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Bruises for The Republic of Doyle

Alas, another one that is vague for word number purposes. But possibly the first time I've ever written anything for Republic of Doyle, so a WIN!

Jake covered in bruises was, unfortunately, nothing new. Honestly, it was a miracle he’d only had concussions and broken ribs and not a skull fracture.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jake protested through split lips and a heavily bruised jaw. One eye was completely swollen shut, the bruise deep and black from his cheek past his hairline.

“How should I look at you?” Malachy asked.

“It was an accident. The guy thought I was someone else.”

“So it should be someone else, lying in a hospital bed with a couple fractures? That makes it better?”

“I’ll be fine, Dad.”

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Unsteady for The Rookie

I am going to be a thousand percent honest, I could not remember if you call civilians medics or EMT's, but here we are. Nolan and Tim together (for once, just for you)

“Are you okay?” Nolan asked, putting his hand on Tim’s shoulder. “You’re looking a little...unsteady.”

That was putting it mildly. Tim was covered in smoke and dirt, smeared across his forehead where he’d clearly rubbed it. No blood, which was good.

Tim didn’t answer, but he didn’t swat Nolan’s hand away, his gaze a million miles away.

“How close were you to the blast?” Nolan asks.

Tim still doesn’t answer, but instead sways and abruptly sits on the bumper of the shop.

That’s when Nolan notices the blood starting to trickle from Tim’s ears.

“Medics! We’re gonna need some help!”

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Stranded for Tracker

So this one might've started to get away from me, so I guess that means I have a potential story idea (inspired from way back in the day when they would let grade schoolers read a book about a kid being relentlessly hunted in the desert by an insane sniper). So maybe this is more like a "preview"?

Stranded was not a term Colter liked. It implied being stuck somewhere, with no way out, and he didn’t believe in those kinds of situations.

There was always a way out.

Though, right now, the way out seemed more like a way through. If given the choice, Colter would prefer being marooned in the mountains before the desert. He’d take cold, wind, rain, and even someone actively trying to kill him.

But the relentless heat of the desert? Hundreds of miles from anything – shade, water, shelter, supplies and to know it because he could see the nothing in every direction?

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Oxygen + Tracker?

One word over, but OH WELL. I was unwilling to compromise. :-D

“God, would you just leave it alone already?”

Colter twisted his face away from the prying hands, rubbing his cheek against the none too soft pillow to scratch the itch against his cheek.

“The oxygen is there for a reason, Colt, not for funsies.”

But it itched where the plastic lay against his cheeks and looped over his ears, tickled where it touched his neck and it was driving him insane.

“Dude, leave it. Or they’re gonna find a way to make you.”

Russell’s threat wasn’t harsh, but it brought a violent memory to the forefront with such force, Colter flinched.

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Dragged + SG1?

Less angsty, but more in the spirit of the show with angst and humor.

Jack found it moderately hilarious how many people thought of Daniel as small. Perhaps it was the bulky uniform jackets that never seemed to fit quite right (because Daniel never paid attention to the sizing), or the fact that he stood next to Teal’c and Jack, or maybe the glasses distracted them from the fact that Daniel was six feet tall and arguably in better shape than most.

Clearly, they had never dragged a semi-conscious Daniel through a jungle planet.

“You’re lucky you’re my favorite, Daniel,” Jack grumbled, stumbling over another root. “Or I’d be coming back for you later.”

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Wheeze + 911?

Ok, so this is vague with the 100 word limit, but to set the scene - just imagine a car wreck while Buck wasn't on duty, but the rest of the 118 was (or he failed to show up and they went looking). Some variation of that.

Buck wasn’t breathing right, less ‘inhale, exhale’, more ‘wheeze, whine’.

“Hey, Buckaroo – do me a favor, and say something, huh?” Chim instructed, trying to keep the tone light. “Talk to me.”

Buck opened his mouth, but if there were words, it was too quiet for Chim to hear.

