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seravphs · 10 months

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ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — ZHONGLI X FEM READER

You can judge a man by his friends, but what does it say about Zhongli that he’s good friends with Childe?

wc — 2.1k

tags — almost a proposal, Childe gets on reader’s nerves because he gives them a pep talk on their relationship with Zhongli, sparring

glossary | chapter 7 of This Is How We Mourn The Living

If you had spoken to yourself even just a year ago and said that the god of contracts would be sitting in your home, drinking your tea, you would’ve gotten slapped for being a liar.

And yet, here you were, with Zhongli himself sitting on your couch. He’s apologizing for staying so late.

“I had just meant to stop by in the afternoon to offer you tea I had made from the Glaze Lilies you bought me, but when the hours stretched into night and you hadn’t returned, I found myself a little worried. Forgive me my foolishness, I should’ve known you were more than capable of taking care of yourself.”

“You were waiting out there for so long?”

He lifts one shoulder, and even that gesture too, is transformed into the elegance of a perfectly executed curtsey because of the man who makes it. “It is not such a big deal. May I ask where you were?”

“With Xiao.” You’re still too stunned by his admission to offer anything beyond the simplest answer to his question, your brain still stuck on how he waited for you, in the blistering heat of Liyue summer, all afternoon, to make sure you got home safe.

“With Xiao?”

“You said he was ill, and I was worried.”

Behind his teacup, his lips quirk into a smile. “I see. And you looked after him. Truly, you are something else.”

It is at that moment that you realize you have something inside your house you don’t want Zhongli to see, and at that same moment he turns around and looks directly at it, because the god you always pray to is no longer answering messages, having retired.

“Is that my coat?”

It is. From the first day you met, you had forgotten to return it over and over. Eventually, it had simply found a permanent place hanging on your coat rack, welcoming you whenever you came home. Even more humiliating, the tail of your keychain is very clearly sticking out of the pocket. He gives you a cheeky smile that says more than if he had just made fun of you.

“You can keep it,” he says, “if you do me a favor.”

At this point, you’re willing to do almost anything, if he would just move past the topic at hand.

Gently, he takes your wrist into his hand, and with the lightest touch, carefully claps a gold chain around your wrist. It’s glowing, and gold flecks shimmer and emerge into the air around it, only to fade away - imbued with Geo energy.

“This is a gift,” he says, his head bent so low over your hand the end of his bands brush your fingers. You can feel his cool breath against your skin. “Keep it on you, and be safe always.”

It’s a thoughtful present, and one that admittedly makes your heart race every time you catch a glimpse of it for the next week, but unfortunately, your coworkers also can’t get enough of your new jewelry.

“That’s basically a proposal,” Baiwen says. “How romantic!”

You never put much stock into Baiwen’s antics, but even Ningguang has joined in the teasing, and you’re desperate to escape the Yuhai Pavilion. When you check your to-do list, there’s a task you’ve been meaning to do for a while anyways, and it’s the perfect escape.

Ningguang had saved the city from Osial’s destruction, but water damage and flying hunks of stone weren’t the only things that could damage Liyue. As much as you were ashamed of being unable to provide a better solution at the moment, the city of wealth also had citizens with little to their name.

While the Qixing put great effort into passing the right legislation, it took time and direct action was currently needed. Ganyu had set up a kitchenette in the heart of Liyue to provide meals. They were free of charge to those who were in need.

Today, that was where you had decided to spend your time. After all, you had once been among those waiting in line.

As you pass her a bowl of steaming hot soup with a side of glazed vegetables, a woman clasps your hand and bends over it in prayer. “May Rex Lapis look after you,” she says.

Then, she looks at your companion curiously. After all, what is a member of the Qixing doing next to the most hated man in Liyue?

“Hey, girlie!”

You ignore him.

“I know you can hear me!” He gets closer to your face. “You want to spar? Zhongli won’t play with me right now, and you’re the only other friend I have in this city.”

You desperately remind yourself that if you tried to drown him in the soup, no one else would get fed today, so you must restrain yourself.

“Hey! Hey, I know you can hear me.” He waves his hand in front of your face. “You’re so cold! Friends shouldn’t treat each other this way.”

“I’m not your friend,” you grit out.

“No? I guess it makes sense,” he says, stroking his chin. “After all, I did almost flood your city. But come on, it’s not even like that’s a particularly bad crime, if you think about it. Shouldn’t you be grateful since I -uh!”

You’re rather proud of the squeak he makes when you grab him by the shirt and shove him against the wall. “What did you say you wanted to do? You wanted to spar? I’ll give you a fight if that’s what you want so badly, but first, shut up and,” you shove a ladle into his hands, “work for it.”

He looks at the ladle, then shrugs. “Not much different from being the greatest toy salesman in Snezhnaya.”

“You are so weird.”

Childe is a decent waiter. He’s an even better fighter, as much as you hate to admit it. You wanted to call him just decent, but you can’t lie to yourself. He’s much more than a decent fighter - he’s keeping you on your toes, and you trained with the rest of the Qixing, including Ningguang, regularly.

The worst part is the way he’s trying to advise you, calling out tips.

“Got you there,” he pants, lunging.

You barely dodge in time.

“Oho, well done! You need to relax though, you’re too tense.”

“I’m going to kill you,” you roar, bringing your sword down on his head. He blocks it with his own blade, though his wrist twists back at an awkward angle. He doesn’t even flinch.

“See, that’s exactly what I mean! You need to find the thrill in the battle, or you’ll never be able to beat me.”

That’s when you take out his leg, sweeping it from under him. You jump on his weakness immediately, forcing your blade under his chin and crushing his wrist under your boot.

“What was that?”

He’s laughing. You have him pinned, sword at his throat, and he’s laughing like the whole situation is hilarious. And it must be for him, because he played you like a fool. You’re thrown back by a wave of lighting as a purple mist envelops his body, and then a monster appears, 12 feet tall and covered in purple armor, wearing Childe’s mask.

You’re left gaping.

“You’re talented,” Childe says admiringly. “But not talented enough. This must be a habit of yours, overlooking things when it suits your purposes.”

“Get out of my face. You can’t talk to me like that!”

“You must know yourself to know your enemy - no wonder you can’t beat me. You have no idea what’s going on in your own life.”

You’re sick of this. You’re sick of him, and his stupid, roundabout ways of disclosing only the smallest tidbits of information, and even then, only when it’s convenient to him. You’re going to take him down in his Foul Legacy transformation, once and for all, and then you’re going to kick him and his stupid armor all the way back to Snezhnaya.

He swings at you, and you leap onto his blade, using the force when he pulls back to propel yourself forward towards his mask, intent on tearing it off.

He stumbles back, giving you an opening to attack. You swing your blade with all your might - barely recognizing yourself in the reflection you catch in his mirrored mask. There’s so much force behind the blow that even when he catches it with his armored shoulder, small cracks shiver across the purple material, the hairline fracture of shattered glass. You might actually be trying to kill him, and you don’t feel sorry at all.

“You know, Zhongli used to write me letters about how you called him Rex Lapis even when he had given up that title. He was so sad, you know. No wonder he prefers me. I might even take him to Snezhnaya if you- fuck,” he grunts. “Oh, you’re good.”

You can’t keep this up forever. Childe is the eleventh harbinger for a reason, but you’re one of Liyue’s best defenders. It’s a war of attrition, and you’re not quite sure which one of you would go down first in a real fight, but this is your home turf. You turn, and flee, leaving Childe spluttering behind you as he gives chase.

There’s a quiet corner of this training arena, hidden by the shadows. The first time you ever used it, Ganyu had disappeared in the middle of your fight and forced you to find her. By the time you discovered it, she had flipped your positions and forced you into it, limiting your range of movement. It’s the same tactic you’re planning to use on Childe, but you miscalculated one thing.

He’s several feet taller than you were back then.

“There you are,” he says, booted feet skidding to a stop. “Did I scare you? I won’t kill you, don’t worry. I didn’t mean to. Are you hurt?”

Is he serious?

You feign holding your shoulder in pain, and you can’t tell behind his mask, but judging by his voice, he’s panicking.

“Aw, I didn’t mean to actually hurt you. I just wanted to rough you up a little, have some friendly fun! Come here and I’ll patch you up.”

“What reason do I have to trust you?”

He drops his weapon to the ground. “See? I can play nice.”

You pull not your sword, but your vision from behind your back, and blast him with Geo energy so hard he flips into the air and lands hard on his back. He doesn’t move.

A chill goes down your spine. He’s annoying and everything about him is hateful, but somehow, you can’t bring yourself to kill him. You rush to his side, and his hand shoots out to grab your boot, pulling you down.

“Now,” he says, looming over you, all the creepier for his mask, half broken and hanging off his face. “I’m really mad. I was being nice before, you know?”

His tone is conversational, friendly even, but his full weight is bearing down on you. “I was giving you advice as a friend. Zhongli likes it when you treat him like a man, not a god, and I know you like it too, I’ve seen you together. But somehow you always slip up. How many times do I have to tell you? He’s no longer a god.”

“Stop sticking your nose in what’s not your business,” you snap, shoving him off you, your arms fortified with Geo. “Zhongli and I don’t need you to be our therapist.”

“No? You’re doing a shitty job of trying to help learn to be human, though.”

You freeze. “How do you know about that?”

Foul Legacy detransforms, and Childe appears, once again, his red-orange hair tousled. “He’s my friend,” he says. “So I suggest you take me seriously.”

“You’re not-“

He grabs you by the shoulders. “And we’re friends too.”

“Why are you looking out for me?” You don’t trust a Fatui agent, much less a harbinger, as far as you can throw him. You have no idea why Childe is putting this much effort into helping you with Zhongli.

“Mm, maybe it’s because you remind me of my brother?”

You vaguely remember him mentioning this to you once before, at the dinner with Zhongli.

“…How old is your brother?”

“Five!”

Before you can launch yourself at him with renewed vigor, a hand forces Childe’s blade down.

“What exactly is going on here?” Zhongli’s voice is colder than the crackling ice of Snezhnayan winter.

Childe frowns. “I didn’t think you’d be such a disloyal friend, Zhongli-xiansheng. I’ve known you for longer, but you’re asking about her injuries before mine!”

“It seems you forgot that I was the god of war, once. I suggest you do not test me.”

Childe blinks. Looks at you. And then his lips curve into a sly smirk. He’s definitely getting the wrong idea. “Oh,” he chirps. “I see what’s going on here.”

“My lady!” A Millelith soldier cuts in. “It’s happening again!”

Both you and Zhongli turn on Childe with an accusatory look, but he spreads his hands in wide-eyed innocence and mouths, ‘Not me.’

“No, seriously, this time! Go have a look yourselves, if you’re not convinced,” he huffs. “Not everything’s my fault, you know?”

#sera writes #zhongli x reader #genshin impact x reader

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csprslvt · 9 months

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you and i, and her pt.10

Chapter 9

Summary: You come to kidnapped Ellie's rescue. Feeling conflicted with the task of murdering people you once saw every day. Your attempt to move on from Abby was a fight but your love for Ellie grows every day as Ellie is realizing how possessive she can really be.

Warnings: Violence, murder, self-hate, Ellie is a little toxic, Ellie wants you to herself and will do anything to get it. Past toxic relationship, please be aware of the changes made for plot :) See notes for some announcements at the end of the chapter!

Now, you were in a real sticky situation. The WLF knew you, you were Abby Anderson’s girl. Always together, always hanging off her arm. You had to get to Ellie and make sure no one recognized you. And so there you were, sneaking up behind people that were once your colleagues and suffocating them until they turned blue, passing by as if you had never known each other. The fact that the WLF thought you were dead also helped. They didn't know to be afraid.

First you had betrayed Ellie, now here you stood on top of a glass skylight killing every last one of the guards to creep your way into the room Ellie was being held hostage in.

All for her ,who you were sure wouldn't want you when she found out your past.

You made your way into the building, still unnoticed by some miracle. You really wished you had something to cover your face just to be more discreet. It was strange, you were less worried about dying and more concerned about how awful it would be if someone else exposed you to Ellie. However the thought of lying to her again filled you with immense pain and guilt. You could hear faint talking when coming closer to a door,

“ Y’Know that smuggler we killed out in Jackson?”

“Yeah?”

“This girl was there.”

Ellie was there.

“What?”

“They're coming after us.”

You silently walked into the room, crouching behind a table. The men were too into their conversation to notice you when you got closer to them, a pistol in your hand.

“Thats why Nick was fucked up like that”

Ellie had noticed you walked in but controlled herself to show no reaction, she struggles against the restraints.

Oh whatever Nick was a cunt anyways

“We gotta get her to Isaac, and we gotta tell him exactly what's going on” “Yea, well I just got off the radio with Isaac. And we got a new mandate”

Fucking Isaac, you never liked Isaac either. You never liked anyone but Abby. Maybe you never really belonged with them in the first place.

One of the men held up a gun, you acted on impulse and stood up from under the table, shooting them both without hesitation. They didn't have time to react, their bodies simply falling to the floor with a heavy bang sounding. The scent of gun power and metallic blood engorged your nose.

There wasn't much time until others came to see what was going on despite wiping most of them out. Ellie looked up at you,

“Y/n” She breathed out, “You came for me.”

“Course I did.” You told her as if it was the simplest thing in the world. Quickly, you unbound her and ran to find cover when you heard a voice speak

“Shots fired!”

The glass shattered,you were being ambushed by WLF soldiers but all you could think was

“Please don't recognize me, please don't say my name”

“Ill cover you, you go around” You demanded, Ellie listened and moved around to the doorway shooting two soldiers in the way. Running out of the room, adrenaline coursed inside your nervous system so many things were at risk but there was only one thing you cared about.

“Lets go!”

“How many guys did you see?” Ellie asked you

“Enough but I took care of most if not all of them.” Ellie gave a surprised look, “No time to explain let's just go” You muttered in response.

There were a few stragglers, some infected in the rooms around you but when you killed them you felt absolutely nothing. Remorse had faded away years ago and you were left with one goal; to protect Ellie. Maybe that would clear your conscience of all your sins. Outside, the grass was tall and easy to hide in. This was useful considering the gun shots had alarmed WLF from the distance to come and clear whatever threat there was.

Ellie was just as much a ruthless killer as you were, if not more. It was strange how loving she could be versus how cold blooded she was under the threat of danger. It made sense but you still wondered how that switch flipped so easily. Making it through the thick grass you stole some supplies. Abby would be pissed, but she was the one to blame for letting you drift away so easily.

More soldiers had come and at this point they were more of an annoyance than a threat to you. Eliminating them was child's play. Once safe in an apartment covered with growing earth you paused. Ellie looked at you,

“You came for me” the emotion in her eyes was telling, had she thought you'd abandon her?

“I was never going to leave you there Els” She came closer, holding your face in her rough hands and you placed your own on top of hers. Holding them there.

“Wherever you go, I go.” You said firmly, “And if that means almost getting killed to save you, it's worth it”

Ellie didn't know what to say, what she really wanted to do was reach over to kiss you, she was so close to you. She was so willing to step a little closer and close the distance between your lips. She decided that she wanted you, and would do anything to have you be hers. But you pulled away and Ellie hid the disappointment in her eyes.

Still though you held her hands, walking away from this mess. Walking away from Abby entirely.

The next stop, according to Ellie, was a TV station she had heard her captors talking about. The city line was visible from a distance, so you headed towards it. Occasionally stopping to raid for supplies in motels and shops. You walked fast though wanting to leave as soon as possible. Being in Seattle felt exposing, it brought back memories of the one person you wanted to forget. Loving Abby went against all logic. It was the one thing you struggled the most to shake. You wanted to hate her more, to regret all the time you'd spent in her arms but that was hard. She was still your first love. You could never regret those moments with her, the touches and stolen kisses. The look in her eyes when you woke up next to her in the morning, the way she smelt of pine after you showered together and the way she spoke when you were alone. You could never regret any of that.

You traveled uphill, with shimmer dead it was taxing. A long journey made even longer. Yet the entire time, Ellie grasped onto your hand the same way she did downtown. Every now and then, she would rub circles into your knuckles. Simply wanting to be closer to you.

“What do we do when this is over?” You suddenly spoke up. You were sure letting Ellie kill Abby would be impossible. But it was nice to fantasize about what your life could be with Ellie.

“I always wanted a farm.”

“A farm?”

“Yes, with sheep, a garden maybe an art studio”

“You like to draw?”

At this question, Ellie grinned

“I love to draw.”

“I bet you are very talented Ellie”

You noticed that Ellie blushed at every small compliment you gave her, a lovely pink rising on her cheeks, showing off her freckles and bright green eyes. She was stunning, why haven't you ever paid attention to her small reactions before? Perhaps you were too entangled with Abby. But you didn't want to think of that right now.

“Thank you… I'll show you my journal sometime there are tons of doodles”

Ellie paused,

“What about you? What's your dream?” “I'd like to be happy.”

Your requests were very simple, but you didn't believe you deserved to be happy at all.

“Are you not now?”

“Its difficult considering where we are, but I'd like to be content, to feel again.”

“To feel again?”

“To love again.”

Ellie’s hands shook a bit, your answer distressed her a little.

“Have you not loved in a long time?” “Not in a way that felt freeing, only in a way that held me down somewhere I didn't truly belong. I want to feel what it's like to love without conditions, to be supported in my choices, to be my own person.” The love you shared with Abby was your very first and it was intense. It was obsessive and took over your life.

“Did your ex not do that?”

“Honestly it's very complicated i'm not sure how I feel about her myself”

Ellies chest tightened. That wasn't what she wanted to hear, she wanted to know that you moved on. She didn't ask anything else after that. She wanted you so badly and the fact that someone from the past could be in her way drove her a little crazy. She knew you, she deserved you, she would treat you with love and kindness. Why didn't you want her the same way? It hurt worse that you were so kind. If you were an asshole she would lose feelings. It was strange, she felt possessive and you weren't hers. She knew she had no right to feel this way, but it pained her deeply to consider the possibility that you might love another.It was an intense pain to not be loved back. She wondered why she was so different when it was you. It was like she yearned for someone she couldn't have. But some way or another, she would have you all to herself. She would eliminate anyone in her way to your heart. And you would fall into her arms right? That's what she wanted.

