Sneak peek of gang harry part 3 (Patreon)

I've given you one before but here is an extended one! Tomorrow I'll be posting a roller rink harry check-in, which is full of all sorts of lovie dovie mush 

___________________________________________________________________________

iii.

Y/N has seen a lot of blood. 

The first time she’d seen it and had a complete understanding of what it was, she was five. There was a dense thicket just outside the garden of her grandmother’s home entangled with roses. When she was young, she enjoyed playing around it, pretending that there was a monster that hid within the bushes who ate little kids but she was the only one he liked. She had been a lonely child so the thought of something who despised other beings but her had made her feel good in a way. And part of being friends with the monster was to share snacks, only she couldn’t toss him a slice of cake like how she would potato chips or fruit snacks. 

So she took the cake, held it out to the monster, dipping her hand into the bush and the thorn of a rose dragged against her skin. She snatched her hand away with a yelp, eyes beading with tears from the sting, but Y/N becomes distracted by the small droplets of blood that pool up to the surface of her skin. It was the first time she recalled seeing it on herself and a small bead of panic dripped down her spine but it was overcome by a certain wonder. A wonder that only a kid could have about their insides, because at the time she had no clue she had broken a protective layer of skin, damaging the blood vessels. At the time, she had thought her skin was mad at her - that her body was crying. 

She touched it, found it sticky, tasted it just to see before smearing the bit that had dribbled down her hand, sliding around her knuckles. The monster had felt so terribly guilty about her wound but she promised him it was okay, that he had shown her something new that day and that was pretty darn spiffy, wasn’t it? 

As she grew older she saw it more and it had never made her squeamish. Big gashes where you can see muscle and bone kind of do her sometimes, but the blood never did. Then she became a nurse and sometimes she’ll see it every hour, it just depended on the day. She was used to it - she had been since the monster had made her privy to it. 

That didn’t mean she particularly wanted it on her couch. 

There was no time though, in the moment that Harry and Mickey showed up at her door with Mitch, pleading for her help. He needed to lay down, only halfway consciousness, and as strong as she wants to believe Harry and Mickey are, they’ve been tossed around a bit as well. So she told them to get him on the couch while she rushed to her bathroom, where she had effectively stored a ton of medical supplies that she either buys or takes from the hospital during the night shift  (which every nurse does; Janet had explained to her that they order too many supplies and “don’t pay us enough anyway, we get our digs in how we can”). She had bandages, gauze, antibiotic creams, a saline solution for cleaning it, gloves, adhesive patches and some medical tape. All of it would be too much to carry so she bundles it all in her shirt, including a few wet flannels (and some dry) so that she could clean it in the first place, and her scissors. 

Her pace is quick, ushering Harry and Mickey out of her way, “Mickey in my freezer there’s a few ice bags in the door, could you grab them for me?” He gave a curt nod and pivots on his heel towards the kitchen, “Do ya know if he’s allergic to any kind of medicine?” Harry shakes his head quickly, Y/N notes the wild look in his eye, worried and frazzled beyond belief - it was weird to see him this way. . .he was never like that, “Alright, I’ve got some extra strength Tylenol in the medicine cabinet, it’s on the left side of the microwave. Bring me that and a glass of water could you?” He jogs off into the kitchen and Y/N turns her attention to Mitch, giving a little tap to Mitch’s cheek, “Oi, Mitch, can you stay awake for me, Babe?” 

He gives a halfhearted nod, groaning as she does a quick scan over his body, noticing blood on his shirt, so she peels up the fabric and reveals a nasty cut starting near his belly button and dragged outward towards his hip. It wasn’t deep, mostly a surface wound, but it was enough to where this would take her first priority. She stuffs his shirt up, letting the things pool from where they were cupped in her shirt, snags the gloves on her hands and taking the wet cloth, cleaning the area around the cut so that she could visualize what was actually wound and what was just blood. The blood smears and watery it dribbles down his side, Harry and Mickey both arrive back in the room, so she nods towards him, “Give him two, put the peas on the table.” 

