#to see if the antibiotics worked or not - but the odds are not terrible that i won't have to be operated on | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aquietwritingcorner · 5 months ago

Text

Healing Moments

Title: Healing Moments Fandom: TMNT 2003 Word Count: 3960 Author: aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl Rating: K Characters: Raphael, Donatello, Leonardo, Michelangelo, Splinter, April O’Neil, Casey Jones Warning: NA Summary: Raph escaped Shredder’s ship with broken ribs. But broken ribs still have consequences. Notes: This was written for someone a bit back. I never published it outside of showing it to that individual, which was a shame. So I’m publishing it now! I hope you all enjoy it! ff.net || AO3

______________________________________

Healing Moments

Don sat next to Raph, wetting down a cloth and using his left hand to wring it out and lay it on Raph’s forehead. His brother turned his head slightly and murmured, but otherwise didn’t react to the cloth. Don frowned but didn’t leave his brother’s side. The rest of his family was sleeping, at least as much as any of them could with their injuries from Shredder’s Ship. It wasn’t unusual for any of them to be awake at odd hours because they just couldn’t get comfortable.

They should have been paying more attention to Raph being uncomfortable.

It had started with a cough. They hadn’t paid it much mind. As much as April and Casey cleaned, this farmhouse was old, and they were all sleeping in the attic. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility that there was something up here or even just outside that Raph was mildly allergic to. Mike had even teased him a little bit about it.

But then the cough had gotten worse, and Raph had begun sleeping more. He had just brushed it off as healing, which also made sense. It took a lot of energy to heal, something that they, unfortunately, knew well. It was only when he had looked feverish, his eyes a bit glassy, his head a bit warm, that it had hit them that something else was going on. With April and Casey’s help—as they were the only ones uninjured and able to help the most effectively—Don gave Raph a look over.

Don didn’t have access to medical care. Here, at the farm, he didn’t even have access to his lab. He would have liked to confirm the illness that he was positive Raph had, but instead he had to make do with his observation and the very small lab he had set up in the barn. Still, he was certain that he knew what Raph had.

Pneumonia.

It made sense. Raph’s main injuries had been his ribs, which, of course, were near his lungs. With the pain of his broken ribs, Raph likely wasn’t breathing as deeply as he should have been. That would have set him up for an infection to settle in his lower lungs and turn into pneumonia. That was only confirmed by the way that Raph’s lungs sounded. That crackling was pretty distinctive, even in mutant turtles.

Don had immediately started on what treatments they could do at the farm. Making sure that Raph was sitting up instead of laying down, giving him over the counter pain killers, making sure he stayed hydrated, and having him sit in a steamy bathroom. Splinter had brought some of his teas with him, as well, and he made sure that Raph drank plenty of those. But it wasn’t enough. Raph continued to get worse, and Don had sent out April and Casey to see if they could get their hands on any antibiotics. He hadn’t questioned how they had managed to get what they did, he had just taken it.

Now they just had to hope that they were going to work on Raph and that he wouldn’t need something stronger.

“How is he?”

Don looked up at Leo’s voice, not terribly surprised to hear it. Leo hadn’t been sleeping much lately, and Don honestly wasn’t sure if it was emotional, or because of his injured shell. It was likely both.

Don looked back down at Raph. “He’s resting, at least. The fever is still up, though. I did manage to get him to drink some the last time he was awake.”

Leo nodded, standing over their brother. “That’s good at least. The medicine will help the fever, right?”

Don frowned. “The NSAID will help the fever. The antibiotics will help the infection, as long as it’s a bacterial infection.”

Leo paused. “What do you mean, ‘as long as it’s a bacterial infection’?”

Don looked back down at Raph, laying a hand on the back of his neck as a way to check his temperature. “Pneumonia in humans is most likely to be caused by a bacterial or viral infection. In turtles it can also be fungal. I highly doubt that it’s fungal, but it could be viral. If it is, the antibiotics won’t do him any good. We’ll have to rely on treating the symptoms and hope that his body can handle the rest. If it’s bacterial, then the anti-biotics will help.”

Leo was quiet for a moment. “How can you tell which kind it is?”

“Here?” Don said “I can’t. I’m making the best guess that I can. We’re just going to have to hope we’re lucky.”

Leo’s frowned deepened and he turned away. “Luck is not something I think we can rely on.”

Don sighed. “Well, it’s all we’ve got right now, Leo,” he replied, perhaps a little bit snippier than he needed to be. “So, we’ll have to make do.”

He turned his attention back to Raph as the other turtled started to cough. Don helped him sit up a bit more, and supported him as he coughed, none of his breaths as deep as Don had hoped they would be, but better than nothing. It sounded so very painful each time he did this, but coughing out the infection was a good thing, even if he knew it set Raph’s broken ribs aflame with pain.

With a sigh, Don helped to lean Raph back in his bed, making sure he was propped securely on the pillows and that he was as comfortable as he could be. Raph’s eyes cracked open, and he looked over at Don.

“Donnie?” he croaked out, his voice sounding rough and weak.

“Yeah, Raphie, it’s me,” Don said with a smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Awful.”

Don chuckled slightly. “Yeah, I’d imagine so. I’m guessing your ribs are pretty sore?”

“Yeah.”

“Do your lungs feel sore as well?” Don asked.

Raph paused a moment more before answering that one. “Yeah,” he said.

Don nodded. “I thought so. You just rest, alright? I’ll take care of things right now. We all will.”

Raph let out a bit of a grunt, winced, and then closed his eyes. It wasn’t long before he drifted off to sleep again. Don sighed, and moved the washcloth back to Raph’s head, keeping watch over his brother.

Leo watched the whole thing, not interfering with Don’s care, and then let out what sounded like an irritated sigh and walked away, going towards the window.

Don watched, and then turned back to Raphael, keeping his own sigh to himself, and replacing the cloth on Raph’s head.

~*~

Mikey wasn’t terrible surprised when he looked over and found Donnie asleep at Raph’s side. Mikey had come over to relieve Don, to give him a break from the constant watch he had been keeping on Raph. After all, even though Don was usually in charge of their care when they were sick, at this point Raph’s care really wasn’t anything that the rest of them couldn’t do. Helping Raph sit up to cough, trying to get him to drink water, putting cold cloths on his forehead to keep his fever down, those were all things that anyone could do. Don was just stubborn and didn’t want to leave Raph’s side.

So, Mike had come anyway, told Don that Master Splinter had sent him up to give Don a break, and not objected when Don wanted to stay nearby a little longer. He hadn’t been surprised when, within moments, Don had fallen asleep. Mike had draped a blanket over his purple-banded brother, made sure he wasn’t putting pressure on his arm, and then turned all of his attention to Raph.

His brother did not look good. Raph was always all strength and attitude, even when he was being soft and caring. Right now, he didn’t look like either of those things. He was propped up on a mound of pillows, cradling his shell to keep him almost upright. His mouth was open as he breathed, although his breaths were a bit gaspy. He was pale and didn’t look like he’d be able to hold up his head much less fight anything off.

Mikey didn’t like it.

“Heya, Raph, just me, come to check on you. Well, that and to give Donnie a break. You know how he gets when one of us is sick. He’s a worse mother hen than Leo!”

Leo… that was another brother to be worried about, although for a completely different reason. But Mike would come back to that later.

“He’s been with you most of the time, but, I mean, part of it makes sense. He does know the most, and he’s honestly the most mobile of us. Well, Leo might be too, but I think his shell hurts him more than he lets on, and Don fusses over it, too.”

Mikey was working as he was talking, taking the moment to check Raph’s temperature and make sure that the cloth on his head was nice and cool.

“Anyway, since I can’t do much more than sit on my butt and stare at the wall, I figured I might as well sit on my butt here, give Donnie a break, and grace you with my presence!”

Raph stirred under Mikey’s touch, and Mike leaned in as much as his broken legs would allow. “Raph?”

Raph’s eyes cracked open, and he blearily blinked at his brother. “Mike?” he mumbled, his voice weak. “S’you?”

Mike grinned at his brother. “Yep! The one and only! I decided to give Donnie a little break!”

Raph grunted a little, and his eyes traveled around until they landed on Don, who was asleep, hunched over the end of Raph’s bed. “Good.”

Raph started coughing again, shallow ones that sounded like they needed to be deeper. His face contorted in pain and his arms wrapped around his middle. Mikey reached over as best he could, supporting him. It was hard to see Raph in pain like this, and not be able to do anything about it. He rubbed Raph’s shell, trying to find a way to soothe him at least a little.

Coughing, he knew, was good with something like pneumonia. It brought up the junk in the lungs, and Mikey knew to use a little bowl to catch anything that Raph coughed up. As gross as it was, Donnie would want to examine it. But it also was hard to watch him be in pain from coughing with broken ribs.

As the coughing eased up, Mikey helped Raph lean back again, watching as his brother gasped for breath, pain still clear across his face. He picked up a glass of water with a straw and held it up to Raph. “Here, Raphie. Think you can drink some of this? You need to get some water in you.”

Raph gave a tired nod, still working on catching his breath back. But as soon as he could, he clamped his lips around the straw, drinking it slowly. Mikey held it up as long as Raph would drink it, and then sat it to the side. “Think you can swallow some pills? Don left a schedule for your medicine.”

Raph nodded, and Mikey fumbled around for the pills, doing the best to reach for the pills without hurting himself, too. He read the instructions, and then took out the correct dosages, helping Raph to take them and drink a bit more water.

“You think you can finish up this glass of water? It’d be good for you if you could.”

“Yeah…” The word was faint and tired, but it was there.

Mike held the glass up again, never once letting it drop and adjusting it so that Raph could get every last bit out if out.

“That’s good, Raph. I’ll see if we can get you a refill, okay? In the meantime, just lay back. I’ll get that cloth back on your head.”

“…thanks, Mikey.”

“No problem, bro,” Mike said with a smile. “Hey—why don’t I catch you up on what’s been going on!”

As Mike prattled on, talking for as long as he knew Raph was listening, and hoping that it brought him some comfort.

~*~

April looked over when she heard a small groan. She had been changing the water out, making sure that all of it was fresh after having sent all of the others either to rest or to go outside. They had all been taking turns looking after Raph and they all needed a break. She could take care of Raph for a while and let them have that break. They deserved it.

“Hey there, big guy,” she said when she noticed that Raph’s eyes were open. “About time you woke up. It’s nearly noon.”

Raph blinked around the room blearily. “…where’s…?”

“I sent them all out for some sunshine,” she said, finishing up with the water. “I’d send you out for it, too, but I don’t think you’re quite up for it yet.”

Raph leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “…sounds nice.”

April smiled at him. “Don’t worry, you’ll be out there soon enough.”

Raph merely let out a grunt and said nothing more. April went on about straightening up the attic—Despite the presence of Master Splinter, there were four teenaged boys living there—at least until she heard Raph start to cough. She turned around and frowned when she saw him starting to cough again, pain clear on his face. She immediately rushed to his side, putting an arm around him and taking some of his weight on herself.

The coughs were a little deeper than she had heard him have before, which was good, but the pain on his face wasn’t nearly as good and it tore at her heart. The guys were like little brothers to her, and she hated to see them all in this much pain. Still, she held him against her as he coughed and hacked, rubbing her hand on the rim of his shell, holding a cloth up to his face, and speaking soft, encouraging words to him.

When he finished, he was breathless, but he didn’t seem quite as breathless as she’d seen him before. Still, she helped to lay him back carefully, letting him catch his breath, and went to fetch him a glass of water.

“Here you go, Raph. Drink as much of it as you can, alright?” she said, carefully adjusting the glass at need. “Just take it at your own pace.”

April held the glass until Raph had finished it off, filling it up again and offering him more. Raph drank a little more until he finally stopped and laid his head back in the pillows that were piled up around him.

“…Thanks, Ape…” he said, his voice scratchy.

“It’s not a problem,” she said. April settled in beside him, taking care not to put stress on his lungs or ribs, and brought him to her, letting her little brother lean on her and relax. She gave the top of his head a peck. “What are big sisters for?”

~*~

“I think this commentator’s whack,” Casey said. “There ain’t no way they’re gonna win. They ain’t got the stats.”

Raph glanced over at Casey, from where both of them were watching the TV that he had managed to bring up the stairs and hook up enough to get the game. Raph still wasn’t up for much, but he had managed to stay awake through a couple of innings at least, which was more than last time.

Casey looked at him. “Don’t look at me like that, bro. They just pulled up three guys from the minor league after they traded off their top players. There ain’t no way they’re gonna do well after that.”

“…was stupid,” Raph agreed. “…but they got that guy… from Puerto Rico…”

“Yeah, he is really good,” Casey admitted. “But ya can’t rely on one guy to bring up the whole team! Besides, the other team managed to get four of the best players in the league!”

“…no others.”

“Yeah? Well, ya know what? Those three should be able to pull the team through!”

“YOU said—”

Raph’s rebuttal was cut off by a round of harsh coughing, which immediately brought the argument to an end. Casey abandoned his argumentative stance, instead moving to support Raph through the coughing, bringing up the small kidney bowl for him to spit anything out into. He kept a strong arm around Raph, making sure that he didn’t bend too far in his coughing, aggravating his ribs more.

As soon as Raph was finished, Casey helped him recline back on his mountain of pillows and sat the kidney bowl down.

“Hang on, Raph, lemme get ya some water.” Casey turned back to the water they were still keeping nearby and poured Raph some fresh into a cup. He helped Raph hold it, only letting go when it felt like Raph had a good hold on it, although he kept his hands hovering nearby. “Don’t drink it too fast, Raph. Ya don’t wanna throw up with broken ribs. Trust me on that one.”

Raph shot Casey a look, but he kept drinking the water anyway, draining it until the glass was empty. Casey poured him another one, and Raph started in on it too. Finally, he finished, and he let Casey take the glass, his arms dropping tiredly.

“…goofball.”

“Who me?” Casey said. “I ain’t the one that just tried to yell with pneumonia. Even I ain’t that stupid.”

Casey settled back down next to Raph and said nothing about the breadcrumb that Raph flicked at him, just flicking it back again. Raph flicked it back, and the two settled into a silent war as they watched the game.

~*~

“How are you feeling today, my son?”

Raph looked over at his father as Splinter carried a tray of tea towards him. “Better, Master Splinter,” he said, although his voice was still scratchy and weak.

“I am glad to hear it,” Splinter said with a smile. “I’ve brought you some food and tea, my son. Do you feel like eating?”

“I can try.”

“I would like that.”

Splinter sat the tray down and sat out the lap tray they had been using for Raphael’s meals. Taking his time, he sat some of the food on Raphael’s tray. Raph eyed the food that was left over. It was a lot of food, and Raph wasn’t sure he could eat all of that.

Splinter sat himself down next to Raphael’s bed. “I hope you do not mind if I take lunch with you, my son. Your brothers are otherwise occupied, and I believe that Mr. Jones and Ms. O’Neil would appreciate some time together.”

Raph smiled. So that’s why there was so much food on the tray. “Yer fine, Sensei.”

For a little bit, the two ate in relative silence, until Raph felt the urge to start coughing again. He tried to finish his bite and swallow before the urge hit, but he didn’t quite make it, some of the food coming out as he coughed.

Immediately, Splinter was at his side, a hand on his shell. “Keep coughing, Raphael, it is okay. Just keep coughing it up.”

Raph didn’t really have much of choice, but when he was finished, he sagged back on the pillows again, trying to catch his breath.

“S-sorry,” he started to apologize, mostly for the mess of food particles he had coughed out.

Splinter immediately dismissed it. “Do not apologize, my son. Believe me, this is far from the worst mess you and your brothers have left on me.” There was a trace of humor in his voice, even as he made sure that Raphael was settled and brushed the food away.

He reached for the tea, and held it to his son, helping Raphael to drink it. “Finish it all,” Splinter said. “And then, when you feel like it, finish what you can eat. I will be here with you.”

Raph couldn’t help the smile that touched his lips. Somehow, even at this age, knowing that his father was there was comforting.

~*~

Raph woke up, not sure what had woken him up until he looked over and saw the silhouette of Leo sitting beside him. Everyone else was asleep, and only the moonlight illuminated the attic room.

“…Leo?”

Leo shifted. “Did I wake you?” he asked.

Raph shook his head. “Dunno.”

Leo hummed.

For a moment, the two sat in silence, until Raph felt the urge to cough building again. He hated coughing at night, because it disturbed his whole family. Still, it couldn’t be denied, and it wasn’t long before Raph was coughing, holding his ribs as he did.

He felt Leo’s arm come around his shoulder, his other bracing Raph from the front, not letting him curl over on himself. Finally, the coughing fit finished, and Leo leaned Raph back.

“Here,” he said, bringing a glass up. “Drink some water.”

Raph took the glass, drinking the water slowly. Leo watched him closely, taking the glass when he was finished, and then sitting back at Raphael’s side. For a moment, neither of them said anything.

“…Do your ribs still hurt?”

“…yeah. But not as bad.”

More silence. Then…

“I’m sorry, Raphael.”

“Don’t be.”

They didn’t say anything else, but Leo sat by Raph’s side for the rest of the night, helping him anytime he needed it.

~*~

“Hey! Look who’s finally downstairs!” Casey said with a grin.

“Yeah, yeah,” Raph said, grinning, even if he was being supported by both Leo and Don on both sides.

“With his fever broken for a few days, and his ribs seeming to heal, it seemed a good time to bring him downstairs,” Don said.

“It’s good to see you down here,” April said with a smile.

Leo and Mikey helped Raph to the couch, where they carefully lowered him down.

“If you feel tired or if you need anything, make sure you tell us,” Don said, hovering over Raph.

“I will, Don, ya don’t have to hover,” Raph said.

“Dude, Don not hovering is like asking Master Splinter not to give us tea,” Mikey said.

“Which is exactly what I am bringing you now,” Splinter said. “And you will drink it.”

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Raphael.” Leonardo said, giving his shoulder a squeeze before moving away.

“Thanks, bro,” Raph said, settling in on the couch and taking the tea that Master Splinter offered him. He let out a shallow sigh of contentment, glad to be out of the attic and among his family again.

“Hey—who wants to watch a movie?” Mikey asked.

