call me max. she/her. multi-fandom. 18+. follow max-attack-whumps and max-is-emo ! would love to post some writing but we’ll see how that goes. current fixation(s): Project Hail Mary
started rereading your tua series the other day right as april hit. i was tickled by my random inspiration to reread right during that time span. still reading wuas and only on like chapter 6. anyway you’ve said that you hate april so i thought i would send my wishes and compliments. these are some of my favorite fics of all time and i often think back on them fondly. can’t believe i was actively reading while you were actively posting wuas in 2019. i wasn’t even in high school yet. now i am a full adult and almost done with university. thanks for writing something that i have enjoyed for so many years. that’s pretty cool.
tbh since then we've had so many terrible months i can't single out april as the villain hahaha
but it's always nice to hear people still enjoying my old stories! i may move on from various fandoms as my attention drags me elsewhere but i love to know that the love remains o7 thank you for sharing it!
(also wow i did not put together that those fics are like 7 years old now. dang.)
just reblogged your latest. fantastic work as always. i paused my listen to Malevolent for a bit but uhhhh i started reading the murderbot diaries 😭😭😭😭 it’s so fucking good dude and i thought of your art the whole time
THE MURDERBOT DIARIES IS SO GOOD
It's so good that I struggle to come up with jokes about it because like, SecUnit is already funny on its own right, what can I add, really.
I hope you have fun reading the books! I was just thinking about them today. Maybe it's time to read them again. It's only been a few months, but...
rewatching ted lasso and in season 1 episode 4 (for the children), rebecca says that everyone loves rupert no matter what he does, and it makes me think about how at the end of the season, ted forgave her no matter what she did… like it feels like a parallel or a fulfillment of some kind.
hi beautiful. i’m thinking about hawkeye being mentally impaired in some way. like he gets a concussion so he’s confused, or he’s hallucinating, or he is scared into a panic attack or something. like: he can’t think straight ya know. i think it would be cool for the others to be like “i didn’t realize how comfortable we got with his nonchalant persona.” something like that.
and if you don’t want to make this a fic i would be more than happy to discuss too! i love our chats.
omg i loved this prompt, it allowed me to be alone with my thoughts for several hours this week because it was just so fun to play with in my mind. i struggled with writing blockage a little toward the end, but i hope it came out okay!! i hope you enjoy it!!
“Are you sure you’re up for your post-op shift?” BJ asks for the third time in an hour. With three critically wounded in their care and another one who isn’t quite out of the woods, they’ve been having to monitor closely and constantly. “Your fever’s only been broken for 12 hours.”
“We can’t be down a person for much longer, so I’m going to have to push through it. I’m stronger than I look.”
He looks miserable and exhausted from his bout with the flu this week. His fever only broke yesterday and he’s been pushing himself ever since, insisting on returning to work. BJ isn’t sure whether that’s guilt or a god complex, but it’s clear that he either feels bad about being in bed for a week or he feels the need to do everything himself ot ensure it’s done just so.
“I can cover if you need me to.”
“Pull a double, Beej? Come on. If we get more wounded, you’ll be so tired that the patient in front of you might start to look an awful lot like a pillow.”
He sighs. Hawkeye is right. If he doesn’t rest, he won’t be useful later when they really need it, and Charles and Potter can’t do this alone if Hawkeye ends up feeling as bad as he looks.
“Come get me if you need me, yeah? I’ll just be in the Swamp.”
“Sure.”
“And keep an eye on your temperature.”
“Yes, mother,” he says back, a little ire undercutting his usually mirthful tone.
As BJ walks away, it takes all his strength to not call out to him and say that he’s changed his mind, that he still feels lousy and doesn’t want to be here. He should still be asleep in bed, but the war doesn’t stop just because he’s sick. More wounded pour in almost every day. There’s no way he can leave them alone with that any longer than he has to. Charles and BJ have both been working long hours to cover him while he was too sick to move, so he’s eager to rush it and get back to normal. Besides, they’ve been telling him for days that they need him to recover as fast as possible, so he’s just following orders. The worst part is the lingering cough that’s keeping him up and keeping him short of breath. This isn’t the end of the world. He can work through it.
In the end, he’s sort of right. By the time his shift is finished, he’s signing patient charts without even looking at them, letting the nurses handle anything minor that comes up like pain or minor bleeding. However, he’s technically performing his duties. Twice, he had to get up to check a wound for infection, but while they’re keeping a keen eye on both, he saw no signs of anything being dangerously amiss. He’s sitting in a chair with his back against the wall and his eyes shut when BJ comes back. He must really look bad if he’s here to check on him when Charles is going to relieve him in an hour or so. Though he wants to sit up and greet him, knowing that this position and struggle to keep his eyes open will freak him out, he has no choice in the matter. All the energy he has is being used on shivering.
“Hey,” BJ greets. “How did everything go?”
“Fine,” he rasps. Great, now his voice is shot, too. Probably from the cough. “Keeping an eye on a few things.”
“Jesus. You sound awful. How are you feeling?”
“Freezing,” he replies honestly. He isn’t sure he has the wherewithal to lie right now, and besides, BJ would see right through it if he did.
“You think your fever’s spiking again?”
He shrugs. “Haven’t checked.”
“You know better than that,” BJ calls over his shoulder as he hunts down a thermometer from the drawer. “Under the tongue.”
“So that’s where it goes. I have a few patients to apologize to.”
“Funny,” he rolls his eyes. “Don’t talk so much. Two minutes.”
