everything im too embarassed to put on my main. sometimes this includes porn. feel free to send art requests. i will draw porn for you if i want to. this is probably exactly who you think it is
Donât Go Where I Canât Follow [Vinsmoke Sanji x GN!Reader]
âIâd rather have it be me than you. Iâve been made the luckiest man on the Grand Line solely through you choosing to love me, so if I take my last breath protecting you, Iâll do so gladly.â
âYeah, I know. Trust me, I know. And I donât think you understand how absolutely terrifying and daunting that is.â
Genre/Tropes: hurt/comfort, established relationship
Word Count: 4k
Warnings: mentions of canon typical injuries
A/N: Rewatching Whole Cake always makes me wanna wrap his self sacrificial self in a blanket and keep him safe even more than I usually do, so here we are. Written with anime Sanji in mind, but could be read as OPLA Sanji, too, I think??
The food in front of you mustâve grown cold by now with how long youâve been pushing it around your plate listlessly, any appetite replaced by anxiety induced nausea the moment Usopp had found you stumbling out onto the deck, still bleary eyed and only half awake, and had told you to pick up the pace if you still wanted any breakfast. The buzz and chatter of the crew has faded to not much more than static in your ears as you keep stealing glances at the blond serving food and bright smiles like nothingâs wrong in the slightest. It takes several calls of your name to realize Luffy is talking to you, desperately wanting to know if youâre gonna finish your breakfast, so you end up shoving your untouched plate in your captainâs general direction, harsher than strictly necessary, before falling back in your seat heavily, arms crossed over your chest, eyes downcast and overall radiating discontent and restlessness. It earns you a concerned gaze from the cook, one youâve become so accustomed to you can feel it, yet you refuse to lift your head or react in any other way.
The rest of the crew catches on to the tension between you both quickly, all filing out of the kitchen one after the other with flimsy at best excuses, except for Luffy, who has to be dragged out by Zoro, bless the swordsmanâs heart. Silence settles over the room, awkward and strained, so unlike the comfortable warmth that usually occupies the quiet spaces between you.
âAngel, you didnât eat a single bite. Would you like me to make you something else?â
His voice is low, soft, careful, meant to calm and reassure you. Any other day, it probably would, as it usually does.
Today?
Today, it makes you want to strangle him.
âAre you serious right nowâŠ?â you ask, trying to keep your voice level.
Tipping your head back, you exhale the anger burning you from the inside out in a long breath before leveling him with a disapproving glare.
âExactly. So why are you standing here, first day out of a coma, still covered in bandages, pretending like itâs just any other regular morning? Like nothing at all happened?â
The soft smile slips from his face, replaced by a worried frown as he runs a hand through his hair anxiously, leaning against the counter across from you.
âItâs not that big of a deal, weâve had close calls before.â
âNot that close.â
âSweetheart, please, Iâm fine, you donât have toââ
âYou almost died, Sanji!!â you finally explode, shooting up from your seat so fast, your chair goes tipping over and clattering to the ground loudly. âYour fucking heart stopped and you were out cold for days!! I donâtâ Whyâ How can you just brush that off like itâs fucking nothing?!â
You cross your arms over your heaving chest, a false, thin layer of security over your aching heart, nails digging crescent idents into your arms while you desperately hold on to the anger, lest the grief and fear of the last few days take over again.
Seeing you so upset because of him pains Sanji more than his actual injuries and he just barely resists the urge to wrap you in a hug, fully aware that you wonât let him lull you back into familiar security and comfort through honeyed words and gentle touches this time.
âI am so sorry, my love, I never meant to frighten you like this, but I donât regret any of it and even if I could go back I would not change a thing.â
Terror comes creeping back into your veins, mingling with the rage to burn like poison, same as the tears you can feel building, threatening to spill from tired eyes as you throw your hands up in exasperation.
âDoes your own life really mean that little to you?!â
Thereâs a tick in his jaw from grinding his teeth too hard, crossing his arms over his chest while he stares right back at you, eyes pleading, but stubborn.
âNo. But Iâd rather have it be me than you. Iâve been made the luckiest man on the Grand Line solely through you choosing to love me, so if I take my last breath protecting you, Iâll do so gladly.â
You bark out a laugh, short and humorless, the first tears finally falling and leaving streaks across your cheeks.
âYeah, I know. Trust me, I know. And I donât think you understand how absolutely terrifying and daunting that is, to be absolutely certain that I can trust you with my life, but not with your own! And I get that itâs not your intention to make me feel like this, that itâs just in your nature to want to protect the people you care about and Sanji, let me make it clear to you that I have not felt unsafe or uncared for for even a single second since meeting you, but when you push it to such extremes, do you have any idea what that ends up doing to me?! I donât want to lose you in some honorable, heroic act of self sacrifice, I want a future with you!!â
All color drains from his face rapidly, shock taking over his features so instantly and completely, you clamp your mouth shut fast enough for your tongue to get trapped between your teeth, the coppery taste of blood not enough to distract you from realizing what youâve just let slip - or from how utterly terrified he looks at hearing it. Averting your gaze, you swallow hard around the lump in your throat and wipe a sleeve over your eyes, futilely trying to stop the tears from flowing.
âI guess⊠I guess you donât⊠think about that. I justâ never mind, forget I said anything.â
You make for the door as fast as humanly possible, hand already on the knob when he calls out to you. âDonât. Please. Donât leave, not⊠not like this.â
Heeding his request, you turn and let your back collide with the door heavily, sniffling while you wrap your arms around yourself for comfort, but your eyes stay locked on the floor. Itâs not like you actually want to leave, you hate arguing with him, as rare as it is, and youâve never parted ways upset with each other, itâs not how your relationship works. But the shock of almost losing him is still gnawing at your bones, not to mention your own injuries havenât fully healed; youâre exhausted, mentally and physically, and now the added humiliation of exposing a wish for a future he seemingly doesnât want is making you want to crawl into a small, dark space to hide.
A pair of black shoes enters your field of vision, followed by slender fingers reaching for your hand, still tightly clamped around your own arm. His movements are slow, careful, giving you ample time to pull away if you so choose. When you donât, he gently rests his hand over yours in a barely there, featherlight touch and the second his skin touches yours, warm and familiar, relief floods your system, everything else falling away.
Heâs okay. Heâs alive. Heâs right here with you. Nothing else matters right now.
You weave your fingers together, grip like a vice, tight enough that youâre certain it has to hurt, yet he doesnât let go, in fact, he steps closer and brings your intertwined hands to his lips, pressing chaste, soft kisses to each of your knuckles individually.
âMon cĆur, will you look at me, pleaseâŠ?â
One, two, three deep breaths, in and out through your nose, thatâs how long it takes to work up the courage to do as he asks and youâre immediately met with anguished blue eyes, wet with unshed tears. His free hand comes up to brush a gentle thumb over your cheek, wiping away some of the salty tracks still clinging to your skin.
âI have so obviously failed you in countless ways, I couldnât expect forgiveness, not even from someone as benevolent as you.â
âSanjiââ
âNo, let me speak, please, my darling.â he interrupts softly, but doesnât continue until you give him permission in the form of a small nod. âNot only did I cause you grief and pain through my actions, no matter how well-intentioned they might have been, I also have been negligent enough in my affection and devotion to have you truly believing that I donât desperately desire a future with you.â
âY-You doâŠ?â Itâs a hoarse whisper, quiet, but oh so hopeful.
