Modern!AU, Medical!AU, Hanahaki!AU in which reader throws up lilies and Steve is blissfully unaware. (12,7k)
Warnings: text may have unpleasant descriptions of diseas, talking about death and dying, angst, open final, unrequited love, ooc Nancy
Soundtrack: Dove Cameron - Bloodshot
Notes: Hanahaki Disease is a fictional disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings (romantic love only; strong friendship is not enough), or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's ability to feel disappear.
Interferons are a group of signaling proteins made and released by host cells in response to the presence of several viruses. In a typical scenario, a virus-infected cell will release interferons causing nearby cells to heighten their anti-viral defenses.
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Robin says that if you hadn’t been studying books like a swot at the age of eighteen, and hadn’t been obsessed with writing articles for scientific journals, then all this crap wouldn’t happend at all.
Well, the logic here is that you would have then done all sorts of wild things, that all teenagers do, and eventually calmed down. And since all of this did not happen, you are doing this now, at twenty-eight.
You may not agree with her about this, but your mouth is filled with flower petals, so you remain silent.
- You, fool, - the current Robin is not distinguished by empathy at all, because all the empathy that she was so proud of completely disappeared by the end of the internship. Healthy medical cynicism was formed by the third course, when future doctors began to drink regularly once a week. - What are you waiting for? You play with fire, I'm not gonna save your ass when it's too late.
You stretch your lips into a smile and put a cookie in your mouth, immediately coughing and covering your mouth with your hand.
You hoped that at least Robin would have some brain cells today and would bring normal food from home to duty.
You? You live alone and simply hate cooking, but Robin has a wife - and a bunch of other things. Brain, for example. Sometimes you envie her, but not very often.
Your night shifts rarely coincide, but if this happens, you certainly spend them together - fortunately, the surgical and microsurgical buildings are very close. One night in one building, the other in another, although personally Robin prefers hanging out in microsurgery with you. There are less problems here, because patients in the eye department need help at night much less often.
And now you both are sitting in your staff room, drinking tea and eating biscuits, and you start to curse, coughing and running out to return about five minutes later, examining some weird wet rag in your fingers.
When Robin realizes what it is, she feels sick to her stomach. They are already so big...
- They’re not daffodils, I’m betting my ass, - you say calmly and shake a wet flower in front of Robin's face. Well at least you washed it before showing. - These are some shitty rare lilies, I read about them. Pankratium or something like that.
- I hope it's not literally shitty? - Robin's still able to jock about it. Because - what else left?
- No. This one's from the mouth.
You put a flower on the table, and it gradually begins to dry out from the water and take on normal shape - sharp, long white petals gathered into a corolla, a thin and green stem, torn at the base.
And if earlier these were just seeds or individual parts of an inflorescence, now they are whole flowers, perhaps smaller than ordinary ones. But this, of course, is a matter of time.
When you first start coughing and notice some white petals in the sink, you want to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, - and you do.
At first you don't even understand where you could have become infected, but then, after analyzing it, you laugh louder, because only to you could happen such thing.
You know for sure that Billy, who has been in love with you for several years, had an operation - Robin told you about this as soon as she saw a quota for him in her colleague’s plans.
You felt immediate relief, even though you understood all the consequences - but it’s still better, than just dying ingloriously.
At least for ambitious Billy who wouldn't want to die from a disease caused by broken heart. Because Billy was too proud to let people know he has one in the first place.
Another thing is that you didn’t even suspect where a bouquet of flowers in a vase - withered hyacinths - appeared in your office one day from - at first you didn’t even pay attention, and when you did, it was too late.
They began to smell disgustingly sweet, and you went up to the table and for some reason touched them with your finger, immediately withdrawing your hand in disgust. Then you asked the nurse to throw them away, and a couple of weeks later you saw the first petal in the palm of your hand.
It was a funny greeting from Billy, with a deep meaning. And you, who had been in love for a long time and unrequitedly, but not with him, also began to vomit this rubbish and at first you didn't even tell anyone anything.
Either you didn’t take it seriously, or you couldn’t believe that fate had played such a cruel joke on you, but it doesn’t matter anymore - Rob found out about everything already when the petals turned into inflorescences, and your cough began to remind her of the need to do fluorography. That's what medical friends are for, to tell jokes about tuberculosis.
That's when you tell her - and even show, opening your hand with a heap of wet petals. For some reason, you never throw them away right away, carefully washing them of blood and examining them with true scientific interest, as if you were going to write a dissertation.
You all meet in the first year of university, when you enter the same faculty of medicine and end up in the same group. You, Robin, Steve and Eddie for some time become a curse for the entire class and teachers, although you personally are more for the company than for joy - during these times, you really put an effort into your studies, write vigorously in all scientific journals and speak at every conference.
Everyone else of your friends wasn't bothered with studying, especially Steve who wanted to feel a free college life like they show in the movies. There begin parties in the dorm, absenteeism of classes and inevitable learning before the session - because well, you are doctors, you actually have to know how to treat people.
In the third course the teachers danced when Eddie decides to expel, because he understood that college is not for him and he wants to work as a mechanic in his ankle's garage.
Situation somehow immediately becomes calmer.
The rest of you rent an apartment not far from the university, saying goodbye to the dorm forever, and begin to live together: Steve after a big scandal with his parents funally starts to put an effort to his studies, but you, on the contrary, go crazy. You raise your head from your textbooks, look around and begin to realize how much you have missed.
For example, how incredibly smart and interesting it would be, in your fifth year at university, to fall head over heels for your fellow classmate, with whom you share a tiny two-room apartment and a can of cheap beer.
"That would be fucking cool" you think and immediately begin to work in this direction, and soon enough you actually find yourself in love with Steve Harrington.
That’s why Robin says that if it weren’t for the textbooks, all this shit could have passed painlessly earlier and not destroy your life, but for you everything turns out differently, and you believe that you has the right for your own path. The path of the ninja. The path of the shinobi. The path of the stupid dumb ass idiot.
You are proud of your path and don't regret anything when boys in the university begin to look at you dreamily, and one of them, Billy, even confesses his love to you and gets sick with this viral crap, which was rare then - a couple of cases per hundred people.
You fall in love with Steve, and you don't care that someone is vomiting flowers because of your disinterest.
You rightly believe that one cannot force a person to reciprocate feeling for someone to whom they cannot and/or does not want to do so.
You joyfully rush through the soft clouds of inevitable friendzone, but fortunately, at first you have enough brains to do it in silence. Robin, of course, notices something, but Steve remains blissfully unaware that he has become the object of your sudden and growing love. Steve has other things to do - he finally finds a common language with his parents, also doctors in their thirtieth generation, he comes to his senses and dives headlong into science, discovering some - before unexplored - potential for this.
The three of you still lived together, sharing two rooms, and one day you realize that this is not a joke anymore.
You are madly in love with Steve, and now he’s with textbooks and different girls, you know. With one of them even for a very long time: Steve gets together with Nancy in his fifth year (ironically, at about the same time that you decide to fall in love with him) and remains for a long six years.
And at the moment when you and Robin are sitting in the microsurgery resident's office, working night shift, Steve is also with her - apparently on another vacation in Maldives or something like this.
One can afford this if one's father is the head physician of one of the large hospitals - although it must be admitted, Steve never sought to enjoy such privileges.
And his parents did not try to help him even while studying at the university. Later, however, his father did hired him to work, but not for his pretty eyes.
When the time comes to choose a specialization, Steve goes to oncology, Robin goes to surgery, and you - after long thinking decide on ophthalmology.
You confess everything to Steve right at the graduation, when it becomes clear that you will most likely either see each other less often or not see each other at all. At that graduation there was a lot of booze, easily accessible weed, a tiny apartment and a tinier balcony where you couldn’t even stand without touching your neighbor.
You are so drunk that you don't give a damn about anything.
You try to kiss him and he pushes you away. That's it.
You got terribly offended, of course, but you never stop loving him. Robs learns about this not even from you, but from Steve himself who, even when drunk, usually remembers everything down to the smallest detail - she finds out and advises you to stop being a fool.
Laughter is laughter, but a few more years pass, and you begin to vomit daffodils, and it’s no longer funny.
- They’re not daffodils, you blind bitch, - you get angry and take another cookie. - This is a lily.
- Doesn't matter, - Robin rolls her eyes and tries not to show how much the situation worries her more and more.
If a couple of years ago she considered your love for Steve to be a whim, now that you have inhaled Billy’s flowers and they have sprouted, it becomes clear that this is serious. The seeds simply wouldn't have sprouted out of whim.
– You need to take all the tests, x-rays and fluoroscopy. We need to do something about this. I don’t want to find a flowerbed instead of you one day.
You lean back in your chair and smile strangely. In the dim light of the nightly light of the resident's room the bruises under the eyes seem clearer, the lines of the cheekbones are sharper, - exactly an expressionist painting, especially since just five minutes ago you was fishing a full-fledged large flower out of your throat.
