Everybody come and join in my favorite meal, Ragatha comfort with a side of Jax angst!
AU masterpost!!!
OH OH AND I ALMOST FORGOT!!! I made a phone wallpaper for myself outta the Ragatha & Gangle dressing up as cats drawing :3 and I figured I should share it with you guys!
this is what I did instead of working on my finals guys…I have no frigging idea when it’s appropriate to take a break or not
Platonic yanderes that are secretly elated when their darlings are sick <33
They aren't happy that you're not feeling well, of course not! It's just so much easier to take care of you when you don't have the strength to fight them, no pesky kicking or yelling about how awful they are,,
Maybe some are a little mean about it, leaving you to your own devices since you seem to think that you're so independent and don't need any help. You're not a baby, right? It's your own fault for puking on your shirt, they aren't helping you wash off or change clothes. Remember how you screamed about not needing them?
They wait until you're begging or sobbing for them to do something, to give you medicine, just anything that would make you feel better,, their poor little lovebug! You've surely learned your lesson now, they'll nurse you back to health so lovingly that you'll almost forget how they let you suffer at first
Others are more doting straight away, constantly fussing over you. They're hand feeding you every meal, wiping your nose, doing anything and everything they possibly can. (They also sneak lots of extra kisses and cuddles,, they're doing so much for you, it's the least you can do in return)
we go ‘round again, we jump back in bed, that’s what you do when you love somebody.
part one // part two
pairings: frank langdon x ex!reader
cw/tags: no use of y/n, swearing, a LOT of infidelity (from both frank and reader) and arguing. eventual orthopedic surgeon!reader, discussion and depiction of drug use/addiction (specifically amphetamines - AU where frank is addicted to speed instead of benzos), angst without a happy ending, implied and lightly explicit smut. mention of urgent care and antibiotics (brief depiction of reader having pneumonia, including coughing, fevers, medications, dizziness). use of nicknames for reader (peanut and baby from frank). reader did not do her residency at PTMC. reader wears heels and makeup one time, but other than that there are no physical descriptions.
wc: 12.1k
inspired by bad omens by 5sos
masterlist
Frank Langdon is, unfortunately, the love of your life.
Even if you don’t want him to be.
Even if you’re not his.
April, 2014
You know Frank is wearing himself thin.
Between co-captaining the football team, classes, volunteering, studying—it’s all starting to take a toll, especially after he failed a midterm two months ago. You’ve tried to tell him that almost everyone fails a test at some point in university, but it hasn’t helped, and he’s only ended up throwing himself into things harder.
You aren’t much better off, but you’re able to keep up with things in a way that he isn’t. Both of you are running on caffeine and delusion, praying that you’ll finish up with the semester before the consequences of your actions catch up to you.
Frank’s taken a different route, sick of constantly coming second place to you, the resentment starting a fire underneath him that he has no way to sustain. You’re graduating a year early, for godsake, and he can barely handle the typical course load. He’s pulling all-nighters constantly, barely eating, and he almost never comes home to your shared apartment anymore except to shower and grab food after a multi-day study session at the library.
As far as you can tell, it’s working. His grades are up, ‘hundreds’ stacking up in all his courses, almost completely correcting the dip from the failed midterm. You’re more than proud of how he’s turned things around, but you don’t know how much longer you can survive with the version of him that you’re getting.
He’s irritable—snapping at you over every little thing, cancelling plans with his friends, getting into fights on the field. He disappears for days at a time, always coming back run down, claiming to have spent his time studying or ‘disconnecting.’ When he is around he’s restless, practically bouncing off the fucking walls, making it impossible for you to focus. Despite that, you’re worried, so you agree to any opportunity you have to keep an eye on him, including a study session with him and some of your friends.
You’re scattered across various tables and seats in the library, all of you completely focused on whatever task you’re trying to finish before turning in for the night. You squint at the textbook in front of you, highlighting an important line, rubbing your eyes when your vision starts to blur. It’s already midnight, but you told yourself you wouldn’t go home until you finished this unit.
“Fuck me, I need to take a break,” Frank says, pushing his chair back and standing up, stretching his arms above his head. “You want anything from the vending machine?”
You don’t answer right away, forcing him to poke your shoulder a few times. “Sorry, what?”
“Do you want anything to eat?” He asks. “I’m gonna’ go grab something.”
“Oh, no, I’m okay,” You say, smiling up at him. “Thank you.”
He leans down, kissing your forehead, walking off to the stairs and disappearing. Now that your focus has been broken, you feel the familiar twinge of a headache blooming behind your eyes, and you reach down into the front pocket of your backpack, pulling out a bottle of ibuprofen.
You unscrew the cap, tipping the bottle upside down, only for nothing to fall into your hand. You frown, shaking it a few times, groaning once the realization hits that it’s empty.
You don’t hesitate to grab Frank’s bag, hoisting it into your lap and sifting through it’s contents. You spot a bottle of something at the bottom, and you reach down for it, pulling it out and turning it over in your hand, reading the label. It’s acetaminophen, not ibuprofen, but it’ll have to do if you want to get through this final chapter.
You dump two pills out, grabbing your water bottle, moments away from tossing them into your mouth when you actually get a glimpse of them. They don’t look like any acetaminophen you’ve ever seen, making your brows furrow. You flip one of the pills over, revealing a crooked imprint code, but you’re certain that this isn’t any kind of painkiller you can buy at a pharmacy.
It’s not his vyvanse, either.
You tuck one of the pills into your pocket, throwing the other one back into the bottle and replacing the lid. You put the bottle at the bottom of his bag, then drop his backpack onto the floor just as he comes back up the stairs. He gives you a bright smile, setting your favourite chocolate bar on the table.
“Figured it couldn’t hurt,” He says, taking his seat beside you again. You swallow, nodding, forcing a tight-lipped smile.
“Thanks,” You say. “I was actually gonna’ head home, are you coming?”
“Shit, really?” He asks, tilting his head a little. “I wish I could, but I should really stay. I’m fucked for this final if I don’t.”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll see you in the morning, then?” You ask, already packing your things up.
“Probably not,” He says. “I need to get at least twelve hours in tomorrow, I was gonna’ leave pretty early.”
You nod, fingers ghosting over the outline of the pill in your pocket. “Can you wake me up when you get back, say goodnight?”
“Sure, yeah,” He says, already distracted by his work, jotting something down in his notebook. “See you at home. Love you.”
You don't even take your shoes off once you're home, just sitting on the floor by the front door. You fish your phone out of your pocket, snapping a picture of the orange pill and pasting it into the search bar. You watch the browser load for too long, then similar pictures start popping up. You click on the first one, looking at the article name that sits below it.
Amphetamine Addiction and Withdrawal - Statistics, Warning Signs, and More
Your mouth goes dry.
You thought it would end up being naproxen or something, not an illegal stimulant.
Things start to click into place as you think about everything that's happened over the past few months—the not sleeping, barely eating, the irritability—it's all because he's been high.
You don't get any sleep that night, and Frank never comes home. You don't see him until the next day, long after the sun is set.
“Hey, peanut,” He says, closing the door softly, kicking his shoes off and tossing his bag aside. “Sorry I didn’t wake you up last night, you just looked so peaceful, I didn’t wanna’ interrupt.”
Your stomach twists, nausea curling up and taking hold of your chest. You close your laptop, tossing it onto the couch beside you, shaking your head.
“Why are you lying?” You ask, getting to your feet, folding your arms over your chest.
“What do you mean?” He asks, trying to smile, but you can see the panic in his expression. “I got back late, you know-”
“You didn’t come home,” You interrupt. “I was up all night, waiting for you.”
He sighs, coming farther inside. “I didn’t know you were waiting, you should’ve texted.”
“I shouldn’t have had to,” You counter, shifting on your feet. “Do you have anything you wanna’ tell me, Frank?”
He raises an eyebrow. “No, what? Do you think I’m cheating on you or something? Because I swear I’m not, I was at the library all night, Jonah can back me up-”
“I don’t think you’re cheating on me,” You clarify.
“Then…what?” He asks. “No, I don’t have anything to tell you, babe.”
“Really?” You push.
“Yeah, really.”
You reach into your pocket, pulling out the pill, holding it out towards him. Obvious recognition passes over his features before he feigns confusion.
“What is that?” He questions.
You close your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, folding your fingers back over the pill and dropping your hand to your side.
“I found a bottle of these in your backpack last night,” You explain. “I didn’t know what it was at first, but then I did some research. Fucking speed, really?”
“What bottle, babe?” He asks. “It’s not mine, whatever it is.”
You hum with frustration, gesturing to his bag. “Show me your bag, then.”
“Seriously?” He says. “You don’t trust me?”
“You really expect me to believe that someone put a bottle of speed in your backpack without you realizing?” You ask. “Do you think I’m fucking stupid?”
“I obviously don’t think you’re stupid,” He argues. “But yeah, I expect you to trust me after six years of knowing me.”
“You lied to my face two minutes ago,” You say. “Completely unprompted.”
He huffs. “That was so you wouldn’t worry about me staying up all night.”
“Show me your bag, Frank.”
“No,” He says. “That’s insane, come on.”
You click your tongue behind your teeth, sucking in a breath, shrugging.
“You’re being ridiculous,” He says.
“Frank, whatever this is? We can deal with it,” You say. “Just…stop lying, okay? Please.”
He purses his lips, leaning over and picking his backpack up, handing it to you. You rummage through the contents until you find the same acetaminophen bottle, unscrewing the cap and peering inside, seeing the same orange pills you saw last night. He doesn’t say anything, he just stands with his hands in his pockets, his anxiety palpable.
“I’m right?” You ask, putting the lid back on. “It’s speed?”
“...yeah,” He says, looking down at the floor. You nod, trying to get yourself to think rationally, but you have no idea what to do here.
“Okay,” You say, moving towards the couch. “Come on, let’s sit for a second.”
You ask him a million questions. How long, how much, why? His answers come slowly, a part of him still wondering if he can shield you from this for a little while longer, but you don’t leave any room for half-truths. He truly hesitates when you ask him if he’s tried to stop.
You watch his adam’s apple move when he swallows, his eyes averting to his hands, which twist around each other as he toys with his fingers.
“No,” He finally says. “I was going to the second the semester was over, I swear. It was just to keep up with school.”
“Right, I get it,” You say, reaching for him, trying to ignore the bottle that sits on the coffee table. “You’ve had a rough couple months. But this was not the solution, Frank. You could’ve talked to me, or your advisor, or your profs—there were a lot of steps to take before you started using drugs.”
Your tone isn’t judgement or condescending, it’s realistic. You’re trying to remind him that he has other options.
“This seemed easier,” He says. “And more effective.”
“I mean, it probably was,” You agree. “But it’s dangerous, baby.”
