#felt like all my joints were being seared and like everything was on the brink of dislocating

[battywitch]

😩

[xhisokas-harleyx]

Your Hisoka headcanons were so good😭 and i completely agree with all of them- I wanted request something, u can ignore if u want. 🏃

I am just thinking of a scenario where Hisoka got hurt, by someone who 'cheated' in the fight maybe, and his first instinct was to go to his 'friend's place. And Reader helps him without hesitation, they're even worried and stuff. And he is just like "are they just so naive or dumb? Kind? What do they get from this? And tf is this feeling in my chest? A poison maybe-" Maybe hcs? Or an oneshot? Whatever you like to do. Have a good day or night!:)💛 damn i wrote too much lol sorry

This warms my heart. Thank you SO MUCH for your support!!! And no, you did not write too much! I love having my ego stroked ;) 😂 seriously tho I love hearing from you guys!

I love this prompt. I hope that I was able to bring this to life for you, please feel free to request more!

To be honest, I’m not really happy with how this turned out, but I haven’t written in a long time and feel really rusty. I may rewrite it at some point, because I thought of a different way this could also go! At any rate, I hope you enjoy it.

Word Count: 2880 (yeh, it’s a long one :o)

A little song inspiration I had:

As The World Caves In: Matt Maltese

Hisoka x Reader One-Shot: The Man Beneath the Monster

...

Well... this wasn't supposed to happen.

Currently, the jester of everyone's nightmares lay on the ground, golden eyes staring up at the dull night sky while shrapnel and debris etched patterns into his back, remnants of the attack he'd just barely survived. Hisoka didn't normally have much of a problem mowing through his opponents- but then again, they usually didn't possess the ability to play with their enemy's mind. It was insanely unfair, the way he'd been attacked, and while it had been an interesting battle to say the least, Hisoka had barely pulled through.

Admittedly, he was invigorated by the feeling of almost being beaten- save for the searing pain that inched its way through every nerve in his body. Hisoka wasn't usually so affected by pain in general- in fact, more often than not, it gave him a certain indescribable gratification. He tended to brush off the feeling of most wounds he obtained during battle, distracting himself with shuffling his cards or fantasizing about the next battle he'd be facing. Only this time, if he didn't get help, he wasn’t sure there would BE another battle.

Hisoka strained himself to sit up, and looked down at his body, analyzing just how much damage he'd sustained. A deep gash opened up his chest, revealing glimpses of the muscular content underneath, and it was oozing a lot of blood. His arms and legs were burned, and some of the skin was a little charred, which smelled just lovely against the night breeze.

This is going to be difficult to cover with Texture Surprise... he thought, forcing himself a bit angrily to his feet, when he heard the cracking of the joints in his left ankle, indications of a break. He needed medical attention, badly. His gash wasn't going to heal itself, and he would bleed to death within hours if it didn’t get bandaged.

But where could he go? Hospitals wouldn't dare take him- even though he was a hunter, most people wouldn't be caught within miles of him, let alone would provide him any remedy. In fact, most people thought the world would be better off if he were dead anyway.

Maybe they were right.

He chuckled a little at the thought, but as he tried to brush those creeping inner fears off, he soon realized that his normal detached approach wasn't going to work this time. Already, his legs were getting weaker, and his vision was getting a little darker by the second. In that moment of weakness, when he felt the most vulnerable, the magician was puzzled by the singular thought that came to his mind.

Y/N.

She was a girl he’d encountered more than a few times in his travels; not by accident, but through carefully orchestrated meetings he initiated himself. She was strong in his eyes, which was not a compliment that he offered freely, especially to someone who didn’t regularly seek out altercations to smash their enemies. She was strong in a different way- not because of her nen or battle tactics- but because of her resolve. He found it intriguing that she didn’t run at the sight of him (even when he popped up behind her in the park), and he liked that she wasn't afraid to tell him exactly where he could shove his cards, if warranted. Y/N was appealing to him in an indescribable way that made him continue to think up excuses to meet her ‘randomly’- but he could never put his finger on what it was that made her unique. However, through brief conversations and what he considered to be highlights of his travels, he’d gotten to know her only a little, but he hardly had enough contact with her to call her a ‘friend’.

