#Fault and MFR are so dialogue dense atm I just want to avoid it altogether rip

[nomsfaultau]

SBI Whumptober Prompt 1

bruises//scars//”that’s going to leave a mark”...Bonus 25) Field Medicine and 10) Guilt. But the AU is called Fault so there will ALWAYS be guilt. 

Disclaimer: this blurb is set in the SCP SBI AU I have called Fault, specifically within Part 2. Explanation of AU; tldr. 

The Blade had always said scars were badges of honor. The mark of survival, of victory. And that was fine and all, but a boarish brute like him didn’t even have the option of slinking into human society, could never feel the scathing eyes of strangers raking through every wound. That pounding instinct that Wilbur was a poor mimic and at any moment the human crowd would pounce upon the intruder in their midst. 

Philza never said anything about scars, but then again he never had any injuries. Not permanent ones, anyway. He didn’t have to deal with the tightness where skin stretched, the way it ached in the cold. Presumably if asked, Philza would give some grating advice about taking care of himself and knowing when to ask for help. Nothing to be ashamed of, mate, just proof you survived! As if they shouldn’t have had to just barely survive in the first place.  

And Wilbur…well. He just called them one more thing to deal with. His skin was a patchwork of such things dealt with. His was an existence pockmarked by eruptions of violence, the evidence carved well into his skin. The humans had left their fair share of agony across Wilbur, the Foundation tenacious in its hunt. Beyond that, the territory the void had marked upon the vessel that composed his body. The gouges slashed into his back, the bite marks mangling his shoulder, the indecipherable mess of damage trailing up to where the abyss clawed itself out of his skull. For all that he only had half a face, the void sure did its best to ruin what little ‘human’ visage he had left. Pieces of himself destroyed by the abyss, either stolen or given. Wilbur wasn’t unfamiliar with selling his body, each chunk a small sacrifice for whatever bargain he needed to make so that the whole of him would survive. Or, what was left of it. 

He’d earned every scar for his weakness, either the price for failing to dodge an attack or the cost of amassing ephemeral power. And Wilbur was used to that. Sacrifice was life, or his at the very least. It wasn’t an existence he wished on anyone, let alone someone he cared about.

And for all that he was a World Eater, what was a lot harder to choke down was the damage littering Tommy. Sure, after a year in the Foundation there were bound to be lasting reminders of that hellish place, but something in Wilbur’s head refused to let go of that idealized version of Tommy. The kid was supposed to be the normal one, with a loving family and a place among the humans. Bright-eyed and excited and blissfully unaware of how cruel the world could be. And surely that child had shattered long ago, but Wilbur needed him to be real, if only for that hope he’d long since abandoned. That little fantasy where someone like him could be free and happy and safe. 

The recent Foundation ambush proved that was never going to happen. No matter how hard they fought to escape, the humans were unrelenting in their pursuit. Sure the anomalies fended them off this time, but what about the time after that? Or after that? Each time battered a little more, broken a little further. 

Wilbur slipped on sturdy gloves and peeled Tommy out of his jacket, cautious of being contaminated by the boy’s anomalous Red. The liquid curled around him anxiously, fear lingering from the attack. One drop and Wilbur would be reduced to the murderous monster humanity thought he was.

But Tommy needed help and Wilbur was the only one with half decent knowledge on how to patch up a humanoid. Not that Philza wasn’t incredibly learned, but there was always the off chance the immortal would suggest leeches. So Wilbur helped Tommy squirm out of his contaminated shirt, pausing as he got a good look at the ugly mixture of mottled bruises and mutilated scars on the boy’s back.

We ruined this kid, he thought quietly.

Most of the scars were silvery slices of surgical precision from the Foundation doctors trying to find out what made the monsters tick. And, sure, Wilbur had those too. But there were a handful of other ones, imprecise, ugly maroons, skin scrunched and coarse. Signs of abuse and battles. Wilbur had those too, far more. Sometimes he thought his skin was mere echoes of damage. He’d gathered them over a lifetime, though. Tommy wasn’t close to catching up, but he’d made great strides in a single year, and it would only grow worse.

Wilbur did his best to ignore the scars, working on tending to the recent bruises. He’d never had time to explore it before, and he didn’t want to be invasive. He’d known they’d be there, knew he needed to focus on the present. The small things were easy to overlook, the too-straight cut lines and the biopsies and the general abuse that had gone too far. The friction burns around his wrists that mimicked the chaffing around Wilbur’s throat. Their mirrored set of y-incisions. Little details from where doctors tried to unravel them to find out what made the anomalies tick. 

Recent fingerprints bruised into Tommy’s skin from where they’d tried to grab his little brother and take him. So many things had been stolen from Wilbur, sleep and time and peace. But he refused to ever lose Tommy again. 

He drew as close as he dared to a particularly large contusion clipping the edge of Tommy’s ribs, trying to discern if there could be fractures. His breathing was pained, but that really didn’t narrow anything down. Cautiously, Wilbur prodded the area. There wasn’t a crunching sound at least. Tommy’s breath hitched as the cold compress pressed against the contusions, the Red dancing along his arms rising with the pain. 

Still, for all the ache each prod must bring to his battered body, Tommy pressed into each touch. For all the times Tommy reached for him only to flinch away at the last second, Wilbur cursed the universe. How could it possibly be fair the only times he ever held his brother was when he was bruised and bleeding? He knew it wasn’t worth the risk but still the injustice coiled in his gut. Wilbur bandaged the last of the scrapes, and before he could stop himself he ran his fingers through Tommy’s hair. He couldn’t feel it through the thick gloves, but Tommy melted all the same, sinking into the touch. 

And with it sunk the Red as he began to feel safe…revealing a dark blotch of crimson no longer hidden by the anomalous power. 

Wilbur winced as he discovered the fresh wound. It was small but deep, burrowed into Tommy’s upper arm. Jagged, from where the barb was ripped out mid fight. Recognizing it at once, Wilbur searched the boy for a twin wound. Luckily, it seemed the second taser barb missed. Good, Tommy didn’t need to know what that kind of voltage tasted like. 

There wasn’t much Wilbur could do beyond disinfection and a bandage. Really, he’d doomed Tommy to the life of getting hunted down like an animal, and that was the best he could do? Fail to protect him and just watch as another scar got added to his growing collection? 

“That’s going to leave a mark,” Wilbur apologized, as if that could ever make up for the irrevocable mark Wilbur left on Tommy’s life.