An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 3/3
Fandom: The Darkest Minds Series - Alexandra Bracken
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Ruby Daly/Liam Stewart, Chubs Meriwether/Vida
Characters: Ruby Daly, Liam Stewart, Chubs Meriwether, Vida (The Darkest Minds), suzume (the darkest minds), zu (the darkest minds), Cole Stewart
Additional Tags: Injury, Infection, Whump, liam whump
Summary:
Its a beautiful day in mid-July, and the gang decide to hit the road! Liam, Ruby, Chubs, Vida, and Zu, together for the first time in a while.
I reblogged the original post by @whumpcity with my fic attached but I figured I’d just post it here as well! HUGE props to them for coming up with this idea! It made my night.
Keith walked into the decontamination chamber, a bucket and rag in hand. He let out a deep sigh as he dropped the items next to him and began to soak the rag. With all of the action and far too many Zarkon attacks, and the Castle of Lions was looking a little worse for wear. Allura had the bright idea of taking this rare day of peace to do a little “spring cleaning”, recruiting the paladins to help and do their part.
“We should be training… who knows when Zarkon will attack next. This chamber is literally a washing machine. How could it get dirty??” Keith muttered to himself as he took a breath to settle the frustration bubbling in his chest before beginning to use the rag and wipe off what seemed to be some sort of soap scum off the walls. He finished that section as he stood up straight, exhaling as he wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his gloved hand. “This is going to take forever.” He sighed as he leaned his hand against the wall to support himself, opening his eyes wide and looking at his hand as he heard a loud beep. His palm was resting against the control panel. Keith let out a gasp his hand reeling back as his body tensed, looking toward the exit as the door slammed shut, the room now illuminating in a pulsing red light. “Crap!” he pressed the button again, then repeatedly before slamming his fist on it—nothing. He ran over to the windowed door panel as he began pounding on the glass. “HEY! ANYONE OUT THERE!” he started yelling, hoping one of his teammates happened to be walking by. He took a steeling breath, telling himself to calm down, though his fears soon escalated when panels in the walls opened with a hiss, water beginning to pour out of them. Keith’s heart froze as he spun around, both fists now pounding on the door, screaming. “HELP!!”
Lance had been down the hall a bit, humming to himself as he moved the Altean equivalent of a broom across the floor. His (or should he say Pidge’s) headphones were on the fritz again, so he had to deal with the silence and his own voice to pass the time. He danced along the hallway, doing his best to make this mundane task as fun and entertaining as possible, when he heard a noise from down the hall. He frowned standing up straight, squinting down the dim hallway as if that would help him hear better.
“—ELP–!”
Before he even knew what was going on, Lance had dropped the broom and was booking it down the hallway. That was Keith’s voice, and he sounded panicked. His eyes shot wide as he came up to the door and, subsequently, Keith. At this time, the room had filled almost half way with water, almost causing Keith to start floating. “LANCE!!” Keith shouted, his voice obviously hoarse from the screaming. “OPEN THE DOOR!”
“U-uh, okay!” Lance jumped before scrambling to the panel next to the door, hitting the button.
Nothing.
He hit it a few more times before looking back at Keith, “it won’t open!”
The water was spilling in faster now as Keith had to wade in the water to stay afloat.
Keith’s heart raced as he looked around for anything that could be of use to him. “Figure out a way to get the door open!!” he yelled before he swam over to where the bucket was floating. He grabbed it and looked down at the control panel he had initially pressed, which was now submerged. He took a deep breath and swam down into the cold water, grabbing the bucket by the sides as he began to hit the panel with the bottom of the aluminum-like bucket. He got a few good hits on it before he had to come up for air—which was decreasing. The water level was getting close to the ceiling. Keith’s head emerged as he took a few gasping breaths. He had another 30 seconds max before the entire room was submerged.
“LANCE!!”
Lance was trying not to panic as he looked around for something to damage the outside control panel with. His head shot back down the hallway as he took off, sprinting toward the broom he had dropped earlier. He slid across the floor grabbing it as he turned to run back.
Keith’s hands were pressed against the ceiling as he took the last few deep breaths of oxygen the room had before it was completely submerged. He grabbed the bucket again, swimming over to the panel as he hit it a few more times before realizing the energy he was exerting only depleted the little oxygen he had left. He swam over to the window, watching as Lance stabbed at the control panel with the handle of the broom.
His chest ached, begging for the air he was refusing to give it. He hit the door a few more feeble times before his eyes began to drift shut, his body automatically trying to breathe in as an inhale full of water entered his body. He struggled for a moment, his vision began to darken as his oxygen starved body began to shut down.
So this was how he was going to die. Not fighting Zarkon. Not saving the universe. But by accidently hitting a damn button and drowning.
Lance screamed as he stabbed the buttons as hard as he could one last time, the panel shattering as the door hissed and raised, a wall of water swelling out from the room. Lance gasped and tried to brace himself but the wall of water knocked him off his feet and sent him sliding a good twenty feet away from the chamber. As soon as he could regain his footing, he scrambled up running to his fellow paladin who laid limp on the wet ground.
“KEITH! Oh god, oh god, oh god”
He grabbed Keith pulling him onto his back as he immediately began doing compression pumps on his chest. “1…2…3…”
He leaned down, pinching Keith’s nose as he blew air into his mouth.
“Keith, come on buddy, breathe!”
Again. “1…2…3!” Blow.
“Keith!”
After the third time, Keith’s lungs reacted as he turned to the side away from Lance coughing up water and gasping for breath.