She missed shimmer suddenly, not because of the walk but without her she couldn't ride with your arms around her waist, your scent engulfing her and your breath on her neck. Feeling you against her calmed her, it took her mind off of murder and onto something productive; being with you. She wanted you by her side regardless. The fact that her revenge plan didn't scare you away was a miracle within itself.

She could only hope you would want her at the end of this.

You wondered the same thing.

Notes: I found my charger! So happy to be having my laptop back, feedback is much appreciated, and I would love your thoughts on how the story should turn out! Thanks for reading! xoxoxo

#abby anderson #ellie x reader #angst #gaming #eventual smut #ellie tlou2 #abby x reader #fem reader #the last of us 2 #ellie williams

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shy-violet-soul · 2 years

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Left of Bang

Characters: Captain Syverson & female you, OC parents

Summary: You’re used to holding up the world for your family. But what happens when you need someone to hold up the world for you?

Warnings: angst, reference to terminal illness, dying parent, hospital scene

Word Count: 2,400 ish

A/N: this is marginally autobiographical; my dad was diagnosed with cancer a year ago. As the oldest daughter, unmarried/no kids, helping out my parents has frequently fallen to me - never more so than over the last year. And I’m happy to do it! I see it as my vocation. But there are days when the world is so. Damn. Heavy. If only I really did have Sy here to hold me on those days… Also - many hugs and thank yous to my bestie and beta @thesassywallflower for giving this a review for me.

~~~~~

There are people that being in hospitals doesn’t bother ‘em. I’m not one of those.

It’s always been crazy to me that all hospitals smell the same. Even out in the desert, that same smell came through while carrying stretchers in or visiting my boys. Antiseptic, heavy duty cleaner, and bandages. And something else - I call it the “stress scent”. Sleepless staff, worried families, they all got it. Almost smells like sweat, but not quite.

Being here…the smell, the sounds, keeps trying to drag my brain back to memories I don’t want to see. Standing in hallways dimmer and dustier than these, repeating to every medical person what happened to my soldier. Why can’t they just write it down? Save a dude from having to relive it over and over.

“And when did the symptoms begin?” The soft voice was kind, but I felt my guts flinch at the question. The same question she’d answered about a hundred fuckin’ times.

“About a month ago, we noticed him shuffling his feet when he walked. Last week, he started losing mobility on his left side. He went to see his doctor, they ordered tests. They called him last Tuesday and told him to go to the ER because they suspected he was having a stroke. And he’s been here for the last 4 days since they transferred him here after finding the brain tumor.”

The latest specialist nodded as he spoke, his pen scratching as he hustled his handwriting to keep up. Then there was another exam of her dad, more questions, what prescriptions does he take. Now, I’m sure that this doctor, a kidney specialist, is an observant pro. They gotta be, right? But he’s only lookin’ at her dad. Which is good and right; he’s the patient, after all. Sometimes, he turns and includes her mom in the talkin’. Pats mom’s shoulder when her chin starts to tremble.

Nobody’s lookin’ at my girl but me, though.

She’s got that look. If I’ve seen it once, I’ve seen it a hundred times - that numb kinda fatigue soldiers learn to fight through. The kind of stress that lives up high in your chest, squeezin’ the top of your lungs and leaves your eyes burning. Puts you on a weird type of auto-pilot - you look and sound plugged in because you’re working so hard to look that way. But it’s survival mode, all the same.

She started to get up out of her chair - I knew she wanted to offer it to the doctor when he leaned against the wall - but I kept her sittin’ with a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t look up at me as she listened to the doc, but her cold fingers reached up to squeeze mine. I glanced around the room as I listened - a habit of too many years for me to quit now. Her mama sat sad and tragic-lookin’, wringing her hands. I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen a woman do that until everything went to shit with Papa C. Mama C crumpled like a paper bag - she couldn’t handle even the simplest task without looking to my girl.

My gaze moved to Papa C. The man had aged 20 years in a couple’a days. Cancer’s a bastard. He listened to the doctor, but with the brain tumor and diabetes messin’ him up, I don’t know how much he’s tracking on everything. More tests ordered, surgery comin’ soon, and then goodbyes got the new doc out the door.

Despite my snacking, my belly growled right in her ear from where I stood behind her. Shit.

“Dad, I think we’re going to head home. Are you set for now until morning?” Up and moving again. Swear to God, she’s like an exhausted Energizer Bunny on the last bit of a cocaine high. I couldn’t stop my jaw from clenching as I watched her gather up the ziploc bags from her mama’s lap. She glanced at me once as she pitched the uneaten sandwich and crackers into the trash - she’d made all of us a lunch to try and stop the spending. Hospital life for families ain’t cheap, and cafeteria food got old real fast. My sweet li’l Hummingbird even went to the trouble of toasting my sandwich bread ‘cause she knows I like it, and crammed so many crackers in my bag the corner of one poked a hole in it. She’d eaten her own like she was gettin’ paid for it, even managed a few crackers. But her water bottle sat barely touched, and she hadn’t even opened the candy bar I got her from the vending machine bandit down the hall.

That’s the thing about soldiers - they learn to do enough to survive. More than that is just damn hard to do.

There’s a concept we learn in officer training called “Baseline + Anomaly = Decision”. Basically, you learn the ‘usual’ about your environment or person you’re with - that becomes your baseline. Then, you watch for any changes - anomalies. If the anomalies are a big enough issue, then you gotta choose a course of action - decision. And this concept is critical ‘cause you wanna keep you and your soldiers left of bang - before a bad thing happens. After the bad thing happens, now you’re right of bang and fucked.

Anybody else would look at my Hummingbird and not see anomalies. She’s up and movin’, walkin’, talkin’, doing her thing. Looking all kinds of like ‘baseline’. But I’m not anybody. And she’s given off anomalies fit to sink an Abrams “Beast” tank.

As Mama C started fluttering around the bed, I gathered up all her paraphernalia - the woman didn’t travel light. Hummingbird’s cheery voice reached me as I turned to watch her smack a kiss to Papa C’s forehead, rubbing his bristly bald head gently before she started trying to herd her mama towards the door.

“Well, Papa C, I’m gonna get your girls home. What contraband you want me to smuggle you in tomorrow?”

The older man smiled like I hoped as he told me, “a medium-well steak, Sy. Make it a sirloin strip.”

“10-4, sir.” I patted his shoulder and started to stand straight when he tapped my belly with the back of his hand. He glanced once towards the door where his daughter stood steamrolling his wife into her walker-wheelchair combo thing before he looked up at me.

“You take good care of her, alright?”

I leaned in close, wanting to reassure him. “You don’t worry about your wife, sir. I’m happy to watch out for her.”

He nodded once, glancing again at the women. “Thank you. But I don’t mean her.” His gaze was serious - almost a little sad - when he looked back up at me. “Beth has always leaned too hard on our oldest, and my little cupcake hasn’t always said no to her mama the way she should. I know she’s doing too much. She needs somebody to look after her.”

Seems a brain tumor and kidney failure couldn’t stop the former military man’s eagle eyes. I squeezed his shoulder, lowering my voice to just us.

“It will be my honor, sir.”

He rested back against the pillow, like I took a load off his mind. “You’re a good man, Sy.”

Mama C cried the whole drive back to her house. Thank the Lord that Hummingbird’s 7 year old brother was staying with a friend. She gave Mama C stern marching orders to eat, take her meds, go to sleep, and be ready to roll at 8:30am tomorrow morning. The minute we got in my truck, she went loose and quiet like somebody’d cut her strings. My lungs squeezed my chest tight as I realized - my little bird felt safe with me. Safe enough to stop fightin’ to survive.

The bright lights of the kitchen couldn’t hide her pallor. I helped her ditch her shoes onto the “HazMat mat” we’d relegated our germy soles to for decon each day, then urged her onto a barstool. In minutes, I had a pan of scrambled eggs and ham going. As an afterthought, I chucked in a couple handfuls of spinach. Vitamin A or potassium or some shit, but it was green and good for her. I wrapped up a hearty serving in a tortilla with a healthy dose of cheddar and handed her a plate.

“Hummingbird, why don’t you go take a shower? Or a good soak?” I watched her eat mechanically, that numb fatigued survival mode trying to kickstart up again.

“I will. Just gotta do the shoes and call Louise.” Her sister kept up a regular stream of texts and FaceTimes, but living 250 miles away with four kids and a husband working two jobs, she just couldn’t be here.

“Shoe duty is mine. Why don’t you text Lou the latest deets and tell her you’ll call in the morning?” There it was - that smile I loved. Just a hint of it, but I’ll take it.

“Did you actually use the word ‘deets’?”

I let my own smile stretch wide, pleased as punch when hers got bigger. “Damn straight, I did. ‘Cause I’m a cool ass grown up.”

She snorted around a mouthful of eggs, rolling her eyes as she scooped up her phone and hopped to the floor. “Alright, Captain, I hear you loud and clear.”

Even the simplest kiss she smacked on my face made my skin tingle. She didn’t see me smiling at her as she turned the corner for the master bath.

The minutes ticked by faster than I realized, and a quarter hour later, the shoe soles were Lysol’d and my emails were caught up. I could hear the shower as I made the hall, but when I sat on the bed and my shirt hit the floor, my heart went right along with it. Hummingbird wasn’t in the shower. She was sat on the bathroom floor, head back against the cabinet, just starin’.

That survival mode, all that endurance, had quit on her.

I squatted down in front of her, givin’ her space but lettin’ her feel my presence as I reached down and took her hands. Those fingers lay limp in mine - not even a squeeze.

“Talk to me, Hummingbird.”

Deep breath in and out - her movements so slow and heavy, it was like watching her underwater.

“I’m ok.”

I slid my hands into her hair, cupping the base of her skull, and rubbed the bones the way she loved. She sagged even looser into my grasp.

“You don’t have to be.”

Anomalies. Her swallow suddenly all tight. The way the left corner of her mouth quirked down a bit. Her bottom lip trembled. So, I decided on a course of action. I sat down cross-legged on the floor, pulled her into my lap, and hugged her up tight to me.

Left of bang.

She broke to pieces in my arms. Face in my neck, hands squeezing my shoulders fit to pinch, and cryin’ so hard my own eyes burned. And I couldn’t do a damn thing but hold her.

The shower kept on runnin’, but the water bill could go to hell. I ignored the steam as I rocked my girl, stroking her over and over. I wasn’t gonna tell her ‘everything will be fine, it’s ok’ when it sure as shit was not. So I just told her the truth for the now.

“I’m here, Hummingbird. I’m here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart.” At first, I wasn’t sure she could hear me, she was cryin’ so hard. It didn’t matter. I just kept on saying it - her heart was gonna hear it.

Coulda been 5 minutes, coulda been an hour, but those cries finally started to slow. Her hands stroked up my shoulders to my head, and she started gently rubbing my buzz cut. She told me once how soothing that was to her, and I never teased her about it again. She sighed all shuddery against me, and when she spoke, her little voice damn near broke me.

“I’m so tired, Sy.”

“I know.”

“My dad is dying.”

“I know.”

Her arms wrapped around my neck, and I settled her in snug against me. We just sat and breathed for a minute as I rubbed her back up and down. I wanted to reach into her and take all that pain, and carry it for her. Seventeen years in the Army taught me - it just can’t be done. But I can damn sure clear a path and lighten that load.

I got her on her feet, then into the shower to get the hospital off both of us. That flowery lotion bar butter crap kept slippin’ out of my hands and she chuckled when I cussed at the damn stuff before I could massage it in her skin. Her eyes were tired but she smiled sweet at me when I kissed her belly. I rested my head there for a second, letting the water rain on me and feeling the warmth of my woman against me. We both needed this.

“I’m sorry I cried all over you.” Her voice hummed against me where I rested on her, and I couldn’t stop the frown as I looked up at her. She dodged my look and reached for my beard soap, but I wasn’t lettin’ this go. I stood up so I could get her full attention, cupping her face to look up at me.

“You don’t say ‘sorry’ for cryin’ with me, Hummingbird.” She didn’t say anything for a bit. My chin raised up a hair as the Ranger Captain in me couldn’t let go of it until I got the answer I wanted, and she needed.

Her hair moved against my hands as she nodded. “Ok, Sy.” Mission accomplished.

Later, I got her bundled into her favorite shirt she stole from me and a pair of those fuzz floppy socks she likes so much. I turned on her favorite piano music station on Pandora, then opened my arms for all the cuddles she wanted.

“Sy?”

“Yeah, little bird?”

She didn’t say anything right away. The dark room and quiet music were pulling both of us to sleep.

“It’s not gonna be ok. It’s gonna suck.”

“That’s true.”

“But we’re gonna get through it”

“Yeah, we are.”

She didn’t say anything else, and a few minutes passed with us squirming a little into more comfortable positions.

“Sy?”

“Mmmhmm?”

“I’m gonna get through it because I’ve got you.”

My throat closed up so tight, my swallow hurt. “You sure as hell do. And I’ve got you.”

So, yeah - hospital visits suck ass. But this is my new tour. My hummingbird needs someone to keep her left of bang. And I’ll report for duty every damn day.

#shy vy writes #captain syverson fanfic #captain syverson fanfiction #syverson #syverson x you #captain syverson x reader #Left of Bang

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storyreader01 · 8 months

Text

Therese lay in their bed, feeling awful. Her head throbbed with pain and her throat was raw and sore, and she had lost count of the tissues she had been using. Carol lay beside her, rubbing her back gently.

"I'm sorry," Therese muttered weakly, feeling guilty for getting sick. "I know you were going to take me out to dinner tonight."

Carol brushed Therese's hair away from her forehead. "Shh, It's fine. We can always reschedule."

Therese shook her head, coughing and wincing at the pain in her chest. "I just feel awful. I don't want to ruin our plans."

Carol smiled and kissed her forehead. "We'll figure something out. Just focus on getting better, my love."

Over the next few days, Therese's illness only seemed to get worse. Her fever spiked high and her body ached all over, making even the simplest tasks feel like mountains to climb. Carol watched over her constantly, checking her temperature, bringing her water and medication, and making sure she got plenty of rest.

Rindy, Carol's young daughter, came to visit one afternoon, and she was quick to notice how sick Therese was. "Are you okay?" she asked, looking up at Therese with wide eyes.

Therese managed a weak smile. "I'm just a bit under the weather, Rindy. But I'll be fine soon."

Rindy nodded, a serious expression on her face. "I'll take care of you," she said, determined.

And so she did. She brought Therese books and blankets, played games with her, and even brought her a cup of tea - something that she had seen her mother do countless times before.

As the days wore on, Therese's condition remained precarious. She struggled to keep food down and couldn't seem to shake the constant ache in her head and chest. Carol grew more and more worried, even as she tried her best to stay positive for Therese's sake.

One night, as they lay in bed, Carol whispered to Therese, "I don't know what I would do if something happened to you."

Therese reached out and took Carol's hand, feeling the warmth and comfort of her touch. "It's just a cold," she said, wincing at the cough that wracked her body. "I'll be better soon."

But despite her optimism, Therese's condition only seemed to worsen. She slept fitfully, waking up often with chills or sweating from a fever. Carol was constantly by her side, her voice soothing as she murmured words of comfort.

And then, one night, as they lay together in the dark, Therese's fever spiked higher than ever before. She felt dizzy and disoriented, her breath coming in short gasps, and she knew something was seriously wrong.

"Carol," she said, her voice weak and trembling. "I think you need to call the doctor."

Carol listened to her breathless, raspy voice and knew that Therese was right. She quickly dialed the number for the emergency room and explained the situation. Within moments, an ambulance was on its way.

The next few hours were a blur of activity. The paramedics checked Therese over, her fever dangerously high and her breathing labored. They rushed her to the hospital, where she was given IV fluids and medication to bring her fever down.

Carol stayed by her side through it all, her heart pounding with fear as she watched her girlfriend struggle. She wondered if Therese would make it through the night.

But even in her weakened state, Therese was a fighter. She worked with the doctors to get the help she needed, pushing through the pain and discomfort to get better. And after several days of intense treatment and rest, she finally turned a corner.

Carol breathed a sigh of relief as she watched Therese slowly begin to recover, her color returning and her strength slowly coming back. She knew that they had been through a difficult and scary time, but she also knew that their love had sustained them, no matter what.

And as they lay together, surrounded by the familiar comforts of their home, Carol knew that they would face whatever came their way - together.

archiveofourown.org/works/47719237"

#carol 2015 #carol aird #therese belivet #sickfic #cross posted on ao3

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you-have-been-frizzled · 2 years

Text

Ogres: Culture

they have a strict code of honor, always stand for justice even if that means braking treaties, take your punishments with honor (as long as its fair), always give their all (which to them is working until you drop), never betray your people, and protect your family with your life,

to them family isn’t blood its who you would die for. you are expected to protect your family at at all costs and dying to protect your family is seen as the highest honor. they have big families with lots of children. multiple different generations will live in the same house and that goes for the royalty as well. though there is a king and Queen they are not necessary married at some points they have been siblings who have decided to lead together. while the king or queen are the face of the leadership, the entire royal family will take in the leadership of their kingdom including the children. the children are some of the most valued members of their families, because they are the future. they tell the older kids that is their job to protect the younger ones with their lives in the case of an attack. though they keep most of the locations that children spend most of of their time in the most protected part of their cites, so that doesn’t happen often.

Ogres take braking the law very seriously their punishments are intense, braking the law is seen as dishonorable and betraying your people. for minor crimes they are given a scar in their place of choosing, but more serious criminals are just sent to a work camp. if it is found that someone is abusing a child, they will be tortured before hand. they are branded with the crime that they committed and are only referred to as the crime. (i.e. Child beater.) most criminals can get out after some time they will scared and everyone will know that they broke the law, but child abuse is one of those crimes that the offender will be worked to death for.

Ogres hate that fact there are rumors that they abuse or have child soldiers, because that’s is something they would never do. the one king that had child soldiers was overthrown and killed because the people couldn’t handle watching their children be sent off to one of his worthless wars.

they only push their soldiers to fight to their physical limits not their mental. they have the best mental treatment out of all the intelligent species because you can’t fight at your best if you are too busy fighting a battle in your head. on a similar note only a small portion of their microbiologists work with weapons. most of them are healers and work to make medicine that can help cope with mental health and various disabilities and mental illness. they also require their soldiers to take a mental health brake every few years so they will not be making decisions based off of stress, they value Healers as much as they value soldiers.

