Sometimes I tell myself that I don’t need to put on my braces or use my crutches because “I won’t be out that long” and/or “I’ll be fine… it only hurts a little today” and then I go out and I’m miserable and it sucks and I realize that maybe just maybe I have and use my mobility aids for a reason, but only maybe because I never cease to realize that I should use them regardless because I’ll feel better if I do.
Summary: After dealing with knee pain for a few months, it finally gets too much when you're home alone at 3AM. Scarlett offers to take you to the hospital
Warnings: mentions of healthcare (MRI, X-ray), none
Word Count: ≈1800
Request by: anon
Reading time: ≈9 minutes
Type: Oneshot
a/n - first time trying a oneshot so do leave feedback! enjoy 🫶🏻
promo - join the scarlett johansson fan discord server
The digital clock on your nightstand blinks 3:07AM in a red, ominous font. Your room is dark, warm under the covers.
You're home alone again. That's fine. They always come back before 7AM.
You squeeze your eyes shut again, trying to fall back asleep until morning.
Nothing.
One hand pushes the covers off of your body, then your legs swing over the edge. Bare feet hit the wooden floor beneath you, cool in the night air.
Your feet stick briefly to the wooden floor as you take your first step — and when you shift your weight, your left knee grinds, sharp and wrong.
“Ow...” you mutter, the sound an exhale in the silence of the house. But you take another step towards the bathroom anyway, your kneecap rubbing wrongly against something.
Another step. Like someone had wrapped sandpaper around the bone.
Another. The door handle is within reach now, but your leg aches beneath you, protesting its use to even just stand.
You look down at your knees, assessing for any noticeable swelling or out of place bones.
The dim light makes it hard to see, but they look the same. Nothing twisted or swollen or deformed. Just normal. Just skin and bone.
You try, just once, to bend it fully. Your right leg bares your weight, your left slowly bending behind you with the aim of your heel reaching your bum.
You knee barely gets to a 90° angle before the grating, sandpapery feel becomes almost unbearable.
Its not like your knee hasn't hurt before. During filming, stunts mostly, there was the occasional pain, but you had never mentioned it. The show must go on, or whatever.
But now filming was done. Your weekend, then the following week was full of events and interviews and premiers.
Did you really want to risk being on crutches for those? Nope.
Your hand reaches for the door handle, pushing it down and pulling the door open.
Another step towards the bathroom and— nope. No, that wasn't good, and that was incredibly painful.
You sigh, making a decision. Hobbling slightly, you make it back to your bed, laying back down with your phone resting on your chest.
If you lie still, maybe it’ll stop.
Maybe it’ll reset.
Fingers move over the bright screen, lighting up your face. A small scroll until:
robert 🫶🏻
One ring. Two. Then Robert's usual 'Busy being awesome, I'll call you back.'
Just great.
Then, Chris Evans. Chris Hemsworth. Jeremy's phone went straight to his voicemail.
You tried Mark. It didn't even ring once before the call ended.
Wonderful.
Scarlett is your last ditch attempt. She was notoriously bad for answering her phone, even worse than the others. Sometimes, it took her days to text you back.
And now, its 3AM. The chances of her phone being on 'Do not Disturb' was almost guaranteed.
You press the call button anyway.
One ring.
Please pick up.
Two rings.
C'mon, Scar.
Three rings.
And then—
The line clicks, a small buzz of silence as the call connects.
“Its three in the morning,” her voice comes through, raspy with sleep. “Why are you calling me?”
You swallow.
“Is it supposed to feel like my knee is rubbing against sandpaper when I walk?"
Silence. Barely a breath from the other line.
“What—” A pause. “What kind of a question is that? No! No, it's not meant to feel like that.” she replies, her voice slightly more alert now.
“So...there's something wrong with my knee then?” you ask carefully.
“Sandpaper? Yeah. Yeah, I'd say so.”
You look down at your leg. It throbs in spite of it not doing anything.
“And what should I do about that?” You ask again. You were a teenager alone in your house at 3AM. Your options were pretty limited.
There's an exhale into the microphone.
“Go to the hospital.”
“Come on, seriously?”
“Kid, go to the hospital.”
You sigh loudly, dramatically.
“Fine, I'll call an Uber.”
“Absolutely not,” Scarlett's voice snaps through. “I'll take you. Just wait. I'll be at your house in twenty.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Bye, love you.” she finishes.
You roll your eyes slightly. “Yeah, yeah, love you too, I've got a reputation to uphold.”
The line clicks, the silence loud and abnormal now.
True to her word, twenty minutes later you hear a car idling outside. Then, the click of a lock downstairs.
You forget that Scarlett has a spare key to your house.
Footsteps creak up the stairs. You still don't move. Your bedroom door pushes open.
“Hi,” you call, finally looking over. Her hair has been thrown up in a messy bun, hoodie and crocs thrown on over her pajamas. No makeup, definitely serious.
Her eyes move straight to your legs, bare under your pajama shorts.
“Show me,” she says quietly, pushing her keys into her hoodie pocket.
You try to stand. You almost buckle, hands grabbing onto her hoodie before you get the chance to go down.
