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#Propped up on one actual painkiller right now and THREE ibuprofen.
iero · 3 years
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This tooth pain I’ve had for the past two weeks keeps coming back and it keeps getting worse and worse and I know I need to see a dentist, but I’m afraid they’re gonna have to pull another tooth and I genuinely cannot take off of work unless I take a COVID leave of absence which would just make me feel shitty and feel like I’m taking advantage of the system they have in place at my work because it’s not COVID related, but also if it ends up with me needing to get a tooth pulled, at least I’d be home those days recovering from it... I simply do not know what to do and I’m about to uh, lose it. 
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whumphoarder · 5 years
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Them’s the Breaks
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Summary: Peter is home alone and ends up breaking his ankle. Figuring his super healing will fix it overnight, he doesn’t tell anyone and tries to sleep it off, only to wake up in the middle of the night in agony. Cue Tony, saving his ass yet again.
(Alternative title: Super Healing is Not All it’s Cracked Up To Be Tibia)
Word count: 3,174
Genre: Whump, hurt/comfort, fluffy angst
A/N: Thanks to @sallyidss for beta reading!
Link to read on Ao3
Prior to being bitten by a radioactive spider, Peter had broken exactly one bone in his life.
He was eleven. Someone dared him to do a flip on a trampoline at a classmate’s birthday party. The flip itself was mediocre, but the landing was legendary. Blood streamed down Peter’s face from his now crooked, throbbing nose, ruining both his brand new stormtrooper t-shirt and the horrified birthday girl’s pink dress.
Ned—ever the sympathetic friend—had puked on the spot, which hadn’t done wonders for either of their middle school social statuses.
Peter managed to hold it together pretty well for the twenty minutes it had taken Ben to arrive, but the second the car door was shut and they pulled out of the driveway, the façade crumbled. Peter’s shoulders shook and tears ran down his cheeks, stinging his nose, because, as it turned out, broken bones just really hurt. Almost as much as Peter’s pride.
But Ben was there, and Ben always knew how to make Peter feel better. He cracked jokes about his nephew’s failing gymnastics career and tossed wadded up Burger King napkins at the kid’s messy face all the way to urgent care until Peter’s choked sobs turned to quiet giggles.
The doctor reset Peter’s nose and May fussed over him all weekend, making sure he was icing it appropriately. Three weeks later, he was back to normal.
But that was before the bite—before Peter had taken the unofficial job of crime-fighting teenage vigilante.
He’s up to eight bones now, lifetime total. Besides the nose, there were four ribs last summer (for the record, being thrown into brick walls really sucks), his collarbone back in January (missed a web and crashed onto the roof of a parking garage), and two fingers just before spring break (got stomped on by some dude gallivanting about in a rhino costume, what even is his life?). Luckily, super healing came as part of the package, so what had taken Peter’s sixth grade body weeks to repair, he now accomplishes in mere hours.
Today, however, it’s not Spider-Man who injures himself. It’s just Peter Parker, fresh off an evening patrol, wiping out in the goddamn shower.
“Oh shit!” Peter gasps sharply as his feet slide out from under him on the wet surface. His hand flies out on reflex and grasps the shower curtain, which he pulls down on top of him. As he slams onto the floor of the tub, his ankle rolls sideways underneath him. A split-second later, the metal curtain rod hits him in the face.
“...Rude…” he groans.
Water is still streaming down from the shower, splashing onto the sheet of vinyl now covering Peter’s body. He pulls the curtain off himself with another groan and gingerly pushes himself up to sitting. Half-blind from the shampoo running into his eyes, he reaches up over his head and fumbles for the shower handle. The water stops.
Peter makes to stand, but a sudden jolt of pain just above his ankle stops him. With a grunt, he lets himself fall back against the tub, teeth clenched.
Oh yeah, he’s never gonna live this one down.
It’s not his most graceful moment, but somehow Peter manages to extricate himself from the tub. Thankfully May is out of town this weekend so no one is around to hear the crashes and muffled curses issuing from the bathroom. He quickly dries off and pulls on some clean sweat pants and a t-shirt before hopping on his left leg to retrieve a bag of frozen peas from the kitchen. Once back in his bedroom, he carefully props the already-swelling ankle up on pillows and rests his makeshift ice pack on top.
