Imagine a sick character curling up against another, completely denying that they’re sick at all and insisting they’re “just cold/tired” but the caretaker knowsthey never show affection like that unless they feel awful so they’re just like “uh huh. sure. keep telling yourself that.”
My favorite sickfic tropes when it comes to fevers are either a completely restless character or a character that is just out like a light.
Imagine your exhausted character closing their eyes and falling asleep in less than a minute. Caretaker tries to wake them up to take their temperature, or get them to drink water, but the character doesn’t even react to Caretaker.
*BONUS: Your character usually is never seen sleeping, they go to bed later, and wake up earlier than everyone else. Or maybe your character usually sleeps quietl. However, due to the fever, the character sleeps for much longer than they usually would.
*BONUS BONUS: The character snores from congestion, and Caretaker puts up with it because they know how much this character need sleep.*
Imagine your restless character jolting every hour after an intense fever dream tangled in blankets in a cold sweat, but they’re freezing. They feel too weak to walk around, so they lay there. Every time the character feels their eyes drift closed, they know that they’re gonna enter a world of terror that they can’t resist.
*BONUS: The character is delirious from fever, so they wake up sobbing and still “in the dream” as Caretaker tries to actually wake them up*
- Person A walking home in the cold and being greeted at the door by Person B with a mug of cocoa
- Getting lost in the snow and having to wait for rescue
- Blanket fort
- “Don’t worry. It’s just a cold. I’m fine.” Person B going overboard caring for them anyway, and Person A not hating the extra attention as much as they claim.
- Waking up in the morning with a groan and a “Ugh. Person B, I’m not feeling too great.”
- Warming frozen toes in front of a crackling fire while huddled in an old quilt
- The much bigger Person A wrapping part of their coat around Person B to keep the wind from chilling them
- Warming a blanket in the dryer before wrapping Person A in it
- Hot tea with honey for a sore throat
- Snowbound in a cabin
- Person B buying a ton of Christmas lights because they don’t aggravate Person A’s migraines the way regular lights do
- Exhausted from holiday stress (bonus if someone notices and makes them take a few days off work to rest)
- Warm blanket and an old book since it’s too cold to go outside
When the whumpee wakes up feeling horrible in the middle of the night, but they decide not to bother anyone about it until morning. Them just curling up in a ball under their blankets, crying silently and gritting their teeth as they wait for morning. One of their teammates coming to check on them when they don’t show up for breakfast, and finding the whumpee still curled up, shivering under their blankets and covered in sweat. The teammate touching the whumpee’s forehead and finding a fever, then running to get the team leader, knowing they’ll know how to help the whumpee.
“Shoto,” Izuku whispered, cracking his dorm room door open. Shoto groaned at the light slanting through the open door and into his eyes, rolling over and yanking his covers over his head. Izuku felt a pang of guilt. This was his fault. Shoto had taken care of him while he’d been sick with the flu that had been going around, and now he’d caught it from him. He was sick because of him.
“Shoto,” he tried again, shoving his guilty thoughts aside as he closed the door behind him and stepped into Shoto’s room, carefully balancing the bowl of chicken soup that he’d carried up from the kitchen. It was a long time before Shoto answered.
“What,” he mumbled.
“I made you some soup,” Izuku replied, setting the bowl he was carrying down on Shoto’s desk and switching on his desk lamp so that he’d have enough light to see by without aggravating his headache. “Do you think you feel well enough to try and eat something?”
“Don’t know,” Shoto mumbled in reply. “Feel nauseous. Head hurts.” The broken sentences were worrying, if not all that surprising. Izuku knew from recent personal experience how much effort forming coherent sentences took when your body was devoting all your energy to fighting off an illness.
“I’ll go get you some ibuprofen,” he said.
“Wait, Izuku, don’t go,” Shoto whimpered as he reached the door.
“I’ll be right back,” he promised, though he hesitated for a moment at the plea in Shoto’s voice.
A few minutes later, as he’d promised, he was returning to Shoto’s room with a bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water. Shoto had fallen back asleep in short time he’d been gone, but by the light of the desk lamp, he saw him blink awake again at the sound of his approach. Setting the bottle and the glass down on the desk, beside the rapidly cooling bowl of soup, Izuku crossed the room to Shoto’s futon and dropped to his knees beside it,
“God, Shoto, you’re still burning up,” he murmured, laying the back of his hand across his forehead to check his temperature.
“Can’t be,” Shoto mumbled, shaking his head beneath Izuku’s hand. “Quirk is… temperature… too hot.” That was barely coherent, but Izuku got the gist.
“The temperature regulation from your quirk can’t help with a fever,” he said. Levering himself to his feet to retrieve the ibuprofen and water, he added, “Thankfully, this should, as well as take care of your headache.” Shaking a few of the pills inside the bottle out into his hand, he perched on the edge of the futon and wrapped an arm around Shoto’s back to help him upright. He watched him intently as he downed the pills and the water, then set the empty glass back on the desk.
“It’ll be four hours before you can take any more,” he said, more to himself than to Shoto. “Assuming that this doesn’t take care of your headache or help to bring your fever down in that time. I don’t want to leave you alone during that time, either, in case you get worse and need to be taken to Recovery Girl.” He trailed off into mumbles as he pondered what to do.
Coming to a decision, he pulled the covers back and crawled onto the futon to lie beside Shoto.
“What are you doing?” he asked, trying to shove him away, but with almost no force behind the action. “Get away from me. I’ll get you sick.” Izuku shook his head, resisting Shoto’s weak attempts to put space between them.
“I already had this, remember?” he asked. “I came down with the flu that’s been going around, and you took care of me until I was better. And now it seems you’ve caught it from me. It’s my fault that you’re sick.”
“Not your fault,” Shoto replied with a half shake of his head. “I’ll always take care of you…” He trailed off as his attempts to keep Izuku away ceased and he apparently fell back asleep once again. Izuku settled in beside him, wrapping his arms around his middle and resting his head against his back, between his shoulder blades. It wasn’t long before he drifted off to sleep himself, just as much in need of rest as Shoto was, if for different reasons.
A wolf’s scent is their main identifying characteristic. It’s used to form bonds with packmates, is useful in determining friend from foe, and above all else, identifies you as you. Being sick can mess with your natural scent, and when you start to feel unwell, not only do you no longer feellike yourself, but now, to add insult to injury, you don’t even smelllike yourself. Not to worry, because a little flu bug is nothing in the face of your caring packmates.
Or the SKZ!pack sickfic we didn’t know we needed.
Tags: SKZ, SKZ Drabble, OT8, OT8 x you, OT8 x reader, SKZ!pack, SKZ!abo, ABO, Alpha beta omega dynamics, SKZ x you, SKZ x reader, Poly!SKZ, Bang Chan, Seo Changbin, Lee Minho, Han Jisung, Hwang Hyunjin, Lee Felix, Yang Jeongin, Kim Seungmin
Genre: Fluff, Comfort
Warning: Mentions of vomiting and general sickness
Title: Smell Like You
“Are you okay, noona?” Hyunjin slides into the chair next to you at the kitchen table where you’re currently slumped, head resting on the cool wood.
You crack open an eye and glance at the omega, concern written all over his sharp features.
You shrug half heartedly and manage to straighten up, glancing down at the books spread over the table, your required reading nowhere closer to being done than when you started.
“I think so? Just tired I guess.”
You note the way Hyunjin’s nose wrinkles, as if he’s smelling something slightly distasteful, and the concern in his eyes only grows as he stares at you.
“Are you sure? You smell kinda-”
“What?”
Hyunjin shrugs, and you feel the way a headache is starting to form, slowly throbbing, behind your temples, probably because you’ve been studying all day and haven’t tried to drink anything close to enough water.
Minho would nag if he knew.
“-off.” Hyunjin supplies lamely, as if he doesn’t know how else to describe it.
You sigh, the light from the kitchen suddenly a little bit too bright. “I’m fine. It’s just been a long day.”
Hyunjin won’t stop staring at you, and the worry in his eyes is feeding into the way he chews on his bottom lip.
You reach out and cover his fingers with your own, and the cool feel of his skin is relieving.
God, you feel hot.
Hyunjin’s eyes widen slightly at the touch. “Noona, you’re really hot.”
You offer him the hint of a teasing smirk, all that you can muster, and pat the back of his hand, tired voice gaining a playful lilt.
“Ah thanks, Jinnie. That’s so sweet of you to say.”
Hyunjin rolls his eyes at your joke, and then his expression sobers again, lips pulling into a thin line. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not getting your rut are you?”
“No.” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, the honey glaze scent of lemon bitters slightly in response to your tone. You sigh and soften your voice, squeezing the omega’s fingers affectionately within your own. “No, I promise, baby. I’ve been tracking carefully since last time and I’m not even close.”
Your body is achy and suddenly, exhaustion is washing over you like a wave. Everything protests as you push back from the table and force yourself to stand.
‘I’m okay, Jinnie. Nothing a good night’s sleep can’t fix.” You offer him the slight shadow of a smile. “Goodnight, baby.”
He waves you off, the concern still evident on his features, but the sweet smell of glazed lemon now back in the air.
“Good night, noona. Sleep well.” ***
A good night’s sleep doesn’t fix it.
In fact, if anything, it only makes everything worse.
When you manage to crack open your eyes against the harsh morning light, the first thing you notice is that your head is pounding and you feel like you’ve been hit by a truck.
The second thing is that the burning sensation of bile is rising rapidly in the back of your throat and a wave of nausea is rolling over you so violently that it sends the room spinning.
You stumble out of bed, covers tangling around your legs, and make a dash for the bathroom, where you promptly vomit into the toilet.
You slump down on the cold tile of the bathroom floor and try to force yourself to breathe, but the nausea hasn’t let up, and your headache is worse than before, your mouth filled with cotton, throat dry and burning.
You don’t make it five minutes without curling back over the toilet and dry heaving violently.
By the time the nausea has subsided enough for you to push yourself to your feet and drag yourself back to bed, you’re out of breath and your whole body is on fire, trembling violently.
You collapse back onto the mattress and groan as your body aches in protest.
Cracking open an eye, arm thrown over your face to prevent some of the light from aggravating your headache, you manage to roll over enough to grab your phone from the dresser and pull up the pack’s group chat.
The bright light from the screen makes it hard to type out your message, but you squint through the pain and send out a quick text.
Me: I’m so freaking sick. I’ve been puking my guts out. I’m going to quarantine in my room until it passes so I don’t give it to any of you.
You drop your hand back limply to the bed, phone still in your fingers, and close your eyes, breathing in slowly through your nose and out through your mouth, trying to force yourself to ignore the roiling feeling in the pit of your stomach.
Your phone dings, the sound loud and your head pounding reflexively, and you manage to open your eyes enough to see the responding text.
It’s from Jisung.
It’s always from Jisung.
JiJi: O no!!! That sux! I’m so sorry noona!!! What can we do???
You manage the hint of a smile at his concern, and think about responding, but the effort sounds like too much, and a new wave of nausea is building in your throat, so, phone still clasped in your fist, you hightail it to the bathroom once more.
This time, when you vomit into the toilet, it’s mostly water.
Slumping back against the bathroom vanity, you swallow hard a few times, trying to wash away the taste of last night’s dinner and your phone vibrates once more against the bathroom tile, forgotten in your urgent plight for the toilet.
You force yourself to open your eyes and in weak, trembling fingers, open up the text chat.
It’s Chan.
Channie: You’re not going to be alone while you’re sick. That’s why we’re a pack. Minho is going to make you some broth and toast and Changbin is gonna run to the store for some Gatorade. I’ll bring you water and painkillers in just a sec.
Thank god for the head alpha, you think, as you unceremoniously drop the phone-feeling all too heavy-from your hold once more on to the bathroom floor.
You momentarily ponder the idea of getting back to your bed, but with the way your legs are trembling just from sitting and the way the idea has the room spinning even just at the thought, you decide against it, instead, lying down on the cool tile of the bathroom floor, cheek pillowed on your arm.
You sigh at the instant relief the cold tile gives against your flushed, hot skin, and close your eyes simply because they feel too heavy to keep open.
You don’t know how much time passes-could be seconds, could be hours-while you lie on the bathroom floor, but the next time you open your eyes, Chan is crouching down in front of you, dark concern written clearly across his pretty features.
Your body instantly relaxes in relief as you catch sight of the other alpha, the small room already filling with the smell of incoming thunderclouds, your headache easing-just slightly-at the familiar scent.
“Channie.” You whimper out, and your wolf all but practically whines at the sight of him.
“Hey, baby.” The head alpha replies with a gentle, comforting hint of a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, before eyeing your current position on the bathroom floor, lips pulled into a thin, concerned line. “Can you sit up for me?”
You instantly shake your head, your headache flaring anew at the motion.
“I don’t think I can.” You whisper out, your voice pathetically tiny, the room already spinning with just the slightest motions of your head. “Channie, I can’t-”
Chan sets aside the water bottle and container of painkillers you hadn’t noticed he was carrying and reaches out carefully, his cold palm covering the fiery skin of your forehead.
“Shit, baby, you’re burning up.” He remarks, voice low, worry flashing anew in the dark caramel of his irises. “We need to get you up and get some painkillers in you. We’ve gotta bring your fever down.”
Every inch of your body protests at the notion, the nausea slowly creeping back in at the thought of moving.
Chan must notice the distress in your scent, because he leans over, fingers looping carefully around the hot skin of your wrists. “C’mon baby. Just try, okay? I’ll help you.”
You reluctantly allow him to help tug you up into a semi sitting position, back against the bathroom vanity, and even the small movement has you panting for breath, limbs trembling violently.
And just as you expected, the nausea comes back in a new violent wave, full force, and you’re once again leaning over to vomit into the toilet.
Chan slides to sit behind you and rubs your back comfortingly as you dry heave again and again.
Once the nausea has subsided, you sit back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and let your head fall back weakly against the other alpha’s shoulder, eyes closing of their own will.
Chan loops his long arms loosely around your waist, legs stretched out on either side of your body for support, and leans around you to retrieve the forgotten water bottle and pain killers.
“C’mon baby. You need to get these meds in your system.”
The thought of drinking water and trying to swallow pills with the way your stomach is currently heaving has you shaking your head, even as Chan carefully presses three of the small white pills into the palm of your hand.
“I can’t, Channie.” You whine beneath your breath, cracking open an eye to glance up at him, the cold water bottle pressing against your skin. “I’ll just throw them back up.”
Chan’s brow creases, his eyes darkening with concern, and then something akin to fierce determination takes its spot as he raises your hand for you, helping you fit the pills between the slot of your lips.
“Baby, you’ve gotta try.”
You reluctantly do as he says, letting him place the painkillers on your tongue, and raise the water bottle to your lips. It takes effort, but you manage to swallow them and keep them down, along with a small sip of water.
Chan sets aside the water bottle once more and raises a hand to card his fingers through your sweaty, matted hair.
“Good girl.”
Your mouth and throat feel dry and burned, even though you’d just taken a sip of water, and your body suddenly feels too heavy to control, eyes already closing with exhaustion.
You thank god for the other alpha, because you don’t know if you’d be able to keep yourself up at this point.
Chan noses against the skin of your bared throat, his own wonderfully cool in the face of your raging fever, and his arms tighten affectionately around your waist as he lets out a soft chuckle at your long sigh.
“You can’t sleep here you know.” You manage to crack open an eye and look up at him, the amused smile currently tugging at the corner of his lips.
“I could, if you would be quiet.” You groan out, body already sinking into Chan’s hold and the cool bathroom tile.
Chan chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest, and traces his nose over your scent gland.
The renewed smell of petrichor does more for your aching body than the painkillers ever will.
“Hyunjin said I stink.” You pout sleepily because you can’t help yourself. You’re tired and achy and being safe in Chan’s hold is making you lose your inhibitions, not to mention, you feel as if you’re floating, halfway delirious with the way the heat has overtaken your body.
Chan laughs again and presses a gentle kiss to the flushed skin just below your jawline.
“You don’t stink, baby. Being sick just messes with your usual scent a little, that’s all.”
You whine, but don’t open your eyes. Sleep is already threatening.
“But I don’t wanna smell different. I wanna smell good. Want you to like the way I smell, Channie.”
Chan chuckles, low beneath his breath, and ignores your whine of protest as he removes his arms from around your waist, already tugging you upward with him.
“I know. C’mon, baby. Let’s get you back to bed.” *****
You don’t know how long you sleep.
It’s all frankly just a heat induced haze, broken up by frequent dashes to the bathroom when the nausea becomes too much.
Chan’s pills help, they do, but not enough to make you stop wishing for death.
When you finally do manage to reenter the world of the living, you crack open your eyes and groan.
You feel like you’ve been hit by a bus.
You fling an arm over your face, noting through your still sleepy haze that your skin feels cooler to the touch, and manage to roll over, gaze settling on the nightstand.
It’s full of half empty bowls of food that you vaguely remember Jisung trying to get you to eat, and barely used mugs filled with liquids that Felix had brought, and you don’t remember who, but at some point, someone had tucked you back in after you’d kicked off your blankets in your heat induced rage.
You reach out a hand for your phone, but think better of it when even that motion has the room spinning, letting your arm drop back weakly to the mattress.
You roll over and stare blankly at the ceiling, every muscle screaming.
God, you hate being sick. Not to mention you miss your packmates. Wolves don’t do great with being alone.
Your wallowing in your misery and post sick induced disgust is interrupted by the sound of the door opening, and as the wave of amber hits your nose and Minho appears at the edge of the bed, your wolf has you reaching out for him with grabby hands, already whining for his contact.
Minho arches a delicate brow at you and stays put.
“You’re gross.” He points out needlessly, and you groan, shutting your eyes and once again throwing your forearm over your face.
“Thanks.” You reply weakly, voice raspy and hoarse from disuse.
Minho’s fingers loop around your wrists and tug, and you grumble at the insistent contact.
“C’mon, sweetheart. We’re getting you in the shower. And then the omegas are gonna come change your sheets.”
You squint at him as panic feels your gut at his words.
The thought of leaving the bed has the lingering nausea flaring again and the room tilts dangerously as you shuffle to a semi sitting position.
You’re already breathing a little too hard.
“I don’t know if I can.” You admit softly, not meeting his gaze, your body weaker than it’s felt in days. “I really don’t think I can, Min-”
You yelp slightly as Minho’s arms swoop underneath you and pick you up from the bed in one smooth, easy movement. He offers you the hint of a smirk as your arms go around his neck in a flurry of panic.
“I’ll help.”
He carries you to the bathroom, arms still looped around his neck, and this close, your face buried in his chest, the smell of amber and bergamot is overwhelming, soothing your aching muscles and instantly making you feel better.
Minho sets you down gently on the closed lid of the toilet and you watch with half interest as he leans into the shower and turns it on, testing the water with splayed fingers. When he’s satisfied, he turns back to you, arching a brow.
The thought of having to tug your shirt over your head is sending a headache pounding once more into your temples.
Minho sighs, rolling his eyes, but his mouth is soft, giving him away, as he crosses back to you and gently tugs your shirt up and over your head, crouching down in front of you to do the same with your pants and socks.
When you’re undressed, he pulls his own t-shirt up and off, and noticing you staring with slight confusion, offers you the hint of an exasperated look.
“You can’t even undress yourself, sweetheart. How’re you gonna wash yourself without help?”
You hate it, but he’s right, and so you reluctantly let Minho help you stand and step into the warm stream of the running shower.
He pulls the shower door shut behind him and steps up to you, arms looping around your waist, letting you sag back against his chest, holding up the majority of your weakened, dead weight.
You close your eyes and tilt your head back, reveling in the way the warm water soothes your tired muscles, washes away the stink of being sick, the smell of vomit clinging to your skin.
