#I have woken up with a migraine every single day for the past two weeks and painkillers have only managed to just dull it to a vague

[runawaymun]

Bruhhhh I just want to wake up and not be in pain for once 😭 need a break

[babybluebex]

good doctor kreizler ch.3: o come, all ye faithful

summary ↠ part 3 of good doctor kreizler // on christmas eve, as you and your new husband prepare to host your friends, there's a drastic change in plans, and the sudden need for an extra place setting. pairing ↠ laszlo kreizler x fem!reader (y/n) word count ↠ 5.6k warnings ↠ explicit language, smut, oral (f!receiving), sexual content involving a pregnant woman, explicit descriptions of childbirth (and everything that goes along with that), mentions of medical procedures, abduction a/n ↠ finally here it is! masterlist/taglist in bio!

The rustling of the bedsheets was a comfort to hear. Laszlo often woke up earlier than you did in order to prepare for his day at the Institute, and he tried his best not to wake you up. Your doctor had advised that you rest as much as possible, especially in the coming few weeks; as you learned, you seemed to have inherited your mother’s “weak womanly constitution”, as the doctor called it. You had to scale back your help during the investigation because of your weak stomach and over-eager emotions. It broke your heart into pieces when Laszlo finally told you that you were off the case entirely, but you understood his hesitations. At least, you considered, your husband knew better than you.

Not a day went by that you didn’t revel in your new title. The ceremony was a quiet affair, hardly even reported in the society papers, and you had just the most important family there. Sara served as your maid of honor, John as Laszlo’s best man, Marcus and Lucius as the legal witnesses. Laszlo had managed to secure a ring for you, and it glittered on your left hand every single day. The wedding, if you could call it that, had happened on a Saturday morning, and, when you went into work on Monday and had to alert Commissioner Roosevelt to your name change, Teddy had given you a warm smile that secured in you the thought that you would never truly be alone ever again. And you liked it.

You gave a soft moan and threw your arm behind you to capture your husband before he rose from bed. “Las,” you mumbled. In an instant, your hand was filled by his, and Laszlo was pressing his mouth to your cheek. “It’s still dark out.”

“Yes, my beloved, I know,” Laszlo said softly. “But I need to get an early start today.”

“Do you need to?” you groaned. “It’s awfully cold, sweetheart, I’ll freeze up if you leave.”

Laszlo gave a soft coo and kissed your cheek again, and he whispered, “I must get the house ready for dinner tonight.”

“For… What?” you mumbled.

“We’re hosting dinner tonight,” Laszlo explained slowly. The old wife’s tale of pregnancy brain seemed to be a certifiable malady in your case; you were constantly forgetting dates and appointments and misplacing things that you had in your hand. There had been more than one occasion where you had torn apart a room looking for the eyeglasses that you had perched on your nose. Laszlo, in his never-ending loveliness, was patient with you, and he would repeat things as many times as needed for them to stick. “Sara, John, Marcus, and Lucius are joining us.”

“Oh, God,” you huffed. “What’s the occasion?”

“Christmas dinner,” Laszlo said. His hand rested gently on your hip, his thumb making soft circles on your skin, and he nuzzled his beard into your neck. “I suppose, for Marcus and Lucius, it’s just dinner.”

“Oh, damn!” you murmured. “I forgot! How could I forget about Christmas?”

“You’ve had quite a lot on your mind lately,” Laszlo chuckled. “Please, my love, go back to sleep. You can’t help me with this anyway.”

“Why not?” you asked. You struggled to sit up, and Laszlo put his hand on your back and aided you upright. By you and your husband’s calculations, you were about eight months along, and you could feel every moment of it. Your back was constantly aching, and you had headaches that were so awful that you could feel your brain pulsing inside your skull (migraines, Laszlo called them, but you didn’t give a damn what they were called). All of the aches and pains meant nothing, though, when you felt your son kick up into you. Yes, Baby Kreizler was an active one, and, more often than not, you found yourself being woken up in the morning by his movements and kicks.

Laszlo placed his hand gently on your swollen belly, and his palm was met with a nudge. “It involves your Christmas present,” Laszlo told you. “And I can’t very well have you spoil your own present.”

“You—!” you began. “I thought we said we weren’t doing presents! Oh, Las, I have nothing to give you!”

“You must be joking,” Laszlo said. The room was dim, only the dull flame of a gas lamp lighting the bedroom, but you could see your husband’s glittering dark eyes as easily as if it were in the daytime. “You are giving me the best present that I could ever ask for. I could never ask you for anything more.”

You pouted, but drew Laszlo into a kiss. You often forget about your husband’s stubbornness, and, while it had made him the successful man he was, it was rather difficult to try to surprise him with anything. You had told a little fib when you said that you hadn’t gotten him a Christmas gift. The small leather-bound book was stashed in a drawer under your stockings, a neat ribbon around it, the front page reading a personal inscription from the author itself. Laszlo had a habit of reading literature that made you sick to even think about, and he had grown fond of an author that was published in a Boston newspaper, a man named Poe. You had acquired a collection of Poe’s stories and sent him a letter, explaining your situation, and he had sent it back with haste. You had peeked at the inscription, and you smiled just a bit at the words “you and your work are an inspiration, Doctor Kreizler”. Laszlo would like that, you were sure of it.

Laszlo moved his hand from your belly to your cheek, and he held your face as he deepened the kiss. You gave a soft laugh at his boldness (you supposed, though, that a husband’s need for his wife was hardly bold), and you lifted your arms to wrap around his neck. In an instant, Laszlo abandoned his need for being early, and he pressed a line of fluttering kisses down your jaw and neck. You let your fingers run through his hair, still mussed from sleep, and Laszlo pressed a sweet, open-mouthed kiss to your breast. That was another surprise of pregnancy; not that your breasts would grow as your milk came in, but that Laszlo would form an odd attachment to them. If it were anybody else, Laszlo would have looked at the behavior as codependent and perhaps leaning towards neglect from one’s mother, but, since it was him, you knew that he didn’t think about it. The moment your beautiful and eloquent doctor had one of your breasts in his mouth, he turned simple-minded.

So simple-minded, in fact, that he hardly seemed to notice the way his hand slid and crept up your thigh. Or perhaps he was aware of it, and was being coy for your sake. Either way, you keened up into his hand, whimpering just a bit, silently pleading for him. You two had become experts at reading each other, and Laszlo knew what you wanted without you having to utter a word. You didn’t want his hand, he knew that. He gave one last kiss to your hard nipple, then continued to trail feather-light kisses down your body. His hand tangled in your nightgown and rucked it up past your hips, and he gave an open-mouthed kiss to your hip. Your hands clawed at your nightgown, pulling it up and over your head to free your body completely, and Laszlo took a departure from your hip to lavish your belly in kisses. The skin had been permeated with light marks where your skin had stretched to accommodate the baby, and, while you didn’t quite care for the look of them and worried if they would persist, Laszlo never stopped for one second to consider them anything but beautiful.

“Laszlo,” you whimpered out. “Please, my love.”

Laszlo kissed down your hips to your thighs, and he pressed your legs open and pulled them over his shoulders. Then, finally, mercifully, he pressed his mouth to your cunt. He wasted no time, placing open-mouth kisses all over your sensitive skin, and your fingers closed in his hair. You tugged a bit, telling him to go further, and Laszlo licked a stripe up your waiting cunt. You gave him a satisfied little moan and your hips jerked a bit when he gave a harsh suck to your clit. “Las!” you squealed, and you felt him smile against you. “Fuck, more.”

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Laszlo mumbled, looking up at you through his eyelashes as he pressed his mouth against you again. The sight of it had you whimpering, and you felt your release close at hand. That was how it seemed to go, as of late; Laszlo hardly had to stimulate you, and you were a wet, spent mess within minutes. He said it was the baby, and you didn’t know enough to dispute him. Laszlo detached his mouth from your cunt and lifted his hand to stroke your throbbing clit with the rough pad of his thumb. “Taste so good… How could I ever have lived before you?”

You hardly had the brain to wax lyrical at the moment, but, if you did, you would have said that perhaps he wasn’t truly living before you, just as you hadn’t before him. The world had changed with him, and you could never want anything else except him for the rest of time. “Las,” you gasped, the pleasure he gave you making your legs shake. While his hand worked, his mouth went to your thigh, and he placed wet kisses all over the skin. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you as you writhed under him, and you moaned and keened at him. “Las—” you gasped. “I-I’m gonna—”

The wonderful and heady relief washed over you before you could even finish your sentence, and you basked in it for a long while. Your chest heaved as you smoothed down Laszlo’s hair, and he stood up with a soft grunt. “Gosh, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” you mumbled, sitting up on your elbows; you hadn't meant for him to kneel down on the hard floor, but he didn't seem to mind it much. His robe had come undone during the act to show his chest and stomach, and you worked yourself fully upright so that you could wrap your arms around him. Your head landed on his chest and you kissed over his heart, and Laszlo gave a quiet little sigh. “You grow lovelier every day,” he whispered, and he landed a kiss in your hair.

You smiled into his chest. But you felt as if something was off. Yes, your muscles and fibers had relaxed with the orgasm, but there was still an odd tightness in your core. It felt almost like the cramps you had to endure monthly, or, at least, the onset of one. “Oh, no,” you mumbled. You knew what that feeling was.

“What is it?” Laszlo asked.

The contraction finally landed and settled fully in your core, and it nearly knocked the breath out of you. “God!” you yelped, drawing your husband closer to you. “Las— I’m in labor.”

Laszlo didn’t seem to fully process your words, because he looked down at you with a sort of bleary-eyed confusion. “Labor?” he repeated. “As in…?”

“As in labor, Laszlo!” you cried. “As in I will give birth sometime in the next few days and it’ll be your head on a pike if you don’t get the doctor here now.”

Laszlo stepped away from you and looked around the bedroom, a little frantic. Finally, he clenched his jaw and tied up his robe, and he went to the door of the bedroom and threw it open. “Cyrus!” he yelled. “Cyrus! Ring the doctor! Y/N’s gone into labor!”

You heard Cyrus respond to Laszlo, and suddenly his hands were on you again. The pain, while not awful, was certainly unpleasant, and you moved slowly as Laszlo helped you back into your nightgown. His hand was shaking almost as badly as yours were, and you grabbed his hand and drew it to your mouth for a firm kiss. “I love you,” you whispered. Your eyes watered, and you tried to pretend that you didn’t see Laszlo’s eyes wetting as well.

“I love you too, my beloved,” Laszlo said softly, laying you back amongst the pillows. “The doctor will be here soon. Can I get you anything in the meantime?”

You bit your lip at an onslaught of pain that rocketed down your spine. “Get me Sara,” you said.

“S-Sara Howard?” Laszlo asked.

“She’s practically my sister,” you said. “Please, Las, I need her.”

“Of course, of course,” Laszlo said quickly. “Can I get you anything else?”

You gave a shuddering sigh as the pain died down, and you mumbled, “A glass of water?”

John took the steps into the house two at a time. He had just been sitting down for breakfast with his grandmother when their telephone had sounded. While his grandmother raged at the thing, he answered it and had the briefest of conversations with Laszlo that went something like this: “She’s in labor. Come quick.” “... Now?” “Childbirth waits for no man, John, and I intend for my child to meet his uncle as soon as possible.”

The energy inside the house was an odd one. The place was done up with garlands of holly, obviously having been prepared by the little motley family of Laszlo, Y/N, Cyrus, and Stevie, to stand as a lovely locale for Christmas dinner. It should have been so cheerful— chattering and laughing— but there was just silence. “Laszlo?” John called, looking upwards from the base of the stairs.

“Top floor!” He heard Laszlo call back after a moment. Usually, the doctor would have greeted him at the door, and now he wasn’t even coming down to debrief the situation. John steeled himself and prepared for the worst.

Thankfully, the top floor wasn’t a tragedy zone. Laszlo stood in the hallway, pacing restlessly, mumbling to himself in every language he spoke. “John, Mein Gott,” he sighed. “Thank you for coming quickly.”

“Is she really in labor?” John asked.

“Yes,” Laszlo replied. “We woke up only a few hours ago and… Her water broke. The contractions have been ebbing and flowing ever since, but she is insistent that a doctor get here.” After a moment, and noticing John’s trepidation, added, “A real doctor, she said. Someone who has experience with delivering children.”

“That’s probably a good call,” John said. “Is she in there?” He gestured at the closed door that he could only assume was Laszlo and Y/N’s bedroom, and Laszlo nodded.

“Sara’s in there as well,” Laszlo said. “Comforting her.”

“Why are you not in there?” John asked quickly. “I mean, my God, Laszlo, this is your wife and son!”

“I know,” Laszlo snapped. “I wish I could be, but… I can’t bring myself to. The numbers of women who die in childbirth… And most of the time, there’s nothing to be done to stop it… I-I would only blame myself. If I were in that room, with my knowledge, and she died, and I couldn’t help, I would blame myself.”

There was a sharp yelp from inside the room, like a hurt animal, followed by muffled shushing; the mother and Sara, John supposed. “Where’s the doctor?” John asked.

“The one we chose to schedule when we would go to wellness checks was booked until this afternoon,” Laszlo said. “He’ll get here when he can. Until then, we… Wait. I will allow myself to go in every so often and check dilation, but it’s getting to the point where… The sight of it makes me ill.”

John didn’t know much about childbirth, but the word dilation helped him figure up enough of an image to make him a little ill as well. “Can I get her anything?” John asked. “Something from the shop on the corner?”

“She says no,” Laszlo said. “She’s only asked for water. A kiss, every so often, but I feel that’s less vital and more encouragement.”

John nodded in agreement, and he pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his pants. “How long do we wait?” he asked.

“However long it takes,” Laszlo said with a shrug. “For some women, it’s mere hours; others, days.”

John sighed and took up a place leaning against the wall, and he mumbled, “I guess dinner’s off, isn’t it?”

Laszlo finally cracked a gentle smile, and he leaned next to John. He wore the beginnings of an acceptable outfit, pants and a buttoned shirt with his suspenders, but no vest, no cravat, no jacket. This was a worried man, an expectant father, a ready doctor. “I’m sure we can find a way to have dinner,” he said. “Perhaps, if the timing��s right, we’ll have to put out an extra place-setting.”

John still could hardly believe that, out of their entire group, Laszlo was the first to have a baby. Just meters away, behind the door, Laszlo’s wife was in the beginning stages of bringing new life. On Christmas Eve, no less. “Did you ever think you’d have this?” John whispered.

“No,” Laszlo replied after a moment. He looked down at his boots and wrapped his arm around himself, and he chewed on his thoughts for a moment. “Even just last night, as we were going to bed… I watched her enter the room, and the lamp lit her up… Her body was silhouetted against the lamp through her nightgown. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I’ll never forget the sight. If I had any artistic inclination, I would have captured it. The memory might be greater than any piece of art, though.” He took a moment to savor the image, and he gave a short sigh. “But I have done my share of worrying. Every day, every moment, I was terrified. I have never known greater fear, truly. When she was at work and the Institute would get a phone call, I felt physically ill until I could answer it. Every day, I woke up and asked myself… ‘Is this the day where we lose him?’. It’s not a good way to live, John. But every night, after another successful day, when I would get her in my arms, it was the most perfect thing. It is unbelievable. Me, a father?” He scoffed. “I just hope he looks like her.”

“Why?” John asked.

“I don’t want him to be plagued with my visage,” Laszlo said. “If he resembles me, people will know he’s mine, and he won’t ever escape my reputation. I know the name Kreizler is an unusual one, but he can deny relation. If he has my name and face… There’s no denying it.”

“And you’re ashamed of that?” John asked. “Laszlo, there is nothing but pride to be had in your name. Kreizler is… You’re a man of science, a world-renowned alienist. You are intelligent, smart as a whip! You are dedicated to your work and your family, and you treat people with the utmost respect… Well, you treat your patients with the utmost respect.” John paused to dig his elbow playfully into Laszlo’s ribs, and Laszlo gave a little huffing laugh that held no true humor in it. “And you’re kind. You’d give your life for the people you love. A man can only ask for a friend as loyal as you. And you’re quite handsome, Laszlo. A child with any resemblance to you is a blessed one.”

“Alright—” Laszlo started plaintively.

“No, truly,” John said. He cast a glance at the door, then added, “May I confess something?”

