˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚 "bathroom floor bad" (part 2) ~ alfie buttle 𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
notes - part 2 to the endometriosis fic!! i wanted to highlight how under-researched women's healthcare is, meaning many women suffer in silence for years before being taken seriously.
The paper hospital wristband dug into your skin as you absentmindedly picked at the edge of it. You weren't even aware you were doing it anymore. It had become a nervous habit in a place where everything else felt completely out of your hands.
The pre-operative ward buzzed quietly around you. Curtains rustled, monitors beeped in the distance, nurses moved between beds with reassuring smiles that only made your stomach twist tighter.
Alfie sat beside your bed, one leg bouncing restlessly, his phone held loosely in his hand. He'd been scrolling for the sake of looking occupied, but he hadn't actually taken in a single thing on the screen for at least ten minutes.
His attention kept drifting back to you.
You'd hardly spoken since you'd arrived. Normally, if you were nervous, you filled the silence. You'd ramble about anything that came into your head until eventually you'd talked yourself down.
Today, you were just silent.
Just your fingers worrying at the paper wristband over and over again.
Alfie reached over, gently catching your hand before you managed to tear the thing clean off.
"You'll break it in a minute."
You looked down at where his hand rested over yours. "Sorry."
"What're you apologising for, girl?"
A small shrug lifted one shoulder, "I don't know."
"Exactly," he smiled sadly.
For a few moments, the silence settled between you again. Alfie rubbed slow circles across the back of your hand with his thumb. You focused on the feeling, trying to breathe around the tightness in your ribs.
Eventually, you spoke so quietly he almost didn't hear you. "What if they don't find anything?"
The words hung heavy in the air.
"What do you mean?" Alfie frowned.
"What if..." You swallowed hard, your throat tight. "What if they do the laparoscopy and there's nothing there?"
You couldn't quite bring yourself to look at him.
He shifted his chair closer until his knees bumped against the side of the bed.
"Reader." His voice was impossibly gentle. "You've spent years folded in half every month."
"I've found you asleep on the bathroom floor because it hurt too much to move."
A lump formed in your throat. "I know."
"I've watched you throw up because the pain got so bad."
His grip on your hand tightened slightly.
"I've watched you pretend you were fine so people wouldn't think you were being dramatic."
Your eyes finally met his, his expression almost pleading.
"You're telling me that's normal?" he reasoned, "'cause that doesn't sound bloody normal to me."
"Maybe I've just had a really low pain tolerance this whole time."
Alfie blinked at you, looking at you as though you'd said the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. "Girl."
"So am I." He huffed softly. "If you had a low pain tolerance, you'd scream when you stub your tow. You don't even flinch- just swear at the floor."
Waking up felt like trying to swim through fog. Your limbs felt weighted, your tongue slow, your eyelids reluctant to open no matter how hard you tried.
The deep soreness settled low in your abdomen, different from the familiar agony you'd spent years enduring. A reminder that someone had finally been inside, searching for the answers you'd spent so long begging for.
You shifted ever so slightly and immediately regretted it. A quiet hiss escaped through your teeth.
The voice reached you before the face did, threaded with relief and worry all at once.
You blinked slowly until the blur in front of you sharpened into Alfie.
He was sitting in the chair beside your bed, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his knees. One hand was wrapped gently around yours, his thumb absent-mindedly tracing slow circles across your knuckles as though he'd never stopped, even while you'd been asleep.
The second he saw your eyes open properly, relief softened every line of his face.
Your lips twitched into the faintest smile. "Hi."
"And she's back." His voice was quiet, almost reverent.
The room was peaceful. No frantic thoughts. No spiralling dread. For the first time in what felt like forever, your mind wasn't racing.
There was nothing to do now except wait.
Neither of you felt any pressure to fill the silence.
His thumb continued its slow rhythm across the back of your hand, grounding you each time the lingering haze of the anaesthetic threatened to pull you back under.
A gentle knock at the door broke the quiet.
