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Tom Holland - Despite

A/N & WC - Any hate on this piece will be deleted and blocked. As someone who suffers from various health conditions, I decided to write this on my own experiences, but to make this a freer read, I omitted any mention of a diagnosis. Third person reader. I do not know Tom (or any of his brothers mentioned in this), nor do I claim to: this is, first and foremost, a work of fiction. 7.4k.

Warnings - Time spent in hospital for physical health reasons, spoonie!reader, panicked Tom, mentions of: surgery, needles, eeg, ecg, mri, blood, needles, fainting, drips, etc. Mention of underage drinking (not reader or Tom), legal drinking, crying, slight swearing, angst, Five Feet Apart ref, and sad talk about health. Very fluffy overall.

Summary - Tom is a fretful boyfriend at the best of times, and this is only exacerbated by your emergency admission to hospital, a great surprise to him after you elected not to tell him about your health issues.

“TOM, CALM DOWN, I’m sure her phone just died,” Sam explains, attempting to keep his voice calm and his words rational. It’s proving excessively difficult with Tom’s level of agitation.

“You don’t get it. I haven’t heard from her since yesterday afternoon. She said she was having an early night and I— what if she’s dead? What if she doesn’t love me?”

Harry almost laughs, clutching his beer bottle between his hands, the label peeling off. Tom’s frantic, though, his eyes wide and crazy, his hair now greasy from the amount of times his fingers have carded through it.

“Your priorities are fucked mate,” he says with a half chuckle, “but really, I’m sure she’s fine.”

“What if she isn’t?” Tom begs, carding his fingers viciously through his chestnut curls once again, only to slam his palms down on the marble countertop.

The boys all gravitated to the kitchen fifteen minutes ago for a top up of beer before sticking on another shite movie, but after Tom had a sip of something stronger, he lost all his cool the second he pulled his phone up and saw no new notifications from his girlfriend. It’s a rare night, the four brothers together, with Tom and Harry so often travelling, Paddy snowed under with GCSE work, and Sam’s job, so they try to steer away from girlfriends in order to truly appreciate their quality guy time. Tonight that hasn’t gone to plan, now with all four of them nursing yet another bottle, chatting, leaning around the kitchen island.

“I’ve called her, I’ve texted her, I’ve emailed her. Why won’t she pick up? I even drove by her place and got no reply.”

“Maybe there’s a family thing going on...” Sam suggests, trailing off when he sees the numbers flashing red—both literally and metaphorically—on Tom’s screen. “Seventy texts, forty two calls and ten emails? Tom, that’s not okay.”

“Shut up.” Tom bites.

“He has a point,” Paddy and Harry say, but receive death glares from Tom.

For ten minutes they go over the exact same argument, the same point, the same conversation and defences. Paddy has downed more than his sixteen-year-old system can deal with, while Sam and Harry are so close to smacking their heads on the marble of the countertop. Tom’s thumb is hovering over y/n’s name again when possibly the loudest ring they’ve heard resounds through the room. Tom presses answer in less than a second, yanking his phone to his ear as though it’s his life support.

“Baby?! What’s wrong where are you?” he asks manically, his words so sharp yet so soft, the perfect chaotic dichotomy.

She chuckles softly, a swell sound down the line that should soothe him a little, but it’s not her laugh, it’s mirthless and cold.

“I’m sorry, my phone only just came on, I’ve been trying to charge it, but it’s been naff for hours. I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls, I’m not even supposed to be doing this.”

“Why?!” all the boys chorus at once, intrigue piqued.

“Um, I was rushed to hospital semi-conscious?” She breezes past it. “I’ve only got onto the ward in the past couple hours or so, having spent the day being triaged. It’s fine, it happens a lot.”

Instant panic settles over them all. As it so turns out, Harry and Sam were most certainly under reacting, whereas Tom was—sadly—along the right lines. Paddy was along the right lines, too, and closer to the mark, perhaps he’s the level-headed one of the family. He tips his bottle, and heads to the fridge, not even opening it before the back of his t-shirt is seized by Sam, and he’s tugged back to the rest of them instead. Or not. Still, wide eyed, they look to Tom imploringly, the lines of his face tight, his free hand contorted in a painful fist.

“What the fuck?! Are you okay? I’m coming over right now, I do—”

“Tom you can’t,” she says calmly. “Visiting hours are over, it’s late, I want to sleep. I’m fine here, they’re taking care of me, I’ve got all my essentials. Stay with the boys, I know how excited you were for tonight.”

That’s true, since the date was fixed, it’s all he’s talked about. Y/N even made her own plans with friends to give him the chance to see his brothers without worrying about his girl.

