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@chrumblr-whumblr day 17: touch starved and day 18: shaking hands

wc: 2272 | warnings: mentions of minor violence, injuries, mention of alcohol, strike trying to delude herself | characters: Strike (OC) (pov), Rex, Fives, Echo, '94 / Mikaere Dunn (OC), Omega

more batfam au!!! somewhat of a sequel to this

Rex - Batman Fives and Echo - Nightwing Strike - Red Hood '94/Mika - Red Robin Omega - Robin

i spent so long on this fic and then procrastinated posting it even longer hahahaha (<- suffering) Fives and Echo both go by Nightwing to confuse the enemy. it works despite the fact that their domino masks do Not hide that one nightwing obviously has a goatee and tattoo and the other one doesn't.

Rex is really doing his absolute best to get his daughter back, Strike is just an unreliable narrator due to having abysmally low self-esteem and lying to herself a Lot and trying to convince herself that she hates the Family and they hate her (when they really want her to get to know her and she really wants to go home).

more things about Strike on AO3

It starts when she first returns to the Batcave. Red Hood got too deep into a tangle with some of Falcone's thugs and had to be rescued by Nightwing. Nightwing, of all people. He tried to make a joke about it, and she punched him in the nose. Now she watches him press a rag to the source of the blood, watches Rex fuss over him as Robin and Red Robin stare at her. This must be strange for them, unused to seeing her in the Batcave when to her, it had always been the only place she belonged.

"Honestly? I kind of deserved that." Fives pulls the rag away from his face, winces, and puts it back. Echo scowls. "No, you didn't. Strike overreacted." It's surreal, seeing her name come out of his mouth. It's surreal seeing him at all. He belongs in pictures on Rex's desk, in old newspaper clippings, on a gravestone.

Her ribs and leg ache, but she refuses to ask them for one of the first-aid kits she knows are kept inside a drawer just a few feet away. (Or the bottle of whiskey in the one below.) They probably wouldn't give it to her, anyway.

"Strike?" Rex turns and finally notices her standing there. She gives him a flippant wave with her free hand, the other buried beneath her jacket. "Hey, old man. Worried I'll swoop in and steal your chance to clean up the streets of Gotham?" He doesn't say anything in reply, steps toward her instead. She resists the urge to ask, Is there blood on my face? because she already knows there is and braces for blows, yelling, anything.

He wraps his arms around her, and she freezes.

What? Out of everything she'd expected, a hug had not been one of them. (But this hug is so warm, so comforting, and so safe. It reminds her of when she was a kid, and she thought his embrace could keep out every single bad thing in Gotham, from villains and goons to rough concrete and grazed knees. She hasn't had this kind of hug in years. All she wants to do is melt into her dad and confess all the sins she's ever committed, collapse in his arms and beg for forgiveness.)

"Come home."

I will. The words almost leave her mouth, dance on her lips, the tip of her tongue.

But then she remembers who she is, and she remembers who he is, and she pushes him away.

"They had more backup than I thought. The birds brought me back here. I'm not staying." She avoids looking him in the eyes, knows they'll be round and pained and longing for someone who doesn't exist anymore. "Sure you won't let anyone patch you up?" His voice is hushed. "I can take care of myself," she snarls, turning towards the lifts. Her legs have gotten too used to standing still, and her first step lurches embarrassingly before she catches herself and limps the rest of the way, ignoring the stares that must be pinned on her from behind.

The doors close her off from the rest, and then she turns and leans against the back wall, catching a breath, it seems for the first time that night. Her leg is screaming by now, and her ribs are even worse, twinging every time she takes a breath.

She limps out into the manor, and realises it's the first time she's been back there since dying. Everything looks roughly the same, save for more of… everything. More shoes and boots by the door, more framed pictures hanging on the walls. There's a drawing beside the nearest doorway, and she doesn't know what makes her stop to look at it.

It's hers.

It's the family-as-animals picture she'd drawn when she was 12. Her as a robin, obviously. Rex as a large bat. Two more birds on faraway branches in the background representing Fives and Echo. And somehow 12-year-old Strike had never been outed as Robin. Wonders never cease.

But why would he frame this up? It isn't even that good.

She shakes her head, chalks it up to sentimentality (summoning up less contempt than she would have liked), and keeps walking. If memory serves right, Fives and Echo store their old motorbikes in the aboveground garage. She'd grab one for the ride back to her safe houses; if they wanted it back, they'd come after her themselves. They have other vehicles now anyway, they won't need those old things-

"Strik'ika?"

She freezes again. (She seems to be doing that a lot tonight.)

"99?" The old steward looks shocked to see her there, coming right up to her in a sharp contrast to Rex's wary approach and sudden hug. (Did he even know she'd been back? Had he still thought she was dead, up till right now?) "Ad'ika…" He reaches out, his old fingers brush her chin, and she resists the urge to lean into the contact. "You've grown so tall now."

Strike can feel the tears bubbling up inside her chest. She chokes them down and doesn't dare to speak. Like the manor itself, 99 looks practically unchanged, but on closer inspection, his hands are rougher than she remembers, and all the lines on his face engraved deeper — the smiling ones too, not just the worry furrows.

They make him happy.

She doesn't know why the revelation feels like a knife through her bruised ribs.

Does he think she's back for good? That his little one, his ad'ika is home to stay.

Better lower his expectations.

"I'm not staying." She pulls away from him like she pulled away from Rex, like she pulls away from the idea of coming home. Except she doesn't, does she? Her heart longs for the halls, the cave, the sparring mats. Have they updated the dojo in the last four years? Does the kitchen still have the same ceramic tiles, subtle blue floral patterns on bright unstained white? Is her room still hers, or have they given that to the Replacement, too?

But she doesn't care. About the Bat, about the manor, about the baby birds. Not even the pictures of various kids she can see scattered all over Rex's office. So she acts like it, turns away from him as the traitorous tears burn in her eyes.

"You won't even stay for tea?" If she says yes, the first thing he'll do is fetch a pot and bags of earl grey, and then he'll insist she take cookies with her cup, and then Rex will walk in and look at them with that wistful look in his eyes like he knows just how much she wants to go back to the days when it was just the three of them a family a team and then it will never end. So she doesn't. "I… I have to go." She swallows back the truth, limps away from him and out the door.

Trying to convince herself that their family is dead, and so is the little girl in the Robin costume, beaming up at her from the picture on Rex's desk.

~

It really starts the night in the library.

She's staring at the fireplace as the birds squawk behind her, flocking around the focal point that is their father sitting contentedly in the middle of the couch. Omega is curled up under his arm, reading a book Strike saw it was Grimm's Fairy Tales when she took it off the shelf earlier and occasionally grumbling at her siblings when they disturb her. Mika is play-struggling with Fives, and Echo has his prosthetic feet crossed ankle-over-ankle and propped on their little brother's lap; not an unimpressive feat given how much the other two boys are wriggling. Every so often his eyes flick up to Strike, and she moves her gaze back to the fire, pretends she hasn't been watching her family actually be a family. Without her.

So what if all she wants is to move closer, to press up against Rex's side in his space formed by his arm braced on the back of the couch? No one has asked her to join them; she shouldn't even be there, anyway. The only reason she'd followed them back to the 'cave in the first place was because she'd been promised 99's baking, which had been provided almost an hour ago. She should leave now, ride back to her apartment before it gets too light and people notice a single motorbike leaving Wayne Manor.

But she doesn't. Instead, she stares at the flames and pretends everything she's ever wanted isn't sitting three feet away, giggling and wrestling and being alive, alive, alive.

They go silent at some point, and she sneaks a look to see them all asleep. Omega has a finger stuck in her book, marking where she'd stopped, and Mika's head leans against hers, black on blonde, as Fives and Echo snore in tandem beside him. Rex's eyes are closed; he looks more relaxed than she remembers seeing him in the last few years. She thinks about the hug she'd spurned, and her heart aches.

Her eyes burn again. Traitorous, traitorous feelings.

Is it those very same that make her crawl across the couch and curl up against him? That close her eyes as she settles all too quickly into the familiar rhythm of breathing with him, and drag her down into sleep?

(She shouldn't be here they don't want her here why isn't she running for the hills why does she want to stay with people who don't want her-)

(But she wants them. Maybe that's all that matters right now.)

