Nov 22, 2025
I like to think they have no idea what sickness is and thinks theyâre dying
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I like to think they have no idea what sickness is and thinks theyâre dying
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How to Write a Sick Character
ⰠBeing sick is boring as hell
Nobody tells you that. You think itâs gonna be poetic and tragic and emotionally moving, maybe a few tears on the windowpane and a soft piano soundtrack? painfully Wrong... Itâs pacing in a waiting room for two hours to be told to come back next week. Itâs reruns of trash TV because your brain fog is so bad you can't even process a podcast. It's Googling "why do my bones hate me" and finding nothing helpful, only vibes. So if you're writing a sick character and every scene is Deep and Heavy and Symbolic, I love you but no. Let them be bored and be over it.
â° Sickness is basically a toxic relationship with your own body
And wow, the drama is unmatched. One day your character wakes up and thinks, âMaybe today will be normal.â Their body: âPlot twist, bitch.â Now theyâre sweating through a hoodie, canceling plans, and pretending they're âjust tiredâ because explaining the truth is somehow more exhausting than the illness itself. Let your character hate their body sometimes and feel betrayed by it. Let them mourn the version of themselves that used to just do things without needing a three day nap after. But alsoâlet them fight for their body, too. Advocate. Adapt. Try again. Because itâs not all despair. Sometimes itâs really freaking brave just to get out of bed and put on pants.
â° Itâs not fuck**g cute
Hollywood loves to write illness like itâs an aesthetic. Clean blankets, sad smiles, a gentle cough. Yeah⌠no. Sometimes itâs vomit in your hair. Itâs medical tape pulling off skin. Itâs being too tired to shower but still scrolling through memes like your life depends on it. Give us the gross stuff.
â° Let them be funny
Sick people are hilarious. Mostly because we have to be. Youâve got two choices when your body is a disaster zone: laugh, or fully unravel. So we joke about our failing organs. We flirt with the nurse while on IV fluids. We name our medical devices. We send memes from the ER.
â° Sick â broken
Please hear this: your character is not less than. They are not just here to suffer and die and inspire others with their angelic perseverance. Theyâre a person. Maybe a chaos goblin. Maybe a genius. Maybe a mess. Maybe a lover, a fighter, a giant emotional raccoon with a heating pad. Their illness is part of them, not all of them.
â° Donât wrap it up too clean
Recovery isnât linear. Some illnesses donât âend.â And thatâs okay. You donât need a miracle cure in the third act. Sometimes strength is just learning to exist in a different way. Sometimes itâs re-learning how to hope. Sometimes itâs finding a new rhythm instead of forcing the old one to work. So yeahâif youâre writing a sick character, youâre doing something important. Youâre making space for people whose stories rarely get told with truth and teeth and tenderness. Just promise me you wonât turn them into a symbol. Let them be a person. A funny, scared, strong, exhausted, hopeful person. Like the rest of us.
@katrein05 I Hope This Helps a little... :)
Recompense (Gator Tillman x Reader)
Chapter One: Rock Bottom.
Instead of being arrested, a blind and injured Gator Tillman is hidden on a farm by a kid who thinks fugitives are more interesting than homework. What starts as temporary shelter turns into something dangerously close to family.
TW: Graphic descriptions of injuries, past abuse, abandonment cannon-typical with the Fargo series
Word count: ~3.5k
(Cross-posted to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78456726/chapters/205683856)
Contents:
Chapter One: Rock Bottom.
Chapter Two: Mole.
Chapter Three: Outed.
Chapter Four: Seen.
Chapter Five: Fever.
Chapter Six: Shape of You.
Chapter Seven: Idle Hands.
__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__
...This is what happens when you outlive your usefulness.
A wry, fruitless thought that seeps in slowly like the snow pressing cold through his clothes.
It soaks through denim, through the thin layers meant for standing, not lying still. Gator Tillman can feel it against his back, melting, refreezing, damp in places that already hurt too much.
His breathing fogs the air in front of his face. He can feel it against his cheeks, damp and warm before the cold steals it away. His arm throbs inside the cast, a deep, nauseating ache that pulses in time with his heartbeat. His head feels wrong. Too light. Too heavy. The bandage over his eyes is stiff, tacky with old blood, pulling uncomfortably every time he shifts his jaw.
The rope around his neck burns when he swallows.
