so grace is probably alarming to most eridians at first because he's a lanky wet alien with too few limbs, yes--but what if he ends up being terrifying in a sort of divine way instead of a repulsive one?
like. a creature that perceives the intangible? a creature that walks with thin permeable membranes bared to the air, whose blood contains elixir that can destroy pathogens without heat? a creature that is impossibly fragile yet resilient? a creature that breathes potently flammable gas to survive? a creature that is loud all over and speaks in a strange and frightening monotone, who thought it would die for you? who gave up its home in the heavens for you without meeting you first, whose first words to your people were probably something along the lines of We saved your star. It's gonna be okay. Don't be afraid.
you make it look so easy (leaving everything behind) - byler fic
stranger things / house md crossover
relationships:
mike wheeler/ will byers
gregory house/ james wilson (if you squint)
summary: when mike wheeler starts collapsing from violent, unexplained heart episodes, the last place he expects to end up is princeton-plainsboro, under the sharp eye of dr. gregory house. the tests come back clean. the childhood records are redacted. the symptoms make no sense. what is wrong with mike’s heart?
(or mike and will are forced into close proximity and have to once again face the idea of loss.)
note: really use your imagination for this one and pretend mike and will are in their 20’s or so during early seasons house md era. also i am basing this off the fanon assumption that mike got treated for the tunnel exposure, upside down exposure and all wounds he accumulated from the entirety of the show. maybe by dr.owens (whatever happened to him anyway?) also, i am not a doctor nor know anything medical, this is all written using basic googling, my bad dawg, enjoy!
preview:
(the rest can be read on ao3)
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The first time it happens, it feels small enough to ignore.
Mike is barefoot on the kitchen tile of the small apartment they split rent on, one hip against the counter, talking too fast about something that absolutely matters in the way only small injustices can matter.
A stack of unopened mail and a flip phone sit abandoned near the sink, the kind of clutter that accumulates when you are still pretending adulthood is temporary. The cabinets are chipped along the edges. The overhead light hums faintly. The radio on the counter keeps losing its station, dissolving into static before clawing its way back to music.
Will stands opposite him with a mug cradled between both hands, listening with that soft, patient attention that has followed Mike for years.
Mike is halfway through a sentence about deadlines and incompetence when something inside his chest slips out of rhythm. It doesn’t feel like pain, nor presenting itself as dramatic. instead it starts as a flicker, a misfire, like a skipped stair in the dark.
The radio collapses into static at the exact same second.
The room sharpens. The light grows too bright. His fingers loosen without permission.
The glass falls and shatters across the tile.
The sound reaches him as if from a distance.
Then the floor is there.
When he wakes, the ceiling above him is unchanged, faint crack near the light fixture, same as always. That detail comforts him more than it should. Will’s face hovers above him, closer than anything else in the room, eyes wide and focused and terrified in a way he is trying very hard to hide. One hand rests at Mike’s jaw. The other braces against the tile beside his shoulder.
“Mike.”
Mike swallows and blinks hard, the world swimming before settling into place. He tries to sit up too quickly and the room tilts. Will’s hand presses gently against his shoulder.
“Wait.”
“Uhm. I tripped,” Mike says, because that’s easier than saying I don’t know what just happened.
“…You were standing.”
The kitchen smells faintly of toast and broken glass. The radio is still hissing softly, trapped between stations. Mike becomes aware of how close Will is, of the warmth of his hand against his skin, of the tremor in his fingers. That tremor bothers him more than the fall. He reaches up and catches Will’s wrist, squeezing lightly, grounding himself in something steady and real.
“I’m fine. I-I’m fine, i’m okay.”
Will studies his face for a long second that stretches longer than it should. “You were out for almost a minute.”
Mike forces a crooked smile. “New personal best.”
Will doesn’t return it.
Eventually they sit up together. The moment thins and folds back into the morning. The glass lies in bright shards across the tile like something delicate that could not survive gravity.
He tells himself it was nothing.
He repeats that in his head over the next few days when the strange sensations return. A flutter beneath his sternum during a lecture. A tremor in his fingers when he grips a pen too tightly. A sudden awareness of his pulse in his throat while he stands in line at the grocery store. He has always run on adrenaline, since he was a kid, since the world first proved it could split open without asking permission. He learned how to stay ready and he never practiced standing down.
Will notices.
He notices the way Mike presses his palm flat against the table sometimes, as if steadying it. He notices the half-second pause in conversation when Mike loses his place in the air. He notices the way Mike’s jokes come a little faster when someone asks if he is tired. Will doesn’t accuse him of anything. He watches and waits, which has always been his way.
