#kiss it better

@outside-the-government​ replied to your post: Kiss It Better

This needs either a sequel, or another piece all together starring Dr. Hiddleston. ;)

I have a sequel on my mind, and another piece is sitting in my drafts. The other piece is the second idea I had for the intensivist imagine. 

I have been so short of downtime for months now, let alone enough time to write, but I’ll be getting there. And I will totally ask you to beta it. :o)

@clairelouiseisawesome​ replied to your post “Kiss It Better”

Yay. I’m glad you brought my post to life!!

Thank you for your inspiration! 

I haven’t written anything in ages, so it was a pleasure to write that story! I had to twist it a little, but I hope it is not too far away from what you had in mind. 

Sitting in the hospital lobby, you caught Dr. Hiddleston’s attention on his way to work. Blissfully unaware of your condition, you turned down his help in the first place. When push came to shove, the British intensivist did not leave your bedside.

Rating: Mature Audience [16+]
Fandom: Tom Hiddleston
Prompt: Imagine Tom Hiddleston is your doctor and you are in critical condition and he has an overwhelming desire to cure you. He checks up on you every 2 hours to see if you’re doing alright. And sometimes you pretend you’re asleep and he bends down and kisses you on the forehead and lips.
Pairing: Doctor!Tom Hiddleston x Reader
Type:Reader insert, one-shot, fluff, angst, sic fic, hurt/comfort
Date: 27th March 2017
Words:4673
Warnings: [TW: graphic description of medical conditions and procedures, detailed description of the reader’s critical condition, needles, panic attack] The rating and the warnings are due to the reader developing diabetic ketoacidosis, a potentially life-threatening complication of diabetes mellitus type one. A huge part of the story plays in an Intensive Care Unit.
A/N: That imagine by @clairelouiseisawesome has been nibbling on my brain for a long time. The GIF by @satanslifecoach got the ball rolling.
Beta’d: @outside-the-government

You just came back from an appointment with your new pulmonologist and waited for your best friend to pick you up. The short walking distance from the lift to the entrance hall appeared agonizingly long. No way you could drive home by yourself.

Shortness of breath plus a searing pain between your ribs when you had to cough were not new to you anymore. You had been suffering from a bronchitis that was not susceptible to the recent round of antibiotics.

Slumping into one of the surprisingly comfortable armchairs in the hospital lobby seating area, you let your head fall against the backrest and closed your eyes.

Thanks to the medication you were taking recently, you could breathe easily. Nevertheless, taking a deep breath elicited a dry cough. It subsided quickly, yet your chest felt tight like something heavy was sitting on it.

You allowed your head to fall back again. The black leather felt chilly against your neck. Staring at the ceiling, you tried to calm your racing heart by letting your mind wander, wondering what pictures you could create if you connected the tiny random holes in the tiles.

“Excuse me, miss, are you okay?“ The rich, modulated voice was coming from the blond man crouching beside the armchair.

You wanted to respond, but it was hard for you to clear your thoughts. A cold trickle of sweat ran down your spine. You barely noticed the swift movement in your peripheral vision. Your good Samaritan’s long fingers loosely encircled your wrist. He quickly found your pulse point and applied firm pressure.

Irritated, your eyes were searching his deep-set green-blue ones. Knit eyebrows gave away the concern in his sharp facial features.

“Miss, are you okay?” He spoke a little louder. “Are you doing well?“ The elongated vowels and the enunciated consonants clearly identified him as of British origin.

“Yeah…,“ you stuttered. “I’m only… only a bit under the weather. I’m waiting for a friend of mine to drive me home.“

Your hastening pulse was beating impatiently against his fingers. His skin felt pleasantly cool against yours. Once again, you stared at your wrist and back to him.

“What are you doing?” You frowned.

Startled, he let go of your wrist. The tall guy combed his fingers through his wavy hair. „I’m sorry,” his thin yet sculpted lips formed an apologetic smile. “I was checking your vitals.“  

“What do you mean?” You gave him a puzzled look.

“Uh… I work here.” A shy sheepish smile raised his cheekbones a little higher and revealed his pointed chin. “I was on my way to the locker room as I saw you crashing on the chair. I was worried you might need medical attention.“

“No, I’m fine. But thank you, mister…?”

