#erzawritesstuff

[whumpworld]

So, the wonderful @erzawritesstuff let me use one of their prompts for a little blip of writing. Did I take it and run? Did I go completely overboard? Why, yes, I did. I did indeed. But, I had so so much fun writing it.

Here is the originally posted prompt. I’m going to include it here as well:

“A stoic Whumpee or team leader who has nightmares but lets no one know. One night, an inexperienced team member who looks up to Whumpee/an old friend of Whumpee who doesn't like Whumpee anymore decides to visit them to give them a gift/argue with them. Anyway, they find Whumpee awake, eyes wide and panicked, bleeding from wounds they accidentally (or not accidentally) gouged into themselves. They’re breathing heavily and their hair is matted and tangled. Whumpee clearly isn’t completely there. They approach them, and Whumpee cowers. “Sir, sir, not again, please.”

The Hauntings

Summary: A stoic, team leader Whumpee, who is overwhelmed by their responsibilities, regrets, and a painful past experiences nightmares of their time in captivity near nightly. But one night, an unexpected visitor adds to the realism of a flashback/hallucination.

TW: Self harm, nightmares, hallucinations, PTSD, flashbacks, angst, creepy whumper, pissed caretaker (for a bit), reference to past torture, self sacrifice/slight suicidal ideation?

PS, I am sorry for this incredibly long post on your feed. Tumblr will not give me the option to add a little page break like it usually does, I cannot figure out how to add it for the life of me.

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The bags under their eyes had become a normality, deep grayish-purple crescent moons resting above Whumpee’s cheekbones. These marks of exhaustion didn’t help the dulled color of their irises, what years ago used to be bright green—the color of a freshly uncurled leaf in the spring—now a shade that of the green glass of a wine bottle which had been tossed to the ocean ages ago, seaweed and sea salt clouding and grinding it to opacity.

The team had not noticed, or at least hadn’t commented on, Whumpee’s drained look every morning, likely assuming it was the stress of being the team leader. Anyone who had to make the tough decisions every day, who was responsible for holding everyone’s life in their hands—when they secretly felt they couldn’t even be held accountable for their own—would naturally have circles under their eyes. And that was certainly part of it.

But more so, the cause was the nightmares. The frighteningly real night terrors that overtook them after already too long days. The dreams that brought them jolting to wakefulness in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat yet shivering, their eyes red, their pillow saturated, and their face itchy from the salty tears they had been crying.

Sometimes they would wake screaming. It was during these bouts that Whumpee was thankful for their room at the very far end of the headquarters, away from where the rest of the team stayed. Other times they’d wake on the floor after sleepwalking and incredibly vivid dreams of Whumper, a new bruise from the fall off the bed, fresh scratches from their nails digging into their skin, or their back to the corner as they shook from the aftermath of the nightmares and flashbacks.

What was most worrying was when these nightmares bled over into Whumpee’s waking world. It wasn’t often, but sometimes when they had overly realistic dreams, Whumpee would awaken and yet still be trapped by hallucinations. Whumpee was never fully in control during these episodes, but they were undoubtedly awake, and would only realize that it had not been a dream, but a horrifically animated and lifelike hallucination attacking them, after they snapped out of it.

Following their time with Whumper, it only took a few occasions of these episodes occurring for Whumpee to realize they needed to lock away anything that could be remotely dangerous to someone with a mind tangled by lingering dreams and visions. One time Whumpee had come to with a letter opener shaking in their grip, another occasion clutching a screwdriver which they were holding out defensively after having imagined Whumper slowly back them into the wall. It had become a habit now to keep most anything that could be harmful in any way outside of the room, which now typically only contained basic necessities and furniture.

Occasionally, when Whumpee’s nightmares became too stressful even for their own sleeping mind, sleep paralysis would set it, and lock them in place, helpless to move or shout as Whumper slipped into the room and lumbered over to them, whispering awful things as they crawled towards a paralyzed Whumpee. These were the worst dreams by far and when Whumpee was able to wake from them, they would not be able to fall back to bed the entire rest of the night.

It had been a year now since they had become free of that monster. Though they had their team to return to, Whumpee had never—could never—speak of their time with Whumper. There was no need to tell the team what savageries they were put through or let them see the very real physical reminders of them. Now that the nightmares had become more and more frequent, Whumpee especially knew they could not confide in the team, for fear of being replaced as leader for their weakness and mental fragility. And, after all, it was Whumpee’s own fault for being taken by Whumper.