âEmbarrassingly much.â he confirms with a low chuckle, accentuated by the tips of his ears turning pink. âIâve thought about introducing you to Zeff, at some point. Iâm⊠still trying to figure out how to set that up without the old geezer sending you bolting in the opposite direction the second he opens his damn mouthâŠâ
That earns him a huff of a laugh, along with the ghost of a smile tugging the corners of your lips upwards and itâs enough to assuage the ever present fear of overwhelming you, of being too much with his version of fondness and love.
âThinking about finding the All Blue? That dream isnât complete anymore without picturing you by my side. Getting to be with you long enough to see your smile lines deepen and the first glimpses of gray appearing in your hair, even if I might be the cause of some of them? Nothing would make me happier.â
âProbably all of the gray hairs that Luffy doesnât cause, letâs be honest.â you mumble, brushing his bangs away from his eyes and cupping his face, heart fluttering when he nuzzles into your touch and presses a quick kiss to your palm.
Then you watch his brows furrow in deep thought, gears in his head clearly turning as he figures out the best way of phrasing his next words.
The poor cook looks so utterly lost and apologetic, hunched shoulders, trembling fingers and glossy eyes, your heart lurches in your chest, rattling around your rib cage, leaving bruises in itâs attempt to get to him. You never meant to make him feel like he has to change such a core aspect of himself just to keep you happy.
âIâm not asking you to, my light. The fact that your kindness knows no bounds, to the point where you would sacrifice anything for the people you care about is one of the reasons I fell in love with you in the first place. What kind of hypocrite would I be if I now asked you to erase that? I just wish you would think about yourself, too, every once in a while. If not for your own sake, then⊠then maybe you could do it for me? And for the future we both want? Because, Sanji, none of what you talked about can happen without you.â
Heaving a heavy sigh, he ends up dropping his forehead to yours, eyes falling closed while he threads his fingers together behind your lower back in a loose hug.
âYeah, I⊠I know. And Iâll do better. Well, I⊠I promise Iâll try. For you. For us.â
He can quite literally feel the tension bleed from your form at his words.
âThatâs all I ask,â you murmur, leaving a quick kiss on his cheek. âThank you, my love.â
His answer comes in the form of little kisses, ghosted over your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, anywhere he can reach, and just as he leans in to capture your lips, your stomach very loudly reminds you that youâve barely eaten anything proper in days. Sanji freezes at the sound, which has heat crawling up the back of your neck and stealing into your face instantly, but it only lasts a second, then heâs already laughing, quiet and soft and warm, before pressing a final chaste kiss to your warm cheek. âWill you please let me make you some breakfast now?â
He has already turned around, halfway to the stove, so he completely misses how you purse your lips and narrow your eyes at him in disapproval. âNo, I wonât, actually.â
âSo what would youâ No?â
The blond whips back around so fast itâs downright comical, blue eyes wide and confused and looking so much like a kicked puppy you almost consider taking it back. Almost.
âYou heard me, no. We mightâve made up, but that doesnât mean you didnât mess up and that has consequences. So you are going to sit,â you gesture at one of the stools at the counter, confidently striding past his bewildered form and beelining towards the cupboards, âand let me make breakfast, because I know for a damn fact that you havenât eaten either.â
He blinks owlishly, like heâs trying to wake himself up from a dream, rooted to the spot, long, slender fingers flexing at his sides, utterly unsure of what do with himself now. âLove, donât be ridiculous, Iâm perfectly capable ofââ
âI know you are, thatâs not the point.â you interrupt him, shutting one of the drawers as you jab a spoon in his direction as threateningly as possible and yet again motion for him to take a seat. âThis is your punishment so sit down before I make you, you know I can and will.â
Color blooms across his cheeks, stuttered half sentences dying on his tongue as he tries to come up with a defense he already knows you wouldnât fall for anyways. Defeated, he drops himself down at the counter, chin propped up on one hand, watching you pull a bowl and flour from the cupboards, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against the counter top, bottom lip trapped between his teeth in thought.
âDarling, not to throw a wrench in your oh so carefully crafted plans, but being taken care of by you can hardly be considered a punishment.â
Turning back around from where youâve grabbed a pan, you regard him with raised brows: head cocked to the side, nestled into his palm, blond hair illuminated by the sunlight filtering in through the bullseye on the door almost halo like, blue eyes warm and bright like the sky on a clear spring day and a smile so genuine and soft, your heart just about melts through your rib cage.
Sighing, you deposit the pan on the still cold stove, then meander over to stand opposite of him, forearms coming up to rest on the counter and then leaning in close enough for your breaths to mingle, one wave rocking the ship away from having your lips on his.
âFor you, Mister âActs of service are my love language and if I donât take care of my loved ones constantly I will implodeâ? Yeah, thisâll do just fine. Nice try, though.â A condescending pat to his cheek paired with a smug grin follows, then you return to the station he usually occupies and start dumping ingredients into a bowl.
âWorth a shot.â Hands raised in surrender with his own grin tugging the corners of his lips upwards despite himself, he seemingly finally settles into his seat, albeit temporarily.
Of course youâre not wrong in your assessment, he does get antsy when prohibited from showing his affection through care, but when itâs you reversing the roles, he never actually minds, and you know this; itâs what has him analyzing the entire situation all over again. Sapphire eyes observe you carefully, the way you so comfortably move around a space thatâs usually his like youâve never belonged anywhere else, humming contently under your breath, calm and at peace for all the world to see, but thatâs not what Sanji sees. Thereâs the slightest tremble in your hands, the inside of your cheek occasionally getting trapped between your teeth, gaze flicking over to him every so often, a shaky, little smile as his reward when you catch him staring - and the truth finally hits him like a slap to the face. No matter what you may claim, this isnât some actual form of punishment, this is you, still trapped with the fear and panic from the last few days, and not knowing where else to put it all besides making sure heâs safe and sound and cared for. Of course youâre not going to let him lift a single finger. Of course youâre not going to let him out of your sight, the need to reassure yourself that no harm will ever befall him again too great. Itâs exactly what he would do in your position and heâs long since learned that you can be scarily similar to each other.
Wether Sanji likes to admit it or not, he had in fact almost paid for his chivalry with his life this time around; had almost gone somewhere you would not have been able to follow, something heâd promised you heâd never even think of. In the moment, heâd told himself itâd be okay. That heâd live and even if he didnât, you would be alright and thatâs all that mattered. Youâd grieve him for a while, or so he hopes, and then youâd heal. Move on. Find someone else, someone better, to spend your life with and make you happy. He would want you to. After all, you wouldnât spend the rest of your life wishing for âWhat ifsâŠ?â with someone whoâd never been worthy of your affections and love in the first place, would you?
In his mind, it had all seemed so easy.
Would it have been easy for him if your roles had been reversed?
The answer is as clear as he pictures the waters of the All Blue and just like that the world tilts on itâs axis, shifting into focus, bathing everything in a different light and Sanji feels nauseous with the weight of what he put you through. His ailing heart drives him from his seat despite the reprimands already falling from your lips, molding his body to yours, arms tightly wound around your middle and head buried in the crook of your neck. The complaints die on your tongue when you realize he doesnât try to pry the spatula away from you, lets you flip your pancake in peace, no indication that heâs about to take any of the work from you, only a gentle, reassuring presence, strong, steady heartbeat at your back.
