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whumpacabra · 1 month

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In for a Penny

Blood, firearm mention, referenced conditioning, implied past torture, vaguely implied past noncon, fictional politics

[Directly follows New Tricks]

Jackson sat at the desk for an hour, ass going numb in the hard wooden chair. His brain wasn’t much better - he hadn’t slept, and he was thinking himself in circles too much to even consider it. So, he sat, and watched the half dead man he spent most the night stitching back together sleep soundly on the floor.

He couldn’t drag this guy back to Command, not with the shape he was in, not knowing how eager they were to crack him open and find any secret Smith had left behind. But he couldn’t just stay holed up in a mediocre hotel all day either - hell, Beth probably was worried sick after the disappearing act he pulled last night. God, he was in for a brutal verbal beating, but he needed to get it over with.

He needed someone on his side who could help him figure out what the hell to do.

The blackberry flip phone rang once, twice.

“Hello?”

“I’m alive, by the way.” He swallowed a nervous chuckle, keeping his voice quiet. While he worried he might wake Wolf, the man lay as still and as deeply asleep as he had been all morning.

“Jackson. I’m going to kill you.” Despite her tone, he knew she was relieved. “Command has had half the cops in the city combing for you, we’re all casing the neighborhood you last commed from - what the hell happened?” There was a beat, her anger and frustration distilling to icy suspicion. “Why are you giving me a personal call instead of comming Command?”

“One of the targets is dead.”

“Yes. I noticed when I showed up to a back alley at fuck o’clock in the morning looking for you, ya wanker. One to the head, two to the chest - like a professional.” Jackson opened his mouth, then closed it. Command probably monitored their calls.

“It’s easier to explain what went down in person, but suffice to say I’m safe and the mission isn’t compromised; I just bunkered down for the night and…forgot to comm in.”

Beth hissed a sigh, accepting his excuse easily enough. It wasn’t his first time ‘accidentally’ leaving his comm off.

“Do you have the target’s hotel key?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Good. Meet me at the hotel by 9. Command wants us to inspect the room before we let forensics take a stab at it. Wouldn’t want those idiots losing the asset.”

Whatever the hell that even was.

—

Jackson acknowledged Beth as she stepped into the elevator. Professional and fresh, ready for the day. Unlike Jackson, who was predictably haggard after a sleepless night. Not to mention he was worrying himself to death thinking of Wolf waking up alone - would he even notice the note Jackson left?

Would he trust Jackson enough to stay put?

“Sleep well?”

“Terribly. You?”

“Wonderful. 9 hours straight.” She cracked a smile and elbowed him. Comms were on. Command was listening and despite it all she trusted him enough to act like she wasn’t worried. “Averaged together we’re fine. Your place really that bad?”

“Just a bad night.“ He could explain Wolf’s situation later; they were on the clock.

The door opened with a chime, the pair stepping out and heading to the dead American’s hotel room. 24D. Jackson tried the keycard twice before giving up and using the traditional key. Hopefully this dumb electric key nonsense didn’t catch on.

The ‘do not disturb’ sign jangled as the handle turned.

“Bloody hell…” Beth sighed; Jackson could smell it before he turned away from closing the door. “We need to call the boys ASAP. There might be another body.”

Jackson had to agree, the room did look like a murder scene.

Three nights. He had watched the window from the roof of the building across the street and noted the lights went off at 20:00 every night. No movement. Beth confirmed as much during her shifts. How did they miss this?

Blood was still wet where it was pooled on the bathroom tiles, tub streaked pink from a quick rinse. Suture thread and a bloody needle were smeared in handprints on the edge of the sink. But that was tame compared to the mess that was the bed.

There was only one bed - queen sized, for a couple’s suit. The sheets were a tangle of blood and worse - the salt of sweat and the distinct sour tang of vomit hung heavy in the air.

(Wolf’s refusal to sleep on the bed made more sense.)

(It had taken Jackson hours to properly clean and stitch and bandage the wounds across Wolf’s chest and arms and back. Jackson shuddered at the dawning horror that he certainly had worse left untreated.)