“I’ll make the popcorn!” Don volunteered.

“I’ll come help you,” April said.

“What movie did you have mind?” Casey asked, leaning over to look at the collection they had brought with them.

Raph watched as Splinter settled down in a chair, and Leo moved closer to the family as they all gathered around. His ribs still hurt, he still had a cough, and he couldn’t breathe deeply, but he was glad to be here with his family. Maybe none of them were whole and healthy, but they were well on their way to healing at least—and with the way his family gathered around him, he could tell that they felt the same way.

Raph settled back, drank his tea, and listened to his family argue the finer points of the best Star Trek movie.

“Ya better just hope that Five ain’t the only one that still plays.”

He couldn’t help but grin at the cacophony of protests that rose at his words. Yeah. They’d all be fine in time.

#tmnt #tmnt 2003 #tmnt 2k3 #tmnt raphael #tmnt fanfic #tmnt fan fiction

9 notes · View notes

twen-nee7 · 1 year ago

Text

it is the first week of june, 2023. my partner was supposed to be here at the end of april. he moved to portland, oregon, at the beginning of 2022 and we planned to live there together, but things didn’t work out on his end, and we decided to regroup in west virginia for now.

he got very sick in april. there’s a lot going on. i wish i could afford to go see him in the hospital, but i can barely pay the bills. we were supposed to see the cure together this sunday ):

weird little story below the cut.

march, 2022: partner moved to oregon, having landed what he thought was his dream job in appraisals.

i wasn’t thrilled. i don’t like cities, they aggravate my sensory issues, but i was living on disability with my dysfunctional and sometimes-abusive mother; i just wanted out.

i was putting in hundreds of job apps for the portland area, but then my partner stopped me. he hates it. we shouldn’t live there, get a job where i can tolerate and he will figure it out. he planned on being here in december.

i got my bachelors degree and a shitty job as a proofreader at a law firm, secured a place to live near the office in west virginia, and eagerly awaited my partner to get here.

except, he couldn’t find a job. his industry is niche. it’s how it is. march, he said. still no job. finally, he finds one! yay! april!!!

i’m barely making ends meet. any extra expense is impossible as i eat every third day of the week. soon, it’ll be okay and i can have food daily and not cry about money, maybe fix my credit score.

the flight date is inching forward, but my partner gets kidney stones. one is the size of a quarter. he goes to the hospital.

no antibiotics. no urinalysis.

tw: graphic?? his urethra is shredded, and he needs to use a catheter until it heals. they send him home. it develops an infection, so he goes back; he is in the hospital for a day as they siphon liquid out of his penis with a giant needle. there’s no way he’s making his flight. reschedule.

the day before he flies out, he has a high fever on his antibiotics. i tell him to go to the hospital, and he does. they run tests… and he has MRSA. in his penis. they give him antibiotics, but don’t listen to his allergies.

his heart stops for four and a half minutes after they administer antibiotics he is allergic to.

there is an indescribable feeling that comes along with someone you love being resuscitated from actual death. the story of what he saw was harrowing, yet enlightening.

that hospital lets him out the next day after they killed him, giving him pills for MRSA after a mere 24 hours on IV antibiotics. plane is rescheduled.

it is the day before the flight, today, but he isn’t going to be here.

a week ago now, he went to a new hospital. the MRSA spread. he had a stomach ulcer. his penis was turning blue.

due to the mistreatment from the prior hospital (which likely gave him MRSA in the first place, along with a whole slew of other problems), the bacteria was running rampant, eating his penis from the inside out. sounds kinky, but it has eaten through so much muscle and tissue that the outlook isn’t great.

my partner is the most cishet person i know. as such, he is very attached to his genitals. as of this weekend, he has daily talks with therapists to help him learn to cope with the very real possibility that his penis will be useless sexually. reconstructive surgery is in his future, and he will “only” lose “some” feeling if he’s lucky. (the use of therapists indicates to me that “functionally useless” will be the most likely outcome, though)

i feel so badly for him. truly. i can’t imagine what he is going through right now, all alone… it’s terrible.

i’m not worried about my end of the sex life, but i am worried for him. i find it odd, though, and maybe feel somewhat at fault for always saying i’d never date anyone who could get me pregnant… maybe i shouldn’t have thought like that. it’s stupid to feel guilt right now, too; my partner, who i’ve been with for seven years, is suffering a continent away from his friends and family.

but… the whole thing. it’s so odd.

#anecdote #personal #tw medical #medical

4 notes · View notes

sporeblossom · 2 years ago

Text

i feel so!!!!! bad!!!! ive had a low fever for 10 days now, combined with dizziness, nausea, and a slight sense of confusion and disconnect. this has all been very on/off though, with me feeling mostly fine for most of the time, thinking that im no longer sick, going out to do stuff, and then immediately feeling odd, weak, and becoming slightly feverish. it was driving me fucking crazy, and i kept thinking i was over it, only to realize i wasn't. i called my doctor on day five, and they weren't concerned at all, and didn't listen to me when i explained that im autistic with horrible interoception, and that therefore my symptoms could be more severe than what i could actually feel. but no, they literally asked me "okay so like.... what is the problem?" in the most condescending way and almost made me cry. well guess what, on sunday i started feeling a lot worse, with my mouth and tongue being covered in sores, and horrible pain in my throat, teeth, eyes, ears, and face. i finally convinced my doctor to see me, but of course i tested fucking negative for strep and my numbers don't even point to a bacterial infection. but at that point even they agreed it was best to put me on an antibiotic, because it seemed so much like a bacterial sinus infection. but of course it's too late because now i just feel sicker and sicker, and i have so much trauma around being sick because my parents always made it clear how much of an inconvenience it was for them to take care of me, and because no one ever really understood how painful and horrible it is for an autistic person to have their entire sensory system completely overloaded with pain and nausea. like i know the antibiotics will alleviate the symptoms at one point, but it would have been nice to have been given them last week, given my history with strep and sinus infections - i know some people get them much more often, but still, I've had them about 6 times in the last two years i think? and the fact that you shouldn't fucking walk around with a fever for 6 days even if it is a low one. oh and they didn't seem to believe me either when i said that my body temperature is about 36,6 when im healthy, which means that walking around with a temperature that keeps shifting between 37,6 and 38,00 isn't insignificant. i just have a suspicion that even though i have terrible interoception, my weird autistic body is still very sensitive to infection, and sort of sounds the alarm by creating symptoms before it's even detectible. like i have always gotten symptoms of a yeast infection before it was detectable through testing, and if i treated it then, it immediately went away. the only two times ive had a UTI, I've gotten full blown symptoms when my doctor was sure if was in the very, very, very early and weak stages - and by treating it early, it went away so easily. so i suspect that strep and sinus infections work the same way for me, and i wish my doctor would just listen to my gut feeling when it tells me i need to be treated. but now i just have to be alone and fucking overwhelmingly miserable, because being sick just makes me so incomprehensibly anxious and sad.

2 notes · View notes

randomslasher · 4 years ago

Text

Let’s talk about unsolicited ‘constructive’ criticism on fanfiction

Hi there!

If you’ve followed me for any amount of time at all (hell, even if you don’t) you may already be fairly familiar with my stance on this topic. But since I pretty much only talk about it when I’m furiously angry, I thought maybe I might make more progress if I sat down and typed out my thoughts when I wasn’t coming from a place of such strong emotion. I’m going to try to explain my stance on this, and why I feel so strongly the way I do about it. Be prepared for a lot of rambling. :)

So here’s my thesis statement:

Constructive criticism on free fanfiction is often far more destructive than it is helpful when offered without the author’s consent to receive it.

Now, I know a lot of people out there may be upset or at least confused by that statement, so I’m going to take a few minutes to talk about why I think this, and why it’s not, in fact, that radical of a concept. I’m going to do this by breaking down the primary arguments I see about this topic and addressing them one at a time.

1) Constructive criticism helps writers get better!

This, as with most blanket statements, is not going to be true in every case. People respond to criticism in vastly different ways, and for many, criticism actually hurts them. Individuals with RSD, or individuals who have been consistently picked on for their hobbies or have massive insecurities about sharing them, may not take criticism in the ‘constructive’ spirit in which it is intended. Without knowing the individual, it is nearly impossible to know how they best receive criticism, or if they even want it. It’d be like writing a prescription medication without knowing the patient’s symptoms. Sure, maybe an antibiotic would make them better, but only if they have a specific type of illness. But without the details, you’re actually more likely to cause them harm.

But there’s more to this one than just the blanket assumption that unsolicited concrit always helps people improve, so we’re going to break it down even further.

2) People should always want to improve their writing!

Why? No, really--why?

This is one I see people struggle with sometimes. There’s this really pervasive idea that certain pursuits--musical, artistic, literary, athletic, hell, even gaming--should always be undertaken with the intent of improvement.

But that’s another false assumption, and one I think more people might be happier if they could break free of.

Take gaming, for instance. I am not much of a gamer, but I enjoy the occasional first person shooter if it’s got an interesting plot. Bioshock Infinite, Mass Effect, Dragon Age--I had a blast playing those. But I wasn’t very good at them, and playing them on hard would’ve left me frustrated and dissatisfied.

Playing them on easy, though? I had a freaking blast. And since I wasn’t planning to go into competitive gaming or anything like that, wasn’t that just as valid a way to enjoy the games as playing them on expert mode?

Artistic pursuits are no different. If the artist is not doing it for a living, if they’re offering it for free and just doing it in their spare time for fun and they enjoy the way they do it--then why must they want to improve? What horrible fate befalls us if a few random fanfic writers never get much better? What terrible tragedy is it, really, if Susie Ann Fanfic is creating things that make her happy and is happy sharing them with her small circle of friends/fans who also enjoy her work exactly as she’s creating it? What insurmountable catastrophe unfolds before us if Bobby Joe Just-For-Fun still uses comma splices or odd pacing? The reality is, I hope, obvious: nothing. Nothing bad happens, other than maybe you don’t enjoy their writing.

And hey, if you can’t tolerate someone’s writing style, that’s totally fine. I get it. I turn away from fanfic all the time because of small writer foibles that bug me.

But that doesn’t mean I have the right to impose my preferences onto the person out there creating fic for free. If an artist wants to improve, that is their decision, and they will find ways to do so. I promise you they will.

3) But I can help, so I should!

No. You shouldn’t.

Listen. Maybe you are qualified. Maybe you, like me, have degrees in writing, and have done professional editing and tutor work. Maybe you’re really, really good at feedback, and you see one or two quick changes that someone could make that would cause instant improvement in their writing.

You should still keep it to yourself if the writer didn’t ask for it. Why?

Well, first of all, your credentials are unknown. People who don’t know you won’t trust them anyway. As far as anyone knows, you are just another internet rando, so why should anyone be taking advice from you? Unsolicited advice puts people on the defensive, and any well-meaning advice you may have had, even if it was good advice, may end up going unheeded.

But the reality is we are not usually as qualified as we think we are. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve seen constructive crit that was just flat-out wrong--grammar corrections that were actually incorrect, word choice corrections that boiled down to preference rather than propriety. (Those long lists of ‘words you should use instead of ‘said’’, for example--don’t even get me started on those things.)

A ton of writing advice boils down to subjective preference. There are qualified professionals whose advice I’ve eschewed, because I personally disagree with it, and prefer the cadence and flow of my own writing choices over theirs. That doesn’t mean they’re right or I’m wrong (or vice-versa), it means artistic prose is often comprised of many individual and personal choices, and preferring one doesn’t mean another is wrong.

4) No but really, I can help so I should!

Please do not make the mistake of thinking what you are offering is going to be universally perceived as help. As I mentioned before, receptiveness to criticism is an enormously personal thing. What one person may appreciate may send another into a shame spiral where they are incapable of creating anything new because their confidence has been shattered by your “help.” Even the most well-meaning help can end up stripping someone of their confidence and will to create, and if that’s the end result, then how has that helped them? What good does it do to know where a comma goes if you’re never going to write again?

If someone has asked for your help, that’s one thing. It is then on them to ensure they have specified the means by which they can and will accept help, and from whom.

But if they haven’t? It is an enormous assumption to think that you are helping when you may well be destroying a young artist’s will to create.

5) People are putting up their works in a public forum so they should expect to receive criticism.

I’ll admit I’m a little less patient with this one. This is like saying, “People know that other people have hands so eventually they should expect someone to push them down.” The inevitability of someone else being cruel does not excuse your preemptive cruelty, even if it was unintended. But as established, without knowing what a specific writer needs in terms of feedback and concrit, the odds of doing damage are too high not to consider it a good possibility. And the attitude that ‘well their work is out there so it’s free to be critiqued’ is also incredibly flawed.

So what works are available for critique?

- Works you’ve paid for (ie published or commissioned works) - Works where the writer has specifically requested critique - Works that misrepresent a demographic in a harmful way*

Honestly? That’s about it. Unless you commissioned this piece of writing or you have permission from the writer, then you are not in the right to openly criticize just because the work is there. Sure, you can do it, but again--the possibility of causing harm is still very real. If your real end goal is to help, why take that chance?

6) If they don’t like what I’m saying or disagree with me they can always just ignore my advice.

Perhaps, but by then, the damage is done. If someone suffers RSD or is similarly insecure about their writing, a deconstruction tempered with “this is just my opinion” can be just as damaging to the ego and self-confidence as one that purports to be gospel. You are still pointing out perceived errors, and that can still hurt.

7) People who can’t take constructive criticism have fragile egos

Yeah. Maybe they do. Again, so what? If you push someone with brittle bone disease do you blame them for the injury you caused just because it wouldn’t have hurt you?

If you are blaming someone else for the fact that you hurt them, then you are basically either aware that you are in the wrong and are attempting to hide your guilt behind rationalization, OR you have decided that your so-called right to criticize someone on something they did for fun and for free is more important than their feelings. And frankly, if you’ve somehow decided that, then we’ll get no further here, so you might as well quit reading.

8) I really like constructive criticism for my own stuff. It helps me a lot.

That’s awesome! I’m really glad to hear that! Do not let this essay make you think I’m saying “all constructive criticism is bad!” That has never been my point, and only a very bad-faith reading of what I’ve said here could lead someone to that conclusion.

What I and so many others have always been rallying against is unsolicited constructive criticism. The key difference here is consent.

Bottom line is, criticism should default to “only if explicitly requested,” not “whenever I personally want to offer it.” And people who do want it should make it known rather than expecting others to automatically know. But you wanting it doesn’t mean anyone else does, or should. What helps you may harm someone else.

9) So you’re saying people should only say good things? Isn’t that a little dishonest?

If your best friend bought a new outfit and you really thought a lot of it looked awesome but you didn’t really care for the shoes, is it dishonest to compliment the rest of it and just not mention the shoes?

If your family member prepared a meal and you genuinely enjoyed almost all of it but didn’t care for their macaroni salad, is it dishonest to compliment the rest of it and politely decline the macaroni salad?

The idea that you can only be truly “honest” if you insult as well as compliment is, frankly, bullshit. And I think most people who use this argument actually do know that. Again, many people fighting tooth and claw for the “right to criticize” aren’t really looking to help people. They’re looking for an excuse to tear people down.

How do I know this?

Well, the reality is, fanfic is free and plentiful. If you don’t like something, you can walk away. If you only like parts of something, you can chose to compliment those parts or you can still chose to walk away. It isn’t for lack of other things to read that you feel you must help this one individual improve, because there is plenty out there to read.

But if you insist--absolutely insist--on coming in and tearing someone down, what are you really doing? Satisfying your own needs to be right, not your desire to help someone improve. Because the best, most tried-and-true method of improvement (if someone wants to improve--which again, is NOT A REQUIREMENT) is to continue to write.

If you want someone to get better? If that’s genuinely your deep down heart’s desire? Then you should only give them positive, glowing feedback.

Why?

Because that, more than anything else, will encourage them to keep going. It will encourage them to write more.

Tell them what they did well so they can build on it. Tell them what you loved so they’ll keep doing it.

And then, whether they intended to or not, whether it was their goal or not, they will improve.

Hell, they MIGHT even start thinking of you as a trusted, kind source of feedback--to the point that if they DO decide they want critique, they may actually come and ask you for it specifically.

But if your goal is to help, the best, kindest, and most effective way to do that is to show your support. If you feel you can’t do that without dishonesty, then just walk away. Maybe that particular piece of work just isn’t for you.

Absolute bottom line: you have been told, by multiple people, time and time again, that your unsolicited criticism is likely to be causing harm. At the very least, you must now see it as a very real risk of offering that criticism. So now you have to decide if that risk of causing someone real harm is worth it, all in the name of purportedly wanting to offer help for which no one asked. If you’ve been told, repeatedly, that your criticism is hurting people, and you still think it is your right, job, or duty to continue to offer it unsolicited, it may be time to take a good long look inside and ask yourself why.

Phew, okay, I think that wraps things up for me. Thank you for reading this far, and just know that having a desire to help someone through criticism is not a bad thing. It’s literally what we’re taught to do in most school systems, so it’s something that does have to be unlearned in a lot of cases. But I hope I’ve made my case here for the potential damage of offering unsolicited criticism, and how you can do far more good for a writer by offering your support and encouragement anyway! :)

*This is a trickier subject, and not really the purpose of this post. I won’t tell individuals how to react to someone misrepresenting their demographic; if someone is being racist, transphobic, homophobic, abelist, etc. in their writing, that is an entirely different conversation. I will not be telling anyone how they should respond to someone who has transgressed on these topics, though I will speak about the one I am personally familiar with as a disabled person (abelism) and say that in my experience, approaching an individual privately and under an assumption of benign ignorance on the topic is generally the approach that gets me the best results. But again, that is not a topic on which I can speak for everyone or every group. I’m aware of my privilege, and I will not be addressing that topic in this essay.

#long post #lj essay

667 notes · View notes

starman-john-tracy · 3 years ago

Text

for @asteria-star for her birthdayyyyyyyyyyy <3 <3 <3

“Piss off Scott.” And he would, he really would under the force of that glare, only Star’s teeth are gritted hard enough that it looks like she might crack something, and she’s bent double with her fingers pressed hard against the gross, squelchy patch of red that’s spreading alarmingly quickly over the side of her t-shirt.