That fateful night, Whumpee had received a letter from Whumper claiming he would destroy the team if Whumpee didn’t meet with him, so they did. They knowingly walked into a trap to save their team; granted, they had expected Whumper to kill them, not lock them up to be tortured for his pleasure. What was worse though, or perhaps for the best, was that the team hadn’t known of the letter or Whumpee’s sacrifices to save them. When Whumpee wasn’t there in the morning and didn’t return for nine months, the team had presumed them missing and then dead. Whumpee very well couldn’t complain to their teammates about their trauma and stress when they had essentially chosen to go with Whumper. They were already lucky enough to have been accepted back into the team when they returned. Though, it wasn’t really the full team, not without Caretaker.

After their escape, Whumpee—only following the time it took their body to heal from the injuries caused by Whumper, so the team couldn’t see any obvious wounds—had simply walked in the door of the headquarters. It had taken the team several weeks upon Whumpee’s return to readjust to the idea of them even being alive, and although those weeks were rough, the team had eventually adjusted. Two weeks passed and they had gladly accepted Whumpee back as their leader. All except for Caretaker. Caretaker had taken the loss of Whumpee especially hard—hadn’t eaten or slept for days when the team’s efforts to find Whumpee had failed. And then suddenly, there Whumpee was, back from the dead and pretending like everything was normal, as if they had never abandoned the team.

Caretaker knew Whumpee a bit better than the rest of the team and knew Whumpee wouldn’t leave with no notice for no reason at all. But when they confronted Whumpee about their absence, and tried so desperately to get Whumpee to tell them what happened, Whumpee had only told them, just as they had told the rest of the team, that they left to take a vacation.

The pure, unbelievableness and absurdity of this excuse was at first laughable to Caretaker, who thought it was a joke. Whumpee simply couldn’t find the effort to make up some extravagant lie and when they stuck by their story, Caretaker pestered, offered to help them however they could, but at the time Whumpee wanted none of it. When Caretaker and Whumpee eventually got into a shouting match, it ended poorly, with Caretaker putting their foot down and saying they would not stand by while Whumpee pretended as though things were fine. Whumpee only slammed the door in their face. Then Caretaker was gone, never to return since.

Once Caretaker left, the rest of the team continued on, back to normal as well as they could, like Whumpee had never left and like Caretaker had never existed. Sure, the team cared about Whumpee and Caretaker, but it wasn’t as though they could simply stop their missions for some drama. So, now, after so much time had passed, Whumpee wasn’t about to let the lingering side effects of their captivity with Whumper hinder their work and what little of their reputation they had remaining, even if it was just a facade.

But keeping the team going, keeping them safe, and putting on their tough face every morning, was only becoming increasingly tiring for Whumpee each day, certainly more so being as low on sleep as they were. Today was especially stressful though. The team had nearly failed a mission, only scraping by by the skin of their teeth, leaving Whumpee feeling more spent and weary than ever. When they got to their room, they didn’t even bother to shower, only stripped down to their undergarments, haphazardly throwing the items from the pockets of their slacks onto the bedside table—a miniature flashlight, a crumpled receipt, a ballpoint pen, a pocket knife—and slid into bed.

~

Caretaker had not had a good year since leaving the team. To start, they missed the comradery. They got along very well with the entire team and enjoyed the almost familial bonds the group had formed. Second, although it was certainly dangerous at times, they were fond of the work and the cause they fought for. But, ever since leaving, things had been rough. Caretaker had been forced to pick up odd jobs here and there, always earning enough to barely pay the bills but never enough to relax. It was a unique kind of torture, being away from their friends and job which they loved and they had lost it all because of Whumpee.

It was one thing to take some time off of work, but to disappear without a trace was just plain selfish. When Whumpee had first returned, Caretaker had been overwhelmed with joy to see them; they wept for an hour, nearly strangling Whumpee with an unrelenting hug. But the excitement was short-lived, quickly replaced by shock which was then overpowered by anger. At first, Caretaker hadn’t believed Whumpee when they said they had left because of the stress. I just needed to get away, take a break from it all, was what they said. Caretaker knew–or suspected–instantly that that was a lie. But Whumpee was different after coming back to the team, colder, more distant, and after their fight, Caretaker started to think that maybe Whumpee really was selfish enough to have left without so much as a farewell. Caretaker would have never done something so cruel as abandoning the team.

