#prompt-based

“Mind if I take this off?” Mist said, wrapping her hands around Cirrus’s waist from behind

“Have at it.” Cirrus responded, stretching her arms out to make it easier for Mist to remove her cover-up.

It was an abnormally warm February afternoon so a lake party had been arranged to celebrate what seemed to be the definitive end of touring for a while. Mist, knowing her way around the lake like the back of her own hand., found a spot that was more secluded but not completely isolated so she could spend some much needed alone time together.

Mist picked Cirrus up, leading her into the water. Cirrus stayed clinging to her as if she would disappear if she let go.

“I’m not gonna go away, baby. I’m right here.”

“I know. I just missed you a lot.”

“Well, now you have me.”

“Sorry for not seeing you sooner.”

“It’s okay, Cumulus was very clear that she was gonna see you first when you came back minutes after you left. I was prepared to not see you. for a couple days., Speaking of which, now that you’ve been back for more than 5 minutes, how are you feeling?”

“I’m still so tired. Something about this run just knocked the wind out of everyone.”

“I see what you did there.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Okay.” Mist connected her lips to Cirrus’s softly, Cirrus being the one to elevate it. They were both breathless afterwards, looking into each other’s eyes. “I hadn’t kissed you yet, I had to rectify that.”

“I’m glad you did, I was getting impatient.”

“Anything for you, my love. But as you were saying.”

“Yeah, this run just felt rougher. It’s not just me either, everybody was going through it. I’m glad this was set up, it’s nice to be able to have some fun after getting settled. It’s the worst when you have to just get back to normal when you haven’t had time to breathe.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, my darling.”

“Of course I am, I’m spending time with you. Though I wish I could spend time with you in another way.”

“Oh? Let’s do it then.” Mist began to quickly lower the two of them into the water but was interrupted by frantic splashing and tapping against her shoulder,

“I think you’re forgetting something!” Cirrus exclaimed, spitting water from her mouth.

“Oh shit, you can’t breathe underwater!” Mist responded apologetically. “I’m sorry, my love. It completely slipped my mind.”

“It’s alright. Bit of an adrenaline boost.”

“Do you still want to spend that time together or did I ruin that?”

“I absolutely do.”

“Well, there’s that tree over there.”

Her eyelids do not flutter open They are leaden. They scrape open with great difficulty. She blinks—with even greater difficulty—in the darkness. Everything is unfamiliar, or she thinks it would be if she had any attention to spare to take in anything, let alone everything.

She does not have the attention to spare. She has more immediate problems—problems much closer to home. Her body is entirely too large and far too heavy. It has some how become huge and incredibly dense, all for the apparent purpose of containing how monumentally terrible she feels.

“Castle.” 

Her voice sounds like a rusty hinge. Or it aspires to sound like one. It’s not nearly loud enough, and yet he’s there. Immediately, he is the merest weight on the very edge of the bed. Bed. There is a bed and she is in it. He is on it, barely so. 

“Here.” His voice is even quieter than hers. It’s quieter by a lot than she has ever heard it be. “I’m right here.” 

“Where?” She doesn’t love that she’s been downgraded from two syllables to one, and it’s left her exhausted. “What?” 

“The loft.” She can feel his hands hovering over her skin, not giving in to the temptation to touch, to smooth the damp hair back from her forehead. She’s grateful and not grateful. “The bedroom. You’re sick.” 

“Not sick.” That gets a reaction out of her enormous—and enormously heavy—body. She flops from her belly to her side. She claws at the duvet, trying to fling it off, but it’s hopeless. A coughing fit takes hold of her, painfully yanking her ribs in all directions and drumming on her spine. It doesn’t so much end as trail off into weak, disgustingly kitten-like panting, and she’s left drenched in sweat with her head still throbbing from the yo-yoing pressure inside her body. 

“Okay,” he says. “Not sick.