Laszlo gave John a sideways glance, then nodded, and John took a deep breath. “I promised the good Mrs. Kreizler to keep this secret, but I feel it’s past time to tell you. The day you two met, when Sara brought her from the police station to the Institute, I heard her and Sara speaking as they left. I heard her say ‘That Kreizler fellow is quite handsome’. I confronted her on the basis of light teasing a few days later, and she implored me to not tell you. Got quite emotional about it, in fact. She said that she… She wanted to prove her place in the job. She said she didn’t want to be one of those women who joined a man’s work and fell in love and become some subservient housewife. She wanted to be a detective. But, before your wedding, she admitted to me that she was glad that what had happened had happened. She told me she couldn’t see any other life that didn’t have you in it. She told me that she had even considered naming your son after you, but she knew that you would fight her tooth and nail about that. She loves you, Laszlo, and she’ll make sure that your son does too. Hell, he’ll be proud to carry the name Kreizler. All the more so if he looks like you. Don’t be ashamed of who you are or your past. The future has yet to come and, from what I can tell, it’ll be a good future. Don’t waste it by worrying about if your son is proud of you or himself, because, frankly, that’s a fucking ridiculous thing to worry abut. He’s your son, Laszlo; the part you should worry about is how to shrink that ego that he’ll have.”

Laszlo smiled once more, and he drew John into a tight hug. The men were quiet, and John gave Laszlo a few firm pats on his back. “Thank you, John,” Laszlo said softly. “Those are kind words.”

John shrugged. “It’s the least I can do,” he said. “I suspect that you’ll wear divots on the floor if you keep pacing, though.”

“Can you blame me?” Laszlo asked. “Just beyond that door… It kills me.”

Just then, there was another cry of pain, and John heard you cry out: “Laszlo! I need you!”

Laszlo couldn’t have moved faster if he were shocked by electricity. He flew from his place on the wall and opened the door, and he was instantly by your side. John hesitated for a moment, seeing your nakedness and open legs, but Laslzo beckoned him in. John entered slowly, taking in the smell of sweat and blood, and then he really examined you. The bedsheets around you were dark with birthing fluid, your nightgown discarded on the floor. Sara sat next to you, undressed down to her underskirt, with her sleeves rolled to her elbow, holding your hand and giving you soft encouragement. Your skin was shining with strained perspiration, your hair matted to your forehead. Your bottom lip was nearly bitten raw, and your hand clambered out for Laszlo’s. Your chest heaved as you tried to breathe slowly, and Laszlo pushed your damp hair from your face. “You’re doing great,” he whispered and planted a kiss on your temple. “John, come here. Hold her hand while I check her dilation.”

The two men switched places, and you gave John Schuyler Moore a smile. “Glad you could make it, John,” you said, reaching for his face and drawing him in to put a kiss on his cheek. “Oh, Christ, it hurts.”

“I know it does,” John said gently. “But you’re being so strong. I’m proud of you.”

John looked expectantly down to Laszlo, examining you, and, when he looked at you, his eyes were tearing up. “It’s time, my beloved,” he said, and you gasped. “You need to push.”

“What? No!” you cried. Fear radiated through your body, and you sobbed. “No, it’s too early! The doctor isn’t here yet!”

“There’s no choice,” Laszlo said. He was firm, his jaw set, but you could see the emotions welling behind his eyes. He was scared too. He was as unprepared as you were. Sure, he was a doctor, but he hardly knew how to deliver a baby. “He’s coming now. Sara, run to the kitchen and get water, a clean rag, a large empty bowl, and a pair of scissors; a sharp knife would be sufficient.”

Sara nodded and, before she left, she gave you a quick kiss on your forehead. “You can do this,” she said. “I believe in you.”

You could hardly focus on your husband’s words, telling you to relax as much as possible and push when he said. The sensation of pushing was an odd one, your middle cramping with the force of it, and a whimper fell from you. You held John’s hand tightly, so tightly that your brief moments of levity from pushing had you apologizing for it, but the contraction would return, and you had to push again. Sara returned after the second bout of pushing, bearing all the tools required, and Laszlo quickly dipped his hands in the water to cleanse them. For the moment, he was bearing the dual responsibility of father and doctor, and he wore both roles on opposite sides of his face. His eyes were steadied and focused, using his Harvard-granted education, but his mouth was screwed up in concern. His forehead shined with sweat, and he paused in-between the fifth and sixth round to roll up his sleeves. Sara and John picked up the familial slack, encouraging you and helping you where they could.

Your vision grew spotty after ten rounds of intense and strenuous pushing, and you gasped out, “Las, I-I can’t do it anymore, I can’t—”

You wished that you hadn’t looked down. If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have seen Laszlo’s white shirt spotted with blood, the stuff caked under his fingernails. The sight of it made you sniffle and hold back a gag. The wrinkles in your husband’s forehead were deep, but they dissipated when he looked at you. “Yes, you can,” Laszlo said firmly. “You’re too far along, there’s no stopping now, my love.”

“Laszlo, I can’t,” you croaked. “I can’t, I— I can hardly breathe or see, I-I cannot do it anymore!”

Laszlo paused, studying your face for a moment, and he stood up from the floor in front of bed and leaned forward to capture your chin in his hand. “You have to,” he said firmly, pressing his forehead against yours. “He’s nearly halfway out, coming feet-first. You need to finish what you’ve started, my dear. Goddamn it, finish this, for me, for you, and for him. Do you hear me? Fucking finish this.”

You nodded, gritting your teeth. Under any other circumstances, you would have slapped him outright for being so harsh with you, but you needed to hear it. You had no idea that you were that far along, and the thought that perhaps you were a few minutes away from holding your son gave you the strength you needed. You took a deep breath and readjusted your grips on Sara and John’s hands, and you waited for Laszlo to tell you to push. And you did. You felt a popping in your ears and a fierce snap in your hips, and the culmination of what felt like eons of work made you give one, hoarse, exhausted, gut-wrenching scream.

And then… There was another. But not your screams. They weren’t coming from your mouth, tearing up your throat what felt like beyond repair. No, no, they were coming from—

The soft snip of scissors interrupted the air of high shrieks, and then the weight of an even six pounds was settled on your chest. You looked down through spotted and tearful eyes, and you found a small being laying on your chest, wailing his little lungs out. All pink and wrinkled, still covered in little flecks of blood and other such stuff. He had a small swirl of dark hair atop his little head, and his mouth was like a rosebud. He had a tiny nose and, when you looked at Laszlo, you saw the same one. “Oh my God,” you gasped, instantly putting your hands on your baby’s back. “Oh my God! Hello there, baby. Oh my God, Laszlo—”

Laszlo took up John’s place at your head, and you looked to see his shirt splotched with your blood, tear tracks shining bright on his face. You had never seen him smile so big. He placed a gentle hand on his son’s back, touching him as if he would disappear the moment contact was made, and he swallowed thickly. “Welcome to the world,” he said softly, and he leaned down and settled a kiss on his son’s head. Almost instantly, he stopped his crying, devolving into quiet coos and whimpers, and you laughed.

“God, of course he loves you more,” you laughed. “Oh, Las… Oh, he’s here.”

“What’s his name?” Laszlo asked.

You didn’t have to think. You had been pondering ever since you found out you were pregnant, and you had come up with the perfect name. “Friedrich Wolfgang Kreizler,” you said.

“Nietzche, Mozart…” Laszlo mumbled, stroking his beard in wonderment. “Yes, that’ll do quite nicely, I think.”

Laszlo settled down on the bed next to you, and you carefully passed Friedrich to him. He held him in the crook of his left arm, and his heart nearly stopped when his son looked at him. Dark brown eyes, with a small dark birthmark just at the top of his left cheek. Just like Papa. “A spitting image, eh?” Laszlo chuckled lightly.

“Chip off the old block,” John chuckled. Sara moved to pull the blankets up over your body, and you captured her and pulled her into a tight hug. You whispered a “Thank you” to her, and she smiled. Sara was always so supportive in her own way, and the smile meant the world to you. “Congratulations are in order, Kreizlers.”

Kreizlers. Plural. There were three of you now, a full family. Mama, Papa, and baby. “Thank you for your help,” you told John. “I truly couldn’t have managed it without you.”

You let your head fall back on your pillow, and you glanced at the window. The sky outside was painted with ink, the smallest pinpricks of silver coming through; it had taken all day and into the night. “Is it past midnight?” you asked, and John quickly looked at his watch.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s Christmas Day.”

You laughed, and looked at Laszlo. “You did say he was the best present you’d ever gotten,” you told him.

“I did say that,” Laszlo agreed. He hadn’t taken his eyes off of Friedrich since you had given him to him. You could hardly place the emotion he had in his eyes, but you knew that it was some form of love. “I meant it then, and I mean it now.”

“I love you,” you told him.

Laszlo finally looked at you, and he saw an entirely new woman. He thought that the whole spiel about a “mother’s glow” was a myth, a way to make women feel beautiful after the strain of giving birth, but he saw it more clearly than anything. You were radiant. Your skin was sparkling and your eyes were bright, and your smile could have lit up a thousand street lamps. Motherhood suited you. “I love you too,” he said. He leaned over to kiss you, and even that felt new.

Finally, Laszlo broke the kiss, and he said, “Let me take him to get clean. You rest up, my beloved; I’ll have Cyrus bring you something to eat.”

You nodded. You had no qualms about Laszlo taking Friedrich. He was his father, after all, and you knew that Laszlo would sooner burn his library than hurt his son. “Can I have a moment alone?” you asked.

“Of course,” Sara offered. “I’m proud of you.”

“You should go hold your nephew,” you said. “That is, if Papa Bear will release him for long enough.”

The four of you laughed, and Laszlo stood up from the bed. “Get some sleep,” he said. “I’ll be back shortly.”

Laszlo could only gaze down at Friedrich as he carried him into his nursery. The place was decorated with images of animals, per your request, and John had managed to paint a collection of birds that lined the top of the walls. He took special care to wipe Friedrich clean, tilting his head as he listened to his little man’s curious vocalizations, and he chose a blanket that Lucius Isaacson had knitted to swaddle him in. Laszlo had done the stereotypical practice, tormenting the small bags of flour that sat in the kitchen, and he had gotten quite good at doing it with his one arm. He slowed to a stop, though, and he looked at his right arm for a moment. He looked back at Friedrich, seemingly asleep in his warm wool swaddle, and he took his arm by the wrist and guided it to his son. Carefully, he pressed his cheek into his palm, and his heart swooned at the feeling of his warm, soft skin against his fingers. He nearly felt like he would pass out. He loved you, yes, but he could never love anything more than the boy in front of him.

The moment was shattered, though, when, down the hall, Laszlo heard you give a clipped shout of his name. “Las—!”

“John!” Laszlo called, and John took his place with Friedrich as he raced to the bedroom. When he opened the door, he expected the worst. He expected pools of blood, perhaps a corpse, his wife and the mother of his son to have succumbed to an unknown complication in the time it took him to clean Friedrich.

He didn’t expect an empty bed and an open window, the thin curtain rustling with the breeze. He didn’t expect a small slip of paper amongst the stained sheets. He didn’t expect to read the page and grow so angry that he let out a howl of anguish: Mother Mary has delivered. She must repent. Happy Christmas, Doctor.

[honey-dewey]

Two

Frankie Morales/Reader

Word Count: 2,691

Warnings: Depressed Frankie, big angst with lots of hurt/comfort

Short A/N: Inspired by the ‘Sleeping at Last’ song titled “Two.” It is not necessary to listen to the song, but it does help. 

Frankie has a very bad day and somehow winds up at his best friend’s house. When he walks through the door, he’s met with their voice, singing something soft and comforting. Of course, when they see him in the state he’s in, they start to sing something else. Something that truly exposes every emotion in the room. 

Frankie rarely had very bad days. 

Sure, he had days where everything sucked and he just wanted to crawl under the covers and hide, but those were simple dime a dozen bad days. He had one of those every few weeks, and he knew how to deal with them. A cup of coffee and a phone call usually did the trick to shake away the brain fog. 

However, every so often, about once every five or six months, shit just went sideways for Frankie. His bad days were ten times worse than they should be. Everything broke until he wasn’t sure if anything would be okay ever again. 

Today was one of those days. 

In reality, he should’ve seen it coming. The past week had been absolute garbage. He’d gotten into trouble at his job on Monday and was now on permanent watch for a month, one of his best friends had broken their leg at midnight on Tuesday and he’d been in the hospital until three in the morning that night, he’d been getting less and less sleep until his nights were just as long as his days, and the boys were all busy this weekend and they’d have to skip movie night.

In retrospect, it was the perfect recipe for a very bad day. 

When he’d woken up to dismally grey weather and a raging migraine on Friday, he decided the universe was definitely out to get him. 

He just barely managed to drag himself through work, simply sitting there with his head low and his back bent as he did his repetitive job, the glare off the computer doing no favors for his pounding head. He didn’t even really react when his boss reprimanded him for mixing up the files. He just took the slap on the wrist with an increasingly heavy heart and headed silently out to his car. 

He ended up in a tailspin when he left work that night, going from place to place and just sitting in his truck upon arriving, numb until he managed to put his foot on the pedal and drive off. It wasn’t until he passed your townhouse three times that he actually managed to put the car in park in your driveway and slowly walk up to your front door. 

When you’d gotten your own house, Frankie was the first and only one to get a spare key. A spare key he now shoved into the lock and turned, hearing the door unlock. He stepped into the entryway, dropping his keys on their hook and shuffling out of his boots. He may be horribly depressed, but he wasn’t uncivilized.

“Frankie?” Your voice echoed from upstairs, soft music playing in the background that you’d been singing along to. He almost recognized the song, some cheery holiday tune you listened to all year long. “Frankie, is that you?” 

Frankie didn’t say anything. He simply stood in your tiny entryway, numb and quiet. He didn’t have the energy to respond, or to walk up the stairs to see you. He merely waited, watery eyes focused on the rapidly blurring carpet on your stairs. 

“Frankie?” You repeated, stopping in your singing when he remained silent. “You okay down there?” 

Your mismatched footsteps did little to break him out of his own head, the cast covered in signatures slowing you down as you came down the stairs and stood in front of Frankie. You were wearing old red pj pants with white polka dots and an oversized Fleetwood Mac shirt that you’d definitely stolen from him at one point. “Oh Frankie,” you murmured, slowly tracing your hands over his cheeks. “Bad day?” 

“Very,” Frankie choked out, leaning into your touch. He knew he looked awful, his face sunken and pale from lack of regular food and the significantly low amount of sleep he’d been getting. You made a small noise of sympathy, taking his hands. 

“Let’s go upstairs,” you said softly, pulling Frankie along as you headed into the kitchen. You knew, in this state, that Frankie was pliant, his brain shut off entirely as he lost himself in his own depression. It hurt your heart to see him focus so hard on walking up the stairs, his brows furrowed as he put everything he had into lifting his feet and slowly shuffling upwards. It was so unlike that active and cheery Frankie you knew so dearly. 

The music changed when you two reached the kitchen, and your eyes brightened as you got an idea. You grabbed your phone, keeping a firm hand wrapped around Frankie’s hand. As you scrolled, you kicked a chair out with your good foot and put your phone on the table so you could urge Frankie to sit down. Continuing to flick through your playlist, you finally found just the right song and hit play. 

“Sweetheart, you look a little tired, when did you last eat?” You sang softly along with the music, snapping Frankie out of his thoughts. You’d sang this to your cousins when they’d been sick and to Santi when he’d been panicking over a minor surgery he needed. It was a lullaby you sang to the boys when they couldn’t sleep after getting too drunk and it had slowly morphed into a genuine comfort. However, Frankie had never heard the first word be ‘sweetheart.’ You always said ‘Dear boys’ or ‘dear heart.’ 

“Come in and make yourself right at home, stay as long as you need.” You continued, handing Frankie a slice of pizza off a tray resting on the counter. It was still warm, but not hot, just the way he liked it. He looked down at it, a sudden horrible hunger consuming his stomach as he finally realized he’d been neglecting food all day. 

You sat at the table with him as he ate the pizza, slowly singing more of the song until Frankie was entirely relaxed into your kitchen chair. “Tell me, is something wrong? If something's wrong, you can count on me. You know I'll take my heart clean apart if it helps yours beat.” 

He felt something hit his hand, looking down and seeing a tear. Which was the moment he realized he was crying. Immediately, you stood, wrapping Frankie in a hug and allowing him to bury his head into your chest and finally, for the first time all day, let out every emotion he was feeling.

“It's okay if you can't find the words. Let me take your coat, and this weight off of your shoulders,” you sang gently, taking Frankie’s hat off and resting it on the table. You carded through his hair, swaying slightly as he cried into your shirt. 

Frankie pulled away, wiping his eyes and looking up at you. You smiled, scratching his scruff and putting your hands on his cheeks, the coolness of your fingertips positively burning his skin. 

“Like a force to be reckoned with, a mighty ocean or a gentle kiss. I will love you with every single thing I have,” you sang, moving your hands and pressing kisses into the patches in his facial hair. “Like a tidal wave, I'll make a mess. Or calm waters, if that serves you best. I will love you without any strings attached.” 

