An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 20/?
Fandom: Original Work
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Characters: Nico
Additional Tags: Original Character(s), Originally Posted on Tumblr, Blood and Injury, Major Character Injury, Injury, Sickfic, Sick Character, Magical Realism, Whump, Infection, Werewolf Mates, Aftermath of Torture, Implied/Referenced Torture, Medical Inaccuracies, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Caretaking, Family Dynamics, Bathing/Washing, Fever, Delirium
Summary:
Nico never thought he'd leave. Never thought he'd see his friends again. This is what happens when he does.
They just hope it's not too late.
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āOh my...Nico?ā The words hung heavy in the shocked silence. And Nico felt cold air on the skin of his lower face. It hurt.
āHuh? Nico? You donāt seriously think Nico would do this do you?!ā Brianās voice was panicked.
āWhat? No! This is Nico!ā Kristys voice was harsh.
Well here it is, what iāve posted the last few days hasnāt been included, this is the original story line. Iām going to try to add in some fillers and maybe get some more of the plot going. Go leave a Kudos if you think about it, itās always nice seeing that people have read it.Ā
i love you all and i need you to stop writing trauma as a single breakdown scene in the rain after which the character is Healed and Ready to Love Again. that is NOT trauma :(
ā¹ Trauma doesn't announce itself. it shows up as your character suddenly not being able to eat a specific food, or going very quiet in a loud room, or laughing at the wrong moment because their nervous system decided that was the appropriate response. it's mundane and weird and it makes no sense from the outside. the dramatic flashback sequence is the least realistic part. the most realistic part is your character suddenly needing to leave a grocery store for a reason they can't articulate.
ā¹ The body keeps score and it keeps it in the strangest places. a particular smell. the quality of light at a certain time of day. a tone of voice that sounds like someone who hurt them. your traumatised character doesn't think "this reminds me of the bad thing." their heart rate spikes and they don't know why. they feel wrong and they can't locate the feeling. they're irritable for three days and only later, if ever, do they make the connection. write the disconnection. it's more honest.
ā¹ trauma also does not make people universally sympathetic and wise. it makes some people controlling. some people funny at inappropriate times. some people very good in a crisis and completely unable to handle a normal day. some people are generously kind to strangers and absolutely terrible to people they love. trauma shapes behaviour in contradictory, inconvenient ways that don't resolve into a lesson. your traumatised character can be difficult to like. that's not a flaw in the writing. that's the WRITING.
ā¹ Healing is not linear and it is not a destination. your character does not get better and stay better. they have a good month and then something small undoes two years of progress and they have to start again with slightly more tools than before. that's the actual shape of it. the spiral, not the arc. the scene where they finally open up and cry is not the end. it might not even be progress. sometimes it just means they were tired that night.
āąØą§ā Give them reasons they CAN'T be together that aren't just manufactured drama. Not miscommunication. Not love triangles. Not arbitrary "I push people away" trauma with no real exploration. Give them REAL obstacles: they're on opposite sides of a conflict, timing is wrong, there are actual consequences to being together, they have incompatible life goals, there's a power imbalance they need to resolve first. The obstacles should be meaningful and require actual character growth to overcome, not just a conversation.
āąØą§ā Make the friendship foundation SO STRONG that readers ship them before the romance even starts. They should genuinely LIKE each other. They should have inside jokes. They should seek each other out just to hang out. They should trust each other. They should have fun together. When the romantic feelings start developing, it should feel like "oh no, I don't want to ruin this friendship" because the friendship is genuinely valuable. Readers should be able to believe they'd still choose to be in each other's lives even if romance never happened.
āąØą§ā Let the tension BUILD in layers over time. First they notice each other. Then they start seeking excuses to be near each other. Then they start getting jealous. Then they start having Moments. Then they start thinking about each other constantly. Then comes the almost-kisses. Then the accidental intimacy. Then the barely-hidden feelings. Each phase should have time to breathe before moving to the next level. Slow burn means SLOW - readers should be desperate for them to get together LONG before they actually do.
