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oneweirdbookaddict · 6 months

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Whumptober day thirteen!

Legend has an infection, Wars helps him out.

847 words.

Warnings for injury (not graphic but there), and implied illness (no vomiting), and a bit of delirium. Let me know if there should be more!

It’s a nice day.

Stupidly nice.

Sunny, warm but not too hot, a nice breeze blowing… beautiful.

So of course something has to happen and they can’t enjoy it.

No, why would they ever get a day to relax?

He moves to Legend’s side, rolling the other’s sleeve up to look again at the cut there.

It’s a nasty one- even without the infection.

Deep, long, clearly having been ignored for a few days. In the process of healing, but the infection will stop that.

The bandages he’d removed from Legend’s arm lay next to the sleeping hero, stained with blood and dirt. He can’t help but to sigh at them- it’s almost like he’d been trying to get an infection.

The wound needs cleaned. Leg’s temperature had spiked… so he needed a cool compress, too.

So he fills a bucket with water, sticking an ice arrow in it so it’ll cool down, gets a towel damp with the still-warm water, moving back to the veteran.

Takes his scarf off- it’d just been getting in the way- and carefully cleans the cut out.

It looks like it should’ve been stitched up- but he can’t do that now with the infection.

So he focuses on what he can do.

Moves back to the water, testing to see how cold it is, gets another rag damp, and laying the cool rag on the Vet’s forehead.

Jumps when Legend’s expression pulls into a frown, eyes opening and blearily finding him.

“Hey, Vet, how you feeling?” He asks.

Another frown. He puts a hand on Legend’s shoulder to stop him from sitting up.

“Take it easy, man, you’ve got a nasty fever. That lovely slice on your arm you decided not to tell us about got infected.”

“It’s just a cut, I’m fine-”

He shoots the other a glare. Legend, to his surprise, flinches ever so slightly and lays back again.

“It’s infected, Leg. Like it or not, you’re just gonna have to fight this one off. Take it easy.”

“Where are the others?”

“Don’t wor-”

“Warriors you tell me where they are or I swear by all the goddesses-”

“Goddess above, Veteran, they’re just trying to find something for you! Medicine, a town, something!”

The vet’s expression pulls into a scowl.

“Don’t you even argue with me, they’re already gone and you have a fever.” He says before Legend can say anything.

He gets a glare, but Legend falls silent.

But lets him carefully clean the cut out again and dry it off.

“You need anything? Food, water, a blanket?” “Just some water.” Leg mutters, slowly sitting up when he grabs a waterskin and hands it to him.

Takes a few drinks, then lays back.

It’s quiet through the night, they speak little and Legend falls back asleep rather quickly.

He doesn’t mean to doze off, but he’s exhausted.

And he wakes up to Legend weakly rasping out his name.

“Wars.”

He jolts, glancing at the vet. And his heart sinks as he quickly makes his way over to him.

The veteran is clammy, out of breath, incredibly pale, eyes half lidded and dazed.

“I don’t… I don’t feel so good.”

And if Legend is admitting to not feeling well, that by itself is a cause for concern.

The veteran never admitted to feeling anything- any sort of pain, emotion, nothing.

“Ok, ok… lay down, are you cold?” He says, Legend shaking his head weakly.

He nudges the half cooperating Vet into his bedroll.

Sticks an ice arrow and some water in a bucket, uses his hand to take Legend’s temperature, noticing how it’s spiked.

“Easy… let me take a look at that cut, yeah?” He says, taking his arm and pulling the sleeve up.

It looks the same- red and inflamed, head radiating off of it.

Ok. Two rags, one for his forehead and one for the cut.

Which is what he does.

Puts a damp one on his forehead, Legend's eyes fluttering slowly. Then moves down and slowly cleans the cut out.

Legend groans softly, making him wince. “Sorry, Vet.”

He stands to move, but Leg’s hand grasps his hand suddenly. “Don’t leave.” The vet whispers.

“Hey… I’m not leaving. Just moving, ok?”

“Don’t leave me.” Legend pleads. He stares.

“Woah… hey, I won’t. Promise.”

Legend’s eyes are feverish when they flutter open, slowly finding him. “Don’t… please stay. You’re… real. Don’t… know what's real anymore. I thought… she was real. But it wasn’t.”

“This is real, Vet, I promise.” He says quietly.

“It was just a dream…”

“You’re not dreaming, Leg, this is real. I swear. Do you trust me?”

“Can’t trust anyone. They just leave. And you get hurt. You always get hurt.” Legend mumbles.

He falters, unsure of how to reply to that.

And then it’s been too long.

Legend looks away from him, closing his eyes again.

He squeezes his friend's hand softly, using his other one to brush back the vet’s hair.

Looks into the woods, silently begging for one of the others to find something, to return.

