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[italiansteebie]

3 Times someone witnessed Steve’s OCD

Billy- 

Billy was standing at the counter, getting ready to cut some chicken for dinner. Steve walks in, just arriving from work, and immediately washes his hands. Two pumps of soap, hottest water, 30 seconds per hand. That’s just Steve. “Ooooh, dinner! I can’t wait I’m starving!” Steve says with a smile, walking up to Billy. “Have you washed your hands?” Billy nods, and reaches for the knife, ready to grab the chicken. Steve clears his throat, gently blocking Billy’s grab, “Um. Could you do it again?” Steve asks sheepishly. Billy smiles and nods, turning towards the sink. Steve’s shoulders subconsciously lower in relief. That’s just Steve.

After they’re done with dinner, Steve offers to wash the dishes, Billy responds, “Only if you let me dry them.” Steve begins soaping up the sponge, using the coarse side first, cleaning the front of the plate, then the back, rinsing it off, and repeating the steps one more time. Billy laughs, that’s just Steve.

Robin- 

“Good Morning, Dingus!” Robin says cheerfully to Steve who just walked through the door of Family Video. Steve looks up and Robin can instantly tell somethings wrong. She frowns and goes to grab his hand, she feels the dry cracked skin and cringes. “Dang Steve, what happened to your hands?” Steve shrugs and shoves them in his pockets, ashamed of their state. They get like that sometimes, but that’s just Steve

Later in the day Steve’s in the shelves, stocking movies that have already been rewinded and are ready to rent. Robin can hear noises of confusion and frustration for a few minutes, and then he appears out from behind the shelf. “Rob, do you know if Keith re-did the organization again?” He asks, “Uhh, I’m not sure, why?” Steve groans and shakes his head, and Robin swears she can see tears in his eyes, “I keep telling him to let me know when he does this so I can get the patterns right! If I can’t get them right I have to start all the way over and it takes so long.” Robin looks at him, “You know... You don’t have to start all the way over. Right?” He just shakes his and and whispers, “Yes. I do.” And sometimes, that's just Steve. 

Dustin- 

Dustin wakes up earlier than usual. He wants to over to Steve’s and get to the arcade before all the top scores are beaten by someone else. It’s not their normal time, and his mom warns him that Steve might be upset for coming earlier. He shakes his head and laughs, “I’m sure it'll be fine mom. Steve loves me!” and walks out the door towards his house. When he gets there he knocks on the door and waits for someone to answer. Billy is the one who opens the door, informing Dustin that Steve is outside in the pool doing his normal 15 morning laps. Dustin walks out the sliding glass door, and throws a small rock that lands in the middle of Steve’s back. Dustin watches as Steve jolts out of the pool, “Billy. Please, please, please, don’t. I told you I can’t mess up my rhythm or else-” He stops when he turns around and sees it’s Dustin. Who just waves and says “Let’s go to the arcade!” Steve laughs uneasily and gets out of the pool. He goes to get ready and meets Dustin in his driveway after 25 minutes. He watches as Steve hugs Billy goodbye, not once but two times. When he gets in the car, he’s a little quieter than usual. It happens every time Dustin shows up early. Well. That’s just... Steve?

--

Steve stares at his hands as he sits in the doctors office. His foot twists out on the ball, and back in on his toes. He counts as his leg moves back and forth, “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.” and the starts over each time the rhythm feels off. He taps his fingers against the wooden armrest of the chair he’s sitting in, making the distinct beat of “tip tip tipi-tip, tip tip tipi-tip.” He sighs and leans back further in the chair.

“Steven Harrington?”

He looks up and stops his movements. 

After the appointment he sits in his car staring at the diagnosis on the paper. Turns out, it’s not just Steve. He laughs tearily. What would every one think? He doesn’t know. 

When he tells Billy, he reassures his that his OCD doesn’t change anything about their relationship, and that having this label will make them stronger. They can understand each other even better now.

When he tells Robin, she has the same reaction he did in the bathroom at Star Court, “Oh.” She says softly. And that’s it. They’re still Robin and Steve, except Robin starts carrying lotion for the days Steve can’t stop washing his hands and starts calling him each time she knows Keith re-did the organization system. Also making sure to type up the system on paper so he can visualize it.

When he tells Dustin, he runs to the library and does as much research on it as he can. He also stops showing up early without warning. Telling Steve the night before that he wants to go to the arcade to get things done. They develop a routine, and Steve has no more quiet days, where he’s suffering in his mind for not completing his rituals.

And although it has a name. The things that make Steve just Steve, are still the same. 

