#and medical inaccuracies

[whumpbug]

this little fic is heavily heavily inspired by this post from @whump-kia because i just couldnt get the idea out of my silly brain so i brain vomited onto my notes app

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kinda sorta wilderness/sci-fi/apocolypse setting.. it honestly could go all ways but the important factors are 1) they are in a team 2) there are enemies they are on the run from and 3) there isnt really magic healing or anything available

i wrote it as medic kinda being the most competent one in general while leader and teammate are frazzled as hell at the situation and could be read as newer to the team but that isn't necessarily my intention!

whumpee: Medic

caretaker(s): Leader and Teammate

[all characters gender neutral]

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The room fell silent. All eyes were suddenly trained on Medic who threw open the door and staggered in.

With a dagger wedged in their side.

The team had been on the run from enemies for the better part of a week now. Even though they weren't completely in the clear, the team was completely worn out. They all needed a good rest.

They were setting up camp at one of their many bases, and Medic offered to scout the area alone. Leader honestly didn’t think it was a good idea, but they were too preoccupied to think to argue it further.

Now, they sincerely wished they had.

“Medic.. oh god, oh god” whispered Teammate.

“Ambush,” They explained. “It’s.. it’s okay, I took care of it..” Medic replied cooly, but the color was quickly draining from their face. Teammate frowned and continued questioning them, but Leader heard none of it.

Leader took a shaky breath, but their feet were planted. They couldn’t move. They were frozen. This wasn’t supposed to happen. No, Medic was untouchable. Medic was steadfast and reliable, always there when the team needed them.

Medic wasn’t supposed to go out like this. Medic wasn’t supposed to get hurt.

Leader’s breathing hitched again. Their head was reeling. What were they going to do?! No one on the team was qualified to fix this other than the person dripping blood all over the floor, yet it was still Leader’s job to do something. It was too much, it was too—

“Leader.”

Medic’s voice cut through the room like a knife through butter.

“I need you to listen to me. Carefully. Can you do that?”

Leader swallowed the lump in their throat. They nodded.

Medic took another step forward, only for their foot to catch on the ground, sending them stumbling forward. Teammate caught them by the upper arm and unceremoniously lowered them to the ground.

“Alright,” Medic began. Their face was scrunched up in pain. “Leader. I’m going to walk you through how to fix this, okay? I'm going to be fine.”

“Right. Right, I can help you.. just- just tell me what to do.” Leader said, forcing their voice to remain steady.

“Do you see that fire poker over there? I’m going to need you to grab it and stick the end of it into the fire. We want it to get really hot, okay?” Medic explained methodically.

If it weren’t for the blade sticking out of Medic’s middle, you’d think there was nothing even wrong with them. They seemed like everything was under control. They really seemed fine.

But not to their team.

No, their team didn’t miss Medic’s pallor, the way their eyebrows were pinched together, the way the sweat was beading on their brow. Their team didn’t miss the way their hands were trembling, the way their gaze was glassy, and the way they were slumped against the wall, seemingly sapped of their strength.

Medic was fighting to hold on, but it was a losing battle. They really didn’t have much time before they passed out from blood loss, or worse.

Leader’s resolve came back to them all at once. They nodded sharply and did as they were told, sticking the poker into the fire and leaving it on the hearth. While the team waited anxiously for the poker to heat up, Leader took the opportunity to adjust Medic into a more comfortable position against the wall. This earned a strangled grunt from Medic.

“Okay, Leader.. this.. this is important. Once that poker gets red-hot, you’re.. you’re going to have to pull out the blade from my wound and cauterize it.. immediately.” They choked out, shifting to give Leader a better view of their abdomen.

Leader’s face blanched.

“Cauterize?? Why not sutures? Surely that’s less painful,” Leader protested, only to be shushed by Medic raising their hand.

“I don’t have.. I can’t stay awake to walk you through that.. cau.. cauterization is.. quicker..”

Leader could tell Medic was reaching their limit. The wound, despite being partially plugged by the dagger, had been steadily dripping blood for a while now. Leader could tell by the way Medic’s voice was faltering and the way their shoulders were drooping that they were utterly spent. They had to hurry up.

Leader glanced at the fire poker, and upon seeing it burning hot, they grabbed a towel and picked it up.

“Alright. What’s next.”

Medic steeled their nerves and spoke.

“You and Teamate will have to work together. Leader, you’ll.. you’ll need to pull out the dagger and immediately press the poker along th.. the wound.. As soon as you pull it out, it’s going to start bleeding even faster.. you need to seal it immediately, just until the bleeding stops..”

Leader nods, though they hate this with every fiber of their being. They’ve never had to have had a wound cauterized before, thanks to Medic’s dilligency. Still, they know the procedure is agonizing and not one they are thrilled to perform on Medic.

Medic gaze flits to Teammate.

“You.. you have a very important job.. I need.. I’m gonna need you to hold me down. As soon as that metal hits my skin, I’m going to scream. I mean really scream. I’m also going to jerk away. I need you to hold me down, no.. no matter what happens, even if I pass out, so Leader doesn’t end up making the wound worse. Can you do that?”

Teammate frowns, but gives a quick nod. Teammate was always more timid, but now, in this moment, their jaw was set and there was a determined glint in their eyes. By God, they were going to help Medic.

Leader got up and sat on Medic’s legs to restrain them, and held the fire poker at their side. Using their free hand they gently grasped the handle of the blade sticking out of Medic, careful not to jostle it in the wound. Still, Medic inhaled sharply.

Teammate got behind Medic looping their arms behind theirs and holding them tight.

“Alright.. just.. just give me a count down..” Medic said, their voice low.

Leader nodded.

“3.”

Medic sucked in a breath.

“2.”

Teammate tightened their grip.

“1.”

Everything that happened after that countdown couldn’t have been more than 10 seconds, but to Medic, it felt like 10 years.

As soon as the dagger was removed, Leader pressed the hot metal into the wound. The guttural scream that tore from Medic’s throat was nausea-inducing.

Immediately, every muscle in their body seized up as they violently thrashed against the white-hot pain. Medic’s sobs rang out through the entire facility. Everyone in the vicinity flinched at the sound.

Their Medic, their savior, was now reduced to gut-wrenching cries.

Leader adjusted themself to sit on Medic’s thighs, effectively immobilizing them.

Teammate had to yank Medic’s arms down, using all their strength to keep them still.

“I’m sorry.. I’m so sorry..” Teammate whispered softly, tears blurring their vision.

Right as Leader was about to finish sealing the wound, Medic let out a gurgling gasp as their eyes rolled back into their head and they went limp.

“Medic? Hey, Medic?” Teammate mewled, lightly tapping their cheek.

Both Leader and Teammate finally loosened their grip on them and lowered Medic to the ground with as much care as they could muster.

“Hey, c’mon Medic.. wake up for us, yeah?” Leader coaxed, brushing a strand of hair from Medic’s eyes.

Medic’s eyelids finally fluttered open, but they looked utterly exhausted. Their face was streaked with sweat and there were tears tracks lining their pale cheeks. Still, they gave a weak smile.

“You.. you guys did great..” They managed, but not before their eyes slipped close yet again.

Both Leader and Teammate exchanged a laugh at how absurd it was that Medic was praising them for doing well. Still, the worst of it was over and everyone could breathe again. They knew they should get Medic up and into medbay, but they silently agreed to let Medic rest for a few moments longer.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

[steddiehyperfixation]

don't you forget about me (part seven)

(part one)(part two)(part three)(part four)(part five)(part six)

Eddie takes back everything he’d thought before; sex dreams are so much worse actually, especially when you wake up to the subject of them holding your hand. His face turns bright red the second his eyes open and land on Steve. He sits upright immediately, bunching up the blankets over his lap. 

The pounding of his heart - aka the rapid beeping of the heart monitor - alerts Steve who snaps awake instantly and tightens his grip on Eddie’s hand as he asks with urgent concern, “Are you alright? Did you have another nightmare?”

“No, no, definitely not a nightmare.” Eddie’s cheeks burn, feels the flush reach his ears and down his neck too. He clears his throat. “Just, uh- just a weird dream, that’s all. Not bad, just…weird, yeah. I’m fine.”

Steve relaxes. “Okay.” He hesitates, then adds hopefully, “Was it, uh- Do you think it was a memory?” 

Eddie shakes his head. “Definitely not.” 

“What makes you so sure?” Steve asks. 

“It was fantasy.” Eddie’s eyes rake over Steve, and he tries not to wonder just how accurate his dream was. 

Steve raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Fantasy?” 

“Yeah, fantasy. So unless you have some truly awesome news to give me about the existence of dragons,” Eddie lies (better to have Steve think he’d dreamt of riding on a dragon rather than that he’d dreamt of Steve riding him), “I’m pretty sure it was just a regular old dream.”

“Oh.” Steve's face falls; and Eddie almost wants to take it all back and tell a different lie, that it had been a memory, but he doesn't. “Yeah, no, I've yet to run into any dragons yet, I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Eddie says, running his thumb over Steve's hand. “I wish it was a memory. I mean- I wish I had more memories, and I'm sorry that I don't. I'm sorry that makes you so sad.” 

The apology only makes Steve look sadder. “Oh, Eddie, no, it's okay.” He shakes his head, squeezes Eddie's hand. “Don't apologize for that. It's not like you chose to forget.”

“I know. I’m still sorry though,” Eddie responds quietly. His dream-sparked lust has since curbed into something softer, inevitably. He looks into those downturned and devastating brown puppy dog eyes. “I didn't choose to forget, but I’m still the reason you're sad - I know that, so I'm sorry.” 

It's Steve this time who mutters “You don't have to worry about me so much, Eds, I'm alright,” and it's Steve this time who clasps Eddie’s hand in both of his and brushes a kiss over his knuckles. 

It sends a rush through Eddie's whole body to feel Steve's lips against his skin - in real life, that is. Heat rises in his cheeks again, heart rate kicking up for the millionth time. “Uh- yeah, uh, o-okay,” he stutters, can’t seem to form a coherent thought or sentence right now. He pulls his hand away and runs his fingers through his hair instead, changing the subject, “Um. Are you, uh- are you sticking around today?” 

“Yeah.” Though there’s still a trace of sadness behind his eyes, there’s something like flirtation there too as Steve smirks and says, “I’m all yours today.” 

God. Eddie really is done for, isn’t he.

It’s no wonder, then, that after spending another full day with Steve, another full day of being subjected to Steve’s bittersweet smiles and friendly banter and (that is, if Eddie’s not just being delusional, which is a very real and probable possibility) the occasional flirty comment, Eddie’s dreams soon turn sappy again:

They were sitting in some restaurant, in a corner booth, holding hands behind a propped up menu. Steve was looking gorgeous in a tastefully tight polo and perfectly styled hair streaked with gold, and he looked at Eddie with that warm little smile that always made his heart glow. It overflowed; Eddie almost couldn't take it. 

He said, “I know you said you wanted to do things right, so after how many dates can I ask you to be my boyfriend?” 

Steve's smile grew, eyes wide with a sort of wonder and disbelief and anticipation that was vaguely reminiscent of a child on christmas morning. “I, uh- I think the third date is just fine.” 

“Okay, good.” Eddie grinned. He caught Steve's other hand and held it right there out in the open without a care who saw or heard. “Because I like you so so much; you’re the best person I know, Stevie, and I wanna lock this down before someone else comes along and snatches you up. I want to be your boyfriend more than anything, and I want you to be mine, if you want that too. So, what do you say?” 

Steve must not’ve cared who saw or heard either because he immediately lunged across the table to kiss him, holding Eddie's hands tight as he pressed their lips together fervently. 

Eddie certainly wasn't about to complain. He indulged the kiss for a good long few moments before he pulled back to double check, “So that was a yes, right?” 

“Yeah, dumbass,” Steve laughed, fond and bright and beautiful. “That was absolutely a yes.” 

That ache is back when Eddie wakes up, the wanting, the wishing. 

He thinks this dream falls somewhere in between the events of the last two, like his brain is turning this fantasy into a whole connected narrative now, building and fleshing out this wishful story of him and Steve. Unless… No. Eddie can't let himself think like that. If these dreams have been memories, if that had really been the type of relationship they'd had, surely Steve would've said something. It's not unusual for Eddie's daydreams to become so involved and become entire worlds. This is, as he tells himself for the third time now, just another case of his overactive imagination. 

Steve doesn't ask about his dreams again, and he soon leaves for work and isn't around much that day, but that still doesn't stop Eddie's mind from continuing the fiction when he falls asleep holding Steve's hand, as always now, that night: 

Eddie sat on Steve's couch, his arm slung casually around Steve's shoulders as Steve leaned against him and idly played with the rings on Eddie's other hand while a movie played on the TV in front of them. It was Steve's turn to pick the movie, and there was a time when Eddie would've rolled his eyes and scoffed at the suggestion of watching The Breakfast Club, but it had just come out on VHS and Steve was so excited about it and Eddie was more than happy now to sit just there and watch Steve watch it. Because Steve was smiling and humming along to the songs on the soundtrack, and Eddie felt, suddenly, with such simple certainty that this is where he was meant to be, that this is who he was going to spend the rest of his life with. 

Something must've changed in his expression, in his stare, because Steve soon rolled his head to the side to look at Eddie and asked with an amused (and vaguely confused) smile, “What?” 

“Nothing, I just-” Eddie shook his head, pressed a kiss to Steve's temple and then said like it was the easiest thing in the world, “I think I've fallen in love with you.” 

Steve laughed as if this great big relief just bubbled free from his chest. “Oh thank god,” he said. “I’m in love with you too.” 

Eddie believed him, knew it with the same certainty as before. They shared gentle smiles and a sweet, chaste kiss. Steve slipped an arm around Eddie's waist and curled closer against his side. He went right back to watching the movie and Eddie went right back to watching Steve. And that was all there was to it. 

Clear, effortless, uncomplicated. Because how could they be anything else but in love with each other? 

~ 

Eddie sighs when he blinks awake. His eyes slowly shift to the side and he looks at Steve strangely for a few silent moments. 

Steve asks, “What?” 

Eddie's cheeks tinge pink, and Steve wonders, not for the first time, what Eddie had been dreaming about. He gets a devastating sense of deja vu when Eddie shakes his head and says, “Nothing.” But it stops there where Steve's memory doesn't. 

Although, Eddie is still considering him in that weird, just short of familiar way, and Steve wonders - again, not for the first time - if maybe Eddie just might remember too. But surely he'd say something if he did. 

Eddie taps his fingers against Steve's hand and asks after a long minute. “Are you gonna be around tomorrow?”

“I can be.” Steve is scheduled to work tomorrow, but he'd call out sick in an instant if Eddie asked him to.

“Okay, because, uh, that's when the doctor’s gonna have me try to walk and when they're gonna teach me and Wayne how to take care of my wounds at home for when I’m discharged, and I, um, I want you to be there for that too,” Eddie says. 

Steve finds himself a little surprised by this. “You really want me there?” 

“Yeah, I mean, If you don't mind,” Eddie starts, rambling like he's suddenly scared Steve might refuse, “I know it's not the most fun thing to be here for, but I just figured whatever the doctor tells us tomorrow you should know too, just in case, you know, like I might need you one day and Wayne can't be around all the time and-” 

“I’ll be there, Eddie,” Steve assures him, squeezing his hand. “Of course I’ll be there.”

And so he is. He calls out of work the next day, much to Keith’s annoyance, and stands there as the room fills with doctors and nurses and Eddie's uncle Wayne. 

Eddie's mobility is tested first. He makes a soft grunt of pain as he's instructed to swing his legs over the side of the bed, and then another when the doctor taps his knee and his injured leg kicks with the assessment of his reflexes. Satisfied with that response, the doctor moves on to pressing various pressure points on Eddie’s leg to measure how much he can feel (and Steve tries very hard not to feel so weirdly irrationally jealous at watching the doctor feel up Eddie's leg). After a few more soft painful hisses that let the doctor know Eddie's nerve endings are intact - or whatever it was she was testing - he's told to try and stand. He's understandably apprehensive, hesitant. The doctor and his uncle help coax him off the bed; the competent and the familiar. Steve hangs back still, sure he's not needed for this. 

But the second Eddie attempts to put pressure on his injured limb and he stumbles, his hand shoots out and it's Steve’s name he calls, as if on instinct. And, on instinct, Steve is there in a second to grab his hand and assist in steadying him. “I've got you,” he murmurs, guiding Eddie to the walker that's been set out for him. Eddie limps a few more feet with the help of the walker and the encouragement of Steve’s (hopefully) comforting hand on his shoulder until the doctor calls it and tells Eddie he can rest again. 

