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painful-pooch · 3 months

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Captain Down

The time for waiting is over! Here is the debut to the Hostage Arc! I hope this is a fun little chapter to start things off with. Please enjoy!

Bru Bru tag list: @cpt-winters, @redd956, @straight-to-the-pain, @technom0ose, @actress4him, @whumperofworlds, @i-eat-worlds, @inscrutable-shadow, @gala1981, @thethistlegirl, @ocean-blue-whump, @noirineverysense, @steelandblood, @crash-bump-bring-the-whump

CWs: military whump, war, gunshot wounds, blood, injury, bombing and explosions, gunfire, death of random soldiers

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“Do you have your eyes on the target, Kieran?” Bruno asks, leaning against the wall, huffing from the quarter mile sprint he just had to do after he was spotted. He tilts his head back, groaning while the heavy gear he has on makes him sweat unbelievable amounts. He doesn’t have time to wipe the sweat dripping from his brow or nose, his fingerless gloves gripping his weapon tightly. It wasn’t even a terrible run, but with the sun burning them from above, it makes it more unbearable to even be out. A mission is still a mission, however, and it makes the man even more committed to getting the job done. “Kieran, you better not be napping on me. Respond.”

He hears the crackling of a mic coming to life, followed by a sarcastic, “You know, Bruno, it’s kind of hard to find a target when a bunch of Tangos (targets) are all after your ass. Give me a minute.” Kieran has a smart mouth on him, but that’s what you get when the Navy has to give away one of their best SEAL operators, especially one so skilled with a sniper.

“A minute? Wow… seems like you are losing your edge, Navy boy,” Valdemar’s voice comes in, gravely like an Army Sergeant’s voice would be after screaming nonstop. A chuckle or two later, he continues, “I am surprised Bruno over there can even run as fast as he did. Fuck, he left a cute little plume of dust in his way. How are the joints doing, old man? I think I could hear them creaking all the way over here. No wonder everyone was on you.”

Bruno can’t help but growl back playfully into the mic, “Valdemar, you damn asshole. Shut your mouth unless you have something important to say. What have I said about keeping the channel clear of any unnecessary bullshit? Keep your vest on, your ears clear, your eyes open, your head on a swivel, and your mouth shut.”

Kieran’s humming is all Valdemar gets in response from the prideful Naval operator, instead Miranda’s voice coming in. “Leave Kieran alone, Val. The man has better eyesight than your Army ass. Shit, give me a second-“ the sounds of gunfire and a thud on the ground made Bruno’s heart pound loudly in his ears.

“Miranda,” he breathes out, taking a moment to check his surroundings. She was always so ballsy and trying to prove her worth on the team. It doesn’t matter how many times they all told her, she just has to work unbelievably hard while putting her own life at risk. It came with the territory and the occupation. They are the ones making the real changes in the world, and yet their names will never be entered into the pantheon of the greats.

They are destined to remain in the shadows and only be seen by the select few that were granted the right and clearance to even know who they were. Out of the entire military, they are the small crew that felt like a real family. They ate out together, lived together, laughed together, cried together, and so many other things. They have his back and he will make sure they are safe in return while offering them the best leadership he can impose.

He can’t deny that Miranda is good at her job, but his worry keeps rising until she laughs, “Damn, the bastard almost had me. Kieran, what’s the sitrep (situation report)?”

Bruno sighs to himself, his helmet digging into the bricks of the building he is using as cover. He takes a chance to peek around the corner, but the whizzing of bullets launched his way forces him to take cover once again, the next volley of them chipping away at the corner of the building. “Fuck! Okay… just breathe. You have been in these predicaments before. Come on Kieran…” He doesn’t bother saying anything into the comms, waiting for his sniper expert to handle the mess.

“Sitrep isn’t too great, guys. They are holed up real good at their vantage point. I know where they are at, but I can’t take the shot without giving away my position. I can move and get a better angle at them. Guidance, Bruno?”

Shit. That’s not the answer Bruno needed, but it is what it is. He clears his mind of all the noise around him, trying to get to the part of his head where he can think out of a problem. He’s a sitting duck where he is at, but maybe he can get lucky. “From where you saw them firing, do you think I could mask my location with smoke?”

“What the hell are you thinking of, Bruno?”

He can’t help but smirk in response, a small weight off his chest when he laughs, “You heard me, Kieran. Can I use smoke or do you think a flash bang can do the trick? I am trying to get to the next few buildings but I need your help.” While he is waiting, he takes his canteen of water, taking a swig to then spit out the dirt and dust coating his mouth before finally drinking a few gulps. He needs to be hydrated if he’s going to really be doing something half crazy.

“Bruno,” Miranda calls out from the comms, “I really hope you aren’t about to pull your usual stunt of risking your life. Maybe just sit tight and call Lukas in for an airstrike, yeah?”

“That’s a lot of gall coming from the girl that plays with explosives and death on a daily basis. Also, I am not wasting a good airstrike on just me. Kieran, you better give me an answer or I am going to get fucked real good by the tangos,” Bruno huffs back, reaching into his pouch to grab a smoke grenade just in case.

“Alright. I got it. Bruno, I need you to throw the smoke as close to them as you can. Then use the thermal scope and pick out a few. I can handle some of them too to take the heat off. Other than that, I don’t see another way out. What’s the verdict, Sir?” Kieran sounds like he played out a few scenarios and picked the one with the best outcome. That’s what he needed from the man.

Bruno flips the switch on his assault rifle’s scope, seeing the blue haze on it to show it’s on. “Perfect. On my mark, Kieran.” He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and getting his body ready to react fast. He takes off the pin from the ‘nade, counting off, “One. Two. Mark.” He rolls around the corner, throwing the smoke grenade as it sends out a smoke screen to obscure everyone’s vision. There’s a gunfight going crazy now, Bruno on the ground firing away at all the blips coming into view on thermal, the blasting sounds from the mountain near them giving away Kieran’s position, whether he liked it or not.

He can hear shuffling over the comms, Kieran’s voice quick and short. “Position compromised. Running two klicks eastbound. Approximate time to wait ten mikes. Copy?”

Valdemar grunts back, “Copy, Kieran. I’ll be the closest to you once you’re there. We have a few more people here than we thought. Possible intel miscount, Bruno. What now?”

He just finally got to cover, the barrel of his rifle turning to a reddish hue from the heat building up. Bruno barely has a chance to breathe when the news comes in and his eyebrows furrow. “Wait… The count shouldn’t be off. This was validated plenty of times via the NSA, STRATCOM, and the folks over in DC. Oscar, what the fuck is going on?” He busts his way into the building, aiming around and clearing the vicinity prior to making his run up the steps in the stairwell, getting to the fifth floor and getting into a rundown office. He better make his nest now, flipping a desk on its back to press up against a window, using it as both cover and a thing to lean back on, his eyes on the door to the stairwell in case anyone followed him. “Oscar, I need something, now.”

There is frantic typing he can hear, and that is never a good sign. He sets up his gear where he needs to, taking the chance to wipe the sweat and dirt off his face, his eyes on the tablet he has set out. There’s a grid map showing his position in relation to the others and where the main target, who is the main reason why they are there, is. He keeps his composure though, waiting for Oscar to explain himself and the faulty data compiled from multiple three letter agencies.

“Sir… something isn't right. There's more movement from the enemy. ISR (intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance) operations are alluding to a possible betrayal," Oscar breathes out, the clicking and typing starting up again. It's so quiet now, almost as though a pin could drop.

The waves are crashing in Bruno's head now, the man needing to come up with a solution. His options are either to continue pursuing the main target or fall back and go back to the drawing board. He stares up at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the fallen wires while he attempts to strategize. With that, he glances back down at the tablet and with a gruff mutter, he announces, "We aren't letting these people get away with what they've done. They've killed too many innocent people. If I let them slip through my fingers again, I'm going to lose my shit."

"Alright, Captain America, so what's your plan?" Miranda shoots at him, and he can feel as though she's staring right at him, even if she's so far away.

Bruno snaps his fingers and goes to type in the tablet, each tap another step closer to the end goal. "The plan is to aim a barrage right down the middle of their forces. Force them to split up and we rip through them like nothing. Lukas, can you handle helping us out from up there?"

The voice of the young and cookies pilot Bruno's ever heard of comes through the earpiece, "Oh I can handle just about anything, Bru Bru. General Kane got me a nice Reaper MQ-9 drone for Christmas. Have you seen what that baby can do? I'm talking about Hellfire missiles and whatever other toys I requested. What are the coordinates?"

Bruno manages a small grin and laugh, the corner of his lip rising. He remembers what it was like to be a real fighter pilot, and he knows how long Lukas has been working towards becoming a drone pilot as well. "Good. I'm sending them over now. Fire when ready. Those in quadrants three and four need to take cover."

He puts the tablet away the second he's done sending the location, taking a few more to drink away some of his water and prepare for the long haul as they won't be making it back for dinner. Things seem to be going his way and then his earpiece screeches in his ear. He jumps in surprise and rips it out, grumbling about stupid technology before placing it in his pocket, replacing it with the backup headset. It takes about another minute or so, but yet he hasn't heard the sound of explosions or missiles. "Did I miss anything?"

What Oscar comes through with doesn't sit well with him: "Sir? Nothing happened, but Lukas is having some trouble from his end getting the coordinates, but he just got them. Thank you for revising them for him."

There are alarm bells ringing, and his heart starts to pound to the drums of War. He scrambles to his feet and starts running towards the stairwell, his voice rushed and full of worry. "I didn't revise a damn thing. I sent him the right thing already. Oscar? Lukas? What the fuck is goi-"

The blast cuts him off as he holds onto the railing, barely keeping himself from tumbling down them. His eyes widen when looking back at the office, now engulfed in flames. That missile was aimed right on him, and he can hear the whirring of the drone closing in again and he returns to his attempt to make it out of the building, concrete pieces and debris falling on him. "Stop the airstrike!" He roars in retaliation, reaching the ground floor of the building.

The door is blocked from the other side and he's attempting to bash through it, but it refuses to budge no matter how hard he tries. No one is on the comms anymore, and he feels as though everything is falling apart around him. His eyes are now darting around the building, seeing the stress of the bombardments cracking the walls, the lines zigzagging to the ceiling.

"Of fuck," he huffs, realizing that if he doesn’t get out soon enough, the building is going to collapse right on top of him. To hell with the mission and to hell with the comms being down; this is survival. He turns away from the door and runs down the hall, coming to a halt when he sees a window inside a room flooded with fire. “You gotta be kidding me.” The building shakes again from the next blast, and it forces Bruno to grit his teeth, his own fire burning inside of him. He’s not ready to die yet; not to a building. It’s not a fitting end for a man like him. “Here goes nothing.” He locks the rifle to the chest plate’s hooks, ripping his pistol from the side holster. He aims it straight and true and pulls the trigger, launching the bullet right through the window, shattering it upon impact.

