#HANDFULS of vicodin every few hours

[houseswife]

we spend the entire show watching house do anything to treat his pain — he goes to (understandably) insane, destructive lengths just to ensure he never has to suffer being sober. his entire life is focused around a cycle of distraction, thrill-seeking, and avoidance. we know that his home is filled with hundreds upon hundreds of pills, so he can always prolong and maximise those moments where his agony is muffled. and yet, in the final scene, we see him dive head-on into the end, and despite this being the most gruelling, insurmountable prognosis of his entire life, we see him smile bathed in the sunlight; those muted tones are dauntingly lifted, yet there’s no echo of a bottle rattling.

#this is a pretentious way of wording it but #it’s driving me insane that house — at the peak of his addiction and for most of the years following the infarction — was seen to take #HANDFULS of vicodin every few hours #because it hurts for him to even just EXIST #he’s never gone long stretches without relapsing #and yet!! and yet!! it’s so visibly clear that they don’t have much on them when they run away #not enough luggage space for a chronically ill AND a terminally ill person’s worth of painkillers anyway #it’s absolutely certain that there will be pain. #for both of them #this will be no doubt the most excruciating months they’ve ever lived through #but it’s worth it #and they’re more content than they’ve ever been #I JUST. AUGHHHHHHGGGH #house md #greg house #gregory house #hatecrimes md #hilson #james wilson #house/wilson

[dariaslookalike]

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Pt 10: Should you suck him or rub him?

Summary:

It seems, oddly enough, that Gregory House lives to annoy you. He takes 'arseholish boss' to the next level. Wake up in the morning, ready to have breakfast, and drive to the hospital where you both work? Nope, you're getting a text that says you're late to his impromptu 4:30 AM meeting where he's had the 'breakthrough of the century' on the team's latest case. Get your hair cut and walk into work, for once feeling confident? Nope, he's saying that he would have done a better job blinded, hands tied and going through Vicodin withdrawals. Finally, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, prove him wrong and attempt to wipe the cockiness off his face? Nope, you're simply slow because you didn't get to your diagnosis quicker and weak-willed because you didn't fight him for it in the beginning. Everything House does infuriates you, and it seems everything you do infuriates him. No wonder you end up pinned to the wall of your apartment and groping him like your life depends on. And knowing House, it very may well.

Warnings: Adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter:

-----------------------

You jolt awake in the night; a chilly breeze through the window or an odd nightmare that was already fading from your memory. Whatever it was, you thrash against the blanket and suck in sharp breaths of air. You blearily gaze around the room when a shiver creeps up your spine and you find him sitting in the corner armchair.

“You’re a creep.” You croak out.

House raises his glass of bourbon in admission. You can only see the vague silhouette of him lit up by the light drifting in from the street; the glint of his glass, the dark shadows of his brow and cheekbones. You stay like that for a few minutes, gazing at each other. Your eyes gradually adjust to the darkness, and while he sips, you drink in the sight of him. The new stubble lining his face, the whites of his eyes, the curl of his lip. 

You break the silence with a quiet question. “How was work?”

You realise it’s dumb as soon as you say it. So much had happened from work to here, where you lay, naked in his bed. You roll yourself over to your side, fully facing him.

House stares at you, and nothing is revealed on the stony plane of his face. “Cameron asked about you.”

You blink. Not like House to avoid the question, but you play into him. “What’d you say?”

His jaw clenches. “I didn’t know what to say.”

You hear his glass clink against the bedside table, and he groans. He shifts in his chair, and you can make out his hands being dragged down his face. His voice is muffled behind his palms, and you squint. “Huh?”

House just groans again, and you’re blinded when he reaches over swiftly and flicks on the lamp. You stop yourself from hissing, and just fling the blankets over your head. Only when you stop seeing white on the dark of your eyelids do you gradually lower it again. 

House is staring at you, and while your eyes still sting from the brightness, you appreciate being able to see him. He grinds his teeth. “I said, do you know how annoying that is?”

You blink, stopping yourself from trying to memorise the detail of his neck, and draw your eyes back to his. “What, Cameron asking you a question? Scandalous, I know.”

House scoffs in disbelief, but it doesn’t hold the same bite it used to. It’s softer somehow, here in the pillowy, blanketed expanse of his bedroom. “Even now- Even now, when you’re running on a few hours of sleep and you’re not even fully awake yet, you’re a smart arse.” You clench your jaw as he throws his hands up softly, defeated. “No, no, not Cameron asking. It was not knowing what to say.”

You don’t say anything, and his eyes flick to yours.  “I know a lot of things; more than every patient in the clinic combined, more than the snot nosed kids and helicopter parents. But I didn’t know what to say to Cameron.” He leans back in the chair, and scoffs at the ceiling. “I could’ve said your pimp raised your hours or that you were being treated next door by Wilson, and she could go shave her head with you, if she likes. And instead I stood there, and couldn’t think of anything.”

You don’t know how to reply, and he clenches his jaw, blinking away something in his eye, before he takes another sip of his drink. 

“House.” Your voice is soft but it still sounds too loud in the sudden silence that envelops you both. 

You don’t know how to say it, how to ask. You can feel the words lodging in your throat, trying to bubble out and instead being barricaded inside. So, you shift yourself back towards the edge of the mattress, and raise the blanket up with one arm as an invitation. You see his adam's apple bob and his eyes flick to yours. It’s one thing to fall asleep in the same bed after exhausting sex. It’s another to consciously make the decision to lay with each other- somehow, it felt more vulnerable, more raw, more intimate than what you two had done earlier.

It’s just sex. House’s words from earlier ring out and you can almost see them fluttering through his head right now. 

Fine. It’s just sex. You start to lower your arm, rescinding your invitation. But House moves, staring into your eyes all the while, raising himself to his feet and you smile at him. Not a toothy, cocky smile, but a soft one that has your dimple showing.

House groans, his hand whipping to his leg. “Argh!” He’s unsteady on his feet and falls back with a ‘hrumph’ into his chair. 

You don’t realise how hard you’re gripping the sheet until you sit yourself up and drag half the bedding with you. “Are you okay?”

House scoffs. “If you call missing muscle and cripple inducing pain okay, then yes, I’m okay.”

You roll your eyes, relaxing slightly. House sees your reaction, and sighs. “It’s just- it’s just a bad pain day. Trying to fuck the shit out of gorgeous women puts a bit of a strain on me.”

You gulp, slightly. “I’ll have to tell that woman off when I meet her.”

House’s breath is sharp and hissing through his nose, but he still manages to scoff. “Don’t do that.”

You can feel your pulse jumping in your neck. “Do what?”

“Don’t sit there and act like some insecure teenage girl who didn’t get asked to prom- you’re gorgeous, and if you pretend you’re not, it makes you look like a gorgeous idiot.”

You laugh, but still feel your cheeks flushing. “House, one time I walked into work, you asked me if a dog chewed me up and spit me back out.” You raise your hands in defence. “I’m not trying to fish for your compliments- I know I’m not the girl in magazines and I’m not like Cameron or Cuddy. I learnt that a long time ago and I’ve learnt to live with it.”

House looks repulsed. “You actually are an idiot then.” You roll your eyes, and he shakes his head in disbelief, still hissing in pain. “Yes, you’re not anorexic or bulimic or some giraffe looking model. And I can’t get enough of you. If you think that I’m not going to compliment you, and tell you truthfully that you’re beautiful, because you weigh more than some pubescent teenage girl beauty standard bullshit, you’re an idiot.” 

He’s staring at you from beneath his brow, “Get me a bottle of vicodin from the cupboard, and I’ll show you what I really think about you.” You can practically see the dirty images across his mind. You, pinned beneath him, getting praised and worshipped and adored by House’s depraved self. 

Your cheeks are definitely aflame now but you manage to force out a soft laugh. “I don’t know how you managed to say all that when you’re in that much pain.”

As if remembering his pain, House groans loudly, deep from the back of his throat, as his hand rubs over his leg. You try not to focus on the way that sounds make you throb, and you swing your feet over the side of the bed. You see House’s eyes cling to you, to the skin hidden by the bed sheets covering you. You smirk, and simply grab a discarded shirt from the floor, slipping your arms into it. The bedsheets drop, and you hear House inhale sharply at the sight of your bare chest, but then you poke your head through successfully and cover yourself again with the t-shirt.

House’s t-shirt. It’s got some sort of graphic across the front and you vaguely recall it from House’s so called ‘fashion week’ that occurred after Cuddy demanded he wear a doctor’s coat. You slide to your knees in the space between House and the bed, and he shifts his hips slightly towards you. 

“Round two?” He asks, smirking down at you.

You laugh, and reach towards the bedside table. “How can you be that horny in that much pain?”

House’s blue eyes track your movements. “It’s one of my many talents.”

You grab the small tube and close the drawer, turning back to House. His eyes flick down to the Deep Heat tube, and trail down you, snagging on your bare thighs. His breath is uneven as he speaks. “How’d you know that I kept that there?”

You look up to him from beneath your lashes. “I’ll be honest- I’ve gone through your entire apartment by this point. I know where you keep your birth certificate, let alone some cream.”

He huffs. “‘Should have expected you to be a detective too.”

“As if you didn’t do the same thing at my place.”

House stares down at you for a moment before he speaks. “You’ve got me there. You found my birth certificate and I found your collection of raunchy pornography, so I guess we’re even.”

You unscrew the lid and squeeze some cream onto your hands. It warms near instantly. “Ha ha. I don’t keep porn, only a box of sex toys.”

Your eyes flick back up at his silence to see House’s hooded gaze as he stares at the apex of your thighs, seemingly entranced, and you shake your head. “Take your pants off, House.”

He blinks, shuddering in a breath. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

He shimmies himself out of his pyjamas- some flannel pants that you might have called him an old man for another night. But tonight, when he shakes and his leg spasms as he finally strips his pants, you resist. 

You don’t comment on his laboured breathing when he leans back against the chair, and you simply scooch closer until you’re enclosed by his knees. His hand reaches forward, threading into your tousled hair and pulling it, gently enough to drag your eyes up to his.

House stares down his nose at you, and you remain like that for a moment, staring at each other. You could stare at him forever, you think. Study the lines of his face and the blues of his eyes for your whole life, the same way a cartographer memorises the planes and the dips of a landscape or a crazed artist obsesses over the cool blue of the ocean. Memorise the notch in his brow or the lines under his eyes or the sharp slope of his cheekbone.

A smile tugs at his lips. “You are gorgeous.”

Your brow crinkles. “Now you’re only saying that because I’m on my knees.”

His hand tightens at the roots of your hair, and his grip is more sharp. “You’ll believe me. Eventually. It’ll take me fucking that insecurity out of you and maybe getting Wilson to join, but it’ll work.”

You laugh, cheeks aflame. “‘You sure you could handle that? Last I checked you hated the idea of me taking on Chase by myself, let alone your buddy.”

His jaw ticks, and you can’t tell if his sharp inhale is his pain or the mention of Chase. “That’s because Chase is a snot-nosed ‘yes-man’.”

You roll your eyes half-heartedly. “Stop with the squabbling and let me work.”

His hand loosens at your head, and you lean forward, gingerly smoothing the cream down his bare leg. House flinches at the touch, and you hear him grunt when your fingers trail over the silvery mass gouged out of his thigh. You work gently, and even softer when the grip on your hair tightens, stinging your scalp, and his breath racks through his chest, leaving him heaving. You massage the heated cream into his skin, working in circles and with both hands, pushing into the surrounding muscle and working it into the silvery scar. When it’s absorbed, and his thigh is warm to the touch, you continue working him with your hands, pushing down on the muscle and easing back in a soft massage. 

House swallows above you. “I think this is better than the blowjob.”

You smile up at him, mockingly. “Really?”

His head falls back against the chair, and he groans. You clench your legs at the way the sound makes your core tighten, and focus on ensuring your hands continue to work. “Actually, we should do both to test it.”

You laugh at his hopeless attempt, and his head tilts back down as he looks at you. “How’d you learn this? I’ve had masseuses do much worse.”

You narrow your eyes in a faux-glare, applying more pressure to his thigh. “I thought you knew everything about me.”

His hands abandon your hair, and he runs them through his own hair, his adams apple bobbing as he does so. “There’s always things to learn. I didn’t know what you were like in bed, and now I know you’re a slutty little thing that loves to-”

“I got a certificate in massage therapy,” You cut him off. “While I was studying. It was easy enough and I thought it would come in useful if I ended up flunking out of being a doctor.”

“You? Flunking out? In your dreams- or nightmares, I suppose.”

You shrug softly. “It’s always good to have a back-up plan.”

He chuckles. “By that logic, what was your backup plan for your backup plan?”

“Get a sugar daddy.”

House’s eyes drop to yours immediately, searching for facetiousness. You simply smirk up towards him and lean forward, pressing a kiss to his thigh. Your staple, you suppose. You couldn’t argue against it. Kissing House’s thigh and getting that pupil-blown reaction was worth it. “Did that help at all?”

He blinks. “You can kiss it again and I’ll tell you. Or I have something else you can kiss.”

You ease your massage, now only working softly and lightly. “I meant the massage.”

His blue eyes are soft when he gazes down at you, staring at you appreciatively.. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Do you want me to get you some vicodin too?”

He sighs fully. “I could kiss you, you addict-enabling goddess.”

You roll your eyes, easing yourself to your feet. House leans forward as if shocked by the separation of your hands from his thigh, and you stand between his legs, letting your hands rest on his cheeks. They must reek of the cream, but he makes no move to resist you as you rub your thumbs against his stubble and trace the edges of his face. His shirt falls past the apex of your thighs, but his hands reach forward, slinking under the material and grasping your arse. You gasp, and move closer to him, his face coming closer to your breasts.

He squeezes your cheeks, fingers digging into the supple flesh. He gazes up at you, drinking in your reaction and hiss when his hand slaps against your arse, leaving a stinging sensation and a light, blotchy mark. He does it again, and you nudge into him, gasping lightly. You squeeze your legs together. “That wasn’t a kiss.”

He smirks. “My mistake. I’ll remedy it.”

His hands shift to your hips, gripping them and tugging you down slightly. When you’re lower, one hand reaches up, wrapping around your neck and pulling you towards him. It’s a bit awkward at that angle, but you bring yourself closer, lower, until you’re level with him. He leans forward, placing his lips against yours, and your hands move from his face to run through his hair as he deepens the kiss. He licks against your teeth and you give into him, letting him explore your mouth as his hand threads into your hair, pinning you in place. He’s warm and he’s demanding and he’s House, and you feel your core tighten.

When you pull apart, you rest your forehead against his, sucking in air. “I’ll go get your pills.”

“Forget about ‘em.” He says, trying to drag you back to his lips. You laugh, and pull back, and he lets you step back, away from him.

When you return, and pass him two pills, to which he glares at you mockingly for not bringing him the whole container, you retreat back to bed. You feel his eyes on your bare legs, and especially on the rosy print on your arse. You tug the blankets up and gaze at House as he throws back the pills and groans. He thumbs his glass, finishing the dregs of his drink, and then he lifts his head and stares at you with his cool eyes. 

You’re back to where you started. This time, you find the words.

“Come here, House.”

He furrows his brow. “And if I don’t? You’ll… what? Tie me up and make me?”

You roll your eyes in mirth. “Turn the lamp off and come to bed. Please.”

His cool gaze remains on you, and it’s almost calculating- weighing the pros and cons, the possibilities and the certainties of what your request entails. But maybe it’s the light yawn you let out, or the bleary blink of your eyes, or the not so subtle inhale of his shirt. Whatever it is, House’s gaze softens, and he reaches over, flicking off the lamp.

You can’t see anything as your eyes adjust to the sudden darkness, but you can hear him. He still winces when he raises himself to his feet, but the sound is soft and nowhere near his prior pained yelp. He hobbles the slight distance to the bed and there’s the sound of shuffling and twisting sheets and blankets as he gets into the bed.

And then he’s beside you. Here. 

You listen to each others breathing, neither one of you saying a word. Your eyes adjust, and you see the shape of him, darkened and identified by the sharp cut of his cheeks and the whites of his eyes. He’s staring at you too, and you wonder how much he can make out in the dark. Does he see the faded scars on your face or the tilt of your lips? Or does he see further, into you, and see all the thoughts and desires and twisted wants filling your head as you stare at him?

House is the first to break the silence, and does so by scooching closer. “Get over here.”

You chuckle quietly at his demand, but obey, shuffling closer until your arm brushes his. “I never took you as a cuddler.”

Somehow, even in the dark you can tell he’s rolling his eyes. But he doesn’t resist your observation, and rather he slips his hand under you, clinging to your back and drawing you even closer. You swing your arm out, to make sure you don’t suffocate in his shoulder, but more importantly to wrap around him too. There’s more shuffling and twisting from the both of you, but eventually, you find a comfortable position. You’re tucked into his side and his other hand rests on your thigh, drawing you leg across his hip. You ask him if that’s alright, if it hurts his leg, if he’s fine, and he scoffs lightly. “My leg won’t ever stop me from having you this close.” As if to emphasise your position, he rolls his hips forward, dragging himself against your bare core. But even House, it seems, is tired, because he relaxes and takes it no further.

 Both of your hands are wrapped around his waist, and you nuzzle your face into him, inhaling him and the smell of whiskey, detergent, and House. He laughs down at you, softly. “And you said I was the cuddler.”

“‘Shuddup.” You say, but the word is muffled in the fabric of his shirt. You twist your head, and kiss his bicep where his sleeve has risen up. He swallows, and you get the sense the rise and fall of his rib cage stutters.

You drift off like that, clinging to House. His breathing deepens, and as you fall asleep, you feel him shift slightly, before he kisses your head.

#house md x reader #house md fanfiction #house md #gregory house x reader #gregory house #greg house x f!reader #gregory house fic #gregory house smut

[lizzydizzyyo]

I think what's really compelling about House's absolute unwillingness to bow down to anything or anyone (the ethical board, the law, extra rich CEO, vindictive police officer, and even the patients themselves) regardless of how absolutely batshit and downright illegal his actions are, is because it's coming from a chronically disabled person, in more ways than one.

He cannot walk without agony or his cane. His chronic and severe pain led him down the path of deep Vicodin addiction until he also becomes psychologically dependent on it too (once, Dr Cuddy gives him saline placebo and it "works", in that he is not feeling his leg pain anymore for a few hours).

He understands it deeply just how desperate people can be when they're in pain and nobody can (or are willing to) help them—at least, so far, until they land on his doorstep. Which is canonically the most extreme step patients take when everything else fails—you don't just go straight to Plainsborough Teaching Hospital and to Dr Gregory House MD's office; you have to go through dozens of other doctors in various specialties and failed treatments too.

(Although that's a separate discussion about how doctors, particularly resident ones, are overworked and underpaid and redtaped by shithead insurance companies even if they do know how to treat a patient and want to).

He knows, from the bottom of his heart, that having such a painful and life-limitting debilitating condition is comparable to hell on earth, because he has one. He knows, that despite his disability being visible to everyone, yet no one wants to put an effort to help him deal with it—is also hell on earth.

Cuddy simply throws money at him and turns the other way to his Vicodin abuse, like she is saying, "I don't care if he takes 10 Vicodin pills a day or more, and I have to pay at least $1M every year for lawsuits, as long as he gets the job done," (and when they decide to go into relationship, she immediately drops him when he relapses, even if the reason for his relapse is her—although, yes, there is another discussion to be had about keeping yourself and your child(ren) safe being a priority compared to helping an addict, recovering or not). Wilson, as loyal as he is to House, simply either enables him or lectures him without going into the root of the issue and thoroughly help House that way. His subordinates, especially after the original trio, are simply too scared, too ignorant, or too ambitious to even approach the issue and choose to keep their job than help House (also another discussion to be had about how you can't help people who don't want to help themselves and so on).

So when he sees a patient who has gone through hell trying to get a correct diagnosis and treatment, he becomes laser-focused on doing everything under the sun to get to the bottom of it and cure the patient. He doesn't care if he has to break into countless of houses (haha pun) and collect insane and probably biohazard samples to do it—he absolutely will, no question.

Yes, hate-criming and being a bigot is his favorite hobby (still livid at the asexual ep and the production's choice for the resolution, let's just say I still have beef with Hugh Laurie and the entire production team for it), and so is insulting patients in so many ways that Shakespeare would personally fly to New Jersey and shake his hands if someone manage to successfully perform necromancy on ol' Billy boy. But House is no one if not dedicated. "Yes, my patient is an idiot, everyone is an idiot too, but I WILL cure their condition like my life depends on it," is basically his middle name.

Besides, you can make the argument that he is more compassionate than all the other doctors around him, because despite his absolute disdain towards some of his patients' beliefs and stupidity, he still works his ass off to treat them. He will call your god an idiot in 7 different languages while putting you in a diagnostic machine he manipulated the whole hospital into letting him use so that you could get a test which weren't available to you before. He will tell you that your currently-happy marriage will end in a bloody divorce and your ex will leave you penniless so love is not real while injecting you with a medication he had to hack the CDC's database for.

There are even episodes that show him being truly earnest, like the clinic duty scene where he is snarky as usual to a girl who seemingly stupidly had unprotected sex until she lashes out, and House is like, "Oh shit, this is above my paygrade", and immediately goes to Cuddy with a very serious expression and no sarcastic dilly-daliying, demanding her to transfer the patient to someone else because he is not good with "curing" rape case (interesting choice on the writers' part to make the patient insist to have therapy with House, though).

There is an episode about a very workaholic woman executive in a fashion company who has tremor and partial paralysis, and later on it's shown that she seems to tie her worth as a person to her corporate success while band-aiding her deep psychological issue like her suicidal ideation, and House genuinely asks her, "Do you want to live? I cannot help you unless you want me to," or something along the line.

There is also the cursed 9-year-old terminal brain cancer episode where Chase kissed the patient (ew), where at first it shows House being a usual misanthophe to Wilson and saying, "She is not brave, it's the brain tumor clot talking because it must be near the amygdala." Later in the episode, House sits near the patient alone, and compassionately asks her if she even wants to live, going through the rest of her short-lived but horrible agony, even if they catch the clot. The surgery to find and get rid of the clot is risky and can debilitate her even more, and this is why House is laying the decision to her hands. That she gets to choose. This is what truly reveals to him that she is genuinely brave (aside from the scan showing the clot to be so far away from her amygdala), but for the wrong reason. She is brave for her mom, willing to go through horrible surgery and drag out her already painful cancer-ridden life because, "My mom needs me". When everyone is congratulating her in the end, you can tell House has a bittersweet expression of both awe towards her bravery, and sadness that this 9-year-old sick girl has to bear the brunt of her horrible pain just so that her mother is not sad. That he couldn't convince her to be a child until the nearing end of her life.