Frankie froze. He’d never heard this bit of the song before. “What?” 

You stopped, not bothering to pause the music that kept playing without you singing another line. “Oh Fish, darling, you’re a mess. Are you okay?” 

Frankie nodded, slowly putting a shaking hand on your shoulder. The return of the nickname caused a hole in his chest to open, keening softly until you asked what was wrong. 

“Fish,” he whispered out, beyond the lump of tears that seemed to be choking him. 

You nodded, understanding every word he managed to pack into that one trembling syllable. 

“Okay Frankie,” you said, pouring all the love you could muster into his name. “It’s okay. I hear you.” 

You smiled, poking his nose and gently urging him to his feet after a minute. “C’mon Frankie. You need sleep.” 

He was limp putty in your hands as you slowly tugged him up the stairs once more, going as slow as he needed to. You opened your bedroom door and guided him to the bed, gently kissing his hairline. 

“I’ll be right back,” you promised, pulling away. “Just gonna go set something up, okay?” 

Frankie nodded, watching you go with blurring vision. He desperately wanted to call you back, to feel your arms around his body and let himself sink into you, losing every aspect of himself.

The sound of running water and your mismatched footsteps snapped Frankie out of his immediate misery. He lifted his head and watched you return to him, holding out your hands. 

“I love you,” you said with a smile, pulling Frankie to his feet. “But you smell and you’re covered in sweat.” 

He followed you into the bathroom, where your bathtub was already filling, a layer of bubbles sitting on top of the rippling water. The entire bathroom smelled familiar, and Frankie realized, watching you crouch down to grab something from your bathroom cabinet, that you’d used your favorite lavender honey soap. The one you saved for special occasions. 

“Do you want help?” You asked, straightening and smoothing a hand over the edge of Frankie’s shirt sleeve. He nodded, a tiny bit of embarrassment pooling in his stomach. Not because he was nervous about you seeing him naked, because you’d already seen him naked multiple times and he’d stopped being ashamed a while ago. He just hated that he had to ask for help undressing, like he was a toddler unable to care for themself. 

You, however, simply took the bottom edge of his shirt and lifted it, carefully folding the shirt once it was off and placing it on the bathroom counter. His pants followed, then his underwear and socks, until you were holding his hands and keeping him balanced as he stepped into the tub. 

The water was perfectly warm, surrounding Frankie and giving him life as he sunk lower. You smiled, seeing his muscles finally relax somewhat. “Will you be okay if I go grab a cup of water for you?” 

Frankie nodded, watching you turn the water off and walk out of the bathroom, leaving the door open so he could hear you going down the stairs and filling a cup with water. You came back up as quickly as you could, soft music following you and growing louder as you got closer. 

You set the water down on the counter, next to the folded clothes. Along with the cup, you put your phone down, still playing that gentle music. 

“C’mere,” you murmured to Frankie, slowly dragging a stool over and sitting at the back of the tub. “C’mon honey, come here.” 

He moved without thinking, shifting in the water until he was in front of you, entirely vulnerable to your actions. 

Those actions being you lifting a worn out plastic cup and slowly pouring the warm water over Frankie’s head. One hand moved to his forehead, shielding his face from the water. He leaned backwards, head tipping towards you. His eyes closed as you continued, rhythmically soaking his hair until you deemed it okay for shampoo. 

Which was when Frankie really melted. 

You smiled, watching every tiny movement he made as you massaged shampoo into his hair. His entire body went limp, softly saying things that weren’t English as you kept going, if only to help relax him. 

After shampoo came the conditioner, which he didn’t fight you over. Usually, he just washed his hair and kept going, not bothering to do anything fancy to it. But under your firm fingers, he let you do whatever you wanted. 

Finally, you were done, leaving Frankie with a bar of his favorite soap and a small kiss on the forehead. 

“I’ll be back, okay?” You said softly, holding his face in your hands. 

Frankie hummed, still not ready for solid words in a language you’d understand yet. You smiled, kissing the tip of his nose and walking out, leaving him to wash his body on his own. 

It was a laborious task for him at the moment, but by the time you’d returned, he had done it, and you rewarded him with ample praise as you drained the tub and helped him out. 

“Think you can dry yourself off?” You asked, holding out a towel. 

Frankie shrugged, looking down at the old towel you were offering. “Ayudame?” 

You smiled. Over the years, Frankie and Santiago had been teaching you some Spanish, just in case, but mostly for fun. You knew the basics, and it was enough to know what Frankie needed right now. “Okay. Come closer honey.” 

Frankie grinned slightly at the nickname, and your heart swelled upon seeing his smile. “How do you say that in Spanish?” You asked, starting to towel him dry. 

“El cariño.” 

You nodded, tapping his shoulder and nudging Frankie lower so you could reach his hair. “El cariño,” you repeated softly, running your fingers through his hair and making it stick up. You smiled, handing him the towel. “Think you can do the rest?” 

Frankie nodded, so you left him alone to grab some spare clothes. Digging out an old ass shirt that no longer had a legible logo and a pair of sweatpants, you headed back into the bathroom, seeing Frankie already in his underwear. 

“Here we are,” you said, holding out the sweatpants. “Can you get it?” 

Again, Frankie nodded, slowly putting his pants on. When you held his shirt out, he looked at you with pleading eyes, and you helped him slide it on. 

“I think it’s time for bed,” you said, taking Frankie’s hand and guiding him to your bed. “Left or right?” 

Frankie got into the bed, immediately sliding to the left side. You crawled into the bed as well, turning the lights out and letting the moon filtering through the slats in your blinds illuminate Frankie’s exhausted form. 

He made a small noise, spurring you to scoot closer, until he was firmly cuddled up to your chest. You scratched through his damp hair, pressing kisses into his warm skin. You knew that tomorrow you’d have the usual Frankie back. Cheerful and goofy and simply a best friend. But tonight, right now, you got cuddly and broken Frankie. The Frankie who needed to be praised and held and slowly put back together again. The Frankie who needed a lover. 

“I love you Frankie,” you murmured, looking down at the top of his head. “I love you so much.” 

“Yo también te amo, cariño,” Frankie mumbled, his half asleep voice gliding over you and giving you chills. 

The next morning was nothing like you expected. 

You woke up to the warmth of Frankie’s arms around you, cuddled up to him, head resting on his chest. You could hear his heartbeat and feel his chest rising and falling with gentle, half-asleep breaths. Rolling over and sitting up with the intent to check the time, you squeaked as Frankie pulled you back into his chest. 

“Five more minutes, cariño,” he mumbled, eyes still closed as he chased another moment of sleep. 

You sighed. “You get another five Fish. I want coffee.” 

Frankie opened his eyes, showing heartbreaking betrayal. “Stay?” 

You were a sucker for that look, so you took a deep breath and hunkered down for another five minutes. 

Which turned into half an hour of mindless cuddling, but that was okay. 

“Hey Frankie,” you mumbled at one point, once the sun had fully risen and was painting your bedsheets with waves of golden light. “Did you mean it last night?” 

“Yeah.” Frankie propped himself up on his elbow, looking at you. “Did you?” 

You sat up, reaching out to grab his face and kiss him, morning breath and all. 

“Yeah. I did.” 

Needless to say, Frankie’s bad days may have been terrible and numbing and so desolate he thought he had no one to turn to. But he didn’t. He had you. He would always have you.

[treksickfic]

The City on the Edge of Forever

I’m so excited to share this with you, anonymous requester! After you sent in your prompt, I had another anonymous reader get in touch with me to let me know they’d already written a story that matched your wishes exactly. 

The author of this story is French, not a native English speaker, and they’ve written a beautifully touching story that expands on the TOS episode, City on the Edge of Forever.  I am posting it here on my blog, with their permission, because they do not wish to have an account nor have their identity attached to the story. This writer has already become dear to me and I’m honored that they trusted me with their writing. I hope you enjoy it!

It’s a long story, nearly 3,000 words, so RIP to your dash if you’re on mobile.  I didn’t want to post it on AO3 or anywhere else except my blog, which feels safer.

Trigger warning for panic attack and trigger warning for some mild emeto, if you’re sensitive to that. It’s not very graphic.

“James Kirk, I demand an explanation!”

Scotty, Uhura, the teleportation technicians, and the security guards were completely dumbfounded by the doctor's explosion. They watched the captain stagger off, livid, as if he had been punched in the stomach. He disappeared without a word, with long stiff steps, from the room.

“Jim!” yelled McCoy.

 “Not now, doctor.” Spock's cold, dry voice stopped him.

Spock squeezed McCoy’s arm firmly and Scott was sure to read in his black eyes a burst of fury. McCoy noticed it too, because despite the storm of his own eyes, he remained silent.

“Everyone, at your posts,” declared the Vulcan. “Scott, you are in charge for now.”

“Yes, sir.” Scotty nodded, refraining from asking any questions.

As soon as they had come through the Time Gate, seconds after they left, it seemed, but many weeks later for them, he had seen that they were not fine at all. The captain was pale, deaf to their questions, obviously struggling with the tears that filled his eyes. The doctor was just as white, his face contracted with a terrible anger. As for Spock, he kept his eyes fixed on Jim, his usual indifference altered by deep and obvious concern.

What the hell had happened?

This is precisely the question McCoy yelled at Spock, pulling himself brutally out of his grip as they entered his office, safe from prying ears:

“Damn it, Spock!”

 “If you calm down, doctor, maybe I could explain.”

 “Calm down? CALM DOWN? Shit, Spock! How do you want me to calm down?”

 “Breathing. Deep, and slowly. Start by sitting down.”

 “Don't fuck with me!”

 “The Vulcans don't fuck with people. Now, please calm down.”

 Jim killed someone without thought. There's no way I can calm down. Shit!”

Spock gritted his teeth and an aura of icy disappointment emanated from him:

“Jim killed someone without thought...do you get along, doctor? You've been aboard this ship for over a year. You even pretend to be the captain's friend. How can you accuse him of this without thinking for two seconds?”

 “I saw it ! He prevented me from—"

“--and your poor little mind preferred to give in to this abject emotion rather than try to find a logical explanation. Jim, the most compassionate man we know…would he have acted like this for no reason?”

These words had the effect of a cold shower on McCoy. He shook his head, gradually coming to himself. He hadn't actually thought for a single moment, mired in a nauseating fury that he hadn't even tried to control. Shame replaced anger and he sagged in his seat and closed his eyes for a moment.

The past few weeks had been a total blur. He had woken up in a room with antique furniture, with an adorable woman at his bedside: Edith Keeler. It had taken him some time to realize that she was neither a hallucination nor a very good actress, but that he was indeed in a different era. Back in the 1930s. And he had barely had time to figure it out and come out of the bedroom to find answers before Jim and Spock, overjoyed, fell on him.

The next second Edith was dead. And it was Kirk's fault., He had kept him from coming to her aid. It had been too much emotion, too quickly and too soon. He had not managed to digest it, even less to understand anything other than what he had seen:

Jim had killed Edith.

But now that Spock had brought him back to reality, it all seemed absurd. And he noticed certain details: His friend's trembling when he held him; the tears in his green eyes when he leaned against the wall; Spock's unusually soft words when he had defended Jim, "he knows doctor, he knows."

How could he have seen nothing? Holding back a moan, he confronted Spock's stern face again:

“Explain it to me.”

“I'll do it quickly. In the timeline of our current story, Edith Keeler dies in 1930. In the one you walked through, paranoid after the cordrazine syringe accident, her ideals of peace and openness reach Roosevelt's ears and America becomes a peaceful country. That prevents its involvement in the second world war. Germany wins and dominates the world. Our time, therefore, does not exist.”

“Oh.”

“By the time you got there, after roughly locating your destination, we got to know Edith. A very charming woman, particularly intelligent.”

“And, Jim—"

“Was deeply in love with her. But for the good of a whole world and not solely himself, he let her die and prevented you from committing irreparable damage.”

“My god.”

McCoy put his head in his hands, overcome with excruciating guilt. Spock watched him, suppressing the harsh words that itched on his lips. The man had realized his mistake. It was useless to add more in the current state. He sighed for a long time, feeling unpleasantly empathetic towards Jim. He admired the way the man had managed to silence all of his instincts to save everyone:

“You should go see him, doctor. I think leaving him alone right now is not the best solution. Especially since he slept and ate very little while we were on earth, and even less after he realized that Edith had to die. He was ill several times during the night. He needs help.”

“Perhaps it is better ... Chapel—”

“No, Leonard,” Spock said, as kindly as he could. “He needs you.”

McCoy let out a deep sigh. He felt silly, and unforgivable. But for the sake of his friend, and indirectly, the sake of the crew, he knew Spock was right. Grabbing his medical equipment, he left in the direction of the captain's quarters.

 *****

Jim rested his forehead against the cool edge of the toilet. The doctor's words were circling in his mind, adding further weight to his overwhelming grief. He felt sick, his stomach as tight as his chest. A discomfort that had become familiar over the past few days. The intense nausea that rolled and rolled, threatening at every moment to overflow was a most unpleasant physical manifestation of his stress.

Despite his efforts to conserve food that was already scarce in their daily life in 1930, there were times when he couldn't do anything about it. Nightmares woke him in an agonizing sweat, on the verge of ruining the atrocious coarse cover of their flop.

He managed each time to sneak into the bathroom before returning the meager pittance with spasms he tried to silence. He also appreciated the discretion of Spock, who had the delicacy of pretending to sleep when Jim returned to his bed several minutes later, breathless and exhausted. But now that he was alone, aboard the Enterprise, he had no reason to contain himself, and did not fight the gagging that came out violently, like revenge for being held back so long. His stomach, however empty, kept revolting, replacing his sobs with endless contractions.

He had barely activated the door to his quarters when they had started, and he had yielded to the spasms with some relief. As unpleasant as vomiting was, his whole body tense and sore as he curled up over the toilet, at least it kept him from thinking about it. Being sick kept his mind on constant alert, focusing his attention on the spasms, gasps, bile, burning and kept the fear away. Unbearable, interminable, but ... secondary.

He coughed cautiously, catching his breath, feeling even sicker from the pungent smell that hung around him…the smell as horrible as the way he felt. This place of suffering and abandonment suited him.

He leaned over awkwardly when the bile passed his throat for the umpteenth time and spilled out in a long convulsion. He grabbed his stomach and closed his eyes so he couldn’t see the mess coloring the water again. The dizziness began to build, the light becoming unbearable as a migraine took hold of his temples, seeping through to his sinuses. He shivered, trying to reach for the chase to vent some of his weakness, when a hand rested on his forehead. Incredibly cool, it brought such comfort that he could not suppress a fragile sigh.

Tenderly the hand placed a damp cloth on the back of his neck and then finally came to cover his eyes. There was the terribly aggressive sound of the toilet flushing, then a voice whispering for the light to drop to 20%.

That voice ...

His comfort immediately ceased, replaced by anguish. He coughed sharply, spitting out more bile in an effort to shake off the impending grief. He could do nothing against the intense tremors that made him gasp, nor the panicked sob that burst through the vomiting.

“Shhh, Jim.” The voice was a broken whisper. “Shhh, everything is fine.”

Kirk wanted to yell at him to go away, to leave him, not to hurt him anymore. Irrationally afraid of the anger that had rained over him earlier at the prospect of having to face reality. Instead he could only moan, shaken by a horrible, nauseating cough.

Feeling Jim shake and panic under his fingers, McCoy was crushed by an intense wave of guilt. He had seen Jim gripped with grief, stress, drunkenness, anger... but never so completely. It was the first time he seemed ... broken ... and it was largely his fault.

The abnormal heat radiating from his skin indicated a high fever and explained his lack of self control. McCoy took a syringe out of his bag and spoke in a very soft voice so as not to hurt his friend's headaches.

“Jim, I'm going to inject you with a painkiller, it'll help you relax.”

He had no other answer than a small hiccup and a burst of bile.

Nervous vomiting, McCoy noticed. It was serious. He was going to have to play it safe to get the captain to calm down enough to free himself from his sadness and he hoped the hypo would act quickly. He thrust the syringe into his biceps and took advantage of the slight respite that followed to quickly run the medical tricorder over Jim’s upper body.

The latter told him what he already knew: extreme stress, high fever, deficiencies in iron and magnesium, low blood pressure...nothing to indicate a gastric bug apart from weakness due to deficiencies, which reinforced his theory of psychogenic nausea.

McCoy was relieved to find that the sedative had done its work: Jim was shaking less and seemed more lucid.

“Bones...what--?”

Bones. So he didn't blame him. This man's empathy would kill him eventually, the doctor thought. He put a protective arm around the Jim’s shoulders and another under his chest to support him. He could feel the angry stomach muscles that continued to struggle and tighten. He gave a sad little smile.

“We are going to talk about all this. But first, we are going to get out of this horrible room. You need to lie down.”