They wait the requisite time before reading and BJ frowns.
“Any higher and I’d say you need a bed in post-op. In fact, you should probably go anyway, so the nurses can keep an eye on you.”
“As much as I love eyes on me, I don’t need all that. Just a little sleep.” BJ seems to agree, or at least doesn’t argue.
“Think you can walk back to the Swamp?” Hawkeye nods. “Alright. Up we go.”
It’s logistically difficult, but BJ manages to get him up and support a concerning deal of his weight for the whole walk, if clumsily and awkwardly. There, he deposits him into bed.
“I was on my way to help put away the supply shipment. I’ll come check on you in an hour or so. Think you can last until then?”
“Last I checked, sleeping was a one person job. I’ll get up if I need pointers.”
“Or medicine,” he adds, “or something to eat and drink, or your bedtime story. Here,” he says, handing over a couple of pills he’d grabbed from post-op and an abandoned glass of water from his bedside. “Something for that fever. Do you need anything?”
“8 hours of uninterrupted sleep?”
“I mean anything that’s possible in this universe.”
“I see,” he says. “No, I’m fine. Probably just going to sleep until it’s my turn in post-op or there’s a rush of wounded.”
“Well, don’t wait until you’re on death’s door to get help. If that fever gets higher than 102.5, come get someone.” He nods.
“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
“Get some rest. You’ll feel better when you wake up.” As soon as BJ turns to leave, he hugs his robe tighter around him with a sense of foreboding.
Of course, as soon as he finds a position that’s comfortable enough to sleep without aggravating his cough, the sirens sound. It’s taken so long that the shipment is long since done with and BJ has returned to sleep, groaning loudly at the interruption.
“Stay put.”
He does so only for about 90 seconds before reporting to the OR. It doesn’t matter how sick he is—kids could die. He can’t let that happen.
“Hawkeye,” Margaret says disapprovingly when he enters, pale and slouched and shaking. “You should be in bed.”
“I’m not sure it’ll fit through the door.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be in the OR at all. Yesterday, you could barely tolerate being on your feet.”
“Believe me, being here has taught me to tolerate a hell of a lot.”
“No. You’re benched until that fever goes down,” Potter orders. “You’re in no shape to operate.”
“I can still—”
“I’ll hear no arguments. It would be irresponsible of me to allow a doctor to perform while his judgment and skills are so obviously impaired.”
“Colonel, we have a problem,” BJ says. “We’ve got four soldiers who could die if we don’t operate right this minute. That means we need him.”
Colonel Potter thinks hard for just a beat, then sighs.
“Scrub up. But I’m not happy about it.”
Well. He can’t disagree.
A nurse dabs his forehead again with a cool sponge, hoping to provide even a modicum of relief and to keep the beads of sweat that are bubbling up from dripping onto the patient. They’re practically pouring water down his throat, and he has to be careful which way he moves his arm because he’s receiving fluids and fever reducers via an IV in his forearm, though neither appear to be touching this. At least they’ve managed to stop his shivering, but something still feels off, murky, like trying to shine a flashlight into fog.
“Talk to us, Hawkeye,” Potter calls. “How are you doing?”
“On my feet,” he manages, “if barely.”
“Temperature?”
“When do you think I’ve had time to check that?”
“He’s snippy,” Margaret observes, judgment withheld. It’s worry, not annoyance.
“I know my rights. I can snap if I want.” He coughs again, stepping away from the patient and being both grateful and loathing that he’s wearing two masks. It’s safer, but definitely more stifling, and he’s already not breathing so well as is. He’s been breathing hard for hours and he’s sure that’s doing no favors for his heart rate and temperature.
“That sounds awful,” Charles comments.
“Really? But I’ve been practicing.”
“This is no joking matter. You need a chest x-ray to rule out pneumonia.”
“I have a feeling we’re not going to be ruling it out,” Potter says. “I’ve been doing this long enough to know a serious cough when I hear it.”
“Now that we’ve both analyzed and insulted my lungs, can we move on? I need to work.”
“Whatever you say, Hawk.”
He refocuses, forcing himself to look at nothing but the kid in front of him, the kid who will die if he doesn’t do something about it. No matter how sick he is, he’d rather stay in his own shoes rather than try to walk in theirs. Lucky might be overstating it, but at least he’s not being shot at.
“I think he’s good to close.” The timing could not be better, either, because he’s afraid that at any moment, he might lose his battle with either his stomach or unconsciousness. Possibly both. “I need some air,” he says by way of explanation for rushing out the door of the OR.
He stumbles his way to the flagpole. He thinks he might be aiming for the Swamp, but it’s much too far to walk feeling as he does. Instead of trying, he slides down to sit on the ground, his eyes sliding shut soon after.
When he wakes, it’s because his shoulder is being shaken urgently. Someone is calling out his name, but he can’t seem to respond.
“Hawkeye, can you hear me?” Margaret calls.
“Fine,” he says airily, an answer that doesn’t quite fit with the question he doesn’t understand until several seconds after it’s asked.
“He’s really out of it.”
Before he knows it, Margaret’s cool hand presses to his cheeks, then his forehead. “He’s boiling.” Once more, a thermometer is forced on him, this time without a quip, without a word. The wait is excruciating, but the reading is worse. “Nearly 104. No wonder he’s barely coherent.”
“I can hear you,” he replies, but it’s too little, too flat, too dull, too late.
“We need to get him in a cool shower,” Charles says, already moving to help support him with BJ on the other side. “Fever reducers aren’t helping.”