- You, Robs, should think about death easier with your job, - you say calmly. – In my operating room, you know, I have much less chance of encountering it. I can leave you without an eye, but in your room a person can end up being dead.
For some reason Robin shudders at this cynical calm. No, she really has a much simpler attitude towards death, because without this defensive reaction you won’t survive in this business: if you let all the pain and suffering pass through yourself, you can retire with a certificate from a psychiatric hospital.
But now when she hears something like that from you - a closest friend, almost a sister even - in relation to your own life, it’s at least uncomfortable.
- Why don't you want to have a surgery? – Robin asks quietly once again, even if she knows what she will get in response.
This is the game already - she asks this question over and over again, and you answers it every time in different ways.
- I’m just wondering how this will all end, - you chuckle, and Robin thinks that fucking daffodils have already sprouted in your brain. Oh sorry, lilies. - But, seriously, Robs. I just don't want it. So that later i will live like a hollow doll? Have you seen Billy? It's not even life. Besides, I always dreamed of dying beautifully, and could there be anything more beautiful than turning into a huge flowerbed?
This is the first time Robin hears this option. Such expression deserves applause. You should have became an actress. And if at the end of the performance no one gives you flowers, you can cough them up for yourself.
- Go through the examination so that you can at least understand the situation, - Robin makes one last attempt, but you are already looking at your phone and scrolling through the Instagram feed, not paying attention to her. - At least an x-ray.
- Did you masturbate recently? - you asks all of a sudden and Robin's confused.
- No?... - the answer sounds like an question.
- Then go fuck yourself, Robin.
You wake up not from the alarm clock, but from an itch under your ribs that began to torment you in the evening. Having taken a couple of Suprastin pills, you went to bed and had vivid LSD dreams all night, only to collapse at five in the morning from painful scabies.
Lifting your T-shirt in front of the mirror, your discover a bright scarlet pulsating lump on the side of your stomach, just below your ribs, as if you had been stung by a Chernobyl hornet - it hurts and itches, and you simply hate this feeling.
And here you are thinking you just ate too much sweets the night before. You touch the abscess with the tip of your finger, and it itches even more - and as soon as you decides to scratch the skin with nails, the abscess bursts, flaring up with sharp pain, and pours blood onto your stomach along with disheveled white petals protruding from the wound.
- Fuck! - you yell, barely managing to pull off your white T-shirt and cover the wound with your palm. Blood still flows through your fingers, drops fall on the light carpet and laminate, you, groaning, go into the bathroom. - Fucking shit...
You carefully pull out the flower and throw it into the sink, deciding to deal with it later - right now you want to grab the phone and do something nasty. It’s simply impossible to deny yourself this, so you go to Steve’s Instagram and without greetings, in a very adult way, write to him in direct message a short “fucking son of a bitch.”
Of course, you don't receive an answer right away, but the main thing was to express the emotion: if it weren’t for Steve, you wouldn't be standing now in front of the mirror and wondering whether it was possible to cover the hole in your stomach with a band-aid or something else would come out of it again.
Lily, by the way, is gorgeous and neat - and much more larger than those that usually crawl out of the throat. You look at the bloody flower with morbid interest, wash it under the water and places it in a small vase next to the mirror in the bathroom. You still don't know why you do this, but sometimes you directly fight the desire to collect a bouquet for Steve and send it by mail. For this fucker to inhale and get sick. Although it’s unlikely that Steve is unrequitedly in love with someone.
- Listen, maybe I should write an article on this topic, - you say inspiredly, while Robin sits and fills some documents in her office. Your operating day ended, and you apparently came to eat Robin's lunch. - Everyone is romanticizing this shit. It’s like you’re coughing up petals, flowers appear in your ribs, in your lungs, on your wrists. So pretty and mysterious. But you, as a doctor, understand that seeds are distributed throughout the body, and in the intestines, for example, there is a very favorable environment for their germination.
- Babe, I’m not sure I want to know about this at all.
- But Robin! – you are indignant, rolling around the office on a chair and crossing your arms over your chest. – Little snotty girls dream of such beauty in their wet dreams, but no one tells them they will even shit flowers!
Robin puts down her pen and looks at you - and fights the urge to grab you by the scruff of the neck and drag you to the radiologist, then to the ENT specialist, and then to the psychotherapist. No, most likely, first of all, to the psychotherapist. You smile at all thirty-two, and only Robin could see the yearning frozen in your eyes.
- So you’re shitting daffodils, - she clarifies, just in case, - Like a princess.
- Lilies, - you nod. - Like a princess.
You refuse to take tests, because, according to you, you know perfectly well what is happening and at what stage you are.
For such a long period of time you are holding up amazingly well - at work, despite the fact that there are a lot of doctors around (even if they are all only ophthalmologists), no one suspects you are sick.
No one knows about this except Robin, who swears to be silent, and Eddie, and you threatened to squeeze out his eyes if he says a word. You are happy this way - you don't want an audience and a fuss around your condition.
And everything's fine, really. Sometimes thou the ribs hurt, as with neuralgia, and the eyeballs burst from pressure. Then you simply buy more painkillers, Baralgin in ampoules and vasodilating drops. Nothing to worry about... The end is perfectly clear.
A couple of weeks after that conversation, when Robin once again tries to convince you to take care of yourself, Steve, who has been missing for six months, appears and announces that he wants to gather their entire company and classmates. The assumption about the Maldives turns out to be incorrect, Steve tells Robin that he just returned from a scientific symposium in Germany and wants to share all sorts of news.
You are also invited, despite the fact that your correspondence continues to consist of a lonely “fucking son of a bitch” from which you concludes that Steve has forgotten about all the past awkwardness. Or he pretends to forget.
In the end after that graduation you saw each other enough times, and Steve acted normally. You work in the same hospital after all, so it is necessary to maintain adequate relationships - and apparently Steve succeeded in this better than you. In the end, it’s clear which one of you is calling names in the direct messages.
At first, you don't want to go, and Robin agrees, because this gathering definitely won’t make things better. Then you suddenly change your mind and get dress up for the party, despite the fact that Steve is gathering everyone at his house, which means Nancy will be there too.
- If he loved her, - you say with fake joyfulness, checking yourself in the mirror and straightening your black shirt, (because you can’t wear white, the stupid wound would show through. You cover it with a band-aid, it stings, and flowers still sometimes come out.), - He would have married her long ago. Axiom.
Outside you smoke two cigarettes in a row to calm down yourself, and Robin says it’s harmful in your case to smoke at all, but you burst into laughter, brightly, beautifully. It's funny indeed to advise not to smoke to a person who already has bushes instead of lungs. Or in what form do lilies usually bloom? In the bushes, right?
By the time you arrive, there are already a lot of people in the large, cozy apartment, and Steve meets you at the entrance - with a pack of cigarettes in his hand, because he was also apparently planning to go out to smoke. You meet his eyes, like in a shitty melodrama, and freeze.
And usually people say that the eyes of their beloved are pretty, bottomless, bright and all this shit, but you see them in different way. The position of the eyeball is correct, movements are full, free, eyelids are adjacent, eyelash growth is correct. The lacrimal apparatus is without any features, the conjunctiva is pale pink and clean.
- Hi, - Steve hugs you both and doesn’t notice with what morbid interest you are staring at him. - Come on in, guys, good to see you. Everyone is already here, we were waiting for you. Or you wanna smoke first?
You purses your lips and squeezes past Steve, and only God knows (and Robin, probably) how much effort it takes you not to look at Steve anymore and generally pretend that everything is fine.
Flowers react to their creator: throat tightens, and it becomes more difficult to breathe, head becomes heavy, and a grass taste rises up the throat, as if you were chewing hay half an hour ago, and now it wants back outside.
The company is just right, Nancy is beautiful and smiling, and for you the main goal of the evening become not to behave decently there, but at least not to suffocate, because as soon as Steve appears in sight, your body begins to prepare for mating dances.
- If you go throw up, don’t forget to clean up the flowers - Robin leans towards your ear and tugs on the leather necklace around your neck. - Or maybe don't. Who the hell knows, maybe if Steve will understand everything, you’ll at least talk about this?
An enraged look in response lets Robin know that you are not going to talk with Steve on this topic, although life has other plans this evening: during a general conversation Steve, hugging Nancy sitting next to him says, that he, as a part of a research group, began to develop non-surgical therapy for the flower virus.
Well, who would have thought.
You choke on your drink and look up at Steve for the first time this evening.
- Really? – The voice soaked with defiant causticity when you pretend to grin, while feeling as if you had swallowed a piece of ice. - How is it going?
Steve shines like a fucking garland, hugs his Nancy and really seems to think that he is busy with fucking important and useful work. No, maybe it really is important and useful, but you want to scream.
