Archive of Our Own ^beta

Craig Tucker does not often get caught doing stupid things.

He’ll admit, he is a lot of things. Sarcastic, asocial, prone to flipping annoying people off just for the hell of it, but reckless isn’t actually on that list. He’s the type of guy to double-check locks before leaving the house, or keep a spare phone charger in his glove compartment. The type to always, always wear all of his motorcycle gear every time he goes out for a ride. Helmet, jacket, gloves, the whole roster.

Which is why it’s kind of ironic, he thinks, lying mostly flat on his back in the middle of a ditch, that despite all of his precautions, all of his careful double checks and safety measures, he still manages to get knocked off his bike and onto his ass by some douchebag in a Buick.

The world’s sideways. That’s the first thing he notices when he starts to zone back into reality. The sky’s in the wrong place, too. It’s too bright, too blue. It also hurts like a bitch to look at.

His ribs ache like hell, and his spine feels like it’s been taken out and shoved back in. He thinks his elbow might be bleeding. Or his shoulder. He can’t tell, really, but something is wet, and he can faintly smell the iron in the air.

Craig’s thoughts are jumbled, floating just out of reach like they’ve all gotten bored and decided to go for a walk. He feels… slow. Not in the way that a not-so-polite teacher might call a struggling child slow. Just like the air is made of molasses and he’s stuck in it.

He blinks blearily. He can smell gasoline in addition to what’s likely his blood. Something is smoking a little ways away. His bike, more than likely. Craig doesn’t even try to sit up to check on it. Just tilts his head to the side enough to make sure he isn’t currently lying in the middle of the highway. Lucky for him, there’s nothing near him but dim streetlights, a crooked road sign, and trees.

For a few moments, that is.

Soon enough, he can hear tires crunching against loose pebbles on the pavement and a door slamming shut. And then there’s someone talking to him.

Their voice sounds like it’s coming from inside a tunnel. Weird.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god oh god oh god!” They’re very obviously panicking. If he could form more than half a coherent thought right now, Craig would think that it’s funny this stranger is the one freaking out right now and not him.

A pair of tattered Converse stop near Craig’s face. One of the laces is almost completely undone. “Are you— oh Jesus , please don’t be dead—are you okay? Can you hear me??”

Craig groans in response, which is just about as much as he can offer right now.

“Um, okay, that’s good. Groaning’s good. Better than silence!! That’s, uh, okay…” The voice babbles.

Craig pries his eyes open, against his better judgement. Everything is way too fucking bright for a few seconds before a mess of blond hair blocks the sun for him.

“Oh thank fuck, you blinked, I saw you blink!” A bony hand is waving a foot or so away from Craig’s visor. “Can you, like, talk? Or move your hand or something? Just so I know you’re not dead!! Jesus, your helmet’s all scuffed up… do you know your name? Do you know my name? Wait— do you know my name?? Oh god, what if he knows my name…”

Craig tries to say something, he really does. His brain queues up a sarcastic response to the onslaught of questions, something snappy like ‘why the fuck would I know your name, weirdo,’ but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is another groan. Real long and stupid sounding. He’s in pain, okay? Sue him.

He tilts his head again, this time enough to see a blur of that blond hair and a twitchy boy kneeling down beside him. The guy looks like an opossum got hit with a bomb and never recovered emotionally. …Or physically.

His hands hover over Craig’s arms like he wants to help but doesn’t quite know how.

“Don’t move, okay? I—Oh god, what if you have, like, internal bleeding or a spinal injury? Or a concussion!! Oh Jesus, you probably have a concussion…”

Craig squints. “You talk… a lot.”

“Holy shit, you’re awake.” The guy looks genuinely startled to hear Craig’s voice. Like he had just come back from the dead or something. Craig is pretty sure he jumps about a foot.

“Do you remember anything? Do you know what day it is, or your name? Your address?? Social security number?! Oh—no, wait, don’t say that one out loud. There could be identity thieves—!”

Craig blinks at him. “Dude. Who are you.”