He jumps over the flaming debris of the desks and fallen file cabinets, thankful that he has enough gear on to keep him from getting too burned, the sweat now freely flowing down his face. Still rushing to the window, the final blast hits the floor above him, parts of the ceiling crumbling down just as he vaults through the broken mirror, not bothered by the glass cutting away at his uniform and face. The stinging from the sweat, fire, and glass just pushes him over the edge, and he catches himself on the dirt floor, coughing. Just in time to see the drone pass by him one more time, but nothing comes from it thank the heavens.

He stands up and moves away from the building, his heart still pounding away in his chest. Hiding away in one of the alleys, he groans and wipes away at the slick red coming from his face. “Someone. Better. Have. An. Explanation.”

His comms are only returning static until finally there is a voice beside his own: “Sir, I think there's enemy interference. Someone is trying to get in and find our locations. I am trying to scramble the signal, but they got a hold of you. I don’t know about the others.”

Bruno tenses up at that and it hits him that someone ratted on them. No one should have known they were there. No one should have prepared reinforcements so quickly. No one should have tried to murder him with his own drone. It was a trap, and he had to get everyone out before things could get any worse. “Everyone, head to the second emergency rendezvous point. We have been compromised. If there are signs of adversaries there, make it to the third point. Move it!” He reholsters his pistol and rearms himself with his trusted rifle, treading along.

When he makes it to a major street, something doesn’t feel right to Bruno. It’s this weird feeling someone gets when they are in a room, but they can sense another person in there. It only gets worse the closer he is to the edge of the alley. He has to sprint across as fast as he can, and so that’s what he does. He dashes as fast as his legs can carry him and the extra hundred or so pounds of gear… and that’s the second an immense searing pain hits him right in the calf, making the man fall to the ground. Only then does he hear the crack and boom from the sniper rifle. He just got hit, and he’s still in the open. He forces his body to act fast, pushing himself to get to cover, his back leaning against the wall. They know where he is. It’s only a matter of time. He rips off his helmet and looks down to see the damage. His right leg is the one that feels as though there’s a small fire inside of the gunshot wound, blood already seeping through his fatigues.

“Hit. I’ve been hit,” he groans, but there’s nothing on his comms again. He reaches into his shoulder pocket, pulling out a small pouch. Using his teeth, he tears open the sterile tourniquet, reminding himself of the steps Khrystyna taught him. He gets the belt strapped and then using the stick on the tourniquet, he begins to twist it, cutting off his blood flow. The pain is getting worse, the man clenching his jaw so hard when he cuts away at his pants to find the wound.

To his dismay, he sees both an open and exit wound, and he takes a deep breath. “Okay… there’s a big ass hole in your leg. Time to pack it. Dammit, why me? Move faster…” He rolls up the cut fabric, rolling it up and proceeding to bite down on it before he takes the gauze from the first aid kit he had, shoving it into his wound without waiting. He screams into the fabric, the back of his head digging into the wall to distract himself. He wants to cry, but he instead just pounds at the ground with his free hand. Just as he’s done, he can hear the sound of someone rustling near him. He takes his pistol with one hand, his body trembling from the shock and anger ripping through him. Waiting for the person to come around the corner from his left, he doesn’t catch the person to his right rounding the corner and firing into his side. Bruno gasps and turns quick enough to fire a few rounds into that soldier, returning his attention to the one he had initially heard, taking them down as well when the opening presents itself.

His breathing is ragged, his hand reaching to where he felt the slap of a bullet. Wincing, he pulls his hand back to see that there’s now a bullet lodged in him, finding the one part of his torso that wasn’t shielded by the vest, plates, and gear. It’s getting hard to breathe, and he stares up at the sky in search of an answer to his problem. It takes him a few minutes to patch up, getting up while using the wall to lean against, limping his way towards his team. The corners of his view are blurring and turning to black, almost like the beginning of tunnel vision. He trips over some broken stone and slabs of brick, screaming silently when one of the pieces digs right into his side. Struggling to his hands and knees, his head snaps up when the one person he couldn’t have near him speaks.

“Bruno?!”

Khrystyna runs up to him and helps him sit against the wall, her eyes so calm and yet her voice is full of worry. “Hey, you are going to be okay. We are really close to where we need to be. I need you to tell me what’s wrong and what you need me to do, Sir?”

Bruno isn’t fully there. His mind is on the fact that this entire time, he was leaving specks of blood and a trail for his enemies to follow. If he dies, and they find him, they are going to take Khrystyna and do the most awful things to her. If he doesn’t die and they both get caught, they will use her against him, and he would be responsible for her dying due to his loyalty to secrecy. Even though she is one of the strongest women he knows, she won’t be able to carry him the entire way, and he’s only getting weaker by the minute. The answer was there the whole time.

He knows what he has to do, and so when he coughs up a bit of blood, he reaches over to take Khrystyna’s pistol, aiming it at her with tears in his eyes. “You need to get away from me right now if you know what’s good for you.”

#izzy writes #whump #bruno stenberg #miranda ryker #kieran ashton #valdemar ackermann #lukas kazemi #oscar cortez #khrystyna paszek #military whump #war #gunshot wounds #blood #injury #bombing and explosions #gunfire #death of random soldiers #guns

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lurkinglurkerwholurks · 2 years

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Inspired by this art by @terracyte

The footage was no less brutal on replay. The man beside him shifted his weight, coiled as a spring twisted to breaking.

“Play it again.”

The technician looked from Nightwing to his boss. Jim cleared his throat but gave the nod. The small huddle watched again together, a bubble of eerie silence in the center of the chaos.

The tape rolled. The glittering crowd spread across the room, drinks in hand, or hors d'oeuvres lifted to lips, or skirts spinning in dance. Jim could spot laughter, real and fake, as well as boredom, interest, and a few curled lips. But no one seemed uneasy. No one seemed tensed in preparation for what was about to happen.

It was the standard opener, shouts and gunshots into the ceiling. Black ski masks—not clown masks or card masks or anything with a theme, thank God. No gas masks either. In a situation like this, Jim would take the lucky breaks. There wasn’t much else lucky about this.

The feed they’d hooked into didn’t have a good angle, and the sound was crappy. Jim could still hear the screams, high and startled but the short blast of a knee-jerk reaction, nothing more. Fancy gatherings like this in Gotham were always a risk. This crowd knew what they were doing. For some of the out-of-towners, Jim suspected it was part of the allure. Despite the ripple of surprise and unease at the sight of the gunmen, the crowd all obediently lifted their hands, likely expecting to be out their second-best jewels, their insured wristwatches, their backed-up phones.

Then one of the gunmen stepped forward, the ringleader as best Jim could tell, and grabbed a girl from the crowd. He couldn’t tell how old she was—they were all just kids to him now—but even with the crappy angle, she was clearly terrified. The gunman had an elbow hooked around her neck, his gun pressed to her side, and Jim would bet dollars to donuts she was on the edge of passing out, either from fright or lack of air. Not good when you had a gun pressed to your gut and a trigger-happy gunman pulling you backward.

The hostage-taker’s mouth wasn’t clear, his head turned away from the camera, and the audio crackled and popped, so they didn’t know for sure what he was saying. Had he picked the girl at random or on purpose? Was she a hostage or something worse? Was he shouting orders at the crowd, at her, at his men? It was all speculation right now, and speculation gave Jim ulcers.

Not as much as what came next, though.

As the gunman and girl backed away to the left, the crowd rippled to the right, then parted to spit out a familiar face. Bruce Wayne, drink in hand, tie casually pulled loose, Gotham Gazette’s Most Eligible Bachelor smile plastered on his face, took a step forward.

This part Jim didn’t need to hear to know. Take a hostage anywhere in Gotham and nine times out of ten, somehow a Wayne would get himself (or, on the very rare occasion, herself) swapped in exchange. Not that he didn’t get it, but with them all being so smart, Jim thought they’d find a better way. Jim could rely on all the times before to know exactly what charming palaver was coming out of Bruce Wayne’s mouth. It was like a script at this point, the charm, the ease, the little jokes.

Bruce had made it that one step when the ringleader lifted the gun from the girl’s side and shot the billionaire in the stomach.

Jim didn’t jump, mostly because he’d seen it on repeat four times now, but the sudden violence was still a shock, even to him. Gotham gala shoot-ups went a specific way, with the well-worn path of tradition. There were variables, of course, largely hinging on what masks the intruders wore or what players were making moves in the more organized underworld, but nothing like this.

You didn’t haul off and shoot a high-roller in the stomach for no reason, but especially not Gotham’s most harmless son.

Next to him, Nightwing was stiff as iron. Jim wasn’t even sure he was breathing, and he didn’t dare peek to check. There were things a person needed to know to navigate Gotham, and then there were things a person couldn’t afford to know. As police commissioner, Jim’s box of the former tended to be deeper than the Average Joe’s, by necessity. But the things he kept hidden in the latter, few though they were, meant he had to tread very, very carefully.

The footage only went on for a few seconds more. The wise guys finally remembered to check for surveillance and turned their guns on the security cameras. The last frame Jim had was of a ballroom full of frantic high society folks, a group of gunmen with all the hostages they could want, and Bruce Wayne crumpled on the ground, blood seeping from beneath him onto the marble tile.

Well. They weren’t helping anyone staring at a black screen like this.

Jim cleared his throat again. “SWAT’s moving into position,” he said. Nightwing didn’t move. “We’ve got exits staked out, windows, any vantage point we can get. We’re trying to set up communication, see what they want, so we can get folks out of there as quickly as possible.”

That was straight from the handbook, right alongside trading favors for the wounded first.

“We’re working on getting eyes inside.”

Nightwing’s gaze did swing around to him then. Jim found himself looking at the bridge of the man’s nose, rather than dead in his eyes.

Jim knew the list of attendees, had had it appear as if by magic on his car’s dash computer before he’d even arrived on scene. He assumed Nightwing had seen it, too.

“Some of the civilians made it out,” he continued, careful of where he looked, aware of the ears of his staff. “Catering, mostly, waitstaff from the kitchens that heard the commotion and bolted.”

Jim shifted his gaze just slightly, to watch Nightwing’s eyes before gesturing over his shoulder at the ambulance idling with its doors open, silhouettes perched on its end as EMTs circled. “Some kids, too.”

Nightwing’s attention jerked to the ambulance.

“Guess they’d slipped into the back halls to give themselves a breather. Can’t say I blame them. They heard the gunshots and slipped out with the staff.”

Four kids, all middle school or high schooled aged, Jim thought. Again, they all seemed like little tykes to him at this point. Three of them sat on the bumper of the ambulance, shock blankets wrapped around their shoulders. One of them had black streaks of mascara running down her face, her friend’s head buried in her lap, and another wore dress pants with the knees ripped to shreds, probably from a hard fall. The fourth wasn’t sitting but pacing, blanket draped around his shoulder less like a comfort than a king’s cloak. Or a cape. One of Jim’s officers stood nearby, an icepack from the EMT pressed to his broken nose, a precaution in case that last one tried again to run back inside.