It’s 80-proof skepticism and he’s hovering. It’s no longer just his hand a fraction of an inch above her skin, his weight has lifted from the edge of the bed, and he’s hovering. She forces her eyes open and only just manages not to cry out at the pain involved. They’ve adjusted a little, pain notwithstanding. She can see that he’s telling the truth. She’s at the loft. She’s in his bed. 

She registers the decadent sheets  that are probably reducing the pain of contact with her skin by at least thirty percent. There are the good, good blackout curtains that may literally be saving her from driving the nearest sufficiently sharp object into her own temple in the vain hope of distracting herself from the terrible pressure of something trying to exit her head via her cheekbones. There’s his digital alarm clock on the nightstand, not the reliable, power-outage-defying wind-up clock she inherited from her Aunt Patricia. And there’s a mug. 

These last two together are trouble. She knows that. She just doesn’t know how. With an effort she doesn’t really have in her, she makes her way on to her back. She alternates between resting a hand over her eyes to block out what little light there is and snatching that same hand away, because she can’t stand the weight of it. 

Trouble, she thinks, struggling against a cotton-headed feeling that can’t possibly be sleep threatening to roll in and flatten her. It can’t possibly be. It’s the middle of the day. 

“Day!” She sits bolt upright. In her mind, at least. In reality, she hardly makes it up on to an elbow before she collapses—shaking—to the mattress. The puzzle pieces of the mug and the clock snick together. It’s the middle of the day and she’s been sleeping. “Drugged me!” She hits out weakly with one hand. “Castle, you drugged me.” 

“I did not!” 

That’s loud. That’s so loud, and she must have whimpered, because his face is close to hers and he’s whispering, Sorry. Sorry, Kate, over and over and magically somehow managing not to breathe on her. It’s heaven, but also terrible, because wherever he is, her hands can’t find him. He’s kneeling next to the bed, face pressed to the mattress well below where hers rests on the pillow. It’s a ridiculous sight. And annoying. Her hands can’t find him. 

“Come up.” She tugs at the sheet as though she can drag him up that way. “Don’t be dumb.” 

He has something to say to that. She can practically taste the comeback on the bedroom’s air, but he bites it back. He climbs carefully on to the very edge of the bed, stretched out and balanced precariously. She grumbles and hits out at him until he’s arranged beside her—until he’s close enough to use as a kind of jungle gym to haul herself close until she’s fitted against him, as close to comfortable as she seems likely to get. 

“Drugged me.” She kicks weakly at his shin. “Mug.” 

“Mug?” He is trying not to laugh. He is not succeeding. “I made you tea. Black tea, with caffeine and everything, because apparently herbal tea is—and I quote—“ditchwater.” You managed about a thimbleful before you passed out.” 

“Work.” Alarm rises in her. She manages something like a sentence. “Castle, I have to . . .” 

His arm tightens ever so slightly around her, but he says nothing. He doesn’t have to. Memory surfaces. She is still on suspension. For sixteen more days no one at the precinct is expecting her. She, in fact, can’t technically be at the precinct. But still she can’t just . . . it’s the middle of the day. She can’t . . . 

“You can, though.” He lowers his mouth to her ear. “You can stay in bed. I can wait on you, hand and foot or whatever body parts and whatever other body parts you like.” There’s a little lasciviousness there. He’s being a little less careful with her. She feels some of the tension leaving her own body in a gentle wave. “I bought out a whole pharmacy while you were sleep—“ he catches himself “While you were . . . resting your eyes.” He presses the gentlest of kisses to her temple. “I could totally, consensually drug you.” 

“No drugs,” she snaps and immediately regrets it. Even before she senses him gathering himself to back off, to give her space, she regrets it. She finds the placket of his shirt. She curls her fingers into it. “Stay, though.” She holds on to him. “Stay now. And maybe . . .” she hesitates, then forges ahead. Her eyes are closing. She wants this out in the open. “Stay now. Tea later.” 

A Hair Away

Pairing: Kirishima Eijiro/Bakugou Katsuki

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

More tags in the... well, tags. Suffice it to say, fluffy. 

