#Self-done first aid

[lost-shoe]

Smallville - Extinction (3.03)

Whumptober 2022

No. 11 SELF-DONE FIRST AID

[bumblingdragon]

Whumptober - day 11 - Sloppy Bandages/Self-Done First Aid

Terin's hand takes abuse for his blood magic, but uh, that cut was a little deeper than he meant...

even with his practice, bandaging with his teeth doesn't get much easier

[ace-trainguys]

Whumptober day 11 - prompt is self-done first aid

Ingo would hate to bother anyone for help when he is capable of doing it himself.

[whumpneto]

Whumptober 2022 - No. 11 “911, WHAT’S YOUR EMERGENCY?”

Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid | Makeshift Splint

Milo Ventimiglia as Ian Mitchell in Chosen (S01E03)

[wolfeyedwitch]

as a follow up to the bthb …. stitches :))) since they are already talking about the rather questionable medical treatment Bailey received

Pariah Prisoner, Part 5

No. 11 “911, WHAT’S YOUR EMERGENCY?”

Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid | Makeshift Splint

Sorry for everyone whose ask came before this one. I promise I will answer them all; it just won't necessarily be in any kind of sensical order.

CW for: major character injury, injury reveal, blood, medical treatment, implied past torture, stitches, minor shock/dissociation (Zera is not having a good time). Let me know if I missed any tags, or if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

Masterlist

---

Zera honestly couldn’t tell you how the group had made it back to their base. They’d had a head start, given that none of the villains were willing to follow them through their rather extreme means of egress, but still.

Their memories from their landing all the way to the medbay were an adrenaline-soaked mess. Random details stuck out perfectly (Poppet—Bailey?—pulling the knife from their side; the feel of blood soaking through the hasty, sloppy bandages; the ache in their legs from running and the cold prickle of fear along their spine), while anything coherent remained out of their grasp. They only tuned back into their life when Bailey(?) was taken from their arms. 

Zera grasped them tighter for a second, unwilling to let anyone hurt their rescuer. They would- would—

“Zera, stand down,” Elijah said gently. “We’re back in Hero HQ. We’re in the medbay. Maeve needs Poppet laying down so she can examine them.”

Zera nodded unsteadily, feeling like a poorly carved wooden doll: all splinters and stiff joints. With Elijah’s help, they got Poppet-Bailey settled on one of the beds.

“Is-” Zera started, looking around. “Are you okay? How’s Luke? Where’s Luke? Did-”

“Breathe,” Elijah said, tone somehow even more gentle. He led them to a chair that they more or less collapsed into. “Luke’s fine, nothing more than scratches that a band-aid can handle. He didn’t want to be here.”

Zera made a face at that.

“I’m fine too,” Elijah continued, a small smile on his face. “Again, just minor things. The only one who got physically hurt was Poppet.”

Zera blinked. Then blinked again. If their brain would start working again, that would be great. “Physically hurt?”

Elijah’s smile turned sad. “I mean you, Zera. You were a million miles away just now; you had me worried.”

Zera looked away from him, over to where Maeve examined Poppet-Bailey with glowing hands and a practiced eye.

The sound of a chair being dragged across the floor snapped Zera’s attention back to Elijah. He’d brought one close enough that he could sit while continuing to talk with them.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “I know you, Zera. You’ve got something running through your head. Is it about Poppet?”

“Bailey,” Zera said.

“What?”

Zera shook their head, trying to kick-start their brain’s higher functions. “They said their name is Bailey,” Zera continued.

“They told you their name?” Elijah asked, sounding as incredulous as Zera felt. In their line of work, names and identities were either well known, like with heroes or villains that didn’t care to keep a secret civilian identity, or a carefully guarded secret. None of Slipknot’s associates fell into the former category— Poppet included.

Zera nodded woodenly. Their tone was thick when they continued. “And it isn’t just that they told me. It’s how they said it. It was like… God, it was like it was a relief to say it out loud.”

Both heroes turned to look at the unconscious villain then. 

“I think they were telling the truth,” Zera said. “I don’t know what happened to them, but I don’t think they were there by choice. Not really.”

“Not an informed choice, anyway,” Elijah said thoughtfully.

Zera thought of how Bailey had talked about themself, the loathing in their voice when they called themself Slipknot’s toy. 

“They got hurt because of us,” they said, voice low and hoarse. “They were rescuing us. And their own teammates stabbed them for it.”

Warmth spread over their knee. They looked down to see Elijah’s hand covering it. 

“We can’t change what’s happened, Zera,” he said. It was a phrase he’d told them on many occasions.

“We can only move forward and learn from it,” Zera said, completing the phrase. 

“Over here, you two,” Maeve called tiredly.

Zera and Elijah joined her at Bailey’s bedside. 

“I fixed the internal damage,” she said, pointing to a still-open wound in Bailey’s side. “The knife nicked some blood vessels and punctured their lung. I healed the pneumothorax and the internal bleeding, but that’s all I can do for now.” She sounded apologetic, as though it were her fault she was still recovering from using her powers to patch the group up after their last disaster.

“Will they pull through?” Elijah asked.

Maeve nodded. “They should. I’m going to start an IV to help replace the blood they lost, and stitch up the last of that wound. That’s not why I called you over, though.”

She gently rolled Bailey onto their uninjured side, exposing their bare back. 

Zera’s breath caught at the sight. 

Bailey’s back was a patchwork of cuts and bruises layered over a lattice of scar tissue. If Zera didn’t know better, they’d say it looked like…

“Fuck,” they said quietly. “They said. They said the guests ‘got a little rough’, at Slipknot’s last party.”

It looked like Bailey had been whipped. 

“These are at least two days old,” Maeve said. “They had time to scab over, then re-open. They were cleaned and bandaged, but nothing more than that for treatment. Some of these could have used butterfly closures at minimum, and preferably stitches. I would say that Poppet treated these themself.” 

Elijah and Zera shared a look, his grim, theirs horrified. If they’d needed more proof that Bailey wasn’t an entirely willing participant in Slipknot’s schemes? Well. Here it was.

“I’m too tired to figure out what you’re not saying at the moment,” Maeve said. “Right now, I need steady hands— and someone who’s not coming off an adrenaline high, don’t even think about it Zera— to help me document all this.”

Elijah sighed and nodded, probably thinking about all the paperwork this was going to cause. “Right. I’ll send Iris.”

“I’m staying,” Zera said. 

Both senior heroes stared at them. They did their best not to squirm under the scrutiny.

“I won’t get in the way!” they said, probably losing the battle not to sound defensive. “And I won’t offer to do anything, not that you’d even accept. I just… I wanna make sure they’re okay.” 

They sounded more pathetic than they’d really like to admit at that admission. That was probably what made the senior heroes let them stay. 

Zera did as promised. They didn’t try to help with the procedures or the documentation. They did go ahead and fetch the materials Maeve would need—  saline solution, gauze, bandages, suture kit— but then they were a good little hero and sat down, out of the way. 

Iris and Maeve managed to photograph what must have been every cut and bruise on Bailey’s body before Maeve started on the stitches. She took out hemostats and a curved needle, maneuvering them with precision in her gloved hands. Zera couldn’t remember the medical name for the stitch at the moment, but they knew the sewing name for it: whip stitch.

Whip stitch. For some reason, it was almost unbearably funny. Whip stitch, for someone who’d been- been—

And then it wasn’t funny. Not in the slightest. The laughter they’d been holding back transmuted into sobs.

Just what kind of hell had their nemesis been put through?

