#tw: injury

[acerobot]

Found a Silas Birtchtree playlist and kinda fell Deep into a rabbit hole lol. Liked the idea of a Ford in the cult au scenario I've seen(So moving the timeline of the cult until Way Later obv) and was inspired by Silas' whole spiel of "You can't kill a dead man" or something similar.

So yeah. Ford is a little past his obsession and gullible era and has entered the "Oh Fuck Oh Fuck Oh Fuck What Did I Do" era. Kinda snapped and tried to kill this guy and yeah.. Didn't work.

[ferretfyre]

Academy Award for Best Picture:

If I told you about her, what would I say? That they lived happily ever after? I believe they did. That they were in love? That they remained in love? I'm sure that's true. But when I think of her - of Elisa - the only thing that comes to mind is a poem, whispered by someone in love, hundreds of years ago: "Unable to perceive the shape of You, I find You all around me. Your presence fills my eyes with Your love, It humbles my heart, For You are everywhere."

The Shape of Water (2017, dir. Guillermo del Toro)

[gentletrees]

Some doodles from different scenes of @ssreeder 's fanfic LIAB! I literally drop everything when you upload QuQ <3 thank you for putting so much effort into this fic, it really shows! I love it!

Really wanted to capture the two most heartbreaking moments of the last few chapters - two very, very different reunions with very different underlying emotions.

And the last one is a doodle after reading the most recent chapter - Zuko wearing his hair in a messy ponytail, dressed in expensive clothing - moments before disaster :))

[artsymeeshee]

Let the hurt commence

Prev: pg.65, pg.66

(Different layout because I’m uploading this on my iPad instead of computer but original format will be back)

[dragiani2]

The Femur Breaker

(Based on a discord joke between me and @vistfull)

[bynineb]

found potato

[owlygem]

Some Ben Lore and practice sketchy comic pages!

[hiddenvioletsgrow]

AoS writers understood that we love a woman who's feral, lethal, and bloody

[the-moth-wizard-of-mayhem]

*Lepi walks to the store in human form. Giggling at the fact that they are now doing normal human things as a human.

........

*Lepi feels watched. They continue

BAM!

*Lepi gasps and narrowly dodges some sort of magic blast.

What... what on earth......

Your going to have to try harder than that

*Someone appears behind Lepi and shoots them with something. There's a yellow light. It burns.

AHG FUCK!

*Lepi turns around and tries to cast a spell on the attacker. It... it doesn't work?

Hahaha! Your magical energies gone. Neat lil trick i learned.

*Lepi falls backwards and quickly tries to reach into thier hair. It doesn't work.

Nope. Not going to work this time. Turns out that little thing you got going in your head is also powered by magic. Albiet not very much magic.

*The figure approaches and grabs Lepi by the face. Lepi tries to get away. But the figure just grabs thier face tighter.

Curious though.... your still human.....

*Lepi's eyes grow wide. How do they know so much about me? They claw at the figures arm. It is not effective.

...... weak.

*They throw Lepi to the ground. Lepi tries to run. The human whispers something and spikes erupt in front of Lepi. Lepi falls to the ground.

Another fun trick! Turns out magic wasn't that hard to learn after all. Now

*The human grabs Lepi and holds them by the throat. Lepi grabs the persons arm in a desperate attempt to keep from choking.

Do you remember me? Look at my face.

*The human pulls Lepi closer to thier face. Lepi tries to look away

No. Look at my face.

*The human forces Lepi to look at them. Orange... eyes....

You don't know me... do you

........

*The human's expression drops to a blank face. The human is seething.

*The human throws Lepi to the ground again and steps on Lepi's leg. Hard. Breaking it

AHG! S-STOP!!

*Lepi curls up and grabs thier leg whimpering

Pathetic. You don't even remember.

*The human begins walking towards Lepi. Lepi begins trying to desperately crawl away. The figure picks Lepi up again and turns them to look at thier face.

LOOK AT MY FACE!! WHO AM I? DO YOU NOT EVEN HAVE THE BASIC DECENCY TO REMEMBER THE PEOPLE YOU DESTROYED THE LIVES OF?? I SPENT SO LONG REMEMBERING YOU. I KNOW SO MUCH ABOUT YOU NOW. I SPENT ALL THIS TIME LOOKING FOR YOU. SO WHO AM I?

*The human punches Lepi in the face. Giving them a black eye. They look at the human. A palpable fear rises in them. Destroyed...? They remember the cities they raised to ashes. No...nonononono, this isn't happening, not like this.

*Lepi gets up. Limping.

OH?? AHAHAHAHAhahaha... so are you going to try to fight? In that state? You are so much easier to fight than I thought. You are just a weak little moth, after all.

*The human begins running. Readying another punch. Something snaps in Lepi when they hear the human's words. They dodge and grab the human by the head. Flipping them over onto the ground. The human quickly gets up. The spikes appear right where Lepi is. Lepi throws themself out of the way. The human takes this opportunity to fling Lepi across the ground again. The human slowly walks to the ground towards Lepi. Knowing Lepi isn't in a state to go anywhere fast.