But the woods stay silent.

~~~~

#whumptober2023 #whumptober 2023 #no. 13 #cold compress #infection #i dont feel so good #linked universe #illness tw #delirium tw #lu legend #linkeduniverse #legend lu #legend linked universe #linked universe legend #wars lu #lu wars #warriors lu #lu warriors #linked universe wars

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ashintheairlikesnow · 6 months

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The Nightingale's Song

CW: Dehumanizing language, use of ‘it’ as pronoun for nonhuman whumpee, sadistic whumper, creepy whumper, intimate whumper, fade-to-black noncon implied, magical whump, captivity, minor side character death

One year after the events of The Seas No More

Gilly, fingers itching to close around the old biddy’s skinny neck, settled for laying the cool compress over her forehead, taking pains to look like nothing so much as the devoted tenant helping his landlady through some terrible mysterious illness.

It had been a very, very long eight months or so since he'd started this little act, feigning devotion and care for the old woman, and it was with very real relief that he finally saw the end in sight.

Mrs. Neumann’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, her little yappy dog running circles below her where she was laid out on the chaise in her less-fashionable front room. It stopped, now and then, to lick at her fingers, and then ran in circles again.

“Water, please, Gilly,” Mrs. Neumann croaked, and he smiled solicitously as he tipped the cup to her lips, allowing her only a few sips before pulling it back away. “Thank you, you sweet young man.” Her cold bony fingers closed around his wrist and Gilly suppressed a shudder only with effort. "You have been so good to me, in these hard days..." Her eyes, when they met his, were strangely foggy, as if covered with a sort of film that stood between her and the world. “You have been such a boon to an old woman with no one to care for her. There is some infection, I should think… We must send for the doctor, mustn’t we?”

“The doctor has already come and gone,” Gilly said, leaning close and half-shouting in the hopes she could hear anything he said. Her mouth worked aimlessly, and he gave her more water, although it didn't seem to help. “Do you not remember?” Her hearing had gotten even worse since her illness had taken hold of her - or since the siren's song had convinced her that she was ill, anyway - and soon enough, he thought, all this shouting could finally cease.

“Oh, he did?,” Mrs. Neumann quavered, eyes watering. But then she seemed to forget her emotions and looked to the side. “I suppose so… He must have. Oh, but Gilly, who is singing? The voice is so fine…”

In the corner, Gilly’s siren sang, plaintive and mournful, as he’d been ordered to. He hadn’t wanted to turn his song to Gilly's will, but with a year of careful teaching he had taught the creature to obey him without hesitation, and they were finally ready to put Gilly’s plan into motion.

It began here.

His future would start here at Mrs. Neumann’s sickbed, where beneath the notes of the lovely song were the commands being worked into the elderly widow’s malleable little mind while she burned with unchecked fever.

The doctor came and said there is nothing to be done now but rest. Gilly Wentworth cares for you now. Leave him everything you have. He deserves all you have and more.

He deserves everything.

“He's a friend,” Gilly replied to her question, shouting right against her ear and getting almost no sign she was aware of him at all. Her eyes shifted, moving as if following the notes of Areyto’s beautiful song. The clouds over her irises were thickening. “He sings well indeed! It was a miracle I found him!"

“As the hart on the mountain so was my love brave,” The siren sang, powerful tenor rising and falling. Its eyes were distant, its body relaxed in a way it never was otherwise. But even Gilly could see that the siren loved the act of using its voice, not only for luring wayward sailors but simply to sing at all. “So handsome, manly and clever. So kind and sincere and he loved me so dear - oh, Edwin, thy equal was never..."

“How beautiful,” Mrs. Neumann whispered, lips barely moving. He watched the fog on her eyes overtake them entirely as the spell in the siren’s voice took hold of her. “Oh, Gilly, you have done more than anyone could ever be asked to do for me… it's a pity, what happened with your father… you should have kept your riches…"

“Yes,” Gilly whispered, leaning closer. “Yes, I should have…"

"A pity," The old woman repeated, reaching blindly for him, unable now to see anything but what the siren commanded. "Such a pity… you deserve everything…"

Gilly shivered with anticipation, breathing harder. "Yes, yes, I do…"

Even the little yappy dog had gone silent, now, head cocked with its ears up as it listened, seated on the ground. Gilly wondered idly if the dog would try to give him all its stupid little bones or something, if the siren’s magic could speak to the hearts of animals, too.

It didn't work on animals, everyone knew that. But then it wasn't supposed to work on women, either, and here was Mrs. Neumann wholly ensorcelled by it.

He would have to go see Atabei, and tell her, after this was over.

“You have been such a good and kind gentleman…” She murmured, and he held her hand in both of his, soft papery wrinkled skin cradled between his palms. “I will leave you everything, everything you deserve…”

“Yes," Gilly repeated, more insistently this time, leaning even closer. He could smell her now, the rosewater she dabbed at her neck and wrists each day like clockwork when she rose, the sour note of her sweat beneath. It wouldn’t be long now.

As soon as she signed.

“But now he is dead and gone to death’s bed,” The siren continued, “He’s cut down like a rose in full bloom. He’s fallen asleep and left me here to weep by the sweet silver light of the moon…”

Mrs. Neumann’s mouth had fallen open, a look of serenity overtaking her features entirely but for the clouds over her eyes. Gilly left her for the moment and went over to a table near to the door, grabbing the sheaf of papers there, an inkwell and pen. He returned, settled himself back next to her, and began to speak to her in a soft voice.

She heard, somewhere, deep beneath the deafness that had come on her with age and the siren’s song. The siren commanded her to hear him, so she did.

He explained how important it was that she leave her wealth to someone who would use it wisely, that her friends and the church could not be trusted with it - only Gilly Wentworth, who cared for her so faithfully, deserved her fortune.

She nodded, and wept a little at the selfless nature of such a man, and then she took the pen.

The old woman signed every paper he gave her, her signature unmistakably her own and unwavering, even though she never looked directly at any of the words. He’d had these drawn up himself by a solicitor who had remarked, also, on the fine quality of his friend’s singing, before his own eyes had clouded.

When they had left the solicitor's office, the man had remembered no such song, only Gilly himself, and how kind he was to care so for an old woman alone in the world.

He would file the papers, once Mrs. Neumann finally kicked over the bucket and went on to the endless pile of her previous beloved yappy dogs in the sky, waiting for their mistress to greet them. Really, it wasn’t like she was doing anything with her wealth anyway.

Gilly intended to do quite a lot with her wealth.

“Roll on, silver moon, guide the traveler’s way when the nightingale’s song is in tune,” The siren’s voice shifted, went so painfully sad that tears welled in Mrs. Neumann’s eyes, moved by the mourning the siren could mimic but, Gilly thought, not actually fully feel. “Never more with my lover shall I stray by the sweet silver light of the moon…”

She signed.

And she signed.

When he had all he needed, he put the sheaf of papers back, poured a glass of a scarlet liquid into a crystal cordial glass, and then set it into Mrs. Neumann’s hands, closing her fingers around it. She didn’t seem to notice, frozen in place by the strength and power of the siren’s song.

Smiling, Gilly walked slowly towards the corner where his captive magic creature stood, lit by the strong yellow sun coming in the windows. Despite the immensity of emotion in its song, there was an emptiness in its dark eyes that sent a thrill down Gilly’s spine and pooled a greedy heat within him begging to be released. The sun touched the edges of its black curls and turned them to gold, shone warm on smooth brown skin.

Naked, it was a vision, an ancient statue brought to life by the favor - or curse - of ancient gods. Gilly came to a stop beside it, looking over its finely-formed face, the imprints of his fingers still, eternally, written clearly in purples and reds around the slim column of its neck. His eyes moved down, following the complicated swell of magical symbols that held it firmly in check, bound it without question to his will. The siren looked down and away from him, the song… shifting just a little.

The note of wistful loss that the words called for became something stronger but far more painful to hear, a wailing plea to the heavens for help trapped within its perfect pitch. And yet no help could come.

Not for such a monster, not with the magic keeping it still for Gilly’s every touch, for as long as he commanded it to be.

“His grave I will seek until morning appears and weep for my lover so brave…”

Gilly laid his hand against the siren’s face, palm to its cheek, and its voice wavered a little as its dark eyes closed.

“I’ll embrace cold turf and wash with my tears the flowers that bloom o’er his grave…”

With avid delight and no small amount of desire he followed the trail of a tear that ran down its other cheek and settled at the corner of its mouth. He touched his thumb to the spot and then licked the salt off it. To see the creature at its wicked work was… truly beautiful to behold. To know that it wept because it could do nothing but obey him - him, Gilly Wentworth, just a man in a world full of men and yet now one of the most powerful men alive - was… incredible.

Awe-inspiring.

And they had only just begun.

“Never again shall my bosom know joy,” The siren’s voice dipped to low, a hushed and mournful lament. “With my Edwin I hope to be soon. Lovers shall weep o’er where we both sleep by thy sweet silver light, bonny moon.”

Gilly checked back on Mrs. Neumann, and smiled. She stared off into space, her chest moving fitfully with emotion. The money, the house, the horses even… all of it would be Gilly’s very, very soon.

Really, it was like she was investing in him.

Just like everyone else was going to do.

Pity she wouldn’t see the returns.

“Have her drink what’s in the cup,” He whispered. The siren took a breath and obeyed, changing its power minutely.

“Roll on, silver moon, guide the traveler’s way when the nightingale’s song is in tune…”

Gilly watched as Mrs. Neumann, seemingly in a trance, lifted the cup to her lips and drank it all, swallow after swallow, some of the liquid running from the corners of her mouth to wet her hair and the chaise beneath her.

He smiled.

“And never, never more with my lover I’ll stray by thy silver light, bonny moon…”

The final note hung in the air, as Mrs. Neumann’s eyes slowly closed. She relaxed back into the chaise, her hand dropping, the cup clinking onto the floor and rolling away, the last drops of poison spilling like water to evaporate and leave no trace of themselves behind.

Gilly exhaled, then walked with purpose back to the siren.

It raised its eyes, briefly, to meet his just as he grabbed it by the arms and shoved its back against the wall. A gilded mirror hanging next to it crashed to the ground, cracking into pieces, and the little dog took to yapping again.

It stared at him with naked, unhidden fear.

“Good,” Gilly murmured, an inch from its false man’s face. Uneven breath on its lips, those eyes like pools of deep water locked on his. There were still red welts on its back, new ones thanks to Gilly discovering that even its pain sounded pretty, and he enjoyed the soft sound the siren made as its back was ground against the wallpaper.

He put one hand around its neck, thumb pressing just over its pulse, and felt it flutter and jump under his touch as the siren bared its neck to him, as he had taught it always to do. To defy even this touch would result in a misery the stupid sea creature could not bear. Even the dumbest animals could be trained, after all. Even the stupidest, most stubbornly beautiful man-shaped things could learn.

Its voice was thin and airy. “M-Master-... please-"

“You did wonderfully,” He breathed. “A perfect tool for my will. Now we must find someone to take the dog - it’s irritating but I won’t leave it to starve here, will I? I’m not so heartless as all that - and then we’ll sell the house and the horses and all this nonsense and frippery she keeps… and then we’ll be on our way, won’t we?” He leaned forward, speaking against the siren’s ear just to feel the way its body shivered against his. “You and I. Now. Kneel for me.”

“Yes, master.” Its voice went dull. Its mimicry lost its shine, and everything fell flat from its mouth like heavy stone. It always spoke like that, when he commanded it to its knees.

Gilly didn’t mind.

Behind him, as the poison took hold, he heard Mrs. Neumann's breath go suddenly rapid and rasping, heard her fall from the chaise to the floor, arms and legs rigid, muscles spasming.

It would only last a few moments.

Then she would slip into unconsciousness and finally to her death, and Gilly would be one step closer to everything he'd ever wanted.

He let go and stepped back, watching the siren gracefully sink down onto Mrs. Neumann’s expensive woven rug.

Gilly put a hand in its hair, gripped tight enough to make it whimper with the pain when he pulled its head back. “I need to write a letter to Atabei." His other hand worked at his breeches, and his eyes took in the way the thing shuddered at the sight with greedy, rising lust. "Have to tell her it worked on a woman. I should see if it works on other women... Need to tell Beibei I finally have the coins to come see her for a visit. Be dressed in real finery, for once."