they don’t see disabled Ogres as a burden on society, they are given all the resources and accommodations they could ever need. those who can’t fight are given jobs that they are capable of doing whatever that may be. they are seen as just as strong as the soldiers because they always give their all, even for the simplest of tasks.

#tw child abuse #kotlc #kotlc headcanons #kotlc fanfic #kotlc headcanon #kotlc fandom #keeper of the lost cities #kotlc hc #the keeper of the lost cities #kotlc orges #the kotlcopedia #kotlcopedia #kotlcopedia ogres #kotlcopedia species

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the-kotlcopedia · 2 years

Text

Ogres: Culture

- Frizzle

#the kotlcopedia #kotlcopedia #ogres #intelligent species

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obsceneindecorum · 2 years

Text

Mentally Ill Mass

I have gotten stuck only posting images I like and never posting anything I have drawn or taken a picture of or even written. I get in cycles of limited ability and it saddens me because it reduces who I am to a generic. Years and years and years ago I used to have a Tumblr, before all the changes, around the time it first came out actually. Once upon a time I used to be able to share everything I wanted and write everything I wanted and now I can't. Be it my depression or maybe some undiagnosed disorder, I just struggle so badly with energy levels and being able to do things. Even if the thing is small, if it's another step added to a bunch of steps it is just too much and I stick to the simplest thing. So, this right now is using up more energy than posting a picture. But I have just gotten up, have had coffee and have done nothing else yet. Could I do this every morning? No, because even though I like routine, I can struggle to stick to it. Not out of laziness, but it's like once I give myself a task I can no longer do it. Like rebelling against my own set of rules. I was never always like this. This is some new behaviour that has started after the 5 years of work place harassment I experienced that has left me unable to work and housebound. Not just my online life (the only life I currently have) but in my offline life I struggle to keep on top of things. Again, something that could be related to what happened at my previous job connected with mental illness. I used to be a cleaner, I now struggle to clean. You connect the dots on a mental illness map of consequences. Every time I clean, I start raging to myself about anything that has irritated me. It's tiresome. If I listen to music then I get stuck into maladaptive dreaming, the best solution I have found so far is to just do little tiny cleaning bits every day and not give myself enough time to rage myself into being able to do nothing for the remainder of the day. Enough of that. I have been drawing but never post the drawings and now I think I have spiraled out of drawing because everyone is so much better than me at drawing. I have pictures of my cats I never post. I have things to say that I never say. Tumblr used to be something I used everyday, I engaged with other blogs, maybe because it is different now and I still haven't learned it all, I don't do that. I just post, I don't follow anyone, I don't seek out blogs, I don't engage with anyone... all this stuff I used to do. Maybe one day. Maybe I need to come up with a plan that helps me post all the things I want. Maybe keep things posted on my desktop instead of hidden away in folders neat and tidy. Maybe quit doom scrolling. Maybe get back into list making. Something, anything is better than continuing my current cycle. I need another coffee.

#Blog #Mental Illness

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bitsandbobsofwriting · 3 years

Text

Merlin becomes a little obsessed with time, and how it’s running out:

Merlin struggles with a massive workload, and doesn’t understand how to ask for help, even with the simplest tasks, because people are relying on him. For small things, and large. He can’t let anyone down. He can’t.

REQUESTED

TW: not eating or sleeping properly, a little blood

Merlin is tired.

No one really notices the exhaustion, not at first anyway, what they do notice, is how much busier he seems to be.

He’s rushing around the castle so quickly, fetching and carrying things for Gaius, completing various chores for King Arthur, and trying to fix any problem he comes across (both the mundane, and the... less so), that no one sees him for long enough to notice the bags under his eyes. No one notices the way he sways on his feet if he stands still long enough. And if they do notice? Well, he’s rushing off to complete the next task on the list before they can say anything.

The few times he’s stopped to chat, he’s been quiet; polite but not really friendly.

His friends brush it off at first, he’s always been the type to rush places, and they figure he’s just got a lot of things to organise with the Yule celebrations coming up.

It had never really occurred to Merlin, but being the King’s Personal Manservant actually made him one of the most highly ranked servants in the castle. And that meant, everyone asking him for help, all the time.

Anything in the castle that could possibly concern The King, even briefly, was run by Merlin first. Everything from flower arrangements, to the week’s dinner menu, to which chambers to house guests in, to when exactly The King would like this paperwork completed.

It wasn’t too bad at first, Merlin had managed to stay on top of things for years, even during busier times such as these.

But this winter was different somehow.

Merlin was a fully trained physician by this point, and he didn’t like to think about it much, but Gaius was getting older, quicker and quicker it seemed.

This just meant that more and more of the excursions that Gaius used to take outside the Physician’s chambers, were now being passed on to Merlin.

He valued the trust that Gaius placed in him, but a trip to the lower town to treat this year’s strain of flu took him away for almost a week.

Long nights consoling young children who were in pain, followed by long days making it to as many houses as possible, to treat as many people as possible, meant he lost out on a lot of sleep. Especially since his mind was thinking about a million other things at the same time.

After finally getting the outbreak under control, he made quick work of the journey back to the castle, only to find a list of various speeches that needed writing and chores to catch up on, and a long line of panicking servants who needed whatever duties they had double checked.

Merlin had barely caught up on all of that work, staying up late through the night, when a second outbreak occurred in a different section of the city.

Gaius had made it clear to The King that the people’s health, and therefore Merlin’s position as Secondary Physician, should come first; Arthur whole heartedly agreed, and gave Merlin the time off to deal with it happily enough, but that didn’t erase the huge list of things he still had to get done when he returned.

He was only gone for three days this time, but with Yule getting closer and closer and foreign nobles arriving for the celebrations, Merlin had a ridiculous number of things to do when he got back.

The headache that had been coming and going over the last month soon became permanent, and the shaking in his hands became something he had to actively account for any time he carried something heavier than a plate.

Merlin was rushing from the kitchens to the stables after dropping off Arthur’s empty breakfast tray when he heard it.

He paused in the corridor, leaning his weight against the cold stone of the wall as he strained his ears.

Just as he was about to write it off as him hearing things due to the lack of sleep, he heard it again, clearer this time, like someone was crying just on the other side of the stone.

He backtracked down the corridor a few metres, and slowly pushed open the door to a storage room, only to see Annabeth, the castle’s youngest serving girl, having a cut on her cheek being cleaned by George.

The both of them look up in shock at the intrusion, and Merlin clenches his fists as he sees the tears on Annabeth’s cheeks. He is especially worried when he sees the concern, painted clear as day on George’s face. George who was well know for being the least reactionary, most expressionless servant in the castle.

He shuts the door behind him, and walks forward, putting a hand on the girl’s shoulder. She immediately launches herself forward, and begins crying once again into Merlin’s chest.

He almost falls back, barely able to carry his own weight right now, let alone the weight of a distraught young girl, but thankfully George notices his imbalance and catches him with a firm hand on his back.

Merlin gives him a grateful, but bleary smile, as he strokes a comforting hand up and down Annabeth’s back.

He nods to the bloody cloth in George’s other hand, and raises a questioning eyebrow.

George catches his meaning quickly, and replies in a quiet, but harsh voice:

“Lord Anselm reported that his manservant had taken ill, and requested that Annabeth take over. He was... displeased, with a dropped pillow.”

Merlin frowns in worry, as the girl, barely even fourteen summers, looks up at him with red eyes:

“I didn’t even drop it, it fell off his bed when I had my back turned. But he started yelling and he... he threw an empty goblet at me and then got even angrier at that mess. He wouldn’t let me leave for ages he was just standing over me and screaming.”

Merlin can see George tense in anger out the corner of his eye, and he calmly shushes the girl, wiping away her tears and giving her a small smile:

“He shouldn’t have done that, it wasn’t your fault. George is going to take you to Gaius, to get that looked at properly, and I’ll deal with Anselm until his manservant gets better, ok?”

George frowns slightly, but Annabeth speaks up before he can say anything:

“You won’t get in trouble, will you Merlin?”

Merlin gives her a cheeky wink and ruffles her hair:

“I’m always in trouble.” She giggles slightly, and Merlin counts that as a win.

She steps back, and George takes her hand, but he looks at Merlin, speaking quietly once again:

“Are you sure? I know you’ve got a lot of work at the moment, you can drop her off at Gaius’ and I can serve Lord Anselm, if you like.”

Merlin shakes his head, but realises quickly that was a bad idea as his vision starts swimming. He closes his eyes tightly for a few seconds and takes a deep breath, before looking back at an obviously concerned George and replying:

“No, it’s fine, I can deal with him. All those bloody quests Arthur drags me on means I’m well equipped to deal with people like Lord Anselm. Though I would appreciate it if you could pass by the stables and let them know to have Arthur’s horse prepared for noon, tomorrow.”

The fact that George’s lip twitches only slightly at Merlin’s address of the King, tells Merlin that the man is truly worried about Annabeth, and now probably Merlin’s safety as well.

He nods his head slightly, with a quiet “Of course.” and with that, the three of them leave the storage room.

They head in opposite directions, but after moving only a few feet, George looks back and calls to Merlin over his shoulder.

Merlin turns, slowly this time now that dizziness has become a problem, as George asks with a frown:

“Are you sure you’re alright, Merlin?”

Merlin gives him a small nod and smile, before waving him off:

“Yeah, I’m fine, just tired. I’ll see you later.”

George’s frown deepens, but he nods slightly, and turns back around again, leading Annabeth in the direction of the Physician’s chambers.

Merlin took a deep breath and rubbed harshly at his eyes as he watched them turn the corner, before turning in the opposite direction, and making his way to the guest chambers.

Lord Anselm was a visitor from a neighbouring kingdom, known for his harsh treatment of anyone he deemed below him (which... to be honest... was everyone, as far as he was concerned). He was here for the Yule celebrations, and to suck up to the King no doubt.

Merlin paused outside the room, taking another deep breath and trying to not look so exhausted, before knocking politely on the door.

A voice grumbles from the other side, calling for him to enter.

Merlin entered slowly, and shut the door behind him, immediately spying the Lord eating his breakfast at the table. He was an intimidating man, tall, even taller than Merlin, with a heavy gait, a thick beard, and a permanent scowl.

He looks harshly at Merlin, and roughly asks:

“Who the hell are you? Where’s my girl?”

Merlin clenches his hands behind his back, but replies neutrally, looking somewhere over the Lord’s shoulder:

“I’m afraid she has succumbed to an injury, and won’t be serving you anymore. I’m The King’s personal manservant, meaning I won’t be able to serve you full time. We’re a little understaffed at the moment, My Lord. Is there anything I can do for you this morning?”

The man growls and stands up, stalking quickly towards the manservant.

Merlin was especially glad that he was made aware of his balance and dizziness issues earlier, because if he hadn’t, he certainly wouldn’t have been able to hold himself upright when Lord Anselm swung a harsh fist to the side of his face.

He smirked horribly as he said:

“Insolent little thing, aren’t you? Are all of King Arthur’s servants so pretty?”

Merlin’s head rocked violently to the side, and he took a step back, before righting himself. He took a subtle deep breath as he winced in pain, but schooled his face back into indifference as he returned his gaze to just over The Lord’s shoulder:

“Would you like me to return your tray to the kitchen, My Lord?”

Anselm growled once more, obviously unhappy with the lack of reaction, and brought down a heavy hand on Merlin’s shoulder, leaning in close and snarling:

“You do that, pretty boy.”

Merlin waits impassively for him to release the bruising grip he had on his shoulder, before stepping around him and clearing away the tray.

Lord Anselm stared at him distastefully, but Merlin dutifully ignored it, and headed to the chamber door with the tray of leftovers and dirty plates. Anselm turns quickly towards him:

“Hurry back. I have things that need doing.”

For the first time since he entered the room, Merlin looks him straight in the eyes before saying:

��Like I said My Lord, we’re incredibly understaffed at the moment. I’m afraid no one will be able to serve you until your own manservant recovers from his illness.”

The shocked look on the Lord’s face gives Merlin just enough time to leave the room and hurry half way down the corridor, before Anselm followed him out.

Merlin heard the door bang off the wall as Anselm ripped it open, ready to shout, enraged, but the sight of the guards patrolling the corridor stopped him, and he slammed the door shut again with a huff.

Merlin let out a relieved breath. He had hoped that the sight of the guards would stop him from making a scene, and he was glad he was right.

One of the guards, an older man named Gavin who had always been kind to Merlin, stopped him with a hand on his (unbruised) shoulder:

“You alright Merlin? I though Annabeth was serving him?” He nodded at the other guard to continue on, mumbling that he would catch up in a minute, before looking back at Merlin, who blearily nodded:

“He threw a tantrum, hurt her. George took her to Gaius and I said I would deal with him.”

The guard frowned and muttered “bastard” under his breath, but widened his eyes as he saw the bruise blooming on Merlin’s cheek:

“Bloody hell, Merlin, do you always take over for the violent ones? You should get that checked out.”

Merlin sighs and shakes his head, only slightly:

“It’s fine, I’ve got too much else to deal with at the moment. The manservant he brought with him is sick, and Annabeth is certainly not serving him again, so I told him he would have to deal with minimal serving, until his servant gets better.”

Gavin let out a breath, and chuckled slightly:

“Pfft. Balls of steel, Merlin. Go on, you look in a hurry, I won’t keep you.”

With that, Merlin gives him a brief smile, before rushing towards the kitchens once again, trying not to feint the whole way.

The whole ordeal only pushed him twenty minutes behind, but twenty minutes was a problem when he was already three days behind on Arthur’s laundry, two days behind on stocking up on ingredients for Gaius, and two weeks overdue for a lunch with Gwen.

Plus he still had one speech left to proof read, and considering Arthur wrote it himself, it’s more likely to end up being a full re-write, rather than a proof read.

OH, and that leak that he’d promised the stablehands he would help fix.

Ah shit. He also had to collect Gwaine’s spare sword from the blacksmith at some point, before he forgot again.

AND there was a huge delivery of flowers today, no doubt there would be some sort of problem with that.

All of that, on top of the fact that no one has tried to kill Arthur in recent weeks, and it was starting to unnerve him.

His journey to the kitchens went much like that. Task upon chore upon promise upon paranoid intrusive thought piling up in his head with every step.

He finally got to the kitchen doors, and paused outside. He took a deep, shaky breath, and shut his eyes tight, before forcing his mind to calm, and pushing through the door.

The noise and smells immediately had him turn his head sideways, as if trying to escape the sudden onslaught, but the movement did nothing but force him to realise how much the side of his face had begun to throb.

He took another deep breath as the persistent noise, now in his mind, and out of it, made him want to scream. He resisted the urge, and dumped the tray next to the sink, before rushing out once again, ignoring the glares that the cook sent his way.

As he hurried down the corridor, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides in an effort to stop the shaking, he decided that laundry was the priority right now. If he could just get at least one basket done, that would be enough for today at least; and he could read over the speech whilst he did it.

Ok. ok. This is fine.

He finally made it to Arthur’s chambers, bursting in without knocking, and walking straight to the pile of dirty clothes.

He doesn’t even have the energy to be annoyed at the fact that they were on the floor, instead of in the basket, and he certainly isn’t with it enough to notice the conversation between Arthur and George... wait... George??

Merlin is only lets his surprise distract him for a moment before he looks back to the laundry, bending over far too quickly, and having to hold himself up against the wall as his vision swims.

He vaguely hears George calling his name, but he waves his hand behind him absentmindedly and ignores him. He forces his eyes to focus again, as he picks up an armful of clothes.

He stumbles over to the desk, still not paying attention to the other two occupants of the room. He looks around blearily, once again beginning to clench and unclench his hands under the dirty clothes in his arms, just to stop himself from falling over.

He takes a deep breath, and interrupts whatever it is Arthur is saying:

“Speech.”

Arthur is clearly taken aback, having realised that Merlin hasn’t listened to anything either of them has said. George gives him a knowing look behind Merlin’s back, and Arthur frowns.

Merlin turns around, quick enough to make his vision blue once again, but not quick enough to make him fall over, and looks in Arthur’s vague direction:

“Speech. Where is it?”

Arthur gasps as he notices the now deep purple mark up the side of Merlin’s face and steps forward, George follows him, and takes the laundry from Merlin’s hands, and setting it on a chair before turning back to him.

He turns just in time to see Merlin almost tip backwards, and rushes forward, placing firm hand on his back once again.

Arthur slowly brings his hand up, concern written all over his face as his fingers hover just over the bruise:

“Merlin... what happened?”

Merlin rolls his eyes slightly as he turns back around to the desk, gently pushing George’s hand away and looking through the paperwork:

“Fell. Speech? I really do need it Arthur, I don’t have time.”

Arthur looks at George out the corner of his eyes, and George shakes his head, mouthing “Lord Anselm” .

Arthur frowns again, and picks up a piece of paper from his bedside table, going to hand it to Merlin, before snatching it back when he reaches for it:

“Not, until you tell me the truth, Merlin.”

Merlin huffs, and rolls his eyes again, before snapping:

“Fine, Lord Anselm punched me in the face because he’s a Lord and I’m a servant, and he can do whatever he wants to me and that’s nothing out of the ordinary. Speech. Please?”

In Arthur’s shock at Merlin’s bluntness, Merlin leans forward and grabs the piece of paper, before quickly turning away, ignoring the loss of vision at the sharp movement. He knew his way around Arthur’s chambers when he was asleep, he could manage a short black out.

He gathers up the laundry once again, and stumbles towards the door, interrupting Arthur’s:

“Merlin! Will you just-”

With:

“Don’t have time.”

And leaving the room before either of them can say anything more.

Arthur shakes himself free of the shock, and looks to George, bewildered:

“You really weren’t kidding were you? He’s completely out of it. Do you know what’s wrong?”

George frowns only slightly as he replies:

“It’s a busy time of the year My Lord, and we’re rather under staffed at the moment. Merlin has a habit of being unable to say no when people ask for help. That, on top of his normal duties to yourself and Gaius, and having to deal with the flu outbreak, I think- If I may speak freely, Sire?”