“He needs another dose,” Margaret argues. “He’s been operating for hours. Let me do that before you get him in the shower. I’ll meet you there.”
“Alright, Hawk,” BJ says, the first person to talk directly to him in several minutes. “Are you with me?”
“Right here,” he says.
“Well, it’s your unlucky day. Unfortunately, you’re about to get a shower.”
“Will I have company?”
“I’ll be there to hold you up, unless you think you could you stand alone?”
“Not if you keep sweeping me off my feet.”
“So long as you don’t expect a kiss at the end of the night. You’re a little germy.”
“Hey, now,” he says lightly. “I make up for it in charm.”
“You’re stalling. Let’s get you up.” He does his best, but, as dehydrated and feverish as he is, everything spins as soon as he’s upright, and he finds himself relying on BJ and Charles. He’s not sure if he apologizes, but no one replies. Instead, they work on dragging him to the showers.
“We’re going to get you out of those scrubs, but I promise to keep your dignity intact.”
“If you see my dignity, I think I’m owed a kiss at the end of the night.”
“I’ll be gentlemanly about it.” Methodically, carefully but urgently, BJ strips him of everything but his underclothes, shedding everything bloody or bulky that might be trapping that overwhelming, dangerous body heat. Margaret takes his arm and gently injects another dose of antipyretics with a promise of fluids in a short while.
When BJ pulls him under the water, he startles and resists at first. It’s frigid, so much so that it hurts. He gasps and pulls away, but he’s weak, or BJ is stronger than he looks, and it does no good. Even when he does manage to squirm, Charles is right there to ensure he doesn’t manage to wriggle out of the stream.
“Just another few minutes.”
“It’s freezing.”
“It’s lukewarm,” BJ promises. “You’re just on fire. Hang on a little longer.”
“Not l-like I can go anywhere,” he manages through chattering teeth. “Not with Muscles standing there ready to pound me into the ground if I escape.” Instead of Charles, he gestures to Margaret, who rolls her eyes.
“You’d better believe it.”
“Temperature?” BJ calls after what feels like an eternity.
Charles advances with the thermometer and is apparently happy enough with the reading, because he nods, allowing BJ to turn off the shower. He thinks he whispers some kind of thanks to a god he doesn’t respect into the towel he’s handed. Another is thrown around his shoulders, which he draws close. Even if he’s no longer molten, he’s still not fever-free, and he can feel it in the way his bones are rattling around with every shiver.
Though he briefly attempts to argue that he’s fine to recover in the Swamp, they have none of it, and he sees reason. They set him up in a bed in post-op, hooking him up to fluids and ensuring that the entire staff know just how ill he’s been.
“How did you manage to work like that for so long?” BJ asks. “You were practically unresponsive when we found you.”
“For my next trick, I’ll try it blindfolded and spun around.” He glances at Margaret. “You’ll need a leotard.” She rolls her eyes.
“You must still be delirious.”
He shifts his gaze one person down to Charles. “You’ll need a leotard.”
“Right,” he says. “Glad you’re feeling better. I’ll be going.”
“Wait,” he says, sobering up from laughing at his joke. “I owe you a little thanks. I know I was a nuisance.”
“Of all the times to apologize for being a nuisance, you’re going to choose the one during which you didn’t have another choice? We needed you in the OR and you stuck it out as long as you could. As much as I’d like to, I can’t be angry with you for that.”
“Well, I can still thank you for it.”
“Of course.” Charles actually gives him a small smile. “Get back on your feet soon. We need you in there.”
It’s a well-wishing and a sad plea all in one, and it’s taken accordingly.
“That’s my cue to shut my eyes.” He’s been looking for a good excuse to kick the others out. As much as he appreciates them, he’s exhausted.
“Alright. We’ll let you rest. Do us a favor and come get someone if you’re soft-boiling your brain this time, yeah?”
“I can do that.” BJ claps him on the shoulder as he exits. “Thank you. Both of you.”
“Get some rest. We’ll need you.”
BJ hates that he has to say that.
“I’ll be back on my feet tomorrow.”
Hawkeye hates that he has to say that.
He allows himself to drift off into what must, because there is no other option, be healing sleep.
i can’t read the ask game so if there are any that you want to answer that you haven’t gotten yet, i’d love to see them! also i love you
i love you tooooo omg thank you <3
How many whumpy stories do you currently have published online?
plus so many OC fics and a ton I orphaned. i have issues
Which of your stories has the most whump in it?
definitely a scar away from falling apart!! SO much whump, so much angst, so many obliterated friendships, so much trauma. then so much healing at the end :) but in the meantime i beat the ever-loving shit out of him with high fevers, loss of consciousness, migraines, neglecting food and water, fist fights, extreme emotional distress, and more :)
i feel a little weird saying "in memory of loretta swit" because this is just a silly little fanfic, but because i heard the news of her passing, i wanted to write a lil mash fic. i don't do it often, but the banter in mash is some of my favorite to write and i hope i did it justice. thank you to the ever-brilliant @max-attack for the idea! enjoy!
“I fold,” Hawkeye says, turning his poker cards face up so the group can see.
“But those are great cards,” Margaret objects.
“It’s not my hand that’s bothering me,” he says, “it’s my head. It’s pounding.”
“Still?” BJ asks. “You’ve been complaining about that since last night.”
“Had a few too many martinis, Captain?” Charles digs.
“I’m just tired. I think I might head to bed a little early tonight.”