Im.... im not... weak

ahah...AHAHAHAHAHA THAT'S ALL YOU CARE ABOUT? NO. NO, YOU ARE WEAK. WEAK AND PATHETIC. LOOK AT HOW EASY THIS IS!!

*The figure grabs Lepi again and throws them against a tree. Lepi coughs blood

YOU TOOK EVERYTHING FROM ME. MY LIFE. MY FAMILY. MY HOME. EVERYTHINGS GONE!! I SPENT ALL THIS TIME TRYING TO FIND YOU AND YOU BARELY PUT UP A FIGHT!!

*The figure punches Lepi again out of frustration. Lepi looks at the person in the eyes. The person has a crazed smile, and tears streaming down their face. Lepi feels an inescapable sense of dread. Lepi takes the punches.

WHY AREN'T YOU FIGHTING BACK??? WEAK!!! YOU WERE SO MUCH STRONGER BEFORE WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU??? ARE ALL WIZARDS THIS WEAK WITHOUT MAGIC??

*The figure continues punching Lepi.

I'LL KILL YOU!! I'LL KILL YOU LIKE YOU KILLED THEM!! ILL HURT EVERYONE YOU LOVE!!

AHahahaha.... no....no that's too easy..... i can't kill you yet. I spent this long trying to find you. Im going to enjoy this. Go. Run. Or i'll make your living moments so fucking painful.

*Lepi takes this opportunity. They desperately stumble away. The person laughs wildly and continues calling Lepi a coward.

*Once Lepi is a good distance away, they go into an alleyway in the town. Lepi leans against the wall and sinks to the ground. They grab their head and panick. Gasping for air. Their voice is raspy and squeaky.

SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT

[bulletsxlattes]

I can see my baby swinging His Parliament's on fire & his hands are up On the balcony and I'm singing Ooh, baby, ooh, baby, I'm in love - x

[humanitys-strongest-brat]

Kintsugi - ch. 1

Summary: After an injury causes you to lose your spot in the World Figure Skating Championship your last hope falls into the hands of Levi Ackerman, a former Olympic competitor.

Pairing: Coach!Levi x Injured fem!Reader

CW: Injury, major themes of depression and hopelessness. 18+ mdni

wc: 3.2k

a/n: Starting off with a huge thank you to @i-lev-you for helping me throughout the process of making this fic and always listening to me yap about my ideas. This is my first chaptered fanfic and I'm very excited to share it~

dedicated song - dividers 1/2

You cry out as your hip collides with the ground. Rolling into a sitting position you pull your left leg up by the knee. Just resting your blade on the ice sends another shock of pain through your ankle and up your leg. You let out a hiss and squeeze your eyes shut. 

You refuse to believe it, deep down you know you just sustained a serious injury. You tell yourself it's not that bad.

get up.

walk it off. 

Come on. 

Your breathing staggers as you twist your body and pull yourself into a kneel, your good foot anchoring on the ice ready to stand back up. The pain is excruciating. 

“Stay Down!” your coach shouts as she races towards you. “Sit back down.” She demands, and you listen, carefully pulling your weight onto your left hip, carefully settling back down onto the ice. 

Coach Tarasov bends down, instructing you to extend your leg out. When you do she carefully applies light pressure to your boot, only nudging it a little to confirm her fears. Your hand immediately flies over your mouth, you curse and wince in pain. “Not good,” She breathes out “Let’s get you up and off the ice” she says, her voice stern and serious, you know now that it’s really bad, you don't want to believe it.

“Coach,” your lip quivers as you look up at her, you feel destroyed. Panic fills your body and your throat is burning. “...Worlds-” Part of you is humiliated. Sure, you’ve cried in front of Coach Tarasov before; during long sessions that never seemed to end, practicing jumps you couldn't land no matter how many times you tried, watching your peers excel on your bad days. This was different.

This was devastating.

Mid February, four weeks before the World Figure Skating Championship. It was just like any other practice. today you were doing triple toe loops and landed wrong.

You can’t contain your sobs as your coach helps you up. She urges you to hold your foot up while she pulls you to the rink’s exit. When you finally sit down on the bench you notice how tight your boot feels. Holding back your sobs causes you to shake as Coach Tarasov kneels in front of you to untie your skate. “I’m just going to look at it.” She tries to sound comforting, but you can hear the disappointment that laces her words, the acceptance in her tone. Like she knew you were done right then and there without even seeing it. 

Your panicked sob catches in your throat as she pulls the boot off, every surge of pain was just as bad as the last. You can't look, you keep your eyes on your coach. When she peels back your nylon sock she stops and stares for a second before letting out a sigh and dropping her head down in defeat. “You need an X-ray,” she says plainly, only confirming your worst fear. “You can't drive, I'll call an ambulance.” she leans back and requests an ice pack from the rink employee standing over the two of you, observing. You're only just now noticing he was there.

“Stay calm, we don't know anything yet.” You know she's lying. You pick your head up and see your fellow competitors have stopped to watch. Most look shocked, some seem to be showing pity. You lock eyes with your friend and fellow contestant Mikasa Ackerman, her eyes well with tears as she watches you. That’s when you finally accept that your dreams are ruined. 

***

You stare up at the blinding lights of the emergency room ceiling, waiting for the results the X-ray ordered to rule out a fracture. Arms folded over your chest, you simmer in the acceptance that everything you worked for your whole life is gone.