Once Eddie makes it back onto the bed, collapsing back into the pillows with a haggard sigh, the doctor and nurses immediately crowd him again, try to go straight into the next step of redressing his wounds. 

“Give him a second,” Steve snaps, protectively holding onto Eddie's hand and leaning over him. “Can't you see he's exhausted?” 

The doctor shoots the only other proper adult in the room a weary look. 

“They know what they're doing, kid.” Wayne's heavy hand lands on Steve's shoulder, both a reassurance and an alert for him to back off. 

“I’m okay, Stevie,” Eddie adds. He gives Steve a tired smile and squeezes his hand before prying it out of Steve's hold. “It's alright.” 

Steve reluctantly relents and steps back to give the medical professionals space to continue. 

Eddie's shirt is pushed up so the bandages on his chest and stomach are accessible as the nurses begin to explain and demonstrate the process of taking care of the injuries. Steve watches, listens intently, wants to absorb every ounce of information so he can best tend to Eddie if need be. Then his eyes flick up and he accidentally makes dead eye contact with Eddie who seems to realize then just how vulnerable and exposed he is right now because his cheeks burn red and his heart rate suddenly increases. 

The nurses don't seem to be too worried about this - if anything, they exchange knowing glances with everyone else in the room except Eddie and Steve before they continue their demonstration. Steve isn't worried either anymore - if anything, he finally resigns himself fully to the fact, the irrefutable proof, that Robin was right and Eddie really does have a schoolboy crush on him again. 

Steve does his best to keep paying attention, but in the background his mind is spinning and his heart aching. 

On the one hand it’s kind of sweet to know Eddie's feelings are not gone completely, that some level of attraction still swirls to the surface even through the empty space in his memory. And Steve has been indulging that crush the past couple days, little comments of flirtation just to feel like he still has Eddie in some way, just to see the reaction and have some evidence that Eddie still feels something at all for him. (Stupid, selfish.)

But on the other hand it is just a crush. Eddie used to love him, but now that's halved; and that's a very specific kind of agony. 

Steve’s not sure how much longer he can handle this. 

~

Something passed between them when they made eye contact; something sweet and sad flitted across Steve's expression, as it often does, but he looked away when Eddie blushed and has been avoiding his eyes again since. 

When the nurses are done showing them how to wrap him up, Steve retreats, saying kindly, though still not quite looking at him, “I'm gonna go get you some water, alright?” 

“Oh, yeah, thanks.” Eddie smiles gratefully after him. 

“Your boyfriend seems sweet,” Nurse Katie comments, carefully, as she secures the last of the fresh bandages. 

“Excuse me?” Eddie coughs, chokes on his own spit, spluttering, “I’m- he's not- we’re- it’s- um. He’s not my boyfriend.” 

“Oh, sorry,” the nurse is quick to apologize. “I didn't mean to assume, I just thought since he's always in here holding your hand, even before you woke up-” 

“We're friends,” Eddie says shortly. He feels a little dizzy at what she's suggesting and would really rather her stop talking. 

“Alright, my mistake.” Katie backs off the subject. 

Steve returns then anyways, further killing that topic of conversation. He hands a cup of water to Eddie, who takes it with another muttered “thanks” and starts gulping it down while the doctor goes off on some spiel about the process of having him discharged and more tests they’ll have to do tomorrow. Eddie’s not paying attention. He’s too tired. 

Not long after that, the doctor and nurses file out of the room, and Wayne stands to leave too. “I’m glad the two of you are getting close again,” he mentions to Steve and Eddie on his way out. “You were good for each other.” 

Whatever that means. 

Eddie doesn’t have the brainpower left to contemplate that. Being poked and prodded and trying to walk took a lot out of him. He’s exhausted, achy all over. It’s barely even late enough to be dinner time yet, but he could honestly just pass out right now. He sets his finished water cup on the bedside table and his now free hand reaches, once again, for Steve. 

“Tired?” Steve asks as he catches Eddie’s hand. 

“Mhmm.” Eddie settles against his pillows, closing his eyes. He adds in a sleepy mumble, “’M glad you were here today.”

“Me too.”

He feels Steve’s lips slide gently across the back of his hand, and then Eddie slides gently into sleep. 

Immediately, though, his dreams are not gentle; for the first time since he’s been falling asleep with Steve’s hand in his, Eddie dreams of the bats: 

Eddie was in that hell dimension, the scene all black and red and dotted with bats. But he wasn’t alone. Nancy Wheeler and Robin Buckley were there too, the three of them fending off the creatures with boat oars, and Steve- Steve was on the ground; two bats gnawed on his sides, another had its tail wrapped around his neck. Eddie’s heart was in his throat, roaring in his ears and pumping pure fear and adrenaline through his veins. He couldn’t save him; all he could do was try his best to keep more bats from joining in on the feast. 

Steve, however, seemed perfectly capable of saving himself. He managed to sink his teeth into the bat tail around his neck, getting it to let go. Eddie couldn’t see everything, too busy whacking away more incoming bats, but when the last of this fleet of creatures was fought off, Eddie turned back around to find Steve on his feet now, holding a bat by the tail and slamming it against the ground far more times than necessary. He watched as Steve stomped down on the bat’s neck and tore its head from its body. Blood from the bat’s tail hung from Steve’s lips in a thick, dark drip before he spat it into the dirt.

Eddie stared, jaw dropped, pounding heart pumping an entirely different sensation through his veins now. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.” 

Steve gave him a bloodstained grin and Eddie’s knees felt weak. He would’ve dropped to the ground in front of him right then and there if- 

“Keep it in your pants, Munson.” Robin shoulder-checked him as she walked past. “At least until we get the hell out of hell.” 

Eddie settled instead for sidling up to Steve and, after taking a second to make sure he was alright, whispering low and close to Steve’s ear, “If we were anywhere else and you weren’t injured right now…” The muttered end of that sentence was something so filthy it made Steve’s face burn red, and he laughed. 

“Freak,” Steve said affectionately as he smacked a kiss to Eddie’s cheek. 

Eddie was quick to turn his head and catch Steve’s lips, locking them together in something searing and intense. 

“Boys!” Nancy snapped impatiently from a few feet ahead, which startled them apart. “Seriously? Time and place, come on.” 

Both Eddie and Steve laughed as they followed after the girls. 

Eddie wakes up a little bit disoriented from that dream. He doesn’t know what to call it: Was it a nightmare or not? Was it a memory or another fantasy? The lines are blurred and Eddie finds himself confused. 

Steve must’ve seen this on his face because he asks, “Everything alright?” 

“Yeah…” Eddie answers slowly. “I had a dream about the Upside Down…but it wasn’t quite a nightmare, I don’t think. I’m just- I’m not sure if it was a memory or not.” He hesitates, then decides screw it, he might as well try to get some sort of clarification on the reality of some details of his dream. “Did you…rip a bat in half with your bare hands?”

“I did, yeah,” Steve confirms. His expression shifts, sparking with something like hope. 

“And, uh, did I tell you that was the hottest thing I’d ever seen?”

“You did, yeah.” 

“Okay, cool,” Eddie says, reeling. “Just checking.”  

Steve is watching him almost expectantly, but when Eddie doesn’t say anything more on the subject, his face falls into something more like disappointment.

(final part is here!) taglist (CLOSED): @romanticdestruction @daydreamsandcrashingwaves @paintsplatteredandimperfect @hallucinatedjosten @mugloversonly @estrellami-1 @alongcomesaspider @thatonebadideapanda @tell-me-a-secret-a-nice-one @dragonmama76 @wxrmland @nuggies4life @sirsnacksalot @myguiltyartpleasure @lolawonsstuff @marklee-blackmore @vinteraltus @sebastiansstanswhore @0happyeverafter0 @scarlet-malfoy @hotluncheddie @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @emsgoodthinkin @alyelf @warlordess @stevesbipanic @lil-gremlin-things @rockandrolodex @badcaseofcasey @bat-outta-hel @fandomcartographer @manda-panda-monium @littlewildflowerkitten @giopandaonice @mightbeasleep @queenie-ofthe-void @krazyperson @worldofshea @marvel-ous-m @tartarusknight @a-little-unsteddie @xenon-demon @goodolefashionedloverboi @xxsky-shockxx @mc-i-r @bookbinderbitch @aspenshade88 @slowandsteddie @thedragonsaunt @daydreaming-mood @space-invading-pigeon @irregular-child @a-lovely-craziness (taglist continued in replies; please lmk if you'd like to be removed from this list. if you didn't make the taglist but still wanna follow along, you can follow the tag #dyfamsteddiefic to keep up with new updates!)

[paperback-rascal]

Please give someone to hug Mercy? He needs a hug…

Surprisingly enough, and utterly counterintuitively, Mercy gets more physical interaction during Clone Wars than he ever did in the Jedi Order pre-war as clone troopers wear their armors (especially helmets on which have built-in filtration/rebreathing systems) most of the time which makes Mercy less hell-bent on keeping his distance.

I assume the ask is in relation to this post of mine -> [LINK]<-

---

See more posts about 347th regiment here -> [LINK] <-

My fanart masterlist -> [LINK] <-

===

STAR WARS: The Clone Wars © George Lucas/ Dave Filoni/ LucasFilm/ Disney

[bigassmoonchild]

Tags

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Summary: He's gone. He's gone and all he's left you with is this god damned pup, but god forbid you're allowed more than a month of peace. You never wanted to see this.

Content Tags: Mentions of Death, Pregnancy, The 141 Being A Pack, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Hurt/Some Comfort, Mentions of Violence, Medical Inaccuracies, Fear, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha! Ghost, No Use of Y/N

A/N: I'm having some problems finding accounts asking to be tagged. Please make sure you've got the right settings! As always, content under the cut and requests are open!

P.S: Keep sending in asks! I'm checking throughout the week!!

Part 1 | Previous, Next | Headcannons, Masterlist

A knock on your door brought you out of your stupor. You'd been half asleep, having finally been able to get some rest after throwing up half of your dinner from the night before.

It was barely 5, so theoretically no one should really be bothering you. Gaz had your squadron to do some combat situations, and he knew exactly what to do with them. They were especially feisty.

When you'd opened it, you weren't entirely sure what to expect. Maybe Simon? Or Soap, or Price? Maybe Gaz?

Definitely not the officer standing at your door, holding a few items. Neither of you spoke for a few moments, just staring at one another. He didn't seem to expect you, and you were just scared. You felt your heart sinking into your stomach.

He spoke your name to you and you nodded, feeling like you were staring through him. "I'm so sorry," and from there you didn't remember anything. Just a few words, the handing over of the few items of his they recovered before another apology.

You closed the door, staring at the dog tags sitting in your hands. You read his name, written on the dirty tag. When you took it into the bathroom and washed it, you felt the metal warm up like you'd just taken it off of Simon.

Waking up the next morning left you feeling hungover. Head throbbing, mouth dry and just feeling sick overall. You weren't sure of anything over the next few days, moving like you were a puppet being controlled.

There weren't any tears, there wasn't anything. You didn't feel anything. You avoided the pack- his pack. Staying away from the main areas they'd go, you found yourself staying within the medical areas, your office and your room. You ignored everyone outside of your squad.

So when there was a knock on the door, you hadn't thought twice of calling the person in. You and Sadie, one of the two Omegas you were training, had been talking and slowly becoming what you almost considered a friend.

"You can't keep hiding from us," Price said to you and you froze. Your chest seized, eyes shutting harshly. You didn't want to even think. "You've got his dog tags on," he whispered, rounding your desk and standing beside you.

It took a few weeks, but you had eventually cleared Price to walk without assistance. And he was abusing his ability to slowly get back to normal.

A sob tore through your chest and you felt everything hit you. Anger, for Simon doing this to you. Sadness, how you realized all you had left was the pup. You didn't want to believe he was gone, but he was. The tags around your neck proved it.

Price pulled you in close, resting his head atop yours as you wailed. You could feel the tears and snot, maybe drool coating his shirt as you grasped onto him. Hoping that he would be able to fix everything. He was the pack Alpha, he was supposed to know what to do.

Rocking you a little, just slightly side to side, he hummed against you. Allowing you to cry everything out, feeling as you slowly grew limp. The wails turned to sobs, sobs turned to hiccups before it was just shaky breaths. All you could think the entire time was 'he's actually gone'.

Pulling your face away from his chest, he gave you a small smile. "He's only assumed KIA," he whispered and you blinked at him. "We never got a body," he told you. You tugged your head free of him, could feel your eyelashes sticking uncomfortably together.

"He might not be dead?"

"Don't get your hopes up, kid," he gave you a little pat on the head. "Don't allow yourself to wallow in pity, let us take some of the pain off of you. We lost a packmate, just as you lost a mate," he whispered and let himself out.

All you could do was sit in your office, blinking slowly and feeling nothing at all. You didn't think it was possible to feel nothing after losing someone, but the little hope Price had given you felt like nothing at all.

They couldn't recover his dog tags without a body, could they?

As time wore on, and they were slowly losing hope on finding Simon, you eventually broke the news. You'd called the pack into Price's office, feeling it was best to break it there. Somewhere he could control reactions as best as possible.

When Gaz finally entered, closing the door behind him you looked at the three around you. You breathed deeply, completely unsure how to go about any of this.

"I'm pregnant," well, that's how you broke it to them. It wasn't how you were expecting it, but that's how it happened. None of them said anything, they all just stared at you.

Soap was the first to respond, pulling you into him and pressing his head against your abdomen. "Really?" He'd whispered and you nodded, wrapping your arms around him as best you could.

You all stayed quiet, it felt like you were both grieving the loss of Simon but hoping the best for the pup you were going to be responsible for.

And they made sure to help. Price would help you during the nights when you felt the worst. The loneliest. He had claimed to be responsible, 'I'm the pack leader after all'.

Gaz dragged you out of your nest, forcing you to go for walks with him or eat with everyone else in the mess hall. He would come by every so often, just to check up on you or interact with you. 'Givin' you a little bit less monotony, huh?' You enjoyed when he came by, it made you a little less lonely.

Even with everything that everyone did, Soap seemed to grow the closest with you. He'd insisted on joining you when you'd gone to the doctor to be able to get vitamins and other medications. He insisted on making sure you didn't have to be alone in the mornings after Price had left to deal with Captain stuff, helping you through the sickness.

You just wanted Simon. As much as you appreciated everything they were doing, they weren't Simon. You had been able to get into his room one night, after the fourth week of him being missing. It took you this long before you could get yourself to enter his room.

When you did, you had to choke back tears. His scent wafted over you, just slightly becoming stale but still there. His bed was made, pristine as ever, and you found yourself building a nest slowly.

In his closet, you'd buried yourself in layers of his blankets and clothes. Shirts and hoodies, some left unwashed being the closest you could get to his fresh scent.

All you wanted was to be alone. For once, you didn't want anyone near you, you didn't want to talk to anyone. Being snappier to people seemed like the way to get them to leave you alone. Stay colder with people.

No different than Simon, you figured. Not too much different than how he would perform, if it had been you. How similar to him were you becoming? Pushing people away, going through shit on your own? Not talking?

So you filled your time with work. You didn't give yourself much time to sleep, barely enough time to eat and take care of yourself. You didn't want to think, and you didn't allow Gaz to pull you away. No matter how hard he tried.

A few days latter, you'd been working on helping one of the recruits patch up a simple wound in the medical center. Your squad had finally graduated to helping there, and so you'd been using them to help. When you'd cleaned your hands of the blood that caught on them, you saw Price standing by the front desk.

Venturing over to him, checking in with some of your squad to make sure they were alright, you found him looking through papers. Files. You recognized one of the names, Sadie.

"What's that?"

"Is there anyone you recommend for a reconnaissance mission, Doc?"

Once more, you were sitting on the chopper. Soap had to sit this out, as his stitches still hadn't quite healed up from the emergency surgery. So there was one more spot open for you to join, and you had opted for Prices choice of your squad.

Sadie 'Trip' Thomason. She had been lovingly given the callsign Trip because of her first attempt at running a course. She ate complete shit, and continued to somehow trip every single course. Even ones that were on level ground.

You loved the kid, but she was a klutz. So you joined on the mission, nor wanting her to be alone for her first one. She wasn't much different from you.

As the chopper landed, you were surprised by the fact you weren't taking fire. They had decided to use a shit ton of people for this mission, so whoever they were rescuing was important. Yourself, Trip, and another squad leader and one of their people had joined.

Enough medics to perform a surgery.

You and Trip stayed behind, prepping an area for emergency medical attention. It was mostly because you were pregnant, but you were one of the most skilled medics they'd had.

"Hey Doc, you wanna know something?" Gaz called through the coms. You hummed in response, moving quickly through the chopper. "My boyfriend left me because I was too mysterious. Or did he?" You snorted at that, feeling your chest tighten just a little.