“Is there anything else we can do?” Harry asks and she bites down on her lip, worrying it between her teeth. 

“How are you too, are you good?” She asks, and she gets two hums in response, “Alright, one of you could clean around his face, get the blood out of the way with the purple cloth. Otherwise, take some pain medicine and drink some water, I’ll look over you lot when m’finished with him.” 

Harry is the one who ends up worrying over Mitch’s face, while Y/N continues on his stomach. Once she gets a clear outline of the cut, she wets another cloth with just a bit of the saline solution, “This is g’na sting, Mitch but it’ll help you in the long run, yeah? M’cleaning it.” She cleans his cut, murmuring another small apology when he groans and whines out at the pain of it. 

The rest she does diligently; spreads antibiotic ointment over it in a nice, thin layer shining under the living room light, and lays two square bandages over the cut. She dries the skin that the adhesive would be on, before taking a rectangular piece and adhering it to his skin. From his stomach she checks his legs, dragging down his pants to see if there were any abrasions on his legs, took his shoes off to check his feet, and when she found nothing she went upward. Harry had taken it upon himself to clean the blood from his knuckles and Y/N thanked him for it, before checking the swelling. After asking him if he could wiggle his fingers for her even just a little (he could), she lied  the ice package (covered in a special cloth that kept from giving him ice burn) so that it  over his knuckles. She loops the ace bandage around his knuckles, fixing the ice to his right hand which was considerably more damage. She checks his arms, has him turn over so she could check his back and other than a few nasty bruises and scrapes he was fine. For his face, she smooths antibiotic cream over the cut on his brow, put another ice packet at his eye, and checked around his head for any other potential problems and asks if he had fallen or hit his head (more of a room question than just to him). 

“Are you feeling any better?” She asks him and he nods a little, wincing as she helps him roll his shirt off of himself, “Alright, I wish I had morphine but I’ve only got Tylenol, so if the pain gets terrible again you let me know.” She tosses the cloth that she used off to the side, throwing away the trash she had from packets of antibiotic and bandage wrappers in a grocery bag she had stuffed under her couch. Peeling off her gloves, she tosses those too, before taking her plaid throw blanket and pulling it over his body. “You rest for now.”

She moves to Mickey, who is dozing off on her one-seater, his pants already off as Harry had instructed him to strip to make her life easier (which made her smile when she heard it). He just had a few scrapes but otherwise, he was fine, so she coaxed more water down his throat, asked if at any point he had gotten hit or fallen on his head and when Harry says no, she grabs another blanket. Fans it over him, and squeezes his shoulder, “Holler if you need anything.” 

Y/N locks eyes with Harry and nods her head towards the hallway as she turns off the lamps in her living room, leaving only the hazy glow of her fairy lights hung at the ceiling. Harry follows after her as she leads him to the bathroom, shutting the door with a click behind them, “Sit on the toilet for me.” She murmured and Harry followed her orders. 

“I’m so sorry Babe,” he begins as she settles some of the stuff from the living room onto the sink counter, putting her fingers beneath his chin and tilting his face up towards the light, checking out the scratch on his forehead, “You were about to fall asleep, weren’t you?” 

She hums quietly, going to the sink so that she could wash her hands, “Don’t worry about it,” she shakes her head, flicking her fingers dry, then picking up the tube of antibiotic ointment, “Are you hurt anywhere else? Did you check?” 

He nods quickly, “Just a few bruises on my legs but I couldn’t see my back and I trust Mickey to spot somethin’ as far as I can throw him.” 

