#cw concussion

[moony221b]

ROTTMNT Headcanons:

Long term effects from the Krang battle injuries

(my opinions as a registered nurse)

[CW: medical information, descriptions of injuries, seizures, concussions]

Raph

While Raph regains most of the vision in his right eye, his sight in that eye isn’t quite as good as it was before. He gets focal migraines, specifically retinal migraines, in the right eye. He’ll see blind spots or flashing lights in that eye for about 15-25 minutes that is usually followed by a headache. His common triggers are stress, physical overexertion, and not getting enough water, but occasionally they happen without any triggers. Strong pain killers and resting in a dark room help it go away, and he tries his best to avoid triggers.

Mikey

Mikey has permanent nerve damage in his hands. Initially he had some tremors and decreased coordination, but with a few months of physical therapy that resolves. He still has chronic neuropathy in his hands that causes tingling and some pins-and-needles type of pain. A combination of compression gloves and gabapentin make the feeling go away for the most part, but sometimes he has days where touching anything feels like being stabbed. Donnie made a simplified version of the battle shell for Mikey to use on those days that only has the metal arms.

Donnie

Donnie develops epilepsy from having his brain and nervous system plugged into the weird alien control board on the Krang ship. Most of his seizures are tonic-clonic in which he loses consciousness and has convulsions, but sometimes he’ll just have absence seizures. He had frequent seizures in the first 6 months after the Krang attack, but then he started taking keppra daily and has them a lot less frequently. He has auras before his tonic-clonic seizures so he knows when one is about to happen and has just a few seconds to get in a safe position or call for help. His auras manifest as static in his peripheral vision and a tingling in his head.

Leo

Leo had many injuries from the Krang attack, both external and internal, that have had a long term effect on him. His head is now more sensitive to concussions, so it takes less of a hit for him to get one now. Because he broke several ribs and had a collapsed lung, he gets out of breath more easily than before and is prone to coughing fits when around smoke and dust. His brothers try to get him to not exert himself so much, but, Leo being Leo, he insists he’s fine and does it anyway. His pancreas was also badly damaged in the attack, causing him to develop type 3c (pancreatogenic) diabetes. He wears a continuous glucose monitor on his arm to track his blood sugar, and he takes insulin and pancreatic enzyme replacements as needed.

@happyfoxx-art ’s aftermath comics inspired some of my headcanon for Donnie having seizures :3

[sleepyfan-blog]

Day 16 - Disorientation

A/N: This is the next fic for whumptober 2025! List here. “Blah” High Gothic

Tagged:@egrets-not-regrets @the-pure-angel @i-am-a-dragon34 @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @bleedingichorhearts

@felinisnoctis @bookandyarndragonwritesdark

Warnings: vomiting, disorientation, concussion, please ask me to tag something if I’ve missed it!

Summary: A primaris marine wakes up on a strange world, out of armor and with little understanding of where, or even who he is.

A low, pained groan left the young Primaris as he rolled over. He promptly regretted that action, as the movement and spinning caused nausea so intense that he had to turn his head further - despite the throbbing agony that caused - and vomit. He spat out the blood and bile remaining in his mouth and, with a considerable amount of effort, forced himself to move several inches away from the small puddle of vomit he’d made. He breathed in through is nose and out through his mouth, having forced himself to lay on his left side.

He knew that laying on either side would help with his nausea, but that the left was preferred because… Because… Because. He knew that at one point he knew the reason why, but his head ached so badly when he tried to reach for the memories that felt just out of reach that he stopped. 

There was a faint breeze, and he could hear the leaves on the trees shifting, as if whispering secrets that he could not understand on the breeze. The breeze was cool, but not unpleasantly so. It did, however, bring clouds thick and heavy and deep grey. He could scent rain on the wind, and did not want to get rained on. Especially since he was in his undersuit and boots and nothing else. 

He knew that he usually wore armor, especially while on a planet… But he was without armor. Or weapons. Which he knew was highly unusual in a world with good air and plants that did not want to eat him. His head was still hurting, though the angry throbbing had dulled down to a low, pulse of pain that echoed his hearts beating. He takes in a deep breath and tries to sit up, a groan of pain leaving him as the dizziness and nausea spiked as the pain intensified.

His vision swam for several moments, everything gaining a blurry copy for what felt like several eternities. He did, however, manage not to vomit again, which was a small but significant victory. There were a mix of… The air had something that made him think that other people were around. The particulars of why and how he could tell by the way the air smelled, he had no idea. But it was helpful.

