#whumotober2022

[forsty]

Whumptober 2022 - Sloppy Bandages - Self-done first aid (Kinda) TEXT VERSION

Honey you might wanna seek some medical attention for that

[ladtheove]

Captured and tortured... one will have a much worse ending. Jason chooses to sacrifice himself.

[quietlyimplode]

leave everything but your bones behind

Whumptober 2022: day 6 - proof of life

Warnings: red room/medical/panic attacks (a few)

Word Count: 2.7k (gif not mine)

Summary: Natasha becomes unwell and only the Red Room can fix her. The choice is die or go back to the very place that made her.

A/N: a long one today, my friends. As always your words and encouragement always means so much. <3.

Main Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

———-

Clint forwards everything to Fury. Glancing at the time, he feels his stomach growl and realises he hasn’t eaten anything all day.

Natasha’s PET scan is scheduled for tomorrow.

She’d asked to go home, but all he could do was walk with her to the elevator with her IV of saline and pain killers attached to head to his floor in the tower. He can see the tremor in her hand as she grasps the pole to push it along.

What a difference a day makes.

He doesn’t know what it is that makes her seem so vulnerable, but she does.

Maybe it’s the quiet acceptance of everything, the way he knows she is internally freaking out every time a nurse or doctor steps near her, or when Tony talked to her about Sana and said Irina’s name.

The way that so many vulnerabilities have been hit and she’s just taken them.

It’s only the first day.

That fact makes him feel like sobbing and as the emotions bubble up he can’t stop them.

“I’m going for a shower, Nat,” he calls, quickly moving to the bathroom.

He turns on the shower and feels the tears before he can consciously stop it.

He might lose his best friend, his partner, his everything, and it’s all because of things he can’t control.

He wants to murder the red room again, kill Dreykov again and everyone that had a part in torturing little girls and doing medical experiments on them.

He steps under the spray, feeling the water and wanting to drown under it.

Tears mix with water and the washing away feels almost cathartic.

He’s going to be strong, because she is. If there’s anything she’s taught him it’s that, strength in the face of great odds.

Clint decides then, he’s not letting her down, not giving up, whatever that means.

.

She dreams.

Someone puts their towel on her forehead. She’s thirteen. They’ve just finished in medical and she’s under observation but she’s not sure what for.

The guard is asleep, and the girl on her right looks to her. She recognises her, it’s Jace.

“Shh Nat, you’re calling out in your sleep.”

Natasha nods. She was asleep, she can’t control what her body does outside of it.

“Wake me if it happens again?”

They say they shouldn’t trust each other, but they all do. They all try as best they can to protect what they can, even though they know punishment will come if they’re caught.

The girl nods.

“Promise,” she says in English.

“I’ll do the same,” Natasha says back, “promise.”

.

The more tests they do, the more despondent she becomes. After the spinal tap, she makes herself sleep.

Nightmares come, dreams turn into waking and still it’s preferable over the real world.

She doesn’t care for anyone’s thoughts, comments, pity. Clint doesn’t leave though, she feels his presence by her always.

The nurses try to get her to eat, but she can’t, she tried and vomited in the bathroom, but she knows she has to.

“We can try intravenously?” The doctor had offered, when Clint had told on her, said that in the last four days she’d eaten minimally.

It had not been a threat, she knows, but it had felt like one.

“Maybe some jelly?” Clint suggested and she’s nodded, it was just sugar water but maybe if she could manage that, she could manage custard then porridge.

She needs them to know she’s trying, it’s just… she feels hopeless.

Sighing heavily, Natasha glances at the time and knows the IV is going to start beeping again, wake Clint up, make him have the face of concern as she refuses to eat again.

She just doesn’t want to feel nauseous on top of everything.

.

Tony slams his fists on the table.

His face feels hot and he tells Jarvis to turn the heater off; only to be told it’s not on.

Frustrated, he throws the closest tool to the wall and growls.

The doctor was right.

He doesn’t want her to be.

“Jarvis, find the Red Room.”

He’s not giving up.

He’s not.

He’s just finding other options.

Jarvis sets up a tracker, and he knows by being vague it’s likely that he’s either going to find a lot, or nothing at all.

