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#Silent Panic Attack
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WHUMPTOBER 2022 - DAY 7 - Shaking hands & Silent Panic Attack
Leona has probably had panic attacks before but its entirely possible he has no idea what’s going on, I don’t think anybody necessarily took the time to explain it to him. Epel might have some experience with panic attacks since he lives in such a big family.
-NO ROMANCE INCLUDED-
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lost-shoe · 1 year
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Supernatural - Red Meat (11.17)
Whumptober 2022
No. 7 Silent Panic Attack
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whumpypepsigal · 1 year
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Whumptober 2022 | No. 7: THE WAY YOU SHAKE AND SHIVER
shaking hands | seizures | silent panic attack
Station 19 s05e17: Jack meets up with his brother Josh and is shocked to hear that Josh grew up with their biological parents and wasn’t in the foster system. Josh explains that their mom got pregnant when she was a teen and had to give him up for adoption. This news breaks Jack.
+bonus:
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whumpcereal · 1 year
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whumptober, day seven: shaking hands | seizures | silent panic attack
Will's first wake up at the kennel. Parts one, two, and three here. I will make a masterlist this weekend, I swear. Also, this is officially a birthday gift for @hold-him-down. Happy birthday, Holdy!
content warnings for: dehumanization, animalization, forced nudity (non-sexual), muzzles, cages, panic, forced feeding, comments about weight, accidental urination, creepy/intimate whumper, adult language
part four, rise and shine
Will doesn’t sleep. It’s not like he can. It turns out, dog kennels are not, in fact, made to accommodate the six foot frame of a human who isn’t used to being on his hands and knees. Everything fucking hurts, until it doesn’t. At some point, the persistent ache in his back starts to burn and then dulls into numbness. His shoulders feel like they’ve floated off into space, and he can’t feel his legs at all. 
Maybe it’s a mercy not to feel for a second, but there’s a part of Will that’s scared shitless. How long are they going to leave him in here? Like, what happens if you don’t get enough blood to your extremities? Do they die or, like, fall off? He knows it’s unreasonable, but still, Will imagines himself as a limbless body.  
It’s not exactly comforting. Neither are the sounds of the room around him. The restless shifting of other bodies, already used to their cages. Heavy breathing. A few snores. They are all normal, human sounds, and this is not a normal, human situation. Will doesn’t know how many of them there are, but even one person locked in a fucking cage is too much. It doesn’t make him feel any better to know that he’s not alone. Especially because it feels like he’s the only one who realizes how fucked up this is. The rest of them are fucking sleeping. 
And he still doesn’t know where Tommy is. 
So, yeah, no. Will doesn’t sleep. 
He stares into the darkness, floating on a choppy sea of really fucking problematic thoughts,  and he watches as the light in the room shifts from black to ink blue and then a cold gray. Morning. 
There’s the snap of a switch, and the fluorescent overhead lights buzz to life. 
“Rise and shine!” chirps a man’s voice. Fucking Doc. “Hup-hup! Out in the yard to potty. You know the drill.” 
Will’s eyes sting with fresh tears. He can’t do that. He can’t. But he hears the jangle of cages being opened, and it doesn’t seem like any of the others hesitate. A door opens on squeaking hinges; there’s a blast of freezing cold air. Skin slaps against cold cement, and the room quiets before the door slams shut again. 
Will is still locked up. He whimpers behind the muzzle, and without thinking, nudges his head against the cage door. 
Fuck. Did he just do that? 
There’s a soft laugh, and then footsteps move closer to him. Doc crouches in front of the cage, and he ducks his head to get a good look at Will. There’s a smile that, on anybody else’s face, would almost be reassuring; on Doc’s, it just sort of makes Will want to crawl up his own asshole. 
“Aw, now, little mutt,” Doc coos. He curls his fingers against the wires. “Don’t get too excited. You’re not socialized yet, are you? It would be wrong to put you in the yard with the others before you know the lay of the land.” 
Mutt. Cold shame coils in Will’s belly. It’s all he can feel, since the rest of him’s gone numb. 
He knows it isn’t true. He’s not a mutt, he’s–well, he’s himself. And maybe that isn’t always what he’s wanted to be but, fuck–he’s a person. But somehow, the word sinks into him just like Doc’s tracking chip, sharp and stinging beneath his skin.
“Did you get some good rest last night?” Doc asks. “My Annie says you were good as gold.” 
Will’s eyebrows crease beneath the forked straps of his muzzle. ‘Good as gold’ is a stretch. Maybe Annie meant it when she said she’d do what she could for him. Though if half-lying to her deranged father is all she can do, it’s not like it’ll make much difference.  
“I hope you stay that way,” Doc says, his tone all sugar and honey. “You’ve got a big day today, mutt. A very big day.” 
Will can only blink. Who knows what the fuck ‘a very big day’ with Doc looks like? Will isn’t exactly chomping at the bit to find out.
Except he is. Because there’s an actual fucking bit in his mouth. 
He should snarl, growl, bash his head against the cage. But the sudden awareness of the weight on his tongue, of his own half-naked body makes him shrink. He tries to press himself to the back of the cage, but he has no idea if he’s even moved.
“Oh, hey now, buddy. There’s no need to be afraid,” says Doc. 
Right. Because he isn’t muzzled and mitted and fucking caged. Because he isn’t in a basement that was, until very recently, packed to the gills with human animals. Because he doesn’t know where Tommy is or what’s happened to him or how they’re going to get home or if they’re going to get home, and– 
Will can’t breathe. He can’t make a sound, and he can’t breathe. He tries to suck in air through his nose, but nothing happens. His chest feels like it’s stuck. He can’t–fuck, he can’t–he can’t–
Doc slams his hand against the door. “Stop that now. You’re fine. You hear me? There’s nothing for you to get so worked up about.” 
Will doesn’t mean to, but whatever air is left in his chest pushes out in a mangled whine. And then he feels a wet warmth spread between his legs. 
Shit. Or, you know, the opposite. 
Will’s eyes stay glued on Doc as he dribbles through his boxers and onto the newspaper. He can feel his tears slipping down his face, disappearing into the leather, but he doesn’t move. 
Doc sighs, shaking his head. “Naughty. Naughty boy!” 
He bangs against the cage again, and Will jumps. 
“Looks like you might take more training than I thought. But that’s okay, buddy. Isn’t it? We’ve got all the time we need.” 
Will’s heart sinks to his bowels. He still can’t draw a full breath, but he doesn’t think Doc cares. 
Doc reaches into his pocket and slips out a ring of keys. “We’ll get you cleaned up, won’t we? But I want you to listen to what I say here, boy. When you come out of this cage, you’re going to stay on your hands and knees. You’re going to heel and follow where I lead you. And you are not going to fight. If you fight, I’ll make sure you can’t get around any way but on your hands and knees ever again. You nod if you understand, mutt.” 
Will’s head moves, just a little. His nerves are starting to fire again; he’s fucking shaking. 
“That’s a good boy,” Doc soothes. 
He unlocks the door and swings it open, then turns behind him and produces a braided cord with a big slipknot at the end. 
It’s a fucking leash. Will’s chest might rip open if it could. He tries again to suck in air, but he’s crying too hard now to make any headway.   
Doc waggles the loop in front of Will’s face. “You don’t have your collar yet, so we’ll use this slip lead for now. If you tug, you choke.” 
And then he pulls the loop over Will’s head, tugging it snug against his throat. Doc yanks forward, and the cord cinches tighter. If Will couldn’t breathe before, this is not going to do him any favors. 
“Up now, boy,” Doc urges. “We’ll have to get you back to the exam room before the others come in. We don’t want to overwhelm them. I work hard to help them forget what it’s like to be in your place, you know?” 
But Will can’t get up. He can’t fucking move. He’s shaking too much. He tries to push up on his mitted hands, but they’re trembling inside the leather; his joints melt like wax. Doc tugs again on the lead, and this time, Will fucking chokes. 
“Come on now, boy. Heel.” 
He doesn’t get all the way up to his hands, but Will manages to creep out of the cage like a loose-limbed baby, half-letting Doc drag him by the throat. 
“Easy now, mutt. Come on. You’re fine. You’re just fine.” 
Will pushes up on his jittering knees and slides his mitts along the cement toward the door Annie was watching last night. His wet boxers cling to his crotch, already starting to chafe. It’s a small relief that all of Doc’s other–pets? prisoners?--that the others are in the yard so no one can see him this way. 
He hopes Tommy’s with them. That Tommy can breathe. That he’s not so fucking terrified. 
But when Doc opens the door, Will’s hopes plummet straight to the concrete floor. 
Tommy’s there, kneeling on the floor in front of a dog bowl. And he’s eating from it. 
Tommy? Will forgets he can’t speak, and his trapped tongue aches under the weight of Tommy’s name. The sound alerts Tommy, and he looks up, eyes glassy with tears of his own. Greasy brown chunks of dog food cling to his chin. He looks back at the bowl, his cheeks burning. 
“Awww,” laughs Doc. “What a good boy you are, Champ. Eat up now, come on.”
Tommy doesn’t move as Doc closes the door and locks it behind him. Doc doesn’t notice. He snaps his fingers next to his hip and points at the floor next to his feet, tugging on Will’s lead.
 “Heel up, mutt.”
Will barks out a cough, but he does as he’s told, balancing on shaking hands and knees next to Doc’s leg. Careless fingers ruffle his hair. 
“Good boy. Sit. Back on your heels.” 
Will does. He’s across from Tommy now, but neither of them can look the other in the face. 
“Now, Champ here promised he would eat every bite of that food if I brought you in here. He wanted to know you were okay. Isn’t that good of him? A beautiful boy like him looking out for a dirty mutt like you?” 
It is good of Tommy, and Will knows it. If he’s a dirty mutt, Tommy’s a purebred. Will’s head sinks down below his shoulders. 
