#medical procedure fic

[quietlyimplode]

leave everything but your bones behind

Whumptober 2022: day 4 - hidden injury

Warnings: absent seizure/panic attack/medical procedures (discussed)

Word Count: 1.6k (gif not mine)

Summary: Natasha becomes unwell and only the Red Room can fix her. The choice is die or go back to the very place that made her.

A/N: thanks for your kind words of encouragement. Likes/reblogs/comments are all so so motivating to keep going (as I can already feel my attention waning on posting; thanks brain).

Main Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

————

Clint is still asleep when she wakes, the clock reading 6.17am. Laying still, she tries to remember the fog of the night before. All she does remember is Irina’s shaking form and going to bed early.

Doing the math, Natasha realises she’s been asleep for almost 13 hours.

It’s something that’s never happened before.

In truth, it scares her, because she still feels tired and everything still hurts.

This is not going away.

She washes her face in the sink, looking at the shower. She wants one so bad.

A hot shower on aching muscles sounds like heaven.

But she knows she doesn’t have the energy.

Clint somehow knows. He’s at the doorway, and watching her.

He must have woken up as soon as she moved, his sniper senses tingling.

“Come on,” he says softly.

He strips his clothes off, putting the bathroom heater on, turning on the water and then pushes her to the toilet seat.

Gently he removes her hoodie, then her shorts and underwear.

Helping her up, he checks the water and gently nudges her inside.

Natasha lets out her hair, reveling in the way it seems to alleviate her headache that’s been with her for what seems like a lifetime.

“We’re going to see Tony,” Clint tells her gently, “he’s expecting us and has some ideas about how to help.”

He’s careful not to say medical, doctors, or anything that will make her balk at the suggestion, but she’s too smart for him and knows exactly what that means.

“Medical,” she says bluntly.

He hands her the shampoo and watches her fumble with the opening.

“Yeah,” he nods, taking it back off her to squeeze it into her hands.

“Do you have any idea what it is?”

Clint watches her closely, her eyes glazing, maybe tears as she rinses her hair.

“I don’t know,” she lies.

And he knows it.

“You’d tell me, right?” he asks of her, “if you knew anything?”

She motions for the conditioner and opens it, more confident this time.

“I don’t know, I want it to be a cold, the flu, something easy but maybe it’s something to do with the Red Room,” she admits.

He’s silent on her words, wanting her to say more.

She doesn’t.

But maybe that gives them a starting place.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

Natasha’s eyes don’t move, her grip tightens on the bottle, and her body goes rigid.

He’s seen her in dissociation before, this isn’t that.

“Nat?”

He touches her shoulder gently, trying to get her attention, but she’s not there. She’s gone.

He waits it out, keeping the water temperature constant and a hand on her in case she drops.

Clint takes her in.

She hasn’t lost weight, there’s no rashes on her body, just something messing with her brain. Something that’s increasing electrical signals, making the seizures come and temperatures spike.

The conditioner bottle drops and he hears her audibly take a breath.

“You with me?” he asks, guiding her to the shower bench seat.

She shakes her hand out and grasps the side but he can see the intermittent tremors that go through her arms.

“Hey, hey,” he sits on the floor, the water still beating down on them both, as she breathes heavy.

“Eyes on me,” he guides.

It takes a second but she does, pupils blown and panic setting in.

“I’m going to..”

The words come out in a wheeze, and she repeats them again. The world is running out of air.

“I’m going to die,” she covers her head in her hands and tries to take a deep breath. It fails, and catches and she tries again.

“Look at me,” he says again, gently pulling her hands down, and guiding her eyes towards him. He’d prefer to do this clothed as the water goes cool.

“We’re going to figure this out.”

He takes her other hand and turns the water cold purposely, changing the temperature, the shock clear when she feels it.

“Breathe, Nat,” he prompts, and he can see her trying.

“Good, that’s good,” Clint pauses, “again.”

“I can’t, I..”

Wide eyes stare as she can’t get words out, words that he doesn’t want to hear.

“Irina died, I’m going to die,” she gulps, words seemingly easier but the panic still staying.

He changes the water warm, and hands holding onto her still.

“Breathe.”

He opens the conditioner and body wash, and she seems to understand what he’s doing.

Turning off the water, he reaches to get the towels and wraps them around her back and on her lap.

“You can smell them?” he asks, gesturing to the bottles as he still has a hand on her in case she faints.

“Yeah,” she whispers.

“Breathe, yeah?”

It’s forced but it’s there. Again and again.

He dries her as she works to force air into her lungs. Tshirt first, then hoodie, and finally she’s pushing him away.

“I’m okay,” she bites out, teeth biting into her lip, clumsy hands pulling her underwear and shorts up.

He steps back, a shiver running through him as he stands with her and walks her to the bedroom.

“Sit,” he commands, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He leaves her to dry off quickly, put his clothes back on and then, returns to her.

“We need to go to medical don’t we?” she asks, as he enters.

He sits next to her, her head automatically resting on his shoulder.

“Yeah, Nat, I think we do.”

.

The drive to the Tower is quiet. Neither Clint nor Natasha want to speak, both lost in thought.

They’ve both managed to have something to eat but the nauseousness that’s been plaguing Natasha still sits with her.

She only did it because he looked at her with such sadness that she felt guilt.

The memory of Irina seizing in ballet, and the repercussions of testing on all of them holds such memory in her that she’s sure the nausea is not from whatever is wrong: It’s fear.

She thinks that her body is failing her.

Shaking hands clasp together as she stares out the window, the car heading into basement of the tower.

Parking, Clint sighs, not moving even though the car is switched off.

“This is going to suck, isn’t it?” he says quietly.

Natasha can’t answer.

It’s obvious. Once they go in, they’re not coming out for a while. Something is wrong with her and it shouldn’t be.

He undoes his seatbelt and grabs the bag they packed.

They’ve stayed in the tower before, whole levels set up for them to live on, so they didn’t need much.

He knows the medical floor is not like a hospital, but the dread they both feel is like stepping into one.

Natasha follows a step behind him. The elevator opens for them without even pressing a button.

Clint takes her hand, and they walk in together.

.

Natasha is silent.

Even as they slide the IV in.

Even when they take blood.

Even when Tony comes in.

She doesn’t talk.

Clint thinks it’s protective, she’s not seizing, she’s not dissociated, she just seems… done. Over it. Shut down.

He wants to bundle her up and take her home. He knows how hard this is for her.

They put the heart rate monitor on her and it immediately betrays her. Clint knows it usually sits around 50, it’s nearing on 80.

She glances at the machine that tells all her secrets and she visibly takes a deep breath, relaxing her body into the chair.

It drops but not by much.

Tony leaves when they set her up for the EEG, the monitoring of her brain waves.

They take more blood, and Clint likens the nurse to vampires.

There’s not even a crack of a smile.

He does as much of the talking as he can for her, but he can’t answer some of the questions they have.

They look expectantly to Natasha when the doctor asks how long it’s been happening, if she’s experienced this before.

But there’s no answer.

Frustration curls at Clint.

“Nat,” he admonished, “tell them about Irina.”

He knows nothing except the name, and he can feel the anger boiling off her that he knows even that.

“Tell them,” he pushes.

To their credit, the doctor is patient.

Clint knows that Tony has likely got a doctor that is well informed on trauma.

It’s why they’re not in a hospital bed.

It’s why this room is sterile but has comfortable chairs and a table.

It’s why the nurses say exactly what they’re going to do before doing it, and wait for Natasha to say no, even though she just looks away in acceptance.

She licks her lips.

“It’s happened before,” she starts, “not to me, but to another girl.”

Natasha purses her lips.

Clint sees where she is stuck.

“How much of Natasha’s past do you know?”

The doctor holds up a blank piece of paper.

“As much as you’re willing to share,” she responds.

It’s clearly the right answer.

Natasha looks away, and speaks softly anyway.

“Tony has my medical file, it’ll clear up some questions, but you’ll have others. Come back when you’ve read it.”

Clint feels strangely protective of that file, like it’s got Natasha’s dark secrets in it and it shouldn’t be read by anyone.

He thinks it’s a good thing that she’s freely giving permission for the doctor to read it, she must trust her on some level.

The doctor nods.

“We’ll run more tests whilst I go through it. First the EEG, and then the CT scan and hopefully we will have more information,” she pauses at the door. “Okay?”

Natasha nods; a slight dip of her head.

There’s some small telltale signs that she’s stressed, the clench of her fist, the biting of her lip, the way she’s curled in on herself; and there’s nothing Clint can do.

#whumptober2022 #no.4 #hidden injury #natasha romanoff fic #marvel fic #my fic #seizurefic #panic attacks #natasha romanoff #clintasha #black widow #clint barton #hawkeye #clintasha fanfiction #avengers fic #Tony stark #medical procedure fic #whump fic

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XIX)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

PART ONE is here PART TWO is here PART THREE is here PART FOUR is here and PART FIVE is here PART SIX is here and PART SEVEN is here PART EIGHT is here PART NINE is here PART TEN is here PART ELEVEN is here PART TWELVE is here PART THIRTEEN is here PART FOURTEEN is here PART FIFTEEN is here PART SIXTEEN is here PART SEVENTEEN is here PART EIGHTEEN is here...nineteen...oy vey.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... THE BART RETURNS! The earth rejoices! 🥳🎉 Physical therapy can be fun, even if it usually isn't!

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

Danny learns a few more words with practice.

Foda is simple. If Danny is hungry, he can ask for foda. It sounds exactly like food, and when he asks, they feed him.

…Or they up his IV. Which. Danny’s tongue might still feel sore and nasty, but the doctors and nurses and millions of minders don’t seem that mad when he sticks his tongue out at them. Sometimes they even laugh.

They don’t even sound all that mean.

It takes Danny a good chunk of waking time for him to realize that he…probably is hooked up to something he doesn’t want to think about, since all the efforts of lifting and moving him haven’t resulted in a single bathroom trip since he woke up here.

Firstly: horrible.

Secondly: his legs are super, absolutely, positively immobilized, and if someone doesn’t give him enough medication quickly enough after it wears off, Danny is very aware that something is deeply wrong with them.

So. Uh. That’s…gross.

He learns bealo just as quickly. He isn’t sure what bealo means, per se, but when he says it, they up his medication until Danny can pretend he doesn’t have any legs again.

God niht is goodnight, unless Danny is feeling snippy, and then it’s just niht.

…The one lady who minds him always says the whole thing, though. Even when Danny’s mean. Like the one time he threw his rocket at someone.

Or the time he started ignoring everyone when they tried to touch him.

…Or the one time he tried to freeze his IV bag, and put everyone on alert because if he’d been human, that would have seriously hurt him.

“Sorry,” Danny’d whispered, even if it wouldn’t mean anything to her.

She’d patted his hand and meant it. Danny’d had to dry his eyes with his wrist. “Eall es wel.”

Anyway.

Danny hates being in the freaking bed every hour of every day. So when his “sitting up” exercises turn into “hey, let’s try the wheelchair” practice, Danny gets so excited-slash-nervous that he kind of feels like he’s going to throw up all the liquids he’s been injected with.

None of the regular people try to lift him. Instead the lady does it herself, scooping Danny up in very strong arms, the golden cuffs on her wrists weirdly warm on Danny’s skin. When Danny’s settled, his legs sticking out real weird and his back kind of sore, he’s…out of bed.

He’s. He’s not in bed anymore.

And. Sure. It’s temporary, but it’s not the bed. Danny can wriggle, and he can sort of palm the wheels underneath him with the heels of his shaky hands, and he can see so much more of himself than he has in ages and ages.

For one. Both of his legs are in casts. That’s. Not good. He can’t feel it right now, but the sight of fully encased legs…

Well. If he can transform that won’t be a problem. If. If he has to escape. But it is…it’s super scary. He mostly remembers being captured, but the…the other people had been focusing more on his thoracic cavity and his face and head.

…So why are his legs so bad? Did something else happen?

(It did, didn’t it?)

(…Didn’t it??)

His hands shake, but there’s something to all that grip training, or else Danny wouldn’t be able to paw at his neckline to look down his own shirt. Or, well, his cloth nightie, anyway.

It’s good that he looks, since, well…his chest is glowing a solid green.

Whatever should probably be scar tissue. Uh. It…isn’t. There’re gouges down his chest and a crater where his heart should be that probably should be healing over, considering, you know, he’s not freaking dead at this exact second (mostly??), but. Instead of, like, healed flesh, or, say, his insides, there’s a transparent green…jelly… holding him together.

He can see how the green bounces with his heart beat.

...Danny drops the neckline of his gown. His breath comes in choking bursts, eyes pressed into his eye sockets—he feels sick.

He is sick. He has been sick.

The humans are keeping him here because he’s a freak of nature and he’s broken from head to toe and the Guys in White carved his flesh out of his body and opened him up like a can of cranberry sauce.

He presses his hands to his chest, to his stomach, just trying to breathe for long enough that he doesn’t throw up his oatmeal and occasional juice and IV nutrition onto the pristine floor of his sickroom. The people around him all make sympathetic noises that don’t help because he doesn’t know what they mean.

And then he feels something weird.

Not all the sensation in his fingers are back. It’s easier for him to feel impediments than it is to feel textures—something that blocks him from moving, rather than anything sensory-specific. He can usually tell when he touches fabric, because when he moves too far, it pulls tight around his hand. He can tell when he’s on something solid when his hand fails to go through it.

There is something solid sticking out of him.

Danny’s heartbeat quickens. It’s not. It’s. There’s something in him.

And it’s not—it’s so solid. When Danny brushes his hands against it, he can feel his skin and his flesh move with it, trying not to dislodge the thing embedded in him. It pulls at his skin. He doesn’t know what it is.

His fingers tremble as he tries to brush over the object through his gown, trying to figure out its shape from faulty touch alone. It’s like waking up to find himself jammed with needles all over again.

People are talking around them. Danny doesn’t try to listen in. He’s scared. He’s so scared. Something’s happened to him, and he didn’t even notice.

Some of it is—hard. There’s a crinkling sound when he moves. Danny manages to pull his gown neckline back again to catch something of a glimpse, and all he sees is plastic.

He doesn’t know what it is.

He doesn’t know who to ask. He can’t understand anyone and he doesn’t know if he trusts them.

They put something in him. There’s something embedded in him.

He thinks he’s going to cry.

Something touches his arm—Danny flinches. His core tightens with stress as he puts a metaphorical hand on the button, ready to run and hide at any notice.

It’s the lady. He knows her.

No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t know her at all. He can’t talk to her in any way that matters. She’s not a doctor. He doesn’t know why she’s here, or why she’s keeping him here.