“Y/n, I’m not just leaving you. You call me up at 10 at night to tell me you’re in hospital and spent the day unconscious and you expect me to sit here doing nothing—” he scoffs, a sad, derisive sound that sends chills straight to her core. “You can’t ask that of me.”

“Yes I can,” she snaps. “I’ll explain more at another point. I can’t be arsed with this right now, I’m so fatigued it’s unreal. If you can’t be sensible and respect my wishes and the hospital rules then I don’t know what to tell you. Can one of the boys talk some sense into you? I don’t have the fucking energy.”

Tom stills into silence, dropping his phone onto the counter as his grip naturally loosens. Almost instantly, following her (perfectly reasoned) outburst, tears begin to fall. Hot, fat drops of water splash onto the counter and his hoodie and his excessively cracked phone screen, distorting her name.

“Tom I didn’t mean—” she begins, her voice little more than a breathy whisper.

“It’s okay y/n I get it. Just get well soon, yeah? I wanna visit you, but if that’s not what you want...”

Her deep sigh reverberates down the line. The boys share an anxious glance: before Tom got so het up, she was ready to brush it off as though it was nothing, but now she’s really agitated, her fiddling with the white sheets audible down the line.

“It is. Just not right now. I’ll text you in the morning when I’ve seen the doctor, ok? I need to sleep when I’m tired with all these wires.”

As all three boys share a concerned look, Tom chokes back a sob, his head in his hands, barely regulating his tenor voice to keep the shake under control. “Okay baby. I love you. I love you so much.”

She bristles a little. “Love you too Tom. G’night.”

The next thing either of them knows, he’s melted into a pile of tears and little more, collapsing onto the floor with his hands obsessively carding through his hair again. Sam snatches the phone from the counter and wipes the tears off while Harry curls an arm around his older brother, allowing his own shirt to be dampened by the tears. Paddy, unsure of what to do, turns the tap on and gets them all a glass of water.

“Y/n? Don’t call him in the morning, no offence but your voice sounds... frail. Tom’s weak. Do you really want him to visit?”

“Yes, please,” she professes, “but do you think he can handle it? I tell him I’m in hospital and this happens.”

“I’ll be frank with you, no. He’s fine when visiting kids hospitals for charity work because usually, he’s acting, but when there were any of us in hospital, he... couldn’t do it.”

“Fuck.” She exhales, attempting to run a hand through her hair, only for her fingers to get tangled in glue and wires.

“But, I also think he’ll be worse if he can’t see you. I’ve scarcely seen him in such a state. I don’t know what to do.”

“Can you text me and keep me updated on how he is and whether he can visit then? 2-4 are visiting times, if you think he can cope.”

“Done. Just text him and say you can’t talk, because I don’t think he can take another phone call if he’s visiting. He doesn’t fare well with hospitals.”

“Yeah I didn’t expect him to. Would it be worth one of you coming along?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“See how he is. I’m in the city hospital, general admissions ward 5. Tell him not to worry, this happens all the time.”

“Why… why haven’t you told him before?” Sam asks in a gentle tone, tentatively pressing the point with great respect and sensitivity: y/n has always had a soft spot for Sam because of how sensible he is, ever vigilant.

“Because my health is a burden,” she states, like it’s as plain as day, plucking at the plaster around her finger. “Tom’s spectacular, he’d only be tied down if he knew. And look at the state he’s in when I’m only here for some monitoring after a mild flare.”

“Fair point,” answers Sam, ever the rational one. “Our thoughts are with you, and we’re sending love, all of us.”

“Thank you. Don’t let him drink any more, yeah?”

“On it, boss,” he chuckles.

Her demeanour softens, a yawn breaking from her. “Thanks Sam.”

With that, she ends the call, but in the mere space of seconds, the beeping machines and the irritation of the wires are beyond insignificant as the day catches up to her and draws her into a deep sleep. Much to her own surprise, she doesn’t even stir every two hours when they come to poke and prod her and take her vitals. Tom may not be used to it, and it’ll take a damn lot of explaining, but this is the life y/n is accustomed to.

*

It ended up being a great struggle to get Tom into bed, and an even greater wrestle to get him away from the lager. The only set rule of boys night: no one gets too drunk. It makes life so much easier for them all, but frankly, they realised, halfway up the stairs with Tom effing and blinding, whacking out and attempting to hit them, that a drunk Tom would be far easier to deal with than an angry, upset Tom. However, eventually, between the three of them, Tom lands in bed just after midnight, his eyes rarely tearing from his phone screen, desperate to see her name flash again. The only condition of him not drinking more, though? That he not be alone for the night.

“Can you stop kicking me?” Paddy asks from his position along the bottom of the bed.

“Which one of us?”

“Fucking twins. Tom isn’t tall enough.”

