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conanssummerchild · 1 month

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writing a fic abt rick having an ed bcs why would i recover when i can just project all my issues onto fictional old men in cartoons and pretend everythings better now ‼️

tw eating disorder, minor self harm and vomit near the end

Morty stopped in the open doorway of the garage, watching Rick who was sat scribbling down some kind of invention idea, or equation, or whatever it was he did when Morty wasn't around, for all Morty knew he might well be writing fanfiction.

An involuntary smile pulled at his lips at the idea of his almost 70 year old genius grandfather spending his free time writing silly little stories at his work bench. What would he even write? Ball Fondlers fanfic? Maybe he wrote about his stoic bird friend, Rick had always been touchy with him and Rick wasn't touchy with anyone.

When Morty focused back on Rick he wasn't writing anymore, the slightly crumpled piece of paper shoved to the side as he fiddled with what looked like a small metal box with a bunch of brightly coloured wires poking out of the sides. A small spark shot out of one of the wires Rick was holding and he cursed loudly, shaking his hand.

"Fuck, Morty, are you just gonna– gonna stand there, or are you gonna pass me the fucking, uh– the thing."

Rick waved his hand in the general direction of the shelf nearest to Morty, but there were so many assorted trinkets on the shelves, Morty had no idea if Rick wanted a wrench, or a hammer, or one of his laser guns, maybe the box was like a new battery for them?

"W-what thing, Rick?"

"The thing, Morty! The fucking– the uh, destornillador."

"What? Rick, I don't know what that means. W-w-what is that?"

"Jeez, Morty, what are they teaching you at that crap school you love so much?" Rick scowled, tossing the box to the side and getting up to grab the screwdriver himself.

"I havent been to school in like a month, Rick!" Morty exclaimed. "And even then I only got to stay for like an hour before you were dragging me out again!"

"Whatever." Rick said with a burp, "School's dumb, Morty. I'll teach you Spanish myself. B-but, uh, not now."

He turned back to his box, done with the conversation, but Morty stayed hovering in the room, remembering what he had come for in the first place.

"Okay, um, w-w-well lunch is ready."

"I'm busy."

Morty sighed, having expected that answer already. "When's the last time you ate, Rick? Or slept? Or... showered?" Morty said, wrinkling his nose a little.

Rick ignored him, pulling at a blue wire.

"Rick!" Morty frowned.

"What, Morty? J-jesus christ, what the fuck do you want?"

"I want you to have lunch with the family."

"And I said no, so screw off."

"Rick, come on, it would make mom so happy."

Rick glared at him, not bothering with an answer.

"...Wouldn't y-you do it for your original Beth if you could?" Morty tried.

Rick slammed the box on the table, causing the thin metallic shell to crack, sparks flying from it, the sudden noise making Morty jump.

"The fuck did you just say?" Rick snarled.

"S-s-sorry!" Morty squeaked. "I didn't m-mean– mean it in a bad way!"

"Get the fuck out." Rick said icily, eyes blazing.

Morty stumbled out of the room, shutting the door behind him to the sound of something crashing. Probably Rick throwing the damaged box across the room.

Morty winced. In his defense he was worried about Rick, and sometimes, depending on his mood, something like that would've gotten Rick to cave, clearly he wasn't feeling so sentimental today, more annoyed and angry.

"What was that about?"

Morty startled a little and turned to see Summer looking at her phone behind him.

"Just, y'know, Rick being... Rick."

"Mhm, pro tip, don't bring up his dead daughter to try and blackmail him into something he hates." Summer drawled. "You can only do that if he's already half convinced, or if he's feeling especially depressed sometimes.

"Summer! That's– that's messed up!"

She quirked an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah, so only you can manipulate grandpa Rick?" Summer scoffed. "God forbid women do anything." She said sarcastically and turned to walk away.

"Wait!" Morty fidgeted with his hands. "Can you... help me? To get him to have lunch w-with us? Please?"

"Yes, but not now. He's already upset so if we double down on trying to get him to eat he's only gonna clam up."

Morty nodded. "I know that– but how do you? You don't spend as much time with Rick as I do."

"Because he's like mom. Who do you think got her to stop drinking before parent-teacher conferences at school?"

"Wow. That's pretty fucked up that you had to do that, though, y'know, Summer."

"Yeah, well, we're the Smiths, Morty. Is anyone in this house not disordered?"

Morty winced at the blunt statement, Rick really was rubbing off on her. But it was kind of true.

"Guess it runs in the family." He muttered

"Guess it does."

---

Morty hadn't been planning on seeing Rick again until the next day. He knew that when Rick got upset he needed his space. Morty didn't quite get it because when he was upset all he wanted was for someone to hug him and tell him everything was going to be okay, but Rick wasn't like him he supposed.

