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pagingdoctorhart · 23 days ago

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TIMING: April 14, 2025, Before Dawn LOCATION: Wicked's Rest General Hospital PARTIES: @gotabigdiego & @pagingdoctorhart SUMMARY: A late-night trip to the emergency room for Diego is just what Mickey needs to liven up a slow shift. WARNINGS: Head Trauma (discussion), Needles (mentioned)

Let it be said that Diego had a modicum of self-preservation. Just enough. Protection was important—an ounce of prevention, even better. But magical healing was nowhere close to his specialty. Strange as it seemed to some of his more… woodsy brethren, medicine and science had vaulted places in the life of a sorcerer as prone to purely mundane accidents as Diego.

And, if he really thought about it, it was rather impressive that he had avoided the specter of tetanus, all these years. But, between periodic fence-hopping and a tendency to walk into situations with his hands out—feet out, in this case—the threat lingered. Now, thanks to a fun, sexy little visit to an abandoned monument to rust and bacteria, Diego could no longer avoid a trip to the emergency room.

His phone had been shut off for the duration of his liaison with his almost-admirer, and it was late into the night when he powered it back on to text Raul, to ask his brother to order Diego a ride, please. He was… reasonably certain that the other man would be awake, could maybe even have come to collect Diego himself, but there was no need to pull him away from whatever he was working on, right? Besides, the ride was just a precaution—it was unlikely that Diego would be kidnapped twice in one night, even here. The hike from the factory, though, would strain his dehydrated body, and if he had to use a spell under duress…? Safer this way. His parents would be proud of him for the forethought, maybe. Raul would have questions later, definitely.

Another sliver of time passed, dreamlike, the only company in the liminal moments a seemingly unphased driver who dropped him at the doors of Wicked’s Rest General Hospital. Diego sent him off with a wave and the only bill in his wallet, a twenty that had seen better days. The hospital itself was quieter than Diego had expected, even considering the hour. Hell, the nurse seemed grateful for the walk-in—though he got the sense that his relative health offended her, somehow. Should he try to bleed a bit more onto the vinyl, next time? Before long, though, he was being shuffled into an exam room off of the main floor, given a clipboard, and told to wait for a doctor to find him. That was… an odd choice of words, right?

—

Mickey was right in the middle of a really intense dream. He couldn’t actually remember the dream now, not since Alexis had used his own jacket against him as a projectile and launched it at his face. He had sat straight up, mumbling something about unfrosted Pop-Tarts. He could only assume that it had been a nightmare, given the limited facts he had. “You drool in your sleep.” The nurse snickered. The two had an ongoing alliance. She didn’t rat him out when it wasn’t busy and he snuck off to catch a quick nap, and he turned a blind eye when she and one of the anesthesiologists snuck off together, Grey’s Anatomy style. Plus, he always made sure to save extra donuts for her when he brought them in. It was an alliance born out of necessity and maintained through a begrudging mutual respect for one another.

“Has anyone ever told you that you lack boundaries?” Mickey mostly joked. Admittedly, Alexis only disturbed his peace when he was needed. Which must mean that someone had come in. Mickey blindly searched for his phone, slapping his hand against the nightstand repeatedly until he finally found it. He had gotten a solid two hours of sleep. Given Wicked’s Rest’s reputation, it was shocking they had managed to stay quiet for that long. There had certainly been more productive ways that Mickey could have spent his time. His father’s own passive-aggressive statements pushing Mickey rang through his head. If he put more effort into things he would have graduated top of his class. If he had applied himself more he would be chief resident. Blah blah blah. As Mickey forced himself off of the bed and tried to mend his bed head he asked Alexis, “What do we have?”