“Hiddleston. Tom Hiddleston.“ The name rolled off his tongue in crystal clear Oxford English.

“Doctor Hiddleston?“ You subconsciously winked at the charming Brit, immediately regretting your facial muscles did not consult your brain beforehand.

“Tom,” the physician subtly blinked at you.

“Hi, I’m Y/N. Listen, I appreciate that, but really, I’m alright. No need to worry.“

“Good.” Tom eyed you suspiciously as he stood up. “I got to go. I’m running late. My shift is about to start in a couple of minutes.“

“Okay.”

“It was nice to meet you.”

The moment the Dr. Hiddleston said goodbye, you saw your best friend approaching you. Judging by the meaningful look she shot you, she must have been a watching the two of you for quite a while.

A few hours later, you were woken up by Rick Astley blaring “Never Gonna Give You Up” in your living room. Groggily, you were fishing your phone from the coffee table. In doing so, you almost fell off the couch you were napping on.

Rick was halfway through his song before you figured out how to unlock your phone to take the call. You were so sleepy!

“Hey, Y/N! Are you okay? What took you so long? I’m worried about you,” your close friend almost yelled at you.  

“You’re  never gonna give me up, right?” You quipped, trying to not sound as exhausted and shattered as you felt. Another cough attack cut you short.

“You still have that ringtone?” You heard her chuckling. “Y/N, it has been ages since I’ve rick rolled you!”

“Five… years,” you tried to catch your breath and grabbed the reusable water bottle, flipping it open. You could not drink as quickly as thirst compelled you.

“Anyway, you looked like crap today”, she stated.  

“Charming as always,” you brushed her off and took another big gulp. “But yeah… compliment taken.”

“My pleasure,” she retorted with a wink in her voice. “Speaking of charming: Who was the guy you were talking to at hospital?”

“A doc,” you briefly stated most assuredly. Tom had not confirmed your assumption, but you were hoping to excite your friend’s curiosity. It would distract her from questioning you about your recent health issues.

“Your doc?” Another wink in her voice.

“No,” you answered before chugging the rest of your water. “He saw me lounging in that armchair and was worried I could require any medical attention.”

“Medical attention, huh? Oooohh, I am sure if you got hurt, he would know how to kiss it better.”

“Hell, no! I was too sick to drive home by myself, let alone…” A sudden overwhelming tiredness hit you like the thirst did earlier. “Listen, can we talk tomorrow? I can barely keep my eyes open. I need sleep.”

Feeling dead tired, you hung up on your friend without saying goodbye. You flung your phone on the table and flopped back into the couch. Falling asleep immediately, you were blissfully unaware of the severity of the latent process slowly sending you on a trajectory towards a metabolic crisis.

Your co-worker called your best friend the morning of the second day you did not show up to work. That phone call added up to the bad vibe she had been nurturing for too long. It made her drive faster than she should and her double-parking in front of your block of flats. It took her another gut-wrenching seventeen attempts to dial all your phone numbers and half an hour of banging at your door until your brother arrived with the spare key.

Your best friend called an ambulance the moment she saw you lying unconscious on the living room floor, not far away from the couch you had fallen asleep almost 48 hours ago.

As the EMTs arrived, your breathing was deep and laboured, you were unresponsive to speech, your heart was racing, your blood pressure was dangerously low and you were severely dehydrated.

You woke up to a cacophony of acoustic signals and the background noise of people talking. Something was not right, however, you could not quite put a finger on it. Your eyelids were too heavy to even allow you to blink. The urge to rub your eyes emerged, but your arms felt like they had gone dead. It took much effort to slowly bend your fingers. A groan escaped your lips.

“Shhh…, shhh…,” a male voice whispered calmingly. “Easy now.”

You managed to lift your hands off the bed a little as your wrists were gently caught and lightly pinned down. Your muscles gave in immediately.

He hushed you again as suddenly an alarm went off and startled you. The physician carefully placed his hand on your forehead to keep you from uncontrollably moving your head from left to right.