If he was being honest it made him nervous to leave Rick alone in those bad headspaces he got into. Rick was volatile and unpredictable and a borderline danger to himself and often others. He'd walked in on a couple... compromising situations where Rick had had to explain away why he was passed out in his chair or why there was blood on his hands and his lab coat despite being the only person in the room.

Morty pretended to believe him when he said he had been doing a messy dissection experiment or that "This isn't blood, this is Balorkian dust I mixed with red Squanchenite fluid from Planet Squanch, Morty." But truthfully those moments haunted him.

However, he didn't want to invade Rick's space, so he let him be and tried to eat and sleep until Rick emerged like nothing had happened, even though Morty knew what habits of his went on behind those closed doors.

Of course Morty's patience had it's limits, like when two hours after he had left Rick in the garage, angry, there was the sound of something smashing, closely followed by an unmistakable sound that Morty had grown too familiar with since Rick had moved in. The sound of a body thudding to the ground.

He was up from the sofa in a flash, at the garage door before Summer could even put down her phone, flinging it open.

He felt like he couldn't breathe, but the only sight that greeted him was a smashed bottle and rick lying on the floor next to it, not looking any more dead than usual, looking up at Morty blearily, cracking a smile.

"Oh, hi Morty. H-hey buddy." He slurred, clearly drunk out of his mind.

"Jesus fucking christ, Rick." Morty said weakly.

"What happened?" Summer breathed, now standing at his side.

"He's just drunk." Morty muttered, wrinkling his nose at the overpowering smell that he hadn't registered before between his state of panic and shallow breathing.

Summer ventured into the garage, picking up an empty bottle and sniffing it. "God, grandpa Rick, what the hell are you drinking in here, fucking rubbing alcohol?"

"Sum-Sum! 'M just having some– some fun drinks. Fun drinks just a lil' bit. Besides I only ever drank rub-rubbin' alcohol once, n' it was– tasted like shit."

"What? I was being sarcastic, why would you drink that?"

"Because I was sad... was sad 'nd lonely after B-b-blood Ridge, couldn't find anythin' else. But 'm not s-sad now."

"What's Blood Ridge?" Summer frowned, "Actually it doesn't matter right now, you need to sober up."

"Get him some water," Morty interjected. "I'll clean up the glass. I also know where he keeps all his hangover serums and stuff, but he told me not to let you into any of his drug stashes."

"Fair enough." Summer shrugged, leaving to get Rick some much needed water.

While she was gone, Morty felt along the wall until he found the small hidden panel under Rick's desk. He fished out the light blue vial of fluid for hangovers, the red one he'd forced Rick to make that would sober him up and a green one that basically equivalated to getting your stomach pumped if you took it, just in case he'd taken more than just alcohol.

He shut the panel securely and placed the three coloured vials on Rick's work bench, grabbing a purple tube-like gadget from a shelf. He pressed a button on the back of it and typed in "Broken Glass" on a small hologram keyboard that emerged, then pressed that first button again. A blue ray shot out, scanning the garage, and the pieces of smashed bottle disappeared in a matter of seconds.

Morty looked over at Rick, who was still lying on the floor, but now he was tracing his fingers along a crack in the cold ground, his expression so solemn he almost looked sober.

"Rick?" Morty asked hesitantly.

"I miss her." He said flatly. "I miss her s-so much."

His words were still a little slurred but his tone had lost all the previous levity.

"I tried to save her, Morty, I t-t-tried, but I couldn't bring her back. And no one could ever replace her." A rough sob escaped his throat. Morty felt frozen. "I'm a crappy fuckin'– piece of shit father but I didn't want to be. I was gonna fuckin' give– give up everything for them, and I would've been happy. I would've been so happy as long as I had them, but he fuckin' took that from me! I nnever even got a chance."

Rick was crying, he was crying so hard that his tears stained the concrete dark grey and snot ran down his face sideways. He was shaking like a leaf and gasping for air.

Morty crouched down next to him, fists clenching and unclenching, unsure if he should hug Rick, or if that would make it worse. What else could he do?

"Oh– oh shit, Rick, I–"

"My little girl, my baby." Rick continued between sobs. "She meant everything to me. S-so yeah, I would be better f-for her if I could, but she's gone. There's no point."

Rick's sudden fit of violent sobs was calming down, replaced by a look that Morty could only describe as pure hoplessness and defeat washing over his features.

"'S no point in anything."

Shit, this was bad. Rick didn't admit defeat, and he certainly didn't talk so openly about his feelings like this.

"Aw jeez, Rick, come on don't– don't– don't say that. we killed Rick Prime, remember?" Morty said, wringing his hands anxiously.