The most interesting evidence of his compassion to me is the gunman hostage episode. It might sound weird because in the whole episode, he is depicted to first want to outsmart the gunman patient, then becomes laser-focused but only because he sees it as a puzzle, then absolutely selfish and dangerous because he volunteers himself as the last hostage and gives the gun back to the guy after the MRI. I do think it's true that his dedication to solving patients-are-just-puzzle-to-me conditions shines through in the episode, especially the scene of him returning his gun, but there is something else I catch when I rewatched it before.

When the gunman patient is put in the MRI because Cameron tells him a theory through the hostage call, the remaining doctors in the room including House are wary at the gunman but also hopeful. Yet, when the result shows up on the screen, he realizes that the theory is wrong and the guy let go his only bargaining chip for nothing. If you watch this part carefully, you'll notice that House actually looks pitying and sad at the gunman's disappointed demeanor and expression. He realizes he is going to be another notch in the guy's failed doctors list, and at this point (with the gun given away and even the best, most talented doctor also not finding out what's wrong with him), the guy has given up hope that he will ever see the day he will be cured, certainly not behind the bars.

Yes, his thirst for puzzle is House's big driving force in giving back the gun, but you'll be lying to yourself if you don't notice House's compassion for the guy because he doesn't want the guy to go out empty-handed, with absolutely no more hope because House knows once they step out of the door, this guy will never, ever be allowed to be in the vicinity of any hospital or doctor ever again in his life, aside from jail's bare-minimum exams and medications. House can't handle the thought of putting someone else through his own disappointment—that nothing works to help his leg pain. He especially doesn't want to be the cause for this gunman guy's case either. Even in the end when House realizes the guy is a fucking moron because he doesn't know that Florida is, in fact, in earthwide-horizontal tropical zone and this is what stumps most of the guy's previous doctors—House still gives him a subtle salute to the guy while being handcuffed and led away, almost to say, "Enjoy your healing and the defeat of your arch nemesis The Sickness™, glad to be part of it."

Majority of his drive to stop at nothing until his patient is cured is definitely thanks to his own fucked-up leg, even if there are some dialogues with Cuddy and Stacy Warner (House's ex wife) that seem to imply he has always been a misanthrophe whose hobby is getting into malpractice (or general) lawsuits. I wholeheartedly believe that after his leg clot rendered him disabled and with chronic pain, he became much more dedicated and obsessed with getting to the bottom of a patient's medical information, even for info that seems innocuous or irrelevant that always turn out to be important (probably more like a plot armor than established characterization, to be honest), almost like this is his method of relating to the patients in his own weirdly human way, and maybe a little bit (actually, a lot) of projecting.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

#house md #rec #media analysis #writing #english #me #i hv more to say abt this show like him making the mistake of not amputating his leg bc of his bias against (particularly visible)disabilit #even tho cuddy and his other past ortho surgeons suggest against keeping the leg because the clot is really bad and unsalvagable #years later even while having his leg it's now useless because all it gives him is pain and anger issue with a dash of opioid addiction #so when he sees patient being stupid or refusing a certain test/treatment he KNOWS in the bottom of his heart to be right #he just won't take it lying down & he will drag his patients kicking & screaming bc ''trust me i was an idiot too don't repeat my mistake'' #but that's an essay for another day #whump #whump meta #disability

[pointreyesjournal]

Extreme Self Loathing : ep98 

It’s been five, maybe six weeks, since I was here last. The last time I was in my living room was on the evening of 4th of July and Ana was breaking my heart. So I have some trepidation about returning home.

Flood finishes putting the Ducati in the garage while The Tech Titan waits at the curb in my Tahoe. With my arm in a cast, it’s hard to open the door, so I hand the keys to Flood. He lets us in.

It’s odd getting a tour of your own house by someone else. Floody shows me around, and without saying “Anastasia” he points out that anything that might remind me of “past unpleasantries” has been removed as requested.

God bless him. He’s a good friend.

A polite honk on the horn lets us know that The Tech Titan is growing impatient.

Flood: I gotta go. The Tech Titan is going to drop me off at home. He said he’ll bring back your Tahoe tomorrow and check on you.

Me: Thanks amigo. I might still be lying in that hospital bed if you guys hadn’t come and saved me.

Flood: Well … you’re worth savin’ little brother.

Big hug and he’s heading for the door.

Me: Hey! Floody! … You ever been shot at?

Flood: First time. Hopefully last time.

Me: You okay?

Flood: It’ll take a few pints to process just how close we came.

Me: To?

Flood: Extinction.

Me: Pub tomorrow?

Flood: I’ll text you tomorrow afternoon. I haven’t seen Autumn in a couple of weeks, but she’ll probably be up for some shenanigans.

Me: Off you go.

The door closes and I’m left standing all alone.

Oddly, sitting in the back seat of an SUV for 24 hours is exhausting. My first inclination is to plop down on the couch, but ultimately I just end up in bed with the window shades pulled tight and the covers pulled up to my nose.

My left arm is immobilized, and to be honest, I don’t really know what’s going on under the cast. What I do know is that it’s uncomfortable and the pain medication makes me feel awful. Vicodin’s main function is to cause nausea and constipation. Side effects may include mild pain relief.

I want so badly to roll over on my left side to fall asleep, but I’d be laying on my cast. If I roll onto the right side, it puts too much pressure on my broken collar bone. So I’m laying flat on my back … and it sucks.

I begin to feel sympathy for every human being who’s ever been laid to rest flat on their back. Rest in peace my friend … decompose while staring uncomfortably at the ceiling. Tomorrow morning I’m going to write a last will and testament and in it I’m going to stipulate that I should be laid to rest naked, on my side with a down duvet and a big feather pillow.

Screw resting in peace, I want to rot in comfort.

#novel #first person narrative #san francisco #ducati

[josy1986]

Period Pains

Beca Mitchel suffers from heavy cramps during terror week.

Beca never was the extremely girly type like most of the other Bellas but during that special time of the month, she surely hated being a woman.

The DJ laid curled up on her bed, wishing to god she had been born a man instead of an incubator on legs.

Fuck sake, why the hell do we need this kind of reminder we’re not knocked up?! She groaned, holding the pillow against her body even tighter. Her periods had surprised her this morning and had cursed like a sailor during her bathroom visit. The bloody mess wasn’t even the worst, the cramps she had to endure were horrible and her small bottle of vicodin was empty. Normal painkillers didn’t work for her and her doctor had given her a prescription for heavier ones that did. Unfortunately for her, she had run out last month and she was in no state to get a refill.

However, she had sent a text to Jesse, asking if he could do it for her. He was currently on his way to the Bellas house to pick up the prescription and go out to get Beca’s refill. She hoped to god he would hurry.

Chloe had gone out to a small grocery shop on campus, came to the realization that she forgot her wallet on her way there and turned back around. She arrived back at the house right when Jesse did. She watched the young approach and gave him a polite smile. “Morning.” She said, taking out the key to open the door.

“Hey, I’m here for Beca.” He stated and Chloe rolled her eyes, her back towards him as she finally opened the door and walked in.

Well duh, captain obvious… “She should be in her room. Which I’m sure you’ll be able to find.” She said, it was a bit more snarky than she probably had intended.

While he went upstairs, she kicked off her shoes, walked into the kitchen and took a bottle of cold water from the fridge. She settled on the couch in the living room while drinking, checking her phone to browse her social media before she would look for her lost wallet. 

It was only a few minutes later that she suddenly heard voices coming from upstairs. She couldn’t quite make out what was being said, but she could clearly hear Beca yelling and she sounded angry. Several seconds later, a door opened, Jesse came rushing down the stairs and hurried out the front door. Chloe frowned and after putting her water and phone down, she got back on her feet.

Slowly but surely, she walked up the stairs and headed to Beca’s room. “Beca..?” Her voice was soft and filled with worry. She wasn’t sure what happened but Beca didn’t usually yell at anyone. Unless you touched her music equipment and computer. If she caught you touching it you’d be flying out the window.

The door to Beca’s room was open slightly and after Chloe called for the DJ, she heard a soft but clearly painful groan. “Chlo..?” A pained whimper followed. “Oh god…”

Chloe pushed against the door to find her friend curled onto her bed with a clear pained expression on her features. “Oh my god, Beca, what happened..? What’s the matter?” Chloe was next to the brunette before Beca could even blink, worry seeped into her voice.

Beca just buried her face into her pillow in shame. “Periods…” She mumbled but Chloe heard it nonetheless. She felt for her friend, she herself suffered from really bad cramps too during her periods.

“Is there something I can do?” She asked, carefully placing a hand on Beca’s shoulder who didn’t pull away from the touch. “Did you take anything for the pain yet?” Chloe wasn’t sure if her friend heard her questions but Beca eventually reacted with a soft whimper at first. Her body cramping up around the pillow, the action pulled the pillow away from Beca’s face and revealed how much pain the brunette really was in. It broke Chloe’s heart seeing her crush in such a state and not being able to help.

“I’m… out of pain medication.” She whispered, her voice cracked and she let out a soft sob.

“Let me see if I have some left.” When Chloe was about to get up, she was stopped by Beca’s hand around her wrist. The DJ was shaking her head.

“Normal pills… they don’t work.” Chloe put her hand on Beca’s when she felt the other woman squeeze, Beca took slow and deep breaths to ease herself through the pain. It didn’t really work but there was nothing else she could do. “I take vicodin… the stuff you can… just buy in stores, it simply doesn’t work.” Beca swallowed loudly, her eyes screwed shut when another horrible cramp hit her full force. “Oh god… Chloe…” Beca whimpered in pain and the redhead wrapped her arms quickly around her friend, holding her close to offer some sort of comfort. The fact that Beca allowed her told her all she needed to know. The brunette wasn’t the touchy feely type, displays of affection among friends was something she never did.

“I got some heavy pills too. I should have a few left.” Chloe whispered although she didn’t want to leave Beca, not even for the few short minutes she would have to leave, go to her own room and come back.

Beca nodded and reluctantly let go of Chloe’s clothes so the redhead could leave. She watched her friend leave, feeling like it took half a day before she eventually returned. Right when another massive cramp hit her and took away her ability to breathe for a few short seconds. “Chloe…!” She cried right when the woman in question reentered the room.

“I’m here! I’m here Becs.” She assured the brunette who was holding out her hand for Chloe to take. Which the older Bella did while squatting down next to Beca’s bed. “I’m here, I got two pills for you. Here.” She held the pills in her free hand while the other was still occupied with holding Beca’s.

The DJ took a few seconds to compose herself, pushing herself up after letting go of Chloe’s hand, afraid she might crush it otherwise. Once she was sitting with her back against the wall for support, she took the offered pills along with some water that Chloe brought with her. Once the pills were down, she let out a deep sigh. “Thanks…” And offered Chloe a shy, pained smile.

Chloe offered a warm smile in return and settled next to her friend on the bed. “You’re very welcome, glad I could help.” Chloe felt her heart skip a beat when they locked eyes for a moment. Beca swallowed hard but quickly looked away, focussing instead on the wall at the opposite of her bed.

One hand resting on her belly while the other laid on the bed, between her and Chloe. The redhead looked at the hand, biting her lower lip while considering to put her own on Beca’s. Instead of just blatantly putting her hand on the brunettes, she placed her own right next to Beca’s. Giving her friend the opportunity to initiate anything if she’d want to.

“So… why did Jesse run out the door..?” Chloe started but it had the opposite effect of what she had hoped. Beca groaned in frustration and let herself flop back down onto the mattress. 

“Cause he’s a fucking idiot… that’s why.” She muttered and let out a deep sigh of frustration, her hand now resting on the mattress next her. She waited for a few seconds before she continued. “I uh… I asked him if he could get my refill…” She said with a soft voice.

“He didn’t want to get it for you?” What an asshole.

“Oh, no he did.”

Damnit, not an asshole then.

“But uh… he asked for a blowjob as a reward.”

Nevermind, still an asshole. “Oh my god! Are you kidding me..?” She was genuinely in shock.

“Yeah, that’s what I said too.” Beca grumbled, wrapping her other arm around her lower body when a new massive cramp announced itself. It momentarily robbed her of her ability to speak and breathe. She curled up into a ball, wishing to god that her crush wasn’t there to see her in such vulnerable state.

“Is… is there something I can do…?” Chloe offered, god how she just wanted to hold the brunette and give her some kind of comfort. That’s how she usually dealt with her own monthly week of terror. Aubrey being the one that cuddled up with her and watched movies together. However, Aubrey graduated and was commanding people around somewhere in the wild. This was the first time that she found Beca in such a state, her heart ached thinking that the brunette had to go through this every month on her own.

Chloe waited for an answer, hoping that Beca wouldn’t pull those walls back up and close herself off but the brunette remained silent. “I… I’ll be out of your hair again.” Chloe said and scooted closer to the bed’s edge so she could slip off. Before she could in fact get off, a weak and surprisingly cold hand, wrapped around her wrist. Chloe looked at her wrist first before looking at Beca, who looked at her with red eyes.

“Don’t.” She whispered and the redhead could feel the DJ tremble. “Please, stay.” There was something in her voice that Chloe never heard before: desperation. “I’m sorry, I’m just…” She sniffled, gently letting go of Chloe’s wrist.

Chloe smiled softly and instead of getting off of the bed, she moved to lay next to her friend instead. “Come here.” She whispered and Beca did just that, both women moving closer to one another.

Beca slipped her arms around Chloe’s waist, her head nestled under her friend’s chin. As much as she hated feeling like this, so incredibly needy and clingy, this was really nice. Chloe’s arms around her body made her feel safe and secure. Made her feel like she wasn’t alone in the world.

“Comfy…?” Chloe asked and it broke Beca’s train of thoughts.

“Yeah… thanks.” She mumbled against Chloe’s skin, she was warm, soft and comfortable. She was the only one that Beca allowed to peek past the walls around her heart.

Chloe’s heart hammered in her chest, her arms around her favorite person, being this close to her. About an hour ago she thought this was her worst day of the week when she realized she forgot her wallet. How that turned around to this, she had no idea but boy was she grateful for it. Without realizing it, she started to gently caress Beca’s hair. It was something she personally loved being done to her, so she hoped Beca would too. A soft hum of approval followed by a sigh in relief was all and more than she could have hoped for.

“Feels nice…” Beca whispered, her eyes closed while just enjoying the moment for once. 

“Glad you like it, I love it when someone plays with my hair.” Chloe said and let out a giggle when she heard Beca yawn.

“Oh, shit, sorry about that.” She apologised sincerely. “You’re being so sweet and cute and I’m just falling asleep.”

Chloe bit her lower lip, smiling. Did she just call me cute? A faint blush on her cheeks. “That’s okay, take a nap, the medication should be working by the time you wake up.”

“Mhn… I love strawberries…” Beca mumbled, clearly dozing off to sleep, the smell of Chloe’s shampoo clear as day while she took a slow, deep breath.

Chloe just listened while Beca’s breathing slowly evened out, a clear sign for the brunette that she did indeed fall asleep. She shifted her position slightly, only enough for her to look down and watch the woman she loved sleep peacefully. The walls around Beca, even though still present, Chloe managed to finally get to the other side and see the real Beca.

Her face showed no signs of pain or discomfort anymore now that she slept and cuddled up against Chloe. The older Bella couldn’t help herself and carefully cupped Beca’s cheek and to her surprise, the DJ smiled ever so slightly at the touch. Letting out the softest ‘mhn’.

Jesus, how can someone be this cute… Chloe swallowed hard when her eyes moved to Beca’s lips. It would be the easiest thing to close the small gap between them and kiss her. No… No! I’m not Jesse, no matter how much I..- No. Her hand remained on Beca's face but she placed her head back in its former position. Her chin resting on the top of the brunette’s head while she felt that sleep would claim her soon too.

Chloe stared at the wall, her thumb gently caressing the skin of Beca’s cheek. I wish I could tell you how I truly felt about you, Beca… She let her thoughts drift to the moment she had almost kissed the brunette during aca-initiation night.

Chloe was tipsy already when she had grabbed both of Beca’s wrists and pulled her in. She cringed at the memory of her telling Beca how she knew they’d be best friends really soon. I had to say something…! She facepalmed herself internally. That memory now is full of regret and missed opportunities. 

Beca Mitchel, the woman that single handedly turned her world upside down. The woman whose smile made Chloe’s heart skip a beat. The woman who, with a single look, could make her weak in the knees. The woman who could undo her with a touch as simple as holding onto her wrist.

While she shifted her position slightly to be able to look at Beca’s face, she felt her heart break. She let her eyes flutter shut, her friends face the last thing on her mind as sleep finally claimed her too.

The woman I’m so desperately in love with, it hurts.

@chloebeale 

#Bechloe #Beca Mitchel #Chloe Beale #Pitch Perfect fanfiction #Beca and Chloe #Bechloe fanfiction #Bechloe cuteness #Pitch Perfect

[zwowow]

could you write suicidal Em on the midst of relapse and Kells trying to comfort him and talk out of doing something stupid?

Pills. 

In a bottle. In two baggies. Spread out on the table in the studio. A few in his hands. 

He rolls one of them between his fingers and tries to imagine what it felt like to have one, two, four rolling down his throat. Fuck. He shouldn’t do it. He knows how bad this is. 

But they keep calling to him. Not to take enough to get high, he’s way past that point, was past that point when he bought the pills. He kicked everyone out of the studio well past the point of taking only a few. 

Em lets the pills in his hand clatter back onto the table. There’s chalky residue left over, and he can’t help himself. He brings his palm to his mouth and licks the white power. Chalky and acidic, it coats his tongue in a bitter film. He hates it so bad he wants to shovel all of the pills into his mouth at once as punishment. 

Fucking weak. He’s weak. If he wanted to get high, take a couple of pills and take the edge off, he’d have done it already. But he’s too weak to only take a few. It’d start with a few, and quickly ramp up into a few more and more until he can’t go an hour without them. He knows how it’d go. 

He should just end it all before it gets there. His girls don’t deserve to see him go down another spiral, Colson doesn’t deserve that. He should spare them the pain and the helplessness of watching an addict die and just do it now. 

End it, now. 

Decision made, Em empties the baggies and the pill bottle onto the table. His hands shake as he opens his water bottle, and he spills on the table. Some of the pills start to disintegrate, he needs to move faster. 

Somewhere outside of his body, Em recognizes his actions, but his head is so far removed. Tears wet his cheeks, but he doesn’t wipe them, or cry out loud. He only scoops as many pills as he can into his hand, pebbles of Vicodin and Oxy weigh his hand down like stone. 

He starts to bring his heavy hand to his mouth when the door to the studio opens recklessly. 

“Hey, got a text you were buggin’ and made everyone get the fuck ou—” The pills tumble from Em’s hand when he sees Kells. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to see. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

Em looks down at the pills on the table, there are still enough left to do what needs to be done. He goes to scoop them up, ignoring Kells’ bewildered stare. He can’t do this, he can’t live with the weight of those scared, confused eyes on his. He won’t live with the shame of knowing he’s seen him like this. 

“Em!” Kells crosses the room faster than he’d thought possible and slaps Em’s hand so hard his tight fist around the pills falls loose. “The fuck is going on? What are you doing?” Em watches in silent horror his last chance at relief scattering on the ground. He could drop to the ground and try and gather them, but Kells would just move fast again and interfere. 

He’s never loved or hated Kells more than he does right now. 

“Get the fuck out.” He hisses. 

“The fuck I will! What the hell are you doing? Who even gave you these?” Kells gestures around the room. His expression is wild and panicked. This is exactly what Em was trying to avoid. Why won’t Kells just let him die in peace?

“Get. The. Fuck. Out.” He spits out every word, hoping Kells will break, and decide dealing with all of this isn’t what he signed up for. He hopes he leaves. He hopes he never sees his face again. 

He needs him to stay.

“No.” Kells says simply. Then he gets all up in Em’s space, crowding his long legs in-between Em’s that are spread in his char. “I couldn’t get rid of you when I was going through all that detox and relapsing shit. If that’s what you’re going through right now, I’m not going anywhere until you’re okay.” 

Em remembers that. Early in their relationship, Kells saw him sober and decided to give it a try, too. Em was there through the first round of withdrawals, and the first relapse, the second withdrawal, the second relapse, the third, and the last time. Kells fought him every time. He screamed at him to go away, he threw things. He cried like a fucking baby. And Em was there for every minute of it. 

It took everything he had to stick around, addicts are brutal people to give your energy to. All they do is take. 

Is Kells willing to do that for him? Does he even want that? Does he want someone to stick around when he still wants to die? What would Kells be stickign around for? His funeral? 

“Jesus, Em, you would’ve killed yourself with all these.” Em hadn’t said anything since telling Kells to go, but his silence must change because Kells stops looking around the studio and fixes his eyes on Em. 

“Was that—” Kells’ eyes well with tears that Em hates himself for making, “Was that were you were trying to do?” 

“You should go.” Again, he tries to push Kells away. It’ll be better if he goes. Then Em can die alone like the pathetic, addict loser he is. 

“I fucking told you I’m not going anywhere. Can’t shake me if you tried, asshole.” Kells tries to smile down at him, but Em can’t meet his eye. Kells kicks his legs open a bit wider and kneels between them. 

“You know you can always talk to me about this. I know how it all feels.” Em looks down at meets Kells’ earnest eyes. “All of it, the drugs, the... the feeling like you want to fucking die. I know it all.” 

“It felt like the only way.” It did, at the time. The only way to feel less of a burden, less inadequate, less of an irrelevant fucking disappointment. 

Kells nods like he understands, then lays his head on Em’s lap and rests between his thighs, hiccupping out a sob every once in a while, “You don’t get to go, Old Man. I love you too fucking much. Your girls love you too much. Fuck, my girl loves you too much. You got all of us to live for, you’re not allowed to kill yourself. We won’t let you. I won’t let you.” 

The pills lay discarded on the ground, and thoughts of have been dying pushed out by the man at Em’s feet. For now, anyway. Never forever with this shit. Always for now.

“Thank you, for being here.” This isn’t the end of this. It won’t be the last time he almost relapses or has suicidal thoughts, but as long as Kells is here, he’ll be alright.

Kells looks up at him like he’s heard Em’s thoughts, “I’ll always be here.” 

#emgk #zwowfic #some angsttttt 4 u #Anonymous

[stevesharrlngtons]

“I was hoping for a little sympathy, maybe.” with Roman please :)

sorry for the delay )): and sorry if this kinda sucks!!