It wasn't like she had any special sort of healing nen. She probably couldn't help him anyway. But if he did bleed out, and his last thought had to be of something...l it might as well be of her.

The pink-haired clown looked to the city up ahead in the distance- he was close to her house already. It didn't take him long to get there; Y/N lived on the outskirts of town in a small place away from most other homes.

It was a place he knew well, although he'd never been inside. He'd spent more than a few long nights watching the residence from the rooftop of a distant neighboring home as he denied his human emotions. He often watched her pack groceries, or try to figure out why her porch light wasn't working (which he certainly had nothing to do with), or watch TV on the couch all alone.

Hisoka quite liked those stupid romantic comedies that played late at night on the local channel. His only opportunity to watch them was through her window- and in his mind, he was sure that she left the subtitles on because she can somehow sense his presence. She usually fell asleep watching those, and missed the part where the hero gets the girl. He always watched that part with particular interest, but he can't figure out what makes the protagonists so special to each other. If there was a feeling that caused them to sacrifice so much for one another… he sure didn’t know what it could be.

But he's not a hero, so why would he know what that feels like?

As Hisoka reached her door and lifted his hand to the doorknob, not bothering to knock, a pang of what could only be anxiety ripped through him. It was well past 2 AM, and he knew she had things to do early in the morning. Their previous encounters had been abnormal, to say the least, complete with him teasing her and being a douchebag. He's been nothing but an annoyance to Y/N, so why would she help him?

As soon as he was about to pull his hand away, the door swung open, revealing a disheveled looking y/n in its place. Hisoka was bent over in pain, holding his chest, but as she startled him a little, he straightened up and put on his mask, acting complacent and confident. He wanted to say something smart and witty like he always does- that always helped to bat the pain away. But his lips wouldn't move- his tongue wouldn't function as he stared at her, unable to reach out in a way that normal humans seem to find so easy.

He felt frozen in that moment. He was normally so deliberately irreverent, but seeing the look on her face made his blood run cold.

Don’t let her see this weakness. It was a plea to himself.

But Hisoka had no choice. He was broken, and he needed her to fix him. He wasn’t used to depending on someone else to save his life, but now his life rested in the hands of someone who most likely despised him.

"...Hisoka." Y/N breathed, her eyes widening as she placed a hand over her open mouth. Only seconds passed before her delicate hands were pulling him inside the door without hesitation. She didn't bother to ask what happened, what kind of trouble he'd gotten into, or whether she would also be in danger. Instead, she sat him down on the couch, laying a pillow under his head for comfort, which he annoyingly refused to use until he absolutely couldn’t hold his head up any longer.

Hisoka was a bit dazed from the loss of blood, and the crimson river was flowing all over y/n's lightly colored couch. He was puzzled by the swiftness of her reaction, and he watched tepidly as she shuffled frantically through the drawers in the bathroom for something to heal him. Though he was on the brink of death, his default deflection of emotions still shone through, a reflex that he didn’t even mean to activate.

“I don’t need your help, you know.” He said with an impudent grin, watching as she began to work on his wounds. “It’s just a scratch. But I can see how badly you want to touch me…” Why was he like this? Here she was, giving up everything to help him (a criminal and the scum of the Earth),yet he can’t so much as even show her an iota of gratitude. He knows, but will never admit that it comes from his inner vulnerability; that fear of getting hurt by these things called emotions. She could just as easily let him bleed to death in front of her; he knows she has the capability to be stone cold. But she won’t… why?

Why?

Y/N could have easily let Hisoka’s false complacency hurt her. But she knows that what he cannot express in his words, his heart cannot truly hide. It was the way he was built, she told herself, and she pushed on through his antics because she wanted to see him safe again. Through the laceration in his tough exterior, she could not only see the flesh beneath, but a glimpse of the man he tried to hide using the monster that he assumed everyone saw.

But she was different.

