#I was sick with vertigo and sinuses but I’m feeling better now
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I really missed drawing him
#fanart#illustration#aph england#hetalia#artist#arthur kirkland#myart#artists on tumblr#hetalia fanart#hws england#gangstalia#I was sick with vertigo and sinuses but I’m feeling better now#hated being sick when I wanted to draw my hubby 😔
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Hi! I love your works but the poly!marauders have my heart and soul. This is literally my first request ever but could we have poly!marauders as emts, where they are already in a relationship with the reader and reader keeps getting dizzy and passing out without a clear reason. Or literally anything established relationship and hurt/comfort with them.
I’m so bad at communicating and I hope you know and trust that people sincerely think you are amazing and believe in your talents even if we don’t know you in real life.
Much love and happiness for the new year <3
You're so sweet omg, thank you!! I slightly varied your dizzy/passing out idea but I hope this scratches the hurt/comfort itch <3
cw: severe dizziness, vomiting (this actually happened to me as a kid and I still have no idea what it was but it was ROUGH)
emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words
You wake with a whine already tearing from your throat. The room is dark, and yet somehow it’s spinning. You know this more by feeling than by sight.
You breathe heavily, patting the bed next to you until you find something that’s not sheet. You’re holding your head as motionless as you can. You think it’s slowing.
“Hm?” Remus grunts.
“Help.” Your voice is scratchy, choked with panic. “I don’t—I’m so dizzy.”
“What?” He shifts on the bed, and your plan to keep still is instantly foiled. The slight movement of your pillow sends your head rolling again. Terror claws up your throat. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” you stress. “I just woke up and it’s like I’m spinning, Rem, I can’t see and—”
“Okay, shh, shh. Calm down.” You feel his spindly hand set down on top of yours.
The sheets whisper as the other boys rouse, and then a light turns on. It’s instantly better and worse. You can make out vaguely that you’re in bed, but everything in front of you whirls. At least now you can detect movement as a brownish shape enters your field of vision.
“What’s going on?” James’ voice is groggy. His hand stretches across your clavicle. “Why’re you looking up like that?”
“She says she’s dizzy.” Remus lifts his head above yours, or you think he does, a smear of pale skin and brown hair. “Is everything still spinning, dove?”
You try to hum in affirmation, but it comes out a bit like a whimper. “It hasn’t stopped, but it gets worse anytime I move my head.”
“Sounds like vertigo,” Sirius says. You recall he’d fallen asleep on Remus’ other side, but you don’t know if he’s moved since then. It’s odd speaking to them like this, disembodied voices you can touch but not see.
A warm hand lays across your forehead. “No fever,” James murmurs. “Is it getting better when you’re still like that, angel?”
You swallow. Maybe it’s because you’re in a vulnerable state, but his concerned tone is making your sinuses hurt.
“A little. Not enough to see or anything.”
You feel the bed dip, and then someone’s knees are digging into the sides of your hips. “Alright, gorgeous,” Sirius says, “let’s sit you up.”
“That sounds not fun,” you voice your concern hastily.
He coos, enfolding you in a hug that presses you securely against his chest. “I know, baby, but it could help us figure out what’s going on with you, okay?” He starts leaning back slowly, pulling you upright with him. “There, good girl.”
You recognize the feel of James’ hand as it splays on your back, drawing big, sweeping circles. You feel like you could be sick. You close your eyes, but can’t decide if that helps. Everything is worse. There’s no escaping it.
Remus’ bony knuckles brush your forehead, rechecking your temperature. “Can you hear us alright? Are your ears ringing at all?”
“I don’t think so.” It’s hard to tell when everything else is already so disorienting. Could it be a quiet ringing? You’re not sure you’d know it if you heard it. “I can hear you fine.”
He hums. James’ hand leaves your back and the mattress shifts as he gets out of bed. You turn your head on instinct to see where he’s going. It’s the worst idea of your life. You groan as the spinning intensifies, dragging you along on a tilt-a-whorl you’d never agreed to. It’s the feeling of the drunkest you’ve ever been times a thousand.
Before you know it’s coming, bile rushes up your throat and spews out onto the bed.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
One pair of hands grips you by the shoulders, keeping you from pitching forward into your own sick, while another gathers your hair away from your face. You whimper as saliva strings from your mouth. Someone wipes it away with their sleeve.
“I’m sorry.” Your throat hurts, your voice flagrant evidence of how close you are to tears. Your hair is secured behind your head with a ponytail. “Shit, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s alright, darling, it’s not your fault,” Remus shushes you, using that tone he does when he’s trying to cover his own worry and soothe someone else’s at the same time. You once heard him talk this way to a kitten he was trying to coax out of the road. “Do you feel any better now?”
A sob catches in your throat. “No,” you confess.
If anything, the feeling has gotten worse. It’s like you’re swimming in your own head. You grope blindly for something to hold, and a cool hand presses itself into yours. Sirius.
“I’m really scared,” you choke out.
His fingers squeeze yours. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry, baby, I know it has to be terrifying.”
He presses his lips ardently to your forehead. Wetness drips from your nose, and you grip his hand hard. It’s horrifically disconcerting not to be able to see your boyfriends, to be robbed of your sense of place, but their touches are grounding. The contact makes everything feel a bit more solid.
“James is getting some things ready to go to the hospital,” Remus says softly, and you realize they must have been having one of your silent eye conversations while you couldn’t see. Stupidly, you feel a bit left out.
“You can't help me here?” You’re pleading, your voice raw and wretched. You don’t want to make them feel bad, but what good is it to have three medically-trained professionals for boyfriends if they can’t utilize their expertise here at home?
“I’m sorry, dovey.” Remus’ thumbs stroke your shoulders. “Vertigo this severe is probably an ear infection, but it could also be something more serious. Either way, we can’t get you antibiotics without a doctor.”
“The quicker we go, the quicker you could be feeling better,” James says, signaling his return. “Here, honey, I brought this to clean you up.” He doesn’t tell you what this is, but a second later a warm cloth swipes across your mouth and over your chin, wiping away the vomit there.
“Thanks,” you say weakly.
You can hear the smile in his voice well enough to picture it, small and sympathetic. “My pleasure, angel. Do you think you’ll be sick again?”
“No.” You can say it with moderate certainty. Your head is still roiling, but it’s no longer taking your stomach with it.
“Okie dokie,” he goes on with his usual determined cheer. “I’ve got a change of clothes for you in the car, so I think we’re all ready to go. Hold your head here for me?” He presses it gently to what you suppose must be his chest, the neckline of his pajama shirt rough against your cheek. “I’ll try to keep as still as I can.”
Remus and Sirius let you go as James’ arms wrap around your shoulders and under your knees, lifting you off the bed. You push your face into his collar, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Your vision swirls.
“Fuck,” you mumble.
“I’ve got you, my love.” James’ lips come down on your forehead, warm and sweet. “We’re gonna take such great care of you, I promise.”
#poly!marauders#emt!marauders#emt!marauders x reader#marauders au#poly!marauders x reader#poly!marauders x fem!reader#poly!marauders x you#poly!marauders x y/n#poly!marauders x self insert#poly!marauders fanfiction#poly!marauders fanfic#poly!marauders fic#poly!marauders fluff#poly!marauders hurt/comfort#poly!marauders angst#poly!marauders imagine#poly!marauders drabble#poly!marauders scenario#poly!marauders one shot#poly!marauders oneshot#james potter#sirius black#remus lupin#james potter x reader#sirius black x reader#remus lupin x reader#the marauders#marauders x reader#marauders fanfiction#marauders fandom
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The Blanket Incident
Just some Hotch/Morgan to start off the Monday
Derek takes one good look at himself, double-checks the tie he may or may not have stolen from Aaron, before nodding and deciding he’s got to get out of this house before he’s late for work. The BAU can handle one missing adult but it will burn to the ground without at least one person wearing the decision hat. He grabs his coat off the back of the chair and as he opens the bedroom door there’s a low, pained groan from the mass of blankets still curled up on the bed. Derek rolls his eyes but answers to what he thinks is a whiny rasp of his name.
He squats down by Aaron’s side of the bed, smirking as he pushes two or three layers of blanket around until he can see his loves flushed face looking back at him. “There you are,” he whispers. “I was just about to go.” Derek takes in Aaron’s red-rimmed eyes, that sleepy gaze he settles over Derek. He’s just content to have Derek close, within his line of sight. Derek doesn’t want to leave him.
Even under his mass of blankets, as Derek walked around their room stealing a tie from Aaron’s dresser and hunting down a solid white shirt, he could hear Aaron breathing. Choked, thick sounds as he exhaled too far and curled deeper into his nest, coughing until it hurt too much and he just held his breath through the next round. Each of those sounds, even the softer ones he made in his sleep, were just breaking Derek down. Eroding his decision to go to work and leave Aaron here. Now he’s looking at Aaron and wondering if this is really the right choice.
“You weren’t going to say goodbye?” Hotch asks, face pinched in a way that Derek’s only seen on Jack. That pouty sort of twist that died out by the time Jack was ten but now mostly shows through when he’s told he can’t stay out too late or to text them when he gets wherever it is he’s going.
Derek sighs, patiently slipping his hand into the blanket jungle to cup Hotch’s head in his hand. “I kissed you goodbye, Aaron.” He’d only paused at the mirror to double-check himself, to stall. His hair parts under Derek’s careful touch, sweat-slick hair against Derek’s palm. He can feel the height packed in around Hotch’s body from his fever and trapped there by the heated blanket. He’s got it turned all the way up, no doubt. His response is a soft hum, Aaron’s eyes slipping shut. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He strokes Aaron’s cheek with his thumb, worrying his lip as he watches Aaron’s lips part so that he can breathe. Unable to get any air through his congested sinuses.
“S’okay,” Aaron mumbles.
Derek can’t bring himself to believe that. At best, Aaron lays here in his heated blanket all day baking in his fever with no reprieve from the heat. His fever will climb, feeding off of his immobility. He won’t drink the water sitting on the nightstand and he’s already missed his morning round of medicine so he’s probably going to ignore the other things Derek’s carefully left out on the nightstand.
“I’ll be right back.” Derek will check his temperature. Anything lower than 101 is fine, Aaron’s handled a lot in his life. A little fever won’t kill him. He’s the sort that likes to ride out a fever, his body is more than used to his rough ideas of self-care. What Derek’s worried about is the fact that his fever isn’t that low. He’s certain it’s not. And, mostly, just because Aaron likes to skate by and ride the thin line of “well, I’m not dead yet” doesn't mean that’s a ride that Derek wants to watch him go on.
Derek runs the back of his knuckle down the side of Aaron’s face, softly calling his name until he gets a hum in response. “Let me take your temperature.” He knows that this isn’t going to be easy, Aaron's like a giant man-child when it comes to being taken care of. He needs to prove that he’s okay, that he can do it on his own. Which is why when Aaron opens his mouth to mumbles “I’m fine, you don’t need to do that” Derek slips the thermometer into his mouth. It makes Aaron make the cutest little pouty face and Derek smiles back, holding his hand under Aaron’s chin to keep his mouth shut.
“I love you,” Derek reminds him when it beeps and he can turn it over to look at the numbers.
Aaron grumbles, curling in so he can hide his face in his blankets. “No you don’t,” he whines.
Looking at these numbers [103.2] Aaron’s really not going to believe his love. “Then you’re really not going to like this,” he whispers in apology. Aaron groans and Derek just sighs, tossing the thermometer on the nightstand. “I’m going to run some water for a bath, alright? Can you work on sitting up?” Derek doesn’t even wait, just keeps his soft instructions coming as he jogs to the bathroom. Turns the water to the coldest setting and lets it run.
“Are you--” Derek stops in place, cuts himself off to wait as Hotch sits himself up. His pale face is pinched in pain, his hands shaking where he holds himself upright. It’s vertigo, caused by age or the shit tons of medication they pour into him. It’s like they send him home with three more every time they go.
Derek clears his throat, moves further into the room. “Come on, love.”
Love. If Aaron were more awake he’d grumble, complain that Derek went away to England for a week, and come back with all this nonsensical vocabulary. He pretends to hate it but he feels special every time Derek whispers it to him. Knows he only does it because Hotch pretends to loathe it.
“Easy,” Derek holds onto his elbow, keeping him steady so that he can struggle out of his pants. It’s reflexive, a movement he’s done a thousand times before but as his fingers hook underneath the thin material of Aaron’s shirt he grabs Derek’s hand.
“No,” Aaron mumbles, his frown lined with his distress but Derke doesn’t understand.
“You don’t want to take your shirt off?” Aaron sways, shifting his hold so he leans closer into Derek. His legs weakly trying to give out from beneath him. Derek holds him closer, wrapping both arms around him until he can maneuver Aaron to the edge of the tub. Guiding him to sit down on the edge of the tub, Derek kneels down in front of him. “Aaron,” Derek cups his cheek, directing Aaron’s fever-hazed eyes to his own. “I’ve seen you naked, remember? You’ve got nothing to hide.”
But feverish and sick Aaron can’t comprehend all that. What lays written out on his skin are countless examples of his weakness and is not enough that he needs Derek to hold him upright? He’ll scare Derek away. There’s no way that he’ll want to stay. He’ll see the perfect circles of old cigarette burns, the shattered impacts of bullet wound scars, and Foyet’s mark all right there. Plain as day.
“Aaron,” Derek soothes. “It’s a white t-shirt.” He knows what it is. Aaron’s not half as good as he thinks he is at hiding secrets. “But you can keep it on if you want to. That’s okay.” And it’s silly and stupid to him but if it’s that important to Aaron then… okay. It’s okay. That’s one of the hard parts, letting Aaron believe his mirage remains upheld. It’s important to him and so it’s become important to Derek.
“In the tub then,” Derek instructs. It’s a slow process, one foot at a time and Aaron’s discontent with the water’s cold temperature. “I know, I know,” Derek soothes, but he forces Aaron down into the water. Makes him settle down no matter how he complains. “Just sit for a little bit and I’ll let you have your blankets back.”
Aaron leans into Derek, lets him manipulate his limbs down into the water. Sinks down, down, down until his head is leaning into Derek’s hand, keeping his chin out of the water. Derek smiles down at him, cupping water in the palm of his hand guiding it to fall over Aaron’s face. “Feels better, huh?”
Hotch looks at his legs, long limbs awkwardly bent up out of the water. “I don’t even fit in the tub,” he rasps.
Derek squints his eyes, “stop grumbling about everything like an old man.” He makes a point to flick the edge of Aaron’s nose. A little bop that makes Aaron curl his nose, grunts in annoyance. “Will you be okay for a minute?” Derek asks. “I need to call Dave, warn him that neither of us are coming in.”
Hotch nods and Derek can see that while his introduction of the freezing tub of torture wasn’t a welcomed suggestion, it’s brought back focus to Hotch’s eyes. Made him more coherent, more present. Hotch’s nod is followed by his slow, careful movements. Working his arms underneath himself until he can sit up. “Go,” he instructs. His cheek rests against the bathtub's edge, soaking in the cool feeling of the porcelain. “I won’t drown.”
Derek stands up with a groan, rolling his eyes. He kisses Aaron’s forehead, “I didn’t mean it like that, you old drama queen.”
Calling Dave is simple enough, an easy run-through. Garcia clears Hotch’s schedule for the day, pushes meetings back. Derek can hear the water splashing around when he moves down the hall, setting about making some toast. He and Jack had breakfast, shared a pot of coffee and Derek watched Jack devour two bowls of cereal and then pocket a pop-tart for later. Aaron had still been in bed.
“Hello good looking,” Derek leans in the doorway of their room smiling.
Aaron turns, signature frown slapped in place. He’s standing there on his side of the bed, one arm protectively pulled to his chest. He hasn’t dried off all the way, his shirt stuck to his skin. His hair falling down into his face. “Where’d you put my blanket?” He’s pouting. All but whining as he sadly tosses the blankets he doesn’t want out of his way.
“In the wash,” Derek supplies, “it’ll be fine. You won’t freeze before then.”
Aaron groans, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Why’d you take it?” He folds over himself, rests his head in his hand, his elbow on his knee. Rubbing his temple, digging his thumb into the skin.
“Love,” Derek squats down in front of Aaron. “You’ve been hauled up in that blanket all night. All gross and sweaty.” He smirks, laughing as Aaron leans over onto him. Presses his forehead into Derek’s neck like he’s trying to bury himself there. He’s still feverishly warm but far more coherent. “It’s going to come out of the wash and I’ll bring it back to you I promise.” Derek runs his hand through Aaron’s hair, the strands wet and cold. “Come to bed, I’ll keep you warm.”
Aaron groans, lifting his face just enough to grumble out, “traitor.”
“Okay,” Derek chuckles, “okay, I’m a dirty traitor for washing your blanket. Will you come to bed?”
Aaron nods, “we’ll need more blankets.”
Derek shakes his head, sighing. “Okay,” he caves. “Okay, I’ll get you more blankets.”
He goes to get three blankets, tucks them under his arm so that Aaron can decide which ones are nice enough to keep and which ones won’t do. He checks on the heating blanket, the cover. He didn’t just throw the whole thing in there. He’s doubling back for the bedroom with the fantastic news that his blanket will be done soon to find Aaron is out. He’s curled in the middle of the bed, taking up more than his fair share. Burning under the comforter.
Which is normal.
Aaron hogs the blankets.
Aaron hogs the bed.
“Derek?” Hotch feels the bed shift as Derek lays down beside him. An arm comes over his hips, a knee against his thigh. He hadn’t heard Derek come in, hadn’t heard him changing his clothes. Moving about the room.
Derek settles in, gets comfortable. He’ll get that stupid blanket out when it’s done. It will smell remarkably better but Hotch won’t comment, he’ll tuck himself further into it and pretend not to hear Morgan’s comment about burning down the house with faulty wiring.
“Blankets not done yet,” Derek mumbles into Aaron’s back. “I’ll get it when it's done, okay?”
“Promise?”
“Yes, I promise I’ll get your stupid blanket. Sleep, Aaron.”
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A commission for @belly-flu ! Thank you so much~!
Fandom/s: Hercules Character/s: Phil (Whumpee), Hercules (Caretaker) Kink/s: Upset stomach, vertigo, sneezing, burping, emeto
Plot: During their daily training, Hercules notices that Phil is acting odd... it’s pretty obvious that he’s not doing well, and yet, he tries too hard to hide it. But it affects the quality of his lesson...
___
"A bit higher! You won’t make it like this!", Phil demanded. His voice had this natural, harsh undertone to it that could make a person instantly feel subordinate – perfectly fitting for his authoritarian personality, in Hercules’ opinion. He respected him quite a lot, and tried to follow his orders as best as he could, despite his occasional clumsiness. Other people probably wouldn't take Phil half as seriously, due to his tiny size and strangely cute appearance, but that’s a thought the young man barely allowed himself to have.
"Like this?", Hercules asked, and raised his bow and arrow a few centimeters. As he got ready to shoot, his eyes focused on the target; A bright red apple, high up in a tree. He was merely waiting for Phil's cue. But a few seconds passed, and there was still no response…
"… Like this??", he repeated a little louder.
"... Oh! Yes, yes...", Phil finally replied and cleared his throat. For some reason, he sounded kind of… hoarse.
Shoot! The arrow went flying, and... missed the apple by far. It didn’t even get close. Oops. This arrow will probably not be found again anytime soon...
Disappointed and confused, Hercules straightened his back and looked over to Phil with a frown. Had he even been watching him? He just stood there, quietly, with his eyes closed and propped up against a tree trunk. Soft sighs and grunts came out of his mouth, and Hercules could have sworn he saw sweat glistening on his forehead. The demigod didn't really know what to do or say, but it was obvious to him that something must be wrong with him. Phil simply didn't look well at all.
"Are you... uhm.. alright?", he asked, sounding concerned as he walked up closer to Phil.
"Uh, what…?", Phil seemed startled for a second, and quickly tried to regain his composure.
"… Well done! You get better with every time you try!", he frantically looked back and forth, as if he’d passed out a few seconds and didn't know what date or time it was. Now Hercules frowned again, rubbing the back of his head a bit awkwardly.
"You seem a bit… weak today", he dared to comment.
"Weak? Me!?", Phil’s eyes flared up, their usual intensity coming back for a moment.
"I'm fine! I’ve never felt better in my-", before he could even finish his sentence, he suddenly began to squint. The itch from his sore throat had begun to wander upwards, into his nose, and he grimaced as he inhaled forcefully. The sensation was all too familiar-
HERRKCHOO!!
