#and also I never even mentioned wanting an emt bag he just got it for me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mercurygguk · 4 years ago

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bleeding for you | jjk

genre; angst, fluff

pairing; EMT!jungkook x female reader

✎ summary; In which it’s just another quiet night at the fire station until there’s an alarmingly serious car accident not far away. Jungkook is the first on the scene along with his partner, Namjoon. What meets Jungkook at the scene of the accident is worse than anything he could ever imagine.

word count; 3,367

based on a request by anon; It's a Jungkook au, where he's a EMT & they get a call for a very serious accident. When he arrives on scene he sees a very familiar car. A hand dangles from the shattered window, the engagement ring he'd slipped on your finger not two months ago mocking him. I envision a happy ending, but if you want, do with it what you will.

warnings; Descriptions of car accidents, mentions of bruises and blood, jungkook’s crying a whole lot, i’m sorry if this is tough on your heart bc it definitely was on mine, phew

a/n; I LOVED THIS IDEA FROM ANON, SO THANK YOU ANON and let’s be honest here, paramedic/EMT!jungkook is lowkey hotttt. Also, I took some inspiration from the tv-show Chicago Fire and some from Grey’s Anatomy because those are the only shows I’ve actually watched with things related to this kind of scenario, lol. I hope you like it, enjoy!

ps. it’s heavily unedited and i wrote this rather quickly, so please ignore if you spot anything hehe

The clock ticks on the wall and there are sounds of cars passing by once in a while outside on the street. Jungkook is staring silently at the TV in the staff room, his eyes focused on the ball that moves around between the football players. He’s bored, sighing deeply to himself as he drops his head back against the back of the couch he’s currently slouching on. Namjoon, Jungkook’s partner, plops down beside him, a sandwich on a plate for him to eat for dinner. He looks happily at his sandwich, more than excited to bite into it and finally getting a chance to continue reading his book for once.

Jungkook hates quiet nights at the firestation. He despises them. It makes him think of all the other things he could be doing instead – an example being at home, in bed with you; his fiancé. A title you recently had gained after Jungkook finally got the courage to get down on one knee for you, asking you to be his for the rest of his life. Just the thought of the happiness he felt that night made butterflies erupt in his stomach, suddenly daydreaming about your smile and the way you always manage to make him feel like he’s floating on a pink cloud. He’s totally whipped, but only for you.

His daydream is quickly interrupted by the sound of Namjoon chewing his sandwich loudly, making Jungkook glare at him with disgust. Namjoon, the charming person that he is, looks back at Jungkook in confusion.

“What?” Namjoon blurts with his mouth filled with a bite of his disgusting sandwich. Jungkook shakes his head at him, turning back to the boring game that’s unfolding on the TV. He really hates quiet nights.

After half an hour and still nothing, Jungkook groans and gets up from the couch to wander around, causing Namjoon to look at him again with tired eyes. “What’s going on, Jeon?” He asks, flipping a page in his psychology novel.

“Nothing’s going on,” Jungkook grumbles, tired of just sitting around, “absolutely nothing.”

Namjoon is about to tell Jungkook to sit down and relax for once but the alarm beats him to it, sounding loudly throughout the entire fire station. “Squad 3, truck 81 and 82, ambo 65, 78 and 32 – bigger car crash on the 5th highway, multiple victims,” Taehyung from the alarm center's voice booms throughout the fire station’s rooms. Jungkook’s eyes widen and so do Namjoon’s. They’re quick to move, book, sandwich and football match long forgotten as they run to their unit. Jungkook jumps in the driver’s seat, buckling up faster than ever. His partner is fast to join him and buckling up as Jungkook speeds out of the garage at the fire station and onto the road. Jungkook’s focused, eyebrow knitted together in concentration and the urge to do what he does the best – save some lives.

The highway is chaotic once Jungkook and Namjoon arrive as the first ones at the scene, multiple cars lying around – on the hood, on the side and some crushed to the point of where it’s not even a car anymore. It looks worse than anything they have ever experienced and it’s slightly terrifying but they’re headstrong as they grab their medical bags and run off to a random car each. Squad 3 and the firetrucks pull up not long after Jungkook and Namjoon’s arrival, all of them getting out quickly and getting to work, trying to see if they can save all victims or just the majority of them.

The first car Jungkook reaches is empty, the driver of it luckily managed to get himself out before any sort of rescue arrived. He seems fine, his car almost not even scratched. “Sir, are you alright?” Jungkook asks, doing his job in making sure the man is alright before continuing to another car. The man nods, waving a hand at Jungkook.

“Please go see some of the others, I’m fine!” He almost sobs, clearly traumatized by the car accident.

Jungkook nods at that, giving him one last look all over before heading on to the next car. He looks around in his haste to get to the next one, stopping abruptly in his tracks as he spots a familiar looking car. It can’t be, he thinks to himself as he turns to look at the car properly. His chest tightens at the thought, feeling himself hastily moving closer to the car as tears begin to form in his eyes. It doesn’t occur to him until a hand dangling from the window catches his attention as he gets closer, the diamond ring confirming his worst fear.

“No, no, no!” Jungkook shouts in a mix of terror, anger and his heart breaking into a million pieces, tears already falling from his eyes as he runs up to the car, his hands trembling. Pain shoots through him at the sight of you, body limp and unconscious, face battered in bruises and wounds and there’s blood on your beautiful, white shirt and he prays to God that isn’t yours but who is he even trying to fool? Of course, it’s yours. “No, please, no!”

From the other side of the highway, Namjoon spots Jungkook scrambling towards the car that he, too, finds awfully familiar. His eyes widen at the sight as realisation hits him.

“Shit!” He hisses, making sure the victim he’s treating is okay before running towards Jungkook, heart beating a hundred miles per hour. All he can think about is getting his partner away from the car which is lying on its side. “Kook!”

Namjoon has to pull harder than he expected as he reaches Jungkook. He isn’t willing to let go of the car, hands reaching for your unconscious body that is still, thankfully, buckled up in the driver’s seat. You hear nothing of Jungkook’s cries as he’s pulled away by his partner and best friend. “____! Baby, please wake up, please!”

The sight in front of them is nothing but a real life nightmare, the scene only a fear of Jungkook’s until tonight. Namjoon has no idea how to calm his partner down as he pulls him away. His heart is breaking at the sound of Jungkook’s sobs, his chest heaving for air as he looks at the broken car, which was nicely parked in the parking lot of his and yours apartment building when he left for work this morning. He watches it being pulled apart to reach you, the EMTs of Ambo 78 tending to your wounds and body, trying their best to support you until they get you to the hospital.

They lift you into the ambulance, Jungkook’s body working automatically as he tries to jump into the back of the ambulance and ride with you to make sure that they’re taking care of you the right way. This isn’t just another victim, it’s you, Jeon Jungkook’s fiancé. Namjoon holds him back, using all his strength because a sad, terrified Jungkook is stronger than he ever could’ve imagined.

“Hyung, please, I need to go with her!” Jungkook cries, glancing quickly at the man holding him back, before looking back at the ambulance you’re now in. They close the doors, hurriedly getting in the front and speed off. “For fuck’s sake, Namjoon, let me go!”

Namjoon shakes his head, “I need you to calm down first, Kook. You’re not thinking clearly.”

Jungkook thinks that’s the biggest load of bullshit he’s ever heard. He whirls around, not in the mood for his best friend’s psychology shit. “I swear, I will punch you,” he sneers, eyes watery and cheeks stricken with tears. Namjoon stares back at him, lips in a tight line and eyes wide because he has never seen Jungkook so out of it before. “How am I supposed to calm down when my fucking fiancé is a victim of one of the biggest car crashes we’ve ever witnessed, huh? She’s hurt and unconscious in the back of one of OUR ambulances right now, Joon. Don’t fucking tell me to calm down.”

Despite his harsh words, Namjoon feels sorry for Jungkook. He nods, putting his hands up in surrender. Jungkook breathes out, chest heavy with a feeling he can’t quite describe. He just knows that he doesn’t want to waste another second here, the only place he wants to be is by your side until you wake up and tell him you’re okay.

“At least let me drive you to the hospital?” Namjoon offers, voice hesitant and cautious as he gestures to their ambulance.

Jungkook sniffs, nodding, “please.”

The ride to the hospital is quiet, tense too. Jungkook is staring straight ahead and not moving, just letting the tears in his eyes fall until he has none left. He’s pretty sure the drive to the hospital usually isn't this long. He feels like he’s been on this ride with Namjoon for hours when really, it has only been at least 15 minutes. 15 minutes too long, he thinks to himself. He could’ve been with you right now, holding your hand while you get sutured up and stitched back to perfection – at least what Jungkook thinks is perfection. However, you’d never agree on that.

Namjoon doesn’t get to say anything before Jungkook’s out of the passenger seat of the ambulance, his body moving almost before Namjoon had parked it. He doesn’t notice anything around him, heading straight for the front desk to ask about your status. The nurse there looks at him with a face that says she’s sorry without even saying the words. Jungkook doesn’t need those words, there’s nothing to be sorry for. People only say they’re sorry when something really bad happens, and as far as Jungkook knows, you’re still alive. You have to be. He hasn’t married you yet.

“My fiancé was brought here not long ago, her name is ____,” Jungkook hurriedly asks, the nurse working quickly to type into her computer. Jungkook taps his foot against the floor in impatience.

“She’s in surgery at the moment,” the nurse says softly, watching as Jungkook’s breath hitches in his throat at the news. Namjoon comes up beside him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “The doctors will find you once they’re done.”

Namjoon nods in appreciation to the nurse, Jungkook stares at nothing in particular, scared he’ll break down in the middle of the entrance of the hospital he so often visits because of his job. “We’ll wait over there,” he tells the nurse, tugging Jungkook along. “Let’s go, Kook.”

Jungkook follows along, sitting down in a seat with Namjoon beside him. He feels like he should be calling his family and yours, yet he can’t think straight and his head is empty for words right now. The only thing on his mind is you and the fact that you’re at risk of dying. He has no idea how serious your injuries are but they’re serious enough to land you on the surgery table. His breathing is short, eyes staring at the floor and ears focusing on the sound of the opening and closing of the doors to the surgery halls. He feels alone even though Namjoon is sitting right beside him, he feels helpless, he feels like he’s been left in the dark. He knows nothing about what’s happening to you and it’s driving him absolutely crazy. The thought of losing you brings a new round of tears to his eyes, lips trembling as he fights to keep his sobs inside and not break down in the middle of other people. It’s like Namjoon senses as he gets up, pulling his phone from his pocket. He moves a bit away from Jungkook, speed dialling the only person he knows will be able to comfort his best friend in the slightest.

Jungkook’s wandering the waiting area, hands tightly intertwined in front of his lips and eyes closed as he walks back and forth in front of Namjoon. It has been at least three hours and his nerves aren’t exactly becoming less the longer it takes for the surgeons to give him some kind of news – any kind would be appreciated by now. He stills as a hand comes to rest against his back, gentle touch that can only belong to one person on this planet. He turns around to face her, her eyes softening at the sight of his red eyes and wet eyelashes.

“Mom,” he croaks out, a sob raking through his body as he crumbles into her embrace.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she coos, wrapping her arms around his tall frame, hugging her sweet, heartbroken son to her chest in the hopes of comforting him just the tiniest bit. They stay like that for a few minutes until Jungkook’s mother breaks the embrace, holding him at arm's length. “I’m sure she will be fine, Jungkook. She’s a strong woman.”

He sniffles, feeling slightly better at his mother’s words. He offers a small, the tiniest, smile. She smiles softly and comfortingly at him, reaching up to wipe his tears away. “You have to be strong too, sweetheart. She needs you to be strong for her.”

Jungkook nods and whispers lowly: “I know, mom.”

“Mr. Jeon?” A voice calls. Jungkook, his mother, and Namjoon whips around to face the doctor who called Jungkook’s name. “Miss ____ is out of surgery. We were able to fix her injuries and she is up for recovery now.”

Jungkook lets out a sigh of relief, feeling a heavy weight disappearing from his shoulders. The doctor offers him a warm smile. “She will be in the ICU for at least a couple of days until we see some progress. You can go see her, she is in room 248.”

“Thank you so much,” Jungkook says with the utmost gratitude and a smile as he shakes the doctor’s hand before grabbing his things and heading in the direction of the ICU.

He finds the room without any problems, pausing just outside of the door. His mother and Namjoon both stand behind him, watching him in silence. They’re not pushing him, letting him do this on his own, letting him prepare for whatever he’s about to meet behind this door. He inhales and holds his breath before pushing the door open and heading inside. The sound of the monitor beeping is the first thing that meets him, what meets him next causes him to gasp softly in horror. This must be what it feels like to live out your nightmare and biggest fears, he thinks to himself as he moves closer to your body that’s lying unconsciously on the bed. It seems his tears are never-ending today as he pulls a seat to the side of the bed, sitting down with his eyes trained on you.

He looks you over, wincing lightly at the sight of tubes and IVs attached to you. There are scratches and wounds on your body, your skin beaten up from the harsh car crash you so unluckily ended up in earlier. He’s hesitant as he reaches for your hand, being more than careful as he intertwines his hand with yours. You don’t squeeze his hand like you always do and it makes him realize that you are in fact unconscious and probably not aware of the entire situation right now.

Jungkook scans your face, lips trembling and fingers shaking as he reaches up to move your hair out of your face. There’s scratches on your pretty face too, a big patch on the right side of your forehead where they stitched you up. He’s hurting, not quite as much as you, as he looks at you. You’re still gorgeous, even like this.

“I love you so much, ____,” Jungkook whispers, bringing your hand up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your ring-clad hand. “Please be okay.”

Days have passed since the accident, and you still haven’t opened your eyes. Jungkook is becoming impatient, sitting here and waiting is killing him slowly. His mother had left in the morning after being with him throughout the first night. Jungkook had called your family while his mother held his hand. He will never forget the way a sob raked through your mother’s body as he told her what had happened. They were here now; your mother, your father and your brother, Yoongi. Your parents sit on either side of you, Jungkook’s resting against the wall at the end of the bed, Yoongi sitting in the chair beside him. The silence is almost unbearable but no one dares speaking, afraid of nothing in particular – perhaps the chances of you crashing right in front of all of them.

Jungkook’s done crying. He doesn’t think he has any tears left in him, only this heavy feeling of regret even though he has nothing to regret. No matter what, he couldn’t have stopped this from happening. Why you were out driving that late is still a mystery to him, but he’s not sure he wants to know. He has a feeling it will tear him apart knowing the reason.

Your dad jerks up from his resting posture causing everyone to widen their eyes at him. “S-she squeezed my hand,” he almost whispers. Jungkook’s breathing quickens, eyes staring at your closed ones. He waits, anticipating the worst. Your eyes flutter, a small crease forming in your forehead as you try to adjust to the lights in the room. He sighs in relief for what feels like the hundredth time, feeling the tears coming back. Okay, he isn’t quite done yet.

“Jungkook?!” You croak out, trying to sit up. Jungkook feels his heart breaking at the tone in your voice. You sound confused, slightly shaken up and sad. He’s quick to be at your side, taking over from your father. His hand grabs yours, fingers intertwining automatically. “Kook,” you whimper, clearly not fully awake from your deep days long slumber.

“I’m here, baby” he softly calls, searching your eyes with his own, “I’m right here.”

You look at him, eyes locking and you feel yourself calm down already. Jungkook notices the unshed tears in your hazy eyes. “Where am I?” You ask, voice small.

“The hospital,” he explains, keeping his voice low and soft for you as you just woke up from a long, long nap. “You were in an accident, ____. Do you remember what happened?”

You shake your head, wincing at the movement. Your entire body is sore, hurting everywhere and you want to cry. You just want to cry and hug Jungkook tightly because that’s the only place you feel safe and happy, in his arms.

“How long?” You speak a bit louder now, still not registering your entire family standing around the two of you. You’re in your own little world, your focus only aimed at the curly-haired man in front of you. Your mom is watching you closely, letting a small tear slip down her cheek as she takes in the moment of you and Jungkook. Your father is right beside her, rubbing her arms in comfort. Yoongi is watching too, smiling to himself because he doesn’t think his younger sister could’ve found anyone more fit for her than Jeon Jungkook.

“Only a few days,” Jungkook answers, bringing your intertwined hands to his chest. His heart is beating hard and fast causing you to gasp. He smiles at you as you look up at him, eyes wide.

You move to press your other hand to his chest, resting it above his heart. “Are you okay?”

Jungkook can’t help but chuckle. Even when you’re the one hurting, you ask him if he’s okay just because his heart is beating a bit faster than it usually does. He nods, smiling softly at you, eyes twinkling with fresh tears once again.

“I’m fine,” he whispers, leaning closer to press his lips to your forehead in a lingering kiss. “Just really relieved.”

You smile at his words, only imagining how worried he must’ve been the past few days if you’ve been in this bed and unconscious. “I love you, Kook.”

Jungkook chokes out a laugh, “I love you too baby, more than anything.”

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unbridgeabledistances · 4 years ago

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hi 💜💜 i got a prompt about ian x body image a while ago (my inbox is a hot mess and i may have deleted the prompt lol, but i did paste it into my phone notes)- and i was feeling some feelings today & had some spare time amidst my travels & ended up writing this!!

prompt: can you write about ian and his relationship with his body image, esp post-canon when they move to the westside

(tw for body image/eating disorder/food mentions)

He didn’t really even think about it the first times that he did it— skipping a few meals that went unnoticed in the morning clamor of the Gallagher kitchen. He noticed his skin growing tauter and tighter around his abdomen with every passing day, a hollow absence sitting like a rock in the pit of his stomach.

He did it for a reason—he’d been getting more lingering looks under the flashing lights at the club, more unwelcome fingers pressed against the now-present ridges on his stomach, tracing his toned upper arms. The less there was of him, the more they wanted him.

The thing about Ian is that he was always disciplined; the middle child, the one who was overlooked and ignored and blended in until he decided that he had to make a name for himself. He and Lip and gotten into hair-tugging, jaw-smashing fights about this very reality; Ian was completely, totally, absolutely ordinary. Until he made himself extraordinary—until he burst through the storefront labeled “ARMY” at a strip mall with smudged windows and said with a tall chest: I want to enlist.

Everything had led up to this— every push-up on the creaking slanted floor of their childhood bedroom, every jog at the crack of dawn. He was going to make something of himself, he was going to be a hero.

He was going to get the fuck away from Mickey, and his wife, and whatever else kept pushing him down and holding him back.

When Ian came back from the army, when he was sleeping on exposed floorboards and working at the club all night—that was when it all actually started. When he decided that less of him meant more—when he decided that he should give people the best show he could, because everything else was fucked up anyways. This was all he was good for.

But then Mickey came through the door, pale skin flashing in the strobe lights, wearing that fucking dark button-up with sleeves folded to his forearms and smelling like nice cologne that he’d almost definitely stolen from one of his brothers’ bathroom shelves; and for a brief moment after the initial shock set in, Ian was proud— proud of how much negative space surrounded him, proud of how he could press his thighs into stretched golden spandex better than any of the other men thrumming to the beat beside him on the podium. Proud of how much other people wanted him, when Mickey didn't.

It was only later, after Mickey carried him home (easily, too easily) after he’d passed out in a snowbank, and Ian had woken and waited for Mickey to burst into his bedroom door at the Gallagher house while he leaned against the wall and scribbled on a notepad— later, when Mickey was about to curl on the floor and sleep using one of Liam’s balled-up t-shirts as a pillow— that Ian noticed Mickey’s eyes lingering on his uncovered torso, a second longer than the quick glances of admiration from the well-dressed men with greased-back hair and grubby fingers at the club. It hit Ian, then, when he saw Mickey’s gaze that was soft around the edges, the same fuzziness and confusion of Fiona’s stares when he would chatter on for too long in the mornings:

He’s worried about me.

But Mickey played along— Ian was back, and Mickey stayed beside him this time, and chuckled when he walked down the stairs to the sight of Ian cutting off the bottom half of his old ROTC pants, now multiple sizes too big and hanging baggy even at the hips. Mickey curled beside him on the twin bed, silently stroking hair back from his forehead and cradling his cheeks with a feather-light touch as Lip and Liam’s even, sleeping breaths swirled around them. And Ian kept doing pull-ups, and told Carl that he liked the way that Mickey smelled. Mickey came out for him. And for a while things were really, really fucking good, and Ian didn’t even think about the gnawing hollow feeling in his stomach at all any more.

Until a grey morning came, quick and silent, and kept him frozen under the sheets for days.

In the months afterwards, Ian trained harder, faster—he met up with Fiona as she pushed Liam in the stroller and jogged beside them, ran before and after shifts at the club, did push-ups on Mickey’s grimy floor while he was out handling Rub N’ Tug shit.

I’m not Monica. This wasn’t going to happen again. His body could do this. His body could fix his brain.

It couldn’t.