He then slowly got up to his knees, then his feet in stages. Whenever the nausea and blurry dizziness threatened to overwhelm him, the young astartes paused, waiting for it to simmer down. He followed the sound of water, knowing that… Something about mortals clustering their settlements near water sources… So he followed along the river bank. Between the trees and the water’s edge as the rain that he had smelled before was falling in thick, fat droplets that were frustrating to blink out of his eyes, and quickly made his curly, dark hair very soggy.

He stumbled over the underbrush several times, falling and waiting for the world to stop spinning quite so unpleasantly before he forced himself onto his knees, then up to his feet. He knew that something was… Something was wrong, but he couldn’t help  himself, so he had to press ever onward to hopefully people. 

He continues to stagger and stumble his way along the river bank until the trees and underbrush gradually began to retreat. First dirt, then gravel, then he found a paved path, painted with colored lines and stripes that made no sense to him whatsoever. He followed along the path, fairly sure that there might be… Something larger and louder than him that rumbles down the road, and he’d rather not get flattened. Or cause damage? The pain in his head and the aches of his body were starting to go away, but he was also very hungry. He’d grabbed fistfuls of the brightly colored berries he’d found growing wild as he wandered, but some of them had the bitterness of poisons. Others were almost too sweet to handle, but he craved themes so intensely he ate all of them that he had been able to find.Not that he ate a lot, worried that his stomach would betray him unexpectedly again if he fed it too much. 

The sun or suns of this world had set hours ago, the sky having turned from dark grey to deep, endless black, the rain still steadily falling on his sodden body. At least the water was clean enough to drink, and readily available if he cupped his hands and let the water collect in his palms. He’d tried tilting his head up and opening his mouth, but that had been a Bad Movement for his injured head, leading to another staggering collapse. 

There was the occasional bright light source that ruined his night vision as he kept up a steady pace. Eventually he did find civilization. Vehicles were buzzing around, their coughing combustion engines causing him to wrinkle his nose at their acrid scents. But he also saw people!

… Most of them were smaller than he was by a couple of feet at least. Others were of a size similar to his. Everyone was staring at him as he continued to stagger into town. Their looks made his hearts stir nervously and something sparks in his chest and in his sluggish mind. Especially the ones in the black and yellow striped pauldrons. The horrific smelling green bastards. The ones in a neon, eye-searing rainbow of colors and twisted mutations.

The winds begin to shift and thunder begins to rumble as bone white lightning begins to crackle and strike. The smaller and larger folk all scatter for cover, but he knows that he is safe. He is the eye of the storm and the unclean will be purged. The water once dripping from his body turns into a swirling shield as crackling blue-white lightning dances on his fingertips.

Something high and thin and abrupt whistles towards him and he turns sharply, the nausea and dizziness slowing his reactions. A dart that was not there before has been caught in his water-shield. He looks at the tall buildings, searching for the one who sought to attack him. Fifth floor, open window. The glint of a rifle barrel. He raises a lightning-spark covered hand and it leaps from his fingers in a dazzling flash of light.

“Uhm… Excuse… Excuse me, sir?” A young voice calls out. 

He turns, searching for the source. A baseline. A child, shivering and wet. He blinks slowly “Yes, little one?” 

“You look injured, big mister! You should go to the medicae for help. You’ve got a big hurt on your head and your clothes are ripped.” The child called out, bold as anything,. Even as their terrified parents come sprinting toward them.

He considers this. THat he can’t remember who is or where he is. Which is. Concerning. “I do not know the way, will you guide me there?”

“Sure thing, mister! Hold my hand I will take you there.” The child answers, walking up and taking one of his fingers with their tiny hand. They point further into the city. “This way!”

“You lead. I will follow.” he acknowledged with a small smile. He’d nod if it wouldn’t make the world go strange again. The shimmering water shield envelops them both, but he keeps the lightning away from this innocent, bright soul. 

It does not take much longer, before he arrives in the waiting room of the hospital. There is an awful lot of noise and panic in languages he does not understand as he stands near the counter, the child still holding one of his fingers, and their caretakers trailing after the two of them. 

He follows directions, and does not protest when the older cousin - a silver haired Astartes with blue eyes and a wounded fighter’s spirit has him sit on an exam table. He sighs as the other steps out for a moment, closing his eyes. The lights are so very bright here. It is warm and he is drying. The pain is still present but ebbs as an uneasy sleep claims him. 

[whump-in-the-closet]

Hi! I know you’ve written stuff like this before and I absolutely adore it so I have to request some more sidekick whump? Either hero’s or villain’s sidekick, doesn’t matter!

Have a nice day!!