When Caretaker had stormed out after the fight, they only planned to get some air for a bit, blow off some steam until Whumpee apologized. But the days passed and Whumpee never called or texted and Caretaker’s memories of Whumpee turned bitter with resentment. It was all their fault. Everything had been so perfect before Whumpee left. Now, after a year of no contact and Caretaker struggling to make it day to day, the only emotions they held towards Whumpee were hatred and indignation.

But today Caretaker felt especially furious after having to work a terribly difficult job, one they never would have had to do if not for Whumpee. Nearly a year had passed and Caretaker’s frustrations still hadn’t smoothed over. Whoever claimed that time heals all wounds clearly never suffered the pain of losing a friend to hatred. Caretaker was at the end of their rope and by god, they were going to get some closure, or at least one last word in. They needed to let Whumpee know how badly they had ruined their life. So, they flagged down a taxi and headed off for headquarters.

~

An electronic chirp sounded and a bright green light flashed as Caretaker swiped their old ID card over the headquarter keypad. For a moment they were surprised to find that their card hadn’t been taken out of the system, but then realized that the team likely thought Caretaker would return a few days later after making up with Whumpee. Well, here they were, and they were not here to make up.

The labyrinth-like halls of headquarters washed a strange sense of nostalgia over Caretaker as they turned corners left and right, instantly remembering every door and room in the building. It was late, around 3 am, and it was dead silent in the halls, only the soft hum of the air conditioning whirring in the walls and ceiling. The air smelled cool and recirculated like it always used to, hints of spices from the kitchen up the hall and bits of cologne as they passed one of Caretaker’s old teammate’s room. Everything was just as it had been.

As they passed the kitchen they remembered the time the team had gathered there for Teammate A’s birthday, having thrown a surprise party and even baked them a cake. Passing the weapons room, Caretaker thought back to when they had training sessions each morning with Whumpee and each night alone, only themselves and the old wooden targets. The library brought back memories of a drunken gathering the team had after a hard day. Caretaker understood the phrase “taking a stroll down memory lane” as they slowly walked through the empty headquarters, each remembrance causing a wistful tightening of their chest. With each passing room, Caretaker took in the pain and regret of leaving this place, what they considered their only real home in their life.

Finally, Caretaker neared the other end of the building. They knew Whumpee’s room was at the far end and began heading straight for it, their reminiscing of their life here, when the team was all together, did nothing to lessen their need to release the pent-up anger. In fact, it seemed to only make Caretaker more upset. Each room was dark and vacant as the team slept and Caretaker felt a nearly tangible ache of acrimony. Whumpee had done this. Whumpee had ruined this. Who could do such a thing as leaving like that? How could Whumpee live with themselves knowing they had done such a thing?

Caretaker rounded one final corner before they were standing in front of the door to Whumpee’s room. With a deep breath through their nose, they steeled themselves, ready to give Whumpee hell for what they had done. They looked down to the doorknob as they exhaled and were startled to see a soft light peeking out from under the bottom of the door. Only then did they hear a muffled mumbling coming from inside, a shaky voice speaking unrecognizable words through the wood. For a second, Caretaker forgot why they were there, confusion and curiosity overtaking them. But they shook their head as if to break loose the thoughts; they were here to confront Whumpee, and if Whumpee was already awake, well that just makes things easier.

Gripping the handle, they swung the door open and began their accusations, their fury became clear again as the words began to burst from their chest. “Do you know what the hell you put me through?!” Caretaker yelled, barging in a bit too forcefully as the door flew open easily. But their question only hung awkwardly in the air as Caretaker’s mouth gaped slightly in surprise. The room was nearly empty save the bed bordered by two wooden end tables near the head, completely void of Whumpee’s usual odds and ends, knickknacks, and souvenirs they had collected throughout the years on missions, and Caretaker hesitated briefly, almost not recognizing it as being Whumpee’s room.

It was dimly lit, a soft yellow source of light coming from the floor on the far end of the room, and for a second Caretaker didn’t understand why. Then their eyes adjusted to the rest of the scene. The bed was a mess, the sheets seeming to have been through a shredder. A lamp that Caretaker assumed had been on the end table had been knocked over, the lampshade cracked down the middle and the base shattered on the floor, but the lightbulb was still running, casting strange shadows across the room.

There was a figure—Whumpee? Yes, it was Whumpee—three paces away from the lamp. They were kneeling on the floor, their head tilted slightly to the ground, their shaggy, unkempt hair just barely covering the top of their face. When the door slammed into the wall Whumpee’s head jerked up, revealing eyes wet and wide with terror; it was a look Caretaker hadn’t seen on Whumpee even under the worst pressure, even during some of the horrible missions they had.

