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just-a-nervous-bean · 2 days

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I AM UNWELL WITH HOW SEVERELY THIS MADE ME FEEL

BESTIE HELP!??? UR CHARACTERIZATION AND THE NNRHGHHSHFKJFH THE NUANCE OF LIKE WRITING IS SO GOOD. I cannot wrap my head around how someone so effortlessly uses metaphor this was like watching bernini paint a painting I'm out of breath fam

This is a big huge birthday gift for @just-a-nervous-bean !! There’s nothing more I love than taking an oc and throwing them against a wall like a sticky hand. Anyway, this is a Biddley and Rashun fic, that’s about 3300 words! CW for emeto (no heavy and elaborate descriptions or anything, just the implication), Biddley essentially accidentally swallows a key and Rashun has to wrangle him for it a little LMAO!!

Key Insight.

“You have my word Biddley, I won’t judge.”

“…I swallowed it.”

If you had to ask Rashun how the past fifteen minutes transpired, it would begin with a long sigh.

Fifteen minutes ago, Rashun sat idly by the phonograph. It was one of his favorite pastimes, listening to his collection of records that were usually tucked away neatly in a box under the bed. This time, it was classical, which was the perfect backdrop to getting absorbed and comfy in a thrilling book. With wind rattling at the bay window beyond the office, and the noises of the city lulling in a blur, it was a wonderfully peaceful evening. Peacefully uneventful, that is…which just so happened to be how Rashun liked his evenings.

Rashun’s brows creased as he licked his thumb and finished another chapter.

It was…too peaceful right now.

Not that he was complaining! If he could avoid stitching up a wound or clubbing a goon with his umbrella, that was a good day in his book. But usually this seedy part of the city was always alive and noisy with drama! Granted, he would’ve been in his flat by the Hippo Campus if not for waiting on Detective Biddley to return.

As if thinking of him fabricated the man into existence, the doorknob jangled and turned. The tall form of a maroon-colored man stood lazily in the open door frame only moments later. Eyes bleary but wide, lips parted in a gentle pant, nose bleeding…

Rashun pulled an ornate bookmark from under his lap and slid it into his book—he’d have to get back to that later, by the looks of it.

“Dear god, Biddley,” his face sorrowed when he approached him, “let me get your coat, sir.”

He made no arguments as his huge coat was tugged off. He swallowed thickly, and shuffled to the couch to sit. By the time Rashun appeared at his side once more, he was holding a handkerchief he had run under cold water. That bloody nose had dried up slightly, smeared over his upper lip from a mindless swipe, and telling by the bruising under the bandage, it was slightly fractured. Nothing too alarming, the poor grizzled man never had his nose healed quite right. Each breath always had a rasp or a whistle if you listened closely.

“Might I get you a new bandage…?” Rashun mumbled, before his tail swept and he gave a start. “Were you followed? You have been awfully quiet…”

“Wasn’t followed,” it almost sounded like a groan. Clearly he was thinking about whatever had happened to him. His brow furrowed as the old bandage was peeled off of the bridge of his nose.

“H—hhH!” His breath wavered and his chest grew, “hH! HHRRSSCChhww!!”

“Good heavens, bless you!”

“Got socked by Buster…” a name only relevant to a current case. “He got away, but so did I…”

“Let me see your nose.”

Biddley turned his head lazily with his eyelids shiny and hooded over his muted irises. He clenched his jaw as Rashun pressed both thumbs against the sides of his nose, holding it somewhat secure while a bandage was held in his teeth.

“Gods above, poor thing…” he mumbled, taking the bandage to smooth over his jagged face. His nostrils flared as Rashun held it down. “Try not to sneeze, just for a moment.”

“Khh!” He huffed, eyes getting all tearful. “Rash’n…hHh!”

“I know,” he whispered, stepping back, “I’m all done, honest.”

“hRRSHhhff!!” And he snapped forward into his fist, before holding his stomach.

“Did you break a rib out there??”

“Mnh- no, it’s…”

“Do speak plainly, Biddley, what’s troubling you?”

“The key…”

The house key—also for the case. He was supposed to retrieve it from a disclosed location and return back, but he clearly was intercepted for it.

“Buster didn’t take it from you, did he?” That would make the case much harder, that’s for sure.

“No I’ve got it…”

“Good, splendid, sir. Then there’s not much more we can really do today. It’s best we pick up the rest of the case tomorrow,” he sighed, outstretching his hand. “Here, I can place it with the rest of your things, and we can get you some tea.”

There was a long pause. Biddley stared at his associate’s upturned palm and coughed once.

“Biddley?”

“Rashun, there’s a situation.”

What was he on about? “…yes?”

