was to be sent home with meds. So someone at the hospital messed up. He asked me, “but you eventually got meds, right?” Yeah, but it was oxycodone and that barely touches my pain. I told him when I go to the ER for flare ups multiple times a year, they have to give me hydromorphone every 2-4 hours because it’s that bad. So he’s sending me to a new pain doctor and pelvic PT, but we’ll see if my insurance even lets me.) But other than that, he didn’t actually see any obvious endometriosis implants. Not even adhesions that would indicate it either. Nothing was stuck together like he expected. But he did stress, and I knew this from research already, that just because he didn’t see anything obvious doesn’t mean I don’t have endo. This is pretty common for patients on the first surgery. Sometimes not much is seen because it’s really the specialists who know how to identify other less-obvious lesions or hidden pockets of endo. My surgeon is very knowledgeable and I really like him, but he’s not actually an endo specialist (I can’t access them with my insurance, and even if I did have better insurance the co-pay would still be many thousands of dollars). Here’s where he was genuinely surprised: When he checked the backside of my uterus, he said it’s just completely scarred up. Rough and damaged from inflammation. Which could still be superficial endometriosis but is a giant red flag for adenomyosis (though it’s possible to have both). Quick explanation for those who need it: endometriosis is when tissue similar (but not the same as) the lining of the uterus grows outside of the uterus. It can grow on the surface, the ovaries, the bladder, kidneys, bowel, liver, nerves, lungs, or even the brain. These lesions bleed within the body and cause a lot of damage and often infertility. People have lost organs and their lives from this disease being so mismanaged by doctors. It spreads like cancer so it’s diagnosed in stages the same way. Adenomyosis has a lot of the same symptoms but the process is different. The lining instead grows into the muscle of the uterus, causing damage and often infertility. Both of these diseases can be painful, debilitating, and disabling no matter what stage. Though the endometriosis is still uncertain, my surgeon has diagnosed me with adenomyosis. Just to be extra certain, he’s sending me for a pelvic MRI with contrast during my period so he can have a better look. I actually had an MRI 2 years ago that had me questioning if I had adeno because I thought my uterus looked weird and stained, just dark and splotchy and roughly textured but no one noted it (radiologists are not trained well in identifying these diseases). I was mostly focused on the ovarian cyst so I kind of forgot about it.

But yeah, this explains a lot, because the back of the uterus is up against the rectum, which is where my colitis is the worst. The inflammation is close enough to affect the organs around it. This explains why my colitis seems so unmanageable, yet every time I have a colonoscopy they tell me it’s mild and act like I’m just being dramatic. This explains why everything’s just been getting worse and worse seemingly every year. The anemia, intense fatigue, weakness, nausea, and pain that hardly any meds (that will be given to me) can touch. Frustratingly, he didn’t have the pictures to show me despite multiple people telling me he would have them. I called and emailed the hospital all day today and thankfully they’re mailing everything my way. Where to from here? The only cure for adenomyosis is hysterectomy. I was considering getting a partial one (saving my ovaries so I don’t go into menopause) in a year or two anyway if my condition doesn't improve. There's still a potential risk of ovarian dysfunction/failure after 5 years but I'm getting older anyway and I need to move on. I can go on HRT if needed. Surgeon is in full agreement that this is the best way forward to improve my quality of life. Though this won’t cure any endo that might still be hiding, it will be a dramatically different experience without this diseased organ constantly ruining my life (and no more periods! I can’t even imagine that freedom). I’m overwhelmed at having to start this process again to get a whole nother surgery that’s much more intense than what I just had, but I had also prepared myself knowing that this was only the very first surgery. It wasn’t meant to “fix” me but to finally get eyes on my insides. Hopefully it doesn’t take a whole year again between the consult and the actual surgery. Glad there’s no damage from adhesions we’d have to deal with either, so that simplifies things a lot. I’m so thankful to finally have actual answers and a clear path moving forward for future recovery. I’ll never be “normal”, I have so many other chronic illnesses that I’ll have to keep working hard at managing, but we can at least do something about this one. I’ll update more when I get the surgery pictures and the new MRI. Surgeon has officially cleared me to take baths again, so I’m going to go luxuriate for a while. Thank you to everyone for the support, the donations, and the kind messages.

#endometriosis #adenomyosis #chronic illness #chronic pain #spoonie #new's first surgery #teku

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cherries-jubileee · 1 year ago

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when you're lost in the darkness. . .

pairing : kwon soonyoung x reader

au : the last of us

summary : seoul falls first to the infection, and five years is too long for one man to be alone.

cw : canon-typical violence (for tlou), character death, mentions of infection/viruses, hurt/comfort, also hurt/no comfort, the crushing weight of being alone in the apocalypse, mentions of blood/gore

wc : 8.3k

day zero

year one of the outbreak

soonyoung is slouched over the kitchen counter when you walk out of the bedroom that morning, desperately trying to figure out how to use your new keurig as quietly as possible. it’s far earlier in the morning than you’re used to, having to be wide awake before the sun has fully risen, but the law firm that’s hired you on is well-known and respectable, and you want to make a good impression. this new schedule, you tell yourself, is only temporary, and you’d be able to afford to sleep in just a little more a few months down the line.

“soonyoungie, you should be in bed right now,” you say, finally, after several moments of watching your partner struggle to find the power button to your coffee-maker. soonyoung doesn’t jump or act surprised that you’ve been standing behind him, but you note that he looks only the slightest bit apologetic, “the physician said you needed to be resting as much as possible, i know i’m not the only person who heard that.”

you don’t feel bad when his lips pull into a tired pout �� you’ve been desensitized to it at this point – but perhaps your heart aches a little when he plays with the laces of his hoodie and mumbles, “but i wanted to make you coffee for your first day at work.”

soonyoung looks precious like this, in your opinion, and your opinions are very rarely objectively wrong; you don’t know when he rolled out of bed after you got up to shower, but he’s still sleep-warmed and half-asleep, snuggled into a well-worn hoodie you remember gifting him before you had even officially started dating. he’s barefooted, which, on the kitchen tile floors, can’t exactly be pleasant, but he doesn’t seem perturbed by it at all. the only thing ruining your domestic view of your boyfriend has to be the rough, wet cough that comes from him the next time he opens his mouth, quickly shoving his face into his elbow as the coughing fit wracks his body. whatever he meant to say before is lost between the both of you, and you flit around the kitchen restlessly to get him a glass of water.

“i know, it’s miserable,” you tell him, after the coughing has stopped and he’s taken the glass from your hands, “i’m very happy that you wanted to send me off today, but it’s super early, and i know you don’t feel well right now. did you already check your temperature while i was getting ready?”

soonyoung nods, but knowing the look in his eyes, he isn’t pleased with the answer. “still have a fever,” he rasps, and when you raise your hand to press it against his forehead, smoothing his hair from his face, he leans into you without hesitation.

disappointment and worry pull your lips into a frown. “you are still a little warm.” it’s not new information, but you don’t like admitting it. already, it’s been a week since soonyoung was exiled from the company building until he got better, and only three days since he’d developed that nasty cough. his symptoms weren’t dire, you were well aware of that, but that didn’t make you worry any less over his well being. soonyoung is still pallid, his face uncharacteristically puffy and tender – you remember that the doctor had brushed it off, claiming it was nothing more than lymph node inflammation from some kind of virus; he’d sent soonyoung home with anti-inflammatories, and instructions to remain rested and hydrated. this was the first day you would be gone at work full-time, and you were already fretting over how soonyoung would fair being left by himself. “go back to bed, and call me when you wake up.”

soonyoung hums. “alright, take care.”

“and if you start to feel worse, just tell me and i’ll come straight home.”

“okay.”

“and make sure to eat something. your appetite probably isn’t what it usually is, but you should still try and eat.”

“got it.”

“if you want, i can have something delivered –”

“babe.” soonyoung’s groan is slightly muffled by his hoodie, his hands coming up to your arms to pull you back, “do you even want this job? you’re gonna be late.”

checking your phone, you curse when you realise he’s right. if you wanted to make it to the firm before you were officially late, you would have to leave now. “alright, alright, i’m going. i love you. and i’m serious about you calling me if you need anything, okay?”

you don’t wait for an answer, even though soonyoung is still nodding as you lean up and press a kiss to the side of his head, pull back and, upon further consideration, kiss his cheek again for good measure. soonyoung sees you out as far as the door, leaning from the threshold and waving at you as you hurry down the hallway. you turn to him for the last time as you reach the elevator, blowing him another flurry of air kisses until the elevator dings, and the door opens. he watches you disappear from view, slowly closing the door in front of him.

the trip back to bed, now that the house is empty, feels infinitely longer than it should have. he can still hear the television murmuring quietly from when you turned it on; you like to absently listen to the news while you get ready in the mornings. admittedly, there aren’t many days where you are gone, and soonyoung is home alone. most days, you were both gone until late into the afternoon – soonyoung, at practice and in the studio, and you, at school. the most recent turn of events had been your graduation from law school, which gave you an uncanny few weeks off while you were still interviewing for a job.

you’d called it boring, mainly. ‘it was a lot of sitting around and doing nothing,’ you’d told him one night, eating dinner together at the coffee table, ‘mostly, it was a lot of waiting.’

it isn’t the same, but soonyoung wonders if this is what you felt like every day when he left for work, leaving you home alone for long hours at a time.

the sun is high in the sky when soonyoung is awake enough to think critically again. waking up early enough to send you off while he was sick as a dog wasn’t his smartest idea, but going right back to sleep makes him feel slightly more human than before. he’s not entirely sure what time it is – and he doesn’t check, seeing as his phone is on his nightstand, which is all the way across the bed from where he’s laying.

he doesn’t dwell on it, crawling into your side of the bed and wrapping the blankets around him tightly. you’re probably going to kill him when you find out he slept here, him and all of his germs, but he knows it’ll be worth it, the scent of your shampoo still lingering on the soft coolness of your silk pillowcase. the television acts as some sort of glorified white noise machine, lulling him to sleep before soonyoung even has a chance to set an alarm for later in the day. truthfully, he wouldn’t need it; he wouldn’t be going anywhere for a long, long time.

soonyoung knows he should probably listen to what you told him earlier and eat something, and yet he stays in bed, staring blankly at the television as it moves through sports headlines. his eyes are still partially glued shut, and his throat feels dry. he almost swears that he can feel your charger cable plastered to his back, but makes no move to pull it out from under him.

he thinks about eating again, and the thought only serves to make him more nauseous – maybe, if he tried, he could get away with nibbling on some crackers without feeling like his stomach might explode.

one could only hope.

soonyoung’s lament doesn’t last long, promptly interrupted as his phone vibrates against his nightstand. soonyoung weighs his two options: one, it’s from the company, in which case he very much could have ignored it and he moved for nothing; two, it’s from you, and if he doesn’t pick up the call in the next fifteen seconds you’re going to be on the phone with paramedics before soonyoung has the chance to call you back. he doesn’t take the time to deliberate over which one would be worse, because he’s squirming into a sitting position and reaching for his phone before he can decide.

luckily, it’s just you. soonyoung only thinks it’s a little strange that you’re calling him at – he checks the clock on his phone – 1:38 pm on your very first day at work.

