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Concert, Red Dress, and All (Modern!Ivar x reader)

A/N: This is my entry to @pieces-by-me Challenge 🌺 Huh, happy birthday I guess 😂

The prompt I chose: I just want to be a man who has been to a concert with a girl in a red dress. Just for a few minutes more. Will, Me Before You

@mrsalwayswrite, thanks for beta reading this for me, you're wonderful ♥️

Let me know if you want to be tagged 😊

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Summary: you have a massive crush on your father's patient. When he needs a ride, you just jump at the chance.

Warnings: Ivar's temper; Ivar's insecurities; fluff.

Words: 2692

"C'mon, Ivar, you're almost there. Just two more steps." Your father smiles encouragingly but you don't need to see Ivar's face to know that the smile is not reciprocated.

"Yeah," Ivar grunts, "just two fucking steps. Easy for you to say, Bent." You're sure he grits his teeth and as he successfully pushes his left leg forward, his knuckles are turning white from the strain of keeping his body upright. He struggles a lot more with his right leg, the most damaged one. As you follow him between the parallel bars with his wheelchair in front of you, cautious not to touch the back of his knees, you can see him swaying, can hear him hissing, and doesn't miss the frown on your father's face. You know him well enough to know he's wondering if he's pushed Ivar too hard.

"Fucking stupid useless thing!" Ivar shouts furiously as his leg refuses to move forward, his foot stuck out at an awkward angle.

Kneeling down, your dad first makes eye contact with Ivar and then reaches out, wrapping gently his big hand around Ivar's right calf. As he helps him take the last step, your dad nods at you and you know what you have to do.

Leaning over the wheelchair, you lock its brakes. "There," you say, noticing that Ivar can barely stand, his arms stiff and his legs shaking, "you can sit down." Heaving a sigh of relief, he immediately drops into his chair.

After squatting down, you then walk under the bars, grabbing the towel Ivar left on a nearby bench. You can see the obvious pain on his face as he unlocks his braces and adjusts his legs before placing his feet on the footplate, using his hands to bend his right knee. Beads of sweat prickling on his forehead, Ivar wipes his brow with the back of his forearm. As you eventually hand him his towel, he thanks you with a nod, looking at you in the eye for a second. He looks exhausted, which comes as no surprise, as well as frustrated and angry.

"You did very well," your father starts affirmatively, putting a hand on Ivar's shoulder. "I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but you've made tremendous progress in the last few weeks. You're not that far from walking with crutches. I think we can give it a try soon."

Walking with crutches. You know that's what Ivar is aiming for. That's how he used to walk around before. Before the nasty fall down the stairs, seven months ago, and its devastating consequences: a shattered pelvic that left him bedridden for weeks and several pretty bad breaks in his too fragile legs.

Your heart aches when you think of all he had to go through, not only these last months but also his whole life. Thanks to your father, you know everything there is to know about Ivar's condition: his brittle bones, and the constant pain he has to live with. No one should have to suffer so much. And Ivar certainly doesn't deserve the extra hardship induced by his fall.

On the other hand, had he not fallen, you wouldn't have met him. Obviously, you're not happy that it happened. But honestly, not meeting him would have been a shame. Ivar may be moody most of the time – who would blame him? – but he's still terrifically attractive. A young Adonis who haunts your dreams.

"Soon isn't soon enough." Ivar's strained voice pulls you out of your thoughts and you watch him as he rolls one-handed towards the door, pulling his phone out of his front pocket with his free hand. He glances at the screen and then turns in a clumsy semicircle. Fury darkens his gaze, his brow is knitted, his lips tight.

"Great!" You startle as he explodes in a fit of anger. "Could this fucking day possibly get any worse?" You can tell Ivar is boiling inside. He barely manages to contain himself, fists clenched. "My fucking brother can't fucking pick me up!"

Unimpressed by Ivar's outburst, your dad just tilts his head questioningly. "Hvitserk?"

Ivar shakes his head. "No, Hvisterk and Ubbe are abroad for the week. No, it's Sigurd. Who else?" He snorts, pursing his lips. "I bet he's free as a bird. I know he's doing it to piss me off."

Your father folds his arms across his chest. His voice is unexpectedly soft when he speaks. "You're letting him get to you, which is exactly what he wants. Sigurd won't pick you up? And so what? You just call an Uber, Ivar. It's as simple as that." Your dad now grabs his own phone, waving it in Ivar's face. "I'll gladly do it for you."