- We are at the initial stage, - Steve joyfully answers and spreads his hands wide, as if showing how ambitious the researchers’ plans are. It’s not like you, eye-healers, sitting there raking the specks out of people's eyes, or whatever you’re doing there. Oh, yes, you treat cataracts for old ladies. – It is necessary to understand what factors influence the fact that human interferon is not able to resist the virus. Animals do not get sick from it; experiments have shown this more than once. So there's a high chance of identifying antidotal substances sooner or later.
- Wow, cool, - you inertly clap you hands and get up, grabbing a pack of Marlboros. Why doesn’t such an apartment have a balcony, what a joke? - This is a very honorable thing. Keep me updated.
Steve seems to be saying something else, but you are no longer listening to him, going out onto the staircase, and Robin is generally surprised that you didn’t leave earlier. It was clear that your nerves were already on edge, and when the topic of the virus came up, that was it, the last straw and it became obvious that you couldn’t hold on any longer. But no, you even saved your face.
What a brave little girl.
Steve, however, after a minute goes after you, as if sensing something - or finally recognizing a liter of expressed poison in the sarcastic tone. You actually stand on the stairs and smoke, leaning on the railing, and look down at the opening between the floors, as if wondering if you can jump there. The problem is that you will most likely survive. Not an option. And it will be ugly too.
- What’s wrong with you? - Steve doesn’t put on a jacket, he goes out in just a T-shirt, striking a lighter. You hear his voice and grimace. - You sat there all evening like something got your panties in a twist.
You turn around and make an apologetic face innocently, mockingly, although you're shaking either from anger or from resentment (at Steve, at yourself, at the idiotic situation), and you try to hide your trembling hands in your pockets.
- And you're an expert on panties, right? - You hate yourself for this attitude, like a child in the kindergarten, but it’s difficult to control yourself because there is an increasing ache between your ribs, and it hurts so hard that you want to bend in half. You already got used to Ketorol, and the painkillers need to be changed. Fucking flowers, fucking painkillers, fucking Steve.
He opened his mouth to answer, but you finally bent over at the most inopportune moment, because you had been holding back all evening, you even persuaded Robin to give you baralgin in your vein so that there would be a block for at least a few hours - and now the block's over, and after it the attacks are always stronger. You cough exasperatedly, grabbing the railing, covering your mouth with your hand in horror, realizing that you can't stop flowers from coming out now.
Indeed the cough pushes another bloody flower into the palm of your hand, and you recoils from Steve rushing towards you - he turns pale, turns green (and he calls himself a doctor?), seeing the blood on your fingers, looks at you with genuine horror, while you are already quite indifferently walking towards the garbage can and throw away the flower.
You take paper napkins from your pocket and wipe your hands. All this in silence, without a single word, because what's the point of talking now anyway. And it’s unlikely that Steve, who recently started to explore this virus, won’t understand what happend. You don't have to be a researcher to understand what's going on here when a girl in front of you starts to cough a huge flower.
- Y/n, what the fuck is that? - you're amused because you have never heard such a tone from Steve. Scared, worried. - What the fuck is this? What the fuck is happening?
You even look at him with interest, wondering in what other variations you will hear this simple question. Steve's hands are shaking, like a heroin addict suffering from withdrawal symptoms, while he tries to shake one more cigarette out of his pack. Or an explanation of what's going on.
- Who is this, huh? – Steve whispers, while you send the bloody napkins after the flower into the garbage can. - Why don’t you...
− Who? – you don't know whether to laugh or cry, and therefore choose neutral and theatrically press your hands to your chest. Seriously, Steve is dumb even in this situation and can't put two and two together. – Are you serious, Steve? You should drink some glycine. Fish oil, or what other vitamins do we need to keep our head working? You need them, you want to invent a cure from this disease after all, yeah? As you already understood, I’m interested.
(You're not)
- Stop with this shit, - Steve clutches a cigarette in his teeth and, taking a step towards you grabs you by the shoulders and shakes you roughly, in order to somehow bring you to your senses. Although he's the one who needs to put himself together here - he is pale, eyes opened wide, his fingers are trembling, you feel it. - Fucking answer me!
And you are generally so happy all of a sudden that you look at Steve, bowing your head to the side like a bird, and don't feel shy anymore to openly glance over his face - there is slight stubble on his cheeks, his lips are bitten, chapped, his eyebrows are furrowed, eyes angry.
For you Steve is incredibly handsome, and this made it difficult to breathe even without flowers.
- Okay, since you insist so much, I’ll answer all of your questions, - you say and carefully disentangles yourself from his strong grip. - Who is it? You. Am I kidding? No. Has it started a long time ago? Yes. Why don't I have surgery? I don't want to. That's it. Can I go now, I have to get up early for work tomorrow?
Steve becomes numb, unable to utter a word, and you can be proud of yourself because you didn't start to cry and looked decent in this whole unfortunate situation.
- You’re joking, - Steve says helplessly.
You roll your eyes.
- Stop, I told you, I'm serious. And as you can see, all these years i haven’t said anything, and I wouldn’t have said anything further if I hadn’t gotten myself outed like an idiot today. Steve, let's not talk about this, shall we? Please.
You stop acting tough, like you don't care at all - you become serious, a little tired, you ask sincerely, and this completely drives Steve into a dead end. You go back to the flat to pick up your jacket, nod goodbye to all the friends and even Nancy, and then go down the stairs, waving to Steve.
He burns himself with the second cigarette in a row and swears under his breath.
Steve can't sleep all night, and the next morning he immediately calls Robin, as soon as the acceptable time for this comes - he even doesn’t care that she is at work. He tries to bombard her with questions because he is sure that Robin knows everything - and he's right; he doesn’t hold back, he accuses and freaks out, like, what the hell, but Robs doesn’t appreciate his yelling.
- Don't, Steve - she says sternly, and this tone somehow makes Steve quiet. – I wouldn’t tell you anything, because I don’t have the right to do so. This is not my secret. And you know her as well as I do. Once she has gotten something into her head, it is impossible to change her mind. And yes, I’ve been fighting for six months now to get her to do surgery.
- Robin, let’s meet today, yeah? Fuck, I have to know everything, - Steve starts once again, and Robin has to agree. - I can’t do this, I can’t just leave it like that. I do care about her for fuck sake!
He tells Nancy some nonsense to get away from home for the whole day, because his chaotic thoughts are making his head swell. He meets Robin only at lunch, she promised to get out of the hospital, and Steve has a lot of time, which he spends sitting in a cafe and mindlessly studying your profile on Instagram.
You post beautiful photos and selfies and Steve would never believe that this pretty girl, flawless on every photograph, covers up bruises under her eyes in the morning and picks flowers out of abscesses.
Steve has already written more than one article on this virus and doesn't romanticize it at all, and he can only wonder how do you manage to hide everything from everyone for such a long period of time?
He opens the recent photo in your profile, you are looking at him, photographed against the background of a plain wall with lilies in hands. And Steve isn't sure you bought these flowers.
Conversation with Robin doesn’t make the situation better.
- Don't blame yourself, - says Robin, - It’s her decision, and it’s not your fault that this happened because of you. She didn’t blame herself at all while Billy walked around half-dead.
- But he had surgery, - Steve says quietly, and Robin nods. - What kind of... What kind of flowers are those anyway?
- Looks like daffodils. I don't know.
- Daffodils, - Steve smiles sadly, awkwardly, and this immediately makes Robin uncomfortable, as if she has inserted into someone else’s life without asking, even thou they both are her best friends. - It fits her.
And just like that, the puzzle comes together: strange behavior and name-calling in the Instagram direct message. This is you, and in general this explains a lot.
Before the operating day you always go to bed early, because there can be two or ten operations, and even though most of them are trivial and quick, an attempt to screw up can cost someone an eye. On an operating day a clear head and a steady hand are especially needed, and you even allow yourself to take half of phenazepam in the evening in order to sleep better.
The fact that you will have to urgently call to work and ask to be replaced becomes clear in the very first second, when you, waking up in the middle of the night, can't open your eyes - a sharp pain radiates to your head, as if sharp blades had been shoved under the eyelids.
You growl through your teeth and roll out of bed, starting to rummage around in the bedside table - you have a bunch of different eye drops piled up there, and in order to even open your eyes normally and see what happened, you have to pour in a freezer. A quick examination in the mirror shows swollen eyelids, bright red sclera and bloody discharge - your fingers tremble when you pull back the lower eyelid and see several tiny white flowers there.
A perfect small copy. The anger takes over instantly and doesn't let go - you smash a vase in the bathroom and desperately scream.
You drip some useless antiviral to calm your soul, then add Broxinac.
You even call your colleague and lie about viral conjunctivitis, after that you're running circles around the apartment and kicking chairs and armchairs. This is already a knife in the back. You wasn’t ready for such crap, even if you assumed that these fucking flowers would sooner or later come out of the eyes too.
To be honest you just hoped to die before this happened. You once again go to the bathroom, rake out tiny buds from under the eyelids, drip more anesthesia and go back to bed, turning off the phone. Today is your day off.
"And don’t fucking call me", you write to Steve on Instagram before falling asleep, and it’s not like Steve was gonna call.
