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scriptmedic · 3 years ago

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Mangled Mondays: Dislocated Shoulder

Dislocated Shoulder

Excerpted from Blood on the Page: A Writer's Compendium of Injuries, Section 1.4: Blunt Trauma > Appendages

Lethality Index

1/5

What Is It?

The human shoulder is a ball-and-socket joint between the glenoid (socket) and the head of the humerus (ball). Stabilized by muscles, tendons, and ligaments, the joint is fairly complicated. The scapula(shoulder blade) protects it at the rear; the acromion process at the top; and, in part, the clavicle (collarbone) at the front.

But the joint does have a weakness. A strong impact to the extended arm can essentially pop the ball out of the socket, known as a dislocation. (A partial dislocation is known as a subluxation.)

The most common – and least damaging – form of this injury is an anterior dislocation, when the head of the humerus pops forward out of the socket. As we’ll see, this is hardly benign and can involve fractures of the bones involved, but it’s certainly not as damaging as a posterior or inferior dislocation.

Therefore, it’s the anterior dislocation we’ll discuss here.

Clinical Signs:

· Deformity of the upper shoulder.

· Difficulty and pain trying to move the affected arm.

· Humeral head bulging under the skin.

Symptoms:

· Pain.

· Numbness and tingling in the arm, from the bone pressing against a nerve.

How Does It Happen?

There are a number of ways in which a shoulder can become dislocated, but the most common are when the character falls on outstretched arms or when the character suffers a blow to the shoulder with the arm extended.

These often occur in contact sports such as MMA (mixed martial arts) fighting, soccer, rugby, American football, or high-velocity sports such as motocross, cycling, and skiing.

Immediate Treatment

The primary treatment for a character with a dislocated shoulder is to sling and swathe the arm so that it’s tucked against the body, with the wrist across the chest and toward the opposite armpit. This can be done with a scarf, a large triangle bandage (“cravat”), a professional sling, or anything that can be improvised in the field.

Characters should receive the attention of a medical provider, but characters who have undergone reduction (relocation) of a dislocated shoulder will be familiar with the procedure. (Actually, there are a great many ways of reducing a shoulder; a few of the most popular are covered here.)

Definitive Treatment

Surgery / Hospitalization

Characters who have a shoulder reduced won’t require surgery or admission unless imaging determines a fracture; or if reduction in the ER is not possible due to (a) overmuscular upper body and/or (b) delayed presentation to ER, resulting in tight tendons and muscles impairing the physician’s efforts.

Emergency Department: Imaging

Characters with shoulder dislocations will have X-rays taken to ensure that there are no fractures of the glenoid or the humeral head. It’s possible, but unlikely, for these to happen in the process of the dislocation

Emergency Department: Sedation and Analgesia

There are two goals of sedation and analgesia in the ER.

The first goal is reduction of pain before, during, and after the procedure. Most of the pain of the dislocation will be eliminated when the shoulder is reduced, but not all of it.

The second is to reduce spasm of the muscles of the shoulder, which are fairly strong and can get in the way of reduction or make the procedure more difficult.

The simplest, and perhaps the most effective, way in which emergency providers can control pain is with a simple injection of lidocaine into the joint, which will numb the area, reduce pain, and cause the desired relaxation.

However, some providers will give a small dose of morphine and/or a small dose of a sedative like midazolam (Versed).

A low-dose infusion of ketamine can also be used, since it acts as both a sedative and an analgesic and is therefore an excellent single agent. This requires using an IV, whereas other methods are injected into the joint or can be used with oral medication.

However, a great many shoulders can be reduced without any pain medication at all, especially if the muscles haven’t had time to “freeze up” yet.

Emergency Department: Reduction

There are literally dozens of methods of reducing a dislocated shoulder, almost all of which are effective and well tolerated. (These do not include smashing the shoulder into any available wall; I’m looking at you, Lethal Weapon 2.) We’ll take a look at a few of them below, including what characters can do for themselves.

Kocher’s Method

The Kocher’s method of reducing the shoulder is a simple and straightforward one. It involves the provider helping the injured character tuck their elbow against their side with the elbow flexed and the forearm thus parallel to the floor.

The provider will then take the character’s affected wrist and move it laterally (away from the body) until there’s resistance. They’ll pull the elbow and upper arm forward a little bit, and then pull the wrist back across the body toward the opposite side.

The procedure takes less than a minute, and has a good success rate.

Cunningham Technique

This is perhaps the gentlest reduction technique around. The character is instructed to sit up comfortably, with their back fairly straight, and pull their shoulder blades together. The character will tuck the affected elbow against their body while the provider rests the character’s hand on their own elbow and supports the character’s elbow with their hand. The provider will then massage the trapezius, deltoid, and biceps with their free hand. As their thumb moves to the outside of the humeral head and toward the deltoid, they’ll gently nudge the humeral head back into the socket. This technique relies on relaxing the muscles rather than using any kind of force.

The Davos Technique

To perform this reduction technique, the character sits upright and flexes the hip and knee on the side of the dislocation. The character then clasps the fingers of both hands together around their flexed knee, or the provider will tie their wrists together with cravats or an elastic band.

(Can you say dramatic tension? Imagine the physician steps out of the room for a minute, and the villain walks in with the hero’s hands tied and their shoulder still out of place…)

Next, the provider sits on the patient’s foot to hold it stationary. The character is then told to relax their shoulder and arm muscles, let their head fall back, and let their shoulders roll forward with the arms extended. The humeral head should reduce.

In the Austere Environment

Because of its nature, a shoulder dislocation is quite easy to reduce in the field. There are risks and consequences if any of the relevant bones are broken, but the vast majority of shoulder dislocations don’t involve fractures.

Any of the above procedures should work quite well, but without strong analgesics, reducing the shoulder will take longer. The main thing getting in the way of reduction is muscle tension, so reductions should be fairly slow to prevent tightening.

Self-relocation

Sometimes a character will be on their own and won’t have the benefit of an assistant. In this case, they’ll need to help themselves.

The best bet is for the character to find some way of applying weight to their arm. The simplest way is for them to sit facing a doorknob and to grab it with their affected hand. (If they can tie their wrist to it that’s even better, since tension in the hand is part of the problem.) They’ll then lean back and support some of their weight with their arm. This may take several minutes, and isn’t always successful.

Another technique is for the character to reach up and behind the head, then reach for the opposite (“good”) shoulder. This should, theoretically, relocate the shoulder.

Neither of these techniques is foolproof or entirely likely to succeed, and the techniques will likely only be known to those who have dislocated their shoulders before.

However, most other techniques require a second person, and remember that this is fiction: outcomes are determined by what we want to have happen, not what might actually happen, so long as the act is relatively realistic.

The Rocky Road to Recovery

Capabilities Retained

Characters still have some use of their arm during the dislocation, including the hand and wrist, but won’t want to do much except hold their arm in place.

After the dislocation has been reduced, they will still have use of the hand, as well as all other limbs, neurocognitive function, etc.

Disabilities: Temporary

The shoulder that has been dislocated needs time in order to heal. Because of this, the character will need to keep the arm in a sling for at least one to two weeks (but more realistically, four). Failing to do so runs the risk of redislocation.

Disabilities: Permanent

Shoulder dislocations that don’t produce fractures almost never come with any permanent disabilities. However, it’s possible for the character to have damage to the nerves of the arm from either the dislocation or the reduction.

Features of Recovery: Hospital Stay

None.

Features of Recovery: PT/OT

Characters will need to strengthen their shoulder as it heals.

Initial therapy will aim to improve range of motion: raising the arm above the level of the shoulder, and rotating the elbow outward (elbow tucked against the chest, and wrist brought lateral to the body). After range of motion has returned, the goal becomes to strengthen the muscles.

Isometric strengthening:

The character will step up to a wall and almost touch it; they’ll push the thumb side of their wrist against the wall and press for 8–10 seconds. Next they’ll stand perpendicular to the wall and try to abduct their arm, meaning they’ll try to reach their arm out laterally to their body while pressing against the wall, again for 8-10 seconds. Next the character will bend their elbow so their lower arm is parallel to the floor. First they’ll try to externally rotate against the wall or doorway; then they’ll do the same for internal rotation (towards the opposite side of their body).

Weight training.

Characters who progress beyond isometric training will be encouraged to perform similar exercises with weights.

The first exercise will be to hold a weight – a can of soup works well – and will extend their arm laterally to the body and bring their hand toward shoulder height. Next they can lie on their side on the affected arm and hold the can or weight in front of them, and internally rotate the hand (toward the opposite hip).

The New Normal

Characters who completely recover from the injury will likely have no long-term consequences, though if they don’t stabilize their shoulder muscles with PT they may redislocate the arm.

Sometimes there will be some damage to the nerves of the shoulder, which may involve pain, numbness, and/or weakness both in the shoulder and down the arm. Again, physical therapy helps with these.

Future Risks

Your character will be at risk for redislocation of the same arm.

Total Recovery Time (Typical)

Sling: 1–4 weeks

Strength and flexibility:4–8 weeks

Sensory

Sights

The affected shoulder will look “off,” deformed. The humeral head may be visible under the skin, or the anterior aspects of the shoulder may simply look “out of place.”

Smells

None.

Sounds

Characters may hear an audible pop as the shoulder dislocates, and a pop or clunk may be audible as the shoulder relocates.

Sensations

As with sounds, the shoulder pops out and clunks back in. This may be audible only to the character with the dislocation, or may be audible to others too.

Medslang

A subluxation is something of an incomplete dislocation and is managed in the same way.

Abduction is movement away from the body in the same horizontal plane; that is, reaching out directly to the side.

Adduction is the opposite: bringing the body part back along the torso.

Internal rotation is rotation toward (and across) the body.

External rotation is rotation away from the body.

Anterior means forward (toward the front of the body), while posterior means backward or behind.

Reduction can refer to repositioning a dislocated or subluxated joint, or to bringing bone ends back to alignment in a fracture.

Key Points

· Shoulder dislocations are common, dramatic, and have few long-term complications; they are ideal for use in stories.

· Characters with shoulder dislocations might be able to set their own shoulders, but a second person is generally best.

· Setting the dislocation takes only a minute or two, but can be very painful; sudden movements are the enemy, as the goal is to relax the muscles, not tighten them.

· Characters will need a sling for 1-4 weeks (the younger, the longer) and will require PT to strengthen the stabilizer muscles after the fact.

#mangled mondays #masterposts #this post is not medical advice #this post is writing advice #shoulder injuries #dislocations

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fific7 · 4 years ago

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Velvet

Billy Russo x Reader

@omgrachwrites 500 Follower Celebration

Summary: This follows on from That Swept-Back Hair, approx 8 months later. Things have changed.

Warnings: TBI, memory loss, mentions of sex, angst/fluff mix.

A/N: Loosely based on S2 Billy Russo, but this is non-canon and exists solely within my imaginary Punisher AU. In fact, who is The Punisher? It’s really just The Frankie & Billy Show!

(The little double blink he does as he’s drinking gets me right in the 🖤)

(My GIF)

Your hand glided across the top and then back over Billy’s shorn velvety head, feeling the soft prickliness of the short hairs against your palm. They’d shaved his head when he’d arrived at the hospital prior to surgery.

You still weren’t totally comfortable with the new look, however you knew it’d been unavoidable, and that was that.

It had started growing back a little, and you didn’t want to think about why they were still keeping it short.

His eyelashes fluttered but his eyes remained closed; you sighed and settled yourself back against the uncomfortable seat, ready for another hour’s silent visit.

The sunlight stealing through the venetian blinds threw highlights and shadows onto Billy’s face, and you felt a sudden need to touch his skin. Your fingers ran over his face, feeling each ridge of his scars.

How was Billy going to react when he saw them, you wondered. Let’s be honest, he was a vain man and his good looks had made up a large part of his persona. You didn’t think he was going to take it very well.

It takes a lot of courage for people with disabilities, burns and scars to brave the stares and whispers of others, when all they really want to do is to hide away. The world can be a cruel place, and they have to dig down deep within themselves to find the strength to deal with it.

As you sat there with Billy’s unresponsive hand clasped in yours, your mind drifted back to an awful day, two months ago.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

Two short months. How quickly everything can change in a heartbeat.

You and Billy had made a go of things after the Firefighter Affair, as Karen called it. During the six months following it, you’d found yourself in an actual, real-life relationship with Billy, much to your surprise - and intense pleasure.

He’d still spend long hours at Anvil, he had to keep building up the business and you understood that. What you weren’t so happy about was that he was still very much ’hands on’ with the assignments, as if he didn’t want to let go of the reins to a large extent. Inside, there would always be a piece of Lt. Russo, right alongside CEO Russo.

On the other hand, he had to get used to you jetting round the globe on short trips for your new job, which you were loving.

To begin with, there were sulks and jealous outbursts mainly about ’all those foreign guys’ but he chilled a little after you reassured him you had no interest in hooking up with any of them. “Better not, sweetheart,” he’d growled, dark eyes staring you down.

Both of you had made sure you spent time together in between your busy schedules; breakfasts, lunches, dinners, movies, walks and picnics in the park. Taking turns at staying over at each other’s places.

Yes, you’d breached the panther’s den, a huge victory in your mind as none of his other women had ever set foot in it. Hell, some of your clothes and toiletries had made their way into his wardrobe and bathroom, and vice versa.

And, of course, the incredible sex.

Billy was as energetic, sensual and inventive between the sheets as ever. And sometimes he was just pure caveman. You’d be showering in the morning, Billy would strut naked into the bathroom, and you’d hear, “Showering without me, sweetheart?” Hands grabbing you, arms going round you, and you’d be laying on the bath towels on the floor in an instant.

Billy, hovering above you, his body pressing down on yours, eyes gazing at you, “I think you need a little disciplining, angel,” his mouth and hands all over you. You’d thread your fingers through his hair, giving a not-so-gentle tug, there’d be an answering grunt, Billy revving up, ready to give you the best time you’d have that day.

Things were going really well, much better than you’d expected. At first, doubts had still clouded your mind about Billy’s ability to stay faithful, but... there was no evidence to the contrary, he was behaving himself and nothing but very attentive to you. You were now on his arm at every event he attended.

Then, an unexpected phone call one morning as you were getting ready for work. A hospital administrator, who said that you were receiving the call because your name and number were on Billy Russo’s emergency contact list.

Everything stopped, frozen in the moment, as you automatically assumed the worst.

Your brain finally kicked in and began to filter some of what she was saying back to you. Eventually you gathered that Billy had been caught up in an explosion and had been badly injured. Like, really badly injured. She wouldn’t give you any other details over the phone, but agreed when you asked if you could visit him. She did warn you, however, that he wasn’t conscious.

You were scrambling round your apartment, looking for jacket, shoes, bag, when your phone rang again. Karen. You picked up, and heard her trembling voice saying your name and spilling that Frank had been injured in an explosion. Again, you stopped in your tracks.

It dawned on you now why you got the phone call from the hospital, as you were sure Frank would be at the top of Billy’s contact list.

You hadn’t even thought about Frank, that he could’ve been injured too. You felt a stab of guilt.

Agreeing to meet at the hospital, you hung up, dropped a quick explanatory text to your boss, and rushed out to begin your trek over there.

You met up outside the main entrance and stepped into the chaos of the ER. Eventually you were led to a small side room and informed that the attending doctor would come and find you as soon as they could.

Both of you sat and speculated on the severity of their injuries, and what the ‘incident’ could have been. The guys didn’t discuss the nitty-gritty of their work with you, due mainly to the sensitive nature of the assignments.

Karen called into work, firstly to explain her absence and secondly, to ask if there was anything being reported as a major incident, but there was nothing.

A couple of days later, she’d managed to discover that Anvil had got a contract to bodyguard a government official from a Middle Eastern country, and dissidents from there had ambushed him on his way from the airport into the city, slamming their SUV into an escort car and causing its gas tank to explode a few minutes later. That’s what Frank and Billy managed to get caught up in.

The doctor came and collected Karen, saying that Frank was conscious but dazed, and she’d give her more details about his injuries as they walked to his room.

Once you were left alone, the wait began to feel endless. Your mind was circling like a washing machine stuck on the spin cycle; Frank was conscious, Billy wasn’t, Frank was conscious, Billy... why wasn’t Billy conscious?

Eventually, the doctor returned for you, but sat down on one of the plastic hospital chairs rather than leading you to his room. She had that sympathetic but business-like look on her face, the one medical people seemed to adopt when they had bad news to impart.

You found yourself thinking that they had to maintain a bit of distance, otherwise they probably wouldn’t be able to do their job.

She started speaking, telling you that Billy had received his injuries in an explosion, and had sustained lacerations from shrapnel, a dislocated shoulder and a broken foot. But the most serious one had been a substantial concussion which had caused a small bleed on the brain, and this had required immediate surgery.

Swelling of the brain had also caused complications, and Billy had been placed into a medically-induced coma.

She’d stood up then and you’d followed her along several corridors, repeating ‘shrapnel’ over and over in your mind. The doctor had stopped outside a door with a small rectangular window inset above the handle, turning to face you.

“He’s suffered quite a lot of facial scarring, and is quite heavily bandaged... I just wanted to warn you.”

You felt tears stinging your eyes.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

Karen had texted you about 30 minutes later, asking if you wanted to stay or go.

To be quite honest, you’d be glad to leave the oppressive little room; the beeping of the machines and rhythmic clicking of the ventilator had been making you feel tense, and a headache was forming behind your eyes.

And Billy’s bandaged head and face - you felt guilty for thinking this - looked like something out of a horror movie.