Arthur nods immediately:

“Of course, George, always.”

George nods gratefully before continuing:

“I think he’s just a little over-worked at the moment, My Lord. He’s never been good at asking for help.”

Arthur nods and hums thoughtfully. He thinks for a minute before looking back at the servant:

“Hmm. Keep an eye on him, won’t you George? I can’t have him keeling over, and make sure he gets some food in him.-”

George gives a firm nod:

“-Thank you, you’re dismissed, go back to your duties.”

With that, George turns and leaves the room, wiping the worried frown from his face and resetting it into his normal neutrality.

Merlin was unendingly grateful to find that the speech wasn’t actually that bad. By the time he finished hanging Arthur’s clothes to dry, he had a solid idea in his head of all the little bits he needed to tweak. He just needed to get a quill to it, and it’d be done and dusted.

He rushed as quickly as he was able without falling over, back to Arthur’s chambers, opening the door slowly this time; he really didn’t have the time to stop and chat, and if anyone was in there, he would just come back later.

Thankfully, the rooms were empty, and Merlin only had to spend around five minutes sat at the desk (where there was a small plate of food, labelled “For Merlin”, which of course went untouched. Deliberately ignored or just unnoticed, who knows), writing out his adjustments.

Five minutes however, was long enough for him to forget to not move too quickly, and the moment he tried to stand up, he immediately passed out. He fell back into the chair, and slumped forward onto the desk, his bruised cheek landing with a smack on the wood.

He woke again with a start, and jumped up quickly as he ran his hands through his hair roughly. He began to breath deeply, and tears came to his eyes as he brought his hands down roughly, gripping the edge of the table so hard he could feel his hands bruising.

Merlin, after managing to keep what he thought was a tight lid on it all day, was officially panicking.

His cheek was throbbing again, but he could barely feel it, only able to think about how much time he was wasting.

He can’t be taking naps now. He can’t. He doesn’t have the time. He’s still two days behind on laundry, two days behind shopping, two weeks since he’d last properly spoken to Gwen, he can feel a storm in the air so the leak HAS to be fixed now and Gwaine NEEDS his sword and where are those fucking flowers??

The more Merlin’s thoughts rush around his head, the more tasks he remembers that he needs to do, the more he panics. And the more he panics, the less he can breath, and the less he can breath, the more time, he is wasting.

When Merlin finally manages to open his eyes, which he hadn’t realised had been shut painfully tightly, he notices that the shadows on the walls have barely moved since he last checked.

Huh.

Ok.

He breaths slightly easier as he just about manages to drag himself over to a window, peering down into the courtyard below, to see that the castle was still busy.

He must’ve only been passed out for a few minutes at most.

It’s ok. There’s still time.

Merlin takes one last deep breath, pours himself a glass of water from Arthur’s jug and downs it all in one.

Ok. Too much to do, no more wasting time.

Merlin quickly straightens out the desk, leaving the speech in the middle for Arthur to see, and ignores the remaining fuzziness in his head as he stumbles out the door and down to the Physician’s chambers.

Merlin spends the next few hours down at the market.

He could feel his heart pounding louder in his ears with each second that he had to stand and wait in line, but it was no ones fault but his own that he had left the shopping too late.

He just had to be patient. Ignore the headache, ignore the pain in his cheek and shoulder, ignore the bruises on the palms of his hands from where he gripped the table, ignore the paranoid thoughts about assassins and poisoners and bandits.

By the time he made it back to Gaius’ chambers, it was dark. His hands shook violently, and he could barely see what he was unloading from his bags, but he kept pushing forward.

Without sparing a glance towards Gaius, he rushed out of the room again, now unhealthily used to the constant swimming in his vision, he dragged his hand along the stone walls of the castle corridor, and used that to navigate to the kitchen to pick up Arthur’s dinner.

The cook of course yelled at him about being late, but instead of brushing it off like he normally did, he internalised it.

He spent the whole journey up to Arthur’s chambers working himself up.

He was late. He was running out of time. He was so fucking tired. But that’s fine. That’s ok. One more job tonight, and he can rest. Just one.

He delivers Arthur’s food without a word, and if Arthur wasn’t worried before, he definitely was now.

Merlin lays out the meal, and quickly goes about lighting the fire for the night, and turning down The King’s bed. He turns to Arthur, not really bothering to focus his eyes and actually look at him, before saying:

“Anything else tonight, My Lord?”

The lack of sarcasm would be worrying enough to Arthur, but the way Merlin’s eyes stayed unfocussed, even as Arthur walked towards him, and the way his words slurred, almost sent him into a panic.

Merlin finally makes eye contact with him as Arthur grips his shoulders, but he quickly lets go when Merlin flinches in pain.

Fuck that hurt.

He’d forgotten about the bruised shoulder.

Arthur’s frown deepens:

“Merlin, are you alright? You look exhausted, you look sick. And you didn’t eat the food George left out.”

Merlin nods his head slowly, and moves towards the door, rolling his shoulder slightly to try and sooth the ache:

“Yeah yeah, I’m fine, and I’m not a dog Arthur. Just lots to do. Am I dismissed?”

Arthur nods slowly, but suddenly adds, as Merlin gets to the door:

“Yes, but only if you get something to eat and then go straight to bed. Get some sleep Merlin, whatever it is, can wait until morning.”

Merlin doesn’t look back at him, just waves his hand over his shoulder as he shuts the door behind him.

Ok. One more job. Just one more and then sleep. Maybe. He did have some useful new spells he needed to memorise... having as little time as he does means he should probably get at least a few done tonight.

Ok. One more job, then he can sit in bed and memorise some of those spells, then maybe he can get an hour or two of sleep before sunrise bought tomorrow’s jobs.

He headed over to the stables, at this time of night no one should be around, he can wave his hand, make some sparks, and the leak would be gone.

He halts in his tracks and his eyes widen as he subconsciously begins clenching and unclenching his hands once again.

No.

The stablehands know he promised to fix it. If they see it’s been fixed with some sort of miracle, instead of patched up properly, they’ll know.

Maybe he’s just being paranoid, but he’s also running on no food, no sleep, and a potential concussion. Trying to use magic right now was probably not his best idea.

He forces his hands to still, and continues his trek across the courtyard, towards the stables.

The next time he stops, it’s because he hears the distinct sound of an armoured guard falling to the floor (the fact that he recognises the sound immediately, should tell you all you need to know about how insane Merlin’s life is).

Merlin rubs his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose briefly as he mumbles:

“For fucks sake, I knew it had been too long.”

Without wasting another second, Merlin turns back around, and sneaks carefully to where he’d heard the noise come from.

He finally spies the slumped guard by the main entrance to the castle, and after establishing that the attacker was long gone, he rushes over.

The growing puddle of blood, and lack of pulse, worries Merlin endlessly. Whoever did this was good, the guard never saw it coming, and now he was dead.

Merlin doesn’t want to leave him like this, but in all likelihood, the assassin was going to head straight to Arthur’s chambers, and Merlin had to catch up before he could do any damage.

The exhausted manservant rushes through the large doors, trying ever so hard to focus eyes, and not quite managing it, but powering through anyway. Thankfully he new the route to Arthur’s chambers by heart, he didn’t have to be able to see to know where he was going.

He’s already out of breath before he even reaches the staircase that leads up to the royal chambers, but he doesn’t have the time to stop and catch his breath. Arthur was in danger, and as per fucking normal, Merlin was the only one that seemed to know anything about it.

He forced himself up the steps, being mindful of his weak legs and using the wall to pull himself up as quick as he could.

He swore to himself as he turned the corner to see the vague outline of a man with a dagger slip unnoticed through the doors to Arthur’s chambers.

Where the fuck were the rest of the guards?? Merlin had expected to see a few more bodies on his way up but there had been none. Shift change over maybe? In which case, how did the assassin know?

He pushes the thoughts to the back of his mind; something to worry about later, as he sprints down the corridor.

He almost falls several times, tripping over nothing but his own exhaustion, but he uses his own momentum to stop himself tipping over, forcing his feet to just keep moving forward.

He bursts into the room loudly, and the assassin, who had almost reached Arthur slumped over asleep on his desk, whips his head around to stare at him in shock.

The King mumbles from his spot on the desk:

“Merlin... I told you to get some sleep.”

That seems to snap the assassin out of his surprise, and he lurches towards Arthur, bringing the dagger up so he could swing it down viciously into his back, but Merlin rushes forward to meet him.

He shoves Arthur’s chair with as much force as he can muster, and steps into the space it had resided in as Arthur sprawls on the floor, cursing loudly.

It takes only a second for Arthur to be on his feet, a sword that was hidden under the desk gripped in his hand and any remaining sleepiness scrubbed from his face, but that second is all it takes for the dagger to sink with sickening force into Merlin’s shoulder.

Merlin gasps and staggers back as Arthur steps forward, swinging the hilt of his sword down onto the attacker’s head, and with a loud thunk, the would-be assassin drops to the floor, unconscious.

Arthur turns quickly towards Merlin, who was leaning against the wall, dagger still planted deeply in his shoulder, and once again curses loudly. He rushes forward to catch his manservant just as he falls, widening his eyes as he notices the rapidly growing crimson stain on his tunic:

“GUARDS!!” he yells it towards the still open door, but looks to Merlin as he mumbles:

“Shift... change. No one there yet.” with a groan.

Arthur curses for a third time, as he pulls Merlin’s uninjured arm around his neck, and starts to stagger towards the door, dragging Merlin, who is basically a dead weight at this point.

The manservant groans, not sure if it’s the constant, background panic that’s seemed to plague him the last few weeks, or the pain of the newest stab wound that’s making him dizzy, but either way... ow.

Merlin finally manages to raise his gaze to realise that Arthur is currently dragging him past the closest exit to the stables (god knows how they’d gotten that far without Merlin noticing), and he half-heartedly pulls away.

Arthur almost stumbles with Merlin’s sudden movement, but says strongly:

“No not that way Merlin, gotta get to Gaius, you’re going to ok, alright?”

Merlin’s breath deepens in panic, and Arthur, mistaking it’s meaning, says:

“Almost there, Merls, don’t worry, Gaius will fix you right up, just hang on a little more for me.”

Merlin tries to pull away again, going so far as to softly thump Arthur on the chest to make him let go (it doesn’t work, he’s far too weak):

“No... no, you don’t.... understand. I can‘t, I don’t.... I don’t have time.”

Arthur frowns at him, but continues moving in the direction of the Physician’s chambers. He turns his concerned face away from Merlin, to see two guards turning into the corridor ahead of them:

“HEY!! One of you go to my chambers to collect the would-be assassin, and one of you run ahead to Gaius to warn him we’re coming; deep stab wound to the shoulder. Tell anyone you might see to be on high alert, an attempt on my life has been made.”

Arthur growls as they just stand in shock, obviously taken aback at the sight of the King near dragging an almost dead-looking servant down the corridor towards:

“NOW!”

With that they jump into action, one of them sprinting back the way Arthur and Merlin had come, the other sprinting ahead, to warn Gaius.

Arthur looks back down to Merlin, trying to pick up his pace as he notices him grow weaker and weaker:

“Come on, only a few more corridors Merlin, then Gaius will take care of you and you can sleep it off. I’ll even give you tomorrow off, how does that-”

Before Arthur can finish his question, Merlin moans, and tries to pull away again:

“No... time. Too many things to do... not... no time. Leak...”

Arthur stares at him in confusion as Merlin trails off, but blinks in surprise, as he gains a sudden burst of lucidity again:

“NO! Leak needs... sorting. Flowers and... Gwaine’s sword. Check on... Annabeth-”

He pulls away from Arthur far more violently this time, and the King drops him as he staggers from the force.

Arthur curses and kneels down, panicked as he tries to get his arms under Merlin’s weight again. Which Merlin is making very difficult.

The manservant can’t really feel the pain at this point. All he knows is that time is passing. Time that should be spent fixing things. Whatever stupid thing Arthur wants right now needs to wait.

Leak. Then spells. Then catch up on laundry through the night. Then check on the flowers in the morning. Hopefully lunch with Gwen. Sword next. Then. Then he can maybe think about whatever is happening right now.

Arthur finally gets his hands under Merlin’s arms and pulls him up, growing more and more worried as Merlin tries to wiggle away, like he doesn’t want to get treated.

Only one more corridor.

Arthur continues his journey through the halls, breathing deeply with the exertion.

Merlin had lost the last of his strength trying to escape, and the fall to the floor had knocked his other injuries slightly, so Arthur was forced to pick him up, carrying the limp man bridal style.

He finally made it to Gaius’ chambers, to see the guard holding open the door, and Gaius rushing around, gathering various ingredients and tools.

Arthur bolts through the door, not even looking at the guard as he spots the empty cot in the middle of the room, and carefully lays a clearly delirious Merlin down.

The dark haired boy continues to mumble, a frown etched deeply onto his features:

“No... time... too much else... to worry about...”

Arthur calms his own breathing before looking back to the guard:

“Make sure the alarm is sounded. Find out if the assassin was caught and report back to me as soon as you know anything. I’ll be here.”

The guard nods firmly before running out of the room, and Arthur turns his attention back to Merlin. He gasps as he notices blood dripping from the palms of his hands, and lurches forward, forcing Merlin’s fingers to uncurl.

Arthur realises with a numb horror, that something much more than the stab wound is wrong with his... friend. This isn’t even close to the worst injury he’s ever seen Merlin get, but still he lies here, panicking about something to such an extent that he drew blood with his own nails.

Gaius finally bustles over, and without even looking at him, forcefully tells Arthur:

“Hold him down, he’s in no sort of mental state for me to treat him awake, so I need to get this down him and he won’t... appreciate it.”

The King notices the vial of foul-smelling liquid in Gaius’ hands, and quickly moves around to stand behind Merlin’s shivering form.

He presses one hand down onto his uninjured shoulder, and bends over, leaning his other forearm across his chest, trying desperately to avoid aggravating the dagger still imbedded in his shoulder.

Once he’s secure, Gaius pinches Merlin’s nose, and pours the liquid into his mouth, quickly dropping the vial onto the table beside him, and massaging his throat to help it go down.

Merlin spasms for a few seconds and kicks out, but Arthur just about manages to hold him steady before he finally goes limp, his eyes rolling back, and his hands hanging off the side of the cot.

Arthur steps back, and collapses in a chair at Merlin’s side, before looking up at Gaius. The King watches the Physician bring over a pair of scissors and cut Merlin’s blood soaked tunic away, before examining the wound, and carefully removing the dagger.

Arthur tries to calm his heart rate, and takes deep breaths as he watches Gaius work, knowing that the injury, though bloody, was not life threatening.

At some point during the process of the wound being cleaned, stitched, and dressed, the guard from earlier had re-entered the chambers to say:

“The assassin was found and taken to the dungeons, sire. The castle is on high alert, and patrols are looking for any accomplices, though currently it appears the man was working alone. Two guards have been found dead, one at the castle gate, and one at the main entrance to the building.”

Arthur vaguely remembers nodding, and dismissing the guard; telling him to keep him updated, before focusing back on Merlin.

When Gaius finally slumps into the chair opposite Arthur, on Merlin’s other side, The King takes a deep breath, before asking quietly:

“What’s wrong with him, Gaius? I mean besides the obvious? George said-”

Before Arthur can finish, three thunderous pairs of feet burst through the door.

The King looks up to see Gwen, Gwaine, and Leon enter the room in a hurry. Gwen answers his questioning gaze with:

“The three of us were together when a guard told us what happened. Will he be alright?”

Gaius gives them a comforting, but strained smile, as they move towards the cot:

“He’ll be fine my dear, with time.”

Gwen moves quickly to stand by Arthur’s side, and takes one of Merlin’s limp hands in her own as she blinks away tears, her other hand covering her mouth. Gwaine rushes to the end of the cot, looking down at his best friend with a pained expression, and resting a hand on his leg. Leon steps into place above Merlin’s head, stroking a gentle hand through his hair, before focusing his concerned expression on Arthur in question.

Arthur huffs, but pays them no mind as he looks back at Gaius:

“Like I was saying, what’s wrong with him? George said he was acting oddly, and he seemed... almost sickly the last time I saw him. Then all the way here he was trying to get away from me, he just kept muttering about time, and saying he had things to do.”

Gwaine growls, and before Gaius can reply, he snarls out:

“You’ve been bloody overworking him, that’s what’s wrong. Look at him, he looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks.”

Arthur looks up, annoyed:

“That’s exactly why I’ve been giving him fewer chores, Sir Gwaine. I didn’t give him anything specific to do today, and when I told him he would have some time off on the way here, he freaked. Pulled away, I dropped him, and he just began muttering about not having time, having too much to do.”

Gwen clears her throat before timidly saying:

“He has been acting a bit strange. He seemed a little stressed after the first outbreak, but I figured that was normal for this time of year and let him be. Then he got back so late last night, and every time I saw him today he just seemed... more and more panicked. I tried to stop him a few times but he ignored me, like his mind was completely elsewhere.”

Arthur frowns at that, and Leon speaks next, his hand still absentmindedly carding through Merlin’s hair:

“Hmm. He’s been looking unwell; swaying on his feet, leaning on walls. I saw him in the market earlier today and he looked about ready to feint, but I was pulled away by a few guards. When I looked back again, he was stumbling away in the opposite direction. He looked in a rush, so like Gwen, I let him be. Perhaps he hasn’t been sleeping well?”

Gaius looks grim, and nods:

“I heard him moving about all through last night. I got up to offer him a sleeping draught but he refused, saying he had things to do. I got the impression this morning that he didn’t sleep a wink. And I remember what the yearly flu excursions were like, I doubt he slept any better whilst he was treating people in the lower-town.”

The three of them look troubled. How had they let it get this far? Merlin was clearly some sort of sick, and no one had noticed until he was ignoring stab wounds and clawing at his own skin.

Leon tilted Merlin’s head, frown deepening as he spots the purple bruise over his cheek, now also stretching up into his temple and into his hairline. His voice came out a mumble, as if he were speaking to himself:

“What happened here?”

Arthur’s face darkened, and he replied lowly:

“Lord Anselm. I informed him to leave my kingdom and told him not to come back until he could refrain from beating my staff.”

Leon nodded, face angry, and Gwaine replied:

“Bet he didn’t like that, the bastard.”

Arthur looked up at Gaius, and cleared his throat before asking:

“What do you suggest, Gaius? He’s clearly not... ok.”

Gaius sighed once more, looking down at the man who had become his son, before saying quietly:

“I imagine all three of us are right, in a way. He’s overworked, stressed, and lacking sleep. That mixed with a punch hard enough to give him a mild concussion, and the fact he likely hasn’t eaten very well over the last few weeks, led to a... miniature break down, of sorts.-”

