taylor-tut-fics

[taylor-tut-fics]

HOKAY so I’ve been thinking about a continuation to Carry On, Hawkeye. The episode ends with a quick shot of him lying in bed sick with the flu and Radar is acting like his doctor taking his temp, but they don’t give us any more than that and GOD I WISH THEY HAD!!

So I like to think that both Hawkeye and Father Mulcahy come down with it at the same time, and they’re the last two who do, and it just RUINS both of them. Since they are now the last and only two people sick, they put them both in quarantine together in the VIP tent. But Hawkeye doesn’t have an off switch so he keeps trying to take care of a half-delirious Mulcahy, despite being on the verge of passing out himself. Maybe he does pass out and Radar, who had been playing doctor for him, sudden finds himself way out of his depth and doesn’t handle it well.

OH LOOK ANOTHER MASH FIC

look i LOVED this prompt and while i changed it a little, i still loved writing it. padre means a great deal to me okay

anyway i hope you like it!! <3

“Hawkeye, you really should stop getting up,” Father Mulcahy says as he watches Hawkeye drag himself to his feet for the third time in as many hours. Just when he’d thought he was home free, he began running a fever, and from there, everything went south quickly. Adding fuel to the fire was a rush of wounded, a large one. Hawkeye had tried his damn hardest to rally like he had the day before, but he’d already pushed himself too far. Even just standing still left him lightheaded and unfocused, so there was no way they were going to add scalpels to the mix. 

In order to ensure neither of them were left alone while there was no medical staff to care for them, they’d moved Hawkeye’s bed into Padre’s tent so they could look out for one another. Since then, Hawkeye has barely sat still. Padre can’t tell if it’s anxiety or restlessness or guilt about not being in the OR with everyone else, but he’s been impossible to wrangle. If he’s not up refilling his water for him, he’s fetching blankets or checking his fever (always promising and conveniently letting it slip his mind to take his own) and giving meds. If Mulcahy says he’s cold, Hawkeye fetches blankets. When he says he’s got a headache, he brings him something for it. None of it is particularly strenuous, but he can’t ignore the way he sways on his feet a little more each time he stands. It’s only a matter of time before a sway becomes a full blown collapse, and he’d rather not be the only person here to care for him when it does. He’d be in way over his head. 

“I’m just using the latrine,” he says, though he’s not sure whether that’s a cover story. Maybe it is true, but he’s sure he’ll find some kind of fire to put out on the way back to the tent no matter what he says. 

“Well, please come straight back when you’re done. You keep running off.” 

“I will, but I want to grab a few extra pillows. You might breathe a little easier if you’re propped up a bit.”

“I’m breathing just fine. Please, you don’t need to be pushing yourself in this condition.” 

“It’ll only take a minute.” 

“Those minutes are starting to add up. I’m sure you feel miserable.” He has to admit that’s true, if only to himself. Things have a way of catching up in the worst way at the worst time, and Hawkeye wants to fix them all. 

“Right back, I promise.” Unable to stop him, Padre sighs as he watches him shuffle out of the tent and turn the opposite way of the latrines. 

He’s beginning to forget why he’s up every time he finds himself standing. It’s becoming difficult to focus between the headaches and the fatigue, not to mention the fact that he can feel his fever spiking even as he drags himself to the pantry for crackers and toast. Neither of them have eaten all day, and though very little sounds as unappealing as food does right now, Padre needs to have something in his stomach before he can take more fever reducers, and he’s probably going to have to lead by example. 

If there were anyone else around to help, he’d be more than happy to rely on them. After such a tough week, he certainly wouldn’t mind being looked after, to have nothing to worry about but resting and hydrating. But he can’t always have what he wants—in fact, rarely can he ever, and he can’t in good conscience leave Padre to his own devices. 

Truth be told, he’d been spooked by the condition Padre was in when he’d first been moved into his tent. His fever was wild and uncontrolled, burning through his usual calm composure and exposing raw, deep fear and sadness underneath. Was it induced by the fever, or exposed?

Once they’d gotten some antipyretics and a lot of juice into his system, he’d relaxed enough to sleep, but not before a lot of tears and even a few curses. Hawkeye isn’t even sure whether he remembers that it happened upon waking, but that’s just as well. He probably wouldn’t want to.

Since then, Hawkeye has been, well, stressed. Worried. Agitated, even. That, too, could be exacerbated by the fever, but he’s pretty sure he’d be feeling so, anyway. After all, it’s Padre. What would they do if something happened to Padre?

That said, it’s doing no favors for his fever; that much is obvious. 

“Hawk, you need to calm down,” Trapper had implored before the sirens sounded. “You need to rest just as much as Padre does. You’ve been running yourself like a dog for the past week and your body has to be feeling it.” 

Oh, is it ever. He’s so frozen he’s shaking, but sweating like he’s just finished a hearty jog, and pretty sure the weather doesn’t have much to do with either. His stomach hasn’t accepted a single tenant since yesterday morning, evicting everything but water and the occasional cup of juice. Even his bones hurt. However, he’d only been content to wallow in that until the others had been summoned to surgery. Then, he’d taken his post as the sole medical professional standing by a patient who had just an hour ago been afflicted with a serious fever. His own chills can wait. 

When he finally returns with the pillows, Padre does accept them, and, finally propped up, he does have to admit that he’s breathing a little easier. Now, he feels like he needs a week to sleep off the trip to go get them. 

“You should get some sleep,” he suggests hopefully. He’s only been sleeping when Padre does. “You’ll need all the rest you can get.” 

“You know,” he replies, “I am feeling tired. You’ll sleep too, right?” 

Whether he’s just saying that to get Hawkeye to close his eyes or not is anyone’s guess, but if it gives him a break, he’ll take it. 

“Gladly.” Padre nods, shimmying down into his new pillow nest with a comfortable sigh, then shuts his eyes. Hawkeye’s plans to wait until he’s really asleep are assuaged by sleep taking him nearly as soon as he lies flat. 

Fever wakes him more gently than it ought to, a creeping hand trailing from his congested chest up to his chin, leaving a swirling, sticky heat in its wake. Despite that, he’s shivering harder than before, his teeth chattering. Confusion and a crushing exhaustion greet him when he pries open his eyes, both almost enough to pull him under into unconsciousness once more. Immediately, panic sets in. How long has he been asleep for his fever to climb this high? Is Father Mulcahy this bad off, left alone for god knows how long while he slept?

“Padre,” he calls, then has to clear his throat and try again when it’s too dry to speak. “Padre, answer me.”

The sound of blankets shuffling calm the immediate panic that he’s dead, but his worry surfaces once more when he finds Padre standing before him. He wants to tell him to get back to bed, but he can’t find the words. He needs the way Padre looks over him with concern, with love. 

“Hawkeye.” He reaches out and presses a cool hand to his forehead, then gasps. “Oh, no.” 

“Are you okay?”

“Me?” he asks incredulously, reaching back to smooth his hair away from his sweaty face. “I’m feeling much better. We need to focus on you.” 

He rummages around the sea of trinkets Hawkeye had fetched for a thermometer and hands it over, fussing the entire two minutes it takes to read. The gentle hand holding grounds him while the squeezing of his shoulder keeps him awake. After a while spent trying to focus on Padre’s voice while his head spins, the thermometer is taken from him and the number shocks him. 

“Oh, Hawkeye,” he whispers. “I have to get someone.” 

“They’re busy.” 

“Well, this can’t wait. Your temperature is too high.” 

“What is it?” 

“103.8,” he replies. “I’ll be back, okay? Don’t move.” “Wait.” Padre hesitates. “We can deal with it.” 

“This isn’t something I can handle on my own.” 

“You’re not.” He gestures broadly to his own body. “Doctor’s supervision.”  

“You’re too sick to take care of yourself right now. Please, don’t be difficult.” 

“M’not. M’being practical.” 

Padre considers this for a long time. He can see the emotions flicker across his face—fear, sadness, anger, and, finally, begrudging acceptance—as he realizes he’s right. They don’t have much of a choice. 

“We can try it. But if things get worse, I’m going for help.” Hawkeye nods. “Okay. What’s the first thing I need to do?” 

“Fever reducer,” he says. He takes double the dose and Padre says nothing of it, merely watching on anxiously and helping hold steady the glass of juice with which he washes down the pills.

“Will that really bring it down? It’s so high.”

“We’ll try it.” 

He sighs. 

“How would you feel about a shower?” 

“What, do I smell?” 

Padre gives an eye roll, just about as close to frustrated as he ever gets. 

“I mean a cold one. For the fever.” 

“I see. I’d feel very negatively.”

“Professionally, not personally.” 

“Well,” he trails off. It’s a hard moment. On the one hand, it might help. He’s done it for patients before and it’s a quick way to bring down a too-high fever, much like his own. It would be so easy to get out of this, to lie and say it’s a crazy theory that would never work just to keep him here in his warm blankets, but he has to think of Padre. He’s terrified, just as Hawkeye had been, has been. More so, probably, given that he’s entirely aimless. His sole light in the dark here is Hawkeye himself, a duty he can’t just shirk for comfort’s sake. 

“Lukewarm,” he corrects, “not cold. Cold induces shivering, spikes it.” The relief in his face is almost heartwarming enough to prepare him for the discomfort ahead.

“Okay. I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” Hawkeye feels like he barely blinks in the time it takes him to return. “Hey,” he whispers, shaking him gently. “Thank you could walk?”

The confident “yes” is undercut severely by a wave of weakness and vertigo that overwhelm him as soon as he’s upright, but Padre is right there to steady him as best he can. The height difference makes it a bit awkward, but he manages to support him to the showers. 

“Do you need—”

“I’ve got it,” he says, and neither of them mention how Padre helps him off with his pyjamas and under the stream, where he struggles for a moment under what feels like frigid water in just his undergarments. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says as he holds his hand so he’s doesn’t feel so alone as he suffers. “Just another minute. Are you still doing okay?”

Hawkeye nods. The water isn’t painfully cold as it had been earlier and his head is starting to clear a little. 

“Feeling a little better,” he admits. “I think I’m ready to dry off.” 

“You look better.” It’s enough, apparently, to convince him to turn off the water and hand him a towel. Just as he ducks his head in to dry his hair, the door is pushed open with some force, then a bustle of sound and movement. 

“What the hell is going on in here?” Trapper asks, stooping down to their level. “Why are you soaked?”

“His fever spiked,” Padre says. “Really high. I didn’t know what to do.” Trapper frowns. 

“How high is ‘really high’?”

“High enough,” Hawkeue replies. “It was pretty dire, but he was brilliant. Really.” Mulcahy smiles. 

“I’m glad you’re okay.” 

“Thanks to you.” 

“Both of you need to go back to bed. Can you stand?” 

“If I say no, will you carry me?” 

“Sure, but don’t you want to find out what I’ll do if you say yes?” 

Hawkeye laughs and gets to his feet with some help. Padre’s still steady and strong, so Trapper allows him to trail behind as they get back to the tent. 

“You know, now that we’re out of surgery, we could move your bed back. Give Padre a little privacy.” 

“If it’s all the same to everyone,” Padre says, “I’d prefer to keep an eye on him.”

“You and Radar are learning the ropes so fast we’re going to have to request more stethoscopes.” 

They settle the two back into their beds, take temperatures, readminister meds, and finally get them both resting and comfortable. 

“We’re going to monitor that fever pretty closely, but for now, you can go back to sleep. Padre, do you need anything?” He shakes his head and yawns, exhausted from the excitement. “Alright. Get some rest, both of you. I’ve got it from here.” 

Finally, they both shut their eyes. 

[taylor-tut-fics]

i’m trying to think of a mash prompt… the only thing i’m craving is one where charles or mulcahy (or both??) is the main/only caretaker. maybe they have to work together to wrangle a sick hawk & beej pair? idk i will probably get home from work today and keep reading your bookmarks and watch more mash lol. also i love you.

MASH FIC MASH FIC

this was originally going to have a more dramatic end, but it felt right to wrap it up where I did. if anyone wants more hurt before another round of comfort, though, i'm open to writing another chapter! :)

anyway, i love you max and thank you for sending me this prompt!! it's been a real godsend to have something to do and think about with everything going on. please enjoy some hawk & mulcahy bonding <3

“Are you sure I should go?” BJ asks skeptically. “I hate to leave while you’re sick. What are you going to do if more wounded come in and you’re down two doctors?” 

He’s been asked to visit another MASH unit, one whose survival rate isn’t as high as the 4077, to assess their techniques and share some knowledge, if he can. He’s supposed to leave tonight and Hawkeye woke up feeling ill and running a small fever. So far, it’s been nothing too serious—headache, loss of appetite, fatigue—but with so many tropical diseases that can be transmitted around here, they all know how quickly things can get out of control.

“I’m sure Radar wouldn’t mind taking the torch, right?” Hawkeye asks, and Radar pales. 

“No, sir, absolutely not, no way no how. I don’t know a right eye from a left foot.” 

“You know the lingo. That’s more than can be said for Frank.” 

“What lingo?” 

“Eye and foot.” Though he smiles, BJ doesn’t look entirely convinced. “Relax, Beej. We’re not going to be down a doctor. It’s just a cold.”

“Your temp is elevated.” 

“Barely, and it’s been stable. I don’t feel so bad, and this is important. You should go. It’s only a few days, anyway.” BJ sighs because he knows he’s been beat. Every day they delay means dozens of wounded pouring in, so the sooner the better. He can’t, in good conscience, put this off. Even if it means they’re saving just one life, it’s worth it.

“If you’re really sure.” Hawkeye nods. “Alright, then. I’m off.” 

“Without even giving me a lock of hair for my locket?” 

“Like you need something to remember me by.” 