"Yeah, I remember." Rick said, tone now devoid of emotion. "I remember killin' him with my bare hands, watchin' the life drain out of his eyes as his blood dripped down my fists. And I remember nothing changing. W-w-what d'ya do when you achieve your life long goal and nothin's better? It didn't bring them back, it didn't– didn't give me closure or give me a reason to live. I still can't sleep, petrified he's in the fucking house, comin' for my new family, that he'll kill all of you to teach me that t-that's what happens when I-I care about people."

Rick wiped his face with his lab coat sleeve, rubbing away the snot, drool and dried tears while Morty just kneeled next to him, frozen and unsure what to say.

"Rick..." he started but then Summer stepped through the doorway and Rick's demeanour instantly changed.

"Summerfest!" he called out and Morty watched, a little shocked, as Rick's whole face changed in the blink of an eye, going back to the cheerful, goofy expression he'd been wearing when he and Summer first came in. It didn't look artificial to Morty at all, even now that he knew it was. How could Rick just switch it on and off just like that?

"I brought water and coffee." Was all Summer said, placing two mugs on the workbench. "And a cereal bar."

The second statement sounded a little more unsure and Morty could've sworn he saw Rick's jaw clench for a second.

"Gimmie coffee." Rick said, making grabby hands, still lying on the floor.

"Water first." Summer replied, handing him the larger of the two mugs.

Rick pouted a little but as soon as the mug was in his hands he drank thirstily, finishing the whole thing in one go.

"You want more?" Summer asked, taking the mug, but he just shook his head quietly.

"Okay," Morty cleared his throat when his voice came out a little shaky. "drink this."

He handed Rick the red 'get sober' vial and Rick chugged it obediently, making a face. "Tastes like– like shit." He offered.

While he seemed a little calmer after the water and serum, his eyes were still unfocused and his voice sounded thick, like his tongue didn't fit in his mouth properly, hints of his accent were slipping through too.

"Did you- are you on drugs r-right now?" Morty asked, reaching for the green vial of serum.

"Maybe." Rick mumbled. His eyelids were starting to droop a little and he curled up more comfortably on the floor.

"Hey, Rick, don't go to sleep okay? What did you take?" Summer asked, crouching down next to him, shaking him a little. He groaned. "Come on, we just have to make sure you're not overdosing and then you can sleep. Maybe not on the floor."

"'M not overdosing." Rick grumbled.

"What did you take?"

"I dunno. Just some random alien drugs I found i-in my pocket." He said dismissively with a burp. "Actually one of 'em was probably adderall. Look at me bein' all responsible an-and takin' my meds n' shit."

He of course immediately showed his 'responsibilty' by gagging and then throwing up on the floor.

Morty winced, reaching for the purple device again while Summer tried to coax him into drinking the green liquid, frowning deeply.

Finally Rick gave in, sipping from the small vial, and almost instantly his eyes began to clear up a little bit.

"Why'd I make these work so well?" He groaned. Then, "My head is killing me, I want coffee."

Summer passed him the second mug and he gestured toward the hangover serum, which Morty promptly passed to him and Rick poured it in his coffee.

He gulped down half the coffee and sighed, wiping his mouth with his already rather dirty sleeve. "Fuck, that's better."

He downed the rest of it and placed the mug on the ground, getting to his feet shakily. He swayed and nearly fell, leaning onto the wall to steady himself as the dizzy spell passed, and then stretched, his back cracking loudly.

He took a few wobbly steps towards the door but Summer blocked the way.

"Fuck– fuck off Summer I gotta– I'm gonna go take a nap."

"Could you maybe eat something first?" She asked firmly, holding up the cereal bar.

"No."

Rick tried to sidestep her but she blocked the way again.

"Summer, don't fucking piss me off right now, I'm serious."

She stood her ground. "Just eat the cereal bar, grandpa Rick. Please."

"Summer, for fuck's sake, I said no!"

"Grandpa," She sighed, the arm holding the bar dropping defeatedly back down to her side. "Do you have an eating disorder?"

The garage was deathly quiet for a second.

"Wha-What?! I'm not a teenage girl in a f-f-f– goddamn netflix drama, Summer." Rick snarled. "What the fuck kinda question is that?"

He gestured wildly, taking another step forwards, which quickly seemed to be the wrong option as a sudden wave of dizziness hit him hard, making him almost loose his balance. He blindly tried to grab onto the back of his chair somewhere behind him, but missed and fell on his ass.

"Rick!" Morty and Summer both rushed to his side, Morty's eyes beginning to well up a little from all the stress of the day.

"I'm fine, don't– don't fucking touch me." He said, shaking Summer's hand off his shoulder, which caused another wave of nausea to hit.

"Please eat this." Summer said nervously, voice shaking as she pushed the cereal bar into his left hand, his right one gripping at his hair.