So instead of pissing off Scott approaches - looking like he’s trying to keep a snake from biting him; palms up and outward in a show of being unarmed, defenseless.

It doesn't work on her. She could throw Scott Tracy further than she trusts him.

“Keep away from me.” Star warns, low and dangerous, her expression cold. "I’m dealing with it, Tracy, it's none of your concern.” The last thing any of them expected from their trip to NYC was for Star to come back from a groceries errand with what looks like a horrible stab wound instead of the tea, Crocky Crunch cereal and fresh fruit she'd gone for.

She’s pretty sure that she hasn't been followed back here, though. She’d been careful - done several loops around the block, trying to blend into the shadows, to be certain that nothing could be traced back to the Tracy's - because while turning up at the hotel bruised, battered and bleeding wasn't exactly ideal, Star hadn’t really had much of a choice in the matter. She has nowhere else to go, after all. She’d hoped to sneak past both of the Tracy's rooms to her own without alerting them to the situation, but Scott, having chosen exactly the wrong moment to head for the bar downstairs, had scuppered that.

Stupid Scott, she thinks, scowling even as blood continues to seep steadily into the fibres of her shirt. Stupid Scott and his terrible timing.

John's been giving lectures here in NYC and Scott had kindly offered to be their pilot - as, outside of an emergency, neither spacefarer can be cleared to be in control of any vehicle, let alone a plane like the Tracy Two, for 48 hours after touchdown.

“But-” Scott opens his mouth to start to protest, but Star is already strategically shuffling away from him, toward the safety of her hotel room - paid for with Tracy money, she notes, as a sign of trust that she'll keep herself out of trouble or else the GDF will want her back in a cell.

The only problem with that is that trouble tends to find her.

With blood-slippery fingers, Star swipes the room card shakily through the scanner on her door and shoves her way through it, kicking it shut behind her before Scott can catch up and get his foot in. There’s a hammering of fists on wood on the other side but Star resolutely ignores it, stumbling instead into the small, adjoining bathroom only for her knees to give out and she’s pitched, face first, onto the floor.

Star opens her eyes, hazy and unamused, to find her cheek pressed against cold tile, her fingers curled and bloodied in front of her face. Star bites back a groan, slapping both palms down and heaving herself to more of a sitting position; slouched and awful, before curling around the ragged, awful slash across her waist.

Oh fuck does it hurt.

She’s just peeling up the bloodied mess of her t-shirt when, of course, there’s a soft, quiet rap of knuckles against the bathroom door, and Star almost rolls her eyes because she knows exactly who Scott’s sicced on her.

“You can come in, John.” There’s an edge of what almost might be misery to her tone. This is what she gets for the GDF insisting that if she’s going to be on Earth, their hotel rooms have to be conjoined by the bathroom. So John can keep an eye on her, or the other way round, Star’s not sure at this point.

“What happened?” Tall, ginger and worried asks, ever so gently, already crouching at her side, and Star’s torn between the temptation to burst into tears, or to hit him for making her feel that way. There’s a chunky, green first aid kit in his hand (definitely IR standard, not the hotel’s), so he must have been warned. She watches him languidly, as he sets it down and clicks it open.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She insists, fully aware that it’s not going to be long before she does anyway. John just hums, non-committal and light, pulling a pair of blue plastic gloves on over his fingers with a snap, snap.

“Star.” John’s watching her, quiet and earnest.

She does her best to crack a weak smile in his direction, but it must fall flat because he looks nothing but soft and serious in return. There’s a creeping fire spreading from her side and wrapping around her ribs, pooling in her lungs and she’s torn between reaching for him, clinging tight and crying and the way her skin itches with the ingrained need to run away.

She stays where she is, frozen and trembling on the cold tiles of a bathroom that's not her own. It’s probably lucky that tile is one of the easier things to clean blood up from.

She would know.

“Hey.” John’s crouching to match her hazy eyeline, fingers hovering close, but not touching. “Think it’d be ok for me to have a look?” He treats her as far more startled bunny in headlights than snake coiled to strike and Star wants to cry; ‘don't you know what I’m capable of! Don’t you know that I could hurt you! Put you and all of your precious brothers in danger just by being near you!’ But she doesn’t, because John’s smart. John already knows all that and he’s here for her anyway.

Her face is an uncomfortably ashy grey and John would rather deal with the horrific amount of blood smeared on her side and fingers and floor before they need to look into transfusion options.

She just nods, stiff and uncomfortable and in pain. Her teeth ache.

“Take your shirt off,” he instructs. If it was anyone else, she’d have made some kind of joke about them having to buy her a drink first, but this is John and he’s about as into that sort of thing as one of the plant’s he’s cultivating up in space would be, so she just sighs and lets him help her peel the sticky, clinging fabric from the wound and up over her head.

Her waist is a weeping wash of red and John pulls a face to show that he’s less than impressed. The long knife wound is clean across and doesn’t look too deep, but it’s raw and juicy with new blood and the skin around it already has a dark wash of purple bruising. John goes a little bit grey-pale at the sight of it - a fresh reminder that they’ve both been on the planet less than 24 hours.

“You ok?” She brings a wobbly hand up to catch on his elbow, just below where he’s rolled his sweater up to his elbows so that she doesn’t get bloody fingerprints on Grandma Tracy’s rough cableknit.

“I’m not the one with the nasty, jagged slice across my stomach.” John points out, dryly, and it’s not like she can deny that. He slides a steadying hand around her back and Star has to resist the urge to hold her breath as he inspects the injury.

She just wants to curl up in bed with a blanket over her head and not exist for a few hours. She wants to go home and that’s an odd feeling to clash with the presence of the careful ginger man who’s rapidly become the definition of the word.

“You didn’t get me strawberries then,” John comments, lightly, as he works. The spaceman’s sweet tooth is practically non-existent until it comes to fruit. She knows his weakness. “This might sting a bit.” He says, though both of them are well aware it’s an understatement.

“Next t-time.” There’s a bit of a wheeze as John swipes a sterile wipe over her stomach, busy cleaning up the wound. She’s got one hand clamped tightly onto his shoulder now, white-knuckled, not quite sure how it had ended up there when she’d been so careful about not getting his sweater bloodied. She hopes he’s not going to have bruises on that pale skin of his in the morning.

She closes her eyes and tips her head back, trying to get better control over her shaky breathing.

“I’m going to start closing this.” He advises, carefully judging her grimace as he presses the wound closed with his fingers, squelchy and horrible, but ready for him to begin applying steri strips from the first aid kit. It’s a tricky job with her curled over like she is, and when every breath she takes pulls at the skin, so John places a firm but careful hand on her shoulder and pushes her back flat against the tile wall so that he can see what he’s doing.

To his credit, he is, at least, quick about it.

"If I suggest that you should probably get this checked by a hospital,” John adds, gently probing at his fix-up-job of the angry, swollen wound, before he puts a triage bandage over it. “are you gonna try to run for it?"

He'd rather have a second opinion on if this needs more than steri strips to hold it closed, and though he could holo-call Virgil, he'd rather not risk her wrath. She doesn’t dignify the idea with an answer though, instead, angling her cheek away from him and breathing hard through her nose to try and get a handle on the pain.

"I'll compromise," He says, with the tone of a man who knows he'll get what he wants either way, "take some morphine and a full spectrum antibiotic and… uh-ha-ha," he holds up a hand to keep her from interrupting him with protests, "There could have been anything on that, uh… knife?” It looks like a knife wound. “Take both of these and I'll not drag you to A&E by your floppy bangs."

Like he could. Star would almost be amused by the attempted bribery if not for the agony her side is in. Each breath tastes like fire now, and the round circles John presses into her palm are a couple of miniature blessings.

"And I don't have to explain myself to Scott." She's not going to anyway, but it feels like an important thing to add to the bargain before she knocks the drugs back.

"No ones gonna make you talk to Scott." John reaffirms, "but you know he's just worried. He's a big brother, it's what he does best. I imagine he'll have called Virgil to freak out about it though.”

Great. Another worrywart with questions. Just what she needs.

Virgil isn’t so bad though, there’s something calming about the family’s gentle giant, and she’s watched him patch John up more than enough times to trust he knows what he’s doing. Unlike Scott, Virgil’s knows when not to stick his nose into something.

“John…” There’s something else worrying her, nagging at her, something far worse than a stab wound because it could cost her her place aboard Thunderbird Five. “You’re not going to... report this to the GDF, uh, are you?” She’s not supposed to go off on her own, for one, and scrapping with some old familiar faces isn’t going to earn her any gold stars on the behave and we’ll let you stay with John chart.

It was a weird mix of punishment and witness protection and a favor from John’s Aunt Val that put her up there in the first place, and while at first, she’d have done almost anything to be anywhere but, Thunderbird Five… well, John’s grown on her.

“I think the bigger problem will be convincing Scott that it’s none of his business.” John points out lightly, “Dare I ask what happened?” Her face is losing color by the second. It seems important to keep her talking. Can’t be unconscious if you’re talking.

“People don’t like to go down without a fight.’ Star offers him the widest grin she can manage, revealing that one of her front teeth is a little chipped. “Gangs with long-standing grudges especially.”

John shakes his head, slow and disparaging.

“Right. Of course. Think you can stand?” When she nods slowly in confirmation, John gently leavers her upright, waiting patiently the few seconds it takes for her to blink the phosphenes from her vision as the blood drains away from her head. Both her hands find his shoulders again, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“It’s lucky it wasn’t too deep.” John sighs, probably more to himself than anyone. She tilts her head back down to find him looking at the covered patch on her side. “Those bruises do look bad though, it really would be better if someone could check you for internal injury.” He glances at her face from beneath a sweep of golden-ginger lashes, waiting for an answer. When she doesn’t offer him one, he sighs. “I could call Virgil and make him run a scan and-”

“Tomorrow, John.” Her head falls, heavy, onto his shoulder with a bit of a thunk. “I just wanna go to bed.” The last bit comes out as not much more than a whisper.

“Right then, come on.” John slides a supportive arm around her back, careful not to let his fingers brush skin. “Bed it is.”

Star swivels around so she can wrap her arms around his waist and press her face into his shoulder, trying to get as close to the warmth as possible. With John here, she doesn't really want to go back to where she's sleeping. Alone everything seems so… dangerous. The hotel filters in the sounds of the streets, people she doesn’t know in the corridors, threats from every angle. It creeps her out a little, and so she clings to John a little tighter. She starts mumbling again, trying to tell him she'll happily sleep on the floor if it means she doesn't have to be alone.

“Star…? Star.” He sighs, supporting more of her slight weight, shaking his head fondly. “Fine, ok, I’ll stay with you. You’re as bad as Alan, wanting to sleep on the floor. What am I going to do with you?” He laughs, and she feels it verberate through his chest. “Come on, you’re not alone.”

He pulls at her shoulder, half spinning her in an almost dance-like move as he lets her knees crumple and Star finds herself sitting on the plush hotel bed. Very gently, John tugs up the comforter and drapes it over her shoulders, like a blanket-cape.

He vanishes, briefly, to go find her a new, clean t-shirt and a pair of sleep sweats and looks entirely unsurprised when he comes back with one of his own, faded t-shirts in hand, pilfered by her long ago.

"I did wonder where this had gone." He points out, softly amused, as he helps manoeuvre it over her head. "You could at least leave me an IOU so I know what you've… borrowed." It's a kinder word than stolen but John's well aware of the chances of him getting things back once they've made their way into Star’s wardrobe.

Just as well his Father was a billionaire, really. John hardly minds a few things going missing here and there when they're going to a girl who has so very little in the way of her own possessions and no money to her name. He's caught her liberating his bank cards more than once, and it had only prompted a conversation about asking first before he sighs and hands the plastic over.

Privately, John thinks that had she not have wanted to be caught, she wouldn't have been.

“Sleep.” He advises softly, well away of just how heavy her lids look as he helps her onto her back and makes sure the covers are tucked securely around her. “I’ll be right here, ok?” John waves a book at her, though she has no memory of him picking it up, and the last thing she sees before sleep takes her, is him smiling softly, reaching out to move a lock of stray hair from off her cheek.

#for Star #no I haven't beta read this what do you take me for a writer #hehehehee #tw: blood #tw: language

9 notes · View notes

is-it-art-tho · 4 years ago

Link

Summary: After a sudden explosion leaves Tim seriously injured, he’s forced to rely on his brothers to get him out of the jam.

The first thing Tim became aware of was the sound of someone screaming. No, not screaming, he realized. It only felt that way because the voice was so close. This person was panting, saying the same thing over and over, anxious and hurried. Tim struggled to make sense of the words, but his thoughts came and went like confetti on a breeze, quick and fleeting and impossible to hang on to.

The next things he became aware of were hands and arms around him, holding him, and a rhythmic jostling sensation. Someone must’ve been carrying him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been carried anywhere. For some reason the thought almost made him laugh. He was seventeen, after all. Practically a man.

“He’s smiling,” a young voice snapped. The first words Tim had been able to hear clearly. “Why is he smiling?”

“Calm down.” The second voice was older, more steady, but the words seemed to come through clenched teeth.

Finally the world around him faded into view. Tim was staring blearily up at Dick’s jaw as they hurried… somewhere. He couldn’t remember. Dick was sweating and covered in scrapes and bruises. A nasty gash at his hairline was bleeding heavily, forcing him to run with one eye closed.

“You’re… bleeding…” Tim croaked.

Dick looked down at him, shocked. A moment later, Damian popped into view. Half of Damian’s mask was missing; one arm was folded protectively into his chest. They both looked terrible. Tim tried to put the pieces together, to remember how they’d gotten like this, but the confetti in his mind swirled impossibly fast, offering only fragments. An abandoned office building. A hostage. Tim running towards something…

“Just relax,” Dick said firmly, apparently reading the growing frustration and anxiety on Tim’s face. “You’re gonna be okay.”

You’re gonna be okay. That’s what Tim had been hearing earlier – the phrase he’d kept hearing over and over again. But it wasn’t himself that he was worried about.

“Wait,” Damian said suddenly, stopping with his finger to his ear. “What do you mean we can’t…” He paused. Tim realized he was talking to Oracle. “Well then we’ll just move it!” Damian shouted. Then another pause as he listened before,

“Fine!”

When Damian didn’t immediately offer an explanation, Dick asked “What is it?”

“We can’t go out this way,” he said, indicating the stairwell they were standing at. Tim noticed that Damian was determinedly looking away from them. His exposed eye glistened with frustrated tears as his hand curled into a fist at his side. For all his posturing and combat experience, he was still just a child. Tim decided to try remember that more often.

“Why not?” Dick pressed.

“It’s blocked.”

“Okay.” Dick took a steadying breath. “Then we’ll just have to find another way. What did Oracle say?”

Damian ground his teeth. “Nothing useful,” he spat.

“Damian–”

“She said to wait, Grayson! Is that what you wanted hear? She told us to ‘stand by.’” Damian never used their real names in the field. He caught himself a moment later, recanting. “I mean Nightwing,” he murmured.

“Did you tell her about…?”

Damian just nodded. Dick cursed under his breath.

“What’s… the big deal,” Tim asked. His voice sounded odd. It was weak and thin. He tried to clear his throat. “You guys got dates or something?”

Dick and Damian just stared at him, horrified and anxious. It took Tim a little longer than it should have to realize that they weren’t upset because they had to wait. They were worried about him.

“I’m fine,” he added hoarsely. “Really. You don’t have to keep carrying me.”

Tim started to climb out of Dick’s grasp, but Dick held tighter. “Tim, don’t–” he began and in that moment, Tim saw it. The reason Damian and Dick had been so stressed. The reason neither of them could stand the idea of waiting even a second longer to get out. The reason Tim had found himself wavering on the edge of consciousness since the moment he’d woken up. The reason, he assumed, he’d passed out in the first place.

“Tim…” Dick said slowly, carefully. Like an officer trying to talk someone down. “It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

Damian just stared, wide eyed.

And Tim realized they were both waiting for him to react, probably to freak out. But really as he stared down at himself, he just felt utterly confused. What he was looking at didn’t make any sense. The confetti of his thoughts kicked up again, sending images flashing through his mind.

A hostage.

A gas leak.

Tim running towards the kidnapper.

A gun he hadn’t noticed before.

A single shot.

An explosion.

An explosion, he thought. It was starting to make sense now. He looked at their surroundings as if for the first time. The entire floor looked like a warzone. Rubble everywhere, the ceiling missing, exposing the entirety of the floor above them.

“I fell…” Tim whispered. He remembered the explosion, the floor giving out beneath him. So suddenly he didn’t have time to think, to try to slow his decent.

Dick just nodded.

Tim returned his gaze to the wood fragment protruding from his abdomen, realizing for the first time how cold and feverish he felt, how the smell of blood mingled with the dust and smoke on the air to create a sickening perfume. How no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t slow his breathing. “I fell,” he whispered again between gasps.

“He’s going into shock,” Damian said.

“I know.”

Their voices began to swirl together and morph, like a song being played backwards in slow motion. The world rolled nauseatingly around him and, without warning, Tim threw his head to the side and vomited an alarming mixture of blood and saliva. And finally, Tim felt it.

The pain.

He had experienced a lot of injuries in his short life, ranging in severity. Broken bones, gun shots, even nearly lost a finger once in an unfortunate skiing incident. But the thing about pain is that after a while, memories of pain never quite do it justice. Sure you can remember that something hurt, but you’re never quite going to remember exactly how bad it really was.

So now, if you’d asked Tim if he’d ever felt anything like this before, he would’ve said no. Whether or not that was entirely true would be uncertain, but as fire bloomed out from the center of his stomach and raced through his veins, as his body convulsed and writhed involuntarily, as his head snapped back and a scream raked itself free from his throat, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

Dick cursed again. “He’s bleeding too much.”

“I thought you stitched him up!”

“I did the best I could with what we have,” Dick explained as Tim’s screams gave way to gritted cries. He tried to muffle the sounds in Dick’s chest.

“I know, buddy.” Dick’s voice was tight. Tim felt himself being lowered gently to the floor. He could barely see through his tears, but he saw Dick lean into view, holding something that looked like a pen. “Tim. I need you to take a deep breath, all right? This is gonna get a little rough, but we’re gonna have to cauterize it to stop the bleeding.”