She’s nice. She fed him. But is that all it takes to trick him? To make him compliant? Pliable?

She stops touching him when he gets scared, her eyes worried. She kneels—closer than Danny would like, probably, but she keeps her hands to herself. Danny’s heart races faster, out of order, starting and stopping and starting again like a bad engine.

“Eow eart wel?” she asks from his left arm rest, a common question, so softly. Danny doesn’t know what it means. “Eall es wel. Ænlic eow, ænlic me. Bruce bræð wið me?”

She takes a big, deep, breath. Her hand rises slightly over her chest, following an exaggerated movement. Don’t panic. Breathe. Breathe like me. One, two, three.

Danny’s breaths are more choked. More panicked.

But when she breathes, he breathes with her—even with every stutter in between.

“Hwæt es woh[O3] ?” the lady asks, so gently it’s almost a whisper. Her pointer finger hovers over his body, but doesn’t touch—and eventually, Danny figures out she probably wants to know where he’s hurting.

But he’s not hurting. He’s scared. There’s something inside him, and he isn’t sure what it is. He presses the heel of his hand to the object. He feels something rigid refuse to bend inside his flesh.

There’s something of recognition in the woman’s face. “Inne cwic tima,” she says, more certain of answers outside the room, and darts away,

Danny wants to bounce his bound leg. He feels awful when anyone is in the room with him, considering how little of them he knows, but, somehow, it’s so much worse when he’s actually alone.

When she comes back, there’s a second person who walks through the double doors with her, in blue scrubs with ducks on them. They wave to Danny.

Danny…blinks. He feels numb. It’s kind of a problem.

They take it in stride, though; in their hands is a blank board and a chunky marker. The cap comes off, the new person scribbles for a minute or so, and then turns the board around so that Danny can see.

It’s a…person. A rudimentary outline person, sure, with some visible bones and organs to fill in the person-shaped outline. Danny can recognize most of them from anatomy class, although those memories are more…personal, now. A little more painful.

The person taps on the board. The person points to Danny.

Danny frowns.

The person turns the board back around and makes some Pew, Pew, Pew! sounds with their mouth, occasionally opening and closing their hand over the board to match the noise. There’s some more scribbling. When the board turns back around, there’s a violent smudge of marker on top of the drawn person’s drawn intestines.

The person takes their covered pinky finger and erases a little neat circle of marker in the intestines, mostly favoring one side. They draw a little arrow from the hole to the general outside-of-the-person blank area. Then another circle, with a thicker circle inside.

Danny recognizes the object jutting out of him. Oh. This is how he got it.

The person—probably a doctor, Danny guesses, or the surgeon who did this to him—do these people even need credentials, actually?—hands the board over to the lady. They hold out ten outstretched fingers, marker under their arm, and make a show of counting every one of the outstretched fingers with the opposite hand. Then they take the board back.

And then, when they write on the board, Danny can actually understand what they say.

Or, well, it’s numbers! The numbers are the same as his—the line and a circle is clearly meant to be a ten, and the little x is a multiplication symbol— they draw a 10, as clearly and a brightly as it could be against a stark white board, and add a little x 7, probably to indicate a week; the result is ten suns times seven, or seventy suns.

Danny feels his heart bounce in his chest. Danny would bet a whole lot of money that the number is meant to be seventy days. There is an end point. It’s not that Danny is free to be subjected to random anatomical whims—there’s a goal here. This was purposeful.

The little circle-within a circle gets erased. The hole is scribbled through as if it was never there, and the person makes a weaving gesture with the marker that Danny is certain is meant to be sewing.

Tears prick at his eyes. The lady gets close by him again, but Danny lets her. His hands aren’t good enough for wiping tears the way he wants to, yet. Help and company are good.

She gives him a tissue from Danny's bedside table. He takes it with a whisper of a grip.

“Seventy?” Danny rasps, tearful. Hopeful. Terrified of hope. He practically jams the tissue into his eye sockets.

The lady’s eyes go wide. “Seventy,” she repeats, marveling.

It’s enough. Nothing is perfect, but it’s enough. And if Danny's allowed to spend so long in front of the space window that he falls asleep in his wheelchair, well. It's not like he was in charge of where they went.

#*hip checks through the door* hey losers! Guess who uses Arabic numbers!! Two earths!! #also if ANYONE is shitty about stoma bags or ostomy bags on this fic or in this chat I'm going to fight you. Lots of people have them. #they're usually a temporary procedure and even if they're not they're pretty normal and a lot of people have them. I knew at least one #like haha this is a body horror fic but ostomy bags are a REAL THING that people HAVE as part of their medical journey DO NOT be rude!! #So what we know of his injuries now: messed up legs. Messed up guts. Messed up chest. Is there more...? Who can say. 👀 #health and hybrids #dp x dc #dcu crossover #tw gore #tw medical #tw body horror #dpxdc #dcxdp #danny phantom #incarceration to elopement to healthcare pipeline #His healing is speeding up and his language is getting better! When can we get a Diana POV?? <- me to me

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

hi. here's a little over 5k words for the modern human au! entirely unedited, as usual! you'd think this is a full oneshot... ha... no... i actually have some warnings for this one - hospitals, panic attacks, major character injury / discussion of death / clinical description of injury.

in short, my writing comfort zone <3

~

The dial tone plays, and Barnaby looks down at his phone. Call ended stares back at him under Wally’s cheerful profile picture.

“He hung up on me,” Barnaby states. His lips twist and he tosses the phone onto the couch with a snarl of, “That little bastard.”

“Hey now,” Howdy says sharply, frowning at him. “That’s our friend you’re talking about.”

“Like he doesn’t deserve it! All I do is be supportive, understanding, and worry about his damn well being. And then he goes and acts like my very much well-founded concern is an attack!”

Howdy’s frown softens as he watches Barnaby pace, gesturing wildly.

“I love that RV. Maybe not as much as Wally, obviously, but it pains me that it needs to go. And it does need to go! Thing’s becoming a damn deathtrap.” Barnaby pushes his hair back and huffs. He glances at Howdy. “Right? I’m making the right call, here?”

“Of course you are,” Howdy says. “But-”

Barnaby cuts him off. “I tried to be nice about it. I tried to warm him up to the idea of retiring Home, yaknow? And what does he do instead of handling it - he revs up the tin can and runs. Home shouldn’t be started, let alone driven. It’s dangerous.”

It’s extremely dangerous. Wally is skilled at driving it, but no amount of skill will save him if it breaks in the middle of the freeway. What if the engine catches fire? What if a tire pops, or comes loose? Home is old, and wasn’t made to crumple in a crash. Barnaby doesn’t even know if the airbag still works. It’s not safe. 

The thought of Wally bringing Home hurtling down the freeway at ten at night in a - quite honestly - not great mental state turns Barnaby’s stomach. 

“I just wanted him to come back so we could talk about it,” Barnaby says. “I let him keep worming his way out of a serious conversation and now - now he’s -”

“Running away,” Howdy finishes. The point of his pen taps a rhythm against his notepad. 

Barnaby jabs a finger at him. “Exactly. One tough, necessary decision and he turns tail. This isn’t gonna go away if he skips town! Not to mention how he isn’t giving a thought to how this might affect the rest of us.”

“Especially you.”

Barnaby throws his hands up with an indignant look. “Now not only do I have to hunt him down-”

“That would be a we scenario, Barn.”

“But we,” Barnaby concedes, “gotta try to knock some sense into that thick skull ‘a his, and drag him back home - kicking and screaming if we hafta.” 

Howdy’s pen taps faster. “What if he doesn’t want to come back?”

“What if he-” Barnaby stops short and stares at him, wide eyed. 

That’s not. 

That wouldn’t happen, right? Wally would come back in the end. He wouldn’t decide to up and leave entirely, would he? He is in Home… all the essentials he needs are in that RV. Barnaby sits down heavily on Howdy’s threadbare couch. “What if he doesn’t want to come back.”

Wally would have to come back to clear out his studio - he’d never abandon his art. Then they’d have to go through everything inside the house and see what he wants to take, since not all of it is Barnaby’s. A lot of it is shared, so they might have to bargain on who gets what. 

Then they’d all have to watch Wally get into his motorhome and drive away. Possibly for good. 

Barnaby would be alone in that big house with Welcome, knowing that his closest companion is out of his life. Living somewhere else. It's sickening. 

“I’m sure it won’t come to that, Barn,” Howdy says, watching him with furrowed brows and a deep frown - if Barnaby were feeling like himself, he’d crack a joke about him emulating Frank. “I can confidently say that Wally loves you more than that old RV.”

Barnaby snorts. “You sure about that?”

“Unflinchingly. Believe you me, he’s going to wallow for a day or so, and then Home will come rumbling back down your driveway like it never left.”

“I wish I could have your faith,” Barnaby mumbles. He exhales and picks up his phone. No missed calls, no messages. “Maybe if I call him and ask him to just come back, no strings attached, he will.”

“That’s the spirit! Save the talk for another day - tell you what, I’ll help you corrall him so he can’t escape the conversation. I’ll tie him to a chair and bar the door if needed!”

“Good luck with that. Kid’s slippery.” Still, Barnaby hits call again. It rings only a couple of times before a robotic automated message states the caller as unavailable. Barnaby doesn’t enjoy being upset with Wally. However, it feels like his blood is simmering, and the wall is starting to look like great target practice for his phone. He grits his teeth. “He turned off his phone.”

From the corner of his eye he sees Howdy’s eyebrows shoot up as the man turns back to his paperwork. He exhales a controlled breath and writes something down. “I have to say, I’ve never known him to be such a-”

“Pain in the neck?” Barnaby offers.

Howdy clicks his tongue. “You said it, not me.”

“Yeah, well, he’s full of surprises.” Barnaby lets out a frustrated huff. He’s half tempted to run Wally down right now, but he wouldn’t even know where to start. There’s only one freeway out of town, but it goes both ways, and it branches. Wally would have hit one of those branches by now, and who knows which he took. North, south, east, west. Deeper into the woods, or towards the city? To the coast? Somewhere else entirely?

He has to face the facts - there’s nothing to do. He just has to wait until Wally pulls his head out of his ass and realizes how stupid and insensitive he’s being. Those are two words Barnaby would never normally use to describe Wally, but after tonight? They seem fitting. 

Barnaby can’t even muster up guilt for thinking such harsh things. He tried to be nice. He was patient. He’s always kept a lid on it whenever Wally frustrated him, which doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. And what does he get for caring? For being tactful and careful about a shitty situation? 

Avoidance, a shove, and a cut call. Wally left Barnaby’s been left to stew in his own anger and worry. Right now, he’s inclined to lock up that worry in a tiny box in the back of his mind. 

Barnaby pushes himself up with a grumbled, “I’m makin’ some coffee, want some?”

“If you’re offering then I will not decline.”

Barnaby pretends not to feel Howdy’s eyes following him to the apartment’s tiny kitchen. It’s hell to maneuver around in, and the frustration of bumping into something every five seconds only makes Barnaby’s mood worse. By the time the coffee is brewing, he’s ready to punch the cabinets. He won’t, but he wants to. He’d regret it immediately, but he stares at the chipped paint and fantasizes. 

The coffee machine breaks after brewing a whopping single mug. Barnaby stares at it for a long moment, and tallies up the consequences of taking a hammer to it. In the end, he just clenches his fists for a long moment and counts to ten. He takes the mug and sets it in front of Howdy, then goes to the window to brood. Thankfully Howdy is too reabsorbed in his work to notice beyond a mumbled thanks.

For the next hour, Barnaby’s thoughts are entirely composed of Wally. Different scenarios of what might happen next, how Barnaby might handle those situations without shaking Wally for doing something so needlessly reckless, and cruel daydreams of setting Home on fire. Barnaby wants to feel bad about that. He doesn’t. That damn RV has caused two different rifts between Barnaby and Wally - and Barnaby was the one to fix both of them, because both times Wally just left. 

He gets it. He really does - for a time Home was all that Wally had. It’s been with him since Wally was thirteen, and if the thought of retiring it to a dump makes Barnaby sad, he can only imagine how much it distresses Wally. Well, he can do more than make an educated guess. Wally practically told him tonight, if not with words than with actions.

Still. They’re adults - Wally is older than him, if only by a handful of months. When does Barnaby ever ask something of him? When does Barnaby ever push? Why can’t Wally see that Home is becoming a liability, and why won’t he listen? Barnaby can’t make it make sense. 

Wally has always been more inclined to avoid conflict, but this is too far. Barnaby swears, when he tracks Wally down he’s going wring that scrawny little-

His phone is ringing. 

Barnaby lunges for it, relief dousing his anger. He picks it up, ready to give Wally a piece of his mind and then beg him to come back-

“It’s an unknown number,” he says, shoulders slumping. Of course it’s an unknown number. Wally wouldn’t change on a dime and decide to be considerate for once. He exchanges an exasperated look with Howdy and declines. He goes to set the phone down - the number calls back.

“That’s one determined scammer,” Howdy says. He leans back in his chair and holds out a hand. “I’ll deal with ‘em.”

Barnaby is all too happy to hand it over. Let the poor sap on the other end of the line deal with a master swindler. 

“Howdy-hi, how can I help?” Howdy starts with a mischievous grin thrown Barnaby’s way? He leans back in the chair and hums. “Who, may I query, is asking?”

All at once, the ease drains out of Howdy and he stops fidgeting. He sits up, already looking at Barnaby with a paled expression that has something cold slithering down Barnaby’s spine. Something is wrong.

“He’s right here.” Howdy holds out the phone. His throat works uselessly for a moment before he plainly states the obvious, “It’s for you.”

Barnaby takes it, his mouth abruptly dry. Howdy is already up and moving - grabbing his coat, his keys. “Hello?”

“Is this Barnaby Beagle?” a professional feminine voice asks, tinny through the phone.

“B. Beagle, yeah.”

The woman introduces herself as the nearest city’s hospital, and Barnaby’s heart drops through the floor. She asks him to confirm that he’s Wally Darling’s emergency contact. He confirms, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. Howdy takes his arm and gestures to his shoes by the door, spurring Barnaby into motion.

“Is he okay?” Barnaby manages to say. He puts the wrong shoe on the wrong foot and almost curses aloud as he switches it. 

“Mr. Darling was involved in an automobile accident,” is all the hospital employee says. “He was brought in a few minutes ago.”

Barnaby steadies himself against the doorjamb, choking on a whispered, “Oh, god.” 

Keys jingle as Howdy opens the door and pulls Barnaby through, then locks the door behind them.

“But is he okay?” Barnaby asks again as they hurry down the short hallway to the stairs. 

“I’m not at liberty to disclose that information at present.”