You knew his moping was justified. That his pain was warranted and expected. Having your DNA picked apart and ripped from your body was no doubt excruciating and exhausting. You just wished there was something you or anyone could do to alleviate some of the agony he was in. You were doing your best, but you still felt like you were lacking at this problem that was far out of your element.

Roman was never one to keep his grievances to himself, or to let anyone live in peace while he was uncomfortable. But ever since Pryce’s procedures began to rid him of his upirism, Roman had been a nightmare. He was angry and whining and tired and brittle and sad and needy. He wanted you attached to his side until his skin felt like it was rippling around on his bones, in which case he wouldn’t let you in the same room as him, as to not feel more claustrophobic than he already felt. 

On the days that Roman would go under Pryce’s needles for another treatments, you would spend the entire morning ordering Anna and Conway around to make sure there wasn’t anything that could possibly make Roman uncomfortable or irate. You were a dictator, barking orders and anxiously pacing while you waited for a call from The Tower informing you it was time to retrieve Roman. 

After his first treatment, Roman had driven himself home and almost wrapped his Jaguar around a tree. He had left the keys in the ignition and the door wide open before he mindlessly walked to the house in a daze. You had thrown enough of a fit when he was finally home safe that Roman agreed to let you drive him after he had finished with a new treatment. 

After you had him safely packaged in your car, Roman would usually sleep the entire way home, his cheek pressed against the cool window as you darted your eyes between him and the road. Terrified that if you didn’t look over to him every few moments, his breath would stop fogging the glass or his thin pale skin would split and crumble from the abuse it had taken. 

Two days ago you had finished your new macabre routine of readying the house for Roman’s return and driving him home in a worried stupor. You had put him to bed under satin sheets and mink blankets and a large glass of water and saltines on the nightstand. You had monitored him and stroked his sweat matted hair as he trembled and cried. You had snuggled close to him and kissed his frail skin and spoon fed him soup until his body collapsed from trauma and exhaustion. 

Now, 48 hours later, Roman was almost back to his old self. He still complained and griped and swore and was mostly unpleasant to everyone except you, but that was on par for normal Roman behavior. What wasn’t normal Roman behavior was to be out of bed on a Saturday before eleven A.M., which was why you felt a pang of worry when you rolled over and were greeted by a flurry of cold covers instead of the warm weight of your boyfriend. 

You sprang up from the pillows and searched for your phone to check the time, and sure enough, it was just after nine. Anxiety filled your gut as you pushed away your blankets in search for Roman. Sure, he had seemed to have recovered from the latest treatment as he usually did, but your mind couldn’t stop spinning with what if’s.

What if he had been hiding symptoms from you? What if he woke up this morning, and felt fatally wrong? What if he was slowly taking his dying breaths somewhere in the house while you slept soundly? What if? What if? What if?

You called his name, went from room to room in search of him, when you suddenly heard his voice coming from downstairs. 

You gripped the handrail tightly as you went down the staircase in search of him. You found him sitting in an armchair in the living room, a cloth pressed to one ear and his cell pressed to the other. His back is to you and you can see how rigid his shoulders are through the thin cotton of his shirt. 

“Roman,” You say, trying to gain his attention. 

He turns to you for a moment and unwraps one finger from his hold on his phone to wave at you, telling you to wait. 

“What happened? Who are you talking to?” You continue, blatantly ignoring his previous gesture. 

You walk closer to him as Roman once again holds up his finger for you. 

“Put me on fucking hold one more time Pyrce and I swear to God, you’ll regret it!” He barks.

You round the chair to stand in front of him. You can now see the prominent dark circles that haloed his eyes and his colorless lips and cheeks. He was alive, but clearly not well. 

Your heart broke as a small tut came from your lips. You sink to the floor in front of the arm chair and take to giving his calves and thighs a lazy massage. 

“No, you fucking listen to me -- no, I shouldn’t have to! You’re the doctor here. Fucking fix me!” Roman shouts into the receiver and you press a chaste kiss to his pajama covered knee. 

From your position on the floor, you watch as Roman listens to something Pryce says and scoffs loudly, “Green oozing goo is normal? Because it sure as shit doesn’t feel normal! -- I don’t care if this has never been done before, find a way to stop the weird puss and bile that is coming out of me.” 

And he hangs up. Roman gives a heady sigh as he tosses his phone onto the couch and collapses deeper into the chair. You glance up at the cloth that is still pressed against Roman’s ear and cringe as you see it is tinged with light green wetness. 

You continue your massage up his thighs until you settle your hands on either side of his hips and rest your chin on his lap, “What’s going on, baby?” 

“Just in fucking pain while gross green liquid comes out of me. Nothin’ new, apparently.” He says, sarcastic and dejected. 

“And there’s nothing Pryce can do?” You ask, but you are pretty sure you already know the answer. 

“Nope. The bastard keeps telling me it’s normal and there is nothing he can do...fucker.” 

You hold back a chuckle and kiss his belly instead, “At least it seems like it’s working, right? That’s a positive?”

“I guess, just, fuck! I hate this, I hate the treatments and Pryce. I don’t know why I called him in the first place,” Roman replies, moving his free hand to fiddle with the ends of your hair. 

“It’s good you called, I’m glad you did. I want you to call your doctor when you think something is wrong.” 

Roman’s face screws up in disgust, “Don’t call him my doctor, it makes our relationship sound far more amicable and intimate than it is.” 

“Fine. Your mad scientist? The Dr. Frankenstein to your monster?” You joke and Roman glares down at you. 

“I’m not in the mood for jokes.” Roman tugs a little at a strand of your hair he was busying himself playing with. 

“What are you in the mood for, then?” 

“I don’t know, I was hoping for a little sympathy, maybe. If not from Pyrce, then from you.” He grumbles petulantly. 

“Hey, I am an outpouring sympathy machine for you, baby. I know this process is weird and tough and painful, all I want to do is help. So, tell me what you want and I’ll do it.” You thumbs sneak beneath his sleep shirt to find his hip bones to gently stroke. 

“I don’t know what I want,” Roman pouts, his voice a borderline whine. 

“Want some options?” You ask, perking up slightly from his lap.

He just nods. The treatments were incredibly draining for Roman, both physically and emotionally. While his body physically recovered within a few days, the emotional wounds would linger and refuse to blister for upwards of a week. So, during the period following his procedure, he needed all the emotional support he could garner from you. That included letting him scream and vent to you, or sob and shake in your embrace, or just have you decide exactly what he wanted because his brain just couldn’t surmise what he truly wanted. 

“A: We go back to bed and just watch TV for a while. B: We stay down here and order some breakfast from that diner on 3rd. C: I call Troy and see if he has an Vicodin to help with your pain.” 

Roman mulls over your list of multiple choice before he speaks, “Can I choose that we go back upstairs, order breakfast from the diner on 3rd and I call Troy about Vicodin and pot for us?” 

You grin up at him, “Ah, yes. Secret option D, that sounds good.” 

Roman gives you a soft smile before you push up from the ground.

“Let’s get back to bed, handsome.” You wiggle your outstretched fingers for him to take, which he does easily. 

You pull him up from the chair and Roman moves to wrap his arm around your shoulders, your fingers still clasped together. He presses a long kiss to the crown of your head, one that takes several moments to complete, one where he inhales your scent and relishes in your feeling, one where he whispers I love you. 

With his lips against your hair, you felt a rush of contentment knowing that even your small gestures could work to make this strange time for Roman a little better. That’s all you really wanted, even if you knew you couldn’t find the magic saulve to fix everything. Maybe you would one day, but for now, snuggles, pancakes and painkillers would have to do.

“I love you, too.” You reply as you help your ailing love up the stairs to start your relaxed day. 

does this even make sense??? i don’t know!! i just wanted to write and post this request bc i felt bad that i had let it sit so long lol sorry if it seems scattered or weird??????? but idk, if you did like it, i’d love to hear from you <3 (:

#roman godfrey x reader #roman godfrey imagine #roman godfrey imagines #roman godfrey x you #roman godfrey reader insert #roman godfrey fanfic #roman godfrey fanfiction #sorry this sucks ): #stevesharrlngtonswrites

[finleyfray]

Bittersweet Memories part 5

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Huge thanks to @captain-josslett for helping me.

TW: drug abuse, abuse, language, panic attacks

Finley whines as she opens her eyes. Seeing she was alone in bed, again, almost made her cry out. Everything hurt and her girlfriends weren’t there. This day is going to be awful.

It was Maggie’s first day at work, and Finley had to figure everything out herself. She was happy for her girlfriend, of course she was. Finley had told Maggie herself that she needs to accept the job. But she didn’t know how much her leg would hurt after they replaced it with a cast.

While riding on a wheelchair, everything was perfectly fine because there was no pressure on her leg. Fin just sat there and let herself be wheeled around.

But now? Now she struggled with crutches and it was literally hell.

And why were her ribs hurting so much?

She reaches over to her nightstand and takes two painkillers out of her bottle. It should get rid of the pain, even if the doctor told her to only take one pill each six hours, she just needed this pain to end. Closing her eyes she just decided it’ll be the best if she sleeps waiting for it to work.

She woke up a few hours later as her phone was ringing.

“Hi.” She rasps out.

“Finley! Why didn’t you pick up earlier?” Maggie’s worried voice sounds on the other side of the line.

“Sorry baby, I was just napping. Relax, I’m fine.”

“Did you eat and take your pills?” Alex asked worriedly. “Are you in pain?”

“Yeah, I did. I was in a bit of pain, but now I’m better.”

“Okay, alright. Just checking. Just let us know if it gets worse, alright?” Fin could imagine Maggie frowning and she chuckles a bit.

“We have to go. Love you.”

“Love you two too. Bye." She ends the call and groans.

It was 11 am. She had to get up and eat something. Fin frowns, she didn’t want to get up. But she has to, she can’t fuck things up the first day they leave her alone.

And why the hell did everything hurt?! She swallows one more pill and goes to stand up. She grabs her crutches and goes to make herself some food. Just six hours till her girlfriends come home. She’ll be alright.

***

Finley is back resting on the couch. She tried to play some games earlier, but she couldn’t focus, so she just decided on lying on the couch and waiting for her girlfriends to come home. Just a few more hours and she’ll be comfortable in their arms.

Fin wakes up to the sound of the door opening. She fell asleep. Again. The black-haired woman frowned, she slept for almost the whole day.

“Hi baby!” Maggie beams as she enters the living room. “It’s so good to see you!” She sits next to the younger woman and opens her arms for a hug. Fin smiles and throws herself in the arms of her girlfriend.

“Ohh, good to see me? Look at you! You rocking that uniform, damn it, baby, makes me want to go dark just to have you arrest me.” Maggie chuckles and kisses her girlfriend. Fin sighs and goes to sit on her girlfriend lying her head on the raven-haired woman's chest. “Where’s Al?”

“She went to order some food from the Chinese restaurant at the corner.”

“Chinese again?” The black-haired woman laughs.

“You know, she’s a Danvers.” The shorter woman laughs under her. Finley looks her girlfriend in the eyes. She always finds comfort in them. Maggie’s eyes were always so soft, full of love and adoration, and the black-haired woman could stare for hours in them. She sometimes found it overwhelming her, she felt like she was drowning in them.

“Hi." Maggie husked, catching her staring. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Finley gasps. “I just love you so much.”

“I love you too." Maggie smiles and kisses her gently.

“Hey, where’s my love?” Alex pouts as she puts the take out bag on the table and sits on the couch next to them.

“Hmmm...” Fin hums as if she was considering her answer. “Yeah, I guess you should get some love too.” She smiles and reaches to kiss Alex too.

The redhead smiles into the kiss, and sucks Finley’s bottom lip. The younger woman trembled on top of Maggie. She loves it when Alex did that, it made her mind go blank, she could only focus on her lips.

“Love you.” The redhead smiles as she backs away leaving her girlfriend breathing hard.

“Love you too.” She smiles and kisses Maggie's neck while Alex was kissing the shorter woman.

“Love you both. So much.”

***

Maggie is laying on their bed with Finley curled up to her side while Alex was showering.

“Babe?” She asks, wanting Fin’s attention. The younger woman looks up at her.

“Yeah?”

“Can I get a kiss?” Fin smiles and reaches to kiss her and Maggie deepens the kiss switching their positions so she is hovering above her girlfriend. The black-haired woman gasped and she takes her chance to put her tongue inside of her mouth. The shorter woman places her hands under Finley’s t-shirt.

“Mags...” Her girlfriend places her hands on her shoulders and Maggie frowns.

“Yea?”

“I’m tired...” She huffs and looks at her laying girlfriend.

“Tired? From what?!” Her voice rises in volume. “You know what, never mind.” She stands up and decides to go to her showering girlfriend.

Maybe she’ll give her more attention.

***

Finley picks up her phone trying to reach any of her girlfriends for the fifth time in ten minutes. It was late in the evening and they were supposed to be home a long time ago.

‘Why aren’t they picking up? Something happened. They’re hurt. Or worse, they’re dead. Hurt and dead! Oh my God what do I do?!’ Fin begins to panic. She looks at her phone waiting for them to call her back. ‘Or they don’t want me anymore. They definitely don’t love me. I’m the worst girlfriend ever. I didn’t even make them dinner this whole time. Maggie was mad yesterday at me. Of course she was mad, I told her that I’m to tired to have sex with them. But I’m tired. But it's the third time in a row. But I was so sleepy. But it’s my duty as a girlfriend. Oh God, I’m the worst. They sure don’t want me anymore. Will they break up with me? Will they find a better girlfriend? They probably already left and that’s why they aren’t picking up.’ Finley curls up on the couch finding it hard to breathe. She just needs to go to sleep. She reached into her pocket and swallowed two pills. She’ll take a nap, and it would be better. Everything will be better.

***

“... and then Maggie just ran after him, slammed him on the ground and cuffed him.” Finley listens as Alex tells her about their last mission.

The redhead's eyes were shining as she told Fin about how their girlfriend caught a bad guy this afternoon.

Maggie has been working at DEO for two weeks now and both of them were so excited. Finley tries to focus, but her mind is going a hundred miles a minute. She was still at home, trying to heal but she doesn’t seem to get better. Everything hurts and she wonders if it’s even possible to get worse. She finds herself being jealous of her girlfriends. Why were they there having so much fun while she couldn’t even move from her bed without crying from pain?

It wasn’t fair. She was just swallowing pills to make her feel better, but instead she just slept for the whole day. Her bottles of pills were going empty, but she couldn’t go and ask for another prescription, she did that a week ago. Alex brought her pills from DEO stating that it will be enough for two to three weeks, but she used almost all of them in one week.

She needs another bottle and soon, otherwise she’ll just go crazy from the pain.

***

Maggie sighs as she sees her girlfriend sleeping on the couch. Again. They had been held up on a mission, it was late in the evening and all she wanted was a warm meal, cuddles and some sleep. But of course Finley didn’t think of making or ordering anything as she was always sleeping. How much can a person sleep?

Every day as they came home they were greeted by the sign of her girlfriend sleeping. Maggie wonders what she was doing the whole day that made her so exhausted. Their apartment wasn’t cleaned, everything was always the same as the night before. “Something’s wrong?” Alex walks behind her and embraces her in a hug. She didn’t realise she was frowning.

“Nah, I’m good. Can you order some food? I’m going to wake Finley up. Maybe she won’t yell this time.” Alex nods and goes to the kitchen as Maggie goes to the couch.

She was about to wake up her girlfriend when she saw Fin’s phone lit up with signalling an incoming text.

*Will be there tomorrow – V*

It came from an unknown number and she huffs. Who is V? Why will she be here tomorrow? What’s Finley doing behind their backs? This was not a good sign.

Finley had no friends except for their group. She wanted to look at Fin’s phone for more information, but it was password protected.

“What the fuck?” She whispers. Her girlfriend never had any protection on her phone, why did she have it now?

***

Finley phone rings, and she picks it up seeing the unknown number.

“Will be there in ten." A female voice states and ends the call.

Fin had found an old contact that she knew in college who used to sell drugs. Now Fin paid her double every time. Finley felt bad taking money from her savings, but she needed those pills.

She was supposed to take one pill every six hours, but it wasn’t helping her, she still felt pain. So she tried one pill every four hours. Eventually she had to take two pills every time she woke up.

Every day she felt worse. She was sleepy the whole time and became angry if someone woke her up.

Her girlfriends became irritated at her grumpy behaviour and just left her alone. Who would blame them. They were having enough fun at work. Staying longer hours, often coming late in the evening.

Finley didn’t want to do that anymore. At this point she was just waiting for them to break up with her. She was useless like that. They didn’t need a bother like her.

There is a knock on the apartment door. Fin sighs as she goes to open it.

Victoria, her drug dealer, enters the room.

“Here.” She hands Fin two bottles full of Vicodin. “Those are double dosage.” Finley opens the bottle and swallows two pills. She put the bottles in her pocket.

“Yeah, bullshit. Here. Will let you know when I’ll need more.” Finley pays the girl and opens the door to let her out.

But just as she is about to close the door, she feels it being pushed back. The impact makes her close her eyes immediately. There was an arm across her throat and the person's body was pushing her into the wall. ‘Man, that hurt.’

“How could you fucking do this to us?!” She hears Maggie yelling. What was she talking about? Fin’s head hurt and she was trying her best to open her eyes. It was hard breathing with Maggie’s arm pressed against her throat. “We go to work every day, and you what?! Enjoy your time with a hooker?! Who is she?!” Maggie sounds very mad, and Finley feels herself trembling.

She opens her eyes, looks at Maggie’s and panics. They were full of so much anger and Finley has seen it all before.

‘She’s going to kill me.’ She tries to move, but it is like her body is made of lead. She has to run. Run somewhere safe. Maybe if she begs she’ll leave her.

“P-please don’t...” Her voice trembles. Finley feels her tears falling. She was so scared waiting for Maggie to hurt her.

“Maggie what the fuck are you doing?!” Fin hears another voice yelling, the arm around her throat leaves and her legs give up letting her fall heavily to the ground.

“What the fuck am I doing?! This bitch is cheating on us! She didn’t think we’ll be home anytime soon! I saw a whore leaving our apartment! Guess that’s why she doesn’t call us, she’s to busy fucking around!” Maggie yells. “We’re leaving.”

Fin hears the apartment door slamming hard, but she couldn’t focus anymore, she felt herself falling further and further down.

Why is she still feeling so much pain? Why is it so hard to breath? She reaches in her pocket and opens the bottle swallowing a few pills. She needs them to work fast. She needs her pain to end.

***

Alex was being dragged down the street by Maggie. She wasn’t sure what just happened. She comes home, Finley’s is being pinned by their girlfriend to the wall while Maggie yells at her. She saw Fin, she was beyond scared. She needs to know what happened to them. “Mags stop. What the fuck was that?” She turns her girlfriend around, forcing Maggie to look at her. She wants answers now. “What happened?”

“What happened!? Well I come home, and find another woman leaving!” Maggie yells.

“And you just what, assume that Finley’s cheating on us?”

“Well you saw how she reacted!? And you know yourself how she was acting these past weeks! She was always sleeping as we came home, that’s cause she was tired from fucking behind our backs!” Alex sighs. Yes, she’s noticed how their girlfriend has been acting recently, but that was not the reason to assume she’s cheating. Finley would never cheat on them, and wholeheartedly Alex believes that.

Alex knows Maggie has had an awful day, she lost the main suspect on a mission and had hit her head in the process. But that was not an excuse to behave the way Maggie did.

“Okay, okay, how about we go for a walk, alright, you calm a bit, and then we can go back and talk, okay?”

“Whatever.” Maggie huffs angrily. They both walk for a few minutes until Alex sees that her girlfriend has calmed down enough.

“You good?” Alex frowns.

“I think so. I just felt so angry, I don’t even know what got into me. It’s just I saw this woman leaving and all I saw was red.” Maggie looks at Alex terrified. “Oh God, I literally threw our girlfriend into the wall. What have I done?!”

“Yeah, we better just go back and explain it all. Fin didn’t look too good when you dragged me out of the apartment. And I honestly am worried about her. So let’s just go and talk to her.” They both run back to their apartment.

Alex opens the door and looks around.

Her heart drops when she sees their girlfriend lying in the same place when they left. She was so shocked by everything that happened that Alex didn’t even move.

“Hey...Finley?” She says softly but she feels that something is wrong.

“Finley!” She hears Maggie yell in panic and Alex kneels realising that her girlfriend is not breathing, she goes to feel her pulse, but it’s very weak. She needs to be taken to DEO and fast. She pushes the button on her watch and feels her tears falling.

“Finley, come on, wake up!” She pleads, grabbing her girlfriend and stroking her cheek.

One minute later, Kara’s in their living room.

“What’s wrong?” She asks but soon spots Fin on the floor. She picks the unconscious girl in her arms and flies off as fast as possible to the DEO. Alex sits on the floor trying to catch her breath.

This can’t be happening.

She spots an empty pill bottle on the floor. She picks it up and looks at it. It’s not labelled. What did she take? Why did she take it? What did they miss?

“Holy fuck... Fin what did you do? What did we do?” She looks at Maggie who’s fully sobbing on the floor. She crawls to her and hugs her.

“It’s all my fault.” Maggie chokes out. Alex can see her girlfriend struggling to breathe.

“Hey. Look at me.” Alex forces the raven-haired woman to look at her. “Breath with me. In and out.” She helps Maggie calm her breath. “That’s it, you’re good.”

“Alex what did I do?!” The Shorter woman throws herself into the redhead arms crying hard.

#maggie sawyer x reader #maggie sawyer x oc #alex danvers x reader #alex danvers x maggie sawyer #sanvers x reader #sanvers x oc #alex danvers x oc #polamory

[give-jack-a-lightsaber]

Cool... Bruises? (Chicago Fire)

A/N: I’m back baby (?) I had this idea a few weeks ago but last night a saw it in my notes and started writing it! Just like that... I wish that could happen to me with college stuff but nope. Anyway, I tried a new way of writing that involved not using “Y/N” and making it gender neutral! It was a hard but gratifying experience, I hope you like it!

Word count: 1546 

Firehouse 51. You have been here for a month and a half and saying that it was the greatest house you ever worked in was the smallest compliment you could think of. This was your third, and hopefully last, firehouse in your ten years of being a firefighter.

