#painful wound cleaning

[whumpetywhump]

Till The End Of The Moon - Ep. 21

[whumblr]

Collaboration

Continuation from Escalation.

-

Desperate wails were interrupted by a cry of pain as Whumpee landed on the hard cell floor. The two henchmen threw them right into a corner of the room, glad to literally get them off their hands, and scurried back out, holding the door open until Caretaker rushed in.

The door slammed shut behind them as soon as they entered, but Caretaker barely noticed or heard, completely fixed on Whumpee.

“Whumpee, please, it’s me. Calm down, please, it’s just me.” Caretaker took cautious small steps forward, as if they were trying to calm down a wild beast instead of a small figure handcuffed on the floor. “Please, it’s okay.” They inched closer and held out their hands in front of them, a sign of peace. But it had an adverse effect; Whumpee’s eyes widened in shock and they tried to scoot away, their fearful screams increasing in volume.

Caretaker stopped dead in their tracks, confused until they noticed their own trembling hands. Their palms, outstretched to Whumpee, were still covered in blood.

“Shit…” they mumbled, and hastily wiped their hands on their shirt. “Shit, shit!” Of course this wasn’t going to work. No one is going to believe that ‘it’s okay’ when you’re the one shaking like hell and covered in blood. Calm yourself! They closed their eyes and took a deep breath. Then they tried the best they could to remove any traces of blood, twisted their shirt on backwards with the relatively clean and white side front, and took another deep breath before they sank to their knees.

“Whumpee,” Caretaker now spoke in a calm clear voice. They held out their hand again, palm up; no longer a desperate plea but instead, an offer to help. “I’m here. I’m here for you. Let me help you.”

Frantic eyes snapped to their gaze again and roamed over their body, lingered on the outstretched hand. Fearful cries turned questioning, confused at what was happening in front of them. But they stopped moving, stopped scooting backwards further into their corner. And their cries were now periodically interrupted by sobs, tears staining their face instead of the rageful scowl.

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” Caretaker shushed. Confused was better than fear. They shimmied an inch forward, knee for knee. “Just, listen to my voice, okay? You recognise my voice. You recognise me.”

And slowly they did. It was like Caretaker could see the frenzy melt away in their eyes, like the fog lifted, making place for something that almost resembled relief.

“You’re safe. I’ll keep you safe. I won’t let them hurt you. Hey, hey look at me, hm.”

Whumpee sniffled loudly and tried to stutter something out through their hiccups. “C—Ca—” They scooted towards Caretaker, hobbling over the floor on their side, like a seal on land, and tried to get onto their knees, drawn to Caretaker’s outstretched arms, to the relief their hug would offer.

“C’mere, let me sit you up… There we go.” Caretaker sat against the wall and helped Whumpee snuggle up against them – best they could with their limbs tied – letting them cry against their shoulder until fatigue overtook the strong emotions. They sat together in silence, both completely worn out. Caretaker casually stroking their fingers through Whumpee’s hair.

Something tickled over their arm and Caretaker flinched in surprise, and again as they noticed it was blood dripping out from under their t-shirt sleeve. They quickly swiped it away, sneaking a peek at Whumpee, worried they might go off again. But Whumpee just stared dead ahead, eyes blank, not even noticing anything off.

Then they heard footsteps and Caretaker shot back to full alert. They jumped up, standing in front of Whumpee, not even wanting to let the long shadow that cast through the bars into their cell touch them.

“Heard the screaming die down and figured it was safe to see what was going on,” Whumper said with a smirk as he opened the cell door and stepped in.

“You’re welcome,” Caretaker snarled.

Whumper lingered near the door and waved a hand at Caretaker. “Come over here. I don’t want to trigger them again with your blood.”

“You really want to go for another round?!”

But Whumper lifted the medkit he was holding and crooked a brow.

“Oh.” Caretaker mellowed. For a second. Then it was back to defence. “Well, it’s your fault the blood was there anyhow and you triggered them,” they spat. But they practically swayed on their feet, and having their wounds treated, the blood wrapped and hidden, was a welcome thought. They slowly walked over to Whumper, still suspicious but also dead tired. “Since when do you take care of your torture victims?”

“Since we need to discuss something,” Whumper said in a soft voice. He motioned for Caretaker to sit down.

“I’m not telling you where our base i—”

“Not that!” Whumper shot back. “God, I get it, okay. I get the picture. We’re past that now. There’s bigger issues than our conflict.”

“Are there? When you’re willing to torture people for it?”

“It’s about them,” Whumper whisper-hissed, and he gestured at Whumpee. “That little screeching package you picked up.”

“Don’t call them that!”

Whumper let out an exasperated sigh and grabbed Caretaker’s wrist, practically dragging them down to sit with him. He didn’t let go, even though Caretaker followed meekly and didn’t attempt to pull away. He snapped open the medkit and folded their sleeves back, revealing their cut up shoulder where the one cut still oozed out blood.

He nodded at Whumpee while he still examined Caretaker’s wounds. “That’s your jacket, right?”

Caretaker glanced back involuntarily, even though they already knew what he was talking about. “Yeah. I gave it to them. Their old shirt was all tattered and dirty.”

“But they were white clothes?”

“Yes?”

Whumper remained quiet for a beat, only softly humming to himself as he gently swiped a cloth over Caretaker’s arm, washing away the blood while still holding onto their wrist. “You probably don’t know this, as you don’t go out as far west past here—”

“As we are not allowed to go west past here,” Caretaker bitterly interrupted.

“—but there’s a medical facility, in the middle of the forest nearer to the city. That’s where they’re from. They were under treatment. Given what we’ve just witnessed, I’d say for some sort of trauma processing.”

Caretaker’s gaze, focused on making sure there was no funny business near the sensitive cuts, flicked up to his eyes now searching for the truth. “How do you know that?”

“Your jacket, their clothes and the fact that you found them alone in the forest gave me enough hints. My thoughts were confirmed when the facility contacted us moments ago, asking for help.”

He clicked his tongue, fingers hovering over the new red stains blossoming up over Caretaker’s shoulder and chest, the cuts now covered with their shirt on backwards and the torn fabric dangling over their back, revealing untouched skin. Caretaker stopped him when he picked up a pair of scissors, meaning to cut the torn shirt away. “I’ll get you something new,” he sighed, “Something for them as well. They are indeed lost,” he continued as Caretaker’s hand fell away, “Strayed from the facility grounds and couldn’t find their way back. Apparently, it’s quite a fall down.”

Caretaker looked at him in suspicion. “So now you want to take them back?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“What’s your plan, then?” Whumper asked calmly. “Letting them rot away in that corner over there?”

“They’ll come with me. That was the plan before you took us. We will take care of them at our base.”

“They need help,” Whumper said patiently. He reached for some disinfectant. “More help than just a nice meal and your fluffy team members cuddling them. One wrong move and they’ll tear apart your base, your team, or worse, themself. You saw how they reacted just now. Whatever happened to them, you are not equipped to take care of such trauma. You know this.”

Yeah, they did know, Caretaker had to admit. It had been their plan to just take the lost and wounded Whumpee back to base, nurse them back to health. Have them be part of the team, if they wanted to, give them a life. But after seeing how Whumpee was triggered and trying to calm them down when Caretaker didn’t know in the slightest what to do or how to prevent them slipping back, they had to admit that they were out of their league.

Even if they could avoid the unknown triggers and tiptoe around them… it probably wouldn’t be the best environment for Whumpee. Especially not with enemies – like the one in front of them – still lurking and waiting for an opportunity to strike. Opening up ways for new trauma to slip in, or further amplify the deep trauma that already lingered within the small figure.

Still, they refused to admit it and changed course.

“I don’t even know how to get there,” Caretaker muttered.

“I do. I’ll take you.”

Caretaker scoffed hard at that and backed up to their original stance. “I am not taking them back. Especially not with you.”

“You will take them back. With me. And if you deem the environment there not enriching enough you can fight it out with them.”

Caretaker reared up to argue, but when they opened their mouth, Whumper pressed a cloth laced with disinfectant down on a deep cut and squeezed hard. Their retort turned to an indignant yelp instead.

“Look, you can fight me on this all you want,” Whumper said, holding their arm still as he cleaned the wound and bandaged it up. “But it’s not like you have a choice. You can either bring them back with me and I’ll let you both go, or I will keep you both here in a cell. And even if you could keep them at your base, at some point police is going to come looking for them. I’ll gladly point them in the right direction. Maybe even follow them as they sweep the terrain for your base.”

 Caretaker fell silent at that, pondering the words, trying to find a loophole. They winced and hissed as Whumper cleaned the smaller cuts over their body carefully with a q-tip. “I don’t like having to do this with you,” they said.

“I need you with me to keep them calm. But I can easily take them by myself, leaving you here so my men can keep you company and wring the location of your base out of you while I’m gone. And in the meantime I’ll lose my patience with them and chuck them off the nearest cliff when they play up like that again. Then I’ll return back to you because you at least scream for a good reason—”

“They have good reason to—”

“Yeah…” Whumper interrupted them. He pricked the q-tip in the air. “The point,” he said, and threw the q-tip over Caretaker’s head as he made a wooshing sound.

“I get the point I just don’t like the point.”

Having all their options exhausted, Caretaker merely sighed and glanced back at Whumpee. They hadn’t moved a muscle; they still sat in the same position where Caretaker left them, their eyes blankly staring across the room. It pulled at Caretaker’s heartstrings. They did need help. More than just good intentions and Caretaker felt a twinge of guilt for thinking, maybe arrogantly, that they could help Whumpee.

“Okay, fine… When do we leave?”

-

Continued here

Tag list: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @hold-back-on-the-comfort @whumpawink @painsandconfusion @cursedscribbles @mcjcxx @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @pigeonwhumps @briars7 @roblingoblin285 @gala1981 @ilickedanenvelopeandilikedit @those-damn-snippets @queenofthenoobs

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Riot Kings, page 7D

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[whumpflash]

Penumbra: Uncertain

for Angstpril, Day 24: Trauma (alt)

cw: whump aftermath, wound cleaning, mentioned weight loss, non-sexual nudity, discussed death wish/suicide attempts

prev ///// masterlist ///// next

note: please mind the warnings. If you'd like to read a version of this chapter without a specific element, feel free to PM me and I'll send you an edited version. Stay safe, everyone!

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It was a mile's trek back to their great-uncle's house, made all the longer with the pelt of the rain on their back and the weight of the injured man in their arms. Cerus had begun the journey upright, stumbling along with a thin arm wrapped around Tansy's shoulders, but it had soon become apparent that he was in no condition to walk. They'd lifted his shaking form, trying not to think about how light he was, how his flesh radiated heat even through the wet clothing. How the shipwrights had him working out in the cold anyway.

Neither of them spoke a word throughout, and when Tansy spared a glance down to check on Cerus, his eyes were closed. For his own sake, they hoped he was unconscious.

Aldon was still not home when they opened the door, but that was perhaps for the better. They weren't certain he'd be all too happy at the idea of sheltering the former tyrant. For now, Cerus would have to be their secret.

Tansy carried him upstairs, to the sparse room their uncle had set aside for them, and lay Cerus on the bed. Their shoulders burned from the effort of getting him here, but now was not the time to rest. They discarded their waterlogged cloak, and began to cut away Cerus's soaked rags. The man seemed to be awake now; half-lidded eyes above hollow cheeks, staring dully at the ceiling. He made no move to struggle, or even speak.

He was considerably thinner than he'd been at his trial, the sharp outline of ribs and hip bones jutting against pale skin. Scars and bruises, old and new, covered his body, and when they rolled him onto his side to check his back, they were met with a horrific number of whip marks, some still oozing blood, darkening the bedsheets.

