ONE OF THE GOOD ONES LUKE HUGHES
Summary: Luke in a sling isn’t exactly what you’d quite imagined. It’s laughter, it’s sadness, but it’s all Luke, but you don’t plan to up and leave anytime soon.
Warnings: cursing, mostly fluff but some angst, Luke being sad, shitty ending
Requested: Yes, celly prompt! “11 (washing their hair), 20 (helping them shave), 34 (helping them get dressed when their arm's in a sling) together with either a mix of all three genres or just fluff with luke hughes”
Luke’s injury was hard on him. And you knew it was.
But it weighed on you as well. Seeing him not at full capacity and seeing how little he could do sometimes made you sad. Not sad in a depressing way, like a sad ‘you wanted to cry’ way.
But sad in a frustrated way. Sad in a way that said ‘I want to do something I've always done but I can’t’.
It was hard to see, and you never knew what mood he was going to be in.
It was just like any other morning, slow, calm, pleasant. You were sitting at the kitchen table, typing away at your laptop’s keyboard, entering data into the spreadsheet to prepare for your Monday meeting at work. Luke was in the bedroom, getting ready for dinner with his friends.
You were sitting in your dress, waiting on Luke. You're about to start typing an email for work.
“Babe?” Luke yells from the bedroom.
You roll your eyes, but get up to make your way to him anyway.
“Yes my love?” you sing-song as you walk into the bathroom off of the bedroom. He's standing there, his sling half undone, pants on but shirt thrown on the floor. “What's wrong?”
“Can you help me shave?” he asks, holding up his razor, one cheek sloppily covered in shaving cream.
“You look ridiculous. But yes. I will,” you say through laughter, grabbing the razor and sitting on the counter in front of him.
“Okay. What do you usually do first?”
“I shave my cheeks and upper lip then I shave my neck. Everything above the jawline you shave in a downward motion. Below the jawline, shave up.”
“Got it,” you say, and as you’re about to start, he stops you.
“Please be careful,” he panics.
“You act like I don’t shave more parts of my body than you do. I am perfectly capable of shaving your face.”
And you do. Luke admires you, tongue poking out of the corner of your mouth in concentration, eyebrows furrowed as you focus.
“You always look this focused when you shave your legs?” he asks, trying not to move much.
“No. Because I know what I can handle. I’ve been doing it since fourth grade.”
You feel around for any places you missed, shaving them down, and then rub his face gently with a wet washcloth.
“Okay hear me out. No aftershave. I’m gonna put this moisturizing lotion on your face.”
“Okay,” he says, almost questioning you, but lets you continue anyway.
He goes off to dinner and you go to hang out with your best friend at a new bar in town she wanted to try.
You're home before him, having called it a night when a bar fight broke out. You texted him that you were home, not really expecting anything back, just keeping him updated.
He texts you back telling you he's on his way home. You don’t why this struck you as weird, but it did. Ultimately, you let it go, watching a sitcom rerun as you waited for him.
When he opened the door, he slammed it shut and kicked his shoes off in a hurry, stomping toward the bedroom. You quickly turn the TV off to go after him, checking on him to make sure he's okay.
“Luke? Luke, babe? You alright?” you ask gently, but loud enough that he could hear it.
“Do I sound like I’m alright Y/N? God! I fucking hate this!” he shouts from the en suite bathroom.
It's quiet for a moment. Eerily so. He doesn't move, doesn't talk, and neither do you, but the atmosphere it creates is full of tension.
“I can't get this damn sling off,” he says. And you know how he's struggled with it, knowing that it's like having an extra appendage.
“Here, here, quit moving. Let me help hun,” you say, walking into the bathroom and turning him toward you gently. He looks upset, like he’s given up on the entire thing. You carefully undo the straps, moving it over his arm and off his body completely.
“I hate this,” he whispers, not looking at his reflection, not looking at you. He’s looking at the ground, face hardened into a scowl, a grim expression showing his hatred for the situation. He hated being hurt, hated not being able to do anything for himself.
He hated relying on others.
“I know, baby. But the doctor said it’s just for a few more weeks. You'll get through this.”
You try to console him, to let him know he's not alone, but your efforts prove futile.
“Whatever,” he grunts out, and so you move back, sitting on the edge of the bed, but in a spot where you can still see him.
