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hellowkatey · 3 years

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Febuwhump Day 16

Prompt: Broken bones

Warnings: some parts are a bit graphic!

Read on AO3

Care, Trust, and the Force (of course)

The battle was going quite well until Anakin managed to fall off a cliff. It was a rather tall cliff, which is probably why he heard a chorus of yelling from his men as he slipped over the edge and began to plummet to the rocky terrain below, but luckily, Anakin had the quick thinking to use the Force to push himself to a small ledge. Only a few meters down.

Still, he lands hard, his body slamming like a rag doll into the cliffside. He manages to roll, but not before a loud cracking sound rings out like a cannon shot, and Anakin cries out.

Oh boy, I've done it now, he thinks as he lies haphazardly on his side. His arm is tucked underneath him, but he can feel his hand against his elbow of the same arm-- that is definitely not the direction his arm should be. Anakin squeezes his eyes shut, tears soaking through as the sharp pain pulsates up his arm. He hasn't felt this kind of pain in a long time, and the adrenaline of his fall is making it hard to connect to the Force to suppress it. So he lays for a moment, breathing heavily and slowly to try and calm himself down.

I need to get help. Call Obi-Wan... Commlink! He suddenly remembers it on his uninjured arm and raises it to his lips.

"Obi-Wan, come in," he says, his voice tight with pain.

"Anakin? What's wrong?" he replies immediately, the echo of blaster fire in the background.

"I fell... Pretty bad."

A pause. The sound of droids getting absolutely obliterated. Obi-Wan is back, his voice low and calm. His sick voice, Anakin recognizes. Whenever he was ill as a padawan, Obi-Wan's voice would get really quiet and really calm, halfway between a constant lullaby and the tempo of a mind-healer. Like it did back then, it immediately soothes him. It'll be okay. Obi-Wan will help. "Okay, Anakin, turn on your tracking beacon and I'll come get you."

"Okay, Master," he swallows thickly.

"Anakin?"

"Yes?"

"Can you tell me how bad it is? What is hurt?"

He does a quick assessment. He doesn't think he hurt anything else too bad. Maybe a mild concussion from the whiplash of landing so abruptly, and definitely some cuts and bruises pretty much everywhere. But the arm... that's what has his stomach turning.

"Broken arm. Bad broken." The kind with the bone sticking out. He nearly vomits at the thought.

Anakin was eight when he watched the owner of his good friend barge into their lunchtime and begin to beat him. The slaver was convinced Jas had stolen from him, though Anakin had watched a traveler steal the compressor bolt when he came over to pick up his friend. Trying to defend him only earned Anakin a blow to the side of the head that had the world spinning, and he laid on the ground and watched helplessly as the owner took Jas's arm and snapped it in two. His friend screamed, so loud others ran into the shop. They only watched as he collapsed, squirming in the sand as it quickly turned red around him. Someone had the sense to pick him up and throw him into the street. Yelled at him to go back to work. When he showed up back at Watto's, unable to go two minutes without sobbing, Watto had a rare moment of mercy and let him go early.

Anakin dreamed about the incident that night and many nights after. Dreamed about the stark white bones sticking out of his friend's arm. Pointed, like they'd been sharpened like a blade.

He learned the next day that the way the bones broke severed his vessels. Jas bled out on the floor of his master's shop, and his master kept the stain there as long as it remained to warn others of the consequences of stealing. Ever since Anakin hasn't been very good about broken bones.

Obi-Wan knows this. "Alright," he says, even softer. "I'm coming, Anakin."

He lowers his arm back onto his hip, realizing his entire body is quivering. Anakin feels like a kid again. A padawan. A slave on Tatooine. Anything but a Jedi Knight in the middle of battle. But he doesn't care right now. He's in too much pain to fight, too far down to Force-leap back up even if he had the strength to manage it. He would need a proper evac, but his energy is waning and he just wants to sleep it off.

"No time for sleep, young one." Obi-Wan's voice surprises him, and he nearly jumps up at the sound. He hadn't heard him jump from atop the cliff or land next to him.

"Obi-Wan," he says tearfully, curling in on himself even more.

His former master approaches him slowly, his eyes scanning over him with an emotionless expression. It must be bad, he isn't saying anything... Finally, he kneels next to him, placing a hand softly on his shoulder.

"Alright, we're going to sit you up."

"But my arm--"

"I know. Trust me. You don't have to look, but I need to check it."

He nods, biting on the skin of his cheek. Obi-Wan helps him roll to a sitting position, positioning him so he's sitting with his back against the cliffside. He immediately shuts his eyes, turning his head in the opposite direction. He will take no chances of having to see such a gruesome sight. But he can feel Obi-Wan doing the usual checks. Ribs, brushing dust off his cheek, straightening his legs out. It's methodical, soothing. It takes his mind off the pain that continues to radiate up his arm and shoulder.

"Anakin," he finally says. "Open your eyes."

Panic surges through him.

"Master, no, you know I can't."

"I know you're afraid--"

"I can't."

A hand on his cheek. Another on his shoulder. "Trust me. It's not what you think."

Feelings of calm and peace are being filtered through the Force, and Anakin fights back the sob and slowly opens his eyes. He sees the horizon first, the side of the planet not affected by the war because it's too mountainous. Slowly, as slow as he can, he pans toward Obi-Wan, who kneels at his side, looking at him with clear eyes and a slight smile.

"It hurts," he says, deliberately keeping his arm out of his peripheral.

"I know, but it will hurt less once you look."

Well, that doesn't make sense! But Obi-Wan's eyes are saying trust me, and so he does. Anakin looks down at his arm, expecting the worst, but rather than a mangled mess of bone blood, and skin, he sees an entanglement of metal and wires, his prosthetic half torn off. He blinks, stupefied.

"But... but it hurts," he says as he reaches over timidly to feel the edges of the durasteel that have snapped clean off. The stump of his arm is tender, and a little beat up, but otherwise uninjured. "Why does it hurt?"

Obi-Wan slides over to his side, sitting next to him with his back against the cliff. "You haven't had this long. Your brain needs more time to remember there isn't an arm there anymore," he carefully pushes aside the broken prosthetic on the hinge it now has, placing his own arm underneath so that at his perspective it sorta looks like he has a real, flesh forearm and hand there. "Flex your fingers on the other hand," he says, and as Anakin does, Obi-Wan mirrors him. Shockingly, the pain fades, becoming more of a dull ache from landing hard on the rock than the horrible agony of a broken arm. "See?"

He feels dumb now. His tears of pain become tears of shame, and he pulls his arm away, dragging the prosthetic across Obi-Wan's lap. "I'm sorry," he mutters.

"For what?"

"I pulled you out of battle! Acted like a little kid and I'm not even that hurt!"

"Anakin," he says softly, still in that damned sick voice. "The pain was real. It was going to feel real until you could see it was not, and I knew you weren't going to look," he looks down at the ground. "Understandably so. There was little I could do to help you on Geonosis, so I am happy to be here to help you now."

He looks him through his teary vision. He never blamed Obi-Wan for his arm, but he suddenly realizes maybe Obi-Wan blames himself.

Losing his arm was a shock, but Padmé has helped him a lot with accepting it as it is. Technology is so good the only thing he's really lost are the more sensitive aspects of his sense of touch, but he still has his other hand for such things. Sometimes he even forgets he has the thing... obviously. But did notice that Obi-Wan always seemed wary of the thing. For a while he thought he was disgusted by it or something but... if he felt guilty for some reason...

They sit in silence for a long moment. Long enough that two comms with nonurgent codes come into Obi-Wan's commlink but he silences them.

"How did you know that would help?" he asks when his tears finally dry up and they hear the distant sound of gunships overpowering the little blaster fire that remains.

"Research. I wanted to know what to possibly expect after you got your prosthesis. How to get you back to as normal as possible as quickly as possible," he says softly, looking off into the distance as though he's embarrassed. But it makes Anakin smile and a feeling of warmth. He can just imagine him spending hours in the archives trying to make heads or tails of medical literature. Force forbid, he may have even gone to the Halls of Healing to ask for advice, which is unheard of for him to do on his own fruition. It's all just... the most Obi-Wan thing he's ever heard.

"Well... thank you, Master. Really," he says. The rattle of an approaching gunship comes from around the corner of the cliff. Rex stands in the open end, pointing in their direction. "I'll try not to forget I already lost this hand next time."

A chuckle. Obi-Wan jumps to his feet while rolling his eyes. He holds out his hand to help Anakin up as well. "I do hope there won't be a next time."

#febuwhump #febuwhumpday16 #broken bones #im caught up!#okay i was in the middle of a lecture when this idea came to me #and i dont think ive ever put down nearly 2k words so quickly #i started it out one way but then realized it fits a different prompt better #so hey i kinda have something planned #which is a miracle for me #anakin skywalker #obi-wan kenobi

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hailing-stars · 3 years

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@febuwhump day 16: broken bones

such a softie

summary

“Told you it was disgusting,” says Tony, as Peter pulls the metal bar and flushes the toilet.

“Shut up,” says Peter. His voice was so weak and miserable, Tony felt a stab of guilt.

“Feeling better?” he asks. He reaches out, and covers his forehead with his hand. “You feel a little warm.”

“I’m fine,” says Peter. “Let’s go back and watch the film.”

“Kid,” says Tony. “You’re clearly sick. We’ll go home, and you can rest, and we’ll come back when you’re better. It isn’t like we have to see this one tonight.”

Peter develops a sickness at the movies, and Tony attempts to make him feel better.

“Parker,” says Tony.

They’re standing outside of the movie theater, their planned meeting destination, and Tony doesn’t think he can make it through the double doors without asking about what’s hanging on the boy’s arm.

“Please explain that hideous purse.”

“Oh,” says Peter. He tugs on the strap. “It’s May’s movie purse.”

It’s said with a tone that implies Tony should’ve already known this information, and as if that one, short sentence is enough to properly explain why the hell Peter has it and why it’s so ugly.

“And you’ve brought it out into the light of day because…”

“Because,” stresses Peter, “it’s tradition. It might not be fashionable, but it’s absolutely the best purse to sneak snacks into the theater. It’s got so many pockets!”

“You brought that to carry snacks?” asks Tony, unimpressed. “You realize they have a concession stand, right?”

“You’re rich so you don’t understand,” Peter tells him. “You gotta sneak snacks from the dollar store, Mr. Stark, or you’ll pay seven dollars just for a coke.”

“Uh huh,” says Tony. He slings an arm around Peter, and together, they start towards the entrance. “And since, as you so wisely just pointed out, I’m a literal billionaire, you didn’t stop to think I’d buy the snacks?”

“It’s the principle. Five dollars for a box of Sour Patch Kids is robbery.”

Tony laughs as they step inside the building. They purchase their tickets, have them checked at the end of the roped line, and step into the open area. The (apparently) evil concession stand is in front of them. Tony starts in that direction when Peter grips his arm to stop him.

“It’s my money, Pete -”

“Wait,” says Peter. The boy closes his eyes, and Tony sighes. He recognizes that goofy expression. He knows he’s about to get some kind of melodramatic speech. “Do you smell that?”

Tony humors him, and inhales the aroma of buttery popcorn. “Yep. That’d be the popcorn you refuse to let me buy.”

“Not just popcorn,” says Peter. “It’s the movie magic smell.”

“Christ,” says Tony. “I wish May would’ve told me you transformed into a strange little gremlin once you walked through the theater doors.”

Tony continues towards the concession stand, where Peter manages to violate his principles and uses Tony’s credit card to buy a large popcorn, a large Cherry Coke, assorted candy boxes, a package of chocolate chip cookies and a soft pretzel with a cup of cheese sauce.

He proves his original point quite well, when, between the two of them, they order enough food to charge over a hundred dollars to his card.