This was your first year qualifying and being invited to participate in the World Championship, you knew after your performances in the Grand Prix and Nationals that you had secured your place and a chance to take gold at Worlds. Competitive skaters everywhere spend their lives training and competing for the chance to get where you were, just as you had, only for one accident to take it all away from you and hand it off to the next person. 

You blink back more tears, easily warding them off since the initial shock of everything drained you. The uncertainty of your career plagued your mind. The excitement and determination to compete was gone, replaced with the dread of agonizing failure. All you wanted to do was go home and sulk. An apartment you rented in the city chosen to host this season’s training sessions with a handful of competitors. Everything reminded you of your loss, even the place designed for you to decompress at the end of the day, your apartment was a representation of the things you endured and achieved to make it to the World Championship to begin with, now it’s just a roof over your head to house you while you heal and watch your dreams slip through your fingers like sand. You're wiping away tears with the sleeve of your shirt as the doctor enters the room. 

He strides into the room, greeting you as he pinned your X-ray up and flicked the light on to illuminate the image. You pull yourself upright on the bed, even in this moment your chest fills with hope for good news. “It’s not fractured,” he says, pulling a pen from his breast pocket. You sigh out in relief. A fracture or break was the worst case scenario, and at least you’re safe from that. He lifts his arm, extending his pen out to the board and pointing at the areas of your ankle with speckled white spots “what you’re looking at is a grade two moderate ankle sprain, you have some torn ligaments” he explains, slowly circling his pen over the white spots highlighted by the bright glow behind the picture. “Based on your X-Ray, swelling, and pain level at intake, we’ll have you in a boot for two to four weeks.” Your heart sinks again, it’s not like you forgot that this injury took something from you, but you got excited too fast hearing it wasn’t as bad as you originally feared. You listen and nod as he goes through the details of the first phase of healing, just as you imagined, stay off of it, never put pressure on it, keep it iced and elevated. “After the boot comes off, you’ll start immediately with physical therapy. They will determine when you have the green light to return to your usual activities.” 

You stare at him, feeling it all come back. “Physical therapy? Isn’t that a little intense for just a sprain?” You plead, your voice shaking again. 

He points again to your X-ray, and those damned white streaks on your ankle. “This is not an injury to be taken lightly, I strongly recommend you stick to your treatment plan to prevent possible irreversible damage. Especially as an athlete.” He warns. 

You get your boot, and you’re promptly discharged and wheeled out to coach Tarasov’s car. They help you into the passenger seat and that’s it. You’re left to face this all on your own now. 

Before you leave, you hand coach your discharge documents and lean your head on the window. The sound of the pages turning as she skims through sends pangs straight to your chest. She rests a hand on your shoulder but you refuse to face her. “I’ll make the calls, I need copies of this and your X-rays” she said with caution. 

You cried the entire drive home. 

***

The three weeks of recovery before you’re cleared to take the boot off could be described as nothing less than hell. You barely left your bed for the first five days, you ignored calls, you didn’t take care of yourself. Your parents found out online, you only answered their persistent calls so they would stop worrying. Days started blending together quickly, when you weren’t crying you felt nothing, even your phone proved itself a shitty distraction. Your name was everywhere, the news of your injury and drop from the championship chased you on every app you used. 

After a week you deleted all your social media.

The start of the second week it dawned on you that the competition was just over two weeks away, and you wouldn’t be there. It made you sick to even think about watching it and keeping up with the scores. Several times a day you wonder how you would have done had your injury never happened. Would you have taken gold? Thinking on it now, if you knew this was the alternative you would have been happy to place at all, just to be there. You took it all for granted, high on success. 

At the end of the third week, you’re out of the boot and booked to start physical therapy, just this week you started eating and taking care of yourself again, you leave the blinds and windows open to let in some fresh air. Every step you take still reminds you of what you could’ve had, you walk with a limp. 

***

You decide to watch the Women’s singles program only, anything more would have only twisted the knife. You watch with a bottle of wine and a box of tissues. 

You feel genuinely happy to watch Mikasa perform, part of you was living through her as you watched. Mostly you’re happy she gets to experience this for herself, you know how much it means to her.

She placed 6th overall, you cried tears of joy for her.

***

You’re given an estimate of eight to twelve weeks of physical therapy. when you do the math, you can’t hold back your grin. Even the longest course of recovery would have you back on ice just in time for the start of the next skating season. You decide right then that you’ll be back on the ice competing in next year's World Championship no matter what it took.

Mid April you finish the first phase of physical therapy, three weeks of balance training taking a decent chunk of confidence from you. to put it bluntly, it was horrible. The pain was almost completely gone, it only hurt during specific exercises. Your balance was abysmal, any added weight beyond walking had your ankle shaking. You knew you could do it, you just had to make it past this part. 

Early May, during strength training with your physical therapist, your phone buzzes in your pocket. After your program you excuse yourself for a much needed break and check your phone to see a text from Mikasa, you catch yourself smiling. It’s been weeks since anyone reached out to you. 

Mikasa ⛸️💨

“Been too long, I miss you! Free for a quick lunch today?” 