Tommy pushes up on his hands. “He isn’t–” 
Doc slaps Tommy hard across the face, and Tommy falls over backward, naked limbs flying. Will forces his eyes back to the floor when he realizes that Doc hasn’t even left Tommy his underwear. He’s never seen Tommy naked before. It isn’t–that’s not the kind of friends they are. 
Will doesn’t move, even though Doc’s dropped his lead. He doesn’t do a thing to help Tommy. How can he? He can’t even fucking breathe. 
“Don’t hurt him,” Tommy begs. “I didn’t mean–it’s just that–” 
Will’s gut twists. Tommy is pleading for him, and all Will can do is sit there, like some dumb fucking dog. Doc grips Tommy by his blond curls and dumps him on his knees in front of the bowl again. 
“You keep your mouth in check, Champ, or I’ll muzzle you too,” Doc says casually. “You lick this bowl clean while the mutt watches; he’s got some weight to drop, so you’ll have to do his eating for him.”
Will shrinks down even lower. 
“Will–” Tommy tries, but Doc shoves his face back into the bowl, holding it there until Tommy is practically drowning in brown slop. Tommy’s breath gurgles; Will can’t breathe at all. 
“Eat,” Doc commands. He lets go of Tommy’s head and then steps back to Will, petting his hair with a gentle hand. Tommy raises his filthy face and mouths at the dog food, his lean body shaking with silent sobs. 
“Thattaboy, Champ. Good boy. And when you’re done, both you dirty boys need a bath. We’ve got to get you two camera ready, add you to the catalog.”
Will’s eyes meet Tommy’s, just for a second. 
They are so fucked.  
taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @msjessmahler, @highwaywhump, @highwaywhump, @youngchap, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @whumpworld, @no-terms-and-conditions-apply, @honey-is-mesi, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk
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I feel like everything I say is a waste of peoples time.
~ Like nobody fucking cares what you have to say so shut your fucking mouth ~
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chiefdirector · 1 year
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The way you shake and shiver | Charles Xavier | X-Men | Whumptober 2022
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Day Seven: Silent panic attack
cw: panic attacks
Calm down, I'm right here with you.
Charles' words rang out through her head but she barely heard them as she watched the figured before her move in a flurry. The blood pounding in her ears making the words barely distinguishable. She wouldn't have known he was in her mind if she hadn't of felt him pushing past her mental walls.
Everything will be okay.
Everything was not okay. She knew that as much, it was never okay. There were too many people and too many sounds. It was all to much. She tried to focus on something - anything - but all she could feel was the thumping of her heart going into overdrive and the tightness in her chest.
I need you to breathe? Can you do that for me?
Breathe? If she had the capability, she would have laughed at him. The tightness in her chest was almost choking her and he wanted her to breathe?
In and out, darling. You can do it. In and out.
She tried taking a small breath but it left her gasping for air. Choking on her breath, she raised her hands to her throat to try and allow some oxygen in. She tried again. And again. And again. All the while, her eyes scanned the constant movement of fabrics and material in front of her, seeking out Charles.
That's it. It's as simple as that. Now, tell me five things you can see.
It was simple. Easy as breathing. She looked away from the masses in front of her and looked around the room towards the bar. It was simple enough; the bartender had a bottle of gin in hand as well as a cocktail shaker and a glass in front of him. She supposed that breathing was simple for him.
How about four things you can touch?
Slowly, she lowered her hands down from her throat, finding that the air now went in smoothly. Counting herself as one, she moved her hands down the material of her dress to her bracelet and then to her bag. Was it cheating? Maybe, but she did find the four things.
Three things you can hear.
The music was still deafening, so sure that counted as one. Taking a step forwards from her place by the wall, she stepped into the party, listening to the idle chatter of her fellow patrons. She could also hear Charles, still sitting in her mind.
Two things you can-
"Thank you, Charles." She said to herself, still making her way through the crowd of people. "I think, I'm good now."
Are you sure? We can go home?
"I'll wait on the balcony until your done networking. How about that?"
I won't be a minute.
Masterlist | Whumptober 2022 Masterlist | Buy me a coffee?
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arecaceae175 · 1 year
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Whumptober Day 7: Shaking Hands, Silent Panic Attack (Warriors)
Read on AO3 or here.
Trigger warnings: panic attack, trauma response, severe anxiety, distrust of friends, intrusive thoughts. Wars spirals and it’s not good. It gets better by the end, though. Stay safe.
Part 2/2. Part 1. I imagine this one being read first, even though the other is technically before this.
Warriors knew Sky was his friend, his brother in arms. Warriors knew this. 
Warriors also thought he knew his fellow soldiers, back in the War of Ages. That hadn’t turned out so well.
When the group formed, nine heroes from across time and space, he made sure to take note of their strengths and weaknesses. Just in case. 
He knew Time had a blind spot, but made up for it with experience and strength. He couldn’t beat Time head on, but he was confident he could take him from behind. Twilight was well-rounded, but Warriors could outmaneuver him on a good day. Legend relied too much on his items; get him alone, and he could go down. 
Hyrule was skittish, so there would be no sneaking up on him. His magic would be hard to contend with, but Warriors had far better stamina. Four was the hardest to get a read on. Warriors beat him out in brute strength easily, but he wasn’t certain he could win in a sword duel. Wild was a knight, but he didn’t remember it. He was skilled and resourceful, but Warriors was confident he could take him down in a swordfight. 
Wind had so many tricks up his sleeve, but Warriors recognized them all. He was pretty sure Wind wouldn’t turn on him since the boy would grow up to fight in the War of Ages. It made Warriors’ head hurt too much to think about the logistics of that, though, so he tried not to.
And then there was Sky. He was an incredible swordsman, and the only one of them to still wield the Master Sword.. He tired easily, but he had never lost a duel. Warriors made sure to pay close attention to him, and never turned his back to Sky.
As time passed and they got to know each other better, the thoughts faded from Warriors’ mind somewhat. He began to trust the other heroes, even rely on them. 
He never forgot, though. He had been through too much for that.
So when Sky was controlled, and made to attack them, the traitorous part in the back of Warriors’ mind said I knew it.
It was only a matter of time.
Sky was back to normal now, and a few days had passed since the events of that night. He had apologized profusely, and was trying everything in his power to make it up to everyone. Sky was suffering, too, drowning in guilt, but Warriors couldn’t bring himself to say anything to the man. He couldn’t get the thoughts out of his mind. 
He’ll come for you again, they all will.
He attacked you first, instead of the others. Interesting, that, isn’t it?
Watch your back.
Warriors did. He felt like he was back in the days of the War, feeling those feelings for the first time all over again. He was jittery, jumpy, flinched at every stick breaking and every sound of Sky’s voice. He wouldn’t let others get too close, never turned his back to them, especially Sky.
Maybe you should take care of it yourself. Make sure they can’t get you.
Warriors aggressively shook the thought from his mind. No. He wouldn’t hurt his friends, he couldn’t. He would never, ever hurt them. He would defend himself, but that was as far as he would go.
His hands shook relentlessly, worse than they had during the war. Warriors thought he had gotten it under control, back then, when Zelda and Impa had insisted he “talk to someone about his trauma.”
Warriors didn’t like that word. It made him seem like the victim. It felt wrong, when his mind was constantly telling him that it was all his fault, that he could have prevented everything if he had only been better.
The others were starting to notice something was wrong. Warriors hated that he was worrying them, hated himself for being afraid of his brothers. But he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t just turn this off. Wind kept coming up to him, frowning that stupid, squiggly frown, asking if he was okay. 
“Yes,” Warriors would say. “I’m fine, don’t worry about me.”
Don’t let them see your weakness. They’ll take advantage, use it as their chance to strike.
Time would come up to him, give him The Look. Warriors would avert his gaze and shoot down his attempts to talk. Twilight kept trying to sit next to him, walk next to him, sleep near him. It was probably an attempt at comfort, at reassuring Warriors he wasn’t alone, but it just made him feel trapped. Sky kept his distance, something Warriors greatly appreciated, even though he could see how much it hurt Sky to do so. 
Wild alternated between cooking his favorite meal and Sky’s comfort foods. Legend didn’t bicker with him, and he could feel the concern rolling off the vet in waves. Warriors almost wished he would, for some normalcy. Hyrule and Four hovered, going between him and Sky, completely out of their depths and unsure how to help.
Warriors didn’t sleep. He couldn’t calm his mind, he couldn’t slow his racing heart, he couldn’t let himself be vulnerable. The longer it went on, the worse he felt. Warriors was supposed to be the protector, the warrior, he was supposed to be the one reassuring everyone else that they were safe. But he didn’t feel safe, so how could the others? 
By the end of the second night, Warriors was practically dead on his feet. He hadn’t slept at all, and his body was utterly exhausted from being stuck in overdrive for so long. He was trying to write in his journal, but his hands were shaking too much for the words to be legible. It just looked like scribbles. 
“Okay, that’s enough,” Wind said. Warriors jumped out of his seat, whipping around to face the boy. He had forgotten Wind was on last watch, had forgotten he wasn’t alone.
Stupid. Careless.
Wind’s hand moved toward his sheathed sword, and Warriors lost it. 
He gasped, immediately backpedaling, and tripped over a log. Sprawled on the ground, he blindly reached for his own sword. Wind was standing over him, sheath unbuckled in one hand, dagger in the other. Then, he threw both of them on the ground at Warriors’ feet. Warriors froze, blood cold with panic. 
“Sorry, that probably wasn’t the best way to do that,” Wind said gently, kneeling down a safe distance away. They were on the edge of camp, and Wind had positioned himself so that Warriors was closer to any of the others’ weapons, but still had a clear escape route into the forest.
“You have my weapons and yours. I’m completely unarmed,” Wind said, showing his empty palms. He was in his sleep clothes, too, which Warriors knew for a fact only had one mystery knife pocket.