āąØą§ā Show how they change each other gradually. He starts smiling more because of her. She becomes braver because he believes in her. They adopt each other's habits and phrases. They start to see the world differently because of the other person's influence. Slow burn is about showing two people gradually becoming essential to each other's lives. They should be woven into each other's character development, not separate from it.
āąØą§ā Make the payoff WORTH the wait. After chapters or books of tension, the moment they finally get together should be EARNED and SATISFYING. A CONVERSATION where they're finally honest. A moment where they choose each other despite the obstacles. A confession that feels like a dam breaking. The first kiss should feel like the conclusion of a long journey and the beginning of something new. Readers have been waiting for this, so make it count. Make it feel like YES, THIS WAS WORTH IT.
Today I pictured a scenario where a character is lost and feverish or has a concussion or has been drugged (and is also injured in some other manner of course), and is just out of it enough that they assume anyone they meet like, won't immediately be able to tell there's something wrong with them? Even though there really, obviously is. But they can't see the way they're staggering or how bloodshot their eyes are and how they're obviously bleeding, they're just internally panicking about how they'll have to be Very Very clear with whoever they first meet (if they meet anyone) that they're hurt in These Ways they've been outside for This Long they need This Treatment.
So they rehearse to themselves as they trudge in the direction of safety, repeating their injuries in a slurred mumble until they're exhausted. Finally, finally they reach a town, or flag down a car, or get back to whoever they were separated from, but to their horror it's been so long that all their careful rehearsal falls out of their mind completely and all they can manage is "I'm really cold and something hurts and I think I hit my head..."
Which, of course, is more than enough to set off multiple alarm bells for anybody, but whumpee is terrified they haven't been convincing enough to get help.
Spent way too long researching this before posting lol. but please, if something's wrong, tell me. i'd rather be corrected than spread misinformation.
āĖā” Doctors don't run. Almost ever. Running in a hospital is a safety hazard, knocks into patients and equipment, and signals panic to everyone who sees it, which is the opposite of what hospital staff want to project. In a true code blue situation, there is urgency, but it looks more like extremely fast, purposeful walking and a kind of controlled chaos where everyone knows their role. The sprinting attending dramatically sliding to a bedside is a TV invention.
āĖā” "She flatlined" does not mean what you think it means. A flatline (a straight line on a heart monitor) means asystole: the heart has stopped producing electrical activity. You don't shock a flatline. CPR, yes. Epinephrine, yes. But the dramatic defibrillator moment everyone loves? That's for ventricular fibrillation, which looks like chaotic scribble on the monitor, not a flat line. Shocking a flatline in real life does nothing. Your doctor character would know this. Your nurse would know this. Your paramedic absolutely knows this.
āĖā” Medical professionals have a dark, dry humor and it's a coping mechanism, not a character flaw. People who work in high-stress, high-death environments often develop humor that sounds brutal to outsiders. BUT It's not callousness, it's a pressure valve.
āĖā” Hospitals are obscenely loud and smell very specific. Writers default to clinical silence and "the sharp smell of antiseptic." Real hospitals smell like a combination of cleaning fluid, stale air, cafeteria food leaking through vents, and occasionally something you don't want to identify. They're also constantly noisy. Intercoms, rolling carts, the beep of a dozen different monitors all slightly out of sync with each other, people talking too loudly, visitors crying in hallways. The silence only comes in very specific moments, and it's jarring precisely because it's unusual.
āĖā” Waking up from a coma is not waking up from a nap. Someone who has been unconscious for more than a day or two will have profound muscle weakness, and they often can't hold their own head up. They'll be confused, possibly for days. They won't be able to speak normally if they had a breathing tube, because their throat will be raw and damaged. They won't recognize people immediately and then have a tearful reunion five minutes later. The brain coming back online is slow, strange, and disorienting in ways that aren't photogenic. Patients frequently don't remember the first several days of recovery at all.