They haul all the food to their seats, and Tony thinks maybe they should’ve paid for an extra seat just for all the kid’s snacks. It’s a ridiculously large amount of food. If it were anyone else but Peter, Tony would’ve doubted they’d eat it all.

Peter Parker is a garbage disposal that never gets full. He’s devoured the pretzel and starts tearing open the package of cookies before the previews even begin.

Out of the corner of Tony’s eye, he watches as the kid does the most reprehensible thing he’s ever seen. He dunks the chocolate chip cookie in the cheese sauce and eats it.

Tony releases a long sigh. “Kid, that is literally one of the most disgusting things I’ve seen you do. Please do not -”

“-You wanna try it, Mr. Stark?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Seems boring, but okay.”

“If I were boring,” says Tony, “I wouldn’t be chaperoning you to this R rated film.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Like I don’t have a fake ID.”

“Excuse me what?”

“I said good,” says Peter. “Because I don’t have a fake ID, so thank you.”

“Uh huh,” says Tony, just as the lights begin to dim and the previews start to plan, temporarily saving Peter from an interrogation Tony schedules for later.

Parenting is rough, and teenagers are like a different species of human altogether. He’s dreading Morgan’s teenage years, but at least he’s got Peter to prepare him for it, to give him a trial run.

The previews end, and something’s glitching out the kid.

He’s gripping the armrests tight. He’s grimacing, and for a few seconds, Tony’s convinced Peter is holding his breath. He’s just about to ask him if he’s alright when Peter stands, and bolts, fleeing the auditorium with that ugly purse strapped on his shoulder.

Tony pauses, waits a few seconds, before deciding he’d better follow him and make sure everything’s okay.

He finds Peter in the bathroom, with his knees on the floor and his head over the toilet, puking his guts out.

“Told you it was disgusting,” says Tony, as Peter pulls the metal bar and flushes the toilet.

“Shut up,” says Peter. His voice was so weak and miserable, Tony felt a stab of guilt.

“Feeling better?” he asks. He reaches out, and covers his forehead with his hand. “You feel a little warm.”

“I’m fine,” says Peter. “Let’s go back and watch the film.”

“Kid,” says Tony. “You’re clearly sick. We’ll go home, and you can rest, and we’ll come back when you’re better. It isn’t like we have to see this one tonight.”

“Maybe it is,” says Peter. He wobbles, and has to lean against the slimy, gross bathroom wall to steady himself. “This might be our last chance! There could be a pandemic that shuts down everything and threatens to topple the theater industry forever.”

“Pete that’s not going to happen, not even in our universe,” says Tony. “You watch too many science fiction films.” He pulls Peter away from the wall and leads him out of the bathroom. “Besides, we’ve got Bruce Banner. No pandemic would stand a chance, and it’s about time he start putting those seven PHDs to use.”

“Fine,” says Peter. “But we’re coming back to the theater as soon as I stop puking my guts out.”

“Deal.”

They spend the night in the bathroom.

Peter throws up so much Tony starts to worry, though there’s not much he can do except look on in pity and offer the occasional back rub of support.

After Peter finishes a brutal episode of puking, he flushes the toilet and wipes his face with a strip of toilet paper.

“I think I broke a rib that time,” he mutters.

“If you broke bones puking, that’d truly be a record, kid.”

“Might as well get something from this misery,” he tells him.

Peter looks at him with glossy eyes and a face pale with sickness and with sweat. He appears much younger right then, as if Tony’s peering into the past, and Peter’s pain hits him much harder in that moment.

Tony’s struck with this strange urge to make the whole world right just for him. He considers going backwards in time again, only this time just a few hours back, just to slap that damned cookie and cheese sauce from the kid’s hand.

“I’m sorry you got so sick, bud.”

“That’s okay,” says Peter. “I think I’m done puking… at least I hope. Just wanna lay down.”

“How about this,” says Tony. “We’ll get you in your bed, all nice and cozy, and I’ll bring you some Gatorade and some crackers, annnddd a trash can. Just in case.”

“Sounds good,” says Peter, and he tries to smile, but it gets twisted into a grimace.

Tony helps Peter to his bed, and tucks him in. He brings him the things he thinks will make him feel better, but somehow, it doesn’t seem like enough, and Tony’s still pondering a way to make things right for him, even after the boy’s eyes close and he drifts off to sleep.

Finally, he thinks of something that still isn’t enough, but will at least put a proper smile on the kid’s face.

Tony finishes setting up the screen along the wall opposite of the bed just as Peter nods awake. He sits up slowly, and rubs his eyes.

“Mr. Stark,” he says. “What’s that?”

“The theater,” says Tony. “I’ve brought it to your bedroom.”

Peter laughs. “You’re such a softie.”

“Shut your mouth or I won’t tell you the best part.”

It’s the first time in Peter’s life he manages to be quiet. Tony switches on the projector, and the opening credits play for the movie they had been trying to watch before the Cheese Cookie Illness had taken control of their evening.

“No way!!” says Peter.

“I know it isn’t the same -”

“-are you kidding?” asks Peter, his face lit with a grin. “This is so awesome!”

Tony’s chest flutters with something like pride. It’s a good, warming feeling, to see the strange gremlin Peter return, and maybe the best part, Tony doesn’t even need a time machine to achieve it.

#febuwhumpday16 #irondad #irondad fic #my fic #vomiting #sickfic #tw: indirect nod to covid19 pandemic #it's just one line #just trying to be safe tho

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restmyheadatnightcontent · 3 years

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febuwhump day 16 - broken bones

a little bit of geralt whump set in my rugby au after the boys have gotten together

geraskier | 1073 words | cw: mentions of broken bones

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He can hear the crack as soon as he hits the ground. The pain doesn’t come immediately, he manages to reach out and get rid off the ball before it hits. It is definitely broken, he thinks, if it hurts this much then it’s definitely broken. There is a voice in the back of his mind telling him that he should get up, that he needs to carry on playing. He tries to get his body to cooperate and push himself up but the pain bursts through him as soon as he tries to move. His head hits the ground and he tries to breathe through the pain.

He can hear the whistle blowing and then he finds himself looking up into a pair of worried blue eyes.

“Geralt? Geralt are you ok?” Jaskier asks frantically. Geralt can feel the other mans hands moving across his body. He manages to reach up and halt Jaskiers hands before they can prod at his bad arm.

“Arm,” he grunts out. “Think its broken.”

“Oh shit,” Jaskier replies and then is turning his head and shouts for Triss who is waiting on the sidelines. It is times like this that Geralt is incredibly thankful that one of his best friends is a nurse, and a nurse who enjoys rugby enough to come and spend every Saturday she can coming to watch his games. Luckliy Jaskier had settled on his good side, and he begins to rub Geralt’s shoulder whilst murmuring comforting nonsense. His eyes close and he lets the words wash over him as he tries to ignore the pain.

“What have you done to yourself now?”

He opens his eyes to see Triss looking down at him with an exasperated smile.

“He says he’s broken his arm,” Jaskier offers, his voice laced with concern.

She hums and he braces himself as her delicate fingers skate across his arm, pressing lightly.

“I think you may be right, it certainly seems broken,” she says. “I’ll take you to A&E and we’ll get it sorted.”

She and Jaskier manage to manoeuvre him upright so that Triss can place his arm into a makeshift sling that she fashions from her scarf. They work together again until Geralt can get his feet under him and stand up, and then they start making their way towards Triss’ car. Geralt is thankful that Ciri and Yennefer missed todays match, as he knows it would only make Ciri worried and Yennfer would just give him a disappointed look. She had never really understood why he chose to play such a dangerous game, and days like this only helped prove her point. She could scold him later once he had gotten the painkillers and his arm had been set.

When he notices that Jaskier is following him to the car, he turns and tries to push the other man back towards the pitch.

“The game. I’ll be fine, you need to go and –”

“If you think I’m going anywhere other than with you to the hospital you must have broken your brain as well as your arm,” the other man interrupts. “We’re 20 points up and there’s not long left. I think everyone should be able to cope without us for a while.”

He bundles Geralt into the back seat and climbs in after him. One hand goes to grab Geralts free hand whilst the other reaches around and pulls Geralts head so that it is resting on his shoulder. The pain starts to lessen as Jaskiers fingers run through his hair and with every kiss he feels pressed to his hair. By the time they arrive at A&E, the pain has become more of a distant throb. He sits and lets the world pass by him as he sees Jaskier and Triss talk to the reception staff and the doctors, letting his eyes slip close.

This isn’t the first broken bone he’s had, and it probably won’t be the last, and he knows what is coming. He will be fine for the first few days, glad of the chance to rest and relax only to then become restless and irritable as the pain doesn’t go away and everyday tasks suddenly become almost impossible, forcing himto ask for help for the simplest of things. He has never been a particularly good patient, the stubborn teenager in him returning and making him resistant to showing any weakness and accept help. He’s not particularly nice when he is ill or injured, he gets tired and angers easily, becoming short and frustrated with people. Everyone is used to it, knowing to ignore him, but he still hates himself a little bit afterwards for how he behaved towards people who are just trying to care for him

But now, sat on the sofa as some shitty Saturday night TV rolls on in the background with discarded pizza boxes covering the table, as he watches Jaskier hunched over his cast, tongue poking out of his mouth as he tries to draw –

Well, honestly Geralt has no idea what it’s meant to be, but he smiles anyway as he watches Jaskier’s brow furrow in concentration. He feels that maybe it will be different this time. Jaskier has managed to worm his way under Geralts skin, he discovered and brought out a softness and a patience that Geralt wasn’t sure he had. It feels easy, opening himself up to Jaskier and sharing things doesn’t feel quite so terrifying. Perhaps it is the painkillers or the adrenaline crash, but he can feel tears coming to his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed by the love for Jaskier that seems to be filling his chest. He looks at the other man - his hair is curling slightly, still damp from their shower earlier, and there is a fleck of mud just by his ear that he had missed. There is an urge within him and it becomes very important to him that he needs to show Jaskier just how amazing he is, but all he can manage is pressing a quick kiss to the closes part of him he can reach, hoping that Jaskier will understand his meaning as lips press against his temple.

Jaskeir looks up at the contact, and Geralt feels that he did understand as he just reaches his hand up to cup Geralt’s cheek and pull him in for a soft kiss.

Yeah, maybe this time wouldn’t be so bad.

#febuwhump #febuwhumpday16 #my writing #my fic #rugby au #geraskier fic #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt #jaskier

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emachinescat · 3 years

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I Shall Have Lived a Little While

A Merlin Fan-Fiction

By @emachinescat

@febuwhump day 26 - recovery

Summary: Sequel to "Pain Has an Element of Blank." The knights bring a broken Merlin back to Camelot, and he and Arthur are finally reunited.

Characters: Merlin, Arthur, Gwaine, Gaius

Words: 3,661

TW: mentions of slavery

Note: This is a direct sequel to my stories “I Should Not Dare to Leave My Friend” and “Pain Has an Element of Blank.” I highly suggest reading those before you read this one, because you’ll probably be a bit lost if you don’t. :) This is the full, finished version of the piece I posted on Day 26 of Febuwhump. I hope you enjoy!

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, and/or re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this! :)

You smile upon your friend to-day,

To-day his ills are over;

You hearken to the lover's say,

And happy is the lover.

'Tis late to hearken, late to smile,

But better late than never:

I shall have lived a little while

Before I die for ever.

- "You Smile Upon Your Friend To-Day" by A. E. Housman

Arthur was days away from striking out on a quest to rescue Merlin while injured himself when the search party returned. Gaius had told the king many times over that he was not well enough to embark on a journey to find his stolen servant, that he should wait and let the knights handle it. He'd even placed a bodyguard over Arthur – Percival – but slowly, the king found his strength returning. He'd warned Percival in advance that he would be staying in Camelot only until he could move about on his own, and then he would ride out. If that meant fighting Percival and the guards to get to his horse and out of the citadel, that's just what he would do.