âTu es mon univers entier, mon avenirâŠâ Itâs not much more than a quiet murmur against your skin, soft and reverent. âI was⊠blind to you seeing me as yours. And that is not your fault, my inner demons and insecurities should not have to be your burden and yetââ He cuts himself off with a frustrated huff, arms tightening around you. âIâll never know what I did to deserve my very own guardian angel, but⊠thank you, my beloved. For looking out for me.â
Reaching back, you tangle one hand in his soft hair, gently scratching at his scalp and he immediately goes snuggling into you further, eliminating any nonexistent remaining space. âSomeone very clearly has to.â
A barely there huff of a laugh, dry and joyless. âThere ought to be much better uses of your precious time.â
You hum quietly in mock thought. âCanât think of a single one.â
The sound that escapes him is somewhere between a laugh and a sob as he spins you around to face him, consciously moving you away from the hot stove and trapping you between him and the counter now digging into your back. Thereâs nothing but devotion, downright worship, written all over his pretty features, eyes shining like the rays of the sun reflecting off the waves, then, âI really want to kiss you, mon amour, please can Iââ
You beat him to it, yanking him forward by his shirt, all too happy to oblige, the movement so hasty and desperate you end up clashing your teeth together. The recovery is quick, seamless, the kiss becoming less frenzied, passion and adoration taking center stage instead. A low groan from the back of his throat has you looping your arms around his neck to drag him impossibly closer, helplessly addicted to anything he gives you, his own hands reaching up to cradle your face in turn, thumbs softly brushing over your cheekbones and angling your head to deepen the kiss further, your surroundings falling away as the world shrinks down to just the two of you.
The need for oxygen is what regretfully forces you apart eventually, yet you stay tangled together, heaving chests pressed against the other, both unwilling to allow even an inch of space to disturb the little corner of the world youâve carved for yourselves.
His warm breath fans over your face and then he moves lower to busy himself with leaving little nips and kisses against the sensitive skin of your neck, goosebumps following in his wake. âHeavens above, I adore youâŠâ he sighs against your skin.
âHmmm, lucky me, cause thatâs just about the only thing thatâs gonna make these pancakes edible.â
Confusion furrows his brows as he straightens back up, watching you reach over to grab the pan, depositing the charred victim of your distraction onto a plate youâd already set aside. When he actually has the audacity to laugh, you level him with an icy glare and jab an accusing finger into his chest. âThis is your fault, you know. You distracted me.â Still chuckling, he lifts said accusing finger to brush his lips against it in apology. âOh come now, love, thereâs still batter left, everythingâll turn out fine. Besides, Iâd happily eat poison if you were the one to serve it to me.â
You almost feel your knees buckle at hearing that, immediately reaching for his cheeks to pinch both of them in frustration. âIâ You canâtâ What did we just talk about?! Good grief, you are incorrigible!!â Thereâs no real bite to your words, only very real, very fond exasperation.
Clearly amused, heâs grinning while he pries your hands off his face and returns them to their previous position comfortably settled at the back of his neck. âAnd yetâŠâ he starts, leaning forward to leave a small, soft kiss on the corner of your downturned lips, which has them quirking upwards despite your best efforts, âhere you are.â
Shoulders dropping in defeat and rolling your eyes at his antics, you try your utmost best to appear cross with him, but youâre already mirroring his smitten, lovesick expression before you know it. âHere I am. And Iâm not going anywhere.â A beat of hesitation, your voice growing quiet with the true weight of what youâre about to ask. âAre you?â
His teasing grin softens into something gentle and warm as he regards you: worry and uncertainty creating a crease between your brows, beautiful eyes pleading and fingers anxiously fidgeting with the short hair at the nape of his neck. Carefully unclasping your hands, he brings them to his chest instead, right over his heart, steady and strong against your palms, itâs rhythm trying to prove his next words true, to leave you certain that he means them mind, body and soul.
If you haven't already watched the French series 'Mortel' on Netflix, this is a strong recommendation to do it. And in case anyone should be interested, here is a list of (most of) the whumpy moments for the main characters Sofiane and Victor.
That's all :)
(Trigger warning: this show contains some pretty dark themes like cults, suicide, mental illnesses, and rape)
Sofiane, Victor, both
Season 1
E1: 10:00 (punched in the face), 14:30 (scared, rolls down a hill), 29:00 (choked), 31:00 (coughing, gasping), 45:45 (cutting their fingers with a knife)
E2: 01:00 (discomfort from use of powers), 21:30 (nausea, head pain, throwing up (power strain)), 40:30 (disoriented, can't control powers, in pain, unconscious, coughing)
E3: 11:00 (pinned against wall), 42:00 (power strain)
E4: 00:00 (power strain), 03:45 (throwing up), 16:30 (power strain, + headbutt) (feat. the most precious little groan from Victor)
E5: 09:00 (power strain, crying, dazed, feverish, out of it), 13:30 (unconscious, feverish), 20:00 (tied up, scared, possessed)
i guess... my mistake really did ruin everything between us, didnt it?
im sorry moe...
but its ok. i will keep trying to be better. and i will leave you in peace as you deserve.
i hope you live well in the spotlight without me. you did everything to earn it, anyway.
me... im probably not supposed to be there, am i? it wouldnt be right for someone like me to be noticed or important. i would just mess it all up, like i did with you.
some people just arent meant for that. some people would be too easily corrupted. have too much darkness lying in wait in their hearts.
i guess thats me, then. back here. behind the curtain where i belong.
shine bright for nobody but yourself, ok? and i can pretend that some of that light is for me.
as for me, nothing will become of me i suppose. as it was never meant to.
C groans, shutting the cupboard as they prop the phone under their ear. "B, you know how dramatic A is. They're probably zonked out on cold medicine and dead to the world."
"You didn't hear them," B says, voice pleading. "They sounded really rough on the phone."
"Yeah, because they're sick. We've all been sick. A didn't invent the concept." C tries to keep the bite out of their voice. They know A is B's friend, so they tolerate them for B's sake. But A is not someone they particularly care for.
From the moment they'd met a few years ago, they'd been at odds. A's the vivacious life of the party who thinks C's a stick in the mud. C's quiet and reserved, and thinks A's an attention seeker who always pushes things too far. Together, they're oil and water, fire and ice, two polar opposite who just never click.
Most of the time, B serves as the perfect buffer between them. But B's out of town on a work trip for the weekâthe exact time A had come down with the flu. Apparently, A had been feeling worse over the past few days, and B had been calling and checking in on them. Last night, A had sounded particularly roughâand when B had called them in the morning for their scheduled check-in, A didn't pick up.
So B, out of their mind with worry and unable to do a thing about it, called C.
"C, I know A's not your cup of tea. But they were like...super out of it. And they sounded scared. I think something's really wrong." B's voice wavers, and C feels a twist of guilt in their chest. âPlease?â
C squeezes their eyes shut and pinches the bridge of their nose. "And there's no one else that can check on them?"
"There's no one I trust more than you."
C gazes upward with a resigned sigh. Bullseye. B's blind trust and belief in their competency would always win in the end.
"Fine. Send me their address." _________________________________________
An hour later, C's sitting in their car outside A's houseâa cozy craftsman in a thickly wooded neighborhood. They glance at the bag next to them, shadowed in the evening twilight. They'd made a stop at the pharmacy for a few essentialsâflu medicine, tissues, cough drops, and some herbal tea that C always liked when they were sickâbut now all it just felt stupid and over the top.
I don't even like this person.
Yeah, but you're a good person, C. The rebuttal came in B's voice, and C knows it's time to rip the band-aid off.
They head up the front walk, rap, rap, rap on the cherry red door with their knuckles, then wait a few moments on the shady porch. Nothing. The shades are all drawn, and C can't get a glimpse inside.
They're probably asleep. As any sick person should be. And I'm the idiot waking them up.
But they'd promised B that they'd check on A, and they weren't leaving without proof of life. So they kick around in the small rock garden out front until they spot the hollow rock with the spare key (just like B had said), then brace themselves for a truly humiliating encounter.