“I can’t say I blame you. This is the quietest night we’ve had in a while. Sleep while you can.” Margaret hasn’t taken her eyes off the cards, hoping that someone might let their hands rest while they’re distracted and she might catch a peek, but her tone is soft. Hawkeye excuses himself from the table without another word.
“Aren’t you going to go tuck him in?”
“Funny, Charles,” BJ says, rolling his eyes. “Keep that up and you’re not getting your bedtime story.” Charles is above playing along, so he turns his attention back to the table and tosses two chips onto the pile.
It’s been so hot out lately that Hawkeye has been kicking off his sheets in his sleep, but tonight, he has to pull out a blanket. He’s not sure whether that’s him or the weather, but the body aches and exhaustion aren’t a good sign. A bug has been going around the barracks and he’s pretty sure he’s managed to catch it from a patient. Though he’s sure it will be conspicuous when the others return to the Swamp and find him snuggled up under the covers, there’s no way he’ll be able to fall asleep this cold. As much as he doesn’t want to out himself as being temporarily incapacitated, the chills are too bad to ignore. If he’s lucky, no one will notice. Rather, BJ won’t notice. Charles could probably not care less without doing himself bodily harm. Sleep finds him as soon as he shuts his eyes.
When he wakes the next morning, the sun is so high in the sky that he knows he’s wildly overslept. That’s a little embarrassing. Though, like Margaret had said, it’s been quiet, it’s still humbling to roll out of bed at 10 am, especially when he’d turned in around 8 pm the previous night. Instantly, any hope he’d had that his only malady was exhaustion goes out the window. Not only is his head throbbing, but he’s dizzy, too, swaying a little when he sits up in bed. Dressing isn’t easy with his body aches and vertigo, but he manages to change into a clean pair of scrubs without incident and heads toward the mess, hoping that he’s not slept so late he’d missed breakfast entirely.
To his relief, though meal trays are mostly empty, no one has left the mess hall, meaning that he hasn’t missed any work, just breakfast, and he has no interest in that. His stomach feels churning and hot and the idea of adding food into the mix is enough to have him skipping the line in favor of sitting down at the table with the others.
“Look who’s finally awake,” BJ teases.
“I was hoping I could Rip Van Winkle my way through the rest of the war. Did it work?”
“Oh, Hawk. The war’s been over for forty years.”
“You all couldn’t find a better place to haunt?”
“I’m still shopping around. The haunting market tanked.”
“Enough,” Charles interjects, already annoyed. “Well, at least I managed to finish my coffee before you two clowns started up your nonsense. That’s better than usual.”
“Go into the light, Charles,” Hawkeye calls too loudly. “Let your spirit be at peace.”
“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” Margaret asks, ignoring all three of them to focus on his empty plate.
“Stomach’s feeling a little choppy,” he admits. “I’ll have something later.”
She frowns.
“Are you feeling alright? You look pale.”
“I overslept. Haven’t had time to put my face on yet.”
“I’m sorry I asked.” She hates it when she expresses a serious sentiment and he replies with a joke instead, but Hawkeye finds her irritation exhilarating. Addictive, even.
“She’s right, though. You should eat something. If you don’t, you’re gonna get too shaky to hold a scalpel,” BJ replies.
“In a few hours, I promise.”
He lets himself fantasize that maybe there won’t be any wounded today and he might get to go back to bed for a while. Sleeping hadn’t helped much and the lullaby of malaise is starting to sing him to sleep. Unfortunately, he knows that’s not reality. Even if they don’t have to operate today by some miracle, there’s a lot to do. A shipment of medical supplies is coming before lunch and he’ll need to help unload it and restock everything, and even if someone else can handle that, he’s got patients to see. One young man named Jack, barely 18 years old, has been terrified since the moment he entered the MASH unit—hell, probably since he’d enlisted—and hasn’t been taking it well. Hawkeye has been sitting with him late into the night, chatting with him until he feels tired enough to sleep. Not to mention things like helping the nurses clean the OR and laundering his scrubs, tasks that are made faster by sharing but no less burdensome or tiring. He should really go do any one of those things, now. It’s the perfect time to get a head start, and if he doesn’t do it now, he’ll regret it when he has to do it after a long shift. Still, his eyes are so heavy and his mind is so muddled that as soon as they finish breakfast, he returns to his bed rather than getting to work.
Of course, he never gets what he wants. The war doesn’t exactly check his schedule, so when the alarms sound out, he has no choice but to cancel his date with sleep and race outside to meet the ambulances.
“You’re awfully quiet today, son,” Potter notes after they’ve been working for over an hour without him having said a word. “Talk to me.”
“Fine,” he replies, “just focusing.”
“Really,” Margaret says incredulously. “I assumed your eyes go cross when your mouth isn’t moving.”
When the quip earns her no reply, she makes nervous eye contact with BJ, but they don’t push. Whatever is going on with him, if he doesn’t want to talk, it’s best to leave him alone, at least while there’s a scalpel in his hand.
The next few hours go by slowly and quietly. Margaret hadn’t noticed it before, but without Hawkeye breaking the tension in the room, nerves run higher and everything feels heavier. She’d thought she’d like the silence, but she actually finds herself missing his banter.
It takes several excruciating hours, but finally, the last of the wounded are moved to post-op, leaving the medical staff to clean up after themselves. To her surprise, rather than grabbing a washcloth, Hawkeye doffs his gloves.
“Where are you going?”