“Go ahead n’strip your shirt off,” she tells him, and Harry moves to comply, tugging the shirt over his head and curling it up in his hand. Y/N takes it from his grasp and tosses it to the corner of the room because she planned on running their clothes through the washer. She has him twist his body some as she does a quick scan over his skin, touching at his costovertebral angle and asking if he was tender. When he said no, she has him turn back around and tends to the cut on his forehead. He had already gone through the trouble of washing it, so she merely has to stroke the cream over his scrape, “Tell me what happened, Pet.” 

Harry’s cheeks are flushed a rosy tinge, looking up to her - his eyes are glossy but not from tears, he only looks tired, “Mitch bumped into the bloke who’s been following you ‘round at a club and -- well Mitch had a few choice words for him and his mates before we were around. They fight dirty, Love, and it was three against one until me and Mickey came round, then it was an all-out brawl.” 

“Brawl?” Y/N squints her eyes, “But you were barely touched.” 

A triumphant grin spreads across Harry’s cheeks, “S’cos I’m good! What you don’ believe it?” 

She snorts, shaking her head as she moves down to scratch at his collarbone,  “You don’t strike me as scrappy.”

“Mighty scrappy, the lot of us are,” he explains to her, wincing just a little when her fingers touch to the cut, “Especially when someone is threatening our girl.” 

Y/N tries not to feel so squirmy and soft about it, that she had somehow been inaugurated into their pack without so much as knowing it. A warmth blooms through her, starting at the very core of her body and spindling outward, sucking her in. Our girl. Why does that make her heart skip a beat? Is it because it is coming from Harry’s mouth? How he said it so confidently; it means that she’s Harry girl too doesn’t it? 

However, while she wants to revel in the warmth of it, she still has questions, “Was -- well, did you find anything out? About why they would be following Gibson? Or following me for that matter?” 

Grimacing when she scoots over to his shoulder, he hisses at the sting, “Not much more. The most we got is them yelling somethin’ about our ‘fucker of a boss deserves to be in the hospital’ over an incredibly confusing techno remix of one of Ed Sheeran’s older songs - think it was Lego House actually.” He shrugs his shoulders, licking his dry mouth, “We’ve got a better feel for who these kinds of blokes are though, so we’ll be hiring someone to take care of it.” 

“Like a private investigator or something?” 

“Yeah, something of that nature.” He sighs, shaking his head sadly, “I’m so sorry you got mixed up in all this, Sweetheart. Even t’night, I didn’t want to bother you but there -- there was nowhere else we could go. We don’ like bloody cops, they’re corrupt in this town I’ll tell you that, and Mitch hates hospitals. Plus, there’s no way we wouldn’t get questioned with how torn up he was.”

Y/N squeezes his bicep, “It’s okay, you didn’t do it,” she takes a slip of gauze and places it over the one on his shoulder, a little rougher than the scratch on his forehead, and fits it over the wound. She cuts off four slivers of tape to secure it to his shoulder, “And m’not too fond of being the patient in hospitals either; not every nurse can be as great as me so I don’ trust them.” She teases and Harry snorts around a chuckle, patting her hip lightly. Y/N fixes the gauze to the cut and breathes a sigh, “Right then, take off your jeans then there’s a huge bloodstain on the pant leg,” she points down to it and Harry looks, seeming surprised that it existed, “You guys are staying the night here, so m’running all your clothes through the washer.” 

“You just want me outta my pants.” He jests, standing up and beginning to unbuckle his belt, the leather scraping together in soft whooshing sounds, before the clink of it hitting against his button as he pops it open and drags the zip down. Y/N pushes away the prurient thoughts that tickle her brain, swallowing thickly and attempting to keep the guise of the profession. She won’t allow herself to look below his abdomen, and above his thighs, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind if she would be looking at all, “Ya don’ have to look so nervous, Babe, I willed away a stiffy from seeing you in action about twenty or so minutes ago.” 

“God, Harry!” She all but squeaks, shaking her head, “You’re too much.” 

