CAMERON MONAGHAN IMAGINES

Playing Nurse. (Ian)

"Ian, you at least need some food." You scratch his back. He's cocooned in a shelter of puffy blankets. He's been in there all day.

"Go away." He mumbles.

You sigh and walk to his bottles of pills. You wave them in front of his face. "You need these. I don't care if you don't want them. This is unhealthy. Mickey is waiting for you with food downstairs." Your worry doesn't register with him and he turns over.

"Ian!" Your tone is frustrated. "You have to get up!"

He ignores you. You suppress your anger and race downstairs. Mickey is seated at the table, pounding a beer. "I can't do anything to help. He's not getting out anytime soon."

"Should we just let him sleep through it?" Mickey suggests.

"Absolutely not. He's done this too many times and I'm tired of having to consult him." It's true. Ian's done this plenty of times and yet has refused to accept his disorder. He constantly rejects his pills. Mickey and yourself usually do teamwork and convince him to take the pills, but this time you two are sick of it.

"Fuck this, I'm going to yank him out by his damn feet." Mickey crushes the empty beer can and walks upstairs.

"No! Mickey, you know that won't help!" You tailgate his footsteps. When Monica had these episodes, pulling her out of bed did nothing.

Once in Ian's room, you see mickey grabbing Ian by the ankles and rip the body out of comfort. "Mickey, stop!" Ian groans. He hits the floor hard, head included.

"You're taking a shower, you're filthy." Mickey attempts to scoop Ian up on his feet.

You stand there, biting your nails, unsure of what to do. This was always a tough sight to stomach.

Ian is limp, as though he's lifeless.

"Get his pills." Mickey commands.

You oblige and snatch the bottles in each hand. Mickey wraps his arm around Ian's waist. Ian's head and arms dangle limply. The pathetic image makes your chest condense and torso tighten.

"I don't think this is right, Mickey." You state.

"I don't care. He's getting out of bed and getting better."

"This is the wrong way to go about it." You follow them in the bathroom. Mickey sits Ian on the toilet and begins to strip him.

"What the fuck do you suggest then?"

Ian's socks and pants are thrown on the tile.

"Food, water. Force feed the pills while he's comfortable in bed. Then we'll keep track of him. So he and we don't have to go through this again."

There goes his shirt.

"Y/n. We've done it your way countless times. I'm done! He needs to figure his shit out, starting by remembering how this felt." Mickey raises his voice. He lifts Ian by from the armpits and guides him to the shower. Ian's knees buckle. He catches him and Ian hangs over his shoulder. "Stay up for me, bud."

Mickey tries to turn the shower on, but can't reach the knob due to a body in his way.

"Could you fuckin' help me out here?" Mickey asks you, irritated.

You turn the knobs and a heavy flow of water falls from the spout.

Mickey rids Ian of his last article of clothing. His hands cup Ian's calves and lifts his legs in the shower. "Pills." He commands. You get the correct amount of each and hold them out to Mickey. He turns the shower head on and stabilizes Ian while stripping himself down to only boxers.

"Mickey." You jerk your pill hand to command his attention. 

"No, I got his mouth, you put them in." Mickey pulls Ian's jaw open. Ian furrows his brows and groans. His pain is blatant. His eyes struggle to stay open and his mouth slopes downward, as though the corners of it were being pulled to the floor by a weight.

Cramming pills down Ian's throat is never something you took pleasure in. Seeing Ian in such depression and forcing anything upon him has left a few of your nights sleepless. With the thoughts of having to carry out this burden again, you fight tears from welling up in your eyes.

You try to ignore the guilt of force feeding and you plop the first one in. Ian closes his mouth, but you see no throat movement. You lean into his face and bury your fingers in his drenched hair. Scratching his scalp is a common occurrence when either of you are distressed. "Swallow, baby." Your voice trembles a little. The term of endearment is only used in a friendly way.

Ian hangs his head and mumbles "Stop." in a whisper. This is too much. You feel your insides collapse and you turn to the sink, using your palms to rest all your weight on it. You no longer have control over the water draining from your eyes, streaking your cheeks.

"Y/N, I need you here!" Mickey yells. "Ian! Fucking swallow it!" He's still holding Ian up.

You muster up the motivation to continue your task. You walk back to the shower and lean against the wall.

Ian finally swallows. You repeat the process until all the pills are ingested. The remainder of the shower is spent on the floor. You observe Mickey lather his hair and body, as though preparing a dead body for an open casket. When the shower is over, you two escort Ian back in bed and warm his food. You carry it to Ian.

Mickey is sitting on the foot of Ian's bed. "He's knocked out." Eyes scanning Ian's face.

You sigh and clear space to put the plate down on the nightstand. You run your fingers through his still-damp orange locks.

"Thanks." Mickey says.

"For what?"

"Most other people give up, but you always come when I ask. And you help until we're done."

You stand back and put your hands in your pocket. "Of course I'm going to help. He shouldn't have to go through this, you shouldn't either." You pause and take in the silence. "No matter how much he hates it, make sure he takes those. This can't happen again. He's suffering." You watch Mickey stroke Ian's leg.

Mickey nods and with that, you walk downstairs and make a comfy bed on the couch. Tomorrow is a new day. Because the pills don't work for 48 hours, you'll need to go through it all again. Your eyelids are heavy and you fall unconscious with the thoughts of Ian's suffering engulfing your brain. 

Hopefully tomorrow will be better, with you playing nurse.