Lance’s body crumbled in relief as he held onto Keith’s shoulder and rubbed his back, “y-you’re okay, you’re okay.” He said with a shaky, strained voice.
Keith could only nod, holding his chest as his lungs burned with the air it had so desperately seeked.
After a moment, Keith had gotten his breathing a bit more under control. “Come on.” Lance said as he stood up, helping Keith up and supporting him as they began walking toward the med bay. “Let’s go get dried off.”
Oh my goodness that Phichit mugging fic is my new favorite thing. Would you be willing to write a follow up where either Phichit goes to practice the next day or so and has to deal with all of that pain (and maybe collapses) or a scenario where Yuuri calls them both out sick and we get more h/c in the day after the mugging? I would love to see Celestino's reaction too! Thank you again for the awesome fic!! I just want to hug my son. <3
Okay, no lie when I first saw you in my inbox I like had to take a minute and process because omfg you’re so cool, I can’t handle it when cool people talk to me. I can’t believe this is real wtf. Normally I never finish things this fast but I think the sheer fact I was acknowledged by such a cool cat fueled me with power.
So um, I tired to kind of incorporate all that, I guess? I hope it turned out okay, follow up commences under the cut.
Morning hurts. All of Phichit’s injuries stiffened up during the night. His back and his shoulder have to be the worst, wrenched with this incessant throbbing that doesn’t even need the prompt of movement. And true to Yuuri’s prediction, his eye is now swollen shut. Not only does it hurt, but the blindspot is messing with him. It’s making him clumsier, he’s having a hell of a time trying to rewrap his palm.
“Can I help you with that?” Yuuri asks after a few minutes of trying not to look like he was watching Phichit struggle.
“This is kind of embarrassing,” Phichit sighs sheepishly, nudging the first aid kit over the comforter.
“That’s a difficult task one-handed,” Yuuri says softly. “Don’t be embarrassed.”
Yuuri slips the roll of bandaging from Phichit’s grasp. He holds the end at the juncture of Phichit’s thumb and index finger and gently swathes his hand layer after layer, until he deems it thick enough. The slash doesn’t look much different today. It hurts about the same too. Yuuri finishes up and tapes it down around his wrist.
“Do you want me to stay back with you today?” Yuuri asks. “I don’t mind calling in sick.”
“Thanks, but I’m not staying back,” says Phichit. “I’m going to practice.”
Uncertainly darkens Yuuri’s face. “Phichit…”
“It’ll be fine,” Phichit insists in a purposely airy tone. “I’m sore but I’m not incapacitated. Besides, things will go back to normal the sooner I act like they are.”
“Well…okay,” Yuuri says slowly. “If that’s what you want.”
“Yeah, I’d hate to fall behind.” Phichit masks a wince with a smile when he stands up.
Raising his arm is still unbearable, even harder than it was yesterday. So Phichit slips on a lightweight track jacket instead of one of his normal practice shirts. Yuuri surely notices but he doesn’t comment on it.
Phichit gets a lot of stares at the rink. He expected that but it’s more overwhelming than he anticipated. From his blog to his social circle, Phichit’s pretty popular. He’s used to getting attention. But handling positive attention with grace is a lot different than handling this. Even before he can get his skates on, his rink mates take turns crowding around.
“Whoa, Phichit! Did you get into a fight?”
“What happened to your face?”
“Who the hell did that?”
“What’s the other guy look like?”
Phichit gulps, throat drying as he struggles to address each rapid fire question. His skin crawls under the saucer-eyed gawking. It really nails in just how bad he looks and he can’t help thinking that maybe he should’ve stayed in today after all.
“Give him some space,” Celestino demands as he makes his way over. “You’re here to skate, aren’t you? I don’t see any skating happening.”
With a chorus of apologetic mumbles, his rink mates disperse and his coach sits down next to him. Phichit exhales slowly. He hasn’t been face to face with Celestino yet. The older man was instructing a newcomer at the opposite end of the rink. His features are tense with concern, mouth lining in a firm frown as he takes in Phichit’s appearance.
“Thanks,” Phichit says.
“Yuuri gave me a heads up. You got robbed?”
“Uh-huh. It’s fine though,” Phichit reassures him. “I didn’t have much cash and I froze my debit card last night.”
“You look a little worse for wear,” Celestino says quietly.
“Yeah.” Phichit scratches at his wrist self-consciously. “It’s not as bad as it looks though, really. I’m just kind of sore.”
Celestino gives a low hum. He moves a hand to Phichit’s jaw and tilts his head to get a better look at the swollen half of his face.
“You should be icing this and recuperating at home.” He lets him go.
“I took a painkiller. I feel fine.” Phichit smiles in an attempt to put his coach as ease, but the pill he took doesn’t stop the smile from hurting his face. A lot.
“Show me,” Celestino instructs, pensive.
Phichit sucks in a breath that he can’t deny hurts and finishes lacing up his skates. His coach follows him to the ice, keeping a close eye on him. Phichit starts out slow, pace steady. He can’t deny that he’s in pain. His muscles are as taut as bowstrings and his range of motion naturally suffers for it. He attempts a simple spin and grits his teeth under the pain that ignites, his legs wavering at the fragile completion.
Phichit knows this isn’t enough to sell his coach so he sweeps around for a quick flip. A mistake. He underestimates the heightening intensity of the pain and overestimates his ability to tolerate it. He can’t stretch his arm out even enough for balance and trying jerks a yelp out of his throat. A dynamite goes off in his back when he descends floundering and he lands hard on his hands and knees.