Though his eyes were open, Cerus responded to Tansy's examination as if he were unconscious, offering neither remark nor resistance, and Tansy was left wondering if it was the fever that had left him numbed to the world around, or if it was simply how the man protected himself from the constant maltreatment.

"I'm going to clean your wounds," they said, watching for a response. To their surprise, Cerus's eyes sharpened.

"And wh—" He let out a cough that shook his body. "Why would you do s-something like that?"

Why indeed? Wanting to help the suffering was human nature, but when the sufferer himself was the cause of so much misery, what was one to do? They did not reply, rolling Cerus onto his stomach.

"Wait here," they said, though they doubted he was capable of doing otherwise, and walked down the stairs, toward the kitchen.

Why indeed. The strangeness of the situation was starting to take hold of them. How could they do something like this? Saving the very person they'd sworn to depose, bringing him into their home, tending to him. Would anyone else in the village, in all of Feyadel, do the same, or was Tansy mad for making such a choice? What would their comrades in the battalion think of their decision, were they here to see it?

More than why they'd done it, another question was heavy in their thoughts; what were they going to do, now that they'd chosen to help? Cerus was under sentence. He lawfully belonged to the shipyard, regardless of the abuse he'd suffer there. Even if they could grant him a reprieve from the rain, he couldn't very well stay here; eventually someone would come looking for him. Still, they couldn't in good conscience just hand him back over to the docks, not when he was clearly ill, not when he could barely stand.

For now, they'd try and curb their worries, and think only of tonight. Whatever tomorrow brought, they'd handle it in the morning.

They gathered linen cloth and water from the kitchen, tucking a small bottle of brandy under their arm as well. Tansy was a soldier, not a medic, but they'd still treated their fair share of wounds. The parcel of clams watched them forlornly from the wooden counter, and Tansy cast a glance back at it as they climbed the stairs. First they'd tend to Cerus, then get a start on dinner before their uncle returned. And hopefully, he wouldn't notice if they cooked for three.

Cerus flinched when they opened the door, as if startled from sleep, and Tansy knelt by the bed, depositing their supplies beside them.

"This will sting," they warned, as they wetted a cloth with brandy, then wondered why they bothered. Couldn't they at least find catharsis in the necessary pain that came with cleaning his wounds?

Cerus inhaled through clenched teeth as Tansy touched the cloth to his back, his next breath turning into a whimper when they began to gently scrub the torn, feverish skin. As much as they wished they could, Tansy found no solace in his pain. They finished cleaning and binding the cuts without another word, then covered Cerus with a blanket, trying to ignore the way he stared at them.

"You're not a priest," he said bluntly. "Nor a healer."

Tansy lifted their chin. "I'm a soldier," they replied. "I fought to end your reign."

He showed no reaction. "And you did. So why?"

Tansy turned away. They didn't need to have this conversation with him, of all people.

"Y-you should've left me."

That halted them in place. "To die?"

Cerus let out a bitter laugh that rapidly degraded into a coughing fit. "Do you think I don't desire an end? Do you think I fear death enough to cling to a life such as this one?"

Tansy frowned. "If that were so… would you not have found your own end?"

 "If I throw myself into the sea, they haul me out. If I cut a vein, they hold me down and send for a healer. I am not allowed to escape. All I can do is wait for my body to fail."

"You'd rather I'd left you to be beaten, then."

"I have received more beatings than a man can count. What's one that goes unfinished?" His words dissolved into another vicious cough. "You were a soldier. Certainly, you saw friends felled by my troops. Family."

"You'd have difficulty finding a soldier who hasn't," Tansy answered, their tone flat. Why would he bring up such a thing now? Did he wish to turn them against him, to drive them to throw him back out into the rain?

"Then you have as much reason to hate me as everyone else," Cerus said. "Why bring me here? Why not leave me to die, or even end me by your own hand?" He tried to push himself up with shaking arms, but fell back onto the bed with a cry. "Y–ghnn—you've lost family by my hand. This very village burned by my hand. Why let me draw another breath? Why not strike me down?"

Tansy shook their head. It seemed that Cerus was trying to goad them into anger, but why? Whatever the reason, they would not allow themselves to be persuaded by him.

"I've seen enough bloodshed for one lifetime," they answered.

"And I am at fault for that," Cerus protested.

They closed their eyes against his words, reaching for the door. "Rest."

"I felt no remorse, no regret," Cerus called after them, voice rising, shaking. "Will you not take vengeance?"

Tansy closed their fingers around the door's handle, clenching it tightly. They almost wished they could, and certainly wished they didn't feel this odd, misplaced pity. But it wouldn't be vengeance anymore, it would be simple cruelty. An honorable execution was seven months too late, and they could never bring themselves to raise a hand against someone as weak and sick and hurt as Cerus was right now, especially not at his behest.

When they glanced backwards, the former tyrant was wearing an expression they couldn't quite place. Was it anger? Fear? Simple disbelief that Tansy would dare tend to him?

"Will you not take vengeance?" he repeated, his voice now barely above a whisper, and Tansy shook their head.

"What vengeance is left to take?" they murmured, and finally opened the door, stepped through, and pulled it closed behind them.

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@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles @honeycollectswhump

[little-peril-stories]

Febuwhump Day 12 - Semi-Conscious

From The Prince of Thieves:

It’s not fine. I’m no doctor—farthest thing from one—but even I know this is bad. “You want to lie down?”

“No.” He leans back against the wall. It can’t be comfortable with the other wounds pressed against the stone, but he doesn’t complain.

“It’s going to hurt.”

“I know.”

He is quieter than I expect while I wash out the shoulder wound. No cries of pain. The first time I glance at his face, his eyes are squeezed tightly closed, his jaw set. The next time, his eyes are open, but his gaze is distant. I wonder if he’s even really feeling it.

“Are you still with me?” I ask, letting my lank, unwashed hair fall in front of my face as I wring out the cloth. He nods, but he says nothing, and I know he’s not. Not really.

Hatchett would want me to take advantage of this moment. Ask for Fox’s name, see if he gives it. I keep the question to myself. Baden Hatchett thinks he knows me. He fucking doesn’t. I’m selfish, but not in the way he thinks.

[whumpwillow]

when the whumpee is having their wounds cleaned but they have to keep silent despite the pain or else they’ll be found / recaptured / killed

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

Chapter 21 ~ Blurry (out of place)

Hidden Depths

Previous ~ Masterlist ~ Next

Also on ao3

Genre: Fantasy whump

CW's: ANGST, omg the angst there’s so much o.o, flashback fun for everyone! 😅, brief nonspecific flashback to csa, panic attack(s), painful wound cleaning, wishing for death, unsure of what is real but not quite unreality so make of it what you will, oh shit-almost forgot: captivity tw, restraints tw :') been awhile since i needed those lol

WC: 4237

Taglist (😱 I remembered this time!): @clairelsonao3, @dont-touch-my-soup, @kixngiggles (i've been having trouble tagging you, but i wanted to put this up here in case you see and were wondering where your tag was)

In which reality is a bit fluid, folks, and no one is happy about it

AN: Including me, I was also unhappy writing this. I need that bunker to protect myself and also to piece my heart back together.

You know that whole bit about how things get worse before they get better? Yeah, that is this :')

Carr

Carr had plenty of time to review her options as she returned to the wreckage of their carriage to search for supplies. 

If she “stumbled” into the camp’s clearing, would the reaction be more favorable if she dressed as a man or a woman? Had it been long enough for the bandits to assume the other people in the carriage had died? Surely they had searched and been curious about the lack of bodies, though. Carr tapped a grimy finger on her lip, barely even seeing the gown she’d found stuck in a bush some ways from the crash site. 

Aside from the cut on her brow, Carr was also fairly sure she didn’t look like a survivor of the kindling strewn across the ravine. Which meant she could pretend to be a runaway, but… from where? Maybe she could get away with not wanting to say. Fuck if she could even remember the places they had visited. 

So. Girl or boy? Child or adult? Found on the outskirts of camp or by the guards on the fringe or just stumbling straight into the camp, bypassing the guards altogether? 

While she could physically pass as a child at first glance, it wasn’t a ruse she could keep up for long, and she needed these people to feel sorry for her and take her in. She wrinkled her nose and smoothed Orla’s dress out on the ground in front of her. It was torn in places, which was fine since Carr wanted it to look like she’d been roughing it for a few days. It would be too short, but not by much, so it might make her look… poorer. The material was still too fucking nice, though. Maybe if she got it dirty enough, no one would notice. 

Carr left the dress behind and returned to the carriage. Or what was left of it. After a bit of digging, she found one of Orla’s headscarves, this one a pale pastel blue. Perfect; the dumb dress was blue, so it would even match. She rolled her eyes at the thought. 

Her hackjob haircut was acceptable for a boy or young man but less so for a woman. She’d never cared about her hair before and wasn’t going to start now, but if she went with the fairer option of subterfuge, she’d need an excuse for that, too. Gods, this sucked. Why did that place have to be filled with what seemed like halfway-decent people instead of a bunch of lowlifes who’d look better with a few more holes in them? 

Which was another question. How many weapons could she get away with carrying? Carr ground her teeth, knowing very well she’d be lucky to justify just one, if it was found. 

Even if she went in posing as a man, she couldn’t carry as many blades as she had on her right now. But she’d all but decided on pretending to be a woman–it seemed more likely she’d just be killed straight off as a man–so one blade it was. She’d hide the others somewhere close to the camp so they’d be nearby if she needed them. 

She tried not to think of the last time she’d donned a dress while she stripped to her underclothes and pulled on Orla’s garments–which were slightly too small in the chest and shoulders as well as too short. 

The clothes she’d discarded served as a wrap for her extra blades; the only one she’d kept was strapped to her thigh beneath her skirts, which ended at mid-calf instead of her ankles. Each breath she took was stifled, and her range of motion was shit. This was starting off just wonderfully. 

It just needed to get her into the camp, she reminded herself. Too small clothes, chopped off hair, small and skinny with a bruised face… someone would take pity on her. They had to. 