 Why a firefighter? It didn't run in the family, you weren't saved by one of them, you didn't get excited by the adrenaline of the dangers that came with... No, none of that. You just lived your whole childhood in front of a firehouse and seeing them run to the trucks whenever the alarm sounded, with rain, snow or in the middle of a heatwave, to help a complete stranger who needed it was all it took for you to know that when you grew up you wanted to love your job as much as them and if in the same time you could be helping someone, better. So when you graduated from high school, you went straight to the fire academy and you loved it.

 Now 10 years later you still loved the job with all your heart and the schedule helped with your second job that it was as gratifying as the first one: a tattoo artist.

 You loved drawing your whole life, which is why your friends and family were kinda surprised that you didn't follow an art or design type of career. But nowadays it was as important for you as being a firefighter. It was your way of interacting with complete strangers without the fire or a halligan in the middle, and also an escape for your mind from bad calls or stupid discussions with your colleagues.

________

It was a completely normal Friday... except for it really wasn't. The whole past week, in and out of work, you started to notice that your coworkers (that luckily you can also call your friends) were acting strange towards you. At first not everyone was like this, if you don't remember wrong the first you noticed acting like this was Cruz, but now the whole shift was starting to whisper around you, stared at you worriedly and asking you things like "how are you been lately?" or "everything okay at home?".

 'Maybe they're joking with me because I'm a newbie', you thought, although is kinda strange because you been with them for almost two months... Still, you decided to ignore it but if it did get worse you will intervene.

 After the everyday reunion with the chief all went straight to have breakfast but you needed a quick detour to get your vitamins from your locker. Entering the common room you went straight to get a glass of water, popped your vitamins in your mouth and grabbed a plate for your breakfast.

 "What'd you take?" Herrmann asked beside you.

 "Vicodin. You can all call me Dr. House now" you joked and faked a limp in your way to the table. You knew it was a lame joke but you also knew that Brett and Capp would have laughed at that, so when you looked up from the plate and saw everyone staring at you with long and saddened faces you couldn't take it anymore.

 "Okay, what is going on with all you?", you asked standing up from the table and moving to the door so you would have a view of everyone, "did I do something to bother you guys?".

 Immediately a chorus of "no", "not your fault", "hey don't blame yourself" invaded the room and surprisedly were cut off by chief Boden.

 "You did nothing wrong kid, but it has come to my attention that some of your coworkers are worried about your well-being, and I know you still feel like the new face here and maybe you can't open up to us yet, but we are here for you when you are ready" he said looking at you with kind eyes.

 "Uh" you stared at everyone for a few seconds, searching for words to describe  how you felt right now. "I don't want to be disrespectful to you chief or anyone but... What the hell are you talking about?".

 "Come on, Cruz saw them when you were changing in the locker room" chastised Severide while frowning at you.

 "Saw what?" you questioned, getting confused more and more.

 "The bruises!" Joe yelped, "I saw a big ass bruise in your left leg. You can stop lying now".

 "Bruises? Wha-" that's when you realized what was this about. Oh boy... "It's not a bruise-".

 "Nah don't come at me with this crap" Herrmann halt you, "you didn't fall nor got hit by anything in the lasts two weeks and Cruz said those looked like a big deal so start talking".

 "Hey you don't go threatening people who need help" snapped Brett at the grey haired man.

 "Sylvie is right, is a sensitive matter that needs sensitive-" stated Casey before being cut off by the comments of everyone present in the room.

 "Guys, really is not what you think of" you protested but by now the discussion of treating the "problem" with a delicate or hard hand was swallowing your voice completely.

 Then a crazy idea came to you and you thought 'what the hell, this is already out of my control'. You felt through your uniform pants and silently cheered and thanked your past you for putting your biker shorts underneath.

 Big inhale and...

 "HEY!!" you shouted with all your lung capacity, that thankfully managed to get everyone quiet.

 "It's not a bruise and-" you started but stopped to send a threatening look towards Mouch who was about to interrupt, "AND I can prove it". Finished that sentence you started to unbuckle your belt even if you could feel their eyes, many many eyes, on you.

 "What are you..." Stella trailed off with a confused chuckle.

 "I am not bruised" you stated just before pulling your pants downand waiting quietly for the reactions. Every single one was amazing to see, the pants down technique was totally worth it.

 "Goddammit Joe you don't know the difference between a bruise and a tattoo?!" roared Herrmann looking at the firefighter in question.

 "H-how am I supposed to know?!! Literally the whole leg is tattooed and I just saw a glimpse of it in the locker room!" Joe excused himself while pointing at your leg.

 "You can put your pants back on" sighed the Chief and left the room.

___________

 "Those are some nice tattoos" commented Matt, now all sit down eating breakfast.

 "Thank you, I designed all myself but just tattooed the parts in my leg. The thigh section was done by a colleague" you beamed at him. "I'm really proud of it".

 "Wait, are you a tattoo artist? That is so cool" marveled Brett. "For how long? Do you work of it?".

 "Well I started when I got out of the academy, so around 10 years. And yes, a friend and I have a little tattoo shop in Little Village" you informed them.

 "How come we never knew about this? You been here for a month and a half!" Stella sputtered while shaking her head.

 "When I came here you guys where dealing with a wannabe commissioner. I guess being under a microscope didn't leave us much time to socialize and when the situation passed we had lived together some things that made us become closer, even if we didn't know each other fully" you expressed. "Like for real, I never thought that a firehouse family could be this strong and attentive of your own, but today's misunderstanding was the cherry on the top. You truly are amazing ".

_________

 A few calls through the day went past and before they noticed the shift had ended and they were going straight to Molly's to share with their fellow first responders the now top 1 story from firehouse 51: you minus pants.

 You were thrilled. Yeah.

 "Yes, keep laughing. At least I'm going to be a famous legend in the 51" you rolled your eyes at the people in the table, them being Brett, Kidd, Severide and 21st precinct boys Jay Halstead, Kevin Atwater and Adam Ruzek.

 "For pulling your pants down?" asked Atwater chuckling with his partners, receiving a middle finger from your part.

 "Hey, can we get discounts in your tattoo house now or do I have to arrest you for exhibitionism?" Jay asked you.

 "What, you want a tattoo of Captain America's ass, soldier boy?" you smirked at him, "and if you don't stop laughing I'll charge you with a 10% plus".

 "Copy that", they laughed and keep joking around for about an hour before you stood up.

 "Okay ladies and gents, is time for me to go, I have an early client tomorrow" you stated while stretching your arms. "Talk to you later, bye".

  A chorus of soft "bye" and "good night" were heard, but when you were going towards the front door a booming voice broke through.

 "Hey, I didn't get to see that famous tattoo, could you do that pant trick here?" Adam yelled, trying poorly to hide a smile.

 You froze for a second, slowly turned to him with a smirk in your face and in your cockiest voice ever you answered him.

 "You wish".

#Chicago Fire #nbc chicago fire #chicago fire imagine #chicago fire x reader #gender neutral reader #gender neutral #firehouse 51 #One Chicago #one chicago imagines #wallace boden #chief boden #christopher herrmann #joe cruz #mouch mcholland #sylvie brett #stella kidd #matt casey #capp #kelly severide #molly's #truck 81 #jay halstead #Adam Ruzek #kevin atwater

[peralta-guaranteed]

Can you hear me, S.O.S., help me put my mind to rest

“Sorry they made you come out for something so stupid.” He mumbles, finally, in the elevator up to his apartment. “It’s not stupid.” “It’s 1am on a sunday, I’m pretty sure you had better things to do than pick up a beat-up co-worker and buy him his drugs.” He shoots her a quick glance as they get out on his floor. “I’m gonna pay you back for those, of course.” She doesn’t even acknowledge it, because they both know he can’t afford it. “It’s actually 12:30, and my partner needed my help. So there’s definitely nothing better to do with my time.”

---*---

Amy is Jake’s emergency contact on his medical file, which makes sense if you think about them as the lovey-dovey couple that they are now. She has been his emergency contact since two months after he’d met her, which makes less sense, until you realise that she is reliable, comforting, supportive Amy, and he is Jake, and he has never not been yearning for her attention just a little bit.

read it on AO3

 “Jesus Christ, Jake. I know you’re bad at paperwork, but this is a horror show.”

 Amy rubs her eyes with the palms of her hands, trying to stare down the little stars that appear in her vision from doing so. Jake, across the room on his worn-down couch, eating something very sweet and very crumbly - a cannoli, maybe? it was gone too fast for Amy to recognise - simply shrugs.

 “You don’t have to do it, Ames, you know that.”

 She does. She knows. She offered, after all.

 Maybe it was too early for something like this, anyway. They’d been officially together for barely a month, a stage where most other couples would still be discovering each other’s little likes and dislikes and trying to hide some imperfections from the other. Definitely not the stage of going through their partner’s chaotic mountain of very personal paperwork and files. Yet here she is, sorting through insurances (the rare few that Jake actually has, mostly because he’s legally required to), licenses, bills and Academy certificates.

 It was a mess that had Amy’s fingers itching every time she saw it, she reasons, and nothing they’d done in their month together really fit the usual trajectory of a relationship anyway, based on the fact that they already knew each other like the back of their hands. So when Jake had groaned about another forgotten bill from the mail tub that Amy forced him to steadily work through every time she came over, she’d offered to get things straightened out for him once and for all.

 She’s not sure if she regrets it now. Thumbing through a pile of loose papers that turn out to be several medical records from his injuries as a rookie cop, she realises that maybe this is a bit too personal, a step too close for what they have so far. Would she be willing to share this kind of information with a boyfriend of four weeks? she wonders as she skims over a page detailing the frankly insane amount of medication he was supposed to take after another week-long stay at the hospital. She’s quite sure he took barely half of it, gritting his teeth and moaning about stupid doctors instead, even though she didn’t know him back then - she knows him too well now not to immediately picture a slightly younger Jake with a list of weird-sounding pills he couldn’t pronounce and a giant frown on his face at the pharmacy.

 “I don’t have to- I mean, I can stop. If you don’t want me to do this.”

 Jake, finished with whatever he was eating, leans back on the couch to face her at the tiny table in his kitchenette. He gives her the patented Peralta-grin, the sweetness only heightened by some leftover cream-filling (definitely a cannoli) on his right cheek. She has half a mind to get up and lick it off, but she’s blocked in by paper piles all around her.

 “And keep Amy Santiago from a chance to file paperwork? Pretty sure that’d be grounds for a break-up. I’m surprised you haven’t run out to buy me a filing cabinet filled with all sorts of folders and tabs and whatnot.”

 She lets her eyes drop back down to the papers in her hands, trying hard not to show him the blush creeping onto her face. She had been making a mental list of what binders she should buy to really get this in order.

 “I’m just saying, if you don’t want me to see some of this- it’s very private information-”

 “Babe.” He still grins, and Amy thinks about how that pet name has settled between them far too quickly and far too comfortably as well. “Pretty sure nothing in that mountain of papers is any more embarrassing than all the stuff you already know and tease me about all the time.”

 “True. It’s not like I’m going to find out here why you think using the same soap for your dishes and your shower routine sometimes is an okay thing to do.” She grins back before filing away another old medical record, suddenly getting stuck on one little line at the top of it. “Jake, please tell me Stevie Schillens is      not     still your emergency contact.”

 “What? No. Of course he isn't. They make you update your info with every promotion at work.” That alone tells her that if ‘they’ didn’t, Jake would definitely still have a co-worker from his starting days on his files rather than, say, his current sergeant or a close friend. She shuffles through a few papers to find a more recent record.

 “Who is it, then? Might be good to update again and reconsider, promotion or not. Your mom is like half an hour’s drive away if anything happened, Terry can’t really get away from his family if it’s after hours. I wouldn’t trust Charles not to break down worse than you if he ever gets a call, and Rosa- I guess she’s responsible enough, but she might hurt you more for giving out her phone number-”

 “Really, Ames?” His voice is so soft from the couch, and when she finally looks up again, his face has that strange tilt to it, between affectionate and amused. As if she’d just said the most ridiculous, yet adorable thing in the universe. As if the answer wasn’t completely obvious.

 She looks down again at the paper she picked up, a medical report from a while ago, and as she reads the little line on top, she remembers.

-*-

 “Amy Santiago?”

 “This is she.”

 The voice down the line is as foreign as the number on her cell had been when she picked it up. She didn’t get many calls on her private phone anyway, apart from her family, and they were not the kind of people who’d call her at midnight on a saturday.

 “This is NewYork-Presbyterian Brooklyn Methodist Hospital. We’re calling on behalf of Jake Peralta? You’re listed as his emergency contact, but there is no additional info on your status-”

 She’s up off the couch and into her bedroom to change into jeans before the nurse on the line can even finish.

 “I’m his partner. Work. Partner. We’re detectives. NYPD.” Amy almost barks down the line while wedging the phone between her shoulder and ear to pull down her sweatpants. Jake would obviously carry his badge even when he wasn’t on duty like tonight, but maybe they hadn’t found it, maybe he hadn’t been able to give them that info... and while it was slightly upsetting to think about, she knew that the hospital would give fast-tracks and special treatments to active cops, and if that was something that could help him now, the morality of it all didn’t matter one bit to her. “What’s happened? Is he- is Jake okay?”

Obviously he’s not, you idiot, he’s in the hospital and not present enough to give them any information so they have to call his emergency contact, that is the furthest from okay that he could be-  

 Her inner scolding is interrupted by the very calm, very soothing voice of the nurse.

 “He should be fine. He was brought in ten minutes ago. Somebody assaulted him, but a nearby officer intervened and called for an ambulance. We just needed to check because his files are very… incomplete.” Amy hears the rustling of paper and the slight distaste tinging the nurse’s voice and makes a mental note to sit down with Jake and make him update all his information as soon as possible. “And he’s not clear enough to answer any questions due to the painkillers. Are you aware of any allergies or problems that could arise from medications? He doesn’t need surgery, but we have to treat some lacerations and other wounds.”

 “He’s not on any permanent medications. He had to take Vicodin and Heparin after a surgery four months ago.” She replies immediately and without a doubt, remembering her last trip to the hospital with him while she slips into a jacket and checks her bag for her purse and car keys. “Oh, he has asthma, but hasn’t had an attack in years, so he doesn’t use his inhaler regularly or anything. And he’s allergic to bees, but I don’t think that matters?”

 “No.” the nurse almost chuckles. “But the rest is very helpful to know, thanks. Will you be able to arrange for someone to monitor him for the next 24 hours? Otherwise we’ll need to prepare a room for him. He keeps saying you’ll pick him up, but we weren’t sure-”    “I’m on my way.”

-*-

 She speed-walks to the front desk of the emergency room not ten minutes later.

 “Hello. My name is Amy Santiago. I’m here for Jake Peralta - he was brought in twenty minutes ago?”

 “Ah! The lovely lady detective.” The nurse - it’s a different one from the phone call, she can tell from the voice - gives her a weird sort of smile. “Yes, he’s been asking for you non-stop. But the painkillers should have worn off by now, so he might be more coherent.”

 She tries to ignore that comment, she really does. But it’s not easy.

 “The doctor’s going over aftercare with him, so he might be a few more minutes. You can take a seat if you’d like.”

 Amy glances over to the waiting area, full of people even at this time of night, before turning back to the desk. “Uhm, the nurse on the phone said he needs to be monitored for 24 hours - do you know why? Is there anything I need to be aware of?”

 The lady gives her a once-over before another strange smile, like she knows more than Amy does (which, logically, in this situation she does, but it feels like she knows something else, too).

 “He’s had a minor concussion. Nothing to worry about, but he might be a bit disoriented or woozy, so it’s best not to leave him alone. And if he throws up or feels faint, you should bring him back immediately. He has a check-up appointment to remove his stitches in three days. Everything else you need to know will be on his report.”

 “Sure.” Amy nods, and hopes that Jake doesn’t lose track of that report on his way from the examination room to the waiting area - it wouldn’t be the first time he manages to lose paperwork in record time. She gives the still smiling nurse another nod before finally heading to sit down and pull out the crossword puzzle she was halfway done with when she got the call.

 “Hey.”

 “Oh! Hey!” Amy practically drops her puzzle and jumps from her seat in the waiting room once she sees him standing in front of her.

 Jake looks a mess. His leather jacket is ripped on one shoulder seam, and his jeans are covered in grime. There’s an awful lot of blood on his hoodie - probably from his nose, which is covered in a bandage - and his face is more red-bruised than pale in most places. There’s another, bigger bandage over a stitched-up gash across his left cheekbone, the accompanying eye blood-shot, and his lip is split in at least two places.

 “You look like hell.” She blurts out before thinking and immediately scolds herself, but it actually earns her a little laugh.

 “You’re looking lovely as well, Santiago.” His eyes wander over her messy ‘I had to get here in under ten minutes on a saturday couch night’ look, including a steadily unraveling hair-bun and oversized sweater.

 “Sorry, I mean-”

 “S’alright.” He drops into the seat next to her and winces. More bruises, Amy thinks.

 “What happened?” She sits back down as he leans forward, only now noting the clipboard and pen in his hands (which are equally roughed up, knuckles worn down, with scabs already forming. Whatever had happened, he sure hadn’t given in easily).

 “Some big-shot guy whose dealer I arrested last week spotted me coming out of a bar. Decided the best way to deal with his crippling drug addiction was to beat the shit out of the cop who’d cut off his supply. He was, like, a giant of a dude.” Jake puffs up his chest and raises his arms to show the supposed size of the man, and Amy can only nod. “Luckily he was too stupid to check for surveillance on the very public street we were on, and there was a beat cop on the corner who cuffed him pretty quickly.” He looks down again at the clipboard, and tries to scratch his nose before remembering there’s a bandage in the way. “He also called an ambulance, which I think was a bit over the top, but I couldn’t really breathe to tell him no.”

 Amy gives him a quizzical look, and he sighs before explaining.

 “Fucker punched me in the chest so hard I had an asthma attack.”

 She snorts. She doesn’t want to, but it’s not really something you can stop, even as she clutches her hand over her mouth in embarrassment.

 “I’m sorry, Jake, I shouldn’t- it’s not funny-”

 “Well.” He grins at her, far softer than usual, but that might just be to not upset his split lip. “It is a little bit funny, I guess.”

 “Do you have an inhaler at work? You should take one with you, you know, even if you haven’t had problems for a while, you never know when they show up again, case in point, and people might not know what to do - maybe I should get an inhaler too, for when we’re working together, and make sure Charles knows how-”

 “Hey.” He interrupts her verbal stream of consciousness by holding the clipboard up to her, and she grabs it reflexively the same way she does when he sneakily slips her his unfinished paperwork. “Can you help me fill out these stupid forms? I think I’m still a bit high from whatever they gave me back there, or maybe I just don’t know half of these words anyway.”

 She grabs the pen from him as well, clicks it twice, and gets to work. She doesn’t even have to ask him about most of the fields he’s left blank, and after a minute or two, the file is full with both his chicken scratch and her perfect handwriting. She’s filled out so many of these forms for him before, she could probably do it in her sleep. Which would be quite a worrying thought if it wasn’t so weirdly sweet at the same time - she realises that he has never, not once, asked anyone else for a ride to the hospital for work injuries, at least when he had the choice (and luckily, he was barely ever so hurt that he couldn’t, that any one of them had to jump into the back of the ambulance with him, but most of those times it was her as well).

 “Here.” She hands the file back to him. “Get that to the nurses, and we can go back to your place so you can catch up on sleep. Do you have your medical report?”

 He nods and swaps it for the clipboard in her hand in a well-set routine they both know, getting up to hand it in while she does a quick read through. There are not that many after-care instructions - the usual things for concussions she’s aware of, a healing balm for the bruising, replacing the bandages regularly, and another truckload of painkillers and medicine. The doctors sure do seem to love pumping him full with it whenever they get a chance, and he sure does love to ignore them and not take any of it. She still makes a mental note to swing by the pharmacy on their way home to pick it all up when he gets back and gestures for her to leave.

 He does a dramatic turn and bow to say good-bye to the front desk as they pass it, earning himself a giggle from the ladies and swaying only a little after he gets back up. Amy has her hands around his elbow immediately, steadying him and leading him outside - they did say he would be woozy - and the nurse gives her another one of those smiles. She’s still not quite sure if she likes them or not.

-*-

 They stop at the late-night-pharmacy as planned - Jake obeys orders to stay in the car to make it all quicker, but insists on getting a bag of sour gummies as a reward, and Amy sighs as he tears into it right away, probably covering her whole passenger seat with the powder - but the rest of the drive stays quiet. It feels more concerning to Amy than it should. He’s a blabbermouth at the best of times, should be even more so after being loaded up with painkillers and coming down from the adrenaline high of a fight, asthma attack and hospital treatment all at once. But right now he seems utterly silenced, fidgety and... nervous.

 “Sorry they made you come out for something so stupid.” He mumbles, finally, in the elevator up to his apartment.

 “It’s not stupid.”

 “It’s 1am on a sunday, I’m pretty sure you had better things to do than pick up a beat-up co-worker and buy him his drugs.” He shoots her a quick glance as they get out on his floor. “I’m gonna pay you back for those, of course.” She doesn’t even acknowledge it, because they both know he can’t afford it.

 “It’s actually 12:30, and my partner needed my help. So there’s definitely nothing better to do with my time.”

 He mumbles something else as they step through the door, but she doesn’t catch it. She helps him slip out of his jacket instead, reminds herself to google a good tailor that works with leather as she notices the ripped shoulder while hanging it up and turns around to look at the blood-stained hoodie he’s taking off.

 “I don’t think that thing is salvageable.”

 “Damn, and it was one of my favourites, too.” He pouts, playfully, before remembering his injured lip.

 “All your hoodies are your favourite.”

 “Am I not allowed to love them all equally?”

 Amy is already in his kitchen not answering that, instead bundling the hoodie up and into a trash bag she’s pulled from a shelf. She’ll take it down to the dumpster with her when she leaves tomorrow, or else he might try and wash it.

 “You don’t have to do all this, you know.” Jake says as she walks past him to put the bag on the front mat. “I can take care of my clothes.”

 “Sorry.” She halts and takes off her own jacket and shoes, instead. It’s a strange situation - they’re both used to Jake being a lot more inhibited from medication or alcohol when she literally has to bring him home, usually hanging onto Amy’s shoulders and babbling nonsense while she shuffles him into bed. But now he’s standing up all on his own, silent again, looking around the place as if he doesn’t know what to do in his own home with Amy as a not-quite-guest. Neither does she.

 Another beat of silence passes between them before Jake clears his throat and bumbles on.

 “You should- ...do you want something to drink? I think I still have some of that herbal stuff you brought-”

 “You should-” Amy starts at almost the same time, silencing them both again for another beat. “You should change out of these” she gestures to his dirty clothes “and put the balm on your bruises and get ready for bed. You’re gonna crash from the adrenaline soon.”