“No, I know, you’re right,” He says. “But I’m not out of control or anything, I can stop whenever I want.”
You straighten, signalling that he’s said the wrong thing. He grimaces, hating the way the line sounds coming out of his mouth.
“Most people who say that can’t actually stop whenever they want,” You counter.
“Those people aren’t me,” He says. “A lot of people use it, and they’re all completely fine. I just needed something short-term.”
You take a deep breath, tangling your hands with his own, the action making his pulse spike. He sighs with relief, leaning closer to you, squeezing your fingers tightly.
“You need to stop,” You say, not leaving any room for interpretation. “This is—this isn’t okay, Frankie.”
“It’s not, it’s so far from being okay,” He repeats. “I’ll stop, I’m done. Starting right now.”
He makes a point of flushing the pills down the toilet, but it doesn’t feel as final as it should. Something heavy sits over both of you—an omen of what’s to come.
October, 2014
Frank’s voicemail plays in your ear for the sixth time.
You call again, kicking a rock with your heel-clad foot, sending it into the dirt beside the sidewalk.
“Hey, it’s Frank, leave a message-”
You close your eyes, jabbing your finger against the ‘end call’ button, shoving your phone back into your purse. You’re trying so hard to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the past six months have made that exceptionally difficult.
The summer had been great, with you graduating and the two of you taking a short vacation before you started medical school in July. Then September rolled around, and Frank jumped back into everything, needing to keep his GPA up if he had any hopes of following in your footsteps. You had tried to get him to take a lighter course load, but he had refused, claiming he would be fine.
You tried to convince yourself that you were imagining things when the tell-tale signs started up again. Him picking fights over stupid shit, long stretches of time where you don’t know where he is, a level of sleep that isn’t congruent with survival for most people.
Or, at least, for anyone who isn’t abusing stimulants.
You asked a million times if he was using again. He said no, promised that it was just because of school and that he’d be back to normal once the two of you could go home for the holidays.
But now, standing outside your favourite restaurant an hour after your reservation, on your seventh anniversary, with no sign of him solidifies your worst fears.
You blink back tears, checking your phone again, still seeing nothing. A family of five walks by you, the youngest daughter saying something about how pretty you look to her mom, which only makes your heart hurt more. You’re about to give up and go home when a car pulls up in front of you, the passenger door opening hastily. You step back as Frank clambers out, shouting goodbye to his friend and slamming the door shut. You flinch, putting more distance between you and him when he turns around.
“Hey, baby, I am so sorry,” He says, walking over to you, setting his hands on your cheeks. You turn to the side when he leans in, forcing him to kiss the corner of your mouth, making him frown. “I know, I’m so fucking late, practice was insane and I’ve got that assignment due on Friday, I lost track of time.”
You look at him. His irises are practically invisible.
“I’ve been waiting for an hour,” You say. “No call, no text, no nothing, Frank.”
He frowns, grabbing both your hands. “I’m sorry, I know, I’m the worst. Maybe we can still get a table? I’ll go ask-”
“Don’t bother,” You say. “I’m not having dinner with you when you’re high out of your fucking mind.”
“What?” He asks. “I’m not high, come on, I told you I’ve just been busy. I haven’t been using, I swear.”
You shake your head, laughing a little despite yourself, pulling your hands out of his. “Is this all you’re ever gonna’ be now?”
His brows furrow. “What do you mean? Busy? No, of course not. I’m almost done undergrad, and then we’ll both be in med school, but that’ll be a different kind of busy. We’ll be back to normal.”
“I keep waiting for things to change,” You say, barely digesting his words. “I keep waiting for you to stop lying.”
“Baby, I’m not lying.”
“It’s always…this,” You continue. “You fucking up and trying to convince me you didn’t.”
“I’m not trying to convince you of anything,” He argues. “I know I fucked up, I should’ve been here on time, I know.”
“You shouldn’t have gotten high,” You whisper, tears piling in your eyes. “I don’t…I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
“Are you joking?” He asks. “It’s one fucking night, come on-”
“You still won’t admit it?” You ask. “All I have ever asked of you is that you tell me the truth. And you have failed over and over again.”
You step back when he reaches for you.
“I love you, but I can’t keep putting up with this,” You say, not bothering to wipe away the tears that drip down your face. “Get your shit together, please.”
January, 2015
The party isn’t anything huge, just yours and Frank’s main friend group, which is enough people to fill a room. You had been hesitant to go at first, still trying to keep your distance from him, but your best friend practically dragged you there after letting you mope in bed for the past three months.
It starts off fine, but it quickly takes a turn for the worse a couple hours in. Luckily, you’re on your fifth drink by the time the door opens, revealing Frank and a petite blonde girl some time after eleven.
“Hey, look who it is!” One of your friends exclaims, pushing himself off the couch and over to the door. “We were starting to think you wouldn’t make it.”
You pull your phone out of your back pocket, taking a swig of the drink you’re holding, trying to seem remotely busy as people move to greet him.
“Who’s this?” Someone asks, making you glance over, seeing the woman standing just behind him. You feel your chest tighten when he beams, wrapping an arm across her shoulders.
“This is Abby,” He says. “We met a couple months ago.”
People start introducing themselves, tossing out names left and right, clearly overwhelming the poor girl. Someone eventually gestures to you, saying your name, and you see the way Abby’s face changes. Her smile drops a little, but she still gives you a wave.
“Nice to meet you,” She says. “Frank’s told me a lot about you.”
“Yeah, bet he has,” Someone mutters, making the group laugh. Frank joins in, tightening his grip on Abby, desperately trying to get you to look at him. You avoid his eyes, downing the rest of your drink and standing up, giving her the most genuine smile you can muster.
“Wow, I love your jeans, you’re stunning,” You say. “Frank’s a lucky guy. How’d you meet?”
You hear someone murmur something like ‘wow, very mature’ as you guide her into the living room, asking if she wants something to drink. Frank’s best friend, Jonah, slaps a hand onto his back once the two of you are out of earshot.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He asks, making Frank scoff.
“Don’t start, man.”
“No, seriously, what’s your problem?” He pushes. “What happened to trying to get her back?”
“I never said I was doing that,” Frank argues.
Jonah gives him a disapproving look, one that Frank isn’t sure he’s ever seen from his long-time friend.
“You’re an idiot,” He says. “Bringing a new girl here like this, when you knew she’d be here too? That’s pretty selfish, man.”
“It’s not that serious,” Frank says.
“That’s the problem, dude,” Jonah says. “It should be that serious.”
Meanwhile, you rummage through the fridge, listing out options to Abby, who’s standing off to the side.
“I’m good with a beer,” She says, and you pull one out, passing it over before grabbing one for yourself. You crack it open, bringing the can to your lips, taking a sip as you close the fridge.
“So, Frank told me you’ve known him since you were teenagers?” She says, leaning back against the counter.
“Oh, yeah,” You say. “He moved into the house across the street from mine, we got pretty close.”
“Right, he says you’re his best friend,” She adds. “I’d really love to get to know you, you know, to see more of his life.”
You hum, taking another sip of your drink. “Yeah, no, for sure. I’d like that too.”
Frank watches carefully as the two of you come back into the living room, trying to figure out if anything happened while you were gone. Abby grins as she walks over, and he smiles back, replacing his arm around her shoulders.
“She’s really nice,” Abby says, and Frank glances at you for a second before settling his eyes back on her.
“Yeah, she’s great,” He agrees. He can’t help but feel a little disappointed with how well you’re taking this, almost as though he wanted it to bother you. “You wanna’ sit?”
He catches you on the balcony a few hours later, missing the way you swipe a hand over your cheek, brushing away a stray tear.
“Hey,” You say. “I was just about to head in, balcony’s all yours.”
He grabs your arm as you walk by, stopping you from going inside.
“I actually came out here to talk to you,” He says. “I was gonna’ tell you about Abby, I swear.”
“Yeah, okay,” You say, sarcastically. “I would’ve loved a heads up that you had a girlfriend before agreeing to come tonight.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” He counters, still holding your arm. You pull out of his grip, exhaling sharply, tugging the sleeves of your hoodie down.
“She said you called me your ‘best friend,’” You say, putting quotes around the words. “Does she know about us?”
“What about us?” He asks. “That we dated?”
You purse your lips, tears pushing against your throat again, pooling in your eyes. Him summing up almost a decade of history with ‘we dated’ reignites the anger and insecurity that you’ve been feeling for months, and you just want to get out of here and go home.
“Yeah,” You say.
He squints, shrugging his shoulders up, waving his hand in a ‘sort of’ motion. “She knows we were together in high school.”
“In high school,” You repeat.
“That’s when it started,” He adds, obviously trying to justify his actions—something he’s been doing a lot of for the past year. He shifts on his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Yeah, no, I was there,” You say.
He raises an eyebrow. “I know.”
You watch him for a second, trying to read his expression, which use to be easy for you. Now it feels impossible, his face neutral, not letting you in.
“Is this your way of ending things, like, for real?” You ask, finally voicing what you’ve had on your mind since he showed up. There’s no edge in your voice, the question not meant to hurt him—you just need to know. “Because you could’ve just…said it.”
His face flickers, an unrecognizable look settling on it while he digests your words.
“No, that’s—that’s not what this is,” He says. “You—you ended things with me, I didn’t realize you and me was still an option.”
“You think I’ve just been checking in with you constantly for the past three months, what, for fun?” You ask. The corners of his lips quirk up with the ghost of a smile, taking the opportunity to try and lighten the mood.
“I mean, talking to me is a lot of fun,” He teases. A tear slips down your cheek, brows creasing and lips parting in disbelief.
“Why do you always do that?” You ask, gesturing with your hand before letting it fall back against your leg. “Why can’t you take anything seriously?”
“Come on,” He says, exasperatedly. “I’m just trying to keep this from becoming a whole thing, I-”
“God fucking forbid this become a whole thing,” You say, cutting him off. “I almost thought everything that happened between us actually meant something, thank you so much for reminding me that it didn’t.”
“When did I say that?” He asks, more defensive now.
“You don’t have to say something for it to be true.”
You try to go back inside again, but he grabs both your biceps, holding you in front of him. You refuse to look at him, sniffling as you wipe your eyes with your sleeve. He clenches his jaw, swallowing back tears of his own, letting go of one of your arms to tilt your chin up.
“Everything that happened means so much to me, peanut,” He says. “Why do you think it doesn’t?”
More tears fall, dripping off your chin and onto the concrete beneath you. You suddenly feel stupid, the adoration on his face making you momentarily forget all the times he’s hurt you, all the times he’s lied or said something he didn’t mean, all the promises he’s broken. When you look into his eyes you see the boy you fell in love with staring back at you, genuine curiosity and concern in them.