Most of what happened on the “road trip” with Yevgeny (that was the only phrasing that Ian could really mentally use to name the incident, the only semiotic filler for “kidnapping” that didn’t want to make him burrow even deeper under his tattered blankets) was a blur—Mickey feeding him fistfuls of pills and room-temperature Gatorade, luring Mickey to the dugouts where he tried to do a pull-up and felt a quivering in his limbs, a weakness rather than a familiar and fulfilling burn. Slamming Mickey in the face with a fist that was too flimsy, too weak—a fist that still left the blooming of a bruise on Mickey’s jawline, a splatter of blood caking into his eyebrow. But still weak, still not enough. Definitely not strong enough to fight off two MPs with loaded guns, tangling his hands behind his back and forcing him into the backseat of a car.

More blurry days— on the road with Monica. Breaking up with Mickey. Getting a job at Patsy’s. Withering away, purple bags sagging under his eyes. Becoming less, always less.

Then, a glimmer of light— he met Caleb. He studied to be an EMT. He got a call from Mandy, got to wrap her in his arms in less-than-ideal circumstances.

“I got tired of starving myself to fit in that golden thong.”

It was the first time he’d said it out loud.

He started to run again—and he started to not miss it, the hollow feeling gnawing at his insides, the twisting lack. He met Trevor, he went to brunches, he ordered mimosas and muffins and kept himself in shape, but didn’t push himself too far.

So it surprised him, really, when once again his body and mind weren’t in sync.

That was the biggest thing he’d think about, in the idle hours of he and Mickey’s prison cell, months later—that for once in his life, years after the nights at the club or the hazy early mornings at Patsy’s or in a baggy janitor uniform, he was actually doing really, really fucking good. He had a following. He was strong. Or at least he thought he was.

But something about being near Mickey pulled him out of his head and into his body, centered him— it always did. Mickey had always liked his body; Ian remembered how Mickey’s eyed at lingered that night at the dugouts, when they were two kids doing pull-ups and Mickey watched his muscles clench in the moonlight, two sets of shining eyes and bodies warm with beer leaning closer to each other in the muggy air. But Ian never felt a need to flaunt his body, or change his body, for Mickey— and in so many ways, those first days in prison were like his body was coming home. Sometimes it was hard, and fast, and filthy words whispered into each other’s skin—and sometimes it left them grasping for breath in an entirely different way, in fingertips lazily skimming over collarbones and fisted into roots of hair, of breathed “Fuck, you’re so fucking beautiful”s escaping Mickey’s parted mouth that Ian mentally stored but never brought up again, because he knew in the best case scenario Mickey would just roll his eyes and call him a “soft bitch,” and in the worst he would just flat-out deny it. But Ian felt balanced in a way he hadn't in months, with all the "Gay Jesus" bullshit pressing in. He took his meds, he did his nightly sit-ups, he counted down the days—until the hourglass was slipped out from under his fingertips and he was teleported back to the Gallagher house, back to the place where so much of this began and so much was about to end.

The hollowness, the hunger, didn’t really need to be there anymore once he was out— it was only a dull murmur. A ghost, a memory trapped in dreams of strobe lights and prying hands.

Mickey got out, and they got married—and in the moments before Ian called Mickey an “ugly motherfucker” as he let a smile crack onto his face—and he knew Mickey felt it, knew Mickey heard: I have never known anyone as beautiful as you.

And Ian’s fullness just kept blooming and compounding and radiating after the wedding; they fought, and then they didn’t, and it didn’t matter anyways because they were fucking married. Ian kept doing sit-ups before they went to bed, even though he felt like he didn’t really have to anymore. Something big had shifted; something had settled and given way, had filled in all the cracks.

So he’s surprised, when they move to the West Side, and that feeling starts to stir again; faint, fuzzy, like some sort of invasive and shapeless amoeba in the dark corners of his brain, whispering and hissing that there should be less of him. On their first morning in the new place he heads to the gym, wearing a camo t-shit that covered his torso and shoulders—and of course he ends up making a fool of himself next to some guy, some guy that he could have been, with sweaty toned abs and bronzed skin and rippling muscles. He doesn’t know why it gets to him, that small interaction—he’s so much happier now, so fucking happy he’s buzzing with it, but there’s also something churning in the faultlines of transition; that aching for hollow absence and stretched skin and interested eyes, that feeling that made him woozy and lightheaded as a kid but also sickeningly proud, like every moment of standing tall, of dancing, of staying alive was a statement, a challenge, a test of how much he could push his ability to be desired.

He immediately pushes the thought down. He doesn’t fucking need that anymore to keep his head above water; he’s stable, he’s loved, he’s fed. He’s growing organic tomatoes, and definitely developing a farmer’s tan from his days hunched over their way-too-tiny community garden plot tenderly watering and pruning the vines and brambles. He is desired. So it doesn’t make fucking sense that the hunger, the clawing in his stomach for the absence, doesn’t really stop.

“Okay Gallagher, spill.”

Ian felt his eyebrow raise instinctively at Mickey’s tone. “Huh?”

“You’ve been staring at this fancy fucking chicken thing you made for, like, twenty minutes. Stop staring at it and eat your goddamn dinner.”

He felt a twist in his gut. I don’t want to.

“M’actually not really that hungry.”

Mickey’s eyes narrowed. “The fuck’s up? You stressed about work shit?”

Ian huffed out a breath of relief. “Nah. It’s not that.” He fiddled with his fork on the plate, drawing lines into the sauce pooled under the tomato-basil chicken he’d made. It was healthy, it was good, he’d worked out today; he could stomach a couple bites of dinner if he fucking had to. He just had to work up to it. Even the smell was making his stomach twist— it had smelled good while he was cooking it, placing fresh-scented basil leaves into the simmering sauce, but now it just was too much.

Mickey’s boot nudged against his calf from under the kitchen island. “Ey. Is it a tired thing? Or a… sick thing?” His eyes darted to their kitchen cupboard, where Ian kept his meds on the bottom shelf by the water glasses. “Or, like, a food thing?”

Ian felt his fingers go slack around his fork. “A food thing?”

“Yeah, man, y’know. When you get all weird about food.”

A tightness in his chest. “What the fuck? I don’t get weird about food.”

Mickey’s eyes flickered to meet his—and Ian would have gotten more pissed off if he didn’t see the soft concern bleeding into Mickey’s gaze, how cautiously Mickey was trying to broach the topic. Ian blew out a breath. Of fucking course Mickey noticed this shit— he always did.

“Weird how?”

“I don’t know, man. You’re usually good, especially compared to when you were fucking starving yourself when we were kids. But, uh… I don’t know.” Now it was Mickey’s turn to play with his food, scraping his fork along the remnants of sauce on his plate that was nearly clean. “You got kind of weird about working out and shit in prison. And then at the house, with all the quarantine bullshit the first few weeks. Eating fuckin’ cereal all the time, then not eating at all. You’ve been normal since then, or whatever. Lookin’ healthy.” Ian felt Mickey’s gaze drag over him. “Just don’t want you getting stressed out and not eating again or whatever.”

Ian felt a muted warmth blooming in the hollow of his stomach, filling in the cracks of where the jagged feeling continued to claw. If it was anyone else laying out this fucking analysis of his habits Ian would’ve gotten defensive—or at the very least annoyed, that someone was pinning down yet another one of his behaviors, putting them under a fucking clinical microscope.

But of course, this was Mickey— and the difference with Mickey was that he cared, he cared so much that it made Ian’s body ache every time he realized it. Those words wouldn’t have come tumbling out of Mickey’s mouth if they hadn’t been building for a while, hadn’t been gnawing away at some corner of his mind over time.

Ian raised a hand over the table to clasp into Mickey’s warm palm—reaching over the empty plate, the plate of uneaten food.

“It’s, uh. A food thing.”

Mickey’s eyes met his—open, listening.

“You’re right about all the starving myself shit from forever ago. And the not eating. And the… quarantine stuff. I guess I just thought that now that things were good, it’d go away? And I feel so fucking good right now. But sometimes I just have weird days.”

Mickey huffed out a breath. “I fucking know you do, dumbass. M’just saying that I notice that shit. And we can figure it out.”

Ian felt the corner of his mouth tick upwards. “I really thought it was gonna go away. I’m a fucking adult.”

Mickey shrugged. “Sometimes shit doesn’t work like that, Gallagher.” He chugged a sip of water from his glass, apparently glad that this heavier part of the conversation was over now that he knew what was up. “It’s like what you tell me about my shit with Terry. Trauma doesn’t just magically fucking disappear.”

Trauma. He’d never really thought about it like that before—he had plenty of childhood shit to work through, between abandonment and raging mental illness; and he’d never really thought that his body image issues made the list.

But maybe they did— maybe this was another wound, one that he could learn to heal.

Mickey kicked his shin under the table. “There’s cereal and stuff in the cabinet, I got the Fruit Loops shit you like. Want me to wrap up the chicken and shove it in the fridge?”

All he could do was nod— and once again feel that warmth on his insides that Mickey was this good, that he knew how to make shit like this easier.

And he snuggled into the couch beside his husband, a bowl of soggy cereal in his hands.

#idrk what this is but i wrote it at LIGHTNING speed #can u tell that i reached the destination of my childhood home & am having lots of thoughts and feelings about body image LOL #i was like !!! i have a prompt about this #love u all xoxo #gallavich #shameless #shameless fic #gallavich fic #gallavich fanfiction #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #ian x mickey #ixm #tw eating disorder #tw food mention #tw ed #tw body image

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tomtenadia · 3 years ago

Text

A Little Braver - Chapter 12

Here we go. As promised i did not keep you waiting too long and chapter 12 has finally landed by gentle concession of Whitethorn airlines.

Be ready for angst, fluff and our Rowan in full fuss mode. I swear the man invented fussing. Also, our Iceman this time loses it. Even Fenrys is shocked by how much.

EDIt: forgot to say ATC is Air Traffic Control.

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Rowan had finished his class and went back to his office. He had given those spoiled brats a very intense training and he had taught them how a real pilot flew and was quite satisfied of his level of evilness.

He sat at his desk, grabbed his phone and noticed a text from Aelin and a smile tugged at his lips.

Not even two hours back. Crash at the airport. I guess those civilian pilots are as bad as you claim.

He laughed to start with but then terror took him. He switched on the computer and tried to find some news about Orynth. He found a newspaper and read the breaking news. There was a video taken by probably some reporters on an helicopter and he almost fell sick at the images. The article mentioned two aircrafts but he could see only one. He had a bad feeling of what could have happened. The crew zoomed in and he spotted Aelin’s engines but he could not tell apart who was on the ground. Then he saw it. The collapse. A cloud of dust and fire lifted in the sky and he hoped that none of the guys were inside.

His heart raced and pure undiluted terror as he never felt, spread through him.

Once inside Aedion had to navigate through debris and remains of the collapsed structure. The dust raised by the collapse had somehow reduced the fire and he could see around him.

“Aelin,” he called out. He walked and walked and he knew he was getting further and further from the entrance.

“Aelin… answer me, damn it.” He shouted over the silence. A few electric cables flew over him and he ducked just in time to avoid electrocution.

Then he heard it. Her PASS alarm. The one that activated when it did not sense motion for a certain amount of time. He hated that sound because it meant that one of them was in danger.

Eventually he saw her body and flames too close for comfort.

“Chief, lieutenant. I have her. Have EMTs on standby.” he shouted over the radio.

“Lieutenant, Chief, we have two water lines coming in now.”

He ran to her and fell to his knees working to clear the debris from on top of her and once free he rolled her over and noticed she was not breathing and not wearing her mask which lay abandoned at her side. His finger went to her neck and found a pulse albeit weak “She is not breathing, I need the medical team inside. Now.” He shouted over the radio with panic thick in his voice.

He gave her a few rescue breaths “please… please… don’t do this to me. Please, Aelin.”

He put his mask on her face, trying to pass some oxygen to her.

Voices broke the silence but he was too busy helping Aelin to bother to look who it was.

In a moment the rest of the team had followed inside and they were putting off the remaining fire around them, allowing the medical team to do their jobs safely.

Lysandra was on her knees in an instant. Elide was at his side and Dorian was towering over them he was the one who had taken the two women inside.

“She is not breathing and her pulse is weak.” Said Aedion, his voice cracking “Help her, please.”

Lysandra did some checks with experienced efficiency.

“I need to intubate her, Aedion remove the mask when I tell you so.”

Lysandra got ready with all her gear “now.”

With the skills of someone who had done it a million times she intubated Aelin very quickly and Elide started to press the balloon to send air in her lungs and oxygen to her body. Lysandra did a quick check and noticed her right arm bore some bad burn marks. She wrapped the wound as best as she could with temporary bandages.

“Dorian, pass me the backboard.”

Within minutes Aelin was loaded on the board and carried outside. The remaining team stopped, staring at their captain unconscious.

Rowan was following the livestream of the accident when he noticed Dorian’s holding a board with someone on and on the other side a tall blonde man: Aedion. He looked a bit better and his heart sank. His eyes recognised the body on the gurney. Her blonde hair, her long braid.

All of a sudden he forgot how to breath. He just stood there watching as the gurney that carried her was lifted into the ambulance. Aedion jumped in as well and he saw Lysandra and Elide climb in the ambulance and drive away with crazy speed and sirens wailing.

He stood slowly, as in a daze, grabbed his stuff and left. He went home, packed all his belongings and drove back to the base. As quickly as possible he filed a flight plan and not long after he was in the air. He would explain everything to the school commandant but he had to go. He had to be with her.

The flight back to Orynth seemed to last forever. He swore loudly when on approach to Orynth he was told that the airspace above the city was closed. He was furious, the airbase was so far away from the airport that it was stupid.

“Orynth main, Typhoon FF9762, I am requesting clearance for landing at the airbase, not at your stupid airport. So you let me land this plane or when I ran low on fuel I will land in the middle of the motorway and then you can deal with that.”

A moment later he got clearance for landing and when his landing gear touched down on the runaway he quickly taxied inside the hangar.

When he opened the canopy, Lorcan was there waiting for him “don’t. I don’t fucking care about the school or anything else right now.” He grabbed his bag and quickly told his engineer to perform his post flight checks. It was totally against the rules but he had no time to lose.

“Elide texted me. They took her to Orynth general. It was the closest one. She says it’s bad.”

Rowan ran out of the hangar and to his car not even bothering to change out of his jump suit, threw his stuff in the back seat and drove like a madman to the hospital. Once inside the A&E he spotted some familiar faces. Her squad was all there, waiting for an update. Rowan stopped. Then his gaze crossed Aedion’s. The man walked to him and Rowan was sure he had been crying.

“How is she? Where is she?” His voice was shaky.

“We don’t know. They took her in urgently. When I found her, she was not breathing and her oxygen tank was dead. She was unconscious when we brought her in, and with some horrible burns on her right arm.”

Rowan sat down heavily on a chair, his hands shaking visibly. They had just found each other. He could not lose her.

“I thought you were in Doranelle.” Aedion’s voice was flat and his eyes fixed on the doors where they had taken Aelin.

“Aelin sent me a text saying you guys had a call at the airport.” His hand ran nervously through his short hair “then I checked the news and there was a livestream of the accident. And I saw it. All. And when I saw you and Dorian carrying her out… I left everything and flew here with my jet. Bloody ATC almost prevented me from landing.”

“This is always the worst part.” Said Aedion sitting beside Rowan “the waiting.”

The whole group remained in silence and Rowan did the same until a doctor went to them and Aedion stood, followed by Dorian.

“I have an update on the captain. Her condition is critical. She suffered serious internal injuries from the collapse and they are being treated now. Her right arm has some severe burns and again they are now being treated to avoid infection. Her oxygen levels are still below the normal parameters. During surgery she has coded twice, but we got her back. As soon as the team is done with her we will move her to the ICU. We need to keep her under strict control. She could still develop acute respiratory syndrome. She will stay intubated and heavily sedated.” Then the doctor turned to Aedion “I will let you know when you can see her.” And with that he walked away.

“Everyone, return to the station. We are still on duty.” Aedion ordered his men. They gave him a hug and asked to keep them posted. He knew that it had been very hard for them to obey him. They all wanted to be there for her but slowly they filed out leaving him alone with Rowan.

Dorian patted his shoulder “I will stay with them at the station.” And he left with the rest of the squad.

“The scene at the airport seemed terrifying.”

“It was,” said Aedion in a flat tone “the small plane got reduced to smithereens. How the fuck that happened?”

Rowan sighed, he had an idea “possibly a mistake by ATC. They probably directed the smaller aircraft on the wrong runaway and the big plane landed and just crashed on it, then lost control, probably lost its landing gear and just slammed into the hangar bay.”

“How do you know?”

“Watching the live of the news. You could see that the bigger aircraft was on a landing trajectory from its heading. Also, it was on the runaway that Orynth airport uses for landing. The smaller craft was totally in the wrong runaway.”

“Well, it was a mess.”

“Did you manage to save anyone?”

Aedion nodded “all the people in the big aircraft. As soon as we arrived Aelin told us to keep an eye on the wings for fuel. The aircraft exploded but not before we managed to evacuate the passengers. Manon and Asterin saved two of the civilians by hiding in the cockpit.” He sighed “Aelin saved four.”

Rowan chuckled “she took two of my books one on flight theory and the one on airplanes in general.”

“That is why she knew about fuel being in the wings.”

Rowan nodded with pride “Aelin and I… we are working on things. On us. I…” he lowered his head “I care about her… a lot.”

Aedion leaned back on the chair and removed his fire jacket, remaining in his t-shirt “she can be difficult and believe me there is no one but me who knows just how much. I grew up with her. She is my cousin after all, but I always loved her like a sister. But Aelin has the bad habit of saying what she thinks and we had so many fights because of that. She can be a brat, but together with Lys they are the two most important women in my life.”

Rowan smiled briefly at Aedion’s description of Aelin. It was perfect.

“I proposed to Lys.” Confessed the blonde man.

Rowan slapped him hard on the shoulder “that is an incredible news. Congratulation, man.”

“I thought it was time. Lys and I have been together for three years and I love her.”

Rowan was about to add something when they saw the doctor approach them.

“Aedion, you can see her now.” The man stood and gestured to Rowan to follow him.

“Family only.” Said the doctor when he noticed Rowan stand.

“He is coming as well, Sorscha. And if anyone has any problems, they can take it up with me.”

The woman lifted her hands in yielding gesture “She is on the sixth floor in the ICU, room 46.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you all this friendly with doctors?”

“We visit hospitals a lot.” He added sadly.

Aedion walked to the stairs and Rowan chuckled “not you too…”

“What?”

“What’s with you guys and lifts?”

Aedion laughed “you posh boy can take the metal trap. I am walking.”

Rowan huffed and followed Aedion up the stairs. He was not letting an army guy beat him. He had pride.

Rowan pushed to keep up with Aedion and by the time they reached the sixth floor his legs were killing him, the man in front of him had kept a brutal pace, probably on purpose.

In silence they reached the room and Rowan pulled aside “you go in first, you are family.”

Aedion nodded and Rowan sat down on the chairs outside the room. Thing was… he needed time. He was scared of what he would see on the other side of the door. He was terrified. She was the one with the scary job. He was the one who knew how to fly away from danger and avoid being shot out of the sky. She, on the other hand, she would willingly face a fire to save people. Getting involved with her meant going through the hell he was living now. He fought it for as long as he could. But somehow along the way he had fallen for her pretty badly. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall.

Much later on he felt a hand on his shoulder “you can go in now.”

Rowan turned his head to the door and his heart sank. Then he stood and mustered all the courage he had to open the door and step in.

The room was silent apart from the steady beeping sounds of the machines monitoring her heartbeat and the hush sound of the ventilator pumping air in her lungs. He froze and closed the door behind him. He stared at her immobile body. With all the cables and tubes and machinery, she seemed so small in the hospital bed.

He finally took a step closer and sat down on the chair beside her.

“Hi,” his voice broken as he felt tears streak down his cheek. Gently he brushed the tip of the fingers on her right hand and noticed the heavy bandaging on the whole arm.

“You scared the shit out of me.” He whispered, his head leaning on the bed near her hand “A part of me wants to bolt because I am not sure I can take it. But the other side tells me not to. Tells me that the recklessness, you fierceness and bravery are why I am so damn crazy about you.” He stood and paced back and forth “the idea of losing you paralyses me with fear.” He took a step backward with fear gripping his heart “I can’t do this. I am so sorry. I just can’t.”

He ran out of the door but Aedion blocked him “that was quick.”

“I can’t…”

Aedion��s face morphed into pure rage and grabbed Rowan’s jump suit by the collar “oh yes you can. I told you before, posh boy. You break her heart and I break you.”

Rowan collapsed exhausted on the chair and took his head in his hands “I can’t… I can’t go through that hell a second time.”

“What to you mean?” Asked the blonde man.

Rowan looked up and met Aedion’s eyes. So much like Aelin’s. They could have easily been twins.

“The pain…” he paused “I can’t deal with that pain again. Losing Aelin would break me definitely. And at the same time I can’t leave her for the same reason. I need her in my life. She might be infuriating but at the same time I am mad about her.”

“Then you have your answer.” Said Aedion flatly.

Rowan stood and Aedion placed his body in front of him.