Damian shoved something into Tim’s mouth, saying, “Bite down on this.” Then he disappeared from view again, and Tim felt his wrists being bound and tied to something above his head so that he couldn’t move his arms.

As his uniform was cut away to expose the wound, Tim tried to protest.

I’m all right! he tried to scream. I’m all right! Please don’t!

But his cries were muffled by the makeshift bite guard. Dick just looked at him apologetically then aimed the pen at his wound. A small beam of light appeared from the tip and the next thing Tim felt was white hot pain, centered on a single point in his abdomen, as if the entire sun hand shrunk down to size of a pinprick and lodged itself in his body.

Tim screamed against the object in his mouth, crying and thrashing, but his arms remained immobile, tied to whatever was above him. Meanwhile Damian struggled to keep his legs pinned with only one good arm.

“Damian,” Dick muttered, his eye focused on his work. The other was still occluded with blood.

“I’m trying!” Damian shot back. As time passed, the smell of burning flesh filled the space.

Tim’s flesh.

The thought sent another wave of nausea rolling through him.

“There,” Dick said at last, sitting back with a sigh. “That should keep your guts in at least until we can get you home. You did good, Tim.”

Tim tried to nod, tried to respond at all, but suddenly his head felt incredibly heavy. It bobbled as he tried to hold it up, tried to keep his eyes open and focused as everything in him seemed to be telling him to let go.

“Tim?” Dick asked, getting closer. “Tim, you gotta keep your eyes open.”

I am, Tim said. Or at least, that’s what he meant to say before everything went dark.

****

Tim dreamt of plane rides and gauze. He felt hands all around him, smelled the sharp tang of antibiotics and disinfectants. Every once in a while he’d hear a familiar voice or two, asking him to do something, to swallow some pill or bitter medicine. He always obliged, or at least he thought he did. He couldn’t be sure. Everything was a blur of moments and faces.

Occasionally he’d dream of fire and blood. Of pain so intense he thought he might die. In those dreams, hands always came to hold him down, he’d feel a prick in his arm, then sink again into blissful emptiness.

****

When Tim finally awoke, he found himself in his room at Wayne Manor. Morning light filtered through the curtains, a breeze blew through, filling the room with the smell of flowers and freshly mowed grass from the grounds. Tim tried to get his bearings, to parse through his dreams and memories. It wasn’t until he tossed aside the covers and saw the bandages across his abdomen that he realized that much of what he remembered had been real.

He stared at his bandages for quite some time, unable to shake the image of the shard of wood sprouting from his body like a ghastly bone. Finally, he eased his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up gingerly. The movement sent jolts of pain through him, forcing him to gasp and wince as he managed to get himself upright. He was sitting on the edge of the bed catching his breath when Damian appeared, his arm in a sling.

“Trying to escape again?” Damian asked.

“A…again?” Tim breathed. Had he tried to get up before? He couldn’t remember that at all.

“Yes, again. Granted, you never made it very far the other times.” Damian entered and leaned against the wall.

“Huh.” Tim could vaguely remember the feeling of the carpet on his face. Had he collapsed before? Judging by the expression on Damian’s face, equal parts amused and concerned, Tim didn’t think that was too far off. “How’s your arm?”

Damian rolled his eyes and scoffed, apparently exasperated by the question. Tim could imagine what he was thinking: Who the hell cares about my arm? He crossed to a corner of the room where there was a walker. “Father wanted me to make sure you didn’t go anywhere for a while without this.” He placed it front and center.

Tim blanched. The idea of using a walker to get around made him physically ill.

Reading his expression, Damian scoffed and sent it clattering across the room. “I told him it was absurd. Why would you need that thing if I’m here?” He said it spitefully, refusing to look directly at Tim all the while.

Tim grinned in spite of himself. “My thoughts exactly.”

The faintest color came into Damian’s cheeks as he joined Tim at the edge of the bed and slipped under one of his arms. With a pained grunt, Tim pushed himself onto his feet, leaning heavily on Damian’s small frame. They eased out into the hall where they found Dick, a few stitches peeking out below his hair.

“Look who’s back amongst the living,” Dick laughed, ducking under Tim’s other arm without hesitation.

Now leaning mostly on his brothers, walking wasn’t so hard. But he couldn’t help but feel somewhat guilty. “You know you guys don’t have to–”

“I swear to God, Drake,” Damian said, silencing him instantly. Tim smirked. Fair enough.

“So uh,” he said, still grinning. “Which one of you is gonna help me use the bathroom?”

#tim drake #tim drake whump #whump #batman fanfic #tim drake fanfic #red robin fanfic #red robin fic #Damian Wayne #dick grayson #batman fic #Splinters and Gas Leaks

55 notes · View notes

darlingandmreames · 4 years ago

Note

Babe! Contagion Inception!au with Eames as a liaison and Arthur as a field researcher—

Agsjdk okay so I meant for this to be under 1000 words but that uhhhhh didn't happen. Oops. It also got a bit angsty so sorry about that 😅 Because this is a Contagion AU, it deals with getting sick. That's obviously a topic that might make people uncomfortable given the state of the world right now. If that's the case, I highly suggest not reading this.

please feel free to send more prompts!!

*******************************************************************************************

Eames was still in Geneva when he got the call. He grinned as Arthur's name came up on his caller ID. Arthur rarely called anyone as a rule, so this was an unexpected surprise; part of him even felt a little smugly satisfied, if he were being completely honest. Something he admittedly generally avoided being when it came to Arthur. He picked up with a chuckle. "Hello, darling. This is a delightful surprise.”

“Eames?”

“The one and only, love.” He grinned a bit wider. “What, couldn't wait until I get in tomorrow to hear my voice? You better be careful, or I might start to think you don't actually hate me." He leaned back in his chair. "I was thinking, though, I still owe you dinner. If I can manage to pull you away from work for an hour or two, that is. Maybe tomorrow night? There's a little noodle place I love that…"

"Eames, I…I think I'm sick."

Eames stopped, stomach dropping. He sat forward, paying close attention; he had to have heard Arthur wrong. He couldn’t have heard him right. "What?"

"I-I woke up with a fever and I-" A harsh cough cut off Arthur's voice, and it was a moment before he was able to speak again. "I've had a cough since early this morning." He took a shaky breath and Eames could hear the edge of fear in his voice. "I contacted the hospital and they're sending a team to bring me in and put me in isolation but it might be a bit before they're here and I-I just needed…I needed to call someone."

No no no no, this isn’t happening. "I can…" Eames had already pulled up flights, scrolling through them quickly and clicking on the soonest option. "I can be there this evening." He logged off his computer and grabbed his jacket and the small packed bag he kept by his desk for emergencies, running out of his office. It'd be close, but he could make the flight if he headed out now. "Send me the hospital information and I'll meet you there."

"You don't have to come, you're coming tomorrow anyways, it's alright, I just…I just needed to hear someone’s voice, that's all, you don't have to…"

"Arthur." Eames cut him off. He tried to shove down the panic he could feel rising in his chest. Arthur was already afraid- god he could only imagine how afraid he must be- he didn't need to make it worse by letting his own fear show. "I’m coming. I'll be there this evening."

Arthur was silent on the other end of the call for a moment, and Eames could hear him sniffle quietly. When he finally spoke again his voice was quiet. "Thank you."

"You're going to be alright, darling." Cobb tried to pull him aside to talk as he ran through the lobby but Eames pushed past him frantically, shaking his head. He had to get to the airport. He had to make that flight. He had to get to Arthur. "I promise."

XXX

Eames hated hospitals. He spent his time more on the public relations end of outbreaks rather than the front lines or research end of things, but he was far too aware of exactly how many deadly diseases one could catch in a place most people associated with healing to ever be comfortable in one. Hospitals were, in his opinion, a breeding ground for antibiotic resistant infections and were best avoided as much as possible. Thankfully his job as a media liaison meant he rarely spent time in them even when on location and he preferred to keep it that way. When he was in them it was usually for press releases or meetings with administration. Not to visit someone. He tried to ignore how particularly strong the harsh antiseptic smell was as he made his way through the halls to where the isolation room was. It was a smell he'd long come to associate with sickness and death, and he didn't need his mind to go down that path right now. He couldn't let it.

Arthur was inside the room talking with one of the doctors, who was seated as far away from Arthur as the room allowed and wearing full protective gear. The sight made the coil of fear that had already settled in Eames' stomach tighten. He'd always known this was a possibility- Arthur worked in the field, gathering information to help them understand what was actually happening, if anyone on the team was going to get sick it was always most likely to be him- but actually seeing him like this was different. Even from where he was standing Eames could see how bad Arthur looked. How sick. His normally pale skin looked grey and clammy under the harsh fluorescents and the hospital gown hung on him loosely, so different from his normal fitted suits. He wasn’t a large man to begin with and the ill-fitting gown made him look even smaller. Arthur wasn't supposed to look like this. He wasn’t supposed to get sick. He was supposed to just confirm the situation they were facing, to gather information and plan their next steps. He was supposed to be fine.

The doctor left the room and Eames walked up to the window, tapping on the glass slightly. Arthur hurried over as soon as he saw Eames, expression equal parts relief and carefully controlled blankness. The look made Eames' stomach drop; he knew that blank expression. It was the one Arthur wore when he was giving bad news but didn't want to make it seem as bad as it really was, when he was worried but didn't want to show it. He reached for the phone and Eames picked up on his end. "You came."

Even over the tinny connection Eames could hear the relief in his voice. "Of course, darling. I told you I'd be here." He paused, pushing down the fear building in the back of his throat and trying to keep it from seeping into his voice. "How're you feeling?"

"Like shit."

"Yeah, you look like it." Arthur laughed slightly and Eames gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. His smile faded though as Arthur's laugh morphed into a rough cough that doubled him over. It was several seconds before it finally subsided, leaving Arthur shaky and out of breath when he finally picked the phone back up. "Are you alright?" It was a stupid question, he obviously wasn't, but Arthur nodded nonetheless. "Do they��do they know for sure?"

Arthur shook his head. "They're still waiting on the test. I-I have the symptoms though and contact with a source, and it's within the incubation period. So they're pretty sure. They should hopefully know by the morning."

Eames nodded, taking a breath to try and steady himself. "You'll be alright. You'll be okay."

"You know the odds, Eames. You know the mortality rate. 30% for H7N9, 60% for H5N1, so regardless of what strain it is I'm not…" Arthur's voice broke slightly and he looked down. "My odds aren't great."

"Arthur. Darling, look at me." Arthur looked up hesitantly after a moment, fear written plainly across his features. Eames wanted nothing more than to pull him in, hug him and tell him it would be okay, but he settled for simply putting his hand up against the glass. It was the most he could do right now. "You're going to be alright. You'll get through this. You're the most stubborn man I've ever met, so if anyone can beat this it's you, okay? You're going to be fine."

Arthur brought his hand up on the other side of the glass, resting his forehead against the window. "I'm scared, Eames." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I don't want to die here. I don't want to die alone."

Something in Eames' chest broke at that. In all their years working together, all the outbreaks they'd investigated and responded to, Eames had never heard Arthur say he was afraid. He moved as close to the window as he could, hating that all he could feel was cold glass. "You're not going to die. And you're sure as hell not going to be alone, alright? I'm going to be here. I'm going to be here until you recover."

"But the job, you have to work with…"

"I talked to Cobb. He's having Ariadne cover for me. It’s alright. I'm not going anywhere, love, I'm staying right here." Arthur nodded and Eames gave him a small smile. "And you have to get better because I still owe you dinner, remember?"

Arthur nodded again and closed his eyes, seeming to hang onto Eames' words. "You can…you can take me to that noodle place you mentioned."

"Yeah, we'll go there and you can pronounce all the dishes wrong like you always do." Arthur let out a quiet sound that might've been a laugh, or maybe a sob. Maybe a bit of both. Eames watched him through the glass, chest aching. He could feel words swirling in the back of his throat, things he'd thought and considered saying but had never gotten around to because he'd been too nervous. Because it was easier to maintain their status quo of banter and flirting without taking the next step. Because he'd always assumed they had time. He took a breath, praying to whoever might have been listening that he hadn't waited too long. "It can be a date, yeah? A real one. Been…been meaning to ask you on one for a while now."

Arthur let out another half laugh, half sob. "You have terrible timing."

"I really do, I'm sorry," Eames laughed quietly, resting his forehead back against the window. "I'll make it up to you though, I promise. When you've recovered."

Arthur's fingers closed into a loose fist against the glass, and Eames could almost imagine the feeling of Arthur's hand in his. "I'd like that." His voice was quiet, and Eames could hear it trembling slightly. "I'd like that a lot."

"Good. It's something to look forward to then." Eames closed his eyes. "You're going to be alright, love. It'll be okay. And I'll be with you through all of it."

“Promise?”

“I promise, darling. Whatever happens…” His breath caught slightly in his throat. It was going to be alright, he wasn't going to lose Arthur. He couldn't. Not now. Not with so many things he still needed to say. “Whatever happens, I’ll be here with you.”

#arthur x eames #arthur/eames #dream husbands #dreamhusbands #inception #contagion #angst #asks #prompts #so excited to have a writing prompt!!! send me more!!!!#local trash goblin writes stuff #local trash goblin speaks

34 notes · View notes

flyonthewallmedstudent · 4 years ago

Text

Watching House as a Physician. Season 2 Episode 3. Infectious diseases & Respiratory.

Welcome to another episode of medicine done badly. I’ve been watching House on Amazon prime. Got the subscription during the pandemic, as like everyone else, I’ve garnered an online shopping habit now.

Alright. In the opening scene a young roof worker falls off the roof presumably due to acute shortness of breath. i.e. trouble breathing. (why do we use the term shortness of breath? it’s the english version of the greek term dyspnoea - the actual preferred language of Western doctors. Fuck do I know why we like Greek and Latin so much. Moving on.) Then cut to Dr. Cuddy examining him in the back of the ambulance.

This would never happen in real life. Yes you can be on the scene and handover to the paramedics or EMT when they arrive as a doctor. But they would take over. I personally wouldn’t have the balls to look after a patient in a different environment, different resources and field I’m not familiar with. You can have field Emergency docs - but requires different training.

Also, ethically, you’re not meant to treat family or friends. Dr. Cuddy later in the episode gets a bit emotionally involved - this is why we don’t treat people close to us. We lose objectivity. We make mistakes. And you see later see Cuddy do some pretty bad ones.

I feel like much of this episode is not really IM. THere’s less differential diagnoses being made. More side tracks into trauma, emergency, intensive care or vascular surgery.

Anyhoo. Trauma and emergency would manage the fall and post fall traumatic injuries. And the trauma protocol was either not shown or completely off in this episode. Surgeons don’t seem to exist in House, at least not very much. Similarly, no other doctors exist except surgeons in Grey’s anatomy. Also you can’t clear a C Spine clinically, which is what Dr. Cuddy does in the back of the ambulance. You’d need a CT first and clearance both radiological (by a radiologist) and a clinician.

Aaaanddd, you can’t just listen to the chest and go no pneumothorax (air in lung or collapsed lung) - yes it’s reassuring, but again you’d need imaging to confirm this, given how serious a condition this is. It is realistic to consider in the setting of a fall, particularly if there are rib fractures that can puncture the lung.

Once the more critical injuries are managed, we would look after the IM side to things.

So. Finally.. differential diagnoses.

Takes what seems and feels like days before they finally sit down and go through differentials. Really not much on that white board. Dark fingers, broken ribs, fever and lung infiltrates. Time line’s not clear on when he developed the fever.

Presenting complaint isn’t really addressed. It could be: - Dyspnoea, leading to the fall, he’s requiring O2 via nasal prongs, which suggests that he’s hypoxic (this is definitely odd in a young guy who’s normally very physical fit if he works as labourer). so much to unpack here, but they never get into this well. Post fall, Cuddy notices his ring and pinky finger becoming dusky, which becomes very central in this episode. Very few things would cause this. pains me that they do no differentials on a white board for this alone.

Then a lot of throwing around medical terms.

PTT prolonged and Fibrinogen off. These are markers of your coagulation pathway and signs that you’re not forming the clots the way you should if you have an injury. DIC is also thrown around. What is DIC? Disseminated intravascular coagulopathy. Certainly severe sepsis and trauma can cause this and lead to severe bleeding. It will throw off your coagulation pathways (things that stop bleeding). It’s not common. I’ve treated it once, while I was rotating in ICU, it is not standard ward medicine practice. Standard therapy is fresh frozen plasma (FFP) and even large metropolitan hospitals only have a limited supply. It’s a huge concern for surgery and post-op (as you patient will just not stop bleeding after you cut them open, and if not treated, potentially bleed to death). Cuddy mentions ARDS. Acute respiratory distress syndrome, it could be a complication, but it’s not a cause. Again, falls more into the realm of critical care (a la ICU). However, patient had SOB prior to the fall. Finally HOuse makes the observation. of “what if he was sick before he had his run in with gravity...” Everyone jumps to Pneumonia. And this is where it gets confusing. If he was unwell, the minute he entered the emergency department with a fever and hypoxia, they would have worked him up for any garden variety pneumonia, bacterial or viral. Cultures would have been sent and imaging. Any young hypoxic patient would prompt a closer look at the chest. And no one waits that long to start antibiotics - “sepsis kills” is a slogan often used around hospitals. You have to initiate empirical therapy within 30 mins, to reduce mortality and morbiditiy.

Ordering an Echocardiogram (USS of the Heart) also makes no sense in the context of a lung infection. I would order one, but not to look at the lungs.

Then there’s the most unrealistic thing about this series. Doctors breaking into patient homes.

It is however, a good way to showcase social history. It’d be boring to watch a doctor ask the patient outright about their living situation etc, but it’s far more interesting to see exactly how they live. We try as much as possible to illustrate to each other and ourselves what the living environment and working environment of our patients are like.

In the context of infection, a good social history can point out exposure. As they exemplify by showing dead rodents and mould. This leads to 2 further differentials: Rat bite fever (caused by streptobacillus, something you’d see in the US, but probably not anywhere else), it’s an unrealistic differential in general. And the 2nd is aspergillosis. Okay.. So aspergillus is a mould commonly found in our environment. In fact it’s everywhere around us.

