An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 20/?
Fandom: Original Work
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Characters: Nico
Additional Tags: Original Character(s), Originally Posted on Tumblr, Blood and Injury, Major Character Injury, Injury, Sickfic, Sick Character, Magical Realism, Whump, Infection, Werewolf Mates, Aftermath of Torture, Implied/Referenced Torture, Medical Inaccuracies, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Caretaking, Family Dynamics, Bathing/Washing, Fever, Delirium
Summary:
Nico never thought he'd leave. Never thought he'd see his friends again. This is what happens when he does.
They just hope it's not too late.
-------
“Oh my...Nico?” The words hung heavy in the shocked silence. And Nico felt cold air on the skin of his lower face. It hurt.
“Huh? Nico? You don’t seriously think Nico would do this do you?!” Brian’s voice was panicked.
“What? No! This is Nico!” Kristys voice was harsh.
Well here it is, what i’ve posted the last few days hasn’t been included, this is the original story line. I’m going to try to add in some fillers and maybe get some more of the plot going. Go leave a Kudos if you think about it, it’s always nice seeing that people have read it.
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Grace's biodome malfunctions and overheats, and he suffers heat stroke. Rocky does what he can.
When Grace wakes, sticky and damp with sweat despite having kicked off all his blankets in the night, the first thought that comes to mind is a dark joke that he would never repeat: maybe we should have just let the sun dim. He's hot, and not in an "I put too many blankets on" or "I slept in too late and now the sun is shining directly on my bed" sort of way. It's, like, dead of summer in the desert hot. After years on the Hail Mary and another year spent in a biodome, he hasn't woken up sweating in a long time. In fact, most of that time, he woke up shivering from starvation and malnutrition. It's only been in the last few months that he's really gotten his health back, even if there are some things that won't ever be the same. New pains that didn't exist before, less stamina. Both of which are negligible, given that they mean he's alive to feel them.
"Ugh," he groans, rolling over onto his side. "What's going on? Why is it so hot?"
Who does he think he's talking to? His biodome is no longer continuously monitored at his own request: knowing that the Eridian scientists were watching his every move had freaked him out, so he'd put an end to that as soon as he was no longer at risk for sudden cardiac arrest from refeeding syndrome.
Oh, well. Rocky will visit later--he always does--and they'll figure it out from there. In the meantime, Grace tries everything. Maybe the heat is getting trapped in his house, he thinks, so he goes outside for fresh air, only to find the artificial sunlight to be even worse. Perhaps a dip in the water will cool him off, he surmises, but when he gets to the coast, the steam clouds above the sea warn him that trying that would be ill advised.
Of all the days for Rocky to be late.
Usually, he comes before class starts. Sometimes, he and Adrian stop by again in the evening, but he can normally count on Rocky to be knocking down his door the second he wakes up. He must be busy. It took him a long time to feel ready to back off the biodome duty and get back to work, but he's been easing into it. It's been good for him to have something to do, and Adrian has appreciated the fact that he has topics to talk about that aren't Grace. In fact, it's even improved Grace's relationship with Adrian. They no longer feel like an afterthought to Rocky, and gave Grace a chance. They hit it off, and the three of them have gotten really close, recently.
The fact that Rocky doesn't stop by in the morning means that he's going to have to teach in this heat. It's not the worst condition he's ever taught in: substitutes are difficult to find last minute, and it's often easier to just suck it up and go to work. He's fought through nausea and chills and fevers, just like any other teacher. It'll be okay. All he has to do is pull up a chair and try not to move, if he can help it.
At first, he reasons that he'll be cooler if he shed his blazer and wears white to deflect the sun, but his arms are turning pink by the time he's finished sorting through his lesson plan and setting up the planetary model, so he reluctantly dons it. He loosens his tie, grateful that he's the only one who really cares about dress code. Eridians don't even wear clothes with any regularity. They can, and some do, wear little shirts or socks, but from what Grace has gathered, it's personal preference.
Students file in in groups of twos and threes, chatting about god knows what. Grace's Eridian is getting better, but he definitely can't understand anything when more than one person is speaking at a time. They take their seats, turning their attention toward him as he greets the group.
"Morning, everybody!" he says, trying for cheerful. He always overshoots when he isn't feeling well, and it comes out slightly off putting. "Go ahead and take your seats."