An intense sneeze exploded out of him - and was quickly followed by a second one. Even though they both sounded dangerously wet, nothing seemed to come down… In fact, his sinuses seemed to be even more clogged than before, making breathing awfully difficult.
"Bless you, um… Do you need to sit down?", Hercules asked, noticeably worried, which only caused Phil to blush from how awkward he felt.
"No! We have to continue with your training! Don't you get lazy now!", he was quick to reply, and cleared his throat once again in an attempt to pull himself together. Fine, if he said so… Hercules went back in his position, but there was still that expression of concern on his face. Phil stood up straight and tried his best to act as if everything were alright, but with every passing second, he looked sicker and sicker to the young man...
It was getting increasingly harder for the Satyr to keep control over his body, let alone concentrate on his surroundings. He almost seemed like a newborn foal, stumbling around as if none of his four legs wanted to carry him any longer. And yet, he attempted to force himself to carry on regardless, since he'd feel way too embarrassed to admit how much he was struggling. He was the authority figure here after all, the teacher with a task of high importance, and being seen as 'weak', as Hercules had called it before… that hurt his ego.
"Alright", Hercules gave in, even though he raised an eyebrow at his stumbling.
"Can you show me how to aim it the right way?"
"What do you mean…”, there was an intense ringing in Phil’s head… it suddenly felt like he was being lifted off the ground…
"Uh… the bow? The arrow?", Hercules tilted his head.
"Ohhh, right…! Of course, you mean the arrow!", Phil nervously laughed it off.
"Of course, I know what you're talking about!"
What unusual behavior for him… He swallowed down the wave of nausea that had begun to build in his middle. The embarrassment was written all over his face, but poor Phil tried to hide it with a strict expression.
"Give them to me! I’ll show you how it’s done!", he demanded and pulled the bow and remaining two arrows out of Hercules' hands. The goat man got into the right position, despite his shaky legs, and took another deep breath to try and keep his body from crumbling.
"I'll show you one last time. Now watch carefully!", Phil drew the bow violently, almost threatening to snatch the arrow in half. His anger was honestly directed towards himself, or rather his own state… when he wasn’t acting strangely, he came across as especially rude. Hercules couldn't help but feel flabbergasted due to Phils odd behavior. Just how was he supposed to react?
"Look, you hold it in this angle. Never too low. You have to stretch it far enough. Alright?"
Hercules nodded quickly, but all he could focus on was how much his hands were trembling.
"Good! All you need to do now is to let go and don't move a muscle!!", however, he did not shoot the arrow, instead he handed the bow back to Hercules.
"Try again", Phil prompted, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He started to feel nauseous all over again... Probably because he’d moved too quickly, and because the world around him began to spin. For a short moment, he held his breath in order to prevent the nausea from building any further, but sadly it didn’t seem to help. Right as the demigod was about to shoot, a loud, painful sounding gurgle erupted from Phil’s chubby belly, making him gasp audibly… Especially as an airy belch forced its way up his throat, Hercules’ attention was on him again. No… he simply couldn’t focus on his training when he knew that Phil was so sick.
“Maybe we should-“
“No…! Mrrp… Stop-”, Phil’s voice broke without him realizing it… his hind legs suddenly gave in, and he sank down, plopping onto the ground. White and purple dots were dancing in front of his eyes, and he began to whimper as his stomach seemingly moved in circles inside him… at least that’s what it felt like…
“Phil-“, Hercules widened his eyes in shock, and he bent down to reach for his arm.
“Don’t touch me!!”, the Satyr hissed, roughly slapping his hand away, but in all honesty, he feared he could throw up all over him… that would be awful. That would be the only way for this situation to get any more humiliating than it already was. The confused demigod could only stand there and watch as Phil pressed his eyes shut, trying so hard to somehow calm his agitated insides, and stop his head from spinning…
As much as Phil had hoped for the pain and dizziness to slowly fade away, instead, more and more sour tasting saliva began to pool underneath his tongue. The fear of what was about to happen made him whimper again… and before he knew what was happening to him, it began with a wet belch, and suddenly, he expelled the contents of his stomach right in front of him. There went his breakfast… it didn’t taste half as delicious coming back up. Hercules stumbled backwards in shock, and simply watched… it was a horrifying and concerning sight to see his teacher throw up like this.
“Phil…!”, he gasped… No, this time he wouldn’t let him turn him away. The young man approached him, and slowly knelt down next to him so he could rub his back.
“Kid… get away from me…”, even though the Satyr said that, he sounded like he wanted the opposite really… he couldn’t keep his façade up a second longer. Now it was all over anyway… What he’d wanted to avoid so badly had already happened. Hercules had seen him vomit. And worst of all, he was trying to comfort him, too…!
“Shh… hey, it’s alright…! I also get sick sometimes…”, Hercules smiled a bit shyly.
“Do you want to know what helps me a lot then?”
“What…”
The demigod gently reached over to Phil’s big belly… because he was such a tiny creature, his student could easily rub both his back and his middle at once. Surprised, Phil shifted a little, his small goat body quivering… His face was so red, he almost looked like a squished tomato.
“H-hey…”
Hercules hushed him softly… for now, it might be better if Phil simply didn’t speak at all. It was unusual to see him so… quiet. So stiff in Hercules’ embrace. The warmth of the man’s touch felt very nice to the creature, but it was also incredibly awkward and strange… even more so when it coaxed several small, wet belches out of him. He feared he could have to throw up again, but it seemed like there was simply nothing left inside… which was good, in a way. But admittedly, Phil was pretty upset about letting his breakfast go to waste. No matter how much he’d fought it, there was just no way he could keep his body going a second longer…
“… Sorry about that…”
“Please don’t apologize… You can’t control how you feel…”
Phil turned his head away… His nose was starting to itch again, and he felt a sneeze coming up. Why? Why did this have to happen? Why now? Why in front of Hercules? He was so frustrated… after another deafeningly loud sneeze that made his ears pop, he began to whine. It almost looked like tears shot into his eyes for a moment.
“Maybe you should lie down”, Hercules suggested, with a soft tone in his voice.
“It’s no use to push yourself even more…”
“And what about you?”, Phil mumbled. He was slurring his words, it was like his tongue didn’t want to listen to him anymore. A thick tear rolled down his cheek – no, he wasn’t crying! It’s from the itch in his nose.
“Who’s gonna teach you how to shoot that arrow?”
“I can practice alone”, Hercules insisted.
“The things you already taught me! Revision is good, isn’t it? And if I learn it on my own, it’ll stick better.”
“I suppose…”
Finally, Phil allowed Hercules to help him back onto his feet. Even though his knees were still shaky, he somehow managed to stand on his own again now. Admittedly, getting everything out of his system made him feel a little bit better, but still – far from well enough to continue teaching. The Satyr sniffled, trying to get some air into his nose… but his sinuses were still so clogged, all it did was make his throat and ears tickle. As much as it annoyed him, he had to continue breathing through his mouth, which only further agitated his sore throat.
“Come on, take it easy for today… I’ll get you to bed”, Hercules offered.
“NO. … No, thanks. I’m fine on my own.”
There was his pride again… Hercules was honestly pretty happy to see it, for once. That could only mean he’d be fine, right?
“If you’d like any tea or-“
“I’m sick, not a baby”, Phil hissed, and almost stumbled over his own feet. He hated that Hercules had to catch him again… His hooves felt like they were too big for his body somehow. Maybe still from the dizziness… he really had to get some sleep…
“… Thanks.”
The demigod chuckled softly as he watched him stagger off… well, hopefully he’d feel better by tomorrow. He already knew it would get pretty lonely without his nagging. Once again, Hercules took the bow and arrow – and shot. This time, he managed to hit the apple.
“Phil! I did it!”, he grinned proudly.
“Do you want the apple??”
“HURK” – well, that loud gagging noise was enough of a response for Hercules…
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The Symphony of Cinderella Chapter 2
This chapter is short, but the others are all longer. :D
Adagio (Chapter 2)
Bilba stared dully at her reflection in the cracked mirror.
She felt awful.
It had been a week since her performance at Aegnor's theater. A week filled with interviews at small news stations desperate for stories, and Lobelia's brilliant idea that she should set up a piano outside and give an impromptu concert. Her stepmother had been adamant that not only would it boost ticket sales, but someone in the crowd would undoubtedly film it and create a viral video.
Bilba was fairly certain her stepmother had an incorrect understanding of how viral videos were created, but it was easier to obey than get screamed at so she’d dutifully sat on the rickety bench in front of a rented piano and played classical music on a random street corner.
Instead of instant fame, all Bilba had gotten was rained on.
She'd awakened the next day with a scratchy throat that had soon developed into a full-on head cold. None of this had deterred her stepmother in the slightest, which was why Bilba was currently in a run-down room in the back of a theater so small and old she doubted anyone in Mirkwood remembered it existed.
Lobelia and Lotho always demanded she spend the entire day of a performance at the venue, which she usually appreciated because it gave her a much-needed break from them. Lobelia was out shopping with Priscilla while Lotho and Otho had gone off...somewhere.
Bilba sighed. She could barely breathe through her nose, her eyes were so dry it hurt to keep them open, and every time she swallowed it felt like razor blades were shredding her throat. On top of all it felt like her head was in a vise, as her blocked sinuses made their presence known in the form of a raging headache.
She dug her fingers into her temples in the futile hope it might accomplish something. When that did nothing she folded her arms on the counter and dropped her head on them, letting out a groan of pure misery as she did.
"Are you all right?"
Bilba twitched in surprise at the deep voice behind her but lacked the energy or desire to lift her head enough to see who it was. There were always stagehands running about, preparing for either her performance or the one after that people actually wanted to see. They were usually too busy to speak to her and she’d started thinking of them as almost background noise. Present but on the edges of her perception, simultaneously there but not there.
She was pretty sure they saw her in the exactly the same way, there but not really. Not a person so much as the “talent.” Just one more act in a long string of ever changing acts.
"Miss?"
Right, guy behind her. She'd half hoped he'd take the hint and leave her to her misery.
"I'm fine," she managed to mumble into her arms. The act of talking irritated her throat enough to make her cough and her shoulders bunched as her lungs tried their very best to expel themselves from her body. Traitorous bastards. When they finally gave up and settled down she let out another groan and sagged deeper into her arms. "Just kill me."
"I'll be right back," the deep voice said. Footsteps retreated out of the small room.
Bilba grumbled something unintelligible and relaxed. She simply wasn't up for any sort of company. She'd be lucky if she were up for the concert. Maybe if she were given the chance to rest for a few min--
Her train of thought was cut off by the arrival of another stagehand, this one to call her up for sound checks. He left and Bilba lifted her head, which felt like it weighed a ton. She kept her eyes shut for a few more minutes, as she always got vertigo when she was sick, her ears getting stopped up so badly it affected her balance.
When the wave of dizziness passed, she pushed to her feet. A glance in the mirror showed she looked as bad as she felt and she was grateful she hadn’t looked up when either stagehand had appeared. The fewer she traumatized the better.
She had to resist the urge to groan again as she left the room. Her entire body ached, and she desperately wanted to lie down, but knew that wasn't an option for hours. Instead she consoled herself with the knowledge that, even if she could lie down, she'd just end up with her sinuses even more stopped up and her lungs trying all the harder to escape her body.
Maybe she’d get lucky and a piece of scaffolding would fall and knock her unconscious for an hour or two.
That would be nice.
Tragically, no scaffolding fell during her sound check and, what felt like ages later, Bilba wandered down the corridor back to her dressing room.
If anything, she now felt worse.
The theater was under construction to repair water damage from the same storm that had made her ill. Most of the work was in the main lobby, leaving it and the stage filled with sawdust that clogged her sinuses even worse and left her eyes feeling like someone had rubbed sandpaper over them.
Someone had pulled the door to her dressing room closed and she hoped that meant it was relatively clear of more sawdust and she’d be able to relax a bit. She grabbed the knob and shoved it open, desperately hoping that she would be left alone long enough to rest for a few minutes.
She took a step inside and stumbled to a stop at the sight that greeted her on her small vanity.
A small teacup with steam rising from it, next to a bottle of extra strength aspirin and a box of nasal decongestant. There was also an unopened box of tissues and an extra-large bag of cherry flavored cough drops. Finally, just behind the cup of tea, sat a large bowl of soup, steam rising from it and a spoon placed neatly beside it.
Bilba spotted a note propped against her mirror and picked it up.
I didn't know what you'd like but I figured you can't go wrong with green tea and chicken soup for a cold. I hope it helps!
Bilba's vision wavered and she pressed her lips together. The last thing she needed was to cry while being sick. She remembered the door and spun to close it. If Lobelia and Lotho found out someone had done this they'd be angry. They'd insist she must have been complaining and told someone a sob story to manipulate them. They'd say she'd simply done it to make them look bad, as if they didn't do that all on their own.
She sank down into the chair and dragged the bowl and cup toward her. They both smelled heavenly and she was already fantasizing about the feel of the hot liquid on her abused throat.
As she reached for the spoon, her eyes caught on one more item she hadn't originally noticed. A small cell phone tucked just behind the bag of cough drops.
Bilba hesitated, and then reached for it. She didn't recognize the brand, but it lit up as she picked it up, revealing a home screen that looked standard. With a sinking feeling, Bilba pulled up the contacts and saw a single name in the list - "Bringer of Asprin"
A slight smile tugged at the corner of her lips, even as her heart fell further. He was one of those then. The ones who only did something nice because they had convinced themselves they'd get something in return. A date usually, but it was always something. He was probably nearby, had seen her go in her room and, any minute, would text the phone with whatever it was he'd decided he'd "earned."
She scowled, tapping one finger idly on the desk as she waited for the phone to buzz. A minute passed, followed by another, and another after that.
Nothing happened.
She chewed on her lower lip self-consciously, eyes darting to the soup and other supplies. Several more minutes passed until, finally, with a grumble, she leaned forward to grab the teacup.
If he tried to get demanding later she’d give him an autograph or picture or something.
The tea felt heavenly, as did the soup. It didn’t make her feel 100% better, but her throat felt less raw and her stomach begrudgingly settled a little.
After she was finished, and had hidden everything as best she could, she retreated to the small couch. The aspirin and nasal decongestant had helped, and though she knew she’d probably soon be going through the entire box of tissue because of them, she was relieved to feel her headache drop to a dull throb in her temples.
She shoved the cell phone under the cushions, tried to prop herself up so she was sort of half sitting/half lying down, and shut her eyes.
If she did manage to fall asleep, she imagined she’d wake up to a demanding text or call on the phone, verifying what she already knew.
Nobody was ever simply kind.
It was a lesson she’d learned over and over since her parents has died.
Hopefully, one day she’d stop feeling so disappointed by it.
Follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22263070/chapters/53163472
#Fanfic#Fanfiction#Writing#My Writing#Hobbit#Tolkien#Bilbo#female bilbo baggins#Fili#Genderswap#Modern#AU#Cinderella#Fairy Tale#romance#Angst#Pianist#Stagehand
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Whiskey and other lullabies
Set in Chasing Ghosts, James vs. the hell cold - complete with overly helpful Steve and actually helpful Tasha
~
James is more than ready to sleep until next Tuesday, provided 6 days are long enough for the hell cold to go away. A night full of hacking utterly disgusting goo into the toilet while testing the limits of how many times it’s possible to need a tissue in any given five minute time span – too many for his fever addled brain to track – leaves him curled up at the top of the bed with his feet under the blanket while the rest of him sweats like it’s his job. He’s sticky and cold and boiling all at once. A shower would be good, but that would require being upright.
“I have tea,” Steve offers in a voice that’s far too cheerful for the situation.
Before he can object, James is being hauled upright (cue the return of the vertigo that had almost settled down to manageable) and a steaming mug of something herbal is at his lips. He chokes it down. Trying to tell overly helpful Saint Steven the Bringer of Teas that he’s just going to puke it up is a lost cause. The line about it being better to have something in him may well be true, but it doesn’t help when mint tea is stinging his sinuses on the way out.
There are pills, too, little red ones that James thinks are a decongestant, little white ones he hopes are acetaminophen, and bright orange ones that will ensure that the mess coming back up will be neon next round. And there will be a next round. Steve seems intent on making sure of that, what with all the damn tea. And crackers. James is ready to start pelting him with soda crackers, if only he thought he could aim.
“I can make some soup later, get some nutrients in you,” Steve is babbling and James can feel tea and mucus creeping up his throat at the very thought.
“I’m okay,” James chokes out, pressing his fist to his lips when the tight feeling at the back of his palate shoots upward to gag worthy.
“I got the good kind, from the deli,” Steve’s continuing and that’s it for James.
He lurches off the edge of the bed and stumbles into the bathroom, diving toward the toilet and cursing when he lands with more weight toward the prosthetic arm than the flesh one. His head bounces against the tank before his forehead connects with the seat. Not that it matters. A concussion isn’t going to make him any more nauseous than he is now.
The pills haven’t even begun to dissolve when they land in the toilet, sending up little splashes of gross as the tea spills from his lips and his back arches in a way that makes everything ache. When he’s finished he doesn’t bother trying to move, just flushes the evidence and pillows his head on the seat of the toilet. Might as well stay put. Steve will be along with more fucking tea soon anyway.
He wakes to a voice that is either savior or satan. He’s not terribly invested in determining which one, as long as Tasha makes Steve stop taking excessively attentive care of him.
“What hell, Rogers? There are five fucking mugs on the dresser! You said he was sick all night, how much goddamn tea did you push on him?”
Steve’s stammering something about fluids and congestion and trying to help.
“That is not help. Go away. Call Sam or something and crash with him. No one needs your Florence Nightingale routine here.”
James would feel bad for Steve getting Tasha’s reprimand at full volume like that but he’s just glad for a break from the damn tea. He’s never drinking herbal tea again. Ever.
There are drawers opening and closing, Tasha telling Steve to put what he needs for classes in a bag as well, and then Steve’s calling through the bathroom door that he’s going to stay with Sam a few days and that Tasha’s going to be there. James is tempted to tell him that he’s not a toddler and doesn’t actually need a babysitter, but he’s too grateful for Tasha making Steve stop to be snarky.
Some indeterminate amount of time later, the bathroom door creaks open.
“Alright, up you get,” Tasha orders. She steps past him and turns on the shower, then grips his upper arms and guides him to stand.
“Wash. Then bed.”
Orders are good. Orders can be followed without thought. The fever’s high enough that time and place are hazy, but Tasha’s voice means not desert so that’s all he cares about. There’s a hand on his chin, directing him to face her.
“Give me your hand,” she tells him. James would laugh at the sheer hilarity of such a literal request if he wasn’t biting back a yelp when she peels the protective gel cap from his stump. The skin there is always a little irritated, the scar tissue permanently pink and pitted. But there are streaks of bright red as well, swollen spots from too much heat and excess friction from him tossing and turning and clinging to the toilet all night.
Standing makes him dizzy, and Tasha tells him to sit on the now closed toilet while she puts the arm on the charging dock. When she returns, she talks him through stripping out of sweat chilled pajamas and sitting on the floor of the tub. The water she sprays him with is just the right side of not quite hot, and her clipped commands to wash with a bar of soap pressed into his hand are more comforting than all the mother henning Steve showered him with overnight.
Helpless is terrifying. Tasha gets that. She comforts without coddling. Truth be told, she probably doesn’t know another way, but it’s their way, and it’s right. She hoses him off with the handheld shower head and closes the taps.
“Up. Let’s get your ass to bed.”
There’s a towel and small hands rubbing his shoulders and back dry before handing the towel to him for the rest. She’s found boxers and a soft t-shirt for him, so he dresses before following her into the bedroom. The bed is remade and there’s no remaining evidence of the overnight hydration quest. Tasha rubs salve into the irritated skin of his stump before tucking him under a sheet. The blanket is folded at the foot of the bed. There’s a mixing bowl on the bedside table, which she points out.
“You want up, you yell for me. Otherwise, use the damn bowl. Then yell for me.”
Bedside manner isn’t her strength, but she’s efficient. There’s a sealed tumbler of ice water and an airline bottle of bourbon. He raises an eyebrow at that.
“Whiskey makes everything better,” she tells him. “Drink it. Sleep. Feel better.”