You watch as he tries to tug his shirt over his head, struggling even more than he did with the sling. He’s growing more frustrated by the minute, trying to tug and move but limited in his motions.
“Do you need help?” you offer, trying to keep him from getting too worked up.
“No, I’m fine,” he mutters.
But he's still struggling. You get up and lean against the doorframe, arms crossed across your front. You have a smile on your face, trying not to burst out in laughter at him failing at such a normally simple task.
“Stop laughin’ at me,” he whines, voice having that undertone of anger. “You’re so fucking mean sometimes.”
You know he wants to mean it, but you know he doesn’t. He doesn’t mean it because it’s you. Jack or Quinn and he’d mean it tenfold, but you.
You’re his girl, the love of his life. So you may be laughing at him, and it may irk him because he’s just trying to do something normal, but he knows it’s full of love coming from you.
“Let me help you,” you say, firm, no room for argument or protest.
“Fine,” he mutters, looking down at the floor.
“Okay, let me get your arm outta the sling then we’ll get the shirt.”
You carefully take the shirt off like you’d done several times while Luke was injured. You’re careful of his shoulder, making sure to not let it drop or jerk too quickly.
You guide his arms through the shirt, then his head, pulling it up over his torso. You tease his abs with a light and gentle scrape of your fingernail against his skin, one that makes him shudder.
“Tease,” he says quietly, a small smirk on his face.
“Wanna talk about this? Because until you’re cleared, you’re going to have to deal with this. The sling, the pain, the inability to do normal things. But you can’t keep getting angry and expecting it to change your situation. It sucks, I know it does. I’ve never quite been in a situation like this, but I’ve been in your shoes. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“It just makes me feel useless. I can barely eat with this sling and I can’t do anything. And you do everything around the house. Cook, clean, you name it, you do it. And I get scared that you’ll get over it and leave because I can’t help you,” he confesses, heartfelt and full of emotions you had no way of knowing he’d been carrying up to this point. You didn’t know what exactly tugged at your heart strings the most, but whatever it had been was enough to have you give him a hug, careful of his arm, but holding him tight, physically showing him how much you would always want, need him.
“That will never happen because I know you can’t do much. I know that you can’t help out as much as you want, but it’s not because you don’t want to. I don’t ever plan on leaving you.”
“Ever?” he echoes, looking at you with eyes slightly brighter, wider, less sad.
“Never. Until the day I die.”
He uses his good arm to pull you by the waist into his chest, leaning down to kiss you. You’re still gentle with his arm, but the kiss has emotions that were unseen, unsaid, unknown, but finally coming to light as your lips move against his.
When he finally pulls away, tongue running over his bottom lips where you ever so slightly nipped at it, he’s looking at you with love. He’s looking at you like you were his entire world.
“I’m never gonna leave you, Lukey. I got a good one here, and I don’t plan on losing it.”
His hand squeezes your waist, sending a feeling of comfort through you, chest burning with love as he looks at you.
“Thank you, for listening.”
“I’ll always listen to you, my love,” you say, planting a soft kiss on his cheek.
You put the sling back on him, guiding him toward the bed after it’s on. He lays down, and you help him adjust the vast expanse of his body and limbs. You round the bed to the other side, getting under the covers and curling up into his good side. His arm wraps around you instantly, like it’s a second nature, an instinct integrated into his DNA.
“Goodnight, pretty girl,” he whispers, kissing your forehead.
“Goodnight, Lukey,” you say and start to drift off to sleep.
You feel Luke rustle around, trying to keep you still but ultimately failing. You’re about to move to help him when he speaks.
“Stupid fucking sling, good God.”
It’s enough to pull a string of chuckles and low laughter from you. You and Luke spend the next hour readjusting the sling before deciding on a wrap bandage to stabilize his shoulder.
You go back over your bedtime routine, mumbling goodnight to each other like always, exchanging sweet kisses and pecks.
When you’re finally almost asleep again, you hear him mumble something.
“I’m gonna put a ring on that left finger.”
It’s not enough for you to move again, but enough to put a big smile on your face as you fall asleep, dreaming of the wedding that isn’t even happening.
Please do not copy, translate, or repost my work as your own!
Written by: @alliwritespuck (2025)
Dividers from: @httpssturns
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