Ultimately, though, escaping his own castle ended up being unnecessary, because his men succeeded just as Gaius had predicted they would. Arthur was conflicted when he heard of their approach – of course, he was delighted that they were returning, Merlin in tow, though no one knew yet the severity of the servant's condition, only that he lived. Another part of the king gilded itself in resentment and shame, for he had not been there for his friend when he'd been taken. Arthur knew Merlin well, and understood that his servant would have been waiting for – expecting – the king to come for him, to lead the rescue. And Arthur had let Merlin down, had not been there for his friend when he needed him the most.

A third part of Arthur felt immediate relief that he would no longer have to drag himself onto his horse and ride out into unknown dangers, because he knew full well that his wound – a nasty, deep sword-cut across the ribs – had not healed as much as he was trying to convince Percival – and himself. Of course, Gaius hadn't been fooled for a moment. Neither had Gwen. But both knew that there was only so long they could hope to contain Arthur when Merlin was missing.

Arthur insisted on meeting the knights in the courtyard, and felt like he had just fought a dragon by the time he got there. His wound ached, his body felt weak and limp and heavy, and his breathing came in ragged bursts. Beside him, Percival took hold of his arm to steady him. Arthur glared, but didn't pull away. He tried to ignore the knowing gleam in the man's eyes, one he knew without having to look also resided in his Gwen's and Gaius's gazes.

Despite the pain and exhaustion from the exertion, Arthur managed to break into a stilted run when the knights, red cloaks announcing their return, rode into the courtyard. "Gwaine!" Arthur panted, because it was Gwaine who held Merlin gently in front of him on his horse. The servant was unconscious, but he was alive. Arthur looked up at Gwaine, who had yet to hand Merlin off to any of the now dismounted knights, and made no attempt to dismount himself. A stirring of dread plucked at Arthur's heart like a lyre.

"What happened?" Arthur asked, and his voice came out much weaker than he wanted it to. His eyes traveled back to his servant, taking in the drawn, pale face, the dark circles under his eyes, and the way that Gwaine held him so carefully, as if afraid he might break. There was something else, something that Arthur could not identify, something that radiated a sense of wrongness. Arthur kept studying his friend, and for some reason, his gaze kept moving back to the servant's legs.

Gaius shuffled up beside the king. Arthur could sense the worry and relief coming off of the old physician in waves, but he did not turn from the unconscious servant. "Gwaine?" he prompted, as the knight had not answered his question.

But it wasn't Gwaine who responded. Gaius had already begun his cursory examination of his ward, and when he spoke, Arthur's head snapped around to meet his gaze. "His legs are broken, Sire. Both of them."

***

Arthur felt numb as he followed the knights, Gaius, Gwen, and Merlin back across the courtyard, up the steps, and into the castle. Both legs broken. Arthur knew at once that Merlin's injuries hadn't been an accident. He hadn't slipped and fallen and broken his bones. Of course, it sounded exactly like something clumsy Merlin would do. But Athur also understood the kind of people that had taken his servant. He had spent a large portion of his time as King of Camelot attempting to rid his kingdom and the surrounding areas from the influence of slavers. These were men who were ruthless, cruel, and unfeeling.

It was clear to Arthur that they had broken Merlin's legs intentionally, and at first the king was so stunned by the level of violence done to his servant that he didn't feel anything. He just couldn't stop thinking about how it might have happened. He didn't have to ask why. Merlin might have been scrawny and unassuming at first glance, but he was also incredibly stubborn and determined, and sometimes even clever, on the rare occasion he wasn't being a complete idiot. He would have tried to escape from his captors, Arthur was sure. Maybe multiple times. And to keep it from happening again, they'd shattered his legs, made sure he couldn't run.

They arrived at Gaius's chambers, and Gwaine carefully laid Merlin out on the well-worn patient's cot. Gaius shooed everyone out of the room, save for Arthur, who as king could not be "shooed" anywhere, and Gwaine, who dug his heels in and refused to budge. Arthur and Gwaine watched in tense silence for a while as Gaius examined Merlin further, checking to make sure his legs had been set properly, binding them, treating a nasty wound on the back of his head, washing the blood and muck and filth out of his hair, spreading salve on bruises and cuts and tipping potions down his throat.

Eventually, as Gaius fell into a rhythm, Arthur turned to Gwaine. "What happened?" he asked in a low, even voice. That numbness still froze his heart, but he could feel the anger beginning to thaw the icy disbelief. "Where did you find him?" The unspoken but obvious question lingered between them: Did you kill the bastards who did this?

The king had fully been expecting an enraged, ultimately triumphant tale of the knights discovering the slavers' hideout, bathing the walls with the blood of the men who had tortured their friend, and sweeping Merlin into his arms and carrying him home like the swooning maiden he was. But to Arthur's surprise, Gwaine hesitated, a faraway, almost uncomfortable look in his eyes. "I'm not actually sure," he finally answered.

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "How are you not sure of what happened? Have you been drinking?"

Gwaine's response was serious and immediate. "Not on a quest this important. Not when Merlin's life was at stake." Arthur nodded curtly in approval, then waited for Gwaine to explain himself. The knight took a deep breath, then told Arthur everything that had happened. Along the way, Arthur noticed out of the corner of his eye that Gaius had finished with Merlin, and he stood stiffly, his spine as tall as he could manage, listening intently.

When Gwaine had finished, Arthur shook his head in confusion. "That makes no sense. He just appeared at the edge of your camp?"

Gwaine shrugged. "We thought he might have escaped and stumbled upon us, but with his legs…" He trailed off, dark, flaming eyes darting over to the servant as if to remind himself that Merlin was home, and he was safe.

Gaius turned around and joined the hushed conversation. Arthur thought he saw a flicker of something he couldn't quite place in the old man's gaze – it might have been understanding, or fear, or something else entirely – when Gaius urged, "Since we are at a loss to explain these things at this moment, perhaps it is best to find comfort in Merlin's return – and maybe, once he has awakened, he can shed some light on how he came to be in your camp." Somehow, though, Arthur had the feeling that Gaius didn't expect Merlin to have the answers.

***

Merlin woke the next morning. Gwaine and Arthur had both refused to leave over the night, and so Arthur had slept in Merlin's bed and Gwaine had fallen into a restless slumber slumped over the table in the physician's chambers.

Arthur awoke early, at first confused as to why he was in such an uncomfortable bed, then he recognized his surroundings and spent a few horrified moments trying to figure out why he was in his servant's room, in his bed, but then everything flooded back to him in a great rush, and he thought he might be sick.

He swung his feet over the side of the bed, the familiar deep ache in his ribs more pronounced after sleeping in such a hard, threadbare bed. Well, sleeping was a generous term. The king had only fallen into a fitful, anxious sleep in the early, still-dark hours of the morning and felt less rested than he had before he'd drifted off. It wasn't the discomfort or pain that had kept him awake, however – it had been his own mind, the boiling rage that had hit him full force as soon as he was alone.

The fury was accompanied by equal parts disgust and heartache, and his mind had been alive and seething with images of what Merlin had gone through, the pain he had endured. He'd actually fallen asleep once, only to wake up minutes later with a pounding heart and coiling gut, the crisp snap of bones in his dream much too loud and real in his mind. And when all of the emotions had been boiled down to their basest forms, the thought that resounded through Arthur's head was painfully simple: Merlin didn't deserve this.

Merlin was just stirring when Arthur limped his way down the steps into the physician's main chamber, right arm curled instinctively around his burning midsection. Gwaine still slumped over the table, snoring loudly. Gaius was gone, most likely on his early morning rounds. It was comforting to see that Gaius had thought Merlin well enough to leave more or less alone while he was gone. It meant that he was in no immediate danger.

"Arthur?"

Arthur hastened to his servant's bedside and eased himself carefully into the chair that Gaius had vacated when he left. Arthur responded with a smile and a whispered, "Hello, Merlin. It's about time you woke up." He wasn't sure why he kept his voice lowered, other than a desire to have a moment to speak to his servant alone, before Gwaine woke up.

Merlin looked terrible: His face was pinched in pain, his eyes glassy and legs bandaged and propped up on the mountain of pillows Arthur had ordered brought to the chamber. Still, he smiled at Arthur's light jab. "How… how did I get here?" His voice was weak and dry; Arthur saw a flagon of water on the bedside table and helped Merlin drink, holding his body rather more stiffly than usual to minimize his own pain at the movement.

Arthur's heart dropped a little. There went his answers. "You don't remember?"

Merlin shook his head, his eyes somewhere far away. "The last thing that I recall is…" He trailed off, his long fingers picking anxiously at his blanket.

Arthur leaned forward the tiniest bit. "What?"

"I was at the fortress. The, uh, bandits' hideout."

Arthur's eyes widened. "Do you know where it is? Could you lead us there?"

Merlin tilted his head to the side, confused. "Wasn't that where you found me?"

Merlin's words were like another sword in the gut. Merlin assumed that Arthur had been the one to rescue him, the one to lead the search party. And why wouldn't he believe that? That was what should have happened. If it hadn't been for Arthur's injury, it would have been him carrying his servant home instead of Gwaine. Of course, Merlin couldn't have known that. Arthur forced a smile that he hoped didn't look too fake onto his face and shook his head. "You weren't found at any fortress. None of the men who had taken you were nearby." Guilt gnawed at him for his purposefully vague description of the rescue party, but he shoved it aside. He would not take credit for what his knights had done alone, but he wasn't ready to divulge his own injury to Merlin yet.

"What do you mean? I know I couldn't have escaped on my own, I–"

"What?"

Merlin had cut off, the tiniest spark of something lighting in his eyes. He dropped his gaze. "Nothing. I can't remember."

Arthur had a feeling Merlin wasn't telling the full truth. He could have sworn that the expression on Merlin's face, for the briefest of seconds, was that of realization. As if he'd figured out exactly how he'd managed to get away from the bandits with two broken legs. But he let it go, for now.

"Well, you were found feet from the rescue party's camp," Arthur continued. "Lying in some bushes, unconscious. With your legs…" He didn't finish – he didn't have to. The pain lines in Merlin's face deepened.

Merlin scrubbed a shaky hand through his hair, then winced when he hit the cut. "Ow."

"Don't touch it, you idiot," Arthur chided.

Merlin rolled his eyes, settled deeper into his pillow, and regarded Arthur with something far too close to suspicion.

The silent staring got to Arthur far quicker than he liked to admit. "What?" he snapped waspishly.

"You talked about the rescue party like you weren't a part of it," Merlin observed, and Arthur sighed. Even when badly injured, the servant was annoyingly observant in the most inconvenient ways. Why couldn't he pick up on subtleties in situations where it would actually be helpful?

Despite his exasperation, Arthur was truthful. "It was a party of knights who brought you home," he admitted. "I was not one of them."

Merlin looked at him with an unreadable expression on his face. Then he said simply, "Oh."

"Merlin–"

"No, no. That makes sense," Merlin interrupted, and it was more like he was trying to convince himself than Arthur. "I'm just a servant. You're the king. You had many important… king things to do."

"King things?"

"Like being a royal prat."

Arthur smirked. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed Merlin's insults while he'd been stuck in bed worrying about the missing servant. He didn't rise to the bait, though – not yet. "You know very well you're not just a servant, Merlin. You are…" He hesitated only briefly; seeing his servant being hauled away by slavers, then spending weeks wondering if he'd ever see his friend again had opened his eyes and battered down his defenses, and ultimately made it easier to say his next words. "You are an old, dear friend. And I feared – I thought I'd never see you again."

Merlin's eyes shimmered in the candlelight. He looked like he was about to cry. Arthur prayed he wouldn't. Then, Merlin smiled and complained, "If I'm such an old, dear friend, then why am I still scrubbing your floors and washing your undergarments?"