“I’m not going to hurt you. You’re bigger and stronger, and you have the weapons,” Wind continued. “Wars, I need you to talk to me. You’ve been freaking out since that night, don’t think I haven’t noticed. You can’t keep going like this.”
Wind was always more intuitive than the group gave him credit for.
Warriors blinked rapidly at Wind, at his little brother, and tried to force his beating heart to slow. 
“I would never hurt you, Wars.”
Warriors closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Wind was right, of course he was right. Warriors knew, logically, that Wind would never hurt him. Wind was his little brother, his brother in arms, would grow up to fight alongside Warriors in the War of Ages. 
“I trust you, I love you, I would never hurt you. I’ll always try to protect you, but I know you don’t like that as much. You’ve got a real big brother complex going on,” Wind said with a soft laugh. Warriors felt himself huff out a small breath, a semblance of a laugh.
This was Wind. He could trust Wind, even if he was having trouble with the rest.
“Okay?” Wind asked. Warriors took another deep breath, felt it loosen his chest, and nodded shakily. 
“Yeah,” Warriors said, his breath slowing to a normal rate. “Yeah.”
“Can… Can I hug you?” Wind said, his eyes wide and round. 
Warriors breath caught in his throat and he hesitated, but when he saw how sad Wind looked he couldn’t resist. He nodded, pushing himself up and opening one arm. Wind threw himself into Warriors’ embrace, burying his head in the older man’s chest. Wind’s arms wrapped around him, squeezed, and Warriors felt the floodgates break. 
He sobbed. He let everything out, safe in the embrace of his brother. He tried to stay quiet, muffling his sobs in his scarf and Wind’s soft hair. Wind rubbed his back, made soothing sounds. 
Things weren’t okay; Warriors wasn’t quite sure that they would ever be. His past would always stick with him, but maybe he could find a place for it. He wasn’t alone, and as time passed he would be able to trust again. 
As long as he had his family, Warriors decided, he would be okay.
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ssa-atlas-alvez · 1 year
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Whumptober Day 7
No. 7 THE WAY YOU SHAKE AND SHIVER
Shaking Hands | Seizures | Silent Panic Attack
Warnings: panic attacks, nerves surrounding coming out, mostly emotional whump
Word count: 524
You couldn’t seem to stop your hands from shaking, it had been hours and still here you were, shaking. You were on the way back, the jet not far from landing. You had tried everything, you had eaten, had something to drink, had a quick nap, you even tried doing some star jumps. Nothing seemed to be helping. You knew what it was. It was the anticipation. You had planned on coming clean, on telling them everything and you were anxious. Scratch that, you were shitting bricks. You had never been more terrified to tell the team something then you were right now. But you had promised yourself that on the way back to Quantico, you would tell them. And you weren’t about to let yourself down, not today. 
Sighing, you shifted in your seat, debating trying to get everyone’s attention. You noticed your heart beating rapidly in your chest, the occasional flutter, and you’re sweating. Standing up as casually as possible, you head to the toilet. You spend maybe two minutes there, splashing water on your face, trying your best to calm down.
It wasn’t even that big of a deal, you didn’t know why you were so anxious over it. You just had to go up to them and say ‘hey, so I wanted to talk to you’ they’d ask what was wrong, and then you’d just say ‘well, I’m transgender and I left like it was time to finally tell you’ and then they’d say ‘hey no worries, thanks for telling us’ and that would be that. You knew that logically, it was all going to be okay. And yet, here you are, having a panic attack in the bathroom of the jet.  
A soft knock on the door drew you out of your thoughts. “(Y/N)? It’s Hotch, is everything okay?” He asked softly, “You’ve been in there a while.”
“I’m fine-” You winced as your voice cracked at the end of the sentence. 
“(Y/N)-”
“I’ll be out in just a moment,” You said, Hotch sighed from the other side of the door, mumbling an okay before he walked away. You sighed. Now you really had to tell them. 
You spent the next minute making sure you didn’t look like you had been having a panic attack. You took a deep breath. Okay, you could do this. You could do this. You unlocked the door, sitting in your seat (ignoring the concerned gazes) before turning to everyone. The whole gang were there for this case, Garcia included. Which meant that you could come out to everyone all at once, which was both a blessing and a curse. “I need to tell you all something.”
“Is something wrong?” You turn to Hotch, noticing his eyebrows furrowed in concern and shake your head. ‘Not unless this goes terribly’ you think to yourself. 
“I’m transgender, a transman,” You say, watching everyone’s expression.
“Is that what you were worried about?” You nod and Penelope walks over, enveloping you in a hug. “Sweetie, we don’t care about that! We love you, no matter what!” You break out in a grin.
“Love you guys too,”
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livingforthewhump · 1 year
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Can you do a snippet of a caretaker comforting whumpee after whumpee hurts or breaks something that caretaker really cares about?
No 7. The Way You Shake and Shiver
Shaking Hands|Shivers|Silent Panic Attack
Whumpee had been doing better lately. A lot better, really. They had stopped sitting on the floor. They ate when they were given food, and stopped needing the reassurances that they had permission to do basic things. They still didn’t speak much unless spoken to, and almost never asked for anything, even though Caretaker knew they wanted to do both. But progress is progress, and Caretaker needed to celebrate where they could. Whumpee had been through enough that anything remotely positive seemed world-changing to them.
Today had been relatively peaceful. Caretaker was off work, so after eating breakfast and doing a couple chores, they were sitting down with a book and a cup of tea. They had also made one for Whumpee, since they noticed they enjoyed it, and now Whumpee was in the other room doing…something. Caretaker didn’t actually know, but they were so proud of Whumpee for going off by themself that they didn’t want to start asking a bunch of questions and make them think they weren’t allowed to.
Still, it was probably about time to go check on them. With a sigh, they put a bookmark in their book and stood up.
Whumpee was dusting. They stopped in the doorway when they saw it, heart sinking a little. One of the walls of the room was a gallery wall of sorts, covered in frames, and Whumpee was standing on the tallest tip-toes they could, almost teetering over to reach the top of one of the frames with the duster.
They weren’t aware they’d done it until after the fact. It was entirely unconscious as they considered how to convince Whumpee yet again that they didn’t have to earn their keep—a slight shifting of their weight, a rustle of their clothes, a small sigh, barely there at all—but it was enough.
Whumpee jumped, twisting around in the shock of someone discovering they were being watched. They lost their balance in the turn. It seemed like it all happened in slow motion. Their eyes widened, their arms flailed, and they tossed themself at the wall behind them as an attempt to catch themself before hitting the ground. The picture frames clattered against the wall as Whumpee fell into them. The back of their head hit one harshly, sending spiderweb cracks up the glass. The frame teetered on its mounting before crashing to the floor right in between Caretaker and Whumpee, glass shards spraying out onto the floor like freshly fallen snow.
Before Caretaker could even react, Whumpee made to step forward, as if they—hands and feet bare—were going to pick up each grain of glass on their own.
“Don’t move!” Caretaker yelped, heart racing. “Stay right there. I’m going to go get something. I’ll be right back. Do you understand?”
Whumpee stood frozen, but they gave a jerky nod.
Moving as quickly as they could, Caretaker put on their houseshoes, grabbed the broom and vacuum, and got Whumpee’s houseshoes as well.
Still, when they got back, Whumpee had pressed themself against the wall, specifically avoiding the other frames, sitting with their knees tucked up to their chin. Their shoulders were moving up and down rapidly, but it didn’t seem like any breath was going through them.
Caretaker fought back the urge to curse. It would only upset Whumpee more—gbut they’d been doing so well, and Caretaker couldn’t help but feel like this was their fault. How long would it be before Whumpee felt comfortable enough to go off on their own again, even if it was just to try and clean?
They closed their eyes and tried to walk through what had happened from Whumpee’s point of view. It usually helped to calm Whumpee down if Caretaker could figure out exactly what they were afraid of based on what had just happened.
They were cleaning, Caretaker made a noise, Whumpee fell and knocked the frame down (which Caretaker was certain they would blame themself for), then Caretaker told them not to move. Forcefully.
Wait. When they left the room, had they said what they were going to go get? Whumpee was used to expecting the worst. If they blamed themself for what just happened, and all Caretaker did was yell and leave to get ‘something’....oh no.
“Whumpee,” Caretaker began hesitantly. Their shoulders jerked at the sound of their name before falling back into their rapid pattern. “I got some things to clean up the glass so we don’t get hurt, see?”
They held up the broom and vacuum, though Whumpee didn’t look.
Caretaker pursed their lips. “I’m sorry that I yelled. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was reacting without thinking because I was scared you would hurt yourself with the glass, but I shouldn’t have raised my voice.”
No response. Whumpee was shaking now. They grew tenser at every noise while Caretaker started sweeping. They continued to talk softly, repeating the same sentences over and over. Sometimes it helped, to reframe the misunderstandings as just that, and not a punishment waiting to happen. When they got a path cleared to Whumpee, they walked over slowly and knelt down in front of them.
Another thing that usually helped was getting them out of the environment the mishap occurred in. Taking them to another room would be enough, and getting them comfortable again was Caretaker’s top priority.
“Here, Whumpee, put these on,” they said gently, holding out their slippers to them. Whumpee still didn't look up. Their head dropped lower, arms lifting up, wrists together—they were offering their wrists up to be bound. They thought Caretaker had…
Caretaker felt sick. Of course, they knew that none of Whumpee expecting Caretaker to hurt them was a response to Caretaker. It was a response to how Whumpee had been treated in the past. They knew that, and yet each time, something in their chest ached and whispered that they really had messed up badly enough to justify this response. That they were just like whatever freak had done this to Whumpee, because otherwise they would be responding differently.
They shoved that voice aside for the time being. With their free hand, they softly pushed Whumpee’s proffered arms back down.