"Summer, I promise you if I eat that shit right now I'm gonna throw the fuck up."

"Please?" Morty pouted, eyes big and teary.

All it took was one look at him, and with only a brief moment of hesitation Rick snatched the cereal bar from Summer, muttering angrily under his breath.

Morty only caught "Me cago en la puta." and "Maldito cabrón." which he more or less understood, more familiar with swear words than any other words in the Spanish language.

Rick peeled away the wrapper slowly with unsteady hands and took a small bite.

Morty and Summer watched in silence, not wanting to discourage him by saying the wrong thing—which with Rick could be anything—as Rick uncomfortably ate the cereal bar.

"There you fucking go." He said weakly, Throwing the now empty wrapper at Summer, but missing as it was too light to travel more than a couple centimetres, landing somewhere by his feet.

"Thank you." Summer almost whispered.

They sat in silence for a while, Morty sniffling and rubbing at his eyes and Summer shuffling a bit closer to him for both of their comfort.

Rick was sitting with his knees losely bent and his head braced in his hands, trying to overcome another hit of nausea.

He wouldn't exactly say he tried super hard to keep the cereal bar down, but it wasn't deliberate when he vomited it down the front of his shirt.

"Oh! Aw jeez..." Morty winced.

"I did warn you."

"In our defense, you had every reason to be lying to us."

"Fuck you, Summer." It sounded weak even to his own ears.

She sighed softly.

"Morty, get his shirt off. Do you have pijamas or do you sleep in jeans and a lab coat?"

"Jeans an-and a lab coat."

"...I was joking, but okay." Summer said, flipping the switch that opened Rick's garage closet and grabbing one of his sets of identical outfits.

Rick squirmed, making noises of complaint as Morty tried to take off his current shirt.

"Rick– stay still, you have vomit on your clothes."

"I'm not fucking two years old, Morty." He scowled. "I can change by myself."

Rick tried to sit up but wobbled and then slumped back against the wall, needing more time to recover. Morty reached for his shirt again and this time Rick let him pull it carefully up over his head without resisting. Morty took the new set of clothes from where Summer had left them on the floor next to him.

Summer wasn't looking but Morty still shielded Rick's body from sight with his own, pointedly not mentioning the raised scars and jagged, angry, red cuts littering his arms which he had already suspected would be there.

Rick shifted uncomfortably, seeming relieved when Morty didn't want to talk about it.

"Okay." Morty said, helping Rick pull on his clean lab coat too.

"I'm going to bed." Rick grumbled, not waiting for him to continue, just getting up slowly.

He felt weak and shaky and his brittle old bones weren't exactly helping out. Despite his thousands of cybernetic implants he was still human, much to his dismay, and he couldn't treat his body as badly as he did when he was 30. Not that that ever seemed to stop him, managing to still maintain the same shitty habits he'd had for years at the ripe age of 67.

He stumbled through the dining room, Morty and Summer trailing after him, not discouraged by the glare he sent their way.

As soon as he reached his room, he slumped onto his bed with a groan.

"R-rick?"

"Fuck off, Morty." He snapped into his pillow, a little muffled by it.

Morty hesitated, exchanging a glance with Summer, who shrugged.

"...Ookay, Rick. Uh, see– see you at dinner, today? maybe?'

"Don't count on it."

Summer frowned, Starting to say something, but Rick interrupted, "I'm gonna apply my room's Lock Protocols in ten seconds, so i-if you're still in here, I'm not letting you out until I'm done sleeping. A-a-and if you're standing in the doorway, you're gonna get fucking squashed in the doors."

"Whatever, Rick, fuck you too." Summer huffed, pulling Morty out of the doorway with her.

"Room, activate Sensory Protocol 2. And t-tell Summer to go fuck herself."

"Sensory Protocol 2 activated." Came the mechanical voice and a heavy metal door snapped shut. "Go fuck yourself, Summer."

Summer scoffed. "Dick." Followed by a sigh. "What are we gonna do?"

"I-I don't know." Morty admitted. "There's not much we can do if Rick won't accept help. And he won't."

"So what? We just give up on him?" Summer asked accusingly, putting her hands on her hips.

"No, Summer, J-jeez. I just– We're gonna have to get creative."

"Fuck."