“Um, that's not safe,” Jim grimaced with a little hiccup.

“I'll take a bucket, but I want you to lie down. Doctor's orders.”

 “If it's an o-order,” he stammered, in a slight attempt at humor.

Jim allowed himself to be helped without opening his eyes, too ill to protest, and too weak to fend for himself. Bones almost carried him to his bed.

Once lying down, McCoy carefully removed Jim’s boots and socks, pulled up a wonderfully warm blanket and put a cloth on his forehead. Then Jim heard the familiar whirr of the tricorder passing once more over his body and finally the sound of several mixes. Careful fingers rested on his right temple.

“Can you open your eyes?”

“Urgh, Bones, I'll throw up if I open them.”

“There is a bucket, don't hold back. I need you to look at me.”

Jim groaned but obeyed. The light, even though very dim, made him moan in pain. It penetrated his head like a blade and triggered, as announced, a violent nausea.

McCoy held him very gently as he threw up a thin trickle of bilious saliva. He fell completely exhausted on the pillow once the attack was over. The doctor muttered something unintelligible and wiped his face.

“I should send you to the infirmary, Jim. You have serious deficiencies and that added to the stress...this is a perfect combination for a migraine in due form. I'll put you on an IV to regulate your sugar levels and give you a strong pain reliever. It should help you feel better.”

Once everything was in place, a tactical, hesitant silence settled between them. Jim could feel his presence, sitting on the edge of the bed rather than a chair, and the warm, warm hand pressed to his shoulder. The exhaustion and sadness rose in power now that the disease could no longer build its walls around his mind. He saw Edith again. Edith and her sweetness, her love, her joy, her magnificent ideas.

"She's fair ... but not at the right time," Spock had said, trying to make her listen to reason when he...he told her that she had to...die. He had desperately looked for another way but...but—

He clenched his teeth, overtaken by the intensity of the pain. By the gesture. He had even been unable to look at her body. He had not turned around, refusing to see what he had just done, struck head-on by the horror and disgust emanating from the doctor.

He swallowed, feeling the tremors start again, the despair skyrocketing. McCoy, hearing the gasps in his friend's tight breath, tightened his grip on his shoulder.

“I ... I loved her...Bones—"

A tear gathered in the corner of his eye and he sniffled, trying to pull himself together:

“Jim,” McCoy whispered, his own emotions rising. “I ... I don't even know how to apologize.”

“You have nothing to excuse. You are right. I ... killed her.”

“No. You saved our world. You did what you had to.”

“Oh, you spoke to Spock,” Jim whispered with a bitter smile.

“Yes.”

Despite the darkness, McCoy could see the paleness growing and the captain's face tightening with the effort to hold back the sobs. He searched for a moment for words he could say to alleviate the pain. Not finding them, he shook his head.

Jim tried to speak, with difficulty. “I shouldn't—”

“You have the right to be sad. You just lost the one you love in an act of unimaginable courage. Jim, I'm an overly impulsive old fool, I can't even imagine what you've been through and I sincerely ask forgiveness for this unjustified anger.”

“Please, Bones—"

“No, let me finish. Thank you for your understanding, but you don't have to. I acted like an idiot.”

“You couldn't have known.”

“That's no excuse. I know you and should have taken a step back.”

“What is done is done.”

“Jim, what I'm trying to say is that you must not let my emotionally spoken words get to you. You didn't deserve it.”

“I...I searched and searched...and searched again. I couldn't get away from her even when I knew that—”

“You were in love.”

“No, Bones. I'm in love. A selfish person who regrets choices that he shouldn't regret.”

“You are human, and you are suffering. Let it go.”

Another tear rolled down, then another, and finally it was a torrent that poured into the pillow. The captain put a hand over his mouth to silence the gasps of despair and the overwhelming agony of loss. Bones gripped his shoulder, patting it in a comforting gesture. He watched Jim sob like a child, breathing laboriously through exhaustion and mourning. Then he gradually calmed down until he fell into a deep sleep.

The doctor sighed and wiped away his own tears that had started at the same time as his friend's, and that he had not tried to stop. He readjusted the IVs and scanned Jim’s body for the third time. His fever was still high from a mild viral infection after several weeks in the cold and fatigue undernourishment. Jim would be off for a few days and stay in bed.

When he left the room, the doctor was not surprised to find Spock standing and waiting with arched eyebrows.

“How is he?”

 “Exhausted and cold, but fine.”

 “Has he been able to express his sorrow?”

 “I guess, yes.” McCoy smiled, thinking of his friend's relaxed face as he left the room.

“And were you able to express yours?”

The doctor jumped slightly, not at all prepared for this question, much less for Spock to say it. He was sometimes pleasantly surprised by the well-hidden sensitivity of his Vulcan friend. A lump formed in his throat and he swallowed it.

“You are about to cry.”

“Damned be your insight, Mister Spock,” the doctor growled, a little annoyed.

“Humans all must cry at one time or another to get better, doctor. I do not understand why you put a manly bulwark in front of this natural mechanism.”

Bones laughed. “Wouldn't you find it embarrassing for me to break down in tears right now in your arms?”

He expected Spock to answer him, "Vulcans don't know the gene, doctor." Instead he replied, in his usual relaxed and serene tone, “If that makes you feel better, no.”

Such compassion was so strange that it almost seemed out of place. Leonard burst out into a frank laugh that turned without realizing it into a flood of tears. Tears of his own sadness this time, not empathy or guilt. Sadness he didn't think he had. Maybe he was also a little in love with Edith after all. And that the Vulcan understood it well before him.

Spock, moreover, did not pretend to leave, contenting himself to stay by his side until McCoy’s tears turned back into laughter.

“Why are you laughing?” the first officer asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, Mister Spock, because I’m thinking of the absurd spectacle we would have made if someone had been there. The ship's doctor weeping like a baby in front of a motionless Vulcan and their captain's closed door.”

Spock coughed and McCoy would swear to anyone who wanted to hear it that he was blushing.

“Well, you're not a hopeless case,” he said with a smirk, patting him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Spock.”

Then he turned on his heel towards the infirmary without hearing the relieved sigh of his alien friend.

[brittle-bone-gabe]

*Drug Use* Two Opposites, But Two Losers: Chapter Three - Slipping Under

Chapter One, Chapter Two, 

Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak is a first-year medical student trying to start off on the right foot, but being up all night to study and pull through on his assignments increases his need for coffee; this is where he meets his “favorite” new barista, Richie Tozier: an art student with bad habits. (I will specify a possible trigger in the chapter titles if it calls for one).

Pairings: Eddie x Richie, Ben x Beverly, Stan x Patty, Bill x Audra, Bill x Mike

Read on Ao3: Here

Richie was giddy to get back to his apartment, he spent his money, he had what he’s been craving for for days and was ready to get fucking turnt. Thankfully while slipping back into the apartment he didn’t see Bev’s shoes by the front door, and since Ben worked that 3rd shift job he was still asleep, which meant Richie could safely do his drugs without worrying about being caught. He’s had a long week, no matter how much he tried to convince himself to not give in his old habits Richie still did and he would feel bad about this, but only after he did his drugs. The stress of the week finally wore him down; first his tests weren’t going the way he wanted them to, work in itself wasn’t stressful but seeing the same regulars everyday who needed to strike up a long conversation with him every single time made him mentally exhausted. Richie hadn’t expected his depression to hit back so hard and out of the blue like this, otherwise he could’ve come up with a game plan to combat it. 

Once Richie slipped into his bedroom that was next to Ben and Bev’s, he closed and locked his door behind him out of pure habit so nobody would walk in on him… again. That’s how he ended up in rehab in the first place. Normally everyone in the apartment allowed each other to just walk into each other's rooms without knocking unless specified they can’t, that’s been a norm, but a few months back Richie didn’t think Ben and Bev would be home for a while to only find out that whatever they were doing got canceled. Needless to say Ben was not expecting to see Richie shooting up; Bev had never heard Ben yell so loudly the whole time they’ve been together. Seeing Richie sitting on the floor shirtless with his back against the wall with a needle in his arm was something that Ben could still see from time to time whenever he closed his eyes. Of course since then Ben has forgiven him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t somewhat more cautious while Richie was home. 

Making his way over to his desk, Richie shoved all the textbooks, notebooks, and various highlighters and pens off from the surface so he had space. His heart was slamming against his chest as he opened the bottom desk drawer, taking out a stained razor that was tucked under all the junk in a ziplock bag. He threw it on the desk before dropping his backpack onto his bed so he could get that brown paper bag out from underneath all his textbooks. In the back of his mind Richie knew that this was wrong, but being in the moment like this made it hard for him to care about anything besides the high he was going to have. 

Richie practically ripped the bag open, dropping the small bag with two-grams of cocaine into the palm of his hand. Well, whatever rational side of Richie’s brain that was telling him to not do this flew out the window once he laid eyes on the baggie. 

He poured a little less than half onto the desk as he plopped down on his old, crappy computer chair. He scooted in closer, fishing around for the one-inch cut up plastic straw that was in the same drawer as he began to break down and mash up the coke. Once it was good enough, Richie lined it up in front of him, leaning forward with the straw just outside his nostril as he gently began to inhale the drugs. 

Instantly, Richie’s nose, mouth, and even the back of his throat started to become numb. It was a feeling that he could never get used to and made him panic for a moment, thinking he was dying and couldn’t breathe, but in reality it was a normal thing that happened when doing cocaine. The ball of anxiety in his chest was starting to fade and being replaced with over excitement and a bunch of energy, he felt like he needed to do something or else he was going to explode. Richie began breathing heavily, rapidly looking around the room as if somebody was behind him or hiding in the room watching him break his word. 

“Fuck…” Richie breathed, standing up so quickly that he almost fell over from a sudden lightheadedness. He composed himself before rushing to search around the room for anything that could possibly be something spying on him. “Fuck you…” he mumbled to nobody in particular as he looked under the bed after looking in the closet. 

His room was too small for anyone to be hiding anywhere, so he forced himself to move on. Richie was quick to store his drugs back in the brown paper bag, shoving it underneath his bed for the time being until he was sober enough to find a better hiding spot. Nobody would be coming into his room anytime soon anyways, it would be fine. Richie swiped the razor and the cut up straw back into the bottom drawer, making sure they were covered up with the junk before heading out of his bedroom, slamming his door on accident behind him. 

With every step Richie took he was practically bouncing, he had so much built up energy right now he didn’t know what to do with it. He went into the living room, checking the front door, Bev still wasn’t home so that was great news. Aw, hell yeah. Richie was going to be on Cloud Nine throughout this whole high without a worry or care in the world. 

“What to do, what to do… what to do…” Richie kept mumbling to himself, tapping his fingers on either side of his head as if that would conjure up some kinda thought. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” There was a quick, sudden buzzing sound in Richie’s head that caused him to freak out, swinging his arms to the side as if they were bees or flies. “Oh! I knoooow~.” 

Richie pulled out his phone from his back pocket as he knelt down in front of the small bluetooth speaker system underneath the TV set. Honestly in this state, he had no idea what he was doing. All he could do was press buttons on both his phone and the speakers until something happened. Eventually the speakers beeped, indicating that Richie’s phone had successfully connected and was ready to play whatever media he wanted. Richie didn’t care about which song played, just as long as it would drown out the buzzing going on in his head. 

 The sounds from the speakers were muffled to Richie, seeming as though it wasn’t as loud as it truly was. He turned it up a bit louder before standing up, grabbing the sunglasses he normally used for whenever he was hungover and didn’t want to see any lights. His eyes were extremely sensitive to light right now, he didn’t need a major headache after he comes down.

Sure the music was drowning out whatever sounds Richie thought he was hearing, but now he had no idea what to do. All he could do was plop down on the couch, bouncing his leg uncontrollably while trying to collect his thoughts the best he could. 

What to do, what to do, what to do… 

It wasn’t long until Ben stormed out of his and Bev’s bedroom, bed head matching his grumpy expression from being woken up unexpectedly. Not only did he not like to be woken up early, but he especially hated when it was loud noises that woke him up. Usually Richie was more mindful with his sleeping schedule, Ben only had to remind him a couple of times when they moved into the apartment together, but since then he’s never had another complaint. 

Ben walked around the couch to see Richie slouching in his usual spot, his arms over his head while still bouncing his leg. 

When Richie noticed the taller man standing before him he had a huge, goofy smile on his face. 

“Beeeen!” Richie said loudly, jumping up from the couch, sunglasses still over his eyes. He held his arms out to Ben as if he was asking for a hug. 

Ben moved past him, unplugging the speaker from the wall, Richie dropped his arms in disappointment. 

“Dude, what the fuck are you doing?!” Ben demanded, not meaning to snap, but he was exhausted and just wanted to go back to bed and not have this conversation again when Richie knew better. 

Richie couldn’t help but frown. “Chillin’. Vibin’. Why? What’chu want?”

“Man, I’m trying to sleep.” He couldn’t see Richie’s expression due to the sunglasses, but he had a blank expression on his face as if he had no idea what Ben was talking about. So Ben took his silence as such. “...I work third shift, remember?” 

“Right! Right, right, right, right right…” Richie reached up to scratch his face, looking at anything other than Ben. 

“Are you already drunk?” 

“No.”

“Hungover?” 

“No.” 

“Why do you have sunglasses on?” 

“I…” Richie had no idea what to say, but he needed to think of something quick, “have a migraine…” 

It was obvious to anyone that that was bullshit. If Richie truly had a migraine then why would he have his music up so loud? The lights certainly wouldn’t be on… Ben’s seen Richie when he wasn’t feeling well and he acted like an actual child, not like this. 

“Right…” Ben started, too tired to deal with this right now, “please be quiet, Richie…” 

“Sorry.” 

Without saying anything else, Ben headed back into his room to, hopefully, try to get back to sleep. Well, now Richie felt bad. He didn’t mean to wake Ben up, he had no idea how loud he was playing his music. Whenever he did drugs he tried as hard as he could to avoid inserting himself in other people's lives for the moment until he sobered up for reasons exactly like that. 

“I’m sorry…” Richie mumbled to the empty room, taking off his sunglasses. The lights burned his eyes, but maybe it was something he deserved. “What else could you possibly fuck up?” He asked himself, fidgeting with the sunglasses still. Now he had no idea what to do… 

While lost in his thoughts trying to figure out what he should do to occupy his time, there was a knock at the door, causing Richie to jump. He slid the sunglasses back over his eyes before practically running over to the door so the noise wouldn’t wake up Ben again. He already felt bad about waking him up, even though he wasn’t sure what he did that woke him up. What happened again? 

Richie swung the door opened, standing there was his neighbor and friend Stanley Uris, looking slightly grumpy. That wasn’t unusual, he always seemed to have a resting bitch face, especially around Richie. Admittedly, when they first met they didn’t exactly get along, well… that was putting it nicely. They couldn’t stand each other; Richie was loud, whether that be with music, talking, or video games, while Stan was always quiet and minded his own business with his wife Patricia.

A huge smile spread across Richie’s face upon seeing him. 

“Stan the man! What’s up!” Richie said loudly, that smile still on his face. 

“You’re so noisy…” 

“Psh…” Richie leaned against the front door, swaying with it, “Didn’t mean to interrupt you and your wifes puzzle time.” Stan couldn’t help but roll his eyes, folding his arms over his chest, but it was clear that he was trying to hide a smile. “What’s it like being married at twenty-five? I bet you have a retirement fund too, right? No more parties for Stan the man.” 

“I hardly went to parties to begin with, you know that, idiot. And by the way, puzzles are bomb, so jot that down.” Richie laughed, rubbing an eye from underneath his sunglasses. “Why are you wearing those? Hungover?”

“Nah, man… Migraine. I haven’t left the house all day.”

“Right…” Stan started, already knowing that what he was saying was complete bullshit, “Bev said you two went to get lunch.”

“Oh, right…” he looked down at the floor before looking back up at Stan, “did I do that today?” 

“I also saw you at work, moron.” Stan was getting distracted by how much Richie was moving around, he couldn’t stay still more so than usual, he knew he had ADHD but this was worse. “Come over,” he finally said, knowing that Richie was on something. 

“...huh?”

Stan didn’t say anything else to him, he just grabbed Richie’s shirt sleeve and dragged him out of his apartment unit. The door closed behind him as they went next door to Stan’s apartment, Richie had no idea what was going on but whatever. This whole trip was going to be either a blur or he was straight up not going to remember it anyways. 

The difference between Stan and Patty’s apartment and the one Richie shared with Ben and Bev was that theirs was so neat and organized while the latter tried to keep their apartment clean but it just didn’t work out. It was clean enough, it was liveable and that’s all that mattered.