Itâs stiff with ice and dirt, fibers biting against skin thatâs already raw. He can feel where it rubbed him bloody earlier, where it dragged when he stumbled, where it tightened when he didnât move fast enough.
Gator stays still at first.
Moving feels like admitting something he isnât ready to face just yet. The wind scrapes over the field in low, empty gusts, carrying sound with it. Far away, something creaks. Wood, maybe. Or metal. He canât tell anymore. Everything feels distant, like itâs happening on the other side of glass. His own breathing, too loud, too fast, ragged in a way that makes his chest ache.
He waits.
His eyes throb beneath the bandages. A deep, pulsing pressure that makes his stomach roll. Every heartbeat feels like it echoes behind his face.
Dadâll come back.
Thatâs the thought he clings to first. Itâs simple. Solid. Familiar.
He just⌠left to get help. Thatâs all. He wouldnât leave me out here. Not like this. Not after everything.
He canât tell how long heâs been there. Minutes, hours. Time stretches weird when you canât see. Long enough for the cold to stop being sharp and start being heavy. Long enough for his arm to scream every time he shifts, the rough cast digging into his ribs.
He listens for footsteps. For a voice. For the sound of boots crunching through snow. Anything. He counts breaths instead, like he was taught to do when panic started clawing at his throat.
In.
Out.
In.
He waits longer.
Nothing happens.
The silence starts to feel wrong. Empty and all-consuming. No footsteps. No voice. No shape moving through the sound of wind.
He swallows thickly.
A thought slips in, uninvited.
Whatever purpose you had before, itâs gone.
Gator squeezes his jaw tight, like he can physically hold the memory back.
No. I just⌠I just need time. Thatâs all. I can stillâ
Still what?
The thought trails off, fraying.
He pushes himself upright on one elbow. Pain explodes through him immediately, bright and nauseating. His balance goes sideways, snow giving way beneath his boots, and he stumbles, barely catching himself before he goes down again. His heart slams hard against his ribs, breath coming too fast now, sharp and uneven. He hisses through his teeth, breath stuttering. Snow scrapes under his palm, numb fingers struggling to find purchase.
I canât just lie here.
I have to prove I'm still useful.
Thatâs the rule. Thatâs always been the rule.
Gator drags himself upright, swaying immediately. The rope tugs unpleasantly, catching against his collarbone.
For half a second, his body reacts on instinctâgoes still, waiting for the pull to come harder.
The world tilts even though thereâs nothing to see. His balance is shot. No horizon, no reference point, just the dizzy lurch of his own body misfiring.
He takes a step. Then another. Each one feels wrong, like the ground keeps shifting when it shouldnât. The open space around him is suddenly terrifying. Too much room. No walls. No edges. Nothing to anchor himself to.
I canât see. I canât see. I CAN'T SEEâ
The thought loops, loud and frantic, drowning everything else out.
He turns his head, searching for something. Any change in sound, any difference in the way the wind moves. He nearly trips when the rope catches under his heel, a sharp noise tearing out of his throat before he can stop it, and the humiliation hits sharper than the pain.
He takes another step.
The snow gives way unevenly beneath his boot and he nearly goes down again, barely catching himself. His heart slams against his ribs, panic flaring hot and fast.
His hands shoot out blindly, fingers scraping through empty air until... wood.
Solid. Rough. Real.
He gasps, chest heaving, and lunges forward, pressing himself against it. A wall. Boards. He can feel the grain beneath his palms, splinters catching at his skin. Relief crashes through him so hard it makes his knees weak.
Structure.
Okay. Okay.
Structure means direction. Means shelter. Means something he can follow.
He shuffles along it, shoulder brushing the wood, cast bumping awkwardly. Every few steps he has to stop, lean his forehead against the wall, breathe through the nausea. The bandages are damp now, sticky against his skin. Blood, probably. He canât tell. Everything smells like iron and cold and dirt.
The ground changes beneath his feet. Less snow. More packed earth. The rope catches on something, tugging hard on his throat, and he stumbles back. His hands fly out to catch himself, palms scraping against rough ground. Pain blooms, white and dizzying. He gasps, the sound tearing out of him, and curls in on himself instinctively.
Underground.
The air is different here. Still. Damp. It smells like soil and rot and something old. The space closes around him immediately, and instead of panic, he feels something like grim comfort. The walls are close enough to touch on both sides. He reaches out, fingers brushing coarse dirt, grooves where tools once dug through earth.