Sure! Went with hero’s sidekick here because of ✨vibes✨

Villain stood over the blindfolded Sidekick, tied to the chair with hands twisted behind them. Their chest rose and fell unevenly, breath freezing in the air.

They were terrified.

Good.

Villain crouched down to eye level with Hero’s Sidekick. “Rise and shine.”

Sidekick jerked back in the chair, straining against the restraints. “Fuck you—” their voice was raw, spent from screaming for help that would not come.

“Ah ah ah, language,” said Villain. “I would have thought Hero taught you better.”

An unintelligible snarl.

Villain leaned close, yanking off the blindfold. They smiled without showing any teeth. “Now for the first order of business.” With a quick, rough gesture, they pulled off Sidekick’s mask.

“Hey!” Sidekick blinked frantically, trying to adjust their eyes to the cold light. Their breathing was shallow. Panicked. “Hero—” they started to say, then broke off abruptly.

Underneath the mask was a cloud of dark hair and tired eyes. No trademark scar. No dye or piercings. Unsettlingly average. Ordinary.

Villain rocked back on their heels. “Hero what? You think he’ll come and save you still? Or were you going to say, Hero’s gonna kill me?” They laughed. “I’m far ahead of him in that.”

Sidekick looked down. Away. Anywhere that wasn’t Villain.

Villain stood and started inspecting the tools laid out on the table. “You do understand this is business, right?” They lifted up a long, curving knife. “It’s nothing personal.”

Wiping the knife off on the hem of their shirt, they spun back on Sidekick. “For purely business matters, you’ll have to give me your name.”

Sidekick’s lips tightened. No. But their eyes were on the flashing steel.

They shrank back into the chair as Villain circled behind them. “Fine. Be difficult,” they whispered, uncomfortably close to Sidekick’s face.

Villain slammed Sidekick’s head into the table.

Stars. Brilliant-white-pain stars.

Villain’s grip relented long enough for Sidekick to register the pain. And then slammed their head into the wood a second time.

Crack.

“Your name?” said Villain.

“You…you should know. Your mom gave it to me—” Sidekick’s biting response twisted into a cry when Villain yanked their head back until their neck threatened to snap.

When Villain drove Sidekick’s head into the wood this time, Sidekick’s vision went black.

Blood stained the tabletop.

Villain shoved the tip of their blade towards Sidekick’s face.

Hovering there.

Sidekick saw double. Everything was ringing.

“Alright then, smartass, what’s Hero’s name? Tell me, and you’ll go home without any scars,” whispered Villain. “Well, minimal scars.”

Sidekick drew back, shuddering. Their eyes burned with unshed tears. “I—” Their voice cracked. “I can’t.”

Villain shrugged and traced the tip of Sidekick’s ear with the blade. At the touch of the cold steel, Sidekick bit back a sob. They did not beg, but they wanted too. Desperately.

“Your loss, really,” said Villain. “I can do this all day.”

The steel cut down, and something sticky and wet dripped down Sidekick’s ear and the side of their throat.

“Can you?”

[abubblingcandle]

Augusnippets Day 21 - Delirium - Ted Lasso

cw concussion, past child abuse, manipulation

“I’m fine,” Jamie growled, “passed your fucking tests didn’t I?” “I think we’ll let the professionals tell us that Jamie,” Ted scoffed. Jamie was flushed red, his eyes were flicking everywhere and there was already a solid bruise working it’s way to the surface on his cheekbone. “He passed all the tests.” “See Jamie … wait what?”

Here on AO3 @augusnippets

This match had been a cacophony of disasters. It was no one’s fault it just seemed like AFC Richmond had collectively broken a mirror and had seven years of bad luck bestowed upon them. This display of celestial hatred culminated in Jamie sat on the turf with physios checking his brain for any bumps. The boys were grabbing drinks apart from Isaac who stood there looking very bashful as it was his shoulder that had caused Jamie all of this bother. But thankfully Jamie was ushed back to his feet and was batting off the hands of the physios as they tried to help him to the sideline. Jamie locked eyes and glared at Cockburn who was warming up to come on in his place if needed. “I’m fine,” Jamie growled, “passed your fucking tests didn’t I?”

“I think we’ll let the professionals tell us that Jamie,” Ted scoffed. Jamie was flushed red, his eyes were flicking everywhere and there was already a solid bruise working it’s way to the surface on his cheekbone.

“He passed all the tests.”

“See Jamie … wait what?” Ted was so ready to use the physios answers to tell him to head down the tunnel but he was fine?

“See I told you now the lads are playing a man down and they need me out there so any more fucking questions or can I go play?” Jamie spat out. That was odd. Jamie was being Loanee Jamie levels of defensive and he really didn’t look good.