“Command.” Beth had made her way to the window, cracking it open with gloved hands despite the winter chill. The fresh air was sorely needed. “We need forensics at Smith’s hotel. This place looks like a slaughter house.”

“Say again, Agent Adams?”

“Forensics. Smith’s hotel room is a bloody mess and I don’t have the stomach to check the drains and bins for body parts.”

Jackson wasn’t sure they would find any. He almost said something before Command came through the line again.

“Can you identify the asset on site?”

“What is the asset?” Jackson asked with a thread of annoyance. He understood the secrecy but all he could think of was Wolf curled up in that broom closet and parroting clearly trained dialogue lines.

Command confirmed his fears.

“Romani male, dark hair, approximately 190cm, well built. Notable scars from tattoo removal on left side and right forearm - ”

“The asset is a person?” Beth’s incredulous stage whisper saved Jackson the embarrassment of letting his mounting anger bubble over.

“Yes. His designation is the Wolf.”

Jackson focused on his breathing, trying to purposefully move his own gloved hands to sift through the dresser drawers. Wolf. He was the asset. Property of the US government.

“You didn’t think to tell us the target was - this would have been a hell of a lot easier if we knew we needed to separate the two tangos.”

“The information was need to know, and you didn’t need to know.” Command paused, but spoke before Beth’s muttered curses could roll through the line. “Agent Smith and the asset were together, correct?”

“Until last night.” Jackson felt the lie chipping his teeth. (What would have happened to Wolf if he had reported his presence last night? What would happen if he handed him over to Interpol now?) “What happens when we find him?”

“Interpol wants him alive. That’s all I’m cleared to tell you, and I’m only telling you because from what it sounds like there’s a good chance Agent Smith liquidated the asset before we could get to it.”

“Liquidated. Sure.” Beth scoffed, uncomfortable nausea rolling in her words. Jackson knelt next to an unzipped duffel bag, leafing through the folded clothes with disinterest. He was half dazed by the information - he should say something, he should ask for more information - but the comms clicked dead.

It was just him and Beth now.

“Beth.” His voice felt small. The other agent sucked air through her teeth and grimaced.

“I don’t want to see a dismembered limb or dead or - ”

“Beth, I don’t think there’s a body here.”

Oh, fuck, he left an internationally sought after asset in his crappy hotel room with a note saying he would be back in an hour or two. For all Jackson knew Wolf had already skipped town.

“Oh, fuckin’ hell, I shouldn’t have left him - ”

He was already out the door before Beth could answer. She chased him to the elevator, stripping off her bloodied gloves.

“What the hell are you talking about? Jackson, I know you didn’t get much sleep, but you’re - ”

“I left the Wolf at my hotel because he was unarmed and scared and hurt and I thought - I didn’t think. He wasn’t in any condition to talk so I didn’t say anything to Command because I was just gonna help patch him up, figure out what the hell happened to him, and I now realize I have left the mission objective alone in a first floor room at the Well’s Inn across town.”

The elevator doors opened with a ping, a clearly stressed pair of tourists and their young son squeezing into the elevator. Beth spent the remaining 28 seconds of the ride to the ground floor trying to melt Jackson’s face with her eyes alone.

It wasn’t until they got into her car that she snapped.

“What the hell do you mean the asset is in your fucking hotel room?” Beth was kind enough to start the vehicle and begin speeding across town, aggressively driving and definitely breaking a few speed limits.

“He killed Smith.”

“Oh, and that’s supposed to inspire confidence - you’ve got a murderous asset in your fucking hotel room?”

“Elizabeth, something’s wrong.” The use of her full name got her attention as she impatiently waited at a red light. “I don’t - you saw Smith’s room. That’s his blood. Wolf’s blood. Smith did that to him. I spent half the night patching him up and I didn’t even - oh, Jesus, I only saw what was under his shirt.”

“Okay. Okay that - that is fucked up. And - and fuck, we need to find him, and get him to Command. We need to tell Command - they, they’ll know what to do.”

“They’ll just hand him over to the CIA agents in Interpol. God knows what they’ve got in mind for him. Poor bastard.” Jackson muttered, partly to himself.