It’s bad. It has to be bad if they won’t say anything over the phone. He must be silent for too long, because Howdy takes the phone, tells her they’ll be there soon, and hangs up. He tucks the phone into Barnaby’s pocket before opening the door to the store’s back lot. 

The frigid air slaps the shock out of Barnaby, and sensation comes flooding back in. He grabs the keys out of Howdy’s hand and strides to the car with long, powerful strides that would leave anyone shorter than Howdy in the dust.

“Are you sure-”

“I’m driving,” Barnaby growls, cutting Howdy off.

Howdy makes a disapproving noise, but relents. They get in and Barnaby adjusts his seat with harsh movements, jabs the key into the ignition because Howdy’s car is a dated hunk of junk, and peels out of the parking space before Howdy even has his seatbelt all the way on. 

Howdy clings to the ceiling handle as the car tears down the mostly empty street, going at least ten miles over the speed limit. Barnaby doesn’t know exactly where the hospital is, but he knows how to get to the city. They can figure it out from there. Several people honk as Barnaby brings them flying onto the freeway. 

“Holy Marilyn marmalade!” Howdy screeches as they narrowly avoid side-swiping a minivan. 

Barnaby ignores him and cuts off a pickup to get into the right lane for the interchange. Howdy whispers a string of something high pitched and strained and clings to the handle with both hands. 

It takes him a moment to parse out the constant ramble as, “-pull over pull over pull over pull over-” Two honks and a squeal of tires as Barnaby almost causes an accident, and Howdy yells in a louder and deeper tone than Barnaby has ever heard from him, “PULL OVER!”

Barnaby clenches his jaw and cuts across the carpool lane’s double whites. It only takes a moment to reach the shoulder. Howdy leaps out of the passenger seat as soon as the car stops, marches to Barnaby’s side, and wrenches the door open.

“Out,” he snaps, breathing hard. “Barnaby, I swear to all things priceless, get out. “

Barnaby meets his steely gaze for all of a second before unbuckling and getting out. Cars whip by. Howdy huffs at him and slips into the driver’s seat, muttering about recklessness and disasters and if you would wait to try and kill us until we’re right outside the hospital, if only to save us the ambulance fee-

When Barnaby gets into the passenger seat, Howdy waits for him to buckle in with fingertips drumming on the steering wheel. He merges onto the freeway smoothly and carefully. They go slower than the speed Barnaby had them flying down the asphalt at, and it makes something deeply impatient itch in him, but it’s safer. 

“I know you’re upset,” Howdy says, eyes still fixed on the road, “and I know that you’re scared. But what in hell’s bells was that, Barn?”

Barnaby side eyes him and grimaces, folding his arms. “I don’t know. I’m sorry - I shouldn’t have put you in danger like that.”

“You put yourself in danger too, you know.” Howdy sighs and relaxes his grip on the steering wheel. “We’re of no use to Wally if we get ourselves in a crash. What would he say?”

“Whatever he’d say would be hypocritical,” Barnaby says before he can think better of it.

Howdy glances sharply at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“He..” Barnaby’s voice fails on him, and he swallows hard. “He was in an accident.”

Howdy is silent for a full few seconds before he exhales a thin, pained sound. “Oh, Walls…”

He must not know what else to say, which is good and well, because Barnaby doesn’t either. A long few minutes pass of silence. Headlights of passing cars on the other side of the freeway flash over them before plunging back into darkness. The dials on the dash glow. The check engine light is on. They’ll need to get gas in order to make it home. 

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you’re thinking,” Howdy says. He’s tapping the steering wheel again. “It’s likely just a few scrapes and bruises, at worst a broken bone. Nothing Wally can’t handle, and certainly nothing to be concerned over.”

Barnaby can’t bring himself to agree. Maybe… maybe if Wally was driving slowly… but that wouldn’t matter if someone crashed into him with enough force. Home is a large, sturdy vehicle, but it isn’t invulnerable. Wally certainly isn’t.

Without the distraction of driving, all Barnaby can think about is the what ifs. Yeah, what if he’s only a little bit hurt, but what if it’s worse? All of the worst images Barnaby can think of roll through his mind like a messed up movie reel.

Wally dead on the scene, caught in a hunk of twisted metal. 

Wally, choking on his own blood in an ambulance, dying en route to the hospital.

Wally flatlining on a metal table. 

Wally’s small body covered with a sheet-

“Almost there,” Howdy says, slowing at a stoplight. It bathes them both in red. Barnaby didn’t notice when they got off the freeway. 

Barnaby squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead to the cold window. After a moment, a slender hand rests on his thigh and squeezes. It’s such a small, stupid thing, but Barnaby breathes a little easier. 

Despite the drive down the freeway feeling like it took hours, the drive through city streets to the hospital passes in a blink. Before Barnaby knows it the car is spiraling up to an upper floor of the parking garage. The floor is mostly empty - Howdy pulls into a spot right by glass double doors. 

Barnaby gets out a split seconds before Howdy, staring at the pristine white walls just inside the doors. In a moment he’ll find out if it’s not that bad, or if he’s about to have the worst night of his life. He’s been to a hospital twice. The last time was for Howdy, but he went with the knowledge that it was only a precaution. The other time was for Mama’s health scare. 

That had been terrifying. The waiting, the wondering, the too-bright hallways and the staff’s rigid smiles. It ended well, but it had still been horrible, and hospitals took center stage in some of his recurring nightmares. Barnaby never wanted to see another loved one in a hospital bed again.

Looks like he doesn’t have a choice. 

Howdy comes around from the driver’s side and lays a hand on Barnaby’s shoulder. “If you need a moment to-”

“Nah,” Barnaby says, his voice rough. He nods and adjusts his sleeves. “Better rip the bandaid off.”

They go into the sterile maze. The bright overhead lights dazzle Barnaby’s eyes after being in the dim parking garage, and he grimaces at the strong odor of antiseptic and floor polish. Howdy makes a beeline for the nearest receptionist and talks to her in rushed, low tones. 

Barnaby shuffles after him, rubbing his shaking hands together and eyeing every person in scrubs that walks past. Something beeps somewhere. He thinks he hears someone crying. This is a place without color, art, or happiness. 

“This way,” Howdy says, walking past him and tilting his head at the elevator. Barnaby follows, feeling like a lost puppy dropped at the side of the road. 

A nurse gets into the elevator with them and politely smiles before staring at the floor counter and pretending they don’t exist. It’s fine with Barnaby. If he has to make small talk right now, he might actually snap. The man’s pink scrubs are almost an eyesore in the harsh lighting. 

The elevator dings, and they all get out on the same floor. Howdy reads door plaques and wall signs like a hawk, his head turning on a swivel as he reads everything at lightning speed. Barnaby nearly has to jog to keep up with his hurried pace. 

Howdy changes direction without warning and heads straight for a door at the end of a short offshoot hallway. Barnaby reads the sign next to the door.

[can’t remember if it’s icu or the other thing, research later]

It’s bad.

The waiting room is small - longer than it is wide, and there’s a woman sleeping in a chair in the corner. It looks nicer than the emergency room, or where Barnaby waited to see his mama. The benches have colorful cushions, and the walls are a pastel green instead of white. There’s an abstract geometric painting on the wall next to the woman. 

Barnaby slowly takes a seat on stiff cushions, watching Howdy talk to the receptionist from afar. He nods and pats the counter before joining Barnaby. He sits close enough that their legs press together.

“Someone will get us up to speed as soon as there’s news,” Howdy says. “I tried to pry some more out of him, but he wouldn’t give up another word.”

Barnaby nods, staring down at his hands. His nail polish is already chipping, despite Julie painting them only last weekend. Barnaby picks at the bright red on his pinkie until Howdy pulls his hand away and enfolds it in both of his own. 

When Howdy takes a deep breath, Barnaby finds himself mimicking him. Their gazes meet - Howdy’s is unflinching, and steady. He smiles and runs his thumb over Barnaby’s knuckles, soothing the nervous trembling, and Barnaby is struck by how darn grateful he is to have Howdy with him. 

If he had to do all of this alone… Barnaby doesn’t think he could. Either he’d have gotten himself into a crash to join Wally, or he would still be sitting in his car, staring at the hospital doors. He doesn’t have the courage. But Howdy does, and Barnaby loves him for it. 

For once, Howdy lets the time pass in silence, though after a long stretch of indeterminable time he gets up to pace. The bench cushions are high quality, but they start to feel uncomfortable. Barnaby doesn’t dare go for a walk. At least they’re not the usual waiting room chairs - he’d rather stand than try to fit into those plastic, narrow things. 

At some point the woman in the corner wakes up. She startles seeing two strangers in the room with her, but quickly ignores them. Barely a few minutes pass before she leaves, mumbling something about coffee. She doesn’t come back. Barnaby spends a while wondering why - did she go home, or wait somewhere else, or did she receive news in the halls?

Howdy sits down again and starts typing furiously on his phone. When Barnaby gives him a curious nudge, he quietly explains that he’s texting the group chat. Barnaby feels a twinge of guilt at that. He completely forgot to let everyone know that there’s a… situation. Who knows if any of them will see it until morning. 

Message sent, Howdy gets up to pace some more. His rhythmic gait gives Barnaby something to focus on, seeing as the clock on the wall is silent, and the receptionist seems to be sleeping. Barnaby could probably pass time on his own phone, but every second spent distracted is a second he might miss someone coming to tell them…

What? Tell them what, exactly? That Wally is okay? That he can receive visitors? 

That he didn’t make it?

The door opens, startling Barnaby to his feet. Howdy scurries over from the far side of the room and rests a steadying hand on Barnaby’s lower back. A woman clad in blue scrubs enters, reading something on a clipboard. There are shadows under her eyes, and she looks beyond exhausted. Barnaby can sympathize.

“Mr. Beagle?” the doctor asks, looking between them. When Barnaby nods, she smiles thinly, gaze flicking briefly to Howdy. “Hi. I’m Dr. Allen. Before I disclose any sensitive information, I’d like to confirm what your relation to the patient is.”

The question gives Barnaby pause. He’s always had a difficult time putting his and Wally’s relationship into simple terms, because it’s anything but. Wally is his best friend, his dearest companion, the man he lives with and can’t imagine being without. 

“He’s my partner,” Barnaby settles on, because it’s a good umbrella term. Partner can mean a lot of things, and people don’t usually pry for specifics. “We’re as good as family.”

Dr. Allen writes something down on her clipboard. “No worries, I’m not going to kick you out if you’re not - you’re his emergency contact for a reason, after all. It’s just basic information that I’d like to have on hand.”

“Course - so how is he?” Barnaby cuts straight to the chase. He’s not in the mood for niceties. 

“Well, Mr. Darling is certainly giving us a run for our money,” Allen sighs. “He’s not out of the woods yet, but I believe he’s gotten through the worst of it.”

“He’ll make it?”

Allen offers another tight lipped smile. “We’re doing our best.”

Barnaby has seen enough hospital dramas to know that we’re doing our best means no promises, prepare for the worst. Howdy must feel the tension gripping him like a vice, because his hand slips from Barnaby’s back to his hand. 

“What are his injuries, if I may?” Howdy asks. 

“I’m not sure-”

“Please. We’d rather know than wonder.” 

Allen looks between them and sighs again. She flips a page on her clipboard. “Unfortunately, there was a bit of time between the crash and when emergency services were called. Between blood loss and the near-freezing temperatures, Mr. Darling developed mild hypothermia.”

Wally was dying, cold and alone in the wreckage of his home for who knows how long before anyone came to help. Barnaby sways in place, and Howdy helps him sit down on a bench instead of the floor. Allen looks apprehensive.

“Keep going,” Barnaby rasps. He needs to know.

Allen doesn’t look happy about it, but she continues. “Mr. Darling also suffered several low-grade lacerations from shrapnel, some fractured ribs, a compound fracture in his left tibia, and currently unidentified damage to his right hand and lower arm.”

Barnaby swallows a mournful sound. That’s fine, it’s fine. Broken bones heal - Wally will be painting again in no time. 

“He also developed an intracranial hematoma. It’s been treated, but we won’t know the extent of the damage until Mr. Darling wakes up.”

“What is that?” Howdy asks before Barnaby can figure out how to speak again. “Intracranial hematoma - tell me if I’m wrong, but that sounds like a head injury.”

“It is - in layman’s terms, it’s a brain bleed. Head trauma can cause bleeding inside the skull, which puts pressure on the brain. We caught it as quickly as feasibly possible, which should raise his chance of a full recovery.” Allen flips the clipped page back into place. “There may still be lesser complications and injuries we haven’t been able to diagnose or address yet. I’ll be forward with you - this is one of the worst crash cases I’ve seen in some time. Mr. Darling was lucky to be found alive.”

Allen goes on to offer platitudes that Wally is a fighter, and easily answers the flood of questions Howdy has about the mentioned injuries. It all sounds distant. Underwater. The room is too small and the air is stale - are the vents working? Is there a window they can open?

In a blink - and yet the conversation lasts ages - Allen promises to come back with more information as soon as she has it. She smiles one last time and leaves. 

“Barn?” Howdy sounds muffled. “Barn, are you alright?”

What kind of question is that? Of course Barnaby isn’t alright - his best friend is dying, likely on this very floor. There’s a chance he’s already dead. Barnaby might have already lost him, he just doesn’t know it yet. 

Mr. Darling was lucky to be found alive. 

One of the worst crash cases I’ve seen in some time. 

Mild hypothermia - brain bleed - lacerations - fractures.

Lesser complications and injuries we haven’t been able to diagnose or address yet.

We’re doing our best.

“He hung up on me, the little bastard-”

Barnaby is up and out the door before he registers moving. He staggers down the hallways in a blur, everything swirling together into a mess of sight and sound as his lungs struggle to get a full breath. He bypasses the elevator and takes the stairs down to the level they parked on. 

The cold air does nothing to help him breathe. Barnaby chokes on it as he leans against the rough wall grasping at his chest. Howdy is there immediately - he must have been on Barnaby’s heels the whole time. 

“Talk to me, Barn,” Howdy pleads, a hand on the back of his neck and the other over the one Barnaby has on his chest. “What is it - you’re not having a heart attack, are you? Tell me you aren’t, I can’t handle that right now.”

Barnaby doesn’t know. Maybe? He feels like he is. He can’t breathe. He tries to say so, but the ragged gasps his breathing has devolved into doesn’t allow it. Howdy must know something he doesn’t, because he doesn’t run to get a doctor.

“How can I help?” he asks instead.

“Don’t - don’t - know,” Barnaby wheezes. 