"Alright, B. If A calls the cops on me for breaking and entering, I'm holding you responsible." With a twist of the key, C opens the door and pushes inside.
The house is quiet, save for the whirr of a small air humidifier in the corner of A's living room. C's been here with B for a few rowdy parties, so it's strange to see the house so devoid of life.
"A? You in here?" C calls through the house, an uneasy feeling they can't name settling in their stomach. They drop the bag at the door and wander the main floor of the house, the only evidence of a sick person being a collection of used mugs scattered across the counter and in the sink. But still, no sign of A.
Like I said. Upstairs. Asleep. C pads up the creaky stairs until to a dim hallway, then peer into a room they assume is Aâs bedroom.
In the evening light, C can see a tangled pile of blankets with tissues strewn across the bed. They tentatively pad over, not wanting to wake A, but their caution is unwarrantedâA's not there.
C's heart beats faster, every one of B's fears echoing through their mind. "A? You in here?"
From somewhere in the house, C hears a cough.
C darts from their room and freezes in the hall.
Another small cough, and a whimper.
Closer, then. C traces the sound to a room which they can only assume is the bathroom. It's dark in there, but C cautiously creeps in and fumbles in the darkness, trying to find a light. In the shuffle, their foot hits something soft the moment they find the light switch.
They flick on the light, and there, curled on the bathroom floor, is A.
A flinches at the light and throws a hand over their eyes with a yelp. Their other hand clutches a spilled bottle of medicine, sticky red syrup in a sickening red puddle on the white tile. There's a towel pulled half over A's trembling body like a makeshift blanket. More shocking, though, is how dreadful A looks. Face devoid of color, shaking all over with chills, hair plastered to their forehead with sweat. The room has faint sickly scent, and Aâs body is contorted oddly, like they fell down that way and didnât have the strength to move an inch.
And when A finally sees that it's C, they whisper one quiet plea.
Help me.
âA, what the hellââ C drops to their knees and slips their cool hand over Aâs forehead. âYouâre burning up.â
In response, A shudders and pulls the towel tighter. âF-f-freezing.â
Even in delirium, A had to contradict them. But thereâs no time to dwell on that. C hauls them out of the pool of cough syrup and props them up against the tub, then makes a mental list of everything they need to do.
Clean clothes. Clean up the bathroom. Take their temperature. Medicine.
âWater,â A croaks, breaking Câs frantic thoughts as they slump back down to the floor. C sees their dry, cracked lips, and winces at the thought of how long it's been since A's had fluids.
âHang on, bud. Youâre okay.â C brushes a trembling hand through Aâs hair, and their soft, soothing voice feels like the polar opposite of the adrenaline coursing through Câs body.
The next few minutes are a blur. C runs downstairs to grab a glass, then has to hold A's lolling head up so they can drink without choking. After A gulps down the whole glass, C fetches clean clothes from A's room, then tries to clean up the mess of cough syrup on both A and the floor before peeling the sweat-drenched clothes from A's shaking frame.
Once A's warmly dressed in clean flannel pants, a dry thermal shirt, and a cotton pullover, C hoists A up and carries them back to their room and to their bed. Easing them under the covers, they tuck their shivering frame under one, two, three blankets. Itâs probably too many, but Aâs teeth are audibly chattering and C has no idea how long theyâd been curled up on the cold bathroom tile while suffering with chills.
âA, I need you to tell me how you feel.â
âBad.â
âNo, specifics. Youâve clearly got a fever, what else?â
âHead hurts. Throat hurts. Bones hurt. Cold.â A shudders and pulls the blankets tighter. âSo cold. All cold.â They cough once, twice into their blankets, and itâs deep and rattling. C doesnât have to ask if that hurts, too.
âWhat was the last thing you took?â
âDonâtâŠ.donât know. Ran outâŠ.yesterday.â
"Well, you need proper medicine, pronto." C gets up to go find a thermometer and grab their bag of supplies theyâd dropped downstairs, but they feel a clammy hand curl around their wrist.
âStop leaving,â A rasps.
âA, I gotta go getââ
âYouâŠ.are the first person Iâve seenâŠin 72 hours. Please do not go.â Aâs desperation to cling to C, of all people, would be funny if their eyes werenât glassy with unshed tears. The poor thing looks terrified.
C doesn't know what to do in this moment of unexpected vulnerability, so they shift to sit at Aâs bedside. Aâs trembling hand is still clinging to their wrist, their breath coming in short, shallow wheezes.
âWhatâŠhappened?â The question is a stupid one that theyâre not sure A can answer in this state, but itâs the only natural icebreaker C can think of after finding someone sprawled on the floor.
A shrugs. âKindaâŠ.fuzzy. Medicine ran out last nightââthey gesture weakly to an empty plastic bottle of flu medicine on the nighstandââand then it hurt. All night.â
âThis morning....bad. Got desperate." A half shrugs, and their thousand-yard stare cracks something in C. "Then jusâ rememberâŠ.standingâŠwalkingâŠthen the ground. Couldnât move.â Aâs voice cracks a little on the last word. âThenâŠ.you.â
In their head, C pieces together a timeline that has a feverish, terrified A lying on the floor for hours, and it makes their stomach do a little flip.
âWhyâŠ.you?â A eyes C warily.
âOh.â C scratches the back of their head awkwardly. âYou didnât pick up when B called in the morning. So they called me.â
âShit. B.â Aâs hand rakes over their face and flops down on the covers, and C instinctively wants to tuck it back under the blankets. âWas sâposed to call backâŠâ A glances at their bare wrist for a watch that isnât there, then squints at the wall clock. âNumbersâŠdonâ work right.â
âThatâd be your fever.â
âForgot toâŠthe numbers are allâŠ.mushy.â
âOhhkay, A. Shhhh.â C palms their forehead again and winces at the heat. âI need to take your temp and get you medicine.â
âDonât leave.â
âItâll take 30 seconds. promise. Here.â C slides their watch off their wrist and puts it in Aâs hand. âCount to 30.â They severely doubt A can, but theyâre hoping the watchâs novelty is enough to distract their fever-addled mind.
C sprints back to the front door and grabs the bag, then jogs back to Aâs room. Aâs intently staring at the watch, like itâs an object of reverence, and jumps when C gently touches their arm.
"C'mon, you. Let's get you drugged up."
âââââââââââ
After establishing a 103-degree fever, ingesting a cocktail of OTC drugs, and downing both a glass of cold water and some hot tea, A's zonked outâin bed, this time, under Câs watchful eye, covered with a fourth blanket that a pitiful, shivering A had conned C into giving them.
C didn't really know what to do after that. They've done their job. They've checked in on A, and done what they could. For B, they tried to tell themselves. But they couldn't just leave A alone in this state. So they find a spot on the other side of A's bed on top of the covers, and justâŠwait.
And despite trying to distract themselves with a book from A's side table, they can't stop looking at A.
They're curled up on their right side facing C, blankets pulled up to their chin. C can see the dark shadows under their eyes, their ghost-pale pallor, the occasional shiver that ripples through them. Gone is the brash bravado and the easy charm thatâs always grated at Câs simpler sensibilities.
They look so young.
In their sleep, A whimpers once, twice, and C immediately puts a hand on their forehead, shushing them. A blinks awake with a start, breathing heavily before their eyes catch on C.
"You're still here,â they rasp.
"I am." C smiles.
A heaves a sigh of relief. âDreamedâŠI was alone again. But youâre here.â Their red-rimmed eyes are so wide and genuinely grateful that C can barely stand to look at them.
So they swallow the lump in their throat and force a smile again. âCâmon. In this state, you can't be trusted on your own."
