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intubatedangel · 2 years ago

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Junk : Conclusion

Here we go, it’s all coming together for the big finale story I’ve been working towards since I started the whole Anna Swift series. I’ll be getting to that one very soon, perhaps Chapter 1 will be a christmas present...

Story Index

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

* * *

Anna stepped up beside Carl, who was stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed and a frown on his face.

"How's it looking?" She asked him quietly.

"Not good." He sighed, keeping his voice low. "Last round of epi hasn't produced anything. At this point I think we're rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic."

Anna looked down at Megan, naked and utterly lifeless. Her whole body trembled with the aggressive compressions of the LUCAS. Each time the piston forced her sternum down, a wave appeared on the monitor next to the oxygen saturation reading, the machine providing an artificial pulse. The lines above, showing the electrical activity of Megan's heart, were utterly flat. Not a single wave or squiggle broke through on any of the leads.

Carl glanced at the clock, then let out a breath. "Right, push in another high dose of Narcan. Go with some epi and bicarb too." He announced. With nothing else to do, Anna stepped over to the crash cart and started drawing the drugs. She forced each syringe into the IV, giving the saline bag a quick squeeze to force it in faster.

"Kirstie," Carl called out to the nurse recording. "What have you got for down time?"

The nurse double checked her notes and the clock. "Confirmed downtime of 17 minutes, potentially 27." She replied in the flat tone of clinical detachment. Anna felt it too, despite knowing the young woman in front of them.

She shuddered, as her eyes tracked over Megan's body, seeing all of the track marks and other indications of sustained drug use. She was gaunt and grey, with unkempt hair and nails. A far cry from the vibrant, bubbly, athletic girl Anna had once known. As Anna watched her chest sink and abdomen roll, she wondered what had gone so wrong in the young woman's life. How could someone so similar to herself, have ended up going down such a different path?

* * *

Hearing the door open, Carl turned to see Trish, a piece of paper in her hand. She handed it off to him before moving into position to perform any tasks he had for her. Carl quickly read the results, resisting the urge to scrunch the paper into a ball and cast it away. Instead, he handed it to Kirstie to put in the file.

"Massive levels of Fentanyl. Only traces of anything else." He held the bottom rail of the bed, leaning forward with his head down. It meant there was nothing else worth trying. They'd given her plenty of Narcan on a steady supply, which should be counteracting the Fentanyl. It had simply been too late. The lack of oxygen in the intervening time had been too much.

He glanced up at the clock. 19 minutes since the paramedics had found her in full cardiac arrest. Carl drummed his fingers on the end of the bed, as he looked over at Anna. He'd noticed there was some sort of connection with their patient, he'd have to ask her about that later, make sure she was OK. She looked back, a hint of sadness on her face, but she nodded.

"Let's do a pulse check after this cycle." He told the team.

They all stood around the bed, silent. The only noises were the hiss and click of the LUCAS thumping away on Megan's chest, the gentle wheeze of the ambu bag as air was pushed into her lungs, and the persistent whine of the flatlined monitor. Carl kept one eye on the clock and as the minute rolled around, he gave a small nod to Anna. She reached up and turned the dial on top of the bulk plastic device. With one last hiss the LUCAS stopped, the plunger resting between Megan's breasts.

Anna lowered her hand to Megan's wrist, while Trish pressed her finger tips to the femoral pulse point. As they felt for any sign of life, Carl walked around to Megan's head. He waved the nurse to the side as he pulled out his penlight and leaned over, reaching out with one hand to gently open her eyes. He passed the light over each eye, once, twice, a third time. The thin ring of blue surrounding the wide dark pools didn't even flicker.

He let out a sigh. He'd known it was inevitable. It still sucked. "Pupils are still fixed and dilated. She's been asystolic for at least 20 minutes. We've attempted to reverse all apparent causes, with no response. Are we all agreed?" He looked around the team surrounding the trauma bed, each of them nodding as they met his gaze.

"Okay then." He looked up at the clock. "Time of Death, 3:25AM." He said, stepping back and pulling off his gloves. The ambu bag was disconnected and placed on the bed next to Megan’s head. Anna was reaching to unstrap Megan's wrist from the LUCAS, but Carl gently touched her on the arm, drawing her away slightly.

* * *

"You knew her." Carl said quietly. It wasn't a question, he could read her too well.

Anna looked up at him, the pang of love she felt for him warring with the sadness of the situation. She nodded. "Not well, and it's been a long time, but yes." She replied, feeling tears prickling her eyes. It surprised her a little. It had been years. But memories of years gone by always held a greater power. She could picture the dead woman behind her running around on a hockey pitch with a smile on her face. She would never smile again. Megan's father's booming laugh resonated in her mind. Once he found out, would he ever laugh again?

Carl pulled her out of her own head with a gentle touch on her arm. "I'm sorry." He told her. She nodded. "Go and take a break." He told her. "I'll come to you after I'm done."

She cocked her head at that. Everything was already done. The rest of the team had removed the LUCAS and the ecg leads, covering Megan's body with a white sheet. They were on their way out of the room.

"That amount of Fentanyl... That wasn't just a bad batch. That was intentional. The police need to know." He explained.

Anna nodded in understanding, and after a quick squeeze of Carl's hand, she walked out of the trauma room, heading for the nearby elevator. She needed to clear her head.

* * *

Lucy and Dave had stood in the corner of the trauma room after they had transferred Megan onto the trauma table. They'd waited to reclaim the LUCAS, both grimly confident that it wouldn't be long. They'd watched on as the team gave it their best effort, until it became clear that even their best wouldn't be enough, and they were forced to call it.

The paramedics stepped forward, taking away the LUCAS and helping to clean up their young patient. A minute later they walked out of the trauma room pushing the gurney. They hadn't gone far though, when Dave slowed them down. Lucy looked at him quizzically, before Dave nodded over at a set of seats next to a coffee machine. Jones was there along with his partner and Kevin. Lucy rolled her eyes.

"Go on." Dave pressed. "There's no harm in asking. I can take this back to the van and get it squared away." He didn't let her answer, taking off and leaving her standing there. She rolled her eyes at the meddling but couldn't help smiling to herself. She schooled her expression though as she approached the trio. The young man had just lost his girlfriend.

"Officer Jones, can I have a word?" She asked. The officer glanced at his partner, who nodded with an amused look on his face. Jones stood up, following as Lucy moved a little down the hall. On the way they passed Anna, who was looking at the floor as she slipped into the elevator. Carl was a little way behind her, a file in his hand. He zeroed in on Officer Stone.

"Luce." Jones said, unable to hide his smile. "What's up?"

"What time do you finish?" She asked, getting straight to the point.

"Err..." He glanced at his watch. "Theoretically 6, might get a little held up with..." He nodded over his shoulder at Kevin.

"Ok. Sounds good." She said nodding to herself.

"Care to let me in on what you're thinking?" Jones asked. "Given it seems to involve me."

"Oh, sorry. Breakfast. I mean, do you want to have breakfast with me? After work? I heard about a good take out spot. I could meet you at the precinct, and we could go down by the river..." She realised she was rambling. "If you want to, I mean."

Jones grinned. "Yeah...Yeah I'd like that."

"Awesome. Awesome. I guess I'll see you in a few of hours."

"It's a date." He replied, as she headed off after Dave.

Jones turned back towards the bench, seeing Carl and Stone deep in conversation. Both of them had angry looks on their faces, but it was clearly a shared anger. Kevin wasn't sat beside them. Jones walked quicker, going to the trauma room doors, expecting to see the young man inside, but there was just a body covered in a white sheet. That wasn't good.

He trotted back to Carl and Stone. "Where's Kevin? Did either of you see him?"

* * *

Anna leaned slightly over the rail at the top of the staircase, her head resting against the large glass window. It had been a little while since she'd had need to come up here to the helipad entrance. The day they had lost the young barista who had looked so much like her. She still hadn't heard anything in relation to that, but that didn't mean anything. Bureaucracy moved slowly. Then again, since that day she hadn't felt any weirdness from her own heart. Perhaps it all been psychological anyway, now that she had accepted her special interest, and experimented with it, there was no inner battle to stress her out.

She was looking out over the river and the city beyond, with its twinkling lights flickering in the gently shifting reflection of the river. It was a beautiful sight, but she wasn't really seeing it. Her mind was elsewhere, working through her feelings and memories. There was sadness, for everyone involved. Once upon a time she would have felt pain too. She would have trapped herself in wondering if they could have done more. But she'd been a nurse for over 8 years. The experience had been more than enough for her to understand that sometimes there simply wasn't a way to win. You couldn't change what people did to themselves, especially after the fact. If you did everything in your power and still lost, it wasn't your fault.

She still sighed, hoping Megan had found some measure of peace. Hoping that her parents would be able to recover, that this wouldn't destroy them. She let her mind drift. If she was needed, her pager would bleep. And Carl would be coming soon. The thought of seeing him gave her comfort. Her hand slipped into the pocket on her scrubs, playing with the silver locket that still lay in there. Her fingers ran along the silver chain, then around the edge of the heart shaped locket. She smiled to herself, allowing the sense of her love for Carl, and his for her, to override the sadness of the day's events.

As she stood there, she heard the rumble of the elevator. He was coming for her. To wrap her in his arms and make her feel like everything would be alright. She could already feel the smile growing on her face. The elevator stopped with a ding, the doors sliding open. She heard the footsteps, echoing slightly around the concrete and glass box of the landing.

"You can't sneak up on me this time." She said, straightening up. "The elevator gave you away." She smiled, turning to look at him as the elevator doors squeaked closed.

Her smile slipped away as she saw the person standing there.

Kevin glared at her, his face a tear streaked mask of pure rage.

#Medical Drama #CPR #Resus Writing #Anna Swift #Intubation

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omkarpatel · 10 months ago

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Diabetes Injection Pens Market is Estimated to Witness High Growth Owing to Increasing Prevalence of Diabetes

Diabetes injection pens are medical devices used for injecting insulin doses subcutaneously. Insulin pens combine an insulin cartridge with a dial to measure dosage and allows for hassle-free and accurate dose dispensing.

Market Dynamics:

The Diabetes Injection Pens Market is expected to witness significant growth over the forecast period owing to the increasing prevalence of diabetes across the globe. According to International Diabetes Federation, around 700 million people will be living with diabetes by 2045. Moreover, injection pens offer greater convenience and accuracy compared to vial and syringes, which also contributes to the growth of the market. Another major driver is the growing preference for human insulin analog over traditional human insulin due to similar glucose level control and lesser incidence of hypoglycemia.

Major Market Drivers - Adoption of Self-Care Practices For Diabetes Management

The rising prevalence of diabetes globally has necessitated the adoption of self-care practices for effective diabetes management. Self-monitoring of blood glucose levels using injection pens has become a vital practice among diabetics to help control blood sugar levels. Easy to use and store diabetes injection pens have enabled patients to self-administer insulin doses with high precision conveniently. As diabetes self-management gains more recognition as an important component of overall treatment, demand for diabetes injection pens is growing steadily.

Increasing Diabetes Incidence Due to Lifestyle Changes and Obesity

Changes in lifestyle and eating habits along with rising obesity rates have significantly contributed to the increasing incidence of diabetes worldwide. According to the International Diabetes Federation, about 463 million adults were living with diabetes in 2019 with the numbers projected to rise to 700 million by 2045. Most of the increase will occur in low and middle-income countries. As diabetes prevalence continues surging, especially in developing nations undergoing nutrition transition, usage of diabetes injection pens for effective therapy management is amplifying.

Major Market Restrain - High Cost of Branded Injection Pens

The high cost of technologically advanced branded insulin injection pens remains a major barrier hampering their widespread adoption, especially in cost-sensitive developing markets. While generic variants offer similar functionality at lower prices, branded pens still command a major share of the market due to physician preference and patient trust in established brands. However, patent expiries of blockbuster insulin brands in the coming years may help reduce prices through increased competition and availability of affordable biosimilar products. This can spur the diabetes injection pens market growth.

Major Market Opportunity - Untapped Potential in Developing Regions

Most of the future increase in the global diabetes population will occur in developing countries that are currently undergoing nutrition and lifestyle transition. While adoption of injection pens is gradually rising even in lower income settings, significant opportunities still remain untapped in these underpenetrated yet fast-growing diabetes markets. Increased awareness campaigns, expanded healthcare coverage and promotion of affordable generic devices can help boost injection pen usage, especially in Asia Pacific and Latin American countries where the economic burden of diabetes is rising sharply.

Major Market Trend - Connected Smart Pens With Digital Integration

One of the key trends emerging in the diabetes injection pens market is the introduction of ‘smart’ connected pens that can digitally store dosing history, integrate with mobile apps and cloud services. This allows remote monitoring by caregivers and physicians for better therapy management. Advanced features like Bluetooth connectivity, automatic log updates and customizable alerts are making connected pens more convenient to use. As digital health sees rapid innovation and adoption, smart pens equipped with such technologies are expected to gain prominence in the future to improve diabetes care outcomes.

#healthcare

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poonamcmi · 1 year ago

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Global Insulin Glargine Market Is Estimated To Witness High Growth Owing To Increasing Prevalence of Diabetes

The global Insulin Glargine Market is estimated to be valued at US$ 6,153.5 Mn in 2021 and is expected to exhibit a CAGR of 0.2% over the forecast period (2022-2028), as highlighted in a new report published by Coherent Market Insights. A) Market Overview: Insulin glargine is a long-acting insulin used to treat type 1 and type 2 diabetes. It provides a steady level of insulin in the body, helping to control blood sugar levels throughout the day and night. Insulin glargine offers several advantages over other types of insulin, including once-daily dosing and a reduced risk of hypoglycemia. With the rising prevalence of diabetes worldwide, there is an increasing need for effective diabetes management products like insulin glargine. B) Market Key Trends: One key trend in the insulin glargine market is the growing preference for insulin pens over vials and syringes. Insulin pens offer convenience, ease of use, and accurate dosing, making them more popular among patients. They also eliminate the need for multiple injections throughout the day, leading to improved patient compliance. For example, Sanofi Aventis offers insulin glargine in pen form under the brand name Lantus SoloSTAR. The pen has a built-in dial that allows patients to select their desired dose easily. C) PEST Analysis: Political: The political environment plays a crucial role in shaping the insulin glargine market. Government policies and regulations regarding diabetes management and access to healthcare can impact market growth. Economic: Economic factors, such as healthcare expenditure, per capita income, and insurance coverage, influence the affordability and accessibility of insulin glargine. Social: The increasing prevalence of diabetes, sedentary lifestyles, and unhealthy eating habits are social factors driving the demand for insulin glargine. Technological: Advances in technology have led to the development of innovative insulin delivery devices, such as insulin pens and insulin pumps, which improve the convenience and effectiveness of insulin glargine therapy. D) Key Takeaways: 1: The global Insulin Glargine Market is expected to witness high growth, exhibiting a CAGR of 0.2% over the forecast period, due to increasing prevalence of diabetes and the need for effective diabetes management. For example, according to the International Diabetes Federation, the number of people with diabetes is estimated to increase from 463 million in 2019 to 700 million by 2045. 2: In terms of regional analysis, North America is expected to dominate the insulin glargine market due to the high prevalence of diabetes and the presence of key market players. However, the Asia Pacific region is expected to witness the fastest growth during the forecast period. This can be attributed to the rapidly growing diabetic population, rising disposable income, and improving healthcare infrastructure in emerging economies like India and China. 3: Key players operating in the global insulin glargine market include Julphar, Biocon, Eli Lilly, Sanofi Aventis, and Novo Nordisk AS. These companies are focusing on strategic collaborations, product launches, and mergers and acquisitions to strengthen their market position. For instance, in 2021, Biocon received regulatory approval for its insulin glargine biosimilar in the European Union, expanding its market presence. In conclusion, the global insulin glargine market is expected to grow significantly in the coming years due to the increasing prevalence of diabetes and the demand for effective diabetes management products. Insulin pens are becoming increasingly popular among patients, offering convenience and improved compliance. North America currently dominates the market, while the Asia Pacific region is expected to witness the fastest growth. Key players in the market are actively engaged in strategic initiatives to enhance their market presence and meet the growing demand for insulin glargine.

#Pharmaceutical #Healthcare Industry #insulin glargine #insulin glargine market

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plasticbottlepackaging · 7 years ago

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choose a good veterinary syringe for dairy cattle mammitis is important for cow

Mammitis is the most common disease in dairy cattle in the world,If the cow is delayed treament,the mammitis will threat the cattle’s life.So you must pay attention to the mammitis. The mammitis can be caused by trauma,wrong way of milking,unhealthy environment.In the time,the bacteria will infect the dairy cattles. When the dairy cow is infected the mammitis,its abnormalities indications…

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#cow mastitis syringe #dial a dose syringe #disposable syringe #veterinary syringe

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heartbeatan · 2 years ago

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Crimson Park (Chapter 10)

Return to Chapter 9.

Return to Table of Contents.

Return to Desperado Series.

Return to Jungkook Fanfictions.

Return to Masterlist.

Chapter 10

You both returned to the complex around mid-afternoon. Jungkook followed quietly behind you as you led the way down the hall and towards your apartment. You reached for the handle and paused before opening the door.

“No more work today,” you said to him over your shoulder, keeping your back to him so he knew he wasn’t welcome inside.

“Alright, well. You know where I’ll be.”

⁂

Hours later, you found yourself in a familiar routine. You were in your wine red silk nightdress, sitting next to the window with a matching glass of red. You were watching the entrance to the park below, spotting the dealers, the joggers and the lovers as they came and went. It was a beautiful night out, and you resented them all for being out in it.

You could go down there. You could pull on a pair of cotton shorts, a light sweater and tuck your hair under a ball cap. No one would probably notice you or recognize you - you could peacefully walk around the city's well groomed gardens and let the clean air refresh and revitalise you... but you wouldn't.

You took a sip of your wine and looked up to the sky. It was difficult to see the stars through the light pollution of the city, even over the park. It made you think of Jungkook - that night, when he sat on a park bench, looking up at them in awe, while he talked to you, until your heart calmed, and you fell asleep.