“I am not bolting. I need to go home, shower, clear my head and I will be back.”

“You bolt, and I will find you.”

Rowan raised his hands and walked away in silence.

He got home, dumped his bag near the bed and shed his clothes on his way to the bathroom. Opened the water and dove under the jet, the water hot to the point of being painful. He stood there. Eyes closed and head bowed. Realising that the water would not be able to wash away the shame of him almost walking out on her like a coward. Again. He was not as brave as he thought. When it came to his feelings he was a disaster. But there was deep terror in him, to a level that he never experienced not even with a missile trained on him. He had almost lost her and at the thought he struggled to breath for a moment. He leaned against the wall and allowed the tears to flow, he allowed himself to cry and let his fears go for a moment. He could not believe that in a matter of few months she had become so important that the thought of losing her would break him this much. He breathed deeply and tried to regain some focus.

Quickly, he washed himself and then walked out with a towel around his waist and padded to the bed to grab his phone. He called the commandant of the school in Doranelle and explained him what happened, why he had to leave all of a sudden and most of all why he was not going back. The man was not happy and he was going to catch hell from Lorcan as well but he did not care. He had given up too much of his life to the force. Now it was his turn to be selfish and put his life before duty.

As expected Lorcan called him not long after and he was now on his way to see his CO in nothing but jeans, a polo shirt and a black leather jacket and a pair of sunglasses. If he had to piss off Lorcan better do it properly.

He knocked once in front of his door and the grumpy tone of the man of the other side told him to enter. He saluted lazily and definitely did not miss Lorcan’s stare of disapproval at him appearing in front of his CO in civilian clothes.

“You seem to have misplaced your uniform.”

“No sir, definitely at home in my wardrobe.”

Lorcan growled his disapproval “I got an interesting call from the commandant of the school in Doranelle. He says that you resigned your post. That you have no intention of going back.”

“That is correct,” and Rowan sat down although Lorcan did not give him permission to do so.

Lorcan threw a folder on his desk “and I got a complaint from ATC saying that you breached airspace lockdown last night and threatened to land on a motorway if they didn’t let you land.”

“That was bullshit on their part. The airbase is on the opposite side of the city compared to the airport. There was no risk for me to get anywhere close to the airport. They were aware of my flight plan and my heading. It was total bullshit.”

“Well, now I have to deal with an irate traffic control supervisor and an outraged commandant at a school with which we have been cooperating for years.”

Rowan shrugged in challenge “not my problem.”

“No Whitethorn, you are the fucking problem.”

“Then suspend me, like I give a fuck.” Rowan leaned back in the chair and stared outside ignoring Lorcan’s tantrum.

“You broke aviation rules with that stunt of yours last night and before that you put your personal life before duty.”

Rowan bolted on his feet “I am so fucking tired of sacrificing my life for duty. I did it so much that when my wife died I was on the other side of the continent and I was given a couple of days of leave to go to her funeral and then was ordered to haul ass back to my post as if nothing happened and like the good obedient soldier I was, I even thanked you all for giving me two days to mourn.” He shouted, not caring if he was being disrespectful to a superior “I gave the airforce twelve years of my life, no questions asked. And all of a sudden I am not sure if I want to keep doing it.”

“Is she really worth it? Is that woman really worth giving up on your career?”

Rowan moved dangerously close and leaned on the desk with his hands “she is worth more that you cold-hearted bastard can ever imagine.”

Lorcan stood “get your arse out of my office, captain Whitethorn. You are suspended for a month.”

“Good.” Said Rowan and walked out slamming the door not bothering saluting Lorcan or add anything.

On his way out he met his squadron “what are you doing back in Orynth?” Asked Gavriel surprised.

“Getting my arse suspended for a month apparently.”

“What the fuck?” Fenrys stared at him in disbelief. That was something that he would do. He could not believe that Lorcan had just suspended Rowan. The man was a stickler for protocol and rules to a fault.

“Broke aviation rules last night by landing during an airspace lockdown. Ticked off ATC big time. And before that I left my post in Doranelle without telling anything to anyone.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Iceman?” Asked Connall.

“Aelin.” Was his answer “she was at the disaster at the airport last night. She is in bad condition. I had to come back.” He sighed “then Lorcan gave me a dressing down for putting a woman before duty and I might have pissed him off to historical levels. I would stay clear of him today.”

“And he suspended you.”

“Yes,” confirmed Rowan and the rest of the team almost noticed relief in his eyes.

“But you are coming back, right?” Rowan noticed sadness in Gavriel’s eyes. The two had been friends for a long time. And although he could not care less about Lorcan, he felt as if he was betraying his team mates.

“I don’t know… I might.” He said not convinced “A month away might do me well. I am not sure right now.”

“How’s Aelin?” Vaughan had the guts to ask the question no one could voice.

Rowan’s hands fisted “she is in bad shape. Intubated and sedated. When Aedion found her she was not breathing. She has bad burn on her right arm and plenty of other injuries. She was buried under the collapse of the hangar after she tried to save some people trapped inside.”

“Damn, the woman is badass.” Fenrys patted Rowan’s shoulder “when you go to the hospital, tell her that we are rooting for her too.”

He covered the young man’s hand with his “will do.” Then he straightened “now I better go, before Lorcan comes through and punishes all of you just for speaking with me.”

“Keep in touch, please,” added Gavriel.

Rowan winked and left and once he finally stepped outside of the perimeter of the airbase his soul felt lighter.

He reached the hospital not long after and found her room empty, her team was probably at work and he was glad he could have some time with her.

“Hi menace,” Rowan sat down and brushed a kiss on her forehead “are you enjoying your nap?” His finger gently flicked her nose and he sat back down “I got suspended for a month… I guess I broke a few rules to be with you.” His finger brushed hers emerging from the heavy bandage “and I epically ticked off a few people, but it was so worth it.” He squeezed her fingers “you are totally worth it.” He then stood and started walking around the room making adjustments. He fixed the blinds so there was some sun in the room, he tucked her properly in bed, almost afraid she could be cold. He fixed the flowers on her nightstand and made sure they had water. And finally he sat down on her bed and slowly undid her braid, brushed her hair and braided it again.

“I am sorry I left this morning, I… was overwhelmed.” He sat back down on the chair “I am not leaving. Not unless you want me to.” He grabbed her hand again but then he heard the door open and he sat straight.

“Hi,” said Lysandra and Elide in unison.

“We just dropped off some patients and we came in to see her.”

Rowan stood and with his hand he offered his spot to the two women.

“I thought you were away.” Said Lysandra, walking close to her friend and depositing a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“I was, and then I saw the disaster and I flew back and got myself suspended for it, but I don’t care.”

Lysandra was about to comment but he stopped her “I had to be here for her. I have no regrets.” His head then turned to Elide “you might want to stay clear of Lorcan for a few days. I ticked him off big time and the man might be a bit furious at the time.”

“Oh, okay,” the woman said timidly.

“I am sure that one of your smile will fix the mood of that poor old bastard.” Lysandra’s comment made him laugh.

“She just went in…” Lysandra’s voice was now a whisper and she sniffled turning her back from the other two occupants “she always does this type of crazy thing. Dorian was furious.”

A memory appeared in Rowan’s mind and his words were out before he could stop them “are they involved?”

He heard the woman chuckle “No. Dorian is in love with her and that is no secret. He was her captain when she was at west. But she always saw him as nothing but a friend. Also he is the chief and she a captain, so nothing can happen. They are really good friends, but no, nothing ever happened.”

A selfish part of him relaxed.

Lysandra’s radio went off and she groaned “come on Elide, back to work.”

Rowan waved them goodbye and went back to his chair.

***

Ten days had passed and the season had slowly turned and spring was now in full force.

Rowan was standing at the hospital window, looking outside towards the Staghorn mountains. The tops had officially lost their snow. He inhaled the fresh air and closed the window again. That room had become his new home in the past ten days. He had left only to go home and get changed and washed, but apart from that he had kept a tight vigil on her. They guys at the station had to work and he had been more than happy to keep her company. He was out of a job for the time being, anyway. He turned around and walked to the bed. Nothing had changed. She was still intubated and still unconscious. The doctor had raised concerns with regards to the damage her lungs had suffered and a neurologist had confirmed that her responses were within normal parameters and that they were expecting her to wake up soon. In the last few days they had noticed an increased cerebral activity which according to the doctors was a good sign. He sat down again beside her and went back to the book he had been reading to her. As a joke between the two of them he had started reading flight manuals, or any of any of his books about flying. He had read her other books as well and all the possible articles about their amazing rescue at the airport. Rowan had spent so much time at the hospital that all the nurses knew him and helped him every time he had a request for them to make her more comfortable. He had brought more comfortable pillows, had decorated the wall of her room with all the cards she got from the different fire stations and from west, together with the ones of the four people she save in the hangar. With his mobile he had played classical music for her and a few times he had played an opera as well and joked that they finally got that date after all. His past ten days had been dedicated to nothing else but her. He was humming away a tune from the last opera he had played, while tucking her bed sheets properly when he brushed her hand and felt it move. It was a subtle movement but he felt it. Rowan kept humming and this time the motion was much clearer.

“Aelin…” her middle finger lifted by a fraction and Rowan laughed.

“Are you giving me the middle finger even when you sleep? You are such a brat.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead “Can you hear me?” He whispered near her ear.

His gaze returned to her hand and this time he noticed her clearly trying to bend her fingers.

Rowan sat down beside her and stroked her cheek once more “Aelin… it’s me.”

A tiny flutter of her eyelashes had his heart race madly in his chest. And when her blue eyes finally set on him he gave her a big smile “it was abut time, there was no need to get into a fire and almost get yourself killed if you needed a nap.”

Aelin groaned and he noticed the middle finger in her left hand rise sightly. Rowan roared in laughter. Then she lifted the same hand and went for the tube in her mouth.

“Hold on, you are still intubated. Let me go and call the doctor.” He disappeared outside of the room and came back with her doctor a moment later. He extubated her and the procedure looked very unpleasant. Aelin coughed heavily but the doctor reassured him it was normal and then left the two alone.

Rowan grabbed a glass of water on the nightstand and helped her. He lifted her a bit and pressed the glass against her lips “drink a little.”

She drank eagerly and then collapsed back on the pillow exhausted. Rowan sat at her left side and brushed her head gently with his hand “are you in pain?”

With a small movement she shook her head. Rowan looked at the bags with liquids hanging behind her and noticed they still had plenty of stuff in them. She was hooked on painkillers and antibiotics and had a feeding tube down her nose.

“You… here.” She managed with difficulty. Although she was breathing on her own the doctor had warned him that some issues might take longer to heal. The smoke and the fuel fumes had battered her lungs pretty badly and that it was why after extubation, the doctor had placed small oxygen tubes in her nose.

“That I am.” he took her hand in his “after your text complaining about civilian pilots I had a look at the news and they were showing the inferno at the airport.” He stopped, he would never forget that horrible scene “when I saw Dorian and Aedion carrying you out I realised I could not stay there any longer. Long story short, I broke a few rules, pissed off a few people and got suspended, but I am where I am meant to be.”

“Suspended?”

Rowan nodded solemnly “Turns out that even if he has a girlfriend, Lorcan is still a cold-hearted bastard. I have no regrets.”

Aelin sighed and her breath came out ragged “squad.”

“They are all fine and they miss you. Aedion has been playing captain and he hates it and Dorian has been helping a lot as well. They are on shift now but they came and visit a lot.”

She was about to say something else but a brutal cough hit her and she was left exhausted and wheezing and he pulled her to him. It destroyed him seeing her like that.

He shifted the pillows behind her and allowed Aelin to be in a semi sit position, hoping that would make breathing much easier than lying down. He sat beside her, pulled an arm around her shoulder and dragged her closer to him “Aedion proposed to Lys.”

“Know.”

“There is no pleasing you, young lady. I assume Lys has told you.”

Aelin smiled at him and nodded.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and when he removed it he realised it was Lorcan. The man had tried to phone him all morning but he had refused every single call.

Rowan sighed heavily and Aelin looked up at him with a worried expression.

“I almost resigned.” His forehead touching hers “then I didn’t because of duty and all that shit. When they carried you out I lost it. Nothing else mattered but being here for you. Screw rules and regulations.”

She turned her head and deposited a kiss on his lips “thank you for being here.” She managed with great difficulty.

***

With spring in full swing, Orynth was covered in colours from flowers all around the city. The air smelled sweet and warm.

Aelin inhaled the fresh air and after almost a month in the hospital she felt alive again. Rowan lifted her in his arms and slowly carried her to her house. Her legs were still shaky and she was still weak. Her recovery was taking longer than expected. The doctors had put her through a respiratory therapy, but at times she still felt short of breath. Rowan dropped her off on the sofa and went to get their stuff. He had made a deal with her and he would stay with her until she was better. He still had four days before his suspension was over. He had been at her side since she woke up and the nurses had told her that even when she was still unconscious, Rowan had barely left her side.

Her mind went back to when he told her he could be very caring for the people he loved and he had showed her that over and over again.

“Here we go.” He dumped all the bags in the living room and then went to the bedroom and Aelin had a feeling he was preparing so that it was up to his standards.

“The bed is ready, your highness.”

He fussed. He fussed a lot but she realised she had started to love that side of him.

“Does it meet your standards, captain?”

He grinned “I don’t think is grandiose enough.”

“I will make sure I’ll upgrade my living standards to accommodate a posh boy like yourself. I doubt an army guy will fuss. Aedion never did.”

“They have no standards to begin with.”

Aelin threw a pillow at him but Rowan ducked in time and an instant later she was in the air and he dumped her on the bed with little ceremony.

He leaned forward and kissed her “now get changed,” he ordered and threw her her bed clothes.

“Yes, sir. At your orders sir,” she mocked him with a funny salute.

He shook his head “you civilians really have no respect for rank.”

She stood on her knees in bed and shed the top she was wearing and removed her bra as well, remaining bare.

He was busy emptying her bag that when he turned and saw her semi naked he almost tripped on the dropped top.

“My girls here feel lonely,” she palmed her breasts in a very sensual way

Rowan ignored her and passed her the pyjama top “It seems like you are doing a good job at keeping them busy.”

She slapped him with her t-shirt and got dressed again “I’d better get covered again, I don’t want to traumatise you.” She was about to add something else but a fit of coughing stopped her. Rowan was at her side in a moment and held her, knowing that it would usually leave her spent. The fits had become less frequent as she improved but the occasional one was enough to leave her breathless and this one seemed to be one of those. She grabbed his arm and squeezed it “hurts,”Aelin complained fisting her hand in his chest while concentrating on breathing. Rowan grabbed the inhaler she had been prescribed to use during an attack. She did as she had been shown by the doctors and then melted in his arms.

“Lie down.”

“Open…” she started but the coughing resumed and her hand fisted in the bed sheets this time. She grabbed the inhaler and breathed its medicines again, feeling air rushing back in her lungs. Eventually she collapsed in bed exhausted “Window…” she finally finished.

Rowan moved with speed and did as told. Aelin loved the spring air and even at the hospital she often asked him for the window to be open. It made her feel as if she could breath.

He moved her to the centre of the bed and covered with the blankets “do you feel like eating something?”

“No,” she said weakly and he knew she was not well. In the short time he had known her, Aelin had never refused a meal “Sleep,” his hand brushed her hair and she was asleep within minutes.

Once he was positive she was asleep he walked out and gently closed the door and went to the kitchen to make a phone call. Lorcan had been pestering him almost every day but Rowan had ignored him.

“The dutiful captain finally decides to phone back, or should I call you nurse Whitethorn now?”

Rowan growled and almost closed the call again, then decided to count till ten and listen what he had to say.

“Say your piece Salvaterre and let me go.”

“I want you to march back through these doors in four days.”

Rowan pinched the bridge of his nose. How could he leave her alone?

“A please from time to time doesn’t hurt.”

“Whitethorn, I don’t give a fuck if your firefighter woman made you a well mannered soldier. I am your superior and if I give you an order I expect you to answer with yes, sir. Another peep from you and you get your arse written up for insubordination and you can kiss your career goodbye.”

Rowan had to punch something, but a loud noise could wake up Aelin and he wanted to avoid that. So he just hung up the phone without giving Lorcan a reply then he grabbed a pillow and screamed into it. Once he was done he grabbed his laptop from his bag and set in motion his next plan.

TAGS:

@rowaelinismyotp

@jlinez

@swankii-art-teacher

@courtofjurdan

@whimsicallyreading

@tillyrubes10

#rowaelin #rowan x aelin #rowan whitethorn #aelin galythinius #aedion x lysandra #fanfic #Throne of Glass series

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specialagentsergio · 4 years ago

Text

all we can do is keep breathing || chapter one

summary: He’s out of prison now, but your boyfriend is very much not okay. When he isn’t reinstated, he spirals down quickly, and you don’t know how to help him out of it. (or, spencer relapses post-prison and goes to rehab)

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

category: angst (eventual happy ending)

content warnings: swearing, drug abuse & addiction, an overdose, substance use disorder, ptsd, mentions of suicide, mentions of/implied sex, references to sexual assault, description of a panic attack/ptsd episode. please read with caution; this content can be triggering.

a/n: honestly, i just wrote this for myself. but it was partially inspired by @zhuzhubii ‘s brilliant and heart wrenching fic i know what’s best for me (but i want you instead). mine takes a different turn, but theirs is amazing as well.

a/n 2: disclaimer that while i have both been a patient at a residential treatment center and currently work at one, i don’t have substance use disorder and we don’t treat it specifically at my current workplace. my experience is also all in adolescent centers rather than adult ones, so this won’t be entirely accurate.

word count: 8k

song: paralyzed by nf

fic masterlist || masterlist

Nothing’s been the same since Mexico.

You weren’t naïve. You hadn’t been expecting things to go right back to normal when he got home from prison. You were prepared for Spencer to struggle. And you were ready to do whatever it took to help him recover from this trauma.

But you had never expected that that dedication would lead you to here—sitting on the couch at 11 o’clock at night, tired but wide awake, waiting for him to return from god knows where. A few cardboard boxes filed with the last of his things are stacked neatly beside you.

Spencer’s six-year sobriety coin sits in your hand. You’d found it in the trash a few days after he got home. You had tried to talk him into keeping it—"you were drugged; it’s not your fault”—but he had refused, leading you to believe there was something he wasn’t telling you. But you hadn’t pushed him on it, as that would just be a surefire way to make him double down on keeping it to himself.

He didn’t want the coin, but you kept it, hidden from his sight, hoping he’d want it back someday.

Now, three months later, you weren’t sure that day was going to come.

He had managed to get by for six weeks. He’d been plagued by nightmares and suffered multiple panic attacks, but he’d pushed through the cravings, gone to all his mandated therapy appointments, and attended refresher courses on procedures and firearms. He did everything the bureau required to consider reinstating him.

The day of the meeting, Spencer had seemed a little nervous, but stable. He’d gotten a good night’s sleep, free of bad dreams, and he had given you a kiss goodbye that felt just like the ones he’d always given you before. Then he walked out the door, and you didn’t hear from him for the rest of the day.

You got the news from Emily. The bureau had decided not to reinstate him “at this time”. They recommended that he reapply in six months, but for now, he wouldn’t be getting his badge and gun back.

Your initial reaction had been relief. Although you had shown Spencer nothing but encouragement, you weren’t sure he would ever be ready to go back, let alone so soon. You didn’t even know why he was reapplying. He’d worked for them for over a decade and become a well-respected agent, but when he needed help, the bureau had abandoned him and refused to help him prove his innocence. You had been so furious you could barely speak when JJ told you their decision.

Spencer didn’t share your sentiment—or if he did, he didn’t want to face it. On some level, you understood. The BAU was his home before you were, and you could imagine that after the chaos of the last three months, he desperately wanted his life to just go back to normal. So even though you weren’t sure that this was the best decision for him to make—especially since he seemed to have barely thought about it at all—you’d supported him. Whatever he needed, right?

You tried calling him after talking to Emily, but he didn’t answer. It didn’t worry you too much at first—Spencer often needed space to process things on his own before talking about it. You wouldn’t be able to have a proper conversation until you were off work anyways.

It was around six when the anxiety kicked in. You’d tried calling him a few more times throughout the day to no avail. You hadn’t even gotten a text back. Then you started getting messages from his team, asking how he was doing and if he was okay. They hadn’t heard from him either.

When you’d gotten home, you had immediately looked to the chair Spencer always left his bag on. It was empty. You’d looked through all the rooms anyways, trying to ignore what your gut was telling you he was off doing.

It was a few more hours before he stumbled through the front door, his eyes glassy and footing unstable. You stood in front of him, putting your hands on his upper arms to keep him steady. When he had caught your eyes, he had started to cry.

He’d been more or less inconsolable for the rest of the night, blubbering out apologies as you guided him through the motions of getting into bed. He’d clung to you and you’d murmured reassurances against his skin and into his hair that you still loved him, that you didn’t think any less of him, that he would be okay. You had truly thought he would be at the time.