“We haven’t had time to question them on what they saw,” Jim added carefully, “if you want to take a crack at it.”

Nightwing’s gaze swung back around, an eerily heavy impression of his usual partner, before a small nod softened the lower half of his face. “I’ll do that. Let me know if you get anything new.”

Jim returned the nod and watched only until Nightwing reached the ambulance before turning his—and with it, his team’s—attention back to the situation at hand.

The issue was they were blind out here. With the cameras out of commission and the gunmen not answering the damn phone, Jim and his team were stuck sitting on their thumbs while the comms crew set up surveillance.

Nightwing was back a few minutes later, lips set in a thin line.

“Anything?” Jim asked.

The vigilante shook his head. “Nothing we can use. Gunshots and shouting. They did the smart thing and got themselves to safety.”

There were holes in that story for sure, considering Perkins’ bloody nose and the scowl on the fourth kid, but Jim had to trust that whatever he wasn’t being told wasn’t relevant.

Nightwing glanced over his shoulder at the ambulance, where all four kids now sat and sipped on their juice boxes, before lowering his voice and adding, “I didn’t tell them anyone was shot. I think it’s best to keep it that way.”

Yeah. Yeah, Jim could see that.

“Quite the party we’ve got going on.” The mechanized voice was the only warning they had before Red Hood jumped literally into their midst. He’d always been one for an entrance. “Gotham sure knows how to throw a blowout.”

The officers nearby rippled with alarm and unease, looking from Hood to their commissioner and back again. Though no longer on the department’s Most Wanted list, GCPD’s relationship with the former crime lord hadn’t come to the same understanding as his with the bats. Hood might wear the symbol on his chest, but no one had forgotten the duffel bag or the drugs or anything else he’d done since his arrival in Gotham.

Hood, for his part, looked completely at ease even as hands drifted to holsters. “What’s the word, bird?” he asked Nightwing. “Commish,” he added, a nod to Jim. The box in the back of Jim’s brain rattled.

Jim gave the officers a small shake of his head, urging patience and hands far away from guns in the presence of a man who could outshoot them all. Nightwing carried none of his ally’s civil spirits.

“Six gunmen,” he said, tone tight, gesturing for the technician to pull up the footage again. “Came in through the west entrance. Ski masks, AK47s. Went straight for the ballroom. Seemed like the usual, but they tried to take a hostage and one of the guests got shot.”

Hood had leaned in to peer at the screen, but he cocked his chin to give partial attention back to Nightwing. “Oh?”

“Bruce Wayne.” Nightwing’s voice was steady, smooth. Jim tried hard not to think about it. “Gut shot. They shot the cameras right after, so we don’t know how bad or what else happened.”

Hood had turned back to the screen, leaning in so close that his head hovered over the tech’s shoulder, his hand gripping the back of the chair. He didn’t flinch at the shot, but he also didn’t move until the tape had reached its end again. When he straightened, Jim did his best not to picture his expression under the helmet.

“What’s the play?” Hood wanted to know. “We got eyes?”

“Working on it. Oracle’s trying to get an in. Have you heard—?”

Hood was already shaking his head. “Nothing. O sent me. Didn’t say, just said to get here.”

As he spoke, Hood looked around, using his height to scan over the crowd of milling police officers, firefighters, and EMTs. His gaze paused for a breath on the ambulance, but kept moving. Jim could guess what he was looking for. He wished he had the answers for both of them.

“Sir?” a sergeant asked. All three men swung her way, but she was looking at Nightwing. “Is Batman on his way?”

Nightwing’s smile was flat, a glimmer short of real, but no one could blame him, given the circumstances. “‘Fraid not. The big guy’s tied up.”

He gestured upward. “Business out of town.”

The other officers looked up to the night sky, where they all knew the Watchtower orbited. Jim and Hood didn’t.

“Just us, kiddies,” Hood said, any change to his tone disguised by the helmet.

Jim cleared his throat again. “So what are we thinking here? No demands so far, but they could be trying to make us sweat.”

“They shot their biggest meal ticket,” one of the officers pointed out. Jim hid a grimace. “If it were about the money, that’s a dumb move.”

“What was the thing with the girl about?” Another asked. “Crowd control? Maybe she was the target the whole time.”

“What? Yeah. Yeah, O, throw it up,” Nightwing interrupted, one hand to his ear. “Footage from inside,” he explained, as the command center screens flickered, then changed on their own.

Bodies contracted, clustering together again. Jim found himself shoulder to shoulder with Red Hood. The kid—and he was a kid, not even the helmet could fully disguise that—was built like an ox. Funny how life worked. He was also about to snap the back of the chair in two if he held on any tighter. That wasn’t Jim’s problem to solve, so he turned his full attention back to the screen.

It was a new view alright. Jim squinted, trying to orient himself.

“Is that a tablecloth?” the sergeant asked.

That was it. A tablecloth. The footage was coming from under a table, slanted-like. A white tablecloth hem framed the top edge, but they still had a partial view into the ballroom beyond.

“This is from a civilian?” one of the uniforms asked, voicing what Jim didn’t dare.

Neither vigilante answered. Onscreen, there was shouting. It sounded like the gunmen, but Jim couldn’t be sure. They could see the guests crouched or lying on the ground, hands folded over their heads, bank robbery style. Not good. It was harder to pass over goods that way, which meant either wearable items weren’t the focus, or the crooks planned to pluck them off of corpses instead of living people.

As if to emphasize the point, a dark streak of blood cut across the floor within view, its trail smeared as if from a dragged body—Wayne’s or someone else’s, Jim wasn’t sure. There were too many things he couldn’t think about right now, so he tried to focus on what he could.

Something was strange about the new footage, but he couldn’t pinpoint what.

Every uniform in earshot flinched at the sound of a gun cocking. All eyes swung to Red Hood, who had straightened and was readying his weapons.

“What are you doing?” Nightwing demanded.

“Going in there,” Hood said in the flattest well duh Jim had heard from anyone on the far side of puberty. “What’re you doing.”

“Hood—”

“No, dickhead, don’t start.”

Around them, emergency responders shifted, still wary of Hood’s guns, but mostly uncomfortable at getting caught up in a family quarrel. Jim wished he hadn’t quit smoking in public.

Nightwing was pressing his point. “—want to go in there as much as you but we can’t—”

“Yeah? Where’s the baby?” Hood interrupted.

Nightwing and Jim both whipped around to look for Robin, both with differing degrees of success at pushing their gaze past the ambulance without stopping.

Shit. There were only three kids silhouetted in the doorway. An empty shock blanket lay crumpled next to them.

Ulcers. This family was gonna give him ulcers with ulcers of their own.

“Like I said,” Hood finished, voice grim instead of triumphant, “I’m going in.”

Nightwing was no longer arguing, instead pushing past the people gathered around to beat Hood inside.

“Sir, should we…?” the sergeant began, then faltered, neither of them knowing how she would finish. Stop them? Go in with them?

Jim didn’t know either. There was no time to answer, though, because movement on the screens caught his attention like a fish hook through the lip.

“Boys!” he snapped, and both Nightwing and Hood jerked to a halt to look over their shoulders. “Something’s happening.”

They didn’t get back in time to see what Jim saw—slender fingers raised in front of the lens, counting down silently, a thin silver bracelet winking with the movement.

Five.

Four.

Three.

On two, the fingers disappeared, and Jim realized that the stillness was what had been bothering him. There were no jitters to the view, not the shaking of adrenaline or adjusting to hide more fully under the table. It was like the phone—because that’s what it had to be, a camera phone—was propped against one of the table legs.

On one, the view went black.

Those watching cried out in surprise or frustration, even as echoing cries rose from the larger crowd.

“Sir!” SWAT called over the radio. “Power just cut out.”

Nightwing and Hood, both of whom had sprinted back to arrive at three, exchanged glances.

“Hold your positions,” Jim barked back, then reluctantly asked, “What’s your eye in the sky telling you?”

Nightwing already had a hand to his ear, listening to his coordinator, the mysterious Oracle. Jim waited, hand on his hips, wishing more than ever for a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

“Commissioner?” SWAT tried again.

“I said hold,” Jim snarled.

There was more gunfire, echoing from the screen and from the building itself. Jim could feel his own adrenaline about to crest and counted down in his head to when he could wait no longer.

Before he could give SWAT the go ahead, though, Nightwing and Hood both took off like runners off the block, sprinting full tilt toward a building that lit back up all at once.

“MOVE!” Jim bellowed into the radio even as he and the command team took off after the vigilantes. “Bats on the move, do not get in their way, but get your asses in there.”

There was no keeping up with the young bucks, especially not the two with a head start. Jim gave it his best, though. No one knew what was in that room, but whatever they found, Commissioner Gordon would be there to see everyone through.

Getting in turned out to be harder than anticipated. Before anyone outside reached the marble steps, the two wrought-iron front doors up top swung open and spat out a flood of panicked partygoers, pushing back masks, officers, and EMTs alike.

“Let ‘em out, let ‘em out,” Jim directed, trusting the team behind him to net everyone and triage them, be they victim or invader.

It was absolute chaos and Jim paused to catch his breath and keep his footing in the flow. As he did, he listened to the backdoor breach by SWAT, their path clearer and much more straightforward. He was sure Nightwing and Hood were being fed the same feed, though they hadn’t stopped trying to push their way in.

“Nightwing!” Jim called, then tried again, putting the force of twenty years of Little League coaching into it. That caught the shorter man’s attention, yanking his head around on a swivel.

Jim lifted his hands above his head, gesturing as he called, “EMTs! Clear a path!”

Nightwing turned back and called for Hood. The two of them, supported by GCPD, formed a kind of human sluice, shunting people to either side down the front steps so EMTs could charge straight up the middle. Jim followed in their wake, like riding in the traffic void left by an ambulance, and in so doing hit the ballroom ahead of both the bats and his own officers.

Good. Let him see it first.

The smell of blood was unmistakable, mixed with the acrid tang of gunpowder. It was on the floor, in streaks and splatters, trailed by the shoes of the people who continued to stream past and mixed with spilled punch and trailing tablecloths from overturned tables.

Six bodies lay on the ground, not moving, though some groaned weakly, as SWAT swarmed over them.

“Sir? Sir!”

Jim’s attention whipped toward the strident tones of the EMTs, but they weren’t talking to him. Three EMTs surrounded a pale and trembling but upright Bruce Wayne, one hand pressed to a wadded cloth held over a blood-soaked stomach.

“Sir, let us treat you. You’re in shock and we need—”

“My—My children.” Jim couldn’t hear him over the crowd, his voice too quiet, but he could see Bruce’s lips move, could guess what he was saying. “Please, are my kids okay? Have you seen my kids?”