“I don’t know,” Ted hummed looking to Roy and Beard for help. Beard shrugged but Roy was staring at Jamie with intent. “We are told if in doubt sit it out, there were very convincing posters in the training I have finally been forced to do.”

“There is no doubt. I can walk in a fucking straight line. I met all my baselines. I answered all the questions right. My face really hurts but that’s cause Isaac’s got a hard shoulder not anything else. You want me to answer more questions, I can tell you who the president is. I can tell you my birthdate, my address,” Jamie ranted, inching and inching towards the pitch.

“What did you have for breakfast this morning?” Roy asked. Both Ted and Jamie turned to look at him with a frown.

“We’re still one man down coach,” Beard reminded Roy.

“Tell me what you had for breakfast this morning and you can go back out there,” Roy stood his ground.

“Granola, strawberry bits, natural yoghurt, honey and a protein shake,” Jamie rolled his eyes and turned to face the pitch.

“That’s wrong.”

Jamie stopped in his tracks, “that’s what I always have for breakfast before a game.”

“Not today. Today you had cheese and spinach omelettes because Phoebe found a recipe on tik tok. Cockburn you’re on,” Roy declared grabbing Jamie by the shoulder only for Jamie to flinch and topple precariously to the side. Now Roy had called him on his bullshit it was a lot easier for Ted to see the flaws in Jamie’s façade. He was barely remaining upright, that was why he didn’t want to be touched by the physios. His eyes were flickering side to side as he was taking in information, Jamie had no clue where he was. And now his skin took on a dangerous   shade of white as his breath hitched. The subs board was being prepared and Jamie’s struggles, now in Roy’s grasp, resumed.

“I’m fine. Get off. They need me out there,” Jamie protested but Roy’s grip remained too strong.

“No. We are going inside.”

The end of the match, a dirty 1-1, found Roy, Ted and Jamie sequestered in one of the away treatment rooms. Jamie was still in his muddy kit and the bruise on his face nearly matched the mud stained home kit in colour. His hair was dried stuck in all sorts of directions, his pallor was sickly and his head was in a bucket. “We need to talk about this Jamie?” Ted sighed, leaning up against the treatment bed Jamie was sat on.

“Can we not, my head hurts,” Jamie whined so pitifully that Ted was actually considering letting Jamie go get some rest and then having this conversation.

Roy was not, “oh so now your head hurts. Got over it and spill.”

Jamie looked up and levelled Roy with a glare that might have been intimidating if he didn’t look like a sickly child throwing a tantrum.

“Spill,” Roy growled again.

“There’s nothing to spill. I thought I was fine then I wasn’t,” Jamie sighed.

“How did you pass your baselines? Why did you start lying about what you could remember when you clearly couldn’t remember it?” Roy was really taking no prisoners from where he leaned against the door, blocking Jamie’s exit even though he was in no condition to make a break for it.

The silence stretched out between them and Ted only managed to keep his own mouth shut by observing the battle of wills between the assistant coach and the star player. “A concussion is two weeks off after symptoms end,” Jamie broke the deadlock with a timid whisper.

“Yes it is, for good reason,” Roy sighed.

“I can’t afford two weeks off. The team can’t afford two weeks with me off,” if the room had been two feet bigger Ted and Roy wouldn’t have heard the confession.

“Jamie,” Ted leapt to try and reassure Jamie that the team could survive without him as he healed but Roy cut him off with a shake of his head.

“And so what did you do?” Roy asked.

“It’s something my dad trained into me. Cause like if you can run then you can play and any missed playing time is a missed opportunity. So have a pre-game routine. Same breakfast, same workout, same way of getting to matches, same outfit,” Jamie’s grip on the bucket was white knuckled but he was in a flow now. Ted shouldn’t stop him from talking but he deathly wanted to. They had enough of the picture right. They could stop Jamie spilling his metaphorical guts.

“So that if anyone asks you about it you’ll know off by heart even if you can’t remember that morning,” Roy groaned.

Jamie nodded, slowly and then leaned back over the bucket.

“And …”

“And he taught me how to quickly pick up information about around me to work out about the match. Looking at the crowd and stadium to work out where we are. Find the scoreboard as quickly as possible. I also rigged the basline tests,” Jamie’s head was nearly in the bucket in his embarrassment.

“How do you rig concussion tests?” Ted asked even though he really didn’t want to know the answer.