Chim ran through the possibilities as he rattled off instructions, more for Buck’s benefit than anything else. “We’re gonna get you out of there, okay? Just like you did for me, right? Except without the rebar.”

This was almost as bad as finding Albert – except Buck understood the danger he was in.

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Revenge + Tracker?

I got lazy and didn't actually work the prompt into the actual words, but I think I can get away with it. There's no actual rules to this, right? More like....guidelines.

“Imagine my surprise to find out my man Russell,” the man spat on the ground at Colter’s feet when he said his brother’s name, “had a kid brother.”

Colter debated something snide, but the man was on a roll, and honestly, Colter had no idea why he was here until now.

“A younger brother who is only slightly less difficult to find.” The man pulled Colter’s stolen phone from his pocket, unlocked it, and found Russell’s number. “Say hi.”

Colter said nothing.

Until the man fired the gun into his left thigh.

“Do I have your attention now, Shaw?”

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Gag + slow horses?

As there are two different interpretations for the word 'gag', I decided to choose both. I feel the need to point out I am 100% not a doctor, or even decent first aid student, so ignore everything suggested here in favor of savoring the whump. :-D

“I’m so sorry about this River, but...”

Lamb was turning beet-red as he tried to find a position that kept the semi-conscious River from completely falling to the ground, even as River tried to shove himself away from both of them.

Lamb grunted something that Catherine took to mean ‘this is as close as you’re getting’, and she grabbed River by his chin, pried his mouth open, and jammed her finger back as far as she could until his gag reflex kicked in and he vomited into the wastebasket, the chemical smell of poison intermixing with bile as he heaved.

annnnnnnnnnnnnd

The gag wasn’t going anywhere. Between the wad of fabric jammed in his mouth and the swathe of duct tape that wound around his head several times, River didn’t even attempt to scream. Not from embarrassment, but because shouting required air, and the way his luck ran, he’d wind up accidentally choking to death long before he found help.

And if he couldn’t get rid of the gag, he could at least work on getting his hands free before the driver got to his destination and River might have a better chance than when he was handcuffed to the car.

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Tremble + Slow Horses?

I like Catherine and River's pseudo mother-son relationship, and I think she reminds him of his grandmother, but he doesn't want to say it because he thinks the age difference would be insulting to her.

“You look half frozen.” Catherine observed the tremble across River’s frame even as he stood in the hall, unwilling or perhaps unable, given the way he leaned on the wall for support, to enter her apartment.

He almost smiled at that, lips tinged blue. “May-b-be all f-frozen.”

“I have your grandfather’s go-bag...you might fit in some of his things while yours dry.”

She was afraid to make a direct command, half sure he wasn’t really there at all. He looked spectral in the dim light, skin ghastly pale except for where the bruising was deep.

Please...come in. Don’t run away.

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Burn + 911?

I decided this one will be based on real life - the nun friend reach across an active tea kettle and scalded herself a softball sized second degree steam burn because she wasn't paying attention.

There is a certain level of irony when a firefighter gets burned. Honestly, Hen is a little surprised it doesn’t happen more often – but then, safety gear and protocol were there for a reason, and more often than not, it worked.

“You want to explain this to me again?” She held Buck’s arm under the running cool water at the sink as he bit his lip and tried not to squirm.

“I told you, I didn’t know it was on!” Buck protested, leaning on his other elbow. “I thought you could see steam from tea pots!”

“This was a teakettle.”

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Vigil + Deception?

This is 100% tied into the final chapter of Consequences that I planned out but never finished.

Cameron would wake up, Johnny told himself. Wake up, crack a smile, a joke about why look so serious, and be fine.

It’d been two days. Two days and the only difference was the shift change of the attending nurses. Nobody paid much attention to Johnny, but he still kept the glasses on and the hoodie up around his face, playing the truculent teenager with a bad attitude like he was gunning for an Emmy.

He made a promise – to God, the universe, to Cam – that if Cameron would wake up, he’d never leave again. He could promise that now.