The consultant stepped inside, smiling kindly as they approached your bed. Their voice was careful - the tone people used when they knew the next few minutes mattered.
"Good afternoon. Nice to see you awake."
You managed a tired smile.
You gave a small shrug. "Sore."
The consultant glanced briefly towards Alfie before turning their attention back to you.
"I wanted to come and let you know how everything went."
Your heart immediately began to race.
Without thinking, your fingers tightened around Alfie's hand.
He squeezed back instantly, thumb pausing for just a moment before resuming its slow, grounding circles.
The consultant smiled reassuringly.
"The operation itself went very well."
You nodded, though every muscle in your body seemed to tense, bracing for whatever came next.
"We did find extensive endometriosis."
The words hung in the air.
Yet somehow they carried the weight of years - years of pain, dismissal, doubt, fear, and the quiet terror that maybe you'd imagined all of it.
For a moment, you simply stared.
You'd prepared yourself for so many different outcomes. Prepared yourself to be told everything looked normal. Prepared yourself to apologise for wasting everyone's time. Prepared yourself to walk away without answers yet again.
But not this. Never this.
The consultant continued gently.
"We found multiple areas of endometriosis. We were able to treat what we found during today's procedure, and we'll talk you through everything in more detail before you go home. You'll also have a follow-up appointment to discuss the next steps."
You heard every word, and somehow none at the same time.
A tear escaped before you even realised you were crying.
"Oh..." The word slipped out on a shaky breath.
Alfie looked away for a second, jaw tightening, like he needed that moment to steady himself.
He cleared his throat once, subtle, controlled, then leaned closer, his hand tightening around yours with a firmness that said more than any words could.
When he looked back at you, his expression wasn't teary - it was solid. Protective. Fiercely gentle in that way he only ever was with you.
He looked like he wanted to say a hundred things, like he was forcing down every angry thought he didn't want you to carry right now.
His free hand moved instinctively, settling on your hip, nowhere near the dressings on your stomach. His palm was warm, grounding, thumb brushing once against the fabric of your gown like he was reminding you he was right there.
"Not in your head," he whispered. "Never was."
Another tear slipped down your cheek - warm and salty. You weren't even sure what emotion it belonged to. Relief. Anger. Validation. Grief for all the years you'd spent doubting yourself. It all tangled together until your chest felt tight and your breath came uneven.
His thumb left your hip and lifted to your cheek, brushing the tear away with a gentleness that didn't match the rest of him. He wiped it with the side of his thumb, careful, slow, like he was afraid of hurting you even there.
"Hey," he murmured, voice low. "Breathe, darlin'."
You tried, but the next breath shuddered out of you, your throat tightening around it. You weren't sobbing, not yet, but your body trembled with the effort of holding everything in.
Alfie's hand returned to your hip, steady and warm, anchoring you. His other hand stayed at your cheek, thumb brushing away another tear before it could fall.
"You're alright, okay?" he said softly.
Your fingers tightened around his without meaning to, clinging like your body was reaching for something solid to hold onto. The fear, the relief, the disbelief - it all swelled until your eyes blurred again.
"I-" Your voice broke. "I thought... I thought maybe..."
"I know." His forehead dipped closer, almost touching yours. "I know you did."
His thumb stroked your hip again, slow and careful, as though he was soothing the years of doubt rather than the pain.
"You weren't wrong," he whispered. "Not once."
The room grew quiet again not long after the consultant left.
The only sounds were the steady rhythm of the monitor beside your bed and the soft hum of the air vent above you. The world felt muted, wrapped in cotton wool.
The anaesthetic was still doing its job.
Within minutes, your eyes had drifted closed again, exhaustion finally winning. Your breathing evened out, slow and heavy. Your hand remained loosely curled around Alfie's, fingers slack but still hooked around his like your body refused to let go even in sleep.
He looked down at your joined hands, his thumb absent-mindedly brushing over your knuckles. Your hospital wristband was still slightly twisted from where you'd spent the morning picking at it.