---

thats it thats the end i didnt know how tf to end this but my goal wasnt to rewrite like the bible idfk it was just to put rick through shit and put completely unfair expectations on summer and mortys shoulders so that they could ALL suffer in this fic !! :3 also this is so mf long i sincerely apologise if u read all that

#i feel like all the few rnm fics ive written are set in the garage im sorry 😭#thats where rick mostly is when hes not out in other dimensions tho ig #also even tho my fics r all rick centric i cant not have my boy morty in them #i just love him too much #also obligatory birdrick mention in the start bcs theyve been on my mind #also in regards to is anyone in this house not disordered let my drop my smith sanchez family disorder hcs >:)#okayyy #so starting off strong with beth: an alcoholic like her father probably anxiety stemming from her abandonment issues and possibly depressio #next up my boy morty: anxiety also and most likely ptsd from all the shit hes experienced ik a lot of ppl hc him as autistic but i dont #possibly adhd dyslexia or dyscalculia tho or all of the above idk #oookay next up jerry: i really spend incredibly little time thinking about jerry so idk im open to hearing hcs abt him tho #wait back to beth: maybe also ocd or smth like that #okay now summer: my girl has a lot of substance abuse issues as we see and fomo but idk if anything else maybe social anxiety or smth #aaand its rick time: alcohol and drug abuse definitely ptsd for sure depression and autism possibly adhd or bpd or both #in this fic he has an ed also so that #paranoia too #and thats it i think #also going back to the topic ofautism tho #i just cannot see it with morty at all like he shows no symptoms?? i dont see them at least idk i could be wrong #i honestly see it more with beth or summer maybe #but idk #also i almost never put the accents when i write in spanish lol but i did so #vey professional of me ik #gotta let rick say cabron properly #alex says shit #rick and morty #rick sanchez #morty smith #summer smith #rick and morty fanfiction

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angstyaches · 6 days

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The Hexagon: Aftermath, Part Two

Hexagon Parts 1 - 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Aftermath Part 1

Not as long as Charlie's aftermath fic, but still 3500ish.

CW: stress-induced stomach ache, strained found family dynamic, treatment of burn, guilt (on both sides), general bad head space and anxiety, vampire body horror, disordered eating, trauma mentions.

___

Shayne was guided to his room to find his door slightly ajar. He was sure he hadn’t left it like that. Felix and Elliott must have been going in and out, looking for any hints if he’d been home or not. The thought made his insides curdle.

He realised he was subconsciously cradling his bandaged hand against his stomach. He had just about forgotten about the pain of the burn, yet his body was hyper-aware of the damaged, badly-wrapped skin.

As he reached his bedroom window, he ran his good hand through his hair. It was horribly tangled and in need of washing. He parted the curtains in the centre and scanned the surrounding area; an anxious habit. There was nothing to look at but chimney pots and sleepy, one-lane back streets, but that didn’t do anything to calm him.

He turned around, remembering that he wasn’t alone.

Elliott’s brow had been furrowed with intent since they’d walked out of Ryan’s office. He held the mug handle with one hand and kept it balanced with a finger against the outer lip.

“Do you know where she is?” Shayne asked.

“Who?”

“Nancy!”

“Jesus, Shayne.” Elliott rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. What’s so urgent?”

“I really need to –” Shayne felt his hand slam against the windowsill as his heart skipped a beat and his vision pitched. He exhaled slowly. Need? Seriously?

“What you need is to sit the hell down,” Elliott said, gesturing to the bed, then nodding to the mug in his hands. “And to eat something.”

Shayne’s stomach churned against his bandaged hand. A wave of horror rolled through him as he realised he was shaking again. He had stopped shaking hours ago. Why was it starting again now?

He sank down on the edge of his bed. He pressed his fingers into the duvet, ignoring the crackling pain in his palm. For a while, he had been so sure that he would never see his room at the townhouse again. Or speak to Elliott again.

Or... eat.

“Are you going to be good and drink this all by yourself?” Elliott asked. A faint, familiar smirk played on his face. “Or do I have to feed you like an infant?”

Goosebumps tricklled up and down Shayne’s arms. The steam rising from the mug seemed to fill the air with a toxic fog that made it impossible to breathe.

Aren't you hungry, little monster?

His view of Elliott standing there was suddenly distorted behind a sheen of tears.

“Whoa. Fuck,” Elliott said softly.

Useless, pathetic, disgusting. The stroke of chilled fingertips on the back of Shayne's neck made him shudder.

“I was kidding, man.”

Shayne wiped his eyes with a sleeve that was definitely not clean enough for the task. Horror and shame swelled up in his throat; he really should be showering and changing his clothes. But he should also be letting Ryan check his vitals, and he should be talking to Nancy about the witch with the door, and he should be comforting Charlie while he waited for his parents to come.

There was nothing that he wasn’t failing at.

Even the simplest task – eating – was too overwhelming to even think about. He realised that was what had made him tremble, and once he acknowledged it, the shaking worsened; he had held it together for three days in the face of possible starvation, and the sight of a cup of broth was what had finished him off.

“Look.” Elliott’s weight caused a tilt in the mattress as he sat. The mug abandoned somewhere, he pushed his hands into his pockets. “I really don’t know how to act in these kinds of situations. I know it’s a problem.”

