#nausea has abated thank GOD but the right side of my head is trying to kill me

[virginia-werewolf]

want to go buy more edibles but migraine too bad to drive to the weed store😔😔😔

[someonestolemyshoes]

Hi! Have u done any pregnant Hanji and overprotective daddy Levi already?? Yep i think im craving for more domestic levihan family, im sorry 😭

Im a bit new here in the community, and when i read ur works, i fell in love with it already, thank you for existing!!! 💖💖💖

Hello anon! Thank you so much, I’m so glad you enjoyed my other fics :3 Sorry for the very long wait for this one, I've been struggling to find the time/motivation to write lately, but I'm feeling a little better and I figured I'd get to work on some of my prompts. Starting here!!

It ended up a little less domestic and a touch more angsty than I had originally planned, but only for a moment--happy endings all round! 

Warning: this does start off with non-graphic depictions of nausea/vomiting, I hope that doesn't bother you!

Hange had been feeling unwell for days.

It wasn't an uncommon occurrence—Hange tended to wake up feeling nauseous some days, most often when she'd neglected to eat a decent meal the evening before—but this was the fourth morning in a row now, that Hange found herself bent over the toilet bowl in the early hours of the morning, heaving up nothing but acid and empty air. 

She retched until her stomach ached. There was nothing left to bring up, but her gut still rolled unpleasantly and there was a telling tremor under her tongue that warned her it might be best to stay in the bathroom a little while longer. She settled heavily against the wall to catch her breath.

It didn't make any sense. For most of the day, Hange felt fine. A little tired, maybe, but that was only to be expected after spending half the night every night on the bathroom floor. Tonight, no doubt, would follow the uncomfortably familiar routine: Hange would dry-heave a little longer, until the queasiness abated enough for Levi to convince her to come back to bed, and then she would toss and turn, too warm beneath the bed clothes, until she could fall into a restless sleep. She'd wake up feeling a little groggy, a little bleary, unreasonably hungry, but after a coffee and some breakfast she would feel well again. Perfectly normal.

Like clockwork, Levi appeared in the doorway just as Hange had flopped herself back over the toilet. She felt his palm, cool and soft, press against the back of her neck. Hange gathered her hair back from her face with both hands, braced her elbows on the toilet bowl, letting out a groan of discomfort as her stomach twisted, threatened to revolt again. Levi's thumb rubbed soothingly against her neck.

Sure enough, she brought up nothing more, but she gagged plenty, and found herself gasping for breath by the time she leaned back against Levi, aching and exhausted. His lips pressed into her damp hair.

Levi was as silent as always. His touch was pleasant, his presence welcome. Hange needed the hand he offered to pull her to her feet, needed his reassuring grip at her hips as she brushed her teeth and rinsed her mouth out. Her quaking knees felt unstable beneath her. 

He lay facing her after they got into bed. Hange was sprawled out atop the covers, shifting restlessly to find the coolest patches on the bed. Levi watched her for a moment, then said, "This isn't normal."

Hange only grumbled.

"You said you'd book an appointment with the doctor."

Hange grumbled again. Levi ticked his tongue and rolled to lie on his back, staring at the ceiling.

"Call tomorrow."

"If I didn't know better," Hange said sluggishly, "I'd say you were worried about me."

He scowled and rolled onto his other side, his back to her now.

"No, just sick of waking up at half four every morning to drag you back to bed."

Hange managed a small, wicked snicker, but shuffled across the space between them and pressed an apologetic kiss to the back of his neck.

"Must be dreadful," she said. Her voice sounded raw, hoarse. She buried her nose into his hair and took a long, deep breath. Levi grunted, but reached back and pulled her arm loosely over his hip. He knotted their fingers together loosely.

"Call them, Hange."

Hange gave his fingers a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

"I will."

**

Hange prided herself on being a reasonably intelligent person. She had two degrees, was working towards her doctorate, and already had her name on a small handful of peer-reviewed research papers. She spoke multiple languages, read dissertations for fun, kept a (in Levi’s words) disgustingly realistic human skeleton in a box under the bed for study purposes, and had spent the better part of the last 26 years of her life studying human biology and physiology.  

How she had not predicted that she might be pregnant was almost unfathomable. 

She left the doctors office in a daze with an appointment card and several pamphlets in hand. She had been referred hastily to a midwife and the hospital would soon be sending out a date for an ultrasound—“As soon as possible,” the doctor had said, “since you’re not sure how far along you are.” 

The thing is, Hange had been on the same birth control pill for years now. Forgetful as she may be about many, many things (like eating, and bathing, and washing the dishes and taking out the garbage and and and), Hange was religious in taking that damn pill at the same time every single day. She had never missed it, not even once. Without a regular cycle, Hange had no way of predicting when they had conceived, and the doctor was eager to make sure no essential landmarks in her antenatal care were missed, if they could possibly help it.

The thought had never even crossed her mind. It seemed ridiculous now, in hindsight. The sickness was one thing, but now that she thought about it, there were a whole host of small oddities that Hange could easily attribute to pregnancy. Lethargy, and bloating, heartburn, and she had been peeing more than usual—Hange groaned, and scrubbed her hands over her face. She should have suspected, at least. Should have put the pieces together sooner. 

But, stupid and naive as it may be, she hadn’t thought it possible. Why worry about it, when Hange had taken consistent precautions to avoid it? 

She felt queasy the entire bus ride home. 

It wasn’t that she was against the idea of having children. One day, maybe. When she had finished her doctorate, got herself a steady, well-paid job. When she and Levi had moved out of their tiny, cramped apartment into somewhere bigger, somewhere more suited for a family. 

And god. Levi. 