Their light brown strands of hair were matted and tangled in clumps that stuck out at odd angles. They looked terribly pale and skinnier than Caretaker remembered them—even skinnier than when they had returned from “vacation”. A sheen of sickly sweat covered their skin, even further clumping the hair on their forehead and glistening on their chest which was heaving violently up and down. Then Caretaker saw the blood. Whumpee had an open pocket knife grasped in their hand, which was trembling, and there was a gash running diagonally across their forearm, another down their bicep. Darkly colored blood dripped rhythmically onto the hardwood floors.

“Wha…” Caretaker couldn’t even get a full word out, staring in horror at the sight, their mind spinning to comprehend the situation. Whumpee was mumbling incoherent nothings, their form shaking as they kept their gaze locked on Caretaker, as if waiting to see what they would do.

The dripping of their blood became the twisted ticking of a clock as a brief period of inaction overtook Caretaker. But then they snapped out of it, reaching into their pocket to pull out a kerchief as they took a step towards Whumpee, knowing they had to at least stop the bleeding. The anger they had felt so strongly before dissolved under confusion and the urge to fix whatever was happening in this strange moment. But their movement triggered something and Whumpee was instantly scrambling backward, tipping back from their knees to their rear to drag themselves so their back was to the wall. They brandished the pocket knife, shivering in unstill hands.

Caretaker halted their advance but was close enough now to notice that a fog seemed to cover Whumpee’s eyes, clouding the color of them as they frantically whipped back and forth from Caretaker to the knife. They were close enough to see the scars covering Whumpee’s torso—not unusual in their line of work—but scars Caretaker had never seen before, ones not there before Whumpee had gone missing. Whumpee clearly wasn’t all there and Caretaker wondered just how far someone could go while sleepwalking. Yet this didn’t seem like normal sleepwalking, Caretaker had seen that before in a friend when they were young. No, Whumpee was awake, surely. The gut-wrenching realization dawned on Caretaker, just as Whumpee let out a stifled sob, that it appeared as though they were reliving a memory, or a twisted version of one, trapped in their own mind.

Strained whispers huffed out with Whumpee’s pants, “No…more…I-I can’t…”

Slowly, Caretaker removed the kerchief from their pocket and raised their hands. The universal motion to present oneself as non-threatening. They needed to stop the bleeding. That horrible drip, drip, dripping, echoed through the room, a clicking second hand counting down.

“I’m just going to stop the bleeding, see?” They held up the cloth and continued approaching, but Whumpee cowered, folding into themselves, knees pulling upward slightly, as they tried to push further into the wall. Their gaze broke from Caretaker and turned to their own trembling hands. They clenched the knife and flinched, hearing something Caretaker could not.

“Sir…sir, not again, please, please no.”

~

Whumpee was suffocating, their limbs tied down, trapped. The darkness was everywhere, surrounding them, permeating their mind and body. Only the sensation of their heart racing beneath their ribs broke the smog as they tried so desperately to break free of the thickening darkness. Disorientation in its most pure form, choking them, drowning them, blinding them to all rational thought. And then, as if grasping a mental foothold, they were able to claw themselves to awareness, still struggling against restraints, but surging upwards, until they awoke. Their eyes flew open, the darkness of the room greeting them, their skin sweaty and cool, feeling their legs twisted in the sheets from thrashing in their sleep.

Whumpee lay there, slowly allowing themselves to come back to consciousness, but something felt wrong. Usually their panic faded after their nightmares, but the absence of light in the room felt too close to their dream and their heart rate wasn’t slowing. Where were they? They felt an utterly familiar spiral of dread settle over them, scrambling their thoughts. They needed light. They needed to be able to see, to move freely. Sitting up, Whumpee blindly reached to their right, feeling for a light source—why did they think there was a light switch there? Did they know this place? Their hand felt the base of a lamp, tracing up the body until they felt a switch.

The bulb was dim and yellow, light cast downward by the lampshade, but still enough to see the space around them. No. Oh, please no. They were back. They were back in the room; the gray cement walls and floors of an old building, one meant for working in, not living, the steel door Whumpee knew was bolted and locked from the outside, the cot in the center, which they currently laid on. Whumpee choked as their stomach turned and if their mind hadn’t been retreating to fear they might have noticed that the lamp they had turned on was not the tall, commercial flood light with grated metal over square bulbs, that is, not the same light that was in the room, nor was the bedside table.

