#sicktember day one

[fanfictasia]

Sicktember Day 1

Hopelessly Bad Self-Care

Spoiler: This is an excerpt from The Mushroom Strikes Back

“Are you sure you’re in a condition to be fighting, sir?” Cody asks, coming to a stop next to Anakin.

Why the clones are so worried about him, when their brothers are dying all around them, he doesn’t know. Yes, they were trained to expect this, but it’s… He can’t even imagine that.

This is one of the first battles he’s ever fought in, since the war broke out only a few weeks ago. Obi-Wan was assigned charge of the 212th, primarily because of his newly appointed Council seat. Anakin hasn’t gotten a separate division yet, even though he’s already a Knight, so he’s working with Obi-Wan’s right now.

His former master was called back to Coruscant from some other urgent duties, though, which means he’s the one in charge right now. And it’s… terrifying, even if Cody is doing just as much of the leading.

He’s hardly had the chance to sleep at all, except an occasional hour or two at a time, since Obi-Wan left. Aside from fighting, he also has to help Cody with directing all the troop movements, so there hasn’t been any time to sleep, no matter how exhausted he might be. He can see that same exhaustion just as keenly on Cody himself.

“Yes.” Even if his head is still hurting, and occasional burning pain pulses through his arm. He’s still adjusting to having a mechanical limb. He thought it would stop hurting after he got a replacement, and it has, though his body is still struggling to adjust to the changes. It’s… definitely unpleasant.

“Watch out for the mushrooms,” Cody warns, “They have toxins and you don’t have a helmet.”

He’s usually resistant to things like that; both from being a Jedi and half-Force. It makes him slightly different from normal humans in ways he doesn’t really understand. So, whatever these mushrooms are, he’s not really worried about it. “I will keep an eye out,” Anakin assures him, and they start forwards into the trees again.

[acasualcrossfade]

Angel, Baby, Sweetheart, Sunshine

Sicktember Day 22:  Terms of Endearment/Nicknames

Stranger Things: Steve Harrington/ Eddie Munson

Words: 500 | Rating: M | CW: mentions of drug use, sex, and edge play

Summary: Steve loves all the pet names Eddie has for him.

Find me on Ao3!

--

Steve loved the way Eddie used pet names and was surprised at how many there were. 

Big boy was first, and it had caught Steve off-guard. He’d never been called something that left him equally confused and amused. 

Eddie only proved to have more pet names in his arsenal. 

Angel came soon after.

They’d both been insomniacs the night before, sharing joints on the patio as they watched the stars shift to sunrise. The sun’s soft golden light stretched across their bedroom and Steve rolled over closer to nudge Eddie awake. 

The pet name mumble-rolled from Eddie’s mouth. 

A few more minutes, angel

Steve paused at the pet name, relishing in it. Angel. 

Eddie had uttered it with breathy ease, as if the name was meant solely for him. 

And when Eddie woke, he murmured it again, voice still thick with sleep. 

Good morning, angel

Warmth bloomed in Steve’s heart and spread through his chest and he cuddled Eddie closer.

Baby was next. 

Baby, Steve learned, was reserved for the bedroom. 

Baby was whispered in Steve’s ear while Steve moaned through Eddie’s rhythmic thrusts from behind. 

Baby was hushed between soft praises and softer commands as Eddie edged him.

A little longer, baby, so good for me

Steve was a spool of thread, woven with want and need, and Eddie wound him tighter and tighter before finally allowing Steve to unravel and come undone in his arms. And then, Eddie stitched Steve back together with the same pet name and praise. 

I got you baby, you did so good 

And Steve was left delightfully buzzing as the world crackled back to clarity. 

Sweetheart was the Sour Patch Kid pet name, either sweet or snarky.

When Steve came home from his day of teaching, Eddie was immediately on alert as Steve coughed into his elbow. Steve was sick; there was no denying it. 

You sound terrible, sweetheart , Eddie tutted, and filled the kettle to make tea.

When the pet name came snarky, it was complete with Eddie’s best cocky smile and his brown eyes glinting.

Sweetheart, you haven’t seen anything yet , Eddie would challenge, one hand caressing the neck of his guitar while the other fingered his guitar pick. 

Sunshine was Steve’s favorite. 

It was always uttered with intention, and always served with a thick layer of love between its letters. 

Steve loved hearing sunshine woven into songs that Eddie sang to millions. He loved knowing it was him Eddie was referring to when he sang about sunshine warm on his skin. 

You’re mine, sunshine

I bathe in your beams, struck silent, self-aware and sun-kissed

It wasn’t just Eddie’s songs, either.

Sunshine was everywhere.

Eddie breathed sunshine between sunset kisses on the patio, and sunshine on firefly summer evenings at the lake. Eddie enthusiastically declared how much he loved sunshine both onstage and again backstage. 

I love you, sunshine

Each name was endearing and left Steve enveloped in comfort. 

And Steve knew he’d always be Eddie’s. 

Eddie’s angel, baby, sweetheart, sunshine.

[fairyniceyeah]

🌹🤍Day 18: "My body is one big ache"

@sicktember

Summary: Woosung is feverish, queasy and downright miserable. 

CW: emeto, talks of fainting

Sickie: Woosung/Sammy Caretaker: Hajoon/Dylan + Jaehyeong/Jeff + Dojoon/Leo

Woosung woke up shivering and icy cold.

When he opened his burning eyes he found the room bathed in darkness. It must still be pretty early, he supposed. A glance at his phone revealed that it was barely five am.

He still had about two and a half hours until his alarm rang but for some reason he doubted he would be able to go back to sleep. 

His body shivered again, a full jolt going through every nerve. There was no reason for him to be so cold, it was the middle of summer after all. But his body apparently didn’t get the memo. He was so cold.

It didn’t help that he only had the duvet cover on his bed, having abandoned the blanket itself a few nights ago because he had been sweating so much back then. Now he yearned for the exhausting heat that had coated his body in disgusting sweat. 

Not that he wasn’t sweaty now.

He groaned, realizing that if he wanted to fall back asleep he would need to get up and find the blanket. If he remembered correctly he had put it over his desk chair, right?

Glancing around by the light of his phone he saw that the blanket indeed was only on the other side of the room. He would just need to walk two meters at most and still it seemed an awfully long way. He hoped the warmth was worth it. 

Getting his heavy body in a sitting position was hard enough and he swayed dizzily even as he just sat at the side of the bed. For a moment he just rested his aching head in his hands, feeling how his forehead seemed to be the hottest thing in the room.

It made sense - he wasn’t supposed to be cold in August. If he was running a fever that was a good explanation. But he had no idea where the thermometer was. Did they even have one?

Getting the blanket would have to do. Slowly pushing to his feet so the dizziness wouldn’t overwhelm him was awful. Every part of his body seemed to ache. His head seemed to be full of wool and soupy thoughts. Every limb was heavy. 

He stumbled to the desk chair, nearly falling as he grabbed it to steady himself and it turned away. Crashing into the desk itself was the only thing stopping his fall. His hip bore the brunt of the impact and the throbbing pain brought tears to his eyes. 

Woosung took a deep breath and just held onto the blanket. His only goal was to get back into bed without face-planting on the floor. It didn’t matter to him that the blanket was trailing on the floor; it was less heavy that way. 

He collapsed onto the bed and just haphazardly pulled the blanket on top of himself. It was uncomfortable and tangled, some parts of his body covered and some kissing the cool air. Not that it was much warmer under the blanket.

🌹

Woosung wasn’t sure if he had actually fallen asleep at some point. It seemed like he had dangled in feverish limbo between painful wakefulness and restless sleep for hours. Even if he had been asleep it certainly hadn’t been restful. 

His hand shook as he turned off his alarm. The others would likely get up soon as well, their alarms were programmed for the same time frame. Woosung was pretty sure that Jaehyeong, never somebody who could get up at first try, would have pushed snooze for the third time now. Hajoon, diligent as he was, was probably already showering. Dojoon with all his energy would just jump up the moment his alarm sounded, later than anybody else's and still somehow always the first one ready. Woosung normally enjoyed hitting snooze once and then slowly getting ready. 

That day, however, all he wanted to do was get up and find another member who knew where the thermometer and the meds were. He suspected that out of everybody, Jaehyeong would have some. 

He knew the way down the stairs would suck, he knew that everything would be cold and that he’d feel terrible the whole way.

Maybe Dojoon, whose room was beside Woosung’s on the first floor, would be the easier choice. 

Woosung pushed himself up, nearly falling at the headrush that assaulted him as soon as he changed from horizontal to vertical, wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and only stopped for a moment to put on some fuzzy sucks his eomma had gifted him. He all but fell when he lifted his feet to pull his socks over his freezing toes but leaning against his wardrobes saved him.

He stumbled over to Dojoon’s room and knocked on the door, pushing it open before he could receive an answer. His heart sank when he realized that the room was empty. As if to mock him, he then heard the shower turn on in the bathroom he shared with Dojoon. He was too late.

Desperate for relief and not wanting to continue to suffer alone, Woosung decided to brave the stairs. He clutched at the railing with one hand, the other holding the blanket around his shoulders. It had been a stupid decision to put on the socks - he very nearly slipped on the wooden surface with them a few times. 

🌹

By the time he had made it down half the stairs he was sweating like crazy, panting and his vision was turning spotty. Scared he’d faint and fall down the rest of the steps, he carefully lowered himself into a sitting position, resting his head on between his knees, leaning sideways against the wall.

Woosung had no idea how long he had sat there, freezing and shaking, when he heard a voice asking: “Hyung?”

He lifted his head and tried to focus his blurry vision on whoever had spoken. Jaehyeong?

“Sammy?”, Jaehyeong repeated and then suddenly he yelled: “Hajoon-ah! Dojoon-hyung!”

Woosung winced at the volume but the maknae’s cold hand on his forehead was a welcome relief. When he opened his eyes - when had he closed them? - he found Jaehyeong looking at him with worry in his eyes.

“Hey, hyung”, he said, “how are you feeling?”

“Awful”, Woosung rasped honestly. 

“Hm, you seem to be burning up.”

Right, that was why he had decided to come downstairs in the first place.

“Do we have a thermometer?”, he asked quietly. Jaehyeong’s hand on his face felt heavenly. The maknae looked incredibly worried though.

“What happened?”, Hajoon asked, out of a sudden kneeling beside Jaehyeong. When had he arrived? He was only wearing shorts and no t-shirt, water from his shower dripping down his face and back. Woosung shivered just seeing him.

“I found him like this”, Jaehyong explained, a worried and rushed quality to his voice, “he’s burning up.”

“It’s the middle of summer”, Hajoon said with a frown and reached up to feel Woosung’s forehead as well. He winced as his hand made contact. Woosung pulled away and placed his dizzy head on his knees, Hajoon’s hand uncomfortably warm.

“Summer flues do happen”, Jaehyeong said with a shrug, “why don’t you get him to the couch and I’ll see where we put the thermometer and medication.”

Hajoon nodded and Jaehyeong vanished. 

“Can you get up, hyung?”, Hajoon asked, voice overflowing with concern.

“Help me?”, Woosung asked shakily, already not looking forward to the nearly promised headrush.

Out of a sudden a hot flush took over Woosung, who for the first time that day felt warm. It wasn’t as pleasant as he had hoped, in fact it was mostly the opposite. His throat felt tight and saliva gathered in his mouth. He swallowed, hoping feverishly that it would vanish.

Hajoon didn’t seem to notice his struggle, reaching his hand out to Woosung’s shoulder. Before he could make contact, Woosung felt himself retch. It came on so quickly that all he could do was lean over and spread his legs as a rush of vomit splattered between his feet and onto his legs.

“Well, some warning would have been nice”, Hajoon mumbled with a sigh, holding onto Woosung’s shoulder so he wouldn’t fall over. 

“Sorry, I didn’t…”

Woosung coughed a bit, cursing internally as it caused another wave of stomach contents to come up, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. For a moment all he could do was stare down at the dirty steps below him, his brain too tired to comprehend what had happened. He felt even worse now than he had before puking.

“Hyung, that’s disgusting”, Hajoon whined a bit, pulling his hand from his mouth. “Let’s get a towel. Jeff, go get some towels, stat!”

As if he had been summoned, Jaehyeong nearly immediately appeared holding the thermometer. His eyes widened in shock. “Shit, okay, yeah.”

“Can we go sit on the couch?”, Hajoon asked worriedly, turning his attention back to Woosung. The singer sighed, wrapping his arms around his stomach. He was so tired and the couch was so far away. But staying on the stairs, staring at his stomach contents also didn’t seem to be the greatest idea.

So he nodded, steadying his head with his hands as everything swam around him.

“Dizzy?”, Hajoon guessed. Woosung waved his hand in a vaguely agreeing gesture and held his head still until the vertigo had passed again. 

Hajoon helped him scoot to the other side of the step he was sitting on, so there was less risk of stepping into vomit. He held out his hands and Woosung grasped them, trying to pull himself up with Hajoon’s help. But all his strength seemed to have vanished and he barely got himself more upright before he had to stop.

“Are you going to faint if I lift you?”, Hajoon asked gently, crouching down to look Woosung into the eyes. Concern was written all over his face.

“Maybe”, Woosung admitted, wetting his cracked lips with his tongue. 

“Let’s move down until we’re at the bottom of the stairs, okay?”, Hajoon suggested, resting his hand on Woosung’s knee. “Less risk of us both falling down the stairs if you do.”

🌹

It was humiliating. Scooting down the stairs on his ass, one step at a time like a child. Woosung wanted to cry, and he would have if it wasn’t so exhausting. By the time they reached the bottom, he was ready to just curl up in a shivery ball of pathetic human and stay there.

Jaehyeong came back but Woosung didn’t dare lift his eyes up to him. There was a mumbled conversation between the two younger members but Woosung blended them out. His head was pounding in his skull and his stomach, now that it had started, felt very unsteady still.

“I’m gonna lift you up from the back, okay? My grandmother used to fall a lot, that’s what we used to do”, Jaehyeong said with a sigh, patting Woosung’s knee to get his attention. 

“I’m ill, not old”, Woosung protested half-heartedly, a bit offended. 

“Yeah, but we still would rather that none of us fall”, Jaehyeong replied, “try to let us know before you faint.”

“Hm.”

Jaehyeong hooked his arms below Woosung’s armpits, carefully pulling him to his feet. Hajoon stood by, ready to catch them should one of them lose their balance. They nearly made it into a standing position before Woosung started to see black spots dancing in his vision and he felt himself start to sway.

