#the scripts make me go nuts too. ''they were lovers in their pasts'' shut the fuck up dont say that to me ill start crying

[the-holy-ghosted]

congrats 2 henry peglar for being the only bitch confirmed as to be Fucking That Old Man

[pumpkin-spice-whump-latte]

Whumptober #5--part two

I couldn’t resist writing a little aftercare after that “gunpoint” prompt. Also we introduce another whumpee into the story! And we find out that Ben is actually a big Soft. 

[Part 1 is here]

Contains: comfort, very little hurt, stitches, the briefly implied effects of touch starvation, Ben punching his only friend in the goddamn face.

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There were hands on his face. He didn’t recognize them. The pain hadn’t stopped just because he’d passed out, and now that he was back in the land of the living he decided he didn’t want anymore of it. Couldn’t take anymore of it. 

“No! NO lemme go, lemme go, GET OFF ME!” He lashed out, thankful that he could move his arms at least even if he was on the cold, dirty floor, and his right fist connected with a face. He didn’t recognize the damn face either; it wasn’t the scientist but his panic stricken brain didn’t really care. 

“Oh shit! What the hell, I’m trying to help you! Calm the fuck down!” The face had a voice now, and the voice sounded pissed. The other person’s hand came up to dab blood away from their nose and mouth, then glare in Ben’s direction. “That weirdo gave me a first aid kit and told me to patch you up. You want a fucking band-aid or not?”

At this point Ben was curled up in a corner of the room, tucked up back behind one of the two cots against wall. He shivered in his little ball of misery and fear, unable to think past one VERY strong mantra.

“Just don’t shock me again, please, okay? Okay, please, whatever it is I’ll do it just d-don’t sh-sh-shock me anymore, okay Doc?” He hated that the defiance had fled from his voice. It sounded pitiful and weak, and he could practically hear his father telling him to “nut up or shut up.” But his father wasn’t here. His father had never been strapped to a chair, electrified, and then forced to shoot himself in the arm. 

At the very least his pleading seemed to get through the other person’s initial anger at getting punched in the face. A little bit of softness crept into that unfamiliar voice. “Hey man, don’t get it twisted. I’m not him, yeah? You can take that shit to the bank. But look.” The stranger held up a little plastic first aid kit. It looked cheap. Like you could pick it up at a convenience store or something. “That fucker threw this at me and told me to take care of that gunshot wound for you. Okay? I’m not gonna...” 

The man’s voice softened even more, with just a hint of secret shame. Like he didn’t want anyone else to hear him say it. Like he hardly ever said it. “I’m not gonna hurt you...” It sounded sincere, anyway. A little embarrassed, but genuine, and it managed to pierce through Ben’s cloud of abject terror. 

His hands were still shaking when he was joined in his little hiding spot behind the cot. It was cramped but that was okay. He didn’t feel like moving. In fact he took that opportunity to get a better look at the man’s face. 

Young like him. Maybe a little younger? Early twenties, if he had to guess. Skin fairer than his but not pasty. Rich brown hair that hung to his shoulders, with a stubble that might have looked handsome if he wasn’t bleeding all over it from a broken nose. He was dressed in the same hand-me-down sweatpants Ben had been forced to wear during his time here. 

Those hands came close to him again and he flinched again. Couldn’t help it. It was pathetic and he felt like crying again just from that show of weakness alone, but the voice was back too. Holding onto it’s gentleness regardless of how often it was called on. Desperate times called for desperate measures, he guessed. “Easy, easy, man. M’not gonna hurt you, okay. Just relax.” He drew out the word with a sigh of soft breath, and Ben was surprised to find his body responding a little to the suggestion. Relaaaaax.

“Wh-who are you...?” He asked this as he (finally) let the man take his left arm. Bit down on his tongue to hold back a yelp because even slightly lifting it made it cry out in agony. There were deep purple and red lesions on his wrist from where the metal cuffs had bitten into them, and burns from where the electricity had found a special home there. There were similar marks on each side of his neck and his stomach too, but the gunshot wound was the most serious.