He nods, then looks pointedly at his stump. Technically, he can open bottles one handed, but he’s too tired to make that kind of effort. She laughs, twists off the little metal top, and hands it back to him. A quick, burning swallow later, there’s Jim Beam warming his throat.
He drops his head back onto the pillow and there’s a hand brushing through his hair. His head hurts, his throat feels seared raw, and he’s still queasy. None of it matters much. Tasha’s there, growling at him to be still and rest, offering bourbon and orders and all the things he actually wants.
#hell cold#chasing ghosts universe#Bucky Barnes#natasha romanoff#natasha romanov#emeto#sickfic#Steve Rogers#steve and bucky#AU - foster care siblings#amputee bucky barnes#james barnes
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everybody, please believe I’m fine
hello i have the soren sickfic!!!!!! (no pairings, just sibling h/c)
Ao3
If there was going to be a day for this to happen, it would happen to be this day. Soren wakes up to a dark, cloudy sky, cold rain pattering against the window, and a splitting headache. He doesn’t realize how bad it is until he sits up in bed only to have a bolt of pain spear through his skull. He drops his head into his hands with a hiss and pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes. It takes too long for the throb to lessen enough to look up again, and when he does, it becomes apparent that the headache isn’t the only discomfort plaguing him at the moment. Pressure is already building in his sinuses, and his throat is itchy and sore when he swallows.
Soren freezes. Is he… Is he sick? He can’t remember the last time he’s felt this way.
He groans in frustration and rakes a hand through sleep-matted hair. Is this because I didn’t wash my hands with soap before lunch a few days ago…? Or maybe it’s the universe’s way of getting back at him for laughing at Claudia that one time when she fudged a spell and accidentally gave herself a rash.
Either way, a cold can’t get in the way of his responsibilities. He’s a strong, tough guy. In all honesty he thought he was beyond getting sick at all. The last time he was ill was…probably as a child. There was one instance in his early teen years when he had an allergic reaction to some weird edible plant he ate on a dare, but he doesn’t really count that.
It’s weird that he’s suddenly experiencing these symptoms now, when his body is in such excellent condition. Guess it can’t be helped. The day has to go on, and he can’t spend it in bed.
He skips breakfast. Out of all the days to do so, this is probably the worst one, but he can’t really seem to work up an appetite. In fact, the thought of porridge or pastries makes him a little nauseous. That’s also unusual, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He’ll make up for it with a large lunch—surely he’ll be feeling better by then.
The castle seems draftier than normal and his armor sits heavy on his shoulders when he puts it on. His muscles ache as he reaches up to secure his pauldron. He willfully ignores it.
Claudia catches up to him in the corridor on his way out to meet with the rest of his troop. “Mornin,’ Sor-bear!” she says loudly, running up to his side. “I didn’t see you at breakfast!”
Soren tries not to wince when the volume of her voice causes another spike of pain in his head. “Uh, yeah. I didn’t really feel like breakfast today, so.”
“You…didn’t feel like breakfast? That’s weird.” She reaches up and pokes his cheek gently. “You feel like breakfast to me!”
He only laughs softly in reply.
Claudia frowns. “You okay, Sor-bear? You seem…quiet.”
“Ah. Yeah, I’m fine.” He smiles, internally grimacing at how utterly unconvincing he sounds. “Just a little tired. Didn’t sleep well, I guess.”
His sister purses her lips and places a hand on his shoulder. “Then take it easy today, okay? You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Including Dad.”
Soren starts a little at that. He and Claudia have always been close—closer than most siblings, he thinks—and sometimes it seems like she can read his mind. Truthfully, he’s not entirely convinced that she can’t, since magic doesn’t make much sense to him. It can be a little unnerving. And Claudia is terrifyingly smart and perceptive when she wants to be.
And, well, maybe it’s a little bit true that he carries himself like he’s got something to prove. But when you’re the youngest member of the king’s army, ever, and the son of the High Mage, it’s hard not to feel pressured. Eyes are on him all the time, and no matter how skilled he is with a blade, he can’t help but wonder if people look down on him for not being talented with magic. And by people, he specifically means his father. Not that Viren has ever given him much reason to think he’s disappointed in his lack of magical ability, but when Soren watches him and Claudia together, he can’t stop the idea from passing through his mind.
He’s never admitted that before. It’s just a nagging little thought that he usually stuffs deep, deep down under bravado and confidence, and that works pretty well.
Damn Claudia for bringing that up now. Damn her for noticing it in the first place. Soren is not insecure. That’s just not a thing. And he certainly doesn’t think this deeply about things. Feelings and emotions and worrying about not meeting expectations are not a part of who he is.
“I’m not—I don’t—” Damn it. He stutters to a stop as his face screws up, and before he can stop it, he sneezes. Forcefully. The ache behind his face flares and he groans.
“Bless you!” Claudia says, surprised.
Shit. Soren sniffles wetly, dragging the back of his hand under his nose. “Thanks.”
His sister comes to stand in front of him and crosses her arms. “I’m serious, Soren. Don’t push yourself today.”
With one last sniff, he straightens up and puts on his best smirk. “I’m fine, Claudia. I’m not gonna keel over or anything.”
She raises an eyebrow at him, but then cracks a smile and shakes her head. “Okay, well, I’ll be around. If you happen to need anything.”
He smiles back and nods before turning and continuing on his way.
—
Training is… Well, it goes a lot worse than he had anticipated. The floodgates open ten minutes in and he's instantly soaked through, and training in wet gear is miserable enough on its own. But on top of that, his armor is so heavy and each swing of his sword takes herculean effort. He doesn’t understand. He’s never had this much trouble. Armor isn’t light, exactly, but it’s never weighed him down like this, even while wet. He’s never struggled so much to get his footwork right. His movements are sluggish and clumsy and it takes far more concentration than it ever should merely to keep his balance while his sparring partner deals offensive blows. And despite the constant movement, he's freezing. Courtesy of the rain.
It’s when he’s finally knocked on his ass that he admits to needing a break. He stows the wooden training sword and makes his way to the water pump around the corner of the courtyard, where he takes a moment to press his forearm to the wall and rest his head on it. His body is so weak and drained of energy. He definitely shouldn’t have skipped breakfast, but even now the thought of eating makes him feel ill.
He growls in frustration. This is so inconvenient.
A cough suddenly bursts from his throat, forceful and dry. He’s been having the urge to cough since he got his heart-rate up, but hasn’t allowed himself more than a quick clearing of his throat until now. Now, the cough completely takes over and his lungs heave as he hacks, feeling how much the illness is settling into his throat and chest and head.
Why can’t the day just be over already?
No sooner had the thought entered his head than a distant clock chimes twelve, and he groans again as the coughing tapers off. Lunchtime. And then he’s supposed to have swordplay training with the step-prince. He usually enjoys being Callum’s instructor, even if the kid is no good with a blade, but today just thinking about training is exhausting.
That, and he still isn’t hungry. Either he forces himself to eat and potentially vomits from it, or he continues on with an empty stomach and drains what little energy he has left and pray that he can keep pulling strength from somewhere.
Neither option sounds good.
Technically he could always admit to not feeling well and take the rest of the day off, but that’s not going to happen.
He pushes himself upright and takes off for the training ground again. But after a few steps, the blood suddenly drains from his head and his legs lose strength completely. He stumbles to the wall again, feels his shoulder slam against it as his vision starts spinning and morphing into bright shapes and a rushing sound fills his ears. For a few moments, he’s completely cut off from the world and his own body as he can’t see or hear, and can only feel a dull tingling, trembling sensation.
When he finally comes back to himself, he’s lying slumped on his side in the grass not five feet from the water pump. His hands are shaking, he’s covered in cold sweat and rain, and his head is absolutely pounding.
What…just happened…?
Fear starts burrowing into his consciousness as he comes to the realization that he’d just passed out.
Oh, not good, not good, not good, not good.
He’s got to get up before someone sees him like this.
His first attempt fails miserably. As soon as he sits up and tries to get to his feet, his muscles scream in protest and dizziness overwhelms him, knocking him right back down. He pants roughly, the air making his throat ache. He’s weak as a newborn foal, and probably looks about as graceful as one. Oh, this is so bad. What if he can’t get up? What if he has to call for someone to help?
No, he can’t. He’s stronger than this. He’s got this. It’s just a stupid cold.
He removes his pauldron, gorget, and breastplate, and it’s a little easier to breathe. He leans his head against the stone wall and focuses on drawing oxygen into his lungs. This is because he skipped breakfast for sure. He really should try to eat something for lunch, even if it’s just a piece of bread. And maybe he would, if he felt steady enough to stand.
After a while, his hands stop shaking quite so badly and the dizziness recedes, leaving just the terrible headache and utter exhaustion in its wake. Soren takes a deep breath, begs his body to cooperate, and slowly climbs to his feet. Thankfully, this time, his legs are solid enough to hold him and he doesn’t get knocked back down by vertigo. Good enough. He coughs again into his elbow and makes his way back out to the training ground.
The rain has slowed to a drizzle now, hardly enough to notice, but everything—including Soren’s hair and clothes—is still wet and cold. He shivers.
Surprisingly, Callum is already there on a bench with his head bent over his sketchbook. He looks up when Soren approaches.
“Hey,” he greets. “I was wondering where you were.”
Soren’s brow furrows. “Why? Training’s not ’til one.”
“Uh, it is one.” Callum tilts his head, raises an eyebrow. “Where’s the rest of your armor?”
It’s…been an entire hour? There’s no way. He couldn’t have been sitting by the water pump for a whole hour, and he hadn’t heard the clock chime. He’s not…
“Hellooo? Soren?”
Callum’s waving a hand in front of his face.
Jeez, he’s out of it. If he can’t get his head on straight maybe he really shouldn’t be swinging a sword around, even if it’s a wooden one. “Sorry. What was the question?”
Callum frowns at him, confused and maybe a little concerned. “Are you alright?”
Soren blinks. It’s getting a little hard to breathe again. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
“Because you’re missing half of your armor.” Callum’s shrewd green eyes linger on his face for a brief moment. “And you look really pale.”
Panic rises in Soren’s breast. He totally forgot about his discarded armor. His chest heaves. “I was just—sparring. That’s what…what a good workout’ll do for you. You should try it sometime.” He stretches his arms out in front of him and bends sideways, ignoring the persistent ache in his muscles and praying the kid will just take the explanation.
Of course, he does not. Callum puts his sketchbook aside and stands. He’s decently shorter than Soren, but something about being sized up makes Soren nervous and he unconsciously backs up a little. “Are you…sure? You really don’t look too good, Soren.” Something lights up in the prince’s eyes and he rubs the back of his head. “You know, you shouldn’t train with me if you’re not up to it. I don’t mind missing a day—”
“No, no, no.�� It’s no secret that Callum doesn’t like sword-fighting, or any type of fighting, but Soren’s taken that as more of a personal challenge. He was entrusted with teaching the step-prince how to fight, and it’ll reflect badly on him if Callum is unable to at least defend himself in battle. “Nice try, but we’re not skipping training.”
“But you—”
“You should be focused on yourself.” He goes to retrieve the sparring swords and tosses one to the prince (which is dropped and clatters on the cobblestone). Soren rolls his eyes and tries to convince himself he’s feeling alright. He’s not—he still feels worryingly out of breath, his nose is running, he needs to cough, his body is almost unbearably heavy and every inch is in pain. Maybe he’ll cut their training short today, but he can’t allow either one of them to just skip it.
They work on offense. He shows Callum the proper footwork and techniques and they run through them together over and over again. Soren wonders if the prince can tell how sluggish and uncoordinated he’s feeling. It’s only gotten worse since that morning. But if Callum does notice anything, he keeps his mouth shut.
He’s demonstrating another technique for the fourth time when he feels it again. An uncomfortable chill creeps up his neck and down his arms, causing him to break into a cold sweat, and his head starts getting light. No, no, no! This isn’t happening again. It can’t. He is not about to faint right in front of Callum. He’ll…he’ll be alright if he just ignores it. If he keeps moving and powers through, it’ll go away. He thinks.
He pulls up out of his thrust and turns to the young boy, panting. “Okay, now…now you try it.”
Callum looks unsure, but he makes a pathetic attempt. As if anticipating the scolding Soren would give him for messing up again, he grimaces and sighs. “I just don’t really get how the steps work. Like, I could never remember where to put my feet if I was actually fighting someone, you know?”
Soren’s breath comes in ragged pants. No matter how much he wills it away, black spots are clouding up his vision and the rushing sound is coming back. He’s gotta do…something.
“Sorry if it doesn’t make sense to me that when you’re in battle you’d basically just start dancing with the other person, but I really don’t get why—uh. Soren?”
He’s aware, on some level, that he’s just staring into space. At some point he’d put his weight on his sword, leaning on it like a crutch, and the fact that he doesn’t remember doing so is kind of alarming. He needs to answer Callum, but he has no idea what the kid had been talking about and he’s far too preoccupied with focusing on not falling over.
“Soren?” Callum appears in front of him, big eyes wide with worry. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
A little bit of clarity comes back to him. “I’m—I’m okay.” He puts a hand on Callum’s shoulder in what’s supposed to be a reassuring gesture, but when he tries taking a step he ends up putting most of his weight on the prince’s small frame.
“Whoa—Soren—!”
His strength leaves him and suddenly he’s on his knees with his face buried in Callum’s tunic. He reaches up a shaking hand and grips his jacket. Tries to tell him that he’s fine, he just needs a minute, but soft gasps are all that come out of his mouth before he’s coughing violently.
And then, somehow, he’s on the ground again. Callum is hovering over him and shouting something that he can’t make out.
He feels absolutely terrible. Easily the worst he’s ever felt in his entire life. As soon as he’s down, all interest in putting up a front and powering through his illness vanishes without a trace. All he wants is his bed. And his mother.
Things go dark and hazy for an indeterminable amount of time. The next thing he’s aware of is a cool hand on his face and voices above him. Something is pressed to his lips and then there’s liquid trickling into his mouth. It’s sweet, and he can’t help but sputter and cough when it makes its way past his tongue.
“Come on, Sor, you need to drink it.”
That voice has him prying his eyes open. “C…Claudia?” It’s still hard to see as his head hasn’t stopped spinning, but her long, dark hair is unmistakable.
“Yeah, I’m here.” He thinks she smiles a little. “You’re alright. Think you scared the daylights out of Callum, though.”
He tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a pathetic groan.
“Try to drink some of this, okay?”
More liquid is poured into his mouth, and now that his body actually recognizes what it needs to be doing, he manages to swallow it.
“Good, Sor.”
In the back of his mind, he’s aware that he’s still on the ground in the courtyard, undeniably making a huge scene with his sister there holding up his head and helping him drink. He’s never going to live this one down. At the moment, though, he can’t be bothered to feel embarrassed, even if he would like to get in bed as soon as possible.
When Claudia lowers the vial, he coughs again. “Wh—what happ’ned?”
His vision is slowly clearing, and he can see a look of sheer worry come over his sister’s face. She looks at the prince, who’s still hovering, but over her shoulder now. “Callum?”
“I don’t know, he just…passed out. He was really pale when he showed up. I knew he shouldn’t have been training and I told him that but he didn’t listen.”
Claudia looks back down at Soren and sighs. “You’re such an idiot. I told you not to push yourself too hard.” She presses a palm to his forehead. “You’re running a fever, Sor-bear. Ready to go to bed now?”
He can’t do much more than moan miserably in agreement. What an awful day this has turned out to be.
“Alright. Callum, help me get him up.”
And it isn’t over yet, he soon learns, as they help him get upright and walking. The lightheadedness comes back almost instantly and his body sags, like there are weights tied around his limbs and torso. He gasps at the pain that spears through his head.
“He’s heavy,” Callum groans.
Soren almost feels bad for the two of them. He’s not much more than dead weight, hardly able to lift his legs and shivering all the while. When the cough comes back, he tries to lower his head out of courtesy. His throat is killing him.
They make their way through the castle corridors slowly. Claudia murmurs soft encouragements to him the whole time, even when he tells her he needs to stop and rest (which is more often than he wants to admit. He blames the weakness on the apparent fever). At the edges of his consciousness, he is aware of the servants and guards who stop to ask if he’s alright, and it’s absolutely humiliating to have his fellow guardsmen see him in such a state. He wishes he could just sink into the floor.
When they’re almost back to his chambers, a new voice pipes up down the hall. “Callum! There you are. I was looking for… Uh, what’re you doing?”
Soren likes Prince Ezran, even if he doesn’t always understand the kid. He’s sweet and curious and more clever than a kid his age should be. He can’t say that’s a trait he appreciates right at the moment, though.
“Getting Soren back to his room,” Callum replies.
Quick little footsteps echo on the walls as Ezran comes closer. “Eugh. What’s the matter with him? He looks like he’s about to puke.”
“He’s not feeling well. Hey, would you mind getting the door?”
The hinges creak when Ezran pushes it open, and the relief Soren feels at the sight of his own bed is absolutely immense. His body turns to jelly as soon as he’s able to sink onto it. His head misses the pillow, but that doesn’t matter. He closes his eyes and lets out a soft sigh.
“I sent for the court physician,” Claudia says as she begins removing the rest of his armor. “And Dad.”
That has Soren picking his head up again. “Dad…?”
“Well, yeah.” She looks at him like she doesn’t understand why that would be a problem. She probably doesn’t. “He’ll want to know what’s going on.”
He groans, letting his head fall back forcefully. Of course, his father would find out what had happened eventually, but he’s definitely not thrilled about having the man here at his sickbed. If he even bothers to come, that is. Honestly Soren isn’t sure which he’d prefer.
When the armor is off, Claudia steps back with a satisfied breath and turns to the princes. “Okay, you two, you can run along. I can handle him from here.”
Callum gives a hesitant nod. “Um, sure. Feel better, Soren.”
“Get well soon!” Ezran says, lifting his little toad creature above his head and scurrying out after his brother.
He gives a little wave in thanks and instantly feels better as the door shuts behind them.
Claudia gives his shoulder a nudge. “Come on, big guy. Let’s get you out of these wet clothes.”
He patiently allows her to help him change. She’s the only one he would ever let do it.
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” she asks as she holds out his nightshirt for him to slip his arms into.
“Dunno.” He coughs gently as she pulls it over his head. “Thought I could make it through the day.”
She huffs, exasperated. “You know, for a knight, you don’t really have a good sense of self-preservation.” She pulls back the bedcovers and helps him get situated under them, fluffs up his pillows, and pulls the sheets up to his chest like their mother used to do when they were little. “I wish you’d just told me earlier that you were feeling sick. I’m your sister.”
“You would’ve stopped me from going to training.”
“Yeah, and maybe then this wouldn’t have happened!” She sits on the side of the bed and gently pushes a lock of sweaty hair back from his face. “You look really awful, Sor. You gotta take better care of yourself. You didn’t eat breakfast and you—” She stops abruptly, a horrified look coming over her face. “You haven’t eaten at all today, have you?”
He looks away, wincing in guilt.
“Oh, Soren—no wonder you collapsed! You’re such an idiot.”
“You’ve said that already.”
“Well, it’s worth repeating.” She gives him a sad look that makes his heart clench painfully in his chest. “I heard Callum yelling for help out in the courtyard and when I saw you on the ground…”
His cheeks burn with something more than fever. “I’m sorry, Claudia. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”
Her bright green eyes wander over his face for a moment before she sighs. “It’s alright, I’m just glad you’re okay. But, please, don’t do this again.”
He gives her a small smile. “Won’t. Promise.”
“Good.” She ruffles his hair and stands up. “The doctor will be here soon. I’m gonna get some food sent up in the meantime. Is there anything you want? Soup? Jelly tarts?”
“Soup is fine.” He still feels sick at the notion of eating anything, but he definitely doesn’t have a choice in the matter now. There haven’t been too many reasons over the years for Claudia to mother him like this, but she sure is good at it. And he wouldn’t admit it, but just having her looking after him has already made him feel ten times better, at least mentally and emotionally.
Once she’s spoken to a few servants, she returns to his bedside with a basin of water and a cloth. “So how are you feeling? Be honest.”
Soren shrugs. “Exhausted, mostly. My head and my throat hurt a lot. And I'm really cold.”
Claudia hums sympathetically. “That's the fever. You’re burning up.”
He grunts unhappily. “This is pathetic.”
“No, it's not. Everyone gets sick sometimes. Even you.” She wrings out the cloth and presses it to his forehead.
“Dad's not gonna be happy with me.”