But he wasn’t okay, not at all. He quickly became stuck in a cycle of using, promising it was the last time, staying clean for a little while, then relapsing. You had pleaded with him to get help, but he’d become... aggressive when you suggested inpatient treatment.

“Don’t ever say that,” he’d snarled. “I’m not my mother.”

Then later that same night, he had crawled into bed next to you at 2 AM, curled up against your side, and begged in a trembling voice, “please don’t send me away.”

You haven’t had the courage to bring it up again until now.

Four days ago, you hit your breaking point. You’d come home from work and found him limp on the couch, barely breathing, a syringe and little glass vial next to him. You’d dialed 911 as you ran into the bedroom, yanked open your bedside table, and pulled out the auto injectable dose of Narcan you’d acquired a few weeks ago just in case. Thanks to that, Spencer was conscious again by the time the EMTs arrived. He resisted being taken to the ER, alternating between scowling at them and looking at you with pleading eyes.

But you didn’t give in. When he had checked himself out of the hospital an hour later (you had refused to do it for him), you had driven him home, but the entire time you were formulating a plan. You’d realized that you were padding his rock bottom, and you couldn’t do it anymore.

So now here you are, waiting on the couch. You hope it will work this time. About a month ago you had tried staging an intervention with his team, but as soon as he saw them, he’d walked right back out of the room and you hadn’t seen him again for nearly two days.

It’s another hour before he arrives home, and it takes his drug-fogged mind a full minute to process what he’s seeing. His voice is hoarse when he asks, “You’re leaving?”

“No,” you reply. “You are.”

Spencer sways slightly on his feet as he thinks. “You’re kicking me out,” he realizes.

You try to ignore the prick of tears in your eyes and focus on keeping your voice steady. “Yes. I am.”

His bottom lip starts to tremble. “You... you can’t do this,” he whispers.

“No, I can,” you say. You take a deep breath before you continue. “But more than that, I have to.”

For the first time in months, Spencer doesn’t try and hide his tears from you. He cries openly. His back hits the wall and he slides down it, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. It’s unbelievably hard to watch.

You stand and approach him cautiously, almost as if he’s an animal that you don’t want to spook, reaching into your back pocket and holding out a keycard. “I booked you a room for the night at that motel a few streets over, so you can... sleep it off. But after that, you’re on your own.”

He looks up at you with those big brown eyes that you love so much, but they don’t look like they used to. Now they’re bloodshot and his pupils are pinpricks. “(Y/N), please, please don’t do this,” he whimpers. “Please, this is the last time. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

You just shake your head. His words are nothing new. “Your car is already in the parking lot there with the rest of your things.”

It’s like a switch flips, his broken expression contorting into a glare. “Fine,” he practically growls. He pushes your hand away and staggers to his feet. “I don’t want that shitty motel room. I’ll just go stay with JJ. She actually cares about me.”

You expected him to lash out like this, but the words still sting. “You really think JJ’s going to let you be around her boys like this?” you ask quietly.

The anger on his face is offset some by the tears and snot still running down it.. And you know he knows that you’re right. “So this is it, huh?” he says coldly, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “Six years together, all we’ve been through. It’s just over now.”

You retreat back to the couch, placing the keycard on top of the boxes. “That’s actually up to you.”

His laugh is derisive. “You could have fooled me!”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I don’t want this to be permanent. You can stay now, or come back, on one condition.”

Spencer folds his arms over his chest defensively. “Which is?”

“You have to agree to check into a treatment center.”

The look of betrayal on his face breaks your heart. Tears spill out of your eyes before you can stop them; you swipe them away and take a deep breath to try and hold the rest of them off.

It’s a while before he speaks again, and his voice is quiet when he does. “How can you say that.” It’s not a question.

“It’s what you need, Spencer,” you answer. “You’re not coping with what happened to you. Not just prison, everything that’s happening to your mom, too—”

“Don’t talk about my mother!”

You flinch. He’s never raised his voice at you before. It’s the drugs, you try to remind yourself. It’s just the drugs, he doesn’t really mean it.

He storms forward and you scurry out of the way on instinct. He scoffs. “What, you think I’m going to hurt you?”

“You’re scaring me right now,” you admit quietly.

Spencer tries to cover up the hurt with a scowl, but you can still see it in his eyes. “You really think that little of me?”

You open your mouth to speak, then close it again. You don’t know what to say. Spencer would never hurt you, you know that without a doubt. But the Spencer you know, the man you fell in love with... he’s not the same person when he’s using. And with how high and emotional he is right now, you don’t know what to expect. “I... I don’t know anymore, Spencer,” you answer honestly.

He shrugs. “Maybe you’re right to think that. I did some awful things in there, you know.” He says it matter-of-factly, but you recognize it as a glimpse of one of the things he’s using the drugs to escape from, one of the things he won’t talk about.

He gathers up the boxes in his arms; you pretend not to notice him pocketing the keycard. You’re worried about him carrying them safely in his current state and almost reach out to steady him before recognizing from the tension in his shoulders that touching him right now will only make things worse.

He stops at the door and you hurry to open it for him. “I really believed you loved me, you know,” he whispers, the anger falling off of his face.

The words are like a blow to the stomach; it knocks the breath out of your lungs. “I do,” you choke out. “I do love you.”

Spencer doesn’t answer. He just shakes his head and walks out the door.

He doesn’t look back.

---

It’s been the longest two weeks of your life.

You haven’t heard from Spencer since the night he left. You weren’t expecting him to come around to the idea of rehab quickly, but you thought he might try and call you within a few days and try to talk his way out of the hole he’d found himself in.

He didn’t.

All you could do was wait, and hope that that night wasn’t going to end up being the last time you saw him alive. In a way, it was worse than it had been when he was in prison, because this time, you were the reason he was gone.

His team has mixed feelings on what you’ve done.

JJ is mad. She asks, “how could you?”, and, “you really think this will work?” You try to be patient with her—you know she’s so upset because she loves him. She already lost her older sister and now she’s scared of losing the man who’s practically her brother. But when she (perhaps unintentionally) insinuates that you did this because you’d just had enough of him, you snap, telling her she has no right to say that when you know she wouldn’t let him stay at her house while he’s using. She keeps her thoughts to herself after that.

Emily is sympathetic. She was there the first time he started using and had subsequently gotten her head bitten off when she tried to reach out and help him. “I know how hard it is to get through to him when he’s... like this. You just let me know if I can help at all.”

Luke is much the same. He’s had his own struggles with PTSD and understands the toll it takes on everyone, not just the one with it. He’s always happy to offer you some time with Roxy, because he’s right—things really do feel better when you’re petting her.

Rossi isn’t... indifferent, exactly. He just doesn’t seem to have much of an opinion one way or the other. You think it’s because he doesn’t know what an alternative would be. For all his experience in psychology, he’s unsure of how to help Spencer.

You don’t know Matt very well yet, but he’s kind to you, even going so far as to bring you a dish of his wife’s lasagna.

Penelope is an absolute angel with her warm hugs and baked goods. She keeps an eye on Spencer’s cell phone location for you, in the event that he ends up at a police precinct or hospital.

Out of everyone, you like talking to Tara the most. She’s so supportive and understanding. You feel like she’s the only one who truly knows what the past few months have been like for you. She just gets it, having lived with a partner with substance use disorder before. “You’re doing the best you can and that’s all that matters,” she tells you. She even goes to a Narcotics Anonymous family meeting with you.

It’s day fourteen without Spencer, and it doesn’t feel much different. It feels bleak. You go to work and run errands, but you only manage it because it’s habit.

You’re rinsing off your plate from dinner when there’s a knock on the door. Your heart leaps into your throat. You aren’t expecting anyone. You try—in vain—not to hope too hard as you go to answer it. It could just be someone dropping by on a whim, or, god forbid, a police officer with bad news.

Please, Spencer. Please let it be you.

When you look through the peephole, you’re unable to hold back a sob of relief. His eyes are fixed on the doormat so you can’t quite see his face, but you’d recognize that head of hair anywhere, even in its current unwashed and disheveled state. You take a few deep breaths before opening the door, for his sake. You crying all over him is likely the last thing he wants or needs.

He doesn’t look up when you open the door, and you realize he’s waiting for you to make the first move.

“Spencer,” you say softly.

It’s a few more moments before he responds. “I’ll do it,” he finally mutters; you can just barely hear him.

Your breath catches in your chest. “You’ll do what?” you ask.

He glances up then, a look of annoyance flashing across his face.

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” you say, voice shaky from the effort of holding back tears. “I just... I need to hear you say it.”

He sighs and looks back down, tugging on the ends of his sleeves. “I’ll... I’ll go to... to re—rehab.”

Tension you didn’t even know you were holding in your body melts away. You step to the side. “Come in,” you whisper.

He shuffles inside. When you turn back from closing the door, he’s just standing still in the middle of the room. You get a better look at him now. His clothes are rumpled and his hair is an absolute mess, tangled and dirty. It doesn’t look like he’s had a shower or shave for at least a week—you figure he’s probably been sleeping in his car. His face is pale and his hands are trembling; as you move closer, you can see a light sheen of sweat on his face, leading you to believe that he’s currently sober and starting to experience withdrawal symptoms.

You touch his arm gently and he makes a distressed whining sound. You guide him to sit on the couch. When you sit next to him, he looks at you with teary eyes. You open your arms in an invitation and he collapses into you, bursting into tears. “’m sorry,” he stutters out between sobs. “I—I didn’ mean it. I... ‘m so s—sorry, (Y/N).”

You cry too, holding him tight against you. “I know, baby,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I know.”

---

Spencer’s mostly nonverbal for his intake process. Whether it’s by choice or not is something you’re unsure of. In a private room a few hallways away from the main ward, you’re introduced to the admissions supervisor, Susan, whose voice you recognize from the phone calls you’d made to get him into one of the beds here. You also meet Spencer’s new therapist, Lara. She has a kind face and seems to have a good sense of humor. You just hope Spencer will like her.

You’re both given paperwork to read through and sign, as he’s on your health insurance now. Naturally, he’s done with them before you’ve finished the first page. Susan is taken aback. “Oh. Um, sir, we do need you to actually read this paperwork,” she says.

Spencer folds his arms and stares down at the carpet. “I did.”

“He, uh, he can speed read,” you explain. She still looks skeptical, so you add, “I’m serious. He reread War and Peace on the drive here.”

He doesn’t talk again until everything’s in order and you’re given five minutes alone to say goodbye. “I don’t want to do this,” he whispers.

“Is it okay if I touch you?” you ask. When he nods, you pull at his arms gently until they relax and fall open, then take one of his hands and squeeze it. “I don’t want to, either. I’m so tired of being away from you. But...” You take a deep breath. “But I also don’t want to bury you. You know this is what you need, right?”

He shrugs, refusing to meet your eyes. You can’t quite tell what that means—whether he agrees but wishes that wasn’t the case, or if he’s only doing this to appease you. You hope it’s the former. While it’s a possibility that this might not work either way, you feel like that’s more likely to happen if he isn’t doing this for himself as well, if he doesn’t want to get better.

But it’s out of your hands now. All you can do is trust in the people here to take care of him and that they want what’s best for him.

You put your hand on his cheek and turn his head towards you, trying to get him to look at you. His words from that night run through your head—I really believed you loved me. When he glances up, you seize the moment.

“I love you, Spencer. So much. If there’s just one thing you can trust in right now, please let it be that,” you plead.

He sniffles and you think you see a nod from him, but you can’t be sure. And it hurts a bit—you’re not used to him not saying “I love you” back. You can’t dwell on that now, though. You’ve only got a few minutes left before you have to leave him.

You stand, pulling him up with you. “Can I hu—” you start, but you’re cut off by him lunging forward and clinging to you. You comfort him as best as you can, running one hand up and down his back and using the other to cradle the back of his head as he cries into your neck, muttering incomprehensible words against your skin.

When the door opens, his entire body tenses against you. “Spencer,” you say gently, trying to stop your voice from wavering too much. “You have to let go now.”

He doesn’t budge. If anything, he holds onto you tighter. “Baby—“ you start.

“No,” he says suddenly, his voice louder than you’ve heard it in days. “No, I can’t—I won’t—”

Before you know it, he’s twisted around to stand behind you. You open and close your mouth a few times, startled and unsure what to say. “Spencer, what—what’s wrong?”

“No,” he repeats, shaking his head. “I can’t do it again. I—I won’t.” Then he starts to rub at one of his eyes in the way you’ve seen so many times since he came home from prison and it hits you—he feels like he’s getting locked up again.

A glance at the door shows expressions of sympathy on Susan and Lara’s faces. What with the “war on drugs” sending addicts to prison, this probably isn’t the first time they’ve seen a reaction like this.

You doubt any of their previous patients were framed for murder and had their mother kidnapped by a vengeful psychopath, though.

Spencer’s entire body is trembling when you look back at him, and it’s not from the lingering withdrawal symptoms. It’s heartbreaking, but it only affirms your belief that he needs to be here. It’s clear that he can’t tolerate what he feels and what he knows without turning to self-destructive coping mechanisms.

“Take me home,” he whimpers. “Take me home, please. I want to go home.”

You swallow hard. “I can’t.”

“But they’re gonna hurt me,” he cries. “They’re gonna hurt me because I hurt them; don’t you care if I get hurt?”

You think you know what he’s talking about. You don’t know the details—Spencer wouldn’t let Emily or JJ tell you—but you do know he was hurt in prison by the other inmates. You had seen the bruises yourself. And then you’d heard that some of the inmates were poisoned. He’s a graduate chemist—you’d put it together. You don’t know why he did it, but you assume that he hadn’t had much of a choice.

“They’re not here, Spencer.” You try to stop him from scratching so hard at his eyes, but he flinches at your touch. “They’re not here; they can’t hurt you anymore,” you repeat instead.

Lara comes up to your side. “Let us take care of him, okay?”

Oh, but you don’t want to. Spencer’s so upset and you can’t bear the thought of leaving him like this, not when all you want to do is hold him and never let go. It’s what you’ve wanted since the moment he stepped out of Millburn. But isn’t this the whole point of bringing him here? You can’t help him on your own. You have to let him go.

When Lara coaxes you to take a step back, Spencer makes the most awful, wounded noise. “Don’t leave me, please,” he begs. “Don’t leave me again.”

You press the back of your hand to your mouth to hold back a sob. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” you manage to say. “And I’ll visit you as soon as I can.”

“No, it’s not o—okay,” he protests, his voice breaking. “It’s not—I—” He presses his hands into his eyes and backs up until he’s in the corner. He drops to the floor and curls up, hugging his knees to his chest and burying his face in them.

Susan is able to get you to take a few more steps back; Lara takes a step forward, in Spencer’s direction.

“Um, don’t—don’t touch him,” you stutter out, desperate to help somehow. “It’ll—it’ll just make it worse.”

“I won’t,” she assures you. And she doesn’t—instead she sits on the floor several feet away from him; not close enough to be threatening but not far enough that he’d be completely unaware of her presence. It makes you feel a little better, because that’s what you do for him at home.

You let Susan guide you out of the room and to the entrance. “He’ll be okay,” she tells you as you walk. “This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and Lara’s fantastic. It’s actually a good opportunity to start building therapeutic rapport.”

You just nod as she talks, not quite listening to what she’s saying. You just keep thinking of his face when you took a step away from him, and how small his voice sounded. It’s a storm of emotions inside of you, but among them is... relief. You don’t have to worry about keeping him safe anymore.

Leaving him in that room, terrified, surrounded by people he doesn’t know, is one of the hardest things you’ve ever done. You just hope it will be worth it.

---

It’s Spencer’s thirty-sixth birthday. You have the day off, but the alarm still sounds early in the morning. You rub your eyes and stretch, trying to shake off the sleepiness. You were up late last night, looking through the entire apartment just one more time for anything you could have missed.

It’s something you’ve done half a dozen times since he was admitted. You haven’t found any needles or Dilaudid since the first time, but you keep doing it anyways. For some reason, when you were feeling anxious about... well, everything, it would calm you down.

You can’t stop yourself from checking once more before you leave to pick him up—though not as thoroughly since you don’t have the time. You just check his hiding places—the desk drawer with the false bottom, the pair of socks he hates that stay in the back of his sock drawer, the gun safe (he’d told you the code years ago just in case and hasn’t changed it since, more worried about you being in danger and needing it than you finding things he doesn’t want you to), and the two hollowed out books at the back of two different bookshelves.

You want to believe that even if there were anything there, he wouldn’t go looking for it anymore, but you aren’t there yet. He’s been in treatment just shy of six weeks, and it’s been up and down. Two steps forward has always seemed to be accompanied by one step back.

While he usually thrived on routine, the enforced structure of the treatment facility would remind him of Millburn multiple times a day. It took the better part of two weeks for him to adjust to it. The first time you visited him, he had curled up in your arms and cried about it, saying that he was barely sleeping because he didn’t feel safe and that he just wanted to go home.

It didn’t help that he didn’t get along with his roommate. Spencer found him to be too loud, complaining to you multiple times that he always wanted to talk during quiet time. Apparently he was also working on his GED, and would constantly ask him for answers to his homework. “I wouldn’t mind helping him, but he just wants me to give him the answers instead,” he’d told you. So Spencer had just tried to ignore him.

But his patience had finally snapped a few weeks ago when his roommate drank both his own and Spencer’s shampoo in a suicide attempt, because he’d “read somewhere that shampoo was toxic.” Spencer had yelled at him, calling him a “fucking idiot”, among other things (they were promptly separated). His roommate was fine in the end—he just threw up a lot. But he was permanently moved to a different room, to both you and Spencer’s relief.

Spencer had a meltdown the next night, though, when it was time to shower. He had been given replacement shampoo from the treatment center’s supplies, but he didn’t like the smell and couldn’t stand the texture, so he’d refused to take a shower. That then resulted in him losing points for not following the structure. (Points were given for good behavior and meeting goals, and were mainly how privileges were earned.)

Naturally, Spencer had protested that this wasn’t fair, that it wasn’t his fault that he didn’t have shampoo that he could use. He’d been told that these were the rules, and he wouldn’t be given an exception. In response, Spencer had thrown the shampoo across the room, thrown himself onto his bed, buried his head under his pillow, and refused to talk to anyone.

But that night ended up marking a turn for the better in his treatment. He hadn’t responded when shift change happened and one of the night staff, Matt, checked in on him—in fact, he hadn’t moved at all. When he’d said, “tell me if there’s anything I can do to help you feel better”, Spencer had had no intention of taking him up on it.

A couple of hours later, though, when everything was quiet and he couldn’t sleep because he felt sticky and dirty from not showering, he wandered out into the commons area, holding his favorite blanket from home around himself. When asked what he needed, he’d shrugged, because he didn’t know what he needed, besides his old shampoo, and there wasn’t much to be done about that at midnight.

“I heard you had a rough time this evening,” Matt had said.

Spencer nodded absently, looking at everything but the two of them sitting on the couches.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head.

“Okay,” Matt had replied. “Well, you can sit out here with us for a little while if you want. How’s ten minutes sound?”

Spencer had shrugged again, but sat down on the corner of the couch, pulling his legs up against his chest. He pressed his nose into the fabric of the blanket and breathed in deeply. He’d held off on washing it since got here because it smelled like you. It was comforting, and he felt himself relax some. Then, without thinking about it consciously, he opened his mouth... and talked.

He started with the shampoo incident. His voice had raised an octave and hot tears stung his eyes as he talked about how much he hated the replacement shampoo and how he felt that he was being treated unfairly by people who didn’t understand why it bothered him so much. And then he had just... kept going. He didn’t talk about specifics—he said he was framed and wrongly incarcerated, then went straight to everything that had happened since he got home. He talked about losing his job and his first relapse because of that. He talked about how he couldn’t seem to stop going back. He talked about your ultimatum and his two weeks living out of his car.

When he finally stopped, he was breathing heavily and exhausted, but he felt... lighter. It was like the dam burst. The next morning, he started talking, really talking, to his therapist. When you came by that evening to bring him new shampoo, he’d told you all about what had happened, sparing no detail. To say it shocked you was an understatement—he hadn’t been so open with you since Mexico.

The two weeks since had gone well. There were a few bumps, but otherwise he was improving, and he’d been able to earn a day visit for his birthday.

Spencer looks... good when you see him. He’s fully dressed, wearing the cardigan he knows you like the best, and it no longer looks baggy on him. He’d come back from prison a little underweight, and it had only gotten worse since. But he’s been steadily gaining it back here thanks to sobriety and regular meals. He’s got his satchel across his shoulder but he isn’t clinging to it protectively and the way he rocks up on the balls of his feet appears to be excited rather than nervous. It looks like he may have even run a brush through his hair for once.

Then he sees you, and the smile that spreads across his face... he looks like himself again. Your smile back is so big that it probably looks goofy, but you don’t care.

He hugs you as soon as you’re close enough. It’s tight, but he’s not clinging to you like you’ve grown accustomed to over the past six weeks, which you think can only be a good thing—he’s not feeling insecure or unsafe anymore.

“Happy birthday,” you say. “You look really nice.”