He presses his cheek briefly against the wall, grounding himself. The cold seeps into his skin, but the closeness helps. Keeps him from spiraling.
I can do this.
He crawls at first, then staggers to his feet again, one hand sliding along the wall as a guide. The tunnel narrows and widens unpredictably. He misjudges the distance and slams his shoulder into wood, a sharp cry ripping out of him before he can stop it.
âFUCKââ
His voice echoes strangely, swallowed too fast. The sound of it makes his chest tighten.
Everything is too loud.
And too quiet.
He leans there, forehead pressed to the wall, breathing hard.
Blood smears wet and dark against the dirt where his face touches it. He can feel it. Sticky, crusted along his cheek, his nose, his mouth. Tears leak anyway, hot and useless, slipping down skin he canât wipe clean fast enough. His nose runs. He doesnât bother trying to stop it.
Donât cry, he tells himself fiercely. It's pointless. Weak. Stupid. He gets up.
Every scrape of his boot, every ragged breath feels amplified, but thereâs nothing else. No voices. No footsteps. No one coming to get him.
His thoughts start to splinter.
Maybe I just need to wait. Dad saidâDadâ
He stops walking.
The realization hits slowly, sinking in like cold water.
He left.
Not temporarily. Not as a test. He left him here. Broken. Blind. Bleeding.
Whatever purpose you had before, itâs gone.
Purpose. Usefulness. Love.
They were always the same thing.
Loveâ
His thoughts derail.
All he can see are bruises blooming under skin. Hear the crack of knuckles. The way Roy Tillman called it discipline.
Love hurts.
The sound that escapes him is small and wrecked and nothing like the man heâs supposed to be. A wet, broken whimper. His shoulders shake, breath coming in jagged pulls that scrape his throat raw.
Can you cry without eyes?
Apparently, yeah.
He sinks down slowly, sliding until heâs crouched against the wall, fingers digging into the dirt like it might hold him together. Everything feels too loud. The rush of his blood, the rasp of his breathing, and too quiet at the same time. No voice. No footsteps. No sign of anyone else in the world.
No one is here to see it.
That thought makes it worse. And somehow⌠easier.
He curls forward, arms wrapped around himself, shoulders shaking as the sound finally tears loose. Ugly. Uncontrolled. Animal.
When it passes, because eventually it has to, heâs left hollow and trembling, breath rasping in his throat.
He wipes his face with the heel of his hand, smearing blood and tears together, and forces himself to stand.
Waiting didnât save him.
If heâs going to survive, it wonât be because someone comes back.
He turns, hand dragging along the tunnel wall again, and keeps going.
Cold air hits him first.
Open, biting, sharp enough to sting where his skin is already raw. It rushes over his face, under the bandages, down the back of his neck. Snow presses against his hands when he crawls forward, the texture wrong after dirt, slick, wet, shifting under his palms.
He drags himself out and collapses half in, half out of the opening, chest heaving.
The world feels too big again.
Sound spreads out in all directions, no walls to catch it. Wind rushes over open ground. Something scrapes nearby. Light, rhythmic. A thump. Then another. Snow being thrown, maybe. He can hear it scatter, soft and hollow.
A voice follows.
âUh⌠you okay, mister?â
It comes from somewhere ahead of him, just out of reach. Carried lightly on the wind, casual and curious.
Gator goes still.
Doesnât answer. Doesnât breathe.
âYou stuck?â
The voice moves. He hears it circle, boots scuffing through snow, quick and unbothered. Thereâs a rhythm to it. Small steps, uneven, like someone who isnât worried about slipping. Someone playing.
âWhatâs your name?â
Closer now. To his left, maybe. He turns his head slightly, trying to pin it down, but the sound keeps shifting, refusing to settle.
âJeez,â the kid adds, conversational. âDonât tell me youâre blind and mute.â
Gatorâs jaw tightens.
Another step closer. Too close.
âIâma just call ya Mole,â the kid continues, unbothered. âI mean... just look at ya. Blind. Dirty. Just came outta some hole.â
Something ugly twists in Gatorâs chest.
Mole.
Small. Burrowing. Something that lives underground. Something you donât notice until it ruins the yard.
He hates it immediately.
Hates that a stranger, a kid, has named him without asking. Hates that it fits.
What unsettles him more is the tone.
Thereâs no fear in it.
No hesitation. No sharp intake of breath. No recoil at the blood crusted on his face, the bandages, the rope dragging uselessly behind him. Kids are supposed to be afraid of men like him. Hurt men. Men who smell like iron and dirt and wrongness.