Alexis ran through the highlights, scarce as they were, as the two left the room and walked down the hall. The two broke off outside the room, where Mickey grabbed the chart and read through it before knocking against the door and pushing it slowly open. The man inside must have been right around Mickey’s age and seemingly in perfect health. Despite Alexis’ annoyance, Mickey preferred it this way. The last thing he needed was someone bleeding out on a hospital bed right after he woke up. If the shot was the only thing the man needed, he may be able to get the dude out of here without ever having to bring in a doctor to supervise. “Evening. Or maybe morning, I guess. I’m Doctor Hartmann.” He tucked the chart under his arm and rocked back and forth a little, trying to physically stop himself from yawning. “Sounds like you came face to face with medicine’s worst nightmare, the rusty nail.”

—

Diego had not been waiting long. Really. It was more that the adrenaline was wearing off, adequate rest had been eluding him for a few days, and he really was a bit dehydrated. All fixable, all manageable. Not an emergency. He had taken a seat at one of the chairs. Why waste the crinkly paper on a non-emergency? Because this was not an emergency, not in the slightest. His leg bounced, and he beat an uneven tattoo against his upper thigh. Two different rhythms, enough to distract from the distinct lack of an emergency. Maybe he should have entertained the nurse a bit better, given her a reason to send someone along?

That said, even if he had been waiting long—and, look, cards on the table, Diego had been waiting for five minutes, maybe—any complaints would have dried up after he was rewarded for his patience with a hot doctor. Even if, given previous non-emergent problems, he was, a little bit, the tiniest bit, unprepared, in his vulnerable state, to react appropriately when faced with said hot doctor. Which is the only excuse he had for the first thing out of his mouth being, “Well, score one for the lapsed Catholics, God blessed me.”

…

And, then, rapidly, the second thing out of his mouth being, “Sorry. That was…” Diego sprung up from his chair, began to hold his hand out. “Diego?” Thinking better of it, he drew back his hand. Hot Doctor—wait, he had introduced himself, Doctor Hartmann needed clean hands, probably, and Diego had recently been crawling on his hands and knees in an abandoned factory. Quick, Diego. What had Doctor Hotmann said?

“Yeah, I am covered in bacteria.” The slur in his voice? Absolutely nothing to worry about. Diego was nailing this. Speaking of, “I think the nail just sealed the deal. I used protection, I promise.”

—

“Amen,” Mickey answered almost on instinct, not quite processing the man’s words until after he had said it. His face was still buried in the chart and his mind still contemplating unfrosted Pop-Tarts. That was really going to bother him. But all that was for another workplace nap. Right now he needed to consider whether this man was very drunk, very concussed, or just very forward.

“Hi Diego. For medical purposes I’ll wave instead of shake.” Mickey gave the man an honest to god peace sign—he should never be allowed to see a patient directly after waking up—and sidestepped far enough to reach for the bottle of hand sanitizer they kept on the counter, offering some to Diego. He couldn’t be quite sure what type of bacteria Diego meant that he was covered in because again—not quite clear on his current state, but he was sure that he didn’t want that bacteria on his own hands before treating a patient.

Oh good, Diego used protection. The word choice actually made Mickey laugh. The attending physician would be completely appalled by the lack of professionalism, but that was hardly newsworthy. Mickey liked to say that he was building rapport, but the attending physician wasn’t particularly impressed by that description either. Another reason why that chief resident position would continue to slip through his fingers. If Mickey had his way, it’d fall directly into the garbage disposal. “Well, as thrilled as I am to hear that the nail wore a condom, it doesn’t look like it worked. Only 99% effective and all.” He pulled on a pair of gloves and patted the bed. “I’ll want to get the wound cleaned up first. You remember the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

—

There was a high flush to Diego’s cheeks. He sent a silent prayer (and halfhearted apology) upwards, glad that his doctor had a sense of humor about his arguable blasphemy and his current inability to keep his mouth from running off without him. Absurd as it might be, Diego wanted to score top marks in being a patient. Not being rude was somewhere on the rubric, he suspected.

“Thank you.” Diego accepted the offered sanitizer and rubbed it in. It stung a bit, a sharp and present reminder of his superficial nicks and scratches, but it centered him. And the mild pain was quickly replaced by delight as he coaxed a laugh from the doctor. Even if his answering laugh was probably a bit too loud. Wow. It did sound like he was being lewd, now that his mind had caught up to his mouth for a moment. Well, he would happily sound foolish to keep Doctor Hartmann laughing.