“Centre the search in Russia, any and all information pertaining to the Red Room or KGB projects where they use nanites in medical procedures.”

He sees the computer set up the search, the visuals running through.

Turning back to his own research, he reads everything again, cross references the information and sends it to Bruce.

They could fix it, but there’s not enough time. There’s nothing like this being done in the western world, no one is crazy enough to inject children with nanites that make their immunity grow, their healing better and their bodies stronger in essence.

There’s no research for what happens when those nanites die. Not when they’ve been in the body this long.

His gut twists as his brain catches up to what his body already knows. It makes him feel sick, he loses a breath and tries to catch it, his heart pulling.

“Sir, breathe,” the AI advises.

Dizzy, he does as he’s told but it doesn’t help the dread that’s overcoming him.

“I can’t help her,” he says out loud, “Ican’tfixher.”

It comes out incoherently, but the words are true.

He needs to find Bruce.

“Call Bruce,” he says as soon as thought settles.

It connects quickly.

“Tony?”

“Icantfixher,” he says again. “She’s broken and icantfixher.”

“What?”

Tony drops to the floor, unable to stand on legs he can’t feel, like all the blood is in his chest.

He hyperventilates.

“Tony, breathe,” he hears Bruce but it sounds like he’s underwater.

He’s not hearing anything right.

“In and out,” he hears a command, and he tries to follow the repeated words.

Slowly, he feels the world focus, hears more words coming from Bruce.

“Tony, focus on my voice.”

He does.

Says his name.

“That’s good, Tony, that’s good.”

The reality returns and the fact that he’s failing Natasha almost makes him cry, in horror and sadness.

“You’re looking for the Red Room, aren’t you?” Bruce guesses.

“We can’t fix her,” Tony says sadly, “not quick enough.”

“No,” says Bruce, “we can’t.”

“Why?”

He feels like a little kid, asking for an adult to have the answer he so desperately wants.

“Because you can’t fix everything, Tony.”

There’s a quiet silence between them.

“Why?” Tony whispers more to himself.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says redundantly.

“Jarvis is looking for someone, anyone that can help,” he volunteers.

“Good.”

“I’m going to stay in the tower for the next couple of weeks,” Bruce offers, “do you think Steve will come too?”

In everything that happened over the last couple of days, Tony had not even considered calling Steve. Bruce is right though.

“Can you do it?”

Bruce agrees, and Tony sighs, hanging up and going back to his computer.

The search has only just begun, but he’s disheartened that nothing has come up.

.

Jarvis works throughout the night. Tony tries, but ends up asleep at his workbench at around 3am. Unable to keep his eyes open, he misses Jarvis picking up videos.

Videos of little girls in military uniforms.

Videos of them being operated on.

Videos of young woman, in lines, shooting guns.

They’re saved and Jarvis tags them for Tony to look at. The date in the corner in marked and stored.

The videos are from this year.

.

There’s a strangeness in finding proof of life of something you long thought was dead.

Tony shows her the videos and she watches them over and over again.

The Red Room is back. Here. Never gone.

Grief hits her like a ton of bricks and she can’t answer any of their questions.

They look so young.

Was she that young?

She was even younger.

She wonders if they’re still running the same experiments, unlikely, perhaps, things are far more advanced medically; it’s likely the experiments are far more brutal.

She knows those dead eyes of the girls in the short videos.

Natasha adjusts her position, the computer in her lap as she opens the meta data of the video and back tracks through what Jarvis has already found.

The AI seems to catch on what she’s doing and finishes the coding to open a back door into where the information has come from.

The screen blurs as she pushes herself, losing time in the coding. If she can find where it came from maybe she can find the Red Room.

She’s ignoring the fact that it is back, the fact that someone is replicating it or rebuilt it, or perhaps even more terrifying, it never went in the first place.

“Nat,” she hears Clint’s voice like a far away sound.

“Natasha.”

Annoyed, she turns to face him and sees Steve at the door. He nods and says hello, wearing the face of pity and compassion.

“Hey,” she speaks, her voice gravelly.

“Heard you’ve not been feeling well,” he says stepping into the door.

“Understatement,” Clint mumbles.

She glares at him.