“Gimp,” Tom shouts into the darkness.

“Well it’s a huge king sized bed, you don’t have to lie down there, Harry was just being an arse. Get up here,” Sam beckons.

“Yeah. Stop the twins from killing each other.”

Tom groans, pulling his phone off charge and away from the bedside locker.

“Don’t call her again,” Sam warns, his tone more commanding than Tom’s ever heard it.

“Wasn’t gonna,” he grumbles.

He was. But he decides being restrained by his three—decidedly, surprisingly buff—brothers isn’t worth it, nor is waking his sleeping, sick girlfriend, so he settles for a text.

‘I’m sorry about earlier: my actions were uncalled for, I should’ve been more supportive but I acted selfishly. If you don’t want me to see you, that’s ok. Just get better.’ He taps out, thumb floating over the send button.

“Oh for fucks sake,” Harry says gratingly, stealing Tom’s phone and proceeding to read the text aloud. “This is a nice one. Send this. Do you have a gimmick you put at the end of texts?”

Tom shrugs nonchalantly, his shoulders moving the pillows in the dim room. “Usually a couple of kisses.”

“You’re boring!” Sam shouts.

“And vanilla,” Paddy adds, earning him an elbow in the ribs.

“Never say that to Tom. We learnt that the hard way.”

“Now I’m interested,” Paddy smirks.

“Creep. Well, can we send it? And you’ll leave it there?”

Tom hums, noncommittal, only blurting out a yes when smacked violently with a hefty pillow. Aren’t brothers divine?

“Go to sleep.”

He does, barely, a tumultuous night awaiting him as he dreads and mulls over the tempestuous state of his relationship, thanks to his own stupidity and short sightedness. Well, that, and the fact he’s sharing one bed with three other blokes: it doesn’t exactly spell out a settled or comfortable sleep.

*

Even that text alert doesn’t wake her, the one she has personalised for Tom drowned out by the relentless beeping of the machines, only the morning round of meds does, hours and hours later.

“Hey doll,” her favourite nurse, Lyn, calls to wake her, her voice gentle; a nurse who has tended to her before. “Meds and extra vitals, you know the drill.”

Y/n smiles lazily, in a daze, but complies with every instruction and answers every question with as much lucidity as she can after her sleep.

“Got any visitors today?”

Y/n shrugs, beginning to pick at the corner of her blanket, the disgusting washed-out turquoise one they give out in hospital.

“I don’t know. Perhaps my boyfriend, but I called him last night to tell him I was in hospital and he didn’t take it well, so I’m not sure whether I should ask him to come.”

“You’ve got the normal scans this morning, doctors heading around now, and you know how the normal series makes you feel. Just think it over.”

She does. As she wheels her IV pole to the bathroom with her, a small backpack to contain her EEG machine slung over her shoulders, she thinks it over, every possible scenario. As she does when walking that same route moments later to fetch some breakfast: only tea, it’s all she’s allowed until lunch time with the magic tests they’re going to perform on her. The usual drill of an MRI, a TTT, an echo, and a series of bloods. It’s exhausting at the best of times.

The doctor says nothing of interest, but does say that her cardiac activity has been a little haywire since the incident, something they’d like to keep an eye on. Other than that, her conditions are alien to him, and he leaves her be. Thankfully.

So finally, just before she’s strapped to a rattling gurney with awful wheels and rolled halfway around the hospital, she types out what she feels she can, the simplest of messages to Tom, abandoning her phone in her bag once she departs, fingers and toes crossed for the best.

‘It’s ok, a lot to take in. Come today, 2. Sam took down the details yesterday. I’m ok :). You?’

*

Tom wakes up, exasperated and knackered, to Paddy’s foot in his back, and Harry’s elbow in his neck, and his phone loudly vibrating against the wood of his bedside locker. Sam, blissfully unaware, is half hanging off the other side, undisturbed and drooling. Tom isn’t sure he’s ever moved as quickly as he does when he sees her name at the top of his notifications.

‘Thank you baby, I love you. I’ll be there. I’m good! Sure your ok?’

“Did you use the right ‘your’?” Sam shouts in a half-asleep state. He truly knows his brother too well.

“I dunno, but she said I can visit. I have five hours!”

“Shut up.” They all chorus.

Tom shoots them a sarcastic smile over his shoulder, followed by a vulgar gesture, but they all just unravel themselves and tuck back under the duvet while Tom begins to busy himself about the house.

An hour later and the smell of fresh, roasted coffee invades the senses of the three left in bed, inspiring them to rise and groggily descend, surprised to find the kitchen spotless, all bottles and remnants of their evening disappeared, and Tess looking surprisingly worn out.