Diego slung himself up and onto the bed, and the world only spun a little as he rose, hopped, sank down. Take that, gravity. “Um,” he started, trying to stall, trying his hardest to remember when he might have last punctured something. It was uncommon, surely? After a moment, he was forced to admit he was coming up empty. “If I can’t remember, that probably means it’s been too long, right?”

He toed off his half-ruined shoe and bloodied sock, wincing as the cold hospital air hit the wound. “I would’ve cleaned it myself, but I came straight here from…” Diego’s voice trailed off. Right. Probably would make the doctor worry unnecessarily, if he explained the situation. More jokes. “You think I’ll lose the whole foot? Shame. It was my favorite.”

—

Time and observation had made Mickey lean more towards the concussion theory. It wasn’t that he had never been flirted with while on the job, Mickey’s natural inclination for banter often made him come across as a natural flirt. The lack of a filter from the man weren’t the only symptoms that Mickey was seeing now, though. Which meant this may be a bit more complicated than just giving a shot and sending him on his way.

“Either way, it wouldn't hurt to do a booster just in case.” Mickey grabbed for the chart and wrote down a few notes, knowing he’d have to at least run anything he planned to do past an attending. If he was lucky, they’d sign off and not mandate that they be in attendance to observe. “The right answer is less than ten years ago, for the record.”

Mickey leaned down a bit to get a better look at the foot. Hard to assess any actual damage until it was cleaned. “Well, worse comes to worst, I’ll just chop both off to make sure it’s symmetrical,” Mickey mused dryly. “Before I do anything I want to make sure there are no fractures or anything. So let me know if you feel any pain or discomfort.”

Once Mickey was satisfied that his foot wasn’t damaged outside of the nail wound, he finally moved on to cleaning the area around it. “Have you ever had a concussion before?”

—

“Sorry, Doc,” Diego mumbled, frowning as he, again, searched for the relevant memories and, again, came up short. His head had begun to pulse, a slow, throbbing thing that left his thoughts unspooled at his now mismatched feet. Thinking on it, trying to push through the pain, gave him the impression that it had been longer than he liked to go without rest, even through bouts of insomnia. Of course, he had been unconscious for a time. But it did not take a medical professional to tell him that there was a stark difference between bed rest and waking up tied to a chair.

Still, had the outcome been different, Diego might have tolerated the weariness better. A fair trade for pleasure, a technically sound equivalent exchange. But, though Diego did not blame his once-assailant for setting a boundary, the night had left him spent but not sated, falling short of a second wind. And so, despite the cold, bright light of the examination room, his eyes slipped shut.

It was in the haze of not-quite-sleep that he heard the doctor’s quip. Unthinking, Diego murmured back, “Think I could make it work without my feet. Just glad my hands are fine. I haven’t had to cast a spell handless in years, and ‘m bad enough at typing as it is.” A laugh slipped out, quieter than before.

Much as he would have liked to watch the doctor work, the idea of opening his eyes back up to the sharp light was too dizzying to consider. “No pain,” Diego confirmed, wiggling his toes in an attempt to prove it. That was good, right? No need to worry Raul. He would end up telling him, eventually, the full story behind tonight, but the less questions from strangers, the better. No hedging needed, if it never came up in the first place.

Oh. Doctor Hartmann was asking him another question. Is this how it felt when Diego kept pushing people? His own fault, for ending up here, though, so he kept the frustration out of his voice. “Couple of concussions, maybe? More than one. It felt unfair to put a charm on my head when the other guy couldn’t.” Suspicious, even. Wait. Something occurred to Diego. Something that he should have caught sooner. “Do I have a concussion?”