Jim opened his mouth to call out, but was beat to it.

“Bruce!” a thin boy, collar undone to unveil a throat full of Adam’s apple, shirt untucked and flecked with blood at the hem, pushed his way from the other side of the crowd. “Bruce!”

Bruce Wayne whirled, only just managing to keep his feet, and called back, “TIM!”

He caught the boy with his free arm, both of them steadied by increasingly agitated EMTs.

From the other direction, a dark-haired girl sprinted in bare feet across the slick floor to appear by their side, only to be engulfed in a hug as well.

“Father!” Damian Wayne, the boy from the ambulance, appeared as if by magic, ignoring everyone in his way.

Jim could feel two bodies come up behind him, staring, as he did, at the little family tableau. Bruce Wayne stood surrounded by three of his four living children, pressing kisses into each of their scalps as he leaned for support on the elder of the two boys. Someone let out a quiet sigh of relief. Jim wasn’t sure who, and he pretended not to have heard anyways.

Thank God, he thought again, for the second time that night, and meant it. He would still be popping antacids for days after this.

Without looking back, Jim gestured forward at the gurney that the EMTs were trying and currently failing to load their patient onto. “Make sure they’ve got a clear path out of here. I’ve got a mess to tend to.”

“Sir,” Nightwing responded for the both of them.

Jim had enough to keep him occupied that it wasn’t hard to keep his eyes off Bruce Wayne. There were perps to secure and wheel out, all unconscious or sporting multiple broken bones from attackers they couldn’t name. Triage was still in effect, sorting through panic attacks, concussions, and a sprained ankle or two, though Bruce Wayne took the gold with his through-and-through bullet wound, and the girl he had saved, a foreign diplomat’s daughter, took silver with her bruised throat. Taking statements would take all night, and Jim was already craving a cup of coffee.

Bruce Wayne finally consented to being wheeled out, bloodstained shirt covered by a blanket thrown around his shoulders, his children trailing along behind him like so many half-grown ducklings. Jim was glad he didn’t have any young shoulders to wrap his jacket around tonight.

There were things a person needed to know to navigate Gotham, and then there were things a person couldn’t afford to know. As police commissioner, Jim’s box of the former tended to be deeper than the Average Joe’s, by necessity, and the latter he kept under padlock. They stayed with him, sometimes an easy burden, but more often a weight he bore because someone had to, because the city needed someone to.

A flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye, and Jim half-turned before he could catch himself, watching as the Wayne girl, Cassandra, doubled back and paused at a table to pluck her shoes from beneath the tablecloth. His attention caught her own, and she met his gaze with an unflinching solemnity too heavy for one so young. Jim lifted a hand, as if to wave her off, but tapped the inside of his own wrist quickly as he did so. The little Wayne girl stared for only a heartbeat longer, then unclasped the identifiable silver bracelet from her arm and tucked it into her skirt, along with her phone.

She smirked, winked, and hurried after the rest of her family.

Jim sighed.

Ulcers.

#whumptober2022 #altno.14 #emergency blanket #batfam #batfic #fanfic #my fic #jim gordon #bruce wayne #Jason Todd #dick grayson #Tim Drake #Damian Wayne #cassandra cain #gunshot wounds #hostage situation #whump

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promptsforyourwhumpfic · 1 year

Text

Whump Prompt #1094

The classic, ‘hanging off a balcony’ scenario...

BUT

Instead of being pulled into safety, a gunshot/explosion/faulty architecture/villain causes them to fall to the ground below, hitting objects on the way down.

#whump #writing #prompts #ideas #angst #hurt #injuries #falling #gunshot wounds #explosions

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fredsarebeds · 6 months

Text

This prompt is one I've been thinking about writing for a while. You know how sometimes the leader is too focused on something so they don't realize something else has happened? Yeah that's pretty much this but they don't realize one of the team members is injured and they try to hide it.

----------------------------------------------------------

Caretaker was currently running from the police. Whumper had framed them. Go figure. Now they were stuck in a parking garage trying to find a way out, so they could go figure out a plan to save Whumpee, and not get arrested in the process.

Caretaker felt a buzz in their pocket and realized it was a call from Team leader (again). They were about to pick up this time when they heard sirens (again), so they ignored it and put the phone back in their pocket. They exhaled sounding slightly exasperated.

Can't ever catch a break huh.

They peeked their head around a corner trying to see if they could make an escape route. Only to find that the police had completely covered the perimeter of the garage. Caretaker cursed. If they couldn't make their escape without detection they had two options:

Option one, give up and let themselves get arrested. Whumpee would probably die (causing the rest of the team to eventually fail because both Caretaker and Whumpee are now gone), and Whumper would get away with framing Caretaker.

Option two, making a break for it through the line of police and trying to lose them on the streets. Maybe still get arrested, but if they did lose them then they could regroup with the team. Whumpee would also have a chance now.

Both options sucked Caretaker decided, but the only real choice was option two unfortunately.

They ran down the ramp of the garage to a motorcycle, and began working as fast as they could to jump start it. A few policemen saw Caretaker and started shouting. Shit. Caretaker started working faster. But by the time they had gotten the engine jumpstarted, they had the undivided attention of all the police. Caretaker revved the engine and swerved the bike around to the other direction around a concrete pillar, not noticing a singular police officer to their back with their gun raised.

The officer didn't hesitate to take a shot.

The sound that echoed through the garage was deafening, and caught Caretaker almost more off guard than the unexpected pain that went through their side.

Caretaker staggered on the bike for a second then revved it again, and bolted out of the garage into the night air. Their primary focus was on losing the police and getting to the rendezvous spot which was around 30 blocks away. Not the gaping hole now in their side.

Losing the police on a motorcycle was fairly easy. The city has so many back alleyways and crevices that cars can't get into. Caretaker drove down one of the cities many abandoned subway stairwells, and came out on the other side only about 6 blocks away from the meeting area.

With the police now off their back momentarily, Caretaker took a deep breath and winced while putting their hand to the wound. It came back bright red, and the adrenaline of the chase had started to finally wear off a bit. Every slight jostle sent a sharp pain through their entire abdomen. They lifted their shirt to try and assess the damage.

It seemed pretty bad. Yay.

Caretaker had hoped that the bullet at least had went through and through. And it did, which was evident because of the exit wound through their stomach. But based on where it was located and the amount of blood, it had nicked an artery on the way out. Not nearly as bad as what Whumpee had been going through though. Whumpee had been taken hostage by Whumper for a little over a week, and the tings they did...

Everyone probably thought it was Caretakers fault. Caretaker didn't blame them.

They should've been faster.

Whumpee was the youngest one the team, and they shouldn't have to go through the same thing that Caretaker had with Whumper. Caretaker almost shuddered at the thought.

That's why they needed to save them as quickly as possible.

And this stupid bullet wound would only slow the team down from doing exactly that, Caretaker took their jacket off around their waist and put it on. Caretaker hoped that this would help stem the blood flow while also hiding how much they were bleeding, and set out for the safe house. They could patch up there, and then they would go save Whumpee.

Just walking was agonizing, but they couldn't risk bringing any unwanted attention with a stolen motorcycle. Before walking in, they looked themselves over for any signs of blood, Team leader glared at them as Caretaker tried not to stagger through the door.

"TEN. MISSED. CALLS. What the hell Caretaker?!" Team leader shouted. Medic and Teammate quickly acted like they were busy around the console, Caretaker cringed at the volume. Shit, their head was pounding.

Teammate walked over to Team leader and put a hand on their shoulder, "We can't start getting side tracked right now," They gestured to the table everyone else was gathered around, "We need a plan."

Team leader sighed and pressed their fingers to their temples, "Look, I didn't mean to raise my voice. But we're all worried about them. I just want to get Whumpee out of there as fast as possible."

Caretaker looked at their feet feeling guilty. Yeah me too.

They had only been standing at the console for a few minutes but their side was burning again and it was getting hard to stand up straight and focus. Caretaker carefully backed away from the screen console they were standing around to lean against a nearby wall while subtly wrapping a hand around their side, pressing on their stomach. Making sure to put pressure on their back too, Caretaker bit back a hiss and closed their eyes.

Teammate noticed their pained expression and walked over to Caretaker's side. "Hey, you good?" They looked at them, sounding slightly concerned.

Eyes still closed, Caretaker responded, "Yeah, it... it's just been a long day. I'm probably going to go lie down."

"That's great Caretaker, but that's not an excuse to be taking a nap right now." Team leader said not taking their eyes off from the console. Caretaker was grateful they were focused on that because they would've no doubt seen how pale they were. They also felt their side was starting to get sticky, and their jacket was clinging uncomfortably to their skin. Caretaker actually wanted to go sleep with how exhausted and cold they felt now, but they needed to go find a med kit and stitch this up first. Maybe drink a Gatorade too.

"So get back over here because we aren't done," Team leader ordered.

Caretaker didn't make any effort to move from the wall. They physically couldn't. Dark spots started clouding their vision, threatening to take over.

"Caretaker are you sure-" Medic started.

But before they could even finish, Caretaker's knees buckled and they collapsed onto the ground with a breath of pain. Medic cursed while they knelt down by Caretaker's side, and started searching for the source of the blood on Caretaker's hands. But with all the blood oozing from one side underneath their jacket, Medic quickly found the source of the problem, and lifted their shirt. Team leader just stared at the hole in their friend's side, and Medic started putting pressure on the wound with their hands right away, causing Caretaker to cry out.

"Caretaker... holy shit. Teammate go get me a medkit right now!"

"Medic, stop..." Caretaker slurred, weakly attempting to push their hands off. Medic just presses down harder, grimacing when the slippery liquid seems to seep out even faster like they were on a blood thinner.

"Did you take a whole bottle of aspirin or something?"

"...m'no"

Medic sighed, "Save your energy dumbass, it was rhetorical."

Team leader finally gathered their thoughts enough to speak, "Why didn't you say anything?" The words came out sounding like whimpering puppy dog.

"Your brother..." Whumpee.

Caretaker tried to say something else but the words were just sluggish and mumbled. They felt someone tapping their face and shaking them.

"Hey, no. You stay awake!" Medic pleaded.

Too tired.

The dark spots in their vision took over.

#hidden injury #whump prompt #whump #whumpee #whump writing #blood and injury #bullet wounds #guns #gunshot wounds #light angst #collapse #team whump #caretaker turned whumpee

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macgyvermedical · 2 months

Note

Another bullet clip lovely. I dont know why these tv shows keep insisting to take the bullet out lol.

youtube

This one gets a nice D+

"You're bleeding to death" shows the tiniest little bit of blood ever shown on TV

Yeah this is a time when the bullet really probably is never coming out.