“Really?” he asks. “Because I got up a little early to get ready, but I didn’t shave since I’d have to check out my razor and that’s a hassle, and if you don’t like it, that’s fine. I’m not really sure myself—”

“Spencer, I don’t mind the facial hair at all,” you interrupt. “You look great. I mean it.”

He glances away shyly, his cheeks turning a little pink. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

You both sign the checkout paperwork and head out. Spencer insists on holding your hand the entire time. When you get to the car and start to let go, he tightens his grip instead and pulls you closer to him. “(Y/N).”

“Yes?”

He hesitates just slightly before placing his other hand on your cheek. “Can I kiss you?” he asks softly.

You blink, realizing that it’s been a long while since you’ve kissed. And just like that, you’re aching for his lips on yours. “Please do.”

Spencer lets your hand go then. Cradling your head in both of his hands now, he leans in and kisses you so gently. You soak it in, feeling warm inside as something you didn’t realize you were missing returns to you. When he pulls back, he looks more at peace than you’ve seen him in months.

You just look at each other for a bit. Eventually, you place a kiss on his cheek and say, “We should go before we get in trouble for loitering.”

He wants to hold your hand whenever he can on the drive home, and you let him. He tells you how his week has been going—someone in his group therapy is graduating the program in a few days, and they’ve started a new project in art therapy. You knew about the art project already, since he’d spent half of his phone time on Monday telling you how much he didn’t want to make a pottery project because he can’t stand how the clay feels on his hands when it dries. But you’ve always loved to listen to him talk, so you don’t remind him of this.

As you’re getting off the freeway fifteen minutes later, you tap the back of his hand twice to signal that you have something to say. He pauses in his infodump about the history of pottery so you can speak. “I’ve got a few presents for you at home, but I was thinking we could go to the bookstore and you can pick out some more things?”

He makes a happy humming noise. “That sounds great! There’s something I want to read up on.”

He veers off to the nonfiction section when you enter his favorite bookstore; you idly browse your favorite section as you wait. When he returns to your side, he’s holding a stack of five books, all on the same subject.

“Horses,” you say.

He nods enthusiastically, his hair bouncing. “I’m starting an equine therapy program next week.”

“Oh, that’s cool. I hope it goes well.” You don’t know much about horse therapy—seems like that’s going to be what you read about on your phone in bed tonight while you wait for sleep to come.

Spencer’s quiet on the car ride home, content to flip through his new books. He doesn’t notice when you park the car; you have to touch his arm to get his attention.

“What?” he asks without taking his eyes off of the full color spread of a mustang in his lap.

“We’re home,” you point out. With how many times he’s told you he wants to go home in the past weeks, you expect him to be excited, but he’s not. He tenses when he looks up and sees the building in front of you. “What’s wrong, Spencer?”

“Um...” He fiddles with the book’s dust jacket. “There’s... there’s not a surprise party waiting for me inside, is there?”

“Oh. No, there’s not. Just a few balloons and little banner. You, uh...” you wince a little as something occurs to you. “You weren’t wanting one, were you?”

“Absolutely not,” he immediately replies.

You chuckle a little at his certainty. “Well, good. Because I had a hell of a time convincing Penelope not to throw you a birthday party, and I don’t know if she’d ever forgive me if it turned out I was wrong and you did, in fact, want a party.”

That gets a small laugh out of him; your heart leaps at the sound. It’s been far too long since you’ve heard that.

He seems a little apprehensive as you unlock the front door, and when he walks in, he stays standing on the living room rug for a while, his eyes traveling from one side of the room to another, looking over everything. “It looks the same,” he says eventually.

“Were you expecting it not to be?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” he answers, running his fingers across one of the seams of his satchel. “It’s not that I thought you would change anything, it’s more like... I feel so much different than I did the last time I was here that it’s kind of strange to see that everything’s just like I remember it.”

You’re reminded of the last time he was standing still in the living room like this, stick-thin, dirty, and trembling from withdrawals. “Different in a good way, I hope,” you say, nervously fussing with the pile of presents on the coffee table.

He gives you a small smile. “Yes, in a good way,” he affirms softly. He notices the presents and scrunches his eyebrows. “I thought you said you only had a few presents here.”

“Most of these are from the team,” you explain. “Emily brought them by last night. They had to fly out this morning, but she wanted you to have them on your birthday.”

“Oh.” He raises his hand and it looks like he might rub at his eye but he presses his knuckles to his mouth instead. You can’t really tell what’s going on in his mind. You figure his feelings towards his team are complicated. On the one hand, they got him out of the prison, and he’s known some of them for over a decade. On the other, he wasn’t allowed to rejoin the BAU and the whole experience had made him feel humiliated. You think he wants to see them, but he also doesn’t; he’s stuck in the middle and can’t decide.

Either way, it doesn’t matter today. It’s his birthday and you want him to have a good one, so you redirect his attention. You sit on the couch and pat the spot next to you. “Will you show me your new books?”

The corners of his mouth turn up and he pads across the floor towards you. “Yeah. So, here’s what I’ve learned so far....”

The day continues in much the same fashion—quiet and laidback as you simply enjoy each other’s company. Once he shows you all of the books, you move on to the TV, catching up on the episodes of Doctor Who you’ve both missed (you didn’t want to watch it without him). You order his favorite takeout for dinner, after which you bring out his dessert—half a dozen chocolate frosting and sprinkles donuts arranged in a circle around two candles displaying 36.

“You know, it’s not really sanitary to blow all over food before sharing it,” he says.

You roll your eyes fondly. “We go over this every year. We kiss; I’m not worried about your mouth germs.”

“But it’s not just my “mouth germs”,” he corrects, making air quotes with his fingers. “It involves the entire respiratory track, so—”

“Spencer, as always, it’s a risk I’m willing to take,” you interrupt. You’ve heard this explanation before. “Now make a wish.”

He takes a moment to ponder it, then blows the candles out. You put the plate down and hand him a napkin. “We’re not going to be able to eat all of these before I have to go back,” he says, but the way he bites eagerly into the first one nearly makes you question that.

He gets through two; you only eat one, mostly full from dinner. He wants to go lay down on the bed after, “so we have more room to cuddle”. And cuddle he does, pressing as much of his body to yours as he can. One of your hands settles in his hair automatically. “Did you have a good day?” you ask, running your fingers through it.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Obviously this situation is not ideal,” you start carefully. “But I’m just so happy that you’re still... well, around for your birthday.”

Spencer turns his head into the fabric of your shirt and breathes in deeply. “Me, too,” he says quietly on the exhale.

You lay together in silence for a while, and you savor the feeling of having him in bed next to you again. Sleeping alone wasn’t anything new in your relationship, as his job took him around the country. You’d gotten used to it for the most part, but every night he wasn’t with you because he was in prison was just plain awful. After, you had him back for six weeks, then it became sporadic again as he started using. It’s been so much easier to sleep since he went into treatment, but you still miss sharing the bed with him terribly.

You look at your phone briefly to check the time. “We’ve got about three hours until we have to start heading back. I’m happy to stay like this, but we still have time to do something else if you want to.”

All he says verbally is, “okay”, but the way he squirms against you tells you that he does have something on his mind.

“Just let me know if you do,” you say gently; you don’t want him to feel pressured into speaking. Plus you’re content to lay here playing with his hair and listening to his breathing.

“Well, there is something,” he admits after a few minutes.

He doesn’t continue, so you say, “Okay. What is it?”

He sighs and sits up. “It’s... it’s nothing bad, or—or even that big of a deal, really. At least, it shouldn’t be.”

You push yourself up into a sitting position next to him. “Well, why don’t you tell me so I can help?” you ask. “I can tell that it’s bothering you.”

“That’s exactly the point. It shouldn’t be bothering me,” Spencer complains. “Because I really want to do it. It’s just...”

You put your hand on his back and run it up and down to try and comfort him. You don’t say anything; you just give him time to get the words out.

He takes a deep breath. “I want to have sex,” he says. “I really do, I’m just... not entirely sure I’m... ready yet.”

“Oh.”

It’s not where you expected the conversation to go, because it’s something that hasn’t really been in your life at all since Mexico. He’d... taken care of you a few times during those first six weeks, but hadn’t let you return the favor. Each time he had scurried off to the bathroom and run a cold shower before you could even touch the waistband of his pants. Then on the night he came back to you, you had been helping him undress since his hands were trembling so much. When you unbuttoned his pants, he had breathed in sharply and frantically pushed your hands away.

Clearly something had happened to him, but he’d never even alluded to anything of the sort. And that was okay—you didn’t need to know. You just wished you knew how to help.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s stupid,” he says, running his hands down his face.

“Oh, baby, no,” you soothe. “It’s not stupid at all.”

He just shakes his head. “You deserve more than this.”

“I don’t know about that. But,” you continue, pushing his hair back so you can see his face better, “I do know what I want, and what I want is you.”

Spencer chews on his bottom lip, doubt clouding his eyes. “Look at me,” you implore. He meets your gaze hesitantly and you take his face in your hands.

“I love you, Spencer Reid. And nothing is going to change that.”

His eyes grow wet. He sniffles once, then lunges forward, capturing your lips with his own. You kiss him back just as passionately, holding onto him as tight as he is to you. It may have been a long time since you kissed at all until this morning, but it’s been even longer since he’s kissed you like this.

“Love you, too, (Y/N),” he mumbles against your lips when he pulls back to take a breath.

You press your forehead to his with a happy sigh. But he’s only content to stay like that for a few moments. He bumps your nose with his and tugs slightly on your shirt, requesting permission to kiss you again. You’d love to do that, and you’d love to do more than that, too, but you don’t want him to rush into something he’s not truly ready for.

“You know what we could do?” you ask, running your hand through the curls on the back of his neck.

Spencer’s eyes keep flicking between yours and your lips. “What?”

“A good old-fashioned high school make out,” you say, smiling at him softly. “And I’ll keep my hands above your waist.”

When he visibly relaxes, you know it’s the right decision. “I’d like that,” he says quietly. “I mean, I never kissed anyone when I was in high school, but I get the idea.”

The shy look he gives you before climbing onto your lap reminds you so much of how he was when you first started dating. He’s still there, your Spencer, the Spencer you fell in love with. You never truly thought he was gone, but there were plenty of moments of doubt, moments when you wondered if he’d ever be able to pull himself out of the wreckage, out of the grip of trauma. As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t do it for him.

As it turns out, he could. He can.

It’s far from over. He still has a long way to go. You both do. But for the first time since the day he came home from prison, a return to normal seems possible.

It won’t be the same as it was before. He’s always going to be a little different. But... that doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing.

He kisses you, and it feels like it used to, full of respect, adoration, trust, and love. It feels like Spencer.

Despite everything, it’s still him.

---------------

tell me what you thought here!

if you made it this far, thank you so much for reading. this was very much a personal work but i decided to share it anyways because why the hell not, i'm proud of it. the next chapter will explore horse therapy, a treatment i did and loved, among other things.

i'd like to encourage you please seek this kind of help if you think need it. i see how it changes lives every day at work and it changed my own as well. there's no shame in getting the treatment you need, whatever that may be. recovery is worth it.

if you’re interested in learning more about trauma and the treatment of it, i cannot recommend the book The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk, M.D., enough. it was my favorite book i read last year and i referred back to it several times while writing this.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds self insert #spencer reid #angst #my fic #the shampoo incident is something that actually happened on one of my shifts last august #and yet that's not the craziest thing that's happened while i've been at work lol #don't drink shampoo kids #tw substances #tw suicide

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scuttling · 3 years ago

Text

While You Were Sleeping (Okay, in a Coma)

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Derek Morgan & Latina Original Female Character Aaron Hotchner/Latina Original Female Character Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid Word Count: 2,058 Chapters: 1 of ? WIP Tags: SFW so far, Sophie is not in the BAU, While You Were Sleeping (film) AU, Coffee shop, Unrequited love, Canon-typical violence, Slow burn

Summary: What happens when Derek Morgan, the man Sophie Cortes is secretly in love with, goes into a coma, and everyone around them mistakes her for his girlfriend? As if things weren't complicated enough, his boss is sweet, kind, incredibly handsome, and makes sure she's taken care of while Derek is in the hospital. Plus, she thinks one of Derek's coworkers is more secretly in love with him than she is. Feelings shift, but how does Sophie explain to the world that she fell for Aaron while Derek was sleeping, without hurting everyone she's come to care about?

Read on AO3 or read more below! The morning that changes Sophie Cortes’s life forever begins much like any other: she wakes up at 3 AM to her blaring alarm, slides out of bed with a groan, tugs off the oversized t-shirt she slept in and pulls on a sports bra and leggings to go for a run. She knows this makes her sound like a lunatic, but with her schedule, if she doesn’t exercise before the crack of dawn, it just doesn’t happen.

After her run, she goes home to shower and change, grabs her bag and drives to The Busy Bean, the coffee shop she co-owns with her best friend Jocelyn. Jocelyn is the brains of the operation, the one with all the great marketing ideas, the one who handles the finances and vendors and supply issues and makes sure everything is Fair Trade or else—Sophie bakes cookies and makes macchiatos, but everyone’s got their strong suits.

She loves the coffee shop more than anything, its bright brick walls and dark wood floors, the smell of fresh beans and sugar, the bustle of regular customers they get from being so near Quantico; most of them are serious suit types, always in a hurry, but some of them are sweet, take their time to say good morning, like Sophie’s favorite customer, Derek.

She knows Derek is a fed of some sort, even though he’s not usually in a suit. He has that air about him, like he’s powerful and capable, like he’s seen things, but he never fails to flash her a megawatt smile, to lean against the counter while she makes his mocha and ask her how her morning is going. She’s a little bit in love with him.

Jocelyn knows this, and always makes sure Sophie is the one to wait on him; when she calls Sophie out from the kitchen specifically because Derek’s there, she knows he knows, and she flushes, but he says she makes his drink better than anyone, always asks her for a cookie recommendation on Fridays so he can take a box to the office, so she thinks it might not be completely one sided. Maybe. Or he’s just a really, really sweet guy.

On the morning that changes her life forever, he’s still very sweet, but she also sees a side of him she’s never seen before.

Someone tries to rob them. The man walks right up to the counter, no mask, no nothing, and tells her to put all of the money from the register into a cookie box or he’ll pull out the gun he’s got in his pocket and blow her face off. Her first instinct is to be pissed about this, which she knows is really stupid. She takes a step back, looks at the guy like he’s an idiot, crosses her arms.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Do you know how hard we work for this money? We don’t sit around… playing video games in our mom’s basement, like you do, by the looks of it.” The guy is obviously not happy about this, slams his hands down on the counter, and Derek, who is two spots behind him, leans slightly out of line to get her attention.

“Sophie, is this guy bothering you?” Before she can answer, the guy turns to look at Derek; he takes one glance at his hot, strong physique, and then his gun and his badge thing, and books it out of the shop. Derek tears off after him, and Sophie can see this ending very badly, so she grabs Jocelyn, asks her to cover the register and tells her she’ll be right back.

She jogs outside, expecting to see Derek manhandling the dumbass robber, or at least still chasing after him; she does not expect to see Derek laying on the ground, bleeding out, a bullet wound in his stomach.

“Oh my god, Derek!” She skids to a halt next to him, pulls off her apron—it’s mostly clean, she thinks—and lifts up his shirt, presses it to the wound to stop the bleeding. “Are you okay? That’s dumb, you’re not okay, but can you hear me? Are you going to die?” He chuckles, and that makes her feel a little better, but then he coughs up blood, and that makes her feel much, much worse.

She pulls her phone out of her back pocket, calls 911, and just stays with him, talks to him about nothing and everything, until the police and paramedics arrive. At that point, he has passed out, looks drained and weak, so unlike the Derek she has come to know… and love. Fuck. If he dies because of something that happened at her shop…

“Excuse me, miss, but we need to get him on the stretcher,” an EMT says, putting his hand gently on her shoulder. She backs off, knows he needs to be attended to, but she can’t leave him, she just can’t.

“Can I ride to the hospital with him? Please,” she asks the other tech, and she glances at her partner, who nods. Sophie sighs a breath of relief, sends a text to Jocelyn explaining what happened and that she’ll need to be out of the shop for the foreseeable future.

She notices that Derek’s phone has fallen off of his belt, and she picks it up, since the paramedics don’t seem interested. She absently decides to look through his recent contacts, to see if there’s someone she should inform of the accident: the last number he dialed belongs to someone named Hotch, and she vaguely remembers him mentioning the name before. It might be his boss, or something? He dials the number frequently, anyway, so she figures it’s worth a shot.

“Hotchner,” the man answers after two rings, and Sophie sighs, glad she got through to someone. Even if he’s not the person she should be contacting, he might know how to reach them.

“Uh, hello. I’m pretty sure you’re Derek’s boss, but even if you aren’t, you’re the last person he called, so… There’s been an accident. Derek’s been shot. We’re headed to the GWU Medical Center; I thought you would want to know.” She can hear the man moving some papers in the background, banging something around on his desk, maybe.

“We’re on the way; how bad is it? Is he conscious? What happened?” The paramedics signal for her to hop into the back of the ambulance, so she does, and she takes Derek’s limp hand. Her eyes well up with tears, and it feels real, now, that she has to relive it.

“There was someone trying to rob the coffee shop, and—and Derek went after him; he had a gun, and I guess he shot him. I mean, he obviously shot him. In the stomach. He’s not conscious; I don’t know how bad it is, but he was coughing up blood. Oh, god,” she breathes, voice shaky, and the man on the phone makes a soft sound of reassurance.

“It’s alright. He’s a very strong person, I promise you. He’ll be okay. You said you were headed to GWU Medical Center; are you with him now?”

“Yes. The paramedics let me ride with him. I can text you an update when we get there, his room number if he has one.” She can hear him talking to someone else in the background, but it only takes him a moment to answer.

“Please do. We’ll be there as quickly as we can. Thank you,…?” He pauses, clearly wondering who the hell she is.

“Oh, Sophie. Sophie Cortes.”

“Aaron Hotchner. Thank you. We’ll see you soon.”

The paramedics push Derek into the emergency room entrance, and Sophie follows behind, feeling anxious and out of place, and worried about his injury. They push the gurney through a set of double doors, and Sophie goes to follow, but a stern looking nurse in gold scrubs puts a hand in front of her, doesn’t even look up from her clipboard.

“You can’t go in there.” Sophie’s heart-rate jumps, and she shakes her head.

“I need to go in there, I need to make sure he’s okay. Please.”

“Are you family?” she asks, giving her a once-over; she clearly decides that Sophie is not family, and she doesn’t want to lie, anyway.

“No, I’m not family, but—”

“Like I said, you can’t go in there. Family only.” She moves her arm, waits like she dares Sophie to try, but she just sighs, sags against the wall, and the woman walks away.

“But you don’t understand,” Sophie says weakly, to herself. “I’m in love with him.” She brings up a hand to scrub at the tears forming in her eyes, and another nurse, one with blue scrubs and braids and a kind smile, rests a palm on her shoulder.

“Come with me.” Sophie looks up at her—she looks kind of like an angel, but it’s probably just the fluorescent lighting—and nods, follows.

She takes her through a staff only door, sneaks her into the OR hallway, where they can peer through a window at Derek, surrounded by doctors, surgeons, nurses. Sophie has only seen this kind of stuff on TV, so she doesn’t know how it’s going, but the nurse who brought her tells her to stay there for one second and bustles off.

It’s really scary to watch: there are bloody cloths being thrown around, and tubes and clamps and other medical devices she’s not sure the use for, but after a moment, she can see a doctor lift up a pair of surgical pliers, and there’s a bullet between the prongs. That’s a good sign, she’s pretty sure.

The nice nurse comes back, and she scares the shit out of Sophie when she puts a hand on her arm, making her jump a foot. She smiles apologetically, and Sophie returns it.

“I found out his room number, if you’d like to go sit and wait for him to be brought in. It's an ICU, so technically visiting hours haven’t started yet, but I can make an exception—for an hour, okay?” Sophie nods, wraps her hands around the nurse's wrists.

“Thank you so much. Really—I just need to know he’s okay,” she says, and the woman nods understandingly and takes her to room 104, where Derek will be placed after surgery.

She texts the number to Derek’s boss, takes a seat on the chair in the corner of the room. She gets restless quickly, stands up, uses the bathroom sink to scrub at her hands, because they’re still stained with Derek’s blood. It’s quiet, eerily so, until suddenly it isn’t.

Derek is wheeled in on a bed by a couple of nurses; he looks a little better, all wrapped up in gauze, and they hook him to machines, displaying a steady heartbeat. She breathes a sigh of relief. He’s alright. He’s not dead. That’s incredible news. She takes his hand, wills herself not to cry, murmurs that she’s so happy he’s alive.

As soon as the nurses leave, a group of people who can only be Derek’s coworkers enter the room. There is a tall, serious looking man with dark hair and a dark suit; a woman with thick fringe, a kind face; an older guy with facial hair who looks worried and weary; a skinny guy who looks about the same as Sophie feels; a petite blonde woman with the bluest eyes Sophie’s ever seen; and another blonde woman with crimped hair and glossy lips who has absolutely been crying. They look at Sophie, and she stands, drops Derek’s hand.