It’s invigorating. Makes you feel new again.
Minho rests his chin on your shoulder, and when you open your eyes and glance at him, he’s watching you, a slightly amused smile pulling on the full skin of his upper lip.
“Feel better?”
You nod eagerly, careful not to shake your head too quickly and make yourself dizzy as you breathe out, “Yes. Thank you.”
Minho huffs something between a laugh and a grunt and reaches around you for the shampoo.
“Can you manage to hold yourself up while I shampoo your hair or is that too much to ask, sweetheart?” He holds up the bottle for you to see, a slightly patronizing, teasing smirk on his lips.
You nod and reach out for a hold on the shower walls to steady yourself as Minho slips his hands from your waist and squirts a generous dollop of shampoo into the middle of his palm.
The shower fills with the scent of lavender.
Minho’s fingers find purchase in your hair and he carefully starts to massage the shampoo into your scalp as it foams, and you can’t help it, you close your eyes and relax back into him once more, letting out a sigh.
It feels so good-to be clean, to have Minho touching you, to not feel like you want to puke your guts up at any given moment.
Minho is meticulous, swirling the shampoo over every inch of your head, fingers firmly tangling into your wet hair, and you swear, you almost fall asleep as he continues his gentle ministrations, only stirring when he finally drops his hands and pushes you back into the stream of water with a gentle bump of his hip.
“Rinse.”
You do as you’re told, and Minho gets out first, holding up a dry, fluffy towel for you as you step out of the warmth of the shower.
The bathroom air is cold, the tile freezing beneath your feet, and you shiver as he wraps you up, wet hair dripping onto damp skin.
Minho notices and pushes you toward the door, making sure you can make it back into the room on stumbling feet before he’s satisfied and releases his hold on you.
When you glance back at him, he’s sporting an affectionate half smile, eyes warm as he towels off his own dripping hair.
“Go on. Get back in bed. Hyunjin’s gonna be thrilled you smell like you again.”
****
“You smell like you again!”
Hyunjin is indeed thrilled that your scent is back to normal and you giggle as the omega buries his face in your neck, rubbing his nose up and down the freshly washed skin there.
You’re both tucked under the safety of your clean comforter, and you’re cozy and warm and it’s a nice change to the heat that has licked your skin for the past few days.
Now you just feel content, wrapped in Hyunjin’s arms and an overly large hoodie that belongs to Changbin, cuddled beneath the clean sheets of your bed.
“I’m glad.” You breathe softly, pressing a kiss to the omega’s head, your body starting to feel heavy with exhaustion.
Your eyes close on their own, and you can feel yourself sinking into sleep-good, restful sleep-unlike what you’ve gotten the last few days.
“Noona?”
You hum in response to Hyunjin’s sudden query but don’t open your eyes as he shifts closer to you, leg thrown over yours, head on your chest, nose still buried in the skin of your throat.
“Are you feeling better?”
You sigh and reach up blindly to bury your fingers in the soft strands of his hair.
The room smells like lemon and just the hint of freshly bloomed wisteria.
As well meaning as the boy could be, he was a magnet for trouble. Whether it was the occasional squabble with other kids at school, butting heads with a member of his own family, or simply getting himself into foolhardy situations– usually involving anything and everything musical– Miguel couldn’t count on both hands how many times he’d been grounded in his twelve years. Most of those times, he’d believed grounding had been an unfair consequence, that he had not been at fault.
But this time, Miguel did not argue. Did not whine about the injustice of it. Did not even bat an eye.
There were worse fates than facing an old fashioned Rivera-Brand Time Out.
“You know the drill, mijo,” said Enrique, Miguel’s papá, “No TV, no futbol, no Lucha Libre, no mu–”
“No music,” Miguel nodded, finishing his papá’s words when Enrique could not, as if rehearsed. Music was a given on being forbidden in the Rivera household, whether Miguel as punished or not.
But a small spark of something crossed his papá’s face. His father seemed to falter.
“…Well…” Enrique cleared his throat into his hand, eyes training to Mamá Coco’s bedroom door. He could hear his mother, Abuelita Elena, gushing to her mother, reliving memories that none of the other Riveras believed Coco could still recall. Hearing his mama be so happy, it was a sound he had not heard in many years, not unless it had to do with overcoming an exceedingly difficult shoe order. “No music… unless you intend on singing to Mamá Coco again.”
Miguel’s face, though slightly ashen and salt caked from dried tears, lit up. He sniffled and wiped his face, coughing a bit in spite of himself, overcome with relief.
The boy looked ready to topple over, as one would expect from a young preteen spending an entire night galavanting off to… Enrique had no idea where, but he did not feel the need to dwell on it. The idea of Miguel being alone on a holiday meant to be spent with your familia left him feeling like a rock was lodged in his stomach. A rather spiky one at that.
“A month sounds fair,” said Miguel, voice cracking from emotional fatigue, Enrique assumed.
“…How about just a couple weeks?” said Enrique, patting Miguel’s shoulder, “One week if you’re good.”
Miguel almost laughed as he stumbled into Enrique’s side, making the man jump. He caught Miguel and pulled him into a hug, to which his son gladly, if weakly returned. Enrique felt his chest tighten, trying his best not to imagine all that Miguel had gone through in the past twelve hours. Though his son had refused to share every single detail of all that had transpired during Dia de los Muertos, he’d told Enrique that he’d spent it in De la Cruz’s tomb. A night in the cemetery was no place for a child, especially with the chill in the November air, and–
And…
Was Miguel shaking?
“Mijo?” Enrique said, ruffling his son’s hair, eyebrows furrowing at how warm his son’s head felt. Was he running a fever? “You know we’re not angry at you anymore, yeah? Is everything ok?”
“J-just,” Miguel croaked, smiling tiredly up at his face as he continued to cling. Miguel hadn’t clung to Enrique since he was young enough to believe in monsters under his bed, to cry over being teased by his older cousins. And he was shaking. “A little c-c-cold. And t-tired.”
“Well no wonder…” sad Enrique, feeling the light fabric of Miguel’s shirt, “You’re soaked to the skin and– mijo? What happened to your jacket? The red one you were so fond of?”
Miguel choked on his words. For a moment, Enrique was worried he would run again, and his heart fell. Miguel hugged him tightly and his his face.
“I-I lost it, papá,” said Miguel, shakily.
“Where?”
“In the… I-In the graveyard?”
Enrique gave Miguel a look that only a father could give to a wayward son. It was a pretty darn good one too, as the boy was having a hard time keeping eye contact.
“S-sorry.”
Enrique opened his mouth to argue, to scold Miguel for telling a lie, and a rather poor one to boot. To claim that, as small as Santa Cecilia was, the cemetery was hardly a big enough place to lose a jacket. To tell Enrique the truth, the whole truth.
But one look at his son, who had already gone through enough stress from their family’s overbearing superstitions of music, who had openly cried and buried his face into his papá’s chest upon returning home (mind you, after nearly scaring him and his mother to death), who had returned Mamá Coco’s long-buried memories of a man who everyone, even Elena had grossly misunderstood, and all the fight to scold his boy had flown out of him. Enrique could only sigh, left to realize just how tired he felt after a full night of searching for his son.
“Come on, mijo,” said Enrique, gently rubbing Miguel’s back and leading him to the extended household that he and his brother’s family shared, all of it interwoven with the Rivera workshop. “Let’s get you to bed.”
“Do–” Miguel coughed, roughly, then sniffled. “D-don’t I need t’get re–ready for school?”
“I think after the night you’ve had, you can afford to miss one day,” said Enrique. “Besides, you think we’re about to let you out of our sight after pulling this stunt?”
Miguel actually laughed, surprising Enrique, the snickering only interrupted by more coughs.
“I-I guess not, papá.”
Miguel’s room was as sparsely furnished as the rest of the Rivera household. A single bed, a chest of drawers, some photos on the wall of small, sweet moments with friends and family. In spite of the lack of furniture, it was still very much Miguel.
Dirty clothes littered the floor in spite of his mamá’s many attempts to get the boy to clean his room. Posters of Miguel’s favorite luchadores were taped to the wall, action figures strewn about, bed left unmade– and now that Enrique was looking with a more aware, critical eye, he spotted a borrowed toolbox under Miguel’s bed, haphazardly hidden by unmade sheets. Enrique tried not to imagine what the boy intended on using it for, though it probably had something to do with the makeshift white guitar his son had frankensteined under his family’s nose. The boy’s wastebasket was also filled with crumpled pieces of paper, a blank notepad and pen on his bedside table.
Trying to put thoughts of guitars and graveyards out of his mind, Enrique led Miguel to his bed, quickly unmaking and remaking it before helping his son climb in. Dios, the boy looked beat. He hadn’t even bothered to take his shoes off.
“Are you sure you’re just tired, mijo?” said Enrique, placing the back of his hand on Miguel’s forehead, pushing the boy’s matted hair from his face. He felt far too warm.
“Mmmhmm,” said Miguel, barely awake. He was already burying his face into his pillow.
“Miguel?” said Enrique. “At least change into some new clothes before going to bed, huh?”
“Sí, papá…”
“…Miguel?
“…”
Aaaaaand the boy was out.
For a moment, the exhaustion of the night crept up on the father, and poor Enrique was so sorely tempted to simply turn around and call it a day. But, well, a father was a father, and no matter how much he knew Miguel would complain about being fussed over, he was not about to let his boy sleep in damp clothes from yesterday.
For the first time in many years, Enrique helped Miguel untie his shoes and change his clothes. He even helped Miguel under the covers and tucked him in, giving the boy’s dirty hair a tousle. In spite of nearly turning thirteen, Enrique had almost forgotten how young his boy still was. So young and foolish and careless…
And very brave. Brave enough to do what neither he, nor Berto, nor Gloria nor any of the Rivera men or women had ever managed to do in their longer lifetimes. Change Elena’s mind, and make Mamá Coco smile like the sun.
Ah, yes. He could reprimand the boy about his carelessness later. For now, Miguel needed rest. The entire family did. He was grateful that most businesses were closed following Dia de los Muertos, as Enrique planned on spending the next few hours surrounded by his loved ones, soaking in the glow that could only have been described as a miracle.
As Enrique made his way back to the family’s hacienda, a familiar stray Xolo shambled its way clumsily across the courtyard, covered in stray marigold petals and yapping up a storm. His enthusiasm nearly gave poor Carmen a heart attack. Enrique recognized the pooch immediately as the raggamuffin mutt who followed Miguel around town, begging for scraps. The boy’s very own clumsy shadow.
Before Enrique could think to shoo the Xolo away, he heard the telltale whap of a chancla smacking a palm, and froze. He noticed movement new Mama Coco’s room and turned to find his seething, broiling mother, a petrified Berto standing right behind her. Their childhood had taught the Rivera men well, not to stand between their mother and the object of her wrath when a shoe was within reach.
“You,” growled Elena, pointing her chancla at the hairless mutt.
Dante barked, lips pulled back in a smile, long tongue lolling out in complete innocence. The poor mutt apparently could not see his end staring him right in the muzzle.
Elena marched right up to the pooch, hands on her hips, and glared down at the poor, unsuspecting dog.
Dante, as Miguel had named him, wagged his tail, standing at attention (or… at least as attentive as one canine would look with his long tongue nearly hanging to the ground).
“And just where have you been, eh?” said Elena. “Your boy goes missing for a full night and what help were you? Pah! Rolling around in some trashcan all night, I bet.”
Dante tilted his head, and for a moment Enrique thought that the pooch had finally grown some sense and was about to book it to the nearest alley. But then the Xolo simply snorted in response, and trudged forward to lean heavily into Elena’s legs, leaving dust and drool all over her skirt and apron. Enrique saw Berto cross himself, honestly looking afraid for the dog’s life.
But when mamá did not move to slap him with her shoe, Enrique knew that Berto had nothing to fear. The exhaustion, both emotional and physical, washed over her face, and she put the shoe away. Enrique almost laughed. It was not often that his strict mother’s heart was melted and her weapon shieved, but perhaps in light of recent events, poor Elena’s heart had finally lost some hardness.
Dante’s head swiveled the door leading to Miguel’s room and yapped merrily, oblivious to Elena’s frustration.
She sighed and nodded.
“Go make yourself useful,” said Elena, patting Dante’s head and motioning to the door. “Keep that boy company, mutt.”
Though Enrique knew better than to assume that this dimwitted dog could understand anything beyond the words “food” and “fetch”, Dante pounced in place, barked, and dashed off to Miguel’s room. Like a dutiful soldier.
The family collectively winced when they heard a crash, possibly of the dog running right into a wall.
A very graceless, clumsy… dutiful soldier.
—–
Héctor was no stranger to waking up in peculiar places.
The life of a vagabond had warrented him as many freedoms as it had setbacks. No home real home meant no real curfew. No one to tell him where to go or how to dress led to the opportunities to wander and cause trouble to his heart’s content. No one to look out for him, to keep him in mind, to care for his well being and safety led to night after night, drinking to (ha) forget. No one to tell him to stop when things went too far.
He couldn’t count on both boney hands how many bars he’d been thrown out of. How many gutters he’d awoken next to. How many outraged unfortunate neighbors had shooed him off of their front steps with brooms, or porches with spatulas, or window sills with chanclas (Héctor still had no idea how he’d gotten into Leon Hernandez’s window ledge hanging garden, but he could only assume that the empty tequila bottle lodged in his ribcage had everything to do with it).
But this time was different. This time, Héctor did not awaken to a cork painfully lodged in his eye socket or the smell of booze on his bones. He was not lying prone, held together by his suspenders and luck on the far edge of town. No one was screeching at him to get lost, to get off their property. From the smells, or rather– the lack of smells, he did not think he was even in his ramshackle hut in Shantytown.
He was… somewhere warm. Some place soft. A place that held no intent on kicking him to the curb or hauling him off by his bootstraps. Sounds were muffled and quiet, though he could hear footsteps come and go past whatever room he was in. They echoed faintly, making him wonder how big the room was or how high the ceilings were. He could faintly feel sunbeams gently falling over his side, from a window perhaps? It all felt strangely, almost achingly familiar, like the room he and Imelda had shared when he was still alive–
Ah.
Yes.
So that explained it. He was dreaming of Santa Cecilia again.
He always did after Dia de los Muertos. Héctor couldn’t quite remember a time he did not dream of his hometown, but the dreams that followed him after the holiday, usually in a dazed, drunken stupor, were the ones that acted like the strongest balm. If he could not cross the bridge of orange petals, stand on the earth with his own two feet, small the oh so missed scents of tarragon, flowers, earth and stone– and yes, even the livestock– then by god, he could at least pretend. Pretend that everything had been a dream, that one day he would awake in his own bed to the sleeping face of his young wife, to the faint giggling of a little girl padding her way across the covers, the welcome sights and smells and sounds of home.
Héctor smiled, settling deeper into the covers.
Up a bit early today, aren’t we, mija? He wanted to say.
Tengo hambre, papa! Coco would whine.
He could almost feel her settle on his chest, gently shake him with her small hands. He wanted to reach up and cup her face, but his arms refused to move. Too tired. Too worn from the horrible, horrible nightmare.
Well, we cannot have that, a voice would say to his left.
Héctor felt his heart lift when something warm pressed up close to his side, smelling of sleep and cat hair and chicken feathers. No matter how often Imelda scrubbed, she would never be fully rid of the smells of a farm, as neither would Héctor of wood, stale clothes, ink and parchment. The smells of professions stuck with you that way, but Héctor did not mind. He preferred cats anyway.
How about huevos rancheros? Imelda would say.
Huevos! Huevos! Huevos! Coco would cheered, jumping up and down on Héctor and shaking him to more wakefulness.
Díos, this is some dream, Héctor thought. For a moment, he could feel something very heavy, shaking his chest. Pressing down. Getting heavier. How much had Coco grown in the past months he’d been gone?
Héctor tried to move his arms to lift Coco off of him, but they remained pinned to his sides. The pressing feeling was starting to spread to the rest of his body, keeping him rooted in place. Almost as if he were trapped under a rock, rather than wrapped in tight, clean sheets. The pressing turned to burning, burning in his chest and throat, and Héctor felt panic rise in him.
Why couldn’t he move? What was going on? Where was he?
The warmth from before, once sweet and caressing, turned to stifling, suffocating. Héctor couldn’t move, couldn’t breath. Almost as if…
Almost as if her were buried, deep underground. As if he were in a grave.
No.
No no no, please no.
He could not be dead. He was so close, dreaming sweetly of breakfast and tiny hands and smiles and miles away from the nightmare of the truth. That his best friend from childhood, his hermano had taken his life, that he’d spent so many decades alone in death. That Imelda had died angry and Coco had lived without knowing a father. That he’d failed time and time again to return to the small town he’d dreamt of returning to, time and time again.
Héctor wanted to scream, but his aching throat would not let him. He tried to open his mouth, to call for help, but the burning only became worse, and when he coughed, he felt the pressing intensify. His arms, so heavy and aching, could not move, and now entire body felt like it was on fire. His eyes felt as though they’d been glued shut, his head began to pound, and the soft haze of sleep gave way to dizziness. Were if not for the fact that he lacked a stomach, Héctor was certain he was going to vomit.
He felt something in his chest– a small rib bone, fractured– slip out of place, and choked out something that almost sounded like a word. His throat exploded in pain, and he prayed for anything to end this nightmare. Even the Final Death would have been a mercy.
“PEPITA!”
A voice screeched, reaching Héctor through the wave of pain that had drenched him, and his eyes finally flew open. He was met with blindingly brilliant colors, greens and reds and oranges, far too dazzling for the first sight of his streaming eyes (when had he started crying?). But the most brilliant were the yellow, gleaming, judging eyes of an alebrije. Imelda’s alebrije, large, commanding, terrifying, and lying completely on top of him.
“Get off of him!”
The alebrije’s large head perked and swiveled, cat-like at the skeleton standing in the doorway. Héctor almost didn’t recognize her, but even with her hair down in a single braid, and her regal purple gown exchanged for a white, embroidered camisa and red skirt, there was no mistaking Imelda Rivera, in all of her enraged glory. She was covered in leather shavings and wearing a pair of work gloves, and in one gloved hand, she shook an unfinished boot at the large creature, like a soldadera brandishing a sword.
“Shoo! Shoo! ¡Hechate!” Imela screech, “Get down, right now!”
With a defiant, almost annoyed rumbling growl, the spirit guide cowed under her mistress’s anger (the shoe, in particular), and crawled off of Héctor. The burning feeling finally gave way, and he took a deep breath– but he regretted it almost immediately, as the cool morning air scratched and tore at his throat in a way he had not felt since living– and was launched into a whooping cough.
Imelda dropped her shoe and was at his side in an instant. He felt her small hand gently pressed to his skull, pushing his matted hair away from his face. Her cool bones were a relieve against his skull, which felt as though someone had used it for a spirited game of futbol.
“Im–” He croaked, still hacking up a lung he did not posess, “Imelda–ha–?”
“Shhh, shh, wait for it to pass,” Imelda instructed, strict, yet tenderly. “Breath, breath…”
Once he’d finished giving his ribs a thorough workout, Héctor tried taking smaller, more even breaths. Díos, he felt awful. Like that time when he was a young boy, and caught a terrible cough from playing in the rain. He felt as though his nasal cavity had been stoppered, and his ribcage and the vertebrae along his neck burned, as if he’d swallowed several habañeros. The rest of his body hurt when he tried to move it, like many thousands of pins and needles poking his bones from the inside out, and everything else felt so heavy and hazy. Had he still been able to, he was certain he’d be sweating through the soft bed sheets he’d been wrapped up in.
“There. Easy, muchacho, easy,” Imelda crooned, placing her other hand on his chest.