“Sorry, normally I’d say and help clean, but I’m exhausted. I think I need to go lie down for a while.”
“We’re all exhausted,” she replies. “But the OR needs cleaning. Don’t be lazy.”
“Next time, Margaret, I promise.” Before she can argue further, he turns and walks away, leaving the rest of them to watch in confusion. While there’s no hard and fast rule that the doctors have to stay and help clean, it’s common courtesy to at least clean up their own stations, and Hawk hadn’t even done that much. It’s unlike him, but she’s too crabby and tired to ask after the supposed laziness. Irritably, she grabs a cloth and slaps it, sopping wet, into the center of his operating table.
As it turns out, she should have been grateful he’d even showed up for surgery at all, because when the alarms go off again later that night, he doesn’t even make an appearance. She’s tying Charles’ mask around his head when she notices his absence.
“Has anyone seen Hawkeye?”
BJ looks around the room, apparently having been too absorbed in donning his own clothing to notice.
“I’m sure he just ran to the bathroom. He’ll be here any minute.”
But any minute comes and goes and he’s still nowhere to be found. Ultimately, they don’t have time to go hunt him down, so by the time they’ve scrubbed in, it’s too late.
“That’s weird,” one of the nurses says aloud. Never the words Margaret wants to hear. “We barely have any supplies. Wasn’t there just a shipment brought in this morning?”
“Yes,” Margaret replies, “there was.” Sure enough, when she goes looking, she finds a few crates sitting untouched by the back door. “No one unpacked these?”
“Whose job is it to stock the supply room?” Charles demands, only to be met with a long, uncomfortable moment of silence. “Well?”
“Well, Captain Pierce usually does that.” That throws them all for a loop.
“Pierce does this?”
“We can’t waste time unraveling a mystery,” BJ chastizes. “Grab what you need and go, go, go.”
To everyone’s surprise, Hawkeye never stumbles in with an excuse about not hearing the announcement or something equally stupid.
It’s after dark by the time they finish, all of them even more tired than they’d been before. Margaret and Charles are still seething over Hawkeye’s absence. Even BJ is pretty annoyed. If he’d slept through a call, he’d better have a damn good excuse.
As they wheel the last patient into post-op, someone sits up. He’s a young man about Radar’s age. BJ recognizes him because his injuries had been severe and he’d been terrified.
“Hey, kid,” BJ greets. “You’re Jack, right?”
Jack nods. “Where’s Hawkeye?”
“That’s what we’d like to know. Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering. He, uh, he normally comes and sits with me for a few hours at the end of the night. I… this place freaks me out, and he comes around to chat until I feel tired enough to fall asleep.”
“I never knew he did all this,” Margaret laments. “Now I feel guilty for calling him lazy.”
“It’s no wonder he’s exhausted if he’s been staying up so late. Why wouldn’t he tell us such a thing?”
“Maybe he just doesn’t want us knowing how much weight is on his shoulders. Maybe we should go check on him. It’s not like him to sleep through something like this.”
To their surprise, who do they run into on the way to the Swamp but the man himself, and he looks undeniably terrible. His posture is hunched, his face pale and covered in a sheen of sweat.
“Hawkeye?” BJ calls, rushing to his side. “What are you doing up?”
“I woke up and you two were gone. Figured I’d missed something.”
“Well, for good reason, I think.” He sways dizzily on his feet and Margaret jumps in to ease him down to sit on the ground.
“He’s burning up,” she’s able to assess even through his clothes. “How long have you been this sick?”
“M’fine,” he mutters even as he accepts the thermometer BJ thrusts toward him. “Just need to sleep it off.”
Two minutes later, the thermometer says otherwise.
“103 even,” BJ reads aloud. “Jesus. Where were you planning on going with a fever like this?”
“Thought I must’ve missed the sirens,” he explains, eyes widening when everyone breaks eye contact at once. “Did I?”
“A bit,” Charles admits, “but we managed.”
“Why didn’t you come get me?”
“Why didn’t you tell us something was wrong?” BJ asks. “We wouldn’t have harped on you all day if we’d known.” He shrugs, and it appears to be the best answer they’re going to get out of him at the moment. “In any case, I think we need to take you to post-op. You’ve got to be dehydrated.”
“That’s for the wounded,” he objects. “I’m not taking up a bed just for this.”
“If more wounded come through, we’ll figure something out, but there are empty beds now. You need fluids, maybe antibiotics.” Before he can object, Charles and BJ are hoisting him to his feet, where he loses vision for a moment.
“You alright?”
He nods.
“Okay. Let’s get you to bed.” He provides minimal resistance as they guide him there, and as soon as he lays down, he closes his eyes.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” BJ asks.
“I will be,” he says.
“Good. Get some rest, okay? We’ve got it from here.”
AAHHHH @max-attack IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY!!!! i hope you like this sweet little TLPoE fic! thank you so much for being so kind and sweet and supportive. you're the best ever!!!! <3
“Lacey,” Kit says in a harsh tone that she’s meant to take on the chin but instead hits her right in the heart, “it’s late. I can’t close the place if you’re still here.”
“I can lock up,” she replies easily without even glancing up from the computer screen. She’s been staring at it for so many hours that she’s afraid that if she lets her ciliary muscle relax for even one moment, it might not contract again. She can’t lose her place.
“No, I don’t think so.”