“Get drinking then,” Tom exclaims the second they appear in the doorway, thrusting a Brothers Trust mug into each of their open hands. “We have some shopping to do.”

Sam groans loudly, while Harry says, “No we don’t, calm down.”

Paddy is silently brooding in the corner, nursing his coffee only the way hungover teenage boys can, slurping on it every few seconds.

“We do. Y/n said I can visit, so I’m making her a care basket with things she likes, and then I’ll be out all afternoon.” He downs a smoothie shot. “You”—he scans them all imperiously— “will help me shop.”

A joint cry of distaste breaks out across the room.

“If you don’t, I'll tell your girlfriend you wanna break up with her, I’ll tell mum and dad you’re unemployed, and I’ll tell all your friends you can’t hold you drink.” he says, facing Sam, Harry and Paddy in turn.

With this, they acquiesce, but it takes them more time than it should to just shower and get ready, their best attempts at procrastination while Tom stands in his room and flings out every shirt and pair of jeans he owns, desperate to find the right one. Eventually, he decides on his trusty grey shirt with the navy dapples, and a pair of slim fit jeans to compliment his docs.

“You were the one who wanted to go shopping,” Harry calls, leaning against the doorframe in a trusty hoodie, throwing another to Tom, fresh out the laundry. “Pack that, then we go. Hurry up.”

“Hurry up,” Tom mocks, and receives a vulgar gesture.

He doesn’t waste another second.

*

Glaring, brash lighting and squeaky linoleum floors greet Tom, as well as that disgusting smell of what can only be described as sterility. Everything—everything—reeks of that medical grade sanitiser they use liberally everywhere around here.

“Call us when you’re done,” Sam says, clapping his brother on the back.

“Send her our best,” chimes Harry.

Paddy approaches next, tangling his spaghetti arms around his shortest brother, “Good luck. I’m sure she’s fine.”

Tom gulps down as much air as he can in a brief moment, his eyes desperately flitting between his brothers. His eyes begin to well with tears, a lump growing in his seemingly constricted throat.

“Thanks.”

In a second, his arms are filled with the basket of goodies he compiled while shopping—complete with a hoodie of his, and his brothers, having patted him on the back, have disappeared out the automatic doors.

Scouring the horribly white walls for any indication, he presses the call button, and steps into the lift, keying in the right floor and hoping for the best.

Little does Tom know that on said floor right now, y/n is running a brush through the ends of her hair that she can reach, and is even dabbing some balm onto her lips in the hopes of looking slightly more presentable for the man she’s so head over heels for. Lyn, the nurse, comes up to her with two glasses of squash—one orange for y/n, one black currant for Tom—and lends her a wink before her blue scrubs depart y/n’s view. She straightens the starchy white sheets one last time, ignoring the crinkle of the horrible blue blanket against her sensitive finger tips. The gown hides a multitude of sins, though not the main thing she wants to hide from Tom, currently gauzed around her forehead. That’s going to be the most alarming, she knows it will. But he’s going to appreciate the effort, the fact she even put on a bra for him (though partially to protect her sore chest from the scratchy fabric of the hospital gown) and is sitting up, waiting, picking at the plaster wrapped snugly around her digit. God, she must be a startling sight, especially when they aren’t exactly at that kind of stage yet where they can be completely open physically with one another. Sure, it’s been a few months, but they’ve been taking it slow, having only recently said ‘I love you;’ now they have this to battle with. It’s a challenge for any relationship, but when y/n and Tom are both so young, it’s a true, agonising test of character and the love they have for each other.

“y/n y/l/n?” she hears his soft tenor tone ask Lyn, who struggles to stifle her smile as she scans him carefully.

“Just in there, dear.”

He nods his thanks, unable to trust his shaky voice and even shakier hands as he steps over the threshold and follows Lyn’s direction, but there she is, so much sicklier than he’s ever seen her before. It’s a fight to even keep the bile down in his throat: not at her, but at his own actions. How could he have been such a prick instead of supporting her when she’s this way. Selfishly, he hadn’t been prepared for her in this state, partially due to the fact she wouldn’t elaborate on the fact it was more than the ‘usual,’ whatever that may be. All he knows is that she’s a little less functional and more tired in comparison to ‘normal’ people.

The basket in his arms is long forgotten as soon as he catches her eye, all but dashing across the ward until he’s kneeling at her bedside, clutching her skeletal hand in his trembling ones. So desperate, so eager to see her, so unprepared; he can’t even seem to control his sobs.

“Baby…” he cries.