 It seems like he wants to say something else, but the silence is deafening by now, so he only nods and grabs stuff out of the pharmacy bag before heading to the bathroom.

 “I’m gonna grab a spare shirt for me to sleep in, if that’s okay?” She calls after him and only hears ‘Sure!’ before the door closes.

 Amy realises, as she turns around for the dresser in the one room apartment he inherited from Gina a while ago, that she’s never been here before without some medical emergency clouding her vision. She knew his old place - from a few late evenings working on case files (which he illegally took home, but neither of them mentioned that), and a movie marathon when he was extremely sick and had begged her over on her day off because he was convinced he was ‘going to die any minute’ and didn’t want the neighbours to find his ‘decomposing corpse later in the week’ - and he’d been over at hers far more times than she could count (her place was nicer, she had actual cable tv,, and a working kitchen for him to rustle around in for random late night snacks).

 But this apartment? It seems strangely foreign now, without a drunk or medicated Jake needing her help, without the usual distraction of getting him into bed, getting his shoes and jacket off, forcing him awake to take some aspirin and then settling down on the couch to his snoring. She feels like a guest instead, someone who doesn’t know if they’re allowed to sit down or get a drink from the kitchen without being invited. That’s nonsense, she thinks - she’s here to help like always, and there’s no way Jake would care if she turned his entire kitchen upside down and re-organised it or fell asleep on the couch right then and there.

 Loud grumbling and ranting from the bathroom pulls her out of her thoughts, before she can even decide to pick up the spare bedding set for the couch she knows he keeps in his closet.

 “Everything alright?” She knocks on the door, but barely waits for the angry ‘No!’ before opening it. Her breath catches.

 Jake’s in his pajama pants, and - that’s it. She can see the muscles in his bare back flex as well as the reflection of his front in the mirror, as he tries to bend around in some convoluted way to reach the large, purple bruise that travels from his waist to his back.

 “Stupid doctors and their stupid lotions and stupid ideas for people who can’t do yoga or some shit to reach their own back-” he mumbles, but Amy doesn’t hear much of it. She’s seen Jake shirtless before - you don’t go on stake-outs or undercover assignments without catching each other in different states of undress at some point - and every time has been a secret memory, quickly stolen and hidden somewhere deep in her mind, to be dusted off and remembered at the most inopportune times or when she feels particularly alone after a drink (or maybe four). This time will probably be no different, she thinks as she notes the soft trail of hair under his belly button, down to the sweatpants that definitely sit lower than any jeans she’s seen him shirtless in before.

 She has to act, she reprimands herself, before he notices, before he sees her staring or realises she’s blushing, so she steps up to the sink and pulls the tub of healing balm from his hands.

 “It’s not the doctors’ fault you always get injured in inconvenient places.” She answers his rant while dipping her fingers into the lotion and carefully applying it to the bruise, trying not to rub or press too hard for it to hurt.

 Jake doesn’t breathe the entire time her fingers are on his skin.

 “There you go.” Amy closes the little tub and puts it next to the sink, eyeing his bruised face and completely ignoring the flush that is hiding underneath it. “Lemme change your bandages before you sleep, too. You already got them dirty.”

 “I can do that-”

 “You’re going to rip it straight off and disturb your stitches, most likely.” Her hands are already at the corner of his cheek, carefully prying off the tape and strips, and he forgets how to breathe again.

 She replaces the bandages just as carefully and leaves him to the rest of his night time routine, filling a glass of water in the kitchenette and coming back with a packet of Vicodin at the same moment he steps out of the bathroom, finally pulling a shirt over his head.

 “You should take some painkillers before you sleep. It’ll help.”

 “Oh goodie.” He quips and eyes the water. “Drugs! Because the injuries totally weren’t caused because of somebody off their drugs!”

 “These are prescription drugs. It’s different. You know that.”

 He still stares warily at the package in her hand, but another shuffle forward from her and he grabs them and pops one into his mouth, grimacing after downing it (whether that grimace is for the medicine or the water he actually has to drink, she’s not sure).

 “Good boy.” Amy jokes, and he’s glad he’s already swallowed so he can’t choke on his water from hearing that. “Now get some sleep in. I’ll be down here on the couch if you need anything, or feel worse.”

 “Don’t go-” He stutters and stares right past her head at the aforementioned couch. “I mean, you don’t- you don’t have to sleep on the couch, I know how uncomfortable it is- you can sleep with me- I mean, in the bed, with me in the bed, I mean- there’s enough space- with the extra blanket- I don’t-”

 He interrupts his own rambling with a deep sigh and a ‘Jesus, Jake’ before Amy can stifle another giggle. He feels just as awkward with her here as she does, and it almost makes the whole thing more comfortable. They’ll just have to power through the nonsense and get back to their normal friendly behaviour, she reasons.

 “If you really don’t mind. I’m gonna get the stuff from the closet.”

 He’s already bundled up under his own covers when she comes back with the heap of blanket and pillows for her side of the bed.

 It’s not her side, of course, it’s just the part of the bed he’s freed up from his own duvet, and that she’s going to sleep on now for one night, but it’s not like they have sides in their bed like-

power through the nonsense, she repeats as she settles down and stares over at him. His eyes are closed, his breath already slowing down into a sleepy pattern, and despite all the bruising and bandaging, his face looks so soft when he’s asleep. It’s a sight she could definitely get used to.

-*-

 She remembers waking up the next morning, far too early for the late night they’d had. She remembers how wonderfully warm he was, hurt face buried in her shoulder and softly breathing across his shirt that she’d borrowed. She remembers her heart racing as she tried to untangle herself from the cuddling position their sleeping bodies had found themselves in, and she remembers the soft, quiet, confused ‘Ames..?’ when he woke up a few hours later and found the bed empty, with her already sitting at the tiny kitchen table she was sitting at right now.

 Looking back at the report of the night she just remembered, the little line of her name and phone number at the top seem to glare at her, scolding her for her stupid question about emergency contact changes. She can hear Jake quietly laugh before she looks up.

 “What, did you genuinely think you weren’t my first pick for emergencies?” Jake is still smiling at her, and she realises he obviously didn’t go down that little trip down memory lane with her. Maybe he was even still at the point of their conversation where Stevie Schillens was a viable option for an emergency contact as well. “Like, even without everything else going on with us… You love filling out forms, you’re responsible enough to actually take care of an emergency situation, and you know about all my stupid medical info better than me, because you keep driving me to the hospital from work.”

 “You’re saying you made a serious decision like this based on actual logical evidence instead of one of your ‘gut feelings’?” Amy’s eyebrow raises almost involuntary. Present-Jake, maybe. Past-Jake? Definitely not.

 Present-Jake can only shrug before scratching his nose, a subtle tell that she's identified by now for when he’s embarrassed, as if he’s trying to hide his face before speaking again.

 “Might’ve also liked the idea of having you in the ER with me... instead of a freaked-out Charles or something.”

 She smiles at what sounds like only half-explained truth and decides not to push it. She knows what he means, anyway. She knows, by now, that he would always ask the nurses for her when he was being treated, would always ramble on about her when blissed out on extra-strong painkillers, about how smart she was and how much she would help him and how much he hated hospitals, but not quite so much when he knew she was outside the room waiting for him.

 “Okay, but when exactly did you put me in as your emergency contact?” She puts down the last file and maneuvers around the stacks of yet unsorted papers to get over to him and the couch.

 “Eh, ‘bout two months after we were partnered up.”

 “Two- we didn’t even like each other then!”

 “Wrong. You didn’t like me.” Another nose-scratch before Amy can sit down next to him, cradling his face in her hand and smiling again at how quickly he leans into it.

 “Aw, babe. I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”

 “I mean, I didn’t like-like you then. Just for the record. I wasn’t that desperate, okay? I just thought you were... neat. And really good to have around for emergencies. Probably should’ve asked you. For all I know you would’ve stranded your annoying new partner at the hospital and pretended like you never heard of me.”

 “I would have never done that!” Amy glowers at him. “Just for the record as well. I would’ve absolutely taken care of you, even though I didn’t like you or found you super annoying.”

 “I know you’re trying to be nice right now, babe, but you’re really not doing it well.” Jake grins at her again, and she can’t help but pull him towards her to kiss that snarky grin away. It reappears as soon as her lips leave his, unfortunately, but it is decidedly less snarky and far more dopey.

 “And I did show up when they called me after that drug addict attacked you, remember? I was so worried when I got that call, because I didn’t even know I was your contact, and I thought something horrible must’ve happened that they had to call me. And then it was just a fist fight.”

 “Sorry.” He mumbles. “It was a really stupid reason to call an emergency contact. Shoulda filled my forms out better.”

 “Maybe.” She smiles as she strokes across his cheek, noting the tiny scar that is still there from the stitches he had to get. “But I’m glad they did, anyway. You would’ve tried to drive yourself home and clean your wounds with mouthwash, or something.”

 “Maybe.” He echoes with an equal smile. “You do make a better home-nurse than I would, I guess. Even though you were missing the sexy outfit.”

 He earns himself a punch to the arm for that before she goes back to playing with his hair, soothing him enough that he drops the joking facade.

 “I was really happy you showed up, by the way. And took me home. And didn’t leave.”

 “Again: I would’ve never left you or not taken care of you. We’re partners, for God’s sake. What would the Captain have said if he found out I left you home alone with a concussion after you asked me for help?”

 “Yep. Holt’s imminent disappointment. Definitely the only reason I hoped you’d stay.” His smile is crooked, but Amy only continues stroking through his hair, and it quickly turns the uncomfortable smile into a content sigh. “I was so… nervous. Because... you can probably guess that I did like-like you by then. Like, you were right here in my apartment, and I wasn’t out on painkillers, but I also wasn’t awake enough to like, entertain you or anything, and I was so worried that you were already annoyed because of the whole situation and I would do something or say something stupid, but you were still there, and then you helped me with the bandages, and the, the lotion, and I think I remember the worst invitation to my bed I’ve ever given anyone, and when I woke up I thought you’d finally left, but you were just in the kitchen, and I-” He sighs again, closing his eyes and leaning forward to rest his forehead against her shoulder. “I was always torn between wanting to kiss you and wanting to apologise for being so much trouble.”

 “God, we really were hopelessly lost on each other, weren’t we?” Amy chuckles, her hand now carding through the hair on his nape rather than the curls on top.

 “I was definitely hopeless, in every sense of the word. I think I’d rather describe you as oblivious.”

 “Ooooh, good word!” She happily praises him, before realising just how sad that statement of his actually was. He lifts his head again to look at her. “I... actually, I wasn’t really oblivious at all. I’d say I was just as hopeless as you. I just hid it a bit better.”

 “But you were always there.” He smiles at her, his head sideways now, leaning against the back of the couch, and it’s so soft and comforting and homely she wants to sink into him. “For every hospital trip I needed. Maybe that’s kinda why I made you my emergency contact too. I knew you’d come no matter what, and I knew you wouldn’t leave. Whether I annoyed you like crazy or we barely knew each other or we were already good friends or we were not quite on speaking terms due to all the awkwardness.”

 She leans her head next to him, her hands wrapping around his folded in his lap.

 “I’ve got your back. Always.” She whispers, and it’s a lot more than the supportive, yet simple promise of work partners. She thinks of the many times people had left him, the many things he’d been through alone, the lonely walks to an empty house or quiet cab rides back to a dark apartment, the dinner’s in the microwave notes and the sorry, can’t tonight texts, and the few times she has actually left him alone too, not knowing yet that when he was running off scared, what he really needed was someone to run after him and tell him it’s okay.

 Their relationship is only a month old, officially, but she knows that it’s far older than that. She knows that it’s been growing and changing for years, and she knows, in that moment, that it will grow for many, many years to come. For forever, maybe, if they’re lucky. But no matter what it will change into in the future - she also knows, without a doubt in her heart, that she’ll be there. The way he knows she would, the way he’s known since two months after they met.

#B99 #Brooklyn 99 #Peraltiago #Jake Peralta #Amy Santiago #fanfic #my writing

[dariaslookalike]

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Pt 8: Bad Lungs and Choking

Summary:

It seems, oddly enough, that Gregory House lives to annoy you. He takes 'arseholish boss' to the next level. Wake up in the morning, ready to have breakfast, and drive to the hospital where you both work? Nope, you're getting a text that says you're late to his impromptu 4:30 AM meeting where he's had the 'breakthrough of the century' on the team's latest case. Get your hair cut and walk into work, for once feeling confident? Nope, he's saying that he would have done a better job blinded, hands tied and going through Vicodin withdrawals. Finally, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, prove him wrong and attempt to wipe the cockiness off his face? Nope, you're simply slow because you didn't get to your diagnosis quicker and weak-willed because you didn't fight him for it in the beginning. Everything House does infuriates you, and it seems everything you do infuriates him. No wonder you end up pinned to the wall of your apartment and groping him like your life depends on. And knowing House, it very may well.

Warnings: Adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter: Pt 9

-----------------------

You wake up with a harsh gasp, but the pain is barely present and your fever is gone. The sleep in your eyes makes your vision blurry and you rub at it lazily. You’re still half asleep and if you relax yourself just a bit more, you’ll slip back into your dreams.

Usually, your dreams were an awkward combination of things: going to your grandparents house in your swimmers or being back at highschool and forgetting algebraic factorisation. Of course, in the past few months many had been about House. He had been looming over you in your waking hours, so it made sense he did it while you slept too. But really, what kind of fucking dream did you just wake from? House, in your house?

You walk with bleary eyes to your bathroom. You brush your teeth for the first time in days, and scrub your tongue, and repeat the process until all you can taste is toothpaste. You stare at the centre of your tiles. It all seemed so vivid in your fever. Standing there with House. Undressing. Your eyes trail over to your bathtub and you send a prayer out, thanking whatever higher being, that biting House was a dream. You make your way back to bed, but decide you don’t want to fall back into that dream. House was still a prick. No way in hell would you have gone ten feet near him after the charity ball, even with a fever, and you want to scold your brain for thinking something so ludacris. Instead, you stretch out in the warmth of your bed, sunning yourself in the light drifting through your windows. You roll over, snuggling your face back into your pillow but you stop with a jolt.

Fresh sheets.

Your heart makes itself known by pounding against your ribcage, and you sit up as silently as you can. You study your room with new eyes. Your top draw is open. Your desk chair is pulled back. Even the final box that you have been promising yourself to unpack is tipped over, its contents spilling out against the floor. Suddenly your throat feels tight and you drag your hands down your cheek. Then you look down at your pyjamas, and flashes of your ‘dream’ rush back to you. Vomiting. Naked. Watched.

Fuck.

You tip your legs over the side of your bed and pad silently out of your room. You’re still weak, and you stop every few steps to lean against a wall with a heaving breath. Like a fugitive being tailed, you peek your head around each corner and slowly edge out.

It’s only when your smoke alarm goes off do your muscles grant you enough power to race towards your kitchen. You expect a great, grand fire, but you stop suddenly and stare at what you’re met with. House is standing atop one of your ikea chairs in the middle of your kitchen, with a screw driver jammed to your smoke alarm.

“What are you doing?” Any thought of the previous night is pushed aside for now, as the high pitched ringing continues to sound out.

He huffs and says something that is lost in the sound, but at your quizzical look he repeats himself. “I wanted to test if it worked.”

“Why?! And can you shut it up?”

Your hands fling to your ears but House simply lowers the screwdriver and the screeching stops. House stares up at it as if he wants to jam the screwdriver back to one of the crevices, so you stride forward and yank out of his hand. He wobbles atop the chair and scoffs. “That’s the thank you I get for saving your life?”

He gingerly lowers himself, but you don’t reach to help him down. You take a step back and lean against one of your kitchen counters. “I would hardly call last night saving my life. I was already over the worst of my sickne-”

House raises a hand to silence you. “I wasn’t talking about last night yet, vomit-comet.” Your eyes bulge, but what he says next has your jaw dropping. “Your smoke detector is clearly faulty, because it didn’t detect the smoke from the fire. Who knows when you would have been caught in an inferno?”

“What fire?”

He gestures over his shoulder to your toaster, which you suddenly realise has fading smoke the top. “You have a lot of CDs for me to pick through. Very distracting when I’m trying to make toast.” You deflate against your counter and pinch the bridge of your nose. When you look back up, you see House staring intently at you. Studying you.

You’re the first to break in your weird staring competition, and your eyes trail off to the side where you see House’s cane propped up against a cupboard. You exhale. “Thank you, I guess for last night. And for destroying my broken smoke alarm. And my toaster.”

House doesn’t take the hint, and across the small space of your kitchen he pushes himself up to sit on the top of a counter. Your eyes catch on the flex of his forearms and you curse yourself when he smirks at you. “All in a day’s work for the world’s greatest doctor.”

You stand in awkward silence for a moment before you jut your head at him. The movement makes you dizzy, but you steady yourself against the counter. House’s brows pinch together before he exclaims, “Oh! That wasn’t you thanking me, that was you trying to get to me to leave. I’m like a mould, sweetheart. I’ll grow on you.” He tilts his head. “Or in you, I suppose.”

“What? What are you talking abou…” Your words slur off into a trail and you raise your hands in front of your face. They’re shaking. “I thought- Was better. Whass happing?” Your tongue is heavy in your mouth.

House clicks his tongue and slaps his hands against his thighs. “Well that’s the exciting part! I thought you were getting better too!”

Your head starts to loll forward and you lose sight of him as he keeps speaking. “But that’s because I thought you had something boring. A flu. A cold. Maaaaaaaybe pneumonia. But then I saw your bathroom. Let me guess, the mould was there when you moved in? That’s what made this shithole so cheap right?”

You’re using all your willpower to stay standing but then your knees buckle and you lower yourself to the ground as gently as you can. Still, you thud to the floor. House tuts from somewhere above you, and you hear him push off the counter. “It was everywhere though. Even on the back of some of your canvases. I thought I paid you well enough that you could at least afford a sponge and some bleach. Clearly not.”

From the floor, you manage to raise your head. You can only look at his ratty sneakers as he limps closer. “Walking home in the snow should have killed you, with what’s being festering in you by now. But I guess I-” He clears his throat, “you got lucky.”

Your vision blurs and you hear House groan, as he reaches down and drags your limp body upwards. “You can’t stay here anymore though. You’ll be a walking fungi by noon.”

—----------------

You expect to wake in the hospital. Most people do when they collapse.

Instead you wake in a dark room under heavy blankets. You lay there for a moment, letting your eyes adjust to the lack of light. You turn your head to your right, taking in the empty armchair and small cabinet beside you. There’s a phone handset, a clock and a lamp that is no help in the dark. It’s a weird jolt of terror that you get when your eyes trail down to the end of the bed, and only after seconds of staring into the darkness do they make out the form of House, perched on the end. You scramble up as fast as you can, tucking your knees close to you.

House rolls his eyes. “This isn’t my sex dungeon.”

“Oh,” you scowl, “Do you prefer the term basement? Or oubliette? Where am I?”

House squints his eyes and you can tell he’s debating whether or not to tell you. You kick out deftly under the covers and land a softened blow against his arm. He swats at your foot and you retreat. House clicks his tongue. “Mine.”

You laugh. “No, no, no. Not yours. Where are we actually? Where did you kidnap me to?”

House pins you with a glare. “It’s not kidnapping if its done for a perfectly medical reason and you can’t really call yourself a kid anymore, can you?”

“That’s not what that mea-”

He cuts you off and effectively silences your words with his own. “Mine. We are at my apartment.”

At his words, your eyes trail away, instead surveying the room with a new hunger. The bookcase is filled to the brim with novels and texts, and there’s a cluttered desk opposite you. You’re trying to digest that you’re probably in House’s room. House’s bed.

You run your hands down your face and groan. “What the fuck is happening, House?”

He huffs and looks away from you, head tilted back to stare at his ceiling. “You literally have mould growing in your lungs. But, a handy dandy course of pills and you’ll be fine. I already gave you the first two doses while you were out. You’ll be good for a few hours and have to keep taking some if, you know, you don’t want to breathe like a deformed pug.”

“No, no, I don’t give a shit about any of that. Sure, hypersensitivity pneumonitis or aspergillosis, whatever. But what the fuck is happening right now?” You lower your hands and glare at him. “Why did you bring me here? I pass out and your first reaction is to drag me to your apartment?”

And really, how? You get an image of him dragging your down the stairs, thumping the whole way, and shoving you into the boot of his trunk. House doesn’t sound quite as cocky or self-assured as he usually does when he speaks. “Your place is basically a cesspool of fungi. You won't be able to get better there.”

“So why am I not at the hospital?”

There’s a heavy beat of weighted silence, and he still doesn’t look at you. “Because I wouldn’t be able to take care of you there.”

You deflate almost against his pillows, like a tire with a slow leak. “Oh.”

“Yep.” He says, popping the p.

“House. I can’t actually stay here, with you, after…everything.” ‘Everything’. What an odd way to sum up the feelings in your chest, the screaming matches between you two, and all that lay in between.

He sucks in air and it hisses through his teeth. “You kinda have to. According to the state of New Jersey, reported cases of severe aspergillus mould have to go through months long strenuous, and I mean rip-up-the-carpets-just-to-rip-up-the-floorboards-just-to-clean-the-foundation kind of strenuous process for a place to be legally habitable.”

You clench your jaw. “But that’s only reported cases, right?”

House nods inconspicuously. “Right.”

“Mm,” You nod along, “And no one reported anything, right House?” Silence. “Right, House?”

His blue eyes flick to yours. “I mean…. I think I might have accidentally sent a text to someone. Or a phone call to an office. Or a 32-page email with photographic evidence to the New Jersey state health department.”

You groan, and throw yourself at him. You grab onto his shoulders and with surprising strength, or perhaps a lack of resistance, push him down against his own bed. You swing yourself over him, straddling him deftly, and you squeeze your hands lightly against his throat. “I can not fucking believe you!”

House’s hands reach up and steady themselves against your hips. “Glad to hear it, Newbie. I was always told I was mythical.”

You apply pressure against his throat, and lean down, sneering. “You’re not mythical, you’re goddamn infuriating.”

You expect him to spit something back at you or to swat your hands away easily, but instead he lets out a near-inaudible groan. He shifts against you, and his hands tighten on your hips and you suddenly realise the very compromising and very close position the two of you were in. He rocks against you now, with more force, and you feel him drag against you between your legs. You suck in a harsh breath, and let your hips roll as he grinds you down against him.