"Yes, master."

"Sssshhh. Open your mouth for me."

He closed his eyes, buried both hands in the siren’s thick hair, and gave himself over to his triumph and the perfect pleasure of the siren’s tears.

Taglist: @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @theelvishcowgirl @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam @mj-or-say10 @apokolyps @wildfaewhump @shrimpwritings

Covers @whumptober prompts 13, 14, 15

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quietlyimplode · 6 months

Text

the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 13 - I don’t feel so good

Warnings: nightmares, illness, vomiting

Word Count: 1.6k (gif not mine)

Summary: Clint gets sick after a mission and Natasha learns the importance of having your own space. (First dates)

A/N: Happy Friday dear ones. Well done on making it through the week.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

2009

NEW YORK

Their changing relationship is new and Clint knows they both feel the shift.

Neither willing to say anything.

Fury’s emphasis on partnership had set a punishing pace of nonstop missions and constant surveillance in the first year.

It was effective.

Natasha was used to it.

Clint was not.

The Red Room had never believed in rest, and Clint seemed to revel in it.

She’d often find him asleep on the couch with the window open, and she kept telling him that it wasn’t safe.

He’d laugh, tell her to join him.

She’d become very familiar with the way he worked; and with his apartment; and he’d become more familiar with her trauma and skills sets.

It all had a way of bonding them.

The second year, Fury had sent them on more long term missions, deep cover, and Natasha found when they were apart she missed him.

They come back together like magnets to debrief and talk.

The hours moved quickly, and she wondered if he missed her like she missed him.

It was silly really, she told herself, that there was no way; with all her baggage that he would ever feel the same.

She was glad he was finally home.

Two weeks he’d been in Antigua.

She carefully juggles the donuts and apples in one hand and knocks on the door with the other.

He doesn’t answer and she picks the lock anyway.

“Clint?” she calls, “it’s me.”

She wanders in and finds clothes strewn across the apartment, telltale signs he’s home.

She sets the donuts and apples on the bench and continues to the bedroom.

“You’d better not be naked, again,” she calls out, half covering her eyes as she pushes open the door.

She finds him on the bed, in his boxers asleep.

Natasha walks over to him and touches his shoulder; heat radiating off him.

“Clint?”

She shakes him.

She’s never worried over someone before, not consciously at least, and the new feeling makes waking him feel urgent.

“Clint wake up,” she repeats, urgently.

Eyes peak open and he groans.

“Hey.”

Attempting to get up, he moves slower than usual, and doesn’t seem pleased to see her.

“Your face is warm,” she tells him, “do you have a temperature?”

“Idunno,” he says, groaning again and laying back down.

“Im’k,” he tells her, rolling over.

“Your sick?” she asks redundantly, knowing the answer before he refutes it.

She leaves and gets him some painkillers and water, returning to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

“Clint?”

He looks up, his face sorrowful.

“I don’t feel so good,” he confesses, then promptly vomits on the floor.

He groans.

“Sorry,” he says, looking up with glazed eyes, “sorry.”

Natasha steps around it, pushing him gently back into the bed, and passing him water and the two little pills.

“Take this,” she urges.

He stares at her for a minute before following her instructions, then leaning back he apologises again.

Natasha goes to bathroom to find cleaning supplies, and returns to clean the vomit.

“Mmmsorry,” he mumbles, “please.”

He raises her head to find him staring again, and she assures him gently.

“Go to sleep, Clint,” she whispers.

“Be here?” he asks, tiredly.

“Yeah,” she assures him, “I’ll be here.”

Clint talks in his sleep, things she’s sure he wouldn’t want her knowing.

He calls out for his mother, and she sits by him, drawing circles on his hand and telling him stories that she knows to calm him down.

The fever spikes and drops and she sits with him through it.

Fury calls through with a mission for her and for the first time, she asks if she can stay grounded.

She tells him that Clint isn’t well and she needs to stay.

Fury hadn’t said much but his distain was clear.

He told her, she had a week, and sent through the mission packet regardless.

She hears Clint get up, move to the bathroom.

Dutifully, she follows and knocks on the door asking if he’s okay.

“Nat? You’re still here?”

His voice sounds pathetic and she tells him she’ll warm up some food. He calls out thanks and she leaves him be.

She sucks at this.

Natasha knows Clint just seems to know how to make her feel better, but she has no context, only what she’s looked up. She knows to track the painkillers, make sure he eats and drinks, and sleeps.

She thinks maybe, he might be feeling better, the last two days passing quickly.

Smiling as he enters, he greets her with a tiny wave.

Natasha offers him food, but he beelines for the coffee.

Holding up the cup, he grins.

“Make sure you eat something with that,” she smiles back, glad to see him acting more like himself.

Clint steps forward.

“Thanks,” he says, offering her the coffee.

“You know, for taking care of me.”

Natasha ignores the acknowledgment.

“Are you feeling better?” she asks.

Clint shrugs.

“Better enough I think,” he nods taking another sip.

The silence is comfortable, as they both move around the kitchen. The morning passes slow, with Natasha pushing Clint to the couch to rest.

She watches as he dozes then allows herself to do the same.

The forth night of staying with him is the longest she’s ever lived with someone in a setting that’s not contrived.

It’s the most comfortable she thinks she’s ever been. This apartment, this small place of a friend’s home, is perfect in all the ways she would think a home would be.

It makes her want to live somewhere other than the base. To have a place of her own.

She thinks Clint knows she’s not ready to leave, because he doesn’t say anything, and tells her to stay with him; that’s he’s still not 100% and needs some help.

The night has been kind and they’ve made it through another movie in his DVD collection that he swears everyone should watch. Movies like The Princess Diary and Miss Congeniality are at the top of the list and though she makes fun of it, she knows they for her.

She smiles, a spontaneous moment that Clint notices, and offers a smile on return.

If only her 15 year old self could see her now.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks after a moment.

“Do you think they’d let me get an apartment?” she asks, “away from the base?”

Clint looks slightly off, and she thinks she did something wrong.

It’s a moment before he nods and smiles back.

“Yeah! Of course, yeah!” his enthusiasm is infective.

“Would you want to live somewhere near here? There’s an apartment nearby? I could ask? It’s not big but it’s like in the apartment block over!? Nat, you could learn to cook like you wanted! Not that you couldn’t before, but it’s easier when it’s your own place,” he rambles.

“You could get stuff? Do you know how good stuff is? A cool rock, your favourite hair conditioner, oh! A favourite mug! Not that you couldn’t before, but like it’s different in your own space.”

She smiles, slightly overwhelmed.

Natasha sits with her hands around her glass, and nods.

“I’ll help you, okay? We can work it out, together,” he assures.

“Yeah,” she says, sipping her drink, “I’d like that.”

He knocks on her door, flowers and food in hand.

Moving from foot to foot, Clint knocks again impatiently, and waits.

It’s slow but finally she opens the door.

She looks worse for wear than he’s ever seen her.

Dark circles under her eyes, pale face and a slight sheen of sweat on her face.

“Oh Nat,” he says, sympathetically.

He still thinks back to the time, months ago, when she took care of him.

“How long have you been feeling like shit for?”

She shrugs.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He pushes his way inside.

“It’s okay, I am feeling better, tell Fury I’ll be back on Monday,” she sighs.

He laughs.

“I’ll do no such thing.”

He looks her over again.

“Go to bed,” he says softly, “I’ll make us something to eat.”

Natasha must really not be feeling well, as she pads slowly back to bed, and climbs in without argument.

Later, he finds her in the midst of a nightmare, sweat drenched and hand in mouth to stop the screams and tears.

Clint’s heart breaks.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, like soothing a small child, “everything will be okay.”

She looks up, eyes unseeing.

“I don’t feel so good,” she whispers, “they’ll kill me if they know.”

His heat drops.

“Who’s going to kill you? Hmm? Here in your own apartment?”

It seems to orient her, so he continues.

“No one can touch you here, not with the bullet proof glass, or the soft blankets that surround you. No one would find you here, with your name changed to Natalie. You’re safe and I’ll help protect you, even though you don’t need it.”

She closes her eyes and tucks herself in next to him.

“Mmmsorry,” she whispers.

Their first date is a non event, and although both of them acknowledge that it was their first date, it’s more because it’s the first time they kiss.

Popcorn and a movie on Clint’s couch, with Natasha dressed in his clothes and Clint in his oldest hoodie.

Anything else, they agreed, would be contrived.

All day they play someone else, dressed up and faking happiness.

In their apartments the masks drop.

It seems right that the first time and the first date is perfectly in a place they feel the most safe.

He promises though, that he’ll take her to all his favourite places, and kiss her there as well.

#whumptober2023 #no. 13 #i don’t feel so good #clintasha #natasha romanoff #black widow #clint barton #my fic #hawkeye #natasha romanoff fic #fic recs #clintasha fanfiction #clintasha fanfic #clint barton x natasha romanoff #Natasha Romanoff x Clint Barton #marvel fic #the avengers

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bearsinpotatosacks · 6 months

Text

Will the Blood Be There in the Morning? - Whumptober2023

But for days like today, he didn’t need a date to remember. He didn’t need to read a board or for someone to inform him, he knew that today was the day he died.

He could tell in the rising sickness, rippling through his stomach and leaving that thick, sharply sweet feeling of nausea in his throat. It was the screaming sensation in his bones telling him something was wrong, different in his reanimated corpse tonight. The scar across his back didn’t hurt exactly, not tingly or weeping, yet at least, but he could certainly say that he was more aware of it right now than he usually was.

----

Ahkmenrah experiences his death again.

For day 13 of @whumptober . Also on AO3, inspired by a post here on tumblr that I can't find but spoke about the exhibits experiencing their deaths. If anyone can find it for me then I'd greatly appreciate it.

Words: 4066

Ahkmenrah stood overlooking his sarcophygus with a sick feeling in his stomach. Rising bile despite the fact that his gall bladder had been removed with his liver, held by Ismeti and part of the many artifacts of his that were stored, but he couldn’t have. He often wondered if they too were restored to how they’d been when he was alive each night, or stayed dead considering they’d been removed from his body. Or they could just magically return to his body, they hadn’t been removed when he’d been alive so if he was truly how he was then, in body at least, not spirit, then surely they’d be there. He’d never ventured to the records department to find out.

Sometimes the passage of time, and the different calenders used in the modern day, made it hard to remember exact dates from his previous life. His birthday, when his parents had died, when he was crowned Pharaoh, when he died. If it wasn’t for the historians finding old records and translating them into the modern day, he wouldn’t be able to trust himself to remember much at all.

He was the only actual human exhibit in the entire museum, he wondered if that meant his memories were more or less vibrant than the likes of say, Teddy, who could recount tales all night long, but openly admitted to the fact that they didn’t feel like his. Ahkmenrah couldn’t really get his head around that idea. His memories were his after all, so the idea of remembering something, but knowing it was all fake, made him feel even more sick to his stomach.

But for days like today, he didn’t need a date to remember. He didn’t need to read a board or for someone to inform him, he knew that today was the day he died.

This night was one of the few nights that he’d appreciated being locked away for fifty years in his saarcophygus. Seeing people, when you were literally dying, was a little hard to muster. Especially with how gruesome his death would get, he should know, he experienced it every year. Also, people didn’t get concerned over his screams like they would do now, his screams were normal after all. And they left him alone, something he wanted tonight but didn’t exactly get. If he ever isolated himself too much, someone would always try to find him, not a desired outcome when you’re trying not to vomit on your own blood. Not good.

“Ahk, you alright?” That was Larry, he had absolutely no idea about what was happening right now. He didn’t want him to find out. It was far too much for even the other exhibits, much less a mortal man who hadn’t yet experienced death.

He swallowed the rising bile, the main event wouldn’t start for a few hours, he could handle things for a few hours. “I will be,” He said, turning to him with a half-smile.

“Great, come on, there’s a red moon tonight.”

A blood moon, how ironic.