āĖā” There's a specific hierarchy and it matters to the people inside it. Attending physician, fellow, resident, intern, these are not interchangeable words for "doctor." An intern on their third week is legally a doctor and can barely order a sandwich without second-guessing themselves. An attending has full clinical responsibility and has seen everything. A fellow is post-residency, specializing, somewhere in between. Nurses operate in their own parallel hierarchy that intersects with but is absolutely not subordinate to doctors in the way TV suggests. Experienced nurses regularly catch errors that residents make, and both parties know it.
āĖā” Patients are almost never alone in their room doing emotional things. Nurses check vitals. Phlebotomists come for blood draws at ungodly hours. Housekeeping rolls in. A different doctor than the one managing the case comes to consult. Meals appear. An orderly needs to take them to imaging. The room itself is rarely private for long. The idea of a character lying in a hospital bed having a long, uninterrupted emotional conversation is something that mostly happens in fiction. In reality, someone knocks and enters approximately every 40 minutes, sometimes more.
āĖā” Paperwork and insurance are a constant, grinding presence. Discharge doesn't happen because the patient is better. It happens when it's approved, when a bed is needed, when insurance says so. Patients are sometimes sent home earlier than feels safe because the system demands it. Doctors spend an enormous, demoralizing amount of time on documentation, estimates suggest 2 hours of paperwork for every hour of patient care. The administrative weight of hospital medicine is a slow-burn horror that almost no fiction touches, which means the moment you do, it feels startlingly real.
āĖā” Prognosis conversations are never one clean scene. When a doctor tells a family that someone is dying, there isn't a single moment of devastation and then forward motion. People mishear. They ask the same question rephrased five different ways hoping for a different answer. They argue with the information. Someone pulls out their phone to Google the diagnosis. Someone else goes completely silent and leaves the room. A week later, one family member still believes recovery is possible and another has accepted the death entirely, and they haven't been able to talk about it. Information lands at different speeds for different people and the gap between them is its own source of suffering.
If Your Scene Feels Lifeless, Someone Is Being Too Polite
Stories stall when everyone behaves. Real tension appears when someone:
ā¢ asks the wrong question
ā¢ says something they shouldnāt
ā¢ notices something uncomfortable
ā¢ refuses to drop the topic
ā¢ misunderstands something important
ā¢ interrupts at the worst moment
š¤ they don't just "forget" to add ingredients.Ā they follow the recipe EXACTLY and it still comes out wrong. like, they measured everything, they did the steps, and somehow it's inedible. the recipe said "salt to taste" and they panicked because what does that MEAN? how much is taste? they added a tablespoon. it was wrong.
š¤ they have irrational fears of kitchen equipment.Ā your character who can't cook is TERRIFIED of the garbage disposal, doesn't trust the oven (what if it just explodes?), thinks the pressure cooker is a bomb, and has definitely cut themselves on a can lid and now treats all cans like enemies.
š¤ they don't know when things are "done."Ā the recipe says "cook until golden brown" but what SHADE of golden? there are like 87 shades! they've gone from raw to CHARCOAL with no middle ground. they've cut into chicken 6 times to check if it's done. they've served soup that was somehow both boiling and cold in the same bowl.
š¤ their grocery shopping is chaos.Ā they buy ingredients for a recipe and then have NO IDEA what to do with the leftovers. they have 47 half-used jars of spices they bought once and never touched again. they thought they were buying cilantro but it was parsley. they don't know the difference and they're too embarrassed to ask at this point.
š¤ they have ONE dish they can make and they're weird about it.Ā your character who can't cook has exactly one thing they can make successfully (maybe it's boxed mac and cheese, maybe it's scrambled eggs, maybe it's toast) and they will make it PERFECTLY and be SO PROUD and mention it constantly. "I'm not a chef but my [one thing] is pretty good actually."
