MCR fic
Title: Dead! 1/???
Author: evil_authoress/dropkick_grace
Words: 661
Fandom: My Chemical Romance
Rating: R
Warning: Death, hospitals; if this goes anywhere, gore, violence, swearing, Hell, and probably all sorts of crazy nonsense.
Summary: Bethy: i want a fic where mikey is The Patient. i mean TBP!Patient. Someone go write that, I call not it!
My brain: SURE OK.
The first thing Mikey noticed when he woke up was his own hand.
Rather, that he could see right through his own hand.
He sat up in a hurry and then braced for the coughing fit he knew he'd just
brought on - nothing. His breathing was as normal as ever - relaxed, even.
He could smell the faint sharpness of hospital clean, but it seemed more
like a memory than anything coming in his nose.
Mikey turned, already forming a question to Gerard about what the fuck
was going on, when he caught his reflection in the metal tray that held his
thirty bazillion (read: four) types of pills.
His skin was pink and flush, and full in the cheeks where there had been
little more than skin-veiled tissue just this morning. And he had hair. Not a
lot of hair - he hadn't spontaneously grown a mullet, for which he was
distantly thankful - but it was the first time since January he couldn't see
his own scalp.
This was bad. Well, it was good, okay, in the sense that he wasn't sick.
It was bad in the sense that he wasn't sick because he was dead.
He flew out of the bed like his gown was on fire when he realized that, in
the shock of finding his hand translucent, he had managed to sit halfway
up out of himself - his body, or what had once been. There was something
just not right about peeling away from your own body like a jumpsuit you'd
been wearing all day, and he found that more disturbing than staring at it
from afar. More than a foot away, it seemed more like a macabre
nightmare. Mikey found it hard to believe he'd really ever looked that bad,
then remembered that he was dead, and no one looked their best then.
The delirium was beginning to wear off when Mikey realized that Gerard
was asleep in that same plastic chair he'd been glued to since Saturday.
Since he'd woken up with the feeling that this was the last week, when he
told Gerard he was going to need some help to send a letter to Pete and
he was going to need a -lot- of paper. Mikey felt panic punch him in the
gut - he thought about trying to climb back in, to give Gerard a chance to
say goodbye properly, but something about that felt wrong and he stood in
the middle of the room at a complete loss.
Gerard was beginning to stir, and Mikey scrambled for an idea, anything.
He realized the yellow memo tablet - he'd sent out all his last letters on it -
still had one sheet left. He grabbed the pen, thankful that it didn't clatter to
the floor, and scrawled something without even thinking. The only thing
that was on his mind.
Out in the hallway, something caught his eye, beyond the nurses who had
started to pour in. He looked kind of like Gerard, actually, if he squinted
hard enough, but his face was sharper, leaner, and his hair was so shock
white he'd almost mistaken him for bald. He was wearing a uniform, sharp
and pressed, that looked like the ones he'd seen the marching band wear
in high school.
"You're right on time, Mikey," said the figure, and pointed toward the
elevator. "There's a crowd downstairs for you."
"Wha--" Before he could even ponder what the hell that meant, the room
sunk beneath him and he saw everything spin, saw Gerard shake the place
he'd once lived with such fervor that his phantom nerves actually felt it,
and then saw nothing else.
A nurse noticed the folded, crumpled note that skittered underneath her
foot, saw the hastily scrawled "to my brother" on the crease, and handed
it to the distraught young man who had pressed himself into the corner to sob.
"G -
Live well. I love you.
Mikey"
Author: evil_authoress/dropkick_grace
Words: 661
Fandom: My Chemical Romance
Rating: R
Warning: Death, hospitals; if this goes anywhere, gore, violence, swearing, Hell, and probably all sorts of crazy nonsense.
Summary: Bethy: i want a fic where mikey is The Patient. i mean TBP!Patient. Someone go write that, I call not it!
My brain: SURE OK.
The first thing Mikey noticed when he woke up was his own hand.
Rather, that he could see right through his own hand.
He sat up in a hurry and then braced for the coughing fit he knew he'd just
brought on - nothing. His breathing was as normal as ever - relaxed, even.
He could smell the faint sharpness of hospital clean, but it seemed more
like a memory than anything coming in his nose.
Mikey turned, already forming a question to Gerard about what the fuck
was going on, when he caught his reflection in the metal tray that held his
thirty bazillion (read: four) types of pills.
His skin was pink and flush, and full in the cheeks where there had been
little more than skin-veiled tissue just this morning. And he had hair. Not a
lot of hair - he hadn't spontaneously grown a mullet, for which he was
distantly thankful - but it was the first time since January he couldn't see
his own scalp.
This was bad. Well, it was good, okay, in the sense that he wasn't sick.
It was bad in the sense that he wasn't sick because he was dead.
He flew out of the bed like his gown was on fire when he realized that, in
the shock of finding his hand translucent, he had managed to sit halfway
up out of himself - his body, or what had once been. There was something
just not right about peeling away from your own body like a jumpsuit you'd
been wearing all day, and he found that more disturbing than staring at it
from afar. More than a foot away, it seemed more like a macabre
nightmare. Mikey found it hard to believe he'd really ever looked that bad,
then remembered that he was dead, and no one looked their best then.
The delirium was beginning to wear off when Mikey realized that Gerard
was asleep in that same plastic chair he'd been glued to since Saturday.
Since he'd woken up with the feeling that this was the last week, when he
told Gerard he was going to need some help to send a letter to Pete and
he was going to need a -lot- of paper. Mikey felt panic punch him in the
gut - he thought about trying to climb back in, to give Gerard a chance to
say goodbye properly, but something about that felt wrong and he stood in
the middle of the room at a complete loss.
Gerard was beginning to stir, and Mikey scrambled for an idea, anything.
He realized the yellow memo tablet - he'd sent out all his last letters on it -
still had one sheet left. He grabbed the pen, thankful that it didn't clatter to
the floor, and scrawled something without even thinking. The only thing
that was on his mind.
Out in the hallway, something caught his eye, beyond the nurses who had
started to pour in. He looked kind of like Gerard, actually, if he squinted
hard enough, but his face was sharper, leaner, and his hair was so shock
white he'd almost mistaken him for bald. He was wearing a uniform, sharp
and pressed, that looked like the ones he'd seen the marching band wear
in high school.
"You're right on time, Mikey," said the figure, and pointed toward the
elevator. "There's a crowd downstairs for you."
"Wha--" Before he could even ponder what the hell that meant, the room
sunk beneath him and he saw everything spin, saw Gerard shake the place
he'd once lived with such fervor that his phantom nerves actually felt it,
and then saw nothing else.
A nurse noticed the folded, crumpled note that skittered underneath her
foot, saw the hastily scrawled "to my brother" on the crease, and handed
it to the distraught young man who had pressed himself into the corner to sob.
"G -
Live well. I love you.
Mikey"