~

When she wakes up, she takes a moment to realise where she is. Her head is resting in the crook of his neck, and his arm rests around her shoulders, making it near impossible for her to wriggle away without him noticing. Not that she wants to. He must have moved sometime during the night.

It's warm and comforting in this hold. He starts to stir, and she quickly closes her eyes again, feigning uninterrupted sleep. There's the sound of a soft sigh, then: "I know you’re awake, Strik'ika." She resists the urge to wince.

Reluctantly she opens her eyes and sits up, pulling away from that warm hug she's not likely to get again, and forces her expression to blankness. "Morning."

"Morning." His gaze is level as it meets hers, even as it flicks down to her shoulder where his arm has just been resting. "Sleep well?"

She does her best to shrug noncommittally, but she's never been good at pretending not to care. Not when she always cares too much.

A brittle blanket of silence settles over them like that night on the rooftop, the night when he put a hand on her shoulder and she flinched. At the same time she wants it to shatter into a billion pieces and wants to hold her breath so it will never break.

"Strike?" His voice practically begs her to look at him, hushed and almost hopeful. She can't. Not when her eyes are already brimming with tears, blurring the pattern of the couch into a smudge of colour.

"Ad'ika?"

That is what truly breaks their standoff, in the end.

"Stop calling me that. I'm not a kid anymore," she snarls, and her own heart screams against the acid in her voice, even as she thinks he'll finally, for once in his life, stop and not push. "Why did you stay last night?" he asks instead. "You usually leave." It's all she can do not to look at him and see if his eyes are as pained as she thinks they are. "99 was baking." "No. Why did you stay?" His voice trembles so slightly, no one would catch it but his daughter.

"Because-" Because I want to find excuses to stay with you. Because I miss the family we were and the family we could have been and the family that you are without me. Because I want you to stop wanting me back. Because the kid you loved is dead and there's a weapon in her skin. "Because-"

Because because because. Because everything, because nothing, because of you, because of me.

Because the tears are warm as they spill down her cheeks, and she can't stop them. Can't stop her hands from shaking as she wipes them desperately off. And then his are there, folding her fingers in his own as he wraps her in his arms again and gently dries her face.

"I'm here. I'm here, kid. I've got you." Words she hates, words she needs, words she never thought she'd hear again.

"I'm sorry." I'm sorry imsorryimsorryimsorryimsorry-

"Shhh. I know. Me too."

Her eyes are squeezed shut as he pulls her tightly against his chest, and nothing can hurt her when her buir is there to protect her, when he has her back, when they're Batman and Robin again- no, not Batman and Robin, but something new, something different. But he will always be her father, and she will always be his daughter. This is what she whispers between wracking sobs, clinging to him like she's 12 and waking up from a nightmare again. He presses a kiss to her forehead and holds her tighter.

The nightmare is over. This is what he whispers back, when she's all cried out and the pain on her face finally eases. You are safe here, and you are loved, and you are alive.

And maybe that's all that matters, right now.

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Cardinal Points - fanfic finally completed!

@chrumblr-whumblr May whump challenge day 29.

Chapter 4: Epilogue - The said and the unsaid.

Robbie settled down at the table overlooking the river and watched James get in the pints. Unusually for him, the lad had a light lager rather than the dark ale they both typically favoured. Seating himself, James raised his glass in a toast.

“To your travels.”

“Haven’t gone yet.”

“It’s alright. You can admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That you are going to miss me very, very, very much.”

“As if!.......... You made up with your sister yet?”

“The peace process has begun. We are spending the weekend at a retreat in Ilchester Abbey.”

“A retreat? To get in her good books? What if she doesn’t like it? She’ll do her nut.”

“No, she won’t. It is a silent one.”

Shaking his head at the facetious sod, Robbie took a sip of his ale and let his eyes rest on the gently lapping water as the peace of the long summer afternoon sank in. They had just cleared their latest case, and Moody seemed to have gotten off James’ back - at least to the extent of accepting that the younger man would do just fine in Robbie’s absence. Smiling at the thought, Robbie let his gaze wander back, only to see the subject of his mental soliloquy frowning intently in a way that presaged some loaded revelation.

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Forgive me no matter what I throw at you? And accept me regardless. Don’t pretend like you don’t understand… I ran away without a word, then did my best to freeze you out upon my return. And I was an absolute beast on and off when Innocent brought you back as consultant. To add insult to injury, I had told you nothing about my family; yet ever since you learnt of their existence, you have done your best to help me connect with them, to make peace and to understand. Why?”

Robbie listened to the sudden rush of words and realised just how hard it must have been for James to come to the sticking point and say all this out loud. And while he knew the answer in his heart, it would not do to respond too quickly, lest James assume his answer was glib rather than heartfelt. As with everything else, he had to let James find his own way to the right conclusion.

“How long have we known each-other, James? Going on 9 years now, I reckon?”

“Yeah…”

“And in all that time, I can count my true intimates on the fingers of one hand - Lyn, Mark, Laura, yourself. My family, some by birth and some I found. My four cardinal points…. Why would I not care and do my best to smooth your way when I can?”

“Well, Laura is the second great love of your life. And Lyn and Mark are your children. So all that makes sense. But where do I fit?”

“Best mate, much younger brother, surrogate son or nephew. Take your pick. And whatever you choose, I hope you realise that you have a right to my attention and care, and to tell me off when needed, just as much as the rest of my family do. And that you will at some point find yourself able to ask me for whatever you need… or want from me.”

They both fell silent then for a little while, before James shook his head, as though faced with something he could not really believe. Robbie looked across at him, wondering just what it would take to convince that doubting bugger.

“We don’t need to label the relationship, daft lad. It just is. As you seemed to realise in the hospital last year.”

“I realised it? In the hospital? But I…”

“Oh, I am not talking about the afternoon just before I was discharged when you stopped in for what - 3 minutes - before you rushed away citing work. And spent most of that time hiding behind the unlikely spectacle of Innocent rocking Andy. No, I mean what you said that night when you stole in on your own… that I love you in my own way.”

“I said that, yes. But, but you…”

“But I was unconscious and barely alive? Yeah. Could still see and hear though, even if I don’t know with what senses exactly.”

“You mean you had an out-of-body experience when you were so near death?”

“I don’t have your way with words or your book-learning, lad. All I know is that something - call it my mind or my spirit or whatever you wish - was hovering in that hospital room, watching and listening to all of you. 

And when the summons came for me to decide whether to stay and fight back to life, or to just let go… well, the first time, I couldn’t make a decision - for there was a void where my fourth cardinal point should have been. Later, after you had spoken to me, it just reiterated everything I had gathered from the kids and from Laura. Even from Jean. That it was not my time yet, that too many people cared, and that I should not give up.”

“That is… remarkable. That you remember so vividly. And there was no way any of the medical staff could have told you I had been there - I chose my moment carefully when the only one around was a nurse on her last day of duty at the JR before she moved overseas.”

“Hmmm. Trust you to always take the hard way. And I am sorry, lad. I tried so very hard to respond to you in some way, particularly when I felt your tears and the tremble of your lips against my wrist. But I just couldn’t… the will was there but the flesh would not cooperate.”

James went scarlet at this, and for a moment, Robbie was afraid that he had gone too far and embarrassed his awkward sod past reclaim - perhaps driven him away for all time. 

But after a long draught of his lager, James looked up and met his eyes, all screens gone for once. He did not speak, but then Robbie did not expect him to… after all, their most weighty and poignant exchanges were often unspoken. And James’ brimming eyes and shy smile, so different from the wry and sarcastic grin he usually affected, said more than the finest speech could as he raised his glass to Robbie once more.

—Fin—

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Chapter 3 of Cardinal Points

@chrumblr-whumblr May whump prompts; day 29: Infection.

Link to AO3.

Robbie surfaced after an indeterminate amount of time, and immediately sensed that something was different from the previous times he had been conscious… or perhaps, aware. This time, his first sensation was of pain - sharp physical pain, which seemed to engulf his entire body. Yet it was different from any pain he had felt before with broken bones, a cracked head (despite all his jokes about anvil-like skulls), or stabs and gunshots. This pain seemed to have no end or beginning, but simply was. And it could not be ignored.