Even her grip on his hand is more feeble than he’s prepared for, taking so much out of her. Through thick, dampened lashes, he glimpses the bland pattern of the dreary white gown hanging off her frame, paired unfashionably with her comfiest, oldest pyjama bottoms. Her toes, covered in slipper-socks, peek out from the bottom of the sheet. It isn’t what she’s wearing that alarms him, though, and y/n can see that when she scours his face with eager eyes for some kind of reaction, but all she sees is her own reflection: the wires sprouting from her head, the double cannula in her other hand, the cuff snug around her upper arm, even the wires with unseen electrodes tethering her torso to a machine. His face is so pale, so alarmed, startled, she can’t help but squeeze his hand tighter. What a reverse—she’s the one in the hospital bed, and yet he’s the one who needs comforting.

“Hey Tommy, don’t cry., she scolds, asking lazily, “what you thinking?”

He finds himself momentarily speechless, gasping and spurting out random monosyllabic noises.

“What have they done to you? What happened to you baby? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

She shrugs as best as she can. “Just the usual blips, a flare up. I passed out just going into my apartment, the neighbour called the ambulance and got my emergency bag, thank God. They’ve done nothing bad to me, babe, and I look good, all things considered.” His heart breaks a little at such a statement, she can see it in his molten chocolate eyes, hence why she shifts over a little, slipping her hand away from him to pat softly at the bed beside her. “Come, sit.”

His brows furrow, tentative at first to climb up, but with the railing down, he finds himself clambering up without a second thought and instantly clinging to her, latching his arm around her without a second thought. Y/n finds herself tying her own arms around him as best as she can, leaning her head atop his.

“How are the boys?”

“They’re okay, all worried about you.”

“Awh,” she says, “tell them they needn’t.”

“Um, why did they bring you in if you just fainted?”

“Because an unconscious episode with hard impact and my health conditions isn’t a good thing, it knocked me for six and they need to observe me. Turns out my levels have been off for a while, I need a wee tune up.”

His gulp is audible as he plucks softly at the wires on her chest. “What’s this for?” he inquires.

“Hear,.” she answers.

“This?” He points to the plaster wrapped around her fingertip.

“Oxygen and pulse measure.”

“This?” Now the needle taped to the back of her hand with two attachments, each connected to a clear plastic tube

“Painkillers and saline.”

He shifts nervously, nervously curling her hair away from her face, honing in on the numerous colourful wires gauzed and gunked to her scalp. “T— this?”

“Brain activity.”

This time he doesn’t even bother trying to conceal his crying, squeezing her so harshly she feels her flesh being clamped a little, not that she minds. She even lets out a hum of contentment, holding him back with equal fervour, brushing her lips to his temple.

In an attempt to break the sad silence, she whispers, “Why don’t you show me what you got there Mr Holland?” and nods to the basket on the chair.

He leans out of bed precariously, making grabby hands and forcing an intense stare, as though the basket will telekinetically fly to him. His tongue darts out between his parted lips, and as he slowly topples farther from the bed, y/n reaches out to grab him with her bad hand.

“Fuck!” she exclaims, the clench of her fist around the cotton of his shirt dislodging her cannula slightly, causing her to pull away in alarm.

Nonetheless, she begins to giggle as Tom—startled, like a deer in headlights—falls onto the linoleum, only his fast reflexes saving him. As he lands in an almost perfect push up position, she can’t help but admire his biceps, the way his smart shirt fits so naturally around the bulging muscle, the veins prominent, especially when he pushes himself to a standing position. He brushes a hand through his hair, curls having fallen onto his face, and grasps for the basket, tugging it into his lap as he sits cross legged before y/n. At the first sight, her eyes sting.

“Do you not like it?” he asks hurriedly. “Did I go overboard? Or do you want more?”

“No, Tom, it’s perfect.” She means it, he can see it by the barely concealed grin threatening to break out, a true contrast of glee in the dingy hospital ward.

The bunch of flowers that lies at the top, roses and carnations of the brightest pinks and purest whites and softest yellows would be in itself enough, but beneath it is so much more. Her favourite biscuits, chocolates, crisps, sweets, fizzy drinks and juices make up merely the food portion of the basket to the right. On the left is a stack of magazines, mostly just trashy gossip mags, but with Dom’s newest book in there, not yet released to the public, and a new pair of earbuds. Behind it is a teddy bear, with fur the same chocolate as Tom’s gorgeous hair, grasping a pink heart between its front paws.

Get well soon!

The heart reads. And, nestled behind it is a small white box.

“Baby, did you go to Pandora just for me?” she asks softly, reading the lid. He nods nervously. “You shouldn’t have.”

He merely nudges it farther into her hands, prompting her to open it, revealing a beautiful silver heart with a simple yet oh so meaningful engraving.

Beautiful Y/N,

I love you, despite.