“Um, hi, I’m—”

“Who are you?” a doctor says suddenly from behind the group. The kind nurse who let her see Derek is behind him. The serious looking man reaches into his pocket, flashes a badge with a no-nonsense expression.

“We’re with the FBI. We’re his coworkers.” He looks over at Sophie, and she takes a deep breath. Before she can explain who she is, the kind nurse steps around the doctor, flashes Sophie a smile.

“And she’s his girlfriend.”

Uh. What the fuck?

Derek’s coworkers exchange a look that says pretty much the same thing; the tall skinny one looks like his heart has been broken.

Sophie opens her mouth to correct that extremely incorrect assumption, but she can’t find the words, and then she passes out.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner/original female character #aaron hotchner x original female character #aaron hotchner fanfic #derek morgan #derek morgan fanfic #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #latina original female character #moreid #while you were sleeping #coffee shop au #derek morgan x spencer reid #derek morgan/spencer reid

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prettyyoungandbored · 4 years ago

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All I’ve Got [Nikki Sixx, Tommy Lee]

Pairing: Nikki Sixx x Sister!Reader, Tommy Lee & Sixx Sister!Reader

Request: hi! i’m the anon who asked about you writing for the dirt, do you think you could write something where the reader is nikki’s sister and dating tommy and she’s with tommy when they see on the tv that nikki is dead??? and they find out later he isn’t dead and the reader begs him to get his shit together cuz he’s the only family she has??? sorry it’s so specific lmao thank you!!💕

Warnings: Mentions of an overdose

Tommy insisted on spending Christmas with his parents, something Y/N was more than happy to do. Up until the boys came along in her life, her and Nikki didn’t really celebrate the holidays. Even when they lived with their grandparents, the holidays were just another day.

She and Tommy begged Nikki to come along, but he refused. Y/N couldn’t understand why, but she had feeling Nikki had plans with someone named heroin. His addiction was growing stronger everyday, besides pleas from Y/N to get help before it was too late.

Angered by her brother’s carelessness and selfishness, she refused to let it effect her time at Tommy’s house.

Tommy’s mom and Y/N decorated the house, talking and laughing the entire time. Tommy’s mom treated her with the warmth and love that Deanna, Y/N and Nikki’s real mom, never gave her. She and Tommy’s father made sure Y/N always felt comfortable, and there weren’t enough words in the English language to describe just how grateful Y/N was for them.

The night before Christmas Eve, Tommy, Y/N, and Tommy’s parents and sister were sitting around, enjoying some hot chocolate when Tommy’s father picked up the remote from the coffee table.

“I think they have ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ playing on Channel 3,” he said, turning it on.

He found the Channel 3 and just as the opening credits began to play, they were cut off by a ‘Breaking News’ graphic.

“What’s going on?” Tommy’s mom inquired, turning to her husband.

The camera fixated on the female anchor.

“Good evening. I’m Robin Carlisle with some breaking news out of Hollywood. We’ve just received unconfirmed reports that Mötley Crüe bassist Nikki Sixx has died this evening of an apparent drug overdose.”

Y/N dropped her cup of hot chocolate on the floor, her blood running ice cold. Her mouth hung open as the world around her froze. She couldn’t hear Tommy hold her in his arms as he sobbed violently.

She felt like a huge part of her had just been ripped away without warning. Nikki was her only family, her protector from their mother and her creepy boyfriends. He was her best friend and her partner-in-crime.

Now, he was gone and she was sure it was her fault.

She tried multiple times to get him to stop, but he wouldn’t budge. She was all talk and no action, afraid of what her brother would do if she took away his needles and heroin.

But this is what her fear got her.

She crumbled to the ground, Tommy holding her tightly in his arm as she cried on his chest. As devastated as he was that he lost his best friends, a part of hi was furious at Nikki. How could do this, even after his sister begged and pleaded with him multiple times? How could he leave her like this?

He opens his mouth in an attempt to tell her it’s gonna be ok, but he loves her too much to lie.

“Vince called,” Tommy’s father said, coming back from the kitchen. “He says Nikki’s at Cedars-Sinai.”

Tommy nodded. “Thanks Pop.” He turned to Y/N who wiped her eyes. “It’s up to you, babe.”

“I need to go,” she sniffled. “I have to go.”

He wasn’t going to argue with her so he helped her up, grabbed his keys, and the two of them made their way.

Tommy tried to drive as fast as he can while Y/N tried to keep herself together in the passenger seat. She almost reached out to turn on the radio, just to quiet the thoughts in her head but she knew that would be useless considering all of them would just have Christmas songs playing and that was the last thing she needed to hear.

She buried her face in her hands. Tommy glancesd over at her and used one hand to stroke her hair, a silent reassurance that he was here for her.

When they arrived at the hospital, a swarm of paparazzi stood outside. Tommy grabbed Y/N’s hand as she lowered her head. Just as her nightmare couldn’t get any worse, cameras and screams from those behind them, made her jump.

‘Y/N did you know about your brother’s addiction?!’

‘Are you taking over his assets?’

‘What’s gonna happen to Mötley Crüe?’

‘Is it true he had a prostitute in the room when he died?’

“Can you all seriously fuck off?!” Tommy barked at them.

She tightened her grip on Tommy as the paparazzi continued to scream at her. She rushed inside followed by Tommy.

They made their way to the front desk, not caring about the people in the waiting area staring at them. The nurse at the front desk looked at Y/N and Tommy.

“You’re here for Nikki Sixx, I assume?” She asked.

Y/N nodded and the nurse gave her a warm, sympathetic smile. “You’re just in time. The doctor is in there with him right now. He apparently woke up not too long ago?”

Y/N’s head shot up, eyes widening. “He...he what?!”

“He what?” Tommy asked.

“Did Mr. Neil not tell you?” the nurse questioned. “Our EMTs revived him on the way here. He’s been-.”

“What room is he in?” Y/N cut her off.

“Third floor. Room 7.”

Y/N thanked her as she and Tommy rushed into the elevator. Hope and relief radiated through her that when she and Tommy were alone, she found herself clutching onto’s Tommy shirt, crying.

Tommy was relived, to say the very least. It also made him realize his current lifestyle had consequences and that if he ever wanted a real future with Y/N, he had to make some serious changes.

When they got to the third floor, Y/N and Tommy booked it to Room 7, pushing through nurses and other staffers to get to the room.

Upon reaching Room 7, Y/N burst through the door to find her older brother button up his jeans. He looked up and froze when he saw his little sister.

Y/N and Nikki stood there face-to-face. His face softened at the sight of his baby sister’s blood shot eyes.

Nikki’s pale state brought out the dried blood spots on his chest from where the needles were injected as well as his under eye bags.

“Y/N-.”

Y/N stomped toward him and slapped him across the face. He stumbled back, surprised by her actions.

“Ow,” he grumbled.

“I thought I lost you tonight,” she trembled. “I thought I lost my best friend and my brother.”

Nikki swallowed hard, his hands leaving the spot where she slapped him. “Y/N, I’m so sorry.”

She threw her hands up. “Is that all you have to say to me?! You’re sorry?!”

She eyed the telephone on his night side, pointing at it. “You couldn’t even have the decency to call me or Tommy and tell us you were fine?! I gave you his family’s house phone number for a reason!”

She wiped her eyes with her sleeves. “You were going to runaway, weren’t you? You were going to run from the doctor.”

“Y/N-.”

“No, no I don’t wanna hear it, ok? You’re gonna stay in here and I’m gonna stay here until you are formally discharged. After that, I’m staying at the house and you and I and Doc are gonna talk about rehab.”

Nikki rolled his eyes. “You’re overreacting.”

Y/N’s eyes widened as Tommy, realizing what was about to happen, stepped back. She slapped her brother again.

“Jesus Christ, Y/N!” he snapped.

“You’re all I have, Nikki!” she spat. “You’re my only family left. I can’t lose you. Please, I am begging you, please stop this and get clean.”

Nikki lowered his head, realizing his actions had more serious consequences than he believed. Y/N wiped her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her sweater.

“Please don’t leave me,” she whimpered.

Nikki made eye contact with Tommy, who lowered his gaze in solidarity with his girlfriend. Nikki then opened his arms, wrapping them around her as she sobbed.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he whispered. “I’m really sorry.”

He knew changes had to be made if not for him, but for the sake of the only family he had left.

#nikki sixx x reader #nikki sixx #tommy lee x reader #tommy lee #nikki sixx oneshot #tommy lee oneshot #mötley crüe

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psychedellic-phase · 4 years ago

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Fifteen (Part 12)

A/N: I altered the timeline & updated the last chapter w the correct weeks!! sorry for any confusion that causes. I need to be accurate or it’d bother me lol

ALSO: end the stigma surrounding miscarriage/infertility. your feelings and experiences are valid.

Tw: miscarriage, cursing, slight spoilers for the episode “200”

word count: 4.4 k

masterlist

series masterlist

“It was a Thursday, no I guess technically it was a Friday since it was 3 am. You woke me up, poking my shoulder gently until I stirred.

“This is going to sound weird but did you...?”

I was groggy and sore and cranky. It was 3 am, and you woke me up. Of course I was annoyed. My back was killing me, “Spence, what?”

“Did you pee yourself?” You whispered, and I laughed.

“What? No?”

That’s when I shifted to roll over and face you. That’s when I felt it. It was like a freight train hitting me. I was dizzy and nauseous and could suddenly feel every part of my body aching.

“Then, t-then what’s this?”

You threw the covers off of us. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you so scared.

I just stared at it. Our gray sheets darkened. I had no emotions. No instincts. No movement. You’d think I’d have an intuition of what I needed to do. My maternal instinct would’ve kicked in, or I guess it wouldn’t have because I was no longer a mother.

I don’t know how I didn’t wake up earlier. I keep wracking my brain for a reason why I didn’t wake up. Why did you have to wake me up? Why didn’t I just know? I should’ve just known. I should’ve had a feeling, but I didn’t have any feelings. Because that’s what shock is. It’s nothing. It’s staring at everything and feeling absolute nothingness.

It’s weird to think that that night we went to bed, laughing and chatting and snuggling close to each other. It’s weird to think that we had no idea what was coming. We were living in ignorant bliss. It’s sad that that was our last night we spent together as a whole family unit. I wish I knew about lasts before they happened, that way I could savor the moment. Soak it all up. Bask in the warmth of you.

We fell asleep as we usually do did, you spooning me from behind, one hand on my belly the other on my back. You whispering that you loved me, you hoped I slept well; me telling you that the papaya sized thing in my uterus would make sure that I did not sleep well. You’d laugh, your breath would tickle my neck, then I’d laugh, and we’d finally calm down and fall asleep in each other’s arms.

That’s the last time we fell asleep like that. I wish I knew. I would have appreciated the little things. I would’ve appreciated the way you rubbed little shapes on my skin, the way you dealt with me needing no comforter because I was always hot and sweaty, even though you run cold. I wish I could go back and appreciate every one of our lasts, just so I could hold onto those memories a little while longer. But I guess I’ve held onto them long enough if I’m giving them all back to you.

Speaking of, what is your item for this letter? Go ahead. Go look. It isn’t going to be what you expect.”

He was much calmer than he was before. The numbness had returned. He felt kind of okay actually. He felt like that was the last bit of emotion he had left. But then again, he felt that way in letter four. He felt that way in letter seven. He knew it wouldn’t last, but he was determined to savor it, grind through the last few letters while he was still numb, then hopefully decide what to do while his head was clear.

He reached in, surprised at what you had chosen.

“Yes, this is definitely not what you expected. I’m sure you expected another baby memento, or maybe an ultrasound picture. But like I said, all the baby stuff is gone. And I’m keeping the ultrasounds. I’ll mail you copies, I promise. And unlike you, I don’t make a habit of breaking my promises.

Now to anyone who doesn’t know PG, this little stuffed unicorn looks like it was for the baby. But when you know her as well as we do, you know it was for me. Penelope decorates her desk with trinkets and light-up frogs and flower pens because they help her see the bad. They make it easier. By giving me this, she was giving me something to protect me from the horror I would have to face. And for a little while, it actually worked. I hope it’ll do the same for you.”

He laughed, an honest, genuine, laugh. He held the stuffed thing in his hands, leaning back onto the bed. It was white with rainbow hair and a glittery purple horn. He remembered when Penelope brought it in the room, delicately placing it on your bedside table.

“She’ll need this, and so will you,” She said. Spencer just nodded and watched her disappear.

“I will spare you the grisly details, Spence; you were there. I will just mention the main ideas.

As I sat there, staring at the mess that had formed in front of me, you got up. You were visibly shaking as you turned on the lights and called an ambulance. Your face was gray. I’ve never seen it that color. I couldn’t focus on anything except you and the pain. God, the pain. It radiated from my abdomen, up into my heart and festered there. It was a different kind of pain, unlike any I’d ever experienced before. Then came the adrenaline, pumping through my body at an insane rate. Then I felt foggy, like I was watching what was happening to me on a tv screen. It was the closest thing to an out-of-body experience I’ve ever had.

You knelt down next to me, holding my torso. We didn’t speak. We didn’t cry. We were both in shock.

I don’t even know what you said to the people on the phone. I assume you told them what you had already diagnosed. You told them the truth: I was miscarrying.

It still hurts to say. I still have a hard time saying the word out loud. “Pregnancy loss,” “Spontaneous abortion,” “Miscarriage,” none of the words feel right. None of them feel like they accurately describe what happened to us that night.

They put me on a stretcher, and that’s when it became real. I was crying, holding your hand so tight I thought I’d cut off blood supply. My other hand was on my torso, and I was begging whatever Gods are above to feel a kick. Just one little kick, or shift, or movement.

I didn’t.

You stayed strong for me. You always were so good under pressure. You told the EMT every detail of my health history, while I was a blubbering mess. You called Hotch. You called Emily. You called my dad. You kept it together. You did everything right. God, Spencer, even from that very first day when I paid you to do my paperwork, you always did everything right. You’re the good one. You put nothing but good karma out into the world, so why do you keep getting bad karma back?

It’s ridiculous really, because we did do everything right. I took my prenatals and only drank water and green smoothies and I ate sweet potatoes and legumes and kale chips. I resisted the urge to eat nothing but Baja Blasts and Big Macs. I’m honestly angry. I’m angry because you and I, two good people, don’t get to have a baby, but some of these unsubs we encountered do? What kind of logic is that? What kind of world allows that to happen? What kind of God? A really shitty one, that’s who.

Eventually they literally peeled you off of me in the ER. They had to make sure I wasn’t getting an infection, and that I had—God I can’t say it. They had to see if they needed to help me through it, if you know what I mean. They did. I had to get a d&c.

I spent most of the time sobbing at the nurses. They all just held my hands and smoothed my hair. I begged for you, but they said no. I argued with them. I said I needed you there next to me. I didn’t want them to hold my hands and smooth my hair, I wanted you. But they insisted that the room had to stay clean. Eventually I was all cried out and they put me under.

When I woke up this unicorn was next to me, staring me in the face and letting me know our friends were there. They knew. They had my back. This stuffed thing would help me face the bad that was coming. It would protect me.

It was about eight. You pulled your chair up next to me, your hand in mine, head on my bed. I felt like shit. That’s the only way to put it. Anesthesia makes me nauseous as is, couple that with the night I had? I felt awful, and I felt it everywhere.

When I woke up, you stirred too. Your eye bags were deep and dark, you still had on pajamas with some unknown fluids on them, and your hair was a wreck.

I ran my hands through it, a force of habit, “Hi.”

“Hey,” you croaked.

Our eyes met, and we both just fell apart. Tears spilled over so easily. We were two broken hearts in one hospital room.

You crawled into the bed with me, making sure to be gentle and not hurt me, “Is this real life?”

“Yeah, Love. I’m afraid it is,” you whispered into my hair.

“I-It doesn’t feel like real life.”

You sighed, and shifted so we were both sitting upright, your arm around my shoulder, “I know. I wish it wasn’t.”

“W-What happened? What did I do? I th-thought I did everything right?”

You kissed my tears on my cheeks, “You did. You couldn’t have done anything to stop this. It was a chromosomal abnormality, trisomy sixteen.”

“What does that m-mean?”

“It means she had three copies of chromosome sixteen, which makes proteins in the body. She never would’ve—“

“Stop,” I said, not harshly or mean, just a sad moan, “I don’t want to know.” I took three shaky, deep breaths, trying to calm myself down, “I-I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be, there’s nothing we could’ve done. We’ll get through this, together, I promise.”

“I promise,” I said, and you kissed my temple, arms wrapped around me tightly, as if you could physically hold me together as I fell apart. You held me like that for a while, before we both fell asleep again in that teeny tiny hospital bed.

The unicorn wasn’t the one who protected me that night, it was you. You protected me more than I ever gave you credit for. I wish I could’ve stayed strong for you, the way you stayed strong for me. Thank you for that, Spencer. I mean it.”

Spencer got up from bed and felt lightheaded. Realizing he hadn’t eaten yet, he grabbed a mess of junk from the fridge and sat on the kitchen floor up against the dishwasher. The metal of the appliance was cold against his back, the ground below him was hard. It just felt right.

He did keep his calm the whole time. He never cracked, not until the end when he cried with you. He spoke calmly and quietly when the team showed up. Garcia cried more than he did. Emily said she was on the next flight, ready and willing. Your dad didn’t say more than a few awkward and sad words. Morgan looked terrified. Hotch had his eyebrows knit together, as if with enough thinking, he could make the situation away. JJ stood silently, knowing the feeling, but not mentioning it. The only time he wavered was when Alex held him; the tears reached the surface but never spilled over. Everyone just circled around him, trying to protect him from the scariness that he’d face outside of their bubble.

The nurse came up to him, telling him you were out and okay. It was a chromosomal abnormality, nothing could’ve prevented it. With some rest, you’d be okay physically, but mentally it would be a long road, for both of you. He nodded. The world felt like it was spinning. He couldn’t think straight. The walls seemed to move in around him, even as he stood still.

“Reid, it’s mandatory. Four weeks. Minimum,” Hotch said, Spencer not hearing a word of it.

“O-Okay. Fine, whatever. I just, I need to see her.”

Derek reached out to stop him, “You know she isn’t going to be the same, kid.”

Spencer shook him off, “I know.”

But he didn’t know to what extent. He didn’t know that you’d still look pregnant, because your belly doesn’t automatically deflate. He didn’t know that your grieving process would be different from the way it was after Emily’s fake death. How naive of him to not realize that he’d grieve differently this time too. He thought he’d want to cry and talk and eat blueberry pancakes, just like last time. He didn’t realize that when a piece of you just suddenly stops being a piece of you, it’s jarring. It's the five stages of grief all at once and in the wrong order. It’s crying at a Pampers commercial and being angry when you see new moms. It’s people giving you soft looks of pity everyday. It’s lonely. It’s sad. It’s the worst heartbreak one can imagine. In short—it really fucking sucks.

Spencer had no idea just how much it really fucking sucked.

He saw you there, your skin drained of its warm color and tired, and stopped in his tracks. What would he say? What would he do? How would he approach you? How would he tell you that half of his heart just left his body?

Rossi was the one who saw him stop at the threshold of your door. He saw Spencer pace back and forth, still in bloody pajamas. He saw Spencer stare at you, hands balled into fists like he was ready to fight the powers that be.

He came up behind him, placing a kind hand on his shoulder, “Spencer, listen to me.”

Spencer didn’t react, he just kept staring at you, “I had a son, with Caroline. He died the same day he was born. I know what this feels like, Kid. I do. Trust me, it’ll get easier. I promise, but only if the two of you lean on each other.”

Spencer nodded dumbly, still not really processing anything around him, but with a nudge from Rossi he entered your room. He found his way to the bedside chair.

“Hey, Y/N, I know you can’t hear me. The anesthesia hasn’t worn off yet. I just want to—no need to tell you that I love you. I’m not mad at you. I’m heartbroken, but here for you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Remember how fast that narrative changed, Spence?

We got home from the hospital that night and I grabbed a tub of ice cream. I figured losing the baby counted as ‘one of those days’. I thought we would eat in silence and it would make it all okay, like every other day.

When I pulled it out, you scratched your head, “Not tonight. I’m tired.”

I nodded, feeling heavy and sore and weak, “Okay, see you upstairs?”

You nodded again, and I put the tub away. I figured you were going to talk to the moon for a while, and I was going to let you.

I fell asleep almost immediately, you never joining me.

I got up and you were on the couch, making some lame excuse of how you were reading and must have fallen asleep there by accident.

“You okay today?” I asked you.

You shrugged, “We won’t be okay for a lot of days.”

I knew you were right. It was a stupid question to even ask. I nodded.

“How do you feel?”

“Sore, weak, empty. Like I need to sleep more.”

You tucked my hair behind my ear, and kissed my cheek.

“I love you,” I said, and you responded with, “Love you too, I need to shower.”