"It's not as simple as that, Bent," Ivar starts angrily, his jaw tight and slightly twitching with tension, "Uber drivers hate wheelchairs. It won't be easy to find one who is willing to pick me up. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about."

Taking two steps forward, you jump in, the words coming out of your mouth without even going through your head. "I could give you a ride." You blush when you realize you just spoke out loud and for a fleeting moment, you consider running away before changing your mind. The hell with it! Maybe it's time to act on your crush. If you don't, in two weeks you won't see him anymore.

Ivar gives you a puzzled look. "You both live just down the street, right? You do know I live across town, don't you? It's not exactly next door."

Your legs are trembling, your heart thumping fiercely, and your cheeks on fire as you babble the first thing that comes to your mind. "Yeah, I... I know. But I... I... Actually, you won't believe this, but it just so happens that... I have to go there. To... visit my friend Amelia who lives across town too." Phew. You've said it. Technically, it's not even a lie. Your former schoolmate Amelia lives in the same area as Ivar. He doesn't need to know she's in Europe until the end of summer break, does he? Nor that you had a fight with each other six months ago and haven't spoken since.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see your father staring at you wide-eyed. Oh my god! You're such a fool! He knows the truth about Amelia. Of course, he does.

It's the longest seconds of your life when he opens his mouth, seemingly determined to put his two cents worth. It's hard to breathe. You're sure you're about to throw up. But then, eventually, your father closes his mouth and gives you a half-smile, his eyes glittering with amusement. "Yeah, sounds good. You're no longer needed here anyway, pumpkin." Looking at Ivar, he adds, "What do you say? Problem solved, right?"

"... that's how I fell into the lake fully clothed. Which reminds me of that time my dog went miss–"

You stop, frozen, when a low chuckle reaches your ears. A single glance tells you that, right next to you, Ivar is trying very hard not to giggle. Oh. My. God. What are you doing? The truth is, you know exactly what you're doing. You're babbling nonsense, as you usually do when you're feeling nervous. As a result, you've been blabbering for the whole ride. Certainly not the best way to win his heart, right?

Your cheeks are burning, your white knuckles gripping the steering wheel, as you're filled with shame and embarrassment. "Oh Ivar, I'm so sorry, I'm rambling. You must be so fed up with me!"

You honestly feel like crap but Ivar surprises you. "Actually, it was entertaining and pretty funny." He lets out a long sigh as you pull up in front of the Lothbrok mansion. "To tell the truth, it was more than welcome after the fucking day I had." His tone sounds genuine, as does the smile you see playing on his lips.

Who would have thought your father's grumpiest patient would be so easy to please. "Alright," you shrug and shyly look away, "if you say so."

After that, you don't know what to say. Sure, you don't want the moment to end, because it's now or never. But well, Ivar is home. As much as you'd like to see him again – other than in your father's rehab center – you don't see how you can do it. You can't exactly ask him for his number, can you? That'd be pretty straightforward. Too straightforward, even for you.

Now that you're no longer talking, you realize there's a deafening silence inside the car. Looking down, his fingers interlaced neatly on his lap, Ivar waits. On closer inspection, you can see his fingers moving up and down and his knuckles tightly pressed together. Oh lord, he's feeling uncomfortable, isn't he? That's definitely not a happy thought.

You'll see him again on Monday morning if you remember correctly. You better let him go, even if it does sting a little.

"You'd better get in," you finally say reluctantly, unfastening your seatbelt. "I'll get your wheelchair out of the trunk."

"Just..." Ivar breathes and you stop, your hand on the inside handle, "Just wait a minute, Y/N." His voice is small, tentative, as if he's not sure of what he's going to say. Frowning, you turn in your seat.

He doesn’t' look at you, keeping his gaze down. His fingers are now fidgeting and he speaks under his breath. "Just hold on. Just for a minute."

You scrutinize him. "Are you all right?" You wonder if he's in pain. He always works so hard with your father, his legs might actually be hurting. It would not be surprising, given his disease. Your mind starts racing. What's in your purse? Do you have any painkillers? Would it be inappropriate to offer him some ibuprofen? He surely has everything he needs. What if he doesn't?

You're about to grab your purse tucked between the front seats as Ivar speaks again. "I'm fine. I just..." His voice breaks and he inhales deeply, turning his head toward you. "I don't want to leave. I don't want to go in just yet. I just want to sit and not have to think about..." His gaze drops to his lap once again as he swallows loudly. "I just want to be a man who has been to a concert with a girl in a red dress. Just for a few minutes more. A girl who likes me. A girl who sees the real me."