White clouds billowed from the bathroom, a witch’s cauldron of heady-scented soap and scalding steam. The door swung open quickly, stopping inches before slamming into the dorm room wall. Kirishima stepped out, shaking water from his hair as he finished affixing the grey towel around his waist. Without the customary gel holding his red locks in stiff spikes, it cascaded in loose curls around his ears. He grinned at Bakugou, sprawled out on the other side of the floor, stretching his shoulders out. 

“Hey, Baku-bro, thanks for letting me steal your shower!” Kirishima tumbled, the words tripping out of his mouth before he could get them in the right order. He flashed a grin to make up for it, white teeth glinting from his tanned face. 

“Tch, sure,” Bakugou muttered back, shifting his weight and switching arms. He pulled his elbow back behind his head, wincing as tight muscles groaned and protested under his skin. “You look different with your hair like that, man,” he commented as Kirishima padded on quiet feet to the bed, digging through his bag for a shirt and pants. 

“Hey, thanks!” He beamed, and hauled a black long-sleeve shirt and red pants from his bag. “You mind if I just slip these on out here? The bathroom’s almost as hot as you.” 

Bakugou blanched, then reddened, then blanched again. 

Kirishima realized his mistake fairly quickly, to his credit, and backpedaled over his words. “Er—I mean, your Quirk?” he tried, “you know, when you, um, explode… things?” Half of a grin attempted to claw its way onto his face, but retreated fairly quickly when the murderous glint in his friend’s eyes failed to fade. 

Bakugou released his arm from behind his head, shaking out his shoulders leisurely before answering Kirishima. “Thought that was a compliment, Riot,” he growled, before letting the heat die out from his eyes as the harsh glint faded. His smile resolved from savage to good-natured, and he laughed lightly. It rumbled deep in his chest, the afterburners of his false fury sputtering out in joy. “Had you for a second there, didn’t I?” 

The warm feeling in Kirishima’s chest grew, even as his skin cooled off the longer he was out of the shower. He slipped the sweatpants on under his towel, but decided against the shirt. It was easier not to bother putting it on, and he was at ease enough in the room that it didn’t make him uncomfortable. He was used to Bakugou’s eyes on him, never really judging but always observing. Something about his friend made him perpetually at ease, even after nearly saying something he definitely didn’t want the fiery boy to know. 

He was absolutely head over heels for him. 

Always had been, really, the same way that the Earth had always had the moon tagging along just behind it, less flashy and perpetually eclipsed. And yet he stood by him, threw a casual arm over his broad, tense shoulders, and when he made it back to his bed at night with barked laughter and blindingly ruby eyes still trickling through his mind, the nitroglycerin on his sleeve served as a reminder. Friends, and friends alone, despite halfway glances and searing touches and secrets shared past midnight, when Bakugou snuck up to Kirishima’s dorm room to talk rather than study. Friends, despite everything that Kirishima’s frantic heart told him meant more. 

The tangent left him blushing, and Bakugou was staring at him like he’d grown a second head. “Eijirou? You in there still?” he asked, pushing blond hair from his eyes. It was his turn for the shower, after all, because he’d let Kirishima take it first. The water heater in his section of the building was on the fritz again, and he wasn’t going to leave his best friend showerless. Kirishima appreciated it more than was strictly appropriate, lavishing his friend with bone-crushing hugs. 

“Yeah,” he finally answered. “Hey, Katsuki?” 

Bakugou didn’t even glance up. “What?” 

Kirishima swallowed hard, his pride warring against his yearning heart. “Can you help brush out my hair?” He didn’t wait for Bakugou to respond before babbling on. “It gets really messy after a workout and usually I’d do it myself but the brush is back in my dorm and I don’t want to go out in the hall right now and you don’t have to if you don’t want to but I figured since—” 

“Quit it, of course, Ei. Get up on the bed, I’ll help you.” He was already standing up off the floor, back popping as he moved. 

