crazy little thing called love || ghost boys x fem reader

13 || rushed visit

      The morning after Texas Chainsaw Massacre with Robin was drowsy waking and eating what might've been the biggest bowl of cereal you'd ever had.

You weren't sure why you were so tired, all you knew was that you woke up with a pounding headache and couldn't shake the feeling of being half-asleep, so you decided to eat instead.

Then, of course, you found yourself hungrier than you'd been in a while and ate a large bowl of cereal. After finishing it you put it in the sink, splashing water on your face in hopes of waking yourself up. It didn't do much.

You headed to the living room, acknowledging the note saying your dad left early for work, and laid down on the couch, turning on a show you didn't recognize and felt yourself drifting back to sleep.

That was, until a loud knock forced you up.

You stood, rubbing your eyes and yawning, and headed towards the front door. You checked yourself in a mirror you passed by, flattening your hair quickly, and opened the door.

Vance stood there, black eye faded but newer scratches plastered across his face and arms, his arm wrapped around his waist so you could just barely see the red staining his white shirt. He refused to look at you, instead muttering a "you gonna help me or what?" and walking inside your house.

"Vance," you started, closing the door and staring in surprise, "what the hell happened to you?"

——

You couldn't get a response out of Vance, so you took him upstairs to the bathroom instead. He muttered things about your house that you couldn't make out, and you pulled a first-aid kit out of your cabinet and made him lean against the sink.

With his back to the sink and you leaning up, applying some kind of anti-infection liquid to his marks, you tried to avoid his hard stare. He didn't seem to hold back from staring at you, watching you closely while you worked.

"You gonna stare, or are you finally gonna tell me why you're all beaten up?" You finally asked, pulling away from his face to clean up the few cuts on his arms. He scoffed, hand coming up to run through his hair.

"None of your business. Just... clean it up and don't ask questions."

You shot a glare at him. "You really gonna say that when I'm helping you so you don't bleed to death?" You questioned, eyeing the dark red seeping through his shirt. He looked away and muttered a sorry.

You smiled, going back to cleaning what was on his arms. Finally, you looked up at him.

"So, uh... can you lift your shirt?" You asked, embarrassed, cheeks pink. He didn't look at you, grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it up to just under his chest so you could see the damage.

It wasn't as bad as you expected, but it was still bad— it wouldn't need stitches, but it would need time to heal. (You also avoided staring, because there was no way you would let him mock you for that.)

You kept your gaze on the cut, quickly cleaning and wrapping it. You felt him flinch a few times, hearing his deep breaths.

Finally, you tied the gauze to the best of your ability and leaned back, admiring your work. It would need to be reapplied at least once, you figured, and looked up at him with a smile.

"Stop by in a week or something and I'll redo it. Oh— and I'll give you one of my dads shirts or something, so you don't have to wear that blood-soaked one." You didn't wait for a response, turning and leaving the bathroom to root through your dads clothes to find an old shirt he never wore.

You finally found one, a worn down The Beatles t-shirt, and you left to give it to Vance. You were confused to not find him in the bathroom, but turned and saw him looking around your room.

He stared at your nightstand, looking at your journal and several other objects scattered around on it. When he heard you walk inside the room he looked up, then down at the shirt, then back at you.

"The Beatles? You fuckin' kidding me?"

You rolled your eyes, tossing it to him. "Its this or that stained piece of shit you usually wear. Make your decision."

He scoffed, and as you turned to your dresser to find your outfit for the baseball game— should you be cheering for Bruce or Finney's team?— you were surprised to hear Vance changing his shirt right behind you.

It was confirmed when you saw his back in the mirror in front of you.

You definitely totally did not eye him the whole time he switched the shirts.

Pulling out a simple outfit, you turned when he had finished changing and raised a brow. The shirt was a little big, yes, but it still fit well enough to shape his body nicely.

He refused to look at you, instead looking at the clothes in your arms with a furrowed brow.

"Where the hell are you goin'?" He asked, picking up his denim jacket off your bed and clutching it tightly at his side.

"The baseball game. A friend of mine invited me," you said, ushering him out of the room, "one sec."

Closing the door you turned, moving to pull your shirt up before noticing your curtains were wide open. You walked over and closed them, not thinking much of it.

Pulling your clothes on, an outfit of your choice, you did your hair and threw open the door again.

——

Vance didn't say much about how he got hurt. Actually, he didn't say much at all, sitting next to you while you splayed out on the couch, occasionally answering a question with a dry response. He stood and left suddenly, muttering a bye before leaving your house. You didn't think much of his behaviour, instead checking the time— you had an hour to kill before you'd leave for the school. You imagined Bruce in his baseball outfit— uniform?— and smiled at the thought.

You chose to make yourself something to eat, fixing a sandwich and leaning against the counter while you ate it. You couldn't wait for the game, hoping you'd get some time with Bruce afterwards. Or Finney. Or both.