He would love the park and would definitely go if you asked.

You shook the thought away, then looked back to the street where a young pregnant couple eagerly approaching the entrance caught your attention.

You watched them as they chatted, hand in hand as they passed through the gate. You envied them too. They had their youth; they had each other; they were starting a family. They had a seemingly simple, happy life - and so much more ahead of them. So much promise. But you knew that not all smiles translated into smiles behind closed doors. Perhaps one day, he would hit her; or she would cheat on him; or he would drink too much; or she would gamble away their savings. Maybe they wouldn't love their kids. Or... maybe they would be happy?

They stopped at the fork in the paths, and he pulled out his cellphone and made a call, after which, he pointed down the trail going East, and they began to walk. You quirked your head at their selection. You saw them disappear behind trees and shadows then reappear from under the foliage and lampposts. They were still going, and you began to silently plead to God that they weren't going where you thought they were. But minutes later, they were there, and you held your breath hoping it was just a coincidence. But sure enough, a figure stepped out from the shadows and approached them, and they weren't alarmed. You watched their exchange - them handing over cash, and him handing over something small. It was a short interaction - they had obviously done this before - and soon enough, they said their goodbyes, and the couple moved further down the way and found a tree to sit next to, near an obscure art installation. You couldn't turn away, even though you knew you didn't want to see it - even after she pulled out the syringe, and he crushed and cooked the dose. It was when their bodies both sunk near limp into grass and bark did you look away to dial a number on your phone.

"Ms. Park?"

"Griff... There's a heroin dealer in your territory. Not one of ours. He sells out of the east side of the park. Deal with him."

"Thanks for the tip," he said after a beat. You hung up the call.

You crossed the floor, emptying your glass in two gulps before you reached the kitchen island. You grabbed the decanter you had poured earlier and began to refill your glass - but you paused, frozen in thought before you barely drained an ounce.

You set the decanter back down, and pressed your hands into the smooth marble counter, wrestling with what you wanted, and pondering how you were going to get it.

After a minute or two, you downed the few sips you had poured, then returned to your seat by the window, grabbing your night robe before leaving your apartment and making your way to the security room.

You stepped through the door without knocking - perhaps that was considered rude since this was Jungkook's living space and it was after hours, but... it was still your property, after all.

He was seated in front of the video monitors - not that he was actually watching. His bare feet were propped up on the desk, and he was leaning precariously deep into the rolling chair with his nose stuck in a sudoku book.

His dress pants were still on, but he had taken off his jacket, tie and shirt, leaving his torso covered by only his white, ribbed tank. His one arm was raised so he could twist his pen and fingers through the hair on the back of his head, while the other balanced on the armrest holding up his book. His bare arms looked so... big... and lean in the shadows casted onto them in the dimly lit room. It only took a second to drink him all in, and less than that to spike your libido and convince you that coming here was the best idea you had all day.

He looked up to you, the look of concentration he had for his puzzle still all over his face, but it melted away quickly as he took in you in your nightgown that better resembled lingerie. His eyebrows raised in intrigue and his fingers froze around whatever strand of hair they had been knotting, he raked in every last inch of you in several heartbeats.

"Well, fuck," was all he could say, happy surprise lacing the words.

"Well fuck, yourself," you replied.

"I mean, I hope not," he quipped, coming back to his rather sharp senses.

You stared at each other, your hands on your hips and him basically a statue, unsure of how and who should make the next move. The air was thickening between you, and you were becoming increasingly restless waiting for the answer.

"You better move soon, or else you will be fucking yourself, Jungkook."

"Yes, ma'am," he acquiesced, tossing his book aside and jumping up from his seat.

You pulled at your robe, the silk slipping easily off your shoulders, catching it in your hands and tossing it aside before Jungkook reached you. He crushed his lips against yours, his hands landed right away on your waist and back, and they moved in fervour, pulling you towards him, making you feel small in his embrace.

Your kiss was heated from before it even began, like you had both anticipated it - and craved it - for decades rather than a few seconds. It was hotter, more raw, more confident than your first kiss in the car. Your heads bobbed back and forth as you battled each other for control and fought to get a greater taste of the other. The sound of your lips smacking filled the airways, and your breaths came out in loud gasps.

His hands, which had added more of your body to their assault, rose north from your thighs, lifting the lace trimmed hem of your garment with them, exposing a part of your ass that his palms then squeezed and caressed. You crossed your arms behind his neck and splayed your palms over the muscles moving across his back, revelling in every hill and valley. The fire blazing between you was so sexy, so messy, so hungry, that it ignited your mind and body with a fierce, feral need to consume him.

You bit down on his lower lip, and he groaned in delight, leaning with wherever you pulled him. You released him and his lip bounced back into place, and he nipped at you like a wild, hungry animal, but you held back letting him suck on air and want you more. He let out something that resembled a growl of need and frustration, and with strong arms he jerked you hard against his body, close enough so you couldn't escape. He claimed your mouth with his tongue, in a kiss that felt like it was more than just a tangle of muscle. It was possessive; a statement; a prayer; and a promise. It was so searing that it threatened to burn you to ashes right in his arms.

You threaded your fingers through his hair, then gripped his locks in a fist and tugged his head backwards, exposing just enough of his throat to make him feel vulnerable.

He looked down at you as best he could, licking his lips - perhaps discovering how much he liked being owned by you. Your mouth parted, your tongue in your cheek, you gave him a look that was one shot of seduction, one shot of encouragement, and two shots of cruelty. If he wanted more of you right now, if he wanted to be in charge... he'd have to fight for it.

His eyes sparked with a devilish delight as he heard your unspoken words. He bent his knees and dipped low, grabbing you behind the thighs, and with one lift that didn't phase him in the slightest, you found yourself mounted onto his hips and your limbs tied around his waist. A small noise escaped your throat as your heat landed over his bulge. This was the kind of passion you wanted from him.

You rewarded him by planting your lips back onto his and ringing off an appreciative moan. He carried you both further into the room, his lips and tongue still working your mouth, until he knocked into the round dining table - perhaps a little bit harder than intended.

"Ow," he said, but the lack of pain in his voice let you know that he wasn't actually hurt.

"Shut up," you breathed against his kiss.

"You're so mean sometimes," he teased, but then his tongue was down your throat again. He nearly threw you and him down on the table, grabbing your thigh to lift and pull it around his ribs, and you encircled his body with everything you could, locking him to you. The table cracked beneath you, and for a moment that was so brief it couldn't convince you to care, you wondered if you would need to replace it in the morning.

His thumbs travelled to the junction where your legs met your torso, and he pulled you roughly closer to the edge of the wood surface, so he could comfortably rut against you with his feet still firm on the ground.

You two were already a twisted mess of limbs and hands and lips and skin, even though you had only just gotten started. He rolled his hips in a quick thrust, and your breath hitched as you felt his movement hard over your clit.

He pulled back, then rolled again, diving teeth first into your neck, and pressing his groin hard against yours. Your back bowed off the table in what little space Jungkook had given you, and your hardened nipples tickled his own through the thin fabrics. Your pussy screamed for his next thrust to be inside of you, even though chances were slim. The micro-spasm, which turned your spine into a half-moon, relaxed, and your back slammed flat onto the surface beneath you, and the table groaned in protest.

Jungkook, or at least whatever incubus creature that currently possessed him, sucked bruises down your neck to your shoulder. Then, in a one-track haze, he grabbed the strap of your nightdress and pulled it down your shoulder to expose the millimetres of skin it protected, humping into your hips again when he grazed the spot with his teeth.

You heard a small rip, and you felt the tension of the garment over your breast snap free, revealing part of your nipple. The strap had broken.

Jungkook pulled back to stare down at it, his eyes hungry and hooded as if your stiff peak was a Michelin dessert he wanted to Instagram first then devour. He had you caged between his arms, nowhere for you to hide from him, and it made your mouth run dry. He looked at you as if you were the sexiest, and most unattainable woman on earth. He made you feel so desired, and that was a bigger turn on than any touch. But his eyes lingered too long, making you feel overwhelmed by his unbridled attention, and you clamoured for something to break the tension.

"This is Natori," you said, referring to the destroyed clothing.

"I don't know what that means," and what he didn't say was that he didn't care.

"It means, don't expect a paycheck this week."

His mouth curved into a salacious smile. He reached for the fabric still partially over you, and with one casual flick of his index finger, the torn silk flipped away, and your breast was completely bare.

"Mmm. Worth it."

You bit your lip to suppress a blush.

He dipped forward, slow and patiently, building your anticipation until you felt his hot tongue lave over your nipple.

A heavy sound rippled from the back of your throat, and your hand instinctively curled behind his neck as you pushed your breast against his mouth.

He licked again, the muscle flat, and wide, hot and long. Then he moved to the other side for a quick nibble of your other bud through the silk. It somehow felt just as good - the way his saliva wet the threads and made it cling to your sensitive skin, and the way it caused the temperature to go from the scalding hot inside his mouth to icy cold when it wasn’t. He then returned to your bare breast, cupping it, then massaging it firm in his hand, descending onto its peak again to circle it with the tip of his tongue.

You kept your upper body stilled, not wanting to lose his wet touch, but your lower body squirmed beneath him - your legs melting and loosening their grip, then solidifying and squeezing against him. Your hand on his neck slipped into his hair in a delicate caress, while the other glided over his shoulder and down his back, following the curves of his spine. Your eyes almost rolled back into your head when he sucked the bud between his teeth and tickled it with his tip. He released it, and it sprung back into place, immediately aching for more.

"Fuck, Jungkook,' you both admonished and commended him.

"You're so fucking sexy, you know that? You drive me crazy."

"Then do something about it, God, please," you begged him, having no time left for adulation. You needed him to fuck you until you forgot your name.

"You want me to go down on you?" his voice low, and his words eager.

"No," you responded quickly. "I like your hands."

"You'd like my tongue too."

The thought sent a shiver through you, but you told him again that his fingers were all you wanted.

He pulled himself off of you to stand up and loom over your boneless body that now missed his weight and heat, and you heard the table crack again with the shift.

"Let's go to your room," you suggested.

"No. Right here."

"Why? Are you afraid to let me see your room?"

"No," he laughed. "But my bed isn't adult sized, and I want to do some very adult things right now."

You looked over in the direction of his room. The door was opened enough so you could peer in, and you could see part of the pink metal head and footboard - that's when you remembered the furniture in the room Jungkook occupied had once been Taesub's daughter's first big girl twin bed set.

"Fine. The couch then."

"Nope. Right here," he rubbed his palm dangerously under your skirt, and your joints tightened and rotated in anticipation. "I want to fuck you on this table, the way I wanted to fuck you on it the night you played cards with us. You had that cute little top on and that tight little skirt."

Your stomach tingled with a new wave of confidence, and heat, and flattery. You liked the idea that he fantasised about you, the same way you fantasised about him. You slid your foot up his inner thigh to his bulge, rubbing him gently through his pants as you wondered where else he had thought about fucking you. He tucked his lower lip between his teeth and hummed a little in gratitude for the contact. He wrapped his fingers around your ankle to stop your movements, but not firm enough to release the pressure against him.

"This table is going to break," you told him, your voice not convincing enough to express any worry if it did.

"Suck it up. I'm in charge this time."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because this is my apartment."

"I'm the one who owns it," you shuffled your foot harder against his dick, both to warn and entice him. You watched his throat move as he swallowed hard. He then pulled your foot away, and pressed on your knees, gently parting them. He slid a strong hand up your inner thigh to rest heavily over your bare pussy. You sighed something pathetic over the electricity that crackled out of your clit and into the rest of you.

"You fucked my brains out in the car this morning. Now, it's my turn." He rotated his palm, so the heel of his hand pressed your clit, and his fingers began to circle your entrance, causing it to pulse and your legs to tingle. "Let me fuck your brains out, Y/N."

You swallowed and licked your teeth. "I suppose I could allow that."

He snickered a soft and knowing breath.

"Alright. Don't come until I tell you too."

"I don't like taking orders."

He retreated from your junction, and your lips pursed in disappointment at the loss in mass. He wrapped both his hands gently around your wrists, then slowly lifted your arms above your head, pinning them firmly against the wood. His body drifting over yours with the action, and you felt his delicious weight over your lower half once again. He was now eye level with you, and his lips hovered inches above yours, and you readied yourself, hoping that he was going to kiss you again.

"Too fucking bad," he chided, the words dancing with humor. You wanted to say something witty back to him - but all you could think about, all you could look at were his lips. You wanted them now, and you didn't care if they came with a cost. You lunged at them, but Jungkook saw it coming and pulled back, leaving you chomping at the bit.

A tease.

He lowered his face again, like he was the one going in for the kiss, but when you reached up to meet him, he pulled away again - the mischief of the devil flaming in his eyes. Your wrists made a dull thud against the wood as they tried to break free from his grip, and it only made him press harder into your groin, rotating his lower half to tease even more frustration out of you. If this was a preview of what he had planned, you wondered if you should just cry tears now and get that part out of the way.

"Are you gonna be good, Ma'am?" he patronised you with the title - but it set you on fire.

You cleared your throat, the taste of surrender still a little bitter in your mouth, even though surrendering to him was the only thing in your life you had ever been sure you wanted. "I'll be good."

He then gave you his mouth, in a slow, languid kiss that coaxed an uninhibited moan from deep within you. He broke from your lips to kiss his way down your neck, your nipple, and your belly, before he stood tall again and with a look that was somewhere between lust and arrogance, he slipped two fingers inside you.

Fuck. Yes.

You stretched your hands further north, gripping the edge of the table, happy to have something to cling to. He slipped in and out of you, twisting his wrist, ensuring every inch of your chamber was tended to.

"I like this no panties thing you have going on tonight."

"These are my pyjamas."

"It doesn't look like pyjamas to me."

"Not all of us sleep in Disney Princess themed bedrooms," you quipped, referencing his bed set situation. "Mine are made for a woman in a woman's bed."

"Indeed," he curled his knuckles, and your spine curled with them, bending your neck to look at the room behind you. He then pressed his thumb over your clit, and you jumped, your body wanting to get away from the too much, too fast sensation. But he held you tight at the hollow below your hip, and you were so glad he did.

He kept rubbing you - it wasn't slow and sensual, it wasn't rough and hard - it was a combination of both, and yet neither. It was so precise, and calculated, as he explored your cavern, remembering where and what had triggered your pleasure before. The look of focus and concentration and guarded lust on his face, as he watched you writhe, somehow made the physical feelings intensify.

You released one hand from the table, sliding it down your body then over his hand and arm that was holding you in place. Your eyes squeezed tight, you bit your lower lip and turned your neck to the side, running your fingers through your hair and fisting the strands as he curled his knuckles again.

He hummed in admiration at the way you looked beneath him. "God, you're so sexy. Have I told you that?"

“Yes, you did," you whined an answer.

"Well, you are," he curled inside you again, and you hissed. "Fuck, I love this."

Butterflies escaped from their box inside your belly at his praises, and then they caught on fire and began to form your orgasm.

He could sense the rise, and he decided to raise his game with it. He pumped into you a little faster, and a little harder. He then dug in deep, flapping his digits against your walls rapidly.

"Oh!" you dropped both your hands and grabbed his wrist that was fucking you, your shoulders pulling off the table.

"Don't come, Y/N," he warned in a song of amusement. There was something so... fun, about sex with him. He could turn you on, make you feel debased, but within the raw sexual atmosphere, there was a playfulness that made you want to giggle between the sounds of pleasure you emitted.

"Ok," you conceded, closing your eyes, pressing your mouth in a thin line to cover most of the ways it was curling upwards. You exhaled through a small part in your lips, collecting yourself, then relaxed your body and counted to ten, ignoring the pulsating invasion inside you.

Your orgasm stopped growing, but only for a little while, and soon your body began to wriggle intensely, it wanting to climax, and it fighting your mind that wanted to abide the orders.

Jungkook pulled out of you, then he began to slap your swollen pussy in rapid, wet taps that sounded off the walls. Your body pulled taut without your consent, a microgasm ricocheting through you as it must've wanted this and knew you needed to be still to get it. It released you with a gasp for air and you began to twist and writhe more violently now as he sunk his digits back in you. The heel of his hand now pressed hard and shuffled roughly against your clit, and his fingers dug hard, straining against everything that wasn't letting them reach further into you.

"Not yet," Jungkook said.

"I'm fucking not," you retorted, your voice coming out angry, but really you were just trying your best to not fall apart.

"Are you sure?" he asked in a way that sounded as if he knew something you didn't. With that, he stuffed his fingers roughly into you, clamping over your ridge, pressing that sweet button inside you.

You screamed, "Oh, ff... ffuck!" Your body curling towards him, lifting into a near seated position, and unable to collapse as he flicked the spot rapidly and repeatedly.

He released you, and you fell hard back onto the table, another crack of wood greeting you. He began pumping, and flexing, and clamping again, and your body tried to react the same way. But he pressed his free palm heavily over your lower belly, steadying your bottom half against the surface, and holding you just where he wanted you while his fingers tore your insides apart.

Your staved climax was screaming in your ears, demanding to be set free, and you couldn’t remember why you agreed to Jungkook’s terms.

"Pleaseeee," you sobbed. "I want to come like this."

"No way. This is only foreplay - I'm not done."

"God, Jungkook, I'll let you keep fucking me if you think you can make me come again."

"Maybe next time, babe. I gotta leave you with something to look forward to, so you don't wait three more weeks to want me again."

"I won't," you whined, the words escaping before you could register them. Then, your breathing became dangerously shallow, your legs began to tremor, and your eyebrows furrowed in concentrated agony - all the telltale signs that you were about to come, and you couldn’t stop the train.

Jungkook quickly pulled from within you, and you let out a throaty sound of hatred. His palm still on your belly, he watched you wriggle under him and gasp to even your breath.

"What the fuck?!" you nearly shouted when your eyes could see him clearly again.