“You said ‘that we dated’ like that’s all it ever was,” You explain, finding yourself leaning closer to him. “Making a joke about having fun together when…I’ve been checking up on you to try and hold on to any fucking remnant of you and I because-”
You pause, inhaling involuntarily, a stifled cry catching in your throat. Frank’s face softens more, his grip dropping to your hands, taking them in his own.
“This is killing me,” You admit, voice shaking. “I only broke up with you because I thought it might convince you to stop using, I—I thought we’d get back together once you got clean, I wasn’t expecting you to move on so fast.”
He sighs, nodding, tugging you into his chest and wrapping his arms around you.
“I didn’t move on,” He admits. “The whole thing with Abby is selfish and stupid and I absolutely have not moved on, I swear to god.”
You don’t say anything, you just tuck your face into his neck.
“I’ll talk to her tonight, tell her it’s over,” He says.
“You don’t have to do that,” You say, voice muffled by his jacket. “She seems really sweet.”
“Yeah, she is, but she’s no you,” He says, holding you tighter. “As long as I have a chance with you then I don’t want anyone else, baby.”
He kisses you, and the hollowness in your stomach starts to fill.
June, 2015
His phone rings when you’re already in bed, snuggled into his chest, his arms around you. He groans, shifting away, reaching for the object and glancing at the screen. He freezes, making you lift your head, catching sight of the contact before he can hide it.
Abby ❤️
“Why is she calling you?” You ask, sitting up a bit. “Why does she still have a heart beside her name?”
“I dunno’,” He says. “I must’ve forgotten to get rid of the heart when I ended things.”
His thumb slams against the ‘decline’ button, which for some reason makes you doubt his answer.
“What if something’s wrong?” You ask, reaching for the lamp, turning it on. “You should call her back, make sure everything’s okay.”
A part of you means it—if she’s in trouble you want to help, but the other part wants to see just how far he’ll take this if he’s lying.
The two of you never re-established the seriousness of your relationship, but you certainly hadn’t seen anyone else since the conversation you had six months ago, and you were under the impression that he hadn’t either.
He shakes his head, setting his phone face-down on the nightstand. “Nah, I’m sure she’s fine.”
You squint. “Then just call her back, what’s the big deal?”
“No big deal,” He counters. “I’d just rather stay here with you.”
“Well, I won’t be able to sleep unless I know she’s alright,” You argue, analyzing his face, but you know the tells you learned when you were teens no longer apply, his whole charade much more calculated now.
“Why does it matter?” He asks, a slight edge to his tone. “She has other friends she can call, she’s fine.”
You don’t respond, and he lets himself relax, thinking you’re done pushing.
“Frank,” You say, forcing him to look at you again. “Fucking call her.”
He rolls his eyes, tossing the blanket off his body and sitting up. “Are we really doing this right now?”
“Doing what, exactly?” You ask.
“You still don’t trust me,” He says, saying it like it’s unbelievable. “Wow, I honestly thought you were past this bullshit.”
You genuinely laugh at that, burying your face behind your hands. “Oh my god. I’m such a fucking idiot.”
“Sometimes, yeah,” He says. “This isn’t gonna’ work if you don’t start believing me.”
You’re still laughing, putting a hand over your mouth to muffle it, trying to get yourself together. Frank just stares at you, your reaction sparking fury inside him.
“Wow, fuck me,” You say. “You’re sleeping with her.”
“That’s insane,” He counters, too quickly, as though he had the line ready.
“You never ended things,” You continue, mostly just processing out loud, not actually needing him to confirm or deny. “You’ve been seeing her this whole time.”
“I—I did end things,” He argues. “Why would I not have? This is actually so fucking ridiculous, I can’t-”
“Okay,” You say, sucking in through your teeth. “When exactly did you end things?”
“Babe, I swear to you, nothing is going on,” He says.
“That’s not what I asked.”
He pauses, looking up towards the ceiling, shrugging. “I—I dunno’, after the party.”
You hum disbelievingly. “Does she know that?”
“Yes, she definitely knows that.”
You gesture to his phone. “Then call her.”
He doesn’t move.
“Why is that so hard?” You ask. “Pick up the phone and call her.”
“You’re turning this into something it’s not,” He says. “I cannot believe-”
“Frank, shut the fuck up,” You say, holding your hands up. “You can either call her, or you can leave.”
“Really? Over this?” He asks, still deflecting. “I’m not calling her, babe, there’s no need.”
“I’m not asking you again.”
He doesn’t move at first, but then he reaches for his phone, pulling it off the charger. You stupidly believe that he’s actually going to call her back, but he slides it into his pocket instead.
“Fine,” He says, grabbing his hoodie off the floor as he goes, stopping in the doorway of your bedroom. “I don’t wanna’ be around you when you’re like this anyway.”
You nod, watching him close the door behind him, the pause before he actually walks off confirming that he wanted that to get a reaction out of you. You wait until you hear the front door close before letting yourself collapse, burying your face in the covers and crying until you can’t breathe.
December, 2015
You don’t see him until he’s already too close, leaving you unable to force your way through the sea of people fast enough to get away. Avoiding him has been relatively easy for the past six months, considering you’re a year ahead of him, meaning your classes don’t overlap. But here he is, somehow, waiting for you outside your lecture. His hand lands on your backpack, grabbing the loop at the top, shifting himself into place beside you.
You don’t look at him as you walk through the hall, practically elbowing people as you move, making him have to fight to keep up. He says your name, but you don’t stop.
“Can you just hang on for a minute?” He finally asks.
“No,” You say, pushing a door open, stepping out into the freezing cold. He doesn’t have any problem catching up now that there’s no one in his way, and he plants himself directly in your path, making you freeze. You try to go around him, but he sticks an arm out, gently latching onto you shoulder.
“You don’t have to say anything,” He says. “Just listen to me for a second.”
“Why?” You ask. “So you can lie to me?”
He exhales roughly, shaking his head. “No, so I can tell you the truth.”
You shrug, folding your arms over yourself, shivering. “Fine. Go.”
“Abby and I are done,” He says. You roll your eyes, trying to get away again, but he holds onto you. “Seriously, we’re fucking done, for real. I—I wanted to give it a real shot, you know, make it something that was worth losing you over, but that’s dumb. Nothing is ever worth losing you.”
“I’m glad you figured that out,” You say. “But that has nothing to do with me anymore.”
“What do you mean?” He asks. “It has everything to do with you.”
You sigh. “I have a train to catch, so, I should go.”
“Your train doesn’t come until six-fifty,” He argues. You go still, scoffing, the sound close to a laugh, but not quite.
“Don’t do that,” You say. “Don’t fucking memorize my schedule like that.”
“I…I didn’t,” He says, then he recalibrates. “I didn’t mean to. I see you take that train five days a week, it just…stuck.”
“Okay, whatever,” You say, shrugging your shoulders up to your ears, your nose tingling in the cold. You inhale sharply, momentarily forgetting that your lungs have been protesting their usual function for the past few days, resulting in you falling into a fit of coughs. He frowns when it surpasses ‘swallowed the wrong way’ and enters ‘I can’t fucking breathe’ territory, stepping a little closer.
“You okay?” He asks. You clear your throat as you straighten out, nodding quickly.
“I’m fine,” You say, but it’s clipped, and you dissolve into more rib-shattering coughs immediately after.
“That sounds like the exact opposite of fine,” He says. “You should sit down.”
The coughing subsides after a few more seconds, and you breathe in carefully, trying not to provoke your airway again.
“I’m good, it’s just the weather,” You lie. He almost believes you for a second, but then you stumble slightly, making him reach out, grabbing your hips to keep you steady. “I should really get home.”
“I don’t like the idea of you taking the train like this,” He says. “Not by yourself.”
You wave him off. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
“And yet I do anyways.”
Your walls splinter—he sees it on your face.
You realize that the meds you took this morning must be wearing off, because your fever now feels very real, and sweat starts to bead along your forehead and neck. Your vision blurs, forcing you to blink a few times, your ears ringing in protest from you still being upright.
“Come on, I’ll get you home.”
The drive back to your apartment is hazy, but you’re aware of the way Frank holds you as he helps you into the elevator and to your door. You fumble with your keys, dropping them onto the floor. He swoops down, picking them up and selecting the correct one, sliding it into place and unlocking it.
He follows you in, not taking his shoes off, telling himself that he just wants to make sure you get into bed safely. That goes out the window when you almost knock a lamp over trying to turn it on, movements clunky and disorganized. He sticks his hand out, catching it at the last second, carefully putting it back upright.
“Have you eaten anything?” He asks, watching you lower yourself onto the couch, cheeks hot and eyes closed.
“Not really,” You admit. “I haven’t been shopping in awhile, I’ve been surviving off of stale crackers.”
“Well, that just won’t do,” He says. “Let me help you get settled and then I’ll get you something to eat, okay?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know,” He says. “I want to, so, just…shut up and let me.”
You fall asleep on the couch as soon as you’re done eating, curling into him, resting your head on his chest. He hesitates at the contact, but then he tucks a blanket around you, holding you close.
He stays like that all night.
You’re not any better the next morning, in fact, your cough is exponentially worse.
“We should go to urgent care,” He says, aftering listening to you hack up a lung in the bathroom for nearly ten minutes. “You could have pneumonia.”
“I don’t have pneumonia,” You argue. “I just need to rest.”
“You slept for sixteen hours last night,” He counters. “Now you’re even worse.”
“It’s just because I haven’t taken anything yet,” You say, pulling the cabinet open and grabbing various bottles of medication.
“Prove it.”
You raise an eyebrow. “How?”
“Go to urgent care,” He explains. “They’ll tell me I’m wrong and then I’ll shut up.”
You huff, setting the meds down. “Fine. Let’s go.”
You’re back in his car two hours later, a pneumonia diagnosis on your chart and a bottle of antibiotics in your lap. You’re waiting for him to say ‘I told you so,’ but he stays quiet the entire drive back to your apartment, only speaking to check if you’re warm enough.
“You were right,” You finally say.
He hums. “Yeah, but you’ll be feeling better in no time.”
“You don’t want to…rub it in?” You ask.
“That I was right about you having pneumonia?” He asks. “No, I wish I had been wrong.”
“Me too,” You say. “This sucks.”
“Do you have anyone you can call?” He asks. “Could your mom come take care of you?”
You shake your head. “No, I’ll be fine on my own.”
“The doctor said someone should stay with you for a few days.”
“I heard,” You say. “It’ll be fine, Frank.”
He hesitates, debating the idea in his head before deciding to bite the bullet. “Let me stay for the rest of the day, make sure you don’t die.”
He expects resistance, but he doesn’t get any. You just shrug, eyes starting to feel heavy again as you lean back into the seat.
“Suit yourself.”
He doesn’t leave that night.