The two of you met outside the main entrance and headed to a coffee shop you could see on the opposite corner. You had no idea if it had decent coffee but it surely couldn’t be any worse than the dishwater the hospital passed off as a drinkable beverage. Karen caught you up on Frank’s condition as you walked over there.

He had a couple of dislocated joints, two broken fingers, cuts and bruises. Where he’d lucked out - so to speak - was that he’d avoided getting concussed.

Once you’d got your distinctly average coffee, you relayed the details of Billy’s injuries to Karen, and she’d been shocked that he was in such a serious condition.

There was going to be a long old journey ahead to get Billy back on his feet.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

They brought Billy out of the induced coma just short of three weeks later. The brain swelling had definitely been a worry, but they weren’t keen on keeping him under much longer. However, more concerning was the fact that he didn’t wake up of his own accord once the medically induced coma was reversed.

The mummy-like bandages had been removed at the same time, revealing angry-looking red scars. The nurses had been applying oils and balm to them several times a day, and this had helped to calm them quite a lot. But you knew they were still going to be a big shock to Billy.

Frank, out of hospital by then and keeping things ticking over at Anvil, didn’t say much - as was his way - but you knew that both he and Karen were as worried as you were about this unsettling turn of events.

You tried to maintain a positive front, but on occasion found yourself literally sobbing on Karen’s shoulder when it got too much to handle.

You fell into a strange kind of half-life; working as usual then heading out to the hospital each evening to sit and talk to Billy, holding his hand. You ate at odd hours, slept erratically, disturbed by bad dreams, usually about Billy never regaining consciousness.

And so it went; work, hospital, eat, sleep, repeat. Day after soul-destroying day.

Today, at lunch-time you were on your way out to grab something to eat when your phone rang, an unknown number. Praying it wasn’t some annoying cold-caller, you picked up to find yourself speaking to a doctor from the hospital. You stopped walking; you usually didn’t hear from them, they usually had nothing new to tell you.

Three minutes later, you were running back up to your office, to let your boss know that Billy was awake and you had to get to the hospital. “Go, go, Y/N,” he said, “and keep me posted!”

In the back of an Uber, you texted Frank and Karen to give them the good news, saying you’d be in touch later once you’d been able to see him.

You really hoped the traffic wouldn’t be too bad, you were majorly anxious to get to Billy. In case he lost consciousness again before you saw him.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

Your feet took you through the entrance hall, into the lifts and up to Billy’s floor without any conscious input from you, as you’d taken the same route so many times. You waited impatiently at the nurses’ station, your head whipping round as you heard your name.

The doctor took you into the small side room again; so, a chat before you got to see Billy. The doctor had that same look on her face.

“Billy’s awake, but he’s a little disorientated. Y/N... he’s experiencing some amnesia. From what we can gather, he thinks he’s still a serving Marine in Afghanistan.”

Your heart sank; you supposed it had been naive to think he’d wake up and things would magically be back to how they used to be.

“But that’s normal, right? After a head trauma.”

She nodded, “Yes. And all or some memory can be recovered. But as you probably know, there are no hard and fast rules about if or when that will happen. There are no guarantees when it comes to amnesia.”

You gulped, nodding to show you understood.

The doctor reached into her top pocket, bringing out a card and handing it to you. “We have a psychotherapist affiliated to the hospital, a Dr Dumont. In fact, I think she was planning to assess Billy in the next day or so. She’s got several vets on her books, I’m sure she’d be happy to take him on.”

You handed the card back to her. “Thanks, but we’ve already got counselling set up for Billy. An ex-Marine buddy of his, who supports and counsels vets. He’ll be a lot more comfortable with Curtis. Please thank her but let her know we don’t require her help.” The doctor looked a little sceptical but nodded and tucked the card away.

She stood up, waiting for you to do so and then walked with you along the familiar corridors to Billy’s room. “Has he mentioned anyone’s names when you’ve talked to him? Me, Frank, Karen?” A shake of her head, “No, sorry. As I said, he’s quite disorientated.”

You nodded, asking, “Has he seen his scars yet?” Again, she shook her head, “We thought that might be a bit too much for him on his first day awake. If he’s run his hand over his face, he’ll have felt them of course, but there are no mirrors in the room or bathroom.” You nodded, “Thanks, Doctor. I think that’s for the best. I won’t mention it unless he asks me directly.”

She left you outside the door, and taking a deep breath, you opened it and went in.

The figure in the bed had wrapped his sheets round him, right up to his neck. He was curled up on his side, facing away from the door, a defensive position it seemed. You approached the bed, feeling that he knew you were there, but there was no movement.

“Billy?” you said quietly, “it’s me, Y/N.” No response.

Then his head turned towards you, and you had your first sight of his dark eyes in a long time, gazing at you over his shoulder. But you saw instantly there was no recognition in them, and you had to look down to hide your disappointment.

He began to sit up, struggling against the sheet cocoon he’d created, and you leant forward, reshuffling his pillows. He sank back into them, still staring at you. You drank in the sight of him, awake; you’d really begun to think that he’d never regain consciousness.

“We know each other, then,” he suddenly said, a statement, not a question. Voice low and raspy, no doubt due to the recently-removed ventilator.

“We do, Billy,” you replied, “we’ve been seeing each other. An item, as they say.”

He nodded slowly, “For how long?” You pulled up a chair alongside the bed, “Six months.”

He gave a low chuckle, and now his eyes flickered up and down your body as you sat down next to him, before returning to meet your eyes. His had a slight glint in them.

“So we’ve slept together. We have good times?”

You smiled, nodding, “Very good times, Billy.”

He gave you the Billy smirk, and you knew that your Billy was definitely still in there somewhere.

His demeanour suddenly changed, he looked worried. His eyes dropped down onto his hands.

“I don’t know who you are.”

The flat statement took your breath away. You knew he didn’t recognise you, but hearing it said straight out like that hit you like a slap in the face.

He stared at you again, while you tried to arrange your face into a neutral expression. “Sorry,” he mumbled, one hand gesturing in the air at nothing.

Taking a deep breath, you lifted his hand and entwined your fingers with his, “It’s OK, it’s OK,” you said, although truthfully it wasn’t.

It hurt your heart that he didn’t recognise you, but the amnesia was to blame, and you couldn’t lay a guilt trip on him about it.

He was still gazing at you, and you continued, “I’m here, Billy and I... we.... are all here for you.” Squeezing his hand, “Me, Frank, Curtis, Karen, we’ll get you through this, I promise.”

Tears welled in his eyes, and his fingers gripped yours.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

Once back in the privacy of your apartment, you filled in the others on a group call. Frank rumbled down the phone, “So he thinks he’s still serving?” “Apparently so. That’s what he told the doctor. I didn’t want to push it on my first visit. I’m heading back later and I’ll try to talk to him a bit more.” Karen asked if he knew about the scarring yet, and you said no, he’d admitted he was in quite a bit of pain, but all over, not just his face.

Curtis butted in at that point, saying that some of his guys had mentioned this Dr Dumont you’d told them about. “Yeah, she’s got some... weird ideas, they said. Masks and shit.” What? You asked him to elaborate and he’d told you the little he knew. “Well, I’m glad I kicked that idea into touch,” you replied, “none of that stuff is gonna help Billy get better, I’m sure of that.”

When you got back to the hospital, Billy was sitting up in bed, and spent the first five minutes you were in the room just staring intently at you. You’d gently questioned him as to how he was feeling, was he eating, drinking, sleeping, but got no response.

Then he’d shaken his head, as if trying to clear it, and asked, “Am I still in Afghanistan?”

You and he then spent a little time talking about what he remembered, probing to see how far back his memories went. He did think he was still in the Marines, thought he was on a tour, but couldn’t remember who he was serving with, could see some faces but didn’t recall names. You were keen to get Frank and Curtis in to see him, maybe it would help if he was face to face with them.

You could see he was getting tired, so you pushed your chair back, about to stand up, when his hand shot out and grabbed your wrist. It was such a Billy thing to do, you heard yourself gasp.

He looked at you, then down at his hand on your wrist, “Shouldn’t I have done that?” You smiled, “It’s just such a normal thing for you to do it took me by surprise, Billy.”

“I’m always grabbin’ your wrist?” You laughed out loud, “Amongst other things!”

He laughed too, and you were so happy to hear that sound.

“We need to be talking about all-a that.” He tugged on your wrist, “And I reckon I need a kiss.”

You shook your head, smiling, “Maybe soon, Billy, right now you need to concentrate on getting better.”

“But I think it’d help!” giving you a sly side-eye, “jog my memory.”

You leant in, “How can you think about kissing when you’ve been through a major trauma?!” but you were craving the closeness with him, after weeks without it.

His hand suddenly went from your wrist to the nape of your neck, pulling you half on top of him, and you were thinking that some things didn’t change when his lips met yours.

You’d been imagining a fairly quick, chaste ‘getting to know you again’ kiss, so you were surprised when you felt his tongue sneaking past your lips, his other hand moving smoothly onto the swell of your breast, massaging firmly, and you could feel his arousal under you.

You pushed back, looking at him with a smile.

“Marine! Stand down.”

It was a stupid cheesy thing you’d always said to him, even before you were properly dating.

He stared at you, his thumb stroking your bottom lip, “That.. what you just said. It feels familiar.”

You nodded, “That’s good, Billy... I’m happy about that, I say it to you all the time. It’s our little joke.”

He lay back on his pillows, mood changing suddenly, staring at you. “Why d’you shove me away? I was kissin’ you, had my hands on you, wasn’t that familiar to you, Y/N?”

You stroked his arm. “Billy, I didn’t shove you away. I just need you to remember that you’ve suffered a major trauma, you need to be calm, concentrate on getting better...” He was looking tired, head nestling back into his pillows.

You stood up, picking up your bag, “I’m gonna head home now, let you get your rest. I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?” You leant forward and kissed his temple, “Sleep well.”

His eyes were already closed as you pulled back from the kiss.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

The four of you met up at the hospital mid-morning the next day. Karen and Curtis sat down on chairs in the corridor, while you and Frank headed into Billy’s room.

You stopped in your tracks in the doorway, Frank bumping into you. There was a small, dark-haired woman sitting on a chair, side on to the door, with a clipboard on her knees.

But what had you both frozen to the spot was the sight of Billy, dressed in a tracksuit, sitting on a chair opposite her. He had a pure white mask on; two eye holes, a fully-formed nose, small slit for the mouth. It was damn scary-looking.

You took a few steps into the room, “Who are you?” you challenged the woman, although you had a good idea already. “And why is my boyfriend wearing that weird mask?”

She stared at you, “Boyfriend? Oh.. I didn’t realise...”

You decided to drop the innocent act. “Are you Dr Dumont? Because if you are, you can take your clipboard and your mask and get out of here. I asked the doctor yesterday to tell you that we already have counselling in place for Billy.”

“Well, yes she did, but about that... to be honest that’s why I decided to..” she looked over at Billy, “assess him in any case. I don’t feel that the counselling you mention would be right for...”

“Doctor!” you hissed, and she stopped talking. “You are treading a very thin line here. I haven’t asked or authorised you to see Billy, so I will ask you again, please take your theatre props and go.”

You’d walked over to Billy as you’d been talking, and stripped the mask off him, holding it out to her. Billy’s wide dark eyes were gazing up at you.

She stood up and snatched the mask from you, placing it on top of her clipboard. With a very condescending smile, she said, “I’m telling you, you’re making a big mistake.”

“Get out! Now,” you said, glaring at her.

The door banged shut behind her, and you said as Frank walked over to you, “Unbelievable! Billy’s had a lucky escape from that quack, I reckon.”

Frank nodded, placing his beefy paw on Billy’s shoulder. Billy’s eyes were searching his face.

“Bill,” Frank growled, “‘s me, Frankie. I’m here for ya.” He tightened his grip on the shoulder under his hand. “I got your back, bud.”

You could both tell that he didn’t yet recognise Frank. But he did recognise the comfort the words gave him.

“Frankie,” he murmured.

Then he looked to you. “Y/N?...right?” You nodded, fighting to keep your expression blank. Still not sure of you, even your name. You caught Frank sending you a sympathetic glance.

You took his hand, rubbing your thumb over his skin. Billy had a puzzled look on his face as he looked up at you.

“Why’d she put that mask on me, Y/N? My face hurts. Don’t I look good?”

Your mouth drew into a line, and you quickly glanced at Frank.

“Billy, you look as good as you always did.”

“Did I look good?”

“Yes, you looked so handsome,” you replied, “a beautiful man.”

That small smile, dark eyes sparkling at you.

“And do I still look good?”

You ran your hand down the back of his velvety head, feeling him shiver as your fingers trailed onto his neck, pleased with his response to your touch.

“Yes, you do, Billy,” you answered honestly, because as far as you were concerned, he did.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

Additional A/N: DUMONT 🥊 POW! 🥊 how it would’ve gone down if I’d written S2 😉 And thank you Tumblr for totally eating the draft of this last night, really enjoyed re-typing it.

#ben barnes #billy russo fanfic #billy russo imagine #billy russo #billy russo x reader #velvet

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whereismymindnow · 4 years ago

Text

Shark (Troy Otto x OC)

I’ve really enjoyed rewatching FTWD lately, particularly S3 since Troy was such an interesting character that had so many complicated layers and I thought his relationship with Nick could have been explored so much more.

Anyway, this may not go anywhere, but here’s a one-shot or chapter one of a short fic for anyone that may be interested. I've not posted any fanfiction on Tumblr before so I'm fully prepared for it to flop haha! I do post on AO3 under the name Mikki19. :)

Song inspiration for the story: Plastic Heart by Ciscandra Nostalghia

This fic (if I expand on it on here) will have many dark elements due to Troy's mindset. Consider that your warning.

---

This wasn’t how it was meant to happen.

All of this trouble over some half-rotten fucking apples.

She’d been minding her own business, her hunger leading her to not take full account of her surroundings as she came across the nearly dead fruit tree. Flies buzzed around the apples that had dropped to the floor long ago, but she noticed 3 overly ripened orbs clinging for life on one of the higher branches. Given how she’d been unable to forage much lately, she was willing to try and take whatever bits of the apples were left.

Her nearly empty bag dropped to the ground as she carefully put one foot in a groove of the tree and hoisted herself up. Her vision was blurry and her head ached, but getting the browning fruits above remained her goal. With shaky limbs she scaled the tree until she could stretch up and touch the apples with her fingertips. She let out a groan of pain as she gave one last stretch and grabbed the branch that held her prize; a small shake had the little round globes dropping to the ground with a squelch making her grimace. Beggars can’t be choosers, she reminded herself.

She hadn’t been expecting to hear the rumble of an engine or the large soldiers that slowly sauntered out of the truck. She’d frozen like a cat being caught climbing something they shouldn’t have as one stepped forward. His brown curls and bright eyes gave the impression of innocence, but the shadow of calculation overcoming his face made her realise how fucked she was.

Harper unsteadily slid down the tree and noticed how her bag – that had very little inside it apart from an empty bottle, a Swiss Army knife, a torn and distressed picture of her brother, and the collar of her dog that had defended her until the end – was closer to the man than to her. With a sharklike smile he picked up the bag and threw it behind him for one of his friends to rifle through and cocked his head to the side in wonder as to what her next move would be.

She heard him laugh as she dived behind the tree and ran as fast as she could to the building nearby. A loud scream left her as a corpse immediately launched itself at her as she burst through the door; its teeth were so close to her that she could feel a few strands of hair be ripped from her scalp as it snapped its jaws. She kept an arm pushing across its chest as she frantically ripped her pocketknife from her boot, flipped it open and sent the blade through the walker’s skull. The body dropped to the filthy floor, sending a cloud of grey dust into the air that made her choke. Harper turned her head and saw the soldier slowly making his way to the building she’d just entered.

So, here she was. Trapped like a mouse as the cat prowled around looking for its next meal. She slowed her breathing as much as she could and huddled under the abandoned desk; her hand held a strong grip on the knife but she could already feel her body shaking in exhaustion. She hadn’t eaten properly or slept more than a few hours for days since her camp got overrun by a hoard of the dead. She wasn’t ready for a fight. She knew that this was only going to go one way judging by the firepower that these men had and how clean and well-fed they looked. With any luck she could lose or injure the guy in the building and run out through a back exit.

“You know, I don’t want to hurt you. People always look at me like a monster, but I’m not. If you come out, there doesn’t have to be a struggle.” Harper could hear him in the corridor outside of the abandoned office she’d dived into. The way he sounded so chilled, almost bored or uninterested, made her want to deliver a swift kick to his smug face.

She’d always been a fighter. When the kid in 9th grade pushed her to the floor and laughed, she’d got up just as quick and head-butted him without a thought. When Sophia had looked at her brown curls with a sneer, she’d quickly pulled on the blonde locks until the girl begged for mercy. Of course, her spitfire nature came with consequences. She’d found that out pretty quick when her father started to use a firmer, more brutal hand in order to get her to comply, and her mother had pulled her out of school and begun to slip light sedatives in her food. They were afraid of her, she knew that. They were afraid she’d inherited that rage that had sent her grandmother into a mental hospital at the age of 39 until she died in a medication induced coma at 46. It wasn’t until her brother died when she was 18 that things began to change. Her fire had been reduced to nothing and she walked around the house like one of the dead even before they’d started to rise. Malachi had been her rock. He’d been the only one to believe in her and used that anger that burned within her belly to train her how to wrestle. She soon grew hungry for the sport and had aspired to join the independent wrestling scene as soon as she could break away from her parents. Malachi’s death had changed all of that though. The once bright-eyed girl had been reduced to a withered husk. The fire within had been extinguished and the thought of fighting made her feel nauseous. Her parents had been quite relieved; they’d have rather have her broken than be the monster they were sure she’d have turned into. From then on she’d been a shadow of her former self; she spent most of her days sleeping or pretending to listen to her mother prattle on about one thing or another whilst her father went to work.

