A/N: This man does things to me
Pairing: Nightcrawler X Reader
Summery: Reader is a black market doctor who rescues Nightcrawler.
TW: blood, medical themes, violence mentioned, blood transfusion, black market themes
~=={ 💙 }==~➶☠➶~=={ 💙 }==~
Ch:1 - Right at Your Feet
Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6
You wrapped the wound in clean bandages and moved on without hesitation, already gathering the bloodied gauze.
“That’s all done,” you said flatly, tossing the stained pads into a small plastic bag.
“Thanks, doc,” the heavyset man muttered, jaw tight as he took the bottle of pain meds from your hand. “What do I owe ya?”
You turned to him, resting a hand on your hip. “How much do you have on you?”
“I think… ‘bout three fifty?”
You nodded once. “Just pay me a hundred.” You grabbed another bottle and pressed it into his palm. “Antibiotics. Not strong ones so take two a day with food. You’ll be fine. If not, text the number.”
He gave a quick nod, handed you the hundred and left as unsteadily as he’d arrived.
Once he was gone, you cleaned in silence. The sharp scent of antiseptic mixed with the lingering metallic tang of blood as you wiped down every surface. When you were done, you tossed the bag into a metal drum and lit it.
The gauze caught quickly.
Flames curled and crackled, swallowing the evidence whole.
It wasn’t easy being a doctor.
It was even harder being one without a license, running on whatever people could afford to give you.
Sometimes it was loose cash. Sometimes a few hundred. Occasionally more.
You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t turn people away.
And lately… that meant mutants.
The ones who couldn’t hide what they were had it the worst. Turned away from cafés, stores…hospitals. As much as politicians liked to pretend things had changed, reality hadn’t caught up.
It was the reason you lost everything.
The reason no hospital would touch your name now.
You exhaled slowly, the heat of the fire brushing against your face as the memories threatened to surface.
“Not now,” you muttered under your breath.
You had work to do. The fire cracked softly behind you, low and controlled. The abandoned hospital settled into its usual silence, distant city noise bleeding faintly through rusted walls, the hum of old wiring overhead.
You cleaned as best you could. An abandoned hospital wasn’t even close to being the appropriate place to treat patients, but it was what you had to work with; a filthy old 100 year old hospital, cleaning supplies and whatever medical supplies you could get on the black market.
You heaved a little, your back had begun hurting from all the work but now your area was cleaner than before, less chaotic.
A sharp crack split the air.
Not loud. Not like a gunshot. Distant but sudden and alarming. It happened again. Closer. Stranger.
Like space itself folding in on itself.
You froze. What the fuck is that?
The next second, it came again. BAMF.
A burst of thick, violet-black smoke exploded into existence a few feet away, you yelped as the sudden smell of sulfur hitting your nose was hard enough to make you flinch.
And then something fell out of it.
A body hit the filthy broken tiled ground with a sickening weight.
You were moving before your brain caught up.
“Hey! Hey!” you snapped, dropping to your knees beside him, hands already searching for wounds out of instinct. “Can you hear me?”
Your eyes scanned quickly, and then stilled.
Your breath hitched, but only for a fraction of a second.
Mutant that is Badly injured. That’s all that mattered.
“Alright,” you muttered under your breath, already shifting into focus. “Stay awake… or don’t, I guess, just don’t die.”
Your hands pressed down instinctively, trying to locate the worst of it. His clothes were torn, soaked through. Bullet wounds—multiple. Some clean, some not. And cuts… deep ones.
You glanced behind you at the half-cleaned station, then back at him.
“Okay, okay,” you grabbed his arm to throw it over your shoulders, bracing your feet against the floor before lifting. “You are way heavier than you look, you know that?”
You dragged him across the room toward the metal slab, your makeshift operating table, his body leaving a faint smear of blood behind. The sulfur smell still clung to the air, mixing unpleasantly with blood and smoke.
“Not the weirdest thing I’ve dealt with,” you continued under your breath, more for yourself than him. “Definitely top five, though.”
You heaved him up onto the slab with effort, your muscles protesting as you adjusted him flat.
For a moment, you paused.