“But you have to promise you won’t judge,” he said hesitantly. Did he look like he was about to cry? Or was he just exhausted? Honestly, it looked to be both. Rashun sat down at the edge of the couch and looked to his associate. He folded his fingers and tapped his hooves. Asking not to judge was asking a lot, but rarely was Morbid Curiosity apologetic.

“You have my word Biddley, I won’t judge.”

“…I swallowed it.”

That’s how they got to this point. Staring each other in the face as the words gracelessly tumbled out of his mouth. Did Rashun hear that right?

“Sir, you…?”

“Buster was looking for it. I put it under my tongue but he punched me a few times and I swallowed it.”

“Biddley—”

“You said you wouldn’t judge!” He curled his lip slightly, and Rashun raised his hands.

“I am not, I promise you…it’s just one of the last places I would expect to hide a key. Well, second to last.”

“Where would be the last?”

“As…” don’t answer that, actually, “as- as I was saying. I’m not judging, but we do need to get that key out before it causes problems.”

Biddley looked up after a hesitant pause. Yes, if the key went down it would need to come back up. Biddley surely understood this, did he not? Not only for the sake of the case but for his health.

Rashun wordlessly moved into the bathroom to fetch a bottle of pungent liquid. Stuff truly designed to upset the stomach—he had given it to Biddley on the few occasions that he had been poisoned or drugged. He poured a generous amount into a mug when he left the bathroom, and offered it forward for Biddley to take.

Biddley held the cup with a squint. “What’d you put in this?”

“Here,” he showed the little glass bottle, “it ought to help.”

Biddley offered the mug back to Rashun, who blinked and pushed it away. And in any other circumstance, Rashun would take it back, but he wasn’t giving Biddley an option here. “Come now Biddley, you don’t expect that key to just pass through your body, do you??”

“I’m in no mood to be vomiting, Rashun.” Biddley pressed, trying to push the mug into Rashun’s grip.

“Why, I doubt anyone ever is, Mortimer!” He challenged back, thrusting the mug back into the taller man’s clammy palms. “But you must, I’m afraid. Who knows what that key was coated in, and I’d hate for it to…dissolve.”

Biddley sat back and Rashun leaned in. The man jerked and turned his head away, but his efforts to shake Rashun off were no match for his stubbornness. Rashun pressed the mug to his lips, and went as far as to massage his throat to force him to swallow it down. Biddley could hate him all he wished, but god damn it, that key wouldn’t be in his stomach if he had a say in it!

Over the next five minutes, the effects of the medicine were already settling in. Biddley had gone from slouching on the couch to curled up rather quickly, clutching at his stomach while it gurgled. Biddley panted with a slack jaw and a face flushed—contorted with an expression of discomfort.

“You’re a cruel man, Rashun…” Biddley moaned, shivering with a passing chill. The chalk outline around his body quivered as if it were vibrating.

“Only when I need to be…” Rashun sighed, bringing over a mixing bowl from the kitchen. His hand reached for his forehead, but it was quickly swatted away.

Biddley went clammy as he brought up his knees. He coughed, pressing a fist to his lips while the other gripped desperately at his stomach. Clearly he was doing all he could to keep from letting up.

“Come now, Biddley,” he offered the bowl to him. “Do you need my fingers down your throat?”

Rashun didn’t want that, to be honest. Not because it was gross or anything, only because Biddley would absolutely be a biter. He reached out with his two fingers anyway, but when he snapped his teeth at him, he receded with a swift “Mortimer!”

A violent cough took precedence over Biddley, and a second procured the key. Hearing it clatter at the bottom of the bowl flooded Rashun with relief.

“There we are, much better—”

“Move,” he bellowed, pushing the bowl into his hands before rushing to the bathroom. Rashun winced at the unpleasant noises that immediately followed—much more violent and substantial than spitting out a single key. As much as he wanted to give him space, Rashun knew that Biddley needed a pair of eyes on him. Though, the least he could do was fetch the man some water on the way.

“I’m coming in, Biddley…” Rashun mumbled, pushing on the door. Poor Biddley would be found on the other side, sodden in madness and despair while slouched over the toilet. He shuddered visibly as he gripped it, refusing to look over his shoulder.

“Can I-”

“Mmngh-mm—don’t touch m…”

Fair enough. Rashun was about to ask if he wanted water, but he was interrupted by the hideous sounds of Biddley emptying his stomach. “—I really am sorry, it was for the best…I want to make it up to you, one way or another it was ultimately my fault for putting you in this state.”

“I was stupid,” he coughed out, voice heavy, “I shouldn’t have swallowed it-!”

“I don’t believe you had any control at the time…”

“I shouldn’t have put it in my mouth,” he groaned, gasping rapidly before another wave of nausea sent him back to his hunched position. Well, yeah, that Rashun could agree on. Putting a key in your mouth to hide it was cleverly stupid.