“Oh! Tweek!! I mean—my name is Tweek. Not like, like ‘tweak’ like a verb, or like—drug slang—it’s just Tweek. Um. With two e’s.” He looks a bit frazzled. “I saw the crash. I was in my car, and there was, like, this weird sound, and you flew—like flew, dude! Like, ten feet or something!! It was insane, you looked like one of those car crash testing dummies. But like, alive. You know??”

Craig takes a moment to process whatever the fuck this guy, Tweek, is going on about, before trying to look over at his bike. Immediately the world is spinning, and he’s pretty sure he can feel his lunch in his throat, so he closes his eyes back up again.

He didn’t really get a good look, but he’s hoping that it’s not completely totalled. The wheel will probably be fucked up but the frame might be mostly intact if he’s lucky. Hopefully it’s salvageable. 

Tolkien’s dad has a pickup truck. Craig is willing to bet that if he asks nicely, he would be able to borrow it. Yeah, he’s already mapping it all out in his head. Get the truck, haul his perfectly fine, not-at-all-busted bike home, fix it in the garage, and pretend this never happened.

“Cool, cool, okay,” Tweek mumbles. “You’re not talking, that’s fine. You don’t have to talk right now. You might have a head injury, after all… That would explain the whole barely-opening-your-eyes thing. I think. Can I ask you a couple of questions? I’m gonna ask anyways. Just basic stuff, like… like first aid stuff. You can just nod or shake your head if that’s easier for you!! Um. What’s your name?”

“....Craig.”

“Craig,” Tweek parrots absentmindedly before shaking his head. “Okay… that’s fine. I can work with that. That’s good, you’re Craig, you’re good. You know your name. That’s good. Geez, you sound like you got hit by a truck…”

“Buick,” Craig slurs helpfully. His mouth tastes like metal. “An ugly one.”

He takes the time now to actually sit up, and finds that it takes a monumental amount of effort. His limbs feel like they’ve been filled with cement, and his jacket is fucked up too. He reaches up with shaking hands and pries his helmet off of his head. The air rushes at him all at once, and he takes in a deep breath—the first satisfactory one since this whole mess started.

His head throbs.

“Ah, you should be careful,” Tweek says, reaching for Craig’s face. He presses the pads of his fingers to Craig’s temple, feather-light but still evidently enough to hurt. Craig flinches away with a hiss.

“Shit, sorry! Sorry…” His hand flies away faster than Craig can register. “You’re not bleeding that much, though. That’s good. I think? Maybe.” 

Craig lets his head loll to the side. “You always this jumpy?” Seriously, what a weirdo.

“Only when I’m around dying people!!” It seems Tweek blurted this out without thinking, because he’s quick to backtrack. “I mean. Not that you’re dying! No, I’m sorry, yeah I’m… uh. I dunno.”

Craig can’t even bring himself to laugh at the absurdity. Just closes his eyes and sighs. “How… does my bike look? Does it look okay?”

“Uh,” Tweek hums, glancing to the side. “I dunno, man. Kinda wonky, but I’m not an expert. I thought it was gonna explode or something! Jesus Christ.” His eye twitches. “I was driving behind you, and it just—um. It looked like you swerved or something and the wheel got caught, and then you went flying and—yeah…”

Craig doesn’t respond. It’s too much effort trying to figure out what to say, so back to silence he goes.

Tweek does not seem to like this idea.

“Uh, okay, no more questions, I guess. You’re probably in shock or something, right? Your arm is bleeding too… oh god, that’s a lot of blood. Like, a lot! Agh, do you need an ambulance? Do you even have insurance?? Wait, no, you just got into an accident, that’s not the issue—okay. Um. I’m… I’m gonna take you to the hospital. Okay?”

Craig blinks. And then blinks again. The sky is too bright, he thinks. And his fingers are starting to feel numb.

He grunts, a noncommittal sound. He should probably say no, really. Getting into a car with a stranger is pretty high up on the list of things Craig Tucker does not do. 

But his leg is a mess, and his elbow feels like it’s on fire. And he doesn’t even want to think about what’s going on with his shoulder, because something is definitely not in the right place. Not broken, he doesn’t think, but maybe dislocated.