You knew of Simons whole dark and dad joke schtick. You never really got to hear it, but he sometimes said them to you. During lunches and dinners with you. Before everything fucked up.

"Did the lieutenant rub off on you, Gaz?" You'd asked back and he made a little jab at you, snickering about how dirty it sounded. God, you'd hit him if you could.

Trip had nudged you, wiggling her eyebrows at you at that.

"You and the lieutenant have something going on, then?" You rolled your eyes, trying to bite back the tears that were trying to force themselves from your eyes.

Looking over at her, you gave a little smile. "He's my mate," she gave a little gasp, nudging you even more. You shook your head. "He's assumed KIA, though," you whispered, glancing out to the dark tree line. You were wondering who it was that took this much manpower to bring home.

There wasn't a shot in hell you were going to get your hopes up and think it was Simon. No chance. In the time you'd been thinking, Trip had finished off prepping for quick medical attention and you'd come back to.

You started to prep for possible surgery when gunshots began echoing around you. "Prep the chopper for liftoff!" Gaz shouted through the coms and you checked the pilot to make sure he'd heard but watched as he began pressing buttons.

The ground quaked under you as it began preparing to lift, your supplies starting to shake and nearly fly off. Trip fell trying to save items and you had to shout at her to leave them over the chopper blades.

"But we need them!" You shook your head, gesturing around you.

"We're about to take off, we have enough backup supplies to replace them! It'll take too long to collect them, they're not too sanitary anymore!" You shouted back, grabbing her vest and strapping her in to the helicopter. "Do not fall!" You shouted, tugging on the rope keeping her set.

She nodded and began to try and reset the area, only bringing out the items that could be held down or were heavy enough to hold themselves down. Glancing out, you could see figured running towards the chopper, one thrashing around.

"We've got a feral Alpha, Doc! We need to sedate him!" You watched as four people dragged the Alpha closer, hear the snarls he was letting out. Leather. Tobacco, heavy musk and sweat. Your heart started pounding harder and harder, vision tunneling.

Shaking your head, you stumbled back into the chopper. "You can't sedate a feral Alpha," you whispered into the coms, watching as the man you called your Mate tried to fight off the men dragging him onto the chopper.

They'd found rope and tied his arms together. All you could do was stare, see the man you loved brought down into ferality. It was different than a feral rut, the amount of androstenone filling him was lethal. His body was in a state of fight or flight, so there was no chance it could turn into a rut.

He was fighting.

With one step forward he snarled at you, eyes blown black from his pupils. His scent was different, just barely, but you couldn't work on him in this condition. You could feel yourself panicking, staring at Simon but not quite Simon. Gaz came around, tugging you away from the man lying tied on the floor of the chopper.

"Talk me through it," he whispered. "Why's he feral?" You blinked up at Gaz, swallowing as your mind reeled.

Looking to the side, you could see Trip sneaking glances at you. "Androstenone," you whispered. "He's got too much of it in him, but he's in fight or flight so instead of being in a feral rut, he's just feral," you whispered.

"And how do we help him?"

"I don't know," you whispered.

Back on base, Price had found you. You didn't even want to look at him, not with how he'd lied about what the mission was. It wasn't just a reconnaissance mission, you were quite literally sent to rescue your mate.

He was put in a high secure containment cell. He was literally knocked out to be checked out, a few different medics and highly esteemed surgeons being called in to do emergency surgeries. Emergency blood transfusions. It seemed like everyone on base was trying to help, offering their blood to the man.

All you could do was sit in his room, playing with the dog tags that you'd put around your neck some months ago. Between the time they'd rescued Simon from the time your test had been, it was around two months.

God, you were two months along with his pup and he didn't even know it. Would he recognize you? Your scent? Or had it changed with the new hormones that had flooded your body.

You were terrified, wanting nothing more than to have Simon in your nest, hold him close and never let him leave again. But that's not how the real world worked and you had to get back to work.

The next few days you were extremely distracted. "I asked for more pain meds," one of the patients told you.

"No, you didn't," you said and they looked at you lost. You blinked slowly, trying to process what they'd actually said. Can I get more pain meds? "Sorry," you whispered and turned around, calling for one of your trainees and having them give him for pain meds.

It continued like that for a while. You answered phone calls from people just asking some basic questions about whether they should or should not come in to the center for. Sometimes you'd hung up on people instead of putting them on hold, sometimes you just said words that combined and had to repeat yourself three times.

There was a sudden influx of people for a short while, and each of them had been clawed or bitten by something. Someone?

It took a little while, but Price had eventually found you. "Lot of people being attacked, huh?" You blinked at him.

"What's happening?"

"They're trying to figure out how to bring Simon out of the feral mindset he's in," he whispered, looking away. You looked at him, not being able to say anything. "We need your help,"

Next

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[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

How do you think morphing technology would affect organ donations when people can morph into other people who are perfect matches of donor hosts and then have their organs removed and survive

I love this idea. It's just gross and impractical enough to feel like it fits with the realism of Animorphs, while still being the kind of thing that would be world-changing for health care. IMHO it makes more sense than the government letting everyone morph in lieu of health care — there are all kinds of security and health insurance groups that would throw up huge barriers to that idea — but it would still be huge.

Assuming there's a strict vetting process for who gets the morphing ability, you could have ~100 people who agree to acquire and morph ~100 patients a year in order to give them organs. There'd be tremendous risk involved, of course, since even a routine surgery to remove a kidney can go wrong. But you could compensate the morpher accordingly, and put limits on type of donation. (For example, I hate to say it but this wouldn't work for heart or lung transplants.)

This makes perfect sense as the kind of horrible-but-wonderful new job that would spring up in the aftermath of the Yeerk-Human War.

[starlightiing]

heartbeats between us - gen pierresteban ( pg10 && eo31 )

“Pierre, something is wrong.” Pierre is, admittedly, half-asleep in his chair as he leans across the table Alpine has situated in their meeting room. To his chagrin, the meeting is finally over - but being approached willingly by Esteban isn’t something he had on his bingo card for today. Esteban is usually very good at keeping his distance, so Pierre’s brows furrow on instinct and he pulls off his headset to turn around and give Esteban his full attention. “What do you mean something is wrong?” Pierre asks, eyes darting up to give Esteban a quick once-over. Concern pulls at his chest as he takes note of Esteban’s pale skin and shallow breathing, and the slight tremble to his hands as he raises one up to run through his hair. Or: Esteban has a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

READ ON AO3

“Pierre, something is wrong.” 

Pierre is, admittedly, half-asleep in his chair as he leans across the table Alpine has situated in their meeting room. To his chagrin, the meeting is finally over - but being approached willingly by Esteban isn’t something he had on his bingo card for today. Esteban is usually very good at keeping his distance, so Pierre’s brows furrow on instinct and he pulls off his headset to turn around and give Esteban his full attention.

“What do you mean something is wrong?” Pierre asks, eyes darting up to give Esteban a quick once-over. Concern pulls at his chest as he takes note of Esteban’s pale skin and shallow breathing, and the slight tremble to his hands as he raises one up to run through his hair. 

“I don’t know, something feels bad. Wrong.” Esteban replies, unhelpfully, if Pierre is honest.

“You look like shit, why don’t you start with what feels bad exactly?” Pierre urges him, scooting his chair back so he can stand to his feet. He doesn’t understand why Esteban isn’t telling his physio about this instead - he would be much better suited to handle this situation than Pierre.

“I feel weak and tired. My chest is fluttering and my throat is tight.” Esteban says,and when he swallows, Pierre can pick up on the difficulty in the action. His eyebrows furrow deeper as he reaches up and presses the back of his hand to Esteban’s forehead. His skin is surprisingly cool, but Pierre can feel the clamminess of sweat building at his hairline. 

“Where is your physio? You look sick, but I don’t think you have a fever.”

“No, Pierre, this is -” Esteban stops himself, and Pierre immediately makes eye contact with him, taking note of the fear and surprise evident in Esteban’s expression. The rest of the sentence never comes - instead, Esteban presses a hand to the base of his throat and lets out a strangled sort of gasping noise.

Pierre’s blood runs cold in his veins. Esteban is having trouble breathing.

“Hey! Somebody call the doctor in here!” he yells, carefully placing a hand to Esteban’s shoulder and guiding him down into the chair Pierre had been sitting in only moments ago. “Now!”

Pierre pats lightly at Esteban’s face, quickly grabbing his attention. His eyes are still alert which is good, but the wheeze that comes with his breaths is worrying Pierre more than he would like to admit. He can’t see what would be obstructing Esteban’s breaths, but the wheezing is sharp and prominent and it’s only getting worse. “Hey, keep breathing. Nice and easy, okay?” 

Esteban nods, his lips slightly parted as he tries to pull air in through his mouth. It sounds horrible, and Pierre winces in sympathy. He presses a hand to Esteban’s chest and rubs softly, as if it might help him breathe somehow.

It doesn’t.

“Pierre…I can’t…” “You can,” Pierre immediately replies, keeping his hand on Esteban’s chest to steady him. “You can. Keep going. Keep breathing.” 

Esteban’s heartbeat feels quick but weak, just a gentle flutter against Pierre’s hand. His eyes widen slightly as the severity of the situation registers in his mind.

“Hey! Where is that doctor?” he yells out again, craning his neck to see if anyone is even around to hear him. A head pops in - Pierre immediately recognizes him as Francis, and his eyes widen when he takes in Esteban’s state.

“He’s on the way. Is Esteban okay?” Francis asks, and Pierre can tell he’s being as gentle as possible. Pierre looks towards Esteban’s frightened eyes, then back to Francis and shakes his head.

“No, I don’t know what’s wrong but he can’t breathe. His heart’s racing but it’s weak. We need the doctor now.” 

Francis nods, concern blossoming over his expression. “I’ll tell him to haul ass back here. Hang in there, okay?”

Francis is gone before Pierre can reply, which only brings a small measure of comfort. As soon as his attention is back on Esteban, though,  it dissipates in an instant. He’s gasping for air, one hand reaching at his throat as if something is in there blocking his airway. Pierre notices then the swelling in Esteban’s throat - subtle but distinguishable, and his heart drops to his feet. This is an allergic reaction to something, but he cannot for the life of him ever remember Esteban being allergic to anything. He never had issues when they were kids, nor during the time they’ve spent together at Alpine. 

He takes a deep breath and snaps his fingers in front of Esteban’s dulling eyes. “Look at me. Eyes on me, Esteban.” Pierre demands, and the panic that flutters in his chest when Esteban looks up and looks through him, tired and frightened, is almost overwhelming. “Do you have an epi-pen?”

Esteban looks confused for a second, just a fleeting moment, before shaking his head. “No. Never…had one.” He gasps out, his hand coming to rest right under Pierre’s on his chest. “Pi-Pierre, I can’t breathe.” 

“The doctor is coming.” Pierre says matter-of-factly, hoping to keep the concern and uncertainty out of his voice. Being calm for Esteban is crucial right now; and perhaps even for himself, too. “I know it is hard, but keep breathing. Keep trying.” 

Pierre watches Esteban’s face carefully, eyes trained on his expression to try and get a read on how he’s feeling. His eyes are dull and lifeless, something that is setting Pierre’s heart racing fast enough to be noticeable, now. Esteban is breathing but he’s barely breathing, and his heartbeat has only gotten quicker and weaker in the last few moments. “He will be here in a moment, it’s okay, Esteban.”

All Esteban does in response is blink at Pierre tiredly, slowly, like it’s far too much of an effort for his body to handle. Then, to Pierre’s horror, Esteban’s eyes flutter shut and they do not open back up again. His weight lolls forward, right into Pierre’s expectant arms, who catches him and gently lays him down on the floor so he doesn’t hit his head.

“Esteban!” 

Pierre immediately checks his breathing, ear hovering right above Esteban’s lips and listening intently for any sound - even the wheezing, hell, he would take the wheezing at this point. He listens, and listens, and listens, but not a single sound escapes Esteban’s lips. “Fuck. Fuck.”

A trembling hand reaches forward to Esteban’s neck, fingers pressing into the carotid artery in desperate search of a pulse. Pierre can feel something - something soft and weak - but he cannot differentiate if it’s the throbbing of his own pulse in his fingertips, or blood pumping through Esteban’s veins. He leans forward and rests his head against Esteban’s heart, listening even closer to his chest than he had for Esteban’s breathing a moment ago. He can hear it, just a fleeting heartbeat, so delicate and quick and uneven. He can hear it, and it brings him at least some modicum of relief.

That is, of course, until he hears it flutter, stumble, and then go completely silent inside of Esteban’s chest.

“Fuck! Help! Someone get that goddamn doctor in here now!” Pierre cries out, his voice urgent and desperate, “He’s not breathing! For fuck’s sake!” 

The idea of CPR hammers itself into Pierre’s frantic brain. CPR would be Esteban’s only chance until the doctor got here, even if it’s success rate is - well, he won’t think about that right now. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. It’s Esteban’s only hope, and Pierre, god help him, will do what he can. He isn’t officially certified, but he doesn’t care. Something is better than nothing. Something might keep Esteban here with him.

Pierre swallows thickly and threads his hands together, positioning them over Esteban’s heart. He remembers he needs to compress at 100 beats per minute, and hard. Hard enough that he could potentially break Esteban’s ribs. The idea is terrifying, but he can’t dwell on it. Focus. Focus. Deep breath.

And he begins. 

“One, two, three,” he counts under his breath, pushing with all his might against Esteban’s chest. “Four, five, six…” 

Somewhere around twenty compressions, Pierre hears footsteps rush into the room. He doesn’t look up, forcing himself to ignore them and focus only on Esteban. He is Esteban’s heartbeat right now, and that comes before anything else. Push. Push. Push. 

Even for as fit as he is, Pierre can feel the strain in his arms and the way his breaths come just a tiny bit faster and more shallow. It’s hard work, but he doesn’t care - he keeps pressing down on Esteban’s chest until he reaches 30, and then gathers himself to give rescue breaths. “Pierre, let me help.” A voice says from above them, and Pierre snaps his head up to see Francis is back in the room. “Doc is on his way, I swear it. Until he gets here, I’ll give Esteban breaths and keep an eye out for his pulse, you just focus on compressions until you need to switch with me.” 

He can’t seem to argue with that, offering a curt nod. He’s grateful for the help, and for the speed at which Francis delivers it. He watches Francis tilt Esteban’s head back, pinching his nose and breathing into his mouth as hard as he can. Esteban’s chest barely rises, fuck, Pierre had forgotten about the swelling in his throat - but it’s something, it’s going to have to be enough. 

“Go. I’ve got him.” Francis says, pressing his fingers to Esteban’s wrist. Pierre doesn’t need any more than that, he jumps right back into action and begins his next cycle of thirty chest compressions. 

“Come on, Esteban.” He pants out, counting the compressions in his head as he pushes against Esteban’s ribs with all his might. About ten compressions in, he hears the sickening sound of bones snapping and he has to fight back the bile that rises to the back of his throat. The sound isn’t even the worst part, it’s the giveaway of bones he feels beneath his hands as he continues to pump Esteban’s heart through them. He can physically feel the ribs creaking and groaning beneath his hands, and as one after another snaps, he can feel a soft pop followed by diminished resistance to his compressions and, god, if he had the ability to stop and process it right now he would absolutely be sick. 

“Keep going,” he hears Francis urge him to his left. “It’s okay, just keep going.” 

Keep going. Pierre can do that. His arms are aching and he’s out of breath, but he’s alive and he’s healthy and he has the means to work as hard as humanly possible to bring Esteban back. And how jarring it is, to see Esteban so helpless and weak - two things Pierre would never use to describe him in any other scenario. No, Esteban is strong willed and stubborn; he doesn’t give up, doesn’t back down, never has - not even when they were just kids.

Pierre looks up at Esteban’s face as he continues the compressions, and something churns in his gut. He sees that lanky, goofy kid he used to know years and years ago. The kid that made him laugh until his stomach hurt, but also ran him down hard on the karting track without showing a single ounce of mercy. He sees the boy that let Pierre into his kart for the first time, with a proud smile and warm words of encouragement falling from his lips. He sees an old friend, lost to time and various other personal complications that seem so goddamn small and frivolous now in the face of all there is to lose.

Pierre looks at Esteban’s face and sees someone he still viciously cares about, no matter how hard he’s tried to deny it. He sees someone his heart simply cannot give up, will not give up, despite the trials and tribulations they’ve put each other through in the years since their friendship ended.

He sees someone who, the world be damned, he wants back as his friend. Someone he would never let die, no matter the circumstance. Someone who deep, deep down in the far reaches of his soul he knows he loves and will always love.