He couldn't stop thinking about what you'd asked before surgery.
What if they don't find anything?
It wasn't the question itself that stayed with him.
It was the fear behind it - you'd still been convinced there was a chance someone would tell you it was all in your head.
He looked at your sleeping face. Peaceful now.
Or at least more peaceful than he'd seen you in a long time. As though your body had finally allowed itself to rest now that it wasn't fighting to prove itself.
It should never have taken surgery for someone to believe you.
He wasn't angry at one particular doctor.
He wasn't even angry at the consultant who'd just delivered the diagnosis.
The anger sat somewhere much bigger than that.
At every appointment that ended with another prescription for stronger painkillers.
Every it's just part of being a woman.
Every have you tried ibuprofen?
Every time you'd walked out of an appointment looking just a little bit smaller than when you'd walked in.
Every time you'd tried to convince yourself that maybe you were just overreacting, maybe you were dramatic, maybe you were wrong.
He felt it all sitting in his chest now, a tight, controlled burn. Not the kind of anger that made him lash out. The kind that made him want to stand between you and the whole world and tell it to get its act together.
He thought back to the first time you'd ever apologised to him for cancelling plans because of your period. You'd looked genuinely embarrassed, like you'd somehow failed him. He remembered telling you it wasn't a big deal.
Looking back now, he wished he'd understood sooner just how much pain you must've been in. Wished he'd known how much you were pushing through even on the days you didn't cancel.
He couldn't wrap his head around it.
How could someone be left in that much pain for so long?
How many times had you sat in a waiting room, hoping this would finally be the appointment where someone listened?
How many times had you left feeling stupid for even asking?
He let out a slow breath through his nose, steady and controlled, the kind of breath he took when he needed to keep himself calm.
His free hand came up to gently smooth a strand of hair away from your face. His fingers were careful, almost reverent, as though he was afraid of disturbing you. You stirred slightly but didn't wake.
Instinctively, your fingers tightened around his.
He shifted slightly in the chair, settling in like he planned to stay exactly where he was for as long as you needed him. His thumb brushed over your knuckles again, slow and rhythmic, grounding you even in sleep.
And for the first time all day, the tightness in his chest eased because you were here, you were safe, and finally, someone had listened.
By the time the nurses told you that you were well enough to go home, all you wanted was your own bed.
Hospitals had a way of making time blur together. Between observations, pain relief, cups of tea you barely touched, and people coming and going behind the curtain, you'd lost all sense of what day it even was.
Alfie, however, hadn't left your side.
Not unless someone physically made him. And even then, he'd only gone as far as the corridor, pacing until they let him back in.
He was already standing by the small cupboard when the nurse left, holding the overnight bag you'd packed together a few days before. He looked strangely purposeful, like he'd been waiting hours for the chance to do something useful.
"You ready to get out of this glamorous little number?" he asked, gesturing towards the hospital gown.
A sleepy smile tugged at your lips. "It's definitely not my colour."
"I dunno, it might be." He tilted his head thoughtfully, pretending to assess you like a fashion critic.
You snorted quietly. "Please don't."
He unzipped the bag and pulled out your softest pair of pyjamas - an oversized t-shirt that definitely belonged to him and a pair of loose cotton shorts.
"Excellent taste," he nodded approvingly.
"Exactly. YoungLA, Code AB."
You let out a quiet laugh - a small, breathy sound you didn’t even mean to make. It hurt instantly. A sharp tug bloomed low in your abdomen, pulling at the soreness beneath the dressings. You hissed, hand flying to your stomach.
Alfie’s head snapped up, all faux‑confidence gone in an instant. "Shit- sorry."
You winced, breathing through the sting. “Maybe stop the shameless promotion.”
He huffed, relieved enough to let the corner of his mouth twitch. “Can’t help it. It’s instinct.”
You rolled your eyes, but the pain was already easing, settling back into that heavy, dragging ache. Alfie watched your face carefully, reading every tiny shift in your expression.