“You’re right. I could never forget my one true love.” He waves a white handkerchief as BJ grabs his bag and leaves, then lays back down with a sigh. He feels terrible lying, but he doesn’t have another choice. If he lets on just how bad he’s feeling, there’s no way he’ll go, and he needs to go. Besides, it’s nothing he can’t take care of himself with rest and fluids, only one of which he has any real control over. Deciding it’s best to waste no time, he shuts his tired eyes and drifts back to sleep. 

Somehow, he feels even more exhausted when he wakes a few hours later to the sound of the sirens. Reluctantly and with an unstifled groan, he pulls himself out of bed and waits for the dizziness to subside before poking his head out the front of the tent. When he does, he realizes that the sun has almost set, and he’d gone to bed right after lunch. Sleep inertia has him in her icy grasp and refuses to let her go even as he shakes himself and pats his cheeks roughly in an effort to wake himself up and focus his thoughts, then drags himself to the OR. 

Fighting dizziness to change clothes takes so long that by the time he’s finally scrubbed in, the patients are already on the surgical tables, something he usually helps with. 

“Nice of you to join us,” Frank sneers.

“I was looking for your pacifier, Frank. I know it’s somewhere.” 

“I’m not a baby.” 

“I know that. A baby would be much better company.” There’s a little more heat behind the dig that he usually feels, but he can’t help but snap. His head is pounding now, much worse than before, and it hurts just to move. 

“Oh, don’t start that, now,” Father Mulcahy intervenes gently before Frank can get himself worked up as usual. 

“Listen to him,” Margaret says. “We have more important things to do than antagonize each other.”

“Sorry, Frank. We’ll reschedule.” 

“Here I was thinking you’d be less annoying without Hunnicut,” he snaps. 

“And I was thinking you knew what the scalpel looks like. We’re both full of surprises. It’s the pointy one, by the way.” Frank squeaks when he looks down to find he’s holding forceps and swaps them out. 

“Shut up,” he whines. “You’re distracting me.” 

“Of course. I’ll leave you to your slaughter. Happy hunting.” 

After his first patient, he’s feeling a little chilly. By the middle of his second, he’s barely holding back shivering, would be if he weren’t so committed to a steady hand. The concerning fact is that the evening is warm. Normally, he’d be sweating by now, but even his bones feel icy, his joints stiff. It’s beginning to surpass sore and charge full speed ahead into downright painful by the time he’s closing up. 

“I think I might need a shot of fever reducer,” he eventually caves. Margaret frowns. 

“How can you feel his temperature through your gloves?” 

“Not for him, for me.” Now, Padre joins her in fretting.

“You think you’re running a fever?” 

“Unless hell’s frozen over. I’m freezing.” 

“I want a read on that before you start your next patient,” Potter demands, but Hawkeye shakes his head. 

“What good will that do? BJ’s not here, so I’m going to have to push through, anyway. It’s just going to waste two minutes we don’t have.” 

“Humor me.” 

“I’m not feeling funny.” And he isn’t, because BJ isn’t there to laugh at the wordplay. “I’ll take it if I do start to feel weird, promise. It’s not our top priority.” Though Potter doesn’t like it, he can’t disagree with it, and he can’t force him. 

“The second you feel off,” he says. “In the meantime, Nurse Kelly, give him a shot of antipyretic.” Under his breath, he adds, “this is going to be a long night.” 

It’s longer than any of them can even anticipate. Complication after complication, of course, hits them at every turn. From innumerable shards of shrapnel in a chest cavity, far too many to remove, to sedation-induced hypoxia, it seems like nothing is going right. It figures that it has to happen while BJ’s not here to help, which was already slowing them down enough. Despite his chills, Padre is constantly having to sponge his forehead, but that does nothing for the sweat that’s pooling on his lower back, and provides very little relief. When he finally places the last suture hours after it would normally take for as relatively few soldiers they’ve had to operate on, he’s dead on his feet. 

“How are you feeling, Doctor?” Mulcahy asks as he helps him doff his gloves. 

“Better now, without a scalpel in my hand.” 

“Hm.” That doesn’t quite answer his question, but he lets it slide. “Do you need help off with that gown?”

“Isn’t that my line?”

“Take this,” Margaret commands as she hands over a thermometer, which he obediently places in his mouth as he undresses. “At the very least, it’ll keep your mouth shut for two minutes.” The jab feels halfhearted because it is. He’s barely said a word in hours. When she removes it a couple minutes later, she shakes her head. 

“It’s not dangerous, but higher than earlier. You should have another dose of antipyretics and get some rest.” 

“Thank you, Doctor.” This time, she hands him two tablets, which he swallows dry before heading back to the Swamp, pleased that the last thing he hears is Frank complaining about him not staying to help clean up the OR. 

The next time he opens his eyes, the figure standing in front of him is only the second thing he notices, the first being the blinding headache and shaking chills. He blinks away the blurriness of sleep and hones in on the person before him: Father Mulcahy. 

“Padre,” he says tiredly. “Business or pleasure?” 

“Business with you is always a pleasure,” he says, “but I’m here to check on how you’re feeling. I was a smidge worried when you skipped breakfast.” 

“I skipped breakfast?” 

“Well,” he says, gesturing with the tray and mug he’s brought, “not entirely, but I figured you weren’t feeling up to the mess, so I brought you something.” 

“That’s kind, but I’m not really feeling up to food, either.”

“You really should eat. You’ll feel better, and you need to keep your strength up.” 

“Are we playing house or doctor?”

“Just a concerned friend. How are you feeling?”

“Like my brain is trying to get out through my ears and my stomach is tied to it,” he replies. Padre grimaces. 

“That bad, huh? Maybe I should get someone.” 

“No, no. I’m fine.” 

“You say that,” he argues, “but you haven’t sat up to talk to me.” He moves to do so, but Padre stops him with a hand to his chest. “That’s not what I mean.” 

“I’m just feeling a little shaky. Nothing to worry about.” 

“I disagree.” 

“It’s normal to feel a little weak with a fever. That’s all it is.” He nods. 

“Then let’s take your temperature. If it’s too high, I’m going to have to ask for help.” 

“If it’ll make you feel better,” he caves. It’s hard to deny Mulcahy anything. He accepts the thermometer, then watches Mulcahy rotate it back and forth trying to see the mercury through the glass when it’s ready to read. 

“Here,” he says with a small chuckle, “you’ve got to get the right angle on it.” The number doesn’t surprise him at all given how bad he feels, but he doesn’t want to share that with Padre. He’ll only fret. “A bit of a fever,” he says, pretending 102.4 is “a bit”, “but I’ll live.” 

“Well, I’m glad to hear that, but I still think I should get a nurse. I’m sure she could give you something that might help you feel a bit better.”

“I don’t need all that, just a little rest. Might just go back to sleep, if you don’t mind.”

“Please do. I’m going to stay here if it’s all the same to you.”

“You’ve got better things to do than watch me sleep.” 

“I can do them here. All I need is my Bible and notebook. I’ve got to work on tomorrow’s sermon.” 

“I guess I can’t stop you.”

“No, you can’t.” Hawkeye’s hand reaches up for his temple as a particularly vicious pang of pain throbs there. 

“I’ll return in just a moment.” He ducks out of the tent for long enough that he’s just shut his eyes and when he returns, he’s holding a cloth and a small basin of water. Without a word, he dips the rag, wrings it out, then places it on Hawkeye’s forehead. 

“How does that feel?”

“Actually, nice. It’s helping the headache. You know, it’s funny. I’ve done this for so many patients, but I can’t remember a time anyone’s ever done it for me.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. It doesn’t actually do much to bring down a fever.”

“But it’s a bit of relief, isn’t it? Not everything needs a practical function. Comfort is a worthy motivator.” 

“Wouldn’t know it around these parts.”

“No,” Mulcahy says with a sad smile. “I guess you wouldn’t.” A pause hangs between them, Hawkeye’s typical deflective walls now a sheer, fishnet barricade through which he’s easily seen, really seen. It could just as easily be torn. Normally, he accepts being watched over being perceived. No, more than that—he needs it. Needs to be a one-man band just so everyone has music to which to listen. To joke because it’s the only way to open his mouth without screaming. Dazzle camouflage. 

He realizes that he’s been too focused  on what he needs and hasn’t given a single thought to what he wants. 

“I really appreciate you staying.” Padre smiles. 

“Get some rest, Hawkeye. I’ll be here when you wake up.” He shuts his eyes because he doesn’t need them open to know he’s not alone.

[taylor-tut-fics]

hi beautiful. i’m thinking about hawkeye being mentally impaired in some way. like he gets a concussion so he’s confused, or he’s hallucinating, or he is scared into a panic attack or something. like: he can’t think straight ya know. i think it would be cool for the others to be like “i didn’t realize how comfortable we got with his nonchalant persona.” something like that.

and if you don’t want to make this a fic i would be more than happy to discuss too! i love our chats.

omg i loved this prompt, it allowed me to be alone with my thoughts for several hours this week because it was just so fun to play with in my mind. i struggled with writing blockage a little toward the end, but i hope it came out okay!! i hope you enjoy it!!

“Are you sure you’re up for your post-op shift?” BJ asks for the third time in an hour. With three critically wounded in their care and another one who isn’t quite out of the woods, they’ve been having to monitor closely and constantly. “Your fever’s only been broken for 12 hours.”

“We can’t be down a person for much longer, so I’m going to have to push through it. I’m stronger than I look.” 

He looks miserable and exhausted from his bout with the flu this week. His fever only broke yesterday and he’s been pushing himself ever since, insisting on returning to work. BJ isn’t sure whether that’s guilt or a god complex, but it’s clear that he either feels bad about being in bed for a week or he feels the need to do everything himself ot ensure it’s done just so. 

“I can cover if you need me to.”

“Pull a double, Beej? Come on. If we get more wounded, you’ll be so tired that the patient in front of you might start to look an awful lot like a pillow.” 

He sighs. Hawkeye is right. If he doesn’t rest, he won’t be useful later when they really need it, and Charles and Potter can’t do this alone if Hawkeye ends up feeling as bad as he looks. 

“Come get me if you need me, yeah? I’ll just be in the Swamp.”

“Sure.”

“And keep an eye on your temperature.” 

“Yes, mother,” he says back, a little ire undercutting his usually mirthful tone. 

As BJ walks away, it takes all his strength to not call out to him and say that he’s changed his mind, that he still feels lousy and doesn’t want to be here. He should still be asleep in bed, but the war doesn’t stop just because he’s sick. More wounded pour in almost every day. There’s no way he can leave them alone with that any longer than he has to. Charles and BJ have both been working long hours to cover him while he was too sick to move, so he’s eager to rush it and get back to normal. Besides, they’ve been telling him for days that they need him to recover as fast as possible, so he’s just following orders. The worst part is the lingering cough that’s keeping him up and keeping him short of breath. This isn’t the end of the world. He can work through it. 

In the end, he’s sort of right. By the time his shift is finished, he’s signing patient charts without even looking at them, letting the nurses handle anything minor that comes up like pain or minor bleeding. However, he’s technically performing his duties. Twice, he had to get up to check a wound for infection, but while they’re keeping a keen eye on both, he saw no signs of anything being dangerously amiss. He’s sitting in a chair with his back against the wall and his eyes shut when BJ comes back. He must really look bad if he’s here to check on him when Charles is going to relieve him in an hour or so. Though he wants to sit up and greet him, knowing that this position and struggle to keep his eyes open will freak him out, he has no choice in the matter. All the energy he has is being used on shivering. 

“Hey,” BJ greets. “How did everything go?”

“Fine,” he rasps. Great, now his voice is shot, too. Probably from the cough. “Keeping an eye on a few things.” 

“Jesus. You sound awful. How are you feeling?”

“Freezing,” he replies honestly. He isn’t sure he has the wherewithal to lie right now, and besides, BJ would see right through it if he did. 

“You think your fever’s spiking again?”

He shrugs. “Haven’t checked.” 

“You know better than that,” BJ calls over his shoulder as he hunts down a thermometer from the drawer. “Under the tongue.”

“So that’s where it goes. I have a few patients to apologize to.” 

“Funny,” he rolls his eyes. “Don’t talk so much. Two minutes.” 

They wait the requisite time before reading and BJ frowns. 

“Any higher and I’d say you need a bed in post-op. In fact, you should probably go anyway, so the nurses can keep an eye on you.”

“As much as I love eyes on me, I don’t need all that. Just a little sleep.” BJ seems to agree, or at least doesn’t argue.

“Think you can walk back to the Swamp?” Hawkeye nods. “Alright. Up we go.” 

It’s logistically difficult, but BJ manages to get him up and support a concerning deal of his weight for the whole walk, if clumsily and awkwardly. There, he deposits him into bed. 

“I was on my way to help put away the supply shipment. I’ll come check on you in an hour or so. Think you can last until then?” 

“Last I checked, sleeping was a one person job. I’ll get up if I need pointers.”

“Or medicine,” he adds, “or something to eat and drink, or your bedtime story. Here,” he says, handing over a couple of pills he’d grabbed from post-op and an abandoned glass of water from his bedside. “Something for that fever. Do you need anything?”

“8 hours of uninterrupted sleep?” 

“I mean anything that’s possible in this universe.” 

“I see,” he says. “No, I’m fine. Probably just going to sleep until it’s my turn in post-op or there’s a rush of wounded.” 

“Well, don’t wait until you’re on death’s door to get help. If that fever gets higher than 102.5, come get someone.” He nods. 

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

“Get some rest. You’ll feel better when you wake up.” As soon as BJ turns to leave, he hugs his robe tighter around him with a sense of foreboding. 

Of course, as soon as he finds a position that’s comfortable enough to sleep without aggravating his cough, the sirens sound. It’s taken so long that the shipment is long since done with and BJ has returned to sleep, groaning loudly at the interruption. 