“Try to relax. Everything is okay.” His thumb reassuringly brushed over your temple while he turned off the alarm. “You will be fine.”

You attempted to open your eyes, but it was futile. Your eyelids fluttered and you groaned with exhaustion. Somewhere in your brain, a neuron fired. A stiff upper lip… a flustered smile… chiselled facial features… Your friend’s voice stating ‘If you got hurt, he could kiss is better’…

“Y/N, can you hear me?” Oxford English. “Could you please try to open your eyes?”

You tried to comply, but your muscles still did not obey. More and more incoherent impressions came to your mind. Bright white lights, voices, loud and distorted, …

“Y/N, open your eyes for me, please!” His melodious voice became more demanding while he forcefully squeezed the side of your finger.

… the strange feeling of being touched, prodded and rolled over by many hands, the coldness of skin disinfectant and adhesive ECG electrodes, …

“Come on, open your eyes!” The voice insisted loud and clearly.

… the sharp pain from drawing blood and starting IV lines.

The physician grabbed the flat triangular neck muscle that covers your shoulders like a scarf and pinched it hard, twisting it a little. The exploding pain finally managed to tether your consciousness to reality and keep you from drifting off again. Your eyelids fluttered as you tried to open your eyes.

“Just like that. Open your eyes. Look at me.” Elongated vowels. Enunciated consonants. Received pronunciation. British.

You finally managed to comply. Although the night-time illumination of the Intensive Care Unit provided an indirect and dimmed light, it still was too bright for you. Your vision was blurry. Suddenly, you were hit by all the body sensations the unconsciousness had hidden from you. Panic set in.

 “I’m sorry, I know that hurt…”, Dr. Hiddleston spoke calmly. The surge of adrenaline had sped up your heartbeat and elevated your blood pressure. The monitor alerts that suddenly went off catalysed your stress response. The fight-flight-mode made you sit up.

 You emerged unexpectedly quickly, so he had to rush to you to catch you by your shoulders. His grip tightened around your upper arms as he sat down on the bed. He instinctively pulled you close and wrapped you in his arms, holding you tight.

 “Shh, shh”, he soothed you, his voice calmingly deep. In your panic, you had disconnected an ECG lead. The alarm was ringing in your ears.

 “It’s alright…”, he held you closer with his left arm and reached out to push a button to default silence the alarm. “I’ve got you.”

 Your cheek rested against his toned chest. You could feel his muscles tensing as he was adjusting his arms around you. The starched midnight blue scrubs crinkled every time he moved. You were wide awake now.

 “Y/N, take a deep breath. In and out. In… and out…,” Dr. Hiddleston spoke softly to you. His lips almost grazed your forehead.

 Slowly, your breathing levelled out. The subtle fragrance of sweet tangerine, wild bergamot and a touch of velvety, warm oak moss gradually percolated through the clean, linen and sterile scent of the scrubs.

 “That’s better. Just keep breathing for me. You are doing great,” he reassured you. “Now, I’d like you to lie back down.”

 “What happened? Where am I?”, you inquired while the physician was helping you to lie down and get comfortable.

 “You are in the hospital. Intensive Care Unit. What is the last thing you remember?”, he asked while he was fishing for the missing ECG lead.

 “I don’t know…,” your eyes were following his attempt to detangle the green cable and click it to a new self-adhesive ECG electrode. The alarm was about to ring again, but he muted it on an instant.

 “We… we… wait, we met?” You were not sure if you could trust your memories. “Is that right?”

 “Right. I am Dr. Thomas Hiddleston. I saw you in the hospital lobby and was worried about you.” He nodded and held the ECG lead in front of you, silently asking for permission to re-apply it. You uncrossed your arms and moved them from your stomach to rest them on the bed.

 “You thought I needed medical attention…,” you stated while he turned down the blanket to get access to the left side of your chest. His hands deftly lifted your hospital gown to apply the green ECG lead. He flattened his hand and splayed his long fingers across the left side of your ribcage.

 “That was three days ago,” he briefly looked in your eyes while his palm pressed on the electrode. The wet coldness of the electrode was a stark contrast to his warm hand

 “Three days?!” You exclaimed.