“Under perform in the beginning of season baselines,” Jamie whispered. Ted’s heart sunk. That was … god that was worse than Ted could have thought it would be. This wasn’t just a spur of the moment, here’s how to lie so you can play. This was planned. Jamie must have been doing this since he was a minor. His father, if the man even deserved that name, had got so in this kid’s head that for half his life he had been lying to be able to put himself in more danger. That was …

“I’m going to kill him,” Roy growled and for once Ted was verging on joining him.

“Roy, it’s nothing,” Jamie sighed. “Just a habit.”

“Well we can break habits. Beard managed to kick his recreational drugs habit with my help and I can help you too,” Ted forced a smile to his face but they could all see the pain in his eyes.

“Beard absolutely still does drugs,” Jamie muttered.

“Well second time lucky,” Ted shrugged and that dragged a pained chuckle from Jamie.

“I am taking you home to mine, where I can watch you and make sure you don’t get into any more trouble. You are taking off those two weeks after the symptoms are gone and it will be a medical professional who decides when that is. Then you are redoing your baseline tests, you will do them properly or I will feed you your own intestines. Are we clear?” Roy stated, walking forwards just adding to the thin layer of menance.

“Crystal,” Ted nodded.

“Not you Lasso,” Roy groaned.

“Yeah coach,” Jamie signed resigned to his fate. Ted did not envy the lad the motherhenning he was going to experience over the next three weeks. But he deserved it. Dear god did he deserve it.

[the-berf]

The Beef wasn't exactly in the best location in the city. Sure, there was decent footfall but there was also a turf war and they were on the clash line. In a way it was inevitable that someone would take one look and decide it was the kind of place that could be robbed.

"Hand over your money and nobody gets hurt."

Richie almost laughed until he looked up and saw a gun pointed at him. Palms up to placate, he raised his eyebrows.

"Well fuck me, you're serious. You sure you want to do this?" The safety clicked off and Richie cleared his throat. "Sure. I hope you like disappointment. Let me just-" a hand slowly lowered to the till. "-get you all...uh...fifty three dollars and, heh, sixty-nine cents."

The robber stared at him, incredulous. "That seriously all you got?"

"Post-covid, most people pay card, you know?"

"Don't shit me. Where's your safe?"

Of course Carmy had to stick his stupid nose into things in that very moment. He took in the scene with almost amusement until the gun was levelled at him. Then his face shuttered off, blank and tight.

"Yo. Why you threatening my cousin?" The robber's hand wavered as Carmy approached and stood firmly in front of the counter, shielding Richie with his own body. "Are you seriously trying to rob us?"

"Get me to your safe. Now!"

Leaning in, arms crossed over his chest and cocky, Carmy was almost gleeful to reply, "No."

Richie half expected the gun to go off. Instead, the robber spun it and pistol whipped Carmy who staggered under the blow, trying to catch himself on the counter. Rather than rally, he sank down into a boneless heap as he lost consciousness.

"Shit." Richie peerer over the counter. "Cuz?" No response. "Carmen? Cousin? You good?" In the silence he looked up at the robber. "The fuck you do that for? Did you kill him?!"

The robber turned and ran, leaving Richie to vault over the counter as he rushed to Carmy's side. Thank fuck he was breathing.

"Can I get some hands here!" He yelled, trusting someone, anyone, to come help. Sure enough, Tina appeared a moment later and was sent running for ice. She returned with that and Syd in tow.

"Who's the first aider here?"

To Syd's question Tina pointed at Carmy. Of course it had to be him.

"Some jagoff pistol whipped him. Don't think that's covered in any course." Richie pressed the ice to where Carmy had been struck and he could have cried in relief that it seemed to help bring him round. That relief didn't last long though because the groan turned into a squirm then it was a matter of trying to help flip Carmy so he didn't choke on his own puke. Once he seemed done, eyes blinking against the lights, Richie leaned over him to get a good look.

"Cousin?"

"Fuck." Maybe Carmy was better than expected, if he responded in such a Carmy-like way. Except his eyes were looking around, squinting but his breath hitched. "Wha-? Why? Mikey's gonna kill me."

Heart squeezing, Richie was saved from having to try and reply by Syd butting in.

"Hey Carmy. How you doing?"

Blinking hard, Carmy obviously had trouble focusing. But that was probably the least of their worries when the next question out of his mouth was, "Who the fuck are you?"

"Oookay." Syd leaned back. "Is that weird? Because that's weird to me."

Only expletives crossed Richie's mind. They needed Carmy comfortable and out of the public eye in order to figure out what was going on. Nodding to himself, he came up with a plan on the fly.

"Syd, close up. Carmen, I'm going to take you to the office. Tina, call Nat then help Syd."