*cleans the wound with hydrogen peroxide* (don't clean wounds with hydrogen perioxide, or iodine, or mecurochrome, or alcohol, just clean water is more than fine)

Doesn't clean his instruments (those he probably could have cleaned with the hydrogen perioxide)

The redeeming quality is the instructions given

Cleaning out the wound repeatedly will probably help prevent infection

Packing the wound would be better, plus he'd only have to unpack and re-pack every 12-24 hours.

#whump reference #writing reference #gunshot wounds #GSW

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morgansunflower · 20 days

Text

I'm Not Afraid

Jason Todd X Wife! Reader

Warnings:suggestive content, explicit language, blood, injuries, guns.

Words:1480

Requested taglist @too-strong-to-losee @asrainterstellar

Arthur's notes! Tim Drake is 11 and is Jason and Reader's son! Tyler is 7 and is their son. Loosely based off of comic where Alfred is killed by Bane.

Cadmus takes Jason hostage giving him injections with Bane's venom. Do to his new abilities Alfred's death ends drastically different.

While captured Cadmus had given Jason injections of Venom.. Bane's Venom. The results were well received by the scientists. Who saw Jason as nothing more than a weapon. However his humanity still remained... Even with the torture...

Jason was a foot taller. His could run twice as fast and could see many miles away. The Lazarus mixed with the Venom permanently changed his eye color to a bright green. He could see well within the dark and had a higher pain tolerance.

After he escaped his family was being watched by Cadmus as they were waiting for Jason to arrive or to his worst fear... Kill them if he didn't come forth and do as they ordered. So he wrote a coded message to his son. Tim instantly cracked the code. Once Y/N and her children found Jason hiding deep within the mountains in a safe house.. They stayed there. Where it was safe.

...

Of course Bane has escaped from Arkham thanks to Thomas Wayne aka, Batman from another universe. Both intending to take over Gotham.. Of course Bruce was at the watchtower.. Of course he can't let Alfred die or let them hurt or kill his baby brother.

Jason growled under his breath seeing the culprits inside Wayne Manor. With his uniform nearly entirely different from before and face completely concealed.. He was nearly unrecognizable.

Damian watches helplessly his eyes shaking in complete dreaded horror. He nearly cried out as Bane was preparing to break Alfred's neck.

Suddenly a great force breaks the window startling everyone. Jay thrust his hands onto Bane's neck forcing him to be shoved back to the wall.

Thomas took out his guns shooting at him. Jason dodged but wasn't able to avoid the bullet that went straight through his arm. Jason yelled out loudly. While in pain Bane took the opportunity to deal damage to Jason.

Damian quickly released his restraints and leaps kicking the guns from both of Thomas's hands.

Alfred heavily breaths keeping himself steady so as to not have a heart attack. He calms down trying to loosen his restraints.

Jason flips backwards avoiding Bane's thrust from his leg. He lands perfect snarling to him to back off or he was really going to hurt him.

Alfred hurried to grab his shotgun loading the weapon and cocks it.

Jason uses his hands to break apart the tubes draining Bane's ability to fight. Bane blinks as a, fist punches him to fall to the ground unconscious.

"get the hell away from him!!" Alfred threatened Thomas, pointing to his chest. "don't think I won't kill you to protect my grandson!"

Thomas took Alfred's weapon as the old man was weakened from the prior altercations. Jason leaps tackling Thomas as his foot was about to press against Damian's chest. He throws the gun from his weak grip. At least compared to Jason's own strength. Jason lifts him up above his own feet. Thomas yelped trying to fight him off.

"get off of me you fucking monster!!"

Jason drags him past the shattered window throwing him far enough to knock him unconscious but not kill him. He scoffed wishing Bruce could see how under control he was now.

Jason did not face those who stood behind him. He was different now... Would they think he's a monster? Is it irrational? Yes. Though he can't. Not now..

"who are you boy?" Alfred asked him "you're bleeding. Please allow me to me repay you and bandage the bullet wound"

He lowly sighed shaking his head heavily breathing. He was exhausted, drained. He felt he would pass out just from the intensity of pace from his heart beat... It wasn't only his adrenaline...

"why did you help us?" Damian asked him.

Jason quickly runs off as he hears, the bat-chopper.

....

Y/N's eyes shoot open as she wakes up hearing a loud crashing sound in the bathroom. She leaves the bed quickly. She then heard a lowly grunts. She hurried finding Jason cursing while trying to open the medical kit, he had dropped...

She sees the blood dripping down his arm and onto the floor, from the bullet wound. She comes closer to him taking the kit away from his weak hands. She, wasn't going to be able to take care of his wound easily while he was standing. So she motions him to sit down

"I.." he takes a ragged breath "I didn't mean to wake you"

"it's OK, I'm glad you did so I can help you. Just sit down and let me take care of you, ok?" she pleads to him

He gently nodded. He kneels on the floor and rest his arm on the seat of the toilet. She stands near him opening the med kit.

"may I ask what happened?" she asked trying to distract him, soaking a cloth with isopropyl alcohol

"Bane escaped Arkham thanks to fucking Batman from the other universe or whatever. Of course Bruce was the first target" Jason scoffed bitter "but he was gonna kill Alfred to get to him" Jason sighed shaking his head "they had my baby brother to.. They're OK by the way.. Bane and Bastard-Bat's not so much"

"oh babe" she cried sympathizing the fear that must've been consuming him. She also knew if he's here then they definitely don't know "you shouldn't think that they'll think less of you because.. You're different or that the Lazarus becoming more apart of you makes you dangerous.. Maybe they can help get rid of Cadmus?"

"please don't" he begged bitter, he can't think about that.. Not right now at least.

"it's, only because I love you.. This is going to sting"

She gently applied the cloth with isopropyl alcohol, to his wound. The pain caused Jason to cry out. Y/N cringes to herself.

"fuuuuuck!!.." she wipes the blood away and bandages with wound as he heavily breathed "I'm sorry for scaring you. I really don't like being like this. I don't like being so much like a fucking monster"

She tied the bandage securely and then cups his face "you are not scaring me Jason. I'm not afraid of you and you are not a monster. If there is anything you hear or see weighing on me, it's that you are worrying me"

Y/N helps him stand onto his feet. He hunches his back so he can kiss her. He helps her clean his blood on the floor. She takes his hand and guides him to their bedroom. She turns on the lamp on her nightstand.

She helps Jason change into his most comfortable clothes while eternally cringing at his bruises. Afterwards she turns off the lamp.

She moved the covers, he lays in the bed taking the covers and lays it down on himself. Do to his much taller frame, his feet now draped over the end of the bed.

She lifts the covers cuddling right up against him. Jason wraps his arm around her. He was more than enough warmth and comfort for her.

The door knocks and then gently opens by the little boy. Who was accompanied by a even smaller little boy. The Todd brothers had heard their dad's painful shouts and the loud crashes. Both parents look at their concerned children.

"is daddy OK?" Tyler asked

"we just wanted to make sure he's alright" Tim informed hoping that they weren't disturbing them

"your dad is OK sweethearts. He just had a rough night on patrol. He'll be OK" their mother assured.

"I just was being stupid and reckless on patrol.. I'll be alright kiddo's" he glances to Y/N with a silent question, she smiled nodding "you can stay in here tonight. If you want to" he offered

Both boys nodded dramatically. Y/N moves to offer them room into the bed. Tyler and Tim didn't hesitate. Both brother's crawl onto the bed.

Tyler crawled close to his dad hugging him. Jason carefully touches the side of his son's face. He looks to Tim and smiled softly. Tim studied where his Dad's injuries were angered and hugged him carefully.

There was plenty of room for them to lay on him as Jason was quite taller and larger, than he used to be. Jason nestled Tyler between his good arm and chest. Tim laid on the opposite side of his brother, as he laid his head on Jason's lower chest.

Y/N reaches at the end of the bed grabbing the folded additional blanket and lays it on both her sons. She leans over kissing the foreheads of each of her boy's and her husband.

As Y/N turned off the lamp she laid closely to them. Jason smiled softly from the sweet comfort from them. It was exactly what he needs. It was the reassurance he needs... That he isn't a monster. That they're not afraid of him.

#Cadmus #fluff #Batfam #Jason Todd X Wife! Reader #tyler blue hood #Tim Drake is a kid #Tim Drake is Reader and Jason's son #Jason Todd is Tim's dad #Good dad Jason #Cursing #gunshot wounds #Gun violence #Damian Wayne is older than Tim #Cute kids #Sweet kids #Tim Drake needs a hug #Injuries #Blood #Kid Tim Drake

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hurt-buck-archive · 2 years

Photo

EDDIE DIAZ | S03E15

gunshot wounds, injured, covered in blood

#*#s03e15 #*hurt eddie #eddie diaz #eddiediazedit #dailyeddiediaz #whump #whumpedit #911edit #911 fox #911coc #911verse #daily911 #gunshot wounds #injured #covered in blood #blood

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quinncupine · 2 years

Text

Clinical

Relationship: Izuku Midoriya x Reader

Word count: 4,850

Warnings: guns, violence, blood and injury, medical setting

Summary: After closing up the clinic for the night, you're ready to have dinner with your favorite hero, but a rather dangerous new patient just checked in and won't take no for an answer.

Quinn’s Masterlist

The strong smell of disinfectant wafted through the examination room as you finished wiping the counters down. It was the last room of the night and with a satisfied nod, you gathered your supplies to put them back in the storage room, clicking the light off as you stepped into the hall. On your way there your phone buzzed in your pocket and with some tricky manuevering, you slid it out of your white coat and smirked at the caller I.D.

Nestling the device between your chin and shoulder, you answered the call. "Well, hello stranger."

"Aw, come on, it hasn’t been that long," Izuku laughed on the other end. "I just saw you this morning."

"Too long in my opinion." A quick shove to open the closet door and you went about putting the supplies in their respective places. "I'm closing up shop here, where are you?"

"Just left the agency," he sounded like he was in the car. "I'll be there in about twenty."

"Good, I'm starving." You wiped your hands on your coat and walked out of the closet, shutting the door with your foot. "I've been wanting to eat at Bonavici's forever."

"You sound like you're more excited for the food than to see me," he pouted through the line.

"Hey, your words not mine." When you snickered, he scoffed in return but you could practically hear his smile. "Oh, I’m kidding…sort of. I really am excited though. How on earth did you get us reservations so quickly? They book out months in advance."

"I have my ways."

Making your rounds through the clinic, shutting off lights as you headed towards the front, you grinned. "It was All Might, wasn't it?"

"Uh," he cleared his throat and you could only imagine the embarrassed blush drawing across his face. "That's still a way."

"Fair enough." The lights shut off one by one as you made your way down the hall. When you reached the lobby, you leaned against the doorframe and crossed your arms. "How did you know I wanted to go?"

"Besides the fact that you've been not so subtly hinting at it for the past few weeks?" It was your turn to blush as he continued. "I listen."