He wanted to move his hand on top of her, but found he could not. Whether this was because of the pain or because his instincts still warranted trepidation with romantic contact with her, he had no clue. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been cared for with such tenderness, and instead leaned his face into her other hand when she moved it to his cheekbone. He tried to focus on breathing, not sure what to say to his former beloved. Not sure he even could say anything with his throat feeling all torn to shreds.
Imelda, skull pinched in fretfulness, annoyance, and the faintest of fondness, snapped her head at Pepita and pointed at her, accusingly.
“I told you to keep an eye on him, not smother him!” she snapped. “You could have broken a bone. Ay, Díos mio, as if he doesn’t have enough of those!”
Pepita growled again, and Héctor could swear he heard something akin to a mewl.
“Don’t apologize to me!” said Imelda, “I’m not the one who was crushed under three hundred fifty pounds of fur and feathers!”
Pepita’s ears fell back. She lied down, bodily on the ground– and it was then that Héctor realized that the room must’ve had a rather high ceiling to accommodate such a large creature– and she rolled onto her back. She growled in a loud, purposeful purr. Héctor wished so desperately that he could laugh at the alebrije’s attempts of endearing herself Imelda, all of its intimidating swagger flung out the window.
“Don’t you try to butter me up,” said Imelda. “It never works.”
Pepita purred louder.
“Don’t,” Imelda warned.
Pepita purred louder.
“Pepita!” Imelda snapped, though it was clear that her resolve was slipping.
The urge to laugh at the absurdity of the scene, a small, stern woman treating such an imposing creature as one would a housecat, all became too much for Héctor and he choked out a laugh– one that sent him into another painful fit of coughs.
Imelda fell silent, all of her anger snuffed out, and with a sigh, she simply shooed Pepita to the veranda– with a perch for some time-out time– and returned to Héctor’s side. She smoothed out the sheets as she waited for him to settle, the poor man groaning in pain once the coughs subsided.
“What…” Héctor wheezed, voice rougher than sandpaper and almost gone, “What ‘appened? Where… where’m–?”
“Don’t talk,” said Imelda, “Save your strength. Here.”
Previously unnoticed, Héctor watched Imelda as she turned to a table next to the large twin bed, and poured water from a metal pitcher into a clean white cloth. She wrung it out over a pan and then gently placed it over his brow bone. The coolness eased the throbbing headache, and he sighed in relief, glass eyes fluttering closed.
He felt her hand press to his cheekbone once more, and pressed his face into it with more certainty than before. Were it not for the ache in his bones and the fever, feeling her run a thumb along the ridge where his upper jaw met his lower one would have felt like heaven.
“Thank you,” he croaked.
“Mmmm,” Imelda hummed, softly.
A silence fell over the both of them, and Héctor simply waited it out. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to be said, but he knew better than to interrupt the silence. For everything that Héctor wanted to tell Imelda, he could feel that she had so much more to say.
“You look awful,” said Imelda, though she held no bite in her voice, as if stating a fact rather than making a scathing remark. “How do you feel?”
Héctor tried to speak, but his voice could barely break a whisper. Why did everything hurt so much?
“Like death warmed over,” he said.
“That’s not funny,” said Imelda. She sounded angry. \
“Sorry,” said Héctor, smiling in spite of himself, “But it’s the truth.”
His smile fell when he felt thin, warm bones carefully encircling him. He opened his eyes and found himself looking at the side of Imelda’s head, which she was pressing into his collar bone like a lost child to her mother’s skirt. Her boney fingers clenched the sheets. She was shaking.
“Imelda–?” Héctor croaked, the space in his ribcage where his heart would be giving a fearful jerk.
“You were gone, idiota,” Imelda said into the sheets. Héctor could not see her face, and he was thankful. From the sound of her voice, broken and forcing itself to be held together, would have been worse than any of the pain he felt right now. “You almost… you were dust.”
Héctor’s eyes widened. Memories from before were fuzzy, warped, fantastical and difficult to grasp, like smoke. He recounted… a boy, a small, living with a smart mouth, a dog, a competition, Ernesto. Things trickling back in, little by little, until Héctor finally recalled the empty, cold feeling settling over his bones and drawing all of his strength from him. Of being tired. Of feeling something he’d feared for nearly a century.
“The… the Final Death?”
“The Final Death,” said Imelda. She did not move from the embrace, nor did she stop shaking.
And that’s when everything fell back in a rush. Miguel and the photo, the Sunrise Spectacular, Imelda’s singing, nearly losing his little chamaco to a great fall, and then sending the boy home just in the nick of time. The creeping emptiness overtaking his bones, being unable to move in Imelda’s tight, desperate embrace, and everything going white.
“Oh…” Héctor croaked, numb with shock. He’d survived. Somehow, some way, his wreckless little great-great-grandson had resurrected the memory of the wayward musician from his pobrecita.
Just as he was about to become dust in his poor wife’s arms.
Héctor’s arms ached to return her embrace, but alas they still would not listen. He could only settle for pressing his face against hers, grateful that their cheekbones somehow messed together, and did not clack. They fit, like a couple puzzle pieces, and Héctor only focused on Imelda’s and his own breathing. This feeling, this fitting, gave him a whole new feeling, not one of emptiness of burning or aching, but a warm, melancholy belonging.
For the first time in so long, it almost felt like home. Not just a pretend kind from one of his dreams, but a safe, warm, home.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” he croaked.
“I know,” said Imelda, her voice tight and muffled.
“I… I think I’m going to be saying that a lot,” he said, almost laughing, “I have a lot to be sorry for.”
“Don’t,” she said, settling deeper into the hug. Héctor nuzzled her hair, and was overjoyed beyond words to realize that she still smelled of cat hair and chicken feathers, in spite of the overpowering leather from her shoemaking. “You’ve apologized enough. Just be quiet and let me…”
Héctor did not understand what she meant at first, but when he felt her head move, the strange sensation of teeth and jaw clacking gently against his temple, Héctor went stiff.
She’d kissed him. She’d swallowed her pride, her anger, her fear, all of the many emotions his beloved had felt so strongly in life and death, and kissed him.
He hadn’t been kissed since he left home.
“Don’t you ever,” said Imelda, her voice low, threatening, with a touch of possessiveness, “Leave home again.”
Imelda sighed and settled back into the hug, her shaking finally subsided. Héctor, breathless, staring wide eyed at the ceiling above him, wished the moment could last for eternity. He fought as hard as he could against the wave of relief, of utter exhaustion as it creeped its way through him, the warmth of the embrace lulling him. He couldn’t fight it off forever, but damn if he wouldn’t try.
“Claro… I’d like to see someone… try to make me leave again,” he breathed, nestling into the feeling as exhaustion finally took him.
The last thing he heard from Imelda humming a soft tune, and Pepita purring loudly in time to her song from her perch on the veranda.
And for once, he needed not dream of returning home.
TW: Fever ? (I’m not sure what counts for triggers so pls lmk if I miss anything)
Prompt: hi!! could u do one maybe where like, the reader is an actress on supernatural and she plays like their younger sister on the show or something and she gets sick at a con or something? Thanks !!
NOTE: Hey guys, I’m alive!!!! I know I have a lot of Spencer prompts atm, but it’s really hard to write them when I’m not like, hyper focused on Criminal Minds. I am going to try though! So sorry I’ve left so many of you in the wind, I am a very inconsistent person, my bad. But here’s this! It’s REALLY bad because I’m terrible at being realistic but like idk it’s something.
I really don’t even know what to put for tags on this.
()()()()()()
Ah, September. You knew what came along every September, and looked forward to it for the first eight months of every year. Secaucus, New Jersey. You loved every con you went to, truly. Everyone was so nice, you love staying in hotels, panels are such a great time, the whole thing. It’s a great experience outside of the set to get connected with fans. And, they loved you almost as much as you loved them. You were typically closer in age, since you were still just a teenager. You also started out as a fan of the show before somehow snatching a role, so you really were with them at one point. Everything that excites them excited you just as much. And, you loved making friends with them. You weren’t allowed to be reckless with your phone number, so you made a snapchat that you shared exclusively with con goers, whom you made swear to secrecy. It was like a club, and you just enjoyed genuinely talking to everyone. But, when you woke up that first morning, you knew it was going to be a long day. Your body ached, and you were still pretty exhausted. You had a fever, but didn’t really know if it was a fever because you were still young, and God forbid you ever decided to recognize the signs of you being sick. It was almost like a form of denial, not knowing. You were sweating, but freezing, and your throat felt particularly dry. Your headache rested underneath your eyes for the most part, to which you just blamed on being tired. Your stomach didn’t hurt, but you definitely weren’t hungry. Even though you hadn’t felt exactly 100% the past days before, and you obviously weren’t feeling right now, you just deduced that it was all because you were tired, and had a late flight in. As a responsible person does, of course. You didn’t even bother taking any medicine for it, because hey, you obviously weren’t sick, you’d feel better in a bit, and you didn’t have any, so why waste the time, right?
You groggily got dressed and met up with “the boys” (even though they were all older than you) for the free breakfast downstairs, in a separate room, since fans did happen to stay in the same hotel. You grabbed some Cheerios, only to conspicuously throw them away after.
“You good, Y/N?” Jared asked out loud, gaining the attention of Jensen, Misha, and Alex. You could feel their eyes burning through your skin. Or, maybe that was the fever. It had to be their eyes, you convinced yourself, you didn’t have a fever. You were fine.
“Yeah, why?” you asked, faking the perk in your voice and confused eyes. Your eyes felt really heavy, you noticed.
“You just… You look exhausted. And pale.” he said, “And you threw away that cereal without eating any of it."
You looked down at yourself as an effect for what you were about to say, "Wow, well that’s one way to make me self-conscious. I thought I looked kind of poppin’.” you laughed slightly, trying to play it off.
“W-wait, no that’s- that’s not what I meant! You look fine, I just-” he was embarrassed. You and the others chuckled.
“I’m kidding. I’m all good, just went to bed late, y'know?” you smiled. It was hard to try and mask the rasp in your voice, and doing so made you feel the need to cough, so you downed some water until it dialed down a bit. He nodded. In your mind, you blessed your acting skills, thinking you got away with it. What you didn’t know was that Misha, Jensen, and Jared, as fathers do, knew every trick in the book, and each noted to keep an eye on you. Not to mention, they’d been acting far longer than you had, and could just tell when one switches into a character. They all figured that if you weren’t sick now, you would be in days to come, and exchanged glances with each other, while Alex innocently continued to chew on his toast.
“Well, if you’re tired, I don’t think you have a panel or anything for another hour or something, maybe you could catch up on some sleep then.” Jared suggested. You shrugged.
“Nah,” you said, “I’ve got photo-ops in like, twenty minutes. I should actually probably get going. I’ll catch up later!"
You left with a wave, and disappeared into the hotel somewhere. You stopped in your room, allowing yourself finally to set free the coughs living in the back of your throat. You blamed it on your throat being dry since you didn’t drink enough water. Not on germs. So, you grabbed two water bottles from the small fridge in your room, and left, making your way towards the convention center.
You felt slightly better during photo-ops, which just confirmed in your mind that it was impossible that you were sick right now. You smiled and talked to everyone. There was one girl, who introduced herself as Meredith, who stuck out in your mind. She gave you this super cool hand painted keychain, which you very excitedly put on your keys instantly.
"Dude, I’ve been looking for a cool keychain. Not just one of those janky ones you find at like 7-11, like a cool one. This is so exciting.” you smiled genuinely. You had just recently bought yourself a car, and thought that your keys looked a little lonely, and searched for hours on Etsy for something to spice it up a bit. A weird obsession, thinking about it now.
She laughed, “I’m glad you like it!”
“Hell, yeah! Now, are there any poses you wanna do? Or do you just want to hit that casual look? I could make it look like I’m meeting you.” you stupidly rambled. One of your traits that was so widely known was how funny and awkward (in a good way) that you were. It took you a long time to get to that point, though, because you were always anxious about meeting others. You still are every now and then, but it’s different here.
“I was just hoping to get a hug.” she said, “If that’s okay with you."
"Yeah, that’s cool!” you wrapped your arms around each other and shot the camera a grin. The girl looked a bit confused.
“Hey,” she said, quietly, “are you like, okay? You feel really hot.”
Nervously, you replied, “Oh, no, yeah totally fine. I’m just wearing two layers, and it’s getting spicy in here.”
“Yeah,” she answered, “don’t push yourself, okay?”
“I won’t, thank you. It was really nice meeting you!"
"You, too! Thanks!” she waved goodbye and you moved on to the last few people in line. She was right, though. You realized that you felt worse than you did when you walked in. You thought it had gone away for a while, but now it was just amplified. You noticed you were cold again, but that you were sweating as well. It must’ve just been the temperature in the room. These conventions aren’t always able to keep a steady temp in the entire building, right?
This day, you didn’t have much to do. Most of your events were on the other days to come. You had one panel in a few hours, and then a panel with Jared, Jensen, and Misha a few hours after that, and then bam, the day was over. You just had to get through those two events. Just two.
Two, events. And both were an hour. So, two hours out of the day. Rookie work. Yet, as your panel approached, the headache had expanded from under your eyes to anywhere that there was space to hurt, your throat ached and so did your lungs from how much you were going off somewhere to cough in privacy, your body felt heavy, you couldn’t tell if you were hot or cold at this point it was some weird combination of both, your stomach hurt just slightly, the world was moving around you a bit more than it usually would, and the fever you “didn’t” have had climbed a degree, probably two. And, at some point during the day, you got pretty congested. You felt like you could just fall asleep at any moment. Jared and Jensen happened to be walking by where you had been waiting by yourself, away from any congoers or employees, and noticed that even though you were leaning against a wall, you somehow were still swaying.
“Y/N?” Jensen called out, worried. You heard him, you knew you were supposed to respond, but didn’t know how. Maybe you did have a fever, and maybe you sort of let it out of control. It was like you were comprehending them, but not at the same time. You heard everything, but it just swept right through your feverish mind. The walked in front of you and examined you within seconds. You felt Jared’s cold, really abnormally large man hand sweep your hair back and land on your forehead.
“J, she’s burning up.” you felt another hand on your face. You, quite exhaustedly, swatted it away. They couldn’t figure out how it’d gotten so bad so quickly. You were sick this morning, but not to this degree. They knew then that you had just shrugged it off all day, and your teenage fever brain probably didn’t even think to take any kind of medicine or anything for it, even if you were trying to hide it.
“I’m good. Just tired. Fevers don’t exist.” you finally mumbled, taking a few deep breathes, which you hadn’t really been able to do in a bit without being rudely interrupted by a bone-shaking cough. It felt nice, almost. The boys sighed at you and shook their heads.
“Y/N, you should go back to your room and get some rest. We can bring you some stuff that’ll help.” Jared suggested. You shook your head and opened your eyes, which somehow felt even heavier.
“Nah,” you said to them, “I’ve got a panel, I think, in like, I ‘dunno, some minutes or something. Something I-” you pushed yourself off the wall to try and make your way somewhere, but stumbled a step or two, which result in Jensen and Jared instinctively to grab you in order to keep you steady.
“Like hell we’re letting you go to that, Y/N, you can’t even form a sentence, or stand for that matter. You’re out of your mind. We’re going to bring you back now, we’ll take care of your panel thing.” Jensen stated pretty sternly. You were about to fight back, and they could see it, but you coughed a few times, and they could almost feel it in their own chests. You just nodded in defeat.
“Yeah, maybe I could just like, sleep, for an hour or two.” you whispered, tiredly. The two were still holding you steady, and could see you already falling asleep before even going anywhere.
“Or six, by the looks of it.” Jared joked lightly.
“Poor kid.” Jensen said to Jared as the were walking out of your room. They helped you get there, and you were gone before you even saw the bed, “Why do they always have to pretend like they aren’t sick? Look where it gets them.”
“Don’t know, man. You can’t talk, though. You literally tell people you are immune to illness.” Jared laughed quietly, shutting you door.
“Well I am. I am the perfect example of health. I don’t get sick."
"Yeah,” Jared rolled his eyes, “Right. Watch you catch what Y/N has. You practically carried her all the way here. There’s no way you’re escaping it.” Walking towards the center, the back way of course, Jensen scoffed, “Please, germs take one look at me and know not to mess this up. And, by the logic, that means you’re already infected, too. So, tell me, princess, what sort of soup do you want spoon-fed?"
Again, Jared rolled his eyes, and the two laughed. They weren’t making fun of you, they were making fun of each other, and knew that you would’ve wanted in on that action.
"Y/N probably would’ve destroyed us if she heard that. Something along the longs of ‘You want me to tuck you in? Carry you bridal style?’” Jared pitched his voice a tone higher for it. Again, the two men laughed.
They made their way backstage of what’s supposed yo be your panel, and informed the crew about what was going on. They were just going to fill in for you, probably tell a few embarrassing stories.
When they made their way through the curtain, the crowd shouted. They were obviously excited to see the two leads, but also were obviously confused. “Alright, you’re probably confused.” Jensen stated the obvious, “Because obviously, we look nothing like Y/N, and thank God she does not look like us.” The crowd laughed.
“Anyway, Y/N can’t make it today. She’s really sick-” the crowd cut Jared off with a unison “awe.” People yelled out that they hoped she felt better, tell her to take care of herself, and so on.
“Yeah, poor kid looked like she was just going to fall asleep right where she was standing. She literally tried to come anyway, like, kid, you’re making no sense. Y/N couldn’t really fight against us, though, so she’s sleeping now.” Jensen explained, “So we came here to chat in her stead, but just know she really was planning on coming. That kid loves you guys.” and again, the “awe” rolled through the crowd.
“If she wasn’t sick, she could totally kick both your-” the last word was cut off, but was implied anyway, someone screamed from the crowd, which resulted in laughter.
“Yeah, probably. Even if we were stronger than her,” sarcastically, of course, “she’d still beat us. Kid’s too fast, and I’m too old.” Jared laughed.
In the last ten minutes of the panel, Jared decided to give you call. Not only to check in on you, but so you could at least say hi to your crowd. When you heard the phone ring, you groggily opened your eyes and aimlessly reached for it.
“Hello?” you answered. Jared almost frowned at how sick you sounded, even with just one word.
“Y/N?” Jensen stepped in, “It’s Jensen.”
“Unfortunate.” you sighed exhaustedly. It was joke, a really tired one, but still enough to make the crowd laugh.
“We’re here at your panel, we thought you might want to say hi.” Jared said loudly, holding the speaker of his phone to the microphone.
“Panel?” you asked. Panel? What panel? Your delirious mind was clearly confused, “Who’s that?"
"Y/N, the con. The convention panel?” Jensen actually sounded worried. They probably should’ve thought to give you some sort of medicine to do something about the fever you had before they’d left.
“Oh,” you closed your eyes again, almost falling asleep, before remembering finally what it was they meant, and after a moment, “Oh! Crap, the panel thing, I’m late.”
“No, Y/N, stay there, we’ve got it covered remember? You can’t come. You can say hi to them, though.” Jensen interjected quickly.
“Okay, hi guys.” you just followed as told.
The crowd responded with a series of hello’s.
“’M really sorry. I hope they aren’t boring you.” the two men could practically hear you closing your eyes. The crowd responded in inaudible chatter. Jensen and Jared walked from the mic for a second.
“Sorry if we woke you, kid.” Jared apologized, having just realized they probably could’ve left you alone, “W also just wanted to check in. See how you’re doing.”
“How are you feeling?” Jensen asked, but got a mumbled word in response, “Alright, well, just go back to sleep, we’ll be up there soon."
Jared hung up the phone, and the two began to answer the last few questions and close up. They waved their goodbyes to the crowd, and started heading back your way.
"Jensen, you got any over the counters with you? Thermometers or anything? All I’ve got is Advil, and I don’t even know what’s really bothering her yet other than that cough and being tired.”
