#but this is the first time ive experienced something and was grateful for being alive and wanted to stay alive for longer | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ghostbustermelanieking · 5 years

Text

phantom weights chapter two

season 11, post my struggle iv. part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files.

Summary: In the wake of their second encounter, Mulder, Scully, and Jackson reconnect (both by accident and on purpose).

---

Mulder and Scully had been put on suspension almost immediately after everything that happened in Norfolk. Two weeks later, they were called back into Kersh's office and told that it was over. The X-Files, all of it. They were officially being dismissed from the FBI.

Scully was quiet, slumped in her chair beside him like a kid called to the principal's office. When Kersh mentioned the story she had leaked on the Internet—accusing Mulder of it first before she softly clarified that she had done it—Mulder looked over at her in a sort of proud astonishment. She said nothing; she had offered him a small shrug and nothing more.

She kept glancing over at Mulder, as if expecting him to lose his mind, to get angry at the prospect of losing the Files, but for the first time in his long, recurring career, Mulder didn't care. He didn't have the energy to keep up the Files anymore; he didn't need them. He knew the truth now, and it was enough to almost make him wish he'd never gone looking. His sister was gone, and he knew there was no use in looking for Jackson—it’s harder to find someone who doesn't want to be found. And he lived with Scully; he didn't have to work with her. They were together and they were alive and they were having a baby, and he was just done. He'd loved his years on the X Files, but he'd also lost so much because of them. He was ready to let them go.

When they got home, they crawled into the couch, her curling into his side, him pulling an afghan over them. “Are you okay,” she murmured, her nose brushing the side of his neck.

He nodded, kissing the top of her head. “It was a long time coming, honey,” he said. “Really. I'm ready to move on.”

She hummed low in her throat, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Never thought I'd see the day,” she muttered dryly, and he chuckled quietly. “I think you're right. I think it's time.”

“I can't believe you leaked some bogus story on the Internet,” he whispered teasingly, his lips to her hair. “That is very unlike you, Dana Scully.”

“It was the only thing I could see to do,” she said stubbornly. “For you and Jackson and… I didn't know what else to do. I wanted to warn people."

“I know. I know. I think you did the right thing.” He squeezed her close, slid a hand down to rest over her hip, her abdomen. She was starting to show, just a little; he stroked his thumb up and down her side. “I'm sorry,” he added softly. He'd said it before and he would say it again; they both had guilt cloaking them heavily, following them like a dark cloud. “I'm so sorry, Scully… for the way that everything went down.” He'd do anything to change it. Anything in the world.

(He missed their son horribly, as bad as he had missed him in the years after they first lost him. The mournful ache in his chest had begun the first time he walked away and hadn't really ended ever since; it had only numbed a bit, and now it was back. He wanted to see his son so badly. He knew that Scully felt the same way. He'd wake up sometimes to hear her crying out, or mumbling their son's name in her sleep, and he would always wonder if she could see where he was. He never asked her, though; he didn't want to put that on her. Sometimes, in a surreal moment that usually began and ended in an headache, he thought that he saw him, but he could never quite tell if it was real or just wishful thinking. He'd seen a thousand different impossible things in his life, and believed in almost all of them, but he didn't know what it felt like to connect with his son. And besides that, he wasn't sure that Jackson even wanted him to see, anyway.)

Scully pressed her face into his shoulder, her hand clutching at his shirt. She mumbled that she loved him. He tugged her close until she was mostly in his lap, her head tucked under his chin, and held tight. “What are we going to do with ourselves now?” he joked. “Now that we don't have our jobs.”

She lifted her head and gave him a soft look, a small smile. Small, but not insincere. “We'll think of something,” she said, the same way she had in that hotel room in Henrico County. He leaned down to kiss her forehead.

---

Scully was sick in the mornings the first few weeks after Norfolk; half the time, he'd wake up to her retching in the other room. They spent a lot of time in bed. She slept leaning against his shoulder, her forehead warm, her sleep restless. She had nightmares often, sometimes about Jackson and sometimes about Mulder and sometimes about the baby—she woke up in tears one time, clinging to him desperately as he wiped her tears away, and she choked out, “I really thought I was going to lose you, Mulder.” She was inconsolable and frantic, still locked firmly in the dream, and he held her tight, emotional and on the edge of tears himself. They were both a mess, at the beginning, the hope they'd felt at that first doctor's appointment largely masked by the grief they'd been feeling since the dock, since the Van de Kamps’ house in Norfolk, since the day that Mulder had walked away from their son and never seen him again.

He did the best he could for her. He made her tea, brought her food, read aloud to her, went into the bathroom when he heard her throwing up and rubbed her back and offered her cold glasses of water. They had nowhere to be and a part of him was relieved. He wanted to be here with her. He held her while she slept and was grateful he had her, if nothing else. She'd always been enough, and he missed their son like crazy, but he still had her. And the baby. He did have the baby.

He hadn't thought about it much, the prospect of another chance at fatherhood. Thinking about it honestly scared the shit out him; he was at the age of retirement, and he was about to be a new parent—up every night when he was already tired, a jungle gym for a toddler when his back and knees already felt like they were constantly about to give out, having to pay for a college fund without actually having a job. And he was equally scared about what it meant for Scully: the reality of carrying a child at her age, the high risk of the pregnancy, the possibility that he would lose them both in the process, Scully and the baby.

But every time his mind went to the dark place, to the worst possible things that could happen, it never stayed there. He couldn't stay there. He couldn't help himself. Despite everything, everything he was afraid of, he already loved this kid with everything in him. More than he could put into words. And despite all of this, everything they had been through, a part of him had wanted this ever since Scully first asked him to be the father of her child, and wanted it still. He loved the baby; of course he loved the baby. He'd loved it from the moment that Scully had taken his hand and put it on her belly. He loved the baby, and he wanted to be a father to it. He'd be a good father, he promised himself. He would be. And he knew that Scully would be an amazing mother. That first day after the doctor, as soon as they'd gotten home, she'd taken out the ultrasound photo and pinned it up on the fridge with a magnet. The way he imagined she'd had pictures of William up years ago, the way that parents had pictures up of their children. She was going to be such a good mother.

One morning, when they were lying in bed together, Scully tucked into his side, her head on his shoulder and her feet intertwined with his, she said, “I want to fix up both rooms.”

“What's that?” he asked lazily, his eyes half-closed, his fingers in her hair.

“Both rooms,” she said, lifting her head. “Both of the guest rooms. For the baby and for Jackson.”

He opened his eyes and looked at her. They were nose to nose, her eyes bright, crystal blue and full of emotion. “In… in case he comes back,” she added softly.

He leaned forward to kiss the tip of her nose, stroking the back of her head. “I think that's a great idea,” he said softly.

She smiled, just a little, the corners of her mouth upturning softly. “Nothing too elaborate,” she said. “I don't know… what he'd like, but… I want to have something ready.”

He rested his cheek against the top of her head, squeezing her tight. “I do, too,” he replied. “I do, too.”

---

It was well into April, over a month after the ordeal in Norfolk, when Jackson realized that no one had came for him yet.

Ever since he first set out on his own, months and months ago, he'd been running. Each time he thought he had evaded them, every time he thought he might be safe, he found himself nearly getting caught again, having to run or hide and fearing the danger of what would happen if he did get caught. More of what had happened when he was a child, when he stayed in that hospital for nearly six months and experienced experimentation, poking and prodding, until his parents had finally sprung him loose and moved across the damn country in an attempt to get away. He had been followed all his life by this, and it had been even worse since they took his parents. He never really thought it would end. That was why he couldn't be with Bri or Sarah, that was why he gave up on finding any more family after his grandmother shut him out, that was why he couldn't go with Scully and Mulder even if he had wanted to (which he didn't). It was too dangerous for them. People would never stop coming for him and he didn't want to get anyone else killed.

But it was nearly the end of April, and he hadn't seen a single one of those fucking conspiracy drones coming after them. He hadn't had to run for his life yet, or use his weird-ass powers very much. By the end of April, it seemed like nobody was coming for him, at least not to kill him. (Additionally, it seemed like his birth parents probably weren't coming for him, either, a relief in its own sense.)

It was also at the end of April that Jackson began to want to stop running. He never thought he would want to stop living like this, but the shiny newness and excitement had worn off immediately. (What little there had been considering his parents had been murdered, that is.) He was tired of it, of all of it: the fear, the dirtiness, the exhaustion. The loneliness. He couldn't stand it anymore. He couldn't stand it anymore, but he had no way to stop running. He didn't have enough money to stop running. He wasn't even seventeen yet, and he didn't know where he would go if he stopped running. He couldn't afford a house or an apartment. He could get a job, but he didn't know what place would hire a sixteen year old with no work experience. And even if he got a job, he still probably wouldn't be able to afford a place for a while. Not on a minimum wage job with barely any money saved up. He could keep sleeping in his car, he could keep playing the lottery, but he was sick of that kind of instability. He wanted somewhere permanent to stay.

It was impractical, he told himself again and again, but he couldn't let the idea go. He never thought he would be so homesick, but he found himself longing for the security of four square walls. He wished for his bedroom, for his old house, nearly every single night, but he knew that wasn't possible. But he was thinking about what might be possible, and his mind kept lingering over the idea of getting an apartment. He'd be seventeen in about a month, and he thought he could probably get a good fake ID made. All he would really need is a job, and the money to put down an apartment.

The idea stuck solidly in his mind, until it became clear that he was going to do this one way or another. All he had to do was decide where. Norfolk wouldn't work, but he still thought he might like to be close to Sarah.

It was a couple of days before he remembered that Sarah rode the bus to Richmond on weekends for music lessons. An avenue where he could hopefully grab a few hours without her parents or sister getting in the way. That seemed to settle it for him.

Jackson went to Richmond. He looked for affordable apartments on the edge of town and found one he thought would actually work. The landlord believed him when he said he was nineteen, and didn't ask too many questions. It seemed perfect, aside from the large security deposit and rent for the first month. He didn't see how he could afford that and food until he got a steady paycheck (he'd need to get a job first), aside from either stealing it or winning the lottery again, and there's only so many times you can win the lottery before attracting attention.

He couldn't think of any solution aside from the obvious one. There were two people who would probably be perfectly willing to give him enough money to rent a place of his own. He was guessing they'd prefer he just move in with them instead, but he was sure if he played his cards right, he could get the money. He figured they'd be jumping at the opportunity to help him, considering all the grief and guilt he'd seen in them.

But a part of him was still stubborn, recoiling at the idea of having any contact with his birth parents. He knew that the smoking fucker wasn't his birth father, which was honestly a relief, but that didn't matter in the long run. No matter how much they clearly cared for him, he couldn't engage with these people. It was a betrayal to his parents, his entire family. He'd told Ginger that he wished he could know her better, but he wanted to take it back now. He couldn't deal with the expectations, the grief, the guilt over his parents, wondering what they'd think if they knew he was interacting with his birth parents. He didn't need them, he told himself. He would be perfectly fine without them.

Jackson told himself this over and over again, but the decision didn't stick. It was one more night slept curled up in a ball in his car, freezing cold, that made the decision for him. He had to get his own place, and this was the best way he could see to make money.

He'd just ask them for money, he told himself. Nothing more. Nothing more. Just money, and then he would be done with them.

---

Jackson drove to Farrs Corner the next day. He knew how to find them without giving them any idea he was coming. (He knew Mulder could hear him some now, which was a weird experience; he was used to only Ginger being able to hear him. But whatever the case, he didn't want them to know he was coming. That'd only make things harder.)

It was an hour and a half drive, and he spent most of that drive with anxiety compressing his chest, his ribs. How the hell was he going to do this? What if they saw through the charm, the manipulation? Would they even do anything about it? What if they wanted him to stay? Of course they'd want him to stay, but how the hell was he going to say no? He knew what Mulder was like—the guy had hugged him right off the bat, for fuck's sake—but he didn't know much about Dana Scully. Didn't know much beside the things he had been seeing from her his whole life.

What the hell was he even supposed to call them? Was he supposed to refer to them by their last names? (Well, they did do it to each other. He sure as hell wasn't calling Mulder “Fox," that was for certain. And maybe if he used their last names, it'd be like drawing a line in the sand. We may share genetics, and a weird X-Men mind connection, but I am not your son. Not anymore.)

He was thinking about the time when he was five. They'd had to draw a picture of their family and talk about what they'd gotten from their family. Who they looked like, or who they acted like. It was a screwed-up assignment, but Jackson hadn't known that then. All he'd known was that he didn't look like anyone in his family, and he probably didn't act like them, either. Because he was adopted. He'd never know where he came from. But he knew, at the time, that he wanted to.

He was dreaming about Ginger sometimes (although he didn't call her that yet), a pretty woman with red hair who made him feel warm and safe inside. The way his own mother made him feel. He wanted to know who she was. He maybe even wanted to find her.

So that night, he'd walked into the living room and climbed into his mom's lap, put his head on her shoulder and said, “I want to look for my real parents.”

In retrospect, he was possibly more tactless as a five year old than he was now. (Although maybe not.) At the time, he hadn't seen anything wrong with what he said. But his mom's face had paled, her eyes wide as saucers. Jackson understood now: her son had uttered the words that are every adoptive parents’ worst nightmare.

“Y-you mean your birth parents, honey,” she'd said, more gently than he probably deserved.

Jackson had nodded. “My teacher says we gotta talk about our family in class.”

“Jackson, sweetie…” His mom rubbed nervous circles on his back. “We're your family. Remember? We talked about this. Just because we didn't give birth to you, or don't share any genetics with you, doesn't make you any less our son.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “But I'm someone else's son, too.”

His mother had taken a trembling breath, as if trying to compose herself. “Not exactly, honey. Your birth parents are not your parents, not like Dad and me. They might've given you up because they couldn't take care of you, or to give you a better life…”

“Or not!” Jackson said stubbornly. “Maybe they gave me up because it's super dangerous, and they didn't want me to get hurt, but they're still coming back for me someday.” He didn't want to believe that the woman from his dreams would give him up because she didn't want him. He wanted her to come for him and give him a big hug and tell him how much she loved him, just like his mom did all the time.

His mom sighed. “I think that's unlikely, Jackson. Now, sweetie, listen… I know this is a difficult subject for you to discuss… but it's unlikely you're ever going to get to meet your birth parents. Now, I'm sorry about that…”

“I could if we looked for her!” Jackson nearly shouted, slipping up. He didn't mean to refer to the woman, to Ginger, directly. He'd never told his mom and dad about her. He liked to think he had a birth father out there, too, someone else who loved him and missed him, but all he knew about for sure was Ginger.

His mom was still talking. “... know it's difficult, but you know how much your dad and I love you…”

“But they're my parents!” Jackson yelled.

“No, they're not,” his mother said, nearly wailing or screaming, or maybe in a quiet slip of a whisper. Jackson couldn't quite remember. He didn't think he wanted to.

He did scream. He remembered that. He screamed at the top of his lungs, and the room seemed to shake the way it always did when he got mad. The window by the couch had given a sickening crack, a spider's web of cracks forming on the glass. His mother had begun to cry, slipping off of the couch and out of the living room. Jackson had felt sick to his stomach. He hated making his mom cry.

Later, when she came to apologize for losing her temper, he apologized first, clambering up to hug her around the neck and whisper, “I'm sorry, Mommy. You're my real mommy.” He didn't stop thinking of Ginger as his other mom until years later, but he almost never brought her up around his parents after that. And he never called his birth parents his real parents again.

His mom and his dad were his real parents. He was a Van de Kamp. He'd grown up with them. He was his parents’ only child. They'd named him Jackson after his dad's father, his grandfather, who died when he was four. He'd spent his entire life with them. They were his family. (But remembering the way his grandmother slammed the door in his face made him feel like they weren't. Like he'd been booted out as soon as his parents died. It made his stomach roll with nausea.)

Mulder and Scully's driveway was long as shit. He had to get out of his car to drag the gate open, and then back closed again. Halfway up the driveway, he had to stop. His head fell forward, pressing into the steering wheel. He felt like he was going to cry. He didn't know if he could do this, but he had to. He had to. He needed this apartment, this security. He had to do it, but the guilt was choking him, his throat tightening. He pressed his forehead into the steering wheel and whispered, “I'm sorry, Mom. I'm so, so sorry.”

His mom did not answer, because he was not Haley Joel Osment, and he couldn't see dead people. But if they were watching him somewhere, somehow, he wanted them to know. “You're always going to be my real parents,” he said firmly. He sat up, his eyes squeezed shut, and gripped the wheel with both hands. “Always. Okay? But I have to do this. I have to.”

He rubbed a face over his face, as if to scrub away his tears. He took a deep breath and threw the car back into Drive.

---

Jackson stood on their doorstep, his hands tucked in his pockets, the doorbell still ringing in his ears. He heard footsteps inside, and it was enough to make him almost bolt. But he forced himself to stand still, took a deep breath.

The footsteps stopped on the other side of the door, the knob turning. It opened to reveal Scully on the other side, looking small in an oversized, frayed sweatshirt that read Oxford on the front. Her eyes went wide when she saw him, her mouth hanging open, shocked. She didn't move.

He offered her a sheepish shrug, his hands balled into fists in his pockets. “Um, hi,” he said. “Scully. Erm, Dana. Hi.” Ginger, he added silently. She looked the way she had in the dreams he'd tried to forget.

Scully made a choked sound in the back of her throat and stepped forward, throwing her arms around him. She squeezed him tight, a hand rubbing his back (the way his mom had years and years ago, when they were talking about his birth mother). She was shorter than him, his birth mother, and it was startling. “William,” she whispered in a trembling voice, and he bit back a flinch.

He was thinking of being five again, thinking about the woman he dreamed about, about whether or not she was his mother. And here she was, hugging him and rubbing his back like a mother would. But that wasn't his name. “You and that Mulder guy… you sure like to hug,” he said, his arms still at his side. Scully didn't move, didn't loosen her embrace.

Mulder appeared at the door, his eyes wide and teary. He choked out his name—Jackson, he called him Jackson, at least—and threw his arms around both of them, a hand on the back of Jackson's head.

Jackson stood there awkwardly, tense. He thought about his parents again, and had to bite back a sob. “I, uh,” he said tightly. “I'm okay, you know. I'm fine. I promise.” The least he could do, he guessed, was reassure them.

Scully sniffled loudly and let go, stepping back with Mulder. He had a hand at her back, and they were both looking at him with the softest fucking eyes. He had to look away. “You're… you're okay?” Scully repeated, her voice full of worry.

“Yeah,” he said, running a hand frustratedly through his choppy hair. That was what he got for cutting his own goddamn hair, an embarrassing haircut. “Yeah, yeah, I healed. I'm okay.”

“I saw you… get shot,” Mulder said cautiously.

He shrugged again. “I dunno what to say.”

Scully cleared her throat, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Do you… do you want to come in?”

“That'd be great,” Jackson said, which was true. “I've been sleeping in my car for two weeks, and the AC is very broken.”

Mulder and Scully exchanged a quick, guilty look, as if they didn't know what to say that. They stepped back into the house and Jackson followed them, standing awkwardly in the threshold. The three of them stared dumbly at each other for a long moment.

He started because he didn't really want them to start. Didn't want to hear how much they missed him or loved him. He said, “I, uh, I came here because I wanted you to know I was all right.” He didn't know whether or not it was a lie. He really didn't. “And I had a favor to ask of you,” he added.

They exchanged another look, Mulder's hand on Scully's shoulder. “A favor?” Scully repeated.