He didn’t even need to say anything as immediately Hajoon was there, lifting Woosung under his knees and below his back, hefting him up to his chest. His vision went black but Woosung was sure he hadn’t really passed out. He dropped his head on Hajoon’s shoulder and let himself be carried to the couch. 

The cool leather was soothing against his burning skin for just a few seconds before it became uncomfortable. He curled into himself, trying to minimize the space where his sensitive skin touched anything. 

“Hi, hyung. Can you look at me for a moment?”, Hajoon asked gently, brushing back Woosung’s hair back. The older opened his eyes - since when were they burning? - and blinked up at the two Hajoon’s he saw until the left morphed into the right one.

“You’re really out of him, huh? Let me take your temperature.”

Hajoon placed the thermometer under Woosung’s tongue and entangled their fingers while they waited. 

“39.1°C”, the drummer read, “sounds about right.”

🌹

“What’s going on here?”, Dojoon’s voice suddenly called from the steps. “Who’s sick?”

“Sammy”, Hajoon replied loudly, causing Woosung to wince at the sound. A shushed apology followed. 

“Oh, hey”, Dojoon greeted as he rushed to the couch, falling to his knees next to Hajoon and instantly starting to caress Woosung’s hair. “How are you feeling?”

“My body is one big ache”, Woosung mumbled and sighed. It was true. His head and stomach were both hurting in equal measures. His skin was still prickling and uncomfortable everywhere and his muscles were incredibly sore. He just wanted to cry, if he was honest.

“Sammy-ah”, Dojoon cooed, “you’re really not feeling well, huh?”

Woosung shook his head. 

He was so tired too, he noticed when his eyes slid shut. He wanted to sleep so badly, wanted to not feel miserable anymore. 

“Hey, stay awake for a second, okay?”, Hajoon asked tenderly, squeezing his hand. “Do you think you could take some meds?”

Woosung shook his head again. He didn’t think he could keep anything down with the way his stomach was aching. He was sure he would be sick again in the near future but he really hoped he could just sleep.

Dojoon sighed and then stood up. For a moment Woosung thought he was going to leave - and why did that make him want to cry? - but then Dojoon lifted Woosung’s upper body into his lap, letting him curl up there. It helped the aching skin tremendously and the small head massage Dojoon started at his temples felt amazing. He was about to drift off again when a voice spoke up again.

“I’m going to put the bucket here by your head, okay?”, Jaehyeong said. Woosung wasn’t sure when he had returned but he appreciated the gesture. “We’ll call the manager and cancel the schedules. You just rest.”

Woosung sleepily nodded and closed his eyes.

Notes: Big thanks to @sickiecloud who beta-read this and gave me the plot idea in the first place!

Masterlist links: Fairy's Full Masterlist Fairy's Sicktember 2024

[side-shuffling-hyperfixations]

Sicktember Day 18: “My body is one big ache” - Gravity Falls

“Let’s get this party started!” Mabel piped up with feigned morning cheer which couldn’t quite disguise the phlegmy rattling. “Grunkle Ford, if we leave now we’ll get first access to the goodest goods at the fabric store!”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, smudged as they were with sleep-deprived shadows; the makeup she’d applied to hide it was slapdash at best.

Dipper stared incredulously. He had heard her coughing raucously all night. Judging by the split-second glance they shared, Stan and Ford must have heard it too from the guest room. How had she even pulled herself together enough to get out of bed? Why did she even try?

Because Mabel was supposed to be the undimmed ray of sunshine; she couldn’t find it in herself to rain on anybody’s parade, even when she had a valid reason. Her reasons had to be motivated by outside sources—which was why Ford offered an apologetic sigh in return.

“That does sound like fun, sweetheart, but I might not be up for it today…” He made a show of rubbing his neck, then his temple. “With the recent changes in the barometric pressure, I didn’t sleep very well last night. Did you?”

“Uh…well…”

Ford didn’t wait for her to force out a lie. “I’m still feeling it this morning, I’m afraid. My body feels like one big ache.” Stan pitched in with a well-timed, sympathetic squeeze to Ford’s shoulder as he smiled halfheartedly. “Would you mind terribly if we relaxed here today? You could show me some more episodes of that pony show you love so much.”

Mabel must have known what he was doing because she had to bite her lip, first against a cough and then against the grateful tears making her eyes glassier. “…Sure. Of course I don’t mind.”

[sicknessbysalem]

Day One: “I’m not hungover, I’m just sick” | Sicktember 2024

i am so excited to be doing sicktember! This is my first time doing this event and i cannot wait to write more this month. i hope you guys enjoy my fics!

@sicktember (i don’t know if we are supposed to tag you… also i couldn’t find a tagging post so if i’m missing a tag please let me know!)

disclaimer: characters originally belonged to @simplysickness but were passed on to me to continue their stories

if you have any requests, questions, comments, concerns, etc., send them my way!

tw for implications of past alcohol abuse, overworking, nausea, fevers, vomiting, slightly overprotective partner behavior as a side effect of second hand trauma

Lex pushed open the door to their apartment, the cool night air clinging to his clothes as he stepped inside. The hallway was dimly lit, the soft glow from the living room spilling over the floor, casting long shadows.

He was exhausted, every muscle in his body aching from the relentless pace of the day. Back-to-back calls had kept him out far longer than he’d expected, and it was only now, as he was finally home, that he realized he hadn’t called or texted Soren to let him know he’d be late.

The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, his stomach twisting with guilt. Soren would be worried—no, more than worried. He knew how much his silence would unsettle Soren, especially given their history. The memory of those dark days, when Lex had turned to alcohol as an escape, still hung between them, a silent shadow that neither of them liked to acknowledge but both were always aware of.

Lex dropped his bag by the door, his movements slow and heavy as he peeled off his jacket, hanging it on the hook with a sigh. He was mentally preparing himself for the conversation that was about to unfold when he heard the soft padding of footsteps coming from the living room.

Soren appeared in the doorway, his expression a mix of relief and something else—something tighter, edged with worry and a hint of anger. His arms were crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed, and the tension in his stance was unmistakable.

“You’re late,” Soren said, his voice steady, but there was an underlying edge to it that Lex couldn’t ignore.

Lex winced, running a hand through his hair, which was still slightly damp from the sweat of the day’s work. “I know, I’m sorry. I got caught up at work—calls just kept coming in, and I lost track of time.”

Soren didn’t respond immediately, his eyes scanning Lex’s face, searching for something. “You didn’t call,” he finally said, the hurt in his voice more evident now.

Lex sighed, the weight of his exhaustion pressing down on him even more heavily. “I know. I should have. I just… I was so caught up in everything, and by the time I thought about it, I was already on my way home.”

Soren’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his gaze settling on a spot on the floor. “Do you know how worried I was? Not a single word from you, not even a text. I didn’t know if you were okay, if something had happened, or if…” His voice faltered, but he pushed through. “Or if you were out doing something else.”

Lex’s heart sank at the implication, knowing exactly what Soren was referring to. He stepped closer, trying to close the distance between them, but Soren held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks.

“I’m sorry, Soren,” Lex said quietly, his voice filled with regret. “I should have called. Or texted. Honestly, doing either of those things were the last thing on my mind. I usually do text you because they don't let me drive the ambulance. I didn’t mean to make you worry, especially not like that.”

Soren’s eyes finally met Lex’s, and Lex could see the worry there, mingling with the anger. “You can’t just disappear on me like that, Lex. Not after everything we’ve been through. I need to know that you’re okay, that you’re safe. When you don’t call, my mind goes to the worst places.”

Lex swallowed hard, the guilt gnawing at him. He hated that he had caused Soren to doubt him, to fear that he might have slipped back into old habits. Lex also worried that someday he might slip up and go back, but he loved his job now and knew that if he did that, alcohol or otherwise, he'd lose it. And unlike before, this was a job Lex didn't want to lose.

“I know,” he whispered, taking another step forward, this time reaching out to place a hand on Soren’s arm. “I promise, it wasn’t like that. I’ve been clean, you know that. I would never do that to you, to us. Not again.”

Soren’s expression softened slightly, but the tension didn’t fully leave his body. “I want to believe that, Lex. I do. But you need to meet me halfway. You need to tell me when things like this happen so I’m not left here, wondering if… if you’re going to walk through that door or not.”

Lex nodded, his thumb rubbing small circles on Soren’s arm, trying to offer some comfort. “You’re right. I’ll do better. I don’t want you to ever feel like that again. I’m sorry, Soren. I really am.”

For a moment, they stood there in silence, the weight of the day and the conversation hanging between them. Then, Soren let out a long breath, his posture relaxing just a bit as he uncrossed his arms and stepped closer to Lex, letting their foreheads rest against each other.

“I just need you to be honest with me,” Soren murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Even when things get crazy, just let me know you’re okay.”

“I will,” Lex promised, closing his eyes and savoring the closeness, the reassurance of Soren’s presence. “I will.”

Soren nodded slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he leaned into Lex’s touch. “Good. Now, let’s get you out of those work clothes and into something comfortable. You look like you’re about to collapse.”

Lex managed a small, tired smile. “You’re not wrong.”

As they moved together towards the bedroom, Lex felt a flicker of relief. The conversation had been hard, but necessary, and he knew that they were stronger for it. And as he changed into something more comfortable, Soren by his side, he was reminded that no matter how tough things got, they had each other to lean on.

The hours passed in a heavy, dreamless sleep, the kind that comes only after sheer exhaustion has wrung every ounce of energy from the body. Lex had fallen asleep almost immediately after his head hit the pillow, Soren’s steady breathing beside him a comforting reminder that he wasn’t alone. But as the night wore on, the deep sleep that had initially claimed him began to fragment, broken by the creeping discomfort that slowly gnawed at the edges of his consciousness.

Lex stirred, his body feeling unusually warm, a heat that seemed to radiate from his very core. His head throbbed dully, the remnants of a headache that had never fully left him, and as he shifted under the covers, a wave of dizziness rolled over him, making the room spin in the darkness. He swallowed, his throat dry, and noticed the unsettling heaviness in his stomach, a nausea that was steadily building, threatening to push him over the edge.

For a moment, he tried to ignore it, squeezing his eyes shut and willing himself back to sleep. But the discomfort only grew, the heat pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket, the dizziness making it hard to find a position that didn’t make his head swim. Lex groaned softly, trying to adjust the covers, hoping that loosening them would cool him down, but the movement only made the nausea surge, a sickening lurch that sent his stomach twisting.

He felt the bed shift slightly, and in the quiet of the room, Soren’s voice came, soft and laced with concern. “Lex? You okay?”

Lex froze, his breath catching as he realized he must have woken Soren with his restless movements. He hadn’t meant to, but the heat and dizziness were overwhelming, and he couldn’t quite mask the discomfort in his voice as he responded. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, though it was far from convincing.

Soren was already sitting up, the soft rustle of sheets filling the silence as he leaned closer to Lex. “You don’t sound fine. What’s wrong?”

Lex hesitated, his exhaustion making it hard to keep up the usual pretense. The truth was, he felt awful—hot, nauseous, and dizzy, with a headache that was starting to pulse more insistently behind his eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way after being overworked, but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with. He ran a hand over his face.

“I just… I don’t feel well,” Lex finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, the words slipping out before he could think of a better response.

Soren’s concern deepened, and Lex could feel the shift in his boyfriend’s demeanor, a tenseness that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

“What do you mean, ‘not well’? Are you dizzy? Do you have a headache? Nausea?” Soren’s questions came quickly, each one probing for a clearer picture of what was going on, but Lex could hear the underlying worry in his tone, the fear that something more was at play.

Lex sighed, his hand coming up to rub at his temple, the dull ache there flaring under his touch. “All of it,” he confessed, his voice thick with exhaustion. “I’m dizzy, and my head’s killing me, and I feel like I’m gonna be sick. How... wait, what day is it? Or, was it?”

There was a moment of silence, and Lex didn’t have to look to know that Soren was processing what he’d just said, likely running through all the possible reasons for Lex to be feeling this way. But Lex’s heart sank when he felt Soren’s hand tighten slightly on his arm, his next words tinged with suspicion.

“It's Thursday," Soren said, his voice holding a tone that made Lex anxious. He feared he knew where this was going. "Lex… you didn’t drink tonight, did you?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and loaded, and Lex felt a cold stab of dread in his chest. He knew where Soren’s mind had gone, knew that the symptoms he was describing could easily be mistaken for the aftermath of a night of drinking. But he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol—he hadn’t in a long time, not since he’d fought his way out of that dark place. Not since he barely saved any fragments of their relationship three years ago. Yet, here was Soren, his concern now tinged with doubt, and it hurt more than Lex wanted to admit.

“Soren, I didn’t—” Lex started, his voice strained, but he couldn’t get the words out before his stomach twisted violently, the nausea that had been simmering finally boiling over. He felt his mouth water, his body giving him no choice but to move, and he scrambled out of bed, the room spinning around him as he staggered towards the bathroom.

The world tilted as he stumbled down the hallway, his vision blurring at the edges as the dizziness hit him full force. Each step felt like wading through thick, unsteady water, his legs shaky beneath him. His skin was clammy, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead as the nausea surged, threatening to overwhelm him completely.

Lex barely made it to the bathroom before he fell to his knees in front of the toilet, the motion too much for his already overwhelmed senses. He gagged, his body convulsing as he tried to hold back, but it was no use. His stomach heaved, and he vomited, the force of it sending pain shooting through his head and leaving him trembling and breathless.

The retching seemed to go on forever, each wave of nausea more intense than the last, his body rebelling against the exhaustion and stress he’d been pushing through. By the time the worst of it passed, Lex was left slumped against the cold porcelain, his body spent and shaking, his head still pounding with every beat of his heart.

He heard the soft padding of feet behind him and felt Soren’s presence as he knelt beside him, the suspicion in his earlier question replaced with concern. Soren’s hand was gentle as it came to rest on the back of Lex’s neck, fingers brushing through the loose strands of his hair, holding it back and away from his face.

“Lex…” Soren’s voice was quiet, filled with worry and regret, and Lex could feel the tension between them shifting again, the doubt melting away as Soren took in the state Lex was in.

“I didn’t drink,” Lex whispered hoarsely, his voice rough from the effort of being sick. “I swear, Soren… I didn’t. I swear I'm not hungover or drunk, I'm just... sick?”