The jester was confused by her silence. Normally, she would have retorted at his smugness, but right now, she didn’t even seem concerned with it as she began to fumble with cleaning his wounds. The alcohol seared his flesh just as the emotions boiling within him burned his heart. Why would she ever care to help him when he’s been nothing but rude and degrading to her? Could it be that she really can see through the detached front and overbearing persona? Impossible, he’s spent years building that reputation!

Suddenly, he became enthralled with the way Y/N’s eyes focused on threading the needle to sew up his gash. The way that those fingertips danced over his pale skin made him jolt unexpectedly at her touch, exhibiting a softness that Hisoka has never known before. In fact, he can’t even fathom someone wanting to touch him without the intention to hurt him in some way.

The details slowly became a blur in his depressed mental state- but he still analyzed every motion Y/N made.

Oddly, the promised sting of death had never scared Hisoka before; he did as he pleased, without care for his own life nor anyone else’s. But as his vision faded, and he watched her through the gaze of someone nearing death, he realized that he did not want to leave this world yet. He wanted to live- and maybe he wanted to discover and experience what he’d been missing in those movies he’d watched through her window.

With that, Hisoka’s heart began to beat faster.

Blood loss. That’s what it is… Hisoka thought; but he wasn’t stupid; only unwilling to admit that he was beginning to exhibit the same qualities he saw in the protagonists of those hopeless romantic flicks. He was unable to accept that the tightening in his chest was not just because of her stitches pulling his lacerated skin together.

“Are they dead? Did you kill them?” Her voice brought him out of the trance-like state he was in, and his golden eyes focused on her face. Her hands were covered in his blood (which in itself made him feel delightfully feverish), but his gash had been mended, the bleeding stopped for now. Once again, he didn’t say anything. It was unusual for the smug magician to keep his mouth shut.

“Because if you didn’t kill them, I’m going to.” A protective tone dripped into her voice, bewildering Hisoka again. That quality in her voice was both threatening and comforting, and the duality sent a chill up his spine. It inspired him to use his voice, though it had lost some of its signature modulation.

“You have that little faith in me…” A cough escaped his lips before he could smile as if nothing was bothering him at all. “Of course I killed them, my dear.” Somehow, calling her ‘dear’ no longer felt right; that was typically a placeholder, a default name to use for someone he had no connection with, and she seemed to be worthy of more than that now.

As Y/N suddenly dipped to her knees, Hisoka refrained from any lewd thoughts that he normally might have had in such a situation. That sensation in his chest was too distracting to allow this memory to be defiled with something he often indulged in fantasies of. She began to slide the high-heeled shoe off of his swollen foot to wrap it. She began to struggle with ripping the fabric she’d gathered to act as a cast for the bone.

Surely, she knows who I am. Why would she bother to help someone like me? What is she gaining? She knows that with the flip of a card, I could end her life. She’s not even protecting herself in any way. She’s leaving her guard down right in front of me.

Perhaps it was his dark desire to set fear into everyone he came across, or his distorted need to drive away anyone who might care for him, but his body suddenly acted on its own. By instinct, almost as if it were a test of her intention, a card spawned between his middle and index finger, which was right against her neck. With just a slight movement of his knuckles, he could spill her blood. His golden eyes analyzed the way she froze for a moment, and he believed that to be the end of this fragile trust between them. That was until she lifted the fabric she was holding, sliding it along the edge of the card, and cutting it to the perfect length.

“Thanks.” She spoke, beginning to wrap and set the ankle in place.

At that small motion, Hisoka’s discretionary eyes widened, and his lips fell open in surprise. Rather than interpreting his advance as an attack, she’d innocently taken it as an offer of his help. Was this a joke? Was she stupid enough to trust him, or was she bold enough to outsmart his games? Was Y/N this confident that he wouldn’t just kill her? This naive girl at his feet seemed to be the only person in this convoluted world who didn’t see him as a disgusting, heartless monster… and that warmed his icy heart.

