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[illnessandinjury]

for the bingo!! thinking SO hard about “in the middle of being scolded” for jon… prompt feels absolutely made for him what is the archivist if not a man that’s regularly being yelled at

this is sooooo so good for him omg! i loved writing this, so fun! thank you for requesting! updated bingo card included below, so scroll past it for the fic. I hope you like it! <3

“The rate at which this department is finishing statements is unacceptable,” Elias says. Tim resists the urge to roll his eyes. “You’re turning in one a week. The expectation is three at minimum. Gertrude could get through that many in a day, if she put her mind to it.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says. Tim can’t believe that Elias has made this dressing down of Jon into an all-staff meeting. He’s clearly unwell. Pale as a ghost and with dark circles under his eyes. Even his posture screams of misery. “I can’t—they’re very draining.” 

“Well, you wanted the job. You’re going to have to meet expectations if you’d like to keep it.” He swears he sees Jon sway. The fact that he’s not arguing is strange. Elias is a prick and everyone knows it, Jon in particular. He’s never just let Elias lay into him like this, especially in front of an audience. 

“I—I do want the job. I just—I haven’t been able to—I’m trying—” Each sentence trails off into a completely new one before it’s fully said. Jon leans a hand on the edge of the desk for support. 

“”You’d do better not to make excuses.”

“It’s not…” He trails off, his eyes fluttering slightly. 

“Jon?” Tim calls. “Are you alright?” 

“Fine,” he says, brushing away the comment like it’s dust on the floor. “A little lightheaded.” 

“Do you need to sit down?” 

“I know criticism is difficult to take, but I don’t want to have to fire you, Jon. I really don’t.” 

The word “fire” makes him recoil. “I’m doing my best.” 

“And that’s worrisome to me. If this is your best, then maybe you’re not fit for the position.” 

“He’s only just started,” Sasha argues. “He’ll get faster with time.” 

“Jon, hey.” Tim is starting to worry about Jon’s shaking body. “It’s just feedback. Relax.” 

Jon shakes his head and Tim can’t tell if it’s a rebuttal or an attempt to clear it. “I’m sorry,” he repeats as if he hasn’t already said it. “I promise’’ll improve my performance.” His words slur together. Tim inches toward him, hands outstretched. 

“I think you should sit. You’re not looking so well.”

Elias doesn’t react to the situation unfolding. 

“Please excuse me f’r’a moment.” The request is made on the tails of an abrupt exit from the room, and Tim follows closely on his heels. 

“Hey, don’t let him get to you. You’re doing fine.” 

“No,” he insists. “Clearly not.” He sways and catches himself on the wall. Now Tim is outright concerned. 

“I really think you should—hey!” he exclaims as Jon’s eyes flutter and his knees give out. Tim is quick to catch him, partially because he’d been anticipating something like this. He’s limp in his grip as he lowers him to the floor. 

“Oh god.” Sasha’s eyes widen as her gaze rests upon Jon, supine on the floor. “What happened?”

“He dropped,” Tim says. Sasha begins to fan his face with the statement she’s been holding while Martin scurries off to find something or another. Elias is the last to step out of his office. 

“Oh, my,” he says, but it’s more condescending than surprised. Tim presses a hand to his forehead and finds it warm, but not hot. Nothing that would explain this. Martin returns a moment later with a water bottle and a wet paper towel, which they place over Jon’s forehead. 

It takes a while for him to wake. So long, in fact, that Martin has suggested they call an ambulance. 999 is dialed on his phone already when Jon opens his eyes dazedly. They don’t track anything for a moment, but when they do, they rest on the face of the person hovering above him and replacing the wet towel on his forehead. 

“Tim?” 

“Thank god,” he says, relief palpable in his tone. “You’re awake. How do you feel?” 

“Erm,” he hesitates, “a little confused.” 

“You fainted.” 

“Oh.” No one says anything. “That’s a bit embarrassing. I’m sorry.” 

“When is the last time you took a break?” The fact that he has to think about it is all the answer Tim needs. “I think you should stay the night at my place tonight.” 

Jon looks horrified. “No, no. I’m fine. I couldn’timpose.” 

“I think Tim’s right,” says Sasha. “You shouldn’t be alone. If you go down again, you could hit your head.” 

“Yeah. It’s a good job I caught you before you took a bite out of the carpet.” Jon really, really doesn’t want to inconvenience anyone. “Either you come to mine, or I stay the night at yours. It’s your choice.” 

If those are his only options, he’d rather Tim be at his own home rather than sleeping on his uncomfortable couch that would be several inches shorter than Tim. 

“Alright. I’ll come with you.” 

“Great,” Tim says cheerily. “Let me grab your coat.”

“It’s only 2:00.” 

“Jon, you passed out. The last thing you need is more work,” Martin objects. 

“But Elias—”

“He owes you an apology.” Jon doesn’t feel that way. He feels he’s inconvenienced and worried everyone; it’s clear on his guilt-ridden face. “He was too harsh.” 

“I deserved it. I’m failing to—” he takes a shaky breath, “to do this job.” 

“You’re learning,” Martin says. “Elias needs to respect that. You’ve only been Head Archivist for what, three weeks? There’s plenty of room to improve.” 

“What if I can’t?” 

“Then we’ll help you.” Sasha, sweet and kind and brilliant Sasha, promises him. “We’re a team.” 

His gaze turns watery. “I don’t want to let you all down.” 

“You could never,” Tim says, genuinely believing it. This is Jon, his friend who wouldn’t hurt a fly (though he’d trample the hell out of a spider). Jon who comes in early and stays late. Who, though plainly irritated, always answers questions no matter how busy he is. Deep down, he believes in Jon. That trust will later curdle, but for now, it’s pure and clear. 

“Let’s get you in a cab. Martin, please get his coat.”

“I need my recorder, too.” 

“Martin, please leave his recorder.” When Jon huffs, Tim smiles. “No need for it since you’re not working tonight or tomorrow. Elias cleared a day off for both of us.” Jon doesn’t need to know that Elias doesn’t know that yet. 

“I really don’t need—”

“Right, you never do,” Sasha curtails lightly. “Just let us help you for once, alright? Have a meal, have a sleep. Come back after you’ve rested and I’m sure you’ll work much better. You can’t run on nothing and expect to get anywhere.” 

Jon nods. “Alright. I’ll, erm, I’ll consider that. Thank you.” He takes his coat from Martin and allows Tim to help him on with it, then lets him walk him to the cab. 

“You have to know Elias is a prick, don’t you?” Tim asks once they’re comfortably in the back of the cab. 

“He’s… tough. He expects a lot.” 

“Too much. You’re just one guy, Jon. The more you do, the more he’s going to ask. You’ve got to set some boundaries.” 

“Yes, I suppose… Maybe you’re right, I—”

“We don’t have to discuss it now.” He smiles at Jon’s sigh of relief. “Right now, we’re going to order takeaway, watch a movie, and get you some sleep. Sound alright?” 

Jon nods. “That sounds nice, actually. Thank you.”

Tim means it when he says, “my pleasure.” 