The bed was almost identical to every single other dorm room bed, except for the fact that Bakugou had a mountain of blankets. Kirishima had asked him about them, once, when the sun was creeping up in the sky and they were laying on the floor together, talking about nothing and enjoying the silence. Bakugou’s eyes had been fixed on the ceiling, tracing over cracks and dents from years of students, and Kirishima’s eyes had been fixed on Bakugou. 

The blankets hadn’t been a real conversation topic, but when Bakugou mentioned he was getting cold and Kirishima had to restrain himself from offering to cuddle for warmth and instead pulled a nondescript black and white blanket off the bed, he had sighed. 

Each blanket, the blond had rasped into the still pre-dawn air, was from someone he cared about. Friends, family, people he’d never see again, people he saw every day. The one Kirishima had pulled down was from his mother, given to him the day he got into UA. 

So as Kirishima settled himself on the bed, he pulled a green and white blanket around his shoulders. From his father, he recalled. Bakugou hauled himself onto the bed behind him, and straddled his legs wide around his waist. 

“What exactly do you want me to, er, do?” he asked, first sign of awkward uncertainty creeping its way into his voice as it pitched up half an octave. 

“Anything with your hands, I guess,” Kirishima replied, feeling the heat radiating off of his skin even as he sat inches away. “It’s just something I like.” Rather than respond, Bakugou plunged his hands into thick crimson hair, scratching fingernails across his scalp and sending shivers down his spine. Hurtling in headfirst, as always. 

“Your hair is so soft after you wash it.” 

Kirishima flinched. He had been at peace, almost dozing as the other boy gently tugged snarls from his hair, and his comment had sent icy water trickled down his nerves. A chuckle tried to force its way from his throat, tearing into the sides of his mouth as it just wouldn’t come out. He settled for running his own hand through his hair, painstakingly avoiding where Bakugou’s were rubbing circles just behind his ears. He didn’t respond. The air between them jumped by a hundred degrees, and Kirishima felt the pure glowing heat emanating from Bakugou grow closer to his back. Hands pulled themselves from his hair and settled on his waist instead, pressing the green blanket into his ribs. 

“Eijirou.” 

Feeling rather than seeing, eyes cemented shut out of fear and confusion and desperation, one hand began to track its way up his side. It left a searing brand in its wake, and Kirishima felt that if he had been able to see the skin on his back there would be a handprint burned in. When the hand reached the base of his hair it tugged, just once. Twice. 

And then he was falling gently backwards as Bakugou turned his head to capture his mouth in a kiss. 

The shock wore off almost immediately in the sweet, peppery taste of his skin, in the way his hands both came back up to his hair and carded through it roughly. It was such a wonderful contrast to the gentleness with which he played Kirishima’s lips that it couldn’t have been more perfect in a dream. One hand scratched gently at his hairline as the other controlled him, manipulating his head to his will so he could slowly devour his mouth. 

The silence between them crackled in the early evening sun slanting through the window, casting golden light across their barely-moving forms. It turned Bakugou’s hair to molten gold and Kirishima’s to magma, and as they broke apart, gently, they smiled. Bakugou gave him one last quick peck just below his cheekbone before pulling back and breathing deeply. His shaking hands were still in his hair, wrapped in shoulder-length red strands, but he disentangled one, pulling the prey from the spider’s web as the spider simply watched on. The hand instead sought out Kirishima’s own. 

“Thanks, Ei,” he said, softly, eyes gleaming like never before. They burned a fervent red, so unlike the rage or humor easily found in their depths, and his heart bubbled to the surface in their depths. Uncertainty flashed in chords across them, and vulnerability seethed just below the surface, a riptide threatening to pull his emotions back in and far, far away. 

Kirishima felt a hand brush his own, and he curled his fingers around it. “How long, Katsuki?” he choked out, crimson eyes locked on Bakugou’s ruby. The sun glinted gold through the window. 

“As long as I’ve known you, Eijirou, and for as long as the moon still orbits the Earth.” Soft, honest words, and the menace of his open eyes laying desperation flat out on the covers between them. 