~~~~

The exhibits were loitering outside the front door of the museum when he and Ahkmenrah joined them. Teddy seemed the most interest, gazing through a pair of binoculars Larry had brought in after reading the news when he woke up. Some of the others were braving the cold, others were watching from windows inside, such as Sacagawea. He’d expected her to be out here but she’d claimed that she felt under the weather, something he didn’t think museum exhibits could do but every day was a school day, he guessed.

He turned to Ahk, and saw the goosebumps on his arms. He supposed ornate robes made for the egyptian desert weren’t the most suitable for New York in December. He stepped over to him, still unsure about where they were when it came to what they were, and rubbed his arms. That small smile he gave him shot butterflies through him.

“The egyptian had a lunar calendar, right?” Larry asked.

“In the beginning, yes, but by the time I was Pharoah, we had a solar one.”

His gaze was solely on the sky. Did he miss it, during all those years locked away in his sarcophygus? Did he blame himself or did he hate the old guards who did it to him? He wanted to ask him about it but was far too worried it was a sensitive subject to try.

“How did that work?” He opted for instead.

“We had four seasons each 120 days, with three months of thirty days in them, and five holy days at the end.”

He said it like it was simple, like he was asking him what grass was. Larry couldn’t help but feel jealous that he, all the exhibits in fact, understood an entirely different time than he did, remembered as their own. Was it like remembering their childhood? Distant and fuzzy? Or was it vibrant, held in place by the knowledge that you could never return there and it be the same again.

“Makes sense, more than ours does in comparison,” he said.

“You can image my confusion when I first learnt the new one,”

New one. It wasn’t new to Larry. Nor to many of the other exhibits in the museum. They weren’t four-thousand years old, though.

“It’s strange how the moon doesn’t change, isn’t it?” Larry said.

The red light radiated from the celestial figure but couldn’t break through the shield of artificial lighting made by the City that Never Sleeps. He wondered how it looked over the sand dunes and monuments of Ancient Egypt, or the forests when Sacagawea was forced to lead Lewis and Clarke, or after a battle when the red covering your weapon shimmered under the dark reflection. It was daunting and comforting to know that these things were ancient. He had something in common with all his friends, but it also reminded him that they were never meant to be here.

Ahkmenrah didn’t respond. When he turned to him, he saw his eyes closed and jaw tense. His usually tanned skin seemed dull, as if the sun had gone in on a sunny day. His hands clenched his robes with a grip so tight it almost drained the blood from his hands. It made Larry wonder how close to life Ahkmenrah was, if the blood was reall draining from his face or if he was just feeling the effects. Whatever it was, he couldn’t help but feel like it was his fault.

“Sorry, what is something I said?”