[illnessandinjury]

if you happen to be willing to write a dbh request (no pressure at all, i just adore your dbh fics– the way you write hank and connor is SO good), i would LOVE to see “Met with overreaction” for dbh? overprotective dad hank is just so *chefs kiss* and you write dbh dynamics so well! thanks either way!

oooh an oldie! haven't written for this fandom since 2018. let's see if i've still got it! :) updated bingo card below the cut if anyone's interested!

Connor has never been late a day in his goddamn—well, not life, not per se. Existence, maybe. Warranty? Hank stares at the bobblehead on his desk rather than the computer monitor in front of him. At first, he was excited to give Connor shit about being late for the first time, but that was when he thought he’d missed the bus or forgotten to set the end time for charging mode. Now that it’s been over half an hour, he’s starting to wonder whether something might have happened. He opens the news app on his phone—nothing about a bus accident or unexpected traffic delays. He’s already texted him twice without a response. 

Just when he’s thinking that he might have to call the kid and find out what the hell is going on, Connor rushes through the door, several apologies on his tongue. He stumbles on his way to his desk, looking unsteady on his feet. 

“Woah, there,” Hank says. “Slow down.”

“Sorry I’m late, Lieutenant. It won’t happen again.” 

“What did happen? I was stratin’ to worry about you.” 

“I didn’t mean to cause you any stress.” 

“That’s not what I was saying. I’m just asking why you’re late. You don’t have to tell me.” 

Connor’s light flickers to yellow as he thinks—or has it been that way all morning? 

‘I would prefer we just get to work. I want to make up the lost time.” 

Hank blinks in surprise. Sure, he’d offered privacy, but he hadn’t expected Connor to actually take him up on it. He’s hiding something. 

“Right. Yeah, we can do that. Do you need a rebriefing?” 

Again, he expect Connor to say no. He’s an android. He shouldn’t need a refresher for something that’s already in his memory bank; he should just be able to pull it up. Connor surprises him by nodding. Still, he’d offered, so he delivers. It takes a while, because Connor seems not to remember any details, nor any part of the evidence they’ve gathered thus far. Hank ignores that, too, perhaps against his better judgment. 

He watches with increasing anxiety as Connor sits at his desk for several minutes at a time just staring into space, not doing anything. As he massages his temple on the side with his LED. It’s not until he starts shivering that Hank finally stands. 

“Enough is enough,” he says. “You’ve gotta tell me what’s going on. Something’s wrong.” 

Connor is silent for a long moment and Hank isn’t sure whether he’s buffering or hoping that Hank will let it go. 

“I opened an email last night,” he starts. “It appeared to be from Cyberlfie about a regular system update, but it wasn’t.” 

Hank waits for further explanation, but it doesn’t come. “So, what, it was some kind of virus?”

“Yes. It seems to have had a few detrimental effects, including erasing some data. Cyberlife is currently working on a patch to solve it, but it may take up to two days.” 

“So, what, you’re sick?” 

“Not precisely. I am an android, Lieutenant. I cannot—”

“Right, right. Can’t get sick. But you’re tellin’ me you’ve got a fuckin’ virus. What’s it gonna do to you?”

“It was designed to access protected data, but my antivirus programs have so far prevented any breech. It’s affected my gyroscope, and my internal temperature has dropped in an attempt to keep my systems from overheating while it self-repairs.” 

“Is that why you’re shivering?”

“Thirium freezes easily. My body is simply agitating it to avoid coagulation.” 

“So do you… I don’t know. Do you feel okay?” 

Connor hesitates. “I am an android.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” 

He’s quiet for so long that Hank is sure he’s not going to answer before he finally says, “I’m experiencing some discomfort.” Hank stands, grabbing his coat. 

“Alright, kid. We’re leaving.” 

“You’ve got a lead already?” 

“No. I’m taking you to my place.” 

“Lieutenant,” he says, looking horrified, “that won’t be necessary. I’m perfectly capable of—”

“Yeah, yeah. Well, your red light says otherwise.” Connor reaches up to touch it as if he hadn’t known. “You need a day off. The last thing I need is for you to fuckin’ explode and catch the whole precinct on fire. I’m not doin’ that paperwork.” 

“If you have to send me home, I can take the bus.” 

“Don’t think I didn’t watch you stumble in here. Your gyroscope’s busted, so I’m guessing you’re dizzy.”

“I’m having… a bit of trouble finding my balance. But I assure you, I’m—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘fine.’” Connor shuts his mouth. “Come on. We’re going.” 

Connor does as he’s told, but it’s clear by the first few steps that he’s going to need help walking, so Hank slides Connor’s arm over his own shoulders to help keep him steady. 

“You’re goddamn freezing,” he mutters. “So this is like some kinda android fever?” 

“I suppose, if you had to make an indirect comparison, yes.” 

Hank settles Connor in the front seat of his car. “Okay?”

He nods. “Okay.” 

Hank begins driving, noticing that Connor shuts his eyes almost as soon as they pull out of the parking lot. 

“Tired?” 

“Seeing double,” he replies. “It’s disorienting.” 

“Damn, kid. You’ve got it bad.” Connor quietly turns the heat vents toward himself, so Hank turns them on high and ignores the way he starts to sweat under his coat. When they finally pull into the driveway, Connor stumbles out before Hank can get to him, nearly falling face down in the pavement. He’d have eaten it if Hank were a little slower. 

“Jesus, Connor. You should have waited for me.” 

But Connor hadn’t known that Hank was coming around the side to get him because he’s just an android. Why would he expect to be helped by a human, even one he hopes he can consider as a friend? 

“I’m gonna take care of you until you’re on your feet again, alright? So wait for me to do things like standing up. And I’ll bring you whatever you need. For the next two days until they release that patch, you’re parked on my couch.” 

“Sumo?”

“Sumo loves the couch. You’ll have to share, but something tells me you’re fine with that.” Connor smokes, his light flickering blue for a single second. Hank presses his hand to Connor’s forehead properly and is alarmed at how frigid it is. 

“It’ll warm up as my system repairs,” Connor explains in response to his concerned face. “Lieutenant, this is really nothing I couldn’t work through. Or at least I’d have been fine at my own apartment. You shouldn’t be going out of your way for me.” 

“Tough. You’re sick, even if you wouldn’t use that word for yourself, and you need somebody around to make sure you don’t fall and bust your goddamn head.” 

Connor nods at the sudden intensity. Hank had hardly gotten to be a father, but he’d done all the preparatory work, and that’s difficult to turn off. He decides it’ll probably be easier not to fight it. 

“I’m sorry for the trouble, Lieutenant.” 

“It’s Hank. We’re off the clock.” Connor continues his puppy eyes. “Shit happens, Connor. Just rest until they send out that patch, alright? I’m gonna get some work done in the other room, but shout if you need me.” 

“Okay. Thank you, Hank.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

With that, Connor allows himself to get comfortable on the couch, closes his eyes, and enters rest mode. 