When college ends and that graduation takes place, at which you, having interrupted Steve mid-sentence in a conversation on the balcony, lean forward and kiss him, freezing - Steve is so lost. It takes about ten seconds to realize what happened, and for all these ten seconds you study his lips with your own, and only then you recoil, pressing your palms to your chest.
Steve pushes you more out of confusion than out of anger; he doesn’t control his hands at all then - and it’s not like he’s very drunk. It’s you who usually gets wasted from one glass of wine, and Steve is more experienced, and he always remembers everything to the last detail.
You look at him helplessly and run out of the balcony and out of the apartment in general, before Steve can say a word.
Then you both try hard to pretend that nothing happened, and at some point Steve begins to think that it was just your incomprehensible joke. Now, when Steve remembers these white flowers, he belatedly realizes how stupid he was for thinking it was just a jock, he realizes his brain gave him a perfect excuse to not look any deeper into that event and most importantly he realizes you both needed to talk about it right after the kiss happend.
"Good job, Steve", he thinks gloomily and gives himself sarcastic applause. "Talking went well".
There were always a lot of people around Steve, and even if not all of them were friends, there were plenty of acquaintances. And they say, every friend is for something special - there is a friend to play football with them and watch the Champions League, there is a friend to go on a double date with the girls, there is a friend from whom you can copy homework when you didn't have time to do it. And you were a friend for soul, and Steve would be lying if he denied that you were his favorite friend.
You always lived in some kind of 4D world of your own, beautiful as unicorn's snot, complex and unusual, and therefore especially cool - and you were as cool as these unicorn's snot, which once upon a time helped Voldemort get back on his feet. You were helping Steve in the same way and sometimes didn’t even suspect it.
Steve could always come to you, lie down by your side and start whining about how he got rejected by yet another girl; you, without looking up from your textbook, were laughing and saying that the time would come, and some princess would definitely fall in love with him. Steve remembers that conversation now and grins - well, yes, you were right. The princess indeed fell in love with him.
Steve never hid the fact that he adores you from the tips of your fingers to your very fucked up jokes. Steve never had a problem admitting his admiration for anyone, and you were a perfect subject for this - Steve admired almost everything about you. Intelligence, thinking, an understanding of the world, puns that are stupid to the point of genius, the beaded handwriting, calligraphic, doesn't even look like a doctor’s handwriting at all.
Laughter, which Steve could listen to instead of a lullaby, and also bright soft eyes under long and fluffy eyelashes. Steve sincerely admired you and never considered it something more than a friendship. He laughed at your every phrase, waited with his mouth open for your stories and loved spending his free time with you. You were his favorite friend, and when it all ended like that, Steve felt empty.
No, he had already matured, and like a real big boy, he accepted the understanding that sometimes this happens - paths diverge, people come and go, but he didn't think, honestly didn’t think and was not ready, that you would leave his life just like that. You, whom he visited every damn evening before that fucking graduation, and lay next to you, talking non-stop about everything that was in his head and leaning towards the palm that stroked his hair.
You both were twenty-three, everything was so right and natural, and Steve never thought that it could be otherwise. Now you are twenty-eight, and he doesn’t know what he can do to fix anything.
To be honest, he is still ready to be the one to blame for everything, if only you would agree to accept his help.
You, as expected, don't answer his calls, although you appear online in almost all messengers - most likely, you either blocked him or simply ignore him, and Steve, after meeting his father in the main building, goes to microsurgery, deciding to wait until the end of the working day.
There's basically only an hour left, and Steve sits down on a bench along the alley, looking around furtively and lighting a cigarette - actually, he's not allowed to smoke here, but right now it's vital for him.
- Jonathan, hi, man, - he exhales a stream of smoke, waiting for Byers to pick up the phone. - Are you busy? I have to distract you. Tell me, are you working with those patients now? Regarding our research, I mean.
He met Byers back when they found themselves in a target research group for the development of non-surgical therapy, and immediately became friends. And if Steve doesn't deal with patients and operations, studying the theory, then Jonathan works directly with patients - judging by his reports, dozens of people with flowers in their bodies pass through his hands every month.
- Of course, Steve. Just had another surgery today. The woman with metastases. What's the question?
- Tell me, - Steve says slowly, – Are there any official mechanisms that force patients to undergo treatment?
Jonathan is silent for a long time, clearly seriously considering the question.
- No, dude. It’s the same as with any other disease, we can't force anyone to undergo treatment. You haven’t seen anyone with cancer or HIV being forced to do so, right? Many even refuse to do retroviral therapy. It’s the same here, - Byers rustles something in the background. - The only thing is that if it's teenagers, a psychologist can work with them and try to convince them. Why, you got a pubescent girl suffering from unrequited love?
Steve gloomily grimaces.
- A grown ass woman with a medical education.
- Oh, well, - Steve almost can see how Jonathan shrugs in surprise. - It seems like a choice, I'm afraid. The main thing is that if she will suddenly change her mind and want to undergo surgery, it will be very difficult in the last stages. Many doctors don't even agree to do it. But to fully understand the situation, I at least need to see the flowers.
Steve lowers his head, examining the cigarette pressed into the asphalt, and is silent for a long time, closing his eyes. There is very little time left before the end of the working day, and he needs to catch you before you see him and run away again.
- Well, hello, - Steve barely manages to grab you by the elbow as you rush down the alley and pull you towards himself so that you almost fall on top of him. You look angrily from under your brows and dark glasses. - Don't run away. Are you okay?
He notices that the sun is gone, it’s a gloomy autumn outside, it’s cold October, and dark glasses clearly seem unnecessary.
- Never been better, - you spit out and try to free yourself, but if Steve has grabbed onto something like a tick, then he can’t be torn off. - What do you want from me? I need to go home.
- And we’ll go, - Steve agrees and jingles his car keys. - Don’t worry.
Not paying attention to all the bickering, Steve puts you in the car, no longer even asks you to take off your glasses, because he understands that you're hiding something. You spend the entire way home in silence, and you generally turn away and look out the window, just not to look at him, who, on the contrary, does nothing but stare. You even snap and ask him to stop looking. It’s good that your eyes have gotten better today, although in between patients you ran to the toilet a couple of times to cry with flowers - you swore and watched as they, so tiny that they could be washed straight into the sink, stuck to the ceramics.
Steve follows you into the apartment without an invitation, although you silently try to push him out - in melodramas the characters make eye contact and freeze, but in reality you almost get into a fight just in case. Steve, having gotten angry, simply shoves you into the hallway and slams the door behind you both.
- Calm down, - he advises almost threateningly and points towards the bathroom. - Otherwise I’ll have to put you in the cold shower. Maybe you can at least make me some tea, idiot?
You look at him like a wolf and silently go to the kitchen, hit the button on the kettle, slam the cabinet doors, taking out tea and snacks. You loudly slam the refrigerator door, move chairs as if they were made of stone, put cups on the table, trying, as it feels, to break them. Steve trains breathing techniques and enters the kitchen already calm, catching you by the hand and forcing you to stop.
- Thank you, - he says softly, nodding at the cups with hot tea. It’s already October outside, it’s cold, and his fingers are numb. - Y/n, stop and listen to me. No, I said, listen, don’t try to interrupt me.
You immediately feel as if you are a teenage girl and you stand in front of the boy you like, looking at him with wide eyes, unable to say a word - only you are now standing in front of Steve, who has sat down on a chair and is holding your hands in his, not allowing you to escape.
- I have a good friend who deals with these issues, - Steve begins and hurries to continue, because you are obviously starting to go furious. - Please, let’s just at least consider this option.
- Jesus, leave me alone, for God’s sake, - you pull your hands away, but Steve catches them again, looking into your face - you are still so pretty. No, much more pretty than you were five years ago, your age incredibly suits you. Although Steve's not sure what is age and what is disease. - Shove your pity up your ass, Steve. I don't need it. And if you feel guilty, I will write in my will that you have nothing to do with it. I’ll write - "if you thought I was in love with Steve Harrington and it's all his fault, then no, I wasn't and it's not." Are you happy now?
Steve looks at you skeptically, and it is very clear what he thinks about this. You feel almost unbearable urge to slap him.
- You know what? Yeah, - Steve agrees unexpectedly easily. - This will be quite enough. The most important thing is that no one, God forbid, thinks that you were in love with me, otherwise everyone will think it's my fault you died. Be sure to write it, I beg you. I guess I can go now. I'm very glad you understood me.
And he gets up just like that, smiling and waving, only bowing is missing, and before you have time to react to his little show, Steve grabs you by the shoulders and shakes you like a kitten - he looks so angry, as if he could gnaw your throat with his teeth and not even choke. You involuntarily calm down and look helplessly, begin to cough meaningfully, because your breathing is short again, and your ribs begin to ache.
- Stop this fucked up shit, for fuck's sake, - Steve hisses, spitting out the words in your face in such way that you really want to run your palm over your skin and take them off. - Stop thinking I don’t give a fuck about you, that I don’t give a fuck about what's happening to you. Although I understand that it's so convenient. And so pleasant, right, fucking drama queen? Let me at least do something for you.