Carr hadn’t caught sight of Resh in a day and a half. She’d spent all damned day watching the fucking camp. Now dusk was approaching, and she wasn’t willing to wait another night. She needed in now, and gods help these people if she didn’t like what she found. 

~~~

Resh

Resh’s head hurt–like ice-picks stabbing his eyes, vice-grip around his temples, skull about to crack like an egg hurt. 

The pain about drowned out the red-hot pulsing under his collarbone. The rest of his body didn’t feel all that great either. 

He groaned soundlessly and tried to curl up on his side.

Resistance. He couldn’t move his arms. 

Nothing but darkness greeted him when his eyes snapped open. Which his head appreciated, but his mind not so much. Resh yanked on his arm, but the motion had no effect except to send shards of agony lancing through his chest. Shit, his ribs… gasping shallowly for air, he stilled. 

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck

The air went nowhere as everything he thought he knew splintered and warped, aided by the throbbing in his head. He was lying on something hard, in the dark, his limbs tied down, pain splintering through every facet of his being. 

It was a dream. It had to be a dream. He squeezed his eyes closed, willing himself to wake up. To not be back there. The last weeks couldn’t have been the dream. They couldn’t have they couldn’t! 

He started struggling again, hoping he would wake up if he hurt himself in real life, but a voice penetrated the weighted silence, its owner sounding as if the person was moving. Straining his ears, Resh paused, listening.  

“Burning pits, Lox, did you see his forehead? He’s a royal mage, we can’t be stealing royal mages!” 

A royal mage? Horror washed through him at the thought. Is that what the prince had done when he’d branded him? Claimed him for the Crown? Fuck; fuck! 

And who was that talking? No one spoke in his dreams but the prince, which meant… 

His stomach twisted. This was real? But then, the prince shouldn’t know about his magic, not unless he’d used it without realizing… He cringed as a vicious throb tried to liquefy his brain. It felt-it felt like a reaction headache–oh gods, what had he done?

“If such a thing even exists, we could surely ransom him. If not, could you imagine how useful a Kinetic would be? I’m not interested in killing people–I don’t want another such occurrence as what just happened. Robbing people is annoying, sure, but killing them will get us hunted down and exterminated.” 

The unknown voices moved on, becoming indistinguishable before fading away completely. The meaning of the words barely penetrated the fog of Resh’s panic, but one thing stood out. 

Ransom? But–he tugged on his wrists, wincing as coarse rope chafed his skin. Everything felt muddled and upside down and wrong and–Carr! Killing people? Carr killed people, but… that’s not what that person had meant, now was it. Resh’s heart was beating so hard he thought it might break through his chest. His eyes couldn’t penetrate the darkness, his thoughts couldn’t…

Flashes of memory, purple light flooding a carriage. He had tried so hard to cushion them with his magic… Lightning speared through his head, obliterating the memory. Resh cried out, nothing emerging but a puff of air. 

Hot tears trickled down his temples, tracking down into his hair as his breathing quickened. He’d failed. If killing people was bad, if they wanted him so it wouldn’t happen again–it meant he’d failed, that Carr and his sister were–were dead. 

He keened silently at the thought until the pain in his chest left him too breathless to continue. His mind twisted again as he lay there, panting through the waves of physical and emotional agony. 

But was that–was that real? The carriage, the crash–had that happened? Or–he pulled on his arms again–was he still in the prince’s torture chamber, awaiting the man’s next godsforsaken sadistic whim? 

Resh shuddered, his heart beating erratically while his skin flushed hot then cold, leaving him clammy and even more uncomfortable. He couldn’t–he couldn’t… His thoughts scattered, his mind shutting down. 

As pain and despair dragged him back under, he couldn’t decide which reality would be worse. 

~~~

Carr 

Branches whipped past Carr as she ran, one etching a line of fire across her cheek when she misjudged the distance in the waning light under the Seleni Wood’s canopy. Shouts echoed behind her, and an arrow whizzed past, barely missing as it embedded into a nearby tree with an ominous thud. 

Fuck fuck fuck. She’d meant to get close enough to the camp to approach one of the women, figuring she’d have better luck appealing to them than just walking into a bandit camp and looking stunned, an easy target for archery practice. 

The perimeter had been guarded more heavily than she’d been able to tell from afar. Now, she was a moving archery target. Less easy, surely, but fuck it all, not ideal. Her heart thrummed quickly enough that the individual beats were indistinguishable as she ducked under a low-hanging branch and swung around a tree, heading deeper into the underbrush. She could get away, probably. But that would defeat the purpose, so she needed to allow herself to be caught. Without getting killed, preferably. 

But the men chasing her would tackle her, take her down. The thought made her skin crawl–would they stop there, buy the not-so-much-an-act she’d put on, or would they prove to be the brand of bandits she’d originally thought they’d be? 

It’s for Resh. She repeated the thought over and over as she “tripped” and curled up on the ground, covering her scarf-wrapped head. Her body quivered for real as she awaited either an arrow to the back or rough hands grabbing her. 

Thankfully–but also not–callused fingers wrapped around her wrists in a bruising grip, forcing her arms to the ground by her head as a large man dressed in patched leathers straddled her body. 

“The fuck,” he said, staring down into what Carr supposed were her saucer-wide eyes. 

Eyes that rapidly filled with tears as she put up a weak struggle against his hold. It took everything she had not to wrap her legs around the man’s waist and flip him off her–would’ve been hard to do in the stupid too-tight dress anyway, and moreover, would’ve been suspicious. But gods. 

“What’ve you got?” another male voice called from somewhere to her left. 

“A fucking woman,” her captor responded, gripping her wrists even harder. He moved, placing one knee between her legs, which effectively pinned them in place within the prison of her skirts. 

Carr went limp, focusing all her energy on convincing her body not to fight and flee. Her heart was beating so hard she was sure the man could hear it. 

“Are there more?” a third voice asked. Crunching followed their question, the person moving with no care through the detritus of the forest. 

The man cocked a dark brow at her. “Well?” 

She shook her head frantically. “N-no. No. Please–” Her voice cracked, and she snapped her mouth closed, swallowing against the tears thickening her throat.  

Rotten breath wafted across her face while a hand swept under her skirt. 

“That’s right, be a good girl now and I’ll be nice to you, I promise.” 

One hand pinned both her wrists now while the other swept over her body, then beneath her skirt, unerringly finding the blade strapped to her thigh. 

She shivered beneath the too-large body, her cheek throbbing where he’d already hit her, her wrists aching beneath his hold. 

Her wrists ached beneath the man’s hold as he held up the dagger and laughed. “Do you even know how to use this?” 

A mixture of rage and shame set her face aflame, and the cut on her cheek throbbed. Her breath caught. 

Dark hair curled around his face, framing amused blue eyes that quickly darkened with concern. “Hey, are you alright?” 

The hand covering her mouth after she’d screamed for help was too big. It covered her nose as well and she couldn’t breathe couldn’t breathe couldn’t 

She couldn’t breathe, the air she sucked in between choked-off sobs going nowhere as she battled her past to stay in the way too similar present. 

“Shit.” The man scrambled off her, calling out to his friends. 

The words he exchanged with them made no sense through the ringing in her ears. Pinpricks of white flashed before her eyes, and aside from tucking her hands beneath her chin, Carr didn’t move–couldn’t move.  

Memory flickered in and out of her mind’s eye–no matter what, it was always this one she was thrown back into. This one that haunted her dreams. This one that paralyzed her, highlighting how fucking helpless she’d been–

Carr pushed up with a wheezing gasp, flinching as hands reached out to help her. She was not helpless; she was just pretending. Pretending pretending pretending

A hand moved over her back, up and down, up and down, and she trembled, desperately trying to keep still and allow this strange man to comfort her. 

“Hey, it’s alright,” he murmured. “I’m sorry about before, we thought… it doesn’t matter what we thought.” Leaning forward, he caught Carr’s eyes. “You with me now?” 

She nodded, averting her gaze so he wouldn’t see how much she wanted to turn and rip his hand off. Her skin prickled. 

“Look like you’ve been through it. You need help?”

Not trusting her voice, she nodded again. 

Someone scoffed. Movement caught in her peripheral vision, and she twisted her head, rearing back. The man’s hand moved, tightening around her shoulder. 

“Just gonna take her at her word? Probably some thief putting on an act.” 

Her captor-turned-protector pulled her back against his chest. She made herself melt into him, pulling up her legs to make herself smaller while the new bandit glared at her suspiciously. 

“You didn’t see her when I had her pinned. No one puts on an act like that.” Her bandit’s voice dripped with derision. 

Carr couldn’t decide if it was directed towards her or the other man. Didn’t matter, long as he decided she was worth helping. Take me back, take me back, take me back, she chanted in her head. Her body shaking like a leaf was entirely unfeigned; the reaction disgusted her, but she didn’t suppress it, letting her fucking weakness serve its purpose.  

“She needs help.”  

“So bring her some supplies and send her on her way. We gotta get back to our post,” the suspicious one said. 

“More help than that!” her bandit responded hotly. 

Carr let a small whimper escape, pressing a hand to her mouth after in a show of embarrassment. Her bandit held her closer, and she closed her eyes, trying to imagine he was Resh so she wouldn’t do something stupid like pull his dagger and slit his throat. She wanted to crawl outta her skin. She couldn’t. Couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t.

“You gonna take responsibility for her?” another voice cut in. There was an extra layer of meaning beneath their tone that Carr didn’t trust in the slightest.

Shit, she’d forgotten about the third bandit. She snapped her head around, watching that one’s approach closely. Tall and slim, with toned muscles evident beneath gear in better condition than the other two, they moved fluidly through the brush towards her. Both her bandit and the suspicious one went still, waiting quietly as they studied Carr. Clearly, that one was the leader and would be the deciding factor on whether she was getting into the camp or not.  

Carr dropped her gaze when they crouched before her, jabbing their bow into the ground to lean upon. Their gaze felt like tiny bugs crawling across her skin, and she shivered. 

After what felt like forever, they finally nodded and stood, strapping their bow over their shoulder. “Fine. Let’s get back. Lox’ll have your hide for this, just so y’know.” 

The suspicious one huffed, sounding dissatisfied.

A thrill went through Carr as her bandit assisted her to her feet, but she kept her eyes wide and expression fearful. 

“C’mon,” he said gently, settling his arm around her shoulder. 

Ugh. But she leaned into him, allowing him to lead her back to the camp. Her eyes snagged on her dagger, shoved without care through the man’s belt, and her fingers twitched, itching to thieve it back. 

Not yet. She had to pretend a bit longer. For Resh. 

~~~

Resh

A cool cloth brushed over the sensitive skin of Resh’s forehead, waking him. 

His head didn’t hurt as badly, but gods, he felt like he was on fire, his flesh burning, set aflame from a single pulsing point on his chest. 

Subtly, he pulled on his arms, only to find they were still restrained. A shiver went through him, and the cloth pulled away abruptly. 

Resh cracked open his eyes to find a stocky figure sitting beside him, the lamplight flickering over their shoulder-length blond hair. He caught a flash of green as they turned their head to the side, and his insides froze over even while the heat scalded his skin. 

“Good, you’re awake,” the figure said, turning back to him holding a wooden cup. “You need to drink.” 

He shook his head, even though his mouth was dry, so so dry. No. No no nonono he wasn’t back with the prince he wasn’t he wasn’t he–

A hand gripped the back of his head, forcing it up as the cup was pressed to his lips. Liquid poured in, and he choked, unready. It kept coming anyway, so he forced himself to drink through the coughing. It was that or drown. 

“Good, that’s good,” the prince said. 

Resh sobbed as he was released, then pressed his lips together to suppress another bubbling cough. He squeezed his eyes closed, unwilling to look at the rest of his surroundings. Unwilling to see white limestone, the final confirmation of his delusions. Real, this felt so real. Too real. 

But so had everything else! Carr, finally, finally talking to him in that meadow. Her small hands removing his gloves, resting against his cheek, soothing him after a nightmare. 

His sister, healthy, her hair growing, her skin losing its pallor. Laughing and joking and enjoying their journey. 

Had it really all been a figment of his imagination? A fever dream? He certainly felt like he had a fever. His heart cracked, the pieces crumbling as he came one step closer to believing the torture chamber was his reality. Maybe he would actually die this time, and it could all just be over. 

“He looks like shit,” a different voice said. Deeper. 

“Yeah, well. You shot him. Don’t know what you expected, really. Don’t think it hit a lung, at least, or surely he’d be dead by now.” 

He wished he was. Gods, how he wished he was.

“I need your help. Need to wash the wound out again, but he always fights, even restrained. Tore the stitches out once already.” 

A sigh, then hands clamping on his shoulders–his bare shoulders–pressing them flat against the hard surface he laid upon. Pain lanced through his chest, and he cried out soundlessly, trying to pull away. Another figure straddled his hips, pinning him down even more. 

“We’re just trying to help you!” one of them shouted at him, but he didn’t, couldn’t trust the words, especially as the liquid poured over his chest. 

He could feel it bubbling in the wound, the fire multiplied by a thousand, burrowing in to burn him alive inside now as well as out. He would’ve screamed, had the prince not ripped even that away from him already. 

“I know it hurts, and I’m sorry, but I have got to clean out the wound.” 

Lies. He wasn’t sorry. Resh shook his head from side to side, straining, desperate to get away from it. Lies lies lies lies

“He hasn’t made a single sound, but he looks like he’s screaming.” 

“Have you seen his chest? This guy has been through some shit. I don’t like doing this, Lox.” 

“It needs to be done, or he’ll die. Do you want that?” 

The words washed over Resh, a haze of agony coating everything. They didn’t make sense. Who the fuck was Lox? But he blinked as the pain died down a little, saw the prince bending over him, and didn’t know anymore. 

What was real? This pain was real–but was it? Sometimes it wasn’t, he remembered, but then more liquid poured and his mind whited out under the blistering pain and his throat strained to make sounds it was no longer capable of producing. 

When he came back around, the shape of familiar words flying off his lips–please, no more, please, no more–someone was gently patting at his chest, saying the last words he expected. 

“I’m sorry, I know it hurts. I’m trying to be as careful as I can. Sorry.” 

Exhausted, Resh laid his head back down. His shoulders were no longer pressed down, and there was no weight across his waist. He opened his eyes but allowed them to skim past that person who was the prince who wasn’t the prince because they kept apologizing every time he flinched. 

A flash of blue caught his attention, just past the large man blocking most of the doorframe across the room. The room with whitewashed wooden walls, not stone. Or was it? Oh gods. He blinked. Hazel eyes peered under the man’s–Lox’s?–arm, there and then gone so quickly Resh wasn’t sure he’d seen correctly. 

But he’d know those eyes anywhere, and his heart leapt. 

It just didn’t make sense. Nothing was making sense. 

The cup was pressed to his mouth again, and Resh swallowed this time instead of choking, grimacing at the sticky sweetness left behind on his tongue. The other man was gone by the time he finished, and so was the person in blue. 

It couldn’t have been Carr, then. 

It couldn’t have been anyway because if this was not the torture chamber, then Carr was dead. Orla was dead. He had as good as killed them, making them travel across the country with him. 

Resh turned his head away from the cup when it was offered again, and this time the prince not prince didn’t push it on him. 

He watched dully as they dimmed the lamp, then left the room, the sound of a lock snicking closed horribly familiar. 

And yet, he didn’t care. 

Worse, he decided as the room began to waver in his vision. As his heart caved in and left what felt like a jagged, fist-sized hole behind. As his chest heaved with the silent sobs he no longer bothered to hold back. This was so much worse. 

His crying sparked lancets of agony radiating across his body from the burning wound under his collarbone. Every stuttering gasp felt like inhaling shards of broken glass. He welcomed the pain. 

But whatever had been in the water fuzzed his mind, and his eyes eventually drifted closed, his breathing leveling off. The tears tracking down his temples followed him into his drugged sleep. 

