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okay but!! the premise for my next fic is that a cold is going around and the MC finally gets sick, but the team doesn't put it together that he was around someone with the flu and that's what he caught. so they're expecting him to push through the discomfort like they all did, but he can't, not with a high fever and severe body aches. he can't sleep because it bothers his lungs. has no appetite and skips all 3 meals. he is struggling to keep himself awake.

eventually he collapses, but everyone blames the heat and exhaustion from being up all night coughing. they keep finding him asleep sitting down and start to get irritated that he's being lazy.

upon finding him sleeping in an odd place again, his friend gives him a little teasing about it, but he replies earnestly that he can't stand because he's too dizzy and he can't sit because he falls asleep. that's when the group realizes that he's NOT being dramatic about a cold, but is underplaying being seriously ill. then comfort >:)

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when the hurt meets the comfort

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hi beautiful. i’m thinking about hawkeye being mentally impaired in some way. like he gets a concussion so he’s confused, or he’s hallucinating, or he is scared into a panic attack or something. like: he can’t think straight ya know. i think it would be cool for the others to be like “i didn’t realize how comfortable we got with his nonchalant persona.” something like that.

and if you don’t want to make this a fic i would be more than happy to discuss too! i love our chats.

omg i loved this prompt, it allowed me to be alone with my thoughts for several hours this week because it was just so fun to play with in my mind. i struggled with writing blockage a little toward the end, but i hope it came out okay!! i hope you enjoy it!!

“Are you sure you’re up for your post-op shift?” BJ asks for the third time in an hour. With three critically wounded in their care and another one who isn’t quite out of the woods, they’ve been having to monitor closely and constantly. “Your fever’s only been broken for 12 hours.”

“We can’t be down a person for much longer, so I’m going to have to push through it. I’m stronger than I look.” 

He looks miserable and exhausted from his bout with the flu this week. His fever only broke yesterday and he’s been pushing himself ever since, insisting on returning to work. BJ isn’t sure whether that’s guilt or a god complex, but it’s clear that he either feels bad about being in bed for a week or he feels the need to do everything himself ot ensure it’s done just so. 

“I can cover if you need me to.”

“Pull a double, Beej? Come on. If we get more wounded, you’ll be so tired that the patient in front of you might start to look an awful lot like a pillow.” 

He sighs. Hawkeye is right. If he doesn’t rest, he won’t be useful later when they really need it, and Charles and Potter can’t do this alone if Hawkeye ends up feeling as bad as he looks. 

“Come get me if you need me, yeah? I’ll just be in the Swamp.”

“Sure.”

“And keep an eye on your temperature.” 

“Yes, mother,” he says back, a little ire undercutting his usually mirthful tone. 

As BJ walks away, it takes all his strength to not call out to him and say that he’s changed his mind, that he still feels lousy and doesn’t want to be here. He should still be asleep in bed, but the war doesn’t stop just because he’s sick. More wounded pour in almost every day. There’s no way he can leave them alone with that any longer than he has to. Charles and BJ have both been working long hours to cover him while he was too sick to move, so he’s eager to rush it and get back to normal. Besides, they’ve been telling him for days that they need him to recover as fast as possible, so he’s just following orders. The worst part is the lingering cough that’s keeping him up and keeping him short of breath. This isn’t the end of the world. He can work through it. 

In the end, he’s sort of right. By the time his shift is finished, he’s signing patient charts without even looking at them, letting the nurses handle anything minor that comes up like pain or minor bleeding. However, he’s technically performing his duties. Twice, he had to get up to check a wound for infection, but while they’re keeping a keen eye on both, he saw no signs of anything being dangerously amiss. He’s sitting in a chair with his back against the wall and his eyes shut when BJ comes back. He must really look bad if he’s here to check on him when Charles is going to relieve him in an hour or so. Though he wants to sit up and greet him, knowing that this position and struggle to keep his eyes open will freak him out, he has no choice in the matter. All the energy he has is being used on shivering. 

“Hey,” BJ greets. “How did everything go?”

“Fine,” he rasps. Great, now his voice is shot, too. Probably from the cough. “Keeping an eye on a few things.” 

