#and have to somehow tamp the rage and the fear and the big sad down long enough to get stuff done | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gideongrace · 4 years

Note

5 & 23 from the ace prompts 🤩

5. "I have been waiting for you my entire life."

23. "You are not allowed to die first, got it?"

Okay, this one had me stuck for like, a week. I just couldn't come up with anything for it that wasn't super cheesy and tropey and cliche. But then I just decided to be cheesy and tropey and cliche instead anyway.

(And to everyone else that sent prompts, sorry! I did get them, I am getting to them! I just also sorta got carried away by plotting out that amnesia steve fic…)

Billy runs in through the front doors of the hospital at full speed, ready to roar and to scream and to tear the place apart but instead of any of that, he takes a deep breath, adjusts the strap of his duffle bag that he suddenly realizes he had no need to drag inside and looks around for the front desk. This isn't the hospital he's used to, so he has no idea where it is.

And he can't find it.

He looks and he looks and he looks and still, he can't find it.

This isn't the hospital he's used to, he doesn't know anybody who works here and he's fresh off a really rough, really long shift.

He hadn't even gotten to go home and shower, he'd only just stepped out the door into the bright, warm, mid-afternoon sun, taken a single, deep breath and only just decided his plan of action was he was gonna go home, shower, then maybe go surprise Steve with a pizza when he'd gotten the phone call.

And he hasn't taken a single deep breath since. He just ran straight for his car, drove all the way across town to this neighborhood he doesn't know and this hospital he doesn't know and he tries to think of everything, of anything El's ever told him about PTSD or panic attacks, stuff she's said help people calm down when they're experiencing things like that, because he's experiencing something like that right now, he's got enough sense left to know that much but none of what she's said is sticking, none of it is applicable and -

The rage he's gotten so good at tamping down boils over in his blood and swims in his skin and he feels like he's gonna scream but instead he pulls at his hair, but he only manages to grab at too-short, freshly shaved sides with not near enough left on top and he takes a breath, and he's going to scream, he's going to scream -

But then there's a hand on his shoulder and a soft, sweet voice saying, "You need some help?" and everything in him crumbles as he turns to see a sweet-faced and tall (very, very tall) man in poorly-fitting light blue scrubs behind him.

"Uh, yeah," Billy says, somehow managing to get the words to push out past his numb, numb lips, "do you, uh, do you know where the, uh, front desk is?"

The guy nods, shaggy brown hair falling into his big, brown eyes. (It doesn't make Billy think of anybody. It doesn't.)

"Sure," the guy says, his hand still clamped to Billy's shoulder. "I'll show you."

He directs Billy towards a slightly labyrinthine-looking set of corridors that Billy had distinctly avoided and he does it still with his hand on Billy's shoulder, guiding him like a captain guides a ship, like he'd seen the look on Billy's face, the terror and the panic and he'd recognized it. It makes sense. El and Mike are always telling him people panicked about - about loved ones, those who really, truly care, they almost always have the same look, even if it's contained itself to just their eyes, it's always there, it's always present, that panic, that fear. And Billy guesses this guy, working in a hospital as he does, he's probably as familiar with that look as EMTs like El and Mike would be.

"Just right here. Ellen'll help you find who you're looking for," the guy says as he deposits Billy in front of the front desk with its big, red 'reception' sign, the one Billy wishes he could've - knows he should've - found on his own.

"Yeah, thanks," Billy says as the guy claps him on the back and wanders off, probably to help some other poor soul like the good, good dude he is.

Ellen, the nurse behind the desk, on the other hand, looks Billy up and down appraisingly, cold green eyes assessing, assessing, assessing and clearly finding him wanting somehow. Maybe it's the rough haircut he'd given himself, maybe it's the sweatpants and grungy white tank top he's wearing, maybe it's the big, fat, homemade "Station 52" logo patch on the front of his duffle bag that Max had custom made for him. Maybe this woman hates firefighters. Maybe she can tell that he's gay, can smell it on him and maybe she's homophobic.