She could feel that familiar ache in her chest. She wanted to get up and fight, but her legs felt like jelly and her head was about ready to explode. So, she waited. Her eyes clenched shut as the door to the office slowly closed. She heard the thud of a gun being put on the table near the door and the heavy footsteps of army boots make their way across the room.

“I know you’re under there.” A squeak left her mouth as two large hands slammed down on top of the desk. “Won’t you come out? You don’t even know what I have to offer to you. Those apples you were so desperately reaching for? I can give you a whole basket full… if you just come out.” He made it sound so goddamn easy and simple. “I said: come out!” The sudden anger in his voice made her gulp and slowly stand. Her green eyes met his; despite the anger that had been in his voice, his face was blank as he drank the sight of her in.

Her cropped top was torn and covered in blood, her shorts were dirty and her boots were worn. She was clinging to life by a thread and they both knew it. Her 5’7” stature was dwarfed by his large 6’1” body. He could tell she had been quite fit and muscular before all of this, but poor nutrition had left her looking withered and underdeveloped. He could easily see her ribs and hipbones from where she stood. She was completely filthy and he noted bruises and scratches on her legs from where she had been running wild for who knows how long. It was her eyes that got him the most; he’d seen those eyes before, he saw that same determination and anger every time he looked at his own reflection. She didn’t want to give up, but she was so tired. Her body wobbled in place and she sucked her chapped bottom lip between her teeth in an attempt to keep the sob that was building at bay.

“Come here.” When she made no effort to move Troy quickly reached forwards, grabbed her by the neck and lifted her over the desk so that she was in front of him. He laughed as his free hand quickly caught her wrist as she sluggishly tried to get him with her knife. “Drop it.” Troy murmured softly.

“No.” Her voice cracked from lack of use. “No.” A heavy sigh left his mouth before he tightened his grip until he could feel her ligaments and bones creak under his grasp. “Agh!” Her other hand came to claw at his fingers desperately as she felt like her wrist would break.

“Drop. It.” He hissed with no intention of loosening his hold until she complied like a good girl. The knife fell with a clatter as she swallowed down her pride and submitted. Immediately his once vicelike grip turned into a soft hold and he allowed his thumb to carefully rub the already bruising skin. “Do you see what you made me do?” He spoke like he was talking to a child. “I’m not a bad person. You just need to listen to me.” Troy watched as her face crumpled and she stared at her feet. He was so used to looking at people like an experiment that he was shocked to find his mind wasn’t trying to work out how long it would take this weakened girl to turn. He looked at her in wonder instead. He could tell that she was broken inside. It was easy to see as the swell of defiance was in her gaze but it was overpowered by the lost look. She needed someone to lead her. She needed direction… purpose… He’d give it to her. He could see her at the ranch with him. She’d be in the living area waiting for him to return from a hunt with a smile on her face and no shoes on her feet. She wouldn’t need shoes; shoes were only necessary for people going outside. He was all she would need. She would be his.

Harper carefully looked up at the soldier and blinked as she saw the concentration in them. “Who are you?”

“My name is Troy. Yours?”

“H-Harper.”

“Where are you from?”

“England… originally. We moved to the States after my brother died… too many memories at home.”

“How’d your brother die? Was he sick?” His head snapped to the side as her hand came up and connected with his cheek. Harper was breathless from the exertion but the carelessness in which he talked about her brother made her blood boil. Malachi was a subject not meant to be touched. “Hm… wrong move.” Troy’s grip tightened once again on her wrist as he spun her around, pushed her front onto the desk and pulled her limb until an aching pain grew in her shoulder from the angle. He used his own body to hover over her so that she couldn’t straighten up. “Apologise.” He wedged his legs between hers as she started to flail and kick out in order to avoid the low blow that she was aiming to deliver; his hips stayed firm against the back of her thighs despite the movements she was making. A deep groan left his mouth as her actions awakened the primal urge within him that told him to claim her. Harper suddenly stilled as she felt a heavy, hard length begin to grow against her ass. “Apologise.” He simply repeated, suddenly breathless as his body buzzed from the stimulation. He wasn’t used to this reaction. Sure, he could see pretty girls from those that would probably be a last pick, but he’d never felt this need to claim before. He’d had sex before, meaningless and ultimately disappointing sex with girls that had wanted to get closer to his perfect brother or had wanted a better standing within the ranch and chosen the somewhat vulnerable youngest Otto to try and make that happen, but this felt like more than just an urge to find his way into the warmth between her legs. This felt like something he needed; like the blood in his veins and the air that he breathed. She felt like a piece of the puzzle that would fit perfectly into place and make him feel that little bit more whole.

Harper could feel his hot breath shakily release against the back of her head and shuddered. “I- I am sorry.” She whispered gently in an attempt to appease the unpredictable man behind her. She felt him slowly release her wrist but he made no motion to move away from her. Her back tensed as his hands slowly went to her sides and gripped her hips. He stayed still for a moment, almost as though he was using his hold on her body to ground himself, before stepping back with a low chuckle.

“Good girl. You’re learning already.” Troy leant down and grabbed her knife, a knowing look in his eye as he pocketed it for himself before pulling something else out of his jacket. A thin strip of plastic was in his grasp. “Put your wrists out and together.” Harper exhaled as she looked at the cable tie. Exhaustion was defeating her and he’d taken what little energy she had left. Her body was propped up by the table behind her and she knew if she stepped away then her legs were likely to collapse.

“Where are you going to take me?” She asked softly understanding that she had no way out of this in her current state.

“Back to base. It’s safe there.” Troy stated proudly as though he was saving her and not taking her against her will. “Do you understand? I’m going to keep you safe. I’ll feed you and get you clean so I can see exactly what is under all of this filth.” Harper’s mouth watered at the thought of food and a shower. Her basic human needs screamed at her to obey as she shakily held out her hands to him. He carefully looped the plastic around her wrists and tightened it until she winced; only stopping when her eyes looked into his pleading for some form of mercy. “Are you thankful?” Harper gave a shaky nod under his intense stare that seemed to strip her naked and glare into her soul. “Use your words.”

Harper swallowed down her bile as he raised his brow expectantly. “Yes… thank you, Troy.” His grin was the last thing she saw before her body finally gave up and she dropped to the cold ground unconscious.

---

You look for me Inside the dark I am the ocean You are the shark You hunt me like Your last goodbye Oh fallen angel Of the night

---Plastic Heart by Ciscandra Nostalghia---

#fanfiction #ao3 fanfiction #troyotto #troy otto #ocs #original female character #troy otto x oc #fear the walking dead #ftwd

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msmarvelwrites · 4 years ago

Text

The Winter Ghost - Chapter 17

Info: A Devastating car crash causes you to lose your memory and start over. The only thing left in the wreckage was the horrific nightmares which plagued your mind. If you knew what today would entail you would have just stayed in bed. But you didn’t and because of that, everything you knew was about to change.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: swearing, fluff, foreshadowing smut?

W/c: 2.3k

A/n: I know I know, it’s been quite a few nights since I last posted since I usually try to every few days... This week has been a whole long seven days. And honestly I needed to charge my battery and take a break from writing for a minute. Anyyways, thats boring, and this is not. Were almost done here, and I’m so excited to move onto some imagine’s I’ve been brainstorming! Hope you enjoy!

Bucky’s breath fanned across your collarbone, drifting in and out of slumber. How he could even attempt sleeping after the day's events was, quite frankly, astonishing. But you didn't dare wake him, afraid you wouldn't get a chance to be this close to him again.

It was easy enough to conclude how you felt about the past few days as confusion. Specifically speaking, you knew it went deeper than that. Your memories had kicked you in the teeth, reeling from the guilt and grief that Tommy was dead and it was all your fault. Yet in the matter of hours, you had fed him to Hydra. You knew exactly what they would do to him when they found out you had escaped. You also knew that when the team circled back to dispose of the Hydra base, or what of it was left, Tommy would be gone. For good this time.

Bucky’s body shifted, leaning in closer to you. Your heart raced as a small sigh erupted from his chest, vibrating through you.

And then there was that. You weren't sure when that feeling of butterflies had come back when Bucky looked at you, but nevertheless it had. Part of you thought you should be sorrowful after your ‘almost’ fiance ‘almost’ shot you. Maybe take a day for bereavement, and yet, the idea of pressing pause on Bucky, after all this time, felt impossible. More to the point, you were tired of fighting between what you thought was morally right about how your heart beated ten times faster when he was around.

“Do you hate me?” He hesitated under his breath. The rest of the team had all taken their seats at the front of the aircraft. Even still, he spoke as though he was afraid they would hear your confession.

Your eyes met his, looking for some sort of punchline, but none came. Silence hung heavy around his question, and you swallowed deeply.

Did you hate him? There was a time not so long ago that you would have been an easy question to answer. He hadn't stolen the life you thought he had. No, Tommy did that all on his own. He betrayed everything you had built together. He wasn't the man you thought you knew. Bucky, on the other hand, always had been. You knew about his past. He had spent countless nights wrapped in his arms dredging but old and broken memories about his time with Hydra. The only thing you knew for sure was he made you feel like you belonged in a world that you thought had written you off years ago.

Maybe, if you hated anyone, it was yourself. How long had Tommy been lying to you? How could you not have seen it? How many nights had you spent in your bed, giving yourself to him, trusting him, believing him?

“Thats a loaded question.” He murmured before you could answer. “I just mean, I miss this… Miss, you.”

You worried on your bottom lip, watching as he huffed out a breath and accepting your silence for an obvious answer. Before he could pull away from you, you took his hands in yours, starling him from the sudden warmth.

“I- I don’t think I ever hated you.” You offered honestly.

Bucky pursed his lips and looked you over quizzically. “Could’ve fooled me.” He chuckled, leaning back into you as his breath steadied again.

“I know I never really got the chance to- uh, apologise...” You tried the word on your tongue, but it tasted bitter. How do you ask for someone's forgiveness after attempting to murder them? “I don't really know what to say…” You mumbled, feeling the walls you built around yourself behind to crumble.

“That’s cause’ there's nothing to say. Listen doll, of all people you don't need to apologise to me for homicidal tendencies. I get it.” He teased. You appreciated his light hearted approach, but his words send a lump to appear in your throat. Was that what it boiled down to? After a long day of dark thoughts and murderous rampages, Bucky would be there to understand. You weren't sure if the sentiment was romantic or the plot to a Tim Burton film.

“And besides, I kinda’ deserved the ass kicking.” He signed, smiling into your shoulder.

“You kind of did.” You chuckled.

Huh…?

Were you making light hearted joking about attempted murder? Is this who you were now? Honestly, it wasn't the worst thing you’d done. Besides, there was something so comforting about the way he accepted you. Flaws (and boy oh boy were they flaws) and all.

“Okay. So I'm not sorry for putting you on your ass.” You specified. “But I am sorry. For what I said after. I don’t know where that came from. I don't really think those things about you. You’ve never given me a reason to before.” Bucky huffed, and you could physically feel him stiffen.

“I lost control, Y/n. I gave you a perfectly good reason...” He noted. You didn't have the heart to tell him that ever since that fateful day in the hallway all you could think about was the aching in your core and how perfect his death machine of a hand fit around your throat.

“It doesn't matter…” You spoke, running your fingers over his flesh ones, until they locked into his. “I’m fine. You're fine- ish, right?” You chuckled, motioning to his chest now dried with blood, “I don't blame you.”

He squeezed your hand and signed into your shoulder. Everything about this moment was perfect. The impending doom you had left behind was just that. It felt long gone as you stared into Bucky’s arctic eyes and breathed in his scent. Comforting, familiar, and something you weren't ready to comprehend. It sent shivers down your spine and made your legs clench together at the thought. But now, sitting in the back of the quinjet avoiding the loud stares of Wanda scrutinizing your every move was not the time. There was no doubt she was reading your loud heated thoughts, and so desperately, you tried to quiet your want.

……………………………

When you landed, medical was at the ready, helping Bucky out of the aircraft and into the compound. Shuri tried to force you apart from the injured man long enough to convince you to go for a check up also.

‘I feel fine. I’m fine’ you tried to argue, but it was no use. Her mind was made up and you were smart enough to know when that happens, there's very little one can do to change it.

You sat in the small lab, letting Shuri pry and pron at you, asking question after question but your mind was distant. Distracted. There was only one person you wanted to be with, and right now he was down the hall, having bullets plucked from his body.

The overwhelming need to be near him was sudden, but not unwelcome. Try as you may to push it away, it krept back in, startling you every time. You could play dumb all you wanted, but now that he was not next to you, youre only mission consisted with getting him back. Were you confused?

Yes.

Did you understand what you were feeling?

Not entirely.

How did Bucky make you feel?

Brave… Loved… Horny? All of the above.

Yes, yes and yes. There was no denying it. As much as you wished it was more complicated. Your entire core was drawn to him like a magnet and your brain was just along for the ride. Heart stuttering and mind foggy.

Shuri gives you a once over and taps on your shoulder, yanking you from your thoughts. “You okay?”

The question was simple. And yet, the words wouldn't come.

You cleared your throat, physically shaking your head and clearing your racing thoughts, “Yes. I’m okay. Do you think I can go?”

Shuri smiles knowingly, a chuckle bubbling out of her small chest. “He’s fine, ya’ know. Doctors said they extracted the bullets easily. He’s probably all healed up already-”

Her words were cut off by your impatient foot, bobbing anxiously for the answer to your question.

“Yes. fine you can go.”

You practically jumped off the lab table, swinging the door open and shouting a thank you over your shoulder on the way out.

When you entered Bucky’s medical room, it was quiet. Turning the corner you could see he was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the large floor length window that looked out to the rolling mountain of Wakanda.

You tried to step lightly, not wanting to alarm him.

“Can't sneak up on a trained assassin.”

You jumped, clutching your heart at his sudden voice. He chucked, watching your panicked face melt into a smile.

“Guess not. How ya’ feeling killer?” You smirked, taking a seat on the windowsill across from him.

Bucky squinted, looking at you skeptically, “I don't know if you're tryin’ to be funny or-”

“I'm not. That was a stupid joke….” You scoffed as you bathed in the awkward silence that followed.

There were so many things you wanted to say. So many you wanted to do, and yet your body was frozen, staring at the floor unable to meet his intense gaze. You could literally hear your heart beating in your chest and your face growing warmer by the second.

“So.” you finally choked out, forcing yourself with all your might to look up. His eyes were soft and full of reassurance. Something you so desperately needed at the moment. Maybe the old Y/n could convey her emotions, but the real one was a total disaster when it came to this sort of thing.

But that's what you were doing wasn't it? This is what it had all led up to. The kiss, the midnight conversations, the unyielding sexual tension. This was it.

“So…” He repeated your words, coxing your next ones.

You chuckled dryly, clearing your throat and starting again, “So, about what happened back there.”

“When I got shot or when we kissed?”

“Both I guess?”

“You guess?” He quipped, amusement dripping from his mouth. He was loving this. Watching you fumble over your thoughts. Of course he did. Smug bastard.

“Listen, I’m not good at this stuff. Obviously. So could you just tell me how it is. Was that some heat of the moment thing? Like before. Because if it was you just gotta’ tell me.” You finished in a huff.

Bucky signed, running his flesh hand through his hair. “It wasn't.” He finally spoke, “not then and not now. I was such an ass, pushing you away like that. I just didn't- I guess I still don't think I deserve something like you… Touching me like that.”

You soaked in his words. Watching his lips intently as his tongue darted out and wetted the bottom one. In a breath, you crossed the room and took the open space beside him as an invitation to sit down.

“Will you please let me decide what I deserve from now on?” You smirked, looking up at him from behind your lashes.

“Yeah, I think that's best.” he chuckled, leaning into you.

“How’re you feeling?” You mumbled, listening to his breathing steady as he signed into the comfortable position you were both in now.

“Better. Thanks for that by the way. Wanda’s never used her power on me like that. It really helped.” He spoke, softly, as you waved him off, motioning ‘it was nothing’.

It felt like the first time in a long time you had spoken to Bucky without the nagging desire to murder him.

Maybe this is what people talk about when they say you should ‘grow’ with your partner. You're sure that they weren't referring to homicidal rage… But still.

You looked up to Bucky, watching as he softly bit down on his lip. Without warning or much thought for that matter, you swung your leg around, purchasing yourself on his lap. You would like to believe it was with agile and ease, but the motion sent Bucky back against the bed while you fell against him, straddling his hips.

“What was-” You shushed him with your palm over his mouth, coaxing a deep moan from the back of his throat. It sent a shiver down to your core, but that was a problem for a later time.

“I want to try something.” You breathed, pulling your hand from his lips and swifting replacing it with yours.

He reacted instantly, his hands settling on your hips as yours pulled at his hair. You melted into his touch as his tongue softly traced the bottom of your lip, deepening the kiss. You could feel his pants tightening around him as he ground his thick member against your core. He was unrelenting as you gasped for hair, pulling away and resting your forehead on his. Had it not been for the room being made entirely of glass you were sure you would have lost your pants. Honestly, you were still considering it.

“I just wanted to know what that felt like without my life being at risk.” You spoke over heavy breaths.

Bucky chuckled, his swollen lips turning up into a smile. “And?”

“Eh.” You shrugged, causing Bucky to gasp and he flipped your over, gaining the upper hand. His icy blue eyes, now blown with lust. You're breath caught in your throat by the new intimate position, flexing your thighs shut hard and suppressing a moan.