You smile, gesturing for Steve to move away, turn away and cough, bending over the sink - you immediately wash everything off, wipe your lips and drink a glass of water in one gulp to soothe your itchy throat. You wipe your hands for a long time, then look up at Steve - you finally took off your glasses, and he sees that your eyes were bloodshot and eyelids were swollen.
- What do you want? Or rather, what can you do?
- Something, - Steve answers and suddenly pulls you to him, hugs you, buries his nose in your hair, taking advantage of his height, and closes his eyes; you fall completely silent, feeling Steve pressing you tightly to himself, not giving you a single chance to escape. - Just at least don’t tell me to go away. I don’t care what you think about pity and about the fact that I feel guilty. I just miss you.
And you understand what Steve is talking about - you miss him, too, since the time that you didn't communicate normally, since the time Steve pushed you away on the balcony after a kiss, since the time you became strangers.
While Steve hugs you tightly and doesn’t let you go, the flowers don’t tear your chest from the inside so much.
Robin unironically loves to come to microsurgery in her free time and sit in the corner of the examination room, watching you work.
In addition to the fact that patients of all ages - young and old (mostly male) sincerely consider you the most wonderful doctor in the world, you really do your job perfectly - despite the fact that you spent the last years of the university under the banner of a love-struck brain. Yes, even though you occupied both hemispheres of your brain with your love for Steve at that time, you, out of habit, didn't stop being a swot. It's just that Steve suddenly became one too.
Until the fourth year, to be honest, the words “symposium” and “Steve Harrington” simply couldn't be imagined in one sentence. Robin has suspicions that you played a significant role in Steve’s changes - you two literally spent all the time together at that time.
Robin squeezes past a line of patients jostling with plump cards with medical histories, and sits down on a tiny chair in the corner - you, standing in the pose of a thinker next to another granny, don’t even notice her.
- Sweetie, I can’t see the last line very well...
- Missis... - you look at the patient card, habitually adjusting the glasses on your nose. - Johnson, please! I've never seen the last line in my life. And I’m not even eighty-three yers old. Don't anger God!
- Doctor, I don’t sleep well at night, - complains another woman.
- I can offer you to work one shift at the hospital with me, - you write down the assignment on the card and hand it to her. - Go to the treatment room.
You are tired of explaining that in microsurgery you don't treat insomnia at all.
− Drip three times a day by the hour according to this scheme. What? What if you mess up the order? Well, I don't know. Perhaps then this will be the last time we see each other. Or rather the last time you see me.
- Yes, two weeks of injections! Yes, imagine, they are also made into the eyes. How? With a needle, obviously, what's so shocking?
- Yes, it might hurt. What did you want to hear from me? That it doesn't hurt? So that you will get disappointed in me later?
Robin, honestly, wouldn’t want to get to you for treatment, but loves to observe how you treat others - the sympathy and compassion in you is at the level zero, of course, and this attitude has the right to exist, because otherwise you will lose your mind.
Robin waits for the end of the reception time, doesn't refuse herself the pleasure of sitting in the procedure, while you make all the injections - confident and accurately, the hand won't flinch, even if the World War lll starts right now.
Robin gets chills when she watches all this: she's a surgeon, saw a lot of messed up things in her life, but eye operations - thank you, but no, thank you. Robin is capable of everything except contemplation of the process of ophthalmic operations.
The working hours end, and you both return to the examination room, because you complain about the bright light, and in there it is always dim. Today you came to work early, caught the boy from the diagnostics and asked to do an optical tomography for you - you had to pay for the his silence, and not only with a charming smile.
As you expected, the flower shoots caused retinal detachment.
You sit on a chair against the wall, lowering your shoulders, and throw back your head, resting the back of it against the wall - your throat moves heavily and unevenly under your skin. Now, in the dim light of the observation room, Robin sees how much you have changed in recent months.
The skin seems to have thinned, become completely grey, the veins are translucent, and they are so dark. The eyelashes cast almost sepulchral shadows on the cheekbones, and the sleeve of the pullover under the robe rode up, revealing a tightly bandaged wrist. Robin reaches out and takes it, examining - even through the dense layers of fabric the relief of the growing stems is visible.
- Rob, - you suddenly begin to speak, and Robin involuntarily leans forward to not lose a single quiet word. Probably, for once, you stop performing comedy on your improvised stage in a one-person theater.
- You love too, I know. You love Vicky. But I also know that this is a different love.
You don’t pull out your hand - the sprouts that are growing under the skin are tightly bandaged, and Robin isn't able to touch them. The more layers, the safer.
- I have different kind of love for him. You know, when I got a job here, one of the first patients I came across was a difficult one, a young girl. I didn’t cure her, it was a difficult case, but the situation somehow got better, under control. And she’s been coming to me to check her eyes for three years now — every single week. She's scared and at the slightest thing she comes straight to me for check up.
You smile, chuckle, and close your eyes.
- I’m not angry with her - it’s hard not to be afraid when you already have only one eye left. And then recently she started coming every other day, we treated her allergies. And she, apparently, is worried that she’s bothering me, and she apologized for this yesterday, and then she says so, fake cheerfully, “Doctor, I’m your cross, accept me as it is.”
Robin feels like she's about to cry. Every person has their own drama.
- And I accept it, - you say and smile - your throat, scratched from the inside, aches, and the words sound barely audible. - Just like I accept this love for Steve. I often get angry about this, I often think it would be better if I had never fallen in love, I often straight up hate him because I'm already so tired of being sick. I mean, I’m just really fucking tired of it, no bullshit. But I love this love because it makes me me.
You rub your tired, reddened eyes, reach for the shelf with medicines to drop more ophthalmoferon.
- I never thought I was capable of this. To feel like this, to love like this. That's what it's like. That's what Taylor Swift sang about. That's why they lost their minds and fought the wars.
What Taylor Swift sings about love is the last thing Robin thinks about when her friend is choking on the lilies.
- The good thing about the situation is that it gives you a choice, - you say, putting your hand on Robin’s shoulder, squeezing your fingers, encouraging. You support her as if it shouldn’t be the other way around. - And I chose. Chose to be myself.
And you don’t look unhappy at all now, except that same yearning is frozen in your eyes, but you have gotten used to that too. It is there fused with the iris with adhesions and vessels, it has made its way under the edges of the retina with green stems.
- Steve, I understand that you’re nervous, but that won’t make me shit you a magical pill, - Jonathan is obviously annoyed, and Steve can hear it even over the phone. - Your screams don’t help much with our work, you know. You are a member of the group just like me, and you know no more no less, than me.
Steve sighs heavily and looks out of the window to check the road - you have a day off today, but you don't answer his calls, and this makes him nervous.
Nancy, of course, grimaced when Steve, instead of spending the day with her, got into the car and rushed to "some friend".
Her wording made Steve so pissed that he chose not to continue the conversation.
- Fuck, I’m sorry, dude, - he said reluctantly. - It’s just that I’m here with my family for a couple of months anyway, I won’t be able fly to Germany now, so I feel like I’m missing out on everything.
And it seems that the last thing he means by saying this is working on therapy.
- There are no other options now, - Jonathan repeats for the hundredth time, and Steve stops the car at your house. - Either surgery, or you know. No one has yet come up with a better interferon than reciprocity.
"And sometimes it seems there will be no other cure at all" - the words hang unspoken in the air.
You open the door after Steve ringed the bell three times, disheveled, sleepy and desperately yawning - and stare at pissed Steve as he squeezes into the apartment.
- I'm not even gonna ask what the fuck, y/n.
- I was sleeping, - you answer, and then your face lights up with understaning. - What, did you think I died? In your dreams!
Steve barely restrains himself from shaking you angerly by the shoulders, but to see you smiling like this means to forgive everything in the world, including Steve's fucked-up nerves. Since that evening, you see each other, if not every day, then often enough for Steve to understand what is happening to you, and even though his observations don’t exactly please him, the relationship between you becomes almost the same as before.
During these long and short meetings, you stubbornly don't say anything about your condition, although Steve has enough experience to understand for himself how serious everything is - you ignore all questions. And even now, having scared the crap out of Steve, you quite calmly go to prepare breakfast. Steve, sitting on a chair, watches you incessantly, and you eventually can't stand it.
- What, are you eating yourself alive now?
- I am, - agrees Steve, shrugging his shoulders, - Are you?
- I’m not, - you answer and, turning around, suddenly extend your hand to Steve, and when he takes it, you come closer and look seriously, as if cutting him open with your eyes. - Steve, no one is to blame for this. Everything is fair. I didn't want to fall in love with you, but i did it anyway. And you didn’t want to hurt me, but you did it anyway. It’s not your fault that I fell in love with you, and it’s not my fault that I don’t want to turn into a plant after the operation.
Fuck, what a pun.