“Yup. Danneel always makes me carry literally an entire medicine cabinet, just for these moments. I’ll go get 'em and meet you there. It’d probably do her some good to eat something, too. I don’t know if she’s got like, a stomach virus thing going on, though.” Jensen answered.
“I’ll see what she’ll say and let you know."
The two parted ways, and Jared made his way to you. Even though he’d only talked to you just a few minutes before, you were dead to the world by the time he opened the door. The room was boiling, and Jared looked over to the thermostat to see that you’d at some point put it on to 90 degrees.
"Jesus, Y/N, I know you’ve got a fever, but damn.” he said, more so to himself than to you. He looked over at you after turning it down to see you curled beneath what looked like any blanket you could find. He came over and started removing the blankets slowly, and shook you gently to wake you up.
“Y/N, wake up for a minute, it’s Jared.”
“'Mm.” was all you said, until you realized your layers of warmth had been moved, “What’re doing? It’s cold.”
“Y/N, you’re dripping in sweat. It’s the fever making you cold.”
“I don’t have a fever.” you retorted, “I’m good. Just tired.”
“Kid, you’ve been tired the whole day. You’ve been sleeping this whole time.” he tried rationalizing.
“I have?” you questioned, closing you eyes again. Jared put his hand to your forehead again. Somehow, it was warmer than the first time he’d done it before the panel. It was then that Jensen finally appeared, a whole bag of things in hand, “Could you bring the thermometer over?”
“Yeah, gotcha.” He walked over and rummaged through the bag at the same time, pulling out a thermometer.
“Y/N, we need to take your temperature.” Jensen said.
“No need.” you said, “’M not sick.”
“You are so obviously sick, I’m not asking.” again with that stern voice. Jared gave him a “Hey, she’s sick, back off a little” sort of look, but it had worked, and you let them take your temp. They were almost shocked when the thing beeped at 103.
“Should we take her to a hospital? That’s way too high.” Jared asked.
“If it gets any higher, yes, but let’s see if we can bring it down first.” Jensen replied.
“No hospitals.” you demanded, opening your eyes and glaring at them.
“We aren’t bringing you yet, Y/N, but I need you to eat this so you can take some meds.” he held out two pieces of toast that he must’ve brought from his room. You hated toast even when you weren’t sick.
“I’m not really hungry."
"I know, but it’ll help. You haven’t told us what’s bothering you yet, either.” Jared responded.
“Nothing’s-” you coughed a few times, a bit violently, “bothering me.” “We can see that.” Jensen said sarcastically.
“Everything’s bothering me.” you whispered, giving up.
“Your stomach hurt?” Jensen asked. You waved your hand from side to side to signal a so-so, “Think you’ll get sick at all?”
“No, it’s not like that, I don’t think.” you breathed out, another cough escaping you. You took a few bites out of the toast. It made you uncomfortable, but it was then that you realized you probably felt that way since you really hadn’t eaten much that day or the one before, which probably contributed to the splitting headache. It didn’t go away after, either though. You pushed yourself up. You almost fell over, but Jared put a hand out for you.
“Alright, good. Take this. I’m going to be frank, it tastes disgusting.” Jensen handed over a small cup of liquid, “Sometimes, if you take it like a shot, it helps. But you shouldn’t know how to take shots, but if you do it, I won’t judge.” And so you did, causing the two to chuckle slightly at you.
“You were right, about the sleep thing.” you slumped back onto the bed heavily, like a brick.
“When am I ever wrong?” Jensen asked, “Don’t answer that, actually.”
But you were already sleeping again, and the boys decided to stay nearby for now. The next panel wasn’t for another few hours anyway, and they just didn’t want you to be alone. Also, incase you were wrong about the toast, and it decided to make its return. Jared’s phone began to ring loudly, to which he very quickly tried to answer so his obnoxious ringtone wouldn’t wake you up again, not that you wouldn’t have just fallen back asleep anyway.
“Misha? Hey, what’s up?” Jared answered. Jensen walked over to hear what was going on on the other side of the line, but Jared just decided to put it on speaker.
“Where are you guys? I haven’t seen you all day. Felicia, Alex, and I are going out for lunch, we were wondering if you guys want to come. I tried calling Y/N, but she didn’t answer, so.” he rambled.
“That’s because Y/N’s not feeling well.” Jensen said, giving him a solution to his predicament of not being answered, “We’re with her right now, so we’ll have to pass.”
“She’s sick? Is she okay?"
"Yeah, I think so. She’s just got this crazy fever we’ve been trying to bring down. Thinking about it now, Jensen, we should probably check it again."
"A fever?”
“It’s been at 103 degrees for like, two hours. At least for what we know of. She’s probably had one all day, but as a dumb teenager does, she just tried to ignore it."
"If it goes up you should-”
“Yeah, we know,” Jared said, “we’re trying really hard to avoid that, though. Also, she’ll definitely fight against it, I don’t know."
Jensen, from the other side of the room at the sound of a beeping thermometer, could be heard on Misha’s end, "It went down, finally. 102.2.”
“Thank God, I was getting worried.”
“Should I come there? Do you guys need any help?” Misha asked.
“I mean you can, but I think we’re good. She’s just been trying to sleep it off the whole time, so not much is really going on.” Jensen was closer to the phone now, “Like, she’s got this cough, a headache, and you can hear how congested she sounds, but mostly I think she’s just exhausted. I honestly don’t know how because she’s just been sleeping for hours.”
“Fatigue.”
“Yeah, poor kid. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so tired, it almost makes me tired to be honest.” Jensen joked.
“Maybe you’re just getting sick.” Jared slipped in.
“Not possible. I am immune.”
“Nobody is immune, Jensen.” Misha sighed.
“I’m not nobody.” he shrugged.
“Alright, well, we’re going to get lunch then. If you need anything let me know, and tell her I hope she feels better.” Misha concludes.
“We will, thanks Misha.” and with that, Jared hung up. For a few more hours, the two hung around. They were there when you woke from some fever dreams, and when you needed a cough drop, or twelve, and wake you up every now and then to check your temperature, which raised and dropped and raised and dropped, but currently was at a very steady 102.4. But, soon enough, it was time for them to leave for the last panel of the day, and unsurprisingly, you tried to follow suit.
“Y/N, we gotta go, but we’ll be back in about an hour from the panel.” Jared said. You took a deep breath and sluggishly pushed yourself to the side of the bed. Having been sick, and not having sat up in a few hours, the blood rushed from your head, leaving you dizzy.
“What’re you doing?” Jensen asked.
“The panel. I missed the last one I should go to this one. I feel okay.” you yawned, then coughed slightly.
“Y/N, really, you shouldn’t even think about pushing it like that.” Jared said. Jensen walked over to you, half on the bed, clearly trying to steady yourself just from the movement of sitting up. The spinning room honestly almost made the toast make a reprise, and you hiccupped, and held your breath.
“Hey,” Jensen grabbed a can quickly, noticing, “are you going to be sick?”
Giving it a minute, it went away, and you shook you head no, causing a huge tension to leave the room.
“Alright, well, remember how you said I was right all the time earlier?” Jensen pun the can down.
“No, must’ve been the fever.” you half joked, causing Jared to laugh.
“Alright- well- okay, shut up. We agreed I’m always right, and that I was right about needing sleep, so I say you need some more.” Jensen demanded rather than suggested.
“Yeah, or at least lay around and do nothing. I can’t imagine ever sleeping as much as you just did.” Jared joked, pushing you very gently back down, with his hand on your back, knowing you would just hit the bed without it. Your eyes were heavy again, and your throat was painfully dry, and you coughed. Your aching head also agreed with the two of them to your dismay.
“Maybe just a bit more.” you mumbled, “A few minutes.”
“Yeah a few minutes, sure.” Jared smiled, knowing you were probably going to knock out for a few hours once again. You opened your eyes again.
“You think,” you coughed, “that they’ll be mad?
"Who?” Jensen asked.
Feeling pretty sick, you said, “That I don’t go? I don’t feel really good.”
Ah, the fever comes to play once again, it seems, but the two felt some sort of triumph now that you’ve at least admitted to being sick, even if it’s been hours. It concerned them, though, if you felt bad enough to admit it.
“No, they’ll be fine about it. We’ll be back soon. Misha or Alex might come in to check on you, alright?” Jared answered, to which you nodded.
They weren’t gone long. You spent half the next day sleeping, too, until you could stand without swaying. You did sneak back to the con, against Jensen and Jared’s orders, since you really didn’t break that fever and cough for a few more days, only to be caught after a tweet of you at the con was trending and the cast caught wind of it. But, eventually, you were better, and got the chance to help Jared take care of an “always immune” Jensen. And he was more stubborn than you were.
“I am Emmet. I lost together with Ingo.” Ingo. Who hadn’t battled his best today. “Your combination is the best, perfect!” Not that he’d made any obvious mistakes. They lost sometimes. It happened. “You’re verrry strong.” But Emmet thought they had this one in the bag. It wasn’t until Ingo chose– cut it out. No use traveling down that track to nowhere. “Yup! It was so much fun!“ Emmet ushered them from the car, glancing sidelong at his brother taking care of their partners. Chandelure in particular bore the brunt of it and despite his calm exterior, Ingo was visibly upset, murmuring soothing things and accepting her into his arms when she pushed her glass against his chest. All forgiven. Their partners loved battling as much as they did, after all.
“I apologize, Emmet. I was. I let myself become inattentive and it caused us to lose the match.”
“I am Emmet. And I do like winning more than anything. But, what is wrong? You are not yourself today.” Archeops pushed a scaly nose into the palm of his hand before digging his way into his pocket only to get a shock from a stowaway Joltik.
“I am merely distracted.”
“Why?” Emmet cocked his head, smile dimming into something more reassuring. Ingo could tell him anything. Instead he hesitated, tugging his hat firmer onto his head.
“Is it not cold in the cab today?”
“You are standing verrry close to Chandelure.” As a ghost pokemon, despite the flames, she could emit a chill. Ingo stroked his thumb across her banded surface, seeming to think.
“I will perform better after the lunch break.” It did not escape Emmet that Ingo had avoided his questions instead of answering them directly. He could be verbose, that was true, but even if it had been a bad day, Ingo would admit it outright. Very odd. He dropped it.
“Okay.” For now. They disembarked together and Emmet decided against paperwork, thank you very much, choosing to spoil the resident station pokemon by sharing bits of crust from his slice. Pulling on his gloves after letting a lagging Drilbur lick his fingers clean (Ingo didn’t have to know), Emmet performed his safety checks and approached the platform. The next train was arriving and despite seeing it dozens of times a day, his heart still sped up at the sight.
“I am Emmet. I lost together with Ingo.” Ingo. Who hadn’t battled his best today. “Your combination is the best, perfect!” Not that he’d made any obvious mistakes. They lost sometimes. It happened. “You’re verrry strong.” But Emmet thought they had this one in the bag. It wasn’t until Ingo chose– cut it out. No use traveling down that track to nowhere. “Yup! It was so much fun!“ Emmet ushered them from the car, glancing sidelong at his brother taking care of their partners. Chandelure in particular bore the brunt of it and despite his calm exterior, Ingo was visibly upset, murmuring soothing things and accepting her into his arms when she pushed her glass against his chest. All forgiven. Their partners loved battling as much as they did, after all.
“I apologize, Emmet. I was. I let myself become inattentive and it caused us to lose the match.”
“I am Emmet. And I do like winning more than anything. But, what is wrong? You are not yourself today.” Archeops pushed a scaly nose into the palm of his hand before digging his way into his pocket only to get a shock from a stowaway Joltik.
“I am merely distracted.”
“Why?” Emmet cocked his head, smile dimming into something more reassuring. Ingo could tell him anything. Instead he hesitated, tugging his hat firmer onto his head.
“Is it not cold in the cab today?”
“You are standing verrry close to Chandelure.” As a ghost pokemon, despite the flames, she could emit a chill. Ingo stroked his thumb across her banded surface, seeming to think.
“I will perform better after the lunch break.” It did not escape Emmet that Ingo had avoided his questions instead of answering them directly. He could be verbose, that was true, but even if it had been a bad day, Ingo would admit it outright. Very odd. He dropped it.
“Okay.” For now. They disembarked together and Emmet decided against paperwork, thank you very much, choosing to spoil the resident station pokemon by sharing bits of crust from his slice. Pulling on his gloves after letting a lagging Drilbur lick his fingers clean (Ingo didn’t have to know), Emmet performed his safety checks and approached the platform. The next train was arriving and despite seeing it dozens of times a day, his heart still sped up at the sight.
Where was Ingo?
The platform edge doors slid open.
Where was his brother?
“This line is closed.” Without waiting for confirmation from the attendant, he hurried off. Ingo was never late. Never. Which meant something was wrong.
Why wouldn’t Ingo tell him?
“Brother?!” Emmet burst into the office. Already thinking the worst.
“Wha’Emmet?” When he lifted his head from the desk, the stray ticket stub stuck to his face and ink smeared across his cheek did little to calm Emmet. To him, this was yet more evidence that something was horribly wrong. Ingo was never anything less than tidy and neat and here he was, clothes rumpled, hair damp with sweat. A faint flush high in his face set off the unnatural pallor of his skin. How had he missed this? “Emm–!” The palm of his hand colliding with Ingo’s forehead sounded off with a faint smack!
“We are going home.” Stunned silence, a beat. Two. Emmet couldn’t blame him. Not when Ingo’s brain was obviously melting from the heat of a verrry impressive fever.
“I do not. I. No.” His meek (and when was he ever??) attempts at protest fell on deaf ears. “Th’the station…”
“Will be here Monday.”
“Monday!?” Ah. There was his volume. Neither one of them enjoyed taking time off. Or slowing down for that matter and nothing stopped their trains as fast as a sick day. Perish the thought. Emmet’s ears were ringing.
“I know you do not like it.” Did Ingo even realize how much of his weight Emmet had hold of? Or which way was up? With the way he swayed, he didn’t think so. “I will stay with you.” Because Ingo would not rest otherwise. He’d be up and about doing all manner of paperwork and strategy.
“I do not like it…but…” Now the hand not gripping Emmet’s shoulder for dear life rose to his temple as he closed his eyes against the no doubt spinning office. “Now that I am standing…it is disagreeable.” Worried, Emmet steadied him further with an arm around his waist, eyeing fluttering lashes with concern.
“Ingo?”
“All is, well, not well, but I will be fine after some rest.” The words faded in and out as though echoing down one of the longer tunnels.
“We will take a taxi.” Ingo didn’t argue.
Ingo was panting harshly by the time Emmet helped him kick his shoes off, swallowing hard and navigating by touch to his bedroom with his help. Headache. Nausea. Emmet had the sneaking suspicion he’d come down with the flu sweeping like a runaway train through the depot.
“Sit here, Ingo.” Gentle, quiet. His brother nodded miserably against his neck as he sat on the bed, shivering with chills once Emmet withdrew his body heat. “Change, I will be back with some medicine. Should help.”
“Hm.” Uncharacteristically quiet. Emmet did not like it.
Nor did he like that Ingo was in the same spot and still dressed in his uniform. He set the bottles of medications and glass of water aside, kneeling to get a better look at his face. Carefully, Emmet lifted the hat away, running ungloved fingers through tangled, sweaty silver-gray locks, grinning at the way Ingo leaned into his hand. He was very, very warm though very, very cold at the same time judging by his trembling and he whined when Emmet pulled away to loosen his tie and guide his arms out of the long coat trapping all the heat in.
“S’cold…”
“I am Emmet and I will tuck you in soon.” Pausing in getting Ingo comfortable for bed, he had him take some fever reducers with a few sips of water. “Slow, brother, too fast and you will be sick.” Next, his stiff uniform trousers, socks and button down, leaving him in his sweat-soaked undershirt and briefs. “This will not do.” Keeping a hand on his knee to steady him as Ingo’s fingers were already digging into the mattress for balance, Emmet fumbled in the bedside drawer for a comfortable sleep shirt.
“‘M’met.”
“What do you need, Ingo?” He wrestled his arms out and then in, cupping his too-warm cheek to glance into glassy, fever-bright eyes.
“I do not…not feel well.” He made a soft, sad sound that tore at Emmet’s heart. “Need’a. Lay down.”
“Okay. We can do that.” Emmet held the glass for one more shaky swallow, not admitting he was feeling shaky himself, before helping Ingo under the quilts. It had been a long time since either of them were this sick.
“Sorry…” exhaled on a shuddering breath, Ingo melted under the cold cloth Emmet folded over his eyes.
“None of that. You get some sleep and I will check on you later.”
Emmet kept the door cracked so he could hear his brother if he called out, peeking in now and then to make certain he slept peacefully. Despite the slight wheeze on his breath, Ingo rested deep and well, weighted down by the proper combination of medications. Right on schedule he woke an exhausted Ingo for another dose and some water, swiping down his much cooler face with a refreshed cloth before turning in himself just across the hall.
Not long after midnight Emmet jolted awake to a figure wavering in the dimly lit doorway.
“Ingo?” As the younger brother (even by just shy of ten minutes, it counts, Ingo) Emmet was the more likely of the two to crawl into the other’s bed after a nightmare or hard time sleeping. He’d already drawn back the covers before his sleep-rough voice drifted over the shadows.
“I cannot sleep.” He was wrapped in his own comforter and flopped into the space Emmet made for him. “I have been having trouble sleeping for longer than I would like to admit.” Ingo spoke to the ceiling and the tree limbs in their shady lattice. He didn’t flinch when Emmet tested his temperature with the back of his fingers. Much improved but he would need another round in the morning. And sleep. As many naps as Emmet could get him to take. Bouts of insomnia weren’t uncommon for Ingo. It was no wonder he was knocked down so hard. “I thought I could get through the day but it appears as though I was wrong.” He sighed and it was full of sorrow. “I let Chandelure become hurt because of it.” Emmet thought his eyes were suspiciously bright in the reflected light filtering in from the window.
“We will do better next time.” He tugged his burritoed brother into his arms, tucking his forehead into the space between his shoulder and neck. “Next time you will tell me when it is hard to sleep and I, Emmet, will make you that tea you like.” Moisture slipped down his collarbone. He ran his hand up and down the shallow seam of Ingo’s spine.
“I can make it for myself.” Emmet laughed and held his brother tighter.
“Bravo! Excellent!!” Ingo felt slow, heavy. Like the words he knew by heart were filtering out of him through honey. “I am glad that I fought so hard against a wonderful Trainer like you.” In truth he had barely been a challenge. He wondered if they were disappointed. “That’s right! You grow stronger by matching yourself against a strong opponent.” For a split second he forgot what was supposed to come next despite having recited these words hundreds if not thousands of times before. He ducked his head to shield aching eyes from the harsh lights of the battle subway. Think. Just. Think. Did they notice? How out of sorts he was? Perhaps Emmet was right and it was too soon to come back after the Team Plasma attack just a few short weeks ago. But he was languishing at home. Unable to sleep. Full of nerves and worried he wouldn’t be ready for the next time. Especially if he wasn’t even there.
Ah. The words had seen fit to return.
“Please do your best and run toward the destination, an even higher state.” The trainer thanked him and left.
And not a moment too soon. Haxorus caught him as he stumbled and he let himself hang there in her arms for a moment, willing his stomach to settle. Nauseated since setting foot in the cab, Ingo wondered if he’d in fact come down with something. The train slid into the station; Ingo fought the desire to slide to the floor, instead straightening with intent and righting his cap, taking comfort in the familiar actions.
“Let us get you taken care of.” He patted Haxorus on a sturdy armored plate before recalling her and stepping purposefully onto the platform.
“Bad run today, Boss?” Ingo nodded, regretting it when Gear Station swirled around him. “Better luck tomorrow!”