It’s times like these when Peter curses his mutated spider metabolism for burning through normal painkillers so fast that Tylenol and ibuprofen are about as effective as Skittles. Tony has better drugs at the compound—the kind that actually work on him—but Peter isn’t too keen on explaining to his mentor how someone who’d stopped a runaway car with his bare hands and walked away without a scratch a few hours ago was no match for his own bathroom.
Plus, it’s really not that bad. He can deal. He’ll just sleep it off and everything will be fine by the morning.
X
Peter wakes to nauseating pain.
It takes him a moment to orient himself. He’s lying on his bed in a tangle of covers, a deep, pulsing ache radiating from his right ankle. He flaps his hand around under his pillow until he locates his phone and lifts it to his face to check the time. It’s 1:13 a.m.
God, this sucks.
When Peter pushes himself up to sitting, he can’t help but let out a muffled cry as a fresh wave of agony shoots through his leg all the way to the hip. It’s healing—he swears he can actually feel the bone knitting itself back together under his skin—but something about it feels different. Wrong.
Flipping on the bedside lamp, he pulls his covers off his aching foot and instantly gasps at the sight. It’s purple with bruises and swollen to double its usual size. On the side, right where the ache is deepest, the bone is jutting out at a weird angle and his stomach rolls at the sight. When he tries to move his foot slightly, searing pain nearly makes him lose his dinner.
This isn’t right. None of his past breaks have ever hurt this much. He can’t do this anymore—he needs help.
Fingers trembling, he types out his message: Mr. Stark? Are you awake?
It’s about thirty seconds before Peter sees the three dots indicating that Tony is typing: Haven’t slept since the 90s, kid. Why?
Peter steels himself with a deep breath as another pulse of pain stabs his ankle. He types out and backspaces a few different variations of his confession, ranging from ‘I fucked up my ankle and it’s killing me pls send help’ to ‘Nothing, just couldn’t sleep, sorry’ before finally settling on a vague version of the truth:
I might have done something dumb
Within five seconds of sending the text, Peter’s phone starts ringing, startling him. His fingers fumble to accept the call. When he speaks, his voice comes out more like a squeak than anything else. “Yeah?”
Tony cuts right to the chase. “How dumb are we talking here?” he asks briskly. “Because my lawyers generally appreciate a heads up.”
“No, it’s not that kind of dumb,” Peter manages to grit out through the pain. “It’s um… it’s just…” he trails off, not sure quite how to word this.
“It’s one in the morning. Just spit it out,” Tony prompts.
Tears are pricking at the corners of Peter’s eyes now, the ache somehow finding a way to become even deeper. “I-I got hurt,” he manages to say.
Tony’s tone instantly sobers. “Where? How bad?”
“No no, it’s not that bad,” Peter says quickly. “I just messed up my ankle or something. I thought I could just sleep it off and my healing would fix it, but it’s like”—he takes a shuddery inhale—“It just… it just really hurts, Mr. Stark.” He wants to cry; he feels absolutely pathetic.
Tony curses under his breath and Peter hears a lot of movement from the other end of the line. “Why didn’t I get any alerts from Karen on this?” he demands. “Because I put all those safety features in your suit for a reason and if I find out you coerced that Ned buddy of yours into disabling yet another layer of security, I swear to god, Pete—”
“I didn’t, I promise,” Peter interrupts. “Karen doesn’t know because it didn’t happen on patrol.”
“How did it happen then?”
“I just… kinda fell?”
“You fell?” Tony questions, confusion in his voice. “Fell where?”
Peter’s face flushes. “You know what, I-I’ll be okay,” he says. “I’m sorry to bother you, it’ll be fine in the morning, just—” Another pulse of pain shoots daggers up his right leg and his breath hitches.
“I’m already on my way,” Tony says, and Peter can hear the sound of wind rushing over the line now. “ETA, thirteen minutes.”
“Oh no, you don’t have to come out here!” Peter protests. “I just need some of those painkillers that you and Dr. Banner made. I dunno, maybe you could just send a couple over in one of your suits...?”
“Cute,” Tony remarks. “It’s adorable how you think I’m gonna let a fifteen-year-old dose out a drug strong enough to knock the Winter Soldier on his ass.”
“I’m sixteen now,” Peter argues. “Sixteen and a half, actually.”