You can barely contain your happiness, it shocks you how quickly you text back, letting her know what time you’d be available, and to your surprise it works out. You agree on a location and after your session you rush home to get ready, taking extra time to ensure you don’t look like a husk of your former self when you see her for the first time in over two months. 

When you approach her at the table, she stands up and immediately pulls you into a tight hug, gripping your shirt in her fists as she squeezes. You congratulate her on her placement in the championship and quickly you’re catching up on everything the two of you missed during your time apart. 

“So, how’s that going?” Mikasa asks about your physical therapy after you mention that you're about half way through, almost cleared to begin off-ice sport specific exercises. 

You look down, biting your lip before you respond “honestly? Not well.” You begin explaining how you’ve felt the past couple of weeks, even mentioning that you decided to return to competitive skating this upcoming July. “It doesn't feel like it’s enough. My ankle is still shit, it’s enough to gain back mobility but I can tell I’m not where I need to be.” Your voice shakes a little. Mikasa is a wonderful listener, she never breaks eye contact or interrupts, she lets you unload all your grief. “I know I can do better, they won’t let me push myself, my home based exercises are strict.” You explain. 

Mikasa doesn’t say much, and that’s okay, you were happy just to be here with her after weeks of seclusion, only leaving your apartment for physical therapy. It took weight off your shoulders to talk with someone about what you were going through, and no one could understand you better in this moment than Mikasa. 

When your lunch arrives the conversation dulls down to casual pleasant tidbits of information of Mikasa’s life post competition, eventually she tells you that she’s recompeting herself. You couldn’t be more happy for her. 

Somewhere in the endless chatting you can tell something is on her mind, she detaches from the conversation a couple times, staring down at the table before snapping out of it and apologizing. Eventually she excuses herself. “Sorry, I’ll be right back” she promises and makes her way outside. Your brows stay knit as you crane your body to watch her walk out until she’s just out of view. You sigh when you turn back, that was definitely odd, but you decide maybe it’s best not to press when she comes back. 

She’s gone for no longer than five minutes, when she sits back down it’s like nothing was ever bothering her to begin with. You’re tempted to ask but it couldn’t be too bad if she looked this relieved coming back. The two of you finish your meals and send your bills off to be paid, she grins at you from across the table. 

“What?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest.

Mikasa quickly reaches in her bag, grabbing her planner and pen from the bottom and dropping it on the table, she quickly flips to one of the back pages and scribbles something down fast. “Here.” She says, ripping the sheet from its binding and sliding it across the table towards you. 

You raise a brow and stare at the page that’s text side down. After a moment you finally bite “what is this?” You ask, pulling it towards you and lifting it up, looking back towards Mikasa. 

“My cousin is a rehabilitation coach,” she begins, letting her excitement take over. “For competitive figure skaters. He agreed to work with you for me.” 

You have no words, you just blink at her. When you finally take a quick glance at the page you notice a phone number and email address written across the page “Mikasa, this is..” you don’t know how to feel, this came up so quick “I don’t know-.. I appreciate-“ 

She cuts you off “Please take the offer, I insist. He has an opening.” She says “Levi’s great, high success rate. I can get you more information if you need it.” 

Your heart drops into the pit of your stomach “Levi..Ackerman..?” you breathe out, now staring down at the paper in your hands. You should have known he was related to Mikasa. Hell, you don’t even know why you never thought about it to begin with. They share the same last name. “He was injured at the Olympics all those years ago.” you think aloud, unable to take your eyes off the page. 

“That’s the one,” Mikasa beams “and he doesn’t like to talk about it. So maybe don’t start with that when you call him later.” 

You look up from the page at Mikasa “I don’t know what to say.” Truthfully you didn’t even know rehabilitation coaches even existed, your current coach and physical therapist never mentioned that as an option. 

“Don’t say anything. Just call him later, and tell me how that goes.” Her voice was firm, but her eyes were nothing but gentle. 

When the two of you eventually get up and walk out together you stop in the parking lot to give Mikasa one final hug before you split again. “Thank you so much.” you whisper.

“Don’t mention it,” she replies, pulling back and letting her hands rest just above your elbows, “and don’t be a stranger anymore.”

***

When you arrive home, you catch yourself staring down at the contact information that was given to you. Nervousness didn’t even begin to describe how you felt. This wasn’t just any coach, or another physical therapist. It was Levi Ackerman. He was a part of the best figure skating pairs, finally making it to The Olympics with his partner before the accident. 

You haven’t even come close to a skating rink since nearly breaking your ankle almost three months ago now. Working with a rehabilitation coach to get to your previous level of skating wasn’t even a fleeting thought. Hell, you didn’t even know those kinds of coaches existed until today. What if you were just wasting his time? Surely a coach like him is a privilege, right? Letting your nerves get the best of you, the contact info sits idly on your bedside table as you drift off into a world of ice and gold medals. 

***

The next morning, your dream fresh in your mind, you grab the contact from your nightstand. Ignoring the blaring anxiety, you dial the number without too much thought. The more you think about it, the more inviting backing out feels. The dial tone sounds, causing you to begin pacing your apartment. No more blaming the injury, no more blaming the physical therapy program. You couldn’t just keep sitting around, wondering about the what ifs when you were handed a golden ticket. You’d be crazy to pass this up, even if it was just a chance. 