“Okay, alright, don’t worry, Barn, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. Let’s try, ah - what were the steps? I didn’t exactly write them down, though in hindsight I should’ve - that’s not the point! It was… what a time to take after Eddie’s memory-”

It shouldn’t be helping, but Howdy’s constant stream of words grabs Barnaby’s attention. He manages to inhale nearly a full breath before it stutters back out and he’s struggling again.

“Breathing!” Howdy says. “Yes, that was it - Barnaby, I need you to focus on me. Copy my breathing.”

He sucks in a slow, dramatic breath through his nose and exhales just as slowly through his mouth. Barnaby catches on and tries to mimic him, but-

“Can’t, I ca-an’t,” Barnaby says. His chest hurts. 

Howdy presses their foreheads together. “Yes, you can. Come now, Barn, in… out. Simplest thing in the world.”

It doesn’t feel simple, but Barnaby tries. It feels like forever before he manages a full inhale. He butchers the exhale, but Howdy praises the minor win before launching right back into measured breathing. 

Barnaby finally manages a slow inhale and exhale, and suddenly it feels like the pressure filling his chest has vanished. He slumps against the wall, worn out. He puts his hand over Howdy’s mouth in the middle of another dramatic demonstration.

“You’re alright now?” Howdy says, peeling his hand off. Barnaby nods, and Howdy leans next to him with a whoosh. “Thank the stock market - I was starting to get light headed.”

It takes another few minutes for them to catch their breath. Barnaby straightens enough to rest his head on Howdy’s shoulder, breathing in his cheap cologne and homemade laundry detergent. Howdy cups the back of his neck and massages the tense muscle there. 

“This will all turn out okay,” Howdy promises. “Wally is stubborn - I think we both know that well enough. By this time tomorrow we’ll be moving forward.”

Barnaby wants to be that optimistic, but this is real life. For all they know, moving forward means making funeral arrangements. His breathing stutters and he forces it to even out before he can start hyperventilating again. 

A car pulls into a parking space with a gravelly sound. Barnaby pays it no mind until Howdy makes a surprised noise - Barnaby looks up, and his stomach churns.

Frank, Eddie, and Julie are all getting out of Frank’s car. They’re all in various states of dishevelment. Frank’s hair is a mess, and he has what looks like Eddie’s company jacket thrown on over his pajamas. Eddie is in little more than a shirt that says male? lol, more like mail! and boxers - he’s even wearing slippers instead of shoes, and his hair flops over his forehead in soft tufts. Julie’s hair is still in curlers, and though she’s wearing shoes, she’s in a too-long shirt over sweats that don’t belong to her. They’re paint-stained. 

They rush across the parking lot, all worried faces and tired eyes. They’re already asking what happened, is Wally okay, Sally is getting Poppy, they should be here soon, has there been any news-

Barnaby lunges at the nearest trash can and vomits.

#IM SORRY FOR ANY HOSPITAL/PROCEDURAL INACCURACIES IM NOT TRYING TO BE ACCURATE AT THE MOMENT #except for the injuries. those are realistic and i did my due diligence. read a lot of first hand accounts! medical pages! #ohhhh this was so cozy to write #i mean. not as familiar as actual on-screen injuries but yk #its been too fluffy in here. #this is a mild example of my usual tastes and habits when it comes to fic & fiction #WHUMP CENTRAL BABEYYYYYY #i like it messy and painful!!! Lets Fuckin Go!!!! #this is a prime example of me not being able to shut the fuck up when writing #my scenes & convos just go on and on and on and on.... #but yes! enjoy! the Crash arc is very thoroughly planned out in my head and lately its one of my favorite things to imagine before bed <3 #bedtime stories can be fictional characters going through horrible injuries & emotionally hurting each other #snippets from the bog #i will repeat what i have said multiple times before #i take the comic relief character. i hurt the comic relief character #i could have posted the little carnival half-scene. i could have #but ive been feeling stressed and caged and i need to let out some steam #and this is how i do that. controlled fictional violence <3

[q-gorgeous]

Perfect Bill of Health

fanfiction

ao3

word count: 2671

Danny's forced trip to the doctor reveals he has several unexplained and suspicious unhealed or badly healed injuries

more phic for phic phight

He was sore. Even just laying in bed hurt. He didn’t know how long it would last for like this. But his alarm was going off and he needed to get ready for school. 

He lifted his arm up and pressed the button to turn his alarm off. He laid his arm across his face and groaned. Time to get up. 

Danny rolled onto his side and shakily pushed himself up. Once up, he sat on his bed for a few moments out of breath. It took too long to pass and he sighed. A knock sounded at the door and he jumped.

“Danny, sweetie, are you waking up?” His mom called. 

The sound of a saw. A bright light above him. His missing kidney being passed from one person to the other. 

He shook his head and took a deep breath.

“Yeah, Mom! I’m awake!” He said shakily.

“Okay. Make sure to get some breakfast on the way out. I made eggs and bacon with waffles today.”

“Okay, I’ll eat some.” He called back. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stomach it.

He listened to the sound of her walking away from the door and waited until he couldn’t hear her steps anymore. 

Time to start the day.

He slowly stood up and grabbed a change of clothes and headed across the hallway to the bathroom. He started up the water and waited for it to get warm while he brushed his teeth. He turned the water off and stared into the mirror for a few moments as the water ran in the shower behind him. 

He started peeling off his hoodie, trying to avoid looking at the scar on his chest that trailed up over his collarbones. He turned around and dropped the hoodie on the floor and finished undressing before he stepped into the shower. 

Once he was done, he got dressed and pulled on a new hoodie. Dropping his old clothes off in his room, he grabbed his backpack and headed downstairs. 

His mom turned and looked up at him when he entered the kitchen.

“Danny, it’s awfully warm today. Are you sure you want to wear a hoodie?” Maddie asked as she set a plate down in front of him. 

“It’s colder inside the school.” Danny poked at the food on his plate. “I’ll be fine.” 

“Are you sure-”

“Danny-boy!” Jack walked into the living and slapped a hand on Danny’s back. “Be sure to save some waffles for the rest of us!”

“Jack!” Maddie shooed him to his own seat as Danny gasped for the air that was knocked out of him. “You know Danny’s been sore and out of breath lately.”

Jack knocked himself in the head. “Drat! That’s right. Sorry, Danny.”

“Speaking of that.” Maddie took her spot next to Jack. “You have a doctor’s appointment after school today, Danny.”

Danny spit out the small bite of eggs he finally put in his mouth. “A doctor’s appointment?”

Maddie nodded. “You’re overdue for a regular checkup and with all these other concerning symptoms you’ve been having, I think it’s time you go in for one.”

“But after school I-”

“Nope.” Maddie shook her head. “You have no extracurriculars and whatever you might have planned with Sam and Tucker can wait until after you go to your doctor’s appointment.”

“But-”

“No buts. I’ll be picking you up after school today and we’ll be heading straight there.”

Danny slumped forward in his seat and twirled his fork around on his plate. 

Maddie sighed. “Look, I know going to the doctor can be scary. Especially when something is wrong but you don’t know what. Going to the doctor when symptoms first appear instead of waiting will prevent any issues from getting worse.”

Danny nodded. “I understand.”

They finished eating the rest of their breakfast. Danny still had a bit on his plate, but he pushed it away from him and stood up.

“Have a good day at school, Danny.” Maddie came around the table and gave him a kiss on the forehead. Danny tried not to cringe and stooped down to pick up his backpack and head to school.

~~~~~~~~~~

Danny stared at where his mom’s car was parked in the parking lot.

“You sure you’ll be okay?”

He turned to look at Sam and Tucker as they walked up to him. 

“Yeah, Sam. I think I’ll be okay. It’ll just be a regular check up, right? What can they all do at one of those?”

“Just give us a call when you’re done.” Sam said.

“Or if you need us to break you out of there.” Tucker gently nudged him. “We’ll bust down every door to get you out.”

Danny chuckled. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, Tuck. But I will let you guys know how it went afterwards.” 

He walked away from them and made his way to his mom’s car. 

He pulled the door open and threw his bag onto the floor and jumped into the passenger seat.

“Hi, Danny!” His mom smiled at him as he shut the door and put his seatbelt on. “How was school?”

He shrugged as she pulled out of the parking lot. “It was fine. It was school. Didn’t do much of anything interesting today.”

“Aw. That’s too bad.” Maddie said. 

They drove his silence until they pulled into the parking lot of the hospital.

“The hospital?” Danny asked. “Why didn’t we go to our usual doctor’s office?”

“Because here they can perform any kind of tests they might deem necessary. If they don’t think you need anything else done, they will. If they don’t they’ll just do the regular check up and then send us home.”

She turned the car off and got out. Danny sat there for a few moments staring at the building before he finally opened his door and stood up. He followed his mom across the parking lot and into the building. Right inside the entrance was a reception desk and his mom walked up to an empty booth and smiled at the receptionist. 

“Hi! We’re here for an appointment for Danny Fenton?”

The receptionist shuffled around a couple papers and clipped them into a clipboard with a pen.

“You can take a seat and fill out these forms while you wait for the nurse. They’ll be out shortly.”

They walked over to the waiting area and took a seat in two chairs. 

They went through the checklist and filled out every symptom Danny could remember having in the last six months and his family’s medical history. They were at the bottom of the sheet when a nurse walked through the door leading to the examination rooms.

“Danny Fenton?”

Maddie stood up and Danny’s heart rate spiked.

“Haha, you don’t have to come with me, mom. I’m old enough to go to my own doctor’s appointments on my own now.”

Maddie frowned at him. “Are you sure? I can come in and advocate for you. Make sure they’re taking you seriously.”

“No no, it’s fine. I’ll be okay.”

He stood up with the clipboard and walked over to the nurse.

“I’m Danny.”

“Hi, Danny.” The nurse smiled at him. “If you follow me, we’ll start by taking your height and weight. Once we get to the examination room we’ll go through checking your vitals.” 

They walked up to a scale and Danny took off his shoes.

“120 pounds.” The nurse said.

She unfolded the height thing and pulled it down to the top of his head. 

“Five foot five. Follow me.” 

He followed behind her down the hallway. He studied the walls as they walked by another desk. She stopped and opened a door to their right. 

“In here. You can take a seat on the bed over there.”

He sat down and took another look around the room. It looked like any other normal doctor’s room he’s been in before. 

“We’re going to start with your temperature.” 

She stuck a thermometer in his ear and took it out when it beeped. She frowned at it. “Ninety four degrees.” 

She stuck another thing in his ear and moved to his other side. When she was done, she grabbed the blood pressure device. He held up his arm and she wrapped it around it and started pumping it. It squeezed Danny’s arm as she studied the measurement. She pulled it off.

“Blood pressure is low.”

A knock sounded at the door and a doctor walked in.

“Hi, Susan. I can take it from here.” She said. 

Susan walked out of the room and the doctor sat down in the swivel chair next to the bed.

“I’m Dr. Burnell. Your mom said you came in with concerns about shortness of breath today?”

“You talked to my mom?” He asked.

She nodded. “I just went to ask her a few questions and to get permission to run tests.”

“Don’t you need my permission too?” Danny frowned at her. 

“Unfortunately, your mom has the legal say on any medical treatment you go through. But any tests we run are for your benefit so we can get to the root of the issue. But before we get to any of that, I’m going to ask you to take a couple deep breaths while I listen through the stethoscope.”

“Okay…”

She stood up and walked over to him. She placed the stethoscope on his back and listened as he took a deep breath. She frowned.

“Can you take another breath?”

He did as she asked and she stepped away. 

“Have you had any injuries lately? Been hurt in any sports at school?”

His bones cracking as his chest was ripped open. The pain as it radiated outward. Voices talking around him. 

“No.” He said shakily. “No injuries. I don’t play any sports at school.”

Her frown deepened. “I’d like to do an x-ray of your chest. It sounds like you may have a couple broken ribs. That could explain your soreness but not your shortness of breath. For that I’d like to do an MRI.”

“Broken ribs?” Danny asked. He would have thought those would have healed by now.

Dr. Burnell nodded. “When a patient has broken ribs, you can hear them rattling through the stethoscope. There’s not much we can do for those besides prescribe bed rest and pain meds while you’re healing.”

He nodded. “Okay.” 

“If you come with me, we can get started.”

~~~~~~~~~

Danny was led back to his examination room once the tests were over. They were much more painless than he was expecting, but he still didn’t know what his body would look like in them. If his ghostly qualities would appear in them. 

He’d been sitting in this room for quite a while now and he wasn’t sure when the doctor would be coming back. 

A knock finally sounded at the door and Danny jumped in his seat. “Come in.” He called.

Dr. Burnell walked in, staring at some sheets in her hands. She looked frazzled and concerned. 

“We have your scans back Danny, but we haven’t gone to talk to your mom yet. We wanted to check in with you first.” 

Danny frowned at her. What could they have found that she’d be this concerned about? Especially if they still haven’t gone to get his mom to tell them the news together?

“You do indeed have a couple broken ribs. When we did the MRI we did find out that the broken ribs are pushing against your lungs causing your shortness of breath.”

Danny nodded. Was that all they were concerned about?

“But we found something else.”

She handed him his x-ray. His heart dropped into his stomach at the color he saw in the scan that he knew wasn’t supposed to be there.

A green orb sat in the center of his chest.

“And your MRI.”

She handed him another scan and this one had specks of green littered throughout his body. 

The doctor stared at Danny.

“What did your parents do to you?”

Danny pulled back suddenly. “What do you mean what did my parents do to me?“ he asked shakily. 

“We have no other evidence of this type of ecto-contamination in any other patients in Amity Park.” Dr. Burnell said. “We see cases of child abuse often in the hospital. It’s something we have to ask.”

“My parents would never hurt me.” Danny said shakily as he stood up from his seat. 

“We’ve already contacted CPS. They’re going to come and ask you and your mom some questions.”

Danny started hyperventilating. They were going to tell his mom about his injuries and ecto-contamination. They were going to tell her about his core. How would he explain this away? If he was just ecto-contaminated he could get away with that, but not having a core. 

“I- I have to go.” Danny turned towards the door and tripped over his own feet. He hit the ground hard and his chest exploded in pain and stars burst in his eyes.

“Danny!” Dr. Burnell shouted. He could hear her running over and kneeling on the ground beside him. She turned him to his back. Then there was a light shining in his eyes.

White light. The pain. His parents. 

“Get away from me!” Danny shouted. 

His ghostly wail must’ve pushed its way into his shout through his anxiety because the windows on the wall opposite from them shattered. Dr. Burnell covered her face and Danny pulled himself away from her, backing up across the floor. 

“What was that?” Dr. Burnell asked. 

Danny shook his head. “My mom didn’t do anything.”