“Can you stand?” Celestino calls out urgently.
“Yeah,” Phichit calls out, the certainty of it undermined by the quaver in his voice.
“Do you need help?” Pink skates skid to a stop a few lengths away and he glances up to see the extended hand of another student, Khadijah.
“I’m good.” Phichit denies the offer with a swallow and shakily pushes himself up.
He keeps close to the guardrail as he heads to his waiting, frowning coach.
“You can barely move,” Celestino declares. “You’re in pain, Phichit, go home.”
Phichit deflates, hanging his head. He won’t argue. He knows his coach is right. Even so, this is disheartening. He’d rather skate than sit around the quiet dorm with nothing to focus on other than the fact there was a gun to his head that he can still feel in between the pulses of his contusions.
Then Celestino takes his wrist, lifting it with a soft click of the tongue. Phichit blinks in surprise as he sees the tendrils of blood crawling out from under his glove. Oh. His palm must’ve reopened when he broke his fall.
“I’ll look at this before I send you off.”
“Okay.”
Celestino goes to get the first aid kit. Phichit finds the closest bench and slumps onto it tiredly. He pulls his gloves off and undoes the bloodied dressing Yuuri had applied. Yep, he ripped it open again. Pink meat sits in the split of his skin and glistens with a red glaze as blood weeps down. It isn’t the worst thing ever, but it is pretty gross. Phichit’s stomach squiggles uneasily.
“Are you okay?”
Phichit spooks at the voice, whipping his head. Yuuri had come up on his current blindspot.
“Sorry, just me.” Yuuri holds up his hands and sits next to him.
“I’m okay, I just…” Phichit trails off with a sigh as he realizes how many heads on the rink are are turned in his direction. He shies away and pushes his face into Yuuri’s shoulder. It hurts but right now the pain in his cheek is preferable to being stared at.
Yuuri doesn’t even budge and Phichit feels the quiet unfurl of friendship in his chest. He doesn’t look up when Celestino comes back but he knows he has when he hears the first aid kit being put down. His coach exhales as he takes Phichit’s hand and gets to work. Phichit doesn’t flinch when the cool squirt of saline hits the wound.
“Keep an eye on this,” Celestino says slowly. “If it won’t close, you might need stitches.”
“It’s fine,” Phichit promises without lifting his head. “I just landed on it hard.”
“Nevertheless.” Celestino secures the split in his flesh with several butterfly strips and wraps it up, touch efficient but not unkind. “Yuuri, take him home. I don’t want to see him here today or tomorrow.”
At this, Phichit finally turns away from Yuuri’s shoulder wand gives a disbelieving cry. “Tomorrow too? Ciao Ciao, that’s too much.”
“You can barely move,” his coach reiterates. “You need to give yourself a couple days to heal.”
“Mm…Fine, you’re right,” Phichit admits softly. “Everything hurts. I don’t even want to stand, I can’t skate. Yuuri, please carry me.”
“Huh? Aright, I guess. You are smaller than me.” Yuuri blinks at him and then shifts his position on the bench, one arm around Phichit’s shoulders as he slips the other under his knees. To Phichit’s disbelief, he picks him up.
Phichit sputters and lets out a laughs that hurts, finds himself laughing again anyway. “Oh my god! Yuuri, put me down! I was kidding.”
Although Yuuri doesn’t carry him back, he walks closer to Phichit than normal and hovers the whole way.
“I don’t think you really had to come back with me,” Phichit tells him at the dorm, even though he’s grateful for the company.
“I know. I wanted to.” Yuuri chews at his lip. “It scared me, you know.”
“It wasn’t that bad of a fall. I mean, Ciao Ciao was right, I can’t move so great but I—“
“No, no, not that.” Yuuri sits down on Phichit’s bed next to him, and lightly touches his shoulder. “What happened to you. You could’ve gotten killed. It scares me to think about.”
“Might scare me a little more,” Phichit mumbles earnestly, fingers twitching to touch his temple. “But I’m okay.”
“This time,” Yuuri says, gaze hardening. “I don’t think we should leave alone too often. Or without telling each other how long we’ll be gone…Or maybe that’s going overboard. I don’t know, the whole thing just freaks me out. What if you didn’t come back at all? And I didn’t do anything because I assumed you ran into friends or something? What if I made a bad call not taking you to the hospital? Like, if you had internal bleeding or a head injury with late symptoms.”
“Okay, okay.” Phichit keeps his voice light and tries to pacify him. “Maybe it did scare you more. If there’s one thing I know about you, Yuuri, it’s that you’re really good at working yourself up.”
“Sorry.” Yuuri hangs his head.
“No, I’m glad you came back with me,” Phichit tells him. “I don’t really want to be alone right now.”
Yuuri’s lips twitch in a gentle smile. “I have some heat patches in here somewhere. Want me to find one for your back?”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Phichit says, irresistibly touching the tender place and grimacing.
“This is such a small room. They can’t be far.” Yuuri crosses the short distance to his own bed and gets down, digging around beneath it.
Phichit gingerly lies down on his stomach and rests the uninjured side of his face on the pillow. It’s incredibly comforting just to close his eyes and listen to the sounds as Yuuri rustles through this and that, humming noises here and there under his breath.
detroit is a not so good area so can you write either phichit or yuuri getting mugged? with whichever taking care of the other (platonically) and emphasis on h/c? milder injuries preferred, thanks.
