still-in-recovery

5

Small story behind this!

This comic idea came to me when I thought that Genji would find troublesome walking in public again, not feeling like his old self anymore. They all struggled and tried to convince him to go out, but found himself one day taken downtown by Mercy, who needed an extra hand to help her with some grocery shopping. She used as excuse the fact that many of those at the base were either resting after missions, away in missions or just home, enjoying some free days. (everyone needs to relax once in a while XD) Genji always appreciated her care for him, how much time she always spent making sure he did his daily exercises during the recovery period (McCree also helped, and Gabe whenever he had time to spare), and of course the very fact that she made him “exist” again, so he couldn’t refuse her small wish, even if this meant going outside the base. (he was still fresh after recovery.. no missions or such things yet)

—-

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 

I like large hoodies! One of my weak points XD

Made this one quick, before leaving work.

suicide is hard to deal with

I’m sorry, if I am disconnected and insensitive for the next few days it is because I am trying to cope, I still am in a recovery process and still feel sick to my fucking stomach.

17 days post op with Dr. Raphael.

I’m still a little swollen along the incisions, but otherwise it’s healing well. I’m not in any pain, just feel a little tight still.

The mental challenges of recovery is starting to kick in. I am itching to get back into the gym, since it’s such a big part of my daily life.

anonymous asked:

msr 16 or 148?

Dear anon, I ended up using both! It also got long… I’ve been informed the “read more” doesn’t work on mobile so sorry for the insanely long post

16. “I’ll kick his ass if you want me to.” 148. “Why do you only kiss me when I’m sleeping?”

The first time happens after Donnie Pfaster.

Scully tells Mulder to take her home, please, and without a word he leads her away from the scene, away from the horrors. In the car, he watches her carefully at every turn he makes. They arrive at the motel in silence and she knows this isn’t home, and she knows they won’t get to go home tonight, but she lets him take him inside his room.

“You can have the bed. I'll…” He never finishes his sentence; not that Scully is listening to him anyway. She curls on the bed, tries to make herself so small, so tiny that no one can ever find her here. She winces when the abrasion on her chin comes in contact with the oh so soft pillow. Her eyes close, but the tears find a way through, tainting the white pillowcase.

“Scully, I know you don’t want - how about you take a shower? Maybe I could have a doctor come here and-

“No. Not tonight, Mulder. I promise I’ll get checked out tomorrow. I promise. I’m fine.” She doesn’t lift her head, refuses to look at him; she is done with him pitying her. All she wants now, all she needs, is sleep.

“Shower?” His voice is closer now, but she can’t tell where he is; he is close, and she wants him to be close, as long as she doesn’t have to look directly at him. With her eyes closed, she can almost feel his arms around her still. His hands on her, just holding her to him, being there for her. But he wasn’t there before. Before. The water. In the bathtub.

“No shower.”

“All right.” His voice is a soft sound; so gentle that she is not sure she’s still awake. Silence fills the room and she listens to her own heartbeat, strong and certain; it’s everything she doesn’t feel right now. There’s another sound chiming in; Mulder. A soft rustling tells her that he’s trying to get comfortable somewhere around here. She is not going to ask him to join her in bed. Not this time. So she listens to his tiny noises creating a lullaby that rocks her gently into sleep.

The dream explodes in vivid colors, blinding her, gagging her.

“Breathe, Scully.”

The words reach her, somewhere, but she can’t get away. She’s running, she’s trying, but the hands are around her throat; they’re grabbing at her, closing in around her throat, choking her, and she can’t even scream.

“Just breathe.”

She takes a deep breath and the hands disappear. Her feet stop moving; no more running. Half-conscious, Scully realizes this is a dream. None of this is real. Not the hands around her throat, not the voice. Mulder, she thinks. Even in my dreams, he is right here by my side.

“That’s right, Scully. Just keep breathing.” The voice sounds so real that she almost wonders. Almost. She feels soft warm lips on her cheek, gently kissing her, and she breathes. She just breathes in and out. The lips descend again, on her lips this time, and now she knows this has to be a dream. It has to be.

“Just keep breathing. I’ll be here.”

When it happens again, Scully has already convinced herself that the first time was a dream. The days after the Donnie Pfaster case are hazy at best and the memory of him, of what happened or didn’t happen, in the motel room are pushed aside when Melissa is killed.