“D-did you get the ‘ok’ to leave?” You stuttered, feeling your body tremble under the radiating heat of his. He nodded his head, a few loose strands of deep auburn hair falling from his bun and onto your cheek.

You bit down on your lip, watching his chest rise and fall above you, feeling the electricity that emanate around the room. The idea that this could very well be a huge mistake crossed your mind and maybe if you were stronger you would have listened. Maybe you just didn't care anymore. Or maybe, it was possible this was exactly where you needed to be. Where you belonged. And so, without hesitation, you slid yourself out of Bucky’s grasp and pulled him down the hallway towards his room.

.......................................................................

A/N: As always, thank you to @cutie1365 for just being you! Thank you for all your help with this my friend! Were almost done! Like and reblog if you enjoyed! See ya soon!

@projectcampbell

@calwitch

@kalesrebellion

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ace-oreos · 4 years ago

Note

Could we have alpha-17 getting beaten the shit out of by priest, and first piecing him back together

Considering how much I hate Dred Priest, I’m surprised I almost forgot about him until now lmao

I wasn’t totally sure what you meant by the second part, so I borrowed Mij Gilamar for the medic-y stuff that I am totally, 100% qualified to write about.

I was imagining this taking place shortly after the Battle of Kamino, when the Alpha ARCs have just been taken out of stasis and are only just now finding out about Jango’s death.

(If anyone needs me to tag anything, please let me know.)

The hallways of Tipoca City are untouched as ever, but the silence that fills the endless white corridors is palpably wrong.

It took an awful lot of nerve, Alpha-17 thinks, for Fett to leave them like this. Because he couldn’t just let old injustices pass unchallenged. Because he’d been foolish enough to think his luck would hold.

Because Fett is dead, and the sons he rejected time and again are left to pick up the pieces of a legacy they don’t want to bear.

It’s just stupid, 17 decides with a spike of savage anger. Stupid of Fett to let himself be killed like that, stupid of the Jedi to brand him irrevocably other and take it upon themselves to right the balance of the galaxy, or whatever their latest tagline is. Stupid of him to think Fett might have begun to care, somewhere along the line.

Osik, things are complicated now.

It’s bound to settle eventually. Fett was the linchpin, but his clones were meant to take his place from the very beginning.

We’re not you, 17 thinks, but maybe we’re what you wanted us to be.

Regardless, Fett left a whole host of problems behind. Some are complex, too muddled for 17’s liking, the sort that keep him awake at night. But some are tangible, things 17 can work out himself, so he sets out to solve the first of these. The Cuy’val Dar don’t have any contingency orders, unlike 17 and his brothers. It’s not his place to start issuing them now, but the least he can do is make sure they don’t undo Fett’s legacy.

It doesn’t take long to come across one of Fett’s more questionable choices. Mando’ade are a cryptic, self-contained lot, but 17 knows where to find them. Encountering Dred Priest first is nothing more than a stroke of bad luck - the man is a hut’uun and doesn’t deserve to call himself a Mando’ad.

All the more reason to keep an eye on him, 17 tells himself, and keeps his face carefully blank when he greets the man. “Seems like you’re keeping busy, Priest.”

Priest flashes a cold smile that makes 17’s skin crawl. “Careful, verd’ika. Fett didn’t think you were ready for the big wide world, and I have to agree with him on that one.”

“I’m not looking to play games,” 17 says flatly. It’s in his best interest to tread carefully around Priest, but the man knows how to get under his skin.

“Is that it, then? You get to play at being Mand’alor? The armor doesn’t make the man, verd’ika.”

As if you weren’t enough proof, 17 thinks, but what comes out of his mouth is, “We have our orders. I don’t need you getting in the way.”

“So you’ll follow Fett’s orders even though he’s dead,” Priest remarks slyly.

17 won’t take the bait. “All the better for him.”

A look of surprise flashes across Priest’s face, and he inclines his head. “Not what I’d expect from you, Seventeen.”

“Are you hoping I’ll grovel like the poor shabuire you terrorize? Get over yourself.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Priest’s tone is mocking. “Mand’alor.”

It takes all of 17’s discipline to keep from smacking the look off Priest’s face. He’s sure the man can tell; he looks almost amused, like 17 is a frightened cadet in over his head. It would almost be worth it, 17 thinks, but Priest isn’t worth his time.

He doesn’t know what sets Priest off. He wouldn’t put any thought into it, either, if it weren’t for the sudden flare of pain in his right leg. He can’t see what Priest did - an honorable opponent would never attack from behind - but 17 stumbles. Priest delivers another strike that sends him to the floor before he can right himself.

17 rolls with the impact. Too slow, and the considerable weight of Priest’s armor will keep him pinned. 17’s lack of armor is a distinct disadvantage, but it allows him greater range of movement.

Priest recognizes his advantage and presses forward. 17 resorts to avoiding his attacks as much as he can - absorbing the impact from beskar isn’t the same when he’s only in fatigues. He would rather be on the offensive, armor or no, so he looks for openings that might give him a chance to catch Priest wrong-footed.

Maybe Priest knows Jango’s fighting style too well. Maybe 17 is a touch slower than usual. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t take Priest long to knock him down. 17 twists, trying to wrap his leg’s around Priest’s abdomen to unbalance him, but the man breaks free and slams 17 down again.

The base of 17’s skull collides with the floor hard enough to leave his ears ringing. By the time his vision clears, Priest has already hauled him up by the front of his tunic. 17 gets a grip on the man’s arm, but without stable footing he’s unable to wrench Priest over his shoulder.

17 curses when Priest uses the very same maneuver to send him crashing into the wall. There’s an audible crack on impact and a sharp line of pain sears through his chest. 17 lands hard, head still spinning and lungs burning when he tries to draw breath. He fights a wave of nausea as he struggles to his feet, years of training making him wary of staying down too long.

“You’re tenacious, I’ll give you that,” Priest says thickly through what 17 guesses is a broken nose.

“Slana’pir,” 17 snarls in return, but it doesn’t have the effect he wanted when he breaks off in a gasp. A number of mishaps over the years leads him to think he might’ve cracked a rib or two. Normally it wouldn’t take long to steady his breathing, but he’s left gasping now when each inhale results in a stab of pain.

There’s a mad light in Priest’s eyes. 17 knows the man won’t leave him alone until one of them is dead or too badly injured to stand. There’s always an off chance he could break away and lose Priest in the lower levels - his batch know Tipoca better than anyone, besides the Nulls.

But something holds him in place. Fett never ran from a fight, even at the end. And maybe it was senseless for him to think he’d never meet his match, but it hadn’t been too late for him to instill the same sense of pride and defiance in his recruits.

17 holds his ground.

___________________________

If Mij Gilamar is surprised, he hides it well. Only the tightening of his jaw suggests a displeased reaction when he looks 17 up and down with a studiously blank expression.

“I fell,” 17 says by way of explanation.

“Osik, ad’ika, can’t you come up with a better excuse?”

17 shrugs, ignoring the fresh ache that runs through his body at the movement. “You wouldn’t believe me no matter what I say, and I know you won’t believe me, so this spares us both a lot of thinking we’re not in a position to handle. Sergeant.”

“Ka’ra, boy,” Gilamar sighs, shaking his head. “Come on in, lad.”

17 follows obediently. He hasn’t set foot in Gilamar’s quarters in years - not since he got on Fett’s bad side and had been too willful to back down even though he was too young for it to be a fair fight. He hadn’t been hurt badly - nothing he couldn’t handle by himself - but Gilamar had somehow found him anyway and insisted on looking him over.

The man had called him verd’ika then. He looks faintly disapproving now.

“Want to tell me what happened?”

17 pretends like he doesn’t know what Gilamar is really saying and replies, “Feels like something might be broken,” while gesturing vaguely to his midsection.

And he can hardly get his vision to focus, and he’s pretty sure he felt something snap in his wrist somewhere along the way, and his shoulder aches something fierce when he tries to cross his arms, but that’s none of Gilamar’s business. His hairline is sticky with blood, too, but there’s no hiding that even in the dim light.

“You’re right about the ribs,” Gilamar announces after listening to 17’s uneven breathing. “It’ll be a few weeks, but so long as you go easy it should heal on its own. I can give you something for the pain if you’d like.”

17 shakes his head. At this point all he wants is to collapse on his bunk.

Gilamar matches his indifferent attitude. “Whatever you say. Now are you going to let me look at that arm?”

“If it’s all the same to you, Sergeant, I’d rather just get some rest.”

“No, it isn’t,” Gilamar says sharply. “Sit down.”

17 sits.

Gilamar stitches the jagged gash on his head with the ease of long practice, and sets 17’s shoulder before he has time to object. 17 has given up protesting by the time the man is done wrapping his wrist, and he keeps his mouth shut when Gilamar runs a rapid battery of tests to ensure what’s bound to be a nasty concussion isn’t anything more.

“Bad luck, ad’ika,” the man says, rocking bad on his heels when he’s finished. “But you’ll pull through.” He pauses as if chewing something over, then adds quietly, “Priest got a hold of you, didn’t he.”

It’s not phrased as a question. 17 doesn’t take it as one.

“Nothing I can’t deal with,” he says at last.

Gilamar doesn’t look convinced. “There’s no shame in it, verd’ika. The man’s a hut’uun. Even Fett wouldn’t - ”

17 stands. The sudden motion makes his stomach roll. “Vor’e, Sergeant.”

“Ba’gedet’ye,” Gilamar answers softly. 17 turns away before he can see the man’s expression approach something like pity. He’s hardly through the door when he hears the sergeant call, “I can’t speak for Fett, but for what it’s worth, Seventeen - I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” 17 says flatly, even though he knows perfectly well Gilamar isn’t referring to his run-in with Priest at all. If Fett were sorry, he’d still be here.

Alpha-17 suspects it will be a long time before things begin to settle.

#alpha-17 #alpha 17 #mij gilamar #dred priest #jango fett #republic commando #the clone wars #star wars #fic prompt #thanks for the prompt!#my askbox is open #tw blood mention

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is-it-art-tho · 4 years ago

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Summary: Tim sustains a serious injury while on a class field trip.

Dick is gonna kill me.

Oddly enough, that was the first thing on Tim’s mind as he rolled over in the snow and found the left leg of his ski pants torn and bloodied. He’d promised to return Dick’s ski gear unscathed. Absently, he wondered if he’d be able to order a new set on Amazon before Dick noticed.

But of course, he thought, staring at the actively bleeding wound in his leg, that should probably be the least of his concerns right now.

The snow around him resembled strawberry Italian ice, and it was only getting redder. He had to stop the bleeding. But with what? Tim didn’t exactly go skiing with a first aid kit on hand. Had he known how bad he was at skiing though, he might’ve prepared differently.

He decided to use his shirt, crafting a makeshift tourniquet to slow the flow before putting his coat back on. The insulated fabric felt weird against his bare skin, but at least he was still warm. He examined his work, and found that although it was still bleeding, it wasn’t gushing like it had been before. He also noticed with a pang of nausea that he could see something white deep within the wound. Snow?

No. Bone. That’s nice.

Tim forced himself to look away and breathe, suddenly grateful for the freezing air against his skin. He willed himself to calm down. Think. How could he get help?

He’d somehow skied off the slopes and down a steep cliff where he’d taken a pretty nasty spill that sent him careening into a stand of trees. He was fairly certain he was out of earshot of most people by now, and had seen too many cartoons to feel particularly comfortable screaming in a potential avalanche zone.

Walking on this leg was going to be a nightmare, but that would be his best bet. At least until he could get to a place that had decent signal. Tim felt around in the snow. His skis had broken and he had no idea where his poles had flown off to – more things he’d be hearing about from Dick – so he found a branch to help prop him up.

As soon as Tim was upright, he became painfully aware of how much blood he’d already lost. The world dipped and churned around him. His head felt like it was full of helium, floating miles above his body. He sucked in another lungful of icy air and blew it out slowly. If he passed out here he would either bleed out or freeze to death.

Either way, it wouldn’t be ideal.

He took a step with his good leg first, then his injured one. As soon as he went to move it, the leg surrendered under his weight and he collapsed, his face burning against the packed snow. Tim bit back a scream, rolling over and clutching gently yet desperately at his shredded thigh. Blotches of light flashed before his eyes as the pain wafted over him before slowly ebbing into a steady burn.

When he finally felt ready, he tried again, pushing himself to his feet. He took a step, then another. This time when his leg started to buckle, he grabbed a tree for added support. “Worst field trip ever,” he groaned.

The first field trip he’d gone on since elementary school and he ended up mortally wounded and stranded in the mountains. He imagined he’d be getting a kick out of this story one day. Assuming he lived long enough to do so.

No. He couldn’t let himself think like that. Bruce’s words rang in his ears.

The fight’s over the moment you give up hope.

Don’t give up, he thought to himself, taking another trembling step. He could barely get the foot of his bad leg above the snow, unable to lift it high enough. It dragged like dead weight beside him. A step, then a drag. A step, then a drag. The whole process was slow and painful and deeply frustrating.

Once Tim made it out of his little crash landing zone, he glanced back at the scene. A small crater of bloodied snow, a bloody trail of clumsy footprints. It wouldn’t take a detective to piece together what had happened here, though he realized that someone could just as easily assume that someone had been attacked by some sort of wild animal. And if someone wanted to track him, he imagined they wouldn’t have much problem.

Maybe that was a good thing, he thought. In case someone sent help, they’d be able to find him pretty easily.

That’s it, Tim. Positive spin.

A few more feet and he saw the thing that had done him in. A jagged stone jutting up from the snow, its tip now soaked with blood. As Tim had skidded and rolled down the cliff, this thing had cut his leg clean open. A smooth incision, so fast and so sudden that he hadn’t even realized it had happened until he saw the blood.

It wasn’t until Tim got to the base of the cliff that he acknowledged the obvious problem with his current strategy. Even on his best day, getting up this way would be a challenge. Now that he was down a leg, it would be nearly impossible. But up straight up was where the rest of the resort was – the one with all the people, heat, and perhaps a few medical supplies if he was lucky.

Tim surveyed his surroundings. He could try to go around, find another way up, but there was no guarantee that it would be any different on the other side. He turned to look down the mountain. There was a small town at the base, he remembered passing it on the bus. It was probably about five miles away. Maybe more. There was a chance he could make it. And everyone knows it’s easier to go downhill than to go up, right?

He turned his attention toward the sky. The sun was at its peak right now, which meant he only had a couple hours of daylight left. This whole thing would get a lot more complicated once nightfall rolled around and the temperatures really started to drop.

Tim weighed his options as best he could considering the blood loss and dizzying pain he was in, and decided to turn his back on the resort and head down the mountain.

When Tim was a kid, he’d gone through a brief yet intense wilderness phase where he’d studied everything about how to survive after being stranded in various environments. He learned about water filtration techniques, starting fires, building shelter. He learned how to send SOS signals and the early signs of dehydration, hypothermia, heat exhaustion, the works. For all intents and purposes, he had trained for this exact scenario.

In the back of his mind he knew that to be true. He knew that he knew what to do here. But now as hypothermia turned his muscles to stone, and his face burned with frostbite, he found himself struggling to dredge up even an ounce of useful information from that time.

All he could seem to remember was that it was crucial to properly extinguish flames to avoid forest fires.

Yeah. Very helpful.

The sky was now that hazy blue it turns right before the sun fully sets. Tim’s entire body was shivering as if from the inside out and his steps barely got him anywhere anymore. In fact, he wasn’t even sure he was still moving. The town seemed just as far away as it had been when he’d started, although when he turned around, the cliff seemed incredibly distant. He was more or less stranded between his two best hopes at survival. He might as well have been lost at sea.

Tim exhaled a puff of white air. He was exhausted and hurting everywhere. He needed to stop, to rest. Without thinking, he sat down with a grunt, his muscles so stiff that bending at all felt shockingly painful. He noticed then that his leg had stopped bleeding. In fact, he couldn’t feel it at all. Looking down, he realized that was only because the blood had frozen in the wound, creating a temporary seal, and that most of the exposed flesh there was probably on the brink of necrotizing. Dying. His skin and muscle tissue were dying.

He wanted to be concerned, in fact he knew without a doubt that he should be concerned – terrified, in fact – but all he could think of was how tired he was.

Everything in the world felt like it was moving in slow motion, especially him, and he couldn’t help but imagine how peaceful it would be to curl up right here and go to sleep. Just for a little while so that he could get his strength back and try again tomorrow. Barely even a second, if he thought about it.

Something deep and instinctive was pulling him down and away, beckoning him into the darkness. He’d been fighting it for the past hour or so, but now he thought it might be best to just surrender. Let the tide carry him off.

As his eyes slipped closed, Tim couldn’t help but note how weightless his body started to feel. How everything ¬– the burning cold, the ache in his bones, even the grit of the snow against his cheek – seemed to disappear, replaced by a welcome emptiness.

With a sort of distant annoyance, he could feel himself screaming at himself to get up. To open his eyes. To move, find a way to get warm. He could feel himself demanding that he refuse to give up. That he keep fighting.

You’ll die here! part of him was shouting. You’re dying!

It’s fine, he thought irritably. I’m just resting.

And with that, the distant voice faded along with the rest of the world, and Tim slid at once into a deeper sleep than he’d had in years.

******

The first things Tim noticed was something soft pulled up under his chin and something warm against his face. If he hadn’t known any better, he thought, he would’ve sworn he could smell a fireplace.