[illnessandinjury]

all descriptions gender neutral, based on vibes only

[illnessandinjury]

for the bingo, I would eat up a ‘Denied a Day Off’ David (camp camp) fic-!! especially since he’s the type to never ask for a break unless it’s Bad ™️

yessss i love this prompt for him! i love this trope in general. i hope you like this! :)

David isn’t awake 5 minutes before whips out his phone to text Gwen. His head is pounding, his ear hurts, and worst of all, everything seems like it’s spinning. He barely manages to get dressed without getting himself killed, so he can’t imagine how tough a day at camp would be. They’d scheduled a hike today, and that’s certain death. 

Hey, can you watch the campers today? Not feeling well.

He hopes the text wasn’t too dramatic, or worse, than he’s ruining he entire day. But he can’t help it. There’s no way he’s gong to get through a whole day like this. 

When Gwen wakes up and checks her phone, she’s not surprised to find a text from David. He’s always sending her things first thing in the morning—sun emojis, overly cheerful greetings, pictures of puppies. She kind of likes the puppies, though she’d never admit it.

What she doesn’t expect is the text he’s sent. Trying to call in sick. No. Immediately, her stomach starts churning with anxiety. She can’t handle them alone. They’re horrible. What’s she supposed to do? How can she keep all of them from burning the camp down all at once?

Predictably, she’s knocking on his door the second she gets the message. When she opens it, she looks nervous. Scared, even. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” she asks, pressing a hand to his forehead before he can even reply. She finds it surprisingly but relievingly devoid of heat. “You don’t feel warm.” 

“I think it’s an ear infection,” he replies.”It hurts and I’m so, so dizzy.” 

“What if you just kind of supervised? You wouldn’t need to do much. There needs to be at least two sets of eyes on these future criminals at all times.” 

“Gwen, I really can’t. Everything’s spinning.” 

“Please don’t leave me alone with them,” she begs with horror in her eyes. “They’ll eat me alive.” David sighs. While he really doesn’t want to do this, he feels for her. Running the camp solo is certainly difficult, which is why David never ever takes breaks. He’s never asked for a single day off in the history of his employment at Camp Campbell. She must know it must be bad if he’s asking at all, but obviously, her fear is winning out over her logic. 

“Okay,” he concedes. “Would you mind grabbing me my uniform? I can’t move around that much or I feel nauseous.” She must see the red flag. It’s not even a flag; it’s a banner. But she ignores it, rifling through his drawers to find his clothes and setting them next to him on the bed. 

“Thanks. I’ll be out in a minute.” 

“You’re a life saver,” she says. She’s never this happy with him, and that makes it a little more worth it. But it’s still not quite there. The short walk to the mess hall nearly wipes him out. He should have asked her to stay and walk with him. By the time he reaches the door, he’s got to lean on it to reorient himself. When he finally no longer feels like he’s going to throw up, he opens the door and uses the wall as his guide to get to their table in the corner. 

“Woah,” she says. “You really look awful.” 

“I feel like I’ve been spun in circles.” 

“You’re gonna be able to make it though, right? I mean, I want the help, but I don’t want to kill you.” 

“Worst case scenario, I throw up from the vertigo.” He hopes that will make her reconsider. If she said something like that, he’d never in a million years expect her to help him run the camp. He’d personally see her to Urgent Care for medicine, then get her back to the counselors’ cabin and settled her in bed so she could sleep it off. That’s what he hopes for, but he’s got no such luck. 

“I can live with that,” she says. She can live with it? She’s acting just like everyone else had always acted when he got sick—treating him like a burden. Maybe he is. Perhaps he should stop complaining so much and suck it up. People deal with worse. He can do this.

“Thank you,” she says. “Really.” 

And that makes it worth it. 

“Yeah. No problem,” he lies. After the campers eat breakfast, Gwen makes an announcement. 

“Alright, goblins. You all know we were supposed to be hiking today.” 

A chorus of groans comes from the crowd, running a knife straight into David’s heart. Some day, they’ll understand the beautiful and therapeutic qualities of nature. 

“Change of plans. David’s sick today, so we’re going to do something easy and not bother him. Anyone I catch bugging him gets their dessert taken away. Capiche?” 

“If he’s sick, why’s he here?” Neil asks. It’s a fair question that David is sort of wondering, too. 

“You demons are not a one person job.” 

Well, it’s sort of fair. He just had hoped this could be the one exception. He’d never ask for anything again after this. Still, he doesn’t want to complain more than he already has, so he sucks it up and watches her set up for collage making. She takes out magazines—a whole stack of ones she’s read and torn out whatever pages she wanted to keep—and construction paper and scissors and glue and everything else he can imagine. 

David can’t decide which is more disorienting: eyes shut or open. He tries both, but both are awful. He wishes he were lying down. Maybe he wouldn’t be so nauseated. He doesn’t bother to open his eyes when someone sits at the table across from him, assuming it’s just Gwen.

“Sup, camp man?” 

Oh, shit. 

“Hi, Max,” he greets, reluctantly forcing himself to make eye contact. “If you need something, would you mind asking Gwen?” 

Max seems a little taken aback by that. David swears he seems a little concerned. 

“What’s wrong with you?”

He smiles. “Nothing you need to worry about one bit.” 

“Who says I’m worried?” he asks. He gestures vaguely around the room. “This is almost worse than hiking.” When he follows Max’s gesture and glances around the room, a wave of dizziness sweeps over him from turning his head, making his stomach churn. He shuts his eyes again until he can stand to open them and by the time he does, Max is gone but Gwen is approaching, 

“Hanging in there?” she asks. The concern is just a courtesy. She only expects an affirmative, so he gives her a thumbs up, too afraid to nod. “Good. This should keep them busy for a while. Can you watch them while I get ready for lunch?” 

God, that’s the last thing he wants to do, but what he says is, “sure. No problem.” 

Within minutes, chaos ensues. They’re holding Space Kid down and gluing googly eyes to his helmet. Nurf has managed to make an origami dagger and has already drawn blood on Neil. Max has his feet up on the table, happily watching the scene unfold. He has no choice. He’s going to have to stand up. 

“Kids,” he scolds, “let’s not maim each other.” On his feet, everything spins. He stumbles forward in an attempt to keep his balance and catches himself on a table, to which he desperately clings while he talks. “Arts and crafts are for expressing yourselves, not for harming others.” 

“I express myself through harming others,” Nurf says. David sighs, massaging the place between his eyes. The pounding headache is all he can think about. 

“Let’s, please, just for today, not try to kill each other?”

There’s a desperation in his voice that Max has never heard before and it freaks him out a little bit. He really must be sick if he’s pleading like this. 

“Max, this is our chance,” Nikki says, tugging on the sleeve of his hoodie. Max jerks it away. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“We could do whatever we want! You think David would notice if we left?” 

Max glances over to him and recoils. David’s barely standing, eyes unfocused and face ashen. He looks about to fall over. 

“We could steal the bus and get out of here for the night!” Nikki exclaims. “Go wherever we want!” 