This was something they’d never really talked about. For his part, Levi never seemed all that interested. He was good with Hange’s nieces and nephews, and Erwin’s son adored him, and he hadn’t showed any express dislike for children, but—well, tolerating other peoples little brats and raising your own are two very different things. 

What if Levi didn’t want the baby? What if he did? Hange wasn’t even sure herself what she wanted to do about the whole situation—what if she didn’t want it? What if, after some reflection, Hange decided now wasn’t a good time? Could they even afford a baby right now? Hange’s money was tied up in her education, while Levi was just making ends meet at the office. They got by well enough with just the two of them, but add in a baby? A whole other person, entirely dependant on them for support? Hange could barely feed and bathe herself, some days, never mind responsibly care for a child. 

By the time the bus pulled up near the house, Hange felt more distressed than ever. Levi, at least, was at work until the evening, so she had a few more hours to herself to mull everything over, but the entire situation made her stomach clench and churn unpleasantly with every new thought. 

The prospect of having a child was terrifying. The prospect of not having this child was nauseating. 

Levi had left the flat in pristine condition when he had left for work, but Hange barely had the energy to feel even a little guilty as she shrugged off her coat and kicked off her shoes, leaving both strewn about the floor. She dumped her bag and made her way sluggishly through to the bedroom. 

Levi had made the bed. The sheet was stretched flat over the mattress, the pillows perfectly fluffed and set against the headboard. Hange’s nightshirt, one of Levi’s old, baggy shirts, too stretched and threadbare for him to wear, had been folded neatly and left on her side of the bed, her slippers lined up smartly with the bed frame. For some reason—hormones, she told herself—her eyes watered, and a lump swelled in her throat. She sniffled pitifully as she stripped off her clothes and pulled on the shirt, clambering into the bed and tugging the sheets until the cocooned around her. 

Hange passed the rest of the day tossing and turning in bed. She tried to nap, but her mind was too restless, occupied with thoughts of the baby, with the concept of having to tell Levi when he came home. She could try to lie, say the doctors had done some blood work, that she was waiting on the results of some test or other, but Levi knew her too well. She could never lie to him, and her despondent state would give her away before she had the chance to say anything. 

The sun was beginning to set by the time she heard Levi’s keys in the door. She felt exhausted, head aching with all the thinking, considering, weighing up her options; with running over every possible outcome she could imagine. Keeping the baby, getting rid of the baby, Levi not wanting the baby, Levi leaving over the baby—every scenario she could imagine was worse than the last. There was only one idea that she had hardly dared entertain, in fear of disappointment if things didn’t work out. 

She heard Levi call out for her, but gave no answer. She listened, curled up in a ball on her side, as he shuffled around, no doubt picking up her coat and shoes from where she had abandoned them. And then he made his way towards the bedroom, steps soft on the plush carpet. The bedroom door creaked open. 

“Hange?” 

She made a small, warbled noise under the bedclothes. Levi came to sit on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His hand found the curve of Hange’s hip. 

“How was it?” 

Hange made another noncommittal sound. She wiped her nose and eyes on the sheets, but didn’t dare show her face just yet. She wasn’t ready. She had never prepared for this conversation, never even imagined it before today. It was too soon. Not enough time to rehearse. 

Levi’s hand moved to her back, rubbing lightly up and down her spine, before dropping to the mattress behind her. He leaned over her, and she felt his lips press warm and gentle to the point of her shoulder. A fresh wave of tears poured over the bridge of her nose and down the side of her face. 

She tried to be quiet, but something—the shake of her shoulder, perhaps, or the shudder of air as she tried to take a steadying breath in—gave way to her crying. Levi moved off the bed, but Hange felt his fingers prying lightly at the sheets, pulling them down until he could get a good look at her face. He was kneeling by the bed now, face level with her, and he looked at her with worry pinching deep creases between his brows. 

“Oi, what’d they say?” 

Hange bit the inside of her lip and rubbed her damp cheek on the pillow. If Levi was bothered by her using their bedding as a tissue, he didn’t show it. He simply looked at her, eyes darting over her face, searching. It occurred to Hange then how this must look to him. She had gone to the doctors due to unexplained, violent sickness, and now she is in bed, hours later, still crying about whatever news she had received. 

“I’m fine,” she said. Levi’s tense shoulders relaxed a fraction, but his face remained pinched, frowning and concerned. Hange wanted to tell him quickly, simply, like ripping off a plaster, but the words would not come. She opened her mouth, but her throat constricted painfully. 

Eventually, she said, “my bag. There’s some stuff in my bag. Have a look.” 

Levi gave her a somewhat quizzical look, but stood, dropping a quick kiss to her temple before going to fetch the bag, and dipping his hand in to fish out the contents inside. 

Hange watched with her breath held and her stomach clenched as Levi pulled out the handful of leaflets and turned them over, looking at each one in turn. His eyes widened fractionally as comprehension dawned on him. His lips pressed into a thin line. Leaden weight settled in Hange’s gut. She curled into a tighter ball, pressing the bedsheets over her mouth and nose, waiting for him to gather himself enough to say something. 

After a moment, he spoke. 

“That’s all?” 

Huh? “Huh?!” 

Hange disentangled her arms from the sheets and sat up, staring at him. Levi moved to sit on the edge of the bed again, a scowl back on his face, though there was an intriguing flush high on his cheeks as he whacked her lightly on the top of the head with the leaflets. 

“Stupid four-eyes,” he said, exasperated. “Crying like that. I thought you were dying.”  

“I’m pregnant.” Hange said the word slowly, carefully, in case Levi had somehow misunderstood. He had the audacity to look at her like she was stupid.

“I can see that.” 

“And you have nothing more to say about it? That’s all?” 

Levi shrugged a little at her. Aside from the small patches of colour in his cheeks, Levi seemed wholly unfazed by the revelation. 