“Biddley, sir, will you not let me help you? I promise you I can make this right, I only need your consent…”

Biddley practically growled at him, groaning with closed lips as his wet, beady eyes looked over his shoulder towards him. He was seething, Rashun couldn’t blame him. Flushed, embarrassed no doubt, in pain.

“I take it that’s a no?”

Biddley turned back around wordlessly and retched again.

“…right then. Your water will be right here on the sink. Do call should you need me, though.”

Rashun returned to his book after about five minutes, but he wasn’t really reading. Idly thumbing at the pages, classical music barely drowning out the unsavory sounds from the bathroom. He stumbled out, sweaty and clammy, before sliding the partition wall that seperated the main room from the singular bed in the back. The bed groaned to the large man’s weight, and he sniffed wetly.

“h-hhHh-hDTTSCHHhhf!!” Right, that broken nose, cherry on top, that was.

——

Silence followed over the next hour. Near silence, anyway; in speckles of moments, there would be the creaking of the bed springs as Biddley shifted, a congested sniffle, a cough, and a very very suppressed moan of discomfort. A kettle would screech, and Rashun would take it off the burner to fill a pitcher with hot ginger tea.

Rashun would pause mid-pour with his ear flickering. Another sniffle, and coughing sound—no, a hiccup. He was crying in that room.

The rest of the boiling water was poured into a rubber hot water bottle and set aside to cool slightly. He had known Biddley for two decades, perhaps longer, and he knew it was only a matter of time before—

“Rashhn’…” he called weakly, just above the sound of the record player. There it was. The sound of defeat, throwing in the towel. The poor man was so hurt, so in pain, so inconceivably uncomfortable that it finally took precedence over his embarrassment of a stupid decision. His voice shuddered and he shakily gasped just after.

“I’m coming, sir…”

Rashun peeled the partition open to see Biddley laying on his side. He had no shirt, his broad shoulders heavily battered with scars and worn with time. He smelled of dried blood and cigar smoke, but layered just underneath was Maud’s touch; some sort of lavender and honey bath soap that had softened up such an intimidating aroma.

But even without it, that sweet note still remained. That small essence of curiosity that was always innocent and dripping with wonder. A bleeding heart, that’s what this man was. He knew why he was misty eyed, and it didn’t have to do with the pain nearly as much.

“How are you doing…?” Rashun asked as he rounded the bed to face him.

“Mmbad…” he rasped.

“Would you like some water?”

A slow nod.

“Right-o…I’ve made some ginger tea for you, and I have a hot water bottle at the re—!”

Rashun stood but his wrist was grabbed by his rough hand. He blinked a few times, halting in his spot to look over. His cloudy hair illuminated for a moment as a muffled flash of lightning scattered behind the curls. Slowly, he was reeled back in, and his and touched Biddley’s scarred stomach. He had stretch makes all over his lower tummy, which were soft to the touch, and Rashun’s hand ran over them in contemplation. His brows raised too—Biddley rarely grabbed him with such desperation. He needed someone by his side, he needed physical affirmation right now,

“You have a fever,” Rashun mumbled, reaching a second hand up under Biddley’s chin to confirm it. “Sit tight, yes? Some water ought to cool you down…”

Rashun cupped his cheek and looked into his watery eyes. His brows were slanted, his upper lip was wet. And yet, despite bringing Rashun’s hands over to his body, Biddley refused to meet his eyes. He rubbed his cheek with his thumb a few times before Biddley’s grip loosened from his wrist.

Rashun quickly returned with a tray that had water, tea, some toasted bread, and the hot water bottle. Though when he saw Biddley’s face once more, there was evident wetness on his cheeks.

“Sorry for the wait, Mortimer,” he whispered, “will you eat some toast? It’s extra soft from butter.”

The toast was accepted, which surprised him. Half of the tea, too. He must have been desperate to feel better. Afterwards, he shuffled in his spot, watching Rashun’s hands as he laid the hot water bottle against his stomach. He naturally curled around it, holding it in both of his larger hands.

“There you are…well on your way…I’m sorry, truly, I am.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Biddley coughed.

“I meant what I said, I do believe it was my fault you became this sick.”

“Needed to be done…”

“It still causes you pain.”

“I deserved it,” he mumbled conclusively, “I was stupid.”

“Nonsense, Mortimer. It was a stupid decision, but you don’t deserve pain for it! I don’t loathe you for that…”

Biddley’s shoulders slumped. He was clearly embarrassed, but Rashun wouldn’t push it any further than that. “Will you let me touch you again…?”