"It's your job, Merlin. Being friends with someone shouldn't stop you from doing your duties."

"Then can I have a different job? One that doesn't involve running after your every beck and call?"

Arthur chuckled. "Absolutely not. And don't let what I said go to your head. If you ever tell anyone I said it, I'll feed you to my dogs."

"You can try, but since I'm the one who's been walking them for years now, I think they like me more than you."

They shared an amiable laugh, but the unresolved issue of Arthur's role – or lack thereof – in Merlin's rescue still hung between them. Arthur sobered. When he next spoke, his voice was grave. "The only reason I did not ride out after you, Merlin, was because I was injured. Gwaine and the others had been gone for days before I finally woke up."

Instantly, Merlin's entire demeanor changed. Like he had been struck by lightning, every aspect of Merlin's frame snapped to alert. His face hardened, his eyes flashed, and he levered himself up onto his elbows. He gave off an almost frightening aura, one of worry, as Arthur had expected, but also of… fierce protectiveness? Arthur was touched, but also somewhat unnerved. Something akin to power sizzled in Merlin's blue eyes as they searched Arthur up and down for injury.

"What happened? Who did it? How are you now?"

Arthur blinked, then shifted uncertainly in his chair. "I… I took a sword to the ribs – I'm fine, lie back down – but it missed anything vital. One of the bandits who attacked us got a lucky hit in right as you went down. He's dead now, by the way."

The flames flared before dwindling down into embers. "Good. And you? Are you recovered?"

Arthur thought about lying, about telling Merlin he had never been better, but instead he said, "I'm well on my way. A few more weeks, Gaius says, and I should be as good as new."

Merlin eased himself back down onto his back, wincing as the adrenaline wore off and the movement pulled at his legs. Arthur glanced at the broken limbs and hesitated before asking the question he both desperately needed and ardently dreaded the answer to.

"Merlin… what did they do to you?"

Merlin's face, already whiter than usual from pain, took on a faintly green tint. "I'd rather not talk about it, if it's all the same to you."

Arthur wanted to retort, No, it's not all the same to me! But he took a deep breath, and thought about what was best for Merlin. He would have to talk about what was done to him eventually. Even if it wasn't to him, he would have to relive the terror and the pain and the memories. But he had just woken up. If he needed some time, then who was Arthur to begrudge him that?

Only, he had to know – "Just one thing, then," the king implored, and Merlin's eyebrows raised, surprised that Arthur was giving up on his quest for information so easily. "Can you tell me… did anyone do anything to you? And did they actually come to the point of… of…"

Merlin's voice was troubled, but he finished Arthur's question with a quiet strength. "Selling me?" He shook his head. "I'm not entirely sure. I know there was an interested party–" Arthur's gut rolled over on itself, and he thought he might be sick, "–but I honestly can't remember anything that happened after he knocked me out." He looked up at Arthur almost shyly. "I'm sorry, that's all I can remember. But to answer your first question, other than breaking my legs, they didn't touch me."

Relief flooded through Arthur. "Honorable slavers?" he asked incredulously.

A hint of mirth touched Merlin's lips. "I think they were afraid of me," he whispered conspiratorially.

Arthur snorted. "Afraid? Of the likes of you? What were you going to do, kill them with your incompetency?"

"I have many talents that you don't know of," Merlin said mysteriously, and if Arthur hadn't known better, he'd think Merlin was being serious.

"You have one talent," Arthur deadpanned. "And that's irritating your king."

"Glad to be of service," Merlin joked.

"That would be a first," Arthur shot back. Then he said, "Merlin, I'm sorry I wasn't able to rescue you myself. I know you would have done the same for me."

Merlin shook his head. "You were injured, sire."

"That wouldn't have stopped you." He regretted the words, and the guilt that permeated them, as soon as they left his mouth.

Merlin studied him seriously for a few moments before responding with a slight grin, "Maybe not, but aren't you always saying I'm a reckless idiot with no mind for my own safety?"

"That, you are," Arthur agreed heartily. A beat. "I'm glad you're back."

"Me, too."

In the comfortable silence that followed, Arthur realized something – he couldn't remember the last time he'd heard a snore from Gwaine. Slowly, he turned around to see the knight still sitting on the bench, his upper body sprawled on the table, face-down. "Gwaine?" Arthur asked.

All was quiet for a handful of hopeful seconds. Then – "...Yes, Arthur?"

Arthur groaned. Behind him, he heard Merlin stifle a chuckle. "How much did you hear?"

Gwaine popped up to an upright position, cracked his neck, popped his knuckles, and sent his friends his most shit-eating grin. "Enough to wonder if you're actually engaged to the right person," he answered chipperly. "You two are so sweet."

Arthur felt the blood rushing into his face, and he steadfastly refused to turn around to look at Merlin, sure that the servant's face, too, would be bright red. "Why, you… I… that's treason!" Arthur exclaimed indignantly, even though it wasn't.

Gwaine shook his hair out of his face, stood, stretched, and ambled his way over to the sick bed. "Merlin, my friend. It's good to see you recovering."

"Thanks, Gwaine," Merlin responded, and Arthur did look back at him now, noting that a fierce blush was indeed just beginning to fade from his cheeks. When he smiled, first at Gwaine, then at Arthur, it was a tired smile, but a hopeful one, too.

"It's good to be home."

FebuWhump2021

Febuwhumpday26

Recovery

Resolution

Sequel

Whump

Hurt Merlin (Merlin)

Hurt Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)

Friendship

Hurt/Comfort

Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Broken Bones

Sword Wound

Gen or Pre-Slash

Protective Merlin

Protective Arthur

Protective Gwaine (Merlin)

Protective Gaius (Merlin)

everyone is protective

Worried Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)

Worried Merlin (Merlin)

Everyone Is Worried Too

Arwen Is Referenced

Heart-to-Heart

arthur shows he cares

Bromance

Epic Bromance

Mentions of Slavery

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rejectofsociety · 3 years

Text

Febuwhump: Day Fifteen

Prompt: “Run. Don’t Look Back”

Summary: Our friendly neighborhood Spiderman and his two dear friends find themselves trapped in a maze of terror. They suddenly begin to wonder: is any of this real?

Word Count: 2,031

Warnings: Starvation, Mysterio

Written For: @febuwhump

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

They had been trapped inside the same endless labyrinth of insanity for the past two weeks. Peter, Michelle, and Ned had no memories of how they had gotten trapped the maze of a warehouse— they only remembered awaking in a dungeon with their limbs chained down. Using his spider strength, Peter had no problem ripping the chains out of the concrete floor. It had taken some time, but Peter had also managed to carefully break the clamps around their wrists and ankles, leaving them free to trek through the pitch black hallways. They had no source of light but they had quickly learned how to navigate through the dark led by Peter’s fine hearing.

In the two weeks that they had spent fighting insanity with every ounce of willpower they had, the three had eaten absolutely nothing and only drank a little bit of dirty (probably sewer) water that had made their stomach ache and heads spin. For the sake of staying alive, it had been worth it.

The halls were brisk, but not freezing, and uncomfortably damp and musty. The air tasted of decay and smelled just as bad— fortunately, the teens had grown numb to it. Having no sense of time, they would rest whenever they grew weary, taking the time to cling to each other and cry as they wondered if they would ever see the light of day again. They longed for their families and fresh meals, but both seemed to be ridiculous fantasies— merely a joke they could laugh at.

As for Peter, he had been filled with gut-wrenching guilt that he could never shake. He was the hero here, he should have been able to find away out by now. He should have been able to protect them. His spider sense was failing him miserably, only occasionally buzzing at small inconveniences like a nearby fly or rat. Of course, neither of his friends were blaming him and he knew that. But it didn’t matter. He was blaming himself.

“Peter,” Ned called— it was their sixteenth day in the maze, but none of them knew that.

Peter turned his head to look to his left in Ned’s direction, their hands were locked together and their fingers were intertwined. This was how they learned to stick together— holding hands like kindergarteners. Peter would have actually enjoyed holding his best friend and girlfriend’s hands constantly if it weren’t for the circumstances.

“What is it?” Peter asked, his throat was dry and his voice was hoarse.

“Do you think that one movie has come out yet?” Ned often came up with random, normal topics to talk about— it helped keep them sane.

“Man, that’s so vague,” Peter managed to chuckle, “which movie?”

“The one based off the video game.”

“Oh. Uncharted?” Peter assumed, “no, I don’t think it’ll come out for a while.”

“Good,” Ned sighed, “when we get outta here, I wanna see it in a movie theater.”

“Me too,” Peter smiled softly.

Then, Peter felt a slight tug at his right hand, making him realize that Michelle had stopped walking. He muttered for Ned to stop, then protectively tightened his grip on Michelle’s hand.

“Em, what’s-“

“What if we can’t get out,” she muttered tensely.

Peter heaved a sigh, “we’ve already been over this.”

“I-I know,” she stammered, “but I can’t stop thinking about it and-“

Peter let go of Ned’s hand and pulled her into a hug. She practically melted into his touch, resting her head on his shoulder and clutching his ragged shirt. Peter held onto her like a lifeline, hating how she felt like a skeleton in his arms.

“None of this should have happened,” he mumbled to her, his face hidden in her wild curls, “and I’m sorry. But I swear I’ll make it up to you. I’ll find a way out, we’ll all get some lunch, maybe see a movie, we’ll do whatever you guys want. But, for now, we should just focus on sticking together, okay? A-and just walk with me, I’ll handle the rest.”

“Peter, I’m serious,” Michelle whimpered, “what if-“

“Then we’ll die,” he blatantly stated, “but, hell, if we die then I’m so, so grateful to die with both of you. I love you two and I know this whole thing’s been scary as hell, but being with you guys has made it slightly more bearable. If we go down, we’re going down together. Understand?”

Michelle nodded slightly and clung to him tighter. Ned found his way to the two and joined the hug. Peter and Michelle felt his arms wrap around them and they pulled him close. They all shook slightly, but they had grown used to the cold and numb to the fear— at this point, they were just exhausted.

Being ill, weary, and half-starved, the children were on the brink of giving up. Truthfully, they would rather lay down and die than live another second in that nightmarish land. The thought of dying was no longer frightening to them, it was rather welcoming and they were gradually beginning to realize that— despite their optimistic words— there was no hope for them. They were doomed to never escape and-

Suddenly, Peter’s hearing picked up on the faintest whistle of wind passing through a tiny opening. He strained his ears then jumped away from his friends when heard the sound again. It was quiet and far away, but within a second he was able to pinpoint exactly where it was coming from.

“I hear something!” He announced.

“What?” Michelle and Ned demanded in unison.

“C-come on,” he frantically took hold of their hands, practically trembling with anxious excitement, “c’mon,”

“O-okay, okay,” Michelle stammered, “calm down.”

Peter ignored her and hurried down the hall, his friends doing their absolute best to keep up with him. As he made sharp turns and listened to the soft sound, the faint scent of polluted, New York air began to reach his nose. His head began buzzing quietly— it was his spider sense reawakening. Any other time, he would have welcomed it, but at the moment it was obnoxiously confusing his senses. Stop that! He thought sharply, you’re distracting me!

He stopped suddenly in the middle of a clearing to gather his thoughts and refocus his senses on the sound and smell.

“Why did you stop?” Ned asked nervously.

“I need a sec,” he replied, “please be quiet.”

His spider sense began ringing loudly in his ears, yet he continued to try silencing it. It was probably “broken” again because it couldn’t seem to focus on anything. It was just screaming in his ears with no rhyme or reason and bringing him a sense of fierce agitation. He was so close to getting his friends out! This could not be the thing that ruined his mission.

“Peter,” Michelle muttered, tugging on his hand slightly.

“Not now, Em,” he replied through grit teeth.

“I’m serious,” she urged.

