When Ivar Needs Help⎮Ink Drinker, Modern Vikings AU Deleted Scene [Ivar x F!Reader]
☞ read more about this world here.
author’s note / content warnings: This blurb contains heavy mentions of mental health problems and potentially triggering content. Please read at your own risk.
word count: 2000+ words
pairing: Ink Drinker’s Modern Ivar x F!Reader
Hvitserk never misses work. He always calls if something is awry. But he never misses work.
His phone leads you straight to voicemail. Ivar’s phone leads you straight to voicemail. In the last effort, you dial Floki, whose phone rings, but your heart sinks when you are lead to voicemail.
Hvitserk can remember searching through a catalog of clothing, apparel for the job and there were a certain pair of steel-toe boots that caught his eye. They were unbreakable, he was sure he could drive over his own foot in the damn things and feel nothing. Even in the adrenaline, the fear, and anxiety, those boots hold up as he takes them to the lock on Ivar’s bedroom door.
The wooden barrier bounces off the hinges with such force that it hangs crooked for a moment, swinging slowly but Hvitserk moves. His eye searching rapidly and Ivar is on the floor around the other side of the bed, curled slightly and Hvitserk drops over him to check his breathing. When the cold fingers of his twin poke at his neck, Ivar’s eyes fly open, scaring both of them, and the blond man yelps as he stumbles back.
“What the hell are you doing?” Ivar hisses.
“You never text me that—Ivar that’s the one message you’re only meant to send me if you think you’re going to slip,” Hvitserk replies quickly, the sentence stringing together in one breath and Ivar nods. Because he’s right; the lone word with no forewarning is meant to be used if Ivar thinks this is the time the suicide attempt will work.
“It’s too loud today,” Ivar whispers softly, barely audible and Hvitserk can’t recall if he really heard it, or thought it as he watched his brother’s lips move. “I need it to be quiet,”
“I’ll call an ambulance,” Hvitserk tells him and Ivar roars his disproval.
“She can’t—Y/N can’t see me like this,” Ivar then says and Hvitserk pauses.
“What? Ivar, it’s our job. You know nothing phases that girl—”
“No,” Ivar says lowly. “Brother please, no. She can’t see me like this,”
“I don’t want her to leave me, because I’m too much,” Ivar suddenly admits and Hvitserk lets a breath pass.
“Ivar, telling her that you need help is going to make her stay. Besides she—she wouldn’t leave you, Ivar,” Hvitserk tries and he watches his brother wipe his eyes. “We need to get you safe,”
“I am safe,” Ivar argues and Hvitserk can see right through the lie, and this time he knows it. This time he won’t get the phone call from their mother with the heart-stopping news of his overdose. But as the words float between them, Ivar’s eyes skirt away, the telltale sign of his lying and they both know the other recognizes it.
There’s a knock on the front door and they both freeze, as your hand turns the nob and you’re stepping into an apartment that’s in shambles. Torn apart as if a hurricane ripped through and you’ve never seen Ivar’s flat so messy—you never thought he even had the ability to be this way.
“Ivar?” You call softly and he can hear the pain in your voice, the two days of missed calls and forgotten texts as he tore himself apart just to stay alive. Taking the frustration out on his surroundings, tearing pages from his sketchbook, music louder than his ears could handle—anything his doctor recommended he try before he goes on an active search for a razor blade.
You’re frozen by the door and the apartment irks of an eerie quietness, saying his name once more but you refuse your legs to search. As if the scene isn’t safe and you’re waiting for law enforcement, even when you know there’s no one coming. Your heart drops when the butcher's block of knives is disassembled, covered with kitchen towels and it hits you all at once. Bricks falling around you and your heart hammers in your chest.
You turn down the hallway and you stop when you see his tablet, laying on the floor but stuck on a slide show of images. Of you. Of the two of you. The softer ones, the dirtier ones, the ones that make you want to laugh. You watch through a few more, and there are pictures of his artwork next and they roll past. No matter how hard you want to run, far and fast and flee the scene like it was on fire, your feet finally carry you to his room.
Swallowing thickly, you see the door has gone crooked, you see him against the wall in the far corner, covered in two sweatshirts, both hoods trying to climb his scalp, every trace of skin on his body covered and Hvitserk is turning to meet your eyes. They’re red, streaked with cherry and you’re confused at first, but the longer you watch your partner, the clearer the gaze becomes. Nodding slowly, you grab the incentive to leave them be, stepping backward slowly and retracing your steps.
“Did you call her?” Ivar whispers with a voice that makes him sound like a child.
“No,” Hvitserk answers, and it’s the truth. “I’m sure she came because she was worried—I don’t even know how she managed to leave work and—fuck I never called my chief,” Hvitserk groans, his head tipping back and it makes Ivar snicker.
“I’m not worth your job, brother,” Ivar tries and Hvitserk shakes his head.