“Okay.” She whispered. “Okay. She didn’t do anything. But we still don’t know what that is inside your chest. It might be a tumor. We need to-”

He covered his chest with his hands. “No!” 

His core in their hands. Bright lights. Even brighter light. It fell back in his chest and his parents were covering their eyes. His chance.

“You can’t have it!” 

“What is it?”

Danny stared at her. He couldn’t tell some random person his secret. There was no way. 

But this was a doctor. If his mom kept forcing him to go to doctors appointment after doctor's appointment, he’d keep having the same problem. The doctor’s discovering something they shouldn’t have that could only really be worked back to his parents. 

Was there anything else he could do?

“It’s… It’s my core. I’m half ghost.”

“Half ghost?” Dr. Burnell asked. “That doesn’t sound real.”

Danny nodded. “It is. But you can’t tell my parents. CPS can’t talk to them.” 

She gave him some placating hand gestures. “Okay, okay. They’re on their way right now. How do we stop them?”

Danny turned intangible and invisible and called on his transformation. He flew his way towards the waiting room and got there just as someone walked up to his mom. 

“Madeline Fenton-”

He flew into their body, overshadowing him. 

“Yes?” Maddie asked. 

“Oh, nothing much. We just wanted to check and say hi. Danny will be out shortly.”

“Oh! Okay. Should I start checking out?”

He nodded. “You guys will be all set to go.”

She stood up and headed towards the reception desk. Danny turned and walked through the door leading to the hallway and walked the agent around a couple turns and corners before flying out of him. 

Danny transformed back and was about to walk back out through the door when he saw Dr. Burnell. 

She had a stoney expression on her face. He was sure she didn’t believe him. He wouldn’t believe him either. But there was no other option. Not one that disrupted his entire life and flipped everything on its side. He was already different. He didn’t want anything else to change.

He walked back out through the door, ignoring Dr. Burnells gaze. 

“How did everything turn out Danny?” Maddie asked him as they walked out through the front entrance. 

Bright light. Saw. Nicked his core. Screams. Escape. 

“It’s alright.” Danny lied. “Perfect bill of health.”

#gorgi writes #danny phantom #danny fenton #maddie fenton #dissection mention #medical procedures #medical examination #phic phight 2024 #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #phic

[sortofanobsession]

omg I’m so glad you’re alive and I hope you’re feeling better. Can’t wait to read your Ted lasso writing again<3

Author's Note: ask and you shall receive...

Content warning: injury, hospital, surgery, anxiety, fear, cussing (it's Roy so duh) Crying.

Paring: Roy/Jamie

No Show Roy-o

Jamie paced the locker room. The team just watching him. 

Everyone's eyes snap to the door when someone starts to open it but they are disappointed when Ted and Beard walk in. The two coaches look at each other and then the team before heading into the office. 

"Okay, something is wrong," Ted says as he sets his backpack down. 

"Clearly," Beard replies. 

Ted watches the team through the window and notices all the attention on Tartt. Well, then he knew where to start.

"What's wrong, Jamie?" Ted asks as he approaches the striker. 

"Roy didn't show for training this morning and he isn't here yet."

"Has he ever missed before?" 

"The man actually lives to wake me up at 4 am to order me around," Jamie states. "No, he never misses. Not without a text at least."

"Did you call him?"

"I'm not daft," Jamie huffs. "Several times. No answer. Now it goes to voicemail."

"Some of us tried too," Isaac says. "Nothing."

"Keeley hasn't been able to ring him either," Jamie says. "Should I call his sister?"

"You have his sister's number?"

"For emergencies, and Phoebe," Jamie admits. 

"Hold on, you have contact with Roy's niece?" Ted asks. "She's what? 8?"

"That's really the important part to you now?" Jamie asks.

"Kinda, odd friendship there," Ted admits. 

"She insists I'm Roy's best friend, and Roy says it's for emergencies. She has a very different definition of emergencies, like you said, she's 8."

"Okay, fine," Ted says. He could let that go for now.  

"Do you think this counts as an emergency?" Jamie asks. 

"Let's see if he is doesn’t show, not just later than normal," Ted says. 

But when time comes to head out to the pitch and Roy still isn't there Jamie cracks and texts Roy's sister. She texts him back that she'll check his place. And that gives Jamie some reassurance as he begins training. He gives Ted his phone in case she or Roy calls. Ted initially thought it was silly, but about an hour in she does call. She tells Ted that Roy wasn't there and the fact he isn't answering for her is unusual. Roy would never ignore a call from her or Phoebe. But she also insists that Roy can handle himself. And she'll let them know if she hears anything. And that makes Ted a bit nervous. They were just about to take a break when Phoebe called Jamie. She is crying and Ted actually does call Jamie over for this one. And Jamie, still in his kit, drags Ted inside. Changes only his boots while still on the phone and whispers to Ted to get what he needs. 

"Where are we going?" Ted asks but does as Jamie says because something feels very wrong here. 

"The fucking hospital," Jamie hisses, not to be mean but more so Phoebe doesn't hear. 

"Oh, that's bad, yeah, let's go." Ted nods and follows Jamie’s lead. 

"We're on the way Phoebe, just stay there." 

Phoebe runs over and hugs Jamie when she sees him.

"Hey, Phoe," Jamie says and despite the fact she is 8 years old, Jamie hauls her up into his arms for a hug. And Ted is almost envious of how easy that seemed for him. But Ted is still very confused. "You remember Coach Ted?" Jamie asks her. She nods as Jamie sets her down. 

"Hi Phoebe," Ted says. "Are you okay?" Ted asks. 

She shrugs and looks over. Ted sees a doctor he had met before, but she looked out of place in street clothes. 

"Hey, Doc." Jamie hugs her. "What happened?"

"Still trying to sort that out," she says.

"You're Roy's sister?" Ted finally asks. 

"Oh sorry, yeah, Coach Lasso, Doc. Doc, Coach Lasso."

"Thanks Jamie," Ted says at the less than helpful introduction but Jamie is already being pulled away to the waiting area by Phoebe. 

"How much did Jamie tell you?" 

"Absolutely nothing," Ted admits. 

She shakes her head. "Right, Roy was brought in about a half hour ago. A friend of mine on shift recognized him and called me. They think he was hit by a car but we have no idea."

"Oh wow, I am so sorry, that-" Ted starts to say but she stops him.

"Thank you, he's in surgery now, I assume you will want to let Ms. Welton know. He might be out for a while."

"Yeah, right, good calls must run in the family," he says. 

"Something like that," she says before going to check on Phoebe. 

She leans in and whispers to Jamie that Roy is in surgery and it's a waiting game now. 

Ted calls Rebecca and Beard, then Keeley. Keeley is there in less than twenty minutes.

"Keeley?" Jamie asks when he sees her. She hugs Phoebe and then him. 

"Ted called," she says and smacks his arm. 

"What was that for?"

"You didn't call me!"

"I was busy with her," Jamie says, gesturing to Phoebe. Thankfully she had her headphones on and was curled up in a chair. 

"Fine, that is an acceptable excuse. Here," she hands him a bag. "I ran by Nelson Road and got your stuff. Sam had made sure it was packed up. They're all pretty worried."

"They aren't the only ones," Jamie glances at Phoebe. 

"Does Ted know?" 

She glances out the window to where Ted was clearly on the phone with Rebecca or Higgins.

"Know what?"

"About you and Roy?" She says.

"Nah, didn't know if I should tell him. We haven't talked about it."

"Well, I think this might genuinely blow your cover."

"Hasn't yet," Jamie says.

"Jamie, I know you. You're managing right now because of Phoebe, but the minute you see him, you-"

"I know," Jamie seems to deflate. "I am trying so hard but-" 

"Oh babe," she hugs him and grimaces. "I love you, Jamie but do us all a favor and change. I'll stay with her."

"Yeah, right, okay," Jamie says as he heads to the toilets to change. 

"Where's Jamie?" Ted asks when he gets back.

"Changing out of his kit, Ted there is something I need to tell you, the boys might get mad, but Jamie is going to need someone and as much as he tries to hide it he is terrified."

"Okay, lay it on me," Ted says.

"Roy and Jamie have been secretly dating since just after international break."

"Wow," Ted says. "That's…new information." He admits. "Does explain why he has Roy's sister in his phone. And why he was so worried when Roy didn't show up for training." 

"They were keeping it a secret because well, for a lot of reasons, but I believe that ship might have sailed based on the fact Jamie didn't even change out of his kit."

"Did change his boots," Ted says.

"Probably not easy to drive in," she says.

"Probably," Ted agrees. 

"Please don't make a big deal out of it, Jamie wasn't going to say anything because he wasn't sure if Roy would want him to, but Jamie brought you for a reason. He brought you because he trusts you and Roy trusts you. And I know you won't hold this against them."

"Heck no, I'm glad they have each other, just surprised is all. You think Jamie is just a ticking time bomb in this one?"

"Definitely," Keeley nods. "And I'm not sure what will set him off."

"Thanks for the heads up, I'll keep this between us unless something happens."

"Thank you, Ted." 

Keeley heads back to work after they promise to keep her in the loop. Roy's sister comes back a bit later to tell them that Roy was out of surgery but it would be a bit before anyone could see him.

"You should be at training," is the first thing out of Roy Kent's mouth when they walk in. He glares at Jamie. 

"Uncle Roy!" Phoebe rushes over and hugs him as best as she can.

"Hi, Phoebe," he says before looking at Jamie. 

"You really think I would stay at training after they called me?" Jamie challenges.

"Yes, not much you can do here," Roy says.

"How hard did that car hit you?” Jamie narrows his gaze at him. “Because clearly your brain is rattled, old man." 

"How you feeling, Roy?" Ted asks to get the two to quit being so grumpy.

"Like I got hit by a car," Roy states.

"You did," Phoebe sniffles. 

"I'm okay, kid," he says. Earning a scoff from Jamie. Roy glares at him. "You should-"

"Oh, Jamie Tartt's not going anywhere," Ted assures him. "Rebecca already knows you'll be out for a while, and sorry boys, but the cats out of the bag on this one."

"You told him," Roy glares at Jamie again.

"I did not," Jamie looks just as shocked. 

"Keeley told me," Ted says. "Because she was worried Jamie was handling it too well."

"Of course she was," Jamie complains. 

"You did cry, like a lot earlier," Phoebe says. 

"Thanks for that, Phoe," Jamie says, his tone less than amused at being called out by a literal child.

"Phoebe, why don't you help me find your mom and call Keeley," Ted says. 

She seems to weigh her options.

"And stop by the vending machines," Ted adds.

"Okay," she hugs her uncle again before following Ted out. Roy looks over at Jamie and can tell he really is hanging in by a thread.

"I'm fine," Roy says. And Jamie doesn't even say anything, just crawls in the bed beside Roy. Roy grunts but manages to shift a bit to make them both fit. "Better?" Roy asks once Jamie is practically molded into his side. 

"Yes, much," Jamie says and he buried his face in Roy's shoulder. 

"Why am I not surprised?" Roy's sister says when she walks in. 

"Not my idea," Roy says.

"Not complainin' though, yeah?" Jamie counters.

"Tear his stitches and I'm banning you myself, Tartt," she says.

"Ouch, Doc," Jamie says. "But fair."

She hums as she sets to checking his vitals. 

“Pain?” She asks.

He grunts.

“Roy,” she starts but Jamie beats her to it. 

“It's either now or you have to admit it when Phoebe gets back,” Jamie says. And whether it is because he's right or that Jamie's so close to losing it Roy knows he needs to answer. 

“Fine, 6.”

“Right,” his sister says.

She makes a few notes.

It was quiet again when she left. 

“Are you mad?” Jamie asks.

“That I got hit by a fucking car?” Roy counters. That seemed like an obvious question. Of fucking course he was. He could have died. His mind circles back as Jamie shifts. 

“That people know,” Jamie corrects. “About us.”

Roy considers it as best he can with painkillers in his system. And he really doesn't fucking care because Jamie is there with him and despite how he was acting before he was glad he was there. It had been terrifying to think he might die when he has people that need him. 

“No,” Roy finally answered. “Needed you here, and if that's the fucking cost. Fine.”

“Good, because I think the team knew something was up, but that might have been because I couldn't sit still.”

“When have you ever fucking sat still?” Roy posits.

“This was worse,” Jamie tells him. “I'm sure Will is going to be pissed at the state of my boots. Pacing constantly on a hard surface.”

“Well get you new fucking boots,” Roy assures.

“Least of my worries, love,” Jamie admits, carefully shifting so he can see Roy's face. “Scared the shit out of me when I couldn't- you weren't answering. No one could find you. You never-”

“Fuck,” Roy says because Jamie has tears streaming down his face and he hates when that happens. He hates that it's because of him, even if he had no say in what happened to him. Despite the ache it causes Roy reaches up and brushes as many of those tears away as he can without risking his stitches. “I'm-”

“Don't!” Jamie starts to pull away. The striker knew what he was about to say. Jamie vehemently shakes his head, causing Roy's hand to have to fall back to the bed. “You are not fucking fine, Roy,” Jamie states, and it was clear what little hold Jamie had on his feelings was slipping. “Because I’m not! Phoebe isn’t either. You nearly died! I can't…do you think I want to do any of this shit without you? Because I fucking don't.”

“Not fucking asking you to,” Roy says, and it probably comes out more aggressive than he intended because Jamie was no longer tucked against his side. The footballer was on his feet, having wound himself up to pacing again. And Roy's chest always gets tight when Jamie does that shit. He needs Jamie to be okay. But he knows he probably said that wrong when Jamie glares at him. 

“You didn't fucking have to,” Jamie retorts. And that's fair. 

“Fucking hell,” Roy grumbles, attempting to sit up so he can better track Jamie's movement. 

“Don’t do that,” Jamie grumbles as he moves back to help him. “Hurt yourself and your sister will boot me.”

“Then quit fucking pacing,” Roy tugs at Jamie's arm until he sits on the edge of the bed. Roy sighs, ignoring the ache in his ribs as he does. 

“I'm not fucking dying, Tartt. Fucking doctors made sure of it.”

“Barely,” Jamie says.

“But they fucking did, and that's fucking that.”

Jamie scoffs but doesn't bother arguing. He was anxious and still thinking about how much worse things could have been, and how much could still go wrong.

“Look at me, Tartt,” Roy demands. Jamie does. “I know this is a fucking mess, but I will be fucking fine. You know why?” Jamie shrugs. “Because you lot won't stop until I am. You, my sister and Ted fucking Lasso, are all fucking determined. Throw in Keeley and that fucking team. I probably won't get a fucking quiet moment til I'm back at the dog track. So fucking do it.”

“Are you telling me to take care of you?” Jamie asks. 

