"Can you write something Allydia?! Like anything at all?! There needs to be more Allydia... please?! Love u ❤❤"
here ya go pal:
"we've been married for 2 years now and u just had surgery that left u real fucking dopey and u keep telling me that u wanna take me out and marry me" au
disclaimed
...
Allison's been awake since three am—that's a solid six hours more than Lydia's been awake, three hours before she woke because Allison has been fretting and worrying since the day she was born essentially, and then another three while she's been in surgery. She feels a little silly for all her worry, considering it was a completely routine procedure to fix Lydia's bad knee; she fucked it up their senior year of college, when she was late for an exam because Allison convinced her to go one more round in the shower and so she ended up sprinting up the stairs to her exam room and wiped out on the stairs, landing with all her weight on her right knee.
She's felt guilty for the last four years, honestly, she has, especially when it was cold and Lydia's knee ached. So now, four years after injury and two years after their wedding and about six months after Lydia reinjured said bad knee when she and Allison tried to go the Vegas for their anniversary but ended up battling a couple of harpies, she's finally getting her knee fixed. The guilt outweighed the worry a little, enough to keep Allison from pacing the length of the waiting room.
The guilt is mostly gone now though, so it's the worry that's reigning, no matter how silly Allison feels for it. They're nearing hour four and the doctor had said they'd be finished by that time, at the latest, and her mind is running through all the awful potentials and—
"Take a breath, sweetie," Melissa says, appearing in the door of the waiting room and flashing Allison a smile.
Allison's never been one to heed advice, even advice so well-intentioned as that from Melissa McCall. She stands immediately, wringing her hands and rambling, "You're here? You're here, which is either a really great thing because that means Lydia's out of surgery or it's a neutral thing because it's going to take longer and you came to try and preemptively calm me down and—."
"Two breaths, then." This time, Melissa's slightly more forceful, but she's incredibly gentle when she pulls Allison into a hug. "Lydia did wonderfully," she assures her when she pulls back, keeping her hands on Allison's arms and squeezing gently when it seems like the other woman's about to start rambling again. "The surgery was completely routine and she's hanging out in the recovery room as we speak."
"She is?" God, Allison sounds ridiculous. She's been away from her wife for three whole hours which is, technically speaking, literally nothing in the face of what else they've encountered. But? Well. Allison's rarely been the one that's sat in the waiting room.
Melissa, actual angel that she is, walks with Allison all the way to the recovery room and, after doing a couple quick checks on Lydia's vitals, leaves her with a couple of ginger ales and packets of saltines.
"You remember the drill?" she asks, halfway out the door.
Allison's been through enough surgeries that the routine is nearly seared into her mind—coming out from under general anesthesia is a real bitch sometimes, a bitch that causes awful, awful nausea that can really only be quelled with time and an abundance of patience. How many times has Lydia sat at Allison's side through it? Too many, probably.
Regardless, Allison nods and waves as Melissa heads out. It's a quiet day at the hospital, the first in quite some time—probably due to the minor incantation that Lydia and Stiles worked out to ensure the smoothest possible surgery—so the recovery room is empty, save for the two for the two of them.
Lydia's still out, though, so Allison settles in, pulls out her phone and starts scrolling through Instagram.
She's moved onto Twitter and is well on her way to waging all-out war against a former president when she hears a gasp.
Her wife's eyes are wide as she stares up at Allison, wide and a tiny bit unfocused, but Allison remembers that too. She slips her phone back into her jacket pocket and starts to smile, starts to greet her when Lydia cuts her off.
"Oh my god," she breathes. "You are so pretty."
It's not at all what Allison was expecting her to say—quite frankly, knowing her wife she was expecting some grumbling about how cold the room was or how uncomfortable the bed she was on was—and it's enough to startle a laugh out of her.
"And your laugh is pretty too!" Lydia grins dopily. "Holy shit, you're like an angel or something."
"And you're pretty out of it, huh sweetheart?" Allison leans over to smooth back some of her hair, finds herself grinning when she sits back and finds Lydia giving her this awestruck look, like she's never seen her before.
"I'm gonna marry the hell out of you," she informs her wife seriously. "I'm gonna buy you dinner first, but then I'm gonna marry you."
For a split second, Allison's terrified that somehow Lydia's managed to lose her memory. But then she remembers the recording Lydia got of her after her back surgery, the one where she was so out of it when she came to that she started ranting to Lydia how she had planned the perfect proposal for her girlfriend…a solid month before said perfect proposal was supposed to occur.
Pulling her phone out again and turning on the camera, Allison reaches with her free hand for Lydia's and asks sweetly, "What was that?"
/
"You're just so pretty! And I like pretty girls! And pretty boys, sometimes, but you're, like, the prettiest person ever and I really like your face and I wanna smush my face against your face."
"Is that so?"
"Mhmm. I wanna kiss your pretty face, but first I'm gonna buy you dinner."
"Where do you think we should go the dinner?"
"Dunno. You pick."
"How about the moon?"
"That would be really cool, pretty lady, but it's hard to get there. We should get married there, though."
"So, you're serious about marrying me?"
"Super serious. The most serious I've ever been. I'm gonna marry you so hard—."
"Oh, god," Lydia groans, blushing. "I've seen enough!"
Allison grins cheekily, protesting, "But we haven't even gotten to the good part!"
"I just told you I was going to marry you so hard."
"I know," Allison agrees. "But you haven't seen the part where you promise to play with my hair for forever because it's, and I quote, the prettiest hair in the world—."
"Besides—."
"Besides my own. Jesus, even when you're out of it, you're a tiny bit vain."
Lydia lunges for the nearest pillow, pulling up short with a sharp gasp, her face twisting in pain at the sudden jarring of her knee. Allison's smile drops in an instant and so does her phone, freeing up both hands to gently push Lydia back against her small nest of pillows, blankets, and maybe one or two of Allison's softest t-shirts. "Hey," she murmurs apologetically, "I'm sorry, I'll stop being mean."
Unable to reach a pillow that's not currently supporting her, Lydia settles for weakly slapping her wife's shoulder and rolling her eyes in response. "Turnabout's fair play," she says. "God knows I've got some embarrassing videos of you after surgery."
Allison scowls at her, even as the mirth in her eyes gives her away. "Yeah!" she exclaims indignantly, feigning outrage. "You should let me milk this, considering how much dirt you've got on me."
"Puh-lease," Lydia drawls. "My dirt is just you being incredibly sweet to me."
"You're such a sap."
"Same to you, punk. Now get over here and let me kiss your face."