“hey, you,” he manages to mumble out, holding the phone to his ear even as he leans back into his mass of pillows, scratching the side of his jaw, “you have good timing. i just woke up.” he hears you laugh from over the phone, but it doesn’t give him the same satisfaction that it usually does.

“hey, young-ah,” you say, and normally, soonyoung would preen at the nickname, despite the fact that you have dozens for him. today, he doesn’t – he isn’t sick enough to not notice the tremble in your voice, or the fact that you sound like you’ve been gasping for air. “how are you? are you still at home?”

“of course.” maybe it sounds worse than it is. soonyoung is prone to dramatics, including the self-inflicted. “been sleeping the day away, mostly.”

“okay.” you sound far away now, like you’ve set your phone on your lap, “listen, something came up earlier, so i’m…i got seungcheol to pick me up, and mingyu is here, too. i’m on my way home right now.” he hears a distant ‘hi, hyung’ coming from the other side of the call, and almost doesn’t have the thought to greet mingyu in return.

soonyoung expects the worst – that maybe your alleged boss had reconsidered your application and hadn’t been able to tell you before you got there; maybe some sort of tragedy had happened to one of the workers, enough to where the entire office had been shut down, employees sent home.

as curious as he is, and god does he want to know every juicy detail, soonyoung instead stretches himself onto his back, half-buried in your pillows, and asks, “are you okay?”

“i’m fine,” you say, your voice coming out quicker than he had expected, “i can’t explain it right now, just – turn left right here, cheol – i’ll tell you as soon as i get home, i promise.”

“what are you talking about?”

“soonyoung, i can’t – there’s not enough time to explain it right now.” soonyoung sees the ‘breaking news’ title card scroll across the screen of your tv as you pause, “i’ll tell you everything, i promise. do you remember where i put my old bookbag after i graduated?”

there’s not enough time for soonyoung to process what you’re asking him when he starts reading the scrolling headlines at the bottom of the screen. “i think so…”

“can you take it out for me? i just need somewhere to store the important things before we go.”

from the other side of the line, soonyoung can hear seungcheol talking, just over the sound of traffic around you. “we don’t have that much time. just get soonyoung-ah and come back down…”

“we can’t assume we’re coming back, cheol. he’s still really sick, and if he happens to get worse while we’re gone, i don’t want to be unprepared for it.”

“gone?” soonyoung parrots, feeling utterly confused, “baby, why aren’t you telling me what’s going on? why are we leaving?”

you seem to suddenly realise that your boyfriend is on the other end of the line, sucking in a sharp breath that the receiver only vaguely picks up. “soonyoung, we’re almost there, please, let me explain everything in person–”

“what even is cordyceps?! why is it all over the news, they’re talking about it like it’s the end of the world!”

“baby, i–”

“i know, you’ll tell me when you get home, but if it’s actually important that we leave as soon as possible–”

“cheol, there’s a shortcut up here–”

“–then i can pack everything you need and meet you in the lobby–”

“no!” you seem almost surprised as he is that you raised your voice, “no, soonyoung, please don’t. it’s not – it’s not safe right now, everyone is acting crazy and you’re not at one-hundred percent health. please, please tell me you’ll stay inside until i get home.”

soonyoung has never heard you beg before, and that alone is enough to chill him straight through the bone. he agrees without any more fuss, putting the phone on speaker and leaving it in bed, even as he paces nervously around the room, wrestling out of his clothes and pulling fresh ones out of his closet, trying to dress as quickly as possible. it’s only jeans and a worn, oversized sweatshirt, but it’s better than nothing.

you haven’t stopped speaking, but soonyoung knows you aren’t talking to him. everything you say is a little too far away, a little too vague to make out. he hears other voices – mingyu, seungcheol – and you can only truly be talking to those two now. there’s an occasional softness in your voice, when you sound the most far away, that makes soonyoung think that you’re turning your head to murmur reassurances to mingyu, who has always been a bit of a scaredy-cat. soonyoung imagines that he’ll tease him about it later, when he no longer has a laundry list of questions keeping him from comforting his dongsaeng.

“baby,” soonyoung mumbles, grabbing his phone and cradling it in his hands, “how far out are you?”

“not far at all, young-ah.” you sound so unsure, but soonyoung lets you pretend you’re hiding it well, “just a few blocks, i can see our apartment building–”

the crash doesn’t register with soonyoung until you’re screaming over the phone; the crunch of metal folding like paper and the shattering of glass so fine it sounds like rain; a frenzy of deep, sharp shrieks as soonyoung imagines the car flipping once, twice; your voice is so far away now, but you’re screaming louder than ever, desperation and terror sending you into hysteria as you sob and wail ‘mingyu-ah! mingyu!’ until your voice begins to crack with use. soonyoung is yelling with you, shouting your name, “what happened, what happened?! are you okay? is everyone okay? talk to me! baby, i need you to talk to me!”

soonyoung is helpless to do anything other than listen, your heartbroken cries punctuated only by the scrape and crumble of glass, piercing his heart and nearly sending him into a panicked spiral. soonyoung only thinks to grab his phone at the last second before standing up and bolting to the front door. he’s already been thinking about how much time it would take for him to get downstairs using the stairs and into the street before he’d be able to find you. you’d said on the phone that you could see your apartment building just before you crashed – surely you were close enough to reach on foot.

soonyoung struggles with the laces on his sneakers, and tries not to think about seungcheol’s bmw flipped over onto its roof in the middle of seoul, with his partner hanging upside-down in the front seat.

“soonyoung-ah…”

your voice creaks as you call his name, and soonyoung nearly dives for his phone, clutching it in both hands as he holds it up to his face. if he stares hard enough through the screen, perhaps your likeness would appear in front of him – despite the fact that you despised using video call, and would avoid it like the plague if you could help it.

“you’re okay,” a deep, gentle voice hums from the other end of the line; it’s seungcheol, and soonyoung could almost cry in relief that he’s okay, “you’re okay, i got you. hold on to me so i can get you down.”

“soonyoung-ah…” you’re crying harder now, choking on your tears as something metallic clicks in the background and the shuffling begins, only to end just as quickly as seungcheol’s voice mumbles quiet, undecipherable comfort to you.

soonyoung is quick to open his mouth, desperate to say ‘i’m here, i’m still here, i’ll come down to you. stay there, be safe, i love you.’

“soonyoungie,” you sob again – soonyoung has never heard you cry this much in the near-decade he’s known you, and his heart leaps to his throat, “don’t come - don’t come down here.”

“don’t say that to me.” soonyoung finally finds his voice, though the words are hard to force out, “don’t tell me to do that. jus-just don’t move, okay? soonyoungie will come downstairs and find you and seungcheol-hyung and mingyu-ah, and then we’ll all go together. how’s that sound?”

“no, you can’t.” if soonyoung could see you, he imagines you would be shaking your head at him, “please, i’m begging you. it’s not safe.”

it feels like there’s glass scraping at the inside of soonyoung’s skull – the headache from earlier is coming back, full force. “baby, i don’t understand–”

“i’m telling you not to come downstairs!” you shout, “don’t come down here, soonyoung! don’t come–”

day one-thousand nine-hundred and seventy

the call cuts before you can finish, his phone screen lighting up to show him his background – it’s supposed to be a photo he took with you after seventeen’s first win, except he’s cropped himself out, leaving only your smiling face behind. soonyoung sits in the new silence that blankets your shared apartment. on the street below, chaos erupts, the everyday humdrum of the city shattering as the apocalypse begins in the heart of south korea.

five years, five months, twenty-five days after the outbreak

mold has started growing on the walls of the apartment. it’s the first of many signs that soonyoung will eventually have to pack up and leave – the sooner the better.

this mold isn’t cordyceps, which can’t survive outside of the body for more than an hour, but it’s fungi, and he’s aware of the health risks posed against him should he cohabitate with it for too long. he can’t afford to get sick. there’s no one here to watch his back.

soonyoung misses you more than anything.

he wakes up cold, curled tight into a ball within his sleeping bag. lying on his side, staring into the decrepit, ransacked room, there’s a sliding glass door on the adjacent wall, half-obscured by torn, fluttering curtains. it’s his only exit from the ground floor apartment, so he’d attempted to leave it exactly as he’d seen it before – sitting half-open with one side of the curtains drawn, the rest sitting in a sopping heap on the floor.

he’d spent most of the night watching the door, listening for the tiniest movements, before he eventually let exhaustion drag him into sleep.

for a sunny day in march – and soonyoung at least thinks it’s march – the cold bites like a wild animal. it had rained yesterday, a searing downpour that lasted most of the afternoon, and now a dense, heavy chill sat low on the city. the wind makes it even worse, but soonyoung at least hopes his windbreaker would be enough to keep him from freezing while he scrounged for supplies.

seoul might as well have been a barren wasteland at this point. while the vast majority of the population had escaped the confines of the city during the first hours of the outbreak – soonyoung can imagine many were attempting to reach the coast and escape the country by water – few stragglers still roamed the city streets. even after five years, soonyoung’s never seen anyone closer than fifty meters away, though he wasn’t naive enough to assume there weren’t people who would harm him; with how few people still stubbornly called the city home, supplies were fewer, and soonyoung’s food situation was looking dismal.

it was time to get creative.

normal grocery stores or shopping malls were out of the question – it was suicide, if not for other survivors willing to fight him for whatever scraps they may find, then for the infected. the worst of the hordes drifted out of the city within the first few months of the outbreak, leaving behind an eerie, false silence. the infected, albeit still numerous in the city, became something of an afterthought compared to the risks posed by other human survivors.

produce was a luxury only found in the occasional garden, sometimes growing wild in city parks, and perishable goods were completely out of the question. soonyoung would instead have to rely on looting abandoned homes to look for anything still edible. in previous years, as a man still holding onto the slim hope that help was coming, it would have been soonyoung’s last resort; now, there was nothing left but to assume that he was on his own, and he’d have to act like it. anything not nailed down was free game.

by midday, soonyoung was crossing the han river into dongjak-gu, picking his way through the graveyard of broken cars still stuck on the road. they were likely abandoned in the initial panic to get out of the city – the city’s power grid had stayed on for a week after the outbreak, and every channel on tv was broadcasting the same emergency news, telling citizens to head south, as far south as possible. it’s hard not to wonder how many of them actually made it that far, but it’s an unpleasant thought that soonyoung pushes from his mind as quickly as he can.