“Equally adorable how you think stating your age in fractions helps your case,” Tony quips. “Listen, just hold tight, kid—I’ll be there soon.”
Peter sighs as the call disconnects.
X
Eleven minutes later, Tony arrives at the apartment and lets himself in with the spare key May had given him when it became apparent Peter's internship was more than just a run-of-the-mill semester-long program. He pauses in the doorway of Peter’s messy room to gaze at the miserable teenager sprawled out on the bed.
“Jesus, kid,” Tony swears quietly.
Peter gives a small wave. “Hey,” he mumbles. The nausea is back and he’s sweating slightly now. “Did you bring the drugs?”
“I did,” Tony says, his gaze narrowing as he steps closer to the bed, “but given that your ankle is currently resembling Violet Beauregarde’s, you’re not getting any until FRIDAY does her thing.”
Peter huffs, but he’s in too much pain to come up with anything witty to say. He holds still as Tony taps twice at the nanotech armor’s housing unit on his chest. A light appears and quickly scans over Peter’s body from head to toe.
After a moment, the light disappears again. “Scan complete, boss,” FRIDAY reports. “Partially healed misaligned fracture detected in the lower right tibia.”
“I broke my leg?” Peter balks. “I thought it was the ankle?”
“Your ankle is made up of three bones,” Tony explains. He pulls out his phone and starts typing something as he goes on. “Tibia, fibula…”—he pauses and glances up, frowning—“and that one that doesn’t rhyme.”
“The talus, boss,” FRIDAY supplies.
Diverting his attention back to the phone screen, Tony gives a short nod of acknowledgment. “Yeah, that one.”
“Oh.” Peter glances down awkwardly. “Um, I’m gonna take anatomy next semester.”
Tony hums absently. He finishes tapping out whatever message he’s been sending and pockets the device again. “In the meantime, I’m sure Bruce can tell you more fun bone facts when we get to Medbay.”
“Whoa, wait, what do you mean Medbay?” Peter demands, a fresh wave of panic and guilt crashing over him. “All I need is some meds so I can sleep through the worst of it and I’ll be fine,” he insists.
Tony huffs. “Your knowledge of anatomy might be lacking, but last time I checked you were getting an A in English so you should know that ‘misaligned’ isn’t a word you want connected to ‘fracture’. It’s healing wrong. You need x-rays. And a real doctor.”
With a groan, Peter drapes his arm dramatically over his face. “Great. Even my super healing is against me.”
“Not to mention you still haven’t told me how you fell,” Tony continues with a pointed look, “so if you’re trying to hide some other injury, or a vertigo thing, or—”
“I’m not,” Peter mumbles into the crook of his elbow. With a sigh, he lowers the arm from his face and looks miserably up at his mentor. “I just slipped in the stupid shower.”
To Tony’s credit, he doesn’t laugh.
(Even though his lips do twitch.)
Instead, he steps out of the bedroom and returns a moment later with a cup of water, which he hands to the kid along with two of the super strength painkillers from the orange pill bottle in his pocket. Peter downs them gratefully.
“Your aunt’s got her car here, right?” Tony checks.
Peter nods. “She took an Uber to the airport. Won’t be back until late Sunday. Conference for work.”
“Think she’d mind if we use it as a makeshift ambulance?”
Peter just shrugs.
“Alright then.” Tony presses the housing unit again and this time the armor encases his whole body. “Now I’m gonna pick you up and carry you down to the parking lot, and you’re not gonna make a big deal about it. Capisce?”
Peter suppresses a groan of embarrassment as he’s gathered carefully into Tony’s arms. Maybe next time he wipes out in the shower, he’ll get lucky and just drown.
X
The painkillers are strong and Peter ends up sleeping through most of the two-hour drive back to the compound. By the time they pull into the parking garage—May’s little dented Ford Focus looking positively ridiculous next to Tony’s array of expensive sports cars—it’s nearly four in the morning.
Bruce is waiting for them with a wheelchair, which Peter instantly balks at using.
“I don’t need that—I can totally walk,” he protests.
Bruce gives him a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, that’s not a good idea. Judging by the scans FRIDAY sent ahead for me, your bone rotated as it healed—that’s why it looks so deformed right now. Walking on it is only going to cause further problems.”
“You heard the man,” Tony says, gesturing to the chair. He smirks. “Unless you'd prefer me to get the suit on again.”