~~~

Carr

Carr’s bandit marched her straight into the biggest of only three cabins in the bandit’s little valley, past the watchful eyes of probably most of the place’s inhabitants. 

Demex, he’d told her his name was.  

Well, Demex bore up against the scrutiny well, even as Carr cringed away from it. Maybe because she cringed, which he could very well tell with his arm around her shoulder, dragging her body into his side. She permitted it. She had no choice, now did she. 

For Resh. 

Demex bore up less well under Lox’s scrutiny. Carr flattened herself against the wall, ostensibly hiding behind her bandit while he got his ass handed to him, but really the positioning allowed her to see under Lox’s arm into the room he was trying to block with his body. Kind of. 

She caught flashes of someone moving around a bed. What looked like medical supplies on a nearby table, some bloodied bandages. 

And then–a pair of red-rimmed brown eyes. Their gazes met for all of five seconds before the person at his bedside blocked her view, but Carr was certain it was him. 

Her heart sped up, her breaths quickening. So fast! She couldn’t believe she’d found him so quickly. And he was alive. Her knees buckled as relief sluiced through her, and all that saved her from sliding down the wall was Demex’s hand slipping around her waist. 

“Hey there, you alright? Rowan is a little busy right now, but they can check you out in the morning, if that suits?” 

“Alright,” Carr said faintly. She willed strength back into her legs. “Wh-what now?” 

“What now is you get to talk to me,” Lox said, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him.  

The only thing that stopped her from snatching her dagger back, burying it in this guy’s chest, and bursting into that room to get to Resh was that it appeared as if they were caring for his injuries. 

And the small matter that a move like that would certainly get her killed. But she would’ve done it regardless, if she’d thought it necessary. 

Not yet, she told herself, staring up into the eyes of the man who’d chased their fucking carriage down.

[i-eat-worlds]

Alex & Friends Flashback: Painful Wound Care

hope you enjoy! This is set towards the end of her time with Zorland cw: violence, intentionally incorrect wound care, zorland is his own warning, general desperation and misery

Alex could feel the blood rolling down her arm from the wound on the top of her shoulder. It was hot and sticky, filling the air with a metallic smell. Her breath caught as one of Zorland’s cronies secured her wrists to the arms of a metal chair, pushing the leather strap hard onto her already bruised wrist.

The henchman did the same with the other side, cinching it down tight, before moving down to her ankles and securing her legs to the legs of the chair. The restraints were no less tight, but her ankles were in better condition than her wrists, so it hurt less.

Only after she had been tied down did Zorland enter his dungeon. His expression was his usual mixture of superiority and disgust, but today it was undercut by disappointment sprinkled with anger. Alex would’ve expected no less, really. Her first real mission, the assassination of a low level hero, should’ve been a piece of cake. Unfortunately, she’d had to fail it. She was only a pretend villain, after all. They had enough evidence to arrest him, but now they just had to find and capture him. That was a waiting game. All she had to do was survive undetected while they narrowed in. That was a tall order with Zorland. He didn’t take failure lightly. He would make this one hurt. Without saying a word, he deliberately started selecting implements from the many cabinets in the room and laying them down on the rolling metal tray with squeaky wheels that he used every time Alex found herself back here.

“Tell me how you failed today,” He said, voice hard as he began pulling his leather gloves off. “It was out of my control,” Alex said, trying to keep her voice steady. “There was a stronger opponent in play than was expected. The intelligence provided was wrong.”

Zorland laid the leather gloves down on the table. “You’re wrong.” He stretched a fresh pair of latex gloves over his hands, material snapping against his wrist. “It’s always under your control.” He slowly approached her shoulder. “Let’s try this again.” Searing pain seized her shoulder as he dug his finger into the wound. She couldn’t help but scream. “Tell me how you failed today.” He pressed harder, and more blood started rushing down her arm. “I…” She sobbed overwhelmed by the pain, “…I let myself be caught o guard.” She gasped desperately for air. “I missed…I missed the target. I failed my mission.”

Zorland pulled back from the wound, then raised a bloody, latex covered hand to her chin. He wretched her head towards him. “There we go. Honesty is much better, don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir.” She said, still reeling from the sudden onslaught of pain. He held her face for a second longer before he released his grip, leaving a bright red smear on her chin.

The smell of hydrogen peroxide filled the air as he unscrewed the lid of a dark colored bottle. A sinister smile spread across his face. “I’m glad you understand.” Before Alex could answer back, Zorland leaned the bottle forward.

Fire erupted on her arm. She wailed with pain, tears starting to drip out of her eyes. It stung and burned and it hurt. The peroxide mixed with blood, forming a noxious coopery-chemical mixture that smelled like misery. It ran down o her shoulder and onto the oor, slowly swirling down the drain underneath the chair. “Stop,” She groaned breathlessly. “Please.” “Don’t beg, Olena. I made you better than that,” He sneered, tipping the bottle further so that the peroxide came out faster.

The onslaught only stopped when the bottle was empty. Zorland placed it back down on the table. “What do you say?”

“Thank you, sir,” Alex choked out. She wanted to vomit. Her shoulder was still throbbing with pain, and her lungs were only able to pull in shallow, infrequent gasps of air.

Zorland nodded, satisfied as he tore open a package of gauze and stuffed it in her wound. She winced, a quiet whumper escaping her lips. “Don’t complain. You know you don’t deserve it.” Alex nodded. “Yes, sir.” He held her arm with a crushing grip as he tightly wrapped a bandage around it. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, Olena.” He peeled his bloody gloves off, dropping them on the floor. “Sleep tight.”

“Thank you, sir.” She said as Zorland grabbed his pair of fancy leather gloves off the table and started heading towards the door. The door slammed shut, sealing her inside, and then the lights clicked off, plunging the room into total darkness. Alex let out a breath. She was finally alone. Tears welled in her eyes, and Alex was too tired to stop them from rolling down her cheeks. Exhaustion seeped into her bones, along with the numbness that always followed Zorland’s punishments. But he was gone, and this nightmare was almost over. She only had to hold on for another couple weeks. She could survive this.

Taglist: @pigeonwhumps

[orionares]

BTHB: Painful Wound Cleaning

BTHB: Painful Wound Cleaning

NCIS: Los Angeles 

@badthingshappenbingo

-----

A/N: Tried a different route with the prompt.....

------

"Hello….Gordon."

It's the first time in decades since he's called his father something other than dad. The last and only other time had been at the age of ten in the midst of an attempt to de-escalate an argument between Gordon and his mother. 

Now, the use of his father's first name comes nearly forty years later  on a cool April night. Marty Deeks tucks his hands in his jacket pocket as he turns the corner onto his old childhood street. He enjoys the quiet as he walks and imagines the alcohol induced stagger of his father walking next to him, hissing- you know goddamn well tha' you don't call me that, brat.

"My daughter," the use of referring to Rosa as his daughter feels weird, "called me dad today. And I-uh-"

He stops in his tracks, nervously scratches the top of his head and admits, "It was terrifyingly beautiful."

The image of Gordon John Brandel peers at him in disgust, swaying slightly while on his feet. You want a goddamn medal for that? You want me to hug you and tell you I'm proud of you or something? - the mental image sneers, triggering a shiver from Deeks. The Investigator turns his head slightly away from the image and begins a brisk walk down the street.

Look at you. Runnin' when things get hard, boy? 

"I need you out," Deeks answers. He feels eleven years old again as he walks in his navy blue sweater and blonde hair rustling from the cool breeze. "I need you out of my head because I'm a…I'm a parent now and I can't be- I can't be-"

Weak- Brandel's voice booms in the back of his mind. The forty year old memory of Brandel's belly laugh, low and brash, rings in his ears. Deeks shuts his eyes and breathes out through pursed lips.

"I can't have you in my head anymore," the Investigator corrects. "I can't have you being at the tip of my conscience, ready to eat me alive every time I doubt myself when it comes to being a parent. Especially not after today."

Today, more specifically eleven hours ago, when Rosa had called him dad. Twice. 

"Your parents are so cool, Rosa."

"They are until they do the things like run background checks on half of the boys in my class! My dad used to be a cop and freaked out over Steven sending me flowers."

Outside her room, he had stopped, briefly smirking at the absolute right he had to run a check on Steven. Especially after sending $150 in flowers to the house.

It then dawned on him- Did she just say 'my dad'?

Rosa, likely on video chat with her newest best friend Cecilia, had followed up with-'' That's just how dads are. So overprotective. My birth dad freaked out when Fernando Diego gave me a flower and called me 'Rosita' and now Deeks is doing the exact same thing."

The second time- that's just how dads are- had paralyzed him. His heart skips a beat even now as he recalls standing in the hallway, unable to move for one of the longest thirty seconds of his life. 

"You don't deserve that title," Deeks mutters under his breath towards the conjured image of his father. The looming image is no longer swaying on his feet, black out drunk but now somehow larger and looming like a storm cloud. 