He grinned widely at that, at the implication of <i>forever</i>, and said nothing but, “Me, too.” 

Bakugou closed his eyes and relaxed, finally, squeezing Kirishima’s hand like a lifeline. 

They pulled more blankets from the collection around them, waiting for the sun to dip below the trees as they did the same as they had for countless nights before, talking and laughing and telling stories. But now, they had one hand each clasped together and Bakugou ran a hand through Kirishima’s hair as the sky faded from Bakugou’s shade of red to the burnt hue in Kirishima’s eyes, then into the deep, velvety blue of a peaceful, dreamless night. 

So, it was very unlikely his two lives mixed. He refused to let it do so. Home was where Deadpool became Wade Wilson - the outside was the place for Deadpool.

And you didn’t mind it, not really. Obviously, you didn’t ignore the other life of his; Deadpool was as much him as being Wade Wilson was. You just appreciated that the danger didn’t follow him every time he stepped through the front door.

However, there were moments where the two lives mixed and he couldn’t hide it from you. There were moments where Wade became Deadpool and worry was all you knew.

Much like this current moment, the situation in which you wished you weren’t in while feeling tired as the dead.

You were just about to head to bed, after having done your nightly routine, when you heard the window squeak open. You were suddenly glad you had procrastinated on getting that fixed.

Pausing, you waited and listened for another noise, hoping you were just imagining things. A muted crash could be heard slightly behind your bedroom door, causing you to yelp and whoever was making the noise to go silent.

You bit your lip in frustration. Really, did you really need to make sound? Just alert the possible murderer/kidnapper to your location, why don’t you?

You looked around, searching for a weapon. You needed to make sure you were at least armed were the murderer slash kidnapper slash noise-maker to decide to grace yourself with their presence. You wanted at least a little bit of a head start before they did whatever their occupation defined.

Finally, you saw a vase which wasn’t much but it was the only thing you had. You could’ve gone to the kitchen to grab a knife but you didn’t really want to kill anybody - just maim them enough to run. Besides, it would take too long.

In the meantime, the other person could sneak out without you noticing and sneak up behind you, do whatever it wants with you and then leave - and then you’re left thinking this all could’ve been avoided if you just took the damn vase. If you’re not dead of course, because it’s pretty hard to think when you’re dead...unless you’re Wade and then he manages it-.

Stop rambling, a voice that sounded eerily similar to Wade (which was ironic considering) demanded with a sigh, and you sighed yourself.

Right, you needed to focus on the other person and hit them before they could hit you. So you waited...and waited...and waited some more.

There was still no sign of any door opening after what felt like forever - but was likely just two minutes, three at the most. The person behind the door must have either ran away or was still there, just being silent as possible. Maybe they were waiting for you to go in so they could attack first. Maybe they had their own vase held above their own head while trying to keep their own breath as still as possible.

You rolled your eyes. Well, the vase would probably be replaced with katana or something (because these bad guys always seemed to wield badass weapons, instead of actual helpful things). But still…

You forgot where you were going with all of this when Noise-Maker decided to make noise behind the door once more, and then the door opened to reveal- Wade which yeah, totally should’ve seen that one coming.

Wade had his mask off, though his suit might as well have been off as well, with how less of it was on him than the floor. The suit was held on by mere threads and one stubborn, thickish piece of fabric. In place of the fabric were cuts; dozens of them, and blood. Lots of that too.

You froze at the sight of them, bleeding profusely all over his skin and landing on the carpet below. For one silly, hysteric moment, you mourned the loss of the carpet - and then reality finally set in and you felt like screaming. Probably would’ve done if it hadn’t been for Wade’s fast reflexes, dashing over to you and placing a hand over your mouth, the other cupping and rubbing your cheek gently. He was making quiet shushing noises. Your eyes widened as you started into his blue ones; they were soft and tired, trying to soothe you while also trying not to pass out.

You glared and removed his hands quickly, placing the vase down.