He knew the internal investigation Smith was escaping was messy. But he also knew that it was…fruitful, if Interpol wanted the ‘asset’ he ran off with. The agency thought they could use Wolf. How and what the terrified man sleeping on the hotel floor could be used for, Jackson wasn’t sure.

But it couldn’t be pleasant.

The pair of agents barreled into the sleepy hotel, briskly making their way to Jackson’s room. It hadn’t appeared that the window had been tampered with from the outside but there was a chance…

The door swung open, hinges squealing as Beth swept the room with her pistol, Jackson following close behind. And there was the Wolf, kneeling at the foot of the bed, looking up at them with a painfully blank expression.

“Sir.” He acknowledged with a dip of his head, dark eyes flicking between Beth and Jackson, fear and apprehension storming behind a facade of calm. Beth looked to Jackson, holstering her weapon.

What now?

[Directly before In for a Pound]

(Part of my Freelancers: Changing Tides series)

Taglist: @stargeode

#whump #blood #firearms #conditioning #past torture #implied past noncon #fictional politics #freelancers #good news: got up to my alarm for the first time all week. bad news: bones hurty :[ gonna write some whump later so have this plotty piece

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whumpacabra · 1 month

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New Tricks

Angst, crying, exhaustion, fever, touch starvation, scars, local anesthetic, stitches, painful wound treatment, pain medication, needle mention, fear of electrocution, anticipated violence, referenced character death, past torture, implied past noncon

[Directly follows Bad Dog]

The Wolf waited. He drank every second of gentle touch he could get and he waited for the price to be exacted on his already rent flesh.

It never came.

He cried himself to exhaustion, nauseous with the knowledge he was too tired, that it would kill him to take any more punishment. (He didn’t want to die.) But the hands that pulled his tear stained face from the agent’s tear soaked shirt were gentle, holding his jaw like it was a fragile thing. And the eyes looking down at him - alien with their pity - had no sharp edges trying to cut into his own pain glazed eyes.

“I - I have a medkit. Would you - do you need help, stitching up your back?”

The Wolf stared up at him, too tired to process the words beyond ‘help.’ He didn’t get help - he got treatment. He recovered enough to be broken again. But there was a finality to the way this man said that word, like it meant something more than a temporary state of being.

“Okay. I’m - I’m just going to get my medkit, alright? Alright.” Jackson was talking more to himself, and the Wolf was fine with that. The words were starting to blur together, the sound of a particular voice that didn’t come with hurt or insults or harsh hands. Jackson’s gentle hands propped the Wolf against the edge of the tub, an arm draped over the side and his head resting against the cool false porcelain plastic. He was so fucking cold. He just wanted to curl up somewhere warm and sleep.

(He wanted to crack open Jackson’s rib cage and slot himself between his lungs.)

He was shivering intermittently when Jackson returned (had he been gone long?) but the Wolf was just happy to have that warm presence hovering near him again. The agent sat beside him, the space between the sink and tub a cramped and uncomfortable place to fit two grown men, but the Wolf didn’t mind.

(How odd, that just hours before he would dread having another warm blooded body close to his, and now - now, with this one, he wanted to cling to that warmth like a leech.)

The click and snap of a syringe being prepped had the Wolf open his eyes, glancing over his shoulder at Jackson, who offered a nervous smile.

“It’s a local anesthetic - is that alright?” The Wolf blinked at him, and then looked away. He didn’t know how to answer questions about his comfort, his wants. (He just wanted to sleep.) The kiss of the needle was expected, but the bloom of cool numbness it bestowed where it pricked his back was a welcome surprise.

“I’m - I need to clean these. Even with the anesthetic it might hurt.” The Wolf could feel those alien eyes watching the back of his head, so he nodded. “Sorry.” Jackson had nothing to apologize for.

The sting of antiseptic was absent, but the pressure and prickle of exposed flesh being prodded and debris teased away was a familiar sensation. His handler had cut into him on the first night, reckless with rage. The Wolf tried not to dwell on the memory, but a tremor shivered up his spine as Jackson worked, gentle hands pausing.