A grins sleepily at thatâthen, lets their eyes fall closed and nestles closer to C.
âGlad youâre here.â
A drifts off again. C lets their head tilt back against the headboard, fingers lazily tracing through Aâs hair.
Bâs never gonna let me hear the end of this, C thinks with a wry smile.
I would looooooooove to see a tma one and honestly I am so torn between prompts cause so many fit!!
Im gonna give you my top 3 and like. Idk hopefully something there is enticing.
I think 1. Miscommunication/trust issues/fear of rejection
2. In a bad mood/out of energy/at the end of their rope
And 3. Self sabotage/pushing through/collapse
Are all like so incredibly Jonathan sims.
No pressure to write anything though!!
hello my friend! thank you SO MUCH for the prompts!!! this is a bit of a conglomeration of prompts 2 and 3. there will be at least one more part to this.
This fic takes place in the Emmaverse AU. Jon has EDS and friends, including POTS, asthma, chronic fatigue, chronic pain. he is also Jordanian.
cw fainting, nausea, asthma attack
This Kind of Life Keeps Breaking Your Heart
Shakespeare class, of all things. Shakespeare is what will take him, in the end.
Jon had always been a bit overly exuberant when it comes to the Bard, especially when introducing younger students to him for the first time. Something in the way it sounds read aloud, something in the way each person interprets the intricate patterning of phrases a little bit differently will never fail to bring joy to his heart and a smile to his lips.
Even when catching ill. Which Jon, most definitely, is well into the process of doing today.
This morning hadnât been bad at all, reallyâjust a bit of scratchiness in his throat, his sinuses and breathing a bit wetter than usual. His energy lower by a good margin as well. It was honestly to be expected. Toward the end of term, Jonâs students are stressed, which subjects them to illness; ill students then subjected Jon to their unfortunate presence in class. Not that Jon blames them, really. God knows he had done the same during his uni days.
It is, however, the end of term. Which means a long, much-needed rest for both Jon and his students. They all just need to make it through exams in one pieceâthree more days. Jon could hold out for another three days, as he had told Martin this morning.
âJon, hold onâyouâre not seriously going to work, are you?â Martin had asked, hurriedly setting Emmaâs breakfast cereal on the tray of her high chair, which she immediately knocked onto the floor.
âOf course Iâm going,â Jon replied rather snappishly. âIâve got students to teach.â
Martin was not hampered by his tone. âI know, habibi. I just thought you might teach online today instead. Since youâŠsince you didnât sleep well last night.â
Jon scoffs at this, bringing an irritated blush to Martinâs cheeks instantly. âIâm sorry to have kept you awake.â
âThatâs notââ Martin starts, voice rising in volume just briefly before clearing his throat, and changing his approach. âNevermind. Lunch is in the fridge for you, okay? JustâŠbe careful.â
âHmm,â was all Jon had offered in reply, silently taking his lunch, stalking toward the doorâŠbefore thinking better of it, and returning to peck Martin on the cheek.
âMâsorry. Iâll be alright, really.â
âYou donât look well, Jon.â
âJust three more days until the holiday. I can hold out til then, really.â
âYou are ill, then. I knew it.â
âIâm alright. Iâm okay.â
âYeah, sure, just up coughing half the night, no big deal.â Martin runs a hand through his freshly-shorn hair. âI donât like this at all.â
âIt will be fine, Martin. Iâll see you tonight.â
Now, during his second class of the day, Jon can feel his body growing heavy. Heâs already discovered that his heart rate has decided to keep ticking away at no less than 100 beats per minute today, even while sitting. He doesnât know what it was running at when he had initially been standing at the podium to teach, but he does know that it caused the most intense near-faint heâs had in a while.
Jon has opted to not do that for the rest of today if he can help it, and so has been seated while lecturing since.
âWould anyone volunteer to read the next passage aloud for us?â His voice begins to waver, unable to steady itself on the fire of his throat.
âUntil which page, sir?â
âTo pageâŠhang on, Iââ he shuffles through the text quickly. âI seem to have lost my place, haââ
He lets a small chuckle slip past him, setting his throat ablaze. And sending his lungs into overdrive.
The air moves out of him in a swollen rush, the tightness he had not realized had been building quite so heavily brought to the forefront of his awarenessâand he chokes.
He canât cough. He canât breathe, he canât, he canâtâ
Inhaler. Inhaler. Inhaler.
Spots gather in his vision as he reaches into his coat pocket, quickly shaking the medicine, letting as much air out as his swollen-shut lungs will allow, and breathes it in. For a moment, the tightness begins to loosen, the spots fade, his breath comes back, even if still rapid and shallow. Then, with a joltâhe feels the damp rising in his chest.
The rest is a blur of bent double, ears ringing, desperate attempt to make way for air in his lungs. Jon is vaguely aware of concerned murmuring around himâstop coughing stop coughing stop.
He does, at last, hold it off for the moment by heaving braced, shallow breaths, head tilted to the sky.
âClassâŠdismissed.â
âProfessor? Do you need us to call someone, sir?â
âDo you needââ
âWhat can weââ
Well-meaning students everywhere. Closing in. No, not intentionallyâbut closing in all the same, and it causes a dread to build in Jon that he cannot fully explain. But he does know that they need to be out of here, immediately.
âDismissed. Iâmâokay. Just under thâhaâthe weather.â
Heâs nearly certain they donât buy it, but all the same, they have exams to study for and papers to write. Heâs giving them nearly half of their class time back to catch up, to rest, whatever they would like. Itâs too good of a prospect to decline.
Jon keeps his eyes down as the students begin to shuffle out. His heart is pounding, vision pulsing around the perimeter in time with it. Perhaps if he can just take a moment to allow his lungs to throw a tantrum, he can be ready for his next class of students within the half hour.
Students anticipating a thorough review before their final exam.
Damn it.
âFeel better, sir.â
The words float down to him from above, interrupting his musings. A woman with a long blue plait hanging over one shoulder smiles, and sets down a plastic cup of water on the table. In her other hand, she grasps a shimmering metallic cane, complete with stickers trailing up and down its length, reminders of things that she loves. Armor. Jon recognizes this with a smile of his own, grateful for the act of kinship.
âThank you. Thatâs very kind,â he rasps before coughing raggedly into his shoulder. Vision blurring again.
Fuck.
The student doesnât seem to be bothered, merely pushing the cup of water towards him again before giving a nod, and exiting the room. The door clicks behind her, the sound echoing in every corner of the hollow room.
Alone at last, Jon lets his head drop fully onto his arms, leaning hard on the table and causing it to slide forward with a scratch. His entire body feels alight in this moment, screaming fire even as he sinks into the earth. And he is sinking. The weight of his still-heaving chest, his head, his neck, his overworking heart is threatening to plunge him down. He knows with frustrated certainty that this fatigue is going to pull him under. Itâs only a matter of time.
Keep moving.
If he can manage to make it to his office on the third floor of this building, heâll be able to use his nebulizer. Perhaps even lie down, if his lungs will let him. Jon knows from experience that the longer her sits, the more unbearable it will be to consider standing. So, grabbing his cane in one hand and bracing himself on the table with the other, he slowly pulls himself to standing.
It was a terrible idea.
The racing of his heart in his chest turns into a stuttering rhythm, one he can feel all the way back between his shoulder blades. He takes a shuddering inhale, exhaleâsometimes that is enough to get his body through the initial shock of movement, enough to recalibrateâand he tells himself that it helps a little. He tells himself that the tunnel vision is passing, the tingling of his fingertips is normal, his stumbling step is just clumsiness.