---

Taglist:

@heathenville @nonbinary-disaster @kim-poce @whump-world @dolls-circus @pickleking8 @ghostfacepepper @cupcakes-and-pain @badluck990 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @extemporary-whump @whumpwillow @multiple-characters1-acct @sunflower1000 @fleur-alise @equestrianwritingsstuff @scp-1296 @livingforthewhump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @suspicious-whumping-egg @kaiwewi @lelly-belly @neuro-whump @newbornwhumperfly @whumpthisway @whumpcreations @wicked-whump @heart4brains @myhusbandsasemni @how-to-be-a-hero @kixngiggles @kurochan @whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @pattonvirglsanders @neverthelass @we-write-as-one @elrysdoesstuff @whumperflies-and-roses @ha-ha-one @whatwhumpcomments @ramadiiiisme @towerlesskey @emmanemanemm @pigeonwhumps

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Reaching Hope

CW: Self-made bandages, injured, ambushed, death threats, guns, fear of child being hurt (no child is harmed), captured

Find Marc and Beringer’s story up til now right here

For @whumptober 2022, days 11, 21, 22: self-done first aid/sloppy bandages, “Take me instead”, and alt prompt 5, “Ambushed”

-

“I feel so stupid,” Beringer says, groaning as he leans forward, resting his forehead in one hand. The rock he’s sitting on freezes his ass right through his heavy canvas pants, but he ignores it. Around them, the woods are beautiful, and Beringer keeps getting distracted, watching a bird flit from one branch to another, listening to a squirrel.

It’s all real.

He’s seen all of this on TV, for sure - knew it really existed, somewhere out in the world. But he - all of the WRU pets, training maintenance and daycare and the cleaning crew who works in the higher floors where employees are allowed to see them - understood that none of it would ever be real for them.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows along the big playroom at the daycare, he could see the parking lot, row after row of cars parked neatly with the sun glaring off their tops, and somewhere nearly out of sight, the bright green sign for the coffeeshop most of them stopped at on their way in if they didn’t use the complimentary coffee shop in the cafeteria. There were neatly spaced trees, carefully landscaped with patches of perfect almost fake-looking grass. The playground attached to the daycare had two small saplings still held in place by twine.

He had never been allowed to see anything like this. 

It’s totally different. He knows what it means, now, to say it’s so cold it’s nipping at your nose. He knows how pine trees smell, and it’s like the candles and air fresheners but not like them at all. He can barely keep his eyes on the trail - there was a deer, a while back, and he had been so enraptured at the sight of the flick of its tail and its crashing speed through the woods that he’d literally tripped over his own feet.

Which is why Marc is currently using a pocketknife to cut off a strip of his own shirt to use as a bandage, because they’re idiots who didn’t bring a first aid kit for this walk through the woods, hoping the trail they’re taking is the right one.

“You’re not stupid,” Marc chides him, gently. 

Beringer feels something shift in his chest, a soft flutter he shoves aside. When he swallows, he feels the safe assurance of his collar around his throat. He definitely doesn’t take the chance to glance sidelong and see the slight softness of Marc’s stomach, a hint of roundness over the muscle underneath. “You just got distracted and tripped. It happens to us all.”

“I know, but… we’re so close. And of course I manage to fall over and slice my arm open on… what, a fu-... a dang tree?” 

“Dang,” intones a soft small voice, with a tone of imperious thoughtfulness.

Beringer looks over at Mallie, who is walking in a slow circle around a tree, mouth open slightly in awe as she looks at how the moss grows on one side but not the other. 

“Nice catch,” Marc says with a wink. “You’re a dad through and through, huh?”

“Not really,” Beringer says, and wonders why the idea thrills him so much, that there might be children out there who will really be his, not just borrowed and handed back and disappearing into schools as they grow older, over and over and over again.

He realizes he might get to see Mallie grow up and his throat nearly closes with awe at the thought.

“When I was a kid, I read a book,” Marc says, conversational, not noticing how Beringer feels like he’s been hit by a train driven by time, finally stopping long enough to let him on and let him stop hovering in a limbo that never goes anywhere at all. He takes Beringer’s arm in his hands, and his touch is so soft and gentle that it makes the hairs on Beringer’s arm stand up, sends a spark racing up to his shoulder, his neck, to light up his mind. 

“Hm, kids sometimes do that,” Beringer answers, teasing to cover up the tremble in his voice, and catches the telltale flush on Marc’s face. He blushes so easily, and Beringer wonders if he even knows it.

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious. Anyway, my point was-... Mallie, are you listening?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Mallie replies automatically, crouched down and poking one finger into a soft bed of green moss, upper teeth gnawing on her lower lip in thought. “I’m listening.”

“Okay. Because this is for you, too, honey. I read this book where this kid got lost in the woods, or… left there, or something. And he was trying to survive, right? Until he got rescued. And he said something about how moss only grows on the north sides of trees.”

Beringer blinks, leaning forward, wincing with a hiss as Marc starts to wrap up his arm and it stings. 

“Sorry,” Marc says, tipping his head slightly to the side as he looks up. 

Beringer very nearly leans over for a kiss, stopping himself with a reminder that he’s supposed to be telling Marc thank you and fuck off once they get to Hope.

But... maybe Marc could stay for a few days to help him adjust to life outside of the Facility. He’s never been anywhere else before this, after all… He could use the help getting up to Canada.

Rumors say if you can just cross the border, you’ll be safe to start over. He can figure out who he is once WRU can’t breathe down his neck anymore. 

“No, it’s okay, just… what were you saying about moss? Does it really only grow north?”

Marc laughs. “No, but I thought it did. And when I went hiking with my dad, when I was like eight or nine, I got incredibly lost trying to follow that advice. Moss can grow anywhere it wants, who’s going to stop it, huh? It’s older than like... every other form of life, or something. I don’t know if that’s true either, actually.” He ties a knot and leans back, still crouching. “Okay, I think you’re good now. Want to start moving again?”

“Yeah, sure. How far are we, do you think?”

“I think about another hour or so of walking should get us to the perimeter.” Marc turns, looking down at the trail marked carefully through the woods. You have to know what you’re looking for, and somehow Marc does. Beringer had asked how, but all Marc had been willing to say was that some people from Hope had been caught a few years ago, and WRU knows exactly where it is and how to get there, and chooses not to. 

Beringer tries not to think about WRU knowing where the only real sanctuary on this side of the border is. If he can just get to Canada, WRU can’t touch him there, if they even know he’s alive and didn’t die in the fire.

Mallie stands up, blinking as she looks deeper into the woods. “Daddy, there’s a man,” She says, curious and not immediately alarmed. 

Marc looks over his shoulder at her. “What, honey?”

“There’s a man,” She says, pointing.

“There’s a man?”

“He just told me to shush and stop telling you things.” She narrows her eyes. “You’re not my dad, you don’t tell me to shush!”

There’s an exhale from somewhere nearby. “Shit,” a strange male voice says.

Marc and Beringer meet eyes.

“She’s got you there,” Someone else says, higher-pitched, clearly failing at hiding their laughter.

“Oh for fuck’s-...” The first voice sounds irritated now. “Okay, fine, listen you three - don’t move!” 

Marc and Beringer turn to look in that direction.

“I said don’t move, what part of don’t move-”

“Sorry!” Marc puts his hands up, and Beringer follows suit after glancing sideways at him, eyes wide. 

People step out from behind trees in every possible direction, surrounding them, a haphazard mix of shotguns, rifles, and handguns aimed at them. Mallie is a silent still figure with wide terrified eyes.

“Daddy?” Mallie’s lips wobble.

“Oh, crap, the kid’s going to cry,” Someone says. “I hate when kids cry. I used to be a-”

“Ssssshhhh!”

Mallie’s nose scrunches up - her eyes follow suit, squinting shut, and she goes red in the face as her lips start to pull back from her teeth. Beringer knows that face.

She lets out a wail, deafeningly loud, and there’s a sudden burst of movement and motion as birds take off, startled by the racket.

“Mallie!” Marc goes for her, stops short when a rifle is aimed at his head. “That’s my daughter, please let me-”

“We said don’t move!” The man holding it snaps.

“Jesus, just let him hold her,” The woman who originally laughed says. “I can’t listen to her cry this whole time, Kevin-”

“No names! Oh for fuck’s fucking sake, are you all fucking amateurs?”

“Don’t cuss in front of a kid!”

“... Don’t cuss, what are you, twelve?”

“Please,” Marc says, hands up, dropping the pocketknife and kicking it in the direction of the man aiming the rifle. “Please, that’s my daughter, please just let me hold her, God, please...”

“I-...” The man hesitates, glances sidelong to another, then back, bracing the rifle back up. “I, I said don’t move!”

“Please-”

“Daddy,” Mallie cries, “I want my daddy!” Her voice is so desperate and scared and sad. 