Scully wants to go home, just go home, and they won’t let her. Her apartment is still a crime scene. But she can’t face her mother, who pleads with her daughter to leave her alone, please Dana, and Mulder won’t let her go to a hotel. Alone. Without a word she sits in his car and when he gets in it, he stares at her. No words leave his mouth as his eyes plead with her loudly to please, please look at him. She doesn’t.

The car makes a clicking noise, sounds as tired as Scully feels. Any other day she might have told him to have it checked out. Not tonight. Tonight there is nothing to say. Mulder’s hand lands on the small of her back, some things refusing to ever be affected by tragedy, and leads her down the hall to his apartment. She slips through the door before him and settles herself on his couch. The leather, smelling of him, feels familiar and she closes her eyes briefly, taking a deep breath.

Mulder lingers between the rooms for a moment, decides to leave the lights off, and finally joins her on the couch.

“You should have let me go to a hotel,” Scully says and her voice sounds hollow, “There’s no space for two people here.”

“You take the couch,” Mulder gets up again, takes off his jacket, and sits at his desk, “I’m not tired.”

“Mulder, you’re still in recovery and-”

“No, Scully. I’m fine,” he almost spits the words out and she startles, “You take the couch, you sleep. I’ll be fine. I have a bedroom, you know.” She doesn’t know and in the dim light, she can’t tell if he’s lying. He probably is and maybe she should care. She just doesn’t.

Scully takes the neatly folded blanket from the back of the couch and wraps it around her. She turns away from Mulder, facing the wall, but feels him all around her. He’s in the leather, in the blanket and he’s keeping her safe; despite her not wanting him to. Scully closes her eyes tentatively; what is she going to see there in the darkness of her own thoughts? But it’s just blackness, so she leaves them shut and waits for sleep to take her.

When they were little girls Melissa taught her to even out her breathing so it seemed like she was asleep when she wasn’t. Back then it came in handy when their parents checked on them late at night. They’d pretend to be asleep and as soon as the air was clear, they could go back to whispering secrets or reading. As they grew older, Melissa stopped doing it. Instead, she would stare their parents straight in the eye, explaining that she was old enough to stay up. Little Dana was never brave enough.

And she isn’t brave enough today either.

She evens out her breath, tears falling silently, remembering a sister she will never see again. Mulder’s chair squeaks and then nothing; afraid he might have woken her up again, he waits. Scully wills herself to keep breathing deeply. It works. She feels Mulder move, and then he’s there. Leaning over her. She can do this, she reminds herself. If he knows that she’s only pretending, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he tightens the blanket around her. He still hovers over her, as if trying to decide on something. Then he leans down, kisses her temple, her nose and finally his lips graze hers. There’s a faint memory; how can she remember the feel of his mouth when he’s never kissed her before? Just as quickly, he is gone again. In the distance a door clicks.

There’s no way she can pretend this is just a dream.

They never talk about it, of course. Both have signed this unwritten agreement that prevents them from mentioning any of this. Lingering hugs are shoved aside just like almost kisses; just a spur of the moment thing. Nothing to see here, no, this never happened.  

Mulder visits her in the hospital after she points a gun on him, thinking he was in cohorts with the Cancerman. It’s long after visiting hours, but to Mulder that’s no reason to stay away. Scully wakes almost, expecting a nurse, but her eyes immediately close again when she sees him. He stands next to her and gently brushes a strand of stray hair away. Scully knows she should say something, stop this. But the truth is she craves his kiss; craves his touch on her. The moment stretches on and on and on. Scully feels sleep tug at her heavily and finally it wins out, captures her. She dreams of Mulder kissing her softly. In the morning she can’t recall if he ever did, or if he just made sure she was safe.

Scully slips in and out of sleep without control, without any agenda. Her body fights the aggressive invader and it is getting weaker, the illness taking the upper hand. She doesn’t expect Mulder to be in her room in the middle of the night. Crying. He’s crying and her heart, what is left of it, is breaking for him. With him. Scully wants to take his hand in hers and tell him it will be all right. There is no strength left in her and she falls asleep to the sound of his quiet, lonely sobs. She knows he kisses her; she feels it in her soul, feels how it kindles her flame. Even if only for a short moment.

