Jesus | Come To Me, Hurting | Platonic
You are the Messiah’s little sister, more aware of His upcoming fate than most. Compared to what He will face, you are convinced that you should not complain about trivial things, even if they threaten your health.
Requested by Aria & Eleanor
Munching on one pistachio after the other, you count the minutes until Jesus decides it is time to call it a day and set up camp somewhere on the side of the road. The sun has been glaring all day long and you’ve been having a hard time squinting against the bright light, not a cloud in the sky to shield you from its heat.
You crack open another nut and pop it into your mouth as you listen to Philip talk about his time with John the Baptist, finding great amusement in the endless tales of that unapologetic preacher. Heading down a hill, you feel your calves ache a bit after a while, but you bounce your steps well enough so that your knees won’t take the brunt.
The path narrows and you are forced to walk behind Philip and Andrew, tailing the group as you saunter behind it. As you narrow your eyes against the sunlight, you casually keep on snacking, gaze fixed upon the horizon.
When the road becomes broader again, you quicken your pace to catch up with your friends to hear the continuation of the stories Philip is sharing, but as you do so, you fail to notice the large rock in the middle of the path, kicking your toe square against it.
“Ack!”
You nearly choke on your pistachio and cough, stumbling forward and only barely catching onto Philip’s shoulder.
“Woah there, are you okay?” the man wonders as he grabs your arm to support you. You fight tears as an awful pain spreads through your left large toe.
“Yeah,” you let out a shaky breath, “I’m fine!” It sounds a bit too airy to be considered believable, but Philip doesn’t push it, much to your delight. The smile you offer up convinces him, even though it’s forced and hides the tears of discomfort in your eyes. “I just nearly tripped is all.”
“Well, who would we be to let the little sister of Jesus trip and fall, huh?” Andrew muses, walking up to your other side. He takes your arm to hook it into the crook of his elbow, and Philip does the same with the other.
At that, you laugh. “Guys, for real! I don’t need all this!” You know that they are just playing with you, but it lightens the mood significantly, and you can almost ignore the pain in your left toe by now. Although it is not entirely gone, it’s enough of a distraction for no one to notice the small trail of blood left behind in the sand.
__
That night, you shoot up in your bed upon a sudden, intense pain shunting through your foot, a yelp leaving you as you’re startled awake. Your toe is throbbing rather painfully, and it takes genuine effort to move your leg out of your bedroll.
Mary of Magdalene rolls over, her hair mussed up against the pillow as she groggily lifts her head. “Uh… (Y/n), is everything okay?” Her voice is heavy with sleep.
In the moonlight, you catch the bruise underneath your toenail, and a small sliver of fresh blood glistens on the side of it. “Mh-mm,” you murmur, “Just… Had a nightmare.” The lie feels bitter on your tongue, but you don’t want her to worry. “Go back to sleep.”
Your friend won’t let you tell her twice, rolling over before falling right back into her slumber. From the bag at your side, which you keep close at all times, you take a piece of clean cloth originally meant to wipe your hands or blow your nose in, and wrap your toe in it rather tightly to get rid of the bleeding to your best ability. Biting your inner cheek hard, you fight the squeak that threatens to escape you at the pain.
“Easy, (Y/n),” you whisper to yourself, “It’s okay, this will be over by the morning.”
But it isn’t over by morning.
You end up barely sleeping that night, tossing and turning but finding no comfortable position for your foot, and when you get up at last, bleary-eyed and exhausted, the piece of cloth has absorbed most of the blood. At least it has stopped bleeding, you think to yourself, wrapping around a new bandage before gathering your things.
Once everyone has packed up, the group hits the road.
“Hey you,” Jesus ruffles your hair in greeting, causing you to huff a laugh and swat at His hand, “How is My little sister doing?”
“Didn’t sleep so well,” you tell Him a truth, omitting the injury you’ve sustained on your toe. “But I’ll be fine. How have You been?”
“Been praying a lot last night, so I suppose that makes two of us.” He pulls you into a half-hug and kisses your temple. “Now, what’s with the bandage on your toe?”
You look down at it, sighing. Part of you had hoped that you’d hid it to your best ability, but of course, nothing slips past the literal Messiah. “Stupid me stubbed her toe on a large rock. It only stings a little.”
“I can look at it, if you want.”
“Ah, don’t bother, Jesus… I’m sure that it will be better soon.”
The Nazarene gives you a look, one you know all too well, and you shake your head. “Don’t give me those eyes. I’m fine, really!”
You’ve got no right to complain about a little pain in front of the One Whom awaits a worse fate than a broken nail.
The Lamb of God pats your shoulder.
“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to fine Me.” If you don’t come to Him and explicitly ask for healing, He won’t push you. “Have a good day now, and don’t over-exert yourself, (Y/n).”
“Don’t worry,” you mutter, offering Him a half-hearted smile that He can see right through. Still, He decides to leave you to your thoughts, heading out in front of the group.
You stare at Him for a few long moments. No, you’re not allowed to whine about this. Not when terrible things await Him. Jesus doesn’t complain, rarely even mentions it… Now that you’re thinking about it, He has been bringing it up more often, recently…
All the more reason for you to suck it up and be a supportive sister.