But their thoughts had already taken the panic and run, filling in the missing pieces with the horror of being back there. Whumpee’s sight fell to their legs and what they had thought was sheets constraining them were the familiar leather cuffs, chains connecting them to the end of the cot. Trapping them. Trapped. A strangled sound came from their mouth as they kicked and pulled and without thinking they spotted the knife beside the bed, too eagerly throwing their arm out to grab it, knocking over the light in the process.

A crash as ceramic shattered on the floor, a crack as the shade split down the side, but Whumpee didn’t care, they needed to be able to move. Their panicked mind thought, Stupid, stupid of Whumper to leave this in reach. Then the knife was in their hands and they frantically sliced at the cuffs, which fell away easier than expected and with a final tug Whumpee fell backwards onto the floor, the drop not far but startling enough to briefly knock the air from them as their back hit the cement. They wheezed but managed to keep going, rolling over and crawling away from the door.

Maybe this time would be different. Whumpee never had a knife before, not without Whumper there; they never had the chance to get the jump on their tormentor, but now, they could wait and fight. They could get out. But the more they looked around the room the more real it became, their memories falling back into reality. There were blood stains spattered around the center of the room, the hook on the ceiling above for chains, the bucket in the farthest corner away from the pitiful cot. Just as Whumpee’s thoughts began jumping, they heard footsteps, far, far down the hall, but steadily becoming louder, coming closer. Their throat instantly tightened, their mouth going dry. This couldn’t be real—it couldn’t be.

The footsteps continued, every once in a while pausing for a moment, and while one of Whumpee’s hands held up the quaking blade, the other clamped over their mouth as they attempted to hold in a sob. Their eyes focused on the knife in their grip, and a thought, a recognition, stung the very back of their mind. This is my knife. Mine, not Whumper’s…A dream. It has to be. They had to still be dreaming; Whumper had taken all of their things when he captured them. But the casual, near-leisurely footsteps were coming closer, closer by the second, and Whumpee didn’t want to wait to see that face again before waking up.

So then I’ll wake up. Instinct, or else a mind clouded by fear and the disillusion of needing this to be a false reality, caused Whumpee to turn the knife back towards themselves. I’ll wake up. I will wake myself up. A twisted and uncontrollable determination based in desperation drove their muscles as they brought the blade to their shoulder. Just enough pain to wake up. Have to wake up——

Their wrist flicked and the sharp edge sliced through skin, Whumpee expecting the disorienting feeling of rising to wakefulness, but they only hissed in pain, chills spreading over them as they distantly felt a warmth running down their bicep, down, down to drip from their elbow. The hot sting on their shoulder was quickly drowned out by a new wave of panic—they were still here. And the footsteps were still coming. It wasn’t enough; it must not have been enough to wake themselves. Tap, tap, tapping of shoes in the hallway. Have to wake up. Now the knife was at their forearm. Need to get out of here.

“Gahh!” A surprised and pained cry and Whumpee pulled the knife out of the skin of their arm, not remembering having committed to try and wake themselves with pain again. They squeezed their eyes shut and they pleaded to see their room at headquarters the next time they opened them. But then the footsteps stopped outside the door. And Whumpee was still here. They slumped forward onto their knees. Trapped. Always. How could I think otherwise?

The door opened with a bang, Whumpee couldn’t help the snap of terror in their face, couldn’t help but sag at their failed attempts to get out from what they thought was a nightmare, what was now so clearly real. They had never even left. Here all along. Forever.

“Do you know what the hell you’ve put me through?!” Boomed a voice, one that made Whumpee instinctively flinch, before ever seeing the attached face. Their head snapped up and they froze, their body growing numb as hopelessness began eating away at them, filling their head. Whumper loomed in the doorway, looking over Whumpee with those cold eyes. Eyes that filled Whumpee with ice, locking them in place.

Whumpee raised the blade they had forgotten was in their hand, the trembling grip giving away their fear. Whumpee couldn’t remember what they’d done to upset Whumper, but it didn’t matter, Whumper would make up a reason to be mad even if they hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Oh, look at this, you’ve started without me…” Whumper smirked and took a step forward, at which Whumpee scrambled backward, as far as they could, until their shoulder blades met the wall. No, no, no. They couldn’t do this again, they couldn’t keep living like this. Whumper was reaching into his pocket and Whumpee didn’t need to see what the item was to heave a sob. Their breathing was wild and erratic, but it didn’t cross their scattered mind that perhaps their grip was shaking and their body becoming numb due to the hyperventilating and slowly increasing blood loss. All that there was was Whumper and pain. Everything else had been taken.