“It’s just a baby. We can handle a baby.” 

“That doesn’t terrify you?” 

Levi scrutinised her for a moment, before he said, “are you scared?” 

“Yes? Yes! How are you so calm? We can’t afford a baby—we don’t have the time for a baby? Where will they going to sleep? We don’t have a spare room. Can we get time off work to take care of a baby? How will we pay for childcare when we can’t be around?” 

“Hange,” Levi said, putting a stop to her rambling. He watched her with a pinched stare. “Do you not want it?” 

Hange had spent the majority of the day mulling over this same question. Staring a family was a huge, life-changing commitment, something that required  careful forethought and planning. They had not had that luxury. Hange was pregnant now. She had doubts and fears, more than she could ever express, but the idea of simply having a baby—of having this baby—wasn’t upsetting. In the small, brief moments she had allowed herself to imagine a future where she and Levi were parents, where they weren’t wanting for money or time, where things were well, she felt happy. Giddy. The prospect was almost exciting. 

“It’s not that,” Hange said earnestly. “I do—I’ve been thinking about it all day, and I—I do want it. But I just—we had no time to prepare. We have no savings, we have no space, I’m a mess. How are we supposed to take care of a tiny person? Babies are hard work, Levi.”

“You’re already hard work.” 

Hange laughed weakly, and wiped at her face again. Levi pressed a kiss to her raw cheek. 

“We’ll figure it out,” he said.

Hange leaned into him, sighing quietly. 

“Is this the kind of thing we can just figure out?” 

Levi hummed, shrugging his shoulder. His fingers skimmed up beneath Hange’s shirt, splaying over the small of her back and pulling her closer. 

“Why not? We’ve done a good job bullshitting our way through everything else.”  

Hange laughed lightly and bumped the side of her head against Levi’s.  

“This is different, Levi. This is a person. A tiny little person who is going to need me and you to do everything for them. What if we can’t do it? What if we mess up?” 

“Hange.” Levi pulled back a little and his hands came up to grip either side of her face, forcing her to look at him. “Stop. I know all that. But if you want the brat, and I want the brat, we’ve got no choice but to get on with it.” 

“I know, I know, but—wait, you want the baby?” 

Levi maintained eye contact with her, but it seemed to take a concentrated effort to do so. The flush of his cheeks deepened a little and his lips quirked at the corners. No doubt to compensate for the show of emotion, he pulled his face into his customary frown. 

“It’s fine,” he said. Hange fought the urge to roll her eyes and caught his hands as he lowered them from her face, pulling them into her lap. 

“Are you saying that because it’s already too late, or do you want to keep it?” 

Levi’s face took on a look of constipated strain. He curled his lip as though in distaste, then hooked a hand around the back of Hange’s neck and pulled her face to his abruptly, smacking a kiss to her lips. He let his forehead settle against hers and stroked his thumb over the hinge of her jaw. 

He fought to keep his tone neutral, but Hange could hear the happy tremor in his voice as he said again, “It’s fine.”

For the first time since hearing the news that day, Hange allowed herself to feel excited. To accept the idea that she and Levi were about to start their own bizarre little family. That Levi was still with her felt incredible enough, but to know that he was pleased—it was more than she could ever have hoped for. Hange gave a wet laugh and kissed him again. 

“Are you allergic to looking happy?” Hange asked as they broke apart. Levi clicked his tongue and pulled back to flick her square between the eyebrows. She laughed a little louder and leaned to wipe her runny nose on his shoulder. Levi muttered under his breath, but didn’t push her away.  

“Okay,” Hange said, after a moment. She sat back and pushed her hair back from her face. “Okay. We’re having a baby, then.” 

Levi’s rubbed the smile from his lips with the back of his hand, nodding. “We’re having a baby.” 

Hange sunk down to flop back over the pillows. Levi looked down at her, head tilted, chewing the inside of his lip. Hange reached up to brush his fringe off his forehead, warmth spilling in her chest when he held her hand close and turned to kiss her palm. 

She smiled a little playfully, and freed a leg from the sheets to dig her toes into his ribs. 

“If I’d known you wanted kids I would have been significantly less stressed, you know.” 

Levi quirked a brow at her. 

“I’ve told you that before.” 

“No, you haven’t.” 

“I have. At your sisters wedding.” 

Hange racked her brain, searching for the conversation. She remembered the occasion, and she remembered that she and Levi had somehow ended up babysitting Hange’s family brood. She remembered Levi, wrestling to keep her youngest nephew on his lap while the eldest, still only five or six at the time, was clambering up the back of his chair, sticky hands tugging at Levi’s collar. Hange fought hard to recall more of what was said, but could remember nothing at all of Levi announcing that he had wanted one of his own. 

“You said these brats aren’t so bad,” Hange said slowly. 

Levi nodded at her. Hange waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t, only looked at her like there was nothing more he needed to say. 

“That’s it? That’s your idea of telling me you want kids?” 

“The hell else could I have meant?” 

Hange dug her toe at him again but Levi caught her foot this time, pushing it firmly down onto the mattress. Hange reached for him with both arms instead, curling them around the back of his neck and tugging him down quickly. He toppled over her with a quiet oof, and Hange rolled them quickly, straddling his waist and dropping her weight down onto him. 

“That is the kind of thing you say clearly, Levi! These brats aren’t so bad—you’re ridiculous!” 

Levi wrestled with her arms a little longer before giving up and bringing his hands instead to rest low on her hips. He watched her with a curious expression on his face, something open and soft, and then his eyes roved down to her abdomen and his thumbs brushed inwards, beneath the hem of her shirt, stroking over her lower belly. 

This time, he didn’t fight his smile. 