With a groan, Peter transfers himself into the chair. His ankle really does feel better now. The swelling is down and the pain only flares up when he jostles it too much—he can tell the bone has mostly knit itself back together.
Once back in Medbay, they’re joined by another doctor—someone from SHIELD called Helen Cho who Peter has never met before. She does some x-rays and an MRI while Peter half-dozes, still foggy from the medication.
When the scans are complete, he’s transferred back to a hospital bed while the two doctors talk over the results with him and Tony. Peter tries to pay attention but he’s still groggy and exhausted, so the medical jargon sounds more like irritating droning than actual words. Then all of a sudden, the three of them start throwing around words like ‘rebreaking’ and ‘inserting pins’ and ‘realignment surgery’ and Peter snaps right out of his haze.
“Whoa, whoa, what do you mean surgery?” Peter demands. “It’s fine, oh my god.”
Dr. Cho gives him a half-smile. “Look here, Peter.” She holds up the x-ray and points to the bulge on the side of Peter’s ankle. “This malunion is going to significantly reduce your mobility, as well as potentially cause chronic pain. Given your”—she pauses for a moment—“unusually active lifestyle, I would highly suggest surgical correction sooner rather than later.”
And that’s how, several hours later, Peter finds himself lying on a bed in a pre-op room at SHIELD Medical, waiting for some surgeons to take a bone-saw to his freshly healed right leg.
“How you feeling, kiddo?” Tony asks, plopping himself down in an armchair beside the bed.
“Really stupid,” Peter answers honestly. He gazes down at the deformed bones in his ankle. “All this from falling in the shower.”
Tony huffs out a laugh. “Eh, this shit happens. One time in college, I threw my back out during a ping-pong match with Rhodey.”
Peter’s eyes widen. “Seriously?”
Tony nods. “Bodies are dumb. Even enhanced ones—did you know Steve once sneezed so hard he dislocated a rib?”
Peter gives him a skeptical look. “Now you’re joking.”
“Cross my heart,” Tony chuckles. “Then Thor clapped him on the back and popped it back in.”
Peter opens his mouth to express his disbelief at this information, but before he can do so, a nurse dressed in light blue scrubs comes in to take him to the OR. A fresh wave of anxiety comes over Peter and he shoots his mentor a pleading look.
“You’re really sure this is necessary?” Peter tries one last time.
Tony gives his shoulder a squeeze. “You’ll be fine,” he assures. “As soon as you’re healed up, I’ll teach you some sweet ping-pong moves.”
Peter smirks. “Maybe I should get Rhodey to show me so I don’t throw out my back.”
“Nah, you don’t want him either,” Tony says, waving his hand dismissively. “I might have thrown out my back, but he ended up with a concussion.”
Peter blinks at him. “What kind of ping-pong games did you play?”
Tony locks eyes with him. “Ball is life, kid.”
X
The surgery itself goes as well as can be expected. Peter wakes up groggy and disoriented, with three new metal pins inside his ankle and a bright red cast around the outside. Bruce feeds him ice chips, and Tony video calls May from his Starkpad so she can fuss over her nephew a bit from Denver. Peter silently marvels at how this ridiculous life he leads has somehow brought him to the point where Iron Man and the Hulk are functioning as his postoperative caretakers.
Then his thoughts are derailed when he suddenly throws up bile all over the bedsheets and Tony’s tablet.
“It’s okay, Peter,” Bruce assures the thoroughly humiliated boy—who is now clutching a pink plastic basin to his chest as if his life depends on it—as he helps the nurse to strip the bed. “Nausea is a really common side effect of the anesthesia, and especially considering how much you had to be under for your metabolism, this is to be expected.”
Standing off to the side, wiping the tablet down with disposable disinfectant wipes, Tony huffs. “I mean if you knew that, Bruce, you could have warned me…”
Whether the antiemetics the doctors give Peter do their job or simply knock him out through the worst of the nausea, Peter will never know. But when he wakes again a few hours later, life is significantly better.
X
He’s released from Medical the next morning and Tony brings him back to the compound to finish recovering in his own room. The cast comes off Sunday morning and Peter’s good as new.
Late Sunday afternoon, Tony drops Peter back off at his apartment—Happy tailing along behind in a much shinier, undented, and heavily upgraded Ford Focus—and thanks May for loaning him her vehicle before asking permission to use their restroom.