He retched again, his body convulsing with the effort, each wave of sickness leaving him more drained and disoriented. The pounding in his head was relentless, a brutal rhythm that matched the churning of his stomach. He clutched the edge of the toilet, knuckles white, as he struggled to catch his breath between bouts of vomiting.

Soren was there in an instant, kneeling beside him, his hand moving to Lex’s hair, pulling the loose braid away from his face with practiced ease. “Easy, Lex,” Soren murmured, his voice a quiet comfort in the chaos. “I’ve got you.”

As Soren held Lex’s hair back, his fingers brushed against the nape of Lex’s neck, and he stilled, noticing the heat radiating from his boyfriend’s skin. Soren’s brow furrowed in concern, and he pressed the back of his hand gently to Lex’s forehead, feeling the fever that had clearly set in. The warmth wasn’t just from the exertion of being sick—Lex was running a fever, and it was high.

Lex slumped against the toilet, panting for breath, his skin slick with sweat. The fever had sapped what little strength he had left, leaving him dazed and disoriented. Soren could see it in the way Lex’s eyes struggled to focus, the way his head lolled slightly as if he couldn’t quite keep it up.

“Lex,” Soren said gently, still holding his hair back, “you’re burning up. How long have you been feeling like this?”

Lex blinked slowly, his thoughts sluggish and muddled, as if they were trying to swim through a thick fog. “I… I don’t know,” he mumbled, his voice faint and shaky.

Soren’s concern deepened at Lex’s confusion. “Do you remember how many hours you worked?”

Lex frowned, his brow furrowing in concentration as he tried to piece together the last few days. “I… I lost track,” he admitted, sounding more bewildered than anything else. “I just kept going… Didn’t want to leave anyone hanging.”

Soren’s heart ached at Lex’s words, the exhaustion and confusion in his voice making it clear that this wasn’t just a typical case of overwork. Lex was genuinely sick, and it was more than just the stress of his job catching up to him. The fever, the dizziness, the fact that Lex couldn’t even remember how long he’d been working—it all pointed to something more serious.

Soren gently released Lex’s hair, letting it fall back as he placed a cool hand on Lex’s flushed cheek. "You really have to stop doing this to yourself."

Lex’s eyes flickered with a mix of relief and confusion, his body trembling from the fever and the effort of being sick. “I’m sorry, Soren… I didn’t mean to…”

“Shh,” Soren soothed, his thumb brushing gently across Lex’s cheek. “You don’t need to apologize. I do, actually. And I'm sorry."

Lex shook his head, "No, I know. You have every right to-"

"But I didn't," Soren said, pushing some hair behind Lex's ear again after the strand fell forward. "Let’s just get you back to bed, okay?”

Lex nodded weakly, too worn out to protest, and Soren helped him to his feet, guiding him back towards their bedroom. Each step was slow, deliberate, Soren’s arm wrapped securely around Lex’s waist to keep him steady. Lex leaned heavily on him, his body drained of energy, his mind still struggling to make sense of everything.

When they reached the bed, Soren helped Lex lie down, adjusting the pillows and blankets to make him as comfortable as possible. Lex’s skin was still feverishly warm, and his eyes had a glazed, unfocused look that worried Soren even more. But despite it all, Soren could see the trust in Lex’s eyes, the way he relaxed just a fraction now that he knew Soren believed him.

“Just rest, Lex,” Soren murmured, sitting beside him. Lex felt the way Soren’s hands started gently detangling the knots that formed in his hair, something Soren always did to keep his hands busy when this happened. It was calming. “I’m right here.”

Lex’s eyelids fluttered, and he nodded faintly, the tension in his body easing slightly as he allowed himself to relax into the bed. He was exhausted, his body and mind worn thin, but with Soren by his side, he knew he could finally let go, let the sleep take him, knowing he wasn’t alone in this.

As Lex drifted off, Soren remained by his side, watching over him with a mix of worry and determination. He’d make sure Lex got through this, no matter what. And as the night wore on, Soren’s steady presence became the anchor that kept Lex grounded, the one constant in the storm of sickness that had overtaken him.

[sickonthedancefloor]

sicktember: Day 14

Sicktember Prompt: Day 14 - Clean Sheets / Fresh Pajamas Sickie: Yunho Caregiver: Seonghwa, Wooyoung, Yeosang

“And… up,” Yeosang says softly, his hands holding Yunho by the elbows. While the older man is taller, he’s barely stronger than a child at his current state. Roasting with a fever that has been taking days to break, weak with chills and hoarse from a rough cough that’s been plaguing him for past week, Yunho’s been barely able to get out of bed on his own. After his fainting spell earlier, Yeosang had called in Seonghwa for reinforcements, deciding that Yunho’s “I’ll sleep it off” method wasn’t working anymore.

Yunho takes in a deep breath—or tries, and Yeosang can hear a whistle in his wheezing—and feels Wooyoung’s hands gripping his waist for extra support. He stares at his roommate with a sad look.

“You’re okay,” Yeosang encourages. “Come on. Slow steps to the bathroom.”

Yunho doesn’t reply verbally, but Yeosang catches the small nod as they begin to shift towards the bathroom. Yeosang moves backwards but doesn’t worry about hurting himself—they’re going too slow for bumping into a wall or a door to do anything. And with Yunho’s room as clean as it is, they’re not likely to run into anything but his dog-shaped bedside table. Yeosang just continues to encourage him until they make it into the bathroom, where Seonghwa pulls his hands from the water at the tub.

“It’s warm, not too warm but should be comfortable enough,” the oldest member says.

“Thank you,” Yunho grunts. His eyes blink heavily and he sways, but the hands grip his arms a little tighter. Yeosang is practically holding him forward. “I… I’m sorry.”

That has Wooyoung laughing. “Silly. Come on, let’s get you in the tub.”

They make quick work of ridding Yunho of his sweat-soaked pajamas and helping him into the tub, sitting him gently. He shivers, the water not as hot as he’d hoped, but warm enough that it doesn’t make him whine about the temperature. Wooyoung takes over getting the soap and a washcloth, and as Yunho leans on the side and rests his head, he takes over trying to scrub his sweat-salty skin clean. Yeosang and Seonghwa slip away into the bedroom and start cleaning what they can.

Seonghwa wastes no time in stripping the bed of the dirty sheets, recruiting Yeosang to remove the pillow cases. Yeosang grimaces at the wet marks on the pillow, feeling bad. “He’s been sweating so badly…” he mumbles.

“But his fever still keeps coming back,” Seonghwa sighs in response. “If he doesn’t feel even a little better tomorrow, I’m making our manager take him to the doctor.”

“He’s going to complain,” Yeosang answers. He laughs, but he really agrees with his hyung; Yunho hasn’t been getting better and it’s been days. Both of them frown, before scooping up the old bed linen and carrying it to the washing machine.

~*~

Yunho coughs roughly and grimaces when he bumps his chin on the tub. He whines at the sudden pain, and Wooyoung reaches over to rub his chin.

“Oh Yunho… you’re just having a rough night, aren’t you?” Wooyoung tries to comfort him, voice soft and soothing.

Yunho just groans in response, setting his face back down on the tub side, sideways this time. “Bad week. Worst Tuesday.”

“It’s… Thursday.”

That has Yunho lifting his head quickly, surprise taking over his face, but he ends up covering his mouth with one shaky hand as he lets out a few more painful coughs into his hand. Wooyoung rubs his back until he calms down, and when he looks at his hand, covered in sputum and phlegm, he frowns and just sticks his hand into the water to wash it off. Wooyoung pulls his hand over and runs the washcloth over it, before putting his hand back in the water. Sighing, Yunho sets his head back down.

“Oh Yun… You slept most of yesterday, didn’t you?”

“If that’s what we’re calling it,” Yunho grumbles. He could barely rest peacefully, between waking up to kick his blanket off, waking up to cover himself, the nonstop chills, his cough waking him up, and then his most recent nausea and dizziness… It’s been awful. He doesn’t feel like he’s slept in days, but according to Yeosang, he’s just been staying in bed and living off water and crackers.

Wooyoung scoops water from the tub and washes away suds from his back, then over his shoulder. “It’s okay. Let’s just finish the bath, then get you back to bed, with soup and medication this time.”

Yunho sighs. “This is so tiring.” His voice even sounds exhausted. Wooyoung’s sure, especially if he’s been so sick he’s losing track of time. Wooyoung just continues to pour water on his back, rubbing it gently. He can feel Yunho relaxing under his soothing, until Yunho almost falls asleep. His coughing startles him to sit up again, and Wooyoung decides they’ve spent enough time in the tub. He lets out the water from the tub, then uses the detachable showerhead to rinse any remaining soap from Yunho before he calls for Yeosang again.

“I can get up myself,” Yunho grumbles, holding onto the side of the tub.

Yeosang hurries in anyway, to catch Yunho looking awfully green trying to right himself onto his feet. The two help him step out, only for Yunho to pitch forward at the toilet. He yanks the lid up and immediately lets out a mouthful of pale, sludgy vomit. He can hear both of them murmuring soft encouragements, both members easing him to kneel onto the bathroom rug to just throw up again. While he catches his breath, he feels Wooyoung rubbing the towel over his skin, trying to dry him a little bit. He tries to lean forward, but Yeosang pulls him over to lay against his shoulder instead.

“Wasn’t this bad… yesterday,” he mumbles against Yeosang’s shoulder. “I wanted… wanted to get dressed myself.”

“Come on, do you think you’re done?” Wooyoung asks.

Yunho nods. Yeosang helps him up again, slowly this time, and they hand Yunho his own boxers, letting him have the dignity of getting himself dressed. Once he tugs his shirt on, they help him rinse his mouth out with mouthwash, then take him back into his room. Seonghwa’s seated on his computer desk chair, checking the dosage on one of the medication bottles in his hand. Yunho realizes, as the two help tuck him in, that they changed his sheets and had a fresh blanket tossed on top. They have to tug him forward to keep him from laying down right away, which has Seonghwa laughing as he rolls the chair over. Yunho doesn’t complain when he sips the cough syrup, taking relief in the water bottle handed to him afterward. And his eyes droop quickly. As Wooyoung helps Yunho lay down, Yeosang hands Pudeongie into his arms and Seonghwa tugs the blanket up to his shoulders. With a yawn, Yunho settles down easily.

[calmlb]

WIP WEDNESDAY

an skk fic from Gin’s pov?? OH YEAH <333

[faofinn]

6. Sick and Injured

His body was on fire, sirens and shouts and flashes of bright light overwhelming him. Everything merging into just too much. He couldn't do it, couldn't hold on, so he let go, the sudden snap of relief just welcome blackness. There was no fight against whatever was holding him down, forcing each breath down his throat. He was dying, he was sure of it, and he was just so exhausted. It wasn't giving up. or giving in, it would just be a rest, just a break. 

"Everyone ready? Yeah, Okay. This is Finn, he's 22 and has quite the extensive medical history. He was found by a member of the public on the side of the road, confused and combative. When we arrived, he was in and out but very agitated. Apparently witnessed falling over a few times, initially query intox, but has a medic-alert bracelet on his backpack - He's known epileptic from a TBI, with EDS, POTS, chronic pain, fatigue and a few other mental health conditions. 

"When he's fallen, he seems to have hit his head multiple times, he's got two reasonable sized lacs to the left side of his head, and one across his eyebrow. No boggy masses, but cheekbone feels deformed. Obvious dislocation, possible break to left shoulder / collar bone, looks pretty unstable at the minute.

"He is cannulated and tolerating an OP at the moment. He had a possible 30 second seizure as we moved to the ambulance, and he's gone a lot more vacant in the last three minutes or so.

"He's got a temp of 38.6, tachy at 126, hypotensive 98/76. bm of 6.2. Sats have been 92 on air, came up to 96 on 15L. Reduced air entry globally, nothing being shifted on the right base, sounds very congested and crackly there. We've got NOK details from his alert card, so can give them a call while you guys get him sorted, if there's nothing else you need from us?"

When Sheila had called Fao in the middle of the night to say his brother had disappeared, he had to admit it hadn’t quite been what he’d expected. He’d known Finn was struggling with a chest infection of some description, and they’d been worried about seizures, and so he expected the call to be from his mum saying they’d had to go to A&E. 

He’d been sitting up with a cup of tea, just in case Finn turned up at his place, when his phone rang again, showing as No Caller ID. He snatched it up, immediately hitting answer. 

“Hello?”

"Hi, is that, uh, Faolan?"

He winced. “Yeah, that’s me.”

"In just ringing about your brother, a Finn Daniels?"

He sighed. “What’s happened?”

"He's been brought into the ED, he's…he's quite unwell at the moment. It might be best if you were able to come in?"

“Has he had a seizure?” Fao asked, glad he was already dressed. “I’m on my way in.”

"I think it's best if we explain in person."

Oh, fuck. That didn’t bode well, and Fao felt a cold fear run through him. “George’s? I’ll be there in ten.”

"Yeah. Did you want to let the family know? Or would you rather I called them?"

“I’ll call them.”

"Thank you."

“Thanks for calling me.” Fao murmured. 

"I'm sorry it's not good news. Be safe getting in."

“Mm, thanks.” Fao said softly, before he put the phone down. He drained his mug, shoved his shoes on and grabbed his stuff before he woke Ollie to tell him he was going and he didn’t know when he’d be back. The drive to hospital was quick, Fao definitely not speeding. He called Sheila on the way, explaining what little knew, and soon he’d found somewhere to park and rushed into the hospital. 

Finn had continued to swing between agitated and not, the staff only growing more concerned. He'd been sedated slightly, mainly just to get him through CT, but they'd still yet to get a coherent response from him. Even the mention of Fao coming to see him didn’t seem to break through, Finn staring blankly through them. 

When Fao finally got to the reception desk, he felt like he was going to lose his mind. He hated not knowing anything, whoever he’d spoken to on the phone so vague and unhelpful. Yes, he appreciated things were best discussed in person, but an idea was helpful. He didn’t even know if this was a seizure, though with what Sheila had told him it was somewhat likely. 

They took him through, but he wasn’t allowed straight into resus, instead shown the relatives room to wait. He paced up and down like a caged tiger, his hair a mess from how many times he’d run his fingers through it, though it fell in his face all the same. 

There was a sharp knock on the door, all too clinical and harsh for the situation. "Hi, is it Fao?"

Fao stopped pacing. “Yeah. What’s going on? Nobody’s told me anything.”

"Sorry about that, do you want to have a seat?"