“No, you’re worth a lot more than it,” He assures him and he stands. “Are you ready to see her?” And Hvitserk watches a small nod come back through his brother’s head.
Those same steel toes carry him through the aftermath of a war zone and he finds you, folding the few clothes that were tossed, picking up the mess, and bringing the orderly back into Ivar’s life. When the next sketchbook is handed to you, you look up to see your partner there, a soft smile across his lips and you match it.
“What’s going on?” You whisper as if you’re discussing the circumstances of a patient.
“He was having an episode and was close to breaking so he sent out an SOS,” Hvitserk whispers back. “He wants to talk to you,”
“Yeah, so does our chief,” You snort.
“I know you love him, Y/N,” Hvitserk suddenly tells you and it catches you off guard, even with the simple thought likely tattooed across your forehead. “Nothing will change that,”
You only offer him a smile, watching how he picks up where you stop and you walk once more before stalking back. Thoughts rolling between your ears about what you feared the silence to be, what your overactive, over anxious mind started to conclude because no one was reachable. And in a career where everything you need, for the first fifteen minutes of every call, is always within your arm's reach.
Ivar is still on the floor when you find him, back parallel to the wall as he combs his fingers through his locks, tying them behind him and he can’t remember where he put his glasses. You pause as you watch him, rubbing his hands down his face and sniffling, wiping his eyes once more before your sitting down in front of him. Crossing your legs and you smile, but it falls quickly when you see how dead his eyes look.
“I haven’t heard from you in days, Ivar,” You say softly. “I was scared,”
“Can I tell you why?” Is Ivar’s only response. The question catches you off guard: Ivar never opens up unless you pry his mouth with a crowbar and have Hvitserk pull his cheeks to stay stationary. “It… it got too loud again. And I thought I was going to slip, and I didn’t want to scare you,"
“Ivar, your struggles have never scared me,” You answer simply, your words there to now catch him off guard.
“You knew about this already?” Ivar asks and the question sticks a stake through your chest.
“Yes,” You whisper. “I thought…I thought something bad happened, or you were having second thoughts about us or you met someone else or you didn’t really like me enough to date me…” And you trail off, your hands falling into your lap and Ivar only watches you. His heart slows as he watches your eyes well up, watering at the mere thought of separation from him and he knows his brother is right. “You don’t have to lie to me, Ivar,”
“What are the two things that I lie about?” Ivar suddenly asks.
“That you don’t worry about Hvitserk and I when we’re working, and that you really like that casserole your mom makes because it’s the one fucking thing she can’t cook correctly—and that woman can cook everything,” You answer and there’s as small of a smile on your mouth as there is on Ivar’s.
“I’m not lying when I tell you that I’m scared to lose you, and that you’re the only person who makes a difference in what goes on in my head, and that I’m trying,” Ivar repeats. “And you…” but he stops and you know right then and there just how off Ivar felt. “You deserve someone…happier,” But you shake your head so quickly at his statement that your ears plug, the snot, and quick pace send a pounding to take up the space like a drum set. “I’m trying to sort out what goes on up there, and that Hvitserk is right—and that he needs to get out from around the fucking corner—” Ivar calls suddenly.
“I’m not!” Hvitserk calls back as his voice carries to move while he does.
“Hvitserk is right…nothing phases you and this is no different…” And his hand moves as he talks, voice cracking and you watch him stop, wipe at his eye with the heel of his palm before starting back up: “I promise you that I’m trying and I’m so fucking scared one day you’re just going to get up and leave because I’m me…” There’s a silence that follows after Ivar speaks, just a mixing of your sniffles alike with his, and you two crack small laughs at one another, the silliness of the whole situation and then a few final tears seep their way down Ivar’s cheeks. You’re quickly there to wipe them, his cheek melting immediately into your palm, and you nod.
“Oh, Ivar…” are the only words you can manage to say. “I just wish there was more I could do and I’m sorry,” You’re in his lap suddenly, arms wasting no time to encompass you as yours do of him; Ivar’s breathing returns back to a normal rhythm just at that sensation alone. “I’m always here for you Ivar, and I’m sorry if it’s not enough yet,”
“Stop apologizing baby,” Ivar says into your hair. “You could castrate me with a fucking butter knife and I would still think the world of you—but that is no incentive to do it,” He adds and you can’t help but laugh. “Even if that would make no difference to help me, it’s the fact that you’re so willing to try,” And that makes you start to understand what evil he means. You’ve been the only one who has put on the battle gear; they safety gear and charged headfirst into the scene of terror. Because you’re trying to save people, and you’re trying to help them. Just as you are trying to help Ivar. And you have to remind yourself of your job, once again—to bring a viable patient to the hospital—to help them get there. Not to fix them. You’re helping Ivar get to where he needs to be, you are not here to fix him. You never were. You are just there to help him see what kind of a person he really is.
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