he’s is only a third of the way across the bridge when he starts to hear the clicking. it’s not the first time soonyoung has heard it, but it’s one of the only time he’s ever been this close to the source. it was atypical for clickers to congregate in groups outside, where their echolocation was less dynamic.

it meant good things for him, because it meant he’d be able to sneak past them with less trouble that usual. he wasn’t prepared for a fight; soonyoung only carried one weapon with him – a mean-looking hunting knife that he rarely used in self-defense. if it really came down to it, running for his life was really his only option.

soonyoung steps out carefully from behind the row of cars he was huddled behind, and immediately realises he’s made a terrible mistake. at the sound of his canvas sneakers hitting the asphalt, ten heads turn his way, half-muddled eyes training on him through the haze. a quiet, biting ‘fuck!’ leaves his lips, and soonyoung takes his one option without an ounce of hesitation.

he sprints down the remaining length of the bridge like he’s a runner on his final leg, finally putting his foot on the gas after taking it easy through the last turn. the shrieking doesn’t let up behind him – if anything, it grows closer, closer, until it’s nipping at the backs of his heels. soonyoung’s lungs burn and his legs shriek with exertion, but he doesn’t stop. he can’t stop, desperation fuelling his adrenaline that much more, breath coming out in rushed gasps. there’s a pileup at the intersection not one-hundred meters in front of him, if he can just get there, get up and over, maybe he can break their line of sight, disappear in the rubble.

it’s not a good plan, but it’s better than no plan, and it’s all soonyoung has time to come up with before the shrieking behind him is suddenly in his ear, the weight taking him to the ground as the infected clambers over him.

soonyoung has never seen one this close before, never been under one as it fights against his hands restraining it, broken fingernails digging into his arms and rotted, black teeth snapping in his face. he doesn’t know where the rest of its group is, doesn’t hear any cacophonous sounds of his impending doom over the sound of his own heartbeat.

he needed to push it off, needed to reach for his knife and sink it into the decaying bone of its skull, but there was no way he could hold it with one hand. the lack of sustenance wasn’t helping soonyoung’s case – he was weak, no longer the energy-ridden dancer he used to be, and while he still retained what was left of his stamina from the years before the outbreak, it was nothing if he couldn’t defend himself in a pinch.

soonyoung is sure he’s going to die here when the shrieking stops faster than he can process it, a sharp bang echoing through the empty streets. the infected slumps into his hold, and soonyoung’s arms finally fail him. he gasps for air, shivering on the ground; he can’t tell if it’s from the cold or pure adrenaline. there’s blood splattered on his face, and soonyoung can smell the iron in the air, clogging his senses.

the infected has a bullet wound drilling straight through its temple and out the other side, dripping blood all over soonyoung’s windbreaker.

he pushes the body away, rolling it to the side and sitting up, scanning the street for the shooter. with so many cars in the way, it was hard to see anything at all. none of the other infected were coming after him – had they also been taken out? was he being watched right now? it didn’t matter, he was losing daylight, he needed to move if he wanted to eat tonight.

“soonyoung-ah?”

it can’t be who he thinks it is. soonyoung is five years younger in an instant, sitting on the floor of his – your – otherwise empty apartment, feeling the weight of the world settle on his shoulders. he hadn’t wanted it then, but he’d been able to carry it with him, every ounce of that grief and anger, because he knew it would keep him alive.

a pair of worn hiking boots plod into the corner of his vision, and soonyoung looks down the barrel of a shotgun at one choi seungcheol.

five years have passed since soonyoung had last seen him, but seungcheol still looks every bit of the leader that he was before, if not a little rough around the edges. there was no faulting him in that, not with the way the world is now.

“hyung,” soonyoung mumbles, feeling his eyes prickle with tears, and seungcheol’s reaction is near instantaneous, hanging the shotgun off of his shoulder and pulling soonyoung into a rough, blazing hug. soonyoung’s face is tucked tightly into his shoulder, a familiar hand buried into the choppy black hair at the back of his head. soonyoung can still hear his heart pounding in his ears. seungcheol is shaking against him, though quiet. it’s uncanny. soonyoung doesn’t remember ever seeing seungcheol become so emotional before.

soonyoung isn’t doing much better, pressing his face farther into seungcheol’s jacket. his tears are beginning to soak through the material, but cheol doesn’t pull away. he makes no move that proves he even notices, which soonyoung only has the energy to be tangentially grateful for.

“seungcheol?” a woman’s voice echoes through the streets from behind soonyoung – it’s unfamiliar, not one he recognises, “who is that?”

it takes a herculean effort for seungcheol to pull soonyoung away from him, and when he does he pushes him gently to turn around, presenting his find to an older woman with a serious face, who stares at soonyoung critically. briefly, it takes him back to his trainee days, and soonyoung would be a liar if he said he wasn’t almost missing those formidable years; they were, in most ways, awful, but in the very least he hadn’t been alone, hadn’t been made to fend for himself.

“this,” seungcheol starts, pressing a strong hand against his shoulder, “is soonyoung. he’s one of the friends we lost – thought we lost – when everything went to shit.”

soonyoung feels like his head is floating through space, and he tries not to think too hard about seungcheol’s word choice in the latter half of his statement.

the woman doesn’t speak for a long time, simply levelling soonyoung with an expression he can’t quite read. she’s silent for perhaps another thirty seconds – though it could have been several minutes – before she sighs and gestures them both along.

“come on, then,” she grunts, “we’re too far into the city as it is. we might as well head back before it starts to get dark.”

soonyoung learns that the woman’s name is julkyung, and that she’d met seungcheol’s group two and a half months ago during a supply run into the city. she tells him that their group doesn’t live in the city – that a small group of them are holed up outside the city as they gather supplies for the coming winter months. she doesn’t tell him where their real camp is or why they have to come all the way to seoul for what they need, and soonyoung doesn’t ask.

seungcheol smiles, warm and bright and so, so relieved, and pulls soonyoung along, falling quickly in step behind the older woman.

they walk for an hour down the highway, going south out of the city. seungcheol doesn’t let go of soonyoung’s hand the entire time, occasionally turning to look over the younger man, like he’s searching for something wrong.

“what?”

“nothing.”

“are you sure?

seungcheol flashes him a comforting smile, and soonyoung wants so badly to trust it isn’t forced. “i promise, soonyoung-ah. hyung is just happy that you’re okay.”

julkyung leads them to a break in the highway, where the concrete has crumbled with time, scaling down a lopsided bus held up haphazardly by the untouched road. seungcheol is almost unnecessarily careful as soonyoung slides down the roof, but neither of them say anything – soonyoung is more than willing than to let seungcheol have this if it gives any comfort to his brother.

“how long were you in the city?” soonyoung asks, unsure if his hands were clammy or just wet with rain, “after everything…y’know, i rarely saw other survivors, much less…” he doesn’t finish, but seungcheol seems to understand what he’s searching for immediately.

“we left the city,” he says, “a couple days after the quarantine zone went to shit. they’d blocked off all the city exits, but with all the chaos we were able to slip out. went north for a while and, hm…ran into trouble. we doubled back earlier this fall, passed around the city trying to go south. that’s how we met julkyung and the others.”

“and everyone else?” it’s an idiotic question to ask, because soonyoung doesn’t even want to know the answer, “is everyone okay?”

seungcheol’s grimance tells him everything he needs to know.

“no.” somehow, cheol is calm, bringing a hand up to securely thread his fingers through the short hairs at soonyoung’s nape, “but most of us are, and that’s what’s important right now.” julkyung pushes her way through a swathe of undergrowth, seemingly ignoring them. “come on, we’re almost there.”

the path julkyung had taken them down leads into a clearing, one that looks like it could have been for camping in another era. there are tents scattered across the flattest portion of earth, forming a ring around a fire pit in the middle. there are other people – people that notice them before soonyoung has even laid eyes on them. many flock to greet julkyung once they notice their little group at the edge of the perimeter. most of them don’t notice soonyoung at all, not until cheol is gripping his arm and pulling him to the wayside, around the congregation, and to the circle of tents.

it’s early morning, practically still night, as your small group hikes south of seoul, when soonyoung turns to you and asks a question that makes your stomach drop.

he’s calling for someone, perhaps multiple someones, but soonyoung doesn’t have to guess who. when his eyes meet yours – looking upon you for the first time in what could only be a thousand years – soonyoung crumbles under the weight of the world, and falls into your arms without a moment of hesitation

“what happened to them?”

you don’t respond to him immediately, but soonyoung can feel your discomfort radiate off of you. his hand is laced in yours, and even as you squirm and your skin grows clammy despite the cold, he doesn’t allow you to pull away.

“soonyoung, no,” you mumble, pleading, “i sh - i shouldn’t tell you that. i can’t. it’s bad enough that they’re gone already, isn’t it?”

you can’t see him through the ghost grey of the incoming sunrise, the sky just barely illuminating enough for him to make out your silhouette. you can’t see the way soonyoung’s eyes well with tears at the mention of it, biting at his lips to keep from sobbing again. he should have run out of tears by now.

you’re right. it is already bad enough; enough so that the grief has become a sentient monstrosity that lives and thrives within the hollows of his ribs, a perfect cage to house the creature. soonyoung should grieve, should memorialize the dead in his memory and try to find happiness with the loved ones who are still with him.

soonyoung can’t do that.

he can’t.

you can’t see him, but you can hear him, and you falter as soonyoung stifles his tears and murmurs out a quiet, helpless, “please.”

even so, you’re silent. and who could blame you? what could you even say to him that wouldn’t drag his already tattered soul through glass? you could only imagine how much he had gone through, alone, in the last five years – you couldn’t simply add onto that, let him carry the weight of those deaths with him. they were not his to bear, and yet he begged for them.

“shua was already too far gone when seungcheol and i made it back to the dorms,” you say, quietly, softly, nerves edging your voice as you glance through the trees, “he was infected, i think. i never saw him. nobody did, actually, but we heard him. jeonghan wouldn’t let anybody go into his room when we were packing up to leave.” your eyes peer to the front of the group, where soonyoung knows jeonghan is, talking quietly to seungcheol. there’s an emptiness to him that soonyoung hadn’t been able to place last night. he and shua had practically been soulmates – perhaps that effort was only to protect what was left of him.

soonyoung tries not to think about joshua – beautiful, sweet joshua-hyung – rotting away in his room, skull cracking and splintering open as fungi grows from his brain in swooping branches. even in soonyoung’s imagination, they look like antlers.

the joshua-hyung of his imagination tilts his head into a grievous angle, and clicks at him wildly, making to lunge at him. soonyoung quickly burns that joshua from his mind, squeezing his eyes shut until he sees white.

soonyoung is only partially there as you tell him about wonwoo, who had been bitten protecting chan, how the rest of you tried – god, you tried – to take that arm off in time, to save him, how it was just too much for him. he listens as you tell him that seungkwan had gone alone into a pharmacy to retrieve a medication they needed for jihoon, that nobody had known about spores at the time. you talk about how he changed; as jihoon got better, seungkwan grew more and more sick, until it was clear that there was no hope of him coming back from it. seungcheol was the one to do what was necessary – he was the only one who had the resolve for something like that.