š¤ they've caused at least one kitchen fire.Ā not a big one! probably! but they've definitely made smoke. they didn't know you're not supposed to microwave metal. they thought the toaster could handle a Pop-Tart (it could not). they left the stove on and went to check their phone "real quick" and that was 45 minutes ago and now there's smoke.
š¤ they rely on takeout but feel GUILTY about it.Ā your character orders delivery 6 nights a week and feels like a failure every time. they look at the pile of menus with shame. they know the delivery drivers by name. they've thought about learning to cook to save money but then they remember the Great Spaghetti Incident of last month and order Thai food instead.
I think that when you're overstimulated you should appear kind of grayed out and no one should be able to interact with you like a locked character in a video game
People are so much more sad, and desparate, and lonely than you think. I have had three incidents in the last four months were a technician I was working with was being either dangerously unfocused (we work with high voltage), or just flat out angry with their coworkers, and every time when I just pulled them aside to say hey, this isn't you, you're nice, and you're competent, so something must be up - what can I do to help - they have responded by bursting into tears. One guy was struggling to get his wife moved into a care home, one guy just got served divorce papers, and the other hadn't slept a wink the night before because his daughter had the pukes.
I haven't spent my whole life responding to people being rude, or stupid, or dangerous with knee jerk compassion. It's a new habit. The first time I did that as the lead for my lab, it was because the guy genuinely was so good natured that I knew something had to be off. But the other two times were just me going, alright, lets see if it always goes this well, and so far, it has. I'm almost 30, and I just figured out that the #1 reason people are shitty are because they are going through shit.
I don't think you have, like, a moral obligation to respond to people being jerks with knee jerk compassion. But it has made my life so much easier the last four months that I would recommend trying. For your own sake. Please.
(I'll step off my soapbox now. Enjoy your Sunday.)
#the way that the internet and modern life has made people more isolated and distant towards one another#is truly tearing society apart at the seams#a lot of people need to relearn empathy and compassion via @sick-sad-little-world
Accidentally hurt by friend for @badthingshappenbingo
Red is for posted, white is for requested/planned/written
Marcus knows his role on his team: heās the one who carries the gun, makes the hard calls - and takes the hits. He has no time or patience for anyone or anything else. But when Jake - a brand-new recruit Marcus has been tasked with training - messes up on his first mission and gets them both captured, nothing could prepare Marcus for the way his world quickly spirals out of control.
AO3
Masterlist
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Sacrifice | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Defiant to the End
Levy: (historical) the act of enlisting someone for military service
Contents: living weapon, on the run, shock, gunshot wound, needles, pain medication/narcotics, past death, painful wound cleaning, sci-fi medicine, hand gagging, begging, touch-adverse Marcus, secretly touch-starved Marcus, this approaches sickfic territory
~
Marcusās hand locked on Jakeās wrist, keeping the injector an inch above his thigh. His arm shook; Jake wasnāt even pressing down all that hard. Marcusās vision wavered.
āWhere did you get this shit?ā he breathed.
āFrom the tac guy I killed,ā Jake said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. āThis all came from his trauma kit.ā He dipped his head toward the small pile of supplies.
But there was more than just trauma supplies there. There were bottles of water, calorie packs, a few different packets of pills. Enough shit to last for at least the next day. Marcus wet his lips. āAndā¦ the rest of it?ā
Jake shrugged. āStole it.ā
Marcus stared at the pile, thoughts pinging through his brain like sluggish bullets. The only one he could form and speak was: āYouā¦ didnāt have to come back.ā
āI know that,ā Jake said, and jabbed the injector into Marcusās leg.
Marcus hissed as the meds sank deep into the muscle. When the injector was empty, Jake dropped it to the floor and reached for the bandages and disinfectant again. Once he was holding them, though, he justā¦ sat there.
Marcus stared at him. āYou gonna use thatā¦ s-some time today?ā he rasped.
āIām waiting until the meds kick in,ā Jake said, bending low to peer at Marcusās wound.