“Took you long enough.” A rich warm voice answers the phone, stopping you dead in your tracks in the kitchen. How the hell did he even know it was you? How were you even meant to respond to a greeting like that anyway. “I was beginning to think you changed your mind.” He states

“Uh, no.” You reply quickly, tapping your fingers on the kitchen counter to give your free hand something to do. “No I didn’t change my mind, I’m interested.” you cursed yourself, trying to sound so formal. This was the type of thing coach Tarasov always took care of, you were completely out of your element. 

“Great,” he says, you have trouble reading his tone but you try not to think too much of it. Over the phone you hear a series of keyboard clicks and your phone buzzes against your ear “I sent a couple things to your email,” did Mikasa already give him your information? “Go ahead and authorize your physical therapy records over, send me copies of your X-rays and prescribed treatment plan, and sign the following documents.” He lists off “after that, I’ll work up a schedule compatible with your PT, I’ll be in contact.” 

If you were nervous before there wasn’t a word to describe how you feel now. “Thank you, I look forward to working with you.” 

“Have a nice day.” he says in the same tone, your phone beeps to indicate the call has ended.

Taglist: @amywritesthings @littlerequiem @humanitys-strongest-bamf @hideandgopeep (please let me know if i missed you and ill add you on to ch 2)

[zimthandmade]

Some post-explosion sketches from the weekend. I will fully and unashamedly use this new found power of having 3D references of their flat, to just paint over and it looks nice, until I throw up.

----- My other socials Commission Info Let's drink some Ko-Fi! 🍵

[fluentmoviequoter]

Quit for a Reason

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!wife!reader (ex-agent turned neurosurgeon)

Summary: When a suspect begins looking for you while you perform a surgery, Tim finds out why you quit your job in law enforcement.

Warnings: descriptive fight scene and injuries (stabbing), neurology terminology, depiction of brain surgery (not overly graphic), angst to fluff

Word Count: 2.1k+ words

Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

Picture from Pinterest

“I have to work a double shift today,” Tim complains, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as he pulls you closer.

“How will I survive?” you ask playfully, turning to kiss his cheek.

“That’s what you miss most, right? The unpredictable hours, the sleepless nights. Paradise for a cop.”

“Yeah. That’s what I miss about being an agent,” you agree with a smile. “Definitely not all of the times I got to see you throughout the day.”

“Uncalled for. I’ll try to call if I get a chance.”

“I’ve got a couple surgeries today, so I may not answer. Nothing personal.”

“Feels personal.”

Your smile falls, and Tim immediately catches your shifting mood.

“How are you?” he asks. “I know it’s been a while since you switched careers, but making a change that big can’t be easy.”

“I- I’m still helping people, I know that. Just, some days it feels like I made a mistake.”

“You had your reasons.”

“Are you-“

“Mad that you haven’t talked about what happened? Not at all. It’s your life, your decision, and if or when you want to tell me, you already know you have my support. You were the best agent and now you’re the best neurosurgeon. I’m with you,” Tim answers, tapping your wedding ring as he says he’s with you.

“Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you.”

✯✯✯✯✯

As you prepare for your first surgery of the day, you force any thoughts of Tim out of your mind, focusing entirely on the job at hand.

“Dr. Bradford,” a nurse calls, running down the hallway. “We’ve got a cop in the ER with a brain herniation. He needs emergency surgery.”

“Get Dr. Davidson to operate on the patient in OR 2,” you command. “I’ll perform the emergency. Have someone get the rest of my scheduled patients seen to!”

You run down the hall, praying and begging for it not to be Tim. You’ve operated on many cops, and you hate when any of them come into the hospital. When you don’t know who it is, though, you immediately worry about Tim.

“Dr. Bradford,” one of the ER nurses calls. “We’ve got the OR prepped.”

“Who’s the officer?” you ask, pushing a door open to sanitize and prepare for the surgery.

“Detective Caradine,” he answers. “The first opinion is a brain herniation.”

“What type?”

“Unknown.”

“Let Detectives Harper and Lopez know that he’s in surgery,” you say before securing your mask and entering the operating room.

As you begin operating, looking for the source of the problem, memories of your time as a law enforcement officer in one of these rooms threaten to break your focus.

“What caused the unconsciousness and loss of brainstem reflexes?” you ask one of the nurses.

“Head injury during an altercation with a suspect according to the officers who brought him in,” she answers.

“The officers brought him in? Not an ambulance?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The brain stem is compressed,” you deduce. “Upward transtentorial herniation. We need to get the pressure of his brain tissue to relax the posterior ventricles before it’s irreversible.”

✯✯✯✯✯

“Detective Harper? Detective Lopez?” Celina calls. “A doctor at Shaw Memorial just called. Caradine is in emergency surgery.”

“What happened?” Nyla demands.

“He hit his head during a fight, I believe. Lost consciousness.”

“Who’s the surgeon?” Angela asks.

“Uh, Dr. Bradford,” Celina reads. “Wait-“

“Yeah, it’s Tim’s wife,” Nyla answers.

✯✯✯✯✯

You move the scalpel away from a new incision just before a gunshot echoes. Closing your eyes briefly, you continue working, demanding one of the nurses to block the door.