“Jesus. You sound awful. How are you feeling?”

“Freezing,” he replies honestly. He isn’t sure he has the wherewithal to lie right now, and besides, BJ would see right through it if he did. 

“You think your fever’s spiking again?”

He shrugs. “Haven’t checked.” 

“You know better than that,” BJ calls over his shoulder as he hunts down a thermometer from the drawer. “Under the tongue.”

“So that’s where it goes. I have a few patients to apologize to.” 

“Funny,” he rolls his eyes. “Don’t talk so much. Two minutes.” 

They wait the requisite time before reading and BJ frowns. 

“Any higher and I’d say you need a bed in post-op. In fact, you should probably go anyway, so the nurses can keep an eye on you.”

“As much as I love eyes on me, I don’t need all that. Just a little sleep.” BJ seems to agree, or at least doesn’t argue.

“Think you can walk back to the Swamp?” Hawkeye nods. “Alright. Up we go.” 

It’s logistically difficult, but BJ manages to get him up and support a concerning deal of his weight for the whole walk, if clumsily and awkwardly. There, he deposits him into bed. 

“I was on my way to help put away the supply shipment. I’ll come check on you in an hour or so. Think you can last until then?” 

“Last I checked, sleeping was a one person job. I’ll get up if I need pointers.”

“Or medicine,” he adds, “or something to eat and drink, or your bedtime story. Here,” he says, handing over a couple of pills he’d grabbed from post-op and an abandoned glass of water from his bedside. “Something for that fever. Do you need anything?”

“8 hours of uninterrupted sleep?” 

“I mean anything that’s possible in this universe.” 

“I see,” he says. “No, I’m fine. Probably just going to sleep until it’s my turn in post-op or there’s a rush of wounded.” 

“Well, don’t wait until you’re on death’s door to get help. If that fever gets higher than 102.5, come get someone.” He nods. 

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

“Get some rest. You’ll feel better when you wake up.” As soon as BJ turns to leave, he hugs his robe tighter around him with a sense of foreboding. 

Of course, as soon as he finds a position that’s comfortable enough to sleep without aggravating his cough, the sirens sound. It’s taken so long that the shipment is long since done with and BJ has returned to sleep, groaning loudly at the interruption. 

“Stay put.”

He does so only for about 90 seconds before reporting to the OR. It doesn’t matter how sick he is—kids could die. He can’t let that happen. 

“Hawkeye,” Margaret says disapprovingly when he enters, pale and slouched and shaking. “You should be in bed.” 

“I’m not sure it’ll fit through the door.” 

“Well, you shouldn’t be in the OR at all. Yesterday, you could barely tolerate being on your feet.” 

“Believe me, being here has taught me to tolerate a hell of a lot.”

“No. You’re benched until that fever goes down,” Potter orders. “You’re in no shape to operate.” 

“I can still—”

“I’ll hear no arguments. It would be irresponsible of me to allow a doctor to perform while his judgment and skills are so obviously impaired.”

“Colonel, we have a problem,” BJ says. “We’ve got four soldiers who could die if we don’t operate right this minute. That means we need him.” 

Colonel Potter thinks hard for just a beat, then sighs. 

“Scrub up. But I’m not happy about it.” 

Well. He can’t disagree.

A nurse dabs his forehead again with a cool sponge, hoping to provide even a modicum of relief and to keep the beads of sweat that are bubbling up from dripping onto the patient. They’re practically pouring water down his throat, and he has to be careful which way he moves his arm because he’s receiving fluids and fever reducers via an IV in his forearm, though neither appear to be touching this. At least they’ve managed to stop his shivering, but something still feels off, murky, like trying to shine a flashlight into fog.

“Talk to us, Hawkeye,” Potter calls. “How are you doing?” 

“On my feet,” he manages, “if barely.” 

“Temperature?” 

“When do you think I’ve had time to check that?” 

“He’s snippy,” Margaret observes, judgment withheld. It’s worry, not annoyance. 