He looks up at Arthur, who is struggling to hide how distraught he is, with grim determination:

“-He will need time off to recover. More than a few days, likely. And support. He has learnt to rely on no one but himself in recent years. Dealing with a workload that multiple people would struggle with all on his own, was almost certainly what led to his obsession with time, time running out. You will need to reassure him that any tasks he is worried about are being completed just fine without him, otherwise he’ll panic.”

Arthur nods before replying, his voice thick:

“Of course. Whatever he needs. He mentioned... a leak? And flowers, Gwaine’s sword. He mumbled a few other things as well, but I couldn’t hear him. He said something about Annabeth?”

Gaius rubs his eyes as he nods slowly:

“Yes, George bought Annabeth by earlier. Lord Anselm had hurt her and Merlin sent the two of them here before he went to deal with the Lord.-”

He looked up to see Arthur sporting a vicious frown, and continues:

“-She’s fine now, just a little shaken, her injuries will heal in a week or so. The other things he mentioned to you though...”

Arthur sighs, but Gwen speaks up, still clutching Merlin’s hand, before he can say anything:

“I overheard some of the stable-hands worrying about a leak in the stable, knowing Merlin, he probably offered to help them. And the flowers... well there was supposed to be a delivery today, for the feast decorations, but it hasn’t arrived yet.”

Arthur nods, and Gwaine swallows, looking a little guilty, before saying:

“He ran my spare sword to the blacksmith about a week ago, for repairs. I told him there was no rush, but he must’ve got in a panic about it.”

Arthur nods, but raises his eyes to Gwen in confusion:

“Ok, the sword and the leak I understand, but the flowers? Why would a castle delivery be any concern of his??”

Gwen widens her eyes in surprise, and Leon makes a disbelieving noise, before saying:

“Sire, with all due respect, Merlin is the King’s Personal Manservant. Of course it concerns him.”

At the growing confusion on Arthur’s face, Leon sighs. He drags a chair forward, and sits in his place behind Merlin’s head as he continues to absent-mindedly run his fingers through the man’s hair:

“My Lord, everything that has anything to do with you, gets run by Merlin first. Pretty much every non-political decision not directly made by you, is made by Merlin. I always thought it was rather hilarious that he didn’t seem to realise how much power he has within the castle.”

Arthur widens his eyes in realisation, and slumps back in his seat:

“I had no idea... no wonder he’s so exhausted all the time. He’s practically running the castle behind my back.”

Gwen nods sympathetically, but Gwaine still looks a little annoyed as he grinds out:

“Honestly princess. How did you think it was that the visitors you liked least were always housed in the chambers furthest away from yours? Or how the castle kitchen is always stocked up on your personal favourites? Or perhaps how council meetings always seem to be at a time most convenient for you, despite you never rearranging your own schedule? When we all joke about how you wouldn’t last a day without Merlin... we mean it. He doesn’t just dress you and feed you and sing you to sleep, he runs your whole life, mate.”

Leon and Gwen nod, and Arthur sighs, and the room goes silent for a few minutes, the only noise being Merlin’s ragged breathing.

Arthur finally straightens up, and nods to himself slightly:

“Right. Merlin gets every Monday off, no matter what, including his physician duties where possible. George is going to be reassigned as an... assistant of sorts; Merlin will hate it but I don’t care, he needs the help. He’s also going to get a bloody great big pay rise, and new chambers with a big desk. And that’s just to start with.”

Gaius raises his infamous eyebrow, but Arthur ignores it, he can see the hint of pride in his eyes. Gwen and Leon smile and nod, and Gwaine huffs before muttering:

“Yeah, that better be just to start with. Kid deserves the world.”

Arthur stands from his chair and begins pacing, before looking back to the others in a hurry:

“Ok, Gwen, can you go find the Housekeeper, inform her that I want a few more servants to be hired, on a permanent basis. The castle is obviously understaffed if Merlin is the only one fixing everyone else’s problems. Take Gwaine with you, a guard informed me the assassin had been caught and was likely working alone, but just in case.-”

With that, Gwen nods and leaves, closely followed by Gwaine, who stops only to give Arthur a short, assessing gaze, before giving him a nod and leaving.

“-Leon, find the Steward, and George if you can. Find a set of chambers that can be reassigned to Merlin, and tell them to begin the process immediately. Not too big, he’d complain and refuse to use them but... oh you know what he’s like, I trust you’ll pick something to his... tastes.”

Leon gives Arthur another smile, before heading towards the door. Just before he can leave, Arthur calls out for him again:

“And if you could have a plate of food sent here as soon as possible. I don’t think he’s eaten all day and we’ll need to get something down him when he wakes up.”

Leon nods, and leaves without another word. Arthur collapses back into his chair before looking at Gaius, and blushing at the fond smile on the older man’s face:

“What?”

Gaius just shakes his head as his smile grows:

“Nothing, my boy. I’m just glad you’re finally realising at least a little of what Merlin sacrifices for you.”

Arthur frowns and tilts his head:

“You mean there’s more he’s giving up than sleep, food, and any and all free time he has?”

Gaius drops his smile fractionally, but covers it quickly (not quick enough that Arthur didn’t notice however) :

“Hmm. Nothing that you need to worry yourself over, My Lord.”

Arthur’s frown deepens:

“Well now I’m just going to worry about it even more. What is it Gaius? If you won’t tell me what the problem is, at least tell me the solution.”

Gaius settles a heavy, pensive gaze on Arthur, and stays silent for a few moments before answering slowly and quietly:

“A long time a go, I gave Merlin some... difficult, advice, pertaining to which secrets he should keep to himself. Perhaps when he wakes I shall rescind said advice. But ultimately, whether he tells you the true extent of his... well, truth, or not, is up to him. I advise you not to push him.”

Arthur huffs:

“So he’s hiding something from me?”

Gaius gives The King a sympathetic smile:

“He’s hiding a multitude of things from a multitude of people. There are very few people who know Merlin fully. His life has been... difficult, from birth, to such an extent that not even I’m aware of what’s going through his mind, the pain he suffers, and I live with him.-”

Gaius stops hesitantly, but Arthur nods for him to continue. He looks deeply troubled, before saying:

“All I can request Sire, is that, if he does decide that he trusts you enough to reveal himself fully, let him finish the story in it’s entirety before you start forming conclusions, and remember, that everything he does, he does for Camelot, for you.”

Arthur’s face shows slight confusion, but he nods firmly. He may not fully understand what on earth Gaius is talking about, but he has a feeling he’ll know it when he sees it. Plus, Merlin means a great deal to him, and the man obviously does a lot for him, the least Arthur can do in return is sit patiently and wait for Merlin to come to him with whatever truth Gaius thinks is so worrying.

It was late in the night when Merlin started to stir, only a few hours until sunrise.

Arthur and Gaius had both fallen asleep after checking over Merlin’s bandages. Gaius had settled in a cot in the corner of the room, and Arthur was curled up in his seat, Merlin’s hand clutched in his.

Arthur woke slowly at first, and then all at once, when he realised that Merlin’s hand was twitching in his own. He leaned forward on his seat, frowning, as he stroked Merlin’s forehead gently with his other hand.

Merlin’s eyes blinked open, as he muttered Arthur’s name. The King smiled gently, placing a comforting hand in the centre of Merlin’s chest, and squeezing his hand slightly:

“Hey, how are you feeling?”

Merlin frowns slightly, before he gasps with wide eyes and tries to sit up. Arthur pushes back gently against his chest, and Merlin is far too weak to do anything about it as Arthur speaks quietly:

“No no no, you stay right there. You need to get better before you start rushing around again.”

Merlin frowns and begins to breath deeply:

“No, I don’t have the time Arthur, there’s too much I gotta do.”

He tries to sit up again, but Arthur holds him down, struggling to think of what to say to calm his manservant down before he did more damage to himself:

“No there isn’t. You can’t do anything when you’re sick and injured, alright?-”

At Merlin’s panicked expression, Arthur hurries to continue:

“Don’t worry, Merlin. Gwen spoke to the housekeeper about hiring some new servants to help. I’m going to get Percival to fix the leak in the stable later, Gwaine doesn’t need his sword for at least a few days, and to be perfectly honest, he can get it himself. The housekeeper will deal with the flowers, and Annabeth is fine, Gaius saw her earlier and sent her home for the day. There’s nothing for you to worry about, ok?”

Merlin frowns, and blinks blearily, clearly beginning to lose his lucidity:

“Are you ok? The... assassin... looked pretty... pretty... serious...”

He trails off, but refuses to close his eyes, and lifts a shivering hand to loosely clasp Arthur’s wrist as Arthur replies:

“You haven’t slept or eaten properly in days, you’ve been smacked around and stabbed, and you’re asking me if I’m ok?”

At Merlin’s once again panicked expression, Arthur sighs:

“Yes Merlin, I am one hundred percent ok, and so is everyone else. The assassin was caught, everyone is safe, and there’s nothing that you need to think about right now. Let go, get some sleep.”

Merlin frowns indignantly, and murmurs:

“I’ve already... slept too... long... gotta-”

Arthur huffs before interrupting him:

“Being unconscious is not the same as being asleep. Go to sleep Merlin. I promise, I will wake you up if you are needed in any way... do... do you trust me?”

Merlin looks at him oddly, before his eyelids flutter shut and he goes limp. Arthur just about hears the muttered-

“More that anyone.”

-before Merlin passes out once again, and after waiting a few minutes to make sure he wasn’t faking it (definitely something Merlin would do), he collapses back in his chair.

Merlin really was sick.

Arthur huffs with annoyance at himself, how had he not noticed this sooner? Why hadn’t he pushed it when he came to collect the laundry? Why hadn’t he given Merlin a day off when he got back from the lower-town? Though, knowing Merlin, he probably would’ve spent all day working anyway, even if it wasn’t directly for Arthur.

Arthur’s thoughts are racing so much that he knows he isn’t going to get back to sleep, but it was far too early in the day for anything official to get done; the city was asleep. And besides, even if there was something to be done, Arthur found himself exceedingly unwilling to let go of Merlin’s hand.

So sitting here and thinking was his only option it seemed.

Gwen, Gwaine, and Leon had come back around an hour after he had sent them away, and he was more than pleased with what they had to report.

The housekeeper had drafted up notices asking for permanent, paid, help in the castle, to be distributed in the lower-town tomorrow (or... later today).

Leon and the Steward had found a suitable set of chambers for Merlin, about halfway between Arthur’s and Gaius’, small compared to Arthur’s rooms, but still bigger than the footprint of Merlin’s house back in Ealdor.

Arthur hadn’t managed to get any food in Merlin when he briefly woke up, but the plate that Leon had sent up still sat their waiting, and it would be ready when Merlin was lucid enough to eat.

Arthur was still very worried about the man he had grown to trust more than even himself, but he also trusted Gaius, and if Gaius wasn’t freaking out, then neither would Arthur.

The next few days were... difficult, to say the least.

It took a lot of persuading to convince Merlin to stay in bed, and even a few sleeping draughts slipped into his tea, courtesy of Gaius.

Merlin was also getting increasingly annoyed at all of his friends visiting him, and treating him like he was made of glass.

He was getting desperate to leave the Physician’s chambers and get some work done, and Gaius was not best pleased when he caught the man trying to sneak out.

Gaius sternly told him to sit down and shut up for a minute whilst he explained why exactly he can’t get out of bed yet, and Merlin reluctantly sat back down, nodding at Gaius to start talking:

“Merlin, you hadn’t slept at all in at least seventy-two hours. You hadn’t slept well for the several weeks before that. You hadn’t eaten all day, and I imagine that you hadn’t eaten properly, again, for the several weeks before. You had a mild concussion and fractured collarbone, courtesy of Lord Anselm. Bruises on your hands from gods know what. Balance and dizziness issues caused by being medically exhausted. You are stressed far beyond levels that are even vaguely healthy. All of this, before you sustained a serious stab wound. Merlin, you had a panic attack, yesterday, over not being able to fix a leak. You can not keep working like this, or you will burn yourself out again, and then where will we be? You are of no use to anyone if you drop dead. So will you please, just trust that Arthur has things handled just fine without you.”

Merlin had the decency to look a little ashamed at first, but rolls his eyes when Gaius mentions Arthur:

“That man never has anything handled. Gods know how he’s even managed to get dressed the last few days.”

Gaius raises an eyebrow, an obvious “I dare you to argue with me right now” look if Merlin has ever seen one.

Merlin huffs before climbing fully back into his bed (still in the Physician’s chambers. Gaius advised against telling Merlin of all the changes that were happening until after he was better, otherwise he would... simply put, he would freak) and looking to his lap, frowning.

Gaius sighs, and puts a gentle hand on Merlin’s least-injured shoulder:

“Be patient, Merlin. You fail to realise how many people care about you, and how much. We would be devastated to lose you, it’s hard enough to see you suffer like this. So let yourself heal fully, if not for yourself, then for us.”

Merlin looks up at him tiredly (everything seems to tire him out at the moment) with tears in his eyes and Gaius leans forward to gather the boy in a hug.

Merlin falls into it easily, and buries his head in the crook of Gaius’ neck as the older man runs a hand through his hair. He sniffles slightly, before mumbling:

“I’m sorry.”

Gaius smiles sadly, not that Merlin can see it, before replying quietly:

“No need to apologise my boy, just get some sleep. I believe that Guinevere will be joining us for dinner later.”

Merlin nods before removing himself from Gaius’ arms, and settling back under the covers. He shifts until he’s comfortable, and whispers a soft goodnight (I mean... it’s the middle of the afternoon but he’s sleeping the nights and days away at the moment), before drifting off.

Gaius sighs once more, before leaving the room, shutting the door behind him quietly.

They had a long way to go. Physically, Merlin was well on his way to healing, but emotionally... well. He had a father-figure physician, a fellow servant, five boisterous but loving knights, and a King who may or may not be in love with him.

He’d get there. He just needed a little more time.

THE END

Thank you so much for requesting this anon, I had fun writing it! It kept getting longer and longer and I almost split it into two, but I just decided to go for it in the end.

I hope y’all enjoy! Same as always, you wanna write it up with proper paragraphs and extend it and everything, go for it, credit and tag me :)

Let me know if y’all want my thoughts on anything in particular!

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scripttorture · 3 years

Note

Hello! I have a few questions related to your most recent post and the definition of torture. You said:

"A trained person who was never tortured will always out perform someone whose training involved torture."

According to everything else I have seen on your blog, this makes sense - the mental and physical trauma from being tortured have lasting effects which make certain tasks more difficult.

However, this seems to juxtapose certain tropes I've seen in US military training advertisements. For example, "Hell Week" in the Navy SEAL training seems like it would be torture if it was forced upon someone (like if the soldiers didn't sign up for it and didn't have the option to quit.). *Hell Week is when soldiers are training continuously for 5 days in freezing, wet conditions, with little more than 4 hours of sleep for the entire week, under insane amounts of physical and mental stress.

- If someone chose to be tested both mentally and physically, I feel like it wouldn't be torture. However, if the same exact conditions were forced upon someone else (testing their mental and physical limits without their consent or understanding), does your quote above mean that the person who did not have a choice would not reap the benefits of the training/testing? Or would the Navy SEALs be better soldiers if they didn't have to go through 'torturous conditions' during Hell Week, regardless of their choice to do so?

(I used Hell Week as an example, but I meant this question generally. I'm trying to figure out how to best train an elite soldier and avoid any harmful torture apologia tropes, while also making sure that they are able to handle insanely challenging situations)

- My other question has more to do with the definition of torture that you quoted from the UN in one of your master posts. If someone is being seriously injured (pulled fingernails, whipping, starvation etc), but not for the purposes of interrogation, punishment, or intimidation, is that still torture, or is that just abuse? And, regardless of what we call it, would the effects be the same as if it were torture for any of the three motives above?

Sorry if this is long and hard to understand, I can clarify if needed!

It’s not the longest I’ve gotten and it’s perfectly clear, duck*. :) Honestly this is a difficult topic with a lot of nuance, it’s better to take a longer and more thoughtful approach.

From the stand point of the legal definition and what we study/understand as torture any consensual activity, however extreme, is not torture.

But here’s where it gets interesting: consent and our attitude to an activity actually changes our response to pain. It may even change how much pain we feel.

I’m going to take a slightly different example to yours. There are a lot of cultures globally that have practiced scarification, ritual cutting to deliberately form scars. And this can be done for a lot of reasons: membership of a family or clan, coming of age, traditional medicine, religion, you get the idea.

A lot of people in these cultures describe their scars as incredibly important and the process of getting them as a moving, deep and positive process.

This does not mean they wouldn’t be traumatised if they were attacked by someone with a knife.

Being able to approach something painful and see it as positive really changes our perspective. It makes trauma and mental illness a lot less likely. And being able to back out, even if it’s just for a little while to take a breather, seems to make us able to withstand more pain then we would have otherwise.

The simplest and most famous experiment that dealt with this relationship between our mindset and pain asked people to keep their hands in ice cold water. They timed how long people could do it when they were told to stay silent and how long they could do it when they were allowed to swear. If they swore they could hold their hands under for longer. An average of forty seconds longer.

Looking back over O’Mara (Why Torture Doesn’t Work, a very good intro to how pain works and what it does to the brain) the way he describes it as by thinking of the experience of pain as a collection of three things. There’s the physical sensation itself, the nerves firing. But there’s also an affective component, how we feel emotionally about the experience and a cognitive component, how we think about it.

Did you ever play that game as a kid where you stuff as many chilis as possible in your mouth to see who would spit them out first? I… might have done. And from what I remember it hurts an awful lot. But those memories to me are mostly about messing about with my friends, I remember trying to be stubborn about it and I remember us laughing at each other.

This is a completely different experience to someone being held down and having chili stuff up their nose. But the difference isn’t necessarily in the physical damage done or the physical sensation of pain. It’s in the other components, the emotional response and the rationalisation.

I also had a filling drilled in my tooth without painkillers as a kid. I don’t know how common this is in the West? It happened in Saudi. Honestly my biggest memory of it is the language barrier between myself and the dentist.

These are anecdotes obviously but I’m trying to show that you probably also have experiences in your own life that back up the experiments too. The way we think about a painful experience really does make a huge amount of difference. And that means consent matters enormously.