He moved closer and wrapped his arms around him as he began to fail. His feel stumbled, moving through the snow covered stairs and slipping on the layer of ice underneath. His body was strangely light as he lent into his arms.

“You alright?” He said. “Is something going around? Sac was acting the same way earlier?”

Teddy turned around at the mention of her name. A wave of seriousness came across his face. It spread to the others as they looked between him and where Ahkmenrah was faint in his arms.

“It’s not something spreading, Lawrence.” He spoke with experience, as if this was something prepared or expected, like he was supposed to know.

He walked closer and removed his fake leather gloves. Placing the back of his hand on Ahkmenrah’s forehead, he began to explain without looking at Larry.

“Every year we’ve come to life we have to experience our deaths again, like a price to pay for our strange sort of eternal life that’s brought about from the tablet.”

Larry went from keeping his eyes locked on Ahkmenrah to darting to Teddy. Ahk gulped and stood up, not looking any better but taking deep, shaky breaths as he tried to ground himself.

“That’s why Sacagawea is indisposed at the moment, I did offer to accompany her but she prefers to be alone on this day,” Teddy looked at the ground.

Ahkmenrah gulped again, hands clenched at his sides. “It’s a hard day, Larry, to be reminded of everything you had and will never have again, despite being reminded of it every day.”

Larry had no idea what to expect. He’d researched most of them when he’d first started, their deaths being at the end of whatever article or book he read. He’d never given it a second thought, their deaths. To him, they were maniquins, mostly, exhibits in a museum given a weird chance at immortality. After realising how Teddy felt about being a fake Theodore Roosevelt, he learnt not to prod any of them too much as the details about their life, and how it affected their not-death.

“So this is how you’ll be all night? Weak and waiting for-” He didn’t say death, because it wasn’t, not really, not if it was an annual thing.

“A death that will never be real?” He finished.

Larry nodded.

“Yes, except this isn’t it, at least for me.”

The others turned to him. His usual ingrained confidence had disappeared. All his energy seemed to be going into keeping himself standing and coherent.

“My death had two parts, each by my brother Kahmunrah,” He said.

Those who’d been sent to the Smithsonian reacted accordingly. It was strange to think how they could be related, Larry had done subsequent research and seen the theories that he could’ve been a bastard son, born of Ahkmenrah’s father and a concubine. He hadn’t asked what Ahkenrah thought or knew of that theory, he didn’t think that conversation would go very well.

“I should’ve suspected that he was trying to kill me for a while. I wasn’t king for awfully long, not the decades like my father, and he was always at my side, advising and pretending. I should’ve known that he was actually trying to get close enough to kill me.”

He closed his eyes and bit his lips. For a moment, he shook in the wind, weak as a feather. Larry placed a hand on his back again.

“He tried to poison my breakfast, but must have not put enough in, because while I fell ill, yes, I didn’t drop down dead immediately. So I lay down, and a little while later, he came up to ‘check on me’. He didn’t make his presence known so could catch me off guard and-”

He didn’t finish the sentence butturned and lifted the extravagant cape out of the way. None of them had looked at his back before, why would they, but they could tell now that there was a reason that Ahkmenrah wore his over-the-top clothes that was more than just ‘it was what he was buried in’. A raised, angry scar took up most of his otherwise smooth back. It wasn’t just a stab wound, which would be bad enough, Kahmunrah had lost control and not just stabbed his brother, but carved an Ankh symbol into his body. A wave of nausea came over Larry, he pushed it down.

“He plunged his blade into my back, all the air left my body, I couldn’t fight him off, he was always taller than me. I knew I was going to die then, I knew why I’d felt ill that morning. And it only got worse, he spoke of him being the rightful heir, of me being the favourite and him helping me along even more and making sure I stayed dead by carving the Ankh symbol into my back. The key of life, rather ironic I know, but used by us Egyptian on-”

“Tombs.” Larry finished.

Ahkmenrah dropped the cape and nodded. He didn’t turn around however. His body stumbling again, faltering, probably regaining composure, he was always polite and formal. Larry approached him, hands going on his shoulders then down his his sides. As he pondered if it was appropriate to touch him back, Ahk let out a raw gasp. It crackled and croaked, pain in just a sound as he fell forward, only not faceplanting because Larry forgot all etiquette and grabbed him around the waist to stop him.

Larry settled his arms under his arms, feeling all his body pressing into him as he lost more and more of that spark in his eyes, his tan skin not glowing but dull.

“Come on, Ahk, let’s get you somewhere comfortable,” He had no idea where but he would find somewhere.

“Sarcophygus.”

“But that can’t be comfortable-”

“Sarcophygus, please.”

They met eyes, Larry nodded and shifted Ahk so he wasn’t fully weighing down one shoulder. As he adjusted his arm, his hand brushed his back again. Red coated his fingertips as he saw a glimpse of his hand. Blood.

Ahkmenrah had noticed this too and his sickly face froze, startled. “It’s already started.”

Enough explaining. Teddy opened the door as Larry and Ahkmenrah hobbled toward the elevator. His breathing was getting heavier as he tried not to pant. Every few steps his feet would falter, slipping on the varnished floor. Larry kept gripping his side tighter and tighter, his shoulder aching as he took more of his weight on.

The elevator jolted as it travelled upwards. Luckily his exhibit was near by, and private. Even though the museum had known for a few years now that Ahkmenrah wasn’t the crazed Pharaoh that they were led to believe, he guessed some habits died hard, bad choice of words considering the situation, and most people still didn’t linger too much in the corridor. Either that or the intimidating Anubis statues guarding the entrance that still gave everyone at least a harsh look when they walked past.

By the time the elevator arrived at their floor, Ahkmenrah was stumbling with every step. Larry could see red splotches on his cape as they raced toward privacy. He didn’t mention this, Ahkmenrah probably didn’t need him to do this. With every step, that scar on his back was opening up, his face becoming sullen, eyes unfocused as he tried to concentrate on moving and not collapsing in the empty hallway. Did he feel the blade too or just the agony of his flesh being ripped apart?

The Anubis guards rose their weapons to separate Larry from Ahkmenrah, immortally protective of their Pharaoh. Ahkmenrah managed to wave a hand and they turned their weapons from them to the entrance, not exactly pointing them at anyone who could walk past but making it evident that here was not somewhere you were going to linger tonight.

“Here, Larry, please.”

How could he remain so polite even when he was literally dying?

They both collapsed gently onto the harsh stone floor. Ahk slipped from Larry’s shoulder to rest on his torso, giving up on controlling his breathing as he panted. Larry took his hand in his as clenched his eyes closed. There would be blood on his uniform, something he’d have to explain to Dr McPhee in the morning if he saw. Although, would it even be there in the morning, considering Ahkmenrah would go back to being a 4000 year old mummified corpse by then?

Larry didn’t say anything. There was too much going on already, too much in the air for him to add to. He could feel Ahkmenrah’s pain in the air as he opened his eyes again, his breathing not pants but slow and shallow. His body sunk more and more onto him, Larry became more and more aware of how solid the floor was, felt its cold leaching through his clothes and into his skin. The only thing he felt sure of was how tight Ahk held onto his hand, as if it was his only lifeline in a tumultuous ocean.

“Just focus on that, okay?” He said in a whisper.

All Ahkmenrah could do was nod. He’d deteriorated so fast, what was he expecting from that severe of a wound? Yet he didn’t have any experience when it came to wounds, or blood, or dying. Larry was seriously underqualified for this. Just another skill he’d have to learn for this job, it was strange how he both didn’t mind that, if it meant comforting someone he cared about, and wanted to run in the opposite direction.

“Do you want me to say anything?”

Ahkmenrah nodded, again. He closed his eyes again, the skin around them crinkling as he tensed. Larry saw crimson sinking into his uniform, mixing with the grey to create a sticky burgundy. It stuck to his fingers, his palms flashing bright against his pale skin.