And you do?-  the image snarls- you've just started and you know what they always say- like father, like son-

His cellphone suddenly chirps and he stops in his tracks to pull out the phone from his jacket pocket. On instinct, he knows there are only two two reasons for a phone call in the middle of the night- a case or Kensi.

"Come back to your truck," Kensi says as soon as he presses the phone to his ear. 

"How'd you know I'd be here?" Deeks replies, his voice unexpectedly hoarse. 

"Because I know you and I had a feeling. How far are you?"

Deeks glances up to the stop sign a few feet away. Even in the darkness, he recognizes exactly which intersection he's standing at. "Give me 5 minutes?"

—------

"How'd you find me?" 

Kensi's leaning against the front of the Audi, parked next to his new Ford F-150 navy blue truck, as he approaches. He knows the answer to his question already; however, his question comes as a cushion to soften her likely first  question  to be asked- why are you walking around your old neighborhood in the middle of the night?

"I have my ways," Kensi replies with a soft chuckle. She pushes herself off of the hood and wraps her arms around him. He settles into her warmth, choosing to tuck his head into the crook of her neck. "What happened?"

"I just needed…" Deeks pulls back and blinks away the unexpected tears forming in his eyes, "I don't know- somewhere to get perspective, I guess."

She tilts her head back to meet his eyes. "Perspective on what? It's…2:15 in the morning." 

Deeks rests his nose against her forehead and lets out a sigh. He hesitates, feeling uneasy to use the word 'dad' aloud. The constructed image of his father, which had disappeared during his walk back to the Audi, reappears behind the Audi, once again sober and scowling.

"Rosa…she-uh- called me dad," He admits, "when she was on the phone with her friends earlier. I overheard her say it and-"

Kensi tilts her head back and cups his chin in her hand. "And it was overwhelming."

"Honestly, Kens- it scared the hell out of me," Deeks admits. "I panicked, thought of Dad and somehow ended up here." His eyes flicker to the left, behind both vehicles to see Brandel smirk at him.

The familiar amused smirk he'd flash during anytime his son attempted to protect his mother.

"I have to let him go," Deeks whispers, his voice unexpectedly wavering. "He's in my head and he-he's fueling that doubt I have about being a parent. And- how do I let him go, Kens?"

Kensi sighs, eyeing him worriedly for a long beat. "Maybe….maybe you let him go by healing."

He steps back from her, expecting for a follow up. Instead, Kensi smiles at him and explains, "You are so much better than what Brandel could ever be as a father."

"Kens-" 

She closes the gap between them and squeezes his hand. "Look, what is the one thing you want to do right now?"

The memory of Rosa in tears from laughing during their movie night a few days prior brings a warmth to his heart so encompassing he can't describe it. "I want to go home," he admits, "and hug our kid. And see if Amazon Prime has teenage sized bubble wrap."

Kensi snorts and rolls her eyes. "We are not  bubble wrapping our kid. Baby, you are not like your dad and you never will be."

In the corner of his eyes, he can see the constructed image of his father sneering and muttering- don't listen to her, boy. You will end up just like me. 

"I cant-" Deeks drops his head and huffs in frustration. "I'm trying but Kens, I feel like I'm stuck in a loop, you know? I know I wo- can't turn out like him but then my confidence breaks and I'm back here again. How do I get it to stop?"

"Maybe- '' Kensi's mismatched brown eyes narrow as she pauses, "-maybe we can go talk to someone. Someone that can help you see the things that I see in you."

He doesn't flinch, nor does a joke to evade the topic come to mind. Instead, Deeks inhales and exhales, allowing an unexpected emotion washing over him. His eyes flicker back over to the left, expecting to see his father again.

And sees nothing.

Blinking away newly forming tears,  Deeks tearfully asks, "And what's that?"

"A good man, a wonderful father," Kensi wipes away a fallen tear from his cheek, "and someone who with so much love, grace and so much heart. Ok?"

Deeks nods as another tear falls. "Ok."

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

For the whump words ask game:

Numb :)

Also, happy birthday 🌸

Hi little-whumpeteer! Sure thing! And thank you, my birthday was really good!! Thanks for requesting this, here you go! This'll be the third Numb I've done! :)

From this ask game

"It hurts," Whumpee sobbed, "Caretaker, it hurts!!"

"I know," Caretaker said with tears of their own, "I know it hurts, just hang on a little longer."

Whumpee lay on the med bay bed, pale as a sheet with little beads of sweat forming on their brow. There was a gaping wound in their side, to which Medic was currently applying antiseptic. The liquid stung and burned, it felt like little knives were being plunged into Whumpee's skin. Whumpee squeezed Caretaker's hand as they whimpered and cried.

"Okay," Medic said, setting the bottle and cloth aside, "I just need to do their stitches."

"I don't think they can take much more pain, Medic," Caretaker said.

Medic looked down at Whumpee, whose face was contorted in pain.

"Okay," Medic said, opening a drawer, "I'll get them something."

Medic pulled out a syringe filled with liquid. They took Whumpee's arm and injected the contents into their bloodstream.

"Why didn't you give them that from the start!?" Caretaker asked.

"Because it has... weird side effects." Medic explained.

Whumpee fell still as the pain in their side subsided. They didn't feel their wound at all. As a matter of fact, Whumpee realized they couldn't feel anything at all. Their entire body had gone numb.

"Caretaker." Whumpee tried to squeeze Catertaker's hand but they couldn't so much as wiggle their fingers, "I... I-I can't move, what's happening, I can't..."

Caretaker looked to Medic with a worried expression. Medic avoided their gaze.

"It's a numbing agent," Medic said quietly, "we were out of regular painkillers."

Whumpee was getting more panicked by the second.

"Caretaker, what's going on, I can't feel anything, I-"

"Shhh," Caretaker soothed. They squeezed Whumpee's hand, not that Whumpee could feel it, "it's gonna be okay. It's just something to keep you from hurting. Try to go to sleep."

"I can't sleep, I can't move!" Whumpee began to cry again, "Caretaker, I can't move!"

Caretaker looked to Medic again.

"Do something," they mouthed.

Medic nodded and grabbed another syringe from the drawer.  Whumpee couldn't feel the needle pierce their skin, which was probably a good thing. Medic injected the contents into Whumpee's bloodstream. About a minute later, Whumpee began to feel sleepy.

"Care..." Whumpee tried.

"Yes, Whumpee?" Caretaker asked.

"Stay?" Whumpee pleaded.

"Of course, Whumpee."

Whumpee drifted off, Caretaker still holding their numb hand. Medic pulled the covers up to Whumpee's chin and breathed a sigh of relief. At least Whumpee wouldn't be in pain.

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Chapter 41

Glass Shards

Warnings: Painful wound cleaning and quite some thoughts about death

Previous | Masterlist | Next

It was past noon when Merridy stirred. For the last few hours, Damien had alternated staring at her, staring at the ceiling and dozing off. The pain, while unpleasant, wasn’t enough to keep him from finding rest, but now he was thirsty as well. A bit of water, that was all he could think of. The dryness of his throat made it impossible to focus on anything else.

The waterskin was long empty. But besides not knowing if he’d even be able to get up on his own, Damien had neither wanted to wake Merridy up, nor leave her alone. 

The way she flinched and opened her eyes, looking around in a panic before her gaze settled on him, told him he had been right about it. He would have hated for her to wake up and find him gone.

“Hey,” he said. 

She relaxed, the hint of a smile on her face. It didn’t reach her eyes. They looked tired still, and full of worry.

“How do you feel?” she asked. 

“Thirsty,” he said, with no intention to mention the steady painful pulse in his side, or how his missing hand tormented him. It burned, as if to remind him what was going to happen if the wound became infected. 

Merridy turned around, feeling for the waterskin and finding it empty. 

“I was just about to get some water,” Damien quickly said, before she had a chance to somehow blame herself for it. It wasn’t even a lie; he had waited to fetch water until she was awake, and she was awake now.

“I can do it.”

“I need to go out anyway,” Damien said.

“Then I’ll come with you.”

He should decline, should let her rest. Instead, he only nodded. If he collapsed out there and hurt himself further, it would be worse. For both of them.

Merridy freed herself from the blanket, wincing as she got up with the deliberate motions of someone trying to figure out which way to move hurt the least. Damien was careful to put as little weight as possible on her as she put her arm around him. Just feeling her at his side, knowing she’d be there if he stumbled, was help enough.

They left the stable and crossed the yard, consisting of mostly dry sand with a few hardy weeds littered throughout. In the light of day, the way to the outhouse seemed much shorter. 

When he emerged, Merridy was standing at the well, refilling the waterskin. He must have stared at it, for she offered it to him as soon as he was close enough. Damien took it from her, gulping down half of its content without pause.

“We should eat something,” Merridy said while he caught his breath. Her tone was somewhere between a question and an observation, but she made no attempt to elaborate.

“Mhm.” Damien took another sip, slower this time. He wasn’t hungry. Exhausted, and in pain, but not hungry. But he knew she was right. He let his gaze wander over the buildings inside the trading post. “Think we can get something here?”

Merridy pointed behind her, without turning. “Kitchen’s there. Backdoor around the corner. For a smile and a few coins, we can get whatever’s on the menu that day, and some things that aren’t.”

Damien followed her gaze. The building she had pointed to was attached to the most maintained one, walls painted white between gleaming, dark wooden beams. A painted sign hung above the entrance, too far away for him to read the name.

“When did you get to know this place so well?”

“I needed some things to take care of your wound.” She shrugged. “The innkeeper is a real piece of work, so I tried my luck going directly to the source.”

Damien nodded in an attempt to not let his emotions show. They had been here for barely a day, and he had spent most of that asleep, while Merridy had taken care of everything. That would be barely acceptable if she was fine, but she wasn’t. He could see that she was tired and in pain. He had to do better. She needed him just as much as he needed her. 

“I’ll get some coins,” she said before he had a chance to find the right words. “Do you want to come with me, or do you think you’ll make it to the buildings?”

“I’ll be fine,” he quickly assured her, not feeling quite as confident. But walking all the way back to the stables only to return here seemed to be an even worse idea.

“Around that corner,” she reminded him, pointing at it. “I’ll be right back.”

Walking hadn’t been this hard in a long time. Slowly setting one foot in front of the other, Damien hadn’t even made it to the corner by the time Merridy was back at his side. She put his arm around her shoulders and led him the rest of the way. Next to the back door she had been talking about, she helped him sit down on a plain wooden bench; barely more than a roughly cut board propped on two logs.

Damien let her handle the talking, and a moment later they sat next to each other on the bench, a cup of broth in hand. It smelled heavenly. Eyes closed, Damien leaned back against the wall, enjoying the warmth of the late spring sun.

“Damien! Hey!”

He startled awake, flinching as he realized he wasn’t holding the cup anymore. His hand flew over his clothes, searching for wetness, but finding none. When he raised his head, Merridy was looking at him, an expression somewhere between worry and amusement on her face—and holding both cups.

“You need to drink this,” she said, and the worry clearly won. “Then we can go back inside and you can rest.”

Not daring to close his eyes again, Damien looked across the yard. There really wasn’t much to see if one wasn’t into dandelions and dust. He was not, so he let his gaze wander to Merridy while he sipped his broth. She had bound a kerchief over her hair, probably in an attempt to not look completely disheveled when talking to the staff. Damien vowed that as soon as he could sit up without falling asleep, he’d find out if her brush had survived the ambush.

After they had finished their broth, Merridy took the cups back and helped him into the stable. Seeing the nest of hay and blankets was just as much of a relief as seeing a bed would have been. Damien lowered himself to the ground with a groan.

“No sleeping yet,” Merridy chided. Her words were light, but their tone didn’t match.