The truly beautiful thing about his words is that the ‘despite’ has such a myriad of meaning that it hits her so harshly. They've already faced a lot in their relationship, yet she stuck with him despite all of the events occurring within his family that broke him. Despite his constant travelling. Despite her change of career. Despite it all they’ve stayed together thus far; that means he’ll stay despite this.

“I wanted to put it onto your bracelet,” he says, crestfallen, “but you’re not wearing it.”

She glances down at the tracker, preventative of her unlikely escape, and the identity tagger on her wrist in lieu of the shimmery silver charm bracelet she usually wears.

“Tommy, that’s only because I had a scan earlier, and I couldn’t have any metal on or else it’d mess with the machinery. See, no earrings.” He does observe that once he’s looking for it, and keeps his eyes trained on her pierced lobes as she reaches over to her bedside table, plucking her bracelet from atop her phone, passing it to him. “I remember when you first got this for me. I tried so hard not to cry.”

“God, me too,” he jokes.

It was her birthday not far into their relationship, and, unsure of what to get her, yet knowing this one would stick with how fast he was falling, Tom purchased a Pandora bracelet and a charm or two, saying he’d add another with each relationship milestone. This, apparently, is one. It truly seems to be because this is the confirmation her fears were inconsequential, that he loves her despite this bump in the road.

He adds the charm to the chain with nimble fingers, and keeps his touch but a brush when he clasps it around her wrist, leaning in to kiss her softly, gently, yet with all the pent up love he holds for her. It barely lasts five seconds before the machine is beeping, telling her that her pulse is abnormally elevated. She giggles as she retreats, clasping Tom’s hand.

The last thing in the basket seems like a blanket at first glance, but once she plucks it from the wicker, she finds it to be his baby pink hoodie. Her favourite.

“I don’t think we can get it on you with all these…”—he swallows thickly—“wires.”

“No, we can, I can’t wait to get this ratty thing off.” She tugs at the gown knotted around her stomach. “It’ll take a bit of work, but I’m so grateful you brought this.”

A tear cascades down her cheek, one he instantly leans in to kiss away, the water salty on his lips, kissing away each tear that follows until he reaches her lips at last, capturing them again, briefly this time.

“Thank you Tommy, truly. This is the best thing I’ve ever gotten in here,” she tells him with heartfelt sincerity, staring into those molten chocolate eyes as though they could heal her.

Tom is about to reply when Nurse Lyn flings open the curtain offering them a sliver of privacy, a sly smile on her face.

“Is this the boyfriend then?” she asks, and y/n nods sheepishly, brushing away any remnants of her crying state.

“Hi, I’m Tom.”

“Nice to meet you, Tom. Did you bring her all this?”

“Um yeah, I didn’t know what she’d want or need so went a bit... mad.” His cheeks begin to flush their trademark crimson red, the blush clawing at his ears, too.

The nurse’s smile changes to a knowing one, offering y/n a wink as she goes around the side of the bed to take measurements. “You’ve got a good one there y/n.”

Smiling tearfully, y/n replies, “I know.”

“I’m sorry, this could just be me being dim, but what are you doing?” Tom asks.

“I’m taking her blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen level, basic EEG and ECG measurements for the moment, and altering the medication doses she’s receiving intravenously.” the nurse answers good-heartedly, not batting an eye at the puppy-like look on Tom’s face.

“How often?”

“Every few hours. They look good now, though her heart rate is slightly increased: I suspect we have you to blame for that.”

His pout is replaced by a smirk that swiftly disappears at the knitted brows of Nurse Lyn. “What is it?”

“There’s an issue with the IV, can I take a look?”

“Shit, my bad. I felt it move when I grabbed his shirt when he fell out of bed.”

“I’m sorry,” the nurse laughs, “he what?”

“He’s very agile, but not very coordinated, so I’m afraid I might need a new one.”

Lyn sighs at her examination of y/n’s slightly limp hand, “I’ll be right back.”

She is, within a minute, a doctor beside her and a fresh cannula in hand.

“Are you squeamish, Tom?” she asks.

“Yes,” the couple answer in sync, Tom’s ghostly white face a picture to behold. “He’s terrified of blood and needles, so this is a no go.”

“What the fuck are they gonna do to you, baby?”

“Insert a flexible needle into my vein, and this has a little hole in it that allows liquids to enter my bloodstream without oral consumption. Life savers,” and she’s already handing him a sick bowl before her explanation is over.

Tom doesn’t do well with hospitals, he never has. When his mum had the twins he was unsettled, but that was only worse when she had Paddy. He’s never stayed the night, never been past A&E for himself at least, but he can remember. That time Paddy broke his leg. That time Harry had appendicitis and had to go for surgery. That time Harry, again, was an inpatient for other reasons. That time Sam was super sick and shoved on a ward. That time his mum was ill... The list goes on, it always does when there’s four reckless boys in the family. There’s been a fair amount of alcohol induced incidents too. And not once has Tom been able to face the hospital.