“She’s just a kid.” Beringer stares, helpless and hurting, then comes to a decision. He feels like his arms and legs move through molasses as he starts to turn to grab her-

Marc beats him to it. 

Mallie’s father throws himself forward and scoops his daughter up, then drops down to the ground, curling around her with his entire body in a movement of such pure and perfect instinct that Beringer hasn’t even finished raising one hand before it’s done. 

“If you’re gonna shoot someone, just shoot me, not her!” Marc yells. “But you can’t make me not hold my little girl!”

“Oh, Christ, Kevin, just let it go,” A short man says. He looks barely adult, if that, and Beringer can see tears in his eyes, too. “He just wants to hold his kid.”

There’s a gun pressed to the back of Marc’s head, but he stays still, right where he is. Mallie’s little arms are around his neck, her face buried against him as she cries. Her sobs make Beringer’s whole body ache with the need to soothe her, but he doesn’t dare move.  

“Don’t hurt her,” Marc says, voice breathless. “Please, please don’t hurt her, she’s just a little girl… She’s never hurt anyone! Please, she’s just a baby, she’s just a baby-”

“Jesus,” Someone says, and they all look uneasy then. “What do we do?”

“Kevin, go grab Brock. Tell him the alarm was two men and a little girl on the woods trail.” 

“But-”

“Kevin. Put your gun away and do what I said. I’m Brock’s second, not you.”

Kevin, jaw working angrily, nods and runs back through the woods, headed in the direction of Hope. 

Marc clutches Mallie to his chest. “Please,” He keeps begging, and Beringer’s heart hurts as much for him as for Mallie’s terror now. “Please, please don’t hurt my daughter, I brought a runaway, I’ve got a runaway-”

There’s a pause, the people shifting uneasily as they keep their weapons aimed. The woman, a muscular, tall woman Beringer knows was a Guard Dog once, looks over at Ber himself, eyeing him up and down with suspicion. “Name and designation,” She commands, voice sharp. 

A shudder of unease ripples down Beringer’s spine. He’s always hated how the handlers demand those things.

“Beringer,” He says, and puts his own hands up, shifting from foot to foot as they all move a little closer, circling around the little group. “554897, Facility 001.” Someone gasps. Beringer closes his eyes, flinching a little at the sound. “In, um. B-Berras.”

“That’s headquarters,” Someone mutters.

“We all know that, you moron,” Someone else snaps back. 

The woman looks back at Beringer. “Finish your designation.”

“I… right.” Beringer has to take a shaky breath. “Designation Facility Platonic, Child Development.” His voice is airier than he wants it to be, and he hadn’t really considered what would happen if Hope turned out to be something other than he had dreamed. Now, though, now is the time to get away from Marc for good. 

To be on his own, and leave Marc behind to whatever Hope decides to do with him.

But...

Looking down at Marc holding his daughter, kneeling on the ground with his arms so tightly around her - thinking about how much Marc gave up to get him here, leaving his entire life behind in one fell swoop… Beringer steadies himself, and makes a different plan. “This is Handler Marc Sonders,” He says, to another soft exhale.

“Handler,” The youngest man repeats. “I-I thought they couldn’t come here-”

“They can’t,” The woman says, voice low. “It’s all right, Esteban.” Her entire demeanor changes as she looks at the younger man, softens visibly. 

Beringer clears his throat. “And this... this is his daughter Maliyah Sonders. They-... they helped me run away.” 

There’s a pause, and then someone previously behind everyone else pushes forwards. It’s a young man, willowy in build and slight, with a rounded face and close-cropped hair. He asks, voice slightly uncertain, “Handler Sonders?” 

Marc closes his eyes, breathing out, and then he looks up and searches through the small crowd of heavily armed people, each and every one ready to shoot him, until he finds who he’s looking for. To Beringer’s surprise, Marc smiles in recognition. “I remember you,” He says, softly. “You were-... 098… 09844-... 5? Platonic? Companion? Sorry, the numbers are... a lot.”

“Six,” The person answers, almost shyly. “098446. And, um. Yeah, Companion.” It’s a willowy young man with a rounded face and close-cropped dark hair. He’s lowered his gun, and it points at the ground, now, not at Marc. Not that that means he’s in any less danger - there are still twelve others holding weapons, too. “I’m Rye, now.” 

“Rye. I like that.” Marc’s voice is breathy, too. “You picked that name?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I picked it.”

“It’s a good one.” He shifts, and everyone tenses, but it’s just so he can move from crouching to sitting right down on the ground, on a soft bed of pine needles and leaves. “Did you... did you have any issues with the surgery afterward? You still had stitches last I saw you.”

“No, I didn’t. I was already mostly fine when I went to my prospective, but...” Rye grins, shy and soft. “Everything was perfect - about the surgery, I mean. The scars aren’t even very big.”

“Good,” Marc says, and it sounds like he means it. Marc’s arms are still tight around Mallie, who is slowly settling down and looking through her hair at Rye. “What... what went wrong?”

“Well... I didn’t last at my prospective’s,” Rye says, and steps forward. The others look at each other uneasily, but no one one stops him. 

Beringer moves, too, taking each step with care, until he is next to Marc, where he slowly sits down, too, leaning against Marc’s warmth in the chilly air. “I ran away.”

“I can see that,” Marc says, and someone might even chuckle. “Was she cruel?”

“No… no. But her-... her daughter was. She kept hurting me. Hitting me and... and I didn’t want to be there any longer. I left my-... I left my-... I left Mrs. Robbins a note to say goodbye, and told her it wasn’t her fault, but that if she got another one she shouldn’t let her daughter... be mean like that. I was just tired of having to lie about bruises.”

“Then I’m glad you ran,” Marc says, with firmness. “It was the right thing to do. Heck, all of you... all of you did the right thing. Pets shouldn’t even exist.”

The circle of runaways all look at each other, eyebrows raising. 

Marc sighs. “Rye... You look great.”

“I… I do?” 

“Yeah. You look like you like living here. You look... really happy.”

“I do,” Rye repeats, with his shy smile widening. “I am.” He’s clearly forgotten his gun entirely, it’s all but dangling in his hand. He turns and looks around at the assembled group. “Handler Sonders was nice, um. He was nice to me. He never… touched. Like they do. He was always nice about teaching us. He never touched.”

Beringer watches Marc wince. “No. I never… God. I’m so sorry, Rye. I’m so sorry you were hurt. All of you.”

“It’s okay,” Rye says, softly. “You were nice.”

“None of them are nice,” The ex-Guard Dog says, her lips pulled back in a sneer. “They’re all handlers.”

“She’s right. We’re-... we’re all monsters. That’s why I quit.” Marc laughs, and it’s a desperate, sad sort of hysterical laughter that only makes Mallie cling to him more tightly. Beringer puts a hand to her back, and feels it rise and fall rapidly with her terrified breathing. “Or, um. I guess I sort of faked my death? I’m not sure what I did, exactly. But when the Facility burned, Ber and I ran. I don’t-... work for WRU anymore. I hated it, anyway.”

“Bull-fucking-shit.” That’s a man’s voice, somewhere behind them, deep and hostile. Kevin must be back. “Bull. Fucking. Shit. Why didn’t you quit, if you hated it so fucking much?”

“Hey, there’s a kid here,” Someone chides. “You could control your language for five minutes!”

“You think I give a shit?” The man answers, and Beringer can hear his eyeroll in the tone of his voice. “Why didn’t he quit? Huh? Why?!”

“Not a lot of them get the option,” Someone else speaks. His voice is melodic, fluid and calm, and the whole group seems to go still and quiet with some kind of respect. He steps around in front of Marc, Beringer, and Mallie, and moves into a crouch. He’s older than Marc, with salt-and-pepper hair and a five o’clock shadow, heavily muscled arms. He isn’t holding his gun - it’s still holstered, and Beringer relaxes, just a little. “They disappear, don’t they? The handlers who quit, who don’t like it. The ones who don’t do the job. They just... vanish.”