Damien watched through half-lidded eyes how she grabbed her things, spreading them on the blanket next to her. She pulled his shirt over his head, and unwrapped the bandages, putting them aside. As she wiped along the wound, the wet fabric was cool on his skin, but burned on his wound. From time to time she paused, prodding at something, the noises she made entirely discouraging. Damien didn’t look at what she was doing. He couldn’t. Suddenly, it felt like there was too little air inside the stable. It wasn’t enough. He dug his fingers into the blanket, pressing his lips together in the desperate attempt to fight down the nausea.

“I’m sorry. Does it hurt?” She bit her lip. “Of course it does. That was… sorry.”

How easy it would be to say ‘yes’. It wouldn’t have been a lie, but it also wouldn’t have been the truth. He couldn’t tell her how afraid he was; of the fever, the pain, the memories. Of leaving her alone. 

“I’m scared,” was all he managed to choke out. His eyes were burning, and he couldn’t even be ashamed of it.

Merridy raised her hand to his cheek. “Me too,” she admitted. Her voice was trembling. “Perhaps we can pay someone to drive us to the next town. Find a healer. If it gets worse. Or before it gets worse. Or… I don’t know,” she whispered.

She knew as well as him how risky that would be. If they wanted to find a good healer, they’d have to go to one of the bigger towns—and bigger towns had guards. They were closer now to Caldeia than they had been in Dragon’s Reach. With how weak he was, there was no way for him to keep a disguise up. Faintly, he wondered what would be worse. Risking death from infection, or risking death with a rope around his neck.

“I won’t let you die.”

Merridy’s voice pulled him out of his desperate thoughts. He leaned into her palm, knowing very well how easily those words could turn into an empty promise. Her thumb moved, wiping away some of his tears. Damien focused on her touch, and on the hope that had brought him this far. He would cling to it until the end.

When he had calmed down, Merridy leaned back, giving him a questioning look. 

“Go on,” he said. “Do what you have to do. Don’t stop. Just…” He looked around, scanning the pile of their belongings. “Can you give me that?”

Merridy followed his gaze, grabbing the end of a leather belt poking out under a bunch of fabric and raising it with a questioning look. Damien nodded. The last thing they needed was to be thrown out of the stables as well, because he scared the horses—or patrons—with his screams.

He bit down on the belt as she picked up where she had left off. Cleaning his wound was its own kind of torture. Damien pressed his head against the wall, tears running down his face as he fought to make no sound. He wouldn’t let the memories take over. He wouldn’t beg for her to stop. He wouldn’t do that to her.

By the time Merridy was done, Damien was barely conscious anymore. He opened his eyes as she took the belt from him, finding her face wet from tears. Speaking was too hard, but he raised his hand to her knee, resting his fingers on it.

He let her pull him away from the wall, so she could wrap fresh bandages around his torso.  The stable started spinning around him, and Damien squeezed his eyes shut. He was so cold. Even after she had helped him put his shirt back on and lie down, he was still shaking. 

Merridy pulled the blanket up to his chin. “I have to clean up, but I will be back in a moment,” she said, lingering with her hand on his cheek. 

Damien wasn’t sure he managed to nod. He wasn’t even sure how long she was gone. All he knew was that no time seemed to have passed at all when she lifted the blanket, to slip under it. 

Merridy bedded her head on his arm, facing him. When Damien let his eyelids flutter open, he found her eyes still red, but her tears dried. She smiled at him, even if it couldn’t hide the sorrow in her eyes. Sorrow Damien hated to see. He pressed his fingers against her back, lacking the strength and the range of motion to pull her closer. She huddled closer anyway, wrapping the blanket tightly around the two of them before resting her hand on his neck. 

Her warmth was a blessing. Slowly, the tension left him, strained muscles finally able to relax. There was nothing he could do now but hope and rest, so Damien let himself be lulled to sleep, with her soft touch on his jaw, and her whispered promise of ‘You will be fine’.

[ID: The top image is a banner covered in colorful glass shards. Across it is written the title of the story, glass shards, in a white to bright cyan gradient with a black outline. The font looks like written with a broad paintbrush. All other images in this post are purely ornamental lines. End ID.]

@dont-touch-my-soup @starrysky-whumpfics @kixngiggles @starlit-hopes-and-dreams

[whumpetywhump]

W: Two Worlds - Ep. 10 & 11

[whumblr]

Request: whumper using a stapler on whumpee :)

"That's quite a gash..." Whumper carefully circled the large cut across their arm with his fingers. He didn't seem to care about his fingertips getting coated in blood, or how it gushed over his thumb where he gripped their arm tight, squeezing out a steady stream of red.

Whereas Whumpee almost watched entranced as the blood left their body. They couldn't look away from the horrible sight. They knew it wasn't enough to make them die (right?!) but still, the dark red flow made them squeamish.

"Don't touch it," they almost whispered, shock taking their voice. They tried to pull their arm out of his hand, but flinched hard as his fingers only tightened around the wound. They let out a whimper. "Pleas-- ow! Don't touch it. It... it hurts, don't--"

"Shh, I have to touch it. You don't want to lose too much blood, now do you? A sensitive wound like this needs some taking care of." He padded the streams of blood away from the wound. "First..."

The blood washed away with the clear liquid and Whumpee screamed. Disinfectant bit into the red skin, seeping deep within the wound, irritating the sensitive skin around it.

"Now, unfortunately, I don't have any stitches..." Whumper leaned away and reached into a large black bag. "But I think this'll do."

Whumpee stopped breathing when they watched him position a stapler gun over their wound. "No... please."

"Would you rather keep it like this and risk infection?"

"Yes!" They didn't think, just tried whatever they could to avoid this.

"Well, I don't," Whumper grunted. "Because I'm the one who's going to have to clean it and take care of you. Fever will knock you out for a few days and I don't want to wait that long."

He squeezed at the wound, pressing the edges of the healthy skin close together, and dabbed at the blood that seeped out. Then he threw the bloodied cloth to the side, repositioned the stapler gun and it snapped to life.

The dull click was followed by another scream.

"Something like this would probably need at least ten stitches," he murmured over the squealed begging. "Ten more, I think. To make sure."

"No... no, no!"

"Keep still," he growled. He squeezed harder around the wound, trying to keep them still with one hand.

But Whumpee was frantic now, twisting and turning and trying to yank away from his grip. A grip that must be easier to pull free from with his fingers slicked in blood, it must!

"Keep. Fucking. Still. Before I--" And as Whumpee twisted their arm, the stapler shot away from the wound. With another dull chck, the tiny steel punched into the healthy skin of their forearm.

Whumpee shot back with a gasp. The pain wasn't as bad as with the open, sensitive wound, but it snapped them to their senses. A little grey stripe now fit snug into their skin, keeping the blood trapped. Trembling, they tried to pick at the staple, to pick it out of their skin. Without much luck. Their attempts grew desperate, blood now staining their nails as they dug deep into their own skin.

They froze when Whumper's cold fingers slithered back over their arm, creeping their way to the wound. Mewled as his hand fixed into position again, keeping them trapped.

"I said ten more," Whumper said in a hushed voice. "Keep up like that and we'll add a lot of unnecessary stitches."

Whumpee sniffled, nodding and shaking their head at the same time. They winced, whimpered, and cried at the following clicks, but tried their best not to move.

"There, now," Whumper said, putting the stapler gun down and admiring his work. A grey row of 'stitches' over reddened and swollen skin. Like little train tracks. "Be bloody thankful that this won't get infected."

"Thank you," a pale Whumpee brought out.

Whumper nodded and leaned away again, wiping the disinfectant over the stapler gun to clean the blood off. Poured a little extra drops over the wound, "just to be safe", and put the stapler back into the bag.

"And when it's all healed up, we'll remove them."

-

Tag list: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @hold-back-on-the-comfort @whumpawink @painsandconfusion

[littleperilstories]

The Prince of Thieves: If It's Not Right, You Have to Put It Right

Mood Boards | Chapter Titles | Also on A03!

Warnings: Fantasy-esque prison setting, painful wound cleaning, restraints (shackles), severe power imbalance, nasty law enforcement/abuse of power, aftermath of flogging, mention of wound infection, lady whump

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Word count: 3917 || Approx reading time: 16 mins

If It's Not Right, You Have to Put It Right

Teaser: Is there no one around here with any kindness in their heart? Or any goddamn sense in their head? “But…no one’s looked at his back since yesterday.”  I point at Fox, letting my voice quaver. “Those cuts will get infected if they don’t get cleaned.”

Bree

The night passes in unsettling quiet. There are no howls of despair from other cells, no angry bellows from the constables. In fact, little noise at all breaks through the darkness, save for the scraping of hobnailed boots when the patrolling guards stalk through the halls.

Fox, too, is quiet—no moans or whimpers from pain-induced dreams. He sleeps, silent enough that I catch myself hoping he’s not dead.

Sleeping, when  it’s my turn to sink into its elusive mists, brings no rest. Waking, which happens enough that I’m not sure I slept at all, brings only grief and uncertainty.

Hatchett first said I would hang, then changed to not necessarily. Was that part of the game? Was he simply trying to confuse me? If I am not taken to the gallows, but left here to rot instead, what then? Or perhaps…perhaps that’s it? Maybe it’s enough for him to watch me suffer? He’ll get his long-awaited vengeance for running away from him  four years ago, and I’ll get to die cold and alone.

A hoarse moan from the other cell jars me from my thoughts. “Am I still alive?”

I don’t know whether to muster up tears or laughter. Pressing as close to the bars as I can, I squint through the dark. “Seems you are.”

“Shame.” He draws a slow breath, punctuated by a wince.

“Does it hurt?”

“Like hell.”

He hasn’t moved much from where he fell asleep last night—probably couldn’t. His wince echoes through the darkness as he slowly starts to rise.

“No one’s come to take a look at those yet.” I can’t see his lash-wounds, not while his face is turned toward me, but I was awake for enough of the night that I’d have noticed if someone visited.

“That asshole medic will come around when he wants to,” Fox mutters. “Or maybe never. He hates my guts.” After he’s pulled himself upright, panting slightly, he adds with a dark laugh and a vague gesture around us, “Like everyone else.”

I don’t understand. Why take care of the shoulder wound, but not these ones? “But they might get infected—”

“So? What do they care?” His words run together, so it sounds like, Whatta they care? “Aren’t I gonna die anyway? May as well make the lead-up painful.”

I can’t think of anything to say to that, so I say the first—and most inane—thing that comes to mind. “I don’t hate you.”

Something flashes across his face. Amusement? Gratitude? Confusion and discomfort he’s too polite to acknowledge? “Uh. Thanks.”

I don’t respond. I’m too busy wishing I could die right about now.

Long, dragging minutes prompt the realization that I haven’t eaten since my last meal at the Smith house, nor have I had any water since my interrogation.

Tell me what you know about IA. Its leaders. Its methods. Everything.

With the sound of the whip still ringing in my ears, I was not inclined to give Baden Hatchett a single word, let alone any goddamn details about running for IA.

Speak, Miss Cooper, or you will find your stay in this prison less than hospitable.

You realize it is in your best interests to cooperate, do you not?

You think I won’t go to any lengths imaginable to take them down? Do you really want to be on the wrong side of that battle?

You’re a fool, I finally told him. I already am.

“Please, sir. When is the medic coming?” The constable who delivers water and bread appears genuinely surprised when I scramble to my feet and address him. “Will it be soon?”

He gives me a look one might give a worm, squashed and bloody beneath their shoe. “You sick?”

“W-well, no, but—”

“Then sit down, girl. Mind your own business.”

Is there no one around here with any kindness in their heart? Or any goddamn sense in their head? “But…no one’s looked at his back since yesterday.”  I point at Fox, letting my voice quaver. “Those cuts will get infected if they don’t get cleaned.”