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[bupperzz]

The Tape

A Dr. Iplierst fanfic. Things to note: My version of Dr. Iplier is named Joel and the version of Host I used in this fic is named Owen.

TW: Alcohol, Suicide.

An amber light slipped in through the blinds illuminating the white walls as an orchestra of mechanical sounds filled the room. Standing near the window, the bearded man glanced from the scenery outside to the other wheezing in his sleep. Today marked a month since Owen was admitted to the hospital and things were looking grim. Watching cars pass by on the street below, the doctor recounted the events from that night in his mind, his grip on the ledge of the window tightening.

It had been a normal work day: the hospital was rather busy and Dr. Iplier, being one of the top physicians, was bouncing around from patient to patient like usual. As he neared his first break, things seemed a bit off. Owen always called when he took a break -- he could narrate to determine when they were occurring. Glancing at his phone, he frowned but decided it was nothing much; he could have got caught up in his own work. Reluctantly, he decided he would ask when he returned home that night and went about the rest of the day as best as he could.

Leaving the hospital that night, the usual call from his husband absent, the doctor drove in silence as his anxiety slowly grew. After parking and walking up the steps to their apartment, he knew something was off. Opening the door, he was met by darkness and silence -- more silence than what was usual. “Owen?” Increasing his pace, he headed towards their bedroom where a faint glow was visible from beneath the door. Swinging the door open, he glanced about the room: the light from the adjoining bathroom left on, pill bottles and books strewn about the floor, and Owen on the bed… And he didn’t seem to be breathing!

Medical instincts kicking in, the man rushed to his lover’s side, checking his vitals while calling for an ambulance; he was still somewhat warm. Frantic and upset, he fumbled with giving out information to the dispatcher while he attempted to perform CPR on the unconscious man. Sobbing now, he frantically kept up the rhythm of the compressions, intermittently checking the man’s pulse. How long had he been out? What caused this? Why did this happen? He had done this countless times, but this was his husband lying on the bed, unconscious, and without a heartbeat.

After what felt like an eternity of performing repetitive actions, the paramedics finally arrived to relieve Joel and take the Host to the hospital. Exhausted and shaken beyond belief, the physician rode in the back of the emergency vehicle holding the other’s hand the entire time. Thoughts still racing, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was in any way his fault. Had he not been attentive enough? Was he working too much? He was doing all he could with the schedule the hospital gave him but… No. He wasn’t going to do this right now. He had focus on doing everything he could to ensure Host got the help he needed.

Arriving at the hospital, Joel did his best to answer the doctor’s questions: it seemed as if Owen may have overdosed on his antipsychotics. From the corner of the room, he watched as a team of his colleagues pumped his partner’s stomach and did all they could to bring him back. When it seemed like all hope was lost, a coughing gasp emitted from the bandaged man alongside the contents of his stomach. Perking up, the bearded man rushed to his side, grasping his hands as tears welled up in his eyes. As the other wheezed out a soft, “Joel?” the physician cried quietly before responding. “I’m here, honey… I thought I had lost you.”

Since that night, Owen was kept under close surveillance at the hospital out of fear of his health as well as a way for Joel to keep a close eye on him while he was working. Yet, the man was just not the same. His waking hours were spent narrating up a storm causing him to need fresh bandages at least every 30 minutes, he rarely ate, and he wasn’t much of a conversationalist. Nonetheless, the doctor did all he could to make sure the man was at least comfortable and well taken care of even if he didn’t want to be. Every day, he would help Host shower, get him dressed, and attempt to feed him breakfast; some days were better than others. Then, every night, he would return to his room to sleep on the cot that the hospital had set up for him.

Things continued like this for a while and they were alright -- Owen was at least stable. But, about a week and a half ago, the writer’s visions got increasingly worse with the bleeding increasing alongside it; the staff was forced to stock the room with boxes of bandages just to keep up. On top of this, the Host refused to eat anything whatsoever and he freaked out any time an IV was suggested. With this sort of behavior, the other physicians handed over the care to Dr. Iplier since he was the only one who seemed to be able to reason with the man. It didn’t matter, though -- Owen had made up his mind.

A few days ago as the two lie in silence attempting to sleep, the blind man finally spoke in a hushed whisper, “Joel… I’m sorry. I just can’t do it anymore.” Slightly shocked from the sudden comment, the doctor sat up and looked to the man. “It’s okay, hon… You don’t have to.” With a pit in his stomach, he laid back down knowing what this all meant. He didn’t want to lose the man, but he also didn’t want him to suffer.