“Stay put.”

He does so only for about 90 seconds before reporting to the OR. It doesn’t matter how sick he is—kids could die. He can’t let that happen. 

“Hawkeye,” Margaret says disapprovingly when he enters, pale and slouched and shaking. “You should be in bed.” 

“I’m not sure it’ll fit through the door.” 

“Well, you shouldn’t be in the OR at all. Yesterday, you could barely tolerate being on your feet.” 

“Believe me, being here has taught me to tolerate a hell of a lot.”

“No. You’re benched until that fever goes down,” Potter orders. “You’re in no shape to operate.” 

“I can still—”

“I’ll hear no arguments. It would be irresponsible of me to allow a doctor to perform while his judgment and skills are so obviously impaired.”

“Colonel, we have a problem,” BJ says. “We’ve got four soldiers who could die if we don’t operate right this minute. That means we need him.” 

Colonel Potter thinks hard for just a beat, then sighs. 

“Scrub up. But I’m not happy about it.” 

Well. He can’t disagree.

A nurse dabs his forehead again with a cool sponge, hoping to provide even a modicum of relief and to keep the beads of sweat that are bubbling up from dripping onto the patient. They’re practically pouring water down his throat, and he has to be careful which way he moves his arm because he’s receiving fluids and fever reducers via an IV in his forearm, though neither appear to be touching this. At least they’ve managed to stop his shivering, but something still feels off, murky, like trying to shine a flashlight into fog.

“Talk to us, Hawkeye,” Potter calls. “How are you doing?” 

“On my feet,” he manages, “if barely.” 

“Temperature?” 

“When do you think I’ve had time to check that?” 

“He’s snippy,” Margaret observes, judgment withheld. It’s worry, not annoyance. 

“I know my rights. I can snap if I want.” He coughs again, stepping away from the patient and being both grateful and loathing that he’s wearing two masks. It’s safer, but definitely more stifling, and he’s already not breathing so well as is. He’s been breathing hard for hours and he’s sure that’s doing no favors for his heart rate and temperature. 

“That sounds awful,” Charles comments. 

“Really? But I’ve been practicing.” 

“This is no joking matter. You need a chest x-ray to rule out pneumonia.” 

“I have a feeling we’re not going to be ruling it out,” Potter says. “I’ve been doing this long enough to know a serious cough when I hear it.” 

“Now that we’ve both analyzed and insulted my lungs, can we move on? I need to work.” 

“Whatever you say, Hawk.” 

He refocuses, forcing himself to look at nothing but the kid in front of him, the kid who will die if he doesn’t do something about it. No matter how sick he is, he’d rather stay in his own shoes rather than try to walk in theirs. Lucky might be overstating it, but at least he’s not being shot at.

“I think he’s good to close.” The timing could not be better, either, because he’s afraid that at any moment, he might lose his battle with either his stomach or unconsciousness. Possibly both. “I need some air,” he says by way of explanation for rushing out the door of the OR. 

He stumbles his way to the flagpole. He thinks he might be aiming for the Swamp, but it’s much too far to walk feeling as he does. Instead of trying, he slides down to sit on the ground, his eyes sliding shut soon after. 

When he wakes, it’s because his shoulder is being shaken urgently. Someone is calling out his name, but he can’t seem to respond. 

“Hawkeye, can you hear me?” Margaret calls. 

“Fine,” he says airily, an answer that doesn’t quite fit with the question he doesn’t understand until several seconds after it’s asked. 

“He’s really out of it.” 

Before he knows it, Margaret’s cool hand presses to his cheeks, then his forehead. “He’s boiling.” Once more, a thermometer is forced on him, this time without a quip, without a word. The wait is excruciating, but the reading is worse. “Nearly 104. No wonder he’s barely coherent.”

“I can hear you,” he replies, but it’s too little, too flat, too dull, too late. 

“We need to get him in a cool shower,” Charles says, already moving to help support him with BJ on the other side. “Fever reducers aren’t helping.” 

“He needs another dose,” Margaret argues. “He’s been operating for hours. Let me do that before you get him in the shower. I’ll meet you there.” 

“Alright, Hawk,” BJ says, the first person to talk directly to him in several minutes. “Are you with me?” 

“Right here,” he says. 

“Well, it’s your unlucky day. Unfortunately, you’re about to get a shower.”

“Will I have company?”

“I’ll be there to hold you up, unless you think you could you stand alone?” 

“Not if you keep sweeping me off my feet.”

“So long as you don’t expect a kiss at the end of the night. You’re a little germy.” 

“Hey, now,” he says lightly. “I make up for it in charm.”

“You’re stalling. Let’s get you up.” He does his best, but, as dehydrated and feverish as he is, everything spins as soon as he’s upright, and he finds himself relying on BJ and Charles. He’s not sure if he apologizes, but no one replies. Instead, they work on dragging him to the showers. 

“We’re going to get you out of those scrubs, but I promise to keep your dignity intact.” 

“If you see my dignity, I think I’m owed a kiss at the end of the night.” 

“I’ll be gentlemanly about it.” Methodically, carefully but urgently, BJ strips him of everything but his underclothes, shedding everything bloody or bulky that might be trapping that overwhelming, dangerous body heat. Margaret takes his arm and gently injects another dose of antipyretics with a promise of fluids in a short while. 

When BJ pulls him under the water, he startles and resists at first. It’s frigid, so much so that it hurts. He gasps and pulls away, but he’s weak, or BJ is stronger than he looks, and it does no good. Even when he does manage to squirm, Charles is right there to ensure he doesn’t manage to wriggle out of the stream. 

“Just another few minutes.”

“It’s freezing.” 

“It’s lukewarm,” BJ promises. “You’re just on fire. Hang on a little longer.” 

“Not l-like I can go anywhere,” he manages through chattering teeth. “Not with Muscles standing there ready to pound me into the ground if I escape.” Instead of Charles, he gestures to Margaret, who rolls her eyes.

“You’d better believe it.” 

“Temperature?” BJ calls after what feels like an eternity. 

Charles advances with the thermometer and is apparently happy enough with the reading, because he nods, allowing BJ to turn off the shower. He thinks he whispers some kind of thanks to a god he doesn’t respect into the towel he’s handed. Another is thrown around his shoulders, which he draws close. Even if he’s no longer molten, he’s still not fever-free, and he can feel it in the way his bones are rattling around with every shiver. 

Though he briefly attempts to argue that he’s fine to recover in the Swamp, they have none of it, and he sees reason. They set him up in a bed in post-op, hooking him up to fluids and ensuring that the entire staff know just how ill he’s been. 

“How did you manage to work like that for so long?” BJ asks. “You were practically unresponsive when we found you.” 

“For my next trick, I’ll try it blindfolded and spun around.” He glances at Margaret. “You’ll need a leotard.” She rolls her eyes.

“You must still be delirious.” 

He shifts his gaze one person down to Charles. “You’ll need a leotard.” 

“Right,” he says. “Glad you’re feeling better. I’ll be going.” 

“Wait,” he says, sobering up from laughing at his joke. “I owe you a little thanks. I know I was a nuisance.” 

“Of all the times to apologize for being a nuisance, you’re going to choose the one during which you didn’t have another choice? We needed you in the OR and you stuck it out as long as you could. As much as I’d like to, I can’t be angry with you for that.” 

“Well, I can still thank you for it.” 

“Of course.” Charles actually gives him a small smile. “Get back on your feet soon. We need you in there.”

It’s a well-wishing and a sad plea all in one, and it’s taken accordingly. 

“That’s my cue to shut my eyes.” He’s been looking for a good excuse to kick the others out. As much as he appreciates them, he’s exhausted. 

“Alright. We’ll let you rest. Do us a favor and come get someone if you’re soft-boiling your brain this time, yeah?” 

“I can do that.” BJ claps him on the shoulder as he exits. “Thank you. Both of you.” 

“Get some rest. We’ll need you.” 

BJ hates that he has to say that. 

“I’ll be back on my feet tomorrow.” 

Hawkeye hates that he has to say that.

He allows himself to drift off into what must, because there is no other option, be healing sleep. 

[taylor-tut-fics]

i am looking

HAPPY JUNE 15TH, EVERYONE!!! Here is the official Sicktember 2025 Prompts list!

Here are some helpful links to help you get started:

Event FAQ: https://www.tumblr.com/sicktember/785439209109454849/sicktember-faqs-for-the-2025-year?source=share

Past Prompts: https://sicktember.tumblr.com/prompts

How to Submit Your Work: https://www.tumblr.com/sicktember/760549128005615616/content-promotion-reminder?source=share

Sicktember 2025 AO3 Collection: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Sicktember_2025

Text List of 2025 Sicktember Prompts:

Sicktember Prompts Text Version:

“It’s the middle of the night, why are you up?”

Forced to go to school/work while sick 

���Why are you so sweaty?” 

Pneumonia 

Worst possible timing 

The boy who cried sick

“There’s a frog in my throat,” 

Aches and pains 

“Get your butt back in back!” 

Red eyes 

No known cure 

“You’re adorable when you’re sick,” 

Chronic Illness 

Bedridden 

“This is the worst headache of my life,” 

Misery loves company 

Infection

“We’re going to the hospital,” 

Stomach ache 

Fever Nightmares

“I’ll make you some tea,”/tea 

Sobbing 

Overdoing it 

“I feel like I’m dying,” 

Medicine

Slow Recovery Time

“I’m sick, not stupid!” 

Ghostly Pale

Came back worse/round two 

“You’re too sick to (blank)

Alt Prompts:

Gentle Back/Belly Rub

Warm Bath

“I want my (comfort item),”

Lullaby

“I love you,”

[taylor-tut-fics]

MASH fic MASH fic!!! read all about it!!

“How are you holding up, Hawk?” BJ calls. “Still alive?” 

“If I say no, can you promise me mouth to mouth?”

“Frank would be happy to.” 

“Hey!”

“Alright, alright. I’m fine. Never better.” 

That couldn’t be less true. Following two days of unexplained fatigue, he’d spiked a fever earlier that morning, one that doesn’t appear to be budging, not even with fever reducers. Potter had put him on bedrest, but when a large volume of wounded had poured in a few hours ago, he had no choice but to rescind the offer. 

“After you finish with the patient at hand, I want to get another read on your temperature,” Potter says. “You’re pale.” 

“These scrubs just aren’t a good color on me. Washes out my complexion.” 

“Really? I’ve always thought they bring out your eyes,” BJ interjects.

“You should see me in red.” 

Margaret dabs at his forehead with a cool sponge once more, but it’s barely helping. Some combination of illness and exhaustion has him sweating profusely. Normally, he manages to work around it, but today, he’ll consider himself lucky if he doesn’t faint during surgery. Adding fuel to the fire is the fever and loss of appetite. He’s not sure whether the shaking of his hands is chills or low blood sugar, but either way, he feels dead on his feet. They’ve been working for hours, and there’s no end in sight. 

“What good will this do?” he asks as soon as Potter tries to thrust the thermometer on him. “I’m going to have to work through it no matter what.” 

“Humor me.” He does so, using the two minutes it takes for the thermometer to take its reading to sit and breathe. Despite him being perfectly capable, Potter takes the thermometer before he can even have a chance to read it himself, and the numbers don’t agree with him. “It’s climbing, Hawkeye.”

“Is it above 104?” 

“No, but—”

“Then it seems like a problem for later. Believe me, I’m not just making excuses to keep me from my bed. As soon as we’re done here, I’m running back to the swamp faster than you could get me there by chopper.” 

“We’d better get a move-on, then.” 

By the time all is said and done, 12 hours have passed. The entire staff breathes a sigh of relief when BJ places the last stitch and steps away, satisfied with his work. 

“How are you holding up?” he asks, already foregoing doffing his own scrubs to help Hawkeye with his. 

“Still standing, though I’m not sure for how much longer.” 

“You look it.” BJ hands over the thermometer again and this time, he doesn’t argue. “102.5,” he reads aloud. “That’s a hell of a fever. I’m impressed you’ve lasted this long.” 

“Margaret has been pulling my limbs around on marionette strings for the last 8 hours.” 

“Then she must be very good, because you really hung in there.”

“You’re back on bedrest until further notice,” Potter commands. “I don’t want to see you until that fever breaks unless it’s an emergency.” 

“Unfortunately, not many soldiers drop by here just to say hi. They’re all emergencies.” 

He can’t argue with that. Instead of trying, he dismisses him back to the swamp.

“Do you want me to walk with you?” BJ asks when he wavers to try to equilibrate a tilting floor, but he shakes his head. 

“If you see me home, you’ll expect a kiss at the door, and you haven’t even bought me dinner.” 

“I’ll make a reservation somewhere. In the meantime, you go lay down. Try to sleep if you can.” 

Normally, he’d stick around and help clean up the OR, but his head is already spinning as it is. Adding physical exertion to that seems like an idea that might end up in a surprise nap on the floor. He drags himself back to his bed, swiping the blankets off BJ and Frank’s, too. He just can’t seem to warm up. It’s not comfort but rather the absence of it that pulls him under into the darkness. 

The next time he wakes, it’s in a pool of sweat, still beneath the pile of blankets. Everything hurts from head to toe, every joint feeing painfully swollen, hip sockets raw. Had he eaten that day, he’s sure his stomach would be demanding a refund, but acid is the only thing in his stomach at the moment.  

“BJ,” he calls. When no one replies right away, his heart sinks. “BJ, you there?” Desperate times call for desperate measures, so he calls, “Frank?”

Nothing. Where is everybody? How come they haven’t come to check on him? 