These soldiers are going into this experience knowing what to expect, how long it will last and that they can stop at any time. That makes a huge amount of difference. Those same factors have drastically increased the time volunteers will spend in solitary confinement for research. I’m pretty sure if I dug even a little I’d find pain studies with similar findings.

Here’s the flip side: the physical factors are still in play.

Sleep is an important physiological process that’s essential to normal functioning. Studies on consensual sleep deprivation have shown massive negative impacts on memory along with a host of other things that you can read about here.

Let’s take a non torture example. A student who stays up all night cramming for an exam is not going to develop the symptoms of trauma that a torture survivors who was sleep deprived would. But the effect sleep deprivation has on memory is due to sleep playing an essential role in preserving memory (and learning more generally.) So they’re both likely to have difficulty remembering things in days just before and just after sleep deprivation. They’re also both more likely to have false memories and catch a bad cold.

As a result of this memory impairment I question the educational value of anything involving sleep deprivation: you can’t learn while messing up the processes that let your brain remember things.

There have been cases in the UK of people dying during training for the armed forces. Because while consent makes a huge difference, mindset makes a huge difference- our bodies still have limits. We can choose to push ourselves past those limits and, whatever our motivation or feelings, it can do real harm.

Personally? I’m unsure of the benefit of these kinds of exercises. As in I’m unsure there is a benefit. Learning is going to be shot, chances of injury are going to be a lot higher- I don’t see anything that could be improved by these sorts of exercises.

Anecdotally people do report feeling like a closer unit after going through these sorts of routines. That might be the benefit: moral and unit cohesion, possibly self-esteem too.

If you’re making up something for your story I think it’d be helpful for me to mention a little statistical effect that gets used to justify punishment pretty regularly. Get some dice out if you’ve got them and roll one. Let’s say the number represents performance in some kind of test (because effort and learning matter but our performance also varies because of things we can’t control.) A roll of 1 gets punished, a roll of 6 gets praised.

Now after you roll that first 1 statistically speaking the chances are your next roll will be better. And if you roll a 6 then statistically speaking the chances are your next roll will be worse. People observe this effect in real life and they often conclude that there’s no point in praising someone but that punishment leads to improvement. Really it’s just a statistical effect, after a particularly, noticeably bad day the chances are things will be better next and vice versa.

This effect can make it difficult for people to recognise overall, long term progress. Which is the kind of progress you should be paying attention to when designing a training program.

If you want good performance from people, whatever the metric, the most efficient thing to do is ensure that those people are; well fed, have access to clean water, get plenty of sleep, have breaks and have access to medical treatment when they need it.

I’d say the main things to keep in mind when designing this fictional training regime are:

Being honest about the effects you describe, ie if they’re spending long periods without shelter are they at risk from exposure? If they’re standing in cold water are they going to get hypothermia?

Remember that even if something is damaging or causes lasting trauma it would not necessarily prevent someone from doing their job. Torture survivors have serious, lasting symptoms but many of them still work.

I think I’m going to leave that there because I’m not an expert in militaries or training people. And keep in mind that I am a pacifist, read this with my biases in mind.

Getting to the second question, there is a little more to the UN definition then that. The primary factor is still who the abuser is. For it to be torture (legally speaking) the abuser has to be (or be ordered by) an on-duty government employee, part of a group that controls territory (ie an occupying force). Some countries also count international organised criminal gangs in this definition.

It’s also important to note that torture can be targetted at someone other then the victim. So if the police arrest the brother of a political opponent and beat him in order to intimidate the politician, that is still torture.

Basically there are a lot of factors in the legal definition of torture and it’s that way by design. The hope is that you end up with a framework that captures as much government abuse as possible.

But it also means that there’s a pretty high barrier when it comes to proving torture. Which means that things which are legally torture can be prosecuted as assault, bodily harm or equivalents to these, because it’s easier to get a conviction for those charges.

Technically you are correct: if abuse done by a government official doesn’t have one of the four motivations in the legal definition (attempts to obtain information, forcing a confession, intimidation or punishment) then it doesn’t meet the definition.

However in practice I’ve not heard of a case failing because of the motive.

I’m not a lawyer and I’m not an expert in international law. I won’t say it’s never happened. But it’s much more common for cases to fail for other reasons. Off the top of my head I’d say the most common reason is difficulty proving the abuse took place.

The most common types of torture today are ‘clean’, a term we use to indicate that they don’t leave obvious marks. If someone turns up with fingernails torn out or the skin of their back lacerated by a whip that is clear physical evidence of abuse. Nothing else causes similar injuries. But if someone turns up at a doctor’s with swollen feet or reddened skin, if they’ve lost a lot of weight or they’re so tired they’re struggling to stand… Well all of those things can be caused by common tortures. But they can also be caused by common illnesses.

A lot of the deaths from torture today are similarly hard to prove. Beatings and stress positions ultimately cause death by kidney failure. Which can mean that prosecutors are asked to prove a victim didn’t have an underlying health condition. Or take drugs.

Honestly my instinct is that the motive is the easiest thing to prove. It’s often harder to bring charges against people in positions of authority, regardless of the country we’re talking about. Bringing those charges, proving abuse took place and proving it was done by the person in question, those are usually the tricky parts.

The difference between torture and abuse is scale. Torture is industrial scale abuse.

The law doesn’t define that scale but that’s what we’re talking about when we talk about abuse from organised authority. Abusers might have dozens of victims. Torturers have thousands, tens of thousands.

If you want to explore a different motivation in your story, something outside the legal framework, consider the scale at which this abuse is taking place. Consider how organised it is. If it’s organised and large scale, with multiple abusers, with no prior relationship between the abuser and victims then torture will probably be a better model then abuse. If it’s smaller scale with a more personal relationship and if it isn’t supported by a legal framework/organisation then abuse might be a better model.

For victims and survivors the difference isn’t so much about the symptoms they personally experience as the… side effect of that scale. Abuse victims are often very isolated and may not know anyone who has had a similar experience. Torture implies a community of survivors and possibly generational trauma. There are also effects to do with access to support, access to medical care and how likely it is that someone will be believed.

Torture survivors are often systematically disenfranchised in a way that abuse victims are not. Torture survivors are often forced to leave their home country. Anecdotally, based on what I’ve seen globally over the last few years, I think that struggling to get citizenship is increasingly an issue for torture survivors. And without citizenship there’s difficulty finding legal work, getting accommodation, accessing medical care, accessing the legal system etc.

I do not know whether torture survivors are more or less likely to be believed by their community compared to survivors of abuse. I do not think any one has attempted a comparative study. I do know that the prevalence of clean torture means that many torture survivors are not believed and this puts up a further barrier, making it harder to access medical treatment and bring charges.

Rejali’s book was published in 2009, so things may have changed a tad. At the time he was writing the average wait for a torture survivor to see a specialist doctor was about 10 years.

Abuse is to torture what murder is to genocide. And there are difference on a wider social scale as a result.

I mention all that because I feel it’s relevant but the impression I get is you’re mostly interested in the long term symptoms? In which case, yes the legal definition makes very little difference. The physical injuries caused by particular kinds of abuse don’t change depending on whether it’s a private individual or a police officer holding the Taser.

The lasting psychological symptoms are not particular to torture; they’re what the human brain does when traumatised. The same symptoms can manifest in people who witness traumatic events but weren’t actually hurt themselves. They can manifest in people who were injured in accidents and they manifest in people who were neglected or abused. Hell, I have a couple of them, though no where near the severity a torture survivors would experience. A sufficient amount of stress is enough for these symptoms to start developing in anybody.

You can find the general list of symptoms here. There’s also a post specifically about memory problems over here.

The pattern I describe; that these symptoms are a list of possibilities not ‘every torture victim will get all of these’ holds true for trauma survivors generally. Anecdotally there is some variability with chronic pain being reported more often with some kinds of abuse. That might be because it can have physical causes, psychological causes or a mix of the two.

Whether it’s torture or abuse there isn’t any way to predict a survivor’s symptoms in advance. Much of the advice I have about writing torture survivors and their symptoms holds true for trauma survivors generally. Which is why I’ll still take a crack at some questions that aren’t about torture.

Pick the symptoms that you feel fit the character and serve the story. We can’t predict symptoms and that means that there’s no reason why you shouldn’t pick the things that appeal to you.

And I think I’m going to leave it there. I hope that helps :)

Available on Wordpress.

Disclaimer

*This is a weird English endearment. I had someone ask if this was me trying not to swear.

#orphicphosphenes #writing advice #tw torture #torture as training #legal definition of torture #clean torture #military abuse #trauma #trauma and consent #pain #pain and memory #sleep deprivation #attitudes towards clean tortures #writing survivors #abuse within the military

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bostonbashers · 3 years

Text

mercs react to their s/o being terminally ill. ~

Hi I don’t know if you’re an angst person but I hope you consider my request. May I request the mercs with an s/o that gets diagnosed with a terminal illness that has no cure and could potentially be fatal? How do they deal with the idea that they could die?

How about mercs with an s/o who is very sick? Thank you and good luck!

so y’all tryna break my heart today, huh. i love writing angst but it always ends up hurting me :’)

terminally ill could be considered a heavy topic so i will tag it accordingly! poor mercs.. please enjoy! ❤️

[ TW: TERMINAL ILLNESS MENTION/ALCOHOL MENTION]

Scout:

scared to death for them. his face grows white upon hearing the news and he freezes, his stomach turning at the realization that he may lose the only person that could understand him, not as a scout but as himself.

will probably hurt more than his other half and the news weighs him down greatly, affecting his everyday tasks. he becomes very clingy and is worried that once he leaves their side, they’ll be gone from his reach.

not the best caretaker and doesn’t really know how to assist a sick person, so he calls his ma up for advice and tries his best to follow it, even if he makes a few stumbles here and there. you know he means well even if he nearly burns all the food he makes for you.

Soldier:

demands the medical center to do something about it and says it’s an order, his voice booming around the quiet area. when they apologize and inform him that nothing could be done, he nearly loses his shit and has to be held back before he decides to blow up the place.

tries to be strong for them, even if he’s godly worried but doesn’t show it. he highly believes they can make it through their sickness and tries to keep their spirit up no matter how low the day is; “this disease has got nothing on you, cupcake! you are the strongest fighter i know!” and when they smile, it motivates him to continue on.

Pyro:

they whimper cause they know something isn’t right. though they can’t quite put their finger on it, they do notice the change of behavior their s/o has as time passes. the way they drag their body, eat and sleep less, often too weak to move and it just worries them. they know something is wrong.

hugs and rainbows and everything bright makes everyone happy right? so they do just that. even if they can’t understand what they’re going through, they try to cheer them up with everything they have; stuffed animals, their favorite food, cuddles and even sets up little skits for them.

on their worse days, where they’re terribly ill and can’t build up the strength to do even the simplest of tasks, they just stay by their side, hugging them here and there to show that they’re not alone.

Demoman:

tavish is heart broken but he doesn’t show it to his s/o. the last thing they need to see is another crying face around them. instead, he asks how his s/o how they’re feeling and comforts them in their time of need despite the tears threatening to spill.

he mostly grieves in silence at first, not even alcohol being able to silence the pain that ached inside him. he cries to himself for a while until his s/o catches him one night, hunched over on the table while he let out soft sobs. they hug him from behind until he’s ready to talk and when he does, he feels much better.

once he composes himself the day after, he tries to cut down on the alcohol to be sober enough to care for his s/o properly. he wants to be there for them completely in their time of need.

Heavy:

is deeply saddened for his s/o, not knowing the impact it had placed on their shoulders. he doesn’t say much but hugs them gently, caressing their back for comfort. “(y/n) will be okay. misha is here.”

he’s already a worry wart so upon learning this, he becomes even worse with his concerns and frets about his s/o often, commenting on every little thing. if they cough too loud or even vomit, he freaks out inwardly and does everything and anything he can to help them.

he often asks medic for advice on how to help them cope with their disease at the least and follows his tips to the bone. he also makes sure that his s/o doesn’t overwork themselves at all and tells them to rest often.

Medic:

he thinks that the doctor is just pulling shit out of their ass and probably just giving his s/o a scare. they’ve been acting and looking fine lately, so it’d be strange for them to have an incurable disease. he brushes it off his shoulders for the time being.

but then as he slowly observes them more, he does notice major changes that he hadn’t caught before. the way they moved, spoke, and even the way their beautiful smile weakened eventually caught up to him and he’s completely devastated, reality finally striking him.

stays up countless nights to find a cure, anything and everything that could at least prevent it from worsening. it’s true, he could always bring people back to life but it wasn’t always an assurity and he wasn’t sure if a disease was the same, so it worries him more. even if his s/o begs him to take a break, he just won’t. not when they’re in danger.

Sniper:

he gets angry at the doctor at first, spewing out questions that he knew the doctor couldnt answer himself; “wut do ya mean ya weasels can’t do a thing? isn’t that your job?” when his s/o drags him out of the medical center, he grows eerily quiet compared to the moments earlier and keeps his head down the rest of the way home.

when his s/o does confront him later that night, they cup both his scruffy cheeks in their hands and he leans into their touch unconciously. “i’m gonna be okay.” he stays quiet, staring at them with a sullen expression. “oi know.” he murmurs, “oim just- just afraid to lose ya.” and they shake their head and wrap their arms around his torso, “you won’t.”

afraid is just the beginning. he’s utterly mortified with the idea of losing them, often keeping him awake at night and sending him into nightmares. he’s lost so many people in his life and he knows the pain of it, but this was different. this pain is absolutely unbearable and he holds them tight as they sleep, silently begging that they don’t take away the one perfect thing he has going in his life.

Engineer:

he tries not to cry right in front of his s/o as they announce the news to the both of them, but his s/o knows he’s one second away from breaking down so they pull him out of there as soon as possible. he tearfully apologizes to them, blaming himself for not taking care of them more often and how he should’ve noticed. his s/o tries to reassure him it’s not his fault but it doesn’t really change his mind.

doesn’t deal with the idea of losing his s/o very well. he smiles less and worries more, stressing himself out but tries to maintain his positive attitude for the sake of keeping them happy during these times.

anything his s/o needs, he does without a complaint. no matter what time of the day or how busy he is, he will drop it just to attend to them. he takes it up a notch once he’s aware his s/o is sick and you best believe it’ll be done in a heartbeat once those words leave your mouth.

Spy:

he’s had a feeling for a while that his other half was sick, hence the reason why he forcefully decided to drag them to the hospital. when the news is confirmed, he thanks the doctors and quietly pulls them out of the building. he sees the teary eyes of his s/o and sighs deeply, embracing them in a tight hug, whispering sweet nothings to them.

is aware that their s/o’s mental health may decline due to the sudden shock and tries to lighten up their day often, buying them things they want or complimenting them whenever he sees them. he also starts conversations whenever they’re around. even goes as far as dancing with them in the middle of his quarters.

makes sure his s/o is relaxed as possible at the same time. he messages their back and wherever it hurts, holds them whenever they need it, and becomes a mother hen whenever they fall terribly ill. even if he’s outwardly fine, he’s honestly devastated but tries to keep his head on his shoulders, knowing that panicking will only worsen the situation.

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anatomical-hearts · 3 years

Text

Din Djarin x sick!gnReader

Summary: getting sick and trying to hide it from a Mandalorian is not an easy task

Warnings: mentions of illness, description of symptoms (coughing, fever, shortness of breath, chills, etc.), y e a r n i n g

Word Count: 1.4k

A/n: My first ever fic!! I was thinking about how our favorite Mando would respond to his shipmate getting sick and that sparked my idea for this reader insert, enjoy!!

Hot. Everything was unbearably hot as sweat trailed down your neck, breath hitching. Groggily, you wonder if this is what hell feels like as a shiver takes over your exhausted body.

Things had been just fine as the Razor Crest took off after a surprisingly quiet mission, but of course, something had to go wrong. The kid must’ve picked up a virus from the planet because for many long, gruelling days he’d been sick as a corellian hound.

You blamed your current situation on the lack of sleep that had no doubt weakened your usually impeccable immune system. The child was fussy, crying for hours until you or Mando could finally lull him into a fitful sleep. There was nothing either of you could do but wait to see if the sickness would pass, and thank the maker, it eventually did. Unfortunately, he seems to have passed it onto you, leaving you violently shaking, covered in a sheen of sweat, and completely miserable.

The door to your cramped quarters slid open, momentarily pulling you out of your self-pity, and you cringed at the light spilling into the previously dark space. Before you could curl into yourself even more, a small huff and a touch on your leg seemingly demanded your attention. Lifting your pounding head from your cot, you softened when you saw two large eyes staring back at you, a concerned expression adorning a wrinkly green face.

“Hey kid... did you come to check on me?”

Your voice was weak, cracking as you struggled to speak, but the kid’s ears perked up when you addressed him. He immediately waddled over to your face, little arms outstretched, and cooed softly as he gently laid his hand on your feverish forehead. The exhaustion you had previously felt came back full force, but before you could fall asleep under the kid’s watchful gaze, you heard footsteps coming down the ladder from the cockpit. Kriff. Mando had enough on his shoulders at any given time, another sick shipmate was the last thing he needed right now.