This one isnât.
The kid sounds⌠amused.
The voice dips suddenly, closer, like the kid has crouched. Gator stiffens, instinct screaming at him to create distance, and he steps back without thinkingâ
His heel catches.
The rope.
He goes down hard, breath knocked from his lungs in a sharp, humiliating sound as he hits the snow. Pain flares everywhere at once, white and dizzying, the rope jerking at his throat as it drags behind him.
âWhoaâokay, yeah, donât do that,â the kid says quickly, suddenly closer. Concern flickers through the words, but itâs still light. Still easy.
Gator grits his teeth, shoving himself up on one arm. âDonât,â he snaps hoarsely, voice rough from crying and cold and disuse. âDonât come any closer.â
The kid pauses.
Then, brightly: âOkay! I wonât. I meanâI already did. But Iâll stop now.â
Thereâs a beat.
âName's Charlie, by the way,â the kid adds, like this is a normal introduction. âYou donât gotta tell me yours if you donât want. But itâs kinda rude not to.â
Gator swallows, throat burning. âIâm not tellinâ you my name.â
âHope ya donât mind Mole then,â Charlie says easily.
Gator lets out something that might be a laugh if it didnât hurt so much. It comes out as a huff instead.
"You got a home, mister?"
"No."
âI know a place thatâs warm,â Charlie says. âGot blankets. And snacks.â
Gator scoffs weakly. âYou shouldnât be talkinâ to strangers.â
âToo late,â Charlie replies. âYou talked back. That makes us acquainted.â
Thereâs a pause. Snow crunches as Charlie rocks back on his heels.
âI can help you get there,â he adds. âBut you gotta play with me later. When youâre not, like⌠dying.â
That does it.
A real laugh breaks free this time. Short, incredulous, gone as fast as it came. He shakes his head weakly. âYouâre serious.â
âDead serious,â Charlie says with ease. âDeal?â
Gator thinks of the cold. The tunnel. The rope dragging behind him. The fact that he canât even stand on his own right now.
He doesnât have leverage.
ââŚFine,â he mutters. âDeal.â
âCool. Câmon, Mole.â
Something small brushes Gatorâs fingers. Hesitant, then firmer. A hand. Smaller than his. Warm through the cold.
Gator flinches on instinct, breath hitching.
Charlie stills. âToo much?â
Gator swallows hard. The contact feels foreign. Unwelcome and, worse, steady.
ââŚJust help me up,â he says.
The hand tightens gently around his fingers, tugging him up with surprising confidence.
When he's on his feet, Charlie doesnât take his hand.
That surprises Gator.
Instead, the kid grips the sleeve of his jacket, fingers bunching the fabric just above his elbow. Itâs careful. Intentional. Like Charlieâs decided exactly how much contact is allowed and no more.
âOkay,â Charlie says, cheerful. âStep when I step. Try not to eat snow.â
âReal helpful, kid. Next you wanna tell me the skyâs blue?â Gator mutters.
âSee, that tone right there?â Charlie replies without care. âThatâs what we call âungrateful.ââ
A pause. "And the sky's grey right now, by the way."
Gator huffs.
They start moving.
Itâs⌠bad.
The snow is uneven, drifting in places, packed hard in others. Gator canât tell where the ground changes until his foot finds it the hard way. The rope drags behind him, snagging on clumps of snow, catching under his heel once and nearly sending him down again.
He stumbles, breath hitching.
âWhoaâhey, hey,â Charlie says, tightening his grip on Gatorâs sleeve. âEasy. You walk worse than my baby cousin."
Gator grits his teeth. âWatch it.â
âI am watching it,â Charlie says airily. âYouâre the one who canât.â
That one lands.
Roy's killed for less.
He keeps going anyway, jaw locked, breath coming too fast. Every step feels like a gamble. He hates how much he has to rely on the kidâs grip, how small and steady it feels compared to the rest of him falling apart.
Charlie, meanwhile, does not shut up.
âSo,â he says, after about five seconds. âHowâd you get stuck in that hole anyway? You fall in or you live there?â
âNeither.â
âThatâs not an answer.â
âIt is if youâre askinâ.â
Charlie hums thoughtfully. Snow crunches as they move. âFair. But Iâm askinâ.â
Gator grits his teeth. âItâs called a mineshaft.â
âOhhh.â Charlie sounds impressed. âCool. Like treasure?â
âNo.â
âGold?â
âNo.â
âDead bodies?â
Gator stumbles again. âKidââ
âKidding! Kidding,â Charlie says quickly. âMostly.â
They walk a few more steps before Charlieâs curiosity inevitably finds something new.