“Yes, I certainly hope so.” It wasn’t fun for anyone if he couldn’t even put up a fight. Squinting against the light emanating from the screen in front of him, Ingo debated putting off the paperwork for one more day. According to his timeline, he was late. Everyone else’s, he still had days. It rankled, leaving things unfinished but even though he had the time, he didn’t seem to have the wherewithal.
Failing the station, again.
A foolish thought considering Ingo was doing no such thing, especially by putting off paperwork, but no matter how frequently he reminded himself, it never seemed to change his mind.
“Bravo! Excellent!!” Ingo felt slow, heavy. Like the words he knew by heart were filtering out of him through honey. “I am glad that I fought so hard against a wonderful Trainer like you.” In truth he had barely been a challenge. He wondered if they were disappointed. “That’s right! You grow stronger by matching yourself against a strong opponent.” For a split second he forgot what was supposed to come next despite having recited these words hundreds if not thousands of times before. He ducked his head to shield aching eyes from the harsh lights of the battle subway. Think. Just. Think. Did they notice? How out of sorts he was? Perhaps Emmet was right and it was too soon to come back after the Team Plasma attack just a few short weeks ago. But he was languishing at home. Unable to sleep. Full of nerves and worried he wouldn’t be ready for the next time. Especially if he wasn’t even there.
Ah. The words had seen fit to return.
“Please do your best and run toward the destination, an even higher state.” The trainer thanked him and left.
And not a moment too soon. Haxorus caught him as he stumbled and he let himself hang there in her arms for a moment, willing his stomach to settle. Nauseated since setting foot in the cab, Ingo wondered if he’d in fact come down with something. The train slid into the station; Ingo fought the desire to slide to the floor, instead straightening with intent and righting his cap, taking comfort in the familiar actions.
“Let us get you taken care of.” He patted Haxorus on a sturdy armored plate before recalling her and stepping purposefully onto the platform.
“Bad run today, Boss?” Ingo nodded, regretting it when Gear Station swirled around him. “Better luck tomorrow!”
“Yes, I certainly hope so.” It wasn’t fun for anyone if he couldn’t even put up a fight. Squinting against the light emanating from the screen in front of him, Ingo debated putting off the paperwork for one more day. According to his timeline, he was late. Everyone else’s, he still had days. It rankled, leaving things unfinished but even though he had the time, he didn’t seem to have the wherewithal.
Failing the station, again.
A foolish thought considering Ingo was doing no such thing, especially by putting off paperwork, but no matter how frequently he reminded himself, it never seemed to change his mind.
Ingo slipped quietly into the apartment, not wanting to disturb Emmet if he was napping and indeed, saw him cascooned on the couch, head pillowed on Galvantula and broken leg elevated via Durant’s strong back. It was a far cry from the drugged oblivion he’d experienced when first arriving home, but while recovering from a concussion, his younger brother still needed his rest. Ingo toed off his shoes and hung up his coat, waving a silent hello when Durant threatened to move. Cap on its peg and tie pulled loose, Ingo touched the backs of his fingers to Emmet’s forehead, just below the fading bruise at his hairline. No fever. Good. Meant he was healing right on schedule. With such a complicated break the surgeon had been worried about post operative infection.
“I am Emmet.” Bleary-eyed, he came awake under Ingo’s hand, yawning. “How was work? Any strong challengers?”
“Always.” He paused before admitting, “some of them are too strong.” Ingo didn’t want to go into how distracted he’d become. How he’d been soundly defeated more often than was his wont. How he was ruining their reputation. “How are you feeling?”
“Hm. Leg hurts. But not too badly today.” A tiny squeak heralded the rustling and Ingo raised a brow when a small yellow furball full of static crept sheepishly out of the wide leg of his brother’s pajama bottoms.
“Emmet?”
“I am Emmet, yes.”
“Why is there a Joltik in your pants?”
“They are helping!”
“There are more?”
“Can I take a shower?” Ignoring that the response did not answer his questions, Ingo frowned. “I am gross.”
“Yes.”
“Mean!” Pulling Emmet up, Ingo helped him stand on his one good leg, acting as a human walking stick with an arm slung around his waist. A bevy of tiny creatures crawled back from whence they came. “Electric current helps.”
“Do not get your cast wet.” Especially if there were additional stowaways hidden. His little brother flapped a hand in his direction, already peeling off his sleep shirt. Emmet was bruised nearly all over, a patchwork of healing purples, greens, and yellows, and while Ingo’s own skin was nearly a mirror image, he couldn’t stand to see his younger brother so stiff and sore. The hot water would help. “Call out when you are finished. I will make something to eat.”
It was strange.
Gear Station should be bustling with patrons and yet.
The lights were off. The trains silent. The offices closed and locked. Ingo checked the time and couldn’t read his xtransceiver but even so, there should always be someone here, someone on duty even in the dead of night. It wasn’t. Ingo was certain he’d left the apartment at the correct hour.
“Hello?” Experimentally, he cried out, wincing at the booming sound of his voice echoing down the tunnels. It was too quiet in here and when he turned around to leave he found himself face to face with a pile of rubble. “Emmet!”
Not again.
Not again.
Not again!
Ingo threw himself at the mountain of rock and stone, clawing desperately with already dislocated and broken fingers. He hadn’t been able to wear his gloves since the first attack, still waiting to remove the splints and this would set him back further but Emmet was trapped in there. Ask him how he knew and he’d be unable to explain but as a big brother!!
“Emmet! Emmet, answer me right now!”
“I am Emmet.” Ingo whirled around, breathing harsh, dust like razors slashing up the inside of his throat until he tasted copper on his tongue. “I am fine.” Shaking, wide eyed in the dark, Ingo stepped forward on quaking legs.
“Brother, you–”
Something was horribly wrong.
Emmet was horribly wrong.
Twisted and malformed, crooked grin lined with far too many teeth stretching from ear to ear.
“Were you scared? Ingo?” Entirely too still. Unnaturally still. “I was. Yup!”
“I, no. We found–” His breath bubbled in a hollow, caved-in chest. Frothing down his chin as he laughed with a sound like drowning.
“Stop staring!” Reflexively, Ingo snapped his head to the side so fast it hurt but Emmet was there too, face pale and wet with crimson, tears carving a glittering path through the gore. Smile like a wound. “You did not even look for me.”
“No! No, I swear it, Emmet! I swear I looked!”
“You are looking now.”
“Emmet!”
“You left me.”
No.
“You left me.”
No no no.
“Have you always hated me?”
Nonononono!
“NO!”
Ingo jolted so badly he crashed out of bed and onto the floor, scrambling into the space between chest of drawers and corner, gripping his hair and pulling, pulling, pulling until the pain cleared the darkness from his mind. The image of his little brother–
“No.” Whispered, salt on his lips. He let his head fall to the side, pressing his forehead against the cool paint, an anchor point as everything reeled around him. Calm down. No good to anyone like this. Had to calm down. He could read the clock now. Barely an hour had passed since he’d fallen asleep and when he tried a slow breath, it came as a sob. Again. Again. Again. Until the pounding in his temples quieted and the air in his lungs became useful.
Emmet.
Dragging himself to his feet, Ingo made his way across the hall, covering his face with his palms as he sank into the desk chair. Eelektross tilted its head in confusion and Ingo couldn’t bring himself to answer the silent question, afraid that if he opened his mouth he’d start screaming and never be able to stop.
Emmet.
Here and whole and healing.
Ingo hugged himself tightly, until he could feel an ache in his fingers, held himself there, stiff and silent until the sun rose, casting rosy light onto the opposite wall.
“Oh! Sweet Arceus!! Ingo!” Emmet sat up, swinging his broken leg carefully over the side of the bed with a wince and leaning forward, cupping Ingo’s cold face with both hands. “What are you doing? Are you okay??”
“Could not sleep.” No need to mention the nightmares. The fear that he’d kill him with his negligence. His weakness. Ingo couldn’t even meet his eyes. The thumb ghosting over his cheek blistered and burned and he could feel Emmet searching his expression in an attempt to glean information.
“Remain home today.” Ingo shook his head, pulling away in a daze. “Ingo?” Damn his leg, by the time he’d wrestled his way onto his crutches, his brother was gone.
Grateful there were very few challengers today, Ingo sat huddled on a battle subway bench shivering in his coat and trying to maintain control of himself. He’d been nearly sick on the train because of the wheels pounding along tracks and enclosed space echoing with attacks and commands. The light flashing past the windows was like a strobe and made him ill just looking at it.
He wanted to lay down. He wanted to go home.
And abandon them, just like you did Emmet.
More so than before, Ingo struggled to find his balance in the subway car. Where usually it was a comforting sway, now he was more akin to a small boat at sea, tossed relentlessly around by the waves. When the platform doors parted, he fell into the agent manning this station.
“Boss? You alright?” The depot agent frowned as he quickly righted himself, coming to their own conclusion easily enough. “No, no, you’re not. You haven’t been for a while. I’m calling Other Boss.”
“No!” He’d grabbed them by the shoulders before he even knew he was moving. “No.” Withdrew gently, tried to find equilibrium in fixing his cap. “Please. I. You are correct. I apologize for needing the remainder of my shift off.”
“It’s really no problem. We understand.” They offered him up a sad smile. “Just get some rest, okay? You’re exhausted, Boss. We, all of us, we’re worried for you.”
Because he couldn’t keep himself together.
Head spinning, hurting fit to fracture, Ingo couldn’t seem to remember how exactly he got home, not with the sidewalk dodging out from under his feet like it had, or what he was supposed to be doing at the moment. All he knew was the ache in his skull, his upset stomach and its threat to rebel as he closed his eyes against the rolling walls of his room. Chandelure chirped in worry, her cool arm pressed against the back of his neck which helped, but not enough, not nearly enough.
“Ingo? You in here?” The light streaming through the open door lit a fire behind his eyes and he bit back a whimper. “The Station called. Wanted to make sure you got home?” The noise and the light combined were too, too much and Ingo heaved over the wastebasket in his arms. “Ingo!”
His older brother was curled up around a bin with his back pressed against the wall. How had he missed this? Ingo groaned in misery, laying a cheek on the rim of the basket and closing his eyes.
“’Pologize for w'waking you, Emmet.” Ingo shook with delicate tremors, caught between someplace too cold and too hot and the effort of staying quiet. His voice betrayed him further, shaky and small, fading in and out. He hadn’t made a move to get up, fingers tightening on the plastic and breath quickening. “Need to… you n'need your rest.” His throat clicked with a heavy swallow.
“Brother?” Emmet crept further into the room, shutting the door behind him. “What about you?” Softly, softly, lest he spook him. Something was verrry wrong. “We should see a doctor.” While he longed to fold Ingo up and keep him safe, he had no other option but to sit on the bed. If even he made it to the floor, Ingo was in no state to just pick him up again. They needed help.
It was good that Elesa had a key.
“I knew it was too soon.” She kept her voice down, barely a whisper, shut the door quickly, and Ingo’s shoulders still hunched around his ears.
“He will not get up.” Emmet couldn’t keep the note of panic out of his voice. He’d been sitting. Watching. Useless while Ingo grew worse, grew pale and sick and weepy. “He will not agree to go to the hospital.”
“He won’t talk to you?”
“I do not think he can.”
“Ingo?” Elesa knelt beside him, resting a hand on the nape of his neck and giving a reassuring nod to a near frantic Chandelure. “Did you forget?” Meaningfully, she glanced at Emmet, mouthing an apology before turning back to his twin. “Your brother has an appointment today.” Ingo looked up at her, eyes bright, as though he might cry. “I’ve called a car. We can all go together. Here, let me help you up.” Tall and lanky, it took the assistance of his Pokemon to get him to his unsteady feet and he leaned heavy, shaky on Elesa.
The sunlight had him hissing through his teeth and Elesa got him into the vehicle as quickly as possible before bundling Emmet in with his crutches. She’d called ahead to the hospital that treated them after the attack and may have used a connection or two to get them into a room and out of sight of the public before their presence caused a scene.
If Ingo hadn’t already been in obvious pain, Emmet would have smacked him himself. He’d missed his last two appointments and thankfully, now that the doctor had him she wouldn’t let him leave but he wasn’t keen on cooperating. Likely, she explained, something to do with the concussion he’d sustained during the cave-in not healing correctly. Emmet didn’t understand completely, but he understood enough to know Ingo had neglected to care for himself in his efforts to care for him. Currently, the doctor was trying to cajole him into removing his button down for an exam.
“Why?” Missing a lot of words and it was never a good thing when Emmet’s words outnumbered his older brother’s.
“We are twins! Yep!” Emmet tried to keep his tone light, sincere. “The doctor needs to compare.”
“Bright in, i'nere…” It wasn’t. Ingo’s fingers fumbled on the buttons and before he could get frustrated, Emmet reached out.
“Let me.”
Emmet narrowed his eyes as he swept them over the bruises for the first time. Extensive and still dark, they spread down his back in mottled patterns like a Spinda’s spots and while Ingo was quiet under the doctor’s gentle hands, Emmet fought against demanding answers from him.
Why had he kept this pain a secret? Emmet could have, would have helped! Did Ingo think he wouldn’t have?
When she shined a penlight into Ingo’s eyes to check his pupils, he yelped, turning aside immediately to dry heave and finally she stopped in her examination of him. Tugging Emmet back into the small, private room where Elesa was waiting, she explained a nurse would help Ingo get settled.
“I want to observe Ingo overnight. He’s rundown and exhibiting a lot of post concussion symptoms.” She marked down some notes on her own xtransceiver and hummed thoughtfully. “Your brother has lost more than a few pounds since you were both here last. When did he return to work?”
“Too soon.” Elesa crossed her arms, worry evident in her expression despite the ire in her words.
“Alright. I’m going to prescribe him something for sleep. Sometimes, strange as it sounds, head injuries can cause insomnia.” Emmet should have known. Should have asked. Ingo was prone to insomnia even at the peak of health. “It doesn’t look as though he’s been sleeping well and with parts of his brain trying to overcompensate for jobs they’ve never done before, he’s likely exhausted.”
“What. What does that mean?”
“I’ll send you home with some information, but it means he’ll need to rest and let himself heal.” Emmet caught Elesa’s eyes. He didn’t want to leave Ingo here, alone. What if he woke up and he wasn’t here? Or he became confused? Or upset?
“Emmet?” Despite the gentle touch he nearly jumped out of his skin. “They’re going to take care of him, okay? We’re going to go home and get things ready for tomorrow so Ingo doesn’t have to worry about a thing!”
“Your friend is right.”
“I am Emmet. Want to see him.”
“Of course.” He didn’t wait, let Elesa take care of collecting Ingo’s prescription, shouldering his way back into Ingo’s dark room and not missing how he looked nearly as bad as the days following the attack. He’d slept a long time and now they were here again. “You can touch him.” The doctor had followed. “You won’t hurt him.”
“I know that!” He didn’t mean to snap at her, really. But the very idea– “I am Emmet. Ingo is my brother.” Carefully, he traced one of the ink-dark shadows beneath Ingo’s closed eyes before grabbing hold of his hand, mindful of the line taped to the back of it.
“For rehydration, some vitamins and other medications to help make him comfortable.”
“Ingo can come home tomorrow?” At her nod, Emmet leaned down, pressing their foreheads together for a brief moment and blinking away tears. “Okay.”
Elesa tucked Ingo in while Emmet continued his memorization of the pamphlets the doc had given him yesterday. Ingo didn’t want to sleep but the medication he’d taken was like boarding a non-stop train to oblivion.
“Emmet…needs…” Petulant, Ingo tried to knuckle the sleep out of his eyes, grateful that the pain had markedly decreased since. Yesterday? Memories were fuzzy and he had little desire to parse through them at the moment.
“Right now, you need to rest.” Elesa watched him fight it, miserable, torn between responsibility and total collapse. “You’re going to close your eyes. And if you’re lucky, I’ll get take out from that place you like tomorrow.” She smiled softly as his body went lax. He’d be lucky. He deserved it and when he shuffled out of his room more than fifteen hours later Elesa wasted no time placing their regular order.
“Ingo!” By virtue of Galvantula in his lap, Emmet couldn’t even attempt to leap to his feet. “How do you feel?” His older brother looked thoughtful and, honestly, much better than before.
“Somehow, still very tired. That does not seem right.” Ingo very nearly whined as he took his spot on the couch. Too weary to sit up, he leaned on Emmet to read over his shoulder and almost immediately passed out again. There’d be time to go over things later considering they were both on mandatory leave for the next two weeks at minimum. Ingo would need the doctor to sign off on his return to the station. He’d bristled at the restriction a split second before Emmet laid into him.
“I feel I must apologize to you both and to all our friends and coworkers at Gear Station.” The trio were gathered in the living room, shoveling noodles into their faces while some train documentary or another ran quietly in the background when Ingo paused. “As your older brother, I should have handled this whole situation better and I am so sorry for my negligence. I should have protected you, Emmet.”
“Ingo.”
“I had a responsibility to you and I failed. You were badly hurt and I. I.” He clenched his teeth. “I am supposed to take care of you. I am supposed to keep you safe.”
“You did. You do!” Emmet didn’t want Ingo to feel this way, especially when it wasn’t true! He wouldn’t hear this for a minute more!
“Did you forget you were injured too, Bidoofus?” Before Ingo could gear up to argue, Elesa continued. “Working yourself into the ground was very irresponsible!”
“Verry irresponsible!”
“And even if you’d walked out of the station without a scratch–Ingo. You still deserve rest.” She dashed the tears from her eyes. “Please stop punishing yourself for situations outside of your control.” He stiffened at the expectation of a bone-crushing hug, melting into her arms when it was instead gentle and warm. She had a point and now that he was thinking more clearly, he could nearly make it out. “I’m going to call Emmet everyday to make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”
“That’s a threat!”
“Emmet meant to say promise.”
“I am Emmet! It can be both!” There was a beat of silence before Ingo shook with laughter, relenting to their special brand of care. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to stop putting his little brother first, but for the both of them, he would try to let him return the favor.
It’s May! And as promised, we have an update on Sicktember 2022
On May 15th, we will be releasing the prompt’s list! And we are excited to tell you that, this year’s list will look a little bit different than last years. Rather than having 30 word-based prompts, there will be a some dialogue prompts mixed in there as well.
We spent hours creating this upcoming prompt list, and can’t wait to share it with you! But, to hold you over, we thought we might go ahead and share a few of the prompts that didn’t make the cut (and why). We’ll call them the ‘Wild Card’ prompts.
1. ‘Are You Trying to Reenact That Scene From The Exorcist, Or Should I Go Ahead and Call a Doctor?’ (too long)
2. ‘You Have to Carry Me! I’m Dying!!’ ‘You’re Literally Two Feet From the Bed’ (also too long)
3. Medication Hesitation (hey look! it rhymes!)
4. ‘I’m Pretty Sure Someone Needs to Check My Pee’ (started as a joke. ended as a 'no.’)
Sicktember is a month-long, multi-fandom prompt event that is taking place in September! This event focuses on sick characters and their caregivers.
Please refer to our FAQ. If you still have questions or need clarification, feel free to send an ask on this blog, or our personal blogs @yes-i-am-happyaspieand@obsessionoftheday.
We are so excited about this event and hope to have lots of participation! We can’t wait to read what you all create with these prompts!
It’s May! And as promised, we have an update on the Sicktember 2022
On May 15th, we will be releasing the prompt’s list! And we are excited to tell you that, this year’s list will look a little bit different than last years. Rather than having 30 word-based prompts, there will be a some dialogue prompts mixed in there as well.
We spent hours creating this upcoming prompt list, and can’t wait to share it with you! But, to hold you over, we thought we might go ahead and share a few of the prompts that didn’t make the cut (and why). We’ll call them the ‘Wild Card’ prompts.