You spend the next three days together, him cooking, cleaning, and taking care of you while you suffer on the couch, wondering what you did to deserve whatever plague you caught. By the end of the third day you start feeling better, and you can actually get off the couch without any assistance, making him jump when he sees you come around the corner into the kitchen.
“Jesus,” He breathes. “What’re you doing up?”
You smile, gesturing to your legs. “I can walk again.”
He chuckles. “You never stopped being able to walk.”
“Felt like I did,” You counter. “I feel a lot better today.”
“Oh, good,” He says, but he can’t even hide the disappointment. You feeling better means he has to go, and he’s nowhere near ready for that. “I’m glad, peanut.”
“Thank you for everything,” You say.
“Yeah, anytime, seriously,” He says. “I guess I should get going, then.”
You look towards the window, shrugging. “It’s coming down pretty bad out there, I’d feel like an asshole if I made you drive in that.”
He follows your gaze, seeing the blizzard that’s starting outside. “It probably won’t last long.”
“So stay until it’s over.”
He tries to find any hint of insincerity in your eyes, but there isn’t any. Instead, he finds desire burning in your irises, the rest of your face completely innocent. He shakes his head, despite the voice screaming at him to jump at this opportunity.
“Okay, yeah, I’ll stay for a bit,” He says. “You should lay back down, though, wouldn’t want to overdo it.”
You nod. “Will you help me?”
“You just said your legs are working again,” He counters.
“They are,” You say. “That’s not what I want help with.”
He follows you back to the living room, watching you get back onto the couch, looking up at him with wide eyes.
“Can you hold me?” You ask, softly. His breathing stutters, some sort of affirmation stumbling from his lips. He sits beside you, opening his arms up, letting you lean into him. You don’t wait long before resting your hand over his, slowly pushing it down towards your thighs, towards the place you need him most.
“You’re sick, we shouldn’t,” He whispers. “You’re not thinking straight.”
“I don’t have a fever anymore,” You say, pressing your forehead to his for proof. “I want you to touch me, Frankie, please.”
You mentally thank his impulsivity when he slides his hand beneath your waistband. Your eyes rolls back as his fingers move in slow circles, drawing a whine out of you. He leans down, pressing his lips to your neck, gently peppering kisses across your skin.
“I’ve really missed you, baby,” He whispers. “And not just like this.”
You don’t say anything in response. You keep your eyes trained on your ceiling, focusing on how good he feels pressed against you. He kisses your collarbone, desperate for you to just look at him for a second.
“Baby?”
You hum.
“Could you look at me?”
You roll your hips into his hands, a soft moan slipping past your lips. “We can talk later.”
You never talk. You just slip back into old habits.
February, 2017
“My mom called me this morning,” You say, sitting across from him in the cafe you’ve been studying at for the past few hours. “Said her and your mom have basically started planning our wedding.”
Your tone is casual, anecdotal, as though it’s just a funny thing someone said that rolled off your back. Frank raises an eyebrow, smiling a little as he sets his pen down.
“Yeah?” He asks. “And where will we be getting married?”
You laugh. “I dunno’, I told her were weren’t even engaged yet and she was like ‘oh, I know, but you’ve found each other so many times and been through so much together’ or…whatever. Apparently it’s ‘written in the stars.’”
“She’s not wrong,” He says. “I mean, we’ve technically been together for a decade.”
“Big emphasis on technically,” You say, taking a sip of your coffee, completely unaware of how your words hit him. He tenses, picking his pen back up, spinning it around his fingers.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asks. You set your coffee down, shrugging, missing the underlying seriousness in his tone.
“Well, we were on and off in high school, and we’ve spent nine months of the last two years broken up, so.”
In your mind, you’re providing context. To him, you’re highlighting the incontinuity that he hates himself for creating.
“Okay,” He says, and you finally see the pain beneath his expression. You sit up a little straighter, reaching your hand across the table, interlacing your fingers with his.
“I didn’t mean it like a bad thing,” You say. “But, I mean, it’s not as easy as ‘we’ve been together for a decade’ in my mind.”
He nods, his hand loose in your grip, not holding yours back. You frown, squeezing it gently, but he keeps it limp.
“Frank,” You say. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t think about it like that,” He says. “What do you say when people ask how long we’ve been together?”
You shrug. “I usually just say since high school.”
“But you don’t actually believe that.”
“Well, it’s objectively not true,” You argue, starting to get defensive, no idea why he’s fighting you so hard on this. “But they don’t need to know all the…nuance, or whatever.”
“The nuance being me being a drug addict?” He asks.
You flinch, taking an intentionally deep breath before responding. “That’s part of it, yeah. Do we have to have this conversation right now?”
“Oh, sorry, am I embarrassing you?” He asks, everything about the sentence hitting you the wrong way. It’s too loud, too brazen, too disproportionate for the circumstance. You’re stunned for a second.
“No,” You say. “That’s not what I said.”
You’re trying to de-escalate, but he doesn’t take the hint.
“You’re literally telling me to shut up about it,” He counters, leaning away from you, gesturing to the people around you. The tables in the immediate vicinity have averted their eyes, doing their best to ignore whatever the fuck is going on.
Your heart skips. Something is definitely wrong—this isn’t him.
“Hey, you’re freaking people out,” You say, as gently as you can, taking his hand in yours again and rubbing your thumb along his knuckles. “Can you just…lower your voice for a second?”
“Why?” He asks. “So people can’t hear how ashamed of me you are?”
“Okay, what is going on with you right now?” You ask, starting to pack your belongings up, desperate to get out of the coffee shop before he can say much else. “You’re—I don’t know what this is.”
“Nothing’s going on with me,” He snaps. “I’m just saying what you won’t.”
“You’re basically yelling at me in public,” You correct. “We should go, talk about this at home.”
“Right,” He says, not moving. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your image.”
You slide your laptop into your bag, zipping it up and setting it on the bench beside you. “You don’t have to come with me, but I’m not doing this here.”
He doesn’t come home that night, but he’s back in the apartment when you get home from classes the next day, all the lights off and him wrapped in a blanket on the couch. You jump when you notice him, gasping and clutching your chest. He lifts his head slowly, face dull and pale, his eyes looking right through you.
“Hey,” You say, dropping your things and taking your shoes off, kneeling in front of him. You set your hands on his cheek and forehead, frowning. “Are you sick? What’s wrong?”
You’re already back up by the time he processes the question, softly padding into the bathroom, running water over a washcloth. You come back out to the living room, looping it behind his neck, brushing a few strands of hair behind his ears. He grimaces, making you stop immediately.
“Sorry, sorry, is it too cold?” You ask, going to move the cloth, but he grabs your wrist.
“No, it’s not that,” He says, voice quiet and rough. He clears his throat, then he says your name.
“What?” You say. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sick,” He says. “I—I’m just coming down.”
You don’t register the meaning behind that for a few moments, and he watches your face change as understanding sinks in. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, removing your wrist from his grasp, setting your hands on top of his thighs.
“Okay,” You say. No judgement, no accusation, no disbelief. “Do you need anything?”
The immediate acceptance unravels his thoughts.
Maybe he should’ve started telling you the truth a long time ago.
“Uh—uhm, no,” He says. “I’m okay, it’ll pass.”
“You look awful,” You say. “When’s the last time you slept?”
He sighs. “I dunno’.”
His body hurts so badly he doesn’t hear the distance in your voice.
“You should probably do that,” You say, pushing yourself back on your heels, not touching him anymore. “I need to get changed, I have a shift in an hour.”
“Wait, wait, you’re going to work?” He asks.
“Yeah,” You say, standing up now, brushing your hands over your thighs. “Someone called out, I offered to take the shift.”
You wait a moment before continuing, debating how much to tell him.
“I honestly didn’t think you’d be back yet,” You admit. “I didn’t want to be home by myself all night.”
He winces. “Right, yeah, fair enough.”
“I ordered in last night, there’s leftovers in the fridge,” You continue. “I got that, uh, that pasta you like.”
His thoughts are incomprehensible, but he knows he has to apologize. “I’m sorry you were alone yesterday.”
You nod. “I appreciate that.”
“I love you,” He says. “More than anything.”
His vision is too blurry to see the tears gathering in your eyes.
“I love you too, Frankie,” You say, leaning over, pressing a soft kiss to his hairline. You disappear into the bedroom before the tears actually fall, changing into your black slacks and button down that you always wear to the restaurant you’ve been working at for years. You dry your face, putting on some makeup to hide any evidence of the day you’ve had, then you tiptoe past the living room to the front door, slipping out without a sound.
You spend the next two days in a stupor, mindlessly dragging yourself to class, then home, then work, all while making sure Frank doesn’t die on the couch. You go through the motions of taking care of him—making him food, forcing him to hydrate, helping him take showers. You don’t actually know when you made the decision to leave, if you decided the second he admitted to relapsing or if it came a little while after, but your mind is made up by the time he’s lucid again.
“We should talk about…what happened,” You say, not taking a seat on the couch, simply standing off to the side with your arms crossed over your chest. He nods.
“We should,” He agrees. “I’m really, really sorry, peanut. It was just the once, one of my friends had some on him, and I just…I caved. I wished I could take it back the second I swallowed it.”
“Yeah, I believe that,” You say. “But that’s not—that’s not it.”
“What is, then?”
“I—I was really mad at you for relapsing,” You start. “And I hated every second of helping you through the comedown.”
“Of course, that’s totally fair-”
“I want to take care of people for a living,” You interrupt. “I don’t…I can’t be with someone who makes me hate that. I can’t let myself be apathetic.”
He stops breathing at the implication of what you’re saying.
“I don’t like the version of me that I saw for the last two days,” You continue. “And I don’t want to be put in that position again.”
“Then I’ll never put you in it again,” He promises.
“That’s not a guarantee you can make,” You counter. “And…if your track record is anything to go by, you will do it again.”
“I go longer and longer between relapses every time,” He says. “I haven’t used in almost two years.”
“And I’m really fucking proud of you, Frank,” You say. “But I’ve put in too much work to get to where I am, I’m not willing to risk it.”
“Baby-”
“It’s not up for debate,” You say. “I…I would really like to be your friend, if you’re ever ready for that. I think that might suit us better.”
His eyes are glassy with tears. “Yeah, uh—okay. I’ll get back to you on that.”
Him and his belongings are gone by the time you get back from work that night.
August, 2019
You can’t stop looking at the picture, always finding your way back to it after you manage to swipe away, re-reading the caption and the comments until your vision blurs.
It’s a picture of Frank holding a chip in his hand, beaming at the camera so wide it almost looks painful, posted by Abby with the caption ‘one year sober!!! so proud of you :)’.
There’s almost a hundred comments, all variations of congratulations, praising him for his hard work. You force yourself to double-tap the photo, even liking a few comments, trying to come across as supportive and mostly nonchalant.