 “You had been found unconscious at home. You were admitted to the ER with extremely high blood sugar. They transferred you to us, so we can watch you closely while bringing it down to a normal level.” The physician tucked you in and resumed the place by your side on the bed.

“What’s wrong with me?” You inquired.

 “We are still waiting for the immunochemistry to come back….”

 You gave him a puzzled look.

 “We are about to find out what caused your condition. For now, we are going to have an eye on your blood sugar levels and your electrolytes. We will make sure you won’t collapse again.”  

 You nodded in understanding.

 “I promise I’m going to explain everything when you are feeling better. For now, I’d like to ask you a few questions and give you a quick examination. Would that be okay?”

 Dr. Hiddleston took a brief medical history and gave you a swift once-over. He explained everything you needed to know to not freak out. The physician informed you they would substitute insulin, glucose and electrolytes and measure your blood sugar and your blood gases every hour.

 Two days later, he kept his promise and took his time to explain you the very basics about diabetes mellitus type one. He told you about the genetic disposition, how your bronchitis might have contributed to the onset and helped you cope with the idea of having to depend on insulin substitution for the rest of your life.

The transfer from the ICU to the peripheral endocrinology ward went quickly and without prior information on Dr. Hiddleston’s day off work. You had to leave, because they needed the bed for an emergency patient.

It was a rough transition. As much as you hated the noisy and busy environment, the lack of privacy, the bright lights and the ever-present stench of disinfectant, it was reassuring to have the ICU team around you 24/7.

The first night, you felt terribly alone and anxious. You were looking forward to sleep in the dark and silent night, but instead of covering you like a calming blanket and lull you to sleep, the darkness became threatening, dragging your mind to dark places.

The next day, Tom paid you a visit at the end of his shift. You didn’t know how to feel about that in the first place. Watching him entering your room, all clad in a white coat over his midnight blue scrubs, you were concerned he might want to transfer your back to the ICU.

Indeed, he dropped by to see how you were doing. Tom had to be upfront with you and ask your permission to visit you again. He was not your physician anymore, but he knew you were in a vulnerable phase. He was so concerned wanting to get to know you better might mean taking advantage of you. You told him he would not do any harm by dropping by and saying hello, no strings attached.

The physician made it a habit to visit you before his shift started and after it ended. You learned a lot about your condition and familiarized with the therapy: A life-long substitution of insulin, preferably via a small portable insulin pump that replaced the syringe-pump the ICU used to apply the insulin.

The physician did not only help you understand the basics of blood sugar homeostasis. You learned he was a passionate theatre goer and an expert on the works of Shakespeare. It made you smile how his mind dove into these places he loved. The more you talked with each other, the more you lured him out of his shell. You were rewarded by getting to know a man with a delightful sense of humour who could goof around, tell bad jokes and who could do the most adorable nose scrunch.

On the tenth day of your hospital stay, your family paid you a visit. Your entire family. All of them. They arrived in small groups, came and went throughout Sunday. It was nice, but also challenging.

 You had anticipated they would make your health their main topic, but the moment your brother came up with the idea your mother could move in with you for a while after you would be discharged made you explode. Like what the fuck? Sure, you were the youngest in your family, but you were an adult with a life to live! There were words, there were tears and there were boundaries you successfully defended. It was an enormous difference between caring and patronizing, and you were proud you stood your ground.

 At the end of the day, you were left sad, exhausted and empty. You had not planned to fake sleep, but you did. Knowing Tom would drop by before his night shift, closing your eyes was a mere reflex that set in as soon as you heard him opening the door.

 You felt the bed dip under his weight as he was sitting down. He didn’t say anything, he just sat there. Tears welled up behind your closed eyes. No way you could get away with hiding like that.

His weight was shifting as he was leaning in to caress your cheek and to plant a soft kiss on your forehead. Your emotions tumbled over and tripped over their own feet. Tears seeped from your eyes while you squeezed them shut.

 “I hate this”, you sobbed.  

“There is a learning curve,” the physician stated softly while eyeing the tangle of educational material on your table. The insulin pump trainer had given it to you to practice and get the hang on your therapeutic regimen.