“So am I,” he grumbled as his spider sense began focusing on the back of his head.

“Peter, turn around,” Ned snapped anxiously.

Peter looked over his shoulder and was met with the sight of a soft, vibrant green light shining in the distance. He knit his brow in confusion and squinted at it— it was just dim enough that his eyes weren’t crying out in pain quite yet.

“Is that our way out?” Ned asked.

“No,” Peter warily replied, his spider sense was frantically urging him away from the light, “no, it’s definitely not.”

He narrowed his eyes at it, tilting his head away slightly to shield his overly sensitive eyes. The light began gradually growing brighter until the three were forced to shut their eyes and look away.

“Peter, what is that?” Michelle shakily questioned.

“I don’t...” his voice trailed off.

A memory of last year hit him in the chest like a sack of bricks and a single thought took over his mind: Mysterio. His heart began pounding in his chest and his mind raced with solutions. Mysterio. He lied. He betrayed me. All of it was fake... his heart skipped a beat. All of it was fake!

“Peter, what do we do?” Ned asked frantically, making Peter realize how close Mysterio was getting.

“Run,” he stated, letting go of their hands, “you have to trust me.”

“What are you talking about?” Michelle furrowed her brow, she could just barely make out the outline of her boyfriend.

“None of this is real,” he promised, “now run. You’ll find a wall and it will feel like it’s there, but I swear you can walk through it.”

Ned’s eyes widened, “are you sure?”

“Yes,” he stated firmly, “run. Don’t look back. I’ll be right behind you.”

Having no other choices but to listen to their friend, Ned and Michelle agreed. Peter felt Michelle’s lips briefly brush his— a fleeting yet meaningful kiss— then the two took off running.

Peter inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, then turned around to face his enemy. The green light began to dim down, revealing Mysterio standing fully suited a few feet away.

“It’s so, so good to see you again, Peter,” Quentin commented, his voice laced with fake kindness.

“You must really love getting your ass kicked,” Peter snapped hostilely, his eyes still sealed tight.

He was all talk and the villain knew it. The boy was exhausted, fatigued, and would fall over if someone blew on him. But, for the sake of his friends, he had to try to hold Quentin off. Maybe they could get help.

“I admire your confidence,” Quentin remarked, “but we both know you can’t win this one.”

“Honestly—“ Peter tensed his famished muscles and prepared for a fight, “— I don’t give a fuck.”

Before Quentin could make another comment, Peter charged him and the two were launched into battle.

At the same time, Michelle and Ned had just stumbled out of a warehouse wall and onto the streets of New York. Fortunately for them, it was late at night and their eyes were safe from the scorching light of the sun. Still, the lights of cars and nearby buildings were enough to make their eyes snap shut.

“Why did Peter stay behind?!” Ned cried.

A distant car horn screamed in their ears, making them simultaneously jolt in surprise and clap their hands over their ears. They were both trembling and Michelle had tears rolling down her cheeks in panic.

“I-I don’t know,” she replied shakily, then her mind finally put the last puzzle piece into place and she exclaimed, “Mysterio! It’s gotta be him, I just know it!”

Ned’s heart sank, “oh shit, you’re-“

“Ned? MJ?” A voice called as it approached the two mangy, skeleton children, “where the hell’ve you been?”

“What happened to you kids?” A second, deeper voice laced with concern asked.

Michelle shielded her eyes from the lights and looked up to see Bucky and Sam, who were by some miracle at exactly the right place at exactly the right time. Overwhelmed with relief, Michelle threw her arms around Sam and hugged him tightly. Despite his confusion, Sam gently hugged back and was filled with a mix of anger and fear when he felt how thin she was.

Ned cracked his eyes open and quickly pointed to the warehouse, “Peter’s still in there! A-and we think Mysterio-“

“Alright, kid,” Bucky interrupted, that was all he needed to hear, “you two stay here, we’ll have Bruce come pick you up, and we’ll get Peter.”

“Thank you,” Michelle managed as she peeled herself away from Sam, “most of it isn’t even real,” she informed, “be careful about that, please.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Sam assured, “thank you.”

“Now stay here, don’t move, someone will get you as soon as possible,” Bucky instructed sternly.

“Yessir,” Ned and Michelle agreed as they sat down on the sidewalk and curled up next to each other.

Sam removed his jacket and draped it over their trembling shoulders then he turned to Bucky. Both men were already tense and prepared for battle.

“This is not how I expected our date night to end,” Sam commented as he stood at Bucky’s side.

“Honestly, this is a better ending than I expected. Finally getting to beat up the guy who hurt Peter is a pretty great way to wrap things up if you ask me,” Bucky replied and Sam chuckled; the soldier smiled fondly. “You ready?”

“Let’s go.”

#i meant to post this earlier #but whatever #febuwhump #febuwhump2021 #whump #peter parker #spiderman #michelle jones #mj #ned leeds #fos #friends of spiderman #spideychelle #petermj #mysterio #bucky Barnes #sam wilson #spiderman ffh #quentin beck

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lyssismagical · 4 years

Text

happiness can be found even in the darkest of times

Febuwhump Day 13 & 14 – Unfortunate & Broken Heart

Read on AO3

For once, the day didn’t seem to hold any heaviness to it. The sky was bright, the cake made to immaculate perfection, the card and present nervously left in the center of the table.

“Happy Becoming a Stark Day, kid,” Tony says, uncertainty obvious in the way he holds himself, shoulders tense and eyes wary.

Three years ago, Peter would’ve hid away in his room at the reminder, scolding himself for calling it his room. He would’ve tucked himself under his blankets, locked the door, and cried, begging May and Ben to come back.

Two years ago, Peter would’ve shrugged Tony off. He would’ve rolled his eyes, refused to have any of the cake, and ignored the gift. He would’ve shouldered his backpack and stalked to school, not even accepting Happy’s offer for a ride.

Even last year, Peter would’ve squared his jaw, maybe attempted a half-smile in consideration. He wouldn’t have eaten the cake, would’ve maybe peeked at the gift when he thought Tony wasn’t looking, but would’ve ignored the idea of the day that stood before him.

But today’s different. Three years is a long time to heal.

So, instead, he offers Tony a smile, maybe a little weary and down, but a smile nonetheless, and he sits at the table across from his guardian.

“Hey, bud,” Tony murmurs, even quieter than before, but his shoulders have relaxed. “I know I’m not supposed to let you have cake for breakfast, but I figured we could go out tonight, if you want.”

Peter pauses, and even quieter than Tony, even smaller, he says, “Could we maybe just have a movie night? Just us here? If not, that’s okay, I don’t mind going out, but I just- I-”

But Tony’s face is so gentle, eyes shining. “Yeah, buddy, of course. We can watch that show you never shut up about.”

Tentatively, Peter steels himself to extend the olive branch he’d been holding close to his chest for far too long. “Do you think, maybe, we could try to make meatloaf? It was- It was the only thing May could cook and I found her recipe when I was going through her things.”

And Tony’s eyes light up with pride, smiling softly. “Course we can, buddy.”

“Can I?” Peter asks, reaching for the present. Anxiety still thrums in his veins and the remnants of grief still curl from his toes up to the pit of his stomach, and guilt still lingers in the back of his mind. But he wants to try.

Tony pushes the present and card across to Peter, still smiling so carefully like he’s scared any wrong move on his part will set Peter backwards on his course to happiness.

The card is simple, a few kind words scrawled in Tony’s messy handwriting about how much Peter means to him.

The gift makes tears spring to Peter’s eyes. A gold chain with a locket on the end of it. When he opens it, it’s the picture of Peter, Ben, and May on the beach when they went on one of their Spontaneous Sunday Stunts. They drove out to Coney Island that Sunday, not long before Everything Happened.

Peter quickly slips the gold chain around his neck, unable to tear his eyes away from the picture of Ben and May smiling at the camera, arms wrapped around Peter.

He stands suddenly, chair kicking out behind him before he can stop it, but Tony beats him to talking, voice low and apologetic.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s soon and it’s not my place, I just saw the picture when I was going through some of the stuff, and I figured-”

“Thank you,” Peter murmurs, swallowing thickly. Tears catch on his cheeks and his hands are shaking where they clutch the golden pendant, but he needed this. It’s been three years.

Peter moves around the table and allows himself to hug Tony, a few years ago, he would’ve never allowed himself to, he would’ve told himself it was betraying May and Ben to be accepting Tony’s comforts.

“Yeah, course, kiddo,” Tony says, pressing the quickest kiss to Peter’s temple.

He clears his throat, offering a proud smile. “Finish up your piece of cake and then I’ve gotta get you to school.”

Peter lets himself laugh, a small fraction of the person he once was, before everything happened, but it’s enough for now at least.

Three years ago, Peter watched Ben die in the grim alleyway (bloody hands, pained wheezes, the murmured With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility, the guilt and the grief, watching May fall to her knees when the police officers dragged Peter, shocked and blood-caked hands, into the house with The News) and there was nothing he could do to stop it from happening. And then, as though the universe wasn’t done ruining his life, when Peter went to see May the next morning, she was gone too.

Broken Heart Syndrome, the doctors told him. A rare occurrence, but somehow Parker Luck had struck again.

And suddenly, within the course of twenty-four hours, Peter was alone. Absolutely, irreversibly, indescribably alone.

Running away from the CPS wasn’t as hard as he thought, running from grief was harder than he’d thought.

He spent his days swinging through the streets of Queens as Spider-Man, he’d take naps on rooftops, hoping nobody would catch him.

Until, of course, Iron Man showed up one day and took him back to the tower, offering up one of his hundreds of guest bedrooms.

It wasn’t like Peter couldn’t accept it, he didn’t have much of a choice unless he wanted to sleep in his stupid Spider-Man onesie on various rooftops for the rest of his life, running from CPS.

And three years later, somehow, Tony’s still here. He hasn’t given up on Peter yet, he hasn’t died like Peter thinks he might if he starts to think of Tony as a real parental figure.

But Peter’s been letting his guard down. He’s been accepting the homework help, he’s been letting Tony take him out to restaurants and for ice cream, Tony’s been coming to his Academic Decathlon competitions, they have movie nights at least once a week.

Peter’s let himself get close to Tony in a way he promised he wouldn’t because he knows that whenever he gets close to somebody, they die. It’s happened four times already, and he swore he wouldn’t let it happen to Tony.

But he lets his guard down, and the bad things happen like he knew they would.

* Ned’s rambling about his new girlfriend, hands moving wildly with his emotions. Something about how he thinks she may have cheated on him already because of some snapchats MJ swears she saw during Academic Decathlon the other day.

It’s obviously important to Ned, and normally Peter would care a lot about it, but something seems off. Wrong. His spidey-sense is ringing in the back of his head.

And then they leave the school, Ned rolling his eyes dramatically as he gets to the part of his story where he’s planning on asking Betty about it, and Happy’s the one waiting for him not Tony.

Normally, Peter wouldn’t have been worried. Happy picks him up all the time.

But it’s their third anniversary of being a family and Tony said he’d pick Peter up from school so they could grab some ice cream, maybe some fast food, hang out for a bit.

He wouldn’t just miss it.

“Happy?” Peter calls out, wincing when Ned abruptly stops talking. “Sorry, man. I’ll call you later and you can tell me everything about what happens tonight.”

Ned’s shoulders don’t slump in the way Peter thought they would, there’s no disappointment or anger or any ill feelings in his eyes. He just grins and claps Peter on the shoulder.

“No worries. I gotta get going anyways. Guess we’ll cross our fingers that Betty has a reasonable explanation for those snaps,” Ned says. “Bye!”

Peter murmurs a half-hearted goodbye with a distracted smile, before turning on Happy, trying his best to push down the worry and disappointment.

“Hey, kid,” Happy says. His sunglasses slip down a little to reveal red-rimmed eyes, making Peter flinch.