As time goes on, it becomes clear that sitting is not enough. Is it getting hotter? He can't tell, but he wouldn't be surprised. Over the course of one class, he goes from sweaty and sticky to nauseous and cramping, all topped off with a raging headache. Again, he's used to powering through that sort of thing, but a man has to have limits. Usually, he can take a generous dose of cold medicine and show a movie. This is actively getting worse the longer the relentless sun beats down on his head. He doesn't realize he's practically doubled over in his chair until he has to sit up to gesture behind him and a cramp rips through his abdomen so sharply that he cries out in pain.
"Mr. Grace?" one of his students calls. His eyes focus just long enough to make out that several of them are pressed up against the barrier, clearly scared that something is wrong.
"It's fine," he manages, cloying and tight. "I think I'm going to let you guys go a little early today. Sound okay?"
"Something is wrong, question?"
"Nah, no worries. I just thought you'd like an early start to the weekend."
"In middle of lesson, question?" someone else asks. Darn it. His kids on Earth would be out the door before he could turn around, if he gave them this chance.
"Uh, yeah. We'll pick it up where we left off, okay? Don't forget."
Because he's being so strangely insistent, they do obey, slowly gathering their things and exiting the classroom, grumbling and gossiping as they go. This time, he's grateful he doesn't understand what they're saying.
The two water pouches he'd brought with him from home are long gone, and he knows he needs another, probably more than one. However, home is so far away. He can see it from where he's sitting, but the idea of standing is daunting. He knows he probably should have told his students to get help, but he didn't want to worry them, nor answer the hundred questions that would be sure to follow a statement like, "hey, my habitat is, like, twice as hot as it's supposed to be, can we check on that?"
He tries to make it all the way home, he does, but the overwhelming heat and outstanding gravity pulling him down are too much. It comes down to a decision between settling for shade under the tree and potentially collapsing trying to make it the rest of the way to the house, so he decides to do the marginally safer thing and hide out in the shade until Rocky comes to visit.
By the time he shows up, Grace has surpassed "uncomfortably hot" and driven straight into "intolerably boiling" town. He's not sure how long he's been laying there. Consciousness has been coming and going. He can barely see straight when Rocky bounds up to him in his suit.
"Grace!" he exclaims cheerfully. Apparently, he doesn't immediately notice that he's sprawled out starfish style. At first, he thinks Rocky is politely ignoring the excessive leaking, but upon consideration, realizes that he's stopped sweating, and the hot sun has dried his clothes. That's not good. "Apology for running late. Ran into problem at work, but is fixed now. How was class, question?"
"Uh," he replies stupidly, "hey, Rock."
"Hi, Grace," he greets. "You are okay, question? Lying on ground outside. Unusual."
"Something's wrong with the biodome," he replies. "S'really hot."
"Hot?" Rocky echoes. "Okay. Will let scientists know that dome is not comfortable temperature for Grace. They will work on this."
"No, that's not--I mean, it's really hot."
Rocky hesitates, slowly gathering evidence. Grace is slurring his words, lying flat on the ground outside, not sitting up to look at him like he usually does. He wishes he had the words to explain it better, but his thoughts feel heavy and far away.
"Heat is dangerous," he guesses. Grace nods. "Why didn't you say that!"
"Sorry. The heat... brain's not working like it should."
"Rocky will call Adrian. Wait here. Return in just a minute." Their radios have been having a very hard time getting calls through the xenonite dome, so Grace hasn't had any reliable way of communicating with Rocky, or even the science team, for that matter. Rocky has to leave the dome to get a signal. While he's gone, Grace's stomach twists. He'd been so close to sleep that he hadn't had much time to focus on the nausea, but now that he's awake, it's hitting him full force. With a jolt, he jerks upright and scrambles halfway to his feet, stumbling to the side to throw up in the sand. There's nothing in his stomach--he'd skipped breakfast and has surely sweat out any liquid he's consumed since this morning. He's still hunched over and coughing when Rocky comes back and screeches.
"Grace!" Though Grace knows from experience that Rocky finds it repulsive when he leaks from his mouth (and in his defense, he's not wrong), he wastes no time rushing to his side in his suit and helping him ease back into a seated position. It must be really bad if Rocky is touching him so soon after he's vomited. On the Hail Mary, when he'd been trying and failing to hold down the taumoeba and coma slurry, he hid as far away from the noise as he could, half from disgust and half to give Grace privacy. Neither are a concern, right now.
"Grace breathe. Is okay. Adrian is on the way with science team, will fix temperature settings soon. Grace need water. No move, Rocky bring." He hurries off to do so, leaving Grace leaning bonelessly against the tree behind him. The sand is hot, even in the shade, even through his clothes. He blinks, and Rocky is standing in front of him with several water pouches in hand, seemingly as many as he'd been able to carry.