He reached up and pulled her down by the neck, and kissed her soundly. Hange melted against him, welcomed the press of his tongue between her lips, shuddered pleasantly when he nipped at her bottom lip. She went with him willingly as he rolled them both over, nudging a knee between her legs and settling his weight against her. 

She was spreading her legs to make space for him, when he paused suddenly, and pulled back, leaning over the bed and scooping through the discarded back of leaflets. Hange, winded and dishevelled, watched him incredulously as he flicked through the contents of one, then tossed it aside and opened another. 

“What are you doing?” 

Without looking up, Levi replied, “Checking.” 

“Checking what?” 

“I wanna know if we can still—” he waved a hand between them, and went back to searching. 

“We’ve been—” Hange mimicked his gesture, “—up until now anyway.” 

Levi looked up at her, looking mildly horrified. He held up one his open leaflet and said, “You’ve been drinking alcohol, too. You’re not supposed to do that. And look, here—you’re not supposed to overwork. You’ll have to take on less hours at the university. And you’ll eat. Proper damn meals. Every day.” 

Hange flopped back against the pillows, eyes rolling, watching as Levi picked up each new leaflet in turn, pointing out every little adjustment that Hange would have to make. 

“This one says you should get eight to ten hours sleep per night. Every night. And not so much coffee, the caffeine’s bad for the baby.” 

The baby. It sounded surreal. It sounded ridiculous. Levi shifted to sit against the headboard beside her after opening the chunky little What to Expect While Expecting volume Hange had been handed while leaving the doctors. He seemed thoroughly engrossed, and seemingly unaware when one of his hands reached out to pull Hange’s hair free of its ponytail and sink into her hair. She hummed happily as his nails scraped over her scalp. 

Things were still scary, and Hange was still uncertain about how this whole adventure might turn out. But Levi was still with her, and Levi was happy, and that—

—Well, that was good enough. 

[juju-on-that-yeet]

Lost and Found

Whumptober Day 25: I Think I’ll Just Collapse Right Here, Thanks Prompt: Disorientation

After two days lost in the wilderness, Eric and the Jims are doing poorly. When help finally arrives, they’re too out of it to appreciate it. (continued from “Down, Down, Down”)

Warnings: Head injury, vomiting mentions

Read on AO3 (Full Whumptober Series)

Enjoy!

~

On the first full day of Eric and the Jims being stranded at the bottom of the ravine, they drink through their last water bottle.

The crushed granola bars weren’t enough to keep them from waking up hungry, and not even finishing off their water can stop the hunger pains from increasing throughout the day. RJ goes off to find food, but Eric is worried about what he might return with. Any mushroom or berry around here could easily be poisonous. RJ eventually returns not with food, but with news of a creek up ahead that they could get more water from. Eric is pretty sure they’d have to boil it to drink it safely, but the only container they have is their water bottle. When RJ makes another trip to the creek and comes back with a bottle full of water, though, Eric is less concerned. The water looks fine, and the sun is so hot, and the hunger hasn’t abated. So he and RJ drink, and they give some to CJ, too.

At least, they try; CJ is still barely conscious with no strength to drink on his own, and most of the water drips past his lips and down his neck. Every once in a while he groans and tries to sign something, but his hands are no clearer than they were the day before. Eric spends most of the day with him as RJ makes countless trips with their water bottle. His attempts to find food all fail, and the three go to sleep still hungry.

The second day begins when Eric wakes up with revulsion already crawling up his throat. He vomits creek water onto the ground beside him as RJ, newly awoken by Eric’s retching, rubs his back and tries to comfort him – until he has to vomit, too, and stumbles away from where the group has been sleeping to puke up yesterday’s water.

“Was there something in the water?” Eric gasps between heaves.

“I don’t know,” RJ coughs, “It could be because we haven’t eaten, too.”

A few hours pass. Eric and RJ continue to retch on and off, even when nothing more comes up. CJ, meanwhile, never so much as gags. He ate as little as the others did, but he barely drank any water, and in that Eric and RJ have their answer.

The repeated vomiting leaves RJ too weak to go looking for food again, or for a better source of water. Not that Eric much notices; his broken arm is hurting worse than it has before. The limb is swollen and discolored, and Eric can’t help but fear how much worse it is under the skin. RJ curls up, rubbing his bruises, probably aching all over from his own fall down the ravine. CJ still looks terrible; the wound on his head is inflamed, and his pupils still don’t match. He makes less noise than he did the day before, his attempts to sign are fewer and even less effective. Eric expects he won’t be able to sleep when night falls, but his aches and worries catch up to him and drag him under alarmingly fast.

The third day is hell.

Eric wakes up and doesn’t feel rested. His stomach is in knots, as though with no food available it has decided to eat itself instead. RJ is curled up again, whimpering. CJ is still asleep, or maybe he’s unconscious. The thought should send a pang of fear through Eric, but he doesn’t have the strength to be scared, he doesn’t have enough awareness to be afraid. Thoughts float in and out of his mind, thoughts of home, thoughts of the others, thoughts of rescue, but none of them strike any emotion. He’s too weak to feel a thing. He falls in and out of sleep, and he suspects RJ does, too. He can barely remember that there’s people with him, barely recall anything outside himself. It’s only hot. He’s only exhausted.

At some point in the day, something changes. It takes Eric several moments to realize that some new people have shown up. He can’t concentrate on what that means and watch the figures approach him at the same time, so he stops thinking and watches Bim and Wilford approach him.

“Oh god, guys, can you hear me!?” Bim half-asks, half-shrieks, frantic with worry. He dashes to Eric – and to the twins, Eric remembers their presence. Bim manages to wake RJ, who groans as he’s shaken out of his slumber.