“What’s going on? What happened?”

Happy sighs, opening the door for Peter to get in but the teenager doesn’t move. “Listen, kid, it’d be easier to explain when we get back home-”

“Is he okay?” Peter demands, tears already threatening to spill. Of course this happened. Of course something bad had to happen on the three years since Peter became a Stark. It was bound to happen one day, Parker Luck always ready to attack when Peter least expects it.

“He had a heart attack, Pete,” Happy says, voice soft and careful. “It happens sometimes, ever since Afghanistan his heart’s been weak.”

Peter’s knees buckle and Happy barely manages to catch him, gently maneuvering Peter into the car.

“He’s okay,” Happy reassures, easily blocking the car from the view of the prying teenagers passing. “He’s going to be just fine. He’s going to spend a couple days, maybe a week, in Medical, and then he’ll be fine.”

Peter lets out a broken sob, tears spilling over the edges. His shaking hands comes up to cover his face, hunching over himself in passenger seat.

“Pete, kiddo, he’s going to be okay, I promise,” Happy soothes, hands rubbing at Peter’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Peter cries, tugging loosely at his curls. “It’s my fault. If I had- If I had just-”

Happy’s shaking his head, hands tightening on Peter’s shoulders. “Not your fault, kid. Tony’s heart been weak for over a decade now. It just happens sometimes. There was nothing you could’ve done to prevent this.”

But if Peter had followed his gut and stayed away from Tony, away from the Starks, maybe they would’ve been okay. Peter, he’s infectious. The Parker Luck attacks anyone close to him.

That’s why Mary and Richard were dead. That’s why Ben and May died. That’s why Tony’s now in the hospital.

Because of Peter.

“C’mon, kiddo, let’s get you home.”

Happy doesn’t say much more as his hands disappear from Peter’s shoulder and he gets into the driver’s seat, starting back towards the tower. He murmurs a few more quiet reassurances, before he gives up and lets Peter curl up and cry. All he does is reach out a hand is pat Peter’s shoulder gently every once in a while.

Peter just cries and wishes the bullet had taken him instead of Ben that night over three years ago. Things would’ve been different.

Ned calls him when they get back to the tower and Peter answers it without really thinking, sinking down onto the couch as Happy disappears down to medical without him.

“I walked Betty home from school,” Ned starts without waiting for Peter to say anything. It’s not like he knows anything’s wrong, he doesn’t know Peter’s life is crumbling before his very eyes. “And I confronted her about the whole ordeal.”

Peter hums, worried if he tried to speak, his voice would crack and give it all away.

“Betty admitted she was planning on going to Brad’s this weekend,” Ned exclaims. “MJ was right, she was going to cheat on me. Can you believe it? I ended it right then and there, told her if she liked Brad so much, she should be with him and not me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… I know I was the one to break up with her, but man, does it ever hurt? I think my heart is broken, dude. Like can you believe it? Brad, of all people?”

Ned continues rambling about his relationship problems, but Peter stops listening, mind looping the same phrase. Heart is broken.

Broken heart.

Ned and Betty were together for like three weeks, maybe. Ben and May were married for ten years, happy and in love, and prepared to spend the rest of their lives together.

Ned’s relationship problems may feel like the end of the world to him, but it isn’t a broken heart.

“I gotta go, Ned, sorry, man,” Peter blurts, cutting Ned off again. “I, uh, Tony’s, he, fuck, Ned, Tony had a heart attack and I-”

“Shit, Peter, I had no idea, I- I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can, just let me know, yeah? I- I don’t know what to say. I’m just-”

Peter shakes his head, willing the tears not to fall. “It’s cool. I’ll call you back later. I gotta go bye.”

He hangs up, gives himself exactly two minutes to panic, to absolutely fall apart at the seams like he remembers doing when he walked into May’s room the day after Ben died and found her already long gone. He gave himself two minutes to panic before he called the police, packed up his things, changed into his Spider-Man suit, and swung into Queens.

This time, Peter doesn’t run away, he doesn’t try to hide. He pulls himself together as much as he can, and steels himself to go down to Medical.

* When Peter’s parents died, Ben and May would take turns reading Peter to sleep out of the Harry Potter Series, a collector’s edition Mary bought just a few weeks before the fateful plane ride.

She had left them with Peter at May and Ben’s before they’d left, saying it would be good entertainment while they were away.

Turns out, they’d be one of the only things Peter could keep that belonged to them.

The Harry Potter books were tucked away in the back of his closet not long later, when looking at them was enough to bring back waves and waves of grief.

After Ben and May died, Tony found them when taking everything from the apartment to the tower.

Peter was practically catatonic, refusing to leave his bed or eat the food Tony brought. And his new guardian did the only thing he knew how to do.

He read the Harry Potter books out loud, night after night after night until they’d made it to the part where Sirius died, and Peter had jerked out of bed and taken the book from Tony’s hands, drawing it to his chest as he cried.

It’s not like he didn’t know it would happen, he’d read the books six or seven times each, but hearing Tony’s rough voice depict Harry’s closest parental figure’s death so soon after Ben and May…

Now, years later, Peter tugs the box of books out from his closet where he’d hidden them a while back.

He takes them down to medical where Tony is, needles and IV’s and machinery surrounding him. His heart monitor is steadier than Peter thought it would be, but it doesn’t do much to quell his anxiety.

The spine crackles when he props open the first book of the series, tucking the rest of the box under his chair and he starts reading.

“Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much…”

* Pepper came down every once in a while, trying to convince Peter up from Tony’s bedside. She brought a few snacks, but when they went uneaten, she settled for bringing a few bottles of ice water when Peter’s voice became rough and cracking through the overuse.

Happy was in and out for the first night but he didn’t bother as much after that. They both knew Tony would be back on his feet in no time, there was no reason to cry at his bedside when he’d be just fine.

Bruce and Helen showed up occasionally, they tried to speak to him, tried to take the books from him, tried to get him to rest or eat or drink some water at the very least, but he never complied and used his sticky fingers and strength to his advantage.

The two constants, though, was the steady beeping of the heart monitor and Peter’s voice, reading and reading and reading.

After two nights of Tony resting, which apparently was perfectly normal according to Helen and Bruce, Peter’s voice finally cracked, tears overcoming him as he tries to continue to force himself through the blurring words of the page.

“‘There's nothing you can do, Harry... nothing... He's gone.’ ” Peter chokes out, voice trembling and hands shaking.

A sob escapes his throat and he can’t get his voice to keep going, book falling into his lap. Even three years later, he can’t make it through Sirius’s death. He can’t do it.

He tucks his knees up to his chest, hunching in on himself in the uncomfortable plastic chair at Tony’s bedside, tears refusing to cease, pouring down his cheeks like waterfalls. Sobs wrack his chest, shoulders shuddering, book clutched to his chest.

He cries and he cries and he cries.

And then,

“Pete?”

He turns quickly, nearly falling from his chair in his haste to see if the voice was real and not a figment of his imagination.

But it’s real. Tony’s eyes are finally open, boring into him with an intense worry and concern, hands already reaching for him, seeking to comfort the crying teenager.

Peter flinches, shying away from the outstretched hands. The book slips from his grasp and hits the floor with a thud, and he scrambles to grab it, hands trembling violently.

“Kiddo, hey, it’s okay, we’re okay,” Tony’s reassuring, voice rough from disuse, but so soft and caring it makes Peter want to fall into his arms and let him will the horrors of the world away.

But he can’t. He can’t pretend it’s okay.

“I’m sorry. I- I’m sorry,” he cries, knees buckling. He doesn’t have Happy to catch him this time, instead hitting the floor with a whine and hunching in on himself on the floor as he gasps for breath.

“Hey, hey, hey, kiddo, we’re okay. It’s alright. I know it’s scary, but it’s okay. I’m just fine, alright? But I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”

His eyes slide over the books, in particular the book that Peter’s pulled into his lap again, and his expression softens.

“Buddy, you know we skip over that book, don’t you?” Tony murmurs. He carelessly tugs off the circles on his chest, monitoring his heart rate, and the IV out of his hand, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

“No, no- You shouldn’t-” Peter tries to say, but then Tony’s kneeling on the tiled floor beside him and pulling him into a tight hug, effectively cutting off his protests.

Tony’s voice is soft and warm as they rock gently on the floor, reassuring him that everything alright.

And it works in a way that Tony’s perfected over the past three years of learning how to soothe Peter through guilt and grief and panic.

“You wanna tell me what’s up, bud? You wanna talk to me?”

Peter pulls away from Tony’s arms, knowing he must look like a wreck with tousled greasy curls and red-rimmed puffy eyes and a trembling mouth.

“I kill everyone I get close to,” Peter says, face crumpling. “Everyone I get close to dies, Tony, and I- I can’t lose you too. I can’t do it again, I can’t. My Parker Luck, it- it- Please, I- I have to leave, you have to send me away or else- or else-”

But Tony isn’t angry like Peter thought he would be. His voice stays in the same soft tone he’s adopted. “It’s not your fault, buddy. I know you think it is, I know it’s been tough for you, but it isn’t because of you. My heart’s been weak since Afghanistan, kid, long before you.”

“But- But Ben, and May, they- If I had just-”

“Kiddo, baby, you weren’t the one to pull the trigger. You weren’t the one to crash your parents’ plane. You weren’t the one to give me a heart attack. This isn’t on you, bambi. Bad things happen to good people.”

“But-”

Tony shakes his head, pulling Peter more firmly against his chest. “No buts. None of it was your fault no matter how much that little voice in your head is saying it is. It wasn’t your fault, I promise.”

Peter gives up fighting, he sinks into the hug, hiding his face away in Tony’s shirt, shaking hands curling into the hem of his shirt.

“I can’t lose you,” he says. “I can’t do it again, Tony, I can’t.”

“And I’ll try my hardest to make sure you won’t have to, okay? But you know I can’t promise you something like that.”

“I know, I just… I just can’t do it again. I can’t lose a fifth parent, Tony. I can’t do it. I don’t think- I don’t think I could do it.”

Tony curls tighter around Peter. “You won’t, baby. I’ve got you. It’s going to be okay.”

“Tony?” He curls one of his hands around the pendant that hangs around his neck, the one Tony got him.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, buddy. Now what do you say, we hop back into bed and we can pick up where you left off, yeah?”

Peter looks over to where the fifth book lies harmlessly on the floor. “Can we skip to the end?”

Tony offers a smile, picking up the fifth and the sixth with a little huff of laughter. “Yeah, kid. Of course.”

They shift up onto the bed, Peter refusing to let go of Tony’s shirt, and Tony opens to the end of book five, clearing his throat.

It’s not perfect. Nothing will ever be perfect for Peter. But it’s enough. It’s good.

“‘Instead he smiled, raised a hand in farewell, turned around, and led the way out of the station toward the sunlit street, with Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley hurrying along in his wake.’ ”

#lyss writes #febuwhump #irondad fanfiction #irondad fic #irondad #peter parker fic #don't tag as starker #harry potter reference

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emachinescat · 3 years

Text

Ghost + Bomb + Mac - Hands

A MacGyver Fan-fiction

By @emachinescat

@febuwhump day 4 - impaling

Summary: The Ghost survives the confrontation in the catacombs and pursues his cruelest revenge. Even the simplest of bombs can be impossible to defuse without the use of one’s hands.

Characters: MacGyver, The Ghost, Jack, Phoenix team as family

Words: 5,333

TW: graphic violence, blood, panic attacks

Keep reading here, or read on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, or re-blogging! :)

Previously, on MacGyver…

Mac’s head rushed with the thrill of victory and breathlessness at the close call. Wrapping Riley and Bozer into a hug, he squeezed tightly, only halfway believing that they’d done it, that the bomb was disarmed - he couldn’t have done it without his friends.