Plus, the whole probable head injury thing.

Craig is not a doctor, but he’s fairly certain those are important.

So he decides not to argue, letting Tweek loop one arm under his own and staggering to his feet.

He doesn’t remember walking, and he isn’t actually sure how long it takes to hobble his way to the van, but he does know that it’s one of the most exhausting things he’s ever done. Like, in his life.

It turns out, though, that Tweek is surprisingly strong for someone who looks like he gets all his nutrients from instant coffee and gas station meals. He half-drags, half-guides Craig to the passenger seat of a beat-up minivan. Its interior is cluttered with—surprise surprise—old coffee cups, gum wrappers, and other mystery objects he doesn’t have the energy or care to identify.

“Sorry,” Tweek blurts out, shoving aside a crumpled hoodie and a bag of sunflower seeds. “I, um, wasn’t expecting to pick up a—a dying person tonight.”

Craig drops into the seat with an oomf, skull knocking against the headrest hard enough to make it throb. His head is pounding like a drum solo and he’s decently sure his ribs are playing backup.

“Not dying.”

“Okay, right… Let’s not test that.” Tweek eyes his passenger nervously.

He slams the door shut and darts around the hood of the van to the driver’s side door, hopping in and fumbling with his keys. The engine coughs like it doesn’t want to be alive.

Craig lets his eyes slide closed again, just for a second. It feels like blinking is the only thing he can do without it causing pain right now.

“Hey, no,” Tweek yelps, alarmed again. “No sleeping! Sleeping is bad, don’t do that. Head injury, remember??”

Craig peeks one eye open petulantly. “You’re exhausting.”

“ You’re exhausting!” Tweek snaps, before softening. “I mean—no, that was mean. You’re not. You’re like, brave. Or something. You flew off a bike, man! I’d be crying. Like a lot. And throwing up. I almost threw up just watching it!! Ack.” His eye twitches again. What's up with that?

Craig lets out a weak breath that might be a laugh, or maybe just a wheeze. He can’t really tell right now. “Whatever, dude.”

They pull back onto the road. Trees flicker past in Craig’s periphery. Not that he cares. His brain feels like it’s full of cotton, thick and slow, but still registering every ache and pain in his ribs every time they hit a bump.

Tweek glances at him as he drives, nibbling at his lip. “Do you… um. Have like, someone I should call? A friend? Family member?” A pause. “…..Girlfriend?”

Craig hesitates, before sighing and fumbling with the zipper of his jacket. He yanks his phone out and types in the password before handing it over to his rescuer.

Tweek frowns but takes it regardless, the way you’d take a newborn baby. Or maybe a bomb.

“You want me to…?”

“Call Tolkien, he’s my friend,” Craig mumbles. “Same contact name.”

Tweek squints at the screen for a second before tapping away. Craig can hear the tell-tale ringing, and Tweek clears his throat like he’s presenting a school project.

“Put it on speaker,” Craig mumbles.

“Uh, hi? Is this… is this Tolkien?” Tweek starts, waiting for a confused but ultimately affirmative hum before continuing. “Yeah, uh, sorry. This is probably weird, but your friend Craig just got into an accident? He’s okay! Mostly. I mean—he did crash. His bike. A lot. Um, but I’m taking him to Hell’s Pass and he wanted me to call. You. So, like, yeah. Now you know…” His eyes slide to Craig’s, and Craig can see the regret in his eyes so clearly he almost feels bad.

Craig sighs loudly enough to be heard through the speaker before deciding to help him out. “Hey, Tolkien.”

There’s a pause, and then Tolkien’s voice rings out, calm but clearly alarmed. “What the hell, man? You sound like shit.”

“Feel like shit,” Craig mutters.

“I’ll meet you there, twenty minutes or so,” Tolkien says, audibly shuffling. “Thanks, uh…”

“Tweek…” The blond supplies.

“Thanks, Tweek. Watch out for him ‘til I get there.”

The line clicks off and Craig lets his head roll back against the seat.