I love platonic stuff, dude. Here you go, I hope it suffices!
About 2k fic commences under the cut.
Phichit pays for his takeout of chicken wings and leaves the restaurant, holding the door open for the next trio of people walk in. He trots down the steps and heads for the bus stop. The zesty aroma of the wings floats up to tickle his nostrils. It smells so good Phichit’s nearly drooling.
But he can’t eat them yet. If he starts now he won’t stop and half are for Yuuri. Neither of them have too much schoolwork to do right now so they were going to hang out and and play the evening by ear. Phichit’s thinking maybe they should see if there’s anything up at the Renaissance Center and this is when the styrofoam takeout box is ripped right out of his hands.
“H-Hey!” He sputters, wheeling around to the figure in the hood who just swiped it. He lunges to get it back, hand outstretched and the person (a girl? narrow shoulders) moves faster. Light glints on silver and the next thing Phichit knows, his palm is stinging. He lets out a yelp that gets choked off as someone else grabs him in a headlock from behind.
He struggles, trying to claw the arm off his throat. Blood gushes freely from his stinging palm, red canals coursing between his fingers and making it all the more difficult to grip. His heels scrape along the sidewalk as he’s dragged into an alley, desperate for purchase. The smaller person laughs as Phichit gets thrown into the brick.
His shoulder takes the brunt of the impact but it all happens too fast for him to find his feet. Phichit crashes to the concrete, gasping when he reaches out to break the fall and inadvertently rips his injured palm wider. He struggles urgently to get up, but freezes entirely when something cold and circular presses to his temple.
“Don’t move, don’t make a sound. Understand?”
There’s a gun to his head. A gun, oh god, he’d just gone out to get some spicy chicken wings and now there’s a gun to his head. Phichit swallows heavily, his throat gone bone dry. He’s desperate to say yes, nod, something, but the shock of what’s happening has him petrified.
Phichit pays for this delay. The larger assailant pistol-whips him, gash blown open right under his eye. The pain sparks hot as white flashes across his vision. He’s yanked away from the wall by his sweatshirt and then kicked stomach-flat to the ground. Then they’re both kicking him, keeping him down. One foot catches him right in the ribs, violently launching the breath from his lungs. Phichit coughs and tries to tuck into himself, but he’s not quick enough to protect himself from a devastating kick square in his gut.
Spittle flies from Phichit’s lips and splatters the pavement, pain detonating through his frame with every strike. One keeps kicking him while the other digs through his pockets. They take his wallet and even the loose change, turning out the inside of his pockets.
When Phichit was walking earlier, he’d passed some cool graffiti he’d have liked a selfie with and sorely regretted that for once in his life he’d forgotten his phone on his desk. Now that’s the only thought he can take comfort in.
“These are nice shoes,” coos his shorter assailant, her voice scarily sunny.
Phichit remains tensed and passive as his shoes are pulled off his feet. He keeps his teeth clenched and endures the last of the kicks as quietly as he can. The final one is delivered directly to the base of his back and he can’t silence the squawky cry that leaps from his tongue. The pain ratchets up every rung of his spine. When his head clears from the fog of it, Phichit can hear the last of their retreating footsteps as they sprint away.
He remains lying still, his heart hammering and hands clammy. His entire body throbs incongruently, some places throbbing bluntly and others stabbing like knives.
Did that really just happen?
Phichit replays the events in his mind and touches the tender spot on his temple where the muzzle of the gun had been.
It really just happened.
Phichit tries to get up and he’s shaking so badly. Too badly, it doesn’t pan out. He gives himself a minute and tries again, gingerly pulling himself to his shoeless feet. There isn’t a bruise-free bone in his entire body.
Everything just hurts all over. He finds himself patting his back pocket, cowed by the tactile confirmation it’s flat, empty. His wallet is gone. He just got mugged. They’re probably eating his chicken wings right now, gobbling them up before they get cold.
Without money for cab fare or bus fare, he begins a walk that feels much too long back to the dorm.
Phichit isn’t sure how long it’s been when he stumbles over the threshold. The entire walk is a nondescript blur. He’d made it back on autopilot.
“Hey, I thought you’d be back earlier,” Yuuri says as he looks over his book. “I thought—“
He cuts himself off with a gasp as he takes in Phichit’s appearance. He stands right up and scrambles over, mouth agape.
“What happened!?”
“I got robbed,” Phichit blurts. Somehow it feels detached from him.
“Robbed?” Yuuri echoes, tense with urgency.
Phichit feels the cold kiss of the gun again and fingers at his temple just to confirm there’s nothing there. No metal. Just bruising.
“Yeah,” he says simply, just like he’s giving Yuuri the time of day. “They uh, got our chicken wings. And my wallet. And my shoes.”
Yuuri blinks rapidly, glancing down to Phichit’s feet and up again. His brows are up to his hairline, gaze wild with alarm. “You’re bleeding. Do you need to go to the hospital?”
Phichit isn’t sure where his laugh comes from but it bubbles out of his throat uneasily, tinny and frail. “I can’t do that, Yuuri. Didn’t you hear me? They took my wallet.”
Yuuri nervously licks his lips and very gently curls a hand around Phichit’s elbow. He shepherds him to his bed and sits him down. Phichit’s grateful for the guidance. His thoughts aren’t really in order, they’re jumbled together in mismatched fragments.