And he compresses and compresses with every bit of strength left in his body, because Esteban will not die here, not like this, not now. It’s not his time. 

“Pierre?” 

He hears his name but wholly ignores it, not wanting to hear a word out of Francis’ mouth unless it’s to say he’s got a heartbeat. The likelihood of that is slim, so Pierre keeps going even as a third rib snaps beneath his palms.

“Pierre? Pierre, listen to me.” Francis insists, putting a hand on Pierre’s shoulder, firm enough as if he’s trying to stop the compressions.

Pierre shrugs him off violently, “No! I have to focus!” 

“Pierre, the doctor is here. You need to move so he can help Esteban.”

“No!” Pierre cries out, raw and guttural, from the bottom of his stomach. He sounds every bit desperate and devastated, still attempting to administer compressions as Francis tries to pull him off of Esteban. “Stop! I have to help him! He’s not breathing! He’s not - his heart-” 

“I know, I know, Pierre,” Francis soothes, using his strength to lift  Pierre up from Esteban’s body. Pierre thrashes, nearly loosening himself from Francis’ grip, but it’s just not enough. He doesn’t have the power left in his own body to free himself. “But the doctor has to do his job. He’s the best chance of saving Esteban right now.” 

“But I…I didn’t even…” Pierre pauses to try and catch his breath, his eyes snapping over to Esteban.

The team doctor is knelt over him, and Pierre watches as he administers something into Esteban’s body. God, he hopes it will help, he needs it to help. But why isn’t he continuing the compressions? “What are you doing? His heart stopped, he needs compressions, or… or something!” 

“Pierre, you have to let the doctor work. If you keep yelling he’s going to make you leave.” Francis calmly explains, tightening his grip around Pierre’s body. “You did it, okay? Those compressions saved his life. There was already a pulse when the doctor checked him over. You did it.” 

“No,” Pierre feels so breathless, so useless, so hopeless. That can’t possibly be true. “No, his heart was not beating.”

“But it is now. Because of you. Because you jumped into action so quickly and put all of your effort into those compressions.” 

Pierre takes a minute to let that information sink into his brain. His adrenaline is still high, his body and mind working overtime as Francis’ words process. Esteban’s heart is beating again, because of him. The strained arms and the cracked ribs and the effort - it was all worth it. He lets out a breath and deflates in Francis’ arms, becoming something akin to a ragdoll.

“My god. Is he breathing?” Pierre asks, never tearing his gaze away from Esteban or the doctor at his side.

“They just got him breathing.” Francis confirms, gently rubbing Pierre’s arm with one of his hands. “He’s back, Pierre. He’s here.”

Pierre’s body sags even further with relief, and he lets out a humorless chuckle as he surrenders all of his weight into Francis, “That fucking bastard. Thank God.” 

~~

It takes Esteban precisely two days and twelve hours to wake up after all is said and done. Not that Pierre is counting - he’s definitely not counting. He has not been sitting hopelessly by Esteban’s room for hours upon hours a day, waiting for this moment or anything. Two days and twelve long, painful hours before the nurses come out to let him know Esteban is awake, alert, and agreeable to company. 

It feels like so much longer, and Pierre almost doesn’t believe his ears when he hears it. Two days of filtering through worried text messages from other drivers in the paddock (namely Lance and Charles, though Fernando has sent his fair share of texts and so has Max), and awkward interactions with Esteban’s parents who had flown in immediately upon hearing the news. They are nice people, really, it’s just been so long since he’s had any positive interactions with them that when Laurent came in for a hug, Pierre hadn’t been fairly certain how to react, and Sabrina’s kisses to his cheeks still burn warm even hours after the fact. 

It’s all a bit overwhelming, and Pierre of course let them go visit their son first and foremost. But if he’s honest, he’s chomping at the bit to go in and make sure Esteban is okay with his own eyes after everything that’s happened. 

And yet, now that it is finally his turn, his palms are sweating and he finds himself at a loss of what to say or do when he’s finally face to face with Esteban.

“He’s eager to see you.” Sabrina tells him softly, her touch on his shoulder warm and comforting, similar to his own mother’s. “Don’t worry.”

Pierre nods at her words, swallowing a lump in the back of his throat as he reaches out and opens the door to Esteban’s room. Almost immediately, Esteban’s eyes are fastened directly on him, and his breath catches in his lungs. He closes the door behind him, and takes a few steps towards the bed as he tries to ignore the echo of his heart pounding in his ears.

“You’re awake.” “I am.” Esteban agrees, smiling up at Pierre tiredly. “I have heard you are the one to thank for that?” 

Pierre clears his throat, looking down at the blankets on Esteban’s bed and nodding softly. “You don’t have to thank me, though.”

“Thank you, Pierre.” He says anyway, and it stirs up something warm and comforting in Pierre’s belly. “You saved my life. That more than deserves thanks.”

“I think you would have done the same for me.” Pierre says carefully, not wanting to put words in Esteban’s mouth. “I’m just glad you’re okay now.”

Esteban nods, leaning his head back into his pillows and sucking in a deep breath. Pierre watches his chest rise with the action, and it's relieving to see him breathing so easily. Above the bed, the monitor tracking Esteban’s heartbeat is beeping very softly and gently to indicate the rate and rhythm of his heart, and it’s all so unbelievably comforting to Pierre to see for himself that Esteban truly is okay. 

“Sorry you had to do it. I had no idea what was wrong and you were the closest person.” Esteban explains, and Pierre can detect something like guilt in his tone.

“Don’t apologize for that. I’m glad you reached out for help at all. I know you are sometimes too stubborn for your own good.” Pierre says, meeting Esteban’s gaze with a knowing smirk. 

“Yeah, well, I’m just glad I reached out to the right person. When did you learn CPR anyway?”

Pierre chuckles at that, shaking his head as he settles himself down in the chair next to Esteban’s bed. “I’m not certified. I just got really fucking lucky.”

“No, I got really fucking lucky.” Esteban jokes, though his chuckle sounds more half-hearted than anything. Pierre knows it’s just because he’s tired and probably still a bit disoriented. He can’t imagine how he might feel if he woke up only to hear his heart had stopped and his childhood ex-friend was the one to restart it. 

“You should probably get more rest. More people are going to want to come visit you soon now that you’ve woken up.” Pierre reaches out on instinct, grabbing Esteban’s blanket and pulling it up over his arms. “Do you need anything before I go?” 

“No. Just for you to stay a little longer.” Esteban replies, looking over at Pierre with something indistinguishable written into his features.

Pierre feels his heart freeze momentarily in his chest, not expecting Esteban to want him to stay. And hell, he’s been here for nearly two days - what would a few more hours hurt? Especially if it would help Esteban to relax.

“Yeah, I can stay a little while. Just make sure you get some rest.”

Esteban smiles at him, and Pierre’s stomach does flips. Rude of it, honestly, to react that way without his express permission. After a moment, Pierre smiles back, watching as Esteban’s eyes flutter shut.

“Thank you, Pierre.” 

Pierre clears his throat and leans forward a bit in his chair, reaching out to tousle Esteban’s hair affectionately. “You’re welcome. Just never do that to me again, okay?”

Esteban grins, letting out a soft, amused breath through his nose. “I’ll do my best.”

He falls asleep only moments later, and Pierre listens to each and every breath that enters and leaves his lungs as he sleeps.

It’s all the proof Pierre needs to know that Esteban is truly going to be okay.

[heychucklenuts]

RED vs BLU Merc Name Headcanons + Differences

Within TF2 it's a bit ambiguous as to whether the BLU Mercenaries are clones of the RED Mercs, if they're Doppelgangers, or some other third thing. I like to think they're Doppelgangers, and as a result, this post is gonna be both my headcanons for the names of the RED and BLU mercs (obviously canon names such as Demo or Engie's will be left in tact). Also slight comic spoilers may apply so be wary for that.

I'll not only showcase the Mercs names, but also differences between them.

If a Mercs name is the same color as their team (so, the name is red or blue), that means that is their canon name. If only one part of the name is highlighted, that is the only canon part of the name.

Without further ado, the names for the Mercs:

Scout

RED: Jeremy Herring Surname taken from one of the surnames Jerma985 has been known with: Harrington. Unsure whether this is his real surname or another cruel joke. Also a slight pun with Red Herring. His first name should be a bit obvious here, as he's named after Jerma. BLU: Jesse Alibert Honestly I've probably thought of the name because of Jesse Pinkman, unfortunately. Surname is another variation of one of Jerma985's perceived surnames, this time being the world famous Elbertson surname.

Differences:

Jeremy is well known for being the rough and tough Bostonian he is, having grown up as the runt within a family of seven (7) older brothers. He's fought his way to get what's his, and he makes sure nobody stands in the way of him and what he wants. Jesse on the other hand is someone who you shouldn't fuck with. He grew up as the older brother to a little sister, so obviously, he grew protective of her, and has beaten plenty of guys up as a result. You cross him once, you're already on a watch list. Cross him twice? Obituary.

Soldier

RED: Jane Doe This is Soldier's already perceived name, a name given to either unidentified women, or women who's names are being withheld for other reasons. And what's to say this isn't his real name? BLU: Annie Roe As much as I wanted to go down the road of just calling him "John Doe, I felt that to be a little too easy. So, I looked up a list of placeholder names used aside John and Jane Doe, and ended up combining two placeholder names, one used primarily in the UK (Anne Other/A N Other), and another US variant of the placeholder, this time Jane Roe. I chose to change his name to Annie for two reasons: Annie Oakley, and there was an American clinical psychologist and researcher by the name of Anne Roe, so I wanted differentiation.

Differences:

Jane is who we know best, our jingoistic, lead-poisoned patriot himself. He's reckless, he's loudmouthed, but nevertheless he is passionate about his livelihood, about his country, and about his team. To him, he's served his time in the armed forces, being a part of the great Gravel Wars. God bless Teufort. He tries his damnedest to be the authority of his team. Annie is on a similar page as Jane, not much difference between the two, outside of the fact he has been in the army before, though not for long. The biggest difference would be how he seems to be a bit more closed off than Jane, a bit more to himself. He doesn't seem to fully understand at times that there is a time and place to brawl.

Pyro

RED: Pyro or Lumbre The Pyro's name is one of mystery, though I'm going off a particular headcanon I have seen before, or a speculation Pyro may be from Mexico do to a lot of their cosmetics being Mexico-themed. Therefore, I'm not necessarily giving them a name, more a placeholder word, one that can mean fire or light depending on it's context. Why I say Pyro or Lumbre is that we never know, perhaps Pyro is their name. Name not highlighted do to it being Pyro's name as a Merc rather than their real name. Allegedly. BLU: Cryo or Tsumetai (冷たい) A bit of a different take on the Pyro, which I'll get into later in the differences between the Merc counterparts. Cryo would be short for Cryomaniac, an opposite to Pyro's full Pyromaniac title. The other name, Tsumetai, comes from Japanese. It describes more something feeling cold. than yourself being cold. And the reason for the Japanese name is because of another speculation, of people believing Pyro is Japanese do to their "Hadouken" taunt from holding the Shotgun or Flare Gun. Obviously this is a Street Fighter reference, and thus some believe Pyro to be Japanese as a result.

Differences:

Pyro is notorious for being ruthless on the battlefield, burning everything and everyone that they can. But, to them, it's not destruction. If anything it's creation. They're creating a lovely world of candy and unicorns, with all of their friends there to celebrate, and those from the other team there to play. Surely they're just having fun, right? ...Right? Cryo. The opposite to Pyro. They see the beauty in fire, yes. But they adore the opposite too. Ice so cold it burns your flesh, causing severe frostbite, and necrosis. But again... al they're doing too is just playing. They're bringing everyone into their winter wonderland, to make snowtanks their friends and having snowball fights with the other team. Ice can't hurt that bad... it's what makes some of the best desserts. It's what makes people happy on a hot day.

Heavy

RED: Mikhail/Misha Medved Heavy's name Mikhail, or Misha for short, is already known to be canon. As for his last name, I decided to go with one that revolved around his bear theme in the game, having 5 bear-related cosmetics, as well as his fighting and killing a bear in the comics. The surname itself means "bear" in several Slavic languages., as a side note. Funny enough in researching this, I saw a retired Ukrainian decathlete by a similar name. (Translated to Russian his name is Mikhail Medved, but in Ukrainian it's Mykhailo Medvid.) BLU: Yuriy Kaban I wanted to give BLU Heavy a similar name type assigned to RED Heavy; I.E. having a more common first name, and a surname based off of an animal to represent them. While part of me wanted to assign BLU Heavy a surname meaning wolf, I decided instead to give him a name meaning boar. And, supposedly I'll say, the word "kaban" translates to boar, or wild boar.

Differences:

Stoic yet lovable, Heavy cottles his beloved Sasha as he takes down enemies. Of course, don't take him as someone who's cold and ruthless, he can be warm and vibrant, especially given he's a big brother to Yana, Zhanna, and Bronislava. His love for Sandviches helping to feed all of the other mercs, and his love of (and doctorate in) Russian literature making him so well read. But again, don't doubt him. He's the same man who can turn around and slam a bear on it's back and kill it if he chooses to do so. Yuriy is a man shrouded in mystery... somehow a bit more so than Spy is. For whatever reason he'd rather keep his past hidden from everyone else. What is known is he has a younger sister, similarly to Misha. It's theorized he came from similar origins as Misha, but something happened to the majority of his family before being sent to the gulag. While as deadly as Misha, he practices gentler hobbies to relax, such as sewing, or reading. He likes to take book recommendations from the other Mercs, and maybe even from Misha himself.

Demoman

RED: Tavish Finnegan DeGroot A man of many names, three to be exact. And All of these names boast some sort of a significance, being there as references to different cultural terms. Those being Black Scots, Black Irish, and Black Dutch, in that order. The last two being in reference to black people who have some ties to either Ireland or the Netherlands, but those ties not being ethnic. Meanwhile with Black Scots, that's more in reference to those descendant of freed African house servants who stayed in Scotland. All that is in blue is referenced from Demoman's official TF2 Wikipedia pageb and I felt it nexessary to elaborate more on that as I've done with some of the other Merc's names, and their origins. BLU: Aulay/Owl Tuinstra His first name is an interesting one, with one of its name variants (or one of the Anglicized versions of his name) being Humphrey. Aulay has a certain feel to it though that, to me fits a Demoman, and his nickname Owl may showcase his personality versus the RED Demoman. The surname of Tuinstra is a mixed one, being of West Frisian and Dutch origins, and his surname could roughly translate to "inhabitant of a garden", Tuin meaning garden, and the West Frisian suffix -stra meaning inhabitant of.

Differences:

The loveable drunk himself, Tavish is someone who defies all logic by being able to drink heavily, and not feel a thing. Though being in love with his own liver has something to do with it. He's a dastardly foe shooting bombs for people to step on and blow themselves up. Tav himself is damn well a multi-millionaire too, holding down three jobs, even if his mom says he's lazy. He's hardworking, and he's someone you don't wanna fuck with. Coming from more humble beginnings than Tavish, Owl grew up on a farm his family owned, still receiving the same scoldings of not working hard enough, despite being a bit wealthier as an adult. Like Tav, he's a man who can pack scrumpy and other types of alcohol. His nickname Owl does give a hint as to who he is though, being logical, independent, and a bit curious about different things... including cracking the cosmde between the RED and BLU team's relationship.

Engineer

RED: August Conagher Not too much to say about the Engineer in RED, or his name. These two get to be our mystery Mercenaries for the time being. BLU: Dell Conagher The real Dell Conagher, as shown in both the story comics, and Loose Canon. There's not much that I can say about him, or his name, other than that the BLU Engineer is Dell Conagher.

Differences:

The Engineer in RED, the one who may be a little too interested in how to become robotic, but he isn't the Engineer we've come to know. August's past is for his eyes only, being someone of an unknown past, but of possible relation to Dell. He seems to deny that though... possibly angry at the man for keeping Radigan's plans and blueprints all to himself. Dell is who we have come to know as the Engineer. He's the lovable Texan with a bit of a sadistic streak at times, and someone who also holds plenty of secrets, namely from his team. He's loyal to The Administrator and to Mann Co. as a whole, God knows what would happened if he went against the company.