“Is that Frank?”
You nod, tilting your phone towards your boyfriend, letting him look at the picture.
“Good for him,” He says. “He’s really put in the work.”
“Yeah, definitely,” You say. “I’m glad he’s doing better.”
“You talked to him recently?” He asks, and you shake your head, rolling over and getting out of bed.
“No, not for awhile,” You say, making sure he can’t see your face when you say the words, fearing he’ll be able to see right through you. “I haven’t even seen him since before my graduation.”
It’s a lie—you’ve seen him so many times you’ve lost count, each time dissolving into familiarity and collapsed boundaries, him usually on top of you, coaxing out moans and whines in the way that only he can. He leaves at the end of the night, going back home to Abby, and you end up alone in the same apartment you got together in undergrad, unable to let it go.
“That was over a year ago,” He says. “You should give him a call, I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”
“Yeah, maybe I will,” You say, already halfway in the bathroom, reaching over and turning the shower on.
You close the door before climbing in, letting the hot water run over your sore muscles, your back particularly tight after being in a precarious position for the majority of a twelve-hour surgery yesterday.
Your mind drifts to Frank as your hands trail down your body, one of them hovering between your thighs. You can practically hear him saying your name, breath feathering over your neck, ramming into you-
“Jesus,” You mutter, snapping out of it and bringing your hand back up, grabbing the bottle of bodywash off the shelf.
You pull a fresh pair of scrubs on once you’re out of the shower and completely dry, checking your phone to make sure you still have time to grab something to eat before you get to the hospital. You see Frank’s contact name on the screen, and you glance over your shoulder before opening the text.
Can I come over tonight? I have news!
You wonder if it’s about him hitting one year sober, but you decide quickly that it’s unlikely to be that. You know that it isn’t true, and he knows that you know. He’s done an incredible job at keeping it from Abby and his friends, instead coming to you every time he slips up again, which is exactly how you found yourself in this situation in the first place.
He had taken you up on your offer to be friends a few months after your most recent break-up, and at first that’s all it was. Then, he showed up at your doorstep higher than you’ve ever seen him, begging you to let him crash on your couch until he was sober again. You had agreed, but you hadn’t taken care of him the way you did the last time he rode a high out in your living room. You just moved around him, coming and going, leaving food and gatorade in the fridge.
He stayed sober for seven months after that before he used again, and he ended up in the exact same place, needing somewhere to stay so Abby didn’t find out.
After that your friendship…shifted.
Late nights, wandering hands, bad decisions. Forcing your respective partners out of your heads for a few hours, finding comfort in the person who knows every piece of you, convincing yourselves that each time will be the last.
You text back.
At the hospital until eight, swing by after?
The knock startles you despite the fact that you’re expecting it. Frank’s shoulders are scrunched up to his ears, hands in his pockets when you pull the door open, a wide grin on his face.
“Hey,” He greets. You step to the side, letting him in, just like you do every time. “You look nice.”
“I haven’t slept in three days,” You counter. He grimaces, sliding his shoes and jacket off.
“Back to back call shifts?” He asks.
“Yeah, fuck, it’s been brutal,” You say. “I have to be back at the hospital in-”
You pause, checking the time on your phone, whining. “-six hours.”
“Shit,” He says. “Seems like I’ve got a lot to look forward to.”
“You absolutely do,” You say, smiling. “What did you wanna’ tell me?”
He hums, pulling you in for a hug, rocking you back and forth. You relax into his touch despite the guilt that builds inside of you, the same guilt that’s been slowly gnawing away at your sense of self for the last two years.
“It can wait a bit,” He mumbles, tilting your chin towards him. “I’ve missed you.”
He breaks the silence once you’re done, laying beside eachother, chests heaving with deep breaths.
“Abby’s pregnant.”
You go completely still—like a child tucked away in bed who hears a noise from the hallway, convinced that whatever horrors lay outside won’t be able to see them if they don’t move a muscle.
The words feel sharp, not quite tearing your chest open, but slicing the skin over your collarbone, leaving you breathless. If you listen close enough you can almost hear them echoing around the room, distant, yet earth-shattering. His tone is so gentle, like he believes there’s a reality where both of you make it out of this alive.
But you know better.
One of you gives up here, and you’re absolutely certain it’s going to be you.
There’s a crack running along the edge of the ceiling that you’ve never noticed, inching towards the slowly spinning ceiling fan that does little to protect you from the dry, prickling heat under your skin. It runs down the wall too, splitting the uneven paint that you and Frank rolled on six years ago, the colour now dulled into something that barely resembles the sample you picked the day you moved in.
You can see yourself taping it up on the wall, letting it sit there for days, examining the way it changed under different lights, as if you could account for the ruthlessness of shadows and time. The way you convinced yourself that if you stared at something for long enough you’d be able to see into the future, knowing exactly how it would look ten years down the line.
You did the same for Frank, committing things to memory, even if they seemed mundane. His mouth tilting to the left when he smiles, the way he laughs when it’s just the two of you, the rhythm you hear every time you lay your head on his chest. The tapping of his fingers on your thigh when you stay up late watching TV, the pitch of his voice in the morning, the notes he used to leave for you on the bathroom mirror.
The ordinary used to feel like proof. That you were solid, that he was there, that he’d always be there. Now, after all this time, it feels like something that was only believable if you didn’t look too hard.
You need to say something soon—the silence has dragged on too long already.
You flash through all the things you’ve put up with over the past ten years, all the morals you’ve cast aside just to have some sliver of the man who lays beside you. He stares straight ahead, gaze locked on your ceiling, fingers drumming against his stomach.
Every time you lied to your partner about who you were texting, then calling, then seeing.
The nights Abby texted you, asking if you knew where Frank was, when you’d tell her that he was still at the library when he was actually in bed with you.
Countless hours you’ve spent convincing yourself that you’re not a bad person—you’re just hopefully, sickeningly, disturbingly in love. Hoping that each infraction might bring you closer to what you actually want. Calling things ‘complicated’ as if that makes it any better.
But it hasn’t. And it won’t.
You’re just a terrible person who has absolutely nothing to show for it.
You turn slightly, looking at him instead of the crack.
“Are you serious?” You ask, despite knowing the answer.
“Yeah,” He says. “Eight weeks.”
“Oh,” You say, sitting up slowly, reaching for your shirt off the floor and yanking it over your head. “That’s—that’s good. It’s good, right?”
Frank blinks a few times, confusion passing over his features as he sits up, too.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s good,” He agrees. “She’s pretty psyched.”
You nod, actually standing up now, slipping into your shorts and reaching back to smooth your hair down. You don’t stop moving, because you know that you won’t surrender if you stay still for too long.
“Okay,” You say, looking around the room as though you might snap out of this soon. Like this isn’t real. “So…this is done.”
Frank says your name, drawing it out as though you’re being unreasonable.
“No, Frank, fucking-”
You cut yourself off, grimacing when a small whimper follows the truncated sentence. Frank copies your actions, pulling his sweatpants up and walking over to your side of the bed, setting a hand on your shoulder.
“It doesn’t have to be,” He says, softly. You shake your head, swallowing back tears.
“You’re having a baby,” You counter, stepping away from him, hands raised to keep him from touching you again. He straightens, dropping his arms to his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists in an effort to get his heart to slow down. “She’s…Abby’s pregnant.”
“Yeah, no, I know,” He says, his thoughts completely incoherent. “But she has no idea about this, and-”
“That’s the problem,” You interrupt. “You—you’re about to have a baby and you’re talking about how she doesn’t know that you’ve been fucking me since the day you met her.”
Frank steps back too, crossing his arms over his chest, that all-too-familiar defensiveness starting to prickle through his skin.
“So, what?” He asks. “You have some kind of moral objection to this suddenly? You never had an issue with infidelity before—yours or mine.”
“You think I never had a problem with this?”
“Certainly didn’t seem like it.”
Your jaw tightens, tears hot in your throat and eyes, dizziness forcing you to reach back until you feel the nightstand beneath your palm.
“You always knew exactly what this was to me,” You say. “I told you, out on that fucking balcony, that this was about how much I loved you.”
“And you’re telling me it still is, huh?” He asks. “All this sneaking around has been out of love?”
It’s not exactly anger, something more like refusal. The ceiling fan keeps spinning, clicking each time it finds the same spot, the pull string waving back and forth. You wonder if the crack would be farther down on the wall if you turned to look.
“Has it not been for you?”
Your voice is practically nothing.
“I haven’t heard you tell me you love me in years,” You add, still quiet, voice catching on the last word. “But I keep showing up because I don’t know what I’ll do if I never hear you say it again.”
His heart practically stops.
“Look at me,” He says, closing the gap between you. You don’t, eyes trained on the floor in front of you, hands going numb from how tight you’re gripping the edge of the nightstand. His tone strays from anger, edging into something much kinder. “I love you.”
Your bottom lip actually wobbles.
“I love you with everything that I have,” He continues. “I wouldn’t—I couldn’t keep doing this to Abby if I didn’t love you.”
You can’t swallow anymore, your throat wound too tight.
“I’m not saying that because I think it’ll fix things,” He adds. “I’m saying that because it’s true, and I cannot keep lying to you.”
“But you do,” You say. “You keep lying.”
“I’m not lying right now,” He insists.
You nod. “I know.”
The stillness is unbearable.
“Then what do you want from me?” He asks, a hint of anger returning along with an uncontrolled urgency, one he knows well. “What do I have to do here? Just tell me, and—”
He cuts himself off, exhaling abruptly through his nose, running a hand through his hair. A few pieces stick upwards, drawing your gaze to them, watching as they slowly fall back against his head.
“I’m not lying to you anymore, I can’t keep doing that, and I don’t want to keep doing that,” He says. “So just tell me.”
A beat.
“Tell me what you need from me,” He finishes. “And I’ll do it.”
You can see exactly what he doesn’t want you to.
It’s not coming from a place of love, it’s coming from a place of desperation.
You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and shaking your head. “Build a time machine.”
“I can’t do that, baby,” He says, bouncing on his feet. “But I fucking would if I could.”
“Yeah,” You say. “I would too.”
He watches you carefully, waiting anxiously for a solution he can execute. You cross your arms over your chest, bracing yourself for the words you’re about to say.
“You know what you can do?” You ask.
He shakes his head. “No, tell me. Please.”
“You can get clean,” You say, hugging yourself, ignoring the panic that’s simmering beneath the surface. “For Abby.”
You pause.
“For your kid.”
You don’t give him a chance to retaliate.
“Maybe this’ll finally be enough to snap you out of it,” You add. “Because I was never enough, Abby was never enough, nothing has ever been enough for you to get your shit together.”
Your tone is so final he feels like there’s nothing he can say to change your mind.
“I really tried,” He says. “After you left.”