"Drink," he commands, pressing the straw to his lips. Grace does so reflexively, choking after a few swallows and pulling away. "Drink into stomach, not lungs."
"Sorry," he snaps, snatching away the pouch to hold it himself.
"Grace is agitated," he frets, a word he learned when Grace was starving and felt so guilty for being "grumpy angry stupid" that Rocky had to find different, less accusatory words to describe his emotional states.
"Sorry."
"No apology. Sign of distress." Rocky presses his claw gently to Grace's cheek, the glassy surface cool on his skin. Even as thin as his suit is, the xenonite is a good insulator. Grace leans into the touch. "Adrian on their way. Grace hold on little longer. Will fix dome settings soon. Grace can hold on that long?"
"Kay," he replies, a response that almost lines up with the question being asked. "Keep your hand there? Feels nice."
i love you all and i need you to stop writing trauma as a single breakdown scene in the rain after which the character is Healed and Ready to Love Again. that is NOT trauma :(
⊹ Trauma doesn't announce itself. it shows up as your character suddenly not being able to eat a specific food, or going very quiet in a loud room, or laughing at the wrong moment because their nervous system decided that was the appropriate response. it's mundane and weird and it makes no sense from the outside. the dramatic flashback sequence is the least realistic part. the most realistic part is your character suddenly needing to leave a grocery store for a reason they can't articulate.
⊹ The body keeps score and it keeps it in the strangest places. a particular smell. the quality of light at a certain time of day. a tone of voice that sounds like someone who hurt them. your traumatised character doesn't think "this reminds me of the bad thing." their heart rate spikes and they don't know why. they feel wrong and they can't locate the feeling. they're irritable for three days and only later, if ever, do they make the connection. write the disconnection. it's more honest.
⊹ trauma also does not make people universally sympathetic and wise. it makes some people controlling. some people funny at inappropriate times. some people very good in a crisis and completely unable to handle a normal day. some people are generously kind to strangers and absolutely terrible to people they love. trauma shapes behaviour in contradictory, inconvenient ways that don't resolve into a lesson. your traumatised character can be difficult to like. that's not a flaw in the writing. that's the WRITING.
⊹ Healing is not linear and it is not a destination. your character does not get better and stay better. they have a good month and then something small undoes two years of progress and they have to start again with slightly more tools than before. that's the actual shape of it. the spiral, not the arc. the scene where they finally open up and cry is not the end. it might not even be progress. sometimes it just means they were tired that night.
┈୨୧┈ Give them reasons they CAN'T be together that aren't just manufactured drama. Not miscommunication. Not love triangles. Not arbitrary "I push people away" trauma with no real exploration. Give them REAL obstacles: they're on opposite sides of a conflict, timing is wrong, there are actual consequences to being together, they have incompatible life goals, there's a power imbalance they need to resolve first. The obstacles should be meaningful and require actual character growth to overcome, not just a conversation.
┈୨୧┈ Make the friendship foundation SO STRONG that readers ship them before the romance even starts. They should genuinely LIKE each other. They should have inside jokes. They should seek each other out just to hang out. They should trust each other. They should have fun together. When the romantic feelings start developing, it should feel like "oh no, I don't want to ruin this friendship" because the friendship is genuinely valuable. Readers should be able to believe they'd still choose to be in each other's lives even if romance never happened.
┈୨୧┈ Let the tension BUILD in layers over time. First they notice each other. Then they start seeking excuses to be near each other. Then they start getting jealous. Then they start having Moments. Then they start thinking about each other constantly. Then comes the almost-kisses. Then the accidental intimacy. Then the barely-hidden feelings. Each phase should have time to breathe before moving to the next level. Slow burn means SLOW - readers should be desperate for them to get together LONG before they actually do.
┈୨୧┈ Show how they change each other gradually. He starts smiling more because of her. She becomes braver because he believes in her. They adopt each other's habits and phrases. They start to see the world differently because of the other person's influence. Slow burn is about showing two people gradually becoming essential to each other's lives. They should be woven into each other's character development, not separate from it.
┈୨୧┈ Make the payoff WORTH the wait. After chapters or books of tension, the moment they finally get together should be EARNED and SATISFYING. A CONVERSATION where they're finally honest. A moment where they choose each other despite the obstacles. A confession that feels like a dam breaking. The first kiss should feel like the conclusion of a long journey and the beginning of something new. Readers have been waiting for this, so make it count. Make it feel like YES, THIS WAS WORTH IT.