—

This should have been a straightforward visit. A tetanus shot, maybe a concussion check. Just another random stranger that made for some interesting conversation before Mickey never saw them again. But mentioning spellcasting piqued his curiosity. His head tilted at the mention, stated more as a casual joke than anything else. It could have been a joke, actually. Mickey’s knowledge of magic and spellcasting was limited almost entirely to the knowledge that magic and spellcasting existed. He had only heard of some of their handiwork and never actually spoken with someone that practiced it before. Mickey’s mouth practically watered at the thought of ending his boredom for the night by playing twenty questions with the poor man. For as nosy as Mickey could be, he also had to recognize that there it was morally questionable to hound a concussed man for information. Not to mention, unreliable. Still, he’d pocket the information for a future time.

In positive news, Mickey was confident that the man had nothing worse than a concussion on top of the injured foot. No additional injuries seemed present. “You totally have a concussion.” Mickey broke the news nonchalantly. Partly because the man seemed to return that same level of casual attitude, but mostly because the man seemed to be fading in and out of consciousness, and the idea of explaining any medical jargon right now felt like a lost cause. He grabbed the chart to make a note to himself to pull Alexis in and update the records to an overnight stay. If Diego had someone that could pick him up, they could try to contact them. But for now, with Diego somewhere between barely responsive and REM sleep, Mickey figured his only goal now would be to ensure Diego was safe to let him fully go to sleep.

—

“Well, damn,” Diego said through a yawn. Unaware of the doctor’s interest, he drifted off.

#wickedswriting #c diego #para diego #the injured list #head trauma tw #needles tw #once again this sat in my drafts for far too long before I realized I never posted it

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pagingdoctorhart · 30 days ago

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Silent Support: Mickey & Oliver

Timing: Current

Location: Jericho Burying Ground

Parties: @oliver--fox & @pagingdoctorhart

Summary: Oliver and Mickey run into each other at the cemetery. They talk and decide to make plans to hang out after they finish visiting their respective family members.

Warnings: Parental Death tw

Oliver could, technically, take flowers from his shop when it came to going to the graveyard. He never ended up doing so, though, choosing instead to go to a flower shop that he had found not long after he had gotten back to Wicked’s Rest. It was run by a woman, Sally, with short grey hair and wrinkles around her eyes that showed Oliver that she had lived a life that was filled with smiles. She didn’t ask him about his monthly visits, didn’t try to pry information about who the flowers were for, just quietly wrung him up while talking about whatever topic she found fit for the situation. It was how Oliver knew that the shop had been around for generations, that she was planning to officially have her daughter (Carolyn, who was currently getting her MBA at the University of Maine) take over the shop in the next few years, and that they were planning to re-paint the exterior this summer.

Walking to the cemetery, Oliver spotted Mickey near the front entrance and raised an arm to get his attention. The two of them didn’t always go together, but every once in a while, they both ended up in the same place at the same time. Oliver wasn’t sure who Mickey visited, just like he was pretty sure Mickey didn’t know who Oliver was visiting, but neither of them ever tried to pry that information out. It could be nice sometimes to have someone else around other than the maintenance crew or the random mourners who were around. “Hey.” He said as he stopped next to him. “Are you visiting today too?”

Mickey’s birth parents should rest easy knowing that he must really love them. Otherwise, he would never torture himself by bringing him to a cemetery. Ironically, he loved them as a kid. It seemed every time he came to one there was a new ghost to chat with. Most of the time they were even friendly, and the unfriendly ones had always seemed more dazed or sad than angry. Unsurprisingly, cemeteries were a minefield for the apparitions dedicated to ruining Mickey’s life. Despite this, he felt a desire to respect his parent’s memories in some way, so he could throw on some sunglasses and avert his eyes for an hour or so.