(what you don’t tell him is that jeonghan had begged joshua not to give up, had nearly dragged him out the door kicking and screaming, unwilling to accept leaving him behind. you don’t tell him about the first night, the first sleepless night, sitting outside shua’s door and talking to him, keeping him company as he slowly lost himself in the brain fog. you don’t tell him that chan had curled up at wonwoo’s side for the better part of three days, comforting his hyung as wonwoo grew dimmer and dimmer, until one night he fell asleep and never woke up again. you don’t tell him that chan cried himself hoarse, that your little group had buried wonwoo in a park just outside of the city. you don’t tell him that seungkwan went slowly and painfully, that vernon hid the slow-mounting grief and held firm for his friend until the very end. you don’t tell him that you’d woken up to seungkwan begging for ‘hyung, just do it, just do it please–’ and seungcheol’s responding, thick-voiced ‘i know, hyung is here, i’m sorry, i’m so sorry, please forgive me–’’ before the silence set in.)

(you don’t talk about mingyu. soonyoung doesn’t ask.)

you walk together, silent, hands loosely intertwined, for hours, until julkyung is stopping the group next to a small stream to rest and eat. soonyoung doesn’t have an appetite – doesn’t think he could stomach eating even if he tried – and yet you sit beside him quietly, busying yourself by peeling an orange. soonyoung doesn’t want it, he wants you to eat it, if not to give you that tiny ray of happiness, watch it spark in your eyes, but he doesn’t reject it when you begin pushing individual segments into his hand, only after peeling all of the clinging, filmy albedo off of the fruit. you know soonyoung hates the white stuff, hadn’t ever eaten his oranges without spending an inane amount of time making sure they were immaculate, before finishing the entire fruit in a matter of moments.

“young-ah,” you whisper into his shoulder, pressing a gentle kiss against the fabric of his sweatshirt, “i love you so much, do you know? and i would do anything to keep you safe.”

“i know,” soonyoung says, because he does – it’s the only thing he knows for certain, outside of his group members – yet he still manages to sound just south of unsure, “i’m going to wash my hands off. they’re - i’m gross right now.”

you mumble after him, something soft and comforting that soonyoung knows would have him melting into you like putty, so it’s a good thing he’s already up, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows as he reaches the edge of the small creek and submerging his hands inside, sighing at the coldness of the water against his skin. it’s the type of cold that will likely chill him to the bone later, when he least expects it, but for now it’s a comfort. soonyoung doesn’t know the next time they’ll come across clean water until they reach this new camp, if at all.

soonyoung scrubs his hands until the skin is red and raw, until not a speck of dirt remains on them. if it weren’t so cold, he would seriously consider washing his hair. as it was, every follicle would freeze before it had time to dry, and that wasn’t even enough to say that they didn’t have time–

soonyoung’s entire world is turned one-hundred-and-eighty degrees when someone grabs his arm, twisting it around to examine it, forcing his entire body to follow. he’s face to face with julkyung again, but the woman isn’t wearing her usual indifferent facade. she looks at soonyoung as if he’s some sort of wild animal, or a dog with rabies she’s been called to put down.

her hand grips the skin just above a ragged bite scar in his arm. it’s an ugly thing, a pseudo-circular mess of indistinct teeth-marks where a runner had taken him off guard months ago. soonyoung hadn’t even noticed it until hours later, when he was semi-safe in a new hideout, shucking off his layers of clothes until he’d found blood on his long-sleeved shirt. the creature had bitten him through three layers, which would be commendable if soonyoung hadn’t panicked about it for three days straight.

he hadn’t known what to do. he still doesn’t know what to do; the bite is easy enough to forget, but just seeing it every so often is enough to give him anxiety, make him question whether or not the infection might still spread if given the chance.

it hadn’t, but julkyung didn’t know that.

“what the fuck is this?!” she snarls at him, gripping his arm tight enough to bruise, “what the fuck is this! you fucking–”

seungcheol is up the moment he hears the conflict, attempting to put his way between soonyoung and julkyung. “woah, hold on, we don’t have any idea what this means–”

“it means you brought a fucking infected back to my camp!” julkyung cries out, shoving seungcheol back, “what if he’d gotten all the way back to the others before we found out, huh? he could have infected any one of us!”

“don’t be ridiculous!” you hiss, grabbing julkyung’s wrist and ripping her away from soonyoung, holding it with much gentler hands as you inspect it, “this bite isn’t fresh, and soonyoung isn’t infected. if he was, we would be seeing side-effects already, but we’re not!”

with the way julkyung’s face twists up into a snarl, soonyoung is expecting the woman to grow fangs and a set of claws. as it is, he tries not to look at her at all, focusing wholly on your outraged expression, and the way your hand cradles his wrist.

“why are you defending him?!” julkyung sounds an eclectic mess of exasperated and angry, and soonyoung’s chest pushes against your back as you step away from her, right into him. it’s an awkward angle, not that soonyoung cares about awkward anymore, and when something cold presses against his chest, it doesn’t take him long to realise it’s because there’s a rifle hanging off of your shoulder. “we were going to take you people home! you could have a community, an actual life outside of scavenging for scraps!”

“we can still have that,” you say, your voice a placating, deceptive calm, “just not with you people. not if soonyoung isn’t coming.”

soonyoung can’t allow you to say something like that. he spent five years surviving by himself, alone out there – it’s a pain he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. he wants to speak up, spin you around and grab you by your shoulders and say that you can’t do that, he won’t allow you to give up a semblance of civilization for him. selfishly, stupidly, he wonders if you’ll go with him if he’s forced to leave, travel with him for however long you both last.

he won’t do that to you. he would never forgive himself if he were the first to go, and then he thinks, again, that it would never happen to begin with, because his friends – his brothers – would never let him walk that road alone.

“so you’re just going to give it up,” julkyung starts slowly, “for him? for a man you haven’t seen in five years?”

you don’t answer; maybe you feel that you don’t need to. it’s obvious enough what you’re going to choose. from the corner of his eye, soonyoung watches jeonghan tuck his own rifle underneath his arm, hiding only slightly behind seungcheol as he racks a bullet in the chamber.

(the night before, you had bundled soonyoung up in your sleeping bag with you, zipping it closed and curling yourself around him, pressing your face into the prominent bone of his shoulder. “i saw you everywhere we went,” you’d murmured, voice thick with tears. in the frosty half-light of pre-dawn morning, soonyoung could only see a faint outline of your figure entwined with his; even so, he knew that he could map your body blindfolded, trace every subtle feature with the skill only found in the depths of reverence. “i prayed every day that we would find you again, that i could hold you like this and be held once again. and i promised that, should i find you again, i would never let you go.” there’s warmth against soonyoung’s cheeks – he digs himself closer to you and sobs into your hair. “i meant what i said, young-ah. i’ll follow you anywhere, wherever you go.”)

“screw this,” soonyoung hears, a harsh, rasping whisper that comes from behind him, just seconds before a rough hand is grabbing the back of his shirt and throwing him to the ground. he attempts to scoot back, hopefully get his feet under him and stand up, do anything to defend himself, except soonyoung finds his body frozen in place as an older man produces a handgun from the inside of his jacket. “we don’t have time for this, let’s just kill him now and–”

the man gets no chance to finish, sooner interrupted by a deafening bang that seems to shake the very foundation of the earth.

initially, soonyoung is convinced that he was shot, expecting the blooming pain that would come with white-hot metal ripping through his flesh, pressing a hand against his chest to feel for blood. it doesn’t come, though it’s twice as jarring when the man topples sideways in front of him, viscous red pouring from a dime-sized hole in his temple. he trembles briefly from his place in the dirt, before eventually going still, staring into soonyoung with eyes blown wide.

your rifle is no longer slung across your shoulder, now held firmly in your hands, still aimed where the man once was. soonyoung waits for the regret, waits for the shock to set in as you realise you just killed another human being, and yet it never comes. you look at the body in a fluctuating degree of interest, but none of your body language conveyed anything more than mild surprise.

chaos erupts quickly around him. julkyung screams, attempts to grab at your shoulder and whirl you around, one hand grappling for the revolver strapped to her leg. she doesn’t get very far, even as you fumble to hastily rack another bullet – another gunshot crackles through the air, and the tender flesh of julkyung’s neck explodes into visceral bits as the shot tears through her arteries. soonyoung doesn’t have to look to know who the culprit is – he can already see jeonghan stalking forward from the corner of his eye, but sees little else as you grab his collar and drag him back.

julkyung’s sluggishly writhing body is the only thing that stands between what’s left of seventeen and what future lies ahead of them. soonyoung grapples for the knife strapped to his leg, knowing it’s a useless weapon in his circumstance, yet preferring to have at least some chance to defend himself should it come to that.

“none of you move,” seungcheol calls, shooing the others back, until eventually the entire group was moving in step, “not until we’re long gone. we don’t want to kill any more of your people, but if you follow us, we will defend ourselves.”

“they’re going to come after us.”

soonyoung thinks he hears someone snarling at them, spitting vile words or threats or something, but you’re taking him by the arm and pulling him deeper into the woods before he can think about it any longer.

it’s the first time someone has spoken up in hours, and soonyoung recognises the voice to be jeonghan’s.

“they will,” seungcheol says, sounding distant up in the front of the group, “which is why we need to put enough distance between us and them before we set up camp for the night.”

“we should go back to using the watch rotation,” junhui calls from the back, “make sure at least one person is awake to watch for intruders, infected or not.”

“and maybe find somewhere inside to hole up for the night,” vernon mumbles. he’s been quiet, even more so than usual, and soonyoung doesn’t know if it’s because of what transpired earlier, or something that he hadn’t been present for.

there’s a murmur of agreement, and seungcheol quietly starts steering them to what were more populated areas off of the highway. more population means there’s likely to be more infected, but being inside is safer, easier to defend, and will do a better job of blocking out the cold that’s only going to get worse as night falls.

soonyoung thinks he should say something; about the bite, about the implications of his immunity, something, anything. he needs to clear the air, get back on the right track with everybody, as if they’d somehow veered off-course. he opens his mouth, hoping that he would know what to say, and yet nothing comes.

he clamps his mouth shut again. the way his teeth grind together eases the pressure in his skull only minimally, but he doesn’t say anything about it. he’s already put too much pressure on you and the others in the few days he’s been reunited with you.

your hand has migrated from his arm back down to his hand, squeezing intermittently, a reminder of your warmth and your presence right beside him. he squeezes back, if only to feel you squeeze harder.

soonyoung swallows, his throat try and crackling as he searches for the words to say, and without looking, you beat him to it.