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Today I pictured a scenario where a character is lost and feverish or has a concussion or has been drugged (and is also injured in some other manner of course), and is just out of it enough that they assume anyone they meet like, won't immediately be able to tell there's something wrong with them? Even though there really, obviously is. But they can't see the way they're staggering or how bloodshot their eyes are and how they're obviously bleeding, they're just internally panicking about how they'll have to be Very Very clear with whoever they first meet (if they meet anyone) that they're hurt in These Ways they've been outside for This Long they need This Treatment.
So they rehearse to themselves as they trudge in the direction of safety, repeating their injuries in a slurred mumble until they're exhausted. Finally, finally they reach a town, or flag down a car, or get back to whoever they were separated from, but to their horror it's been so long that all their careful rehearsal falls out of their mind completely and all they can manage is "I'm really cold and something hurts and I think I hit my head..."
Which, of course, is more than enough to set off multiple alarm bells for anybody, but whumpee is terrified they haven't been convincing enough to get help.
Spent way too long researching this before posting lol. but please, if something's wrong, tell me. i'd rather be corrected than spread misinformation.
⋆˙⟡ Doctors don't run. Almost ever. Running in a hospital is a safety hazard, knocks into patients and equipment, and signals panic to everyone who sees it, which is the opposite of what hospital staff want to project. In a true code blue situation, there is urgency, but it looks more like extremely fast, purposeful walking and a kind of controlled chaos where everyone knows their role. The sprinting attending dramatically sliding to a bedside is a TV invention.
⋆˙⟡ "She flatlined" does not mean what you think it means. A flatline (a straight line on a heart monitor) means asystole: the heart has stopped producing electrical activity. You don't shock a flatline. CPR, yes. Epinephrine, yes. But the dramatic defibrillator moment everyone loves? That's for ventricular fibrillation, which looks like chaotic scribble on the monitor, not a flat line. Shocking a flatline in real life does nothing. Your doctor character would know this. Your nurse would know this. Your paramedic absolutely knows this.
⋆˙⟡ Medical professionals have a dark, dry humor and it's a coping mechanism, not a character flaw. People who work in high-stress, high-death environments often develop humor that sounds brutal to outsiders. BUT It's not callousness, it's a pressure valve.
⋆˙⟡ Hospitals are obscenely loud and smell very specific. Writers default to clinical silence and "the sharp smell of antiseptic." Real hospitals smell like a combination of cleaning fluid, stale air, cafeteria food leaking through vents, and occasionally something you don't want to identify. They're also constantly noisy. Intercoms, rolling carts, the beep of a dozen different monitors all slightly out of sync with each other, people talking too loudly, visitors crying in hallways. The silence only comes in very specific moments, and it's jarring precisely because it's unusual.
⋆˙⟡ Waking up from a coma is not waking up from a nap. Someone who has been unconscious for more than a day or two will have profound muscle weakness, and they often can't hold their own head up. They'll be confused, possibly for days. They won't be able to speak normally if they had a breathing tube, because their throat will be raw and damaged. They won't recognize people immediately and then have a tearful reunion five minutes later. The brain coming back online is slow, strange, and disorienting in ways that aren't photogenic. Patients frequently don't remember the first several days of recovery at all.
⋆˙⟡ There's a specific hierarchy and it matters to the people inside it. Attending physician, fellow, resident, intern, these are not interchangeable words for "doctor." An intern on their third week is legally a doctor and can barely order a sandwich without second-guessing themselves. An attending has full clinical responsibility and has seen everything. A fellow is post-residency, specializing, somewhere in between. Nurses operate in their own parallel hierarchy that intersects with but is absolutely not subordinate to doctors in the way TV suggests. Experienced nurses regularly catch errors that residents make, and both parties know it.
⋆˙⟡ Patients are almost never alone in their room doing emotional things. Nurses check vitals. Phlebotomists come for blood draws at ungodly hours. Housekeeping rolls in. A different doctor than the one managing the case comes to consult. Meals appear. An orderly needs to take them to imaging. The room itself is rarely private for long. The idea of a character lying in a hospital bed having a long, uninterrupted emotional conversation is something that mostly happens in fiction. In reality, someone knocks and enters approximately every 40 minutes, sometimes more.