“Good lord, what happened to you three?” Wilford asks Eric, looking uncharacteristically concerned. Eric’s throat is too dry for him to answer.

“CJ? CJ??” Bim says as he gently shakes CJ’s shoulder, trying to wake him. “CJ, come on, Cam, wake up!” The fear in his voice kicks up a notch. “Oh god, Cammie, buddy, please wake up–”

“Let’s get them home,” Wilford says, firmly but gently, interrupting Bim’s terrified ramble.

“Right, right,” he gasps. He carefully scoops up CJ, making sure to support his head. Wilford, meanwhile, picks up both RJ and Eric, holding them in one arm each. Wilford runs hot, but compared to the heat of the sun and dirt Eric’s been sitting on, he’s a welcome chill. Eric lets his head loll against Wilford’s shoulder as the group is teleported away.

The moment in Wilford’s void sends a bout of nausea through Eric, one that manifests as a sharp pain in his empty stomach. He groans as the group appears in the clinic. It takes a moment for his head to stop swimming as Bim yells for Dr. Iplier.

“Doc, we found them!” he cries, “They’re hurt, especially CJ!”

Dr. Iplier comes running in and spares a moment to look at all three sick, weakened egos before zeroing in on CJ.

“Christ, Bim, I won’t mince words,” Dr. Iplier mutters as he pries open CJ’s eyes to shine a light into them, “CJ’s on death’s door. This head injury he’s got must be doing awful things to his brain. I need Green and I need to get CJ into surgery now.”

“What about the others?” Wilford asks over Bim’s wail.

“Just get them each into a bed,” Dr. Iplier says, already turning to rush to the operating room, motioning for Bim to follow. “Grab Google or Ollie to put them on IVs and examine them further; anything else can wait.”