David looks so pathetic that, when Max thinks about pulling the wool over his eyes and getting away with something, it doesn’t feel like a victory. It feels like… well, he’s not sure. Bad. It makes him feel bad. 

Still, he’s got a reputation to uphold, and if he goes easy on him now, they’re going to know he’s got a soft side. 

“Alright. Let’s do it.” 

They wait until David’s shut his eyes again to slip out quietly. Neil sneaks to the supply shed to grab the keys off the hook, then joins them outside. Max braces himself, but no one pursues them. Perfect. 

It’s a short walk to the bus, and when they arrive, they’re relieved to find that the doors are unlocked. 

“Alright,” he says, climbing into the driver’s seat. Of course he’s the driver. “Let’s get out of this shithole camp.” 

Max’s foot can’t reach the peddle. Nikki climbs underneath, ready to press the gas. However, the sound of the engine starting must alert David, because not a second later, he’s stumbling out the door. It takes him just long enough to take in the scene and process what he’s looking at that Nikki has time to press the gas flat to the floor, which brings the bus screeching to a start. 

“Kids! That’s not safe!” David shouts, running after them in a drunken gait. “Come back!” 

“Nikki, wait—” 

But they’re already going. Max is too slow, too paralyzed with fear to react in time to keep them from hitting the tree in front of them. Unsecured because they can’t wear seatbelts in their wild configuration, the kids tumble about the bus. Max shuts is eyes for the impact and when he opens them, he’s upside-down in the first seat, limbs intertwined with Neil’s. 

“Ugh,” he groans, disentangling himself. Before he’s finally situated, David is stumbling to the car, breathing hard and looking panicked. His hands and knees are bleeding badly, meaning that at some point, he fell trying to get to them and just got back up and continued his pursuit. 

“Kids, are you alright?” he asks desperately as soon as he pries open the door. He picks Max up and sets him rightside up in the seat, then does the same for Nikki, setting her in the driver’s seat and stealing the keys from the ignition to keep them from trying it again. “Where are you hurt?”

“We’re fine,” Max grumbles, but it doesn’t extinguish the fear in his eyes. Max meets them and finds that, to his horror, they’re filled with tears. 

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes for some reason. It’s baffling to Max.

“Why the hell would you be sorry? We’re the ones who stole the car.”

“I’m supposed to keep you safe, and I—and I—” he has to take a knee, clutching his temple as an unbearable wave of vertigo crashes over him in response to the running and the fall. 

“David?” Max calls, but he sounds so far away. His stomach is churning with the spinning feeling. 

“I’m sorry, I’ll--sorry—, just one—” 

With that stammered half excuse, he stumbles off to the bushes, catching himself on a tree before he falls face first again, and throws up. Max cringes. Perhaps this was a mistake.

“What the fuck is going on?” Gwen demands, apparently having missed the entire scene. “Are you kids okay?” 

“Fine,” Max reassures. “But David, he’s—” 

She follows his gaze to David’s hunched body, still dry heaving into the brush. She gasps. 

“Jesus Christ,” she exclaims. “What happened?”

“Just dizzy—the kids,” he manages through coughing gags. 

“The kids are fine. You should sit down a minute. You’re bleeding.” 

“Doesn’t matter. Get the kids.” She turns on them and points to the ground beside her, which they all read as a command. They line up one by one. 

“See? They’re okay.” 

“We’re fine, David,” Neil says, finally feeling a little bit of regret about the whole thing. “We shouldn’t have done that.” 

“No, you shouldn’t,” Gwen says harshly. “You’re all in big trouble.” 

David collapses into the dirt as he turns around, his head spinning like nothing he’s ever felt before and places a hand on Nikki and Max’s shoulders, pulling them together for a tight hug. 

“I’m so glad you’re safe.” 

“We ruined the car.” 

“I don’t care.” His scraped-to-hell knees are in the gravel, which has to kill. 

“Gwen needs to clean you up,” Max says harshly. “You’re getting blood everywhere. You shouldn’t have been out here today at all.” 

“No, I’m—”

“He’s right, David. I fucked up. You’re really, really sick, and I ignored you. I’m gonna get you patched up, then you’re going to bed.” 

David nods. It’s what he’s been hoping to hear all day. He lets her lead him to the mess hall, guiding him along the way so he doesn’t fall again. There, she breaks out the first aid kid and begins to tend to his injuries. He winces at the antiseptic spray and bleeds through the gauze so quickly that she has to replace the ones on his knees before she’s even done bandaging his hands. 

“How are you feeling?” she asks. 

He smiles faintly. “I’m just glad everyone’s safe.” She glances down at the gauze again only to find that the blood is still seeping through.

“I think we should take you to Urgent Care and have someone else look at this. You’re really bleeding.” 

To her surprise, he nods. “I probably need some antibiotics for the ear infection, anyway. It’s not a bad idea.”

“I’ll get the—oh, shit. The bus.” 

“I think it’s still drivable,” he says. “Just a little banged up.” She takes his word for that and stands him up, supporting him all the way to the bus. 

“Kids, if you pull something like this while we’re gone, I swear to god—”

“We won’t,” Max promises. “Just fucking leave already.” It’s clear that he’s anxious, and she sees why he would be. 

“He’ll be okay,” she reassures. He rolls his eyes and pretends not to care. With that, she hops into the driver’s seat and drives off. 

“I’m sorry I let this happen,” he says. 

“This is my fault for making you stay,” she says. “I should have known you wouldn’t ask for a day off unless you were, like, dying. I’m sorry.” He should be mad at her, but he can’t muster the energy to be, nor does he want to. She’d been asking for what she needed, too—just a little more loudly than David had. 

“It’s alright. It could have been worse.” 

That’s true, but it does little to assuage her guilt. “Once we get you checked out, you can take all the sick days you need.” He smiles at her gratefully, then shuts his eyes, now fighting both vertigo and motion sickness. The next day, he takes his very first sick day, and because of the scare, the campers are actually pretty well behaved. 

But they still don’t get dessert.

[illnessandinjury]

hello! for the bingo could you please do dizziness and/or "i'm worried about you, asshole" for jon and tim tma? i can't get enough of how you write their reluctant and fading friendship ;-;

loving this for them!! love anyone who likes my jon&tim interactions, tbh, because they're my fave!! updated bingo card below :)

When Tim rounds the corner into the break room and finds Jon on the floor, his heart skips a beat. He nearly drops the mug he had been intending to fill with coffee as he rushes forward and drops to one knee. Jon opens his eyes when he shakes his shoulder, but his eyes are unfocused and the lids are fluttering. 

“Hey, Jon. Look at me. Why are you on the floor?” 

He blinks a few times, finally managing to zero in on Tim’s face, and recoils. Fucking predictable that he’d be jumpy and distrustful. He rolls his eyes. 

“Relax. I’m trying to help.” 

“I,” he starts, sitting up, “got a bit dizzy.” 

“So you decided to have a lie down on the breakroom floor?”

“I didn’t want to faint.” 

“Sure. Glad you didn’t.” 

Jon is sitting with his knees in front of his chest like he’s trying to protect his core, his heart. He’s always protected his heart, but never before with his hands, terrified. He acts like Tim is going to hurt him. 

