And I'm back again! This time with a fic that was written during a completely boring summer class. As always, please review!

Spoilers: Only if you haven't read the sides (links available over on Fanforum in the SLOTAT Spoilers Thread) that tell the gender of Anne's baby and the baby's name. Other than that, you're good and spoiler-free.

Disclaimer: We've gone through this before, but no, I don't own Secret Life Of The American Teenager. If I did, Amy wouldn't be making me want to scream, Ricky would bring her back to reality, and Ben would go bye-bye/hook up with Adrian.

Hit The Floor

Time was dragging.

Ricky squinted, blurry eyes trying to locate the seconds hand on the clock. Was it even moving? Too slow. There were still well over two hours left of school.

What was Mr. Martin saying? He couldn't hear him over the buzzing in his head.

He wanted to go home, wanted to curl up under his comforter and rest, but he couldn't. He'd already missed too much school, skipping to see John. It didn't matter that he was sweating or that his stomach felt like it was ready to split open. It didn't matter that he'd already had to duck into the bathroom twice to throw up a breakfast he didn't eat. It didn't matter that he was so tired, he'd thought he saw red floating in the bile.

It would be hours before he could lie down. School, John, work, John again, homework. He wouldn't be going to bed until two and he'd be up again at six to start it all over again, just as he had for the last year.

He bit back a groan as a shot of pain raced through his stomach. Oh, God, it hurt. His vision blurred, black dots dancing across his vision as the too slow clock seemed to disappear into the wall.

Then the bile was rising in his throat again. He dashed for the door, Mr. Martin's shouts lost in the buzz. He was pulled to a stop by the middle aged man and he saw lips moving, probably asking him what he thought he was doing, but he couldn't hear the words.

Oh, God. He couldn't…

And his stomach revolted.

He doubled over, vomiting over Mr. Martin's shoes, and then everyone was screaming, and he saw it.


He choked on his scream, voice caught as more blood fell from his mouth and to the floor.

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

Too much blood.

Oh, God.

He was going to die.


The first thing he heard was beeping.

Ricky squinted his eyes open, cringing against the too bright light.

"Oh, thank God," someone sighed. He knew that voice, but his mind was running too slowly. Who…


"Mar…" he croaked, voice rough and throat too dry to finish her name. He closed his eyes as she kissed his forehead, brushing his hair off his sweaty skin.

"Richard Timothy Underwood, you will be the death of me." She squeezed his hand and he clutched hers as hazy eyes begged a question. "Sh, it's alright. I'm just paging Eli."

He didn't let go, hung on as Eli all but ran in, kept hanging on as they explained what had happened. His hold turned into a death grip as he got lost in the words of hundred-and-five degree fevers, flu, blood loss, too close, and undiagnosed bleeding ulcers. His grip lightened at the words full recovery. Margret was crying by the end, God knows how many times she'd heard it already. She kissed his hand over and over, and only stopped at a tentative knock at the door.

"Do you think you're up for visitors?" she asked, looking worried and as if she didn't want to let anyone else near him except herself.

He nodded slowly, taking a sip of the water Eli offered him and closed his eyes, staying silent as Margret kissed his head. Part of him wanted to reach out for her again, didn't want to lose that security she brought, but he held himself back and let her leave with Eli, leaving room for his visitor to enter. "Hey."

"Hey," Amy returned softly as she inched in and sat in the chair beside his bed. "How are you feeling?"

He shifted in the bed, wincing as stitches and IV lines pulled. "Ask me in a couple days."

She laughed and it cut off into a sob. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "It's my fault."

"Amy, it wasn't-"

"You work so much for me and John. You ran yourself into the ground for us."

"I'm fine." He took her hand in his, this time mindful of the IV, and squeezed. "Full recovery. I'll be home in no time." He pulled on her hand until she met his gaze. "Just fine."

"But the ulcer," she said, "they're caused by stress, aren't they?" She shook her head, decisive. "I'll pick up some more hours at the daycare."


"I don't want you to get sick again," she whispered. "What if it happens again? What if next time…what if they aren't fast enough?"

"It won't."

"But it could."

Ricky closed his eyes in a slow blink, knowing he was in a losing battle. When he opened them again, he looked around. "Where's…"

"They wouldn't let me bring him in," Amy said sadly, "Risk of infection and everything. He's at home with my mom and Robie."

His brow furrowed. "Then how'd you…"

"I drove."

He blinked, eyebrows shooting into his hairline. "You hate driving."

"My boyfriend was rushed to the hospital. Nerves didn't matter."

He was speechless for a moment. Amy hated driving, avoided it like the plague, but she drove here for him. Almost five years with Margret and Eli and six months dating Amy and he still wasn't used to people caring.

Amy smiled at him, eyes glassy as she leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth. "Thank God you're okay."

He could get used to this.

The End

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