- I regret I didn’t have enough brain to talk to you back then, - Steve freezes when you very carefully touch his eyelids, slightly faded light eyelashes, and the thin skin under his eyes with your fingertips. - Maybe something would have turned out differently.
- No, - you simply answer. - It wouldn’t have. I'm a fatalist, Steve. It is what it is. There is a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them. By the way, your eyelid is inflamed, might be the stye.
Steve is completely lost for a second, and then he laughs loudly, honestly, throwing his head back - as only he can; and you smile too, even if you don’t understand what he finds so funny.
- You’re still the same, - he says, laughing. - The most unexpected person on Earth.
Steve is fooling around as if you both are twenty-two again, you are not throwing up huge lilies, and you two are just skipping physical education to prepare for microbiology. No one kissed anyone, no one pushed anyone away, no one abandoned anyone; no one loved anyone...
Steve interferes you with doing breakfast, steals muffins from the refrigerator and smears himself with them, stuffing his mouth full and constantly getting in your way - you curse, drop the spatula, kick him out of the kitchen, to which you receive only laughter in response. And you can't help but smile, forgetting about everything that ultimately brought you two closer again. It’s just that Steve is here now, and you feel a little bit better.
Steve looks at you, catches every smile and every gesture - and thinks that since then, his feels towards you hasn't changed at all. This is the same honest admiration for you - from your smile to your fingertips - absolutely everything you say and do;
- I missed you so fucking much, - he whispers and doesn’t even understand why he’s pulling you closer to him, but he doesn’t even think about holding back. - Shhh, don’t twitch, I’m just sniffing the hair. It smells nice.
Yeah, like fucking lilies.
You let yourself go, allowing yourself to forget about everything - and reach out to Steve, without resisting your desires, emotions, your cross; the flowers inside open up, rustling with huge white petals, filling your chest - it feels like flower smell comes from your lips instead of breathing. And for once it doesn't hurt.
You talk about everything and nothing again, like before, drink tea and you, sitting on the window sill of the balcony, press your shoulder close to Steve, not because it’s cold, but because you want to.
Steve laughs at every joke you say, typically a doctor's ones. You laugh because he does, rest your forehead on his shoulder, and your shoulders shake with laughter.
Steve hugs them with one hand, squeezes his fingers on your waist.
- We can have sex, if you want? - Steve either goes all in or is a complete idiot.
You feel so good right now that you don’t even think about these words and motives, and there’s a smile in your eyes when you playfully bite your lip - you have nothing to lose. A biblical garden blooms inside you, and your mouth in the morning is not filled with oral sex, but with huge snow-white buds.
- Not now, - you laugh, throwing back your head and exposing your neck, and it should be kissed all over, bitten, licked along every veins, and Steve thinks he’s going crazy. - It will be the most fucked up moment in my life if flowers will come out of my pussy.
It’s like Steve is twenty-two again, and he is crazy about you – from your fingertips to the stupidest of jokes.
When Steve has to fly away for two weeks, his insides clench with irrational panic, and he calms himself only by thinking that they have a trial radiotherapy test scheduled. He first demands, then asks and - in the end - begs you not to ignore his calls and messages, and in the end simply asks Robin to be in touch with him.
She is still trying to resist that it's your right not to answer if you don't want to, but Steve starts yelling. And when Steve yells, any arguments stop working.
However, you answer him every day, and Steve holds his breath every time he sends a message.
"How are you?"
In each such question there is more honesty than in the mile-long messages that Nancy demands from him. Steve grinds his teeth, aggressively typing answers for her, while he checks his WhatsApp every minute and doesn’t see himself from the outside when he gets another selfie from you from work - your crooked grin against the backdrop of some bloody post-operative rags. His face cracks with a smile so much that Jonathan pushes him on the shoulder - put yourself together, dude.
Only now, having found you in his life again, Steve realizes how much he missed you. And he can't believe that all this is happening to you two, this whole stupid fairy tale; and if you hadn’t covered your mouth with your palms in an attempt to hold back the flowers bursting out, risking suffocation, Steve would have laughed.
He would have laughed that this is not about you, that it’s not happening to both of you, that you’re kidding, there are no fucking daffodils.
- Lilies! - you bark into the phone when Steve, having mixed up time zones, calls you in the middle of the night. - Is it really that hard to remember?
As long as you answer him, everything is fine, and Steve tries not to think that one day you may not answer not because you try to piss him off by ignoring him.
After one of the working days, you come to Robin’s department and say you took a sick leave - and conceal the fact that you had an attack today right during the patient check up, and you barely managed to give an injection with trembling fingers, almost piercing the patient’s cornea. Robin understands everything without words, because you continually scratch your itchy wrists and wheeze with a hoarse throat. You can't put patients at risk.
But you take pen and paper and write your love story in the article “Pathological changes in the retina of the eye in the extreme stages of the flower virus.” And every now and then you begin to take an article to Robin for editing, because you are also a graphomaniac - if inspiration suddenly comes, you write non-stop, but are too lazy to re-read it.
You again plunge into science headlong, describing yourself from the reflection in the mirror and white sheets of paper with the results of ultrasound, biomicroscopy and optical tomography - there tiny green stems make their way through the tissue. You smile, looking at the studies, trying to understand the techniques of possible operations that you, of course, won't make on yourself. This takes up almost all of your free time, and you come to Robin with a heap of papers and a burning gaze, as if you weren't the one getting paler every day - and sleeping less and less, because you were choking with an annoying cough.
- Y/n, - Steve calls again in the middle of the night, but you are not sleeping. You smile, watching Steve almost poke his nose on the screen, trying to take a closer look at you. - Y/n, radiotherapy gives the first results on infected cells.
You don’t even listen to him - yes, of course, all of this is very important, but not for a person who already has more flowers in her body than blood, who almost has flowers instead of blood flowing through her veins. It's autumn outside, cold November, and you think this is the most suitable month to turn into a biblical garden in your bed.
- Steve, - you whisper, interrupting, don’t listen to Steve’s explanation. - Steve, will you come back soon?
He falls silent, looking at the screen strangely - as if he wants to reach out, to touch, but the fucking technology will not let do that soon, if ever. Steve would give any money in the world right now just to teleport to your room in one second. He chuckles silently, thinking what a fool he was for wasting so much time.
Although how would he have understood anything, if you hadn’t been taken away from him now, torn from his hands?
- Soon, - he answers quietly. - I'll be back soon.
- I'll be waiting.
Steve fights with Nancy, when in the heat of the moment she shouts something about you and "his stupid friends" - Steve is shaking with anger, and it’s easier to just hastily grab his jacket and get out. He just had arrived and there was already a scandal - and especially on the topic of you, the mention of which makes Steve see red.
Steve doesn’t understand what is happening to him, but desperately doesn’t want to admit it's all because of guilt. Steve can't get enough of you, he wants to eat you, drink you, consume you until he faints, everything’s not enough for him, what has a fucking guilt to do with it?
It was always like this with you.
You are his favorite friend, and your condition is now more important than Nancy's tantrums.
On the threshold Steve silently grabs you in his arms, hugging you tightly, almost until your ribs crack – you wheeze and utter a strangled "Steve, let me go, I'm gonna throw up flowers on you”, flutters weakly and bury your nose into his neck, tickling it with light breath.
- Throw up, - Steve agrees, finally smiling as only he can: wide, infectious, sincere - this smile warms you to the point of burns. - From head to toe, I don't care.
Steve feels such relief seeing you again, even if he feels with his hands almost every protruding bone of your body - now, it seems, you can be broken with any careless gesture. Steve doesn’t explain anything, silently hands you a huge bouquet of multi-colored socks and sits down on an ottoman in the hallway, showing anticipation with all his appearance.
- Sorry, I decided not to buy flowers, you already have plenty of 'em. Now get dressed. Let's go for a walk.
Steve watches you pull on a huge sweater, pants torn at the knees, and spend a long time spinning in front of the mirror. Then you hide in the bathroom, swallow some pills and come out, almost up to your ears in a scarf. Steve distantly thinks that you are still somehow incredibly pretty - even with those dark shadows under your eyes.
Steve puts you in the car in the front seat, chats incessantly, doesn't explain where you are going - he only stops by for coffee for you two.
Steve himself doesn’t know where he’s going, just wants to get some distraction, out of town, to breathe in the fresh evening air, because you keep opening the window to take a deep breath. You are suffocating, even if you try not to show it, and your eyes itch, they itch so much, you want to take them out and insert new ones.
- I have a guitar there, in the trunk, - Steve says suddenly, when you drive a couple of miles from the city. - Come on. Like at the university?
- You still remember how to play? - you snort, looking at him funny.
- Muscle memory.
And Steve really still knows how to play. You leave the highway along the edge of some field that goes down to a small river. Steve takes out a guitar and a blanket for you from the trunk, and both of you sit down on a fallen tree.