āSmart.ā Marcus tilted his head back against the floor, did his best not to shiver. āIf I scream, could lead someone right to us.ā
āIāmā¦ Iām waiting, so I donātā¦ hurt you, Marcus.ā
When Marcus lifted his head to look at Jake, the kidās brow was furrowed. Marcus stared at him for a long, silent moment.
A curl of warmth wrapped itself around his insides, and the pain crushing his leg released a few notches.
āFuuuck,ā he sighed. āThey give the tac teams the good shit.ā
A muscle stood out in Jakeās jaw as he leaned forward and began to dab at Marcusās wound.
Even with the analgesics ā and it had to be fentanyl or dilaudid, none of that weak morphine shit ā agony lanced through Marcusās torn flesh. He let out a strangled cry, forced his own hand against his mouth. Sweat ā more sweat, he was already clammy as hell ā poured down his temples and soaked his shirt. He shivered with it, so hard his entire body began to shake. Jake bent low over his leg, poured disinfectant directly into the wound.
Marcus screamed against his own hand.
āS-sorry,ā he ground out, vision gray at the edges. āSorry, kid, sorry, keep going. Itās g-gettingā¦ in there, fuck, youāre doing goodā¦ā
āIām sorry, Marcus,ā the kid whispered. He bent his head to swipe his upper arm along his eyes. āIām almost done, okay? They have a NanoStat kit, and that shouldāā
āThatās good,ā Marcus gasped. āThatās really good, actually.ā
So thatās the kind of shit you get when youāre a paid soldier. No bleeding out in the field getting your blood held in by some shitty mass-produced tourniquet, no sir, you get fucking nanobots. Hell yeah, brother, I could be a soldier if this is the shit they get.
Jake picked up the applicator, handled it awkwardly. It looked almost like a small caulk gun ā but with millions of microscopic robots inside, waiting to be activated by human blood. He fumbled at the orange safety tab, pulled it free. Marcus half-expected it to start glowing.
āOkay,ā Marcus panted. āNow you justā¦ I donāt know, stick it in the wound and pull the trigger, I think.ā
Jakeās lips trembled. āYou think so?ā
āOne way to find out, kid. Go for it.ā
Carefully, far too slowly, Jake pressed the tip of the applicator into the hole blown through Marcusās calf. Marcus hissed out a breath and threw out a hand, searching for something to hold onto. His hand landed on Jakeās ankle, over his bloodstained boot. He squeezed hard.
āOkay,ā Jake said softly. āHere we go.ā He squeezed the nanobots into the wound. They went in looking like foam.
Agony ripped through Marcus.
Every nerve ending in his leg lit up at once. He arched off the floor, writhing like Aisha was delivering a shock through his chip. Sightless eyes rolled in his head, and his throat went raw as he screamed. His hand lost purchase on Jakeās ankle. He flopped on the floor, mouth agape, gasping for breath that brought no relief.
A hand pressed down over his mouth. He sobbed against it.
āMarcus, Marcus.ā A face floated above his, wide eyes over a mouth tense with worry. The hand stayed pressed over his lips, pushing down so hard his jaw ached, but a second hand found his and squeezed. He held on tight. If he let go, heād be lost in the pain burrowing into his leg, hollowing him out from the inside.
If he let go, heād die. He crushed the hand in his grip.
āShh, Iām sorry.ā
Marcus tried to choke back his screams. He sobbed against Jakeās hand, each breath heaving through him.
Kill me, Marcus would have said, if Jake wasnāt gagging him with his hand. You need to kill me. Eventually Iāll scream loud enough for someone to hear, and someone will come to investigate. Please kill me.
I canāt take this. You need to kill me.
He couldnāt beg. Jake wouldnāt let up, wouldnāt release his mouth. Marcus just sobbed under Jakeās hand, clutching him as his leg felt like it was being seared off his body. Tears soaked into the filthy carpet beneath him.
āIām sorry, Marcus, Iām sorry. I donāt know how long this lasts. Just hang on, please. I can get you more analgesics if you want.ā
Marcus nodded as best he could. Yes. More pain meds. Please. When Jakeās hand left his mouth, he pressed his own hand over it.