“Nick’s enjoying high school-”

That was all he could think about, Nick had wanted to come tonight, but he had a lot of homework to do over the Christmas break that was more important than hanging out here on a Monday night. Larry was glad he and Erica had both put their foot down, this was too much for anyone, let alone a kid.

He turned back to Ahk to finish his sentence when he jolted up. His next breath came out wet as blood spurted from his mouth, dribbling up and bubbling as he tried to get in any air through the pain. They met eyes, there was a pleading look in them as Larry went to wipe it away or say something, he carried on with his sentence.

“He’s-he’s um still got some of his friends from middle school so there wasn’t too much of a jump,” He didn’t want to ignore the fact that he was holding someone currently bleeding to death, but Ahkmenrah trying not to choke on his own blood was an image permemantly seared into his brain. “He’s joined a computer club, I think it’s for games or coding them or something, I’ve never been good with computers, really.”

Ahk’s hand weakened in his. His eyes glazed over occasionally as he tried to focus on him and his words, he didn’t care if he wasn’t taking any of this in.

“Not that I don’t like video games, I went to the arcade when I was a kid.” He said. “But the ones Nicky plays are just far too confusing for a guy who’s used to Space Invaders and Pacman.”

He realised, through the confusion and fear, that Ahkmenrah didn’t know what he was on about “I’ll have to show you sometime, there’s a place in Brooklyn that has a bunch of old arcade games, I took Nick there one day on my day off and it was satisfying when I was better than him, don’t tell him that.”

Ahk’s head slipped from his torso and rested on the stone below them. The blood was trickling from his chin, down his neck and marking his expensive outfit with fresh red. He could see the wound through his clothes now, wet to the touch and even heavier than before.

Larry tried to turn him around, his body getting harder and harder to lift as he got weaker and weaker. The whites were rimmed red as tears fell down his face and mixed with the blood stuck to his face, watering it down and causing more to fall down his neck. If this is what he like now, how had he managed this every year he’d been locked away? Had he screamed more than usual? Would it have even been worth it?

He wiped one away as he let out a mix between a sob and a cry. More blood spurted out. His hands were cold now, as Larry gripped them both in his and secured him on his shoulder, running his thumb through his short hair. His eyes kept drifting shut, not clenched from pain as they had earlier. This was it, wasn’t it?

He knew better than to admit that his shoulder was starting to ache from where Ahk was slumped on him. It was all of his weight now. His body relaxing as he gave into whatever happened when an already dead Pharaoh died again.

There was blood everywhere, in places he didn’t think it could reach. Covering both hands, most of his uniform and his pants. It pooled in the grout between the stone slabs on the floor, dyed Ahk’s robes scarlet and wiped his skin like paint.

His breathing got croakier, ripping and scratching as the blood stopped bubbling from his lips and dried on them as they cracked. He looked down at how much of his blood was oozing out of him, not flowing like before, and whined, how did he deserve such a gruesome death?

Larry tilted his head with one hand and made sure that he couldn’t miss his gaze. If he was dying, reliving his last moments, he’d rather he not look at the evidence of his own pain.

“La-larry-” Ahk croaked out, a whisper and a plead all at once.

“I know, just focus on me,” He wished this was over, and felt guilt ripple through when he did. “Not much longer okay, then you’ll wake up tomorrow night and this will all be a dream, okay?”

He nodded. His brown eyes flicked as he took in all his facial features. A distant haze creeping in from both sides as any parts of his body that still had some strength in them gave in.

“And this won’t happen for another year. The eclipse will be there tomorrow and you can tell me all about whatever you can remember about Ancient Egyptian astrology like it’s common knowledge, because you’re smart and sarcastic and passionate and don’t, didn’t, deserve this pain.”

He couldn’t even nod anymore as he stopped looking in his eyes and sank onto his shoulder. Like he was turning into a liquid, he melted down his body. A few more shallow breaths came out of his mouth before the final death rattle, something he’d never actually heard before because he was lucky enough that his parents were still both alive. His eyes were bland and still. Hands flopped lifelessly across his lap as he moved him back into his sarcophygus, something a lot harder than usual as all his body seemed three times more heavy.

This wasn’t how he should’ve been remembered. He realised that he hadn’t even had the graces of a comforting face in his last moments, probably just his brother towering over him as he waited for the crown to become his. The blood covering him, scarring and painting him not as elegant as he prided himself in being. Skin not soft and dazzling like it seemed to be all the time. He closed his eyes for him.

He couldn’t look for too long, however, it still was the dead body of the person he loved. Museum exhibit or not, that was hard for anyone to bear. Moving everything back into place, he nodded at the Anubis guards and waited for them to move back to their places before leaving to give the others the news.

There was a trail of blood as he trudged back to the others. He didn’t think he could take that elevator again for a few days, not with everything fresh and new in his mind. Although he wished not to feel this, he also didn’t want to get used to seeing Ahkmenrah like that, considering that was going to happen every year the tablet was here.

Other exhibits moved past and around him. Sun sparkled through the window as dawn broke. How long had he been in there? It hadn’t felt like long but had evidently been all night.

He looked over the balcony and saw most of the others waiting by the desk. All he could so was nod as he moved on autopilot to do his end of shift tasks. Did they feel guilt knowing what Ahk had to go through every year he was locked up there, alone?

The answer didn’t truly matter, though, the question dwarfed by another as he heard it ringing and echoing like bells in the distant. Would the blood disappear when the sun fully came up?

This is my kind of whump. Blood, death, all that good stuff. Like I said, this idea wasn't mine, I just expanded on my interpretation of it. Thanks for reading! @whumptober-archive

#whumptober2023 #no. 13 #i don't feel so good #fic #natm #night at the museum #blood tw #death tw #stab wound tw #ahkmenrah #larry daley #teddy roosevelt #sacagawea #post natm 2 #kahmunrah #ahkmenrah natm #sacagawea natm #bear writes #tablet guardians

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firstdegreefangirl · 6 months

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A Little Bonk

When the house gets quiet, Lucy knows something is wrong.

She's in the kitchen, starting dinner, while Leah plays in the other room. Tim should be home any minute, and she knows their daughter likes to see him come through the door. While she cooks, she’s been listening to the sounds of a stuffed animal tea party, smiling to herself at the thought of Tim getting roped into joining.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Bearkins!” Leah had just said. “I can get more tea. Hang on!”

Then, quiet.

Lucy slides the dish of enchiladas into the oven, then leans into the living room to see what’s going on. As soon as she’s around the corner, Leah meets here eyes and bursts into tears.

“Mama!” she wails. “I fallded!”

“Oh, honey.” Lucy rushes over and sits in the floor. Before she can even reach out, Leah is climbing into her lap. “What happened?”

“M-Mr. Bearkins wanted more tea,” she begins, her voice trembling as she clings to Lucy’s shirt. “He dr-drinks a lot of it. So I gotted up to make more in the bathroom, with my steppin’ stool. B-but Tilly Tiger made me fallded!”

“Tilly Tiger?” Lucy wags her finger dramatically at the stuffed lion – named Tilly Tiger, depite its furry mane. “That wasn’t very nice!”

“It was not! I hitted my head on the couch, and then you camed in and asked me what happened, and I said the story, and then it’s now.”

“My goodness,” Lucy nudges Leah’s shoulder gently, enough for her to lean back so Lucy can inspect her face. “What part did you hit?”

“Right here!” Leah whacks her forehead with one tiny palm. “Ow! Mama, it hurts!”

Read the rest on ao3 here!

#katie writes #kw23 #chenford #lucy chen #tim bradford #leah bradford-chen #kojo the dog #whumptober #whumptober 2023 #no. 13 #cold compress

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zegalba · 1 year

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Alexander McQueen: ‘No. 13’ Spring/Summer 1999 pair of wooden prosthetic legs.

#alexander mcqueen #no. 13 #carved #wooded #prostetics #runway #1999

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one-piece-aus · 2 years

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Whumptober Day 13

Werewolf Katakuri x Reader

"The hunters, they're coming," you warn Katakuri rushing to his side once you retreated into the werewolf's den.