“I know my rights. I can snap if I want.” He coughs again, stepping away from the patient and being both grateful and loathing that he’s wearing two masks. It’s safer, but definitely more stifling, and he’s already not breathing so well as is. He’s been breathing hard for hours and he’s sure that’s doing no favors for his heart rate and temperature. 

“That sounds awful,” Charles comments. 

“Really? But I’ve been practicing.” 

“This is no joking matter. You need a chest x-ray to rule out pneumonia.” 

“I have a feeling we’re not going to be ruling it out,” Potter says. “I’ve been doing this long enough to know a serious cough when I hear it.” 

“Now that we’ve both analyzed and insulted my lungs, can we move on? I need to work.” 

“Whatever you say, Hawk.” 

He refocuses, forcing himself to look at nothing but the kid in front of him, the kid who will die if he doesn’t do something about it. No matter how sick he is, he’d rather stay in his own shoes rather than try to walk in theirs. Lucky might be overstating it, but at least he’s not being shot at.

“I think he’s good to close.” The timing could not be better, either, because he’s afraid that at any moment, he might lose his battle with either his stomach or unconsciousness. Possibly both. “I need some air,” he says by way of explanation for rushing out the door of the OR. 

He stumbles his way to the flagpole. He thinks he might be aiming for the Swamp, but it’s much too far to walk feeling as he does. Instead of trying, he slides down to sit on the ground, his eyes sliding shut soon after. 

When he wakes, it’s because his shoulder is being shaken urgently. Someone is calling out his name, but he can’t seem to respond. 

“Hawkeye, can you hear me?” Margaret calls. 

“Fine,” he says airily, an answer that doesn’t quite fit with the question he doesn’t understand until several seconds after it’s asked. 

“He’s really out of it.” 

Before he knows it, Margaret’s cool hand presses to his cheeks, then his forehead. “He’s boiling.” Once more, a thermometer is forced on him, this time without a quip, without a word. The wait is excruciating, but the reading is worse. “Nearly 104. No wonder he’s barely coherent.”

“I can hear you,” he replies, but it’s too little, too flat, too dull, too late. 

“We need to get him in a cool shower,” Charles says, already moving to help support him with BJ on the other side. “Fever reducers aren’t helping.” 

“He needs another dose,” Margaret argues. “He’s been operating for hours. Let me do that before you get him in the shower. I’ll meet you there.” 

“Alright, Hawk,” BJ says, the first person to talk directly to him in several minutes. “Are you with me?” 

“Right here,” he says. 

“Well, it’s your unlucky day. Unfortunately, you’re about to get a shower.”

“Will I have company?”

“I’ll be there to hold you up, unless you think you could you stand alone?” 

“Not if you keep sweeping me off my feet.”

“So long as you don’t expect a kiss at the end of the night. You’re a little germy.” 

“Hey, now,” he says lightly. “I make up for it in charm.”

“You’re stalling. Let’s get you up.” He does his best, but, as dehydrated and feverish as he is, everything spins as soon as he’s upright, and he finds himself relying on BJ and Charles. He’s not sure if he apologizes, but no one replies. Instead, they work on dragging him to the showers. 

“We’re going to get you out of those scrubs, but I promise to keep your dignity intact.” 

“If you see my dignity, I think I’m owed a kiss at the end of the night.” 

“I’ll be gentlemanly about it.” Methodically, carefully but urgently, BJ strips him of everything but his underclothes, shedding everything bloody or bulky that might be trapping that overwhelming, dangerous body heat. Margaret takes his arm and gently injects another dose of antipyretics with a promise of fluids in a short while. 

When BJ pulls him under the water, he startles and resists at first. It’s frigid, so much so that it hurts. He gasps and pulls away, but he’s weak, or BJ is stronger than he looks, and it does no good. Even when he does manage to squirm, Charles is right there to ensure he doesn’t manage to wriggle out of the stream. 

“Just another few minutes.”

“It’s freezing.” 

“It’s lukewarm,” BJ promises. “You’re just on fire. Hang on a little longer.” 

“Not l-like I can go anywhere,” he manages through chattering teeth. “Not with Muscles standing there ready to pound me into the ground if I escape.” Instead of Charles, he gestures to Margaret, who rolls her eyes.