Shayne swallowed. His stomach felt as though it were being slowly wound around something long and cold and sharp.

“I can’t even imagine what you’ve –” Elliott looked towards the door, as though looking for a way to escape. He pulled his hands from his pockets again and scratched at the back of his neck.

Shayne wouldn't have held it again him; he almost wished he would just leave. Shayne had already been so much of a burden on Ryan that she had sent him away; making Elliott's life miserable wouldn't be of any use to anyone, so...

“I’m sorry, Shayne.”

It was said so softly that Shayne had to run it through his brain a few times before it clicked. He tried to look at Elliott, but those amber eyes wouldn't meet his.

“What?” Shayne felt hollow. Helpless. “I... You came. We wouldn't have made it home –”

Elliott's hands slammed into fists on his knees.

“I should have come looking for you sooner!” he shouted, gritting his teeth. His fists curled into puffs of black smoke, his hands vanishing and reappearing several times in quick succession.

“El –”

“I had...” Elliott hesitated, lips parted, as though he might gag on whatever words he was trying to form. “I had a horrible feeling that something had happened, and instead of taking action, I sat on it. And it's exactly like –”

Elliott didn't have to say Madelyn's name for Shayne to know what he was comparing the situation to.

And yet, Shayne couldn’t think of anything to say. Or maybe it was because there was too much he should say, and it was all bottlenecking in his throat. But if the situation had been reversed, there would have been nothing anyone could say to stop him from blaming himself. He hated admitting it, but he and Elliott were similar in that way.

The fact remained, though; it was Shayne's fault that Elliott felt so deeply guilty over this. If he had gotten over his abandonment issues - or, better yet, if he'd managed to keep everything inside and never let Elliott know about them - then Elliott wouldn't have felt the need to be so protective of him.

“When we catch whoever did this,” Elliott seethed, “the Conclave’s not even going to have a chance to prosecute, because I’m going to rip them to fucking shreds first.”

Shayne squeezed the duvet under his hands. The anger and stress rolled off Elliott in waves, and Shayne felt it all seep through him, chilling his blood until it joined his own worries in the pit of his stomach.

The Conclave.

What had happened to him and Charlie had been a crime, in a very literal sense. He hadn’t thought about it like that before, but it seemed painfully obvious now. There were probably laws in place to stop accidents like that from happening. It was probably illegal to set up entrapment spells and leave them unattended for days on end. That witch had run away from Shayne because they’d known that they had done something wrong.

They hadn’t been running from him; they had been running from the wider consequences.

Fuck. Why did that sting, somehow?

“Alright,” Elliott sighed raggedly. He relaxed his fists, flexing his hands, as though checking that his fingers were all present and accounted for. Then, as though looking at his own hands had reminded him, he looked down at where Shayne was gripping the bed. “First things first, I suppose. Let me fix that.”

Shayne followed Elliott’s gaze. He reached for the end of the gauze that looped around his palm and the back of his hand, crossing both sides of his thumb. Shit. His hands were shaking so much. He’d tried doing it himself because he hadn’t wanted Ryan touching him, and he sure as fuck wasn't about to let Elliott handle it.

“Oh. It’s fine, El,” he said, but Elliott had already stood and walked over to Shayne's desk. “I can do it myself.”

“Did you put some of this on it?” Elliott turned to show Shayne a tub of ointment that Ryan had sent over.

“Yes.”

“Did you clean the wound beforehand?”

“No, I left it full of dirt and sweat,” Shayne mumbled.

Elliott looked less than impressed.

“Of course, I fucking cleaned it, asshole.”

“Yeah, well, you play fast and loose with your own wellbeing often enough,” Elliott shrugged, sauntering back over to the edge of the bed, “I had to ask.”

Shayne struggled to keep still as Elliott kneeled on the floor and reached for his hand. He kept his eyes pinned on the duvet, next to his thigh, and tried to remember how to breathe like a normal person.

Elliott clicked his tongue as he peered as the damaged skin under the gauze. “How did you even get out?”

The witch in the cloak.

The door.

The magic.

Shayne’s heart missed a beat. “What?”

“If the wards burned you this badly from touching them once,” Elliott said, “how did you manage to get out?”

Shayne opened his mouth. His explanation died in his throat.

The Conclave.

All this time, Shayne hadn't thought any further into the future than telling Nancy everything he knew about the person who had set up the hexagon and then disappeared through a magic door in the forest. That had seemed like the smartest, most responsible thing to do.

But... Elliott and Ryan didn't know yet, Shayne realised, that he had actually seen the person who had taken down the wards - presumably, the same person who had put the trap there in the first place.

Once they knew that, there would be questions. He hadn't seen much of their physical appearance, but surely as soon as he started describing the disappearing door, it wouldn't be too hard to track down the witch who was associated with them.

