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sichore · 6 months

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okok, I'm feeling generous and this can be a standalone thing.

Dethklok's resident artist has a migraine, and Pickles is the most qualified to handle it.

It starts with a twinge.

Jimi pauses mid-stroke, brush suspended in mid-air. There's no mistaking the faint twang she felt between her eyes, like the first string being plucked, reverberating down through her body. The note stops abruptly deep within, promising nausea.

She only has a few minutes, and maybe if she hurries, she can find her pain meds.

She did bring them, right? Surely, they're around here.

Three minutes later, she's at the sink, hastily washing out her brushes. The twinge is now a pulse.

Eight minutes later, she's turning over bags, searching drawers, wondering how in the hell she could have misplaced something so important. Maybe she has time to call up someone – but who? The Klokateers aren't hers to summon.

As she deliberates, the light of her phone stabs through her eyes. Her stomach lurches. It's too late.

Twelve minutes after the first twinge, Jimi has retreated to the dark cave of her bedspace. Clothes hastily shed and bonnet thrown on, she is cocooned by the blackout curtains surrounding her bed, blankets and pillows pulled over her head. Curled in a fetal position, breathing carefully through her mouth. The cool breaths of air soothe her aching stomach, as the migraine hits full force.

She'll lose the rest of the day and most of the night to this. Fortunately, her benefactors are merciful – to her, at least. There will be no penalty for taking the time off to take care of herself, and that at least is a small comfort as she swirls in a vortex of agony. If she closes her eyes tight enough, and waits, she can just sleep it away.

It's never easy to settle down when this happens, mind racing with all she needs to do. Should have done. Her work, her pills that should have been somewhere accessible, how stupid it was of her to assume she'd be fine here, knowing that she has no definite triggers.

But that’s for future Jimi, to berate past Jimi for not being prepared. Right now, this Jimi just wants peace, pain-free.

She fades in and out of consciousness, blessedly blackening out into the void, and has almost sunken completely when she hears the whispers at her door.

"I dunno, what if she doesn't wanna hang out?"

"When hasch she ever said no, Nathan? Huh? Let's fucking go!"

Well, maybe in another universe, they were whispers. Were they even trying to be quiet?

"Guys, maybe she should waits for her to come out on her owns?"

"She works too much, we've gots to go pal around now! It'll be good for her."

"Nathan and Skwisgaar are right, guys, we – Toki, dood, no, don't!"

The door slides open, despite Pickles' protests. Jimi can only groan quietly from her painful prison; she's really not in any state to entertain the guys, but if she tries to speak loud enough to tell them to go, she'll probably throw up. Maybe they'll just… get bored, and leave her be.

Alas, working with Dethklok is much like working with a bunch of teenage boys, who also happen to be cats. And krillionaires. Meaning they will get into absolutely everything while looking you in the eye, and no one can tell them no.

"Look, see? She's not here, so let's just go, okey?"

"We can at least look around, Pickles. We gotta make sure, right? Pickles?"

"That tone is naht gonna work on me today, Nathan."

"The fuck isch this? Modge podge?" Is he going through her supplies? "Looksch like cum." Ah.

"Put that down, Murderface."

"Ooh, this ams her new work!"

"Get back over here, Toki! We are leaving, now."

"What abouts the bed?" Skwisgaar sounds close. Too close. Jimi curls up more. This would be funny if she didn't hurt so much. "Maybe she takes a nap?"

"Tch. Schleeping on the job…"

"Skwisgaar, wait, no, don't wear your boots over there –"

"Pickles, what is with you all of a sudden? It’s like you know all the rules of this place."

"Don't worry about it. Look, I'll check it out, all right? Just gimme a sec."

Funny how Jimi recognizes the shuffle of Pickles toeing off his shoes – he's really gotten mindful of that now, hasn't he? But the soft thought is cut short. Even under the darkness of her bedding and closed eyes, she still feels the light from her curtains opening, like getting hit with a bat.

"Ah!"

"Oh, crap–!"

Just as swiftly, the curtain closes. It's only a minor relief as the voices of the band rise in triumph.

"Founds her!"

"There she is, I heard that!"

"Yeah, no, everyone out."

"We can'ts even say hi?"

"Nope. Out, c'mon, everybody out."