Then the sudden nausea rises in his gut, and he knows he either needs to sit now, or his body will do the sitting for him. Painfully, and without further warnings. He makes his way to the floor, wondering distantly over the last time this carpet was cleaned. Doesnât matter, heâs not going toâŠ
Hurt!Shinpei moments from Summertime Render (contains spoilers!!)
eps 04, 12, 18, 22
The amount of horrors this guy witnesses in each time loop...
gotta say i really loved the scenes from ep 12 and 18
In ep 12 Shinpei witnesses the death of all his friends. Shide - the four-armed Shadow - even crushes Mio's head infront of Shinpei, because he's cruel like that. tells Shinpei to "keep breathing here until tomorrow ends, drowning in despair" because they know his ability of looping time is activated when he experiences death. But! as last resort, Shinpei kills himself by drinking a poison, but it's a s l o w and p a i n f u l death. so he's vomiting blood, writhing in pain, and can barely take a breath, but determined to go back in time to save every one.
The scene from ep 18 was soo intense!!! words cant describe what i felt watching the episode (same goes for the whole anime tbh). SPOILERS! this time, Shinpei and Ushio think they finally managed to kill Shide but they are too late to realize, that this Shide was a clone, and the real one slices Ushio in half. Shinpei screams (facial expressions animation on point) and fires his gun at Shide, but ofc it's useless and Shide impales Shinpei on a tree. I can't be the only one who loved how Shide delivers his lines. when he taunts Shinpei about Ushio's death and tells him "the only loop you'll be in is despair and regret"
Could I pretty please hear what you would think about a platonic Doey X autistic player?
Shoutout to my fellow autistic poppy playtime fans, we cannot be stopped >:)
If you like my work, please consider commissioning me :)
Doey & autistic Player
â Doey is no stranger to people who are on the spectrum, plenty of his old friends from Home Sweet Home had special needs. You shouldn't feel any kind of shame over who you are! If you did, Doey would be quick to knock some sense into you.
â In that situation, Doey's playful side would come out. "Alright, listen up! You're incredible, and I won't let you feel bad about yourself. Being a bit different than others is not a flawâit's a part of you. And personally, I think your pretty great!"
â Feeling overstimulated? If possible, he will adjust the environment as needed. Turning down lights if they are too bright, giving you a blanket with a nice texture and asking the other toys to play quietly.
â He always asks for permission before getting close to you. Knowing that sometimes it can be a big no. "Hey buddy, is it okay if I stand here? I don't want to make you uncomfortable." Followed by him hastily adding "If you ever feel uncomfortable, just let me know, okay?"
â Doey gets really upset if someone messes with you. His eyes narrow, the usually jovial demeanor shifting into something more serious. He takes a deep breath, trying to keep his cool before speaking. "Hey, that's not okay. You need to stop. Right now."
â Internally, Doey is seething with anger. He hates to see anyone treated badly. But chances are the person who was being rude was just a toy who didn't really understand what they were doing. If that's the case, he takes the time to explain why what they did was so wrong.
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Yarnaby had done a number on your thigh, his claws had made contact with the soft flesh. Causing three good sized lacerations, thankfully he didn't cut deep enough to hit the mussel underneath the layers of skin and fat. Not fatal but can cause major problems if left untreated.
Each step was a struggle, dizziness and fatigue had started to set in thanks to the blood lost. Doey was nowhere to be seen. The Player had to focus on getting back to the Safe Haven before something worse happens.
As the player got closer to the Safe Haven, their vision began to blur, and they staggered a few times. However, the hardest part was over. Upon reaching the Safe Haven their eyelids began to feel heavy. The last thing they saw was the entrance beginning to open before everything went black.
â After finding out what happened Doey would make his way to where the player is being treated, needing to see for himself that they are safe and being taken care of. He stood right next to the medic while you were being worked on. If you woke up, he wanted to be there to comfort you.
â Ever the gentleman, he covered his eyes with his hand when the medic had to shimmy your pants down to properly dress the wound, he had to respect their privacy! "Oh no, oh no, this is bad. Don't look." he muttered under his breath.
â Doey was a bundle of nerves until the Player woke up. He spent the time thinking things over, first kissy got hurt and now you. Thankfully you woke up fairly quick, only were out for about an hour.
â In a matter of seconds he was standing next to them. "Hey there buddy, how are you feeling?" They groaned at the horrible feeling emitting from there thigh. "Not great then?" Doey said, shifting into the Players view.
â He stayed close, helping the Player with anything they needed. He fumbled a bit while helping the Player, still a bit shaken by his new best friend getting roughed up this badly.
â Despite the exhaustion, you find it difficult to sleep soundly. That isn't surprising considering the pain from the injury. Remember, they have no painkillers. Only children's Tylenol.
â You will be feeling it for the next few days. Luckily you are in an area where you can rest. Doey makes it a point to check on the player regularly, bringing them water and a few books from the reading corner. It's not much but he hopes it makes you feel more comfortable.
â Internally, he feels horrible. Like he should have been closer or more vigilant when the Player left. His mind filled with "what if" scenarios like he could have done something to stop this from happening.
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Doey & reckless player
â Of course you are the kind of person to take chances, its why you came back to the factory after so long. Well, that and the note. By the time you met Doey, you have already taken many leaps of faith.
â How he reacts honestly depends on his mood and what it is you did. If he's feeling playful and you didn't do anything too serious, he might just poke fun at you for taking so many risks. Putting his hand over where his heart would be and declaring "Oh no, don't do that! You'll give me a heart attack!"
â Occasionally, Doey adopts a mock-serious tone, playing the role of a strict parent. "Now, what did I tell you about running off like that?" He wags his finger at you, like he was going to reprimand you. But the smirk on his face told you he wouldn't.
â If the actions you take lead to success, he can't help but feel impressed. "Alright, alright, I'll admit, that was pretty good. But please, try not to give me a heart attack next time." He says with a goofy wink at the end.
â When Doey is in a more nervous mood. Aka If the player is about to do something particularly stupid, Doey can't help but step in. "Hey, maybe we should think this through first?" Gently but firmly trying to guide them away from making a bad choice.
â If you manage to find yourself in a risky situation, then get yourself out of it, he finds himself irritated at the lack of concern for your safety. And even more upset at the way you treat your life like it's not as precious as it is.
â What If you go off and do something dangerous and things don't turn out well? His usually controlled temper comes out when he thinks about it. And the frustration bubbles to the surface, "Do you even realize what could have happened?" he snaps, "It's like you don't even care!"
â You need to be careful. Please. His temper isn't just about your safety. it's about how deeply he cares and the fear of losing you to something completely avoidable. He needs you to stay safe.
fiddleford being gentle with little stan when he first finds him after ford goes through the portal? maybe he comes to yell at ford and finds stan with a burned shoulder trying to work through being little to get his brother back? â€ïž
Hey guys and the anon who requested this, Iâm so sorry itâs so late, life got away from me, has been hectic, and I wanted to really put my focus into writing this request. If there are any missing âIâ in a word, deeply apologies, my keyboard âiâ cover broke halfway through writing this. There are some mentions of infections and medical treatment for Stanâs burn, just to warn you if any of that skeeves you out! If this seems way better than my previous work, itâs because I took about a week to write it! I really hope you enjoy this piece, and I hope the anon who requested it is still here! Please let me know if I've captured your vision!!! Â
As always, Iâm open for helpful advice on my writing/execution!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
     âFord! Stanford Pines you come out here right now! I demand we talk!â Fiddleford H. McGucket was mad. Fuming. Pissed beyond all belief. He had just remembered some snippets of the portal incident and he knows his old partner (and little) was still working on it for that devil! He needs to make that man see some sense. Thankfully, Stanford hadnât changed his locks or the passcode to the basement, so heâs able to stop down three flights of stairs to the bottom floor of the lab to confront him.