“Whumpee, could you look at me, please?”
Slowly, that head raised. Whumpee’s eyes were blown wide, mouth hanging open from the breaths pumping in and out of them, fast and sharp like a blacksmith’s bellows.
Caretaker’s heart ripped in two. “Whumpee, love, I’m not going to hurt you. I would never do that. Let’s try and slow our breathing down, okay? I’m going to count, and you try to breathe in, then out, for four seconds each.”
They started counting slowly, waiting patiently and keeping their tone gentle until Whumpee’s erratic breaths slowed to a shaky their-brain-is-actually-getting-oxygen speed.
“Wonderful job, Whumpee,” Caretaker smiled. “You did really well. I’m sorry I didn’t communicate what I was doing well. That was my fault. Can you put your houseshoes on so the glass doesn’t cut your feet? I swept it up, but I might have missed some.”
Whumpee took the slippers with shaking hands, sliding their feet into them and accepting Caretaker’s help in standing.
By the time they got to the living room, Whumpee was crying. Caretaker sat them down on the couch and made some fresh tea, allowing the poor thing some room to breathe for a minute. They tried to give them a bit of space after an incident like that, and if the crying was just a stress response to the past few minutes, it would dry up before too much longer. If there was something Whumpee was still concerned about, they would know by the time the tea had finished steeping.
And lo and behold, Whumpee was sobbing when Caretaker set their mug down in front of them.
“Oh, Whumpee,” Caretaker breathed, wrapping them in a hug as they sat on the couch beside them. Whumpee's fingers clung to their shirt while they sobbed into their shoulder. “What’s got you so upset, love? Hm?”
The response came slowly. “I-I, hmn, I bro-oke your p-picture.”
Caretaker rubbed circles onto their back. “It wasn’t your fault, love. I scared you. I’m sorry. I can buy a new frame, don’t worry.”
“B-but, but you love your pictures and I ruined the wall and the room and I’m so sorry but it’s already broken and you won’t want to keep me anymore because I mess everything up and—”
“Woah, woah, hey,” Caretaker drew back, taking Whumpee by the shoulders. “Where did all of that come from? Who said I don’t want you anymore?”
Whumpee looked uncertain, cheeks blotchy from crying.
“I can buy a new frame for the picture, Whumpee. I only got upset because I was worried about you. Do you understand?”
A hesitant nod.
A slight smile in response. “Is your head okay? You hit it pretty hard.”
“It’s…achey,” Whumpee whispered.
“I’ll go get you a heat pack.”
taglist: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @twistedcaretaker @lonesome--hunter @poppys-writing @endless-whump @multifandoms-multishipper @shadowylemon @utopian819 @whumpkitty @journey-the-panda @freefallingup13 @prettyboysinpain @1becky1 @temporary-whump-sideblog @chartreusephoenix @thelazywitchphotographer @mylifeisonthebookshelf @badluck990 @lockedupuniverse @luna-rein @broadwaybabe18 @pinescales-whumps @silverwhisperer1 @embersalive @the-bloody-sadist @batfacedliar-yetagain @nicolepascaline @whump-angst-fluff-repeat @susanshinning @didieatyourdog @corvid-voidbur @insane-writing-things @thebaffledtiewriter @morning-star-whump
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Whumptober Day 7: Silent Panic Attack
Summary: 
When Tim sees the headlines, the train screeches to a spark-spitting halt. His brain stops operating. No feedback, can’t compute.
BREAKING NEWS: BILLIONAIRE SON TIM DRAKE IS A SECRET HOMOSEXUAL?
TIM DRAKE SPOTTED LOCKING LIPS WITH BLOND MALE LAST NIGHT!!
EXCLUSIVE WITH LEX LUTHOR: “TIM DRAKE’S PUBLIC DISPLAY OF AFFECTION WAS UNPROFESSIONAL AND SHINES A POOR LIGHT ON THE WAYNE FAMILY”
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pegasister60 · 1 year
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NO.7 THE WAY YOU SHAKE AND SHIVER
Shaking Hands | Seizures | Silent Panic Attack
You wish the Endurance of Atlas would leak into your smaller form for even a second when these hit you. Marvel doesn’t even need to breathe at all!
Lucky bastard.
--
Whumptober: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, ALT 12, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, ALT 1, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31.
And a bonus time-lapse!
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robinrites · 1 year
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Day Seven: Karma Police
Happy Day Seven of Whumptober y'all :)
TW: Panic attack, fear of being hurt
Part two to Day 2 hope y'all enjoy! Here's some more from our Hero caretaker and Villain whumpee ;)
Hero places Villain in the backseat of his car, buckling him in as gently as he can, before shutting the door. Hero hops in the driver seat, then looks back at Villain who is staring at the seat in front of him blankly. 
“You okay back there Villain?” Hero asks, trying to figure out what Villain is doing. Villain continues to stare blankly, so Hero repeats himself, “Villain?” He reaches out to touch Villain’s shoulder, but Villain flinches away before Hero can even get close. 
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Villain ducks his head, “What did you say?” 
“I asked if you were okay.” Hero wants to reach out again, provide some physical connection, but decides against it when he notices how skittish Villain is. 
“Oh.” He weakly responds, “Ye-yes I am okay.” 
Hero isn’t sure what he was expecting, so he instead just turns around and starts the car. As he drives away from the prison, he hears Villain whimper slightly, and a quick glance in the rearview mirror shows that Villain is looking out the window at the prison that is quickly fading into the background. Hero takes in a deep breath, then puts on his persona he usually saves for Damsels in Distress and reporters. 
“You’re safe now.” Villain continues staring, as if he hadn’t even heard Hero speak. Hero decides to leave it for now, not wanting to stress Villain out more by trying to force conversation. Thirty minutes of driving in silence pass before Villain speaks up. 
“Wh-where are you taking me, uh Hero, Sir?” 
“No need to call me Sir, Villain. We’re beyond that, or at least I’d like to think we are.” Hero forces himself to laugh, hoping it’ll lighten the mood. “We’re going back to my place. I don’t have a lot of stuff there to help take care of you, but springing you from the prison was kind of an impulse decision. In case you couldn’t tell.” 
Take care of you. The words echo in Villain’s head as he racks his brain over what they mean. Take care of as in kill? Or torture? Villain looks down at his hands which are covered in various cuts and bruises and are shaking. He couldn’t escape even if he wanted to. A tear falls down his cheek as he balls his hands into shaky fists. He feels his breathing pick up, suddenly the loose seat belt has become tighter, binding him to the seat. Villain wants to cry for help, but air is struggling to make it into his lungs. He feels hands gently touch his arms, which he flinches away from despite wanting to lean into the touch. He finds himself coming back into his body as he notices Hero at his side. When did the car stop? 
“There we go.” Hero whispers as Villain forces his hands to unball. “Now breathe in, and out.” Villain follows Hero’s hands as he gestures for Villain to breathe in and out slowly.
Hero waits until Villain seems to be breathing normally before saying anything. He can’t help but be mad at himself for not immediately checking in with Villain, only stopping when he heard ragged breathing coming from the backseat of his car. “Want to talk about what just happened there?” 
Villain shakes his head, he doesn’t want to share, but his mouth opens anyways. “Y-you said take care of me…and I’m-I’m sorry for assuming otherwise but I thought you were rescuing me.” Villain sobs, tears free falling down his face, “A-are you gonna kill me or lock me up again or-” 
“Woah woah woah Villain!” Hero cuts him off, raising his hands. “I’m not going to hurt you, let’s get that out of the way right now. You are safe with me. No one is ever going to hurt you, understand?” Villain nods while trying his best to stop crying. “I’m sorry for not being clearer, by ‘take care of you’ I mean, well, just that. I’m going to get your injuries looked at by my friend who’s a healer, and then we’re going to get you all healed up, okay? And then from there, we’ll see. But no matter what happens, I swear on my parent’s grave not to harm a hair on your head, or elsewhere. Sound good?” 
Villain solemnly nods, “I-I’m sorry for doubting you Hero.” 
“Tt, don’t say that Villain. I used really bad phrasing, that’s on me okay? Not on you at all. Do you think you’ll be okay if I keep driving?” Villain nods, then forces himself to take a deep breath. Hero rubs Villain’s shoulder briefly before closing the door and heading back around to the driver’s seat. Before driving, an idea flashes in Hero’s mind. “What kind of music do you like Villain?” 
“Me?” Villain nervously laughs, his eyes shooting off to the side. “I like whatever music heroes like…” His head drops, but he does his best to keep focused on his breathing. 
Hero laughs, “That’s a good one, honestly there isn’t a right or wrong answer.” 
“Alternative,” Villain almost whispers, scared to fail the test he thinks Hero is giving. “I like alternative rock music.” 
“Then that’s what we’re gonna listen to!” Hero smiles in the rearview mirror before pulling up a music app on his phone (Sorry Spotify/Apple Music no sponsorship is happening today), “Any band in particular?” 
“I mean you can’t go wrong with Nirvana, or Radiohead.” Villain shakes his head, “But we don’t have to do that.” 
“No, I want to!” Hero quickly types in Radiohead, then shuffles when the artist's profile pops up. 
Slow music begins to play from the speakers as Hero drives off. Not what he would have expected from a genre called alternative rock, but today has been chock-full of surprises so he should’ve known better. He glances down to check the song name and has to hold back a laugh when he sees it’s called “Karma Police”. Irony never sleeps does it? Hero considers skipping the song, worried that Villain might take it as Hero implying he deserved what happened to him. He takes a second to glance back at Villain, only to notice that he is mouthing the words to the song. 
“D’you like this one?” 
Villain blushes slightly, “I do, yeah.” Hero watches Villain mouth the words ‘This is what you get’ over and over with the song, and his heart drops. 