She pauses for a brief moment, some emotion passing through her eyes that he can’t quite recognize, and then resumes wiping down his face. “He knows it’s not your fault.”
Even in his feverish state, he doesn’t miss the fact that didn’t disagree with him.
“Try not to worry about that,” Claudia says. “Just focus on resting and getting better.”
“Okay.” Hopefully he can fall asleep and just forget about this whole day. If he’s lucky, maybe he’ll even wake up feeling well again.
Just as he closes his eyes, though, an itch flares up in his sinuses and his breathing hitches a few times before he sneezes. The force makes him groan.
“Bless you,” his sister says, gently wiping under his nose. “Poor thing.”
He gazes up at her through stinging eyes. “Thanks for taking care of me, Claudia.” He really doesn’t know what he’d do without her.
She smiles warmly. “You’re welcome, Sor-bear. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
#the dragon prince#tdp#soren#tdp soren#sickfic#my fic#i wanted to go more into stuff with viren#and have his illness take a bAD turn#but this was already so long and i wanted to get it out#so maybe a part 2? if people are interested enough?
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31 Clint and Laura have date night all planned, but Clint’s sick and they end up staying in for ginger ale and saltines (emeto)
“Clint?’’ Laura taps on the bathroom door. “Nat’s here. You almost ready?”
Clint freezes. He tries not to breathe in case the sound is amplified by the toilet bowl. Nausea hangs heavily around his jaw. His heart thrums, and bitter saliva washes over his back teeth. He doesn’t dare spit, so he swallows hard and says, “Uh-huh.”
“Ok,” Laura replies. Her high heels click back into the bedroom, and Clint breathes a sigh of relief. A gag immediately bubbles up in his throat, and he grips the toilet seat with both hands as his shoulders jerk forward.
“You sure you’re ok?” Laura’s voice asks again.
Clint drags his sleeve across his mouth as if that will help him stay silent. Wasn’t Laura just heading in the opposite direction?
“I’m fine, honey,” Clint chokes. “Just…give me a minute.”
“Why’s the door shut, then?” Laura rattles the knob. “And locked?”
“I, uh, I read an article.” Clint unwinds a length of toilet paper and dabs at the clammy sweat dripping down his temples. “It’s better for a marriage if you keep what happens in the bathroom private…” A hiccup sneaks out on the last word.
“Right.” There’s a scraping sound, and the door clicks open. Clint looks up to see his wife framed in the soft light coming in from the bedroom. “You really should’ve said something, Clint.”
“What, did you just pick the lock?” Another hiccup surfaces, and within seconds it turns to a retch.
“You’re not the only one with superpowers.” Laura turns on the faucet.
“I don’t have superpowers,” Clint mutters, scraping his tongue across his front teeth to detach strings of mucous.
“Here.” Laura lays a damp washcloth over the back of Clint’s neck.
The coolness feels wonderful, but it sends goose bumps creeping down his arms. “Thanks,” Clint breathes. He spits into the toilet bowl, then presses his forehead into his wrist as another nauseous hiccup slips past his lips.
“I’m gonna call the restaurant,” Laura says, toeing off her fancy shoes and stooping to pick them up. “Cancel our reservations. Will you be ok for a few minutes?”
“Yeah,” Clint says, though vertigo clings to the sides of his head, giving him the impression he’s going to either barf again or fall sideways as soon as his wife turns around.
“I’m not sure I believe that.” Laura hoists herself up onto the counter so her feet dangle in front of the cabinets. She tucks her phone against her ear.
Clint hears the line ringing, and he does his best to keep from making noise. Bile rises in his throat, though, and he heaves again before he can stop himself.
“Yes, I wanted to cancel my reservation for this evening,” Laura says. She presses the top of her foot against Clint’s shoulder as she lays out the specifics. “I know it’s really last-minute. My husband’s sick.”
“Sorry, hon,” Clint murmurs before dissolving into a dry retch. He has to be empty by now, but his stomach still flips painfully. “I’m jipping you of your night out…” He peels the washcloth away from the back of his neck and uses it to scrub his face. “Nat drove all the way out here for no reason…”
“Hey. Don’t worry about it.” Laura hops down from the counter and pats Clint’s shoulder. “You feel like you can move? Maybe go sit in the bed?”
Clint cocks his head and shrugs. “I still feel really rough…”
“We’ll bring this, just in case.” Laura grabs the small trashcan from the corner and wraps her arm around Clint’s shoulders. “Come on.”
Clint gingerly gets to his feet and lets Laura pull him into the bedroom. He sighs in relief when they get to the bed, reclining with his hands folded over his aching abdominal muscles. Clint tips his head back against the pillows and closes his eyes.
“You ok?” Laura checks in. She settles the bin on the floor at the side of the bed.
Clint starts to nod, but his head swims. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Why don’t you tell Nat she can go home. Tell the kids we’ll get her down to play some other time.”
“You’re dizzy, huh?” Laura brushes her hand across Clint’s forehead. “You sure you can hang on for a minute on your own?”
“You underestimate me.” He does his best to grin.
“Ok. I’ll be back.” Laura squeezes his shoulder and pads down the hall.
Clint digs his fingertips into his eye sockets and breathes deeply. The mattress seems to sink another couple of inches, and the sick pressure behind his sinuses ratchets up. Though he knows there’s nothing she can do, Clint wishes Laura would come back. He rubs at the stubble on his chin and tries to relax.
“Honey?”
Clint sits up, unaware of how much time has passed. He scrambles to get a hand down on the bed to balance himself, then waits for the room to settle.
Laura sets a tray on the bedside table, then pulls her laptop from under her arm. “I still had my heart set on dinner and a movie,” she says slyly. “I hope you don’t mind having date night in bed.”
“That sounds really dirty,” Clint laughs, trying not to move.
“Yeah, it kind of does.” Laura climbs up onto the bed and opens the browser to Netflix. “But we’ll keep it tame.”
“I’d be grateful for that.”
Laura grins. “Nat’s playing Mario Kart with Cooper. I couldn’t make her leave that. I think they’re starting a tournament.”
“Oh, of course.” Clint returns the smile.
“She said she’d be on call for bringing some more snacks, if you want them.” Laura nods toward the tray on the bedside table, which is crowded with sodas and sports drinks and crackers.
“Oh, that’s probably more than enough.” Clint’s stomach turns just looking at it. He looks back to his wife. “I’m probably just gonna crash out.”
“That’s alright,” Laura says, snuggling into his side.
“I’m glad you’re here, though.”
“’Course you are,” she says, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Who else would take care of you?”
“You don’t have to rub it in…”
Laura kisses Clint’s cheek. “Yeah, I do.”
#avengers#mcu#marvel#hawkeye#clint barton#laura barton#natasha romanov#barton fam#canon ships and all that jazz#sickfic#flu#emeto#emetophilia#hurt/comfort#fanfic#fanfiction
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I'd love to see a fic where bucky thinks he can take care of himself even though he's sick, but eventually he has to give up and call steve to come home and help (he's too dizzy and disorientated to get up off the bathroom floor or get himself water, etc, etc). Only if you're taking prompts though!! if not just disregard this :)
I’m absolutely taking prompts. Especially this one.
I’ve written the ‘Bucky home sick while Steve is somewhere else’ trope quite a bit. It’s one I love, but it’s getting a little harder to fill these prompts because I have to come up with ways of making the situation unique. Thanks, anon, for putting in some specifics. I really like your idea.
I’m making this one Powers/No Powers. But as a general note, you’re always free to choose a ‘verse for your story if you have a preference. The AU ‘verse from Ignite your bones is open, as are Powers/No Powers and Heroverse.
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It starts with a ringing in his ears.
Bucky sits at the kitchen table, absently flipping the pages of a magazine, wondering why he doesn’t want breakfast. The frying pan he’d used to cook Steve’s eggs is still on the stove, and probably still hot. But he’s not hungry this morning. And the sound of Steve’s bike pulling out of the driveway roars around his head minutes after it should be gone.
He rests his forehead in his palm. It’s feasible that he’s still sleepy. He was up and down a few times overnight. Not from nightmares. Just from a lack of ability to get comfortable and shut his eyes.
Bucky takes a deep breath. A throb erupts around his temples, and he screws his eyes shut against the onslaught. He waits for the pain to pass, but it doesn’t. It just settles into nausea in his sinuses.
He can deal with this, Bucky tells himself. It’s not so hard to drop the frying pan in the sink and get himself a glass of water. Turn the TV on to something dull and lie down on the sofa. But the air in the kitchen is suddenly so bitingly cold he can barely fathom rising from his huddled position.
The shadows of things past starts to rise on Bucky’s mental horizon. Cold. Cold is bad. Cold is terrible… But nothing’s going to happen to him. He’s safe. Has been for years now. So what if he doesn’t feel well? He can take care of himself.
Bucky clenches his teeth against a shiver and forces himself out of his chair. If Steve were here, he’d tell him to go to bed. The prospects of warmth and relaxation are enticing. He half expects Steve’s comforting body heat as well, but by the time he ascends the stairs and enters the bedroom, he remembers he’s alone.
Bucky slips between the sheets and curls onto his side. He still can’t get comfortable. But he holds onto hope that when he next opens his eyes, maybe he’ll feel better. Or at least more human.
Bucky twitches awake, overly warm and disoriented. He struggles toward consciousness for a moment, but nausea interrupts. He tries to swallow, and his throat immediately squeezes shut. He’s going to drown in acidic saliva.
He shoves himself up on his stump arm, struggling to get a grip on where he is and what’s happening. A band of vice-like pressure squeezes his head. Blood pounds in his ears. Bucky gags involuntarily, spilling spit and bile down the front of his t-shirt. He focuses all effort on getting to his feet and staggering to the bathroom. Vertigo makes his blurry vision shake, and he clips his shoulder on the door frame.
Bucky falls to his knees in front of the toilet and gives in to the pain rushing up from his chest. He heaves hard, then struggles to find his breath. He’s too hot. The air feels like wet cement settling on his skin. It coats the inside of his mouth, mixing the taste of dust with lingering acid, and seeps along to block his airway.
He coughs and lists sideways until his ear and shoulder make contact with the vanity. Bucky grunts in pain. He scrambles to right himself as nausea surges again, but the room’s swirling steals both motivation and strength, and he throws up all over the floor. His limbs slacken as his stomach contracts, and it’s all Bucky can do to drag himself into a fetal position out of the way of pool of sick spreading toward his face.
He needs to do something. Clean up. Maybe medicate. But the back of his neck prickles with something more sinister than just cold sweat. If he moves he’ll be seen. If he’s seen, he’ll be punished…
But…that can’t be right. He’s home in Falls Church. Blazing with fever on the floor of his bathroom. Steve’s bathroom.
The tone of the white noise assaulting his eardrums changes. Bucky winces. Dry heaves. Wipes his shaky wrist across his eyelids. He pulls his knees an inch closer to his chest, and the room pitches into a new set of spirals.
The diminishing coherent portion of his brain lights up in panic. This is bad. This is beyond him. He needs help.
But he should be able to handle this.
He needs someone.
He can’t cry out. If the handlers hear him…
If he lifts his head, he’s going to vomit again.
He needs Steve.
Bucky fumbles his pocket for his phone, trying not trigger an earthquake in the tile under his cheek. The glow of the device’s screen cuts painfully into his eyes. He’s glad A Steve is his first contact. His vision’s too blurred to read anything.
The line rings twice, sending corkscrews of agony through Bucky’s ear and into his brain. Then Steve answers. "Hello?”
Bucky opens his mouth, strings of mucous vibrating audibly with his breath. He’s not sure what he wants to say. He’s not sure he can speak.
“Buck? You ok?”
“I…” Bucky starts. Goosebumps shoot up his spine and down his arms. Why is it cold? When did it the room turn from a volcano to a freezer? Cold is bad… He swallows the lump of ice in his throat. “I need…”
“What happened?” There’s a shuffle on Steve’s end. Bucky imagines him getting to his feet, pushing in his chair. Then dizziness wallops him in the forehead.
“Help,” Bucky whispers.
Steve doesn’t press Bucky for details. “Ok. I’m on my way, alright?” He says. “I’ll be right there.”
The line goes dead, and Bucky releases his phone to the floor behind his head, out of the way of another painful retch. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Then presses between his eyes to keep his face from falling off.
Consciousness ebbs and flows with the floor’s relentless rocking. The vertigo ramps up when he tries to make sense of it, so Bucky surrenders. Waits for pain. Or death. Or Steve. Unless that was a dream.
Eventually the door creaks on its hinges, and footsteps echo against the tile.
“Hey, Buck.”
Bucky feels the shift in the air pressure as Steve kneels an inch from his back. He lays his hand on Bucky’s arm, then brings the back of his knuckles under his jaw. “You’re burning up.”
“Hm.” Bucky reaches up shakily.
“Yeah, alright.” Steve wraps Bucky’s fingers in his. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Think you can sit up?”
“Ugh. Dizzy,” Bucky breathes.
“How ‘bout I help you? Toilet’s right here if you’re still feeling sick.” Steve’s arm clamps protectively around Bucky’s chest. “There you go.”
Before he can say anything, Steve swings Bucky off the floor. His stomach snaps into his throat, and he strains against Steve’s grip. He doesn’t have anything left to expel, but he gags anyway.
“It’s ok.” Steve drapes Bucky over the toilet again and rubs his back as he coughs.
After a moment, Bucky lifts his head. The bathroom lurches around him, and he’s suddenly leaning against Steve’s solid chest. He can’t pinpoint the genesis of the movement, and he’s not alert enough to try. “Sorry,” is the best he can manage.
“Don’t worry about it,” Steve murmurs. “Do you think you’d feel better lying down?”
“Mm.” Bucky means it to be an affirmative.
“Alright.” Steve peels Bucky’s stained shirt off him first, then gently hauls him to his feet and back to bed.
Bucky settles against the pillows. He closes his eyes. Then squints when he feels Steve pushing hair off his face.
“Why didn’t you say something this morning?” Steve asks.
“Wasn’t so bad…”
“Well, I’m glad you called.”
Bucky smiles. He hopes his numb face shows it. “…glad you came.”
#mcu#marvel#captain america#stucky#steve rogers#bucky barnes#sickfic#fanfic#fanfiction#emeto#emetophilia
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Kk... I was just sorta thinking and I'm not sure you even write pre-serum or have any interest in writing that but maybe Bucky with a migraine saying something along the lines of "I feel like you, Steve."
AND Anonymous asked:
Hi! I would love to see a fic about pre-war/pre-serum bucky getting sick, and steve suddenly having to take care of him instead of the other way around?
So, we’re all in the mood for the same thing, here :)
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When Bucky unlocks the door to the apartment, his shuffling steps lack the usual pep that imbues his walk. After a long day on the docks, he’s usually happy to be home, eager to eat a hot dinner and slap sloppy kisses on Steve’s cheeks. But it’s not the case today.
He’s relieved to be indoors and warm and away from the sonorous noise of the streets of Brooklyn. The prospect of a soft pillow or a couch cushion under his head is so inviting he’s practically salivating. His brain feels like it’s fit to explode.
The sound of the doorknob clicking is enough to make Bucky wince. It seems loud as a gunshot to his overly-sensitive ears.
“Hey,” Steve calls quietly as Bucky shuffles over the threshold. His voice is softer than the environmental noises that have been plaguing Bucky for the better part of the afternoon, but it still makes him want to shut his eyes.
So he does, screwing them up and digging his fingertips into his forehead. It doesn’t do much. Just rearranges the pain signals slightly. “Hey,” he whispers back. The vibrations of his vocal cords and the movement of his jaw seem awkward, almost as if they’re going to throw him off balance.
Steve’s sitting at the desk with his back to the door, and he straightens up to peer over his shoulder as soon as Bucky speaks. Though Bucky’s squinting through his lashes, he sees Steve’s blonde brows furrow into an expression of concern. “You ok?” he asks.
“Uh, yeah,” Bucky replies automatically. He doesn’t stop to think about the immense contrast the words set up against the obvious pain in his body. He blinks slowly to consider what he’s said, but he doesn’t get the chance. Steve’s suddenly hovering at his elbow.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, taking Bucky’s lunchbox out of his hand. “This is heavy. Did you eat?”
Bucky tries to remember, but his workday seems like a blur, like a smudged fingerprint on the corner of a page of newsprint. “I…guess not,” he concedes, taking a step past Steve and heading for the couch. His knees are ready to give way by the time he gets there.
“Buck?” Steve hovers at his side. He slips his cold, thin fingers under the curve of Bucky’s jaw. “I don’t think you’re running a temperature. Do you feel sick?”
Bucky’s never been so grateful for the apartment’s low-quality dim lighting. But it still feels like it’s frying his eyeballs. He pulls his arm over his face, burying his nose in the crook of his elbow and obscuring everything up to his forehead. Even though he’s still and flat on his back, everything feels like it’s moving. The couch seems to be bobbing up and down on nonexistent waves. It’s beginning to send his stomach up toward his throat.
“My fucking head…” Bucky mumbles.
“Headache?” Steve poses, quiet compassion in his voice.
“God. Worse.”
“I’ll get you some tea,” Steve offers. “Or an aspirin?”
The thought of swallowing anything, liquid included, is distasteful. Bucky’s own spit isn’t going down all that well. “Naw,” he breathes. “I don’t…I just really…” He shifts his arm over his face. “I feel like you, Stevie.”
Steve gives a singular exhale of sympathetic laughter, which Bucky imagines is accompanied by a sideways smile. “Yeah, you’re not usually the one laid up.” He gingerly pats Bucky’s shoulder. “You sure you don’t want something to drink? You really need to have something, if you haven’t eaten all day.”
The urge to vomit is sitting somewhere in the middle of Bucky’s chest, shifting slightly further up each time his heart beats. It’s as if a string attached to his throbbing head is slowly yanking the sensation of illness up from his stomach. “No,” he repeats, feeling the clammy sweat that’s starting to break out on his upper lip absorb into the sleeve still pressed to his skin. “I…don’t feel good.”
“Some water, at least,” Steve presses. “You don’t have to drink it all right now.” His footsteps head toward the apartment’s tiny kitchen, and the sink runs with a sound that’s unexpectedly soothing, but still too loud. It roars on in Bucky’s ears even after the flow cuts off. It makes his sinuses hurt. And his teeth.
Without warning, warm sourness erupts into his throat. Bucky scrambles to rearrange himself onto his side, but he’s not quick enough, and a wave of acidic fluid comes up. It soaks through the fabric of his shirt and the t-shirt beneath, leaving a patch of rancid-smelling wetness that feels like fire on his over-sensitive skin.
“Jesus, Buck.” Steve’s slight footfalls patter back to Bucky’s side, and he feels himself being pulled sideways until he’s leaning precipitously off the couch.
The room’s blurry and tipping from the new perspective, and Bucky hears himself retch again, spattering the floor with more watery bile. Nausea and vertigo belatedly catch up, crashing between Bucky’s eyebrows like a runaway train.
“Fuck,” he mutters, bringing a trembling hand up to try to detach strings of snot from his lips. He closes his fingers into a fist and presses it to his forehead in a weak attempt to stem the pain.
“Alright, Buck. You’re ok,” Steve murmurs to him, tracing up and down Bucky’s shoulder.
Bucky falls to his back again and covers his face with both hands, not caring that he’s pressing vomit fingerprints into his skin. “God. Sorry,” he groans.
“It’s ok,” Steve reassures. “Just breathe, ok? You’re alright.”
Bucky tries his best. His heart rate stays elevated, and he can’t stop shaking. His hands vibrate into his skull, upping the sensation of seasickness. He sighs.
“You still feel like throwing up?” Steve asks. There’s the sound of fabric hitting wood; probably a towel tossed over the mess on the floor.
“Uh. Yeah,” Bucky admits. “But…probably nothing left.”
Steve slips his hand under Bucky’s shoulder, trying to prop him up. “Have some water. Then at least it’ll hurt less if you get sick again.”
Bucky jams his eyes shut against the dizziness, but tries his best to squeeze himself upright. He can barely hold the glass Steve hands him, so both their hands stay there, overlapping, as Bucky takes a shaky sip. The water is cool and soothing going down, but feels sloshy as soon as it hits his stomach. Bucky holds the back of his hand to his mouth to suppress what’s sure to be a sickening burp.
“I…need to go to bed,” Bucky decides. Everything is overstimulating, overwhelming. If he can bury his head in his pillow, maybe there’s a chance to sleep it off.