THere’s few times when it’s an issue. It is a concern in respiratory syndromes like asthma or bronchiectasis. And also as an opportunistic infection in immunocompromised individuals. in the context of asthma, it’s not so much the aspergillus itself that causes issue, it’s our body’s over reaction. It’s a hypersensitivity issue that causes inflammation in the lungs or a pneumonitis. We even gave it a name. Allergic bronchopulmonary aspergillosis. It’s still badness, but it doesn’t happen that quickly. We also have specific tests for this, which were obviously not considered in this episode of medicine done badly. In the immunocompromised host (steroid therapy in transplant patients or those on chemo, etc.), you can get the invasive mould as an opportunistic infection. I don’t really understand why they think it would be the case here. Also, killing the bug with heavy duty anti fungals will only give more issues rather than do anything. They start him on amphotericin. this is not standard practice. And now it flips to why amphotericin is not standard practice or first line treatment for invasive aspergillosis. The patient has now become anuric (not making any urine). (First line drug by the way is voraconazole, superior efficacy in trials with a lower mortality rate and ADRs) Also, note that they have just jumped straight to dire renal failure from the amphotericin. No work up. That said, heavy drugs like amphotericin are often a cause, but It’s often temporary with the appropriate supportive measures (stop insulting agents, give hydration, monitor fluid balance), reversible, even if you require temporary dialysis or haemofiltration. Anyways, would get into AKI another day, that’s a whole other post in and of itself. Then his hand is apparently “dying.” There’s pain on light touch, but it’s not a cold, pulseless limb. Or discoloured. doesn’t add up. This now enters vascular surgeon territory. Again. It’s interesting that there’s never any referrals to any other teams. If he has good circulation, I would imagine they would try to save the hand and consider other differentials.

The only time I can think of an emergency amputation in this situation is necrotising fascitiis. That’s the only thing that would occur that rapidly AND necessitate losing tissue or limb. With a young person who’s this ill, there’s often multiple subspecialties involved by this point. I’m also surprised he’s not in ICU.

Then there’s a buncha filler scenes of the cast of house getting emotional. Ho my god, they’ve taken the hand of a young 20 something physical labourer. Indeed, this is badness. Unlike House, we actually are trained to always consider how a patient’s illness impacts their activities of daily living and livelihood.

I find the general population assumes that we practice medicine in a vacuum, we merely treat the clinical illness and ignore everything else. They imagine that we all must be like house.

Actually we try to put things in perspective as much as possible and knowing our limitations in this area, we often enlist the help of friends - physiotherapists, occupational therapists and social workers. They never exist on TV or on the movies. Ever. Unless it’s to portray how terrible it is to be a social worker. From time to time in this episode, Cuddy laments that being chief of medicine is too administrative and she hasn’t been a doctor in years. That also doesn’t happen in real life. If you’re chief you’re still a doctor. You have admin shit to do deal with yes, but you still practice. It’s like being chief resident, in all the TV shows with one of these, you still seem them working as residents, be it scrubs or grey’s anatomy.

Back to the differential. They finally get to endocarditis. Culture negative to be precise. That indeed would explain the bilateral dusky fingers that led to unnecessary amputation. Septic emboli.

Going to stop here, more out of exhaustion now. I’ve created quite a lengthy post. Happy to reblog thoughts on culture negative endocarditis on request later. This is a worthy topic to study up on for students or residents. At least review Duke’s criteria and think about your clinical features like Roth Spots and Janeway lesions or Ouch Osler’s nodes.

The ending is also a far fetched connection to make, but is one that we would consider. In fact, we would ask in detail every time from day one - have you had any exposure to animals. It’s very rare to see someone so young be that sick out of the blue when you’re immunocompetent and have no underlying predisposing conditions. If there’s no focal source, then we would even ask about injectable recreational drugs, exotic travels, sexual health.

Most of the time, patients that sick are honest to their doctors.

But what about..

Frankly, much as we lie as humans, when our lives our on the line, we’re generally pretty honest (sometimes too honest) with the people we want to save us.

Any patient who is young and comes to hospital requiring inpatient admission, they’d be investigated by subspecialties with expertise in certain areas such as infectious disease. The dept of infectious disease would either be home team, or all over this patient as they special in the realm of both common and rare infectious diseases, culture negative endocarditis would have been considered before a hand amputation.

The term, “department of diagnostic medicine is laughable,” particularly when they consider it the only department in the world in the show.

In actuality, it’s a department that is universal and exists everywhere. it’s Internal medicine. Dr. Vivek Murthy, the next surgeon general (and also the last one under Obama) is an internal medicine physician. Ken Jeong of Community and the Hangover fame is also a physician of internal medicine.

Beginning to get the sense that most episodes are going to end with a diagnosis that is either infectious disease, rheumatology or haematology. But generally those tend to be most interesting and give the most plot twists or meaty differentials V.s. a stroke or acute myocardial infarction is fairly straightforward to diagnose.

This is a very twisty episode in all the wrong directions.

Dyspnoea is a very common presenting complaint. There’s a properly done approach to this in the podcast by the Curbsiders by the way.

#medblrs #medblr

22 notes · View notes

snippychicke · 4 years ago

Text

Aftermath--Three

Chapter Three is here! The last of the set up chapters, after this is mostly just...fluff.

No warnings, I think. A surprise waits inside, however.

First | Previous

Otto had spent most of his adult life working for the commission. A few time jumps to different eras and decades, but mainly staying somewhere in the 1960s since it seemed the more precarious times. Nuclear war liked to develop at the drop of a pin, and even the most well-meaning change could spell Armageddon thanks to trigger-happy Americans and Russians.

(Though a few times it was the UK and France. And once China, which the rest of the world hadn't realized had nuclear weapons until it was too late.)

But no matter where or when he was, he was with his brothers. Oscar might have mingled with the civilian population once in a while, but he, like Axel, either had other responsibilities or would rather relax at their temporary home than deal with the locals.

He wasn't used to civilians and their quiet, dull lives. Granted, Lorelei often had her radio on to break the silence if she were home, and the grainy black and white TV was usually turned to the news. (She also had a habit of chattering while changing the dressings on his eye every morning and every night. Even if half the time her southern drawl made her words hard to understand, her tone and lit were pleasing to listen to.)

It was still dull, with nothing but the pain to distract him from his thoughts. Losing Oscar had been hard enough, the wound still fresh on his heart. Even now, he expected his younger brother to try and ambush him just to get a reaction out of him. Or hear him trying and failing to sing to the more upbeat music on the radio, stumbling over the English words.

Then he lost Axel; his last memory of his older brother being of his hands around his neck and Axel's face twisted in both rage and grief of not controlling his actions. Otto found himself praying to some unknown power that Axel was out there, somewhere, carrying on.

Otto feared if their position had been reversed, he wouldn't be strong enough. He struggled as it was, but the thought of finding Axel gave him strength. Believing his brother was out there gave him the motivation to keep trying to regain his strength.

And startling Lorelei was becoming decent amusement as well.

"Why are you doing pushups?! Shit, your eye is bleeding again!" (It often did at inconvenient times, leading to her fretting like a mother hen. She wouldn't rest until he allowed her to fuss to her heart's content. )

"Why are all my kitchen knives impaled in the garage wall?" (Relearning to aim with just one eye was becoming a chore. And he gave in to the need to take a break just as she returned from work. She quickly forgot about the knives as soon as she saw he was bleeding, again, and about five seconds from passing out.)

"Jesus Mary and Joesph, I swear Otto, you may not be a serial killer, but you definitely have a screw or two loose!" (He swore she hadn't dusted the cobwebs from her ceiling in decades, but considering how small she was compared to him, he couldn't wholly blame her. To his amusement, she tried to steal the feather duster he had found, jumping pathetically to try and reach it as he held it out of reach. It reminded him of Oscar, and then it wasn't quite as amusing.)

It wasn't that he was getting soft towards her; it was simply that he had a sense of honor. The reverse of an eye for an eye; she had been kind insane enough to help him. The lengths she went to and fussing over him as if she genuinely cared, made him feel indebted to her. He could tell Raymond didn't trust him, giving him a dark look when he visited every day.

But he couldn't harm her. He had no reason to (and it certianly wasn't because she tried so hard to show him kindness. Like when she tenderly brushed his hair away from his forehad when she feared a fever. Being so careful during dressing changes, her voice soft and soothing, her touch gentle. She quickly picked up on his body language and did her best to distract him when his thoughts got dark.)

It was nearly two weeks before he was feeling well enough to think about leaving seriously. Two weeks no sign of Axel. He kept an eye on the news for anything bearing his brother's mark, but there was nothing—no trail for him to follow, making him antsy.

The longer he stayed, the farther Axel was. (He refused to believe there was any other reason. Axel was out there. Somewhere.)

It felt a bit wrong to leave when Lorelei was at work with nothing more than a note saying thank you on the kitchen counter and assuring the small room was in perfect condition (or as best as could be, considering the old worn everything.)

It took him a while to find the small cat house, feeling like it was halfway across the suburb of south Dallas (or it could have been that he wasn't quite up to strength just yet.) The ragged curtains were still drawn shut; a few of the cats lounging in the windows enjoying the sun while others relaxed on the small steps thanks to the little cat door Oscar had crudely cut shortly after they had 'moved in.'

The cats welcomed him with plaintive meows, rubbing and threading through his legs. The fact the place smelled like an unclean catbox was enough to confirm Axel was no longer using it as a base. The large bag of dry cat food was spilled across the kitchen and living room, yet the cats were far more interested in him as he searched the small house for any sign of Axel.

But every trace of their residence had been cleaned away per protocol, with not even the vaguest of hints where Axel's next destination was.

Except, for some reason, his and Oscar's bags were still stuffed in the hallway closet, packed and ready for a quick retreat, just as they had left it. The ache in Otto's chest strengthened at seeing his little brother's pack buried beneath his, the white and black milkman hat sticking out from where Oscar had quickly stuffed it before that last mission.

Otto could still remember chastening him to take better care of it if he honestly wanted to keep it, and Oscar had groaned he would fold it correctly when they got back.

Except his little brother didn't return with them that day.

Only the cats were witness to him, pulling the hat out and falling to his knees as he clutched it to his chest, biting his tongue to trap the scream of agony from escaping.

--+--

Lorelei supposed she shouldn't be too surprised when she returned to an empty house. She had noticed a restless shift in Otto for the last few days. The kind she had seen before in others that had stayed with her to recuperate before they too moved on.

At least he was kind enough to tidy up after himself (was it embarrassing that he was a better housekeeper than her?) And he had even left a piece of paper saying thank you that she pinned to her fridge.

She knew Raymond would be relieved when he found out he had left. Even though Otto proved he wasn't about to hurt either of them, her soul brother was about as distrustful as could be when it came to him (granted it was somewhat earned.)

But she was going to miss him and his odd antics. Like how he had sat at the kitchen table, all of her knives laid out before him along with an old whetstone he had found somewhere in her junk drawer, and spend probably at least a few hours just sharpening the dulled blades. (Generally, after he used them for target practice.) His determination to find some odd house chore she had slacked on and finish it without so much as a word.

He had been silent, but it wasn't the oppressive silence like her father's had been, where she knew he was boiling about something (like her existence). Sure, once in a while, it would be broody or antagonistic when Raymond visited, or something reminded him of something dark in his frankly mysterious past. But otherwise, it had been amicable.

Even when she was chatty out of nerves or after a particularly stressful day, he hadn't seemed annoyed. Instead, she sometimes would catch a faint smile as she prattled on. Or even a light huff of laughter when she made a joke, and he shook his head slightly because her jokes were usually terrible puns.

"Oh, I'm an old biddy," she sighed to her comatose patient the next day, setting up another saline flush along with the IV antibiotics. "Here, I keep telling everyone that I'm fine being by myself, yet here I am getting attached to an absolute stranger. I should just get some cats, huh?"

The man was silent, which she expected. The doctors had just been in to check the healing stump of where his leg had been. Which meant the nurse had dosed him with plenty of pain meds just an hour before. Partially to help negate the pain from the procedure itself, but also so he wouldn't try to grab the nearest person as a hostage.

That encounter still left many of the other nurses hesitant to enter the room. It had been the day after the John Doe had been brought in the emergency room, found by a couple of hunters just outside of town with a traumatic amputation of his left lower leg.

One minute he had been asleep (or assumed) as the doctors discussed treatment plans, and the next, he had jumped up, grabbed one of the nurses, and had a ballpoint pen pressed against her throat while swearing something in an odd language as everyone scrambled.

What was with white-haired men and being violent? Granted, she had never seen Otto like she had the John Doe, his pale blue eyes wild with both rage and pain.

Which was why restraints were now strapped to the remaining three limbs. The straps rattled against the metal sidebars as John Doe stirred, making Lorelei pause. His young face was twisted into a grimace, and she moved to brush his forehead out of instinct.

"Bror?" He mumbled, making her stomach twist in guilt. She didn't think her rambling would wake him.

"Shh, it's okay, hun. Just get some rest," She smoothed his messy white hair, smiling as he relaxed back into sleep.

"Lorelei, you know you're crazy, right?" One of her fellow nurses asked as she slipped from the secured room and into the nearby nurses' station, "Going into that room by yourself. You saw what he did to Mary Lou!"

"Well, how would you feel waking up without a leg and a bunch of people hovering over you, talking in a different language," she shot back defensively as she grabbed John Doe's chart.

"Not homicidal," her coworker responded, working on her own chart notes. "I mean, I'd scream for sure, but I doubt I'd be able to move the way he did. Hell, I doubt I'd ever been that quick."

---+---

Lorelei supposed she shouldn't have been happy to see Otto sitting on the front steps of her home the next evening. She had a crappy day, her feet were killing her, and she was planning on just crashing in her bed. Yet seeing him on the cement step, two large backpacks sitting on the dilapidated porch, made the end of her day a little better.

He looked up, the bandage still wrapped around half of his face, but she was pleased not to notice any blood staining the gauze. She wasn't so happy to see the melancholy expression on his face.

She took a seat on the step next to him, feeling warmth radiate him to chase off the chilly December air. She wasn't brave enough to look at him, and instead plucked a piece of dead grass from the lawn. "Don't tell Ray, but you make a decent house guest. Not many men clean up after themselves, let alone fight me about dustin' or sweeping them cobwebs out."

She peeked a glance after a pause and felt relief to see a faint smile on his face as he focused on the dusk colored sky. "I won't ask what you've been up to, as long as it ain't gonna be bringing any police around here."

"No," he answered her joking comment gravely.

"Kay, good." She tore at the blade of grass some more. "So... Are you looking for a place to stay, or are you just here to say bye for good?"

This time he did meet her gaze. His dark eye looked haunted, and she could see the telltale marks of crying by the red rims and puffiness of his lids. Her fingers ached to reach out and try to soothe the crease around his good eye, to bring some sort of comfort, so she shifted to sit on her hand instead, hoping he would think her fingertips were cold. "Because like I said, you're a nice house guest. You do your own share of the chores, and you can stay as long as you like. Just no more using my good steak knives as darts, you got me?"

"Yes," he answered solemnly, making her heart jump. "...Do you like cats?"

His question surprised her for a moment before she smiled. "Yeah, I do. I was just telling my patient that I should get a few."

He nodded his head without elaborating further, though she swore there was a thoughtful expression on his face as he watched the last glimmer of the sun fade away.

The silence this time was broken by her stomach growling, earning an amused glance from Otto as she blushed. "Right. Well, I'm hungry,' she hurriedly jumped up and offered her hand to him. "Shall we?"

He accepted her hand, the callouses firm against her skin. It still surprised her how tall he towered over her. "Let's see; I have fish sticks or hot dogs. It's up to you…."

---+---

Lorelei woke the next morning to a blank and white angular-face cat kneading her pillow; its purr a deep growl. As soon as the cat realized she was awake, it butted its head against her as a greeting, its purr becoming louder.

"Where did you come from?" She asked as she sat up, allowing him to crawl into her lap. The cat, of course, didn't answer but continued to knead her lap. She picked up the cat and descended the stairs, following the smell of sausage and the quiet mewl of other cats. A group of them were sitting expectantly at Otto's feet, jumping when he would toss a piece of an egg at them. All of them boney and looking as if he had found them wandering the streets.

"Dare I ask?" She asked, shifting the cat to protect her modesty as he glanced over at her. She didn't miss the quick once-over before he shrugged and returned towards breakfast.

"You said you liked cats."

Living with him was going to be fun, Lorelei decided as she allowed the cat down to join its brethren at his feet and instead shuffled towards the fridge. "True. I did say that." She just didn't expect so many. They were all weaving around him, eager for a treat, which made it hard to count, but she swore there were at least a dozen. "So… do they have names?"

"Bebis."

She waited for him to elaborate and frowned when he didn't. "Are you saying they are babies, or that they are all named Bebis?"

"Both," he answered, shooting her a quick half-smile as he flicked another piece of an egg at them.

"Oh no, that isn't going to work. I mean, I fully agree they're babies, but they need their own names." She busied herself with setting up the kettle for coffee, trying not to think how easy it was moving around each other, or how much happier she felt compared to the last two days.

It was the cats; she decided as one jumped up on the counter to pester her. Definitely the cats. She blushed when she noticed Otto watching her out of the corner of her vision as she baby-talked to the small tabby that looked like it hadn't eaten in weeks.

Just the cats.

Next Chapter

#the umbrella academy #tua #tua swedes #tua otto #tua Oscar #tua Axel #otto x reader #the umbrella academy fanfic #jason bryden #fic: aftermath

30 notes · View notes

eph-em-era · 4 years ago

Text

HOSPITAL! DRAMA!!

written for @brokenwoodfanpage‘s fic week - prompt was ‘hospital’

this is absolute crack. also available on the ao3

9.30am at Brokenwood Regional Hospital. It’s not the biggest of places, but it’s got a reputation for the cleverest puns, the steamiest situations, and a whole host of miracle cures.

People come from miles around to be cured of their ailments, and for the most part, Diagnostician Mike Shepherd and his team solve their case in a matter of days. It’s truly newsworthy.

Etc.