"Stay here," he smiled in a way that made you want to punch and sit on his beautiful face. He stepped away, walking over to the security desk. You craned your neck to watch him, since the rest of your body wasn't listening to you right now. He picked up his wallet, and pulled from it another square packet and returned, condom in tow.

"How many do you keep in there?"

"Just one. But I replenished."

"Presumptuous."

"Just hopeful.” You sat up as he rounded the table, keeping your legs parted as a welcoming parking spot for him. You reached for him, and rubbed his swollen length over his pants, looking up to him to observe his enjoyment of it. You then unclasped his belt, and in one smooth motion pulled it straight through the loops and off him, displaying it intentionally over the side of the table before dropping it to the floor with a loud clank. "Fuck. That was hot," he sounded almost surprised.

You reached for the button and clip, then unzipped his fly at a seductive pace. Your gaze never left his face as you worked to spring his cock free - wanting to memorise every twitch his features made as you undressed him.

You pulled his pants and underwear down, just enough to relieve what was begging for air. You salivated at the sight of him. You hadn’t taken time before to admire his dick, and now that you did, you understood why it felt so fucking good inside you.

You made a fist around his girth, and began stroking him languidly from base to tip, giving a little extra attention to the latter. His breath caught a few times, but with a torn and warnful look he said, "Don't do that."

"You don't want me to touch you?"

"I do... but I wanna break our time record."

"You're keeping score?" you teased, pulling a little harder on him and stealing a groan from him.

He licked his lips. "I'm a numbers guy, after all."

"Alright," you gave him a challenging grin, releasing his cock and leaning your palms on the table behind you.

He studied your mouth for a moment, then in an instinctive move, brought the condom wrapper to your lips. You bit the corner of the foil with your canines, and he pulled, ripping the packet open in one move.

"God. That was hot too," he mused.

"I thought you said we weren't supposed to do that," you teased.

"What can I say? I like to live on the edge."

He moved to slip the condom on, but you sprung forward, "Let me help you." You wrapped your fingers around his shaft, holding it straight for him, and not to subtly stroking him again. He scoffed a small laugh, well aware of what you were up to. He slipped it over his tip, and you took care of the rest, rolling the latex down his length in a motion that too much resembled a hand job.

"Y/N," he smiled again.

"What?" you blinked your eyes in a feigned innocence. "I've lasted this long."

"And I won't. I'm man enough to admit that."

You squeezed his base, holding for a count of five as a sound rumbled through his chest.

"There. That should help," you whispered mockingly. You then leaned back, shuffling your butt forward to the edge of the table, and lifting your ankles to rest there as well.

He now had a front row, unadulterated view of your pussy, which was wet and swollen because of him and was begging for more. The look that washed his face sent a hard shiver through your every vein, so much so that your heat twitched, and he licked his teeth in response.

He stepped forward, smoothing his hands over your knees and thighs as he did. He then took his cock in his fist, and you silently prayed he would just sink into you already.

But instead, he guided his tip to your folds, pushing them apart as he dragged it upwards to your clit. He circled the nub several times, and your breaths quickened. Then he dragged it down again and teased your hole with presses not firm enough to penetrate. He pointed his cock north again, and thrusted over your slit, and you clenched around nothing.

"Jungkook... please..." your voice no louder than a ghost’s. But he pulled back and did it again, and you groaned as if you had missed a free-throw. But on the charming third time, you felt his tip breach your folds, then enter you, meeting resistance as your canal was too excited to greet it's guests.

But it didn’t deter him. He reached beneath your knees, lifting your feet off the table, forcing you to balance your weight on your hands. Then he opened you wide for him, and he pressed ahead, breaching new and erotic territory.

As he plunged, he searched your face for any sign you didn't like the burn. But all he found was your mouth agape and widening further with each inch he conquered.

He relaxed, pulling out a measure, then plunged deeper. Over and over again he did this, and each repeat threatened to send you into a tailspin. He bottomed out, balls deep inside you, and you both surrendered a sound of erotic relief.

He held himself there, embracing the feel of you tight around him. You breathed, "Fuck me, Jungkook," prompting him to move before he got too comfortable.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied. He pulled his hips back, then shoved his dick hard into your gut.

A noise escaped from high in your throat, and he thrusted again and was greeted by another. You felt an embarrassment at how quickly you were fracturing, and how the sound chords in your throat betrayed you to him. But he wasn’t inhibited in the least. He moaned, and grunted, and whimpered - vocalising every sensation, regardless of how it sounded. The noises he made were so pure, and so delectable - they turned you on like nothing else.

He fucked you just like this for what felt anywhere between 10 seconds and 10 hours, pounding you into that place where you could find your orgasm again. Then he released your knees, tightening his hand around your lower back to hold you a little closer. You hooked your ankles behind his back, and tried to wave your hips to match his, but you were still too precariously balanced on your hands and ass to fuck him back. You wish you were on your haunches so you could - you'd have to remember that for next time. So instead, you bared his unrelenting thrusts, and admired all the ways he reacted to being inside you.

You wrapped an arm over his shoulder, holding him by the back of the neck, wanting to meet his lips, but unable to relax your slackened jaw to do so - you felt as if he was piercing your lungs.

"Jungkook," you cried desperately when you found enough infrastructure to say anything. But he couldn't answer - he was just as lost as you were - drowning in everything he wanted to say and held under by everything he felt.

His thrusts suddenly became erratic, and he cursed, "Fuck! Oh, fuck!" as his everything in his body spasmed and tried to tip him over the ledge. He halted all movements, and dropped his face onto your shoulder, panting heavily.

"Please, don't fucking move," he begged you, and it was so desperate, you abandoned all desire to torture him... for now. He almost came, and it had been so sudden he couldn't psych himself out of the build up. You wouldn't have minded if he did - there was something you loved about him losing control because of you. So instead, you stroked his arms, his back, and ran your hands through his hair and over his ass.

"How are we for time, ref?" you whispered in his ear before you licked its shell and sunk your teeth into the lobe.

"Fuck, I don't know," he sputtered out. "But I want to do this forever."

You beamed, and your stomach jolted at the thought.

"I'm not waiting forever to come, Jungkook," you squeezed your walls around him, and he hissed in pain. "Don't you want to come inside me?" You felt his member twitch. He didn't answer right away - and then he did, but not with words. He retreated from your shoulder, and covered your mouth with his, breathing you in, one heavy breath at a time. Then, the intensity increased, as the intense need for each other shifted into overdrive. You began to claw at his body, and he kneaded every inch of your flesh he could hold onto.

With an aggressive pull on your ass, he dragged you beneath his body, laying you flat on the table again. Then he thrusted - no - he pounded his way through you like a jackhammer, moving at a manic pace and strength that was inhuman.

"Ohh... hhhh... ohhhh," your voice fractured with every smack of his hips, and your vision began to cloud at the edges, as if you were about to pass out. Your toes curled and your legs began to tingle so violently you weren't sure if it was pain or pleasure they were feeling.

"You like that?" he husked. "You like how I fuck you?" When you couldn’t respond, he pulled out nearly all the way, then slammed into you so hard that you could have been thrown off the table if his hands hadn't been gripping you under the shoulders. "Answer me," he growled, snapping his hips again and freezing deep inside and hard against you.

"Ye...y-yes..." you choked on a sob.

"Yes, what?"

You rolled your eyes, partially at him and partially because of his dick.

"Yes, I like how you fuck me." He resumed his maniacal pace, and you could feel all your discarded climaxes stacking on top of each other, ready to erupt like magma in a volcano. "I'm gonna..."

"Don't..." he commanded but didn't relent his assault.

"I can't," your voice was flustered and weak.

"Just a little longer. You'll come harder. Do what you have to."

You couldn’t believe you were listening to him... you already knew you'd come harder than you had in forever - but part of you wanted to test how much further it would go, another part wanted to give him this, and the last part didn't want to stop at all.

You sunk your nails into his back, and you were sure you broke skin; you squeezed your muscles painfully tight, to counterbalance the pleasure; and, you bit down hard into his shoulder, like you were about to set a broken bone without anaesthesia.

It was working, but it wasn’t going to work. Not right now. Not anymore. But you could hear and feel Jungkook spiralling out of control, and that was like a countdown clock that told you that you needn't hold on much longer.

"Come," he forced the words over the rough edges of his throat. "Oh, God, come on my dick."

You released a hold of everything that had you tethered. You couldn’t fucking think straight. You didn’t know who you were. Everything inside you clamoured to climb over each other, racing to be the first to find salvation. Then the floodgates opened with a resounding crash, and your body exploded beneath your skin. You cried out an embarrassingly erotic sound, emptying your lungs, then continuing the scream in silence.

"Fuck, I can feel it," Jungkook wailed, as your walls clamped around him in spontaneous bursts of strength. And then he was coming too... but you couldn’t hear, couldn't see him through your orgasms inclinate blindness and deafness... but you could feel it, vicious under your palms, savage in his grip, and scalding in your gut. He pumped into you in long bursts of his hips, as he filled the condom at immeasurable intervals. You squealed with every impact, still frenzied by micro-bursts of pleasure.

You weren’t sure how long it took you to come down - it was possible you blacked out. All you knew when you came too was that you had lost your mind at some point. Brains fucked out: accomplished.

Jungkook was a bigger mess on top of you, his full weight squashing you over the table, his cock still twitching occasionally inside you, and his hairline misty with sweat. His body was like a furnace against your protected and bare skin. You could have stayed like this all night - but that passing thought woke you from your dream and back into reality.

"Thanks for that," you said nonchalantly, pressing against his shoulders to free yourself. He lifted himself up on his palms, still leaning towards you, but giving you enough space to shuffle yourself into a seated position.

"That's it?" he asked.

"That's all this is, remember?" you pressed your broken strap against the lace trim it had detached from, as if it would stick together like Velcro - which it didn't.

"Well... I'm happy to oblige. Anytime."

"Alright," you said as you swung your legs onto the floor and made a move for your robe. Swinging it over your arms, and tying it at the waist, you avoided looking back to him, knowing the awkwardness that would come as you both tried to guess the best way to end casual sex with a co-worker you technically lived with. "See you in the morning," you said as you slipped into the hall and closed the door behind you.

Go to Chapter 11.

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenarios #jeongguk smut #jeon jungkook #bts scenarios

22 notes · View notes

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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onthecrosslook · 3 years ago

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Reverse, esreveR

Tw: S*ic*de Attempt, Dr*g Abuse

Sherlock Holmes was an arsehole. He knew that he was, he felt it- deep inside, a sort of gut emotion that clenched and twisted and made him feel all the more wretched. He really couldn’t control it at this point. It was a habit that had formed from years of keeping every awful thing that had happened to him pent up in his mind. So many years of abuse, so many bruises and scars, and so, so much hurt that left no marks on anywhere but the mind. He knew it was wrong to take it out on those he loved- and even those he didn’t- but it kept resurfacing in the forms of snide comments and manic volatility.

It started one quiet night at Baker Street. It was nothing much, a snappish comment too far, perhaps? Whatever it was, it was the last straw for a livid John Watson, who stood up and kicked over the coffee table in fury. Words bounced off of Sherlock, who heard without listening. Eyes closed, chest feeling empty, Sherlock felt John’s innate rage. Until he didn’t.

When Sherlock opened a single eye, he saw John holding a small box that had been concealed under the table. Sherlock heard a roar in his ears, he could hardly breathe, he was crushed by an overwhelming feeling of guilt- it all just hurt.

John’s steady fingers brushed over the syringe that the box contained. The flat was silent, except for the pounding of Sherlock’s heart- or was he the only one who could hear that?

Glass shattered at his feet. John was yelling, now. Sherlock was pretending to listen.

Sociopath. Liar. Machine.

John was saying those words as if they held no value to Sherlock. Of course, that had been the impression Sherlock had made, so why wouldn’t he say those things?

Sherlock was used to feeling hopeless, but this? This was it. This was all he could take and more. And worst of all? It was cowardly, and Sherlock couldn’t even have the decency to properly listen to John.

Possibly in the middle of John’s sentence, he stood up and mumbled some sort of excuse- that he had to use the loo, maybe? He wasn’t sure.

Dazed, Sherlock walked to the loo and left John alone in the living room. Thoughts were rushing through his head. He couldn’t take this. Not anymore.

He clicked the lock and slid down the door onto the cold, hard tile floor. His hands were shaking, his vision blurry with held-back tears. He didn’t want to do this. Yes, he did. No, he didn’t. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he?

Trembling fingers pulled open the medicine cabinet. They pulled out a bottle of painkillers. They opened the cap. They poured precisely ten in Sherlock’s other hand.

Ten, because Sherlock had measured the dosage during a particularly bad night. He knew that each pill had 500mg of acetaminophen in them. Over 5000 in one go would certainly kill a man. It had to.

Shaking, crying- although he didn’t realise it, and he never would have admitted it otherwise- Sherlock popped a pill into his mouth one at a time. It was hard to swallow. His throat was rejecting it, so each pill took longer to take. He was shaking his head, not wanting to finish, but knowing he had already taken at least six.

After number ten, Sherlock broke. The tears came freely, now. He mumbled a shattered apology to his mum and dad, to Mycroft, even, and most definitely to John, whom he didn’t want to leave.

With each whispered name, Sherlock popped another pill between his lips. Now he had taken…what, fourteen? Fifteen? He didn’t really care, even though he did. A small part of him was screaming for someone to care, to stop him, to save him- but to no avail.

After a few choked-out sobs, Sherlock regained some of his composure. He wiped his eyes, which were shamefully red, and stood up. He was going to go about this bravely. The toxic shock wouldn’t kick in for at least a few hours, and by then, he would be asleep. A peaceful death. An easy one.

Sherlock unlocked the door and walked back out to the living room, where John was pacing furiously. He looked pale and frightened.

John must have asked something along the lines of “what did you take?” in a worried tone of voice, but Sherlock shook his head. He probably told him that he took nothing. John still looked concerned. He asked him again. Still, Sherlock shook his head. He felt guilty for lying to John.

John relaxed. He nodded, he sat down. He offered Sherlock dinner, but Sherlock politely refused.

Sherlock lied about something or other and said he had a stomachache, that he wanted to go to bed. John reluctantly allowed him to.

At approximately nine o’clock, Sherlock laid down in bed and wrote a short note in his pocketbook. It told whom he wanted his things left to, even though he knew it wasn’t entirely legal. He trusted Mycroft to sort all that out.

His stomach was already starting to ache. He needed to fall asleep.

And so he did, praying that he would never wake up.

Unfortunately, life was decidedly quite cruel.

By the time the clock read midnight, Sherlock realised he had made a terrible mistake. He woke up gasping for breath as his stomach burned. His face felt hot, and his head was pounding. It was as though his insides were tearing themselves apart.

Dazed, he tried to move, but instead fell out of his bed and hit the floor with a groan. Sherlock was so weak that he could not find the strength to move. He threw up, even though he didn’t want to. It meant that the drugs might not work. Mind racing, chest heaving in mild panic, Sherlock wondered if this was how he would die- suffocating on his own vomit and in horrible agony.

Spirits broken, Sherlock whispered John’s name. It hurt too much. He needed John to save him, or else he was going to die.

Sherlock kept whispering it- his lungs wouldn’t allow him to speak up. But John was already upstairs. He couldn’t hear him. Maybe Sherlock didn’t want him to.

He choked out something along the lines of “I don’t want to die”, but slowly, agonisingly, his eyes closed and he faded into unconsciousness.

You could imagine his surprise when he woke up the next morning, every inch of his body aching. His chest burned, and he kept needing to throw up every few minutes, but he was unmistakably alive.

And in some of the worst pain of his life.

He staggered to his feet and made his way to the loo. He threw up again.

For a brief moment, he felt better. He dreaded another racking dry heave that would take hold of his body.

No dice.

After typing a few things onto his laptop- perhaps updating his website with a few unintelligible entries about the side effects of acetaminophen overdose- he went back to the loo and threw up. He hadn’t eaten anything, so it was just stomach acid that burned his oesophagus and made him nauseous. The pain was growing steadily worse, and John wasn’t even awake yet.

For the next hour, Sherlock allowed the poison to simmer in his body, silently attacking his liver and slowly killing him.

John eventually woke up. Of course he did.

When he saw Sherlock’s pale face, he said nothing. When Sherlock nearly tripped down the steps in delirium, John was concerned, but said nothing.

When Sherlock’s knees buckled beneath him, he said something.

What did you take?

Sherlock slurred a half-hearted response, his head aching and his stomach twisting itself inside out. He felt like he was dying. It was probably because his organs were failing.

He clung onto the banister of the staircase as John desperately shook his shoulders. He couldn’t breathe. His brain was shutting down but his eyes and ears still worked. Everything hurt.

Sherlock saw John pull out his mobile and dial Mrs. Hudson’s number before swearing and pulling him outside.

Sherlock faded in and out of consciousness.

He was in a car.

Then a waiting room.

Then an urgent care.

Disappointed, disapproving, and endlessly pitying. Nobody would stop staring.

A nurse said he would be out of their care the same day.

His liver began to fail.

And then he was in an ambulance. He made a hazily rude comment to the EMT.

They stuck a needle in his arm. They did it wrong. It hurt like hell.

I’m clean, he wanted to tell them. Saying he didn’t do drugs anymore would be a flat-out lie.

They put him in a hospital.

His liver reached critical condition. The levels of acetaminophen in his bloodstream were lethal, yet he was somehow still alive. (It would be a case study for months and months to come.)

Sherlock was in the worst pain of his life.

They gave him morphine.

John sat by his bed during the entire ordeal.

He didn’t say a thing.

He didn’t know what to say.

Sherlock almost died.

John looked like he’d aged many years.

Sherlock felt regret.

John held his hand.

Sherlock wished he could turn back time.

John did, too.