The following day, the Host was checked out of the hospital and moved to hospice care; it was the most logical thing to do. Somehow, Joel had made the decision without a second thought and he was holding up very well. If it meant Owen wouldn’t suffer anymore, he’d do all he could. Yet, each day was more difficult than the last and the writer was growing weaker and weaker with each day. Today was especially terrible: Joel sat, unable to do anything, as his lover cried through the blood of his never-ending narrations. The staff was forced to sedate him in order to stop the bleeding as he was inconsolable and not cooperating with them.

The frantic beeping of the heart monitor tore the physician’s attention away from the window and brought him back to reality as staff rushed in to help his husband. Standing nearby in utter shock, Joel watched as the mob of scrub-clad individuals tried and ultimately failed to bring his partner back. Reluctantly, the head doctor approached him to deliver the news but it was too late. In a rush of emotions, the man was on his knees beside the bed clutching to his lover’s hand and sobbings as the tone of the flatline filled the room. He had done this countless times but it was never like this, never the love of his life lying motionless on a hospital bed.

After being helped to his feet by the staff, he was left to handle paperwork, collect belongings, and able to finally leave; for the first time in a month, he was going home. Somewhat numb and still in shock, he drove in silence as he played various memories of the two of them in his mind: when they first met, their first date, moving in together, their wedding… It was a sea of happy memories tainted by the idea that he was unable to make any more like them with his lover ever again. Tears clouding his vision, he parked the car and made his way up to the apartment before retreating to the bedroom.

He hadn’t stepped foot in this room since that night, yet this time he was able to look around a bit more. Glancing to the night stand, he found a tape labeled “Joel” sitting beside Owen’s tape player. Wandering over, he popped the cassette in and sat on the edge of the bed as he heard his husband’s voice speaking in a soft, loving tone. Tears streaming down his face, he struggled to breathe as sobs overtook him. The pain in his chest growing as he listened to the man speak. As the tape ended, the physician pressed the stop tab before getting up and leaving the room.

Walking into the kitchen, he fished through the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey before returning to the bedroom where he retrieved a half-full bottle of pills off the floor, Lying on the bed, the bearded man popped the lid of the pills and downed them with a large swig of alcohol. This was it, this is how it ends. He saw no point in continuing with this charade of a life, especially if Owen wasn’t in it.

Hoping, praying, and waiting, he had watched the love of his life deteriorate over the past month and it was all his fault. If only he had been more vigilant, if only he had been more attentive, if only he had taken Owen more seriously when he complained about these visions. But, no, he had written it all off as symptoms of psychosis or side effects of medicine and look at what became of it… Grabbing another bottle off the ground, the physician downed the contents with more booze before reaching for the tape player again. After rewinding, he pressed play and he sat back, closing his eyes; he wanted Owen’s voice to be the last thing he heard. After a moment of silence, the message began to play again as Joel surrendered to the effects of the medication.

“Joel, my sweet, strong doctor. You have always been so kind to me and cared for me even when I couldn’t do so myself. You helped me come back from the worst point in my life, that dreaded night, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. But, I can’t keep pretending that everything is alright, that I’m cured and there’s nothing wrong with me. The voices in my head are spilling out through my everyday speech and haunting my every thought; I’m left alone with them without my sight to help ground me. I’m sorry, I truly am. I kept fighting for so long but I’m just exhausted…

Having you as my doctor was the best thing that ever happened to me. You’ve done so much for me, Joel, and I can’t thank you enough. You stuck by my side even when any sane person would have seen it was hopeless. You’re a kind, caring, strong, loving man and I don’t know what I did to deserve you. Please don’t remember me as I am now, try to remember the good times and keep those alive in your memory. I love you so much, Doc, and I’m so sorry it had to come to this.

Take care of yourself,

Owen”

As the tape neared its end, the doctor’s body went limp as the bottle of whiskey slid from his hand, spilling its contents on the floor. His breathing slowed, tears staining his cheeks yet again, as he replayed memories of the Host in his mind. With what little consciousness he had left, he attempted to slur out a response to Owen -- or rather, his tape. “Owen, I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve to be treated the way I treated you; I fucked up. What kind of doctor does that to his own patient -- his own husband? I deserve this; I deserve to go out this way. At least it means I get to see you again sooner. I love you, Owen, and I’m sorry.” With these final words, the physician was fading slowly into a sea of black. By the time Owen was signing off, he was already gone. Body limp, whisky staining his lab coat, and remnants of tears lingering on his cheeks, he laid peacefully on the bed, in the same spot his lover was found in, as a somber smile spread across his face.

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