“Is he alive?” Fao barely dared to ask the question. 

They softened, giving him a small smile. "He is, he's currently in our resus bit. He's very not well at the minute, and we're waiting to get him stable enough to take up to ICU."

That wasn’t unusual for Finn, as awful as that was. His shoulders slumped with relief that his brother was still alive, and he scanned the doctor’s face to try and work out what was going on. “Was it a seizure? He’s had an infection brewing and that always sets him off, are we talking status? If you’re waiting on ICU I’m assuming he’s been tubed? Have you spoken with his consultant? I think he was looking at trying to arrange an admission anyway.”

"We're not entirely sure what's been going on. He was picked up at the roadside, by the sounds of it he'd fallen quite a few times. He's got some pretty significant head injuries at the moment. We've not intubated him yet, no, but it's looking likely that's the way it's heading. He's currently just about managing with some extra support, but it's…he's got a significant chest infection, pneumonia, and we're not sure if the falls he's had has made it worse, but his lungs aren't working as they should be." He sighed. "We've not been able to really have a chat with him at all, he's been very agitated and quite combative, so we've sedated him a little bit, for his safety. He currently has a little piece of plastic in his mouth, just to help him keep his airways open. It's not the most comfortable for him, but he needs it with the medications and the stuff going on."

Evidently this was going to be a long conversation, and Fao was sore from the sheer amount of pacing he’d been doing. He sat down, nodding. “Alright. I got a call off my mum about an hour ago saying he’d gone missing and was he at mine.” He murmured. “Has he had a CT for the head injuries? He can be really agitated and combative especially when he’s feeling overwhelmed. He doesn’t like to be touched, he doesn’t like a lot of people around him, especially after a seizure. I’m happy to give you any social or medical history that would help you out. He really hates things on his face, it’s a struggle to keep oxygen on him when he’s postictal, he’s a nightmare. He doesn’t always tolerate the OP well as he comes around so you’re best keeping him sedated a bit. He’s well known to ICU, his seizures unfortunately often lead to him in status and needing to be intubated.” He wasn’t trying to tell this doctor how to do their job, but it was hard when this was his little brother. 

"That's very helpful to know, thank you." They said, and meant it. "We're just currently waiting on the CT report, so we'll be able to give you a bit more insight then. Unfortunately his agitation has been pretty constant, even when left alone. And, with the infection, he needs to be on the oxygen, he's not managing without it at the moment."

“Yeah, I appreciate that.” Fao said. “He’s epileptic from a tbi as a ten year old, he always really struggles with his seizures when he picks up infections, and he’s been through some difficult personal stress in the last six months or so as well as some meds changes which have also made his seizures more difficult to control.”

"Of course. You can come and sit with him, if you'd like? I will warn you he does have quite a few injuries, he might not look quite like himself. 

“Nothing I can’t handle, I’m sure. I was with him when he had his initial TBI.” Fao said, standing up. “I’d like to see him.”

"I can't imagine how difficult that must have been."

“Makes Afghanistan look like a walk in the park.”

"Did you serve?"

He nodded. “Four tours, medical corps.”

"Wow, that's a lot."

“Yeah. Can I see my brother now?”

"Of course. Can i get you a cup of tea? Coffee?"

“I’m fine, thanks.” 

"Alright, just let me know. I'll let you though."

“Thanks.” Fao said, following him through into Resus. It was busy as always, though it was familiar to him now. His eyes flicked over to the bays, trying to find his brother’s. He hated this, being on the back foot with him. As much as moving out had been so much better for his mental health, it had its challenges too. 

Finn was crowded with doctors and nurses, poking and prodding at him. Unlike normal, he was too still, too quiet. While they'd obviously tried to clean the blood from his head injuries, each period of agitation had quickly opened them back up. His shoulder was almost in a sling, though it was clear he'd fought against that not so long ago. 

Fao’s eyes flicked critically over the monitors, trying to gauge where Finn was at. Not great. He took a moment at the foot of the bed, watching them work. Finn really didn’t seem like Finn, though at least he wasn’t fighting them in that moment. He fiddled with the lighter in his pocket,something to keep his hands busy. He’d instinctively reached for his tags, but they weren’t there any more, and he needed something to do. 

One of the nurses caught sight of Fao in her peripheral. "Hi, you must be Finn’s brother?"

Fao nodded. “Yeah. Sorry to linger, I didn’t want to interrupt you all.”

"No, no, of course not. Come on, you can come say hi to him."

Fao pushed through to come along side his brother, a stark contrast to how he usually was at work. They’d not recognised him yet, but he hadn’t been there long, and he was likely just another faceless surgeon when he was down there. He gently reached out to take Finn’s hand, cautious of a reaction from him. 

“Hey, Finn. It’s me, it’s Fao.”

Fao's voice, as it always seemed to, managed to break through to Finn. He blinked at Fao, his gaze dropping to their hands. 

“Hi. Got yourself into a bit of a mess, eh?”

"Oh, he definitely recognised you there." The nurse smiled, fussing over Finn. "Bet you're glad he's here, yeah? You'll have had him worried sick."

Fao squeezed his hand. “You’re a nightmare, you know that? Causing all this lot trouble, too. Look at you.”

The recognition he'd had quickly vanished, Finn looking straight through the lot of them. He pulled his hand from Fao's to rub at his face, his hand coming back red.

“It’s okay.” Fao soothed. “Do you think I could try and clean these wounds for him? I’m a doctor, I’ve got ID somewhere.” He asked, digging around in his pockets. 

"We shouldn't…" She hesitated. It was the most settled Finn had been, and the closest any of them had gotten to him. "I'll grab you some supplies."

He finally found his ID, the lanyard jangling. “Here, and I can give you my GMC if you want to document it.” He said, offering it to her. “Thank you.”

"Ah, brill. You know what the paperwork is like. Do you want a seat?"

“That would be great, thank you.”

"Won't be long." She said softly, resting her hand on his arm before disappearing off. 

“Thanks.” He murmured, leaning on the rails of the bed whilst he waited, watching his brother carefully. 

Finn seemed to fade back in, catching his brother’s eye and holding his gaze. A frown flickered across his face and he shoved his arm in Fao's general direction with a groan.

Fao took his hand. “Hey. Bet you feel shit right now, eh?”

He spat the plastic from his mouth, dislodging the mask on his face.  "My chest hurts."

“Mask needs to stay on, Finn.” Fao told him, but didn’t move to adjust it. “It’s going to hurt, you’re not well.” 

"Then help." He narrowed his eyes, his chest crackling with each breath. The cough didn't take long to follow, but Finn didn't move to cover his mouth or turn his head. 

“Here, let’s get this back on.” Fao said, adjusting the mask. “I know it’s horrid, but it will help you out.” He was definitely out of it, though seemed more coherent than before - coherent enough to complain, anyway. 

Finn scowled as Fao got close, but whatever argument he had planned was quickly lost. His arms stretched out, his shoulder dislocating once more, and his back arched in a seizure. His eyes were fixed in the corner as he groaned, his body contorted and stuck. It finished as quickly as it had started, the extra exertion making Finn struggle and cough.

Shit. 

Fao winced as Finn’s shoulder slipped out of place again, as his back arched and the seizure took him. He was about to hit the emergency bell when it stopped, Finn struggling with his breathing again as his body tried to catch up. He considered going to find someone as the nurse reappeared, chair in hand. 

“He’s just had a seizure, all of about two seconds long, and that shoulder’s gone again.” 

She winced. "Ah, bless him. I'll get some more diazepam for him. The anaesthetists are on their way down, they'll probably have a chat with you. You probably know them, at least better than you know us."

“Maybe, yeah. I’ve not been here long. He needs his neuro really.”

"I think it's Dr Cunningham on this evening."

“Perfect.” Fao said, unable to stop the smile. “He’s Finn’s main consultant.”

"Oh, that's worked out well then." She said gently, moving to check on Finn. 

The younger man had returned to his vacant staring, though still struggled to catch his breath. His saturations hovered just under acceptable, and the doctor sighed from behind them.

"We'd hoped to wait, but I think we should go ahead and get that chest drain in now."

Fao hummed. “Worth doing whilst he’s a bit more settled than he has been.” He took a seat gladly in the chair the nurse had brought him, stroking gently through Finn’s hair. 

"Right, let's get an airway dump, just in case, and then give him a little more sedation. No point making it worse for him."

“Can I stay with him?”

"He's fine to stay." The nurse told the doctor. "He's fine."

Fao glanced at the doctor, relieved the nurse seemed to be on his side. He couldn’t leave Finn again, he just couldn’t. Besides, clearly he was doing something right, because his brother was settled. 

"We'll get you to sit on his other side, yeah? We might have to move you, so just bear with." The doctor happily listened to the nurse. "How are we getting on with that sedation? Got it? Brilliant. Let's get this done for him."

[baubeautyandthegeek]

Mission: Critical - Ilsa Faust/Susan McAlester

A/N: Day 18 bonus fic for @sicktember

Susan had been almost drowned and definitely more than a little bitten by the time Ilsa hits the water, swimming swiftly enough to catch the shark’s eye and draw it away from Susan before stabbing the missed shot directly into the shark’s eye, barely missing a snatch of teeth as she turned to make her way back to Susan, grasping the woman close even as she heaves herself up out of the water, pulling her up and away even as the shark explodes, sheltering her before radioing for her friends. “Where the fuck are you?” “Down here.” Julia’s voice rises first and Ilsa allows a moment of thanks to cross her thoughts even as she gathers Susan and scurries away, leaving two men staring behind her even as she steps onto the boat, setting Susan down as the boat turns. “Can you save her?” Susan is silent under Julia’s touch even as Julia works, Ilsa keeping watchful eyes locked on the woman she hopes she’s saved. Three years apart has not stopped her loving Susan, if anything it’s made the urge to keep her safe worse. She’s still by her side when Susan finally stirs three hours later, tucked safely into a bed in a safehouse, hidden from the world. “My body is one big ache…” “Well, if you will fight, wrestle actually, a killer shark…” “Lisa?” “Hello Susie…” Ilsa’s smile is soft. “It’s Ilsa… actually. My name is Ilsa…” “Ilsa… then you should know…. It’s Susan…” “Susan…” Susan’s eyes open searching for her and she moves closer still, covering Susan’s hand with her own, taking in the copper-brown hair that’s shorter than it used to be, the suntanned freckles they have now matching even as Susan’s free hand comes to her cheek, then tugs into copper-gold hair, pulling her down. She allows it, going willingly into the kiss. “Ilsa…” It sounds different, Ilsa thinks, on Susan’s lips, her soft accent playing on her name in a way that makes it sound like a prayer, a promise, not a curse. “Susan…” “You came back…” “I promised I would…” “When I needed you most…” Susan’s smile is small, a little shy and Ilsa smiles, leaning to kiss her again. “I’ve missed you.”

[monaisme]

Sicktember: Day 21

This is chapter 2 of the Sicktember fic posted yesterday. You can find it here (along with this once I get this posted over on ao3! 🤭):

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58933525

#21- Anaphylactic Response

It couldn’t have been timed better if they had planned it.

Granted, they’d lost a minute or two trying to convince the uber driver that Peter’s cough was NOT a result of covid, so maybe they hadn’t needed to cut it that close.

Bruce had first noticed that something was off a few minutes into the ride.

Peter began to bounce his leg...

No big deal. Bruce remembered Tony joking that he and Peter could start up a band called AD/HD so the stimming didn’t seem too out of place.

At least the coughing was starting to settle.

The breathing between those coughs, though, “Are you doing okay there, Peter?” Bruce had to ask. “You’re kind of quiet all of a sudden and your breathing seems a little...”

“’m still fine.” Peter forced out, then shifted his focus to the scenery as it passed by.

It was all Bruce could do to not call him out on the obvious lie. Peter was most definitely not fine. What he could do, though, was count down the minutes back to the hotel as Bruce recognized each landmark along the way. Bruce thought it might have helped, as they hit the two minute mark and Peter pulled out his phone, prepared to complete their uber transaction as hastily as possible.

The leg shaking grew more frantic.

 “Peter?” Bruce had to ask again as the vehicle finally pulled under the hotel’s porte-cochere.

Peter just shook his head.

The driver tapped on a screen as he thanked them for using Uber, Peter’s phone pinged, and in a flash, a tip had been given and Peter was bolting out of the vehicle and into the hotel without a word. 

Even struggling, the boy made sure to be kind.

Bruce offered an awkward ‘thank you’ as he fumbled to exit the car to follow Peter, and accidentally leaving their food behind.

“Peter!” Bruce called out as he watched the boy enter to the stairwell. A quick glance as he passed the lobby elevator showed the single elevator car biding its time on the sixth floor, with their room set on the third. Bruce had never been so thankful to Natasha and her insistence that Bruce focus on more than just yoga and meditation as he set off up the stairs behind him. Knowing the urgency, Bruce didn’t call out again, just rushed behind and hoped to catch up if Peter needed him before their destination.

Bruce was only steps behind Peter by the time he’d pushed the third floor stairwell door open with more strength than necessary. Planning ahead, Bruce pulled the room key card from his pocket as Peter patted down his own pocket for his. “I’m here, Peter. I’ve got it.” Bruce announced as he reached past him to the card reader on the door handle and tapped. The green light flashed and Peter was in the room and dashing past the vanity to the bathroom before Bruce could fully enter the room, the door slamming forcefully behind him.

And then the heaving started.

 Bruce had intended to follow, even tried to open the door to get to him, but Peter had managed to throw the lock before it all went to shit. All Bruce could do was lean against the counter outside of the door, silently supportive as he waited for Peter to come out, though the brief silence once he finally was did have Bruce nervous enough to contemplate breaking the door down. “Uh, Peter?” he finally had to call out. “Are you good?”

A weak, “Just a minute,” answered back.

Bruce took that as the cue to get to work, so he hurried into the hotel room proper and pulled back the blankets on Peter’s bed, which was conveniently located closest to the bathroom. Once that was done, he went back to the vanity, hastily lining the cheap plastic ice bucket with the provided plastic bag and filling two of the four disposable cups with tap water. He’d just placed them on the bedside table and brought the garbage can over as a reinforcement when the bathroom door creaked open.

“I am so sorry...” A concerningly pale Peter croaked as he shuffled to his bed and sat cautiously as he clutched his stomach. “I’d really hoped this wouldn’t happen...” Peter winced as he shifted to lie down.