༺═──────────────═༻

(Author’s Note: Based on a true story, sad enough to say. It’s sort of my way of giving past experiences a bit of closure. Imbuing writing with pain and anguish is rather cathartic. To tell you the truth, the fact that I’m alive now puzzles doctors and professionals alike. A case study was written on me. I am one of only eleven cases to have ever survived several doses of acetaminophen- enough to kill multiple grown men- at the age of twelve. I’m an anomaly and the fact that I’m here today writing this only proves how strange I am. I can’t say I’m better now. But I’ve learned my lesson. I’m sorry if it was so intense. If you or a loved one are having suicidal thoughts, please tell someone. Don’t make my mistake. And please, for the love of God, if you’re considering it, don’t kill yourself. It would be the biggest and final mistake of your life. People care about you so much. Much love, - AE.)

#sherlock #bbc #sherlock holmes #john watson #johnlock #benedict cumberbatch #post reichenbach #angst #sad ending #ambiguous ending #angsty #based on a true story #jalexandria #writing #fics #fanfiction #tw suicide i guess?#drug addiction #writing angst to make people suffer

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photonromance · 4 years ago

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BobaDin [Soothed pt. 2] {Omegaverse}

Din was dozing when Fennic brought the medication. The close contact, cuddling and scenting, as well as the tight, crushing hugs they gave each other when Din’s body tried to cramp again, had finally settled him enough to rest after a few hours.

At the knock on the door, Boba shifted them both, letting Din slip to the bed and rubbing lightly over his tummy as he stood. "Stretch your legs, mesh'la." He murmured, "You'll get a cramp."

"Mmhm," Din sighed, arching against the sheets as he stretched his arms over his head, and pushed out one leg and then the other, groaning when his knees popped audibly.

At the door, Boba spoke with Fennic softly, accepting a crate from her hands and passing on a few further orders as to the fate of the goons still detained in the cells under the palace. Fennic laughed at something he said and punched him in the shoulder. "Wear some pants next time." She left them with the crate and Din snorting a laugh into the pillows.

"We burned one favor on that alone, I hope you know." Boba reminded him, heaving the crate to the foot of the bed and kneeling to search through it.

"You're the one who answered the door in your shorts." Din disagreed, rolling over to crawl to the end of the bed and join him.

"She would have shanked me where I stood if I had subjected her to anything worse," Boba laughed, digging out a box of hypo syringes. He loaded a container in it that Din was very familiar with. Setting it out on the bed, Boba returned to the crate, digging around inside. "Do you want to handle the hypo?" He asked, "I know it's not something everyone wants help with."

"I can do it."

Din dialed the dose higher than usual and took a breath, setting the base on the outside of his thigh and pulling the trigger before he could think too hard about what came next. The hypo hissed and a sharp pain stabbed into his thigh muscle, making him flinch. He knew it was just his body's general tenderness that made the sting so intense, but stars, it left a burn behind.

"Are you ready for something to eat?" Boba sat back where he had been against the pillows, setting a tray in his lap, laden with a few different kinds of rations and three bumpy skinned fruits.

"I did promise…."

Boba broke open one of the fruits, peeling out a piece of the meat and offering it to Din. "It would soothe me if you did." He said gently.

Din flushed, shifting to sit against Boba's side, drawing his knees up and together. He opened his mouth slightly, leaning down to Boba's offering. Boba shivered, feeding him the bite before wiping over his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb.

The shiver, Boba's eyes, lidded and intense, and the constant, almost compulsive, touching had Din asking, unbearably curious, "This feels good for you? Just feeding me?"

Boba thought about it a moment, peeling another segment while he considered. "It feels… the feeling of lining up an impossible shot and nailing your target. That satisfaction. The confirming of everything you know." He offered up another bite, repeating the swipe to clear his bottom lip. "My body knows, to the marrow of my bones, that I am meant to do this. Nourish you," He traced his finger tips over Din’s cheek lightly, "Care for you."

Din was already warm with the half-smothered heat but- Boba's words flushed his cheeks, made his breath hitch. "Fuck-" Din reached for him, and Boba seemed to understand, pushing the tray to the bedside and opening his arms for Din.

"I got you-" Boba promised, "I got you, Din." He pulled Din close, bundling him flush to his chest, urging Din to nuzzle into his throat as they held each other as tightly as possible.

"Stars, I know it, Boba, I trust you."

#Bobadin #omegaverse #omega!Din #alpha!Boba #not sex as a heat breaker #thank you for your ask anon #it's been so long #cw medical

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curiousconch · 4 years ago

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Escape

Chapter 8 of Ricochet (An Open Heart AU)

Catch up here: Series Masterlist

Chapter Synopsis: Heather attempts to escape her captors. But will she succeed?

Pairing: Rafael Aveiro x MC (Dr. Heather Song) | Bryce Lahela x MC (Dr. Heather Song)

Words: 1.5k+ | Genre: Crime, Suspense/Thriller, Romance

Rating/Warnings: Mature (16+) / violence, language

Author's Notes: This chapter took me too long to complete, since I hit a creative block. Grateful for @eleanorbloom for giving me tips to overcome it (thank you! 🥰🥰🥰)

Thank you so much for taking time to read/comment/reblog this series. Please let me know if you want me to include/remove you in the tags list. Also, disclaimer: Majority of the characters are owned by Pixelberry, except the main character Heather Song and an OC Jordan Anderson.

Heather held her tears at bay. Frankly, all she wanted was to let herself go.

But she can't. She didn't want to give her captors the satisfaction of seeing her break. When Declan Nash removed her blindfold, he thought it was enough to pulverize her will. Heather was determined to prove him wrong.

"I'll pick up the second dose. Start on getting rid of the pretty doctor first," she heard Nash say to the other man, right before he left.

She watched closely as another man approached her, his features slowly revealed by the dim light surrounding them. The hair at the back of her neck stood up when she recognized the face of her kidnapper.

Jordan Peter Anderson, the Edenbrook janitor. Pete, as he was mainly known.

Suddenly, it all made sense. That's how he had access to her things, how he can easily know her home address, her schedule, all details of her life without suspicion. He was just another face in the sea of people that came in and out of the hospital. A fairly common and trusted face, at that.

She just wondered how Declan was connected to him. She wanted so much to find out. But now, she had to focus on preventing herself from whimpering as Pete violently dragged her to sit on a chair. He tugged her wrists free before slamming them on a metal table. She instantly winced with the impact.

That was when she saw the back of her hand, where an IV cannula was attached to an exposed vein.

What the hell was he planning?

She found the answer sooner than she thought.

She followed his movement with her eyes as he picked up a syringe from a nearby table. It was filled with a clear liquid.

"I take it you're familiar with potassium chloride, Dr. Song?" The janitor sneered as she gazed in terror at what he was holding.

She knew. Potassium chloride overdose can cause cardiac arrest when administered via IV, and in overdose, was fatal. Her mind raced with comprehension.

He's out to kill. He's not going to spare me. This isn't just a game. Her mouth went dry, refusing to accept the possibility that she may not live another day.

Her hazel eyes can only stare at the man who was about to murder her. For a moment, she was filled with helplessness, the tiny semblance of hope in her quickly dwindling out.

No! I'll overcome this. This won't be the end of me. She willed herself to think. Heather Song is one hell of a woman and she won't come down without a fight.

When he was just a single step away from her, inspiration struck.

As he reached for her, she leaned her head back, waiting for the perfect timing. Once he was near enough, she braced for impact and gave him a headbutt. He fell down to the ground, howling in pain. Heather took the opportunity to flee, liberating herself from the chair.

As she tried to take off, a struggle ensued. She was instantly dragged backwards, the force nearly knocking her out. She felt a sharp prick on her neck before she turned and kicked the man on the groin.

He wailed. Heather didn't wait for him to recover and ran for her life, fear and desperation egging her on. Her bare feet heavily hit upon the concrete floor, as she removed the gag from her mouth.

"HELP! Someone, please help me!" she shouted at the top of her lungs, sprinting. Her bruised arms pushed back against the plastic tarps and navigated the narrow corridor blindly.

Soon, she saw an open threshold nearby. She decided to aim for it. When she was almost there, someone grabbed her from behind, making her scream. She strained to break free from the hold, only to be pulled back again.

"Heather," a voice urged. "Heather, it's me!"

She recognized the speaker, making her stop in her tracks. She turned around and looked back into the dark brown eyes of the man in front of her.

Rafael.

At the sight of him, an overwhelming sense of relief flooded her being. She leaned onto him, feeling his strong presence encapsulate her in a tight embrace.

As the panicked adrenaline to fight for her life slowly dissipated, a rush of tears stained Heather's cheeks like an overflowing dam. So she clung to him, convincing herself that she wasn't imagining him and that her whole ordeal has ended.

"It's okay, love. I'm here, you're safe." Raf whispered, his lips kissing the crown of her head.

But she wasn't.

She felt her knees begin to buckle, her whole body shook. There was a sharp pain in her chest, while her vision of Rafael slowly blurred.

The last thing she could remember was the gentleness of his touch, before her world whirled and faded into darkness.

***

He can only watch the helicopter that airlifted Heather to Edenbrook Hospital. When she was found, a syringe was stuck on her neck, and the paramedics suspected a type of poisoning. Her sudden collapse and the unknown nature of what caused made the situation urgent, so the response team decided it was best course to fly.

Even though he yearned to accompany her as she fought for her life, he was hastily denied that right. Rafael seized that away from him, taking it upon himself to stay with her instead.

He wanted to be the first person she sees when she wakes up, to hold her hand, to assure her that she will never have to face horrors like this anymore. But fate wasn't on his side this time. It never was.

So Bryce chose action. He first called in ahead to give Dr. Ramsey the few details they have on hand. He couldn't bring himself to follow her to the hospital. His mind dictated that he wasn't useful there. Instead, he made himself useful somewhere else.

And there he was, standing in the middle of the crime scene as he hang up his phone.

Here is where I can help Heather, he thought. I have to find what was in that syringe. It might be her only hope.

His tired eyes scanned the floor, trying to pick up any detail that may be valuable. He walked around looking down, flashlight in hand, determined to find just about any kind of clue.

He winced when he saw blood. Heather's. His chest tightened, anger rising within him. That fucking sicko, I swear I'm gonna give him hell.

Bryce continued prodding around until he heard a soft jingling noise, making him stop. It felt like he just kicked something. He knelt down and found a torn plastic case and a clear glass bottle. He put on his rubber gloves and picked it up, reading the label. Realizing what it was, he quickly dialed Sienna's number and waited for her to pick up.

"Bryce?" he heard a familiar voice on the line, but it wasn't Dr. Trinh.

"Jackie?" he felt an immediate pang of worry, hearing the frantic exchange of voices in the background. But he quickly shook the feeling away. He had to focus.

"I found something that might help Heather. There's a bottle of potassium chloride where she was taken, it's empty. I think that's what the suspect injected Heather with."

"Gimme a second," Jackie said. Bryce waited as he listened to Dr. Varma ask for Heather's blood workup from a nurse. "Her potassium levels are elevated, and she's in cardiac arrest. This makes sense, Lahela."

"She's in cardiac arrest?" A lump in his throat formed, his grip almost slipping from the bottle he was holding.

"Yes. But we're trying to get her out of it. Your intel's gonna help us figure the rest out," Jackie said, and he sensed her hesitation before he heard her next words. "She'll pull through. So quit yapping and get your ass over here."

The line went dead.

It took him five minutes to scale down the building, get into his car and hit the road.

***

The environment in the ER was charged by the frantic beeping of the machine, signalling Heather's ongoing cardiac arrest.

"We've got suspected hyperkalemia," Jackie sprinted to the doctors surrounding Heather's limp body as she got off the phone.

"Of course," Dr. Ramsey nodded, as he referred to the latest lab results. "A potassium chloride overdose would've caused her coronary infarction. It may have also caused her temporal paralysis, making her lose consciousness. Do we have her weight?"

"Yes, Dr. Ramsey," Sienna dictated Heather's latest weight to the senior attending, allowing for him to compute for the correct dosage for the prescription.

"Calcium bicarbonate for the IV, Kaley please," the male doctor handed a piece of paper where he scribbled the dosage needed.

"Don't we need to do haemodialysis?" Jackie stood beside him, as she prepared a tourniquet and tried to find a vein where the saline solution can be injected.

"No, we aren't too late, the potassium haven't bound to the cells yet. Watch out for other symptoms though," Like a well-oiled machine, Heather's mentor gave instructions rapidly, taking the lead role in her treatment.

The nurse went back with the prescription and Jackie setup the insertion. As the liquid began to flow, they waited and watched the heart rate monitor overhead.

It took a few seconds before the beeping slowed down into a steady rhythm. There was a collective sigh of relief.

Heather Song just narrowly escaped death.

Tags: @eleanorbloom @ramsey-lahela @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

#open heart #open heart fanfiction #rafael aveiro #rafael aveiro x mc #bryce lahela #bryce lahela x mc #choices fic writers creations #fics of the week #choices fanfiction #open heart au #choices #pixelberry

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xinfudapackaging · 7 months ago

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Multi-dose Syringe Drug Delivery

Horse oral paste in the form of a syringe is a commonly used package for horse medicine at home and abroad. It is mainly used in some nutritional ointments, anthelmintics and other medicines. Horses are larger in size, and medicines in this type of packaging are more convenient for administration. So, how to administer medication with a multi-dose syringe? multi dose syringe 30ml dial a dose…

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#dial a dose syringe #dosing syringe #Multi-dose Syringe #plastic syringe #syringe dose syringe

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ddreammcatcher · 4 years ago

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Unknown truth

This has been sittimg in my drafts for months now. I finally got the motivation to finish it. I hope you enjoy it. I hate how they dealt with Spencers addiction.

This fills my lying square for @cmbingo

Warnings: addiction, overdose, drugs, relapse

It started as a normal day. I get up and get ready for work. My body is craving a dose of dilaudid. It’s been 10 months since I’ve had any. I make it to work, but the craving is still there. The cravings have been there for most of the past 10 months. Some days are easier to manage than others. I know that I should talk to someone about it, but that means I have to admit that I am addicted to it.

The day is mostly spent doing paperwork. Having an eidetic memory comes in really helpful for recalling details of the case. I get done with the paperwork before anyone else. I can’t decide if I want to go home or not. I know that at home, it’s harder to ignore the craving. Being at the BAU feels awkward. I’m lying to the team about being better. I feel guilty about lying to them, but this is something I can’t tell them. I decide to go home and deal with the cravings once I get there. Hotch sticks his head out of his office and asks to speak with me.

I head into his office. “Have a seat.” He says as he closes the door. I do. I have no clue what this is about. “What’s up Hotch?” I ask. “You’re not in trouble Spencer.” He says gently. I relax a little bit. “I know that the past year hasn’t been easy. I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing.” He says. “I’m great. Never better.” I say. He gives me a weird look. “Okay, there’s a meeting that I think would be helpful.” He says. I’m confused. “What type of meeting?” I wonder out loud. “A NA meeting. It meets a couple times a week. I think it would be helpful.” He says. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I say firmly. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He says and lets me leave.

I go home and the craving for dilaudid is really strong. I still have a little bit of it hidden in my house. It takes everything in me to not take it. I just want to forget and it helps. I don’t know if I can convince myself to go to a meeting at this point. I’m not ready to put words to what happened.

The next couple of weeks are uneventful. We have a couple cases. I haven’t gone to a meeting yet. I’ve been able to ignore the cravings and not take the doses hidden in my house. Hotch seems to be keeping a closer eye on me. It’s annoying me, but I don’t ask him about it.

I get a phone call in the middle of the day. It’s the facility that my moms staying at. She isn’t doing well. Things are getting worse for her. I’m not done with the paperwork I’m doing, but I decide to head home anyway. Derek gives me a questioning look as I leave.

At home, the cravings are so high. I’m really tempted to take some of the dilaudid that I have hidden. Around 11:30, I call Hotch. He answers with sleep in his voice. “Hotchner.” “Hey Hotch, it’s me.” “What’s going on Spencer?” “Can you come over?” I ask timidly. “Yeah, I’ll be there in 20.” I hang up. I don’t move until he gets to my place.

He knocks and I let him in. “Hi.” I say. “What’s going on Spencer?” He asks with worry. “It’s my mom. She’s not doing well.” I reply. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He says. “Hotch…” I should tell him about the dilaudid hidden in my room. I don’t want to tell him. I know it’s the right thing to do. He doesn’t say anything. He waits for me to say more.

“Hotch, I’ll be right back.” I say and get up. I walk into my bedroom and stand in front of where I hid some of it. It takes me 10 minutes to be able to take it out of the drawer. It takes another 5 minutes for me to get back to the living room. I awkwardly stand against the door frame.

“Spencer, what’s going on?” He asks. “Hotch, I need your help.” I say quietly. He just nods. I walk towards him slowly and open my hand. Sitting on my palm is the dilaudid. “Take it.” I whisper to him. He reaches out and takes it. He puts it in one of his pockets.

I sit down on the couch after that and don’t say anything. “I’m really glad that you gave this to me. Do you have any more of it?” He asks. I shake my head no. I’m lying to him, but I don’t care. It makes it easier to deal with the cravings if I know I have some of it. “Thank you Spencer. Have you given any more thought into going to a meeting?” He asks gently.

I shake my head no. “That’s okay. Just keep it in mind okay?” He asks. I nod. “I can do that.” We sit in silence for a while. I think he’s waiting for me to say more about how I’m doing. Eventually he decides to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Try to get some sleep Spencer.” He says as he walks out the door.

I sigh once he’s gone. I hate that I lied to him, but I need to have at least one dose I can fall back on. I still have three doses hidden. I know that I should have given him the other doses, but I can’t.

The next couple of weeks are okay. I manage to keep the cravings in check. Some days are easier than others. I know that there will always be harder days. Hotch is still keeping a closer eye on me. I know he’s still worried about me. I thought that giving him some of it would let him relax.

On the next case, it has to do with people that are being killed from an OD. The case is harder for me than usual. I get through it without taking any dilaudid. It helps that it’s not in the same state as I am. Hotch partners us together for the entire case. I know he’s worried about this case affecting me.

The cravings have been really high during the case. Once we get home, I’m considering taking some. I go home alone. I spend a long time overthinking everything that’s happened and I’ve done. After four hours of this, I can’t take it anymore.