Wincing with the effort of pushing past the pain to draw a deeper breath, he forced his eyes open. He was looking up at the hospital ceiling, not down at the figure in the bed - so it was his corporeal self that was awake this time, he thought… not that other whatever-it-was. And there was an unfamiliar face in medical scrubs looking down at him. A face that smiled before disappearing, to be quickly replaced by Laura and Lyn - both crying and at once smiling through their tears. At the sight, he forgot his pain for a moment and stretched his lips into their accustomed position around them. And was rewarded by Laura sitting down on the edge of the bed to bury her head in his shoulder while Lyn lifted his hand to clasp it between both her own and raise it to her lips. This time, when he moved his fingers, they obeyed his brain’s command and he was able to wipe his lass’ tears away, although that seemed to only bring on a fresh onslaught - at least initially. Visibly gathering herself, Lyn exhorted him to rest and look after Laura while she returned with Tim and Andy, and a promise to call Mark as soon as he felt able to talk. 

Watching her leave the room, he sensed Laura raise her head and turned his eyes towards her. Despite the obvious fatigue and tear tracks, her face had never looked lovelier or dearer to him. A smile trembled across her lips as she leaned in to kiss his cheek.

“That was quite the scare you gave us, love!”

“Sorry, pet. Did they get whoever did it?”

“Yes, we did.” Jean’s voice, sounding tremulous in a way he had never heard before. 

“When…”

“When did we catch him? Or when did I get here?”

“Uh, both?”

“I just got here… ran into Lyn at the hospital entrance and she gave me the glad tidings. As for the perp, we caught him a couple of days into this sorry saga - your old DS, Kershaw, was able to identify him.” 

“Kershaw… isn’t he DI now? In Somerset?”

“Yes, Taunton. You can catch up with him later, Robbie, when you are stronger. For now, it is enough that you are back with us.”

“Didn’t think…”

“Didn’t think I would care? Really?”

“No, that’s now what I meant.”

“It is alright, Robbie. I know I was not always, rather could not always be the way I wanted when I was your boss. Now, I won’t take up any more of your time. Just get better, OK?”

With a final smile for him and a squeeze of his hand, Jean stepped around the bed to hug Laura tightly, then left. Turning back to smile at him, Laura continued.

“She sure is full of surprises, isn’t Jean?”

“Hmmm. But how are you, love?”

“Fine. Or I will be fine, now that you have turned the corner.”

“What…”

“Time enough to talk about all that when you are stronger, Robbie. For now, just know that we almost lost you to sepsis following that stabbing. This last week, I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. But you somehow managed to hang on long enough for the antibiotics to work. So now, let’s focus on your recovery. Which at this moment means trying to get some fluids in by mouth before you rest again.”

As Laura sat down beside him and held up a glass of liquid electrolyte, Robbie realised the wisdom of her words. Simply sipping from the straw and swallowing seemed to take all his strength just now. A few minutes later, he indicated that he had had enough and settled down to doze, smiling drowsily at Laura as she pulled out a journal from her bag and sat back in the chair. As he dropped off, he wondered how long she would last before sleep claimed her too.

A high-pitched treble woke him up from a refreshingly normal nap. Even before he opened his eyes, he knew who that voice belonged to, and his face broke into a smile of its own accord. A moment later, Andy’s little hand was clutching one of his fingers tightly while Lyn beamed at him in delight and Tim nodded happily from the foot of the bed. Minutes later, he heard Mark’s voice on speaker phone as his son welcomed him back to the land of the living and expressed relief that the threat to quarrel once again had borne fruit. 

As the conversations wound down though, he couldn’t help looking past the chattering group, seeking a familiar and beloved figure that wasn’t there. Of course, Laura noticed and pressed his hand comfortingly, whispering “Later”. Did she mean that James had let her know he would visit later? The very thought was enough to bring an added sparkle to his smile. 

But smiles were in short supply when that later arrived, and Laura told him that there had been no word from James in all this time since he had first landed in hospital - not initially when it all seemed straightforward, and not even later when he had taken such a turn for the worse! Nor had James responded to any of the messages she, Lyn, or Jean had left for him.

“But that can’t be right! He was here late one night, I know. I saw him!”

He really did not like the almost-pitying expression in Laura’s eyes at that…

“Robbie, you have been unconscious for the last 5 days. The medics were despairing of your responding to anything at all. You could not have seen him. Or anyone else for that matter.”

“And if I did? I know my lad.”

“Oh, Robbie! Listen love, I asked the nurses every day - both the day and night shifts, as well as the ones who relieved them during breaks. And James is quite unmistakable, you know.”

He let her enfold him in her arms then and stroke his back comfortingly. If the medical staff felt he had been unconscious for the past several days, there wasn’t much he could say or do to correct them. For he did not have the words to describe the awareness he had experienced during that time. And he did not think Laura would thank him if he recounted some of the other things he had seen and heard… or experienced in whatever way he had done. Like the time when she had dropped into an exhausted doze and muttered out loud in an extremely cross voice “Go away, Morse! You are not having him, and that’s my last word. If Val wants him, I will give him up for her. But not for you and your merry band. If there is room for an ME, CS, and DI in Robbie’s life, it now belongs to me, Jean, and James - not to Max, Strange, and you. Why don’t you go away and help Max garden or something?” No, recounting that would do nothing but upset her even more. And that, he could not do. She had been through enough already.

But he knew what he (or his extracorporeal self) had seen and heard, and he was certain that nothing would convince him otherwise in his heart. That he could hold to.

***Epilogue to come on Sunday***

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shoutout to my brother for setting me up for this

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Chapter 2 of Cardinal Points

Now on AO3.

Continuation of @chrumblr-whumblr day 29 - Infection fan fic.

Chapter 3 and Epilogue to come over the weekend!

Chapter 2: Presence?

Waiting in this altered state was weird, thought Robbie. He could not sense the passage of time in the usual way, nor was he aware of falling asleep or waking up. Nonetheless, there were little clues that seemed quite informative, at least to a seasoned detective - an alteration in the sounds permeating the room, a slight dimming of the fluorescent lights, less movement all around. So he continued to wait, though he could not remember what - or rather, who - he was waiting for. All he knew was that it was important.

Some hours later - or perhaps they were only minutes - he once again felt the draught from the opening door. And heard indistinct voices… one remonstrating, and another, deeper and with a familiar cadence, responding with something the owner of the first voice presumably accepted. As he continued to watch and listen, or whatever he was doing in that state, a figure entered the room - tall, lanky, with close-cropped blond hair - James, seeming almost like a stranger after his prolonged absence, yet so familiar… and so dear. 

James stood watching the silent figure in the bed for some time, head bowed and lips moving although no sound issued forth. Was the lad praying over him? Or whatever passed for him on that bed? Better not be - after all, he should know better after almost 8 years. Even as he thought that, James pulled up the visitor’s chair on the near side and seated himself, taking one of the lax hands of that still figure between both of his own. He clutched that hand tightly for a moment before raising it and resting his closed eyes against it as he pressed his lips to the pulse fluttering all too faintly at the wrist. 

Robbie would have given anything at that moment to have been able to reassure his awkward sod, to hug him, or even just return the pressure of his hand. But no matter how strong his (or his spirit’s) will, the still figure in the bed would not obey. All he could do was to continue to watch… and to strain every fibre to listen as James swallowed convulsively before starting to speak.

“Robert, you better not do this - just go away with no word. You can’t… you should know that by now! 

I know, pot and kettle. But I guess I took you for granted… assumed you would be there when I was ready to talk… to listen, to understand me better than I do myself; and if it is humanly possible, to forgive. 

Because if you cannot forgive my errors of omission and commission, there is no one else on earth who can. You always had too large a heart where I was concerned, didn’t you?”

Robbie felt his chest hurt as he heard the suppressed anguish in these mumbled words, and just for a moment, wondered how he could sense pain in this altered state. But really, whatever was James thinking of that needed forgiveness? Surely the lad could stop with the self-flagellation… the current series of unfortunate events had nothing to do with him! Straining every sense he had, Robbie tried to press the fingers holding his, to reassure the daft lad. All to no avail - that corporeal self in the bed would not, or perhaps could not, listen to his mind or spirit, whatever was issuing the orders. But James was not done yet.

“Please Robert, where is your fighting spirit? You have overcome so much and finally found your way to happiness again. Surely you cannot give it up now? Think of Laura, who is so happy to share your life now; of Lyn, your little princess; even your Mark, who seems to have finally started coming around if what you told me last year is true. And little Andy - who will tell him all about his Grandma Val if you are not around to do that? 