Her stomach is still in knots at the realisations of the day and she doesn’t have the energy to chat with Steve about feelings.

“I’ll be better when I find the source of this,” she replies, rolling her eyes. The anti seizure medication has helped with seizures but not the foggy feelings, or the headache, the sore joints or fatigue.

The intermittent tremors are new, she notes but nothing she can’t ignore. She’s almost feeling human, if it weren’t for all the testing and constant medication.

Steve doesn’t seem to know what to do and the silence is awkward. Clint invites him in, and offers him a seat. Natasha knows he wants to say more but she doesn’t give a shit.

This needs to get done, if she has any chance…

Huffing, she stares him down.

“Just say it,” she challenges.

Steve looks sad.

“You’re sick,” he says, “I’m sorry you are sick.”

Natasha nods. She thinks he wants to hug her.

“Me too, Steve.”

Her attention turns back to the computer, and Clint tries to make small talk. It evolves into easy conversation and it’s just like they’re having dinner together.

She joins in when she can, and laughs at Clint’s dumb jokes, making fun of him as he tells the story of Venezuela and the cocktail dress he wore for a mark who demanded it.

Steve is awkward initially, but sees that they are trying to not make this a big thing. He remembers being sick, how much he hated relying on anyone, that the feeling of your own body betraying you was worse than being kicked, hit or stabbed.

So he pretends that nothing is wrong, that when the nurse comes in to change Natasha’s fluids, that he doesn’t see her eyes glaze and the tiny flush of embarrassment on her face.

He pretends that Clint’s concern at her flinch is nothing more than partners looking out for each other.

Most of all he wants her to know he understands.

It’s not fair.

Bruce had said she was unwell but seeing was different to second hand information. It hurts.

He wonders if this was how Bucky felt with him.

He sits back and listens to Clint’s story, grins at Natasha’s input, and tells his own stories as they sit together. It’s not late, but he notices her eyes closing.

Clint catches his eye and nods, shrugging continuing to talk.

Natasha listens, hearing them talking about plans for the weekend.

She closes her eyes to it, it’s good that they’re making plans.

Even if it might be without her.

.

Clint takes the laptop away from her.

“It’s been like this a lot,” he explains to Steve.

“First it was seizures, now they’ve got that under control, and now it’s just constant fatigue.”

Steve frowns.

“But they can fix her, right?”

Clint doesn’t answer.

He’s scared that they can’t. He hasn’t seen Tony, just received messages to pass onto Natasha, he’s not answering calls and Jarvis just says he’s busy.

The doctor keeps taking blood, saying they’re running more tests, but she doesn’t tell them what for. Bruce comes and goes but he keeps saying to ask Tony, if they want to know.

It’s not fair.

The videos of the Red Room have shaken Natasha, more than she cares to admit, and he can see what Tony is alluding to.

The Red Room will know how to fix her.

He knows that’s what he’s looking for.

It’s not an option.

Tony’s a genius, Bruce is a goddamn genius. If they can’t fix her, it’s unlikely the Red Room can. Why send her into more danger where they can take her apart and kill her.

Steve must sense his frustration, because he lets it go.

“She’ll be okay,” he says, redundantly.

“I’m sure.”

.

They’re loud enough to wake her.

Natasha has no idea how long she’s been asleep. She wishes she knew. They’ve taken her necklace off her, her watch and rings; the constant scans, it had been annoying to put them on and off. They live with Clint now, as they had so long ago.

Tony, Bruce and Clint are arguing outside.

It’s animated and loud.

She sits up and sees Steve on the seat that Clint’s been occupying.

“Hey,” she says, loud enough for him to hear.

“What are they arguing about?”

Steve smiles, a shallow look that betrays worry.

“You,” he tells her.

“Tony has a plan, and Clint doesn’t like it.”

Natasha looks back over and gets out of bed, Steve standing with her much to her annoyance.

She opens the door and stares at them.

“If you’re going to talk about me, do it in front of me,” she growls.

Anger flows through her, overriding fear and pain.

She knows they’re trying to help, but they’re only making her worry, about them.

They all look so tired.

Tony pushes past her, into the room where Steve is.