Scoffing, he asks, “Is that supposed to be my problem? Take your fucking meal and worry about yourself.”

This time, when I answer, impatience slips through, and I press myself against the metal. “I’m telling you, he needs to come look at—”

“‘I’m telling you’?” Reaching through the bars, the constable shoves me back. My stocking feet and tired limbs struggle to keep balance, and I sink to the floor. “Who do you think you are? Mind your goddamn tongue, you hear? He’ll come when he’s available.”

Fox lurches forward when the guard shoves me, spitting venom—the only weapon he can wield. “Look what we got here. Another big man who likes pushing people around.”

I cringe. It’s nice of him to speak up, but he’s already saved me once. I don’t need him to do it again, certainly not now. For once, even if neither of them realize it, I’m the one in control of the conversation. Keeping my eyes on the constable, I reapproach. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Infected wounds kill people all the time. Don’t you care?”

The constable glances at Fox and guffaws. “About him? Not particularly.” He tugs out his baton. “Seems you still need a lesson in respect.”

Although I step back as if cowed by the implicit threat, I say, “I give respect to those who earn it.”

His eyes narrow. “Is that so?  Rest assured… I will let Constable Hatchett know.”

Fox leaps back into the conversation, contempt upon his face. “Going to run right to mommy and tell her, are you?”

The constable slams his baton against the bars of Fox’s cell hard enough to echo. I barely suppress a startled squeak. “You and your mouth. You just don’t learn, do you, you stupid fucker?”

Based on the look on Fox’s face, I can only imagine what he’s thinking: Well, you better come in here and teach me a lesson, then, or something equally ill-advised. But he grits his teeth and says nothing.

“Huh. That’s what I thought,” the officer says, and he stalks away.

Fox turns his glare on me. Once the constable’s footsteps have faded, he says, “So much for not doing that anymore. Didn’t you promise just last night you wouldn’t try to piss them off for my sake?”

Irritation flares inside me. “I promised I wouldn’t put myself in harm’s way. There were bars between us, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Didn’t stop him from trying, though, did it?” Fox gestures toward the door. “And you do realize, right, that he could have come in if he wanted to? That’s how jail works. They’re the ones with the keys.”

“Sure. But I’m the one with this.” I brandish the flask I unlatched from the constable’s belt while I was distracting him with my complaints. “Let’s hope it’s just water.”

How satisfying it is  to watch his eyes widen. Ha. Weren’t expecting that, were you? “When’d you pinch that?”

“There’s a reason Spider recruited me.” I unscrew the top and inhale, praying the pungent smell of alcohol doesn’t assault my senses. “I’m not half bad.” With a sigh of relief, I return the cap. Just water. Exactly what I wanted.

“All right, well, good job, but…why do you need that?”

“I don’t need it.” I drop the flask and scan my clothes, seeking the least soiled stretch of fabric before I tear a strip from the skirt. It’s far from sterile, but it’ll have to do. “You do.”

He frowns. “What?”

“If that dumb fucking medic,” I say, “isn’t going to do his job, then I’ll have to do it for him.” Waving the torn cloth, I gesture toward the water flask. “Come closer.”

He’s staring at me with a mix of astonishment and something I can’t place. Suspicion? Confusion? “Why?”

“Because just hurry up.” I beckon him with my hand. “Before he figures out his flask is missing and comes back. I’m going to clean your cuts.”

He blinks. Flinches. Is he…embarrassed? Is the prospect of me touching him more horrible than being whipped in front of the entire prison? “Bree, you don’t need to—”

Bitterly, I say, “I do if he’s not coming.”

He barely moves a muscle. “We just met.” His good hand rubs anxiously at the nape of his neck. “You shouldn’t have to…”

We just met. His words sting more than they should. “We’ve met before.”

“That night doesn’t count.” For the first time, he looks at me with something akin to pity. “It was awful. For both of us.”

“You saved my life.” No point in bringing up the first time we crossed paths. Why would he remember? He’s probably helped Spider recruit dozens of runners.

“Right, but…” Wide and uncertain, his eyes are still fixed on mine. “I don’t expect nothing from—” A pause. “You…you don’t owe me anything.”

I huff out an annoyed sigh. “Will you just get over here? Or was st—taking this a complete waste of time?”

For a moment, he remains a statue—then hauls himself across the floor, stopping with his back to me. “This…good?”

I reach through the bars to test the distance between us. “Yes.” Hovering my fingers over his back, terrified to touch him until we’re both ready, I scan for any inch of skin that isn’t pocked with lash-marks. “I’m…I’m sorry again. He wouldn’t have flogged you if not for me.”

“Not your fault.” Fox’s voice is bitter, but I believe him. “For a miserable bastard, he’s fucking creative when he wants to be.” He puts on his best mimicry of Hatchett’s low voice. “Consequences.”

Surely he’s trying to be funny, but a shiver runs down my spine. Father was cruel and quick to use his fists, but dumb as a rock. Baden Hatchett is cruel but sharp—clever and quick to use his wits. Had I gone through with the marriage, what awful consequences might I have met when my actions brought him displeasure? “Yes.” You will call the count. “He is.”

Banishing Hatchett from my mind—as much as I can when I’m staring directly at his handiwork, embroidered in blood across Fox’s back—I reach for the flask. “I’m going to run water down your back first. I imagine it will hurt.”

“I expect so, yeah.”

“Are you ready?”

“Do I got a choice?”

I pause, not sure what to do. “I mean… You do, but…”

He snorts. “Just say no.”

Swallowing an uncomfortable laugh, I open the flask.

At first, the water runs rust-coloured to the floor, pooling between us and mingling with the filth crusted there. Fox hisses.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “Just breathe.” What did Mother used to do, when I was young and Father got carried away? Tell me about the story you read today. How were your lessons this morning? Let’s go through some arithmetic facts. “What’s two times two?”

He jerks his head back to look at me, brows pinched in confusion. “What?”

“My mother used to try and distract me,” I say, “when she had to, um… When I was hurt and she didn’t want me to cry.” Didn’t want me to cry too loudly and bring him storming back. “Stories, arithmetics, and such.”

“Listen. I’m not doing any maths right now. This fucking hurts enough as it is.” He winces again as another flood of water drips down his back. “No need to bring school into it.”

“All right. That’s fine.”  Inexplicably, my heart is pounding as I lift my makeshift washing cloth. “I’m going to start, um, cleaning.” Why are my hands shaking? “May I…?”

If he was embarrassed before, he’s gotten over it. “You’ve already started. Might as well finish it, yeah?”

I grit my teeth as if I’m the one who’s bracing myself for pain. “Tell me a story, then. Something about you.”

He barks out a laugh.“You think that’s a good idea? Who knows who’s listening in?” After a pause, he adds, muttering into the darkness, “Fuck you, whoever you are.”

“You needn’t tell me your life story,” I say, chuckling, though my stomach twists. “A happy memory or something.”

He gives a soft yelp. I’m doing my best to be gentle, but the wounds are still raw, and my dress isn’t made from the softest material. “About. What?”

“Anything.” Reaching through the bars is awkward, and my back and arms already ache from the awkward position. Perhaps his story will distract me, too.

To my relief, he acquiesces. “I…used to have…this dog.”

The cloth is already stained pink. “How sweet.”

“She w—” He breaks off, choking back a gasp. I’ve reached one of the deeper cuts. “She really was. And my br—”

His words halt so abruptly, I wonder if I’ve somehow killed him.

“Fox?” I murmur. “Your…?”

“Nothing.”

He is quiet, his breath stuttering as I wash the dried blood from his back. Some of the wounds have already scabbed overnight; I pray there’s no grime trapped inside.

“I was a little shit in school.” I’m puzzled by the change in subject, but I don’t pursue the dog story. “The schoolmaster hated me. He loved to give me the strap.”

Perhaps Fox and I differ in our understanding of something happy. “This doesn’t sound like a good memory.”

“Well, every time I put crickets in his desk, it felt pretty good.”

I bite back a laugh.

“Once, I put a baby snake in his hat.”

“You didn’t.”

“And I broke—ah—” The cry only deters him for a moment. “—into the schoolhouse one night and wrote a rude story on all the slates, pieces of it on every single one. It took hours.”

I’m giggling now, helpless as I imagine the look his shenanigans must have brought to the schoolmaster’s face. “You were a wicked little boy.”

“Yes. Very.” He pauses to wince and jerk away from me as one of his cuts splits open at my touch.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m trying—”

“I didn’t make it easy for myself.” He’s rushing now, shoving his words together as if that will somehow keep the pain at bay. I di’n make it easy f’r m’self. “I could never sit still, and listening to him droning on and on was so boring. All I ever wanted was to go out and play. I’d get in trouble for talking to the other children, daydreaming, fidgeting, talking out of turn, generally being insolent…” He laughs. “Once, I just ran outside because I decided I wanted to go for a walk.”

“How old were you?”

“I dunno. Young.” There’s a wistfulness to his voice now that makes my heart ache. “Ma almost killed me when she found out.”

“And you were, of course, very sorry when you got in trouble.”

“No!” His laugh wraps around me like a cloak, a snatch of childish joy that has drifted from the past to offer us comfort for these precious, fleeting moments. “I remember enjoying my stroll very much. How could I be sorry for that?”

Another cut dribbles fresh blood down his back, and the spell is broken. With a hiss of annoyance, I tear another strip from my skirt to soak it up.

“Was it a happy one, then?” I keep my voice soft. “Your childhood?”

His unkempt mop of hair bounces with his nod. “Yeah. It was.”

Why am I suddenly blinking back tears?

“All right,” I say, hoping he can’t hear the tremor in my voice.  “I think that’s the best I can do.”

A dark stain, wet and rusty, glares up at me from where bloody water dripped onto my skirt.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

I drop my hands in my lap, trying not to dwell on how my hands, too, are stained. “It was nothing.”

“Won’t be nothing if—when—we get busted. Give me the flask.” He turns so we can face each other once again. “So they think I took it.”

“No.” I place it behind me, where he can’t reach. “You’re not taking the blame for me. I’m not afraid of them.”

The look on his face tells me he knows I’m lying. “They’re gonna figure it out.”

“No,” I repeat. “I’m the one who took it, so—”

The sound of hobnailed boots scrapes through the air, too quickly, so quickly I barely have time to think.

“Bree, please,” Fox says through gritted teeth.

I tent my legs and sweep the empty flask beneath the canopy of my skirt.

It isn’t the same officer from earlier. Rather, the junior constable from yesterday appears outside our cells. What’s his name? Michaelson.

Shit.

“Please,” he begins, his voice doused in sarcasm, “please tell me you two crooks are continuing your thieving ways in here.” The torchlight gives his eyes a maniacal gleam. “Because I would so love to find out that you’re bold enough—stupid enough—to steal from a constable.”

My earlier confidence disintegrates under Michaelson’s searing gaze.

“Where is it?” he asks softly.

How likely is it he’ll believe anything I say? “What are you talking about?”

“The flask that mysteriously disappeared from Officer Lenton’s belt. Where. Is. It.”

I frown. “Flask?”

Would it be better to confess? Give it back? His face gives no indication that either scenario would result in mercy.

Michaelson flips his attention to Fox. “Where is it?”

Fox just shrugs, silent.

The constable looks back to me, and I can tell—impossible though it should be since he wasn’t even fucking here when I took it—he knows. “Stand up.”

How foolish I was, believing I was ever in control. Sighing, I pull the flask out from underneath my skirt and toss it toward him. It clatters against the bars and hits the floor.

“Well, well.” Michaelson studies the flask for a moment. “And why did you take this, girl?”

Before I can even open my mouth, Fox speaks. “I made her do it.”