“No…more…I-I can’t…” Whumpee managed to whisper between breaths. Whumper only continued digging in his pocket, finally removing a long cloth, a blindfold, holding it loosely in his palm. He raised both hands with another grin. “You can and you will, as you always have before, or I go right back to your team,” Whumper says the words in a mixed tone with mock pleasantry and threats. That was always the threat. After all, it was what had convinced Whumpee to meet him in the first place; Whumper knew that if it worked once, it would work again, and again, and again. Through all the fear and pain, Whumpee still found themselves quietly obeying, letting themselves take what Whumper wanted to do, and despite hating it and wanting it to end, Whumper was right—they always took it and would continue to, if it meant keeping the team safe. At least there was comfort in that. The team was safe as long as they were here.

This had become a mantra for Whumpee, when the pain was too much: at least the team is safe, the team is safe, at least Caretaker is safe. But still, these words didn’t make the fear any less, and each of Whumper’s slow steps forwards drained the blood from Whumpee’s face. The blindfold was still being held aloft, and Whumpee cowered, dropping their gaze, not wanting to see those horrible eyes, not wanting to be back in that choking darkness that haunted their dreams and hid whatever Whumper’s next move was. Their hands dropped to their lap, the weapon still shaking, the blade coated in blood.

Whumper was close enough to reach down and grab them if he wanted, when he drawled, “Oh, don’t let me interrupt, darling, I do so enjoy seeing you bleed…Go on, make yourself bleed again.” The voice was so low, so hazy and stern.

“Sir…sir, not again, please, please no.” Those pitiful, weeping words, the ones Whumpee knew never worked. Why did they still try? Time began moving slowly, like the last bit of molasses running down the side of a glass jar. Their head spun and their vision blurred.

Whumper then crouched in front of Whumpee, low enough to view the glassy expression of fear with a twinge of anger, blindfold waiting to be placed if Whumpee didn’t listen. It wouldn’t just be the blindfold if Whumpee didn’t obey, they both knew that, and as it draped across Whumper’s grasp, the piece of fabric became the unspoken threat of a whip, starvation, burning flesh.

Whumpee gripped the pocket knife; they hadn’t noticed they were crying until they saw the clear droplets clouding to crimson on the steel, running down the grip as they switched it to their other hand and angled the edge away from Whumper and towards their other forearm.

“Please…” The word was choked, one last attempt, but when they finally turned their head up to fully look at Whumper’s face, his outline blurry from watery eyes, Whumper only stared back. His joyful grin was gone now, lips pressed together firmly in a look that didn’t quite suit him. It almost looked like…concern? But as Whumpee blinked away tears they saw Whumper’s face again clearly, and no, it couldn’t be concern, that monster never showed concern, it was just their impatient and threatening expression of I’m waiting. Whumpee shook but resolutely thought, this is for the team, I’m keeping them safe, keeping Caretaker safe, before pressing the cool metal to their scarred skin.

“Agh hahh!” They yelled between clenched teeth before their mouth fell open in a silent gasp, and the sting of the knife was almost as painful as the utter feeling of helplessness as they cowered beneath this horrible human being. Whumpee had only just begun dragging the tip of the blade when a hand gripped their wrist, pulling the knife from their arm. Confusion warped their thoughts as they thought they could hear someone repeating words and phrases, things like no and stop and look at me and Whumpee.

Whumper never called them by their name.

As their wrist remained grasped, another hand on their shoulder shook them back and forth, their loose and exhausted muscles rocking violently with the shaking motion, and their world swayed.

Whumpee?

The grip on their hand was bruising, oh god, they were about to be dragged away, to the other side of the room. Whumpee tried to jerk away, as much as they could through heavy breaths and sobs, but Whumper’s hold on them didn’t loosen. Whumpee was about to have the blindfold knotted around their head, neck forced into a cuff, arms wrenched behind them, and—

A sudden pain at their left arm, pressing, digging into the wounded skin, and Whumpee yelled and struggled more, as a hand forced rough fabric over the open cut. Whumpee felt the knife drop from their other hand, which was prickling as if it had fallen asleep, fingers uncurling with the force on their joint and the pain in their opposite arm, and the grip finally released their wrist. The hand that released them moved to touch their face, the heel of the palm resting on their jawline and the pads of the fingers brushing the arch of their cheekbone. Whumpee flinched, not daring to pull their head away and so instead cast their eyes around the room, anywhere besides looking into Whumper’s.

Whumpee.

The heat radiating outward from the hand on their cheek made them realize just how cold the rest of their body was. Whumper’s hands were softer than expected.