Medic

RED: Dr. Ludwig, Ludwig Humboldt, Joseph Ludwig The only thing that is confirmed regarding Medic's name is some aspect of it being Ludwig. It was thought for a while this may be his last name, due to page 208 of The Naked and The Dead. The only reason this ever got questioned was because of the Rottenburg map, and the pharmacy named Humboldt's Pharmacy. Due to some of Medic's past lore, this likely caused people to wonder if Ludwig was his first name, and the pharmacy being of his actual surname. Though there was also the name given by Gaming Heads when they were promoting the Medic figuring: that being Joseph Heliburger. Though this is said to be non-canon. So, while his name is left as Dr. Ludwig, or Mr. Ludwig, I could see his name being either or of the names I listed above as headcanons. BLU: Andrea Weis An example of me kind of just picking and choosing what felt right, for some reason this name stuck as a possibility for BLU Medic. The name Andrea can mean manly, and is of Greek origin, while Weis can mean clever, wise, or experienced, which I think fits with the Medic class as a whole. Not to mention the possibility of BLU Scout getting pissy with him and calling his Dr. Whizz, and getting a kidney removed as a result.

Differences:

Cruel, sadistic, a strong love for bones and gore. Dr. Ludwig is a strange figure of mysterious origins, and while he is someone who wants to experiment for his own pleasure, don't get the wrong idea about him. He's not entirely careless though, caring about his team, and their well-being. He shifts all medical logic in their favor, as well as all standard logic to ensure he owns all of their souls. That way, in life and in death, the team may always be united. Dr. Weis on the other hand is a much more careful figure, even if he does take a same sadistic pleasure in what he does. And unlike Dr. Ludwig, he's actually gone to medical school. Weis does his job, being the teams healer, but other than that, he's a bit more to himself, usually found in his lab studying, or working on an unnamed cadaver. He prefers the quiet, as the constant calls to him can get a bit grating on the ears. So much so to the point he's considered quitting, but the unlimited money is too worth it to leave.

Sniper

RED: Mick Mundy At least a half of his name has been confirmed, with Mundy being his surname, and what he seems to go by the most. As for his first name being Mick, I'm genuinely unsure if that's been officially stated as being his first name, seeing as it was just on the back of the box of the Sniper action figure. One thing to say though, if it turns out his name is Mick, part of me wonders if he's using a shortened version of the name Michael, and doesn't like people calling him by his first name. Not to mention his supposed first name seems to be a Crocodile Dundee reference (not surprising since he has the Crocodile Mun-Dee cosmetic.) Other than that, the surname Mundy is a bit rare to come by, and either comes from Norman or Irish origin, and could possibly mean "Son of Monday". And his birth name Mun-dee is offbranded Superman lore, if Superman were a sniper instead of a superhuman. BLU: Lawrence/Laz Walker Pivoting from RED Sniper to what I assume could potentially be a more common name. I'll be honest this was one of the names where is was a series of shrugs instead of thought, mostly due to Sniper cosmetics, and the fact some people may have believed his name to be Lawrence because of the Lawrence of Australia item set. (A reference to the 1962 film Lawrence of Arabia.) As for the nickname of Laz, I can only explain it as it sounds more like a name for a Sniper than Larry. Do not question me. As for his last name Walker, I just decided "fuck it", giving him the 14th most common last name in Australia, versus RED Sniper's more unique last name.

Differences:

Adopted to Mr. and Mrs. Mundy, hailing from New Zealand to then be shot to the surface, raised to be Australian. Mundy isn't cruel like Dr. Ludwig, quite the opposite. He takes his job seriously, every shot being calculated to a T. Not exactly the friendliest of people, seeing as his job has had him isolated for long periods of time, but he's not completely cold to his team. He hangs out with them, he has fun with them. Serious and stoic he may be, he's found a love for his job, and for his teammates. Contrary to popular belief, he does not smell like piss. He takes care of himself and makes sure he's fresh for the day. Laz was born and raised in Australia, living in one of the underground homes of Coober Pedy up until he became an assassin. A cozy life for him he wishes to return to, but the town of Teufort offers an odd familiarity to him. It isn't the same, no, but it suffices. Laz isn't so much cold as he is introverted, preferring to keep his peace rather than interact with the other Mercs too much. The more he's worked with Team Fortress though, the more he's opened up, telling the Mercs stories of when he was growing up, and what it was like to have to dust yourself off after using the bathroom, or getting knocked on the head by loose minerals. Cryo seems to try and help Laz fill in the void of that by dropping sand and pebbles on him at random.

Spy

RED: René Èviter With RED Spy, I wanted to give him a very common French name, as that's what I feel like suits him the best. Thus, I named him René. (Bonus points because in the back of my head I can hear his full name being Simon René Èviter, with him usually omitting his first name. That's a give or take though. As for his surname, Èviter... it roughly translates from French to "to avoid", which is both a pun off his spywork, and his role as Scout's father. BLU: Florent Mercier More of a unique name, to a degree, and there's a reason why I named him Florent which I'll elaborate on shortly. I'll say I believe him to be RED Spy's more sensitive counterpart, so giving him a name that may be seen as more delicate in nature (translating to "flowering" from French), was a good choice. His surname, I just chose at random. Though I had to pivot from calling him Mercer as that's more an English and Scottish (and I believe Catalonian) variant, whilst Mercier is the French version, translating to "merchant".

Differences:

René is a sneaky man, conniving and quick footed. Nothing is known about him, where he lived, or even really who he is. All that's known is you should watch your back for him... and that he's quite the ladies man, seeming to sweep the Scout's mother off her feet, as well as countless other women. Make no mistake, he can steal your lady like he steals control points. More on the side of planning before acting, and less of a braggart, Florent lives up to a delicate nature. He's not someone who shies away from confrontation, no. He'll take a person head-on for whatever it is they've tried to do to him. But he isn't as flashy as his RED counterpart, preferring to stay humble about his spending habits. In his case too, he seems to be a little more than just a ladies man, rumors circling around the base that he may have a fondness for men too...

This took way too long to work on by the way, couple that with my newfound headache.

Was gonna do age headcanons too but I wanna sleep.

[phantomtwitch]

For angstfest! I'm a little late, but here's one for a No One Knows AU.

They’re already moving as soon as he’s gone. 

Tucker grabs Danny’s legs while Sam picks up Danny beneath his arms and shoulders. He’s long past the point of being embarrassed about Sam being stronger than him, and they have to move fast as they drag Danny’s body into an empty classroom nearby. He mutters curses under his breath as the heavy classroom door bounces off his side, and Sam huffs and rolls her eyes. “Drama queen,” she accuses, and he sticks his tongue out at her as they carry Danny’s body the rest of the way inside and the door shuts with a too-loud slam behind them. 

But they’re not worried about the noise attracting attention. Most of the students are staying within their own classrooms, ignoring whatever odd sounds they might hear as the ghost alarm goes off in the background. The harsh, blinking lights cast odd shadows on Danny’s face, making Tucker queasy for a minute as they prop his body up against the wall below the whiteboard. 

“How long?” he asks, panting heavily and trying to catch his breath. 

“Two minutes and forty-five seconds,” she says with a grin as she sits down next to him. “Pretty sure that’s a new record.”

“Nah, we did it in two minutes and thirty-eight seconds last month, remember?” he says as he sits down beside her and starts to unpack his backpack. The defibrillator is buried at the bottom, tucked beneath his things. It’s the smallest one they could find that’s still effective, even if they’re not exactly using it for its intended purpose, and Sam carries another just in case. For a normal person, it wouldn’t be possible to restart their heart and lungs with an electric shock, despite what the movies claim, but for Danny? Electricity is the only thing that works, the only thing that will bind his spirit back to his corpse as it infuses and activates the ectoplasm flooding his blood stream. 

The Fentons could no doubt provide a scientific explanation as to why and how it works, but to Tucker, it’s an odd kind of magic, of horrifying necromancy as they forcibly, painfully force the electricity to run through him again, so similar to the accident that caused this problem in the first place. It’s only by chance that they know it works, having tried the defibrillator hanging on the lab wall in the basement after he came out of the portal and his body fell to the ground as his ghost hovered over it in shock. He didn’t give it much thought the first time. Tucker merely assumed the movies were right and that they restarted Danny’s heart. It wasn’t until later that they learned the truth. 

With practiced ease he pulls Danny’s old NASA t-shirt off, and then scowls as he notices that Danny’s wearing a new necklace with a constellation on it that Tucker probably should know the name of after being Danny’s friend for so many years but doesn’t. “Great. More stuff to take off. Wonder who gave it to him,” he grumbles, twisting it around in his fingers until he finds the clasp and removes it. He checks him over for any more metal and finds none. “How long now?” 

“Four minutes,” says Sam, and he nods. They worry one day it’ll be too long, that there will be no forcibly stitching his soul and body back together, that all will remain is a ghost and the body of a boy who’s been dead for longer than anyone knows. The longest Danny’s ever gone is thirty-three minutes, yet they were still able to bring him back that day even as it seemed to take longer than usual. But there’s no one they can ask for help or advice, no one that’s dealt with this before besides them and Jazz, and none of them trust the Fenton parents enough  to not shoot their own son in the face if they learn the truth. Because so far, at least, when Danny’s back he is alive again. He’s grown a few inches since this started a year ago. He’s been forced to get his usual haircuts, to trim his nails when they get too long. His heart beats within his chest, and he breathes and smiles and laughs like there’s nothing different, nothing wrong, and absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about him.

They shift Danny again, laying him down flat on the floor on his back as Tucker kneels down beside him and sets up the defibrillator and sticks the pads to Danny’s chest. There’s nothing they can do until he returns, so they wait, Tucker drumming his fingers against the side of his leg as Sam continues to glance at her watch every few seconds. “Did you hear that they’re remaking the first Nightmerica movie?” he asks, looking for any distraction he can. 

“Ughh, yeah,” she groans. “Which completely misses the point of why it’s so good in the first place. I don’t want a modern version with modern effects. I want cheesy 80s costumes and music and horror and the chance to cheer as stuck-up cheerleaders get murdered. I mean I guess there’s a chance they’ll keep the original charm, but I doubt it.”

“Yeah, there’s already rumors that they’re casting, like, Scarlett Johanson as Nightmerica,” adds Tucker. “Doesn’t really bode well.”

“Seriously? If she gets cast, I’m just going to nope right out, pretend it doesn’t exist, and hope everyone else does the same,” she says, and then goosebumps erupt across their skin as the temperature in the room drops precipitously as Phantom enters the classroom, phasing through the wall. 

He looks rougher than usual as ectoplasm drips from his arms and chest, deep claw marks gouging through the thin black and white hazmat suit he wears even now. His eyes are consumed with green light, his hair floating over his head and flickering like sparks, and there’s a faint hint of white beneath the dark suit, of the shape of bones even as Phantom is nothing but ectoplasm. “Rough fight?” he asks.

There’s heavy static behind each word. Talking to him like this is almost useless. They can’t understand the ghost speech, the odd echoes and noise and whirring, and trying to teach Danny sign language or morse code or any other method of communication when he’s whole again is worthless, none of the knowledge transferring to his ghostly self, the wall between his two halves too solid for even Phantom to phase through. They don’t know why Phantom is one of the only ghosts that can’t speak without the noise and distortion, that can’t make his words understood, but it’s a truth that’s held fast for as long as Danny’s been like this. 

But Tucker’s gotten better at reading his unnatural body language, the way he twists upside down and curls his tail around himself as his sharp, pointed teeth flash. “Sorry, man,” he says. “I wish you didn’t have to do this.”

They don't know why he feels compelled to fight the other ghosts. They don't even know what triggers the transformation, even as they've come to recognize the warning signs, like the odd vacant stare that sets in, the way Danny’s hackles almost seem to rise as he silently snarls. And it's not as if Danny can tell them.

Phantom whispers something in response, the words still lost in the static, and then he floats over to himself, putting a hand over his own corpse, because as hard as it is for Tucker to think of it that way, he knows, on some level, that’s what Danny's body is without Phantom. There’s no life in it, no presence, no spirit. It’s merely flesh, an empty vessel, and he shudders to think what could happen if another ghost found him like this, if he might be able to possess him somehow. 

"We're at nine minutes," says Sam, and Phantom lets out something like a sigh as he floats back into the corpse. Danny's eyes snap open, green and glowing, and they move quickly.

Unlike the one in the lab that was old and lacked the safety features of most modern AEDs, they had to make a few modifications to this one to get it to work. A modern defibrillator won't let someone shock a body with no heartbeat. Messing with the tech felt dicey, but they couldn't find any other methods to safely deliver a shock to him that wouldn't risk their own safety, too.

The pads are already placed, and he pushes the button, biting his lip as he waits. It delivers the first shock, but aside from a twitch in his shoulders and a confirmation from the AED, there's little to no sign it happened. 

A hiss of soft static, and Tucker understands the meaning despite the noise, a bitter plea for them to do it again. It takes three shocks before they see it, the strange white light around his midsection, and Tucker turns off the AED as he and Sam scramble a few steps back.

The light spreads, eventually too bright for them to bear the sight of it as little arcs of electricity dance along Danny's skin, and when it finally stops he's sitting up, staring vacantly. The daze won't last, but they take this moment to put away the defibrillator, removing the pads from his chest. Tucker puts the necklace back on, his fingers shaking as he snaps the clasp together. Much as he tries to act like this doesn’t bother him anymore, he can’t contain his relief at seeing Danny sitting up again, his chest slowly moving with each breath, his pulse steady beneath his wrist and neck. 

They've just pulled his shirt on when he blinks, and Danny looks down at his hands, wincing as he touches his chest. "I feel like I got run over by the GAV," he groans, and Tucker forces himself to chuckle.

"You might as well have. You hit the floor hard when you fainted," says Tucker. The injuries are never there, but some phantom pain always seems to remain as his ghost heals. "I'm sorry we never manage to catch you, man. I know it’s gotta hurt."

"It's fine," mumbles Danny. "How long was I out?"

"About ten minutes," says Sam. She doesn’t point out that they time this, now, down to the second. It’s not as if timing it changes anything, but it makes them feel better when they revive Danny in under twenty minutes. More than that and they start to worry. Tucker’s still not sure how Danny doesn’t have any brain damage at this point from the lack of oxygen. 

Danny hums, flexing his fingers for a minute as the ghost alarm shuts down. "I . . . Doesn't it seem like this is getting worse? I can't even remember seeing a ghost. I . . . I never can."

"You know this messes with your memory–"

"Yeah, but that makes this seem more like I'm having seizures or something, not fainting. And it's always one of you or Jazz when I wake up, which seems weird, maybe? I just  . . . Maybe we should tell my parents," he whispers, and Tucker's heart aches.

"I don't think that's a good idea–" begins Sam, but he cuts her off.

"--why not?" He looks between the two of them, scowling, his fists now clenched. "What aren't you telling me?"

He and Sam exchange a long look. It always comes to this eventually, yet despite their best efforts, it's pointless. Some part of Danny refuses to hear the truth, to acknowledge that he died or at least half-died in the portal, and within an hour he always forgets they even discussed this at all. They don't know why. They've proven over and over again that they accept him and love him despite how he’s changed. But the wall is still too solid to break through.

They should explain it to Danny again anyway. Tucker knows that. But he's so tired of repeating himself, and he knows Sam is, too. Jazz says his psyche needs more time to process and accept the truth, but it's been a year with no sign of things changing. 

Sam eventually sighs, forcing the words out. She's always been the strongest of the three of them in more ways than one. "A year ago, you had an accident. You were hurt badly, and we saved you, but–"

The door swings open suddenly, and he sees Mr. Lancer there, the relief evident on his face. "Lord of the Flies! Is everyone okay?" he asks as he takes in the sight of the three of them on the floor. At least the AED is back in Tucker's bag and out of sight, since Tucker doubts Mr. Lancer would be willing to ignore what that might signify if he saw it. 

"We're fine," says Sam. "We thought we heard the ghost and hid. I'm sorry we worried you."

"Somehow that always seems to happen with the three of you," he says with a frown, clearly questioning it, but thankfully he doesn't push it further. "But I’m glad that you’re safe, at least, and now that the ghost is gone you three need to get to class."

"Okay." They stand up, and Tucker can see the worry and distrust as Danny clenches his jaw and refuses to look at them as he heads out into the hallway. But that’s not the worst part. No, it’s knowing that by the time lunch rolls around, Danny won’t remember his suspicions or his fears. They’ll be pushed down, slowly hidden beneath the protective part of his mind that refuses to let him know the truth, and instead of questioning why he constantly faints whenever there’s a ghost, why he has strange aches and pains, and why he often sets off his parents’ equipment even when he’s human again, he’ll talk to them about the latest video games and movies and gossip and homework. 

He desperately wants his friend to know the truth. It hurts, even as he knows they’re not lying to Danny about what’s happening, that they’ve tried to explain it before. And despite how naturally taking care of his body comes to him and Sam now, despite knowing the signs that herald Phantom��s emergence, Tucker knows they can’t keep this a secret forever. Inevitably, they won’t be there one day, they’ll miss an obvious sign, or someone like Lancer will walk in a little too soon. And once they learn the truth, he and Sam and Jazz know that Danny will be taken from them as he’s locked away in a lab by the GIW or his parents and becomes some gruesome science experiment, tortured as he can’t even remember the reason why. 