“Yeah.” Jackson rubbed at the back of his neck. He offered them a forced grin, a pathetic effort to be friendly. He figured he owed them that. “Things have slowed down a lot since last month, and no one's really chasing me anymore. And so, uh, I'm gonna get a job in Richmond. I want to be close to Sarah, but her parents don't like me, so I can't live in Norfolk.” He swallowed hard. He felt like he was rambling. “So I'm gonna get a job and an apartment in Richmond, and I'll see her when she takes the bus on the weekends to her music lessons. But see, uh, I have to put a security deposit down on the place I want to rent. And I don't have enough money…”

“So you want us to help you with the security deposit,” said Scully. Her face was unreadable. He couldn't tell if he'd hurt her feelings or not. Mulder was giving him a wary look, but neither of them looked mad. He couldn't tell what they were thinking. He didn't know that he wanted to know.

“Yeah,” he said. “If that's okay.”

Neither of them said anything. They were both just looking at him. He couldn't tell what they were thinking.

“Richmond isn't far from here,” Jackson added, a little desperately. “We could… see each other every now and then. Remember I said, I want to know you better?”

He felt bad even as he said it. He felt manipulative and small. But he didn't know how else to do this. He didn't want to stay with them. But he felt bad doing this. He felt their anguish both nights they thought he was dead, he knew how much they cared, even if he couldn't return it. He was torn, on the verge of taking back what he said and reassuring himself that he couldn't, that he didn't want to get too close. He had no idea what they were thinking, and he was considering an apology, when Scully suddenly said, “Okay.”

Jackson blinked with surprise. “Really?”

She shrugged, looking up at Mulder. “If… if that's what you want, sweetie… we want to help you,” she said. Her voice trembled only a little bit.

Mulder nodded. “It's the least we can do,” he added quietly.

Jackson gulped. He thought that a part of him hadn't really expected them to say yes. He thought a part of him might've been expecting them to insist that he stay there with them. He was shocked and grateful all at once. “Okay,” he said. “Uh, thank you. Thanks a lot.” He offered them another smile, the closest to a real smile he could give.

---

Their son was in their living room. He was watching TV on their couch, draped lazily over one arm. His eyes had lit up, just a little, when Daggoo had come running in, and so now Daggoo was sitting on the couch with him. He was watching some sitcom, and hearing the sound of his laugh every few minutes was a sort of relief, a reprieve. Mulder kept looking at Scully when Jackson laughed, as if his laugh reminded him of her.

It was the first time Scully had really seen him—not on camera or in photos, not in hazy visions, but him. And he looked like Mulder. He looked just like Mulder.

They were making sandwiches in the kitchen when Mulder pulled Scully aside into the hall, and whispered in her ear, “Are you sure about this, honey?”

“No,” she said with a sigh, her shoulders slumping. “No, I'm not. But what are we supposed to do, Mulder? Tell him no?”

He sighed, too, and shook his head, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You're right,” he whispered.

“If we refuse to do this, we've basically alienated him,” Scully whispered. “This may be the way we can connect with him. Even if it… involves buying him an apartment an hour and a half away.” She wasn't blind. She knew that everything Jackson had said was blatant manipulation, but she couldn't bring herself to care. She was going to be able to see her son, talk to him, maybe even spend time with him. See him after today. She could hold onto the hope that he might be a part of her life, a part of the baby's life. His little sibling.

Mulder wrapped his arms around her, his hands wet from washing the tomatoes. “I think this is going to work out,” he whispered. “I… I hope this is going to work out.”

“I hope so, too.” She kissed his cheek and squeezed tight before letting go. “I hope so, too.”

Back in the kitchen, she cobbled together a sandwich for Jackson, layering meat, cheese, lettuce, and tomatoes, cut it in half, and carried it out into the living room. Jackson was bent over Daggoo, scratching his stomach and whispering to him. But he straightened immediately when Scully entered, his face turning a little red. “Hi,” he said sheepishly. “Uh, thanks.” He motioned to the plate.

“Oh, of course,” she said, handing him the plate. She gave him a smile that she hoped was warm and sat down in the chair across from him. Jackson was eating ravenously, as if he was very hungry, and the sight of it made her hurt inside, wondering what he'd been eating, if he'd been eating enough. She hated that he'd been alone out there for so long.

“I was thinking, Jackson,” she added, as Mulder came out of the kitchen to join them, sitting in another chair. “We have some… furniture in storage. A couch, some chairs, a table. A bed, even." All the things from her old house that they hadn't had space for. She hoped Jackson wouldn't ask about the furniture, because she didn't feel like explaining the breakup. She continued, "If you wanted to have those things for your apartment…”

“Yeah,” Jackson said, nearly blurting. “Yeah, that'd be great. I don't remember the last time I slept on a real bed.” He laughed nervously.

A lump was building in Scully's throat. She swallowed it back and said, “We’re glad to.”

“We can rent a U-Haul, drive down tomorrow,” Mulder added. “Talk to the landlord. Maybe we should give him a call later.”

Jackson's head hung forward loosely, his eyes downcast. “We could… go today,” he offered. “If we could get a U-Haul today. I think the landlord and I have something of an understanding that I'm getting that apartment."

Scully bit back a flinch. She didn't expect this to happen so soon. “If you're… ready,” Mulder said uncertainly.

“I think I am,” said Jackson immediately. Like he couldn't wait to get out of their house. He was scratching Daggoo's belly, his tail thumping against the side of the couch happily. “You know. The sooner, the better.”

Scully took a shaky breath and said, “Okay.” She forced another smile, getting to her feet. “I'll call the storage unit,” she said. “See if we can pick up the stuff today.”

“Okay,” Jackson said, nodding.

She felt Mulder's hand on her wrist, like a reassurance. She went into the kitchen to get her cell phone, passing the fridge, where they still had the picture of the ultrasound, pinned up next to a new picture. One of herself and Mulder and William—Jackson—asleep on her bed, the night they'd brought him home. The sight of it made her want to cry. She wondered if Jackson had see the photo, either of them. She didn't know if he knew about the baby, and she didn't want to be the one to tell him. She picked up her phone and dialed the number of the storage unit.

---

They somehow made it to Richmond and had Jackson all moved in by that night. It happened so fast Mulder could hardly believe it. Trip to Bethesda to get the furniture and the U-Haul, drive to Richmond, paying the landlord, lugging Scully's old furniture up the stairs to Jackson's dinky little apartment. It hurt Mulder a bit, to see that furniture; it was the sign of another member of his family living somewhere without him. He and Jackson carried the furniture up, and he refused to let Scully help, giving her a stern look that made her shake her head and smile ruefully. Jackson didn't seem to notice.

As painful as the entire day was, a part of it was magical. They were spending time with their son. He drove up separately from them, but he was with them during the move, and they managed a few awkward exchanges of conversation. He kept seeing things in the kid that reminded him of Scully. He looked a little bit like Mulder's mother, a little bit like Samantha, but he kept doing things that reminded Mulder of Scully. It made him ache. Every moment seemed precious. Sitting on Scully's dusty old couch that only smelled a little like smoke, drinking cans of Coke in a companionable silence with his wife on one side and his son on the other, Mulder never wanted to leave.

He wanted, more than once, to blurt everything out, to tell their son how much they loved him and how sorry he was for leaving and how they'd never forgotten him. To apologize again and again and again. He could tell by the look in Scully's eyes that she wanted to do the same thing. But they both held back. They didn't want to push too hard. That's why they were doing this, helping their son get an apartment an hour and a half away instead of asking him to stay at their house.

Jackson gave his name as William. He signed the lease William with a random last name tacked on, covering his tracks, but also likely trying to appeal to them. Mulder saw the look on Scully's face when he signed the lease; she was feeling the same way he was. He'd do anything for another chance with him, no matter how much this particular thing hurt.

It was late when they were finally finished with everything, the spring skies dark outside Jackson's dirty window. Mulder took one look at the empty refrigerator tucked into the corner of the kitchen, and said, “Let us buy you dinner, Jackson. We'll get you some takeout.”

“I second that,” Scully added. She'd bought three containers of Clorox wipes and was working on the dusty kitchen counter with one of them. “I'm starving, myself, and I know you must be hungry, too.”

Jackson looked between the three of them like he was considering arguing, and then shrugged. “That sounds great,” he said. “Amazing. Thank you.”

Mulder felt a little bit like one half of a divorced couple trying to bribe the kid, but he told himself it didn't matter. They could be the fun birth parents for a day. He and Jackson hooked up a dinky thrift-store TV across from the couch while Scully called in an order to a nearby Thai place. He paid, of course. They ate in a circle at Scully's old table, mostly quiet. They asked Jackson questions about his life, avoiding the sensitive subjects as best they could—although every subject felt sensitive. Scully asked about school, about friends, about books and movies he liked. Mulder asked about baseball, thinking of the photograph he still had somewhere at home of a young Jackson peering up from under a baseball cap. He had a million different things to ask him, his boy, but baseball was the first thing that came to mind.

Jackson answered the questions, albeit awkwardly, and didn't really ask any questions of his own. Mulder tried not to let it bother him.

Eventually, the quiet became too strained. They'd helped him moved into an apartment without speaking on a single important subject. Scully said, “I guess we better go,” twisting the car keys in her hand and looking as if she didn't want to. Jackson nodded, stiffly, looking down at the newly mopped floor.

“Hey, kiddo,” Mulder said lightly, because nothing else felt right. When Jackson turned to him, he took three hundreds out of his wallet and handed it to him. “Here,” he said. “Consider it a loan til you find a job.”

Jackson gave him a brief, grateful grin. “Thanks, man,” he said, taking the money. “I appreciate that.”

“You call us,” Scully added, her voice suddenly fierce, “if you need anything, okay? Anything. We'll be here.”

Jackson looked a little surprised, possibly by the raw emotion. “Okay,” he said. “I will. I promise.”

Scully squeezed the car keys tight; he could tell she really didn't want to leave, and neither did he. He put a hand to her back and nodded at his son. “Good night,” he said. “Be safe, all right?”

Something strange passed over Jackson's face, something like grief. He nodded.

Scully gave him a wobbly smile, and then they turned, walking to the door. The click of the door behind them felt like a condemnation.

As they walked towards the elevator, Mulder tried to remind himself that they would probably see their son again. If only to come down and check on him. Make sure he was okay. He was sure they would see him again.

#sorry i didn't post yesterday!!#xf rewatch #xf fanfic #i wrote this

117 notes · View notes

troublcmvker · 4 years

Text

TASK ONE: make a new year’s wish.

I. mun based questions.

question one. i’m always open for pain and evil ideas! i Live for drama and wouldn’t be opposed at all. but i also think it’d be pretty neat to sometimes post a general request? especially if there’s a plot where a bunch of characters would fit and you guys could decide who fits Better! and that way everyone gets a chance to be part of Something.

question two. i’d probably suffer a lot but i don’t mind the getting hurt. sometimes actions have consequences and they need to Learn. i’d be cool with that in any way tbh, most of my characters are vampires so... eh, they can just re-attach their arms for all i know. same with elijah but as a fellow human, it sucks to suck i guess.

question three. i would probably need to mentally prepare myself first, i’d get back to you on this one someday.

II. muse based questions.

ASRA - volturi guard vampire. ( pansexual, homoromantic )

i. i have a hc that during his human years there was one person he’d been in love with. the only being in his entire life he’d felt something for. asra never really confessed bc... times were different and their relationship would have been forbidden; but i imagine they were close friends. ofc, after he became a vampire and found out someone killed his family he went on a killing spree & pretty much everyone in his village paid the price. but he doesn’t know for sure if this person was a victim too. imagine if by some chance ( him not actually killing them and accidentally turning them; or them not being around at the time and being turned later by someone else ) they find their way into seattle... and them and asra meet. asra’s dramatic ass being reminded that he does actually have feelings!

additional info: would have to be a male aligned korean fc around the same fake age as asra so... early 20s.

ii. i think finding his singer would be something fun to explore? not in a... romantic sense because i highly doubt he’d even consider that. but more in a how dare you exist and make me feel like a monster for wanting to murder you, kinda way. bc.. he’s not exactly someone that kills for fun, mostly because he has to if he wants to survive ( and he does ); so someone that brings out that... feral? part of him and reminds him that he is, in fact, a killing machine would be fun!

iii. asra is someone that finds humans... very interesting; in the same sense of a zoologist finding animal behaviour interesting. he observes them from afar, never gets too close. what if someone comes so utterly... fascinating ( maybe bc they’re just a trainwreck of a person, or just... so different in the way they act ) that actually makes asra want to see them up close, interact with them or even... gasps care for them? unheard of!

iv. this one is for my vamps out there. it’d be neat for him to find someone that calls him out on his “i have no feelings” bullshit, and gets close to him enough for asra to actually want to open up to them... long story short a friend someone he truthfully cares about. i see this as mostly platonic but it could be romantic if there’s chemistry.

additional info: they’d have to be male for any sort of romantic relationship to happen

v. maybe someone from their old covens ? i imagine he’d been in two before joining the volturi guard. nothing more than that, just someone, or multiply people ( squad ? ) that knows him from a long time ago and he banters with, or fights with, or maybe has a nice relationship with!

vi. vampire he’s hooked up with ? most likely during his newborn days tbh, or before he joined the volturi. bc now it’s Serious Business Only.

additional info: could be any gender.

ALICE - olympic coven vampire. ( pansexual, panromatic )

i. i WOULD LOVE CYNTHIA BRANDON. OR ANY LONG LOST RELATIVE !!! that’d be such a chef’s kiss connection to explore considering she doesn’t remember anything about her human life. if it’s cynthia just imagine her pain of her recognizing her sister but alice having no memories, absolutely nothing in her mind other than a weird feeling of ‘have i seen you before?’ or if it’s a long lost relative... them recognizing alice from really old family pictures and being like ‘isn’t this one of my relatives that disappeared from the asylum? wtf???’

additional info: cynthia brandon/any other relative would have to be at least half korean.

ii. i have a hc that after being turned, as a lost newborn she was found by an extremely nice and welcoming coven that took the time to teach her how to live her new life. i think it’d be cool to either meet her sire or an old coven member again!

iii. when she was just turned alice had no idea what the visions in her mind meant. she had forgotten everything about her life, and had no choice but to start all over again. at first she did everything she could to ignore the images on her head; and focused on simply making the most of this 2nd chance she was given. there was this one other vampire ( could be from that old coven, or just someone else she met ) that seemed to understand her so well. and for alice, someone that had never experienced love before, they were... everything she needed at the time. they helped to shape her into the bright and loving little angel that she is, they were so good to her. but soon enough came this vision, of her surrounded by so much happiness, a loving family and a mate that wasn’t them. a vision she couldn’t ignore. they were good, they understood, in fact they were the ones that encouraged her to seek for them, because it’s what she deserved. and so... she left in order to find her destiny. what if alice and this vampire met again? ( obviously alice loves jasper more than anything and she’s 100% sure he’s her soulmate but... mayb the pain :^) or just that Good Good loving and purely platonic relationship !!! )

additional info: could be any gender!

iv. humans/other vampires/cotm she’s blessed with her fashion knowledge as a fashion consultant ?? idk ! friends !!

GARRETT - nomad vampire. ( pansexual, demiromantic )

i. this dude’s been alive since mid 1700s. always involved in american wars! i feel like in one of them, when there was someome that truly needed it. he turned a fellow soldier to make sure they come back from war. he thought them the basics, helped them through the bloodlust. what happened after they come back from the war is utp. but garrett is their sire. maybe they resent him, maybe they’re grateful. all there is to know is that they’re alive thanks to him.

ii. he’s quite the adventurer so... maybe vampires he’s met through the years on his expeditions? could be friends, could dislike eachother.

iii. i imagine at some point during his long life there had to be someone he was extremely close to. someone that could have been his mate, but for any reason they didn’t quite get there. maybe because at the time one of them ( most likely garrett tbh ) wasn’t willing to settle down, or maybe their feelings weren’t deep enough for that. but they worked well together in any other way. they could have drifted apart, moved along on good terms, or on bad terms. but seattle becomes the city they once again collide in.

additional info: could be any gender!

iv. the idea of a coven... wasn’t the most appealing for a free spirit like garrett. but it wasn’t something he had completely ruled out. maybe there was a time he was a part of one, or got really close to. they come to seattle and find him here, still a nomad, as free as ever. could be fun to explore!

v. this seems like a crackhead plot but hear me out... a human completely oblivious about the existence of supernatural beings. obsessed with american history. finding a similar looking guy in every single picture from all the american wars there have been since cameras were invented. and oh my god? does that tall dude in the library looks exactly like the dude in the pictures too? what the hell is going on? am i on x files?

ELIJAH - human. ( pansexual, demiromantic )

i. any possible platonic relationship you could imagine! childhood friends, high school friends, college friends, training/cop/detective friends ?? legit ANYTHING. i’m always sipping that ‘i love platonic connections’ juice

ii. this one connection is important. but basically... elijah gained his status by making the Right Connections. but there was someone above everyone else that helped along the way. they were together pretty much since they both started college, and they had everything elijah wished to have growing up. their relationship was mostly physical, their feelings for eachother weren’t that deep and they were both aware of that. elijah would get the exposure/connections he wanted; and they’d get the excellent academic status that came with elijah. but the fact that they were pretty much the reason why elijah got the chance to make those connections made them think they held some sort of power above him. and since elijah still wasn’t in a place where he could just let everything crumble down, he’d comply and do as they said. this relationship was toxic, there was no love between them at all. and it was bound to end at some point. there were some nice moments, not including the amazing sex, that would make elijah consider the possibility of a future together; but the bad moments would always make him go right back to his senses. if anything elijah is thankful for them, but he’s also extremely grateful that things ended without any of them hurting the other more than they already had.

additional info: could be any gender!

iii. past hookups ? exes ? there could be lingering feelings from their part.. or not. they could be bitter, or ended up in good terms! ( he’s married, in love AND faithful so it wouldn’t really be anything more tbh )

#equinox.task1 #my brain reached its limit when i got to elijah for plots #i'm Sorry my boy i really do love you

2 notes · View notes

laudsimogen · 6 years

Text

End of the Day

Summary: One of Jake’s undercover missions goes seriously awry, and he and his friends have to deal with the aftermath. Tags: Angst, happy ending Pairing: Jake x Amy Length: 4,390 words

The first and only thing Jake Peralta thought in the moment the gunshot rang out was I’ll never get to see Amy again.

And then he was down. There wasn’t any pain, unlike when he was shot in the foot, but there was some feeling of simultaneous numbness and heat blooming through him like ink in water. It felt like he could get back up, like he could push through it and defend himself the way he was trained, but he couldn’t muster the strength to stand.

A finishing shot should come soon, he thought, now that he couldn’t fight back. He shuddered to think about what an easy target he was in that moment.

But the shot never came, at least not that he could tell. He could have sworn he heard one, or even two, but it was all background noise to the uncomfortable sound of his pulse in his ears and the swaths of black clouding his vision.

It didn’t matter. One bullet or three didn’t make a difference; all Jake knew was that it was getting harder to breathe, and his heart was skipping, and he wished Amy could have been there to hold him one last time.

“Briefing room. Now.”

Amy immediately stood from her desk at Captain Holt’s words and rolled her shoulders and neck to relieve the tension that had been building there all morning. It was harder doing deskwork without Jake around to liven it up, and she often found herself stuck tight in one position for hours on end. She was grateful for any real opportunity to get out of her chair and stretch.