"And I love that about you." With a dreamy sigh, you closed your eyes. "I can practically taste the food. You truly are my hero."

There was a strangled sound on the other end before he coughed and stammered through his words. "I-well you, it's uh…I'll be there soon." Then he hung up and you couldn't help the small laugh that echoed through the dim lobby. It seemed you always knew exactly what to say to fluster the pro hero.

"Was that Deku?" Hanna, your receptionist called from behind the desk, hugging a stack of papers to her chest. "He's such a sweetheart!"

You jumped, not realizing she was there. "I thought you went home?"

"Oh, I was, but this fax just came through marked as urgent. I was just going to finish up the paperwork before I head home." She set the papers down and organized them into their respective piles.

"I swear, you're just as bad as Izuku." you laughed, coming around to the other side of the desk. "Go home Hanna."

"Oh, but I'm almost done!" She reached for the papers again but you gently grabbed her hands and turned her around.

"I promise it will be waiting for you tomorrow. But go enjoy the rest of your evening, okay?"

Hanna made a half-hearted effort to grab the papers one more time but gave up with a sigh. "All right. But you have to promise to enjoy yourself too. Oh, and tell me how Bonavici's was! And- and tell Deku he's…" she trailed off with a blush and you only laughed, pushing her towards the door.

"Good night Hanna."

She grabbed her purse and waved goodbye to you before she finally left. Hanna was a hard worker but it was always difficult to get her to stop working, a similar issue you faced with Izuku. Rolling your eyes fondly, you went back to the desk to clean up the rest of the papers and try to finish some of her workload before Izuku arrived.

The front bell chimed a minute later and you glanced into the waiting room, ready to tell whoever it was that you were closed for the night, only to come face to face with a gun.

"Hey Doc," a man drenched from head to toe panted, looking grimy and irritated in his wet clothes. "Got a sec?"

Two more men burst through the door, dragging a third, much less lively man between them. Blood streaked across the linoleum as his limp legs trailed behind him. The barely conscious man was also covered in water, droplets mixing with the concerning amount of red pooling underneath him.

When you remained in place partly from shock and partly from terror, the leader waved his gun at you in annoyance. "Well, don't just sit there!" he yelled, "you're a doctor, right? Well, you've just got yourself a new patient."

You glanced at the man hanging between his two buddies, shivering slightly as he let out a harsh cough, spraying blood across your once clean floors. It was clear he was in a bad position but you were just a small outpatient clinic. This was something that an E.R. would be more equipped to handle, not you.

"He needs a hospital. I don't have the-" the gun was roughly shoved against your cheek and you snapped your mouth shut.

"You're a doctor. You fix him. Fix him now." The threat was clear and all you could do was nod, trying to ease yourself away from the cold barrel resting way too comfortably on your face.

"Okay," you swallowed thickly and pointed down the hall. "Take him to a room."

As the two underlings dragged the man down your darkened hall, leaving a bloody trail in their wake, you took a deep breath trying to remain as calm as the situation would allow. The only thing keeping you together was the fact that Izuku was on his way. It wouldn't be long. Besides, if you could help the man, then you would.

Bossman lingered in front of the desk, gun still trained on you, guestering for you to go first. He would be a problem. Especially if he kept waving that gun aroudn like a damn maraca. Reluctantly, you followed the trio into the first examination room and watched them lug the limp man onto the bed.

Steeling your courage, you stepped into the room and tried to ignore the guns and the thugs attached to the end of them and instead tried to focus on your new patient. Most of the damage seemed to be around his stomach. There was a nasty gash on the side of his head, carving a neat little river of red down the side of his face, flowing right over the deep-set bruise near his temple. Along with the apparent dip in freezing water, he'd been through the wringer tonight.

Washing your hands and slapping on some fresh gloves, you cut the mostly torn shirt away to examine the wound further. Bullet holes. Three of them. Burn wounds around the site indicated they had probably been fired point blank. That was a problem.

"Help me turn him on his side." you whispered, glancing at one of the men, not even sure if they would listen.

The closest one grunted and helped you pull him on his side. Wary of the man, you leaned in closer to get a better look at the hole in his back. Two exit wounds which meant the third was still inside. Who knows what kind of internal damage he'd already suffered. Just stitching him up wasn't going to cut it.

"He needs surgery," you rolled him back over and turned to the Boss. "This is just a small outpatient clinic. I don't have the right equipment for that kind of operation. If we call an ambulance and take him to the hopsi-"

That wasn't what he wanted to hear. The next thing you knew, he had you by the collar of your shirt and the gun nestled into your hairline. Your words choked on your gasp as he leaned in mere inches from your face enough to smell the tobacco in his breath.

"You save him. If he dies…you die." He growled it out quietly and you squeezed your eyes shut to keep calm.

This man, while you would try your best, needed more help than you could currently offer. He'd already bled out to the point of an unsettling pale sheen. His breath was staggered and shallow. Each time he coughed, red spittle spattered his lips. This would quickly become his death bed if these men couldn't see reason.

"Listen to me," you pleaded, "let me call an ambulance. If you want to save his life then he needs better care than I can do here."

"So you're saying you're useless." He narrowed his eyes, pressing the gun further into your temple and you shook your head furiously, instinctively trying to wiggle out of his grip.

"No! No! I can staunch the wounds here, but he needs surgery to repair the damage and probably a blood transfusion. None of those things can be done here. Please, you need to understand he-"

"No!" he screamed in your face then finally stepped away to pull at his hair. "No, we can't go to any hospitals. You fix him here and you fix him now!" The moment he stepped away, you deflated, but a moment later he whipped the gun back to you with a scowl. "Do it! Now!"

Best not to argue with an unstable gunman. Grabbing the antiseptic and bandages, you went to work cleaning the wounds. The bullets did some pretty severe damage and most likely pierced his gut, possibly a kidney as well. You did your best to stop the bleeding, but even if you stitched him up, the risk of internal bleeding was too great to ignore, paired with his already tremendous amount of blood loss. His chances were extremely low and dropping by the second.

"I can't work with that gun on me," you whispered, hoping to god that it wouldn't rile him up further. "I need space."

For once, he actually listened to you and barked orders for the other two men to go keep a look out in the front. They filed out of the room, leaving you alone with their boss who paced the length of the small room occasionally throwing nervous glances to the man on the bed. You worked in tense silence, cleaning the wound and trying to stop the heavy bleeding.

You kept your eye on the clock in the room, counting down the seconds. If you could just keep him at bay for a little longer, then you could make it out of here. It was becoming increasingly clear that this man was too far gone with his injuries and without greater medical help, he would surely die. But there was no chance in hell you'd tell that to Mr. Gunman over there. Not when he seemed way too trigger happy.

After you finished cleaning the area, your shaking fingers grabbed the suture kit, but you paused and checked his pulse. It was thready and barely there. Not a good sign. Taking a big breath, you turned your attention back to the criminal in one more attempt to plead his case.

"He needs a hospital. This man won't survive with some simple stitches. If he's really your friend then-"

You never got to finish the sentence before you unceremoniously crashed into the ground, clutching your throbbing cheek. The sharp sting where he'd pistol whipped you spread out along your jaw all the way up to your ear. Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked up at the wrathful figure looming over you.

"Don't make me tell you again," he growled low and threatening.

When you didn't move from your spot on the floor, still in shock, he bent down and clutched your collar to hoist you roughly to your feet. Then he flung you towards the bed. You stumbled into the frame with a yelp. That was when you noticed the hiccupping moans and short pained gasps. It was something you'd heard before and your stomach plummeted.

It happened almost too quickly to react. He took one last heavy drag before he went completely limp. His chest stilled, breath dying in his throat. You pressed two desperate fingers against his neck and waited but got nothing. Shit.

"What happened?" The man pressed against you to get a better look.

Not daring to answer, you placed your hands on his bare chest and started compressions. "Bottom drawer on the end. Grad the A.E.D. kit. Now!"

He did as told, keeping an eye on you as he shuffled through the cabinets until he found the kit. You finished one set of compressions and quickly fixed the two leads above his heart and under the ribs. Stepping back, you waited as the machine made a decision.

"Shock advised." The A.E.D. buzzed out and you cleared yourself, pressing the button. The all-too-pale man jerked on the table as the current raced through him, but it wasn't enough. You shocked him a second time with the same results. A third time and the man grabbed your shoulders, his nails digging through your coat.

"Is he-"

"Not yet," you murmured, too afraid to give him the truth. "I just need to restart the heart." He'd lost too much blood for that to be effective. The man was gone, but you still needed to buy time until he deemed you useless.

The room was quiet for a moment as the two of you stood there staring down at the man. Quietly, you pulled the pads off his chest and set them with the machine on the small, wheeled table beside the bed.

Behind you, the boss's breathing grew heavy, and you grasped your trembling fingers together. "He's dead." The gun dropped to his side as if defeated. "He is, isn't he?"

His sudden somber change in mood caught you off guard, but when you met his gaze, there was something unreadable swimming in his eyes. Then his senses seemed to catch up to him and he pressed the gun into the side of your head.

You blinked, stumbling back into the tray table, spilling the machine on the ground. He followed you all the way to the wall until your head slammed into it but you barely registered the pain, more focused on the barrel digging into your skull.

"I told you not to let him die." He growled, his voice on the verge of breaking. "I told you what would happen if you LET HIM DIE!"

"I didn't- he was gravely injured. He needed a hospital!" Your fingers pressed harder into your forehead, mushing your cheek into the wall as he tried to tame that wild burning anger flickering through his emotions. "I'm-I'm sorry!"

"You useless piece of-" the gun cocked, and a sob escaped your throat just as his finger pulled the trigger.

Izuku pulled into the empty lot where your small free clinic sat. The building was your pride and joy and after a few years of start up had become a staple in the rundown community it was centered in. It was actually a big factor in how he met you so this place had become quite special to him as well.

A little too lost in thought, he nearly missed the figure that darted in front of his car. Cursing, he slammed his breaks as Hanna, your receptionist, slapped his hood, face cloaked in the shadows above his lights.

"Hanna!" He put the car in park and jumped out. "I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there! Are you alright?"

"Deku!" She cried and grabbed his arm in a panic.

Immediately he knew something was wrong. Hanna was always a bit of a fanatic, but she usually was able to keep her composure. This was a new side he'd yet to see.

"What's wrong?" He grabbed her own arm in return.

"Inside, four of them. They- they just barged in as I was getting in my car," she pointed to the clinic. "One of them was hurt pretty badly and they- they had guns Deku!" She grabbed her head and turned back to the clinic. "I called the police, but they never come quickly in this area. I knew you were coming but I didn't have your number and I wanted to help, but I didn't know what else to do!"

"Hanna, Hanna," Izuku grabbed her shoulders to center her focus. "It's okay, you did the right thing. I need you to wait out here for the police, okay. Get in your car and stay hidden until they arrive. Can you do that for me?"