“I’m surprised this hasn’t happened before. I know you’re graceful, but high heels are always a recipe for a broken ankle.” She offset the pain of wrapping those bones by talking to him all through the procedure, and it worked wonders. He scoffed, but by that time, Hisoka’s snide comments and emotion-killing thoughts had been expended. Somehow, she’d broken through the barrier that he’d spent so long building around himself.

Unable to ignore his whims anymore, Hisoka reached out to touch Y/N’s hair, the soft delicate strands pleasing his senses. It’s the only movement he can make now, his body weakened from the loss of blood. His gilded eyes were barely open, but they looked directly into hers with an unfamiliar realization. His hand travelled weakly down her face, caressing her cheek with the most delicate touch he could muster, and held her head in his large hand as she froze there. He wondered for a moment if she was afraid, or if something deeper that he cannot see calms her.

A small, genuine smile is all he could muster for her before his hand dropped to the side of the couch, the same couch he watched her curl up on most nights. For once, it’s not a smirk, and it’s not a smug smile- but something she has never seen before- a true smile with good intention behind it. His eyes closed, with uncertainty that they would open in the morning.

After she’d finished her work, she stood up, and looked down at him. The only remaining light in the room was the silent flicker of the television set in the background, which illuminated both of their faces.

“I need you to be alright, Hisoka,” She cooed, unable to know if he could still hear her. He didn’t know if she even realized how much he wanted to kill her right now, because the way her kindness was attacking his heart while his chest was already sliced open was something he should not excuse.

As Y/N’s final healing gesture, she bent over his body gracefully. He was taken off guard when he felt the feathery soft sensation of her lips on his forehead, the kiss of an angel on his clammy skin. As she went to pull away, however, she was startled by the lunge of Hisoka’s hand initiating a death grip on her wrist. He used the last bit of his strength to pull her lips into his, causing her to lose balance and be forced to brace on either side of the couch cushion below him. His lips were cold, but Y/N graciously returned the sensation, and boldly moved to embrace both sides of his face with her mending hands. Before she pulled away, and he passed out, she felt that same smile against her lips.

And in that moment, before he fades away, Hisoka realizes what he’s been missing.

Y/N.

-----------------

Hmm... part two? I KNOW, it’s super freakin’ sappy. I could have taken a lighthearted approach to this (and maybe I will later), but I wanted to kind of challenge myself to write a more depth-driven version of Hisoka. Maybe I bit off a little more than I can chew :0.

Anyway, let me know what you think, and once again thanks to anon for the request! Hope you all enjoyed!

Mac

[redvsbluemicrofic]

Captured

It’s a long bugger, at least, it’s long for me.  If you have issues reading it here (apologies to all on mobile - I know there’s a 50-50 chance of it being a disaster to read) you can find it here:  http://archiveofourown.org/works/9659546#main

York tried not to wince as the hood was ripped off his head, but nothing could stop him from looking for Carolina.  She was close, an arm’s reach away, if only his arms hadn’t been restrained behind him.  Her hair was matted with drying blood, her face pale, but her gaze was intense and alert.  Her eyes flicked over him, over the room, taking in everything, then lowered to the dirty warehouse floor.  

He probably wasn’t looking too good himself.  His face was swollen and throbbing from… well, he wasn't sure anymore.  A lot had happened, very fast and with a lot of pain.  He careful flexed against his restraints, counting each aching joint, which was pretty much all of them.  His bonds cut into his skin - it felt rough like rope - who the hell even used rope anymore? In the long term, rope was definitely a captor’s most stupid choice -  a couple unguarded minutes and any sharp-ish piece of metal or masonry could free you quickly, if you knew what you were doing. What was more frustrating right now was his power armour could easily tear it apart - but in doing so would break most of the bones in his arms and hands while shredding his skin and muscle to ribbons.

There was a lot of yelling coming up behind him.  York tried to look, but the soldiers in grey armour flanking him blocked his view.  The butt of a rifle struck his armour between the shoulders and he stumbled forward.  York dropped to his knees, leaning backwards to keep from pitching face first onto concrete. He heard the heavy sound of Carolina’s armour hitting the ground next to him, but managed not to look over to check on her again.  The argument behind them abruptly fell silent.  A young man with old eyes edged into York’s view, jaw clenched grimly as he took them in.  He was wearing armour, but didn’t have the look of a soldier.  His face was painfully thin, and he moved as a man on the brink of exhaustion.