And then they'd be caught, and if Elliott didn't get to them first, the Conclave would deal with them - whatever that entailed.

Either way, it meant that Shayne would never get a chance to speak to them. To find out what they knew about demons, or about the Other Side, or about...

No. He couldn't let himself think about the rest. Not while everything was so uncertain.

God, Shayne's stomach hurt.

“Did the wards just magically let themselves down after a certain amount of time?”

“Mmm,” Shayne hummed half-heartedly.

“Huh,” Elliott mused. “That’s very odd, right? Your mother's wards stood at Mulberry for what? Ten, eleven years?”

Shayne's skin tingled with cold sweat. Shit. He hadn’t meant to tell an outright lie. He had just really wanted Elliott to stop grilling him, he... he needed more time to think; since this all began, it felt like he hadn’t been given a chance to fucking think. He had to consider what telling the truth might lead to. To sort through the jumbled mess in his head.

He hadn’t even talked to Charlie about what had happened yet.

Thankfully, Elliott seemed to have switched to musing to himself, rather than pressing Shayne for any more details.

“... work of a witch might not be as... durable as that. I'm sure Nancy will know a lot more.” Elliott bumped his knuckles against Shayne's leg. The unnecessary contact was annoying as fuck, but grounding. “Hey. It’s okay, you know.”

“I know it’s okay, shithead.” Shayne winced when he heard himself. He didn't need Elliott catching on to how tense he was making himself. He looked pointedly at his palm. Elliott had just finished unpeeling the gauze and was ready to start applying it again. “I’ve... had worse.”

“So have I.” Elliott’s tone was brusque and a little dismissive. “That's not what I was talking about.”

“Then what?” Shayne demanded, breathless with anxiety from trying to piece together what Elliott knew and didn't know.

“I meant that it’s okay to let someone do something for you.”

Shayne knew where this was going. That phone call. The dread in his heart as he blurted out, I wouldn’t usually ask, as though it wouldn't have mattered one way or another. As though there was anyone else he would call. As though saving face with Elliott had been more important than getting Charlie to safety.

The tension in his belly crept towards his throat. Was there nothing he could think about anymore, without running into that twisting tightness?

“For example,” Elliott continued, “dress a burn when you don't have two free hands to do it yourself. Or, you know, drop everything to go and save your ass from the middle of nowhere, after you've been stranded for –”

Tears flooded Shayne’s eyes again. “I already thanked you for that.”

Elliott's amber eyes narrowed, focused on laying layers of gauze neatly on top of one another. “I didn't ask you to thank me.”

“Then what d’you want from me, El?” Shayne demanded, even though what he wanted to know was, Why are you making me feel even more like a piece of shit?!

“I want you to ask me for help and not sound like you expect me to say no!” Elliott threw back his head as a grey haze swept across his throat.

His entire neck blurred, dissolving into tiny, black apparitions that fluttered in place. He squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in air through his fangs. His flesh reformed, but as it did, he yanked a little too hard on the gauze.

“Shit,” Elliott breathed, loosening the fabric. “Sorry, kid.”

“It’s fine,” Shayne muttered hoarsely. His burn only ached marginally more thanks to the added pressure. If anything, he was a bit grateful for the rise in physical, surface-level pain. It grounded him again, long enough to realise how terrible Elliott looked, even while fully corporeal. “Are you...?”

A low growl bubbled in Elliott's throat. Shayne somehow understood it to mean not now.

“Okay.” Shayne hugged his free arm closer to his stomach. “I didn’t – I didn’t expect you say no.”

Elliott grunted.

“But,” Shayne mumbled, “I might have expected you to expect me to... expect you to say no.”

Elliott’s hands stopped wrapping gauze back and forth over Shayne’s palm. He steadied Shayne’s wrist in his hand, gentle enough that Shayne could have shaken his hand free if he'd wanted to. Elliott let out a deep, huffing sigh and raised his face, one eyebrow arched, his lips pulled tight.

“What?” Shayne complained, though he knew very fucking well how crazy he sounded. He had hoped Elliott would have done him a favour and let it go.

Elliott let out a soft chuckle. He reached for something on the floor, next to his knee. Small and plastic, with a serrated edge on one side. Elliott cut off a sliver of white tape and pressed it to Shayne's bandage, smoothing it across the back of his hand.

“The gauze isn’t self-adhesive,” Elliott said. “It doesn’t hold by itself.”

Shayne was too tired to internalise the fact that there was one more thing he’d done wrong; his capacity for guilt and self-criticism was maxed out. Knowing that Elliott would at least expect a show of indignance, he distantly muttered, “I knew that.”