It hurts to hear it, that Kit no longer trusts her to do something as simple as locking the door. It’s warranted, of course, but it still stings. Every single thing anyone says always draws her back to her biggest failure, her most excruciating regret. The fork in the road where instead of choosing a path, she’d doubled back the way she came. The trolley problem where instead of saving anyone, she’d climbed into the cab with the operator. The gangrenous arm that she’d rather let rot the whole body than sever. September.
“Right,” she says, folding the laptop without even shutting it down and maniacally shuffling papers and folders around on the desk in an attempt to gather them up. “I wasn’t thinking. Sorry.”
“Kid, I said we’re closed, not on fire. You can take a second.”
“Sorry,” she says again, because she could say it every single way about every single thing and it still wouldn't be enough to earn forgiveness. “Okay. Just give me one second and I’m out of here.”
“What are you doing?”
She freezes. Lately, that question has been asked of her in a lot of different ways. Shock, disgust, confusion. But never like this. She almost thinks it might be concern.
“I’m just packing up some things to take home. I’ll finish them and—”
“You do realize that you’re going to be here all day tomorrow, don’t you? You’re not going to have time to work on anything.”
“I was planning on finishing tonight. Or, maybe not finish it, but at least get a head start. You heard Kolar; we had him squirming. There’s something here, I know it.”
“There might be, but it’s almost 11:00. Aren’t you tired?”
God, is she ever. Just keeping her eyes open is a struggle, not to mention reading. Shes’s been having to take breaks just to walk around the break room so she doesn’t fall asleep in the chair.
“This is important.”
“Everything we do is important. That’s not a good excuse.” Once again, Kit never wants to hear what she wants to hear. There’s no bullshitting her.
“I just really want to prove that I’m on your side again.”
“Look. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and it didn’t collapse in a day, either. You don’t need to do it tonight and you don’t need to do it alone. Just leave the damn computer and come with me.” It takes her a moment to analyze the chemical makeup of the emotion she’s experiencing. Confusion steals energy from guilt and self hate while the reaction between loneliness and shame puts off light and heat. It darkens her cheeks and the tips of her ears while the liquid byproduct begins to pool in her eyes.
“Sorry,” she says again when she’s been too quiet for too long and there’s no way that Kit hasn’t noticed. “I really want to find something good.”
“I’m sure you do, and I’m sure you will, but not when you’re running on nothing. When’s the last time you slept?”
Lacey averts her gaze to the floor.
“I’ve just been busy—”
“I see you, you know. When you sit back here and research at the desk while you’re supposed to be on your lunch break. There are sandwich crumbs in the keyboard.”
“Are you…” she trails off not because she can’t think of what to say, but because everything rushes to the forefront of her tongue and gets caught on the backs of her teeth. “Mad?”
It’s a juvenile question, or at least it sounds so, but she has to know. Kit has been so angry for so long that Lacey doesn’t know how to take it when, instead of yelling, Kit just blinks.
“For which part? It’s annoying to have to force you out the door, but—”
“Not about that.” There’s no need to clarify further.
“Oh,” Kit says softly. “That.” Kit spends an excruciating minute thinking of what she wants to say, then jingles the keys at her. “I’ll take you home, okay? There’s no need to bring the computer. Leave everything here. We can deal with it in the morning.”
Lacey stands too abruptly and wishes she hadn’t, because the room swims violently enough that she has to reach out and catch herself on the corner of the desk. Kit is at her side before her vision even settles.
“You okay?” she asks, grey eyes locking with Lacey’s own brown ones. She’d always thought that this is part of why Kit had been such a success as an FBI agent. Something about her face makes you want to not disappoint her. It’s in the way she studies Lacey just before she backs off to let her find her own balance. Like she sees something that’s worth looking at, looking for, after a lifetime of never being seen and valued at the same time.
“Just got a little dizzy. I might have overdone it on the coffee a little.”
“Sure.” Lacey shifts her weight from foot to foot.
“I can get myself home. I’ll take the bus.”
“We’re going the same way. I can just drive.” Now it’s Lacey’s turn to be confused.
“I live on the other end of town from you.”
“You’re not going to your place, not while you can hardly stand up. Ronnie would never let me live it down. I’m taking you to mine.” The gift of a night on Kit’s couch or, maybe if she’s really lucky, in the guest bedroom that used to belong to her daughter Sophie before she’d gotten married, feels like wet tissue paper in her hands. She needs to find a way to fold it neatly without tearing a hole.
“I couldn’t ask you for that.”
“You didn’t.”
“I’m fine, really. I’ll drink a bottle of water before I go to bed, and I’ll have a snack.”
“Why do you always argue with me?”
It’s like she’s ruined it without even trying—her specialty. Her best, lately, is a deadly weapon and its sights are set on every relationship she has. She can’t even look before she swings.
“I’m—sorry. I think I meant ‘thank you.’”
Kit acts like she’s not going to wait for Lacey to come along, then holds the door for her. Now that she’s walking around, she realizes just how much she really has neglected her body today. All week, really. Every joint in her body aches, her eyes are heavy, and she’s exhausted, but her mind still races. She can’t ask Kit why she’s doing this—she’ll only roll her eyes and dodge the question for the same reasons that Lacey is afraid to ask it. Instead, she leans her head against the window and shuts her eyes.
MAX GUESS WHAT I WAS REREADING SOME OF YOUR NICE COMMENTS ON MY FICS AND WANTED YOU TO KNOW I THINK YOU'RE COOL. THAT'S IT BYE
oh my god that is so nice of you to say this 😭😭😭
oh my god this made my day!!! those comments are there for you to enjoy and i’m so happy they are serving their purpose
genuinely one of my favourite things in the world is to know that my love is like, felt. like i get so much out of knowing that my friends know how much i value them. it is so rewarding to know that i can express my love to you and you see it and accept it.