Marc is quiet, and then slowly nods. “Yeah, so... If you’re lucky,” He says, voice low, “You sign an NDA and you never speak about it again. Like Connor Manning did. Just go, and we’re all supposed to pretend you never existed. That’s… that’s the best possible option.”

“Right.” Brock nods. “And if you’re not lucky?”

“You disappear,” Marc says. His voice is low. “They bring us all in, parade us through, to see you on the Drip, too.”

One of the runaways makes a sound like a choked sob. The others are dead silent.

“And after that?”

Marc’s jaw works, and his eyes slowly. “Then they ship you off, and a few months later you’re wearing a collar, your name is a number, and they sell you off at a private auction we’re not supposed to know about.”

Beringer turns and looks at Marc sharply. “They-... you mean-”

“If you fuck up too bad as a handler,” Marc says, nearly whispering, looking over at Beringer now. Their eyes meet. “You become a pet, too, if they catch out.”

Beringer’s heart freezes in his chest. “You what?”

“You didn’t tell him?” Brock, who seems to be in charge, tips his head to one side, curiously. “You helped him escape and you didn’t tell him what happens to you if you get caught? If we send you back the way you came from, if you ran into WRU’s recapture crew out here in the wilderness, or worse, back in the city?”

“He didn’t need to know.” Marc stares the man down, jaw set. “I knew the risks when I decided to do it.”

“Marc-... if I had known-... I wouldn’t have asked for your help-”

It’s a weird, unsettling feeling as Beringer realizes he means it when he says that. 

“It’s all right, Ber.” Marc turns to look at him. His voice is soft and soothing. “It’s okay. I knew there was a chance, that’s all. I put it in my will that my parents could take Mallie if anything happened to me. WRU makes it look like an accident, there’s no body to bury, but everyone says you’re dead. Mallie would’ve been safe. It’s just... Look, we made it here, didn’t we? You made it.”

“What happens to… to you, though?”

Marc looks back at the surrounding crowd with their weapons. “I guess that’s up to them,” He says, softly. “But… whatever it is… please. Just… don’t hurt Mallie. Whatever you’re going to do, just do it to me. Take me somewhere she can’t see, and… and just leave her out of it. Ber… Ber can take care of her-”

“Daddy, no,” Mallie cries, and tightens her grip on him.

“Ssssshhhh,” He whispers to her, and presses a kiss into her hair. “It’s okay, baby girl. It’s all right. Beringer can take care of you for a little while, if I can’t, okay? Just for a little bit.”

Mallie sniffs, hard. “I don’t wanna go with Beringer.”

“I know, but sometimes we have to do these things, don’t we? It’s okay. They just want to talk to Daddy for a while.”

There’s a long pause. 

Brock pushes himself back up to his feet. It’s Beringer he addresses. “All right. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re not expected, you used a trail nobody is supposed to know about, and you’ve got a handler with you. The first step is interrogation, and if you don’t cooperate with that-”

“Me.” Marc looks up, and his eyes glimmer with tears, but he’s resolute. “Interrogate me. I can tell you a whole lot more than Beringer can. And I have-... in my pocket. I have something in my pocket I thought might help smooth our way, and explain why we’re on the trail. Why we know about it.”

The man stands back, nods, gestures for Marc to stand. With Beringer’s help, he makes it without ever putting Mallie down. Beringer reaches into his pocket while he keeps Mallie in his arms, pulling out the USB and holding it out.

Brock takes it, frowning as he looks at it, dangling on a little nylon lanyard. “What’s on here?”

“Everything,” Marc says. “Everything WRU knows about Hope, about you. All of you. I’m currently sort of hoping WRU thinks the lib group that set the fire killed me and used my ID to get into the system.”

The assembled group goes silent and still. Brock nods, sharply, and steps backwards. “All right. Come on. It’s a long walk back to Hope with a child in your arms.” 

They end up at the center of a circle of heavily-armed runaways, walking down the trail, and Beringer realizes that, whatever happens to him next… he wants Marc with him, and Mallie, too. 

“If it’s not enough,” Marc says, voice low, shifting Mallie around so she’s more comfortable to carry, “Then you take her to Canada, and you start over, okay, Ber? Get her to call you Dad. No one will know.”

“Marc-”

“No, don’t… don’t talk. Just. If I don’t get to leave with you, you take her and you go, and give her a better life than I did.”

“You love her more than I ever could, Marc. You’re a good dad. You’re the best dad-”

“I’ve been a bad person, though. I let her grow up thinking this is all normal and okay. Take her and teach her it isn’t if I-... if I don’t get the chance. Okay? Promise me you won’t leave without her.”

Beringer looks at Mallie, back to Marc. Then he smiles, just a little. “I promise I won’t leave without you,” He says, instead.

Even now, Marc blushes when he looks away and down at the ground, trying to hide a smile. 

-

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @wildfaewhump @whump-tr0pes @hackles-up @orchidscript  

For whumptober: @whumpworld 

[random-fandom-whump]

Whumptober Day 11: Self-Done First Aid ↳ Shooter (2007)

[drabbles-mc]

Bad Choices

Nestor Oceteva x F!Reader

Whumptober 2022: No.11 "911, What’s Your Emergency?”- Sloppy Bandages & Self-Done First Aid

Warnings: angst, language, blood/injury, Young Nestor Feelings

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Okay so @narcolini dropped this picture in the chat the other day and dragged me right back into my Young Nestor thoughts and feelings. I’m not upset about it at all. I’ve missed him.

Mayans Taglist: @buckybarneshairpullingkink @thesandbeneathmytoes @paintballkid711 @queenbeered @kelpies-shed @sesamepancakes @yourwonkywriter @chibsytelford @gemini0410 @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead @plentyoffandoms @amorestevens @garbinge @themoonandthewicked @bucky-iss-bae @bport76 @rosieposie0624 @mylittlelonelyappreciationtoo @mijop @choochoo284 @blessedboo @holl2712 @lakamaa12 @masterlistforimagines @shadow-of-wonder @withmyteeth @crowfootwrites @redpoodlern @punkgoddess-98 @black-repunzel99 @lexondeck​ @fanfic-n-tabulous​ @i-love-scott-mccall​ @mijagif​ @frattsparty​ @winchestershiresauce​ @beardburnsupersoldiers​ @mveggieburger​ @thanossexual​ @littlekittymeow​ @beardsanddetectives​ @anditsmywholeheart​ @passionatewrites​ (If you want to be added to the taglist, please let me know!)

The sound of someone knocking on your door roused you from your deep sleep on the couch. You slowly opened your eyes, the light from the television feeling much brighter than it had been when you fell asleep. You groaned quietly as you sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. For a moment, you thought that maybe you misheard things. Maybe it was a few doors down, or maybe it was just your upstairs neighbors being obnoxious again.

You were about to flop back down and go back to sleep when the knocking started up again. It was definitely outside your door. You huffed as you swung your legs off and stood up. You dragged your hands down your face as you made your way to the door. You looked through the peephole, and you hated that you weren’t surprised by who you saw on the other side of the door.

Undoing the chain and flipping the deadbolt, you pulled the door open. Nestor stood on the other side, a lopsided grin on his face as he held his one arm tight against his side.

“Hey,” he said, not sure how he was supposed to introduce this entire situation to you.

“Hey.” You tried and failed to bite back a yawn. “You good?”

“Um. Not really.” He took his hand away from his arm and you saw where the blood had soaked through the fabric of his long-sleeve shirt. Honestly, the fact that he was wearing something with full sleeves should’ve been your first clue that something was wrong.

“Fuck,” you tried to keep the curse quiet as you reached, pulling him in by his good arm, “Get in here.”

You shut the door and flipped the lights on in what seemed like one swift motion. Nestor squinted his eyes for a second, trying to adjust from the dim light of the hallway outside your apartment and the previously nonexistent light of your living room.

He was holding onto his arm again, and you weren’t sure if it was helping with the pain, the bleeding, or if he was just trying to continue hiding it from you because the look on your face when you saw the blood wasn’t reassuring.

“What the hell happened?” you asked as you turned the television off, giving Nestor your full attention.

Suddenly he felt like he was being put on the spot. And, in a way, he was. He was no stranger to people grilling him, but it was different with you. The anger in your voice was just a shroud for your worry, and that’s what put him on edge. Straight-up anger he could deal with. Not this.