“You’re shaking,” Yuuri says. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”
Phichit laughs again and it’s weaker this time, almost a whine that he feels pierce down to the roots of his ribs. He nods and Yuuri goes to get the first aid kit. The pain seems like the only thing grounding Phichit. Everything else feels unreal, too out there to actually be happening.
Yuuri’s back with a towel over his arm, the box awkwardly under his arm, and a bowl in his hand. Phichit should take something from him, probably, but then Yuuri’s kneeling and managing well enough.
“Sorry,” Phichit sighs.
“You didn’t do anything.”
“Exactly. I’m not helping…”
Yuuri shakes his head, wetting the towel. He gingerly dabs at the gash under Phichit’s eye, brow furrowing in concentration.
“That’s okay,” Yuuri says slowly. “You’re the one that needs help. Just stay still for me, that’s all you have to do.”
Phichit bobs his head, sucking his lip between his teeth. Yuuri digs a tube of antibiotic cream out of the box and squeezes it out along the wound. He spreads it flat with just the tip of his finger. Very gently, he pats a square of gauze overtop and adheres it with medical tape.
“You’re good at this,” Phichit tells him.
“I’m glad you think so. I’m a little nervous.” Yuuri touches the area around the cut, a dull pain stirring even though his probing is feather-light. “Your eye is puffing up pretty bad. It might swell shut.”
“Guess I’ll have to hold off on the selfies for awhile,” Phichit mutters flatly. “Or find a super glamorizing filter.”
Yuuri gives him a sympathetic look and takes his injured hand. Phichit flinches and Yuuri murmurs an apology, uncurling his fingers to get a better look. It’s not pretty at all, a diagonal red mouth of a slash across his palm. It’s raw but mostly stopped bleeding, only trickling off and on at the corners.
Yuuri washes it out and sprays it with antiseptic that stings. Phichit makes a face, appreciative when the antiseptic gets replaced by the cream. Yuuri dresses it carefully with a sterile roll of bandaging.
“Not too tight?”
“No, it’s good.” Phichit tentatively flexes his fingers. “Thanks.”
“Where else are you hurt?” Yuuri studies him up and down.
“Everywhere.” Phichit tucks forward. “They kicked me a lot.”
“I know. There are shoe prints on your clothes.” Yuuri gently presses a hand to Phichit’s side, the place where dried mud leaves the imprint of a heel. It twinges painfully and Phichit grimaces. “How are your ribs? You’re breathing okay, right?”
Phichit takes a deep breath just to be sure. It hurts but he can take the air in without struggling. He exhales slow. “Yeah. They’re just sore.”
Yuuri nods and moves on to the minor scratches and scrapes. He dabs the ones on Phichit’s face and rolls his socks down to spray the cuts he got walking shoeless. He sticks adhesive bandages over the bigger ones and Phichit is immensely grateful. He doesn’t think he could’ve done this himself. He still feels shaky and muzzy. Weird. He can’t quite adjust to the fact that he really just got mugged in the middle of the street.
When Yuuri’s done, Phichit gets up to change. He doesn’t want to be wearing the clothes with the dirty impressions of every kick he took. He grabs some lounge clothes and ducks to the bathroom. He unzips his jeans and wiggles his lounge pants up just fine, but he can’t lift his arm high enough to get his sweatshirt off. Immediately upon raising it up, pain explodes in his shoulder and he can’t swallow back a sharp cry.
“Phichit?” Yuuri gently raps on the bathroom door. “Do you need help?”
“Yeah…” Phichit lets him in, the tiny area completely cramped with the presence of the both of them. “I can’t take my shirt off.”
Yuuri frowns. “Where does it hurt?”
Phichit nods to his shoulder. He thinks this must be the injury from getting slammed into the brick wall.
“Okay,” Yuuri says. “We’ll take it nice and slow.”
He takes the hem of Phichit’s shirt and works it up, Phichit pulling his uninjured arm in so Yuuri can take that sleeve. Yuuri shifts the fabric over his head and gently works the whole thing down Phichit’s arm, jarring it as little as possible.
Phichit’s bruised all over. His skin is mottled with dark purples and blues, the bruise on his shoulder a particularly nasty sight. It’s a fat eggplant blotch, tender to the touch and darkest in the middle.
“Why don’t you ice it for awhile before you put on a shirt on?” Yuuri suggests.
“Good idea.” Phichit follows Yuuri out of the bathroom. “Thanks for that…for everything.”
Yuuri shakes his head. “It’s nothing. How do you feel?”
“I’m okay,” Phichit says even though he doesn’t feel okay at all. “Just a little shaken up, I guess.”
Yuuri gets him a gel pack out of the mini-fridge. They don’t have a freezer so it isn’t exactly frozen like ice packs are supposed to be. But it’s cool and it’s a comfort when Phichit holds it to his shoulder. He takes care when he sits on the bed.
“Are you going to report it?” Yuuri sits next to him and Phichit can see the effort it takes not to stare at the bruises cluttering up his torso.
“Maybe? I couldn’t give a description. I didn’t see their faces and it happened pretty fast.” Phichit pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t know what was going on at first and I didn’t fight back at all. I’m not sure if that was smart or stupid.”
“Smart. You’re safe.” Yuuri looks ready to hug him for a moment, but pauses, eyes flickering over the bruises. He cups the uninjured side of Phichit’s face instead. “You’re safe. That’s the most important thing. Let’s try to relax tonight. Do you want to watch a movie? I still haven’t seen The King and The Skater II.”
Phichit gulps past the lump in his throat and nods his head.
