A/N: As promised, a speedy update. There's a lot of drama in this one. :/ But please enjoy! :D

You're not even going to bother trying to fix yourself up on your own—there's no point. You're starting to feel woozy and half of your face is coated in bright red blood. You hate to admit it, but this time you need your dad. You know by doing this, you're going to blow your whole plan and your dad's going to freak out and ask what the hell is going on, but right now you can't care less. You just want to make it down the stairs in time before you collapse and die from blood loss.

As soon as you're nearly halfway down the stairs, your pace begins to slow down. You feel the onset of panic slowly lacing through your body. Your legs are starting to turn numb and your knees feel as though they can buckle any second now. Your whole world spins when you accidentally tilt your head to the side. You lean to the right and desperately clutch the banister, using it as support while you make your way down the rest of the stairs. All the while, the blood from your wound hasn't stopped flowing. It's warm and gooey and it's plastered all over the side of your face.

"Dad," you choke out, your voice nothing but a rattled murmur. You clear your throat and try again, your voice cracking. "Dad!" You're really starting to lose it now. Are you in shock? You're in shock. You're afraid your face is going to fall off and you're going to black out only to wake up in a hospital. You don't want to go to a hospital. You hate them. They smell too much like the bitter sterility of medical equipment and medicine. Truthfully, hospitals kind of frighten you.

At the sound of your frantic voice, you can hear the clanking of metal baking sheets as they crash to the floor and the sound of your father's footsteps are rushed and heavy as he bolts out the kitchen. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees you standing by the couch, shaky on your legs with blood dripping down the side of your face. His eyes widen and he rushes to your side, immediately placing his hands on your shoulders.

"John, what the hell!" he bellows, his fingers wrapping around the curve of your shoulders. He steers you to the couch and makes you sit down, your back thumping against the cushion. "What happened!"

You startle awake. You don't know what just happened, but you have a feeling you were nodding off into some other world. All you can do now is focus on your breathing, which is a terrible idea because now you're getting paranoid. Do you always breath like this? Why is it starting to get so difficult? Your chest is tightening and your throat feels like it's constricting and oh god, oh god you need to breath.

"I can't breathe!" you wheeze out, palming your chest. "Am I having a heart attack?" It sure feels like one. Your whole body tingles and you're suddenly aware of every little ache and pain. This is starting to feel so surreal.

"No, no, you're just having a panic attack," your dad rushes out, his hands fretting this way and that. "Hold on. Don't move, do you hear me? Don't move." He turns around and quickly walks back to the kitchen. As he's in there, you can hear him shuffling around through cupboards and wooden drawers, and then the sound of the faucet turning on makes it all the way to your ears. He comes back out again, this time with a clean dish rag in one hand and a small bucket of water in the other.

"Can you call 911!" you whisper frantically at him, your eyes as wide as saucer plates.

"You need to calm down," he tells you in what he thinks is a composed voice, but you can hear the undertones of sheer dread. You'd feel the same way if your only son somehow managed to get his face nearly ripped off. "Think of something that makes you happy and focus on that. You want some water?"

You nod silently at him, trying to think of something pleasant. Nic Cage flashes across your mind, and so does Fruit Gushers and Con Air and countless other related things that Dave says are complete and utter shit, but you totally disagree with him. Your dad disappears again and later returns with a cup of water, and when he hands it to you, you quickly guzzle it down. Water has never tasted so good before, which is strange because it's never had a taste to begin with. Well, you suppose tap water has a very distinct metallic taste. Hmm.

"Alright, I'm going to turn on the TV and you're going to watch it," your dad orders. You want to ask why, but the tone in his voice is making you not want to question him. He grabs the remote that's perched on the armrest of the sofa and quickly presses the power button. The plasma flickers to life and Bear Grylls is waltzing across the screen wearing fucking seal skin.

Even though your eyes are glued to the television, you watch your father move out of the corner of your eye. He unbuttons the cuffs of his long sleeved dress shirt and rolls the sleeves past his elbows. He then unfolds the towel rag and dunks it into the bucket of water, wringing the rag until only a little of the liquid remains. You now realize what he's about to do.