“No, you didn’t,” You say, finally dipping into anger yourself. “You did just enough to string me along, made me look like a fucking idiot every time I actually believed you were clean.”
“I wanted to, I swear,” He says. “It didn’t have anything to do with you, I just, I couldn’t kick it-”
“Like me?” You ask. “I’m clearly just another bad habit you can’t quite seem to shake.”
He purses his lips, clenching his jaw, scoffing. He drags a hand down his face, trying to ignore the way your words shatter against his cheekbone like glass. “That’s a low blow.”
“That’s why this all started, right?” You say. “Because you couldn’t get clean.”
“I tried!” He yells, slamming his hand against the bedframe, the sound of his palm connecting with the wood echoing in your bedroom. “You are the one who left me!”
“Because you were high all the fucking time!” You yell back, voice wavering now, hands thrown out in frustration.
He takes a deep breath, his eyes closing for a second while he gets himself together, feeling you slipping through his fingers more with each word that he says.
“No, I know that, and I’m sorry,” He says.
“Don’t be sorry for me,” You argue. “Be sorry for yourself. And don’t make your kid spend their whole life wondering why they weren’t enough for their dad to stop using.”
You squint a touch, leaning towards him.
“You can do that, right?”
He takes a moment before answering.
“I really fucking hope so.”
There’s no false confidence—just honesty in a way you haven’t seen in years. Your face breaks before you can stop it, breath catching as you twist away from him, tears trickling down your cheeks. You try to inhale, to avoid what you know is coming, but it’s no use. A sob rattles inside your skull before you can stop it, pressing a hand against your mouth to at least muffle the sound.
“I-”
He stops himself when another cry tumbles out of your lungs, his own chest constricting. He reaches for you, arms finding their way around your waist and chin resting on your shoulder.
“Hey,” He murmurs. You turn around, curling into him, tucking your head against him. He hesitates, having expected you to push him away, but you don’t.
“I just want you to be okay,” You say, words slightly incoherent. “To be happy.”
“I know, peanut,” He says. “I’m so sorry.”
Your breathing picks up, the occasional sobs shifting to full-blown crying, the kind that makes it impossible to steady yourself, no matter how hard you try. His hand moves up and down your spine, his lips by your ear, muttering reassurances that you can’t quite hear.
You become aware of everything all at once.
His arms around your shoulders, the pressure of his hand between your shoulder blades, the sound of his breathing.
You’re memorizing him, fiercely clinging to something you know hasn’t been yours in a long time—something that won’t ever be yours again.
“I don’t wanna’ lose you,” He says, softly, rocking you slightly in his arms. You shake your head, leaning back and wiping your face off.
“I’m not gonna’ do that to a kid,” You whisper, sniffling. “I’m not gonna’ be the reason you don’t show up for them.”
“You won’t be,” He insists. “Don’t…don’t think of it like that, alright? That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” You ask, still quiet.
“It’s—it’s us,” He insists.
“Us,” You repeat. “And what even are we anymore?”
He raises his hands, gesturing vaguely, eyes searching yours for anything he can use.
“Everything,” He says. “It’s been everything.”
“I think—I think we’re just pathetic,” You say, spitting the words out before you can taste the poison on them. “Two people who meant something to each other a long fucking time ago who can’t admit that it doesn’t mean anything anymore.”
“It does-”
“Oh my god, what is it gonna’ take?” You ask, exasperated, throwing your hands up. “What’s not clicking for you?”
You push yourself away, leaving him with his hands raised, looking odd now that they’re not holding anything.
“There is no coming back from this,” You continue. “We’re…we’re fucking done. For real.”
“Baby, come on, just listen-”
“No, you listen,” You say, grabbing his shirt off the bed and throwing it against his bare chest. “We are never gonna’ see each other again. Not like this.”
You step around him, walking out into the living room, him following you as he tugs his shirt back on.
“What do you mean ‘not like this’?” He asks, stumbling to keep up. You throw his jacket and keys towards him, opening your front door, practically parading him out of your apartment.
“Figure it out, Frank.”
September, 2024
You clip your badge to the front of your black scrubs, running your hands over your hair and looping your stethoscope around your neck. You breathe out through your mouth before shutting the locker, making sure you have the small slip of paper detailing the combination in the back of your phone case before pushing it fully closed.
Your eyes scan the department until you spot an older man in a navy blue zip-up, somehow certain that that’s exactly who you’re supposed to be looking for. You make your way over to him, planting yourself in his field of view, smiling.
“Hi, Dr. Robinavitch?” You ask. He nods, returning your smile, but it doesn’t quite hit his eyes. You stick your hand out, introducing yourself, putting ‘doctor’ before your first and last name. “I’m the new orthopedic trauma fellow, I’ll be hanging out down here for the next four weeks.”
“Ah, yes, right,” He says. “Everyone calls me Robby. Welcome, we’re happy to have you.”
“I’m happy to be here,” You say. “Where do you need me?”
“Uhm, just stay here for one second,” He says, then he disappears, leaving you alone by the central desk. You nod to yourself, still re-adjusting to the constant introductions that come with working at a new hospital.
People start gathering around the desk, and Robby returns a few minutes later, addressing the group. You put your attention on him, subconsciously adjusting your badge and stethoscope again.
“As you can see, we have some new faces with us this morning,” He says, glancing past you, waving a group of younger students over. He gestures to you first, repeating your first and last name. “She’s an ortho trauma fellow, she’ll be your first point of contact for any ortho cases.”
You give a small wave, and Robby moves on with the rest of the introductions. He points out the board, explains how things move, and makes sure all of you know exactly who Dana is before continuing.
“Your senior residents are Dr. Collins,” He says, gesturing to a woman wearing a red fleece over her scrubs. “And Dr. Langdon. You report to them, they report to-”
Your ears start to ring, adrenaline flooding your veins and hammering in your skull as you turn around, praying that you misheard him, or that it’s somehow not who you think it is.
His hair is a little shorter than it was five years ago, but it’s undeniably him, his blue eyes already looking at you. His jaw is tight, brows raised and eyes wide with disbelief. You let your gaze skitter over him, not daring to stop for too long, using every ounce of strength you have to keep your face neutral.
I keep getting a lot of humans are space orcs posts on my dash and I’m sick rn, so here we go.
Human, is sick and suffering on a couch with tissues nearby; some water; a towel on their forehead; a bucket — all that jazz.
Alien has been staring for a while now and is very cautious because “why are you heating up? Are you going to explode??”
Human: “no, I just got sick.”
Alien: “I do not understand — that is no reason for your natural body heat to increase into an unnatural temperature for your species.”
Human: “it’s just tryna burn away the bad stuff.”
Alien: “burn?”
It thinks for a second and refers to all the dirty tissues in a small trashcan next to the couch. “And what of these? You are sure your guts are not bleeding from your middle-face holes?”
Human: “yeah that’s just snot tryna flush out more bad stuff.”
Alien nods; doesn’t fully understand, but it can see its questions are not helping the human right now — in all their suffering.
Before it thinks to say goodbye so it can get the human a get well gift (which would’ve been something far too much for being sick like a car or something lol), the human suddenly sits up from the couch and grabs the bucket.
Alien: “what was that; are you alright?!”
Human, burping: “yeah; it was just a false alarm.”
Alien: “Alarm of what??”
The human starts puking; (turns out it wasn’t a false alarm).
needed it’s own post but i’ve seen people talk about pony asking for their parents/calling darry “dad” when he’s sick, but what about darry asking for their parents when he’s sick?
i headcanon that when darry gets sick, he gets really sick. like “delirious, can’t walk on his own, can’t even keep water down” sick. so soda and pony will take care of him. but sometimes, darry’s so out of it that he just mumbles something like “soda, can ya ask mama if i can stay home from school tomorrow..? i dun’ feel too well…” soda winces. he isn’t sure whether or not to explain to darry that he doesn’t go to school anymore, or that their parents aren’t there to take care of him. eventually he just sighs and puts darry’s head on his lap and strokes his hair. “yeah…yeah, i can ask, dar.” or he’ll ask pony “pone? can ya ask dad if he’s almost done with the soup..? ‘m really hungry.” and pony’s breath just hitches. but he says he’ll ask.
darry doesn’t really know he does it—when he gets like that, he forgets after a few moments. they don’t tell him either—they don’t want to upset him or make him feel bad. but boy does it hurt sometimes to hear darry of all people crying out for their parents. it’s okay, though. they’re with him. they always will be.
Derek realizing Stiles thinks being alone on a bathroom floor all night is normal
“You didn’t have to." “I wanted to.”
"I'm fine," Stiles insists, even as he's keeling over the toilet and there isn’t a single gag before the contents of his stomach surge out. Derek frowns. Stiles will be fine, but he's not right now, no matter if he's already said it enough times to permanently damage his vocal chords.
Derek doesn't move. He... hasn’t actually been in the same room with someone else sick with food poisoning since…
Since.
Stiles waves behind him in a ‘get out’ gesture, head still deeply bowed in the bowl. “M’good. Just—”
More vomit.
“Yeah. Good,” Derek echoes, sure his mocking isn’t appreciated right now if Stiles can even hear past his nausea. The door creaks mostly closed as Derek remains in the Stilinski household bathroom with Stiles, snatching a washcloth from the shelf and flipping the faucet to the coldest temperature.
He lets it run for a minute.
Stiles can’t manage to talk over the sound of the water, which leaves him to look at Derek with a squinty look of accusation. Derek raises an eyebrow. It’s not a challenge, and even if it were, what’s Stiles going to do about it? His skin pallor is paler than Derek has ever seen it, the kind of pale someone turns before they faint. His fingers look like they’re in rigor mortis, clutching the toilet seat.
Derek sticks the cloth under the fresh, cold water.
Stiles’ gaze switches to something confused, like Derek’s movement has him seeing double—which it probably does—before his head whips back down. Stiles’ shoves himself down this time, like the uprising of his stomach compels him to, back rounding and throat retching.
Derek flips the faucet off just in time to hear the chunks of Stiles’ undercooked fish chowder return home to the water.
“You couldn’t have waited another second to turn that off?” Stiles… gurgles. It sounds like there’s a blockage in the base of his throat. A promise of more to come.
“Yes?” Stiles reasons, his voice is weak. “If puke smells bad to a human, I can't imagine what notes you pick up on. Like, the most disgusting version of a wine connoisseur. Plus, you're all scent pristine and shit. Jumpin’ on the kleenex bottle at one drop of rainwater ‘cause it doesn’t smell like pack.”
Stiles wipes his mouth against his wrist, which Derek is literally two seconds from giving him a washcloth for, but Stiles clearly hasn’t registered that. Instead he leans back, and apparently has given up on all strength together, as he drapes his arm over the seat and rests his cheek atop.