But you’re not here to listen to the sciencey stuff. You’re here for the drama. The excitement! The perfectly M-rated raunchiness that can only be shown on TV at 8pm. That kind of thing.

Like I said, it’s 9.30am, and shiz is already going down.

Immunologist Jared Morehu strolls out of one of the cleaning cupboards, clothes only slightly dishevelled, with another doctor in tow. He winks at the camera. It’s pretty obvious what’s been going on.

The other doctor - who probably should have a name or something, so we’ll call him Doctor Smith - backs him into a wall, staring him down intensely. The music swells, and we pull into a close up on their faces.

Doctor Smith, with much drama, “Will I ever see you again?”

“I don’t know, e te tau.” Jared says, with a very dramatic sigh, because he might be played by a Maori actor, but he certainly talks like he was written by an all-Pakeha writing team with no cultural consultant. “Taku kuru pounamu. I’ll see you.”

“Ohhh.” Doctor Smith sighs, and glides off dramatically down the hallway away from him, doctor’s coat swept up behind him as he goes. “I’ll never forget you, Jared.”

“Thank you!” Jared calls, but he’s secretly forgotten the other doctor’s name already.

(It’s Doctor Smith).

10am brings our intrepid team together for the first time of the day. There’s a new case. Neurosurgeon Kristen Sims has a mug of coffee she brewed at the office’s kitchenette. The pot is also on the table, but no-one else wants one (because she’s truly terrible at brewing it. Truly.)

Infectious Disease Specialist Sam Breen has his own cup of coffee, which he purchased at the coffee cart down the road, because he might be generally afraid of germs and what tiny little infections can be found floating invisibly through the air, but he’s more afraid of Kristen’s coffee.

Mike’s there, also. He’s got his head stuck in a report, because he might be the lead character on a hospital soap, but he’s also the only one who actually does work.

They’re all just waiting for Jared. But, they all know Jared, and this is a sexy, sexy hospital that occasionally solves medical mysteries. He’ll turn up.

10.05am. Breen and Kristen aren’t even pretending to work now. Mike is still reading his report. Jared is nowhere to be seen.

Breen clears his throat. “Mike-”

At that very moment, Jared runs in, his clothes, once again, heavily dishevelled. (To no-one’s surprise.)

“Sorry.” Jared gasps, out of breath. “Weather- y’know, bro?”

Everyone knows that’s a lie. But, they don’t mention it. It’s commonplace in this workplace. Hardly an issue.

“Of course.” Mike says, and puts down his report. He holds the tension, just a little. “...Did you know we’ve got a case of smallpox in this hospital?”

“Smallpox?” Breen echoes.

Kristen gets it. This is a worry for him. Not just because of the pandemic risk, but also because overtime this week means he’ll probably have to miss his anniversary dinner for the third year in a row.

At this rate, no-one will actually think he has a girlfriend.

Kristen honestly isn’t so sure.

“Yes.” Mike replies, and passes copies of the case file out to them all. “Presenting with a rash, fever, vomiting, vertigo and sores in the mouth. The Ministry of Health is on-route.”

“Shouldn’t it be left to them, then?” Kristen asks. “Stave off a pandemic, and all.”

“Yes…” Mike says, slowly. “But I don’t think it’s smallpox.”

Cue a rip-off of the Shortland St Theme!

12pm puts Kristen and Sam in the lunchroom. A grey-haired man with a cane sits at a table opposite, deep in conversation with a brunet. It's American. Sarcastic. Oddly reminiscent of something else...

Anyway. Kristen has a salad. It looks delightful. Sprouts, feta, kale, sunflower seeds - healthy stuff for healthy people.

Breen has a milkshake. It is… less so. Think of a McDonalds milkshake, then add a whole lot more angst and ice cream. It’s very unhealthy.

“Smallpox?” Kristen asks, eating her salad. It’s all very healthy and beautiful and stuff, and shines with a beautiful healthy glow.

(This writer has solely eaten bread today and is pining for vegetables. Don't judge.)

Breen nods, pensively. “Smallpox.” He sips at his milkshake in a way that is very, very annoying.

The two Americans get up from the other table, with the grey-haired one shooting Breen an irritated look. There's no argument though, and the Americans leave. It's probably for the best.

"Well, you definitely drove them away." Kristen says.

"I did not." Breen stops drinking his milkshake. "It's not like this place needs to be silent, though. Do you know them?"

"Not really." Kristen muses, fork halfway through a kale leaf. "The brunette works in oncology. I think the man with the cane is trying to get Mike's job."

"Well, he won't give that up easily."

Before the pair can say anything resembling anything remotely intelligent, an alarm goes off. The normal bright white lunchroom lights switch to red. Steel shutters slam down over the exit doors and across the window locks.

It is all very dramatic, and certainly far too ridiculous for a middle of the road hospital in rural New Zealand. However, that’s what happens.

“Quarantine?” Breen asks, putting his milkshake down.

“Quarantine.” Kristen affirms, and looks over to him.

A look passes between them. As to what that look is, no-one knows! It’ll be revealed in about three hundred words’ time.

Good.

Down in the morgue, Gina blinks at the shutters for a moment, then turns back to the corpse she’s examining. Things like this don’t phase her, it’s not like she’s under Russian quarantine.

Now we’ve gotten that scene out of the way, we jump to Mike and Jared, who are also trapped together. However, they’re actually doing science, and not just eating their lunch, because they’re actually good doctors, though potentially very foolish ones.

The patient is in front of them. Outside in the corridor, MoH people wearing significant PPE are milling about, generally quite pissed at them. However, they can’t do anything about it, because Mike and Jared have willingly exposed themselves to the virus by locking themselves in the room.

“I really hope you’re sure about this, bro.” Jared says, looking over at his boss a little nervously. “‘Cause if you’re not, you’re putting a lot of faith into our immune systems.”

“If we were going to catch it, we’ve caught it already.” Mike says, and fiddles with a piece of medical equipment. “Now, look at this.”

Great! That wasn’t a pointless scene at all. Now, back to Kristen and Sam.

They’re arm wrestling. Kristen, unsurprisingly, is winning. She pushes Breen’s arm right down towards the table, and yeah, it’s real tense.

Then, with one final push, she slams his arm right down against the tabletop. “I win!” She declares, though there’s really nothing to win.

Sam winces and shakes the pain out of his arm. “Not fair. I’m not left handed.”

“Neither am I.” Kristen replies, and grins over at him, only a smidge toothily.

With an odd look in his eyes, he smirks, reaches out and-

Jared is examining something under a microscope. “What do you think, Mike?”

Mike leans in, takes his place. “You’ve got it-”

Back to Kristen and Sam.

“I can’t believe- You have a girlfriend!”

“Had. Had a girlfriend. And that doesn’t mean anything anyway these days. Just let me-”

Kristen exhales heavily, and trembles a little. “Sam. Please.”

Jared and Mike appear to have hit on something.

“If you look at the historical journals of where the patient was diving - there’s an inconsistency.” Mike says, pointing at a specific paragraph of said journal.

“You’re not kidding, bro.” Jared says, squinting out towards the MoH officials. “Do you think any of them speak Spanish?”

Kristen wanders away from the table, clothes a smidge dishevelled, and looks out the window. They’ve been in lockdown together for a full three hours and honestly, she’s sick of it.

Breen is eating her salad, looking sweaty. Through a mouthful of leaves, he says, “Do you think they’ve forgotten about us?”

She shoots him a withering look. “Doubtful.”

“Mhmm.” He stands up, wanders over to the window as well. He squints out into the sunlight. “Do you see Helen out there? She’s the best cat. 68 years old in cat years or something like that. Very not racist. Last time she let me pat her I almost felt honored.”

“Mhmm.” Kristen replies. Then, after a moment, it hits her. “Breen. The journals. The cat in those journals.”

“The cat?” He blinks, takes a second. His eyes widen. “Rickettsialpox.”

Kristen’s already got her phone out of her pocket, and she’s dialing Mike.

“I can’t believe we were stuck in here for three hours for nothing.” Breen sniffs, looking out at Helen. “She’s a lucky cat, y’know.”

In the end, it’s all wrapped up very simply. It’s not smallpox, but rickettsialpox, something that can easily be treated with antibiotics and a good night’s sleep. The MoH disappear as soon as they came, and Kristen and Sam are let out of the lunchroom.

Another day well spent, the team all sits down around the office table with fish and chips.

“What were you two doing while we were working?” Mike asks, curious despite himself.

“Arm wrestling.” Kristen says.

Breen shrugs. “I was mostly looking at cats.”

“Breen has a boyfriend.” Kristen exclaims. “Never even said. All this time I thought he was with Roxy.”

Breen shrugs, again. “People change.”

“Bro.” Jared says, looking interested, “You’re a hit with the tāne too?”

Breen shrugs, for a third time. “What can I say - who wouldn’t want this?”

Kristen snorts. Prolongedly. “Sorry, I just-”

“What, so you two never-” Jared glances between them, and the implication is obvious.

Mike, obviously not in the mood for gossip, rolls his eyes, takes his fish and chips, and leaves the table.

“What?” Sam yelps.

“Never.” Kristen says, looking horrified. “No. Never.”

“Never in a million trillion years.” Sam finishes, looking over at Kristen. “Never. Ew.”

“Defensive.” Jared raises his hands in mock surrender. “I wasn’t implying anything.”

But the thing is, he’ll never actually know the truth, and neither will you.

#brokenwood fic week 2020 #brokenwood mysteries #the brokenwood mysteries #fic #mine

5 notes · View notes

writingfordreams · 5 years ago

Note

can you do a doctor!taron au? Maybe The ER after the reader gets sick somehow?? Thank you!

of course, wonderful anon! i hope this was alright! more under the cut.. this one got kinda long! TW // shot wound mention, sickness, clinical talk. ♡ click here to request!♡

It started out as a cold. Sure, alright, you’ve had colds before. You take the usual precautions, i.e. cold medicine that had been in your cabinet for who knows how long, a quick stop to the store for the good, strong liquid stuff and hey, chicken noodle soup is buy one get one. Why the heck not? It’s a slow derail into suspicious territory when five days pass and you’re still just as sick as you started, if not worse. A friend from work even stopped by to see if you were alright, how odd is that? Seemed really theatrical, if someone had asked you.

So you take a cab to the ER (After being weirdly scared of passing out at the wheel). You had always been turned off by the idea of a hospital, but the wait for a doctor’s appointment was nonsense at this point, and you need to be checked out now. You’ve got the shakes the same way you did when the AC’s on too low on a winter morning, and is that sweat or tears? The place is clinical, and surprisingly calm. Lots of clean lines and soft, professional murmurs. You had always imagined ER’s as they were in the movies.. fast moving like a highway. Someone with a shot wound screaming bloody murder, and doctors who were just a little bit too good looking to be believable. Instead, a lovely woman gives you a plastic bracelet and asks you to take a seat.

Twenty one minutes (And one half of a podcast) later, you’re being called in. After giving some additional information, you’re asked to wait in a small room with all the usual stuff; scales, blood pressure machines, the things they stick in your ears. You sit up in your spot on the twin sized bed, clicking off your phone and averting your attention once a male doctor walks in. He’s got his back turned for a moment, writing something swiftly on a clipboard before letting out a friendly “Alllllright.” to start things off. When he turns, you gulp audibly. He shoots you a smile, then frowns. “My word. You’re shinier than my trainers.” Naturally, he lifts his foot and points with the same hand holding his pen. “Got ‘em last weekend. Gotta love a pay raise.” He works his way around the room comfortably, discarding old gloves and replacing them with new ones, wiping down the counter of something you don’t wanna know the specifics of, and finally he clears his throat, walking closer. Only then do you realize you hadn’t said a word yet. “Uh,” You begin, then it’s your turn to clear your throat. Except, you wince at the pain. Doctor no-name takes notice. “Sore throat, I presume?” He says pointedly, and you nod. “It’s been like this since earlier this week. Four or so days, I believe.” You say, then the doctor tuts to himself with a saddened yet thoughtful look. He offers a hand, expression unchanging. “Doctor Egerton. Have you been to this location before, my darling?” To which you shake your head, and adjust your posture a bit after noticing your familiar, gradual slump. Dr. Egerton opens his mouth as a signal for you to open yours and sticks a thermometer under your tongue.

Once it beeps, he gives off a pained look after looking at the results. “One-hundred and one. My god, did you drive here?”

“Cab.” You say.

“Right. Okay,” He sighs through the word, and opts to walk to a counter beside the bed, leaning his lower back against it as his arms crossed. He’s looking to you expectantly, “So. Four or so days,” He then picks up that clipboard and scribbles something rather quickly. You wonder if he has that terribly hard to read doctor handwriting. You really shouldn’t find that concept so cute. “Sore throat. Sweats, I’m assuming.” He lists, and you shift uncomfortably at that, a hand coming up to cup your opposite bicep. He looks back down at his clipboard and tuts some more, seemingly in thought. “Says here your insurance covers the cost of the visit,” He smiles at you tightly but warmly, “So.. one less worry, Miss [Y/L/N].” Setting down his clipboard, his arms cross once more. His arms. “I’m gonna take a shot in the dark and say it’s the flu. You’re a shoo-in, unfortunately.” His head tilts with an empathetic look. You can hear the pitter-patter of rain outside the building. They should really put a bigger window in this room, you think. Dr. Egerton turns, writing something on a small piece of paper and adding it to his clipboard as you watch him. His back looks toned under that top, and you find that thought ridiculous. Doctor. Flu. Right. Back on track, for goodness sake.

He turns with another smile, and you could really, seriously die. Half from the flu, and half from him. “I’m gonna put you on some antibiotics. Sound good? Oh – and I’ll get in touch with your primary doctor and all that business.” He gives you that small piece of paper, and your fingers brush like some teen movie. You try not to blush, dammit. “Looks like you got here just in time, aye?” You shoot him an awkward, lopsided smile and let out a genuine chuckle. “I guess.” You say, “So.. that’s it? I’m all cleared?” There’s a pang of disappointment in your gut. You hope it doesn’t show on your face. Or maybe you hope it does, who even knows anymore. You’re a little delirious off this newfound flu and Doctor Handsome keeps shooting you those smiles that would make your knees give in if you could bother to stand. He leans back again, arms crossed like routine. “Yep. What, did you expect the full ER movie experience?” His face is animated endearingly as he speaks, shifts a little where he leaned. “Y’know, the stretcher, the screaming, multiple professionals crowding you. Maybe Mum or the lover is called and comes with a big teddy bear.”

You laugh a little. “God. Just a parent for me, then.” and it’s back to cradling your bicep.

“Oh, sorry about that.” Dr. Egerton offers sheepishly. “You know, it’d be the same for me.” You can’t tell if he says it as an offer of comfort or if it’s the truth. Either way, you’re taking it.

“Teddy bears are better, anyway.” But teddy bears don’t smile at you like that.

He speaks with a certain dreamy agreement. “Of course. Better to have a cuddle with at night, right?”

You scoff, all friendly like you had known him for way longer than you had. “Don’t tell me Dr. Egerton sleeps with a teddy bear.” The face he makes to counter is ridiculously mock offended and lovely. “The lip! And to the man helping aid you. Blimey.” There’s a little fizzle of laughter between you two before a small bit of silence. It’s filled by a small sigh on your part, and a light cough from a busied Dr. Egerton. “Ooookay.” He begins, sing-songy before looking up at you. God, you bet he can sing. “You should be all good to go, Miss Y/L/N.” He hands you one more full sized paper as you stand and offers you a glove covered hand. “I would say I hope we meet again but, if it’s in the context of this room, I sincerely hope not.” He says.

“You should really see me when I’m not.. gross. I might’ve asked you out or something.” Holy shit. Where did that come from? You must really be delirious. Then you see the face he pulls and, yeah. No regrets. Gone with the rain which seemed to have stopped at some point during your visit. He pauses as if to think to himself, then a slow smile comes to light. He takes back that little paper swiftly before turning to lean it on the counter, jotting something down and handing it to you. You don’t think anything of it.

“Get plenty of rest, alright? Drink liquids, no dairy products, have a fruit or two when you’re feeling up to it.” He twists the door knob, “Have a good one, Miss Y/L/N!”

You offer a smile in passing as he leaves the room. It only grows once you notice it was his personal number on the back of that paper.

#taron egerton x reader #taron egerton fanfiction #taron egerton fic #taron egerton imagine #taron x reader #taron egerton fanfic

47 notes · View notes

glorious-blackout · 5 years ago

Text

Summary of Junior Doctor Life - Part Eight(ish):

One of our emergency cases over the weekend involved a man who had a dildo the size of my forearm lodged in his colon, ultimately requiring surgery to remove it. Apparently this is the second time this has happened (with the same dildo no less - it was returned to him the first time around on the logic of "Well... it is his property"). Needless to say, he didn’t get it back this time.

Following this, conversation among the juniors turned to the mature topic of ‘Things Patients Have Shoved up their Bum’. Between us we’ve seen lip-balm, a hammer, a toilet brush, a mobile phone and a potato.

Platelets are cells - or rather tiny fragments of cells- which form the initial, fragile plug on a wound before the clotting cascade can kick into gear (and yes, that’s about as much as I remember from uni). Low platelet counts are associated with drastically increased bleeding risk, which brings me to the time a gentleman presented with persistent nosebleeds, a speckled rash on his lower limbs, easy bruising and painless bleeding into his stoma bag. He was on medication which targets the clotting cascade, but his clotting screen was perfectly fine when we checked it. His platelet count, however, came back as ZERO. I may have uttered ‘Shit’ rather forcibly under my breath.

Most patients’ relatives are lovely, but occasionally you do encounter some odd people. Like the daughter who insisted that - in the thirty seconds it took my colleague to fetch gloves - her mum had had a cardiac arrest requiring mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Now, CPR has a very low success rate even when you have a whole team of medical professionals present, and even young, healthy survivors often need care in ICU afterwards. Given that our patient was awake and chatting away when my colleague returned to her room, it seems more likely that she simply nodded off only to get a rather rude awakening.