I know others have said all this before, and said it better than I can. But maybe if enough of us say it, you will actually listen, stubborn sod that you are. 

And… I don’t know if I have a right to ask this after all I have done… But, who else will understand me? And love me - for you do, don’t you? In your own way.”

James’ voice ran out on a choked sob just then, and Robbie felt the splash of hot tears against the hand held so tightly. Again, even as he wondered how he could sense the heat and moisture, he tried - oh, how he tried - to respond in some way. But it was no use. 

Choking back more sobs, James replaced that limp hand on the blanket after dropping another kiss on the wrist, then stooped to kiss the forehead of that unmoving figure, and to beg once again “Please, Robert… please”. As he then turned and rushed unseeing out of the room, Robbie could only watch helplessly, wracked by memories - memories of himself kissing Morse’s dead forehead and wishing him farewell, memories of that awful night of 19th December 2002 when he knew that he had lost Val, and memories of the various times he thought he had lost James. 

Struggling to stay afloat in the sea of memories, he felt it again - that summons, or that tug at the edge of his consciousness. That unearthly voice or sensation, whatever it was, telling him that he had to decide - whether to stay or to go. And this time, there was no gainsaying it. There was no putting off the decision any further.

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Cardinal points

Lewis (TV) fic written for @chrumblr-whumblr May whump prompt list - Day 29 Infection.

Chapter 1 of 3 (next chapters to come soon); also available on AO3.

Chapter 1: Absence

Robbie surfaced briefly from what felt like a sea of agony and tried to find his bearings. His brain felt hazy and uncooperative, and the only sensation he could truly feel was pain - wave after wave of it with every breath he took. With a despairing sigh, he felt himself sink back into oblivion, merciful or otherwise, just as a frantic beeping seemed to take over the world.

The passage of time seemed to make no sense whatsoever. He was vaguely conscious of people around him, some of them doing things he wanted no part of, and others exhorting him to make an effort - to do what he was not sure. But he knew he could not deny them, for he loved them. And at one moment, he was acutely aware of a tiny hand wrapped around his little finger… he knew he should lift the owner of that hand and cuddle them close, but his body would not obey his mind. And then he must have lost awareness yet again, for there was nothing.

It was later, much later - hours or days, he was not certain - when he suddenly had an outburst of clarity. He was not certain whether he was truly conscious or awake… it felt like he was floating in some other plane, at once separated from yet tethered to the real world, with only his mental faculties intact. He was not sure what exactly to call the senses driving him, for they were not sight or sound or speech as he knew them. But after some cogitation, he decided that the familiar words were as good as any to describe this unfamiliar awareness. And so he let go of fruitless thoughts and took stock of what he could.

Looking down from where he was floating (for he could not find any other word to describe his position), he saw the not necessarily familiar, but easily recognisable features of a hospital room… one bristling with tubes and wires snaking out of the figure on the bed, all hooked up to monitors with flashing colours and numbers. And the figure on the bed was… his own? Looking a little beyond, he saw Laura and Lyn seated on either side, each holding the lax fingers of one hand of that figure. And they both looked desperate, their faces showing the tracks of dried tears despite the fierce determination overlaying everything - that was not right! He could not have them feeling so; he had to fix this. But how?

Even as he thought that, the door to the room opened and another familiar figure entered - Jean Innocent. And she looked sadder and more defeated than he had ever seen her in the seven years she had been his CS. Straining his ears (or whatever passed for them in this altered plane), he managed to catch the words that passed between her and Laura.

“No change?”

“No. For a bit, we thought there was some improvement - his temperature seemed to drop a touch. But there is no consciousness, no response.”

Now, that hurt! Of course he was conscious - he could not be aware of all that was happening if he was unconscious. And Laura should know that, for all her gallows humour about patients who cannot answer back. But even as he tried to show his displeasure, he realised that while he could see and hear in some way, he could not speak. And nor could that body lying on the bed. But Jean had more to say, and he had to concentrate hard to hear it.

“We got the perp who did this. He was an old con Robbie had put away years ago… one of his first cases as DI. He was released from prison recently and swore vengeance on the cops who put him away. Kershaw, Robbie’s first DS, was able to identify him after Gurdip dug through the old files to find some leads.”

“That’s a relief, I suppose. But just what was the guy learning in prison to have concocted that infected knife he used for stabbing Robbie with?”

“Believe it or not, that was pure mischance. He stole a knife from the closest butcher’s. And it was one that a careless assistant had left on the bench after using on a dodgy carcass instead of dropping it into the pail of disinfectant.”

“You mean this awful infection, sepsis really, that Robbie got from that shallow stab was pure accident?”

“Seems that way. I know that is cold comfort now. Did the doctor say any more?”

“Just that they have thrown everything they have at it from a treatment perspective. So it is now down to whether Robbie has the reserves to fight it long enough for some antibiotic to do the trick.”

“For what it is worth, the ME has contacted his doctor with the information about the knife. Perhaps that might help to figure out the right treatment. Has Hathaway been here yet? Or called you?” 

As he saw Laura shake her head, he knew there was something significant in that seemingly innocuous question and answer. But before he could ponder it further, he felt a draught (how could he feel that in this altered state, he wondered) as the door opened again to admit Tim carrying little Andy, and closely followed by a trio of medical staff who proceeded to chivvy the family out of the room. 

Despite promises that Laura and Lyn could return first thing in the morning, their reluctance to leave was palpable. And as Lyn held Andy and stooped to let the tyke kiss the unresponsive figure’s forehead, he could practically read her lips “You can’t do this, dad! You need to stay around - for us, and for Andy, if not for any other reason. We cannot do without you.” He reached out to her then, to hold her and convince her that he was going nowhere… but no action essayed by this altered version of himself could get through, and the figure on the bed remained unmoving.

As the medical staff bustled around adjusting monitors and adding new medication to the IV, the memories came rushing back to him. Was it 4 days ago now, or 5? Waiting in the beer garden at The Trout until last orders, hoping James would join him for a pint. Finally giving up and leaving as the pub closed, feeling not just disappointed but in some way defeated… and as though he had let the lad down without quite knowing how. The flash of moonlight on something silvery as he walked across the car park, then the sharp lancing pain in his side. The lifelong training that had him dialling 999 for help automatically. The ambulance, the call to Laura, then the scenes in A&E - signing a consent form for what had then seemed a minor operation to manage the stab wound; the comfortable haze of the recovery room; then the mounting fever and pain.The consultant’s measured tones, explaining that the stab wound, while minor in itself, had resulted in a major infection from whatever was on the knife. Followed by a state of semi-consciousness, or perhaps it was delirium, which obliterated everything for hours on end.

Further flashes of memory - Laura by his side every time he surfaced, however briefly; Lyn rushing in, along with Tim and Andy… setting up camp on his other side. Little Andy clutching his finger so very tightly, him wanting to hug the lad but not being able to. Mark on the phone, begging him to fight, to get better… and threatening to fly back just to fight with him all over again if he didn’t listen. Even Innocent, glaring at him fiercely with unshed tears in her eyes, promising to drag him to yet another civic reception unless he shaped up right now! And as though in a dream, Val wagging her finger at him admonishingly, and Morse - tut-tutting at him the way he had done when Lewis failed to appreciate one of his flights of fancy. Finally, a void, an absence that he could not explain… for in his brief intervals of lucidity, he did what he could to respond to his family gathered around - and kept looking past, seeking someone, he wasn’t sure who.

Robbie stayed where he was, continuing to watch the still figure in the bed, and wondered …. Who was the real him? The figure lying there, or this spirit or whatever that was hovering above and noting every little detail. And then he felt it - a tug at the edge of his awareness, like a silent voice telling him he needed to make a choice. A choice to stay or to go. If he stayed, there would be days of agony to be weathered, but the rewards were great - friends and family to love - Laura, Lyn, Andy, Mark, and the hope of James. If he went - maybe he would have Val again? And Morse? But even as he thought that, Robbie realised that he needed one final meeting, one final goodbye perhaps, before he could make that decision.

And so, he stilled that voice, or that tug, whatever it was. For as long as it could be stilled. And waited….

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@chrumblr-whumblr day 19: asphyxiation and day 24: drowning

wc: 366 | warnings: star wars swearwords, choking on bacta, mention of bodies | characters: Lieutenant Strike (OC)

an attempt at a Strike version of @enigma-absolute's boy Maddox's backstory!!