Tweek hands the phone back to him. “He sounded nice…”

“He is.”

A brief pause. 

“You, um…. Wanna talk? Or should I just shut up until we get there?”

Craig cracks a dry smile, lip stinging where he bit through. “Try shutting up.”

Tweek nods solemnly, like he’s been given a mission by the president.

The silence lasts all of about twenty seconds.

“I’m kinda bad at that.”

Craig hums.

The minivan rolls down the road. Craig can feel Tweek’s eyes burning holes into him. Can hear his leg bouncing against the floor. He sighs and looks towards Tweek with a quirked eyebrow that says Go on. Tweek readily takes the invitation.

“So,” he starts, slow. “Do you, uh… crash like that often? Or was tonight special?”

Craig side-eyes the guy. “Do I look like I crash often?” What kinda question…

“I mean, you landed like someone who might.”

“I landed on my face.”

“Gah! Well, yeah, but… it was like, a very coordinated faceplant.”

Craig stares at him.

A noise somewhere between a giggle and a choke slips through Tweek’s lips. “That was a compliment.” He glances away. “I think.”

Craig shakes his head, huffing out something that was closer to a laugh than whatever Tweek had going on. “Appreciate it.”

Whatever, at least the guy seems less spazzed-out now. His leg is actually still, he notes.

They sit in a pleasant silence for the remainder of the drive. They pass a sign for Hell’s Pass, and two turns and a stop sign later Tweek is pulling into the parking lot. 

Craig stares up at the looming hospital through the window. Fluorescent lighting overflows through the doors and spills across the sidewalk like a beacon. 

Too bright.

“Man, I hate hospitals…” Tweek mumbles. “Are you ready?”

Craig sighs. “No.”

“Gah, we have to go anyways, just in case.”

Tweek is out the door before Craig can argue, and on his way to the passenger side again to help him out. Despite his words, Craig doesn’t fight him. Doesn’t have the energy. If he’s being honest, he’s really looking forward to whatever painkillers the doctors are about to pump into him. His everything hurts.

Tweek ducks under his arm and helps him past the sliding doors. The nurse at the front desk takes one look at Craig’s… everything… and waves them straight past the line.

“Name?” She asks, flipping through some pages on a clipboard.

“Craig Tucker,” Tweek answers automatically.

Craig blinks, brows furrowing. “How the fuck do you—??”

Tweek has the decency to look sheepish. “Your phone profile was at the top of your contacts list…”

Craig stares. “You snooped.”

“No! I just—I remembered! Agh! I’m observant, it’s a skill. Or a curse…” He trails off, scratching at his cheek.

Another nurse wheels over a chair, and Tweek helps Craig into it with all the grace of someone handling a very expensive, very broken piece of pottery. He steps back when the staff start moving him towards the triage room.

“Oh,” Craig says, looking over to Tweek. “I guess you can’t come, huh?”

Tweek wrings his fingers. “I mean… I wasn’t invited. Do you… want me to?”

Craig blinks and shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll be fine. Uh, thanks for the help.”

Tweek hesitates, then nods with a small wave. “See you later, I guess.”

And just like that, Craig is wheeled off and out of sight.

Craig doesn’t remember much of the triage.

He knows there were a lot of bright lights (ow) and latex gloves. A cold stethoscope that raised goosebumps every time the doctor recentered it. Questions he answered on autopilot.

Some he recognized from the boy who helped him out.

At some point he’s pretty sure he was shirtless, and there was a nurse cleaning the gravel out of a wound on his side that stung so bad he flinched hard enough to get scolded. He might’ve thrown up. Might’ve cried a bit too, but nobody needs to know that part. It was kinda hard to tell with how much his vision kept swimming.

After he was cleared for some pain meds, everything became a bit more manageable. His body had finally given up on staying alert and started filing everything under 'Future Craig's Problem.' Which he was not opposed to, content to just sit still and listen when someone told him to turn his head that way, breathe in deep, or hold still.

The weirdest part was how quiet everything started to feel. Not like silence, really—there were still beeping monitors and murmuring voices buzzing around him—but it was quiet in his head. The high was gone. The panic, the adrenaline. All of it had washed away somewhere between the waiting room and the EKG.