He snickers, following her as she opens up the door and leads them both to the washer and dryer room, where she had thrown the other’s clothes haphazardly. She runs the bloody bits of the fabric under cold water and soaks the areas with Carbona Stain Devil which worked wonders for the weird stains that she ends up with on her scrubs by the end of her shift (and when her period decides to ambush her and her poor underwear). Harry maintains an intense concentration, following her every movement as she does it and hums when he watches her cram their clothes into the washing machine, her preferred Tide used with the lavender fabric softener. “That stuff really gets blood stains out?” He questions, his voice just above a whisper and she hums her assent, cranking the knob to heavy-duty, “Well, fuck me running, where d’ya get it? I always just end up throwin’ me shit away if it gets blood on it.” 

“I order mine online but I can give you a bottle, yeah? I get it in a pack of four.” She tiptoes to the small white wire rack over the dryer, grabbing for an unopened bottle and clutching it in her hands, “I’m g’na send you with this and a few other things for your guys cuts, ‘cos I figure you lot have to work eventually and aren’t going to be spending the next week with me so I can make sure they aren’t infected. It’ll just be some stuff to redo Mitch’s cuts and some cream for you and Mickey’s scrapes and whatnot.” 

There is no response from him so she turns to see if he’s listening or to see if he’d somehow passed out silently behind her, but instead, he is standing with his arms crossed, leaning up against the wall, smiling in only his boxers. Her brows furrow, “What’re you lookin’ at?” 

“Your den mother mentality is ever-present and adorable.” 

She scoffs, “Shut up,” she nudges his non-injured shoulder but Harry winces and reaches his hand to where she pushed, with drops her into immediate panic eyes going wide, “Oh, I’m so sorry! What’s wrong? Does that shoulder hurt?”

A stupidly wide grin breaks out onto his cheeks and once she realizes that he is fucking with her, she actually does shove his shoulder harder, “Prick!” 

“Aish, Darling, I don’ think you’re legally allowed to speak to patients like that.” 

“If you’re sleeping in me bed then I can speak to you however I like.” 

“I love when you talk dirty.” 

She rolls her eyes, shimmying past him in the hallway and trying to ignore the heat that had surged to her cheeks, the blood threatening to burst from the vessels. Y/N stops by her hall closet, tiptoeing to grab a few blankets, including a floral quilt her parents had given her as a “Proud you didn’t jump off a bridge and finished nursing school” gift, that was hefty and cuddly - the only reason it was in her closet was because it was cold out and she had chosen a deep evergreen comforter to fit the season. When she stumbles just slightly backward, Harry lies a steadying hand to her hip barely a graze before she plants her feet. He takes it upon himself to push the door open to reveal her room, taking in a long, drawn inhale. 

“Spiced Apple candle?” He guesses accurately and Y/N raises her brows as she nods, leaving him to grin triumphantly, continuing on with a fake southern twang, “My sniffers are the best this side of towns ‘ver seen, ya here?” 

A snort leaves her as she begins to create a pallet on the floor, “Alright, Clodhopper, get on the bed then and get some sleep. You look like hell.” 

“M’not g’na sleep in your bed if it means you plan on sleeping on the bloody floor,” he points towards the pallet and spares him a glance, seeing that he’s shaking his head, “You opened up your home to me, I won’t take advantage of that.” 

Her brows knit, “You’re not taking advantage, you’ve had a fight because of me, and now you’re all bruised and tomorrow morning you’re going to be sore,” she points at her bed with a firm jab of her finger, “Now, you are very sweet and I appreciate you being concerned about me sleeping on the floor but for tonight, you are the patient and I am your nurse, and what I say goes. Now please, get into the bed and get some rest.” She goes back to making her pallet, a small huff at her lips, “Have half the mind to be insulted that you doubt my pallet making skills - I make the comfiest floor beds.” 

Harry raises his hand up, fist clenched but waving around loosely like he was moving a white flag, “Okay, okay,” he laments, kneeing up into her bed, “I think we oughta solve it by cuddling but --” 

“Oh, hush up and go to sleep.” 