There was some hesitance, but Biddley gave a stiff nod. Rashun shuffled a bit closer, and his hands returned to his lower stomach. He pressed delicately inward, moving the bottle against skin, and Biddley almost immediately responded with an uncertain noise. It calmed as Rashun’s warm palms touched Biddley’s tummy, and slowly massaged it in circles. Sweat beaded on Biddley’s cheek, but the hard crease on his brow lessened substantially.

“This isn’t uncomfortable, is it?” Rashun offered, and Biddley shook his head. His arms rested over his head with a lazy thump, and he exhaled towards the ceiling. Rashun could feel the tension in his abdominal muscles relax, no longer cramping him up. It must have felt good if it was causing him to stretch, too. Much like petting an oversized cat after he wasn’t dead-set on striking you down.

He could feel him breathing under his hands. It was slowing down, and each breath he pulled in was deeper and lazier than the last.

“Easy does it, Mortimer,” Rashun offered to his exhausted associate, replacing his hands with the hot water bottle, and pulling his blankets up. He would have to do something about that fever when he woke, but for now, it was best not to disturb the peace.

——

“I do believe it may be a cold, then.”

Four hours went by; they were well into the night at this point. Rashun took the glass thermometer from his mouth, and set it on the bedside table beside a few crumpled tissues. Beside him on the bed, Biddley was sitting up, sweating bullets with his jaw slack. He looked congested, just by how much effort it took on his shoulders to bring in breaths.

“Drink this,” the satyr offered, and Biddley frowned at the shot glass. “Cough syrup, it should clear your congestion.”

Biddley held it in his fingertips. Potent medicine, but not anything like the stuff that made him throw up hours ago. So he took it, and grimaced through it all.

“Why don’t I drive you home, Biddley?”

“Mm?”

“It would be much more comfortable there, you wouldn’t be surrounded by work…”

“Mmnh, it’s so late,” Biddley coughed, choking down some water, “Maud’ll be asleep…”

“I hardly believe she’d mind…”

“You wanna go home?”

“Pardon?”

“You can leave me here, Rashun…”

“Tch!! Nonsense, Biddley. I’m not trying to get rid of you, if that’s what you’re on about. Do not make this about me.”

Biddley seemed to weigh his options for a beat, and nodded. “Mmh, alright…”

“You want me to drive you home?”

“Thanks…”

The drive was even quieter, Biddley was only barely keeping himself awake with an occasional sneeze or sniffle, head drooping in the passenger seat. Lights from orange street lamps washed in gentle strobes past the windshield, and rain pattered on the roof of Rashun’s car. Occasionally he would glance over from the driver’s seat, usually while flicking a turn signal or something.

“Biddley?” He asked gently to him as his forehead pressed to the window and his eyes were closed.

“Mm..?” He mumbled, though didn’t open his eyes or move.

“Just checking on you, sir.”

Quiet moments in the car were always tense for Rashun. Quiet never meant peace until recent years, after all. Whether it was hauling Biddley to the office after getting shot, or desperately pulling himself out of an open car window to take a few shots in a high-speed pursuit, or panicking and planning how exactly you were supposed to leave the car and swim up to the surface of a lake…it had become habit to at least check up on each other.

But luckily, this drive had none of that. Just a small travel to a less seedy part of the city in the rain.

Rashun rang the doorbell and followed it up with four knocks on the door. Biddley had his keys, but he figured they should at least announce their presence. Maud was behind the door after about two minutes, and her gentle eyes fluttered with realization of what she was looking at.

“Good evening, miss,” Rashun cleared his throat gently. Using ‘sir’ and ‘miss’ and ‘mx’ or the like was common practice in his vocabulary, but Maud and Rashun weren’t exclusively formal. They were roommates in college, and their friendship stretched before then. What more could be expected between rationality and moderation? “I do apologize for the hour.”

“Rashun” she nodded to him, and looked to Biddley, “good heavens…”

“He’s alright,” Rashun reassured. “Nothing preposterous, just a cold and a broken nose.” Leaving the incident with the key out, that could be laughed about later, when Biddley was feeling much more like himself.

“Thank you for driving him,” she breathed, pulling the taller man inside with her hands against his large chest. “Did you give him anything for it?”

“Cough syrup, should be due for another dose at sunrise.”

“Dutifully noted, Professor…” she nodded once, “do you want some tea? Anything?”

“Oh no, no ma’am. Thank you though. I ought to let you two get back to your evening. Good day…”

“Good man, Rashun,” Biddley rasped, eyes soft and features glowing in the streetlight.

“Rest well, Mr. Kyrios.”

#THE HURT AND COMFORT #SCREAMPS #MY FAV FLAVOUR OF MAN #THANK U SO MUCH THIS MEANS SO MUCH #NOT JUST THE FIC ITSELF BUT THE GESTURE #AAAUTHghrRHHG #nice things #quosterking #breaks down goated with the sauce while violently sobbing

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