Luckily it was a sunny day, so Mickey didn’t look quite as insane in sunglasses. He was well practiced in ignoring anybody around him at the cemetery, just in the off chance that it wasn’t a real person trying to catch his attention, but when he noticed the small wave coming from the figure it didn’t take long to realize that it was the very real and very alive Oliver. A welcome change, Oliver may be one of the few people he knew who could attest that in rare circumstances, Mickey did actually know when to shut the fuck up. The graveyard required a certain decorum, and Mickey had learned from other times that the two had run into each other that senseless yapping was not the vibe that Oliver was going for while here. “What’s up?” Mickey asked casually, pushing his sunglasses up onto the top of his head to establish actual eye contact. “It’s been a minute, so I figured I should swing by.” Oliver had flowers again, and if Mickey had any belief that his parents were watching over him he knew they’d have some sarcastic comment about ‘how that boy always brings flowers and you never have once’. The thought brought a smile to his face.”You been here recently?”

“Nothing much, you?” Oliver asked, running a hand through his hair. “I get that, the nice weather offered me a good excuse to get out of the house.” Oliver joked. For anyone else, it may read as weird, the two of them going to the graveyard with a certain amount of frequency, but Oliver supposed that it was probably only came off as stranger to anyone who had never lost anyone. Anyone who had, well, Oliver had a feeling they had their own level of frequency that visited if their loved ones were the ones buried here. In some ways, Oliver felt fortunate that he had a place to visit when he wanted to. While graveyards held a certain amount of sadness and grief within them, sometimes it was nice to know that anyone who was there was shaped by loss just as he was.

Oliver shrugged at his question, “It’s been like a month.” Exactly a month, actually. He tended to try and come at the end of the month if he could help it. After so long away, it seemed only fair that he shouldn’t avoid his parents' graves when he now lived in the same town where they were buried. Visiting every month allowed him to keep the graves clean and stocked with flowers, plus practically forced him to at least think about talking to them. He rarely did, instead taking the time to focus on his memories and say a silent prayer. He wasn’t all that religious anymore, but he knew that it would be something that his parents would appreciate.

“I was just about to head in, are you just getting here now too? Or heading out?” Oliver asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Mickey smirked, wondering just how often Oliver came here. The cemetery wasn’t the first place the two had crossed paths. It also wasn’t the last. He knew that Oliver knew his sister at least, and they had seen each other outside of the big iron gates of the cemetery. Still, Mickey mainly saw Oliver here, which implied that the two came often enough that they ran into each other in between their solo trips. Either that or the two had incredible, albeit unintentional, coordination. “I’ve been incredibly bored and desperate for something exciting to happen.” That was a bit hyperbolic, but a general response that he gave to most people admittedly. His residency kept him busy, but it rarely kept him entertained.

A month. More frequent than Mickey’s visits, then. At least if Oliver kept any sort of consistency. Mickey’s consistency was shit, and he was pretty sure it had been a few months since he had stopped by. In fact, the last time he was here he thought Oliver might have been too. So maybe he was onto something with that unintentional coordination theory.

“Heading in too, actually. Was thinking of going for a run after, if my leg is in agreement.” Despite having known each other for multiple years now, the two barely talked outside of surface level conversation at the cemetery. They hadn’t had any sort of deep conversation since Mickey was just starting medical school, if he remembered correctly. “I realize now that that sounds weird without context.” Mickey laughed, pulling up his shorts far enough to give a glimpse at the large scar that stretched along the front of his thigh, “Accident from when I was a kid, but sometimes it acts up if I put too much stress on it.” Sure, Oliver had seen his leg before. But it had been a long time, who knew if he remembered the scar. Mickey figured that until they reached the graves, conversation was fair game. “You got big plans for the rest of the day?”

—-

Oliver smirked, “I wouldn’t advertise your boredom to the universe, especially here at Wicked’s Rest. That’s just asking for something to happen.” He teased, although he was only half kidding. The town had a way of causing chaos; one could only wonder how often it was because someone taunted it. “You’re still working at the hospital, right? What year of residency are you in now?” If there was one thing that Stella was going to do, she was going to ramble, which meant that her brother came up every once in a while, which meant Oliver got random information occasionally. Which meant that he rarely got the background information necessary for any of it to make sense.