Or maybe, the last five percent of his brain capable of rational thought tells him, maybe that's just her face and it's not personal.

"Who're you looking for, dear?" she asks, even though she clearly thinks he's anything but dear.

"Um, uh," he stammers and god, he hasn't been this awkward, hasn't said um and uh this much since middle school, "Steve Harrington?"

Her face tightens, her tall stack of thick gray hair wobbles just a little and Billy's stomach prepares itself for free fall, for bad news, for -

"Alright, he's in Room 357, just on the third floor-" and she keeps going, keeps giving instructions after that, but Billy doesn't hear them, is too overwhelmed with the taste, the feeling, the rush of sheer relief that hits him with the knowledge that Steve has a room number, which means that Steve has a room, which means that Steve hasn't died in the time it took him to drive here or in the time he spent wandering, lost. It means Steve isn't in surgery and these are both very, very good things.

That surge of joy fades out with a mewling whimper after Billy gets lost another two times looking for Steve's room, as it occurs to him, What if Steve's only not in surgery because he's too weak to survive it? and, Just because he wasn't dead however many minutes ago, doesn't mean he's not dead now.

And he still can't find the room, isn't even sure he's on the right floor anymore, but there is one thing he knows for sure, one thing he knows for certain:

Whenever he sees that partner of Steve's, Dustin whatever, he's gonna tear him limb from limb, gonna tear him apart, gonna rend flesh from bone for not telling him more over the phone than, "Steve's been shot and we're at St. Mary's, you should get here like, now."

As he wanders down yet another meaningless white hallway, he feels that rage boiling again, feels like he's going to lose it again until he turns a corner and sees a row of feet all clad in plain, dark, sensible shoes and looks up to see a line of officers, most still in uniform, all sitting stuffed end over end, just one too many in a row of old, creaky, metal and ugly navy felt hospital chairs.

He almost smiles at having finally, finally found them - because of course there's a whole crew of people waiting for his boy, of course there is, that's probably why the nurse at the front desk got so annoyed, there's at least ten people sitting and jamming up this small hallway and here he is, adding to it, but -

Then it occurs to him:

Why are all these people waiting here?

Why are they all…

He looks around at all their faces and each and every one of them has that pinched look, that capsized-rowboat-in-the-ocean look that Mike's told him about, that panicked look that loved ones get that El's talked about, that restless, hopeless rage that he's been feeling on and off since he got that call and if -

And if they all look the same way then maybe…

Then maybe those feelings he's been feeling aren't an overreaction like the last five percent of his brain capable of hope has been hoping, praying, wishing for it to be.

That last five percent shuts down and dies a quiet, lonely death as his eyes connect with those of one of the guys sitting in the middle of the row and he sees fear there, sees panic, and sees rage there.

He feels himself capsizing in the ocean of this near stranger's sad blue eyes and as his terror over this spreads he feels his stomach pick itself up and ready to launch at his lungs which have suddenly decided to forget what it is they're supposed to do, like they've ever had more than just the one job and now maybe they're just a little confused.

Billy himself is a lot confused, because he and this guy just keep staring at each other and nobody is saying anything.

Why is nobody saying anything?

Then someone comes stumbling into him from behind, saying, "Well, it certainly took you long enough," and it's Heather and the way she says it sets Billy's teeth on edge because he can't figure out her tone, can't figure out what she means and -

She points him in the direction of Steve's room, even if it's almost right in front of him and he's grateful, really, he's grateful (he's grateful and he's terrified) as she pushes him inside, not giving him the space nor the time to chicken out or run away.

And he lets out a sigh at the sight of Steve lying before him, lets out a sigh even as his heart ripples and creaks under the weight of his exhaustion.