“you don’t have to say anything,” you whisper to him, continuing to look ahead, “you need to tell us eventually, soon, but just know that every person in this group will fight for you wholeheartedly. we will never abandon you.”

the ache in his chest doesn’t fade, but soonyoung presses his lips together, and nods. you’ve already proven your loyalty to the group, your devotion to him. wherever you go, wherever you called him to, soonyoung would follow without question.

he would never want for anything but to be by your side.

#seventeen #svt #kwon soonyoung x reader #kwon soonyoung #hoshi svt #the last of us #alternate universe #tlou au #i kinda ate with this #even though it hurt me on a psychospiritual level #i'm not super happy with the ending but it already took me like a month to write so i don't have the energy to change it #oh but i love putting pookie through the ringer #svt hoshi #hoshi x reader

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melishade · 10 months ago

Note

prompt # 23

This ask game

Marco getting his wounds checked out after Part 5: Airachnid Arc in the War Timeline. Also this is the written out scene: #31

Marco still felt pain in his head, even days after he received medical treatment after the debacle with Airachnid. It was the first time any of them had encountered a metal titan that was hostile and deadly, but Jack's initial panic had indicated that more like her were here on their world, and they would stop at nothing to destroy the Autobots, and in turn, them.

They knew they had to deal with Airachnid, no matter how reluctant Marco's group was after Jack's description, but they couldn't let Airachnid return to the Decepticons with whatever she had discovered. They were successful in stopping her, but Airachnid had ripped out Marco's right eye for the fun of it. The thought still gave him vivid nightmares, and there were still phantom pains, but he was still alive, and that was something that he should be grateful for. Not to mention, Airachnid was successfully contained due to Jean and Mikasa's efforts.

Marco blinked a little bit when a strange light was flashed in his left eye. His vision cleared when he saw the Autobot medic's human form examine his vision before looking at the stitches that covered his right eye socket.

"I know my knowledge on human anatomy is still developing," Ratchet began as he turned off the flashlight, "But your wounds seem to be healing naturally. No signs of infection or inflammation. A few more days and the stitches should be removed. You'll no doubt need to wear something to cover your right side now."

"Thank you, sir." Marco nodded. Marco mumbled a little when Jack began to wrap clean bandages around his head to cover up his wound.

"If that is all, I'll be heading back to Optimus," Ratchet informed the two of them, "Airachnid has become a rather...interesting study for Hanji."

"Do what you gotta do." Jack gave a 'thumbs up' before Ratchet's holoform disappeared.

"You don't have to stay here and tend to my wounds," Marco insisted.

"Look, you were willing to put your life on the line like that. It's the least I can do," Jack reassured.

"Thanks for helping me heal up...and for visiting," Marco said, "How's Mikasa and Sasha?"

"They didn't get any injuries," Jack explained.

"And...Jean?" Marco pressed.

Before Jack could answer, the door swung open and Jean bolted into the room, looking out of breath and concerned.

"You didn't tell me he was awake!" Jean shouted at Jack.

"Look there's been a lot going on, and I can't give you clearance like that," Jack proclaimed, "You're from a different branch in the military."

"Jean," Marco began, but his friend walked over to him rather quickly and hugged him tight.

"Thank god, you're okay," Jean sighed with relief.

"I'm glad to see you too." Marco couldn't help but be surprised. Jean was acting so kind to him. Especially since majority of their previous interactions have been arguments. He supposed maybe the near-death experience was a blessing in disguise.

Jean let go of Marco before turning to Jack. "What happened to that spider bitch?"

"Airachnid's been captured," Jack answered, "She's not going anywhere. The problem is now that other Decepticons might come looking for her. We know the Decepticons came here to this world with us, but...what they're planning, we don't know."

"How do we counterattack?" Marco asked.

"Marco, you should be thinking about recovering!" Jean exclaimed.

"Jean, this is bigger than us!" Marco reminded.

"We don't know yet," Jack answered, "The Decepticons have always had an advantage over the Autobots, but now the Autobots have even less resources. And based on Airachnid's talks, the Decepticons have to be aware of how the power of the titans works."

Jack rubbed his eyes. "There's just...a lot to consider."

Marco looked down at his hands with his remaining eye. "...then...I guess I'm going to have to learn how to see with only one eye."

"You're seriously thinking about joining the fight?!" Jean demanded.

"I don't have a choice," Marco insisted, "If I sit by and do nothing, these Decepticons might come for us anyway. I have to play my part as a member of the Survey Corps."

"But you don't have to be!" Jean reminded, "You ranked in the top ten and you've been injured in the line of duty! You could transfer to the Military Police or just live a quiet life!"

"Damn it, Jean! Why are you acting like this when I told you that I'm staying to fight?!" Marco demanded.

"Because I almost lost you!" Jean yelled at him, "I almost lost you because I was a coward! I didn't react fast enough in that cave and now you're reduced to this! You say that I can be relied upon but look at you! I caused that! You're my best friend and I hurt you!"

Jean grabbed Marco's shirt. "Just stay out of the fight! I'm begging you! I don't want you to die at the hands of monsters like those!"

Marco was almost touched at that, and he couldn't help but think to transfer or run away, but...he couldn't. He wouldn't be able to live a life he could be proud of if he ran and served the king. Marco almost laughed. What king? The king turned out to be a sham that was killed by Airachnid. His dreams of innocence and honor were gone. Now he needed to survive and live so that no one ends up like him.

"...I can't walk away," Marco relented, "No matter how scared I am, I can't walk away."

"...There's no shame in doing that," Jean insisted.

"...I still can't," Marco declared.

Jean's mouth formed a thin line and his face contorted into a grimace. "Then I guess I have no choice either."

"What?" Marco blinked in confusion.

"I...I have to join the Survey Corps!" Jean declared.

"...wow." Jack couldn't help but utter.

(So 28 has been asked, but everything else is free game.)

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miasmaghoul · 2 years ago

Text

Mushy May - Day 2

Prompt: "I made this for you."

Rating: Teen Pairing: Mountain/Copia Contains: nervous Copia, Mountain's love of gift giving and a sprinkling of ~feelings~ Word Count: ~1.3k

Summary: A week before his first tour, Copia receives a thoughtful surprise.

Copia stares unseeing out his office window, chin resting on tented fingers. He’s been here for a while now, lost in thought, lulled into something of a trance by the rhythmic pitter-patter of raindrops against leaded glass.

Only a week left before the tour begins. His first tour, as a matter of fact. The prospect has his teeth on edge as much as it has him buzzing with excitement, frantic butterflies having made a seemingly permanent home in his stomach. He’s as prepared as he can be, he thinks - he must be, after hours upon hours of rehearsals, of meetings, of planning and arrangements - but he supposes one can only be so prepared for something of this scale. The unknown comes with the territory, and no amount of readiness can assuage the nagging claws of anxiety prodding at the back of his mind.

A knock at the door, though, is at least enough to distract. Copia shakes himself from his thoughts, smoothing a gloved hand through his hair. He isn’t expecting anyone, but that was no reason to look disheveled.

“Come in,” he calls, standing to straighten his wrinkled cassock. He’s been sitting for so long his knees crackle. It makes him feel so old. The door creaks open and Copia offers his guest a tired smile. “Ah, Mountain, hello.”

“Evening, Cardinal,” the ghoul greets, closing the door behind him. His masked gaze catches on the state of the desk and Mountain pauses, hand still on the doorknob. “Is this a bad time?”

“Hmm?” Copia glances down, takes in the mess of folders and crumpled papers before him and lets out a small chuckle. “No, no,” he assures, attempting to shuffle the mess into something approaching presentable. It doesn’t help much, so Copia elects to round the desk instead, leaning against the front of it and clapping his hands together. “What brings you here this evening?”

Mountain strides into the room, adjusting his tie. Copia notices with more than a little amusement that the ghoul is shoeless - apparently that’s a habit that doesn’t just live in the practice room.

“I made you something,” he rumbles, that low voice reverberating off the marble walls. Mountain holds out a small black bag, its contents rattling a little. “A few things, actually.” Copia’s brows creep towards his hairline.

“You...what?”

The Cardinal has become exceedingly fond of his ghouls these past months - more than he probably should be, at least according to Sister. But to have one of them in his personal office, offering him...gifts? This is very uncharted territory, to be certain.

“I made you something,” Mountain repeats, and it’s somehow no less surprising the second time. He shakes the bag and Copia can’t help but accept it. Mountain offers him a small smile in return, tucking his hands behind his back, and Copia feels a vaguely familiar tightness in his chest.

He peers into the bag and takes in its contents: a palm-sized glass jar, a square silver tin, a pair of small canvas bags and a folded swath of off-white fabric. Nothing is labeled, and that only serves to pique his curiosity further.

“What is all this?” Copia sets the bag on the desk and pulls out the jar, examining it.

“Just a few things for the tour,” the ghoul replies, casual as anything. “That particular one is a poultice.” Copia looks up at him with a questioning eyebrow. Mountain’s smile widens behind that shiny silver mask. “A combination of herbs and roots, mixed with a special oil.” Copia gives a small nod.

“Is it…food?” He shakes the small container, watching its goopy, oddly-colored contents shift. Mountain shakes his head with a soft chuff.

“Medicine,” he clarifies, and that brings Copia’s full attention back to the ghoul. Medicine? He isn’t ill. “That blend is for inflammation. Ginger, turmeric, eucalyptus, a few other things. You take some of that, apply it to a sore spot and cover it with one of those strips of linen." He gestures towards the bag. "Leave it for an hour and it will help with the stiffness after a show.”

Copia stares up at him for a long moment, feeling more than a little dumbstruck. All that, in this little jar?

“There’s more,” the ghoul reminds him, rocking up onto the balls of his socked feet, “keep looking.”

Copia doesn’t miss the tilt of excitement in his voice. It’s entirely too endearing, considering the fact that it’s coming from a seven foot tall hellbeast. The tightness in his chest shows no signs of fading.

He sets the jar on his desk and procures the pair of canvas baggies, giving them a shake. The contents crunch a little, the sound of crinkling paper, one tied with twine and the other with a green ribbon.

“The green one has some throat lozenges,” Mountain informs him. “I made them with peppermint and honey, they should help protect your voice between shows. The other one is for headaches. You put one of the packets in water and -”

Copia loses himself in the depth of Mountain’s voice, in the heat coloring his own cheeks. In the astounding level of care and compassion so clearly on display here.