âWhatâs this thing?â Charlie asks suddenly.
Something pokes at Gatorâs side, light but insistent.
He jerks instinctively. âDonât touch that.â
âOop. Sorry.â Charlie pulls back, then pokes again, gentler. âBut what is it?â
Gator sighs. âGun holster.â
Thereâs a beat.
ââŚWhereâs the gun?â
âNot here.â
âDid you lose it?â
âNo.â
âDid someone take it?â
Gatorâs mouth twists. âSomething like that.â
Charlie seems satisfied with this deeply vague answer. For about three seconds.
âSo what happened to your face?â
There it is.
Gatorâs steps falter. His grip tightens on the sleeve Charlieâs holding, knuckles aching. He doesnât answer.
Charlie, undeterred: âLikeâare you really blind? Or is this a pirate situation?â
Gator stops walking.
âEnough,â he snaps, voice rough. âYou ask too many questions.â
The words come out harsher than intended. Too sharp. Too close to something ugly.
Thereâs a brief silence.
Then Charlie answers again, unfazed. âOkay. Just curious.â
They start walking again.
A few steps later, Charlie adds, conversational as ever, âYou always this cranky, or is it just on days when youâre disfigured?â
... Disfigured.
The word hits sideways. It wasnât cruel on purpose. Just⌠honest.
Gatorâs breath catches before he can stop it.
He doesnât answer right away. When he does, itâs quieter. âIâm in a lotta pain.â
Charlieâs grip on his sleeve doesnât loosen. If anything, it steadies.
âOh,â he says simply. âShoulda said so sooner.â
â...Iâll kill you, kid.âÂ
Though his tone is just unserious enough that Charlie grins.
They keep walking.
Snow crunches. The rope drags. Gatorâs breathing stays uneven, but the panic ebbs, just a fraction. No oneâs yelling. No oneâs pulling. No oneâs telling him to move faster.
Charlie adjusts his pace without comment, slowing when Gator slows, stopping when he stops.
For someone who wonât shut up...
Heâs weirdly good at this.
__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__
The pole shed smells like old wood and hay and cold metal.
Charlie guides him inside carefully, the air changing immediately. Less wind, more stillness. The door creaks shut behind them, muting the outside world. Gator exhales without realizing he was holding his breath.
âOkay,â Charlie says quietly. âSit here.â
A wooden support beam presses into Gatorâs back as Charlie helps him settle against it, easing him down into the hay. It prickles through his clothes, itchy and dry, catching against skin that already feels too sensitive. He grimaces but doesnât complain.
Heâs learned when to keep quiet.
Thereâs a pause. The kind where Gator expects Charlie to bounce off and start talking again.
Instead,
âHey,â Charlie says, softer. âUh. Can I⌠can I untie you?â
The words hit harder than anything else so far.
Gatorâs throat tightens instantly. The rope is still there, a constant burn around his neck, stiff and unforgiving. He hadnât even realized how badly he wanted it gone until the option is offered.
ââŚYeah,â he manages, voice rough. âYeah. Please.â
Charlie doesnât rush.
He steps closer, movements careful, like heâs afraid of startling a wild animal. Gator feels small fingers brush his collarbone, then hesitate.
âIâm gonna be real gentle,â Charlie says. âOkay?â
Gator nods, blinking uselessly beneath the bandages.
The rope shifts. Fibers scrape against raw skin and Gator sucks in a sharp breath despite himself.
âSorry,â Charlie whispers immediately. âI got it. I got it.â
The kid keeps talking while he works, voice light but focused. âMy sis says you gotta talk to the patient so they donât freak out. She did this once for some kittens.â
âKittens,â Gator echoes faintly.
âYeah. They got caught in barbed wire by the fence. Real nasty.â Charlie pauses, fingers adjusting. âShe took âem inside and showed me how to cut around it without pulling too much. Said you gotta think about where it hurts already,â Charlie adds thoughtfully. âNot make it worse.â
Gator swallows.
âThose kittens were flea-ridden. Ya got fleas?â
Gator canât help the hoarse huff of laughter that escapes him.