I love you’re stucky sickfics! Especially when Bucky takes care of Steve, do u think u can write one wear he takes care of Steve when he comes home from a mission sick please?
Either “breathe” or “focus on my voice” for stucky?? I absolutely adore your fics they’re incredible
I was wondering if u have the time, do u think u can write a fan doc where protective Bucky takes care of his Steve after he gets sick on a mission?
Thank you all for sending these in omg. I’m sorry this took so long, and I’m sorry if it wasn’t exactly what you were picturing, but I hope you like it!
Here’s some post-mission sick and injured Steve with some nurse!bucky
It’s supposed to be a simple mission - in and out in less than an hour. Nobody could foresee anything going wrong, because it’s supposed to be simple.
But then, Bucky’s paged at work that Steve is in the medbay, in exam room one, and his heart threatens to beat out of his chest as he all but sprints there.
Shit, shit, shit.
He throws the door open, and inhales sharply when he sees Steve all laid up in the hospital bed, shirt off, ribs taped and right arm in a sling. Despite the fact that he’s fast asleep, he looks exhausted and pale too, and looks so incredibly sick.
“Stevie, what did you do?” Bucky mutters, but since steve isn’t conscious, it’s more to himself than anything.
“The idiot went in without backup,” Nat says from her perch in the corner of the room. “There was an ambush waiting…he’s a fucking idiot, we had a plan…but we can’t blame him completely, he’s got a fever.”
Bucky winces, “how bad?”
“One oh four.”
“Shit,” Bucky hisses, walking over to where Steve is laying, “what’s wrong with him?”
“Four cracked ribs, dislocated shoulder, possible concussion. In his defense he took out about ten on his own before passing out.”
“Damn,” Bucky mutters, pride swelling in his chest. Steve may be a complete moron, but he’s his moron, and he never ceases to impress Bucky.
“Docs want to keep him overnight for observation.”
“I’m sure he’ll love that,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. He cups Steve’s burning cheek before trailing a finger lightly over the bruise that’s beginning to bloom on his left temple.
“Absolutely,” she drawls, “good luck with that.”
“Me?” Bucky squawks, arm dropping to his side as his head snaps up, “why me?”
“You’re his husband, it’s your duty. I’m sure it’s in your vows somewhere.”
“It’s not.“
“I’m sure I remember it from the ceremony.”
Bucky sits in one of the chairs next to the window, and instead of playing on his phone, he finds himself watching Steve like a hawk, hoping he wakes up soon.
Four hours later, he awakes with a start, gasping for breath as he starts to panic. The sharp inhale triggers a coughing fit that rips at his throat and brings tears to his eyes. He swears someone is digging a knife into his ribs, and each cough and breath makes it feel like the knife is being shoved into them deeper and deeper.
Bucky is on his feet and at Steve’s side in an instant, one hand on Steve’s good shoulder, another on his cheek.
“Stevie, breathe,” Bucky soothes, “focus on my voice, you’re okay. I’ve got you, you’re okay.”
“Bucky?” Steve croaks, blinking heavily as his eyes land on Bucky’s face.
“Yeah…hi, it’s me,” he says softly, “how are you doing? How are you feeling? What hurts? Do you need-“
“-Buck,” Steve cuts him off weakly, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw, “stop worrying…m’fine.”
“No, you’re clearly not,” Bucky snaps, narrowing his eyes, “what the hell were you thinking?”
“I…I dond’t rembember andythi’gg,” he sniffles, “I’mb…sorry? What’d I do?”
“You went in without backup,” Nat growls, “we had a plan.”
“Shit…oh yeah…sorry.”
“It’s not okay,” Bucky says, “not by a long shot, but we’ll talk about it later.”
“Whend cand I go hombe?”
Bucky grimaces, “you need some water?”
“Dond’t igndore the questiond,” he croaks, coughing into a fist. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to take steady, controlled breaths to make the pain go away.
“They want to keep you overnight.”
Steve’s eyes fly open, and he looks at Bucky in an absolute panic, “ndo. Absolutely ndot.”
“Steve, you’ve been unconscious for the last four hours,” Bucky says flatly, “they have to make sure you’re okay.”
“I amb okay, and I’mb leavi’gg ndow.” Steve spits, struggling into a sitting position.
“No you’re not,” Bucky snaps sharply, pushing him back down gently “Steve, stay in bed, damn it. You have four cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and you’re sick. Stay in the fucking bed. I mean it, I’ll pin you down if I have to.”
“I dond’t wandt to stay,” Steve gripes.
“I know…but I don’t really care,” Bucky says, cupping Steve’s cheek. “The doctors say you need to stay, so you’re going to be good and listen for once in your life.”
“Fine,” Steve relents.
*
Bucky takes him home the next day. Even though Steve had been raring and ready to go right after waking up the first time, he’s fairly reluctant to leave, which is a testament to just how awful he feels.
It’s not so much that he doesn’t want to leave the hospital, as it is that he doesn’t want to move.
He doesn’t have a concussion like the doctors had initially thought, but he still has a killer headache that’s making him dizzy and leaves him feeling perpetually disoriented and out of it. His throat feels like sandpaper - rough and raw - and swallowing makes him grimace each time. His sinuses feel swollen, and the congestion throbs in his face and behind his eyes.
He swipes at his nose with a tissue. Sniffling makes his ribs ache, and he only had to make that mistake once before he realized that it was a really bad idea.
“Alright,” Bucky says, helping Steve through the door, “couch or bed?”