Now there is a distinct difference between ‘love you’ and ‘I love you.’ Losing the ‘I’ loses the intimacy. It removes yourself from the statement. You removed yourself from that statement, and from me.

That first day we talked a little. We mostly cried and you watched me sleep. But then suddenly it was like you didn’t want to talk about it. You didn’t want to share a bed. You didn’t even want to look at me. You didn’t want to be in that place. I don’t blame you, Spencer, I don’t. I didn’t want to be there either.

I understand why you blamed me. We needed to blame someone, because no way could life be that cruel to a person. I blamed myself for the loss for a while too. No matter how many times people said “it’s not your fault” it still felt like my fault. I still feel like it’s my fault, like maybe I could’ve done something to prevent this. It doesn’t matter how many support groups or therapists tell me I can’t blame anyone. How can I believe that when the person who means the most to me in this world feels like it I’m the only person to blame?”

He sighed. He never wanted to blame you, but some part of him did anyway. It was easier that way. If he blamed you, he wouldn’t have to blame himself like he always did. But, sometimes there is no one to blame but life itself.

“Emily showed up that next day. She came in, in all her black bangs glory and held me. She had ice cream with me. She let me cry on her shoulders until I couldn’t anymore. She watched cheesy tv with me and distracted me with stories of her varied lovers in London. She supported me the way only a best friend could, the way I wish you did. Then she had to leave; London calls. And Derek took her place. He would come by when he could, usually with takeout that I couldn’t stomach. If he couldn’t come by, he’d always text or call. He always checked in, which I appreciated, but every moment with them was a moment spent wishing I was with you.

You. For the first week or so, I saw you everyday. We even went to the beach, but when we came home? I tried to talk but we usually didn’t. More accurately, I spoke, and you stared at me. Then you started coming less and less and returning fewer and fewer of my calls. At the end, I think I saw you maybe once every other day, just for you to come and grab clean clothes or paperwork. God, everyone did your job except for you because you were too busy doing your real job. The job Hotch told you to take a few weeks off from. The job that I actually did take a few weeks off from, because my body was in disrepair.

It’s not fair to sit here and tell you that you didn’t cater to my every grieving need correctly. It’s not fair for me to tell you how to grieve either. I respect what you did, Spence. I respect that you poured yourself into work. I know it isn’t fair that I wish you spent half that energy on us. But you know what actually isn’t fair? The way I’d tell people “we lost her,” but you’d say “Y/N lost her.” You know what wasn’t fair? The fact that you ran away from me and hid away in your apartment, doing God knows what with God knows who, after we promised to lean on each other, to heal together. You refused to do it. I wanted to. I tried to. I reached out. I called. I texted.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself now. You still have three letters to go.”

Spencer glanced over at the box. It was nearly empty, just three stray items and three stray envelopes staring at him. He remembered the minute he set foot in that place, he felt the same way he did before he entered your hospital room. Frozen. Fear. Trepidation.

Everything looked foreign. The walls that were once a saturated blue color looked grayer. The mug on the counter didn’t look like it was his. The pictures on the walls were of foreign people from a foreign land. The bed didn’t look like his bed. He felt like he was living on a movie set, where everything was a prop and everyone was a fake.

He tried to stay. He went into that first night with the intentions of laying next to you in bed, watching tv, rubbing your back, and giving you water to make up for the amount of tears you shed. He really, honestly, tried, but the first thing he saw when he opened the front door was that picture of the two of you from Rossi’s house, holding up the onesie. Then he made his way into the kitchen, where the ultrasounds were pinned to the fridge with smiley face magnets. Then he went upstairs and passed the nursery.

It had barely been started; all you’d done was paint it a soft, sage green.

“This color is called ‘Soothing Sage’,” You said, handing Spencer a roller, “I sure hope this soothes her, because if she’s as active outside as she is inside, we have a problem.”

“It will soothe her. That’s why I love green,” He said, grabbing the roller and starting to paint, as you sat on the floor trying to untangle Garcia’s homemade jungle animal mobile.

“I thought you liked purple.”

He smiled, “ I do, but green brings balance and harmony. From a color psychology perspective, it is the great balancer of the heart and the emotions, creating equilibrium in the body. And from a color symbolism perspective, green is the color of growth, spring, renewal and rebirth.”

You laughed, “My favorite color is teal. What’s the color psychology for that?”

“Teal is a blend of blue and green, so naturally it combines both blue's tranquility and stability with green's balance and harmony.”

“I like it, I like it, how about orange? What does that mean?”

“Orange? Well, it’s bright and brings feelings of excitement, enthusiasm, and warmth—“ He cut himself off, turning from his almost done wall to find you eating more chips, “Stop distracting me!”

You put your hands up in surrender, “You’re too easy to distract Reid.”

He smiled, paint already all over him, as you spent the rest of the afternoon talking about what rocker you should buy and where the other painting Garcia made should hang.

When he passed the room, the walls a pretty green, mobile in the corner over a few stray Ikea boxes, he couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t act like everything in that place didn’t make him want to scream into an abyss. He couldn’t play the dutiful boyfriend. He couldn’t walk around and not feel haunted. He was being haunted, not by the past, but by a future that should’ve been.

He tried to explain it to you, but you two were on different pages. Hell, you were reading two different books that were in completely different languages. Communicating became impossible, and if he’s being honest with himself, he was kind of happy that it did. It made it easier in the moment, but worse in the long run.

“I miss us. I miss you. I miss her. I know we never met her but I could feel her. She was strong, definitely a soccer player. Maybe she would’ve had our recessive athletic genes. She was part of me, and I loved her from the first time I threw up. I could tell she loved you. She moved whenever you spoke to me. She loved to rustle and shift when you laid on my lap and whispered to her. She was a daddy’s girl. That’s what you deserved. I’m sorry my body couldn’t handle it. I’m sorry that I couldn’t even do that right. I’m sorry couldn’t be what you wanted or what you needed, especially when you were all I ever wanted or needed. I don’t know how many more ways to show you that I’m sorry.

You left me the day we lost her Spence, I know you did. I lost you and her in one fell swoop. How do I cope with that?”

Spencer put the letter down, cradling the unicorn in his hands. He didn’t need you to apologize anymore. You’d done enough of that, so did he. He stopped being angry and bitter and spiteful the second you told him to go. You yelled at him to finish packing his bags and get out, since that’s clearly what he wanted.

That wasn’t what he wanted. He was just lost. He was confused. He felt like nothing had a purpose anymore. He understood what Gideon said in the letter he left him all those years ago. He questioned everything he thought he ever knew. He wanted to view it as a lesson, something he could learn from, but the hole in his heart wouldn’t let him.

He had every intention of coming back to you when he was ready, but when he finally was, you shut the door. He lost himself the moment he lost her, and that made him lose you too. How’s he supposed to cope with that?

Part 13!

---------

Taglist: @l0ve-0f-my-life @aperrywilliams @helloniallslovelies @random-ravings @ajwantsapancake @andiebeaword @boiled-onionrings @frnks-stuff @icantevenanymore1 @mellifluouswildbluebells @rottenearly @sammypotato67 @blushingwueen @peaxhyjaes @justanotherfangurlz @juniorgman187 @mbowles23-blog @blameitonthenight21 @goldentournesol @rainsong01 @thelifeofadumbbitch @swimmingfishwobblersludge @youre-a-wallflower-charlie

#spencer reid #spencer x you #spencer #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fic #dr spencer reid #reid #reid x you #cm #cm fic #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #matthew gray gubler #mgg fanfiction #mgg smut #mgg

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buckaroosboogara · 3 years ago

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911 week - Day 5:

“Can I tell you a secret?” + comfort

(1800~ words, Albert and Chimney, tw alcohol and mentions of addiction/addiction.)

@911week

"Albert, I don't know how or why, but if you don't want to be a firefighter anymore, just tell me." Chimney huffed.

"Well," Albert got up and stumbled with his feet. He gained composure and walked to the door. "I don't wanna be a firefighter. Father was right, I am useless. And just like him, an alcoholic. Now go away."

Chimney flinched, "This is not you Albert, please..."

"Well, what do you know about me, huh? We were apart for more than 20 years." Albert barked as he opened the door.

"I'll come back." Chim said, walking outside.

"Yeah, yeah."

Albert wanted to cry.

He felt like the world was turning him into a living joke, only alive to make people laugh, and he hated it.

He was a step closer to be out of the fire academy, and his instructor had warned him that if he made one mistake more, he would be out.

First, his written test had an 80/100, he would have like to blame it on Jee and her strong lungs that woke him up four hours before his exam at 8, but he couldn't do that. It was also his fault for constantly delaying the time to study for it, until dinner of the very last night before the exam.

Then, he decided to move in with Buck again, or better said, move to Buck's place since the other man was mostly at Eddie's place than his own flat, giving Maddie and Chimney the privacy they needed. They happened to go partying to celebrate Albert's birthday the night before a big Chief went unpromptedly to the academy, and Albert arrived late for the first time, just that day.

And now... he definitely deserved to get kicked out.

He filled his teammate's oxygen tank with the gases, mostly nitrogen and carbon monoxide, that the O2 truck's engine liberated.

He almost killed the girl during their training.

And he didn't have a father in an important charge or a politician mother to get him out of that trouble, like the story of a training firefighter in Chicago.

His only consolation was that his teammate, Jennifer, the only woman in his class, was already at her home, and had texted him to say it was okay, she knew he didn't mean to hurt her. That he was a harmless cinnamon bun, whatever that meant.

He went home after the furious instructor had made him leave the academy, having done enough harm for the day.

He messaged Buck, briefly telling him he was home early, and threw himself on the couch, the weight of guilt crushing him down.

Albert really wished Jennifer - or JJ, how she like her friends to call her, but Albert didn't consider himself one - would be okay and become a firefighter in the next two weeks, when their final physical exam would happen.

He also didn't want to alarm Buck or Chimney, both were stressed enough, having to juggle between being at the station and covering shifts for the two people down and having to take care of Maddie, Eddie, and Bobby, with the last two assuring they didn't need their help.

Between these thoughts he fell asleep, waking up some hours after, dreams of death and disappointment hunting him.

He put his jacket on and looked for a bar near, doing the only thing he ever learned from his father.

Drown his guilts in alcohol.

...

Chimney could feel something was wrong with his brother.

No, he knew.

The clues were right there.

He wasn't calling as much as he used to do, and whenever Buck called and was at their loft, Albert was not there.

That, plus Buck's comments about him arriving home very late and leaving very early, with dark eye bags and smelling of alcohol. Those comments didn't ease the feeling on Chimney's gut.

He first tried to call him, day, noon, even at 3 am when he couldn't sleep during a shift. Nothing.

Or, short messages telling him he would call later, but he never did.

Chimney knew how close Albert was to be a firefighter, and he knew that last week was the worst one. He feared what it would do to his brother.

So one day, the stars aligned and Buck saw Albert during the noon in their loft. He did what he could to keep him there and called Chimney to get there, he knew that Albert needed his brother rather than anyone else at that moment.

As soon as Chimney arrived, Buck left the building and both men could speak for the first time in a week and a half.

"Okay, I'm gonna go straight to the point." Chimney huffed as he closed the door behind Buck. "What the hell is going on with you?"

"Nothing." Albert lied, sitting on the couch with a beer in hand.

"Don't you dare lie to me. I know you and this is not you, Al. Talk to me." Chimney walked to the couch and stood in front of his brother.

Albert avoided his look and kept quiet.

Chimney huffed. "Look, the EMT in charge of the basic health support and procedures class, Eli, called me yesterday. He was glad another Han would become a firefighter, but then he told me you weren't there."

He crouched in front of his brother. "Albert, I don't know how or why, but if you don't want to be a firefighter anymore, just tell me. You don't need to avoid me, or Buck, for the record. Talk to me."

"Well," Albert got up and stumbled with his feet. He gained composure and walked to the door. "I don't wanna be a firefighter. Now go away."

Chimney flinched, "This is not you Albert, please..."

"Well, what do you know about me, huh? We were apart for more than 20 years." Albert barked as he opened the door.

"I'll come back." Chim said, walking outside.

"Yeah, yeah."

The door shut.

Chimney wanted to cry.

...

"Chimney! Nice to see you around for once, but why are you here?" Eli happily exclaimed when he saw Chim walking through the academy's halls the next morning.

"Hey Eli, it's nice to see you too brother." Chimney rolled his eyes fondly and hugged the man.

After making the appropriate small talk Chimney spoke, "I actually came here to ask about my brother..."

"Albert Han?" Eli asked and checked the clipboard he carried with him. "Uh, he hasn't come to my class in a week. Since the oxygen tank accident, actually."

Chim's mind stopped racing after the last sentence. "Oxygen tank accident?"

The EMS gave him an odd look. "Yeah... everyone here knows about it. He accidentally filled his partner's tank with monoxide and other gases from the O2 truck's engine."

Chimney took his hands to his eyes, too much information entering his brain, Eli continued. "She passed away during training and hit her head, but apart from that and the toxic inhalation she was perfect."

"Shit. Okay, I would remember if he told me that." Chim shook his head. "And he hasn't come in a week?"

"Not to my classes." Eli said. "I thought that maybe you'd teach him for the exam, therefore he wouldn't come but... I know you, there's something more."

"Yeah. Just- I need to talk to him. Could you make sure they don't... you know... kick him out?"

"I'll do what I can." Eli answered sincerely. "Hey, it seems like almost getting kicked out is a Han thing now."

Chim winced. He had been very close... which actually gave him an idea.

"I gotta go, Eli, thanks for the... uh.. for everything!" Chim said, slowly tracking back. "Bye!"

...

Albert heard a knock on the door and groaned.

He waited for whoever was there to give up and walk away, but the person kept insisting.

"Open up Albert, I know you are there!" Chimney's voice sounded from the hall.

"Ugh, go away!" Albert huffed as he took a bottle of beer from the fridge.

"I'm not going away Albert. I'm going to stay here until Buck arrives or you open the door."

"So stubborn."

"Just like you."

Albert thought of his options. He could either wait or let his brother in and drive him away in minutes and he would be alone again.

He sighed as he opened the door. "Happy now?"

"No. I need you to talk to me, Albert." Chimney got inside. "I know about the accident. It's not your fault, look-"

"If you know, then you know it is my fault. She could have died. I could have killed her. It's not that I don't want to be a firefighter. I can't be one." Albert blurted out, his cheeks red from embarrassment.

"Albert..."

"And it's not just that- it's that every one of my written tests is marked only with an 80%, I can't seem to be there in time and then I almost killed one of my classmates, my friend. And- And I just- I feel like giving up." He took a swing of his beer. "And I did. Father was right, I am useless. And just like him, an alcoholic."

He made a sad smile and continued drinking.

"No, you are much more than that Albert." Chimney said, taking the bottle from his hand. "And you would make an amazing firefighter, don't ever doubt that."

Albert rolled his eyes and huffed, making his way to the couch. Chim followed and sat on the coffee table in front of his brother.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Chim asked after some seconds of silence.

"Go ahead."

"I almost got kicked out too."

Albert scanned his expression. "You're lying."

"The hell I'm not." Chim huffed. "Being a firefighter was the thing that kept me going for many years. Until I met Maddie. But, believe it or not, I almost got kicked out for not asking for help and being a jerk."

"I was struggling in the written exams too. Almost failing, while Kevin got all 95s and 100s. I got jealous and was too proud to ask him for help. Then I started having problems with the higher levels. But one day..." Chimney smiled. "One day Chief Aadav Panikkar, yeah, Ravi's father, called me to his office. And he helped me."

A tear slipped down Chimney's cheek. Albert ducked his head.

"I wanna help you, Albert."

"And, yeah, I'm gonna be realistic. You have little chance to graduate next week, but if we work hard and have a little luck, you will be able to." Chimney said, "And if you don't. Then you are going to kick ass with my help the next time you can apply to the academy. And we are going to AA. Okay? But we are going to do it together."

Albert's lips contracted in a fine line.

"Okay." When he looked up again, Chimney could see his eyes glowing with tears. "Thanks, Howie. I love you."

Albert got up and waited for Chim to do the same and hugged him.

"I love you too little brother," Chimney said, hugging his brother tightly.

They had a long way ahead of them, but together they were strong enough to get through it.

...

Despite all their efforts, Albert couldn't complete the training the first time, and it hurt, not just to the Han brothers, but to the whole 118.

Two weeks later they met with Bobby for a reunion with ex-alcoholics.

Six months later, Albert finished his last physical test, and the 118 was on top of the exam building, waiting for him.

He not only was in his official probationary year, but he learned that he had a family now.

A family that was with him throughout all those hellish months.

That was what the 118 was. Family.

#posting this 10 minutes before midnight yeahh #kinda rushed but i liked how it turned out #tw alcohol #tw alcoholism #911week2021 #chimney han #albert han #mentions of buckley siblings #911 on fox #911 fox #comfort #is this comfort?#i hope so #my fics

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roragillenkerk · 4 years ago

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( KRISTINE FROSETH, TWENTY FIVE, CIS WOMAN, SHE/HER ). AURORA GILLENKERK has been living in Clayton, Georgia for FIFTEEN YEARS. They are an ARMS DEALER for THE IRON COFFINS currently working as WAITRESS at MAMA’S KITCHEN. They are known to be STUBBORN & DEFENSIVE, but also known to be MOTHERLY & LOYAL. I hope you are enjoying their time in Clayton, there is no place quite like home. ( Sarah, 24, EST, she/her. ).

Trigger warning for mentions of death, guns, murder, and pregnancy

Aurora Gillenkirk had never came from a life of luxury. She had never known what it felt like to have a complete family, a comma in her bank account, or to not be constantly struggling with something. Being the result of a teen pregnancy, her mother had her at the tender age of sixteen. Her father wanted nothing to do with her or her daughter, so she was left being raised by a single parent. Aurora’s grandmother had offered to help raise her grandchild, not wanting to see her own daughter struggle with having a baby. But, she was far too stubborn and didn’t feel the need to have any assistance. The woman had gotten into this situation and she would face the challenges that would come with it. So, she would drop out of high school and make her way outside of Clayton. She’d move a few hours away in an attempt at a fresh start and to raise her child.

While being away from Clayton, Aurora and her mother struggled….hard. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for them to constantly get eviction notices, having little to no time to pack up what few belongings they had and scramble to find someplace to crash. Sometimes it was at a co-worker’s house, the local shelter, or inside the beater car that they owned. Either way, the blonde had learned to have many different meanings to the word ‘home’. Regardless of her chaotic upbringing, she was always thankful. Sure, she never had the newest clothes, the best toys to play with, or the nicest living situation. But, she knew that she had a mother that always loved, cared, and provided her despite the odds that were stacked against them.

Eventually, her mother found herself missing her hometown and having a close relationship with her own mom so she’d return to Clayton after years of being away. Now that she was back in town, she would end up rekindling many of her past relationships. This would include a fling she had back during her early, post high school days. He was a bad boy, destined for no good and had family ties to the Iron Coffins, being a member himself. They didn’t date for long, quickly losing connection with one another when she moved away. Several years passed by and they picked up where they had left off. This time though, their feelings towards one another would only intensify. The couple would end up getting engaged and married less than a year of Aurora’s mom being back in town. Even though it seemed quick, they were serious about starting a life with one another. For the first time in her young life, the girl had gotten something she had been yearning for; a person to call a father.

The older that the girl got, the more closer she grew to her step father. They seemed to instantly clicked and he considered her his own child, despite not being blood related. He was her rock and the one person that she felt like she could go for anything. It seemed like things were actually looking up for a change. Her family confined to struggle a bit here and there with finances and other things but overall, she couldn’t complain too much.

When Aurora was sixteen years old, her step father would get murdered. The young girl was working a closing shift at the family diner when somebody had attempted to rob the place. Her father happened to have stopped over and dropped by to say hello when the situation happened. Shots were fired towards the two of them when Aurora refused to give the man any money. She managed to escape the scene with no injuries, her father using himself as a human shield to protect his little girl. He died before EMT’s could show up.

This would break her, but the pieces of her heart would get picked up by a boy. One that she would meet shortly after her father’s death while at some random party. She was sneaking out and acting out as a way to try and cope with all of her feelings. Drinking, smoking, running from the cops, the whole nine yards. Sparks flew and she fell hard for him. Aurora had never felt this kind of attraction to anybody before. He was there for her during such a difficult time in her life. He was her rock and her first love.

Flash forward a few more months and Aurora suddenly falls ill. Her symptoms are fatigue, morning sickness, and just feeling...off. She would steal a pregnancy test from the local grocery store and take it in the bathroom. Two minutes later....her life would change forever. Aurora knew that eventually wanted to become a mom, but not at such a young age. Her mom had urged her to wait to have her own children, not wanting to see her daughter struggling trying to support another life. But, it happened. Feeling so overjoyed with the news, Aurora’s boyfriend would become her fiancé after he proposed to her. When she was seven months pregnant, they’d have a small, court house wedding followed by a reception at Lucky’s. Two months later, she would give birth to a beautiful baby girl named Serenity Rose.