He decides they must be out playing cards or something of the sort, paying no mind that he’d gone to bed with a high fever and choosing to leave him alone anyway. He’d never do that to one of them, but he thinks that anger would likely build enough pressure in his skull to make his head explode, so he instead focuses his energy on trying to find help. The dizziness is so severe that he has to stay sitting up for a full minute before he feels steady enough to get to his feet proper. Fumbling the whole time, he manages to leave the tent and approximate where the radio room might be based on gut instinct alone because everything is spinning too fast to really see. He isn’t sure where his friends are, so having Radar call for them might be his best bet, given that he can’t exactly run around looking for them in this condition. By the time he reaches the flagpole, he has to brace himself against it to keep from collapsing while he desperately catches his breath. He can’t remember the last time he felt this bad, if ever, and it’s a little scary. 

He’s not sure how long he rests there for before pushing off it and wobbling forward until he reaches the door. Just when he’s about to call out for help, he hears it: the unmistakable hiccup of someone crying. That can only be one person. 

“Radar?” 

“Oh, Hawkeye,” he greets, furiously wiping tears from his face, which does no good because fresh ones take their place. “What are you you doing up? Colonel Potter said you were sick.” 

“That was a few hours ago,” he dodges. Technically not a lie, but purposefully leaving out that he’s feeling even worse now than he had then. “What’s got you so upset?”

“You’ll just laugh at me.” 

“I promise I won’t.”

It takes a few minutes of quiet patience before he sighs. 

“I’ve been having these… dreams.”

“Natural for a boy your age.” The quip is forced rather than typically reflexive. 

“No! Nothing like that.” Knowing Hawkeye doesn’t feel well almost deters him. He shouldn't unload his problems onto his hero when he’s dealing with one of his own, he knows. Still, when he tries to wedge the cap back onto his emotional bottle, he finds that the pressure won’t allow it. It’s never, never enough. “Nightmares.”

“About what?” he asks. Hawkeye hopes it’s not too obvious when he pulls his robe tighter around himself to fruitlessly combat the shaking chills. How is this fever still going up? How long can he possibly function without fluids and a fever reducer?

“I don’t know how to describe it. I usually forget them, but I still can’t fall back to sleep after. There’s a lot of screaming, and a lot of blood.” Hawkeye nods. 

“See? Not laughing at you. I get’em, too.” He can already tell that his words are slurring, but either Rader doesn’t notice or he’s assuming it’s alcohol related. His head is pounding in time with his heart so badly that he’s deep breathing so as to not show any signs of discomfort. Radar needs him, and he’s just a kid. He’s going to listen even if he barely registers the words.

“There are just so many wounded. More every day. Sometimes I don’t even want to pick up the call because I know it’s going to be nothing but bad news that I have to give to somebody.” 

“Not your fault,” he says. Radar’s words are coming at him from above freezing water, muffled and distorted. He can’t do this. Can’t faint cold while Radar is bearing his soul. The anxiety would traumatize him.

“I know that, but I hate it. I hate hurting people all day long.” 

For the next few minutes while Radar talks, Hawkeye is quiet. He thinks he’s nodding his head and maybe even making good listener sounds, but he can’t be sure, not with his body feeling so far removed from his muddled mind. 

“What do you think?” he asks eventually, a question whose answer will show his inattentiveness. He has no idea what they’re even talking about anymore. He remembers that the kid was crying, but from there, things begin to get fuzzy. 

“What’s the question?” 

Radar frowns and Hawkeye hates that he’s the cause of that. 

“Were you even listening?” 

He doesn’t know how to answer that. He heard the words, but hadn’t registered them. Hell, he hadn’t even managed to form a complete thought since he went to bed early. 

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, Radar, I… Sorry. Feeling a little weird.” His frown turns from disappointment to concerned, imperceptible undertones he wouldn’t be able to recognize if he didn’t know him well enough. 

“Weird how?”

However, he doesn’t have time to explain as a wave of heat and nausea washes over him, so intense that he loses the battle with unconsciousness for a few seconds, head bobbing forward to hit his chest. 

“Hawkeye?” Radar calls, shaking him slightly by the shoulder to little avail. “You okay?”

“Hm,” he hums noncommittally, unhelpfully. He barely registered question at all. 

“Hawkeye,” he says frantically as his eyes slip shut again, “What’s going on? Are you still not feelin’ good?” 

He does his best to look at him, but his eyes never quite focus, eyelids fluttering like butterfly wings as he struggles to keep them open. What’s worse is that he doesn’t offer a quip or a joke, not even so much as a smile. Whatever is happening, it’s very wrong.

“Little lightheaded.” Immediately, guilt grips his stomach. Hawkeye has helped him through colds, flus, and injuries of all sorts, but now that the roles are reversed, not only does he not know what to do, but he’s made it worse. Judging by the flush and pallor of his face now, he can’t imagine he’d looked anything but miserable when he’d wandered in here. What he’d written off as lousy lighting and a hot night were actually two important signs he should have picked up on, signs he wouldn’t have missed if he hadn’t been so busy wallowing. 

“Oh, geez,” he breaths. “Oh, geez. Stay awake, okay? Don’t go passin’ out on me.” He bolts up and beelines for the pitcher of water he keeps on the table by the radio and pours a glass. “Drink.” Hawkeye doesn’t even take the cup, barely even looks at it. Even when he guides his hand to it, he doesn’t grip, dropping it entirely as soon as Radar lets go. That’s it. That’s when he knows that whatever is going on here is far more serious than he can handle on his own, and his mind starts racing. He knows he needs to go get help, but he doesn’t know where anyone else might be hiding, and besides, it doesn’t seem like a good idea to leave him alone like this, anyway. Without another idea, he picks up the intercom and presses the button, desperately trying to keep the panic from his voice. 

“Attention, doctors. Please report to the radio room immediately. Hawkeye is in trouble.” 

Seconds feel like minutes as he attempts to keep him sitting up, fearful that he’ll fall asleep if he’s recumbent and knowing that he can’t handle him being unconscious on top of all this. It’s continuous effort, though, as Hawkeye isn’t upright of his own volition. The only thing keeping him from toppling to the side is Radar’s vice-like grip. If he were the type, he’d be cursing. This is bad. This is so, so bad. 

“Stay awake,” he implores again. “Just until the others get here.” 

“Tryin’.” 

“I know. I’m sorry.” 

Not a moment too soon, they come rushing in, Margaret leading the pack even though he’d only called specifically for the doctors. He knew he could count on her. 

No amount of heart-numbing war experience can possibly take the shock out of seeing one of her own on the ground instead of behind a surgical mask, and she gasps. 

“What’s going on, Radar?” she asks as she stoops down to Hawkeye’s level on the floor. 

“I don’t know. We were talking and he… well, he was startin’ to get quiet, but now he’s—and he can’t even sit up.” 

She taps his cheek to try to rouse him and lets her hand rest on his cheek when she realizes how hot he’s running. “He’s burning up. Hawkeye, can you hear me?” 

“Loud’n clear,” he slurs. His vision is sluggish to drag to meet her eyes. How long has Radar been talking to him without even noticing this?

“He wasn’t feeling so hot earlier, but I had no idea it was this bad.” BJ hurries off for a thermometer from the OR while Margaret gets Radar’s version of the whole story, one he’s almost too ashamed to even tell. He’d been so selfish that he hadn’t even noticed something was wrong until he was all but unconscious. If it were him, Hawkeye would have flagged this in seconds. He never would have let it get this bad. 

“It’s not your fault,” she says patiently while they wait the two requisite minutes for the thermometer to take a reading. “You did exactly what you should have done.” 

“He would have noticed sooner.” 

“Well, yes, but he’s a doctor. That’s his job.” 

“Which is exactly why he has no excuse for letting it become this severe without saying something,” BJ adds as he removes the thermometer. “103.7. It must have spiked in his sleep. There’s no way he went to bed like this.” 

“What could possibly be causing a fever that high? It came on so suddenly,” Margaret asks despite that the differential diagnoses come just as naturally to her as they do to BJ. Frank, maybe not so much. “Flu? Something tropical? Could he have any injuries we don’t know about?” 

“We need to get some bloodwork,” BJ says. “In the meantime, I say we start him on an IV. At the very least, he needs fluids.” 

“I’m sorry,” Radar says as BJ and Margaret work to get him upright, too distracted by the situation at hand to even take a minute to assuage his guilt. Left unassuaged, it fills his eyes with tears that he wipes away as quickly as he can before the others can see. “Can I help?” 

“No, no,” Margaret reassures. “You already have.” They drape him between their arms almost limply, eyes fluttering like he’s working to wake up but lacking the strength to do so completely. 

“He’s gonna be okay, Radar,” BJ promises. “We’ve got him.” 

He’s got no choice but to trust that. Of course, if anything happens to him, Radar will once again be made to bear the bad news to everyone. 

Radar has barely left his side in 24 hours. Even though it only took a cool shower and an antipyretic to lower the fever to a much more acceptable level, he’s anxious. 

“Radar, you need to stop ruminating. You’re starting to put off heat.” 

“Are you sure you’re okay now?” he asks for the fourth time. 

“Yes, yes. I promise I’m fine. It was just a flu bug that got out of control, probably from the stress of being in this hellhole all the time. Fever’s on its way down. I’ll be back on my feet in a day or two.” 

“What if more wounded come in tonight?” 

“Then we deal with it,” he says calmly. “This is just an inconvenience now. I’m not dying.” 

“You sure seemed like you were when I couldn’t get you to wake up in the radio room.” 

“Right,” he replies sheepishly. “I think I need to apologize about that. I know I scared you.” 

“You think you need to apologize? I’m the one who didn’t notice you were so sick until it was almost too late. All you were doin’ was trying to help.”

“I should have found help first, then sent someone after you. I knew better.” 

“Then why did you do that?”

Hawkeye takes a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth as a stall to figure out how he wants to phrase what he says next. 

“Because it’s you. If you need me, I’m there, damned the consequences.”

“Hawkeye,” he sighs. 

“I know. I’m going to work on my lemming instinct. I already got the lecture from the Colonel.” 

“Well, his didn’t end with me saying thank you,” he says, “so thank you.” Hawkeye reaches a hand from under the sheets to find and squeeze Radar’s. “Get some rest, okay? And this time, holler if you need something.” 

“Will do. Goodnight.” 

With that, he’s off to try to find some of the sleep he’s misplaced the last few days. Even if he didn’t remember all of it, talking about the nightmares had helped a little. Made them seem smaller. 

“How is Hawkeye doing, Radar?” asks one of the nurses he passes on his way back to bed. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “He is.” It feels good to give a little good news for once. 

[taylor-tut-fics]

i feel a little weird saying "in memory of loretta swit" because this is just a silly little fanfic, but because i heard the news of her passing, i wanted to write a lil mash fic. i don't do it often, but the banter in mash is some of my favorite to write and i hope i did it justice. thank you to the ever-brilliant @max-attack for the idea! enjoy!

“I fold,” Hawkeye says, turning his poker cards face up so the group can see. 

“But those are great cards,” Margaret objects. 

“It’s not my hand that’s bothering me,” he says, “it’s my head. It’s pounding.” 

“Still?” BJ asks. “You’ve been complaining about that since last night.” 

“Had a few too many martinis, Captain?” Charles digs. “I’m just tired. I think I might head to bed a little early tonight.” 

“I can’t say I blame you. This is the quietest night we’ve had in a while. Sleep while you can.” Margaret hasn’t taken her eyes off the cards, hoping that someone might let their hands rest while they’re distracted and she might catch a peek, but her tone is soft. Hawkeye excuses himself from the table without another word. 

“Aren’t you going to go tuck him in?” 

“Funny, Charles,” BJ says, rolling his eyes. “Keep that up and you’re not getting your bedtime story.” Charles is above playing along, so he turns his attention back to the table and tosses two chips onto the pile. 

It’s been so hot out lately that Hawkeye has been kicking off his sheets in his sleep, but tonight, he has to pull out a blanket. He’s not sure whether that’s him or the weather, but the body aches and exhaustion aren’t a good sign. A bug has been going around the barracks and he’s pretty sure he’s managed to catch it from a patient. Though he’s sure it will be conspicuous when the others return to the Swamp and find him snuggled up under the covers, there’s no way he’ll be able to fall asleep this cold. As much as he doesn’t want to out himself as being temporarily incapacitated, the chills are too bad to ignore. If he’s lucky, no one will notice. Rather, BJ won’t notice. Charles could probably not care less without doing himself bodily harm. Sleep finds him as soon as he shuts his eyes. 

When he wakes the next morning, the sun is so high in the sky that he knows he’s wildly overslept. That’s a little embarrassing. Though, like Margaret had said, it’s been quiet, it’s still humbling to roll out of bed at 10 am, especially when he’d turned in around 8 pm the previous night. Instantly, any hope he’d had that his only malady was exhaustion goes out the window. Not only is his head throbbing, but he’s dizzy, too, swaying a little when he sits up in bed. Dressing isn’t easy with his body aches and vertigo, but he manages to change into a clean pair of scrubs without incident and heads toward the mess, hoping that he’s not slept so late he’d missed breakfast entirely. 

To his relief, though meal trays are mostly empty, no one has left the mess hall, meaning that he hasn’t missed any work, just breakfast, and he has no interest in that. His stomach feels churning and hot and the idea of adding food into the mix is enough to have him skipping the line in favor of sitting down at the table with the others. 

“Look who’s finally awake,” BJ teases. 

“I was hoping I could Rip Van Winkle my way through the rest of the war. Did it work?” 

“Oh, Hawk. The war’s been over for forty years.” 

“You all couldn’t find a better place to haunt?” 

“I’m still shopping around. The haunting market tanked.” 

“Enough,” Charles interjects, already annoyed. “Well, at least I managed to finish my coffee before you two clowns started up your nonsense. That’s better than usual.” 

“Go into the light, Charles,” Hawkeye calls too loudly. “Let your spirit be at peace.” 