“You don’t understand!” You rejected his educated guess. ”I don’t want this. I just don’t.” You stared at him, tears running down your cheeks.

“Y/N…,” Tom put his right hand on your shoulder, his thumb softly rubbing circles on it. “Darling, it takes time. It…”

“Let’s be honest: It is not rocket science, but nothing works.” The compassionate look he gave you was almost too much for you. All the piled-up anxiety, the pressure and frustration broke free. “I’m in hospital, there is not much variety, it is the same food every day and my body does what it wants!”

Tom ran his fingers through your hair, tucking away stray strands behind your ear. He briefly frowned and his lips parted as if he wanted to say something, then he clamped them shut. Knowing there was more, he locked eyes with you and let the silence hang in the air.

“I feel like a damn cyborg,” you adverted his gaze. “Continuous blood glucose monitor. Transmitter. Infusion set. Insulin pump.”

“Y/N…,” his hands went up to cup your face, brushing his thumbs across your cheeks to wipe away the tears.

“I can’t even insert the needle myself!”, you sat up, wanting to leave the bed and storm off.

Tom wordlessly leaned in to catch you and gathered you in his arms.

“I hate needles, I just can’t.” you mumbled against his shoulder. His signature scent, Armani Privé Oranger Alhambra, enveloped you. He held you tighter, the radiating warmth of his hands splayed across your back was so comforting.

“Do you want to get out of here for a while? My shift starts in an hour and I could use a cup of tea.” You felt him smiling against your hair.

“A trip to the cafeteria? In a hospital gown and a wheelchair?” You frowned, your voice muffled by the fabric of this crisp midnight blue scrubs. ”No fucking way.”

“A trip to the deserted psychiatry day unit on the seventh floor…,” he chuckled. The physician gently took you by your shoulders as you slipped out of his embrace. “In your blue fluffy robe. The lift is around the corner.”

You knit your brows and looked into his eyes.

“Y/N, all I am asking is for you to have tea with me,” a genuine smile was spreading on his face.

“Is that a date?” You inquired.

“It is a cup of tea,” he clarified, holding his hands up in defence.

“Good, because I will never ever go on dates again,” you briefly stated. The bewildered look he gave you let you pause for a moment.

“How could I?” You turned your eyes away from him, focussing on the pattern of the hospital blanket. “Even if I managed to magically hide that insulin pump anywhere in my little black dress, sooner or later… I mean… how… I can’t familiarize with the idea of… of…,” you were trailing off.  

“No formal dress code required.” Tom leaned in to whisper in your ear. “I’m a grown man who is obliged to work in scrubs. These are basically pyjamas, and they are never available in the size I need.“

You turned to him and were met with mischievous boyish grin. “If you take a closer look, you will notice the whole staff is indeed working in sleepwear. You and I won’t draw too much attention on the floor.”

You could not help but grin as he lifted his eyebrows and tipped his head toward the door.

Tom supported your frame while the two of you were walking towards the lift. From a distance, he appeared slight and wiry like the prototypical runner. Walking next to him revealed how broad shouldered and solid he really was.

The deserted psychiatry day unit was on the top floor. In contrast to the other areas of the hospital, it was much more inviting and friendly. There were no white walls, but a calming colour concept reminding you of a quiet day at the beach. Artworks, big plants and the diffused light of paper floor lamps helped creating a soft and cosy atmosphere.

Tom brewed tea in the kitchenette. You admired his elegant posture and his graceful movements from the loveseat across the room. So much precision. So much control. A barely visible lopsided smile passed over your face. That guy had to learn how to relax a little.

You only noticed you were blatantly staring at him the moment he looked up, his cheeks slightly flushed.

“I am too English for hospital coffee,” he said and smiled apologetically as he poured hot water into two cups to preheat them.

“How about hospital tea then?” You quipped from the safety of your makeshift pillow fort. You had piled them up against the right arm rest you were leaning against, your feet up and almost tucked under you.

The physician gave you a pained look for an answer.

“Hahaha, you look like don’t know whether to pity the poor tea bag, or the people liking the tea made from it,” you sassed him.