When he chanced a peek, half expecting to find himself still in the snow, he was shocked to see that he was on a couch in a small cabin right next to – he guessed it – a fireplace. The heat lapped at his face gently, resurrecting the nose he’d assumed had fallen off somewhere on the mountainside. It was nice, but although his skin felt much warmer, he was still shivering against a kind of bone-deep cold that would take much longer to thaw.

The edges of his mind felt fuzzy in a way that was all too familiar to him.

Painkillers, he thought.

It would explain why he felt so comfortable, despite his ordeal. For all intents and purposes he should be curled up in fetal position right now.

Oh no, he thought suddenly, his heart lurching. What if this was all some near-death hallucination?

The human body has a funny way of protecting itself. He’d read countless stories of the things people saw in their final moments, as if their brains chose to indulge in a personalized escape rather than face the reality of what was happening – a way to make even the worst death more bearable, more peaceful.

Some people see their life flash before their eyes. Others step into a daydream.

Tim felt panic rising up in his chest as he pictured himself still curled up on the mountainside, slowly freezing to death. He imagined the rangers finding him there. The phone call to the manor to break the news. Alfred would probably answer, then tell Bruce who would tell the others. What this would do to them. How it would break them. For a group of people so accustomed to tragedy, they sure were awful at dealing with it.

He couldn’t believe it was ending like this. All those years on the streets, launching himself into countless deadly situations and walking away with a bloody lip and a grin. All the training, the plans he’d made for himself, his life. He was going to be somebody; he was going to help people. And just like that, it was over.

Tears streamed over the bridge of his nose and towards his ear as he stared at the fire, furious with himself. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t give up, that he’d keep fighting. He could’ve made it further down the mountain, could’ve pushed himself harder. Dick would’ve found a way. So would Bruce, Jason, even Damian would’ve worked something out.

But not Tim.

Maybe it was better this way. He’d always suspected that he was the weak link on the team, holding the rest of them back. Now they wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore.

Tim felt himself descending into self-pity and welcomed it. He didn’t deserve a happy hallucination. He was weak, cowardly.

He bunched the blanket up under his chin, still shivering, his tears now streaming in earnest.

It probably wouldn’t be long now, he thought. He had no way of knowing how much time had passed, but with the temperatures likely plummeting, he knew it couldn’t be much longer. His core temperature would drop, his breathing would slow, then finally his heart would give out.

He glanced at the cabin door, wondering if someone would soon walk through and escort him away, and his heart leapt when suddenly a light flashed through the window and filled the small room.

Tim sat up to face the door, his mind racing. This was it. For one wild second, he wondered if he could fight whoever was coming, maybe wrestle his way back to consciousness.

He just wasn’t ready to go yet.

A key turned in the door and a figure entered with a gust of icy wind, still silhouetted by the light. When finally the lights turned off, Tim blinked, struggling to focus on the person’s face.

And there, to Tim’s endless surprise, stood Dick, shaking snow out of his hair, his face red with cold. Damian came up behind him, followed by Bruce and Jason, who shut the door. Jason checked his phone then informed the others that apparently Duke, Cass, Steph, and Barbara would be there within the next few hours.

Dick nodded then grinned when he saw that Tim was awake. “The ice boy lives,” he announced jubilantly.

Tim didn’t move, barely breathed. This only served to confirm his fears. He really was hallucinating. Nothing else could explain why they would be here with more on their way. Tears rushed down his face as hiccuping sobs jerked his body.

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asked, rushing to his side. “Are you in pain? Is it your leg?” He threw aside the blanket to reveal the freshly bandaged wound. When it appeared to be all right, Bruce scanned the rest of Tim’s body, apparently searching for the problem.

“I- I’m so… sorry,” Tim sobbed. “I didn’t mean… to leave you guys… I didn’t mean to…”

Bruce’s face was creased with worry as he tried desperately to understand the broken apology. The rest of them gathered around, all varying shades of concerned and confused.

“What do you mean?” Dick asked.

“The mountain… I gave up… I gave up and now…” Tim struggled to speak, to breathe, gasping for air between words.

Jason and Dick exchanged looks, visibly shaken. Jason made a “loopy” sign with his finger.

“And now what,” Bruce asked gently.

“I’m dead.”

Bruce blinked. There was a pause in the room, even the fire seemed to fall quiet. Jason snorted, turning away so that Tim wouldn’t see him laughing. Even Dick’s worry was now tinged with some amused confusion.

“You’re…?” Bruce asked slowly.

“I’m dead…!” Tim insisted. “That’s why you’re all here. You’re not real. None of this is real.”

“He’s totally lost it,” Damian sighed hopping up onto the dinner table. Dick shushed him, but Damian just shrugged, laying back with his arms folded behind his head.

“I mean it…” Tim whispered. “I let you all down. I’m so sorry… I’m so…” Suddenly he found himself being pulled into a hug.

Bruce’s chest rumbled against Tim’s ear as he murmured, “You can never let me down.”

This only made him cry harder. It was all too perfect. There was no way any of this was real.

When they pulled apart, Bruce wiped Tim’s tears and Jason crouched beside him, grinning ruefully. “Listen, kid. Speaking as someone who’s done it before, I can assure you that this,” Jason gestured to the room, “is not what it feels like to die. Trust me.”

“I second that,” Dick added.

“Third,” Damian chimed, still laying across the table.

“Fourth,” Stephanie chirped. Apparently Dick had her on speakerphone. “They got you, Tim,” she said earnestly. “You’re alive. You made it.”

Barbara’s voice perked up from the same line, “They’re right. I haven’t died myself, but I’ve come pretty close. Trust me, it’s no cozy cabin adventure.”

“Your teachers called when they couldn’t find you,” Jason explained. “Dick and I were out here within the hour, found you, and brought you back here to thaw. That’s it.”

Tim nodded. He was starting to feel more confident, but how could he know for sure?

Jason sighed, apparently reading Tim’s mind, and reached over to his bad leg. He squeezed it, one hard pulse right along the bandage.

White hot pain ripped through Tim’s body, exploding behind his eyes. He choked out a weak groan and dropped his back onto the armrest.

“That answer your question?” Jason asked.

Oddly enough, it did, more convincingly than anything else had. Tim nodded, wiping his face, suddenly deeply embarrassed by his outburst. “I… sorry about that,” he muttered.

“Apologize one more time, Drake!” Damian threatened, still unmoving from his comfortable spot on the table.

Tim grinned, a chill running through him, and instantly found Bruce layering another blanket over him.

“Rest,” Bruce said, rising and heading into the kitchen. It was an order which Tim was happy to obey.

As he sunk back down into a comfortable position under the blankets, Dick tossed him something from across the room. Still battling the tail end of a hypothermic episode, Tim’s reflexes left much to be desired. The object slapped him across the face. When he pulled it away to look at it, he recognized Dick’s ruined ski pants, one leg bloodied and torn to shreds.

Dick crouched by Tim’s head, his eyes deadly serious yet twinkling with humor. “By the way,” he said, his voice low. “You owe me a new everything.”

#tim drake #fanfic #batman fanfic #tim drake fanfic #time drak fic #dick grayson #damian wayne #bruce wayne #jason todd #barbara gordon #stephanie brown #tim drake whump #To Sleep Perchance to Dream

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macgyvermedical · 4 years ago

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I have a story where a character gets their leg caught in a bear trap, and due to other injuries aren't able to free themselves on their own. When they are rescued by a character proficient in wilderness medicine, what steps would they take to treat them, in a situation where access to emergency care is not possible for the foreseeable future?

It would kind of depend on the injury incurred. Depending on the type of trap, they may see:

Broken bone with no broken skin

Broken skin/soft tissue injury but no broken bone

Both broken bone and broken skin

Partial amputation

youtube

With any of these scenarios, someone trained in wilderness first aid is going to start with their Primary Assessment. This means determining immediate life threats to a victim’s Airway (is their mouth/nose/throat/chest intact enough to support breathing), Breathing (are they actually breathing), Circulation (is their heart beating/is there life threatening blood loss that needs immediately addressed), Deformity/Disability (is the mechanism of injury something that may have caused a head or spinal injury), and Environment (is there something life threatening about where they are- cold, heat, physical danger).

Once that is done and life threats are addressed (tourniquet application, stabilizing a possible spinal injury, getting the patient on dry ground), the Secondary Assessment can begin. This includes vital signs (in the wilderness, vital signs are pulse rate, respiration rate, level of consciousness, and skin condition (color, temperature, and moisture), a brief medical history (usually following “SAMPLE” or Signs/Symptoms (what are you feeling/what hurts?), Allergies (if the patient has any allergies, if they came into contact with any allergens recently), Medications (do they take any medications? Did they take them today?), Past Medical History (has anything like this happened before? What did they do about it then?), Last Intake/Output (have they eaten/used the restroom recently? Was it normal for them?), and Events Leading Up To Injury/Illness (how/when did this start? What were they doing just before?). It also includes a full-body pat-down, exposing as much skin as possible without damaging clothing that might be vital to keeping the patient warm for the rest of the journey.

The full-body pat down ENDS with the obvious injury. This is because it is really easy to get caught up in treating a specific, obvious, or scary-looking injury and miss a more subtle but life threatening one until it is too late.

If you’re interested, this chapter from Michael Palmer’s Resistant is probably the best I’ve ever seen this process done in fiction.

In this case, the rescuer may choose to remove the trap during the “Environment” or “Deformity/Disability” portion of the primary assessment, but unless that causes life threatening bleeding, they’d go through the rest of their assessment before coming back to the actual injury.

Once they had completed both their primary and secondary assessments, they’d start assessing the injury itself. This is going to be a musculoskeletal assessment, meaning the rescuer is going to assess for “CSMs.” CSM stands for Circulation, Sensation, and Movement. Assessing circulation is going to help determine how much damage has been done to the vasculature (essentially, is the foot getting the blood it needs), and the sensation and movement assessments are going to help determine how much damage was done to the nerve (is the foot still getting nerve impulses).

Generally, each of these assessments are going to be compared between the injured and uninjured limb (for example, if the right ankle is injured in the bear trap, they’d assess the right ankle, and then also do the same assessment on the left ankle for comparison), and above and below the site of injury (for example, for the same ankle injury, they’d do the same assessment near the right knee and on the right foot).

The Circulation assessment is generally about finding pulses. They’d want to find a pulse “above” the site of injury first. For a right ankle injury, this would be either the femoral pulse in the groin, or the popleteal pulse behind the knee. Checking one of these pulses on both sides confirms that there isn’t an injury further up that could complicate your assessment (in which case one of the limbs wouldn’t have a pulse and the other would), or that the patient’s blood pressure isn’t so low that there isn’t a pulse at all in the legs (which needs more immediate attention).

Next, they’d find a pulse “below” the site of injury. This would be on the foot on the side of the injured ankle. There is a pulse on the top of the foot, between the tendon going to the big toe and the one going to the second toe in. They’d find that on the injured side, and compare it’s strength and timing to the one on the uninjured side. They would also touch the skin of both feet at the same time to make sure they had the same temperature.

Next, they’d move on to the assessment of Sensation. This would entail having the victim close their eyes, and the rescuer touching the bottoms of their bare feet, first on one foot, then the other, having the victim identify which foot was being touched. Then, they’d touch both feet at the same time and ask if they felt the same or different between the two. They may do this several times, in several places, to make sure the victim wasn’t just guessing.

the last assessment of the injury would be one for Movement. The rescuer would start by having the person wiggle their toes on both sides at the same time, and compare the movement. They would then have the victim roll, flex, and extend their ankles while holding or pressing on various aspects of the victim’s feet, comparing the strength of the injured and uninjured sides.

By this point in the assessment, the rescuer knows the following:

If the person is in a life-threatening situation (and if so, have managed it)

A baseline set of vital signs

A medical history for the patient

Any other injuries they have

Whether or not the ankle is broken (significantly decreased strength and movement (with a lot of pain) on the injured side)

Whether the injury has disrupted the blood flow to the foot (pulses are not equal between feet, temperature is unequal between feet)

Whether the injury has disrupted nerve signals to the foot (sensation is not intact between feet).

So now they are finally ready to treat.

Now, if there’s no way to get to surgical care, I would highly, highly recommend you go with either a bear trap that causes a minor fracture (where the bone ends are still lined up correctly, can still be very painful, though!) with no broken skin OR broken skin with no fracture. I would also advise that you go with no (or very limited) nerve or circulation damage, as the nerve damage will likely be permanent and circulation damage would cause the foot to die without surgery. Unless you’re trying for a field amputation, because that could be your other option.

They’d then clean the wound (any water will do as long as they’d feel comfortable drinking it), getting as much dirt/debris out as possible, bandage, close, or pack it. They’d splint the ankle (there are plenty of good resources for this out there- search for “improvised splint for ankle” or similar) and then assess weight-bearing by supporting the person as they put gradually more weight on the splinted limb until it was too painful, which would give a good indication of how functional the person will be in the near future. Functionality is key, as a single rescuer is generally not going to be able to carry someone out of the backcountry.

#whump reference #writing reference #bear traps #wilderness medicine

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itslaurenmae · 4 years ago

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white knuckles

A piece written for @dunkirk-creators november 2020 challenge: hands. rated t for canon-typical violence and swearing. read on ao3 here. gif originally by @madeline-kahn.

Tommy notices a few things about the dark-haired man on the beach immediately - the way his hair flips in the salty breeze, the pierce of his eyes - right through him - and his hands. The way they grip a shovel to frantically move sand back and forth across the surface of the beach. White knuckles.

All of these thoughts fire through Tommy’s head in a flash as he fumbles for his pants, his need to relieve himself suddenly passed. Something about the magnetic gaze of this other person, seeing him, seeing through him, wordless, strikes Tommy to his core.

By all accounts, Tommy should be the one with a look of embarrassment on his face - he’d been the one trying to take a shit just moments before. But the other man’s face softens from surprise and transforms into something that looks a little like fear as Tommy approaches.

He’s digging a grave.

Their eyes meet again and for a moment, there’s a question. For a moment, the man in the sand seems to be frozen. But as soon as Tommy realizes what he’s doing, he knows he needs to help, and he moves to do so.

The thought had briefly crossed Tommy’s mind - in the split-second he realized his ass was out and he wasn’t alone - that maybe this man was doing something he wasn’t supposed to, that perhaps there was a guilty tinge to that first look - but something unspoken in his gaze and the swift, sure movements of the shovel told Tommy deep down, somewhere inside, that whatever this man was doing, it was fine, it was okay, it was maybe even good and that he should help him.

The other man keeps shoveling, hands gripping the shovel like a lifeline. Tommy crouches down to help and begins to move the sand with his own hands.

The man digging the grave has likely just lost whoever it is laying dead in the ground - the planes and the bombs dropping from overhead, sweeping over them and picking them off like fish in a barrel. If Jackson had died out here, on the beach next to Tommy instead of back by that fence while they ran through the streets, wouldn’t Tommy have tried to do the same? To bury his friend’s corpse under the sand to keep it safe, from harm and the elements and animals, from more desecration from the Germans? Of course, he would have.

There aren’t enough medics to move the dead bodies off the beach as it is, and all spare stretchers are for the injured, not for dead men, so perhaps this clandestine grave is the best this dark-haired man can give to his fallen friend.

Tommy can help him do that.

The gravedigger keeps at it with the shovel, Tommy keeps at it with his hands. Between the two of them, they’ll make quick work.

Tommy sweeps the sand around the dead man’s foot. He doesn’t notice the loose bootlaces on the gravedigger’s shoes.

Tommy doesn’t comprehend that the foot in the sand is bare. He’s too busy putting his own hands to the sand, following the other man’s lead.

With the dead man’s feet covered, the gravedigger stops scooping, discards the shovel, and starts lacing his boots.

Deft movements, swift and quick.

It’s cold, and the air and the beach are damp - Tommy’s fingers shake a bit from the chill. But there is something about the movement of this man’s hands that strikes Tommy, still silent.

It’s the way he’s lacing his boots.

Mesmerizing, really.

The crosses, the looping, the linking in and out through the hooks and holes. He’s never seen anything like it before.

Looking back at it, it should have struck him as odd, but it really hadn’t been in the moment. When he looks back on it later, he’ll realize it should have struck him as odd, but it really isn’t in the moment. He’s too taken in while it’s happening. Watching this young man lace his boots is the closest thing to art Tommy has seen in weeks, months even.

His regiment watched a picture before he shipped out to Dunkirk where a girl danced on a tightrope, her feet in ballet slippers, the ribbons laced up her ankles. The way this man’s hands move as he laces his boots reminds Tommy of that - of the way the girl glided across the line, her satin shoes and pointed toes and the crossed ribbons over her ankles, the crossing of her legs as she stepped across the tightrope - the motion of the gravedigger’s hands as he crosses the laces of his boots looks like dancing to Tommy now. White knuckles as he pulls and tightens the ties across the tongue.

It should be a giveaway. No one in the British armed forces laces their boots like that.

Instead, Tommy is entranced for a moment, fully caught up, drawn in, captivated by the fluid motion the man uses to bring the laces together up the side of the boot, his hands making quick work of the complicated pattern.

More striking still is that he isn’t looking at the laces themselves while he does it - he’s looking straight at Tommy, fingers flitting back and forth as Tommy watches him create the pattern.

It’s right as Tommy realizes the man’s been looking at him and not the boot the whole time that he sees a question in the man’s eyes again. No words are said, and since a question isn’t spoken, there isn’t any to answer. Tommy just nods in the direction of the man’s canteen, posing his own wordless question in return.

The other man passes him his canteen to share and their knuckles brush. Tommy feels a kind of tethering at that - another wordless agreement, a silent negotiation.

He takes a drink from the canteen and exhales, letting his shoulders sag for a brief moment of respite. There could be planes above them again at any minute now, but he doesn’t want to think about that. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and passes the canteen back to his new friend.