“Um,” he picked at the stained sleeve of his shirt, “things got kinda messy earlier.”

“I can see that.” You shook your head. “How messy?”

“Can’t go to the hospital because they ask questions, kind of messy.”

“Jesus.” You were still shaking your head at him as you motioned to the couch. “Sit down. I’ll grab some stuff to try and fix you up.”

He nodded, on the brink of saying thank you when you turned and took off towards your bathroom. He sat down on the couch, awkwardly looking around your apartment. It was far from the first time he’d been over, but it had never been under these circumstances. You knew him, you knew Miguel too. While you didn’t have all the details of everything, you still knew. But you never pried, and he never really offered anything up. Plausible deniability or whatever other excuse he could come up with to keep you at arm’s length away from it all. But now he was sitting on your couch with blood leaking out of his arm and the very real danger at hand was about to become impossible to ignore.

A couple minutes later, you walked out with your first aid kit and a few washcloths in your hands. You set them on the coffee table before walking into the kitchen, turning the sink on, and letting the water run till it got hot while you grabbed a bowl to fill. Once it was full, you carefully walked back over and set it alongside the other items that you’d just put down.

Then you sat on the edge of the coffee table so that you were facing Nestor. Now that you were taking a moment to really look at him, you saw how tired he looked. He hid it well, but you’d known him for too long to be fooled. Letting out a sigh, you leaned forward so that your elbows were propped against your knees, only then realizing that your legs were slotted between his. You pushed that fact from your mind, choosing instead to focus on the whole entire reason that Nestor had showed up to your apartment in the middle of the night.

“Where else?” you asked as you pulled on a pair of gloves.

“What?”

You gestured vaguely to his whole body. “Where else did you get hurt? Shot, stabbed, bit, whatever happened here,” your laugh was half-hearted as it punctuated your sentence.

He chuckled. “I didn’t get bit. What do you think I do?”

“I don’t think I want to think about it too much,” you told him honestly.

He frowned for a moment but he couldn’t get mad at your honesty. He especially couldn’t get mad about it considering he was the one intruding on you like this. His hesitation spoke volumes. You leaned back, looking at him with raised eyebrows. When he didn’t move or say anything else, you nodded towards his chest. “Gonna have to lose the shirt, Nes.”

“What?”

“You lose your hearing today too?” you joked. “I can’t get to your arm while you’ve got this on.” You tugged at the sleeve on his good arm. “The one time you decide to wear something with sleeves.”

“I wore the sleeves,” he said as he carefully pulled the shirt off over his head, “so not everyone on the street would see me bleeding.”

“Just me?” you asked as you took the shirt from him, setting it on the table next to you while making sure the blood didn’t get on it.

“Just you.” The tiny smirk that was pulling at the end of his mouth made you want to slap him.

“Let me see what the damage is, then.”

You reached for his arm, and you noticed that the smug, amused look on his face faded quickly as your fingers wrapped gently around his arm. You frowned as you looked at the way he had haphazardly wrapped gauze around his arm. It was amazing to you that it was even still clinging to him at all.

“What the hell did you do?” you asked as you slowly and carefully began to unwind the gauze from around his bicep.

“What?”

You held the sad string of bandage in your hands. “I mean what the hell is this?” You laughed despite the situation. “You were in the Navy. They didn’t teach you how to wrap a bandage around a wound?”

“I wasn’t a medic, alright?”

You smiled and shook your head. “Thank god for that. All those officers would’ve been fucked.”

He shook his head at you, but you could see it on his face that he did find it all a little amusing. Neither of you said much as you cleaned up the blood on his arm. As you cleaned away the blood, you saw what the injury on his arm really was. You hadn’t been expecting a bullet wound, although maybe you should’ve known better. Your frown reappeared as you looked closer at it. You knew that he probably needed more help than you were able to give him, that his wound maybe needed the attention of things that weren’t handy in your little first aid kit. But you also knew that the chances of him going to the hospital were slim-to-none. Hospitals asked questions.

You looked at him, and judging by the expression on his face, he knew exactly what you were thinking. He gave a small shrug and shook his head at you. He knew that you were right—you usually were. But he wasn’t going to run the risk of getting seen by a professional. You almost wanted to ask why he didn’t go to Miguel with this. Certainly that family must have someone on call.

“What?” he asked, seeing the way your facial expression kept shifting as you worked through all of your thoughts.

“Nothing.” You didn’t want to get into everything that you were thinking and feeling. Apparently his day had been shitty enough. “Sucks that your ink is gonna be fucked up now.”

“Least I get to keep the arm,” he joked, matching your sarcastic tone.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, something reminiscent of a laugh. “At least, yea.”

Both of you fell quiet as you finished meticulously cleaning out the wound to the best of your ability. He cringed and winced as you moved his arm around, winced a little harder when you dragged the swab with medical alcohol over it. He didn’t pull away, but the tension in his body was impossible to miss. You felt a little bad for him, but you were also keenly aware of the fact that he was the one who decided that this was the next apparently logical step after finishing his Navy stint. You’d never asked too much about it, and you were trying to figure out if you were regretting that now.

“Now,” you grabbed your fresh roll of gauze, “take some fucking notes, alright?” You managed a smile and a small laugh. “That way whatever happened earlier,” you nodded towards the trash can where you’d tossed the old gauze, “won’t happen again.”

“Wasn’t that bad,” he said.

You pulled a face, but it eased into a bit of a smile. “It was pretty bad.” The only reason you were able to joke about it a bit was because it wasn’t as though he was bleeding out on your couch. It was messy, but it wasn’t fatal.

You tore your eyes away for a moment and were surprised to find him actually watching you very closely. His brows were drawn together, lips turned down into a slight but pensive frown. You found yourself smiling at the sight as you went back to finishing the wrap. It was secure, but it wasn’t going to cut off circulation, which was pretty much all you could guarantee him at this point since he wasn’t going to go and get real help.

You almost went to take your gloves off but you stopped yourself. “Any other injuries I should know about?”

He waved you off with his good arm. “I’m fine.”

You pursed your lips for a moment before choosing a different question. “Where else did they get you?”

He huffed out a quiet sigh as he reached for his shirt. He repeated himself. “I’m fine.”

You grabbed the shirt and held it out of reach, feeling like a bit like a schoolyard bully but with better intentions. “Answer the question.”

“I got a graze on my calf but it’s fine. Didn’t even need a bandage.”

You laughed. “I definitely don’t trust your opinion on that.”

“Why not?”

“I saw how well the arm situation went over.” You motioned towards his legs. “Lemme see.”

“I don’t—”

“You came to me, remember?”

He sighed, not able to deny that. He hated how easily he found himself caving when it came to you. It’d always been that way. He used to try and find excuses as to why it worked like that with the two of you, why he could be so cold and harsh with other people but he always seemed to fold when it came to you. He spent years trying to justify it. Somewhere along the way on his drive to your apartment that night, though, he realized that there was no use in trying to come up with reasons for any of it anymore. It’s just how it was with you.

So he gave in. Again. He pulled the leg of his pants up so that you could inspect and decide whether or not you were going to give his cleanup job your seal of approval. He was right that it wasn’t nearly as bad as the wound on his arm. It didn’t need to be wrapped the same way, but a couple band-aids wouldn’t hurt. You didn’t say anything to him about it as you reached for another cotton swab, dousing it with medical alcohol and quickly running it over the cut.

He pulled his leg back. “Fuck. Warn me next time.”

“It’s not that bad,” you said as you rolled your eyes at him. “You got shot today—medical alcohol is the least of your problems.”

He saw you tearing the paper wrapping off of a band-aid and he started shaking his head. “I don’t need a—”

“Keep arguing with me and I’ll put superhero ones on you instead.”

It got him to shut his mouth. He watched, shaking his head at you as you carefully placed the two bandages over his cut so that it was covered. Once you tossed the wrapper into the garbage can, that was when you took your gloves off and let out a sigh of relief.

“Now can I have my shirt?” Nestor asked.