“Ok,” Steve says, offering a wan smile. “I’ll stay out here tonight. Give you some peace and quiet.”
“No,” Bucky says, trying to find the floor with his feet. “Come with.”
“When I’m done cleaning up.”
“Eh, clean later,” Bucky rasps. He uses Steve’s shoulder as a crutch as he heaves himself off the sofa, and continues to lean on him down the short hall and into the bedroom.
#marvel#mcu#captain america#heroverse#pre serum stucky#pre serum#steve rogers#bucky barnes#stucky#sickfic#fanfic#fanfiction#migraines#emeto#emetophilia
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domestic stucky anon back again- thought of something else- maybe its like for once its not poisoning or brought on by stress or anxiety, maybe it's literally just a bug he caught from a barton child or somethings going around at work and they're like 'that must be what it is' or bucky thinks its related to something else then steves like 'no you'll be fine its just this...'
Thank you for coming back with this awesome prompt. True to me, there’s a little bit of angst, but I tried to make it as cuddly as possible. I love the idea of Bucky picking up a bug from one of the Barton kids. That line didn’t make it in, but assume that’s the situation. :)
This might be no good, quality-wise. I’m still having issues with attention span and getting stuff done (I mean, I have so many ideas, but then I just sit with my hands on the keyboard like I don’t remember how to write).
Powers/no powers.
_____
Bucky wraps his hand around his mug and slumps forward over the table. He should drink his tea and let Steve whisk him upstairs to bed. But the supposedly soothing infusion of mint is doing little to calm his stomach.
He’s already spent half the morning on his knees in front of the toilet. Every heave had threatened to turn his brain inside out with his stomach. Even now, each time he blinks, he’s not sure if he’s going to open his eyes to the townhouse’s tiny kitchen or something much less pleasant.
Steve pulls out the chair beside Bucky’s and sits. He feels the mug for warmth and lets his fingers pass over Bucky’s knuckles. “How’s that going down?” he asks.
“Uh,” Bucky starts doubtfully. He wants to clear his throat; it feels stopped up with a bubble of sour-tasting mucous. But he’s afraid of bring on a coughing fit that will send him retching again. “Not, uh…” He decides to swallow instead.
“This is hitting you hard, huh?” Steve props his elbow on the table and his head on his hand. He gives Bucky a sad smile.
“Sorry…”
“For what? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“For…this?” Bucky knows his mumbled words don’t make much sense. But he’s in the awkward state of being just lucid enough to know he’s dissociating. And with the narrow scope of his functional brain matter, it seems to be the genesis of all his current problems.
“For…?” Steve puzzles. His brow furrows in a way Bucky can’t help but find adorable, though it means he’s confused Steve, which he didn’t mean to do. “Like I said, Buck, you didn’t do anything. You’re just sick.” He reaches up to palm Bucky’s forehead. “You’re still running a fever.”
“Hm.” Bucky sniffs. He takes the smallest of sips of his tea.
“Good. You’ll feel better once we get your hydration back up.”
“Right…” But the edges of his visual field shiver with dark greyish fuzz. It could just be the pressure of his headache, but Bucky’s not convinced he isn’t sitting on the precipice of a waking nightmare.
They sit quietly for a moment. Bucky keeps automatically lifting his mug to his lips, but it feels heavier on each rise. His arm is weak and shaky. He has a mouthful of tea, but he can’t bring himself to swallow. The back of his hand prickles, and his entire body breaks out in cold sweat. He shifts in his seat and tries futilely to suppress a gag.
Bucky slams his cup back to the table and covers his mouth just in time for lukewarm tea to seep between his fingers and down his arm. It’s just the liquid he couldn’t swallow, but barring any miracles, he is going to be sick. And soon.
Bucky groans through is teeth. He looks down at the puddle on the table. For a second he sees the metal furniture of an interrogation room, but then Steve pats him on the shoulder and he sees the table’s scuffed wood finish again.
“Hey, it’s ok, Buck,” Steve says jumping to his feet but somehow keeping is tone calm. “Do you think you can make it to the bathroom?”
The correct answer would be no. Bucky doesn’t think he can organize his legs to move him down the hallway. Not when he’s this dizzy. And half frozen to death. Every drop of perspiration lacing his body has solidified to a needle of frost, digging in and cutting his skin.
Steve takes initiative and supports Bucky down the hall anyway. He can barely lift his feet as they shuffle across the carpet. It is carpet, isn’t it? He’s home. He shouldn’t be worrying. But if he falls, like he feels like he’s going to, his head will crack against dirty concrete. The handlers will laugh at him. He won’t be able to take it…
Bucky vomits without warning. Steve pushes him a couple feet to lean over the sink, then slicks his hair back from his face as Bucky heaves.
“Alright,” Steve soothes. “You’re gonna be alright.”
Bucky struggles to catch his breath. Then he coughs until he gags again.
“Ok.” Steve pats him on the back. “I need you to take a deep breath. Hold it for a second.”
“Hm.” It’s easier to exhale than inhale. Everything smells like mint and stomach acid. Bucky’s jaw is trembling, and he can’t pinpoint whether it’s from exhaustion or cold.
It takes him longer than it should to calm down because dry heaves keep interrupting. Steve is impossibly patient. He rests his hand on the back of Bucky’s fevered neck and murmurs soft, encouraging things Bucky can’t quite hear under the echo in his ears.
Finally the churning in his stomach begins to die down, but it takes all Bucky’s energy with it. He thinks he’s adjusting his one-handed grip on the edge of the sink, but the next thing he knows, the world is tipping and he’s propped against Steve’s chest.
“Whoa, ok,” Steve says. “Stay with me.” He practically carries Bucky into the living room and helps him stretch out on the couch.
Bucky reaches for Steve’s hand. “Sorry,” he croaks, pulling their intertwined fingers up against his forehead. “I just need to…to calm down. To remember…”
“No, you don’t.” Steve perches on the edge of the coffee table and looks at Bucky, his expression serious. “You’re a little mixed up because you have a temperature of almost 103. It’ll pass on its own in a day or two.”
Bucky blinks hard, squeezing his eyes shut until his temples ache. He lets Steve’s words sink in. “I…can’t believe you’re putting up with me.” He tries to crack a smile, but it hurts.
“I’m always gonna put up with you,” Steve says. “I love you, even when you’re being a jerk.”
“Don’t know how I deserve that.”
“It’s not about deserving anything.” Steve strokes his thumb over the back of Bucky’s hand. “But you’ve done plenty of taking care of me, way back when. That’s how a partnership works.”
“Yeah…” Bucky swallows, feeling vertigo beginning to settle in his sinuses again.
“You want me to get you a trash can?” Steve asks, reading Bucky’s expression.
“I don’t think there’s anything left…”
“How about some water first?”
Bucky nods. He means to say thank you, but instead he whispers, “I love you.”
It’s a good mistake.
#fanfic#fanfiction#mcu#marvel#captain america#stucky#powers/no powers choose-your-own-adventure#steve rogers#bucky barnes#sickfic#emeto#emetophilia#domestic#fluff?#kinda?
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The gun still rattles (Captain America)
This is #52 from the 100 prompts list, hovering right around 4700 words. I’m not sure why I originally created this Bucky + Laura Barton friendship thing, but now I’m running with it.
This is super dark! So sorry about that. Trigger warnings for depression and suicidal thoughts, in addition to the usual anxiety and illness tags.
This is Powers/No powers, and it will help if you’ve read Come to me now and rest your head (find all 15 chapters co-located on AO3 here.)
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Steve’s hand comes down on the back of Bucky’s head, stroking through his hair and down his neck to his tense shoulder blades.
“Hey. Call me if you need me, ok?” He kisses Bucky’s crown and traces a little pattern of affection on his back.
“Hm.” Bucky looks down at the magazine on the table in front of him. Then at his untouched cup of coffee. He should drink some, just a sip. Steve made it for him. He should show a little gratitude.
“Or I could stay home. Use a sick day,” Steve offers.
Bucky shakes his head. The motion brings with it twinges of pain and vertigo, even though he’s sitting down. “Go.”
“If you’re not feeling good—”
“Just…go to work,” Bucky sighs. “I’m…” He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence with ok because he’s just so clearly not. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Buck…” Steve lets out a breath, probably covering up everything more he wants to say. “You sure?”
Bucky nods, resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands. He’ll wait till Steve’s gone.
Steve rubs Bucky’s shoulder again. “Ok. See you tonight.” He grabs his work bag off the edge of the kitchen counter. “But if you need anything. Call me.”
The yeah Bucky intends to say gets lost in his throat, so he just moves his face around into something that doesn’t quite resemble a smile.
“Ok,” Steve murmurs again on his way out to the garage.
Once Bucky hears the door bang shut, he lets himself slump forward over the table. Magazines and odd pieces of mail strewn over the surface make a poor pillow. He squeezes his eyes shut, halfway hoping he’ll feel better, or at least differently, when he opens them.
But no. The pressure of unshed tears behind his sinuses melds with what has to be a brewing migraine and pushes him further beneath the dark surface of despair.
He’s just…so tired. He feels sicker than he did the day he’d wandered back to Steve’s doorstep. Over the intervening years, he’s not gotten better. Any blips of progress along the way were nothing more than false positives. Now he’s back to barely being able to think, to speak. And all he wants to do is disappear.
He should call Steve. He’s probably still in the driveway, not yet even revving up his bike. He’d wrap Bucky up in his strong arms, tell him he’s proud of him. Make him a piece of toast or dose him with Excedrin or something. It would be comforting. But it also won’t make him feel any better; in fact, he’ll feel worse.
Steve’s already wasted so much taking care of him. So much time off work. So much money spent on food Bucky can’t digest and clothes that are too uncomfortable and medications that don’t help. Steve’s brimming with love, and Bucky wishes he’d just go on and find someone else who could really appreciate it and maybe return the favor. If he’d ever just move on.
Bucky feels like a black hole of depression and bad attitude, constantly stealing all the light out of Steve’s life. He’s selfish, because for the most part, he likes it. But it’s times like now when he can see the truth. He’s only ever been a burden. He wishes he’d died in the war.
He wishes he’d died last summer, that Steve hadn’t come home and murmured sweet words that made the gun fall from Bucky’s hand. That’d been a mistake. Because now the gun surely isn’t around anymore.
And that’s a problem. What other choices does he have? Slitting his singular wrist doesn’t seem plausible. He’s not sure there’s enough medication in the house to take him down. If he tries and just ends up getting drowsy and vomiting everywhere, it’ll get him a one-way ticket to inpatient care and no chance of trying again. Bucky feels sicker thinking about it.
He curls his arm around his head, though it does nothing to stem the painful throb echoing through his skull. The threat of tears is reverberating in building nausea. Bucky breathes slowly for a moment, but the tension doesn’t let up. If anything, it worsens, crystalizing in the shoulder of his stump arm and the stiff vertebrae of his neck.
Everything smells like dirty paper. The inside of his mouth tastes stale and sour. Bucky lifts his forehead an inch and lets it smack back down. The impact is slightly muffled by the pages of Smithsonian, but it still hurts. He can’t do this anymore. He can’t sit here and wallow. But he can’t begin to consider going back to just living. What’d he done on his last day off? It seems like years ago. Trudging across to the couch and watching TV seems like an insurmountable effort.
Bucky’s phone chirps, letting him know a new e-mail message has landed. He couldn’t be less interested, and he swats at the device, scooting it over the edge of the table and knocking it to the floor. The resulting clatter makes him sigh in resignation all over again. It’s another expensive thing Steve’s bought for him, thrown on the ground like it’s nothing. And it’s supposed to be a lifeline.
He should just call Steve. He’ll check his messages as soon as he pulls up at work. He’ll immediately know Bucky’s in crisis. And he’ll come home. It should be reassuring, but the prospect is mortifying. Tearing Steve away from work yet again with his errant emotions is just…too much.
Bucky leans back in his chair, fighting dizziness as he considers what the fuck he wants to do. The answer is literally nothing. He wants to cease to exist. But that’s not going to happen, at least not in the window of time before Steve comes home.
He looks down at his phone on the kitchen’s tile floor. He has a support system. Bucky knows well what he’s supposed to do. He just…can’t. Blood rushes to his head as he leans over his knees to retrieve the device. He swallows the rising urge to gag and returns to draping his torso over the kitchen table.
You’re sick. Just call him. Bucky unlocks his phone and selects his contacts. A Steve is the first entry on the list. His thumb hovers over Steve’s name. Just call him.
But he can’t. He drags his thumb down the sparse list of names, not even looking to see where it lands. His face is pressed sideways into an article on ancient coins, and a haze of moisture in his eyes almost obscures the phone’s screen into blurriness. But the pad of his finger is resting on a name. Laura Barton. And on a whim of helplessness, he presses the call button.
He doesn’t even hold the device to his ear. Bucky can hear the line ringing a foot or so away from his face.
“Hey, Bucky.” The voice is warm and cheerful and slightly echoey. There’s something like static and quiet chattering in the background. Bucky’s just astonished she picked up.
“Um,” he says, fumbling his phone onto speaker.
“I’m just dropping the little monsters off at school,” Laura says. Overlapping complaints of aw, geez, mom, sound from further away. She must be using the Bluetooth feature in her car. “What’re you up to?”
Bucky’s not sure he can answer. “I, uh…I don’t…”
“Are you ok?”
The question’s easier, though digging up the word and speaking the answer is just as difficult. He takes a deep breath before whispering, “No.”
“Ok,” Laura says. Bucky can hear her murmuring away from the phone. Cooper, can you walk your sister to her classroom? Car doors open and shut with pops that make Bucky’s head hurt. He wishes the sound and the pain could be accompanied by a paralyzing bullet. And he’s washed in guilt because he knows the thought’s so wrong.
“What’s going on?” Laura asks.
“I…I just…” He lets out a frustrated sigh, cursing the anxiety that steals his words.
“I know words are hard sometimes, but I need you to try to tell me.”
“I…don’t feel good.” That’s what is, really. In his body and in his head, right down to the inner workings of his brain cells.
“And Steve’s at work?” Laura guesses.
“Hm,” Bucky affirms
“Ok. It’s ok to not feel good,” she soothes. “Can you tell me more? Do you need someone to take you to urgent care?”
“N-no…”
“What’re you feeling? It’s ok. Just…let me know.”
Bucky takes another breath. He’s going to cry. He can already feel the wetness pooling around his eyelids and the lump of emotion blocking his throat. “My…my head.”
“Like a migraine?” Laura’s seen him have them before.
“I…I don’t…” Bucky shoves the words out before he can think about them. “I want to die.”
“Ok, um…” He hears Laura start the car. “Where are you right now?”
“Home.”
“What room? Are you in a safe place?”
“Kitchen table…” The end of the word gets lost in an unexpected huffing sob.
“And you’re safe there? Are you…are you hurting yourself right now?” He can hear the cringe in Laura’s voice.
“No, I’m…that’s why…god, I’m fucking trapped.” Bucky grits his teeth. The more the sobs rise in his chest, the more nauseated he feels.
“You’re gonna be ok, alright, Bucky?” Laura says firmly. “I’m coming. But it’s gonna take me a little bit to get to you. An hour, maybe. Are you gonna be ok till then?”
He replies with shaky, sobbing sigh.
“I can call an ambulance. If you need it, I can have somebody come and make sure you’re safe until I get there.” She doesn’t ask why he isn’t calling Steve. The prospect of not having to explain what he doesn’t quite understand himself is a small relief.
“No,” Bucky says again. “I’m…ah, god.” His head throbs, bringing forth another stabbing gust of guilt.
“Alright. I’m gonna stay on the phone. I’m getting on the highway right now.”
“Ok.”
Laura keeps talking, describing some of the scenery that flashes past her windows. “Another McDonalds billboard, can you believe it? They can’t seriously need that much advertising.”
Then when he’s quiet for too long, she asks Bucky to talk to her. He just has no idea what to say.
“Whatever you want. What do you see around you?” Laura suggests.
“Uh. The, the uh, table,” Bucky stutters out. “A bunch of mail.”
“You got your magazines?” Laura asks. “They usually make you feel a little better.”
She’s right, but then again, Steve usually makes Bucky feel better too. Today, though, he just feels horrible. The periodical under his face just seems like another five dollars Steve shouldn’t’ve wasted on him.
“I can’t…I don’t…” Tears absorb his voice and turn it into croaks, and his esophagus all but closes off in a rush of impending sickness. “I’m gonna throw up.”
Bucky gags and heaves, but he’s too empty to bring anything up.
Laura’s ready to expertly talk him through it. “It’s ok, breathe,” she reminds him. “I’m almost at your exit. Hang on for another ten minutes or so.”
“Ugh.”
“I know you’re feeling really bad. Just keep breathing through it…”
Bucky hears the car pull into the driveway before Laura announces that she’s arrived.
“I’m gonna just let myself in, ok?” she says. “Stay right where you are.”
The car door slams loudly, then the townhouse’s front latch clicks and hinges squeak as Laura enters. Her footsteps hurry through the entryway and into the kitchen. “Hey, Bucky,” she whispers.
“Hhhh,” Bucky exhales back. He’s fighting the urge to retch and sob at the same time.
“Can I hug you?”
He nods and swallows thickly.
“Alright. You’re gonna be alright.” Laura kneels beside Bucky’s chair and wraps her slender arms around him. Compared to her steadiness, he realizes he’s trembling hard.
“God,” Bucky mutters.
“I know you’re feeling really bad,” she whispers.
Bucky just shoves down another gag.
“You’re not bringing anything up, are you?” Laura’s such a mother; she’s certainly seen it all. “Have you had anything to eat or drink yet?”
Bucky shakes his head into her shoulder.
“Taken anything? Ibuprofen, or…?”
“No.”
“Alright.” Laura pats Bucky on the back a few times. “First thing is you’re gonna drink some water.” She keeps her hand on his arm as long as she can as she takes Bucky’s cold coffee away and quickly fills a glass with tepid tap water.
He accepts the cup in his violently trembling hand and takes a tiny sip.
“Ok, good,” Laura encourages. “You said earlier you head’s bothering you. Maybe your stomach too?”
“Yeah,” Bucky chokes.
“If I give you a painkiller, you’re just gonna puke,” Laura explains patiently. “You need to eat something. But, do you maybe wanna get out of here first?”
“Huh?”
“Do you think you’d feel better if we went somewhere else?” Mentally speaking, she means. “Just get out of the house for a while?”
“I…don’t know.” Bucky swallows another sip of water. “I don’t…really want anything.”
“Drink that, and we’ll go for a drive. If you think you can sit in the car.”
Bucky knows she wants to change up his environment. Get him somewhere relatively relaxing, but in public, and away from anything he could use to harm himself. It’s the personification of loving kindness. But deep down, it’s also a disappointment.
“It’s gonna be ok.” Laura squeezes his shoulder again.
Half an hour later, they’re cruising down the highway, practically retracing the path Laura’d just travelled. Bucky leans into the cool glass of the window. If he closes his eyes, he feels carsick, so he stares out at the rolling grassy hills.
Laura hums softly from the driver’s seat. Bucky can’t stand the sound of the radio at the moment, and she gamely puts up with his unhappy silence all the way back to Paris.
They go through a Burger King drive-thru because Laura refuses to stop at McDonalds. Bucky grumbles that he isn’t hungry, which is half because he’s nauseous and half because he isn’t above starving to death. But Laura smiles and says, “Too bad.”
The takeout bag of greasy breakfast food smells simultaneously sickening and delicious, and Bucky keeps looking down at it in his lap as Laura steers the car to Sky Meadows State Park.
“We’re going for a picnic, ok?” Laura parks and tucks in the car’s sun shade.
“Why’d we come all the way out here?” Bucky’s knees are weak and shaky. His whole body is, and even his ribcage feels oddly unstable.
“It’s nice out?” Laura poses. “And eventually we’ll have to pick up the kids.”
“We?” Bucky asks.
“Yeah, you’re stuck with me for a while.” Laura smiles. She takes the takeout bag from his hand and exchanges it for a pair of what have to be Clint’s sunglasses. “Here.”
The throbbing behind his forehead softens by half a notch once the sun isn’t melting his eyeballs.
“Come on. We’ll just go down the path a little ways.” Laura takes his hand for a moment, giving it a comforting squeeze before letting go and leading the way to a trailhead.
As Bucky follows her, he realizes he’s barely dressed. A faded t-shirt and some of Steve’s old sweats, the set of clothes he normally wears for sleeping and not much else. It’s a good thing he doesn’t sleep naked. At least, not usually.