The other man takes it back with a nod and rises to his feet. Boots securely laced, hands tucking his shirt into his pants. That should be a tip-off, too, but it isn’t. Tommy is too busy thinking about his hands, about the way they’d moved, the pattern they’d crafted on the boots, the way they’d reached in his direction to offer water. And his eyes, the way they’d asked questions and given answers, the way they hadn’t broken away from Tommy’s face as he’d worked his bootlaces.

In these wordless exchanges, hands set to the task of digging a grave and lacing a shoe, silent glances and the brushing of fingers over a shared canteen, a bond is made.

Gibson is this other man’s name, or so his jacket tells Tommy. It doesn’t seem to fit him so well, the sleeves appear to be a bit short. Tommy can see his wrists clearly, notices the blue veins under his new friend’s skin, but the ill-fit doesn’t register as odd.

Maybe it’s a selfish thing to do, to pick up this wounded man on a stretcher, masked as something selfless, but as soon as Tommy nods in Gibson’s direction, there isn’t a need for words. Gibson immediately takes hold of the opposite side of the stretcher and nods at Tommy, a gesture of understanding, of teamwork, of a common purpose. Gibson’s hands don’t shake as they hoist the wounded man on the stretcher and begin to run to the Mole, where the last ship of the day soon to set sail.

They deliver the wounded man and try to stay on the boat but are told to step off, to step aside. Tommy notices Gibson hanging on to the dock and scrambles down to join him. He can see how white Gibson’s knuckles are as he grips the post, and knows that his own hands look the same as they cling to the brackets for hope and safety.

He notices Gibson’s hands again when they get out of the water and climb onto the next boat, the boat they’re sneaking onto now. More wordless exchanges to dunk their heads under the water to make it look like they’d been on the first boat all along, a clasp of the hands to hoist another boy out of the water with them. The water is cold, and they don’t have gloves, and Gibson shakes his hands out over the deck as they climb aboard.

Later on, they shiver in the hull of the abandoned Dutch vessel, and Tommy can see Gibson blowing on his hands, attempting to get them warm again and failing.

Tommy’s always run warm, his mother had always told him so. Even in the winter back at home in Surrey, he’d never needed a sheet atop his bed. While his sister had needed gloves to collect the milk from the stoop in the morning, Tommy had always fetched the cold bottles with his bare hands. Tommy runs hot and hearing the way Alex yells at Gibson, the anger in Alex’s voice breaking like a sharp current, the shaking of Gibson’s head back and forth, the terrified admission that he is French, the words from the other men about how he should step out of the boat and die - Tommy’s blood boils and he reaches out for Gibson’s hand as soon as the boat begins to float. No words are said. Another wordless promise to see each other through whatever horrible thing is happening right now.

Gibson’s hands are still shaking, fingers freezing cold, his knuckles white from fear match the whites of his wide eyes. Tommy sees the worried look in his face and tries not to scream at Alex for being such a twat. They’re all cold, they’re all tired, they all want to get home. What difference does it make that Gibson’s isn’t England, that it’s France? Aren’t they all on the same side, aren’t they all in this horrible circumstance together?

Tommy steadies Gibson’s hand in his own. Alex and the others may be regimental brothers, but Gibson is Tommy’s brother in arms now, and he has to do what he can to keep him warm, to reassure him.

It had felt like the wind had been punched out of him when he’d first heard Gibson’s shaky voice - Francais. Je suis Francais - like it had been a painful admission, something shameful. He squeezes Gibson’s hand then, a wordless reassurance. They hadn’t needed words before all of this, so why bother with them now? Their linked hands can be enough, at least for a moment.

The boat is filling up and they rush to the sides of the hull to plug the holes. Tommy breaks the handhold first, but he doesn’t stay far from Gibson while they both slosh over to the side and stand shoulder to shoulder. It’s partly for warmth and it’s partly for safety and it’s partly because they’re scared and it’s not working. The hull fills with water and the men begin to scramble out and Tommy can understand that but Gibson can’t. He really doesn’t understand English , the thought crosses Tommy’s mind as he begins to make his way to the ladder to get the hell out of there. He yells Gibson’s name, but Gibson doesn’t respond. Tommy doesn’t know his friend’s actual name and there isn’t time to ask him right now, so he just wrenches him by the shoulder and drags him toward the deck. They have to get out and they have to get out now.

“Hey,” Tommy says as they sit on the deck of the rescue vessel. Gibson isn’t looking at him, he’s looking out at the sinking boat, gray-green eyes misty and far away. “Hey,” Tommy repeats, this time lowering his face to the other man’s eye level. He puts his hand on Gibson’s knee, but Gibson doesn’t look at him.

He has to make him understand, language barrier and horrible circumstances be damned. “Hey,” he says one more time, and reaches for Gibson’s hand. This gets the reaction he wants - Gibson turns to Tommy and Tommy sees the tears in his eyes. “You’re safe, mate. I’m safe. You’re safe with me. Okay?”

“Okay,” Gibson parrots back. Maybe he understands, maybe he doesn’t. Tommy doesn’t care, so he keeps talking, the most he’s said in hours.

“I don’t care that you’re French. You saved me. You saved them,” he nods in the direction of Alex and the other highlanders. “And they might be ungrateful bastards, but I’m not. If we stick together, we’ll survive.” He gives Gibson’s hand a quick squeeze, punctuating the end of his sentence.

Gibson still doesn’t say anything. There’s just his quiet tears and their clasped hands.

Tommy’s heart goes out to him then.

Who is this young man, this boy, shivering next to him? Is he crying because of his betrayal that didn’t feel like a betrayal at all to Tommy? Is he crying because he just wants to be home, wherever that is? Is he crying because he’d lied, because he doesn’t understand what Tommy or anyone else is saying, because they’d just seen the flesh burning off one of their uneasy companions just moments before?

It’s all so much. It’s all too much.

Tommy takes Gibson’s hand into both of his own then. They are shoulder to shoulder again, sitting this time. Neck and neck.

Their shared contact is making Tommy feel warm, even though he’s soaked.

For a moment, he’d been afraid Gibson wasn’t going to make it out of the hull, and Tommy thought he might never feel warmth again. But they’re alive. They’re headed home.

And so Tommy reaches for Gibson’s other hand and covers them both with his own. Gibson's fingers are like ice but Tommy's are warm enough for both of them. “I’ve got you, mate. I’ve got you.”

Tommy squeezes Gibson’s hands for good measure, and then he stops talking. The words he’s saying aren’t helping, there’s no point in expending the energy anymore. He’s not mad at Gibson for this - for any of it, really, but for now, he gives up trying to explain.

It’s not a moment too soon, because Gibson squeezes back. “Merci,” he sniffles. “Merci beaucoup.”

“Tommy,” Tommy says.

“Philippe,” Philippe says.

They sit there, clasping hands, all the way to England.

#dunkirk #my writing #tommy/gibson #gibson/tommy #dunkirk-creators

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ill-skillsgard · 5 years ago

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Blue and Yellow - Part 1 - Axel Cluney

Title: Blue and Yellow

Characters: Axel Cluney x female OC

Warning: 18+ sex/mature themes/medical themes/mentions of blood+injuries/hospitals/violence/drug and alcohol use

Description: A new nurse finds herself entangled in the complicated life of an underground boxer with a slew of problems she cannot fix.

Note: I've wanted to write Axel as a boxer for a while now and finally came up with a storyline I could put him into. I hope you enjoy it and please consider leaving a comment and/or reblogging! Patreon subscribers got to read this last week as part of the early access benefit.

A nurse stood outside room 2817, reading over the tattooed man’s chart. He had come in—unconscious—and woke up in a bloody daze. She remembered seeing his swollen head and thinking there wasn’t a chance he hadn’t sustained a brain injury, but the man was alert and became responsive not long after. That was several hours ago when she began her third shift ever at Featherfall General.

The man with the black and blue face was awake and sitting up in his hospital bed. At the request of others, they pulled over the curtains to shield eyes from prodding at the swollen knot of an eyeball enclosed beneath a grotesque protrusion. His bottom lip had swelled to twice the size, and he couldn’t move any facial muscles without pain shooting up his nostrils. His nose stopped bleeding an hour ago and hadn’t sustained any injury beyond an unsightly bruise.

When she shifted the curtain aside, one squinting eye looked her over while the other remained concealed in a mountain of raw skin and broken blood vessels. She hadn’t seen anyone come in with a face like that yet. It made her stomach flip.

He couldn’t smile, but he wanted to. The nurse stood at the foot of his bed, her large brown eyes landing on every object in the room before taking a skittish scan of his face. The navy blue bubble of his closed eye ballooned to his temple and bled down to his cheekbone like an oil spill. It made the contusions on his shoulders and arms look like faded pinches. The bridge of his nose raised an inch off his face, puffy and tender.

“You turning me loose, Saberrah?” He rasped, angling a look at the badge on a clip hanging out of her scrubs pocket.

“We will keep you a few more hours, on account of your concussion. The doctor will come to go over your CT scan. Would you like another ice pack?”

“Yes, ma’am, ‘ppreciate it.”

“All right, Mr. Cluney. You hang tight and try not to move around. Lie back and rest.”

“Can’t lie down,” he muttered. “Can’t sit up either.”

“That’d be your cracked rib,” she informed him. “Looks like you took a bad beating.”

He squirmed, wincing from the pain shooting through his lung. “Is it a good time to say ‘you should’ve seen the other guy’?”

She took his humour with a small smile. “I don’t want to know what kind of trouble you found for yourself. I just hope it doesn’t happen again. A concussion is a serious thing, Mr. Cluney.”

“Axel, please. You make me feel old,” he said.

“Says here you’re twenty-nine. Not old yet. But dirty thirty is coming up. You might not heal up as quick as you used to when you were a younger trouble-maker.”

Axel grimaced through a weak chuckle. “Dirty thirty. I like that.”

“Hopefully, you live to see them.”

“And what makes you say I’m the trouble-maker? Maybe I was minding my own business.”

She acknowledged him with a nod and a muted smirk. “I’m sure you were, Mr. Cluney.”

“Axel,” he corrected her again.

The voice slipping out of swollen lips was warm, but to look at his face still made her heart twinge. By anyone’s assumption, the man with the beaten face, a broken rib and tattoos was a sucker in a deal gone wrong. Featherfall was no cottage town with walking bridges and newly paved streets. Despite the pleasant melody of its name, it was no more a city than it was a village, but something in-between. It was big enough to get lost in, yet everyone seemed to know each other. It had its fair share of drug problems, and Axel Cluney was the fourth guy she saw that raised more than an eyebrow or two.

Her trained eyes fell to his arms, seeking any inflamed injection sights along his arms or puffy purple fingers. She found nothing out of the ordinary but scraped knuckles and tattoos to make a mother mourn.

“Hello, Sabi,” a voice greeted her from behind.

She turned to a man in standard indigo scrubs. It was the doctor charged with the late evening rounds, a man named Rufus Farber. Sabi relinquished the clipboard to the young doctor and stepped back.

“We meet again, Axel,” Dr. Farber spoke through a tight smile. The shadow in his eyes told of little sleep and too many occupied beds for a Wednesday morning. Though he was fresh out of med school, he had the tired look about him of a man twice his age.

“Good to see you. Well... What I can of you,” the patient’s words flubbed out of fat lips.

Sabi left to find a cold pack and came back to them laughing like old pals. Dr. Farber was wrapping up and taking inch steps away while scribbling on a prescription pad.

“Your rib should heal up fine if you can keep still for a while. I suggest telling Eugene to take you off the night shift for a couple of weeks,” the doctor said with a wink.

“I reckon I’ll take some of that advice,” Axel replied. “I could use a little vacation.”

The injured man swung a slow gaze at Sabi, then saw the cold pack in her hand. She handed it to him, and he nodded a silent thanks.

The doctor signed the bottom of the note with a flourish of his pen. “Get yourself some painkillers, my man. Check-in at the pharmacy across the street.”

“Thanks, Doc. And thank you, Sabi.”

Sabi flinched at the sound of the patient using her nickname, but not so much that he noticed her reaction. “You take care of yourself, Mr. Cluney. We’ll come to get you in a couple more hours. Do you have somebody who can give you a ride home?”

“Sure do,” Axel replied.

“All right. You take care now.”

~*~

Featherfall General wasn’t the most state-of-the-art facility Sabi had ever worked. The rooms—often packed with patients — overflowed into the corridors. There were entire wings lined with beds, and everyone ran around like headless chickens in a crowded coop. It cut her work out for her, and a dull moment never sat right. There was always somebody screaming, children crying, women giving birth, blood to be mopped, and disruptions in the waiting rooms.

Outside of the hospital—on the sidewalk and no closer—was where Sabi found a minute of rest. She could smoke a cigarette and forget that a patient had vomited blood on her. Sabi wasn’t alone on the sidewalk—far from it. Patients permitted leaving their rooms lined the walkway, smoking as many cigarettes they could fit into a ten-minute window. Some still hooked to their IV stands. One man with cracked red skin and starch white hospital sheets plastered to his arms and legs took puffs from a rancid gold-band cigarette that his companion held up to his chattering lips.

Sabi looked across the street at the pharmacy and the adjoining pediatrician’s offices. The building was a squat, rectangular structure next to a multi-level parking lot, of which she always heard the family members of patients complaining. The most frequent complaint was the seven-dollar parking fee. People who had dying relatives shouldn’t be expected to pay such a steep price to avoid getting a ticket.

New as she was, Sabi didn’t want to get on wrong sides by taking long breaks, and she chose the perfect moment to return as an ambulance flew into the emergency bay. Strapped to a stretcher, they hauled a tiny woman out of the back and rushed her into the hospital, followed by a tall man in blue jeans and a black tank top. Sabi only saw his side profile before he was halfway down the hall, following the EMTs and the female doctor who had intercepted them.

“It’s another overdose.”

“Fourth one tonight.”

“Third time for her. Can you hear me, Mrs. Cluney?”

They disappeared around a corner and left Sabi blinking in the corridor while others tried to catch glimpses. Most of the folks waiting in the lobby had nothing better to do than gawk at the people with real problems; broken legs, failing hearts, deep gashes, bright yellow skin, and when somebody came in with a worse ailment than them, a chorus of scoffs warbled in the room. They drowned out the only television tuned to the local news and grimaced at each other.

“‘Scuse me? When can we see a doctor? My kid’s sick!”

The triage nurse glared through the glass window.

“I’ve been here for three hours!”

“Do we have to hack our limbs off to get some attention in this place?”

Sabi ducked out of the waiting room and went to where she was needed most, but she couldn’t be in half a dozen places at once. She tried her best.

It was a long, hectic night, and the sickness she saw didn’t end until the early morning. She dragged her feet and tired eyes into the hospital cafeteria and made for the coffee machine for a cup that might get her home. If she had to get into her car and drive, she would need the caffeine to keep her eyelids drawn; otherwise, she’d be another person getting rushed through the doors and into intensive care.

An old couple sat in a corner, and the same tall man that came in at the end of her first cigarette break occupied a table in the centre. She squinted at him and realized that she knew his face from somewhere. He turned, and a faded crescent moon of bruising arced from his brow to his cheekbone. It was the man with the black and blue face, more yellow and green now that the swelling disappeared. Two large hands dwarfed a paper cup of coffee as he stared off into outer space.

Before he snapped out of his deep thoughts, Sabi made her way to the table and gave her best comforting smile. Without the swollen balloon of a head, she could make out his facial features. He had sharp cheekbones and two eyes that reminded her of the foggy marshes on her grandparents’ land. He looked up at her and his placid face glimmered with a hint of welcome.

“Oh, hi,” he said, lifting the paper cup to his lips.

“Hello again, Axel. How’s the head? And the rib?” She asked.

He knocked on his temple, tossing out an amused laugh. “All’s well.”

“I saw you come in earlier. I hope everything is okay.”

Axel sighed, a hopeless air leaving his broad shoulders deflated. It was odd to see him dressed in civilian clothes with nothing but a faded bruise on his face. His knuckles still bore scrapes, and dark bags of exhaustion hung beneath his marshy eyes, but he looked healthy. Sabi’s eyes coasted up and down his tattooed arms, habitually looking for signs of drug use and found nothing but vulgar symbols.

“It’s my ma. She’s in a coma, I guess.”

“Oh, jeez. That’s terrible. I’m sorry. I hope she comes out of it soon.”

He shrugged and sipped his coffee again. “Might be the best thing for her. She did it to herself.”

“Oh?”

“I guess that’s what happens when you mix Percs and alcohol for three days straight.”

Sabi gave an understanding nod. It no longer surprised her to learn the extent of drug abuse inside the walls of Featherfall General. Axel looked off into the unknown again, absently drinking his coffee until the cup was empty.

“Are you doing okay?” Sabi asked, unsure if the stranger would take offence to her questions.

“I’ll be all right. My hopes are that she’s okay.”

“I hope so, too.”

Axel raised his empty cup, slid his chair out, and stood up. Sabi’s eyes followed his, and soon she was looking up. He seemed much taller than when he had been a crumpled thing lying in a hospital bed.

“Well, I should head out. I’m done for the night. Or morning, I guess. Sorry to hear about your mom, and I hope I won’t be seeing you in here again soon.”

“I know, I’m a sight for sore eyes.” Axel pointed at the cloudy bruising around his eye.

“That’s not what I meant,” said Sabi, shaking her head with a smile. “I mean... I hope you don’t find another reason to come back here.”

“If I don’t, how will I ever see you again, Saberrah?”