You’d been so wrapped up in your concern that you hadn’t really thought about the fact that he was sitting there shirtless in the middle of your living room. Heat rushed to your face and you hated that you got so distracted so quickly. You cleared your throat as you shook your head.

“It’s disgusting. No way you’re wearing this home.”

His face contorted in confusion. “You want me to just walk out of here shirtless?”

You laughed, shaking your head at him. “No. You’ve got stuff here. I’ll go grab you a shirt that isn’t soaked in your blood.”

“Not soaked,” he said as you made your way back towards your bedroom.

When you walked back out to the living room, Nestor’s new shirt in your hand, he was doing his best to straighten up the mess that had been caused because of him. The garbage can was back where it was supposed to be. You noticed that he’d put his bloody shirt in there as well and you weren’t going to pretend that that wasn’t a bit of a relief. He’d put everything back into the first aid kid and closed it, leaving it neatly in the center of the coffee table.

He looked a little out of place, standing shirtless in the middle of your living room like that. You chuckled to yourself, your amusement being just enough to drown out the other feelings bubbling up in your chest. Looking at the ink that covered his skin, some of his tattoos pristinely finished, others only partway to completion and leaving him looking like a bit of a sketchpad, it was hard to remember that he had been in the Navy not that long ago. His tattoos would’ve been hidden, of course, but still. You’d seen the photos of him in his uniform and you still couldn’t really believe it.

But it was also hard to picture him in his new role with the Galindo family too. It made a little sense, in a weird sort of way, but you still weren’t totally sold on it. You didn’t know all the details of what Nestor did for Miguel and his family, and it was undoubtedly better that way. But if he hadn’t even been doing it for very long and he was already turning up to your place in the middle of the night with bullet wounds, you didn’t necessarily see it getting better from here.

“That for me?” his voice snapped you from your train of thought.

“Oh,” you cleared your throat as you held it out to him, “um, yea. Here.”

His brows knit as he reached for it. “What?”

“What?” you parroted back to him.

“What’s the face for?”

It was difficult to miss the touch of sadness in the laugh that you let out. “I mean. You turned up at my door with a gunshot wound. Sorry if I’m not exactly thrilled about it all.”

He pulled the shirt on, raking his fingers back through his hair once it was on. “I’m fine, though. You fixed the bandages.”

“Nestor…” your voice trailed off, calling him out on his deflection without really having to say it.

He sighed, dropping the act for a moment as he stepped in closer to you. “I know.”

“Why are you doing this, anyway?” Your eyes drifted to his arm, the bottom of the gauze visible as it peaked out from underneath the short sleeves of the shirt you’d given him. “You could’ve re-upped.”

He shook his head. “I was sick of bouncing all over the place.”

You couldn’t pretend that you didn’t understand that. But still. “And…this,” your fingers trailed delicately down the outside of his injured arm, “was the only other option?”

He sighed, eyes locked onto your hand, unable to pry his gaze away from where your fingers were touching his skin. “What do you want me to say?”

You sighed, dropping your head back so that you were looking up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I just. I worry.”

He chuckled. “You didn’t worry while I was enlisted?”

“It was a different worry.”

He nodded understandingly. “I know.”

“Is this gonna become our new thing?” you asked.

“Thought you’d like the excuse to see me.” That stupid little grin was back on his face like it never left.

You rolled your eyes. “Literally any other excuse would do. You don’t even need an excuse.”

“So I got shot for no reason?”

You shoved him on his good side. “Shut up.”

He chuckled as he pulled you into a hug. “It’ll be fine.” He took a deep breath, feeling you relax against him as you finally gave in and hugged him back. “You know I love you.”

“You better,” you mumbled against his shoulder. Neither of you said anything for a moment and then you pulled back so you could look him in the eye. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“What’s that?”

“Is this gonna be a regular thing? You showing up here all…you know…”

“I don’t plan on getting shot all the time, no.”

“Nes.”

“Sorry.” The apology sounded mostly genuine. Deflection just came too easily to him. “It’s a risk. Just like everything. If you don’t wanna be involved, I get it, but—”

“No,” you cut him off, “I mean. Yea, I’d rather you worked for someone who didn’t let you get shot up like this. But…but if you get hurt…I’ll always, you know, I’ll always take care of you.”

He smiled, pulling you back into him again. “Good. I hate hospitals.”

You laughed, the sound muffled against his shoulder but he could still feel the vibration of it against him. “Yea, well, not like I can leave you to bandage yourself up apparently. So I’m kind of your only choice.”

He chuckled, resting the side of his head against yours. “Not a bad choice.”

[callaeidae3]

Whumptober 2022 Day 11: 911, What's your emergency?

Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid | Makeshift Splint

Kyle trying to deal to an injury himself, before anyone else finds out about it.

[how-much-for-a-whump]

WHUMPTOBER day 11: 911, what's your emergency?

"Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid"

Die Bergretter S12E03

[darkthingshappen]

No. 11 “911, WHAT’S YOUR EMERGENCY?”

@whumptober

Warnings for hand whump, breaking bones, torture, electric shock

As ALWAYS, thanks to the AMAZING @whumpcereal for the beta. And to my whumperful crew that always cheers me on: @oddsconvert and @sparrowsage as well as @quietly-by-myself. Y'all are the best!

Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid | Makeshift Splint

“Please.  Please, no more.  I’m sorry!  I swear it won’t happen again.  I just reacted!  I was scared.  Please!” 

The last word was a scream as Whumper snapped Whumpee’s pointer finger backwards.  It joined the other fingers and thumb on his right hand that whumper had broken one by one as punishment for ashing out and hitting Whumper while Whumper tied him to a chair.  

Now, Whumpee was confined to the high-backed chair and unable to protect himself while Whumper decided what to break next.  They shrieked as Whumper feinted toward them.

Whumper laughed at their screams.  “You brought this on yourself, little dove.  You know better than to fight back.”

Whumper took the small metal clamps that were hooked up to the electrical unit he was fond of using when he had Whumpee tied to this chair and placed one on the tip of each broken finger on Whumpee’s hand.  

“No, no!  Please don’t. It already hurts so much.”

“Don’t fret, Whumpee.  I’ll give you some splints later on, and you can fix your hand.  But for right now, I need you to know just how stupid you were.”

“I know. Fuck! I already know.  Please!”

Whumper just smirked and pulled out another set of clamps that he applied to the tips of Whumpee’s good fingers.  

“You apparently forgot.  So, this should help you remember.”

“No.  No!  I’ll remember.  I’ll remmfph!”  An all too familiar rubber bit was shoved between his teeth and buckled around his head.  

Whumpee shook his head desperately, still trying to beg and plead with Whumper that he would remember his place.  That he wouldn’t fight.  He was just here so that Whumper had someone to play with, in any way whumper wanted.  Whumpee had no right to fight back.  He knew that.  He’d sort of accepted it.  He wouldn’t fight again.  He had so many things he wanted to say to Whumper to get him to change his mind, but they were all trapped behind the rubber bit.  

Whumpee’s back arched and his fingers, both broken and whole alike, danced with electricity.  Whumpee would never forget the lesson he learned that day.  Suffering could always get worse.  Things rarely got better.  His fingers shook off and on for the next week and no amount of splinting them could ease the agony of those muscle tremors.  

[ghosts-and-blue-sweaters]

@whumptober-archive

Reblogs are a writers best friend, y’all! They really do help out a ton!