She nodded, taking in a shuddering breath and then set her face. "Yes. Please help her Deku!" Then she slipped past him towards her car.

Izuku wasted no time in rushing for the door. He had to be careful of the glass doors giving him away. From inside, he could see two men who looked to be arguing with each other. Strapped to their belts were guns. Though you were nowhere in sight which didn't bode well.

He would need to deal with these two quietly less risking anyone figuring out he was here and jeopardizing your safety. Going through the front would signal his arrival, especially with the bell on the door. Though there was the delivery entrance. It was in the back and would make a discrete entrance.

At the back of the building, he found the service entrance and made quick work of the lock on the door. That was something easily replaceable. You on the other hand were not. He needed to hurry. Slipping through the heavy metal doors, he found himself in the darkness of the storage area. He could hear the low murmurs of the men in the lobby past the door. They sounded angry, cooking up some revenge scheme on the 'bastards that dared mess with their gang.'

"Call up Tanzan. Tell him to get the boys ready. As soon as we're done here, we're going after them next." One of the men said, twisting his gun in his hand. "I ain't lettin' em get away with doing that to Kanko."

"You think he's gonna be okay?" The other younger one glanced down the hall, crossing his arms. "He was in a bad way."

"Boss's got the doc on it, don't worry bout it," he shrugged. "But if he does kick the bucket, then we got the greenlight to take them all down. No witnesses."

"Even the…" The younger man trailed off, still staring down the hall. "But that's-"

"Look Karou, you wanted in? You're in. But that means you need to be fully in." The man stepped towards him, poking him in the chest. "If boss says no witnesses, then no witnesses. Got it?"

Karou nodded, eyes wide, and whispered, "got it."

Izuku clenched his teeth as he listened, getting angrier by the second. He opened the door to the storeroom and crouched low as he quietly made his way to the front desk. Leaning against the wood, he peered around the corner.

Blackwhip melted off his arm and in an instant, he stood up from his hiding spot, flinging out two tendrils at each of them. Before they had a chance to react, he wrapped their mouths and dragged them across the lobby, straight into his fist.

They didn't stand a chance and dropped like flies. Izuku zip-tied them together and wasted no time in heading down the hall. The light was on in the first room and he slowed when he heard yelling.

"-happen if you LET HIM DIE!" An irate voice screamed.

"I didn't-" that was your voice, thin and wobbly - "he was gravely injured. He needed a hospital! I'm-I'm sorry!"

Izuku hurried to the open doorway just in time to see you pressed against the wall, gun buried in your hair. There was a nasty bruise growing on your cheek and you were trembling in place, eyes squeezed shut in terror.

"You useless piece of-" the gun cocked and a sob escaped your throat just as his finger pulled the trigger.

The resounding blast nearly echoed around the room and everything was silent for a moment as Izuku glared down the gunman with such wrath that sparks flew from his skin. He held the barrel of the gun just above your head where a smoke wafted out of the small hole in the wall. Mere inches from your face. Mere inches from death.

"Izuku," his name was whispered in such a small fragile voice, but he couldn't bring himself to look at you, not when his blood was boiling with barely held rage.

He squeezed the barrel so tight, the metal crunched between his fingers. The boss let go and stumbled back in shock. Izuku dropped the gun and faced the man, quirk sparking around him.

"De-Deku." He muttered. "What…what are you doing here?"

Izuku took another step towards him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" A cursory glance and the bed told him the rest of the story.

The boss narrowed his eyes and reached behind him, pulling out another gun. Izuku was in front of him in the blink of an eye, wrenching the gun from his hands and punching him across the room. He slammed into the wall, spiderwebs cracking out from the plaster. The man coughed and fell forward with a pained groan.

Behind him, your legs gave out and you slid down the wall, staring at the man on the other side of the room. Izuku finally seemed to come back to his senses and turned around.

"Y/N," he said, kneeling in front of you. "Hey, can you look at me?"

Izuku gently cupped your face and brought your gaze back to him. Your vision had blurred over, finally letting the tears spill over as you locked eyes with him. He kept his face calm, but you could see it in the slight tremble of his hands on your face, the stray sparks that he couldn't quite dial down, the hold he had on his breath.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" He asked, thumb gently rubbing over the deep bruise on your cheek.

It took you a few seconds to process the question before you shook your head. He nodded and that breath he had been holding finally let itself out in a relieved sigh. Another few seconds and that panic that had hitched itself inside your own lungs finally broke free in a heavy sob. You buried your face into his chest and he pulled you in tight, not daring to let you go. He rested his chin on the crown of your head, gently rubbing soothing circles over your back until you calmed enough to catch your shallowed breath. When you pulled back, you kept your fingers tightly clamped to his jacket desperately seeking the comfort he provided.

"You're okay now," he whispered, turning your chin up to look at you. "Can you stand?"

With his help, you stood up on shaky legs, the adrenaline still running rampant through your veins like a hijacked bullet train. You glanced at the bed, but he blocked your view and led you out of the room and into the lobby where the other two were already incapacitated and unconscious.

"Wait here for just a minute. I'll be right back, I promise." He said quietly, kneeling in front of the chair you plopped down ungracefully in, but he hesitated to leave as he searched your face. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Physically?" you touched your tender cheek. "I'm fine. A bit shaken I guess."

He offered you a smile. "You were really brave, given the circumstances. Wait here for me, the police should be here any minute."

One last look over you and he stood up to go back into the exam room. You watched him leave with your hands locked in a death grip on the chair handles. You took the moment alone to a suck in a few deep breaths to calm your racing heart. All that adrenaline with nowhere to go finally drained, leaving you feeling exhausted and sick to your stomach. With a small moan, you leaned forward and covered your eyes.

A few moments later, a hand rested on your shoulder, startling you back to your feet. But it was only Izuku who grabbed you before you could trip backwards. His eyes were wide and full of concern.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you," he spoke softly, his solid grasp spreading warmth back into your shoulders. "Everything's under control now."

"Is it?" you couldn't help glaring at the hallway. "That man's dead in there because I couldn't save him. What good is a doctor who can't save a single person."

That sounded a little too familiar to Izuku and he quickly shook his head. "He also had three serious bullet wounds to the chest that were bleeding out long before he even made it here." Izuku caught your gaze again. "I just spoke to Tsukauchi. They were part of a small-time gang trying to make a big move on another territory. He was lucky to have survived long enough to make it here."

As if on cue, flashing lights dipped through the shades and a few officers hurried into the lobby. The next few hours went by in a blur as Izuku spoke to the officers and you gave your statement on auto pilot. By the time the two of you finished, it was late into the night and exhaustion was threatning to take it's hold over you.

"Please let me take you to the hospital. You could have a concussion," Izuku asked for the third time and for the third time, you shook your head.

"I'm fine. I am a doctor you know."

He gave you a genuine smile, the first of the night and squeezed your hand. "No wonder they say doctors make the worst patients. Fine, but if you won't let me take you to get looked at then I'm going to take care of you myself."

"I can't argue with that," you returned that genuine smile, albiet a small wobbly one. "But right now, I just want to go home. Can we please go home now?"

The criminals were long gone and the last of the officers had just left, leaving the two of you alone inside. There was still the blood-streaked floors that you would need to clean up tomorrow and what was left of the mess inside that exam room after the coroner left. It was something that you just couldn't handle even thinking about tonight. All you wanted was your head to hit that pillow and get some much-needed rest.

"Come on," he led you outside, carefully avoiding the stains on the floor as he went.

When you finally reached his car and slumped into the passenger’s seat, you let out a heavy sigh, rubbing your temples. Izuku got behind the wheel but instead of turning the car on, he sat there for a moment staring at his nearly white knuckled grip.

"I guess I never asked if you were okay," you broke the silence and he flinched.

"Me?" That seemed to confuse him. "You were the one that had to deal with that tonight. I'm sorry I wasn't able to get there sooner. I was almost too late." The last part was whispered out so quietly, you nearly missed it.

"You were right on time. You always are." You managed to free his grip on the wheel and squeezed his fingers with your own. "Thank you Izuku. You really are my hero."

He met your gaze, wide green eyes searching your own. "And you are my world."

"Well as cheesy as that was, your world is still very hungry." you leaned back on the headrest, refusing to let go of his hand. "Bonavici's can wait, but I could really go for a burger. There's just something about facing death that really stirs the appetite."

Despite your attempt to lighten the mood, he frowned and leaned over to wrap you in a tight hug, a bit of an awkward angle, but he made it work. You blinked at the sudden embrace before melting into it.

"I'm glad you're okay." He whispered into your hair. "I don't know what I'd do without you." Then he chuckled, a bit hollow, and squeezed tighter. "Let's go get that burger."

Taglist: @dorki-time @amive2567 @justscar @kenmaskitten10 @freckledoriya @writer---kind-of

#pro hero deku #izuku midoriya x reader #deku x reader #tw guns #gun violence #blood and injury #gunshot wounds #rather unstable criminals #reader is a doctor #hurt/comfort #izuku is a badass #heavy injuries #minor character death

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tildeathiwillwrite · 4 months

Text

Merry Whumpmas 2023 Day 28: Scars

Week 4 of this bullshit. Only 3 more days left to go! Enjoy.

This is a direct continuation of Day 6: No Where to Go.

TW: painkillers, anesthesia mention, death mention, surgery, burn scars, mentioned abuse

Hero awoke slowly, their thoughts moving sluggishly through their tired mind. Their eyelids were heavier than bricks, but they forced them open, unease and uncertainty roiling in their stomach. The harsh lights overhead hurt their eyes, and they squinted, trying to filter out the brightness and make out their surroundings.

“Oh, you’re awake now.”

Hero turned their head, finding Villain leaning over them. They realized they were sprawled on a flat, uncomfortable surface. Villain’s head was bowed, their concentration intent upon Hero’s side. Hero tried to see what they were looking at, but they couldn’t raise their head.

“Sorry, I guess I didn’t sedate you enough,” Villain mumbled, reaching for something out of sight. “You were already unconscious, so I had to estimate. I think I gave you enough analgesics though. Does it hurt?”

Hero realized with a sudden jolt of fear that they couldn’t move anything but their eyes and head. Were their arms tied down? They couldn’t feel any restraints… “N… no…” they whispered through numb lips.

Villain nodded, distracted. Their hand returned, now clutching a pair of tweezers with gloved hands. The gloves were splattered with blood. “That’s good. Let me know if that changes. It’s not gonna be fun once they wear off.”

Hero swallowed, eyes darting about the room. The walls were exposed brick, and the only lighting appeared to be the one directly overhead, illuminating Villain’s work. Whatever that work was. Was the blood on their hands Hero’s? The only exit appeared to be a door to Hero’s right, behind Villain.