"No!" The protest was near panicked from Carmy and he groaned, hand going to his head which was probably pounding. "He can't see me. He'll kill me. Said I was banned."

There were only so many times Richie's heart could be ripped from his chest. He couldn't handle telling Carmy the truth about Mikey. Couldn't bear the idea of seeing him learn the truth again. So he lied. Lied to protect them both.

"It's his day off. He'll never know. Don't you worry."

Scooping Carmy up, he groaned. For all appearances, his cousin sure was compact. Thankfully the route to the office had been cleared and Richie deposited him on the couch. At the telling groan, he put the trashcan next to Carmy for good measure.

"Thanks. How's Tiff?"

Just when Richie thought things couldn't get worse, they did. He needed to stop being such an optimist about how much lower the bar could get. Bending the truth by omission, he cleared his throat.

"Good. She's good. You?"

The hollow laugh from Carmy was answer enough but he deigned to add words. "Banned from the family restaurant no matter what I achieve. Mikey won't pick up the phone anymore. Sugar keeps telling me to call Mom. I live for the moment service finishes so I can go for a smoke. So yeah, great."

Talking was good, right? Richie had a vague recollection of not letting people sleep if they hit their head. Or was it when they took certain drugs? He'd be fucked if he could remember.

Thankfully the office door clicked open and Nat stepped in. Richie wished he hadn't been watching Carmy. Emotions flashed over his face as Nat's appearance triggered memories. Disbelief, horror, grief, misery all followed in quick succession. At least he had the presence of mind to grab the trashcan to hurl into. Not that there was much to come up other than a bit more pepto.

"Oh Carm." Nat perched gingerly on the couch and rubbed his back.

All of a sudden, Richie felt like he was intruding. This was a moment between siblings and he was nothing more than an interloper.

Looking up, Carmy's eyes were large and watery. Whether from throwing up or the onslaught of emotions at remembering Mikey's death was neither here nor there. However, it gave Richie the perfect view of mismatched pupils and he cursed under his breath. They needed to get Carmy to hospital.

[elicashgayedmygender]

Got another concussion call me Steve Hanrningitk

[sparkles-and-trash]

no because shoutout to all the people who just saw me slip on the ice and hit the back of my head hard enough to pass out for sevral seconds without even as much as asking my mom if we were okay or needed help, real great role models for y’alls kids that watch it happen, real fucking great

[smmorewtchrstuff]

More Modern Lambert/Eskel AU.

Summary: Lambert doesn’t show up for a date and Eskel panics ft. love confession

Rating: M (for violence, swearing, injury), hurt/comfort

CW: car accidents, hospitals, concussion, blood, injury, maladaptive thought patterns, negative self image, references to an abusive ex, swearing

———————————————

Gods fucking damn it.

Lambert sighs, bringing a hand up to his face and flinching as the IV tugs at his elbow.

Shit.

Putting his arm back down, he glares around the hospital room. This is fucking ridiculous. He’s fine. He just wants to leave so he can grab an Uber to the restaurant...

Eskel is probably pissed. Lambert was supposed to meet him at Vengerburg’s at 6:30 and it’s gotta be close to 8 now. He had made a reservation last week because the restaurant is always packed, and he wanted to plan something nice for them, and now Lambert has fucked it up...

He reaches for his jeans and pauses. Gods damn it he keeps forgetting that his phone was destroyed in his car. There’s rust red blood dried into the thigh of his jeans from where he has frantically reached for his phone multiple times in the past hour.

His car is fucking totaled. He’s lucky, really— it was a four car accident and he’s walking away with a concussion, a fractured ulna, and some stitches on his forehead. He wiggles the fingers of his right hand, hating the feeling of the cast already. Every time he closes his eyes he feels the impact of the center divide along the driver’s side door and the sharp, stinging smack of his forehead along the steering wheel. And he keeps hearing it...a swift crunch and shriek—

The stitches itch along his right brow and he fights the urge to touch the injury.

He fucking hates car accidents, and bleach-clean hospitals, and he hates ambulances, and Eskel is going to be so mad at him—

His head aches horribly and he frowns down at the pathetic sheet they call a hospital blanket. Gods, it’s fucking freezing in here.

“Lambert?”

He squints towards the doorway and his heart jolts. He’d recognize that silhouette anywhere.

Eskel hurries to his side— the warm, woodsy scent of his cologne wafting over Lambert and making his eyes water with relief. He looks so handsome, too— dressed in a crisp suit jacket and nice jeans. His hair looks soft and clean— like he’s just washed it. He looks perfect, like he’s ready for a nice date, and Lambert’s heart compresses painfully.