Wilford obeys. As soon as Eric’s head hits the cool pillow of his clinic bed, he falls asleep.

~~~

When Eric wakes up, his mind is much clearer. He’s still in a clinic bed, but there’s IVs in his good arm and a cast on his broken one. His warped and broken prosthetics have been removed, too. Eric feels sore and achy and still very hungry, but his bed is comfortable, and he’s finally out of the sun. Now that he can think straight, he’s worried about the twins again.

Some of the worry dissipates when he looks to the side and sees RJ in his own bed, with his own IVs and bandages. RJ is already awake, and he grins to see Eric’s eyes on him.

“You okay, AJ?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think so,” Eric answers, “You too?”

“Yeah,” RJ replies. His face falls a little. “I don’t know about CJ, though. He’s not on my other side.”

Eric looks at his own other side, but no, CJ isn’t there either. His heart clenches with fear. He remembers how badly CJ was hurt and shudders.

Fortunately, that’s when Eric hears footsteps coming towards him and RJ. The pair look to see Dr. Iplier opening the door to their hospital room.

“Hey, you’re both awake,” Dr. Iplier says, smiling gently. “According to Wilford, you guys were asleep the moment he put you both down. You’ve been asleep for hours, how are you feeling?”

“Hungry,” RJ says.

“I can imagine,” Dr. Iplier replies, walking in to check on each ego’s IVs, “You’ve been missing for a few days. Wilford and Bim said they found you at the bottom of a ravine.”

“We fell,” Eric admits, “We had supplies, but they got crushed.”

“We tried drinking river water,” RJ adds, “But it, um, didn’t work out that well.”

“I can imagine that, too,” Dr. Iplier sighs, “But at least you’re both alive. And you should both heal up fine.”

“What about CJ?” RJ murmurs like he’s afraid to ask. Eric looks up at Dr. Iplier anxiously, waiting for a response. Fortunately, Dr. Iplier smiles again.

“He made it through surgery,” he says, “He’s in his own room. He was badly hurt, that head injury caused significant swelling in his brain. He’s still asleep, and I’ll be keeping him asleep for a day or two to make sure he heals well. I know that sounds scary,” he adds in response to the horrified looks on Eric and RJ’s faces, “But it’s necessary. And between you and me…” He leans down between them like he’s telling a secret, and Eric and RJ lean in to listen. “…His time looks good. I’m confident he’ll pull through. If he were a human...” Dr. Iplier shakes his head. “Well, if he were a human, he wouldn’t have been alive for me to perform brain surgery on in the first place. But if he’d lived that long, he’d be looking at a week or more in a coma, and even then, he’d have a lot of brain damage upon waking. But CJ’s a figment, so when he wakes up in a couple days, you can expect him to act like normal - though he might not remember a lot of the last few days.”

Eric and RJ look at each other. Eric figures they’re both thinking the same thing: It’s probably good that CJ won’t remember that harrowing experience. For his part, Eric hopes he’ll eventually be able to forget.

[builder051]

a stucky prompt - steve gets home after getting poisoned on a mission (he'll be fine, it's just gotta wear off, in the meantime he's just really sick/dizzy), but when he gets home bucky is sound asleep (after weeks of not sleeping well), so steve tucks himself away in the downstairs bathroom so he doesn't wake bucky up. of course bucky wakes up and comes to take care of him, and by then steve's too sick and out of it to convince him to go back to bed

Thank you for this prompt, anon.  Sorry it took me half a century to get to it.  It’s a really good one with the perfect amount of detail, and I feel like you’re seeing the layout of their little townhouse right along with me…

This is heroverse.  I absolutely love how it came out.

_____

Butane in my veins

_____

“I can’t believe it.”  Nat stifles a laugh behind her hand.  “A poison dart?  Really?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”  Steve rubs the sore spot on the side of his neck and steps toward the door of the medical office.  “I’m fine, though.”

Nat narrows her eyes.  “You think you are.  But be smart and let the nurse make that assessment.”

“Hey, I’m going,” Steve says.  “Stop worrying about me.”

“Who said I was worried?”  Nat smirks.  “But really.  I hope you heed their advice.  And take some Advil if they offer it.  I can practically feel the headache vibes coming off you.”

“And stop reading me, too.”  Steve shakes his head, which does in fact hurt.  He pushes open the door.  “I’m fine.”

And he is.  Or at least he’s going to be.  The nurse draws a vial of his blood and sends it for immediate analysis.  She comes back a few minutes later with a printed page of results.

“The dose is too low and your metabolism’s too high for it do any real damage,” she reports.  “But you’ve got to burn through it first.  You’ll probably feel sick for a few hours.  Experience some vertigo, maybe nausea.”

She offers Steve four 800mg ibuprofen and a bed for the night.  “It’s late.  And you shouldn’t be driving in your condition,” the nurse says.

Steve swallows the pills with a sip of water, but refuses the rest.  “I’ll walk home.”

It’s cool and humid out, and the night air feels thick.  The breeze catches the clammy sweat breaking out over Steve’s forehead, and he shivers.  The pain from the puncture wound from the dart creeps around to the back of his neck as his headache travels down from his forehead.  He blinks hard and digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.  He’s not sure if his hands are shaking or if his face is, but the coordination is harder than it should be.

The walk takes almost 45 minutes.  Ordinarily Steve would make it a fast jog and cut the time to 15, but he’s heavy and slow.  His arms and legs are tired, more so than they ordinarily are after a mission.  It feels like he’s swallowed a few cinderblocks too.

Steve pauses when he gets to the end of the driveway.  He takes a deep breath and fumbles his keys out of his pocket.  He’s only feet away from the front door now, but the whole bank of townhomes looks like it’s quavering.  He tries to focus on the doorknob through his tunneling vision.  Steve knows he has to get inside before he hits the pavement.

It takes him more tries than it should to unlock the door, then he drops his keys with clatter.  “Dammit,” he mutters.  Steve starts to bend over to pick them up, but a sensation of free fall travels from his head to his stomach and back again, and he uses the coat rack to pull himself back upright.  He needs to lie down before he throws up or passes out or both.

As Steve ascends the stairs, it occurs to him that he has no idea what time it is.  He could get his phone out of his pocket and look at it, but it doesn’t seem to be worth the effort.  It’s dark outside.  It’s nighttime.  And Bucky hasn’t come down to greet him.

Steve sighs.  He hasn’t even thought about Bucky.  The noise he’s made dropping his keys and clomping up the stairs, he’s got to be disturbing him already.  Bucky hasn’t slept through the night all week, and he’s not going to be happy with Steve for ruining his chances tonight.   Steve opens the bedroom door, expecting to see him sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes and probably cussing him out for waking him up

But that’s not the scene that meets his eyes.  At first he thinks the bed is empty, but as Steve takes a step toward it, Bucky’s outline swims into focus.  He’s sprawled flat on his back with his head between his pillow and Steve’s, and from the looks of it, absolutely dead to the world.