Emerging from the bathroom a few minutes later, Tony ruffles Peter’s hair and tells the kid to take it easy before driving off again.
When Peter goes to take a shower later that night, he finds the floor of the tub covered in adhesive non-slip rubber duck decals.
(Yeah, Peter’s never gonna live this one down.)
X
Fic Masterlist
For more Tony helping Peter out sticky of situations, try:
 You Broke Tony 
 The Five Times Peter Denies an Illness or Injury + the One Time He Doesn’t
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artificialqueens · 5 years
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In Retrograde : Chapter Three (branjie) - Ephemerals
Synopsis: After spending months uninspired, Vanessa, a local reporter, becomes infatuated with writing a story surrounding the downfall of a police officer discharged after killing an innocent man.
When Brooke Lynn returns to her hometown after her life begins to fall apart, she doesn’t expect to find solace in the charismatic brunette who seems just a little too invested in uncovering all the secrets of her past.
It was just like any regular Tuesday night patrolling the streets of Toronto for Sergeant Hytes. In the passenger seat sat her partner, Constable Oddly, bored out of her mind. The pair made quite a duo, on and off the field. Over the years, Yvie had proven herself as Brooke’s only decent friend in Toronto. It did involve brazen nights out fuelled by binge drinking and drugs, but it was a nice change for her to be authenticity herself around someone. And honestly Yvie was unlike anyone she had ever met.
“Look, can’t we just ditch this and go back to my place and get stoned,” Yvie pleaded, Brooke shooting her a stern look in response. She impatiently tapped her fingers on the wheel as they aimless drove around.
“That seems like a one-way ticket to getting fired,” Her attention diverted back onto the road.
“The old Brooke would have done it,” groaned Yvie, playfully punching Brooke’s arm, “I miss that bitch.”
“That bitch had to clean up her act, remember.”
Brooke missed the old version of her too. Spontaneous and fun, she didn’t care what people think of her. Now, things were much different. She went to rehab (under the radar, of course), received a promotion and she was just months away from getting married. Brooke couldn’t be a party girl anymore. It was time to grow up. Luckily, Yvie understood what she had to do, but it didn’t mean she had to be happy with it.
“Yeah, you had to clean up your act for that fiancé of yours,” Yvie stated, “Who you don’t even like.”
Yvie was right and she knew it. The couple was doomed from the start. Brooke was much too independent and mostly unfazed by their relationship. During the time they had been friends, Yvie had seen Brooke engage in very brief affairs but she wasn’t one to stick around for long. It might be commitment issues, but Yvie honestly thought it ran deeper than that. So, the fact that Brooke has been with Luke for so long really was a surprise.
“He’s a good guy, Yves.”
“That’s not usually how people talk about their significant others,” Yvie smirked. Brooke just shrugged the comment off. It wasn’t the first time Yvie would make a comment like that, and it wouldn’t be the last time.
“So, are we getting stoned or what, Bee?”
“Shuga would kill us if she found out. Especially if something happens and we don’t report back.”
“That’s not a no,” Yvie playfully added. Brooke shook her head, “It’s a no.”
“I hate when you’re serious, bitch. Let’s hope there is some dumb crimes tonight to keep us busy.”
So, they drive. And just like any regular Tuesday, it’s uneventful. As time dragged on, both girls were awaiting some action. The streets were completely still, not a single soul embarking out into the nightlife.
Then, the radio goes off.
“Requiring backup for a domestic dispute at Wexford. Victim dead on arrival. Suspect armed and on the run. Caucasian, 6’2, slim build. Last seen wearing a burgundy t-shirt and grey sweatpants.”
Yvie beamed in anticipation, “Heading towards Wexford, over.”
Brooke is awoken by a violent pounding in her head. Instantly groaning at it’s appearance, too hungover to actually do something about it. It’s beating through her skull like a drum. Unsure how long she was out for, she glances at her phone. 10:27.Her mind wanders, memories of the night before foggy in her brain. That girl. What in the world was up with her?
After futilely trying to go back to sleep, Brooke eventually prys herself away from her bed in search of painkillers. She pads into the en-suite, disheartened by the completely empty medicine cabinet. While there, she washes last nights makeup and grime from her skin. She stares at her reflection for just a moment too long, before treading downstairs to scour the guest bathroom for drugs. Brooke passes her mother in the kitchen without a word, retrieves two ibuprofen capsules and swallows them down with a swig of tap water. Heading back towards her bedroom, she’s stopped in her tracks by her mother.