 “I… umm…”, he nervously ran his fingers through his wavy dark blond hair, “It is not the tea sachet, it is about full leaf tea or tea fannings… umm…,” he blushed a little more.

 “Tom…,” you tried to appease him.

 “Tea comes in so many varieties, but dust tea is really not an option…,” he continued to ramble while filling loose leaf Earl Grey tea in the infuser of a glass tea pot.

 “Tom…,” a bit louder this time, but he did not react.

 “Flavoured teas are… what I mean…” He carefully poured hot water over the tea leaves. “You can tell the difference between natural bergamot oil and artificial…”

 “Tom…,” you let out a soft chuckle. “Untwisteth thy knickers!”

 “Wait, what?” He stopped abruptly, locked eyes with you and briefly frowned in irritation, before his hearty laugh filled the room.

 You smiled brightly at him and watched how he turned a small hourglass to determine the steeping time. He served the tea with a splash of cream and rock sugar.

 As he sat himself next to you on the sofa, a moment of silence hung in the air. The tension between you and him almost tangible, you were locking eyes, looking for an answer to an unspoken question. His left hand came up to caress your jawbone, barely daring to graze it. As you were leaning into his touch, he travelled his hand to your neck and cupped it. The physician drew you into a kiss that evolved from tender and mellow to hungry and passionate.

You were sitting comfortably in the black armchair at the hospital lobby seating area where you met Tom for the first time. It was a little over six months ago.

Adjusting to life with diabetes type one was more challenging than you’ve expected in the first place. As soon as you thought you got the hang of it, there was another influencing factor you had to take into consideration: Work, exercising, heightened stress, a simple cold, even your period.

Tom and you planned to take things slowly. Getting to know each other was a lot less complicated than you assumed. The two of you enjoyed life and each other’s company. One day at a time, going with the flow as well as avoiding trying too hard was working for you.

Your family challenged your boundaries under the cloak of worrying about you. There was anger, tears and frustration due to their firm belief diabetes type one was all about the substitution of insulin and a strict diet.

Tom never fully got out of doctor mode, but he was mindful enough to stay unobtrusive. The physician discreetly stored a glucagon emergency kit and replacement insulin in his fridge long before you thought about keeping your toothbrush in his bathroom. He remained level-headed when you experienced minor metabolic dysregulations. You could tell he was looking out for you, yet he never made your condition his subject.

“There you are,” Tom interrupted your thoughts. He was crouching next to the armchair like he did the day the two of you met. “How are you doing?”

“Hmmm, according to this brochure…”, you dramatically raised your eyebrows and grinned at him confidently, “I am… young, smart, attractive, diabetic… so I guess I’m good.”

He smiled at you as he stood up, offering you a hand to get up yourself. “How did the class go?”

“Good, however, the next person who is going to interrogate me about whether I experience a dawn phenomenon, or how I calculate carb ratios and insulin dosages, will suffer an unpleasant death.”  

“That bad?” Tom placed his hand on the small of your back. The physician instinctively pulled you a little closer as you started walking towards the main entrance.

“Nah,” you laughed. “Not really. I just need a break. Especially from that diabetologist from hell.”

“Ehehehe, Dr. Stanton?” He tilted his head back and smiled at you. You rolled your eyes in response. Said diabetologist was a distinguished expert, but his bedside manners were known to be rather old-fashioned.

“How about you let me help you plan your retaliation?”

You gave him a puzzled look.

“I thought about taking you out for dinner at that new Italian restaurant. Pasta. Olive bread. Tiramisu. How does that sound?” Tom looked exceptionally confident with his plan, a Cheshire Cat’s grin on his face.

“Hahahaha,” you poked at his chest with the index finger of your left hand. “You sound like a bad influence.”

He gently caught your left wrist with both hands and splayed your hand across his chest. “I’ve got you. I’ll help you adjust your insulin. Stanton will be none the wiser.”

His left hand nudged your chin to draw you into a gentle kiss; his right hand still encircled your left wrist right above your pulse point. Tom deepened the kiss as he felt your heartbeat quicken against his fingers. Opening your eyes, you were met with his blue-green ones.

“Shall we?” Tom asked without breaking your eye contact. You nodded and took his arm he offered to you.