bob floyd reacting to you crashing a plane and taking care of you afterwards
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pairing: bob floyd x injured!reader
AN: im a bit rusty on the whole fighter pilot thing with terms n all that.. so i hope this is up to par, and i hope you like it ! :3
warnings: second person writing, injury description, plane crash, injury induced insecurity, medical terms
summary: bob takes care of you after you end up in a nearly fatal crash, resulting in critical condition, leaving you with new uneasiness over your appearance.
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intro, masterlist, and rules!
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
The cockpit rattled so violently you thought your teeth might crack. Warning alarms shrieked in your ears, red lights flashing across the panel like a hellish Christmas tree. Acrid smoke filled your nose and throat, and your hands trembled on the stick as you tried to wrestle the bird back under control.
“Come on, come on,” you muttered through clenched teeth, as if the jet could hear you. The HUD flickered, altitude plummeting.
Then came the gut-punch of silence—the engine had flamed out completely. RPM dropped to zero. No thrust. No chance of climbing back.
Your training screamed in your head: aviate, navigate, communicate. But all you could feel was the sickening weightless drop as gravity claimed you.
You flipped the radio switch, voice ragged. “Mayday, mayday—Falcon Two declaring engine failure, altitude two-zero-zero-zero AGL, coordinates—” Your breath hitched as the ground blurred, rushing up at you.
For a fleeting moment, you thought about ejecting. Your hand hovered over the handle. But something inside froze—whether fear, stubbornness, or disbelief, you couldn’t say.
The horizon spun. The stall warning blared. Metal shrieked. And then—impact.
The last thought in your mind was Bob.
You came to with the taste of blood on your tongue and a hammering in your skull. The side of your face burned raw, like fire kissing skin. Partial-thickness burn, maybe worse.
Everything sounded distant, muffled, as though you were submerged underwater. Each breath tore at your lungs. Possible pulmonary contusion, maybe smoke inhalation.
The cockpit was mangled beyond recognition—glass shattered, metal crumpled in on itself. Pain lanced through your right leg when you tried to move. Tibia or femur fracture—you couldn’t tell. Immobilized either way. Either way, you weren’t going anywhere.
Then, faintly, through the static in your headset, a voice broke through:
“Falcon Two, hold on. We’ve got you.”
The moment Bob was notified of your crash and medevac, he bolted for the hospital, adrenaline flooding his system, heart hammering against his ribs.
He slammed his hand on the receptionist’s desk, your name spilling from his lips as he demanded to see you.
“Sir, the doctor isn’t allowing visitors right now—”
“No, you don’t understand. I need to be in there.”
“Please.” His voice cracked, begging.
With a reluctant sigh, the receptionist relented, paging the trauma wing and giving him directions to your unit.
He stepped into the room quietly, closing the door behind him.
When he stepped into the room, the sterile bite of antiseptic and saline IVs hit him first. Machines hummed, punctuated by the steady rhythm of your cardiac monitor.
You lay pale and still, body swathed in bandages, tubes snaking across you. Fresh blood seeped faintly through your right leg’s wrappings.
Bob sank into the chair at your bedside, breath unsteady, tears brimming in his eyes. You looked broken, battered. A burn streaked across your face, cutting through your eyebrow.
His hand found yours, gripping tight, as he prayed—desperately—that you would squeeze back.
Hours passed. Bob eventually drifted into a fitful sleep, head resting against the blankets covering you.
Then—your fingers twitched. Your eyes fluttered open. Consciousness bled back in painful fragments.
You tried to sit up, only to be met by stabbing agony. Turning your head, you saw Bob slumped beside you, his normally neat hair disheveled, his glasses set carefully on the table.
Weakly, you reached out, fingers combing through his hair. The touch startled him awake. His head jerked up, eyes going wide.
“Oh my god—you’re awake,” he breathed, relief shattering his voice. His hand cupped the uninjured side of your face, trembling.
Tears stung your eyes as you leaned into his touch.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again, honey. You hear me?”
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
The next few weeks were rough. You were stable enough to be discharged, but Bob hovered over you constantly, as though you might shatter if he looked away.
He managed your medications, rewound your dressings even when it wasn’t necessary, logged your fluid intake, cooked soft meals, he even adjusted your crutches when you insisted you could walk alone.
He was your unofficial nurse—and he refused to let you overexert.
“Bob, I can sit up on my own, you know,” you groaned, pushing yourself onto your elbows.
“I know, I just don’t want you pulling a muscle.”
“Yeah, okay,” you muttered dryly.
He even hovered during your baths.
“You doing okay? Water’s the right temp?”
“Your leg—still dry? Cast didn’t get wet?”
“Bone-dry, Bob,” you groaned, eyes closed as you wiggled your toes.
At night, when you lay together, he would trace his fingers delicately around your healing wounds, pausing over the scabbed burn.
“I hate it,” you whispered.
“Hate what?” he asked softly.
“The burn. It makes me look… ruined.”
Bob shook his head, cradling your face in his palm.
“No. You’re just as beautiful as you’ve ever been. And I won’t let you talk about yourself like that.”
“Scars, burns, fractures.. none of that changes how I see you.”
You looked at him, eyes glassy with pain.
“I love you, you know that? Don’t ever forget it.”
“I love you too… so much.” Your voice cracked, a tear sliding down your cheek.
“Love you, love you, love you,” he whispered back, pressing soft, endless kisses across your scarred face.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
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i hope you enjoyed ! don’t be afraid to
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