"They're after me, not you," he stated as he picked up some stored fruit and placed it in your bag.

"What are you doing?" You watched as he stuffed your satchel with a swift pace, using his wolf tail as an extra hand.

"You'll need these for your journey." Katakuri closed your bag and handed it off to you. He lifted your hood over your head before placing his hands on your shoulder and meeting you at eye level. "There's another way out at the back of the cave. Take it, I'll distract them. You should be fine once you reach a safe distance-"

"What- No, I'm not leaving you." You look at him with worried eyes as your squeeze your bag.

"You know the human law, don't you? 'All humans associating with monsters must be killed with the beasts', I'd rather you leave so you don't get involved, they're only after me." Katakuri uses a furry hand to caress your face. "I wouldn't able to forgive myself if they did something to you."

You place a hand over his. You could feel your heartstrings playing heartache as you stared into his eyes, unsure if this would be the last time you would ever see Katakuri. For being a monster, he has shown you more humanity and hospitality than your own kind. You loved him, and you could feel your heart break at the idea of having to run away, but if you must, you had to tell him. The words were on the tip of your tongue, they wanted to come out-

"They're here," Katakuri announced as his ears flickered in the direction of the entrance. He stood up straight and gave you a starting push to the exit. "You must go now."

Your legs took over and dashed towards the back of the cave, your mind blank, your heart beating. The end came to view and that's when you looked back, your mind tuning to the reality around you. The sound of angered men failing strike and growls from your monster echoed through the cave to you. Shadows on the walls displayed their fight, the hunters attacked Katakuri from all sides. You watched with worry, fear hovering over you as you noticed a shadow climbing up. He's going to strike from above!

"Look out!" you cried, hoping your voice would reach him in time. Alas, the man came down from above and you were filled with horror as you saw the werewolf shadow get hit and fall down. "NO!"

You rushed into the cave, legging carrying you to the point they began to feel numb. Your heart pulls you closer to the fallen monster. Flying past the hunters, you kneel down to the werewolf hugging him. You shielded him with your body, but you didn't dare make eye contact with the hunters.

"Pl-please! Leave him alone!" you begged, doing your best to keep your voice strong.

"[Y/n], what are you doing?" Katakuri asked, his eyes wide. "You need to leave, they'll kill you too!"

"I'm not leaving you!" you declared. "I'd rather die than live among humans again! You're the only one who has ever shown me kindness! I'll be damned if I let you die protecting me! I'm not going anywhere... I'm not going..."

#whumptober2022 #no. 13 #no 13 #can't make an omelette without breaking a few legs #are you here to break me out?#one piece #one piece au #whump fanfiction #monster hunting #one piece x reader #one piece scenario #monster au #katakuri x reader #charlotte katakuri #one piece katakuri #katakuri #one piece x y/n #one piece x you

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cephalog0d · 6 months

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Batfic - "Comfort Food" (Whumptober Day 13)

Rating: General Audiences Category: Gen Characters/Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne & Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Cassandra Cain & Damian Wayne Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Reverse Robins, Sick Dick Grayson, Good Sibling Damian Wayne, Good Sibling Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne is Trying, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, (Graysons Todds and Waynes), Good Parent Talia al Ghul, (she's off-screen but she's a good parent), Dick Grayson Needs A Hug, Dick Grayson Gets A Hug

Summary:

The night before, Dick had felt a little off but figured it had just been a long day. He’d been a lot more tired than usual, and his throat was kind of sore, but he’d also spent most of the day running around outside in the chilly autumn air, so he told himself it was probably just a little dry after all that. He drank a bunch of water and went to bed and figured he would be fine in the morning. He was not fine in the morning. Dick gets sick for the first time since coming to live with the Waynes, and it brings up a lot of feelings about what he's lost. Luckily, his new siblings are there to help. No. 13: “It comes and goes like the strength in your bones.” Cold Compress | Infection | “I don’t feel so good.”

Ages: Dick - 8; Cass - 13; Jason - 14; Damian - 25 Additional fun fact note: Dog is actually a large stuffed cat that Cass gave Dick when he first came to live with them. Steph suggested the name as a joke because it would annoy Damian, but Dick thought it was funny and kept it.

He was not fine in the morning.

It had gotten so much worse. His whole body felt like it was encased in cement, his head and face felt stuffed with wet cotton balls, and his throat was on fire. He had the vague thought that he should get up, get a drink, get some medicine, something, but before he could actually do anything about it he had dozed off again.

He startled awake with a groan when someone shook his shoulder.

“Dick? Are you okay?” Bruce asked. Dick did not want to open his eyes or roll over to check, but it sounded like Bruce was frowning.

“Don’t feel good,” Dick whispered, trying to breathe carefully around his burning throat and completely blocked nose.

“Hmm,” Bruce said unhelpfully. “Stuffed up?”

Dick hummed an affirmative, because that was slightly less agonizing for his throat than speaking. Bruce put a hand on his forehead, which didn’t really make anything feel better but didn’t make anything worse, so Dick just didn’t move. Moving was just about the last thing he wanted to do right now.

“You feel a bit warm. Any other symptoms?” Bruce asked, pulling his hand back.

“Throat,” Dick croaked. He tried to swallow, but that only made it worse, and he couldn’t quite hold back a whine.

“Okay,” Bruce said in his I’m-solving-a-problem voice. That was good. He could be the adult and fix things and Dick could just lay here and be miserable. “I’ll be back shortly. Try to get some rest.”

Dick hummed again and sank into his pillow, absolutely certain there was no way he was going to rest when he felt so, so terrible.

He did fall asleep, somehow, because he awoke to Bruce lightly shaking his shoulder again. The good news was, he didn’t feel worse. Just equally awful.

“Can you sit up a bit?” Bruce asked. Dick absolutely did not want to do that, mostly because he was a little worried his head would just roll right off his shoulders because it weighed ten million pounds, but Bruce pulled at his shoulders and helped him into a vaguely upright position, propping him up on a stack of pillows so he didn’t have to worry about actually holding his ten million pound head up.

“Drink this,” Bruce prompted, handing him a little plastic cup of something reddish and viscous. Dick really didn’t want to try and swallow anything right now, but took the cup anyway and forced it down. It didn’t taste great and stuck to his throat in a way that made him want to cough to clear it, except he could only imagine how bad that would hurt.

“This may help, as well,” Alfred said from off to the side, where Dick hadn’t noticed him yet. He held out a mug that said Tea Rex and had a dinosaur in a top hat on it. Dick took it and gave him a quizzical look. “It’s an herbal tea with lemon and honey,” Alfred explained. “It should help your throat.”

It did at least it clear the medicine taste out a bit, and it hurt less than trying to swallow dry. Dick sipped at it some more while Bruce talked.

“So, looks like you’re sick,” Bruce said dryly. Dick thought maybe he was trying to be funny, but he felt too much like reheated garbage to respond. The tea was okay, but he didn’t like the flavor that much. Sometimes when he got sick, really sick, his parents would let him have Gatorade even though it was “basically just sugar water”; he wondered if maybe Bruce would let him have some (and tried to push down the crushing feeling that came with thinking about his parents and what they would or wouldn’t do).

“Hopefully with some rest and medicine it’ll clear up quickly,” Bruce was saying. He took the empty mug back when Dick finished the tea and Dick let himself slump back into the pillows. Resting sounded great. He was so tired, and everything hurt, and now he was thinking about his parents and trying not to cry.

Last time he had gotten sick, his mom had sat with him and held him while his dad told him stories to cheer him up. He had kept falling asleep just a few minutes in, but his dad never minded restarting the next time he woke up. Dick always missed them, like a dull ache that never quite went away, but thinking about that made it hurt so much worse. He felt like his chest was caving in, and he grabbed Dog and curled around her to try and make it a little better.