1. ‘Are You Trying to Reenact That Scene From The Exorcist, Or Should I Go Ahead and Call a Doctor?’ (too long)
2. ‘You Have to Carry Me! I’m Dying!!’ ‘You’re Literally Two Feet From the Bed’ (also too long)
3. Medication Hesitation (hey look! it rhymes!)
4. ‘I’m Pretty Sure Someone Needs to Check My Pee’ (started as a joke. ended as a 'no.’)
It’s May! And as promised, we have an update on Sicktember 2022
On May 15th, we will be releasing the prompt’s list! And we are excited to tell you that, this year’s list will look a little bit different than last years. Rather than having 30 word-based prompts, there will be a some dialogue prompts mixed in there as well.
We spent hours creating this upcoming prompt list, and can’t wait to share it with you! But, to hold you over, we thought we might go ahead and share a few of the prompts that didn’t make the cut (and why). We’ll call them the ‘Wild Card’ prompts.
1. ‘Are You Trying to Reenact That Scene From The Exorcist, Or Should I Go Ahead and Call a Doctor?’ (too long)
2. ‘You Have to Carry Me! I’m Dying!!’ ‘You’re Literally Two Feet From the Bed’ (also too long)
3. Medication Hesitation (hey look! it rhymes!)
4. ‘I’m Pretty Sure Someone Needs to Check My Pee’ (started as a joke. ended as a 'no.’)
The arena, blood on his hands, of all different colors, teeth bared, trying, begging, the other aliens to stop, he doesn’t want to hurt anyone, but they don’t understand or don’t believe him, and then they’re lunging and instinct takes over, and when he blinks, it’s to a puddle of pepto pink ichor and a mangled body in his hands.
…
The cell, he’s back in the cell, and they’re coming, and he wasn’t ready and Patton isn’t hiding and the door opens, and he lunges, biting, scratching, kicking, screaming, the stun batons sending lightning through his veins, spasming his muscles, and he was aware of Patton’s scream, as he’s dragged away, his pretty blood splattering across the floor, and he’s beaten, shocked, kicked, all the while hearing Patton’s anguish as his feathers were stripped from him all over again, only this time, when they throw Patton back in his cell, his eyes are empty and blank, his body broken and still, and there’s nothing left of the chirping little ampen, and there’s nothing left of himself, as he loses his mind, ripping and tearing through the wall, tearing everything in his path to shreds until a blaster goes off and shoots a hole clean through his chest.
…
He’s running. He’s on an alien planet, and he’s running, and he can hear them behind him, they’re catching up, as he tears through the brush and the trees, leading them away, away, away, from camp, and he staggers as a dart hits his neck, the world spinning on it’s axis as he goes down hard. He can feel the chains being shackled around him, the collar fastened onto his neck, and he can’t even breathe, as electricity burns his skin, from the collar, sends him into unconsciousness, and when he wakes, he’s back in the cell. And the nightmare restarts.
…
“no…” He’s walking home, it’s late, the streetlights on, as he slinks through the shortcut through the park. He hates it, but it’s the fastest way home, and he’s never had any trouble, though he’s heard stories of people getting jumped.
“No…” He winces, at a sharp pain in his neck, for a moment thinking he’d been stung by a bee or a wasp, but when he reaches to feel, a small dart comes away in his hand. He stares at it, befuddled, before he feels another sting, stumbling against a tree as the world starts to tilt, trying to stay upright. Cloaked figures, shrouded figures, language he doesn’t know, and he tried to call out for help, tried to get away, but another wash of dizziness stole his breath, and he fainted.
When he woke up, he was on the ship, in the cell.
“NO!” He jolted upright, pulse racing, breath caught in his throat, the cell, the ship, he was on the ship, needle, needle in his arm, what were they taking this time? What else could they take, they were going to sell him for parts, maybe this was finally to off him for the scientists, he felt dizzy and lightheaded, weak, disoriented, maybe the tranq patch had worn off early, maybe he had a chance to get away, maybe-
A hand, a scaled hand came into view, and he hissed, scrambling backwards, falling off the edge of the furniture he was on. One second it was the sterile room, the iron bed, the suited figures, then it was a couch, smooth walls, soft light. His vision flicked between the two and he couldn’t figure out which was the truth and which was the lie, the suited figures turning towards him, batons out, crackling with energy, the scaled figure trying to reach out, trying to say something, but he couldn’t hear, he couldn’t and it burned, and he was dying, he was sure this is what dying felt like, as he scrambled further back, further away, hissing again as the tug pulled the needle out of his arm, pressing his hoodie sleeve against it to stop the bleeding, but the red, red, red, brought him right back, and it was everywhere, and there was too much, and it wasn’t all his, the bodies scattered across the floor, the colors blending like some macabre watercolor painting, swirling and blending and mixing and-
Touch. Touch against his shoulder. He’d curled into a ball, hands over his ears, forehead touching the floor, making himself as small as possible, trying to hide, but the noise was everywhere and they’d found him and he was going to die, going to be sold off for parts and he was so stupid-
Then the touch moved, a small, so small, hand slipping under his chin, gently tilting his head up, feathers tickling his skin, as he met those big, doe eyes. Feathers. Blue. Antennae, moth like. Fluffy. Safe.
Safe?
“Breathe, Virgil. Can you do that? In… out…” the words sounded so far away, and not quite in sync with the mouth movements, but he tried to follow them, tried to understand, tried to copy his movements. “good, kiddo. You’re doing good. Do you know who I am?” The feathery being asked, and his mind stalled. It must have shown on his face, because the being’s dropped, expression sad, and he hated that look on Patton’s face-
“Patton!” He rasped, voice barely a whisper, throat dry and sore, not helped from the hyperventilating he’d just been doing, from the panic attack. “Patton…” his eyes welled up, and he opened his arms, Patton flying into them without a second thought, hugging him as wide as he could around his chest, Virgil careful as he held him, letting his face rest against his soft feathers, mumbling an apology about getting them wet, met with Patton’s relieved little choked laugh.
He was shaking, he couldn’t stop shaking, the room still flickering, time and space folding in on itself, and it was making him dizzy.
Then Patton started doing the chirp, coo, pattern, vibrating against his chest, grounding him as he struggled to get his breathing under control, to force his mind to the present, but it wouldn’t stop slipping.
“s-sorry… I… I’m so-rry…”
“Shhh, you’re ok, kiddo, it’s ok.” He just shook his head, chest constricting, choking on the air, it burned in his lungs and made him want to scream, just to relieve some of the pressure, but there wasn’t enough air.
“virgil. Can you tell me, five things you can see? Take your time.” Logan, crouched down a fair distance away, to give him space.
“Y-you… patton… R-roman… the… the couch and the… the… n-needle" his breath caught again, his panic flaring, eating him up.
“Alright, good, stay with me, Virgil. Four things you can feel.”
“Pa-tton. My hoodie… the fl-floor. B-andages?” he asked, realizing his arms were carefully wrapped in them.
“you hurt yourself. Nothing serious, it’s alright. Three things you can hear.” He managed a deep breath in, forcing air in and out to answer.
“Chirp/coo.” He said, smiling slightly at Patton’s added little trill. “my h-eart, my voice.” He answered, focusing on the feeling of his hands against his hoodie, Patton’s warmth against him.
“Excellent. Two things you can smell?”
“Metal… myself" he wrinkled his nose slightly, smelling his own sweat.
“Last one, one thing you can taste.” Logan’s steady voice, and he thought for a moment.
“Copper.” He answered, looking up, finally, meeting Logan’s eyes for a brief moment, before his gaze flicked to Roman, who stood frozen by the couch, scales half raised in alarm, but also… worry?
“Virgil. How are you feeling?” Logan asked, snapping him back to attention, realizing he’d started to drift.
“um. Sore. Achy. Tired.” He answered, head thumping back against the wall, hissing as it hurt more than expected.
“I was going to warn you about that. We found you fallen over, unconscious on the bathroom floor, bleeding from your head. You’ve been severely ill, and mostly fitfully unconscious, for nearly seven days.” Logan explained.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were so sick!?” Patton scolded, though his voice was gentle.
“i… I didn’t want to bother you. I’ve been sick before. It’s… its fine.”
“no, it isn’t. Virgil. You are severely underweight and malnourished and sleep deprived, all factors that compromise your immune system making it more difficult to fight off disease and you very nearly died because you seemingly cannot comprehend that you are an important member of this crew and we will gladly help if you just ask for it!” He flinched at Logan shouting, his hands clenched into fists. He’d never heard Logan raise his voice, didn’t even know he could, but his mind snagged on what Logan had just said, and he shook his head.
“I… but I’m not. Important. You’re…a family. I’m just a tag along, because you were basically guilted into taking me with. You don’t… want me, here, and that’s fine, I wouldn’t want me here either, so the least I can do is take up the least space and use the least stuff and make myself as little of a nuisance as possible because then maybe I’ll get to stay longer before you get sick of me and kick me off.” Usually he wouldn’t be this candid, but he was tired, and he felt floaty and not all there, his normal anxiety not holding him back.
“Virgil… that’s not true.” Roman added, Virgil’s bitter laugh echoing harshly through the space.
“Sure it isn’t. You’ve made it clear, what you think of me. And you know what? I’m terrified, constantly, that you might be right. Sooner or later I’m going to hurt someone. It’s… it’s the only thing I’m good at, hurting people. Sometimes I think I should just bail, just leave a note and run, before I hurt anyone. Before I ruin it all. Before I ruin this… this amazing little family, you guys have.”
His eyes slipped closed, against his will, exhaustion weighing him down, settling into his bones from the panic attacks. “I w-want it so badly, it h-urts sometimes, but I can’t… I know I can’t have it. Be part of it. Know I’ll just… just be in the way.” He mumbled, not even sure if he was speaking aloud, anymore.
“Virg… we’ll talk about this later, ok? Just… can you make it back to the couch? You need more sleep.” Patton asked, moving off his chest. He nodded, managing to peel his eyes open, stumble to his feet, collapsing face down on the couch before blacking out as soon as his head hit the cushions.
…
“Well. His fever’s broken. There’s no point using these, any further.” Logan, trying to keep his voice steady as he packed up the IV line and supplies, considering hurling the needle out the airlock, just to spite the universe for forcing him to use it.
“I… I need to go. Think. About… things…” Roman poorly explained, darting from the room, as Patton sighed, feathers fluffing and resettling, worried gaze flicking between the doorway Roman had vanished down, Logan storing the medical supplies, and Virgil, face down on the couch. His forehead was a lot cooler, now, and his breathing finally seemed to be normal, deep, steady breaths. His eyes weren’t twitching in his sleep either, a good sign, Patton had learned early on that eye twitches meant bad dreams, nightmares. That was when he would curl up around Virgil’s head and churr softly, a low, rumbling vibration in his chest, that he used to soothe kits, but it also seemed to do the trick on the human. Most of the ampen soothing methods did, which he would have once considered odd, since they relied on empathy to work. But if anything, Virgil had too much empathy, his words playing back in Patton’s mind.
“He thinks we don’t care. We don’t… don’t consider him family, why would he… after everything, still think that?” Patton asked softly, looking up at Logan’s sigh.
“He’s been hurt, Patton. Deeply, psychologically, hurt. He’s so used to being in fight or flight mode, that is all his body knows how to do. His body, his mind, it doesn’t understand, can’t comprehend, safety. And after… after what he went through, how they demeaned him and treated him like a wild animal, like a… a specimen, it’s no wonder that he struggles to comprehend his own self worth, lacks any sense of self esteem or importance. He had to fight every day just to survive, just to keep you safe, and though I am thankful for it, it likely has contributed to his fear of himself. He knows how easily he could hurt any one of us.”
“He won’t though! He’d rather tear himself apart than hurt any of us.” Patton protested.
“I know, Patton. But he clearly doesn’t. He doesn’t take care of himself, he doesn’t trust himself, Patton, and until he starts doing that, understanding that he is wanted and loved and safe, I’m afraid he won’t take care of himself.”
“Then we’ll make sure he does. I will physically fight him.” Patton muttered, determination clear in every bristling feather, and Logan chuckled slightly, shaking his head.
“I would enjoy watching you take down a human, Patton, especially since Virgil would let you, but violence is not going to help in this situation.”
“Still. If he won’t take care of himself, I’m going to make him take care of himself.” He ruffled Patton’s head as he passed the couch, barely containing his smile at the small squeak the motion illicited, stopping at a small tug of his hand.
“Lo? Thank you. For getting him through.” He softened, looking back at Patton, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.
“Of course, Patton. Get some more sleep, now that he’s safe, won’t you?” Patton nodded, drawing away and circling a couple times before settling down curled around Virgil’s head, careful to keep a layer of blanket between them, so he wouldn’t accidentally siphon off energy in his sleep. Virgil needed all of it he could get.
Warning for some disturbing imagery/body horror this chapter. Virgil’s having nightmares.
…
Fear.
Pounding, aching fear.
Shadowy figures surrounded him, discussing him in words he could almost hear, hushed voices he could almost understand, and it grated at him, it hurt his ears. He tried to cover them, but found he couldn’t move, not a muscle, his eyes were open but he couldn’t even blink, his fingers wouldn’t even twitch, and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest, but despite his panic his breathing remained steady and even. The shadows moved closer, their whispers growing louder, echoing in his head, screaming tempests against his ear drums, and he wanted it to stop, he needed it to stop, but it just grew louder, and louder, and then it was the suited beings again, holding a scalpel, and he screamed, as his chest was sliced open, the flesh peeled away to reveal the organs beneath, his heart visible through the blood leaking from him, and he realized though he was screaming in his mind, he wasn’t making any sound, his vocal chords as paralyzed as the rest of him, and he couldn’t look away, as they started ripping out his insides, tearing him apart, the pain splintering through his being, blacking out his vision, and he tried, he tried desperately to writhe and claw and fight his way free, but couldn’t even lift his head, and he was aware of them adding new parts, shoving metal and wires and circuit boards into him, the pop and crackle of electricity against his skin shocking him, sending him into spasms that somehow defied whatever drug they’d given him, back arching at the intense, radiating heat flowing up his spine, and he finally did break free, break out of whatever drug they’d used, a keening, desperate wail shoving past his lips as he shoved himself off the table, as he snarled and clawed and bit and slashed, anything, everything, to get free, until he’d fought off the beings, his breathing ragged and uneven as he looked at the monster they’d made him, all mechanical parts and twisted limbs, broken bones and spasming muscle.
“Virgil?” Suddenly a shadow Logan was there, looking down at him, head tilted and eyes empty, hands strangely still, assessing him like the specimen he was and he shuddered, twitching uncontrollably.
“No. That isn’t Virgil.” Patton, voice hollow, and he screamed again, because his feathers were torn from his body, bent and broken nibs trickling blood down his wings, though he didn’t seem to care. “Virgil wouldn’t do this to me. And he did.” He shook his head, trying to deny it, but memories rushed back, his hands, moving against his will, the metal twisting around his bones, jerking him around like a marionette, Patton, begging, pleading, but he couldn’t stop, the single thought in his mind echoing destroy, destroy, destroy. His hands, ripping handfuls of feathers, feathers flying around the room, getting stuck in his grinning teeth, his manic laugh, his twisted soul.
“No… nonononono…” He curled tight on the ground, ignoring the fire racing through him, the intense, burning, heat, trying to make sense of this, of anything, noticing for the first time his hands were stained red, seeing Patton’s agonized face in his head, his hands on his throat, pressing down, down down-
“Virgil!” Roman’s voice rocked his world, and suddenly his eyes snapped open, hissing at the sudden brightness, too confused to understand anything, vision blurry, from tears, he realized, his breathing stuttering in and out, barely enough to keep from passing out, his throat tight, barely a pinhole of space for air to wheeze in and out of, his chest felt so tight, so constricted, and there wasn’t enough air, and he was hot, why was he so hot, the wires, the wires twisting through his veins, no, he had to get them out, they would make him hurt them, hurt Patton, he couldn’t hurt Patton!
He started scratching at himself, clawing at himself frantically, uncaring of the wetness slipping down his face, he had to stop it, he couldn’t-
Bloody feathers, crushed neck, broken wings, shattered body, he couldn’t-
Hands. Hands on him. He hissed, growled, tried to shove them away, but he was weak, so weak, he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t get away, and they were stopping him, and he was going to hurt everyone, he had to let go, he had to stop himself, he was just a monster, just a toy, just a broken sack of bits and pieces that didn’t even fit together right anymore, why couldn’t they just let him stop?
“please. Please, I can’t, I can’t, I won’t, i… i…” He doubled over, curled into a ball, shaking so hard his teeth were chattering, feeling as if he was shattering into a thousand pieces, broken and stomped on and wrecked.
“kiddo. I need you to breath.” He flinched back, away from Patton, eyes wide with fear, shaking his head frantically, as he scooted away, the grip on his hands letting him go.
“n-no… no! I’ll h-hurt y-y-you they’ll m-make me h-h-hurt-“ he broke off, running out of air, all of it dedicated to keeping the spots in his vision from growing larger, from taking over and plunging him into black.
“virgil. You have never, never ever, hurt me. And they can’t hurt us, anymore. Do you remember that? We’re safe now, remember? You broke us out of there, and kept us safe. You’re safe, Virgil. We’re safe. We’re ok. We’re ok.” Patton repeated softly, using the gentle chirp of his native tongue, ruffling encouragingly when Virgil finally looked up at him, struggling for a few moments, before tentatively chirping it back.
“We’re… we’re… ok.” He echoed slowly, tongue thick in his mouth, head pounding, it hurt to think, it hurt to do anything, but he forced his mind to remember, to remember what he was missing, flashes of a slim, multi armed figure, of a bulky, scaled one, of a… a ship, and he managed a slightly larger, shaky breath.
“M-Mindscape?” He managed, and Patton nodded, eyes soft with worry.
“That’s right, kiddo. You got sick, do you remember that?” He remembered feeling not great, but that was normal. He remembered being dizzy, but that was all. He shook his head, feeling confused again, feeling slow and tired and hazy.
“That’s ok, Virgil. I just wanna help, ok? Will you let me do that?” Patton asked, taking a small step closer. “Will you let me help?” His gaze flicked to the others in the room, pulling at a dull memory, at familiarity, he knew them, knew them and they didn’t spark… fear. Not quite. But the scaled one’s gaze was sharp and angry, and the crystal one’s gaze was sharp and piercing, and both sent unease tingling down his spine. But Patton was asking, and he trusted Patton, and if Patton trusted them, then they couldn’t be bad.
“O-o-Ok.” He managed, letting out a soft sigh when Patton closed the distance between them, resting a hand on his leg, and instantly, the fight and stress drained out of him, eyes fluttering shut.
“You’re gonna be ok, kiddo. I promise.” Then nothing.
…
“He’s hotter, Lo.” Patton said, voice shaking, as he felt Virgil’s forehead. Sweat coated his skin, and he was panting for breath, shaking, obviously in pain, not just from the lines of red up and down his arms, where he’d started clawing at himself, before Roman stopped him. “he’s getting worse.“
“We need to get him to drink. He’s severely dehydrated. I… hate to suggest this, but IVs may be the best option here. I know, it will cause added emotional strain, but his body does not have the strength or resources right now to fight off this illness. And I’d rather have him be upset or afraid than… than dead.” His words caused Patton to draw in his feathers, shrinking to nearly half his normal size, and he buried his face against Virgil’s side. Roman’s scales shifted, scraping against each other as they flattened, conflicting emotions racing through him.
He didn’t like Virgil. Didn’t trust him, wouldn’t have him here, if it had been up to him, but the thought of him… dying, still sent a spike of unease through him, one he could pretend was just for Patton, who was so attached to Virgil.