“We don’t have to listen to it if you don’t want to Villain.” Hero reaches for the button, but stops. “You know I didn’t know what they were doing to you there right? If I had known- god I put you in there twice.You didn’t deserve it, okay?” 
“Maybe I did,” Villain shrugs, “I did destroy a lot of stuff and ruin a lot of people’s lives.” By now the song has ended, a new song is playing. Villain turns to stare out the window without continuing, signaling to Hero that he is done talking. 
Five songs later and the car pulls into Hero’s driveway. He stops the car and unbuckles, then turns around to talk to Villain. “Well, in case you couldn’t tell, we’re here.” Hero turns back around then gets out of the car so he can help Villain into his house. 
As Villain sits in the car unmoving he can’t help but look down at his hands which are shaking again. He steals a peek up at the house in front of him and his heart begins to race. As far as Villain can tell, they aren’t near any other houses, which means Hero could do anything and no one would hear him scream. The car door opens, shaking Villain from his thoughts. He accepts Hero’s hand, then shakily leans on him as they walk into the house. No matter what happens, I can survive this. Don’t let them win.
Taglist: (Lmk if you wanna be removed!) @everynameistakencarrots
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ohanahoku-ao3 · 1 year
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Whumptober Day 7
Only minutes to spare, but it's on time! Enjoy reading! @whumptober
I Don't Like the Way You Shake and Shiver
     It wasn’t unusual for Steve to be the center of attention. The basketball player was always goofing off and acting out, lapping up the attention like a cat who got the cream. The girls adored him, the boys wanted to be him, and the teachers regretfully tolerated him because of his family’s money. Every day at school, Eddie saw the King of Hawkin’s High surrounded by people, laughing and joking like high school wasn’t a miserable burden every student had to endure. At least once a week, a new rumor about the guy would circulate. His peers would whisper about his latest conquest, his most recent parties, or the occasional fight.
     The best Eddie ever heard, though, was when Nancy Wheeler, arguably the most intelligent girl in their school, had dumped him. And apparently, had run off to be with Jonathan Byers, one of the most isolated loners that haunted the school halls. It made Eddie laugh when he heard it. He’d even given a grand speech about how the mighty fall to his friends, soaking up their energy as it fed his own. Someone had finally put the king in his place.
     Somehow, that joy faded as Eddie watched Steve, once again surrounded by a crowd of people, seizing on the gym floor. His eyes were rolled back, open only enough to show a hint of bloodshot white. His mouth was open, but his jaw was locked tight, giving him a nightmarish look. Even worse than that, though, was the way Steve’s limbs jerked uncontrollably, knocking loudly and painfully against the hardwood flooring, sure to bruise and ache later.
     Someone was shouting Steve’s name, and the coach was kneeling down next to the boy, hovering unsurely.
     Epilepsy.
     Eddie knew the word, knew what it was supposed to look like, but he knew nothing about how to care for someone who had it, and by the looks of it, neither did their coach, who looked more spooked than a startled cat.
     Someone was dispatched to get the nurse and call the hospital, and Eddie felt oddly helpless. He didn’t know Harrington past reputation and probably couldn’t care less about the guy. But something about seeing him like this was twisting his insides up like a pretzel, and he wondered if anyone else felt the same way.
     By the time the nurse came rushing in, rambling about an ambulance being on its way, Steve had fallen still, his eyes fully closed, his hair soaked in sweat, and his basketball shorts soaked with urine. That last thing should have been something to laugh about, but Eddie only felt sick as he was shuffled away with the rest to watch as Steve was placed on a stretcher and carried away minutes later.
     There was no grand speech that day of fallen kings but rather a quiet murmuring among the students who wondered about the golden boy. Since when did he have epilepsy?
-
     Steve spent a week away from school, and that week's rumors and gossip were enough to make Eddie’s rage boil. While the majority of the school was curious, and some genuinely worried about the King’s condition, others were anything but concerned. Tommy H., who had once been Steve’s best friend and sidekick, used every opportunity to remind people how Steve had pissed himself like a little kid, and the obnoxious group that hung out with him all laughed along like it was the funniest thing in the world.
     Some people were also the ignorant type, the kind who believed something was wrong with the guy. Like he was the devil incarnate instead of someone with academically proven medical issues.
     And a few, a very small few, scowled and wished that Steve had choked on his own tongue. Because wouldn’t that just be the best? Like all of their problems would be solved if the guy who once showed them up during a game died. Ridiculous.
     Their words were enough to make Eddie regret being part of the human race, and his dislike for the guy started to dwindle as he listened to them.
     Was the guy really the King if his subjects so quickly dismissed him? Did Steve realize just how many of his so-called friends were ready to stab him in the back?
     Maybe he did.
     When Steve came back, everything changed. Steve no longer sought out the attention of his peers or his teachers. He sat through biology in his seat next to Eddie and not once made a smart remark. When he saw him at lunch, Steve was sitting by himself instead of his usual group of jocks and chicks. At one point, Nancy and Jonathan approached, which wasn’t too unusual, as their paths did cross occasionally at school. But what was weird was that Steve left the table only a minute later, tossing his lunch, tray and all, into the garbage.
     Now, everyone knew that Steve still liked Nancy. Despite being dumped, no one had ever seen Steve dismiss her when they spoke. So something was wrong, extremely wrong if Steve was acting out so unpredictably.
     A week passed, and the rumors and comments eased as new gossip flourished, but still, Steve remained quiet and avoided everyone.
     At least he’d gone a week without another seizure, though.
     Oops, he may have spoken too soon, Eddie realized as he glanced over in biology and saw Steve’s hands shaking. Panic spiked in his chest, and he waited with bated breath for Steve to start seizing.
     But he didn’t. Steve just sat there, eyes flicking over the blackboard as he smoothed a crease in his book and set his pencil down before tucking his shaking hands under his armpits. That… worked? Somehow Steve didn’t end up on the floor, and although the incessant tapping of his foot that started up was more than annoying, Eddie was grateful to not witness another episode he’d have no way of stopping.
-
     Now, Eddie still didn’t like Steve or know him enough to care, but he felt that at least one person in their school should know how to help if Steve had an episode. So he went to the library, checked out every medical book with epilepsy listed in their index, and spent the weekend reading over them.
     The next time Steve started seizing, Eddie wasn’t going to be stuck feeling helpless.
     It took a while for that next time to come, though. He tried to keep an eye out for any early warning signs, but he only had gym, biology, and lunch with him, not to mention that he clearly wasn’t Steve’s babysitter, so he wasn’t going to be devoting his every second to looking after him.
     When it finally happened, it wasn’t in biology, gym, or lunch. Instead, it happened at a school assembly reviewing things like safety measures and fire drills. Eddie was going out of his mind with boredom, so when a commotion started a couple rows away, he was grateful for the break in the monotony. Until he realized what the fuss was about.
     Steve was seizing again, and from the panicked cries, it was bad.
     In seconds, Eddie had vaulted over the legs of the student next to him, rushing to Steve’s side and yelling at people to stand back. He was surprised when they actually listened. Steve’s eyelids were fluttering, and as he started jerking around harder, a slight whine left his mouth. Eddie quickly clocked his watch and snapped at someone to help him, and together he and one of the band geeks had Steve lifted out of the chair and placed on the ground in the gently sloped aisle. He wasn’t close enough to hit any of the chairs now, and Eddie stripped out of his jean jacket, folding it up and slipping it under Steve’s head to cushion it as it started whacking against the floor.
     “It’s alright, Harrington. It’ll be over soon.” He murmured, soothing him gently as the boy whimpered in pain. He wasn’t unconscious this time, and Eddie almost wished he was, if only to not have to listen to his cries. He kept talking to him, paying no attention to the sound of the other students being shooed out of the room or the teachers as they talked about ambulances and notifying Steve’s parents.
     A puddle grew beneath Steve’s body, soaking into the ugly school carpet, and Eddie shushed him as he whined. “Shh, shh. It’s okay. Nothing to be embarrassed about, Steve. I promise.”
     The seizure lasted just past three minutes, and Steve managed only a drowsy incredulous glance at Eddie before he fell asleep from pure exhaustion.
-
     Surprisingly, he was right back to school the next day, and no one was more shocked than Eddie when the king came up to him. “Uh, hey.”
     “Hey.” Eddie echoed slowly, closing his locker. “What’s up, Harrington?”
     “I just… Thanks, man. For yesterday.” Steve said, looking awkward and fidgety. 
     Was he expecting him to mock him after the fact? Eddie just shrugged, smiling as he patted Steve’s shoulder. “Anytime, Harrington.” He moved to walk away when Steve grabbed his arm.
     “How did you know?” The basketball player asked. “No one else knows how.”
     Eddie nearly didn’t give him a straight answer, but then he reconsidered. Ever since that first seizure, Steve had been labeled as a freak, and if there was one thing Eddie refused to do, it was to further isolate a fellow outcast.
     “I read up on it. Someone should make sure you don’t break your head open against the gym floor.” He told the king, and the way Steve looked at him with such surprise was almost heartbreaking. “Really, anytime, Harrington.”
-
     Somehow, that started a new friendship that Eddie never ever expected to form. They weren’t immediate best friends or anything, but now they shared amused glances in biology, teamed up for dodgeball in gym, and occasionally conversed with each other in the lunch line, even though they didn’t sit at the same table.
     They started talking with each other before school started and sometimes sought each other out after if they weren’t busy with their extracurriculars. Then a random comment about Eddie's bike had Steve picking him up for school most mornings. Eddie ragged on Steve’s music choices in the car, and Steve picked on his in return when he brought his own cassettes to listen to. Before long, Eddie was completely comfortable calling Steve a good friend, a close friend even, as Steve started to open up about his epilepsy and the struggle to find the right medications and dosage.
     Eddie started to better recognize the signs of a seizure and the varying degrees of severity they appeared in. He helped Steve through one particularly rough patch where a new medication wreaked havoc on him and most days left him feeling sick and weak.