     âStanford! I know you can hear me! Come out here right-now?â He stops short at the sight before him. The portal is broken down, machinery and wiring everywhere, broken and sparking. Thatâs not what makes him stop, no, itâs the figure in front of the control center. He looksâŠhe looks ragged, haggard, even. His hair long and greasy, his skin looks dirty and sweaty, and he looks almost exactly like Stanford. Except gruffer. It hasnât been that long since Fiddleford has seen his old partner, has it? He canât have changed this much in just a few months. Itâs when he gets a glimpse at the hands that it clicks in his mind. Thatâs not Stanford. He tries to think rationally before he freaks out and starts attacking the stranger, heâs gotten arrested for that a couple times already. He looks like Stanford, just rounder and greasier and with five fingers instead of sixâŠHe vaguely remembers a discussion him and Stanford had back in college, they were celebrating finishing their first set of finals with some well earned and homemade Hooch courtesy of you-know-who when the man had started muttering and was on the verge of sobbing about a âLeeâ, and when FIddleford asked who that was, all Stanford could manage to get out before passing out was âMâ Twinâ. And they never spoke of that incident again, Fiddleford putting that memory on a backburner until now.Â
     So this must be that Lee fella, Stanfordâs twin. Something must have happened if heâs here in that state and Stanford is nowhere to be seen. Something bad. This fills him with panic instead of anger, worry for his Bookworm his friend overpowering his negative emotions towards him. He walks quickly towards Lee, his steps slowing down as he gets the full view of this man, his ears picking up his intelligible muttering. He looks more than greasy and unwashed, he looks sick. He can see gauze on his shoulder, stained with pink and a different color, one he canât quite make out in the poor lighting of the lab, but it twists his stomach nonetheless.
     âH-hey, Lee? Um-what happ-are you okay? Is F-Ford-â Fiddleford doesnât quite know what to say to this man, who looks both so much like Ford but so different. Who looks sick. He makes the mistake of putting his hand on the manâs shoulder, flinching back as he turns around violently with a fist raised promising a world of pain. Fiddleford shrinks into himself with a small and terrified squeal. Lee stumbles back, though, eyes glossy and distant, the defensive act just muscle memory at this point. He seems like heâs about to slide against the console and fall, soFiddleford reaches out to help steady him, thankful for all the pig wrangling and calf birthing heâs had to do in his life back on the farm, Lee is heavier than Ford was is. He gets a better look at Leeâs face and feels his own pale, blood rapidly draining and leaving him feeling cold. Whatever injury he has on his shoulder has to be inflected, the man is burning up and sweating something fierce, low and intelligible mumbles spilling from his mouth, his bangs sticking to his forehead, the slight smell of sickness wafting over him. Theyâre both lucky Ford was able to synthesize and stock high grade antibiotics in case they ever needed them, because he needs them, that or a hospital, and he doesnât know anything about Fordâs twin, not even enough to explain what had happened to him.Â
     Propping Lee up against the console and making sure he wouldnât fall, he quickly managed to run to a storage room to the right, temperature controlled to keep cool. He finds the medical supplies very diminished, but most of the antibiotics were there. Both worrying and relieving him. Ford had gotten injured so much to deplete their medical supplies this much? They were essentially prepared for an apocalypse. But the relief is that Ford never needed these hospital grade antibiotics, only to be used for serious infection. He collects the medicine, bandages, and any other thing he can think of, putting them in an empty first aid bag and slinging it around his shoulder, making his way back to Lee as fast as he could manage. Fiddleford hauls him up and leans him against his side, stumbling his way to the elevator that he could never bring himself to trust. He has to now, he canât carry this man up all the flights of stairs that lead into the house.Â
     Fiddleford breathes in deeply, glancing over at Lee from the corner of his eye, releasing his breath when he sees heâd hardly even registered change in surroundings or the fact that he had moved, his eyes gazing distantly down onto the floor. Fiddleford resolutely moves him into the open elevator, propping him against the wall and quickly pressing the buttons needed to bring them back up to the main part of the house. Lee stumbles as the elevator moves, an almost frightened whimper escaping him as the elevator creaks and groans, chugging slowly along, his hands finally moving on their own to grasp onto Fiddleford in a move that puts the skinny man almost in front of him. Something deep inside him tightened at the sight; Lee looked more like a lost child than a grown man. "Stay with me, Lee," Fiddleford murmured, his voice steadier than he felt. "Weâre gonna get you sorted out. Just hang in there, okay?" A low whimper escaped Lee's lips, eliciting a rush of empathy from Fiddleford. It was clear that Stanford's twin had been through an ordeal far beyond what he could comprehend. The least he could do was ensure that Lee would be safe for the time being.Â
     As the elevator doors dinged open, Fiddleford slowly moved with Lee out into the dark room, just registering how cold it was-is the heating even on? Was the bill paid or was all the power just directed to that damn portal room? Fiddleford glanced around, his mind racing. âI need to get you to a bathroom and a bed,â he decided. He gently helped Lee step out of the elevator, the man leaning heavily against him. He maneuvered him toward the stairs, taking them one step at a time and going very slowly, Fiddleford may be tall but Lee was bulkier than he was, he didnât want to risk Lee toppling over and falling down the stairs, injuring both himself further and the one currently helping him walk. They stumble their way upstairs, Fiddleford having to haul Lee up again when he started to slump too closely to the side, and towards the extra bathroom on the second floor-Fiddleford remembers this one having better lighting and not being as cramped as the downstairs bathroom. He gently deposits Lee on the toilet, worrying about his lack of response to the movements and light being turned on-at least the power still works up here-ever present. Setting the first aid bag on the coffee table, he knelt beside Lee, anxiety gnawing at him. âOkay⊠letâs see what weâre dealinâ with here.â Fiddleford pulled back the gauze on Leeâs shoulder, and his breath caught in his throat. The shoulder was inflamed, swollen with an angry red hue, the bandaging far too stained for comfort. He canât even tell what was burned into his shoulder from how bad it was. Leeâs eyes fluttered open slightly, revealing a hint of recognition.Â
     âWhaâwhoâŠâ Leeâs voice was soft, barely above a whisper, and he couldnât manage to say full words. Fiddleford didnât know how much he knew about Fordâs work, meaning he doesnât know if Lee even knows about him, but, with how out of it he is he figures some small trickery shouldnât be too bad, people tend to respond better to help by people they know, or well, are told they know.
     âItâs just me, Lee, your good olâ pal, Fidds. You remember, right? Weâre great friends, you nâ I.â He holds his breath as Lee just nods along, the fever and infection ravaging his body obviously making it difficult to properly think back on his words.Â
     âForâŠâ Lee trails off, his word soft and incomplete, but Fiddleford knows what he was trying to say and felt a pang of heartbreak at the mention of Stanford.