He pulls a smooth, blue, and terribly squeaky plastic chair up to Steve's good side and tries to hold his breath, tries not to smell that cloying, abrasive antiseptic smell that fills the room, tries instead to imagine Steve's favorite cologne, that woodsy, citrusy one.

He tries not to focus on the IV in the back of Steve's hand, tries not to focus on the cannula in his nose, tries instead to think of Steve pressed up behind him in bed, of Steve's hands warm and comforting on his chest and Steve's nose pressed into his hair or the back of his neck and inhaling deeply.

He tries to ignore the thick, white, starchy-looking bandages covering Steve up from his left shoulder to his elbow, he tries to ignore the way Steve's eyes are closed and what that might mean, he tries to ignore all of that and just see Steve -

He tries to but he can't.

"I have been waiting for you my entire life," Billy says. He grabs Steve's hand and grips it tight. "You are not allowed to die first, got it?"

Steve surprises him by squeezing back and saying, "I'll try my best," and being an idiot and trying to sit up with a freaking bullet wound in his freaking arm.

Billy pushes him back to the bed with his free hand on his good shoulder and winds up positioned very awkwardly for a moment before Steve finally relents and lays back down.

What he says next makes it worse.

"I'm fine, though, you know."

Like it's nothing. Like getting shot is nothing. Billy supposes it's meant to be comforting, to be reassuring, but instead it makes Billy see red.

"You're in the hospital." Billy tries for soft, he really does. He wants to cradle Steve's face in his hands and press sweet, quiet kisses to his lips, but instead Steve said that and now he's snarling.

"Yeah," Steve says, voice either forced calm or drugged oblivious and Billy isn't sure which, "but it's okay, it didn't hit anything vital and the doc says I'll be fine in about a month or two."

"You're in the hospital," Billy says again, louder this time. He can feel himself growing claws and he feels overwhelmed, feels a need to claw at something, to scratch, to bite. To destroy.

Lucky for him, this is exactly when Dustin strolls in carrying flowers and looking particularly guilty.

Unlucky for him, Dustin says, "What the hell, man? I barely got to telling you we were here and you told me you were coming and hung up. Me and Heather tried calling you back like six times and no answer. We were just about to send someone out looking for you."

And.

"Oh." It's all Billy can think to say. Then, "Sorry."

But then Steve just has to pipe back in with, "See? If you'd let Dustin get to it, he'd have told you that I'm fine, too."

And boy, is that ever the wrong thing to say because it has Billy roaring with, "You are in a hospital with a bullet in your arm, Steve, you're not fine."

And Dustin politely interjecting with, "Okay, woah, woah, nobody said anything about you being fine. There's a lot of distance between you and 'fine' right now, Steve."

Steve's eyes narrow, that medicated calm sliding from his face even as Billy sees the last drops of whatever medication they've got him on dripping down from the bag and into the IV line.

"You literally came home with your hair singed last week," Steve says, like he thinks the fact that they both have dangerous jobs is somehow going to win him this argument.

"Yeah, and that was just my hair! You're in the hospital!" Billy shouts. This time, he fully shouts because apparently, Steve's not going to get it unless it's screamed at him.

"And I'm fine!"

Or maybe he's just not going to get it at all.

From the doorway, Dustin laughs and Billy is on him in a second.

"What's so funny?" he snarls but Dustin keeps laughing.

"Just…" he says, unable to stop laughing even as he's trying to speak, "Just say 'I love you' and get it over with, already, both of you."

Steve's face goes as tomato red as Billy's suddenly feels.

But neither of them says it. Neither of them says anything.

fic tag squad:

@a-magey @xgardensinspace @myboyfriendsteve @haxpr0cess @thinger-strang @nagdabbit @demi-don @lissieisspacey @tracy7307 @ihni @yourneighborhoodace

@harringrovetrashh

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #stranger things #harringrove fic #misc au #angst #modern #gideonwrites #asexual #asexual fic collection #asexuality

138 notes · View notes