He nodded as they made their way through the gates, raising an eyebrow when Mickey mentioned his leg, and grimacing at the sight of the scar. Oliver had seen it before, but it had been largely forgotten due to the…other activities that were occurring. Deep conversations about scars weren’t exactly the greatest bedroom foreplay after all. “Ouch.” His gaze flicked from the scar back up to Mickey’s face “That sucks.” It didn’t seem like it was an appropriate time to ask how he had gotten the scar, and it wasn’t much of Oliver’s business anyway.

Oliver shook his head, “No, not really. The shops closed today, so this was my main plan. I might go on a quick hike later, though, since the weather isn’t bad.” He added with a shrug

—

Mickey knew that Oliver had a point. He liked adventure as much as the next guy, but he didn’t love it when that adventure ended in death and tragedy. It seemed to be a common theme in town. Mickey’s idea of adventure started and ended with a simple philosophy: Have fun. That could mean any combination of things as long as the night resulted in that. Death did not usually make the cut for his nights of fun. Still, he couldn’t help but hope that something did happen, just to shake things up. “About to start my second year. Mentally it feels like my fifth though.” Despite the complaining, he actually enjoyed being a doctor a lot. The job let him talk to a lot of people and the residency meant he was constantly switching up and changing so he wasn’t overly bored either. But it consumed so much of his time that it made it difficult to enjoy the rest of life. A few more years and a fellowship and then he would hopefully have a lot more free time. “I’m sure Stell Bell has exaggerated and told you that I’m like about to graduate to being the #1 doctor in the world or in line to be the next Pope or something, but it is a lot less glamorous.”

The scar didn’t bother Mickey much anymore. There were a lot of things that reminded him of that night and even more that reminded him of his parents, but they had varying levels of hurt. At this point, the scar was so second nature to Mickey that he associated it more with who he was now than who he ever was before the attack. “Eh. It’s so old now I don’t think about it much. But it still acts up sometimes if I overwork it. Much like me, it will not be silenced.” By some combination of trying to be respectful and what must be an actual miracle, Mickey usually kept himself respectful and quiet during his time at the cemetery, but if Oliver remembered him at all from the times they talked a few years ago he’d remember that Mickey was anything but that outside of these gates.

“Speaking of the shop, it’s probably time for me to order some new ones for my mom.” Mickey wasn’t nearly good enough of a son to claim that he consistently got her flowers, but he kept up a consistently inconsistent schedule of randomly showing up to their house with a bouquet for her. He had tried plants for himself, but gave up after one too many deaths.Oliver would have been so offended. “I should have known you were a hiker!” Mickey gasped excitedly and hopped from one foot to the other as he followed Oliver towards the headstones. “We should go together, if you end up hiking today. We could get milkshakes too. Make it a whole thing. Movies too? Nah, movie’s too much. Unless… ” Mickey took a deep breath. He was starting to get a little too involved and had to calm himself down and remind himself of the silent and self placed rules of the cemetery visit.

—-

“Oh, nice! You’re getting there then.” Oliver said with a grin. “You know, I don’t think she’s mentioned the odds of you being the pope.” He joked, “However, she has absolutely talked up your doctor abilities. So, you’ll be my first stop if I ever need help.” Oliver tended to stay away from hospitals if he could help it. There was probably minimal risk of anything bad happening, but he would rather not risk something weird coming up on an exam. He wasn’t even sure if his body looked any different on the inside than humans, and would rather not have to explain something like that on the fly. It helped that he had a pretty decent immune system and rarely had to wait longer than a day or two for any injuries he managed to obtain.

He gave a small nod “Yeah, still sucks that you have to deal with it. I’m glad it doesn’t flare up that often.” Oliver laughed at Mickey’s statement about not being silenced. “No worries, I think that your noise makes the world a better place; plus, it would be weird if Stella were…Stella and you were quiet? She needs a sibling who matches her energy.”