Steve’s heart breaks.  There’s no way he can disturb Bucky when he’s finally sleeping peacefully.  As tired and sick as he feels, Steve decides he’ll take the couch for the night.

Getting back down the stairs in the dark is a task.  He trips down the last few before he finds the level floor off the hallway, but at least the stumble is quiet.  Steve leans on the wall for a second before heading to the living room.  He swallows against a flood of saliva and tries to get his bearings.  It doesn’t work out, though, and he decides it would be wiser to get to the bathroom than the sofa.

Steve slams his knees into the tile just in time to heave violently into the toilet.  He spits a few times and buries his face in the crook of his arm as he waits for the nausea to either abate or surge again.  His abdominal muscles tremble as he swallows instinctively against the next inevitable retch.

It only takes Steve a few minutes to empty out, but dry heaves keep coming.  He can barely catch his breath before his throat constricts into another empty gag, and he breaks off coughing.  Spit dangling from his lip flicks back into his mouth, and the hacks turn to desperate gasps as he inhales it.

His vision erupts into starts, and Steve squeezes his eyes shut.  He can feel his body trying to vomit again, but he still can’t get his lungs around a full inhalation.  He grips the toilet seat and prays he doesn’t pass out.

A hand comes down on his back.  “What’s going on?”  Bucky sounds a thousand miles away.

“I…”  Steve sucks in air, and he feels something rattling disgustingly in his chest.  He coughs again, then lurches forward to spit up a thin stream of bile.

“It’s ok.”  Bucky crouches at Steve’s side.  His metal hand is cold against one of Steve’s shoulders, while his flesh one is warm on the other.  “Focus on breathing, ok?  I’m not gonna let you pass out.”

It takes all of Steve’s willpower not to hack on whatever crud he’s inhaled.  He manages a shallow breath, then leans back into Bucky’s chest.  “Sorry,” he tries to choke, but it comes out as a single garbled syllable.

“Shh, don’t talk yet,” Bucky says.  He tears off a length of toilet paper and presses it into Steve’s palm.  “You’re gonna be alright.  Just stay calm.  Keep breathing.”

“Hm.”  Steve nods.  He tries not to gag as he wipes his lips.  He wants to say more.  To tell Bucky to go back to bed.  Then maybe explain why he’s puking his guts up in the downstairs bathroom at god-knows-what hour.  But he’s too nauseous to open his mouth.  And too tired to do anything else.

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, pressing his cheek against the back of Steve’s head.  “I got you.”

[brightlycoloredteacups]

Tension

Series: Brynhilda’s Saga: Ivar x OFC

Warnings: Tends towards violent imagery, none for this specific chapter.

           Brynhilda is convinced Odin put the Ragnarsson’s on Midgard to torture her. At the very least annoy her for the rest of her days. They refuse to leave her alone for too long. Ubbe was interested in her because she was the only woman in all of Kattegat that continually refused to bed him, Hvitserk was only interested because Ubbe was interested. And Sigurd liked her because she gave an uncommon amount of lip to Ivar and got away with. Ivar just liked having a slave around.

           Ivar rarely used her during the day though, preferring to make her nights a living hell, so Aslaug still used her to do labor intensive tasks around the home. Gathering buckets of water, butchering the meat, she even had to catch and kill all the mice in the home, every last imaginary one. Today, Aslaug had her help an older woman bring bags of grain to the docks so she can ship them out to gods knew where.

           She threw the last bag on the pile, groaning with relief. Before she could turn to the old woman and ask her if anything else needed to be done, Aslaug came up the beach, barking for her. “Brynhilda! Come!” Brynhilda nodded to the woman, who thanked her, and ran off. “You are to take Ivar to Floki’s.” She commanded. “And be gentle with him, I know how much you like to play rough.”

“Yes, your highness.” Brynhilda mutters, scurrying off to get Ivar.

           When she finds him, he is bent over, tying his braces up, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His face is haggard, with dark circles under his eyes. “Where have you been?” He snapped, “I’ve been calling for you for ages.”

“I do have other duties to attend to outside of the house.” She informs him. “None of you lip today, I’m in no mood for it.” She scoffs but remains quiet. Watching as he finishes with his braces, she says, “How am I supposed to carry you if you don’t wrap your legs around me.”

“You won’t be carrying me you idiot!” He throws a bag to her, one she catches with ease. Crawling off his furs he heads for the door. Aslaug is watching her carefully. “I thought I told you to carry my so-” She begins, but Ivar cuts her off. “I’m not an invalid mother,” He snaps. “I don’t need some slave carrying me around like a child.”

“Are you sure, every other day you’d love to have me carry you.” Brynhilda says. He gives her a withering look. “I swear slave, today I will cut your tongue from you head.”

“My name,” She says, making sure to step on his hand as she steps over him. He snarls and swats at her. “Is Brynhilda.” She throws open the door and waits for him to crawl out.

           By the time they get halfway to Floki’s hut, Brynhilda is sweating and struggling as much as Ivar is. “Maybe we should take a break.” She suggests, trying not to pant with the effort it takes to put one foot in front of the other. Ivar glares at her, “I don’t need a break.”

“Sure,” She says. “Neither do I. I’m good. I could go on for days.” They continue until they both come to a stop, pain becoming too great. Ivar presses his head into his forearm while Brynhilda drops to her knees. Both begin to gasp for air, trying their best to ride out their pain without the other taking too much notice. When they’re finished, Ivar peeks at her. “Can go on for days huh?” Brynhilda growls. “Don’t need anyone to carry you huh?” They stay like that, looking at each other for a long while. It isn’t a glare, it’s more of a curious stare, they want to know the extent of each other’s pain, they want to bond over it. Brynhilda gets back up, shouldering the bag and nods. “Lead the way oh mighty prince.” She says. Ivar begins once again to crawl.

           By the time they reach Floki’s hut, Ivar pounding on the door calling for the man, both are drenched in sweat and nauseas with the effort of it all. The door is thrown open to reveal a mostly bald man, shirtless and looking very alarmed. He takes one look at Ivar and opens the door wider. Ivar enters the hut, Brynhilda merely hands Flokie the bag, figuring Ivar had her bring it for a reason. Floki takes it wordlessly. He gives her a long look, expecting her to follow Ivar. She doesn’t move from her spot. Not one to invite strangers in his home, he shuts the door in Brynhilda’s face.

           She’s in the middle of getting off the grumpy old man’s front step when the door opens again. She looks to see Ivar’s disapproving face. “Well?” He says. “Get in here.” She does as she’s told, but does it slowly. As she passes him, she hears Ivar mutter ‘moron’. “And who’s this?” Floki asks, looking over her critically. “Her name is Brynhilda.” Ivar explains, pulling himself onto the bed.  

           “Undo my braces.” Ivar looks at Brynhilda expectantly. She stands there, glaring. “Well slave?”

“Give me a moment.” She snaps, seized with pain. His brows knit together as he looks at her, but he says nothing. For a few tense moments, she stands there, willing her legs to work. “The last time I check-” Ivar begins. “You keep your mouth shut.” Brynhilda snarls. “I will be there as soon as I can.”