“Umb…I dond’t kndow….couch? Ndo bed…ndo couch…couch. S’closer,” he mumbles, free arm wrapped firmly around his upper abdomen.
Bucky chuckles, “okay. Couch it is.”
Once he deposits Steve onto the couch, he pulls the blanket off the back and drapes it over him before he goes into the kitchen in search of meds.
He hears a shaky “hhh…oh hih! Hhh…oh g-god,” which is followed by a volley of harsh sneezes.
“You okay?” Bucky asks when he hears Steve’s low groan of pain.
“Ow. Mby ribs…and shoulder.”
“Yeah, those sounded like they hurt,” Bucky grimaces.
“This sucks.”
“Were you feeling sick before you left yesterday?”
“A little bit…but I thought it would be finde.”
“You idiot.”
“I kndow…I’mb sorry.”
“Here,” Bucky says, walking back over to him, “take the meds, let me cuddle you, and I’ll pick a movie for us.”
“I dond’t care what we watch.”
“I know. That’s why I said I’d pick it. You’re going to fall asleep, anyways.”
“Oh…okay.”
Steve only makes it three minutes into the movie before he slumps against Bucky, fast asleep.
Bucky laughs lightly, kissing the top of Steve’s head before turning his attention back to the TV.
Please can you write a Yuki Yuna is a Hero story where Togo breaks her leg (not too badly) when she's showing off how she used to train before she was paralysed and Yuna has to comfort her when it happens and/or when she's plastered up? Thanks.
Wow! You surprised me with this one, anon. Yuyuyu has such a tiny fandom and girls aren’t really popular on these kinds of blogs. I know I said I’d write for it but I never actually expected anyone to request any. I’m so excited that you did! 😃
Little fic under the cut, I hope you enjoy!
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Togo?” Fuu asks when her kouhai decides she wants to demonstrate some fighting moves.
“Of course,” answers Togo. “Karin, Sonoko, and I all received proper training from the Taisha and you three should have too. If we ever do have to battle again, it would be important for you to know.”
“But Togo, do you even remember your training?” Itsuki frowns skeptically. “You don’t have all your memories back yet…”
Healing from the effects of mankai has been a gradual process for all of them, Itsuki knows. She herself still fumbles over more difficult syllables and she can’t hold notes the way she used to without straining her vocal chords.
“I remember the kick I want to show you,” Togo insists, her sea-green eyes lit with determination. “Muscle memory is the strongest kind.”
“A kick!?” Fuu squawks. “It’s a kick you want to demonstrate!? Togo, you just learned how to walk again!”
“I think you can do it, Togo!” Yuna cheers. She excitedly pumps her fist into the air. “Show us your hero power!”
“Shouldn’t we at least put a mat down?” Itsuki frets.
“No need.” Togo cracks her knuckles and then gets into her stance. She kicks out fluidly and rotates her hips like a top, aiming to anchor with the ball of her foot while she kicks out the opposite one.
But she loses her balance and when her shoe touches down, it’s not steady. Her ankle wobbles before twisting at a perturbing angle. A cry of pain flies from Togo’s lips as she goes down. An unsettling crack splits the air, echoed by the thud of her body.
“Togo!”
Two days later Togo is back in the wheelchair she thought she’d left for good with a broken fibula, gloomy thoughts graying her day. Frustration itches almost as much as her cast does and she can’t believe she was such an idiot. She should have put her pride aside and thought logically.
She really had just learned to walk again. Her legs are still too thin for that kind of exercise. They’ve only been fully bearing her weight for a short time and they aren’t as strong as they were back when she was Washio Sumi. She should’ve listened to Fuu and Itsuki.
“Togo~!” Calls a chipper voice.
Togo glances to her doorway to see a perky redhead come skipping over the threshold. Yuna practically attacks Togo with a hug. She smooshes her cheek against Togo’s and nuzzles their faces, arms wrapping tight around her.
“Good morning~!”
“Morning, Yuna.” Togo puts on a tired smile and sags in her friend’s embrace.
“How’s your leg feeling?”
“It’s okay…”
Yuna pulls back, holding Togo’s shoulders at arm’s length. She squints at her searchingly.
“Togo. What’s number four of the Hero Club’s Five Tenants?”
Togo puffs out a sigh. “If you’re troubled, talk to someone,” she recites.
“Right.” Yuna lets go of Togo’s shoulders and takes her hands, giving them a prompting squeeze.
Yuna’s fingers are warm, the same kind of warm as fruit in the sun. Togo takes a little bit of comfort in this as she sheds the phony smile from her lips.
“This is difficult for me, Yuna,” Togo admits quietly. She sucks her lower lip between her teeth as her eyes waver. “I never hated my wheelchair. But when I got the feeling in my legs back I worked really, really hard to walk again. I wanted to take care of you while you were recovering too. It was like my own private battle, graduating from crutches to canes and then finally being back on just my feet.”
“You’re not paralyzed again, Togo,” Yuna murmurs. “You’re just on the mend.”
“For eight weeks,” Togo spits out. “I feel like I undid all of the progress I made. I gave it my all to walk again and I put my own victory on hold just because I thought I had to show off. I’m mad at myself, Yuna.”
“It’s partly my fault too,” Yuna says sheepishly. “I cheered you on. We really should’ve put mats down, at least…But it’s going to be okay! C’mon Togo, your rehab isn’t going to be nearly as long as it was last time. Two months in a wheelchair is a lot different than two years! And it won’t even be that long because you still have your crutches.”