Of course, it was only to settle down at one of the briefing room desks, but motion was motion. She let her mind wander as the rest of the squad filed into the room, wondering whether someone was in trouble for doing something stupid, which seemed to be half the reason meetings were ever called, or whether there was an interesting new case to solve.

Holt closed the door and made his way to the front of the room. He cradled a leaf of letterhead paper on a manila envelope in his hands, and Amy hoped it actually was the beginning of a new case file.

“I have word from Marshal Johnson,” Holt began, and the room erupted with sound.

“Jake’s captured O’Bannon, hasn’t he!” Charles said, his face alight with joy. “I knew our boy could do it,” he added to Amy. “In and out, just like that. Nobody in the 99 has ever caught such a fugitive in less than a month before!”

Amy felt her insides constrict with nerves, just like they always do when there’s news from an undercover investigation. Jake had been on so many she felt she should be used to it by now—he’s a perfectly capable detective and he’s always been fine before—but her gut didn’t agree.

This particular case he was working alone. Michael O’Bannon was wanted for just about every crime under the sun, from drug dealing to murder. Jake was chosen for the job for reasons that couldn’t be disclosed no matter how much Charles had begged and pleaded, and while Amy hadn’t voiced her desire to know more about the case her fiancé would be working, the thought of him being undercover for so long without anyone else on the squad terrified her.

But here, through all the chatter, was news. Holt had actually tolerated the noise longer than Amy expected, but it didn’t take long for him to quiet them down. He cleared his throat and looked down to skim the paper in front of him before laying it down on the lectern.

“I have been searching for the words to tell you all about this since the letter arrived this morning,” Holt said, and Amy’s heart all but fell through the bottom of the floor. The briefing room was quieter than she had ever heard it. There was a long pause, as if Holt were still searching for those words, and it was suddenly glaringly obvious that something was terribly wrong.

“Detective Peralta was compromised in his mission,” he said eventually, his eyes trained on a back corner of the room to avoid eye contact. “He was killed three days ago in the line of duty.”

The room burst to life again, this time filled with pain and rage and indignation and denial. Amy could only sit still as her world shattered around her and Holt brought the clamoring back down.

“Jake was a fine detective, and a fine man,” Holt said, his voice wavering. “He will be sorely missed. I will let you all know when the service will be as soon as possible, and I urge you to support each other in this tragedy.”

Holt left the room before anyone could ask any questions, and the silence and stillness persisted long after the door swung shut. Amy’s face was wet with tears, and she could hear Charles sniffling beside her. She couldn’t tear herself away from the shock until Rosa appeared on her other side and pulled her into a hug. Her crying finally became audible as she sobbed into Rosa’s shoulder, gripping the back of her jacket like her life depended on it.

When Jake came to in his hospital bed, he could barely see through the pain enough to know he was even in a hospital bed. His whole torso was on fire and he had a splitting headache the likes of which he’d only experienced before in terrible hangovers.

It took another few minutes before he realized he wasn’t in an actual hospital. The floral wallpaper was old and cracked, and a pile of dusty toys and a plush chair sat in the opposite corner. The blinds were drawn tight in the window and there were two doors, one that must lead out of the room and another that could be a bathroom or closet door. It looked like a regular old bedroom.

Jake wasn’t sure whether he should call for somebody. He was hooked up to an IV and an ECG machine, and he was alive, so odds were good that whoever had done this was on his side. He couldn’t be sure, though, and while he didn’t have any means of defense in such a state, he didn’t want to plunge into deeper shit than he was already in.

Before he could fight through his pain- and probably drug-induced haze, the door opened and an older woman walked in. Jake had never seen her before, and she started when she saw Jake awake.

“Oh! Detective Peralta,” the woman said, “I’m glad you’re awake.”

“Where am I?” Jake asked. He wished he could think well enough to ask more specific questions.

“This is my house,” the woman said. “I’m Doctor Acosta. Marshal Johnson sent you into hiding with me as soon as I was able to get you out of the operating room. You’re not allowed to leave here no matter what,” she said. “Marshal’s orders.”

Jake groaned. “Can I speak to him?” he said. “I need to be briefed on…” he gestured vaguely around the room, “all of this.”

“Of course,” Acosta said. “I was instructed to call him as soon you were lucid.” She took a phone and a slip of paper from her pocket and dialed the number on the paper before handing the phone to Jake.

“US Marshal Johnson,” the marshal said when he picked up the phone.

“Sir,” Jake said, “It’s Peralta. What happened? How am I alive?”

“Slow down,” Johnson said. “I’ll explain everything. We found out at the last minute that your cover had been blown. I led a team to your location and we didn’t make it before you were shot, but we managed to chase O’Bannon and his men off before they finished the job.” He paused. “Most of them escaped, including O’Bannon. Doctor Acosta is keeping you hidden until you’re well enough to be on duty.”

Jake sighed. Normally he’d argue, and he probably will once he feels well enough to at least stand and walk, but for now it hurt just to breathe and he couldn’t imagine facing off against a genius criminal again anytime soon.

“Fine,” he said. “Can I at least have contact with my precinct if I’m not working the case anymore?”

There was a silence at the other end of the line, which Jake hoped meant Johnson was considering it. Superiors never seem to sway in his favor, though, and he could tell the answer wouldn’t be a positive one when Johnson finally heaved a sigh and replied.

“Unfortunately, you cannot,” Johnson said. “Even this phone call is the only one we’ll have between each other. This is a unique case, Detective, and certain measures need to be taken for your safety.”

“Okay, well…how long before I can go back on duty?” Jake asked. Johnson’s voice had betrayed some emotion Jake couldn’t quite put his finger on, but it wasn’t good. Something was off, but he hoped if he ignored it he wouldn’t have to deal with it.

“Doctor Acosta will tell you everything you need to know medically,” Johnson said. “There’s just one other thing you should be aware of.”

Jake frowned. “What is it?”

“Those measures for your safety go beyond contact,” Johnson said. “O’Bannon has eyes everywhere, and he needed to think you were dead or he would find a way to kill you. You understand why that poses a concern.”

“Okay…” Of course he understood; it was common sense. Not only did he not want to be killed, but being laid up in a hospital bed, even in a place less full of civilians than a hospital, put innocent lives in danger.

“I had to notify your captain of your death,” Johnson said. “He will inform your precinct and organize a funeral so as not to rouse suspicion. News of your death will be broadcast publicly.”

Jake paused. “You mean you notified him of my fake death,” he said.

“I notified him that you fell at the hands of O’Bannon,” Johnson said. “You are officially dead until further notice. You will not show your face, you will not use social media, and you will have no contact with anyone outside Acosta’s apartment.”

“What?” Jake cried. “No, no, no, you can’t do that,” he said. “My squad knows how to fake mourning; they’ve done it before for former Detective Pimento. You can’t tell them I’m actually dead.”

“I can do whatever I deem necessary,” Johnson said, “and I have. I understand your misgivings, Peralta, but as soon as you’re well, or as soon as O’Bannon is captured, you can go home. This situation isn’t indefinite.”

“But sir—”

“But nothing,” Johnson said. “You will be informed when you can reemerge. Until then, Doctor Acosta will take care of you.”

The phone hung up before he could protest and he reluctantly handed it back to Acosta. There was nothing he could do; his friends, his family, will think he’s dead for who knows how long. Months, maybe. As much as he’d always thought faking his death would be the coolest thing he could accomplish as a cop, imagining the rest of the squad mourning him and thinking he would never come back broke his heart.

It seemed cruel. What about Amy? She was so uncertain for so long about dating another cop, and this could solidify those uncertainties into regrets. He wanted more than anything in the world to tell her he was okay, that he loved her, and that he would be back as soon as he could. He briefly wondered if he could bribe the doctor into letting him write a letter, but tried to push the temptation out of his mind. As much as he hated to admit it, O’Bannon was too dangerous for him to try anything, and if something happened to Amy or anyone else at the Nine-Nine because of him he’d never be able to forgive himself.

So the waiting game began.

Captain Holt tried to insist Amy take time off of work, but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t sit at home and cry despite feeling like she had enough tears to last months. Being at work was the best distraction she had, and if she gave that up, she would totally break. It seemed the same was true of most of the squad, save Charles, who hadn’t shown his face in the week since they were notified of Jake’s death.

The funeral was tonight, and Amy wasn’t prepared. She’d been grappling with her eulogy for days, knowing words didn’t exist to describe how she felt about Jake and his passing. In the end, she’d crumbled up the sixth paper she’d attempted and curled into a ball herself, wishing she could disappear.

So, instead of doing work, she only sat at her desk and stared at her computer, her mind running through how the service might go. She wasn’t sure she’d even be able to make it into the room with the coffin on stage and Jake’s portrait standing next to it. She almost considered staying home, but she couldn’t just not show up no matter how sick she felt at the prospect.

“Amy.”

Amy snapped out of her daze; she hadn’t noticed Gina walking up to her. She sighed and rubbed her temples to try to ease her headache as Gina slid her papers away to sit on the desk.

“Hey, Gina,” she said. “What is it?”

“You’re stressing about tonight, aren’t you?” Gina said, and continued before Amy had a chance to reply. “Of course you are. What say you and me ditch this depression rodeo and go pregame?”

Amy scowled. “Pregame what?” she said. “Jake’s funeral?”

“It’s what he would have wanted and you know it,” Gina said. She sighed, then added, “I’m stressing too, okay? I just think the night will be a little easier if, you know, I had some tequila and five-drink-Amy made an appearance.”

“I suppose a little confidence wouldn’t hurt…”

“That’s the spirit!” Gina slapped Amy’s back hard enough that she nearly face planted into the desk. “Oops,” she said with a chuckle. “I may have already had a drink or two.”

“Okay,” Amy said, standing up. “All right. I just need to tell Captain Holt we’re clocking out.”

And two hours later, Amy was sobbing face-first into the bar. It was the first time the number of drinks she’d had didn’t correspond to any of her drunken quirks. The crying had started after drink number two, and she couldn’t stop herself from letting out intermittent bursts of tears.

“I miss him,” she cried. “I miss him so much and I loved him so much and…and what if he didn’t know that?” She lifted her head and looked wide-eyed at Gina. “What if I didn’t say it enough?”

Gina groaned. “Your relationship was so pure it made me want to vomit,” she said. “He knew you loved him. Trust me. You were all he ever talked about.”

Amy nodded and wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him,” she murmured.

“Yeah,” Gina said. “You only get one best friend. Of course, I am many people’s best friend, but I only have enough room in my life for one…and…”

Amy tilted her head. “Gina?”

“And he’s gone,” Gina said flatly. She slid out of the bar stool and pasted a smile onto her face before holding her hand out to Amy. “We should get ready for the service. Contrary to popular belief, I can’t just flip my hair and become a perfect twelve.”

Amy took Gina’s hand and slipped off the stool, stumbling into her. “I think I had too many drinks,” she said. “Oh, God, I’m going to ruin the funeral.”

“Don’t think about it and it’ll be over before you know it,” Gina drawled as she practically pushed Amy out of the bar.

When they got to the church, Amy took a seat on one of the front pews while Gina went to the bathroom, and it wasn’t long before she was flanked by Rosa and Terry.

“How you holding up, Santiago?” Terry said. “I know today must be hard for you, but I’m here if you need anything.”

Amy sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. “Thank you, Terry.” She paused, then admitted, “I don’t have a speech.”

“You don’t?” Terry frowned. “That’s so unlike you.”

Amy nodded. “If I go up there and say anything you’re gonna have to escort me out because I won’t be able to make it off the stage myself because I couldn’t even do this for him; I couldn’t write him a nice eulogy, and I couldn’t hold myself together at his funeral, and he’d be teasing me for being a mess right now, and…”

“Are you drunk?”

Amy nodded again. “Gina’s idea.” She sighed. “It didn’t work.”

“Look,” Rosa said, “if you can’t make it up there to give a dumb speech, it’s okay. Nobody is going to force you and everyone already knows how much you loved him.”

“I’m sorry,” Amy said. “Jake was your friend, too. I don’t want you to have to take care of me. This is hard on all of us.”

“Yeah,” Terry said, “it is. We all just have to be there for each other and we’ll be okay.”

Amy nodded and straightened up as much as she could as the service began. It felt longer than it actually was, and her eyes never dried through the entire evening, but she made it to the end without vomiting so she deemed it a success. That is, until it was time for eulogies.

She stiffly made her way to the microphone and stood staring blankly at the mourners, wringing one hand with the other as she tried to figure out what to say. Giving up on writing it in advance was a mistake, she thought.

“Jake…” Amy took a deep breath. “Jake Peralta was the best person I have ever known,” she said. “I was lucky to have him in so much of my life. He inspired me through my fears and anxieties, and he helped teach me how to relax and enjoy life for what it is.” She stopped to wipe her tears away again. “I wish more than anything he could come back,” she said. Her chest tightened and she was crying to the point that wiping them away did nothing, but she kept speaking.

“Jake was so full of love,” she said. “He loved so much and so hard and he deserved to be here longer than he was. I’ll carry him with me in everything I do at the Nine-Nine, and I know the rest of his friends will, too.”

It was four months before Jake heard back from Marshal Johnson. They were the longest months of his life, even longer than the time he’d spent in Florida. At least then he’d had Captain Holt around, and he could go outside, and he could get a letter from the squad every so often.

So when the doorbell rang and Doctor Acosta brought Johnson into the house, Jake felt like he’d ascended into someplace higher than Heaven. The briefing was quick and simple: the FBI had detained O’Bannon and subdued all of his men, and Captain Holt would be told the truth about Jake before he went back to Brooklyn. His life should be back to normal in just days, but the prospect of seeing his friends months after they were told he was dead was more nerve-wracking than any case he’d been on. What if they were angry? He knew he would be angry if his role had been reversed with any of them—not that he would blame them, but he would be angry nonetheless.

Jake’s plane came first thing in the morning, and he was back in New York by noon to meet Holt at the airport. His stomach churned as he left the gate and scanned the crowd for Holt, who he found with no problem. He grinned despite his nerves as he approached the captain.

“Sir,” Jake said, offering his hand.

“Peralta.” Holt nodded and shook Jake’s hand before pausing and drawing him into a hug. “It’s good to see you again, Jake,” he said. “I am glad you’re well.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Captain,” Jake said. “Really good.”

“I’ve not told the others about you yet,” Holt said once they’d caught a cab. “I only got word late last night, and I figured you would want to stop by the precinct to see them as soon as you got back, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Jake said, “I need to see them. But, uh…shouldn’t they have some warning? I mean, I think ghosts are badass, but they might not think so.”

“I will go in before you and tell them,” Holt said. “They will all be thrilled to see you, Peralta. You should know your funeral was the most emotional thing I have ever experienced.”

There it was again, that pang of guilt for things he couldn’t control. He forced a laugh and said, “Man, I was hoping it would have been a rager.”

“Some people were enraged, yes,” Holt said. “Particularly Boyle.”

“No, I meant ‘rager’ as in a wild party with drinks and fun,” Jake said.

“I’m not familiar with the slang,” Holt replied, “but Santiago did appear to be inebriated, and I know Gina was—”

“Okay, not helping,” Jake said. “Never mind. We’re almost there; I just need to take a few deep breaths…calm down…”

“Why are you so nervous?” Holt said. “You don’t have any reason to be.”

“I don’t know,” Jake said. “I’ve just never been in a situation like this before. I’m used to being prepared for anything, but I wasn’t trained for dealing with these emotions and Yahoo Answers doesn’t have many people who have faked their deaths giving advice.”

“Come on, Peralta,” Holt said as the cab pulled up in front of the precinct, “you’ll be fine. Now, stay out here and I will come get you after I have given everybody the news.”

Jake nodded and leaned against the wall to wait while Holt went inside.

“Everybody in the briefing room,” Captain Holt said as he strode out of the elevator. “I have big news.”

Amy perked up. She’d never heard the captain use the words big news before, but she couldn’t imagine it meant anything bad. Had the precinct won an award? Were crimes at a record low? She scanned her internal database for anything interesting that might be happening this time of year, but she couldn’t come up with anything big news-worthy.

Once everyone was seated, Holt took his usual place at the front of the room and immediately began speaking.

“Four months ago,” he said, “we held a funeral for Detective Jake Peralta.”

Amy felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. Thinking about Jake’s death still hurt, and the precinct found it was best for all of them not to bring it up. Why was Holt mentioning it now?

“Last night, I received a call from US Marshal Johnson, the marshal Detective Peralta had been working under. I was told he was alive.”

Amy’s breath caught, and she shook her head. “Sir, I think I must have misheard you…”

“You did not,” Holt said. Amy’s pulse raced as murmurs spread through the room. “Peralta was ordered to lie low in Maine after being compromised and subsequently shot. He survived, but Johnson faked his death for his safety while he recovered, and now that O’Bannon has been captured, he is free to return to New York.”

“Hey, guys.”

Amy whipped around in her seat at the sound of Jake’s voice and found him standing in the doorway with a sheepish grin on his face. Warmth washed over her and she felt rigid and weak all at the same time. Is this real? she thought. It is. It is real. It has to be real.

“Sorry, Captain, I couldn’t wait—”

Jake staggered under Amy’s weight as she all but threw herself out of her chair and into his arms. Her arms wrapped so tightly around his neck he almost couldn’t breathe, but he lifted his hands to hold her back and closed his eyes, breathing in her perfume and burying his face in her hair. When she finally drew back, one hand tangled in his hair and the other still wrapped around his neck, the look in her eyes sparkling with tears made his heart melt.

She pulled him back into a hug, crooning “I thought I’d never see you again” and “I missed you so much” and “I love you, Jake. Don’t you ever do that to me again” and yes, she sounded angry like he was afraid she would, but he didn’t care anymore. He just gathered her tighter into his arms and kissed the top of her head and felt her warmth and her heartbeat and her love.

And then more weight was added as Charles did his best to bear-hug the both of them, and he could feel Rosa slapping him on the back, and Terry ruffled his hair through joyous sniffles, and Gina managed to worm her way into the hug, too—something Jake would have to remember to tease her about later.

Later, there were drinks (a celebratory rager, as Holt had called it), and the ninety-ninth precinct became whole again as they recounted tales from the last four months and openly shared their love for one another.

“To Jake’s immortality!” Charles drunkenly toasted, and Jake laughed and shook his head as Charles attempted to clink glasses with everyone in the bar.

“No,” Jake said. “To my family.” He looked to Amy and wrapped his arm around her before glancing around at the rest of his squad. “You’re all incredible, and I missed you so much,” he said. “Nine-Nine!”

The chorus of Nine-Nine!s answered back as smoothly as they ever had, and at the end of the day with the sun setting on the horizon, they felt full and at peace with the world again.

#b99 #b99 fic #b99 fanfiction #peraltiago #my writing

83 notes · View notes

magic5ball · 3 years

Text

Nature Trail to Hell Arc IV: Megamart of Darkness (2)

Chapter 2: They Paved Paradise…

Honestly, I didn’t know what I expected paradise to be. Back in those days, the word made me think of one of two things: sitting under a blanket all day with my video games or those scented candles Mom always got for the bathroom.

A dinky little stock pond filled so high with trout their fins were breaking the surface was the last thing I would have thought of.

Dinky or not, though, if I just sat there it was going to be my grave, and I acted accordingly: by kicking and screaming until I got what I wanted. Like the puppy dog eyes, I figured that if they worked on my parents, they’d work on these waddly little buggers. But natural selection must have been kind to those bird brains, because they did not relent in the slightest! It was like all the sympathy had been bred out of them over generations, and the rest was squashed by some rigorous training program. Heck, they seemed to work even faster after hearing me pout.

