˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚 “bathroom floor bad” ~ alfie buttle 𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
notes - following on with this little series, we have the endometriosis fic as promised! this is a condition that i suffer with and find incredibly frustrating
i’m thinking of maybe doing a part 2 for this story showing the reader dealing with the lack of research and help from medical experts, so lmk if that’s something you wanna see??
Alfie knew when you weren't answering your phone that something was wrong. Normally, that wouldn't have been a problem. People got busy. People had lives.
But you'd left his good morning text on read.
You'd ignored the TikTok he'd sent at lunch.
And the voice note where he'd spent thirty seconds complaining about someone criticising his Defender.
He pieced together pretty quickly what was happening. And it's not like you'd ever been particularly good at asking for help when things got bad.
Not because you were stubborn, or at least not just because you were stubborn, but because you hated feeling like a burden.
Even after all this time. Even after countless conversations where Alfie had repeatedly explained that loving someone generally involved actually being there for them.
He sent one final text. Coming over. Don't argue.
A few seconds later it showed as delivered.
Twenty minutes later he was unlocking your front door.
"Love?" Alfie called as he stepped inside, voice echoing faintly through the quiet flat. He kicked off his trainers and hung up his jacket.
The silence stretched for a moment before a faint, pained groan drifted from down the hallway.
He followed the sound and found exactly what he'd expected. You were curled up on the bathroom floor, tucked against the side of the bath. A hot water bottle was clutched tightly against your stomach, and a blanket half wrapped around your shoulders. Your phone lay abandoned a few feet away.
You looked utterly exhausted - the kind of exhaustion that came from hours of fighting pain.
Your face was pale. Dark circles sat beneath your eyes. Every few seconds he could see another cramp pass through you from the way your jaw tightened and your fingers clenched around the hot water bottle.
His chest tightened anyway. No matter how many times he'd seen it, no matter how much he expected it, it never got easier.
Seeing someone you loved hurting was horrible. Seeing someone you loved hurting and knowing there wasn't a thing you could do to make it stop was even worse.
"Hey, girl," he said softly as he crouched beside you.
You managed a tired "mm," barely more than a breath.
He reached out immediately, one hand settling gently against the side of your head. His thumb brushed across your temple before he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
A tiny breath of amusement escaped you. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.
"You should've called me," he murmured.
You attempted a look that was meant to be unimpressed but it came out more like a slow blink. He eased down beside you, leaning back against the wall.
"How bad are we talking?" He asked
You considered it for a moment before answering. "Bathroom floor bad."
For a while, he didn't try to fix anything. He simply sat on the cold floor beside you, shoulder pressed lightly against the side of the bath, keeping you company while another wave of pain passed.
Because he knew from experience that sometimes there wasn't anything useful to say.
Sometimes the best thing he could do was just be there.
For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. Every so often, he'd press another kiss into your hair without saying anything.
The bathroom was quiet except for the occasional hum of the extractor fan and your uneven breathing.
You shifted slightly, trying to find a position that hurt less. The movement was small, but it carried all the desperation of someone who had run out of ways to cope.
It was pointless. Everything hurt.
Even your legs had started aching hours ago.
The hot water bottle wasn't helping anymore. Or maybe it was. Maybe you'd be feeling even worse without it.
Another cramp hit, sharp and sudden, stealing the breath from your lungs. You squeezed your eyes shut and curled tighter around yourself.
"Jesus Christ," you hissed.
Alfie's gaze immediately flickered towards you.
"That bad?" he asked, and something in the question, as innocent as it was, rubbed you the wrong way.
Maybe because you'd been in pain for hours. Maybe because you were exhausted. Maybe because nausea was sitting heavily in your stomach and every nerve in your body felt frayed.
"Obviously it's that bad, Alfie." The words came out sharper than you intended, and the second they left your mouth, you regretted them.
You hated snapping at him, hated how the pain stripped away your patience and left you frayed.
"Sorry." The apology came immediately.
You let your head fall back against the side of the bath.
Alfie shook his head. "No- you're in a fuck ton of pain, you're allowed to be horrible."
"Still nothing." His voice stayed calm. Steady. Not even a hint of irritation.
Another slow, deep wave of pain rolled through your abdomen, the kind that dragged, stretching itself out until it felt like your entire midsection was being wrung from the inside. You sucked in a sharp breath, the sound catching in your throat, and instinctively folded forward again.
The pain radiated low and deep, spreading into your hips and dragging a hot, sickening pulse into your lower back. You could feel the thin sheen of sweat forming at your hairline, cold and sticky despite the heat blooming under your skin.
"Hey," Alfie's hand settled gently between your shoulder blades.
You felt tears prick unexpectedly at your eyes - not because the pain was suddenly worse, but because you were tired. Tired of hurting. Tired of feeling sick. Tired of feeling trapped in your own body.
"You alright?" he asked softly, and that question nearly broke you.
Because the answer was obvious.
Your eyes burned as you blinked, trying to keep the tears from spilling.
Alfie saw the shift immediately. His expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing into something gentler.
"Darling," he said quietly, and the word alone made your throat tighten.
You hated how wobbly your voice sounded when you finally managed to speak. "I'm so tired."
"I know," he replied, and he meant it - not in the dismissive way people sometimes said it, but with the weight of someone who had watched you go through this before and understood exactly what that kind of fatigue looked like.
"It hurts," you whispered, barely audible.