BRO IM GOING TO BE THINKING ABOUT THIS FOR THE REST OF THE NIGHT. LIKE I’M COOL. WHAT A WORLD. PEACE AND LOVE
EDIT BC I HAVE TO ADD GO READ TAY’S FICS. GO NOW. WHUMP LOVERS EAT YOUR FILL. THIS IS A GOURMET MEAL
Okay I've been seriously off Tumblr, so apologies to @taylortut for taking so long to respond, but I really appreciate the tag!
Last song: "Bully" by Shinedown. Haven't listened to much music lately, but I've been mixing a lot of America and Fall Out Boy into my regular playlist, which includes a healthy dose of Shinedown.
Fave colour: Honestly, I could never choose. They're all beautiful in their own ways and I appreciate them on different levels depending on the situation. For this response, I guess I'll say red as a shout out to my other whump lovers out there.
Reading: The Lost World by Michael Crichton. Also That was Then, This is Now by S.E. Hinton. Also the DND Player's Handbook. Also lots of fanfics, all the time.
Sweet/Savory/Spicy: Sweet! I have such a sweet tooth, I can't help myself. Sweets and desserts are basically my favourite food, and I will always choose something sweet when the option presents itself!
Relationship Status: Single. Don't know what to say about this one, honestly. I guess I always keep my eyes open but I'm not actively searching.
Current Obsession: Dimension 20's Fantasy High. This has been taking up most of my time and why I haven't been on Tumblr much. I'm watching season 2, Sophomore Year, and I simply cannot stop. It's so many hours of content but I absolutely have to know what happens next. I'm desperate to avoid spoilers for this year and Junior Year, but I desperately want to read the fics, already.
Last Google: I use Ecosia as my search engine, and I'm not going to count the AO3 tabs as my last search. I most recently searched "sea monkeys" and found out they were these little creatures that kids would put in water as like an "instant pet." They seem very cute and I would've loved that as a kid.
I don't interact much right now on here, so I'm just going through my activity to see who has interacted with my blogs. OMG NEVERMIND I'M TAGGING @bookdragon6127 HEY DUDE. Also going to tag @sciderman as a long shot if you're interested, because I love your blog and you are always a delight to send an ask to!
sci i would unironically buy an album from you. your singing voice is very satisfying to me and i just wanted to let you know that 👍
WAAHAAHAH... thank you so much!! ohh... i... singing used to be everything to me. i kind of lament how little i do of it now. i'm so glad to be learning banjo because it makes me sing every day again. i used to sing every day.
in fact, @max-attack, darling, i have just the thing for you - before ask-spiderpool became my hyperfixation, i had a youtube channel where i posted stupid little covers of vocaloid songs. so - i don't have an album for you, but - if you want a heavy helping of sci to lave all over your ear drums, there happens to be a long-forgotten place with an excess of silly teenage sci.
i love these old covers. but it IS mortifying to read the old youtube comments. mercy upon me, i wrote like the weeb that i was. shame. shame shame shame. dare i say... cringe...
i screamed so, so much. in fact, it was my calling card.
okay so i wrote this for a prompt but i forgot what the prompt was so it's now just a regular fic no one asked for. @max-attack it's a sleep deprivation fic and I wrote it with you in mind!! it's just a fluffy little research-era fic with Jon and Tim being great friends :) I hope y'all like it!
“Is this seat taken?” Tim asks, pointing to the chair next to Jon in the lunch room. Jon shrugs.
“It is now. Sit with me.”
Tim smiles, setting his container of leftover takeaway in front of him. He gestures to the empty table in front of Jon. “You’re not eating?”
“I’m not very hungry.”
“Why’d you take your lunch, then? You could’ve waited an hour until you could eat something.”
Jon shakes his head as if he doesn’t foresee being hungry anywhere in the near future. “I needed a break. My eyes were starting to cross.” Tim chuckles. What a mood.
“Understandable. You’ve got quite the doozy of a case today, don’t you?”
“It’s impossible. I’ve been scouring Xeroxes of old newspapers for days. I’m starting to see in black and white.’
“Why don’t you ask for a new statement? Have a bit of a break.”
He shakes his head. “It’s due tomorrow by the end of the day. Which means I’ll not only be staying late today, but coming in early tomorrow. And I’ll still probably have nothing to show for it.”
Tim slides a cookie Jon’s way. “You’ve earned this,” he says. “Do you want help? My statement isn’t due until next week, and it’s nowhere near as bad as yours. I could put it off a day or two.”
“No, no. You’re so busy already.”
“Busy flirting with Sasha from the archival department, maybe. I have the time.”
Jon hesitates, but he’s desperate. “If you’re sure.”
“Fantastic! I’m looking forward to it.” Jon doesn’t see how in the hell that could be true, but he’s drowning. He needs all the help he can get if he’s going to finish this in time. He forces himself to eat the cookie, nibbling slowly to avoid upsetting his stomach further. The stress already has it churning.
One 30 minute lunch break later, Tim appears at Jon’s desk in the bullpen.
“Ready to go search the stacks?”
“Hm,” Jon agrees unenthusiastically. He dons his cardigan, anticipating how cold it is in the basement, and follows Tim through the hallway and down the stairs to the stacks. Even just looking at the multiple shelves full of hundreds of statements each makes his heart race.