     Steve started to join him and their fellow ‘freaks’ at lunch, and even though he didn’t care about their DnD discussions, he didn’t mock them for it. In fact, he admitted that the kids he babysat were obsessed with the game, so he knew more about it than anyone expected him to.
     He became good friends with most of Eddie’s lost little sheep, and soon he became someone that all of them could count on when the mockery directed at them became biting and harsh. He might not have jumped into a fight with fists flying, but he had a sharper tongue than Eddie ever thought to give him credit for and a penchant for knowing exactly what buttons to push to shut someone up. Eddie took notes of his best comebacks to use for his latest campaign.
-
     Their friendship was unlikely, but Eddie soon considered him his best friend. So when Eddie walked into the locker room after basketball practice, brushing shoulders with Billy Hargrove in the doorway, he was quick to recognize the signs of a seizure in Steve.
     His friend was sitting on the bench, staring off into the distance, gaze blank. His hands were twitching just slightly, and Eddie moved to sit down next to him. It was just a small seizure, nothing major to worry about, and not the type of seizure he could do much about. But he could keep his friend company.
     But the seizure didn’t stop after a few seconds like these kinds usually did, and Eddie started to grow worried. “Steve? Hey, Steve? Come on, big boy. I don’t like this.” He said, moving to get in front of Steve, setting his hands on his shoulders. “Snap out of it, Steve!”
     He did. With a jerk, Steve inhaled sharply. His eyes finally met Eddie’s, and he blinked a few times before speaking. “I’m okay.”
     “You’re okay?” Eddie repeated, and when Steve only nodded, he threw his hands up in the air. “Then what the hell was that?!” He shouted. “You’re not supposed to seize that long with that kind!”
     Steve suddenly looked tired, running a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t an episode, Eddie. Geez, stop yelling, will you?”
     “Then what was that?!” Eddie asked, still too loud, judging by Steve’s flinch. He toned it down. “Seriously, man. Are you okay?”
     Steve nodded, but his hand was shaking as he lowered it. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just a little…” He made a vague motion with his hand.
     “Wow. That’s very aptly said, Harrington.” Eddie snarked and relaxed a little when Steve responded by giving him the stink eye.
     “Billy Hargrove was just being a jerk, okay? I overreacted to something he said, that’s all.” Steve explained when Eddie didn’t break eye contact.
     “What did he say?” Eddie asked. Steve wasn’t known as someone who took a bully’s threats to heart, and if Billy managed to send him into some sort of panic attack over something, then it had to be something bad.
     Steve was quiet for a minute before answering. “He said the next time I showed him up on the court, he’d give me more than just brain damage.”
     “More than just… Steve, are you saying..?” Eddie didn’t want to believe it, didn’t even want to say it.
     “Yeah, it was him.” The former king answered. “That fight I got into after Halloween? Everyone thought it had to be Jonathan because of Nancy and all… But it was Billy. It’s what started the seizures and everything.” He said with a sigh.
     “Man, that’s…” Eddie slowly sat back down. “That’s like legitimately horrifying, dude.”
     Steve huffed a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, it is.” He agreed, sounding close to tears as he covered his face.
     Eddie was quiet for a moment as he let Steve regain some composure. “So what are you going to do? Because I think that after everything he’s done to you, you should give him hell.”
     Steve looked at him, and a corner of his mouth lifted just a bit. “You know what? I think I’m going to do just that.” He decided, and Eddie grinned wickedly as he clapped him on the shoulder.
     “That’s the spirit, Harrington!”
-
     When Steve dribbled circles around Billy in the next game, the entire Hellfire club was in the stands, cheering him on. And if, after the match, Billy Hargrove came after Steve, well, Eddie would make sure that he regretted it.
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hopeamarsu · 1 year
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Whumptober Day 7: The Way You Shake and Shiver
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Whumptober masterlist
Frankie Morales
Rating: Mature
Word count: 740
Warnings: Panic attacks
Summary: Frankie is no stranger to panic attacks, but having one in a bar is... unfortunate.
Shaking hands | Seizers | Silent Panic Attack
Frankie knows the signs on incoming panic attack before it hits full force. The buzzing in his ears growing louder. The bright colors fading into dull grey. The imaginary walls closing in, cutting off his air supply. The shaking hands that make everything hard to touch or grip. 
Knowing them beforehand usually affords him the chance to get into a sitting position into a quiet place or at the very least, away from people. But a full bar with bunch of sports enthusiasts is not a place like that. 
He can feel his throat close up and he closes his eyes in a desperate attempt to calm himself down. Hands go under the table so nobody sees how much they shake but he can feel the move and twitch. 
“Hi,” A beautiful voice whispers in his ear, low and light like the touch of a feather. He jerks nonetheless, too focused on his symptoms. “I’m sorry I frightened you but I couldn’t help but notice you were not feeling too good, soldier. Can I help you?” 
Almost like the voice knows he can’t answer, it continues speaking, still keeping up the whisper. “Can you identify four different things you can hear? It’s okay if you can’t tell me yet, but try to find those and focus on them one by one. It hopefully should help with your hearing. Find the sounds, go from one to the other until the buzzing stops or lessens. Take all the time you need, we are in no rush.” 
Frankie strains his ears, listening on the glasses clinking against the bartop. Then he moves over to the darts hitting the board, the thunk thunk sound of metal piercing the cardboard a familiar, soothing sound. He hears the sound of cars outside the bar and finally boots clacking on the hardwood floor. 
It takes him a few rounds but eventually the buzzing turns into a lower hum in his ears and his shoulder unclench from their position. “Good, good. You are doing so well, soldier. Just hang on for me a little longer. Next, taste. I saw you drinking bourbon earlier, can you find three different notes on that drink for me? Don’t say them, just find them, okay?” 
Frankie has always been good with following orders, so he does just that. His tongue lifts to the top of his mouth before swiping at his cheeks, gathering the final hints of the smoky goodness he was sipping earlier. There is a touch of sweetness coating his taste buds, like caramel or some type of sugar. It gets easier after that and he can pick the oak and rye pretty easily. Smacking his mouth pulls a soft laughter from the voice by his side. 
“Perfect, you are amazing. Next, touch. I want you to feel for two things on your body, identify the fabric and the differences between them. I know you know you have on jeans and a flannel but looks for things in their textures. Which one is smoother, which has a rip or a hole, stuff like that. Having something to do with your hands help with the shaking.” 
He smooths his hands across his legs even if its hard with how much they are shaking. It’s definitely the hardest task so far and he feels himself sweat at the extersion. But the voice doesn’t waver, it just keeps encouraging him softly, gently. The calmness starts from his pinky finger eventually and he lets out a freeing breath when his throat opens up. His hands are now steady.
“Amazing,” The voice breaths out. “Okay, soldier. One final thing. When you open your eyes, pick an object to look at. Don’t waver, just look at it for a moment and let your heart settle. You are alright, you are safe and you are okay. Count to three and open your eyes. You got this, soldier.” Frankie gives a jerky nod before focusing his mind on the numbers. 
One.
Two.
Three.   
He opens his eyes, fully expecting to see the person that coaxed him through the panic attack. He wants to thank them for doing this to them, a total stranger. For seeing he was struggling silently. For taking their time with him and never rushing him when it was hard. His head turns to the side where he heard the voice and his mouth drops open in surprise. 
The booth where he sits is empty. 
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marvelous-writer · 1 year
Text
Two Lawyers and a Spider
Summary: In which Peter is struggling with holding the weight of the world on his shoulders, as well as his own problems and winds up having a bad panic attack on a sidewalk in Hell’s Kitchen when he’s hanging out with Matt and Foggy. 
Whumptober Day 7: Shaking Hands & Silent Panic Attack
@whumptober @whumptober-archive
Rating: G
Word Count: 2,731
Genre: whump, hurt/comfort, fluff
Link to read on AO3
It’s close to noontime when Peter finds himself walking down a crowded, noisy street in Hell’s Kitchen with Matt and Foggy on their way to grab lunch, the two men laughing as they recall a time in college. Peter unfortunately misses what they’re talking about with how spacey he’s feeling today.
That’s probably due to all of the late night’s he’s been pulling lately, getting less than two hours of sleep here and there.
“But, seriously, Peter if you need a reference for college I’d be more than happy to write something up. I could also see if I could namedrop you to one of my professor friends at Columbia to see if you could get in next semester?” Foggy’s voice filters through Peter’s ears, snapping him out of the fog he’s been in.
“I would be happy to as well.” Matt adds.
Peter looks up at them and forces a smile. “Uh, yeah… I’ll think about it. I really haven’t given… the whole college thing thought yet with everything.”
“Yeah, I get it,” Foggy says, nodding. “I took a gap year myself when I was your age. It let me figure out some stuff and what I wanted to do. Nothing wrong with that! Matt, do you remember that time we-“
Foggy’s voice fades out of Peter’s ears as he looks back down at the concrete sidewalk, focusing the front of his beat up sneakers as he walks. For some reason, his chest feels super tight, the familiar feeling of anxiety clawing away at him.
He’s had so much on his plate recently, it’s been hard to even think about college. With May and Happy’s wedding last month, babysitting Morgan up at the cabin now and then, dealing with the fact that MJ and Ned are away at college now living their new lives without him, patrolling, taking photos of himself as Spider-Man and selling them for some extra cash at the Bugle, and not to mention the fact that he’s still recovering from everything that happened with his identity leaking and Dr. Strange trying to reverse it only for Peter to screw it up and dealing with the repercussions that followed, then the whole thing with the multiverse villains going rogue, meeting the two other Peter’s, and May almost dying after Peter destroyed Happy’s old apartment during the fight with the Goblin.
College hasn’t been at the top of his to-do list.
Peter’s chest tightens more as his brows pull together, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands to focus on something else, other than everything swirling around in his head at rapid speed.