“Okay, so not good then.”
At the hospital, Scarlett is in full mother mode, her maternal instincts in overdrive as you stand beside her, trying not to put weight on your left leg.
You listen closely as she explains the grinding sensation you'd told her about, how you nearly buckled into her arms.
“And how long have you felt this for?” the lady behind reception asks. Scarlett glances over at you.
You clear your throat awkwardly, avoiding both ladies eyes, muttering, “Month or so...” under your breath.
You can feel Scarletts eyes burning into you, but you don't look. “A month..?” she murmurs, repeating it to herself.
The receptionist tells you both to sit in the waiting room, and you watch as Scarlett types a quick text to her husband. 'At the hospital with Y/N. Be back soon?'
It isn't long before you're taken to an intake nurse to check your blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen levels. The usual.
Scarlett paces outside anxiously while you're in X-ray and imaging.
You're both brought into a private room with an ER doctor.
“You X-ray doesn't show a fracture or a break, which is good.” he pauses briefly. “However, cartilage doesn't show up well on x-rays, and since we suspect that's the issue, we'd like you to have an MRI scan.”
Another scan, another doctor testing the range of motion. Another cold bed under your thin pajamas, the mechanical whirring echoing around you.
Scarlett looks exhausted as she helps you into the next private room with a radiologist.
“So, your MRI scan shows pretty much what we expected. In a nutshell, you've worn through the cartilage around your knee cap, which is causing that grinding feeling against your femur.”
“Does she need surgery, or...?” Scarlett asks, trailing off.
“She shouldn't. We've managed to catch it fairly early. We're going to suggest that she wears a brace and uses crutches. The inflammation should settle with rest. The cartilage won’t regrow, but we can manage the symptoms and prevent further damage.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“Someone will call you from the waiting room when your treatments ready.” the radiologist finishes, opening the door for you.
It feels like you've been there for hours. Which probably isn't far off.
Another lady called you in, and she sits you on the edge of a bed.
“Just pop your leg up on the bed for me, sweetheart.” she tells you, her hands pulling the Velcro on a knee brace.
She slips it over your leg, explaining everything she does. Where it should sit, how tight it should be, what the dial on the side does.
Finally, she hands you your crutches and you stand up, your left leg held out slightly in front of you.
“Again,” the nurse begins. “Rest it, keep it straight and elevated. Ice it, keep the swelling down. We want to see you back here in four weeks for a check up and some physio. I'll send the referral back to reception, just have a word with them and they'll get you booked in.”
“Thank you,” Scarlett replies, as you leave the room in front of her.
Scarlett does the talking once again at reception. You're not really listening this time. You hear words about physio and referrals and 4 weeks.
You’re too tired to argue with any of it.
The automatic hospital doors slide open with a soft mechanical sigh, letting in the early blue of morning. The sky is just starting to lighten — that dull grey that means it’s almost 6AM.
Scarlett walks close beside you, one hand hovering near your elbow even though you’re steady on the crutches.
“You good?” she asks quietly.
You nod.
She doesn’t look convinced.
The parking lot is cold. The air feels thinner than it did hours ago. You lower yourself carefully into the passenger seat of her car, brace locked straight, crutches tossed gently into the back.
For a moment, neither of you speak.
The engine hums to life.
Streetlights blur past as she pulls out.
You rest your head against the window. It’s cool against your temple.
“You should’ve told me,” she says eventually.
Not sharp. Just tired.
You stare ahead.
“It wasn’t that bad.”
She exhales through her nose.
“You almost folded in half in your bedroom doorway.”
You don’t respond.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy.
“I didn’t want to make it a thing,” you admit finally.
Her fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel.
“It already was a thing.”
You swallow.
“I have premieres next week.”
There it is.
Scarlett glances at you, then back at the road.
“I don’t care about the premieres.”
You almost smile.
“I do.”
“I know you do.”
Another quiet beat.
You shift slightly, the brace stiff and unfamiliar.
“I hate this,” you mutter.
“The brace?”
“All of it.”
Your voice is smaller now. Thinner.
“I hate feeling like I can’t just… handle it.”
Scarlett’s expression softens, even if you’re not looking directly at her.
“You’re not supposed to handle everything alone.”
You huff lightly.
“Says the woman who does her own stunts.”
She snorts.
“Bad example.But so do you.”
The car slows at a red light. Morning traffic is just beginning to stir.
“You scared me,” she says, almost offhand.
That makes you look at her.
“I did not.”
“You called me at three in the morning asking if your knee is supposed to feel like sandpaper.”
Okay. Fair.
You look down at your hands.
“No one else picked up.”
She doesn’t hesitate.
“I will always pick up.”
It’s not dramatic. She says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s a fact.
The light turns green.
You lean your head back against the seat.
“I know,” you say quietly. “Maybe.”
And for the first time that night, your shoulders loosen just a little.
if you’re willing to make more (im a different anon, was just hoping to latch onto it) maybe knee and ankle brace emojis also? + not something i have/use personally, but kafo/hkafo emojis might be appreciated