—

She didn't know how long she floated in that state of half-knowing, half-consciousness, half-feeling, the nothingness pressing in close and dark around her. But then all her senses kicked back in at once and she was choking on bacta, the sickly sweet stench of it clogging her nose and mouth as she convulsed. She coughed and spat and heaved, shaking on the slippery floor of the medbay. It was a miracle she hadn't cut herself on the broken glass of the bacta tank, but she couldn't bring herself to be overly thankful at the moment.

Where am I what is this how did I get here oh kriff are those bodies what the kriff is this oh force- She stared at her surroundings as she gasped for oxygen, air replacing the sticky fluid in her lungs. Aside from all the inert figures, the room was deserted, the only sound the distant rumbling of a starship's engines and deep booms almost like explosions. How did she know that? She didn't know how she knew that.

Medbays… Medbays usually have doctors in them. But there were none in this one. Where did they all go? Was the ship exploding? So many questions, not a single answer. The edge of a stray ID card was visible from her position, and she suddenly felt way too vulnerable, exposed on the floor.

Gotta go have to go run go go go get out- She pushed herself onto unstable feet, grabbed a scalpel and the card off one of the abandoned medical stands and stumbled to the door. The walls trembled around her as she went through hallway after hallway, finally emerging into the command center of the ship. It was just as deserted as the medbay, broken panels hanging off everything and sparks falling from the loose wiring. A planet she didn't recognise who was she kidding she didn't recognise anything loomed out the viewport, coming ever closer as the ship shook, threatening to come apart from the explosions' wounds left on its hull.

Strike stared into the emptiness of space and didn't remember who or where she was, only knowing one thing.

These are not my stars.

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@chrumblr-whumblr day 20: came back wrong

wc: 279 | warnings: swearing, nightmares, (not real) blood and death | characters: Thea Queen (pov), Roy Harper - romantic

—

There's blood on the ground and on her hands and on Roy's shirt and oh God oh fuck there's blood in her mouth and she tries to wipe the taste of it off her tongue with her fingers but that only gets more of it in her mouth and she gags she drags her hands onto her pants trying to clean them and the red smears all over the khaki as Malcolm and Moira stare sightlessly up at the sky and oh God oh fuck they're dead they're dead they're dead-

"Thea."

She shot up in bed, hands shaking and drenched in sweat, and instantly felt Roy wrap his arms around her. "Easy. I'm here. I'm safe, babe." His voice was soft in her ear as she gasped for breath, burrowing her hands in his hoodie and pulling him as close as she could.

"No one's after us. The Pits are gone. We're safe. It's okay," he murmured, and it took her a few more moments to believe it. She pressed her face to his shoulder, inhaled his smell, buried herself in the safety of it.

Her breathing slowed, and her hands stopped shaking. But he didn't let go. They never did.

"Bloodlust again?" "…Yeah." She managed the word past dry lips, swallowed nothing down her sandpaper throat. "I'm okay." "You sure?" She nodded. "You?" Thea could tell he knew she was deflecting his concern, but he answered anyway. "Nothing tonight." "Good." The word hung in the air, and he still didn't let go. They never did.

She fell back asleep in his arms, the taste of iron in her mouth fading but the safety of his embrace lingering.

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A friend in need.

An Inspector Morse fan fic. Also on AO3.

@chrumblr-whumblr - written for May whump prompt list (#26. Wiping away tears)

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A callout at 7 pm on a Saturday! While callouts at outlandish hours were no rarity for a detective sergeant in the Thames Valley CID, this took the cake in Robbie Lewis’ mind. Too early to hand off to the night shift, but late enough to ensure their Saturday evening (and to be honest, their entire weekend) was shot. No wonder Val and the kids had shared venomous glares when the phone rang.

Ten minutes later, his irritation had given way to concern when he could not raise his governor DCI Morse on the phone. Unable to wait any longer, he decided to drive over to Morse’s house and pick him up en route to the crime scene, which of course had to be at the other end of town. After asking the desk sergeant to continue trying Morse’s number, he set off hoping the DCI would be waiting for him when he got there.

To his surprise, Morse’s house was dark and the Jaguar nowhere to be seen. Could Morse have forgotten that they were on call? That was very unlike the man whose mind truly resembled a steel trap far more than anything more mundanely human. And reasons aside, just where was he? Lewis rapidly ran through a mental list of places was likely to visit on a weekend evening… With no operatic performances or even major choir recitals scheduled, it was a very short list - a handful of local pubs, the residence of Dr Max Debryn, and that of Morse’s sister Joyce. And the second was easily eliminated as the ME had received the same callout and would have informed the desk sergeant had Morse been with him.

It took Lewis some 20 minutes to get to Joyce’s house, having stopped at 3 pubs along the way to check if Morse was at any of those. Pulling up outside the neat semi, he was relieved to see the red Jaguar parked in front of the house although his guv’s familiar figure was nowhere to be seen against the brightly lit, uncurtained windows. Perhaps Morse was deeper inside the house. 

His relief evaporated though when there was no answer to his ring at the doorbell, nor to his repeated knocking and calling. Was the man unwell? Or had he been attacked by a burglar and was lying unconscious somewhere? 

Finding that the front door yielded when he turned the knob, he stopped only to grab a golf umbrella from the hall hatstand as an impromptu weapon before rushing in and continuing to call out to Morse. Despite the continued silence, his instincts insisted that the house was not empty… it just did not have the physical and emotional stillness characteristic of dwellings entirely devoid of human presence. 

Calming himself sufficiently to search methodically, he went deeper into the house, eliminating one downstairs room after another before doing the same with the first floor. He was running out of options for places to search as he walked back down the stairs, when he noticed a faint line of light in the wall opposite the foot of the stairwell. Closer inspection revealed a tight-fitting door covered entirely in the same wallpaper as the rest of the wall, rendering it practically invisible unless one knew it was there, or unless the light was angled just right to shine on the latch.

Listening silently at the door, he realised there were vague, muffled sounds emanating from the other side. Locating the latch, he quietly opened the door, glad that it did not squeak, and stepped onto the top landing of a flight of stairs leading into the basement level. Silently descending the stairs, he found himself in a study-cum-playroom, now littered with packing boxes, tape, and mostly cleared shelves of books and music. Amidst this chaos, sat Morse - cross-legged on the floor with a partially filled box beside him, head buried in his hands as his shoulders shook with half-suppressed sobs.

Shock combined with a feeling of having trespassed unforgivably held Lewis silent for a minute. But he was constitutionally incapable of walking away from a fellow human being in such distress, least of all one he had worked with for half a dozen years now, and had come to not just respect, but also developed an affection for - at least as far as that curmudgeon allowed. 

Quickly crossing the floor, he knelt down beside Morse and gently placed a hand on his guv’s shoulder. There was no response for a moment before he felt the older man stiffen slightly. Half expecting his hand to be pushed away, he nonetheless stayed where he was and waited, letting the single point of physical contact do the talking for him. After what felt like an eternity but was likely no longer than two or three minutes, Morse raised his head. Gazing into those tear-drenched blue eyes, Lewis felt suckerpunched. Whatever could have hit his guv so hard?

“Sir…”

“They left this behind - all of Marilyn’s photos as a baby and a little girl. Moved away to Australia and left this with all the other stuff needing sorting. As though they have already forgotten her.”

The rights and wrongs of Morse’s conclusions could wait, thought Lewis. The more important thing now was to coax him out of the basement if possible. The man was shaking as much from cold as emotion, and would do better in a warmer spot. 

Taking heart from Morse’s uncharacteristic docility, he tightened the hand on his guv’s shoulder until it was unmistakably a supportive squeeze, then gently wiped away the overflowing tears from the luminous blue eyes. As he saw awareness return to those eyes, he pressed his handkerchief into Morse’s hand, and with a final squeeze of his shoulder, stood up and moved away a little. 

Thinking to give Morse a little privacy to recover his composure, he started leafing through the books left in the bookcase, sorting them into neat piles by topic. Until he chanced upon further photo albums mixed among the books. His job required him to regularly nose into the private lives of murder victims in the quest for justice, but this - now - felt unforgivable. Joyce and her family were victims, but they no longer needed justice now; they needed their privacy protected so they could come to terms with the tragedy of Marilyn’s suicide and rebuild their lives. 