After she settled into her floor pallet, she snuggled in her pillows that she had placed surrounding her so that she had a cradled like feel to it.  She takes a slow, deep breath, and sinks into the comfort of the many throws and pillows that she had placed among the floor for herself. Prior to her finishing up she had told Harry to shut off the lamp and after a lame joke about being scared of the dark he had done so, snuggled beneath her covers and his breathing had begun evening out. If you would have asked her, she would have said he had long since passed out from the exhaustion of the day. 

Instead, as she finally checked her phone for the last time and set it face down on the comforter she had flattened out beneath her, Harry’s voice startles her. 

“Thank you for everything tonight,” he murmured, “Goodnight Babe. Sweet Dreams.” 

When she slept that night, it was the safest she felt in a while.

                                                        .                                   .                                . 

When Y/N wakes up the following morning, she’s no longer sleeping on her nice little pallet on the floor. 

No, instead she is tucked in and snuggled in her bed, and when she raises her head, she can see the top of Harry’s curls having emerged from his blanket cocoon. 

She is too tired to fight him on it. 

                                              .                                 .                                .

“Well, if it isn’t the absolute light of my life.” 

“It’s too early in the morning for you.” 

Y/N pouted her mouth, wheeling the patient monitor cart into Gibson’s room at the very tender hour of six in the morning, fully prepared to be cussed out for waking him instead of letting him sleep through her poking and prodding as she normally does. However, the physical therapist wanted to meet with him at seven and requested his muscles be warmed up prior to their visit. This meant two swift knocks and kicking the overhead light on (subsequently blinding the both of them) before greeting him with a cheery, “‘Helllllllloooooo!’ that made him grunt in response almost immediately. 

“Don’t be grumpy with me, Gibby,” she uses one finger to raise his bed while her other hand curls around the thermometer, slipping it under his tongue once he parts his lips, “It’s December now, s’too close to Christmas! Unless you’re telling me you're a Grinch.” 

The thermometer beeps three times and she draws it from his mouth - a healthy 98.3°F that she jots down on a sheet of paper - and he clears his throat, motioning for his water jug, “I’ve had no use for Christmas since my kids grew up. Just a time of year where s’too bloody hard to get through a supermarket.” 

“You’re forgetting all the fun things that come along with that!” She straps the blood pressure cuff around his right bicep, and the pulse oximeter on his left index finger, attempting to be brisk, “I’m talking presents Gibson - you’re in the hospital, it’s your chance to clean up on ‘em - ask for anything you want, and you’ll get it,” she leans against the bed, taking the jug from him when he’d taken three big gulps, some trickled down the corner of his mouth, “This one guy was in here about two years ago, had been asking for an in-home theatre for ten years ‘cos they had the space for it but his wife always shut him down. They find out he’ll be in the hospital recovering from a hip repair during the holidays, and guest what he was waiting for him to come home?” 

Gibson’s brows raise, “The theatre, m’guessing.” 

“Equip with a popcorn maker and his own coke machine - the one that has all them different flavors.” 

“Bloody hell,” he shuffles a bit on the mattress, “Tha’s not happenin’ for me, Babe. My wife left me years ago and my sons. . .well, they’re never around unless they need money. S’best not to expect anything and then m’not disappointed with the results.” 

Y/N frowns, tearing the cuff from around his arm and kissing her teeth soundly, “When was your last good Christmas then?” 

Gibson doesn’t spare a moment to respond, “2007, I spent Christmas in Paris with my brother and his family,” he looked off, gaze glazed over in memory of it, “We had Boeuf bourguignon, Gratin Dauphinois

and a chocolate soufflé for dessert. After the kids went to bed, we bar hopped, and I met the most beautiful French woman who. . .well, I won’t go too deep into what we did but know that it was my best Christmas.” He sighs sentimentally, “M’not getting that back though, so m’not gonna worry about it -- I do have something I want to speak with you about it.” She hums, encouraging him to continue, making a mental note of his story and wondering how she could recreate Paris in a hospital room if he were unable to go home by Christmas. 