“You’re kidnapping me, that’s sweet,” Richie said sarcastically as they entered Stan’s apartment, shoving his hands in his pockets. He let out a dramatic sigh, leaning against the kitchen island. “My mouth is so fucking dry.” As soon as the words left his mouth Stan was holding a water bottle out to him, which Richie took happily, chugging it down almost instantly. “What do you want? Where’s Patty? I miss her.” 

“Work.” 

They moved from the kitchen to the living room, Richie plopped down on the couch while Stan sat in the reclining chair that was next to him. Richie couldn’t help but notice the half finished puzzle that was obviously meant to be a bird sitting in the middle of the living room on the coffee table. Stan and Patty’s relationship was cute, they were meant to be together and anyone who would meet their for the first time would assume they were in the honeymoon phase of their relationship rather than being married. They were the cutest couple that Richie has ever seen and he would die with that statement. ...but that wasn’t going to stop him from picking on them. 

“You guys are like… old people,” Richie pointed out, picking up one of the puzzle pieces, trying to fit it on one of the spots but dropped it back down when it didn’t fit. 

Stan laughed at how true that statement was. He and Patty were like an old married couple, not because they bickered or anything, but because they liked doing puzzles, sitting in silence just to read, watch birds, and even go to bed early. They fit together like… well… pieces of a puzzle. The time they spent together was perfect and they didn’t intend on changing a thing. 

“You should come with me to a party,” Richie tried again. Stan was one of his closest friends and sometimes it would be fun to have him come to a party with him, Bev, and Ben, but knowing him it was going to be an instant no. 

“Not happening, Trashmouth.” 

“You can’t blame me for trying.” Richie started bouncing his leg uncontrollably, squeezing the plastic water bottle in his hands so it was making that crinkling sound constantly.

Stan had zoned out as Richie started rambling on and on about… parties? He guessed? Richie was talking a hundred miles an hour, his leg still bouncing, fidgeting and itching at his forearm or rubbing his face. That was a huge red flag for Stan, recognizing the behavior instantly. The migraine story was bullshit, clearly, so why did Richie feel like he needed to lie to him? If he actually had one he’d be laying in bed all day, refusing to see the sunlight or make any noise. 

In the middle of the ramblings, Stan reached over quickly enough before Richie could react, pulling the sunglasses off from his face. Being stunned from the lights, Richie kept his eyes shut until the world kept from spinning. He opened eyes, even though his vision was blurry he could see the disappointed look on Stan’s face, his arms folded over his chest again, slowly shaking his head. 

“Uhhuh… that’s what I fucking thought,” Stan said, referring to Richie’s heavily dilated pupils. “Dude… what the fuck are you doing?” He demanded, knowing that he was on drugs of some kind. 

“Is this what you invited me over for? To lecture me?” Richie almost snapped, snatching the sunglasses back from Stan since his eyes were burning from the lights. 

“Didn’t you just get out of rehab?” Stan knew the question to that, in fact, he was among the people who were counting down the days until he got out, but he needed Richie to understand what he was getting at. 

“It wasn’t… rehab…” Richie mumbled, trying to lowplay his time in rehab. 

“Man, yes it was.”

“I was allowed to leave.” 

“...but you had to go right back after your classes were done. It was rehab, dude. Are you seriously telling me it didn’t do anything for you?” 

“Stan… It’s fine. It was one time since I got back.” Richie was lying, he knew he was lying, but he was studying Stan’s face to see whether or he knew he was lying. 

Ever since Richie got out of rehab and back at home safe and sound he was already doing drugs again, as if that time in rehab didn’t mean shit. It wasn’t like Richie wanted to do drugs again, but Henry came back into his life almost immediately, telling him that if he needed “anything” to let him know. Hell, Henry even offered Richie a discount if he ever bought from him again, that kinda offer was hard to pass up, even though at first he declined his offer, telling him that he was clean now but then later decided that one more time wouldn’t be such a bad idea. The therapy, Richie felt, was full of shit anyways. How was meditating supposed to help in any way? Sitting there in silence with his thoughts scared him, yeah, no thanks. Honestly, all Richie really got out of this whole experience was how to hide his drug use better. 

“Are you gonna tell Bev?” Richie asked when Stan didn’t say anything.

Stan let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his head as he didn’t know what to do. He knew he should tell Bev, keeping something like this a secret was a terrible idea. On the other hand, he didn’t want Richie to be afraid to come to him for anything. He was in such a tight spot right now.

“I dunno…” Stan finally said, looking back at Richie, whose expression he couldn’t make out due to the sunglasses over his eyes. 

Before Stan could finish whatever thought he was having, Richie moved from his spot on the couch and next to the small spot next to Stan on the chair. He laid his head on Stan’s shoulder for a sense of comfort. Stan reached his arm around Richie’s shoulder, bringing him to his side in a sort of hug to comfort him. Thankfully he and Richie were close enough and had a great plationic type of relationship so they could hug and cuddle each other without it being weird. 

“It was a slip up, Stan. I swear,” Richie said with a voice full of sadness, like he truly did regret what he did. But did he though? 

It was enough for Stan to be conflicted on whether or not he should tell Bev anything. He knew he should since she was the one who had asked him to talk to Richie in the first place and would want an honest report. At the same time though Stan wanted to believe that it was actually a one time thing and he didn’t want anything worse to happen if Bev confronted him on it. Fuck this was difficult. 

“Fine…” Stan finally said, ruffling Richie’s curly brown hair, “but I swear to God, Richie if you do it again…” he trailed off, knowing that what he’s saying would be enough to get his point across. 

Richie quickly lifted his head from Stan’s shoulder, a small smile on his face. 

“I won’t! I promise!” He ruffled Stan’s hair in return before quickly standing up, almost falling over in the process. 

“You’re not leaving,” Stan called to him, causing Richie to turn around in confusion, “you’re staying here until whatever you took wears off.” 

Richie frowned, but he wanted to make sure to do whatever he could so Stan wouldn’t turn around and rat him out. He plopped back down on the couch in defeat, knowing that he couldn’t argue with Stan and win. 

“What’d you want to do then?”

Stan reached underneath the coffee table, pulling out an unopened puzzle box. 

“Help me with this puzzle.” 

----

Once class was out for Eddie he headed straight for the library to work on the paper that had just been assigned to him. He was feeling beyond stressed right now, he was failing cell biology… or, at least that’s what he had assumed. He currently had to write a ten page paper, he also had to study for cell biology, and he had homework for anatomy. Truth be told, Eddie never used to go to the library to do any of his homework or studying until his roommate, Mike, started working there and recommended him to go there and study since it was less distracting than studying at home. At first Eddie was on the fence about it, thinking about how unsanitary it could be, but was it any different than sitting in the classroom? Once he went, scrubbing down the spot he would be sitting at with sanitary wipes, he actually enjoyed the peace and quiet of the library. Sometimes at home Bill and his girlfriend would be arguing, so getting away from that to do school work was wonderful. 

When Eddie walked into the front doors of the library, first, he lowkey made sure that Richie wasn’t anywhere in sight. He didn’t really want to deal with all of that noise right now, he was stressing and needed to be alone and it seemed like he could just appear out of nowhere. Looking over at the front desk, Eddie saw Mike sitting behind the front desk with his feet kicked up while reading a book. 

Eddie walked up to him, holding onto the single strap that was over his shoulder of his backpack. 

“You look like you’re working your ass off,” he commented with a smirk on his face. 

Mike jumped, not even noticing that someone had been standing in front of him. In fact, he always fell backwards on his chair that had its front legs off the ground. He quickly caught himself and steadied the chair back on all fours, lowering his book. 

“For your information,” Mike started, “I am working hard.” He motioned towards the book that was now sitting on the desk. “I have a report due on this.” 

Eddie flipped the book to see its cover to see that he was reading A Farewell to Arms. 

Mike snatched the book away from him. 

“What are you doing here anyways?” 

“I have a paper to start.”

“I’m glad you’ve been coming in, not a lot of people use the library,” Mike said with a smile on his face.

“I need peace, I had a wild day.”

“What’s up?” 

“Just… I met a guy that works at Harvest and I keep running into him.” Eddie looked over his shoulder to make sure Richie still wasn’t in the library. “His name’s Richie. Glasses, tall… loud.” 

Mike rolled his eyes, knowing exactly who Eddie was talking about. 

“Yeah, I have to agree with you on that one… He comes in here with a red-haired girl and her boyfriend sometimes and all hell breaks loose.” Eddie nodded in agreement. “Pretty sure he’s on something too… just be careful around him.” 

“Great…” 

Mike was looking past Eddie now, who turned around to see what he was looking at. Bill and his girlfriend Audra had entered the library, hand in hand as usual. Once Bill noticed his roommates he had to go over and see what was up. It wasn’t like he was going to spend too much time talking to them, but every time he stopped to have a quick chat with someone Audra always would make it seem like he would be talking for hours. 

“He-hey g-guys,” Bill greeted as he approached them, still holding his girlfriend's hand, “what are you u-u-up to?” 

“Writing a paper,” Eddie responded. 

“Working… suffering… what’re you guys up to?” 

“We-”

“We were going to study,” Audra interrupted Bill, giving him a side eye glare. She dropped his hand before storming off over to their normal spot where they studied together. 

“Sorry…” Bill said, flashing them an apologetic smile.

“What’s her problem?” Eddie asked Bill. 

“Wh-who kn-knows… I’ll see you g-guys at home.” Bill was now in a shitty mood, but went after Audra. Great.

“Did I mention I don’t like her?” Mike started after Bill was out of earshot, “Because I don’t like her.” 

“Oh, I know.” 

Eddie was the only person in the whole world who knew that Mike liked Bill, so he was the one who listened to him when he had to tell someone about what Audra did to Bill while she was at their house. Which, he had a valid reason to not like her, she was always putting him down. There were a couple of times where Eddie and Mike walked in on them having a screaming match about something incoherent. Best not to get involved anyways, it wasn’t their problem. They had no idea why they were still together in the first place, Eddie even talked to him about their relationship, but Bill said they were just having an off day and it would be okay. It never changed anyways. 

“Eddie, look at me.” He looked back over to Mike who had a serious look in his eyes now. “I’m gonna marry that man.” 

Eddie smiled. “I really fucking hope so.” 

-----

After finishing the 1000 piece puzzle, which only took them about an hour and a half since Richie had to make a big deal about how they did the puzzle and which piece went where. It took them a lot longer than it should have, that was for sure. Either way, Stan had fun, even Richie had a bit of fun hanging out with Stan. Even though it took that long and the drugs Richie was on started wearing off after forty-five minutes ago, he didn’t protest. Stan wanted to make sure he was going to be completely fine and Richie at least owed him that for being so understanding and not telling anyone what was going on. Once he started acting like he usual self and the puzzle was done on the dining room table Stan was convinced that he was going to be okay.  

“It looks good,” Stan told him, pushing down one on the pieces that was still sticking up a little bit. 

“Yeah, it does.” He could feel Stan looking at him, now he could read Richie’s face since he had his sunglasses off. 

Stan sat back in his seat. “Get the fuck out of my apartment,” he told Richie playfully, basically telling him that he was convienced that he was okay now and was free to go.

“Thanks, man,” Richie told him, standing up from his seat and grabbing his sunglasses.

He left the apartment, closing the door behind him as he slid the sunglasses back over his eyes. Richie’s eyes were still slightly dilated, but that was a normal side effect even though he already came down from the coke. The crash was heavy for him, his head pounding almost like he was starting to get an actual migraine, that’s when he remembered that he didn’t have any pain killers at home. Since he went to rehab Bev and Ben took all the meds out of his reach just in case there was something there he could use to get high off of, and there was no way he was going to go back to Stan to ask for something. Eh, whatever, the pharmacy wasn’t too far away, a few minute drive, he needed to get out anyways. He slipped back into his apartment to grab his car keys so he could drive over. There was no way he’d be walking, he surely would pass out. 

Once he was in the car, Richie turned up the AC and rolled down the windows as it felt like it was 100 degrees. Richie felt feverish that got worse by the time he got to the pharmacy, almost like he had the flu. Normal. All of this was normal due to his come down. He was ready to puke his guts out even though he didn’t have much in his stomach at the moment. His anxiety was at an all time high, just sitting outside looking at the pharmacy made him panic for some reason. Fuck. Why did he do drugs? 

Richie forced himself to get out of the car, he had just so happened to look across the street to see Henry’s flash red car parked in the plaza’s parking lot facing away from the road. Richie could see that there were people sitting in his car, making him feel bad for whoever was buying drugs off of him. A part of him felt if he could go back and start his life over again he wouldn’t get hooked on anything more than weed, but at the same time he liked the high it gave him. 

Readjusting his sunglasses, Richie pulled himself out of his thoughts, making his way inside of the cool pharmacy. The AC felt like a blessing, he let out a sigh as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. Richie went to the pharmacy a lot for painkillers, especially since it felt like he was hungover almost every morning; yeah… drinking was another one of Richie’s problems that he wasn’t ready to deal with. 

He went right to the aisle he knew that held the painkillers, but stopped when he saw the familiar figure holding a box while stocking the bottles of painkillers. Richie now had a huge smile on his face as he suddenly started to feel better. Eddie was standing there wearing black pants, a long sleeved white button up shirt and a light blue vest over it with a nametag. 

“Morning bird!” Richie, once again, said loudly to get his attention. Eddie cringed hearing him. He was right, Richie just appeared out of nowhere. 

“What the f-...” he stopped himself from swearing at work, “what are you doing here?” Eddie hissed at him as he turned to face him. 

“I needed painkillers, don’t feel so special.”

Eddie knew he was joking, but he could feel his face getting hot, so he turned back to the shelf to stock whatever he was holding now. Richie moved over to stand next to him, dramatically reaching over Eddie to grab what he needed. Eddie let out a huff as he stepped back so Richie could have room to get the bottle. 

“Don’t look so down,  morning bird. I know working sucks but-” 

“What’s wrong with you?” Eddie interrupted him. 

“W-what?” 

Eddie put the box he was holding down on the pallet next to him. “You look like shit.” 

Richie let out a nervous laugh, flattening his wild mess of hair. “No, no, no… I’m fine.” He paused for a moment before opening his mouth again, but he couldn’t even get a word out before Eddie reached over unexpectedly to take off Richie’s sunglasses before he could stop him. His eyes were still slightly dilated from the drugs, but not as bad as before.  

“What? Did you have an eye appointment or something?” 

Richie was shocked for a moment, almost like he couldn’t process what Eddie had just asked him and already had been trying to come up with a lie to tell him. Now he didn’t need to, Eddie did it for him.

“Y… yes! Exactly! Yearly exam, heh.” 

“Well…” Eddie noticed that Richie was holding a bottle of Advil, so he took it from him and put it back where it belonged on the shelf, which confused Richie, “if you want something for a headache, Acetaminophen is the better choice.” Richie stared at him blankly, not sure what the fuck he just said to him. “Y’know. Tylenol.” 

“Oh… really?”

“Yeah, Ibuprofen is more for like… fevers and mild pain.” Again, Richie gave him a blank stare. “...Advil.” 

Richie broke out into a laugh as he grabbed a small bottle of Tylenol. Honestly, Eddie was expecting him to be laughing at him, but it didn’t seem malicious in the slightest. Most people laughed at him for knowing so much about medicine and other medical things and also for being so uptight, but growing up with a hypochondriac mother and being one himself he felt as though he knew what he was talking about. It was just something Eddie couldn’t just turn off, even though he grew out of being a hypochondriac he was still one deep down inside that would never go away. 

“You’re really smart, dude. I thought they were all the same thing honestly.” Eddie’s face turned red again as he dropped the bottles that he was holding, ready to stock. “Feeling flustered, Eds?” 

“Don’t call me that.” Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a sigh. He put Richie’s sunglasses back on over his eyes that he was still holding in his other hand before reaching down to pick up the bottles that he had dropped. “Did you need help finding anything else,” he said through his teeth, seeing his manager for the day standing down the aisle they were in. 

“Yeah, your number,” Richie said without missing a beat. 

“Dude, no, we just met.” 

Richie pouted a bit, but he didn’t want to pry. “Sooo… you’re saying if we talked more I can get your number?”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Shoo. I don’t wanna get in trouble.” 

Richie looked over his shoulder to see the manager. “Alright, alright, that’s fair. Talk to ya later, Eds!” He started walking down the aisle, smiling at the manager. “You got a great employee there,” he said, nodding over to Eddie who wanted to disappear. 

[guysbeingdudesbeingbros]

Mother Nature Sucks ~ Reece Imagine

Prompt: Your writing is so good! Please could you do a Reece one where the reader is on tour with the boys and gets her period so Reece looks after her?

Like every female in the planet, you were tragically cursed with getting your period once a month. Usually it wasn’t too bad, you never really got bad cramps or migraines. Just the usual annoyances like feeling bloated and eating a lot. 

