i mean im an adult, i guess, if that’s the word for it. a lot of things i used to care about i just say “Fuck It” and let go.
but it’s incredible to me that there’s still so many passages to my soul. how just a group of teenagers looking at me and laughing makes my teeth hurt. how someone’s comment sends me back to high school bullying. how i am constantly asking myself are they even really my friends?
i don’t know. i never throw myself birthday parties because my worst nightmare would be that nobody shows. i just wonder if there’s ever a time that your last insecurities let go. i’ve only ever found that kind of freedom at the honey lips of tequila. i want to be brave at two pm on a sunday. i want to actually not care what they say. i want to be the kind of witch that laughs through the burning.
you’re on your way home from work when you get a text from your wife. you pull over to check it, the corners of your mouth dropping as you look.
“rough day. i know you had to work late but i really need a hug. i planned to surprise you with supper made but the elementary school’s baseball team was collecting change and came to the door. i gave them a fiver but forgot to keep an eye on the stove and it scorched right to the pot. i’m sorry… we have leftover pasta in the fridge, at least. it’ll be good enough.”
the drive was short, but you arrive home forty five minutes later than already expected. you ring the doorbell, and when she opens up, your wife’s exasperation softens to a weak smile when she sees the sundaes sitting on top of the piping hot pizza boxes in your hands.
I caved y’all. I tried to resist the temptation, but @zephyrine-gale ‘s crop top trend was too strong and I just *clenches fist* had to;;; so…behold: crop top with finger-less glove sleeves (my dream shirt tbh)
so anyone who’s been around me for a while knows I love sick!fic. Anyone who’s been around me for a while also knows I am indecisive terrified of writing one for whatever reason. One of my new year’s resolutions is to write a full-fledged sick!fic, so I guess - I mean - I found this. Consider this a warm-up. (thanks a LOT @andriseup)
Shiro is so miserable he barely notices when the door swooshes open; barely notices when Lance comes in.
“Hey,” Lance says. His voice is soft, but even so Shiro flinches. “Sorry, sorry. Just wanted to come check on you since you didn’t swing by for breakfast. You doing okay?”
The answer’s obvious enough Shiro doesn’t even need to try. He does anyway, peeling his eyes open just an inch. Lance is standing at the side of Shiro’s bed, staring down with gentle concern. He crouches to a better height; the movement alone sends everything spinning. Shiro squeezes his eyes back closed with an involuntary whimper.
“Oh, Shiro,” Lance whispers. “Why didn’t you call? You’re supposed to call us if it gets that bad.”
Shiro has no idea how to answer that. He shouldn’t have to. He shouldn’t still be this sick; he shouldn’t still be dependent on his friends; should be able to at least get out of bed in the fucking morning.
“Where is your comm, anyway,” Lance mutters. He shifts, searching; the sounds of his efforts fill the room as Lance brushes his hand over Shiro’s little bedside nook, the crack between the sheets and the bed frame, the floor. Shiro just lays there and listens. His head’s pounding. He’s too warm.
“Ah, here it is,” Lance says, at last. “No wonder. How’d it end up on the floor?”
Shiro doesn’t have an answer for that, either. Maybe he can get away with pretending to be asleep.
“Well, here it is for later,” Lance says, “I’m setting it on your table, okay? Now, big guy, what’s wrong? Is it your head?”
His palm carefully presses against Shiro’s forehead, under Shiro’s limp bangs. His touch is gentle, and somehow grounding - at least until Lance jerks his hand back in surprise. He presses it back almost immediately, his palm cool and kind. Shiro groans.
“You’re burning up,” Lance murmurs, mostly to himself. His frown is audible. “Why is your fever back?”
No, Shiro thinks, tries to say. The word sticks in his throat. No, don’t. I can handle this. You shouldn’t have to.
“I’m calling the others,” Lance says, softly.
“No,” Shiro groans, finally. “No, Lance…”
The words are barely a whisper.
“I’m not leaving,” Lance promises, deliberately misinterpreting. There’s a soft little click when Lance pushes down the call button on the comm. “Just getting someone else. I’m staying right here with you. I’m not going anywhere.”
Dean woke up with a splitting headache and a horrible taste in his mouth. And he was on the floor beside his bed. He had to have been out of it to fall and not wake up. He reached for his robe on the hook by the door and shuffled into the kitchen. Coffee. Needed coffee.
Sam had his tablet out, cruising for newstories that might turn into a case. He raised his eyebrow at his disheveled brother. He let him go through the motions of getting his coffee cup and pouring before he opened his mouth.
Dean grunted his response.
“You’re wearing Cas’ trenchcoat.”
“No ‘m not.”
Sam laughed. “Yeah, Dean. You are. You guys must have gotten hammered last night.”
Dean finally looked himself over then shrugged. “Guess he hung it on my robe hook.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say. Dean.”
Cas stumbled in a few minutes later. His hair was sticking up in several directions and his eyes were as bloodshot as Dean’s. He was wearing Dean’s tee shirt and boxer briefs. He sat down and Dean slid the rest of his coffee over.
“You look rough, man.” Sam assessed.
“Tequila,” he answered in his gruff voice. He downed the half cup of coffee and picked at his coat still draped around Dean. After looking him over he said, “So that’s where my underwear went.”
Sam spit the milk from his cereal across the table.