"No!" you yell at him, pressing your back into the sofa. You can hear him sigh under his breath. You know that sigh; you even managed to classify it. It's the, "son-please-don't-make-this-any-more-difficult-than-necessary" sigh. He's staring at you now with one thick black eyebrow raised, thin lips set in a straight line. Through your mind's clouded haze, you trace the patterns of the various frown lines that scrawl across his face like a map. He even has his hat off, which is something he rarely does. His dense black hair is in a state of disarray, globs of cake mix and icing stuck to the strands. There's also a dash of flour on his left cheek and it's really starting to bug you. You never realized how fast your dad has aged, but it's to be expected. You're not young anymore either.

"I won't touch it, I'm just going to clean around it," he assures you. He manages a shaky smile. "You look like a vampire."

"A sparkly one?" you ask listlessly.

He chuckles at you and stiffly shakes his head, running his hands through his hair. "Turn your head to the side." You do as he says, even though you don't want to. You know he's just going to clean the blood off and not go anywhere near your injury, but you still can't help but feel wary. What if he accidentally presses against it? Your face still feels tender and raw and you don't know if you'll be able to take any more pain.

You hiss on instinct when the rough rag presses against your face, the warm water soothing your skin. The rag doesn't aggravate the cut in any way, but you want him to know what a jerk he's being.

"Stop exaggerating, it doesn't hurt," he calls you out on your game. He takes a step back and assesses you. "Are you feeling okay? Feeling dizzy, sleepy?"

"The panic attack is starting to go away," you tell him quietly, turning your head a bit when he wipes down your neck.

"Good, they don't last more than 25 minutes anyway," he nods his head. You continue to watch TV as he finishes cleaning you up. The scent of your dad has and will always be soothing to you. He smells like sugar and aftershave, and you suppose at first sniff you'd think it'd be an odd combination, but it's your dad's scent and it's nostalgic and reminds you of the days when he used to take you to the local swap meet where he would literally carry you everywhere because you'd be too lazy to walk.

"So, what happened?" he breaks the silence, his voice suddenly grave.

"I-I slipped," you breathe hesitantly.

"John this is serious, stop messing around," he lectures you, frustration written clearly across his face.

"But I did!"

"This isn't a joke!" he nearly yells. You stare up at him with wide, trembling eyes. No, no it isn't. "That's it, I'm taking you to the ER," he says and drops the rag into the bucket.

"No!" you cry up at him. "No, no, no!" How could you forget! You suppose you can't blame yourself. You were too focused on your own injuries to worry about the extraterrestrial being currently sitting in your bathtub; at least, you hope he's still in there.

Your dad narrows his eyes at you. "I don't think you understand. I'm not trying to scare you, but that gash looks pretty deep. You don't want it to get infected do you?"

"I'll just disinfect it and put a little gauze over it, it'll close right up! It's not that bad!"

The look on his face screams bullshit. You hang your head in shame. You don't even know what your cut looks like.

"Stay here, I'll go upstairs and get your jacket and some extra clothes," he tells you as he straightens himself. It's as if something shifted a gear inside of you and kicked you into hard-drive. He mustn't go upstairs. You have to keep him away from there! It's still a mess up there and he'll surely peek inside the bathroom! Your secret will be out in the open and your father will probably flip the fuck out. You can't let this happen. You can handle your dad peeking into your room, because you can explain all the purple blood and utter disarray, but you know you won't be able to explain Gamzee. You don't think anyone would be able to explain Gamzee.

"No, it's okay I'll do it. I need to get my phone anyway," you calmly tell him.

"You're going to leak blood all over the place, stay put," he says a little more sternly. He turns away from you and heads towards the stairs. Even though you still feel a little dizzy and your thoughts are still stuck on regulating your breathing, there's something inside you that propels you forward. Before you know it, you're leaping ahead of him up the stairs.

"You won't know where to find it!" you yell back at him. "See, I'm fine! I'll be down in a…" Your voice trails away when you feel a wave of dizziness wash over you. You fall to the side and lean against the banister, clutching the wooden bars with a white-knuckled grip. Your father is immediately at your side and propping you up with his body weight, making sure you don't fall backwards.

"Jesus, John!" he huffs at you irritably, snaking an arm around your waist. "What did I tell you!" You press your forehead against the banister and let out a shaky puff of breath. He readjusts his grip on you and gently turns you around, leading you safely down the stairs. You silently curse at yourself all the while. Once at the bottom of the steps, he helps you sit down at the very last step and turns to glare at you.