The thought is funny and also heartbreaking. It brings Steve back into the equation, and the pressure of tears jumps back into his throat. Bucky’s whole face smarts with the heaviness, and his eyes prickle with threatening emotion. A tiny snort of a sob escapes his lips.
“Hey, ok,” Laura murmurs, turning around and quickly snaking her arm over Bucky’s shoulders. “Here’s good, don’t you think?” She steps them maybe three yards off the trail and pops a squat on the slightly damp grass. Bucky all but collapses beside her.
The parking lot is still visible from where they’ve set up camp, and a few older people with Nordic walking poles give them odd looks as they head out on the path. But Bucky can’t make himself care.
Laura doesn’t seem to care either, cheerily waving at the passersby and handing Bucky little pieces of hashbrown like he’s a baby bird. “I know you have to be feeling better with food in your system,” she says, pulling a second serving of fried potatoes out of the bag and beginning to dole them out.
Bucky shrugs. Maybe a touch less ill, but still just…terrible.
“You’re under no obligation to talk,” Laura says. “But, if you want to…”
Bucky stays quiet.
“I know I’m taking you to therapy next week, so you can wait for it if you want. Or…I’ll take you to the ER if that’s gonna help.”
“I just…I’m sorry.” Bucky lets the piece of potato between his fingers fall to the dirt between his knees.
“Do not be sorry, ok?” Laura drops her palm onto his elbow. “I’m so happy that you called. You’re doing an excellent job.”
“I didn’t mean to drag you into it…”
“Hey, you’re not dragging me anywhere. I walked into this. I’m here for you because I care about you. I care about Steve. You guys are family to us.”
Tears start dripping under the sunglasses without warning. Bucky shoves them up with the flat of his greasy hand and presses against his eyelids. “I…I hurt people. I hurt Steve.”
“No, you don’t,” Laura insists.
“I do,” Bucky sobs. “He does everything. Spends his…his time, and his money. On helping me. But I’m sick.” He practically chokes on the word. “I’m not getting better. I’m only…only getting worse. I can’t look at him anymore. ‘Cause he doesn’t know…”
“Bucky, you’ve gotten so much better,” Laura murmurs. “You’re eating. You’re talking.”
“Those shouldn’t be accomplishments! I’m too broken.” His voice hitches. “I just…wanna go away.” He brings his forehead down to his knees as the uncontrollable sobs start up.
“Alright. You’re getting hugged again,” Laura warns him before her arms close around him, the flat of her torso completely pressed against his side.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Bucky whispers through his tears. “I’m so fucking tired.”
“It’s a bad day.” Even Laura’s cheek is resting on his shoulder. “It’s allowed to be a bad day.”
All Bucky can do is cry. After a few minutes, it’s clear that’s what Laura’s doing too.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “You don’t have to…”
“Yes, I do,” Laura whispers. “Because it would fucking tear me apart to lose you.”
He sighs as guilt mounts all over again, like giant Jenga tower about to topple, dropping piece after piece on his sore head.
“You are depressed,” Laura says. “Depression moves in cycles. You know that. Bad days happen. This happens. But you’re gonna feel better.”
“It’s not worth it.”
“Well, it’s worth it to me.”
They sit there in the grass for hours. Bucky stops crying long enough to start breathing again, but then thoughts start up and he can’t blink back another round of tears.
At one point a park ranger comes by and asks if everything is ok. Laura peels herself an inch or so away from Bucky and says that everything’s fine. That it’s just not a good day. Somehow the idiot buys it, and they get to stay put for a while longer.
Finally Laura checks her watch and says, “Well, it’s almost two. Gotta get the kids in half an hour.” She pats Bucky’s back. “You ready to go?”
He should be, since they’ve been sitting there since late morning. It seems almost funny, and he lets out a tearful laugh as he asks, “Do I have a choice?”
Laura returns the chuckle. “Not really. Come on.” She pulls Bucky to his feet and gathers up the Burger King bag of now-cold breakfast sandwiches. “Do you want one of these?” she asks.
Bucky has no appetite, which is as good an indicator as any that he’s still decidedly unwell. He shakes his head and solemnly follows Laura back to the car.
“Well, the kids’ll get a bang-up snack today.” She turns to look at Bucky over her shoulder. “And we’ve got soccer this afternoon. Just so you know what you’re in for.”
“Huh.”
Bucky feels like something in between an uninvited substitute parent and an overgrown third child as he sits in the front seat while Laura maneuvers the car through the elementary school’s pick-up line.
“Mom!” Leila shouts as soon as she opens the door to the backseat. A still-damp painting of butterflies explodes into the front. “Look!”
“Oh, that’s fabulous, sweetheart,” Laura praises. She looks to be fighting a giggle as Bucky awkwardly holds the piece of art.
“Why’s Uncle Bucky with you?” Cooper asks, a bit more cautious than his sister. And maybe smarter, too, Bucky thinks.
“He’s spending the day with us,” Laura non-explains. “Now, when we get home, you have 45 minutes to chill before we need to leave for soccer. So I hope you know where your socks and shin guards are. I do not feel like hosting a scavenger hunt.”
Once the car stops in the Bartons’ gravel driveway, the kids hop out, chasing each other.
“And that’s why we have two,” Laura says. “They entertain each other…until I have to step in as referee.”
“Hm.” Bucky almost smiles. He looks down at the painting still in his lap and shifts his thumb, which has picked up a light coating of blue water-based tempera.
“Sorry,” Laura says. She takes the picture. “Come inside.”
Bucky spends 20 minutes washing his hands in the bathroom. He tries to force his shallow breaths a little deeper and pointedly does not look at his reflection in the slightly spotted mirror.
“Hey,” Laura knocks on the door, presumably to make sure he’s not drowning himself in the sink. “You doing ok?”
Bucky quickly splashes his face with tepid water and fumbles for the hand towel. “Uh. I guess.”
Laura opens the door a crack. “Want a snack?”
“Hm. Not really.”
“You still don’t feel good, do you?” She gives Bucky the sweetest of sympathetic expressions.
He does his best to return the look in a way that’s not a grimace.
“You’re welcome to lie down for a minute,” Laura offers. “But we gotta run again pretty soon.” She doesn’t explicitly say it, but it’s clear that the intent is to avoid leaving him home alone.
“’S ok,” Bucky says.
“I’ll give you an Excedrin,” she tries again. “You gotta eat something, though.”
“No, ‘s ok,” Bucky repeats. He’s not sure if the sore throb in his sinuses is actually a headache or leftover tears or clotted up emotion or something else entirely. His stomach’s still uneasy regardless.
He ends up leaning awkwardly against the kitchen counter while Laura fills water bottles and the kids go to town on the fast food breakfast leftovers. Cooper keeps eyeing Bucky warily, as if he knows what’s up, but is afraid to say anything out loud. But, he’s ten years old, so he probably does. And is.
Another spectacular thing to feel bad about.
Laura rolls down the windows as they cruise the 15 minutes into town and pull off at the public park where youth soccer is already in full swing. Bucky should’ve taken it as a hint that he’s not looking so good, but nausea doesn’t fully hit until his feet are on the ground. He wraps his arm around his stomach as he stands up and follows Laura to a stretch of grass where other parents are milling around.
The kids split and run their separate ways, joining groups roughly divided by age and gender. “Did they grab their water bottles?” Laura asks, trying to track one child out of each eye.
“I…don’t know,” Bucky replies, feeling hopelessly bad at everything.
“I have the most forgetful children on the planet,” she mutters, heading back toward the car. “I’ll be right back.”
He watches Laura hustle across the grass and unlock her sedan by remote control.
She’s such a loving, caring mom. Making sure the kids get exactly what they need. It’s the same type of care she’s been doling out to Bucky all day. And he can’t begin to deserve it.
They’re not even related. He’s her husband’s work buddy’s…what, exactly? Boyfriend? Significant other? Another role he’s somehow landed by default, not because he’s earned it by merit. Because he definitely hasn’t.
Bucky’s breath ratchets back up to a million miles an hour. His vision is getting blurry as vertigo takes over. Sourness assaults his tongue as the sensation of free-fall starts in his stomach. He bends over with his hand braced on his knee and tries to think about Steve, or anything but Steve, but his brain is suspended in painful limbo.
“Oh, shit. Bucky?” Laura’s gentle hand slams down on his back a second before he starts retching.
“Hey, alright,” she soothes. Bucky feels his spine arch as he brings up a weak stream of bile and barely-digested breakfast. He can feel sweat beading through the stubble on his upper lip and creeping down the back of his neck.
Laura sweeps his long hair back from his face and glances the backs of her knuckles along Bucky’s jaw. “Remind me to take your temperature when we get home,��� She murmurs. Bucky makes a note to forget as soon as possible.
He throws up again, then dry heaves a few times. He can practically feel prying eyes staring at him from all sides. He’s sick, he’s a mess, and now everybody knows.
Laura’s pocket starts ringing loudly, and she one-handedly wrestles her phone out while continuing to comfort Bucky with the other.
“Hey,” she says, and Bucky has a pretty good idea who’s on the other line. “Yeah, he’s up here with me. Taking the kids to soccer.”
Steve’s voice is staticky and muffled, but Bucky picks out the words how’s he doing?
Laura buries the phone’s microphone in her chest, whispering to Bucky, “Do you want to tell him, or do you want me to?”
“How…?” Bucky breathes.
“I might’ve texted him earlier. Just so he doesn’t worry too much,” Laura says. “Now, do you want to talk?”
“You can,” he croaks, blinking and letting round droplets of saltwater fall into the small puddle of sick.
“He just threw up,” Laura reports with utilitarian softness.
Bucky feels his face burn with embarrassment, and he reaches up blindly. “I will,” he changes his mind.
His hands shake the moment the device is in his grasp. He lets out a quivering breath once the phone is up to his ear.
“Hey, Buck,” Steve intones. “You’re over in Paris?”
“Hm. Yeah,” Bucky hiccups.
“And you’re pretty sick.” It’s not a question this time.
“Yeah, I…don’t feel good.”
“Aw, Buck,” Steve says. “You’re not ok right now, are you? I should’ve stayed with you, this morning, I—”
“No, it’s…” Bucky interrupts him. He doesn’t finish the sentence because he’s not fine. He just doesn’t want to hear Steve try to apologize. “I’m not ok.”
“Yeah,” Steve whispers. “I know.”
“Yeah.” Bucky holds his breath as nausea re-awakens and threatens to spill his non-existent guts again.
“D’you…can I come see you?” Steve asks tentatively.
He doesn’t deserve it; he’s not sure he can stand the degree of care… But Bucky feels himself whispering, “Yeah. I…um. Yeah.”
“Ok. I’ll be there soon.” Steve doesn’t gum up the connection by saying love you before he hangs up. It’s a good thing. Bucky doesn’t think he’d be able to handle it.
He shakily gives the phone back to Laura and attempts to straighten up against the slopping sensation still roiling in his abdomen.
“Am I supposed to guess who’s coming to dinner?” she asks, offering a wan smile and Leila’s floral-print water bottle.
“Naw, you already know,” Bucky rasps, accepting the drink.
“And you’re ok with that?”
“I think so,” Bucky says. “Yeah.”
#marvel#mcu#captain america#stucky#bucky barnes#laura barton#steve rogers#depression#suicidal thoughts tw#dark#illness#emeto#emetophilia
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Look at this photograph (Criminal Minds sickfic)
This is a repost from A03. I also write Criminal Minds. Here! Look!
I’m not exactly 100% happy with how this came out, but people seem to really like it. I know the title kind of sucks.
Contains migraines and vomiting, as well as mentions of violence (what do you expect? it’s criminal minds.)
When Spencer arrives at the BAU, he has the vague feeling that something’s off. It has nothing to do with the packet of disturbing photos waiting on his desk. Unfortunately, teenaged girls with bashed in faces aren’t too unusual in his line of work. Spencer fills his coffee mug, adds sugar, and sits to peruse the file. Hotch and Garcia will certainly fill in the details when the team moves to the conference room in a few minutes, but Spencer likes to try to deduce as much as he can first.
The pictures show three girls, all with long, stringy light brown hair, crumpled on the floor in various untidy rooms. The background of the images looks like the low-pile carpet and dark paneled walls common in mobile homes. These girls were probably the sweethearts of their trailer trash community. Why would someone kill them?
Spencer takes another swig of coffee. He can practically feel the warm liquid running into his stomach, and it’s less comforting than usual. It feels sloshy, almost sickening. The sensation of not-quite-rightness is back, and now it’s amplified. Spencer wonders vaguely if he’s coming down with something, but he doesn’t feel ill. He has a mild headache, but that’s normal considering the cloudy weather and his usual insomnia. Conditions are rife for a migraine, but the usual vision-stealing aura doesn’t seem to be approaching. Spencer’s stomach feels fine, but he has no appetite, apparently not even for coffee. He doesn’t feel feverish, but he has a desire to curl in on himself and pull his wool sweater tightly around his body. He doesn’t feel good. Not in the sense that he necessarily feels sick. Just that the needle on the meter of his physical well-being is stuck in neutral; it hasn’t ticked up into the green zone of good.
Spencer opens his top desk drawer and gazes down at the contents. It’s a disorganized mass of small office supplies and random items. A spare roll of tape sits partially on top of several large rubber bands and beside a miniature figurine of the Incredible Hulk. Two bottles of Excedrin and a bottle of ibuprofen float in the mess, and Spencer briefly considers which he wants. He’s not really in pain, but craves something to take away his discomfort. Better over-the-counter than something else.
He chooses the Excedrin since it contains caffeine and he seems to be having trouble getting his fix in liquid form today. Spencer dry swallows two pills, remembering and subsequently ignoring that he should probably take them with food. He leaves the bottle out on the desk, upside-down, and looks back at the photos in the file.
Spencer’s suddenly filled with apathy. He’s looked, made some deductions. He’ll learn more in the briefing. Given their track record, the team will probably catch the perp. And none of it will bring back three dead girls. Spencer folds his arms on top of the desk and lowers his head to rest on his hands.
He closes his eyes and flips through a series of mental photographs. One of the younger murdered girls laying on a pink bedspread on the floor, a stack of toppled Nancy Drew hardcovers beside her. Morgan leaning confidently against the driver side door of his new black BMW, arms crossed and mirrored sunglasses covering his smiling eyes. The evergreen-colored pill bottle sitting cap down on Spencer’s dark wood desk, the expiration date showing that he had approximately three months to generate enough headaches to finish the bottle before it becomes ineffective.
“You ok, Spence?” a soft, slightly concerned voice says from over his right shoulder. Spencer slowly sits upright to avoid dizziness. Nonetheless, vertigo catches up by the time he swivels his chair to see the speaker. It’s JJ, her eyebrows furrowed.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Spencer says, rubbing the back of his hand across his forehead, which feels like it might bear an imprint of his sweater’s cable-knit cuff. He pulls his eyes down from her face to the pale tan folders she holds against her chest. Spencer closes the file on his desk and snatches it up, sending the Excedrin bottle tumbling in the process.
JJ tracks the green plastic as it rolls across the desk and bounces onto the floor. Spencer quickly bends to retrieve it, and his sinuses throb as he tosses it back onto the desk surface. “Headache?” JJ asks.
It’s hard to lie to JJ, even when she hasn’t seen the evidence. Spencer mentally smooths out a half-truth before saying, “Yeah, just didn’t sleep that well.” He did have a fractured night—real sleep from 11:30 to 3, then a series of nightmare-punctuated drowses until he finally just got up at 4:45 and flopped on the couch with the War and Peace audiobook. He neglects to mention that he’s been through the same routine every night for the past 27 days.
“It’s tough when we can barely count on 12 hours at home before it’s time for another case,” JJ says as the two of them start across the bullpen to the conference room. “Hopefully we’re going somewhere far away so you can nap on the jet…”
They’re not. The murders occurred relatively nearby in Appalachian coal country, where the local population’s collectively ill with poverty, black lung disease, and water contamination. It’s under an hour to fly to West Virginia, complete with takeoff and landing procedures. The flight’s uncomfortable, but Spencer white-knuckles his way through it, hoping no one makes assumptions based on his pale face and aversion to the coffee machine. Approaching weather creates turbulence and adds to the uneasiness in Spencer’s stomach.
Once they’ve landed and exited out to the cloudy runway strip, he sticks with JJ and slides into the backseat of one of the local police cruisers that’s waiting to drive the team into town. He puts up barriers with his demeanor to ensure no one tries asking if he’s ok. Not just because he’s annoyed and embarrassed, but because he still doesn’t really know. He feels slightly better after leaving the jet, but the weather system is adding pressure to the headache and his stomach is stuck in the not-quite-nauseous state that follows eating too much birthday cake or chugging some revolting vegetable juice. Like the body is saying I don’t need to actively reject it, but I just want to reinforce that I don’t like this. So here, feel sick for a while and think about your actions.
***
He makes it through the day on a stream of I’m busy and have we looked into this angle yet? Spencer hasn’t taken a second to think about himself, though he’s still sitting on the verge of unwell. When it’s time for dinner, he’s out of excuses.
The whole team knows he’s barely eaten all day, and there’s only one restaurant in town that’s not a fast-food joint. Emily rounds up some borrowed umbrellas from the local PD, and the team proceeds to walk across the street for a shared meal. Spencer’s so tired he’d rather go back to the hotel and try to sleep, but there’s no way he’ll get out of dinner without serious inquiries about his health.
Once in the diner, the six profilers are herded into an enormous round booth, which is touted as the best seat in the house. Spencer tries to position himself on the end, but Morgan slides in beside him at the last minute. Their server passes around menus and promises to return with water that no one plans on drinking.
Spencer scans the menu, not really taking in the list of homestyle, greasy fare. The whole place has a slightly stale, oily scent. He sets the laminated pamphlet on the sticky table surface. His hands are trembling, so he can’t hold it steady.
It’s hot, especially with the booth’s close quarters. Spencer feels his forehead, hands, and feet growing clammy, and suddenly he’s overwhelmingly nauseated. He leans back in the booth and takes a deep breath, willing the feeling to pass.
Morgan looks up from his menu and glances at Spencer, who imagines all color has drained from his face. “You ok?” Morgan asks.
Spencer fully intends to respond that he’s fine, but when he opens his mouth, he feels like vomit might come with the words. He stands and gestures for Morgan to get up and let him out of the booth. “Just—sorry,” he chokes.
Spencer walks quickly but smoothly to the bathroom, trying not to jostle his stomach. He pushes into the stall without bothering to lock the door and immediately retches over the toilet. There’s nothing to bring up, but his body still contracts, intent on expelling something even if it’s just air and saliva.
The second heave is just as unproductive, but it leaves Spencer dizzy and off-balance. His knees give out, and he grips the wobbly toilet seat and sinks down onto the unclean floor. Spencer feels like his eyes are rolling up in his head as he retches a third time and finally vomits. It’s barely a tablespoon of bile, so sour it makes his eyes water and leaves him coughing.
“Reid?” A voice says his name, and the sound is muddled with footsteps, the creak of the stall door, and Spencer’s own ragged breathing. There’s a hand on his shoulder, light and comforting. Feels like Morgan.
“Alright, it’s ok,” Morgan soothes as Spencer hacks. Strings of mucous hang into the toilet. A final dry heave works its way up from Spencer’s contracting abdomen, and he grunts from the pain and bitter saliva.
“It’s alright,” Morgan intones again, sweeping his hand between Spencer’s shoulder blades. Spencer shudders and coughs, then tries to spit out as much of the bitter taste as he can. His eyes and nose are dripping, and his entire body feels damp and dirty. Contaminated. Like he’s sweating out toxins that are collecting on his skin.
“Ok,” Morgan says calmly, still gently rubbing Spencer’s back. They sit there, Spencer still hanging over the toilet, for a silent moment. Then Morgan asks. “Think you’re done?”
Spencer hopes he is. The imminent nausea has passed, but he still has an aching stomach, raw throat, and dizzy head. “Yeah,” he croaks, pushing up on his arms and lifting his head and chest from the toilet seat. Spencer turns his body and leans against the stall wall, slouching so his head doesn’t come into contact with the toilet paper dispenser.
“Ok, good,” Morgan says. He reaches up and flushes the toilet, though it still looks clean. He leans against the stall wall opposite Spencer, their legs awkwardly crunched and touching knee-to-knee in the small space.