“Going to fucking do it anyway, yeah?”

“Of course,” Jamie nods. “What do you need me to do?”

“You're here, so things are already fucking better,” Roy states. That has warmth spreading through Jamie's chest because Roy has less filter than most, but it would appear he has even less now. And it's oddly sweet.

“Yeah, I'm here,” Jamie says as he shifts to prop his knee up on the bed and takes Roy's hand in his. The fact Roy seems to relax even more has Jamie smiling for what feels like the first time all day. “And you heard the gaffer, I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me.”

“Good, going to need help with the kid,” Roy says. “She is going to be impossible to get rid of.”

“Don't lie Kent, you love every second of it. You love that kid.”

“Not the only fucking one,” Roy states. 

“That loves Phoebe? Of course not, she's adorable and-”

Roy squeezes his hand. 

“That I love, you fucking muppet. Sometimes I wonder why but fucking hell, Tartt. I fucking love you.”

Jamie grins. “Fucking love you too, you prick.”

Roy tugs him until Jamie lays back down beside him. There is a knock at the door. Jamie goes to get up but Roy doesn't let him. 

“Well aren't you two adorable,” Ted says as he and Phoebe come in. 

“Fuck off, Lasso,” Roy grunts.

“Uncle Roy,” Phoebe starts.

“I know, kid,” Roy says. 

“Your mum probably knows where his wallet is more than he does,” Jamie says.

“Could probably finally cash out that tab I've heard about,” Ted adds.

“Oi, don't give her fucking ideas.”

“That's two,” Ted states. 

“Fucking hell,” Roy mutters, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the pillows. 

“Three,” Phoebe giggles. 

“I got you,” Jamie quietly tells Roy. Jamie grabs his wallet from his locker and tosses it to Phoebe. Phoebe gives him a look. “He's been through it, so I'll take the hit for him.” Jamie grins. Phoebe just shrugs and takes three quid from him.

“Now he owes you,” Phoebe says, setting his wallet on the table by his phone, which he had set aside to focus on Roy when he initially crawled into the bed. 

Roy glares at him, but it doesn't bother the striker. 

#tw: injury #tw: hospitalization #tw: hospitals #tw: hit by car #tw: crying #tw: cursing #tw: cussing #tw: fear #tw: anxiety #tw: medical procedures #tw: medical emergencies #tw: medical treatment #tw: medication #tw: mentions of death #ted lasso fic #royjamie #jamie x roy #roy x jamie #jamieroy

[sociallyanxiouscryptid]

All eyes on me

Supervillain thought they could rule the world forever, they were wrong

CW: needles, medical procedure, restraints

Supervillain opened their eyes. It was funny because they don’t really remember closing them. Their vision blurred in front of them, sending their head into a dangerous spin. The nausea felt far away, so did the rest of them, their fingers a faint tingle in the vacuum. But slowly it was coming back to them, the cool air against their skin, the ache in their neck, even the sour taste in their mouth.

Then the tightness around their wrists

Rope was a familiar sensation against their skin, however usually it’s the other way around. The rope in their hands, around someone else’s wrists. They were tight, well done. Supervillain couldn’t move, not even a little. It made their hands tingle, but not enough to cut off circulation entirely, just enough to be deeply uncomfortable.

The room kept spinning as Supervillain tried looking up, the lights too bright, colours too muted. A light shifted, their eyes springing with tears that they tried to blink through. Someone shifted, a body near them, their heat startling against the cold.

“Maybe I gave you too much,” a voice muttered. The light shifted further, got closer. Supervillain recoiled.

“Wh-” their tongue was cotton, thick and tangled. They flinched, head lolling to the side, but a hand caught their skin.

“You don’t recognise me, do you?”

Supervillain still couldn’t see let alone recognise an asshole with a torch. They tried saying as much but all that tumbled out were half baked consonants.

The light vanished and so did the body, a whisp of a sigh falling from Supervillain’s lips. They weren’t sure where the fucker went but they took the time to breath, sucking in slow and measured breaths that filled their body.

Water poured over them, icy and biting and the slow measured breath turned into a gasp, followed by splashes of liquid that caught in Supervillain’s throat. They coughed, the thing shaking through their whole body as it quickly turned into a fit.

The hand came back, another rubbing their shoulder as the fit eased. Supervillain coughed up the last of the water, blinking into clearer vision.

A person stepped in front of them, smiling.

“Is that better?” They said. “Head a little clearer?”

“Le-”

“Ah,” they said, hand snaking out, pressing against Supervillain’s mouth. “I want you to recognise me first. I want you to remember.”

Supervillain stared into their face, their eyes. Nothing. Just another person for them to use, another person for them to control like everyone else. Something in the back of their mind shifted. Their eyes were pretty they guess, had they dated them? Rejected them? Were they about to be bested by a miffed ex?

You’re cute.

The memory came back all at once.

Too bad you’re in my way.

Supervillain’s eyes widened, but not nearly as much as Villain’s grin.

“Surprise.”

Villain stepped back, removing their hand but Supervillain was too shocked to speak.

“Wow,” Villain breathed. “You really thought you’d never see me again. That you could just lock me up and throw away the key.”

Supervillain truly had. Why wouldn’t they? It had never happened before, was supposed to never happen at all. Villain was barely recognisable now, worn, their body tired but eyes glistening with a mad delight.

“How?” It was the only think Supervillain could think, the only thing that mattered.

Villain delighted in the question, picking at the long sleeve of their shirt before beginning to roll it up.

“It took a lot of time,” they said, the scars on their arm slowly revealing. “A lot of experimentations and even more mistakes.” They rolled the sleeve up above their elbow, began on the other. “Do you know how hard it is to experiment on yourself? To cut into your own bone marrow?”

“Impossible,” Supervillain said.

“It should be, yes,” Villain nodded finishing the other sleeve. “But when you have time and immortality on your side you can get very creative.”

Supervillain just stared.

“Its understandable, why you were so cocky. Why you thought you could win,” Villain said, now pacing around Supervillain. “You have this power at your fingertips, one so strong and seemingly so reliable. You had no reason to think it would fail. No one can fault you on that.”

Villain stood somewhere behind Supervillain and it made the hairs on the back of their neck stand on end. A shiver ran through them and suddenly a true sense of danger sunk into their gut.

“Let me go,” Supervillain demanded, strong and powerful.

Nothing. Supervillain’s ears rung as they waited, skin itched ready for the ropes to come undone.

Villain laughed, a mad and joyous thing.

“I wasn’t entirely certain it would work,” they beamed, walking back to the front. “Sure, I could break your old demand, but would my alterations hold up to new ones? Could I disobey you?” Villain grinned ear to ear like a giddy child. “Oh I have waited so, so long for this day, to see that look in your eyes. Does it make you feel helpless? Feel weak?”

“Let me go,” Supervillain said again, firmer, pushing more intent into their words. Nothing.

Villain cackled.

“How did you enjoy the spotlight hey? The title world’s most dangerous villain?”

“Let me go.” Supervillain yelled, chest tightening.

Villain was on them, hands pressed against their wrist, face millimetres away.

“Oh but sweetie I am having so much fun. You had the arrogance to think you could take my spotlight, but now it’s my turn, and I am hungry for that light on my face.”

“This is impossible.”

“It was inevitable,” Villain stepped back. They wondered across the room, somewhere behind Supervillain.  

“Even if I can’t control you,” Supervillain said, “I still control everyone else. You won’t be able to move in this world without me knowing about it.”

Villain hummed, “oh you will know about every move I make, right up to your last breath.”

Supervillain tugged against their restraints.

Villain came back around with a needle in their hand, and without a word they grabbed Supervillain’s bicep, steadying the arm as they slipped it into the vein, precise and practiced.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m solving the problem you presented,” Villain said.

Villain carefully drew the blood, Supervillain watched it spill into the vial, head getting light. Villain filled four vials before removing the needle, not gentle in the slightest.

Supervillain arched themself, straining their neck as much as possible to see where Villain went, and as they did, they caught a glimpse of the entire room behind them. They were in a laboratory, Supervillain positioned over near a wall, everything around them pushed back.

Villain came back, still behind them though, something else in their hand.

“What is this?” Supervillain said.

Villain looked back around the room.

“Don’t you recognise it?”

Supervillain didn’t.

“This is the hole you tried to bury me in.”

Some sharp went into Supervillain’s back and the pain was blinding.

“Hold still,” Villain said, “I don’t want to damage anything.”

Supervillain did, only because every move brought more agony. Their nails dug into the chair, teeth about to shatter as they felt something move about, before being withdrawn. Supervillain gasped, choked on their spit.

“You’re doing so good,” Villain purred.

“They will come find me,” Supervillain growled. “And when they do, I will cut you up into tiny pieces and-”

Villain snatched their hair and wrenched their head back.

“No one is coming. No one cares about you,” Villain hissed. “That’s the thing about your power, no one is loyal to you, and because of your arrogance you had no safety measures in places. No one will come for you because they are all too busy carrying out your demands and will continue to do so until you issue new ones.”

Supervillain stared, the words sitting heavy on their chest, sinking deep into their stomach. There had to at least be someone, right? They hadn’t controlled everyone…

They had, they truly had. Everyone who worked under them, every enemy who encountered them, they were all under Supervillain’s control. Supervillain never gave anyone the chance to come in willingly, they didn’t need to. It was why they were the world’s most feared villain.

“You have come so far, and yet you’re still so ignorant, a baby in this world.” Villain tapped Supervillain’s cheek, letting go of their hair. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you what a real villain is.”

They came back around the front.

“I will remind the whole world what a real villain is,” Villain grinned.

#cw needles #cw medical procedure #sociallyanxiouscryptid #not a prompt #fiction #fic #ficlet #writing #short story #writeblr #writing snippet #snippet #writing community #story #villain #supervillain #whump #whump writing #writing prompts #fantasy #capture #angst #powers #superpowers

[wangxianficrecs]

Indenture AU by airinshaw

Indenture AU

by airinshaw

E, WIP, Series, 24k, Wangxian

Summary part one: Lan Wangji checked the file for his next patient and noted the marker that told him it was a new indentured servant examination. He flicked to the section that explained why they were being committed to serve and his eyebrows went up to see that the debt was not the patient’s, not Wei Ying's. He had apparently volunteered to cover his brother’s debts, to prevent his brother from being put into servitude. Lan Wangji flicked to the preliminary scan information, which included a candid photo of Wei Ying that would be used when posting his contract. He was – Lan Wangji took a breath. He was startlingly handsome, so beautiful. There was almost no way that his contract wouldn’t be a sexual one. There might even be a bidding war for him. - Lan Wangji is a doctor tasked with examining Wei Ying, including testing how he responds to certain sexual situations. Kay's comments: Oh, wow, oh phew. This story! So very hot and so very dark, the world it plays in. Basically, it plays in a sci-fi dystopy where people in debt can be put into indentured servitude, which can involve being sold for labour or for sex. Lan Wangji is a medical examinar in this and examines Wei Wuxian before his sexual indenture and promptly decides to buy him for himself after test-fucking him and yeah, it's like very dark in its implications, but it's also very hot and obviously Wangxian are both into it. The first story is a PWP and the second story explores more of the world and how they adjust living together and what it means that they fall for each other and of course, there is also some good old miscommunication as well. It's just really great.

wip, wip rec week, modern setting, modern no powers, dystopia, science fiction, pov lan wangji, indentured servitude, medical procedures, medical examination, dark lan wangji, dubious morality, dubious consent, past lan wangji/others, past wei wuxian/others, top lan wangji, bottom wei wuxian, getting to know each other, falling in love, angst with a happy ending, miscommunication, misunderstandings, emotional hurt/comfort, minor lan xichen/jin guangyao, xiyao, sex work, sexual slavery, minor lan xichen/jin guangyao/nie mingjue, 3zun, mutual pining, exhibitionism, dom/sub

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

#Wangxian Fic Rec #The Untamed #wangxian #MDZS #Kay's Rec #wip #wip rec week #modern setting #modern no powers #dystopia #science fiction #pov lan wangji #indentured servitude #medical procedures #medical examination #dark lan wangji #dubious morality #past lan wangji/others #past wei wuxian/others #top lan wangji #bottom wei wuxian #getting to know each other #falling in love #angst with a happy ending #miscommunication #misunderstandings #emotional hurt/comfort #minor lan xichen/jin guangyao #xiyao #minor lan xichen/jin guangyao/nie mingjue

[invisobang]

Goin' Ghost

by @staira

There is a reason Danny has been so afraid of his parents finding out his secret identity. He knows they will accept him no matter what from his few past mind altering experiences. The truth is Danny is afraid of what comes after they accept him. All of his plans come undone when he saves Valerie Gray and she finds out his secret.

Read the fic here.

#fic #Goin' Ghost #invisobang 2023 #major character death #graphic depictions of violence #medical procedures #vomiting

[performativezippers]

please let this be your quarterly reminder that i have not "forgotten" about any of my fics, i will finish all of them eventually, and fic writers do not owe you chapters or timelines or literally anything.

nd saying "have you forgotten 🤪😽😮‍💨" is not funny, not cute, and not cool.

if you can't handle waiting for new chapters, click this button:

that's it. if you don't click this button and can't handle waiting for updates, this is a you problem; please stop making it a me problem.

thanks byeeeeeeee

#fanfic #fic ettiqute #i would like to stop saying this so please stop doing this #i could write a lot about everything i've had going on for the last few months #literally spent all day yesterday sleeping off a medical procedure #but that's not the point #it doesn't matter “why” i haven't written it #you're not my editor #this isn't my job #don't like can't wait DON'T READ #that's all bye

[an-inky-fingered-lass]

A story for the moment you realize things are going to be okay. Even if -- in that moment -- you didn't yet know you would be, too.

This was routine, in a lot of ways; they’d been here so many times together, so many different places. It made it feel a little less like the world had already ended, like the planet was cracked apart outside the window.

It was kinda a stupid question at this point, but Phil asked anyway. “You okay?”

May’s answering snort was soft, a little less sardonic than it might have been. After a long second, she nodded. “Been better, but.”

“It’s okay to not be, you know.”

She shook her head. “Pot, kettle.”

Phil huffed a slight laugh. May’s gaze flickered over to him, either looking for or seeing something no one else could see. Somewhere along the line, her shoulders had finally fallen into a sloping, exhausted line.

Read the rest on Ao3.