“You’d better believe it.” 

“Temperature?” BJ calls after what feels like an eternity. 

Charles advances with the thermometer and is apparently happy enough with the reading, because he nods, allowing BJ to turn off the shower. He thinks he whispers some kind of thanks to a god he doesn’t respect into the towel he’s handed. Another is thrown around his shoulders, which he draws close. Even if he’s no longer molten, he’s still not fever-free, and he can feel it in the way his bones are rattling around with every shiver. 

Though he briefly attempts to argue that he’s fine to recover in the Swamp, they have none of it, and he sees reason. They set him up in a bed in post-op, hooking him up to fluids and ensuring that the entire staff know just how ill he’s been. 

“How did you manage to work like that for so long?” BJ asks. “You were practically unresponsive when we found you.” 

“For my next trick, I’ll try it blindfolded and spun around.” He glances at Margaret. “You’ll need a leotard.” She rolls her eyes.

“You must still be delirious.” 

He shifts his gaze one person down to Charles. “You’ll need a leotard.” 

“Right,” he says. “Glad you’re feeling better. I’ll be going.” 

“Wait,” he says, sobering up from laughing at his joke. “I owe you a little thanks. I know I was a nuisance.” 

“Of all the times to apologize for being a nuisance, you’re going to choose the one during which you didn’t have another choice? We needed you in the OR and you stuck it out as long as you could. As much as I’d like to, I can’t be angry with you for that.” 

“Well, I can still thank you for it.” 

“Of course.” Charles actually gives him a small smile. “Get back on your feet soon. We need you in there.”

It’s a well-wishing and a sad plea all in one, and it’s taken accordingly. 

“That’s my cue to shut my eyes.” He’s been looking for a good excuse to kick the others out. As much as he appreciates them, he’s exhausted. 

“Alright. We’ll let you rest. Do us a favor and come get someone if you’re soft-boiling your brain this time, yeah?” 

“I can do that.” BJ claps him on the shoulder as he exits. “Thank you. Both of you.” 

“Get some rest. We’ll need you.” 

BJ hates that he has to say that. 

“I’ll be back on my feet tomorrow.” 

Hawkeye hates that he has to say that.

He allows himself to drift off into what must, because there is no other option, be healing sleep. 

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i can't express how absolutely important it is that when you make an edgy, brooding, badass character who's tough as nails and good at fighting and whatever, you HAVE to give them at least one reason to become completely helpless and pathetic. you have a panic attack quota to fulfill.

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A whumpee who (presumably after escaping whumper or just being missing for an extended period of time) gets home, greets everyone like they weren't ever gone, ignores their questions and just immediately goes to bed

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can’t talk his way out of this one

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For all you fanfiction writers (and whump lovers) out there 🙂‍↕️

|‘71 (2014)

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no but I love it when a recovering character has to be restrained as a cover-up. when caretaker or leader needs the facade of bringing them in, so they clasp the handcuffs closed, carefully avoiding the long since scarred wounds on their wrists. that lingering pity when whumpee takes a shaky breath and lets it happen. ropes loose enough to break if they panic, thick chains that drag for the show of it. and a whumpee, who wants to be brave, to be strong, just... can't. who forgets where they are; shuts down; expression sinking to despaired nothingness as the locks click into place.

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plane sickness is peak in whump and not enough people talk about it

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when stoic whumpee absolutely clings to caretaker

YES! here are some thoughts:

in their fevered state, whumpee thinks that caretaker is in danger and refuses to leave their side

caretaker is the only person who makes them feel safe so when they feel so weak, they latch onto the one person they know will help

whumpee doesn't want anyone else to know they're sick so they cling to caretaker because they're the only person who will keep it secret and help without making it a big deal

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I love blankets in whump. A freezing cold, sopping wet, aching, pathetic, feverish whumpee being ushered inside and wrapped in the biggest, softest, warmest blanket and carried over to the sofa to rest by the fire. Yeah that's it thanks guys.

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Whumpee who is in pain but also very snappy and defensive because of that. Caretaker wants to help them, they're also talking to them in an attempt to calm them down, but Whumpee just yells at them to shut up, that it hurts and to leave them alone. They're overwhelmed and in pain, everything feels too loud, too much.