He shoves himself up a little, wincing some as he straightens himself out, “I heard that you took care of my boys the other night and I wanted to thank you for it; my boys adore ya and are mighty grateful -- I’m grateful as well.” A sneeze overcomes him, racking through his body and Y/N hands him a tissue, feeling her cheeks heat up, “And I’m not one to get sappy, so don’ expect me to ever say it again, but you’re the best nurse I’ve ever encountered and I appreciate you more than you know.” 

A grin burns her cheeks from how wide they’ve spread around it, and she reaches down to where he has his hand outstretched towards her, squeezing it tight, “Thank you, Gibson - I’m flattered. If any of you need anything. . .anything at all, you just let me know, yeah? And I’ll do whatever is within my scope of practice to help.” 

Gibson snorted, rolled his eyes and squeezed her hand in return, “Be careful saying that aloud ‘round Harry, the boy might ask for your heart.” 

Y/N wonders if he means literally or figuratively, and she finds herself hoping for the latter. 

                                               .                                   .                               .

Harry may go mad. 

One would think that perhaps it would be the extended time in the hospital - he had heard of something once in which a patient could develop a form of psychosis from a prolonged stay, though he isn’t sure the same goes for someone who just visits often. Harry would have thought that maybe the lack of sleep and the additional stress of their current situation is what is throwing him off. His mum and Nan would collectively suggest that he wasn’t incorporating enough veggies in his diet and that’s why he felt so ditzy. 

Yet, the answer was both much more simple and somehow much more convoluted than all of those things. 

It was a sweet, gentle handed nurse that had infiltrated his mind, taking root in his brain like the matter was soft, fertile soil. Every moment he was given time to think, the sparkly-eyed gaze that looked upon Gibson’s empire chandelier is what haunts him. Echoes of her silvery voice explaining the inner workings of the body or so adamantly denying just how impressive she is, bounce from edge to edge of his skull. 

Harry is not one who gets attached easily and that has always been a beneficial attribute regarding his line of work. Getting close to people means placing them in a direct line of danger, in order to keep them from that danger he must lie to them relentlessly, dodge questions concerning where he goes for long periods of time, why there is such a strong camaraderie between he and his coworkers, or why he sometimes comes home with new scratches and scrapes that had not been there prior. If he really needed to get his rocks off, he would go out for a quick fuck, enjoy himself for a night, and flee before morning. There were no kisses, no cuddles. . .no sinking into their pillows and blankets to engross himself in their scent - like rose petals and strawberry. 

Y/N was all-encompassing, took him by the roots of his hair and drug him to her wherever she might be. Whether it be the way she gets all shy and nervous when he’s flirty, or the spitfire way she’ll snap at him if she deems it necessary, or even the way she’ll spring into action and work diligently whatever the situation calls for - it has him in a mess. He is all sorts of mixed up, his brain and heart’s connection is muddled in the clutter of feelings that had sprung forth. 

And he would still be denying these sprouted feelings, had she not been so willing to aid them when they needed it. If he himself had not experienced the care put forth in her work firsthand, bandaging him, treating him like he was delicate porcelain, giving up her bed so that he had someplace soft to sleep (though he did end up switching them out once he was certain she was asleep). He was careless in the pet names he’d used, which at one point had merely been to tease her and watch her squirm, but now we're being used as a genuine form of endearment. For fuck sake, he’d said ‘our girl’ in reference to her, inferring that she had managed to unknowingly induct herself into their pack. It was bloody ridiculous, really - they had all begun to treat her as they did the wives and husbands, Harry included, who had been quite loud about how smitten he was without even having to go forth and say it aloud. Everybody knew how he felt for her before he even did. 

Including Gibson.