Topped off with an: “Ugh. Stop moving.”
Derek is rounding to the other side of Stiles, and he doesn’t exactly feel sorry, as Stiles pinches his eyes closed to stop looking at the Moving Thing before it tips off another round. Derek takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub, but it seems Stiles caught enough movement for his ‘I’m about to violently wretch my soul from my body’ position to return.
Head down, hands clutched, back hunched.
The chowder is still a solid stream with potato chunks and lumps of fish meat.
…. Really, does Stiles not chew his food?
Derek sticks the cold washcloth on the back of Stiles’ neck.
Stiles jerks, his scent surprised by the cool touch, but he relaxes into it. He doesn’t turn his head this time. This time, he just brings up an arm to rest on the seat and keeps his head down. Eyes closed.
“... feels nice,” Stiles says quietly.
Derek knows. He remembers. When his mother did it once for him as a child after he'd been poisoned. Though his poisoning hadn't been accidental or through food, but a wolfsbane bullet. Werewolves heal fast but they still have bodies that hurt.
“Move your head back,” Derek says instead. Stiles obeys without objection (for once) and Derek reaches over to flush.
“Knew it. One drop,” Stiles mumbles and is diagnosably delusional if he thought that was a drop.
“Right. Because whenever you eat anything, you only eat one drop.”
Stiles coils like a spring back into position and gags a good couple of times.
“Don’t—” He gasps. “Don’t ever mention anything about f-foo—hrrrk—”
Derek is tempted to at least say the word ‘food’ now and it’s not even entirely for self-entertainment. The more poison Stiles’ body gets out, the longer intermittents of throwing up, and then Stiles can get on the couch instead of the bathroom floor.
But he’s not quite that mean.
He dabs the cool cloth along Stiles’ skin, applying pressure on the back of his neck, to squeeze some of the cold water out and let it run down his back. It’s a nice distraction. Derek remembers this too.
Stiles sighs out, resting his forehead down.
He’s losing energy. Brain function. Derek roams over his form, sensing the weakening of his consciousness. Even though he knows it’s just the poison running its course, it’s discomforting to feel the drop.
It’s quiet while Stiles rests his eyes.
Derek stands up and re-wets the washcloth to bring the temperature back down before returning.
“You can really go now,” Stiles mumbles. He sounds out of it, half-asleep. “I’ll be back on my feet in no time. One week. Two months max. God I never want to leave my bed. But I will. At some point. To do… the thing... the thing we’re supposed to be doing.”
“The thing,” Derek repeats, vaguely amused at Stiles’ thinking attempts.
Stiles turns his head to ‘resting’ position to look at Derek. He cracks open an eye.
To give him credit, even one-eyed, it conveys an overwhelming amount of stubbornness.
“That’s why you’re in here, isn’t it?” Stiles manages to swing out a half-dead arm and flimsily lob Derek on the shin. “You’re a sadist. Laughing at my pain. Don’t think I didn’t know what you were thinking when I said not to say… the F word.”
To be fair, Derek had wanted to say the F word.
“Admit it.”
Innocent until proven guilty.
“Or,” Derek alternatively presents. “You can move to your bed. You haven’t thrown up in over ten minutes.”
Stiles blinks in confusion.
“I mean, it’s a nice thought,” Stiles says. “But I’m gonna throw up again at some point and I’d rather die a million deaths than move anywhere right now.”
Derek huffs.
“You can use the trash can.”
Stiles makes a face. “Ew. Gross. That’ll make the whole room smell.”
It’s not until then that Derek understands Stiles’ reluctance. Stiles is obviously right that werewolves are sensitive to smell, and that had always meant when his human family members were sick in the Hale house, they were actively taken care of. Every time someone threw up, the designated throw up bowl was emptied for them. But Stiles—
Derek knows Stiles has taken care of himself, for the most part, for most of his life. That Stiles would drop everything to nurse his dad back to health and meanwhile refute any help when the reverse was true. That when there is no one to take care of you, staying in the bathroom is easier than having to continuously stand up to go back to said bathroom over and over; that it doesn’t even occur to Stiles that he can just stay in bed because Derek would take care of the rest.
Maybe if it got bad enough, he'd take up a hospital bed with a barf bag to vomit in and Melissa's calming voice that Stiles likely made his last resort. Derek always scented his dull, persistent ache around her.
Otherwise, no one to take care of the vomit, and wet washcloths, and ice, and smashing the ice into ice chips to suck on as you work your way back up to eating solid food, or the foot rub when the person needed some real relief, or just the brief company while intermittently awake.
Derek hasn’t been around that since he was a kid. But he does remember it. A little too vividly. Sometimes, it's just strange with Stiles, who has family alive and who lives with him, that Derek still has more experience of being taken care of.
“Just listen to me,” Derek demands. “Your brain is warped from the poison.”
Gallant offense takes over Stiles’ face, except it’s absolutely exhausted and doesn’t come across in the way Stiles probably means for it too.
“Y’know, people think I’m the dramatic one between us,” Stiles mutters. “Got no idea.”
Derek pulls him to his feet. Stiles wretches a horrible sound and stumbles his way toward his bed at Derek’s guidance. He’s seeing in blurs if his unbalanced footsteps are anything to go by and he collapses onto the mattress. Derek hears him take a few deep breaths to regain his lost composure, while Derek retrieves the small trash can tucked beneath Stiles desk.
He takes out the lining. It’ll be easier to wash out the plastic.
And sets it on the floor next to Stiles’ bed.
“Bed is so much better,” Stiles groans, rubbing his cheek against his pillow. “This is the best fucking bed to ever exist.”
“You do know I've been sick before,” Derek says, returning from the bathroom with a re-soaked washcloth. Sure, not the human kind of sick. But poisoned. Throwing up black goo. Stiles peeks an eye open. He still hasn’t learned his lesson on watching Derek while having vertigo. “I know what helps.”
“I’ve never seen you sick,” Stiles says. He sounds displeased about this. When Derek doesn’t immediately answer, Stiles draws his own conclusions, and he’s evidently feeling a bit better now that he’s officially horizontal, as he lazily waves a hand around with his eyes closed. “...you’re probably like a cat. Like, how no one can tell they’re feeling bad ‘cause they just hide it in front of people and then they curl up in corners and dark spaces by themselves to suffer alone.”
Stiles’ Cat Fact makes Derek’s lip twitch.
“Yes. I curl up in closets. How did you know.”
“Cause m'genius.” Stiles is back to mumbling again, losing awareness.
Derek presses the back of his hand against Stiles’ forehead.
“I’m fine,” Stiles complains, trying to knock away Derek’s hand but misses due to—once again—his vertigo and a classic case of Idiot Behavior. “Just gotta sleep it off.”
Derek ignores him and rests the cold wash down on his forehead. He flicks him in the cheek.
“Tell me when it’s not cold anymore.”
Stiles is already drifting though. He hums, reaching up to grab the cloth and hold it against his forehead like he’s trying to focus his entire being onto that one spot of relief. He probably is. He must find it too, as sleep takes him quickly—
Derek pads across the room toward the door.
—or not.
“Derek?” Stiles mumbles in concern, brows creased and barely able to open his eyes.
“Just grabbing more blankets, baby. I'll be right back,” Derek assures him.
“... better be.” He hears the threat in that grumble. Some people forget how scrappy Stiles actually is, but Derek doesn't.
Acquainted with the Stilinski house, Derek locates each item with ease: A glass of water, a couple of saltines for later, the fuzzy-soft couch blanket made of faux fur the pack gifted Stiles, and his father's old microwavable sock. Stiles calls it a “rice sock” and claims Derek grew up too rich to have heard of its “pebble-and-tin existence” before.
It's an old sock, filled with rice, and tied off at the top. To heat up in the microwave.
While he waits the two minutes for Noah’s sock to cook, he collects the hidden pack clothes around the house. It’s all shirts or sweatshirts, stuffed in places where everyone thinks Stiles won’t look—behind the washer, above the kitchen cabinets, Scott keeps his in plain sight—as the only one where it won’t be conspicuous—on the actual coat hooks. Derek collects, grabs the rice sock, and heads back upstairs.
Stiles is still only partially unconscious, mouth agape and body contorted toward the trash can, but gone far enough that he doesn’t so much as crack an eye open when Derek sets everything down on his nightstand and scatters the pack’s clothes onto the bed. He drapes the blanket over Stiles, who even out of it, clings to the orange-brown fur like it's his own and shivers into it. Derek stuffs the hot rice sock beneath it and Stiles grabs at that too, pulling the warmth against his chest for comfort.
Derek picks up a copy of The Song of Achilles since Stiles has it dog-eared and notated and bookmarked, often spending time on mythology. He’s careful not to aggravate the sleeping lump beside him as he sets up camp on the other side of Stiles’ bed.
Thirty minutes later, Stiles is springing awake, headfirst into the trash can.
Derek sets the book down. Takes care of it.
By the time he comes back into the room, Stiles is strewn about and comatose.
...makes sense why he wanted to stay on the bathroom floor. He practically passes out right after throwing up, though frankly, he’s never had a strong stomach.
The second time Stiles gasps awake and dives for the trash can, it becomes routine.
He stops entirely on the fifth, and when he falls asleep shortly after, he stays asleep for the next couple of hours. Derek is content to read meanwhile, switching on Stiles’ little reading light attached to his headboard when the sun begins to set and the room darkens.
“You stayed.”
Derek looks over from Stiles’ chicken scratch in the margins of the book screaming at Achilles, seeing the slit of a barley-open eye, squinting up at Derek as though genuinely trying to figure out if he’s an illusion. It’s not that dark in Stiles’ room yet.
“Feeling better?” He asks.
Stiles manages to open both eyes, though avoids eye contact as he looks inward to feel out that answer. Derek is patient. He can scent the discomfort in Stiles’ scent as he registers that Derek has stayed with him this whole time.
“How come I can barely move? What is all this shit?” He finally whines, wiggling around. He empathetically pushes the pack’s clothes off him and shimmies the fur blanket down to his hips. “Oh my god, I’m so uncomfortable. I’m suffocating. I slept in my jeans?” He sounds particularly frustrated about that as his hands fly down to undo the button, violently beginning to kick them off.
“Jesus, Stiles. Relax,” Derek orders, to no avail as Stiles flails and scrambles to rip his clothing from his body like they’d been sewn into his skin while asleep.
Still, Derek gets up and retrieves a pair of Stiles’ pajama pants and a fresh t-shirt, about to grab one of his bigger sweatshirts too, when Stiles interrupts—"Um. Derek?”
Derek glances over at him.
“Yours?” Stiles asks timidly, pointedly looking at Derek’s sweatshirt on his body. “Please.”
“Why’re you being so shy?” Derek teases, tossing it over to him with the rest of the fresh clothes. “You wear my clothes all the time.”
