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ᴅ☆ᴇ'ꜱ ꜱᴀʏ|

Ik y'all missed me 🫶🏾

Also hi, idk why my next post finna be but I love y'all . Wait no, I have a nurse fic.

ALSO. I WROTE THIS DIFFERENTLY, YOU ARE THE NURSE IT'S THIRD PERSON. The inserts of 'you' is very intentional.

As usual, whenever the orange and pinks painted the skies of Earth 42, the labouring doctor— Y/n Campbell would be coddled into the safety of her weighted blankets. Too tired from another all-consuming hospital shift, too tired to face the slasher movies Brooklyn reenacted bi-weekly.

“These stupid curfews are genuinely futile” Is what she'd often think in frustration. Fortunately for her, she'd never have to test the effectiveness of the mandate. The city had always been a battlefield—and she'd managed to stay out its worst. Miles made sure of that. Most, if not all her materialistic needs would be catered to at her pretty welcome mat, often accompanied by some lovesick note. Satan sure had pretty handwriting. Yes, the devil, because Miles Gonzalo Morales likes to act as if he was born with the poisoned chalice of immortality; always on some suicide mission per his and Kingpin's best interests. She wasn't complaining about his absenteeism, their busy schedules seemed to have fit together oddly, nicely. But tonight, her luck had ran dry, her water supply finished, food and fruits depleting— and so, so much more that she just couldn't wait on Miles for. How long would she have to?

It had already been weeks, two whole weeks that he hadn't picked up a call or answered a text

Je ne suis pas supris.

She wasn't angry, how could she be? She'd basically swore herself beside him the moment she stayed. She knew the ups of 'it' and how to bare the downs.

Either way, it was just a simple task; Throw on some sweats. Purse. Supermarket. In. Get her stuff. Out. Home.

But you didn't believe me when I said the odds were just not in her favour today, did you?

Blood thumped through her ears, gushed relentlessly down her left side, and trickled it's was from her two toned lips to the end of her chin. Injuries overwhelmed her receptors, her teeth digging into the thickened material of the folded kerchief. It was too much to navigate what was bruised, ripped and broken. Too much to recall the order regarding the shots, explosion and searing pain ripping through her body. One second she hugged a loaded bag of groceries, briskly walking down Eldritch Street; the next, she was coughing up blood, hands slick with the crimson proof of her undoing.

Who cyah hear must feel. Nuh suh it guh? The world blurred in her vision; colours of surrounding situations mixing together. Alongside her, three others had been caught in the crossfire of glass, explosion impacts, and the bullets that hit them and her— two bullets, to be exact.

One lodged in her shoulder, the other above her rib. She wobbled sliding down the cold metal of a taxi cab. With her mind somewhat intact, she inferred that neither of the two metallic fragments came in contact with her vital organs. A sliver of hope shone through her clusterfuck of a end, however, quickly snuffed as fast as it came.

Without proper care she'd die on a dirty sidewalk. Without proper care, she'd— um. She would. You. You would— it. Care. Not proper. No. No Definitely, not proper.

Care was simply just, care. Not a thing about it was proper. It found her before she found it. It had watched Brooklyn burn from the rooftops, choking on the ashes; drowning in its own violence. Care was malicious, baleful. Care was fucked in the head, basking in the defeat of the 'good'. Because care was— is evil, care is sinful; because care was the devil. Yet, when care saw a slumped figure against a cab his stomach dropped. Care's feet moved faster than his mind could catch up. Care saw reds, pinks, blues and blacks.

He might've just ignored it. Would've. Until he saw her clothes, recognized the body he so loved. Until he realized—

His breath came out ragged, the sight of her halting him in his tracks. She was painted in reds too deep to be anything but fatal; her demise tainting the pink sweater she wore.

“Fuck” a pause. “Look at you.” then another.

His voice was cracked. She tried to breathe when he picked her off the jagged pavement. Tried to. Every induced breath felt taxing on her ribs, pricking at each bone before exhale. ⠀⠀⠀A long time ago she spat the cloth out, biting onto her bottom lip instead as resolve. Her blood stained lips parted into something semblant to a smile. “Miles”

She spoke as though she saw right past the mask. Through all this fucked up shit he did. She didn't see The Prowler. The gauntlets. The suit. Everything. None of it. Saw past all that shit. Always has.

She wrapped her right arm around her left side, flinging the other hand on his shoulder. Groaning. Her hand squeezed at the fractured bones, bracing herself at verbal sacrifice. ⠀⠀⠀⠀“Y'know, I thought dying would be peaceful… it just feels cold” He stood for barely a millisecond, scrutinizing her face when her words registered.

And God, did she have the audacity to look beautiful while doing all this—dying. Step. Then another, he pressed her, closer, to himself, shaking his head.

He opens his mouth. Nothing ever comes out.

His face scrunches up, caught between a scowl and a sob.

Swallowing hurt and fighting it— maybe if he's stubborn enough tears wouldn't fall. Wouldn't betray the strong front he put up. ⠀⠀⠀⠀“Nah, don't start that. You and me? We ain't going even going the same place when we die, so you not dying right now”. He hissed, not angry at her, angry at himself. He wanted to believe it, that you were gonna be okay.

And she didn't even give him much to work with. Her hand unclenched at his nape, falling flat on his shoulder; no longer brushing at brown skin. There wasn't a tilt to her head; everything buried into the jacket.

He swallows, hard, his voice steady, softer, like if he speaks gentle enough he could keep you here— “Just a little longer, please.” ⠀⠀⠀⠀“You gon' be alright, yeah? I got you. Always.”

He barely felt her warmth before it stilled at the leather on his suit.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Wake the fuck up. Get up. Jesus Christ, open your eyes.”

Each refusal fell from his mouth differently— one in horror, another in grief. The last in sheer, unhinged rage. Checking her pulse might've been the breaking point for him, so he didn't. His world blurred in blues and blacks. His world ceased in his hands, holding it tight—his chest tight too— with something close to desperation.

He called everyone. Everyone. Aaron. Kingpin's doctors. Any motherfukcer who could sew her back together.

And if they couldn't—

If not—

Brooklyn would burn.

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