Huh? What the heck is going on?

You release the door handle, confused and bewildered. Is Ivar losing his mind? What is he talking about, for god's sake?

Guess there's only one way to find out, right?

Giving him a puzzled look, you quirk an eyebrow, "We haven't been to a concert, Ivar," and then scratch your head before looking at your white scrubs. "And I'm not wearing a red dress either."

Ivar snorts and lets out a bitter chuckle. "Yeah. You forgot the part where you say that you don't like me." He stresses the last words and clenches his fists. The painful expression on his face is unmistakable.

Actually, I do. A lot. That's what you want to say. But you can't really say that, right? Or maybe you can. Maybe you should.

You're debating with yourself whether or not to tell him, but Ivar doesn't give you a chance to make up your mind, speaking again. "I... I just wanted to pretend, I guess." His voice quivers and his lips seem to tremble. "I felt... normal during this ride. It hadn't happened for months. Since I fell, everyone walks on eggshells around me. I get it, I really do. My mood swings surely have something to do with it. Even on a good day, I know I'm not the easiest guy to get along with. But with you... Well... you made me feel normal. I... I almost forgot about..." he points to the car's rear, "the fucking chair."

Ivar inhales deeply and when you look at him, tilting your head, his face crumples. "Anyway... I don't want to waste your time, Y/N. You were right, I should go. Could you," he speaks in such hushed tones his words are barely audible, "help me with my chair?"

He sounds extremely vulnerable, seems to struggle with a great deal of emotional pain, and just like that your heart shatters. It is no longer time for hesitation. It is no longer time to ask yourself what you should do. Now it is time to act. And that is exactly what you intend to do.

"Ivar," you start softly, placing your hand on his forearm, "have you considered the possibility that you don't need to pretend?"

His gaze shifts from your hand on his arm to your face and he stares at you intently with his piercing, blue eyes. His Adam's apple bobbing up and down, he swallows a couple of times. "What... what do you mean?"

You gently grab his hand, impulsively intertwining your fingers with his. "I mean that I could be this girl in a red dress. I mean that we could go to a concert. Like..." you stutter, suddenly a bit shy, "like on a date, if that's what you want." As he keeps silent, his brow furrowed, you add, smiling, "Saturday night? Dinner and concert? And a red dress?"

Ivar doesn't utter a word for a long time, disbelief written all over his face. "Saturday night?" He eventually repeats incredulously, and then his face clouds over and his expression changes instantly. "I don't need a pity date." He states angrily, grimacing and removing his hand as if yours was hurting him.

You should have seen it coming, right? You're well aware of Ivar's lack of self-esteem because of his disability. You can't forget the words he once said to your father, unaware that you were still within earshot. 'Whatever I do, people will always see me first as a cripple.'

Yeah, you definitely should have seen it coming.

"I don't pity you, Ivar," you hasten to say, tentatively reaching out a hand and grazing his cheek. "Actually, you couldn't be further from the truth. In fact, I've been wondering for weeks how to let you know I want to go on a date with you."

"Yeah, sure, you want to go on a date with the cripple! Too bad it's against the rules, right?" He says sarcastically, and you know he doesn't believe you. "I mean, since I'm a patient and you're working in the rehab center that I attend. Perfect excuse!"

"You're right," you retort, "it would be the perfect excuse. But I'm not looking for an excuse, I'm looking for a way to go on a date with you. Plus, I'm not exactly working there, Ivar, I'm barely volunteering," you explain. "The truth is, I'm just helping my dad during summer break, nothing more. Classes are starting again soon and I won't be there anymore. So no, I'm pretty sure it's safe to say that it's not against the rules. So, what do you say? You and me, on a date? You're up for it?"

Ivar's eyes widen and he lets out a stifled sound between a sob and a hiccup. "Wait, you're... you're being serious? You really want to go on a date with me, my braces, and my wheelchair?"

You nod, "I've never been more serious, Ivar." Beaming, you shift on your seat, scooting closer, "I do want to go on a date with you - with all of you, leg braces, wheelchair and all. So, Saturday night? I'll pick you up at six-thirty?" You pause, shrug, and lower your gaze. "Only if you want to, of course. I may not be your type."

"I.." Ivar clears his throat and then flashes you a heart-stopping smile. "I'd love to go on a date with you, Y/N. Saturday night at six-thirty is fine. I'm looking forward to it. Dinner, concert, red dress and all."

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