Gathering the albums in one arm, he turned back towards Morse. His guv looked a little more composed, but no less wretched; and Robbie was not sure how he could broach the callout they were supposed to be answering any moment now. Just then, Morse turned back to the album he had placed at the top of the box he had been packing, and picked it up again.

“How can they forget so soon? Move on so easily like she… just wasn’t?”

“Why do you think that, Sir?”

“What else can I think when they left this album behind? The one with all her photos as a baby and a little girl? Shouldn’t this have been the one thing they would keep close?”

“It could have been an oversight, Sir. After everything they have been through over the last few months, I would not expect them to be fully organised, would you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I was looking through the bookcase… I hope you don’t consider it an intrusion… just trying to give you some space. Anyway, there are several other albums left here - see.”

As Morse took the proffered albums and started flipping through them, Lewis took a better look around the room and the partially packed boxes. Sure enough, the one Morse had been working on before his emotions got the better of him was labelled “Ship to Joyce in Australia” while others were labelled “library donation”, “charity shop”, and “discard”. Seeing that many of the latter boxes were full, Lewis started closing them up ready to tape down and sorting them into neat stacks. A deep sigh had him turning back towards Morse a few minutes later. 

“You are right, Lewis. They must have been even more disturbed than I had thought. These albums - they include photographs from their engagement and wedding, and both of Joyce’s pregnancies. They would not have left those behind… not if they were in a normal frame of mind, I suppose.”

“Losing a child… well, that is every parent’s worst nightmare, isn’t it? Against every law of nature. Can’t expect normal after that.”

“A parent’s worst nightmare. Is that how you see it, Lewis?”

“Dunno how it can be anything else. Every time we come across a case involving kids, all I can think of is that in another world, it could have been my lass or lad.”

“And do you hug them when you get home after such cases?”

“Always. And I hope they will continue to let me.”

Morse stacked the albums neatly - the one he had been looking at, and the others Lewis had handed him - before placing them in the box he had been packing and starting to tape it down. As he snapped off the last of the tape and stuck it down neatly, he sensed Lewis come around to stand next to him. Before he could stoop to move the now sealed box, the younger man reached for it.

“Allow me, Sir. Can’t have you throwing your back out, not with this callout we need to get to as soon as we can.”

“Don’t fuss, Lewis!”

But as they turned off the light and closed the basement door, then locked up preparatory to leaving, Morse briefly placed a hand on his long-suffering sergeant’s shoulder in silent thanks. He then led the way to the Jaguar, instructing Lewis to leave his car and brief him as they drove together to the crime scene.

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for the @chrumblr-whumblr Whump May challenge...

Day 8: "Blood Covered Hands" is done!

Fandom: Phantom of the Opera

Whumpee: Christine Daaé (although Raoul and Erik are not any better. The focus is just on Christine)

Rating: Mature

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death

Summary:

"Christine continued to caress Raoul's face, ignoring how the blood on her hands was getting all over him."

Possibly my darkest, or at least bloodiest, entry yet. Not sure if it's so bad it deserves the M rating but better safe than sorry!!

Anyway I AM really proud of this, I don't usually come up with Christine Whump so this was fun to write.

This was also inspired by my beloved mutual @rumpletrumple's fic, "Who Deserves This?"!

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Hello kind sir. Do you have any idea on where I’m supposed to go to get into the Christian writing community? (I just got into writing, and want to make more believer friends and don’t know where to start 😭)

Welp, when in doubt, yell into the tags.

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for the @chrumblr-whumblr Whump May challenge...

Day 7: "Blame/Guilt" is done!

Fandom: Phantom of the Opera

Whumpee: Raoul de Chagny

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Summary:

"Could you truly get rid of guilt? Or did you have to live with the gnawing feeling of it for the rest of your life?"

Raoul grapples with the guilt he feels over Philippe's death.

UGH FINALLY. Not my favorite but it's okay!! I still wrote at least!!

But this does have a great Raoulstine moment imo, so I'm happy with that!

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day seventeen: touch starved

a Vaniah story. word count 1,050.

He spent a long time in hospital relearning everything. Vaniah slowly regained himself, his memories and his character. He cried a great deal. He was allowed very few visitors, but Jim and Maria were there very frequently, even when he was catatonic. When his health permitted, Mordecai was also there. He couldn’t remember what had happened to Mordecai, but he knew it was bad.

And so, surrounded by the people who loved him (and he thought his family visited a few times, though they weren’t supposed to), Vaniah recollected himself. He never knew afterwards how long he was in hospital; only that when he came out he was a different man, and the violent tendencies he had been developing were entirely gone. Forever after, he only expressed his violence towards himself, or towards others when he considered it necessary. It was no longer an instinctive reaction.

He had lost himself, and with the help of others he found himself again, but not quite the same. He would never be quite the same as beforehand.

Months had passed before he walked out of the hospital unaided. Jim, Maria and Mordecai were by his side. Maria had already graduated to the next stage of the program, but she was going to stay around for a while to help Vaniah. She looked older and sadder than he remembered. Mordecai had managed to contract Legionnaire’s disease and had been hospitalised for a long time too, so he would progress with Vaniah still.

For that Vaniah was glad. Without the constancy of his friends by his side he thought he might forget himself. He was having problems with remembering things—he had almost no memory of the hospital, and frequently struggled with short-term memory—but they said that would probably pass over time.

Whenever he fell asleep, he remembered Maria’s face, though he never remembered it in his waking hours. Though he did not know it, it was the start of a pattern of terrible nightmares plaguing his sleep, and he cried out often. Yet he was never aware of it except in brief flashes.

They said that the combination of hypnotherapy and unusual stress just before that had pushed him to the breaking point, and—unlike what Jim had said once—he was capable of breaking.

The only memory he had clearly from that time of his life was something Jim had said. It lingered in his head occasionally.

“The only budging you will ever do will be complete and catastrophic—no little bending to the whims of others. If you break it will be because you killed yourself.”

Well, he had broken catastrophically. Maybe not in the way Jim had meant, but that was irrelevant. And he still lived—he still lived. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

“Do you really think I’ll kill myself?” he said apropos of nothing to Jim one day, a week after he had returned to the compound. He only realised what a disturbing sentence it was when he saw the look on the other man’s face.

“Why did you ask that?”

“I was wondering. I remembered you told me once that I’d kill myself if I broke. Something about it being complete and catastrophic.”

Jim studied him. “You remember that?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need to talk to a psychologist? I’m not equipped for keeping you safe if you really are a danger to yourself.”

“I’m not. I was curious, that’s all.”

Jim sighed. “This line of work can make it really hard for everyone, Vaniah. I don’t want you to be pushed further than you can bear.”

“How do I know when I get to that stage?” He laughed; Jim glanced wearily at him.

“Talk to me.”

He did. Some days he spent hours talking to Jim, and he was unconscious of how much it was affecting him. He spent less time with Maria and Mordecai, but he was scarcely aware of it. If he had seen what he was to become a year before it would have horrified him. But things which had distressed him deeply at the start did not make him think twice anymore.

He was becoming the monster he had long promised himself he would never become, and Jim was satisfied.

But he was still not entirely heartless. One day he was commanded to injure someone who had just joined the program. The boy was terrified; he was shaking. Vaniah hesitated with the knife in his hand, and eventually laid it down and refused. He suspected it was because of Mordecai’s influence.

For that Jim punished him severely. He had never dreamed one could feel that much pain and remain conscious. Maria was there, too—unless he had hallucinated her—and she wept and begged Jim to stop. Vaniah only passed out, eventually, from blood loss. Then they gave him multiple blood transfusions and let him heal in pain.

He began physical therapy to avoid problems with scarring. He felt better afterwards; the dull pain distracted him from his dark thoughts, and sometimes he was so exhausted he had to go to bed immediately after and sleep.

It was a dark time for Vaniah, though he was worked so hard he didn’t always realise it; as the medication regimen had more and more of an impact on him, he discovered that it was all but impossible to drink himself to drunkenness. He found he liked the vaguely medicinal taste of vodka, and began drinking until everything felt slightly fuzzy; almost every night, as it was the only way he could get to sleep. He woke every day with a hangover, but it became his normal. He never knew how much he confessed to and was manipulated by Jim; nor did he question why he was given so much access to alcohol, where very few others were allowed it.