“I’ll just get back to my office.” 

“Let me walk you there.” He moves to help Jon stand, and he backs into the corner. It makes him angry. “Jon, what do you think I’m going to do to you?” 

Jon shakes his head slowly. “Nothing. I know that, I just—I feel—why are you helping me?”

Tim’s not really sure, honestly. He’s been all but ignoring Jon lately, trying to spare himself as much as he can from the insulting, undeserved paranoia. 

“Because I’m worried about you, you arsehole.” He waits for Jon to react to that, but he doesn’t. “You should eat something. You’re thin as a pole.” 

“I’m not hungry.”

“Yeah, after a while of not eating you stop feeling so. Doesn’t mean you don’t need to eat. You’re still human.” Reluctantly, Jon nods. “I’ve got some leftover fried rice from takeaway Chinese last night. How does that sound?” 

Though it’s probably appealing, as that’s a go-to order for picky picky Jon when they order together, he shakes his head. Of course he does. He’s not going to accept anything from Tim. With a roll of his eyes, he backs up a few inches, which makes Jon visibly relax. 

“Well, what would you eat? Order a soup from the deli? I’d go pick it up.” 

“No, no. Don’t go through the trouble.” What he means is “I won’t eat something if I haven’t watched it be prepared.” 

“Fine. A bag of crisps from the vending machine, then? Sealed. You can open it yourself. If you won’t eat that, then I’m leaving. I can’t play this game all day.” To his surprise, Jon nods. 

“I could stomach that.” He tries to hide the way he cowers when Tim stands and that’s almost more insulting. “There’s money in my desk.”

“It’s a £1.30 , Jon. I don’t care.” He punches the numbers and dispenses a bag of crisps and a chocolate bar, handing both to Jon with his hands clearly visible at all times like he’s approaching a wild animal. 

“Thanks.” He opens the crisps and actually eats a few, much to Tim’s surprise. He’d expected him to tell him he’d have them in his office and toss them in the bin. “I’m sorry.” 

“What for?”

“For being, well—in your words—an arsehole.” 

“Don’t apologize for it. Just stop doing it.” That’s probably easier said than done. “There are things you can do, you know. If you need help. People you can talk to that aren’t us. Aren’t me.”

“I know.” 

“We’re all worried about you. You’ve been changing a lot lately.” 

“I haven’t—” 

“You maybe can’t see it,” Tim says, “because you’re too close to it. But trust me.” Tim’s not sure if he can, anymore. “Just promise me you’ll think about it.” 

“I will.” Tim can’t tell if the words are light because they’re a relief to say or because they bear no weight. Either way, he’s done all he can do. 

“Can I see you home? You’re still pale.” 

“No, no. I’m just going back to my office.” Tim’s heart sinks. 

“Sure. Need a hand?” 

Jon is already getting to his feet. “I’ve got it. I’m feeling much better; thanks.” 

“Any time.” 

Jon’s footsteps retreat down the hall. His door shuts. The recorder clicks. “Supplemental.” 

[illnessandinjury]

@sickandvomiting and I got to hang out yesterday and go hunting for these adorable bad boys!! 🤍✨ we found a few, and then came home and they cooked em up for me to try for the first time! 🥰🍄

I grew up hunting these guys, my brothers and dad LOVED them, but I was always such a picky eater I wouldn’t even dare touch them after they were cooked lmaooo - I just enjoyed scampering through the woods finding them 😂 BUT I must say… they were pretty fucking good 😋

Thanks again to G for an amazing day out in the swamp lands hahaha!! ✨

[illnessandinjury]

i need him suffer

[illnessandinjury]

Rosie the surgeon

kinda akh (how alastor came to rosie. yep)

[illnessandinjury]

Alastor is too injured after the battle with heaven to leave the radio station and no one finds/looks for him for some days.

He gradually grows weaker, can barely get up to eat or even go to the washroom, feeling completely broken, opressed by the pain, humilation and self-disgust, as well as loneliness.

When someone finally does come to his aid, he believes it is a delirious mirage, hearing voices as in a dream...the visitor is horrified by the state Alastor is in and tries to treat his wounds, clean him, take him somewhere safe.

Feel free to imagine the rescuer as a character of your choice who cares for him 🥺

[illnessandinjury]

Wolf's Rain - Ep 22

[illnessandinjury]

made by mochimonki on tiktok but i can’t stop thinking about it

[illnessandinjury]

[illnessandinjury]

“I… I just need a minute.”

“You don’t need a minute, you need a damn hospital.”

[illnessandinjury]

„I can‘t believe you‘ve been hiding this for that long“ for Camp Camp please? 🥹

yessss i'm so glad you're enjoying my brain rot, anon!!! please have this story full of gratuitous hurt/comfort featuring Gwen as The Best (TM)

When the contraption grabs him, his body whacks hard against the floor, causing an explosion of searing agony to rip through his abdomen. The pain is blinding. For a moment, he doesn’t even know who or where he is. Upside-down, all the sinus pressure that he’s been feeling all day rushes to his head so hard that it feels like his eyes might pop out. He can’t bite back the groan that escapes his throat. Gwen rolls her eyes. 

“What did we say about war machines? If we violate the Geneva Convention one more time, we’re done for.” 

“It’s a Rube Goldberg machine,” Neil corrects. 

“It’s a liability is what it is, and it’s getting dismantled. Now.” She adds, “and get David down from there.” Well. It’s an honor just to be mentioned, he supposes, even if it’s as an afterthought.

Ever since he woke up with a cold two days ago, the kids have been more difficult to handle, and not just because he’s tired and achy. It appears as though they have smelled weakness, so they’re on the hunt. Scheme after scheme has been thwarted by David even despite a sore throat and constant headache. If he had his way, he’d be in bed sleeping right now, but he has an obligation to this place, and he can’t slack off just because of some little cold. Still, hanging upside-down in a big contraption built by his favorite campers is not specifically how he wanted to spend the day. Even as they cut the ropes, David is fighting groans and tears. 

On the ground, he struggles to catch his breath due to the fact that he has to breathe shallowly to avoid aggravating the new pain in his ribcage. He’ll be lucky if nothing is broken. For now, he merely attempts to keep his composure as the kids untie him. It’s clear to him that none of them realize that they’ve injured him. They think it was just a funny prank that Gwen shut down. If they knew, they’ll feel guilty. He doesn’t want that. It might dampen their creative urges, and that would just be a tragedy. He wants them to keep expressing themselves and creating; they just have to hone it in on things that are more productive than breaking his ribs. 

For that reason, David doesn’t tell anyone that it had actually really, really hurt. Instead, he just takes a few minutes in the bathroom to get back on his feet figuratively now that they’re beneath him literally. He takes another dose of cold medicine—it’s too early, but he has a feeling that the pounding sinus headache isn’t going to go away without medication. Then, finally, he heads back out into the mess hall to start helping with the takedown and cleanup of the machine. 