“Someone is looking for him, I’d guess,” you say. “But I need all of you to stay calm and focused on this patient or get out of the way. I won’t hold it against you if you walk away and stay at the side.”

One of the nurses takes your offer, moving to the corner and sitting on the floor.

“The rest of you are with me?”

“Yes, doctor,” they answer.

You nod, looking for the brain tissue causing the brain stem compression.

“Nurse,” you call to the woman in the corner. “If you have your phone, call 911 and let them know.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

✯✯✯✯✯

“Sergeant Bradford,” Wade says. “We’ve got a situation that you may want to know about.”

“What is it?” Tim replies.

“Caradine’s in surgery at Shaw, and your wife is operating. But we’ve got armed suspects in the hospital. We assume they’re looking for him, but with her past I thought you’d want to know.”

“Her past?” Tim repeats. “What are you talking about?”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“Sergeant Grey, someone called the tip line,” Nolan interrupts. “With a threat against Caradine and Dr. Bradford.”

“What past?” Tim demands.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Uh, someone- one of the nurses in pediatrics just texted me,” the nurse alerts.

“And?” you press. “Never mind, save it. He’s going into cardiac arrest.”

“CSF drain is inserted, doctor. Beginning chest compressions.”

“I’m removing a skull fragment, unless anyone has an objection,” you alert.

“Do it,” one of the new residents agrees. “CSF is draining, but not fast enough. If there’s going to be a chance of his recovery, we need to keep that swelling away from his medulla, or he’ll lose breathing and blood flow, correct?”

“Correct, and well done. I’m starting the removal now.”

“Doctor Bradford,” the nurse in the corner repeats. 

“What?” you ask, your voice short as your attention is focused elsewhere.

 “There’s a man with a gun looking for you and the patient. Someone called the police but-“

“Nothing we can do now. Stay over there and stay quiet.”

✯✯✯✯✯

“I’m not sure it’s my place to show you this,” Wade argues.

“Just press the button. My wife’s life is at stake and if there’s any chance this will help me save her, I’m watching it.”

Wade sighs as he presses play. A grainy security cam feed comes on, showing a warehouse. The date catches Tim’s attention: almost ten years ago.

You walk into the warehouse, responding to a noise complaint. Unable to hear a thing besides your footsteps, you call out, asking if anyone is inside. Pulling your radio from your hip, you tell dispatch it was a false alarm.

As you lower the radio, someone moves in the shadows, knocking the radio out of your hand and tackling you to the floor. A blade glints in the minimal light of the building, raised over your throat before you push it away, grunting in pain as you flip, your knees hitting the concrete beneath you.

Tim’s breath catches, unable to look away as he watches you fight for your life. He forgets that this video is a decade old, when you were still dating, and his worry for you builds as if you’re currently engaged in this fight.

You slip, falling forward as the man takes advantage, pushing you onto your back and kneeling against your legs. As you lean toward him, he plunges the knife into your torso. Your pained scream fills Wade’s office, and as the knife is removed and inserted again, your scream changes into an adrenaline-filled yell as you shove the man off of you, standing with the knife hanging from your stomach as you push him against the wall. After handcuffing him to a nearby post, you crawl across the floor and radio for an R/A before collapsing.

“How did I not know about this? We were dating!” Tim exclaims. “I should have done something, anything!”

“Clearly, she didn’t want you to know, didn’t want to talk about it at least. But now you have a chance to do something, Tim,” Wade replies. “Go help her out of this mess.”

✯✯✯✯✯

With the lights and sirens on, Tim races to the hospital as fast as he can. His mind plays through memories of you. The canceled dates around the time of the attack, followed by clinginess and a deep need to constantly be around Tim, begin to make sense. More than that, Tim can’t remember the last time he saw your stomach; what he mistook for insecurity or modesty was likely hiding scars. Alone in his shop, he knows he must remind you that he loves you, no matter your scars, career choice, or what you do and don’t share with him. He knows you had a reason to keep it to yourself, but he knows better than most how dangerous it can be to keep your pain, your scars, and your fear to yourself.

Silencing the sirens as he approaches the hospital entrance, Tim rushes past the barricade, his mind on protecting you and Caradine.

✯✯✯✯✯

“That’s all we can do for him,” you say. “How are his vitals?”

“They’re steady,” the anesthesiologist answers. “His BP’s a little low, but it’s steady.”

“Caradine! Bradford!” someone yells down the hall. “Your time of reckoning is here!”

“Move him,” you demand. “Wheel everything toward the wall, away from the window.”

While you wait beside Caradine’s head, out of sight as you check his vitals and the new stitches lining his scalp, you hope that the LAPD are working on catching the man yelling for you.

“We need to wake him up,” the resident says. “If we don’t do it now…”

“He may not wake up,” you finish. “Go ahead.”

While the anesthesiologist and the resident begin working on restoring his consciousness, you move toward the door. Something knocks against it as you approach.

“I’m coming in to finish it this time! Wasn’t expecting a two for one!” the man yells.

“Give me your phone,” you ask the nurse, quickly dialing a number you'll never forget. 

“Bradford,” Tim answers.