“Lamb, are you okay?” Eskel asks. He hovers over Lambert, scanning him frantically. His eyes keep darting to a spot on Lambert’s shirt, and Lambert’s never seen him look so distressed. He’s practically shaking.

“‘m fine,” Lambert mumbles, desperate to reassure Eskel and shoving the nauseous roll of his stomach away. The doctors said the concussion could make him feel sick for a while.

Delicately— so delicately— Eskel cups a warm palm along his jaw and, with a tense glance at the stitches along his brow, he presses their lips together in a careful kiss. Lambert shivers, pressing back as the hurricane of anxiety in his chest backs away to a distant roar. Eskel sighs against him, rubbing his thumb along the stubble of Lambert’s cheek. He doesn’t seem mad, but...

Lambert pulls back, blinking rapidly to clear the sudden emotion welling in his eyes.

“I tried...I couldn’t call you— my phone—“ he fumbles to explain. Words feels weird and clumsy in his mouth— another side effect of the concussion.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Eskel murmurs, pressing their lips together again before sitting on the side of the thin hospital mattress and looking him over with sharp eyes. He glances at Lambert’s shirt again before making eye contact.

“What—?”

“Broken arm, stitches, concussion.” Lambert lists off. “I’m okay.”

Tension visibly slides off Eskel’s broad shoulders and he drops his head into his hands with an emphatic “fuck.”

Lambert stares at him. Eskel rarely swears, and he suddenly looks so tired—

“I’m sorry,” Lambert says, and Eskel’s warm eyes dart up to his.

“Why—?”

“I meant to be there— the restaurant. I was on my way—“ Lambert insists, an old, familiar panic welling up in him because he honestly was on his way, and Eskel is too good for him, and Lambert is so fucking lucky that Eskel puts up with him, and—

“Hey,” Eskel cuts off his spiraling thoughts with a warm hand in his. “Don’t, Lamb. It’s okay. I was just worried when you didn’t show up.”

“How’d you know I was here?” Lambert asks.

Eskel tilts his head the way he does when he’s confused (like a puppy, Lambert always says).

“You don’t remember?” Eskel asks.

Panic simmers to life in Lambert and his heart pounds heavy in his chest.

“Remember what?” He asks, trying to keep his voice level.

The panic must be clear in his voice because Eskel is quick to bring Lambert’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“I got a call from the hospital. They said you told them to call me,” Eskel says.

Lambert thinks back over the evening. The memory isn’t there and he grimaces.

“I don’t remember,” Lambert admits, failing to hide how much it bothers him.

“Probably from the concussion,” Eskel suggests, eyes sliding back down to Lambert’s shirt. Lambert nods vaguely and slams his eyes closed at the sharp stab of pain the movement elicits.

“Want to go home,” Lambert mumbles. Eskel’s breath hitches and he presses a soft kiss to Lambert’s cheek.

“I’ll get the doctor,” Eskel murmurs. “See if we can go home.”

“Hmm,” Lambert hums, trying to quell the nauseous wave in his belly.

Eskel steps out of the room and the room instantly feels colder. Gods, he hates hospitals. The last time he was in one was a couple years ago now. His ex had lost his temper and...well...Lambert doesn’t like to think about that time in his life. And being in a hospital brings up way too many bad memories. He flinches again as the IV tugs in his arm when he shifts.

Why had Eskel’s breath hitched like that? What did he say again?

Oh. His heart leaps. He called Eskel’s house home.

The adrenaline crash hits him in the car as Eskel drives them away from the hospital and he loses time, waking up to Eskel’s soft touch against his hair. When he opens his eyes it’s dark out and he wonders, briefly, how long he was in the hospital. The warm glow of Eskel’s porch light is a beacon over Eskel’s shoulder, and Lambert smiles as much as he can.

“We’re home,” Eskel murmurs. Lambert hums, wanting to fall back asleep. Eskel hurries to the other side of the car, pulling the door open and undoing his seat belt.

“C’mon, baby,” Eskel urges, sliding an arm around his waist, “let’s go inside.”

It’s slow going, walking up Eskel’s front drive, but once they’re inside Lambert feels a weight lift off him. Gods, what a fucking disaster of a night.

“Need to shower,” Lambert mumbles. Eskel looks like he wants to protest, but instead he just nods, walking slowly with Lambert to the bathroom. He disappears with a quick “hold on a moment,” leaving Lambert braced against the sink and staring down at the silver faucet.