      âHeâs⊠heâs not here right now. But Iâm gonna take care of you, alright? Just focus on me.â He carefully began cleaning the wound, glancing up to gauge Leeâs reaction. Lee sniffled, biting his lip, but didnât pull away, his eyes still hazy and glazed over. Fiddleford doesnât think heâll be lucid for a while now. Each moment that passed seemed to drag on, filled with Leeâs fragile breaths and the quiet sounds of their surroundings. What was supposed to be a simple act of care felt monumental. Fiddleford bandaged the injury carefully, relying on the knowledge they had accumulated over the years. âYouâre gonna be alright, Lee. Just gotta get the antibiotics into ya, and youâll start feeling better in no time.â He goes and pulls out the bottles of antibiotics, some IV fluids to help with Leeâs obvious dehydration, and the collapsible IV pole that heâd made-maybe a bit overkill for the time but it was perfect for now. He rounds Lee, finding his eyes already on him. âHeya, Lee, can I see your arm? I need taâ give yaâ some antibiotics to help with your infection.â But the man made no movement or noise indicating he understood what Fiddleford was saying. He took his arm in gentle hands, swabbing and cleaning the inner elbow before inserting the butterfly needle-hushing Lee when he made strangled whimpering noises, seeing a glimmer of tears come to his eyes. He pats Leeâs head, unconsciously cooing to him as he leans his head into Fiddlefordâs touches, a soft sigh and hum passing through his lips.
     âLetâs getcha up now, need to get you in some clothes, though mâ afraid no shirts for a little while, you need as little as possible on that burn oâ yours.â Fiddleford stood up, stumbling in surprise as Leeâs hand grasped his, standing up with him and still staring, more clarity in his eyes, but still nothing indicative of being fully present. Fiddleford took a steadying breath, trying to calm the rising tide of worry threatening to overwhelm him. As they shuffled into the small, dimly lit hallway, Lee's gaze began to clear a bit, though it still flickered with confusion and fear. Fiddleford was grateful for the flicker of awareness and desperately hoped that Lee would be able to grasp even a thread of comfort in this chaos. âCâmon, Lee. Letâs get you settled, alright?â he murmured. The soft squeeze of Leeâs hand around his reassured him that the man could understand him to an extent, enough for his body to respond, at the very least. He makes his way to an open door, peering inside to see if it was acceptable enough for Lee to sleep in. It seems that this was the room he was staying in, though, if the clothes thrown about and rustled blankets on a small bed were of any indication. Steadily, they hobble into the room, Fiddleford holding Leeâs hand and steadying him as they walk, keeping an eye on the IV to make sure it doesnât get snagged or trip over anything. He sets Lee down on the edge of the bed, making sure he wonât fall over, before searching around the room for some soft and hopefully clean pants, only finding some faded sweats. They didnât seem too filthy, so Fiddleford deemed them as okay for now and turned around before stopping dead center, eyes assessing the scene before him. Lee had, from somewhere, grabbed a teddy bear-one with a remarkable similarity to Stanford-and was grasping it tightly, his body hunching over to bury his face in the soft cloth. He could see the slight trembling in Leeâs shoulders as he held the toy, hiding behind its plush form. An epiphany struck FiddlefordâŠitâs possible that Ford and Lee were more similar than just in looks.Â
     âHey, buddy,â Fiddleford spoke softly, moving closer, careful not to startle Lee. âThatâs a nice bear youâve got thereâŠâ as he came closer, he saw a blanket strewn on the bed behind Lee, a large quilt with what looked to be some crudely sewn Teddy Bears on it. Fiddlefordâs heart ached at the sight of Lee clutching the teddy bear, drawn into its warmth and softness as he huddled over it, the blanket behind him just solidifying his thoughts. The plush creature and quilt seemed to offer a sense of security amid all this chaos and confusion. He knelt beside the bed, keeping his voice soft and calm. âHey there, Lee. Letâs get yaâ some pants, alright? Just something comfortable for now.â Lee remained silent, his gaze still fixed on the bear. Fiddleford moved quickly to the small dresser, pulling out the faded sweats he had spotted earlier. He returned to Lee, who hadn't shifted from his position, burying his face against the bear's plush fur. âHang tight, âright?â Fiddleford said, moving in front of Lee. He carefully helped him remove the old, dirty pants, mindful of Leeâs discomfort. With each movement, he offered gentle reassurances, softening the air with his presence. âWeâre almost done.â He knows the other man canât understand him, not fully, but Fiddleford knows from experience that talking to a kid or someone in this mindset can help keep them calm, and calm is what Lee needs right now.Â
     âHowâs about we lay back down now, okay? Rest yerâ head on that pillow and just breathe in, âkay? Some quiet time.â Lee absentmindedly nodded, his grip on the bear tightening momentarily before loosening again. He leaned back, still looking dazed and feverish, but more comfortable now that he was semi-clean and dressed with fluid running into him. Fiddleford decided to remain quiet for a little while, too, letting the soft sounds of the house settle around them. The air was a little chilly, but Fiddleford figured they could tackle that issue soon enough. He slowly brings his hand towards Leeâs head, watching for any signs of flinching or cowering before he lowers it and softly begins to stroke his hair, cooing softly as Leeâs eye fluttered closed, his head leaning into the hand gently caressing him, soft murmurs escaping his lips. Fiddleford, with one practiced hand, pulls the blankets over Lee, the thinner ones first, the thicker comforter that was piled on the floor, and finally, Leeâs well-loved quilt, tucking them around the gentle creature before him, keeping his IV arms out of most of the layers besides to top quilt.
     Fiddleford's heart warmed at the sight of Lee nestled under the blankets, the calming rhythm of his breathing creating a peaceful atmosphere in the room, he felt a swell of protective instinct for the man beside him. âJust like that, Lee. Nice nâ comfy nâ cozy,â he murmured softly, continuing to thread his fingers through Leeâs hair, taking care to avoid any tug on the IV line. Lee seemed to lean further into Fiddlefordâs touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he began to relax into the layers of warmth wrapped around him. As Fiddleford settled into a rhythm, the gentle motion of his hand seemed to draw Lee deeper into a state of comfort-deeper into his headspace if Leeâs soft chewing of the bearâs ear before Fiddleford removed it was anything to go by. The world around them faded into the background, the cold chill of the air outside kept at bay by the cocoon of blankets. The sound of breathing filled the roomâthe steady rise and fall of Leeâs chest mixed with Fiddlefordâs quieter, more measured breaths.
     âYâknow, I used to do this for your brother, too,â Fiddlefordâs voice cut through the silence, âWhen he felt younger-smaller-the world feeling too big for him. I was there to help him and take care of him. I wouldnât mind being that person for you, neither. I donât know what happened with our Ford, but I hope youâll tell me.â Fiddleford breathes into the silence, just staring at Lee, whoâs dozing off surrounded by his teddy and warmth of the blankets. âI want to take care of you, Iâve missed takinâ care of someone, actually. Nâ I have more than enough room in my heart to add another person.â Lee made a soft, indistinct noise, his eyes still closed, as if he somehow understood the intent behind Fiddleford's words. Fiddleford smiled softly, hoping that the weight of his sincerity could reach Leeâs subconscious, anchoring him in a sea of uncertainty.
     Closing his eyes for just a moment, Fiddleford let the sounds of the house mingle with Lee's breathing, the gentle cadences a soft lullaby. He found his own fatigue creeping in, but he fought it off for the sake of his friend. Lee needed someone to hold firm and steady in this chaotic world, and he was more than willing to take on that role. After some time, Fiddleford felt the room grow quieterâLee's breathing became more even, deeper. He risked glancing at Lee's face, noticing the way his features had relaxed under the quilt, the tension that had gripped him slowly dissipating as he found solace in sleep. There was something reassuring about seeing him at peace like this, a small flicker of hope sparking in Fiddlefordâs heart.
     âJust keep resting,â Fiddleford whispered, pulling gently at the edges of the blankets around Lee, tucking him in a bit more snugly. âIâll be here.â The rest of the night was full of soft snuffles and easy sighs, this little corner-their little corner-of the world tucked away for a few hours, peace falling around them