(Cont. on AO3)

#whumptober2023 #no. 13 #infection #'I don't feel so good'#batfam #fic #reverse robins #sick fic #dick grayson #jason todd #bruce wayne #alfred pennyworth #cassandra cain #ceph writes things #i keep thinking 'this will be a short one' and then literally every one i write is longer than the last lol

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aziraphalesbookkeeper · 6 months

Text

“It doesn't bother me,” Eugene says with bravado he doesn’t feel, “but I don’t want Rapunzel getting reminded that her boyfriend is a”—liar, cheat, thief, criminal—“bad person.” “You’re not a bad person,” Varian tells him gently. “You’re no worse than me.” Or: the one where someone looks at Eugene and only sees Flynn, and Eugene has to deal with that.

Whumptober Day 13: Cold Compress

#whumptober 2023 #no. 13 #cold compress #tts #tangled the series #rapunzels tangled adventure #rta #bruising #pretty mild honestly #eugene fitzherbert #varian tts #team awesome #I NEEDED EUGENE WHUMP SO I WROTE SOME #tts fic #slaps kids cartoon you can fit so much trauma in this thing

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cynicalone94 · 6 months

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I Don't Feel So Good

Kim jogs up the steps.

They’d all been a little worried when Jay had called in sick this morning. She can count on one hand the number of times Jay has called in. And she’d need a calculator to keep track of how many times he’s come in when he probably should have stayed home.

For him to actually stay home he must be feeling pretty bad.

So when she heads out for lunch, she picks up some chicken soup and then heads over to check on him.

When he doesn’t answer the door, she tries calling him. Then she heads downstairs to request that his super let her in.

She steps slowly through the apartment.

“Jay?”

There’s mugs and tea bags lying about the kitchen and a bottle of honey on the counter.

“Jay?” she repeats, stepping toward the bedroom.

She’s expecting to find him in bed, dead to the world, but the blankets are thrown to the side and the bed empty.

Something doesn’t feel right.

Risking an encounter that will embarrass them both, she pushes open the bathroom door.

Jay is lying motionless on the cold floor, dressed only in his boxers.

The room smells sickly, a mixture of vomit and sweat. Jay’s face is an unhealthy flush of color and she drops to her knees next to him.

“Jay!” she calls, cupping his cheek with her hand to turn his face toward her.

Heat is radiating off his skin and she scrambles for her phone, snapping off her badge number and the address.

“I need an ambulance, now.” she orders.

“Can you tell me who’s hurt?”

“I just stopped by to check on my friend and found him unconscious on his bathroom floor. He’s burning up.” she reports, checking Jay’s pulse. “Heart rate is good but he’s breathing kind of fast.”

“The ambulance is on it’s way. Do you have access to a thermometer?”

Maybe? She’s not exactly familiar with what supplies Jay has on hand and where he keeps them.

“I can look.” she answers, pushing up to her feet and stumbling over to the medicine cabinet.

It’s a pretty standard array but she doesn’t see a thermometer. As she’s debating where to check next she hears a groan behind her and turns to see Jay’s eyes flickering open.

She immediately abandons the search to drop back to her knees next to him.

“Jay?” she questions, brushing damp hair back from his face. “Hang in there, help is coming.”

“Kim?” he whimpers. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

“I don’t know.” she admits. “But we’re going to get you to a doctor who can answer that question.”

“Don’ feel so good.” he whimpers and she frowns.

“I know.” she soothes, continuing to stroke his hair. “Do you have a thermometer?”

His face scrunches in confusion, jaw twitching.

“I -”

He cuts off with a strangled moan as his jaw locks, his head thrown back by the force of the tremors running through his body.

“Jay?” she repeats for the hundredth time, picking up her phone. “He’s seizing.”

“Track how long it lasts.”

She looks to the clock, noting the time and then turns her attention back to Jay.

It seems to last forever, no matter what her phone says about two minutes and fourteen seconds.

“Paramedics are pulling up now.” the dispatcher tells her. “Can you let them in the building?”

She nods, forgetting that the woman can’t see her and then scrambles back to her feet, hurrying out to the front door.

Everything happens in a wave after that.

The paramedics race in, getting Jay on the stretcher before hooking him up to monitors and starting an IV. She finally gets a number on his temperature and her heart just about stops.

103.8 isn’t good. No wonder he’d been disoriented, no wonder he’d had a seizure.

An oxygen mask is slid over his face and then they’re rolling toward the door.

“Where are you taking him?” she asks.

“Med is the closest.” they reply easily and she sighs.

She won’t have to fight them for it then. But she needs to call Will. And Voight.

At least Jay is in good hands now.

They let her stay in the treatment room with him and that’s somewhat comforting. At least he isn’t sick enough to need all hands on deck.

They’ve already got the number down to 102.9 and she feels herself relaxing.

Until Will breezes in the door.

“Dr. Wallace. How is he?” he demands, eyes zeroing on the monitors.

“Looks like pneumonia.” Dr. Wallace answers without looking up from the x-rays that she’s studying. “I’ve started him on antibiotics but the fluids and fever reducers are already starting to bring his temperature down.”

“How the hell did he get pneumonia?” Will demands, looking to Kim. “Has he been sick?”

“Not that I know of.” Kim says. “He called in this morning but he looked fine yesterday.”

“His symptoms are consistent with streptococcus pneumoniae.” Dr. Wallace tells him. “But I’m running tests that will confirm. He was probably coming down with it yesterday but he probably would have just felt tired and rundown.”

“Which Jay would never admit to.” Kim points out.

Will nods, coming to stand next to his brother’s head, fingers carding gently through his hair.

“Damn it, Jay.” he mutters. “If you don’t feel well you gotta tell someone.”

“At least he actually took a sick day this time.” Kim reminds him before a chill runs through her. “Which almost killed him.”

At least if Jay had been at work today he wouldn’t have spent who knows how long lying unconscious on his bathroom floor.

It was pure luck that Kim had decided to come by during lunch, the rest of the team had been in favor of waiting until after work to check on him.

“I can’t thank you enough for checking in, Kim.” Will says. “I keep imaging him lying on that floor and I…”

It’s a disturbing image. One that Kim has permanently engrained in her mind.

But indulging it stirs up other images; Jay collapsing on his way back to bed, Jay conscious but too weak to stand up leaving him unable to get help, the way the icy tiles must have felt against his feverish skin.

She’d run through his room, collecting his phone, wallet, keys and a blanket while the paramedics had finished packaging him. His phone had been on his bedside table, desperately out of reach from where he’d lain.

“Well for your brother to stay home, I figured he had to be feeling pretty damn bad.” she tries to joke.

“And he’s going to keep feeling pretty bad for a while.” Dr. Wallace chimes in. “He’s stable now. We’ll move him up to a room in a little bit so that we can monitor until the antibiotics can get this under control. And I expect he’ll be feeling rundown and under the weather for several weeks. At least.”

Jay doesn’t wake up until the next morning.

Will had finally convinced Kim to leave but only for the night and he’s expecting someone to show up in an hour when visiting opens up but for now he has his brother to himself.

“Will?”

His brother’s mumbled question pulls his attention back to the bed where blue-green eyes are watching him carefully.

“Hey bud.” he says, putting a hand on his brother’s arm. “Welcome back.”

“Wha- hapn’d?”

“Pneumonia.” Will answers easily. “You’re responding well to antibiotics, I’m guessing you’ll be out of here tomorrow.”

“I don’t feel so good.” Jay admits.

“Yeah.” Will says. “You got hit pretty hard, seem to have been blindsided by this. You been feeling okay lately?”

“Been working a little extra while Tony was at a conference.” Jay admits. “I was a little behind on sleep. And I remember… I was tired… and it wasn’t getting any better. I came home and went straight to bed. Woke up the next morning to a sinus headache and a throat filled with glass.”

“Well you got a lot worse.” Will says. “104 degrees worse. So next time you have ‘just a cold’ can I be your second opinion?”

Jay nods, too tired to argue with him.

#whumptober 2023 #no. 13 #i don't feel so good #Chicago PD #fic #pneumonia #Jay Halstead

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