“Sit back down,” he tells Natasha, harshly.

“I’ve found them,” he announces.

“But he won’t let me contact them.”

Tony glares at Clint.

“No,” comes the sharp reply.

“Contact who?” Steve asks.

“The Red Room,” Natasha says quietly.

“Right? You’ve found them?”

“Nat,” Clint’s nostrils flare, a tell that he’s emotional.

“He’s not going to do it, don’t worry.”

But she is.

Not that he’s going to call them, but because if he’s ready to call then they must truly be out of options.

“What do you think?” she turns to Bruce.

“We just want to find out if they’ll give us any information, share,” he reasons.

Natasha feels disconnected from herself.

“No,” Clint says again, “you’re both geniuses, fucking work it out. The technology is old, how are you not fixing this? You say the doctor is the best in the world, that she has all these awards, and can speak different languages, that’s she’s worked for intelligence; and still she can’t work out what’s happening, despite taking pints of Natasha’s blood, despite scanning every inch of her. You know every part of her body, and all you’ve managed to do over the past week is stop her seizing. You can fix this, you can fix..” he stops.

She can see how hard he is working at composure, especially as his voice breaks on the last word.

“This is the worst option.”

Natasha agrees of course. She knows where this is going.

They’ll contact the Russians.

The Russians will say they can’t help.

They’ll say, they can’t do anything without her being in front of them.

Clint will say no.

Everyone else will know what she does, that it’s likely the only option for survival.

Does she die here surrounded by people that love her, or does she die in the place she learned to kill..

The disconnect runs deeper.

The issue is she doesn’t want to die.

As much as she doesn’t want to go back, that every cell in her body screams when she thinks it, she also has fought hard for this life, it’s not in her nature to lay down and die.

She’s survived the Red Room twice, she thinks, if they fix her, she can do it again.

“Do it,” she says, despondently. From here on out, she makes a decision, lock everything down. Whatever is coming next, she needs to remember some lessons.

No feelings.

No emotions.

Soldier.

Assassin.

Widow.

That’s all she is.

Not friend.

Not partner.

Not loved.

.

[arecaceae175]

Reverie

Legend sees something he thought he never would again, and struggles to differentiate between a dream and reality.

Inspired by Whumptober Day 22 Pick Your Poison: toxic

[theartistknownaslymond]

Whumptober 2022 day 7

Shaking Hands | Seizures | Silent Panic Attack

Philippa struggling to cope in the aftermath of what Bailey does in Checkmate. She's trying to protect Francis and he's trying to protect her and it's no good for anyone. CW for panic attacks, very veiled references to SA and fear of being in the public eye.

---

Philippa had left him alone in the house to practice. He didn't like to play with her around for fear of further damaging her shredded nerves, but she knew he needed to process his own emotions through the piano and the guitar, so she tried to make sure he had the space to do so.

He was right, after all - she couldn't hear it, not without perceiving the regret and agony that informed every note, not without feeling like her own trauma was being brought into conflict with his at every lingering minor chord, every hanging breath between furious scales or steady, pedal-driven dirges. He would never, never pit his need against hers, she knew - but in the music she still heard the call of his desires, and she choked on the knowledge that she could not meet them.

So she often went for a walk along the beach, but today she had found the wind unpleasant, and the crowds cloying, and she had turned back to the house sooner than she'd intended to. Even with her hair and face covered by a large silk scarf, even with the ankle-length, loose dress blowing about her, she had felt like all eyes were on her body and like they all recognised who she was and knew what she had done - what had been done to her.

It was daft, she knew. She tried to summon Kate's voice, bonny and sensible, warm but bracing: How much ego do you have to have to think all those families building sandcastles are looking at you, pet? Their kids are making art, and that's what they're thinking of. You just enjoy whatever art you find about you instead - think on that, and don't be so suspicious, child.

But Kate didn't know, she didn't know what things were like now, in the spotlight, even away from the Italian fashion mags and the glamorous A-list. The folk revival hadn't come with paparazzi for goodness' sake! Kate would say: No one notices when Brigitte Bardot goes shopping! That's not what people want from celebrities - they're not s'posed to be ordinary, why would people want to see them doing something so dull? But Kate didn't read the papers that published those kinds of photo, she didn't know about the columns that gossipped about the relationships of the rich and famous.