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Defiance + Slow Horses?

We're just not going to acknowledge dates on these, right? >_< In my defense, I've been doing more baby blanket making (three friends are expecting soon-ish) than writing, so that's my excuse.

“Honestly, I don’t know where you get this defiance from,” Frank grumbled, pointedly washing the blood off his hands in a nearby bowl. “I’m beginning to suspect this is some form of entertainment for you.”

River would’ve laughed if he could draw enough air. Instead, he spit out a wad of...something he didn’t want to think about...at Frank’s feet, and let himself believe the smirk he offered him wasn’t just a grimace.

“I was thinking the same about you.” It was garbled – hard to talk with a broken jaw, but Frank got the idea. “Finally – something we have in common.”

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6 + 911?

A little late. And by a little, I mean a lot. But time is a construct. :-D I decided I needed a little pseudo-sibling love between Hen and Buck because I feel like they don't get the attention they deserve.

Hen should really be used to this by now. She’d been an EMT now for a decade. She’d seen catastrophic injuries and catastrophes.

But it was always different when it was someone you loved.

“That’s a lot of blood,” Buck said, voice barely more than a whisper.

“I’ve seen worse,” she assured him, going through the motions on autopilot. She had to. She couldn’t stop and think of him as Buck, the brother she didn’t know she wanted or needed, losing this much blood.

Buck’s teeth chattered, and his head dropped back against the ground. “Oh good. Because I haven’t.”

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suck, and i cannot stress this enough, my cock to the fucking base

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Fic game: #10 for Sister Boniface

Okay, it's a smiiiiidge over the word limit, but I was too lazy to edit it down, so you get a bonus sentence - scene set when Sam almost dies in WWII after losing half his battalion and getting bayoneted.

Sam’s ears were ringing, the high pitched echo so loud he couldn’t hear the mortar fire around him, could only feel the ground shake and explode, fountains of sand shooting into the sky to fall like rain.

“I can’t find a pulse!” Someone yelled nearby, loud enough Sam could hear it even through the ringing, and he struggled to turn towards the voice.

Doc was leaning over a body, his fingers pressed to the young corporal’s neck, even though Sam could tell the boy was already dead, his unblinking eyes meeting his.

“This one is alive!”

Rough hands grabbed Sam’s uniform and yanked him upright.

“I’ve got you!”

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may we have another slow horses snippet? 🌹🌹🌹

Always - this is the further adventures of Young!River and Lamb meeting for the first time, and I think it probably goes against the fandom consensus that River was probably a quiet and socially awkward kid (look what he grew up into), I decided it would be more fun to lean the other way - and this version of River has learned that the only way to get his mother's attention was to demand it.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” Lamb wheezed. Perhaps it was a nosy neighbor kid - another common problem with the countryside.

“Where did you come from?” the boy asked, nonplussed by Lamb’s vocabulary.

“The car.” Lamb fished for another cigarette, and cursed the fact that he was too sober for this. “Your turn.” You little shit…he mentally added.

“The house.” The boy edged around from around the trunk of the tree, his trainers sliding over the rough bark with practiced ease. He dropped down onto the large branch, just out of reach if Lamb were to suddenly decide to make a grab for him.

Lamb frowned at that. The implication of simply saying the house and not a specific one, or even looking in any particular direction was that he came from Cartwright’s house, but Lamb couldn’t imagine the OB having a goldfish, never mind a child. The boy didn’t look much like David - his features were softer, rounder, and if Lamb was being less charitable towards Cartwright, more intelligent. David had a knack for bureaucracy, but that had less to do with smarts than with social manipulation.

“What’re you, some stray Rose picked up in the garden?” Lamb wasn’t trying for nice, he was trying for go away, child, but the boy didn’t seem to either mind or didn’t care that Lamb was being a twat, because instead of looking offended, the boy looked him dead in the eyes and asked: “Did Granddad drag you out of the gutter?”