“Are you alright?” Another nod. Another soft ‘sorry’ that felt unwarranted. It was the Wolf’s fault for being weak. He tried to focus on the steady rhythm of Jackson’s stitches, oddly difficult to anticipate with his pain numbed flesh.

Three days of those deep cuts left exposed, open to the air and sweat and worse. They would scar, badly, like the cuts that ran from his right hip to his spine, skin ridged and thick with scar tissue. His handler wanted them to scar badly. He wanted the Wolf to remember - to remember that he -

A sob caught in his throat, the shock collar still heavy around his neck. It wasn’t set to voice activation - he didn’t think it was - but it had shocked him earlier. Had his handler done that? Had his handler survived and was watching and would kill Jackson or have him kill Jackson and - ?

“Easy love, I’m almost done. You’re doing so well.” A voice so soft and so different from the barking orders and snarled insults he was acclimated to. The Wolf blinked away fresh tears, struggling to find his voice, a hoarse whisper rising from his ragged throat.

“Is he dead?” Three little words; a question he couldn’t stand to know the answer to. A question he needed to know the answer to if he ever wanted to sleep again. Jackson’s hands, cold - so cold against the Wolf’s burning, numbed skin - stilled, a steady palm pressed to a small expanse of uncut flesh. But not too hard, mindful of his bruises.

“Yes. Agent Smith is gone. He’s dead.” The Wolf could hear a question in those words, but he was too relieved to consider it. Jackson - anyone - could kill him, let him die badly, alone, and bloody, and he would die happy. He outlived his handler. A victory he didn’t know he needed.

Jackson resumed his steady handed stitches, and the Wolf let his head drop, thoughts running watery and disconnected. The hum of the light above. The creak of the window pane holding back the wind. The footsteps in the room above - light, belonging to a child, a bed creaking and muffled voices soft with sleepy affection.

“You’re warm.” He sure as hell didn’t feel warm. The Wolf looked over his shoulder at Jackson, instinctively flinching as a hand came toward his face, but he relaxed into the icy touch pressed to his forehead. He almost missed it when it left. “Here, are you allergic to Advil?”

The Wolf looked down at the red pill and the almost comically small paper cup with a swallow’s worth of water. His stomach ached, hunger and nausea fighting for recognition even as he downed the medication and splash of liquid. He had taken harsher drugs with less in his stomach. (Not that what was roiling in his gut was pleasant or nutritious.)

With a shudder he rested against the tub once again, Jackson’s hands and sterilizing wipes traveling away from the oldest, deepest cuts. The antiseptic stung, a familiar pain that burned like acid over his wounds. But Jackson didn’t linger, didn’t press the antiseptic deeper into his flesh. He stitched the deepest wounds, bandaged the rest, and worried over surface level burns as though the Wolf could still feel them after the years of his handler’s habit leaving its mark.

By the time Jackson was putting away his medkit, the first grey glow of dawn was seeping through the rain dappled window. The Wolf hadn’t moved in hours, sitting still and as comfortable as he could be while Jackson worked. He was so tired. And when he limped out of the bathroom after Jackson, there was a wonderful nest of blankets and pillows waiting on the soft carpeted floor.

“You take the bed, I don’t mind sleeping on the floor - besides, your back could…” Jackson trailed off as the Wolf wandered to the crude bed on the floor, dropping harshly to his knees and collapsing into the softness.

In his daze of exhaustion, he barely registered the anxious horror of knowing Jackson wanted him on the bed. That was a problem for a well rested Wolf. That was something he could handle tomorrow, that he could survive tomorrow, that he could stomach tomorrow.

Right now, there was a soft surface below him, a heater humming to his right, and a painlessness to his injuries that should have frightened him.

But he was too tired, so he slept.

[Directly before In for a Penny]

(Part of my Freelancers: Changing Tides series)

Taglist: @stargeode

#whump #angst #crying #exhaustion #fever #touch starvation #local anesthetic #stitches #painful wound treatment #pain medication #needle mention #shock collar #past torture #implied past noncon #anticipated violence #referenced character death #freelancers #shhhh he eepy <- my sleep schedule is so fucked. why do town council meetings run until 1 AM.#(it is kinda my/our fault for pestering them abt [redacted] buttttt whateves.)

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