⋆˙⟡ Paperwork and insurance are a constant, grinding presence. Discharge doesn't happen because the patient is better. It happens when it's approved, when a bed is needed, when insurance says so. Patients are sometimes sent home earlier than feels safe because the system demands it. Doctors spend an enormous, demoralizing amount of time on documentation, estimates suggest 2 hours of paperwork for every hour of patient care. The administrative weight of hospital medicine is a slow-burn horror that almost no fiction touches, which means the moment you do, it feels startlingly real.
⋆˙⟡ Prognosis conversations are never one clean scene. When a doctor tells a family that someone is dying, there isn't a single moment of devastation and then forward motion. People mishear. They ask the same question rephrased five different ways hoping for a different answer. They argue with the information. Someone pulls out their phone to Google the diagnosis. Someone else goes completely silent and leaves the room. A week later, one family member still believes recovery is possible and another has accepted the death entirely, and they haven't been able to talk about it. Information lands at different speeds for different people and the gap between them is its own source of suffering.
If Your Scene Feels Lifeless, Someone Is Being Too Polite
Stories stall when everyone behaves. Real tension appears when someone:
• asks the wrong question
• says something they shouldn’t
• notices something uncomfortable
• refuses to drop the topic
• misunderstands something important
• interrupts at the worst moment
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𖤝 they don't just "forget" to add ingredients. they follow the recipe EXACTLY and it still comes out wrong. like, they measured everything, they did the steps, and somehow it's inedible. the recipe said "salt to taste" and they panicked because what does that MEAN? how much is taste? they added a tablespoon. it was wrong.
𖤝 they have irrational fears of kitchen equipment. your character who can't cook is TERRIFIED of the garbage disposal, doesn't trust the oven (what if it just explodes?), thinks the pressure cooker is a bomb, and has definitely cut themselves on a can lid and now treats all cans like enemies.
𖤝 they don't know when things are "done." the recipe says "cook until golden brown" but what SHADE of golden? there are like 87 shades! they've gone from raw to CHARCOAL with no middle ground. they've cut into chicken 6 times to check if it's done. they've served soup that was somehow both boiling and cold in the same bowl.
𖤝 their grocery shopping is chaos. they buy ingredients for a recipe and then have NO IDEA what to do with the leftovers. they have 47 half-used jars of spices they bought once and never touched again. they thought they were buying cilantro but it was parsley. they don't know the difference and they're too embarrassed to ask at this point.
𖤝 they have ONE dish they can make and they're weird about it. your character who can't cook has exactly one thing they can make successfully (maybe it's boxed mac and cheese, maybe it's scrambled eggs, maybe it's toast) and they will make it PERFECTLY and be SO PROUD and mention it constantly. "I'm not a chef but my [one thing] is pretty good actually."
𖤝 they've caused at least one kitchen fire. not a big one! probably! but they've definitely made smoke. they didn't know you're not supposed to microwave metal. they thought the toaster could handle a Pop-Tart (it could not). they left the stove on and went to check their phone "real quick" and that was 45 minutes ago and now there's smoke.
𖤝 they rely on takeout but feel GUILTY about it. your character orders delivery 6 nights a week and feels like a failure every time. they look at the pile of menus with shame. they know the delivery drivers by name. they've thought about learning to cook to save money but then they remember the Great Spaghetti Incident of last month and order Thai food instead.
I think that when you're overstimulated you should appear kind of grayed out and no one should be able to interact with you like a locked character in a video game
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People are so much more sad, and desparate, and lonely than you think. I have had three incidents in the last four months were a technician I was working with was being either dangerously unfocused (we work with high voltage), or just flat out angry with their coworkers, and every time when I just pulled them aside to say hey, this isn't you, you're nice, and you're competent, so something must be up - what can I do to help - they have responded by bursting into tears. One guy was struggling to get his wife moved into a care home, one guy just got served divorce papers, and the other hadn't slept a wink the night before because his daughter had the pukes.
I haven't spent my whole life responding to people being rude, or stupid, or dangerous with knee jerk compassion. It's a new habit. The first time I did that as the lead for my lab, it was because the guy genuinely was so good natured that I knew something had to be off. But the other two times were just me going, alright, lets see if it always goes this well, and so far, it has. I'm almost 30, and I just figured out that the #1 reason people are shitty are because they are going through shit.
I don't think you have, like, a moral obligation to respond to people being jerks with knee jerk compassion. But it has made my life so much easier the last four months that I would recommend trying. For your own sake. Please.
(I'll step off my soapbox now. Enjoy your Sunday.)
#the way that the internet and modern life has made people more isolated and distant towards one another#is truly tearing society apart at the seams#a lot of people need to relearn empathy and compassion via @sick-sad-little-world