Steve plays a very simple melody, and you finish your coffee and wrap yourself in a blanket like a caterpillar - just about to turn into a butterfly. You can finally breathe easier: either with help of the evening air away from the city, or with Steve very close to you, shoulder to shoulder.
At the university you all loved to spend the evenings before exams like this - with a guitar and cider; that time there were no white doctor's coats, operating gloves, fucking flowers and broken hearts. Robin is smart, Robin is a surgeon, she says there are no broken hearts, there can be all sorts of pathologies, defects and insufficiencies, but not cracks, and you must understand this - you are also a doctor after all.
- I’m an eye doctor, this is different, - you say out loud to your thoughts - completely by accident. - Microsurgeon. Which means I might have broken heart.
Steve looks up at you, never ceasing to pluck the strings with his fingers.
- Robin says so, - you explain. - Like, you can’t have a broken heart, it’s all nonsense, you are a doctor! And I assert there can’t be hearts in the eyes, because it’s fucking impossible. In the eyes only the sclera, cornea, iris and pupil are visible - and the limbus, if you look closely. But a broken heart is different.
Steve’s fingers, trembling, break from the string, and the sound turns out so thin, hysterical, it freezes in the air, like unspoken words. You argue as if not noticing him, as if you're generally alone in the world - a lone actress on stage, the amphitheater is empty. You say something, but Steve doesn’t hear you, all the sounds are in the background around him, ordinary and insignificant - the only important thing is that Steve focuses his gaze on you, on your slightly chapped lips, saying something and for the first time formalizes your thoughts into desire.
Steve reaches out to you over the guitar, his fingers slip again almost to the scratches, and he catches your lips with his own - an awkward, desperate kiss, as if miles separate you, and not just one old guitar. Your lips are dry, and your eyes are wide open - the guitar cracks somewhere under your elbow, the old wood breaks, and you both somehow awkwardly fall on top of it and each other.
And then Steve kisses you more slowly, more consciously, holding your chin with his fingers - it seems to you that every second stretches into eternity, and in each of these eternities you are ready to die, turning into a blooming garden.
Or into a flowerbed.
- Too bad the guitar got broken, - Steve's quiet voice is heard near your ear, and a smile can be discerned in this voice. - But that’s not the most important thing, is it?
You close your heavy eyelids, squeeze his fingers in yours, and this gesture contains everything: longing, stupid one-sided love, gratitude, reluctance to let go and reluctance to leave - for the first time ever and only for a second.
You will never regret your choice, because you chose to be yourself.
- The most important thing is that, - you whisper barely audible.
we are free.
You love November, because in this month everything around freezes - the world itself, sounds disappear, as if in a vacuum, and everything around dies in order to be born again. No, it’s not like you believe in reincarnation and life after death, you are a doctor after all and this has long left an indelible imprint on your understanding of reality. But a broken heart won’t heal itself, and there can’t be hearts in the eyes, because that’s fucking impossible.
A broken heart is something else.
- Robin, we live in a world where people throw up flowers out of love, what realism are you talking about! - you shout, flapping your arms like wings, and this movement causes leaves to fall from a yellow oak branch. You shouldn't have gone out for lunch.
Every morning you wake up from lack of oxygen, hanging over the edge of the bed and coughing up huge white lilies. The irises against the background of bloodshot eyes seem a thousand times brighter and crazier, and tears no longer moisturize - they, too, now always contain tiny petals and seeds.
It’s November outside, every breath feels like a cut of the knife, and a better interferon than love has not yet been invented. And it would at least be fine - if any love.
And your love stands opposite you, wrapped in a stupid puffy jacket, and strokes your sunken cheeks, with his palms.
- Y/n, how are you?
- Bad, - you answer for the first time in all this time, and your lips barely obey. You cling to Steve’s hands with your fingers, stiff from the cold, hide your palms in his pockets and sighs quietly, holding back annoying cough.
– Did you see the crow? - you suddenly say, looking somewhere over his shoulder. – Crows are amazing. If I were a crow, I would also find some cool lighting fixtures on nine-story buildings and sit there like they do.
Steve thinks that in your head there is not just different world, but several universes exist and collide with each other, exploding and mixing, in order to eventually come up with bullshit about the crow.
Steve doesn't think when he pulls you towards him and kisses you, feeling the flowery taste of small smooth petals on his tongue as he catches them with his lips.
- Steve, - you whisper hoarsely, but no longer push him away. - Flowers.
Steve so doesn’t care that he just smiles strangely and strokes the thin skin under the lower eyelids, where the shadows are so big and dark that they like the night can cover entire cities.
- Y/n, - he says, and it’s already the end of November. - Just wait for me, okay?
And you will wait.
At least as long as you can.
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Anti-Hero: Prologue
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC
Summary: After being experimented on as a young child and given abilities, Daniela has become a highly skilled member of the Avengers, and has even been assigned to mentor Peter Parker. Little does she know that the happiness she’s been able to find will become threatened by the very people who started her on her path long ago.
Warnings: angst, language, and mentions of torture
Word Count: 2,887
Notes: This has been in my WIPs for the longest time, so I decided to finally finish it up and let y’all read it! This chapter is just the set-up for Daniela’s character, so please be patient with me on the story development! I appreciate it! And as always if you want to be tagged in anything let me know!
Anti-Hero Masterlist
THREE YEARS EARLIER
"So, Sergeant Daniela Velikov, right?”
Daniela hears the voice, but doesn’t think much of it, thinking it was either her boss, Phil, or maybe Fitz from the lab with more specs for a new hand blaster. She finishes typing her sentence and then looks up from the screen towards the figure that was standing in front of her. The man’s suit was a dark navy blue that hugged his frame tightly, there was a large dark black star across his chest, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He was currently looking down at a file he had in his hands, he seemed quite interested in it; however, Daniela could still make out the dark circles under his eyes and the beard. She furrowed her brows while looking him over, thinking he could really use a shave, not that he looked bad, but that he'd look better if he trimmed his beard a bit. She stared at him a little while longer, thinking he looked slightly familiar, but the scruff and the dark suit told her she was wrong. It was when he finally looked up from the file, his blue eyes meeting her gaze that she knew who he was, Steve Rogers.
Quickly, she moves to stand at attention in front of him, "Yes, sir! Sergeant Velikov of the 78th Marines.”
"Well," Steve smirks as he looks her up and down, "you're not a Marine anymore,” Daniela smiles lightly as Steve looks back down at the file, “all right at ease, Sergeant,” she moves her feet apart and clasps her hands behind her back, “you have a very impressive resume for being just 23,” he closes the file and looks back to her.
Daniela wasn’t completely sure why Steve was here or why he was complimenting her. She had a feeling it most likely had something to do with the Avengers, she’s had many many talks with Phil about the team. Phil wanted her to join them, fight aliens, be a hero, maybe even lead the team in the future. His aspersions for her were always higher than her own.
Daniela decides to keep it cool and play along, "Thank you, sir, I've worked really hard to get where I am.”
He hums lightly and nods in agreement, "I got word about five months ago that there was someone within SHIELD who had some special abilities,” he raises glances at her to see if her demeanor changes, which it didn’t, "Coulson thought you might know who it is."
She tilts her head slightly trying her best to act dumb, "He did?”
He nods, "Sure did, got any ideas or should I start guessing?"
She shrugs one shoulder, "I don't work much with the rest of the team, sir, I usually do solo missions, so I wouldn't be the best person to ask."
Daniela made a rookie mistake, got all mushy one night, and told Phil a few things about her past, was a little too honest. She'd been apart of the team for about six months and the loneliness had gotten to her, she wasn't getting along with anyone at that point and the missions she'd been on were emotionally taxing, even for her. Phil was the only one that had shown any interest in being a friend, so after a particularly difficult mission, Daniela had a few too many drinks and went to his office and told him everything. It wasn't really anything Phil didn't already know, he was a SHIELD agent after all, he knew about her parents, how old she really was, and where she grew up, but he wasn't aware of her abilities. She never imagined that one night of confiding in a friend would lead to Steve Rogers showing up at her desk asking her questions.
Steve looks at her sternly and gestures to the file in his hand, "Do you know what this is?" Daniela shakes her head and he continues, "Coulson has personal files for every member of his team. Mostly for basic things, mission stats, what they like, what they don't, weaknesses, strengths, injuries," he drops the file behind her on her desk and points to it, "and that one's yours, so I'll ask you one more time Sergeant, do you know anyone here who has enhanced abilities?"
She glances at the file then back to Steve, with a blank expression. She had no problem lying, it was in her blood, after all she'd been doing it her entire life, but she did have a problem lying to Steve Rogers, America’s golden boy. She grew up watching him, idolizing him, and praying some day that maybe he'd come and save her too. Steve was one of the reasons she got into the army in the first place, along with more personal reasons.
Daniela takes a small calming breath, "Why does it even matter?"
Steve sighs, "Because if this person has enhanced abilities, I need to find out if their using them for the right reasons. I won't led SHIELD fall again."