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” Margaret asks, ignoring all three of them to focus on his empty plate. 

“Stomach’s feeling a little choppy,” he admits.  “I’ll have something later.” 

She frowns. 

“Are you feeling alright? You look pale.” 

“I overslept. Haven’t had time to put my face on yet.” 

“I’m sorry I asked.” She hates it when she expresses a serious sentiment and he replies with a joke instead, but Hawkeye finds her irritation exhilarating. Addictive, even. 

“She’s right, though. You should eat something. If you don’t, you’re gonna get too shaky to hold a scalpel,” BJ replies. 

“In a few hours, I promise.” 

He lets himself fantasize that maybe there won’t be any wounded today and he might get to go back to bed for a while. Sleeping hadn’t helped much and the lullaby of malaise is starting to sing him to sleep. Unfortunately, he knows that’s not reality. Even if they don’t have to operate today by some miracle, there’s a lot to do. A shipment of medical supplies is coming before lunch and he’ll need to help unload it and restock everything, and even if someone else can handle that, he’s got patients to see. One young man named Jack, barely 18 years old, has been terrified since the moment he entered the MASH unit—hell, probably since he’d enlisted—and hasn’t been taking it well. Hawkeye has been sitting with him late into the night, chatting with him until he feels tired enough to sleep. Not to mention things like helping the nurses clean the OR and laundering his scrubs, tasks that are made faster by sharing but no less burdensome or tiring. He should really go do any one of those things, now. It’s the perfect time to get a head start, and if he doesn’t do it now, he’ll regret it when he has to do it after a long shift. Still, his eyes are so heavy and his mind is so muddled that as soon as they finish breakfast, he returns to his bed rather than getting to work. 

Of course, he never gets what he wants. The war doesn’t exactly check his schedule, so when the alarms sound out, he has no choice but to cancel his date with sleep and race outside to meet the ambulances. 

“You’re awfully quiet today, son,” Potter notes after they’ve been working for over an hour without him having said a word. “Talk to me.” 

“Fine,” he replies, “just focusing.” 

“Really,” Margaret says incredulously. “I assumed your eyes go cross when your mouth isn’t moving.” 

When the quip earns her no reply, she makes nervous eye contact with BJ, but they don’t push. Whatever is going on with him, if he doesn’t want to talk, it’s best to leave him alone, at least while there’s a scalpel in his hand. 

The next few hours go by slowly and quietly. Margaret hadn’t noticed it before, but without Hawkeye breaking the tension in the room, nerves run higher and everything feels heavier. She’d thought she’d like the silence, but she actually finds herself missing his banter. 

It takes several excruciating hours, but finally, the last of the wounded are moved to post-op, leaving the medical staff to clean up after themselves. To her surprise, rather than grabbing a washcloth, Hawkeye doffs his gloves. 

“Where are you going?”

“Sorry, normally I’d say and help clean, but I’m exhausted. I think I need to go lie down for a while.” 

“We’re all exhausted,” she replies. “But the OR needs cleaning. Don’t be lazy.” 

“Next time, Margaret, I promise.” Before she can argue further, he turns and walks away, leaving the rest of them to watch in confusion. While there’s no hard and fast rule that the doctors have to stay and help clean, it’s common courtesy to at least clean up their own stations, and Hawk hadn’t even done that much. It’s unlike him, but she’s too crabby and tired to ask after the supposed laziness. Irritably, she grabs a cloth and slaps it, sopping wet, into the center of his operating table. 

As it turns out, she should have been grateful he’d even showed up for surgery at all, because when the alarms go off again later that night, he doesn’t even make an appearance. She’s tying Charles’ mask around his head when she notices his absence. 

“Has anyone seen Hawkeye?” 

BJ looks around the room, apparently having been too absorbed in donning his own clothing to notice. 

“I’m sure he just ran to the bathroom. He’ll be here any minute.”

But any minute comes and goes and he’s still nowhere to be found. Ultimately, they don’t have time to go hunt him down, so by the time they’ve scrubbed in, it’s too late. 

“That’s weird,” one of the nurses says aloud. Never the words Margaret wants to hear. “We barely have any supplies. Wasn’t there just a shipment brought in this morning?” 

“Yes,” Margaret replies, “there was.” Sure enough, when she goes looking, she finds a few crates sitting untouched by the back door. “No one unpacked these?” 

“Whose job is it to stock the supply room?” Charles demands, only to be met with a long, uncomfortable moment of silence. “Well?” 

“Well, Captain Pierce usually does that.” That throws them all for a loop. 

“Pierce does this?” 

“We can’t waste time unraveling a mystery,” BJ chastizes. “Grab what you need and go, go, go.” 

To everyone’s surprise, Hawkeye never stumbles in with an excuse about not hearing the announcement or something equally stupid. 

It’s after dark by the time they finish, all of them even more tired than they’d been before. Margaret and Charles are still seething over Hawkeye’s absence. Even BJ is pretty annoyed. If he’d slept through a call, he’d better have a damn good excuse. 

As they wheel the last patient into post-op, someone sits up. He’s a young man about Radar’s age. BJ recognizes him because his injuries had been severe and he’d been terrified. 

“Hey, kid,” BJ greets. “You’re Jack, right?”

Jack nods. “Where’s Hawkeye?”

“That’s what we’d like to know. Why do you ask?” 

“I was just wondering. He, uh, he normally comes and sits with me for a few hours at the end of the night. I… this place freaks me out, and he comes around to chat until I feel tired enough to fall asleep.” 

“I never knew he did all this,” Margaret laments. “Now I feel guilty for calling him lazy.” 

“It’s no wonder he’s exhausted if he’s been staying up so late. Why wouldn’t he tell us such a thing?” 

“Maybe he just doesn’t want us knowing how much weight is on his shoulders. Maybe we should go check on him. It’s not like him to sleep through something like this.” 

To their surprise, who do they run into on the way to the Swamp but the man himself, and he looks undeniably terrible. His posture is hunched, his face pale and covered in a sheen of sweat. 

“Hawkeye?” BJ calls, rushing to his side. “What are you doing up?” 

“I woke up and you two were gone. Figured I’d missed something.” 

“Well, for good reason, I think.” He sways dizzily on his feet and Margaret jumps in to ease him down to sit on the ground. 

“He’s burning up,” she’s able to assess even through his clothes. “How long have you been this sick?” 

“M’fine,” he mutters even as he accepts the thermometer BJ thrusts toward him. “Just need to sleep it off.” 

Two minutes later, the thermometer says otherwise. 

“103 even,” BJ reads aloud. “Jesus. Where were you planning on going with a fever like this?” 

“Thought I must’ve missed the sirens,” he explains, eyes widening when everyone breaks eye contact at once. “Did I?”

“A bit,” Charles admits, “but we managed.” 

“Why didn’t you come get me?” 

“Why didn’t you tell us something was wrong?” BJ asks. “We wouldn’t have harped on you all day if we’d known.” He shrugs, and it appears to be the best answer they’re going to get out of him at the moment. “In any case, I think we need to take you to post-op. You’ve got to be dehydrated.” 

“That’s for the wounded,” he objects. “I’m not taking up a bed just for this.” 

“If more wounded come through, we’ll figure something out, but there are empty beds now. You need fluids, maybe antibiotics.” Before he can object, Charles and BJ are hoisting him to his feet, where he loses vision for a moment. 

“You alright?” 

He nods. 

“Okay. Let’s get you to bed.” He provides minimal resistance as they guide him there, and as soon as he lays down, he closes his eyes. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” BJ asks. 

“I will be,” he says. 

“Good. Get some rest, okay? We’ve got it from here.” 

Hawkeye doesn’t need to be told twice. 

[taylor-tut-fics]

i'm 600 words into this fic but i can't decide what direction i want to take it in! so far i've just established a camp camp fic with the premise "fever for the last 3 days and overworking the second he's able to get out of bed to make up for the days he missed". anyone have ideas? preferences?

Yoooooo characters who rush recovery. Passing out because they’re trying to run around the day after a high fever breaksssss 💖

[taylor-tut-fics]

I’m thinking of using this for either fmab or camp camp 👀 anyone have any preferences? I’m leaning toward camp camp. I think it could be so good 👀

Yoooooo characters who rush recovery. Passing out because they’re trying to run around the day after a high fever breaksssss 💖

[taylor-tut-fics]

NOT ME BACK AT IT WITH AN FMAB FIC

He should have known something was off when Ed didn’t bust down his door and make a scene to announce his entrance. Though he’d registered the behavior as uncharacteristic, he’d been too busy counting his blessings that he hadn’t deepened the crack in his wall behind the door. 

“You’re actually on time for once. Another engagement after this, I assume?” 

“Just wanted to get it over with,” he shrugs. “The sooner I get out of here, the faster I get away from your sorry ass.” 

“Fair enough. Let’s see what you’ve got there.” 

Ed hands over three sheets of paper, which are messily, but legibly, scribbled down in appropriate detail. That’s another first. He usually has to pry work like this out of the kid by force, and he finds it suspicious that he’s offering it so willingly now .

“You want something.” Ed glares at his shoes. “What unreasonable amount of time are you about to request off to chase a wild goose somewhere?” 

“A week.” 

“Denied.” 

“Oh, come on! I did your stupid mission, I wrote your damn report. What else do I have to do?” 

“Your job, Fullmetal. Since you’ve finished this one early, you can get a head start on your next. If you work quickly, you’ll have ample time to spare after you’re finished. I’m doing you a favor.” 

“Yeah, more work is a great gift.” 

“You’re changing the subject. Report. Now.” 

So he obeys. He recounts every detail he remembers, anything at all that might be helpful, but his mind is so fried that he’s afraid of missing something. There are a lot of starts and stops where there shouldn’t be as he struggles to focus on the task at hand. It feels like a weight is pulling him down, down to the ground. He’s in the middle of a sentence when he reaches out for the arm of Roy’s couch and lowers himself into it. Already behind on work because weather had delayed the trains and therefore Ed’s report, which his superiors have been demanding, he’s in a bad enough mood that he refuses to let that slide. 

“You know you have to stand at attention when you’re reporting.” Ed glares. 

“It was a long mission,” he says defensively. “I’m tired.You’re lucky I’m here at all.” Roy does have to give him that. From what he’d had time to read of his report, it sounds like it was a tough one, and he certainly looks the part, disheveled and pale aside from a livid bruise on one cheek where he’d been punched in a fight. 

“Fine,” he replies with a flippant wave of his hand, “have a seat, if you need to.” Ed does so immediately. “Now, continue.” Ed sighs, but it seems more exhausted than irritable. 

He starts up where he’d left off, but as he continues walking Roy through the events of his mission, he begins to lose the thread. His thoughts jump and jumble, sometimes repeating things, others skipping over so much of the story that Roy has to ask for clarification. It’s beginning to irritate him. What’s worse is that he’s slowly leaning back against the sofa, scooting down further and further until he’s nearly recumbent. It’s so disrespectful that he can’t help but say something. 

“I gave you permission to sit, not to lie down. Sit up straight.” For a moment, it seems like he complies, but then keeps leaning forward until his elbows are resting on his thighs, one hand massaging the bridge of his nose. “I won’t ask again. Finish your report.” 

He expects bitching and maybe even yelling, but Ed barely reacts. 

“Gimme a second,” he replies quietly, almost shakily. Roy fights down the urge to roll his eyes. 

“Fullmetal, either report, or take a citation. I don’t have all afternoon.” He shuts his eyes, hand flitting to his temple. “Is something wrong?” Condescension drips from his tone. “Focus. I asked you a question.” 

“I don’t feel right.” That’s not what he expected.

“Elaborate.” When Ed doesn’t, the ire reignites. “I told you, your request for time off is denied, and you’re not going to wriggle out of this one.” 

Ed doesn’t drop the act. If he weren’t looking for it, he’d probably be able to convince himself that he’s faking this, but it’s a difficult assertion to make when he’s standing there looking so lost and sickly. “If you’re hiding an injury again, I swear—”

“No,” he curtails. “Just… sorta lightheaded.” Of course, he’d make everything as difficult as possible, even when he doesn’t have the wherewithal to do so intentionally. 

“You should really have a medic look you over if you’re unwell. Would you like me to call for a car?” 

He expects that calling his bluff will be enough, but it doesn’t pull him out of that dazed expression. “You weren’t hurt beyond the obvious?” 

Conveniently, Ed shakes his head, takes a deep, shuddering breath. Of course he isn’t hurt. That would be too difficult to fake. This, on the other hand, is just a matter of manipulation, and he’s determined to not let it slide. 

“On your feet, then. If you’ve got nothing to go to medical for, then you’re well enough to report.” To his credit, he does stand without complaint, but that, too, quickly ends in dramatics as he wavers and lands hard on one knee.

“Enough of that,” he barks, but Ed doesn’t seem to be listening. 

“Something’s wrong,” he says. “Can’t—s’so hot in here.” He begins to wrestle his way out of his coat, but his movements are clumsy, drunken in a way that would be hard to fake. 

“Slow down. You’re getting all worked up over nothing.” 

Ed says nothing, just continues to struggle with his coat. Finally, he’s convinced enough to ask the question. 

“Are you alright?” 

Ed groans. 

“You look exhausted. When’s the last time you slept?” he asks. The fact that Ed has to think about it is answer enough. “Have you eaten today? Had any water?” 

“I need to lie down,” he says, dodging the questions or not even registering them. It’s enough to get Roy on his feet, crouching and helping him back to sit on the couch, where he more or less melts into the cushions.

“Okay, okay. Easy. Take a minute.” He takes Ed’s legs and sets them on the arm of the couch to elevate them. 

“Hawkeye,” he calls, and she’s at his door in an instant, her stern expression softening around th edges when she sees the scene before her. 