âYou think Iâm kiddinâ till youâre itching all over. You got fleas, you sleep outside,â Charlie mutters with a shake of his head, though the smile in his tone betrays him.
The rope loosens a fraction at a time. Each movement sends a sting of pain through his throat.
Charlieâs hands are warm. Surprisingly steady.
âThere,â Charlie murmurs. âAlmost done.â
The rope finally gives.
It slides free, dropping uselessly into the hay with a soft, final sound.
Gatorâs breath shudders out of him, uncontrolled. He lifts a trembling hand to his neck, fingers brushing skin thatâs tender and burning and... free.
âOkay,â Charlie says gently. âAll untied.â
Gator presses his palm to his throat and laughs weakly. It comes out broken, halfway to a sob.
ââŚThanks,â he says, quietly. âKid.â
Charlie beams. Gator can hear it in his voice. âThat was a nasty bugger. Bet you feel like a million bucksâ well, minus the rest of ya.â
Charlie leaves him for a moment, footsteps retreating, then returning in short trips.
A heater is set near his feet, humming to life with a low, steady sound. Blankets are draped over his legs, then his shoulders. A pillow is shoved awkwardly under his arm.
Something crinkles as itâs placed into his hand.
âAnd snacks,â Charlie adds, placing something into Gatorâs hand. A crinkly bag.
âDo moles eat trail mix?â he asks seriously.
Gator huffs a quiet, broken laugh before he can stop himself.
Once Gatorâs settled, Charlie steps back, voice shifting into something almost authoritative. âOkay. Rules.â
âFigures,â Gator mutters.
âNo yelling,â Charlie says, counting on his fingers. "No runninâ off in the night. We have a deal. No eating the animals."
âWasnât planninâ on it,â Gator says.
âGood.â Charlie nods, satisfied. âIâll check on you later.â
Then the kid is gone, the door creaking softly as it closes again.
Silence settles in.
Gator lies there, stiff and aching, blankets too warm and hay too itchy and everything still wrong, but different. The heater hums steadily nearby. Wind rattles faintly against the shed walls.
He doesnât feel safe.
But he doesnât feel hunted either.
And finally, Gator lets his eyes stay closed.
And rests.
A/N: Hello, lovely readers! This is the first part in a new series I'm starting for Gator Tillman because I watched the new season of Fargo and boy, does this poor man deserve a better ending. Definitely eventual romance here once Charlie's sister comes into the picture that you can look forward to. I hope people will enjoy this one, definitely painful to read and write at the beginning but it will get better!
-Pocketstories <3
Acts of Service
Summary: Dana's sick at work, Cassie watches over her. Word Count: 2k a/n: who is ready for sick Dana! I am not a doctor, the medical stuff is inaccurate its fine just ignore that.
Pairing: Cassie McKay x Dana Evans tags: sickfic | Dana Evans needs a hug | protective Cassie McKay | secret relationship | established relationship cross posted to ao3
Dana and Cassie never talked outright about their relationship on shift. They were very careful to keep it professional, sticking to the firm boundaries that they had set when they realized whatever they were doing was more than just casual sex. They had filled out the HR paperwork, discussed the basics with their individual bosses, and assured everyone that their relationship would not affect their work. It hadn't and Dana was proud of that. She'd worked very hard for her reputation and intended to maintain it no matter what. So, shifts were strictly work. They didn't flirt, didn't banter, didn't go make out in closets (unlike some people).
Every so often though, if one of them was having a particularly hard shift, they would leave each other things. Little tokens of appreciation that couldn't be taken out of context or blown out of proportion. An extra pen, a coffee, a little snack, anything to show that they were thinking about the other. Finding random trinkets on her work station had become one of the highlights of Dana's day, and this one was no different.
She had woken up with a particularly bad headache and a tickle in the back of her throat both that she had chalked up to dehydration. She'd swallowed a few Advil for the headache and headed out the door as usual, mentally prepared for a rough shift. There was snow in the forecast and for whatever reason the most mundane cases always decided they needed to brave the snow to get their minor aches and pains checked out. They clogged the waiting room and made it much harder to deal with actual emergencies. Then of course they'd yell at her and her nurses for it, as if there was anything they could do for stupidity.
Nevertheless, she arrived her usual half hour early and went through shift change with Lena who made a rather unnecessary comment about her appearance.