The Ghost was dead - that was even harder to believe. Everything that had happened since he’d been knocked out and dragged deep into the catacombs was a blur, yet he could somehow see every detail with crystalline clarity. Wait until he told Jack - the Ghost was dead, was never going to hurt or kill anyone ever again!

“What do you say we get out of here?” Riley asked, her smile shining all the more brightly against her dirt-smudged face. It was infectious.

Mac laughed. “Please.” He turned back, one last time, for closure, perhaps, to say goodbye in a sense to this chapter of his life. He would never forget, and nothing would bring Peña back, but the nightmare was over. The Ghost that had haunted him for so long was finally laid to rest.

He froze, every muscle in his body tensing, disbelief and rage and indignance hitting him full-force like a tsunami. This couldn’t be happening. The Ghost was dead. He’d watched Eileen kill him. But then, directly after, he’d had to figure out how to disarm a bomb that was too heavy to lift. He and his friends had been entirely occupied, for how long he wasn’t sure.

Long enough for an injured man to drag himself back into the labyrinth and make his escape, it seemed.

The Ghost was gone, and just like his moniker suggested, he seemed to have faded into the ether, almost like he was never there. Even the blood trail didn’t go on very long. And by the time they had gotten back to the surface and Riley was able to run an exhaustive search of the area, he’d disappeared.

Perhaps he had died from his wounds, Bozer suggested lamely. But Mac knew better. Fate, as it were, might be kind to some people, but for some reason he’d been on its shit list for a long, long time. Mac knew the truth: as surely as he knew that he wouldn’t be getting a moment of sleep tonight, he knew that this wasn’t over.

The Ghost was still out there, and with a shudder Mac remembered what he’d said down in the catacombs. A bomb, especially for Mac, hidden somewhere out there in the world, waiting for him to find it. He had a nasty feeling that it was now going to find him first.

***

Eight Months Later

Mac woke up slowly to a killer headache, what felt like a mouth full of cotton, and the very urgent realization that he couldn’t move. He knew almost instantly that he had been drugged.

Opening his eyes was a challenge, as his eyelids had glued themselves shut - perhaps because they knew that the moment light hit them, the headache would only get worse. There were more pressing matters, though, namely that Mac had no idea where he was, how he got there, or who had done this to him - the last thing he remembered was falling asleep on his couch well after midnight. And in order to get an answer to these questions, he would have to open his eyes.

He was right about the headache. It intensified the second the dimly room swam into focus, his stomach roiled, and he almost lost his lunch as the world warbled around him like it was underwater. Thankfully, he managed to gain control over the nausea and was able to get a better look at the predicament he found himself in. What he saw was not encouraging.

He was sitting in a rigid dining chair, slightly slumped but held up by something - was that his own belt? - wrapped around his chest and securing him to the high chair back. His wrists were enclosed in a set of cuff-like clamps that had been attached to the small wooden table his forearms rested on. His shoulders ached a little from his arms being in the same position for who knew how long, but overall he wasn’t injured and the measures his captor had taken to restrain him were unimpressive to say the least. He figured he would be able to free himself within fifteen minutes, tops - ideas were already beginning to form in his head as he peered around at the rest of the room and what it had to offer.

He was in what looked like a gray, dirty basement. The lighting was terrible, that eerie haze of illumination that hovered just above your head, not quite making it to the floor. A sat phone lay on the edge of his table, just out of reach.

The only other thing in the room was a large cart, the kind that waiters or caterers often used at big events. Something rested on the surface, but whatever it was had been covered up by a small tarp. It could have been anything - a toolbox, a typewriter, a record player - but he knew it was something far more sinister.

Before he could finish formulating a plan, let alone set that plan into motion, a voice spoke up from the back corner of the room, and Mac realized with horror that he’d not been alone this entire time. The horror was tenfold when he recognized the lilting Irish accent tasting his name as if it were something distinctly unpleasant.

“Hello, Mr. MacGyver.”

Mac swallowed heavily, forcing himself to remain calm outwardly while inside his heart tumbled over itself like a shoe thrown in a dryer. He’d been dreading this moment for a long time now, his reunion with the Ghost, but he’d always hoped he’d have the upper hand. Tugging experimentally once more at the cuffs clamping his wrists to the table’s surface, he realized that at the moment he didn’t actually have any hands at all.

The Ghost moved forward, closer to Mac, but Mac didn’t give him the satisfaction of trying to crane around and see the oncoming threat. The man was playing with his fear, his footsteps slow, each one purposefully placed, building up the anticipation. He stopped right behind Mac - his breath was warm and muggy as he whispered in Mac’s ear, “I’ve been looking forward to this for a very long time.”

He came around the front of the table, and he looked much the same as he had the last time they’d met, except maybe thinner with more pronounced bags under his eyes. Mac gleaned that his recovery had been long and hard. He didn’t respond, just channeled every ounce of rage and revulsion into the glare he sent the Ghost’s way.

The Ghost laughed, a strange, haunting sound. “I suppose you feel rather different about this meeting, though?”

Mac quirked an eyebrow and shrugged the best that he could with the restraints. “I mean, can you blame me?” He prayed that his bravado held strong; it felt like it was all that stood between him and his own personal hell. It wasn’t fair, he thought bitterly - why did the people who tried to take everything from him keep coming back? Hadn’t they stolen enough already?

Mac nodded toward the phone resting before him. “So what’s that for?” he asked. “Catching up with the fam? Does Eileen know you’re still alive? If not, you should call her up, give her a chance to fix her mistake.” Though he didn’t really want to know what the Ghost had planned for it - or for him - he hoped that if he nudged the man to start talking, he might be distracted enough for Mac to attempt some kind of escape.

The Ghost didn’t rise to the bait at Mac’s taunt. Instead, he grinned a grin that set Mac’s nerves on edge and offered up a frankly surprising piece of information. “Do you know that your team is on its way here to fetch you at this very moment, MacGyver?”

Mac narrowed his eyes suspiciously. If this were the case, why would the Ghost be so calm? Why would he still be here at all, and why was Mac still breathing?

Seeing Mac’s confusion, he nodded sagely. “Oh, yes - they tracked me the moment I initiated contact with them.”

Mac growled, “If you’re leading them into a trap…”

“No trap,” the Ghost assured, and Mac was anything but. The man was acting unpredictably, and for a man who thrived off of routine and had a very strict M.O., it was enough to set Mac ill at ease. “But we are a bit off the beaten path, you and I. It's going to take them a while to get to you. But they will arrive, unharmed.”

Mac scoffed, understanding immediately where this was going. “Right, when the place is reduced to rubble and I’m beyond help.”

“No, no, no, Mr. MacGyver - see, this is it. This is the one.”

Mac knew instantly what he was referring to. “The bomb you left out there for me, the one you expected me to find.” He’d had his suspicions about what lay on the cart for a while, and now they were confirmed. “What happened - you got so impatient you had to arrange the meeting?”

The Ghost smiled wryly. “Something like that.” Mac had nothing against the Irish language, nor the accents it produced, but the harsh consonants of the Ghost’s words hit his ears like the crack of a pistol. Or maybe it was just the person who spoke them that made his skin crawl. “But never mind that - you may not believe this, MacGyver, but I respect you. I do!” he insisted at Mac’s snort. “You’ve proven yourself a worthy opponent, so I’m going to give you a chance for survival. If you succeed, your friends will be here to bust you out and you’ll never see or hear from me again.” Mac’s stomach twisted. The only way the Ghost would ever make such a generous offer was if he truly believed that there was no way that Mac could succeed.

Good thing Mac had a habit of proving murderous psychopaths wrong.

“What’s the catch?” Mac asked.

“There’s no catch,” said the Ghost. He walked over to the cart, removed the covering with a flourish, and whatever Mac had expected to see - this wasn’t it.

It looked to be one of the simplest devices that he had ever seen. Even a child could disarm it if they had the tools. And, to Mac’s growing discomfort - something was so wrong here - he saw the tools that he would need, laid out neatly on the cart, right next to the bomb.

“It’s rigged,” Mac said. “There’s no way it can be that simple.”

“But it is,” said the Ghost, his face unreadable, his tone giving nothing away. “I want you to have a fair chance, after all.”

“Given what you know I can do, that’s a little insulting.”

“My, you are ungrateful,” the bomb-maker growled. “I blow up your commanding officer, and it’s too much, I give you an easy out, it’s too little. Maybe we should meet somewhere in the middle? Who’s someone I can blow up that will hit that sweet spot between too much and not enough? What about Desi Nguyen, hmmm? She took the place of your precious Dalton, didn't she?”

Mac didn’t give the man the dignity of a response. The fire in his eyes said it all. The Ghost sighed. “You know what, just to prove my good faith to you, I’ll leave you alone in just a moment. And beyond that, I’ll free your wrists! Then it’s just a matter of unbuckling the belt around your chest, making your way across the room, picking up those very precise tools, and using them to disarm a very delicate device. Easy peasy, as you Americans say.”

Something in the way he spoke of the tasks ahead made Mac’s skin itch with discomfort. He couldn’t put his finger on what the Ghost had planned, but whatever it was, it was the opposite of good. Mac tugged his wrists again, feeling cool metal rub painfully against the already raw skin, but there was no give.

“Oh, you know what?” the Ghost spoke up, a quasi-contrite expression on his conniving face. “I almost forgot - there is a wee, little catch to this whole affair. Just a bit of added challenge, for old time’s sake.”

Mac’s pulse beat wildly, and a bead of sweat ran down his forehead despite the chilly air. What the hell was this lunatic planning?

And then everything kicked into fast-forward - what happened next was so quick, so unexpected, that Mac didn’t even realize that it had happened until it was over, and twin daggers were driven into the tops of his hands, through flesh and muscles and tendons, and thudded firmly into the wood below.

At first he didn’t feel anything. And then he felt everything.

Mac couldn’t help it. He screamed.

Over the raw, shrieking pain of split skin and parted muscle and the rushing in his ears and the pain and the panic clawing at the inside of his chest, he saw the Ghost lean over him, sensed the click of the lock as the clamps around his wrists were released, and vaguely heard the Ghost repeat his own words, this time with a mocking, sadistic twist: “It’s only a matter of unbuckling the belt around your chest, making your way across the room, picking up those very precise tools, and using them to disarm a very delicate device. Easy. Peasy.” He added, voice positively gleeful, “Starting now, you have ten minutes. Good night - ah, I mean, good luck.”

And then he was gone. Mac didn’t see where he went and didn’t know where the door was and didn’t care and was going to be sick -

Wrenching to the side, Mac vomited, the motion pulling at his impaled hands and causing him to gag anew. When he’d finished, the sour smell curdled his stomach further and he realized with some concern that only one of his hands was hurting now - the right one. A large portion of the left one had gone completely, terrifyingly numb.

Composing himself the best he could, pain radiating from his mutilated hand and racking through his entire body, he examined the damage through tear-blurred eyes. It wasn’t a pretty sight, and it almost sent his stomach over the edge again.

The good news was that while some blood had pooled around the entrance - and exit, he presumed - wounds, blood loss was not a big concern at the present. The knives were stemming a large portion of blood flow. The bad news was that the bomb - one he could normally disarm in less than a minute, easily - was set to go off in less than ten minutes - it had to be closer to nine now - and he had been effectively stapled to the table by his hands. Despair flooded him, nearly choking out the agony. Almost.

He knew what he would have to do in order to even have a chance to escape and disarm the bomb, and it terrified him. Leaning forward as far as his belt would allow, he peered at the macabre visage of his own hands - his hands, his job, his life, what if the damage was permanent, he needed his hands (his breaths came in short, desperate pants), and it hurt more than anything, more than pulling a coffin out of a lit incinerator, more than a gunshot wound in the leg, more than anything (breathe, calm down, you can do this, you have to do this).