Metal clicked on metal, and Hero’s eyes darted back as Villain exhaled in relief. “Got the bullet out. Now I just gotta stitch you up and give you some more analgesics and maybe some anesthesia.”

Their words sounded almost foreign to Hero. The only thing they understood through the hazy fog was that Villain… seemed to be helping them? “O… okay….”

Villain worked in silence for a few minutes. Hero still couldn’t see what they were doing, so they gazed at Villain instead. Sometime between when Hero had passed out in that dark alley and when they’d woken up in this room, Villain had removed their mask. Their hair had been hastily pulled back, and Hero could clearly see their profile.

They looked normal enough at first, but as Hero’s eyes adjusted to the harsh lighting, they noticed the long, dark scar snaking down Villain’s face. It was old, blending in with their skin tone, but unmistakably a burn scar.

As if in response, the skin on Hero’s upper back tingled, where one of their allies had grazed them during a training session. They’d been drilling reflexes by launching small fireballs at Hero nonstop until they got hit. Once they did, the ally chastised Hero and ordered them to go to the medical bay. They didn’t even help Hero to their feet.

The incident had been almost a month and a half ago, and the burn still wasn’t fully healed. The affected skin itched constantly, especially when Hero tried to sleep. But Hero’s team leader refused to give them anything besides a small amount of aloe on the grounds of ‘building pain tolerance.'

It was all bullshit, as Hero later learned when they broached the idea of taking a break from the team for a little while. None of their ‘allies’ had responded well.

Hero closed their eyes. They didn’t know how long they were trapped in the team headquarters before escaping and fleeing to Villain’s section of the city. They barely remembered most of it, and they didn’t want to. But thinking of it brought images of Whumper, of them beating and belittling Hero for their weakness.

But Whumper was dead now.

Villain had shot them.

Villain had saved Hero.

As if in response to Hero’s thoughts, Villain spoke. “Alright,” they said softly, “I’m done.”

Hero opened their eyes. Villain massaged the sides of their temples, bloody gloves removed. “You’re one stubborn person, Hero,” they said, mouth cracking into an exhausted grin.

“Uh… tha… thank you….”

A look of concern crossed Villain’s face. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, both from the gunshot and…” they gestured to the various cuts and bruises all over Hero’s body. “Honestly, it’s a miracle you woke up at all. I patched up the worst of it, but you’re gonna be recovering for a while.”

Hero blinked, the memory of their team leader fresh in their mind. “Are… are we… safe… here…?”

Villain glanced over their shoulder to the door. A beat of silence passed before they answered. “Yeah, pretty sure. We’re in one of my safe houses right now, no one saw us come in. And the only one who saw you come to me is now dead in an alley which—” they grimaced— “isn’t going to bode well for me whether or not your former team connects the dots.”

“...I’m… I’m sorry I…”

Villain held up their hands, scowling. “Do not apologize. You needed help, you still need help, and I promise you: I’m not gonna let those assholes lay a finger on you. Understand?”

Hero nodded to the best of their ability. Their movement was still limited, but they had begun to regain sensation in their fingers and toes. They wiggled them experimentally. It was like moving someone else’s hand.

The motion caught Villain’s eye, and they smacked the side of their head. “Right. Analgesics. I’ll be right back, you do not want the painkillers to wear off anytime soon.”

Hero watched them leave. They slowly exhaled, trying to calm their racing nerves.

They were safe.

Villain had promised.

Everything would be okay.

Part 1 | Part 3

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whump-about-it · 1 year

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Heart Racing/ On the Run/ “We’re Being Watched”/ “I Won’t Leave You”

@whumpril day 25 and 26 (a little late)

CW: implied torture, imprisonment, blood, broken bones, gunshot wounds, blood loss.

They had made a mistake putting two prisoners who spoke the same language in a cell together.

To be fair, the guards hadn’t known. It wasn’t like the languages a person spoke was listed on their papers. And it wasn’t the official language of either the country they were from nor the one they’d been captured in. A and B hadn’t even realized the other spoke it until A overheard B slip into it during a particularly rough interrogation session several months into their internment together.

The escape planning had begun as soon as B had become lucid again.

It had been months of the two of them whispering in low voices between the patrol rounds. At night, when the guards were half asleep on duty and didn't notice the incomprehensible jabber as conversation. And under the cover of other prisoners screams.

They thought they had planned for everything. But as soon as their escape had begun things had started to go awry.

They had gotten out. By some miracle they had gotten out. But now they were on the run through an unfamiliar town in enemy territory in the middle of the night, with guards at their heels, and A was falling behind.

"This way" B hissed before taking a hard left into a particularly dark ally. They had grabbed A's hand at some point to make sure they kept up, so the direction wasn't strictly necessary, but A was stumbling so much as it was B was afraid the sudden change in direction would cause them to face plant in the street.

B turned them into the ally and used their momentum to propel A into the wall behind a stack of crates. To A's credit, they didn't make a noise, but B could see their face contort in pain and feel the air leave their lungs as they pushed their own body against theirs trying to make it appear to anyone who may actually notice them there as though they were out of breathe for completely different reasons.

A either understood what B was trying to do, or they were worse off than B thought because as soon as A pressed their body to theirs they snaked their good arm around B’s shoulders and placed a not insignificant amount of their weight on B.

A tried to pull them closer as best they could with their own good arm. Their other one had been broken, they suspected in multiple places, when they fell from the window during the escape. Their forearm was completely swollen and they could feel their heart racing in it. Adrenaline had dulled most of the pain for now, as it had for their ankle, which was at the very least twisted if not also broken, but with their arm sandwiched between their and A’s heaving torso’s they couldn’t help but let out a silent gasp of pain.

“Are you alright?” A breathed in B’s ear.

“My arm” B breathed back. “You?”

A only shook their head and tightened their grip around B’s shoulders. Back on the street the guards ran past shouting directions to one another, unaware of the pretend lovers pulling each other closer in the ally only feet away.

The back of A’s shirt was soaked in blood. As B squeezed the fabric, blood dripped into their hand and ran down their wrist. A had been shot in the shoulder during the escape. The bullet had missed all their vital organs and A had insisted they would be okay. But now, sandwiched between B and the wall, B could feel how much blood they were loosing, How much their legs were shaking trying to stay upright, and the irregular beating of their racing heart. Even for having been running it felt like it was beating too fast.

The voices of the guards faded down some other side street one of them had insisted they’d seen their prey going down and B made to pull away from A to figure out their next move. Before they could move more than a centimeter though A tightened their grip on B’s shoulders and held them in place.

“We’re being watched.” They breathed. B heart skipped a beat and glanced at the dark street. It seemed empty of even the rats. The depths of the ally was so dark B couldn’t make out anything to tell if A was seeing things or not.

“Where?” They shifted their weight to take on more of A’s as one of their legs began to shake more.

“The second story window” A mumbled. B held their possession and tried to glance at the windows in the ally. One of the windows was open a crack, and the curtains swayed in the breeze, but B couldn’t make out whether anyone was standing there.

“They’re going to come back and start checking alleys soon” B told A. They were concerned by A seeing something they clearly couldn’t, but were trying to give them the benefit of the doubt and continued to hold their position. “We have to move.”

A shook their head again.

“I don’t think I can” They whispered. “Everything’s spinning”

B’s still racing heart began to beat faster. Between their arm and their ankle they didn’t think they could carry A. The adrenaline was already starting to wear off and their previously only uncomfortable ankle was beginning to feel like it would shatter if B moved it in the wrong way.

“Just hang in there a little longer. We’ll find a place to hide.”

Again, A shook their head and swallowed thickly. They slipped an inch farther down the wall and gasped raggedly as the movement aggravated their wound.

“Leave me” they whispered. Their voice was already getting weaker. “I’ll slow you down.”

“No. If they catch you they’ll kill you.”

“I’m not sure I’m going make it as is” With that A’s legs finally gave out. B tried to catch them but their own injuries prevented them from being able to do much and the two collapsed to the ground with muffled groans of pain. With their rouse of being intimate shattered, B leaned away from A enough to look at their sweaty face. Their skin almost glowed from how colorless it was and their eyes didn’t look totally focused.

B’s stomach flipped. The two of them hadn’t been friends. They hadn’t even known each other prior to being forced to share a tiny windowless cell. But at this point A was the only friendly face B knew. Probably the only person who even knew they were alive. They’d spent months planning this, gone through every eventuality. They had thought of everything. But they had always planned on doing it together. Now at the eleventh hour, with everything having gone wrong, B found they couldn’t abandon that.

“I won’t leave you” B told A with as much conviction as they could manage in a whisper.

B tried to smile and their eyes slid closed.

“We knew the risks” Their voice was beginning to slur “At least one of us should get away.”

B opened their mouth to argue. However before they could say anything, a door somewhere in the alley squealed open and a face, dimly lit by a single candle poked out. B’s heart stopped. A had been right all along, someone had been watching them. They should have taken them seriously and done something about it when they had the chance. Now they were caught and they had no weapons. Nothing to fight with. And they were too injured themselves do anything even if they did. They thought for a second that it was finally over. The person in the door way was going to alert the guards and A and B were going to be dragged back and executed.

But when the person spoke, it was in a low whisper, and in the same language A and B shared.

“You’re friend needs help” They said. It wasn’t a question. “Come. The guards will be back any minute.”

B blinked at the person, then glanced at A who had gone motionless and limp between them and the wall. They could still feel their heart racing in their chest. It was beating too fast for how long they had been standing still.

“I’m a friend.” The person insisted. “Come.”

Even with a shared language, B wasn’t sure they could trust the person. But with A passed out, and the voices of the guards become louder in the distance, They were running out of options.

“I can’t lift them.” They told the person in the doorway. Without question the stranger stepped from their doorway and into the alley. B, stumbled backwards as the stranger approached them. They lifted A into their arms as though they weighed nothing and turned to B.

“Can you stand?”

B nodded, and managed to get to their feet. Pain shot up their ankle in protest to them putting weight on it and they almost fell down again, but managed to limp after the stranger as they carried A back into the building they had come from.

“Why are you helping us?” B asked once they were inside what appeared to be the storage room for a shop.

“I heard the two of you talking” the stranger said. “I haven’t heard anyone speak my mother tongue in years. They don’t like it when people speak languages other than their own.” The stranger nodded towards the ever louder voices outside as they laid A down gently on a table, trying to identify the source of all the blood. “We help our own right?”

B nodded somewhat absently. Their arm and ankle were hurting so badly, and A was looking only minutes from death on the table. The stranger seemed to know what they were doing though as they produced a pair of scissors and cut off A’s shirt.

“Thank you” B breathed.

“Of course. You can call me Caretaker, by the way.”

#whump #whump drabble #whumblr #whumpril2023 #whumprilday25 #whumprilday26 #heart racing #on the run #we're being watched #I won't leave you #multiple whumpees #escape #blood #bloodloss #gunshot wounds #broken bones

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