“Tim,” you say quietly. “Caradine knew his name. It’ll be in a file.”

“Yours?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah.”

“I’ll have Harper find it. I’m in the hospital; where are you?”

“Emergency OR 1. Tim, be careful.”

“I will. But you need to be careful, too. I love you.”

“I love you.”

The call ends, and you press yourself against the wall as you listen to the man who tried to kill you once get in to try again.

“LAPD, show me your hands!” an officer yells outside.

“Step away from the door!” Tim adds.

You sigh at the sound of his voice, but when someone yells “No!” you have an idea of what will happen.

“Everybody down!” you call, shielding Caradine as a few bullets rip through the door.

The noise in the hall dies nearly immediately. You take a shaky breath as you check yourself and Caradine for new injuries.

“Let me in,” Tim says at the door.

You nod at the nurse closest to the door. Tim rushes in, pressing a hand to your back.

“Get him to a room for observation,” you tell your operating team. “And then go home.”

Looking toward Tim as the room clears, you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pressing your chest to his.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” you whisper. “But, a few years ago...”

“Hey,” Tim interrupts, his arms hooked around your waist. “Wade showed me the video. But you still don’t have to talk about it until you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” you promise. “But can we go home first?”

“I was hoping you’d ask that.”

✯✯✯✯✯

Propped against an obnoxiously large pile of pillows, you tell Tim about what happened in the warehouse. He listens to every word, stiffening when he hears something that wasn’t in the video or your comments that thinking about getting back to him gave you something to fight for. As you finish the story, Tim pinches the hem of your shirt between his fingers, looking up at you for permission.

“You can,” you whisper.

He gently pushes your shirt to your waist, keeping his eyes on the scars littering your torso. Running a gentle finger across the largest of them, Tim frowns as you suppress a shiver.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur sadly.

“Not you,” Tim insists. “I’m sorry that I didn’t know, that I wasn’t here for you.”

“You were.”

Tim furrows his brows, and you pull his left hand from your stomach, showing him his wedding ring. “You gave me something to fight for, something to live for. And even without knowing why I quit, you knew that I had to have a good reason, and you supported me every step of the way. You love me, Tim, and you made sure I knew.”

“You don’t have to do it alone. I do love you, and I know you love me, but that’s not a reason to protect me from whatever you’re dealing with.”

Tim ducks his head to kiss your stomach, and you laugh, which causes him to smile and push himself up, rolling to your side to kiss you, showing you that he means every word he says.

[artsymeeshee]

Alright, folks. We're entering the hurt of the hurt/comfort part!

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[rabiesram]

play stupid games win stupid prizes bonus:

[jo-harrington]

Strawberry Shortcake (Eddie Munson x Reader)

Pairings/Relationships: Older!Eddie Munson/Reader

Warnings/Themes: Meet Cute (ish), Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Medical-Related Talk/Hospitals (Nothing Graphic), Food/Eating

Note: Having a bad day on top of a bad week on top of a bad whatever. My uncle was in the hospital unexpectedly; he’s home now but that hospital in particular is one that doesn’t hold a lot of great memories. (Which ones do?) It's fine, but here we are throwing Eddie into the pot to make things a little easier. If only he was there to have strawberry shortcake with me.

Tagging @deathbecomesthem at their request. Thanks for always being there Than.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

---

Eddie stared deeply into the cooler, as though he'd find the meaning of life between cups of half-rotten grapes and soggy egg salad sandwiches.

Foods like this...well, they were old friends--too many gas station stops and midnight runs to 7-11s in his life--but for some reason this felt like the hardest decision of his life.

Actually, he'd like something hot for dinner, and the food here actually wasn’t that bad, if he remembered the last time he found himself haunting the halls of Roane County Memorial Hospital. But the cafeteria line is closed. So he'd have to settle for premade sandwiches and salads because he wasn't going to venture outside anytime soon.

His nerves would eat him before he could eat anything if he left.

"The PB&J is pretty good," a gentle voice startled him and an arm crossed in front of him to grab the aforementioned sandwich.

PB&J Crunch - Grape Jelly

"I don't like crunchy peanut butter," he dismissed, trying not to sound as hollow as he felt.

"It's not crunchy peanut butter," you explained and then squinted down at the label. "It's got granola in it or something. It's pretty good, I promise."

He considered it for a second, wondered if his current mental state will tolerate bits in his sandwich, but then he realized he was too tired to care. He just needed to eat something.

He grabbed a sandwich and then a soda from the bottom of the cooler, and he was about to head over to the tired cashier when you asked, "do you like Strawberry Shortcake?"

He paused and looked at you.

Really looked at you, looking back at him with kind and understanding eyes, a small smile on your lips.

There was something else there too. Weariness. That was an old friend too, to both of you it seemed. But where his hung off him like some insidious creature clinging to his back, you wore it as well as you wear your Jurassic Park t-shirt and ripped jeans.

It was worn in and comfortable. You're used to it. He could tell.

And still you're trying to be nice to him.

The least he could do was accept your kindness, even if he couldn’t offer anything back.

"Isn't the sandwich sweet enough?" he asked.

"You look like someone who has a sweet tooth. Besides, if you..." you bit your lip for a second in contemplation, then shook your head. "Nevermind. It's my treat."