It was as he’d thought - the knives were long and thin, so the hilts were not flush with his flesh. About two inches of each blade remained, and they, along with the hilt themselves, were how he was going to get his hands free. Essentially, he was going to have to lift one of his hands up so that the top of the hand was pushing up against the bottom of the hilt. It hadn’t sounded like the knives had been driven too deeply into the wood of the table below, so he most likely wouldn't have to put too much upwards pressure on the hilt.

The real issue came with how the knives widened closer to the hilt, which meant he would not only be shoving the knife through already raw and shredded muscle, but he would actually be enlarging the wound - the pain of which he didn’t even want to consider - and risking further damage. Already he feared what the Ghost had done to him, even if he survived - what if he could never use his hands again?

No, focus. The future beyond the next eight minutes doesn’t matter right now, because if you don’t get it together and do what has to be done, there will be no future. A small, ugly part of his mind snapped back, Maybe it would be better that way, because if he couldn’t use his hands, then what was he? He shoved that terrible thought away and forced himself to work past the agony he was already drowning in and that which was surely to come. One thing at a time.

He found himself very tempted to enact his plan with the hand that was already mostly numb - after all, he wouldn’t feel the knife slicing deeper. But there was a big problem with that - a rough sob choked out of him at the building crescendo of anguish that wracked from his hands, up his arms, and throughout his whole body when he attempted to move the fingers on each hand. And that was the first problem: Although he could move all fingers except for the index with great pain and difficulty on his right hand - thank God, somehow the blade must have managed to avoid all extensor tendons except the one - the middle and right portions of his left hand were numb and the only finger on that hand that he could move was the pinky. He tried very hard not to consider the extent of nerve and tendon damage done and whether or not they could be repaired. That meant that even if he did use his left hand to push the knife up and out of the table, he wouldn’t be able to use that hand at all, and he’d be back to square one.

He wasn’t entirely sure how much time had passed - the Ghost must have taken his watch when he captured him - but he knew that the minutes were racing ahead faster than he could catch them. If he wanted any chance of disarming that bomb, he would have to move now.

In the end, he had to approach it like he did jumping out of a plane or scaling a tall structure. Without wasting any further time contemplating what was going to happen, without trying to prepare himself or psych himself up for the pain that was to come, he wrenched his right arm up as fast as he could, and it seemed that he could feel every fiber of muscle tearing as his impaled hand traveled up the length of the blade until it rested against the hilt. A horrible sound erupted from deep within him, something foreign and unexpected and wrong, but still he wrenched the hand up and for a terrifying moment he thought that it was too firmly stuck in the wood as he was rapidly losing strength and black spots flickered across his vision and he couldn’t pass out, not now, he was so close -

And then the tip of the dagger parted from its wooden sheath and somehow he managed to hang onto consciousness by the thinnest of threads. Knowing that he truly could not afford to lose any momentum now that he’d started - how many minutes left? Three? Two? - he brought his hand to his face and awkwardly but efficiently used his teeth to pry it free. He was left with a gaping wound but thankfully he still had four working fingers, and the blood was flowing freely now, unfettered by the blade, he had to move fast.

In less than a minute, he’d managed to find enough strength in his mangled right hand to pull out the remaining knife and clumsily unbuckle the belt around his chest, the metal now slick with blood - there was blood on the table, running down his palms and soaking into his shirt sleeves and plinking on the floor as he forced himself to his feet and then promptly lost a short but ferocious battle with his stomach.

Never had he ever wanted to give up so badly. After all, how could anyone expect him to do what had to be done now? He could feel the shock setting in, he was continuing to lose blood rapidly, one hand was almost completely useless, and the other was like a medical pump, except instead of morphine it dispensed only unbearable pain. He thought about the floor, how it was probably a lot less uncomfortable than it looked, and how even now the darkness was eating away at the corners of his vision so that he would probably pass out before the bomb exploded…

But then he thought of his friends, his team - Riley, Matty, Boze, Desi, maybe even his dad, and Jack, who was so far away but who was counting on Mac to still be alive and thinking when he returned - and he knew that he couldn't just give in. He had to try, for them. Even if he failed - which was a very real possibility - at least he would be fighting to see them again, and that was, at least, something.

So he tucked his hands into his armpits as tightly as possible in a futile attempt to stem the blood flow and forged forward, focusing on one foot in front of the other, staving off the dark with everything he had left, feeling the warm blood from his hands running down his sides and fighting nausea at the stench of tang and iron. He fell a few feet from the cart but dragged himself forward on his knees, then used his right hand, pain exploding, to pull himself up to roughly eye level with the device.

It was so simple, and the time read 00:01:05. Normally, it would be no problem. But his hands were almost completely out of commission. He couldn’t do it, there was no way he could disarm this bomb in that amount of time when he could barely use his hands, let alone wire cutters or pliers.

Well, at least he had tried. He swayed where he knelt, ready to give in to the darkness and the end. And then --

A pounding from somewhere behind him, on the other side of the door, wherever that was. A voice, frantic, muffled, screaming his name, “Mac! Are you in there?”

“Riles?” he mumbled, barely able to form the words. His mind was sluggish, and he was cold, and glancing down blearily at the timer, it had gone down to 00:00:50. It took every effort to raise his voice enough to be heard, “Get out of here! It’s about to go off!”

“Not without you!” Desi’s voice called, and he’d never heard her sound so desperate.

“Mac! Either get the hell up out of there, or disarm the damn bomb!” Bozer shouted.

“Don’t you dare give up on me now, Blondie.” Matty had the steel in her voice that brooked no argument.

“Working on hacking the electronic lock now,” came Riley’s voice, and the timer read 00:00:38.

“You don’t understand,” Mac protested. “I can’t - you’ll die.”

But he knew the awful truth - even if they turned and ran now, it would be too late. They would never clear the blast in time. Because he wasn’t strong enough, because he gave in to the pain and the shock and the lull of nothingness, they would die.

No.

Painfully, Mac reached out and grasped the pliers between his three working fingers and thumb in his right hand. He had no idea how he managed it, but by the time the clock had reached 00:00:20, he had separated the wire he needed to cut. His head swam and he shivered and blood coated the surface of the bomb and the pliers were sticky with it. The wire cutters were a bit easier to use. Once he got them situated in his hand, which still hurt like hell but didn’t really feel like it was a part of his own body anymore, it was just a simple snip. He almost cut the wrong one. All the wires were red now.

The moment before he cut the wire, he realized that the Ghost might have lied and set up a secondary device. He wasn’t one to stray from his M.O. Come to think of it, though, he hadn’t seen a camera, either, and that was also one of the bomb-maker’s signatures. Well, he thought as he cut the wire, I suppose it doesn’t matter now.

In fact, nothing did.

The second it was cut, the tool clattered from his hand and he slumped forward, passing out right on top of the defused bomb.

Seconds later, the door burst open and his team, along with a dozen agents in full tactical gear, barged in to see something that would never, ever leave them - and that they would have nightmares about for the rest of their lives.

Mac half stood, half slumped over a bomb on a cart, face translucent, lips tinged blue, blood everywhere - there was a trail of it leading from a table upon which had been discarded two bloody knives - and when they moved Mac’s too-still, barely breathing body off the bomb and laid him out on the floor, elevating his legs and applying pressure bandages to his horrifically maimed hands, the timer read in great red letters 00:00:02.

***

Six Weeks Later

“How’re ya hangin�� in there, hoss?” the always-welcome voice of Jack Dalton drawled. He sounded chipper enough, but there was a heaviness in his words, and Mac wished not for the first time that video calling was an option wherever Jack was at. He supposed he should be grateful that he was getting to talk to him at all, though.

They hadn’t been able to contact Jack until two weeks after Mac had nearly lost his life - and then possibly the use of his left hand - to the Ghost. To say that Jack was enraged was a vast understatement, and he almost abandoned his entire mission, almost went AWOL, just to get back to his partner. He knew how devastated and traumatized Mac would be, and it killed him. He’d been persuaded to stay where he was, because if he didn’t, he’d be crossing all kinds of lines and could get into serious trouble that could significantly delay when he’d be able to actually come home to his boy for good.

Mac sighed. “Better, I think. You’re not on speaker phone, you know.”

The excitement in Jack’s voice infected even Mac, who’d been unusually subdued and distant from the moment he’d woken up in Phoenix’s hospital. “You’re holding the phone? Atta boy, this physical therapy stuff’s no joke!”

Mac couldn’t help but grin, a bit of pride in his voice. “And I’m holding it with my left hand!”

Jack whooped a whole-ass yippee-ki-yay and Mac actually laughed. This was more than Jack could have hoped for, as the last time he’d been able to talk with Mac his kid had been miserable and drugged up, fresh out of his third reconstructive surgery, this one to remove dead nerves and graft in new ones. Of course, Jack had kept up with Channel Mac News (as he lamely called it) via other means of communication - texts and radio messages and even the odd telegraph - but it was so good to hear the kid’s voice, to hear him speak of his progress.

“Yeah,” Mac chuckled, his voice lighter than it had been in a while. “I’ve got most of the feeling back now, thanks to the incredible specialists Phoenix flew in.” He sobered. “But even they are not optimistic that I’ll regain full range of motion or finger articulation in that hand, though.”

“Well, you’ve proved plenty of doctors wrong before, dude. But even if you don’t get your elocution back--”

“Articulation.”

“Whatever. Even if you don’t get that back completely, that doesn’t make you any less you. You hear me, hoss?” And now Jack was using his serious voice as he went into a speech he’d been practicing for nearly a month. “Even if you got the news that you could never use your hands again, you’d still be Mac. It don’t matter if you’ve got one working hand, or two, or none - it ain’t your hands that give you value. It’s what’s in here.”

Mac couldn’t help but smile. “You know I can’t see where you’re pointing, right, Jack?”

“You know full well where your worth is, brother,” Jack responded, not even rising to the bait. “It ain't in your hands or even your brains - no one would love you less without them, and you’d still be the most important person in the world to me. You gotta learn to love yourself no matter what.”

Mac blinked at the sudden rush of moisture to his eyes and cleared his throat. “Thanks, man,” he said, his voice gruff. Then, to lighten the mood - “Being on this mission sure has made you sappy,” he joked. “Remind me why I’m going to therapy when I’ve got you to unlock the secrets of the soul?” He’d been forced by his entire team to talk to a Phoenix-sanctioned psychologist two times a week. Though he fought it at first, he had to admit that Dr. Frasier had given him some helpful techniques to work past the worst of the panic attacks, and that he’d gradually felt more like himself after each session.

He could hear the grin in Jack’s voice, could see it perfectly in his mind’s eye. “What are you talking about, man? Ol’ Jack’s always been in touch with his emotions. Ain’t nothing wrong with that - I learned that from my pop.”

Muffled voices from the other end of the call signaled that their talk was coming to an end. Jack had to be heading out soon, back on the trail of the killer that had torn their team apart.

“Hey, bud--”

“I know,” Mac interrupted, and even though his hand was shaking with the effort of holding it to his ear for so long, he didn’t change hands or put the phone on speaker. A brief pause. He asked the question he always did every time he talked to Jack, but this time even he could tell that his voice was more wistful than usual:

“When are you coming home?”

And Jack responded the way he always did, and even though Jack hadn’t come home yet, Mac believed him, because he knew that Jack was doing everything to return safely to his family as soon as possible.

“Real soon, brother.”

“Hey, Jack?”

“Geez, kid, I’m on a schedule,” Jack complained, but Mac heard the smirk in his voice.

“When you get home,” Mac promised, determination to keep healing, to beat the odds, welling up inside of him, “I’m going to beat you in an arm-wrestling contest.”

Jack laughed. “There’s not one part of me that doubts it, kiddo.”

Though Mac couldn’t see it, Jack wiped a tear from his eye as he hung up and went back to join his team with the biggest smile on his face he’d had in a very, very long time.

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