#am i posting what is technically the beginning of a series after posting four installments of said series? #erm. kinda. #but see i wasn't ever expecting this one to work for me. it was a PAIN. #but it also contains some of my favorite bits of dialogue i have ever written. #so. #sigh. #aos fic #agents of shield fanfiction #melinda may #phil coulson #jemma simmons #daisy johnson #gen fic #tw for non-graphic depictions of medical procedures #philindaisy #inkspinner fic #series: get out my machete and battle with time once again

[quietlyimplode]

leave everything but your bones behind

Whumptober 2022: day 8 - back from the dead

Warnings: medical procedure/red room horribleness/dreykov being creepy

Word Count: 1.8k (gif not mine)

Summary: Natasha becomes unwell and only the Red Room can fix her. The choice is die or go back to the very place that made her.

A/N: I feel I should have said earlier that this is not cannon compliant. There’s a lot that happens that is modified to fit the narrative. General angst, whump and hurt. Take care of yourselves always.

Main Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

———

Liho curls with Natasha as Clint drops her in her lap.

The blood transfusion almost half way through.

“Tell me again,” she demands to Tony.

He nods.

“It’s got tracers in it. They can’t detect it, but we will be able to find you. There’s another under your skin on your hip, and you’ll have one in your clothes. We’re coming with you as far as we can, and we have the location of the Red Room or where we suspect it is.”

She nods.

“It’s not enough,” she surmises.

“No,” Tony agrees, “it’s not.”

Natasha watches the blood flow into her arm.

“What are you sedating me with?”

She knows the ins and outs, they’d made the plan together.

They leave for Resi in the morning, ten hours form now.

The quinjet ready to go.

“It’s a painkiller compound with a light sedative. I’m hoping that the combination takes away the pain but also doesn’t leave you out of it for too long.”

There’s apprehension curling in her gut, going in blind to Russian compound is not her favourite part of this plan. They could do anything with her.

“Then what?”

Tony shrugs.

“Then we wait.”

Natasha falls silent.

“They have a week,” Bruce says, speaking for the first time. “If they haven’t been able to cure you in that time, then they don’t intend to. A week. Okay?”

Clint feels her freeze at that.

A week was a lifetime in hell.

“If you can get word to use before that,” Steve says softly, “we will come and get you straight away.”

There’s a scoff as Clint rolls his eyes.

“She’s not going to summer camp,” he argues.

“No,” Steve says slowly, “I know, but she’s done it before… got out?”

Natasha rolls her eyes. Liho ruffles in her lap, tuning in to the tension in the room.

“Stop,” she commands Clint, who looks red in the face ready to rebuke him.

“Fine. Is there anything else?”

Tony shakes his head.

Bruce avoids her eyes.

Steve looks at her with resignation.

Clint crosses his arms.

“You can go,” she tells them.

There’s protest, but she holds up a hand and shakes her head.

“If I’ve got to do what I know I have to, you all need to leave.”

There’s a hardening in her heart.

Bruce leaves first, then Tony, and lastly Steve holds his position at the door.

“I’m staying outside if you need anything,” he tells her, and like the solider he is, he stands watch.

“You too,” she tells Clint.

But it’s too much of an ask.

“No.”

She stares him down.

“No,” he says again. Arms crossed across his body,

“I’m not leaving you alone in this.”

Natasha sighs.

“I’m always alone in this.”

He crawls next to her, moving Liho out of the way.

Gently gently picks up her hand, and kisses it.

“You’re not alone, you’re never alone. Even when it feels like it, even when the world is dark.”

He picks up a pen from the side table and draws a little arrow on her hand. And then another.

Small signs, no bigger than her little finger nail, drawn sporadically on her body.

“They’ll go, but you’ll see where they were and remember,” he says, capping the pen and pushing next to her. She still feels the light pressure of the pen, and knows that he’s right.

She motions for the pen and draws them on him too.

“Don’t forget,” she whispers.

Staring at him, she takes in everything about him. His hair, his wrinkles, his eyes and nose and mouth. Things to help her through.

If they take her memory, what’s left of her?

“You’ll be with me tomorrow?”

“Every step of the way.”

.

Natasha doesn’t sleep, but she does lose time.

Chunks of time missing from the clock and she grimaces to herself that she can’t do that when she’s there.

To be fair, she hasn’t even thought more than a day ahead. One step at a time, sometimes only minute by minute.

If she thinks too far ahead, she knows she’ll spiral; and that’s one thing she can’t do.

Clint dozes in and out, his hand always on her. Liho, even though she’s not used to being here, stays at the end of the bed.

She knows Steve doesn’t leave his post. Tony’s likely watching cameras, Bruce probably meditating nearby.

The television plays renovation shows, that Clint complains about, making her lips twitch; and they both complain about the timelines in which things get done.

He offers her candy, the Russian candy Tony had delivered, explaining he’d picked it up when he got Liho. She takes it, shares it and they talk of favourite candies, ranking them together.

If she didn’t know what she knew, she could almost pretend that…

She lets go of that thought.

The nurse apologises when she enters, explains that the last lot of antibiotics are as long lasting as they can be, and that the fluids are laced with painkillers. No sedative this time, as requested.

She wants to remember as much of this night as she can.

It may be her last as Natasha Romanoff.

.

An hour from Georgia, Bruce disconnects the lines attached to her.

He takes her vitals, and gently gives her a wet cloth to wipe the dried blood away and the sweat on her face.

She hasn’t had to do so much in the past couple of weeks and she’s embarrassingly exhausted.

“I think they won’t keep the lines we put in, so better we take them out than they do,” he reasons.

She agrees of course, and holds the cotton wool over where her IV line was, staunching the blood.

Clint doesn’t let go of her.

Steve goes through the exchange again.

It’s going to be at the private airfield, the location only just chosen so neither could be set up there.

In order to stay as close to her as possible, they’re going to sedate her, with Steve carrying her and Tony flanking them both.

Clint continues to surveil the location with the satellites that Tony has tasked. He has two options for sniper perches. He assumes the Russian’s will be on the left, so he choose the one on the right, near where the quinjet will land.

Bruce is going to stay, already commenting that he doesn’t like this, a growl from the hulk breaking through.

Tony pushes next to her on the other side, slips a bracelet on her wrist.

“One more thing,” he explains, “this has a tracker, I’m hoping they keep it on them, it’s made of verbrainium, so unlikely they’ll throw it away. When they take if off you it will ping it’s location every five minutes. It’s also powerful enough that it will map out the location of where it is.”

Natasha rests her head on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he says ever so quietly. “This is my fault.”

She scoffs.

“This is not your fault,” she whispers back vehemently.

The others pretend to not listen as Tony stares and Natasha breathes.

“They’ll fix me and you’ll come get me, okay?”

He nods vehemently. She think she can see tears in his eyes.

.

Clint swears. A long string of expletives as he rushes from his perch.

“No, nonono no,” he breathes, sprinting to where Steve is holding Natasha’s sedated body.

He’s so glad she’s out because if she was there, he’s sure she’d be backing out of the exchange right about now.

“Stop,” he tells the others, but it’s too late.

Dreykov stands in front of four other widows ordering them to take Natasha from Steve. They all hold guns directed at the two men, and he reluctantly gives her over, placing her on the gurney.

It’s done before Clint is even half way to the drop point.

“Stop,” he shouts into the comms.

This can’t be happening.

They’ve just given her to the devil.

The one man she betrayed, killed his daughter and took his throne.

This wasn’t the plan.

Dreykov wasn’t part of the plan.

He’s back from the dead and Natasha is fucked.

“What’s wrong?” Tony asks, his face shield covering his face as he answers only in comms.

“Get her back, she can’t go with him,” Clint huffs, trying to talk and run.

But time is not on their side.

“Clint… she needs to,” Tony’s voice is placating, like Clint is just trying to stop the exchange. He doesn’t know what Dreykov has done to her, what their history is.

He’s supposed to be dead.

“He’s supposed to be dead, goddamnit.”

Dreykov is back in his truck.

The Russians are backing away with Natasha in tow and they’re standing there sending her to a fate worse than death.

“No!”

Tony flies up in annoyance, leaving Steve on the ground.

“What’s wrong?”

Clint stops and shoots towards Dreykov’s truck, fear at what they’ve just done.

“We’ve killed her,” he mutters, shell shocked.

.

Dreykov smiles.

The Black Widow has come home.

He’s going to have so much fun.

Pleasure curls in his gut at seeing her helpless.

He orders the doctors on site of the makeshift hospital in Koban.

He feels better being back in Russia and all the protections that entails; sure that the Americans won’t follow them in without an international incident.

Staring at her, he orders her the widows to undress her and make sure there is nothing tracking them into the hospital.

They remove her bracelet and hand it to him, her only jewelry. He’s suspicious of it, he knows she wouldn’t come with jewelry she knows would get removed.

He taught her strategy better than that.

Handing it back to one of the widows, Dreykov tells her to send it to the Kremlin.

Let them deal with it.

She leaves immediately, and he turns his attention back to his defector.

Now dressed in a hospital gown and handcuffed to the bed, he orders her torso to also be strapped down. He’s not taking any chances.

The doctors take blood, scans are completed, even though they all know what’s wrong.

They’ve had years of this. The nanites that course through her system are the old technology; he knows exactly how to help her.

Dreykov smiles.

He knows exactly how to take her apart too.

He tells them if the diagnosis and recovery is not completed in the next 24 hours, he will kill them.

He’s sure the other avengers have a plan to rescue her.

He needs her better, because then he can start work on her.

.

#whumptober2022 #no.8 #back from the dead #marvel fic #natasha romanoff #clintasha #black widow #clint barton #my fic #ot6 #avengers fanfiction #clintasha fanfiction #tony stark #natasha romanoff fic #clint barton x natasha romanoff #clint barton fic #red room #whump fic #medical procedure fic #general dreykov

[bumblingbabooshka]

Sek & T'Nia

#Sek #T'Nia #[REDACTED] family shenanigans #Sveyko #S'veyk #T'Meni #Sveyko and S'veyk are their wards and T'Meni was born through a medical procedure #beas ocs #vulcan ocs #Sek tells T'Nia he's asexual and the NEXT day she's making holodeck hunks for herself as he looks on judgementally #Not judging the act itself but her taste in men. Really? A speedo? A /BLONDE/ T'Nia??? #S'veyk looks grumpy but she cries at the drop of a hat...T'Meni is <3 hehee sh e's uh......she lives a blissful life #don't trust T'Meni to do anything she's SO confident and SO underqualified for every facet of life even after she becomes an adult #anyway...Sek is so tired and T'Nia is so beautiful #just wrote a fic about these two soooo had to doodle em #and yes that art in the middle is previously posted - wanted to see em together

[quietly-by-myself]

A Wicked Work of Art - Chapter 3

Masterlist

CW: medical whump, trans whumpee, test subject whumpee, experiment whumpee, fantasy racism, dehumanization, fantasy whump, suicidal whumpee, slavery whump, injection into an open wound, stitches, references to past physical abuse, dubcon medical treatment, noncon procedure (wound stitching), discussion of mental health treatment, discussion of patient autonomy, nonsexual nudity, carewhumper, doctor carewhumper, medical restraints, broken bones

===

Just like he’d promised, Vasiliki came back within thirty minutes. In fact, he hadn’t really done anything other than brew tea for the subject, ensuring that it was the correct temperature with clinical precision.

When he entered, the subject had stopped crying. In fact, he looked rather dissociated, if Vasiliki had to put a word to it. Restricted affect, maybe. It was understandable. The subject had been through a lot of traumatic events in the recent months. A year with Constantine, as his personal “companion.” Just the thought made Vasiliki gag.

“Here’s the tea I promised,” Vasiliki said softly, placing down beside the bed, on a table with a small lamp. “I’ll let you drink it yourself, but I’m only allowing you one hand. The restraint goes back on right after, okay?”

The subject nodded, looking away from Vasiliki. Vasiliki tried not to take offense, reminding himself that the subject had failing mental health. It was Vasiliki’s job to ensure that everything about him was as healthy as possible, including the subject’s mental health.

“I’ll give you more lead on the other wrist so you can sit up.”

Vasiliki was quick with his work of unrestraining the subject’s right wrist, then loosening up his other wrist. Then, he pressed a button on the side of the bed and the bed moved the subject’s beaten body up.

Immediately, the subject began to cry out in pain. Vasiliki stopped the bed from moving him all the way up.

“What hurts?”

“My ribs, sir.”

From the sidelong gaze of the subject, Vasiliki figured that there was more to the story than sore ribs. 

“I’ll need to undress you.”

The subject swallowed and nodded his agreement. Vasiliki pulled a switchblade from one of the pockets on his lab coat and cut away the paper gown that was on the subject. 

What Vasiliki saw was worse than what he usually saw. Alongside the gnarly bruising that looked only a day or two fresh, there were deep gashes - deep gashes that Vasiliki thought to stitch up. They wouldn’t heal on their own. 

Vasiliki walked over to the wall and grabbed a pair of nitrile gloves. The snap made the subject flinch visibly. 

“It’s okay. I’m just going to feel your ribs for now.”

That did little to comfort the subject. Vasiliki didn’t exactly blame him for that. He approached carefully, very aware of the subject’s unrestrained hand. 

Now that he saw the full extent of the bruises and wounds littering the subject’s body, he was beginning to understand why the subject flinched at every one of Vasiliki’s movements. Gently, Vasiliki felt along the subject’s sternum, then felt up and down his ribs. From the look of it, the subject had been booted with some sort of spur.

“I need to feel a few of your wounds. You’re going to need stitches.”

The subject suddenly got very pale. All the blood in his body dropped to his feet.

“Please, no. I don’t want that. I can’t. I can’t take the pain. It’s okay, sir, to just let them heal like that.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll use a local anesthetic. You’ll only feel the needle when I inject it.” Vasiliki’s lips played a slight smile. “I’m the doctor here. I think you need stitches, so you’re getting stitches. I can’t give you more powerful painkillers by mouth because you need the codeine for your cough. However, the local anesthetic will do well for when I stitch you up.”

Soon enough, the subject was keening. Not even whimpering - full on keening. “Just kill me. Let me die. I can’t do this anymore. It’s too painful. It’s too much.”

“Look me in the eyes, Akakios.”

The subject was reluctant, but followed the order. There was a mix of panic and absolute despair in the subject’s eyes. It genuinely made Vasiliki’s heart ache. 

“You have a broken sternum. I would guess that some of your ribs are also broken from the amount of bruising.” 

Vasiliki, again, had to turn off the clinical side of his head and try to think about the humanity in the subject. 

“Nobody is going to hurt you here. Our job is to make sure you’re up to standard. We do what we can to ease your pain, within reason. Normally, we’d need special clearance to give you oxycodone, for example. However, I’m the one who normally approves those forms, so you’ll get something stronger once you’ve fought off this respiratory infection. Now, I want you to understand that what you went through over there is over. Constantine is gone. Okay?”