The groans and complaints of those silly, baby, grown ass men grow more faint as they go back to what Jimi's assumes is her door, as she hears it slide shut, muffling their protests. (“But why does Pickle get to–?”)

It's quiet, again, and she sinks into the bed, not realizing how anxious she'd been. She thinks she's alone, until she hears the whispers of socks shuffling over the rugs of her living space.

"Jimi?" Pickles' soft voice is not entirely unexpected, but she still jumps. "I'm coming in, okee?"

She nods, not like he can see it, and even though she's prepared for the curtain opening, she still whimpers. The flash of light lasts only a moment, followed by the rustle of clothes as the drummer moves nearer.

She feels the bed dip slightly.

"Hey, Jimi?"

"Mmn."

"It's Pickles."

"Mmhm."

"The drummer."

"Hey."

"You sound like a frog."

"Yeah."

"What's the matter?"

Jimi sighs deeply, another attempt to soothe her nausea. She finally moves, shifting from her belly to her side so she can slip a hand from underneath the warm shell of her covers.

The air of her room feels so cold, yet soon, she feels rough fingers on her own, closing over them.

"I'm in a lot of pain," Jimi croaks out. "Migraine."

“Oh, that’s it?” Pickles sounds relieved; she hears his exhale. "You didn't tell nobody?"

"I didn't… wanna be a bother."

The studio space is just for convenience. It's not Dethklok's responsibility to take care of her. Jimi should have been better prepared. All the care she put into making this space she was granted as efficient as could be, and she couldn't even do that properly.

She just wants to lay here. She can't even do that. Her fingers flex when she realizes Pickles hasn't moved, and his grip stays. Gentle, and firm.

As much as she doesn't want to be seen like this, in a bonnet and not at all put together, Jimi shuffles around until the pillow covering her head slides down enough so that she can peek out from her solitary haven.

There's not much she can see without her glasses, let alone in the dark. But she sees Pickles. She sees the green of his eyes here in the dark – deep as a forest, steadfast as moss, and not at all dimmed despite the lack of light.

Judging from the angle, he has his cheek pressed to her bed, peering sideways back at her.

"There ya are. … Can I getcha anything?"

Jimi swallows. She's too ill to be overwhelmed. "... Pain pills."

"I think what I got is a bit much for ya, but hold on." He finally pulls away, and Jimi closes her eyes as another wave hits her, listening to Pickles pat down his pockets. "Ah, can't see shit – I'm pulling out my phone."

Jimi can't tell, thankfully. Maybe he has it facing away from her, so the screen’s light doesn’t bother her. She's spent the most time with Pickles by now, come to think of it, but she still doesn't understand why he would be so kind to her. She wasn’t going to fool herself into thinking he was any less of a dick than the rest of the band.

"Oxy too much for ya?"

"Yeah. I need, ugh… Naproxen. Ibu… profen. Excedrin. Something like that."

There's a faint tock tock tock – is he typing? “Anythin’ else?”

“Ugh… caffeine?”

“Like coffee?”

“Yes, please. Not too hot.”

“Okey, just lemme…” There’s some more typing, and the bed dips again, deeper this time. Jimi’s shrunk back a little under her covers, but her hand is still out. And Pickles’ hand covers hers, thumb absently rubbing over her knuckles as he keeps typing.

Heat and pressure flood Jimi’s eyes and nose. Her throat constricts, unable to stop a choked sob from emerging.

“Whoa, whoa, hey.” Pickles stops typing, sets down his phone to take her hand in both of his, and Jimi squeezes her eyes against the tears that manage to escape. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

God, this is so embarrassing. Jimi has to take her time to just inhale, exhale, get a hold of herself, calm down. Why was this job making her cry so much, for the first time in years?

And Pickles just waits, which makes it worse.

“Why…” Her voice breaks, and now shame joins the various waves washing over her. Her voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Jimi would like to think she’s only a little stupid, even if she can be naïve. Like trying to see the good in her employers, knowing that the mortality rate just for being in their vicinity was astronomically high, and they hardly seemed to mind. Being vulnerable like this in front of someone who held so much power over her was beyond foolish and against everything she knew, was taught through her life and the lives of all the other women before her.

And yet.

And yet…

“I wasn’t gonna just leave ya like that,” Pickles says. Gently. “Honestly, when I saw ya huddled up like that, I thought…” He fidgets, hands shifting around to rub his thumbs in slow circles over hers. “We can’t hang out if yer feeling bad.”