When they finally clear him for release—after some X-rays, butterfly bandages, and confirmation that his concussion is mild and his bones are mostly intact—he feels weightless. Despite the fact that he’s dead tired, banged up, and looking like he lost the bar fight of his life.

He can see Tolkien standing off to the side of the waiting area, looking somewhere between worried and exhausted.

He’s leaning against the cream-coloured wall with his arms crossed, a familiar frown tugging at his mouth. He’s still dressed in a purple, probably ridiculously expensive wool sweater and slacks. He had probably just gotten home from work before booking it here. Craig feels a bit bad.

“They say you’re not dying,” Tolkien huffs. “I’m gonna need you to stop pulling near-death stunts. It’s not good for my blood pressure.”

Craig scoffs. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

“Still counts.”

He tries to roll his eyes, wincing when it makes his head sting. “You came.”

“Of course I came, dumbass,” Tolkien says, walking towards Craig. “You wrecked your bike and handed a stranger your phone so he could call me. Who the hell was that guy, anyway?”

Something flips in Craig’s gut as he thinks of the blond. “No idea,” he shrugs. “Tweek. He just… showed up. Helped me out.”

Tolkien tuts. “Lucky bastard.”

“Guess so.”

“Can you even walk?” Tolkien asks.

“Made it out here, didn’t I?” Tolkien fixes him with a stare that has him rephrasing his answer. “Yeah, I can walk. They said I’m good enough to go home.”

“That’s hospital talk for ‘we don’t want you here anymore.’”

“Good enough for me.”

They make it out to the front desk where Craig signs a few papers. Everything is still feeling a little floaty, and he’s leaning on Tolkien more than he cares to admit. He knows his friend doesn’t mind though.

Eventually, they’re free to go, and Craig starts hobbling his way to the exit. He almost makes it when a voice calls out.

“Hey—wait!”

Craig turns—slowly, because his neck still feels like it’s full of rocks—and lo and behold, there’s Tweek, peeking out from the entrance of another waiting room. 

He’s wringing his hands again, like he hasn’t yet made up his mind whether this was a good idea or not. His hair is messier than Craig remembers, and… now that he’s really looking at him, Craig is pretty sure his button-up isn’t done up properly. It also looks about two sizes too big. Like it’s swallowing him up.

“I, uh… didn’t know if they were gonna keep you overnight or not,” he explains. “They don’t really give updates to strangers.”

Craig blinks, for what’s probably the millionth time today. “You stayed?”

Tweek shrugs, cheeks flushing a pretty pink. He ducks his head. “I figured I should… y’know—just in case your brain started leaking or something.”

Craig can feel Tolkien’s stare on his back.

Tweek steps forward, fishing for something in his pocket. “I didn’t wanna seem like a weirdo or anything, but. Here.” He holds out a scrappy piece of paper, crinkled in a bunch of places like he’d bunched it up a few times. Craig takes it, fingers brushing against Tweek’s for a second.

“I was thinking,” Tweek mumbles, eyes darting anywhere and everywhere but Craig’s face, “if you wanted to… like. Text. Or something. I’m not great with phone calls, or people, or—whatever. But you seemed cool. And I… yeah.”

He’s backing away before Craig can answer. “Anyways! I gotta—go. Ack!! Hope your face heals good. Bye.” 

Tweek flashes a crooked little smile—nervous, lopsided, kind of cute if Craig’s honest with himself—and bolts straight past him and Tolkien towards the exit. Craig stares after him, shocked.

Tolkin looks back and forth between the paper in Craig’s hands and his face. “You got his number?”

Craig tucks the paper into his pocket. “Guess so.”

“You don’t even know that guy."

“I know he drives a shitty van.”

“Oh, great start,” Tolkien nods sarcastically.

Craig huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Weird night.”

They keep walking to Tolkien’s car, the hospital fading behind them.

And Craig, banged up and probably high on morphine, can’t quite get the butterflies in his stomach to settle.