I get up and get some of the dilaudid out. I know that I’m going to regret this later, but right now, I need my mind to stop. I roll up my sleeve and insert the needle. As the dilaudid takes over, I feel a relief. The sweet feeling of nothing. My mind is blank and it feels so good. I go to sleep quicker than I have in a long time.

The next morning I wake up to a message from Hotch. I check the time and realize why he called. It’s two hours after I’m supposed to have been in. I call Hotch right away. He answers on the second ring. “Spencer, where are you?” He asks. “I’m sorry Hotch, I overslept. I’ll be there in 20 minutes.” I say as I rush to get ready. “Okay.” He says and hangs up.

20 minutes later I make it to work. I sit down at my desk and open the first file. A couple of hours later, I’m getting ready to leave. Hotch sends me an email saying he wants to talk to me. I walk up to his office and knock. I walk in without waiting for him to answer.

“Hey Hotch, I’m so sorry I was late. I promise it won’t happen again.” I ramble. “It’s okay Spencer. Do you want to tell me why you were late?” He asks. “I stayed up all night reading. I fell asleep a couple of hours before I was supposed to be here. I forgot to set my alarm.” I say. Hotch nods. “Okay, I’ll see you on Monday.” He says as I leave.

I just lied to Hotch. A huge lie that I somehow pulled off. I feel guilty about lying to him, but it had to be done. At home, the cravings are hardly there. The dose I took yesterday is still in my system a little bit. My mind may not be blank, but it’s quieter than it’s been in a while.

The next day is Saturday and we don’t have work. The dilaudid is out of my system by now. After it’s out of my system, I feel horrible. I can’t believe that I just did that. I’m pissed at myself for giving into it. I know that I need to talk to someone about it.

I pick up my phone and slowly dial Hotch's number. “Hotchner” his voice makes me reconsider telling him. He sounds happy, which he usually isn’t. I don’t say anything for a little bit. “Spencer?” He must have looked at caller ID when I didn’t say anything. “What’s wrong?” I can hear the worry in his voice. “Hotch…” my voice breaks. “Spencer, I’m coming over.” He says and hangs up.

20 min later, there’s a knock on my door. I don’t get up to open it. I hear the lock turn. I forgot that I gave Hotch a key a while ago. The syringe I used to take the dilaudid is laying on the floor by the trash can. “Spencer?” He says. He walks into the living room and sees me on the couch.

“Spencer, what happened? Is it your mom?” He wonders. I shake my head no. He doesn’t say anything for a while. I know that I need to tell someone. I’m afraid he’ll be mad and disappointed. “Hotch…” I stop mid sentence. I take a couple of deep breaths. “I relapsed.” I mumble. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he heard what I said.

“Spencer, I thought you said you didn’t have any after you gave me that dose of it.” He says confused. “I lied. I’m sorry.” I drop my head and don’t look at him. “Spencer, I think that you need to go to a meeting.” He says. I glare at him for a second and then my eyes tear up. “Okay.” I choke out.

The next day, Hotch texts me the time and location of the meeting. I still have two doses of dilaudid left. I decide that I’m not going to go to the meeting. I want to use the dilaudid. It’s stupid to have it and not use it.

Monday morning, Hotch calls me into his office. “How was the meeting?” He asks with a smile. “It was fine. I’m not a fan, but I think it will help.” I admit. He lets me go back to doing my work. I lied to Hotch again. There has been so much lying in the past couple months.

The next couple of months, I pretend that things are going okay. I pretend that I’m going to meetings. In reality, I’ve been sitting at home, staring at the dilaudid. I know that this isn’t a good thing, but at this point, I don’t care.

One Sunday afternoon, when I’m supposed to be at a meeting, my door is knocked on. I open it to see Hotch. “Hey, what’s up?” I wonder. He gives me a weird look. “I thought you would be at a meeting, but I was close by, so I thought I’d see if you were home.” He states. I gulp, realizing my mistake. “Can I come in?” I have no choice but to agree.

Once he’s inside, we sit in awkward silence. I start rambling about random things. After 20 min of rambling, he cuts me off. “I’m worried about you Spencer.” He says. “I’m fine.” I snap. I can see that I’m not convincing him. I sigh. “Hotch, I promise that I’m okay.” I say. I can tell that he doesn’t believe that. I don’t care what he believes. I’m going to do everything I can to get him out of my house. “Spencer, I’m here if you need anything.” He says. I nod. “I’m okay Hotch.” I say. “Okay, I’ll see you later.” Once he leaves, I sigh in relief.

The next couple of days, we’re on a case. It only takes two days to wrap it up. Once we get back to the office, I’m ready to head home and be alone. Before I can leave, Derek corners me. “Spencer, I’m going out tonight and I need a wing man.” He says. “I’m busy, Ask Hotch” I say as I sling my bag over my shoulder. “He already has plans.” Penelope walks up at that time. “Come on Spencer, I’m coming with. It will be fun. We can make fun of Dereks pick up lines.” She says. I sigh, “Fine, but only for a little while.” They cheer.

When I get home, the lights in my house are on. I draw my gun before going in. I open the door slowly. “FBI, come out with your hands up.” I call. “Spencer, it’s me.” Hotch replies. I walk into the living room and put my gun down. Hotch, JJ, and Emily are all sitting on the couch. I sit in the one chair I have. “What’s going on? Is someone hurt?” I ask with panic. “No, no one’s hurt. We’re worried about you. Derek and Penelope taking you out was the setup so we could search your apartment.” Hotch replies. “You had no right to do that.” I say harshly. “I know we should have trusted you, but we are worried about you.” Emily says softly. I don’t like the direction this conversation is headed.

“I’m okay, I promise. I’m going to meetings.” I lie. All three of them give me a look that says they know that’s crap. JJ reaches into a pocket and pulls out the two doses of dilaudid I have left. She sets them on the coffee table. I gulp. I’m screwed. Who realized I was lying to them? “Spencer, you have lied to me about not having any twice now. I don’t believe that you are telling the truth about being okay.” Hotch says. There are tears in the corners of my eyes. I blink, trying to make them go away. “Spencer, have you been going to meetings?” Emily asks. I look at the floor and don’t make eye contact. I shake my head no.

If I was looking at them, I would have seen the worried look they shared. “Spencer, have you been to any meetings?” I shake my head no. I glance up to see them all looking at me. “I’m sorry that I lied to you.” I say. I don’t look up, but turn my head in Hotch’s direction. “It’s okay Spencer, we just want what’s best for you.” He says. I glance at him and mumble okay.

I don’t say anything else for a while. They’re just waiting for me to say something. JJ scoots closer to me. “Hey Spence.” I don’t look at her. “There’s a meeting in an hour. Either me or Hotch are going to take you. It’s your choice which one of us goes.” JJ says. It’s not a question. It’s soft and not demanding, so I decide to push back. “I don’t need to go to a meeting.” I snap at her. “I don’t need anyone’s help.” I see her jaw harden and Hotchs eyes darken.

“Spencer, you are going to a meeting. If you don’t, I’m going to bench you.” Hotch says coldly. “Screw you.” I spit at him. He shares a look with JJ and Emily. He and Emily walk outside. I know that they’re talking about me. JJ stays in the room. I try to slowly back into the kitchen so I can go out the fire escape. I trip over a book and swear under my breath.

JJ whirls to look at me. Her jaw is stiff. “Spencer, what are you doing?” She asks. I don’t say anything. She comes over and puts herself between me and the fire escape. A couple minutes later, they walk back in. “Spencer, I’m benching you for a week. We can reevaluate things then.” He says sternly. “Fuck you.” I say to him. He just sighs. Emily leaves then due to it being so late, but Hotch and JJ stay.

I storm into my bedroom and slam the door. I want the dilaudid so bad, but they took all that I had. I’m pissed that I’m in this situation. They just leave me be in my room. After an hour of punching a pillow, I go back to the living room. I’m somewhat calmer than I was.

I sit down and glare at Hotch. “How did you find out?” I ask. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you since you relapsed. I know the signs. You weren’t at a meeting last Sunday, you haven’t come out after work with us in a long time, youve been avoiding me.” He states. I hate working with profilers. It makes hiding things hard. “I’m sorry.” I look at both of them with sadness. “I shouldn’t have lied and I shouldn’t have lashed out at you.” I say.

“It’s okay Spencer.” JJ says lightly. “We both agree that you need to go to a meeting. We can’t force you to go, but we think it will help.” Hotch says. “I’ll think about it.” I say slowly. I hate myself for what I’ve done and said. If I had any dilaudid, I would have taken it already. The two doses of dilaudid are still sitting on the coffee table. I don’t know why no one picked them up.

Hotch gets a phone call while JJ is in the bathroom. I grab the dilaudid and slip it in my pocket. JJ walks back in seconds after I sit back down. She gives me a curious look. “What’s up?” I ask her as calmly as I can. “Something seems different. You seem more relaxed than before I went to the bathroom.” She says. “Nothings different.” I say calmly.

Hotch walks back in. “Are you going to be okay if we leave?” Hotch asks. I nod. “Alright, JJ, can I talk to you outside?” She nods and follows him outside. I know that if I try to hide the dilaudid in my bedroom right now, I’ll be caught. I just wait with it. Hotch and JJ walk back in five minutes later. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay tonight?” Hotch asks. I nod. They collect there stuff. Before they leave, Hotch looks at the coffee table. I know that the dilaudid is still supposed to be on it, but it’s not.

“JJ, did you move it?” He wonders. “Move what?” She has no idea what he��s talking about. “I think Emily took it.” I say. My voice quivers a little bit, giving me away. It’s been too long of a day to keep my lies perfect. Hotch sits back down on the couch and puts his stuff next to him. JJ leans on the back of the couch and looks at me.

“Spencer, hand them over.” He says. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I say. Hotch sighs. He turns and looks at JJ. “You can go, I’ve got this.” He says. She nods and leaves. “Spencer, it’s time to come clean. You’ve done great tonight by answering our questions honestly.” He says. I nod. “I know that you tried to leave earlier and now your hiding the dilaudid. Please give it to me.” He says. I sigh and pull it out of pocket. I hold it close to me and don’t hand it to him. He waits for a couple minutes before saying anything. “Spencer?” I sigh and slowly extend my hand to him. He tries to take it out of my hand and my hand tightens.

We both hold on to it for a minute. I finally let go and let him have it. He puts it in his pocket, so I can’t get it. “Spencer, are you sure you’re going to be okay tonight? I can stay if you need me to.” He says. “I’m fine, you can go.” My voice isn’t steady. “Okay, I’m staying. Jack has a sleepover, so I have no where I need to be.” He says. I sigh. “Thanks.” I whisper. He nods.

He goes out to his car to get his go bag. He comes back in and sees me curled on the couch. “Spencer, I’m here if you want to talk.” He says. I lift my head to look at him. I’m mad at him and he can tell. “No thanks.” I say. I get up and head to my bedroom.

The next morning, I wake up to the smell of coffee. I leave my room to find Hotch sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. “You’re still here.” I say annoyed. “Yeah, I wanted to make sure you were okay before I went to work.” He says. “I have work as well.” The minute I say that, I realize that he benched me last night. I sigh. “Or not.” I mutter.

“Spencer, I want to make sure you have some time to get help before going back.” He says. I sigh and nod. After promising him multiple times that I would be fine, I convince him to leave. Most of the day sucks. I know that I can leave my house, but I know if I do, I’m going to go find more dilaudid.

That night, Hotch comes back over. I jump when the door opens. “Hotch, what are you doing here?” I ask. “I just wanted to see how you are.” He says. “And convince me to go to a meeting?” I ask. “Yes. There’s one that starts in an hour.” He says. I don’t say anything for a couple minutes. “Fine.” I growl at him. He slightly smiles.

An hour later, I’m sitting on a metal chair surrounded by strangers. Hotch actually got me to go to a meeting. The hour passes slowly. They ask if I want to say anything, but I pass. After the meeting Hotch is waiting for me in the parking lot. I get in and sigh. “How was it?” He asks. “It was fine.” I mumble.

The rest of the week doesn’t go well. Two day’s after the meeting, I decide to go get some dilaudid. It takes me a while, but I manage to find some. I buy 4 doses of it. When I get home, I hide it around the house. I put one in my pocket to use later.

Hotch comes over later that night. “Hey Spencer, how was your day?” He asks. I sigh. “I did something bad.” I say. He looks at me curiously for a moment until it clicks. “Hand it over Spencer.” He holds his hand out waiting for me to give it to him. I pull it out of my pocket and hand it to him.

“Thank you. Now, I’m going to search the rest of your house.” He says. “There is no reason to search my house. I don’t have anymore.” I lie. “Spencer, you have lied to me too many times for me to take your word.” He says. I sigh. “Fine.” I wait in the living room as he searches my house.

He walks back into the living room. “Spencer, I would say that this is having more.” He says. He opens his hand to hold out the three vials I hid. I sigh. “I’m sorry Hotch.” I mumble. “It’s okay Spencer. The lying has to stop. I want to be able to trust you, but it’s going to take some time to earn my trust back. The best way to do that is to stop lying to me.” He says kindly. I nod. “I’ll try to be honest with you.” I say. “Thank you Spencer. I want you to feel comfortable telling me things instead of lying to me.” “I’ll try to be more honest with you. I promise I’ll try to stop lying.” I say.

#cmbingo20 #cm fanfic #addiction #overdose #drugs #spencer reid #aaron hotchner #Jennifer Jareau #derek morgan #Penelope Garcia #fanfic #Criminal Minds #Criminal Minds Fanfiction

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builder051 · 5 years ago

Text

Crack in time

Powers/No Powers. This is a commission for an anonymous client.

______________________ They’re on their way to breakfast, having just finished at the gym, when Bucky’s world cracks out of place and time. Steve has both their gear bags slung over his broad shoulders, so Bucky’s poised to move quickly and lithely when the sound splits the air.

It’s loud. Too loud to be a gunshot. Not earth-shattering enough to be a bomb. An IED, then. A car 40 feet or so up the block rocks on its tires, and Bucky waits for it to flip onto its side, to roll and explode into a ball of hot, oily flames. There’s no time to waste and watch, though. It’s too close. He’s too close. They’re too close.

Bucky reaches wildly and catches Steve by one wrist. He drags him toward the pavement, away from the impending disaster. Steve’s never been in a situation like this before; Bucky can’t let him get hurt. He tries yanking Steve backward while propelling his own body forward, all while they both fall down, down…

The side of Bucky’s head hits something hard, then the back of his head hits something harder. His shoulder and elbow feel tweaked, but it barely rates compared to the pain further up. Bucky tries to blink, but his vision just blurs over, then slowly goes black.

“…Buck? Bucky?” Bucky feels his lashes flutter against his cheeks. His eyelids feel like lead, and the back of his skull seems riddled with it. His ears ring with the echo of the bomb. Bucky glances around, rolling his head over the uneven pavement. His vision swims, and a wave of nausea plays indelicately from his chin to his forehead and back again.

“Wha…?” he breathes, all the air gone from his chest, knocked clean out when he hit the ground.

“Hey.” The tall blonde man stooping over him looks worried, but his face splits into an undeniable smile. “You in there?”

A medic, Bucky thinks. He wants to ask to confirm, but he can’t string the words together. Or at least he doesn’t think he can without opening his mouth and being sick all down his front.

“Who?” he manages to whisper, swallowing the bitter taste of bile on the back of his tongue.

“It’s me, Buck.” The man strokes the side of Bucky’s head, then closes his hand quickly. Bucky’s brain is nearly too slow to put together what he sees, but he still catches a glimpse of dark red staining his fingers. “It’s Steve.”

“St…?” But Steve’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be home, safe and sound. Bucky’s the only one who’s supposed to be in harm’s way.

He blinks again, and his head swims. Everything’s terribly blurry. Bucky tries to peer past Steve’s face and see the world around him, but he can’t pick his head up off the hard ground. The ground isn’t supposed to asphalt, though. Shouldn’t it be different? Sand? A prison cell? A hard-packed dirt floor?

He tries turning side to side, but the dizziness notches up so far that his stomach climbs up into his throat and begins to spill.

Bucky sputters, trying to clear the chyme from the back of his mouth and recover his airway.

“Hold on, Buck,” Steve says, panic lining the edge of his voice. He rolls Bucky’s body roughly onto his side, sliding a finger between his lips to clear whatever may be blocking his ability to breathe.

Bucky coughs, then his stomach contracts, his abdominal muscles squeezing painfully. A gush of vomit escapes his lips and pours down the front of his shirt. The warm stickiness registers for a moment, then Bucky’s body heaves again, and all he feels is the acute discomfort of his nausea.

“It’s ok,” Steve murmurs, wiping more sick from Bucky’s face. Then his sleeve swipes across Bucky’s forehead again. “It’s not bleeding that much.” But from what he can see of Steve’s wide eyes, the truth may be a different story.

“Is this…?” Bucky stops to swallow another gag. “I mean… where’s the bomb?” He tries desperately to move his head again, doing his best to ignore the dizziness.

“It was just a car,” Steve says quietly. “Just a loud noise.”

“But… the fire…”

“There isn’t one.” Steve pulls his phone from his back pocket with one hand while keeping the other pressed against Bucky’s chest. “I think you’re pretty badly hurt, Buck. I think we need to go to the hospital.”

“Nuh,” Bucky tries to disagree, but another wave of vomit overtakes him. “See, you’re having a rough time. You’re really sick.”

“You’re…calling a medic?” Bucky tries putting two and two together, but fuzz still plays mightily around the edges of his brain.

“Sort of,” Steve offers him a kind smile. “An ambulance, Buck. You’re home, remember? You need to go to the hospital. I think you have a concussion.”

“A…concussion?”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to catch you.”

“’S ok…”

Steve dials for the ambulance, and within minutes, Bucky begins to hear the sirens. The sound splits his already throbbing head. He groans in pain and reaches for Steve’s comforting arm.

The ambulance screeches up to the curb, and the paramedics bring out a clattering gurney. Steve’s voice quickly murmurs beside him, ostensibly telling what’s happened, as strong, gloved hands lift Bucky’s body.