What the fuck? I shoot him a furious glare. “No, he d—”

“I…” The idiot next to me is racking his brain for a story as he speaks. “I… I wanted to see how loyal she still is to IA. To me.”

After a long pause, Michaelson pierces me with his gaze. “And? Are you?”

Great. Fox tried to help and ended up throwing me into a net. No matter how I answer, we’re in trouble—either he’s a liar or a manipulative bastard gang leader. Either I’m the thief or a stupid little girl following orders. Swallowing hard, I stare back. “What do you think?”

Michaelson smirks. “And did the fox-thief force your hand? Did he make you take it?”

“Yes, I did,” Fox says quickly. If I ever get my hands on him, I’m going to slap him for being a self-sacrificing moron.

Instead of reaching through the bars to retrieve the flask, Michaelson unlocks the door. I realize how egregiously I overestimated my abilities to run this fucking water-flask heist.

“You know what I think?” He steps inside. I scramble to my feet, unsure how that will help me—but I’ll be damned if I’m going to be sitting passively on the floor while he goes through with whatever he’s planning.

“Jesus Christ.” Fox is getting to his feet, too, pain written across his face—violent poetry inked into his skin, sweat glistening on his brow. Sit down, for fuck’s sake, I want to say. But he’s still talking, clinging now to the bars with his uninjured arm. “Leave her alone. She didn’t—”

Michaelson ignores him. “I think,” he says, grabbing my arm and yanking me toward the back wall, “that he’s as much a liar as he is a thief, and a bad one at that. And you? You’re a little bitch who was happy to let him take the fall for you, yes?”

“Get off me.” Trying to wriggle from his grip is useless. What am I supposed to say?

A bruising grip digs into my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “And not even a word of apology. Incredible.”

Is he serious? “Apology? You think I’m going to apologize?”

Michaelson smiles, as if this is the answer he was both expecting and desiring. “No.”

My back is pressed against the wall now, heart thundering in my chest. “I didn’t take it to drink, I took it to—”

Why am I even bothering? He doesn’t care. “You two want to play games?” His voice slithers into my ear. “Better understand the fucking rules.”

When he lets go of my arm, I try to jerk away, only to feel a sharp sting across my cheek.

“Don’t.” Fox’s voice cracks.

“Rule number one. Don’t forget it.” Michaelson closes a ring of cold iron over my right wrist. “It’s us who make the rules. Not you.”

I glare up at him, every thought  unintelligible except for one. “Fuck you.”

He slaps me again.

“Constable Hatchett says you two can cry in here together while you wait for your turn in the square,” he says, dropping my arm, making the chain rattle. “I don’t understand it, but fine. Try to rig the game in your favour—even think about stealing from one of us ever again—and I’ll fucking make you wish you’d never been born.” His gaze slides to Fox. “Both of you.

I can see the way Fox is shaking, and I have a feeling it isn’t from fear.

Unlike me.

I watch Michaelson stalk out of my cell, unable to follow, tethered now to the wall. The chain allows some freedom—but not enough to reach the door or the wall I share with Fox.

Michaelson doesn’t even look at me when he lets his foot, no doubt on purpose, knock over my untouched cup of water. I flinch at the tinny sound, at the sight of the liquid—that I should have gulped down while I had the chance—transforming into muddy sludge on the floor.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Fox is still clinging to the bars. “How was that necessary?”

The clang of the locking door echoes through the corridor.

“You really think you’re some kind of hero.” Michaelson pauses in front of Fox’s cell, making no effort to go inside. “You’re not. You’re nothing. The sooner you get that through your thick head, the better.”

“That’s not true.” I shuffle forward, trying to ignore the pull of the chain on my wrist. “Don’t listen to him.”

Michaelson laughs, turns on his heel, and walks away.

My knees give out on me the second he’s gone. I kneel, gasping softly, waiting for Fox to say the words I deserve to hear—I told you so.

Instead, once he, too, is on the floor, he asks quietly, “Are you all right?”

Nodding—all I can do.

“Did he hit you hard?”

I shake my head.

Surely, tears should be streaming down my face, carving ravines into my skin, burning my slapped cheek. But there’s nothing.

Once I can form words again, I ask him, “Are you all right?” He shrugs in answer. “Your back?”

“Still hurts like hell.” The tiniest flicker of a smile. “But it’s clean. Thank you.”

Maybe it’ll be enough to stave off infection. Maybe it will mean his last days here carry a smidgen less suffering.

How could I be sorry for that?

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Tagging: @starlit-hopes-and-dreams, @gala1981, @kixngiggles .

[Banner ID: A narrow horizontal, rectangular banner featuring a barred archway. The bars and the stone walls evoke the feeling of a dungeon or prison. There are burning candles on either side of the archway. The title of the story, The Prince of Thieves, appears in white text in the centre of the image. The author's username, abbreviated to LPS from littleperilstories, appears in the bottom right corner in partially transparent text. End ID.]

[little-peril-stories]

Febuwhump Day 5 - Rope Burns

From The Queen of Lies:

After a few minutes of watching him try valiantly to catch enough glimpses of himself in the mirror to see what he was doing without standing up, she said, “Let me help you. Please.”

Why did this feel so different, even though she’d already done it once?

But he handed over the cloth and let her take over, and it was all fine—soothing, even, with her gentle fingers brushing away the blood and grime.

Fine, until she got too close to his throat.

“Ah—” He didn’t mean to yelp, goddamnit, he didn’t mean to at all, but the rope burns stung at the barest touch, and she hadn’t known they were even there, and now she did, and god, it hurt.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, dropping the cloth, startled. “What—”

She fell silent, and he knew she had seen.

“Fox,” she breathed. “Your neck.”

Fucking shit.

She’d have seen it once the sun came up anyway, you idiot, a voice in his head told him scornfully. Just as well she notices now.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”

“Did he—”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Baden did?”

Good god, he hated that she called him Baden. “Yeah.”

“How—why—”

How did you discover who my wife was? What filth did you whisper in her ear? What did you want from her?

“Nothing,” he said, and it was only after he spoke that he realized he was giving the answer to the wrong question. “You don’t want to know. Don’t worry. It’ll heal. It’s fine.”

[i-eat-worlds]

Alex & Friends Part Five: Self Aid

Alex cleans out her wounds out in a bathroom

CW: wound dressing stuff, descriptions of injuries

The INSUPA Center in Czechia was located a few miles north of Prague. The drive was just over twenty minutes, and because it was late at night, the roads were traffic free. While Sil put the pedal to the metal, Joseph spent the ride making sure that Aarav stayed alive. Joseph had dressed the bloody laceration on his cheek, splinted the break in his lower leg, and administered painkillers. He had remained semi-conscious for most of it, groaning whenever he was moved. When they arrived at the Center, Aarav was swarmed by several nurses as the backboard was heaved onto a stretcher and he was rolled into the medbay.

The team stood outside the room, watching as the doctors and nurses stabilized him. The medical staff confirmed Joseph’s suspicions of a pneumothorax and a concussion. The Prague INSUPA Center had a healer on staff, and the team’s stomach dropped when they heard the page come over the PA. Eventually, the healer stepped out of the room to address the group. Aarav would be okay. It was only after the group had departed, leaving for either the chowhall or a nap spot, only Eric and Joseph remained in the room, busily sorting through the mounds of paperwork. There were blanks to be lled, checkboxes to be checked, and initials to be signed. “Hey, have you seen Alexis?” Eric asked. “Need her signature on something.” He said by way of explanation.

Joseph shook his head. “No I haven’t.” He looked around the medbay again, but she wasn’t there.

“That’s weird.” Eric also scanned the room, but came up empty.

“Yeah, that was a nasty graze. You want me to go find her?” Joseph said, closing a folder. The cover had Stupid Folder for my Stupid Paperwork written on a piece of white tape that was stuck to the top. “If you can stand the break from your paperwork, yeah.” Eric joked as Joseph stood up, heading for the nurse’s station.

****************

It had been easy for Alex to sneak away. With everyone’s attention focused on Pigeoner-Aarav, Alex had learned-it hadn’t been very difficult to fly under the medical staff’s radar. All of her belongings and supplies had been left at her abandoned apartment, so she raided a supply closet. She carried her haul of supplies to a distant locker room in one of the far corners of the building. She set the stuff down on the side of the bathtub; a plastic water bottle, a roll of kerlix, an ABD pad, some medical tape, a pair of gloves and the swiss army knife that she kept in her boot. The cleanest place for this would be the bathtub, and she quickly unlaced her boots and stripped off her socks. Her wound was already exposed. A pair of trauma shears had already cut down the side of her pants, exposing the wound. Joseph had packed it already, mainly to stop the bleeding, but Alex would need to clean it, then repack it. Ignoring the way her hands were now shaking, she extended the main blade of the knife and plunged it into the lid of the water bottle, creating an improvised squirt bottle. Next, she pulled the gloves over her hands, and got on with it.

The undressing wasn’t too horrible, as the gauze hadn’t been in there long enough to really stick to anything. Per usual, the cleaning was the worst part. Alex grunted as the stream of pressurized water hit the wound. Blood beaded and it threatened to bleed again. Pushing out a shaky breath, she willed herself to continue, using the remaining water in the bottle to wet the kerlix that she packed the wound with. The wound wasn’t that deep or big, and the packing went relatively quickly. She covered the wound with the ABD pad, then taped it down.

Alex considered her next steps. Firstly, she needed to get clean, eat, find some new, not wet-and-bloody clothes. After that, she’d need to call up her handler to politely yell at him. And she needed to sleep, that was also important. It was a shame that the sleep couldn’t come first, Alex thought as her rattling hands gripped the side of the tub and she pulled herself to standing. Her entire body ached. It protested as she stepped out of the tub. The adrenaline from the day was wearing off, and exhaustion was settling into her bones. She collected the supplies from the side of the tub, then made her way across the lonely locker room to the door. Just as she pulled the door open, her foot caught on the tile, and she fell out into the hallway. Her breath caught as she collapsed onto the linoleum floor. She laid there for a moment, defeated and miserable, tears welling up in her eyes. Slowly, she scraped herself from the ground, and immediately leaned her back against the wall, tilting her head as she convinced herself not to cry. As if to punctuate the moment, pain flared up her leg from the movement. “Alexis?” Somebody said, in a familiar worried tone. She slowly rolled her head to the side to Joseph standing in the hallway, worried look on his face. “Do you need help?”

********

“Do you need help?” Joseph asked, though the answer was obviously yes. Under the harsh fluorescent lights of the center, she looked even worse than she had in the dim red light of the van. Her hair was sopping wet and bedraggled, and it looked like she was struggling to even keep upright. All of her clothing was absolutely drenched, and the blood that had soaked into her pants and shirt had gone tacky. Her shirt, sliced down the front, hung off of her. The opening from where he’d cut off her pants still remained, the fabric flopping away to reveal her wound. It had been redressed. Joseph hoped it was by the medical staff, but Alexis had probably done it herself. She looked like death had taken a swim in a river. “Do you know where the community closet is?” she asked. “My clothes are kinda…”

“Upstairs, next to the laundry room,” Joseph said, wincing internally at the thought of climbing stairs with a wound like hers. “Take a left, staircase will be to your right, the closet should be right at the top.”

“Thank you,” she said. It looked like she was trying to hold back tears. Keeping a hand on the wall for support, she started to limp towards the stairs.

“Let me help you get up there.” He said, pivoting to walk beside her.

Alexis shook her head. “M’fine.”

“You and I both know that those stairs are going to be agony. Please let me help, Alexis.”

She shakily extended her arm around his shoulders. “Call me Alex.

Taglist: @pigeonwhumps