From your pocket, you take the other half of your pistachios from yesterday.
Your toe will be fine.
It’s what you keep telling yourself over the course of the next few days.
It is only hurting so bad because it is healing. The throbbing means that it is healing. The disgusting-smelling pus just means the wound is cleaning itself— Truly!
The bleeding occasionally stops, but not altogether.
You’re fine. You’re not running a fever. You’re just a bit sweaty is all, even when nighttime rolls around.
Just think about the agony your brother has to suffer through at the end of His ministry. You don’t know the details, but you know enough to realise that you cannot be whimpering about trivial matters.
“You look as pale as a sheet,” Thomas comments.
“Thanks,” you grimace, “You really know how to compliment a girl.”
He clicks his tongue. “You know that’s not what I’m trying to do. Are you certain you’re okay?”
“Mh-mm, all is fine.”
You bite your tongue. It is not fine, but you cannot be a bother. Take it into your stride. You’re the sister of the Messiah, you are not allowed to whinge about something as stupid as your toe hurting a little bit—
—Letting out a sound of agony, you suddenly fall to your knees, your left leg no longer able to support you. Thomas rushes towards you, calling out your name. “Oh, (Y/n)! What’s going on?!”
Tears spill over your cheeks at the sudden unbearable pain going all the way up your leg. All reasons to not moan about your injury fade at once. “It hurts— It hurts so bad! Please, please!”
Thomas doesn’t need to ask what exactly you are asking for; the man from Tel Dor stands up and looks over the company. “Jesus, come here, quickly!” He turns back to face you, deciding to help you sit up a bit. “Focus on your breathing. Wow… You’re burning up…!” He feels at your forehead like a concerned mother and you slap it away.
“Ngh, don’t touch me, Thomas,” you bite, immediately regretting your tone.
“Sorry, just trying to help.”
You gulp hard. “No, I should apologise. I didn’t mean to snap— Oh, what’s— Nnngh!”
Your entire body convulses as another awful burst of pain makes your head spin. Instinctively, your hand reaches for your foot, and Thomas swallows upon seeing the blackened cloth around your toe. “Oh, that looks bad… Smells bad, too…”
“Not… Helping!”
“Right, sorry.”
A shadow blocks out the light of the sun as Jesus rushes towards you. He exhales and calmly crouches down, taking your leg into His hands. You rest it in His lap, squirming at the intense pain.
Without asking any questions, He removes the cloth, revealing the extent of your injury. A raging infection is exposed to the outside air, and you grit your teeth at the wind blowing past it. Frankly, you had no idea it was this bad. A very foolish part of you had stopped changing the bandage two days ago due to the discomfort of the act.
“I told you that you could come to Me, right?” There is no accusatory edge to His voice, but your cheeks flush with guilt all the same.
“Yeah, I know,” you squeak, “I just— I didn’t want to be a bother. I know Your destiny. The fate that awaits You at the end of Your ministry, and what You have to do to save all of us from death. This little toe-injury is so insignificant compared to what You will have to go through in a few years. I wouldn’t know suffering if it stood right in front of me, compared to what You will have to face…”
You’re full-on crying now, sobbing, but Jesus doesn’t seem angry, nor disappointed. No, He offers an understanding smile. “I know how it is,” Jesus whispers, “I can see your heart. But your pain counts, too. Even when I have to bear the sins of the world, it does not mean you can throw caution to the wind and neglect your own health and well-being, just because you think that I’ve got it worse.”
“Which is true, You’ll have it worse! One day, You will go through trials I cannot even imagine to comprehend—”
A line appears in His brow, giving Him a stern look. “—(Y/n), that’s not the point.” His face softens as your words get stuck in your throat, and you sigh.
Jesus puts a hand over yours. “Look, I appreciate the solidarity. You know more than most people do, seeing that you are My sister and all. But please, (Y/n)… Look after yourself, too. If there is something going on, I want you to trust Me with things like these. I can handle it.”
You wipe at your cheeks. “Sorry. It’s not that I didn’t trust You.”
“I know. But I can deal with things like these, too.” He gently cradles your foot, not at all grossed out by the infection. “Toe-nail injuries, huh? This thing seems way worse than you made it sound.”
You laugh through your tears a bit. “Ah, You know how I like to downplay things when it comes to myself.”
“Mh-mm,” Jesus hums, “This entire thing being one grand example. Alright, let’s see…”
He covers your infection with His hand and closes His eyes, bowing His head in prayer. After a few seconds, the painful pulsing turns into a warm tingling, and the ache in your ankle and calf fades like nothing ever happened.
Breathing a sigh of intense relief, you cannot fight the broad smile when Jesus retreats His hand to show you a fully healed toe-nail.
“Thank You,” you whisper. Jesus nods and gently pinches your cheek before helping you stand up. You don’t even need to lean on Him for support, but you hold onto Him anyways.
“Don’t keep things like those from Me again, okay? I’m also here to help you with things you consider trivial.” Jesus muses against your shoulder, kissing the top of your veil.
You hum, burying your face in His chest, your arms wrapped around Him tightly.
“Mh-mm… Promise,” your muffled voice sounds.
You stand like that for a while longer, not wanting to let go just yet.