“Right,” he murmured, brushing his thumb once across your forearm. “No more making you laugh."
He stepped closer, his usual confidence replaced with surprising gentleness. There was something careful in the way he moved - like he was afraid of hurting you without meaning to.
His voice softened instantly. "I've got ya, girl. "
Every movement was slow and careful.
He untied the back of the hospital gown, fingers brushing lightly against your skin as he loosened the knot. He helped you ease one arm free, guiding it out of the sleeve with the kind of patience he didn't show with anyone else. He made sure nothing tugged against the dressings on your stomach.
"Sorry," he murmured immediately, his brows pulling together.
"It wasn't on purpose," he promised.
The gown slipped from your shoulders, and for the first time, Alfie caught sight of the three small dressings dotted across your abdomen.
Three tiny white plasters.
No bigger than a couple of centimetres each.
Impossible that something so small had uncovered years of answers. That those little incisions represented every appointment, every dismissal, every bathroom floor, every tearful phone call after another doctor had told you it was 'just period pain'.
He carefully helped the oversized T-shirt over your head, lifting it so it wouldn’t brush your stomach. His fingers skimmed your shoulders as he guided the fabric down, adjusting it so it fell loosely over your abdomen.
"There," he murmured, smoothing the hem gently.
He stepped back to admire his work.
You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed anyway.
He crouched again, guiding one leg through the loose cotton shorts before repeating the process with the other, taking his time so nothing caught on the small dressings covering your abdomen.
He gathered the waistband carefully, easing the shorts over your hips a little at a time, adjusting it so it sat well below your stomach, no where near the incisions.
Only when he was satisfied nothing was rubbing against the dressings did he stand.
He took a step back, giving you a quick once-over to make sure you looked comfortable rather than presentable.
A small smile tugged at his lips, as he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. Then he straightened, slipping your overnight bag over his shoulder with one hand while the other stayed firmly wrapped around yours.
The nurses brought a wheelchair over (hospital policy) and Alfie didn't argue, but he hovered like he didn't trust anyone else to touch you. He helped you sit down slowly, one hand braced at your back, the other steadying your knee so you didn't wobble.
He parked the car as close as possible muttering something under his breath about the hospital's "stupid layout" and "who puts disabled bays this far away?"
He helped you from the wheelchair to the passenger seat, moving with that same careful gentleness he'd had while helping you dress. One arm supported your back, the other held your hand, guiding you slowly, making sure nothing pulled or twisted. Even the way he breathed seemed measured, like he was timing each inhale to match your movements.
Once you were settled, he adjusted the seatbelt so it didn't sit anywhere near your stomach, tucking the strap under your arm instead.
He shut the door softly, not the usual slam, then jogged around to the driver's side.
He drove ridiculously carefully. Like, ridiculously carefully.
Ten miles under the speed limit.
Checking the mirrors every three seconds.
He got annoyed at every speed bump.
The first time he rolled over one, barely faster than walking pace, he still muttered, "Who the hell designed these? Idiots."
The second one earned a frustrated exhale, his fingers tightening around the wheel.
By the third, he was glaring at the road like it had personally offended him. His jaw flexed, his nostrils flared, and he slowed down even more, easing the car over the bump like he was transporting fragile glass instead of a human being.
You watched him through half‑lidded eyes, the corners of your mouth lifting.
The painkillers were wearing off, leaving behind a heavy, dragging soreness that made your muscles tense without meaning to. Every vibration of the car travelled straight through your abdomen, sharp enough to make you wince.
You let out a tiny laugh the next time he swore at a bump in the road, but it still tugged at your stomach, making you hiss softly.
"Don't laugh," he said, softer now.
You leaned your head against the window, eyelids heavy, pain humming beneath your ribs. The world outside blurred into streaks of colour, but inside the car everything felt warm, quiet, safe.
By the time you made it through the front door, the exhaustion had settled into your bones. Your legs felt unsteady, your head fuzzy, your stomach tender with every step.