Hastily pushing yourself upright, you put on what you hoped was your best “everything is completely fine” face before Mando’s beskar-covered form filled the small doorway. His helmet tilted slightly to the side as he took in your sickly presence and you couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably under his gaze. If he didn’t know you were sick already, he certainly knew now. Might as well rip this bandage off as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Unfortunately for you, nothing had gone your way on this maker-forsaken day and even the simplest of tasks were complicated by the fact that your body was waging a personal war against the virus currently in your system. Taking a shaky breath before attempting to speak, your breath caught in your throat, sending you spiraling into a hacking fit. Eyes watering, your body curled in on itself with the force of your coughing as you gasped for air in between breaths.

Vaguely, you could feel a weight being lifted from your cot and footsteps retreating back into the hull. Well, at least your shipmates would be spared the gruesome image of you dying from choking on your own spit. The thought was almost enough to make you laugh as your chest heaved in a feeble attempt to provide your body with air. It made sense that Mando wouldn’t want anything to do with you in this state, not to mention that he especially wouldn’t want the kid to get sick again; so when a bleary form seemed to materialize in front of you, you thought it must be a fever dream tormenting your weary soul.

Blinking your through bleary eyes, the first thing you saw was a cup with water directly in front of your face. It was... floating? No. There is a hand holding it... a gloved hand. A gloved hand attached to an armored man. With a small gasp, you realized that Mando had come back, sat on the edge of your cot, and was offering you a cup of water. All you could do was stare at the bounty hunter. This was a skilled man who you had seen take down bounties mercilessly without breaking a sweat, yet here he was, sitting awkwardly next to you and offering sweet relief.

It hit you all at once how parched you were and you eagerly snatched the water from his hand, gulping it down so quickly that you felt some of it drip down your chin and onto the already damp sheets. Taking the first unlabored breath you had in hours, Mando slowly grabbed the cup from your trembling hands and set the cup down on your small bedside table.

“Thank you...” you mumbled, unsuccessfully trying to avoid squirming under the Mandalorian’s unwavering gaze. His dark t-visor hadn’t left your face since you first noticed his presence. Maker, you must be a sight. Flushing you turn your face away from the heat of his gaze, trying to think of anything else to say to the stoic figure in front of you.

“I’ll uh-” dank farrik, you hated the way your voice cracked “I’ll get up and see if I can... um” kriff, what was it Mando hired you for again? The answer was right there in front of you but you just couldn’t wrap your fingers around it. Before you could embarrass yourself further with your mumbling confusions, Mando tentatively reached out his hand, his glove hovering over your shoulder. He was still looking at you. Maker, it was hot in here, had it always been this hot?

He was still as a statue in front of you, waiting... waiting for something. A cue from you, you realized as you stared at his hand. Slowly you dragged your gaze back to where you assumed his eyes were behind the visor and gave him a slow nod. Lightly, so gently you could cry at how he treated you with such tenderness in this moment, his gloved hand rested on your shoulder. The slight touch sent shockwaves through your system as an uncharacteristically soft modulated voice broke the silence.

“You don’t have to get up or do anything today just...” his fingers twitched ever so slightly “Just rest cyar’ika.”

He applied the smallest bit of pressure to your shoulder and you felt yourself laying back down into the softness of your cot. Exhaustion overtook your body as you lay there, struggling to comprehend the events taking place. You wanted to argue with him. You wanted to insist that you were fine, that he didn’t have to handle the kid by himself, that you could still do something. You wanted to ask him what that strange word he said at the end of his sentence meant, he said it with such… care. However, the hand on your shoulder didn’t leave as you finally felt your body relax into the sheets underneath you.

It was finally registering just how much you needed this, just a day to allow your body to heal. With your last bit of strength you nodded once and let your eyes flutter closed. Only then did his comforting hand leave you, but even then it seemed that he lingered just a moment longer than necessary... then again, it may have been the fever making you sense things that weren’t actually there.

You heard his retreating footsteps as he walked towards the door and closed it softly, sleep claiming you the moment he was gone. With your last bit of strength, you will yourself to remember this moment, to cling to it with every last fiber of your being until you’re sure that the Mandalorian’s soft voice and light touch would be ingrained in your memory forever.

Outside of your cot, the Mandalorian stood in the middle of the hull, staring at the hand that had been on your shoulder just moments before. Even through his glove, Din could feel the warmth radiating from your shoulder, imagine how soft your skin might feel beneath his bare hand. Before he could get lost in the aching feeling enveloping his chest, soft cooing from the cockpit brought him back to reality. With one last glance at your closed door, the Mandalorian slowly made his way up to the kid, his mind never straying from you and the way you had unknowingly held his gaze behind the visor.

#din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #sick fic #totally self indulgent #the mandalorian #din djarin #fanfic #anatomical writes

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smage17 · 3 years

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The Simplest Thing in the World

Title: The Simplest Thing in the World Pairing: Dio Brando x Jonathan Joestar Rating: G Tags: Modern AU, Reincarnation AU, Established Relationship, Sickfic, Fluff Summary: When Jonathan comes down with a fever, Dio takes up the task of caring for him. The only problem is he isn’t exactly sure how. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rain had been drizzling down since morning, turning the day a murky grey. Even with the furnace turned up, that autumn rain left a chill throughout the house. Horrendous weather. Not the kind that Dio would have stepped foot in, let alone stayed out all day digging around in — which is why Jojo should have listened to his advice and not gone out on his scheduled dig off in the countryside. Instead, he had carried on about the logistics of postponing the survey, how desperately excited he was to uncover whatever knick-knack he was hunting for this time, until Dio had given him a cold shoulder to rival the weather outside. Not to be swayed when he’d set his mind to something, Dio could do nothing but begrudgingly accept Jojo’s kiss on the cheek as he walked out the door. And so, while he should have been relaxing on his day off, Dio had sat restlessly by the fireplace all day, distractedly thumbing through novels and case files. He tried not to think about the weather or the memories it brought up, and especially not about how much he wished Jojo were next to him right now. It’s not as if the two were bound to each other, after all — except by the threads of fate, perhaps. Dio didn’t feel the need any more to keep Jonathan under his constant surveillance. After they’d settled the initial problems between them, the loose threads and things left unsaid from their past life together, they managed to have a comparatively less fraught relationship. It was easier to be honest, with the gift of hindsight. To do things right this time. They’d even gotten married three years past. Dio didn’t need Jojo by his side, he reminded himself. It was only that he didn’t like his correct advice being ignored.

And so he certainly didn’t perk up in excitement when he heard the lock turn on the front door. That not-excitement quickly faded when the door swung open and he saw the figure standing there. Jojo was soaked through from his hat down to his boots, hardly recognizable from how sodden he was. “Bloody hell Jojo, what happened to you?” Dio said, setting his book down and making his way over. He stayed decidedly back from the splash zone as Jonathan unburdened himself, setting his gear bag down and hanging his coat to drip over the mud tray next to the door. Jonathan let out a groan. “Umbrella broke halfway from the station. I hadn’t expected it could rain this hard!” He gave a laugh, but there was no mirth in it. “Didn’t I warn you of the forecast just this morning?” Dio huffed, although he was already on his way to the kitchen for a towel. He rejoined Jojo shortly, continuing to reprimand him even while drying his hair. “I told you to forego the dig, and now look at what a sorry state you’re in. If you had listened to me, Dio, instead of traipsing off like a fool, this never would have occurred.” Dio paused, waiting for some sort of retort or excuse from Jojo, but the man just stood there letting himself be ruffled and dabbed at with the towel. Through the folds of fabric Dio could see Jonathan’s face, an abject picture of misery. It was like a puppy who’d been thrown into the streets and kicked a few times for good measure. Dio didn’t have any sympathy for such mutts, but Jojo was his. He couldn’t allow a look like that to tarnish his husband’s features. He slowed his ministrations with a sigh, leaning in to press their foreheads together. “Gods Jojo, you’re like ice. Go get changed and have a seat by the fire before you catch your death. I’ll make you some cocoa, hm?” “Really?” The eyes peeking out from beneath the towel and damp tendrils of hair had already begun to regain some of their sparkle, and his lips were curled up in a barely restrained smile. Decidedly undoglike already. Yes, this was the way Dio preferred Jojo to look. With a nod, he gave the towel one last ruffle and headed back to the kitchen. He tried not to think about how much Jojo would drip on the floor on his way to their bedroom.

When he came back to the living room, Jojo had put on his warmest flannel pajamas and was bundled by the fire in the tartan blanket Dio had been wrapped in just moments ago. His eyes were half-closed, and he seemed about ready to doze off in the comfortable warmth. It brought a smile to Dio’s own face as he settled down on the couch next to him. “Here you are.” He said, handing the mug over. He was certain the rich cocoa — complete with the tiny marshmallows Jojo loved — would have him forgetting about his miserable walk from the station in no time. Then Dio could go back to saying “I told you so”. Jonathan sipped at the cocoa, mug gripped in two hands for the warmth. Dio leaned into him. “There, does that make you feel better?” he asked, knowing it would. Jonathan gave no reply, only slurping the beverage quietly. Dio furrowed his brow. The least he could do was say a word of thanks! But when he glanced up at Jojo’s face, his eyes widened. Jonathan’s eyes had fallen closed, and he leaned slightly to the side as if he had drifted to sleep, but something about it wasn’t quite right. Dio pressed the back of his hand against his husband’s forehead, finding it burned in a way that could not be explained by his proximity to the fire. “Jojo?” He inquired, which was met only with the fluttering of eyelashes. “Alright then,” Dio said, taking back the mug — which at least got a whine in response. “Diooo….” Jonathan mumbled quietly. “Shh, now’s not the time to worry over your chocolate. I believe you’ve caught a fever.” The man only listed more to the side, clearly not having as much concern for his own health as Dio did. Then this would be up to him alone, after all. Jonathan was lucky to have such a caring lover as he! Carefully, he slung Jojo’s arms over his shoulders and eased him from the couch. Any other would have had a difficult time lifting the man, but Dio had no such problem supporting the barely-conscious Joestar as they crossed to the bedroom. He didn’t even complain when he felt the disgusting sensation of stepping upon one of Jojo’s wet footprints in his stockinged feet. But oh, there would be a time for that. Once he had Jonathan properly tucked into bed, he didn’t waste a moment to gaze upon the pitiful image before heading to the kitchen for a damp cloth, retrieving the cocoa on his way back to the bedroom. “Come on, Jojo.” Patting his cheek briskly, which succeeded in getting him to open his eyes, bleary though they were. “Good boy.” He placed a kiss on Jonathan’s feverish head before applying the cool, wet cloth. “Don’t fret, your cocoa is right here on the side table. You are ill. Stay here and don’t move, I’m running out to the chemist for some medicine.” Jojo only made a light mumbling noise, reaching his hand to cover Dio’s as it lay upon the cloth. But there was no time for sentimentality. “I won’t be long. Don’t you dare get out of this bed.” Dio gave his hand a quick squeeze. He only paused to turn on the soft bedside lamp before heading out into the dreadful weather with his own, functional, umbrella.

Though the umbrella had kept him dry, the weather had him feeling quite cross by the time he returned. To think this was all happening because Jojo had defied him this morning! Mad though he was, he wasn’t about to let the man die for his mistakes, so he took out his anger by slamming the kitchen cupboards in his wake as he gathered what he needed. He set out the bottle of medicine on a tray, filling a glass with water as well as a bowl to refresh the cloth on Jonathan’s head. By the time he was finished that, the anger had ebbed and his energy had refocused onto the task at hand. Thankfully, the man was still in bed, and stirred just a little when Dio entered. When Dio set the tray down on the side table, he was relieved to see the cocoa had been finished — always a good sign. If Jojo had been sick enough to refuse chocolate, now that would have been a great cause for concern. Dio pulled out the stopper on the medicine bottle. Before he let the dose drop into the glass of water, he paused, a jagged chill of caution shooting up his spine. He found himself glancing at Jonathan — who was not paying attention — out of some centuries-old reflex. Slowly, he took a breath and came back into himself — his current self. It mattered not if Jonathan saw him adding the drops, for this was only medicine, and prescribed to the man after all. Understandable that his reflexes would kick in, for he believed this was the first time in two lifetimes that he, Dio, was administering a drug with the intent to heal. The realization didn’t sit well with him, and neither did the dawning fact that he had never nursed another before. For only a moment, a sickening feeling of helplessness rolled in. Never had he been so out of his depth. But he’d be damned if he let Jojo be privy to that fact! How hard could it be for one such as himself to care for a single ill buffoon? In fact, it was very likely that now given the chance, Dio would excel in this feat like he did at everything else. He let the medicine drop into the glass, watching as it dispersed through the water. Then, he turned to the sleeping man — and nearly jumped to find Jojo’s slivered eyes trained on him. There’s nothing to worry about he reminded himself. “Jojo… my love, sit up and drink this.” It was hard for him to casually speak in such endearing terms, but he saw the energy — however slight — that the words awakened in the other man. Jonathan had cared for him on the one or two occasions he’d gotten too sick to do it himself, and although he enjoyed having Jojo’s full attention he hated the feeling of vulnerability it left him with. Now he was realizing there was plenty of vulnerability on the other side of that exchange as well. Abhorrent. But if it was necessary, then Dio would suck it up for the sake of doing this right. Once Jonathan had been propped up against the pillows, he set the glass upon his lips, holding it in place rather than trusting Jojo’s weak grasp at the moment. “Slowly,” he cautioned, although Jonathan still managed to gulp the cool liquid down as fast as Dio would allow. He let out a great gasp when he had finished, unsurprising since he hadn’t paused even to take a breath. At least the medicine was in him now and could begin its work. “Thank you, Dio.” Jonathan said softly. “Don’t mention it.” Even after all these years, the trust with which Jojo had accepted the medicine nearly made his hands shake, and Dio had to will them still before he continued his work. He lifted the cloth, letting his hand rest on Jonathan’s forehead momentarily before dipping the cloth in the bowl of cool water and wringing it out. The temperature hadn’t gone down at all. “For going out there to get the medicine, and everything…” Jojo continued as Dio replaced the cloth. “I’m sure… I’ll be fine now, so you can just…” His eyes were fighting to keep themselves open, and his voice was weak. “Now Jojo, I think we’ve had enough foolishness for today. Lay back.” Dio helped him to do so and tucked the blankets up to his chin. What more could he do? He tried to think back to the times Jojo had nursed him, but the memories were foggy due to his own delirious state at the time. Still, with all the books he had read, he’d picked up a few common practices for a situation like this. “I will make you soup,” he said, matter-of-factly. He blinked down at Jojo, who stared at him foggily — had the man just been speaking? No, surely not. “Erm, but I—” “No need to worry, it won’t take but a moment. Call for me if you need anything.” He cupped Jonathan’s cheeks and placed a kiss to the crown of his head. Then, he was out of the room with haste, on a mission. Of course, there was no time to go shopping for premium ingredients, so the boxed chicken broth they had in the pantry would have to do. Still, he made sure to add in fresh chicken, celery, carrot, and plenty of herbs and spices. While it simmered, he popped back into the bedroom, cooling Jojo’s forehead as he slept. By the time he was done he was certain the soup could heal even the worst afflictions, not to mention could rival that of any four-star chef.

When he eased quietly through the bedroom door, Jojo seemed more alert to his presence than before, and his colouring had improved. Dio smiled as he approached the bed, setting the soup bowl on the bedside tray. He brought over a chair and sat down. “My Jojo.” He stroked his husband’s cheek, “Do you think you could eat some soup?” The glimmer in those dark blue eyes was reward enough for the sentimentality. “If you made it, of course Dio.” Jojo’s voice was still soft, though it seemed like he’d regained some strength by now. A little seed of pride sprouted in Dio’s chest as he helped Jonathan to sit up (not that he had ever been short of such a thing). Jonathan reached for the bowl but Dio gently swatted his hands away. “Allow me,” he said, making it clear obedience was not optional. So Jonathan sat back against the pillows let Dio lift the spoon to his mouth. Dio listened to the slurping sounds without complaint, although they grated on him. He supposed Jojo did not have much control over his manners in a situation like this. “It’s not too hot, is it?” he asked. Jonathan shook his head. “No, it’s delicious.” “Of course it is. Have some more.” Dio refilled the spoon. Soon they had settled into a rhythm, and Dio found himself relaxing, watching the man eat the soup that he was sure would make him feel better. But soon the bowl was empty, and Dio turned back to fretting. So much so that he hardly paid attention to the soft look Jojo was giving him. “I’m so thankful to have you as my caretaker, Dio…” What could he do next? He’d given the man medicine, let him sleep, and even fed him homemade soup. Maybe the cloth needed refreshing, or perhaps he could get him more water? Yes, something to drink would be good. “I know you always strive to be the best, but you needn’t do so mu—” “I’ll go put the kettle on for tea!” Dio said, leaping from his seat and heading to do just that. A pressure on his wrist stopped his swirling mind in a moment, and he turned back to see Jonathan gripping weakly onto the cuff of his shirt. Dio took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then took Jonathan’s warm palm into his. “What is it that you want, Jojo? What can I do for you?” Of course. If he wanted to know what he should do, he need only have asked the man himself. At this moment he may well have done anything for him. “Would you…” came Jonathan’s hesitant reply, “Just stay by my side? I feel so much better when you’re near.” Dio’s features softened and his heart fluttered in his chest. “Of… of course, Jojo.” When he had turned down the covers and slipped into bed, Jojo wasted no time cuddling up to him. In truth, it was sweltering, but now was not the time to complain. At the very least, the chill that had plagued Dio since morning had finally been chased off. So stay by his side he did. Dio lay with Jonathan, stroking his hair idly as the time ticked by. Reading to him when he was awake, and humming to him softly while he slept. It was a tune he seemed to remember from long ago, though he couldn’t recall quite where he’d picked it up. Perhaps a memory from the distant past, a comfort from when he’d once been ill a lifetime before. Jojo’s features were soft in his sleep, and when Dio leaned his cheek against the man’s forehead, it felt almost cool. After a time, Dio drifted off to sleep, still holding Jojo close.