More and more Tucker’s beginning to think they’re running out of time. They need to find a way. They need to get Danny to understand who and what he is so he can protect himself, because Tucker’s not sure how much longer he can keep up the lie, too. 

EDIT: I wrote a Part Two, it's here.

[sugaredoleander]

i say this with love. house fanfic writers, if you ever want me to beta something for medical accuracy, i'll fucking do it no questions asked

[harveywritings92]

[R/n is in labor and Soap gets her to the hospital, while trying to call Ghost who’s currently in a stuck training op so his phone was off. Soap also notices the hospital staff aren’t taking Y/n’s labor seriously, and are pretty much ignoring his pleas for help!]

R/n: J-Johnny, the baby is coming…

Soap: I know lass as just wait for a doc…

R/n: N-no, I-I mean right now, I gotta push and you need catch it.

[Soap goes goes blue in the face.]

Soap: What if Johnny doesn’t want to catch it?

R/n, grabs him by the shirt: JOHNNY BETTER F*CKING CATCH IT OR HE’LL BE CATCHING MY WRATH!

Soap, terrified: Okay, okay…(Looks between R/n’s leg and sees the head!) 

Soap, panicking: Oh Shite, it’s comin! Ok uhm....

[While R/n is busy pushing; Soap frantically looks around the room for something to catch and cover the baby with, he quickly grabs a towel off a table and gets back to R/n he gets his arms under her legs just in time to catch his newborn godchild! Soap looking down at the baby in shock just as a nurse walks in.]

Nurse: Alright miss L/n we’re ready to…

(The nurse stares slacked jaw at Soap whose holding a bloody gunk covered crying newborn still attached to mom.]

Soap, pissed off: Ye fuckers certainly took yer sweet ass time, didn’t ye?

Nurse, picks her jaw off the floor:…I, y-You can’t do that!

Soap: Well I’m certainly not puttin’ it back!

{Needless to say, Ghost nearly had an aneurysm when he heard how his child was born!]

[rejectedbytheempty]

TRAPPED PT. 2

a/n: okay wow i didn’t think that many ppl would want a part 2 lmao. sorry, i’ve been busy w schoolwork but i finally got around to writing the second part 🙏🙏

previous part

tw: sewing up a wound? idk it’s not very graphic but i feel like it should be noted

“How could I be so stupid!” Villain cried out, running their hands up their face, then pushing the heels of their palms against their eyes.

They sighed deeply and let their hands fall to their sides before glancing over at Hero. They were just sitting there, staring at a random point on the floor. It shocked Villain to see how pale their face had gotten, “God, Hero. I’m- Christ, I don’t even know what to do. Say something, please. Yell at me, punch me, do something.”

Hero didn’t seem to even register that Villain was speaking, they just sat there, looking like a kicked puppy.

“Shit, I’m going to help you, you’re going to be okay. I promise, Hero,” Villain said, it felt almost like they were talking to the wall of their prison cell.

“Hello? Is there anyone there?” Villain called out, half expecting no one to answer but in a moment a face peeked around the corner, someone that Villain assumed was the guard Supervillain left to keep them in check. However, the guard looked scared half out of their mind.

“Yes?” They answered. Villain had to hold back a grin, it was good to know that they still had that effect on people.

“We need medical supplies in here, Hero is practically bleeding out.”

The guard swallowed nervously, “Um, I don’t know if I’m allowed to give you anything.”

Villain rolled their eyes, “Right, which would make sense if I asked you for a sword or something, but I doubt I could get very far with a roll of gauze.”

The guard bit their lip, running the options through their mind for a moment before nodding, “Okay, I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Right, I’ll keep that in mind,” Villain muttered to themselves as the guard left.

“I-I’m sorry.”

Villain quickly turned to see Hero laying there, their eyes glistening with tears.

“I shouldn’t have come here, all I’ve done is mess things up. Escape while you have a chance, so both of us don’t have to be stuck here,” Hero managed to rasp out.

Villain shook their head, “Don’t talk like that. I’ll get you patched up and we’ll find a way out of here, it was my fault we’re here in the first place.” Just then the guard came back with the supplies, opening the cell door and handing them to Villain. For a moment, Villain glanced at the open door, freedom was right there. All they had to do was subdue the guard and make it out before anyone notices they are gone. In the corner of their eye, however, lay Hero, shivering and pale. They ripped their gaze from the door and quickly snatched the kit from the guard’s hands and turned to Hero. The resounding sound of a lock clicking echoed through their cell and Villain sighed, their shoulders slumping. Well, no turning back now, they thought. They shook their head to dispel those thoughts and got to work. It didn’t seem to be too bad of a wound, it was deep, but it was a clean cut.

“Okay, I’m going to pour some alcohol on it to clean it out, it’s gonna hurt like a bitch, but we don’t want it to get infected.”

Hero nodded, smiling softly, “It’s not as bad as looking at your face.”

Villain chuckled, “Right, why did I think that you were ever capable of being serious?” They then poured the liquid over the cut as Hero gritted their teeth together, sucking in a deep breath.

“See, I knew you could do it,” Villain smiled down at Hero who gave an exhausted laugh. From then on it was easy work, sewing the wound closed and wrapping gauze around Hero’s midsection to soak up any more blood and protect it from the grimey cell they were in.

“There, all done.” Hero grunted as they attempted to sit up, but Villain was quick to put a hand on Hero’s chest and back, leading them back to a laying down position.

“Christ, Hero, you’re not invincible. Don’t try doing anything too drastic,” Villain chided.

“Oh, right, I forgot” Hero said in a dazed tone, their eyes half lidded.

Villain drew back their hands, Hero now laying down flat on their cot, their blinks getting longer and longer as their adrenaline had now faded.

“You know what?” Hero asked, staring at Villain through their eyelashes, “I always thought you were pretty.”

Villain stared down at Hero in disbelief, heat rising to their cheeks, “I- what?” But Hero had already fallen asleep, chest rising and falling in a steady pattern. Villain stood there for a moment, face contorted in confusion before they let out a sharp laugh.

“God, Hero, you are something else” Villain chuckled to themself.

Reaching over, they ran their hand through Hero’s hair before tucking a loose strand of hair behind Hero’s ear. Villain quickly pulled their hand back, feeling as if they were snapping out of a trance, “Fuck, what am I doing?” They couldn’t afford connections, especially not with Hero. They had to remember where they were, who they were. I need to get out of here, before I do anything else stupid, Villain thought.

[reddamselette]

Jason was resting against the headboard of his bed, his glasses low on his nose as he read with a book pressed on his thigh. The dim lighting from his lamp provided illumination, a fuzzy warm glow like the sun was peeking through the blinds of his window during sunrise.

It was well past midnight. His room was the only window barely lit up, the city was asleep as was every other person within the apartment he resided in. Jason assumed Thalia had already gone to bed, no longer able to hear the muffled talking and shouts of laughter each time they’d been on the phone with a friend.

He sighed as he threw his legs over the edge of his bed, closing the book along with him as he stood up and made his way over to his desk sitting in the corner near the window. Jason took off his glasses to rub at his eyes, he finished the book but he had a five page book report left that was due the next morning before lunch. He didn’t know when time was lost on him, he might’ve been busy but at the moment, sleep was all he could think about.

Just before he would leave his room to wash his face and make a cup of tea, he heard a thud.

It was a fleeting thing and he would’ve thought it was a mere figment of his imagination had it not happened again.

Jason turned around and stepped closer to his window, pushing the curtains apart only to reveal someone on the other side of the glass. Someone who was known on the news and the talk of the public, a hero with a spider front and center on his chest, never one to stay too long and was always one to keep an identity hidden.

Against his better judgment, he unlocked the latch to his window and pulled it up, allowing the hero to stumble in with a muffled grunt that quickly turned into a wince.

Jason closed the window and shut the curtains, carefully directing the other to sit at the chair of his desk.

He had never seen Spiderman up close before. However seeing the real thing compared to what he had seen on the media was always a different experience. Others think he was old enough to be in his twenties but to Jason, the hero couldn’t have been younger than he is.

“Why in the world,” Jason started in a whisper, “would you randomly ask someone who you don’t even know for help?”

Spiderman laughed, a breathless sort of sound that reminded Jason all too much of someone who stole his heart. His body shivered involuntarily like he was shocked. He might’ve been.

“Why in the world would you let someone—ah, shit—let someone you don’t know in your room?” The hero asked in turn, a lazy tilt of his head to the side as he pressed a gloved hand to his torso. “I..I think I can trust you.”

Jason huffed and he left the room. Only to come back minutes later with a few things, a first aid kit and rubbing alcohol.

His information on first aid and injuries were only built on what Will would mention, what he’d share from the medical program he was enrolled in. As he knelt down beside the hero, gently pulling away his hand to check the wound, Jason knew it wasn’t fatal but it was nasty under the fabric of his suit.

“Lift up your shirt,” Jason muttered as he set the things beside his knees, opening the lid to the alcohol and used the washcloth to absorb some of the stinging liquid.

“Usually you would have to—“ The hero hissed as he slowly peeled his shirt up and over his side, revealing warm and tan skin covered in blood. “Take me out on a date first before asking me that.”

“Hold still, you’re bleeding everywhere.” Jason could only imagine the questions and concerns if he left his room unattended for Thalia to see. They’d think he was related in life threatening situations, might’ve gotten mugged or something other that wouldn’t have been possible unless he left the safety of his room that late. Thalia always did have the talent of stressing themself out.

Although, Jason had a feeling that if they knew he opened his window to a stranger—nevermind that they’re a hero—they would explode.

Those thoughts were quickly drowned out, a flash of lightning to something that had struck out in Jason’s mind. “What did you mean by you think you can trust me? I could’ve been a bad guy for all you know.”

The hero curled his fingers into a fist as he released a strained breath of air and Jason murmured an apology, carefully dabbing the washcloth laced with rubbing alcohol around the wound. Will would’ve been proud, really. “I-Is it safe to say that I doubt it? I’ve had my—my fair share of bad guys and none of them read Wuthering Heights before bed.”

“What if I happen to be an extinguished criminal then? Get inspiration on my wrongdoings or whatever from whatever I read?”

“Maybe it’s a good thing this isn’t a comic book, otherwise I think—I think I would’ve had to deal with the Joker or something.”

Jason huffed under his breath, shaking it head as he cleaned up the last bit of blood around the wound, hoping he disinfected thoroughly yet he felt like even the slightest of it went a long way. He set the washcloth down and grabbed a gauze pad, pulling off the thin sheet of paper as he stuck it to the hero’s side, doing it in such a way to avoid anything suddenly getting into the gash.

“My best friend says the same thing,” Jason said after he began unrolling the bandage around the hero’s torso.

Spiderman lifted his head to look at Jason through his mask but the blond was concentrated. His brows were furrowed and his lips were pursed in the way that no one but him would notice. “Do they?”

Jason didn’t answer for a moment as he tidied everything up, packing away the bandages and such into the first aid kit then closed the lid to the bottle of rubbing alcohol. His knees ached by the time he stood and he placed it onto his desk next to his book. “Mm. My older sister says he’s a bad influence though.”

“I am not a bad influence—“ He paused and he coughed weakly, then he sighed just as Jason nodded to himself and took a seat on his bed directly across. He hesitantly raised his hand, hooking his fingers around the material of his mask to pull it off.

Brown curls popped and fell around his face, frizzy and hardly taken care of, some strands stuck to his forehead due to sweat. It was a rough fight Leo went through, he didn’t know how he managed to escape.

He had several small cuts to his cheek, his lip, his jawline. A bruise forming high on his cheekbone near his eye but hazel irises remained the same and he was otherwise unscathed and embarrassed. “How did you know?”

Jason had guessed. He had his suspicions for a long while, since their sophomore year. They were halfway through junior year now, events and trips piled one after the other and they were busy as ever. He vaguely recalled the sudden absences of his best friend—his tia needed something or he left something at home—with rushed apologies as he ran like his life depended on it.

And it had.

And it seemed to make Jason fall in love with him more. The boy he loved since middle school. The hero he looked at like he decorated the sky in stars, pulled the very reins of the chariot holding the sun.

Jason couldn’t help it. There were dangers of him knowing yet he wouldn’t mind at all of being Icarus. He would always fly too close to the sun if it meant spending his entire life with Leo, he thought.

“Your excuses aren’t very convincing, Leo.”

[nico-di-genova]

In My Mind, You are Safe

A/N: What was meant to be a one chapter drabble has spiraled out of my control and now become a fic that requires timelines and setting. Anyway, enjoy part 2 from Lawrence's POV. Registered AO3 Users can read here, if they want! :)

Lawrence thought the worst sound he could hear was that of his son’s tears – the frightened sobs when he called after his bike accident and apologized first before even explaining what had happened. He thought it would be the hitch in Lance’s breath when he asked what to do, what he should do. In reality, the worst sound is the absence of it.

He finds himself missing the simplicity of two broken wrists. Now, Lance has broken ribs, a fractured skull, a jagged line of angry red stitching that runs from lower sternum to his hip. It all makes a broken toe look juvenile. Lawrence feels stupid for even panicking over hairline fractures and a two-week recovery time. He feel stupid for putting a six year old in an unpredictable machine in the first place and letting him grow an appetite for it.

Lance’s mother pushed for golfing, tennis, swimming even at one point. Lawrence should have listened.

Lance still cannot breathe on his own, and Lawrence is already forgetting the natural sound of it – instead he has grown familiar with the steady beep of a heart monitor and the snoring habits of Fernando Alonso.

The man is curled over in a chair he is two days away from establishing residency in, head resting alongside Lance’s bruised thigh, finger looped through his son’s limp pinkie. It is a sight that Lawrence wishes wasn’t familiar. A sight that forces him to confront the truth of their relationship, not that they were doing a phenomenal job at hiding it in the first place.

Lance only smiles, genuinely smiles, at things he cares about – that he’s deemed worthy of expending the energy on. Chloe’s dog, Chloe, his mother, good food, the first snow fall in Montreal that promises decent skiing and now apparently Formula 1 veteran, Fernando Alonso. Lawrence knows his son, knows he is a bad liar because his tell is written in the very core of him. He’s spent too many years and too many billions trying to make Lance smile the way Fernando has so easily managed it.

But now Lance smiles at nothing, and Lawrence finds he doesn’t mind if Fernando beats him to it. He just wants his son back.

“His, um, his eyebrows. I think they twitched today,” he tells the nurse when he comes to check Lance’s vitals.

“They could have,” the nurse says, not dismissive, but not validating to Lawrence’s optimism either. He lifts Lance’s sheets to inspect the healing along Lance’s stomach and disturbs Fernando from his sleep in the process. Bandages and gauze are peeled away with careful fingers and then there is the sight of Lance’s mutilated abdomen, just as gruesome as the night they first wheeled him out of surgery. Pink skin, still raw and angry and raised against the stitching holding him together. Skin yellowing around the cut, only marginally better than the dark bruising that was once there. It is the visible reminder that the steering column of Lance’s car, a car Lawrence had given him and deemed safe, nearly took him away for good.

“His neurological activity has been improving since we took him off the sedatives,” the nurse says, when he glances at Lawrence and seems to see the guilt. It is meant as a piece of good fortune, instead it reminds Lawrence of the medically induced coma they are working to ease Lance out of. The coma he was in to prevent seizures caused by the swelling on his brain. Because he’d hit the wall at a top speed of nearly 200 KPH and his helmet had done an admirable job of keeping him together but could only manage so much.  

“So when can the tube be removed?” Fernando asks, wiping at the sleep crusted at the corners of his eyes. He looks annoyed to be woken, like he was having a particularly wonderful dream. Lawrence envies his ability to sleep at all.

“We’re not there yet.”

Fernando grumbles something in Spanish. The nurse, unfortunately, is fluent, “If you want him to keep breathing, then yes.”

“Is choking him. He would hate it.”

“Well, he’s not really in a position to make requests.”

A strange position for both Lance and Lawrence to be in. The first instance where money does not hold sway, other than affording Lance the luxury of a private suite and all the comforts that can be provided while he remains unconscious and unmoving. It also secures a lounge that neither Fernando nor Lawrence have made much use of. Other than to make cheap cups of coffee from the Keurig and complain about the taste.

“Breakfast?” Fernando asks, once the nurse deems Lance safe and unchanged, leaving both men to sit awkwardly with Lance being the divide between them.

Lawrence shrugs, “Sure.”

“Shit coffee?”

“Is there anything else?

“Shit tea I think.”

Lawrence laughs, dry and humorless, “Coffee’s fine.”