Mulder kisses her cheek one night when she falls asleep on his couch after her vacation to Maine. Alone. Not a vacation either. She’s exhausted, but she’s missed Mulder (she doesn’t tell him that) and she so she lets him order take out. He tells her about possessed dolls and how he can find books about this phenomenon if she’s interested. All she’s interested in right now is being here with him, close to him. His words follow her into her dream for a while before it all gets quiet.

“I missed you.” Dream or reality. A kiss on the cheek. One day, she knows, this will have to end. Not tonight, though, as sleep carries her away again.

Mulder kisses her neck when they’re stuck sharing a bed in Kroner, Kansas. They’re posing as a married couple in Arcadia, California and Mulder sneaks into her bedroom, kissing her knuckles; caressing them one by one with his lips. By the time Christmas comes around, she thinks they might be ready. She thinks this might be it. They almost kill each other, so maybe not. Not quite yet.

It happens in New York.

She should be dead. People keep telling her that she should not be alive and she nods, staring into the other direction. The implications too heavy to face here, now. Mulder flies out to visit her (another reminder how close she’s gotten, once again) and hardly ever leaves her bedside.

“I’ll kick his ass if you want me to.” They’re sharing her jello, because Mulder looks like he hasn’t eaten (or slept) in days and Scully is beginning to get sick of it already.

“I can kick his ass myself, thank you.”

“Not right now you can’t. I’ll do it, Scully. Just say the word.”

He calls her mother for her, explains everything. When she wakes up he’s staring at her, his eyes heavy with worry, but also with love. She smiles back at him, silently thanking him for being there. For doing it all for her.

He makes his move the third night she’s there. The nurses are well acquainted with him now; they know they can tell him to leave, but he’ll be back as soon as they turn their backs on him. So they no longer try and just greet him, smile even. Mulder is, after all, quite charming if he wants to be. Scully, too, is used to him being there day and night. She tells him to get some sleep from time to time, just leave her alone for a while, but he is adamant about staying.

“You only get into trouble when I’m not around.”

It’s late when Scully feels tiredness wash over her. She yawns and Mulder looks up from the book he’s reading.

“Do you want me to turn off the lights?”

“No, I don’t mind. Good night, Mulder.”

“Good night, Scully.”

For a while, he reads. Scully hears him turn pages every once in a while. She’s tired, but she just can’t sleep. She’s never been a good patient, and all she wants is to go home and sleep in her own bed. Her thoughts distract her for a moment. The book is closed softly and something about this feels different than all the other times. Mulder appears beside her, his body radiating warmth, and when he leans down she can smell his scent. So much Mulder. He kisses her eyelids softly and then brushes her lips. She almost responds; almost opens her mouth to him. But before she can react at all, he is leaving again, and this time it’s not enough.

“Why do you only kiss me when I’m sleeping?”

She hears his sharp intake of breath. Scully sits up and bed and watches him, frozen to the spot at the end of her bed. His shoulders slump and he shoots her a lopsided grin that turns into a sad smile.

“You never let me take care of you when you’re awake.”

“You never asked.”

“Are you sure, Scully? All those times you threw your ‘I’m fine’ line at me. I know you don’t want me to see you as weak. Scully, I’ve never considered you weak. Not once. And I never will. You’re the strongest person I know. I just wish sometimes… that you’d let me be there for you. I never planned to kiss you like this. Wait, you knew about this?”

“I might have been awake once or twice.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Mulder sits down on her bed carefully. She takes her hand in his, feeling confident now.

“I didn’t want you to stop.” She admits, her eyes meeting his.

“So we could have been doing this for real?” His grin is back and now she’s wearing a matching one.

“There’s still time.”

“Scully, can I kiss you?”

“You never asked before.” She tells him, leaning forward slightly and taking the decision from him. She knows the feeling of his soft lips already; it’s nothing compared to the feel of his tongue sliding into her mouth, meeting hers for the first time.

If this is a dream, she doesn’t want to wake up ever again.

nerdyholler  asked:

For the intimacy prompts: ♖: Having their hair washed by the other, Shakarian or Kandros x Ryder, your choice.

[[Because my own mind is trash, my immediate thought was a post ME3 fic, so I could have that much more pain in there.]]