Oliver hummed quietly as they walked further into the graveyard, moving away from the newer graves and into the older parts of the area. “Of course, what kind of flowers were you thinking?” It was sweet that Mickey got flowers from his mom, especially because he seemed to do it more than on just the ‘typical’ holidays that most people did. At the other’s excitement about hiking, Oliver raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised Stella’s never complained about it. I tend to make her experience the wilderness more than I think she would prefer.” Technically, the forest was the best place for both of them to use their powers, but that didn’t stop Oliver from being thrilled that it was the solution to their problem. “Milkshakes could be fun; we could hike a bit and then get them? Have them be a nice little treat as a reward.” Oliver added with a wink. They were coming up on his parents' grave, and he flicked his gaze from the path in front of them to Mickey. “Ah, you don’t have to come with me to the grave itself if you don’t want to. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

—

“I’m good. But I’m not nearly as good as she talks me up to be.” Mickey laughed. A warning to Oliver before he bet his life on Mickey saving him. From the moment Mickey had met Estella she had been putting him on a pedestal. Talked him up to be some sort of fairy tale hero. She was too kind hearted to have learned that that had never been true. Probably too stubborn to be talked out of it now. “But she’s an incredible wing-woman, if you ever need it. I fall a tiny bit in love with every person she decides to tell me about. She really has a way with words.” In about seven hundred different languages to boot. “Anytime she talks about you she’s like ‘Oh Mickey he’s so nice and helpful. He’s too cool for modern stuff. He reminds me of an old painting.’ As if I didn’t already know all that stuff about you.”

Mickey had been told many things about the rate and consistency that he talked, but he wasn’t sure that he had ever been told that his noise made the world a better place. “I think that’s genuinely the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me. And you’ve met my sister. Thank you.” He said it as a joke. Hell, he meant it as a joke. But there were definitely some genuine feelings buried deep down there. Oliver was right of course, they did match each other’s energy well. Even if his sister’s positive attitude was more optimistic than his own. It was hard to beat her positivity.

“I’m pretty sure her favorites are the ones that I let you freeball.” Horrible choice of words, but whatever, “I think deep down she knows it too. She can tell which ones were me and which ones are you. I’ll pay you extra for the extra thought.” Mickey loved seeing the beauty in things, but that didn’t mean he was particularly skilled at picking it out himself. Oliver had a talent for it on the other hand. Oliver’s agreement to hang out afterwards sparked another round of over the top excitement from Mickey, he bounced up and down a few times, “Hell yes! This is exactly what I needed today.” he had to force himself to calm down again. Be respectful and all that. “Of course, I wouldn’t want to intrude. I’ll give you a few minutes and pop over to mine on the other side. Meet you after?”

—-

“Gotcha, so you suck as a doctor.” Oliver deadpanned before laughing to show that he was joking. “Nah, I’m sure you’re plenty good. She just wants to hype up her favorite older brother.” Oliver nodded, “She’s like the sun. She brings levity and warmth to basically every interaction.” He grinned, internally laughing at that inside joke he was making. Oliver had never pushed Stella on whether her family knew about her abilities; it wasn’t really any of his business either way. He felt his face heat up at Stella’s description of himself: “An old painting?” Oliver shook his head. “We are like, 5 years apart or something; how on earth can she be calling me old?” He asked, pointedly ignoring the fact that Mickey had mentioned that he was aware of Oliver being nice and helpful.

Oliver blinked at the other's statement. He had just been honest, but he was glad that it had seemed to resonate with him. “Oh! Uh, you're welcome. Though I guarantee that you say that to Stella, and she will manage to find you a better one.”

He gave the other a thumbs up, “Gotcha, but you can absolutely take credit for it this time if you want. Make her think you have a secret talent,” Oliver winked. While flowers weren’t his specialty, he had become good enough at it that at this point he could make bouquets without having to spend too long thinking about it. Sometimes, he forgot that it didn’t come as naturally to others as it did to him. Oliver smiled softly at the others' excitement. “Same, I think it’ll be nice.” It would be a good change of pace to go on a hike with someone else rather than alone. It was nice, sometimes, to be one with nature, but having someone else with him helped remind him that he wasn’t totally alone in the world.” He nodded at the other's suggestion, “Yeah, we can meet at the entrance again?” Oliver asked, before turning back down the path. He walked to where his parents' graves were and knelt, removing the old flowers and replacing them with new ones. He shut his eyes and said a mental prayer before rising again. “Nothing big to report this time. See you next month.” Oliver said softly, before heading back towards the entrance.