They still needed to get the damn bullet out.

“Thaaaat’s it. My name’s Carlos. You’re the--the first other real person I’ve seen since I woke up in this fucking place, yeah? Well, the first... alive person. I guess.” Carlos held that injured arm with a kind of care and practiced ease that honestly surprised Ben. Maybe he’d just gotten too used to being hurt, but maybe it was also because Carlos definitely looked more like a fighter than a lover. His face was too lean and he had a tattoo on his neck of some words Ben couldn’t make out, even from this close. It was too blurry and written in that flowery cursive script tattoo artists sometimes used to make it look fancy. Or whatever.

“Ben. I’m Ben. I’m a doctor.” He wasn’t sure why he clarified this, as if it meant anything. Maybe just as a lifeline to his life outside this place. 

Carlos practically lit up. “No fooling? So am I! Well--intern right now. But I’m working on getting my--” He stopped himself. It was as if he’d forgotten for a second that they were both being held in a makeshift prison cell by a man who apparently loved seeing them in pain. “Well... don’t worry about that. Let’s get this bullet out first, yeah? This is probably gonna hurt, man... Sorry.”

Even if they did only have a ten dollar home first aid kit from Target or wherever, Carlos made up for their lack of supplies with a wealth of talent. His long, spindly fingers were incredibly quick and efficient in getting the bullet out of his bicep, and his hands turned out to be pretty good with stitches. 

And they were warm. The rest of the damned room around them felt chilly, the ground against his bare feet was freezing, and his left arm felt like it was wreathed in flame, but that gentle touch brought with it an achingly good kind of distraction from the cold and the pain.

Something about... feeling that touch where Carlos gently supported his elbow, feeling their ankles brush together a little in the cramped space Ben had so rudely forced them to be in, got him thinking about how long it had been since he’d felt... any kind of touch like that at all. The thought brought tears to his eyes (again) and he sucked in a breath to try and hold them back. 

That got Carlos’s attention, and dark eyes flicked up to meet his own. “Heh, it’s okay man. Believe me, guys bigger than you damn near fuckin’ BAWLED when I was working on them. This one guy came in? With a broken toe, right? Just a eety-weety-widdle bwoken toe. Bitches and moans the ENTIRE time, especially when we said we’d have to set it. Sheesh.” 

Ben actually chuckled a little. He didn’t allow himself to cry, not right then, but the story made him feel a little better at least. 

“How long you been here?” Ben asked. 

Carlos’ gaze wandered off vaguely to the left. “Oh... I’m not sure really. Couple weeks? I guess? They don’t really give us calendars, man.”

“Are there more of us? How many? Did you see them?” He was a little frantic with the questions but the hope of having more people alive in this place both excited him and horrified him. 

Carlos just shook his head. “I guess there are but, like I said, you’re the first one I’ve seen alive.”

“Oh.” Ben deflated instantly. Disappointment? Relief? He wasn’t sure. 

The wound in his arm had been cleanly and nicely stitched up and bandaged, and then that touch was on his hand. Supporting his fingers and turning it palm up. As Carlos rummaged around in the first aid kit with the other. “Wonder if we have any burn cream in here...” Ben didn’t answer. His eyes fixed on the fingers touching his. 

There wasn’t any burn cream but there was some antibiotic ointment left over and that would have to do. 

Ben was quiet while Carlos gently wrapped up the cuff marks on his left wrist and ankles. When it was done he asked, “Are you hurt at all?”

Carlos just scoffed. “Sure I’m hurt. I’m hurt in my heart. Can’t believe he didn’t give you a cigarette after fuckin’ you so badly. Tragedy, man. Tragedy.” He shook his head and Ben chuckled again. That chuckle turned into an outright laugh. Didn’t think he’d ever laugh again, but Carlos had been a healing salve for more than just his injuries. It was nice as hell to be able to speak normally to someone else for once.

“Heh, yeah. Shakespeare take notes.”