He struggles to sleep all night. As soon as he lies down, the pressure off his ribs is a relief, but it doesn’t make it easier to expand his ribcage. Every time he manages to relax enough to fall asleep, the pain of his breathing evening out wakes him. 

Overall, it’s a sleepless and painful night, and without the restorative blessings of sleep, he wakes the next morning exhausted, sore, and sick. He’d only just managed to fall asleep when his alarm goes off. He groans, reaching out one hand to smash it into silence. Part of him considers calling out today. It wouldn’t be unwarranted, even if it would make Gwen unhappy. However, he thinks that this might be worse if he just allows himself to dwell on how miserable he is, so he allows himself only two snooze cycles before finally dragging himself up to get dressed. That in itself is a painful affair. After that, he trudges down to the mess hall for breakfast. He’s not hungry, so instead he just makes himself a mug of tea and sits down beside Gwen at the table. For once, she’s beaten him here. 

“You look tired,” she says. He tries to avoid coughing, knowing it’ll make his ribs throb, but he can’t. She winces. “And you sound like shit.” 

“It sounds worse than it is,” he dismisses. 

“Are you sure you don’t need the day off?” 

He considers it, but shakes his head. “We’re just painting today, right? I can handle that.” 

Two hours later, he’s regretting that decision. Campers are painting scenes of death and destruction. Kids are throwing paint like PETA at a furs show. At one point, David has to remove a paintbrush from where Nurf had lodged it in Harrison’s ear. It’s a lot more running around than he’d expected, and it’s hell on his ribs. He’s already having a hard time breathing with a cough and a blocked nose, so adding the shallow breaths he has to take for his ribs does not pair well with being out of breath from chasing kids. A few times, he ends up slipping away from the activity to cough because doing it with anyone around would give away his secret injury. It’s so painful that he has no choice but to clutch his ribs while he does so. Cough medicine can only do so much, and the only reason Gwen hasn’t noticed so far is because she’s equally busy wrangling children. She’s promised to handle the majority of the physical work until he feels better, which is a blessing, but it so far hasn’t actually relieved him of any burden. 

By lunch, he’s feeling even more tired than he had when he’d woken up. He’s absolutely beat when he sits down to the table and can’t do much more than put his head in his hands and close his eyes. Gwen puts her hand on his back after she’s helped all the campers get their food, something David normally supervises to ensure that everyone picks at least one fruit alongside their dessert. 

“How’re you feeling?” she asks needlessly. Misery is painted all along his exhausted face and stiff posture despite the smile he’s forcing. 

“I’ve been better,” he admits. His voice is nearly gone from coughing and talking all day trying to keep everyone alive and out of trouble. She gestures to his mug of tea. 

“You might feel better if you ate something. You skipped breakfast, too. Cough medicine probably isn’t good for you on an empty stomach.” The thought of eating anything makes his stomach churn. 

“No, thanks. I’m feeling a little queasy.” She frowns.

“Are you sure this is just a cold? You seem pretty sick.” She reaches out to touch his forehead, but he dodges it. He’s had a suspicion that he might be running a little warm all day, given by how chilly he’s felt even in the sun, but Gwen doesn’t have to know that. It’s just a low-grade fever, if it’s anything at all, and either way, her feeling his forehead would be unhelpful. 

“I’m fine. I might try to get to bed a little early tonight. I’m sure I’ll sleep it off.” 

“Sure.” She extends an apple from her plate. “You sure you don’t want to just try eating something?” 

“I will at dinner; I promise.” 

Dinner rolls around slowly. Gwen takes them through their art history lesson since David’s voice is next to gone, but she hasn’t studied any of it, so it’s barely informative and wildly under-rehearsed. The kids aren’t paying attention, though they probably wouldn’t be even if David were the one talking. In fact, they might even tune David out harder than they are Gwen. But at least the lesson would be accurate and thorough. As it stands, all he can do is watch Gwen fumble through it and try to keep his coughing as quiet as he can. In his position at the back of the group, he can hold his ribs to stabilize them without anyone noticing, which is something, at least. It’s starting to sound pretty soupy, which is annoying. Hopefully it’s not interfering too much with the lesson. 

He tries to ignore the disappointment that courses through him when no one knows any of the answers to the Jeopardy game he’s put together for the end. Still, there are moments of brightness. Neil likes the da Vinci section, while Ered calls Frida Kahlo “badass.” Even Max seems a little intrigued when Gwen talks about Picasso. He calls the art “weird” and says it “doesn’t even look like people,” but he’s listening. 

By the time they’re ready to eat, Gwen is tired, so David musters up as much energy as he can to supervise the children getting their food. If it means he’s able to put off having to eat something himself, then that’s just a small perk. When he returns to the table, true to his word, he makes himself a slice of toast with a little butter and sits down with it. 

“That’s all you’re eating?” she critiques. He coughs and, unable to hold his ribs without giving himself away, winces badly. Her concern is clear on her face because it sounds awful and looks so painful. 

“Sorry. I’m still not super hungry. It’s probably the medicine.” Once more, she reaches out toward his face, but this time, he’s too slow to dodge. It makes her eyebrows furrow further. 

“I think you’re running a fever.” 

“I’m just warm from the sun,” he lies. They’ve been inside for hours now. “I might go get some more sleep.” 

“It’s 5:45.” 

He shrugs. “I’m a little tired.” Though she doesn’t say anything, her gaze rests on the untouched toast. He takes it with him when he stands and ducks out of the mess hall for the evening, but as soon as he’s outside, he tears it into little pieces and feeds it to a squirrel. 

His sleep is fitful once more, but at least he gets more of it than the previous night due to sheer exhaustion. He has to sleep sitting up because the cough is too bad when he lies down. He’s beginning to wonder if maybe Gwen was right in questioning if this is still just a cold, but he ignores it in favor of sleep. 

When he wakes the next morning, he’s almost certain that his cold has advanced into something worse. His lungs feel thick, wheezy, and his throat is sore again from all the coughing. His head hurts. He feels dizzy. The last thing he wants is to go out and deal with the campers. What he really wants the do is tell Gwen that he’s feeling too sick to leave the cabin and go back to sleep. However, one of the only activities that all of them enjoy, even Max, is playing on the lake, and that requires two counselors to be observing. They love the lake. Swimming, floating around, playing in the mud. They’ve been promising it for a week and the kids will be so disappointed if they have to postpone. 

He gets dressed carefully, but it doesn’t hurt less. He brushes his teeth. Coughs until he throws up. Brushes them again. Today isn’t going to be easy, so he takes a dose and a half of cold medicine before heading to the mess for breakfast. 

Once again, Gwen pressures him about whether he’s feeling well enough to supervise today. She doesn’t believe him when he promises that he is, not even when he forces himself to eat half a banana and a few bites of oatmeal. Perhaps she even finds that less convincing. She tells him that he sounds awful enough that he should be considering seeing a doctor, not spending a day out in the hot sun. Deep down, though, she knows that if he goes to bed, she’ll be alone with the kids, and she doesn’t want that, not at all. So, despite her better judgment, she doesn’t insist that David go back to bed and call his doctor. She just makes him finish a cup of tea and makes him another in a thermos before they head out to the lake. 