"Thank you."

You grabbed two little plastic cake containers from the cooler and then followed him to the cashier. Once you handed the cake to him, he in turn followed you to a table in the corner of the cafeteria.

He felt a little pathetic, following like a little lost duckling, and although he wasn’t really in the mood for conversation, he didn't want to be alone.

Thankfully, you seemed to know exactly what he felt in that moment, and you remained silent as wrappers were peeled open and bites were taken from your respective PB&Js.

You were right about the sandwich, it was pretty good. Reminded him of the sandwiches his mom made for his lunches.

He said goodbye to peanut butter and jelly after his mom spent time in this very hospital.

He said goodbye to his...shit, what didn't he say goodbye to after his own lengthy stay back in '86?

And now?

What would he say goodbye to now?

"Growing up doesn't always mean saying goodbye to things," Wayne told him once, oh so long ago, when they stood side by side at the counter spreading mustard and layering cold cuts onto thin slices of sandwich bread. "But it means they get a little fonder when you make your way back to them."

He's grateful for the peanut butter sticking to the roof of his mouth so he'd have something to focus on instead of the sting of tears in his eyes.

"You know," you finally broke the silence as you set your own sandwich down to take a sip of your soda. "This is what I eat every time I find myself here."

"You find yourself here a lot?"

He laughed as soon as the words left his mouth; not an amused laugh, almost a self-deprecating one. It sounded a lot more flirty than he intended it too, especially given the circumstances, and he felt like an idiot.

You did him a favor as you ignored him, and instead gestured to the food.

"PB&J, Strawberry Shortcake, Dr. Pepper. My mom had this...I don't even know if you'd call it a heart attack...a few years ago. I stayed with her the whole time she was here recovering; couldn't stop crying that first night, which of course made everything better.

"The nurses kicked me out at some point. Sent me down here to get some food. And the only thing that looked good was the Strawberry Shortcake. It was the only thing I ate until she got to go home. Just. Mountains of Strawberry Shortcake."

You broke open the seal on your cake, then did the same for his, talking as your hands kept busy and even as you took your first bite.

"It's what she makes me for my birthday every year," you finished through the mouthful of cake, "and this one almost tastes as good as hers does. Almost. But it's something I can control when everything else feels like it's falling apart."

You stared at him pointedly and then glanced down at his slice of cake.

Eddie stared at the cake-- at the layers of fluffy yellow sponge and swirling whipped cream and dense, gooey strawberries--and considered your words.

Control. Yeah he could use a little bit of that right now.

He picked up the fork and severed the soft corner, then shoved it into his mouth.

It was an assault of the senses, the unlocking of a memory that didn’t even feel like it was his. A store bought birthday cake that he and Wayne had gotten for his mom for the first birthday she had after his dad got sent away. She said it was the best cake she ever tasted, and he and Wayne both agreed.

This seemed like it would be a close second.

“My uncle,” he began, voice thick with emotion and whipped cream. “He had an accident at work. I live in Indy. Not too far but far enough that he didn’t have me as an emergency contact. Called him to tell him something I heard about the Colts. That old bastard…he always picks up the phone when he’s home. Always. But he didn’t this time.

“Figured maybe he picked up an extra shift or something. He gets bored. ‘Specially when I’m not around. But he didn’t answer for a few days and when I called the plant, they said he was here.”

The rest felt like a blur.

Driving out to Hawkins, seeing Wayne in that bed, talking to the doctors. Words like pain management, skin grafts, and physical therapy struck something inside of him that he’d worked tirelessly to forget for himself. Emotional scars were as thick as the physical ones.

Now the wounds had all reopened because of his uncle. More, actually, because he finally realized what Wayne must’ve felt all those years ago seeing him in a hospital bed.

How close he came to losing the only family he had.

“Hey I’m sorry.” Eddie startled as you reached a hand out to touch his arm, as tears escaped the corner of his eyes. “It’s ok, everything will be alright.”

“I know,” he nodded and sniffed, a little embarrassed to be crying in front of a stranger but you really weren’t a stranger. He laid his free hand on yours for a second, heavy as he felt the warmth and weight of you.

Were you a stranger? He considered it. He might not have known your name, but he knew you well. You were here, weary and waiting, just like he was.

“You know, he woke up when I walked in,” Eddie choked a laugh as he continued. “Said what took you so long when he saw me. Then he complained about the bed being uncomfortable.”

“That’s how you’ll know he’ll be alright,” you laughed right along with him.

The two of you finished your dinners, moving onto some lighter topics—the usual getting-to-know-you’s that you did when you met someone new—and once the cashier came to tell you they were about to close up, you got to your feet to head back to your respective family members.

“Thank you,” Eddie told you as you meandered out. “I don’t…it’s…”

“I get it,” you replied with a small smile. “If you need someone to talk to, I’m sure I’ll be around for a few more days until mom goes home again. Just hang around the cafeteria until I materialize.”

There was a weird pause, awkward as neither of you new how to part ways. Eddie attempted a handshake, but you pulled him into a hug instead. Once again, knowing what it was he needed.

He melted into you gratefully.

And he whispered into your shoulder, “The strawberry shortcake will be on me next time.”