Steve knew that the girl in front of him posed no threat because of the high praise Phil gave her, and Phil was one of the few he could actually trust. The only reason he was even here, grilling this woman, was because of Tony. The past few years had been rough on everyone and Tony thought it would be good for Steve to get out of the compound and try to recruit a few new faces. The entire purpose of recruitment now was to build a future team, with a good leader, and if Steve could persuade her, Daniela would be perfect.
Daniela pauses for a moment, "But why should they trust you?"
Steve pauses, he hasn’t had anyone question his motives in quiet some time, it was almost refreshing, "I'm not here to gain your trust, Sergeant, this isn't some game, I'm looking for answers," he frowns slightly when her expression doesn't change, "just be honest with me," he sighs when she still doesn't answer, "I think you realize I already know."
Daniela shifts her weight to her left foot and nods slowly, "I.. Coulson was the only one I told and that was about a year ago ago," she looks to the ground and closes her eyes, "not that he didn't already know, the man is a spy after all," this leads to a small chuckle from Steve, but Daniela continues, "this is why I knew opening up to anyone would be a mistake. I only use my powers when I'm on solo missions, so I can avoid questions about how I got them. I thought I was doing a pretty good job at hiding things,” she opens her eyes and looks back to him, “I've been running from my powers my entire life, sir," she hesitates slightly afraid of sharing, but she continues, hoping he would understand, "if it makes any difference, I don't like that I have them either, but um, it wasn't exactly my choice."
Steve listens intently, hearing not just her words, but the emotions behind them. He knew about her past, but only surface details, like where she was born and raised, who her parents are, and that they were the ones who gave Daniela her powers. If he was being completely honest, he wasn't sure if he ever wanted to know exactly how she got them. Being a guinea pig of any kind is not a fun process.
Steve keeps his poker face and decides to change the subject, "You've been with SHIELD for nearly two years, never had any disciplinary actions, never asked any questions, have always done what you’re told. You're no doubt the best agent Coulson's got,” he looks her up and down assessing her, surprised such skill could come from someone so small, “so why stop here? Got any higher aspirations?"
Daniela chuckles lightly, the change of subject a slight relief, "Are you trying to get me to join the Avengers? I thought that was usually Stark's gig."
"He's got the day off," he smiles and continues, "the team would love to see a new face, have some help with missions,” she looks to him slightly confused, so he explains further, “we need some young faces to be the future of the team, the rest of us can’t do this forever. How about it? Coulson thinks you’d fit in with us well, maybe even help run it at some point.”
Daniela scoffs lightly at his remark and shakes her head. She’s always believed in what she did, she put her heart and soul into it, and sometimes that cost her, but there was no way she wanted to lead a team of superheroes, "With all due respect, Captain, I don't think that's up my ally.”
He takes in a deep breath and takes a step closer, now only a few feet from her, "Show me what you can do,” after all, it’s what he came here for.
The sudden closeness shocks her and her eyes grow wide, "W-what?"
He smiles sweetly and nods his head to her hands, "We just agreed that you have powers, now show me.”
She visibly clenches her jaw to calm her growing temper, “Yes, sir.”
Daniela slowly unclasps her hands and brings them around in front of her. She then turns them over, palms now facing the ceiling, while taking a deep calming breath, her hands begin to glow a soft icy white. Steve watches her hands intently, thoroughly impressed with what he's seeing. Moments later she starts a small fountain from her palms, letting the water flow freely for a few heartbeats, then freezes the water over quickly, “There.”
Steve raises an eyebrow, Phil wasn’t kidding, this girl really did have talent, but she had one more secret, "What else?”
She closes her hands abruptly causing the ice to shatter and fall to the floor around their feet, “Well... I um... I don’t tell many about the rest of my powers, sir.”
“Do I need to earn your trust?”
She shakes her head and furrows her brows, “Um... not exactly,” she purses her lips, “I’m just more worried about scaring people.”
Steve smirks slightly, “You realize that my best friend has a vibranium arm and I live with the Scarlet Witch. Those are just the calm ones, we also have an archer who climbs through the vents.”
That made her relax a bit and she chuckles, making Steve smile-- she had a cute laugh. Daniela didn’t know much about the Avengers personal life, other than what Phil told her, which wasn’t much, “Barton climbs in the vents?”
He shakes his head, “Yeah, I don’t ask why.”
Steve didn’t really ask too many questions about the others, figured it was none of his business, although if they wanted to share he’d happily listen. Some say that made him cold and off-putting, that he was too much of a soldier, but it wasn’t that at all, he cared too much. He was worried that getting too close to those he worked with would just put them in danger.
Daniela giggles and Steve continues, “Anyway, what else can you do? I won’t tell a soul,” he holds up two fingers, “scouts honor.”
She heavily sighs, “I... um, alright... my powers. They call it cryo-electricity. I can manipulate ice and lightning either at the same time or separately. I’ve learned over the years I can use water and frost too.”
Bringing her right hand back up in front of her, palm still facing the sky, she curls her fingers inward slightly, as if she was holding a ball. She scowls slightly at her hand, still unsure about showing him, but he already knew, so might as well. Clenching her teeth, trying to focus on her hand, small violet colored sparks begin to dance from her fingers like little strings. It wasn’t much, but it proved the point that she could do it.
"Impressive," he meets her gaze when the sparks die out and sees hesitation in her eyes, "I'm not saying you have to join, but you'd be helping a lot of people, and I know that's what you want."
Seeing that she still wasn't sure, he decides to take a different approach, and grabs the folder off her desk, "Says here you where on the fast track to joining the SRT squad before you were recruited to SHIELD,” he raises a curious eyebrow, looking over the file, "they don't normally allow women to join.”
The SRT team was the Special Reaction Team that responds to more dangerous and high risk situations within the military base. Basically they were the army equivalent of a SWAT team. They actually don’t allow women to join, but the General that Daniela worked under saw great potential in her and said he’d grant her request when it was time. She thought she would be able to help more people if she was on the squad, which is partiality what she wanted. She still had another year left before officially applying for the team when Phil found her and convinced her of a different path.
She nods at Steve, "They said I fit the bill for what they needed, sir.”
He purses his lips in agreement, she was a fine soldier, not a lot of women can say they were a Sergeant in the Marines. He then tilts his head curiously at her, “What made you want to be with SHEILD then? You could've gotten everything you wanted with SRT. Action, adventure, helping people, what changed?”
"I um,” Daniela takes a deep breath, "it's of personal nature, sir.”
"Got anything to do with your parents?” He lightly throws the file back onto the desk causing her eyes to widen.
"Possibly, sir," she pauses, “I um, I didn't realize you knew about them.”
Unfortunately for Steve, he knew all to well who her parents were, he just never realized that they had a daughter, “Stark and I had," he nods his head side-to-side, "a chance encountered with your father once, about a year ago, it ended with him getting away,” he frowns slightly at the ground and then looks back into Daniela's eyes, “Didn’t realize he had a daughter.”
Daniela’s parents always got away. She was starting to think they were destined to live free while she was destined to spend her eternity chasing after them like an idiot. They needed to pay, no, had to pay for what they did, not just to her, but for what they’re continuing to do. They’re monsters.
“Yeah, they’re not particularly proud of me, sir. They think that what happened to me was a blessing and that I am wasting my gift," she sighs and looks to the floor, "My apologies for having to deal with him.”
"No need, not your doing," she looks back to him and his eyes had softened, "you turned out quiet the opposite of him.”
"I um,” she scoffs, "I've worked my whole life to be the opposite of them both. I’ve tried to use what they cursed me with for the greater good, sometimes I can, some days, not so much,” she looks at her hands and shakes her head.
He takes a few steps towards her and rests a hand on her shoulder, "You've made a huge difference and changed a lot of lives, for the better,” she smiles weakly and he takes his hand away, "I can help you take the fight to Hydra. I can't promise we'll see your parents, but I can promise that if we do, we'll make them pay for what they did.”
"I've been fighting Hydra for decades, sir," she chuckles lightly, "Phil did the same speech with me years ago and he was able to convince me enough to join up here. After all these years, I have yet to see either of them.”
Steve nodded forgetting that her true age didn't show, “Well, I don't suggest you actually go looking for them,” he looks to her sternly, “you might not be happy with what you find.”
Daniela mumbles softly to herself, "Never stopped you,” he raises his eyebrows at her in surprise, "I'm sorry, sir, that was uncalled for.”
"It's alright," he shrugs and continues, "but I do know from experience that dwelling on the past only causes more pain.”
Moving on was something Daniela didn't do well, even after over 90 years. Little things tended not to bother her so much now, but childhood trauma was something that she still couldn't let go of. After all, her parents tortured her, changed her DNA, gave her powers, and then abandoned her at an orphanage when she didn't agree with their evil plan all by the age of eight. How can anyone just wake up one morning and go, "Yeah, this is fine."? The best course of action is to just fake a smile, bury the emotions deep, and hope that one day they'll die.
Daniela stares at him and blinks, "So I've been told, sir.”
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