Mountain…made these things? For him?

He’s never felt at such a loss for words, and that’s saying something.

“Cardinal?”

Copia startles, finding the ghoul staring at him with amusement in those fascinating eyes. Earthen green flecked with gold, decidedly inhuman, and for the first time Copia realizes his pupils are rectangular.

“You have the eyes of a goat,” he murmurs a bit distantly, and Mountain grins. It exposes his fangs, but Copia has never felt less threatened.

“Maybe you don’t need this last thing,” the ghoul remarks, reaching past him, and Copia comes back to himself a bit. Mountain pulls back with the silver case in hand, a hint of mischief in those fascinating eyes.

Copia sets the two canvas bags behind him and reaches out, Mountain handing him the case with a pleased hum. He turns it in his palm, catching the dull reflection of his desk lamp in its burnished surface. Copia pops the latch, flips the lip, and when he realizes what’s inside he can’t help but laugh.

“In case you’re feeling anxious,” Mountain says with a smirk, watching Copia pull out one of the half-dozen pre-rolls in the tin. “Don’t worry, there’s plenty more where those come from.” Copia brings the joint to his nose and inhales deeply, sighing at the familiarity of that herbal scent.

There’s so much he wants to say. The tightness in his chest has begun to morph into a suspicious sort of heat - one he certainly isn’t prepared to consider the ramifications of right now. The overwhelming kindness of the ghoul before him certainly isn’t lost on him, but somehow a simple thank you doesn’t seem enough.

“Your time and effort do not go unnoticed or unappreciated, my ghoul,” Copia says, the words careful and measured. There’s movement in the corner of his eye and the Cardinal catches the tufted end of Mountain’s tail flicking back and forth, pleased. “I…truly do not know what to say.” The ghoul offers him a noncommittal shrug.

“So don’t say anything,” Mountain rumbles, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I sometimes find actions speak louder than words.” Copia chuckles - that much is obvious. He twirls the joint absently between gloved fingers, and it gives him an idea.

“Very well,” he breathes, gesturing at the pair of stately armchairs opposite his fireplace. “Then, please, allow me to invite you to share this generous gift while I contemplate how to thank you properly.”

Mountain tilts his head, Copia offers him the joint, and the ghoul makes a fascinating sound - something between a groan and a purr.

“It would be my pleasure, Cardinal.”

“Please,” he replies with a kind smile, resting a hand on Mountain's arm, “call me Copia.”

#miasma's work #the band ghost ficlets #mushy may #cardinal copia #mountain ghoul #mountain/copia #mountain x copia

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baratrongirl · 5 months ago

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I have been dealing with non-stop health problems since 22nd June or thereabouts and I just want it all to stop.

On 21st June, which was my birthday, I went to an Elder Scrolls Online 10th Anniversary party at the offices of Bethesda/Zenimax in London. I proceeded to catch COVID from being out in public, and spent a week in bed.

On 29th June I was sitting at my computer, still with a high fever, stood up to go to the loo, and something in my right leg tore and I fell over. Couldn't walk at all for several days. Finally got free of COVID, went to the hospital, and they thought from an ultrasound that I'd torn my Achilles tendon. So I got put in a horrible cast and was not allowed to put any weight on the leg at all.

Went to Germany for the ESO Tavern anyway because I figured that accessible hotel rooms would be less stress than my house, which is only accessible for my normal disability and not for "you can't put any weight on your foot at all". Had to inject myself with an anticoagulant called Fragmin because of being immobile, which is super great if you're needle phobic.

Once I got home and saw the specialist, she thought it probably wasn't a tear and ordered an MRI. This showed that actually, I "only" had "thickening and inflammation" of the tendon. So it looks like I "only" tore my calf muscle which is a much less serious injury to heal. (I could dig out the hospital letter with the actual names of the muscles but I frankly don't care enough.)

However, my right leg was STILL rock solid with oedema. (Medical for "swelling"). The calf felt hard to the touch instead of squishy like my left leg. The young doctor that I saw the second time was only bothered about the tendonitis and severe inflexibility of my foot, not the fact that my leg was swollen. And I continued to have pain spikes so bad that my temperature hit 38.0 C and I started puking for probably six weeks after the initial injury.

TL;DR my leg started to get better and then it got worse again. About two weeks ago I noticed the leg was more swollen than ever, and the skin was bright red and very itchy. Took myself up to the hospital again, had a blood test, sat and waited for the results.

My foot turned LITERALLY purple and by the time I got to see the A&E doctor, she just looked at my foot in combination with the blood test results and declared that I had a clot. (Though she was very thorough, carefully checking the entire length of my bad leg against the good one.) They gave me a massive dose of anticoagulants and sent me home to sleep in my own bed for a bit, then I went back the next day and had another ultrasound at a different frequency from the first. (Different frequencies of sound penetrate different levels of tissue). And promptly got diagnosed with Deep Vein Thrombosis.

Blood clots are kinda gross (don't worry, there are no pictures):

Apparently the blood clot is from behind my knee all the way up to mid-thigh. I thought a blood clot was an amorphous, approximate spheroid blocking the vein at a particular place, but it actually fills the entire vein! (Gross!)

Also the main concern with Deep Vein Thrombosis is that bits might break off from the main clot and travel through the bloodstream to cause a Pulmonary Embolism. So the high dose of anticoagulants is actually to deal with bits breaking off from the clot rather than to break down the clot itself! That's why the treatment is 3-6 months on a high dose of anticoagulants.

I was worried about the risk of stroke but that's from blood clots in arteries, not veins.

I'm still annoyed with the doctor in the Fracture Clinic who basically looked at me and saw a fat person, rather than checking that my uninjured fat left leg and injured fat right leg felt the same. Because I had the oedema then. I had a soft, squishy fat left leg and a hard, unsquishable fat right leg.

If I'd actually followed his advice I might have accidentally killed myself. Fortunately I know the medical word "oedema" and knew not to use the special socks which said "do not use if you have oedema".

I am so fucking frustrated. So stupidly tired. I can't work out whether I'm depressed because I'm exhausted or exhausted because I'm depressed. Or whether the two states are orthogonal and caused by something else.

I feel like I've basically missed the entire summer to being sick and mostly unable to move very far from my bed, and the only joy I have is that I live in the UK and have paid nothing for any of this healthcare because it's all funded from our taxes.

#covid 19 #leg injury #torn muscle #blood clot #deep vein thrombosis #anticoagulants #hospital #health at every size #fat people need proper healthcare too #probably only of interest to my actual friends #i am very frustrated though #and too tired to do much of anything

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justalittlespore · 22 days ago

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Chronic illness (especially when you aren't properly formally diagnosed yet) is such a fucking roller coaster.

Like, I'm bouncing from specialist to specialist, and some of them are just lovely. A delight. Never question my honesty or my experience. Take every word I say seriously. Appreciate when I've done my homework because it's less work for them to bring me up to speed, and love when I have suggestions because it gives them a starting point.

And then there's doctors like this one I saw today, a vascular surgeon. My lovely neurologist sent me to him when all the tests she sent me for came back negative for everything, but my brain MRI still showed unexplained inflammation, my hands turn purple when I sit up straight, and my arms and legs fall asleep in certain positions.

First he made some small talk to show how cool and laid back he was, asked me if I (a visibly queer trans man) have a wife yet, asked me why I was there, then after I explained and demonstrated my fun hand color-changing trick, asked a few follow-up questions about exercise (I can't much because chronic pain, though I do my best), then (leaning back in his chair to emphasize how laid back he is) casually told me that I can't expect to get enough exercise at home, I need to go to a gym and get myself a personal trainer to hold me accountable. (I declined to explain the many and varied reasons why that would be both impossible and inadvisable in my situation, reading the room, and simply thanked him for the suggestion and hoped he'd move on.)

He asked if I sleep well, and I said no, I have symptoms of multiple sleep disorders, but I've been trying to get in for a sleep study for years and all the labs in this country are full up for the foreseeable future. But, I hurried to add, I've tried every sleep aid medication, meditation, exercise, etc., and my psychiatrist (who manages my ADHD medication) has been helping me try every possible option, and nothing helps, because nothing overcomes the chronic pain and the internal hyperactivity from ADHD enough for me to be able to fall asleep. Plus the various sleep disorder symptoms.

He asked me, at this point, whether I had children. I said no, trying not to laugh. He (leaning somehow even further back in his chair, arms folded behind his head) told me to get some. Because once you have kids, that'll tucker you right out and you won't have any energy left to overthink at night and keep yourself awake.

Again, I held in my eyebrow raises and instinct to laugh mockingly at the concept that having a child would help you sleep better, and hoped he would move on.

At this point, he did the only actual examination of me he would do during the entire appointment. He took my pulse on each wrist, moving my arm around as he did so to see how it changed. He returned to lounging in his chair and said I probably have thoracic outlet syndrome (TOS), something my physiotherapist had already suggested in the past but was unable to treat successfully. But apparently, this guy can confirm the diagnosis with a CT scan. But instead of putting in an order for one and letting me go get one within this clinic, he told me I have to go to his office at one of the hospitals, on a Tuesday morning, and he'd do it there and then decide whether I need surgery.

(For the record, TOS is not something that normally requires surgery.)

He then very casually explained how they would just remove one of my ribs, and I wouldn't even notice it gone, and depending on whether that did the trick or not, he could remove another.

He then repeated that I should do regular exercise under the supervision of a personal trainer in order to keep things flowing properly. I slipped at this point and mentioned my joint pain which keeps me from doing very much exercise, and noted that I've been tested for ehlers-danlos syndrome (EDS) but will not have the results until March.

This man scoffed and said that I certainly don't have EDS. That although I am definitely hypermobile based on his examination, I am not the "type," based on his 90-second evaluation of my, uh. Wrists.

Then he told me that if I'm having joint pain, I should try yoga.

Sometimes you see a doctor like that, and you smile and shake their hand and thank them for their help as you leave, and then you have to process the whole conversation on your way home and during the following day or two, and you have to talk to your friends about what he said and be assured that no, he is not right, he is an idiot, and as frustrating as it is, you need to find another specialist and do it all again, and hope for better luck.

Because you can never fully trust anyone who hears about problems like mine, which have lasted for decades now and which are proven with lots of tests and other records, for which every normal treatment option has failed, and then scoffs and says you just need to try yoga.

#chronic illness #disability #disabled #adhd #actually adhd #doctors #medical #chronic pain #invisible disability #medical trauma #hypermobility #ehlers-danlos syndrome #sporeburst

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sag-dab-sar · 2 years ago

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A Mobility Aid Realization

Now that I have gotten to a point where I can personally, without any help, put my wheelchair in and out of the car I think my wheelchair fully feels like it is apart of my body. This is the first day I think I truly felt this emotion. I'm still recovering from the spine inflammation but today was the first day I have left the house since the hospital stay.

