One Direction Preferences

This is just some One Direction Preferences


9. BSM: You Fall In The Shower and One Of The Other Boys Help You (Part Two)


“Thanks for helping me out,” you say quietly, hoping that he just might not hear you, as you struggle to pull your t-shirt over your head. He had grabbed it from your wardrobe in a rush, along with a pair of sweatpants, and he’d much rather have just told you to get dressed and then walk out but he couldn’t leave you. Not now. Not like this. He’d feel terrible if something happened; if you fainted or had to go to a hospital or something of the like. He’d feel horrible, because he’d have left you alone.
“Whatever,” he replies, facing the wall as you change. He wanted to give you some privacy, and it wasn’t like this wasn’t already embarrassing enough. But upon the sounds of your grunts as you struggle in the cotton shirt, he sighs and turns around, crossing the distance from one corner of the room to the other, still keeping his gaze averted despite his burning cheeks.
“It was nothing.” He promises, helping you into the shirt. You already had pants on, or he’d have been a lot more embarrassed than he already was.
Even though you’re fully dressed now, he pauses to look down at you, which was a little weird you think. Why didn’t he just leave now that you were okay? He opens his mouth and he looks like he’s about to say something, but stops upon the sound of the front door opening and laughter coming from your brother and his friends. He turns back to you.
“Don’t tell your brother, okay? That I saw you… undressed, I mean,” he says, and you nod, catching him mutter something under his breath before leaving the room.
“He’d kill me if he knew,” he mutters, shaking his head to himself, “As if crushing on his little sister wasn’t bad enough.”



“Why did it have to be this shirt?” you whine, crossing your arms over the old t-shirt. It was a Christmas present from your grandmother, and she was always horrible at picking out clothes. It was bright pink. It hurt your eyes.
“Because you need medical attention and probably have a concussion,” he says back, casting a quick glance at you, concerned, before his eyes return to the road stretching out before him. “Sorry I didn’t really have time to colour-coordinate.” He mumbles, and you know he’s referring to the matching bright pink sweatpants. You looked like a two year old.
You’re silent for the rest of the car ride, and so is he, but the silence can’t hide the not-so-subtle glances he casts your way, the worry visible in his eyes.
When you arrive at the hospital, he helps you inside, before speaking calmly – despite how quickly his mind is racing – with the receptionist and nurses.
“Do you think we should call your brother?” he asks when he’s sitting next to you in the waiting area, waiting for a doctor. 



When you regain consciousness, you’re still covered with the fluffy white towel, only now you’re lying on your bed. The bedroom door is shut. Everything is quiet, aside from the soft ticking of a clock, and the sound of the conversation outside your bedroom door.
“What did you want me to do? Leave her in there?” A pause follows Louis’ annoyed voice, before he speaks again.
“What if she was really hurt?” He argues, and you can hear the frustration in his voice, his soft footsteps as he paces the length of the hall. You can hear his voice fade a little as he gets to the far end, and then get louder as he walks back past your door again.
“What if she hit her head on the tiles and needed an ambulance?”
“I don’t know. She had the water so hot, though. Barely any cold mixed in. I’m just worried about her.”
“Half an hour? She needs you now!”
“I know. The traffic isn’t your fault. Sorry.”
“Okay then. Bye.”
A frustrated sigh passes through the thin walls, and you can hear Louis softly counting to three, trying to calm himself. You can imagine the way he’d run a hand through his hair, the other one would bunch up into a fist. He’s annoyed. Irritated. You don’t understand why.
The door opens, slowly, gently, once he reaches ten; maybe he’d decided that three wasn’t enough, maybe he needed seven more numbers to stop his hands from shaking, his fists from clenching.
“You okay?” he asks, seeing your eyes opened curiously as you look at him enter the room. He makes his way over to the bed, sitting next to you on the mattress.
“Yeah,” you say, voice soft, quiet, “I’m okay. Are you?”
He nods his head, “Your brother’s worried. He’ll be home soon.” He pauses again, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
You nod, but he doesn’t seem to believe you, because he won’t leave you until your brother comes home, but even then he’s hesitant. 



You can hear voices long before you’re able to open your eyes. Some of them are sad, full of worry, upset, and some you don’t recognise. But others are monotone; orders, medical things you don’t understand, test results. This was just another day at work for those voices.
There’s this beeping too, loud, repetitive. You wish it would just stop, and for a moment it does. But then there’s the voices again, yelling now, but still flat. There’s this pain in your chest, a man yelling ‘Clear!’, and then the beeping starts again.
“Can I see her?” you hear another voice. It sounds familiar, but you can’t place it. “I have to see her!”
“What relation do you have?”
“I’m her brother’s friend, but none of his family can be here right now. Please! I need to see her!”
“I’m sorry, sir, but no visitors are allowed inside the ward until she’s stable.” Still flat. Still dull. Still boring. Still three more hours until the nurse’s coffee break. Still just another day at work.
You open your eyes, although it’s difficult, to be greeted with the faces of the voices. A blinding light hangs above you, as someone shines a torch in your eyes.
“Pupils dilated, most likely a concussion.”
“Hello? Can you hear me? Can you tell me your name, please?”
You frown up at the doctor, confused. Why was he asking for your name? Did Niall not tell him? Did Niall forget your name?
“Y/N.” you respond, confused and still dazed.
“Can you tell me what the date it is, Y/N?”
You ignore his stupid questions. Why was he asking you? Didn’t he know the date? Why didn’t he know what the date was?
“Can I see Niall? Is he here? Where’s Niall?” You ask, ignoring his questioning.
The doctor turned to someone, said something, and that someone rushed out of the room, only to return with Niall moments later.
The doctor said something to Niall, something you couldn’t catch, and you watch as his face pales and the soft smile he had directed towards you turned into a frown. He turns away from you, fishing his phone out of his pocket, and dials a number.
“Hey, Louis?” you hear, “Yeah, Y/N’s in hospital.” 



Somewhere between the drive to the hospital and where he picked you up again in his arms to carry you into the building, you regained consciousness.
He didn’t notice at first, because you were too tired to say anything and it hurt too much to move, but when he looks down for a brief second he notices the way your eyes are open, just slightly – your eyelids drooping with exhaustion. You just wanted to sleep, that was all. It hurt too much being awake, because then you could feel things; the way your head was pounding, the ache in your arms and the bruises blossoming on your back from where you hit your back on the wall.
“Y/N?” he asks, fear in his eyes.
You don’t know why he’s so scared though. The world was moving too slowly for you to understand. He’s speaking slower than usual, and it’s weird, because he’s always speaking slowly, calmly. But his voice isn’t calm now, just very slow.
And then he’s screaming out for help, in the middle of the waiting room – for a doctor, a nurse, someone. They take you from his arms, and somewhere he can’t follow – at least for now – and he watches you with concern as you glance back at him, confused.
But he doesn’t smile, doesn’t offer comfort. Because he’s too worried, he can’t. He can’t lie to you and say that you’re okay, when he honestly doesn’t have a clue himself. 

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