“ok. If it’s the only way, ok.”
He disinfected and bandaged Virgil’s arms first, before letting Roman shift him back onto the couch, fetching the medical supplies and hooking up the bags. Finally, he was standing over Virgil with the IV line in hand. All he had to do was insert it. He found himself incredibly resistant, now, to the idea, now that he actually was doing this, mind flashing to the moments he’d seen in the vidi, the pain and agony that had accompanied nearly every experience with a needle, but this was different. This was to help.
So he swiftly located the vein on the human’s wrist, slipping the needle in and securing it with gauze and tape, relieved when Virgil did no more than moan slightly, rolling onto his side and curling into a ball. He doubted the reaction would be so placid when he actually woke up to find a needle in his arm, but that was a future worry.
“Alright. That should help hydrate him, as well as give him some of the basic nutrients he is sorely lacking in, as well as some very moderate medicines. I doubt anything we have would do him any harm, but I don’t want to take chances and accidentally make things worse. Patton… you need to sleep.” He added, looking at the disheveled ampen, who shook his head.
“No, no, no! I have to stay! What if he wakes up?”
“He won’t for a few hours, at the very least, which is long enough for you to get some sleep. You haven’t slept since we found him.”
“Well neither have you! You’ve been pacing yourself silly!” He sighed, shoulders slumping.
“Alright. You’re right. If Roman stays on watch and promises to get us if anything changes, will you come rest with me?” he asked, knowing Patton wouldn’t turn down that offer, not with how rarely he was willing to offer tactile comfort, but they could both use some, right now.
“Ro? I know you don’t like him, but-”
“I’ll take care of him. I promise, Patton.” Roman swore, kneeling down so Patton could hug him, smiling as he butted against the underside of his chin, before stepping back, chirping an ampen thanks, hesitantly following Logan down the hall and into his room, Roman hearing the door slide shut.
He let out a low breath, scales flattening as he tried to calm himself, staring down at Virgil’s unconscious form.
“I don’t know what to make of you. I will never say this out loud again, but you terrify me. And I will not lose another family, to humans. But… every time you panic or lose control or lash out, it’s always at yourself. It’s always to protect Patton. You always choose to harm yourself over any of us, but you’re still a human, a death worlder, a dangerous, violent, creature.” He said, though it sounded much less convincing now, that it usually did in his arguments with Logan or his silent fuming.
Virgil moved slightly, his breath hitching, and his face creased, as if sensing Roman’s displeasure.
“no… please… m-mom…” Virgil mumbled, trying to reach out to something that wasn’t there, something only in his mind, and after a moment, Roman realized Virgil was crying, curling tighter.
He’d known Virgil had been stolen off his planet, but he’d never thought about the implications of it. He hadn’t considered that Virgil had clan, would have a mother or a father, that he’d lost everything, to aliens, without even having a chance to fight to keep it.
Roman knew how it felt, to lose everything, in the blink of an eye.
“and then you go and say something like that.” He sighed, shifting into the chair left beside the couch, hesitantly reaching out to brush back the human’s hair, mimicking the motion he’d seen Patton do countless times, to soothe or relax the human, surprised as Virgil instantly settled, a shaky breath escaping him before his body seemed to go lax once more, leaning into his touch.
“this doesn’t mean I like you. It’s only because I promised Patton.” He grumbled, not moving away, despite himself.
Set in @delimeful ’s wonderful WIBAR AU. Virgil gets sick, and the others struggle to help him, not only with his illness, but the clear underlying emotional issues.
Logan was reading, absently twirling his fingers and hands as he studied, recording information, though he was certain most of it would prove false, as it was the little that was reported about humans. Most were comparable to ghost stories or urban legends, but there were a few that seemed more credible, that he hoped would give some more insight into humans in general.
Roman was off working out somewhere, sparring, he insisted it was just to keep sharp, but they all knew it was because he didn’t trust the human on board not to go feral and kill them any second, despite Virgil’s rather shy and withdrawn personality. Still, at least he was getting his aggression out elsewhere, and not by actually fighting or snarking at the true object of his emotions. He was doing better, still, Logan would give him that, but there was a long way to go.
He could hear Patton pitter pattering about in the kitchen, chirping and warbling to himself, making his lips twitch up into a smile. It had been far too quiet, without the little Ampen aboard, too much silence to drown in. It was a comfort he hadn’t realized he’d grown accustomed to, hearing Patton hum and chirp and sing all day. Now it was also a relief, a steady reminder their friend was back home, safe and sound, and he frowned again, thinking of how close they had come to losing him for good. That they would have, had it not been for Virgil.
Speaking of…
“Patton?” He asked, stepping into the kitchen, the Ampen stopping his trilling as he set the kettle on the stove, giving him one of his warm, happy smiles, that seemed to actually light up the room.
“Yeah, Lo? Everything ok?” Patton’s antennae twitched slightly, and he focused back on the present.
“Yes, I believe so, I was simply wondering if you’d seen Virgil today. He is usually awake by now. I was hoping to discuss some… perhaps sensitive topics, that I picked up on during our vidi.”
It was true. He hadn’t seen much, with how fast it had all turned, and spiraled out of hand, and though Virgil and him had been having question and answer sessions, the ones he really wanted to ask seemed more… personal. So, he’d kept them to himself, and simply continued his observations, and studied up on the information available to him.
And what he’d noticed was… concerning, to say the least. He was certain the human wasn’t sleeping enough. Unlike most species, humans could run on limited sleep for an extended period of time, but he was slowly becoming aware that just because humans had the capability to do something, didn’t mean it was natural or good for them to do it. They could survive grievous injuries that would have killed any other species, but it came at great physical and mental cost. They could survive intense radiation, but they would sicken slowly and die. They could imbibe substances that a single sip would be deadly to himself, but even in small amounts, it inhibited a human’s survival instincts and weakened them.
So just because Virgil was running on, at his best guess, four to five hours of sleep a day, didn’t mean that was anywhere near the healthy range of a human’s normal requirements. He’d noticed some of the side effects so commonly, he’d thought they simply were how humans were, until the Vidi gave him glimpses at others, who lacked the bags under their eyes, the deep bruising, that Virgil always had. Virgil was often unsteady on his feet, “light headed” he called it, he often stared out into space for minutes at a time, without registering anything that was said or happening around him, he ran into things, doorframes, corners of furniture, he stumbled and often had to lean against something to regain his balance.
The other issue was his diet. Logan was absolutely certain that Virgil was not eating nor drinking enough. With his permission, he’d taken his heart rate, he’d calculated how many calories his body must burn, at the least, throughout a day. With no physical activity, no exertion, the very base level of sleep, Virgil was missing at least hundreds, if not nearly a thousand, necessary calories, and that was if he were in a relaxed state, which he never was. The human was endlessly jumpy and frightened and twitchy, and he had admitted that his heart rate was much higher than it should be, most of the time, due to his constant state of high alert. But despite this, he ate nearly the least at meals, always pushing food around his place, making excuses to take small portions, at least half the time Logan was certain he hadn’t eaten at all until he was forced to at their daily dinner together, and only then because he didn’t want to upset Patton. Based on his limited understanding, Virgil was immensely underweight and incredibly sleep deprived, both dangerously unhealthy states for humans.
“oh! I peeked in on him a bit ago. He’d just woke up, said he was going to take a shower. I’m kinda surprised he isn’t out here yet.” Patton frowned, his feathers fluffing in distress.
“I see. I’ll go check on him, Patton. Save me a cup?” He smiles as Patton’s face lights up again, only half surprised as Patton jumps at him, hugging him. He carefully supports the Ampen, holding him close, allowing his head to rest against Patton’s small, fluffy shoulder.
“Thanks, Lo. For looking out for him.” Patton mumbled, as Logan let him go, setting him back down on the counter.
“Of course, Patton. It’s the least I can do. He deserves to not only be safe, but feel safe. I am happy to help make that happen.” Patton’s feathers pulsed his trademark light blue, a sign of happiness, that made Logan’s hands flutter, trying to record the warmth in his chest, as he turns away.
…
He woke up with a groan, pushing the cupboard door open, jumping as his door opened, hitting his head against the back of the cupboard at the sudden movement, breath speeding wildly, before he registered Patton’s head poking in, concerned eyes on him.
“Hey, kiddo. Just checking in. Everything ok?” He sighed, but pushed back his exhaustion, summoning a small smile, making it as reassuring and genuine as possible, not difficult, faced with a small ball of fluff.
“I’m alright, Pat. Just catching up on some zee’s. Was gonna go shower.” Patton nodded, hopping into his arms for a quick snuggle, before chirping a happy goodbye and vanishing out the door.
He slumped back against the pylon behind him with another groan, rubbing his hands across his face, then up into his hair, wincing as he felt his hair stick straight up, matted with sweat. He’d stayed in bed far later than usual, but he hadn’t slept more. The night had been plagued with nightmares and sleep paralysis, filling him with terror so deep he couldn’t even scream, could merely panic until he passed out once more, tossing and turning restlessly.
He felt shivery, cold, and his head spun just a bit as he stood, his stomach turning at the motion, vertigo rocking him as he leaned against the wall for a moment, trying to get his bearings.
“fine. I’m fine.” He muttered, taking a few deep breaths in and out, before making his way to the door, listening for a few moments to make sure he couldn’t hear Roman anywhere nearby, he didn’t think he could handle the Crav’n in his current state.
Which was normal and healthy and perfectly fine. He had to be fine.
He made it to the bathroom with minimal stumbling, his vision barely swimming in and out, as he stripped, and turned on the water, hot enough it would probably burn any other members of their little band, but he just sighed in relief as he stepped in, letting the water run over him, soothe the aches building in his muscles. He let out a sigh, halfheartedly scrubbing at his hair, zoning out as he watched the steam.
As he watched, it seemed to form a shape, to swirl into a nebulous form, and his breathing stuttered, heart stopping, as he stared in fear at the suited figure, one of his captors, a needle stabbing down towards him, and he flinched back, the world blurring and swirling and fading out around him, static roaring through his ears, his heart racing as static filled his vision as well. Distantly, he heard knocks, someone maybe calling his name, then he felt his legs give out, his head hit something hard, and the world went black.
…
“Virgil? Are you alright?” He heard a loud thump, a crash, and his eyes widened, knocking again. “Virgil? If you do not answer me, I am going to enter. Virgil!” Nothing. He threw open the door, breath catching, freezing in place at the sight.
Virgil was sprawled across the bathroom floor, unconscious. His breathing seemed somewhat labored and shallow, and he could hear the slight wheeze to it from the doorway. What caught his eye first were the endless collection of scars, all across his body, covering nearly every inch of his skin, and it turned his stomach, it made him sick, the level of trauma and abuse Virgil must have endured. He’d known it wasn’t good, known he’d been a lab rat, an experiment, a being to harvest then sell off the parts once he was drained dry, but knowing it and seeing the scars, the marks of old burns from the stun batons, was something else entirely. And nothing Virgil had said had indicated the violence against him to be to this extent. He felt another surge of appreciation, for Virgil having protected Patton.
The second thing, that finally forced him into motion, was the small pool of red forming around the human’s head, likely where the back of his skull had impacted with the floor. Quickly, he grabbed a towel from off the rack, and rolled Virgil onto his side, wiping away the blood from his neck and hair, to see where to apply the pressure. He breathed a sigh of relief as he located the wound, surprisingly small, given the amount of blood loss, and he was confident a few moments of pressure would easily stop it.
“ROMAN!” He shouted with all his might, voice shaking and unsteady, hearing the crashing footsteps of the Crav’n immediately, the being sliding into the doorway mere moments later, scales raised to their extremes, teeth bared, ready to fight, no doubt hoping for an excuse to fight the human.
“Logan? What’s-“ Patton darts in around Roman’s legs, eyes widening as he instantly is at Virgil’s side, trembling, eyes wide as saucers.
“I need help. Roman, he’s heavy, I need-“
“Ok. Ok, teach, I got you. Let’s get him dressed, then I’ll move him to the couch. What’s… what happened?”
“I’m not entirely sure. I knocked and heard a crash, when I entered, he was like this. I suspect it has something to do with his malnutrition and sleep deprivation.” He answered, focusing on carefully pulling Virgil’s hoodie over his head, hands clenching sharply as one brushes his forehead. “he’s burning up.”
“That’s what happens when he’s… when he’s sick. Humans get all hot and shivery and sometimes their stomach hurts and they can’t eat. But that only happened on the… on the ship. When… when it was really bad.” His voice wavered, feathers flattening.
“I would suspect that he has been feeling ill for a couple of days now, if it’s grown severe enough to make him pass out. His normal temperature is around 98.6 to 99, I would estimate his to be closer to one hundred and three. Has he seemed off to you, Patton?”
“He’s spent less time with me. Less time out of his room. I thought he just needed some space, but… but he was trying to hide he was sick, wasn’t he?”
“Why would he do that? Did he think we’d just abandon him like some deathworlder would an injured comrade?” Roman snorted disdainfully, helping pull pants onto the human, though Patton could see the concern hiding behind his outrage.
“Contrarily, he probably didn’t want to be a burden. To use up more of our resources and time. He constantly sees himself as lesser, as the least important of the group, therefore the one who should take up the least space, least time, least amount of food. Surely, you’ve noticed, Roman.”
“I…hadn’t. I’ll take him now, Pat.” He mumbled softly, gently shooing him back as he scooped Virgil into his arms, surprised at how light the human was, his head lolling limply against his chest, his cheeks flushed, while the rest of his face was even paler than usual. He could feel the frantically rapid beat of his heart, his eyes flicking uneasily under their lids, and his scales flattened in concern. As much as he didn’t trust the human, he didn’t want to see him hurting, either. And if what Logan said was true, Virgil had not only been hurting, but hurting himself, out of, what? Loyalty? Worry? He just couldn’t get a handle on him.
Then again, he hadn’t tried very hard to get to know him, or to give him a chance. But there was something in seeing him so vulnerable, without the usual piercing stare and silent slink, that made him soften a bit, made him remember that despite being one of the most fearsome creatures in the universe, that Virgil was essentially a child, by human standards. He was so thin, too. He could count his bones, under that hoodie. No wonder he was always cold, he had no layer of fat on his bones.
And those scars…
Well. It was enough to almost make him rethink his view on Virgil, at least, as he laid him down on the couch in the common area, Patton immediately taking a seat by his head, brushing his hands soothingly through Virgil’s hair, as the human shook, muttering something in his sleep that was undecipherable, though the tone of fear was impossible to miss, as his hand clenched against the fabric.
“We need to break his fever. Blankets, Roman? I’ll get you a washcloth and water for his forehead, Patton. If he wakes, he is likely to be disoriented or possibly even hallucinate, because of the fever. However, I have no doubt he will calm immensely upon registering your presence. You are… his lifeline, Patton.” Patton nodded, continuing to focus on Virgil, doing the coo chirp pattern used to soothe babies, one of the first things Virgil had mimicked back to him, back on that awful ship.
“He’ll… he’ll be ok, right? He just needs some sleep and he’ll be okay?” His voice trembled, and Logan’s hands clasped behind his back, eyes darting as he looked for the right words to say.
“I don’t know. There’s so little information, Patton, I keep looking and there’s just… not enough, to help him, in any meaningful way. There’s no way of knowing if this is just a ‘flu’ or if it is something more severe. I know his heart rate is high and his breathing rasping, but I don’t know if that’s the result of the illness or simply stress, I would give him medicine, but I don’t know what he can have, what would be helpful, and I don’t know what to do if it’s something we aren’t equipped to handle!” He exploded, pacing the floor somewhat frantically, hands flailing wildly, wincing as one smacked the wall. “I don’t know what to do, but wait.” He said, softer, taking a deep breath and rubbing at his hand, looking up as Roman came to stand before him, gently patting one of his arms.
“It’s ok, Lo. No one expects you to have all the answers. We know you’ll do your best. You always do.” Logan nodded, pulling himself together somewhat, striding off to the kitchen, Roman heading down the hall to raid the extra blankets from the closets.
“you’ll be ok, kiddo. I promise.” Patton murmured, nuzzling against Virgil’s cheek, giggling as Virgil mumbles again, leaning into his touch, hand unclenching, face relaxing minutely. When Logan came back, he huffed fondly, Patton curled up against Virgil’s shoulder, just a ball of puffed up blue feathers, pulsing soothingly.
Based on This Post by @fangirltothefullest (who is awesome and amazing, go follow). This was supposed to be a simple one shot, but as always, it’s really gotten away from me, so expect three to four chapters, instead.
The dark sides all have animal traits. But they also have hybrid forms. Something Patton, Logan, and Roman don’t realize until Janus isn’t able to help it.
….
He doesn’t feel quite right.
He brushes it off, at first, ignoring the slight chill that comes over him, every once in a while, the mild achiness to his bones, he ignores them all.
Then Patton comments on how his scales look pretty on his arms, when he’s doing the dishes, sleeves rolled up, and he nearly drops the plate he’s washing, before he regains his composure, letting Patton think the slip was from the unexpected compliment, as he excuses himself.
He notices his fangs are longer, sharper, the next day, and his chills are stronger as well, he spends nearly the whole of it working at his desk, wrapped in a blanket, trying to ignore the pain taking up residence behind his temples, pounding dully against his skull, as he examines and rearranges the schedule to make sure everyone has at least a day of self care planned for the week, before sending it back to Logan for assessment. He won’t admit it out loud, but he rather enjoys the back and forth, the bargaining, the trade offs, it’s a bit of a game of wits, finding how it all can fit. But today it just makes him exhausted.
He makes an excuse, not to come out for supper that night, saying he’s tired and plans to turn in early, which is true, he just leaves out the reason, which would lead to Patton trying to take care of him, and the last thing he wants is to force pity from Patton, so he keeps his mouth shut.
…
He’s shaking. The world is swirling and writhing around him, shadows stretching and shifting around him, forming almost figures, eyes glaring at him accusingly, whispers menacing his ears, telling him how poorly of a job he’s really doing, and he grits his teeth and bears it, even as he feels himself shifting into something different, scales blooming across the entirety of his face, his arms, coiling in on himself, as his tail forms, a ball python’s markings, in deep blacks and hazardous yellows, marking him as the venomous creature he is.
He doesn’t want to be this monster, but he can’t stop it, can’t stop the change, so he just hisses, cursing the world, burying himself in his tail so he doesn’t have to see anything, feel anything, outside his little bubble, though he can’t seem to stop shaking, no matter how tightly he curls.
…
He sees clawed hands tearing at him, shredding him to ribbons. Dark figures laughing as they rip him limb from limb. Violet eyes and neon green grinning, as they set him aflame, burning him to ash, and somehow, he can feel every second of it, taste the smoke on his tongue, convulsing and writhing as he tries to escape the smoke, but there’s nowhere, nowhere to go. Webs, pinning him down, eight eyes, eyes he knows so well, staring into his as the pincers bite into his neck, tentacles wrapping tight around his throat, lifting him off the ground, constricting him until he can’t breathe, until his own weight suffocates him-
Then suddenly it’s bright, far too bright, and he can’t see clearly, and he hears gasps, voices around him, hissing and flinching back at a touch to his forehead, slitted eyes flashing as his tail lashes, coiling.
“Leave me alone!” He growls, baring his fangs, his claws, ready to spring, even as the world spins and colors blend, everything shifting as if he’s looking through a fun house mirror.
“You’re burning up…”
“Calm down, Janus, let us help!” He hisses, drawing back further, heart pounding with fear, pulse racing with adrenaline, but everything is too much, too loud, too bright, and he can’t focus, can’t figure out where he is or what’s going on or who is speaking, past the pounding in his ears.
Then a hand comes into view, trying to reach him, and he snarls, letting the coils do their job, propelling himself forwards, pouncing, but the sudden movement sends a wash of lightheadedness through him, and the world goes dark.