Of course the one time your period is horrible for you, you aren’t home to suffer by yourself. At home, you could just lay down in bed and force your parents to bring you snacks when you needed them. You could cry in peace and watch endless hours of Project Runway and Modern Family. 

No, of course, this time you were stuck on a tour bus with five boys, no tampons, in another country. 

Due to your hectic work schedule, and Reece’s prepping for tour, you didn’t see much of your boyfriend over the past month and a half. This led to Reece asking you to go on tour with them. 

Usually Ben was against having extra people on the tour bus, due to it being a small space. But, everyone got along great with you, you were best friends with the boys before you started dating Reece. Also, you had great fashion sense, making the boys’ lives easier by helping choose their outfits for shows and managing all of the wardrobe details. So taking you on tour with the New Hope Club boys was a win-win scenario for everyone. 

“Is there anything else I’m forgetting?” You asked to Reece over FaceTime the morning you were leaving. You called him to double check that you packed everything you might need. 

“Yes, love. You have everything!” Reece sighed, you’ve asked him this almost a hundred times since you started packing a week ago. 

“I don’t want to forget something!” You shout, making him laugh. Reece abruptly stops laughing when he sees your serious expression. 

“If you forget something we can always buy it. We are going on tour, not to Antarctica,” Reece points out, helping ease your worries. You let out a breath, smiling at the camera. 

“Okay, see you soon!” You call, blowing a kiss and seeing him to do the same as you hang up. Now you just had to wait for Ben to pick you up. 

“No George. You are wearing the grey pants!” You shout in the dressing room, taking George’s favorite black pants with a white stripe down the side away from him. He tugs on the pants, wanting to wear them and not listening to you. “G, you look great in these pants! Just put them on and if you really don’t like it we can figure something else out!” You attempt to remain calm. 

You are only two weeks into tour, and while you are having a great time, the boys can drive you crazy sometimes. George grumbles under his breath, leaving to change. You collapse onto one of the couches, rubbing your head. You have a headache forming, not really sure why. Maybe I didn’t drink enough water today? You think back on the day, trying to figure out the cause of the throbbing in your temples. 

“You okay?” Reece plops down on the couch beside you, pulling your legs across his lap. You nod, closing your eyes while you rub your temples. Reece gently runs his hands up and down your calves, massaging a little. “Headache?” he asks after a few moments of silence. 

“Yeah, but I’m okay. I’ll take some aspirin in a minute,” you say and Reece nods while continuing to rub your legs. He trusts you to take care of yourself. If you really don’t feel good, you could just stay in the dressing room while they perform. 

By the time the boys go out onto stage, you are feeling loads better. You stand on the side stage, singing along and recording snapchats. Reece sends you a wink, making you remember exactly why you love being on tour with him. 

The boys are jumping around on adrenaline rushes after the show, making you laugh and feel hyper with them. Ben decides that since everyone is buzzing from the show, and they don’t have a show for the next two days due to traveling, that you all could go out for the night. 

“You look amazing, Y/N,” Reece says, looking you up and down. You changed into something nicer to wear out as the boys packed up after the show. You blush, leaning in to peck him on the lips. 

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” you smirk, kissing him a little deeper. Suddenly George clears his throat, making you separate from each other. 

“Can we go?” He asks in a sassy voice. You laugh, linking your arm through Reece’s. With that, Blake, George, Tanner, Ben, Reece, and you head towards the bars. 

Everyone is having a good time, managing to find a nice pub to hang out in for the evening. There is a band playing some live music, which you find yourself enjoying a lot. After a few drinks, you just sit next to Reece, enjoying a slight buzz. Reece has his arm resting on your shoulders, keeping you close to his side. He is in the middle of a debate with Blake about some television show, you aren’t really sure, you stopped paying attention a long time ago. Instead, you find yourself chatting quietly to George and giggling as you both are feeling the effects of the alcohol. 

After the boys finish their drinks, they decide to head back to the bus. Reece helps you up from your chair, keeping a hand on the small of your back as you leave the pub. The whole walk back to the bus, the boys and you are singing loudly in the empty streets, happy as ever. You don’t think you’ve ever laughed so much in your life. You board the bus, making your way to the bathroom to take off your makeup and head to bed. 

Reece is already in his bunk asleep when you climb in. He wraps his arms around you, spooning you from behind. And with that you fall asleep. 

A couple hours later, you are woken up randomly. It is still dark on the bus, meaning everyone is asleep. Reece is breathing softly besides you, making you wonder why you were woken up. Right as you turn over to fall back asleep, you become aware of a pain in your lower stomach. Your underwear feels wet, making you throw back the blankets and quickly head towards the bathroom. You pull down your pants and see the dreaded red in your underwear. You totally forgot that your period was supposed to come soon. It just decided to pop in early. 

You groan, leaving the bathroom to get a tampon from your bag and a new set of pajamas. You grab new clothes, digging through your bag to find where you put your tampons. Except, you can’t seem to find him. You frantically check your bag again, pulling things out of it. No no no no, there’s no way I forgot to pack some! I had to have some in here! You panic in your head, feeling your stomach cramp as a reminder of what is happening. You searched your whole bag, even your purse, and you can’t find a single feminine hygiene product anywhere. And its not like anyone on the bus has some, since they are all boys. 

You feel tears come to your eyes, damn hormones, at the thought of what you have to do. You are going to have to ask someone to go get some for you. In the middle of a foreign country, at night. You shuffle back towards Reece’s bunk, opening the curtain. 

“Reece, Reecey...” You whisper, shaking his shoulder. He doesn’t wake up, making you feel worse and more embarrassed. You shake his shoulder harder, feeling more tears in your eyes. “Reecey!” you whisper shout. 

“What Y/N?” He groans, turning towards you. He blinks his eyes open, sitting up quickly when he sees your tear-filled eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asks quickly, cupping your cheeks. 

“I-I got my period and I don’t have any tampons...” You admit softly, wiping your eyes. 

“Oh! Okay, you lay down and relax. I’ll go get Ben and we can go get some for you!” Reece says, pecking your forehead as he climbs out of the bunk. He helps you climb into it, pulling the sheets over your body. “Be right back,” Reece promises as he closes the curtain. 

You lay in the bed, trying to relax as you feel cramps start. You bit your lip to hold back a whimper, never having cramps this bad usually. Suddenly the curtain is pulled back, revealing an out of breath Reece. 

“I’m sorry it took so long, I wasn’t sure which kind to get, so I got a bunch!” He admits sheepishly. You feel your heart melt for your adorably sweet boyfriend. 

“Thank you,” you say softly, kissing him on the lips and grabbing the bag from his hand. You take care of your business in the bathroom, feeling much better. But harsh cramps cause you to stay hunched over slightly. 

You exit the bathroom to see Reece in his bunk again, with a fluffy blanket and his laptop showing the Netflix home screen. You shuffle to him, clumsily climbing in and laying in between his legs. He’s sitting up slightly, so his front is pressed right against your back. Reece tucks the fluffy blanket around you, making sure to cover you completely. 

“Is there anything I can do to help, love?” Reece asks, feeling you tensed up in pain from the cramps. 

“Can you rub my stomach, please?” You ask, clenching your eyes shut as an extremely painful round of cramps hits. Reece slips his hands underneath the blanket and your shirt, rubbing soothing circles into your lower stomach. His fingers apply some pressure, not enough to hurt you but just enough to cause the muscles to relax a little. You let out a sigh of relief, letting your body go limp. 

“Better?” He asks, pressing a kiss to the soft spot behind your ear. You nod, turning your head to catch his lips in a kiss. You slide your lips against his languidly, as a ‘thank you’. 

For the next week, Reece waits on your hand and foot, helping you with everything. And while the boys teased him about it, he didn’t seem to mind. Reece would just kiss you, glad that he could help you feel better. 

So getting your period on a tour bus with four boys and your amazing boyfriend wasn’t the worst thing in the entire world!

That ending was so cheesy omg!! Hopefully you like it!! 

Thanks for requesting xx

[fortisfiliae]

The One | Part 3

Characters involved: Reader, James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Lily Evans, Peter Pettigrew

A/n: (Created the GIF myself, but of course the originals aren’t mine. Credits to original owners.)

Find the other parts on my Masterlist linked in my bio!

Warnings: all the feels, cursing, angst

Word count: 3.1k

A subliminal pain throbbing inside of your head waked you as slowly as it had put you to sleep the night before. Your eyes were still closed, you didn’t dare to open them yet, afraid of the sunlight hitting you like a hammer, with quick and hard strikes.

You carefully unclenched your lids, peeked up to the stone ceiling and already regretted those last shots you had taken, to realize that you weren’t lying in your bed. With your eyes still fixed upwards you slowly remembered that you had fallen asleep on the couch in the Gryffindor common room.

As your senses finally came back you felt something touching your lower thigh. Twitching lightly to the unknown contact, you looked down to see that someone had been putting a blanket over you.  The touch at your leg was Sirius. He was sitting on the floor, still dozing. His back leant against the sofa, head resting lopsided on top of the seat padding, pressing slightly against your calf.

As you carried on examining, your view wandered along his arm, which was laid on the couch as well, pointed your way. His hand rested only inches apart from yours, making you wonder if he had been holding it, while you were sleeping. Woken by your movement, he blinked slowly and stroked his neck, before turning his head your way.

“Morning”, he mumbled, his voice raspy, as he started to rub his eyes.

“Morning”, you replied, pulling your legs towards your body, sitting upright, to lean against your upper thighs, before peering across the room.

It was a mess. Cups and empty bottles spread everywhere, some puddles of strange fluids here and there, with soggy cigarette buds in them. But the view was nothing compared to the smell. It made your headache even worse.

“The aftermath of a great night”, you sighed. “Why are you not in your dorm?”

“I wasn’t sure if that special someone would try to shower you with his desire again, so I decided to stay”, he said and pressed his fingers into his neck again.

All of last night’s memories came back. 

“James... Oh god”, you stuttered, holding your cool hands to your forehead, to ease your migraine. “Thank you for helping me out. And for staying with me.”

“No worries”, he mentioned, while getting up from the floor to sit down on the couch, next to you. “He is just a little unpredictable when he’s drunk, that’s all.”

“He is. But really, thank you. For yesterday. I needed that. I mean, the dancing and having fun again”, you told him and reached out for his hand. His soft touch drowned the headache for a second and the way he looked at you, made you realize why all of the girls were after him, once again. Your thumb stroked his skin when you said: “You really are a great f-”

“Friend, yes”, he completed your sentence and nodded slightly, still not letting go of your touch, your eyes meeting in shy reluctance.

“What are you two doing?”, a familiar voice from across the room disturbed the scene.

You turned your head and saw James standing at the staircase, looking back and forth between the two of you, his hangover undeniable.

Sirius immediately pulled his hand away and got up to pick up bottles from the floor. “The real question is, what are you doing out of bed already?”, he asked casually, as he tried to balance them on an already full table.

“Peter started vomiting, so I had to flee. Remus is with him and tries to cure him with some healing spells”, James answered. “Sorry if I interrupted.”

The situation was so uncomfortable you wondered if someone could die from awkwardness. The way they exchanged glances told you that there was some serious tension building. Best friends in trouble. You being the reason for it made your stomach sick. You never wanted to stand between them, knowing how much they depended on each other.

You got up as well to make your way back to your own common room and stopped in front of James to tell him: “You didn’t interrupt us. We were just talking about last evening.”

“A hell of a night, wasn’t it?”, James snickered. “Actually I can’t remember a single thing. I did something terrible, didn’t I?”

You weren’t sure if he was lying, but this was your chance to make it up to them, so you quickly looked over to Sirius, who was still stacking up bottles from the floor, raising his head to lift one eyebrow at you.

Turning back to James, you answered: “You had a fight with Lily, apparently. Might want to talk to her and apologize.”

With that said, you left both of them behind you, as you walked towards the portrait. Turning back once more, you saw Sirius shaking his head, looking your way before you got out.

You decided to keep your distance for some time so the boys would be able to calm down and get back on track with each other. As much as it hurt inside, to decline each and every invitation to join them, whether if Remus, Sirius, or sometimes even Peter was asking you, you enjoyed watching the group in the Great Hall, as they fooled around like nothing had happened.

James never attempted to talk to you, which you were silently thankful for. You needed time to accept his feelings for Lily and tried to be happy for them when they passed you in the corridors, holding hands or sitting next to each other in class. A fake smile on your lips, a tight sting in your chest every time they touched, but you slowly got used to the feeling of being the girl whose feelings remained unanswered.

The cramp in your heart got a tad lighter with each day until there was only a slight bitterness you had to deal with, only for the moment you had to see them together.

Looking over to the Marauders, while having breakfast at the Ravenclaw table, weeks after the party in their common room, you asked yourself where the pain had gone, when you saw James kissing Lily on the cheek. It didn’t fill you with joy, of course, but it was suddenly so bearable, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself while letting your eyes wander over the other people sitting beside them.

One person rising from the table attracted your attention. It was Sirius, looking at you, a small smirk formed on his lips when your eyes met. He left the group, still staring your way and his smile grew wider, with each step he took towards you. Some girls purred “Hi Sirius” as he walked past them. He greeted them with a sluggish wave, until he sat down next to you, his back leaning against the table.

“Hi Sirius”, you imitated their cheers quietly, before taking another spoonful of muesli.

“Oh shut up, (Y/N)”, he snorted. “Not my fault that some people think I’m irresistible. But considering that you’re in a good mood today, I’m going to make my last attempt of asking you, if you want to join us to go to Hogsmeade tonight”

“Your last attempt?”, you asked cheekily, after gulping down your breakfast.

He sighed: “The sass is back again, I see. Yes, my last. My ego cannot bear to be turned down so often.”

“We can’t let that happen, can we?”, you said, still amused by your own audacity. “Okay, I’ll join you. Will the lovebirds come as well? Just so I know, if I should bring some barf bags with me.”

Sirius laughed, shook his head and replied: “No, they’re on a date or something. Just Rem, Peter and me. No bags needed.”

“Oi, our lost one is back!”, Remus chanted, when you met them in the entrance hall, hugging each of the three quickly before you started walking towards Hogsmeade. It felt better than ever to have them back and you noticed how much you missed every joke, each tease and all of their little pranks.

Your first stop was Zonko’s since the boys wanted to refill their stocks of nose-biting teacups and some new dungbombs they have heard of. It took them ages to decide what else to get before you went to Dominic Maestro's Music Shop to listen to the newest songs for a while.

They wanted to spend the rest of the day at Honeyduke’s, but you told them that you’d rather sit down in a pub to rest your feet.

Sirius sacrificed himself to take you to The Three Broomsticks for a drink, so Remus and Peter could go and try all of the new sweets they’ve raved about all day.

When you got in the thickness of the warm air immediately infiltrated your pores and soothed your hyped mentality a bit. The room was filled with people’s voices and generic background music. Most of the tables were already occupied, so you sat down on stools at the bar. 

While Sirius ordered two cups of Butterbeer you were distracted by the bell at the entrance door, which chimed every now and then when people came in or left.  Checking if Peter and Remus were coming you saw someone else entering, making you feel like the world wanted to play its sickest jokes on you.

Lily followed by James walked inside, looking through the crowd and stopped their sights at you. She waved at you, a sincere smile on her face, while he raised his brows in surprise and just nodded your way. They placed themselves at a high table next to the door, Lily with her back facing you and you could tell that James constantly glanced over without having to look at him.

“Wow, I should have brought the barf bags”, you mumbled to yourself.

“Hm?”, Sirius asked, turning to you as he handed over your beer.

You took a sip and stretched your neck their way, to show him where to look. He bent over and greeted them with a waving gesture.

“I seem to constantly make false promises to you, aren’t I?”, he asked jokingly.

“Don’t worry about it, I’m not letting them ruin my days anymore”, you answered as you took another gulp.

“I can tell. That’s why I knew you would come with us today.”

“You really think you can read me that well?” The sass returned once again.

“Well, I seem to know a lot about you. For instance that you try to play it cool when you’re jittery. Or that your hands are cold most of the time”, he smirked, as he reached out for your left one. “I can also tell you’re getting nervous when I hold it.”

He was right and you hated to admit it. 

Thinking a little bit too long about what to answer, you said: “I’d be impressed if these things wouldn’t apply to any other girl.”

“Playing it cool again”, he detected, still not letting go of your hold.

You snickered and took a big sip of your drink, desperately trying to hide your blushing cheeks.

“Wow, now you’re making this too easy for me”, he laughed. “You’ve got some cream left on you. Let me help you with that.”

His free hand wandered up to your face, letting his thumb stroke lightly above your upper lip, leaving all sorts of tingles on your slightly agape mouth before he pulled it back to suck off the residue.