Alfie's jaw tightened, a flicker of frustration on his face. Not at you, but at the situation. At the fact that there was absolutely nothing he could do to make it stop.
"I know it does," he said, voice soft but firm, as though he was trying to anchor you with the certainty of his presence.
His hand continued moving slowly across your back. The rhythm was steady, patient, the kind of touch that didn't demand anything from you -just a quiet reminder that you weren't alone on the cold bathroom floor, that someone was there, fully and completely, even when you felt at your worst.
For a moment you simply sat together on the bathroom floor, sharing the silence that didn't need to be filled.
The extractor fan hummed softly above you, the tiles were cold beneath your legs, and Alfie stayed close enough that his shoulder was against yours. It wasn't comfortable, not really, but it was familiar.
Then Alfie nudged your shoulder gently, careful enough not to jostle you.
"Can I make a suggestion?" he asked, voice low.
You turned your head just enough to look at him, suspicion flickering through your tired expression.
"Depends," you muttered, causing him to give a huff of amusement.
"I move us somewhere that isn't a bathroom floor."
The idea alone made your stomach twist, and not just from the pain.
"What if I'm sick again?" The question came out quieter than you'd intended, but Alfie's expression softened immediately.
He knew exactly what you meant - the horrible uncertainty of never knowing whether the next wave of nausea would pass or send you scrambling back to the toilet.
"You feeling sick now?" he asked gently.
"A bit as in actually sick?"
You paused to think about it. "No."
"A bit as in you're worried you might be?"
"I don't know," you sighed, frustration and exhaustion tangled together.
Alfie nodded slowly, the kind of nod that said he understood without needing you to explain further.
The bathroom had become your safe zone - if you were going to be sick, everything you needed was already here.
He didn't dismiss that. He didn't tell you that you were being dramatic. He just let the truth sit between you, acknowledging it without judgement.
Your gaze drifted towards the open bathroom door. Beyond it sat your bedroom. And your bed.
The thought alone was tempting enough to make you emotional.
"I do miss my bed," you admitted quietly.
"Course you do," Alfie said, voice gentle as ever, "your bed's lovely."
You managed the faintest smile. "My bed is lovely," you agreed.
Another wave of nausea rolled through your stomach. Not enough to make you sick. Just enough to remind you it was still there. Your grip tightened on the hot water bottle without even realising.
Alfie noticed immediately, his eyes softening again.
"Tell you what," he murmured.
You opened your mouth to protest, but he held up a finger before you could get a word out.
"If you feel sick, we've got a bucket."
Your mouth closed again, the argument dissolving before it even formed.
Alfie pushed himself to his feet with a quiet exhale. You watched him suspiciously from the floor.
"Where are you going?" you asked, voice thin and wary.
"Nowhere, girl, don't worry. I'm solving the problem." He said it so casually that you barely had time to process the words before he bent down toward you.
"Alfie-" you started as one of his arms slid behind your back, steady and warm, while the other hooked beneath your knees with practiced ease.
In a single smooth movement, you were lifted off the bathroom floor, the cold tiles falling away as your body rose effortlessly against his chest.
The hot water bottle remained wedged between you both, trapped securely by the way he held you, as though he'd already accounted for it.
You barely had time to adjust before your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, letting your head fall against his shoulder.
Alfie carried you through the doorway with careful steps, adjusting his hold only enough to keep you comfortable. When he reached the bed, he lowered himself carefully onto the mattress.
Rather than setting you beside him, he shifted back against the headboard and settled you sideways across his lap - guiding you into a position that felt instinctive.
One arm looped securely around your waist, holding you close, while the other reached for the blanket at the end of the bed. Within seconds he had it draped over both of you, tucking it around your legs and shoulders until you were cocooned in warmth.
"There," he murmured, voice low and satisfied.
You let out a small, shaky sigh. The mattress was infinitely better than the bathroom floor - softer and warmer.
The pillow behind your head was better. The blanket was better. Everything was better. Even the nausea seemed a little less aggressive now that you were somewhere comfortable, no longer bracing yourself against cold porcelain and hard edges.
Your eyes drifted shut, exhaustion pulling at you like a tide. Without thinking, you curled closer to Alfie, seeking the warmth and steadiness he offered. His hand found its way to your hair, fingers threading gently through the strands as he stroked slowly. The touch was soft, comforting, the kind of gesture that didn't require any effort from you - just the simple act of existing in his arms.
"Better?" he asked quietly, his voice rumbling against your cheek where it rested near his collarbone.
You considered it for a moment, letting the question settle. "Still feels like someone's scooping my organs out with a spoon."
Alfie winced, his nose scrunching in sympathy. "Lovely image," he said dryly.
He was quiet for a beat before looking down at you.
"If anyone comes near you with a spoon," he said matter-of-factly, "they're getting smacked to fuck."
Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped you, "that's harsh."
"You absolutely are not."
"No, but I'll make an exception for anyone threating my girl with cutlery."
"Gimp." you murmur, but you felt the faintest smile tug at your lips.
His arm tightened around your middle, pulling you just a little closer and pressing a kiss to your hairline, just enough to make you feel anchored. "Mhm," he hummed in agreement, and the noise settled over you like another layer of warmth.
And with the room dim, the mattress warm, and his heartbeat steady against your ear, you finally let yourself drift - not asleep, not yet, but into that soft, hazy place where the pain wasn’t everything and you didn’t have to hold yourself together alone.
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