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i feel like an often overlooked downside to 10-episode seasons and the death of the "monster of the week" format is that we get way less whump variety nowadays. used to be that there'd be dozens of opportunities for your fave to get punched or kidnapped or hypnotized or what have you. these days if it doesn't fit into the main plot, it just doesn't happen. this is a tragedy. we should be protesting.

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For the ask game. Whumpee who is so out of it they mistake caretaker for someone else

(used in one of my MASH fics. Caretaker is taking a sharp object or weapon from whumpee) "Sorry. It was just a slip of the tongue." "Why don't you sit down, okay? Before it becomes a slip of the hand."

(when whumpee and caretaker dont get along and whumpee calls out for their friend/lover) "[Name]?" "Oh, you would be so lucky."

(knowing full well that the person they named is not coming for one reason or another) "They'll be here any minute. Just stay awake, okay?"

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i can’t read the ask game so if there are any that you want to answer that you haven’t gotten yet, i’d love to see them! also i love you

i love you tooooo omg thank you <3

How many whumpy stories do you currently have published online?

plus so many OC fics and a ton I orphaned. i have issues

Which of your stories has the most whump in it?

definitely a scar away from falling apart!! SO much whump, so much angst, so many obliterated friendships, so much trauma. then so much healing at the end :) but in the meantime i beat the ever-loving shit out of him with high fevers, loss of consciousness, migraines, neglecting food and water, fist fights, extreme emotional distress, and more :)

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Make your Whumpee tired.

Whumpees that have been deprived of sleep by Whumper, so much so that they don't remember how to walk in a straight line and can't figure out whether the recent appearance of little black bugs in their cell are real or a hallucination.

Whumpees that can't get a full night's rest. They doze off, only to be jolted awake by their own anxiety of not knowing when Whumper would come back. Perhaps they are awakened by phlegm-coated coughs induced by their illness. They are awakened by nightmares, or by Caregiver who is worried they may succumb to hypothermia, or by a thunderstorm, or the rough blanket scratching their open wounds, or so on.

Whumpees who pull all nighters to protect their friends or lovers.

Whumpees whose eyes burn when they finally can close their eyes. Whumpees whose muscles twitch, who can't stop yawning no matter how hard they try to stifle it. Whumpees with dark, glassy eyes. Whumpees who are slow to react or have a hard time keeping up with the conversation. Whumpees with throbbing headaches. Whumpees with brain fog and memory loss.

Whumpees who have been on the run and have over exhausted their bodies. Their muscles and joints continue to scream long after its over. Whumpees with extensive blood loss. Whumpees who are malnourished.

Whumpees whose survivor's guilt keeps them awake, wondering what they might have done differently, whether it was all their fault, or why they were the ones to live.

Whumpees whose bodies are in chronic pain or illness and who have to hide it, causing muscle and mental fatigue. They keep going with a smile until they collapse or pass out.

Whumpees who break down in tears, begging to be left alone so they can rest. Whumpees who sob when they are told that the bed in front of them is theirs to use whenever they want.

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I’m a big fan of mage/knight dynamics in any form, so consider:

Mage as a Knight’s Whumpee, featuring:

Being strictly prohibited from casting any spells without their knight’s orders, even in self defense

Being dragged into every battle the knight participates in without any of the armor or support

Forced to cast spells far beyond their level or limit, leading to painful feedback & exhaustion

Only being allowed to wear the colors and symbols of their knight’s heraldry as a sign of ownership

Becoming a target for their knight’s frustrations after any loss or dishonor

Or, alternatively - Knights as a Mage’s Whumpee, featuring:

Being used as meat shields against a mage’s enemies, either through orders or straight up mind control to take the hit

Forced into public tournaments against other mages’ knights and knowing the consequences for if they fail to impress

Becoming a test subject for the mage’s new spells and potions, regardless of how dangerous they may be

Sent on potentially deadly missions to collect rare spell components from monsters and cursed locations

Branded with magic runes that force them to follow the mage’s orders