Bruce stood by helpless, wishing that Tony could be here for Peter instead of him, but then Peter’s words sunk in, “Uh, hold on? What does that mean?” What had Bruce missed?

Peter sighed in frustration, “Since the whole, you know,” Peter waved a tired hand over his altered body, “It’s always a wild guess... ‘what is Peter’s body going to do with this new food exposure?’” Peter curled up a bit, “So this is totally my bad. I should’ve been more careful and ordered something I knew... especially when I was away from home. I should’ve...”

“Wait a minute...” Bruce cut him off as he processed that information, “Are you telling me this is an anaphylactic response?”

Peter shrugged, “I am neither confirming nor denying anything.”

“Hang on.” Bruce whipped his cell phone out of his pocket and pulled up his search engine. The look of horror that spread across Bruce’s face made it obvious exactly what he was scrolling through, “I sat beside you in the uber and you didn’t say anything while your symptoms were literally manifesting! You could have died? You could still die? Do you even have an epipen?”

Peter’s eyes drooped with exhaustion. “Nah, it hasn’t gotten that bad any other time. I think my spider DNA helps with that some. And you’re a doctor.” Peter coughed a little, “If something had happened, you’d have made sure I was okay.”

Bruce dropped down onto his own bed and dragged his hands through his hair. “I keep telling you guys—I’m not that kind of doctor” He exhaled loudly, “When are you guys going to believe me?”

Peter chuckled, “Mr. Stark says that you always say that, but he also says you always come through.”

Bruce blushed a little at the compliment, and meant to reply, but Peter kept talking.

“I’m just sorry that I messed up the rest of the weekend. I mean, I can try, but I’m pretty sure I’m gonna be out of commission for most of tomorrow, and you were talkin’ about that lecturer you wanted to go hear and the SI demonstration...” Peter’s voice cracked as he trailed off, then faux-rallied for Bruce’s benefit. “But it’s totally cool if you even want to go alone.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Peter. Here,” Bruce was back up and offering one of the cups of water to Peter and picking up the garbage can. “Wanna give your mouth a rinse? And maybe, if you’re feeling safe, try to take a couple of sips?”

Peter nodded warily, then hesitated at the thought of either sitting back up, or more so, risking actually throwing up in front of a witness.

Bruce saw the hesitation, and understood. “Relax, Peter. As a future Avenger, it is a guarantee that you will have to do this in front of at least one- if not all of us at some point. You may as well get that first time out of the way now... especially if you still have anything in your stomach.” Bruce cringed at the idea. “In fact, I think I’d definitely feel better about it. Getting all of it out, that is...”

He sighed, “How is this my life?”

Bruce just shrugged, “Well, you wanted Dr. Bruce, so here we are.”

 “Ugh.”

“Hey,” Bruce crouched down to look him in the eye. “Let me tell you something that not too many people know—” Bruce made a show of looking over his shoulder for imaginary eavesdroppers. “The Avenger this is happening in front of is also the guy who always loses his pants at the end of the battle.”

“Oof. That sucks.” Peter clutched at his stomach as he laughed. “I thought losing my backpacks all the time was bad.”

“Oh, it sucks alright, but it just goes to show you that you’re not alone when it comes to the less than glamorous stuff. Now, my thought is that you want to drink as much as you can so that we can get this done and over with so you can start feeling better.” Bruce wiggled the water cup in front of him. “Throwing up something is better than throwing up nothing, and I’m right here. Is that okay?”

He eyed the cup like it had just insulted his Aunt May then Peter finally relented, propped himself up a little on one elbow and took the cup in his other hand. “I really am sorry about this. Really.”

“Nope. No apologies. Let’s just get this part done, then I’ll run down to the front desk and see if they have any overpriced painkillers to help take the edge off the stomach cramps, okay?”

Peter shook his head, “Don’t bother,” he took a first, tentative sip. “Painkillers don’t work on me anymore.”

“Wait—what?!” But he was too late.

Peter downed the rest of the water in a few of huge gulps, took a couple of deep breaths, then blanched. “Oh,” Peter slapped a hand over his mouth and belched. “That happened faster than expected.” He jackknifed upright and twisted just in time for Bruce to shove the garbage pail into his hands.

And so began round two.

Between heaves, Peter continued the litany of apologies.

Meanwhile, Bruce’s mind was in a tizzy. He awkwardly patted the kid’s shoulder while muttering soft comforts, “You’re okay, Peter,” or, “It’s almost over, Peter,” while implication after implication of Peter’s spider bite ran through his head. How many secrets did this kid have? There were so many questions—that Bruce would have to get to later on.

“I hate my life,” Peter panted out after a particularly violent sounding heave. “but think I’m—” he dry heaved again, then again, and then breathed for a minute. “Yeah,” he panted. “Done.” He sounded like he’d run a marathon.

“Good—good,” Bruce stood up, wincing as his own knees cracked. He grabbed the second cup of water from the nightstand, and offered Peter a trade, “If you’re sure, wanna give me the can and you can do that rinse now?”

“I’m one million percent sure that my stomach is empty now so...” All concern about appearances was out the window and with a little bit of passing and grabbing, Peter was feeling as refreshed as he was going to be. “Thanks.” Peter handed the cup back to Bruce and tried to get comfortable again.

“That’s enough with the apologies.” Bruce was already feeling bad for him, “I’m sorry that I don’t have anything to help you out with, but—can I—?” He’d just told Peter that he wasn’t a real doctor and now here he was... “Can I just do a quick evaluation?”

Peter stiffened, ready to refuse, but Bruce was figuring out the lay of the land.

 “It would make me feel better...”

Peter blew out a frustrated breath. “Fine.”

“Great!” Bruce jumped to work, “let me just get rid of these,” he placed the mostly full water cup back on the nightstand and then rushed to the hotel room door and placed the garbage can the hallway. A quick call to the front desk for housekeeping made its contents someone else’s problem, but Bruce made a note to leave a big tip when they left, so no guilt.

Peter simply watched from the bed.

Once everything was taken care of, Bruce sidestepped to the vanity and washed his hands before coming back into the room proper. He dragged the wheeled compute chair over to sit between the beds, and then pulled his phone out again. “Um,” Bruce needed to approach this delicately. “Before I do anything more, I do want to call your aunt, if that’s okay?”

Peter immediately opened his mouth to argue but Bruce cut him off before he could start.

“I ask only because you’re sixteen, Peter, and first and foremost, that technically makes you a minor who is in the midst of a medical situation, and believe it or not, I’m really not a doctor. Second, someone should really know what’s going on here in general what with the altered DNA and your aunt makes the most sense. If you think about it, it’s only dumb luck that nothing more catastrophic has happened.”

Peter didn’t seem to know what to do. He’d been through the wringer already tonight and it showed. “I get what you’re saying, but you don’t understand! I can’t tell my aunt,” Peter begged. “I already cause her so many problems, Dr. Banner, and I can’t add another one... I just can’t.”

He exhaled slowly, then caught the slip up. “It’s still Bruce, Peter. You’re fine. And if you don’t want me to call your aunt, then can I at least call Tony?”

Peter muttered, “Do you really have to?”

Bruce didn’t feel out of place grabbing Peter’s hand and giving a squeeze of support. “Yeah, I think it is.”

And so he did.

Bruce put the phone on speaker to put Peter at ease.

Tony answered on the second ring, “Brucie! How are you and my young protégé doing this fine evening? Is the spider-baby all tuckered out from getting his geek on? And what did he think of the SI demo? I had him in mind when I was coordinating with our tech guys. ”

Bruce waited patiently for Tony to come to the end of his greeting. “The convention has been amazing so far, but we, uh, we missed the demo... Yeah. That’s actually why we’re calling,” he cast a quick glance over to Peter, who was looking devastated. Bruce squeezed his hand tight again. “You’re on speaker, Tony. We have a bit of a situation here and I think you need to be in the loop.”

The shift in Tony’s tone was immediate, “Tell me what’s going on, Bruce, and how can I help?”

[mrs-luigi-vargas]

How to Become Patient Zero in One or Two Easy Steps

Rating: General Audiences Characters: Bowser, Bowser Junior, Kamek, Mario, Luigi, Peach Relationships: Bowser & Bowser Junior, Bowser & Peach, Bowser & Luigi, Bowser & Kamek Tags: Sickfic, Humor, Fluff, Kamek is Bowser’s Dad, Sicktember 2023

Summary: Bowser’s having a good feeling about this kidnapping attempt, so when he discovers he’s sick he tries to push through and hide it to see his latest scheme through to the end. This doesn't work out, obviously. Prompts: 4. Hiding an Illness, 6. Sick and Injured, 14. "I shouldn’t be worried about you, but for some reason I am", 21. "But if you stay, you'll get sick too", 30. Patient Zero Word Count: 1,352 words