If you put enough milk in it, it’s almost drinkable. But Lawrence doesn’t actually care about the taste, it’s more the caffeine he needs – or, more accurately, the sleep he is fighting. There is a fear in him that if he closes his eyes Lance will somehow stop breathing for good in his absence. Like he’s only still here because Lawrence’s unwavering control is willing him to be, and not the ventilator.

“You sleep yet?” Fernando asks when he returns with two steaming styrofoam cups of joe, offering one to Lawrence with the milk already added. Fourteen days is a long time to get to know someone when you’re both tied to an unconscious twenty-five year old.

Lawrence shakes his head and sips from the coffee gratefully, it’s clear he’s been here too long because the sludge has begun to go down easier. “No, not yet. Didn’t want him to wake up alone.”

It’s clear from Lance’s condition that he will not be alert anytime soon, but Lawrence doesn’t want to risk it. He hadn’t been there after Spain, had only gotten to the hospital two days later when Lance was already post-op and loopy from the pain meds.

“Hi dad,” he’d slurred, “I’m all good now.” He’d proceeded to try to give Lawrence two thumbs up, but the casts they’d cemented his wrists in were clunky and his body uncoordinated. Lawrence had spent the flight speaking with Lance’s doctor, discussing everything from cost to recovery plan. Everything had been clinical and controlled until he was faced with the sight of Lance, disheveled and clad in a hospital gown half hanging off one shoulder, that made it all hit him like a freight truck.

He can’t miss being here when Lance wakes up, not again. He had his assistant bring him his laptop and any pressing work, has Fernando bring him coffee, has his wife bring him changes of clothes and the occasional cup of decent espresso, and he sometimes dozes off in the straight-backed chair, but waking up with a crick in his neck and pain in his back is enough to keep him fighting against it. He knows it’s all starting to take a toll though. When he goes to the bathroom he is faced with the sight of a man who sits just outside of death’s door, hollow-eyed and sunken-cheeked. Sometimes he thinks Lance might be waiting there with him, it’s not always easy to chalk that up to sleep deprivation.  

“I will watch him,” Fernando says, sipping from his coffee, “Wake you up if anything changes.”

“No, no. I’m okay.”

“You will end up in a hospital bed beside him soon,” Fernando shrugs, like he’s unbothered by the thought, “If you do not rest.”

He’s right, Lawrence knows it, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Besides, he is not the only one who has found it impossible to leave Lance’s side. It’s race day in Hungary and Fernando isn’t in a car. Both of the Aston drivers have been replaced by their reserves, morale in the garage has reached an all-time low. Fernando isn’t in the headspace to race though, so Lawrence doesn’t press it. He doesn’t need two drivers on life support.

“I’m okay for now.”

Fernando shrugs again, and then drops it. He is not the sort to hold someone’s hand and coax them into doing something. Lawrence thinks that’s maybe why Lance might like him. His son has always been stubborn, always pushed against those who try to guide him, or those who try to tell him he’s somewhere he does not belong. Lawrence has learned he performs best under pressure, when he has something to prove, which was why he had wanted Fernando as their second driver to begin with. The downside to Lance’s unwavering drive is that he often ignored the limit, pushed where he shouldn’t, took risks that were unneeded, and then ended up paying the price for his mistakes.

Silverstone wasn’t Lance’s first crash, it was just the first where he hadn’t managed to get out on his own. At first Lawrence hadn’t been all too worried. In the small span of time where he’d known Lance had gone off, but the cameras hadn’t found him yet, he’d been disappointed, frustrated because they both, Lance and Fernando, had been doing so well. Fernando was pushing, ignoring team orders, but Lance was responding, defending, winning. It had felt, at first, like a confirmation of all that Lawrence knew to be true. That Lance was good, great even, he just needed a fire lit under his ass and something to work for.

And then the cameras found him.

‘Stroll is in the wall!’

‘Lance? Lance are you alright? Lance. Respond. Confirm you’re alright.’

The silence had stretched on, the crackle in Lawrence’s headphones sending a chill down his spine. Lance’s race engineer had radioed him again and again, but each time the empty crackle only seemed to grow in length.

‘Lance, confirm you are alright. Confirm.’ It stopped becoming a question, but a hopeful demand.

Lawrence had watched as Fernando stumbled out of his own car, barely waiting until the vehicle had stopped moving before he was sprinting across the gravel toward where Lance’s car was crumpled against the wall. There was smoke, flames breaking out at the rear end. He turned away when Fernando pulled Lance from the wreckage, had seen the flash of blood spreading rapidly across the green of Lance’s suit and knew there would be no response.

He hasn’t thanked Fernando for saving his son, hasn’t forgiven him for the crash either. They speak around it in the same way they speak around Fernando’s finger around Lance’s pinkie. It is becoming harder as the days stretch on, harder to ignore the desperate way Fernando looks at Lance sometimes, like he is willing him back into consciousness with the same force he pulled him from the car with.

“His mother is coming by today,” he says instead, pointedly ignoring how Fernando is sipping from his coffee with one hand and holding Lance with the other.

“How long?”

“She hasn’t said, probably no more than an hour.”

Claire can’t stand to see Lance like this. Singapore had been bad enough for her, this has been her worst nightmare. She visits Lance in short bursts, where she can ensure he is still breathing, even if it’s not of his own will yet. They don’t speak, in the same way he and Fernando hardly do, too much tension that threatens to boil over and they don’t want any of it to land on Lance. People in comas can sometimes hear what’s going on around them, at least that is what Lawrence has been told, so they all play nice in hopes it will mean the kid will come back to them faster.

Claire visits, Fernando leaves. Claire leaves, Fernando returns. Lawrence sits immovable through it all and Lance remains unchanged. A system.

“I will go, text me when I can come back?”

Lawrence nods. He ignores the way Fernando casts one last look at Lance, the longing, the worry, the guilt that is imbedded there. He is mad at Fernando in the same way he is mad at himself, he blames Fernando for causing the crash, blames himself for putting Lance in the car, like they were both responsible for Lance being here in the first place. But Lance has broken two wrists biking, ruptured his eardrum wakeboarding, sprained his ankle snowboarding, and he’d returned to all of those sports without pause afterward. If time could be reversed, neither he nor Fernando could have kept Lance out of that car. Because Lance is stubborn, it’s who he is. He doesn’t give up, even when the odds are stacked against him, and that’s how Lawrence knows he will wake up. He has unwavering faith.

———————————-

“We should have cards,” Fernando says, two days later, when they’re both sitting in silence watching the third rerun of Jumanji on the tv. “Or that game, the hippo one, something to do.”

“Hungry hippos?” “That one, yes.”

Lawrence knows it, knows Lance and Chloe used to play it because he can still remember the chaotic noise of it – Lance’s frustrated yells when he lost. It used to give him a headache.

The sparsely used lounge, it turns out, has a deck of cards stored in a cabinet. Lawrence finds it when he’s searching for spare sugar for his third cup of coffee that day, since they’d exhausted the packets stocked at the coffee bar.

“Do you have a 2?” Fernando asks, leaning forward in his chair, propping his chin on one hand and his large collection of cards in the other.

“Go fish.”  

Fernando groans, reaches out to grab a card from where they’ve balanced them on Lance’s knee. There’s four threes spread across his thigh and four sixes along his calf, both of them are Lawrence’s wins.

“You have a four?”

Annoyed, Fernando resignedly passes the card over Lance’s body.

—————————

On day seventeen, Lawrence sleeps. It is not entirely his choice, but rather his body’s refusal to operate any further without rest. He stands to go to the bathroom, and when he does the room spins. Fernando catches him, guides him to the couch in the lounge.

When he wakes up there’s a blanket thrown over him and a stiff pillow beneath his head. It is dark out, Lawrence is thrown by the lack of light because it had been distinctly morning when he had gone to pee. It takes him a moment to get his bearings, to wipe the sleep from his eyes and blink until the room comes into focus.

Distantly, he can still hear the steady beep of the heart monitor, the hiss of the ventilator, the sounds that reassure him Lance did not give up while Lawrence slept soundly. It is only comforting for a moment, until he remembers the dream he had in which Lance was screaming for help and Lawrence could not reach him. The way he kept trying to claw his way through debris and rubble to reach his son, but the screams only seemed to grow further and further away until they tapered off into whimpers and then into the crushing sound of silence.

He stumbles from the couch, pulling the twisted blanket from his body as he goes, and only breathes when Lance is in his sight once more.

In the dark, the shadows of his face seems more prominent, the paleness of his skin more ghostly. Lance doesn’t tan, he goes from white to burned in the span of a few hours, but he is not normally the color of a piece of paper either. It’s eerie, discomforting, makes Lawrence think of his choked off screams from the dream.  

Fernando seems to have also lost his battle with sleep, the man is passed out once more with his head pillowed on Lance’s bed. His hand rests around Lance’s wrist, an upgrade from the pinkie, fingers resting along the kid’s pulse point.

Lawrence, for the first time, truly tries to take stock of his son’s injuries. He studies the bruising on his face, the swelling that has gone down and been replaced with bruised eyes and tender skin. The yellowing marks around his neck that continue below the line of his hospital gown. The two splinted fingers of his right hand that Fernando has been so careful to avoid. It’s better than it had been, easier to look at, but still makes Lawrence taste bile at the back of his throat.

‘He’s lucky to have survived at all,’ he’d overheard one of the nurses say while Lance was still confined to the ICU. He’d been on the phone with Claire and had to physically hold himself back from saying something nasty. But he supposes, now that he really looks at Lance, they hadn’t been wrong. A skull fracture, major blunt force trauma, the g-forces he’d sustained to his body in the crash, it is a miracle he’s even still here.

Lawrence feels suddenly grateful, to God, or to Fernando, he isn’t sure which.

“Lance?” he whispers, like the boy will suddenly open his eyes. Like he’s a child asleep in his bed and Lawrence can rouse him with a gentle shake to his shoulder and a kiss to his temple. Like it’s an early morning where he can pull a groggy Lance from his bed and bring him to the track before the dew has even dried from the grass, watch him do laps in a kart that still sits on the side of too big for him.

Lance doesn’t wake up, but Lawrence is almost positive he sees his finger’s twitch, curling instinctively in his sleep. He doesn’t miss that it’s fingers from the hand Fernando is clinging to, the same pinkie the Spaniard had made his lifeline.

———————————

The next morning he proposes Fernando return to racing. Media day starts in Belgium tomorrow and they could have Fernando there in time if he left within the hour.

“No,” Fernando states, not even considering, not even bothering to have emotion in his voice.

Lawrence grinds his teeth, “We can’t keep making excuses, Fernando. There’s money tied-up in this, my money. You have a contract-.”

“And? Fuck your money. I do not care about your money, or the sponsors. Have Felipe race the rest of the season. I will not go.”

Lawrence is standing at the foot of Lance’s bed, arms crossed, anger beginning to course through him. Fernando, relaxed in his chair, with his hand around his son’s wrist looks right at home. Lawrence thinks of those same hands pulling Lance from his burning car, those hands pressing forcefully to Lance’s wound, blood coating his gloves and soaking through to his fingers. He thinks of Lance holding those hands, kissing them, knowing them because Lance has idolized Fernando since he was a child and Lawrence knows the look he gives Fernando now is not that of an awed fan but that of someone who has grown into something more.

“What are you,” Lawrence finds himself blurting out, asking not because he really wants to know, but because he needs to, “to him, what are you?”

Fernando looks at him, blinks, shrugs, “I do not know.”

The resigned honesty of it makes him even angrier.

“But more than teammates?” He demands, “More than a mentor? I know my son, Fernando, do not lie to me.” Lance once dated a girl who he was convinced he was going to marry. Took her to races, to dinners, to birthdays and parties and every family event he could conceivably sneak her into. He’d looked at her with the same wide-eyed wonder Lawrence sometimes caught him looking at Fernando with, like he couldn’t believe they would settle for someone like him. Like he was only worth settling for.  

“More, yes,” Fernando concedes, but doesn’t expand.

“He loves you, I think,” Lawrence says, because he has never seen Lance look at anyone, since that girl, the way he looks at the man.  

Fernando finally looks sad then, face falling, eyes filling with that familiar guilt.

“I know.”

“He’s almost half your age.”

“I know,” the guilt deepens. He finally drops Lance’s wrist, pulls away and keeps his hands curled in his lap, like he realizes this is finally the moment Lawrence stops ignoring the truth of them.

Lawrence thinks about asking him to leave, knows he could force him to go to Belgium if he wanted, bring out terms like ‘breach of contract’ and ‘lawsuit’, but Lawrence is not a cruel man, especially not where Lance is concerned. He allowed that girl into their lives, into his own birthday party that was meant only to be for close family, all because Lance had asked. And when they’d broken up, he’d put Lance back together – let him cry and scream and throw the belongings of his room around until there was no more energy left in the kid and then he’d sat Lance down and told him it would all be okay. He kept saying that. Through Formula 3 when Lance would win and still not feel like it was enough because the other boys would say he bought the trophy. When he hit Formula 1 and would go to his driver’s room instead of the media pen after a race because the tears wouldn’t stop flowing and his own frustration at himself became too much. Lawrence would be there, he would always be there. But Fernando was here now too, and he guessed that counted for something.

He uncrosses his arms, drops the fight because he’s tired and the room is too small for such arguments, “You stay now, and you better mean it.”

Fernando swallows, nods, “Okay.”

Felipe and Stoffel race in Spa on Sunday.

——————————

By week four, Lawrence is beginning to lose it. He’s become immune to the antiseptic smell of the hospital, the bland taste of the cafeteria food, the beeping of machinery that keeps Lance alive. It all becomes background noise, until he’s numb to it all, just existing. The coffee doesn’t taste bad anymore, it tastes like nothing at all.

He watches Jumanji for the sixth time and finds that the film is growing on him.

Fernando has not left.

“So how did it start?” Lawrence asks one night. He’s twirling hospital spaghetti on a fork, picking at hamburger meat listlessly with the metal prongs.

Fernando slurps one of the noodles, “Me and him?” he asks, pointing to Lance with his own silverware.

Lawrence nods. He has gone past avoiding the topic to wanting to understand it.

“Um,” Fernando starts, “Bahrain, I think.”

“This year?”

“No, uh, last.”

So when Fernando had sang Lance’s praises to the cameras. Lawrence had assumed that was all for show. He’d been warned of the drivers poor sportsmanship, his un-teammate-like behavior.

“So you weren’t trying to impress me?”

“No I was,” Fernando admits, “wanted you to think you had gotten your money’s worth at first.”

Fernando had not come cheap, but he still wasn’t as much as Newey was shaping up to be. He’d taken a good chunk from Lawrence, but not enough that he would seem like a bad investment so early on. He maybe had been laying the groundwork for a contract extension, if the car proved to be a challenger.

“So when did it-?”

“Become serious? Summer break.”

Lawrence thinks he remembers that, Lance mentioning something about a yacht, his voice lilting with obvious joy over the phone. You could hear when Lance smiled, his voice changing with the shape of it. They’d had lunch a few days later and there was an obvious mark on Lance’s neck, something he kept trying to hide with a hand when he would lean an elbow on the table and rest his neck against his palm. Lawrence didn’t care to know about his son’s sex life, in the same way he cared little about Chloe’s, he cared only that both of his kids were happy. And at the time, Lance had seemed to be. He hadn’t questioned it past that, even when he'd seen Fernando’s name pop up as a text notification on Lance’s phone and seen the way Lance blushed over his salmon and orzo.

“And you’ve talked about it, you and him? About the future? He’s young, Fernando. He can make his own choices, yes, but I don’t know if he’s thinking in the long-term yet, not really.”

He doesn’t meant to imply Fernando is old, but they’ve both been twenty-five, both known how it seems like you are weathered and just beginning all at once. Like you have the answers, you just haven’t figured out where to apply them yet.

Fernando bites at another noodle, “Yes, we have talked. Some. But it’s not- we are not- I don’t know.”

“Serious?”

“Maybe.”

“But you’re here. You don’t have to be.”

“It’s serious enough for this. I need to be here, when he wakes up, not racing circles. I would be no good in the car right now. My head is-“ he motions vaguely in the air with his fork, a piece of tomato soaked hamburger falls off of it and plops onto the white linens of Lance’s sheets. Lawrence understands that. Can respect it even. He also maybe isn’t the one to judge a relationship. Not with a divorce under his belt and his own wife younger than him. He just has the inherent need to make sure Lance is safe, cared for. He’s had the same need since he first held Chloe in his arms and realized what it was to be a father.

Fernando picks up the hamburger, drops if back onto his own plate, but the red stain it leaves behind stays.