The second time is in public.
The café is crowded, the air thick with espresso and overlapping conversations. Mike is mid-rant again, leaning forward across the small table, hands moving as he talks about a professor who thinks participation is a personality trait. Will smiles at him with his chin resting lightly in his palm. And then, the world tightens without warning. The lights above them turn harsh. Will’s face blurs at the edges. Mike’s heart lurches and begins racing too fast, too loud, as if it is trying to outrun something invisible.
He tries to steady himself on the edge of the table.
His hand misses.
The floor rushes up hard.
There is a scraping of chairs and the sound of someone shouting for help, but what cuts through it all is Will’s voice, sharp and clear and closer than anything else.
“Mike. Stay with me.”
Mike forces his eyes open. Will is there, kneeling over him, hand pressed flat against his chest as if he can physically hold his heart in place. His face is pale, lips tight, eyes locked on Mike’s in a way that feels almost painful.
“I’m here,” Mike manages.
Will exhales like he has been holding his breath for too long.
The emergency room smells sterile and faintly metallic. A nurse wraps a blood pressure cuff around Mike’s arm. It tightens until his fingers tingle. A pulse oximeter clips onto his fingertip, blinking red. They attach adhesive leads to his chest for an EKG. The machine prints out thin lines across a narrow strip of paper that look deceptively calm. A resident with tired eyes asks routine questions in a practiced voice. Chest pain? Shortness of breath? Family history? Stress levels?
Stress levels.
Mike almost laughs at that.
The doctor uses gentle language. Elevated heart rate, possible panic episode, young adults under pressure. It could be anxiety or it could be nothing structural. They’ll refer him for follow-up.
Will stands close enough that their shoulders nearly touch, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. His attention never leaves Mike’s face.
After the doctor leaves, Mike sits up carefully on the edge of the bed. “See. Nothing.”
Will’s gaze does not soften. “Your heart rate was one-eighty.”
“So.”
“So that’s not nothing.”
Mike looks away first.
The apartment feels smaller that night. The air heavier. The television flickers low volume blue light across the walls. Will makes tea and forgets to drink it. Mike sits on the couch and listens to the rhythm in his chest like it belongs to someone else. It feels too present, too aware and far too intrusive.
“You should see a specialist,” Will says eventually.
“It was one thing.”
“It’s been more than one thing.”
Mike exhales sharply. “What, so you think I’m dying?”
Will flinches. “That’s not what I said.”
Silence hangs between them.
“I’m fine,” Mike insists, softer this time.
Will looks at him for a long moment. “You don’t have to be.”
Mike meets his eyes and feels something else tighten inside him, something separate from arrhythmia. Something bright and frightening. He looks away before it grows teeth.
Yes my first Canadian thought was Astérix et Obélix but after reading the tags my second Gay thought was Jedediah and Octavius meeting Astérix and Obélix
Tehehehe this implies either Mike didn't notice Will doesn't talk because he talks so much OR the much better option of Will doesn't talk to anyone but Mike (and maybe joyce/jonathon). Imagine if Will wants to say smt but gets Mike to say it by whispering in his earrr the cuties
hey me, @thatoneandlonelyemo2005, @make-friends-with-the-rats, @neighbor-to-neighbor, @chaosfairy18, @bumlets-appreciation-blog make up at least 6 more just off the top of my head. we are small but mighty!
"Your place or mine?" Jack broke the silence—which wasn't really a silence, since the rain hit the ground at an impossible speed and the clouds rumbled loudly.
"More questions?" David joked. "Mine's got a warm bath," he answered, leaving Jack to infer the rest. He stuck his hand out to savor the rain on his palm. Cold and almost violent, the drops of water fell into his hand, then traveled down to his wrist, where he could feel the sharp bite of freshness.
Or,
After the end of the strike, Jack and David get intercepted by a journalist with a pep in her step, and get interviewed—separately, but about each other. What kinds of truths come out behind closed doors? And what's up with New York's weather?
"Your place or mine?" Jack broke the silence—which wasn't really a silence, since the rain hit the ground at an impossible speed and the clouds rumbled loudly.
"More questions?" David joked. "Mine's got a warm bath," he answered, leaving Jack to infer the rest. He stuck his hand out to savor the rain on his palm. Cold and almost violent, the drops of water fell into his hand, then traveled down to his wrist, where he could feel the sharp bite of freshness.
Or,
After the end of the strike, Jack and David get intercepted by a journalist with a pep in her step, and get interviewed—separately, but about each other. What kinds of truths come out behind closed doors? And what's up with New York's weather?