He became touch starved; the only times he was touched now was to harm, both from others and from himself. Sometimes they made him injure himself, and sometimes he chose it to get away from the memories plaguing him, hanging just out of reach. Nobody had hugged him for a long time, and his friends never initiated embraces now. He suspected they were afraid of him.

That tracked. He was afraid of himself.

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day sixteen: begging

a Vaniah story. word count 1,093.

Vaniah woke feeling considerably more like himself.

In the first place he remembered his name, and the thing chittering in the corner was quieter. He knew it wasn’t real, though he still saw and heard it. But he felt bone-tired, and he had never felt this way before; not to this degree. He wanted to sleep forever, and not in a suicidal way—just in an exhaustion way.

He got up carefully, feeling fragile. Darkness pulled at him, but he resisted it and shuffled across the room towards the door. It grabbed him suddenly and he dropped heavily to his knees and put his head down; the dizziness receded a little.

Someone opened the door. “Good morning, Vaniah.”

He got up, too quickly, and endured darkness for several seconds before it cleared. “Jim.” He wanted to say, “What have you done to me?” He still couldn’t remember. But perhaps the answer would not come even if he asked.

“How are you feeling today?”

“Fine.” The thing in the corner crooned to him, and he swore at it. “Absolutely fine.” He remembered Maria’s face, and it made him nauseous. “I hate you.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“You hurt Maria.”

“Only in virtual reality, and only because we had to show it to you. You’ll never become the man we need without this.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be the man you need.” The world was spinning around him. “Let me out of here.”

“I thought you wanted to persist to help others.” Jim’s voice was infuriatingly gentle. “I know you can handle this, Vaniah. But I know it’s hard, too.”

Just before he blacked out, he told Jim just what he thought of him without varnishing the truth. Jim chuckled.

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“How are you feeling today?” asked the doctor, later.

He suspected he hated the man. He thought there was a reason. But he couldn’t remember. “I’m completely fine.” Vaniah turned his hands over and over, studying them for any hint of answers; they weren’t giving him what he needed.

“Are you sure about that?”

He cursed the man as creatively as he knew how, with several highly improbable speculations on his lineage, family background and preferred hobbies. “Do you kick puppies before breakfast?”

“Every day,” said the doctor with a straight face. “I’m not convinced you’re fine, Vaniah. You weren’t a little while ago, at any rate. I think this is a temporary thing, but I’m not going to take risks with you. I would send you back to the compound, but I’m afraid of things getting worse and not better.”

“Let me out of here,” said Vaniah suddenly, and got up. “I need to see—to see—” He couldn’t remember the name he was seeking for. His heart was beating wildly. The doctor got up too.

“Sit down,” he said in a voice of unmistakeable authority.

“You’ve ruined me,” said Vaniah, moving forward anyway. “Let me out of here!”

Everything went dark. He hit the ground hard, and pain spiked through him. He could not move or cry out; there was a commotion as the doctor yelled for help. Then he got movement back somehow, rolled to a fighting stance as the darkness began to recede. He fought them, three men coming at him fast, but presently they overpowered him. The doctor yelled, “Don’t! Not that!” then cursed as Vaniah felt the stab of a needle. This time he lost consciousness completely.

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Someone was sitting in the chair in the corner when he awoke; he was too afraid to see who it was for a moment, then overcame his fears and saw it was a young woman, who was crying. She said a name and he realised with sudden shock that he didn’t know who he was.

She repeated it and came over to him as he watched her. “What have they done to you?” she whispered, then cleared her throat and said in a more normal voice, “I’m sorry. They weren’t—this wasn’t supposed to happen. Hypnotherapy is supposed to be safe, but this—this absolutely wasn’t. And giving you a sedative on top of the bad effects you’ve experienced, that’s just stupid. They don’t—we don’t know if you’ll pull out of it properly.”

He blinked at her. He felt he should recognise her.

“Don’t you know me?” then she shook her head with a little smile. “No, you don’t need to know me. I’m—”

He remembered her face twisted in a rictus of pain, and screamed. She backed away fast, went for a buzzer. The room began filling up with people.

Someone said, “Not the sedative again, if you value your hands.”

Someone else, who had been drawing up a syringe full of something, put it back down and snapped, “Well, what, then?”

“Give him a moment!”

He was still screaming, clawing at the sheets that covered him. Once he’d got them away, instead of getting up to flee he gripped his head hard, pulling his hair to distract himself from the terrible pain of remembering.

“Stop him!” said someone.

“It won’t hurt him to go bald for a bit,” said the doctor. “Vaniah, can you hear me?”

He responded by rolling out of bed and into the man’s face in one bound. He was still screaming; his throat hurt. He didn’t know who he was—who anyone was—why he was here—

In the end they had to give him the sedative again.

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“—can you hear me?”

“Lift your hand if you can hear me.”

I’m trapped, the voice said. I will never get out of here. They hate me. I hate me. Why can’t I say anything? Why can’t I lift my hand? Do I have a hand?

The hand in front of the eyes twitched, but it wasn’t because of any driving force, and certainly not because of the voice choosing it.

“He’s catatonic,” said a voice nearby, but the whisper carried.

Catatonia. That was it. The eyes blinked briefly and stared at nothing. Someone shone a torch in one eye, then the other. That hurt. But the body could do nothing to help it.

“I hope it will pass,” said the same voice. “Only time will tell.”

The hand twitched again. It was picked up and held, firm pressure from a cool hand.

“Vaniah,” said a female voice to the body. “Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.” A pause. “Please.” The voice broke. “Please respond to me. Please do something—anything—so I know you’re in there.”

Nothing happened.

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@chrumblr-whumblr Day Sixteen: Begging

Fandom: Doctor Who (Fifth Doctor Era) This one kinda got away from me. Not sure it exactly fits the prompt. Five is so fun to write.

Word count: 1,300ish

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“You know, I really do think there has to be a more reasonable way of resolving this--ow, do be careful!”

The Doctor brushed his coat down determinedly as he regained his balance. His captors had shoved him forward non too gently, and he risk a glare in their direction as he was bundled forward. They didn’t seem very receptive to his suggestion of alternate options. Typical.

He was cordially escorted into a large throne room. Very posh--fancy drapes and everything. Naturally, there was a large throne in the center of the room, and sitting on that was the usual pompous leader. 

The Doctor was shoved to his knees at the base of the stairs. The ruler leaned forward--he was a very narrow, thin sort of fellow. Uncomfortably angular.  

“What have you brought before me?” the ruler asked, leaning forward on his throne. The Doctor moved to stand and greet him, but a hand on his shoulder kept him down. Charming hospitality. 

“Hello,” he said. “I was just passing through, you know.” Strictly not true. But the Doctor wasn’t sure he wanted to explain to this fellow that they had only come here because Nyssa had managed to get herself captured and he was trying to break her out. Technicalities. 

“Trespasser?” the ruler asked. 

“Oh, more a guest,” the Doctor tried. He grinned, leaning back on his knees and clasping his hands in front of him. “Wonderful hospitality you have here, you know. I love all the shoving. Makes me feel right at home.”

“We do not have guests on Prophibus Prime,” the ruler said. He stood, stepping down the steps leading up to his throne and stopping part way. “What is your name” 

“I’m the Doctor,” the Doctor said. He tried to stand again, but again was kept down with a hand on his shoulder. That was starting to get annoying. 

“Doctor.” The ruler scoffed, staring down at him. “How can you be of use to me? Only those who have a use can stay here.” 

This really was a wonderful planet. 

“Oh, many things,” the Doctor said. There were only actually a few guards. He figured if he could distract the man standing right behind him who kept shoving him down, he might have an opportunity to dash towards the door. Then he could lose himself in the hallways. 

But before he could continue talking or enact any plan, the door was shoved open again, and he heard Tegan’s voice even before seeing her. 

His hearts sank. This had taken a turn he didn’t want. 

“Let go of me! This is ridiculous! I demand to talk to--oh. Hello Doctor.” Tegan’s voice faded into uncertainty as she was pushed up the grand hall to join him. 

“Hello Tegan,” the Doctor greeted cheerfully, looking her up and down as he spoke. She looked unharmed, something he was eager to keep true. “Come to rescue me?” 

“No, me actually.” Nyssa’s voice came from further back and the Doctor twisted to see her, also escorted by a guard. 