It’s me.

What is this incessant voice Whumpee was hearing? Were they finally losing consciousness, were they hearing things not there?

Look at me.

No, Whumpee knew they didn’t want to do that. What they wanted was to disappear. They closed their eyes and the dizzying spinning began to slow. Whumper swiped at a mess of tears drying on their cheek. The voice was soft, soothing, calm, genuine—not a tone Whumper could ever fake. The voice trickled through their thoughts and it was a moment before Whumpee realized it was giving them instructions. In…and out…in…and out…and in…there you go…out…that’s it…now in…

Whumpee’s breathing began to slow as they subconsciously matched each inhale and exhale with the words. Erratic gasps stilled to pants, still heavy, but steady enough that the prickling sensations in their hands and feet began to fade. Eyes still closed, Whumpee’s mind, at last, became quiet; they didn’t care anymore, couldn’t muster the strength for it. As they began to slump forward, the hands caught them, holding them upright against the wall.

“Can you look at me now?”

The voice was completely clear this time, not just a distant and echoing presence. And it was not Whumper’s voice. When Whumpee blinked open their eyes, straining against the light for a moment, their lashes heavy with tears, they saw their room, at the headquarters. It was a mess—their lamp broken on the floor, the bed looking as if it’d been attacked by a wild animal—but nonetheless, it was their room.

All at once, the overwhelming understanding hit them. It had happened again. It hadn’t been real. Not a dream, but an episodic flashback of sorts, a bout of horrible hallucinations, the kind which had made Whumpee clear out their room months ago. But never had it felt so real before.

“There you are.” The voice. Whumpee looked up and—

Fuck, I must be dreaming, they thought, face dropping in defeat. It was not one of the current teammates who had stumbled in to drag Whumpee out of this nightmarish state, but Caretaker. Caretaker who hadn’t been here in what felt like ages. Caretaker who was never coming back, because they didn’t believe Whumpee’s miserable lie about disappearing, or because they did and were understandably pissed at them for leaving, and yet…

“You’re not dreaming,” Caretaker said, pulling their hand away from Whumpee’s face and placing it on their knee, and Whumpee realized they had spoken their worries aloud. Caretaker was kneeling in front of them, dressed in casual clothes, their skin its perfect and recognizable shade, their hair clean and neat, their expression collected in a way that Whumpee recognized as the other trying to hide an emotion, perhaps anger or fear or…something else Whumpee couldn’t place. They were pressing a kerchief to Whumpee’s forearm, on the worst of the cuts, but blood was starting to seep through and was staining parts of their hand.

Whumpee raised their free hand, trembling, speechless, and reached out to touch Caretaker. Just to see if they were real. If they were really here. When their hand stopped against Caretaker’s chest, just below their collarbone, and didn’t pass through the person in front of them or scatter them away in a wisp of dreamish light, fresh tears began to well in Whumpee’s eyes. “C-caretaker? What are you…?”

Caretaker caught their hand resting on their chest and scolded, “Hey, hey, don’t move your arms so much, you seriously need some real bandaging.” Whumpee only starred in shock and disbelief, tears flowing freely.

“Can you stand?”

“I…I d-don’t, I mean, I think…” Whumpee sniffled, trying to keep their breathing steady. “Yes, yeah, I can,” they eventually mustered, and immediately began pulling their feet underneath them to stand, rising too quickly and instantly feeling a grayness shroud their sight and static hum between their ears.

Caretaker stood with them, trying to let them move on their own, but when Whumpee took one step and instantly their limbs began to melt beneath them, body giving out to blood loss and the stress of the episode, Caretaker was already pulling them into their arms to carry.

They started for the door, presumably to take Whumpee to the med bay, but Whumpee clasped their shirt and shook with all the strength they had, shaking their head desperately at the face above them. “No, no you can’t—I can’t go out there like this, p-please, they don’t know…no one knows…” Whumpee trailed off, hoping Caretaker understood, and for a second something flashed across Caretaker’s eyes, the horrific, disgusting, weighted look of absolute pity—the very look Whumpee was trying to avoid by keeping their difficulties to themselves.

But Caretaker nodded and gingerly set them on the bed flat on their back, propping pillows behind Whumpee’s head and under their arms so that they were elevated above their chest. When Caretaker removed the pressure they were applying to the handkerchief at Whumpee’s arm, the fabric stayed in place, sticky and almost saturated with blood.