When his brother was being cut open, he could barely sit for five minutes before his jitters overtook him. Every time he’s been, his fears have gotten worse. Tom’s health is near enough perfect, he’s barely even had to visit the doctors, only had a couple of blood tests (and is terrified of needles to the point of fainting during them) and has never been in the unfortunate position that he’s had to fight for his health.

He sympathises as well as he can, but he can never truly empathise. This has been helped in recent years with his brilliant charity work and visiting children’s hospitals all over the world, but even so, if he ever visits wards he’s in and out as fast as he can without seeming rude or uncaring: it’s more daunting than he’d care to admit to just stand there in the sterile environment, watching people, well, die. He’s never been able to handle it, and that’s why she never mentioned it. Or let him see. Now, however, is the final test, because she has so many occasions where needles are a necessary evil: if he survives this, he can survive their future, so she deviously thinks.

“Actually, before you insert the new one, can you help me get this hoodie on? I’m rather chilly.”

She holds up the beautiful cosy hoodie that smells so much like Tom it drowns out the sanitiser ever prevalent. Due to the size and sheer bagginess, it won’t interfere with anything, rendering them all able to tug it over her head with the detachment of a wire or two, and her EEG box being slipped into that little backpack and threaded through the head hole. It works, and Tom’s smile of adoration is enough to send any doubts ebbing away, not to mention the comfort it provides in comparison to the starchy gown.

“I don’t like that the doctor saw you in a bra, though,” he whispers in her ear.

She swats his hand playfully, “I only put the bra on for you.”

His hold is a clamp following that statement, and doesn’t release his hold, or at least plan on it, for a while. Even though she’s the one having the needle piercing her skin, she’s also the one comforting him, her breath fanning his eyelids, scrunched shut, her spare hand squeezing his as he shakes the whole bed beside her.

“That’s in,” the doctor says, “comfortable?”

“Yeah, sure,” she answers, “well, you know.”

He laughs, and begins to peel off the clear plaster, opening Tom’s eyes from the sound.

“Oh my fucking God, I can see the needle in your hand.” He begins to retch, but y/n just chuckles a little, allowing the stretch of the plaster to pull her hand taut, the date being scribbled onto the label.

“It’s fine, darling, it doesn’t hurt.”

He nods, but his sensitivity at her sorry state is evident in the way he stares at her hand, fixing her up to two taps that begin to flow into her body, after the flush of the tubes. What he struggles to believe is how this is her reality, how she hid it from him for so long, perhaps to spare his feelings, though he’s not exactly sure why else she would’ve done that. Why hide such a big part of herself?

*

After the nurse departs, not long after the doctor, Tom shifts on the bed to ask her exactly that, caught completely unawares by her answer.

“I thought that if I told you, you’d leave.” she whispers, her voice breaking on the last word. “I was scared, Tom, that you’d see me this way and decide you didn’t love me or that you didn’t want the burden. And now you’ve seen me, not even at my worst, sometimes it’s very different to this.”

“Fuck,” he sobs. “I wouldn’t leave you, y/n, please, you know I wouldn’t, not even because of this. Because you’re still you, and I love you!”

“'You know what someone gets for loving me? They get to pay for all my care, and then they get to watch me die.'" she quotes Five Feet Apart, considering how apt Poe's statement is. "How can I put that on you?”

She sniffles deeply, trying to hold back the tidal wave of tears threatening to break, but trust Tom to lighten the mood; “We have the NHS baby, there are no bills.”

The couple let out watery laughs, y/n cupping Tom’s cheek as she tilts her forehead against his.

“It’s so much more than that though.” She anxiously searches his eyes. “Extra meds, non NHS funded treatments, private specialists if something is dire but the waiting list is too big, aids, constant allowances of time and things paid for but missed out on...”

“Y/n,” he cuts off her rambling and lends her a knowing look: money isn’t an object to him, and he would state this, but this runs so much deeper than that. “You’re worth it all. I just wish you’d told me before.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She blinks her tears away, and just lets herself be kissed by him again, his lips so grounding, his scent so intoxicating; he’s tethering her to the real world, a reminder her life doesn’t just have to begin and end within these walls, but that she can live despite it. Despite it all, Tom’s here.

He’s staying.

*

Throughout the rest of the afternoon visit, Tom stays by her side. He lies with her on the bed, linking their fingers and stroking through the ends of her hair, holding her when she wants it and giving her space when not. He ensures that he asks more about her health, her conditions, her treatments; anything so that he can understand her more and be there to support her every step of the way. And in turn, she explains everything with complete honesty, not even leaving out the goriest bits, thinking that if he’s staying, he deserves to know it all; and though she expects him to turn around at any moment, she’s more than glad when he lies there by her side each second, understanding and sympathising, but not trying to pretend.