At first, the sun is comforting against his chilled skin. Then, it’s stifling. Finally, when his temperature reaches its peak, it’s nearly unbearable. He moves to sit in the shade of a tree, but it barely helps. Normally, he’d hop into the lake, but he can’t, not with the horrible bruising over his ribs. Not to mention the cough medicine is lulling him to sleep. There’s a reason, he supposes, that the recommended dose is just two small spoonfuls and not a generous three. Leaned up against the tree, surrounded by the sound of children’s laughter and the gentle white noise of nature, David’s eyes slip shut without him noticing. 

His eyes fly open once more in a panic at the sound of shouting. He glances around frantically trying to figure out the problem until he sees it. The campers are all staring at the same spot in the lake, just a few meters out, where he can see someone flailing around trying to get back to an innertube that has floated away. Max’s innertube. 

Max is drowning. 

He wastes no time before jumping into the lake. The adrenaline numbs the pain in his abdomen momentarily. As soon as he reaches Max, he braces himself. He’s had enough water rescue courses to know what’s about to happen, and it does: desperately, Max tries to climb up his body in an attempt to breathe. David doesn’t try to stop him or pry him away. Instead, he works to get a good grip on him, placing his arms below Max’s and lifting him up to the surface, where he takes a choppy, heaving breath. David is reassuring him that he’s okay, that he’s safe, the entire time he swims them back toward shore. With the adrenaline wearing off, his ribs are throbbing so badly that for a moment, he’s not sure that he’s even going to make it all the way, but finally, he reaches the bank. Gwen takes him from David’s grasp while he gets himself to the lake shore. Though he feels guilty about it and wishes his focus was entirely devoted to Max, he can’t do anything. He coughs up not water but greenish shit from his lungs so aggressively that he finds himself gagging just like that morning. He hopes desperately that he’s not about to vomit up what little is in his stomach in front of the entire camp, but that thought is distant, because what’s at the forefront of his mind is pain. He flops onto his back, holding his rib cage in agony. He feels like someone has hit him with a baseball bat. As he lies there still coughing, he feels like he’s going to choke, but he can’t bring himself to sit up. Just as fear is beginning to set in from not being able to take a full breath, Gwen is at his side. She sits him up so quickly that he cries out in pain. It makes her jump. 

“David?” she calls, sounding far away and hazy. “What’s wrong?” 

He can’t answer. He’s finally managed to stop coughing, but he’s still breathless; the pain is too much. However, as she frantically looks him over, she glances to his midriff and gasps. When he follows her gaze, he realizes that the water has made his white shirt translucent. The dark marks on his side are completely visible.

“Take care of Max,” he manages through gritted teeth. 

“He’s fine. Just needs to dry off.” She bats off his hands as he tries to keep her from lifting his shirt, then gasps again. “Oh my god, David.” 

“Where’s Max?”

“Holy shit,” Max’s voice says breathlessly. “Is that from us?” 

David shakes his head, but it’s pretty obviously a lie. 

“These could be broken. You need to go to the hospital.” He wants to argue, but the pain is so intense that he just wants something, anything to relieve it. 

“Max, too,” he insists. She nods in spite of Max’s, “hell no!” 

“Alright. I’m going to get the car. I’ll be back.” 

Max does protest, but at the end of the day, they’re adults, and he’s a child. Not to mention the part of him that just doesn’t want to be at camp when the QM is in charge. He eventually obeys and crawls into the back of the car. David sits in the front seat, breathing shallowly. They don’t talk. The only sound is David’s wheezing breaths and the soft tunes from the radio. Gwen sometimes hums along, sometimes doesn’t. 

At the hospital, Max is cleared almost instantly. They check his lungs and decide that he’s no worse for wear. 

David is another story. After listening to his lungs, they order a chest x-ray, which reveals that he’s got bronchitis, bordering on pneumonia. Two ribs are cracked and another bruised, which caused shallow breathing that made his cold into something worse. He leaves with a few prescription pills and an inhaler, but he’s allowed to leave. 

On the ride home, the silence is a little more uncomfortable. After a few puffs of his inhaler and some pain medicine, David isn’t breathing so badly anymore, so there’s not much to focus on other than one another. Max is kicking his feet in the back seat while Gwen drives. David, whether from exhaustion, illness, pain, or medication, is falling asleep with his head against the window. 

“Hey,” Max starts, kicking the back of David’s seat lightly enough that it doesn’t hurt him. 

“Yes, Max?” 

“I’m, uh, I’m sorry.” 

“It’s alright. I’m not angry with you.”

“You should be.” David blinks.

“Why? I know you didn’t mean it. It’s not your fault.” 

“But it is,” he argues. “We’re the ones who dropped your stupid body into the floor.” 

“It’s true that wasn’t very nice,” he starts, which makes Max wince, “but you didn’t mean for this to happen. It’s okay.”

Max forces his gaze away, whether because he feels awkward or because he’s getting emotional about being forgiven so easily. 

“Whatever. Just… we won’t do it again.” 

“I appreciate that.” He shuts his eyes once more and lets his head rest against the window. 

“Tired?” Gwen asks, and he smiles. 

“A little.” She pulls into the camp parking lot. 

“Let’s get you to bed, then.” She cuts off the engine and helps him out of the car, ignoring his protests that he’s fine to stand by himself when he dizzily wavers getting to his feet. He makes a quick appearance to reassure the campers he’s fine before letting Gwen walk him back to the cabin. She waits while he changes clothes and helps him prop himself up on pillows in a way that’s minimally painful and relaxing enough to let him sleep.

“I seriously can’t believe you hid this for so long,” she says. “You should have said something earlier.” 

“Sorry.” He can’t bring himself to say much more, so he lets his eyes shut. He feels her cool hand on his forehead and hears her sigh. 

‘I’ll handle the campers for a few days. Just focus on getting better. Think you could eat something?” 

“Maybe in a little bit.” That’s meant to worry her less, but probably doesn’t work. 

“I’ll be by to check on you in a few hours. Get some rest and text me if you need anything, okay?” 

He nods. “Thanks, CBFL.” She rolls her eyes. 

“Goodnight, David.” For the first time in days, he finds that sleep comes easy. 

[illnessandinjury]

Todays sketch page with more whump Alastor and slight radioapple

[illnessandinjury]

Alastor whump sketch dumb with a hint of radioapple

[illnessandinjury]

Hey hey! Do you still write for fullmetal alchemist? If so, can I request from your bingo card "you're late again" for that fandom? 😄

yes yes!!!

i don't think this turned out very good, but you can be the judge! it's another cliche but hey, two cakes. i hope you enjoy it!!

Ed is seething with rage as he waits for the Colonel to finish his meeting, his side burning and stomach doing flips. He should have called and said that he can’t make it in today. With his injuries from the last mission and the fight that they’ve festered rather than healed, it would only make sense. But he’s got a bone to pick, and it can’t wait. He refuses. He’s got half a mind to rip open that door and kick whoever took his time slot out of his office. 