Topping my list of horrific illnesses is Necrotising Fasciitis; a life-threatening soft-tissue infection which spreads incredibly rapidly and requires complete surgical removal of the infected/dead tissue alongside a ton of antibiotics. Complications can include septic emboli - fragments of infected tissue which travel in the blood vessels and cause further harm in areas such as the lungs or brain. One patient had emboli stuck in the vessels of both legs, to the point where every single toe was black and gangrenous and he was facing amputation. Not the prettiest sight to be faced with first thing on a Monday morning - I can only imagine how horrible it must be for him.

A particularly gruesome form of Necrotising Fasciitis is called Fournier Gangrene. You can google it at your own risk.

I’ve alluded to junior doctors’ weird obsession with veins before (particularly on posts concerning musicians’ hands...), and apparently we’re all in the habit of seeking out veins that look good. Mostly on ourselves; I have a couple of great ones in my forearm, which is comforting seeing as people with terrible veins tend to get treated like pin-cushions in hospital.

One of our random conversations on this subject ended with two of my male colleagues enthusiastically feeling up each other’s arms and having to be told quite forcibly to get a room.

Most difficult cannula I’ve ever had to do was on a poor 90-year-old lady with dementia who had to be held down by nurses the entire time due to the genuine risk of her clawing my eyes out. She was surprisingly strong for her age and called me a bastard the entire time, but miraculously I managed it (though I did spend the rest of my shift dreading the possibility that her cannula would stop working).

Before Christmas, we spent two weeks filling in a Rota Monitoring diary to ensure we were all leaving on time and getting appropriate breaks. Turns out we failed spectacularly, to the point where our pay banding has increased per month and we’re all due a lump sum of back-pay. Of course, in typical NHS fashion, I’m not expecting to see a penny of said back-pay for several months, but it’s given us all something to look forward to.

Got a taste of what it’s like to be a visiting relative when my dad was admitted to hospital for three days (he’s fine! Just needed some tests and antibiotics). Rather predictably, I ended up getting asked more questions about his illness by assorted family members than his actual consultant did. The fact that most questions concerned dermatology didn’t make me feel any better, considering it ranks rather highly on the list of specialties I remember very little about.

On the bright side, my all-purpose swipe-card meant I could bring my dad magazines, shaving cream, snacks etc. outwith visiting hours, which I think he rather enjoyed.

We’ve now ranked our preferences for our second-year (FY2) jobs which start in August. Keeping my fingers crossed for placements in either GP, A+E or Paediatrics while silently dreading the likelihood of spending four months on a Geriatrics ward...

#junior doctor shenanigans #rambling #medicine #i'm now over halfway through FY1 and I'm still not entirely sure I know what I'm doing #but I'm getting there :P

7 notes · View notes

hopelessromanticspoonie · 5 years ago

Text

To Keep You Safe

Title: Well my heart is gold, and my hands are cold

Chapter: 9/?

Author: hopeless_romantic_spoonie

Summary: Life as the assistant to Tony Stark was busy, but boring. All of that changed when I touched something I shouldn’t have and woke up with strange new abilities. If I thought that trying to figure out my new place in life as an Avenger was tough, I had no idea what was in store for me once I ran into the frustrating God of Mischief, Loki.

Rating: E (later on)

Notes: Friendly reminder that this is un-Beta’d, so please excuse any typos or grammatical errors I no doubt missed during revisions!

Also on Ao3 here :)

Warnings: Language, blood

~~~

For just a few moments, everything was wonderful. I melted into his tight embrace and just breathed him in, comforted and held and safefor what felt like the first time in forever. The steel bands of his arms around my back and middle felt like they were tethering me to him and would never let me go. And that was just fine in my book. I could stand here forever basking in the warmth that his cold body against mine created inside of me, but of course Loki had other ideas.

With a soft kiss to my forehead, he moved his hands to latch onto my waist and pull me away from him just enough to look down at me. I kept my hands firmly clasped behind his neck, unwilling to let go of him for fear that he was going to suddenly change his mind and disappear for another two weeks.

“I meant what I said, little one. Choosing to stand by my side will not be easy,” he warned, clearly giving me an out in this relationship that had only just begun. I could almost see him preparing to erect another set of walls between us at my expected rejection.

I traced idle circles on the back of his neck, earning a small hum of approval from him. “No, it won’t. I’m not going anywhere, though. Are you?” I did my best to hide the apprehension I felt, but it didn’t seem to work too well by the sadness that darkened his eyes.

“Your Avengers will not approve,” he reminded me, ignoring my question.

I frowned. He was definitely killing the happy buzz we had earlier. “You’re right, they won’t. But they’re also not in charge of me, not even Tony. And he knows that now. But I’m not going to let go of something that could be great because it could also be hard. If you are really concerned about it, we could keep it between us for a while. They’ll find out eventually, but we could let ourselves get used to… whatever this is before we let outside opinions in. Would that make you feel better?”

He puzzled over my offer for a few moments before nodding wordlessly. One of his hands left my waist to glide up my arm and cup my cheek. I leaned into his touch despite the combined chill of his skin and the cold weather sending a shiver through me. He was always so cold. That shiver made my legs shake, and I felt a bit of a breeze over my thigh by my holster. I lifted my head from his grasp to look down, and only after I had seen the scratch I’d given myself in Tony’s lab did I feel the sting of it. With all of the emotions and chaos, I hadn’t been paying attention to how I felt externally, which just felt silly now. It looked worse than it was with the amount of blood that had soaked into my leggings, but I was still too content to care too much about it. My superhuman healing powers would take care of it in a few days.

Loki must have followed my gaze because he abruptly knelt in front of me and took my thigh into his large hands. His thumbs barely touched the split fabric on either side of the long cut as he examined it closely. It was a heartwarming sight to see the god kneeling before me, cradling my leg as if any touch stronger than a caress would further injure me. Just as suddenly as he had knelt he was standing up straight again, his body as tense as his voice as he ground out, “Who did this to you?”

“I missed my holster earlier when I got pissed. It’s already scabbing over, it’s fine,” I assured him with a shrug.

He grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the Compound at a brisk pace that I had to scramble to keep up with. For each step he took, I had to take two because of his long legs. “Loki, it’s okay! I’m not that fragile.”

“It could become infected. Your bodies are so prone to illness. I will not risk it with you,” he said gruffly as he stopped to turn to me. “You are mine to care for. Allow me this.”

How could I say no to that earnest face? “Okay, but we don’t have to sprint upstairs. I won’t bleed out or get some super-bacteria between now and then. I’m tired,” I admitted with a short, weary laugh. I hadn’t been getting very much sleep lately, and with how emotionally draining the day had been I honestly just wanted to take a nap.

Apparently he took my admission as me saying that I couldn’t walk anymore, as he easily lifted me into his arms and proceeded to the Compound. I would have to pick my battles with him and this was one that wasn’t worth it. Besides, it was nice to have an excuse to nuzzle my nose into his neck and wrap my arms around his shoulders. I briefly wondered what the others would think when they saw us like this, but after we went inside and passed several interns and various techs without earning even so much as a glance, I lifted my head to pin Loki down with a questioning look.

“Just between us,” he said simply, hugging me tighter to him as he passed through the doorway into his suite before depositing me carefully onto his bed. Ahh, magical creeper Loki had made an appearance again. Or, rather, made a disappearance. Terrible joke.

I took advantage of him disappearing into the bathroom for the first aid kit to take in his room. It had the same bones as mine, but he had done much more to customize the space than I had. The entire wall on either side of his door was covered in overstuffed bookshelves, with more piled up on his coffee table. One nightstand also had several thick tomes, some of them in languages I couldn’t even begin to identify. A thick green blanket was draped haphazardly over the couch, and it was the only comforting personal item in the room other than the sinfully soft black duvet beneath my kneading hands. He even went to the trouble to switch each doorknob, drawer pull, and metal fixture from the standard stainless steel finish found throughout the Compound to gold. Even the stitching in the blanket beneath me was golden. Nothing less than opulence for the Asgardian Prince.

Unbridled desire flashed in his eyes as he returned to me carrying the first aid kit. “How long I’ve waited to have you in this position, darling,” he smirked, eyes raking over my body as he settled beside me on the bed.

“Watch that silver tongue of yours,” I warned as I felt my face and neck heat up beneath his appreciative gaze.

“Don’t tempt me, darling,” he winked. He made to tend to my leg, but it was difficult to reach through the thin tear in my leggings. He raised his brow as he looked up to me. “What do you suggest we do about your bottoms?”

“Um, do you have any shorts? These leggings are trash, but I’m not going pantless,” I said, adding in the last bit when a mischievous glint shone in his roving eyes.

A truly mischievous smirk crossed his sharp features that sent my heart racing. I was about to tell him to wipe it off of his face when the slightly cool air of the room washed over my legs and I got thoroughly distracted by watching my leggings shift into a pair of indecently short shorts in a wave of green light. It was an odd sensation to have the fabric slithering over my skin, and his magic tingled as it traveled up my lower half. I couldn’t even be mad at the length of the shorts for how in awe I was at his powers.

“Well, that’s cool as hell,” I breathed, gathering a fist of the material experimentally. Still felt like clothes, so that was something. What did I expect them to feel like? Paper? Idiot.

A low chuckle pulled my attention back to him. It was pleasant to listen to, especially considering how he was normally laughing at the expense of others. This was a good change of pace. He pulled my leg into his lap and raised his darkened eyes to mine as he dragged his fingertips slowly up my leg until they had reached the edge of the holster high on my thigh. His dangerous smile only grew when I captured my bottom lip in my teeth, biting down on it to stop myself from gasping as his nails lightly traced the edges of the sheath. I’m pretty sure that I forgot how to breathe and my heart thudded erratically in my chest. Did he know what he was doing to me? His rough, calloused fingers rasped deliciously at my skin as they followed the band around my thigh to remove it. With exaggerated slowness, he pulled the holster down my leg and sat it beside me on the bed.

“Damn,” I breathed. “You have no right to talk about temptation.”

He winked at me with smug satisfaction before finally turning to the task at hand. The actual cleaning of the scratch was much less drawn out, and my poor frazzled nerves were grateful for it once he was done. It hadn’t even needed a bandage, but he had still slathered it with antibiotic ointment. Probably just to watch me squirm beneath his firm ministrations. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take of whatever the hell that had been without spontaneously combusting.

When he was finished, he banished the supplies back to his bathroom before turning his attention to the holster resting beside him on the bed. I moved to take my leg from his lap, to give him space and myself a chance to breathe properly, but he stopped my attempt wordlessly with a hand on my calf. He rested his elbows upon my shin to hold my leg to him so he could use his hands to expertly unsheath the pitch-black dagger.

“Have you any training with this?” he asked, weighing the dagger in his palm.

“Um, no. Nat is just working with me on fighting. I was working on controlling my actual powers with Wanda, but that hasn’t exactly panned out with her being gone. Tony gave it to me after, well...” I paused, rubbing at the hidden mass of scar tissue beneath my sweater. “Since it’s rock, I can control it. It helped at the club. But I have absolutely no clue what I’m doing.”

“That is unacceptable. A weapon in untrained hands is more dangerous than in the hands of an enemy.”

“Hey!” I said indignantly, swatting his arm.

He raised a brow at the cut on my thigh.

“Point taken,” I huffed.

Sheathing the blade, Loki set it back down at his side and looked to me, determination setting his jaw. “I will instruct you.”

“You’ll what?” The words blurted from my lips sounded pretty ungrateful, but to be fair, he was a thousand-year-old god telling me that he was going to be my knife fighting teacher. What reality was this that that was going to happen? Tack on the fact that he was currently holding my leg in his clutches because he wanted it there, had admitted that he had some sort of romantic or fond feelings for me, and let me tell him off without reprimanding me and this day was becoming just a little too surreal for me to contain my incredulity.

“I’m an expert combatant, even more so when it comes to dagger work,” he stated, thrusting an arm out at his side and conjuring a dagger into his palm. He traced my leg with the flat edge of the dagger, the smirk on his face growing minutely when my breath hitched at the touch of the cold metal.

“I’m not to have you brandishing a weapon that you cannot command proficiently. After you finish with Natasha, we will work together so that you are just as lethal with this dagger as you were the other night,” he stated, leaving no room for argument.

My blood ran cold at his reference, and I dropped my eyes to my hands as they twisted together in my lap. I had been living in the comfortable, if not exciting, small world that existed in his bedroom as he took care of me, but his words brought up a bloodied, slack face to the forefront of my mind. The more I tried not to think about it, the more I did. It felt like my head was swimming and I vaguely put together that that was most likely because I couldn’t remember how to take a deep breath.

“And if you had not been as brilliant and acted as you did with this beautiful weapon, more damage could have been done to your precious body before I could stop it. I will always be there at your side to try to protect you from the harsh realities of this life you have been thrust into, but it would lessen the burden on my heart if you were more prepared for combat,” he urged, the dagger disappearing from his hands. He moved his hands to firmly knead my calf muscle, which made my heart race for an entirely different reason than the images that plagued my waking and sleeping mind at the worst times.

“Jen?” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice pulled me out of my derailing train of thought. My eyes focused on the impossibly handsome man caressing my leg as I tried to lengthen my shaky breaths.

“Yes, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” I asked, grateful for the distraction.

“Mr. Stark would like a word with you if you’re available.”

“She isn’t, you insufferable machine. Is it an emergency?” Loki asked, his grip tightening on me possessively.

“It isn’t.”

“I’ll talk to him in the morning,” I replied bitingly. Even though he had been the catalyst for my current position in bed with a god, it didn’t mean that I wasn’t still pissed at him for thinking that he could control my life as he had.

“I’ll let him know.”

I reached out and covered his hand with mine, loosening his tight hold on me. I could feel myself shaking as I brought it up to my lips so I could place a tender kiss to his palm before I lost my nerve. “I’ll do it,” I murmured, allowing my lips to brush against his skin with my words. It only made sense that I should learn how to use the weapons at my disposal. He had been right. I was more likely to hurt myself with my knife than actually protect myself. Beginner’s luck could only work for so long. And how could I say no when he had said that teaching me would ’lessen the burden on his heart’? That was heart-melting material coming from his silver tongue.

A fire flickered to life beneath his gaze as he watched me carefully. He extracted his hand from mine and rested on my hip, curling his long fingers into me. “My greatest desire is to keep you safe,” he admitted, his other hand brushing a stray hair behind my ear. His hand lingered on my cheek, allowing his chill to seep into my heated, pink skin.

I closed my eyes to the intensity of his stare and pressed my cheek into his hand with a shaky sigh. His hands lifted from me and the bed pitched as he moved around to position himself behind me. I opened my eyes to watch his long legs spread out on either side of mine. An arm wound around my shoulders and pulled me back until my back was flush to his chest. There was nothing sensual about the movement or the way his body encompassed mine, nor in his words, but that didn’t stop my heart from stuttering. “I will do everything in my great power to keep you safe,” he vowed, pressing his lips to the shell of my ear. “You are mine.”

We stayed that way for some time, listening to each other’s breaths. I took the opportunity to at least rest my eyes since I wasn’t going to get much sleeping done with one of his hands absentmindedly stroking the smooth skin of my stomach that peeked out between my shirt and shorts. I gripped the arm around my shoulders with both of my hands and let my head fall back to rest beneath his chin as I tried to wrap my head around all that had changed in the past few hours.

I had never been good at relationships. Before I lost my family, I hadn’t ever had a truly serious boyfriend. Nothing lasted more than a few months. Besides, I was practically a baby when New York happened. And afterward, opening my heart to someone else never seemed worth the possible heartache it could bring about. There were a few flings here and there, one night stands or truly terrible blind dates, but I never went into it intending to find a long-term partner.

But knowing what I did about Loki, this wasn’t going to be just a little fling. If that was all that he had been interested in he would have approached me before now to get it out of his system; he wouldn’t be holding me now when we could be getting up to much more interestingactivities alone in his room. No, he had said that I was his. Which the strong independent woman in me balked at, but the warm fuzzy feeling that spread out inside of me overruled that. That could quickly change if he decided to be an asshole about it, but I didn’t see that happening. I felt reasonably certain that I understood the realities of pursuing a relationship with a god. At least I thought I did until I phrased it that way.

Loki was all intensity, all the time. Even in the quiet moments, every touch and look was charged with emotion or meaning. Now all of that intensity was directed at me. Could I handle that? Could I handle his anger and mood swings and penchant for getting into trouble? Sure, half of the time the darker side of him wasn’t directed at me, and when it was, it wasn’t because he was upset. He lashed out at people to protect himself, and he may not like my systematic chipping at those barriers to get to the real Loki.

I rolled over against him so that my side was curled against his front and wrapped my arms around his waist, wedging them in between his rigid body and the pillows propped up behind him. He readjusted his grip to encircle me once more, one hand tugging lightly on the ends of my hair as it spilled down my back and the other circling my hip bone idly. I barely registered his contented sigh against the crown of my head before I gave into my exhaustion and sank into a deep sleep in the safety of his arms.

~~~

I woke up to a cold hand cupping my cheek. I grumbled against the unwelcome sensation and tried to burrow away from it, but I was met with an equally freezing hard body beneath mine. My heavy eyes blinked open to take in the unfamiliar dark room around me before I tilted my head up enough to look up at the source of the chill. Loki was staring down at me with a kind expression softening the harshness of his features. Lit by the blue moonlight filtering in through the windows of his room he was quite a stunning sight to behold. He pulled the blanket covering me--he must have summoned it from the couch--tighter around my curled up body when I shivered from his thumb caressing my cheekbone. That was only part of the cause for my reaction, but I wasn’t going to let him know that.

“I hate to wake you when you are sleeping so peacefully in my embrace, but your stomach was growling quite loudly and you missed both lunch and dinner,” he said with an amused smile.

My stomach grumbled loudly as if it had heard him. I unraveled my arms from around him with a groan, the muscles protesting the movement after staying in one position for what I assumed to be hours, judging by the stars twinkling in the sky. “Food should probably happen, yeah. Sorry for passing out on you.”

He shook his head and tipped his chin down just enough to capture my lips in a quick yet thorough kiss that left me breathless. He left another soft kiss on my forehead before leaning back against the headboard, allowing me room to get my bearings. “Never apologize for that. I enjoyed it immensely”

I blushed and scrambled up into a sitting position. Sometime during my nap it seemed that I had wiggled my way around so that I had sprawled as much of myself across him as possible, even my legs had tangled up with his, and the intimacy of that combined with his low gravelly voice was making it entirely too warm in here. “Oh, okay then…” I babbled, grateful for the darkness to hide how much that statement affected me.