“Sweet”, he said casually and grinned.

“You’re going all in today, Black”, you sighed as you felt someone staring at you from afar.

You turned your head to glance past Sirius, where James and Lily were standing. As you caught him looking at you he interrupted Lily’s words to pull her towards him and kissed her, so passionately, it made your jaw drop.

Sirius, alerted by your expression, turned over to watch them as well when James suddenly opened his eyes, looking straight into yours, while he was still snogging Lily. 

It was such a bizarre sight, you didn’t know how to react. “Is he? Are they... Did he really just...?”

“I think he did”, Sirius sputtered, equally shocked as you.

“Oh, I’m having none of this bullshit. Can we leave?”, you asked enraged, already collecting some change from your wallet. 

You put two Sickles on the counter and left without bestowing James another glance, Sirius right after you.

When the door was shut behind you, you needed to vent your anger, words flowing bitterly out of your mouth: “I can’t believe what he is doing. What happened to him, why is he like that?!”

“I thought you didn’t mind seeing them?” Sirius asked.

“I don’t care if they’re kissing, it’s that sick game he wants to play making me furious. He wants to start some kind of competition and I will not take part in that crap. You’re his best friend, not his enemy. And I was his friend too. What did he expect? That I’d start crying over him, or that we would start kissing as well, to try and surpass them?”

“Well, we could go back in and give them a show”, he tried to calm you down with mischief.

“No thank you”, you snorted. Sirius really knew how to deal with your emotions.

He leant against the outside wall of the pub, sighing: “Thanks for the compliment.”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I... just don’t want to obviously try to make him jealous, like he does with me. You don’t deserve to be used like that”, you said, taking some steps his way before summoning all of your courage. “I’d like to kiss you without having to think of anybody else.”

“Do it then”, he whispered.

And you did. 

Your shaking hand reached for his neck, being placed softly on his skin before you pulled his face your way, so gently it seemed like time had stopped running. The look he gave you was equally as magnetizing, as his tender lips touching yours, with slow and silky strokes. When he pulled you closer by your waist and started caressing your cheek with his other hand, still blessing you with affection, you felt like the most special girl on earth.

You didn’t want it to stop, could have gone on for hours, thinking of nothing else than him and you, sharing something so private, so vulnerable, showing each other what words could never have expressed. Each kiss, every touch washed off your anger bit by bit, leaving your soul spotless and shining. His tongue entering your mouth deepened the feeling even more, as he hungrily traced every inch of you like he had been waiting for an eternity to do it. His touch was warm, lips so smooth, taste so sweet like hot chocolate, as he poured his tenderness over you, before placing one last peck on your lips and you both just smiled, knowing there was nothing left to say.

When you made your way back to the castle, he took your hand while walking and you enjoyed every step you shared in silence.

Meeting Remus and Peter back at Hogwarts again, they showed you all of the sweets they got, describing what made every single one so special. They were so into it, that they didn’t notice how flustered Sirius and you were. After appreciating every purchase they made, you told them that you would make your way to your dorm and wished them a good night, looking at Sirius for a little longer, than the other two.

Smiling like a fool, you took the stairs up to your dorm, thinking that you couldn’t be happier.

At the same time, Sirius realized that he had forgotten to ask you something, so he started following you.

When you got closer to the entrance of the Ravenclaw common room, you saw someone standing in front of it, alone.  As you recognized that it was James, seemingly waiting for you, your stomach tightened. What did he want now?

Sirius, who arrived shortly after you, was surprised to see you with him and came a bit closer to listen to your conversation, but remained unnoticed.

“Didn’t you humiliate me enough before?”, you asked James, your joyful thoughts drifting away again.

“Daisy... I’m sorry. I truly am. For what I did before. And anything that happened actually”, he said and you could tell he was honest, by the way he messed up his hair when he was confessing.

“Well, that’s a little late now, isn’t it?”, you stated in reservedness and folded your arms in front of your chest.

“Listen... I... I know, I shouldn’t be jealous, you aren’t even mine. But when I see you with him, I can’t control myself. It’s just too much. I’ve always liked you. More than a friend. I just was too scared to admit it. When I asked you to help me with the flowers for Lily, I thought you maybe would stop me and tell me to stay. You know, you being the one who's good with their feelings. Now I’m in this vicious circle I can’t seem to escape and I make all of my friends despise me more and more, with every dumb thing I do. I’m a mess without you. I guess what I wanted to say, was: You’re the one I’m thinking of before I go to sleep and you’re the one thing that’s on my mind when I wake up. You’ve always been the one”, he revealed, pouring out his feelings in front of you.

The words you always wished he would have said, were thrown at you when you finally were happy again. Knowing him and that he was a good guy, just a little self-absorbed, you started to feel sorry. He had been your best friend for years after all and it broke your heart, to see him suffer like that. Too many emotions were splashing inside your body, so you just stood there, looking at him with wide eyes, mumbling: “You’re a fool.”

James took a step closer to you and said: “Daisy, I want to show you, how much I care. Let me kiss you just once and if you tell me you don’t feel anything at all, I will not bother you again. Please.”

Find the other parts on my Masterlist linked in my bio!

Let me tell you, this chapter was a pain in the ass to write. Hope it didn’t feel like it when you read it.

Please tell me the following things: 1, Who are you rooting for? (Might influence my decision) 2, Who knows which music video I was thinking of, when James looked at the reader while kissing Lily? ;D 3, Did you like it? If not, please let me know why.

Thank you for reading, xo

[ghostofasecretary]

so the pain feelings are probably the easiest and most grounded, let’s have those first 

it really, really annoys me that i have chronic pain. i mean, yes, chronic pain is annoying, but i am annoyed at the specifics of my chronic pain because fibromyalgia is a...complicated diagnosis at best, one i am not sure really exists at worst, and one i would rather throw myself into a fire than get slapped with again.

(possibly do not read this if you are diagnosed with fibro, i think your pain exists and effects your life but i don’t quite think mine is and have Feelings about fibro as a diagnosis that i can’t assess and in this post i make some statements that may be distressing. if you’re sensitive to people dismissing pain, even if it’s their own pain, uh, maybe just skip this one)

i think the pain of other people i real and my own is not, sometimes, which is really stupid and i don’t agree with it, but there the thought is, being a thought.

legitimate vs illegitimate pain is one that is often framed through the lens of sexism and while that is probably reasonable, it also makes me curl into a little ball of dysphoria. i don’t want to think i was effected by sexism while i ran the medical gauntlet, and even if i was i don’t...ugh. sorry. no. i don’t want to.

fibro is basically the diagnosis for “we don’t know what’s wrong with you and you’re probably crazy and/or whiny and/or Don’t Real.” i’m not even sure it’s better than no diagnosis. also i am crazy, it’s on my chart, i don’t...i don’t want another thing that makes me more likely to be dismissed.

in my junior year of high school (well, from August to...April? stuff tapered off around the end of February) i had headaches that ranged from irritating to extremely distracting and mildly painful every single day. i say “mildly“ painful because i have had several severe migraines in my life, and while the aggregate suffering of daily aura and varying forms of pain in my temples may have been equal to the multiple days where i would have to be lying down in a dark room that was quiet as we could possibly make it, but even that didn’t quite help because my heartbeat was too loud, the daily experience was...not that bad. i also had some other symptoms that sucked!

these may have made the aggregate That Bad, idk. i was also pretty suicidal at this point, which kind of clouds my memories.

i was really nauseous pretty much constantly. i had aura pretty much constantly. i got diagnosed with chronic daily migraines, although they were atypical.

my hips and knees hurt a lot. my back hurt, my neck hurt, my shoulders hurt. sometimes i didn’t feel like i could walk well at all and i limped. i sat down often. my hands hurt and writing got painful for the first time. i was very tired.

i did some really stressful things in junior year that were made a lot worse by having headaches constantly and being tired and in miscellaneous pain and feeling like i was going to throw up. i had a really bad night one time where everything in my body was pounding and i ached and cramped and felt like i was on fire and also had a migraine i would class as a Real Migraine, complete with high-key pain and horribly present nausea and blackouts and floating dots. it was really hard.

i had a bunch of tests done re: headaches, including an EEG and an MRI. i asked for a full panel of bloodwork because i did not know what was happening and whether there was a cause. (fibro does not have a known cause, although it is sometimes speculated to be “stress” or “mental illness.” thanks, medicine.) there was no detectable underlying cause, but i did get some helpful medication after a lot of trial and error and several months of waiting. by several months i mean about half a year, but, well. what can you do.

(also, i had SO MUCH ANXIETY about diagnosis and i both was terrified of having RA or lupus or cancer or something identifiable and i desperately wanted something fixable. i also had FUN FUN FUN ANXIETY about being a Bad Patient, about whether asking for bloodwork and being upset over not having an underlying cause made me look like a hypochondriac, about whether the fact that i didn’t exercise as much meant i was Destroying My Health even though exercise hurt like a motherfucker and made every part of daily life difficult, etc, etc)

senior year was much less bad, pain wise.

headache meds really helped my other symptoms! yay! it’s also possible i developed a better pain tolerance*? i did have noticeable and distracting pain while typing during senior year but a carpal tunnel diagnosis is not terribly useful and trying to get diagnosed and not getting anything would probably have crushed me.

going to a chiropractor was moderately helpful but also painful, so...eh?

exercise was really, really not. it’s supposed to be, although the studies used to support that are kind of sketchy, but it was not helpful. it might be helpful now but i would not bet on it.

(one time in junior year i tried to stand up and pace around for an hour, to see if i could do it. i wound up having to lie down in bed for four hours. lying down because of Pain sucks and it feels so stupid and shitty and boring, and i knew i probably shouldn’t have stood for that long while it was so uncomfortable but i wanted to see if i could. i could, barely, but it was not worth it. and it’s so stupid, i feel so petty, i stand up for seven hours every day now and i don’t hurt that much, why did i...? surely it couldn’t have been that bad, surely i was making it up.)

sleeping more did help a little.

* i don’t feel like i developed a better pain tolerance but it might be worth noting two things.

one, after a while i got incredibly fed up with noticing my pain and all the stuff on the net about fibro being psychosomatic and not having any reason to feel bad aside from my headaches which also didn’t have a Real ReasonTM, i decided to ignore pain. pain? what’s that? i don’t have that. banging my elbow makes me ache for days? lol, no it doesn’t. it...i mean, i think it helped. not thinking about my pain All The Time defnitely helped, although the Denial might be less than great.

two, even though i really do feel like i have a shit pain tolerance my feet were literally bleeding because of my shoes in DC and i did not take any action about this until K and R told me to. it hurt, but not, like, a lot.

possibly i have a better pain tolerance.

...

anyway. recently during my work as a barista, my hands and wrists and forearms have been quite annoying. my wrists keep sparking when i pick up milk cartons or shake whip cream and i have to do those things many times during the course of a day. it hurts to close my hands and they’re usually very stiff but probably not clinically stiff. my tendons seem...unhappy...but fuck if i know. i sleep in wrists braces every night and have for years, i ice my hands and wrists at least once a week, typing is still hella painful and i don’t draw or sew very much anymore and i cannot shake the conviction that there is Nothing To Be Done and also that i am feeling my nerves dying every day. which. uh. not great.

(and also - my ankles hurt all the time, i stand up for seven hours a day, what do you expect? my back hurts, so what, everyone’s back hurts. sometimes my knee wrenches but idk, man, it does that.)

i can’t tell what’s a reasonable, measured reaction, what’s abject denial, and what’s overwhelming anxiety and desperation to have anything that isn’t The Fake Special Snowflake Disease For Special Snowflake People.

according to the Mayo Clinic, “See your doctor if you have persistent signs and symptoms suggestive of carpal tunnel syndrome that interfere with your normal activities and sleep patterns. Permanent nerve and muscle damage can occur without treatment.” uhhhhhhhh

tingling and numbness have occurred for the past two and a half years, although they’ve gotten much worse recently. i haven’t been woken up because of it, but, like. if i woke up every time i was in pain i would be awake a lot. weakness hasn’t really happened yet. pain is, y’know, kind of a thing.

i’m vaguely worried that i could have more things ala tendinitis but no way am i going to think about that too hard.

options:

continue ignoring everything. this one looks very stupid but i am tempted. if i think i need carpal release surgery i could try to get it then, otherwise i’m pretty much doing okay on prevention and am doing decently at ergonomic support. if i get told to ice my wrists or something i will scream

go to a doctor. a diagnosis would probably make me feel better but also what if i don’t get one, and there isn’t much to be done anyway unless i need surgery which i do not think i do. if i have tendinitis i might get a steroid shot, but really, i don’t think i do? i don’t want to think about it, i am so tired of thinking about my shit body, i don’t want to

go to the chiropractor. this looks like a nice middle balance and i could ask about carpal tunnel in a less serious environment and it might help, but uggggh, why can’t i just...continue ignoring everything. “permanent nerve and muscle damage” sounds serious but not being able to stand without being in a fuckload of pain sounded serious to me in junior year and here we are, with awesome headache meds and a dubiously effective pain tolerance.

at what point does pain interfere with my life? when i notice it? when i start dropping things? when i can’t hold a pencil? idk, man. i d fucking k

oh, yeah, and another thing, my headaches have been..sort of a thing lately. at this point i’m going to have to get a freakin anti-headache earring like it’s a sigil to ward off a demon and/or i will have to get botox shots every three months like a soccer mom desperately sneaking in to the doctor’s office to make herself feel just a tiny bit better about her miserable life and wrinkles, because obviously a 40 year old showing signs of age is A Sin Against Beauty And An Affront To Nature

(note the increasingly bitter and jaded tone of this post. do i sound hysterical yet)

pain is very stupid and i am SO ANNOYED

....probably i should schedule a chiropractor appointment. i shall pester my mom about that now

[brywrites]

You Are Not Alone

Author’s Note: Finally finally got around to writing my piece for @reiding-and-writing‘s Classic Criminal Minds Quote Challenge! My quote was “No matter how awful you think it is - I can promise you, you are not alone.”

Summary: A few months after Emily’s funeral, Reid begins to pull away from the Reader. When she decides to confront him, what she finds is far from what she expected.

One thing she’s sure of: he is acting strange. Well, stranger than usual. Things have been difficult for Spencer since Emily’s death, but she had thought he was working through it. Completing his psych evals, talking it through with his team and with her. The smile had returned to his face, he was reading more often, and even his migraines seemed to be getting better.

Then things changed, without warning, as they are liable to do. She had woken up to three missed calls from him and not a single voice mail. When she called him to ask about it, he tried to brush it off and claimed it was just a leaking pipe in his apartment. Not that she believed him. That was only the beginning. Since then, she’s watched as he grows more distant from her, strangely detached from the man she has loved for the last six months. Moods of his are either sky high or rock bottom, and they fluctuate faster than she can keep up with. All too often something will set him off, and he’s more irritable than she’s ever seen him before.

The behavior she’s willing to deal with, but she doesn’t know what to do when he stops calling as often. Stops coming over and asking her out. He makes excuses to avoid plans, and she starts wondering what it is she did to send him away like this.

Having worked in communications with the Bureau, handling internal newsletters and editing reports, she’s spent enough time around members of the BAU to feel comfortable reaching out to them.

“I don’t know what happened,” she tells Morgan and Garcia over coffee. “One day we’re fine, and the next we’re worlds apart. Did something happen recently? On a case maybe?”

Neither can come up with a sufficient answer to explain Spencer’s erratic behavior.

“You should ask JJ,” Garcia says. “He’s been going to see her a lot to talk about Emily. Maybe she knows?” Ah, so that’s why he’s stopped calling her in the evenings. It’s not that she’s jealous, after all, she knows JJ has her own family whom she would never betray. But it hurts to know he doesn’t think he can trust her with whatever is weighing on his heart.

Morgan squeezes her shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry too much about, Y/N. Pretty Boy loves you. I’m sure you’ll get through this.”

Will they? And does he? It’s been so long since she’s heard those words from him. Whenever they do meet, it feels strained and tense, and inevitably ends in him deciding he has somewhere else to be and rushing off, leaving behind only passive-aggressive comments and an empty feeling in her chest.

The way she loves Spencer is unlike the way she’s loved anyone else before. Nobody has ever captured her heart this way, and nobody has ever made her feel the way he does. He looks at her like she’s all of the stars, and when he smiles at her nothing else in the world seems to matter. On her bad days, he tells her everything she needs to hear, and when she’s happy he’s the first one to celebrate with her. Even with the long-distance traveling he does for work, it doesn’t bother her. He leaves letters in her bag and on her desk, calls her almost every night with the sweetest of sentiments. They hardly ever fight, and when they do they always make up, with plenty of reassurances and soft kisses. He accepts her, never judges her, and makes her feel understood.