“I’ll go get some supplies then. And fresh linens,” Caretaker said, looking around the room before adding, “and some water. Don’t move.” They headed for the door. Whumpee wanted to say something, but was unsure what words to speak. Nothing could encompass the regret and frustration they felt regarding the way the two had last seen each other. And so they simply leaned into the tugging feeling of exhaustion.

Minutes later Caretaker returned with a small box of supplies, startling Whumpee as the door opened, and propped themselves on the edge of the bed. For a moment, Caretaker sat there, hands clutching the box tightly, gaze cast downward at the supplies.

“You’re…mad. You came here to argue, d-didn’t you?” Whumpee whispered, voice low half due to the tiredness and half to the emotions swirling in their chest—pain, fear, embarrassment, hatred towards Whumper, self-loathing—too many, too many to process right now.

Caretaker sighed at Whumpee’s accusation but didn’t deny the claim. “Whumpee…I was only ever mad because I cared about you. You are…you were, my family.”

Whumpee inwardly winced at the corrected past tense of the verb, eyes watering again. Caretaker continued, beginning to pull out supplies as they spoke. “I hated you for just leaving the team and I—I didn’t understand how you could have done that and I thought at first that you were lying, but you were so damn stubborn and eventually I just accepted that maybe you were a selfish asshole who would do something like that and well, now, now I know—I mean, you can’t pretend that you just went on vacation anymore.” Caretaker had begun slowly, but the words began pouring out all at once, without filter. Whumpee saw Caretaker cringe a bit at this.

Caretaker was now cleaning the cuts, preparing to close them, and Whumpee couldn’t help a muffled gasp at the cold cleansing solution.

“What…what happened to you?” Caretaker remained focused on their task at hand, but Whumpee felt how tense they were as they asked the question. Whumpee’s eyebrows furrowed, trying desperately to block out the memories, the dreams, the hauntings. They couldn’t do this right now. But, didn’t they owe Caretaker an explanation at least? They were silent for too long, trying to come up with a way to start, but only ended up attempting to change the subject. “...Was coming to confront me at 3am the smartest?” Whumpee sighed, attempting an air of lightness. “I mean, were you just planning on yelling at me as I slept?”

“Shut up, you’re fucking lucky I did come at this time.”

Looking up, Whumpee expected to see an exacerbated expression on the other but was surprised to see another hint of the pitying look.

“Seriously, though, jesus, you could’ve, I mean, if someone didn’t stop you, you could have…” A heavy sigh punctuates Caretaker’s words. Whumpee is too tired to try and hold in more tears.

“Look, let me finish fixing you up and then you should rest. I’ll go then, we can figure things out another time.” The suggestion is soft but Whumpee is already shaking their head, not wanting to chance the dreams again, they couldn’t take any more tonight. They felt that if they had to see Whumper’s face again, their heart would surely stop beating in their chest. They closed their eyes, not wanting to see Caretaker’s face as they struggled to get out the words. “I can’t go back to sleep. I can’t—” Whumpee’s voice cracks. “I c-can’t see him again.”

Whumpee feels Caretaker stop their movements, can imagine their calculating gaze.

“Can you…pl-ease, just stay, f-for the rest—”

“Okay.”

Their eyes open, a bit shocked by the instant agreement.

“I’ll stay. But you need to rest. Your body needs to replace the blood it's lost. I’ll stay and wake you if a nightmare starts.”

An unexpected wave of relief washes over Whumpee, dulling even the aching flesh of their wounds. Why would Caretaker ever do this for them? They hadn’t expected them to agree to stay, but they had gotten used to pleading, even when they knew the outcome. But this was not the outcome Whumpee pictured, certainly not the outcome they deserved. They wanted to thank Caretaker, opened their mouth to do so, but Caretaker nodded in a silent you’re welcome, already knowing Whumpee’s thoughts. And so, as Caretaker finished cleaning the cuts and began on the stitching, the two went unspoken, they only sounds in the room Whumpee’s quiet gasps and whimpers with each tug of the needle, despite Caretaker’s gentle and experienced handiwork.

When it was over, before Caretaker could begin cleaning up, Whumpee grabbed the other’s hand, squeezing with all their might, ignoring the throbbing of the stitches flexing with their grip. Whumpee didn’t have the strength for words and hoped the gesture could convey everything they wanted it to—apology, regret, but mostly, gratitude. The last thing they knew before falling into a deep, blissfully dreamless sleep, was Caretaker squeezing their hand in return.

#whump #whump prompt #whump tropes #whump writing #whumpee #whumper #whump prompts #original whump #caretaker