#axel cluney #bill skarsgard fanfiction #bill skarsgard imagine #axel cluney fanfiction

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nurse-buckley · 4 years ago

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Whumptober Day 12 - Broken Bones

Fandom: Jedi: Fallen Order Characters: Mari Kosan, Cal Kestis, Tarfful, BD-1, unnamed medic, Choyyssyk (mentioned), Cere Junda (mentioned) and Greez Dritus (mentioned). Word Count: 1,283 Warnings: broken bones and needles. Cal has an accident on Kashyyyk, luckily he has friends on the planet to help him out.

The last time Cal left Kashyyyk, the majority of the Partisan’s had evacuated, however a few stayed behind; Choyyssyk and Tarffull stayed behind along with Mari and a few other Partisan’s wanting to help with the Wookie resistance.

Mari isn’t prepared when she hears a scream of distress coming from the distance of Kashyyyk. Though not unusual to hear the wookie’s calls on their home planet, one shouting for help was definitely not usual. Mari along with a few others make their way out of one of the abandoned wookie huts they’d set themselves up in and saw one of the wookie’s carrying something.

It wasn’t until they saw the bright orange hair they realised who it was. If the red hair hadn’t given it away, the small droid sitting on Tarfful’s shoulders definitely did, Cal Kestis.

“On the bed, now!” The medic yells, moving into the hut to prepare the table to be used as a makeshift hospital bed.

Tarfful gently places Cal onto the table, reluctant to let go as he feels Cal’s grip on his fur. He decides to stay, weary about being in the way, but knowing that the young boy needs him right now. BD stays perched on the wookie’s shoulders, not wanting to leave his friends' side.

The medic doesn’t need to remove Cal’s trousers to know the damage, his leg bent at an awkward and painful angle.

“Let’s cut his trousers and get his boots off,” she calls to one of her assistants.

The medic leans down close to Cal, “we need to remove your boot to get a closer look, I’m not going to lie to you, it’s going to hurt. I can’t give you anything yet, the medication won’t kick in in time and if it’s as bad as I think it is, you could lose your leg.”

The information is all too much for the young Jedi, he’s in pain and he’s scared. He tries to get off the table, laying flat leaves him too open, too vulnerable and his fight or flight instincts kick in. A glance to Tarfful from the medic and the wookie knows what needs to be done, he doesn’t want to restrain him but he also doesn’t want Cal to injure himself further and cause irreparable damage.

Mari decides to move to Cal’s other side, he needs more than one friendly face right now and she hopes she can give him some sense of distraction or comfort.

Cal screams as the medics grab his boot and pull, he can feel the cool metal as the shears cut up the leg of his pants and one glance at his leg leaves him feeling sick. Mari moves in front of his vision, “hey, Cal? Focus on me. It’s going to be okay. They’re going to fix you up.”

Cal’s face is red with tears but he sniffs, attempting to swallow his emotion and nods. All sense of calm is short lived however when the medic makes their next announcement.

Cal feels fingers probing his foot, “I can’t find a pulse.”

Shit. Mari thinks, that’s not a good sign.

The medic moves towards Cal, ready to explain her treatment, not wanting to do anything without the younger man’s consent or knowledge.

“Cal, I can’t feel a pulse in your foot, I’m going to have to realign the fracture to make sure you’ve got good blood flow.”

Cal’s eyes fill with panic, he struggles but Tarfful’s grip is strong, holding him firm. “No, please.”

He knows he has no choice, he just wishes he had some pain relief or was unconscious at this point.

Cal takes a deep breath, as he feels hands on his leg and foot and he buries himself further into Tarfful’s fur. He hears the countdown and prepares himself for the next wave of pain. There’s a sickening crunch of bone, Cal’s vision goes white with pain and he can’t help the agonising scream that tears from his throat.

However, there is no rest for the young Jedi as he hears the medic call out their next orders. “Get me Carapace knitter,”

“He’s a child,” Mari counters, she’s seen grown men break down and go into shock from having the substance injected. This isn’t the first time Mari has encountered Carapace knitter, a white substance used to mend bone. However, it’s usually used on insectoids who have an exoskeleton, in order to use it on a skeleton, it needs to be injected directly into the bone, through the skin. The only way to do that is the large needle the medic is now holding. She’s seen grown men slip into shock at the pain the treatment has caused.

“The bone is stabalised but if he wants any chance of healing without complications this is his best shot.” The medic sounds cold and harsh, but Mari knows they’re right. Cal turns to the side where he can see Mari and the medic arguing in hushed tones, it’s then he sees the syringe in the medics hands. Cal doesn’t mind needles too much, but he knows what this is. He’s heard stories, and judging by the size of the needle, he knows this is going to suck.

BD perks up at the commotion, scanning the liquid in the syringe, ensuring it was safe enough for his friend. He’s alarmed at the numerous warnings that show up but the droid knows that this is Cal’s best chance.

“No no no, please no.” Cal begins to struggle, crying out. Tarfful and Mari, knowing his movement could cause the fracture to displace once more, hold the Jedi steady.

Mari turns to the younger man, “Cal, I’m sorry. I wish there was another way.”

The medic turns, sparing a glance at the young red head. She puts the image out of her mind, focussing on the task at hand. She feels along the length of the break, deciding where best to inject the substance. Once she’s ready, she spares a glance at Mari and nods. Mari and Tarfful hold Cal tighter in their comforting embrace. They both know when the needle goes in, Cal jostles and grunts in pain.

“That...wasn’t so...bad,” Cal breathes through the pain.

The medic sighs, “I’m sorry Cal, that’s not even the half of it.”

With that, the medic injects the liquid slowly into the younger man's leg. She sees him shift slightly, and then she hears the screams. Thankfully it’s short lived, Cal doesn’t make it far into the treatment before his screams die down and his body falls limp in Tarfful’s arms. Mari and Tarfful gently lower him down, concern plastered on their faces, they’re relieved when another medic approaches, confirming that he’s passed out. It breaks Mari’s heart, but she knows it’s for the best.

When Cal wakes once more, he’s still on the makeshift hospital bed, but he has a pillow under his head and a blanket over his body. The searing pain that was taking over his body before he passed out, is replaced by a dull throbbing sensation.

Mari enters the camp, surprised to see Cal awake. She’s glad though, smiling as she approaches. “How’re you feeling?”

Cal relaxes back against the pillow, “better.” He lays there for a minute before shooting up right, “Cere? Greez?”

Mari gently pushes him back down, “they know you’re safe, it’s okay.”

Cal doesn’t need to ask for the next family member he’s concerned for when he hears a series of beeps and see’s BD hopping up on the bottom of the table, crawling up beside him.

The droid continues on his rant, staring at Cal.

“I know buddy, I’ll be more careful in the future.”

#whumptober2020 #no.12 #broken bones #jedi: fallen order #trigger warning broken bones #trigger warning needles

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clonesdeservebetter · 5 years ago

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goldgreenie replied to your post “i know its like midnight where i am but i am in a Writing Mood but not...”

id love more abt flowers mayhaps? or like smth based around their task/job (like the medic hastily patching someone up/lecturing abt taking care of wounds so they dont go bad, harna + her padawan or them + their troops?) whatever it is im excited to read!!

hell yeah! thanks for the prompt! it’s Medic time!

Little warning for slight descriptions of injuries (minor, but still described)

Mandoa Translations

Jagyc'kovid - Dickhead

The moment he saw Doubles walk into the medbay, cradling his hand and muttering, Stutter knew it was going to be one of those nights. The nights where tensions ran high, words were flung, and Keeper really earned his name as he snitched about it all to Whiteout or Harrna. Doubles would be his first patient, but, more than likely, not his last.

With a heavy sigh, the medic stood up, stretching out his hands slowly to prepare them for the task ahead. Knowing Doubles, he would be promptly followed by Burner, possibly with either a nasty bruise or some other easily-fixed injury, which meant Stutter would have to be quick unless he wanted a repeat of the medbay brawl from his first day aboard the Guardian.

As the two met halfway, Doubles already had an excuse on the tip of his tongue, opening his mouth to give it, but Stutter knew his brother too well.

“Burner, Sting, or Venom?” Stutter signed, cutting off Doubles before he could say anything. Doubles opened his mouth, probably to argue, but with a single raised eyebrow, all that came out was a huff.

“Burner,” Doubles muttered, sitting on the edge of one of the (thankfully) many empty beds “Jagyc'kovid picked a fight, got me to punch, and moved out of the just in time for me to punch a wall.”

“Ouch,” Stutter signed sympathetically “Is he going to end up in here soon, or was I completely wrong about what my night’s going to look like?”

“I think I broke his nose, so, soon.” Doubles said, extending his hand for Stutter to examine. The medic eyed him, sighing through his nose and examining the injured hand. His knuckles were split open (again), but his hand didn’t seem to be broken (somehow). It was obvious it hurt like hell, though, if the look on Doubles face as Stutter gently felt the hand was anything to go by.

“Nothing’s broken,” Stutter signed, letting go of the hand and taking a step back “Bacta and bandages. Or just bandages, if you insist on trying to be a pain in the ass.”

“That bacta has good use elsewhere, vod. You know it.”

“I also know your knuckles are gonna be tender as hell if I don’t use bacta, and you refuse to use painkillers. It’ll be fine.”

Doubles huffed, but didn’t argue further. Stutter rolled his eyes, going through one of the smaller, already half-empty first-aid kits to retrieve a small amount of bacta and a roll of bandages. He began his work in silence, slathering small amounts of bacta to knuckles (only glancing up when Doubles hissed and flinched away) before wrapping them gently in the bandages. A simple fix for a simple problem.

Well, a simple problem that was made complicated, because his stupid brother couldn’t stop picking fights every five minutes. Stutter sighed as he smoothed the bandages down, looking Doubles in the eyes with his best impression of Harrna’s scolding face. It must’ve been pretty good, because Doubles actually looked somewhat apologetic.

“He’s the one who picked the fight with me, vod,” Doubles said, looking down at his freshly bandaged hand “He was saying shit about me, you know I can’t stand for that. I had to defend my honor.”

“You mean your pride?” Stutter asked, one eyebrow cocked up. Doubles glared at him.

“Does it matter?”

“You know it does, Doubles. You can’t launch yourself at someone every time they insult you, you’re gonna end up getting killed, or worse.”

“Whatever,” Doubles grumbled, shoving Stutter further away from him as he got up to leave “Thanks for wasting the bacta, I’ll get out of your hair before Eileena sends Burner your way to double check her healing job.”

“Doubles,” Stutter signed, but to no avail: Doubles had turned his back on him, effectively ending the conversation. Stutter scowled. He was not going to play that game tonight. Stutter whistled to get Doubles’ attention, the usual method of doing so, but when his brother refused to turn around, Stutter snapped.

“D...D-Doubles!” He shouted aloud, which actually made the other clone freeze in his tracks, whirling around to stare at the medic, wide-eyed and mouth agape. Neither he nor the medic had entirely expected that, but it happened, and it worked to get Doubles’ attention. Happy with that fact, Stutter switched back to his preferred mode of conversation: his hands.

“I’m serious, vod. You’ve seen what they do to people who don’t behave. You, Curio, and I barely survived under Krell. Now that we’re finally safe, it’s like you’re actively trying to throw that away! Harrna’s doing her best to protect both you and Burner, but she can only go so far. If you end up doing something like this, and someone else finds out...” Stutter had to stop signing, his hands beginning to shake from frustration. Doubles looked up and down Stutter, before quietly replying.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You should be.” Stutter signed, once he finally managed to get his shaking hands back under control. His comm beeped, and it was a simple message from Eileena. Burner on his way. Hope you’re ready for him. Stutter sighed again, looking up wearily at his brother.

“Guess that’s my cue?” Doubles asked, shifting from foot to foot slightly, and Stutter gave him a curt nod. Before Doubles could turn around though, Stutter whistled to get his attention again, though this time he was listened to.

“I’m serious, Doubles. You and Burner need to both be more careful. You have people who care about you, and not just because they’re the ones in charge of taking care of your wounds, and are tired of having to take care of your wounds.” Stutter signed, carefully considering his words this time before moving his hands. Doubles didn’t say anything for several moments, before sighing and nodding.

“Goodnight, vod.”

“For you, maybe. I’ve still got Burner to deal with, not to mention anybody else that may plan on having a fight tonight. But, goodnight to you anyways, I guess.”

And with that, Doubles left. Only a few minutes later, Burner entered the medbay, and one of those nights officially began.

#clone oc #swtcw #my writing #goldgreenie #might cross-post to ao3 #i'm p happy with how it turned out!#one day i'll just. write something happy #today is not one of those days #473rd

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autisticblueteam · 6 years ago

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Your Friend, Connie (TexCT)

[AO3] [Ko-Fi in Bio]

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 4849

Summary: Connie’s running out of options when a mission gone wrong gives her an opportunity she never expected to have: the chance to talk to Texas, one-on-one. But complicated problems rarely have such simple solutions.

Notes: Final fic for @rvbfemslash February! An immediate heads-up: this fic is not as overtly shippy as I first intended and whilst it’s certainly intended to imply TexCT, it’s not explicit and it focuses more on the potential in their relationship. So it’s toeing the line of counting for this month, but it was written with the ship in mind.

This was ridiculous.

Connie huffed, twisting her wrists in their bindings a little more, trying to get the right angle. There was a little give now, but not enough to get her hands free without breaking a couple of bones and dislocating a couple of joints. She’d rather not do that. Easy fix with some knitting polymer back at the ship or not, it wasn’t pleasant.

She couldn’t believe this had even happened. She was better than this, she didn’t get captured by untrained goons and thrown into the back room of some shady warehouse that smelt like centuries outdated petrol and god knows what else—noxious and distracting, painfully so. Yet here she was, in exactly that situation, with her wrists tied behind her back and her armour nowhere to be seen.

This wasn’t going to help her tenuous standing at the Project. Getting captured two times in as many missions was going to catch much too much attention from command.

If only it hadn’t come so soon after her last intel drop. Sending intelligence over the Project’s own communication networks, even routed through a variety of proxies and other safety measures, was getting too risky. So, rather than take that chance, she’d arranged for her contact to ‘capture’ her on her last mission. It was simple enough; she tripped an alarm that she’d never have fallen for in an actual infiltration and let Sleeves, their muscle, grab her. Cutting off her own comms was easy and the drop went smoothly; by the time someone had made their way to retrieve her, her contact had retreated and she pretended that she’d escaped part way on her own.

Simple. They got what they needed from her, she kept herself out of the suspicions of the Project.

Whether or not that would last now, she couldn’t be sure. Things were getting… precarious.

Time was running out and she couldn’t see the countdown.

Shaking the thought away, Connie focused back on the bindings wrapped around her wrist and the situation she was in now, not the one she faced when—if—she got out of here. The warehouse was far out of the way; it had come up on the Project’s radar only after reports of them using—maybe even attempting to sell—experimental equipment had reached the UNSC.

Going by the strange way her armour had locked up, allowing them to grab her without her even throwing a single punch, those reports were true. Experimental or not, it did its job and completely shut down her armour’s systems, she hadn’t even been able to trigger her emergency beacon to call for immediate help.

Hours had passed since and she knew that, by now, they had to know she was in enemy hands. Or, more importantly, that her equipment was.

Agents were disposable, if worst came to worst. But their armour, their modifications? Never.

So she knew someone would come, eventually. For her gear, if not for her.

The two guards that stood over her changed out fairly regularly, as someone got bored or they were needed for another duty. Watching them gave away no organisation or pattern of any kind, so that was a bust. Even with her bindings almost loose enough to remove, to do so without access to a weapon or her armour, with armed guards so close by? It would be suicide.

And so it became a waiting game.

More guards came and went. No one seemed to know what they were going to do with her, not-so-subtle whispers passing between the assortment of grunts about their options—should they have killed her already? Dumped her somewhere? Tried to actually interrogate her and find out what she was here for? Something else entirely? No one knew. Capturing a UNSC-sponsored prisoner was clearly not part of their plans for the day.

At first, she didn’t notice when those whispers shifted target. She’d almost tuned them out entirely before a sudden yelp came from one of their earpieces, the high-pitched sound of someone being struck down mid-word.

The guards shared a look.

“I’ll… go check what’s going on,” one said, taking a few, reluctant steps away. His current partner, who looked somehow even less enthused about the concept of investigating than he did, just nodded.

“You do that,” he said, before turning to Connie with his rifle raised. Connie tensed her shoulders. “And don’t you try any funny business. I can still shoot quicker than you can move.”

That was almost certainly true.

Unfortunately for him, they wouldn’t have chance to find out. Moments after the words left his mouth there was a loud CRASH behind him as his buddy was slammed against the wall with inhuman force.

He jumped out of his damn skin, turned his attention away from Connie—

—who tore herself free from her bindings, planted a hand on the floor and swept his legs from under him.

A yelp, a clatter, a shimmer, the snap of bone—

He dropped to the floor dead.

Connie landed back on the floor, her heart pounding at the rush of adrenaline after hours of sitting still. Looking up at her rescuer, she exhaled; it could only be one person. “Texas.” The clean-up crew.

The shimmer in front of her solidified, smooth black armour reappearing in swathes of reality and an outstretched hand. Eyeing it for a moment, Connie took it and let herself be pulled to her feet.

“You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were showing off with that entrance,” she said, rubbing her wrists. They’d definitely bruise. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment of blankness in Tex’s posture, before something clicked into place and she chuckled. Delayed social reaction. That checked.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. You okay?” Tex stood almost an entire foot over her. She’d be imposing, if Connie didn’t know as much about her as she did. Oddly, it made her more… human, knowing that she wasn’t. “No injuries that are gonna stop you moving?”