You barely had time to kick your shoes off before Alfie was gently steering you towards the sofa, one arm wrapped securely around your waist.
"Easy," he murmured as you instinctively tried to walk a little quicker.
"I know," his voice was softer. "I'm just making sure you don't go arse over tit."
Despite yourself, a tired laugh escaped you.
He guided you onto the edge of the sofa, lowering you with the same careful precision he'd used all day, before disappearing upstairs for all of five seconds.
You frowned, confused. "Where've you-"
He reappeared carrying what looked suspiciously like every pillow in the flat. All shapes, all sizes, stacked in his arms like he'd raided an entire homeware aisle.
Before you could protest further, he was already arranging them with surprising concentration.
He crouched beside the sofa, pulling your overnight bag closer and rummaging through it until he found the small box of medication the hospital had given you. He set it on the coffee table as his phone buzzed. He'd already set medication alarms. Multiple.
You didn't even have the energy to tease him for it.
The pain had begun to creep back in. The strong painkillers they'd given you at the hospital were wearing off, leaving behind a soreness that made your breath catch if you moved too quickly.
You shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable, and a quiet whimper escaped before you could swallow it down.
"Hey- easy." His voice dropped instantly, softer, steadier. "Is it really bad?"
You pressed a hand lightly to your stomach, fingers curling just above the dressings. "Just sore."
It wasn't entirely true. It was more than sore. It was a heavy, dragging pain that made your muscles tense without meaning to, the kind that made you want to curl in on yourself even though you physically couldn't.
Alfie didn't push you to explain. He didn't ask again. He just nodded once, decisive, and reached for the medication box.
He opened the packet with the kind of focus he usually reserved for fixing things or reading instructions he pretended not to need. He checked the dosage twice, then handed you a glass of water.
You swallowed the tablets, wincing as you shifted upright. The movement tugged at your abdomen, a sharp reminder of the three small incisions hidden beneath your shirt.
His jaw tightened but he didn't say anything. He just adjusted the pillows behind you, lifting your hips a fraction, sliding another cushion under your knees to ease the pull on your stomach.
You nodded, though the ache still throbbed beneath your ribs.
He sat beside you, careful not to jostle you. His hand found yours again, thumb tracing slow circles across your knuckles, the same rhythm he'd kept in the hospital, in the car, everywhere.
Alfie watched your face, reading every tiny shift in your expression like he'd memorised them.
"You tell me the second it gets worse," he said quietly. "Not five minutes later. Not when it's unbearable. Straight away."
You managed a small smile. "Bossy."
"Mhm." He didn't smile back, but the corner of his mouth twitched. His thumb kept moving across your knuckles, grounding you with every slow stroke.
You exhaled shakily, leaning back into the pillows he'd arranged. The pain wasn't unbearable, but it was sharp enough to keep your muscles tense, sharp enough to make rest feel impossible.
Without saying anything, he shifted closer, his thigh pressing lightly against yours. His arm slid behind you, slow and deliberate, giving you time to adjust. You let your head fall onto his shoulder, the movement small but enough to make your breath catch.
His shirt was warm beneath your cheek, the faint scent of him familiar enough to loosen something tight in your chest.
The pain didn't disappear, but it dulled at the edges. Not because of the medication, but because of him. Because of the way he held you like you weren't fragile, just hurting. Because of the way he breathed slow and even, letting you match him.
You felt his lips press against the top of your head - a warm, lingering kiss that made your chest tighten in a way the pain never could.
"Just rest, okay?" he whispered.
You let out a slow breath, feeling some of the weight you'd carried for so long finally begin to lift.
You looked over at him, a tired smile settling on your face. "Nothing."
You intertwined your fingers with his, the movement small but deliberate, your thumb brushing over his knuckles in a mirror of the comfort he’d been giving you all day.
"Just feels nice to know I wasn't imagining it."
"You never were," he murmured.
cryingwithgigi, 2026 © all rights reserved to me.