This isn’t on A03 yet, but here’s my account if anyones interested!

~~~

Wilbur's hands are bloody.

They haven't bled in a few days, but removing the bandages had started it up again. Wilbur knows he should be worried, disgusted at least, but all he can feel is a curious sort of wonder as he watches the dark liquid stream down his fingers. It soaks into the pores of his hands, and when Wilbur rubs his thumb and index finger together, he can see his fingerprint screaming back at him, outlined by red. The blood also makes its way under his fingernails, which are chipped and broken. It makes him feel dirty, even though he'd showered last night.

It's an interesting sight. Not bad or good. Just interesting.

A sigh brings Wilbur's attention to Phil, who's kneeling in front of him, peeling the soiled bandages away and tossing them into a bin. The winged man has a confusing expression on his face—brow furrowed as if he's angry, lips pressed tightly together as if he's frustrated, eyes strained as if he's stressed. Wilbur makes a humming sound, lightly swinging his legs back and forth.

"What is it?"

Phil sighs again. "It's just... your hands, Wil."

Wilbur cocks his head. "What about them?"

"They're in pretty rough shape, mate. The bandages were sloppy, and none of the wounds had been cleaned; I'm surprised that nothing's infected." He glances up, making eye contact with Wilbur. "Yet."

"Yeah, well, it's hard to see what I'm doing in a dark room. A room with terrible lights, I might add. Only a few worked, and most of them flickered. A few exploded while I was sleeping. Scared the crap out of me."

A breathy chuckle looses from Wilbur's lips, but Phil doesn't laugh with him. If anything, he seems to grow more upset, reaching for a wet cloth and bringing it to Wilbur's hands with hard eyes.

Wilbur hisses as the cloth makes contact with his skin. 

"That hurts, Phil," He grits out.

"I know."

"Like fire. Or gasoline."

"I know." Phil pauses. And then: "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize. It's a good hurt."

"I know, but I..." Phil glances up again. "What do you mean, a good hurt?"

"I mean..." Wilbur purses his lips. Gazes at his hands, which are covered by the soaking wet cloth that's slowly turning red. Phil's hands are warm against it. "It's my hand. My real hand. And it's bleeding."

He smiles. "I'm alive, Phil. And my hand hurts. And if that's not a miracle, then I don't know what is. Me, alive, talking to you, who's also alive. What are the chances?"

Phil's breath hitches. He doesn't say anything more, so Wilbur doesn't either. Instead, be looks around the room, busying himself with studying it's contents.

It's cozy. Fairly small, but it doesn't feel cramped in the slightest. Vines drape down the walls, reminding Wilbur of the forests he used to walk in as a child. All the furniture is made of wood, sanded smooth and shining with the reflections of the lanterns scattered around. There's even a photo of Wilbur hung up by a window—if he remembers correctly, that'd been taken during a trip to the beach. Sally had been there; she'd shoved Wilbur into the waves not fifteen minutes in, cackling as Wilbur struggled and spluttered. 

That had been a good day.

Wilbur takes a deep breath, letting the scent of of pine trees and tea fill his nose. It feels like a home. Not his home, necessarily, but a home. Phil's home. 

"Hold still," Phil murmurs, and before Wilbur can react, his father is pulling the cloth away from his hands, allowing an intense burning sensation to take its place.

Wilbur sucks in a breath, trying not to yank his hands out of Phil's grasp. He does squirm, though.

Phil winces. "Sorry, mate. I have to make sure these cuts stay clean; wouldn't want them to get infected. Then the pain would be even worse."

"I know," Wilbur strains. "I know."

Phil presses his lips together, not saying another word as he begins wrapping new bandages around Wilbur's fingers. Wilbur sighs in relief as the pain fades, letting his body relax.

Phil tightens the last bandage, looking over his work with a critical eye that comes from years—thousands of years—of practice. "Better?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Phil."

Wilbur waits for his father to let go of his hands, but Phil makes no such motion.

 Wilbur waits.

And waits.

And waits.

"Phil?" He whispers. "I kind of... need my hands back."

Phil blinks. "Oh. Yes, of course... of course you do."

And then, with a moments hesitation, Phil releases his hold on his son's hands, allowing him to pull away and inspect the bandages more closely. They're clean, and much more comfortable than the old ones. Wilbur finds himself smiling.

"That's a lot better than before."

Phil chuckles. "I'll say."

They grow quiet after that. There's something peculiar in the air, Wilbur thinks. As if Phil wants to say something but isn't sure if he should.

Wilbur chews on his lip. "Phil?"

"Yes?" Phil's voice is expectant, hopeful, a little scared. Wilbur swallows.

"Do you... is there something you want to tell me?"

Phil goes very still. Wilbur waits for a response, but gets none.

If he listens closely, he can hear the snowstorm outside, howling against the small house. Snow flies past the window, so quick that it looks like a blur of ice. Wilbur knows that he's safe, though; Phil's house is warm, and Phil's house is sturdy. Nothing will hurt him here.

"Wilbur," Phil croaks. Wilbur's eyes widen at the horrible scratchiness, and he finds himself leaning closer with concern. Phil swallows loudly. "I... I wanted... to..."

Phil looks up, sharp blue eyes meeting deep brown ones—land and sea, Techno had used to compare them to. 

Phil opens his mouth, and Wilbur finds himself holding his breath. He waits, in tense anticipation, as Phil's expression shifts a hundred times in a second, and Wilbur knows he's about to say something significant, something important, something profound-

Phil sags, smiling sadly. In defeat. "It's getting late. You should get to bed."

Wilbur feels his heart fall inside of him, and he hopes his face hasn't done the same thing. "We should get to bed, you mean."

Phil nods. "Yes, of course. We."

He smiles up at Wilbur then; that small, bright smile that's as familiar as the rising sun, as unchangeable and steady as the mountains. The smile that's been there since Wilbur could remember, and has been there ever since, no matter what. 

And suddenly, Wilbur's a child again, knowing that his father will keep him safe from the monsters, because he's Philza. Nothing can get past Philza. Nothing can scare Philza.

Wilbur almost says the words. Those three words he used to say every day, in hugs or through tears or as he laughed or just because. 

The words die on his tongue before they can escape. 

Phil's still looking at him, with an unreadable expression that Wilbur doesn't want to try and decipher just yet. He seems to be waiting. For what, Wilbur doesn't know.

So he does the easiest thing he can do.

He smiles.

And the storm continues raging outside.

~~~

Sand Duo my beloveds.

Originally, Phil was going to have a Big Emotional Moment, but then I realized that… that didn’t exactly fit in this story. So I left it out, and, at least to me, it created an incredibly anticlimactic ending.

…which fit this story really well.

This was a super fun story to write, and I’m pretty darn happy with how it turned out :D

Tag list (let me know if you’d like to be added)

@biathediamond @photogirl894 @ladysongmaster

[karlyanalora]

There’s no medic to call for when you’re a spy. You just had to do it yourself. Alfred bit down on his jacket and yanked his shoulder back into place with a sickening pop and blinding agony. He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, plastered a smile on his face, and waltzed back into the lion’s den.

----------------------

Bruce learned to bandage his own bloody knuckles at the tender age of eight and a half. Alfred wouldn’t let him get them in training, but Bruce sure got them picking fights at school. His tolerance for bullies had vanished with the death of his parents, especially when the older boys picked on young Molly Jenkins. She’d never been the same since her best friend was killed in front of her during a mugging last year. She was skittish now, jumping at any sound that mildly resembled a gunshot, and was prone to tears. The boys thought it was funny; Bruce did not and he cut his knuckles on their teeth.

After the fifth fight, the nurse stopped tending to him first. He had to admit he had the poor woman overwhelmed today. So he found the bandages and did his best to apply them himself. They stuck to the scabs and at home Alfred had to tear them off, though the process was made a bit easier with the use of salt water. He then taught Bruce how to do it properly next time and decided to tutor him at home.

--------------------------------------

Falling off the R-Cycle was not fun and when you didn’t wear pants meant a bad case of road rash. But Alfred was always there to treat it. But that wasn’t the case anymore, was it? Falling off a motorcycle as Nightwing meant a much more manageable road rash that could be easily treated at his apartment, but Dick could still feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. It made him homesick, yet another reminder that he was alone as he picked the rocks out of his skin.

--------------------------------------

Giving yourself stitches was almost a rite of passage in the Batfamily. It’s an important skill, almost second nature, and for some whacked-up reason, Jason finds it soothing. Maybe it’s because in the back of his mind he can hear Bruce’s deep voice walking him through the steps and Alfred’s “Well done, Master Jason” when he ties the knot. Or maybe it’s the fact is that if all it takes is stitches, the wound can’t be that bad. Most of the time Jason just handles it out in the field and goes on with the rest of his day.

That hadn’t been the case when he first became Robin. He’d been much more fond of the superglue method, content to stay as far away from needles as he could. But Alfred had placed a grounding hand on his shoulder as Bruce stitched up his gashed leg, gently explaining everything he was doing.