[AO3 Link]

~~~

In Bowser’s opinion, this latest kidnapping scheme was going pretty smoothly so far.

Princess Peach was captured and secured, despite a small scuffle — it was equal parts fun and frustrating when someone accidentally left a weapon lying too close to her — and the Mario Bros were — well, they weren't being stopped, but they were only midway through World 2! The later surprises he had in store for them would get them for sure!

Everyone was working like a well-oiled machine, at top form, and Bowser was just going to join them. Just as soon as he finished enduring this wave of whatever crud he’d woken up with today.

Well — actually he’d woken up with it days ago, hoping to push through it as his plans fell into place. But it proved hard to ignore, with his throat so raw and his sinuses so stuffed and his very bones aching something fierce. Usually it’d be something to just sleep off and let pass, but with all these preparations to do he’d hardly had more than a few minutes to sit down, let alone take a nap. This was the longest break he’d had in a while, to be honest, hidden in some forgotten hallway taking a breather.

It wasn't like he could call all this off either; everything was way too far along for that and besides, Bowser had a good feeling about this attempt! Though, he knew if Kamek got even a whiff of the idea that Bowser was under the weather then he’d force him to cancel everything anyway. Luckily, Bowser had coincidentally sent him off earlier to supervise the World 7 and 8 work, sparing him from those scrutinizing eyes.

As for the other pair of scrutinizing eyes, though...Bowser turned to face Junior, who had been watching him suspiciously. Those were a bit more difficult to avoid.

“Hey, Junior!” Bowser’s voice cracked a little as the words left his mouth. He hid a wince.

Junior’s gaze narrowed. “...Dad, are you sick?” he asked Bowser outright.

“What? Nah,” Bowser replied a little too quickly. He realized he was leaning a hand against the wall for support and straightened abruptly, almost falling over the other way as he got dizzy for a second. “I just...uh...didn't get that much sleep last night! Working hard, you know how it is!”

Junior didn’t look convinced.

“You don't have to worry!” Bowser stifled a cough. “I’m fine! Just taking a break!”

“But what if I'm worried anyway?” Junior said, frowning up at Bowser. “Even though I'm not supposed’ta be?”

Bowser made to ruffle Junior’s hair, remembered his elevated body temperature, and then didn’t. “Well then...” he said, pasting a smirk onto his face, “I’ll show ya you don't have to be worried, by squashing those Loser Bros. flat when they get here!”

“Not if I beat them with my mech first!” Junior grinned, suspicions visibly fading at the implied challenge.

“Heh, we’ll see about that!” Ah, what else could distract him...? “Speaking of your mech, you figure out how to fit in those rocket launchers yet?”

“Almost!” Junior began rambling about his design process, successfully distracted. Bowser breathed a tiny sigh of relief, managing to cajole Junior into running off to put some finishing touches onto his contraption. 

In his son’s absence, Bowser muffled a sneeze into his arm, his nose burning at the effort to keep it locked behind his teeth. Yikes, that was close. He wasn't sure how long he could keep this up. Pretending he was fine was exhausting, almost more so than being sick itself. But Bowser refused to let some minor illness get the better of him so easily. He stepped out from the hallway to rejoin his army. Yeah, he’d have those pesky germs knocked out flat in no time!

---

Bowser woke up slowly, blinking up at the rich purple canopy of his bed. Why was he in bed? He wracked his brain trying to remember. The cotton his head felt stuffed with made it impossible. The last thing he did was...was...what was it?

Bowser heard a shuffling noise next to him. It was Greenie, staring at him wide-eyed.

“...What’re you lookin’ at?” Bowser glared at him. 

In lieu of answering, Greenie burst into tears.

“Wh —?” Bowser tried to sit up; it was a bit difficult with his arms and half his torso in bandages and his entire body feeling shaky and weak, but he somehow managed. Whatever was sitting on his head fell off — an ice pack, whose absence was almost immediately felt based on the throbbing in his skull. “Shut up,” Bowser snapped at Greenie, trying to sound intimidating. The words came out as if he’d eaten gravel, and upon hearing them Greenie somehow began crying harder, so obviously that didn't work.

As if summoned, Mario skidded into the room, Kamek not far behind with a large mug of tea gripped in his claws. “Oh, you're awake,” Kamek said. He sounded cross, and Bowser couldn't help but feel nervous. “I was wondering why you insisted on keeping me out in the field,” he continued, and uh-oh. 

“You said I didn't have to be worried!” was the first thing Junior shouted as soon as he ran into the room next and aw jeez. What even happened?

Peach, a blanket over her shoulders and the last one to crowd his bedside, filled him in. Apparently his and the Marios’ final battle had started off as usual, but partway through the fight Mario had noticed Bowser acting off. The lack of banter and boasting, the faltering reflexes, the whiffed attacks...the amount of evidence pointing to something being wrong had grown ever larger. Until Greenie had thrown his hammer at Bowser’s head, a predictable, highly telegraphed maneuver that Bowser normally would have dodged with ease. Instead, it had hit Bowser full force, and he’d dropped like a stone and stopped moving. Greenie had been honestly scared he’d killed Bowser right then and there, hence the waterworks now.

“As if you could kill me.” Bowser scowled at Greenie. Greenie hiccuped, still teary.

Anyway, Mario had swiftly run off to find Kamek, and Peach had passed along the suspicions Junior had shared with her a while ago plus a few suspicions of her own — for example, Bowser had visited her a lot less than usual this time around. And then they all stayed to help take care of Bowser. “This is the first time you’d woken up this coherent, you know,” Peach told him, cocking a grin.

The first time? Bowser frowned. “Well, now I’m awake for real. So get out of here before you get sick with whatever this is, too.”

Peach shook her head. “That ship has already sailed —”

As if on cue, Mario sneezed. Bowser looked over to where he was patting Greenie on the shoulder. Mario met his gaze and shrugged. 

“It’s been a few days, and you were really bad off,” Peach explained. “So we’re going to keep helping you until you’re better, and then you’ll have to mind us, as we won't be fit to travel for a while.” She raised her chin. “Think of it as payback, for scaring us all half to death.”

Bowser grumbled, sinking further into the bed. He didn't want the Mario Bros hanging around his castle. Blegh.

Kamek knocked back the rest of his tea, slamming the mug down on the end table with a little more force than necessary. “If you're finished with your explanations,” Kamek said mildly, gesturing at Mario and Greenie and Peach even as he kept his eyes on Bowser. “I’d like to have a moment with Patient Zero here, if you wouldn't mind.”

Mario helped Greenie to his feet. Peach gave Junior her blanket before she followed them out of the room, and he clambered onto the bed next to Bowser, wrapping himself in it. As the door swung closed, Bowser realized he’d prefer the Mario Bros running around his home, actually, to the look on Kamek’s face as he opened his mouth to give Bowser the scolding of a lifetime.

[wendydarlingfics]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington Characters: Steve Harrington, Nancy Wheeler, Robin Buckley Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Post-Season/Series 04, Sickfic, Sick Character, Sick Steve Harrington, Minor Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler, Break Up, Slice of Life, Late Night Conversations, Conversations, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Pre-Relationship, Angst, Angst and Feels, Sicktember, Sicktember 2024 Summary: Steve is sick and for some reason Robin thinks it's okay to just call Nancy to come and take care of him even though he's been avoiding her since their conversation in the Upside Down

Wrote this for @sicktember Day One prompt.

[revelationschapter6]

cinnamon and myrrh

Events: Sicktember, Whumptember, Bad Things Happen Bingo

Prompts:

Desperate measures

Head lolling

Coughing fit

Preventative Measures (Not taken)

Side effects/Adverse reaction

Uncooperative Patient

Confused

Disoriented

Hurts to Breathe

Warnings:

implications of depression

This fill is written as a one-shot of my original story, Saudade. You can find my info page for Saudade here.

What context you need to read this is:

In Saudade, the Archangel Raphael Fell during the Rebellion. It was a misunderstanding that spiraled out of control, and he was thrown out by four angels while his partner, the Power Camael, tried to help him.

The angels who didn't Fall were made to forget those who did. They don't remember they ever knew them. As far as they know, all the Fallen were on the fringes of Heaven's society. If they asked around, they might go, "Wait, no one knew a Fallen?" But they Don't Ask Questions.

Raphael worked to gain Camael's trust again, and eventually won it. Camael learned he did, in fact, know Raphael before the Fall by regaining a memory, and convinced Raphael's siblings to hear him out. Now they're trying to figure out WTF to do.

Who, in their right mind, burns myrrh for funsies? Humans, apparently. And in the middle of the holiday season no less, so the smell of it is covered up by the reek of all that damn cinnamon. Raphael really should have learned by now. Whumptember: Desperate measures, head lolling Sicktember: Coughing fit, Preventative Measures (Not Taken), Side Effects/Adverse Reaction, Uncooperative Patient, Confused, Disoriented Bad Things Happen Bingo: hurts to breathe

can be read on AO3 or below the cut

Raphael watched the little blurs that were the light-up battery-powered fish in his fish tank.

When he’d moved into this apartment, he’d thought about getting a cat. But they had such short lifespans compared to his. It just wasn’t worth getting attached. Dogs were the same. Rodents were even worse. It felt like they barely took a breath before dying. It was nearly impossible to find an apartment that would allow a bird, though even they didn’t live terribly long in the span of his life, and he hated turtles.

A hellish animal might have been an option, but he didn’t like any of them. Hellcats, with their too many tails, disturbed him greatly and brought to mind Kitsune, who he didn’t want to think of as he cleaned a litter box. (Their litter boxes had a nasty habit of bursting into flames, besides.) Hellhounds came in every shape and breed of dog, but being around Lilith’s was enough. He didn’t have nearly enough water to keep an ahuizotl, and he already had plenty of nightmares without inviting in a Pesanta.

So, finally, he’d bought a fish tank and some light-up, battery-powered fake fish and been quite happy with them.

Through the poorly insulated walls of his apartment, he could make out general merriment. Carolers on the street, the buzz of countless lights, cheerful voices. Could smell pine from pine trees, burning gingerbread from a few doors down, and tried not to cough at the thickness of cinnamon in the air. It had been strong for days, no matter where he went. Cinnamon brooms lingered on his neighbors’ doorsteps, and it seemed every shop he passed was cluttered with them.

He’d never liked Christmas, not really. Though the Giant Lantern Festival was beautiful, he’d admit that, and he always had fun trying to burn the Gävle Goat. Any Fallen loved Krampusnacht, none more so than Krampus himself. But Christmas was a time for those with friends and family. He might have called Maalik a friend once, but he was long dead. Lilith and Lethe, perhaps, but they were busy doing their own things, and they saw each other only every few decades, besides. He still wasn’t sure if he could call Samyaza a friend.

And he certainly had no family.

He had Camael back, somewhat. But Camael, though he knew now, didn’t remember, surely wasn’t willing to spend a holiday with him. And Gabriel and Michael still looked half-ready to run him through if he sneezed wrong, though they knew too.

So he hadn’t even bothered to ask.

Raphael sighed, trying to tune out the music his neighbors were listening to: the one above him was listening to some caterwauling cover of All I Want for Christmas is You, the one below him Last Christmas, to the right a pop cover of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas (why?), and to the left Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer (again, why?). He could make out the neighbors further down the hall, but it all clashed together into raucous noise.

He rolled over, stretching out on his bed. It smelled far better than the cloying cinnamon. Though lingering sulfur and rain-dampened dirt weren’t exactly appealing either.

It wasn’t Christmas Day or Eve. At least, he didn’t think so.

He couldn’t hear wrapping paper tearing—well, that was a lie. The gender-optional tenant three doors down was wrapping gifts it sounded like—or smell ham or turkey or baking cookies.

Then again, he’d slept for quite a while, so he couldn’t be certain. He’d only gotten up long enough to duck into the corner store and wolf down the taquitos whose wrappers lay crumpled on his nightstand.

Raphael clutched his pillow, curling up. Hell, but he was tired. He’d slept the better part of the last two days, and still, he was exhausted.

So what was the harm in sleeping? It wasn’t as if he’d miss anything.

His phone rang, and he grumbled. Blearily, he thought that he needed to take it into the store to get it looked at because the voice announcing the caller was so muffled that he couldn’t make out what it said. Raphael reached for it, fumbling, but it was out of his reach, and he was still so tired.

If it was important, whoever it was could leave a voicemail.

Someone banged on his door, and he groaned. Did they have to be so loud? He could hear the door rattling in the frame. It was probably someone looking for the man down the hall. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had someone knock on his door by mistake, so he didn’t feel sorry that he didn’t even open his eyes.

There were voices, and he felt he should wake up. Because sleeping while someone was near him was never a good thing, barring a few people. And those weren’t Lethe or Lilith’s voices. He could tell. But his bed was so warm, the blankets so soft and comfortable, so surely he could sleep a few minutes more?

Besides, those voices felt safe. What was the harm?

Hands—cold hands, familiar, rough hands, though who they belonged to escaped him at the moment—grabbed and shook him. He wanted to tell them to let him sleep—even with their hands on him, he felt leaden—but his voice wilted and died in his throat before he could make a sound.

The voice called his name again, and two more hands, rougher and larger, joined the first.

His name was called again, this time by a voice deeper than the one before, and the hands became so rough that his head rolled on his pillow. It was irritating, and he tried again to tell them to leave him be. But his voice died, and his eyelids were so heavy that he couldn’t even glare at them to go away. His breath hitched, as sluggish as the rest of him, and struggled in his throat.

Raphael felt that should have worried him, but he was too comfortable and tired to care.

The hands went away, and he was grateful. Now, surely they’d leave him alone? Whatever they needed couldn’t be that important. It could wait.

Surely, they’d finally let him sleep.

A pair of hands slid under him, separating his head from his pillow and awkwardly gripping the underside of his knees. He shivered as he was torn away from the warmth of his blankets, the cold biting into him worse than the blizzards of Cocytus. A complaint started, then died, in his throat. His head lolled back, his neck arched painfully, and while one arm had been scooped up so it rested on his stomach, the other dangled uncomfortably.

The person carrying him moved jerkily, jolting him violently, even as they rubbed their thumbs along his skin as if to try to warm him. They came to an abrupt stop, and he tried to open his eyes. Some part of him was alarmed when he couldn’t get them to respond, but he was too tired to get anxious.

One hand came up to cradle the back of his head as he was made to stand. Well, stand by the faintest gasp of the word. If it wasn’t for the hand, or the body he was propped against, he surely would have collapsed. His feet tingled differently than usual, more numb than throbbing or sensitive. Even when he tried to make them, his knees wouldn’t support his weight. The person behind him, a sturdy wall, held him carefully upright. Raphael felt he should recognize them, if not from everything else than from their height, his head coming up to their chest from the feel of it as it lolled on his irritatingly unresponsive neck.

The first, smaller pair of hands, fingers slimmer than the ones holding him, tugged off his sweats, boxers, and nightshirt. Some part of him felt he should cover himself, like there was something he needed to hide, that he despised, tried to never let anyone see, and was forgetting.

But that would mean moving, which he didn’t think he could do even if he tried. His arms were so heavy, and was it really so bad if they saw it?

He lost time.

And then he was scalding, dragged beneath a spray of water. He gasped through a barely open mouth, his breath rasping loudly in his throat, then started to cough violently.

Were they trying to drown him?

A heave ran through him as he coughed, desperate for breath he didn’t actually need, feeling as though he were fighting to breathe through wet cloth. One of the hands, the one with the thicker fingers, caught his chin and squeezed the joints of his jaw. He tried to jerk back and felt like he was back in Boston, struggling to wade through molasses. His body wouldn’t listen to him, every moment slow and faltering, a twitch of a movement if he managed to move at all.

"Shit, he’s covered in it."

Raphael retched as a wet finger pressed down on his tongue, sweeping along his throat. It was a horrible feeling, but when the finger drew out, he could finally breathe. He coughed harshly, gulping air down greedily.

His fingers twitched, and the hand on the back of his head tightened in his hair to keep him from doubling over. He could taste rotten sulfur, his throat stinging as he struggled to get his coughing under control. There wasn’t an inch of his skin that hadn’t begun to tingle unpleasantly, bordering on a faint burn.