Another minute of quiet passes, then Morgan invites conversation. “Talk to me, pretty boy,” he says. “What’s going on with you?”
Spencer takes a deep breath. “I, uh,” he starts, throat still raw and sore. “I don’t know. I was fine. Then just got really nauseated…”
“Yeah, got that part,” Morgan says, still calm, but with a hint of impatient sarcasm. “But you’ve been off your game since this morning. Tell me, for real, what’s up with you today? You think you’re sick?”
Spencer shakes his head and looks down at his knees, avoiding Morgan’s gaze.
“Do you have a migraine?” Morgan asks, offering another explanation for Spencer to grasp.
It would be easy to just nod an affirmative, but Spencer lacks the motivation even to do that. He shrugs
“Kid,” Morgan warns. It’s clear his subtext says don’t lie to me.
“I have a—a headache,” he says, pausing to swallow. “Not that bad. Not light-sensitive. At least not yet.” Spencer tries to explain, closing his eyes and massaging his forehead.
“Is it making your stomach sick?” Morgan presses.
“No,” Spencer sighs. Then, “I don’t know.” He can’t even begin to explain what he’s feeling. He can’t even begin to understand it.
“Ok,” Morgan says. “Have you eaten today?”
Spencer swallows hard again and still doesn’t make eye contact when he slowly shakes his head. “Not hungry.”
“Yeah, I know.” Morgan places a hand on Spencer’s knee. “But you’re probably nauseous because you’re empty. You’re just completely out of energy, and your body’s freaking out.”
Spencer vaguely nods. He knows this. The unsettledness is returning, but not in an urgent way. It’s just annoying. And exacerbated by the growing feeling of stupidity Morgan’s questions are bringing on.
“You’re probably dehydrated,” Morgan continues. “D’you want—”
Spencer interrupts him with a hoarsely muttered, “Can you stop?” Spencer’s on the verge of tears, and he isn’t completely sure why.
“What? Yeah, kid. Sorry,” Morgan backtracks, getting his voice back to pure comforting calm. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just worried about you. We all are.”
Spencer exhales and presses fingers to the corners of his eyes. “I know,” he whispers. “I just…I feel all…” He tries to find a word for the turbulence of physical and mental sensations swirling inside him, but all he can come up with is profanity. “…fucked up,” Spencer says. “And I don’t know why.”
“It’s alright,” Morgan reassures.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You don’t have to now,” Morgan says. “You don’t have to talk to me. But eventually Hotch has to know.”
All Spencer can do is sigh. “Yeah.”
Morgan gives him another minute, then asks, “You ready to get up?”
“I don’t want to go back out.”
“You have to, eventually,” Morgan says. “You’ll probably feel a lot better once you drink some water, have something to eat…”
“But I don’t—” Spencer has a hard time getting the words out. “I don’t want to talk to anyone.” He feels like shit, and he’s mortified about it. The other profilers are probably just worried and eager to help, but to Spencer, it’s overwhelming.
Morgan pats Spencer’s knee again. “How about I go back out first. I can tell them you’re not feeling so good, and you want to be left alone,” he offers.
Spencer thinks for a moment, and silently nods.
“Ok, good,” Morgan affirms, starting to his feet. He holds out a hand to Spencer, who accepts it and shakily finds his way upright. He’s trembling all over, and he pauses to make sure the vertigo at the edges of his vision will stay at bay.
Spencer exits the stall and shuffles to the sink, where he turns on the water but doesn’t make a move to wash. Instead he braces both arms on the porcelain and glances at his reflection in the spotted mirror. He’s pale to the point of ghostliness, and his hair clings to his forehead with clammy sweat. The armpits of his oxford are also soaked through. He thinks about buttoning his cardigan to cover the damp stains, but it seems like far too much effort.
Morgan offers a paper towel, which Spencer takes, partially wadding it up so he can hold it and brace on the sink at the same time. “You alright?” Morgan checks in.
“Yeah…” Spencer says spacily, looking down at the running water between his hands. He knows he probably looks ready to pass out.
“You’ll be ok by yourself?”
“Yeah.” Spencer forces his voice to come out more confidently.
“Ok. If you’re not out in 5 minutes, I’m coming back for you,” Morgan says as he opens the bathroom door and steps outside.
Spencer slowly releases the sink with one hand and dips it in the stream of icy tap water. He knows he shouldn’t drink it, what with all the mining contamination, but he should be safe to wash up. Cool down.
He actually can’t really tell if he’s hot or cold. The sensation playing over his skin isn’t the heat that comes with nausea or the chill that comes with fever. It’s more like the prickling of a thousand tiny cockroach feet.
Spencer splashes his face, catching his hair as he bends over the sink. Then he pats his skin with the rough paper towel. Vertigo almost overwhelms him when he takes his second hand away from the porcelain handhold, but he inhales the slightly woody scent of the paper towel and forces himself to remain upright.
Besides removing some residual bile from around his mouth, the hasty wash job does nothing to make Spencer feel better. He still feels filthy, like a greasy, germy teenager. He takes a deep breath, swallows foul-tasting mucousy saliva, and slips out of the bathroom.
***
Once the dinner bill is paid, the team exits the restaurant and opens umbrellas against the drizzle. The general intent is to walk back to the Police Station and get in a few more hours work, but Spencer knows he can’t join in. He wants nothing more than to sleep (or at least try to sleep) so he won’t have to feel so awkwardly unwell for a while.
He doesn’t get a chance to speak up, though. Hotch claps a hand on his shoulder and says, “You need to go to the hotel and rest.”
Spencer doesn’t reply. Hotch continues, “I’ll walk with you.” Then, to the rest of the team, “Don’t wait for me. Get as much done as you can.”
They split up, Hotch and Spencer heading down the block to the Holiday Inn while everyone else crosses the street. Spencer feels the toast Morgan forced him to eat sitting heavily in his stomach. There’s no way he’ll get out of talking. He tries to remind himself that it’s not that bad. Telling the truth is not hard. It’s just the lingering feeling of stupidity that bothers him as he struggles to explain what and why he’s feeling.
Once in the hotel, they ride the elevator up to Spencer’s room. Spencer fumbles the key card into the door slot, then steps over the threshold and sinks down on the end of the bed. Hotch pulls the chair over from the desk in the corner and sits opposite.
“Reid,” Hotch says.
Spencer doesn’t make eye contact.
“I know you’re not feeling well. And you don’t like getting attention like this,” Hotch continues. “But I need to know what’s going on with you. Not because I don’t think you can take care of yourself, but we have three dead girls and a killer on the loose. The team can’t work at its best if you’re not honest with me. And we need the team working at its best right now.”
Spencer sighs and finally raises his head. He feels like crying. His sinuses are heavy and there’s immense pressure behind his eyes and in his forehead.
“I just…” Spencer starts, “I just feel bad. My head hurts and I keep getting nauseous. My whole body is just…uncomfortable,” he tries to explain. “It’s not—I don’t think I have a fever or anything.”
“I know you haven’t been eating,” Hotch says. “Sleeping?”
Spencer shrugs. “Sometimes. Have a hard time most nights.”
“You’ve been having migraines.” It’s not a question.
Spencer tightly closes his eyes and presses the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Yeah, but…” he whispers. “I mean, I’m not…I don’t really know. If this is aura, it’s different from how it’s been before.” He takes a deep breath and grasps for any semblance of composure.
Hotch’s hand comes down on Spencer’s knee. “I have to ask. Have you taken anything?”
He knows his supervisor means hard drugs, but Spencer can still barely whisper, “Excedrin.”
“Did it help?”
“No.” The word hardly escapes Spencer’s lips when the dam breaks. His eyes are wet behind his fingers and his breath is caught up in a painful sob.
“It’s alright,” Hotch soothes. He increases the pressure on Spencer’s knee.
Spencer sobs again. He feels his heart beating fast and hard, and his head throbs in time with it. Vertigo assaults him, and Spencer leans forward to rest elbows on knees and head in hands. Hotch’s comforting touch jumps up to Spencer’s shoulder.
Spencer takes a deep inhale and wills the dizziness down, but it turns to nausea anyway. He focuses on his feet, not quite toe-to-toe with Hotch and tries to tell himself he’s fine. The next sob brings on an excess of bitter saliva, and Spencer swallows thickly.
“Reid?” Hotch questions, fatherly instincts kicking in.
“I—” he swallows again. “’M sorry, I think I’m gonna throw up.” Spencer struggles upright, almost tripping over Hotch and unsure of what to do with his arms.
“Ok, yep,” Hotch intones as he stands and hovers at Spencer’s shoulder as the younger man moves to the bathroom.
Spencer bends over the toilet and sobs until a gag cuts him off. Half a slice of undigested toast and a few sips of water don’t take long to expel, but time feels suspended, and both retches and sobs taste bad and make his stomach muscles hurt. He’s so dizzy he’s half afraid he’ll fall forward and drown in the toilet water.
Spencer isn’t sure how much time has elapsed when his stomach finally stops spasaming and he feels comfortable moving away from the toilet. He uses the edge of the counter to pull himself upright and drag himself over to the sink. Spencer rinses his mouth with the probably-not-safe-to-drink water and buries his face in a hand towel.
He’s shaking horribly. Everything, from his fingers to his lips feel clumsy and freezing. The only thing he wants is to lie down so maybe his surroundings will move from painful back into ordinary. Spencer drops the towel onto the counter and slowly steps back toward the bedroom.
He gets as far as the door when his legs give out. So does his vision, and he has no idea where he is for a moment. Then an arm catches him around the chest and the world does a dizzying swoop as everything rights itself.
And finally, finally the skull-splitting pain hits. It’s almost a relief.
“Hey, ok, take it easy,” Hotch says. “Reid, you with me?” He gets his arm solidly around Spencer’s shoulders.
Spencer swallows and tries to respond. His throat is raw and full of snot, his very brain is being sawed in half, and his “yeah,” comes out as a hoarse croak. He coughs and shifts his feet so he’s steadier. “oh, god.”
“Alright, the bed’s right here.” Hotch supports Spencer the five or so feet, and Spencer immediately sits and curls onto his side on top of the quilt. Tears are leaking from his eyes again, and every part of him is trembling.
Hotch’s phone rings. The ringtone indicates it’s one of the BAU team members. Hotch answers, and Spencer covers his face with his hand and feels guilty all over again. Someone’s probably found something, actions probably need to be taken. The team leader should be there at the police station, not here putting Spencer to bed.
“Hi, JJ,” Hotch says. Spencer can hear JJ’s voice on the other end of the line, but it’s too soft to understand the words.
“He’s uh…” Hotch sighs. “He’s not good right now.” She must have asked how Spencer is doing. Another wave of guilt slams into him, worsening his headache. Now he’s distracting JJ too.
“He’s upset. He got sick and almost passed out,” Hotch says. Spencer doesn’t want to hear it, and he wonders why Hotch doesn’t leave the room. Either he’s afraid to take his eyes of Spencer, or he wants him to hear what he’s saying.
“Yeah, I think maybe the pain finally hit. He’s very dehydrated, and that’s what’s worrying me. And we don’t have any drinkable water here.”
There’s a long pause as JJ’s voice sounds again. Then Hotch says, “Ok, let me see if he’s up to it.” He holds the phone to his chest and crouches beside Spencer. “JJ wants to talk to you. Is that ok? Do you want to talk to her?”
Spencer’s first thought is no, he does not want to talk to JJ. She’s probably his closest friend, and she’ll do everything in her power to make him feel better. But Spencer’s not weak, he does not need help. Especially for something ridiculous like anxiety and a headache. But in his state of severe discomfort, all Spencer can do is nod and reach up for the phone as tears flood his eyes.
Spencer takes a shaky breath.
“Spence?” JJ asks gently. “Hey.”
“Hi,” Spencer whispers.
“You really don’t feel good, huh?”
It’s one of those questions where yes and no mean the same thing. “Eh,” Spencer replies, trying not to sob into the phone.
“Is it your head?”
“Yeah.” He’d gladly go to a guillotine for relief.
“And your stomach?”
“Yeah, I don’t know. ‘s just everything. Hurts. Doesn’t feel right.”
“Oh, Spence. Can I come see you? Maybe get you something to drink so we can get you feeling better?”
“But…the case?” Spencer asks.
“The internet is so slow it’ll probably take another hour or two for anything to turn up. We’ve got Garcia on it back in Quantico. It’s a miracle this call hasn’t broken up yet.” She pauses for a second. “Is it ok if I come see you? We’re probably gonna call it a night here.”
Emotion crashes through him again as Spencer tightens his grip on the phone. “Yes. Please, JJ. Yeah.”
“Ok. I’ll be there soon. I’ll be right there.” She hangs up, and Spencer slowly moves the device away from his ear and returns it to Hotch.
Spencer stays curled on his side on the bed. Hotch removes Spencer’s shoes for him and offers to help him into a more comfortable position, but Spencer declines. He must have drifted into a light sleep, because all of a sudden someone’s saying his name and pushing his hair off his forehead.
“Spence.” It’s JJ.
Spencer doesn’t open his eyes, but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to see even if he does. Bright silver-white shimmers poke at his left eye, making it water with more than just impending tears. Aura’s supposed to come first. He’s so off track he can’t even have a migraine properly.
Before he can form another coherent thought, he’s sitting up, his head swimming, and pressing his face into her stomach.
“Hey, Spence,” JJ whispers. “Alright.” She wraps her arms around his head and shoulders, pressing him to her.
Every single thing that’s ever been right or wrong or harrowing or painful seems to flash behind Spencer’s eyelids as he leans into the embrace. His confused non-childhood, his mother’s illness, leftover PTSD and quirks from months on dilaudid, the inability to relate to other people, the debilitating headaches with no apparent cause…all of it falls in big, salty tears.
***
When Spencer wakes next, it’s still dark. No light filters through the hotel room’s cheap curtains. Spencer’s grateful; he’s positive any errant sunshine would send him heaving over the edge of the bed. The pain’s settled in his right temple, and if it weren’t so damn incapacitating, he’d be relieved.
Spencer struggles to remember exactly what happened after JJ came into the room. Everything in the past 24 hours seems like a painful blur, but that length of time’s especially blank. There were comforts and kind words, Spencer thinks, then water and Gatorade and vomit. Or maybe he’d been sick before she arrived. It hardly matters now.
The mattress dips a millimeter, and Spencer rides the resulting wave of queasy agony. JJ’s still here, he realizes, lying behind him, fully clothed, on top of the slick hotel comforter.
“You ok?” she asks sleepily.
“Hm,” Spencer affirms. “Ok.”
“Feel better?”
Spencer’s torn. Physically, it’s about the same as it was last night when the puzzle pieces realigned themselves into garden-variety migraine territory. Which is to say his head feels like it’s going to fall off, his stomach’s in knots, and his eyesight’s completely shot. But in terms of knowing what he’s up against, the reprieve is almost magical. A day or two of hellacious headaches is manageable, it’s the devil he knows rather than the void of anxiety and depression and drug cravings that he wishes he doesn’t.
“I’ll be ok,” he whispers.
“How about right now?” JJ doesn’t miss a beat, even when she’s half asleep.
Spencer doesn’t answer. JJ fills in the blank. “Still not so good?”
She’s up on her feet before Spencer can protest, bringing Excedrin and Gatorade.
“You don’t have to stay. You should rest,” Spencer whispers after he’s painfully hauled himself upright so he can swallow the pills.
“I have Henry. I’m used to being up at all hours,” JJ replies with a wan smile. “Besides, someone’s gotta look out for you when you’ve got a headache. Remind you to take fluids. Otherwise you’re no use to the team.”
The eye contact she initiates says so much more than the sentence. When you’ve got a headache may as well have been when you cry about your mom or crave long-gone drugs or claw through depression or need to mourn three dead girls. Someone’s gotta remind you to take care of yourself.
“I don’t mean that you can’t do it on your own.” JJ echoes Hotch’s words from earlier in the evening.
“Yeah,” Spencer sighs. He realizes with a sudden onset of exhaustion that it’s not bothering him much anymore. He has done a shit job of getting himself through any of it. Maybe it is that dose of human contact he struggles so much with that actually makes all the difference. “I, uh, I really appreciate it.”
“I’d do it for anyone I care about,” JJ murmurs. She rescues the Gatorade from Spencer’s softening grip. “I don’t know what I did before you joined up,” she continues in a whisper. “You’re like my brother now.”
As Spencer drifts asleep again, he turns through pages of mental photographs again. Bumper-to-bumper Los Vegas traffic. Lonely country roads. Three dead girls who deserve justice. Hotchbending to unlace Spencer’s shoes. JJ lining up bottles of water along the edge of the bedside table.
He knows what’s important.
And he thinks he might just feel a little better.
#fanfic#sickfic#criminal minds#migraines#emeto#spencer reid#emetophilia#cm#tv#tv show#fanfiction#reid whump
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Your writing is fantastic!!! Can you do 25???
I’m excited about bring out some of these guys’ backstories! Here we’ll have Jason and Colby talking family troubles. Please let me know if anything in here is confusing or if you’d like to know more (I have a lot of bullet points). I’ve really been thinking on pasts and other developments for these guys in particular.
___
“What’re you doing?” Jason asks as he opens the sliding door to the apartment’s tiny back porch. Colby’s sitting on the concrete ground with his knees drawn up to his chest. He gazes at the brown paneled fence with a vacant expression. If they were on a higher floor, the porch would be a balcony with a view. But the apartment’s on the first level, and the porch is only good for storage and illegal barbecues.
Colby shrugs and drops his gaze downward.
“It’s freezing out here,” Jason comments. “You wanna come in?”
“Naw, I’m ok,” Colby replies. His voice is raw. He keeps his eyes glued to his lap.
“What’s up?” Jason presses. He takes a seat beside Colby, the knee of his grey sweatpants pressed against Colby’s jeans.
“It’s nothing,” Colby says. “It’s stupid.”
“If it’s tearing you up, it’s definitely something.” Jason drops the flat of his palm onto the top of Colby’s spine. “You don’t get this way about a lot of stuff.”
“Yeah, I know.” Colby fights a drip at the end of his nose. “That’s why it’s stupid.”
“Hey. Talk to me,” Jason says softly. “I’m not gonna disown you because you’re upset about something. Even if it’s something small.”
Colby sighs. He waits a minute, willing his breath to stay steady. “I, uh. I got a text. From Sarah. My sister.”
“Hm. Ok,” Jason affirms. “She’s what? Fourteen now?”
“Yeah, fifteen in a couple weeks.”
“What’d she say?” Jason asks, concern leaching into his voice.
“My, um. My dad’s in town?” Colby phrases it as a question. He’s not sure he entirely believes it. He doesn’t want to believe it.
“That’s…huh.”
“Yeah. Weird,” Colby says. Why are the corners of his eyes prickling? He’s already loosed tears. And why’d he even waste energy doing that? “He’s between holidays. And visits were never really his style. He was more like a postcard once a year type of parent. I mean, you know the story.”
“Yeah,” Jason says, drawing his fingers up to Colby’s tense shoulder.
Now that he’s started talking, he can’t stop himself. “I was in fucking kindergarten and Sarah was a goddamn baby when he left. Left my mom with two little kids and never a cent of child support. Then he sent us letters every once in a while, told us to write him back, but then half the time the ones we’d send would come back with those fucking ‘return to sender’ stamps on them.” Colby draws a shuddering breath.
“But I kept trying, more than he ever did. Sent him letters all through middle school, looking for advice, for him to be my fucking dad. I kept telling him stuff, just in case something would make him feel something and just write me back. But I should’ve known better. That’s…it was all my fault.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Jason says. “You were a kid; you wanted your dad. He was an adult, and he shouldn’t’ve treated you that way.”
“The only goddamn time he wrote me back was after I came out to him.” Colby feels tears tracking down his cheeks. He hurriedly wipes them with the sleeve of his sweater. “Two fucking sentences. ‘Don’t contact me again. You are not my son.’”
“It was cruel. You never deserved that.”
A sob rises in Colby’s chest, and he brings his fist to his mouth to make sure it stays silent.
“Hey, you can be upset about it. Nothing about this is ok,” Jason assures him.
“It was, like, five years ago,” Colby says. “I’m over it. It’s nothing.” But the way his teeth are chattering with cold and emotion betrays otherwise.
“You don’t have to be,” Jason whispers.
“My goddamn father disowned me ‘cause I’m a fag and not a man. ‘Cause, you know, great fucking man he’s been, running away from his fucking problems.”