I took my chair out of the car. It disassembles and I basically developed a way to put it in the trunk with my abilities. Then after the long day my spine was kicking me in the butt with pain BUT despite that pain when the valet worker was offering to help me with my wheelchair (since its a hospital and he probably puts mobility aids in and out of cars constantly) I had this internal visceral reaction of just "no touchy my chair, don't mess up my process, go away." He was genuinely so concerned, as if he thought I said no because I didn't want to inconvenience him. My step dad who was with me said to him "trust me she does it entirely herself I'm just here to hold things" (he was holding my cup and cane). The valet worker of course didn't insist but he seemed so genuinely concerned. I just absolutely fucking hate the idea of someone else handling my wheelchair now....... its become physically apart of me.

Unless I really need the help just let me do it. For example, ramps that are definitely too steep to be ADA compliant I need help with. But even then, don't help me until I have given you the green light. A family friend who use to push his elderly mom around in her wheelchair tried to help me with my breaks, wheelchair bag, and touching my handle bars before I was all settled— because it was all second nature to him. My mom said "No no, trust me, don't interfere yet I learned that the hard way." I'd tell her no, very angrily, every time she touched my handle bars and my bag until she got use to the fact I didn't want help. She also constantly helped people with their wheelchairs as a nurse as well as her elderly mom in a wheelchair, so it was second nature for her to take control also..... until I like metaphorically trained her out of it by being grumpy at her. She will hold my arm rests though until I have found a way to carry them myself while rolling. Still, her warning to the person helping me had the exact same vibe as my step father's "Trust me, I'm just here to hold things"

It is almost like how a person gets their clothes on by themselves, I don't want help. Again, unless I actually need it from a nurse or my mom (...thank you spine /sarcasm) which I'd be grateful for but if I don't need the help then please let me get dressed myself. That type of deal.

Also today I had to walk a few steps back and forth, for a spine doctor evaluation today and I didn't have my cane. I was wearing sneakers so I couldn't shuffle feet and of course I don't know the layout of walls and counters in that office like I do in my own home via muscle memory. He stayed very close to me for my safety and I used a wall for guidance but even with that....holy fuck roughly 10 steps (5 forward 5 back) without my cane was a big fucking no-no. I did not like it AT ALL. A big ol' nopeville.

Until today I didn't realize just how much muscle memory of my home's layout (which is TINY) helps me with using my cane a bit less inside, its not because my legs are magically better like I thought they were. So... my cane really is just apart of me now too. I'm more okay with someone holding it for me if I ask because its better than the cane falling. But don't collapse it yourself, I'll do that, and don't you dare take it out of my reach.

I remember being taught about service dogs one day at a summer camp as a kid and the woman said "would you like to meet my legs" when introducing her dog.

I don't think this is something a non-mobility aid user can fully understand at an emotional level. Touching my mobility aids really is like touching me. Its so much more than just objects I own.

-Not audio proof read | written June 21 2023-

-my pronouns are they/them but I haven't asked that of my family-

#mobility aid #wheelchair #cane #cpunk #cripple punk #my whacky life #i dont know why im rambling about this

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anthrofreshtodeath · 2 years ago

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Ooh I’m torn but 1 simply because I was rewatching Rocky and the thought of Jane the boxer sounds too good to pass up

Boxer AU with a twist! I know nothing about boxing except that it is fun to watch! I am shaming my army boxer grandfather right now, but here we go.

“Listen to me,” Barry Frost starts the conversation like a father, cutting the engine of his Buick and turning to Maura with a large hand to her shoulder. It’s a scorcher outside, and turning off the car means turning off the air conditioning, which Maura regrets almost as much as the kind look in his brown eyes. The worried look. “I know the elbow’s set you back, and we’re graspin’ at straws here.”

“So you’ve brought me to the one gym in Boston to which I’ve vowed never to return? By tricking me into it? You can’t just tell me we’re going to Hannah Grisham’s office. She’s one of the best physical therapists on the eastern seaboard, Barry. You don’t dangle a carrot like that in front of a fellow doctor. Especially when its a lie.”

“I’m sorry, but desperate times, Maura. The scans are clear - the inflammation is pretty much gone, the pain is…”

“Psychosomatic,” Maura admits, possibly for the first time. She leans said elbow on the windowsill and lets her gaze drift to the bright blue sky above them. She thinks of the missed punch that hyperextended the elbow, which handed her her first loss.

She got hurt and she lost the fight.

The line from point A, failure, to point B, the mental block preventing her from getting back in the ring, seems clear now. Repetitive hyperextension trauma has been with her since she’d abandoned her medical practice to fight full time. Perhaps it makes sense that such a banal boxer’s reality would be the thing to undo her.

“I was gonna say elusive, hard to pin down, but yeah,” Frost says quietly. He rubs his chest, hand in a circle against the ribbed tank under his cream-colored guayabera, an unconscious thinking habit he’s had since Maura’s known him. “It sure as hell is eluding me.”

“But you’re my trainer. Why do I have to be… here?” Maura succumbs to a wave of petulance. She knows why she’s here. She just hates that here is the best place to get her… what does Barry call it? Mojo? To get her mojo back.

“Because I’m stumped, Doctor Isles,” he confesses. “I’m stumped and maybe a fresh pair of eyes’ll help us get you back into fighting shape.”

“Jane’s eyes are not fresh,” Maura, now drowning in waves of childish defiance, breathes. That’s all she can do, because she’s not sure she wants to be an adult about this. She’s not sure she wants to be friendly, even if… christ. Even if Jane might be the best thing for her at the moment. “Jane’s eyes are the opposite of fresh.”

“Might as well be, for how long you’ve iced each other out,” Barry grumbles. “I got you a session. She agreed to clear the gym for you. I’ll even circle the block, or go get a drink or somethin’, so you two can hash it out in private. But this is a big ask of her, after all the shit you two went through. I owe her big. I’d at least like to get something out of it.”

“And you didn’t think to consult me before asking for this favor?” Maura counters.

Barry laughs. “I knew you woulda said ‘hell no.’ C’mon. Let’s get this over with.” He steps out of the car with one last smack to her shoulder, and she shakes her head. He’s right. She would have definitely said hell no. But the only thing she wants less than seeing Jane again is losing her career.

So she steps out into the oppressive July sun and approaches the storefront of North End Boxing with trepidation.

“Hey Jane!” Barry shouts into the gym space, leading Maura in.

Maura adjusts her duffel higher on her shoulder, taking in her surroundings. The ring sits in the middle of the floor plan, Jane’s crown jewel- some things never change. There is some updated strength training equipment in the back, and the bags to the left side boast some replacements. The treadmills and rowing machines mock her from her right, conjuring up times Jane punished her with cardio before sparring. “I shouldn’t be here,” Maura whispers to Barry.

“The hell you don’t,” Barry counters. “You used to run this place.”

“The Rizzolis have always run this place,” Maura says. She nods to the giant banner of Frankie Rizzoli, Junior holding up a championship belt with a shiner and an exhausted smile on his face. Action posters of Jane in title matches, just as victorious, twice as vicious, hang on the back wall on either side of a trophy case. That trophy case also contains a framed, signed picture of their father delivering the knockout blow to an opponent already halfway to his knees.

Jane herself comes from around the corner where the private owners’ area. “Been a long time, Frost,” she says. Her face is still handsome. Even more so when she smirks at him and shows her perfect teeth. She’s got her usual training look on: black Nike sports bra, black running shorts with compression leggings sewn in. There is one glaring difference: she wears white training Nikes, instead of her high ankle boxing shoes. The stretch of Jane’s crew socks over her too-thin legs, halfway to her calves, has always captivated Maura, but this time it’s out of place.

Jane catches her staring. “You’re boxin’ today, not me,” she says, reading Maura’s mind. She holds one foot out to put her shoe on display.

“No one’s boxing, not yet,” Maura refuses to smile. Jane’s effervescence hasn’t faltered, and it shines despite the darkness of her features.

“Maura-” Frost tries.

“No no, she’s right. You got her in the door, but she’s gotta wanna be here if this little plan is gonna work,” Jane crosses her arms. Maura detests the challenge leveled at her in Jane’s brown eyes, though her belly flips when she glowers right back. Barry stands to the side of them with a hesitant little half-grin, like he doesn’t quite know what to offer to the conversation.

He shrugs his broad shoulders. “She’s not wrong, Maura. Work the pain out on her. Punish her,” he motions toward Jane.

“That’s not the temptation you think it is, Barry,” Maura tells him.

“Yeah, she already did all that,” Jane teases. “A year ago.”

That sours Maura’s mood again. “You know what? Maybe a little sparring would do me some good,” she responds. She gets close, fingers still tight against the strap of her bag, and even though she has to look up at Jane, it’s still one of defiance.

“Frost? Get out,” barks Jane.

“Jane, I drove Maura here. She’s-”

“You can go,” sighs Maura. She walks over to the ring and sets her bag down, rolling her neck. It’s the first stretch that signals the beginning of an entire routine and Barry looks excited enough to wet himself.

“You got it. There’s a salami sandwich over at Graziano’s that’s callin’ my name. You just text me when you need me to come get you, a’right?” He says with his hand already on the front door, whole demeanor altered. “Have a good workout.”

He leaves the two women alone, and they’ve already begun to pace around each other in routine. Maura ties her honey hair up in a pony tail, unzips her windbreaker meant more to guard her fair skin from the sun than to keep her warm. When she straightens up, Jane already holds a jump rope in her hand, outstretched towards Maura.

Maura narrows her gaze again. “Where’s the other one?”

“This is your workout, not mine,” Jane says. “I already got cardio in. At five. This mornin’. Like I always do - I didn’t think you’d forget.”

Maura breaks the icy exterior for just a moment of whining. She might even stamp her foot. She hates the rope. “I didn’t forget, but you know how I feel about jumping rope and so you should have saved yours to do with me in miserable solidarity.”

Jane guffaws, her belly laugh deep and booming. Maura rubs her lips together so she doesn’t join in. “I can’t argue with that except that Frost didn’t call me until like nine.”

“Meaning Frankie had already worked you out and served you your breakfast of raw eggs,” Maura gags for show.

“I don’t do that anymore,” Jane tells her with a tinge of red on her cheeks. “Now stop stallin.”

Maura snatches the rope with disdain and drops it on the floor while she runs through her stretches. She sits and pulls one foot against the opposite thigh, leaning forward to get a nice, strong tug in her calves. She runs through it for both legs, and then stands to do some hip rotations, and Jane watches quietly. “What?” Maura asks to break the silence.