Everything seemed so perfect, like she was living in a fairytale. But, it was only sweet for so long. When their daughter was around the age of four, Aurora would find out that her husband had been cheating on her for several months now with another girl. She found text messages and calls on his phone. That night, in a frantic state, she bagged all of his belongings in a garbage bag and threw it at the end of the street and told him to get lost. It has been over four years now and she hasn’t seen him since. Being a single mother wasn’t anything she thought would imagine for herself, but she couldn’t stay with a man who lied to her.

Aurora wasn’t sure what she wanted to do after High School. She graduated, barely, and that was quite the accomplishment in itself. College didn’t seem part of her future. She didn’t have the funds, drive, or grades to be successful in that kind of environment. She has always loved Clayton so perhaps staying there would make the most sense. She was becoming at an age where she was expressing great interest in becoming apart of the MC. She understood how dangerous it was and the risks that came with it, but she felt drawn to it. She knew she wanted to become a member and she was determined to put in the blood, sweat, and tears to be one.

She would become a prospect at the age of 19 and begin her journey into the MC. Her mother didn’t want her to go through it, not wanting to see her baby girl engulfed in a world like that. But, she reassured her that she was old to make her own decisions and this is what she wanted. There were times that perhaps she wasn’t 100% sure she’d become a full member. But, she was hell bent on proving herself worthy. Rora got patched in as a full member at 21 and would slowly begin to climb her way up the ranks within the club, her goal becoming an Arms Dealer. Her step father had been a former Arms Dealer, so she had gotten some previous experience from him. She’d train under a fellow Arms dealer until she was 24, officially working on her own. It was not easy, but she did it. She earned her damn patches and position. In addition to working with the Iron Coffins, she is continuing to work at Mama’s Kitchen as a waitress and raise her daughter Serenity by herself.

#vengeance: intro #( about )#death tw #murder tw #guns tw #pregnancy tw

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secretobsessionstuff · 4 years ago

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Concussed Shawn

A while back, an anon asked for a concussion fic so here it is! I hope that anon will see this :)

Warning: description of vomiting, bleeding, head injury, mention of hospital.

The sky was quite pretty that morning. It was a dull grey, which normally wouldn’t be very exciting, but Shawn found it almost relaxing. Snowflakes drifted down slowly from the infinite expanse of grey and landed on Shawn’s nose. It reminded him of snow days, when he would lie on his back and make angels in the cold blanket of white, looking up at the clouds.

And you want to know why Shawn had so much time to contemplate the beauty of the sky? It’s because he found himself sprawled out on his back against the icy driveway, the breath knocked out of his lungs. One moment he was trying to unlock his car door with his bags in his hand, and the next he was staring upwards at the falling snow.

His feet slid out from under him, almost cartoonishly kicking up in front of him, and he fell onto the ice that caused him to slip. His breath escaped past his lips in harsh puff which he could clearly see in the cold morning air. As he fell on his back, Shawn’s head hit the icy pavement. Pain shot through his neck and head from the whiplash.

A few feet away, Shawn heard laughter coming from Mateo. He would have laughed with his boyfriend if the impact hadn’t hurt so much.

“Oh my gosh,” Mateo said as he chuckled. Despite the laughter, Mateo still made sure to cautiously approach Shawn. As much as it was funny to watch his boyfriend comically slip, he did see Shawn’s head rebound off the driveway, and that didn’t look so funny. Like a child learning to skate, Mateo shuffled over to the spot where Shawn had fallen, and lowered himself to the ground. “Are you okay?”

With a grimace of pain, Shawn rubbed the back of his head, already feeling a bump beginning to rise. Through gritted teeth he said, “Fuck that hurt like hell!”

“Yeah, you really whacked your head.” Mateo stopped laughing because he didn’t like the dazed look in Shawn’s eyes. “That was a nasty fall.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Shawn grumbled. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a headache coming on strong, He had a class to teach in a few minutes and here he was sitting in the driveway as snow dampened his pants. “I feel sick and my head is pounding.”

“Let me feel,” Mateo said as he touched the back of Shawn’s head. There was a nice bump in the middle of his skull. Under normal circumstances Mateo would have suggested he put ice on it, but that seemed like fighting fire with fire, or the cold version of that. He loved the irony of it all but not enough to let it distract him.

There was something else wrong. Mateo felt wetness on his fingers and when he looked at them, he found spots of red. The ice was jagged in this area, so it made sense that it broke the skin. Before Mateo could warn his boyfriend, Shawn went back to rubbing the bump and soon discovered the same thing.

The blood stood out against the greyness of the morning, and it immediately turned Shawn’s stomach. “Is that…” All at once, the world spun around him, and he felt ten times worse. The pain and nausea doubled.

Shawn leaned to the side as he vomited up his breakfast onto the snow-covered ground. His stomach and his head lurched as he felt a wave of vertigo wash over him. He reached his hand out for no other reason than feeling like he was going to fall off a cliff.

Mateo caught his wrist and held onto him while he heaved and retched up partly digested cereal. “Oh no, Shawny, okay I’ve got you.”

Shawn whimpered from the pain and the waves of nausea invading his body. He swore he could taste metallic blood in his mouth, but it wasn’t real. He just couldn’t get the bright red blood out of his thoughts. When he looked up at Mateo, the grey sky in the background looked like a choppy sea that crashed against rocky clouds.

He spat into the puddle of sick, happy to report that he saw no blood. Even his fingers had been wiped clean. The hammering heart in his chest slowed down while he focused on the gentle circles that Mateo rubbed onto his back. “Well,” Shawn began, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, “that’s not how I expected the morning to go.”

“I don’t think you should go to work like this,” Mateo said. Unfortunately, he didn’t think Shawn would say the same thing. The blood was alarming, but you can’t really put a bandage over hair.

“I’ll be fine…eventually,” Shawn said, more so trying to convince himself. His hands were still shaking as he held onto Mateo. Together they stood up from the ground. He felt like rag doll that had been thrown around, but at least his vision was no longer swimming. He opened the car door and got in on the driver’s side.

“Babe, you just threw up,” Mateo said he stood in the way of the door closing. “I don’t want you driving right now.”

“I have to.” While Shawn really didn’t feel like driving because that required far too much effort, he did need to get to work. Just the thought of concentrating on the road made his head ache, but he ignored that. “I won’t get sick as long as I don’t look at the blood. Lucky for me, it’s on the back on my head.”

Mateo bit his thumb nail. “I don’t like this. I want to keep an eye on you.”

“I’m fine. The pain is already fading.” That was a lie but a necessary one if Shawn was going to get to work on time. “Please let me go. There’s no way I’ll find a substitute in such short time.”

Mateo moved aside. “Fine, but you’ll be leaving AMA.”

“What?”

“Against Mateo’s advice.”

Shawn smirked and kissed Mateo goodbye. He really did hope that the pain would fade because he was in for a long day.

…

It was indeed a long day full of blurry vision and a constant nausea. While teaching his class, Shawn could hardly focus on the material. The harsh fluorescent lighting felt like daggers in his eyes. What made the day so much worse was that his sour stomach never got better. By now, Shawn was used to the racing heart and the pools of sweat that accompanied any sight of blood, but the nausea usually didn’t last too long. Once the blood was gone and there was something else to focus on, the panic began to subside. But not today it seemed.

The nausea, the dizziness, and the ringing in his ears stuck around for the entire day and followed Shawn home. The drive back was just as bad as the drive there. His vision kept leaping out of focus like a stubborn camera. For probably the first time in years, he didn’t listen to music on the drive home because each beat was another knife in his brain.

As soon as he got home, Mateo bombarded him with questions about his head. Was the bump still there? Did the cut stop bleeding? Did he throw up again? Although Mateo was just being a worried boyfriend and a good EMT, his voice was much too loud for Shawn’s liking.

The boys sat at the kitchen table while they ate dinner. Actually, Mateo ate dinner; Shawn just pushed around the food on his plate. His eyes were half closed, and he had no energy to open them. The kitchen light was too bright and the sound of cutlery scrapping against dishware was maddening.

Mateo looked up from his food and frowned at Shawn. “Why aren’t you eating?”

Too loud! Shawn clenched his jaw out of frustration, but also because he felt sick to his stomach again.

“Shawn?”

Shut up! Shawn wanted to say that, but he didn’t trust himself to open his mouth. Instead he stood up from the table with a hand over his lips. As he got up, he felt himself sway.

Mateo must have seen the colour drain from Shawn’s face because he got to his feet as well. “You look like you’re about to be sick.”

Wow how observant of Mateo, Shawn thought. He deserved a medal! Shawn knew it was the pain and the nausea that drenched his thoughts in sarcasm, but he did nothing to fix it. There were more important things on his mind.

The chair squealed against the floor as Shawn fled from the table. While he ran towards the bathroom, his vision tunneled. He put an arm out to steady himself, but he missed the wall. The hallway flipped upside down and the disoriented Shawn stumbled to his knees.

The retch gurgled up his throat after that. There was no use crawling to the bathroom because Shawn didn’t even know which way was up. All he knew was that his stomach was sick, and his brain felt sick, and God he felt sick.

On his hands and knees, a torrent of puke rushed up from Shawn’s belly. It splattered to the floor between his hands with a sickening squelch. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for it to be over.

The one steady thing in all of this was Mateo’s touch. It grounded Shawn and allowed him to regain his senses. “I’m here. You’re okay,” Mateo whispered. He whispered. And it sounded heavenly.

Shawn coughed in between heaves. “Something’s wrong,” he mumbled with saliva hanging from his lips. He couldn’t figure out what was wrong, only that this didn’t feel normal. It felt like his brain was leaking out of his ears. “My head is killing me.”

“I’m an idiot,” Mateo mumbled under his breath as he rubbed Shawn’s back. His boyfriend gagged and brought up a thin stream of bile. “Nothing’s wrong babe, but this looks like a concussion.”

Shawn moaned and leaned against the wall once he was sure the vomiting was over. “That doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“It’ll be fine,” Mateo said before kissing Shawn’s shoulder. He was going to kiss his forehead, but he was afraid he would hurt his boyfriend. Mateo mentally kicked himself for not catching this sooner. “I should have known this morning. You said you felt sick before seeing the blood.”

Shawn started to shake his head but immediately aborted that idea. “No, it’s not your fault. I should have listened to you.”

“Yes, you should have,” Mateo said. “Now you will listen to me when I say we are going to the hospital.”

Shawn raised his arms in the air like a child asking to be lifted. Of course, Mateo didn’t lift his boyfriend into his arms, but he did let Shawn lean on him while they carefully walked to the car.

#emeto #emetophilia #concussion #head injury #my ocs #Shawn #Mateo #puking #vomiting #blood tw #Blood #nausea

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snowdice · 5 years ago

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The Things We Never Mentioned (Part 3-Final) [Part of the Relabeled; Refiled Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Logan/Patton

Characters: Logan, Patton, The one EMT from the last chapter

Summary:

“Believe it or not, academia and relationships are not mutually exclusive.” That was likely true, Logan knew. It was also not the problem.

The problem was his ability to move things with his mind, a blue suit he kept in his bag, and the mountains of red files he kept hidden in his apartment. No one knew that Logan was Bluebird, the cities resident superhero. He hadn’t even told his parents and he wasn’t planning on doing so. Sharing such a secret with anyone was a danger to everyone involved. He refused to do so.

At the same time, he knew that starting a romantic relationship with anyone who didn’t know the truth, was unfair to that person. Inevitably they would find out and there would be a disastrous fallout, but beyond that, starting a relationship on a foundation of lies was a horribly cruel thing to do to another person.

These two conflicting rules Logan followed had never posed an issue for him before recently, but…

But he did like Patton.

This is a three-shot dealing with events set before my story Sometimes Labels Fail set about a month and a half after the mini fics A Coffee Shop Meet Cute and A Coffee Shop Incident Report.

Notes: Superhero AU, Surgery, Medical Procedures, Drugs for Medical Purposes

Part 1 Part 2

Awareness came in waves for Logan.

At first there were just impressions of voices, but no understanding of any of the words. The sharp smell of disinfectant tingled at his nose and he strung together with bits of memory that he was likely in a hospital, but that knowledge faded as he drifted back into unconsciousness.

Next, he was jostled a bit and then he could feel himself being moved while the click-clack of wheels met his ears. He cracked open his eyes briefly to see the long rectangular lights in a hallway’s roof. Someone spoke but he just hummed and closed his eyes again.

Then, he woke briefly as just a bit of sunlight was starting to stream through the windows, opening his eyes for just a moment before closing them again. Things were starting to hurt just a bit now beyond the fog of whatever drugs were in his system. He tried to struggle against the drowsiness that seemed to creep through his veins, not particularly content with the sensation, but a hand touched his shoulder. “It’s okay,” a voice said softly and for some reason he believed it and let himself be pulled back under.

He listened for a bit the next time he woke. He could hear the steady beat of the heart monitor and a whispered conversation a small distance away. That was probably a good sign. Though he had yet to try to move, his body ached and smarted, especially his chest and lower abdomen. Luckily, the pressure of his mask was still on his face. With a breath, he blinked open his eyes. He moved a bit and a face was immediately hovering over him.

“You’re awake,” Patton said. Why was Patton here? He racked his brain, a vague memory of Patton dressed up as a doctor coming to mind. In fact, he was wearing a doctor’s coat now. Was he a doctor? Logan didn’t know he was a doctor…

That didn’t matter right now. He wasn’t Logan right now.

He cleared his throat, but it still came out a little hoarse. “I am.”

“Your mask was not removed,” Patton said, face serious in a way Logan hadn’t seen it be before. “You had a couple of people making sure of that.” He nodded at a woman sitting in a chair on the other side of Logan’s bed.

“Hello,” she greeted. “I was one of the EMTs on scene.” Yes, Logan thought. He remembered her if only through a pain filled haze. “I was tasked with upholding the mask courtesy.”

“Thank you,” Logan said, but then he blinked up at Patton. “Why are you here?” he asked.

Patton bit his lip. “I was your surgeon. You, uh, said a couple of things when you were out of it.”

Logan swallowed. “What did I say?” he asked.

“Nothing that reveled much other than that you know me.”

Logan closed his eyes and sighed. “I see.”

“If you feel you are well enough and are willing to sign the release form for me, I can leave and let you two have this discussion in private,” the EMT offered.

He nodded. “That would probably be for the best.” She produced the papers and he quickly signed them. With a brief nod to Patton, she was gone.

Patton slowly sat down on the edge of Logan’s bed, angled so Logan could see half of his face. “I won’t ask your identity,” he started, “but I do have to admit I… figured it out. Not many people know me by name, but don’t know I’m a doctor.”

Logan felt his throat tighten. “I see.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the heaviness of knowledge hanging in the air around them.

“You never mentioned you were a doctor,” Logan said softly.

A melancholy smile ghosted across his lips. “I like to pretend sometimes that I’m not,” he said. “I go to coffee shops or parks and just exist. I read books and talk to interesting mathematicians,” his smile got just a little bit more genuine as his eyes flickered to Logan’s, “and I try to forget for a couple of hours all the responsibilities I have in these walls, all of the things I see, the feelings I can’t escape when it’s all over and I’m alone.”

“That’s…” Logan said. He didn’t know what that was. Patton always seemed so cheerful. He was always ready with soft smiles and warm touches, but he did not seem happy now.

“I…” he said when Logan didn’t move to say anything else for a long moment, “I’m pretty good at pretending. I can forget that I know this. But…”

“But?”

“Will you let me drive you home?” he asked. “I know you can’t stay here long, but you’re hurt and I… I would like to make sure you get home okay.”

Logan paused to think, but there was really no reason to refuse at this point. “Alright.”

“Thank you.”

“I feel I should be the one thanking you.”

“Please don’t.” Logan was frozen, unsure what to do in this situation, but he wanted to do something. Before Logan could devise an action to take, Patton seemed to shake off whatever emotion had had ahold of him and turned to face Logan fully. “I’d like you to eat something before I release you and then I have some cloths for you that should fit in my locker.”

Logan agreed, and he was quickly handed a package of applesauce and a carton of milk. When he found he was still hungry, Patton brought him a sandwich. After that, Patton checked on his wounds briefly with intense eyes and gentle fingers. He seemed reluctant to leave him alone to go get the cloths, but Logan tossed the empty apple sauce container and plastic spoon into the trashcan with his powers, carefully hiding the wince as everything inside him ached at the action, and he left.

Patton came back with a bag of clothing and without his doctor’s coat and removed the IV before helping Logan get to his feet. Logan’s ribs ached horribly at the movement, but he schooled his face. Patton gave him a suspicious look at the lack of pain on his face.

Logan changed into the clothing in a small bathroom that he was pretty sure was only for staff and stuck the mask into the bag the cloths had been in. He watched Patton’s face when he exited the bathroom, but there wasn’t even a flicker of surprise.

“Here, sit,” Patton ordered, making Logan bristle just a bit at the tone even though he was probably right.

“I don’t need a wheelchair,” Logan argued, his face twisting up.

“Please,” Patton said softly and oh, Logan wanted to argue, but he couldn’t when he caught sight of the expression on the other man’s face. He sat in the chair and let Patton fuss a bit over him before he wheeled him into the hospital parking lot. If Logan was being honest, walking to the bathroom had worn him out and the parking lot was quite a distance away, so it was likely best that he hadn’t walked even though it wounded his pride a bit.

He gave Patton directions to his apartment complex. He pulled into some of the street parking outside the building. “You live closer to the hospital than I do,” Patton commented. “I live on Monroe.” He fed the meter a few coins before coming around to help Logan into the apartments.

They took it slow, but Logan was still trying not to pant when they finally made it to his door. “How many ribs did I break again?” he asked once the door closed behind him.

Patton frowned at him and herded him toward his couch. “Four,” he replied. “So, make sure to take it easy.” Logan nodded and leaned back against his couch exhausted. Patton looked around. “Your apartment is… very tidy,” he commented. “Do you have any blankets or pillows?”

Logan hummed. “Hall closet.” Patton walked away and came back with what was almost certainly his entire blanket and pillow collection. “I’m not that cold,” he protested. Patton ignored the protest and positioned the blankets and pillows around him to make a sort of nest and pulled one of the blankets over him. Okay, he had to admit that was sort of nice. He relaxed back into the couch.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Logan said.

“Water at least,” Patton fretted.

“Patton,” he said. Patton blinked at him. The faucet in the kitchen started running and a glass of water zipped into his hand, Logan being careful to keep the water in the cup despite the speed. Using his powers hurt a bit less this time at least.

“Right,” Patton said. He looked like he wanted to ask something, but then he stopped and looked away. “Do you need a doctor’s note or anything for work or school? I could get one for you.”

“I didn’t have to be anywhere today. All I have left to do is grade which I can do from my couch. Also, I wouldn’t want people to be able to trace things back to you. It’s unlikely anyone would look, but you are on record for having done surgery on Bluebird last night.”

“I was going to forge Doctor Walter’s signature on it. He forgets when his glasses are on his face half the time. If someone ever brought it up to him, he’d just assume he forgot about writing it.”

“Should the man be working as a health professional then?”

Patton shrugged. “No.”

Logan laughed and Patton smiled back at him, but it faded slightly at the edges after a moment. “Well, if you really don’t need anything, then I should probably go.”

Logan paused, an ache in his chest not due to the fractured ribs. He didn’t need anything from Patton, but he really didn’t want him to go. “Of course,” Logan said anyway. Patton after all, had his own life to attend to.

Patton nodded and grabbed his bag. “Here are instructions for homecare,” he said, setting down a packet of paper on Logan’s coffee table. “Follow them, please,” he requested.

“I will,” Logan promised.

“Good,” Patton replied, “I… hope you feel better soon.”

“I’m sure I will. From what I understand, my doctor was very good.” Patton gave him a half smile and turned to the door. Logan stopped him before he opened it. “You said you’d be willing to forget this ever happened,” Logan said.

Patton paused and turned back to give him a tiny smile. “Of course.”

“I don’t want that,” Logan said.

Patton blinked at him a few times before a larger smile graced his face. “Okay then,” he said. “Um, I left my phone number on the instructions in case you needed anything medical related. So, call me if you need me?”

“I will,” said Logan and then he paused. “Also, if you are at any point worried, you can feel free to come back and check on me. If you aren’t busy.”

He looked relieved at the offer. “I’ll do that,” Patton said. “I’ll bring you something to eat for dinner, so you don’t have to cook.”

“That would be nice.”

“Okay,” he replied and bit his lip before opening the door and stepping back into the apartment hallway. “Bye.”

“Bye,” Logan said. He closed the door behind him. Logan had a long time to think that day and the days after while he healed, even while trying to grade his student’s exams on time. Most of those thoughts were about Patton. He had two rules, you see, that were almost always in conflict, but…

But they weren’t for Patton anymore.

Thanks for reading!

The next part of the Relabeled; Refiled prequel series is Logan’s 25 Step Plan to Ask a Boy Out.

#sanders sides #logan sanders #patton sanders #logicality #sanders sides fic #relabeled; refiled #labeled universe #adriana writes #medical #drugs for medical purposes #surgery

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