“Where were you last night?”
“I didn’t know I had to report to you,” Brooke wanders into the kitchen, her mother on her tail. It was easier to rip the bandage off, endure the conversation now rather than actively avoid her. She props herself up against a cupboard awaiting her mother’s scolding.
“While you live under my roof you do as I say,” her mother’s stare is icy cold. Arms folded, stern. For a second, Brooke is taken back to her teenage years, where she could do no right in her mother’s eyes. Her walls are up in preparation for a fight.
“I’m thirty-three, I’m sorry that I assumed I was allowed to be independent.”
“Well, you lost that privilege when you almost died during a cocaine binge, remember?” There’s a beat, Brooke’s mouth agape, “Someone has to babysit you since you constantly fail at taking care of yourself. I’ve booked you an appointment with your old therapist, no discussion.”
Brooke had to admit, she should have seen it coming. Her father wouldn’t have hinted at the idea unless her mother was devising a plan. Yesterday was a warning.
“What if I just don’t-“
“No discussion. The appointments at three.”
Brooke huffs as she storms off like an upset child. She marches up the stairs and climbs back under the covers of her bed. Her head continues throbbing despite the medication but she does her best to doze off, praying she sleeps through that three o’clock appointment.
“I don’t think I’m able to write this story, Ms Visage,” Vanessa meekly admits, standing before her editor. Deadlines fast approaching, Michelle sitting emotionless, scribbling on another reporter’s draft. The office is outdated, with wooden sliding and retro styled furnishing. If the budget allowed for it, the first thing Michelle would do is redesign the place but the reality of working for the local newspaper meant money was tight.
“And why is that?” Her gaze doesn’t wander from her work. Vanessa gulps, billions of excuses flying through her head. I’m unsure how to get close enough to her to get the story. She seems like a nice girl and I misjudged her. I almost knocked her over and she was super pretty and nice to me. I couldn’t even speak to her properly.
She could have had her story, but Vanessa ran straight in the opposite direction.
“I was too ambitious,” it’s a lie.
It peaks Michelle’s interest. She glances up above her glasses, unconvinced.
“Too ambitious? Go on.”
“I wanted to write an exposè, y’know. Deep dive into her life, find out how someone ends up killin’ a kid. Talk to her friends, family maybe.”
“That doesn’t sound ambitious, it sounds like journalism,” Michelle is absolutely unimpressed. She drops the pen from her hand and reclines in her chair. Vanessa stands still, waiting to be reprimanded for wasting her time.
“Miss Mateo, you are a very talented journalist. Much too talented to be writing for this newspaper all your life. You have a rare opportunity here to establish yourself as a reporter. I want you to write this story. Forget the deadline, hand in some shitty pieces about local events in the meantime. Don’t be afraid to pursue this. It’s the first interesting idea that has come my way in years.”
The response was the exact opposite of what Vanessa expected. She was ready for a slap on the wrist, to forget about the whole ordeal. Write an article about the local nursing home for the hundredth time. Stay content in her slump for a little longer.
There’s a story here begging to be shared to the world. A story like nothing Vanessa has written before. She’s not going to give up this time.
“Okay,” Vanessa is strangely inspired by the challenge, “I accept the challenge, Ms Visage.”
There’s a skip in her step as Vanessa leaves her editor’s office. Maybe this was her big break.
As three o’clock rolls around, Brooke nervously awaits her appointment with her phone glued to her hand. Her frantic texts to Nina receiving instant worried replies. Rightfully so, there was a pattern of Brooke’s self-destructive behaviour increasing after her visits with therapists over the years. Nina didn’t understand why exactly, since the point was to help improve her mental state. But having Brooke confront her feelings head on? It was a risky decision to say the least. A string of texts from Nina come through rapidly one after another.
n: you’ll be fine, b it’s only an hour of ur life i’m going out tonight w work girls u should come x
As much as Brooke would like to go out for another consecutive night, she couldn’t subject Nina to the consequences of her joining them. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if Nina was ostracised by her colleagues for being friends with a murderer. Nina deserved the entire world. Brooke had come to the conclusion that their friendship was one better off kept secret. For Nina’s sake.
b: don’t think i’ll be welcome
Almost immediately there’s a response:
n: they will love u besides u can’t turn down a drink x
Regardless if she was accompanied by Nina or not, both girls were aware of Brooke’s intentions for the night. As soon as she could possibly leave this building, she will, heading directly towards the closest alcohol vendor. It would be nice if she wasn’t alone while she did it.
b: fine, u have convinced me x
“Miss Hytes? Doctor Envy is ready to see you now.”