"You alright? You look wrecked," the insult concern from her fellow charge nurse caught Dana completely by surprise. She'd rolled out of bed a little late and had less time to put herself together but she didn't think she looked that bad. She brushed it off with a glare and a gruff "i'm fine" that was taken with a raised eyebrow and slight shake of Lena's head. Handover proved to be the easiest part of the day. Somehow night shift had gotten by relatively unscathed and had moved most of their boarders up to their respective awaiting hospital beds.
Dana could only pray that the same would be the same for the day, but that prayer was quickly shattered by a GSW to the upper right chest. The man had been dumped in the ambulance bay and was brought in barely breathing. She'd jumped on the trauma with Dr. Robby and Mel, but he was too far gone. They ran the code, tried to stop the bleeding, but the bullet tore through his heart. Time of death, 7:05. Too early for dying.
The first gift of the day arrived immediately after the GSW victim. A breakfast sandwich sat perfectly wrapped, untouched, by her keyboard with a steaming cup of coffee sitting beside it. Dana really wasn't sure how Cassie knew her order but it had been right every time. Sure enough, it was perfect. Dana took a big bite of the sandwich and gulped down half of the coffee, she wasn't sure when she'd get a chance to eat again and wanted to take advantage of it while she could. That annoying scratchy feeling that she'd noticed when she first woke was still there, but it had morphed into something closer to pain. Not quite there yet, but suspicious. Something to keep an eye on.
Dana caught a flash of red hair in the corner of her eye and turned to see Cassie moving quickly through the department, determined expression her face and her favorite worn sweatshirt over her scrubs. She wasn't sure when she'd get the chance to talk to Cassie, Robby had stuck her in chairs again, but seeing the resident was enough. They'd planned to drive home together, Cassie didn't have Harrison and Dana wanted to have a nice dinner and curl up on the couch with her favorite doctor.
Unfortunately, Dana's prediction for the day had proven to be right. The waiting room was overflowing with (mostly) menial injuries, coughs that didn't actually need a doctor, illnesses that would go away if given time. Trauma after trauma flew through the doors, never giving her a break. Two STEMIs, a severe hypothermia case, several children who had consumed chemicals, and a pileup on the freeway to top it all off. Dana barely got a chance to breathe, standing in the middle of the chaos as she shouted orders and tried to keep everybody alive. Her throat was burning at this point and her muscles had begun to ache. The pounding in her head had returned in full force and much to her dismay her nose was running. She was regretting getting up at all.
The second gift came around 2PM. A few cough drops, paper cup with two Tylenol, and a bottle of cold water that had obviously just been pulled from the fridge. Great, so her illness was noticeable. It was hard to hide the hoarseness of her voice but she was hoping that could be chalked up to all of the shouting that she had been doing. If the woman who'd barely had eyes on her all day had noticed that she wasn't doing amazing it was probably clear to everyone else. Sometimes she thought the worst part about working in healthcare was that it was difficult to hide it from her coworkers.
She threw back the pills, chasing them with a small sip of water. The coolness soothed her throat for a moment, but it wasn't enough. Dana practically collapsed into her chair and pulled up her charts, popping one of the cough drops into her mouth as she typed away. She was already exhausted and still had five hours left in her shift. There was some little part of her that was encouraging her to call Lena and ask for her to take over but Dana wasn't at that point yet. She was just a little achy and tired, that was not a big deal. she could handle it.
The looks from her coworkers continued as the day went on, people getting more bold as she got obviously more run down.
She felt the fever set in around 4, the third gift followed shortly after. It was bigger than anything Cassie had left her before. Cassie's favorite sweatshirt lay draped over the back of her chair, warm looking and inviting. Dana glanced around the hub, checking to see if any of her nurses had seen. Perlah stood at her own computer clicking away, she seemed far to interested on the screen.
A shiver tore through Dana and she looked back to the sweatshirt, trying to decide if it was worth it. Their relationship wasn't exactly a closely guarded secret, but this wasn't exactly subtle. Everyone knew this was Cassie's sweatshirt, she wore it nearly every cold day, it was a staple of her wardrobe. But Dana was cold and her own thin jacket wasn't doing it anymore. If Cassie was offering it she obviously knew the risks, this was her saying that she was okay with it.
Dana pulled the heavy sweatshirt on and zipped it up, immediately feeling warmer. It smelled like Cassie, it felt like Cassie. Safe and cozy, a barrier to the outside world. She didn't miss Perlah glancing over at her or the look from Robby, but she ignored them. There was no use denying that she was sick, but she wood not be fielding questions about her relationship. She had a department to run and lives to save.