“We’re never going to find anything in all this mess.”
“It’ll be tough. No offense to Gertrude, but her filing system is rubbish. It’s impossible to find a single thing down here.” The use of “impossible” makes him flinch, picturing what it will be like to admit that he’s found absolutely nothing. They’re going to think he’s an idiot, an incompetent oaf who shouldn’t be working here at all. He could be issued a strike on his record. Hell, he could be terminated.
“Jon,” Tim calls, grounding him back into reality. “I promise that you will live through this. There’s no need to stare at it like it might bite.” It’s fair. It’s true. He’s terrified.
“Right,” he says, shaking his head as if to clear the thoughts like an Etch A Sketch. “Sorry. I’m fine.”
That’s uncharacteristic of Jon. Usually, he’s chomping at the bit for cases like these, always asking for the trickiest ones so he can solve them like a puzzle. It’s throwing Tim off to see hm so stressed like the rest of them are all the time. The poor man is blinking away tears.
“Hey,” Tim says gently, resting a hand on Jon’s shoulder as he looks him in the eye. “What’s got you so upset? Is it really just this statement?” Jon rubs forcefully at his eyes with the palm of his hand, looking frustrated and embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Don’t apologize. Talk to me.”
He takes a deep, steadying breath. “I’m just feeling a bit overwhelmed. I haven’t really been sleeping.” Tim walks him to the step stool and seats him on top.
“Why’s that?”
“Just—the stress. Being up for this promotion, I feel like everything I do is under such scrutiny. If I mess up, I’ll ruin everything I’ve been working for.”
Tim squeezes his shoulder. “I don’t think that’s how it works, Jon. You’re being considered for it because they know how good you are. One impossible project isn’t going to ruin all that. But you need to sleep. And eat.”
Jon nods, sniffles. “You’re right, of course,” he admits. “It’s just a lot of pressure.”
“I bet. But You’ll be fine. I think the right thing to do here is let the boss know you can’t find anything. At least then it’ll be off your chest.”
“You really think I should just give up?”
“You made a valiant effort, Sir Sims, but I do believe it’s time to admit you’ve been bested.”
“If you really promise it’ll be alright.”
“Would I lie to you?” he asks, but his tone is so serious that Jon knows he’s being earnest.
“Right. I’ll talk to him now, then.” He stands, runs a hand through his hair, and starts toward the stairs. Before he gets out of earshot, he pauses. “Thanks, Tim.”
okay i’m actually sending two separate asks because idk if being more specific or giving you so many options is better soooo if you want me to be more specific, then i would be very into jon being so exhausted because he cannot fall asleep for whatever reason, and then someone of your choosing comes along to relieve him of his self-imposed duty and he opens up to them because his guard is way lowered from his lack of sleep, and they make him feel safe so he gets the rest he needs
also ily and i’m really into ghostbusters and little shop of horrors right now but i would read your tma fics any day regardless of my current inclinations
i love little shop of horrors. PEAK musical. my boss has a big Audrey II stuffie on her desk, whick is irrelevant but i think it's worth saying. i've only ever seen the lady ghostbusters but i loved that too. you have great taste my friend!!
i also love this prompt. sleep deprivation is SUCH a good trope, especially when it's combined with uncharacteristic vulnerability. and especially with a character like Jon who has the emotional awareness and self-preservation instincts of a lemming lmao. i love love love overworking him until he drowns lol. the man experiences anxiety for the first time in his life and stalks his coworkers about it. plus i love his and tim's relationship a whole lot (the fact that it's so versitile, a time when they are friends and a time when tim wouldn't even give him the time of day. i'm working on a fic right now that i'm setting in their research era, when (at least in my mind) they were super close. but i also love writing tim as an unlikely and reluctant caretaker. there's just so much to explore there and i love exploring it :)
hi so i just found your blog and i also love irondad. at least for me, it’s a way to process my own shit with my favorite guy spider-man.
anyway i read this series a while back called “Peter and the Tower” and it has some great irondad vibes. i tried to add the link here but some of the fics in that series were really great, and generally just had great peter being everyone’s favorite little brother lol. hope the link works and hope you find something you like, if you do check it out!
https://archiveofourown.org/series/1220861
I think I heard about this series before and I may have read at least The Sweatshirt. I didn't read the rest but I do appreciate the author writing more characters, especially Pepper being a good mom to Peter.
Anyway, thanks for the rec! And thanks for following me! <3
hi beef mom! i saw a tumblr post for an alternative to goodreads, and i thought that was you, but i can’t find it. was that you? and what was it? even if it wasn’t you, thanks for reading
I use goodreads now, but I used to use Storygraph!
I switched solely because I have more friends on goodreads! but I did like storygraph better tbh. You can create and join reading challenges, which you should look into because they're cool!! they're lists of prompts that are tied together by a theme. So I have two that are "unhinged women" that are both lists of books. another I completed was "disability in reading" and it was stuff like "a book with a diabetic character" and "a book with a MC with a mental illness" and stuff like that. the challenges were a neat feature I wish goodreads would implement!
honestly, that sounds really cool. i’ll probably end up switching to storygraph because goodreads has a lot of bugs and i’d always prefer something not associated with amazon. and i don’t have many friends either so that’s not an issue for me!
hi beef mom! i saw a tumblr post for an alternative to goodreads, and i thought that was you, but i can’t find it. was that you? and what was it? even if it wasn’t you, thanks for reading
I use goodreads now, but I used to use Storygraph!