“He’s spooked pretty bad,” Steve explains. “PTSD. From the war, you know? I need to ride with him. To keep him calm.”

One of the paramedics give the affirmative, and Steve grasps Bucky’s hand as the other fastens a brace around Bucky’s neck. Even the light jostling is painful, and waves of empty nausea play around Bucky’s ears and nose. He feels as though he’s been breathing underwater, pressure building up in his sinuses as sick swirling continues in his stomach and throat.

The ambulance pulls away from the curb, and the paramedics barely have enough time to take Bucky’s blood pressure and hook him up to a pulse oximeter before they arrive at the hospital’s ambulance bay.

“Bring him into eleven,” a tech says as soon as Bucky’s off the ambulance and into the ER proper. The paramedics take off at a clip, Steve’s shoes squeaking on the tile floor as he jogs alongside to keep up.

“Hold on, Buck. You’re ok,” Steve says.

“N-no,” Bucky breathes. Nausea crystalizes in his chest. Sourness invades the back of his mouth again and begins to spill down the front of his already soaked shirt.

“Ok, alright. Just a second here…” Steve squeezes Bucky’s hand.

The paramedics steer the gurney into the small ER room and transfer Bucky to the narrow bed. He groans as his head shifts across bed’s taught sheet. A nurse appears out of nowhere, practically ducking under Steve’s arm, and starts to wrap a tourniquet around his bicep.

“No!” Bucky jerks his arm away, his fist sailing past her face in a very near miss.

“Here, let’s get you changed.” A tech bearing a hospital gown approaches from the other side, nodding to Steve for permission to get close.

“You can try,” Steve says. “I’ll help.” He begins to peel Bucky’s shirt up over his abdomen, leaving cold, damp skin exposed.

Bucky moans in pained desperation, wondering why Steve’s suddenly jumping ship, suddenly helping the other side.

“N-no,” he croaks again, turning his face toward Steve and whispering his distress around the edges of a harsh dry heave.

“Here, let’s get you hooked up to the cardiac monitor,” the nurse continues, sticking freezing cold gelatinous dots to Bucky’s chest and applying clips attached to long wires. The heart monitor and pulse ox stop beeping as they’re finally plugged in properly, and Bucky’s head stops pounding long enough for him to drag in a harsh breath full of flecks of sour spit. It feels good to let his lungs fill. Less desperate, anyway. But it does nothing to assuage the severe ache in the back of his head and the dangerous turning of his stomach.

Bucky grits his teeth and waits for the rest. He yanks his arm out of the nurse’s grasp, feeling the beginning of the bite of the IV needle before he can quite get away, then pulls his knees upward and curls his chest over them.

“No, Buck, don’t fight them,” Steve’s voice says, sounding concerned and almost exasperated. “They’re trying to help you.”

Bucky wants to believe him, but he can’t. Steve’s not really here. He can’t be. This is too much like before, when they had him, when they hurt him. He ducks his head and holds his temple in his palm. The space between his forefinger and thumb feels wet and gluey, so Bucky pauses and looks at it. Deep red blood stains his hand, running in rivulets down the creases of his palm.

“Don’t worry.” The nurse wraps Bucky’s hand back into a fist and pulls it across his body so she can re-start on the IV. “We’ll get you nice and taped up, stop the bleeding.”

“Can I have your other arm?” the tech asks stupidly, holding the sleeve of the gown open.

Bucky blinks. “Nuh.” He shakes his head, sending himself into a fit of dizziness that makes him want to bury his eyes in his knees.

He hears Steve start to explain, and he’s more than grateful not to have to open his mouth.

“Ok, I’ll be gentle,” the tech promises as she ties the gown behind Bucky’s neck and moves on to his pants. Bucky kicks until Steve leans over him and practically cradles his faces in his hands.

“It’s alright, Buck,” he murmurs. “They’re just doing their jobs.”

Once the IV is placed, the nurse clicks a keyboard and summons a doctor, who puts orders for a CT scan and a dose of Haldol. Bucky’s still trembling, holding back the urges to fling his fist and stomach contents.

It takes but a moment for the little syringe to show up in their ED room, and a flurry of chatter goes on over Bucky’s head among the nurse, tech, and presumably Steve.

“Yeah, go ahead. It’ll take him out for a little while.”

Steve smiles softly down at him, then squeezes Bucky’s hand. Something like ice invades the veins on his right arm, and sickness flows up from his stomach again. Then the lights above his eyes flicker and go out.

When he drifts back toward awareness, the first thing Bucky notices is the sound. A deep, rhythmic whirring invades his ears, dialing up the throbbing in the back of his head. He swallows, wincing at the sourness on his tongue, then tries prying open his eyes.

Everything in his field of view is white, yet shadowy. It doesn’t seem right. Bucky wants to shake his head and try again, but it hurts too much. And something’s stabilizing his neck besides. He blinks, and the fractured picture starts to come together. He’s not seeing white. The ceiling is white. And it’s about an inch from the tip of his nose.

Bucky grits his teeth and wraps his hand into a fist. Something hard pulls against his wrist, and he realizes he’s cuffed to the thin board he’s lying on inside the machine. He drags his knees up, and they hit the hard plastic with a jolt.

“No,” he groans. “No, no…” Bucky thrashes side to side, unseating his head from the headrest and smacking his bandaged temple painfully against the side of the machine. His stomach roils, and it’s all he can do to keep from retching.

“James?” a strange voice comes over a speaker somewhere above his head. “We’re going to pull you out now. Just take a breath. Calm down.”

“Fuck…” Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever felt less calm. He can’t stop violent tremors shooting out from his core and rocketing into his limbs.

The table pulls slowly out of the giant magnet with a loud buzzing sound that makes Bucky feel as though his teeth are dissolving in his skull. As soon as it stops, he tries rolling to a sitting position, but nausea and his cuffed hand stop him from getting far. He groans and rolls halfway onto his side as he uses his entire bodyweight to struggle against the restraint.

A tall man in scrubs and another in a white coat run into the room. The nurse fumbles for a syringe and leans close, trying to get ahold of Bucky’s leg. “Get. Away,” Bucky growls, kicking outward.

“It’s just something to relax you,” the nurse says, raising his brows as he easily grasps Bucky’s knee. “It’s exactly what you had before.”

The needle pierces the skin of his thigh before the words are out of the nurse’s mouth. Bucky feels betrayed. More than that. He feels frightened. Where did Steve go? Was Steve even there at all? Or is he back in captivity, sick, in pain, and hallucinating?

“No…” Bucky whispers, but the world is already starting to go black around him again.

It’s again the sound that rouses him. A tugging. A pull of thread. Then small metal instruments clicking against each other. Bucky’s head aches, round the back and the front, though somebody’s gone and smudged Lidocaine across his forehead. He’s felt it’s tingling numbness enough times in the past to have the sensation imprinted in his memory, even when it’s foggy.

“What…?” Bucky whispers.

“It’s ok,” Steve’s voice replies. A soft hand cups Bucky’s cheek. “It’s just stitches.”

Bucky blinks up at him, his eyes watering in pain.

“Hey.” Steve uses his thumb to wipe away the droplet of moisture running down the side of Bucky’s nose. “It’s ok.”

But it’s not. Steve’s doing something to him, stabbing at the numbed section of skin and making his head and his throat and his very bones ache.

“What… what’re you doing? Why’re you…hurting…?”

“Buck…” Steve shakes his head. A tear runs down from one of his eyes, making it past the corner of his mouth before he lets go of Bucky long enough to swipe it away. “I’m not. I—I’m trying to help you.”

“Blame me if you’re gonna take it out on somebody.” A slightly bloody blue glove waves in the edge of Bucky’s visual field, and a female doctor offers him a smile. “He’s not the one stitching you up. He’s been taking good care of you.”

“Oh,” Bucky murmurs, wondering how he could be so stupid. Or rather, how he could have let his brain play such tricks on him. His eyes go blurry again, but he blinks Steve back into focus and gives him a long look. “I…I’m sorry…”

“You’re pretty banged up. Pretty sick,” Steve says. “It’s ok.”

Bucky nods, accidentally unseating the doctor’s careful fingers.

“Your scans came back clean, by the way,” she says in the moment of silence. “So we’ll just finish up your stitches and then get you to a room for observation overnight. Assuming everything’s alright, you can pick him up in the morning.” She inclines her head to Steve.

“Oh, no, I’m staying here with him,” Steve replies firmly.

“Really?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah, of course.” He puts his knee up on Bucky’s bed and halfway sits at his side. He cups Bucky’s face again and strokes his stubbly cheek. “I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever.”

17 notes · View notes

excelxiors · 5 years ago

Text

the past is behind you; boreo; 7.4k

well heres a long one! boris overdoses and then goes through withdrawl

tw// graphic depictions of overdose and bodily functions during withdrawal, as well as self harm and suicidal ideation

It happened back in New York. Months after Amsterdam, months after Antwerp, months after Boris agreed to come home with me. We had stayed with Hobie for a little while (he clearly delighted in watching us interact, later telling me that we reminded him of himself and Welty, decades earlier), and then we had bought our own little place not too far away. I apologized to everyone. Kitsey, first and foremost, for leaving during the party and for being so cold towards her and for not loving her very much at all. She accepted my apology, saying that she herself had not been overwhelmingly kind. It was true, of course, but telling Mrs. Barbour that the wedding was off had been hard. She was understandably upset but tried to be kind about the situation, and I made a vow to myself to visit her and the family whenever I could. After everything she had done for me, it was the least I could do. Hobie hadn’t been difficult to apologize to. He was worried when I disappeared without a word, but seeing me again had been enough to reassure him that I was alright. After my apologies, I did what I came back to New York to do: buying up all the phony antiques I sold and making an honest living as Hobie’s business partner, without lying this time. With the reward money from the paintings it wasn’t hard to do.

It happened on a normal day. Nothing had seemed out of the ordinary, just a regular Thursday working with Hobie at the shop. Selling his beautiful restored pieces and not lying about what they were. Telling him I’d see him tomorrow, hugging him goodbye, giving Popchyk a customary head pat, and closing the shop early. Walking the couple of blocks to our apartment like I did every day, running up the stairs from the lobby to the 3rd floor, opening the door, and taking off my shoes. “Boris,” I called out, “I’m home. What are you doing?” No answer. It wasn’t entirely unusual. Though he was usually home when I got back, sometimes he’d slip out. He had his own life, after all, and I tried not to get too caught up in it. After a quick trip to the bathroom, I went into our bedroom to change into something more comfortable (dressing nice for customers had its perks, but comfort wasn’t necessarily one of them) and finally lay down after a day’s worth of work. That wasn’t what happened.

Boris was laying on the bed. He looked asleep at first glance, but with closer inspection I could see that his lips were blue and that the pale, milky white skin of his face was tinged with blue as well. “Boris,” I panicked. “Boris, are you alright?” I immediately forgot everything in the world other than Boris, hopping onto the bed to get a closer look at him. He was out cold, his skin clammy to the touch. “Boris, please.” I was begging, slapping his face and shaking his shoulders to try and wake him. In my panic, I couldn’t understand what had happened. Why my Boris, generally so full of life and energy, looked minutes away from death. I put my head to his chest, listening for a heartbeat or a breath. Anything. His heart was beating, albeit slower than it should have been, and he was breathing, though it sounded like something was stuck in his throat. “Boris. Boris, wake up. Wake up, please!” I had begun to scream. His breaths had sounded so labored that I tried to lift him into a sitting position to alleviate some of the pressure on his chest, but he was dead weight. His body was completely limp, and far too heavy for me to move alone. The struggle of trying to lift Boris had exhausted me, and I slumped back against the wall to take just a moment to breath. That was when I noticed something and it all finally came together, the whole terrible picture. A syringe on the ground, next to a spoon and a lighter. The scene was seared into my brain: Boris desperately trying to get a fix, to get the high he needed to feel normal after years of shooting up. I fumbled in my pants for my phone, shaking as I dialed 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?” said a calm, female voice on the other side of the line.

“I need an ambulance, I think my boyfriend is dying!” I was crying, almost screaming to the woman on the line. I had never told a stranger that Boris was my boyfriend, and saying the word out loud was startling. It was all too much, thinking about what might happen to Boris. “Please, help.”

“Sir, what happened?”

“He overdosed. Heroin, I think? I need someone to come now, I can’t help him!”

“Try and remain calm, sir. An ambulance is on the way.” I couldn’t possibly remain calm in a situation like this, so I just laid down next to Boris, cradling his cold, blue face, and waited for the ambulance to arrive. I tried my best to give the operator the rest of the information she needed. Where we were, what his name was, a list of other questions that didn’t matter when Boris was here dying. It felt like a lifetime, and all I could think about was what I could have done differently. Gotten home earlier, called 911 earlier, forced Boris into rehab against his will. Anything I could have done so that I wouldn’t have been there then, holding Boris as he died and waiting for the paramedics to come and save him. It took too long. It was minutes before they arrived, and all I could do was sit there. I had his head in my lap, peppering his face with little kisses. I didn’t know if he could feel them or if he was even conscious, but I prayed that he could. That if he didn’t make it, the last thing he felt was my lips on his.

When the paramedics finally arrived they pulled Boris out of my lap and onto a stretcher where I couldn’t reach him. I heard them talking, confirming what I had suspected. Heroin overdose, and by the looks of it, a bad one. It felt like a dream: Boris on a stretcher, the paramedics mumbling to one another, a shot of Narcan into his thigh. They whisked him away, out of the building and into the back of an ambulance. I couldn’t get to him. I think I may have been screaming, but it was all too chaotic to remember. I just know they wouldn’t let me in the ambulance, and that I had to find another way to the hospital. It was too far to run and I didn’t have a car, so I had to hail a taxi. The taxi driver stayed quiet as I told him where I needed go with tears in my eyes, trying my hardest to hold back sobs.

Arriving at the hospital was a whole different beast entirely. Since Boris had just arrived in an ambulance, the receptionist at the front desk of the emergency room had been unable to give me a room number. “I’m sorry, no visitors are allowed until the patient is put in a permanent room,” she explained to me. “You can wait here and I’ll tell you when?”

“I just need to know if he’s alright. He’s probably in there right now, can I just go there and stay with him?” I was begging her. “Please, his name is Boris Pavlikovsky. Can I just go and see if he’s okay?”

“I’m sorry, sir. If he’s been taken in for emergency medical care, I can’t let anyone who isn’t immediate family visit until he’s been placed in a room. What is your relation to Mr. Pavlikovsky?”

“He’s my boyfriend. He’s family.” It was the second time in that day that I had told someone I didn’t know that Boris was my boyfriend. I didn’t know what else to call us. If we weren’t boyfriends then what were we?

“I’m really sorry. I’m not allowed to let you go.” She did seemed genuinely sorry, but I couldn’t help but wonder why she couldn’t just bend the rules. “I’ll keep an eye on it though, and tell you when.”

I slumped down onto one of the chairs. “Alright, thank you,” I told her. If I thought the few minutes waiting for the ambulance to arrive were hard, waiting nearly an hour for the receptionist to flag me over to her desk was torture. When she finally did, I ran over with a great sense of relief, though I suppose she could have given me bad news.

“He’s stable. He hasn’t been placed in a permanent room yet, but I’ll have a nurse come around and show you where he is.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” A nurse did come around, opening the door to the emergency room and showing me down a hallway full of temporary rooms. On the outside of one of the doors was a paper stuffed into a plastic compartment with what I can only assume were medical documents. Written across the top in messy handwriting was: Pavlikovsky.

“He probably won’t look so great,” the nurse told me. “They had to give him a second dose of Narcan on the ride over, his breathing and heart rate had slowed so much that the first dose didn’t do much. He’s lucky you called when you did. A few minutes longer and he probably would’ve been a goner. You can go in if you want.”

“Yeah,” I breathed out, “I will. Thank you.” Boris was laying on his side, his back turned away from the door. When he heard it open he moaned, probably a sign that he didn’t want any visitors after the hour he spent being brought back from the dead. He was hooked up to an IV, and to a myriad of other machines surrounding his bed. “Boris?” I asked tentatively, waiting at the door.

“Potter?” His voice was weak, and he sounded almost surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?” He was still facing away from me. “Can I come in?”

“Sure, but I don’t really want to talk.” He scooted over, making as much room for me as he could on the tiny bed. An invitation.

“That’s alright.” I got in next to him, putting my face in his hair and wrapping my arm over his waist, the way he used to do to me when we were kids. “I was so worried, Boris.” My tears were soaking his hair, and all I could think to do was hold him tight and kiss the back of his neck. He still hadn’t looked me in the eyes, and when I kissed his neck, he sighed. “What’s wrong?”

“I said I don’t want to talk. I can’t right now, I’m so tired.”

“Sleep, then. Do you want me to stay?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, “stay.” I laid there for a while, my arms around Boris as he slept. I couldn’t even imagine how exhausting the whole ordeal had been for him. The overdose, the ambulance ride, not knowing where he was or what was happening. We stayed like that for a few hours, as they monitored Boris’ vitals and prepped a more permanent room for him to spend the rest of his hospital visit in. When the doctor finally came in, I sat up and whispered “He’s sleeping. Can it wait?”

“We’d rather not wait, there’s people who need these rooms.”

“Okay so where is he supposed to go?” At the time, I wasn’t sure what the hospital would do. Boris had been hooked on all sorts of drugs for half of his life, with no signs of improvement and no apparent desire to stop.

“We’re going to take him to the general population and monitor his withdrawal symptoms. We can give him stuff to make the experience less painful, but it isn’t going to be nice. I’m glad he’s got someone to support him through that.” She began to move the equipment around Boris’ bed, rolling the stuff towards the door to take it out of the room before rolling Boris’ bed out too. I followed her into an elevator, out into a hallway, and into one of the hospital’s permanent rooms. It was a white, antiseptic space that I knew Boris would hate. He somehow managed to sleep through moving his bed, and I hoped he’d sleep a little longer. Once he woke up, I knew I would have to tell him what they’d planned. For him to come off heroin in the hospital, suffering the withdrawal symptoms I knew he was terrified of. Once the doctor left I got back into the bed with Boris, listening to him breath. His breathes were easier now, the gurgling sound completely gone and replaced with a gentle exhale. He still looked sick, though. His pale skin was devoid of even more color than usual, and he was clammy to the touch. Early withdrawal symptoms, probably the reason he had overdosed in the first place. Shooting up more than he ever should have in an attempt to make those feelings go away.