“Legs feel good?” Jane answers, sort of. She leans one elbow on the closest ring post and stares at the legs in question.

Probably Jane’s favorite part of her, if Maura had to guess. Jane had always praised Maura’s footwork, but with the way Jane looks at her legs now, in skin tight yoga leggings, she’s not thinking about footwork. She’s thinking about they feel wrapped around her waist, the only clothes on either athlete the layer of sweat built up from a workout between the sheets.

And now, Maura’s thinking about it. She starts with the rope just to send all that noxious sexual energy somewhere. “Legs feel fine,” she says as she starts slow, reacquainting herself with the whistle of the rope, with the jumpstart of her heart when her feet start to dance.

There is art in the torture, she’ll concede.

“Legs’ve always been fine, legs’ve never been the problem.” Maura likes how the rope makes her normally verbose speech choppy and efficient. She likes how it makes her sound like Jane.

“It’s the elbow,” Jane says that part for her. “I’ve dealt with it before. The dead arm is fuckin’ demoralizin’.” She talks while she backs away from Maura, and goes to the lockers toward the back of the gym. She pulls out a pair of white pads and slams the locker shut. “You bring your own gloves?”

“Of course,” Maura calls out, and the volume of it burns her lungs. Jane is annoying for having made her do it.

“Well leave ‘em in your bag. You’re usin’ some of mine,” Jane says, and she grabs those from another cubby area.

“I like my gloves,” Maura huffs. “I want my gloves.”

“Too damn bad. They’re all wrapped up in your psychobabble bullshit right now,” Jane argues. She drops the gloves on the side of the ring and adjusts the pads until they’ll fit just right.

Maura wants to snark back but she catches sight of Jane’s hands. Those capable, deadly hands, with a scar in the middle of each one. They didn’t talk about the obsessed fan, about Hoyt, before they got together, when Frank Senior was training both Jane and Maura. They didn’t talk about him after, either, when they dominated their respective classes. They didn’t even talk about him following the blow to the head that ended Jane’s career, when they said awful things to each other and devolved into an ugly type of resentment.

And now, they haven’t talked at all since Jane drank herself into a stupor and climbed drunk into a car with her brother. They haven’t talked since Maura walked out with statistics about concussions and alcohol on her lips, love mysteriously absent. A year ago. “Psychosomatic,” Maura corrects weakly, her own voice quiet in the face of the flood of memory washing over her.

Soon enough, Jane’s scarred hands disappear in to the curved focus pads. “You got two more minutes,” says Jane, busy again with preparation.

“We’re doing padwork already?” Maura asks.

“Yeah,” Jane says. She thumps the pads together and rolls her own neck. “You get all mixed up when you’re punchin’, accordin’ to Frost. So, while I would normally send you straight to the weight rack, punchin’ is the only way we’re gonna break you outta this.”

Maura is pleased with the words coming out of Jane’s mouth for the first time today. “Ok then,” she says. She wants nothing more than to throw fists at her ex. “You won’t get any argument from me.”

“Didn’t think so,” Jane says. She grins to let Maura know she’s seen the saucy glint in Maura’s eyes. “Ok, enough of that. Get some water and let’s go.”

Maura, thankful for the reprieve, drops the rope and throws her head back. She puts her hands on her hips, sweat already dripping from her neck to her chest, already staining the front and back of her gray tank. After she squeezes water into her mouth from her bottle, she realizes Jane is studying. She licks her lips just to be a tease.

Whether consciously or not, Jane bites her own lip.

“You know I’ve never been fond of Everlast,” Maura grumbles like she can’t be pleased when she grabs the gloves waiting for her.

“How can you be a boxer and not like Everlast? You have never made sense, Princess,” Jane tells her, holding up the pads.

“It’s the limited weight-”

“Aht! Save it,” Jane interrupts. “I don’t wanna argue before you even get started. Now c’mon. Show me what you got.”

Maura takes a deep, eyes-closed kind of breath to clear her mind. Instead, she smells Jane, lavender perfume and gym equipment. Her mind races.

“Quit overthinkin’ it,” Jane goads. “Hit me.”

Maura throws her first punch. She barely registers that she does it, but the pad sings and Jane whistles. “You asked,” Maura says.

“And you delivered,” Jane replies. She takes Maura’s slow combos with some grace. “But stop pussyfootin’ around. It’s me. You know I can take it.”

“I don’t want to reinjure myself, Jane,” Maura chides, and continues her methodical warmup.

“Bullshit. Timid and tender is what got you here. Time to get a little messy. A little mean,” Jane blocks, finding the rhythm of Maura’s work quickly.

“That’s your style,” Maura responds.

“So? Try it on,” Jane says. Each hit on the pad, Jane catching them dead center, reminds Maura how lucky she is she never had to fight Jane. It’d be the hardest fight of her life. Jane knows it, too, which makes her insufferable. “Won’t kill ya.”

“It just might,” Maura quips, but she adds a little more power. Imagines being Jane, controlling Jane’s arms, what that would feel like. The dissociation lessens the tingle in her elbow and she slips into a 1, 2, 3 combo. Huh. “Faster,” she demands.

“Been awhile since you said that to me,” Jane chuckles, winking when Maura glances up at her.

Maura speeds up, glancing a blow on Jane’s forearm as a warning shot, but she smirks. “And it’ll be a lot longer yet,” she says, “especially in that context.”

“But not never again, huh?” Jane gives her that pretty boy smile that she knows is Maura’s weakness. Well, one of them. Another is when she talks shop. “Remind me to work in some dumbbell shadowboxing next time. Get your speed back up.”

“Am I telegraphing the hook?” Maura asks.

“Little bit,” Jane answers. “But maybe I’m just good at reading your body.”

That pesters Maura. The innuendo is unprovoked, more pointed. “Watch yourself,” she growls. She punches harder.

“I’ve been takin’ care of myself in the time you’ve been away. After you bailed,” Jane says. “You ever need to blow off some steam, you know, the old fashioned way, I’m around.” Maura lands a vicious jab from which Jane should recoil, given its force. Jane doesn’t. She leans instead, steps forward. “That was never the problem between us, huh?”

“You didn’t hear me say ‘watch it?’”

Jane continues. “Not a drop to drink in a year. I haven’t stopped thinkin’ about you,” she leads. “Who could?”

“You’d need… a lot more than sobriety,” Maura cuts.

Jane doesn’t seem to mind. “I thought about you so much, I watched your last fight. Gotta tell ya, you stank it up. No guts in that performance.” Maura’s pulse pounds in her temple, her body so worked up that she didn’t realize how fast she’s been fighting. Jane’s faster, though. “No speed, either,” Jane says, and she proves it by smacking Maura in the face with one of the pads.

Maura’s right hand thunders in from the side, already in motion before Jane could even finish the taunt. Glove connects with Jane’s cheek, and another blow explodes against her ribs just before Maura lands the next face punch that flattens Jane on her back.

“Jane!” Maura calls out when the anger dissipates with the sickening thwack of Jane’s body on the hard floor. She tosses her gloves off and straddles Jane’s torso, stabilizing Jane’s head between her hands.

Jane smirks, however, gaze alight and alert. “For someone who was so worried about my concussion, you sure got no qualms about a blow to the head.”

“You provoked-! You provoked me on purpose,” Maura realizes mid-utterance. “From the gloves to the comment about the guts.” She stills holds Jane’s face, and of their own accord, her thumbs stroke the crow’s feet just starting to come in around Jane’s eyes.

“Any pain?” Jane presses, cocky as ever.

Maura blinks, and then gasps. “No. None.”

“Hatin’ me’s a good look on you,” Jane tells her, nodding to Maura’s figure. “It’s pretty good for your fightin’, too, apparently.”

“Do you think you can get me to feel like this all the time?” Maura asks, serious.

“Pissed off? Murderous? I think we’ve established I’m pretty good at that,” says Jane.

“No. Well, maybe. Pain-free,” Maura pleads.

“No guarantees,” Jane replies. She puts a hand on Maura’s thigh and pats softly. Maura lets her. “But if you wanna try it, wanna try fightin’ pissed, this is the gym for you.”

Maura chuckles and is shocked to find that it’s wet, that she’s crying. “I’ll say.”

“Missed you, kid,” Jane tells her. Her voice trembles with its own wave of emotion, but her eyes stay dry. Maura’s thumb trails to Jane’s lower lip, and rubs the plumpest part of it.

“Is this going to work? Are we going to kill each other? Are you going to resent me for doing what you can’t?” Maura asks, one after the other.

“Don’t tell anyone that works here,” Jane begins with a theatrical whisper, “but takin’ care of myself might include seein’ a shrink. From time to time. And I think that trainin’ you would be the honor of my life.” Jane finishes. Maura hiccups with new tears. And the broadest smile she’s sported in weeks. “So I’ll do it for free - on one condition.”

“For free, hmm?” Maura asks, buys herself some time to wipe her face, “what’s the condition?”

“You go on a date with me,” Jane says with a smirk.

“Absolutely not,” Maura, assured of Jane’s well-being, smacks her shoulder.

“One date. C’mon,” Jane pleads. “Anywhere you wanna go.”

Maura sighs. “Just one? After that I don’t have to go on any more?”

“Well, after one you’re gonna wanna go on a lot more, but sure, I’ll keep my word. One date,” Jane answers.

“Then we go to Maison de la Mer,” Maura asserts. Jane glowers. “And you eat what I order for you, and then we never speak of it ever again.”

“Really? The fancy French place with the plate of oysters that costs a rent payment?” Jane gripes, but then she props herself up on her elbows. “Y’know what? Deal. Now let’s seal it with a kiss.”

Maura scoffs and pushes her back down before getting up. “You’re intolerable.”

“Whatever. Still pickin’ you up at seven tomorrow,” Jane sits up while Maura throws her things in her bag.

“It takes weeks to get a reservation,” says Maura as she zips and tosses it on her shoulder.

“I know a guy who knows a guy. Who would love a Frankie Rizzoli, Junior autograph. You don’t think I called that in as soon as I knew you were comin’?” Jane retorts.

Maura’s jaw drops for a split second, and then she throws the towel she’d just used to wipe her face at Jane’s. “In. tolerable,” she repeats.

“And I better see your ass here at four thirty tomorrow morning!” Jane yells, and Maura chuckles quietly now that she knows her face can’t be seen. She pushes out into the rippling heat without another word, and pulls her phone out to call Barry. She can’t believe she’s looking forward to getting her ass kicked in the morning. By Jane fucking Rizzoli.

#lauren writes rizzoli and isles fanfiction #otp prompts march 2023 #this is so damn long I am sorry #it slipped so far away that I could barely remember what I was supposed to be doing 😂

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