Oh thank god she didn't know, Philippa thought.

No one on the beach was looking at her, but that didn't matter. The presence of people implied the presence of eyes, and Philippa imagined their roving gaze on her like it was made up of the same fine white grains of sand being swept up by the summer breeze: playful and hot, uncomfortably intrusive as they sought to push past the swirling cloth she tried to hide herself in.

Her chest was tight by the time she arrived back at the house, and she pulled the scarf away from her mouth while she was on the doorstep, hoping she would be able to breathe more easily, to steady herself enough to open the door quietly. But she feared eyes on her back, and the feeling of her dress blowing against her waist made her flinch and gasp, thinking it was a pair of hands reaching for their prize... She pressed her lips together and tried to turn the sound of desperation that escaped from her into a cheerful hum.

The key knocked unsteadily against the lock in her shaking hands. Francis was still playing, so at least he wouldn't hear the door, or her attempts to keep her rapid breaths silent.

Philippa closed it as slowly as she could bear to, biting her lip and scrunching her tears back inside. Each inhalation felt like a thorn bush tightening around her ribs; as though her lungs had filled with brambles and there was no more room for air. She pulled the scarf off her head and cast it on the coat stand, and dragged herself up the bare wooden staircase, step by creaking step, rising into the low cloud of Francis' music.

He played as beautifully as ever, with passion and a clear, direct connection to what he felt inside. The music was a conduit to everything the man kept silent - if only you knew how to listen to it.

Philippa knew, and she couldn't bear it.

She clapped and hand over her mouth and held her breath, though it made her head swim. She couldn't have control and subtlety both together, and he'd probably hear her bedroom door however careful she was, so she gave up on her quiet approach and dashed up the last few steps, tumbling into her room and letting the door bang.

In the next room, the piano cut off instantly.

Philippa put a second hand over her mouth and lent against the back of the door, bowed over in pain. She heard him close the lid of the piano and she heard the stool scrape on the bare wooden floor. If she made a sound now he would hear it, so she forced the sobs to stay within her, trapped like wild rabbits in the hooks and thorny thickets that filled her ribcage.

The last thing she wanted was for him to know what his playing did to her. But she understood that - just as she saw him so clearly - he saw her, and he already knew.

[aki-draws-things]

Whumptober 2022 Day 11

Self-done first aid

[lizzyscribbles]

Whumptober Day 18

“Here.”

Pandora pulled her head up just in time for a layer of fabric to cover her face. With trembling, blue fingers she reached up and took the oversized jacket and wrapped it around her damp form. Shivers racked her body as she shifted, wet socks squelching as she pushed herself to her feet.

Pressing her nose to the warm fabric, she winced as she was hit with the soft smell of pine and cinnamon. An odd combination, but a welcome one after everything she’d just been through. Her heart sighed happily as she blinked slowly, warming her freezing body in the canvas fabric.

“T-Thank you, Gabriel–” She began, only for the man to hold out his hand in front of her face.

“No.” He said, softly but firmly as out of his pocket he pulled a familiar pair of metallic cuffs. “No, don’t thank me.”

Pandora’s heart dropped down to her shoes, mouth falling open as she shook her head slowly. “Gabriel…” She tried to force more after that single word, but nothing would come. A pulsing ache built up in her chest as clarity spread over her face. 

After everything they’d done together, after scraping together a world to live in from the harsh sands in the depths of the ocean, he still…he still–

Pandora couldn’t even force herself to think the words, instead gripping the coat tighter around her sopping wet form. A cold numbness spread through her hands and feet as she couldn’t even wrangle up more tears. 

Silently, she let the coat fall from her shoulders and held out her wrists.

[ladtheove]

From my fic 'The Sacrifice', darkest magician Damian, breaking in his new power source, Jason the fire revenant.

"That rebellious spirit of yours, just get it over with."

[ladtheove]

I missed long haired Jason, also experimenting with colouring.

[ladtheove]

Yeah, Whumptober is on ladies and lads, here we go with Jason again! ✨💖

Sketching fast, my time is short, but I'm on it.