“Uh-huh.” Elliott stood, taking the tape and the spare gauze in his hands. “Broth time?”

Steadily, Shayne let his gaze wander towards the mug on his desk. A tight, acidic force closed in on his throat as he imagined putting anything near his mouth. He wasn’t just sure that he would be sick as soon as soon as it reached his stomach; everything felt so twisted up that it seemed impossible that he’d even be able to swallow.

But he let himself look towards the broth a few seconds longer, hoping it was enough to make Elliott believe that he was really considering it.

“Actually...” He cleared his throat. His stomach sank as Elliott turned to look at him, alarm lighting up his eyes. “I’m so fucking tired, El. I just really want to shower and get some sleep.”

Elliott’s fingers closed around the rim of the mug. He didn’t lift it, though his gaze lay steadily on its contents. And as much as he wanted to seem in control, Shayne could feel how his body had started to shrink inwards, as though it could fold up and tuck itself away.

“Please, El.” The voice that came from Shayne’s mouth didn’t feel like his own. The wetness in his eyes didn’t, either. His teeth rattled together, and trying to make them stop only made it worse. “Don’t. Don’t make me.”

Elliott’s fingers twitched, then lifted clear of the mug's rim.

“I won’t. Of course I won’t. You... You deserve to do this at your own pace.” Elliott folded his arms. His fingers tapped rhythmically at his elbow. “If Ryan asks me, I will have to tell her the truth, though. I didn’t physically see you eat anything.”

Shayne nodded, trying not to scowl too hard. It wasn’t as though he’d expected Elliott to lie to Ryan for him anyway. Besides, he knew it was far more likely that it would be Charlie, not Ryan, who jumped down Elliott's throat with questions about Shayne's food intake.

“But... I trust you,” Elliott said softly, though the hollow look in his eyes seemed to betray the fact that he was already regretting it. He arched an eyebrow again, as though silently begging Shayne not to fuck this up.

The shard of guilt going through Shayne’s stomach gave a painful pulse. The tears on his face were laced with ungratefulness, and he quickly brushed them away – with his unwrapped hand – in the hopes that Elliott hadn’t noticed them.

“Thank you,” he tried to say, but it got lost in the bubble of pressure at the back of his throat.

“I’ll leave you to it.” Elliott took a step backwards, towards the bedroom door. He paused and eyed Shayne’s hand. “I know it’ll be a pain in the ass, but try to keep those bandages dry in the shower.”

Shayne nodded.

“I’m sure someone will be around to check on you after a bit. Maybe let Ryan check your vitals next time you see her. You can call it a favour for me.”

Great. Shayne nodded again, though he was ninety percent sure that he would lock up with fear as soon as Ryan came near him with the intent of monitoring the activity inside his body. He fidgeted, squeezing his sides. He couldn’t wait for Elliott to leave, and he hated himself for it.

“None of us want to lose you, kid.”

As soon as he was alone, Shayne had expected to curl up on the bed, right where he was. After everything, he wasn’t even in the mood for a hot shower anymore, feeling he didn’t deserve to wash off the three days’ worth of misery that clung to his skin and his hair. Without someone instructing – or, being honest, begging – him to take care of himself, he’d expected to feel no urgency to do so, and would instead wallow in the hopelessness of everything that was happening.

Instead, he waited for about a minute after Elliott had closed the door behind him. A distant car horn blew. Hot water grumbled through the twists and turns of the pipes in the walls. Shayne’s teeth continued to rattle in short bursts. But his mind had gone quiet and he had no idea what to do about that.

He took a shaky breath. What was it Elliott had said? First things first.

Shayne stood and retrieved the mug from his desk before returning to the bed. He sat with his legs crossed beneath him, subconsciously taking up the smallest space possible on the mattress.

He took a couple of long, slow sips, barely pausing between each one. The warmth of the broth soothed his throat, taking the edge off the tightening ache. The ache that had been put there as punishment for his lies and his failures. It was so undeserved that he gagged, and he had to double over slightly to stop his body from instantly rejecting everything he’d swallowed. He laid his bandaged hand gently over his belly, imagining he could feel the broth sitting like a rock under his ribs, squeezing its way down through the knots and twists his stomach had gotten itself into.

He reached for his nightstand and laid the mug down with a shaking hand. His breath was coming in shallow, pained gasps, like he’d just sprinted from Mulberry all the way here. He’d barely drunk one-third of the broth Elliott had left him, but it would have to do for now.

Instead of brushing them away, he let the tears run freely down his face as he undressed for the shower.

#StW Shayne #StW Elliott #Swallow the World #hurt comfort #hurt and comfort #whump #whump fic #demon whump #OC whump #disordered eating mention #hunger mention #nausea #sickfic #refeeding #starvation whump #emotional whump #anxiety #trauma mention

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