“I’m the crippled one,” He snaps back. “Yes, but the entire world doesn’t revolve around you.” Ivar throws something at her, it bounces off her stomach. “You’re my slave, you should be taking care of me when I’m in pain.”

           This spurs Brynhilda to his side. He’s smiling, thinking he’s triumphant, and in a way he is. Brynhilda can’t bring herself to hit him. Any other man, any other point in time and she would have gutted him like cow he is. Instead, she rips at his ties. He hisses in pain with the jerking of his legs, but doesn’t stop her. It’s like prey that’s smelled a predator but doesn’t know where it is, something instinctive inside tells him not to push too hard or he may not live to regret it.

           When she’s done untying his braces she walks into a corner of the hut and slips to the ground, exhausted. As Floki and his, presumably wife, work on Ivar, Brynhilda grinds her teeth together. Breathing deep and letting it out slowly, she focuses on one of the lessons Eysteinn taught her. How to properly strong a bow. It isn’t complicated, but she drags out all the little details in her head for distraction.

           When the pain abates, she uncurls herself. It worried her that she had seized up at all. If she was going to wage war on her enemies, she couldn’t let that stop her. There would be long, hard days of marching, hours of fighting, she’d need to be able to lift her shield and her sword, or else she’d fall. Weakness was not an option.

           She chewed her lip as she thought of the actions she could take. She went through every idea she could, resting wasn’t an option, going to the Queen and telling her what Brynhilda was trying to do definitely wasn’t an option, getting one of the Ragnarssons to help her was unthinkable. She could train at night, when no one would bother her. No one traveled in the forest at night, they wouldn’t be able to figure her out. As much as she hated the thought, it was her only option.

           She was pulled from her internal planning by Ivar throwing his bag at her. “Let’s go, slave,” He sneers. “My name,” she says, getting up and shouldering the bag, “Is Brynhilda.”

*

           When Eysteinn had trained her during the summer, she hadn’t been in top form. He went easy on her as a result. She hadn’t complained then, wanting to soak up the technical aspect of training more than anything. Now, she planned on putting that training to good use. Ivar had gone to bed early, leaving her with an evening alone. It was the perfect time to start.

           She didn’t dare dig up her sword and shield. They were far too precious, she couldn’t afford someone figuring out her little treasure chest. So, she took up a stick she found and began to go through the motions. Her back still ached, but she took it slow. The goal was to work on endurance, not kill herself.

           She was just beginning to work up a sweat when she heard her name being called. She had chosen the spot where all the slaves went to relax when they had the rare day off, the only one she told was Sigrid. Expectedly, that was who burst from the tree line, looking panicked. “What’s wrong?” Brynhilda asked, trying to stay calm for the girl. “It’s Ivar,” Sigrid pants. “He’s looking for you.” Brynhilda rolls her eyes. Of course he is.

           She walks up the bank to Sigrid, throwing the stick somewhere in the brush. “You’d better hurry,” Sigrid warns, grabbing Brynhilda’s hand. “He’s angry that you’ve disappeared.” Brynhilda grunted, not moving any faster as Sigrid tugged her along. “Let the little shit suffer.” She says. Sigrid says nothing.

           They walk for some time, Sigrid keeping a tight hold on Brynhilda’s hand. Normally, Brynhilda would’ve brushed her off. She hated being touched, but it seemed she didn’t mind Sigrid. “Aren’t you afraid he’s going to kill you?” Sigrid finally asks. “No,” Brynhilda answers honestly. “Really?” Brynhilda completely misses the girl’s tone of awe. “Really. I’ve faced entire armies on my own before, Ivar doesn’t scare me at all.”

“You have not!” Sigrid says. Brynhilda grunts. “Alright, maybe a small warband, but the point was, there was one of me and a large number of them.”

“What did you do?” Sigrid asked. “I killed them.”

“I know that,” Sigrid says, giggling. “How did you kill them?”

“One by one,” Brynhilda tells her honestly. “It took me about a week.”

“Really, an entire week? You didn’t just fight them all?”

           Brynhilda stops and looks at Sigird, trying to figure out if the girl is serious. “I’m not a god Sigrid, I can only do so much.”

“But it took you a week?”

“I had to remain hidden, I would’ve died otherwise.” Brynhilda says a little exasperated. Sigrid’s brows are furrowed, she’s trying to figure out how Brynhilda went about killing a bunch of men over the course of a week. “Maybe I’ll tell you the story one day, right now, let’s go and see what fresh torture Ivar has prepared for me.”

           As they approach Kattegat, Sigrid continues asking her questions. “Are you a shieldmaiden?”

“I was,”

“What happened?”

“I was betrayed.”

“Who betrayed you?”

“People I thought my family.”

“Why did they betray you?”

“I was a pawn in a game I hadn’t realized was being played.” Sigrid was quiet for so long after that, they reached the Slave House before she spoke again. “Are you going to get revenge?” She whispered. Brynhilda lets go of Sigrid’s hand and bends to look her in the eye. Sigrid’s blue eyes are wide as her mouth as Brynhilda says, “Not even Odin can stop me from reaping my revenge on those that tried to bury me.” Sigrid takes a step back from the older woman, feeling chills run through her. Bryhilda straightens and turns towards the feast hall. As the girl steps into the slave house, Sigrid makes a promise not to get on Brynhilda’s bad side.

           The moment Brynhilda opens the door, Aslaug is on her. “Where have you been?” She snaps. “Ivar has been calling for you,”

“I’m aware.” She brushes past the queen. “He is in a great deal of pain,” Aslaug says, running after her. “You will soothe it by any means necessary or-”

           Brynhilda turns to the queen. “Or what?” She sneers. Aslaug backs up from her, clearly afraid. Brynhilda’s eyes are afire tonight, Aslaug knows better than to frustrate the girl, the Seer has told her as much. Pressing her lips together, she lifts her chin and looks down at her. “Just soothe my son’s pain.” She orders. “I will try my best, your highness.” Brynhilda mutters.

           She leaves Aslaug in the feast hall and opens the door, only to be assaulted with a drinking horn. “Where have you been?” Ivar yells at her. “As far away from you as possible.” She mutters. Ivar ignores her smart answer and begins his tirade. “You are MY slave! You are to be where I can find you at all times!” Brynhilda drowns him out early on, trying to concentrate more on not strangling him. When there’s no sign of an end to his angry speech, she cuts him off, “Are you going to sit there and bitch all night, or are you going to tell me what to do?” Ivar seethes for a few moments. “Go fetch the healer. She’s an old woman that lives on the outskirts of Kattegat.”

“For the love of Odin!” Brynhilda throws her hands to the sky. “Any slave here could’ve done that, one of your brothers could’ve done that.”

“I want you to do it.” Ivar says, smirking. Brynhilda can’t believe it. This asshole really had her tracked down for a task anyone could’ve done. “Of all the idiotic-” She starts, turning from him and walking out of the room. Ivar only catches the end of her complaining, something about a ‘complete moron’. She ignores the cup that sails by her head.