He says your name quietly, a whisper echoing between the two of you. You freeze, and stare at him, his own pupils blown wide and looking back at you. He’s breathing deeply underneath you, and you’re nearly certain that you’ll both stay like this forever, too scared to stop and too scared to continue. But then House knocks you onto your back and now it's you who falls back against the mattress, with the wind knocked out of you. You gasp, and try to push against him, clawing like a feral cat to sit up, but he shifts his weight against his good leg and manages to manoeuvre himself quickly into the position you were in.

He laughs at how easily you’re defeated, and quickly places his hands against your neck. While both your hands were barely wrapped around his throat, House’s palm presses against your windpipe and his fingers curl around your neck with ease.

He applies the same, soft and mocking pressure you did. You both know you could get out of it if you tried, and that he would let you; a deep flush settles on your cheeks when you make no move to do so. He leans closer, his breath fanning against your ear. “You like that, Newbie? Which one’s better, choking me or getting choked by me?”

When you don’t answer, House tilts his head, leaning to nip against the corner of your mouth. He speaks your last name into your skin. “I asked you a question.”

You laugh, soft and breathy. “You were the one practically humping me, I didn’t think you had it in you to interrogate me too.”

He gnashes at the corner of your mouth now, and you desperately want him to move a little bit to the right, to connect your lips. Instead, you try to focus on not whimpering in front of him; only one of you should be pathetic in this situation, and it wasn’t you.

“Interrogation? That must be why I found those fluffy little handcuffs at your apartment.” House tilts his head, and you hold your breath, waiting for him to land against your lips. Instead, he drags his head down, and you feel him breathe against your neck. Your hands land against his shoulders, and you briefly think of them as traitorous. They could be pushing him away right now, or slapping him, or scratching his eyes out. Instead, they dig into the fabric of his shirt, and grip it as if your life depends on it.

House’s mouth is oddly soft against your neck. You don’t know why you were expecting it to feel rougher, but he’s slow and meticulous against your skin. He sucks at a spot, and even though you clamp your mouth down, he still hears the embarrassingly loud noise you make. You feel him smile against you, and you dig your nails into his shoulders in response.

He only has to press down with his palm against your throat to remind you who’s in power, and you can’t close your mouth in time to stop the groan spilling out. House looks up at you, blue eyes piercing through you with electricity. “Rethinking that question, sweetheart?”

You don’t like the thing that curls in you at his words- sweetheart. “Nup.”

He leans down, sucking against your throat and squeezing it with the other hand at the same time. He still stares up at you, and this time when you moan, you feel him rut against you. He releases your skin, biting at it only to soothe it with his tongue. “You sure? Cause, I can stop. I’m sure I could find something better to do; chase some poor undergrads around at the hospital or annoy Cuddy. If you don’t like it-”

His hand begins to loosen at your neck and your head is reeling, and you can’t believe you’re even answering, but the words tumble out in a blubbering mess. “Choked by you. Mmhm.”

He chuckles. “Slut.”

You laugh, staring down your nose at him. “So says the manwhore.”

He smiles but still squeezes against your neck, forcing you to exhale harshly. He props himself up, looking down at you. You can’t imagine the mess you are right now. You’re more than ecstatic that you’ve showered and scrubbed your teeth after being sick for so long, but you know your hair is sprawled beneath you and you’re losing miserably against the flush spreading across your face.

House’s eyes are…tender, almost, as he looks down at you, where his hand connects the two of you. It strikes you as out of place, that look. It was too tender, too love-like, to be seen in this dark bedroom where he was still choking you. You wondered what your own eyes were revealing, blown wide and gazing up at him.

But then he smirks and that look is lost, replaced by something darker. “This is just sex, right?”

You blink, shocked by his question. “Um, I-”

A knock sounds out, and you stop, head craning to look over House and towards his door. He doesn’t turn, still staring down at you and seemingly content to leave the unknown guest alone. But then another knock rings out, and another, and another, each with more force than the last.

When your eyes flick back to House’s you nod towards the doorway. “You should probably go check that. Might be one of your hookers.”

He doesn’t miss the snark in your tone, eyebrows furrowing, but before he responds, you scramble out from beneath him and drag yourself away. He stares at you where you sit, and you gulp lightly, trying not to betray any emotions across your face. But when another knock thuds somewhere from his apartment, House breaks eye contact with you and slips out of the bedroom door.

You sit on his bed, and try to slow your breathing. Holy shit. Holy shit.

Was this happening? After all your stupid wet dreams and stupid pining, was this happening? You feel your core throb in confirmation, and you flop against the bed, squeezing your legs tightly.

You stare up at the ceiling and your thoughts are projected against it. You were about to fuck House. And, if you’re honest with yourself, you think you still will. When he pops back into the room, tear off his clothes, ravage him and destroy him. But ‘This is just sex, right?’

Right?

You breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Right.

It’s not like that question pissed you off. It’s not like he was bringing up everything you two had fought over, about you possibly feeling something for him and him hating you for it, and waving it in your face like a pathetic schoolgirl who couldn’t control her heart. It’s not like he admitted he felt nothing for you but just wanted a quick fuck.

You could do this. Push aside everything that lay inside your bleeding heart and push aside all your fights and all you hatred, and finally get laid again.

You nod in determination. You were going to fuck House, and you were going to make sure it was everything you wanted, and you were not going to let any miniscule emotions get in the way of it.

Right.

Now, with your own pep-talk done and dusted, you register the voices ringing out in the hallway. Loud. Angry. Deep

You push yourself off the bed, grateful for whatever medication was coursing through you right now. You tiptoe to the doorway, casting a look out into the hallway. To your left is a bathroom, bare of anything but the real essentials. You peer the other way, and past a desk and bookshelf, you see House standing at the door.

You toe forward, trying to make sure he doesn’t see you spying on him. You hear House speak, back to the monotone, dry voice of his. “First Wilson and now you. I am helping her, not stringing her up in my attic for occult rituals.”

You miss the first part of the deep reply, but manage to catch the second. “She hates you, Mr Home. She’s coming with me, now.”

Your heartbeat picks up and House laughs, “Oh, she hates me so much that she was practically riding me back there-”

There’s the deft thud of knuckles on skin, and House stumbles to the side. Your stomach twists, and you push yourself forward, rushing forward on suddenly shaky legs. “House!”

House’s head whips to you, and you see the dark mark already appearing on his cheek from where he was punched. But then you spy the source of the deep voice, and stop in your tracks.

“Pops. What are you doing here?”

The burly man rushes forwards in spite of House’s exclamation, and wraps you in a tight hug. Your face is smothered in his chest, and you hear him above you. “Are you alright?! I haven’t seen you since that night and then I see him,” he spits, “taking you away! We go now, you’ll be safe.”

Finally, Pop’s puts you back to the floor, and you heave in the air that rushes forward. House grunts from where he stands. “You really are a bumbling idiot, aren’t you.”

Pop’s whirls, and you see fury on his face. You’re struggling to draw in breath. “I should hit you again, you dogish-”

House laughs. “Really? And then who’s going to help her when she collapses?” He gestures to you, and Pop whips his head back. “You and that awful moustache?

Your hands are at your chest, and you’re rattling in breaths. Pops face is filled with worry. “Kid, are you okay? What’s going on? What’s happening?”

House rolls his eyes. “She’s sick. That’s why she’s here, and why if you gave me three seconds, I would have told you not to pick her up and squeeze her like a stress toy.”

You wheeze out soft words, “He’s right. He’s getting me medication and getting me better,” You draw in more air, “But I’m still bad, Pops.”

Pops looks at you with concern. “You need to stay here? With him?”

You nod, abandoning words and focusing on drawing in breaths. Pops clenches his jaw. “Okay.” You can see the millions of thoughts that he wants to speak, but he simply says it again. “Okay.”

Pops steps forward, still wary of breaking you it seems, but places a gentle kiss to your forehead. He peers down at you. “You need me, or Ella, we’re there. No matter what.” He throws a look at House as if to say no matter who, too.

You smile weakly, and Pops retreats from the apartment with a fleeting glance towards you. House quickly steps forward, and locks the door.

You speak softly, with evening breathes. “Are you okay?”

Your eyes flick to the mark on House’s face, and he turns the other way. “You should go to bed. You’re gonna need the rest, especially after that.”

You blink. Just like that, you’re dismissed. "Are you...serious? After all that, I'm sent to bed like a bad kid?"

House rolls his eyes. "Don't make this into some big deal."

You laugh, and it sends you into a coughing fit. "Big deal? We're about to have sex and you get decked, and don't think it's a big deal?"

House's gaze flicks to yours and he sneers. "Exactly. No big deal. Because you hate me and there's no need to get worked up over someone that you 'couldn't stand being near'."

"Is that what Pops said?"

His jaw clenches. "You're not even denying it, are you?"

Your eyebrows cinch in. "You can't act surprised. You're the one who picks fights with me at work or at the ball! You're the one who hates me and hated that I even thought about loving you!"

Silence.

House stares at you, but you get the sense that he's looking through you, far away. "Take two of the tablets beside the bed before you go to sleep."

And with that, he grabs his cane and coat from beside the door and leaves.

#greg house x f!reader #gregory house smut #gregory house fic #gregory house x reader #gregory house #house md fanfiction #house md x reader #house md

[yikesharringrove]

You've given us DadHopper taking care of Billy and learning how to deal with his issues with the help of Steve, buy what about Hopper and maybe Joyce (because Steve's parents always seen like a double dose of bad that feeds off each other) accidentally triggering a panic attack in Steve? Maybe that being when they realize how important they are to Steve with a bit of Billy and/or some of the kids yelling at them to really drive it home?

Under the cut. There’s some mentions of Steve’s terrible parents and Steve having a panic attack. This is based on a lot of my own personal head canons for this tiny boy that I include in most of my works.

Read on ao3

Steve can take being made fun of.

Seriously, look at who is best friends are, his boyfriend. The kids poke at him, Robin is always cracking jokes, and Billy loves teasing him just to get him all riled up.

But they always know what to avoid, how certain deliveries can cut him.

He’s sitting at dinner with Hopper and Joyce and Billy. He was over, just watching a movie with Billy when Joyce arrived, toting a big lasagna and a few side dishes.

Hop had invited her over while El was having dinner with the Wheelers’. (He thought Billy and Steve were going out, but apparently Billy just couldn’t be fucked to leave the house tonight). So now he was kind of on a double date with his son.

Dinner was nice. Steve helped Joyce in the kitchen while Hop and Billy set the table, crashing onto the couch after. Billy grinned and winked at Steve, starting cracking jokes about look at our cute little wifies makin’ us dinner. Get yourself a GOOD woman. Steve threw a piece of garlic bread at him.

Everyone was having a good time, crowded around the small table Hopper had bought after realizing they all needed a lot more space than just he and El did. Joyce asked the boys about school, how Steve’s new job at the ice cream place in the mall was.

But then Hopper turned to Steve, asked him what his plans for after graduation were.

“I was thinking about taking some time off. Working for a little while so I can figure out what I want to do.” Steve was pushing a chunk of tomato around on his plate.

“So you’re big plans are working at the mall?” Steve’s ears were tinged red. He was staring at his plate, the piece of tomato.

“Why does he have to know right now? He doesn’t.” Billy was always quick to defend Steve, but he could tell where this was going, could smell it a mile away. He knew Hop didn’t mean anything by it, was just being the chiding dad wanting to look out for his son, but this was a touchy subject. Steve often got yelled at for not having future plans, for throwing his future away.

“I thought Jonathan told me you were going to work for your dad.” Steve starting taking practiced breaths, glancing up to smile at Joyce before looking back down.

“Uh, that was the, the plan but that’s, it’s not anymore.”

“What do you mean? That would be a better job to tide you over than the mall.” Billy kicked Hop under the table, shaking his head just a little, eyes wide.

“Uh, yes. Yes it would be, but um, since I  don’t, won’t have a, a degree, the offer has been rescinded.” Billy closed his eyes. Figured rescinded was the exact word Mr. Piece-of-Shit Harrington had used after calling his son his idiot for an hour. Billy hadn’t gotten the whole story, Steve didn’t tend to speak clearly when he was sobbing into Billy’s neck.

“Wait, what do you mean you won’t have a degree?”

“Dad-”

“I didn’t get into college. Any college. Not even Tech,” He placed his fork down, blinking rapidly. “Thank you so much for dinner, but I really have to be going.” He gave a weak smile at Billy who stood up with him, following Steve out of the cabin, throwing a glare over his shoulder at Hop.

Joyce began picking up plates.

“I don’t feel good about that, Hop.” She put the plates on the kitchen counter, standing on her toes to look out the window. “Oh no.”

Hop joined her, got a clear view of Billy sitting on the porch steps, Steve draped over him, completely in his lap. He had his face buried in Billy’s shoulder, and they could see the way his back was heaving, shaking as Billy rubbed gently up and down it, one hand playing with Steve’s hair.

“That, uh, that doesn’t look good.” Joyce turned to Hopper.

“I didn’t think we were, were hard on him, I mean maybe you could’ve gone in on him less-”

“I just spent a lot of years dealing with that kid being a brat. I want to make sure he’s good enough for my son. Billy has all of his eggs in that kid’s basket and he’s working at a mall for the foreseeable future.”

“Yeah but Hop, that’s not your call to make. He’s a good kid, he’s good with the kids, and he’s good to Billy, good for him to. Billy can make his own decisions about who’s in his life.”

“But I’m just worried about Steve being dead weight. Billy’s smart I’ve seen his report cards. He could go anywhere, do anything, but he’s gonna end up sitting in Hawkins working minimum wage because he doesn't wanna leave Steve.”

The front door slammed shut.

Billy was standing in the threshold, shoulders drawn tight, fists clenched.

“Jesus Hop, tell me how you really fuckin’ feel.” Hopper sighed.

“Look, you know I like the kid, you’ve just got a brighter future than-”

“You know he told me he sees you guys as his parents. You know why? Because his parents fucking suck.” He came to stand on the other side of the L shaped counter, looking sternly at Hop and Joyce. “Do you remember when he came over because he wanted to tell me he got a B on the essay I helped him write, and you patted him on the back and said good job, kid.” He gave a gruff imitation of Hopper. “You probably don’t, because it was such a nothing moment, but he talked about that for weeks. If he had brought home a B to his own parents, his dad would’ve yelled that he can do better and his mom would’ve taken her Vicodin and went to bed. Because that’s what his house is like. A B is the best grade he’s ever gotten.”

“Well, not for nothing, but there is a grade higher than-” Billy cut Hopper off with what sounded like a fucking growl.

“When Steve was five his teacher wanted to test him for dyslexia and ADHD and all this other shit that, mind you, he obviously fucking has, but his dad wouldn’t let him get tested. He said Steve just needs to work harder and calls Steve a retard and all this shit like every day. School is really fucking hard for him because he can barely fucking read on a good day and no one has ever helped him. He got a B on that paper because I read the book out loud to him, and he could actually understand the meaning of everything because he wasn’t trying to decipher all these letters moving around. And when he didn’t get into college, his dad went off on him, and told him he’s a disappointment, and told him he has one year to work and re-apply and get into college or he’s cut off. And don’t even get me started on his mom.”

Joyce looked like she was about to cry. Hopper felt like shit, felt like there was cold water running down his spine.

“You know she tells Steve she doesn’t love him? Seriously, she did it in front of me one night, like got drunk and starting talking about how she feels literally no emotions towards him, and never has.

He took a deep breath, gripping the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles were white.

“So then tonight, you start in on him, saying a lot of the same shit his dad has been saying to him, except this time, he actually really cares what you think, thinks of you as more a father than his own dad, and you just shattered his fucking world. He’s out on the front porch right now, probably calling himself stupid and trying to pull chunks of his fucking hair out, because that’s his panic attack M.O.” Billy snatched up his and Steve’s jackets, Steve’s keys. “I’m going to take him home and stay the night with him to make sure he doesn’t fucking hurt himself because of this.” He stomped towards the door, turning back one last time. “And I expect and apology.”

It was silent after he left. They could hear him gently coercing Steve into the car, lots of hushed it’s okay Baby and hey, quit pullin’ your hair. They could hear Steve’s car start and pull out of the drive.

“Joyce, I feel like shit.” Her eyes were sympathetic.

“Me too, Hop. I had no idea. Can you imagine having a child and being that cruel?” Hop sat down on the couch, burying his head in his hands.

“And I can’t even fucking adopt him because he’s eighteen.” Joyce was quiet.

“Is that how you solve problems now? Adopting kids?” He looked at her.

“Worked for the other two, didn’t it?” She gave him a Look.

“I’m so embarrassed.” She sat down next to him, tucking herself under his arm. “That poor boy. That actually explains so much.”

“It really does. God, he’s just been crying out for fucking attention this whole time. Why didn’t I see it?” He groaned. “And I called him fucking dead weight, Joyce I’m a terrible person. I fucking remember that essay, because his face fucking lit up, and I thought it was kinda, kinda weird, but I don’t know if he’s ever heard good job before.”

Over the next few weeks, every time Steve was over Hopper tried to be kinder, softer. He had apologized to Steve, told him he didn’t need to figure himself out right now, and told him about how it took Hop three years of wasting away at University to realize he wanted to joint the police force.

The next time he came in with B paper that Billy helped him with, Hopper put it on the fridge, next to El’s list of daily vocab words, a few pictures Jonathan has taken, three of Will’s drawings, and Billy’s quarterly report cards (straight A’s, 4.0 GPA because his son is fucking smart).

“So, I pulled a few strings, got you in here with pretty short notice.” Hop was standing with Steve outside of a plain building. He had taken him into the city, said he needed help with something for Billy.

“What, what do you mean?”

“You’re gonna be tested for dyslexia. The test takes about 6 hours, but afterwards they’re going to know exactly how to help you.”Steve was looking at him with big eyes. Hopper awkwardly handed him a brown paper sack. “Joyce packed you some snacks and a lunch. You’ll get breaks and stuff. And don’t stress yourself out. There’s no right answers, this is just to find the best ways to help.” Hopper led Steve into the building, checking him in at the front desk. Steve was quiet behind him, had been blinking a lot as he looked around the testing center.

“I’m going to stay in the city in case you finish early.” He gave Steve a small smile, squeezing his shoulder. “Good luck.” He went to turn around, but was tackled into a tight hug, Steve squeezing Hopper probably as much as he could. He squeezed the kid back, gently patting his back. When Steve pulled away, he looked Hop int he eye.

“Thank you.”

#harringrove #dad hopper #steve harrington #steve harrington x billy hargrove #billy hargrove x steve harrington #billy hargrove #harringrove fic #harringrove ficlet #harringrove drabble #yikes writes #can you believe I almost gave her a sad ending

[whump-tr0pes]

Honor Bound 4 - 1

Honor Bound 4 - 1 (On the Run) @badthingshappenbingo​​

Requested by anon.

Let me know if you want on or off the taglist!

~

This is a series. We resume from where Honor Bound 3 ended here.

This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, and Honor Bound 3. 

AO3

Cw: dissoci@tion, briefest mention of possible suicidal ideations, blood, ketamine mention, thoughts of death, narcotics mention, past noncon mention

~

Isaac felt like he might keel over and die right in the middle of the road. His hands were tightened into fists on the wheel as he drove slowly into Crayton, just one car on his tail this time. He glanced at it in the rearview every few seconds. His throat worked around a nervous swallow as he returned his eyes to the road.

Vera sat rigid beside him. Isaac didn’t think she’d taken a breath in at least thirty seconds. Every now and then she glanced back at Tori. Tori sat slumped against the door of the car, eyes blank and unfocused, staring out into the dark. It was almost midnight. All of them had barely slept since yesterday.

They’d all caught snatches of sleep every now and then, nodding off onto the shoulders of the people next to them, jerking awake moments later with a jolt of terror. We still aren’t safe yet. We still have to get to Gray.

Ellis sat next to Tori. One hand sat gently on Tori’s hand on the seat, and the other reached back towards Finn. Finn clutched at Ellis with one hand and with the other touched Sam. On their hair, on their back, on their leg. Constantly moving. Constantly desperate to help. Constantly able to do nothing.

Isaac was almost grateful he couldn’t see Sam in the dark. He knew exactly what they would look like; they hadn’t changed in the entire drive north, starting yesterday afternoon, stretching through the night, through the entire next day, and now halfway through this night. Everyone had driven except Sam and Tori. Everyone was barely able to stay conscious. Isaac wished he could sleep and never wake up.

Even though he couldn’t see Sam, he could hear them. Hear their whimpers, their ragged breaths, their cries every time he drove over a bump. He knew the seat must be soaked in their sweat and stained with blood. Finn had stopped the bleeding in Sam’s arm at Lucy and Topher’s house, and it hadn’t started bleeding again. Their whip marks, on the other hand, had broken open and bled into the fabric of the seat as they writhed against the pain in their arm. The pain had started just a few minutes after they left the house.

“Ketamine doesn’t last very long,” Finn had offered as an explanation. As if that was all Isaac needed. As if could rest easy in that knowledge, with Sam nearly delirious with pain, the pills Finn was feeding them seeming to do almost nothing. “They’d be screaming if they didn’t have them,” Finn said. “Believe me, they’re helping.” Isaac’s chest ached with every little sound Sam made. His hands tightened further on the steering wheel.

He started slightly as Vera brushed the back of his hand with her fingers. “We’ll be okay,” she murmured. “We’ll get through. No matter what, we’ll get through.”

Isaac swallowed hard. “What if they—”

“They won’t.” Vera’s mouth hardened into a line.

“But what—”

“If they do…” Vera drew in a deep breath and pushed it out slowly. “…we’ll handle it. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

If we have to shoot our way out of this, we’ll start a war with the north. We’ll never be safe, north or south. We’ll always have to run. We’ll always be days or moments away from being killed. How will I keep my family safe, then? How will I protect them all when the entire world wants us tortured or dead? Isaac’s eyes filled with tears. How many times will I have to try to die for them before I actually keep them safe from something?

He already knew the answer. As many as it takes.

Vera pushed his shoulder and he started again. He shot a glance at her. Her skin was almost black in the darkness, but he could see her eyes burning into him in the light coming from the headlights. “Stop it,” she said gently. “I can see you’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Isaac said, and consciously relaxed his hands. “I’m… um…” He shrugged. “…worried.”

Vera kept looking at him even after he looked back at the road. “Okay,” she said softly. She turned back to face the front. “Okay.”

By now, they’d passed most of the houses and were entering Crayton proper. The streets were wider, albeit still torn up, haphazardly paved. Done with the best the town could do. The gatekeepers of the north, defending all the people beyond it from the meager attempts the syndicates waged to tear them apart. No one cared about the north.