The bed pitched again as he followed suit, tucking his legs beneath him so that he was balanced on his knees beside me. He slowly leaned forward over me and trapped me between his arms as his hands propped his upper body up next to my hips. I was forced to lean back as he crowded me, my stomach clenching from the strain of staying upright and his body towering over mine. Just when my abs were about to give out, he snaked an arm around my back and held me upright so that I wasn’t given any other choice but to reciprocate when he kissed me, working his soft lips expertly against mine. I couldn’t help but arch my back into him and clutch my grasping fingers into the fabric of his shirt between his shoulder blades as I tried to hold myself up against the desire that threatened to make me lose complete control of my body.

I sighed into his mouth, and he lifted his body from mine and easily untangled my hands from around his neck, keeping a firm hold on one of them as he tugged me off of the bed. I stumbled slightly, still reeling from the intoxicating kiss and then his sudden backing off. Irrational fear sent my already racing heart to race faster as my overthinking brain created scenarios for why he would stop. I’m a bad kisser. I have morning breath. He isn’t interested in me. He wants to get rid of me. I’m boring him. This was all a bad idea.

“I can see you thinking, love. Relax,” he chuckled, brushing a quick kiss across my knuckles and instantly silencing my fears. He peered out of the open door before leading me to the kitchen, our path illuminated by a scattering of low lit lamps around the large open living area. It was oddly domestic to watch him putter about the kitchen, carrying on as if he hadn’t just kissed me within an inch of my life on his bed.

I momentarily forgot that I was supposed to be getting my food I was so entranced watching him. Only when he paused in the reheating of his leftovers in the microwave--that was an odd sight in itself--to quirk an eyebrow at me did I snap out of my daze and get to it, avoiding looking back at him to hide my blush at getting caught staring. I busied myself with making a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich and pretending not to be very much aware of the Asgardian as he finished his task and stalked up behind me. His arms wrapped around my waist to hold me to him while I spread strawberry jam on a slice of bread. He didn’t say anything as he held me; his nose buried itself into my hair and he just kept me close while I worked.

“Ahem.”

Loki jerked and took several steps away from me quickly at the sound. I whipped my head up and dropped the glass jar, sending sticky glass shards everywhere. Shit. The source of the sound was Nat, who was also known to have difficulty sleeping. She was leaning against the kitchen table several feet away, a knowing smirk on her face and her arms crossed over her chest.

“Oh, don’t mind me. Just wanted to grab a snack. I think I’m good, though…” she winked at me before strolling casually away down the hallway and out of sight.

Nat’s unexpected interruption briefly stopped my heart, but after getting over my shock, I burst out laughing. I stifled it behind my hands, propping myself up against the counter as I just lost it. I had been so wound up all day. Now that I let loose I couldn’t stop. Through the blur of the happy tears streaming down my face, I watched Loki easily collect the broken glass with his magic and toss it into the trash can.

“She set a fire under your ass,” I teased, doing my best to imprint the image of his shocked face and hands held up in the air in my memory forever. He looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“You mock me, love?” he asked, his voice taking on a dangerous timbre and his eyes gleaming wickedly.

“Yep,” I replied, popping the last ‘p’ for full sassy effect, putting my hands on my hips for full mock-serious effect.

“Don’t you know that it’s dangerous to mock a god?” He stalked towards me with a predatory grace that sent a wave of electricity through my body straight to my core. Hot damn.

I took a shaky breath. “You won’t hurt me.”

“Oh, little one, do not get ahead of yourself. I may no longer wish to bring you harm, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t give you pain,” he hissed, his delicious deep voice dripping with sin.

He pressed his chest against my own, forcing me to walk back until I was pinned against the counter. His fingers moved to the small area of exposed skin at my hip where my sweater had ridden up, and he pinched it sharply. I squeaked in shock, about to ask him what the hell his problem was when he followed the brief moment of pain by shoving his hand fully into the side of my shorts, effectively turning my protests into a harsh gasp instead. His calloused fingers dragged along the stinging skin, rubbing away the pain.

“Oh,” I breathed, realization fully dawning on me. It would make sense that the God of Mischief was into that sort of thing.

My reaction must have pleased him judging by his seductive smile. “Did you enjoy that, darling?” he whispered hoarsely.

Lust lit up his penetrating eyes and rendered me mute. He stooped down and claimed my lips for his own with a growl. His hands gripped my hips beneath the shorts tightly, pulling me against him and making me feel the hard evidence of his desire against my thigh. With every stroke of his fingertips and breath straining against my chest, he never ceased his relentless assault on my lips. His lips fought for purchase against my own, taking everything I gave him with relish and demanding more. I finally broke the kiss when I thought my lungs would burst, panting against him as he took the opportunity to drag his mouth down my neck.

At the first touch of his teeth dragging just hard enough against my skin, my legs grew weak. His cool velvet tongue following the scrape of his teeth made me cry out his name softly. “Loki…”

His mouth pulled away from my pulse point and left a steady, dull throb in its wake. Had he just given me a hickey? How old were we? His forehead fell heavily onto my shoulder and the bruising grip of his fingers on my hips lessened as he stroked them gently instead. “We both need to get some rest…”

“Yep,” I said quietly, unable to think of anything more eloquent to say than that. He had thoroughly driven all rational thought from my mind as soon as he forced me against the counter. I didn’t know that I had liked that side of intimacy, but hell he was he sexy as hell when he got all dominant.

He chuckled and extricated himself from my grip--at some point my hands had latched onto his unyielding backside. “Goodnight, little one.”

And he swaggered away with all the confidence of a man who had purposefully left his woman wanting for more. If my legs worked I would have chased after him and demand he finished what he started, but I was worried I might melt into a puddle if I moved. He was certainly living up to his namesake. Damn God of Mischief was a tease.

Gathering myself together, I grabbed my sandwich and headed to my room, thinking about the weird turn the day had taken as I ate my quick late dinner, went about my bedtime routine, and clamored into bed with a tired smile on my face.

“Lights off, F.R.I.D.A.Y.”

#loki #loki odinson #loki laufeyson #loki friggason #loki fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #marvel #language tw #blood tw #to keep you safe

58 notes · View notes

i-am-too-sick · 5 years ago

Text

Midnight Malady (2/2)

Here is the second part of the whumpy injury fic @nerdlycharming and I wrote. Part 1 can be found here.

Word count: ~2600

Quinn woke up to the incessant hum of fluorescent lights. His head was throbbing, his muscles achy. He shifted slightly, feeling the scratchy sheets beneath his body and an odd sensation at his side of his skin pulling itself together.

His lips parted and he let out a low groan, his throat rough and dry. As consciousness began to fully return to him, he realized he was in a lot more pain than could be caused by mere muscle aches. It took a lot out of him, but he managed to peel his eyes open and was greeted by a room awash in sterile white.

Sunlight wafted into the room from a large window, nearly making the fluorescent lights seem unnecessary.

Michael was holding his hand, sleeping lightly, a worried expression on his tear-stained face.

If he'd had the strength to lift his hand, Quinn would have run his fingers through Michael's hair, playing with the blond tresses while he slept. As it was, he only sighed, letting his eyes slip shut and the knowledge that Michael was there comfort him.

A shrill beeping pulled him from his attempt at sleep, a pressure cuff around his right bicep swelling and tightening around his arm. He furrowed his brows, biting back another groan, his muscles protesting as he tensed them against the uncomfortable feeling. His body was so sore, but he knew the cuff would continue to periodically monitor his blood pressure and it was something he was going to have to get used to.

Michael jumped at the noise, looking around in a panic; he was terrified in his half-sleep state that Quinn was dying again. His eyes settled on his boyfriend and he released a breathe he didn't know he had been holding in and he smiled involuntarily even though his heart was still trying to leap from his chest.

Alert now, he still appeared beyond exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot and he was pale. He looked like he did when his insomnia flared up, clearly Michael hadn't slept in a while.

“You're awake! Oh thank god!” Michael nearly shouted, hastily throwing his arms around Quinn.

Quinn hissed, biting back a yelp as the sudden movement jostled him. Pain laced through his body, stemming from the wound at his side. He let out a whimper before he realized what he was doing.

Michael backed away immediately, swearing as he did. “Sorry, Q, I just… I'm so relieved! I thought I'd lost you!” Michael had tears in his eyes, his relief and happiness simply overwhelming.

He hit the nurse call button so they could take a look at Quinn now that he was conscious.

“How are you feeling, baby?”

Quinn closed his eyes. He would love to stare at Michael all day, but his eyelids were so heavy. “Tired…” he commented. He wondered vaguely if he'd been given some sort of sedative or if the whole ordeal had just exhausted him. “You? Are you okay?” His voice was rough and hoarse with disuse, sounding almost painful.

Now that he was more awake, he could see that Michael had a few scrapes and bruises. His boyfriend had obviously been tossed around, but it didn't look too terrible; he’d looked worse from falling off his skateboards.

“I'll be just fine, Q, I'm far more worried about you!”

Quinn hummed, the tiniest ghost of a smile turning his lips.

The door opened then, and a nurse came in, followed by who Quinn assumed was the doctor. She was young, blonde, and had a warm smile.

“Well, hello,” she greeted. “I'm glad to see you're awake. It was a little touch and go there for a while.” Quinn furrowed his brows, confused. “You had to have surgery on your abdomen. We wanted to make sure the knife hadn't penetrated any of your organs; it was difficult to tell from just the scan. But, the good news is that everything was still intact, and with a few weeks of bedrest, your incision will heal too.”

“Weeks?” Quinn asked, nearly choking on his own spit.

The doctor nodded. “Your body suffered some serious trauma, Mr. Wesley. You don't want to overdo it.” She stepped aside to let the nurse record Quinn's vitals, before continuing. “Are you in any pain right now?”

Quinn shook his head, still trying to process being out of class and work for what appeared to be several weeks. He did feel a bit of a dull ache where he supposed his incision was, but it was manageable, so long as he didn't move or breathe in too deeply.

“Now’s not the time to be the tough guy,” the doctor said. “If you are in pain, make sure to let someone know so we can get you squared away. You're going to be with us for a while. We have you on some intravenous antibiotics—simply as a precaution—and don't be alarmed if you develop a low grade fever. That's pretty normal, but,” she added, glancing at Michael, indicating that she was now addressing them both, “you need to page us immediately if your temperature rises above 101.”

Quinn nodded. He sure hoped Michael was paying attention, because his own brain felt foggy with the need for sleep.

“You might not be hungry for the next few days—that's also normal. Call us, though, if you experience severe nausea or vomiting.” She paused, glancing between Michael and Quinn. “Any questions?”

Michael shook his head, wiping away some tears he didn't realise he was shedding. “Uh, actually…” he took a breath, trying to collect himself. “Sorry, uhm… how long do you think he'll be in the hospital? I need to get an idea of timing to disinfect our apartment and rearrange some things.”

He was sure it sounded dumb, but the doctor had really answered all his other questions and even if she hadn't, he certainly couldn't think of the others he had. His head felt dense, yet electrified and buzzing from the swirl of emotions and relief.

“Three to four days at the absolute minimum,” she said. “We need to keep a close eye on infection, and it would be best if he were nearby in case anything happens. The first 72 hours will be critical.”

Quinn only sighed, but didn't say anything, even after the doctor and the nurse dismissed themselves from the room. He was more worried about falling behind on schoolwork and losing hours at work than he was about anything else the doctor said.

“Take a breath, babe.” Michael told him, knowing how he could get about things like this. “I'm sure your teachers will understand, they'll probably give you an extension.” Gently he rubbed his thumb over Quinn's forehead and smiled, he was so relieved that Quinn was alive.

“I already called your boss too and he just wants you to focus on getting better.”

Quinn closed his eyes for a moment and let out another exhale. His pain was starting to morph into more than just an ache, but the doctor had just asked him and he'd said he was fine. There was no need to call them back in now.

“I'm glad you're okay,” he murmured, settling back into his pillow. He'd do it again—protect his boyfriend—even if it meant taking the brunt of the attack. “I want a refund on our dinner date, though.”

That earned a light chuckle from Michael, but it died quickly as he could see that Quinn was in pain. “I'm glad you're alive too, tough guy, but I'm calling the nurse back in to give you pain medicine, I can tell you're uncomfortable!” He winked and slowly made his way out of the room, he held his ribcage and Quinn was able to see that Michael was wincing too.

Quinn wanted to pour himself a cup of water while Michael was out. He'd found the remote to control the incline of his bed, but the initial movement had not been kind on his abdomen. He was even paler now than when he'd first woken up, his shoulders quivering as he gripped the bed’s side rails.

He felt pretty pathetic, especially now that he realized he couldn't even sit up without a flash of pain, but he managed to stay upright, breathing labored, if only because moving to lay down again would bring back the pain that he was so desperate to try and quell on his own.

A nurse rushed in with Michael trailing slowly behind. It was the same nurse from before, “I knew you'd be wanting something for the pain sooner or later,” she said.

She carefully began setting up another bag of fluids and running it through to his IV line. “This should take the edge off, but it could make you a little loopy too.”

“I didn't want it—he did,” Quinn said, tilting his chin in Michael's direction. He told himself that the grimace on his face or the hard set of his jaw, or even the way his arms were draped protectively over his middle had absolutely nothing to do with his actually needing pain medicine.

The nurse was skeptical, a knowing smile on her face. This was obviously not the first time she'd dealt with stubborn patients. She finished pouring Quinn some water and helped him lay back down, sympathetic to the way he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. The meds would take another few minutes to fully kick in.

“What time is it?” Quinn asked once the nurse had left him alone with Michael. His face had gone white, his brows knit as he tried to distract himself. “You should go home and get some rest.” The last thing he wanted was his boyfriend to see him like this.

“I'm not going anywhere! Jesus, Quinn, I thought I was going to lose you!” He took a deep breath closing his eyes. He couldn't believe Quinn was trying to push him away after what had just happened!

He took hold of his boyfriend's hand and kissed it with his slightly swollen, scabbed up lip to his skin.

“Please…I know you probably don't want me to see you weak like this, but Q, I don't think I could be away from you right now.” He admitted with a small whimper.

He'd already cried so much during Quinn's surgery and after when he didn't wake up right away. Quinn was safe now and he was still about to cry again.

“Sorry,” Quinn muttered, wincing as he tried to get comfortable. He felt guilty for trying to push Michael away, especially after everything that happened, but he felt even worse for getting them into this situation. As clever and romantic as Michael's gesture had been, Quinn knew he should have convinced them to take their food and eat it at home.

He knew how dark and secluded the campus could be at night, and sometimes unwanted company did hang out near the clinic during the really late hours, but Quinn had been so enamored with Michael and their little midnight picnic that he'd let it cloud all rational judgement.

It felt like only another moment before Quinn was pulled from his thoughts, blinking through his drug-induced haze. He'd been worrying his lower lip enough that now he tasted blood, and when he looked down, he realized he was squeezing Michael's hand just a little too tight. He loosened his grip immediately.

To his surprise, Michael's grip only tightened around his. Casually he swiped away a tear from his eye with his sleeve.

“You're gonna be okay now.” He said, leaning down and kissing him again, tears in his eyes.

“Are you crying?” Quinn asked dubiously. The medicine was already dragging at his eyelids, and when he reached up to thumb away Michael's tears, his movements were sluggish and uncoordinated. “Lay with me…”

Michael looked around, unsure if this was allowed - pretty sure it wasn't - but deciding he didn't care about getting in trouble, he just wanted to be with the man he loved. He carefully climbed into bed beside Quinn and curled up to his good side, trying not to flat out sob into Quinn's hospital gown. He was supposed to be the strong one right now, for Quinn, but all he could think about was how scared he had been and now how relieved he was. He just couldn't get himself calmed back down.

"I'm so sorry, Quinn…" he whimpered.

Quinn rubbed his back and played with the ends of his hair. His side throbbed from scooting over to accommodate Michael, but right now his boyfriend was scared and needed reassurance, and Quinn was more than willing to let him have it.

“Shhh, everything’s okay. It’s okay.” He felt tears dampening the side of his gown. “Hey, what's wrong? You're shaking like a rabbit,” he said deliriously. He smoothed back Michael's hair, trying to force his boyfriend to look at him. Quinn's eyes were glazed and heavy-lidded from the medication, but the concern on his face was real.

Michael sat up to look at him, struggling to speak. "You al-almost d-died!" He managed to force the 2words out but he was still trembling and he'd started to sob again. His face reddened from the force of attempting to hold his emotions at bay.

"I-it's all m-my f-fault!" He dropped back down against Quinn's side, unable to hold himself up any more. He did it slowly though, gentle enough not to hurt his poor boyfriend. He felt guilty for Quinn having to calm him down but with all his anxiety in general and everything that had happened? He was a mess!

Quinn didn't react immediately. His ability to process information was sluggish and he blinked dazedly before Michael's words truly set in.

“No…” he started. His tongue felt heavy and swollen in his mouth, and he wished he weren't so out of it. His slurred speech probably wasn't doing Michael's guilt any favors. “‘S not your fault. I got—I got there first. Would have hurt you instead. ‘M glad it was me.”

Even as he spoke, absently rubbing Michael's arm because he barely had the strength to lift his own off the bed, he was only vaguely aware that his words were jumbled and nonsensical. Somehow, they made sense in his head, but came out all wrong when he spoke them aloud.

Despite his poor word choice, Michael started to relax slightly and that made Quinn feel better about what he'd said.

Michael continued to cry and whimper but it was slowing down and his shaking was beginning to slow as well. Soon enough his breath began to even out, and Quinn could tell he was falling asleep.

Quinn let out a sigh, wincing at the twinge of pain at his side. He was glad Michael was getting some rest, but his body was an added weight against Quinn's and it made him a little uncomfortable. Still, with the medicine pumping through his veins, the pain was tolerable for now, and it was only another handful of minutes before Michael's rhythmic breathing, warmth, and general closeness had Quinn slipping into slumber as well.

#injury #whump #my ocs #quinn #my writing #nerdlycharming #other people's ocs

17 notes · View notes