When they awoke, it was morning. The sun was shining and birds chirped outside the window. Dio took a moment to blink in the light before gazing down into those sleepy blue eyes. They were considerably sharper than the night before. “Feeling better, Jojo?” “Mhm, much better. All thanks to you!” “Now Jojo, if only you had postponed your dig until today…” Dio mumbled more to himself than anything else, not really putting any fight into it. Jonathan snuggled closer. “Oh but Dio, if I had, I wouldn’t be waking up so lazily next to my beautiful husband like this.” “Mm… when you put it that way, I suppose I can concede.” “Nor would I have received all that loving attention yesterday.” Jonathan let out a contented sigh. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been so well cared for in my life.” His voice was still somewhat weak but Dio could feel a smile in it, and so he let himself smile too. “Naturally, I, Dio, would provide the utmost care for the only man deserving of my affections,” he said, running his fingers through Jonathan’s curls. “Then I truly am lucky to have you. Maybe I should try to get sick more often…” “Jojo…” Dio’s voice was filled with reproach, which got a weak chuckle from Jojo, more felt than heard. “I am kidding! But I do enjoy this doting side of yours, Dio. I would love to see more of it.” “Hmm…” Though he loved Jojo more than anything, he’d often thought that kindness was simply not in his nature. Perhaps it was the lingering traces of who he’d been in the past, when he’d grown up in a harsher life. It was only now that he realized just how good it felt to heal Jonathan with his own two hands. To feel that seed of pride blossom when he saw adoration in those blue eyes, not merely because Dio deserved to be adored (which he did), but because of the care he’d given. When Dio considered it, perhaps he enjoyed it too. He couldn’t let Jojo get too spoiled of course, but if his mere attention could make the man feel better he couldn’t argue. With Jojo cuddled warm against his side, it’s not as if he didn’t understand the feeling. He stroked his husband’s cheek before kissing him gently. “Dearest Jojo, if you wish for it, you need only ask.” As if it was the simplest thing in the world.

#jonadio #diojona #this is my first djd fic :3c

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whump-town · 3 years

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Halloween

Right after 5x01 with Reid and Hotch both pulling away, Morgan and Emily take matters into their own hands.

“I don’t want to.”

Morgan, who up until that point, had really, truly believed that the worst of his year was behind him closes his eyes with a tired sigh. As if the pig farm hadn’t felt suffocating on its own, now it’s tangled in his mind with Foyet. The pigs, Mason, that poor girl, and Hotch. Because that terrible night hadn’t ended for Hotch as it had for the rest of them. They slept while Hotch lay on his apartment floor, his own blood soaking into his clothes. The hospital hadn’t even washed the dried blood from his hair by the time the team arrived.

Emily had the next day. It had taken Derek and Emily both to do the seemingly mindless task. Hotch had been uncomfortable, dirty and the nurses had given them the leeway to tackle the task together. And they were both very aware of how annoyed he was to have to succumb to their help. Hotch can hardly raise his arms to his waist, he wasn’t going to be washing his one hair. And as the oldest of his own siblings and still leaning heavily into that protective mindset, Morgan would heavily prefer it to be him there. So, bracing Hotch’s side with his own body, Derek had held Hotch upright while Emily gently scrubbed his hair clean of his blood.

The scent thick and acidic but slowly replaced with a smell distinctly hospital-like. The water had browned, the suds too dirty to even help only about halfway through. Standing there, Hotch’s body growing heavier and shaking gently against Morgan’s ribs he could see every bone in his boss’s back. And, too soon, they had to call it quiets. The monitors were picking up, distraught with the pain Hotch had hidden so well. His heart missing beats as Morgan had eased his head back into the pillows.

Emily standing there, white as a ghost, with that bucket of water. Hotch was only half-aware of them and their intentions by then. Watching Morgan behind half-lidded eyes and lips pale and parted as he took a dry rag through his hair. Morgan’s mother had always told him that going out in the cold with wet hair would give you pneumonia and while he had never known anyone to get pneumonia like that he wasn’t going to take any chances. Even if they were in a temperature-controlled hospital room.

And through all of that, Hotch had made it. Slowly, through shrieking monitors and more than one scare, alive. A fucking miracle.

“What do you mean you don’t want to go?” It’s Halloween. For as long as Morgan has known Reid, it’s been his favorite holiday. Hell, everyone knows it’s his favorite holiday. Even Hotch gets a little festive in the name of bringing even the faintest smile to Reid’s face. The idea for today, a party to celebrate Halloween, had been done with Reid specifically in mind. Being cooped up in this apartment isn’t good for him.

Reid who hasn’t actually looked at Morgan since he came in, twirls the frayed ends of his blanket around his finger. “I don’t want to,” he repeats. It’s one thing to mop about in this apartment. Here, no one watches him struggle to move. No one looks too hard, too long at his ill-practiced steps. At the crutches tucked under his scrawny arms. Worse is that if he goes, he can’t take his crutches. He’ll have to the stupid wheelchair in his room. Whos open seat is a crookedly carved leather smile, taunting him.

Morgan shakes his head and keeps at his current project. For the past week (has it been a week? He isn’t certain) he’s done nothing but tidies up every space around him. Having attacked Hotch’s apartment-- tearing up that blood-stained carpet, patching the hole in the wall, fixing a leaky faucet in the guest room, and cleaning out his worryingly empty fridge-- he’s come to Reid’s. The thing is Reid is going to make this process a little harder. There are bits and pieces of Reid in every corner of his apartment. Not self-deprecatingly bare like Hotch’s. Here, he can’t disrupt the way books lie because they all have been sectioned and left where they are with purpose. There is a purpose to his chaos more meaningful than Hotch’s out of sight out of mind.

“Well, you have to go.”

Reid frowns, biting his lip to refrain from whining. Despite having done more by his current twenty-four-years of age than any of them, they still treat him like a child. And while any of them might be forgiven for a bit of childish refusal he won’t be. Well, in all fairness, he is prone to a bit more childish things than they are. Reid had to be forced to go to the doctor’s for a check-up after getting anthrax and all because he had thought they might ask to do blood tests. What had made him go, in the end? Morgan taking Reid himself. It was humiliating but when they draw blood Morgan had offered his hand and Reid had taken it.

Now, Morgan’s just asking for a favor. For Reid to suck it up, just this once. To have fun and be easy. “Hotch is only coming because he’s under the impression this is all for you.” And it is, all for Reid. None of them care about Halloween. Hotch least of all. But the two of them are going to go crazy cooped up on their own.

Of course, that’s only mostly true.

It’s entirely Morgan and Emily’s idea.

“Okay,” Reid sighs, scratching self-conscious at his scalp. “I just…” he shoves the blankets off his legs. “Just need a few minutes.” A shower. He needs a shower and, if he’s granted the time for it, a pity nap.

Morgan hums, head bent to his current task of cleaning Reid’s strangely large collection of mugs lining his counter. “As long as you need,” he mumbles.

Two years ago, if someone sat David Rossi down and told him that on a Saturday in October he’d be celebrating Halloween as a fully grown man... he wouldn’t believe them. Add in the fact that he would be doing this because it’s a twenty-something-year-old genius’s favorite holiday and he’s doing it to lighten the mood of his old prodigy… well, he’d consider himself senile.

He should have stayed retired.

As of the last month, he’s been thinking that a lot. Don’t get him wrong, he loves the little ragtag team Aaron’s created in his absence but they're a little crazy and trouble magnets-- Emily and Reid attempt at a second Waco with Benjamin Cyrus, the bombing in New York, and George Foyet. All within the span of a year. He’s only heard about some of the other things they did before he came back.

These freaking kids are crazy.

“Will you just listen to me,” Dave is multi-tasking. Aside from picking out comfortable clothes for the evening he also has got to swindle Hotch into coming out to the party. “For once in your life, Aaron, just listen to me.” As dramatic as that may sound, it’s kind of fair. Even when they prodigy and mentor, Aaron had a flair for taking Dave’s instructions in one ear and out the other.

“Dave,” comes Aaron’s soft rebuttal. He’s exhausted. Much to his chagrin, three days rest has done nothing to mend the bone-tired ache in his body. Add the depression he can feel settling across his sternum and the way his ribs feel like they’re being pried open… He has no interest in watching his team get drunk at Dave’s house. Call him a buzzkill or a killjoy to heart’s content, that’s not going to change his mind.

Besides, the last thing he needs is to start himself into a bad habit of drinking every time he’s sad. Then what? He starts himself down a road of addiction. He comes to work drunk. Derek tries to say something. Dave is worried. He gets fired. He’s no better than his own father.

Rossi’s voice softens, any of the agitation previously in his voice is gone. “Aaron,” he calls through the speaker. “I’m not asking. Emily’s on her way right now to come to get you.” He sighs under his breath, just tired, not even mad. “You can make that hard for her,” Dave offers, knowing that’s what Hoch is going to be inclined to do. “I think we both know she deserves a break from that, though.”

Hotch feels the defeat pull his shoulders down. He’s been an asshole lately. Logically, he knows it’s a progression of all the emotions he’s feeling and burying. Emily doesn’t hate him for that but he knows she’s starting to feel overwhelmed by it. And given how successful his other attempts at pushing everyone else away has been, he might just owe her a little reprieve. To do this one thing without an entire battle.

“I’ll… I’ll be there.”

Dave smiles on the other side of the line, content with himself. “Thank you, Aaron. I will see you there, kiddo.”

It’s always the smartest people that fall for the simplest tricks.

Unlike Derek, Emily does feel bad about their plan. Logically, she’s very aware of how beneficial it’s going to be. If they don’t invite themselves over, Reid won’t ask anyone to come. Which means that he’s got to be getting his meals some other way. The thing is, if he were getting them delivered by a friend unknown to his team members, there should be something left over. Food in his fridge or trash in his garbage can. But there’s nothing.

Why does love have to be so difficult? How is it that some people understand it and others are stunningly unaware? Somehow wrapping their pretty little heads around this idea that they are undeserving or tricksters for having tricked someone into caring about them. If they didn’t love Reid would they feverishly watch over him? Did he really consider himself that sinister? That malicious? That he could trick profilers into loving him? Let it be clear, there is no trick. They are not so foolish and he not so unlovable.

“Derek, I think we might--”

Reid’s wobbly. He’s not yet mastered the crutches (at all). His practice comes only from the hospital and then his instructions had been brief before he was sent down the hall. A nurse just needing to see he could maneuver them and that they were at the right height. So, as bitter as he is to admit it, Derek’s lightly placed hand on the small of his back is very helpful.

Turning to see Emily, Reid lurches dangerous and Morgan moves quickly to stop him from falling. Just behind them, SUV pulled up onto Rossi’s lawn as close as she could pull it up, Emily is helping Hotch out of the car. Even from here, he can hear the lowered grumbling shared between the two. Despite being unable to see Hotch except for one brief moment, Reid’s glad to at least hear the other man. Him and Emily clipping rough comments back and forth. Bordering on rude but it’s between them and they’ve always let one another slide in these areas.

Vaguely he can piece together that they’re arguing about whether or not Morgan’s help is needed. “--wheelchair, that you made me leave-- I will take you back-- walker-- asshole!” Despite how angrily they nip back and forth, it’s all in what they don’t say. Hotch falls into Emily’s guiding step. Not even breaking from his own comment as her hand comes around his hips and effortlessly supports his weight as they take a step up. Neither taking the blow below the belt to note how Hotch’s words get cut off by a hardly contained whimper of pain or how choked his quick, distressed breathing becomes.

Morgan’s help is needed but Emily is too focused on keeping Hotch’s feet firmly planted on the ground and Hotch too worried about not busting his ass on the ice.

Reid jerks as Dave’s front door is thrown open. One hand on his hip, an apron over his chest, he shakes his head at the sight of the four of them. “I can hear you two arguing like children from in the house!” he shouts. He steps out onto the porch, tucking the towel in his hand into his pants. “Grown adults out here acting like children!” There is an unmistakable David Rossi laced fondness in his tone. That, despite his haste movements and dry frown, is taken as such because they know him. And he knows Hotch and Emily well enough to know this would happen.

“Get yourselves inside,” Rossi’s entire body changes when he sees Morgan and Reid. A simple passing hand down Morgan’s back for encouragement. “There’s root beer in the bottom drawer in the fridge, have Henry get you one!”

Reid smiles, suddenly excited for this afternoon. Root beer is… it’s the keystone of his childhood. There was not a matter he and his mother couldn’t handle with a little root beer. And while he doesn’t indulge himself often with that luxury (still some part of his brain fails to comprehend that he has the money to get it) Dave always has it. Hearing that Henry is here, implying Will and JJ too, he feels himself growing giddy. Pleased. He can’t wait to talk to them. For Will to hit his shoulder with his fist just a little too hard and to rustle his hair. JJ hovering and laughing. Henry. Smiling laughing.

Dave keeps going.

His frowning turning into a small while Hotch’s dark eyes find him, a glint of hope. “Our poor hero,” Dave greets in a half-jab at Hotch. He cups the younger man’s cheek, smiling at him. “I assume Emily has been her cruel and unusual self?” Once again, another jab. It’s a perfect balance. He neither takes Emily’s side (exhausted by Hotch’s antics) nor Hotch’s (exhausted by Emily’s antics).

They both scoff, at both implications.

“Hotch is being an asshole,” Emily grumbles, childishly sticking her tongue out at him. “Per his usual self.”

Hotch turns to Dave and returns, “to answer your question, yes she is.”

Wedged between Dave and Emily, Hotch makes it to the porch. Emily only hits him once. Once. He deserved it.

“Would you two behave?”

They get all of two steps in before JJ puts a stop to it. You see, no one ever listens to Dave. Not once has anyone ever listened to Hotch but JJ. No, to JJ, they always listen. And with a slow final few blows, Hotch and Emily stop bickering.

“Now,” JJ has flour on her chest. An honor which means Rossi has let her within his kitchen. “Go sit,” she points to the living room, stepping aside to let them through. “Behave yourselves or I’m not letting you eat until you hug and tell each other you love one another.” Her grandmother used to force that punishment on JJ and her sister as children. Cruel, she had thought then, but JJ has learned it to be very useful. As they pass, she hears them both grumble something about Hotch’s mostly liquid diet and how Emily doesn’t think that’s very fair. JJ throws her own towel at their heads. It’s well worth the shared smirk of mischief shared between Hotch and Emily.

Little deviants, she thinks with an eye roll. It’s Halloween so she lets it slide.

In the living room, Reid and Hotch are left while the others fight over one another in the kitchen. The clatter is heard through the whole house. Morgan making Garcia laugh, a barking sound that draws a smile from Reid. Joyous. Emily lightly teasing Rossi for what she teases is new greying in his hair. She asks if he’d like her to dye it for him the next time he gets his hair colored. Her triumphant laughter is just as freeing.

“Hotch?”

Beaten by the effort it took to walk all the way to the living room, Hotch had mostly succumbed to his placement on in the lazyboy. A chair, in which, he had never sat once in all the years he’d visited Dave’s. But the recliner is large and he can easily lean to support his side. Keeping an arm wrapped around his aching side. Without opening his eyes, head tilted back he hums. “Yeah?”

Reid’s knee is carefully surrounded by pillows. Even if it’s jostled, it’s fully supported in every direction. He’d been sitting here, watching Hotch’s face steadily grow blank. Masking his pain. He’d wanted to know if Hotch too had been tricked into coming. But then, as Morgan, followed closely by Garcia and the others, step in and Reid finds he doesn’t actually need to know. Hotch came, didn’t he? Left the safety of his dark apartment in favor of their boisterous company. Of little Henry in his Spiderman costume and Garcia and her own elaborate Harry Potter costume.

Derek hands Reid a plate, mostly finger foods a bit of pasta. His plate mirrors Henry’s. While the other’s all eat healthy amounts of pasta. Will sneaks him a napkin, which confuses him, until Will covers his hand over Reid’s and whispers “there are eight Oreos in this napkin”. Sweets, which JJ and Garcia had deprived him until he cleaned his plate. And when JJ caves, Reid’s stomach full of the carrots, crackers, and grapes his plate had primarily had (as well as those Oreos), and brings him a slice of pie and ice cream Will only shakes his head with a smirk.

Hotch manages a few spoonful's of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup.

“You could eat something else,” Dave ventures, scowling. But Hotch’s body is very displeased and what little solid food he’d managed to eat in the last few days was having a tendency to come right back up. Abdominal trauma, the doctor’s kept informing them, often caused this. They just needed to wait it out.

“He’s got the palate of a toddler,” Emily mumbles but she means it fondly. She punctuates it by throwing a carrot at his head. He doesn’t have the dexterity to swat it out of the air so it hits his head and he just scowls at her.

Reid sides with Hotch. “Chicken noodle soup is the best soup,” he offers in Hotch’s defense. Blushing when Hotch just looks sadly at him, as if broken by the idea that Reid is the only person left to defend him.

“It is,” Garcia tries to add, helpfully. She smiles encouragingly to Hotch but once again he takes them siding with him poorly. If all the sympathy he can garner is from Reid and Garcia, he’s hopeless. He loves them dearly but they effortlessly take his side. “And you leave my boss man alone! If he wants to eat chicken noodle soup then you let him.”

Hotch hums to that, quirking an eyebrow at Garcia, and looking down at Emily. Of all the places for her to sit, she’d chosen the floor. With a whole floor to choose from, she still sat down right at his feet. Resting her back against his shins. Which he didn’t mind but he knew she’d done it just to annoy him.

Henry grows tired of his adult company and with the sun falling, he knows what’s coming. Even at three, he’s aware of what he’s supposed to be doing.

“Go on,” Hotch encourages. He knows they’re only holding back for two reasons: Reid and him. But Henry shouldn’t suffer just because he managed to piss off the one Unsub brave enough to attack him and Reid unfortunate enough to get shot. “We won’t go anywhere. I’ll put on Doctor Who,” he bargains. “Reid won’t go anywhere.” But it’s not really Reid they’re worried about. “I’ll take a nap,” he offers. Which is what his body needs but he’s not so sure he’ll actually commit to that.

“Don’t move.” Emily orders.

“I’ll make sure he stays put,” Reid says, with a nod. But given how stupid they both are, Emily loves the commitment but doesn’t take the offer too seriously. Hotch with a blanket tucked over his legs and Reid happily humming away to the Doctor Who theme song, they’re left to the silence of Dave’s house. The others out taking Henry around the block for some trick or treating.

Hotch does take that nap and Reid contently gets sucked into Doctor Who. Content in ways they both thought were only possible locked away in their own misery.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #spencer reid #emily prentiss #derek morgan #jennifer jareau #penelope garcia #will lamontagne #david rossi #henry jareau

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