They would, if they knew where we were.

Isaac pulled into the square and slowed the car to a stop. He carefully opened his door, his hands raised. A floodlight attached to the car following them blazed on and blinded Isaac. He blinked and turned his head away from the light.

He couldn’t see past the light, but he could hear two car doors slamming, and the sound of footsteps slowly approaching. His hands shook. He tried to hold them steady. He heard a short intake of breath as two figures stepped into the floodlight.

“Are… are you… Isaac Moore?”

Isaac bit his lip. Oh, god. Please let that not be a bad thing. “Y-yeah,” he rasped.

“And you… did you really…?”

“Please,” he breathed. He motioned to the car with his head. “Please. We’ve got… we’ve got a few who are hurt. We just escaped from C-Colleen Stormbeck, and… please. We need to find Gray Uriah. They’re our family and we just need to… just need to find them.”

“Who else is with you?” the other voice asked nervously.

“My family,” Isaac said weakly, turning and gesturing to the car. The others were all slowly climbing out. All but Gavin.

Gavin’s not with us. Have to sell that. Have to make them believe it, too. He couldn’t let them know that Gavin crouched on the floor in the back seat, huddled under a blanket, probably praying just as hard as Isaac was that they wouldn’t search the car too closely.

Tori hobbled away from the car and Vera rushed to her side. Ellis got out of the car and immediately went to help Finn pull Sam out. Sam’s head lolled on their neck, sweat shining on their skin. Isaac’s stomach dropped. We need to get them help. More blood, maybe. And rest.

Isaac let his hands fall to his sides, slowly, slowly. One figure appeared in the beam of the floodlight, a gun held tight in his hands but low to the ground. Peering at the family. Nervous, but not suspicious.

Not yet.

Not helpful.

The other stepped into the light and stopped by Isaac’s side. “Did you really kill Colleen Stormbeck?” she murmured.

“Yes,” Isaac said weakly. “But we have to get to Gray Uriah… please… please…”

Isaac turned and the man was peering through the windows of their car, shining a flashlight in each one and moving on. He opened the trunk and nodded when he saw the meager supply of food the family had left over from their twenty-hour sprint to the north. He finally turned and went back to his partner’s side. They both holstered their guns.

“You were here before,” the man said. “A few weeks ago. You were going to go…”

“And we killed her,” Isaac said, desperation growing. Sam stumbled and fell against Finn’s side. They cried out weakly and staggered, nearly falling to their knees.

Isaac’s hands curled into fists. Tears threatened in his eyes. “Please,” he whispered.

The silhouettes of the man and woman looked at each other, then looked back at Isaac. The woman spoke. “…and what happened to Gavin Stormbeck?”

Isaac wet his lips and shivered in the cool night. “He’s, um, dead.”

The woman sucked in a breath through her lips. “Him, too? The entire Stormbeck family is dead?”

“He didn’t die a Stormbeck,” Isaac whimpered. “He died one of us.”

“He was never one of you,” the man snapped. “They don’t change.”

“He did,” Isaac said, a little firmer. Arguing with them is pointless. He isn’t dead. But Sam is hurt. Sam is bleeding. He shook his head. “Please,” he begged again. “Please. Gray Uriah. We just want to find them so we can recoup. Please.”

The two looked at each other again and held each other’s gaze for a long moment. The woman nodded. The man looked to Isaac and gestured with his hand to the car. “Go,” he said softly. “I know your names. I’ll get you checked in with the city hall.”

Isaac’s breath rushed out of him. “Thank you.”

The man shrugged. “If you killed Colleen Stormbeck…” He spread his hands. “…it’s the least we can do.”

Isaac wet his lips. “And… and Gray Uriah?”

The man gestured past the car, pointing north. “Keep going. They moved to a farmhouse with the young one… what was her name?”

“Edrissa Clarke,” Isaac and Vera said at the same time.

“Right,” the woman murmured. “Head north out of Crayton. They’re a few hours out still. This road will take you to Burmingham, take a right on first street there and follow that out for about twelve miles. There will be a fork. Take the right one. On the left will be a lake, and the farmhouse is just past the lake on the left.”

Isaac squeezed his eyes shut, visualizing the directions. “Take this out of Crayton, go to Burmingham, right on first, twelve miles, fork, right, pass the lake, farmhouse on the left.”

“Right.” The woman shrugged awkwardly. “So… I guess…”

Isaac was already turning to go. “Thank you,” he said in a rush. He went immediately to Sam’s side and half-carried them to the back seat. They flinched and wailed pitifully as his arm pressed against the whip marks on their back. “I’m sorry,” Isaac murmured as his eyes filled with tears.

“I-Isaac,” they whimpered. Their left hand closed on his shirt. “Isaac, it… it hurts…”

Isaac looked desperately at Finn as he helped Sam into the car. “Finn…?”

Finn shuddered and shook their head. “Can’t give more Vicodin. It has Tylenol in it, Isaac. If I overdose them, I fuck their liver. Tylenol overdoses are very hard to manage, even in the hospital. I c-can’t… help them…” Finn dissolved into a sob.

Isaac grabbed Finn and dragged them into a crushing hug. “Not your fault,” he whispered. “Not your fault. Let’s just get them to Gray. We’ll see if Gray can get them something else. Do you think they’ll need more blood?”

Finn ran a hand through their hair. “Fluids, at least,” they said, biting their lip. “Maybe blood. I don’t know. I haven’t checked a pressure in a while.”

“Let me know,” Isaac said as he stepped away. He rushed to the driver’s seat and jumped when he saw Vera already sitting there.

“I’ll drive,” she said as she stuck her thumb at the passenger seat. “It’s only a few more hours. I’ll drive.”

“Are you sure?” Isaac said weakly, already moving.

“Sure,” Vera said as Isaac appeared on the other side of the car. “No problem. Let’s just go.”

Isaac nodded slowly and pulled the door closed. Vera glanced in the rearview to make sure everyone was in, and slowly got the car rolling. Isaac thought he could see Vera’s jaw clench and he was sure she was looking at Tori.

He reached out and squeezed Vera’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “We’ll get her back.”

Vera sniffed. A tear rolled down her cheek. Then another. Finally, she said, “You don’t know that. She’s never been gone this long before. She’s never…” Vera swallowed hard, and Isaac could hear the sob she was fighting down. “She’s… god, Isaac, look at her. She’s…”

“She’s not broken,” he said gently. “Not completely. You found your way back from this. You found a way.”

Vera cast a glance back at Tori, then back to the road. “We’re all broken,” she said bitterly.

Isaac opened his mouth to protest. He closed it slowly.

She’s right, Isaac thought heavily. We are all broken. Tori’s hurt beyond repair, Ellis nearly lost their mind, Finn is eaten alive with guilt, Vera’s voice was taken away again, Gavin thinks he deserves to die for hurting us when he’s the only one who could have gotten us out, and Sam…

Isaac’s mind cried out when he thought of Sam. Over and over, unbidden, images flashed across his mind of Sam’s bruises, the lines on their back left from the whip, the marks around their neck from where they’d been dragged and pinned and strangled with the collar. Their whimpering sobs cut through him like a knife. I told Sam I hate them. I let them hurt Sam. I begged them to hurt them. They’re broken, shattered beyond repair, and it’s because of me. Scalding rage moved through his chest. This is all because of me.

He couldn’t think at all about the ways he’d been broken. He couldn’t think of his own scars, his own wounds, his own pain. He pushed it down. It was irrelevant. Unimportant. His pain meant nothing, because he was supposed to suffer for his family. That’s what he was for.

No. He pulled himself back from the edge of that cliff. I hated myself before I ever loved them. His pain meant something, because what if he wasn’t meant to hurt? What if he was meant for something else, instead?

He couldn’t think of how broken he was, because he was most broken in his mind. He was so broken, he’d gotten feelings for his one-time captor. For the man who beat him, scarred him, very nearly killed him. Very nearly killed Sam. He now felt something for the man who had changed. Who had renounced his name and his birthright, who gave up on everything he’d ever known to come be a captive and an informant on his own family. Who had found a way to be good, despite everything he’d done, everything he’d been through. He felt something now for the man that sacrificed his soul to keep his family safe. He felt something for the man that had hurt him. Violated him, on his mother’s orders. He felt something for the man he’d asked to make him feel good, to make him feel like he was being made love to, instead of being chained down and raped.

I could never love Gavin Stormbeck, Isaac thought. But I could be in love with Gavin Uriah. I could be with him, if only he wanted me, too.

Isaac swallowed hard. When they finally left Crayton, Isaac turned.

“You can come out now,” he said softly. Gavin emerged slowly from behind the seat, eyes wide and terrified. They found Isaac’s and didn’t let go until Isaac turned around to face the front.

Continued here

@untilthepainstarts​​, @womping-grounds​​, @free-2bmee​​, @quirkykayleetam​​, @walkingchemicalfire​​, @inpainandsuffering​​, @redwingedwhump​​, @burtlederp​​, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog​​, @insomniacscoprio​​, @cursedscribbles​​, @whumpywhumper​​, @stxck-fxck​​, @omega-em-z-02​​, @whumps-the-word​​, @justwhumpitwhumpitgood​​, @justplainwhump​​, @moose-teeth​​, @slaintetowhump​​, @finder-of-rings​​, @inky-whump​​, @thatsthewhump​​, @orchidscript​​, @insanitywishes​​, @this-mightaswell-happen​​, @newandfiguringitout​​, @whumpkitty​​, @pretty-face-breaker​​

#honor bound 4 #bad things happen bingo #on the run #whump #escape #past torture #dissociation tw #mention of suicidal ideations tw #Sam whump #blood tw #ketamine #murder bros #thoughts of death tw #Gavin Stormbeck is dead #narcotics mention tw #HMS ToriVera #Isaac/Gavin #mention of past noncon tw #my oc: Isaac

[leigh-kelly]

(More Hospital!AU)

The first days after Brittany’s surgery are difficult. Santana is used to being the one who tends to get snappish, but with Brittany in so much pain, it’s her turn. Every morning, she comes down stairs and a half hour later, she gets so frustrated by her parents fussing over her that she goes back up to bed and starts working on her computer. Santana tries not to get upset with her but she finds it so hard when Brittany isn’t listening to what Sue said, when Brittany isn’t doing the relaxing that her body needs to heal.

As much as Brittany is frustrated by her parents, Santana doesn’t know what she would do if they weren’t there. Even when they go house hunting during the day, they take Liam with them, giving Santana time to just focus on Brittany while Max and Oliver are sleeping. Though Brittany tries not to take the Vicodin every four hours, the pain gets so bad that she can’t even think straight and she cries out in pain in such a way that makes Santana feel like she’s going to be sick.

“Brittany?” Santana opens the door to the bedroom quietly, in case Brittany is sleeping. Instead, she sees her sitting up in bed, quietly staring into space. “Are you okay?”

“I just...I feel...Santana. I feel angry and sad and...useless. My leg hurts all the time, I keep getting frustrated with my parents and Liam and you. I can’t work, I can’t help with the kids...I just...” Brittany starts to cry and Santana sinks slowly down on the bed and picks up Brittany’s hand.

“Hey, Britt, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“I’m scared every minute of every day right now. We’ve both seen it on med school rotations, patients that get injured and get hooked on opioids. I keep trying not to take these pills and every time I don’t I feel like I’m going to die.”

“Baby, you had major surgery four days ago, you shattered two bones in your leg. No one expects you to be able to stop taking the Vicodin so quickly.”

“I know that, I do, but I just don’t know how to be like this. I feel like I’m on another planet, I can’t focus, my head feels cloudy, you’re doing everything for the boys and...it’s just hard not being myself.”

“You know I understand that. Just tell me, what can I do?”

“I really, really don’t know.”

“Let’s lay down for a little bit. Your parents insisted on taking the boys with them to look at this house, which I personally think they were crazy for offering, but I couldn’t talk them out of it. I’m here, it’s just you and me.” Santana soothes, helping Brittany lay back down. “I love you, Brittany Pierce. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. You’re my rock, my love, my soulmate. I’m here.”

“I don’t want your anxiety to get bad.”

“I need you not to worry about me, I’m okay. I just want to take care of you. You take care of me and worry about me all the time. Your parents are here, my mom’s been over, I have help. Lay your head on my chest, listen to my heartbeat. That always helps me when you do that.”

“I’ve always been so in control.”

“I know, but you’re hurt. It’s okay to let someone else take care of you.” Santana promises, stroking Brittany’s hair.

“Thank you, Santana. Thank you.”

Santana lies with Brittany for a long time. The house is quiet and just whispering soft words to her until she falls asleep is exactly where she needs to be. She’s usually the worried one, the one who’s convinced the worst is going to happen, so it’s an odd role, talking Brittany down from feeling the same. But Santana does it, she wants to make sure she’s okay, that’s all she ever wants, and though truth be told, she has been an anxious wreck since she found Brittany in the kitchen, helping her calm down actually calms Santana herself.

Once Brittany is asleep, Santana goes back downstairs and picks up Liam’s toys. She starts a bean soup that she read about in the Times and she slowly sips a glass of wine. She’ll have to go back to work in three days, but Pierce and Whitney are staying. They’ll be there for Brittany, they’ll help Santana’s mother with the boys. In all of this, she’s most grateful that they’re moving to New York. For one single second she can’t imagine how she would have handled the last four days without them. They love their daughter something fierce, they love their grandsons, and probably most shocking to Santana, they actually love her too.

“Mommy Noodle.” Liam creeps into the kitchen, using his softest voice since he knows Brittany may be sleeping and she needs her rest. “Gramma and Grampa are gonna buy the little house. They told me in the car.”

“Really?” Santana looks over to where Whitney and Pierce are by the front door, each of them holding one of the twins. “Was it a good house?”

“It was a really good house, it has a swing set and everything!”

“Then this is really big news.” She smiles, not scolding him for raising his voice in his excitement. “I think when Mama gets up, she’ll really want to celebrate.”

“When is she gonna get better?”

“It’s going to be awhile, Sir. Remember, she got hurt pretty badly?”

“I miss playing with her.”

“I know you do, but if she feels up to it tonight, maybe we can read some stories in our bed so you at least get that.”

“Okay, Mommy Noodle.” He nods solemnly, though Santana can still tell he’s sad.

“Why don’t you help me with Max and Oliver and then we can hear all about the new house.”

Whitney and Pierce are overjoyed to tell Santana everything. They made a full price offer and they’re just waiting to hear if it’s accepted before they get too excited, but it all sounds good. Santana thinks that Brittany getting hurt made everything seem even more urgent for them to get to New York and she gets it. If it were one of her children, she wouldn’t be able to be so far from them when something went wrong and all of that is just exacerbated by the loss of Olivia.

When everyone is done eating, Santana makes a bowl of soup and carries it up the stairs to the bedroom. Brittany is just waking up and Santana places the food on the nightstand for her. They both know that she really should be coming down to dinner, but the medication seems to impact her more than normal. It worries Santana, but she doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it unless it becomes a real issue. It has only been a few days, the anesthesia is still wearing off and it’s okay if Brittany is utterly exhausted.

“Your parents found a house.” Santana tells her softly. “In Massapequa, so they’ll be pretty close.”

“Really?” A smile creeps into Brittany’s face. “So they’re really coming.”

“As long as their offer gets accepted, then yeah. You’ll have them back around.”

“I know I freaked out about the moving thing, but you don’t know how happy that makes me.”

“I do. It’s going to be good for all of us.”

“I’m sorry Santana, that I’m taking everything so hard right now. I know that when you were pregnant I was pushing you to stay home even before you got put on bed rest, but I understand now why it was so difficult for you. I’m in pain, but I also feel like I’m...I don’t know. What if my leg doesn’t heal right and I can’t stand for surgery any longer? It’s a really scary thing to think about.”

“I know.” Santana kisses Brittany’s forehead. “I figured you were having those kinds of fears because I know I would be. But Meeks did a really good job, we saw the scans. You’re going to be back on your feet in no time.”

“It’s part of why I haven’t wanted to come downstairs, I’m so scared of putting pressure on it even with the crutches, or falling again. And I keep beating myself up for not thinking before I did this. My hands are insured, not my legs.”

“I’m going to push you a little, because you always push me. We need to start getting you downstairs, then out of the house. We’ll take it a little bit at a time, but I need you to do it.”

“I know.” Brittany nods. “I really do.”

After Brittany eats her dinner, she manages to get up from the bed on her crutches. Though Whitney had offered to put Liam to bed, both Santana and Brittany think it’s really important that they do it together. Liam needs his routine back, it’s clear from his aching for his Mama that he does and though Brittany can’t do bath time, she can sit on the bed and do stories. Once Brittany makes it down the hall to Liam’s room, Santana goes to get him. She promises Whitney that she’ll be down for Max and Oliver in just a little while and she watches as Liam scurries up the stairs, anxious to see Brittany.

“Mama! Mama! Mama! You walked!”

“I did, bud, and I’m going to try to walk a little more every day. You think you can help me with that?”

“If I was big and strong I would carry you right to the park and put you on the slide.”

“You would, would you?” Brittany laughs. “I don’t know about the slide, but maybe in a few days we can try to walk to the park.”

“I’m a few days, Mommy Noodle has to go back to work.”

“I know, but we’ll have Gramma and Grampa here to come with us and maybe push Max and Oliver in their stroller. How’s that sound?”

“I think it sounds great!” He claps, wiggling as Santana helps him get his shirt over his head. His arm may have gained a lot of strength, but it’s still difficult for him to do certain things himself.

“Come on, Sir, let’s get you in the tub so Mama can read books.”

Once Liam is bathed and settled into bed, Brittany lays down beside him and begins to read. After two books, Santana kisses Liam goodnight and slips out of the room. Her boobs are sore, still not totally healed from the mastitis, and she knows it’s time for the last feeding before the twins go down for the night. She retrieves Max and Oliver and brings them up to the bedroom, dressing them in their footed pajamas and laying them down on the bed while she settles against the headboard. Max is a little fussy, so she starts him first and once he’s latched on, she picks up Oliver and puts him on her other side.

“Hey.” Brittany smiles from the doorway, leaning her weight on her crutches. “He’s asleep.”

“Are you going to come sit with us?”

“I was planning on it. I’ll take a shower when they’re finished, if you don’t mind helping me.”

“Never.” Santana meets her eyes and gives her the softest look.

“Are you okay?” Brittany asks when she sits down on the bed and props her leg up on a pillow. “I haven’t asked.”

“I’m okay. Worried about you, but holding it together. As scary as this is, I’m not immediately assuming the worst, so it looks like the dosage on these meds is really working.”

“I’m glad. I really am.”

“I don’t want you to worry about me, Britt. I can handle this.”

“It’s a lot on you.”

“And you take a lot on with me every day. I’m really okay, I promise you that.”

“You’ll tell me if you’re not?”

“I’ll tell you if I’m not. But I’m holding it together, for you and these guys.”

“They’re getting so big, Santana. It’s unreal.”

“I know. I’ve watched so many babies grow up on the Peds floor, but it doesn’t feel the same when they’re your own.”

“Do you mind if I take them when you’re done? I haven’t held them since I fell and I just...I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to ask, babe. I think they’d love to be with you tonight.” Santana rubs Max’s head and feels that he’s done and hands him to Brittany. “Oliver has been eating more than usual.”

“Growth spurt, probably.” Brittany cradles Max close to her chest and kisses his head. “That’s good news.”

“He’s so strong.”

“He got it from you, honey.”

“I’m far from strong.” She shakes her head.

“You’re so much stronger than you even know. You suffered so much trauma and look at you, you’re a pediatric surgeon, you’re a wife, a mother. You should be so proud.”

“I just wonder if I’ll ever stop wishing for his approval. I never want to see him again, but I just think...maybe he’ll see me published somewhere, in a mainstream medical journal, maybe he’ll he like ‘huh, she did alright for herself.’ I know that’s stupid...”

“It’s not stupid if that’s how you feel. But you’re so much better than him, I want you to know that.”

“Thank you.” Santana smiles a little. “That means a lot.”

After Brittany cuddles with the twins for a little while and Santana puts them down for bed, they go to the shower. Santana had gotten a chair from the hospital and Brittany sits down on it as Santana helps her wash her hair. She knows that her wife hates to feel helpless and she usually defaults to caretaker, but Santana massages her scalp and shoulders, helping her to relax as she sits in the shower. It’s only temporary, they both know that, but it’s an adjustment for both of them and they’re learning.

Santana is surprised that after the shower, Brittany wants to go sit downstairs with her parents, but it’s a good surprise. She helps her get down the stairs and sets up her pillows on the couch so she can put her leg up. Whitney and Pierce are ecstatic, since they haven’t been able to tell her all about the house yet and while they settle in, Santana goes to the kitchen to make four cups of tea.

“You’re sure about this, right?” Brittany is asking them just as Santana comes back in the room. “You’re not just doing it for us?”

“We miss you, Brittany. We miss Liam. We want to have more time with Santana, Max and Oliver. This is a big move, but it’s for all the best reasons.” Whitney promises, accepting her mug of tea. “Maribel has been helping so much and we want to help too.”

“My mom will be really grateful for that, I think.” Santana smiles. “She loves having the boys, but some time off would also be good for her.”

“With the insane hours you two work, I’m not surprised.” Pierce chuckles. “We are going to have to go back to Boston soon though to get ready if they accept the offer. Are you going to be okay?”

“We...” Brittany looks at Santana, who nods. “Yes, we will. But...Liv’s stuff.”

“We’ll bring it all, you can go through it when you’re ready.”

“We’ll pay for the extra cost of moving.” Santana offers, but Whitney rolls her eyes.

“It’s nothing. We wouldn’t throw it out anyway, we just want you to have your pick of her things, Brittany.”

“I know.” Brittany nods, a sad look in her eyes. “It’s mostly for Liam.”

“It’s okay for you to want things for you too.”

Brittany gets really quiet. Santana knows that it’s nearly impossible for her to talk about Olivia because she’s spent so long compartmentalizing her grief, so she just takes her hand and squeezes it. Knowing his daughter as well as he does, Pierce changes the subject and starts talking about how he’s going to put a swing set in the yard for the boys and the light comes back to Brittany’s eyes.

They spend much longer than Santana expected downstairs and she’s glad for that. It seems to do Brittany good, seems to get her out of that funk that Santana knows all too well. Whitney and Pierce go to the guest room and Santana helps Brittany back upstairs—she really has no idea how she does those stairs on crutches. It’s clear when they get into the bedroom that Brittany is in a considerable amount of pain and she is clearly conflicted about whether or not to take a pill.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just felt really good being out of that Vicodin fog. But my leg hurts like hell.”