“No,” she shook her head, “I’m fine. They didn’t subdue me physically, it was tech that got me.” Speaking of… “Did you get my armour?”

“Not yet.”

Connie raised a brow. “I’m surprised. Shouldn’t you have been grabbing the important stuff first?”

Tex’s tilted head held the same sarcastic confusion. “Yeah, well, my orders are to prioritise your armour and the tech, but hey, I found you first, what am I supposed to do? Backtrack on myself? Nah.” Then, a shrug. “Besides, I know you’re our best intelligence agent. That seems pretty important to me.”

Stance relaxing a little and her face softening, Connie sighed.

“But hey,” Tex continued, “you don’t wanna be saved I can just leave you here, go grab the armour and swing back to you if I have time, no skin off my back.”

“Alright, point taken,” Connie said, before pausing. “…and thanks. I don’t mean to sound… ungrateful.”

“Don’t worry about it, you’ve been stuck here for hours, I’d be grouchy too. You know where your armour is?” Tex said, taking a pistol off her thigh and offering it to Connie. She took it. “Fully loaded. Haven’t touched it.”

“Didn’t need to, I’m guessing.” A knife would have been preferable, but a pistol was better than nothing. “I have a rough idea. I imagine it’ll be wherever they’re keeping their other tech. They have some kind of armour locking technology, more advanced than things like the paint. It locked my entire body up with some kind of energy field.”

“Huh. That’s the kind of shit you’re out here for isn’t it?” Tex nudged the dead guard with her foot and glanced over at the other one—not dead, just unconscious and collapsed in a pile of broken crates. No threats in the room.

“Essentially. So, all going well, we’ll be able to complete the mission anyway.” Connie took a deep breath in. Being without her armour on a mission she was meant to run with armour was a new kind of vulnerability she didn’t appreciate at all. “Okay, let’s get this over with before I think too hard about the fact I’m only wearing a kevlar bodysuit.”

“Don’t worry,” Tex said, cracking her knuckles, “I won’t let anyone hit you.”

There was a kind of surety to the statement that only Tex could give off; it wasn’t just a promise, it was a statement of fact. With her track record in the field and training backing that up, Connie felt a little of the tension in her shoulders release.

“Alright, I’m holding you to that.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

The warehouse wasn’t kitted out with alarms, but the mess in the open rooms they passed and the sound of distant voices betrayed the panic that had quickly spread once the invisible, wrecking ball of a woman had torn her way through. The halls had been vacated, besides a couple of people grabbing the injured, but alive, members of their group and dragging them away.

There was no point in fighting them if they weren’t an active threat, so they let them go. Going by the buzz of turbines above them, the second assault had provoked an evacuation.

“Think I scared most of ‘em off?” Tex said, nodding towards the ceiling.

“Most of them. I doubt they’ll want to leave behind all their tech and they certainly weren’t moving out before you turned up,” a silent infiltration with no casualties never did have the same shock factor as a true assault, “some of them will have to be near wherever they’re storing it, packing it up.”

“Okay, so where we heading? Where would you keep all your top secret, fancy tech?”

A laptop secured against the underside of her bed. A signal scrambling system built into her personal Data Pad. Her medical information used as a layer of defence over the top of a whole drive’s worth of stolen intel. Innocuous places people would never think to look, hidden in plain sight if anyone even bothered to search in the first place.

“One of the standard warehouse rooms, but the furthest one away from where they were keeping me tied up.”

Tex nodded. “Got it. Stick behind me.”

Connie was right. A few halls away they heard voices; orders to hurry up and attitude in return, interrupted by the scraping sound of crates being dragged and the sputter of an old engine. A quick peek inside and they could see them packing crates up into a very outdated van. There was a growing pile of opened and unopened crates beside it, whilst a couple of the group wrangled others into the back.

Stacked on top of one such crate was Connie’s armour.

“You think you can sneak around to your armour whilst I clean up the rest of them?” Tex said. A moment later she was nothing more than a shimmer, distorting the blank wall behind her.

“I should be able to, yeah,” Connie said, double checking the pistol. “See you at the other end.”

The shimmer shifted slightly—an arm being lifted, perhaps—and then it was gone, disappearing into the rows of shelves between them and the vehicle bay at the back.

Connie waited until she heard the first person take a punch and then she was on the move, too.

Moving quickly but quietly, finger rested close to the trigger and on high alert, she slipped down the aisle closest to the entrance. Thuds and bangs and grunts travelled through the shelving—crunching from unarmoured fists against metal and heavily armoured fists against bone, scampering feet and a crate smashing against the floor.

Connie shuddered. Thank god she’d never had reason to be on the wrong end of her strength.

She was at the end of the aisle when one unforeseen side effect of Tex’s distraction made itself known: a couple of the group had ducked behind the crates. Her path was no longer clear, but their view of her certainly was; movement in their periphery drew their attention the moment she got close enough to register they were there.

Emboldened by her lack of armour, they stood to try their luck. That was their first mistake.

They didn’t have guns, so when they ran at her Connie didn’t feel anywhere near as vulnerable as being in open hallways where someone with a weapon that could tear through her suit with ease was a threat. She didn’t even level her own pistol. Soon, they were in range, fists clumsily raised and—

Connie ducked, swept beneath them and half-knocked their legs from under them. By the time they’d steadied themselves she’d already grabbed one of their arms, twisted it up behind their back and slammed her foot into their spine, knocking them down again. As the second of them turned to face her, she bolted towards the end of the aisle. Gave herself room to move and react.

When he came at her again, she ducked, threw a punch into his gut and dodged around him. With a knife this would have been over in seconds. Instead, he came for her again, the first guy grabbed her ankle—

And then he was thrown into the shelves and their arm snapped between the ground and Tex’s foot.

That was their second mistake.

Connie exhaled. Okay.

Tex kicked the first guy in the head and knocked him out. “Told you I wouldn’t let them hit you.”

“You sure did. The others—?”

“Dealt with, get your armour on. I’ll tear open some boxes.”

As soon as the final piece of her armour clipped into place and her HUD lit up, the last of the hairs on her neck settled. Even her knives were still there and she gladly attached them back to their respective hard-points, resting her fingers against the hilt reflexively. There were no more threats, but being in the field was always easier with multiple inches of armour plating between your vital organs and everything around you.

“What did the thing they use on you look like?” Tex called, the sound slightly muffled by the walls of the van.

Connie hopped up into the back with her. Most of the crates had been pulled open by force, their contents now easily seen and examined. Most of them seemed to be weaponry, much of it completely familiar, but one or two contained more… interesting things.

“I didn’t really see, but if I had to take a guess…” Her HUD was scanning and highlighting things that gave off unique energy signatures. Slowly panning past the guns and ammo, she settled on a box of square units that were highlighted as being electromagnetic. “Those things.” Tex reached out, but Connie grabbed her arm. “I wouldn’t. I don’t know how they activated them and I wouldn’t know how to deactivate it either. Find a smaller box and I’ll take off my gloves, minimise the risk of it touching armour.”

Tex tilted her head, but she stepped away.

Connie exhaled. How one would have reacted to Tex’s body, she didn’t know. And she didn’t want to take the risk. Tex had to know eventually, but… not like that.

Taking off her gloves, she picked up a couple of the units. When Tex returned with a suitable box she set them down carefully, padding between them with packing from the original crate to keep them from touching.

“There. Alright, call for extraction.”

“Already on it.”

Turning back, Connie could have sworn she saw Tex… staring, at her? Staring may have been too strong a word, but looking at her, for sure. Maybe that wasn’t notable, but…

In the back of the Pelican, Connie spoke up. “Hey, Texas?”

Tex’s head snapped up, shattering the eerie stillness that had lingered since she sat down. She didn’t share transports often. “Uhh… yeah?”

“I know you’re busy, with briefings and training and all, but… when you have a free hour or two, do you think we could meet up and talk?” It was reckless. Riskier than anything she’d done before now. But she was more aware than ever of that invisible timer, counting down until she’d have to make a choice.

So she was making one.

Tex stalled. That split-second delay she’d noticed before lingered longer this time—ingrained protocol warring with social rules warring with personal desires warring with whatever else was on her mind.

But, eventually, it passed.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll… set some time aside. I think I have an hour between training and briefing in a couple days? About 1300,” Tex said, shifting a little in her seat. Nerves?

“I can make time. Do you know where the observatory deck is?” Quiet, mostly private. Especially during the day.

“Yeah, I know where it is. Guess uhh… guess I’ll see you then.”

Connie offered a smile. “See you then.”

Tex may have tried to smile back, but it was hard to tell behind that helmet she’d never seen her remove. Regardless, the silence felt a little more companionable after that.

A human connection, first and foremost, that was what Connie wanted to offer. Break the isolation that Tex had been experiencing since she came into existence. Maybe, just maybe, if she was able to get past that… maybe she could tell her. Maybe she could do something without having to leave.

It wasn’t a sure thing.

Still, Tex deserved to have a friendly face to turn to. Her unusual circumstances had dictated her isolation and no one had made the effort to change that, not even Connie herself. Tex was owed that much, surely.

Upon their return, everything went as Connie had expected. Without even so much as a ten minute diversion to check her physical condition, Connie was dragged into a dressing-down disguised as a debriefing. She stood there and took it, zoning out and saying ‘yessir’ and ‘it won’t happen again sir’ in all the right places to placate his anger at her incompetence. It didn’t matter, anyway; that board hadn’t changed since the AI started going out, she wasn’t being demoted to Beta Squad now. Even if she was, it would hardly change anything.

It ended, she left, she passed out in bed with only a wave at South.

Tex was nowhere to be seen for the next two days, but that was expected too. It was a miracle she’d even found one hour of free time to promise. So Connie went about her business as normal, continued her work, kept up appearances.

But when that hour came, Tex wasn’t there.

The observatory deck was dark and empty, so silent that the hum of the engines was no longer just background noise. Connie waited there for three hours, just in case—it didn’t make a difference, Tex didn’t come.

Maybe she should have expected that, as well.

After that mission, everything at the Project seemed to move faster than ever and Tex was somehow more absent than she’d ever been before. No one saw her for days, then a few weeks. Never caught so much as a glimpse. AI production showed no signs of stopping and Connie found herself backed further and further into a corner. Every new piece of intel she stole upped her chances of getting caught and the pressure from Jarrett to leave was piling by the day. Tex had been one of her only other avenues of action and that had clearly closed.

Connie was racing that invisible countdown and she couldn’t keep up.

Eventually, she knew something would have to give. Opportunities to drop her intel discretely had faded. Her next chance involved ignoring direct orders, abandoning a mission and risking exposure. Or, perhaps worse, having to leave before she was really ready to make that decision.

So the night before, she found herself back on the observatory deck, amidst the eerie silence of space that made her lungs feel compressed and her mind run in circles about the what ifs of the void in front of her. Unpredictable and infinite. Absolutely terrifying.

And then a voice broke the silence. “Room for another?”

“I’m certainly not going to stop you.”

Texas emerged from the darkness, her pale face and light hair a stark contrast to it and her black clothes. It was the first time Connie had seen her face outside of the files that recorded every detail of her existence, from the exact shade of her hair to the beauty marks that, if pressed right, would open her power cell compartment.

She knew more about Tex than Tex may ever know about herself and it felt as wrong as it was.

The AI who knew nothing of what she was sat beside her, leaned back upon her palms and stretched her legs out in front of her. Stared out at the abyss in front of them, all of the distant stars that only Maine seemed to know the names of, and said nothing more.

Connie glanced at her out of the corner of her eye, watched her. The slightly too even rise and fall of her shoulders, the unnatural stillness of her position—all the little things. Maybe if she’d been around them more, she would have adapted her patterns to match, began to act more human. Then again, what did it matter? She thought she was human, she acted human in all of the most obvious ways.

Shattering that illusion required more trust than Tex had been given time to place in her. She couldn’t do it now.

Quiet ruled the room for almost ten minutes before Tex spoke again.

“Sorry I stood you up. Shit got kinda busy after we got back, I didn’t have the time.”

“It’s fine. You’re a busy woman.”

Another pause. Connie picked at the scar across her palm and took a deep breath in.

“You ever have to make an impossible choice, Tex? One that could either fix or ruin everything all at once?”

Tex hesitated, but this time it felt more… real, not like a software delay. “Not really. Things have always been… pretty straightforward, for me, I guess. I do my job, do it well… don’t have to make the hard decisions, just gotta follow orders when I get ‘em.”

“Hopefully it stays that way,” Connie sighed, pulling her knees up to her chest. Another beat. “You on the mission tomorrow?”

“Technically, that’s classified, but… nah, not tomorrow. Got me hanging back on the ship, ready to go if things get dire, but,” she shrugged, “pretty sure you guys can handle this one.”

Connie rested her head against her knee, turned to face her. “Even me? The one who’s been captured twice?”

“Hey, from what I heard, the first time you got out on your own. Second time, you only got caught because they had some weird tech. I think you’ll be fine,” Tex said. Nudging Connie with her elbow, she offered the first and last smile Connie would ever see her give.

“…thanks.”

“Next time I get a break, I’ll try and let you know. See if we can find time to really have that talk you wanted to have. Seems like something heavy, if that dramatic question was anything to go by. Like, seriously; that was a hell of a welcome.”

Connie muffled a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Sorry. I suppose I have a lot on my mind right now. Hence the staring out into space thing.”

“Literally,” there was a note of amusement in her voice, in her eyes. Connie smiled and nodded.

“Literally.”

“I’d ask what choice you gotta make, but that might be a bit personal for a first meet-up.”

“Ask me next time you see me,” Connie said, “I’ll have made the choice by then, it won’t matter so much.”

“Can I hold you to that?”

“Yeah. You can.”

“Well alright then, I gotta get going so…” Tex hopped up to her feet, stretched her arms above her head. Even out of armour, she was built like a brick wall. “Guess I’ll have to ask you next time. See you around, CT. And good luck tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Tex. I’ll see you around. Hopefully we have more time next time.”

Tex gave her a mock salute and vanished back into the darkness of the connecting hall, gone as quickly as she’d come. Connie was alone again and as midnight hit, her countdown was no longer invisible. The mission clock projected itself on the glass in front of her.

Eleven hours, fifty-nine minutes and fifty-six seconds, fifty-five seconds, fifty-four…

One way or another, she was going to have to make her choice.

Pushing herself from the ground, she marched through the halls until she reached the locker room. Empty, this late at night, with camera blind-spots that were easily exploited. Finding one, she set her helmet up on a bench and sat against the lockers behind it.

Taking a deep breath, she set it to record.

“Agent Texas. Allison. If you’re reading this, then that means I escaped. Or, well, at the very least, I’m probably not around anymore…”

It took a few takes. The words flowed by with ease, but her voice was unsteady and her tone was off and her heart pounded so loudly in her ears that she couldn’t even hear herself. Recording this was admitting something, something she didn’t want to face. Not yet, not until that countdown was over and things would change irreversibly.

Maybe she hadn’t been able to tell anyone whilst she was here, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t try even when she was gone. Texas was still her best bet, the one at the centre of all of this.

Things could have gone differently, in another world. Where she’d spoken up sooner, where she’d made the effort to reach out and give her that human connection before it was too late for it to make a damn difference. Where maybe they’d have had the chance to know each other, before Connie had to shatter Tex’s concept of her own existence.

Where the sentiment behind, “…your friend, Connie,” could truly have been realised.

But this wasn’t that world.

Choices had already been made.

Within a couple of months, branded a traitor and a liar and risk to UNSC security for the second time in her life, Connie was dead.

Bled out, alone in an escape pod. As alone in death as she’d been in her final months in the Project and in all of her efforts to make a difference.

And, eventually, Texas would open her locker. Find a set of dog-tags that didn’t belong to her. See that name.

Watch the video.

“I want to leave behind all the data I've been collecting about Project Freelancer. I never could shake the feeling that something was wrong with the program. The secrets, the lies, the manipulation; smoke, all of it, obscuring a big damn fire.”

Everything clicked into place. Everything Connie had said, the strange way she’d looked at her, the way she had tried to reach out… the reason she’d left, the reason she’d provoked her, the reason the Director gave no order to preserve life.

“I did some digging, and now I know what the Director's been hiding. What he did.”

The reason something had felt off for months now.

“He broke the law, Allison. The one law they don't just slap you on the wrist for. I'm taking the originals with me as an insurance policy. I leave this copy for you not because you are the best soldier in the squad…”

Constant training and meetings. Carolina’s increasingly bitter attitude towards her. The AI. How she never had even a spare moment to interact with the team. The fact that Connie had to have been the only person she’d ever shown her face to.

“…but because I know that I can trust you the most.”

Before she killed her.

“After reading these files you will understand why.”

There was a long list of things that Texas would regret in the years to come. At the top was what happened in that bunker. What she’d done.

In another world, things would have gone differently. Connie’s attempt to reach out wouldn’t have failed. They’d have had the chance to talk, to know each other beyond the surface level banter and offerings of friendship that had at least proven the concept—that they would be a good team, that they could be good friends or even something more.

Maybe, even if she’d still been forced to leave, Tex would have realised something was up and found the message sooner. Soon enough to matter.

In another world, things wouldn’t have been perfect, but they would have been better. The things that could have been lingered in the back of Tex’s mind.

But this wasn’t that world. In this world, they’d both been just a little too late.

Tex rested her hand over the image and made a promise.

If nothing else, she’d finish what she started.

“Good luck. Your friend, Connie.”

#texct #rvb femslash february #agent connecticut #agent texas #rvb #red vs blue #rvb fic #my fanfiction #autistic fics by me

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