Tegan scoffed, shoving off the hand that was pushing her down, and sat down on the ground. The Doctor figured that was probably a far more comfortable position and shifted to do the same, taking his weight off his knees. 

Nyssa echoed them, and soon all three of them where sitting cross legged in front of the ruler. He glared down at them. 

“You trespass in my kingdom, scoff at my authority, make a mockery of my justice. And what--you expect mercy?” 

This could take a deadly turn very quickly. The Doctor folded his hands neatly in his lap and nodded. 

“You seem like a reasonable man,” he said. His plan was changing all the times, the appearance of Nyssa and Tegan complicating things. He’d been hoping Tegan could have enacted some kind of distraction, but that clearly wasn’t going to happen. 

Where was Adric? 

“I am no such thing,” the ruler bellowed. He stood and stepped forward, moving down two of the steps. “Doctor, I sense there is much hidden in your depths.” His voice was cool, silvery, and filled the Doctor with an uneasy dread. This was not a man to underestimate or antagonise.

“Perhaps we can come to an arrangement,” he said. Maybe it would have been better to remain kneeling, to give the ruler some semblance of being in control still. Too late now. 

“Oh I think we shall. You Doctor, shall tell me all of your secrets.” He stepped forward, off the last few steps until he was standing right above the Doctor. The Doctor tipped his head up, meeting his eyes, refusing to be cowed by a petty planet ruler who was little more than a bully. 

A bully with a lot of men and a lot of sharp, pointy sticks. 

“And if I don’t feel like telling you anything?” the Doctor asked. His voice was even and controlled--now was not the time for attempted levity. 

“You will.” For a long moment, they just stared at each other. The Doctor on the floor, the other man staring down at him. Then the ruler turned and walked back up the staircase. “The woman shall be put to death, I have no need for them. Take the Doctor to a cell.” 

“No!” The Doctor scrambled to his feet at the command, lunging forward a step before being grabbed from behind and hauled back. “I will not tell you anything if you harm them.” 

“I’d like to see you try!” Tegan added. 

The ruler arrived at his throne and sat, malice in his eyes. 

“Is that so.” He lifted a lazy hand. “Kill that one.” 

“Don’t you dare touch her!” Tegan shouted. But the guards grabbed Nyssa and dragged her to her feet. Her eyes were wide with fear but she didn’t say anything. Dear little Nyssa, never saying anything. 

“If you hurt her I will give you nothing,” the Doctor said, feeling increasingly helpless. “Let them go, and I’ll give you what you want.” 

“No Doctor,” Nyssa said softly, in that quiet, frantic way of her’s. 

“I will not negotiate with prisoners. The women mean nothing. She amuses me.” A lazy finger at Tegan. “But she is nothing.” 

The Doctor pulled his arm free from the man holding him and stepped forward, stopping at the base of the stairs before throne. 

“I promise you. I will tell you whatever you want to know. Just let them go unharmed.” 

He lowered his head, helplessness making it hard to breathe. He would not let Nyssa be harmed. Not while he had a responsibility for her. 

The ruler hesitated just a moment, clearly relishing in the power he had over the moment. Tegan took full advantage of this. 

She scrambled to her hands and knees and lunged across the ground, tackling the man holding Nyssa around the legs. Nyssa stepped aside quickly, taking advantage of his disorientation to confiscate the sword he was holding. He collapsed heavily to the ground and Tegan hurried to her feet. 

The guard who had been holding Tegan reacted a moment too late, rushing towards the girls, but Nyssa flicked her sword in his directly and scored a long, thin gash up his arm. 

“Oh well done!” the Doctor cried. There were three other guards in the room, not to mention the ruler. It was time to make themselves very scarce very fast. “It’s been a pleasure, but we really must dash. Come along!” 

Tegan and Nyssa didn’t need any more prompting. With the Doctor just a step behind them, the three of them sprinted towards the door. 

“Where’s Adric?” the Doctor gasped as they skidded out of the door. Nyssa was still holding her sword. 

“I thought he was with you!” Tegan cried. 

“Oh don’t tell me you’ve lost him,” the Doctor groaned. “We just got Nyssa back.” 

“He’s probably waiting quite comfortably for us back at the TARDIS,” Nyssa said with a smile. 

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for the @chrumblr-whumblr Whump May challenge...

Day 6: "Tied to a Chair" is done!

Fandom: One Piece

Whumpee: Roronoa Zoro

Rating: Teen and up

Archive Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Summary:

Zoro is captured by some idiot pirates, who decide to give him a hard time.

MY FIRST EVER ONE PIECE FIC EHEHEHEHE! If you look at my blog it's probably obvious that I have a newfound hyper-fixation on One Piece... I just love it so much okay. And I LOVE Zoro. So obviously... that means whumping him :)))

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@chrumblr-whumblr Day Fifteen: Memory Loss

Fandom: Original work (secret of Brightwater) One day I shall figure out a plot for this story.

Word count: 700ish

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Izzy sat at the edge of the camp. It was a quiet night, the evening bustle of the camp having settled into the slow comfort of nighttime. She could hear the soft pops of the dying fire not far away, as well as soft noises from the nocturnal animals in the trees surrounding them. 

Above, the stars glowed in a powerful light, casting the world in a strange, unearthly glow. The mood was just visible, peering over the tops of the trees and Izzy stared at it for a long time. It had shone in the sky for as long as she could remember, but every time she saw it she felt a strange awe, like it wasn’t something she was used to seeing. 

As long as she could remember wasn’t really an impressive feat anyway. 

Tonight was a good night, at least--she was pretty sure it was. When you can’t remember one day to the next reliable, it was hard to tell what was good and what wasn’t. But she remembered a lot. She remembered her name, she remembered why she was at this camp. She remembered that she often forgot. 

None of that was sure. So she would take the good and enjoy it. 

She was writing in her notebook, capturing the quiet evening while she could. Maybe tomorrow she would wake and this whole night would be gone, never to return. Best hold onto it while she could. 

Someone moved behind her and Izzy jerked her head up, glancing behind her. A shadow moved across the ground between her and the fire. 

“Hello?” she called softly. 

“Oh. Izzy.” It was Estella, slipping through the quiet camp. She shifted her route and moved to stand beside the log Izzy was seated on. “I didn’t see you there.” 

Izzy hummed, adding the note to her book. Estella joined me. I don’t know much about her yet, and I don’t think I ever have. 

“What are you doing wandering around so late?” Izzy asked. 

“Bathroom,” Estella said with a long sigh. “I was trying to find my way back to my tent.” 

Izzy nodded. Then she shifted slightly to one side, as though making room on the log, even though there was plenty. An invitation. Estella accepted it, taking a seat beside her. 

“Is it always so… rough,” Estella said with a sigh, running her hand through her hair. With a sidelong glance, Izzy could see it was lose but lightly curled. Well kept for. Her own hair was kept short, and was unmanageable enough as it was. 

“I’m not really the best person to ask about that,” Izzy said dryly. “But from my memory, yeah. That’s part of what you signed up for.” 

Estella sighed, a long, drawn out sigh. Izzy hid a smile. 

“How long have you been here?” she asked after a moment. 

“I’m not sure,” Izzy admitted. While it was a good day, there were still…gaps. There always would be, she supposed. Always gaps about what happened before, how she ended up lying on the side of the road with no memories. 

Gaps about her childhood, about how she had come to be here, about who…

“You’re not sure?” Estella asked. 

Izzy nodded. 

“My…my memory comes and goes.” She waved a hand, pen still in it. “Gets frustrating.” 

“Oh. I imagine so,” Estella said. Izzy hid a grim smile, unsure if anyone could imagine what it was like to be unable to rely on your own memory. 

“Makes it hard to hold onto anything.” Usually, she would open up so much so quickly. Especially not to someone she hadn’t written about in her book. But there was something about the moon-lit air that made it easier to speak. 

Maybe tomorrow she’d have forgotten about this conversation altogether. 

“Sometimes I wish I could forget some things,” Estella said softly. Izzy glanced sideways at her, trying to remember exactly when she had joined the group. Recently, she knew. She was a friend of Ronan’s. From his past. 

It wasn’t coming, and she knew trying to force the memory wouldn’t help. If she even actually knew to begin with. 

“Everyone wants what they don’t have,” she said. Estella hummed quickly, and the two of them sat together in companionable silence as the night drew on.