Sometimes it’s all just… too much.
Car horns blare around them from the traffic, hearing people yelling from inside their cars.
Peter winces at the sound. He can hear the sound of all of the people walking on the street, hearing heels clicking against the pavement further up at the intersection, as well as a dog panting, car tires scraping against the road as it takes a turn.
It’s all too much.
Peter grits his teeth and closes his eyes for a brief second, mindful of the fact that he could accidentally bump into anyone on this busy sidewalk. He can feel his heart starting to steadily beat faster, thrumming against his chest and into his throat.
It’s going to choke him.
Peter snaps open his eyes when his spider-sense goes off, just in time for him to avoid bumping his shoulder into someone. His eyes dart around at all of the people around him, smelling a thousand smells all at once.
Everything’s dialed up to eleven.
He goes to take in a deep breath to calm himself… but he can’t. His heart is beating so fast—too fast—and his chest feels way too tight, not allowing anymore air inside. It only seems to be sucking out any air he has in there.
He knows this feeling too well, unfortunately.
A panic attack.
He’s having a panic attack in the middle of a crowded sidewalk in Hell’s Kitchen.
He’s going to die from suffocation and embarrassment.
Peter’s thoughts race as the panic truly starts to set in.
What do I do? What do i do? What do I do? What do I-
“Peter,” He hears Matt say in a firm voice admits all of the loud sounds around them, feeling the man’s hand on his right elbow, gently squeezing. “You need to take a deep breath.”
He can’t.
It’s all too much.
Way too much.
He can’t even get any air in his lungs.
“I-I-“ Peter stutters out, gasping. “C-can’t breathe—“
Before he’s even aware of it, he feels Matt pull him off the sidewalk, everything starting to blur around him. He’s able to notice the change in brightness around them, picking up on a moist, gross smell which could only mean they stepped into an alleyway.
“Whoa—what the hell’s going on?” He hears Foggy ask in a worried voice.
“Peter, you need to try to take a deep breath in for me, okay?” Matt tells him.
Peter tries to tell him that he can’t but all that comes out of his mouth are choked gasps.
Why is this happening?
He can’t breathe.
He can’t breathe.
He can’t freaking breathe.
“Oh my God, Matt!” He hears Foggy exclaim as a wave of dizziness and an odd, cold sensation washes over him.
Peter is distantly aware of himself falling backwards into the alley wall, feeling the bricks scraping his back as he slides to the ground. A pair of hands grab him, saving him from slamming his head on the dirty, concrete ground.
“Peter, I need you to breathe. You’re alright. I promise.”
“Oh my God. That’s it—I’m calling an ambulance.” Foggy says in a panicked voice.
“No,” Matt forcefully says. “No hospitals.”
“But Matt—he’s turning as white as a sheet and he can’t even breathe!”
Peter squeezes his closed eyes more, tightly clenching his fists as he desperately tries to focus on the hands on his shoulders. He feels one of his hands being grabbed by a warm one and brought up to a chest, feeling his knuckles brush up against the smooth fabric of a shirt.
“Peter, focus on my voice, alright? Try to focus on my breathing. Do you understand?” Matt’s voice comes through the sound of Peter’s heart beating away. “Feel my heart beating and me breathing, okay? Try to breathe with me, Pete.”
Peter feels the chest expand and he tries to do the same, letting out a choked gasp.
“It’s okay. You’re alright—just keep trying. Breathe in… breathe out…” Matt tells him in a calm tone.
It take a long time until Peter finally feels air enter his lungs. He takes in a wheezy breath and holds it for a few seconds before he lets it out, repeating the process again. With each inhale and exhale as he tries to follow in sync with Matt, breathing starts to get a little easier.
“That’s it. You’ve got it.” Matt encourages.
When the panic is over, it leaves Peter feeling absolutely drained as he opens his eyes, a little surprised to find that he had been crying when he sees tears sticking to his own eyelashes. Matt is kneeling right in front of him on the ground with a concerned look on his face, partially hidden beneath his glasses, while Foggy is kneeling next to Peter with an equally concerned expression on his face.
“Feeling better?” Matt asks.
Peter looks back at Matt, blinking as he shakily nods. “Y-Yeah,” he says as he lets his head drop back against the wall, letting out a shaky sigh. “S-Sorry… I don’t know where that came from.”
“Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault.” Matt reassures.
“Yeah,” Foggy agrees. “I’m sorry if it was something I said-“
Peter shakes his head. “N-No it wasn’t. This… this happens sometimes.”
“You get panic attacks like this often?” Foggy asks, his brows pulling closer together in sympathy and deeper concern.
Despite Foggy knowing Matt is Daredevil, he doesn’t know that he’s Spider-Man. It’s not that Peter doesn’t trust him… it’s just that he’s learned that the less people who know his secret are safer that way. Matt knows what he means by that, with Daredevil having almost as big of a target on his back than Spider-Man does but he’s reassured Peter that he could tell Foggy and even Karen if he wanted too and that they’re the most loyal people he could meet. Which Peter knows that’s true from knowing them for such a short amount of time of less than a year.
It’s just a risk he isn’t willing to take… not right now, anyway.
“Not too often,” Peter finally says after a few moments of catching his breath. “I just… my life’s a little stressful, I guess.” He says, not knowing what other excuse to say.
A look of realization washes over Foggy’s face. “Was it about the college thing? Pete, I’m so sorry if I-“
“No, no. You’re good. I don’t really know what triggered it. Sometimes it just.. happens, I guess.”
“Do you feel better now?” Matt asks after being silent for a little bit.
Peter looks at him, nodding. “I think so.” He says as he looks down at his hands, noticing how badly they’re shaking in his lap.
“Why don’t we go into a quiet café and get you some water and something to eat?” Matt suggests as he stands up, extending a hand for Peter.
“That’s a good idea. I know a great place too.” Foggy says as he gets up as well.
Peter feels pretty lightheaded when he stands up with Matt’s help but he shakes his head and tries to fight through it, not wanting to end up fainting on top of that panic attack. He almost did and he’s had enough embarrassment for today, thank you very much.
“Lead the way, Foggy.” Matt say, his hand gripping Peter’s arm, either to reassure him or keep him grounded.
Knowing Matt, it’s probably both.
Foggy ended up bringing them to a little bookstore café a few blocks away. It’s dimly lit inside with warm, golden lights and it’s very cozy. They take a seat at the back of the place, surrounded by bookshelves stuffed with endless books as Foggy goes up to order and grab Peter a water.
Peter melts into a comfy beanbag he found as he looks around the place. He thinks about MJ and how much she would probably love coming to a place like this. He’ll have to remember to bring her on a date when she’s home on break from college next month for Thanksgiving.
“How are you feeling?” Matt’s voice interrupts his thoughts.
Peter looks over at him, seated in a chair. His head is tilted to the side, his round, maroon glasses shimmering in the light.
“A lot better now, thanks to you guys.”
“That’s good,” Matt says, nodding. “But what really triggered it?”
Peter bites on his lower lip, looking down as he bunches his Midtown hoodie in his fists. He’s honestly not sure what truly triggered the panic attack this time around. He hasn’t been sleeping lately, so really it could have been anything with how sensitive he gets from lack of sleep.
“I have a feeling it had something to do with Foggy mentioning college to you, right?” Matt guesses, causing Peter to snap his head up at him. Matt must hear the bones in his neck snap from the movement as he tilts his head to the side slightly. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell him, I just want to know.”
Peter bites his lip harder, just enough to draw blood. “I-I don’t know… maybe?” He says with a shrug before he lets out a long sigh. “It’s just… life has been crazy lately and everything’s going so fast. With everything that’s happened and the Blip… I feel like I’m left behind. MJ and Ned are off at MIT a-and… I’m not. I got accepted but… I couldn’t go. And… I know that Tony really wants me to go there, more than anything. I… I just don’t know how to tell him I don’t. ”
Matt leans forward with his arms resting on his legs, nodding for him to continue.
“I couldn’t go… because I didn’t think I was ready. A-And I still don’t think I am. I can’t leave the city or my family behind. I know that everyone my age goes through that and it’s normal but… it’s just different, especially after everything that’s happened.”
“With the whole Dr. Strange situation, right?” Matt asks to clarify.
He had told Matt about what went down that night at the Statue of Liberty, another time when Peter had a panic attack while he had been out on patrol and luckily Matt was there with him. It was just two months after the whole thing happened, so it was fresh on Peter’s mind at the time.
Five months later, here he is, still struggling to cope with it.
“Yeah,” Peter says with a nod. “There’s been so much going on and… I don’t want to go away to college and leave everything and everyone behind. I just… I have too much of a responsibility to the city and my family.” He says, lowering his voice in case anyone were around to listen but the cafe is so dead in here, its highly unlikely.
Matt nods, silently for a moment with a thoughtful look on his face. “I know what you mean. But… I think that you could do both, one day when you’re ready, if you wanted to. You could attend a college around here. I hear online learning is becoming popular these days, so you could be at home and study and be able to do… some extracurricular activities on the side.” He says, lowering his voice at the end.
Peter straightens up at the mention of doing college online. He hadn’t actually thought about that.
“That’s a good idea.” Peter says.
Matt smiles. “Good,” he says as he sits back. “There are options out there. You should look into something like that then if that sounds like it could work out. Think it over and don’t rush into it. Give yourself time. As for Tony, knowing how much he loves and cares about you… I think if you told him the truth he would understand. You just have to be honest with him, Peter.”
Peter nods with a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Matt. Really… I don’t know what I would have done if I was on the street alone and panicked like that.” He admits.
“Anytime, Peter.” Matt says, the corners of his mouth pulling up into a smile.
Foggy comes around the corner at that moment, carrying two cardboard disposable trays with drinks on one and wrapped up sandwiches on the other.