There was a sudden feeling of lightness as they launched my climber into the air, followed by a splash as it slapped smack dab in the middle of the pond, my body still facing skyward. The sun was shining brightly that day; right in my eyes like it was taunting me.

Then I began to sink. It was slow at first, like quicksand (I figure it was because of all the trout buoying me) but before long the sun was blotted out by a fifteen mile cloud of shimmering fish scales. By the time I’d sunk ten feet, it might as well have been night. My screaming got real bad after that, seeing how I couldn’t die and was probably going to spend the rest of eternity with my lungs caved in. And honest, I had no idea exactly how this equaled redemption. All I could do was let my last few bubbles of oxygen bounce right out of my mouth to the surface.

“Be calm, child.”

I didn’t know whose voice I heard, but it was like a loud, low gong going off in my noggin. Would have asked who was making it, if the source wasn’t already ten steps ahead.

“I’m simply here to help, and for any duress you may have experienced, I apologize. My followers can be quite… zealous, shall we say. Live action roleplaying is not a sport for those soft of spirit.”

Just like that, the trout started fleeing to the edge of the pond, letting enough sun in for me to see the bottom. I instantly wished they hadn’t. Because right in the direction I was heading came a dark walking tsunami of a beast with eyes like embers and teeth like steak knives.

I shut my eyes as the water started rushing around me.

. . .

When I finally got the courage to unseal my peepers, I realized it had all been a dream. Or had it? I was still at the stock pond, only I was on the grass next to it. Most importantly, I was free! Releif didn’t last long, though. Right next to me I could see the cat climber, ripped to shreds.

“Are you awake?”

The Voice!

I turned my head back and forth, trying to see where the voice had come from. It was night out, the only light coming from a rickety old streetlamp hanging over the pond. I would have wondered about the design choices that made the owners of Paradise decide to put a lamp there of all places, but frankly, I was more startled by the voice. There was something ancient, primal about it. Not in the pretentious way the Elves spoke, but something like rumbling thunder. Or an earthquake.

“Pardon me, but I asked, are you awake?”

Whoever was talking to me, they spoke in the dinosaur tongue. And not the street slang version I’d spoken in Hell. The real stuff. Think listening to someone talk in an Italian accent, then hearing a real Italian. Like that.

So there I was, sitting in a little island of light, surrounded by darkness, listening to a faceless voice with only a few moths for company. It was a scene straight out of those stranger danger videos they made us watch back in 1st grade, right before little Georgie got dragged into the sewers by some faceless evil for believing a sewer might have delicious lollipops. Of course, besides the creeping dread of never finding out what exactly did happen to little Georgie, I couldn’t remember a single piece of advice from that stupid film, other than run, which clearly wasn’t an option given how dark it was.

Instead, I curled up like a snail on the grass. It was my only defense.

“I do not wish to harm you, Watterson Tostig. I only want to talk.”

A pair of eyes glowed like fire in the darkness, followed by the sound of wet feet on grass, coming closer, closer…

I screamed. It honked back.

Then there was… gasping? Wheezing?

“Sweet Osiris, child, you nearly gave me a heart attack!”

Barely heard it, though, as it was still dark and I was still scared and I was hollering my head off. Kept at it, too, for a good ten seconds before I was aware I was still alive, so whoever was talking to me must have some sense of mercy. All slow-like, with that creeping sense of dread you get at a good horror film, I opened my eyes.

A goose. The thing I’d been scared of this whole time was a freakin’ GOOSE! Or at least the basic shape of one. Instead of the brown body and white belly of the other geese, this guy had a grey body with a black and white streak on the wing. Neck was different, too. Grey, not black, with a pink bill and a reddish brown mask over the eyes. Oh, and their tongue was covered in spikes.

The sight of that made me scream again.

The bird sighed, calming my nerves a tad. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that if he wanted to eat me, he’d have done so by now.

“Indeed, child. But I am no mere waterfowl: please, call me Bokrug.”

“Well, uh, thanks for saving me, Bokrug.” Most of my fear evaporated, replaced with relief I wasn’t going to be eaten alive.

“Many thanks to you as well, child, for most who have gazed upon my wretched form abscond into the night. Yet you have stayed. Would you, by chance, like to talk?”

Now imagine you’re a kid who had a goose walk up to him in the middle of the night, claiming to have saved your life. What would you do?

Long story short, I was there with Bokrug until sunrise.

We talked about… well I don’t remember this part too clear. Keep in mind I was still a ten year old who, at the time, was half asleep from exhaustion. Just that Bokrug had a lot of questions about how the world has changed in the last sixty years (apparently Elves gave him more ‘sacrifices’ than he’d ever need, but not one of the pretentious buggers could be bothered to pitch him a newspaper every once in a while).

“Once more, I would like to apologize for the behaviors of my… followers.” He sigh-honked the last part. “They have this odd habit of always sacrificing enemies to me, despite me being a pescitarian.”

“Pesci- What?”

“I eat fish.”

“Oh.”

“Watterson, I am truly grateful for your company, but before you continue on your journey back to the wretched Camp Sham (which I am sure is a long and arduous quest) there is a favor I would like to ask of you. You see, I cannot leave this pond, as I am a spirit bound to my bones. Bones residing at the bottom of this very stock pond.”

I imagined how pruned Bokrug’s feathers must have been after sixty years trapped in that dinky little fishing hole. It was not a pretty sight.

“But it was not always this way. Once, we Wood Elves lived in Paradise, usurped by a most befouled evil. My brethren shall explain in greater detail. Their skills of exposition far exceed my own. And there will be apologies, of course.”

Sure enough, I could see the little punks with their shopping carts hiding in the woods, beaks opened in shock as I made small talk with their God.

“Hey Bokrug?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not from here, are you? ‘Cause I’ve seen a lot of geese, but one with a little bandit mask over their eyes.”

“That, my child, is a story that began long ago, in a mystical land called Africa-“

“On second thought, nevermind. If it’s’ anything like the Africa stories Mom tells me, it’ll just make me feel bad about not finishing my broccoli.”

Bokrug let out a disgruntled snort as his white-cheeked worshippers waddled out from their hiding spots in the trees.

#My writing #Nature Trail To Hell #geese #stock pond #shopping cart

0 notes

surveystodestressme · 6 years

Text

85.

5000 Question Survey Pt. 22

2001. Can you believe that we have only gotten through two fifths of this survey so far? i believe it 2002. What is your opinion of Dave Coulier? i have no idea who that is 2003. If you were to a write a Choose Your Own Adventure book, what would it be about? horror 2004. What was your best find from a flea market, garage sale, ebay or thrift store? huh? 2005. What do you not have enough money for right now? a new car

2006. Do you believe that Teras for Fears were right when they said, “Everybody wants to rule the world?” eh 2007. What is the design on your beach towel? i don’t have a beach towel 2008. What stirs something deep and animalistic inside you? mean fucking people 2009. Have you ever cross dressed (even as a joke)? no 2010. Do you own anything with a rainbow on it? yes lol my boyfriends mom buys pj pants for everyone on christmas and this year she got me rainbow pants with minions on them....... i’ve NEVER even seen despicable me 2011. What would be the worst object for a child to take on a long car ride with you? a loud handheld game 2012. What’s the Best Beatles song in your opinion? help 2013. Why do you suppose that diary sites are more popular with females than males? idk 2014. What do these color combinations remind you of: orange and pink: ice cream pink and green: fruit green and gold: nature purple and gold: idk gold and red: royalty red and white: america blue and grey: the beach 2015. What is one selfish thing you tend to do? let people buy me stuff 2016. When do you think technology will catch up with the Jetson’s? idk 2017. What made you laugh today? my lab partners 2018. Do you ever stick your entries in any of the diary circles? no. 2019. Can you freestyle rap? i could try but it wouldn’t be that good 2020. Are you: stylish? somewhat shiek? huh? smart? i think so 2021. Do you find you self only buying brand name products? i do not care about name brands 2022. Would you ever want to buy an article of clothing or an accessory because you saw a celebrity wear it? i don’t pay attention to celebrities enough 2023. What song do you feel the sexiest dancing to? buttons by pussycat dolls 2024. Who do you know who looks silly when they dance? my dad 2025. Sweaty sex or clean sex? a lil bit of both honestly 2026. Which is more important to you: being kind or being right? i mean both honestly. 2027. Can you do any special dances like swing, tap, or ballroom? i used to do tap 2028. Are you scared of monsters? nada 2029. Who would you like to remind people of? idc 2030. Do you walk to school or do you bring your lunch? neither???? 2031. Rate your skills from one to ten (10 = you are the best at it): socializing: 5 making friends: 5 working with computers: 5 arts: 7 crafts: 7 dancing: 2 skating: 6 talking other people into things: 8 writing: 9 living life to the fullest each day: 5 cooking: 3 gardening: 2 cleaning up after yourself: 9 playing poker: 1 surviving in the woods: 3 managing your time: 8 attracting the opposite sex (or same sex if you prefer)? 4 2032. Have you ever been to an indian reservation? nope 2033. What is going to happen tomorrow that you can celebrate, even if it’s a little thing? idk 2034. Do you save things for special occasions or is everyday a special occasion? i save things. 2035. What is one thing you are terrible at: saving money 2036. What’s your favorite: rap song: love the way you lie country song: we danced industrial song: idk. cover song: cant help falling in love with you punk song: idk odd song: cotton eye joe 2037. What do you get your teacher or your boss for the holidays? not a thing lol 2038. Do you like to read books by Virgina Wolfe? never read any. 2039. What is your favorite tv show from when you were a kid? spongebob 2040. What is now proved was once only imagined. - William Blake. What do you imagine? the future. 2041. What has been passed down through at least two generations to you? nothing 2042. Do we live in a particularly bad age for romance? i don’t think so 2043. Have you ever cheated on someone? nope Do you believe that once someone is a cheater they can never be trusted? yes 2044. Have you ever gone: christmas caroling? nope pumpkin picking? yeah on a hay wagon ride? yes on a romantic valentine’s day date? yeah to a new year’s eve party? a couple times to a memorial day parade? yeah to the Macy’s thanksgiving day parade? maybe in the past to search for gold coins on st patrick’s day? no. 2045. Have you ever done any modeling? nope 2046. Would you consider yourself to be psychologically damaged? not that i can think of 2047. How aware are you of the reasons behind your actions and words? very aware 2048. What is the sickest you ever drank or drugged yourself? i haven’t had any really bad experiences tbh. it’s always a shitty time when i’ve thrown up from alcohol but i’ve never blacked out. 2049. Would you prefer it if clothing was optional? no lol. 2050. What is one interesting fact about you: i collect shot glasses 2051. Are more people depressed because they are alone, or are more people alone because they are depressed? they’re more depressed bc they’re alone probably but there are way more complicated reasons as to why people are depressed 2052. Have you ever gotten a mug, t-shirt, key chain, etc. that was personalized with your picture? no lol 2053. What was the last thing that you experienced for the first time? i don’t know 2054. If you were going to die tomorrow and you were leaving a postcard for someone to read after you were gone what would it say? i dunno. 2055. If you were about to be executed what would your last request be? tell my family that i love them 2056. What kinds of people do you find intimidating? too many people lol 2057. How much conviction do you have in your feelings and beliefs? quite a bit. 2058. In your house where is the: crazy glue? in the junk drawer flashlight? above the snack cabinet 2059. Out of everyone you know who has the most personality? there’s plenty of people lol 2060. If you could go back in time to experience a musical movement or era, which one would you choose to live through? none 2061. Do you suffocate people with your love? sometimes 2062. Do you feel your life is charmed? no. 2063. What character do you identify the most with from Winnie the Pooh? piglet 2064. When do you do your best thinking? in the shower or on the toilet 2065. What motivates you? food 2066. Look back at all the people you’ve dated. Has there been a pattern? not that i can think of 2067. Things change but what will always remain the same for you? i don’t know 2068. Is divorce something you would ever consider or do you feel that marriage is permanantly binding? i would preferably not get divorced. 2069. What’s the strangest movie you ever saw? the abc’s of death 2070. If you could go into virtual reality and set up your life there to be perfect and it would seem real but not be real would you trade your life now for the virtual life? it’d be cool but no 2071. Does it seem like life is more difficult for you than for anyone else? nope 2072. What are you grateful for? everything i have. 2073. What was a choice that you didn’t want to make but you had to? idk. 2074. Have you ever had dental surgery? no. 2075. At what point exactly are you grown up? when you have bills and you feel like you’re drowning 2076. If there was a weight loss procedure that would destroy your ability to taste food so you wouldn’t be tempted by junk food, would you have it done? absolutely not 2077. What is one thing that happened that you never expected? finding someone i love who actually loves me back 2078. If you called one of your friends and they said “It’s nothing personal but I don’t want to talk to anyone right now,” would you take it personally? nah, i’ve had moments like that too so i can understand 2079. What is your favorite girl’s name? i don’t really have one 2080. Do you ever feel guilty for being more fortunate than others? not really. 2081. If you had to wear a shirt with one word on it for a year, what word would you choose? kok 2082. What is evian spelled backwards? naive 2083. You drop 10 pounds of feathers and a ten pound bowling ball off the top of the same building. Which will hit the ground first? they both weigh the same, sooo both 2084. Even though you may never get what you want, are you happy because you’re trying? yes 2085. If you started a petition what would it be about? idk. 2086. When was the last time you asked someone to do something and they said no? everytime i ask jack to do something he says no but does it anyways 2087. Do bad things happen to you on friday the 13th? not that i know of. 2088. What’s your favorite: Madonna song? - John Lennon song? - Michael Jackson song? billy jean Doors song? - Rolling Stones song? - David Bowie song?- Elvis song? cant help falling in love with you 2089. If you had started a relationship with someone and they said that it would be best if no one knew about it just to see how it goes, would you be offended? it depends ig but id feel like they just wanted to hide me 2090. Do you know any self defense? not really How about CPR? i know the concept of it but ive never really practiced or anything 2091. If you had to look into a mirror and see your naked soul stripped of all delusions and pretenses (Never ending Story style)could you handle it? maybe 2092. Are you a genius? no. 2093. How did you find out that Santa Clause wasn’t real? i got a letter from ‘him’ and the handwriting was the same as my dads 2094. Which is your favorite tarot card? i dont do that shit 2095. Does the internet separate people or connect them? both. 2096. Have you ever written a letter to a soldier? my brother and my sister and some of my friends when they were all in the military 2097. Does pain and fear make you feel alive? to a a certain degree 2098. Are you: good looking? yeah thin? no. happy? yes successful? not yet confident? for the most part 2099. Are you decisive or wishy washy? in between. 2100. Do you feel pop stars should be morally responsible to set a good example for their fans? it’s nice but they shouldn’t be obliged to.

#bored #quiz #questions #survey

1 note · View note

solohux · 7 years

Text

solohux’s May fic favourites ✿

IGNORE THE LATENESS!

–> Our Apartment by @foryoursakegeneral ♡ Hux Comes home. (daddy kink, adhd kylo, domestic cuteness)

–> Nursing/Lactating by Winklepicker ♡ Hux has six-nipples, porn happens. That’s pretty much it. (milk play, a very lovely fic if you like these kinks!)

–> Accidentally On Purpose by @onewhositswithturtles ♡ Kylo has been harboring feelings for his uptight boss, Hux, over the last year but said nothing for fear of getting fired. Unfortunately one night Kylo’s friends get him drunk and Kylo decides Hux should see what he’s missing, and texts Hux a dick pic. The next morning when Hux tells Kylo to come to his office after work, Kylo has no idea what to expect. (modern au, bottom hux, a great pining scenario with brilliant smut!)

–> Haunted Soldier by @vadianna ♡ After spending two years completing his training, Kylo Ren comes home to the Finalizer. He has planned and plotted every instant of his reunion with Hux, and a large part of that centers on Hux’s reactions to the scars he gained at Starkiller.Or: Rough sex on a big desk.Or: Overconfident Kylo Ren takes advantage of feelings. (bottom kylo, tagged as pwp but it’s the best pwp i’ve read in a long while)

–> For His General by @cosleia ♡ Dopheld Mitaka is a loyal officer of the First Order. Loyal to the cause and loyal to his general. And it’s up to him to save General Hux from Kylo Ren. (jealous mitaka, pining, some goooood hux & mitaka feels with a soft domestic kylux feel!)

–> Family Secrets by @rannystuffandthings ♡ Hux receives an invitation from his father to bring Kylo to Arkanis to “celebrate” their engagement. Things go as well as Hux assumed they would. (tw homophobia, lots of gorgeous protective kylo)

–> To Each of Us, Our Own Assigned Delusion by @vadianna ♡ The First Order Personnel Counseling Hotline is staffed by sensitivity officers well-trained in dealing with personal issues that arise during service to the First Order, including struggles with worthiness, conflicts with other employees, and even doubts about loyalty. If you need to talk, they’ll be available for a live conversation during any shift.A mysterious caller manages to find personal issues that they were not trained to deal with. Specifically, because everyone in the Order is given the same basic sex ed classes at the same time. There is incredulity and hard feelings on both sides. (sex ed, awkward virgin kylo, kylo talks to the First Order’s Sexual Health Q&A Hotline and oh my god you’ll laugh at his one, it’ll brighten your day!)

–> Oversimulated by @saltandlimes ♡ Hux first notices exactly what that problem is when he’s a lieutenant on his first cruise. There are a limited number of people to fuck. Hux makes inappropriate use of the stormtrooper training simulations. Kylo likes to watch. (voyeurism, kylo touching himself to the sound & sight of hux having sex, so hot you’ll fucking blush!!!!)

–> Confrontation by @omega-hux ♡ Kylo finally says something worthy of retribution. (arguing, you’ll want to wrap hux up in cotton wool after reading this the poor baby)

–> Join by TrashBinKrem ♡ Kylo didn’t play fair, and it’s been eating Hux up. Now it all comes to a climax. (groping & kissing, a beautiful smutty scene with lots of feels)

–> Leverage by @ballvvasher ♡ Hux, tense one evening, coms for a massage droid but accidentally sends it to Kylo instead. (bottom hux, dirty talk, lots of filth & it’s paced so well, if you like smutty fics then you’ll love this!)

–> Off Limits by @verybadhedgehog ♡ Military man of twinky appearance, previously stereotyped as a bottom, meets annoying xeno-experienced frot evangelist telepath, is persuaded to be less sexually self-denying. Jizz everywhere, job’s a good ‘un. (non-penetrative sex, kylo makes hux feel good and it’s unlike anything i’ve read, this is a stunning fic)

–> Pleated Skirts & Perverts by neptune_bound ♡ Ren has a talented mouth, and Hux appreciates it maybe too much. (hux has a skirt on & kylo eats his ass, a++++++ fic)

–> cry baby by @princessfuckingleiaorgana ♡ Hux orders Kylo to get lost, Kylo obeys. (break-up, lots of angst but a good type of hurt!)

–> you know I’d be so grateful if you’d come to relieve my stress by @agoodflyting ♡ housewife hux is unsatisfied with his sex life, so he decides to seduce the strapping, yet naïve pool boy ben solo. (modern au, power bottom hux, absolutely perfect smut that you’ll definitely want to read again, ive read this like 10 times and STILL love it)

–> Pampered by @kylux-trashpile ♡ Kylo spends some time pampering his lover. (feeding, weight gain, lots of wonderful chubby hux & soft kylo!!!)

–> Fairytale Psychosis by @nonsensicalsoliloquy ♡ Even when Hux was a young child he’d never considered himself all that interested in fairytales.Having one essentially stumble and force itself upon him didn’t exactly change that so much as have him worry he was losing his grip on reality. (modern au, faerie kylo, fluffy & soft with lots of endearments and protective kylo! it’s lovely!)