I knew Boris’ calm wouldn’t last long. About 20 minutes after the room move, he woke up moaning. “Potter, why are we still here? What happened?” He finally rolled over to look at me, resting his head on my chest.

“You don’t remember?”

“Not really. I remember waking up on the ambulance, the machines, the people around me. But I do not know. Why are we here?” he asked again, closing his eyes and breathing deeply.

“You overdosed, Boris. I found you passed out on the bed. You were barely breathing and you wouldn’t wake up. I didn’t know what to do.” Talking about it was painful, and talking about it to Boris was even worse. He didn’t like to bring it up. The darker parts of his existence were off limits, particularly his heroin use.

“Why did you call the ambulance? I hate the doctors, Potter, you know this.”

“You were dying,” I whispered. “The doctor told me if I had waited 5 more minutes you would have been gone.”

“You should not have called,” Boris answered.

“You know I had to. I couldn’t just let you die there, Boris. I love you.” I kissed the top of his head. His dark curls were sweaty and sort of gross, but none of it mattered. He was here with me now.

“So when can we leave? I just want to go home.” This was what I had been dreading. He sounded tired even though he had just woken up, and defeated, too. Defeated in a way that I wasn’t used to hearing Boris sound.

I took a deep breath before saying, “We aren’t going, Boris. We’re gonna stay until the withdrawal is finished, and then we’ll go home.”

Boris immediately jumped, getting up off the bed and ripping the IVs out of his arms. “No, no. I will not stay here, I don’t want to do it. You know this.” He had gone from slurring his words in exhaustion to frantic in the span of a few seconds.

“Boris, please,” I begged. “It’ll be better here. You don’t want to go to an impatient treatment center, I won’t be there. At least here I can be with you.”

“I want to go home, Potter. No hospitals at all. I’m not crazy, I don’t need to be here. I’m fine now, I can go home.”

“Please, calm down. Come here.” I got up, putting my arms around Boris and holding him tight. “Nobody said you were crazy.” I kissed his jaw, then his lips. “You can finally get clean, Boris. It’ll be good.”

“I’m so scared.” I could barely hear the words, they were so quiet. “I don’t want to do it. The withdrawal is bad, and it’s going to hurt, and I don’t want to do it.” He was shaking a bit now, forcing the words through tears.

“Yeah, I know. But it’ll be better here than at home. They can give you stuff, make it a little less horrible. I’ll be here, too. I’ll stay as long as you want me to.” I rubbed circles onto his back, holding him as he cried.

Boris pulling out his IVs must have triggered some alarm, because a nurse walked in shortly after, asking what had happened. I had told her that Boris freaked and pulled all the wires connecting him to the machines off, but that he was okay now, and that she could hook him back up. He agreed, laying down and looking away as she stuck his arm. He was hooked up to a bunch of wires on both his chest and arms, probably to monitor his heart rate and oxygen levels as well as give him fluids. When she left, I joined him on the bed again. He still had tears in his eyes.

“Hey. Boris, it’s going to be alright.” I cupped his face with my hands, wiping his tears away and kissing him gently. “You’re so strong. You can do this, I promise.”

“Yes, I just don’t want to,” he answered. “Have been through worse, probably, but it will not be good. I really don’t want to go through all of it.”

“I know. I know you don’t. But once it’s over you’ll be so much better off. Healthier and happier. Right?”

“I already feel sick, Potter.” He looked sick, too. He closed his eyes, the way people do when they’re trying to stave off pain, and took a shaky breath. I soon realized it wasn’t pain he was trying to stave off, but his nausea. It hadn’t worked. He began to vomit, all down his chin and on hospital gown. He groaned, in pain maybe, but more likely in embarrassment at the first real symptom of his withdrawal. “I am sorry. I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“It’s nothing. You’ve seen me worse, Boris.” I helped him into a sitting position, which caused him to vomit again. It was pooling in his flimsy hospital gown, the sharp and sour smell of bile in the air. “Let me help you take it off.”

“No, I can do it myself.” I knew it would get worse, and that eventually he probably would need my help, or a nurse’s, so I didn’t fight back, even though I knew that it would be easier and faster if I helped. It took him a little while to peal off the hospital gown without getting vomit on the bed, and once he did he was lying in front of me completely naked. He folded in on himself into a fetal position, moaning again. “I think I’m dying,” he said.

“You’re not dying. I promise, you’re going to be okay.” It was probably muscle cramps, his stomach tightening up after violently expelling all of the bile in his system. “Come take a shower, it’ll feel good to be under the water after everything.” I helped him up, walking to the small hospital shower with my arms around him. I’d obviously seen him naked before, but now his nakedness was startling. He looked thinner than I remembered, his ribs prominent and his stomach hollowed. I sat him down on the little chair in the shower, moving the shower head out of the way to make sure the temperature was okay before turning the water towards him. I hadn’t gone back home, and I didn’t think to bring toiletries in my panic, so we were stuck with the hospital’s cheap two in one shampoo, which I poured into my hands and rubbed into Boris’ sweaty hair.

“You do not have to wash my hair. I am alright, Potter.”

“Shh, don’t worry about it,” I whispered. “I want to.” I massaged the shampoo in, a strangely intimate act, before bringing the shower head down to wash it out more easily. “Stand up and wash your body?” Boris nodded, grabbing the hospital issued bar soap and rubbing it over his chest and arms. He was doing fine until another muscle cramp must have hit him, and he slipped down to the floor.

He saw me jump back in panic and bend down to grab him, respondng with “Do not worry, is okay.” He grabbed onto the stool, struggling to get back up with the slippery surface of the shower floor under his feet, and I caught him as he almost fell for a second time. I sat him down, helping him wash the rest of his body before shutting off the water and going to grab him a towel. In the minute I was away, I heard him moan again. “I’m sorry,” he said, at a volume I could barely hear from across the room. I couldn’t see him yet, but coming back into the bathroom it was obvious what had happened by the smell alone. He had shit himself, diarrhea pouring down the back of his legs and sitting stagnant at the bottom of the shower. He was shaky, and kept apologizing out loud, over and over. Maybe to me, maybe to himself, maybe to some higher power. I couldn’t tell.

“It’s alright. Calm down, Boris. We can clean it up, it’s only in the shower. Better here than out there.” I turned the water back on, and Boris grabbed the soap to clean himself as the shit ran down his legs and to the drain. I kept the water on his back and legs until it ran clean and the smell was mostly gone from the room. “Here,” I said, wrapping him with the towel. “You just need to lay down.” I got Boris into a new hospital gown and back into bed, kissing him through it all. Once we were laying back down, I told him “I love you so much, Boris. Thank you for staying here.”

He turned away from me, like he had before. He didn’t want to make eye contact. “This is why I didn’t want to do this,” he admitted. “Now I am like child and you have to take care of me.” Because he was only wearing a hospital gown, Boris’ entire backside was visible to me. I kissed his neck and rubbed the small of his back as he said “I hate it. I feel sick, and it only just started, Potter. I will be grown man shitting himself like baby for a week. Might was well put me in a diaper so I don’t fucking shit the bed. I don’t want the nurse to have to clean me because then I feel like invalid, but if you have to clean me I feel horrible too. Like I have lost all my dignity in the world.” He was crying, his voice shaking as he spoke. His body was shaking too, craving the heroin that had nearly killed him.

“Please,” I said gently, “look at me when I tell you this. It’s important.” Boris turned around, but focused his eyes on my chest and not my face. I grabbed his face gently, stroking his cheekbone as I told him “I’m here because I love you, Boris. Whatever happens, I’m going to stay until it’s over. And I don’t mind taking care of you. After everything you’ve done for me, it’s the least I can do. You cleaned my puke more times than I can count, and I’m sure there’s times I don’t even know about. Blackout drunk, remember? And that’s just when we were kids. You did so much for me, not because anyone forced you to but because you’re a good person. And I’m trying to be a good person, too. I love you more than anything in the world, and if that means cleaning up your shit for a week then so be it. Because you deserve to get better, and you deserve recovery and you deserve happiness.”

“You are too good for me.”

“No, I’m not.” It was late, past midnight. Maybe 9 hours after I had found Boris in the apartment nearly dead. “I really don’t want to leave you, but I think maybe I should go back to the apartment and grab some stuff? Just some clothes for us, soap, toothbrushes, that sort of thing. Try and sleep, maybe? I’ll be here when you wake up, I promise.” Leaving Boris was the last thing I wanted to do. The thought of being away from him now terrified me, but going to grab the things we needed before he got too bad sounded like a good idea.

“Yes, go. I will be here, probably puking my guts out.” He saw my look of concern and laughed weakly. “Is okay, just joke.” I gave Boris a deep kiss before getting out of the tiny bed, standing at the door for a minute before promising I’d be back soon, and walking fast down the hallway. I intended to keep that promise.

After taking a taxi back to the apartment, I walked quickly to the bathroom to grab our toiletries, and then into the bedroom. It was exactly as it had been after the ambulance arrived, completely untouched by anyone since then. The place was a wreck, Boris’ syringe still on the ground. I threw away the drug paraphernalia in a rush, praying that Boris would never need any of it again, and got some clothes together. Pajamas, underwear, socks. A couple of comfortable outfits. Stuffing it into a bag with the toiletries, I ran out of the apartment, hailed a taxi, and was back at the hospital in less than half an hour.

Walking fast down the halls at night was strange. Nurses and doctors on the night shift stared, and I was glad to be back in the room by Boris’ side and away from their glances. I entered quietly, hoping Boris had fallen asleep, but he hadn’t. Instead, he closed his eyes when he saw me and said “It happened again, Potter.” He didn’t specify what, but I knew. This time, though, he had shit the bed.

I flagged a nurse and asked if she could replace the sheets, while I took Boris into the shower to clean him off again. It had only been around an hour since the last shower, and it was the early hours of the morning, but the thought of Boris feeling any more demoralized than he already was broke my heart. I took out the fancy body wash we had at the apartment, and helped Boris as he washed himself off. “This will just keep happening,” he said. “I will not be able to shower every time.”

“I know, but I want you to at least be clean before you sleep.” I rubbed the soap onto his back, then rinsed it off with the shower head. “And I brought some of your pajamas from home if you don’t want to sleep in the hospital gown.”

“I think maybe it is better to not ruin my clothes,” he said. “Not until this part is over.”

“Okay.” As I helped him out of the shower, he leaned over the toilet to vomit. “Have you eaten anything?” I asked.

“I will just puke it up or shit it out.” He exhaled. “Even water. And I am not hungry at all.”

“Alright, do you wanna try and sleep? It’s late.”

“Yes, I will try. You will not leave?”

“No, Boris. I won’t leave, I promise.” After I got Boris back onto the bed, I pulled the couch in the room close to the bed, so I could be as close to him as possible without squeezing next to him. We had squeezed in beds before, but the twin sized cot was far too small for us to sleep in together now that we were fully grown. He held out his hand, and I gave it a tight squeeze. “Goodnight, Boris. I love you.”

My back hurt bad the next morning, a sign that the too stiff couch was clearly not meant to be slept on. I had woken up at around 6 am, when a nurse came in to check on Boris and got out of bed shortly after, when Boris got up to commence vomiting into the toilet. When I sat down next to him the only thing I noticed was that he looked worse. His skin was clammy, his hair was matted down from sweat, and his nose was dripping. “Did you sleep alright?” I asked tentatively.

“Tossing and turning all night, Potter. Did not sleep much, but when I did I was dreaming. Of Las Vegas, and you, and my father. I want this to stop already. I just need a little bit, it is in my drawer at home. Just a little to make this go away, and then I will stop.” He was desperate, pleading with his eyes.

“I’m not going home to get you heroin, Boris. I’m going to call Hobie and ask him to throw it all away.”

“No, please! Please, I just need a little.” He was vomiting again, his hands on the sides of the toilet and his face resting against the cool porcelain of the seat. He must have been hot, because he had sweat through his hospital gown.

“I’m not going to let you do that, and you know it. You’re this far, let’s just stick it out.” I rubbed his neck as he vomited, hands running through his sweaty hair. It was like that for hours. Boris, vomiting into the toilet bowl as I rubbed his neck. Occasionally, Boris recoiling and closing his eyes in embarrassment as diarrhea ran down his legs and onto the bathroom floor, as I quietly left to find someone who could clean up the mess. The nurse was in and out, checking in on him and giving him medication for the nausea and diarrhea that did little to help his situation. By the end of the day, I was surprised that Boris even had anything left in his system to expel, but the vomit and diarrhea continued on and off until nearly midnight, when Boris fell back against the bathroom wall.

“I am so tired, Potter,” he said to me, his voice hoarse from vomit. “Think I should shower, but don’t know if I can stand up.”

“Sit on the stool, then. It’s there for a reason.” I pointed at the little seat in the shower, and Boris nodded softly. He took off his sweat drenched hospital gown and threw it to the ground, stepping inside the shower carefully before sitting down. He took the entire shower that way, sitting with his back resting on the wall as used the shower head to rinse him off. I had to help him more this time, washing his hair like I did before but also lathering the soap all over his body. He was weaker than I had ever seen him, and he quickly resigned to let me help. “All clean,” I told him, shutting off the water. “Wanna just sleep in a pair of boxers? You’re sweating through everything, I think the less you wear the better.”

“That’s fine.” He really seemed exhausted, collapsing down into his bed as soon as he got his underwear on. “Turn the light off, I will try and sleep.”

“Alright. Sleep well, I love you.” I gave him a kiss on the forehead before shutting off the lights and laying down on the couch.

Sleep came easy, but didn’t last long. I was abruptly awoken, hearing a panicked voice yell, “Nyet, nyet!” Boris was frantic, switching between Russian and English. I rolled over to look at the clock. 4:17 am. I got up off the couch, rubbing my eyes and yawning before approaching Boris. “Ne podkhodi blizhe! Don’t come any closer!” He was scared, wrapping his arms around his chest to protect himself. “Nyet, papa!” I didn’t know much Russian, but I suddenly knew what was happening. I could understand those words. He was begging his father to stay away from him, telling him to not come any closer, and in his delusional state he either thought I was his father or that his father was next to me.

“Boris, listen. I’m not him,” I pleaded, hoping to get through to him.

“Prekrati eto!”

“Boris, it’s me, it’s Theo!” I tried to approach him, but every time I did he panicked, scooting further away from me. “Theodore Decker!”

“Pozhaluysta, papa!” He was crying now, “Don’t hit me, please!”

“Boris I would never hurt you. I promise, I would never hurt you. I love you so much.” He didn’t seem to see me at all or to be listening to anything I said, so I did the only thing I could think of, which was to run over to him and wrap him in my arms. He tried to fight me off, but once he realized that I wasn’t hurting him at all he calmed down. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s just me.” A callback to our childhood, something that might bring him back to reality.

“Potter?” He was clearly confused. “Where am I?”

“The hospital, Boris.” I still had my arms around him, holding tight. I pressed a kiss to his sweaty temple.

“In Las Vegas? What happened?”

“No, in New York. You overdosed, we’re here to help you get better.”

“Why are we in New York? When did we get here?” He didn’t seem aware of the situation, perhaps thinking himself to be a child again.

“We live here, Boris. In our apartment, remember?” I was trying to be as gentle with him as possible, reminding him of our life together. The life we made for ourselves in New York.

“I don’t know.” He looked confused. Aware that he should know, but worried about the fact that he didn’t.

“Try and sleep, Boris. It’ll be better when you wake up tomorrow. I promise.” I loosened the grip, letting him out of my arms. “Are you cold?” I asked, since he was in only a pair of thin boxers. He shook his head no. “Okay, then you should sleep.” He nodded, though he seemed completely out of it, then got into bed, curled up into the fetal position, and fell asleep. I followed soon after.

Boris’ episode of delusion and panic frightened me greatly, as I had never seen him lose touch with reality the way he did during those 10 minutes. The next day, though his vomiting and diarrhea had become manageable, and though he knew that I was me and that we were in New York, Boris began to terrify me in an entirely new way.

He woke me up with his crying, telling me “I did not sleep well last night, Potter. I don’t know what I did.”

“What do you mean you don’t know what you did?” I asked gently. I knew Boris was in a sensitive emotional state. Three days into withdrawal meant his cravings were rampant and his moods were swinging wildly.

“I hurt myself, I think?” He held his arms out for me to see, and where there were usually faint track marks I saw bloody holes. It looked as if he had dug into the marks with something sharp, creating craters over twice the size of the scars that usually littered his arms. “I don’t know what happened?” He phrased it like a question, like he genuinely didn’t know how the marks had gotten there.

“You did it to yourself?” I whispered, and he nodded. “With what?”

“Razor blade, when you were sleeping. Dug the corner into the holes, I needed to let the blood out.”

“Why did you need to let the blood out?” He still seemed not quite in touch with reality, but I desperately didn’t want to get him sent to the psych ward, so I kept it all quiet. Made sure he was under the blanket and pretended it all was fine when the nurse came in to check on him.

He began to cry harder, wiping away tears as he said “To feel something? I need to feel something, Potter. I feel so numb without the drugs, it makes me wish I were dead. I need to do a pop but I can’t get it here, so I need to feel something else. Anything else, before I slit my wrists and end it, Potter.”

“Boris.” I didn’t know what else to say. I knew heroin withdrawal could create depression so strong the addict was drawn to suicide, but I had always figured Boris couldn’t feel that way. Boris laughed off his trauma, and even when he let it affect him it was never nearly this bad. “We just need to get through today.”

“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t do it anymore, this whole thing.”

