Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 12: Pain Killer

Milk. Eggs. Butter. Blueberries. A half-full carton of juice. A jar of jam you do not remember buying. Not much, but enough.

Gathering what you need, you place the ingredients carefully on the counter. Each small movement, from lifting the milk to bending slightly to grab a bowl, reaching for the whisk, sets off mild sparks of pain. You breathe through it, teeth grit, eyebrows drawn tight.

You grab a mixing bowl from the cabinet. The wood creaks softly as the door opens. The bowl is smooth, cool, heavy in your arms. You set it down gently, not wanting to risk jostling your ribs more than necessary.

You begin mixing ingredients.

Flour puffs softly into the air like pale smoke. It settles on your fingers, your knuckles, the countertop. Milk pours in thick ribbons. Eggs crack with satisfying pops, their shells splitting like delicate glass. You whisk slowly, mindful of your limits, circling the bowl in smooth, deliberate motions.

The kitchen fills with quiet sounds, the whisk scraping against metal, the faint bubbling of the refrigerator, the distant rhythm of footsteps from the apartment upstairs.

Your breathing evens out. Pain is still there, ever-present, coiled under your skin like a warning, but it becomes bearable. Almost background noise.

You are halfway through whisking when your phone buzzes violently against the counter.

Your heart jumps.

The phone vibrates so hard it skitters across the surface toward the edge. You lunge, too fast, and pain stabs your side brutally as your hand catches it just before it falls.

You gasp, clutching your ribs, eyes squeezed shut as you ride out the surge of agony. When you finally look at the screen, still hunched over the counter, the caller ID blinks insistently.

Mandy.

You sigh and tap answer, as well as hitting speaker and setting the phone down beside the mixing bowl, the screen throwing soft blue light across the counter. You lean both hands on the edge of the counter, head bowed, hair falling around your face as you whisper.

"Morning..." Your voice is raspy, laced with sleepiness and a hint of pain.

There is a small electronic crackle, then her voice bursts through the speaker, bright, sharp, and utterly unprepared for your current state.

"Finally!" she exclaims. "Wait, why do you sound like that? Are you sick? Are you dying? Did you sleep in a drain?" Her tone is concerned and half-dramatic, 100% Mandy.

You let your eyes drift closed, exhaling a laugh that is more air than sound.

She has no idea.

The mixing bowl rests beside you, the batter half-finished, blueberries rolling lazily inside their container.

"Nah," you say lightly, forcing the words past the tightness in your chest. "Just a bad sleep, that's all." It is a white lie, technically true, but so incomplete it barely counts. You keep mixing, folding the blueberries in carefully, watching the batter darken in uneven swirls.

"Oh... well, that's not good," Mandy says on the other end. You can hear her pacing, the faint echo of a larger room. "Maybe drink some tea? Or try getting to bed earlier?"

"Oh, c'mon, Mandy. You know those things don't actually work on me." You laugh softly.

There is a huff through the phone, sounding both annoyed and concerned.

"Well, I'm trying to help, okay??"

You smile despite yourself, tapping the spoon against the side of the bowl.