Tiredness catches up with her towards the end, and she slips to sleep the second he gives her a goodbye kiss and meanders out to meet his brothers, but not before he stops by the nurses station.

“Hey, um, is there evening visiting?”

“Sure is, honey. Half six til half eight, okay?”

“I’ll be here,” he says resolutely, “but I’ll surprise her. Can I bring dinner?”

Nurse Lyn winks, “You’re not supposed to, but I won’t tell.”

He nods gratefully to her, and glances over his shoulder one last time at the peaceful, sleeping figure of y/n, bundled up in the sheets, snuggled into his hoodie.

The boys are waiting for him in the car, as promised, when he exits. He approaches them with a certain pep in his step, much to their confusion, especially in contrast with his bloodshot eyes.

“How was it, mate?” Harry asks.

“Yeah, how is she?” adds Sam.

Paddy opens the back door and shuffles over to let Tom in, “Did she like the basket?”

“Yeah she did, she cried,” he confesses, “so did I. She’s okay, tired but okay; she has loads of machines and wires on her head and chest and needles in her hand, but I understand now. She explained it to me, all of it. I promised I’d stay.”

“I’d bloody well think so,” says Sam, pulling out into the stream of traffic.

“Can we go?” asks Paddy.

“Don’t ask that, Pads.”

“I’ll have to ask her, she likes you all, asked how you were. I’ll ask tonight.”

“Tonight?” they chorus.

“Yeah, I’m going up again tonight, taking some dinner.”

“That’s nice.”

“Does that mean more shopping, though?” Harry grumbles.

“Absolutely. Full steam ahead, chef boy,” Tom replies, and scruffs his brothers’ hair, smiling at them with that glimmer of hope back in his eyes, ready for the evening.

*

“Knock knock,” Tom coos, rapping his knuckles on the table beside her bed as he enters for the visit.

It takes a moment for her to stir, for her eyes to adjust to the harsh white lights, though that antibacterial she expects is masked by warm pastries.

“Baby?” she asks, and rubs her eyes. “You’re here again? You shouldn’t be.”

“D— do you want me to go?”

“No!” she croaks, “no, not at all, but you should be with your family.”

He pulls a chair up beside her. “Who says that’s not what you are?”

She swallows, smiling at him as she sits up, bundling tighter into the soft pink hoodie. “Thank you. What did you bring?”

“Everything you could possibly imagine, then some.” He shows her the great bags full of Greggs, their favourite junk food that half constitutes a meal. “Sam made you some of your favourites, they’re in a refrigerated bag somewhere here. Tomorrow’s three meals.”

“Baby, you shouldn’t have.”

“I wanted to. Can I eat with you?”

She nods faintly, “That’d be really nice.”

He moves his chair closer, and squirts sanitiser onto both of their hands, ensuring to smear a little over the tip of her nose, just to watch it scrunch.

“And as I so understand, hospital food is vile.”

She lets out a sudden roaring laugh, cut off with a slight hiccup, “It definitely is. You’re my saviour, Tommy.”

She leans over the rail of her bed to kiss him, just a slight peck, before her stomach lets out greedy grumble, and she’s eagerly fishing out a sausage roll, a pizza, and some potato wedges from the bags, followed by an éclair and some fruit juice. Tom eats a similar meal, wiping icing or sauce from the corner of y/n’s mouth every now and then, leading to several more kisses and fits of giggles.

It’s so apparent that she’s exhausted, barely able to keep her beautiful eyes open, her heart rate slow, the medications getting to her as she slumps a little, so he barely says a word, but remains seated, holding her hand until she slips away and retracts it unknowingly. While she sleeps, he goes around her area and cleans up a little, folding her clothes and charging her phone, getting her some fresh water before settling down himself. The great chair he’s been sitting on, as he accidentally finds out with a sudden jolt, is a pull-out makeshift bed. The days exertions begin to catch up to him the second he lies back. Reaching for an unused sheet at the foot of her bed, he curls it around himself, and focuses on the trace of y/n scenting the scratchy material as he himself drifts off.

*

Y/n wakes with the bell that signals the end of visiting, the sun outside setting and casting a warm darkness over the ward. She rubs her eyes with her cannula-free hand, and keeps patient in her cocoon while the sterile world around her comes into focus. As opposed to the blank space she expects to see, Tom’s there, curled up in the chair, his hand mushing his cute cheeks into the chair. She can’t help but smile a little to herself, contentment filling her.

Yeah, despite it all, he’s definitely a keeper.

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