“That’s true,” Togo says slowly.
“And I can do this!” With a mischievous grin, Yuna scoops Togo right out of her chair.
Togo gasps, throwing her arms around Yuna’s neck. Yuna giggles and cradles Togo close as she twirls around in a circle.
“You took really good care of me when I came out of my coma, Togo.” Yuna beams. “So now I’m going to be your personal caretaker. I’ll carry you whenever you want to go, just like a noble servant to his beautiful princess.”
A blush creeps into Togo’s cheeks, glowing hot. “H-Hey, you don’t have to go that far.”
“But I want to!” Grinning like goblin, Yuna gently places Togo on her bed. “And there’s something else I want to do too. Stay here, I’ll be right back!”
With that, Yuna scampers from the room like a playful puppy. Togo doesn’t point out that she couldn’t go anywhere anyway. She sits on her elbows, tsking down at the clean white cast encasing her leg up to the knee. The thing is cumbersome and demotivating, but still…She doesn’t feel as down as she did before Yuna showed up.
Yuna has a habit of doing that too. Showing up right when she needs to and transforming Togo’s hopelessness into happiness. It’s almost like magic.
She does it again just a few minutes later, springing into the room with a box of markers in her hands. She hops onto the mattress and the sudden jolt of movement sends twinges of pain through Togo’s injury. But Togo bears it stoically and just smiles as Yuna dumps the markers out.
“I wanna draw on your cast,” she announces eagerly. “Something really colorful and really cool. Like a toucan! Can I draw a toucan on your cast, Togo?”
“Sure.”
“You draw too,” Yuna chirps, pushing some of the markers toward Togo. “There’s room for more than just a toucan.”
“You’re right,” Togo agrees. She chooses a pink marker and gazes warmly at Yuna’s face, genuinely content for the first time since her fall.
yuri on ice ficlet under the cut. prompt: concussion
i am not familiar writing yuri on ice or concussions. please forgive awkwardness.
“…uuri? Yuuri? Can you hear me?”
A soft groan comes from somewhere. Yuuri opens his eyes to blurry faces. Four versions of two, sprouted from necks like daisy petals, then six, then three, then just two right where they should be. Probably. Viktor? Yes. Also a woman he doesn’t recognize. Her vest is recognizable though.
It’s so bright red it burns his eyes. There’s white lettering and a white plus sign. The vest means something, he remembers that much, just not what.
“Yuuri Katsuki? Are you with us?” Her voice is tough on his ringing ears, too close, too loud. Someone whimpers thinly and he has to agree.
It comes to his attention almost immediately after that his upper lip is very wet. He clumsily brushes over it, wincing when pain jolts up his nose. He lifts his hand and regards the blood smeared across his fingers, memory spurred.
“Wall. I hit the wall,” he blurts to Viktor and Red Vest.
“Yeah, you hit it pretty hard,” Red Vest agrees. “How do you feel?”
“I…I fell?” Yuuri frowns, hazy on the details. He knows he’s on the rink, he can feel the chill of the ice burning his back. The lights sting from the ceiling above. He can taste blood when he breathes in through his tender nose, the metallic tang sharp.
“You fell,” Red Vest confirms. She slips something out of her pocket that looks like a silver pen.
Yuuri glances to Viktor. He’s too quiet. Is he mad?
Yuuri swallows, a turbulent discomfort stirring in his stomach. His throat tightens and then all of a sudden there’s a bright light right in his eyes. He flinches, blinking rapidly. The light is removed.
“Follow this with your eyes, okay?” Red Vest taps the silver pen.
“Okay.” Yuuri does his best, concentrating on the pen as she sweeps it back and fourth. Focusing is immensely difficult.
Red Vest pockets the pen. “Do you know where you are?”
“The competition,” Yuuri mumbles. “I messed up. Hit the wall.”
“Don’t worry about hitting the wall, Yuuri,” Viktor tells him. “Your score isn’t that bad.”
So he says, but it must be worse than he’s letting on because his expression is dark. Firm. Something isn’t right. Why won’t he tell Yuuri how bad it is? It isn’t like him to hold back.
“No.” Yuuri frowns. “Something’s wrong.”
“Are you feeling okay?” Red Vest asks, misunderstanding.
Yuuri answers her question anyway. He begins to shake his head but doing so makes the room swim before his eyes. He belatedly switches to verbal communication.
“Stomach hurts.”
“Do you feel like you’re going to be sick?” asks Red Vest.
Yuuri swallows. His stomach is uneasy but he doesn’t think he’s going to vomit.
“Maybe not?”
As if solely to discredit him, Yuuri’s stomach somersaults and vaults right up his throat. He wrenches his head off to the side, almost choking on the acidic flood that spews from his lips. He jerks upright, startled by the sight of his own sick. It’s a mistake, the world swirls before his eyes into a slurry college of shapeless color. Dizziness overcomes Yuuri like a riptide and he feels another surge of nausea as he begins to tip sideways.
Viktor says something, Yuuri is absolutely positive, but the words sound like they’re spoken underwater. Combined with the ringing in his ears, he can’t distinguish them. Strong hands grip his shoulders and push him gently back to the ice. The world clears up somewhat, smudged shapes becoming moderately more distinguishable.
“Ow…”
Who said that? Did he say that? The place behind his eyes does throb something terrible. Blackness swarms his vision and somewhere someone urgently says something about staying awake. If it’s directed at him, they’re a little too late.