—

“Someday I’ll be your own version of universal healthcare and you can decide for yourself whether I suck or not.” Mickey wasn’t nearly vein enough to declare himself a great doctor. He reserved that arrogance for declaring himself the funniest person in the room. “She’s always been my pocket full of sunshine.” Even without the supernatural element, she felt like the sun. But he couldn’t ignore the coincidence there. Not that it was any of his business who Estella did or didn’t tell about her own secret. “Oh please, you’re totally an old painting.” Mickey couldn’t describe exactly how that made sense, but he knew that it fit. “To be fair, I think she meant more in the way you act than your actual age. Plus the whole being pretty thing really lends to the painting vibes. But that could just be my own opinion” he held up his pointer fingers and thumbs to frame Oliver as if he really was a painting. It was a good fit.

Mickey shook his head at the suggestion, “She wouldn’t buy it even if I tried to take credit for it. She appreciates the gesture, but she knows I’m not the brain behind it. Besides, I don’t like lying.” He hardly ever did it, unless it involved his family’s secret or talking about his birth parents old job. Or if the joke demanded it.

Mickey gave a thumbs up to Oliver before skipping off to his own parent’s grave, side by side in the cemetery and freshly cleaned. Thank you to whoever was in charge of that. “You totally saw that didn’t you? I know, I know. He brings flowers to whoever he is visiting. Maybe you should have birthed him.” he joked, talking to the stone casually. He never tried to picture his parents' faces when he came to visit. He was afraid that he’d manifest them into some apparition or spirit like he used to as a kid. “Short visit today, I know. But I just made plans and I know how much you used to push me to try to be more social. So in a way I’m actually honoring your wishes. Twenty years too late, but still.” he waffled about a few moments longer before admitting defeat that he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“You’ve really saved me from a day of boredom.” Mickey declared once he got back up to the entrance and spotted Oliver, “it’s been a long time though, I’m excited to catch back up.”

—-

“Can’t wait.” Oliver winked before humming in agreement with Mickey’s statement. Sometimes, he wished he could carry Estella’s optimism around with him. He wondered when he had lost so much of his. He hoped she was able to hold onto hers for longer than he had. At the other’s agreement that he felt like an old painting, Oliver couldn’t help but shake his head. “Again, that makes no sense. You can’t just feel like an old painting and have it mean anything other than I feel old” Oliver laughed. That was the second time this conversation that Mickey had complimented him. Being called nice and helpful may seem normal, but adding 'pretty' to that? Oliver couldn’t help but wonder if Mickey was hitting on him. Would it even be considered hitting on him if they hooked up before? “Well! I think you are pretty enough to be someone’s muse as well, so you deserve to be seen as a painting too.” Oliver said, only a little bit flustered. He wasn’t even sure if what he had said made sense.

“That’s fair. It was you’re idea, though, so you can take credit for that at least.” Oliver offered. Best of both worlds, he thought.

No longer having the flowers in his hands to distract himself, Oliver instead leaned against the wall by the entrance, eyes focused on the clouds above him. He had done a glance around the cemetery to make sure he hadn’t missed Mickey leaving, but turned his attention upwards after finding him. He didn’t want it to seem like he was watching the other. At the sound of Mickey’s voice, Oliver turned his attention back to the area around him. “Same! I think it’ll be fun, and certainly better than if I were doing something alone.” Oliver stated, hands interlocked around his head as they made their way out of the cemetery.

As they got further away, their voices became quieter, transitioning to whispers before fading away completely. The silence that was ever present returned, allowing the dead to rest once again.

#parental death tw #c oliver #para oliver #wickedswriting #para #silent support #omg this has been sitting in my drafts for weeks because I thought I reblogged it already. smh

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