“Is something wrong with Edward, Sir?” 

“I think he needs some water and something to eat. Could you?” 

“Of course.” As she scurries off to find that, he regrets not having swapped places with her. He’d much rather be fetching supplies than standing, awkward and stiff, in front of an ill, dazed subordinate. Up close, Roy can see the sheen of sweat that’s broken out over his forehead, eyes darting around under his closed lids. 

“Stay awake.”

“S’happening?” he asks, painfully childlike. He’s a kid. He’s scared. And Roy has no idea what to do with that. 

“You’re alright. You’re just having a bit of a fainting spell. It’ll be over soon.” Hawkeye nods in approval at his apparently competent tone as she hands him a glass of juice. “Think you could sit up to drink something? It’ll help.” 

Desperate to feel better, Ed nods prematurely and gives it his best effort, but he’s not ready, and it shows in his eyes as soon as he’s vertical. Hawkeye supports his back with her hands and guides the glass to his mouth because his hands are shaking so badly she’s afraid he’ll spill it. By the time he’s slowly sipped about half of it down, he’s more alert and coherent, enough so to be embarrassed. 

“Feeling a little better?”

Ed glares. “Fine,” he snaps. “Just let me finish my stupid report so I can get out of here.” 

“You’re dismissed for the day,” Roy says. “Actually, make it two.” 

“What the hell? Why?”

“Why?” he parrots incredulously. “You just swooned in my office.” 

“I mean, why are you acting like you care?” 

Roy doesn’t know what to do with that. Is everyone in this kid’s life really so demanding that he’s skeptical of being offered a simple break when he’s broken down from exhaustion?

“I’m not a monster. You already collapsed once today, and you think I’m going to push you further just for a report?” 

“So you admit they’re bullshit.” 

“Not what I said. If you pass out in the streets on the way home and drown in a puddle, I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

“Bastard,” he mutters, too shaky for a full meltdown but not so far gone he doesn’t catch the dig. 

“I’m going to call a car. Are you staying in the dorms?”

“Hughes is putting us up.” 

“Even better,” he says. “He can take you home.” 

“It’s that late?” 

“Your little ordeal here wasted quite a bit of time. Namely, mine. So if you’re done making my life a nightmare, I’ll let him know. Could you walk?” 

“I’m fine now. I can do whatever I want.” 

“That’s exactly the attitude that landed you in this situation.” All the same, he fetches Hughes, who bursts through the door, fatherly instinct locked and loaded. 

“Ed, how are you feeling? The Colonel told me what happened. You can’t keep exhausting yourself like this. You’re going to get hurt.” 

“I’m fine,” he says, much more gently than he had to Roy. “Just got a little dizzy. I’ll sleep it off.” 

“Well, I don’t know about ‘fine,’ but we’re going to get you a bowl of stew and a few good nights’ rest. You’ll be back on your feet before you know it.” 

Ed follows him out the door, tossing a look to Mustang like he’s debating saying something. Roy figures it’s either gratitude or a dig, but since he turns back without a word, he’s left to guess which it is. Either way, he’s glad the kid is finally going to get some rest, even if it means waiting a few days longer for that report. 

[taylor-tut-fics]

WE'RE SO BACK BABEY!!! new FMAB fic coming your way! Let me know what you think. It's not my best work ever because I'm a little blocked in my imagination, but fatherly hughes is everything to me so i wanted to write him :)

As soon as Mustang hears the voice on the other end of the phone, his head starts to pound preemptively because he knows it can’t be good. 

“What did you do this time?” he asks exasperatedly. 

“I didn’t do anything,” Ed says defensively, irritably. He hesitates for long enough that Mustang has to prompt him to speak.

“Did you want something?” 

“I…” he sighs. “I think I need to be taken off the mission.” Great. He should have known that sending Ed to a town with one of the largest libraries in the country would be tempting fate, but he’d thought the kid was above lying to weasel out of the mission entirely. He sounds distracted, maybe even a little lost. He’s probably calling from a phone booth right outside the library doors. 

“And why is that?” 

“It’s the wound  got on my last mission…” He trails off as if expecting Mustang to extrapolate the problem from just that. 

“Yes? What about it?”

“I think it’s infected.” It’s enough to give him pause. Ed and his brother had been attacked and had a pretty nasty fight before finally subduing the criminals, but he’d been treated for his wounds and cleared by medical a week ago. All he’d needed had been a few stitches. On the one hand, it wouldn’t be the first time Ed’s made up an excuse to get out of doing something he doesn’t want to do. On the other, infections can be serious. If he ignores it and Ed’s telling the truth, he’d be responsible for the consequences. Because the mission isn’t worth risking his life, he caves. 

“If I do let you off the hook, I expect you’ll go straight to the hospital.” 

“Whatever,” he grumbles. That’s unlike Ed, but he chooses to ignore it. 

“And if you’re lying again,  you’ll face disciplinary action, of course.” 

“Of course,” he mocks. Mustang sighs. 

“Fine. If you’re ready, you can hop on the next train back to Central. I’ll have someone meet you when you arrive.” Ed doesn’t reply, and he thinks maybe he’s called his bluff. “Fullmetal, if you’re lying to me—” 

“It’s not like that,” he argues. “It’s just… I don’t know if I can handle the train ride.” It’s enough that he’s requesting time off, but now he’s demanding a private car to take him there? “It’s really bad. It hurts.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Then I should probably send someone down there to help you get to the car for safety purposes.” This time, he anticipates shouting about how he’s not a little kid and doesn’t need someone to come hold his hand, but he doesn’t do that. 

“Thank you.” It’s shocking. It’s telling. Maybe something is wrong after all, but he still has his doubts. This is Ed, and Ed bounces back. Whatever is going on, it’s got to be strategic. With that, he hangs up the phone and calls for Hughes. 

Unlike Mustang, Hughes was alarmed when he found out that Ed had called the Colonel. It’s not like him to ask for anything. He takes pride in being capable, and though he may tell a lie here and there to delay reports, he’s never asked to be taken off a mission before, and he’s certainly never asked for help. Especially not from Mustang. 

He chats with the driver on the way there. Otherwise, he’d be ruminating on this until Ed is safely in the hands of medical professionals. Even with the distraction, the ride is excruciatingly long. In reality it’s just a little over two hours, but he feels impatient. He asks the driver to speed up twice over the course of the ride just to shave off a few precious minutes from the drive. 

When he finally does arrive at the inn, he asks the man at the front desk what room Ed is in, then hurries down the hall to get to it. He knocks, but there’s no answer. 

“Hey, Ed, are you in there?” he calls. The only reply he receives is a pained groan. He pushes the door open, only to find Ed curled up in a ball on the bed. It makes his heart skip a beat. “Ed, come on. Wake up. Can you hear me?” 

He opens his eyes and drags a sluggish gaze over him but it only takes a few seconds for him to register his presence. 

“Didn’t you hear me? I was calling your name.” Ed frowns. 

“Oh. I think I fell asleep,” he admits. 

“That’s okay. How are you feeling?” 

He shrugs, a noncommittal answer that doesn’t make him feel any better. His cheeks are flushed and shiny despite his shaking chills. He’s definitely running a fever, Hughes just doesn’t know how high it is. It’s troubling that Ed’s reflexes are so slow that he doesn’t swat his hands away as he reaches out to place a hand to his forehead. He’d expected heat, but this—this is bad. He’s blazing, and the hospital is two hours away. That’s a long time to ride out a fever like this. 

“Do you mind if I take a look at your wound?” 

Ed shakes his head and curls inward, guarding his abdomen. 

“I won’t touch it; I promise, but I need to know what we’re dealing with. I’m going to lift your shirt up, okay?” 

Ed is so out of it that his attempts at fighting him off are pathetic and easily thwarted. Instead, he does something much more troubling: he whimpers in pain. He sounds so damn young with his guard down, the fever melting his normally cocky composure. Ed wraps his arms around himself when the sheet, his coat, and several blankets are removed. He whines at that, too.

“Give it back,” he manages, sounding pained and pitiful. 

“I’m sorry, but I need to see. You’re too hot. The blankets aren’t doing you any favors.” It’s a terrifying relief that he forgets the conversation nearly instantly. It shows Hughes just how delirious he is, but it also means that maybe he won’t remember this pain tomorrow, that he won’t know that he was in agonized tears.  It makes sense as soon as he sees Ed’s stomach. A long gash is gouged into the center of an enormous purple bruise, bright, angry red around the edges and seeping milky fluid. 

“Ed,” he breathes. He doesn’t want to alarm him, but it’s difficult to hide his shock. “How long has this been infected?” 

“Two days?” he guesses. “It’s hard to remember.” Jesus. He’s lucky he’s not dead. 

“Why didn’t you call sooner?” 

The insinuation that Ed can’t take care of himself ignites righteous, misplaced defensiveness. 

“M’handling it.” 

“Well, you need a doctor to handle it. We’re going straight to the hospital in Central. The car is parked outside. Have you got all your things?” 

The state of his dorm says everything. Ed reaches to pick a shirt up off the floor, but as soon as he bends down, a stab of pain shoots through him so intensely and unexpectedly that he cries out. Hughes takes the shirt from his hand and folds it neatly. 

“Easy,” Hughes soothes, “I’m going to pack this up. You just realx, okay? It’ll only take a minute.” 

He doesn’t want to sit on the sidelines and watch someone else clean up his mess, but he’s got no choice. 

“It’s a good thing you called,” Hughes says, not even looking up from the pile of laundry Ed had just tossed on the floor. “Doing this on your own would have been hell.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I… I’m sorry. For putting you out like this. We’ll find something to pay you back—”

Hughes chuckles. “This isn’t alchemy and I don’t need an equivalent exchange. I’m helping because I care. “The only thing I want is for you to be able to rest every now and again.” 

No one has ever said that to him, either. They either write him off as too stubborn to change or they want something in return. Because he can’t put a name to the feelings that gives him, there’s no way he’ll be able to articulate them. People often treat him like a child, condescending and lying to him to keep him from knowing hard truths. They assume he’s younger than he is because of his stature, especially when he’s dwarfed by Al’s suit of armor. When Hughes does it, though, it doesn’t feel that way. It feels genuine, caring. Fatherly, almost. 

While he cleans, Ed’s eyes slip shut, exhausted and foggy from the fever. It’s enough to terrify Hughes. 

“Ed,” he calls, shaking his shoulder. He opens his eyes, squinting against the light streaming through the window. “Don’t scare me like that. I need you to stay awake.” 

“Can’t…” he trails off for a moment before he finds a little more clarity. “Can’t promise anything.” Indeed it’s true. Falling asleep hadn’t been his choice, especially in front of a superior, even one as sensitive as Hughes. Hell, maybe especially one that sensitive. 

“I know you’re tired, but you have to keep talking to me.”

“I’m so tired,” he complains. “And cold.” 

“I know. You’re running a pretty bad fever. You must be miserable.” Ed simply shrugs. “I’m going to call the Colonel and let him know what’s going on. Don’t move.” 

As soon as he leaves, Ed lets his eyes shut again, this time on purpose. He just needs a moment or two, then he’ll be ready to go. Of course he’ll be ready. 

He’s not ready. By the time he’s done on the phone, Hughes returns to the dorm only to find Ed sleeping under a mountain of quilts. This time, he’s able to bite back his panic, even when the first two times he calls Ed’s name earns him no response. He wakes on the third, groggy and sleepy. 

“Think you can make it to the car?” he asks. Ed nods without hesitation despite the fact that Hughes has doubts. Still Ed is always full of surprises, because he manages to make his way, however waveringly, to the car without assistance. Immediately, he leans against the window, leaving a small ring of fog where his raging temperature contrasts with the frigid day. He’s out like a light before Hughes even realizes that his eyes are shut, but he decides to leave it. Staying awake isn’t even for Ed’s own benefit—it’s for Hughes’. He’d feel better if he could keep him conscious, but ultimately decides against waking him now. The kid barely sleeps, anyway. He probably needs this, and Hughes will do anything to give him what he needs. 

[taylor-tut-fics]

it's 11:30 pm, i get up for work in two and a half hours, and I've been up since 7. i've been sleeping this poorly for weeks. here's a fic. forgive me if i say anything insane or nonsensical. I'm deliriously exhausted.

Jon would swear that his shoes are squeaking louder than normal as he walks down the linoleum hallway from his office to the bullpen. Everyone along the way must be looking up because he can feel Eyes on his back the whole way. They’re judging him. Even the people in this building whom he barely knows are thinking, God, what a lazy good for nothing that Head Archivist is. At the very least, Elias is going to think so. 

He’d stuck it out for as long as he could, but he’s at the end of his rope. His head is pounding steadily in time with a rapid heart rate that pushes syrupy blood through his veins, to his heart, then away, to, then away. It’s hard to think, hard to breathe. He’d been fine when he’d woken up in the morning, then, several hours of hot and cold flashes left him feeling confused, muddled, and pained. 

“Elias,” he calls, knocking on his closed door. Even when he’s not busy, Elias has a closed-door policy. It might be to send the message that he’s too busy to be bothered by anyone’s anything. “Can I come in?” 

Papers shuffle; Elias sighs. 

“Come in. Shut the door behind you, will you?” 

Jon does as he’s asked. Though he hadn’t planned on taking a seat, his head is swimming from the short walk down the hall, and his knees are quivering. 

“Are you alright? I’m sure that if you’re coming to me, something has gone awry.” It’s a not-so-subtle dig, a jab insinuating he shouldn’t be bothering him disguised as concern. Since he needs the latter, he ignores the former. 