Akakios swallowed and nodded, but Vasiliki could tell it wasn’t genuine. The subject was just trying to make him happy.

“Now,” Vasiliki walked back over to the cabinets and took out five syringes, a vial of lidocaine, and a dissolving stitch kit. “I think two of those wounds on your legs and three on your chest are going to need stitches.”

“Please no.”

Vasiliki went over to the table, placing the materials on the table next to the subject. Then, he picked up the tea.

“Here,” he took the subject’s shaky hand and placed the mug in it. “Drink this first. It’ll get too cold if you don’t.”

The subject took a deep breath, then took a shaky sip of the tea. He seemed to like it, because he kept drinking it quickly. Vasiliki knew it wasn’t from dehydration. The kid had been hooked up to IV fluids since the minute he got there.

“Now, I want you to take a deep breath and try to calm down as much as you can.”

Vasiliki knew it was largely useless as he took the mug from the subject and lowered the head of the bed back down. He then restrained the subject’s free hand and tightened the restraint on the other one.

“It’s going to hurt for me to put the anesthetic in, but it’ll hurt less than the stitches without it.”

The subject just shook his head, freezing. Vasiliki sighed and drew up as many CCs of lidocaine as he safely could. As he moved to inject it into the wound he decided to work on first, the subject screamed bloody murder. He immediately devolved into pleas for mercy that dissipated quickly once Vasiliki began the stitches. 

Each time that Vasiliki injected the anesthetic, the subject screamed and each time that he started stitching the subject, the subject went quiet. He couldn’t thrash much at all with how tight the restraints were. 

“See, that wasn’t so bad?” Vasiliki went to the wall and changed his gloves, grabbing more alcohol swabs to clean the blood around the wounds. Then, he got transparent dressings and placed them on top of each of the stitched sites. 

“No, sir.”

It was a bold-faced lie.

“You don’t have to lie to me, su- Akakios. I prefer honesty. Now, I want you to be honest with me. Are you still suicidal?”

The subject looked far away from Vasiliki and nodded. Again, Vasiliki rolled the stool up to the side of the bed. 

“I can’t offer much in the way of comfort. I’m sorry for that, truly. Have you thought over what I said about putting you on something for your mental health?”

“You’ll do it anyway.”

“I will do no such thing. I think it’s counterproductive to take away your autonomy like that.”

“I’ll do anything to ease my suffering. This is all too much. I just want to die.”

Vasiliki took the subject’s hand and squeezed it a little. “I know. I can help you not feel that way, if that’s what you so wish.”

The subject seemed to consider it. “Dr. Christakos, I don’t want to feel. I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”

“I’m sure. I’m sure of that.” Vasiliki looked away from the crying subject. “It’s just this world we live in. It’s nothing you did or didn’t do. Do I understand that you’re willing to give this a go?”

The subject nodded.

“Okay. It’s an infusion combined with a pill you’ll have to take every day until we see significant improvement. I’ll get you started right away.”

Vasiliki went and found one of the nurses, ordering a high dose of ketamine, along with pills of mirtazapine. One of the nurses that Vasiliki had hand-picked brought the two to him, something Vasiliki quickly accepted. He quickly attached the bag of ketamine to the subject’s IV line, then prepared a glass of water for him to take a pill with.

The subject was compliant. Vasiliki knew that the ketamine would help faster than the mirtazapine would, but he also knew that it would produce its own set of side effects. Perhaps it was better for the subject not to remember the suffering he was going through for a few days, until the mirtazapine could start working well.

Vasiliki said little to the subject. He didn’t really know what to say to him. Tender emotions weren’t his strong suit. That was why he worked at the Facility.

Vasiliki took a deep breath and turned to face the door. Just as he was about to slide the door closed, he heard a quiet voice.

“Thank you.”

Vasiliki smiled to himself. “You’re welcome. Rest now.”

With that, Vasiliki had made his decision: he was keeping the subject for his own purposes.

Maybe the years had made him soft, but he found himself attached to the suicidal subject that had found himself under Vasiliki’s care. He wouldn’t let the subject go so easily.

Luckily, he knew who to talk to. It would take a few days, but maybe it would give the subject peace of mind to know that he was the test subject of a scientist who at least cared about his health.

That couldn’t be said about all facilities.

===

Tags (open!): @i-can-even-burn-salad, @whumpsday, @pigeonwhumps, @oddsconvert, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @writereleaserepeat, @just-a-silly-little-whumper, @sparrowsage, @inscrutable-shadow

#medical whump #trans whumpee #test subject whumpee #experiment whumpee #fantasy racism #dehumanization #fantasy whump #suicidal whumpee #slavery whump #injection into an open wound #stitches #references to past physical abuse #dubcon medical treatment #noncon procedure (wound stitching) #discussion of mental health treatment #discussion of patient autonomy #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump fic #whump community #a wicked work of art #nonsexual nudity #carewhumper #doctor carewhumper #medical restraints

[bluestarlings]

x

#reaally dreading going to the doctor tomorrow #it's ok......i can use this for my fic.........it's ok......whiteknuckling my own knuckles #the medical trauma it truly has wings and a soul deeper than solitude. eugh i should not be this fucked about a v small procedure PTSD ftw #i dont want to :( #tbd

[rookthorne]

Battle Worn | ꜱᴛᴜᴄᴋʏ

Pairing; Stucky (post!TWS) Word count; 1.5k Warnings; hurt/comfort, disordered eating, cibophobia, reference to past torture and medical procedure, reference to WS!Bucky, swearing, petnames A/N; WELL, WE'RE DIVING RIGHT INTO THE DEEP END WITH THIS ONE! What Bucky goes through in this is what I deal with on the daily with my cibophobia, so it was very fucking difficult to write, but also cathartic. Please, please, please, heed the warnings on this one.

WHUMPTOBER MASTERLIST

Sometimes battles should not be fought alone. A Sergeant needed his Captain, after all. 

It was a strange burn; coiling itself around his stomach like a live wire while he sat at the table silently, on his own. 

Bucky was no stranger to pain - hell, he was no stranger to suffering - but this, this was different. 

He could vaguely recall the time he spent under the illusion that what Hydra was doing to him was normal; a demented definition of health. The memory of being strapped to a chair, the acrid taste of plastic, and the way his throat constricted and gagged around the intrusion of a tube, caused a savage bubble of nausea to pop in his stomach and coat his insides like poison.

There was no way in hell that what they did was healthy, Bucky thought bitterly. 

He was eyeing the bowl sitting before him with the highest level of mistrust and suspicion anyone could look at a bowl of soup with. If Steve were awake, and the situation wasn’t so fucked up, he would have probably laughed with Bucky over how outlandish this all was. 

Only a fool, an idiot, would be afraid of food, right? Right?

Bucky shook his head quickly, defiantly stopping those thoughts in their tracks. He was no fool, and he was not an idiot. He is a survivor. A survivor of the worst kind of depraved torture anyone could dream up - sane, or insane. 

Steve, for all his grace and goodness, explained that what Bucky was feeling was hunger. For the entirety of the 70 years he was under Hydra’s control, Bucky had never felt hunger; there was no burn this strong and this intense that he could recall. It was safe to assume that whatever drugs they had pumped him with kept him chemically suppressed and satiated. 

The tube was only a tool to keep him alive, to keep him functional. It was of utmost priority and importance that his ability to maim and kill remained unhindered, and that was all that mattered. 

“Sick bastards,” he muttered resentfully, toying with the spoon like he would a blade.

It was still quiet in the kitchen, and the silence was beginning to press against his eardrums.

A sudden sharp pang of hunger tore its way through his stomach making him inhale sharply and groan quietly as he exhaled. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself to just eat, it did not work. 

“Buck?” Speak of the devil. “Are you alright?”

Light footsteps echoed off the stark white cabinets of the shared kitchen, but Bucky didn’t look over his shoulder to greet Steve - he was still staring at the bowl of soup like it would pull out a knife and hold it against his throat at any second. “Steve.” 

Please help, Bucky almost pleaded, but this was a battle to fight on his own. He was determined to get better, for Steve. 

A true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him. 

“Chicken noodle?” Steve questioned while smiling lightly. Bucky nodded stiffly, still staring determinedly down and into his bowl. Steve’s gentle grip to his shoulder didn’t make him flinch away and Bucky counted that as at least one win for the night. “Feeling peckish myself, I’ll grab a bowl,” a squeeze to his shoulder and Steve was gone. 

There was a quiet clatter in the kitchen and Steve reappeared a moment later, bowl in hand, and Bucky watched carefully from the corner of his eye as he approached and sat down on the bench across from him. 

“We didn’t have anything this good back in the day, Buck,” Steve grinned and gestured to his bowl.

“You keep talkin’ like that and people will start to believe you’re an old man.”

Steve barked a laugh and Bucky felt his mouth twitch into a small smile, unable to manage much more when panic was keeping a tight vice-like grip around his chest. He could feel the silver strain against the tight grip of his hand, and Steve noticed. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y,” Steve called to the ceiling. “Can you please play some soft jazz or something for us?” Not even a second later a melodic tune carried through the speakers in the corner of the ceiling. “Thank you,” Steve looked back to Bucky and smirked. Bucky could not fathom how Steve could smile so much. “Beats having a phonograph, doesn’t it?” 

Bucky only stared back into Steve’s face, frozen with fear over some damn soup. “Yeah,” he gritted out against the rise of bile in his throat and he quickly looked back down at his bowl. It wasn’t uncharacteristic of him to be quiet - a man of few words, Nat had said - but every word he managed came out strained. Bucky hated it.

Showing any sign of weakness would get him beaten or killed. 

No, it wouldn’t, Bucky forced back against the torrent of thoughts that crowded his mind. He was safe. Steve was here. 

The clatter of a spoon against a bowl made his eyes snap up to find Steve bringing the utensil full of steaming soup to his mouth. Bucky had seen people eat before, more often than not perched on the edge of a building and looking through the scope of his rifle as his targets always rushed - finishing their meals with such haste. 

Steve wasn’t rushed. He was content. A small smile graced his features when he finally tasted the first spoon of soup. 

“Give it a shot, Buck,” Steve encouraged, lowering his spoon to gesture to Bucky’s own bowl. 

“What if-” Bucky hesitated, flinching slightly at the memory that played on a loop. “What if I don’t like it?”

Steve smiled sadly. “Well, then we’ll find you a soup that you do like.” Another clink of his spoon sounded as he moved to swallow another mouthful. The bowl between Bucky’s elbows suddenly seemed more inviting as he stared down at it. 

But the relief he felt at Steve’s answer that he wouldn’t be beaten to a pulp was short lived when another memory took its place. 

“What if it,” Bucky paused when he felt Steve staring at the crown of his head. There was no way for Bucky to ask while holding Steve’s gaze. “What if it hurts, Steve?”

He hated how scared he sounded, and he cursed quietly when Steve placed his own spoon gently down on the table. There was a shuffling sound and suddenly there was a presence beside him - not imposing or overpowering, but soft and caring. 

“Then I’ll be here to help you through it, sweetheart,” Steve’s hand was warm on Bucky’s back as it rubbed small circles, and it was all Bucky could do to suppress a small sob of fear. “C’mon, I’m right here.”

Maybe he didn’t have to fight this battle on his own. 

The spoon shook in Bucky’s hold but Steve placed his own steady hand over Bucky’s, and it was all the encouragement he needed. Slowly, but surely, Bucky swallowed his first mouthful of soup. 

It was a strange texture against his tongue and the roof of his mouth, but it tasted good; a thousand times better than the slop he had endured for decades on end when the tube failed. Encouraged, Bucky swallowed another mouthful with a much steadier hand. Steve’s hand never left his back and the hand that covered Bucky’s moved to rest on his thigh. 

“What d’you think?”

Bucky smiled nervously and nodded. “S’good.”

The beaming smile Steve gave him was brighter than the sun, and it was more than enough encouragement to keep going. 

Four mouthfuls later, the knot in Bucky’s stomach tightened with a vengeance against the weight of an unknown substance. Panicked, he slammed the spoon down and hugged his arms to his stomach with a whimper, desperate to alleviate the ache that had started to bloom. 

“Hey, hey,” Steve rushed, throwing one leg over the bench so he could scoot closer. “Talk to me, what’s wrong?”

Bucky wanted to speak but the threat of opening his mouth and losing all of the progress he had fought to make - it was too much. A small hiccup sounded before he could suppress it and Bucky could feel himself begin to shake. 

“All right, it’s all right,” Steve whispered while pulling Bucky close, one hand resting against Bucky’s waist and the other cradled his head to Steve’s shoulder. “I need you to breathe with me, sweetheart, I know you can do it.”

The rhythmic rise and fall of Steve’s chest was easy to follow and Bucky persisted through more hiccups and whimpers of pain to breathe. “That’s it, Buck, you’re doin’ so good,” Steve soothed, his hand gently rubbing up and down Bucky’s side. 

A sudden pressure on top of his head made Bucky tense for a split second until he realised Steve had nuzzled against him. Stomach be damned, Bucky thought, forcing his body to relax into Steve’s arms.

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. So damn proud.” 

Bucky couldn’t help but weep quietly at Steve’s words, and Steve only held him tighter. Chicken noodle soup quickly became Bucky’s favourite, symbolising much more than the comfort it brought; a story of recovery, and of strength.

I want to thank @d-desrosiers for helping me through this one. I wouldn't have been able to do it without you and I can never, ever express my gratitude adequately for you being my best friend and seeing me deal with what Bucky goes through in this one, and you still hang around. I love you so much.

Graphics & Header made by yours truly.

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#whumptober2022 #no.5 #every whumpee's needs #marvel #fic #hurt/comfort #disordered eating #cibophobia #reference to past torture and medical procedures #reference to WS!Bucky #swearing #petnames #bucky barnes x steve rogers #bucky x steve #stucky #stevebucky #bucky barnes fanfiction #steve rogers fanfiction #rookthorne's works #Battle Worn

[iwillkeepfighting]

I’m on a CEC kick I guess. here have a drabble from a couple years ago that I’m finally posting

CEC and Dev are @audreycritter ‘s sorry to keep tagging you I just don’t want to steal credit

#my fic #but not my verse or my oc #we shall see if posting something unfinished gets me to finish it faster #there IS some plot behind this #since it’s unfinished I will say here #that the additional tags to be added would include #questionable medical procedures. surgery under duress. author is emphatically not a doctor. comic book medical practices. comin book logic. #aftermath of mind control. dev needs a hug. tim needs a hug. technopathy. oracle needs a raise. #worried/protective bruce. bruce is a good dad. bruce is a good brother. damian & tim bonding (possibly). #AND MANY MORE IF THE MUSE COOPERATES!!!