The smaller set of hands left his skin, replaced a moment later by a washcloth. The tingling quickly built to a burn, and as energy began to return to his limbs, he struggled weakly. Being pinned had never resulted in anything good, and slowly awareness was filtering to him; he shouldn’t be so confused and so tired; he should have been wide awake long before they’d made it into his apartment. He’d never known the touch of holy water, but having water flow over his body just before he began to burn did not bode well.

The arms tightened around him, and a familiar voice grunted as he managed to brace one foot on the slippery tile and drive the heel of the other into the shin of the person behind him.

"Stop fighting us, dammit!"

Wait—he did know that voice. Now that it didn’t sound so far away, so muffled, he did know that voice. And those hands felt familiar, as did the body behind him. And now, with the insulated walls of the shower between him and that awful, seeping cinnamon scent, he could make out the strong bite of petrichor.

He forced his eyes open, though they were very reluctant. His vision swam, eyes stinging, and they’d only open a slit. But even through a film of silver tears, he’d know that angel anywhere. She was too close for him to make out her features, but even darkened and flattened to her scalp by water, that red hair was unmistakeable.

"M’ch’l?" His tongue was slow, heavy, and unresponsive in his mouth. Just that word, if you could call it a word, made him cough again, tearing at his throat. He whimpered, and the angel behind him held him up when the force of it tried to bend him over. Ichor sprayed, foul and thick, across his tongue. Before he could do anything, Camael reached up and swiped his fingers across his tongue and throat. Raphael retched, but strangely, his throat hurt far less.

"Shut up," she snapped as he panted, stooping and running the washcloth down his legs.

"You’re a real idiot, you know," she said as she straightened.

"Wh-?" He cleared his throat, trying to get his voice to obey him. His voice sounded ridiculous, slurring and rough. "Why?"

Finally, he got his legs to support him, though they shook violently. Still, when Camael pushed him forward and Michael pulled him towards her, he went easily. He slumped, head resting on her shoulder, letting her take most of his weight. Behind him, Camael wiped him down with quick, rough movements. His skin burned, too sensitive, under the touch of the rag, and he whined as his hands and feet began to sting. He hadn’t even realized how numb they’d gone, but now that they felt as if they were being lanced with needles, he wished they’d go back to being numb.

Camael knelt, pushing him so he put more of his weight on Michael, and pulled up his foot. He did cry out, then. They were always either sensitive or numb, but the feel of the rag was agony. Then he began to cough again, struggling against the burn in his chest. Each small gasp of breath he managed to get only fueled the burn, and he sobbed.

"Sorry, sorry," Camael muttered, hurrying to finish. The other foot hurt just as badly, if not more, and it was only because Michael braced herself that they weren’t both taken to the ground when his leg gave out.

"Close your eyes," Camael said, and then Michael guided him to stand upright and bend over. He wheezed, beginning to cough again, wrinkling his nose at the foul taste of sulfur. When the stream of water was aimed at his hair, he flinched, so Michael brought one hand up to cover his eyes. Hands ran roughly through his hair, tugging at tangles, Camael murmuring apologies every time he tugged roughly at his scalp.

"Is that all of it?" Camael asked, helping him to stand upright. He wavered, blinking blearily at Michael as he struggled to catch his breath.

The burning was starting up again in his throat, and he managed to say "All of-" before it irritated his throat so badly that he started to cough again. When the force of it, pain shooting through his upper back, threatened to take him to the ground, Camael held him upright. Heat filled his mouth, and he tasted sulfur as the water shut off.

"Don’t let him get any on his skin," Camael said as Michael pressed the cloth to his mouth.

"I know," she scowled. "Next time he can catch his breath, hold his head up and his mouth open."

It felt like ages as he coughed. His throat and chest burned, and tears trickled down his face. Camael slid one hand up to rest over his racing heart, Michael replacing his grip on Raphael’s arm with her own.

Finally, he was able to take a breath. It wasn’t much, but for a moment, he could stop coughing. His breath whistled in his throat, an awful sound that set his teeth on edge. Camael grabbed his jaw, making him tilt his head back, then, as gently as he could, squeezed the joints of his jaw.

Raphael coughed, jerking awkwardly at the angle his throat was forced to. He didn’t struggle as Camael lowered him, and Michael stood on the tips of her toes. She raised her hand, and Raphael’s instincts screamed as divinity spiked strongly in the air. Gold-tinged smoke trickled from his mouth as Michael pinched the air, then pulled back. There was an awful tugging feeling in his chest before the burning flared. He struggled against Camael’s pinning grip, but as the agonizing burn rose through his throat, his chest stopped hurting.

With a gasp, he began to gulp down air. Each breath came easier than the last, the burn moving to his tongue, then gone completely. Camael loosened his grip, letting him slump against him as he gasped for breath. Camael was saying something. He could tell by the vibrations of his chest against his back, and maybe Michael was, too. But his heart raced loudly in his ears, and he couldn’t hear anything else. He twisted, spitting ichor into the drain.

Michael stepped out of the shower, and scooping Raphael up, Camael followed.

Please tell me I’m not naked.

Michael looked away as she grabbed a towel. "Can you stand?"

He cleared his throat, basking in being able to breathe. "Y-yeah," he said, though he wasn’t really sure. Camael carefully set him down, making sure he could take his own weight before releasing him.

Raphael hadn’t known this Camael could be so gentle or kind. He wished he’d been aware enough to enjoy it.

Hands shaking, he took the towel she offered. His head was still a bit foggy, the world moving slowly around him, but now he could feel the alarm he should have felt before creeping up on him.

"How dumb are you?" Michael asked as he toweled himself dry before he could ask what the hell had happened. It was only as he carefully picked up a foot to towel it dry, leaning into Camael’s supporting hand, seeing the discolored flesh that went up nearly to his knee, that his heart dropped into his stomach.

His glamors.

He wasn’t wearing his glamors.

They’d have seen the discolorations for sure, and they certainly would have felt them. It was a miracle he hadn’t, in his daze, brought out his spines.

The thought made him feel ill.

And–his eyes. His eyes didn’t have the reassuring, faint warmth of his glamor, the one he applied without thought the moment he woke. That glamor—they'd have seen his eyes; they’d have seen those monstrous eyes. How had Michael stomached seeing them?

He took deep breaths, reveling in them, and answered her. "I don’t know... I don’t even know what happened." Frantically, he tried to call up the glamor. It was child’s play—something he could do when bleeding and half-dead. But his power, usually burning and riotous, was barely more than a smolder in his chest. His eyes remained unchanged.

"Myrrh," she said as she walked out of the bathroom, speaking over her shoulder as he tied the towel around his waist. Camael helped him follow on shaky legs. "You got yourself covered from head to toe in myrrh." When he walked into the rest of the apartment, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. The entire place smelled like ozone, divinity sparking along his skin.

Michael rummaged through his dresser, pulling out a shirt and tossing it to him once he’d sat on the edge (well, his bed was round, so it didn’t have edges) of his bed. It had been stripped down to the mattress, and the rough mattress itched his sensitive skin.

"And inhaled it," Camael added as he pulled the shirt on. He sounded pissed, and Raphael cringed. "How the hell did you manage that?"

"I didn’t mean to," Raphael protested as he wriggled awkwardly into a pair of shorts that landed in his lap. He mourned his boxers but would rather that Michael didn’t go into his underwear drawer. Remembering the days of robes and little else, then the days of kaunakes, which covered even less, he wondered when he’d become so prudish. What Fallen would mean to inhale myrrh? "Who burns myrrh anymore?"

Michael wasn’t far enough away for him to make out her expression, but he was fairly certain she was looking to Heaven for strength.

He didn’t need to look to know that Camael was rolling his eyes. "I’m serious," Raphael said. "I haven’t been able to smell anything but cinnamon for weeks. You think I’d’ve stuck around if I smelled myrrh?"

Of all the things hellish beings were weak to—blessed objects, certain sacred symbols and objects, holy water, purified salt, consecrated ground, certain sigils and runes, among other things—Raphael found myrrh the most insidious. Sacred symbols and objects you could avoid; you had to touch them, usually, to be harmed by them. Pick them up or have them thrown at you. They were only dangerous if they touched bare skin. Any hellish being knew well what those tended to be. Blessed objects were more dangerous; anything could be blessed. Sacred symbols and objects counted among blessed objects, like crosses, ushabti, and holy books. But it was entirely possible to rummage through a pile of clothing and find a blessed shirt. Sigils and runes had to be carved or painted, and were far less reliable. They were so finicky that a shaky hand or a shed eyelash in the wrong spot could ruin the entire thing. They were usually best at keeping hellish beings out, or he’d have considered them much worse. But if someone knew what they were doing, they could make the barrier far more dangerous, even lethal. The ones he’d painted around his cave served as an electric fence, although he’d seen an imp fried to ash when it insisted on continuing to try to come in. Once, though, he’d seen a demon walk over an intricate rune set, unaware, and be instantly and mercilessly erased from existence.

Consecrated ground, well. Raphael, personally, hated consecrated ground after spending years recovering from a run-in with it. But provided you weren’t him and weren’t foolish with it, it wasn’t too much of a danger. Consecrated ground was almost always a holy building, religious or spiritual retreat, sacred grove, or sacred site. So long as you avoided those, you were just fine. That wasn’t a hard rule—he was still deeply confused by a six-inch-by-six-inch patch he’d found deep in Baikunthapur Forest—but it was a safe one to live by. And, if you were unlucky enough to find some random patch, you just had to step off of it.

It was only when you stayed standing on it that it started to eat away at your being.

Purified salt, unless consumed, was only really useful for making a salt circle. If it touched the skin, it acted as a bit of an irritant, but when consumed in large amounts, it became an anticoagulant. ‘Large amounts’ being the key word; it diluted in drinks, and any amounts that would be dangerous to a hellish being made food noticeably salty. And holy water—well, any self-respecting hellish being feared holy water, especially with people carrying it around now. You never knew how pure it would be, whether it was just tap water with a prayer said over it by some human or water properly blessed by an angel. The former, a Fallen or demon would have to be dunked in or guzzle to be killed by, and it would be a long, drawn-out, preventable death. Otherwise, it hurt like hot oil.

Not pleasant, but better than the latter. The latter was like acid; a few drops would eat away at your skin, but any significant amount was liable to outright dissolve you away.

Myrrh, though. In its natural state, it was harmless. He could hold it with his bare hands if he wanted to. But when burned, which humans had taken to doing, it became smoke. And it was the smoke that was so dangerous. That it had such a strong, distinct scent meant it was one of the easier dangers to avoid. Still, if, somehow, you breathed it—perhaps being a new demon, or a Fallen with little experience of Creation—it settled in your lungs, clinging to your throat. Often, it coated your skin as well, if you were unlucky enough to be too close. It ate away at you slowly, siphoning away your power. This made you tired, too dazed to register that something was wrong. If you fell asleep, you never woke up again.

Raphael remembered how groggy he’d felt, how tired and listless, so certain that it would be no harm at all just to go back to sleep. How he hadn’t cared though there’d been hands on him, strangers (or so they’d seemed at the time) crowded around him while he was vulnerable. If that had happened in Hell...

He shivered.

Michael had been talking, and he quickly scrubbed his hair dry, trying to pretend he’d been listening.

"–lucky we found you when we did!"

"I know," he said. There were so many ways he was lucky, as much as he sometimes thought himself otherwise. When it mattered, he was damn lucky.

"Really," Camael said behind him, his voice soft. "You were almost dead, Raphael. If we had waited a few hours–"

Raphael was startled when Camael’s voice hitched. And, he realized, Michael’s had sounded decidedly rattled. They cared. He barely managed to keep from smiling, as inappropriate as that would be. They still didn’t remember him. Camael hadn’t told him what he’d seen, but he’d seen a memory, or more than one. Enough to know he had known him once. That, for all these years, Raphael hadn’t been lying. He didn’t know the depth of their relationship, but that was fine. Gabriel and Michael, through Camael, had come to accept that they’d known him as well.

It was hard to deny, especially once he showed them their feathers on his necklace and that his were on their jewelry. He couldn’t fake the feathers on his necklace. They shed feathers, sure. But the feathers on his necklace sparked with their divinity—the remnants of when they’d shrunk them, solidifying them so they wouldn’t be ruined in his day-to-day. There wasn’t any of his foul power on them.

Right, his power. It was a bit of a struggle, but after a moment, he managed to pull a glamor over his eyes. He’d done his best not to look them in the eye, but they’d certainly noticed something was off, even if they’d been distracted when they’d seen it.

How they hadn’t realized they had his feathers—well, he had his suspicions. They’d worn them since before Creation, and that was a very long time not to question the seemingly random feathers they shared. Then again, there were so many things that didn’t make sense that no one in Heaven, it seemed, had questioned.

His necklace-! He reached for his throat, fumbling where the cold chain always was. He’d only taken it off once since they’d given it to him, when he’d handed it to Michael to prove he really did have their feathers. But his neck was bare, and, to his horror, so was his wrist. Camael’s bracelet was gone, too.

"Here." Michael’s voice was undeniably strangled. When he looked at her, he sighed in relief. A little smear of gold and what looked to be a miniscule streak of the same with three white blobs dangling from it hung from her hand. They reeked of ozone, and divinity brushed against his skin when he took them.

"We-"

"We?"

"Michael banished your bedding. It had myrrh all over it." Raphael had liked that bedding. "Your clothes too. She cleaned everything. We didn’t want to risk missing some."

"When did you manage to do that?" He gaped at Michael. Everything between falling asleep and Camael washing his hair was blurry, with massive blank spots. Still, he was fairly certain there hadn’t been a moment when she wasn’t there.

Camael took the clasp he’d been struggling with, ignoring his startled flinch, and fastened his necklace for him. Feeling was still coming back to his extremities, and he felt rather fumbly.

"Right after I took off your clothes," she said plainly. Raphael was sure he turned an impressive silver as he remembered her stripping him under the water, Camael holding up his dead weight. She was his sister, but still. He’d have been just as embarrassed if it were Gabriel. Hell, Camael being there was almost as embarrassing.

…wow, he really had become a prude.

"I did it all at the same time. It’s not that hard if you’re doing all the room at once. Though, uh," she sounded sheepish. He remembered the way she’d avert her eyes when embarrassed, dark skin taking on a twinkling gold glint. "I might have been a bit overzealous. Some of those lights went out… and I might have vanished some of your towels."

That did not surprise him. You didn’t have to put much thought into using power—or divinity, as the case might be—but the less you focused, the more mistakes it might make or the more liberties it might take. If she’d thought ‘bedding and clothing’ it might have included ‘fabrics’ in that, and he should feel lucky he had any clothing or towels left at all. Hell, if she’d been rushing and had intentions such as ‘purify everything’, he was lucky he had anything left; such broad intentions could easily have ‘purified’ his apartment by emptying it.

He laughed. It felt good to laugh, to enjoy being able to breathe without that awful burn. "Don’t, don’t worry about it. Those were shit towels."

Forgetting himself, used to only letting Lilith and Lethe at his back, he reclined back against Camael. Camael stiffened against him, and he went rigid. Then, slowly, Camael relaxed.

Michael moved to sit next to him, sighing loudly.

"You have to be more careful," she said, sounding her age. Not the one her physical body appeared, but how old she truly was.

"I usually am." Sometimes. With some things. He was still alive, wasn’t he? And in (mostly) one piece.

Camael snorted.

"I avoid myrrh, I promise. We all do." He winced. Usually, he did all he could to keep from mentioning Hell, demons, or other Fallen. "If I have to get close to it, I layer up and wear masks. I avoid anywhere that burns incense or anything." This did, however, make it very hard to source materials for runes and sigils. Oh. The fucking corner store! The person who ran it was always burning candles. He’d been going there for years. "And if I even think I’m exposed to it, I shower. I just couldn’t smell anything through that damn cinnamon. It’s been strong the last few years, but never this bad."

...then again, he forced himself not to grimace; he hadn’t even worn his mask. Some dumbass had yelled at him the last time he had, and he hadn’t had it in him to get into an argument if he ran into someone else who took issue with him. Of course, that would be the one time Georgie burned fucking myrrh instead of their ‘field of fresh-mown grass’ candles.

In fact, he had sneezed. But their candles usually made him sneeze, and the cinnamon brooms irritated his nose, so he hadn’t thought anything of it.