"I'm not playing," he forces out, his voice cracking at the end. His momentary anger seems to deflate as his grey-blue eyes sink in worry. You're quite shocked when he suddenly leans down and scoops you into a tight embrace, ever mindful of your searing cut. He holds you to his chest for a long while, carding his fingers through your hair. He whispers, "Just please sit down."

You want to cry. Here you are frustrating your dad when all he's been doing is trying to keep you safe in your time of need, and all you can think about is trying to stop him from heading upstairs. You're afraid he'll discover Gamzee, thus your entire plan falling to shit, when you should really be trying to assuage your father's fears. You're a terrible, terrible son.

He leaves you there sitting on the stairs with your head in your lap. You can feel the hurried thump-thump of your father's footsteps as he climbs the remainder of the steps. A wave of reprieve falls over you when you never hear them stop. It seems he made a bee line to your room and completely passed the bathroom; however, you're not in the clear yet. He could always take a peek into the bathroom once he's done with your room. This is your chance.

Ignoring the swelling pain of your injury, you turn around and practically drag yourself up the stairs, sometimes walking and sometimes crawling. While you do this, your head is spinning and buzzing along with your vision. You must look pitifully pathetic, but this is important. Your dad cannot, absolutely cannot see Gamzee. You wonder why you're still defending an alien who nearly slashed off your face.

You finally make it to the top of the steps, smiling as you get to your unsteady feet. Your bedroom door is open and you can hear your dad shuffling around through your drawers. You carefully creep down the hallway, ignoring the sting in your cheek. You don't believe you shut the bathroom door all the way, and once your arrive at your destination, you find that you were right. Although the bathroom door isn't thrown all the way open, it's still slightly ajar. The steam from inside is slowly billowing out into the hallway and you can smell the scent of shampoo and soap and… blood.

You don't know how you're going to do this. Dad is insisting on driving you to the hospital, but you can't just leave Gamzee here! What if he leaves? What if he goes on a rampage through your house? What if he dies? You have to check on him. You'll just go in real fast, tell him you're alright, make sure he only stays upstairs and hope beyond hope he'll understand and not get into any trouble while you're gone. Just when you're about to push open the bathroom door, your dad steps out into the hallway.

"John!" he barks at you, stomping his way down the corridor. "There's purple stuff all over your room and it reeks of blood! What's going on?" He has your jacket draped over his shoulder and a set of clothes wedged underneath his arm. You immediately snatch your hand away and back away from the bathroom. He notices your sudden movement and narrows his eyes at you, his brow quirking in suspicion.

"What're you doing?" he asks you slowly, coming to a halt barely a foot away from you.

"I was going to go to the bathroom real quick," you answer hastily, a little too hastily.

"Why didn't you just use the bathroom downstairs?" he breathes out, a little exasperated. You immediately clam up and shut your mouth. Shit, you just dug yourself an early grave. You seriously don't know how to answer him, so you don't. You just remain standing there like an idiot in front of your father, your eyes anchored to the floor. You can feel your throat tightening up again, but not from panic. There's that familiar sting of tears welling in the corner of your eyes and you're feeling so stressed and frantic that you think you might just break down. There's nothing worse than the feeling you get when you know you're going to be found out about something. It's the worse feeling in the world.

You finally look back up at him. You practically see the gears turning in his head. He looks at you and then to the bathroom door, then does it again a few more times.

"Does this have anything to do with your cut? And the purple stuff in the backyard?" he asks slowly, methodically. You don't respond, you can't. "John, answer me."

"Dad, let's just go. I'm starting to feel dizzy again," you say in the most broken voice you can muster. You're entire body is shaking and vibrating and you feel like you're going to barf all over the floor.

"What's in the bathroom?"

Your breath hitches.

"John."

When you don't respond this time, your dad takes it into his own hands. He turns to the door and places his palm on the wooden surface. He then slowly begins to push.

"Dad, please don't! Come on, let's just go—NO!"

The door is thrown wide open. Your nose is assaulted with the smell of bloody water and shampoo and band aids, and when the steam begins to clear you can see Gamzee's skinny frame still wading in the murky bathwater.

You don't think you'll ever be able to erase the image of your dad's petrified face. Ever.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Please leave a review on your way out OuO