“Janus! Janus, are you ok?!” He groans, barely managing to register the voice, barely managing to flick open his eyes for long enough to see a flash of deep blue, to realize someone has caught him, stopped him from falling.
“lo…gan?” He manages weakly, feeling the logical side let out a relieved breath, though he’s no less worried.
“Yes. You’ve got a severe fever, Janus, how long have you been sick?” His mind seems to be working at half speed, his tongue feels heavy and thick, and he barely manages a shrug.
“w-week?” He offers, already slipping away.
“Oh honey. We’re gonna take care of you, alright? You just get some rest, and when you wake up it’ll all be better.” He doesn’t trust that voice, not completely, but he knows in this case, it’s telling the truth, so he nods, shivering at the cold air on his scales, wishing for his heating pad, before he blacks out once more.
…
Logan lets out a low breath as Janus collapses in his arms, cheeks flushed, even through the scales now peppering both sides of his face, his pulse coming in odd unsteady beats, his breathing shallow and uneven. He’s ill, extremely ill, and he doesn’t know how none of them had noticed.
Then again, even after becoming accepted, Janus has always been the most aloof of all of them. Even now, they don’t really know much about him, he holds everything close to his chest. Which is maybe why Virgil and Remus are the only two who don’t look entirely surprised at the state of him.
That state being a half human, half snake, commonly known as a Naga, in folklore.
“We need to break the fever. Help me lift him, onto the couch?” Logan states, more than asks, and instantly, the twins are there, each taking half of his tail while Logan takes his torso, sliding him onto the couch, before wrapping him with blankets, trying to quell his incessant shivering, coiling tight, teeth chattering.
“Now what?” Roman asks, uncharacteristically quiet.
“Heated blankets, he has some, yes?” Remus nods.
“I’ll go get them.”
“Virgil.” He startles at Logan addressing him, his eyes had been locked on Janus’s form, huddled and so small, despite his large coils. He hadn’t realized his breath was starting speed, his heart starting pound. “Virgil, I need you to answer some questions for me. It could help in my treatment of him.” He nods, though his throat feels dry.
“He has shifted like this before?” He nods again, forcing himself to take a deep inhale and exhale.
“yeah. He doesn’t… he usually doesn’t. Doesn’t like to. But when he gets sick or hurt, he loses control, sometimes. Goes… goes into attack mode.” Logan nods.
“It makes sense, that as self preservation, he would have this kind of protective mechanism. Given his scales, I’m not surprised that he would take Naga form. And Remus has his tentacles, his half animal form being an octopus-“
“Kraken, dear Logic!” Remus trills, returning and tucking the heated blankets around Janus, making sure they aren’t set too high. They want a toasty snek, after all, not a toasted one. A minor distinction, but an important one, in this case.
“And Virgie here is-“ Instantly, the room grows ten degrees colder, the shadows lengthening, as it grows darker, all eyes turning back to Virgil, who is shaking his head, maybe just shaking in general.
“don’t. Remus, please… don’t.” Remus pouts, but instantly nods, coming over and rubbing his arms to dispel the chill, smiling as Virgil’s head thumps against his chest.
“Sorry, Vee. I forget what I’m not supposed to say and what I am. I didn’t mean to spill the beans.” He feels Virgil nod, knows he understands, he’s just scared and stressed right now, and so is he, it’s why his tongue nearly slipped. He has a bit more control than the others tend to think, at least when it comes to important things, secret things, like this.
“Virgil? You… you have animal traits too? That’s really cool, kiddo, why didn’t you tell us?” He winces at Patton’s question.
“you wouldn’t like them. Trust me, Pat, it’s better I just keep them tucked away, where they won’t cause any problems.” He mutters, a bit of fear curdling in his chest, at what he is, fear blooming at what they would do, if they knew.
If they knew his eyeshadow was to hide the three smaller eyes dotted underneath his normal ones, if they knew about his eight, spindly spiked legs, that could extend from his back, much like Remus’s tentacles, making him much faster and stronger than any of the rest of them, if they knew how quickly he could move, slinging web, how reflexive an action it once was, when he and Remus were young and would tussle, if they knew about his own deadly, venomous fangs, if they knew how when he was stressed, he still vanished into Remus’s imagination, to weave intricate webs, to put his hands to work so his mind would be silent.
“Virgil. I love you kiddo, no matter what, okay? Just remember that, if you ever do want to share. Whatever it is, it won’t change that.” He looks away, nodding once, though if Janus were in working order he’d call bullshit from a mile away, there were some things that they could grow to accept about him, yes, but his half spider form? Definitely not one of them, when even curtains with cartoony spiders warranted being called “creepy crawly death dealers” and getting attacked by Roman’s sword.
“So… now what do we do?” Roman asks breaking the silence.
“wait. He’ll shift back, once he’s feeling better, in control, again. Until then, we should all give him plenty of space, you three especially.” Virgil answers.
“Why is that?” Logan asks, and Remus grins.
“Janny’s got quite a nasty bite. Those fangs aren’t just for show!”
“He might lash out, is what he’s saying. And it’s better if no one is in reach when he does. Me and Re have a certain amount of immunity, to the venom, thanks to our… traits, but it would be really, really bad, for any of you. Plus, he isn’t used to you all being around yet, he’s less likely to lash out if it’s me or Remus, nearby.” Virgil explains, “you, um, you’ll trigger his fight reflex.” He doesn’t have to look up, to see the slightly hurt expression on Patton’s face.
“He doesn’t trust us yet.” Logan says softly, and Remus nods, though his face is tight, with a frown.
“That’s… understandable. We haven’t been the best of companions.” Roman murmurs, surprising both Remus and Virgil.
“He trusts you.” Remus states, looking firmly at Logan, who’s eyes widen in surprise, hand flying to adjust his glasses. “He doesn’t trust you.” Remus states, looking at Roman, who nods minutely, a brief look of regret flashing across his face. “And none of us trust you.” He turns his sharp gaze on Patton, who winces.
“Remus!” Virgil hisses, grabbing his arm.
“What? It’s true, otherwise you would have told them what you are, by now! Tell me, the reason you haven’t, isn’t exclusively to do with Patton.” He flinches, drawing back, eyes glued to the floor so he doesn’t have to see the hurt on Patton’s face, though he hears the sharp inhale of breath. “Tell me you aren’t afraid, of what he will do.” He gasps, the air flooding out of him, feeling as if he’s been punched in the gut, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. He opens his mouth, ready to deny it.
“I can’t.” he whispers instead, blanching at his own words, drawing further back, into himself. “I… I can’t.”
“that’s ok, kiddo.” Patton’s voice is soft, trembling, and he looks up in surprise, at the words, Patton taking a step closer, though still giving him his space. “It’s ok. I’ve hurt you, a lot, in the past, unintentionally, but I still hurt you. It’s ok, that you don’t feel comfortable telling me everything, telling me anything. I don’t expect you to. I don’t need you to. I’m happy to just be here, that you’ve let me have this much with you, and it’s ok, that you don’t entirely trust me. It’s ok, Virg.” His lip trembles, then he’s in Patton’s arms, head tucked against his shoulder. “we’re ok, kiddo.” Patton hugs him tightly, rubbing circles against his back, pretending not to notice the sniffling.
“Of course, Virgil. I’ll go get started on some soup and grilled cheese. Everyone needs to eat something, and hopefully we’ll be able to get some soup in him, too. Thank you, Remus. For being honest with me. It… it hurts, but I need to hear it, sometimes. It keeps me moving forwards. Keeps me getting… better.” Patton flashes him a small, tired smile, before ducking away, into the kitchen.
“I’ll go help. He gets shaky, when he’s worried, and he’ll nick himself cutting the vegtables, otherwise.” Roman mumbles, looking back at Remus, hesitating as if he wants to say something, before shaking his head and turning away, a rueful smile on his lips, a promise in his eyes, that they’ll talk later, when he knows what he wants to say.
“He… trusts me?” Remus rolls his eyes, sitting on the arm of the couch.
“Um, duh? You’re the only one who accepted all of us, right of the bat. Sure, you aren’t buddy buddy with us, but you also didn’t just dismiss us. You also listened to us, took us seriously, debated, not disagreeing just because of who we are. You treat us like… equals. That’s a rare thing, around here, Logan.”
“…oh. I… I see. Well. I will be keeping an eye on his temperature, checking in every few hours. If anything changes, fetch me immediately. I’ll get some cool water and towels, for his forehead. See if you can’t coax him into drinking something, as well, he’s likely severely dehydrated. I would suggest an IV, but I doubt his reaction to that would be ideal.”
“Ok. Sounds good, Lo. Thanks.” Logan nods once, before leaving, dropping off a bowl and towels, before vanishing once more. Virgil slumps to the ground, back resting against the couch cushions, hands buried in his face as he lets out a long, shaking breath, trying to stave off the panic creeping up his shoulders.
Remus frowns, brushing back Janus’s hair, dabbing the rag across his forehead, willing with all his might for the fever to go down, for his eyes to open, for him to smirk and say something bitingly sharp.
“Come on, DeeDee. Playing coy doesn’t suit you.” He whispers, eyes flicking to Virgil at the small snort from the emo, who shoves his hands up through his hair, leaving it messy and disheveled, his eyeshadow smeared across his face. If he looks hard enough, he can spot his dark little eyes, shiny, pure pitch little things, like reflective black buttons. “you know I’ve always found your little quirks cute, right?” He asks, not mentioning specifics just in case someone came by. Virgil lets out another short laugh, though the small smile stays on his face, as he shakes his head.
“I think you’re the only one who would describe them that way, Ree, but yeah. I know.” He mumbles, not protesting as Remus slips off the couch and onto the floor beside him, slowly and gently resting an arm around his shoulders. He scoots closer, tucking himself against Remus’s side, letting himself burrow into the warmth, safe and protected. “I’m scared.” Comes the low whisper, and Remus coos, turning to wrap his other arm around him in a warm hug.
Summary (Part 1): There is a deep inhale, and Lan Wangji knows immediately who is on the other end of the line. His breath catches in his throat and, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jingyi jump up and leave the room at a dead run. Sizhui is rooted to his spot, staring at him with wide, fearful eyes.
My comments: Sweet story with reconciliation at its core that focuses on what happens with and around wwx after being terribly injured in a car accident. The thing is, his emergency contact is still Jiang Cheng, although the two have been estranged for many years and wwx is convinced that jc hates him. This is… patently not the case, as lwj, jc and the juniors sit awkwardly in the waiting room to hear the result of the surgeries, or later, when jc sits in the room (silent and glowering, but still) or hosts the juniors at lotus during the nights while lwj stays with his husband.
Three stories in the series so far (but feels sufficiently finished, so no worries). ** NOW WITH 6 WORKS **
modern au, modern cultivators, car accidents, hurt wei wuxian, injured wei wuxian, hurt/comfort, established relationship, adorable juniors, brotherly feels, jiang brothers, adorable juniors and their friendship, insecure wei wuxian, self-esteem issues, oblivious wei wuxian, emotionally constipated jiang cheng, doting lan wangji, protective lan wangji, sickfic, self-worth issues, fluff, caretaking, emotional hurt/comfort, jiang cheng needs a hug, @belovedmuerto
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The only thing better than hurting a character so badly they faint, is waiting till they recover and enter confrontation (albeit bandaged, braced with a residual limp or stagger) before WHUMPING THEM AGAIN. IN THE SAME SPOT! LEAVING THEM MORE INJURED THEN THEY WERE BEFORE
And it’s not an argument without evidence:
The flash of white bandages around a character’s abdomen that peek out from inside torn clothing and the scarlet blood that blooms through their bandages as a sharp object is brutally stabbed into them. Their weapon clatters onto the ground before they collapse beside it, writhing and screaming in agony.
A character on crutches being pushed down stairs. The nauseating feeling of their injured leg crumpling under them as they fall, unable to do anything. The loud crash at the bottom, followed by heavy silence filled with the feeling of being so broken.
After spending days in bed, restless with intense fever, a character’s fever finally breaks. They start to eat again and move around, slowly regaining their strength. But it’s not fast enough; too soon, the character is forced to traverse an extremely harsh environment on little rest. Eventually, they’re overcome by intense hot and cold flashes and blurring vision as they collapse to the ground, convulsing.
After all, one didn’t generally turn to villainy if all their life had been peachy keen. They weren’t one to enjoy thinking back to that, to their past, to all the things that led them to this point.
However, they were certain of one thing:
No matter how many horrid things they’d been through, how many dumpster fire days and tearful nights, today was, undeniably, the worst day of their life.
Because I’m a sucker for the bad boy/class clown/troublemaker character utterly suffering, I am once again thinking about Sirius Black and his infinite whump potential. Everyone loves to make Remus suffer, myself included ofc, I’m not one to pass up a werewolf opportunity but something about Sirius is just *chef’s kiss*.
(tw: mention of familial abuse, physical and emotional, as well as alcohol)
I think it’s the fact that the canon information we have about him leaves so much room for the mind to wander. I imagine him at Grimmauld Place in the summer, either getting injured in altercations at home, likely with his mother, and taking the floo as an escape to James’ or Remus’. Especially if he goes to Moony, chances are he’d be embarrassed and ashamed to be in such a vulnerable state, and Remus would reassure him that after all the full moons he helped him get through he was happy to return the favour.
I imagine him showing up absolutely pissed, unsure of how to cope with his situation in a more productive way than drinking. I think about him falling ill at home, but he’s not fucking going to his mum about it, and Kreacher isn’t the most helpful, so he has to sheepishly enlist a friend to help him. Maybe he brushes it off to the point that they’ve got to make a stop at St. Mungo’s.
I imagine the time where James has finally had enough and wants him to move in, but they need to get some of his belongings from Grimmauld Place before the move, and they go on a stealth mission to sneak in and out of the house undetected. I want Remus to join them and fall even more in love with Sirius when he sees his bedroom, with hot muggle girls plastered to the wall, gryffindor garb strewn proudly about the place both to stick it to his family but also to try to feel at home in that place.
I want to see Sirius both craving intimacy and closeness but being guarded and unable to relax at first. Being touch starved for his childhood makes it difficult but there is still a deep longing to have comfort of being near someone. Perhaps spending time as Padfoot helps with him overcoming this.
All of these issues would be so compounded post Azkaban, and new ones would surely arise. I want a more in depth perspective of trying to navigate his emotions after being stuck in that place. I want to see how he manages on the run and in hiding after his body was ravaged in prison. I want Remus’ heart to break when he sees what his friend has been reduced to, and for Sirius to be crushed with guilt and responsibility that Remus had to go through all those moons completely and utterly alone, believing to have been betrayed by his closest friend which resulted in the seeming demise of his other two.
I want him to feel lost in the world, lacking an identity, being snatched away at such a young age, and being both emotionally stunted and feeling exceedingly old and weathered at the same time. I want him to be fragile, physically and mentally, susceptible to injury and illness, especially sleeping in caves and eating rats. I want all of the angst and the pain and the comfort and the wholesomeness that could come with properly exploring his character’s story.
If Harry Potter squicks you out now (valid, fuck Joanne) replace these characters with your favs, anywho, damn I do love taking the hollow bones the canon gives us and filling it out with my own thoughts
One thing that gets me about people who are sick/definitely coming down with something is that increased sensory sensitivity.
They’re having one of those days where they wake up in a fog. Their limbs feel impossibly heavy, but they have to go about their life as normal, since otherwise they have no symptoms of illness. They hope tha They’re on autopilot, feeling as if they’re being controlled by another entity and watching from a third person perspective. It’s that dissociation that happens when you’re entirely checked out due to how shitty you feel.
They’re making careless mistakes, zoning out, hardly aware of what’s going on, until they bang their knee on something. It’s not hard, it shouldn’t hurt, but it shoots waves of pain through their body, and it takes them a good minute or two to shake it off. The feeling of their feet hitting the ground as they walk is jarring with each step. The buzz of fluorescent lights overhead is deafening. The world is too bright, and their chair is uncomfortable.
As the day goes on, a dull ache starts behind their skull, which turns into a pounding pain that won’t stop. Soon they’re covered in goosebumps, they’re shivering and pulling their sweater close around them. Even the feel of the fabric against their skin hurts, it stings, but they’re desperate to warm up. Their face is losing colour, but gaining a sheen of sweat.
Finally theyre sniffling, starting to feel congested. Around this time is when they make more mistakes in their work, and receive a reprimand, gentle or harsh, but it unleashes an uncharacteristic rush of emotion as they admit that they really, really aren’t feeling good.
after so long of expertly dodging covid I have been ~ afflicted ~ and this was my first biggest symptom, my bones felt like they were breaking, I was so hyper aware of each and every one of my joints because they hurt so badly. Clothes hurt my skin, any sudden contact with anything would send those rippling shooting pains through my whole body. It’s always such a wild experience, and often an indicator of a fever as well. Anywho damn it’s day 5 of this shit despite being triple dosed against it but hey I’m not dead and that’s what matters
Sadie is in charge of driving the van for the band. Or at least that’s how she likes it. The other person she trusts with the keys is Chante, but ideally, she’s the one behind the wheel. Now they don’t usually go too far in the thing, mostly cause it already has a gazillion miles on it, and because they tend to play locally so it’s really just for lugging equipment, bUT on the odd occasion, they’ll get a gig somewhere that’s at a bit of a distance. maybe it’s a small weekend music festival, maybe it’s just a show, but if the money is good, or it’s a good opportunity to get their names out there, they’ll take it.
In cases such as these, they usually end up in the van for a lot longer than normal. At times they’ll be driving for upwards of 24hrs, and as much as Sadie pushes to stay the one behind the wheel, and no matter how many coffees she drinks, she eventually needs to tap out. Well, someone makes her, probably because both her mood and driving are going to shit with her being sleep deprived and over caffeinated. The thing is, the only way Sadie can be in a moving vehicle without getting terrible motion sickness is if she is the one driving. Sitting shotgun is better than being in the back, but the end result usually ends up the same, just takes longer for her to get to the point of inevitably being sick. It’s this stretch of the ride that’s the hardest on everyone. Tyson and Keiko are probably doing some dumb shit in the back, which doesn’t help her to stay composed, and as much as they try to be chill and accommodating, unless they’re asleep, there’s pretty much no way those two can be quiet.
Chante is probably talking a lot, trying to get her mind off of feeling sick, maybe he puts on some music and sings along a little. Sadie will try her best to fall asleep, praying that it’ll take care of things, but every bump in the road makes her stomach lurch too dangerously to ever doze off. At last, she’ll reach the point where she frantically had to demand that they pull over, or hopefully find a bag or container that she can throw up into. Keiko will rub her back and offer water that’s warm cause it’s been sitting in the back of the van for who knows how long but it’s better than nothing, and the next stop is always at the nearest gas station so they can grab some ginger ale and gravol, which they always somehow forget to pack before the trip.
If you wanna make your characters suffer, couple pure exhaustion with an ailment of your choice. Nausea is my go to, but it works great with any sort of pain or discomfort, included but not limited to headaches, congestion, fever.
Just imagine, they’re dead tired. Almost to the point of tears. All they want is to fall asleep. They can barely keep their eyes open. Their body feels heavy. It’s hard to control their emotions. But because of how terrible they feel, they just can’t fall asleep. Time passes in a way that is painfully slow. This seems even more slow if they have a visible digital clock within their vicinity, shining those usually red letters through the darkness. Each glowing minute seems to sit frozen for an eternity before it switches over to the next one, and somehow with each of those minutes their nausea increases, but never enough to make them actually be sick. They’re just stuck in what seems like an eternal battle against their own stomach and their tiredness. If they could just fall asleep or throw up they’d probably feel better, but instead they’re stuck in this misery with no end in sight.