According to Dick, that Bruce had died with Jason. The light of gentleness had gone out and he had never returned to the man who was good with kids and called you “chum” and “lad.” Just another reason Jason was a mistake and his coming home wouldn’t fix that.

And yet Batman still wouldn’t kill the Joker.

Jason cut the thread with his teeth and went back to work.

--------------------------------

Tim had the Mayo Clinic pulled up on his computer and his poor blistered feet sprawled out in front of him. He’d washed his hands and feet already. He’d nabbed one of his mother’s sewing needles, which was probably an antique since she didn’t sew, and cleaned it with rubbing alcohol. He swabbed the blister with rubbing alcohol as well since their first aid kit didn’t have any iodine. He winced as he pricked the blister near the edge and watched as the liquid oozed out. Already it felt better. He put on some Vaseline and covered it with a bandaid before moving on to the next one. He had school in the morning and he didn’t want his parents to ask why he was limping. If they even noticed.

--------------------------------------------

Cass washed her arm in the river before wrapping an old shirt around it. She’d gotten caught on some barbed wire while out scavenging for food. She would need to find some soap to keep it clean or some of the other things her father had used to treat her training wounds. But this would have to do for now. The air was growing colder every day; wounds she knew how to treat, but how to survive on her own was something new. Her stomach growled as she pulled the knotted sleeves tight and set out once more.

-----------------------------------------

Steph hissed as she gently prodded the giant goose egg that was forming on the side of her head. Stupid Dad. Stupid Steph too; she should have known he was in a bad mood. And with Mom out of commission at the moment, Steph was on her own. She popped down a couple of Ibuprofen and waited for Dad and his “friends” to clear out so she could grab a bag of frozen peas. For now, she wondered how to cover up her newfound lump in time for school tomorrow. Makeup for the bruising and a hat maybe?

-----------------------------------------

Damian had always tended to all his own wounds. Supplies and demonstrations were provided, but that was all. But this scratch, a mere skinned knee, was nothing.

“Grayson, this is ridiculous.”

“I repeat: do you want a Superman, Wonder Woman, or Flash band-aid?”

“I can handle this myself.”

“Yeah, but being part of a family means you don’t have to.”

[foreverchangingfandomsao3]

"Kriff..." Obi-Wan swore under his breath as he dropped the durasteel piece he was trying to fit in his vaporator to make fix it again. He picked it up without looking, the raw edge of the metal cutting across his palm.

He fixed the vaporator and found the cleanest rag he had, wiping the blood away, using the little water he had to wash it, not very effectively, and tying another rag tightly across his palm. He could manage most things with only a single hand, but his job was not one of those things.

---

CC-2224 stepped onto Tatooine, unfazed by the two suns and the heat of the planet despite the heavy armour he wore.

He had a mission.

There was a Jedi on the planet, and Darth Vader had personally ordered him to kill them.

No ordinary Jedi. That was all he had said. No name. Just a Jedi.

It should have been harder to find the Jedi.

There was no trail of compassion.

No good deeds.

No lightsaber to speak of.

Just a man that had arrived after the fall of the Jedi with a baby. A man that lived out in the wastes.

---

"Of course he'd send you." Obi-Wan watched from the floor as a purge trooper entered his cave.

He should have cleaned that cut better, in hindsight. It had started to feel like it was burning after two days and now looked worse than it had when he'd wounded himself. Still, he'd done the best with what he had. He needed to invest in more medical supplies when he got paid again.

Not that he was going to go back to work. Either the infection would kill him, or Cody would. The infection would be kinder, even though it was stealing the breath from his lungs and had left him unable to stand a few hours ago, and he hadn't moved from where he'd collapsed.

Still, it was Cody. At least he'd be quick.

"Do you remember being Cody?" Obi-Wan asked, wondering if he'd get a truthful answer. Maybe it was better if he didn't remember. It would be easier on the other if he had no memory of datapads shared over tea, sleeping together, or the gentle kisses.

"Good soldiers follow orders."

"Yes, I know," Obi-Wan murmured, wondering if he still looked the same under the helmet. "You always were a good soldier."

CC-2224 lifted his blaster, aiming it at the Jedi's head and flicking the safety off.

"I forgive you," The ginger said softly, closing his eyes and imagining he was somewhere more peaceful. "Cody, my dear? Don't miss this time."

[whump-they-it-is]

Whumptober

No.11 "911 what's your emergency?" [Self-Done First Aid]

[whump-me-all-night-long]

Whumptober Day 11

No. 11 “911, what's your emergency?”

Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid | Makeshift Splint

CW: hero whumpee, villain whumper, intimate whumper, beating, self-done first aid

The hero was roughly woken by bright lights and hands shaking them.

Letting out a soft groan, the hero rolled over, squeezing their eyes shut as hard as they could. Sleep still hung over them, thick and heavy.

“Rise and shine, love.” The villain’s voice was enough to have the hero wide awake.

Eyes shooting open, the hero pulled themself into a more upright position. “What- what do you want?” they asked, voice scratchy.

The villain was perched on the side of their bed with a big grin. “What do I want? Is it so wrong to come visit what's mine?”

The hero scowled, feeling the last remaining threads of their patience snapping. “I am not yours!” they snapped, reaching out to shove the villain.

Caught off guard, the villain had to catch themself before they fell off the edge of the bed. Standing up, they towered over the hero, any sign of mirth long gone.

“Little hero,” they said in a low voice, “you are going to regret that.”

They reached forward and roughly grabbed the hero’s still-outstretched wrists, chaining them together with a pair of handcuffs that the hero hadn't noticed. Then, they released the hero’s ankle from the bed, pulling them upright.

The villain, not giving them a moment to steady their feet or breath, pulled them through the door and down a short hallway into another room, this one darker and more sinister.

The chain connecting the hero’s wrists was slung over a hook in the ceiling, leaving their feet just barely brushing the floor.

Their shoulders almost immediately began screaming at the strain, but the hero could only stare silently at the villain as they perused a wall of weapons in front of them.

When the villain picked up a wicked looking blade, studying it, the hero sobbed aloud. “Please,” they cried. “I'm sorry! I- I didn't mean to!”

The villain scoffed. “Yes you did, love. And now you have to be punished. You brought this on yourself.”

They set down the blade, instead slipping on a pair of brass knuckles. Futilely, the hero whimpered, squirming against the handcuffs, not caring how the metal dug into their skin, biting deep enough to draw blood.

The first punch landed solidly in their gut, knocking the breath out of them. They gasped, mouth wide, as their legs kicked out, trying to curl up to protect their torso.

The villain lifted the hero’s head with one soft hand. “I wish I didn't have to do this, love,” they murmured sympathetically.

Then the hero only knew pain.

—

After every part of the hero’s body–except their face–was covered in throbbing bruises and reddened scrapes, the villain wordlessly dropped them back off in their cell, not bothering to chain them back to the bed.

The hero curled up on the cold stone floor, sobbing in pain and despair.

After several long minutes, their tears dried up and the hero forced themself to their feet, groaning and shaking at every movement.

They stumbled into the bathroom, purposely keeping their eyes down and away from the mirror hanging above the sink. Leaning heavily on the hard counter, they pulled lightly at the side of the mirror, sighing in relief as it came away to reveal a small cabinet.

The shelves were dismally bare, but the hero was able to find some rubbing alcohol wipes and gauze.

Pulling themself back out of the bathroom, they collapsed on the bed, panting heavily. Making themself sit up, they began the slow work of patching themself back up.

They hissed through clenched teeth as they dragged the disinfectant wipes across their open skin. Tears sprung into their eyes, but they forced themself to push through, knowing that getting an infection would be exponentially worse.

After they were satisfied that all their wounds were clean, the hero set to work wrapping all of them with gauze. By the time they were done, there was more sterile white gauze than pale skin showing.

Setting their supplies on the small nightstand, the hero let their head drop back down onto the soft pillow. Before their head even settled, warm tears were already sliding down their face, dampening the pillow beneath them.

---

Taglist: @badluck990 @thelazywitchphotographer @the-vagabond-nun @shywhumpauthor @panic-and-chaos @freefallingup13