“Wade- what-? Why-? How-? Ooh-.” You trailed off, growling in frustration at the end. You were unsure where to start. You so badly wanted to hit him for getting hurt but knew that’d make things worse.

At least patch him up before hitting him.

You shook your head and took a deep breath, releasing it and breathing back in two more times before you finally felt your heart slow down.

“Move your arse over to the couch,” You began, pointing to the couch and glaring at Wade, “Please.”

You clenched your jaw at the slight tremble in your voice.

He looked over to where you were pointing, back to you, over to the couch again and then back at you before sighing and nodding. He limped over to the couch and plopped right into it- only to wince and roll on his side.

You rushed over to kneel beside him, clutching the uninjured arm. You gave it a firm squeeze in reassurance.

“Where does it hurt?” You questioned, looking over for more signs than the obvious ones.

“Pain,” Wade began to explain, moving to point behind him at his...arse? “Arse. Hurts.”

Oh...alright.

You couldn’t really focus on what he was saying though because he sounded so out of breath. You almost felt like you were losing your own.

You nodded though you weren’t sure why you did so. You weren’t really sure what to do, really.

Focus on the bleeding.

Wade was still bleeding and possibly dying. You needed to focus on that and do something, something that wasn’t just sitting there and panicking.

You can panic later.

For now, patch him up and prevent more bleeding from spilling.

Standing, you opened your mouth, caught sight of the cuts, promptly forgot what you were going to say, closed your mouth and then gestured awkwardly for him to ‘stay’, like some dog told to behave. You winced at the thought but threw it to the side to race off into the kitchen- and then raced back when you remembered you needed to apply pressure on his wounds.

Pressure is needed, pressure is good.

Looking around, you felt your breath hitch when you realised you didn’t have anything that could be used. Deciding you could always buy another one, you tore off your robe and bunched it into a tight ball, shoving it into the area bleeding the most.

Wade hissed, face scrunching in pain and you took a deep breath, releasing the pressure a little more.

“Sorry.” You whispered absently, focusing on what the right amount of pressure would be. A hand over your own made you pause. You looked up, into Wade’s gentle face, and he smiled in such a pained way, you couldn’t help but wince.

“Breathe. That helps.”

You looked away, closing your eyes to do exactly as he said.

Right...right, you thought, breathing’s a good thing to do.

You gulped and startled when you felt Wade’s hand over your cheek, stroking it gently.

“You’re doing great for someone who isn’t used to do this.” He reassured and you couldn’t help but snort.

“I haven’t done anything but panic.” You challenged.

“You’re still here.”

That made you pause. Looking up, you saw his eyes, truly saw his eyes and realised he trusted you. He one hundred percent trusted you.

You felt your heart skip a beat at the realisation.

All of this was trust, wasn’t it? And that wasn’t something Wade gave away freely, trust. He had, had so many people take advantage of him that trusting was hard- and yet here he was, trusting you not to run, trusting you to care for him in his most vulnerable state.

You gulped- and then clenched your jaw, face set in determination. You were going to do it. You would care for him, prove him right to trust you, prove to him how much you loved him. You would make sure his wounds were cleaned and bandaged, and then after you would cuddle him. You would reassure him you would be there for him no matter what, love him forever and always.

You turned your hand to kiss his hand before gently placing it over the bunched robe.

“Hold it there gently. I’ll be right back.” You promised and reassured he wouldn’t release the pressure, you ran to the kitchen.

Throwing the cupboard doors open and searching through them, you sifted through the items there. You knew the first aid kit wasn’t in the bathroom because no matter how many times you attempted to leave it there, it always ‘mysteriously’ disappeared only to reappear again somewhere else.

Seeing as there were only two people living in this flat and you weren’t the one doing it, you knew Wade was responsible for moving it. He would never tell you where it was though; you would have to go on a mini-scavenger hunt for it, and when you did find it, you would find half of the contents missing and empty wrappers of gauze (and sometimes sweets, though how they’d end up in there, you would never know).