The next few hours blurred together. Dana sniffled and sneezed and blew her nose nearly constantly, her voice got weaker but she continued to shout instructions. Her throat felt like she had been force fed fiberglass and the cough drops weren't helping at all anymore. The medicine she'd taken earlier was not touching the fever but the slightly too big sweatshirt wrapped tightly around her was helping with the chill. Being wrapped in Cassie's arms would be preferred but this was a reasonable substitute.
By 6PM, Dana was wiped. She was speaking in husky whispers and congestion muddled her words. There was truly no hiding it, she was sick and miserable. Princess had all but completely taken over for her, relaying Dana's orders across the ED in a voice that everyone could hear and understand. She was incredibly tempted to go lay down in the break room and just let the other woman take over, but she know how uncomfortable Princess was taking on the job and didn't want to give her that extra stress.
If asked, Dana could not recall that last hour. She was so fully wrapped in her own illness that she had completely switched to autopilot. She went through the motions, practiced and perfect. The woman was incredibly good at her job, she didn't need to focus to be able to preform her everyday functions. Shift change was easy enough, Princess took over handoff considering her lack of voice while she took care of redistributing patients to the oncoming doctors.
"Hey D. Ready to get out of here?" The voice floated through the haze of Dana's fever, a blessed relief from the all consuming discomfort that would not let her think of anything else. She glanced over to the clock, relief settling in her stomach.
7PM. She did it. She survived. Dana sniffled and swiped her knuckles under her nose, momentarily forgetting that she was wearing Cassie's sweatshirt. She cringed at the action and pulled her hand away, looking up guiltily at the doctor.
"I'll wash it," she croaked. It didn't come out as she'd hoped, she managed the word "wash" but the rest was lost. She was regretting pushing so hard against the laryngitis, she knew that shouting through it would only make to worse. Dana hadn't intended to take a sick day over this but it was beginning to look more and more like she wouldn't get a choice.
Cassie reached across the space and pressed the back of her hand to Dana's forehead and the charge nurse didn't pull away. It was inevitable and frankly she was just glad it was Cassie's hand rather than a thermometer checking her temperature. Cassie hummed sadly and pushed a few stray blonde hairs out of Dana's eyes before withdrawing.
"Don't worry about that right now baby. Lets get you home, there's a warm bath calling your name," Cassie's expression was one of pure adoration, something that she was usually much less open with. She began to gather Dana's things, effortlessly grabbing the nurses bag and slinging it over her shoulder without a second thought. Dana watched her work with tired eyes knowing full well that she wouldn't win that argument.
"C'mon you, up," Dana pulled herself up from the chair, a dramatic groan escaping her lips as blood rushed to her head. She swayed violently and Cassie hooked an arm around her waist, pulling her tight to her side. A part of Dana told her that this was a surefire way to out them as a couple (if the sweatshirt hadn't already done that for her) but she just couldn't bring herself to care.
Dana was right, being wrapped in Cassie's arms was far better than the article of clothing. She let her head fall onto the residents shoulder, ignoring the blatant stares following the two of them out of the Emergency Department. Cassie pressed a kiss to the top of Dana's head and tossed a smile in Robby's direction. The expression on his face was enough to make Dana let out a raspy laugh that quickly morphed into a fit of heavy coughs.
"Feel better, Dana," Robby offered, giving her a kind smile. She nodded and laid her head back against Cassie's shoulder soaking in the warmth of her partner. The gifts of the day swirled through her head as they walked, Dana's weight almost fully supported by Cassie. The more she considered the more that she realized she would not have been able to make it through the day without McKay. Dana would never be able to express how grateful she was for the other woman, but when she felt better she would try.
let it out, let me in.
[lara croft x reader]
WORD COUNT: 6725
sick!fic, caretaking, fluff, a little angst
you and lara are on an expedition in the jungle⌠things donât exactly go as sheâd planned.
hello!!! my first time writing for lara<3 also first x reader fic ive written in like 10 years hahaha(im uncđ) played tr for the first time a month ago and then ate up rise and shadow in like two weeksđ shes soo sexy hehehe i need her in bed with a horrible coldâŚ. anyways⌠enjoy this lil sickfic that turned somehow into 6k words
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The one where Mira is a hopeless softy when one of her girls is sick, but Mira doesn't realize that Rumi is one of her girls until now.
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