Stiles pouts a little and pleads the fifth as he redresses himself clumsily without actually standing up and throws himself onto his back with a loud sigh, pulling Derek’s drawstrings to close the hoodie around his face.
Derek rolls his eyes, sitting at the edge of Stiles’ bed. “Stiles.”
“That’ll be all. Thanks for... thanks,” Stiles says awkwardly and sleepily. “M’good. Must’ve gotten all the poison out, now all that’s left is rest. And you—You’ve done enough. And everything. Buried me in clothes I’ve never seen before and my treasured items like an Egyptian pharaoh, what more could I really ask for?”
“Is there something you want to ask for?” Derek presses the relevant question in that avoidance ramble.
He grabs Stiles’ foot and gives it a squeeze, pulling it into his lap and massaging it. Stiles immediately relaxes and lets out another sigh.
“Derek,” he refutes without pulling his foot away.
“Stiles.”
“Derek.” Stiles pulls the hood away from his face, crossing his arms to stare Derek down. Derek is pretty sure he learned that from him. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know,” Derek says like they’re back in grade school and calling Stiles Captain Obvious.
“You didn’t have to stay,” Stiles says more cautiously, quick to drop Derek’s stance as his arms uncross and his fingers twist and twiddle nervously with the drawstrings.
“I like taking care of you,” Derek says back simply. “Drink some water.”
Uncomfortable is an understatement for how Stiles looks at him. Though, he does briefly glance at the water on his nightstand. “How much do you like it?” Stiles sniffs the water suspiciously. Deflectively. “Enough to munchausen me?”
“Shut up and drink it.”
Derek rubs his feet, letting Stiles settle back in to the world of the lucid. He drinks some slow, easy sips, and eats two saltines, which Derek is proud of, giving his foot an approving squeeze. Stiles offers him a little hint of a smile, before remembering his discomfort again and turns to watching Derek intently. He’s thinking. Gears are turning. Derek can tell; meanwhile, Derek keeps his focus on his thumbs working slow and steady along the arch—aware of how Stiles’ toes curl, how his breath evens out, how there’s something grounding about being able to give comfort in such a simple, physical way. Derek adjusts his pressure instinctively, guided by the quiet hum of satisfaction rolling off in Stiles’ scent. It does something warm and protective to Derek’s wolf. It does something to Stiles too, opening him up.
“You didn't have to stay,” Stiles blurts out, as though unable to keep these cards close to his chest any longer. “If I called my dad, he’d come home.”
Derek blinks, surprised at what initially sounds like a random addendum, but it’s Stiles, and Stiles isn’t actually ever random, he's just got a hundred different threads lit up inside his brain at once. So, Derek considers.
“You wouldn’t call him,” he decides on.
“But that’d be my choice,” Stiles says, almost aggressively. “Not his.”
It’s not, really. Derek can hear it in Stiles’ voice: How it’s just what a child tells themself in protection against the fact their parent wouldn’t come for them. Would fail to take care of them in the way they needed most. And that pain is too big, too great, to manage, and so, they make it their own choice instead.
“Stiles,” he says, lowering his voice to be respectful but also respectful in that he doesn’t hedge around it. “Your dad was an alcoholic when you were growing up—”
Stiles yanks his foot away, glaring. Derek lets go. The sharpness in Stiles’ gaze is less heat and more uncertainty though.
“That was only for a short time,” he says defensively. “Right after my mom died.”
It hadn’t been a short time. Derek knows that because it still continues to this day, to varying degrees. But Stiles is an adult now, it’s different, he doesn’t solely rely on his father to survive; which is what allows his relationship with his father to be different now too. Derek likes Noah, considers him extended pack in the same way he does Melissa, but he’s witnessed how the Sheriff prioritizes his job over his son. Not intentionally or consciously.
Most of all, Derek’s witnessed what Stiles’ upbringing must have been like through the way Stiles acts. The way he thinks. How he takes care of everyone before himself, how deflective and defensive he is about sharing anything personal while maintaining the illusion that he’s an open book to others. They’re survival skills, to keep everything that could be perceived as a burden hidden away while making everyone else only see what you want them to.
Derek defuses. Because Stiles' defense is a sharp, prickly thing when threatened and progress won’t be made unless Derek can soften the thorns first.
“And people say I’m the closed off one,” Derek pretends to lament, clearly being playful and teasing Stiles by using his own words from earlier against him, though privately meaning it, just a little.
Stiles kicks him. More of a nudge than a kick, those baby browns softening from that biting sharpness.
“Hey,” he whines accusingly, “mine was a joke. Yours is just mean.”
Derek snatches his foot back and holds it in his lap, the reset settling Stiles more than before.
“Your dad loves you,” Derek tries again. “It’s always in his scent.”
Stiles narrows his eyes but not to glare. Just to think and express his discomfort again, but his shoulders relax as if trying to give himself over to Derek. Derek is very familiar with Stiles’ body doing this, even unconsciously, it’s just generally while they’re having sex.
“And your relationship with him is different now than it was growing up. Right?”
Stiles squints at the wording, but he’s considering. “Yeah,” he gives after a moment. “But it wasn’t bad back then. It was just...”
“It’s okay if it was bad.”
Stiles’ mouth pulls tight, his eyes flicker around the room in search of anything else to focus on. He shrugs, tension returning. “It wasn’t... bad. I mean, Isaac’s father was bad, okay? And I—I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, and I’m not—in denial or something. I’m not saying my dad didn’t struggle after my mom died. He did. But he was doin’ his best and kept a roof over our heads, and he brought home burgers and curly fries almost every night—and I had Scott.”
Derek huffs, though a faint curve tugs at his lips. “You have Scott. Inseparable pain in my ass.”
Stiles smiles back, relieved at the change of subject. “You act like we’re conjoined twins.”
Unfortunately a subject Derek doesn’t let him change. Just long enough for a reprieve. “It makes you uncomfortable to be taken care of,” he says instead, softly as to not rattle him.
Stiles’ tongue pokes the inside of his cheek, finally smoothing out into something more accepting of the reality Derek presented before him. “I can’t believe the audacity you have to say that with the amount of aftercare you put me through,” he eventually mutters, but his eyes flicker back to Derek in acknowledgement that he isn’t refuting his point this time.
Derek can see the vulnerability behind it, the uncertainty of whether he can show Derek that a piece of himself already knew the truth.
It’s a start.
More than enough for now, as Derek crawls up and over him, placing a soothing kiss against his throat. It’s easier than talking anyway.
Stiles strains his head away. “My breath, Derek. I need to keep some dignity, please.”
“If this were about smell, you’d already be dead,” Derek says bluntly; Stiles looks up at him, unimpressed. “Vomit frequency means danger that could spread through the pack.”
“Thank you for that. Very reassuring.”
Derek continues to stare down at him, searching his face.
“What?” Stiles grumbles like he knows what’s coming.
“Ask me what you wanted to earlier.”
Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s neck like a lifeline and closes his eyes. “Do I have to?” He questions. “What if we roleplay that you’re a bad boyfriend who doesn’t care about the fact that I suck at... certain things. Like letting people take care of me. For example. Hypothetically, in this scenario."
“You can do it,” Derek encourages without missing a beat, though his tone comes off more commanding than he means for it to.
Stiles breathes in deeply, and exhales.
“I was just thinking... this is all your fault,” he starts off, because it’s Stiles, and Derek has learned to have patience when he can’t dive right into his real, raw emotions. That Stiles has to be allowed his sarcasm and run-arounds first, which works fine for Derek, who never loses track of the original point. “You exhausted me with your freakish werewolf stamina and I needed to refuel, hence why we ended up at the poisonous restaurant in the first place.”
“You picked the restaurant.”
“Wolves eat fish, Derek. It’s a healthy part of their diet.”
“Sure, Stiles. It’s my fault you got sick.”
“Exactly. So it would be kinda rude for you to just... poison a guy and leave. Especially when that guy is your boyfriend. Plus, when you got poisoned, I drove you around all day to protect you, and I was gonna cut off your arm for you, and that was before we were even pack.”
“Baby. You know my answer already. Just ask.”
Stiles dares to open his eyes like he isn't sure at all about Derek's answer, and he’s only met back with Derek’s steady patience.
“Okay. Well. Seeing that you’ve been emptying my puke bucket, and keeping me hydrated so I didn’t have to go to Melissa for an IV...” Derek frowns—clearly that’s spoken from experience—“and brought me random clothes, which I’m hoping half of Beacon Hills isn't running around naked right now—”
“The pack hides their scented clothes around your place to ward off threats.”
“Right. Of course they do. And you piled them onto me like Giles Corey because?”
“Comfort.” Derek tugs at Erica’s shirt that Stiles has taken to cradling under his head with. He knows Stiles is human but he can still pick up an individual's scent. More importantly, “Who’s Giles Corey?”
“You know. ‘More weight,’” Stiles imitates in a voice that sounds like a heavy chainsmoker and Derek doesn’t remotely understand, except that he’s pretty sure Stiles is mimicking some guy being on top of him. “He’s not real, Derek. Or, he was real. He’s dead now. For the last three hundred years. Crushed beneath rocks during the Salem witch trials."
“Fuck Giles Corey.”
“Oh my god.”
“Ask me.”
Stiles relents. “Will you... stay? Longer.” He rubs his eye as though any movement at all can distract him from the words coming out of his mouth. “If you have time. And you want to. Because I’m probably just gonna lay here and watch a show on my laptop till I go back to sleep, and there’s no actual reason for you to—”
“Yes. I want to stay.” Derek falls over onto his side and pulls Stiles up onto his chest to cuddle. Stiles wraps his arms around him and breathes out a heavy exhale that’s just a little shaky. Derek noses against his soft head of hair, even if it is oily with fever sweat. It needs to be said. “I’d drop everything to take care of you.”
Stiles doesn't say anything for a moment. Then, he reaches out to press his hand over Derek's heart, against his chest, where it thrums beneath his fingers. The skin-to-skin contact is soothing, nice.
“I’d do the same,” Stiles murmurs into the crook of his throat. “For you.”
Derek breathes him in. One hand lays over the nape of Stiles’ neck, instinctively protecting its exposure, the other slipping down to rub over his back for as much as he can reach of it.
“Oh, really? The guy—who drove me around all day and was going to cut off my arm before we were even pack—would drop everything?”
Stiles’ head snaps up at the mockery, but beneath it, plain as day to Derek, is a bright relief. “That’s it. You’re going to regret this, Hale. Mark my words. I demand you doordash me some ginger ale and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and I don’t care if you’re not supposed to eat chocolate when you’re sick, that’s just an old wives tale someone made up to deprive me, personally, of good things,” Stiles says petulantly. Derek huffs out a breath of amusement. “And we’re watching Twilight!”