–> Just Rewards by @stardestroyervigilance ♡ Hux bets Ren that he can’t possibly bring back an entire squad of Stormtroopers alive from one of his dangerous missions and promises to have a special surprise in store for him if he manages to do so. To his credit, Ren does manage it. (smut with plot, lingerie, they’re both confident and cocky and their established relationship is absolutely perfect here)

–> Gravid by Lady_Oscar ♡ A pregnant Hux develops Force abilities, and of course they manifest at an inopportune time. (mpreg, abo ‘verse, hux stands up to snoke and i honestly cheered, i love mpreg and this was lovely!)

–> Personal Jesus by @francisthegreat (WIP) ♡ Ren just wants to sit down and forget his past in peace. Hux predictably mucks up the works. (modern au, hot boys with guns, the style is short and sharp and it perfectly fits the topic, a fresh read!)

–> Scales of Gold by @thegayestcupcake ♡ Kylo Ren is a merfolk hunter. When he finds Armitage Hux swimming in a rural river, he begins to fall for the creature. Snoke bags and tags him with the purpose of selling him. Kylo Ren has to make a decision, does he save Hux, or does he let him be sold like a common piece of decorative art? Kylo decides on his first choice, and brings Hux back to his home. (a wonderful mermaid hux au with pining and sex, everything you could ever want!)

–> changeling by @cracktheglasses ♡ “I’m not strong enough, not by myself,” Kylo whispers. “But you are. Hux, I know if I could have just a portion of your will, I could do anything.” (modern au, cannibalism, it’d be best if you read all of the tags for yourself but, gosh, it’s so well-written and it’s so dark, perfect if you’re in the mood for a dark fic)

–> (in)sensitivity by @symphorophilian ♡ Kylo had never taken care of his toys. Armitage Hux was still all too eager to play the part of his pliant doll. (unhealthy relationship, dubcon, hux’s internal thoughts are so heartfelt and desperate, a really beautifully dark fic feat lots of manipulative kylo)

–> The Rat In The Vent by macabreverbosity ♡ “Except there was the matter of the “haunting”, as it were. It seemed that there had been multiple complaints of disturbances in the airvents, especially on the lower levels and the vents closest to his and Ren’s quarters. Additionally, Hux had been missing several articles of clothing. He suspected that Millicent, with her inquisitive green eyes, might have taken to hiding them somewhere on the ship.” (good crack feat. mitaka)

–> The Loth-Cat’s Out Of The Bag by @rebelwerewolf ♡ Jealous Hux or Kylo which leads to the rest of the Finalizer finding out they are in a relationship (lots of good jealousy & team building exercises lead to poor mitaka being attacked!)

–> Tangled Threads by @theweddingofthefoxes ♡ What is Matt supposed to do when his idol, Kylo Ren, takes more than a slight interest in the guy Matt’s had his eye on, Techie? (jealousy, Clan Techie!!!! precious, such a lovely fic)

–> Exhibition by @redcole ♡ First heatwave of the summer Hux goes out on his balcony for a quiet smoke and a cold drink only to find his new American neighbour in the garden below, naked in a similarly new hot tub, surprisingly large cock bobbing along on the bubble jets, nipples perky in the cooling night air. How absolutely horrid. Poor Hux having to look at that. He could look away any time he wanted and he definitely shouldn’t have a crafty wank… (voyeurism/exhibitionism, pervy neighbour hux & teasing kylo, filthy & perfect!)

–> The Traveller In The Dark by @xx-gigi-sinclair-xx ♡ “They discussed this possibility before they embarked on the lengthy process required for them to have a genetic child. One day, one of them was going to have to leave the other, for the sake of their daughter. It was a forgone conclusion.” (time travel au, kid fic, really heartfelt & a super unique idea, perfect characterisation)

happy reading! ♡

#kylux #every writer is perfect and i love you all a lot #♡♡♡♡♡♡#fic rec #may fic rec

257 notes · View notes

the-chubbiest-dumpling · 7 years

Text

Endings and Beginnings: Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven: Recovery

Summary: You’re just an ordinary 25-year-old photographer working in a small studio in downtown Toronto. Your life is as normal as it could possibly be, except the fact that you are given an opportunity most people only dream of.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 13 124

Warnings: Swearing. There will always be swearing.

A/N: Wow I wrote a lot.

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Epilogue

Tags: @shamvictoria11

The first thing you realize when you wake up is that you have dry mouth. And one hell of a headache.

You painfully stretch your legs and shut your eyes even tighter as you shift in your bed. You can hear the beeping of hospital equipment, and a light muffling sound. It’s too bright behind your eyes to open them, but you know you’ll have to. You shield your eyes with your palm, and blink several times to clear the sleep and crust from your eyes. You groan loudly in the back of your throat, changing your position to sit up a bit.

Your entire body feels like lead. You’ve never felt this drowsy and exhausted in your whole life. Working for eight hours plus a two-hour workout plus an unintentional all-nighter doesn’t even come close to this. This is on a whole other level of fatigue.

When you gain control of your sight, you look around, and see multiple people in white lab coats coasting around. You can’t tell which ones are doctors, nurses, or surgeons. They all just kind of mix together. You still feel kind of dizzy, so nothing is blending well together at the moment. Your ears feel stuffed, so you plug your nose and pop them. A doctor notices you’re awake, and makes his way over to you.

“Welcome back, _______,” he says, sitting down next to your bed. “I’m glad to see you awake.”

“Y-Yeah,” you reply, your voice raspy. You clear your throat and swallow, but it still doesn’t feel right. You scrunch your nose in discomfort. You delicately touch your face, and feel a tube going up your nose.

Is this a feeding tube?

He flips through the chart he has in his hands. You’re just remembering now that you got shot in the leg. You pull the covers back to inspect it while the doctor speaks.

“The wound was surprisingly clean. There was no exit wound, so we needed to perform surgery to remove the bullet. You lost about two pints of blood. You required a blood transfusion, which happened to end two days ago. You also needed a feeding tube and an IV to keep you alive. Seven days without food and water can be pretty dangerous. We’re going to remove it soon, since you’re awake, but your IV shall remain there until I say otherwise.”

You nod in understanding. But, really? You need a feeding tube? It makes sense, but it doesn’t mean you like it. It’s uncomfortable as ever, and what happens when you sneeze? It’s taped to your nose, but will it blow out still? How far up your nose is it? The doctor continues on as you have a small moment of dissatisfaction.

“I got the full report of your situation from a… Miss Knox. She mentioned that you had alcohol in your system before morphine was administrated to you.” He pauses to give you a look. You don’t even notice. Your bandages are more intriguing. He continues on. “Morphine and alcohol are a dangerous mix. You experienced dehydration, an irregular heart rate, and blood pressure changes. You could have fallen into a coma, stopped breathing, and died. Do you understand, miss _______?”

You stop inspecting your injury and silently complaining to yourself when the doctor says that. You look over at him, a range of emotions crossing your features. You could have died? You know one thing for sure now: you’re never drinking again on a mission. Or, at all. If it comes to that. You look down at the mattress and nod. He notices your change in expression. He sighs and sets his clipboard down.

“I do not mean to worry you, miss _______,” he says. “You could not have known. It is not your fault. But I am obligated to tell you the truth. And truth is, if you didn’t get here when you did, you could’ve died. When you were brought to us, you were already unconscious. I feared that you had already slipped past the point of bringing you back. I will skip the medical jargon and break it down for you. Before your surgery, I managed to stabilize you. The side effects of the morphine and alcohol were taking too much a toll on your body, and I was afraid of what might happen in the case that I treated your gunshot wound first.”

“Death?” you guess aloud, shifting in your bed again. You’re feeling all sorts of aches and pains in your lower back now. A small price to pay in order to recover.

“Yes,” he affirms. “My team also stopped the bleeding long enough for me to do my work. It’s a hell of a process to go through, making sure your patient doesn’t go into a coma or die. But you did neither, which I am eternally grateful for. It’s very assuring to see you awake and moving around. But you won’t be doing much of that for a while, I’m afraid.”

“Am I paralyzed?!” you say out of shock, clutching the sheets.

“Oh no no no,” the doctor reassures you. “You still have mobility. I’m saying that you will need a pair of crutches for some time before you regain your strength to walk on your own again.”

“Oh.”

Walking around by the likes of crutches? Of all things? Can’t they just give you a wheelchair or something? Crutches are hard on the armpits and a bitch to deal with. You would know. Breaking your ankle back in grade seven wasn’t the most pleasant experience. And now you’ll have to relive it all over again. But he said the IV will need to stay in you until he says otherwise. Does that mean you’ll have to drag it around with you while you’re trying to walk? Or maybe he means it’ll stay there long enough for you to recover somewhat and then you’ll be using crutches. Whatever he means, it sounds awful.

“Perfect,” you say indignantly.

“You will also take part in rehabilitation sessions to improve your mobility. A few weeks until you’re able to walk on your own and the wound has fully healed.”

Double perfect.

All of this, just because of a bullet wound. And morphine and alcohol, apparently. You yawn widely and scratch at your eyes. You can’t tell if you have a headache, or if it’s a hangover. Or if it’s from the morphine and whatever else kind of sedatives they gave to you. Which ever way, you just know that you’re tired and annoyed.

“Anything else I need to know?”

“Because you were unconscious for seven days, your body is going to need time to heal. I would like to keep you here for a few more nights to keep an eye on your well-being. Your bandages will need to be changed on a daily basis to avoid infection. My staff shall take care of that until I give you the go-ahead to change them on your own. And when you do, I shall provide you with instructions on how to properly apply a new dressing. Do not rush–I repeat–do not rush yourself. Recovery takes time, so you will remain here at the compound until further notice. I will prescribe you some medication for the pain when you’re out of that bed.”

“Awesome,” you say sarcastically. “That it?”

“Mr. Stark asked me to inform him when you woke up. He shall be here momentarily.”

“Oh goody.”

This isn’t going to be pretty. You didn’t tell Tony, nor any of the team that you went on a mission. Sam is the one that received that crucial piece of information first. Then everyone came out and started arguing about it. All you remember is acting like an idiot while everyone had their moment of craze. You mentally prepare yourself for Tony’s scolding. He can be on-point with his reasons sometimes, and it pisses you off when he’s right. He’s one of the most hot-headed, rude, antagonizing people you’ve ever met. But you also know that he’s a person that always tries to right his wrongs. And it’s hard to hate him when he’s like that.

It’s no surprise when you can see him walking down the stairs; the whole med lab is made up of glass walls and doors. You can’t tell what kind of mood he’s in. He’s wearing one of those neutral expressions that makes it seem like he’s mad.

Oh yeah. Resting bitch face.

His eyes are on you the whole time, never breaking eye contact. He crosses his arms as he stands at the foot of your bed. You back up a little in your bed, slightly worried that he’s just going to explode and let you have it. Your eyes trained downwards, he finally speaks.

“How ya feeling?”

Whoa. You were not expecting sentiment.

You peek at up him. He’s completely serious, though his expression has softened. A little. You shrug and face him fully.

“Can’t complain, I guess,” you answer. “I’m alive and awake.”

“But how are you feeling?”

Does he mean it as in how am I feeling about myself going out alone to a solo mission without telling anyone? Does he want me to tell him how happy or angry I am with myself about the whole thing? Or does he actually want to know how I’m feeling right now?

You take the safest route.

“Okay,” you reply.

“Good. Because starting today, you’re on house arrest,” he says, pointing a finger at you.

“Oh, come on, Tony,” you whine, rolling your eyes.

“What were you thinking, taking that mission on alone?”

“Mr. Stark,” the doctor starts calmly, already knowing where this is going. “I would prefer it if miss _______ not be put under any unnecessary stress until she’s fully recovered.”

Tony acts like he didn’t hear him and keeps going. The doctor decides to leave the room until you and Tony have cooled down.

“But I wasn’t alone! I was–“

“But you thought you were alone, didn’t you? He sent you in there, alone, and didn’t do a damn thing until the very last second. You could’ve died in there, _______. Do you get that?”

“Yes, in fact, I do!” you yell. “Firstly, it’s a solo mission for a reason. Secondly, I know I could’ve died! I knew the risks! I know I could’ve gotten my back blown out and been paralyzed or killed if that other agent hadn’t stepped in and done something! I know, Tony. I know. But you know what? I’m here. I did all I could do. I thought out all the possible courses of action to take at the time. I thought of the people in the club. I knew it would kill me if one of them got injured or caught in the crossfire. I acted on my own, and did the best I could to keep myself from getting murdered, along with agent Knox. And it turned out okay! I’m fine, agent Knox is fine, and we arrested a couple of criminals to boot! So don’t talk down to me like what I did was the most horrible thing in the world!”

Your chest is heaving after letting your anger pour out from you. Letting Tony be on the receiving end of your fury only satisfies you somewhat this time. Your headache is a major bitch, and yelling doesn’t help it at all. You sigh and run a hand through your hair. The side effects of the morphine have worn off, but they’re still hanging on by a thread. You’re sweating more than you should, and you feel your mouth go dry again. The pounding dizziness in your skull is the most irritating, and you wish you could just go to sleep again. But you need to reassure Tony that everything is okay.

Breathing through the pain, you raise your head and look tiredly at him.

“I’m fine, Tony,” you say gently. “Can you not just be happy about that and worry about the collateral damage later?”

You know you’re right. You just hope Tony agrees too. He likes to put the details out in the open, and keep them there, open for discussion at any given time. He’ll subtly–and annoyingly–remind you about your blunders and past mistakes to scramble your way out of making a similar decision to the former ones you’ve made.

For his sake, he better not do it this time.

His shoves his hands in his raggedy jeans and looks at the floor, then back to you.

“All right, fine,” he agrees. “I’ll let it go this time. But the next time that this happens, don’t expect me to sugarcoat things and laugh along to your story and make memes out of it. Yes, I know what memes are. You’re talking to the leading innovator in technology, here. Come on.”

That makes you smile more. Hearing him joke about things that are actually funny makes you feel better about everything. It doesn’t stop the physical pain, but it warms your heart. Tony Stark. Big guy in a suit of armour. Annoying, snarky, and witty, but still caring and compassionate. Truly a two-faced bitch.

“Cap and the others visited you during your unexpected trip to the land of the unconscious,” he adds, pulling up a stool. “Day in and day out. Checking to see if you’ve moved a finger or if you’ve had a leg jerk. Wince, groan, cough. Anything to indicate that you were still alive without relying on the beeping of the machines.”

“Oh,” you say. You expected that to some degree, but Tony’s making it sound like it was a life-or-death situation for the team if you didn’t pull through. “I hope I didn’t worry them too much…”

“Worry?” Tony repeats, smiling slightly and shaking his head. “Listen here, Hell’s angel. Rogers held a full conversation with you as if you were answering him. Wilson even joined in at some parts. Wanda and Nat would tell you about their day. Vision would… come to think of it, I don’t really know what Vision did. He just stared. But like, into you, y’know? Anyway. And Barnes just sat with you. Stared a lot too, like Vision. So I’d say ‘worry’ is an understatement.”

“You forgot something,” you mention.

“What’s that?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. What’d you do? No offence, but you don’t seem like a person to bring me tea when I’m sick or sit down and talk to my unconscious body.”

“What gives you that idea?”

“So you are.”

“Are what?”

“The kind of person to sit down and talk to my unconscious body.”

“You got it all wrong. See–“

“It’s not a hard question, Tony.”

“There is no question, _______.”

“Yes there is.”

“Then what is it?”

“Did you, or did you not, do something in similar fashion like talk to my unconscious body?”

“Fine, alright! Yes! I did! Happy now, you zombie?”

At the end of your bickering with him, you nod in satisfaction.

“I am,” you confirm. “I know it may not matter to you, but thanks. I hate worrying people, but I appreciate you and everyone else watching over me.”

Tony folds his hands over the end of your bed and nods, muttering a small “yep”. You smile more. Another thought comes to mind.

“Speaking of which,” you say, twisting the sheets between your fingers. “How mad was everyone?”

Tony taps his thumbs together as he thinks out-loud.

“Ummmmm. You ever see Banner go berserk?”

“N-Not in person no…”

“Rogers was about this close to going on a manhunt with the wrath close to that of Banner in his green rage monster mode.”

“Yikes…”

“’Yikes’ is right, kid.”

He gets out of his stool and starts pacing the room.

“Everyone had their own moments of anguish over this, but he’s the only one that almost got physical about it. Hearing that you might fall into a coma and die isn’t exactly what someone wants to hear at one in the morning. It could potentially trigger deep-seeded emotions. Barnes on the other hand… he was the complete opposite. Distant. Kept to himself. Didn’t know what to think or do. Like it was his first time seeing a person with a gunshot wound. But who knows what goes through his head.”

“You don’t say.”

The thought of Bucky being ambivalent about his feelings makes you a little sad. Tony’s right; who knows what he’s feeling? But it’s nice to hear that he was worried. Everyone else too of course, but… him especially. What a bias you’ve created.

You sigh and lay back against the bed, and hiss when you can feel the prick of your bullet wound. You lift up the blankets again, and delicately run your hand along the gauze. This is going to be a pain to take care of.

“Stings, doesn’t it?”

“No doubt. It didn’t hurt at the time because I was high on adrenaline, but damn. This sucks.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, opening a desk drawer and pulling out some peanuts. “I’m sure the team will be more than willing to carry you up and down the stairs.” He tears open the package and pops a few in his mouth. He holds some out for you, but you turn them down. Food isn’t on your mind at the moment. It’s sleep. You yawn again and cover your mouth. You lay back down comfortably and pull the sheets over your chest.

“Get some rest, kid,” Tony says as he backs out the door. “You’re gonna need it for when Cap sees you.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

Tony travels back upstairs to let the rest of the team know that you’re awake and well, but going back to sleep. You know it’ll piss some of them off, Steve especially, but you’re exhausted still and need some real sleep. Being under doesn’t necessarily mean you’re asleep. So now, you’re going to take control of your own conscious, and fall asleep on your own accord. You wave to Tony when he reaches the middle of the stairs, and close your eyes, hoping that when you wake up, you’ll feel that much better.

The next time you wake up is four hours later, about midday. It was a terrible feat trying to fall asleep with all the bright lights on, but sometime during your sleep, someone was gracious enough to dim them for you. Truly, a kind soul.

You feel better, only in the slightest. Your headache has slowed to a dull thud in your head, and you don’t have dry mouth. A few positives to start your day. You’re alone, you notice. All the medical staff must be taking a break. That’s not too bad. Gives you a minute to relax without anyone asking you the same questions over and over.

You stretch your arms above your head and yawn, then scratch around your hand where the IV tube is. Despite its job to give you nutrients and sugars, it’s not the most comfortable thing to be piercing your hand. And apparently, your stomach isn’t very comfortable either.

It growls loudly, disappointed that it has nothing to digest. You sigh sadly, wondering if you’re allowed to have solid foods yet. Or even liquid-y solids, like pudding and ice cream. The doctor said that you had been unconscious for a week, and needed a blood transfusion and an IV drip. That would certainly do the trick to make you hungry as hell. The feeding tube is still in you, so you have no idea who to call to take it out.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” you call out weakly.

“It is good to hear your voice, miss _______,” the A.I. says.

“Yeah, me too.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Can you call one of the doctor’s back?”

“Certainly.”

F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice rings overhead, delivering the message, and you wait for the doctor to come back. Considering your circumstances, he should be here on the double. But since you’re doing well, he may take his time. You fiddle around with the many tubes protruding your body in the meantime, and also think about all the therapy you’ll have to endure. Within a few minutes, your doctor returns with a smile on his face.

“Miss _______,” he greets you as he enters the room.

“Doctorrr… Markson,” you greet back after squinting at his nametag. He takes a seat beside you and folds his hands together.

“How are you feeling? Better?” he asks.

“More or less,” you say, giving a non-committal wave of your hand. “I was just wondering if you can take the feeding tube out yet? I know you mentioned removing it earlier, but I just wanted to know when.”

He looks at the time on his watch, then flips through a few papers from your charts. He nods his head at what he reads and looks at you.

“I believe it would be alright to remove it,” he says, making you smile. “Hopefully the IV will only stay in until tomorrow. After I remove the tube, I shall bring you something sufficient to eat.”

“That’d be great.”

He sets the charts back down and washes his hands, while you sit up and bend your good leg. You can still move your wounded leg, but the best you’re going to do right now is wiggle your toes and bend your knee little by little so your thigh doesn’t feel that much pressure. As Dr. Markson dries his hands and puts on his gloves, you can see and hear Steve running down the stairs, followed by Wanda and Natasha.

Here we go.

You muster a smile for them, because you’re genuinely happy to see them. Steve has concern written all over his face; and he has a right to be. He didn’t get to see you when you first woke up, and was a little peeved that Tony was first in line. But now, he pushes that all aside because he’s so relieved that you’re okay.

“Heyyy guyyyyys,” you say as they walk in.

“_______,” Steve says, speaking before anyone else. “How are you feeling? Are you alright?”

“I’m okay, Steve,” you reply truthfully. “Maybe a little off-balance still, but otherwise, I’m doing pretty good.”

He smiles that dad smile that warms your heart. You can never be mad at Steve when he throws his charm in the mix. He’s just too soft and selfless to be angry at.

“Does it hurt?” Wanda asks, crossing her arms and looking at the floor.

How are you so adorable?

“Not as much as it did before,” you smile sweetly. “The painkillers are taking care of that.” Wanda nods and smiles back quickly before letting her expression drop again. She’s content that you’re conscious and seem to be doing fine, but it really took a toll on her when she saw how still you looked on your bed. You were the closest thing she had to another sibling, and she’d be damned if she lost you too.

“That was quite the show you put on,” Natasha quips, taking a seat in a corner of the room. “For not using a gun, it was remarkable you got out of there alive.”

“You saw?” you question. “How?”

“Coulson had surveillance for the duration of your mission,” she explains. “He deemed it as an instructional video to examine your mistakes.”

Goddamn that Coulson.

“I see,” you say, irritated. “I probably should’ve expected that, with him being a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and all. So secretive and conniving.”

She nods in agreement and leans forward in her chair, elbows resting on her knees.

“It’s good to see you again, _______,” she says.

“Likewise.”

“Excuse me.”

Everyone’s attention is drawn to Dr. Markson. He snaps his gloves on and stands beside your bed.

“I am about to remove _______’s feeding tube,” he explains. “I would advise you step away to give her some room.”

Wanda and Steve nod, backing away against the wall to give you some space. You sit up more and face Dr. Markson as he prepares to take it out.

“I will warn you now to be prepared for gagging, coughing, and overall general nasal discomfort as I remove the tube,” he says.

“Awesome,” you say with a nod.

He gives you a protective pad, and you stuff it in the front of your gown. He unpins the tube from your gown, and loosens the tape securing the tube to your nose. You raise your hand and give the top of your nose a little scratch, the tape itching your skin. He then turns off the suction, and disconnects the tube from the syringe. He pinches the tube near your nostril, and tells you to relax as he pulls it out. You close your eyes as he does, not wanting to see a four-foot tube come out of your nose. You wince as it all comes out, and gag a bit when you can feel it hit your throat. You stick your tongue out in disgust, and cough a bit to rid yourself of the remaining taste. Nat, Wanda, and Steve smile in amusement.

“Well that wasn’t nasty at all,” you comment as Dr. Markson cleans the end of your nose. He disposes the tube, removes his gloves, and washes his hands again. You get used to having a clear nose, and repeatedly rub the end of it to try to settle it back to normal.

“The irritation will wear off well within a few minutes,” Dr. Markson assures you. “Your nasal cavity should feel fine after that.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, now tapping the side of your nose to get rid of the feeling that the tube is still in there. For now, you breathe in and out evenly, trusting your body to get rid of the leftover irritation.

“I’ll go bring you your food now,” Dr. Markson says.

“Okay.”

He leaves the room to go to the cafeteria, leaving you under the watchful eye that is Steve Rogers. Natasha and Wanda have already settled down, and are just grateful that you’re still there with them. Steve, however, gives you a stern look.

“Why would you do that, _______?” he asks. Straight to the point. Might as well lay it out in the open again.

“Because I wanted to,” you sigh, getting sick of repeating yourself. “I got offered a solo assignment and I took it because I wanted it. I knew the risks involved and I was successful in taking down multiple criminals in the process. The civilians got out unharmed, as well did agent Knox, along with myself. Yes, I was shot in the leg, but I’m fine now, Steve. And I don’t wanna keep repeating myself a thousand times. I already got read the riot act by Tony.”

Steve sighs and wipes his hands down his face. Leaning against the glass, he gives you an amused look and crosses his arms. Even he can’t be mad at you.

“Look, _______,” he starts. You know this is the beginning of a lecture. “I admire you for wanting to go out on your own and do missions by yourself. But next time, let us know, okay? That way we won’t have a row when you come home bloody and unconscious.”

“I will,” you agree. “But you better not think about stopping me if I want to go. No matter how dangerous it is, I’ll make the decision myself if I want to go or not. Missions from S.H.I.E.L.D. seem shoddy enough with everything they didn’t tell me, so I’m keeping my eye out for that.”

“That’s a girl,” Steve smiles. Just then, Dr. Markson arrives with a tray of typical hospital food for you: jello, milk, and pudding. You raise a brow, but otherwise say nothing. It’s simple enough to eat after having the feeding tube removed. And you’d like to keep it that way.

“We’ll work our way up until you can eat larger portions,” Dr. Markson says as he notices your reaction. “For now, you’ll be eating puréed foods and small meals until further notice. In your case, it shouldn’t last for more than two days.”

“Fantastic,” you retort, picking up your spoon. You decide to eat the pudding first. The jello has more taste to it, plus it’s fun to eat. You’d prefer water over milk, but getting protein is important too. You wiggle your feet as you eat, smiling widely as you get to eat something real since your little accident. Your small moment of peace is only slightly ruined when you see Sam coming down the stairs. You swallow what you chewed and shamefully look down at the bed as he walks in.

He’s a mix of disappointment and relief. He can’t believe everything that transpired within a week since your return home. He’s glad, of course, that you made it out alright. But he’s going to lecture to you too before he gets to that.

“I can’t believe you lied to me,” he says, shaking his head at you. “A late night fast food run doesn’t take four hours, _______. Then you don’t bother to tell me anything between the time that your mission was finished and the drive back to the compound. Not one phone call telling me that hey, you got shot in the leg and need the surgeons to be ready, or that the mission was for S.H.I.E.L.D.? You really scared me.” He grips the foot of your bed and heaves a sigh through his nose.

“I didn’t really lie,” you defend quietly. “I got you your food.”

“That’s not the point, _______,” he snaps back. “You lied to me about where you were going. At first I thought I’d go out looking for you when two hours went by. But I thought ‘nah it’s cool she can handle herself’. Meanwhile you’re getting shot in the leg and almost dying.”

Now you feel really guilty. Sam was the one to come find you bloodied and beaten, on the verge of death. It makes sense that he’d be the most guilt-ridden about not going after you when he should have. You stare at your tray of food in humiliation for making him this upset.

“Sam, I’m–“

“However,” he cuts in, raising his head with a toothy grin on his face. “It was pretty awesome to see you give two grown men a well-deserved beating. It was kickass to see you like that, Spyro.”

Your lips quirk up into a smile, and soon you’re giggling from how impressed Sam looks with you.

This is how it should be.

“I mean, at first I was a little worried while I watched the surveillance video,” he admits, taking a seat in a rolly stool. “I could tell that you hadn’t done a mission before where you had to flirt your way in.”

“Hey!” you laugh.

“What? You’d honestly rather die than play it up with the likes of someone like him.”

“Yeah, I would have. But I did the best I could.”

“The best you c– Listen, Spyro. I got nothin’ against ya, but seeing you try to flirt was about as impressive as a dog standing on its hind legs.”

You cross your arms and pout, but you can’t really make a comeback because he’s right. Your game is so weak; Wanda would probably have done a better job. In fact, she’d probably make it out of there without as so much as a bruise. You shake your head. What’s done is done, and thinking about how everyone else would do it won’t get you anywhere. It’ll only generate envy and contempt towards your teammates. And no one needs that.

Sam keeps talking about how he reacted while he watched the video, and even goes as far as bringing it up on screen to show you. You cover your eyes and shake your head, not wanting to see how badly you embarrassed yourself. But you watch it anyway, with Wanda, Nat, and Steve in the room. Steve manages to get a few laughs in; you do as well, but your heart skips a beat when Vision comes strolling in from the ceiling.

“Vision!” you yell, a hand over your chest.

He stands off to the side once he’s finished his dramatic entrance, giving you a head nod in greeting.

“Miss _______.”

“Vis,” Wanda says. “You gotta stop doing that.”

He looks back at her, then to you, then to everyone else in the room. He recognizes his troublesome habit and addresses it.

“I apologize,” he says. “I was not quite aware of where I would end up.”

“Just… stick to doors, Vision,” you tell him.

“Understood.”

You smile at each other before Sam rewinds the whole video and begins it again. However, one minute into the footage, another guest makes their appearance.

“I look away for two seconds and suddenly there’s a party?”

Your shoulders slump and a playful smile creeps onto your face. The whole atmosphere of the room seems to change from hearty laughter to a teasing exasperation. Steve is always the most expressive when Tony walks into a room. His smile could fall completely, turn serious, or could even throw a few wise cracks around. This time, since everyone is in the med lab solely for you, Steve’s good-natured humour remains, and welcomes Tony in.

“Doesn’t seem fair when you don’t get first glance, does it?”

“Well I already got first glance, first talk, and first lecture. So I beat you there, Cap.”

“Sure did.”

“So what’re we doing?” He turns to the side and sees the footage of your mission. “Oh. This is always a good watch. We starting from the beginning? You sure you know how to work that, Wilson?”

“I got it.”

Sam, once again, starts the video from the very beginning, and everyone settles in to watch it as Dr. Markson observes from afar. They all give their own commentary, along with snarky tips from Tony. You eat your pudding and jello, and almost snort out your milk when someone says something too funny. There’s definitely enough banter to go around, and plenty of embarrassing moments for everyone (Tony) to use against you for shits and giggles. Having everyone here with you is great and all, but there’s still one person missing.

Bucky.

You know you can’t ask where he is out-loud without ruining the mood. And if you do, Wanda might give you another look that makes it seem like she knows something you don’t. And you feel like Steve would give you a similar look; or maybe a soft smile. He’s good at those. For now, you keep your mouth shut and let your friends make fun of you while you silently ponder where he is.

It’s as if a portal opened up out of nowhere. When Bucky came out of his room from having a nap, everyone had disappeared. The kitchen, living room, training room; they were all empty. he ran his metal hand through his hair and wondered where they would all go. Granted, he didn’t really care; he enjoyed the peace from time to time. But this was just weird. As he keeps wandering around, F.R.I.D.A.Y. takes note of his confusion and enlightens him.

“The team has gathered in medical laboratory, Mr. Barnes,” the A.I. announces. “They are visiting miss _______ as she is awake.” Bucky looks up at the ceiling, and all around, wondering where the hell Tony installed this thing. He taps his fingers on the counter, nodding his head. He pulls the corner of his mouth, wondering if he should go down. If he does, he absolutely knows he’s going to break up the party. The giant elephant in the room, though there’s not even a problem. He’s still new to people actually being nice to him and not trying to blow his brains out or slit his throat.

Biting his bottom lip, he looks down the hallway to the stairs. He’ll go and have a quick look. If it’s too crowded for his liking, or if he feels he’s unwanted, then he’ll go straight back up the stairs and to his room. Without having an argument with himself, he struts down the hallway and finds his way downstairs to the med lab. Having only been there once, he remembers the way. When he reaches the door that leads to the basement, he creeps along the wall, and peeks through the glass window. The only thing he sees are the glass stairs leading down to the laboratory. He grabs the doorknob, and quietly opens the door, listening in.

“No no no. You see. You should’ve torn a part of your dress to wrap around their faces.”

“You honestly think I’d have the time for that, Nat?”

“I’d say you had a sufficient amount of time, since you were dilly dallying around while talking to that guy.”

“Oh give me a break, Sam. Why don’t you try wearing a dress and try to discreetly rip it while talking to a guy that has a face that looks like someone tossed it in a blender?”

“That’s no excuse.”

“Oh ho ho. I do not need the sass on that from you, Tony. You gave me enough.”

“She’s right, Tony. What she needs is reform. And flirting lessons.”

“Steve. Honestly.”

“I agree.”

“Not you too, Wanda!”

“I’m sorry, _______. But I’ve seen better flirting from animals biting each other.”

“Now now, everyone. Miss _______ has been through quite enough. She does not need any further insults being directed at her.”

“Thank you, Vision.”

“However, if I may make one suggestion–“

“You may not!”

Everyone erupts in laughter as your face contorts to a mixture of frustration and amusement. But even you can’t stop laughing. You’re kind of lucky that you got shot in the leg and not the abdomen; otherwise you probably wouldn’t be able to laugh like you are right now.

Bucky’s mouth is in a tight line by the time everybody is laughing. He quietly closes the door and sighs. He knows, he knows he wouldn’t be able to walk in there without having at least one or two faces fall upon his arrival. And since he’s made the decision to go back upstairs, he won’t have to see it. But it’s good to hear that you seem to be doing okay.

He returns to his room, firmly closing the door shut and flopping on his bed. His brow furrows as he stares at the ceiling. He wonders if he should pay you a visit later, when the team has left and won’t notice him skipping back down to you. It’s only one in the afternoon. Should he wait a few more hours, or until nighttime when everyone is in bed? But then there’s the most important factor: you. Would you be asleep? Bucky knows you need your rest; you got shot in the leg for Christ sakes. He’d want some peaceful rest too. But you seem like a night owl to him. Maybe it’d be okay?

He shakes his head when too many thoughts come crashing together at once. He reaches under his bed and pulls out the iPod you gave him with the most popular hits over the past few decades. He hasn’t stopped listening to the playlist since you gave it to him. It was a nice gesture on your part, but he didn’t realize how much he’d actually appreciate it. Hearing songs from his childhood (from the fragments he can remember) to his teens and adulthood was a godsend. And even though his mind was constantly played with and erased, the melody of the song and the lyrics would strike a cord in him, old memories and emotions surfacing. Some nights he would let a few tears slip out because it felt so familiar to him, but he couldn’t pinpoint the exact moments in his life where a song would make him feel so emotional. And he hates it. But, in all honesty, the power of the song overcomes his hatred no problem. Even more so, because you did it because you wanted to. You didn’t want anything out of it; you just wanted to help him.

With an affirmative grunt, he’s made a decision. He would go visit you later that night, where he could speak to you in private. For now, he’ll attempt to have another dreamless sleep.

Back downstairs, the team has settled down some after getting their teasing out of the way. You’re still wiping away a few tears because you were laughing so hard. Tony has since closed the surveillance video, since he got his mocking words of praise out of his system. You managed to finish your meal, and set your tray aside to enjoy the company of your friends.

“Okay okay okay,” Steve starts. “In all seriousness, I’m proud of _______ for taking things into her own hands. She fought well, thought on her feet, and got a few arrests under her belt.”

“Oh my god, Steeeeve,” you whimper, covering your face in your hands. You cannot take him seriously sometimes. His puppy dog behaviour and big dad smile makes your heart melt every time.

“Hey, I’m just laying down the truth for ya,” he says, smiling widely. “I’d say we give you a couple cheers for your hard work.”

There’s a few groans, which only makes Steve laugh and egg them on.

“Come on, guys. You know she deserves it. We don’t have any drinks, but I think a few congratulations are in order.”

You just shake your head and grab your milk carton, raising it up in the air. Steve claps a hand on your shoulder, and squeezes.

“Congratulations on your first successful solo mission, _______.”

There’s a chorus of “congrats” and “good job”s. You happily sip on your milk, your cheeks turning pink from slight embarrassment. You look up at the ceiling when F.R.I.D.A.Y. joins in on the conversation.

“Miss _______, you are receiving a Skype call from Maeve.”

Your stomach drops, and your smile disappears. You’ve done a decent job at keeping Maeve up-to-date on things going on in the compound, with yourself, and everyone else. It’s been a week, and you haven’t had the chance to call her. She’s probably freaking out right about now.

“Shit,” you whisper to yourself. The thought of Maeve letting you have it is more terrifying than getting shot in the leg. Your heart beats uncomfortably fast and hot in your chest.

“You alright, kid?” Tony asks.

“Yeah,” you wave him off. “I just… I haven’t spoken to her in a week because of me being here. She doesn’t know what’s been going on.”

“Would you like some privacy?” Steve asks.

“Ye–Actually, no,” you reply after giving it a quick thought. “No. You guys can stay. I think she’d like it. Take her attention away from being mad at me.”

The team looks at each other, but you pay them no mind. Maeve is the only one who knows about you being here; everyone else, including your family, has no idea what you’ve been doing. And you’d like to keep it that way.

“Miss _______. Shall I accept the call?”

“Everyone get over here,” you say first, waving your arms. “Come on, come on!” The team does as they’re told, and surround your bed. Once you think everyone is in the picture, you tell F.R.I.D.A.Y. to accept the call.

“On screen, F.R.I.D.A.Y.”

“Skype call on screen.”

When the call is accepted, all you see is the empty living room of your shared apartment with Maeve. You cock your head to the side, wondering if the screen is frozen.

“Maeve?” you call out.

“Oh! Look who finally decided to pick up the phone!” she yells from the kitchen. “I can’t believe you! You know I was actually worried, right? I thought huh, maybe she just wants some time to herself, or she’s on a really long mission. But a week, _______? Really? And not a single update?”

“Uh, Maeve–“

“And don’t even get me started on the fact that you haven’t sent me any SnapChat updates! Absolutely nothing! No workout rooms, no briefings, not even goddamn food! Did you get hit in the head again?”

“Meave–“

“I bet you did. And that’s why you haven’t been showing me those glorious pe–“

She stops herself when she finally comes into view and sees just who she’s been talking to. You give her a bashful smile and a little wave.

“Surpriiiiise!”

You’ve never seen Maeve so awestruck before. Her mouth is gaping open, she’s frozen in place, and she keeps moving her eyes left and right, but not her head. You’re a little awestruck yourself.

“Maeve? Maeve?”

“_-_______?” she stammers, walking closer to her laptop. She sits down and sets the computer in her lap. There’s a long moment of awkward silence, with you expecting more of a reaction, while everyone else is confused. Maeve covers her mouth with one hand, and finally speaks again.

“You’re… you’re in a hospital bed. What the hell happened? Is this why I haven’t heard from you?”

You’re honestly sort of surprised she’s not freaking out more about seeing The Avengers, but you guess you’re her priority right now.

“Uh, y-yeah. I got shot in the leg and–“

“You got shot in the leg?!” she screams. “Holy shit, _______! How did that happen?”

“I went on a mission alone,” you answer, taking it slow. “The mission was a success, but I got shot in the leg in the process. And I sorta… I was unconscious for a week because of some alcohol and morphine problems, but I’m okay now! I can’t walk by myself for a while, but it’s all good.”

She snorts and makes a bunch of incoherent noises, shaking the laptop screen.

“All good? All good?!” she yells, exasperated. “You’re in a hospital bed, _______! You got shot in the leg and you’re in a hospital bed surrounded by every… one.” She’s just realizing now that not only is she speaking to you, but also Sam, Steve, Tony, Wanda, Natasha, and Vision. She stops rambling and gives a wave to the camera.

“Uhhh. Hi! I-I’m Maeve.”

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Steve smiles. “Well. On screen, anyway.”

“Y-Yeah, same here!” she squeaks. Now she’s getting excited. Her eyes flit all over the place, smiling more and more at each face she sees.

“I’m just–wow. It’s so awesome to see everyone like this. Well, not like this this, because _______ is confined to a bed and all. You know what I mean. Just… wOW. I can’t believe this! _______, I’m really happy that you’re okay. And I’m sorry for yelling. I just–“

“Don’t even worry about it,” you interrupt, holding up your hand. “You can have your moment.”

Sitting back, you let Maeve talk to the team. Tony is a little adamant about it because he doesn’t really like outsiders prying into the compound and The Avengers’ business, but since it’s your personal friend, he’s not being as stubborn about it. The conversations go on for well over an hour, and you can’t believe it. It almost feels kind of nostalgic, the whole situation reminding you of when you would get together with your friends and talk the night away. Sharing stories, gossiping, and just plain enjoying each other’s presence. It’s a nice reminder to make you relax and be thankful for what you have.

“And man, you would not believe the pictures she takes,” Maeve continues, making you blush.

“Stop bragging about me already,” you complain, rubbing your forehead.

“Please, do,” Tony adds, giving you a smirk.

“Shut up, you,” you snap back.

“I hate to break up this reunion,” Dr. Markson speaks up, after remaining silent the entire time. “But _______ is going to need a lot of rest tonight. Tomorrow she starts her rehabilitation lessons, and I would advise that she be well rested to be prepared for it.”

There’s a loud chorus of “aww”s from everyone, though Tony’s is more sarcastic than anything. Though he did enjoy this little get-together, the doctor is right. You need your rest.

“Okay, everyone,” he announces. “Time to wrap it up. Let’s go.”

Wanda and Natasha come over to give you a hug, Sam gives you a firm handshake and a back clap. Vision nods his head, Tony waves, and Steve gives you a kiss to your temple before they all file out. You wave enthusiastically, and laugh when Maeve gives them all a giant goodbye. She gives you a pouty smile when it’s her turn to bid you farewell.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” you tell her. “After I do my therapy. Hopefully I don’t fall down the stairs.”

“Knowing you, you probably will,” she chuckles. She smiles sadly, and rests her cheek on her knee. “I hope you get better soon, _______.”

“Mm. So do I,” you agree. “Slán go fóill.”

Bye for now.

“Slán go fóill, mo chara.”

By for now, my friend.

She ends the Skype call, and then you’re surrounded by silence again. Dr. Markson fills out a few papers, and you have nothing better to do. You’ll be confined to your bed until tomorrow, but you’ll be damned if you go to sleep again. You’re too awake to do that. You see a remote sitting on one of the desks. Might as well ask.

“Dr. Markson?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I get TV in this room?”

“Of course.”

He turns around in his chair, grabs the remote, and shows you how to use it, since it’s Tony’s technology. And even some of that you don’t understand. He shows you the basics, the TV being projected on the glass wall in front of you. A regular TV would do you just fine instead of having so many projections coming on at once. After fiddling around with it for a few minutes, you settle for a movie that’s half an hour in. You sit back and relax, but you feel something funny going on in your stomach. You lift the sheets, looking at your lower half.

“Um,” you start, not knowing how you should say this. “Can I… go to the bathroom? Or is that being taken care of?”

“Hmm? Oh,” he smiles. “Yes. A Foley catheter has been draining your bladder since your accident. I’ll take that out tomorrow as well, before your rehab session.”

You nod your head and put the sheets back down. Having your insides being taken care of isn’t all that bad. Especially this; you don’t know how well you’d fair trying to walk to the bathroom to do your business, let alone trying to sit down. A blessing in disguise.

Reclining your bed to a good TV watching position, you keep the remote by your side, remaining still and silent when Dr. Markson does a few check-ups on you. You can’t really complain; he and his team saved your life, so you’re going to keep your mouth shut until someone asks you something. For now, you sit back and watch your movie.

Back upstairs, everyone goes to their own separate spaces, but Steve immediately goes to see Bucky in his room. He looks behind him to see if anyone else is coming. When there isn’t, he knocks on the door.

“Buck? It’s me.”

When he doesn’t hear an answer, he knocks again, only louder.

“Buck? You in there?”

He hesitantly opens the door, peeking inside. He sees Bucky sitting cross-legged on his bed, back hunched over, earbuds firmly in place. Steve opens the door wider and smiles, leaning against the doorframe. Steve slaps his hand on the wall a few times. Bucky jumps and tears the earbuds out and looks behind him.

“Steve,” he half laughs, half scowls. “Don’t do that.”

“Hey well, I tried knocking,” Steve counters. “You didn’t hear me.”

“Guess not.”

Steve looks down at the iPod in Bucky’s hands, staring curiously at it. Bucky takes notice and holds it up.

“iPod,” he says, turning it in his hands. “Plays music.”

“I know,” Steve says. “Better than the radio, isn’t it?”

“Leaps and bounds better, I’d say.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“_______ gave it to me.”

“Ohhhhh.”

Bucky tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes at Steve. He knows that kind of “oh”.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’,” he says. “Just nice to hear that she’s getting you invested in the latest technology too. I’ve had my share, now it’s your turn.”

“I guess,” Bucky sighs. “This is it for now.”

As Bucky scrolls through the songs again, Steve crosses his arms and observes his best friend. He seems really invested in his new iPod; it must be why he stays in his room for so long, only coming out to get food or to train. This image of Bucky not being afraid of technology warms Steve’s heart. A baby step for Bucky, but it’s a step nonetheless.

“We missed you down there,” Steve says. “Why didn’t you come?”

“I didn’t want to make the room come to a complete stop with me in there,” Bucky explains, leaning against the wall.

“No you wouldn’t, Buck,” Steve retorts. “_______ would’ve loved to see you there with everyone. And so would I.”

“I dunno, Steve,” he shrugs. “I’m not quite there yet.”

Steve sighs, knowing as well as Bucky that he’s right. Even though he’s been here for a little while now, he hasn’t gotten into the groove of things. Tony and Sam put him on edge, and he doesn’t want to risk anything else horrible happening while he’s thrown into the mix.

“Okay,” Steve says softly, halfway out the door. “Will you see her sometime, then? For her? I’m sure she’d appreciate it, and love to hear about how much you’re loving your gift. Maybe even keep her company for a while until she gets back on her own two feet.”

Bucky looks up at him and is about to protest, but he just pulls his mouth to the side. He was going visit you anyway, but he might as well let Steve know. He’s asking, anyhow. Playing babysitter doesn’t exactly sound that exciting to him, but someone’s got to look after you when everyone else is away on a mission. Who knows. Maybe he’ll enjoy it. Finally, he nods firmly, then plugs his earbuds back in. Steve takes that as his sign to leave. He closes the door softly, smiling to himself. He decides to go to the kitchen to make himself some victory lunch, silently wishing Bucky the best.

When seven o’clock rolls around, you’re told that it’s dinnertime, and then bedtime right after. You’re tempted to keep watching TV until your show is over, but you’re not in the mood to hear parent-like remarks coming from the medical staff. Sighing in defeat, you turn off the projection and put the remote down on the desk beside you. Reclining the bed to a comfortable eating position, you accept the dinner tray and start eating your mashed potatoes and cream corn.

Once you’re finished, you give the tray back to one of the nurses and put your bed back into a horizontal position. Yawning, you rub your eyes and shift a little farther down your bed, careful not to disturb your wounded leg. It’s been quite interesting, sleeping on your back. And when you say “interesting”, you mean shitty. No amount of turning your head from side to side is going to save you from the hell that is complete horizontal positioning. With no other choice than to just endure it, you close your eyes and idly wave goodbye to Dr. Markson as he takes his leave.

“Rehabilitation will be at eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” he says, halfway out the door. “Be ready.”

“Mm. I will,” you reply sleepily.

“Goodnight, _______.”

“Night.”

Dr. Markson dims the lights as he turns down a hallway and out of sight. If anything should happen to you during the night, they have 24/7 surveillance and alarm systems to warn them if anything serious is going on. You’re in the safest place in all of Los Angeles, and all of the Avengers are above you, if needed. Most likely not, but it’s a soothing thought. After several shifting attempts, you manage to fall asleep on your left side within the hour.

Around nine o’clock, Bucky decided to pay you a visit without being noticed, clad in his sweat pants and white tank top. But when he got downstairs, you were already asleep. He debated whether or not to stay, since he didn’t want to disturb you. However, he pulled up a chair beside you anyway, and silently watched you sleep peacefully.

That was an hour ago. Now, you’re twitching more in your sleep, your brows furrow in frustration, and your lip quivers. You’re sweating hotly, and grasp the sheets in despair. Your harmless dream has turned into a haunting nightmare, and your body is reacting accordingly. Bucky watches on, knowing that countless times he’s slept like this: fearful and aggravated. He always woke up in a cold sweat, dazed and confused about where he was. From time to time he’d get lucky and dream a dreamless sleep, but those were rare occasions. There’s too many horrors in his mind to poke and prod at him when he’s supposed to feel safe.

In your dream, you’re at club Death Row, with Marko Snyders standing over you. He had already shot and killed agent Knox. Your ears are ringing from explosions outside the club, and from hitting your head on the floor. Your vision is hazy, your body weak, your mind frail and vulnerable. Everything seems to move in slow motion; from Marko waving his gun, to the two bodyguards leaving with agent Knox’s body. You start seeing double, and the club glows red. You reach your arm out for agent Knox, and Marko laughs in your face.

“Sorry, darlin’. You ain’t gettin’ out of this one.”

He starts backing out of the club, and holds up your lighter, lighting a flame. You try to scream, but no noise comes out. Trying to stand won’t work either; your body is firmly planted to the floor. Just as Marko is at the door, he drops your lighter and the whole room goes up in flames. You keep opening your mouth to call for help, but it’s just utter silence. You’re helpless as the fire catches you, engulfing you and the club in a roaring fire.

Your body reacts terribly to this, as you cry yourself awake, and jolt upright. You cry out in pain from stretching your leg too quickly. You hunch over and hold it delicately, breathing hardly. Looking up, you take a moment to remember where you are. Bucky remains in his seat, but is ready to take action if need be. You put a hand over your chest, and breathe deeply to calm yourself down. Something feels off, so you look to your left.

“B-Bucky?” you stammer.

“Hi, _______,” he says calmly. “You alright?”

Your gaze moves from the floor, to the walls, and ceiling. Then you look down at the hospital bed, your gown, and the electrodes attached to your chest.

Right. I’m in the compound. Recovering. I’m alive.

Coming back to earth, you take deep breaths as you gently rub your temples. Bucky leans his elbows on his knees, holding his hands. You wipe the tears from your face, and lay back against your bed again. Having Bucky witness you crying yourself awake from a nightmare isn’t anything less than embarrassing. Though you suppose it’s alright; he’s probably woken up in a similar fashion before. He could empathize. After calming down from your breakdown, you turn your head to face him.

“Hi,” you say quietly.

“Hi,” he replies.

You look at the time on the wall to your right, then back to Bucky.

“What’re you doing down here so late?”

He clears his throat and avoids eye contact with you for a moment. It’s a little strange to visit you while you’re asleep, but he wanted to visit you alone. Without the judgmental eyes of certain people. Seeing as you clearly already know the answer to your question, he answers truthfully.

“I came to visit you.”

You smile softly, but it turns into a full-on grin the more you look at him. He smiles back and turns to the floor, licking his lips apprehensively.

“Thanks,” you speak up, saving him the embarrassment at the fact that he came so late. “Better late than never, right?”

“Better late than never,” he agrees, smiling shyly. He eyes all of the medical equipment that’s keeping you alive at the moment. You tilt your head to the side as he does so. You look at the machines with him, then down at yourself. You huff a laugh.

“Y’know,” you start, regaining his attention. “I’ve never had to stay in a hospital bed this long before. I mean. Yeah, I had to sit on one for when I broke my ankle and fainted after giving blood but… this sets a new record.”

Bucky shakes his head, but a small smile curves at his lips. You’re so different from everyone else; so carefree and titillating. You say strange things at times, just like now, and he finds it extremely amusing, but also a little weird. But hey, aren’t they all?

You laugh at his reaction and continue on.

“All these things,” you say, gesturing to the machines in the room. “I’ve never had this many things attached to me. I had a feeding tube in me not too long ago. It was so nasty when the doctor took it out. I could feel it coming out of my stomach and up my throat. I gagged so hard. I’ve never been so grossed out. But I still got my IV tube, though. Gotta get those sugars and nutrients. Ummm. I had a blood transfusion, and a Foley catheter is emptying my bladder for me. Pretty convenient, if you ask me. Saves me the trip to the bathroom. Theeee microwavable dinners aren’t too bad, but man. What I would do for some of Wanda’s chicken paprikash right about now.”

Bucky nods along the whole time, not daring to interrupt you. Listening to you drag on about the pros and cons of hospital care keeps a tender smile on his face. Your enthusiasm is infectious, and he’s definitely caught it. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t not stop smiling. You sigh at the end of your rant, and he takes that as his turn to speak.

“So how’ve you been, other than what you just said?”

“You mean about getting shot in the leg?”

“…More or less.”

You shrug indifferently. Peeling back the sheets and pulling up your gown, you show him the giant gauze wrapped securely around your thigh. You pat the skin above it, and cautiously move your leg around as you explain.

“Firstly, and I think this goes without saying, that getting shot at is terrifying.” You look at him, and he nods in agreement. Smacking your lips together, you play with your gown as you share your experience with him. “I don’t think it helped my cause that I drank so much. The nerves were getting the better of me and I just needed to relax. I don't know if this is true, but I bet it was a factor that because I drank so much, I was a little slow on things. At least for my mobility and reaction time. Anyway. I managed to get the target to me, and kept him talking and distracted, long enough for me to almost get him out of there. Almost. I don’t know how, but he knew that I was there for him. He put a gun to my back, and my dumbass didn’t bring one because I thought I wouldn’t need it. Rookie mistake there. Nearly got blown to bits if that other agent wasn’t in there with me.”

You pause to stretch your neck and sigh tiredly. Bucky thinks him being here is keeping you awake from the rest you need, and asks if you want him to go.

“No, no,” you say, shaking your hand. “It’s okay. I didn’t really talk to any of them about this. They just watched the video.”

“Video?”

“Yeah. Coulson had surveillance cameras in the place. Didn’t bother to tell me about them.”

“Would it… would it be easier for you if I watched it instead?”

“Probably, but. I feel like if I don’t talk about it now, then I won’t get another chance. It’ll be pent up inside me, and I’ve done that way too often to know how much it hurts not to say anything.”

Bucky thins his mouth into a tight line, knowing exactly what you’re talking about. He never wants to talk about anything that he’s been through. Past, present; it doesn’t matter. The only willing person to listen is Steve, and even then he can’t bring himself to tell him anything. Being his best friend, he thought he’d be able to. But the horrors he’s done and been through are terrifying and ugly enough to keep his mouth shut. He doesn’t want anyone else to go through what he did, and talking about it is only going to include people in his fears and repulsion. So he’s not going to open up any time soon.

“Okay,” he finally says. He pulls his chair a little closer and leans in, willing to listen.

“Thanks,” you mumble. You get back on track, digging your fingernails into each other. “Sooo. Yeah. The second agent. Didn’t tell me that either. Though it was deemed a solo mission, I was hoping there’d be at least one other person on the inside to guide me. Um.” You rub your forehead, trying to remember exactly what happened. It was seven days ago, and being hyped up on morphine and alcohol at the time isn’t the best combination. Especially when it comes to remembering things. Even though you watched the video with the team a hundred times just a few hours ago, your mind is still a little hazy.

“You know what. I’ll just show you this part instead. I can’t quite remember the details.”

You tell F.R.I.D.A.Y. to pull up the video again, and play it from the part that agent Knox holds a gun to the back of Marko’s head. Nodding in remembrance, you talk over the video to give Bucky the run down about what went on in your head.

“Having a gun pressed against my back isn’t the most pleasant thing in the world,” you say, eyes fixed on the screen. “Honestly, I almost started crying because I was so scared. But agent Knox came in and helped me out. She took care of him while I had the heavy task of taking down two grown men. I didn’t think I’d be able to do that either, but I did. Surprisingly. Nat gave me gun lessons, and did some self-defence training, but I couldn’t remember all of it. I did what I did from what I could remember from YouTube videos I watched instead.”

He turns to you in confusion, having not heard that name before.

“It’s a uh, video-sharing website. I’ll tell ya about that later.”

He nods in understanding and turns back to the video like you do.

“Obviously, I had to act quickly. No time to think. Just do. I had guys the size of Steve to overthrow, and I didn’t think I’d make it. Seeing his gun scared the life out of me. And I’ve never been so high on adrenaline either. I guess it kinda kicked me in the ass to get myself moving and out of danger. All was well until–“

You stop to let Bucky hear the gunshot.

“I get shot in the leg. I didn’t really feel it at first. Kinda felt like something was weighing me down. Well, obviously, because I’m on the floor.” You wave yourself off and cross your arms as you watch the rest of it. “Everyone got a little tense while watching this part. They know I don’t die, but when they saw it for the first time… I felt kind of guilty for making them look so worried. But they got over it, because I took my opening and lit him up.”

Bucky’s eyes light up in surprise when he watches you set Marko’s arm and face on fire, then swiftly put yourself in front of agent Knox to protect her. You quickly pick up your lighter and surround Marko and his bodyguards with flames as agent Knox picks up the discarded gun and keeps them from moving also. The video ends when all the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents come filing in and make the arrests. You click your tongue as the video fades off the screen.

“Soooo yeah. That’s how my first solo mission went.”

“I think you did pretty well,” Bucky comments without missing a beat, now staring at the blank glass wall. “A good strategy, no hostages, no injured civilians. Despite the execution being a little sloppy, you came out alright, doll.”

You blink in surprise when he calls you that again. You could get used to it. He doesn’t seem to mind using it either; that, or he’s silently screaming inside for letting it slip out again. You don’t dwell on it though, and just let your cheeks and ears go bright red in embarrassment.

“Thanks, Bucky,” you say. “It really makes me feel better about myself when someone tells me I’m doing things right.”

“No problem,” he says, giving you a firm nod.

“Mm. But the story doesn’t stop there I’m afraid,” you scoff. “A gunshot wound doesn’t usually make you fall unconscious.”

“So, what happened?”

“Well. I told you I was drinking, right? Very bad move on my part. Getting shot didn’t help me at all. When all was said and done, I was going to go with some paramedics to get treated. But me, again, being a dumbass again, said ‘no, just get me the morphine and I’ll be on my way’.”

“And why’s that?”

You take a shaky breath, laughing a little as you scratch the back of your head and peek up at him.

“I had to make a McDonald’s run.”

That certainly earns you a reaction. His eyebrows raise, his eyes widen, and his mouth drops in utter astonishment. He cannot believe what you just said.

“A McDonald’s run,” he repeats. “You declined medical attention for a gunshot wound because you had to go to a fast food restaurant in the middle of the night?”

You nod.

“Are you serious?”

“Well I kinda lied to Sam about where I was going,” you explain. “So I said I was going there instead and I asked if he wanted anything. I had to go pick it up, Bucky. The man needed his nuggets.”

He sits back in his chair and runs a hand through his hair. He gives you the side-eye, trying to look cross, but he just ends up laughing to himself and shaking his head.

“You sure are something,” he says, letting his hand fall in his lap.

“I’m getting a lot of that lately,” you say. “Though I take it as a compliment.”

“You should,” he jokes. After getting over his initial shock, he gets you back on track.

“So you got the nuggets and then what?” he questions. “You wanted to go for a late night swim, too?”

“No!” you laugh. “’Course not. I just didn’t want to come home empty handed, is all.”

“Riiight,” he nods. “Because having a bullet wedged in your thigh isn’t as important as four little nuggets in a box.”

“He wanted twenty nuggets, Bucky,” you tell him.

“Twenty?!” he damn near yells. “This guy wanted not four, not ten, but twenty chicken nuggets? Who the hell does he think he is? Either he’s stupid or greedy. I’m betting on both.”

“Oh come on,” you chide. “I’d want twenty nuggets as a late night snack too! Can you really blame him?”

“…Yes.”

You laugh out-loud at his response. This is probably the most Bucky has spoken to you in one sitting, other than the plane ride back from Wakanda. Before he would just grunt and have one-worded answers. But now he’s a chatterbox. It’s a great relief to see him in such a calm, blissful, chill mood. He must be having a good day.

“Okay, anywayyy,” you start, getting back to the story. “So I go with Coulson to McDonald’s and get Sam’s order then drive home. I was drugged with quite a lot of morphine I’d say, but I vaguely remember pushing myself out of the driver’s window to threaten the person working at the window to give me all the kid’s toys or I’d burn the place to the ground…”

Bucky stares at you blankly. You shrug.

“Yeah. So that was me. Then he dropped me off at the compound, I went upstairs, and everyone was yelling. Then I fell unconscious. Into you. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“’S no problem.”

He thinks about mentioning what you said to him before you passed out, about him helping you with the mission, but he keeps his mouth shut about it for now. He’ll ask about it later. Maybe.

“Still… Then the real problems began. Out cold for seven days, all because of a bullet? I don’t think so. Apparently, injecting morphine into an alcohol-stained system is very, very dangerous. The doctor told me that I could have fallen into a coma and died. Not exactly what anyone wants to hear, but luckily it didn’t happen. It must’ve been a mess, though, trying to stabilize me and treat my wound at the same time. But he and his team managed to do it. A week and a blood transfusion later, I’m here. Alive and well. For the most part. I got rehab tomorrow, so that should be fun.”

“Sounds like you had a hell of a time,” he comments, now staring at the gauze wrapped around your thigh. “I imagine the pain wasn’t what you were expecting, either.”

“I didn’t know what to expect, to be honest,” you reply. “I know that different sized bullets all have their own pain threshold. Like, a shotgun won’t give you the same amount of pain as a pistol or revolver. I got shot with a semi-automatic handgun, and it stung like a bitch. When I first woke up, the painkillers were doing their job pretty well, but whenever I move my leg I can still feel it. No more rigorous activity for me for a while.”

“And it looks like I’m your new playmate,” he remarks.

“What do you mean?”

“Well. Since you’re out of commission for the unforeseeable future, I’m the only one you’ve got to keep you company.”

“Ohhh.”

This is some of the best news you’ve heard all damn day. You don’t show your excitement, because you don’t want Bucky to see just how thrilled you are about it. Instead, you smile fondly.

“I’m looking forward to it,” you tell him.

“So is Steve,” he adds in.

“I imagine,” you agree. “He kept telling me that I need to have someone with me so I don’t get too lonely or whatever.”

“Sounds like him.”

You nod in agreement, leaning back in your bed and closing your eyes. You throw an arm over your face, and cough quietly, suddenly feeling boiling.

“Heh. Is it hot in here or is it just me?”

Sweat drips down your neck, your back, and down your legs. Waking up from your nightmare caused you to break out into a sweat, but you pushed it aside to talk to Bucky. Now that you’ve said what you wanted to say, your attention is back on your bodily problems.

Bucky watches you take short breaths, and kick the sheets away because you’re so uncomfortable. He looks at his metal hand, wondering if he should help you cool down. That’d be okay, right? He’s not going to hurt you, and that’s never going to be his intention when he uses his left arm. He purses his lips in anticipation, ready for you to smack him away. He slowly gets out of his chair, and hesitantly extends his metal arm over your head.

“_______, can you move your arm?”

You flop it down on the bed without saying a word. Bucky swallows nervously as he gently presses his palm against your forehead. You gasp at the contact, but sigh from how much better you feel.

“Oh god, that feels so much better,” you say, placing your hands on top of his. Shivers go down your spine the more you touch his arm. You keep your eyes closed so you don’t feel weird about manhandling his arm to cool down. Bucky can’t move without letting you go, and since you have your eyes closed, he takes this short time to look at you.

The way your hair sticks to your forehead and neck as you continue to sweat. Your chest rising and falling in short breaths. The shakiness of your fingers as you clutch his arm. The way your good leg twitches every so often, and how you bite your bottom lip from the occasional pain from your wound. He absentmindedly brushes his thumb along your forehead, and tilts his head to the side as he watches you calm down. When you’ve had your fill, you squeeze his hand and finally peek up at him.

“Thanks, for that,” you mumble, taking his hand away. “Though I imagine your hand’s all sweaty now.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, retracting his arm. “As long as you feel better.”

“Trust me, I am.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

You pull the blankets back up to your knees, and shift your body again until you’re in a comfortable position. You smile at him, happy that you got to be able to spend this time with him. Bucky stands up again as you fiddle with your fingers, taking that as his leave to go.

“Later, skater,” you call as he starts to leave.

“Goodnight, _______,” he returns, smiling. “Good luck with your rehab.”

“Thanks. See ya tomorrow, couch buddy.”

He nods as he walks out the door, making sure not to produce any additional noise as you try to find your way to sleep again.

E/A/N: I don’t know when I’ll post the next chapter, since I like to have several chapter finished in advance so I don’t have to rush anything. Chapter Twelve is done, and I’m just starting to write Chapter Thirteen. I have a few more plot ideas in mind, so all I have to do now is put it all into words 😂 Thank you to everyone that has stuck with me so far, and I hope you’ll be with me ‘til the end of the line ❤️

33 notes · View notes

jobsearchtips02 · 4 years

Text

Coronavirus survivor shares details surrounding COVID-19 healing

Premium

Phillip Guttmann

2020-07-30 T20: 27: 49 Z.

Phillip Guttmann.

This story is available exclusively to Service Expert subscribers. End Up Being an Insider and start checking out now.

Phillip Guttmann is an author, producer, and licensed therapist who resides in Los Angeles. He took a trip to New York City in March and contracted COVID-19

He remembers calling his household to state his last goodbyes prior to being put in a medically caused coma for breathing failure. He likewise recalls having scary problems while in the coma for 23 days.

Guttmann is now recovering and wants to inform others on post COVID-19 signs. His body is just now recovering from stage-four bedsores, but he suffers from extreme peripheral neuropathy (pins and needles and burning discomfort).

His biggest plea to Americans is to wear masks and practice social distancing.

This article includes images that some may find stressful.

Visit Business Expert’s homepage for more stories

I was on a work trip in New York City in between March 3 and March 14.

When my plane took off from LAX bound for JFK, I knew that people in Italy were dying and that a couple of cases had actually discovered their way to mainland U.S.A..

I was mindful of a cruise ship that was stranded with ill travelers somewhere off the Pacific coast.

I do not understand where I got it and I do not know how– and I’ll never ever know the minute of my transmission, the location, or the circumstances.

Walking around New York City, March2020

Phillip Guttmann.

I was in court spaces, in the train, in crowded bars and restaurants– I was on the relocation and hectic, working, seeing the news like the rest of America as things began to progress.

A number of days prior to I needed to fly back house to LA, I prepared to shelter in location and looked for a mask and gloves for my flight since things were getting scarier.

I landed in LA on Saturday, March 14, and for a minute I felt safe, as if I ‘d evaded a bullet.

But within 36 hours, I began feeling off: I was fatigued and had body pains. By Monday, my temperature level increased to 101.2 °. Naturally, I understood I had actually contracted COVID-19

I went into the ER that exact same day and was practically turned away– regardless of my fever and coughing– up until they learned I ‘d just left a plane from New York City 2 days previously.

They hurried me right inside after that, if that tells you anything about the state of NYC mid-March. (If you remember, New york city had been the center of the novel coronavirus.)

I can’t keep in mind taking the actual tests, however my flu test came back negative and medical professionals entered into my ER space to tell me that they thought I had COVID-19 My coronavirus test results can be found in positive a few days later on.

The next couple of days were a blur. I was admitted to a regular healthcare facility space and remember seeing the eerie blue Scientology building outside my health center window and getting flipped out (I personally discover the structure unsettling).

The Scientology structure beyond my hospital window.

Phillip Guttmann.

I remember a nurse delicately informing me that a great deal of his patients with COVID-19 were crashing and being put on ventilators. I asked if that would happen to me– I was frightened. He responded, “I sure hope not!”

I keep in mind the food. My first night in the health center I had missed dinner and was tossed a dry turkey-and-cheese sandwich in a plastic container. I consumed it, bland as it was, because I was in fact starving.

There was another night where they forgot to bring my supper. I was famished and among the nurses was kind sufficient to bring me a container of Chinese takeout food.

How could I be hungry when I was otherwise so sick and had no energy? However for the first couple of days I was. I remember there was pudding, Jell-O, graham crackers, and gleaming apple juice.

I remember some phone calls and sobbing in discomfort from coughing so hard.

And I noticeably keep in mind wanting to warn everybody on social media to use a mask and to be careful– though I do not in fact keep in mind taking my selfie and publishing it to Facebook.

The day prior to I was intubated at Hollywood Presbyterian Medical Facility on March 22,2020

Phillip Guttmann.

And I do not keep in mind much after the 3rd or 4th day.

I am told that I entered into respiratory failure on March 23, and I was rushed as much as the ICU where I was intubated and positioned into a medically induced coma.

I have no memory of being placed on the ventilator or the defining moments before. I have a worry of passing away young, or something going wrong and losing on this excellent present of life, so I’m grateful I do not keep in mind anything leading up to my coma.

I was informed later on by nurses and physicians that I was frightened in the minutes leading up to my intubation, due to the fact that I just knew the chances of making it through on a ventilator were slim.

I managed to call a couple of loved ones, and I bid farewell, as in, “I’m contacting us to say goodbye, I am being intubated and do not think I’m going to endure.” Having no memory of those moments has actually spared me extra suffering.

But I do remember the lots of problems I had on the ventilator while in a coma. One of my headaches was of my good friend putting me in a well and physically abusing me with electric shocks while I struggled for oxygen. This was one of perhaps 30 various headaches I experienced. It was pure hell, and the horrific nightmares still haunt me deeply.

I likewise remember the flashes of medical professionals and nurses coming in and out of my space and putting feeding tubes down my nose while commanding, “Swallow, Phillip, swallow!” I had to have my arms restrained since I was pulling the tubes out

I remember flashes of “Frasier” or morning news programs playing on the TELEVISION in my ICU system as makers beeped and alarms went off and turmoil happened all around me.

I remember being moved and prodded by medical workers, ordered to take deep breaths, and being asked to specify my name and open my eyes.

I remember having a hard time to breathe.

I remember being cold, being hot, hearing nurses recommending medical professionals what my vitals were. I keep in mind being naked and not caring (typically my worst problem), and other bits and pieces.

But I didn’t stress over passing away so much. I stressed over it a little, but I was mainly too tired and too sleepy.

I hallucinated and thought I might make phone calls by purchasing Siri to dial my good friends and household. I imagined that I was calling out, asking them to come rescue me.

No one came.

For 23 days, I was on that ventilator and in and out of that coma. For another 2 weeks after that, I was semi-lucid in the ICU, attached to machines and withstanding coronavirus test after test.

My IV was pumped with drugs while nurses cried to me about another patient on my floor passing away; they stated that they could not take anybody else dying.

I was rushed to the ICU, intubated and put in a medically induced coma.

Phillip Guttmann.

One night a tired nurse held my hand and thanked me for not passing away. He told me I was only the 2nd individual in the unit to come off the vent alive.

When they moved me to a step-down rehab hospital, the nurses and techs gathered and applauded and cried– someone they dealt with had in fact endured. It was a great day.

Among my nurses, Elisabeth, who was on loan from a health center in Chicago, reminded me about our agreement: “There is not ‘I can’t.’ There is only ‘I will try.'”

I decided then and there that I would attempt.

And I pursued 18 more days in another health center and I have actually attempted since May 19, the day I returned house.

In overall, I was hospitalized for 65 days– 39 days in the ICU and 23 days on the ventilator.

Over 2 months of my life was lost to medical facility beds, tubes, machines, and painful nightmares– all without seeing a single familiar face.

I have actually been preventing being active on social networks and connecting with individuals because being discharged from the medical facility. I required time to ponder what had taken place to me (and what had actually practically happened to me).

It’s lastly sunk in– but not totally. I’m still trying to cover my head around it, while likewise attempting to figure out what’s taking place in our nation right now. COVID-19 and systemic racism is a lot to be considering at the same time.

President Donald Trump and other political leaders have so much blood on their hands. They urge individuals to laugh at masks and reject bigotry exists. George Floyd was eliminated in my hometown, in Minneapolis. Where is the love and how did we ever get so divided, so negligent and so broken?

On the other hand, everyone lovingly asks “How are you?” and I’m not sure precisely how to respond to that concern.

An image of my trach website after my tracheotomy, an intrusive treatment where a cut is made in the windpipe to insert a tracheal tube. The procedure is for critically ill clients who need more time on a ventilator.

Phillip Guttmann.

I am remaining for a little while with among my buddies in San Francisco, since while I recuperate, I can’t be alone and require the support and aid.

I’m OKAY– not fantastic– however I’m hanging in there. These are the 3 things I actually wish to say to anybody who encounters my story.

1. Lots of people are already knowledgeable about COVID-19 symptoms, but there are post signs that individuals haven’t become aware of.

I have extreme peripheral neuropathy (tingling, weak point, and burning pain) in my hands, left forearm and parts of my toes. This took place since the nerves in my neck were compressed throughout my coma.

I had stage-four bedsores that are lastly healing well after more than 2 months of excruciating discomfort.

I am tired daily and have actually restricted energy that differs everyday– and while I can stroll 20 to 30 minutes at a time, I can’t run or lift weights like I did before.

The initial look at my heart is favorable, but I’m still waiting on a full summary from my physician. I’ll discover quickly if I sustained any damage to other crucial organs and the exact state of my minimized lung capacity and scar tissue (inside my lungs).

The way my pulmonologist has put it is that my lungs never ever be 100%of what they were, however that simply possibly they’ll get them to 90 or 95%over time: “Put it this way, I wouldn’t anticipate to run marathons once again.”

I never ran marathons before COVID-19, so perhaps that’s a repercussion I can cope with.

The list of other disorders that follows is akin to a long and winding roadway with limited presence on outcome. Frequently heard problems from members of online support groups (such as Survivor Corps on Facebook and Body Politik on Slack), consist of however are not restricted to:

fatigue and tiredness

pains and pains

chest tightness

shortness of breath (or, as is typically shortened, SOB)

2. Life is a present.

I am acutely knowledgeable about how close I came to being in the ground.

I am grateful– more than you can imagine– that God pulled me through and chose I wasn’t rather done. I’m grateful to be here to tell you that I love you and to live another day.

My circumstance came so close to going the other way. I marvel each day when I stroll in the park, by the ocean, and even when I hear the voice of my dad on the phone.

Life is still a present, even while at the exact same time it feels like the biggest challenge I have actually ever faced and causes me consistent pain.

3. The most important thing I wish to state is, please use a mask.

I can not express sufficiently how surreal it feels alone to be walking outside among the living, mixing in, “passing” for a “typical” and healthy person, however when I see individuals gathered on parks and walkways not using masks and disregarding social distancing standards, I want yell, ” Are you joke me ?? Do you really not get it ?? Do you not understand that the easy act of putting a fabric mask in between you and me can conserve a life, perhaps yours?”

I can’t comprehend why some Americans just refuse to acknowledge fundamental truths and refuse to put others. I thought we were better than that.

When I was 23, I remember enjoying in wonder as New Yorkers helped one another throughout 9/11 Numerous donated blood and plasma, and some experts drove hours to show up and volunteer to assist any place they were needed.

And while I see some traces of that throughout the pandemic, some individuals still decline to social distance and use masks. There are viral videos of people shouting in Walmart saying they decline to have their “freedoms and rights violated.”

As a COVID-19 survivor, this is overwhelming.

My physical therapist, Virginia Fung, is helping to lead Select Physical Treatment’s COVID-19 recovery program. Select Physical Treatment has numerous areas along the West Coast and is among the couple of physical treatment centers to provide a coronavirus healing program.

Christine Matsuda.

My appeal to Americans and anybody reading this (specifically to those who think wearing a mask is for the elderly, the infirm, or the weak) is to please take a look at the image of me in a coma and inform me that my life– or anyone’s life– isn’t worth what amounts such a tiny sacrifice, for a momentary time.

The director of the CDC, Robert Redfield, just recently stated he thinks we could greatly flatten COVID-19 in the United States if all Americans would dedicate to using a mask for the next four to 8 weeks. If you do the math, that means that by Labor Day we might turn this disaster around and conserve who knows the number of lives.

The photo of me in a coma this April is one that I never thought I would show anybody. I personally can’t stand to take a look at the picture because it advises me too much about the limitless nightmares I had while in the coma, and I really attempt not to consider them.

But if it will keep just one person safe, if my photo will make one individual unpleasant adequate to decide to use a mask, then sharing my image deserves it.

A selfie I took just recently.

Phillip Guttmann.

I’m also sharing a photo of myself from today due to the fact that this is also a story of healing and getting better, and I want to sign off with a bit of hope and gratitude. Take a look at me now and how far I have actually come considering that April.

And I’m almost myself once again. Not completely, but practically. That deserves something in an otherwise hard, unmatched time.

Phillip Guttmann is a writer, producer, and licensed therapist. He holds an MSW from New York City University and an MFA from The New School in New York, where he lived and worked between 2002 and2017 He moved to Los Angeles in 2017 to refocus on his composing profession and particularly television and movie writing. He has actually written three short movies that have actually won numerous awards. His last short film, “Black Hat,” evaluated at over 40 movie festivals worldwide including the Tribeca Movie Festival, the American Structure at the Cannes Movie Festival, Cinequest, British Film Institute, and more. It won grand reward in the 2019 Iris Prize. Follow him on Instagram and Facebook

Loading Something is filling.

BI Prime Functions Personal Essay Thought Management

Chevron icon It shows an expandable section or menu, or often previous/ next navigation options.

%%.

from Job Search Tips https://jobsearchtips.net/coronavirus-survivor-shares-details-surrounding-covid-19-healing/

0 notes