I kissed his head, whispering “You’ve made it this far, I know you can make it the rest of the way. I know it.”

“I don’t want to make it if this is how I’m going to feel. I would rather be dead.” I laid down with him, and he rested his head on my chest. “I hate being me and I hate that I put myself in this situation. I hate it all.”

“There’s no use in being upset for the things you did in the past, Boris. You need to forgive yourself for the things you regret doing and just promise yourself you’ll do better. The past is behind you and you can’t change it. You can’t go back and decide to not use drugs, but you can try your hardest to never start again. It hurts, I know, but you just need to remember that we’re here for a reason. And you need to look forward to that, you need to look forward to the future. Every day it’ll be easier. And it’s hard now, but tomorrow it’ll be less, and the next day even less, until it gets easy enough that you won’t have to think about it. You know?”

“Will you just lay with me today?” he asked into my chest.

“Do you really think I’d leave you now? Of course I’ll lay with you. And soon we can go home.”

We stayed in the same position for hours, only getting up when one of us had to go to the bathroom. Boris was finally able to keep food down, and he looked much healthier than he had the day before. He was still clammy and pale, but his skin looked less dull and he wasn’t shaking. He was finally able to put on sweatpants and a t-shirt without sweating through them, and the doctor cleared him to be discharged after one more night in the hospital as long as his symptoms kept improving.

We spent the last night the way we spent the first two, with me on the couch pushed close to Boris’ bed. I knew he wasn’t sleeping well, a result of the withdrawal induced anxiety and insomnia, and that he probably wouldn’t sleep well for at least a week after, as he body adjusted to not having heroin in it’s system, but he got a few hours of sleep that night. Better than any of the nights before, and without any trips to the bathroom to puke or delusions interrupting his rest. The next morning, he took a shower and changed into a new set of sweatpants and a new t-shirt without any help. He still wasn’t himself, but he was able to do the things that had seemed impossible in the two days prior. He gave me a weak smile as he left the bathroom, wet curls hanging down over his forehead. Eventually, a doctor came in and explained to Boris his options for after we left: personal therapy to help discuss the trauma that had led to addiction, group therapy to foster better coping skills, follow ups to see how he was doing. All things I knew he would object to.

“They think I am crazy, Potter. That I need shrink,” he laughed.

“Nobody thinks that. It’s just to talk about yourself and any problems that happen to arise in day to day life. It might be good for you.” He didn’t seem convinced. “I go to therapy, Boris. It helps, I promise. After everything we’ve been through, sometimes you just need to talk to someone who wasn’t involved in it all.”

He sighed, “We can talk about this later.”

“Okay.” I didn’t want to push him. Even though he was visibly better, his withdrawal wasn’t finished. The doctor had made that clear. He had puked and shit himself constantly for two days, then spent the next in a clear mental crisis. It would last for at least few more days with less severe physical symptoms, and his body wouldn’t be completely used to being without heroin until next week. There was just no need for the hospital to monitor him anymore. His overdose hadn’t killed him, and the very worst of his withdrawal was over, so the responsibility of making sure Boris was alright was placed entirely on me.

I packed up the one bag I had brought, and Boris put on the clothes he had come to the hospital in. A black shirt and dark jeans, the outfit he had been wearing when I found him laying on the bed. We signed the necessary paperwork, and within an hour he was discharged. The air was crisp and the sun was bright, especially after three days of the bleach smell and fluorescent lights of the hospital. Boris took in a deep breath, and I put my arm around his shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

“Three days is nothing,” he said. “I’m still going through it.”

“I know. But I’m proud of you for getting this far. You’ve never done it before. That’s something to be proud of.”

Being back home wasn’t as much of a relief as I thought it would be. Our home was the same, but it all felt different. The promise of a better future for Boris echoed throughout the halls, but the knowledge that he might relapse and that we might have to start all over lurked in the back of my mind as well. He was happy to be back, though. Being able to lay in our bed instead of the uncomfortable hospital bed helped him sleep better, and being in a familiar environment eased his anxiety. I spent the next week in bed with him as he recovered, calming him when he woke up screaming and promising him that his life was well worth living. It got easier, but it was never easy. He managed to remain clean that entire time, a feat that I frankly didn’t think was possible for him. He looked healthier than he ever had, too. His skin was clear and glowing in a way that I didn’t associate with Boris one bit, the dull pallor replaced with rosy fairness.

One night, weeks after the hospital, we were laying in bed when Boris said to me, “Thank you. For making me stay in the hospital. I didn’t ever think I’d stop, and I didn’t think that anyone would care enough to make me. But you did.”

“Yeah, of course. You know you mean the world to me, right? That if I had lost you that night I don’t even know what I would have done.” I kissed him then, slow and deep. Boris was alive and breathing, and he was kissing me back, and that was more than I could have ever asked for.

I can’t speak for the future. None of us know what’s going to happen tomorrow, and the thought of that terrifies us all. But for now, I can say that Boris remained clean. Threw his drugs down the garbage disposal and watched them get incinerated, went to therapy, took it all one day at a time. Put years and years of numbing his pain with drugs behind him, and decided he would keep going despite everything he had been through. And that’s more than I could ever ask of him.

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#the goldfinch #boreo #boris pavlikovsky #theo decker #fanfic

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1000roughdrafts · 5 years ago

Text

Family Secrets: Chapter Five

Pretty Thoughts

Summary: After interrogating a demon for weeks on end, she gives you the information you‘ve been hunting for. Enlisting help from Garth brings trouble in the form of Dean Winchester.

A/N: again, sorry about formatting, I’m on mobile. Also, happy halloweeeeeen🎃:)

Warnings: SPN style demon torture (lol), obscenities, slight angst (argument between reader x dean), Dean in slight pain

W/C: 2.7k

Masterlist/schedule

Previous Chapter

"Just give me their names you disgusting rat," you shout through clenched teeth at the thin, black hair and black eyed demon you have strapped to a rusted chair. Dumping holy water onto the demons face you smile as it screams out in agony. With clammy hands you lean in, your face just inches away from it's blood drenched cheek. "You're going to die no mater what, so give me what I need and I'll put you out of your misery."

The demon stays silent, looking at you with it's now chestnut eyes with russet rims. It's long lashes bat once at you. "Mandy," you say gingerly while pushing yourself up to stretch out your back.

Taking a glimpse at the devils trap you've carved into the floorboards of a room you and Rufus had added onto the cabin, it wretchedly begs, "it's been weeks."

"Pretty neat, huh?" You mendaciously chuckle while toying with the dagger. "I've expanded on the normal version. Thought I'd had a trick of my own. You're dying, slowly and never to return again that's to some spells I've learned along the way."

"How cute. A hunter dabbling in magic. Does daddy know that you're no better than those you're in search of?" She puts on a false pout before breaking into laughter, "oh, wait."

Your eyebrows erect to reveal your arrogant eyes and temperate smirk. "Names. Now."

The demon stays silent, continuing to look around for a way out. Fed up with its evasiveness you grab a syringe filled with holy water and finished off with a spell to elongate the effects, to quickly inject the demon before it can scream out. After giving a second dose, you throw the empty syringe back onto the tray.

"Guess I'll see you in a few days, then." You laugh, "if you're still alive that is. See, I do need this information, but if you die before I can get it, well, that just means I have to kill more of your kind. And that's a win win for me."

You stealthily turn to walk towards the wooden block of a door that leads to the cabin. As you approach the first step, the demon lets out a thundering, frustration driven growl. Twisting around to face the demon, you smile, "yes?"

"Allanah Sandburn, Rose Coach, Taylor something and Violet Yasmin."

"Who else?" you demand while striding over and paralleling you're torso to the demons, pulling your dagger to her cheek.

"Guess you're gonna have to get another 'rat' to tell you that one," it shrieks, spitting at you. "That's all I know."

"Good one," you say, wiping the saliva from your cheek with the back of your hand and letting out a small chuckle. "I guess you're right."

Thrusting the blade into the left center of the demons chest it lets out one last ear piercing shrill, throwing its head back in torment. The body twitches and convulses and the last bit of essence vanished from the vessel in a luminous flash of vivid energy.

After showering the dagger in holy water you use your handkerchief to wipe it dry before dialing a number into your cell. "Hi, Garth." You pause and smile, "yeah, grab a piece of paper, would ya?"

You rotate around and stride over to the demon. "Can you do me a solid and have a look-see at a few names?"

—

A nauseating stench vents into the smokey air as you glare into the pit and gawk at the burning carcass. You reach into your pocket and put the singing phone to your ear, "what's the word?"

"Why are you asking Garth to track down a coven?"

"Grumpy? What are you doing with Garths cell?"

"What? I'm no- didn't you see the number before you answered?"

"Luckily for you, I didn't. Slick move leaving your card behind, I thought I had your number blocked."

"Yeah, well," Dean clears his throat. "Sam says I may have been a little too tough on you."

"Tough?" You called me a fucking monster, asshole, your thoughts scream.

"Now, I know I called you a monster and hey," he chuckles, "I've been there. Like you said, a lot of hunters have a bounty on my head."

"And?" Do you expect me to fucking care? You think as you sit on the cement steps in front of the porch.

"And I'm not expecting you to care or anything, but, uh, I thought 'what the hell, let's give her a shot'. What do you say?"

"Give me a shot?" Better make sure that's an iron bullet, you cynically joke.

"No, look, I'm not fixin' to shoot you," he says quickly and then more smoothly, "I'm saying I want a second chance."

"Yeah well you can take that and-"

"Shove it where the sun don't shine? Tried that. It can right on back."

You can hear a playful grin that he's attempting to suppress, and roll your eyes at the image. "I have gone a very long time with just myself, I think I can handle-"

"You're not doing it on your own. Covens typically meet in groups of-"

"Thirteen. I'm aware. I wasn't born yesterday."

"Says the girl who doesn't even know when she was born," he scowls.

You laugh, "aw, would you look at that, it didn't even take more than five minutes for your true colors to shine back through."

"Okay, smarty pants, I'm looking at this from a logical point of view. Thirteen against one are not great odds. You want to get yourself killed? Be my first. But if you want help, do nothing until we get back. What do you say?"

"That's assuming that I'm not already being logical about this." You pause, "tell me what Garth found out and I light agree to that."

He sighs, "the main one you're looking for Allanah. I guess she was last seen somewhere near Kansas City, but seriously... don't go poking around until me and Sam get back to the cabin. Just stay where you are. Do you hear me?"

You switch the phone to your alternate ear, standing up from the steps. "You are not in charge of me, Dean! We met purely coincidentally, you threatened me and I went off on my own remember? I didn't even want to hear from you again!" What does he care anyway?

"Whatever. I don't care. Just don't drag Garth into it."

"Oh," you scoff. "So that's a perfectly acceptable thing for Dean Winchester, but I can't?" Asshole.

"What did you just say?"

Louder this time, you repeat yourself, "I'm saying you don't own him. You can't just keep bossing people aro-"

"No, something about an ass."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I could have sworn you called me an asshole."

Immediately you end the call and hold the phone against your chest. "How in the hell could he have heard that?" You say aloud, too scared to say anything mentally.

Walking inside to grab yourself a much needed beer you try to drown out the idea of Dean Winchester heading your every thought. You're trying to keep them concealed and nothing too personal, but after a lifetime of privacy as far as thoughts go, it's not as easy as you hope. Opening the beer, your phone rings again.

"Leave me alone," you growl.

"Oh," Tim says, "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were upset with me."

You put your palm to your forehead, "I'm not, Tim. I'm sorry. I was just on the phone with someone else, and... what's up?"

"Well, there's this guy missing from my town. The police don't seem to be doing much, but I really gotta know if he's okay, you know?" He sniffles, "I figured since you're part of the FBI or CSI or secret service or something you could look into it?"

"Oh, I don't know, Tim," you sigh. "It doesn't really... work that way."

"Please? It would really mean a lot to me."

"Just... just text me the location."

By the time you arrive, the neighborhood is dark. No street or porch lights are on. Most of the houses are guarded up with rusted chains on the windows and skirted with tall metal fences. You grab your pistol from the glove box and double check the clip. With the dagger still in your boot, you sneak out while checking for wandering eyes. The sidewalk that interrupts a dandelion garden leads to a golden brown door. Checking over your shoulder once more, you pick the lock and creep inside.

What you presume used to be a coffee table is wearing the couch and underneath the two is a torn up rug. Shards of splintered wood litter the floor where the dining table had collapsed. A thick coating of muddy red blood is splattered over the previously cotton white walls and wooden floor. You aren't sure whether it came from one person or more, but it is enough to leave a man dead. The only room unscathed is the office, which seems to remain orderly if it weren't for the papers scattered around.

Whoever is doing this was looking for something.

After bowing to your knees, you rummage through the cluster trying to find a clue. You check the mahogany dressers of his desk, and find nothing to suggest he had a life outside of work. You open the screen of his laptop and smile when it pulls everything up with no need to enter a password. Finding nothing but excel worksheets and business projects, you focus your attention to the matching bookshelf to see much of the sale.

Nothing seems to be helpful until you notice that one is remarkably shallow compared to the other. Quickly and quietly, you pull everything out and using the heel of your gun you give the makeshift bottom a rough tap. After a few attempts it opens just enough to reach inside. The tips of your fingers are instantly cold to the touch of a large skeleton key.

"I believe that belongs to me, sweetheart."

Drawing your weapon you whip around and lime the barrel between the mans eyes.

"Ah, the ol' gun to the head trick," he laughs with his arks in the air. "Go ahead, love, wouldn't work on me anyway." He drops his arms as you bend to reach the dagger, keeping him in sight. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. I know what you're going for, darling, and I'd strongly advice against it."

"Who are you?" Dean help! You scream in your mind, putting as much strength and emphasis onto the name as you can, hoping that he can hear you.

"Trying to cut out the foreplay I see," he snarls while walking to your side. "Very well, then. The names Crowley," he says proudly, chin held high.

Bursting through the door of the cabin, the Winchester's lug in their bags and plop them into the floor. Sam shuffled through one of the books shelves while Dean is staring out of a, foolishly open, window. He steps back and forth along the floor before throwing his arms out and halts his pacing, “we have four missing people, and never seen or heard of before weather patterns."

Sam lets out an exasperated sigh, "are we sure they're even connected?" He pulls a book from the case and settles in at the table to flip through it. He scans the room, twisting his body in both directions, "said a minute. Wasn't Blue supposed to be here?"

"I couldn't give a -" in completion of a sentence, Dean screams obscenities as he drops to the floor boards, holding his head in his hands.

"Woah, what's going on?" Sam scrambles to his side, dropping to the floor with him.

"I don't-" Dean belts out another cry of pain, "I don't know. I can hear her though."

"Who?" Sam pulls his brother up by the shirt and sits him upright. "Who do you hear?"

Dean clasps at his chest, looking up at Sam with wide eyes, "Blue. She's in trouble."

"I'm only here for one thing." He puts his lips next to your ear, and a hand in your hair. "And I'd hate to break those lovely little fingers of yours to get it, but you see, I'd do anything to get what I want." After rolling his fingers down your sleeve he removed his hand to point at the key, "and what I want is that."

"Did you kill him? What's so special about this key anyway?"

He chuckles, taking a short breath and turning his back to you. "You're such a naive, little, what? Hunger, are you? You really think I would waste my precious time on this fool?" He side eyes you while walking over to the bookshelf. "The key," he says, pouring some bourbon into a glass, "is really for me to know and for you," he paused with a grin and takes it down in one gulp, "to never find out."

"Wow," you scoff. Dean! Dean! Dean! Grumpy! Dean!

His eyes squint before trailing up and down your figure. When they meet back up with yours they are curious, and intrigued, "what's your name, love?"

"I'm not about to play share and tell with a demon," you scowl.

"King of Hell," he says through his teeth. "I could snap your neck with a snap of my fingers," he smiles and holds his hand up, "humor me."

"But I've piqued you're interest, haven't I? You could have done that from the start, but you didn't." You mirror the expression on his face as he pours himself another glass without removing his eyes from yours. "Which means you need me alive, don't you? Why?"

"Because we made a deal," a woman's voice fills the room before she can be seen. Grumpy, please! She slowly walks to Crowleys side, glancing at him once before resting an arm on his shoulder. She smiles at you, "hi, Y/N. It's been so long since I've seen you. So for the sake of meeting in, oh I don't know, twenty or so years, I'm Allanah."

She makes her way over to you, wrapping her arms sound your back and grabbing the key. She hands it to Crowley, who disappears instantly.

Allanah laughs, "the part he doesn't know is that without you, that key is nothing more than a paper weight."

Dean drops his hands to his knees and struggled to get his words out through chunky breaths, "have you seen a woman?"

"I run a bar, kid. You're gonna have to be a lot more specific than that," the man scoffs.

"I got this," Sam whispers and turns to face the bald and bearded man behind the counter. Clearing his throat, he asserts, "I'm agent Scott and uh, my partner here is Agent Paxton." Dean sits at the bar, using it as a pillow and only raises a hand in acknowledgment.

Sliding a picture onto the counter, Sam continues, "her name is Blue. Have you seen her come by in the last month or so?"

The man only shakes his head, Sam puts a palm down on the counter. "She may have had a, uh, fling with one of your employees."

The man laughs, "if you think that narrows it down, you'd be mistaken."

"I believe his name was Tim."

"That sounds about right. That Tim sure did have a way with the ladies," she shakes his head with another chuckle.

"Did?"

"Yeah, he quit comin' round about two weeks ago. No calls, nothing. Was a shame, too. It's difficult to find people who work in this damn town."

Dean... please, I'm begging you. Please.

"Shut up!" Dean yells, pounding the counter with his fist and capturing the attention of the people in the bar. When he noticed all eyes are on him, he adjusts his tie and gives a tired chuckle, "bad dream," he jokes with a half nod and light wave before dropping his upper portion back onto the counter.

Sam pulls a card from his suit and places it onto the bar, "if you hear anything." He lifts his eyebrows while tilting his head slightly and adds force to his words, "from either of them, give me a call."

Next Chapter

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