“I’m sorry to intrude,” he begins in a voice that’s rough and wrecked, like he’s been swallowing rocks, “but I’m afraid I’m having a… well, I’m… Erm.” He can’t bring himself to say he’s ill. Years of people ignoring that very complaint have taught him not to make it, but it can’t be helped. His only other option would have been to send an email saying he’s headed home early for the day, and he doubts that would have gone over well. At least if he does this in person, Elias can see what a state he’s in. 

“Jon? I’m afraid I’m not sure what you’re asking.” Get to the point, he’s thinking. No one cares, anyway.

“I’m not feeling well,” he manages, the words coming out a little louder and faster than he’d hoped. He supposes he’s proud of himself for saying them at all.

“Hm,” he hums, disinterested. “I’m sorry to hear that.” That’s all he says. Doesn’t ask if he’s alright, whether he needs to go home. Just fake pity and an impatient, pointed glance toward his stack of paperwork. How can someone be a prick just with their eyes? 

“I was wondering if you’d mind me leaving a little early.” 

“How early?” 

“Now,” he says. “It’s a bit urgent.” 

“Jon,” he sighs. “You know that normally, I’d say yes.” Does he know that? “But I’m afraid there’s just too much to be done. You’ve not recorded a statement all week, and we need to keep a steady pace if we’re ever going to finish taping them.” 

“Of—of course,” he stammers. “I promise I’ll record more than one next week, I just need—” 

“More than one in a week isn’t a promise;it’s the expectation, and currently, you’re failing to meet it.” 

“I’m—”

“I know you’re trying. I just can’t shake the feeling that perhaps this position is overwhelming you, particularly if it’s affecting your health like this. You really do look terrible.” Again with that faux concern. 

“I’m happy to record it,” comes a voice from the doorway behind him, so sudden he startles. Tim. “If Jon’s asking to leave, it must be bad.” 

“I’m sorry, but that’s Jon’s duty. I can’t justify allowing you to perform a duty above your pay grade.” 

“You drive a hard bargain, but I suppose I’d accept more pay for it.” 

“Not exactly what I meant,” Elias says without a hint of amusement. “Jon, though I can’t force you to stay, I do highly recommend you do, at least until after you’ve recorded a statement. If you do that, you’re free to go.” 

The thought of reading makes his head throb, and his stomach does a lurch, like he’s trying to read in a moving car rather than at his stationary desk. 

“Of course,” he replies. “Yes, I can—I can do that.” He hopes. 

Tim follows him to his office so quietly that Jon doesn’t notice until he nearly slams the door in his face. 

“What was that about?” he asks. “You’re ill?” 

“A bit. Nothing a rest won’t fix, and that can wait.” Tim looks dubious. 

“You’re sure? You look wrecked, mate.” It’s true, but that doesn’t mean it’s nice to hear. “Elias can’t make you stay. What’s he going to do, hold you down? I’d go home anyway, if I were you.” Well, that’s because Tim isn’t at risk of demotion. If Jon disobeys a direct order and takes unapproved time off, he could be placed right back in research, this time with no friends and no second chance at upward mobility. 

“I don’t remember asking for advice. If that’s all, I’d appreciate you getting back to work.” It’s shitty of him, and he knows it. Tim’s trying to help because he’s a good guy, and Jon is pushing him away because it’s easier than letting him in. He’s right, too. He should be prioritizing his health over his job. However, as with everything in his life, it’s not that simple. 

“Right. I’ll come check on you in a bit, alright? And if you start to feel worse, you know where I am.” 

“Thank you,” he says, soft words punctured by a sharp tone. With that, he shuts his door and sits down at his desk, desperate to get this over with. 

By the time he’s finished recording, he’s exhausted. The strange pull of the statement always leaves him in a foggy, nearly blissful haze until he returns to reality and crashes, but that’s not enough this time. When he’s back with himself, it’s immediately obvious that something is very wrong. He’s shaking again—how long has he been doing that? Nausea crashes into him like a choppy wave and he has to lean over his trash can to dry heave. Luckily, he hasn’t eaten anything in hours, so all that comes up is a mouthful of tea and stomach acid. 

True to his word, the next thing he registers is Tim kneeling beside him, hands outstretched like he thinks Jon’s going to fall. Hell, he might. 

“Are you back with me?” 

Jon frowns. 

“Where was I?” 

“You were pretty out of it for a minute there. I had to call your name three times.” 

That’s not good, given that he can’t remember even one of them. His headache is now a migraine. Even blinking at Tim as he tries to absorb what he’s just said hurts. 

“Sorry,” he says because it feels like a safe answer. “I’m—I don’t feel so well.” 

“I bet. Come on. Get your coat and leave your folders. I’m taking you home.” 

“Elias—”

“Elias can take it up with me if he has a problem with it. You can’t work like this.” 

Normally, he’d rather stay the night here on the cot than take off early, but sleep sounds so delicious that he can’t say no. Pulling his coat tightly around him, he stands, wavers, and steadies with Tim’s help.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sick in all the years of working together. I was beginning to think you escaped from a laboratory somewhere.” Jon huffs a puff of air through his nose. “I suppose we found your limit, then, hm? Next time, we’ll do better to avoid hitting it.” Tim must know that he doesn’t consider his human limitations until they’re tailgating him. This can and might happen again. In fact, it’ll be surprising if he’s never again in a physical pile-up. But he doesn’t have to tell Tim that. He’s being so kind and to say he’s not going to change will be a slap in the face. 

“Thank you,” he says, this time sincerely, warmly. Because he’s in no shape to take the tube home, Tim calls a cab, and they board it when it arrives. Tim tells the driver Jon’s address because he knows it by heart, and by the time he opens eyes he hadn’t noticed he’d shut, he’s in the car park outside his flat. 

“Let’s get you upstairs.” With a lot of support, Jon manages to walk the short distance to his doorstep, then turns around to dismiss him. 

“I’m sorry to have put you out like this.” 

“Are you kidding? I’ll take any excuse to skip out on work. I’m coming in with you, just to make sure you’re situated. I’ll leave after that, I promise.” He wants to tell him to stay as long as he wants, but he lacks the energy to do anything but nod. Once he finally manages to shove his key into the lock with shaking hands, Tim leads him straight to the couch, steals and covers him with his duvet, and rummages through his things until he finds a thermometer and some surely expired flu medicine. 

“You need to stock up on things. Your medicine cabinet looks like you’re only allowed war rations.” That makes him smile. Tim offers him a thermometer, and though it’s awkward to sit in complete silence while he waits the minute it takes to beep, he places it in his mouth. As soon as it chirps, Tim swipes it from Jon’s hands before he has a chance to even see the number.” 

“Jesus, Jon. You’re roasting.” 

Jon shrugs. “I’ll be fine after a nap.” 

“I’m not so sure. Hey, I’m going to head to the store for a few supplies. When I get back, I’m not leaving until that temperature comes down without fever reducers.” 

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m not doing it because I have to. You’re my friend.” It’s that, so simple and light that it fizzes in his ears like a freshly opened seltzer, which breaks him. A friend. He’d always suspected, but Tim has never said it aloud before to confirm it: they’re friends. Not coworkers, not boss and employee, but friends. 

“Right. Thank you.” Without another word on the matter, he steps out the door. Jon shuts his eyes without a qualm, knowing his friend will keep him safe.

[taylor-tut-fics]

ayyy guess who's back!! with a product of severe insomnia!! it's taylor!! here's an fmab fic for you! enjoy :)

It doesn’t matter that a week ago he’d tried to weasel out of reporting to Mustang with the mildest cold he’s ever had and gotten caught, in his opinion. Sure, he’d exaggerated, but he hadn’t outright lied. He was sick, just… maybe he’d oversold it a little with the repeated use of the word “dying,” which had prompted the bastard Colonel to send a doctor to his dorm to check him over. She’d found him not only not dying, but not even running a fever. Mustang hadn’t been happy, especially since that had been his last day available for appointments for the rest of the week before addressing some business out of town, so now he had to wait that much longer to receive a report his superiors were already bitching about. He hadn’t been happy about it. 

But that doesn’t matter. 

Now, he is sick enough to need to skip, and he’s being denied. He even offered to let Mustang call his bluff and see a doctor, but he hadn’t wavered, saying that he’s not about to waste a doctor’s time again for something so obviously factitious. He’s making him report on the coldest day of the year. Snow, blindingly white, coming down heavily. With all-over body pain, a splitting headache, and a horrible cough. He could report to medical of his own accord, but Mustang already told him he’d be in trouble if he did. Maybe he’d eat his words if he’s running a fever, but he’s not sure whether he is and he doesn’t want to risk it. Not to mention, he might not even pity him, anyway. 

After a walk he feels like he barely survives, he slips through the door to Headquarters quietly and tiredly, too exhausted and sore to make a scene. The last thing he wants is to get caught in a conversation that will keep him here any longer than he needs to be. All he wants is to be back in bed at the dorms, under a thick layer of blankets waiting for either this to pass. After muffling a deep, wet cough into his elbow as best he can to keep the noise down and prevent someone hearing, he taps the door to Mustang’s office open. 

“I have your stupid report,” he says, voice shredded. He hasn’t spoken to anyone since he talked to Al on the phone yesterday, and it thankfully hadn’t sounded nearly this bad then, or he’d have been on the next train back to Central. No one wants that, but still, it’s a troubling new development, especially given how raw and swollen his throat feels. 

“Fullmetal, did I give you permission to enter?” he asks.

“You gave me an appointment time.” 

“Well, you’re going to have to wait, because I’m busy. Something came up.” He’s just doing paperwork. Bastard. 

“I can’t wait,” he argues, but his sore throat makes it sound like whining. “I have things to do.” 

Ed is prepared to stand his ground on this. An appointment is an appointment, even if he tends to be… a little late to his own. This is different. He just can’t think of why it is off the top of his head. Mustang looks him over for a long moment and either decides to be a professional or takes a modicum of pity on him. 

“Fine, you win. I’m a man of my word. Hand it over.” Ed does as he’s told quietly and without a fuss, then sits down on the sofa while he waits for him to read it over. God, his head is pounding, and the bright light of snow through the window in here isn’t helping. It’s like staring straight into the sun and his eyes are practically burning, so he has no choice but to close them. 

But with his eyes shut, he could absolutely fall asleep. He’d slept last night—quite a lot, for Ed, though it was highly interrupted by needing to cough and shift positions to breathe. Not to mention how badly his ports always hurt when he’s sick. Think joints are bad with a fever? Try a piece of metal attached to his nerves. 

“Fullmetal,” he booms, half out of anger and half to wake him from the light sleep he’s on his way to drifting into, “this is unreadable.” 

Ed blinks. 

“What?” 

“Your handwriting is illegible. Did you do this on the train? Or perhaps in the car we sent while it drove over cobblestone? Or maybe even while you walked here?” 

“What?” he repeats. “No, I—”

“In any case, it’s going to need to be redone,” he steamrolls over any explanation Ed might try to give, assuming it’s going to be a thin excuse. He’s too tired to argue. It’s the only thing between him and going back to bed, and he desperately wants to go back to bed, so he snatches back the paper with a few precision curses. Mustang is visibly surprised. 

“Not going to try to fight me?” 

“Would it do any good?” 

Mustang pauses for a moment, no doubt noticing how bad he looks. He decides to cough a few times just to drive home how ill he is on the off chance that he’ll tell him he can postpone. 

“While I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, you should have done this before you cried wolf. You’ve put it off long enough.” 

He doesn’t salute, doesn’t say a word before walking out of his office headed toward his desk. 

Mustang considers himself a patient man. Maybe not so patient that it’s one of his strengths, but patient enough to have given Fullmetal ample time to finish his report, neat and complete. The document he’d placed in his hands had been worse than his usual barely-passing work. Some of his worst yet, if not superlative. Illegible, thoughts meandering and incomplete. There are people breathing down his throat for this, since it had been a pretty vital mission, and he’s running out of ways to say he’s gone easy on the kid. Ill or not, he’s going to have a report in his hands by the time he leaves today.

He’s patient, not soft. 

Once again, he waits far too long. It’s not that hard. It’s just a report, and Ed is a smart kid who’s used to working fast. If he’s not done by now, that deserves a new scolding of its own. With his own work starting to blur his vision from staring at it for too long, he decides it’s time for a short break, and what better to do than to kill two birds with one stone? As an added bonus, he might get a little rise out of him if he pushes the right buttons, the tantrum he missed when he gave him the report to repeat. Though they’re annoying to deal with, sometimes a flair of drama breaks up the monotony of his day, provides a bit of variety in his conversations in a sea of people who drop in, agree with him, salute, and leave as quickly as possible. 

When he does arrive at Ed’s desk, he’s unhappy with what he finds. Ed is face down on folded arms, clearly having ignored the assignment at hand in favor of a nap. While the kid could probably use it—he doesn’t sleep enough—now and here is not the time nor place. 

Deciding his lecture will hold more weight if he gives him the benefit of the doubt, he snatches the paper from under him, waking him with a start. Hazy eyes dart around the room so frantically he almost regrets not just shaking him awake. 

“I trust this is ready,” he says, waiting for a drowsy Ed to focus on his face. It takes a beat too long, just enough to imply he’s been sleeping for quite a while now. 

His suspicion is immediately confirmed when he finds he’s written less than three paragraphs. He doesn’t even have to bother reading it. A cursory glance finds his handwriting even worse than before, so bad it looks like he’s written it with his non-dominant hand. 

“Fullmetal, care to tell me why I’m holding in my hands another report that’s nowhere near finished and in no shape to be submitted?” 

He blinks a few times, then frowns. “I… I finished it, didn’t I?”

That sparks ire. 

“You call this finished? Not only is it an incomplete record of your mission, but it’s illegible. You’re going to start over, and there will be punitive action for this.” 

“I… I can’t.” It feeds the flame. 

“You can’t,” he repeats, voice dripping with condescension. “And why, pray tell, is that?” 