“Garrus, I can wash my own hair.” Shepard pushed herself up from the wheelchair where she was still spending at least several hours a day, legs wobbling beneath her. No. She could do this. She could stand and walk the few steps it would take to get to the Normandy’s shower, just like she could somehow convince her bruised and broken body to let her remove her own clothing, just like she could convince a broken hand and several broken fingers to lather her hair and let it wash out the drain. The Normandy. Home. She was home, not in the hospital, and she wanted to feel human again.  

Her left leg buckled and Shepard started to go down, Garrus catching her elbow and propping her up, not saying anything, just being there, something to lean against. He was like a wall, but warmer, more comfortable. “Shepard.” A single word to break the silence of her shaking steps, but that was all he needed.  

Garrus undressed her slowly, movements careful and not sensual. “I’m not going to break,” Shepard said irritably, though she had to secretly confess to herself that it was a relief that his hands didn’t brush her numerous cuts and wounds with too much force. It helped that she was not yet at the point where she could wear most normal clothes, relying on a tunic someone had helpfully sewn the N7 insignia onto, as if this could make her feel better.  

He undressed himself next, more out of practicality than for anything else; there was no need for Garrus to get his clothing completely soaked in the process. Shaking off all his offers of help, Shepard walked herself to her private bathroom, leaning against the wall when she had finally got there, flicking on the water as hot as it would go and hissing as it stung every inch of her body even as it relaxed her muscles. One day she wouldn’t be in pain, but the road to recovery was still almost endless; she couldn’t see where it might take her. Chakwas had wanted to put a seat and a bar in the shower, but Shepard had stopped the doctor there. There were already so many reminders of what that last battle had done to her battered body. She didn’t need one more, even if it meant that every shower was a physically taxing experience. 

Garrus came in behind her silently, letting the water hit him and sighing slightly. “Too hot for you?” she teased, trying to disguise how much she was relying on the tiled wall to hold herself up.  

“Hardly, Shepard. Here.” He took the shampoo, reaching around her easily. It was a bottle Shepard hadn’t seen before- someone had been into her space, tried to make things comfortable, and she strongly suspected the culprit was standing right behind her. A scent reminiscent of the sea filled the small space- something salty, underlaid with something sweeter. It reminded her, with an unexpected pang, of Thane and Mordin, the people she’d lost so recently.  

“Can I?” The shampoo pooled awkwardly in Garrus’ hand, and Shepard nodded, stepping slightly out of the spray so he could gently lather her hair, his claws providing an unexpected scalp massage as he worked it through, not getting ideal coverage but at least trying his best. She found herself relaxing even more, leaning slightly against Garrus.  

Even though she was still standing, Shepard was still so tired. They told her that was part of recovery- resting and sleeping were the best thing she could do for her body, but also the hardest thing for her to do. Something about sitting still felt so unnatural, but you could only come back from the dead so many times before you realized listening to your ship’s doctor might be the best course of action. “You’re pretty bad at this, Garrus,” she said, water punctuating her words.  

He grunted in affirmation, helping her rinse out her hair, supporting her as the water rolled down her face, cleansing as anything could have ever been. Her bandages would have to be changed after this, an act of intimacy with which they were both already far too familiar.  

“Shepard, you want to go on that vacation after this? You, me, the beach, those drinks with little umbrellas in them.”  

“I don’t think my body is swimsuit ready, Garrus.” It might never be. She was lucky she could even walk, but gratitude was hard to find.  

“Looks pretty good to me, Shepard.” He teased the back of her neck with a kiss to punctuate her point and she swatted at him, too tired to do much else but lean into him again. If she never had to get out of the shower again, that would be great.  

Rinse, lather, repeat. If Garrus had learned one thing from watching too many vids, it was that. The shampoo was cool on the top of her head, a fresh wash of the sea filling their small space again. “To hell with it. We both deserve a vacation. You find a planet and I’m there.” His hands were playing with her hair still, trying to braid it but not doing much other than tangle it hopelessly. It was good he couldn’t see the smile she was hiding incredibly poorly.  

“I already have a place in mind. Miles of white sand and not a single Reaper in sight.” Now Shepard turned to look at Garrus, putting her arms around him gratefully.  

“What would I do without you, Garrus?” He had been with her since she first woke up, was with her still for every part of recovery. People in her life came and went, but Garrus stayed, her only constant.  

“Have really dirty hair, Shepard.”