Tires skid on wet asphalt, blue and red lights flashing, sirens blaring through the city streets. A quarter of an hour had passed of their manhunt, the novelty was finally wearing thin. News gushes through the radio, reported sightings, updates, anything. Eyes glued to signs of movement, Yvie’s soaking up every miniscule detail of the city. Jobs like this one were the exact reason she joined the force. The adrenaline courses through her veins like a drug. Brooke’s extra few years on Yvie had caused her to become jaded. She was just waiting for the excitement to die down so she can clock off and indulge in a glass of wine at home. Of course she wanted the perpetrator to be caught and justice to be served, but pursuits like this were plain exhausting.
A call comes through and Brooke has her fingers crossed it’s home time. Her heart sank as Superintendent Cain’s voice bellowed through the speaks, “Any sightings yet girls?”
“It looks like the apocalypse has hit Toronto,” joked Yvie, “There’s not a single person out.”
“The guy’s Damon Carmichael. Been causing trouble for years,” Brooke recognised the name. She’d never dealt with him herself, but he had been a headache of her colleagues. There was a series of charges scattered all over the county in his name.
“There’s a dead woman rotting in his apartment. I don’t care if you bring back his corpse, I want him caught.”
The phone clicked off abruptly, the orders loud and clear. Brooke let out a sigh as drove down the same street for the umpteenth time. Streetlights dull, barely illuminating the empty road. She’s sure the neighbours are annoyed by them at this point. It was just another night on the job, keeping the country safe.
Out of the corner of her eye, Yvie swore she spotted something. Wound up on anticipation, Brooke just assumed paranoia had finally set in. However, Yvie’s adamant someone’s hiding by the church. Bringing the car to a halt, they decided to investigate. Gun firmly in hand, Yvie exited the car rushing directly into the darkness. Blood pumping, Brooke followed suit hand clutching the gun attached to her waist.
“Police!”
As Yvie announced their presence, something dashed away from them. It’s far too dim for them to work out what they can see. The younger girl is quick on her feet, Brooke in tow. A man emerged onto the dimly lit street. Burgundy sweatshirt, slim, young. A picture perfect match. Both women raised their guns in response.
“Freeze!” Brooke called. The man glanced back as he sprinted ahead. They picked up speed, trailing behind him. Yvie was just in reach, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. An attempt to tackle him is thwarted as he shoves the younger girl backwards, toppling onto the pavement. He keeps running.
“I said freeze!”
Brooke knew what she had to do. In front, he’s losing traction. Panting heavily, feet battering the concrete. She’s caught up. So has Yvie, who had dusted herself off with more motivation than ever before. With Yvie ahead, Brooke comes to a stop.
I don’t care if you bring back his corpse, I want him caught.
Yvie grappled him around his neck, the man writhing in her grip. His fist flies up, the impact straight to the jaw. He continued to thrash around, Yvie unable to secure her restraint. Hands shaking, Brooke raised her gun. If Yvie tightens her grasp, she’d have a clear shot.
“Fucking bitches!” It’s spat straight onto Yvie’s face. Agitated, she raises her knee into his stomach. He brought his free hand to strike Yvie again.
“Didn’t you ever learn not to hit women,” she hissed directly into his ear. The arm around his neck constricts him just for a moment. He’s still flailing in her grasp, but he’s still enough for Brooke to fire. Finger to the trigger.
Bang.
Bang.
The echoing of the gunshots ring as blood pools at Yvie’s feet. She has let go, but he’s wailing, still squirming on the sidewalk. Two shots straight to the chest. Yvie fell to her knees, drenched in his blood. Streets of Toronto painted red. Everything’s blurry in Brooke’s head. The gun is still raised towards him. She’s frozen.