Damn, he was stupid.

"Well, it is. What are you going to do now?"

Camael asked a good question. Raphael pinched the bridge of his nose as he thought. "I’ll have to be more careful. Cover up as much as I can, stay away from any shops if I can, wear a mask. Definitely will shower as soon as I get home no matter what... that was dumb of me."

"Very."

It was funny when Michael and Gabriel did it. When Michael and Camael spoke together, it was just disconcerting.

"Burn any cinnamon brooms I find," he added, sotto voce.

"Why are they even a thing?" Michael shook her head. "Makes you feel like you shoved a bar of cinnamon up your nose."

He laughed, enjoying the rumble of Camael’s chest behind him as he did the same.

God, he’d missed this.

"What were you doing here, anyway?" He'd been sure he’d be spending Christmas alone. But here were Michael and Camael in his apartment, having saved his life. "Not that I’m not grateful!" He was quick to add.

Camael didn’t laugh again, but Raphael could feel the rumble of his chuckle against his back. The warmth that spread through his chest, then, was anything but painful.

"Well, it’s Christmas, isn’t it?" Camael said, and now that he paid attention, Raphael realized he was right. Even through the cinnamon, he could smell turkeys and hams baking; his gender-optional neighbor had, it seemed, procrastinated and was only now baking an over-sweetened apple pie. Children were shrieking (he grimaced. Michael snickered.), and adults and older children were laughing. Awful Christmas music was playing, muffling the tearing of wrapping paper and the high-pitched noises of children trying out their new toys.

"You really thought we were going to let you spend it alone? Our own brother?"

Yes.

"I didn’t think you celebrated, honestly."

He knew they celebrated. He’d seen them more than once, participating in so many holidays over the centuries. So many New Year's celebrations, sometimes more than one in the same year. Why humans couldn’t pick a calendar and stick with it, he’d never know. Sometimes it was just Michael and Gabriel. Others, it was Michael, Gabriel, and Camael, and he was glad about it. It was nice to know they were still close. Rarely, it was just one of them. Often, it was Michael and Raguel, Camael, and, bafflingly, Gabriel and Kushiel. He’d seen them giving gifts of protection during Handsel Monday centuries ago, helping with the harvest and blessing the loaves of Lammas, preventing injuries during Gŵyl Mabsant, betting on who’d fail to carry the burning barrels during Up Helly Aa, throwing tomatoes at each other (from what he could tell through watching from afar, they lost points if they hit humans) each La Tomatina he’d seen, and, on one memorable occasion, Gabriel, Kushiel, and Raguel, glamored to appear as a man, competing in a heated discus throwing competition at one of the last Ancient Olympic games while Michael and Camael egged them on. This had ended very quickly when Gabriel, scowling at Kushiel, had flung his discus an impossible distance and lodged it into the wall of the stadium. There had been a very brief chaos as the angels rushed to make the humans forget what they saw.

Raphael would have helped, honestly, but he’d been too busy laughing until he cried at the horror on their faces.

And, in recent years, Gabriel seemed to have found it great fun to participate in Blasphemy Day. Michael always followed him, telling him he shouldn’t, but if Raphael got close enough that he could make out her face, she was always grinning.

But why should he think they’d want to celebrate with him?

"Of course we do," Michael frowned. "Actually, Camael, can you text Gabriel? He’s probably wondering where we are."

"Wait, Gabriel–?"

"He’s at Camael’s apartment. We’ve got a tree up and everything. If you’re feeling up to it, of course?"

Of course, he was up to it. He’d drag himself across shards of blessed glass if only to have a moment with any of them. His skin was a bit too sensitive, but otherwise? He’d have had no idea that he’d almost died in such a stupid way.

"Yeah, of course." Michael stared him down, but she’d raised him, insofar as any of them had been raised, so he didn’t squirm or look away.

"Tell Gabriel we’re about to head over," she finally said, apparently satisfied. Then she leaned forward, grabbing something out of his sightline that crinkled loudly. When she leaned back, she held a lumpy package in her hands, covered in gaudy, multi-colored stripes. At least, he assumed so. They smeared, hurting his eyes. She dropped it in his lap.

"What’s this?" He picked it up, wrinkling his brow when it gave under his touch.

"You have to look the part." Even still, she sounded tired, and he felt horrible for scaring her so badly.

Look the part?

Finally, he really looked at her. And then he had to laugh. He’d been a bit distracted, but now it was impossible to miss the garish red sweater she wore. It clashed horribly with her hair, and he wished more than anything that he could make out what those twinkling, white blobs were.

"Camael’s is worse," she grumped. That he had to see. He twisted, then laughed harder. Raphael hadn’t known blue could be that bright, and the fuzziness of it explained the coarseness he’d felt against his exposed skin. Lights of various colors twinkled, and he snorted, then laughed at that.

"Oh God," he rubbed at his eyes as they teared up, "that’s bad."

"Wait until you see yours." Camael patted his shoulder.

"Mine?" The word came out far louder than he’d intended it to.

They really did want him, didn’t they? A gift, a Christmas tree, and now an ugly Christmas sweater. His grin, he was sure, was wobbly. Raphael had gifts for them too, of course. But he’d had no delusions of being able to give them to them. He had intended to give them to Camael the next time he saw him, Oh, I saw these, thought of you guys. Mind giving those to Michael and Gabriel next you see them? Thanks!

He’d never dreamed of being able to see them open them.

"Now, get dressed. Put that on, get some pants. Sister or not, I’m not going through your underwear drawer."

"Thank you for that."

He had so much to thank her for. Raphael didn’t think he’d ever be able to say them all.

[groundcontrol21]

Sicktember #26

Prompt #26: Tickle in the Throat

Character(s): Jonathan Lindsay (remember him?)

Title: Suffering in Silence

Summary: Perhaps Jonathan Lindsay should not have gone into Parliament with a brewing cold; in any case, he is here now, and he will not interrupt the proceedings by coughing.

Notes: If any of you were a fly on the wall back in the day, you may recognize the lines of Parliamentary speech that I stole directly from Edmund Burke’s 1774 speech On American Taxation to the House of Commons. Considering this takes place 20 years before and in the House of Lords, you may be like why, but just remember this is, at the end of the day, a snz fic and I stole the least interesting and most generic bits. 

On a good day, listening to the petty gripes and cosseted rhetoric of his fellow Lords at Parliament gave Jonathan Lindsay a headache, but on a day such as this one when his head was already pounding without such assistance–well, he was beginning to entertain a private fantasy of bashing his temples in with the speaker’s gavel. Sarah had recognized his headache the moment he blinked at her in the morning sunlight (and really, when had they started deciphering each other’s pain based on some sort of invisible semaphore?) and advised him not to go, for he would soon be falling ill. Jonathan agreed with her on the outcome but not the time frame, arguing that he had at least another day of a throbbing head before the rest of his symptoms followed, and so he could last a day in Parliament. 

But now, he was beginning to wonder whether his wife did not possess some powers of divination. Jonathan’s throat was beginning to tickle, but it absolutely would not do to cough. He resolved to do his best to ignore it, but the speech currently being given to the Lords by Baron Lord George Southcote was not providing the type of riveting distraction needed to make such a thing possible.

“It is so said in the paper in my hand.” Southcote held up the paper for emphasis, and Jonathan felt his headache grow. “A paper which I constantly carry about; which I have often used, and shall often use again…”

Perhaps a small clearing of the throat would rid him of the sensation.

“Though I find myself mistaken…”

If anything, the endeavor to clear his throat only increased Jonathan’s urgent need to cough, and so he changed course. Perhaps if he exhaled forcefully, his body would be fooled into thinking he had coughed, and would be satisfied and allow him to be rid of this torment.

“…he will still permit me to use the privilege of an old friendship; he will permit me to apply myself to the House under the sanction of his authority…”

Jonathan tried a half-cough, a breathy, airy little thing, which somehow made his throat itch all the more. 

“...and, on the various grounds he has measured out, to submit to you the poor opinions which I have formed upon a matter of importance….”

If the man continued on in this manner, Jonathan truly did not know if he could survive the session. He had not even glimpsed the barest glint of an argument beginning to form on Southcote’s lips, and already there were tears pricking at Jonathan’s eyes from the effort of trying to restrain his coughs. Still, he focused on controlling them with all the discipline of the harshest aesthetic. 

“...enough to demand the fullest consideration I could bestow upon it.”

Since attempting to suppress his coughs by sheer force of will was clearly not working, Jonathan tried to meet the next paroxysm with a well-timed swallow. Unfortunately, this led to a veritable burning in his throat, as well as a split-second eruption, before Jonathan could clamp his mouth shut and reign in the sound once more.

The interruption turned a few heads, but did not capture the attention of Lord Southcote, who droned on as unflappably as ever. “He has stated to the House two grounds of deliberation…”

As Southcote continued on, oblivious to Jonathan’s private misery, Jonathan found himself increasingly willingly to trade not-insignificant fineries for a throat so robust as his. For here Jonathan was, throat dry as a tobacco leaf and struggling to keep quiet after scarcely having said a word all day, meanwhile Southcote could prattle for hours about nothing at all with a voice smooth as silk and strong as iron.

“But before I go into that large consideration, because I would omit nothing that can give the House satisfaction…”

With no end to either of his present miseries in sight, Jonathan resolved to grant himself a real, albeit controlled cough in the hopes that it would satisfy the infernal urge once and for all. The instant he did so, however, he realized it for the folly it was. Once the cough burst forth from his lungs it was louder and wetter than he had intended, and it took far longer to get under control than he had anticipated.

To finish it out, and insult him further, it culminated in a sneeze, which he pinched between his fingers. “Heh’PSHH!”

Brilliant, he thought, feeling suddenly exhausted and swelteringly hot beneath his collar. Now he would have to find a way to ward those off as well.

Jonathan was working out a way to swallow around his prickly throat without coughing yet again, when he felt something bump against his thigh. “You sound like you desperately need this,” Lord William Petre said lowly, his handkerchief extended across Jonathan’s lap.

It was only when Jonathan took the proffered cloth that he realized why William had offered it the way he had; stowed within its folds was a small flask, embossed with gold and ivory. Jonathan bit back his smile and took care to keep the flask covered, raising the handkerchief to his face as if to tend to his nose and carefully drinking from the hidden flask. Warm liquid trickled down his throat and offered him the first relief he had felt all day.  

“Thank you,” he murmured once he had finished. 

“If I have to listen to you and Southcote like this for another hour, I am in serious danger of stringing myself up by my hair ribbons and ending my misery.”

Jonathan almost scoffed before he thought better of it. “Your misery!”

William’s mouth was open to reply, when the speaker’s gavel shook the room like a minor earthquake. “Does the Baronet Petre have an objection to Lord Southcote?”

“None at all, sir,” William said mildly, with a courteous inclination of the head. Once Southcote had begun to speak again, he leaned closer to Jonathan and whispered, “That would require there being a point in the first place for me to object to.”

 Jonathan stifled a laugh, and the action was his undoing. In its place sprang forth a violent fit of coughs he was absolutely powerless to suppress; he could merely clutch William’s handkerchief to his mouth like a talisman and wait for the spasms to pass. He was dimly aware that Southcote had stopped speaking again, but far more pressing at the moment was the need to gulp in air at any available moment. Once the fit was finally beginning to settle, and he could draw in breath with shaky gasps, he felt his breath hitch, and he tiredly resigned himself to the inevitable. At least the handkerchief was already in place.

“HETCHOO! Hihh’TCHHH! Ihhh’TCHHH!”

The speaker regarded him with a disinterested mien. “Perhaps Lord Viscount Lindsay is too ill for the day’s proceedings?”

“I think I am indeed, sirs,” he said, sounding, if possible, as though his voice had been raked along hot coals. “If you will excuse me.”

“Lucky bastard,” William said as Jonathan slipped the flask back into his lap before standing to take his leave. “Maybe I should start coughing. How quickly can you catch a cold?”

[snezfics-n-shit]

Sicktember Day 28: Chronic Illness

Fandom: Ace Attorney Characters: Godot, Phoenix Wright, Apollo Justice, Trucy Wright Notes: Godot receives an unexpected visit from the staff of Wright Anything Agency. Set just after the events of Apollo Justice, there are some spoilers for 4-4, but I tried to keep them at a minimum. Godot is still in prison but almost on his way out, granting him privileges such as unfamiliar faces greeting him in the infirmary. He’s not yet sure if that’s a good thing.

  If Godot could speak to himself seven years ago, he would have said being in prison made him a lucky man. When the lingering effects of the poison took hold, which they did often, there was at least a prison infirmary not at all far from his cell. He was starting to get used to the convenience of it all, so much so that his rapidly approaching release date felt like something to dread rather than look forward to.

If he could speak to himself seven years ago, he might have even warned not to be so hard on Wright. Not only had he forgiven the man for crimes Godot felt himself guilty of before projecting them onto the closest person to Mia he could find, but it wouldn’t even be a year before Phoenix Wright: the man who seemed unstoppable, would have his entire world fall apart beneath him.

Sure, Wright wasn’t poisoned, and as far as Godot knew, the man hadn’t lost a lover to murder, but Godot swore he could see himself in the newspaper image just above the headline declaring Wright’s career was over. 

If there was one thing he and his past self could agree on, however, was that Phoenix Wright, quite frankly, looked like shit.

“Look, Polly! I think I see Mr. Gavin in the hallway!” The peppy girl in the magician’s garb called out by one of the indoor windows. Thank God she didn’t appear to be another entertainer sent to ‘lift spirits.’ “Do you think he’s here for–”

“We’re here for Mr. Godot, remember?” The red suited man, who apparently had a really weird name, redirected the girl’s attention to Godot’s bed. Damn, maybe she was going to subject him to an hour of magic tricks meant to entertain children after all.

“Heh, kids, right?” Phoenix had a grin that looked permanently plastered on his face from the moment Godot saw him enter the infirmary. What did he have to be happy for? Unemployed, followed in by a couple of oddly dressed strangers, wearing a hat that Godot’s heightened sense of smell could tell needed a good wash.

“What do you think I know about kids?” Godot asked before he broke into a fit of coughing muffled by his hand. “What are–” he hadn't finished coughing yet, “what are you doing here? Did you get some kind of traveling circus troupe together now that you’re not a lawyer?”

“Daddy helps me run the Wright Anything Agency!” The strangely dressed girl piped up, alternating from standing on her feet to balancing on her toes. Godot wasn’t even going to ask what she meant by ‘Daddy;’ it was probably best he didn’t know. “He brought me and Polly here to meet you and cheer you up since you’re sick!”

“Well, if you wanted to use the fact I’m only in the hospital and not,” Godot waved his hand towards the trio, “doing whatever it is you’re doing now, it may just work.”

“Well, Polly’s a lawyer like Daddy was!” The girl boasted as if this ‘Polly’ was her child. “And Daddy introduced a new jurist system into the courts!”

Great, so they were here to brag. Godot sank back into lying down with a weak grumble.

“If you come back to the prosecutor’s office upon your release, Mr. Godot, you might get to see the MASON system in action. It’s really impressive, if not a little confusing.” ‘Polly’ said. “Or if you want, you could get into defense again.” He mumbled something about needing an extra hand in cleaning the office.

“It’s called a MASON system?” 

“Yeah!” The girl beamed. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean, but,” she put her right hand to her chin in thought, “Daddy said when he pitched it to the judge, he loved the name! It’s judge-approved!”

“Speaking of judge-approved…” Phoenix started, digging through his pockets and pulling out a surprisingly neat envelope, without a wrinkle in sight. “Here. We got everyone we could find at the courthouse to sign this. It was Trucy’s idea.” He gestured to the girl. So her name was Trucy? ‘Trucy and Polly…’ yup, they were definitely some kind of circus troupe, at least part time.

Godot was surprised to see how many names he recognized on the card. Even the wild mare herself signed it. He couldn’t help but laugh to himself imagining her whipping the ever-living hell out of Wright before finally giving in to his request.

“Mr. Wright said you couldn’t see red on a white background, so everyone used black pen.” The man with the strange name pointed out. 

Godot had to give that statement the benefit of the doubt, since he wouldn’t be able to tell otherwise, but he made a mental note to ask his cellmate to check once the medical staff decided he wasn’t teetering on the edge of death if he were to leave his bed.

“You like it?” Trucy looked at Godot with a wide smile. 

“Not bad at all.” Godot couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you.”

At least it wasn’t magic tricks…

“I almost forgot! Daddy said I could perform my latest magic tricks for you!”

Dammit.