Ed takes a long time to answer, so long that he’s about to start a new rant, this one more scathing than the last, but Ed speaks just in the nick of time and says something unexpected. 

“Head’s pounding,” he replies. “Can’t focus.” 

“I told you,” he starts, unable to keep the anger from his tone, “I’m not buying that. You were cleared by a doctor already.” 

“Got worse,” he says. Before he can dig into a satisfying reply, he coughs, this time rougher, deeper, and longer than the last time he’d heard it. He sighs. 

“Fullmetal, work with me here. I know you don’t feel well, but I need this report yesterday.” 

“Sorry,” he replies, meek and pitiful. Neither of which describes the Fullmetal Alchemist. “I just… need a day. L’be fine tomorrow. Can write it tomorrow.” He seems… off. Slurring his words, and the disorientation he’d originally written off as sleep inertia hasn’t worn off even slightly. It makes him doubt that he’s lying just enough to hesitate.

“If you need to see medical again—”

“Just need to sleep,” he replies. “No hospitals. Just need’a sleep it off. Just a day. Head’s pounding.” The reply, echoing what he’s already said, is worrisome. 

“You’ve mentioned,” he says, moving closer but not bending down to his level. He reaches out a hand to his forehead and, though he’s starting to expect to find heat, is shocked by the intensity of it. “That’s quite a fever you’re running,” he says, his tone softening as best he can now that he knows he’s dealing with a sick child rather than an insubordinate Major. Once again, he shuts his eyes, head bobbing forward and body drooping so badly that Roy steadies him to keep him from falling out of his chair. 

“Hey, now,” he scolds gently, certainly not the reprimand he’d anticipated giving. “Stay sitting up. Look, I’ll dismiss you for the day, alright? You’re right, you clearly need rest, and you’re not going to get it here. You’re free to go back to the dorms.” Ed dips forward again in response, this time with a small moan. “What did I just say?” he demands. “Sit up.” 

“M’dizzy,” he replies, and just as he’s about to get him to sit on the floor with his head between his knees, he drops completely. Roy’s the only thing that keeps him from falling face first onto the floor. 

“Shit!” he exclaims, underestimating Ed’s weight, taking into account his stature but not his automail. He eases him from the chair and lays him down on the floor. “Come on, Fullmetal. Don’t do this.” 

“Colonel?” comes a voice from behind him, Hughes rushing to his side and taking a knee beside them. “What’s going on?” 

“He’s running a fever,” he replies. “He just dropped. I need to call medical. Will you—”

“I’ve got him,” Hughes replies. “You go ahead.” Roy nods and retreats to his office as quickly as he can without making a scene. 

By the time he returns, Ed is conscious again, and while it’s a relief to see, he’s glad to have missed it, those blurry moments of twilight consciousness in which he’d have needed gentle soothing rather than stiff professionalism. Hughes was definitely the man for that job. 

“How’s he doing?” 

“Burning up,” he replies. “Is medical on the way?” 

“They’ll be here soon. What do we do in the meantime?” 

“Would you mind grabbing a washcloth and some cold water? We need to bring this fever down.” 

Once again happy for the errand that will offer a reprieve from keeping vigil, Roy hurries off to collect the items. Upon his return, he finds Ed struggling to sit up and Hughes fighting to keep him down. 

“I just—just need to sleep. Al’s waiting.” 

“We’ll call him, but you need to see a doctor, Ed. We can’t bring that fever down on our own.” 

“Jus’lemme go back to the dorms. Al’s waiting.” While he babbles barely coherently, seeming not to register that he’s repeating things, Roy dips the cloth in the cool water and lays it over Ed’s forehead. 

“I know. Aren’t you feeling pretty rough?” 

Ed hesitates, then nods. 

“See? The doctors will give you something to help. Al will meet us at the hospital, alright? We’ll call him now.” Ed shuts his eyes and doesn’t object. It’s worrisome. When he opens them a moment later, he repeats both his complaints of pain and his desire for his brother. He coughs so badly they sit him up, propped against Hughes because he can’t do it of his own accord. 

“I’m going to check on medical,” Roy says. “They should be here any minute.” 

He skitters away, trusting Hughes to do the emotional work he can’t. He’ll do great; he doesn’t even have to doubt for a moment. Roy himself… not so much. It’s better that he leaves. 

That won’t keep him from stopping by the hospital later to visit a very angry Ed who believes he doesn’t belong here and should have been allowed to go back to the dorms for a little rest. 

“If you’re well enough to leave,” Roy says, “then you’re well enough to work on that report. I’ll get you something to write with.” A well-timed, probably intentional cough that still sounds wet and awful. 

“On second thought, I’m still pretty sick. Probably need a week or two.” 

“We’ll see what the doctors say about that one, but at the very least, you win. Not today.” He stands to leave. Now that he’s made an appearance, one during which he never even sat down, he’s quickly running out of things to say. “Soon, though,” he adds. 

“Whatever,” Ed sighs. 

He’s not getting that report any time in the near future, that’s for damn sure. 

[taylor-tut-fics]

could you write one where davids parents come visit the camp out of nowhere without announcing it, and theres a lot of tension, maybe max and/or gwen gets curious about it too? honestly i dont have anything too specific in mind, you could change some stuff up :D

hell yeah I can!! there are some random headcanons in here that i added just to fill in some gaps, but hopefully you like it!!

 “David,” Gwen says when she enters the mess hall from her break, “some people are here to see you.” 

“To see me?” he asks. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and it sets him a little on edge. What has Campbell gotten himself into this time? “Can you watch the kids?” 

“Yeah, yeah. But make it quick. I don’t want to be alone with the goblins.” 

David ignores it even though he hates when she talks about them like that. They’re good kids—they just need to learn healthier ways of releasing their energy and creativity. 

The first thing he sees when he steps out of the mess hall makes his stomach sink immediately. The car, a small, white, banged-up old thing, sets his heart racing. He tries to shake off that feeling. Just because this looks like his parents’ car, doesn’t mean it is. In fact, that’s the least likely scenario. It’s more plausible to believe that they sold it, or maybe even that someone stole it. However, when the door opens and the passenger steps out, the feeling of dread sets his heart racing. 

“Kathy? Ron? What are you doing here?” 

“What, you won’t even call us ‘Mom and Dad’?” his mother asks, sounding hurt. He won’t let that soften his resolve. The animosity he feels is their fault and he won’t let them make it his problem, not after all the years of therapy it had taken to stop blaming himself for everything. If he lets himself call them Mom and Dad, he could be undoing all those years of work. Not to mention, he doesn’t really think of him that way anymore. Not after Mrs. and Mrs. Washington, the people who had fostered him the longest of all the homes he’d bounced between, had raised him. They’re his parents, not these near-strangers. 

“Hi, David,” Ron greets. “It’s been a while.” 

Seven years, in fact, and he doesn’t regret a single minute of it. Between the anxiety and the dozens of questions that spring to his mind all at once, his head is swimming so badly that he reaches out a hand to steady himself on the flag pole. 

“How did you find me? And why?” 

His tone is icy, formal. They shouldn’t be here. He hasn’t had contact with them in a decade, and that wasn’t by accident. Ron pulls his phone from his pocket and shows the screen to David, who grits his teeth when he sees the article: a front page story about Campbell and his alleged illegal activities, but rather than a mug shot, the article chose to use a photo of the camp. Standing right at the front saluting the flag is David. From there, it mustn’t have been hard to figure out where he was. Still, that only answers half of his question. 

“That doesn’t explain why you came.” 

“We just want to talk.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk,” he says calmly, quietly. If he raises his voice like he wants to, someone in the mess hall might hear and come to investigate. The last thing he needs is for this to be made worse by the presence of an audience. “I think you should go.”

His parents look at one another for a long moment as if debating whether to do as he says, but unfortunately, as always, they refuse to do what’s in his best interests. 

“Davey—”

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps. Kathy is a little too taken aback to respond, and that pisses him off even more than their unannounced visit. How did they think he was going to react? Tears of joy? Hugs all around? After everything they put him through?

“You neglected me. The state took me away and I had to bounce from house to house for years before I finally aged out of the system with no money and no life skills. I could tell you all about how horrible that was, but you wouldn’t care. Do you expect me to forget about all that just because you say you’re sorry?” 

“Your mother is trying to get clean.” David blinks away the tears that have formed in his eyes. 

“You’re what?”

“Part of my program is that I have to apologize to people I’ve hurt with my addiction. You’re at the top of the list.” That elicits a derisive snort. 

“Then you should understand why I want you to leave.” 

“I can’t move on from this until you forgive me.” 

That’s it, isn’t it? It’s as if she doesn’t recognize how bad that sounds. How selfish. To her, his forgiveness is a token to be dealt rather than a flower to be watered. She doesn’t care to right her wrong—she just wants him to tell her it’s okay. That he understands. To embrace her as if she hadn’t ruined his childhood and nearly rotted his entire personality; would have if it weren’t for his foster parents who sent him to Camp Campbell. He’s healed on his own time with his own teeth and nails. At times, he’s clawed at the hard earth. He’s crawled when his knees gave out. He’s not about to carry her up that same hill. He refuses to heal her just so she doesn’t have to actually work on anything. She doesn’t deserve that much from him any more than he deserves to be forced to say it. 

“Then you’re just going to have to live with it.” Before they can even retort and give another bullshit, self-absorbed reason, he turns on his heels toward the mess hall—only to find that the door is open a crack and there are a pair of eyes peeking through it. Instantly, he knows it’s Max, and shame flows into him like creamer into black coffee. 

“Hi, Max,” he greets nervously. “How, uh, how much of that did you hear?” 

“Pretty much all of it.” He’s not meeting David’s eyes as he fiddles with the strings of his hoodie. David motions him outside, so he shuts the door behind him and moves closer so David can take a knee and face him on the same level. 

“You shouldn’t have had to hear all that. I’m sorry.”

“I’m the one who followed you.” David nods. 

“Still, I should have been more careful.” Max rolls his eyes, then kicks at the dirt in silence for a few seconds until David is afraid he’s not going to say anything at all. He’s made Max feel—well, he’s not sure. Pity, maybe. The last thing he wants from him.

“I didn’t know it was like that for you.” 

“I don’t talk about it much. Plus, it’s not something you should be worrying about. It’s in the past.” 

“Sounds like it’s not.” David sighs. 

“Okay, maybe a little less in the past than I thought, but it’s okay. You should forget all about it.” 

“Is that why you’re so into this shitty camp stuff?” 

“I think so, yeah. I know you don’t like this place, but it meant a lot to me as a kid. I was fed consistently, made some friends. Not to mention that it was a break from all the chaos from home. It’s safe here, and it’s the first time I ever really felt that way.” 

Max scoffs at the use of the word “safe”, which is fair because half the time things are on fire and David is maimed on a nearly daily basis, but he doesn’t argue. 

“I’m sure this is triggering a lot of negative emotions about your parents, and I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Do you need to talk about it?” 

“I’m fucking fine,” he snaps in confusing anger. He braces himself for Max making fun of him. He’s broken, weak, and helpless. Just seeing them had brought frustrated, angry grief tears to his eyes. There’s no way Max is going to let that go. 

“You must think this is pretty pathetic, and I don’t—”

“You don’t know what I think.” David’s teeth click together as he shuts his mouth abruptly. 

“Oh. Sure, of course you’re right. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Stop apologizing for shit that isn’t your fault,” he says, kicking him hard in the leg. David winces, but doesn’t let it distract him. “Does Gwen know?” 

“No, no one does. I would appreciate it if we could keep this just between us.” 

This is Max he’s talking about, so he’s not sure which way he’s going to fall. On the one hand, he might use it as blackmail to get what he wants for the rest of the summer, but on the other, he probably doesn’t care enough to go around telling everyone that poor little Davey had a shit childhood. Surprisingly, Max does neither. 

“Yeah, fine. It’s none of my business.” 

“I didn’t say that. I’m not angry with you. I just—I don’t really like to talk about it, and if anyone knew, they might think of me differently, or ask me questions, or lose respect for me.” 

“What respect?” 

David laughs lightly. 

“I walked into that, I think. But thank you for keeping it a secret.” 

“Whatever, David. Just—that must have sucked, hearing from them again. I know that once I move out, I don’t want to see my parents every again.” 

“That’s understandable, and I hope you know you can talk to me about things like this. I do understand, and not something you should deal with alone.” 

“Then why won’t you tell Gwen?” 

He doesn’t have a good answer for that. 

“It’s just not the right time.” 

“Right,” Max says. “What, are you gonna stand out here all day, or are you gonna fucking do your job?” 

The rapid change in demeanor and subject matter startles him a little, but it’s nothing he can’t recover from. He gets to his feet once more and checks behind him to make sure the car really left, feeling relieved when he sees that it has. With that, he follows Max back to the mess hall, grateful for something to do other than wallow and being able to trust that his secret is safe. 

[taylor-tut-fics]

HEAR ME OUT I STARTED THIS AND I LOVE THE CONCEPT BUT IDK WHERE I'M GOING

hear me out: camp camp fic where the kids handcuff david and gwen together? but sickfic somehow? would y'all read this because i'm kinda into it

[taylor-tut-fics]

hell yes to the handcuff fic!!!!

HELL YES THANK YOU

i started working on it today, i have no idea where it's going but it's gonna be so fun omg. if you have any requests or ideas lmk! if not, it'll probably be up in a few days 👹👹👹

[taylor-tut-fics]

hear me out: camp camp fic where the kids handcuff david and gwen together? but sickfic somehow? would y'all read this because i'm kinda into it

[taylor-tut-fics]

yes we've all seen "melodramatic whumpee not being taken seriously until things get bad" but what about if they got sick or hurt and their friend(s) realized immediately that this looks nothing like their normal melodrama?