Wade would never answer for the missing items nor the strange locations it’d appear in, no matter how many times you pushed for one, and he would constantly take the first aid kit whenever he felt like it.

It had gotten to the point where you were refilling it more than you ever used the items, which was a good thing of course but still annoying. It had happened recently actually, you just hadn’t found it yet.

Now’s a good time as any to look for it, I suppose.

Though when you did find it, you could only hope there was enough equipment in there for now.

It took the fourth cupboard and a lot of stuff thrown to the floor for you to finally find the first aid kit. Why it was behind all of the bottles and packets of seasonings, you would never know.

Grabbing it, you moved to go back to the living room but paused, placed the first aid kit down and quickly washed your hands. The last thing you wanted was to unknowingly put more germs into his cuts and make the whole thing worse. You also soaked a few tissues, squeezing them just enough to get excess water out.

Finally ready, you grabbed the first aid kit once more and went back to Wade’s side, nearly tripping over your own feet in your haste to get to him and plopped right beside his feet once more. He was still clutching the bundle to his wounds but you noticed his eyes were drooping. He was losing consciousness and fast.

“Hey, Wade. Stay with me, sweetie.” You called gently and he opened his eyes to your voice. He looked straight at you but it was as if he couldn’t see you.

You blinked back your tears, wiping the blurriness away.

Come on, hurry (Y/N)!

Tearing the first aid kit open, you searched through it; there really wasn’t a lot in here. You huffed. You’ll just have to make do with what you have, which was gauze, an antibiotic cream, an open packet of tissues and...that was it. You had nothing else but the wet wipes.

You didn’t have nearly enough to clean the wound but it wasn’t like you had time to go out and get more, was it?

You felt the urge to growl in frustration.

“Alright, Wade. We’re gonna need to have a serious talk about you using most of the first aid kit without telling me.” You muttered to yourself as you placed the opened first aid kit on the ground and began wiping the wounds with the wet wipes (which was pain in the arse when you had to turn him over to wipe the wound on his arse; you cleaned and bandaged that one straight away. Of all the places to get it...). You didn’t expect an answer and you didn’t get one, but one glance up assured you he was awake - somewhat.

Once the wounds were cleaned, you threw the wipes aside, wiped a dry wipe in the antibiotic cream and gently applied a thin lower over the wounds. There were too many though and by the fifth wound, you were afraid you weren’t going to have enough.

You tried to even the contents out, and just barely managed it.

Finally, the wounds were sterilised and cleaned, ready to be bandaged, which you did as efficiently as you could. Wade barely made noise when you had to move him to wrap the bandage around. You laid a hand on his cheek and he blinked sluggishly but didn’t open his eyes.

You knew of his super healing and now that the wounds were cleaned, you felt a bit more reassured. Still, you didn’t move away, shifting until you were sitting on the ground and your head was on his knees. Your hand cradled his closer, placing a kiss on it to reassure yourself more than anything else.

There was a mess around you, empty packets and an open, empty first aid kit littering the floor; and as you sat, you realised you were sweating. Your heart was pounding and a stream of negative thoughts was tried to push into your brain. You shoved all of it aside and closed your eyes.

Wade was fine, he was going to be alright now. You had nothing to worry about because everything had been treated. You were there for him.

You turned your cheek to rest on his thigh, breathing in deeply before releasing after two seconds. You felt tired, exhausted, a reminder that before all of this, you were heading off to bed.

The excitement of what felt like forever made you want to sleep, and though you still felt panicked, you knew he was safe.

You could sleep.

He was fine, and when you woke up, he would still be there, breathing, living.

You took a deep breath and let yourself drift off.

(You stayed like that throughout all of the night, so you were unaware when Wade woke up.

He didn’t mind though; he simply looked around, assured everything was alright, looked down at you and smiled, gently brushing a hand through your hair. You were there, in that cute old-granny nightgown you loved so much, check mushed against his knee, a trail of drool already drying down your chin.

You were safe beside him, beautiful as ever.

You were still there.