There’s a large mirror in front of him, and he wonders if he should just not look. He probably looks terrible. What a fucking disaster he is. They were supposed to have a nice evening. He can hear Eskel’s voice already, pointing out how the accident wasn’t his fault. It’s hard, even a year into dating Eskel, to let Eskel’s voice win over his old thought patterns. He’s been having those nasty thoughts for thirty years. It takes a while to change them. But Eskel helps so much.

He glances towards the mirror and grimaces. Ah. That’s why Eskel keeps staring at his shirt. There a large, too bright bloodstain on his crisp white shirt from where blood had poured from his temple. It’s garish, and violent, and Lambert reaches up, immediately unbuttoning his shirt. His hands feels weird and the buttons slip out of his fingers—

Eskel appears in the doorway with a plastic bag and rubber bands.

“Hey, let me help,” he says, stepping close and smoothing Lambert’s hands away.

“I think this shirt is ruined,” Lambert mumbles, and Eskel sighs.

“I’ll get you a new one,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to Lambert’s lips. He slides the material away from Lambert’s shoulders and Lambert winces at the tug of his muscles. He’s going to be so sore tomorrow.

“Gods damn it,” Eskel swears, again, and his hands hover over Lambert’s waist. Lambert glances into the mirror again and frowns. There are already bruises forming— a large blue welt across his chest and belly from the seatbelt, and an purple spot along his collarbone. Lambert looks away quickly. It’s ugly, and Eskel looks so upset—

Eskel steps back and tears his own clothes off (“Hey, can’t I at least get a show?” Lambert asks. Eskel isn’t amused.) and carefully wraps Lambert’s cast in the plastic bag to protect it from water.

Showering is difficult (“We can’t get the stitches wet,” Eskel reminds him, tilting his face away from the water), but it feels really nice to be clean— especially when it’s Eskel’s hands rubbing warm soap into his skin and gliding over him reverently. It’s wonderful, and he doesn’t deserve it—

“Don’t, Lamb,” Eskel murmurs, sliding his lips along Lambert’s neck.

“Don’ what?”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Eskel says. “I can see you doing it.”

Fuck.

“Sorry,” Lambert mumbles. “Old habit.”

Eskel pulls him close under the warm spray of water, wrapping them together and squeezing carefully. Lambert shudders, exhausted and relieved, leaning his weight onto Eskel.

They stand there for long moments, letting the warm water wash away the evening. Eskel only ushers them out when Lambert nearly falls asleep in his arms.

When they finally settle into bed, Eskel sets his alarm for every two hours, then lays down facing Lambert. Lambert feels lost. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t know how to make this better.

“I was so scared when you didn’t show up,” Eskel admits. He reaches out and presses his thumb just behind the stitches on Lambert’s brow, massaging softly.

“Sorry,” Lambert says, and Eskel shakes his head.

“Not your fault,” Eskel whispers. “Just...I got that phone call and I panicked. I didn’t know what happened— I just booked it out of the restaurant and drove way too quickly to the hospital—“

“Eskel,” Lambert chastises.

“I know,” Eskel admits, grimacing. “It’s just...my brain kinda went wild with possibilities, and I hate the idea of you hurt and alone...”

He slides closer, slipping a thigh between Lambert’s legs and hooking around the back of his calf, tangling them together.

“Don’t say anything,” Eskel says, and his eyes go serious— far too serious— and Lambert’s tired heart jolts faster. “Don’t say anything to this. I don’t need you to, and I shouldn’t say it when you have a concussion—“

“Eskel—“ Lambert mumbles, anxious and wary.

“Just— let me—“ Eskel says, pretty eyes imploring. Lambert nods, heart pounding.

“I need to tell you this, and I don’t expect anything from you in return. And I’ll tell you any time you want to hear it, okay?”

He doesn’t wait for Lambert’s response. Instead, he presses his palm to Lambert’s chest, right over his pounding heart, and says:

“I love you. I’m so in love with you. And I was so scared tonight that I’d never get a chance to tell you, so I’ll tell you all the time, whenever you want to hear it,” Eskel says. Doubt flashes across his face and he adds, carefully: “Or I can not say it, if you don’t want to hear it—“

“No,” Lambert blurts, heart racing. He presses his left palm over Eskel’s, holding it to his chest. “Tell me,” he begs, and he wants to say it back. He wants to scream it— I love you too. I love you too much. But something isn’t working in his throat and he can only beg with his eyes—

Eskel, too smart for his own good, figures out exactly what’s happening and beams, lighting up the dark room with his smile.

“I love you,” he says, pressing their lips together gently, and Lambert sighs, breathing the words back into Eskel.

End.

Also posted (and cleaned up a bit) on AO3