“It’ll help you sleep, Brittany. In the morning, see if you can go without it for a few hours.”

“I just wish the pain would stop. I don’t understand why—“ Brittany stops short and a look of guilt crosses her face.

“You can say it, you don’t understand how people have elective surgery.”

“I didn’t mean you.”

“I know.” Santana shakes her head a little. “It’s okay. Looking back, you know I wouldn’t have done it either. My last surgery...”

“It was to stop the pain and make you feel okay in your own body. I don’t consider that elective.”

“But maybe that’s how other people feel too, when they go under the knife. They just want to feel a certain way.”

“Are you, Santana Lopez, defending plastic surgery?” Brittany chuckles and opens her pill bottle.

“I just have been thinking about when I was a teenager. I wanted so bad to be something I wasn’t. I wanted to be straight. I wanted my father to love me. I would have given anything for that.”

“Do you think Liam will feel that way? The first thing, not the second.”

“I think it’s different with Liam. We’re raising him to love who he is. But I don’t know. I just don’t know what my answer would be if he told us he wanted to change how he looked.”

“I would want him to wait until he was eighteen. I don’t think I could sign the consent forms for him.”

“I agree with that.” Santana nods. “After what my father did to me, I just...couldn’t.”

“You know you’re not him, right?”

“I know, I do, rationally, but I fear it every day. I’ve told you before, I wonder if he was ever kind to my mother, if he loved me when I was small. I just can’t think that maybe one day I’ll snap too.”

“You won’t.” Brittany shakes her head. “I know you won’t.”

“I’ve read so many studies on victims of abuse and trauma.”

“I know you have and you’re aware. Santana, the way you love our sons, there’s no way you’ll ever be any different. I never would have chosen you to be Liam’s mom, no way I would have had more children with you if I thought any different.”

“You have so much faith in me.”

“You’re the love of my life. You have the best heart of anyone I know. I believe in you.”

“You’re going to make me cry.”

“It’s okay if you cry.” Brittany swallows her pill and takes Santana’s hand. “It’s been a tough week.”

“I’m just so glad you’re okay.”

“Oh honey, so am I.”

Santana wakes up the next morning to Brittany sitting up beside her. She’d fed the boys at around four, so they’re still asleep and Brittany is reading the journal that was beside the bed. Running her fingers through her hair, Santana sits up, careful, as she’s bred, not to jostle the bed and disturb Brittany’s leg. Brittany looks over at her and gives her the softest smile, her special smile, and Santana’s eyes crinkle as she smiles in return.

“I can’t believe Liam isn’t up yet.” Santana marvels, leaning over to kiss Brittany.

“Oh, he is. My mom came up and got him and they’re going to the park. You were in such a deep sleep when she came in to tell me.”

“I think my body needed it. Have you been up long?”

“About a half hour. I wanted you to sleep in, I know the boys had you up half the night.”

“I don’t know when they’re going to start sleeping through the night. I feel like keeping them in here and letting them smell me is just hindering the process.”

“You know the decision is up to you when we move them to their room.” Brittany reminds her gently, looking over to where the twins sleep.

“I know, and I’m dragging my feet about it. I just worry about Oliver. I want to know if anything goes wrong.”

“We have those socks we got at the shower.”

“The socks that say they’re not for medical purposes?”

“It’s still an alarm. If something goes wrong, we’ll know.”

“I guess.” Santana sighs. “I know we should do it, I really do.”

“I do mean it when I say only if you’re ready.”

“I know you do. But if we wait until I’m ready, it might be never. I just...I don’t know.”

“Hey.” Brittany shifts her body as much as she can so she’s facing Santana. “That’s okay.”

“You’re so good to me you know. Even when you’re hurt, you’re still just so sweet and gentle with me.”

“I’m always going to be that way, I promise.”

After another three days pass, Brittany is itching to work from home. She has scheduling and consults she can do over the phone and she begs Sue for permission. Probably knowing there is little she can do to stop her, Sue grants her request and on the day Santana goes back to the hospital, Brittany is set up in the home office with her foot on a chair and her computer and phone in front of her. Santana kisses her goodbye, makes her promise that she won’t work through too much pain and goes to work.

In Santana’s absence, Dr. Zises has started and almost immediately, Santana feels the competition rise up. She hasn’t competed for surgeries since she was an intern and it’s not like that’s about to start, but having another young attending on her floor makes Santana feel like she has to step up her game. Being out for a week, of course, put her behind, but she’s got a slate of surgeries ahead of her and she dives in headfirst, putting her worries about Brittany out of her mind.

While she’s eating lunch in her office, Kurt comes in. She feels bad, she’s been neglecting him since Max and Oliver were born, but it’s different with Mercedes. Mercedes likes being around kids and Kurt simply...doesn’t. He’s one of her best friends, but she finds it hard to balance her relationship with him when so much of her life is about Liam, Max, and Oliver.

“How’s she doing?” Kurt asks, sitting down and opening his salad.

“She’s good, actually. The first few days were hard, but she’s working from home now and she’s dealing much better.”

“Dave was going to stop by while I was at work the other day, but we just felt..weird.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, things aren’t like they used to be.”

“I know.” Santana sighs. “My life is really different.”

“I hope you know I’m happy for you. It’s not the life I want, but it suits you.”

“You know you’re still a big part of my life, Kurt. Just because I don’t go to the bar anymore after work doesn’t mean I don’t still want to spend time with you.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it. You’re just...doing your thing.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me right now.” Santana sucks in air, feeling rage bubble up in here chest. “Doing my thing? I had a traumatic birth, one of my sons is developmentally delayed, I suffered a pretty nasty case of postpartum depression, my wife had surgery. I’m not doing my thing, I’m trying to keep my head above water. I’m sorry that I don’t have the time I used to, but I’m not going to apologize for being who I am now.”

“No one said you had to.”

“Well it sure as hell sounded like that’s what you wanted. I’ve had a hell of a week and I thought I was going to be able to relax and enjoy lunch with you.”

“I didn’t say we couldn’t.”

“You’re being really...I don’t even know right now. Don’t veil your issues with me. What am I supposed to do, Kurt? I invite you over and you always find an excuse not to come. I know you’re not into my kids, but they’re part of me.”

“I never said I wasn’t into your kids.”

“You don’t have to say it.” Santana huffs. “Look, I don’t need this right now.”

“I’m literally not doing anything.”

“Get out of my office.”

After Kurt leaves, Santana is in a fury. Maybe in a normal week, she wouldn’t have taken things so much to heart—or maybe she would, she tends to do that—but with everything going on with Brittany, everything that’s gone on in her life for the past months, she’s past rational thinking. Instead, she gets increasingly mad at one of her best friends because she feels like her life is an affront to him. Things were easy with them when her whole life was the hospital and she went out drinking every night, but things are harder now. She hates to go out, she’s afraid to leave Max and Oliver when she doesn’t have to, she wants to spend time with Liam, she wants to be in her pajamas with Brittany. Maybe it makes her a shitty friend, she doesn’t know, but somehow things have remained the same with Mercedes.

The rest of the day drags. She checks in the Brittany who tells her she’s taking a break from work to lay down for a little while. She checks in with her mom who took the boys out for the afternoon so Brittany could have quiet and Whitney and Pierce could meet with their realtor. Everything is fine, but still, she aches to get home. And when finally, she finishes her last surgery, she’s out the door more quickly than she’s ever been before.

She smells her mom’s enchiladas when she walks in the door and it gives her such relief that she doesn’t have to cook. She hugs her Liam, she kisses the twins and she goes upstairs to gently wake Brittany up from her nap. Together, they go downstairs for dinner and Santana holds in all of her anger toward Kurt until the meal is eaten and cleaned up, Liam is asleep and she’s sitting on the bed fresh from a shower holding Max and Oliver while they nurse. She knows Brittany can see the day written across her face and Santana just inhaled deeply.

“According to Kurt Hummel, I’ve been spending the past few months just doing my thing.”

“What?” Brittany tilts her head to the side. “What did he mean by that?”

“I have no idea. I guess that I’m unavailable to do stupid shit, I don’t know. He care by my office for lunch today and we had a big fight.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, no, I don’t know. It’s just like, what am I supposed to do, Brittany? He doesn’t want to come over here much because of the kids, I don’t want to go out and leave them when we’re gone all day. And he made me feel pretty shitty that I’m not who I used to be.”

“And how do you feel about changing?”

“I feel like...I wasn’t happy with my life back then. Yeah, I had fun going out to the bar but at the end of the night I’d come home all dark and twisty inside. I don’t feel like me changing is me being a dick and ditching all my friends because I’m in love, it’s because I’m growing and healing and the things I used to enjoy just aren’t for me anymore.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“No.” Santana sighs. “I just got really mad and pretty much told him that he has no idea what my life has been like.”

“That’s fair. But maybe you should tell him what you just told me. He loves you, honey. He might be a little misguided at times but he wants you to have the best life.”

“He wants it on his own terms.”

“I don’t think he does. I know it’s hard that he’s not all about the boys like Mercedes is but I think he’s genuinely happy for you.”

“I guess. I don’t know, it’s hard. I used to envision like, me Kurt and Mercedes in the old folks home for retired doctors or something and then you came along and my whole vision of the future changed.”

“And that’s okay.” Brittany kisses her temple. “That doesn’t mean you have to give up your friends.”

“Was I an asshole?”

“I don’t think you were, I think you’re just very guarded and he surprised you. And if you want a night to just go hang out at the bar with them, that’s okay.”

“That’s the thing though, Britt, I don’t. I want to be home at night to put the boys to bed, to fall asleep with you.”

“Then I think you should find some kind of middle ground with him.”

“I guess you’re right. But can I stay mad at him a little longer?”

“You absolutely can.”

#brittana #hospital!au #piece by piece

[imzadi-caskett-huddy]

House, M.D. Fanfic (12/?)

Thank you to everyone who has taken time to leave a note on my story.  I hope you continue to enjoy my rewrite of particular scenes and episodes with regards to Huddy. As always, I don't own House. If I did, Lisa Edelstein would have been offered the world to stay and be a major part of season 8.

As stated in previous chapters, the story follows the big picture laid out on the show, but with my own take on things. I do sometimes use dialogue from episodes... but there are slight changes and adaptations, as well as additions to fit what I need. We just have to grit our teeth and bear this revisit of the Tritter era. I'm not sure if I hated him or Vogler more... but I wanted to kill both.

Thanks to @love-hope-faith-feels-like-a-lie on Tumblr for reading my ideas and providing positive feedback! I love feedback... good, bad or ugly. Seriously. It's like my Vicodin. So please enable me! Enjoy!

xxxxx

"I need a script for Vicodin."

Cuddy looked up from the medical journal she was reading. "How many days do you have left?"

"I can probably get through the next few minutes or so."

She was honestly surprised he was there. After everything that had happened between them, she knew how hard it must have been for him to come to her and ask. "You're coming to me, which means your lackeys actually stood up to you. I'm impressed, good for them," she stood and moved to her desk.

"Yes, their cowardice is inspiring."

"You should be thanking them. If they caved, it would give the cops evidence that you intimidated underlings to feed your addiction," she stated, pulling out her prescription pad from her desk.

"I hate writing thank you notes. Would it be weird if I asked Cameron to write them?" He watched as she grabbed a pen. "You're hooking me up?" That was surprising, considering everything between them. He'd come to her as a very last resort, but he had never expected her to actually give him a script.

"Unfortunately if I cut you off, it would give the cops evidence that you don't really need the pain medicine."

"I knew that cleavage was a smoke screen! You're a genius."

She watched as he reached for the paper, and had trouble lifting his arm. Pulling it just out of his reach, she commented, "You can't lift your arm."

"You can't pee standing up. Gimme."

"You've been doing physio? Maybe you pulled something?"

"Yeah, been training for Pants Off Dance Off. Give me the script."

"Your shoulder problem isn't physical. What's new? What's different? Any big changes in your life recently? Fight with the wife, maybe?"

"Right, my shoulder hurts because you stopped having sex with me. It's your fault. Good thing you're hooking me up with the good stuff."

She was quiet for a moment. That dig at her had hurt a little more than she'd expected. "It's good. It means that your shoulder is a human being. It's a start."

He just stared at her. Maybe it really was because they'd stopped sleeping together. He wouldn't let himself say that they broke up... they hadn't been together to begin with. It had all been based on sex because she wanted a baby. That option was no longer on the table, so there was no reason to keep seeing each other.

"I'm right, right?"

"Yeah. Just not about me," he said, turning to leave after her words gave him an epiphany about his patient. He turned a moment later and snatched the paper from her fingers before leaving for good.

xxxxx

The mobile red dot that was distracting her benefactors caused her to stand. "Excuse me. I have a toddler to put in time out," she said, heading for the door. More like she had a doctor she wanted to kill. "House!" She barked firmly, holding her hands out to the side in a 'what the hell' gesture.

"Need my pills!"

She rolled her eyes. "Right, and there was no other way to get my attention. Knocking on the door would never work."

He shrugged. "If I knocked on the door, I'd be forced to talk to your benefactors. I don't think you really want that," he smirked. Which was true... he didn't have the best history at schmoozing anyone. "If you'd given them to me when I asked half an hour ago, I wouldn't have had to interrupt your meeting."

"It wasn't time for a dose half an hour ago," she stated, moving to the clinic pharmacy and asking for his pills. Taking them, she offered the cup with a single pill to him.

"You seem to be missing the rest of the bottle."

She gave a smile. "No more free floating prescriptions.... reasonable doses at reasonable times."

He just stared at her. Was she serious? "Who decides what is reasonable?"

"The only doctor in this building who is willing to write you a script for pain meds," she answered smugly, shaking the cup at him.

He scowled, but took the cup. "You spent the last six months trying to have a baby with me. Are you sure you're really the best judge of what's reasonable?"

She froze slightly at his words, but simply kept walking back toward her office. "Reasonable doses," she repeated back to him before opening the door.

He watched the door close behind her before heaving a sigh and taking the pill she given him. It was better than nothing.

xxxxx

She walked into the empty room she had allowed Detective Tritter to occupy to look through the hospital files that she had supplied only after he had given her a court order. "Seems like a waste of taxpayer dollars. You should be out arresting real criminals."

"I'm on vacation this week. And Dr. House is a real criminal."

"He's not a Colombian drug lord, he's a pain patient. And you're not going to find anything."

He smirked smugly. "I've found plenty."

Cuddy narrowed her eyes. "You act like you're doing the world a huge favor, protecting everyone from House, but who protects the world from you?" She asked him then. "House may be an ass, but you're a bully. You've bullied my head of oncology to quit, my entire hospital staff is afraid to do... anything, really. He's probably the world's biggest jerk, but there's always a reason behind it. But you... you're going after innocent people because you've got a grudge against one person."

"Not one of you are innocent!" Tritter responded angrily. "Not one of you have told me the truth about him!"

Cuddy stood her ground, toeing the line with him. "Where's your proof? Not a single person is going to say anything against him to you," she responded confidently.

Tritter studied her. "I don't expect it from Dr. Cameron... or from you. Like I told her, women don't give up the men they're in love with. And for whatever reason, both of you are a little in love with him... maybe even a lot in love with him. I don't expect it from Dr. Foreman... he isn't a fan of police officers. But Dr. Chase or Dr. Wilson? One of them will flip. Or someone else will. Or Dr. House will do something every addict does. Eventually I will get what I want. And then everyone who lied to me is going down with Dr. House."

Cuddy just stared daggers at him, still more than capable and more than willing to square off with him. "Even if Dr. House has a problem... it's a medical problem. One that should be dealt with by doctors, not police detectives with a grudge."

"Except that none of you are dealing with it!"

"You don't know that, because you're not a doctor! You're a bully with a badge!"

Tritter clenched his jaw for a moment, working the nicotine gum around in his mouth. "He's going to jail. Like I said, I always get what I want." With that, he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and left.

(Gif done by @gabrielokun and I will remove it if they ask. I just didn't know how to reblog their original post onto my story because it fit)

#house #house m.d. #house md #house fanfic #house x cuddy #huddy #greg house #lisa cuddy

[xxx-cat-xxx]

Family Business

Happy Birthday, @awesomesockes! Some Tony & Happy friendship whump for you.

Thanks to @marvelous-writer for your expertise and to @whumphoarder for beta reading!

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Tony blinks himself awake a few hours later. 

His body seems to weigh a thousand pounds, and there’s a dull underlying pain that warns him not to move. His thoughts are sluggish from the drugs to the point that his head feels as though it’s been stuffed with enough cotton to be exhibited in a natural science museum. The hospital room is dimly lit. It must be night outside, because it’s dark—too dark. The blue light of the arc reactor, always in the periphery of Tony’s vision, is missing. 

For the briefest of moments, he panics. But then it all comes back to him: Happy, his mansion, the snow. A fake Mandarin, and then the real one. Pepper, falling away from him. The heart surgery that brought him to this hospital.

Suddenly, Tony is acutely aware of feeling very sick.

“J,” he starts, then swallows thickly against the bile rising in his throat. “Anyone up?”

The AI’s voice answers immediately from the phone on his nightstand. “Miss Potts is on a video conference call with SI Australia, Mr Rhodes has gone home to shower, and Mr Hogan is in his hospital room, watching Downton Abbey season 2 episode 9 for the eleventh time this month.”

Guilt and nausea are battling each other, but there is no way Tony can get up and make it to the toilet on his own. Hell, the tubes still connected to his chest make it hard to even turn onto his side right now, not even to mention the pain that would cause.

In the end, the desire not to throw up on his hospital bed wins. “Get Happy here,” he orders the AI. 

Tony closes his eyes, tips his head back, and breathes shallowly, willing the contents of his stomach to stay down a bit longer. By the time he hears the squeak of the wheelchair on the linoleum outside, the urge to puke has decreased a little from ‘very urgent’ to ‘annoyingly persistent.’

“Wow,” Happy states as he wheels into the room, “JARVIS wasn’t kidding. You’re white as a sheet.”

“Hey Hap,” Tony gives a little wave with three of his fingers. “Just need a trash can or something. Can’t really get to the bathroom.”

Happy looks around the room. Tony notices that the cast on his right arm has now been replaced by a simple sling, and the bruises have faded almost entirely from his face. His friend is due to be released in the coming days, whereas Tony has to stay at least another week. 

Happy locates one of those signature kidney-shaped basins hospitals always seem to have lying around and presses it into Tony’s hands. “Should I wake one of the doctors?” 

Tony shakes his head as best he can. “It’s just the meds messing with my stomach.”

“Antibiotics, huh?” Happy nods knowingly. “Yeah, been there too.”

There’s a pang of guilt in Tony’s stomach, causing the nausea to intensify again. He struggles to sit up a little and can’t suppress a moan at the pain even that minimal strain brings along.  

“Wait,” Happy quickly interferes, reaching for the remote to raise the head of the bed and prop his friend upright. Tony manages to lift his arms just enough that he can hold the basin under his mouth. He spits a few strings of excess saliva into it. “Sorry,” he manages, feeling his throat go tight.

“‘S okay, boss. No offence, but as long as you’re puking in this and not on me, I’m glad. Still remember that time in Singapore.” He wrinkles his nose up at the recollection. “That curry didn’t look great going in, and looked far worse on my pants.”

Tony almost laughs, then coughs, then heaves. He doesn’t have much in him except the yoghurt and toast that made up his meagre hospital dinner, but his stomach doesn’t seem to care. After the first bout of vomiting it just cramps over and over on nothing, every dry heave bringing pangs of agony to his injured chest. 

When he’s done, he feels almost lightheaded, be it from the pain or the lack of sustenance. He weakly lets his head fall back against the pillow, trying to catch his breath.

“You alright?” Happy’s casualness can’t hide a tinge of worry when he pries the basin from Tony’s hands to rinse it out.

“‘M good,” Tony breathes, then grimaces as another spike of pain reverberates through his chest. He involuntarily brings a shaky hand to where the remnants of his sternum are covered in bandages.

Happy frowns. “You want me to up your morphine? Or you can have some of my Vicodin?” he offers. “I forgot to take my evening dose―Matthew was in the middle of his proposal to Mary.”

“Nah. ‘S okay,” Tony declines wistfully. He’d love to drug himself to the point of oblivion just about now, but an opiod addiction is the last thing he needs during his efforts to get his life back on track. “Just gimme some water to rinse.” The taste of vomit in his mouth is enough to almost make him gag again.

Happy gets a glass of water and then awkwardly holds the now empty basin under Tony’s mouth, who swirls and spits before shakily wiping his lips. Maybe it’s exhaustion or the pain or the meds he’s arguably still doped up on, but Tony feels the sudden urge to somehow express his gratitude to the man who left his own hospital bed in the middle of the night to care for the person who couldn’t protect him in the first place.

“I…” he starts when Happy has taken the basin away, then trails off when it occurs to him that he has no idea what to say.

“...should go to sleep,” Happy finishes for him. 

“Nah.” Not when he can avoid it. Tony hasn’t dreamed of New York since defeating Killian, which is a plus, but he’s seen Pepper fall almost every time he closed his eyes. “Let’s do something fun. Hey, I just survived a major experimental heart surgery. I’m allowed to celebrate a bit.”

“Yeah,”  Happy gestures around the hospital room. “Great party you got going here.”

“Still better than your last birthday. Pepper told me you watched Jane Austen with your 80-year old neighbour and were in bed by nine.”

Happy looks mildly offended. “Elenor is only 76.”

In the end, they find Die Hard playing on one of the channels of the small TV that Tony has neglected so far in favour of his phone. Happy maneuvers himself out of the wheelchair and onto the smaller cot that Pepper had slept on the first night after Tony’s surgery, propping up his injured leg with an extra pillow. Despite his insistence on staying awake, Tony has a hard time keeping his eyes open. The world’s a bit hazy now, and, though he would never admit it, Happy’s presence makes his whole post-surgery anxiety much more bearable.

Bruce Willis has just taken out another terrorist when Happy suddenly turns to Tony, his expression having grown serious. “Just wanted to say―it wasn’t your fault, boss.” 

Tony blinks at him, wondering when his own emotional state became so transparent.

“You know it’s my job to look out for you,” Happy continues. “I’d do it again if I had to.”

“Hap,” Tony sighs, “No offence, but I literally have an iron suit of armour for protection. I really think we’re past the bodyguard stage now.” 

“Exactly.” Happy grins. “We’re family.”

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#tony stark #happy hogan #whump #fanfic #surgery #post-iron man 3 #vomiting #family feels