Jake had to pry Marcusās fingers off his other hand, one at a time. Marcusās stomach heaved with his dizziness.
āOhā¦ oh, shit.ā
Marcus couldnāt speak, could only sob. He lay on the floor and waited for whatever blow was going to fall.
āI was supposed to use a nerve block before Iā¦ Hang on, Marcusā¦ hang on. This will help. One more needle. This goesā¦ right above theā¦ I thinkā¦ā
Marcus couldnāt see what Jake was doing; he could only see the blurry ceiling. He felt pressure around his knee, a flare of heat. He screamed weakly. His stomach heaved once more, and he rolled to his side so he wouldnāt choke.
Tried to roll. His leg wouldnāt cooperate.
He did his best to kick, but it was as if his leg had turned to rubber from the knee down. As quickly as the pain had struck, it was sucked out of his body. He lay trembling against the floor, soaked with tears and sweat, throat sore from screaming ā and from choking back his screams. He slumped, exhausted.
āM-Marcus,ā Jake whispered.
Marcus groaned softly.
āIā¦ I think I can take the tourniquet off now. Itās the NanoStat. Itāsā¦ doing something, I think.ā
Marcus couldnāt sit up enough to look. He just nodded, shaky and weak. He felt it, as the tourniquet loosened. The sound of relief he made was barely human.
āIām sorry.ā Marcus felt hands on him, holding him steady, wiping away sweat ā cradling his face. It was all done with a gentleness that raised goosebumps across his body. It was as if his skin was crawling, butā¦ he didnāt detest it. He leaned into the touch. Jake froze. Marcus froze, too.
It was the drugs. It had to be the drugs, making him okay with being touched like this. No one had ever done it before, and if Marcus was sober, he would shove Jake away, call him sloppy, tell him to fuck off. Marcus didnāt need this. Now that he had the pain meds swimming through his blood and the nerve block deadening everything below his knee, he was fine.
He didnāt realize he had reached out to clutch Jakeās sleeve, right over the kidās bandages, until his fingers were already tightening in the fabric.
Fuck.
He couldnāt need this.
Couldnāt be needed.
āI-Iāll do anything. Please. Please, donāt.ā
He couldnāt make himself let go.
Jake moved so, so slowly. He reached out, took Marcusās free hand. Jakeās hand felt warm. A violent shiver rocked through Marcusās body, and suddenly, he was freezing. He whined softly ā an animal sound that shocked him to his core. His teeth chattered. Every muscle ached.
āWh-what theā¦ fuck?ā he groaned.
āI think youāre in shock,ā Jake whispered. āHere.ā He grabbed the jacket that had fallen off Marcus, spread it over him again. āI should have grabbed, likeā¦ a blanket or something. I could still probablyā¦ā He moved, as if to stand.
āNo.ā Marcus grabbed at him. Fuck, what was wrong with him? āNo. Stay. Iā¦ Just to make sure the NanoStat doesnātā¦ do something weird. With me.ā
Jake sat back down, held Marcusās hand tightly again. āYeah,ā he said. āAnd you should drink something, soon. Replenish the blood you lost.ā
āSoon,ā Marcus said. āBut justā¦ just give me a minute.ā He shivered again. His fingers felt so cold. When he forced his eyes to focus, he could see Jakeās worried expression as he leaned over him ā and Marcusās knife, now tucked into the sheath at his belt. āJust aā¦ a minute, Jake.ā
āOkay,ā Jake said softly. He wet his lips, seemed to be about to say something before he thought better of it. Marcus heaved another full-body shiver. Jake squeezed Marcusās hand. āIāve got you, Marcus,ā he whispered ā so quietly it could have been a breath.
Inexplicable tears leaked from Marcusās eyes. He nodded stiffly. āI know,ā he whispered. Another shiver rocked him. āIā¦ I know.ā