Finally, the Colonel dismisses his meeting and stands in the doorway, looking like an idiot. 

“Oh, Fullmetal,” he greets. “Glad to see you’ve made it. You’re late again.” 

“You met with someone else!” 

‘Because you failed to show up on time, I moved up my next appointment. You can’t possibly expect me to wait around for you all day, can you?”

He’d left on time, but had failed to consider just how much his injuries would slow him down. The heat of the day combined with the fever from the infection proved to be a deadly combination and he’d had to stop a few times to rest and once to throw up in a sewer grate. If Al were here, he’d never have let him go. But that’s the problem. And he’s about to give him a piece of his mind. 

“Have a seat,” Roy offers as he ushers Ed back into his office. Normally, he’d refuse just because he was told to, but his side hurts so badly he’s seeing stars and he’s not sure he could get through this whole debriefing on his feet. He shoves the report onto Roy’s desk before obediently sitting back down. Roy looks it over, but clearly isn’t reading. If he were, he’d have a much bigger reaction than the detached indifference with which he’s flipping the pages. “This is much more comprehensive a report than I’m used to seeing from you,” he comments. It’s a complement and a dig at the same time and it pisses him off even more. 

“Just read it.” 

“I’d rather you do your duty and recite it.” He balls his hands into fists on top of his knees and grits his teeth. 

“Fine. Al and I got off the train at dusk and headed straight for the abandoned hospital. We searched around for a while but couldn’t find anyone, and nothing of any particular interest. We’d thought we got the wrong address.

“Just as weree about to leave, we heard footsteps. They were coming from behind us, and there were a lot of them. Twelve, to be exact.” He watches closely for a reaction and gets none. “Twelve. Not three, like you said.” 

“Go on.” 

“Are you kidding me? You don’t have anything to say to that?” 

“And what, Fullmetal, would you have me say? I gave you the information that I had at the time. I’m very sorry that it was incorrect, but—”

“Incorrect? We needed backup, you bastard! It was just the two of us taking on 12 armed alchemists! We were—” surprised, terrified, nearly killed, “outnumbered!” 

Roy nods. “How did you handle the scene from there? Did you fight?” 

“We had no choice! They were gonna kill us!” He says “us” as if Al could be killed in a fight like that, though he knows it isn’t true. But after what happened, he finds that it’s actually very fitting word choice. He springs to his feet. 

“Fullmetal, you seem worked up. Please, sit down and—”

“You don’t care Al was hurt and you don’t give a shit.” Roy sits forward. 

“You didn’t say Alphonse was hurt. What happened? Where is he now?” 

“It’s in the report,” he spits. “He’s in Resembool seeing Winry. He can’t move anything but one leg.” Roy’s concerned, pitying gaze infuriates him and he misses a minute ago when he’d thought he just didn’t care. Pretending to care is worse than indifference. 

“I’m very sorry to hear—”

‘No, you’re not!” Ed shouts, then doubles over in pain as the exertion sends waves of knife-sharp pain through his abdomen. When he straightens, Roy is at his side, hands hovering over his body in a desire to assess injury without the threat of getting his limbs torn off, like a lion tamer in the circus. 

“Where are you hurt?” 

“I’m not.” That’s a lie and he knows it and he knows that Roy knows he knows it. “It’s fine.” 

“Let me see.” Ed weighs his options. Ultimately, he decides that showing the wound and making the bastard feel guilty is the best course of action and lifts up his shirt about halfway to reveal a huge, gaping gash, red and oozing and irritated around the edges. Roy frowns. “You should have reported this.” 

“That’s what I’m doing.” 

“When it happened. You needed medical attention. This looks infected.” He’s so hot, and everything is spinning. Rage isn’t helping matters, but he can’t help that. He teeters on his feet so far that he’s sure he’s going to fall until Roy catches him under the elbow and sits him down once more. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Just a little dizzy,” he replies. After a moment, it passes, and the world stops looking so wobbly. “You should have sent more men. We could have been killed.” 

“If I’d known, I would have. It was a surprise for everyone.” It’s not an apology and Ed wasn’t expecting one, doesn’t need one. Nothing that bastard could say would make one ounce of difference, anyway. 

“I need a few days of leave time to go see Al.” 

“Denied.” 

Ed bristles. “Why the hell not?” 

“Even you aren’t this stupid. You need a doctor.” 

“Yeah, well, Al needs me. And that’s more important.” 

He knows this is childish. He can feel Roy’s frustration crackling off him like static. Instead of the berating he expects, Roy merely bites the fingertip of his glove to remove it and presses his hand to Ed’s forehead. 

“You’ve got a fever.” Ed sways forward and Roy steadies him before ushering him down into a seat. “Come on, now. You know you’re not in any shape to travel.” Ed clenches and unclenches his fists repeatedly in frustration. “I’ll phone Ms. Rockbell if you’d like. We could check on your brother.” 

Roy is probably expecting a firm no, perhaps some expletives thrown around for attempting to get into his personal business. The very last thing he should expect is for Ed to nod slightly. Despite that the docile acceptance is unexpected, the offer isn’t hollow. Roy sits at his desk and calls up the kids’ mechanic. She picks up after a few rings, sounding frustrated and frazzled. 

“Can I help you?” 

“Hello, Ms. Rockbell. This is Colonel Mustang, I’m calling on behalf of Edward Elric.” Winry sighs. 

“What did he do this time?” 

“Unfortunately, he’s rather unwell at the moment.” 

“Yeah, Al told me he got hurt. Is he okay?” 

“He will be, with rest. However, he’s very adamantly set on coming to check on Alphonse. I’m having a little trouble convincing him to go to the hospital.” 

“You were just supposed to ask how Al is!” Ed snaps. “This isn’t supposed to be about me!” 

“May I speak to him?” 

“Certainly.” He hands the phone to Ed, who has to immediately move it away from his ear to avoid damaging it in the loud, shouting rant she starts as soon as he’s on the phone. 

“Alright, alright,” he finally concedes after a several-minute screaming match. “I’ll stay here.” He’s sukling and he knows it. He hands the phone back to Roy, who gives a polite goodbye before hanging up. 

“I’ll call you a car.” Ed mutters under his breath but doesn’t actually retaliate as Roy does just that. When he’s finished, he sits back at his desk and sighs. “I should have looked at the situation more closely before putting you and your brother in danger. I’m sorry.” Ed blinks in shock. 

“Yeah, you should have.” 

“You could have called, you know. It would have been the same conversation and saved you from nearly collapsing in my office. Please consider it next time.” 

“Well, don’t be a stupid bastard again and I won’t have to.” 

“Watch it,” he chastizes softly. “The car will be here in a few minutes.”

Ed nods and allows his eyes to slip shut. Based on how shaky and chilly he feels, the fever is still climbing, and he’s exhausted. He rests his head on one arm and falls asleep on the couch until the car arrives to take him to the hospital. Roy doesn’t make a sound until he’s awake again. He needs all the rest he can get, after all, and god knows he won’t do it himself.