————————

Twenty-nine days after Lance’s crash Lawrence is returning from making his daily Keurig coffee, stirring the milk into the sludge with a stir stick when he looks up to see Lance blinking back at him.

The cup falls from his hands, splatters against the linoleum and spreads in a puddle across the floor. Specks of it land on his dress pants, some of it on his hands, he hardly notices the burn of it. Lance, bleary-eyed and groggy stares at him, blinks slowly.

“Lance,” Lawrence sobs. Lance’s eyebrows furrow, the movement so startling because he has been without any for so long that Lawrence cannot help the strangled sound that escapes him. The noise pulls Fernando from his sleep, he lifts his head from the bed and looks from Lawrence to Lance before letting out a cry of his own.

Lance lifts a lethargic hand to the tubing at his mouth, tries to pull it out with muddled fingers.

“Aye, no,” Fernando panics, pulling Lance’s finger away and trapping them in his own grip, “We’ll get someone, we take it out now, yes?”

Lance nods, makes a choked sound around the polyvinyl. His fingers curl around Fernando’s hand, gripping, responding to the touch. Lawrence can’t stop looking at the movement as he stumbles for the call button beside Lance’s bed. He can’t stop shaking. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” Fernando soothes, brushing Lance’s hair back from his forehead in an intimately calming gesture.

Lance’s panicked breathing through his nose worsens. He looks from Fernando to Lawrence with ever-widening eyes.

“You’re okay, son,” Lawrence tries, kneeling beside Lance’s bed and pressing a firm hand to his shoulder when Lance tries to rise against the wires and tubing keeping him down.

The coffee soaks into the knee of his pants. Lance chokes again.

“You’re okay,” they both repeat, hoping that it will be true.  

[bigassmoonchild]

Ghost

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Word Count: 3.1k

Summary: Simons body was back, but he wasn't really Simon. No, it was Ghost inhabiting the shell of Simons body, but even Ghost seemed to recognize you. Either way, there were days left of him being able to come back, and you didn't want to grieve your mate twice.

Content Tags: Angst, Hurt/No comfort, Medical Inaccuracies, Made Up Medical Shit ab Omegaverse, Not Quite Simon, Ghost and Simon are different people, Mentions of Violence, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha! Ghost, No Use of Y/N

A/N: I'm spoiling y'all again with more uploads <3. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! Fun fact, these take me about two hours to write, but they're not beta-read or edited. As always, content is under the cut and my asks are open!!

Part 1 | Previous, Next | Headcannons, Masterlist

"What are some probable ways we bring people out of ferality?" You asked the squad standing around you. They were a few days out from graduating and at this point you were just filling time. None of them said anything, lookin around at each other. You sighed deeply.

Trip raised her hand and you stared at her. "Scents?" You blinked slowly, waiting for her to elaborate. "If we can get him a fresh scent of some packmate or a person he's especially close to then it can get him a focus point," she explained. You hummed.

Turning to look at the whiteboard you'd started with different plans to get Simon back, there were a few options you had. "The only problem with that, Trip, is that it could cause death," you whispered. The whiteboard had streaks where you'd erased and rewritten things.

Scent. Medications. Time. Death.

You sighed deeply, still thinking over anything else you could do. If you forced suppressants into his body, it would decrease the hormones in his body but the question was focusing on how to get them in him.

There weren't aerosol sedatives, he had ripped off the bindings that they had used to get him in the cell in the first place. 'What's wrong with him?' Price had asked. All you could do was shake your head, not legally able to explain anything. Fuck HIPAA.

Doctors, civilian doctors, had come in and started to try and take over. Even the doctors above you were fighting, because he wasn't a civilian. All they wanted was to use him and figure out how to bring a person out of ferality. Especially an Alpha.

"There are several ways we can fight ferality, but none of which have proven to do them well," you explained, looking around at everyone. There was nothing you could feasibly do, you knew. Similar to rabies, it wasn't something that anyone really came back from.

You sighed deeply. "Attempts have been made, but none of them came through. With too much time in ferality, a persons brain begins to shut down. We don't entirely know why, it hasn't been able to be studied, but there is very little we can do," you had to look away. "Either way, you work your hardest to ensure comfort," you had decided to add that at the end.

All you knew was that you needed to make sure he was comfortable. You knew your mate, you knew he deserved that at the very least. A knock on the conference door brought everyones attention as one of the civvy doctors walked in.

"You'll need to go in there," he told you. Shaking your head in confusion, you looked at him. "If he can recognize your scent, you'll be able to get sedatives in him. You'll be able to help us make him the first survivor," he whispered. Excusing yourself, the two of you moved quickly through the halls to make it to his cell area.

Standing in front of it, watching him stare at everyone through the balaclava, you felt your heart breaking. This wasn't Simon. It was Ghost. Blinking slowly, you listened to the hustle and bustle around you. It was like looking at him for the first time again. A man you didn't know, but was intrinsically connected to you.

With a deep sigh, you looked around at the doctors around you. "I may be his mate, but he won't recognize my scent," you whispered. "I'm pregnant, and we all know that changes someone scent," a few murmurs came from some of the doctors.

Looking away, you glanced at Ghost once more.

"I'll do it," you added.

They had you change into clothes he interacted with you the most in. So you wore your sleep clothes, just something you'd been wearing the night before. With the sedative slipped up your sleeve, the door outside the cell was unlocked.

"You know what to do," they told you. The plan wasn't all that concrete, just get in there and stab him. Very good plan, one of the best you'd ever seen. God, you wished Price had been allowed to format the whole thing. He might have a backup in case things went south.

Stepping through the now unlocked cell door, you took a quick glance back at the doors blocking your escape. Looking through the cell, Ghosts eyes were on you. Unblinking, the eyes you knew were gone. Blacked out, his pupil dilated so wide.

You didn't make eye contact with him other than the quick glance, keeping your head bowed down to try and remain as small as possible. If you weren't seen as a danger, he might not attack you. Might.

Movement brought your eyes up, seeing him standing to his full height and move to you. Slow but still graceful. You could see his face twitching, watched his chest heave with each breath he took. He was scenting you and you allowed it.

Closer, he grew closer and leaned his head close, you could hear the heaving pants as he drew your scent into him. Ghosts head dropped against your neck, pushing your head to force you to bare it to him. You could feel his nose nudging against you, feel his hands grasp at your arms and tug you closer.

You could almost feel tears filling your eyes, thinking back to the past two or so months filled with grief and eventual relief. A huffing grunt came from Ghost, almost displeasure at your scent changing. He tugged you with him, dragging you over to where he'd been sitting for the last few days.

Pushing you to sit, he stood over you. Your eyes opened, looking up at him and feeling the tears finally fall. A groaning whine came from him, his wide eyes glancing around to find something to cheer you up. You knew his thought process, you'd seen ferality in people before.

Only once had you seen it in him.

Ghost dropped next to you, tugging you into his lap and holding you close. He began huffing at your neck, pressing his scent out around you to try and soothe you. It seemed your scent was almost soothing him as well, allowing him a reprieve of the stress and fear over the last however long he'd been away.

God, how much you had missed this. The two of you didn't talk much, but you soaked this in as much as you could. His scent swirling around you, the feeling of his hands and arms wrapped tightly around you. You could feel yourself relaxing, felt the press of his head against yours.

Deep breaths brought his scent into you, albeit not being strong from where you were pressed into his chest. You could hear his heart thumping strongly against his chest, a true showing of his survival.

Pushing your hands to the back of his neck and shifting, just a little, you felt your throat choking around sobs. "'m so sorry," you whispered to him and he made another grunting whine at you.

You pressed the syringe in his neck and he jerked, but you were able to push the plunger all the way down. He whined against you, grabbing you tighter. Over the next few minutes, his grip slowly waned.

His body relaxed fully under you and you could feel the tears sliding down your cheeks begin to pick up. Stuffing your head into his neck, you inhaled deeply. Leather, tobacco and little hints of his own musk. God, you missed it, but the civilian doctors were flooding the room. Pulling you away and injecting him with different suppressants.

They dragged him away, forcing him out of your line of sight. You felt similar to how you'd initially felt when receiving his tags. Numb, like you were watching everything happening over a television.

Alpha is back.

You found Price waiting for you, just outside the medical center the doctors had dragged Ghost to. "How are you, Doc?" You fought the tears, feeling little hiccups coming from your chest.

"I don't know," you looked up at him. "I never thought I'd be able to see him again, but it's not him," you whispered. "That's not my Simon, that's Ghost,"

You knew when Ghost woke up, hearing the snarling roars coming from his chest. The suppressants hadn't worked, but he was still set to be pumped full of more in the next few days. The doctors found you sitting at the front desk, rubbing your face.

"Come with us," they said and dragged you to Ghosts room, where his snarls and roars quieted down to growls. As you sat beside him, placing your hands on whatever you could reach his growls quieted into little huffs and grunts.

You pressed yourself as close as they would allow you to him. "I missed you so much," you whispered and his head whipped around to look at you. His pupils were still so dilated, but you could make out his eye color just barely.

His eyes were always so pretty. You sighed and dropped your head to look down at the ground.

"It's been so long," you choked out. "So, so long," he looked at you, nearly blankly. God, you hoped that somewhere in that stupid head of his he could hear you. "Been almost two months, you wanna know something?" You asked, lifting your head to give him a weak smile.

All Ghost did was blink at you, slowly. Almost like he was listening, you noticed. His heartrate was dropping closer to normal rates, blood pressure dropping little by little as the minutes wore on.

"I'm pregnant," you gave a wet laugh. "I found out not too long after you left for your mission, and y'know what?" He didn't respond, but you could see the dilation of his eyes shifting just barely.

Looking away and swallowing thickly, all you could do was give little sobs.

"God, I missed you so much," you sobbed out. "When they gave me your dog tags that one morning, I didn't know what to think. I was so numb for so long but Price knocked sense into me," you choked another wet laugh. "Just like how he would do with you," you whispered.

"Pups," he whispered, staring at you. Your mouth gaped open, staring at him. His voice was rough, gravelly. It sounded like he either hadn't talked in months or had been screaming his voice out. "Pups," he whispered again, hand moving before getting caught by the handcuffs.

"Oh my god," you whispered. You lunged to get closer to him and heard scrambling at the door. People surrounded you and tugged you away, dragging you out of the door but you could hear it. His heartrate increased severely, and you could assume his blood pressure was skyrocketing again. "Stop!" You shouted, writhing against the people dragging you away.

There was a large snarl from Ghost, you could just see over everyone his writhing form as needles were stabbed into him. The door closed just as his head shot up and you could catch one last look of the fear filling his eyes. Hands tugged you away, pulling you from the area.

"No!" You still were screaming, not even realizing what you were doing. "Please, I need to be there!" You fought against the hands that pulled you further and further from the room.

"You can't," it was Price. "You can't be there, they need to be able to work on him without people in the way," he whispered to you.

"I was getting through to him, Price," he shook his head. "He spoke to me," you whispered, tugging him closer to you. "All he said was 'pups' before they dragged me out," Price looked away.

He sighed deeply. "We know," he said. "We were listening in, but you need to understand something," he made you look at him. "That isn't your mate anymore," he whispered. "He's been feral for too long,"

"No," you shook your head. "No, it's going to be okay," you whispered. "They still have a few days," you looked away. "They can't give up on him,"

Price looked away. "They're giving one more push of suppressants," he told you. "Giving them a few days, they're going to use you to help bring him out but if this doesn't work they'll need to keep him comfortable until the end," you couldn't look at him.

You weren't going to look at any of these people, how dare they give up on him so quickly? For minutes on end, you sat near Price, just waiting. For what, you didn't know, but Price wasn't allowing you to leave.

Minutes dragged into hours. Just like the hours that stole your last moments with Simon before he came back as Ghost. Minutes that you could've been in there with Ghost, comforting him as they did things to him.

He wouldn't know what was happening, his mind was too preoccupied with survival. You couldn't stop hearing his one word replaying in your mind, the recognition you now could see in his eyes. The door opened but you didn't look up, doctors came out slowly but surely.

Feet stopped in front of you, where you'd been staring at the ground. "Ma'am?" The voice whispered above you and you finally looked up. "You can go back in, now," he whispered. You knew that in the few lucid minutes a feral person had were the few minutes when more medicine should be pumped into them.

You had never expected the fear that would fill the lovers when this type of thing happened. When you were still training, you had never expected fear to be combined into others. You had no words for what you felt as you walked back in the room and saw Ghost snarl at you, his eyes no longer filled with recognition.

Sitting where you had been, you gazed over the Alpha. Blinking slowly, you moved your hands to where they had once been sitting, not so many hours ago.

"I miss you," you whispered to the Alpha. "God, I missed you so much," you could see his chest heaving with breaths, nearly see his mouth dropping open under the balaclava to allow more of your scent in. You sighed deeply.

Looking around you, the room was so bare. Something you would only use to describe hospital rooms. It hurt, knowing your Alpha was stuck here. Somewhere you weren't allowed to help.

"The rest of the pack have been helping me out, y'know," you smiled softly. Make this as normal as possible, you told yourself. "Soap's been joining me at my appointments," you looked down at Ghost. "Gaz has been making sure I take care of myself, and Price is doing his best to help during the night," you choked out a laugh.

You hear a soft little hum come from Ghost. His eyes were filling with recognition, little by little. Leaning towards him, you tried to catch his eye. They were dilating, his heartrate slowed.

He hummed again and you looked away. "I need you to come back, Simon," you whispered to him. You looked up at him, gazing over what you could see. His eyes, moving quickly around the room and grazing over you before moving away.

A deep sigh came from you and you sat there with him, watching the clock slowly tick as time carried on. Neither of you said anything and you watched as his eyes slowly drifted shut. You could feel the exhaustion slowly settling into your body, from the different emotions you'd been sent through over the last few days.

Standing up quietly, you let yourself out of the room. With one more look back, you watched the Alpha breathe slowly in his sleep. Closing the door behind you, you found Price.

Gesturing for him to follow you, the two of you slowly made your way to your office. When you unlocked the door, you sat yourself down in your chair and watched as Price closed the door behind him. He sat in front of you, lighting a cigar.

Quiet. For a few minutes, it was just quiet outside of the drag of his cigar and the soft breathing between the two of you. "He's home, Doc," he whispered. "Simons home,"

"It's not Simon," you looked at him. "That's Ghost. My Simon is not sitting in that bed, it may be his body but it's not him," you responded sharply. He looked away from you, sucking at his teeth. You blinked rapidly, trying to get the sleep out of them.

You sighed deeply, rubbing your hands over your face as you looked around the office. The one place where you and Simon had grown so close, the one place where the two of you had found peace.

"I've spent the last however many months grieving," you said. "I've grieved the life of my mate, and now he's back but it isn't him. That isn't my mate," you whispered, giving a short pause. "I can't grieve him again, Price, it'll destroy me," he reached over and rested his hand against yours.

He gave a little smile. "You won't have to grieve him again," he said. "The way he's progressing is making the doctors very happy," you gave a short laugh. "He could be the first case of survival through ferality, and you were the key to it," he told you.

For another few moments there was silence. Neither of you spoke, but you could see the pity in his eyes. Closing your eyes, you just breathed, still faintly able to smell Ghost albeit the scent becoming stale.

"I just need my Alpha," you whispered. "I need him back. I don't care if it means I fight an entire group of Doctors, they can't just kill him, Price," you opened your eyes and looked at him. "They can't just kill him," he didn't meet your eye.

"It's getting late," Price told you. "I think you need to go back to your room and sleep. Now," you didn't look at him, allowing him to guide you to your room. When you entered, he gave you a grim little smile before closing the door behind you.

Now that you were alone, you had no idea what to do. Your Alpha was just a few minutes walk away from you, but you wouldn't be able to enter that room again. They'd close down the medical center from visitors, even with your access as a doctor they wouldn't allow you to enter the room.

Crawling into your cold nest, you laid there. Shirt pressed to your face from where you could still faintly smell Ghost when he'd held you. Closing your eyes, you could almost feel his arms wrapping around you. You could almost smell him right there, right next to you.

And that's how you felt asleep, dreaming of your Alpha wrapping himself around you and making sure you knew everything would be okay. Even you didn't believe it.

Next

Taglist: (i did not realize that the tags didn’t work woospies)

@sae1kie @shinebright2000 @zechie-spams @itsmadamehydra @smiley-roos @enrapturedbythemoon @stargatenovus @cowboydisaster @404lunar @josieguts @actorryswife @the-queen-of-england183 @littlelovebug98 @cringeycookies @averytiredfanfictionwriter @kariiiel @caramlizedtomatoes

[elirium]

AU in which red goes to physical therapy for once

[quisters]

Now that I work in a shock trauma unit, Malevolent is starting feel more and more like this scene: