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irondadidontfeelsogood · 4 months

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Tower of Terror (reader request)

cw: vomit. This is another long, self indulgent one, and now one of my favorites—enjoy.

—————

To say that today was a long day would be a drastic understatement. After a school day full of his teachers somehow synchronizing their pop quizzes and exam reviews, he’d headed straight to the tower for training and lab work. His brain and his body are completely fried, so after being granted permission by May, he asks Tony if he can stay the night. He’s not sure he could stay conscious for the subway ride home.

“Sure, Pete. Does that mean you’re ready to cash?”

“Mhm,” Peter hums in response, his eyes threatening to fall shut and not open again.

Tony breathes out a quiet laugh. “Okay. Goodnight, kid.”

Peter murmurs something that sort of sounds like ‘goodnight’ but could also just be a random collection of consonants. He turns away, heading toward the elevator slowly. He feels totally drained, like his limbs each weigh a hundred pounds more than when he’d woken up this morning.

His head is throbbing with what’s sure to become a bad migraine if he doesn’t get to sleep soon. The air gets a little warmer as he ascends the elevator, and that nearly clocks him. He only just makes it to bed before he’s out, basically dead to the world.

Nightmares plague him instantly. He’s tossing at sea, and then he’s buried alive, and then he’s bleeding out fast—all alone in the middle of nowhere. At the end of it all, his heart clenches with the sharp feeling of free-falling, and he wakes abruptly, his lungs greedily gasping for air.

For several minutes, he has no idea where the hell he is. All he knows is that he’s soaked to his mattress in sweat, aching all over, and nauseous to the point of vertigo. He makes the mistake of sitting up. Instantly, the dark room around him seems to tilt forward endlessly, and he grips onto his sheets with white-knuckled fists.

God only knows what time it is or why his shoes are still on. He toes them off, hearing them land unceremoniously on the floor. He sits there for some time, trying desperately to remember anything about what happened before he’d woken up here. Nothing much surfaces.

He calls out for May, and is met with complete silence. That never happens unless she’s taken third shift. Maybe she had to pick up more hours?

Finally, he remembers that he’s at the tower, and he instantly feels worse. Being sick at the tower means he’s either going to suffer alone or bear the colossal embarrassment of having to ask for help from an Avenger. He groans, letting his head fall into his hands.

His headache is still pressing tight against his skull, and he feels like his brain and bones have turned to liquid. His stomach churns. With another groan, he lets himself lie back down against his sweat-cooled pillows.

Though he remains motionless in the dark room, his nausea only grows. He was hoping that it would fade as the nightmares did, but he isn’t so lucky. It feels like he’s swallowed an entire lake.

The internal battle has begun. He imagines how awful it would be for everyone to know. If he started hurling, it wouldn’t be long at all before everyone in the building caught wind of what was going on. FRIDAY isn’t great at keeping secrets.

He’s Spider-Man. He’s supposed to be a hero, not some kid that wakes up in the middle of the night with a tummy ache. The mere idea is mortifying.

Unfortunately, there’s nothing he can do about the circumstances that have been dealt to him, and if he tries to ignore them any longer, things are only going to get worse. So, he forces himself to his feet, feeling weak and full of dread.

The tower is silent as he makes his way to the kitchen, the floor seemingly tilting under his feet. He has to keep a hand on the wall beside him to avoid falling over. The journey feels ten times longer than it usually does.

He’s exhausted when he finally reaches the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. He fills up a glass of water and sips at it gingerly. It feels nice going down his throat, but not very nice at all sitting on top of the dinner in his stomach. He groans, leaning over the countertop. He burps quietly, nauseated almost beyond what he can handle.

Miserable, he lazily drags his gaze toward the cabinet where Tony keeps all the medicine. Pepto is Peter’s absolute last resort. It almost never works, and it tastes so bad that he’s vomited from the taste alone on many occasions.

Unfortunately, he’s feeling like he might have to try. If he doesn’t, that means he’s accepted the inevitable fate of emptying his stomach in a building full of Avengers. With a dramatic groan, he moves over to the cabinet, grabbing the bottle of neon pink liquid.

He stares at it with distaste, nearly shuddering at just the thought of it. If he’s going to do this it has to be quick, like a shot of tequila. He pours some onto a spoon and stares again.

Finally, he takes it, chasing it immediately with water. He swallows convulsively, begging his stomach to grant him some sort of mercy. He feels a surge of violent nausea and presses a palm over his mouth.

He shuts his eyes, swallows again, and takes several deep breaths through his nose. The wave of nausea passes slowly, painfully. His stomach makes a noise that probably means fuck you.

Fuck you too, he thinks hazily. When he feels like he might be in the clear, he pours out the rest of his water and sets the glass in the sink. His stomach turns over as he begins his walk toward the stairs. Why he picked the stairs over the elevator, he has no idea.

He’s only halfway up when he suddenly feels the worst swell of nausea yet, stopping him right in his tracks. His stomach churns hard, bringing with it a hot, rising feeling in his throat. He cages his mouth again as it rapidly fills with watery spit.

He can feel the color completely drain from his face as he stands frozen on the staircase. His heart is hammering in his chest as he silently begs God, the universe, someone to keep him from puking right now. Unsurprisingly, his prayers go unanswered.

That awful feeling of dread doubles, pouring over him like hot tar. He feels an intense urge to gag, and he’s entirely unable to stop himself from submitting to it. He pitches forward suddenly, spewing a huge gush of pink vomit all over the stairs in front of him.

Again, he vomits, splattering his hours-old dinner all over the hardwood and his socks. Immediately, he throws up again for four straight seconds. He gasps for air afterward, dizzy from the effort of being so sick.

In the eye of the hurricane, he somehow convinces himself that now is his only chance to get to a bathroom. His whole body is shaking as he climbs the rest of the stairs. By the time he reaches the hallway that connects to the one where is room is, he’s sweating bullets and so overwhelmed with nausea that he has to stop again.

He takes one more uncomfortable breath and folds, throwing up all over the floor. With his stomach all but exploding out of him, he can hardly believe that no one has peeked their head out of their room to see what the noise is. At the same time, he’s so incredibly grateful for that.

He takes two more steps and pukes again, even more than he thought possible. He coughs, spewing out mouthfuls of vomit between each one. It’s nearly a full three minutes before he can get himself to stop retching.

He pants for a few more minutes, desperate for air. His vision is blurred with tears of exertion, and even if he weren’t crying, he’d barely be able to see anyway. His head is reeling.

It’s in that moment that he realizes he’s too sick to be alone. The terrible truth sends his heart down to his stomach, and his tears become real. He only allows himself a few minutes to cry in private before he begins to consider his options.

There’s Tony, of course, but he thinks he’d rather die than have Tony see him puke his guts out. There’s Nat, but she might remind him too much of May, and he’s not emotionally stable enough for that right now. He continues to go down the list, and by the end of it, he finds himself settling on Clint.

He has kids, so maybe he’d be a little less traumatized by the whole thing. He’s also generally calmer than most of them, so hopefully he won’t yell or treat him like a burden. Clint it is.

His room is a floor up, so Peter opts for the elevator this time. He wipes the tears from his face and tries his best to regain composure. Unfortunately, he’s still feeling like a giant pile of shit, so it’s easier said than done.

When he reaches Clint’s room, he pauses in front of the door. This is it. Either he leaves the mess and tries to stay conscious long enough to get back to his room, or he tells Clint the truth. As if on cue, he suddenly almost feels more ill than he has all night, apart from right before he’d been sick.

Before he can convince himself otherwise, he knocks on the door. When a minute of silence goes by, he knocks again, a bit louder this time. After a few seconds, he hears shuffling on the other side of the door. He steps back a little, and it slowly swings open to reveal Clint, still half asleep.

“Peter? It’s nearly four in the morning, what are you doing up?”

“Um,” Peter so eloquently breathes out, suddenly unable to get ahold of himself. Fresh tears well up without his permission. “I…I’m…”

Clint’s expression changes from one of confusion to one of parental concern. He steps a little closer.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

A couple tears spill over, and he wipes them away before they reach his chin. He tries again to explain, but he can’t seem to form the words in the right order. This fever must be really cooking his brain.

“Do you wanna come in and talk?” he softly offers.

Peter shakes his head a little. His head spins. “I’m…I need help.”

“What’s going on? Are you hurt?”

Peter shakes his head again. If his stomach wasn’t still sitting high in his throat, this would be much easier. He doesn’t have that luxury, but he tries again.

“I…I just thr—,” is all he manages before his stomach decides to make another appearance. He has all of half a second to aim somewhere else besides Clint’s feet. He turns to the side, vomiting through his fingers, down the front of his shirt, and onto the floor.

“Oh—oh, wow. Okay,” Clint blurts, probably wide awake now. Peter chokes up another round of sick onto his socks. “Alright, hey, come here.”

He takes Peter’s arm and begins leading him into the room. Peter does everything humanly possible to keep from throwing up on Clint’s floor, and when he finally drops to his knees in front of the toilet, he vomits so violently that he sees stars. Clint curses under his breath, a hand resting on Peter’s back as it heaves.

For the next several minutes, Peter is barely lucid. With what little consciousness he has, he tries hard to aim toward the water and nowhere else. He’s made enough of a mess as it is.

“It’s okay, buddy. Breathe,” Clint urges. Peter’s trying.

He’s sure he’s throwing up his actual organs after a few minutes. The only thing he can do is drape over the bowl and try not to pass out. He nearly fails.

Mercifully, he stops throwing up before the lack of oxygen gets to his head. He takes several more minutes to recover. The whole time, Clint is telling him it’s alright, that he’s going to be okay. Peter’s not so sure.

He’s really glad he’s not alone, especially now that he’s gone severely downhill. He can’t imagine being holed up in his room. He’d probably still be decorating the carpet with his stomach contents if he hadn’t come here.

The calm lasts all of eight minutes, and then Peter is suddenly launched into a fit of dry heaving. Despite his stomach being totally empty, the nausea is still rampant. He has no idea what he did to deserve this. Poor Clint doesn’t deserve this either. When he breaks his silence, it’s clear he’s reaching his limit.

“Alright, Pete…try and take it easy, kid. You’re really sick, and I’m…I think I’m gonna have to get Tony.”

That same dread pours over him. That’s the last thing he wanted. Even just the thought makes his face heat up fast. He can’t exactly express his disapproval when he’s actively still gagging. It’s too late, anyway.

“FRIDAY, could you send Tony down here, please?”

“Right away, sir.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his hand now rubbing along Peter’s spine.

Only a couple minutes pass before Peter hears Tony’s voice call from inside the room. He groans, lurching forward with another gag. A small trickle of bile comes up this time.

“In here,” Clint calls back.

“What the hell happened out here, Clint? Are you—,” Tony asks, stopping short as he crosses the threshold of the bathroom. Peter can’t help himself. He retches again, another rush of acidic bile washing over the roof of his mouth and into the toilet.

He can only imagine Tony’s reaction to walking in on Peter curled around a toilet full of puke. He’s so mortified he could die. Why does this kind of shit have to happen to him?

“He’s been like this for probably over ten minutes,” Clint explains. “I didn’t really know how to help him or I wouldn’t have woken you up. You know him better than I do.”

“Oh, kid…are you sick or is this a head thing?” Tony asks, taking Clint’s place beside him.

“M’sick,” he manages, half-choked on another heave.

“I’m sorry, Pete. How long have you been feeling bad?”

Thankfully, the retches are tapering off, and he can finally breathe a little. He spits and swallows against the rawness in his throat.

“Only when I woke up a while ago,” he breathes out. Suddenly, he remembers his stunt on the stairs. He groans, letting his head drop to where his arms are folded across the toilet. “I…I threw up all over the stairs and the hall before I came here…m’really sorry, Tony.”

“It’s alright, kid, I know you couldn’t help it.”

“But…”

“It’s okay, really. Do you feel like you’re done?”

Peter hums lowly. He nods. It’s the truth. He’s sure there’s absolutely nothing left in him to throw up, and the nausea is finally waning.

“Alright, good. I’ve got him, Clint, you can go back to sleep.”

“Are you sure? I can start cleaning outside my room.”

Tony shakes his head. “No, it’s fine, I’ve got bots that can do most of it. I’ll handle the stairs. We’re good.”

“Okay, well come get me if you change your mind.”

“You’ve already done enough, thank you for taking him in.”

“It’s no problem.”

With that, Clint leaves, and Tony is alone with Peter in his misery and embarrassment. He offers Peter some toilet paper, and he thanks him, wiping his mouth. He closes the lid and flushes the toilet.

With Tony’s help, he gets up from the floor to wash his mouth out. It makes him feel marginally better. Tony leads him out of the room, and Peter does his best not to gag at seeing the result of his earlier performance in the hallway. Tony starts leading him to his room, and when they get in the elevator, he finally breaks the heavy silence.

“You know you can always come get me if you’re feeling bad, right?”

Peter wilts a little. “I know, thank you, it’s just…I thought I could take some medicine and just go back to sleep, but obviously that didn’t work out. And I really didn’t want to bother a literal Avenger just because I had a stomachache.”

“Well, last time I checked, we’re on a first name basis, so it shouldn’t be that intimidating, kiddo. If you’re feeling like you’re gonna puke, you should let me know. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just…future reference. I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but at least I won’t have to worry about you being passed out in your own sick somewhere.”

It’s nice to know that Tony isn’t pissed or grossed out, but Peter prays he’ll never have to put that earlier offer into practice. He’s had enough of everyone watching him hurl. The heat creeps back up onto his cheeks as they reach his room.

“Okay…m’still sorry I got sick on the floor.”

“It’s completely fine, kid. Don’t worry about it, shit happens. Are you feeling any better?”

Peter shrugs, sitting on the edge of his bed. Tony scoots the trash can over to sit beside his bed. He lets out a short sigh.

“Well, I have a feeling your immune system is going to knock this thing out pretty fast.” Peter hopes he’s right, for both their sakes. “Here, let me get you some clean clothes. Want anything specific?”

Peter shakes his head. Tony nods, turning to the dresser. He brings over a t-shirt, some sweatpants, and clean socks.

“You can just leave the dirty stuff on the floor.”

“M’kay. Thank you.”

“Sure thing, Pete. I’m gonna grab you some water. Hang tight. And remember, you can always call me if you need anything at all.”

“Thank you,” he repeats softly.

When Tony leaves and Peter is done changing out of his dirty clothes, he’s all alone with the memory of tonight. The mortification is stifling, but he pushes the thoughts away with all the mental strength he has left. Turns out it’s not much, and he’s out like a light before Tony even returns.

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A/N: Thank you for reading! And thank you for the request! I loved writing this one, and I hope it’s at least a little like what you imagined it would be.

#iron dad #marvel sickfic #peter parker #sickfic #cw vomit #peter parker sickfic #iron dad sickfic #iron man #tony stark #sick #clint barton #hawkeye #hurt/comfort #sickie

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dwtlcwriting · 9 months

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Roy shifts until his back is against the arm of the couch, pulling Riza with him so she’s between his legs, pressed chest-to-chest. His hands are gripping her hips now, thumbs tucked up beneath her sweater to rub circles in the skin above her sweatpants. She sighs into his mouth, hands curving around the back of his neck to curl fingers in his hair. Roy hums his approval, pulling away just enough to break the kiss.

“If this is the flu and you catch it, don’t think for a moment that I’ll give you the least bit of sympathy,” Riza declares, settling in against Roy’s chest as he huffs a laugh. He leaves one hand pressed against the flesh of her waist beneath her sweater and reaches for some papers that need reviewing with the other. Riza closes her eyes and lets sleep take hold once more.

Riza lets Roy take care of her.

#fullmetal alchemist #fullmetal alchemist: brotherhood #royai #royai fic #roy mustang #riza hawkeye #sickfic #smut #DawnieWrites FMA

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builder051 · 7 months

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Whumptober 2023 days 4, 23, 26, and 30: you in there?/shadows/you look awful/borrowed clothing

Nat + Barton fam

*Beware* there is a tiny reference to eating disorders. There’s also a lot of talk about consent, and it’s meant to be taken lightly. Of course it’s an important topic, but it’s not meant to read as if Nat and Clint are especially uncomfortable with each other. They’re established as friends (with benefits? You decide as the reader).

—————————

It’s not so much a knock, but rather an awkward thump on the front door that interrupts their post-bedtime routine.

Laura mutes the TV and gives Clint a quizzical look. “Is that another raccoon, do you think?”

“Nah.” Clint rises from the sofa. “A different kind of vermin.”

“Oh.” Laura nods, and they share a knowing smile. “Should I get the med kit?”

“Probably,” Clint says. “But I’ll get a visual on her first.” He crosses the entryway and unlocks the door.

He starts to ease it open, but immediately flings it back when Nat all but topples in on top of him.

“Whoa.” Clint grabs her around the waist and pulls her across the threshold. He squints into the shadows beyond the porch light, looking for a possible car or an attacker lying in wait.

“How’d you get here?” He asks Nat. “You’re not being pursued, are you?”

“Hm.” Nat buries her head in Clint’s chest. “Sorry,” she murmurs.

“Sorry for what?”

Clint barely gets the words out before a quivering jerk wracks Nat’s body, and vomit floods between them.

Clint loosens his embrace. Nat doubles over and retches again. She’s wildly unsteady on her feet, and he quickly regains his supportive grip. “Ok,” he says. “It’s fine. Don’t be sorry.” The mess down the front of Clint’s shirt smells pungently of alcohol mixed with something syrupy sweet. “Get all of it out of you.”

Laura comes running with a couple of kitchen towels. She hands one to Clint, then sees to the puddle on the floor with the other.

Clint dabs around Nat’s nose and mouth, then holds the towel under her chin to catch her next gag. It’s fairly unproductive, though. Nat spits out a few strings of spit and bile. The sickly mucous stands out with streaks of yellow and red against the white fabric.

“Is that blood?” Clint asks. He really doesn’t want to know the answer, but he also doesn’t want to overlook the possibility of internal bleeding.

“No,” Nat chokes. “Just—um. Stuff.”

“Helpful,” Clint comments. He runs through a mental list of possible culprits. Strawberry daiquiri pre-mix? The dissolution of Robatussin liqui-gels? He can’t seem to find an option that isn’t also fatal. He tries teasing out a little more information. “Did you drink something? Take something?”

Nat doesn’t answer. She coughs a few rimes, then lifts her head and straightens up. “It’s, I’m… I’m fine.”

“Right.” Clint shakes his head. “You look awful, you know.”

“Don’t be rude.” Laura finishes with the floor and offers her own opinion. “But, sweetheart. You’re still so pale.”

Nat blinks. Her eyes look dark and wet. Oversized pupils swallow her irises, and her lash line appears pink and a little puffy. She glances toward Clint, squinting as if she can’t quite make him out. Then her eyelids flicker and fall shut.

“Alright.” Clint wraps one arm around Nat’s shoulders and slips the other under her knees. “The next best thing, right.”

“Here.” Laura rushes to straighten up the couch. She has a throw pillow and blanket ready by the time Clint crosses the room to lay Nat down. He props her head to the side so she won’t choke if she throws up again.

“She doesn’t feel feverish,” Clint reports. He kneels at Nat’s shoulder and prods her in the upper arm. Her fine body hairs stand raised and her skin is bumpy with gooseflesh. “Hey,” he says softly. “You in there?”

“Give her a minute.” Laura gives Clint a poke of his own. “You have to practice your bedside manner.”

“What?” Clint gives her a brief scowl. “I’m great at this.”

Laura puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head. “I’ll get some hot water and washcloths.” She takes a step toward the bathroom. “Or should I run the tub?”

“Whatever you think.” Though his wife continues to ask his opinion in tough situations, he’s well aware that she already knows what’s best.

“Sure.” Laura disappears down the hall.

Clint presses his lips together and digs in his eye socket with the heel of his hand. “Oh, bless it…” he mumbles.

“Since when…” her voice is weak and gruff, but Nat manages to force out the rest of her question. “Since when are you religious?”

“Huh?” Clint drops his hands and rests them on the edge of the couch. He can’t help but smile when he sees her eyes open to tiny slits. She’s still far from alright, but her quick return to consciousness is a step in the right direction.

“You don’t bless people…”

Clint shrugs. “I would’ve said ‘fuck it,’ but I didn’t think you’d be up to that.”

“So you’re objectifying me now?” Nat has no problem throwing curse words of her own. “Fucking pervert.” She coughs and swallows heavily. “You-you shouldn’t…how does it go? Don’t force unconscious people to drink tea?”

Clint laughs. “You remember that training?”

“Do you? I think the handout is somewhere in my desk drawer. If you want to borrow it.” Nat puts on a shaky grin.

“I might take you up on that.” Clint lets the levity leach out of his tone. “I know you’re not ok. But, like, how’re you doing?”

Nat considers for a moment. “Gross,” she finally answers. She swallows again and makes a face.

“Tell me if you’re going to puke.” Clint puts up his hands as if pushing her away. “But I think you’re probably out if gas.”

“Probably.”

A moment of silence ensues. Then Clint hazards, “What, uh… What happened?”

“Eh.” Nat clears her throat.

Clint isn’t sure if she’s still congested or if she’s letting him know that whatever comes next will be a lie.

“Just had a bad night.” Nat leaves it at that.

“Ok.” It could mean any number of things. A solo mission. A blind date. Partying under a bridge. An alcohol binge to treat the wounds her fingernails make in the thin skin of her throat. Clint knows he isn’t allowed to press further. He chooses a different direction. “How’d you get here?”

Nat coughs, then whispers, “Grand theft auto.”

“Are you being serious?”

“Left it on the shoulder a couple exits back.” Nat takes a breath. “Keys are in the ignition. They won’t be able to tie it back to me.”

It still sounds too good to be true. “You sure?” He asks, tilting his head sideways. “What about fingerprints?”

“Gloves. Duh.”

“And you ditched those too?” Nat didn’t arrive with them, Clint is positive. She came empty handed. Clint doesn’t know if she even has a phone on her. He’d felt no pocket bulges when he’d been holding her around the waist.

“Yeah.” The word distorts as she looses a yawn.

“You can go to sleep soon,” Clint says. “I’ll probably wake you up every half hour, just in case you’re concussed.”

“‘M not concussed…” Nat pushes with her elbows and sits up. “Maybe you’re the one conked in the head. You’re asking really stupid questions.”

“Hey, you passed out on me.” Clint attempts to set the record straight. He glances down at the mess spread over his chest and abdomen. “And I used to really like this shirt.”

“It’ll wash,” Nat says dismissively. “You have a wife.”

Clint raises his eyebrows. “That’s some pretty serious stereotyping.” But it’s not like he’s going to hold her to a standard. Nat’s had a hell of a night already.

“What’s she doing now?” Nat asks knowingly.

“Pouring you a bath and getting hot towels,” Clint replies. It’s the truth, no matter how he slices it.

“Mm.” Nat shrugs, then tucks her chin close to her shoulder. “I didn’t ask you guys to go all out of your way.”

“Oh, I know you didn’t,” Clint says quickly. “What is it you want? What do you need?”

“Place to sleep.” Nat nods to the couch. “Here’s fine.”

“Ok,” Clint agrees. “Good.”

“And something different to wear. Wet clothes are weird without a bra.”

“That’s what you’re concerned about?” Clint gives an embarrassed chuckle. “Not that you’re covered in yuck?”

“You are too.”

She’s right, Clint has to admit. “I’ll tell Laura to cancel the bath and get you some spare pajamas.” Clint gets to his feet. “Don’t move. And I won’t come back until you’ve changed.”

“Hm.” Nat seems to consider it. “Since when are you chivalrous?”

Clint knows it’s a joke, but it still feels awkward, especially when she’s clearly in the weaker position.

“We have an electric kettle,” Clint says slowly, unsure if the humor will still land. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“Thanks for offering.” Nat tries to smile, but ends up choking on her words. “Ugh. How about ice water?”

“I can do that.”

“And a rush on that clean shirt.” Nat looks hard into Clint’s eyes. “I actually don’t care if you see me topless.”

“Ok. I get it.” Clint keeps the eye contact. “But I’ll give you some privacy.”

“You don’t have to—“

“Maybe I don’t want you to see me topless.” Clint lifts one shoulder to his ear. “I need some new clothes too.”

“Yeah.” Nat looks down at her hands. “I didn’t really mean it, though. They’re not stupid questions.”

“Fair enough. I’ll grab Laura and we can both clean up.”

Nat nods. She pulls her mouth sideways, but her lips twitch up at the corners. “And, uh. If you want to join me for an ice water afterward, I wouldn’t say no. Especially if you’re still set on being a head injury alarm clock.”

Clint does intend to keep watch overnight. “So that’s a yes? You consent?”

“Yes.” Nat rolls her eyes, but winces hard. “I’ll consent to some painkillers, too. Do you have morphine in your medicine cabinet?”

“No, unfortunately,” Clint tells her. “But there’s Percocet.”

“I’ll take it. Ice water and the big pills,” Nat says eagerly. “And don’t forget a fresh fucking shirt.”

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caffiene-fueled-fuckery · 5 months

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Whumptober 2023 - Day 2: MASH (Father Mulcahy H/C)

Hiiii. Yes, I know it's no longer October. But October was midterm season for me and I barely got a minute to myself so I decided to keep writing the prompts anyway. I've done a few out of order already, but this is from prompt/day 2. I decided to write this one with my OC Della in it as well :)

Note: The prompts I used for this day were thermometer and delerium. Before anyone comes after me saying this isn't what it's like to hallucinate, realize that different people experience things differently. I'm not just writing this out my ass, my step-mom has schizophrenia, and I've watched my dad help her through episodes enough times to pick up on some things that help her. But again, things that help her may not help someone else. So yes, I used personal experience and research for this (esp for Della's advice to BJ and for some of what Della says to Father Mulcahy). His reactions were also partially based on experience and research and some of it based on headcanons, etc. People don't act like themselves when they're scared and hallucinating, so as much as pieces of this may seem OOC, just keep that in mind.

TW: mentions of past abuse and sexual assault, hallucinations, illness

Summary: When Father Mulcahy came down with hepititis, Della can't shake the feeling that he's worse off than the doctors make it seem. Only Hawkeye and BJ are aware of how high his fever has spiked, but they weren't prepared for trauma-based hallucinations he's experiencing. It isn't until Hawkeye and BJ can't calm him down that they decide to get Della, hoping that she'll know what to do to help her best friend.

Fic Under the Cut!

She’d nearly scrubbed her hands raw with how long she’d stood there, hot water cascading over agitated flesh. The scrub room was empty—it had been for at least twenty minutes. All the other nurses had left, including Kellye, who had also been assisting BJ with his “by-the-book” surgery. And yet, Della still stood over the sink, staring without seeing into the basin below.

The whole camp had been tested and immunized against hepatitis and thankfully, there was only one positive case, but that didn’t put her at ease. She’d known something was up with Father Mulcahy as soon as she’d seen him that morning, but hadn’t been able to put her finger on what was the matter. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for him to lose his appetite if there was something bothering him, and she had attempted to shrug it off, but there was something that still nagged at her. It wasn’t until both Potter and Hawkeye asked him if he was feeling okay that she started to really get worried. Mulcahy wasn’t someone who liked others noticing when something was up—he’d much rather be the one to help them.

Della continued to absentmindedly scrub her hands, lost in thought. When she’d began her shift earlier in the day, he’d been isolated to his tent with only moderate symptoms. Fatigue, joint pain, loss of appetite, jaundice… and the beginnings of a fever. But over the course of her shift she found herself continuously cracking her knuckles and the unease in her stomach grew into a heavy knot. Repeatedly, she’d tried to shake the thought away, which garnered her a few confused looks, but in the end her nerves just wouldn’t settle. Something just didn’t feel right.

“Hey, Della—”

She jumped, flinging water across the floor as she whirled around. “Huh? What?”

“Geez, you okay?”

She blinked at BJ, thoughts reeling to form a straight line. “Yeah. Why?”

“Are you gunna turn the water off?”

“Oh!” She huffed a curt laugh as she twisted off the tap. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Something on your mind?”

“No! No. Just got lost in thought. Memories from home.”

“While washing your hands?”

“…Yes.”

BJ narrowed his eyes back at her. “I’m not going to push you, mainly because I have something important to ask, but next time try not to scorch your hands alright? You kinda need those.”

“Right. What was it you needed to ask me?”

BJ started to cringe, but quickly forced his face to be a blank slate. “Do you have any advice about how to reassure a patient that’s hallucinating?”

“Hallucinating? Sure. I mean, it really depends on the content of the hallucination, though.”

“Right…”

“Do you know what it is? Are they seeing things? Hearing things?”

“A bit of both, I think.”

“Have they said anything?”

“Nothing that I could make any sense of, no.”

“Have they been responding to you?”

“Uh… not exactly.”

She lifted a brow. “What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s confused. I don’t think he knows where he is or why.”

“Ah, well that complicates things a bit. He’s not really coherent, eh?”

“No, not really.”

“You could try getting down on their level. Sit next to their bed and talk to them, try to reassure them that they’re safe.” She paused, pursing her lips. “The patients I dealt with back home who hallucinated were mainly the psychiatric patients, so the approach was a bit different. But I’m assuming your patient is having hallucinations because of a medication or an infection?”

“Fever.”

“Exactly. Actually, do you want me to try and talk to him? It would probably be easier for me to feel it out first and then tell you.”

“Oh, uh, no. No need.”

Della furrowed her brows. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Alright… Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

“You’re the closest thing to a psychiatrist we’ve got here, Dell. Don’t sell yourself short.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not a psychiatrist, Beej. I don’t even have any formal schooling towards being one. I just worked in the psych ward because we had no nurses.”

“From what I heard, they put you there because you were good at it.”

She shrugged. “Supply and demand. They had more veterans than they could care for that needed psychiatric aid.”

“Well, either way, you’re a hell of a lot more qualified to deal with this type of situation than any of us.”

“Whatever you say,” she chuckled, watching BJ head for the door.

“Thanks again. Go get some dinner and some rest, yeah?”

“I will. Don’t worry.”

----

“What are you doing? Wake up!”

Fog clouded his conciousness, but the voice reached him anyway. It roused him from an unsettled sleep. He stirred with a groan, attempting to turn on his side only to be met with a pool of sweat, which dragged another dismayed sound from his throat. Even with his eyes closed his head pounded mercilessly, and attempting to straighten his jumbled thoughts into a line only made matters worse.

“Wake up, boy!”

He clenched his eyes shut harder. Not today. Please, not today.

“He’s awake again.” It was a voice he recognized but couldn’t quite place. Not his Father. Not one of his brothers. Someone from seminary, maybe? He shuddered at the thought.

“Should we try what she said?” Another familiar voice, but again one that he couldn’t place. Fear floated in his semi-conciousness mind, nearly tangible enough to grab, like the heat that enveloped him or the knot in his stomach. What she said? What who said? His Mother? One of the Sisters? Please, not his Mother. Anything she suggested would be—

A hand landed on his arm. He gasped, rolling back only to hit the wall. A dull ache took over his head, his vision swimming as he looked up at the hand hovering above him. It belonged to a tall, brown-haired man with a thick mustache. Shaking his head, he gulped, and shut his eyes again, willing for his abuser to disappear.

“Geez, Beej. What did you go and do that for?”

“I didn’t mean to, Hawk. He just… threw himself back against the wall.”

The disapproval in that voice… A quiet whimper left him without permission, along with an internal mantra of ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…’

“You should be.”

“I’m sorry.”

“When has sorry ever been good enough?”

“I’m sorry, please don’t hit me.”

One of the voices was back, tentative and soft. “Why would I hit you?”

His mind reeled. Father wouldn’t want anyone to know of his punishments. But if he was here… Mulcahy shuddered, opening one eye. The voice had belonged to the mustached man. No—belonged to his Father. But the other voice sounded more like him. The one that—

“Why wouldn’t he hit you? You’ve been nothing but a burden on them.”

He curled in on himself further, protecting his vitals. “Anything but the poker. Please.”

There was a moment of silence while he shivered against the wall before the sweat-soaked blanket was pulled from his arms. He tensed, trying to keep his last line of defense in his grip but found that he was too weak to do so. The voice spoke again. “Father? What’s wrong?”

Father? Why were they speaking to his Father? How mad was he? He couldn’t open his eyes—the fear kept him paralyzed, even his breathing seeming to stop. The pressure in his chest grew while he waited in silence to hear his Father’s answer, but still after a while there was no response. Until once more a hand landed on his shoulder.

“Father?”

Mulcahy jumped, a startled noise torn from his throat. “Please don’t,” he croaked. “Please. I’ll be good. I promise.”

“You’re weak.”

“I know.” It was almost a sob. “I’m sorry.”

“Who do you keep apologizing to?” The other voice spoke again.

“Why aren’t you hurting me?”

“Hurting you?” his father asked. “Why would he hurt you? Why would either of us ever hurt you?”

The ache in his head worsened and heat grew behind his eyes. What was this, a trick question? Why did he have to play games with him? Why couldn’t he belt him and just get it over with already? “I don’t understand…”

“Understand what?”

“Why aren’t you hurting me? Why, Father? Can’t you just…” He gasped for air, his body trembling. “Why must you make me think you won’t when I know you will? Please…” His voice trembled too, thick with suppressed tears. “I can’t take it.”

“I’m not your Father.”

“You never considered me your son.”

“No, I mean, I’m really not your Father, Father.”

“Yeah, Father, it’s us. Open your eyes.”

He shook his head with a shiver. “N-no.”

The other man spoke again. “We won’t hurt you.”

“Yes you will.”

“No we won’t.”

“You both do. I-I don’t like it.”

“Father.” Another hand landed on his arm, but the grip felt different than the other one.

Instinctively, his eyes flew open. Through unshed tears appeared a black-haired man hovering nearly overtop of him. “No! No, please! Don’t touch me!”

The hand retracted. “Father, I—”

“Don’t touch me, please! Please!”

“Father, please. We want to—”

He jerked away from the hand reaching for him. “No! No, please! Please!” We want to. I want to. You want to. You want to. “I don’t want it, please! I never wanted it!”

Both figures retreated. Both voices muttered to each other, which he could barely make out over his own harsh breathing and the chattering of his teeth. He strained to hear them.

“Should I go get Della?”

Della? He had Della? He’d do something even worse to her than he did to him… “No,” he croaked. “Don’t hurt her. Don’t.”

“We’re not going to hurt, Della, don’t worry.”

“Don’t hurt her, please. Please.”

“I won’t hurt her.”

“You’ll do what you did to me to her, too.” His voice trembled. “Don’t do that. She doesn’t… She doesn’t deserve that!”

“Father, I’m not going to hurt her. I’m going to bring her here.”

“Here?”

“I’m going to bring her to see you.”

He shook his head, unable to comprehend what was happening. Why would that man… that despicable man, bring her to him. All he’d ever done was brought him pain, shame, and agony. Why now would he bring him someone warm and familiar when he’d never been allowed it in the past? And why would his Father allow this?

“You don’t want to see her?”

His voice broke, laced with confliction. Of course he wanted her there. He needed her. But wouldn’t that be dragging her into his mess? Would they really not hurt her? “Della.”

His father cleared his throat. “Go get her.”

Della. Della. Della. He repeated her name over and over. She’d always stood by him and he by her, and he longed for the feel or her arms around him, though he could never admit it when he was of sound mind. She meant safety. Security. A kind of love and care that he never dreamed he’d be worthy of until he met her, and it could be taken away in an instant if that malicious man inflicted pain meant for him onto her. But Della was strong, no doubt more fearless than him and fiercely protective—she could handle them. She had no qualms standing up for others; it was a trait he’d always admired about her. And maybe, while he was indisposed and too weak to fight back, she really would protect him. Her love could shield him from the men that he could never be rid of. A tear slid down his cheek as the conflicting emotions warred in his head—the longing for her presence and fear of her being hurt. Mulcahy covered his face with his arms, calling out without ever realizing he’d spoken.

“Della.”

----

The tent was quiet, save for the noise of flipping pages. Della laid on her stomach on her bunk, immersed in the novel her father had sent her in the mail. Honey coloured eyes scanned the text, not even noticing as stray curls fell in her face or the same damn fly landed on her hand for the dozenth time. Crickets chirped beyond the canvas, mingling with muffled voices from far-off conversations and the odd crunching of footsteps from a tent to the latrine. It seemed that most of the camp had settled in for the night, even Kellye who often danced the night away with her in the O-Club was settled in her own bunk with her nose in a book. Nurse Able sat together with Nurse Baker on her bunk, the two of them fingering through a Sears catalogue with only the odd mumble here or there. The four of them could be chatty, but it was nights like these where they could pretend to forget about the war. Forget about how close they were to the front line, about choppers, about the uncertainty of their situation—

“Della!”

She jumped, nearly tumbling over the railing of her bunk. “Huh? Yes?” She steadied herself, focusing on where Kellye held the door open. Her brows shot up, heartbeat skyrocketing. “Hawk? What’s wrong?”

“Please, we need your help.”

“With what?”

“BJ tried what you told him but we just can’t get him to calm down. Actually, I think we made it worse.”

“I can try but like I said to BJ, I’m not a psychiatrist.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

Della furrowed her brows as she hopped down from her bunk. Able steadied her when she swayed while tying her boot. “Then what’s the problem?”

“He needs you. I don’t think there’s anyone else here who would know how to calm him down. He’s one of my closest friends and even I can’t figure it out.”

“Wait wait wait, I thought BJ said this was… oh my God.” She finished tying one boot and started on the other, her fingers fumbling the laces. “You didn’t tell me it was Father Mulcahy who was delirious!”

“The fever made him delirious?” Baker piped up.

“How bad is it?” Kellye asked.

“105 degrees and rising.”

“105??” Della stumbled, catching herself on the ladder to her bunk.

“Damn hepatitis,” Able muttered. “He’ll be okay though, right?”

“Once the fever breaks. But right now he’s sicker than a dog and hallucinating like Frank on anesthetic.”

Kellye frowned. “Poor guy…”

“Poor guy is right!” Della finished tying her boots and straightened. “If you’ve come to get me that means he must be really distressed by whatever he’s seeing, which also means it’s probably something that only I know about. You should’ve told me!”

“We couldn’t tell you, Dell, you would’ve worried.”

“I was already worried!”

Hawkeye ran a hand over his face. “Come on, let’s go.”

Della followed Hawkeye out into the night. Gravel crunched under her boots, some pebbles skidding across the ground as she hurried down the line of tents. “How bad is it, really?”

“Dell, I have never seen him like this. Not even close.”

“Like what?”

“Just… terrified.” When they came upon the tent at the end of the row, Hawkeye stopped in front of it. “I knew you’d be the only one who could help us at this point. You’re his best friend, Dell. And he needs you.”

He yanked the door open and Della stepped inside, turning to survey the room. BJ stood against the wall of the tent furthest from the bed. “Man, am I happy to see you.”

She sighed, crossing to her friend’s bed. Father Mulcahy laid curled up on the mattress with his hands over his ears, shivering and slick with sweat, his chest hitching with uneven breaths. “You should’ve come to get me sooner.”

“I’m sorry, Della. I tried what you told me. I really did.”

The rough of BJ’s voice caught her off guard. She looked up, only then noticing the pain etched into his features. “I’m sorry, Beej, I didn’t mean it like that. I just…”

“Think I sucked at it?”

“No, no! You did your best! It’s just, when it comes to him, I…” She sighed, unable to put the overwhelming feeling in her chest into words.

Behind her she heard Hawkeye give him a gentle, “I told you.”

Della sat down on the chair beside Mulcahy’s bed. His eyelids fluttered and his teeth chattered despite the sweat pouring down his face. “BJ, in the shelf behind you are his other sheets. Pass me one, please?” While she waited for them, she turned back to Father Mulcahy and gently rested a hand on his shoulder. He jerked away from it with a gasp, rolling back into the wall. “Easy, John…” She reached out again, tentatively touching the back of his hand before pulling it away from his ear. “It’s okay, it’s just me.”

He cracked open one eye and the sight of her pulled a strangled sound from his throat while his eyes flooded with tears. “Della?”

“Mhmm.”

“You’re really here?”

“I’m really here. See?”

He closed his eyes again as she took his hand briefly, stroking his knuckles with her thumb. “And you’re okay?”

“Of course, I’m okay.”

“Dell.” Her curls bounced as she glanced over her shoulder at BJ, feeling Mulcahy tense up at the sound of his voice. She stroked his knuckles with her thumb again before letting go to take the worn-in linens. Della unfolded the sheet as she watched Mulcahy curl back in on himself, hoping its presence would be comforting and familiar as she draped it over his shivering body. However, it seemed to have the exact opposite effect, causing the cleric to gasp as soon as the sheet made contact with his skin and attempt to pull away from it. He shook his head, keeping his eyes clenched shut. Della rubbed his shoulder. “It’s alright… You’re cold, aren’t you?”

Father Mulcahy shook his head.

“You’re not cold?”

Another shake.

“Are you sure? You’re shivering. There’s a sheet—”

One more shake.

Della pressed her lips together for a moment, thinking. “There are enough for you to have one if you’re cold.”

Mulcahy shook his head again, but his teeth chattered still as he spoke. “I don’t need it.”

Della lowered her arms, pulling the sheet off of him and letting it drag on the ground. She frowned, thinking over her options again before Hawkeye piped up. “What’s up with that?”

“He thinks he’s back home,” she answered automatically, “sharing a bed with his brothers.”

“But still… why not take the sheet?”

Della bit her lip. She knew exactly why: during his childhood his family didn’t have enough money to heat the house, so he would routinely give up his chance at warmth for his siblings and then risk being punished if he as much as shivered. “I’m not sure.” She knew that even though he was at MASH with them and not back home in Philadelphia with his family, it still seemed real to him. His past and present were meshing together, and it likely wasn’t with his family alone. “Hawkeye?” “Yeah?” “Can you go back to my tent and grab something from my bunk for me?”

“Now?”

“Yes. My sister sent me this light blanket she made. I don’t know if it smells more like me or the camp, but either way it’s something other than a thin sheet that could remind him of home or seminary school or anything else. Bring it here for me, please, will you?”

Hawkeye furrowed his brows at her mention of seminary school but didn’t question her. “Sure. I’ll be right back.”

Della scooted forward on the chair, reaching out to Mulcahy again. She rested a gentle hand on his arm where it covered his ears again, letting her thumb stroke his feverish skin in an attempt at comfort. “Beej?”

“Mm?”

“How was he before I came in? I noticed you were standing against the wall.”

“Frantic. Wouldn’t let me anywhere near him.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

Pain flickered in the man’s eyes. “Yeah. He kept asking me not to hurt him. I would never.”

“Did he address you by name?”

“No. Not once.”

“He didn’t understand who he was seeing, Beej. He thought you were someone else.”

“But who? Who would hurt someone like him?”

Della sighed, shaking her head. “Did he react the same way to Hawkeye?”

“Yeah.” BJ swallowed hard. “It didn’t seem to matter what we said or did, it only seemed to freak him out.”

“Dammit.” Della shut her eyes. She let out a long, shaky breath.

“What is it? What’s—”

“Just… Stay back for a few minutes, okay? And try not to take it personally. I’m sure in his right mind he knows that you and Hawk would never hurt him, but in this state, he thinks everyone and anyone could, especially when you look like two very specific people from his past to his scrambled brain.”

“I—”

“Just let me handle this.” She lowered her voice, her thumb finally stilling as she heard Hawkeye approaching outside. “Please.”

BJ nodded, then looked to Hawkeye over her shoulder. He held up a grey blanket that seemed to have been crocheted out of a thin wool, adorned with a pattern of pale blue flowers. Not only was it something familiar to now but it was thin enough to not cause him to overheat. “This it?”

“Yes.” She reached out for it. “Thank you.”

BJ tugged on Hawkeye’s arm, pulling him to the other side of the tent with him. They spoke in hushed voices, no doubt discussing how to break the man’s fever once he’d calmed down.

Della slid onto the edge of Mulcahy’s mattress and draped the blanket over him. At first touch he flinched, but she quickly spoke up. “It’s still me. It’s Della.” She tucked it around him, rubbing his arm. “Is that better?”

He nodded, but kept his eyes clenched shut. “Dell…?”

“Mhmm?”

“Are the bad men gone?”

Those words knocked the air from her lungs. The innocence in that question—in that voice. And the fear… “What bad men were you seeing, John?” He shook his head and she gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “I can’t tell you until you tell me, hun.”

BJ and Hawkeye exchanged glances. It wasn’t unusual for her to use terms of endearment, but it wasn’t often, if ever, that they heard anyone use them on the Chaplain. Most people didn’t even call him by his first name. But then again, if anyone would, it would be Della.

“My father,” he mumbled.

“No, I haven’t seen your father. Who else did you see?”

“He… He…”

Della rested a hand on his hair, brushing sweat-soaked bangs from his forehead. “Easy… Take a breath for me, alright?”

His attempt was futile. “He used to come into the dorms… there were so many boys, but he always chose me…”

She closed her eyes momentarily, taking a long, silent breath. “John, was it Rector O’Malley that you were seeing?”

A tremor ran through him at the mention of the man’s name. He hugged the blanket closer to his chest. “I don’t want him to touch me.”

“We’re in Korea, hun. He can’t hurt you here.” Della looked over to BJ and Hawkeye, both of whom stared back at her, slack-jawed and horrified. “I don’t see him. Do you still see him?”

“I don’t want to.”

Della frowned as Mulcahy clenched his eyes shut tighter. She brushed his hair from his forehead again. “I know you don’t.”

“Please don’t let him touch me, Dell. Please.” His voice crescendoed in volume and desperation. “Please. Please, don’t let him—”

“Hey…”

Mulcahy wrenched away from her, crying out as he did so, only to once again roll into the wall. Hawkeye and BJ jumped up, but Della held up a hand. Their presence would not help the situation, that she was sure of. Her hands hovered over his trembling form as he continued to plead with her. “Are you hearing him?”

“Please don’t let him touch me. Please don’t touch me, please don’t—” A sob ripped from the Priest’s throat as he tensed, tormented by something no one else could see. “Let go! Please, let go! Please!”

“John—”

“Please don’t hurt me!” His body jerked this way and that in an attempt to escape the grasp of invisible hands, ramming his shoulder into the nightstand and nearly punching the support of the tent. “Don’t touch me, please! Please!” Mulcahy threw his head to the side, eyes still clenched shut and brows pinched. He curled in on himself, protecting his vitals. “Leave me alone… Please…”

Della winced at the pain in her chest. She slid a bit closer to him, letting one hand very gently rub his side. “Are you hearing the Rector or your Father?”

“I don’t know,” he sobbed. “It’s dark. I just don’t want him to touch me again. It hurts.”

“Hurts? Are you in pain?”

He nodded, stopping only briefly before crying out again. “No. No! Please!”

“Hey—”

“Please, not that! It hurts!”

“John—”

“Please, don’t,” he begged, choking on a sob. “It hurts. Don’t touch me there.”

“Hey… It’s only me touching you.”

“It’s not.” Mulcahy shook his head, drawing his elbows in closer and burying his face. “Please help me.”

“He’s not here, John, he can’t hurt you,” Della said, still rubbing his side to remind him that she’s there. “The only hands on you are mine, hun.”

“N-no! No!”

Mulcahy’s sobs only grew louder and more pained. Desperate. Della stared at him trembling beneath her touch, scared and delirious. What should she do? Hell, what could she do? The only options that came to mind weren’t conventional for a patient and certainly not for a priest. But in that moment, Mulcahy wasn’t either of those things to her. He was her best friend, one of the people she loved most in the world, and he was terrified. She set her jaw, intent to make him feel safe regardless of what Hawkeye and BJ thought, or anyone else for that matter.

“Hey, hey, hey, shh…” Shifting further onto his bed, Della pulled Mulcahy into her arms in an attempt to both comfort him and stop him from flailing.

He fought to break free from her grip. “No! Don’t hurt me! Don’t touch me!”

“It’s only me, John. I’m not going to hurt you…”

“N-no! Please help me, Dell. Don’t let him do that to me again, please. Please.”

“Shh, he can’t touch you here, okay?”

“It hurts!” Mulcahy’s whole body tensed as he tried to curl in on himself further, shaking violently. “It—Hurts—”

Della closed her eyes, her lips pursed as if she felt the pain inflicted on him by his feverish state. She thought over what could possibly be of comfort to him but came up short. In this instance, anything related to the bible could bring him back to seminary school, and regardless, she didn’t know anything off by heart. Then there was Hawkeye and to a slightly lesser extent BJ, but both of them had only furthered the man’s panic. The only other thing she could think of that could bring him any sort of comfort in a state like this would be Kathy, the only other person he’d ever mentioned showing him any sort of love or affection. But Kathy was halfway across the world…

Della adjusted her arms around him, pulling Mulcahy closer to her chest. She rested on hand on the back of his head, the other wrapped around his waist, idly rubbing his back in the vicinity of her hand. “Shh… it’s only me. I won’t hurt you.”

“I—Don’t—Want it—”

“I know you don’t.”

“I didn’t then either, but he… he…”

“I know, hun. I know you didn’t. It’s not your fault.”

“It must be,” Mulcahy sobbed into her neck. “Or else he—NO, NO!”

Della tightened her arms around him. “No, no, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

“He’s—hurting—me—” He tensed up again. “Why won’t you—stop him—”

“I can’t.”

“Please, Dell!”

“John, I can’t, honey, I’m sorry. I can’t see him.”

“Dell, please. Please.”

The sound of his sobs made her chest ache and she found herself wishing she could fight off this imaginary figment of a very real man. “I know you feel him and hear him, hun. I know he feels so real and you’re scared and confused… I know. But I’m the only one touching you, honey, I promise. You’re safe.”

His body jolted again. “No, he’s—he’s—”

“He’s not here, John. You’re safe.”

“But I feel him…”

“He’s not real. He’s not real…”

“But I s-saw him! I can still hear him. I can still feel him… touching me.”

“The person you saw was Hawkeye, not O’Malley.”

“Hawkeye…?”

Della smoothed his hair. “Hawkeye Pierce. Tall, black hair, blue eyes, a bit of a smart-ass but a fantastic doctor. You met him here in Korea before you met me. Ring a bell?”

“Korea… Yes. Hawkeye.”

“Yes. He would never do what O’Malley did. It was only him you were seeing.”

“But he was with my Father…”

“He was with BJ. Not your Father.”

“BJ…” Mulcahy shuddered.

“BJ Hunnicutt? Light brown hair, blue eyes, ridiculous mustache… Always talking about Peggy and Erin.”

“Erin…” He sniffed. “His baby girl?”

“His baby girl,” Della hummed. “Good. See? You’re safe. Neither Hawkeye or BJ would hurt you.”

“But I could hear O’Malley and my Father. I could feel them—”

Della tightened her arms around him when he tensed, a sob being dragged from his throat as an unpleasant sensation ran through him. “Shh… It’s not them. BJ and Hawkeye are standing across the tent right now. They’re in my field of view. I promise, neither of them are touching you.”

Mulcahy flinched again, curling further into Della’s embrace. “Then how are they here…? How come I can feel them?”

“They’re not here. There’s no way they could be here in Korea. You’re safe.” It felt bizarre to say those words together. Safe in Korea… Though she knew it was true. Mulcahy was safer here than he was back home, either with his family or the other authorities in the church.

Mulcahy curled further into her, uncharacteristically clingy. His voice remained tight and thick with tears. “Then why… Why do I feel this way?”

She cringed. She hadn’t wanted to try and differentiate the men and cause more confusion for him, but his distress called forced her hand—she couldn’t calm him down unless he believed that he truly was safe. “You’re hallucinating, sweetie. You have a high fever.”

“Hallucinating? Why? How can I make it stop?”

“We have to wait for your fever to go down, hun. That’s about all we can do.”

“You can’t make them stop?” A violent shiver ran through his body, accompanied by an involuntary whine from a pain she didn’t dare imagine. “There’s nothing you can do?”

“I’m sorry, John. I’ll stay with you, okay?”

“Okay.” He choked out a sob, shivering again. He pulled his legs close to his chest. “They’re—”

“Shh…” Della ran a hand over the back of his head. “It’s only me, sweetie, I’m holding you. It’s only me.”

The only response she received was a whimper, followed by another sob. Mulcahy buried his face further in her neck and the combined heat of his skin and tears made her heart ache. She ran her fingers through his hair, not caring what the doctors across the tent thought. “I’ve got you, John. You’re safe… I promise.”

Della leaned her cheek on the top of Mulcahy’s head, still holding him while he cried. Her own eyes welled with tears as she chanced a glance at Hawkeye and BJ. Both men stood across the tent form her, barely computing what was going on with their friend. Hawkeye shook his head and looked away from her, at a loss. BJ pressed his lips into a firm line. It was hard to see one of their closest friends in so much pain, but what was worse was knowing he’d been in pain this whole time, yet had never said a word of it to them. It only solidified the bond between Mulcahy and Della in their minds. Neither of them knew what was going on, but Della not only understood what was happening with very little context, but was also able to calm the man when he started to spiral into hysterics.

Hawkeye glanced over at BJ. “It’s a good thing I went and got her,” he whispered. “We would have never calmed him down.”

BJ stared intently at the sobbing priest still wrapped up in Della’s arms. “He thought… I was his Father. Coming to hurt him.”

“And me? What about me? Why did my presence scare him so much?”

“The Rector. In his mind… You were the seminary school rector that raped him. Repeatedly by the sounds of it.”

“That’s…” Hawkeye followed BJ’s gaze. Someone who only ever wanted to give to others had only ever had things taken from him. All Mulcahy wanted to do was help, but he’d only ever been hurt. Perhaps that was why he was so reckless with his life—he had nothing to lose. Nothing to go back to. Sure, he had Kathy… but that was it for him, wasn’t it? And the shame that came from that kind of abuse, not only from a religious figure, but from a parent, and either way someone he should have been able to trust… “I feel sick.”

“This isn’t the way I’d have liked to find out.”

“I’m sure it’s not how he’d like you to find out either. In fact, I’m sure he would’ve wanted you to never find out.”

“That’s true.” BJ paused, watching Della adjust so that she was laying down a bit more to help Mulcahy be more comfortable. “There’s one thing I can’t figure out, though. If we both resembled an abuser… Who was Della?”

“What do you mean?”

“If I was his father and you were the rector, then who was she in his mind?”

“There’s no way to know, really. Kathy, maybe? Although I doubt it. He did call her by name. I think she was just herself.”

“Somehow she broke through that haze?”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Hawkeye pondered. “Things get all mixed up when you hallucinate. Sometimes you still know you’re in the same environment and aspects are altered or added. Sometimes you don’t know. Sometimes it seems to be a mix. So… he thought we were his abusers, but Della was just Della.”

“That… doesn’t make sense.”

“Hallucinations rarely do,” he joked, though there was no humour in it. “He clearly feels safe with Della, so her presence was able to somewhat ground him in reality, even if the rest was still hazy and overwhelming. That’s how she was able to calm him down.”

“I thought you didn’t know anything about patients hallucinating and such.”

“I don’t! Only the general stuff we’re taught in medical school, but that stuff’s gotta be outdated now. I was able to piece it together based off of what Della told you and from watching her just now. Besides, haven’t you ever had a fever-induced hallucination before? You told me once about a time you got real sick as a kid.”

“Yeah, but my hallucinations weren’t…”

“Trauma?”

“Yeah. I just thought I saw a shark in our living room. That’s nowhere near the magnitude of what he’s experiencing.”

“Well, when you have trauma in your past they seem to go hand in hand. You were only a little kid when that happened, right?”

“Mhmm.”

“I was an adult.” Hawkeye sighed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “When I got a bad fever once I kept thinking I was drowning. Kept seeing this… this hand, reaching down to me. And right as I went to grab it, it disappeared. It was… terrifying.”

“I once hallucinated my mom,” said Della, her voice soft but still loud enough to hear. “She stood there telling me I was horrible at my job and that the suicide one of our patients was my fault.”

BJ spoke for himself and Hawkeye, who seemed too caught up in his thoughts to articulate. “That’s awful. I’m really sorry that happened.”

“It can be the people you least expect.” Della’s voice trailed off as she rubbed Mulcahy’s back. He still laid in her embrace, curled up and leaning against her chest, his breathing evening out as he drifted back to sleep. She looked back up at BJ, who seemed both shocked and not shocked at all at the way she held him. The way he let her hold him. “My point is… My mother would have never said that to me. She died when I was a teenager and she was a sweetheart. It was my manager at the hospital who derogated me. And yet, the two traumas ended up mixing together.”

“I guess it’s not a one-size-fits-all, huh?”

“Nope. You can’t loop all instances of hallucinating together, it just won’t work.”

“Well,” Hawkeye croaked, coming back to himself. “Regardless of how you knew what to do, I’m just glad you did. That’s why I went to get you, both because I knew you’d be our best shot. Plus, you’re the only one other than maybe Kathy who could ever hold him like this.”

Della’s cheeks burned. “I-I knew physical comfort helps him but what I was doing already wasn’t working, so…”

“Hey, I’m not knockin’ it if it works!”

BJ chuckled. “It’s sorta endearing, eh, Hawk?”

“You guys,” Della grumbled, fighting back even more heat rising up her neck. “He’s not in his right state of mind. Under normal circumstances, he would never…”

“We know, Dell.”

“We’re just teasing you,” said Hawkeye with an impish grin.

“Well knock it off.” She couldn’t help but smile, but it quickly fell from her face when Mulcahy started mumbling under his breath. She listened closer, tilting her head slightly, but couldn’t make out anything. Intending to calm whatever unpleasant thoughts seemed to be in his head, she started to rub his back again. When she looked back up, Hawkeye was shaking his head at the ground, a deep frown on his face. “Hawk?”

“I just… I know I don’t have the full story and probably never will, but form just the brief glimpse we got… I can’t believe he had to go through that.”

“You’d never know it,” BJ added.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Della pondered for a moment before continuing. “The signs are there if you’re more in-tune with them. But I know what you mean.”

“I don’t ever want to see that agonized look on his face again. Especially not directed at me.” Hawkeye let out a long breath, still staring at the floor before bringing his gaze back up to his sick friend. He took in the sight of Mulcahy, having finally seemed to settle against Della. “I never thought I’d hear that kind of tormented sobbing come from him. Ever.”

“Like you said, hallucinating is complicated. People don’t act like they normally would, and to anyone witnessing someone else hallucinating, it doesn’t seem to make sense. But it doesn’t have to make sense to scare someone, especially if the hallucination stems from or is directly related to past trauma. And that’s the thing about it, right? The reactions may not match with how that person actually reacted to the real life event. Like when I hallucinated my mom blaming me for that patient’s death… I was inconsolable. But when it actually happened, I barely said a word.”

“Well, I’m not sure how Father Mulcahy would have reacted to what happened to him but… I’m sure if it’s what I think it was, he would’ve been punished for crying out or begging for help.”

Della nodded, thinking back to the memories Mulcahy had shared with her. “Exactly. But right now he’s confused and scared, disoriented, he’s not feeling well, and he’s vulnerable. Being suddenly thrust back into a time of persistent trauma that he thought he’d finally escaped… that would fuck with anyone.”

Hawkeye nodded, but it was BJ who spoke up. “Well, we’re glad you’re here for him.”

Della gave a breathy laugh through her nose, not looking at him but at Mulcahy as she nodded. “Me too. It was nagging at me all day… I knew something was up.”

“You have good instincts,” Hawkeye said, offering a small smile. “Thank you, Della. He’s lucky to have you.”

Della smoothed Mulcahy’s hair as he slept. “I’m lucky to have him, too.”

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youngpettyqueen · 1 year

Note

Also since I didn't send one last time, anything about it's not chicken soup, but it's good for the soul!

YES I love a double ask I love it so much and I love to think about this particular fic

ok I wanna ramble about a particular sequence in relation to my particular writing style-

"“If you don’t kiss my forehead before you leave,” Hawkeye says, seriously, “Then I’m going to have a fit.”

Trapper snorts, raising a brow at him. “That right?” He asks. Hawkeye nods, still with that oh-so-serious look on his face, so he just smiles and pushes his hair aside again, “Alright, c’mere…”

He leans down and drops the requested kiss onto Hawkeye’s forehead. Then, for good measure, he also drops one on the bridge of his nose. He pulls away and hovers for a moment, savouring the sight of Hawkeye’s giddy little smile.

Cute. He thinks, again.

“Alright, I really gotta go,” Trapper says, even though he takes a quick second to press one last kiss in the space between Hawkeye’s brows. When he pulls back this time he gets up, collects the bowl, and turns to Hawkeye to tell him, “Send Radar my way if ya need anything. I’ll be back with your lunch in a few hours.”"

so a fun fact about me is that I am a romance writer (I am actively working on a romance novel which is on its third draft) and this fic was a fun exercise in writing domestic fluffy romance which is not my usual type of romance writing! I usually only write domestic fluffy romance with like, DND and writing stuff with mine and my friend's characters, so doing this in fanfic is overall fairly new to me. this particular exchange between these two was one of the main points of writing this fic- as ive said with this one it was written to make me feel better while I was absolutely miserable with covid, and few things cheer me up quite like straight up FLUFF

Hawkeye and Trapper really suit this fluffy domesticity for me because I dont read either of them as being particularly repressed. Hawkeye cant hide his feelings to save his life and Trapper really doesnt seem to ever try to hide how he feels. as a result these two are easy to write being fairly open (as open as the time and place will allow, at least) and very domestic and, well, cute. of course Trapper's gonna give him a kiss on the forehead, and then, even though he doesnt have to, he's gonna give him a couple more. and of course Hawkeye's not gonna hesitate to ask! theyre open with each other, theyre comfortable with each other- this is all canon, its just easy and convenient for me to use that in my Piercentyre agenda ksdjskjdha

speaking as someone who doesnt write straight up fluff very often, this was a very fun exercise in it. it flowed really naturally, it makes me want to write more of it, and it let me practice a style I admittedly dont practice as often. I definitely want to write more things like this, things that are sickly sweet and fluffy, and im definitely hoping to do more of it with Piercentyre specifically. writing them has reallyyyyyyy grown on me, I always liked them as a pairing but after rewatching the early seasons ive fallen even more in love with them

all this said the WIP I have for them currently is very much not all sweet domestic fluff and does in fact involve quite a bit of angst but honestly I might shove some sweet tooth-rotting fluff in there cause its just so damn fun to write. who knows, not me, I dont even have an outline for the damn thing fskjdfhskj

#fic bitching #mash #tyyyyyy I love to go on and on about this fic #listen im just shocked its a coherent fic at all #I was. very very sick when I wrote it #the last time I wrote a sickfic while sick it was MUCH angstier fun fact #I was miserable for three weeks and decided to inflict pain rather than comfort #but this time I was so fuckin upset and sick I was like #Hawkeye its time for you to be held #and kissed #as I desire to be

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veryace-ficrecs · 1 year

Text

Fullmetal Alchemist Fic Recs

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :)

"Huh — it finally came out. 'S been long enough. It's been loose since I had just turned thirteen."

milk teeth (children at war are not children at all) by candiedsage - Rated G

Ed still has baby teeth. It comes as a brutal reminder.

Back Up by ohmytheon - Rated G

Ed doesn't like to admit it when other higher-ranked soldiers harass him, but it's hard to hide things from the Hawk's Eye.

what the water gave me by Spineless - Rated T

One rainy day after a mission, Ed's automail gets infected and gives him strife. Luckily, he is surrounded by many exasperated people who care deeply for him. Sickfic, Hurt/Comfort

Don't Ask Questions by Moonlight_Hearts - Rated G

He left the town for the first time when Mom died. He didn’t know what he was doing, and he didn’t know where to go. He tracked through shaded alleys and talked with the people Mom always told him to avoid.

Or: Ed knows shady people and the people around him are more than concerned

I climb the heights (I tear them down) by Starrie_Wolf - Rated T

The year Ed returned to Amestris, the Drachman Tsar decided to send an ambassador to Briggs for peace talks.

Peace was not what they had in mind.

Natura Umbilicus by liketolaugh - Rated T

People always assume that because Ed isn't religious, he doesn't believe in a higher power. He supposes it's a fair assumption, because that's how it goes with most alchemists; scientific minds don't usually like the wishy-washy nature of miracles and faith and unseen beings. They believe in atoms and molecules and the ever-elusive natural providence.

But Ed does believe in a higher power; he's met it, and its name is equivalent exchange. Nothing wishy-washy about that.

Spoon Theory by liketolaugh - Rated T

“People always talk about how bad the surgery is,” Ed told Hawkeye, “but you never hear people mention how much it sucks to have fifty pounds of metal hanging off your body. Bolts in your bones.”

“What’s happening?” Mustang asked sharply, turning toward them with his clouded eyes still lingering a few feet over their heads. “Hawkeye? What’s Fullmetal doing? Is there something wrong with his automail?”

Ed flicked the lighter again, waited a little more patiently this time, and inhaled. Then he gave Hawkeye a nod, giving in to the inevitable. The only reason Mustang hadn’t figured it out already was probably because Ed didn’t do a lot of... this sort of thing. The comfort thing. Mustang liked people to play into his expectations.

“Edward came out to smoke opium,” Hawkeye said at last. “He says it helps with the pain from his automail.”

Compressive Strength by liketolaugh - Rated T

Though only a distant second to the surgery itself, automail repair is still one of the most painful medical procedures available. Metal yanks on raw nerves. Steel bolts grind against bones. Electric shocks spark around the connection points. And it can last for hours.

Ed can deal with all of that. But he really wishes he didn't have to argue with his best friend at the same time.

Early is On Time. On Time is Late. Late is Unacceptable by boredom - Rated G

Every state alchemist must get rectified each year. They can present their research. Give a demonstration. Or participate in mock combat. Whatever they choose, they have to show up on time and ready to wow, or else they get stripped of their title.

Mustang thought Ed knew about this. He thought Ed would take this seriously and show up on time for once in his life. But, as he sits in a room with an asshole major general to his left and a ticking clock in front of him, he starts to wonder just how seriously Ed takes this whole military thing.

Has Ed disappeared just to piss him off? Or is there something else at play?

Be Kind, Rewind by icewhisper - Rated T

Maes Hughes died on a Tuesday night. When Roy woke up the next day, it was Tuesday morning. It kept being Tuesday morning.

A Professor Not So Short by Areum113 - Rated T

After the Promised Day, many names from the military made it to the news. Some notable ones like the Flame Alchemist Roy Mustang stayed there as he rose through the ranks and moved to Central, the famous Fullmetal Alchemist disappeared.

It was unexpected, to say the least, when Agnese looked at the list of her professors and saw the name Edward Elric.

Son of the Desert by ShanaStoryteller - Rated T

Every time Edward sees the circle on the back Mustang's hand, he wants to scream, wants to reach across the desk and shake him, wants to wrap his hands around the older man's throat and ask if it was worth it, if this desk and his rank is worth the screaming, crying, writhing, burning bodies of his people -

"Something to say, Fullmetal?" Mustang drawls.

Edward snaps the file shut, "Nope."

Know the Difference by ShanaStoryteller - Rated T

“You’ve heard the rumors,” Mustang says, looking at Ed over the top of his latest report, “about the angels.”

Ed scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Angels don’t exist, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Of course, of course,” he murmurs, gaze sliding back down, “There have been multiple eye witness accounts, however.”

Ed slouches into the chair and doesn’t bother to keep the contempt to from his voice when he says, “Don’t depend on anything with wings to save you. Things that were made to leave always end up doing so, in the end.”

“Yes, well,” he says, “sometimes they come back.”

Self-Conscious by JRaylin441 - Rated T

Maes is having a terrible day. And then Ed shows up.

There were reports there, from the language specialists they had called in, all saying the same thing. It was impossible. It couldn’t be done. They had tried their best, but it was like nothing they had ever seen before.

Achey Days by McSquishee - Rated T

Aside from Mustang and Hawkeye, team Mustang is unaware of Edward's automail limbs. When a particularly dreary day leaves his ports aching, he tries to hide his pain from the team in fear of pity or judgement. How will they react when his secret finally gets out? familial team mustang with hints of EdWin if you squint

#fullmetal alchimist brotherhood #edward elric #alphonse elric #fullmetal alchemist fic rec #ao3 fic recs #veryace recs #roy mustang #maes hughes

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ao3feed-winterhawk2-archive · 10 months

Text

Lavender Bouquets

by devilsarcher

Something is up with Clint, Bucky is determined to figure out what that is.

Words: 1005, Chapters: 1/6, Language: English

Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Hawkeye (Comics), Hawkeye (TV 2021), Winter Soldier (Comics)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Lucky (Hawkeye), Bruce Banner

Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes & Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers

Additional Tags: Sickfic, Cancer, Mentions of Cancer, Secrets, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Worried Bucky Barnes, 5 Things, Human Disaster Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Clint Barton, Angst with a Happy Ending, 5 plus 1, Friends to Lovers

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/48539359

#WinterHawk #Bucky/Clint #Clint/Bucky #Bucky Barnes #Clint Barton #IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic

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bingoluka · 2 years

Note

If you could hypothetically become a writer for mash and end up directing an entire episode, what would the main plot/sub plots be? What characters would it focus on? Angsty or comedic? Which season and would it be a continuation/part 2 of another ep?

Oh my gosh I love this question!

I know for certain it would be Hawkeye-centric, his character is so complex to me and I love diving into characterization.

For the main plot I would really love to dive into a) how being raised alone by a single father has effected his relationships with both others and just the world in general or b) something to do with how Hawkeye accepts help (or lack of) and just his overall self worth is. Or maybe a mix of both, maybe an overlapping thing where how he was raised effected how easily he could really accept help or let others in, physically or emotionally. Bonus points if Hawkeye bonds with someone over this, like Radar who had a similar close knit family life. Or a patient maybe!

I'm not too sure about a sub plot, I'm not sure how easily that would work into a heavier episode so it would likely be something more light hearted to even things out. Or maybe another characters perspective of how Hawkeye is dealing with things, maybe a frustration kind of leeches from it that begs the question 'why cant he just admit he needs something' and it's kind of a realization that all their home lives have effected them in some way, and that you have to have patience.

I would say I'd love to wiggle this into season 5 or 6!

Also I may or may not have written a fic that foes somewhat follow this, it was mostly a self indulgent sick fic but I did throw in some of my headcanons of stuff! I'll link it below, but thank you again for this question! I absolutely adore the thought you put into it!

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: MASH (TV)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce

Characters: Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, B. J. Hunnicutt, Frank Burns, Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan, Maxwell Klinger, Sherman Potter, Radar O'Reilly, Father Francis Mulcahy

Additional Tags: Sickfic, Sick Character, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Whumptober 2019, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Worried B. J. Hunnicutt, Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce Whump, Hunnihawk if you squint, Margaret cares about Hawkeye, And this is the hill I die on, I just love their friendship okay, Worried Margaret, Margaret also is looking out for B.J., cries

Summary:

If there was anything that Hawkeye Pierce hated, it was being sick.

It could be rightfully debated that swimmer’s itch and wet socks would come in a close second; tied, of course, with Major Burns on what most would consider a good day. Whichever came first on the list, however, didn’t matter much to the captain as the beginning symptoms of a fall flu set in. It started mildly, pressure in the sinus leading to mild headache, sniffles, and sneezes. Most of which Hawkeye conveniently blamed on allergies, the war, or whatever slop was served at breakfast that day. For the most part, everyone shoved off the symptoms as just another part of his antics.

That is, everyone except for a certain BJ Hunnicutt.

#mash #m*a*s*h #mash 4077 #mashblr #m*a*s*h 4077 #mashposting #hawkeye pierce #beejhawk #hunnihawk #bj hunnicutt

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ao3feed-irondadspiderson · 2 years

Text

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42161649

Are We Out Out of the Woods Yet? by Marvelous_Writer In which Peter and Morgan get lost when they decide to go for a walk on a hiking trail near the cabin. Whumptober Day 5: Hypothermia Words: 14092, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Series: Part 5 of Whumptober 2022 Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Marvel Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: Gen Characters: Peter Parker, Spider-Man, Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, Happy Hogan, Clint Barton, Hawkeye, Steve Rogers, Captain America - Character, Bruce Banner, Dr. Cho, Friday (Marvel) Relationships: Peter Parker & Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Happy Hogan & Pepper Potts & Tony Stark, Happy Hogan & Peter Parker, Happy Hogan & Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Clint Barton & Happy Hogan, Clint Barton & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe) & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Additional Tags: whumptober2022, no. 5, Hypothermia, Fic, Whump, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Precious Peter Parker, Hurt Peter Parker, Peter Parker is a Mess, Protective Peter Parker, Big Brother Peter Parker, whumpy, Broken Bones, Rain, Precious Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Adorable Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Peter Parker & Morgan Stark are Siblings (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Kid Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Morgan Stark Needs a Hug (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Morgan Stark Gets a Hug (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Sickfic, Hurt Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Sick Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark is Good With Kids, Uncle Happy Hogan, Protective Happy Hogan, Protective Tony Stark, Protective Clint Barton, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Thunderstorms, IronDad and SpiderSon, Irondad, spiderson, ironfam

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #iron dad and spider son #spider son #iron dad #peter parker #tony stark

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goldenempyrean · 11 months

Note

Maybe one with a sick Kate x reader with “I’m just a little under the weather that’s all” and “Did you come home just to look after me?” You always write Kate so well 💕💕💕

Dork-A-Saurus-Rex

〚 Notes - I wrote this last night just because honestly this req was collecting dust in my inbox and it deserved to be done :) Also God the level of hate on here rn is unbelievable :,) Still doing my 1k fics too dw!! 〛

〚 Pairing - Kate Bishop x Reader 〛

〚 Summary - When Kate decides shes gonna go home to rest, you already knew that you were going to be right there beside her. Cute, dorky comfort ensues. 〛

〚 Wordcount - 1600 〛

〘 Check Out My Masterlist! 〙

╚════════ ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ ════════╝

“Hi Kit-Kat.” Your cheery voice chirped down the phone, as you sat in the break room of your office, “You on you’re lunch break now too?” You asked before taking a bite from the sandwich in your opposite hand.

“Yeah I’m on my break now too.” Kate responded only her voice sounded different - it lacked her usual energy and excitement. But there was something else too and it wasn’t until you heard her sniffle quietly that you finally registered what was wrong.

“Are you feeling oka-“ 

“Hh’utshhiew!” Her sudden sneeze cut you off from your question and you could practically hear the embarrassment in her tone when she quietly mumbled out a small, “Excuse me.”

You shook your head out of habit and gave a sympathetic sigh, “It’s okay, bless you. I was going to ask if you were feeling alright but I think I’ve already got my answer. I guess that lil’ nose of yours jumped ahead to reply.”

She hummed in response and you heard the sound of tissues being opened in the background, “I’m just a little under the weather that’s all. There’s been something going round all week.”

That part was true. You remembered her saying something about being short staffed due to everyone being out sick, if you’d been a little wiser you would’ve taken that as the hint to stock up on some medicine and tea.

“Im probably gonna go home early.” Your girlfriend’s slightly congested voice said finally and you couldn’t help but worry a little. 

She was usually so stubborn about these sorts of things, there’d been that once time when she’d spent the night throwing up and had still insisted on going into work the next day. So for her to admit she was thinking about coming early was definitely a sign that she really wasn’t feeling too good and that she definitely needed some TLC.

“That’s probably a good idea baby, you go home and rest, okay? Oh, did you have your lunch yet?” You asked softly, she sometimes had a habit of forgetting to look after herself properly and you knew that this would only make her feel worst.

There was a second a silence followed by a quiet, “Not yet, I’m not really in a mood for it. It’s like I- Hih- shit, my nose fricken itch-Hh’iiitshoo! ‘tschioo!” She sniffled, giving a small stuffed, exhausted exhale as you heard the sound of more tissues being drawn, “Sorry sweetie, s’cuse me. What I was trying to say is that I don’t really have an appetite. It’s just like food has no appeal whatsoever.”

"Aw, my poor baby," you cooed sympathetically. "I'm sorry you're feeling like this. It's no fun being sick. You get yourself back home and into bed. My lunch is almost over so I need to go but I want you to go straight home, alright?”

“I will.” She stopped to cough a couple of times, whining a little afterwards, “I lodes you.”

You smiled, finding her congestion-hazed words utterly adorable as you teased her a little before ending the call, I ‘lodes’ you too.” 

It wouldn’t just be her going home early though. You’d just finished typing out the email to your boss asking if you’d be allowed to call out early, offering to take up some extra hours in return later in the week. 

With the email sent, you quickly finished up your lunch, feeling a mix of concern and anticipation to see Kate. You gathered your things, bid your colleagues farewell, and headed out of the office, making your way to the parking lot.

As you drove home, your mind raced with thoughts of how you could take care of Kate and make her feel better. You made a mental note to stop by the pharmacy on your way home to pick up the supplies and you tried to make a list of things you would need: cough drops, some medicine, tissues, and definitely some ice cream (for her throat of course, not just to satisfy your carvings.

Arriving at your apartment, it wasn’t long before you found Kate curled up on the couch, wrapped in a cosy blanket as she wore your go to ‘lazy day’ outfit. She looked even more tired and worn out than you had expected.

Setting down the bags of supplies on the coffee table, you approached her and gently placed a hand on her forehead to check for fever. It was slightly warm, confirming your suspicions. "Hey there, sweetheart," you murmured softly. "Let's get you more comfortable, shall we?"

“Y/N? What time is it?” She mumbled quietly and you showed her the screen of your phone to answer, “Did you come home just to look after me?” 

You nodded, a tender smile gracing your lips. "Of course, my love. I couldn't bear the thought of you being sick all alone. Plus, I missed you, even if you're a little under the weather."

She let out a weak chuckle, sniffling and rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. "You're such a sweetheart.”

"Anything for my Kit-Kat," You replied, using the endearment that always brought a smile to her face. "Now, let's get you settled in bed. I'll make you some tea and bring you a bowl of soup. How does that sound?"

She nodded but then stopped when something else came to mind, “Do you think we could shower first? I’m kinda sweaty.” She grumbled in a disapproving manner earning a small giggle from yourself.

“Of course baby, come on my dear, let me escort my fair lady to thy holy shower.” Your hand was offered out to her in an exaggerated, medieval manner resulting in a small smile from the feverish brunette as she took it gratefully. 

Kate sniffled as the two of you reached the bathroom and you curtesy’d with a welcoming smile as you opened the door for her.

“You’re such a dork.” She giggled a little even though the action had left her coughing hoarsely afterwards. 

Turning on the shower, you let the hot steam fill up the room as you began carefully undressing her, making sure to shower her with kisses and love as you did so. You’d just gone behind her to unclasp her bra when Kate turned her to head to look back over her shoulder a little.

“Y’know what you are?” Her words were a little blurred by both congestion and fever, maybe that steam was a little too hot. You’d make sure to turn that down before she got in.

But still, you gave into her babble, “What am I sweetie?”

“A dork-a-saurus-rex.” Katie smiled before ducking her head down into her hands as she sneezed loudly, which was quickly followed by a displeased “Ew… Gross-a-saurus.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the situation, “Come on then lil’ dino. Let’s get you washed, ey?” Your encouraging words were enough to coax her into the (now a lot colder) shower.

As the water cascaded over both of you, you began slowly massaging her knotted shoulders. When you lowered your hands to your surprise l she turned as if she was going to hug you but instead she let her heavy head rest of your chest before ultimately wrapping her arms around you (turns out she wanted that hug after all).

"You're taking such good care of me," she murmured, her voice muffled by the sound of running water. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

"You don't have to do anything to deserve my love," you replied sincerely, pressing a tender kiss to her temple. "Taking care of you comes naturally to me. Now, let's get you all clean and refreshed."

Carefully, you reached for the bottle of shampoo and squeezed a small amount onto your palm. As you lathered her hair, massaging her scalp, Kate let out a contented sigh. 

"Mmm, that feels nice," she murmured, closing her eyes. 

You smiled, continuing to work the shampoo through her hair with gentle strokes. After rinsing her hair, you reached for the body wash and started lathering it up. As you began washing her back, Kate tilted her head back up to look at you. Her eyes were filled with gratitude and affection, despite the fatigue she was so desperately trying to fight.

But to nobody’s surprise her fatigue won and you helped a very sleepy Katie climb out of the shower and get dry.

Once she was wrapped up in a fluffy towel, you guided her back to the bedroom. The room was cosy and warm, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting a soothing ambiance. 

You helped her into fresh pajamas, carefully tucking her into bed. "Alright, my sweet Kit-Kat, it's time for some rest," You whispered, sitting down on the edge of the bed and stroking her damp hair away from her forehead. 

She looked up at you with drowsy eyes, a faint smile on her face. "Thank you, baby.” She whispered, her voice hoarse and weak. "I don't know what I would do without you."

You leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. "You don't have to worry about that, my love," you reassured her. "I'll be right here by your side, taking care of you until you're back to your vibrant self."

She closed her eyes, leaning into your touch as you continued to stroke her hair. "I love you," She murmured, her words barely audible.

"I love you too, Kit-Kat," you whispered back, your voice filled with tenderness. "And I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

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zeawesomebirdie · 1 year

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Guess who's finally working on that Hawkeye/Radar sickfic from like *checks notes* December!

#boy oh boy second drafts are hard!#but heres hoping <3

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ao3feed-mash · 1 year

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a good nurse (a good friend)

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/vP6pqsh

by dukesmulcahy

Margaret has a patient.

Words: 1877, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: MASH (TV)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan, Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce

Relationships: Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan & Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce

Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Sick Character, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Literal Sleeping Together, Sharing a Bed, Cuddling & Snuggling, Platonic Cuddling, Forehead Kisses

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/vP6pqsh

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #M*A*S*H #mash #mash fandom

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builder051 · 2 years

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Whumpmas in July 2022: Day 18: "Make me" (AKA Farmhouse Nights, completed 07 August 2022)

Barton Fam (canon ships) leaning heavily into Creedless Assassins

WARNINGS: drug use/abuse (with little/no context), vomit, blood, swearing...

__________________

Nat shows up in the middle of the night, her black leather glove applying the perfect amount of friction against the humidity haze on the sliding glass door out to the porch. Her movements are silent, and she would've made it in, and possibly even out as well, if Clint hadn't been up for diaper duty and decided on a random detour through the kitchen.

What is the use of a programmable coffee maker when you don't pre-set it to welcome you downstairs with the irresistible sputter sound and scent of... way better than Holiday Inn...?

All Clint plans to do is tap a few buttons, lay out his and Laura's favorite mugs--World's Best Dad is his, of course. He still hasn't figured out why his wife is so enamoured with the grainy, blown-up map and its references to the most common tropical birds found in each region. He glares at the cockatoo with the neon mohawk, daring it to tell him why it and all its' bird friends are trying to entrap his wife.

Clint doesn't get an answer, though. What he gets is a slight change in the shade of darkness behind him. Clint can tell it's not in the house. Anxiety makes prickles up the back of his neck. He supposes he's armed, if two ceramic mugs and Nate's walkie-talkie style monitor count for anything. Maybe if he pulls the antenna off and grabs the sink sprayer, it'll make an electrical charge--

But, no. Clint would recognize her silhouette anywhere. New hairstyle, swollen with hits to the face, stooped and bony like a drowned rat who's been undercover far too long...

Clint punches the cancel button on the coffee pot, and directs it to boil water instead. He has a feeling they're going to need something. Nothing he's observed can possibly be good.

He meets Nat at the threshold to the back door. She doesn't lift her foot quickly enough to clear the sliding glass tracks that separate deck from carpet. She seems to hang in midair, gloved fingers stuck to the glass like some kind of rain forest animal at a zoo.

At least she's not a bird, squawking and flapping wings in face. Probably making him sneeze and disrupting all forms of communication.

No, he'll do that verbally. "Hey," Clint says softly, trying to be neutrally welcoming as he gets a good look at her. Nat has blown pupils and a shiny track of something whitish-clear running from her nose toward her upper lip. She seems to be tipping on her feet.

Clint isn't sure if she's collapsing because he's there to catch her, or if she's just collapsing. Either way, Nat's movement trips the motion sensor, and the UV-bright industrial fixture on the side of the house. Light, brighter than daylight hitting snow, blasts the deck and pours halfway across the living room.

"Ohmygod." Nat goes tense as her body attempts to wad itself up against Clint's shoulder. She cringes and doesn't let go of the tight contraction, tremors running up and down her spine and through the muscles in her arms.

"Whoa, hey," Clint soothes. He quickly closes the door, then wraps both arms around Nat.

He might be lying, though. All Clint's done is made sure the house doesn't get dank with the moist summer heat or ravaged by mosquitos --and even raccoons-- who would probably be happy to eat out his fridge. Or his children.

Clint's protective instincts swell, and the memories of missions gone sour, injuries for both of them, and random illnesses--or whatever they used to cover for events best left unexplained. The house is a beacon. He's probably blown Nat's cover, as well as whatever Home Depot bills as shatterproof glass for home installation. Clint's not eager to actually test the truth of the advertizing.

He hates smart outlets and AIs in the home, he really does, but Laura wanted the technology. For security. Clint can't blame her for that. Maybe, just this once, it'll prove itself useful.

"Alexa," Clint says, just loud enough to be heard clearly. "Blackout."

All the lights cut out immediately. Not only the flares on the deck, but the nightlights as well. The spotlight over the kitchen sink. Even the weird humming curly bulb hanging from the laundry room ceiling.

Nat lifts her head a fraction of an inch to look blearily up at Clint.

"What'd you do?" she asks. Her shadowed face shows confusion. Perhaps she was startled. Not firing on all cylinders. Unwell, certainly. It's the how and the why that aren't so obvious.

"Turned off the lights," Clint explains, trying to keep his voice devoid of sarcasm. Drugged, concussed, whatever--he wouldn't appreciate being spoken to in that way if the roles were reversed.

"Mm." Nat's brows angle down to form a more serious expression. She presses her lips tightly together and drops her forehead back to Clint's shoulder.

Clint assumes understanding, for the moment, at least. It'll come out eventually. Probably, well, after it comes up.

Nat will talk, eventually. At least a little. Clint's known her most of his life now. Longer than Laura. The kids. He has the patience it takes to let Nat unravel when she's in such sorry shape.

"You not feeling so good?" Clint asks.

He knows not to leave the question hanging without providing options. "Want some water? Coffee? I have breakroom quality instant."

Nat makes the cringe again, though she hasn't entirely straightened up from the first one. The top of her head barely comes to Clint's chin now. A damp spot is appearing on his shirt between his shoulder and collarbone. She's perspiring. Maybe clammy. Clint sweeps Nat's hair behind her ear and gently touches the back of her neck, just to check. Clammy it is. Her skin is hot and sticky, and Clint knows it's not just from being out in the summer air.

"Want some water?" Clint pushes.

Nat looks up, blinks. When her eyes meet Clint's again, they're full of guilt. A drip is collecting at the edge of her nostril, too. Dark. Viscous.

"I think--actually--" Nat gulps, then leans back a little, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. "I might--"

Clint has her balanced by the touch of two fingers, countering the weight of her smaller body with just a couple of pressure points on her spine. Nat's dirty sneakers seem to prefer positioning on top of Clint's feet instead of the floor.

Though Nat's words were tentative, Clint's been in this situation about a hundred times too many. If he wasn't already immune to gross as an assassin, he would've had to buck up bigtime as a dad.

The beginning of the pseudo retching makes Nat's throat strain both visually and audibly. That's what sparks their assisted stumble-sprint toward the hallway bathroom.

Laura meets them there, a flashlight already set up on the edge of the tub. She raises the toilet seat and ring and gives them a quick wipe down.

"The hell?" Clint asks, but Laura doesn't look up. She pulls the towels from the bar and layers them over the tile floor.

"I don't know. Intuition?"

Laura tries for a quick grin, but Nat dry heaves, and her body crumples into a position that's something between fetal and animalistic. Her knees and elbows bend, but she hasn't made it past the vanity. Clint has to practically pitch her to the toilet. Not too roughly, he hopes.

Laura immediately coddles her, wrangling Nat's hair out of the way and stroking her back while she vomits up mostly nothing.

Clint isn't sure what to do with himself. He stands with hip and shoulder against the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest and his forehead creased with worry.

"This isn't--" Clint finally tries to say, but Nat gags again, and he pauses as if she's taking her speaking turn. "You gotta give her some water or something."

"N-nnn..." Nat shakes her head as she spits. Lines of mucous seem to refuse to detach from her lip. Strands of tinted yuck run from the toilet back into her, probably from a clog deep in her throat.

"I'm hesitant to give her anything she doesn't want..." Laura tears off a few sheets of toilet paper and hands them to Nat with a meaningful look.

Nat sighs and shakily holds the toilet paper beneath her nose as she squeezes it with the other hand. Blood bubbles out, mixed with something that looks yellowish and highly infected.

"That," Clint says, unable to contain himself, "Wants an antibiotic."

"Well." Laura stretches to stand on her kneecaps so she can slide the door of the medicine cabinet with her fingertips. She scans the bottles and boxes for a moment, then tips one down and catches it perfectly in her palm. "Tonight, it's getting this."

"Oh, and you're doing a full work up, too, right?" Clint knows immediately he shouldn't have shared his thoughts. It's just that he loves his wife. He loves Nat. Fuck it, there's no excuse.

Laura sticks her tongue out in an impressive display of exactly what face their children are not allowed to make at each other. "Make me."

"I--" Clint runs his hand over his head. "Fuck."

Nat strains to retch, and this time a smattering of bile comes up, seeming to shock her as much as anyone else.

"We're not OD'ing tonight," Laura says simply, her tone plain and calm. "A drop of baby ibuprofen for the fever. After your stomach is under control. But how about we lay off the meds for a while?"

The words seem directed at Nat, but Clint knows they're meant for him.

"Ugh." Nat sputters into the toilet. Every sound she makes echoes to decibels louder than it really is. "S hard."

"I know, sweetheart." Laura lays her cheek on top of Nats head, then unscrews the tiny cap of the bottle in her hand. It's a dropper and bulb style, meant for calculating exact doses for different sizes of small humans. "Just a little. Couple tiny drops. Under your tongue. You probably won't taste it."

Clint tries not to wrinkle his nose, even though no one is looking at him anymore. Why do kids' meds only come in fucking orange and grape? There's a reason behind his general avoidance of Creamsicles.

"I don't know--" Nat pauses and shakes overlong bangs out of her eyes. They all wait out a hiccup, then she continues. "If I'm-- you know. Done?"

"You probably--" Laura starts, but Nat micro heaves, and Laura guards her shoulders to keep her from collapsing and getting a faceful of contaminated water. "Whoops."

Clint's brain spins on, imagining the scene continuing to play out. Nat, exhausted. Bleary on lack of sleep and raging fever and the remnants of a wicked high. Swaying and losing her depth perception. Her face breaking the surface tension of liquid in some public toilet. Maybe at a gas station. Or some creeper's penthouse suite in a downtown hotel.

Nat coughs a little. "I wanna be done," she croaks. She hocks and spits weakly, then breaks her white knuckled grip on the toilet rim to catch more blood and mucous escaping her nose. "I wanna be done. I'm so done."

A couple more drips plonk loudly into the toilet, but Clint can clearly see Nat's eyes squeezed shut. Tears quiver at the ends of her eyelashes. They let go and stream down her cheeks.

"Ok," Laura eases Nat back onto her heels. Ok, good."

Clint feels Laura's blistering look before it comes, a silent 'do something' from his wife. He knows he'll be ripe for a talkdown later. It's not that he's objectint. At the moment, he's just... not participating.

He's not just standing there watching, even though it probably looks like that. Clint's mind has been to panic and back twice now, and he's still been able to blast through his memorized safety checklists, both military and civilian. He has police and fire codes in there too, but they don't seem necessary.

If Nat had someone on her tail, she probably would've said so. Clint wants to ask her how she got here, but it still isn't the right time. No longer in danger of dying by disgorgement of internal organs. That's good. He can mark that off, though he needs a new protocol for Nat's care. Next he'll work on not dying by dehydration. And comforting.

The hand towel is hanging over the rack with one corner. Clint's secretly glad to skip the tidiness lecture for whichever kid left it that way. That's mostly Laura's deal. Clint turns on the tap and lets it run to cool-not-cold, then dampens the towel and wrings it out.

"Hey, Nat?" Clint asks hesitantly, though he doesn't wait for permission before getting on his knees and invading the towel-carpeted corner between toilet and bathtub.

"Mm?" Nat makes an attempt at shifting herself so she's perpendicular to Laura instead of leaning back against her. She rubs her eyes with the fits that isn't smeared with the remnants of nosebleed. Then she looks to Clint.

Nat's pupils are huge, and the whites of her eyes look pink, overtaken with tiny, irritated veins. In the just the last few minutes her body has gone through so much. The painful release of unbearable pressure. And Clint knows they've just managed to tap the surface. The pain, the hurt, the bad. He knows it's still in her.

"Cool down and clean up?" Clint lifts the damp hand towel a little, and, with the slightest nod of Nat's head, he lifts a few stubborn curls and lays it over the back of her neck.

Nat shivers. "Mm." She hums again, though Clint can now hear her teeth chattering.

"Ok?" Clint checks.

"Yeah." Nat's word is short, but Clint's inclined to believe her. Barely controlled nausea. Pain. Tripping. He's willing to take it.

"Ok, good." Clint smoothes the compress over Nat's shoulder.

Laura nods in the background and goes back to making sense of the indistinct measurements on the dropper for the baby ibuprofen.

Nat swallows with difficulty and distaste.

Clint moves the wet hand towel again, using the edge to wipe her chin and casually prepare to catch anything that needs emergency exit.

"M ok." Nat sniffs, then forces a smile Clint knows is fake.

"That was your lie," Clint says, starting in on the gummy mix of blood, mucous, and cocaine smeared under Nat's nose, nearly to her lip. He can't imagine how awful that would taste. Even compared to bitter, false-grape medication. "I get two truths now, right?"

Nat flinches at the rub of terry cloth against her skin. Her eyes show annoyance rather than pain, though.

"I know it doesn't feel great, but, wherever you're going next, I'm not gonna let you go looking like a horror movie."

Pot shots are bad, and Laura will start clubbing him if he gets close to causing damage. But hitting Nat in the dignity, now, when she has hardly a shred of it left, Clint thinks of it as the tactical equivalent to a spoonful of sugar.

"Ok." Nat swallows again, then softens her face. The skin Clint's washing goes rubbery, and he wonders if the shift means more pain or less.

Once he's far enough out of Nat's personal space to let her talk without feeling smothered, Clint returns to their game.

"Can I ask--?" He starts, even though the improper grammatical convention will probably get him labeled 'dunce.' If not by Nat, then certainly by Laura.

"Just did, dumbass." Nat's voice is a monotone, but the dimple in her cheek twitches as she tears more toilet paper to assist in cleaning herself up.

Dumbass--it's fairly equivalent to his expectation, and Clint's happy to eat it. Tonight.

"Did you, uh," Clint slows down, then decides to blurt out his question. No reason to lag, now that they've gotten over offending each other. Or Clint thinks they have. "Finish the mission?" Adding 'the' is a good touch; it makes things sound...respectable? He's trying.

Nat tosses her wadded toilet paper into the bin, then experimentally taps the pad of her thumb against that of her index finger. She's still gooey. Clint sees the thousand of so tiny spiderwebs of...whatever non-Newtonian fluid she's gotten into. He wants to take her to wash her hands, but Clint waits silently.

Finally, Nat murmurs, "No. I'm on leave."

"Oh. Ok." Clint breaks all attempts at eye contact. He puts his gaze firmly on a loose thread hanging from the hand towel. Clint can't actually remember if he was staring into Nat's nightcrawler pupils when he asked the question. He can feel Laura lasaring the spot on his head where he hopes he isn't growing a bald patch.

Last thing. Then Clint will stop. He swears it. He will. Dumbass he may be, but Nat knows he keeps his word. "Are--?"

"Clint. Babe." Laura cuts him off in a clipped warning.

"One more and I'm done." Clint sits back on his heels and reaches for the vanity, proving an intent to retreat. "Just one more question."

Nat gives a short exhale. "Yeah," she says. "It's-- Just go ahead and do it."

Clint pauses. Long enough, he hopes, that he isn't being overly intrusive. Galumphing. Stepping on toes, like Nat did back in the living room. She's a pinweight, though, so it's not as if it counts for anything.

"Are you safe?" Clint looks at Nat, even though she isn't looking at him. He wants to seem interested--attentive?-- Fuck, it's all the wrong term. He wants it to be ok if she chooses to meet his gaze.

"I..." Nat says very quietly. "Yeah. Now that I'm. Uh." A trickle of mucous-thinned blood starts to escape Nat's nose again. "Fuck."

She clamps in under her wrist before making use of the hand towel, just as Clint did earlier. "Now that I'm--" Nat's voice breaks, ant there's no leadup. She's just bawling.

Laura cradles her when she starts coughing. None of them--probably including Nat-- seem to know what's going to happen next. Bodily fluids, they're prepared for. Everything else? Clint does wonder.

Perhaps a minute passes, and Nat struggles a little to find Clint again in what has to be hazy vision. "I--" She blinks at him, then reaches out with her hand.

"Yeah?" Clint gets close again, taking Nat's fingers in his and caring about nothing than what she's about to say.

"S-safe." Nat stutters. "Now that I'm h-here."

"Aw, Nat." Clint smiles. His eyes might be welling up, but he can't exactly tell. He definitely isn't feeling the need to blink as often as Nat seems to.

Nat flings herself on him, both arms wrapped around Clint's neck. He squeezes her back. Tightly. But not too tightly.

"Where--?" Clint starts at a whisper, placing his palm between Nat's shoulder blades.

"Hey." Laura punches him in the side of the head, just forcefully enough to get Clint's attention. "You're out of questions." Her mouth makes a hard line, but there's still a twinkle in her eye. "Dumbass."

Clint sighs.

Laura cracks a grin. "My turn?"

Nat makes a tiny movement against Clint. He fears it to be another retch, but a glance downward shows raised eyebrows. Then he hears the echo of her throaty laugh.

"Be my guest," Clint says, winking at Laura.

"Where are you sleeping tonight, sweetheart?"

Clint tries not to feel had; Laura's pulled he words directly out of his mouth. He quickly switches to pass/fail thinking. Mission accomplished. Messy--in all the ways-- as it may have been.

"Um. In your room?" Nat asks quietly.

"Sheets are already on the trundle." Laura says. "If you think you can handle a few drops of ibuprofen, we can med you and tuck you in."

Nat's hesitation seems to have dried up with her tears. She nods into Clint's shoulder. "Yes," she says. "I'd like that."

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