“No, you’re so much stronger, so much of a better person than he is,” Jason says. He brings his arm all the way around Colby’s broad shoulders and holds him close.
“Now he’s here! He’s talking to my fucking sister! And I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know if he’s cleaning up his act or just up to break her heart because she was too little to get it broken the first time he up and left.” Colby’s breath’s coming too fast. The tears stopped up behind his forehead are giving way to stabbing pains in his temples. Vertigo crystalizes in his sinuses. “He’s fucking with my family and not talking to me at all.”
“Do you…want to talk to him?” Jason tentatively asks.
“God. No. I’m…I, yeah, I never want to hear from him again.” Colby’s entire body is beginning to tremble. He’s seated, but his legs feel weak, this throat is vibrating, the crown of his head drowning in dizziness. “So I should—shouldn’t worry about it. But now, I just, I can’t fucking stop…” He drops his chin so his face is hanging somewhere between his own chest and Jason’s shoulder.
“There’s no manual for how you’re supposed to react to something like this,” Jason murmurs. “There isn’t a wrong way to feel. Just, take a deep breath. You’re gonna be ok.”
Colby tries. He just can’t seem to fill his lungs with oxygen. His stomach is crawling up into his chest. The line of his jaw is cold and numb, but sweat is breaking out on his forehead and through his moustache. He’s beginning to feel unbearably sick. Hot saltwater is still dripping from his eyes. He feels stupid.
“It’s alright,” Jason says.
“Yeah…” But it’s not. His dad’s in town and it feels all wrong and he shouldn’t care but for fuck’s sake he can’t stop caring and it’s too cold outside to be sitting here but he’s sweltering now and he’s going to throw up and there’s nothing he can do about it now that his gasping breath is turning nonexistent and sour bile is leaching into the spit under his tongue…
Colby retches before he can force out words. “Whoa, hey, ok,” Jason panics, gently pushing Colby so he’s positioned over the concrete patio floor instead of both their laps.
He vomits until he really can’t breathe, then pants and coughs and gulps down frigid air that stings his wet nose and mouth.
“Alright. You ok?” Jason asks. “I mean, I know you’re not, but…you think you’re done?”
“Ugh,” Colby groans. His throat’s clogged with strings of mucous. He scrubs the cuff of his sweater over his face. He’s so lightheaded he feels like he could throw up again. And he’ll surely fall over if he stands up.
“Let’s go inside,” Jason suggests. “How ‘bout I make you a cup of tea?”
“I…really don’t feel good,” Colby admits. He feels disgusting, in his stomach and head and deeper, down to his soul. This has to be Jason’s least favorite thing, a sweaty, shaky boyfriend and puke all over the floor.
“Yeah, I know. It’s ok,” Jason says. “Come inside. Everything’s gonna be ok.”
#ocs#my ocs#original fiction#sickfic#mike & co#colby carson#jason deangeles#emeto#emetophilia#family issues#emotional hurt/comfort
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Could you do something where Bucky is miserably sick and the only person around to help him is Nat?
Here it is!
We’re back in powers/no powers choose your own adventure (sorry for the whiplash).
________________________________
“I’ll just be gone a couple days,” Steve had said as he threw socks and underwear into a duffle bag. “And in Pittsburgh, so not too far away.”
Bucky’d nodded and reassured Steve he’d be fine.
“Sam’s going with me, and so is Clint.” Steve’d explained. “But Nat’ll be here. You can call her if you need anything.”
“Ok. I’ll be ok by myself, though,” Bucky’d said.
Now, he’s lying spread-eagle on the living room floor trying to breathe through nauseous prickles that are inching up his neck and making sweat break through the stubble on his upper lip. Almost immediately he starts to feel cold again, but the chill is welcome after the oppressive heat of the blankets strewn over the edge of the couch.
Leave it to Bucky to catch some death-bearing virus the moment Steve leaves town. He shakes his head, feeling his hair flop against the carpet. Then he has to press his hand over his face to stop the reverberation in his sinuses.
Bucky glances up at the clock above the TV. It’s 11:30 at night. He should try to go to bed. But he’s been on the couch, napping on and off for the last 5 or 6 hours while he waited for the headache and sniffle to either go away or get worse. He’s exhausted, but not sleepy. And with the fevered ache in his lower back, Bucky is actually slightly more comfortable on the floor’s hard surface than he was on the couch. He doubts bed will feel much better.
Back around 4:00 in the afternoon when the body aches were first starting to appear, Bucky’d pulled a bottle of ibuprofen from the kitchen drawer only to find that he couldn’t get the safety cap off. He’d tried holding it between the wall and his stump shoulder while he worked the lid with his right hand, but there’d been no success. Squeezing it between his knees and twisting with his down-pressed palm had given the same result. The whole thing would just spin and resolutely refuse to open.
The smart thing to do would’ve been to call Nat during daylight hours and solicit her for some innocent help. But he hadn’t been feeling that bad then. Just a little aura of malaise, nothing worth bothering anyone with. He’d just lie down and sleep it off. But the nap had done the opposite of helping. Now every inch of Bucky’s body throbs and he feels close to vomiting. Painkillers probably won’t even help at this point.
Bucky’s brain seems to bounce against the inside of his skull as he rolls onto his side and sits up. Orientation is slow to catch up, and the vertigo that’d been swiveling around the edges of his vision while lying down is now engulfing him in dizziness. His stomach splashes with a threat of what’s to come, and he gets to his feet but stays hunched over as he makes for the bathroom.
Bucky drops clumsily to his knees and lifts the toilet lid. His mouth fills with coppery tasting spit, and he lets it run down his lip and into the slightly bleachy-smelling water. A heave wracks his shoulders, but nothing comes up yet. Bucky breathes against a quivering clod of mucous in his throat and waits for the next assault on his stomach. He retches up a splash of something sour, then presses his sternum into the edge of the porcelain toilet as his spine arches in a dry heave.
Bucky hasn’t eaten dinner, so there isn’t a lot to bring up. It doesn’t keep his body from forcibly expelling what’s in it, though, and Bucky loses count of the retches that force his entire frame into sweaty shakiness and bring up almost nothing for the effort.
Finally he gets a chance to pause and breathe. Disorientation is coming on quickly, and Bucky feels unsteady on his knees. He’s not sure if he’s about to contract forward again or fall backward into convulsions, but he’s positive his sense of equilibrium isn’t going to last.
He ends up collapsing sideways into the wall. Bucky paws at the toilet paper roll, but it does nothing to keep him upright. Stars blink into his vision and he lets his ear rest on the smooth, hard surface. He hears his phone ringing from the living room, and the fleeting wonder of who the fuck is calling him at nearly midnight flashes for a moment. Then blur spreads through his head and Bucky can’t muster the energy to wonder at all.
He comes to, and panic floods Bucky’s veins as he hears the sound of a key scraping in the lock on the front door. Steve’s out of town. Sam’s out of town. Who else has a key to the house? Bucky uses the wall to haul himself to his feet, then launches for the bathroom door frame. He’s still unsteady enough to fall, but instinct tells him to prepare to fight.
Bucky makes it into the hallway as the front door swings open. He should launch himself at the intruder, assume a fighting stance. But the nausea’s back with a vengeance, and he’s doubled up to dry heave over the carpet when Nat steps through the door.
“Oh my god,” she says, rushing to his side.
“No,” Bucky, grunts. His voice is shot. “I’m ok. Leave me…alone.”
“Yeah, I’m totally going to do that,” Nat says sarcastically, inserting her shoulder under Bucky’s stump and getting a slender arm around him. “Do you want to get to the bathroom?”
Bucky breathes through the contraction. His stomach’s in his chest, but he’s beyond empty. “No, I’ve just been…I’m fine.”
He watches Nat turn her head down the hall to see the bathroom light blazing in the dark of the downstairs. “Oh,” She says. Then, “You’re not fine. You’re about to pass out.”
She walks Bucky to the couch and practically throws him down on top of the nest of blankets, then heads off to retrieve the bathroom trash can and flush the toilet.
“Ok,” Nat says, perching on the edge of the coffee table and dropping the trash can between Bucky’s feet. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. Just got sick, I guess,” Bucky mutters, passing his hand over his forehead and down across his eyes. “What’re you doing here?”
“You didn’t answer when I called,” Nat says simply.
“Why’d you call? It was like…midnight.”
“To remind you to go to bed,” Nat says with a dry laugh. “Steve said you’d been staying up all night watching old movies lately.”
“Huh,” Bucky says. Nice of Steve to care about him enough to set up a bedtime call. But Bucky doesn’t need to be babysat. Then he runs through the events of the past few hours and reluctantly concedes that maybe he does, though he’ll still never admit it.
“I called you four times,” Nat says.
“I, uh, only heard the first one,” Bucky admits. “I was…I couldn’t get up to answer it.”
“So you’ve already passed out once tonight. Spectacular,” Nat sighs. She reaches across to palm Bucky’s forehead. “What kind of fever are you running there?”
“Fucking disgusting one,” Bucky mumbles.
“Yeah, I’d say so,” Nat agrees, removing her hand. “I’m gonna go pillage the supplies in the master bathroom. I hope you guys hid all your sex toys.”
“We don’t…” Bucky loses the energy to retort.
“Taking your word for it,” Nat says, standing up and heading for the stairs. “And speaking of taking stuff, what meds have you had?”
“None.”
“God, I didn’t think you’d fried your brains that much.”
“I couldn’t get the bottle open,” Bucky murmurs, deciding he’d rather feel embarrassed than idiotic at the moment.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Nat says, a trace of soft sympathy invading her tone.
“Thought it was too late. Didn’t know I’d get a midnight message.”
“Hey, there’s no chivalry around me, ok?” Nat says, hardening again. “You don’t have to be nice because I’m a girl. I mean, yeah, don’t call Laura at 11:00 on a school night when her husband’s out of town, that makes sense, but I was literally playing darts with the wall right before I came over here. Nothing to interrupt.”
“Yeah. Sure,” Bucky agrees weakly. Sweat breaks out on his forehead, and the sick feeling in his abdomen is rising.
“Trash is on the floor,” Nat reminds him, then she sprints up the stairs.
She’s back quickly, and Bucky glares at her over the old-fashioned thermometer she’s shoved into his mouth. The presence of it under his tongue is making him want to gag.
“101.5,” Nat reports when Bucky’s finished cooking the glass rod. “Definitely a fever. But nothing dangerous.” She offers a couple bottles of pills next. A different container of ibuprofen, plus Excedrin and Nyquil.
Bucky goes with the plain painkiller.
“Really?” Nat asks. “Don’t wanna be knocked out?”
Last time he took Nyquil, Bucky’d been assaulted with the most bizarre nightmares of his existence. He just shakes his head weakly.
“Ok.” Nat gives him a generous dose of the small orange tablets and a glass of ginger ale.
Bucky stifles a sickly belch after downing the meds with a swallow of the carbonated beverage, but Nat pays it no mind. She flips on the TV and gives Bucky the choice of Nat Geo or classic movies.
Halfway through Creature from the Black Lagoon, Bucky starts to feel revolting again. Sweet ginger ale and the chemical-tasting coating on the pills is so present in his throat he can almost smell it. He decides he’d rather puke in a toilet than in the garbage can, so Bucky slowly rises to his feet.
Nat doesn’t say anything, so Bucky turns to glance at her before he shuffles into the bathroom. She’s curled like a cat on the seat of the La-Z-Boy, fast asleep. Bucky does his best to lift the toilet lid and retch quietly.
#mcu#marvel#captain america#steve rogers#bucky barnes#stucky#natasha romanoff#sickfic#emeto#emetophilia#powers/no powers choose-your-own-adventure
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Hildur and Pierce part 2 (OC fic)
Pierce gazes down at the coffee table to give his eyes a break from the glare of the TV. The half-finished dish of microwave mac and cheese stares back. He’s not inclined to eat any more, and he really should put it away before the cat decides it’ll make a nice dinner for her as well. But he’s even less inclined to get up from the old armchair that’s suctioning him down to the earth. Pierce considers the fork sticking up from the bowl and wonders if he could sever his head with it if he really tried.
The throb circling his right temple is edging up to severe, and the pain is beginning to ricochet down to his stomach. An isolated headache is easy to deal with. A migraine, though, not so much. It would be intelligent to turn off the TV and try to go to sleep, but the murmuring voices of Cary Grant and Grace Kelly are soothing under the screen’s obliterating brightness. At least that’s what he tells himself.
Pierce lets his eyes float closed. Has he taken Excedrin yet? He can’t remember. Jagged-edged neon yellow shapes dance on the back of his eyelids, and fog seems to be pouring into his ears, muddling his thoughts into a multi-sensory mish mosh.
The quiet sounds of the old movie taper into end credits music that lulls Pierce into semi-relaxation. Vertigo bobs gently through his body, and with his eyes shut he can almost imagine he’s standing on the bow of an ocean liner, peering into a distant sunset…
Then his phone begins to ring. Pierce scrambles to grab it from the coffee table and jam it to his ear.
“Hello?” He thoroughly expects it to be his mother.
“Um. Hi. Peabody? I mean, Professor?”
“Huh?” Definitely not his mom.
“It’s, uh, Hildur. From your painting class?”
Oh. The day’s events speed back into Pierce’s recollection and collide like train cars behind his aching forehead. The girl who’d gotten sick, left her coat. The girl he’d called. Left the weirdly romantic message. Wished he could crawl under a rock.
“Hi. Are you feeling better?” Awkward for him to ask, given the current state of his own well-being. And is he starting to slur? He hopes it’s a hallucination on his end.
“I, uh, yeah. I’m ok.”
“That’s…” Pierce’s mind is fuzzy. He knows what he wants to say; it’s on the tip of his tongue. But he doesn’t feel confident it’ll come out the way he intends. “That’s goo…se. That’s good.” Damn aphasia. Pierce takes a stabilizing breath and tries to shake it off. “I have your coach. I mean, coat…” His jaw’s starting to feel slightly unhinged.
“Are you ok?” Hildur asks, concern coming through the slightly staticky phone line.
“Yeah.” Pierce realizes he may sound drunk. “It’s a head…ace.” That’s not right. “Head…ace. Migr…ation.” His own voice sounds like he’s underwater, gargling and spitting out bubbles with each word.
“Peabody? What’s wrong?”
“I’m ff—s’a ok. Head…oh goddamnit.” Why is it he never forgets or stumbles over swear words?
“Are you having a stroke?”
Pierce exhales a strain of disconnected syllables which are supposed to mean that he’s absolutely fine, but betray pretty much the opposite.
“I’ll call an ambulance,” Hildur says with a note of fear.
“I—no. ‘S fi…se. No.”
“No? But there’s something going on. You’re not well…”
“’s fine,” Pierce manages to whisper.
“What’s your address?”
He does his best to articulate 114 Bledsoe Street apartment 4b, but Pierce is pretty sure it sounds more like a groan. Each breath is starting to edge up the throbbing in his head and push his stomach further into his throat.
“I can’t understand you. I’m going to call 911.” Hildur’s voice cracks, like she’s about to cry.
“No!” Pierce says with as much force as he can muster.
“Um. Ok. If you can text me your address in the next 5 minutes, I’ll believe you,” Hildur says. “But it sounds like you need help. I’m going to hang up, and if I don’t hear from you, I’m calling 911.”
“Osh,” Pierce sighs. It was supposed to sound more like ok.
The line goes dead against his ear, and he lets his hand and his phone fall limply into his lap. If there’s one thing he doesn’t need, it’s an ambulance ride to the ER charged to his lame-ass university-provided health insurance and billed to him. Pierce squints at the device’s over-bright screen and starts a new text. The sparkles in his vision nearly block out the conversation bubble he’s typing in, and he’s having a hard time telling the 1 from the 7. It takes what feels like an insane amount of time, and his street name is misspelled, but finally he sends the message that seems to heavily hold his fate.
The speech bubble on the small screen whizzes from the bottom to the top of the space, and watching it brings on a massive wave of nauseous dizziness. Pierce leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees and bury his face in his hands. He shoves his glasses up on top of his head, and he hears his phone tumble to the carpeted floor. It chimes as a new text message arrives, but he doesn’t make an attempt to read it. Pierce feels like he’ll float out of earth’s gravitational pull, losing his stomach contents all the way, if he so much as lifts his head.
And even sitting still, it’s not long before his mouth’s full of saliva and his jaw feels like it’s resting on the floor. He heaves himself out of the armchair and makes for the bathroom, tripping over the cat in the process. “Sorry, Mimi,” Pierce mutters, though the utterance brings on the first acidic gag. He sinks to his knees and rests his forehead on the toilet seat. The slight scent of bleach on the toilet water sends his sinuses into an explosion of pain, and he retches up a wave of undigested dinner and bitter coffee.
Pierce lurches forward to drape over the toilet as he vomits again. Pressure builds in his head, and bile burns his throat, leaving him feeling even more awful. He manages to disentangle the nose pads of his glasses from his hair and drop the lightweight frames onto the counter above his head. Pierce hears them clatter into the sink.
It takes what feels like forever for his stomach to empty. Each retch seems to take ages to build up with a fresh layer of sweat over his brow and the feeling of his entire torso trying to force itself up and out of him. Finally he begins to dry heave, which is good news for his stomach, but still bad for his head. The pain in his temple is akin to the strike of a hammer against a stubborn nail, and it continues to ripple out over his entire head and down into his body.
Someone’s knocking on the door. Pierce starts, and vertigo assaults him as he reaches up to use the towel rack to pull himself upright. He’s initially confused. It’s night. No one ever visits him.
“Peabody?!” The shout is slightly hysterical, and definitely feminine.
Then he recalls the phone call, the text message. “Coming,” Pierce grunts in a hoarse whisper. Hildur won’t be able to hear him from this distance, but it’s a small comfort that his ability to form words seems to be at least somewhat functional again.
His hand is trembling as he reaches out to open the door, and Pierce leans heavily on the polished brass knob as soon as it’s swung inward. Hildur’s standing there, panting, on the doorstep, but she looks nothing like he’s seen before. Her face is ashen, and the long hair poking out of the front of her hood is pure white.
“H…Are you ok?” Pierce asks before he has to forcefully swallow what feels like more stomach acid creeping up his throat.
“No, I, uh, it doesn’t matter,” Hildur mutters. “What happened? You’re really unwell.”
“It’s just a migraine,” Pierce sighs. He can’t hold back a gag, and he presses the thumb-side of his fist to his mouth. “Damnit. Hold on,” he manages before returning to the bathroom.
Pierce belches wetly over the toilet. A trickle of bile comes up and clings to his lower lip. He paws at the toilet paper roll and tears off a piece to wipe his mouth, then does a double take. Hildur’s followed him in, and is now sitting calmly on the mat in front of the sink.
“You don’t—you should go. I’m not, uh, I’m not sick. You’re sick, you should go home…” He’s rambling a bit.
“I’m fine,” Hildur assures him. “What do you need? I, um. Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?”
“It’s ok,” Pierce whispers through the square of toilet paper he’s loosely holding over his mouth. “I just get bad migraines sometimes. Aura, aphasia, it’s all scary stuff, but it’s, uh, it’s not serious.” He leans into the corner between the wall and the bathtub and tips his head back to see if it has any effect on the dizziness. It doesn’t. But when he looks back at Hildur, there’s a hint of color in her cheeks, and her hair is pale straw gold.
“Whoa,” Pierce breathes. “Is, um? Sorry, I might be seeing things. Is your hair a different color? Than it just was?”
Hildur looks down. “Oh.” The soft curls seem to shine and lighten before settling back to thesunkissed shade. “Um. Yes.”
“What…?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Hildur says. “It just happens. It’s, just, I don’t know. Kind of embarrassing.”
“’S fine,” Pierce murmurs. He suspends his face between his hands as a fresh wave of vertigo splashes up from his feet. “You really can go.”
“Yeah. You, um. You don’t seem like you should be alone like this.” She gestures a bit toward his huddled frame.
“I promise, I’ll be fine,” Pierce says. Though at the same time, he thinks he should creep closer to the toilet again. He reaches out and uses the toilet seat as an anchor to drag himself across the tile before the heave materializes.
Pierce’s face is hovering below the ring of the toilet when he hears Hildur say softly, “Well, maybe I want to stay.”
#Hildur and Pierce#emeto#sickfic#migraines#oc fic#ocs#emetophilia#my writing#original fiction#original characters
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