Jimi smiles, despite everything. “I have work to do.”

“Eh. It can wait.”

When was the last time anyone had sat with her like this, when she was feeling at her worst, even more useless to everyone? Jimi hardly remembers. She’s been on her own so long, now, always had herself to rely on when she got sick and couldn’t push through it to make it to work. Even when she still lived at home. Even when she was with her partners, who had insisted on helping, the one time she arrived stumbling, vision blurred even further from the severity of her migraine.

They wanted to help, and still Jimi insisted she was fine, she could handle it, don’t worry, she’ll be fine soon, then…

She pushes away those memories, sets herself adrift in the haze between the waking world and sleep, the physical and beyond. Faintly, she hears Pickles typing on his phone again, but there’s still the embrace of one hand. Warm, anchoring, floating along with her.

Jimi isn’t sure how long they stay like that, but eventually, Pickles rises, taking his warmth with him with a soft, “Be right back.”

And she thinks that’s the end of it, but she feels more at peace now, and could fall asleep like this, falling away from her myriad of thoughts and worrisome memories.

Only Pickles returns. She hears the soft clunk of something being set on her nightstand.

“Hey, Jim. Can ya sit up? I’m gonna turn yer lamp on, okee?”

Mercifully, Pickles turns the dimmer slowly, so Jimi doesn’t even feel the glow from beneath her blankets. She has time to brace herself before emerging from beneath the covers – and pulling the sheet around her chest, almost forgetting herself. She’s not so out of it that she isn’t self-conscious, and it’s starting to hurt her head, so she slips off her silk bonnet, running a hand over her curls so that they have some kind of shape.

She blinks towards the blur that is Pickles, who hands her a small packet. “Here ya go. Got some naproxen for ya.”

“Thank you.” Jimi tears the paper open to deposit the pills, and Pickles takes her free hand, carefully placing a warm cup in her grasp.

“And here’s yer coffee. Careful, hon.”

“Thank you,” Jimi says again, taking the painkillers with a careful sip.

The coffee is gently warm, beautifully roasted and delicately sweetened, with floral notes. She takes a longer drink, holding the cup in both hands, the caffeine immediately doing its work to dampen her migraine, leaving her more clear-headed and coherent. The brew is creamy, yet it wasn’t cow milk, she was certain.

“This is… wonderful. Is that lavender? And coconut.” She looks up at Pickles, wishing she could see his expression. Had he just been watching her this whole time? “I love it. Thank you, Pickles.”

“Oh, yeah, s’no big deal.” He shifts, seems to scratch his arm or something. “I know you like all that flowery stuff, like, essence of rose, or whatever. And ya don’t drink dairy, so…”

Jimi hopes she looks grateful; as it is, she’s squinting, her bleary vision still adjusting to the low light. “You remembered all that?”

“It’s nothin'.” He shrugs. “I just gave Jean-Pierre some notes, and he whipped that up for ya. He should get yer thanks.”

“But you got this for me. You did all of this for me. So… thank you.”

Silence falls, and Jimi continues her drink. Just as she wonders why Pickles hasn’t left yet, he shuffles a bit, rubbing a socked foot along her rug.

“... So, er…”

“... Would you like to sit down?”

“Even in my outside clothes?”

“You already did. Have you been outside today?” Without waiting for an answer, Jimi pats the space next to her. “Come here.”

It’s not as weird as it should be, perhaps, when Pickles settles beside her, folding a leg up on her bed, with only a few layers of blanket separating the two. When Jimi leans against his shoulder and feels Pickles relax, it just feels natural. When his arm slides behind her and he leans against her side, cheek pressed to her curls, it feels right.

Jimi’s lips touch her cup, the ceramic soft and inviting. She breathes deep, senses awash with renewal. There’s the warmth of Pickles against her, the soft rush of their breaths. The tickle of tobacco in her nose, the iridescent static dancing behind her closed lids. And on her tongue, lavender. Serenity. Calm. Pure and Silent. What else?

There’s a sixth feeling. Its tendril curls around her, and gives the faintest brush against her aching heart.

#metalocalypse #pickles the durmmer #mtl oc #my writing #nnnneeeehhhhhhhh!!!

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