“I’ve returned with the goods,” Foggy announces dramatically as he walks over and sits down in the chair next to Matt, holding out a coffee cup to him. “For you, Matthew.”
Matt breathes out a laugh at that. “Thank you, Franklin.”
Foggy’s nose wrinkles at the name but he doesn’t say anything about it as he hands Peter a drink as well. “I don’t really know what you usually order and you really shouldn’t have coffee after all of that, so I looked it up and it said chamomile tea is good for people after a panic attack and…” he says as he grabs a paper bag. “I got you a chocolate chip muffin to help raise your sugar levels and stuff.”
Peter smiles as he takes it with a thankful smile. “Thanks, Foggy.”
The three of them settle into a comfortable silence as they enjoy their lunch. Foggy and Matt start telling Peter about some funny legal cases they had when they first opened their practice and how people gave them actual chickens as payment, which makes Peter laugh at that. For once in a long time… Peter finds himself to be relaxed, sipping at his tea on the comfy beanbag chair.
He’s very lucky to have met Matt and Foggy. They’re both very good lawyers and even better friends.
And one of them just happens to be a badass, crime-fighting vigilante, so that makes it even cooler.
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quietlyimplode · 1 year
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leave everything but your bones behind
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Whumptober 2022: day 7 - silent panic attack
Warnings: red room stories (nothing graphic) /panic attacks
Word Count: 1.6k (gif not mine)
Summary: Natasha becomes unwell and only the Red Room can fix her. The choice is die or go back to the very place that made her.
A/N: enjoy? (just remember that things are always worse before they get better)
Main Masterlist
Whumptober Masterlist
———
Clint glares.
He’d demanded that if they were indeed going to make contact with the Red Room then he was going to be there.
He wanted to know everything, whatever demands they made, whatever information they had. He was going to find out.
Tony sets up the video link.
Clint can’t help but wring his hands together. They shake when he’s not got hold of his arrow head, the one the usually lives in his pocket.
He knows he’s anxious, scared even.
They’ve been Natasha’s big bad wolf for so long, it’s like he’s meeting the devil to make a bargain.
He twirls the arrow through his fingers, concentrating on not dropping it, willing his hands to stop shaking, lowering his breath rate and forcing himself to concentrate.
He puts Natasha out of his mind, thinks of this as a hostage negotiation.
He can’t think of her, it makes it too personal.
Tony looks aloof, his quick wit annoying Clint; even though he cognitively knows is protective.
“Shut up,” Clint tells him, and Tony sticks out his tongue.
“How long?”
“Five minutes.”
The screens light up and a tracking programs alights on one.
Tony sees him looking.
He nods to the other screen which holds a GPS.
The screen goes black and they wait.
There’s silence, until… two men appear on the screen, clearly Russian judging by their uniforms and the way they’re sitting.
“You’ve contacted us about a program you should not know about, but since you do, let’s drop all pretense about what this is,” one man says.
“You have one of our defectors,” the other states.
“We’d like her back.”
Jarvis translates with subtitles, but Clint replies in Russian, much to Tony’s surprise.
“She’s not a defector, she’s not yours, she’s American. And she’s sick from something you did.”
They both stare down the camera.
“She was once ours, she is always ours, we will fix her,” the other one states.
“How can you fix her, if you don’t even know what’s wrong?” Tony says, and to Clint's surprise it translates automatically.
There’s a pause, and then the smaller of the two men answer.
“Seizures, her body is failing her.”
He clicks something and it brings up a scan that looks like Natashas.
“The nanites are attacking her body,” he starts, “they’re old technology, and even you, the genius can’t figure it out.”
Tony snarls inaudibly, and Clint can feel his whole body tense.
The man smiles, “we know who you are Mr. Stark, and you Mr. Barton.”
He continues on.
“If you’ve given her medication to stop the seizures, she will enter states of fatigue, and her body will start to shut down, run only the basic functions, she will start to see things, hallucinate.”
He pauses.
“The medication will not hold, and the electrical impulses in her body will surpass the strongest of medications. If you had not given her anything, she would already be dead, and we would not be talking. Once it starts, there’s only a certain amount of time before we can reverse what’s being done.”
He frowns.
“The Black Widow is our property. Give her back and we will fix her.”
Clint clutches the arrow head so hard, the point digs into his hand, drawing blood.
“How can we trust what you’re saying?” he questions, “how do we know what you say is the truth?”
The larger man smiles.
“Is it a risk you’re willing to take? Her life, over our truths?”
Tony nudges Clint, willing him to calm down.
“What do you want in exchange for an antidote?”
Both men laugh.
“There is no exchange, give her back.”
Shrinking into his seat, Tony glances at the gps tracking that’s almost got their location.
“How?” he asks.
.
They demand for Natasha to be returned in Georgia, in the small village of Resi near the Terek river. Three days from now.
They send a video, to further prove their point. It’s of a girl, seizing, she’s no older than ten.
Tony watches it in horror.
Clint watches in resignation.
They restrain her and inject her. Body stilling, they can see as she sinks into unconsciousness.
The time stamp changes, it’s hours later if they believe it; she’s up and walking, like it never happened.
Dread fills Clint.
There is no way that this can go well.
He stays in the room long after the Russians are gone, trying to figure out just how this will go, how to account for all scenarios and get Natasha back to them safely.
Tony offers fo stay but Clint wants to be alone.
They have two geniuses, a hulk, a super soldier and him. Surely, they can do this.
He can feel the panic rising.
They’re sending her back to a house of horrors, the place that broke her, and tortured her.
He can’t catch a breath.
No matter how hard he tries to ground himself, it doesn’t work.
Clint’s face feels hot, and he curls in on himself.
“Agent Barton?” The AI feels far away but it breaks through his panic. “Your heart rate is skyrocketing, can I get someone for you?”
Clint groans out a no, trying again to stop visions of Natasha being held down, tortured. He counts his breath in and out until his mind wanders again.
He’s not sure how long he’s in there but somehow he’s on the floor, more cognizant of the world around him.
They’re sending her back with no clear plan to help her home.
“Where’s Natasha?” he says out loud, knowing the omnipresent computer will tell him.
“She’s on the medical level, she seems to be asleep,” is the response.
Clint stands, makes his way to the door and takes another deep breath.
Tony better have a plan about this, because the only one in his head is to get them to fix her, and then he’s going to kill them all.
.
Steve is asleep next to her as Clint enters, though he wakes as soon as the door moves.
“They gave her something to make her sleep,” he whispers.
Clint nods, she’d been pretending to sleep, but he doesn’t know if it’s fear of the constant nightmares she’d been having or pain.
Perhaps it was both, he hadn’t asked.
To think that this time a week ago, everything had been fine, they’d been sparring in the gym, eating dinner together and planning their trip to Barbados.
Natasha had laughed and said she wanted to wear her new striped bikini that she’d bought in Australia last year.
He’d kissed her then, and they’d both grinned at the thought of a holiday.
He shakes his head.
They’ll get there. They have to.
He thanks Steve and says he can go, tells him to have a talk to Tony about upcoming events but doesn’t elaborate. Steve nods.
“Do you need anything?” he asks, taking in his friend.
“No,” Clint says bluntly. “Just figure something out with Tony.”
He sits by Natasha’s bed and watches her carefully.
Dark circles under eyes, iv’s now in each arm. So small in a big bed.
They’re trying so desperately to keep her here. The Red Room better want the same thing.
Dozing, he sleeps lightly holding onto her hand.
.
Natasha watches him.
She knows when he wakes up the news he will bring, so she stays in this bubble of blissful ignorance, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles.
She sees when he realises, hand grasping a little harder, eyes orienting up to meet hers.
“Hey,” she whispers.
“Hey,” he whispers back.
“What’s the time?”
Clint looks at his watch.
“It’s just past 7.30 in the morning,” he nods.
“Move over.”
Clint climbs into the bed, minding her wires and lines. It feels like it’s been a lifetime since he touched her, held her.
The silence has them both thinking until she can’t take it.
“Tell me,” she requests.
He sighs.
“Three days. Resi in Georgia. They want you sedated on transfer.”
He can feel her body tense.
“You can say no,” he offers.
“No I cant,” she replies.
Pauses.
“I don’t want to go,” she tells him burying herself into his body.
“We’ll protect you, set up safe guards. Tony and Steve, they’re working on some ideas now.”
He hugs her close, hoping she believes his lies.
“I won’t come back the same,” she confesses, the thing that’s worrying her most, as tears drip down her face.
Clint wishes he could be strong, but his heart hurts and he feels tears on his face too.
“I don’t want to do it, Clint. I don’t want to go to that place,” she clenched her fists in his clothes.
He can feel her body shake, shuddering breaths as they hold each other for dear life. When she can access words, her breath slows.
“What do you think death is like?”
His answer is harsh, quick to rebuke it.
“No one is going to die.”
This is a truth he knows.
“We do this, and they fix you, then we will come and get you. We do this and they fix what they broke inside okay?”
Natasha looks away. He can’t know the future, and she doesn’t believe his words.
“There’s a story the older girls used to tell; we’d just come back from the tundra; and they knew what had happened. 12 of us left and 4 came back. They’d been through the same. I think they tried to make us feel better, so they told us stories. One of them, she said that death was like being carried to your bedroom by your parents, loved; held.”
She suppresses a groan as she adjusts her position.
He hugs her tighter.
“For those of us that had experience with home, parents, love.”
“Ruthie died calling out for her mother, for someone to carry her to her bed,” she pauses, swallows.
“I’m scared,” she admits, “that that will be me too, but I’ll be calling out for you.”
He squeezes her then, ignoring the shudder that runs under her skin. Clint tries to convey everything in it, kissing her head, her face, her lips.
“Soon, this will all be a bad dream. A memory, just like Budapest, and Moscow and Trinidad.”
Hand under her chin, he kisses her again, lips soft like a long kiss goodnight.
.
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