Even unconscious, his face was… soft. Not what you expected. No tension, no aggression—just pain, dulled by whatever had pushed him this far.
Your gaze flicked briefly to his tail where it lay limp against the metal.
Then you shook your head.
Cutting fabric away. Cleaning wounds. Assessing damage.
“Whoever did this to you…” you muttered, grabbing forceps, “really didn’t want you walking away.” A moment passed. “…Shame on them.”
The abandoned hospital fell into a different kind of silence.
Not calm. Focused. Sharp. You felt your mind heavily fall into the zone and your body followed, instinct kicking in.
Your hands moved fast, cutting away what remained of his clothes. Fabric peeled back easily, too easily, sticking where blood had already begun to dry.
“Alright…” you exhaled, scanning quickly. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
Gunshot wounds. At least three. One clean through the side. One lodged in deep, judging by the swelling and the way the blood refused to slow.
You pressed gently. He didn’t react.
“Yeah… you’re not staying alive for long if I leave that in.”
You reached for your supplies, laying everything out in practiced order. Forceps. Sutures. Gauze. Saline.
“Lucky you landed somewhere useful,” you huffed as you poured antiseptic over the worst of the wounds.
His body reacted instantly. A sharp inhale, barely conscious, but there.
“Yeah, I know,” you said, not slowing. “It’s gonna hurt.”
His head shifted weakly against the slab, a faint sound slipping past his lips, something strained, unfamiliar. “Bitte…”
You paused for half a second.
No time to think about it.
You braced one hand against his side, the other guiding the forceps in carefully.
“Don’t wake up,” you warned under your breath. “I really don’t need you moving right now.”
Metal met resistance. You adjusted, jaw tightening. “Come on…” A small shift. A precise angle. Then—
You pulled the bullet free with a soft metallic clink as it dropped into the tray beside you.
A lot of it. Too much of it.
Your hand pressed down immediately, grabbing gauze and applying pressure. It soaked through faster than you liked.
It’s too fast. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
You reached for more without hesitation, layering it, pressing harder this time.
“Stay with me,” you muttered, more instinct than intention. “You’ve made it this far, don’t get dramatic on me now.”
His breathing was shallow.
Not enough. It’s not enough.
You worked quickly, stitching where you could, closing what needed closing—but the blood loss was already catching up.
You could see it. You knew that if he didn’t get more blood now, he was going to die.
“Yeah… no,” you said under your breath as you quickly stitched up the wound and stepped back just enough to think. “That’s not gonna cut it.”
You moved quickly, sprinting to the space on the other side of the room, dropping to one knee beside a worn cooler tucked beneath the table. You flipped it open.
Inside, neatly packed and labeled, were blood bags.
You grabbed one. Then another. Better safe than sorry. By the time you returned, his skin looked worse.
“Alright,” you muttered, already setting up the line. “You don’t get to die on my table. Not tonight.”
The needle slid in smoothly, your hands steady despite everything.
You hooked the line, lifted the bag, and watched for the flow. “Come on,” you grunted, massaging the blood bag with controlled urgency. Waiting for the blood to run down the tube. “Come on.”
Dark red threading its way down, steady and vital, making its way inside your patient.
You let out a breath you had a bad habit of holding when too focused.
“Good,” you heaved, the adrenaline slowly leaving your system, rendering your frame shaky.
You adjusted the line, securing it to a wall by a rusted nail hanging out of it before returning to his wounds, finishing what you started. Stitch by stitch. Clean. Precise.
Then, finally, stopped fighting you.
By the time you stepped back, your shoulders ached and your hands were stained red to the wrists. The worst of it was over, his color (or whatever) seemed to be returning.
He was still breathing. Barely, but just enough.
You glanced at the blood bag. Half empty. “Guess you owe me more than a hundred,” you murmured dryly.
You stayed still, watching until the blood bag ran out and then replaced it with a new one. It was done. Now to clean any evidence.
Carefully, you removed your gloves, tossing them aside before dragging a hand down your face, only succeeding in smearing more blood across your skin.
You didn’t notice nor did you care. Instead, you pulled the chair closer and sat.
Watched. Waited. Because now?
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