“It wasn’t your fault, Brooke Lynn. You were just doing your job,” Doctor Envy shifts in her seat uncomfortably. The last time Brooke was here, she was just a destructive addict. Miles away from her usual cases in this small town, but things were different now. Years of psychology classes couldn’t have prepared her to be face to face with a murder.
“I wish people would stop telling me that,” Brooke slumps into her chair, sulking. The conversation had run in circles for the first half of the session. Doctor Envy prying into the very few facts she had learnt from the past. Addiction. Self-Injury. Relapse. Usually after years of knowing a client, some walls have been broken down. But everything Doctor Envy knew about Brooke was from medical files and newspaper reports. The most significant information shared was about her relationship with Luke starting and ending. She hated predicting the future of her clients, but it was inevitable. Unless Brooke started opening up about her feelings, she was a lost cause.
Doctor Envy scrawls meaningless notes down on her clipboard, each stroke filling the empty silence. Brooke isn’t going to crack. Not today, not ever. Brooke intently watches the hands on the clock get closer to the moment she can leave.
“You aren’t evil, Brooke.” She says it out loud, her voice shaking slightly. She says because she thinks it’s what Brooke wants to hear. Needs to hear. Brooke acts like it is white noise. Unconvinced by her words, Doctor Envy repeats herself.
“You’re not evil.”
“You don’t know that,” Brooke interjects. Her stare is cold and uninviting. She adjusts her posture, leans forward, spits, “You don’t know anything about me.”
She’s tired of waiting for confessions to pour out. The truth is only going to reveal itself if she rips it out with her own hands. Tough love.
“I know enough. Sometimes, it’s what you don’t say that matters most. Everyone in your life can see that you are struggling and they want to help you. But only you can start that journey to recovery.”
Frustrated, Brooke stands up, “Thank you for your time.”
“Stop running from yourself, Brooke,” Doctor Envy adds. A bookend to a bad conversation.
The door slams shut.
Vanessa is dressed to the nines. She’s in a leather ensemble: tight skirt, sandals laced to her thighs, braids flowing down from the crown of her head. Silky is ecstatic with her handy work. Sitting on the floor of her apartment, the girls took swigs from a bottle of vodka. Everyone was ready on time (for once), their cab moments away.
When A’keria had invited them all out, Silky had insisted to makeover Vanessa. It wasn’t a new thing, the girls often took turns dolling each other up. But it was Silky and at times she could be violently enthusiastic. Especially since Vanessa had accidentally ignored them all week, devoted on this story. A story which she was avoiding telling them about, knowing how unimpressed they will be.
They head out to a club the next town over. Nightlife in their small town was lifeless, full of drunks and rowdy men. They preyed on the presence of a female. Vanessa had seen it the night before. She had been around enough that the locals left her alone, but they flocked towards the first sight of fresh meat. It was a more balanced playing field when the numbers were equal. And from what A’keria had said, their group tonight was larger than normal.
“I have something to tell you,” Vanessa shares as they step out of the car. Silky tosses the taxi driver a wad of cash, tells him to keep the change. As he drives off, the girls ask what it is.
“I’m writing a story, somethin’ interesting for a change.” The girls walk towards the end of the line. Vanessa rustles through her purse, pulls out her ID from her wallet. Patiently, A’keria and Silky wait for details.
“It’s about Brooke Lynn.”
Silky and A’keria burst into laughter. The line inches closer towards the door, but they haven’t yet realised. Vanessa raises her eyebrow in confusion.
“Told ya so,” Silky howls, “Knew you were keeping something from us, bitch.”
“Can’t stay away from those bad girls, huh?” A’keria smirks.
A bouncer checks their identification, lazily flipping the card over. He points for them to go past, Vanessa last in formation. A’keria’s on the lookout for her friends as they enter the crowd. Hoards of dancing girls surround them, unknowingly sloshing vodka sodas on the floor with each movement. Gesturing forward, A’keria pushes ahead. Strobe lights pulsate from the ceiling. Their group collides with the other. Vanessa recognises a few of the women. Nina. Honey. Brooke.
Even in the erratic lighting of the club, Vanessa could tell the blonde was staring right at her. Their eyes meet, gaze lingering as Nina tries to introduce them over the blaring music. Brooke pulls away first, coyly smiling. A layer of sweat coats Vanessa’s palms. This was the last thing she was expecting tonight.
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