Spencer is the best chapter in her own story, and while she has wanted many people in her life, Spencer is the only she has ever truly needed by her side. Needed the way she needs to breathe, he’s as much a part of her as her lungs or her heart.

Despite their advice, Y/N decides she can’t go on this way any longer. It’s too damn lonely to be left wondering if there is still love left between them. All she wants is an answer. A chance to see him and get to the bottom of the abyss that’s opened between them, taking the place of the close bond they used to share. She misses coffee dates and library wanderings, the way he would lace his long fingers through hers, and the warmth of his embrace when they curled up on his couch. There was a time when she thought she could tell him anything, but that feels like eons ago. A different life, a different time.

She marches to his apartment after work and knocks on the door, praying he answers. For a long thirty seconds, it seems like he won’t, but then by some miracle it opens. Spencer stands in the doorway looking entirely surprised to see her there. It used to be so normal, meeting him like this. She realizes it’s been almost two weeks since she last came by his place. Then, looking him over she realizes something else.

He looks tired. So tired.

The bags beneath his eyes are heavy, his lips void of the goofy grin he often offers at the sight of her. He hasn’t even changed out of his work clothes yet, though he has discarded his cardigan and loosened his tie.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, and it doesn’t come out like an accusation. Genuine surprise in his voice. That’s enough to change her reply.

“I’m worried about you,” she says, deciding to put her own feelings aside for the moment. “Can I come in?” Spencer bites his lip, wavering on the edge of uncertainty before finally nodding. She follows him in and he shuts the door, looking defeated.

The living room is messy, the curtains drawn close and various books scattered on his couch and coffee table. It’s not a disaster zone, but it’s a red flag that something is off about him.

“I’ve hardly seen you in the last month,” she says, leaning against the back of the sofa. “And whenever I do, it’s never for very long and you’re usually upset about something. I’m worried. I know things have been hard since… since the funeral, but I don’t know what’s going on in your head.”

Spencer shoves his hands in his pockets and studies the floor intensely. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

Running her fingers through her hair, she sighs. It’s time to be brave. Ask the question, accept whatever the answer is. It’s just Spencer, the man she’s known and loved for almost half a year. She can ask him anything. And if he wants her to let him go, she’ll learn to be okay with that.

“Do you want to break up with me?” At that, he looks up, wide-eyed and startled. She inhales, the air trembling in her lungs, willing herself not to cry. “Is that it? Because I’ve spent the last few weeks trying desperately to figure out what I did wrong and I just don’t know why you don’t want to be around me anymore.”

Surprise turns to distress and he shakes his head back and forth. “No! No, you didn’t do anything wrong! It’s not – none of this is your fault. I just don’t want to hurt you. You deserve better than that, and right now I just… I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be around me.”

“Why not?” she demands.

“Because… because there are things you don’t know about, okay? Things that you shouldn’t have to deal with. I thought they were in the past but I’m not so sure anymore and I just… I love you, Y/N.” Any oxygen she has left is taken from her, his confession rendering her speechless. How she’s missed hearing those words from her lips. Relief is an emotion she can’t afford to let take over right now, though. Not when he’s clearly struggling with something. “God, I love you so much. I just don’t want to lose you, and I don’t want to hurt you, and if you knew… if you knew I just…”

The words stop and he swallows hard, wringing his hands. His lip quivers and she can tell he’s on the verge of tears and it breaks her heart. He still loves her. She still loves him. And he needs her now. Taking a step towards him, she reaches out to gently wrap her hands around his. His fingers tremble in her gentle grip as she meets his eyes, more steadfast than she’s felt in a long time.

“Spencer, listen to me. You can tell me anything, okay? Nothing you say will scare me away. I’m here. No matter how awful you think it is, I can promise you – you are not alone. Okay? You’re not alone.”

After a few shallow breaths, he closes his eyes and she swears she can see him playing out every possible response in his mind. Then he asks if they can sit down. She obliges and they take a seat on the couch, facing each other; she sits cross-legged while he pulls his knees into his chest like a self-made shield. Silence hangs heavy over them as minutes slide by before he begins.

“Do you remember what I told you about Tobias Hankel?” he asks.

Confused, she nods. “Yeah, that’s the unsub who abducted you and held you in a shack for two days. I remember.” How could she forget? They’d passed an open-air market together where a vendor was burning fish. Spencer had had a full-fledged panic attack there on the street, while she had gently coaxed him through it. When he calmed down enough, he explained that a few years back he’d been kidnapped and tortured by a serial killer with DID in Georgia. He didn’t like to talk about it very much, but she knew that he had killed Hankel in the end, and that he still had nightmares about it. She had always given him the space to say what he needed to and tried not to pressure him beyond what he was ready to explain to her. He had always given her the same respect, after all.

“There’s something I’ve never told you about that case,” he says quietly. “Something I don’t even think everyone on the team knows. Tobias had an abusive father, and to cope with the emotional and physical pain, he… um, he turned drugs. To Dilaudid. It’s basically heroin, which he used to lace with a hallucinogenic. “

That’s certainly something. It takes everything she has to keep a straight face, not to give him any sign that he should stop, though her heart has dropped and she hopes this isn’t going where she thinks it’s going.

“So when he was cognizant and aware, he would see what his ‘father’ had done to me, and he… he was trying to help me, but – and I told him I didn’t want it, but he didn’t listen and…” He drifts off, clenching and unclenching his fists in an effort to calm himself down. It doesn’t take much to fill in the blanks. “It was only two days, but Dilaudid is really strong and really addictive. He dosed me four times. When it was all over and the team found me, I should’ve just walked away but I – I didn’t. I couldn’t resist it. I stole what Tobias had left of the drug and I kept using.”

Spencer is trying so hard not to cry, not to let his voice break, and she’s fighting back tears as well, because it’s just not fair. It’s not fair that he’s had to go through this, not him. Not on top of everything else he’s been through He doesn’t deserve any of it.

“For five months I took it. I almost lost my job – and my friends. I just didn’t know how to stop. The last time I used was after Gideon left. I – I’ve been clean for a while. For…” He pauses to conjure up the number from memory. “Three years, ten months, two weeks, and twenty-three days. I thought I was fine, but after Emily – I haven’t felt like that in so long. I haven’t had cravings that bad in years, and it would be so easy to contact my old dealer or any dealer and start using again. And I just couldn’t put you through that. I’m so sorry.”

“No,” she says. “No, don’t you dare apologize. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.”

Hazel eyes search her face frantically, bewildered. “You – you’re not mad?”

“Mad? How could I possibly be mad at you?” she asks him. “I love you, Spencer. I love you, and nothing – nothing – is going to change that. This isn’t who you are. It’s what happened to you. It doesn’t make you any less worthy of love.”

Water rises in his eyes, and before she can process it his arms around her and he’s holding her so tight against his chest as he cries into her shoulder. Once the shock passes, she reaches her arms out to hug him back, trying to tell him without words just how much she loves him, as they sit there on that couch in tears.

She loves him. She loves him. And she swears she’ll never stop proving it to him. He’s not alone. She won’t let him go through this alone. Every battle he’s ever fought has been done entirely on his own, but she’s here now and she has no intention of leaving him. If it means holding him after a nightmare, if it means sitting with him when a case has broken his heart, if it means tackling the tangled web of addiction, she’ll do it all. Because she knows that when she needs him, he’ll go to the ends of the earth for her.

Love is unconditional. That’s how it should be. That’s how it is, for them.

“Just let me stay with you, please. I promise we’ll get through this together.”

“Together,” he whispers back. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

There will be time, later, for making a plan. To talk of NA meetings and counseling and doctors. Those questions can wait. Right now, all he needs to know is that he’s not alone in this anymore. And all she needs is to stay right there in his arms.

[ericschumacher]

A new post, (Welcoming Chronic Sufferers), is available at Eric Schumacher

New Post has been published on https://www.emschumacher.com/welcoming-chronic-sufferers/

Welcoming Chronic Sufferers

This guest post by Jennifer Ji-Hye Ko explores how the local church can welcome, include, and minister to chronic sufferers. It is part of my “Welcoming…” series, which features first-person articles on how to welcome various demographics into our lives and church communities. Previous installations include “Welcoming the Hearing Loss Community,” “Welcoming the Eating Disorder Community,” and “Welcoming Single Parents.”

You’re feeling it, aren’t you? That desperate excitement. The quarantine restrictions may soon be lifted, putting an end to staying at home – an end to virtual meetings and church services, distance learning, and homeschooling. I am truly excited for you, but not necessarily with you. You see, as the majority of people will be rejoicing in their freedom, many like me will experience a loss. 

Chronic Suffering

While I am a wife and mother as well as a servant minister in my church, I have also been disabled for 15 years from chronic illnesses. Every day I have woken up with some measure of all-over, system-wide pain. If I can get out of bed, it takes about an hour to warm up my body before it is safe to do so. By my mid-twenties I was inexplicably disabled for three years before receiving my first diagnosis of Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder with Psychosomatization as a result of childhood traumas I had endured. 

My second diagnosis was Fibromyalgia/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome which would further explain fatigue and widespread pain, as well as a myriad of other strange symptoms. Involuntary muscle tension chronically pulls my muscles so tight that I can sprain or tear a muscle simply by moving. The fatigue makes it difficult even to breathe some days. Sitting up can take maximum effort leaving me in shivering convulsions. 

Last year overt symptoms of Mast Cell Activation Syndrome (MCAS) left my skin feeling like I had a second-degree burn from head to toe. This makes wearing clothes problematic which in turn makes going into public problematic. Between the unique pain and crippling fatigue, it became distressing, unwise, and at times dangerous for me to leave the house. 

This past January, while in treatment for MCAS, I was found to have Lyme disease. Lyme has been attacking my nervous system causing problems such as intense sensory sensitivity similar to chronic migraines. Most recently, symptoms of psychosis are becoming more pronounced taking portions of my agency. Any stimuli can trigger an outburst. Now realizing that most, if not all, of these conditions have been building since childhood, it is abundantly clear why leaving home has become increasingly painful for me these past 15 years.

COVID-19

For the past few months, the rest of the world has joined with people like me to experience a degree of what it means to be homebound and shut-in. Church service has been made accessible in a new way as many churches are now providing live-stream. Community groups and Bible studies are meeting via Zoom and other chat services. People are suddenly acutely aware of the weakest among us. Since March, those of us who have been on the fringe of society, shut up in our homes long before this pandemic started, have been able to be included in ways we weren’t before – and that may soon come to an end.

Church, as you celebrate that first Sunday together again, don’t forget us. I’m not saying celebrate less or feel guilty – by no means! It is a sweet blessing to gather together in person with other believers. But as you are celebrating, remember us. Bear witness that we are here and that we matter. Here are a few ways to continue welcoming members of the church who are homebound in the days and weeks to come.

Church Services

In the first week of quarantine here in Los Angeles, a dear friend of mine texted me exactly what I was feeling: “It only took a pandemic, but we finally got live-streamed services.” We had been discussing ways to make Sunday service accessible for a little while but, for various reasons, it was slow going. It is a big undertaking to provide accessibility. The amount of work it requires can be overwhelming and can cause many people to burn out and/or give up. But for many of us who can’t make it to church on a Sunday morning in normal times, we can feel left out or cut off because of how difficult it can be to love us sometimes. The reality is that it took the majority needing live-stream service for chronic sufferers to be included, and it’s easy for that thought to bring up feelings of anger and bitterness, whether warranted or not. Ideally, it would be a huge blessing for churches to continue live-streaming after the restrictions are lifted. Where that’s not possible, it would be both loving and appreciated to openly acknowledge the lack and to continue to make church services as accessible as possible. 

Compassion

This pandemic has disrupted everyone’s life. Because of how it has, many people now have a glimpse into the daily frustrations and longings of chronic sufferers and those who are regularly homebound. Set time aside to reflect on your time in quarantine and how your feelings might mirror those who have experienced being shut in before now. Write down how you feel during this time and talk to God about it. Be honest even about your most vulnerable, and your most petty, thoughts, and emotions. Then think how a friend might have felt losing her job when illness took over. Or how protecting one’s health can be a daily concern for some. How hospital visits may be necessary but always run the risk of adding infection. Or how not seeing another human being besides one’s family for months can cause an indescribable ache. Not only will this be a sweet meditation with God, but it’s also a way to gain empathy for shut-ins in our church family long after this pandemic is behind us. 

Community

While those of us who are homebound desire community, it is often difficult to reach out and can be tiring to do so. Friends can help take that burden by continuing to make community group meetings available via video chat, even after groups begin meeting in person again. It would be a huge blessing for groups to take the initiative to have a laptop and good WiFi set up for members who will still be unable to be physically present. This is also valuable for one-on-one meetings that can’t happen in person, whether they are social gatherings, Bible studies, or other fellowship opportunities.

For years, I overextended myself beyond my capacity to make sure I was physically attending church events. It never occurred to me that, because I am sick, the church could, and should, be coming to me. Recently I expressed to my husband that it feels as though the church has been coming around us much more. He offered another perspective. For the past 10+ years, I have had one faithful friend who has kept a weekly standing appointment to visit. While I do communicate with others via text and the occasional call, this friend has been my main human contact with the church for some time. When she goes on vacation or has an illness flair herself, I feel the absence. Recently another friend started intentionally reaching out through text, phone calls, and socially distanced in-person visits. My husband conjectured that, as starved as we have been for community, this one extra friend carries a profound weight. But this weight ought not to be carried by one or two members of the church body. Each person has unique abilities, availability, gifting, and personal relationships designed to be a blessing to those suffering. Unfortunately, since chronic sufferers are not visible, it can be all too easy for us to fall through the cracks. 

Bear Witness

As you have likely experienced in quarantine, staying at home creates a black hole pulling our attention into the vortex of our own navels. Isolation makes it really difficult to remember that other worlds exist outside our own. The days grow longer without activities to break them up, and we can begin to feel as though we are forgotten. This is where “tiny texts” and “gifts of remembrance” come in. 

It is noble and godly to pray for one another; however, it is challenging to feel the prayers of others if we don’t hear them ourselves. Honestly, it’s hard to feel much outside the continual current of pain and psychological episodes as well as the hurricane of doctor’s appointments, medical procedures, and self-care routines. But a phone call or text can go a long way. You can text your prayer or text, “I prayed _____ for you today.” It’s also a blessing when people send texts about their day and share their own struggles and celebrations. It brings us out of ourselves and invites us to engage in the lives of others. This is a small, concrete way to encourage the exhausted and strengthen the fainthearted (Isaiah 35:3).

Gifts of remembrance are also wonderful signposts to remind us that we are known and remembered. They are gifts that keep on giving. I have a painting on my wall that is so perfect, so spot-on, that I cried upon receiving it. My eyes are filling with tears just writing about it now. When I look at it from my bed, I am comforted that Camille knows me and remembers me. When my husband pulls out his whiskey sampler, I am encouraged that the Rosses know and remember him. And when my daughter wears her favorite princess dress, I am blessed that Marisol knows and remembers her.

Another way to bear witness is to acknowledge us to others. On that fine Sunday when you meet together once again, verbally acknowledge those of your church family who will not be present to attend services. We feel invisible and to a certain degree, we are invisible. When we are safe at home we are out of sight and very easily out of mind. Additionally, relationships are a give and take. Because we can’t give much and need a lot, we can sometimes feel like leeches, no matter the sacred purity and wisdom the Lord is refining in us. Helping the rest of the congregation remember us is an act of love and advocacy that affirms we are, as Paul says, indispensable to the church (1 Corinthians 12:22), equally part of the body even if we cannot be there in the flesh. 

Be Patient With Us All

Remain patient and remember that patience is active. Being patient with the weak means sitting with us when we are in pain, talk to us when our minds are spiraling, grieving with us as we endure daily losses, bringing us a meal or groceries (again), and eating with us – doing so without expectation of an end to your patience or our need for it. In our fast-paced age, our patience grows thin fast and we are less likely to long suffer unless the Lord gives us circumstances that demand it. Put it in your mind that there is no time limit on suffering or grief, and that the Lord will always provide strength to the willing heart. So prepare yourself and stay with us. Not only will you encourage the fainthearted and help the weak, but you will also slowly begin to really know us and see us as our Savior does. Even more, you will be our witness, Christ to us in times when our vision grows weak. Together we will reflect the body as it is meant to be, loving and serving one another, reflecting God’s glory to the world, whether we are sheltering at home or traveling far beyond our own thresholds.

Jennifer Ji-Hye Ko is a writer, poet, and servant minister at Cornerstone Church West Los Angeles. She lives with her husband Joon and their daughter, remaining tenacious amid her various physical and mental illnesses. You can follow Jennifer on Instagram at @jennifer.jihye.ko.

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