“These idiots should never have brought you here. You should have died where they found you, with the twenty men you killed.  But you’re here now, and I cannot pass up an opportunity for information.”  He folded his arms, looking from York to Carolina and back.  York met his glare through a haze of pain, but on the periphery of his vision, he could just see Carolina kneeling next to him, her head still down.  “Clearly you are professionals. Elites. I won’t waste our time pretending that there is a chance you will answer anything willingly.”  Again, he looked back and forth between the two Freelancers, weighing them.  He made a choice.  

The young man gave a small twitch of his head, and on York’s left, a grey soldier raised his gun, holding it inches from York’s skull.  Heart pounding, York turned to look at Carolina, chest flooding with emotion.  But instead of fear, he felt relief that he wasn’t going to have to see her die, and a twist of guilt, that she would have to witness his own death.  The dim light that turned all else in the warehouse to grey still managed to illuminate her armour and her hair, the only two spots of colour left in York’s world.  Time slowed to a crawl as every detail seared into his mind with agonizing clarity.  The dried blood, brown against her hair’s vivid red, the curve of her neck as she kept her eyes focused on the floor, every new scuff, scratch and burn on her armour.  He saw her shoulders and chest rise and fall almost imperceptibly with every breath, he thought he could actually hear the sound of her breathing.  Probably not, but every sound in the warehouse was amplified to his ears in this moment - the footsteps of soldiers across the room, the fidgeting of men in armour behind him, the sound of metal on metal, of the building settling, the sound of small pebbles and grit kicked or crunched across the floor.

“You have only one chance.”  York gave a start at the young man’s soft words - he’d almost forgotten he was there.  The man stepped closer to Carolina, addressing her alone.  “You give me the information I ask for, or he dies.”  York couldn’t hide a smile - the man had picked the Freelancer he thought would break under that threat, that choice.  He’d chosen the wrong soldier.  Carolina wouldn’t break, not for him, not for anyone.  And though he knew it meant his certain death, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sort of pride.  

York blinked as that sank in.  The man actually thought Carolina would be weaker - York put aside his automatic view of the woman he knew and saw her with fresh eyes.  The bend of her neck, her downcast eyes - to a stranger, to anyone who didn’t know her, she looked defeated, beaten.  The man had missed the signs that York saw and knew - the little tells that showed her focus, intent, determination.  Carolina would not let someone see her as weak without it being deliberate.  

“I want to know who you are, who you work for.  I want to know why you’re here, how you found this location.”  York chanced a quick glance to each side.  Aside from the man holding a gun to his head, every other soldier near them was watching Carolina.  Metal nudged against York’s head, warning him to be still.  “Look at him.”  A second grey soldier stepped forward, seizing Carolina by the hair, forcing her head to the side until her eyes met York’s.  “We will get the information out of you one way or another. We’re getting good at that kind of thing.”  York would remember later how bitter he sounded, but right now, all he could think of was that he was going to die looking into Carolina’s eyes.  “He doesn’t have to die. There is no need to waste another life.”  Carolina stared at York, face expressionless.  “No?”  In the rolling silence that followed, York heard it again, that tiny sound of metal on metal, but this time he could hear it on the roof.

Carolina smiled.  

York looked up and the world exploded.  

There was a sound of breaking glass from above, followed by a sharp crack and the soldier holding Carolina went down.  York threw himself forward as a second sniper’s bullet blew out the back of his captor’s head, causing him to fire as his body spasmed with his death.  The shot clipped off the back of York’s armour as he landed flat on his chest and as he hit, there was an explosion behind him.  York raised his head in time to see Carolina already on her feet.  Their interrogator pulled a pistol but it was already too late.  One kick knocked it away and a second caught him in the throat, his eyes going wide as he fought for a breath that would never come.  

York levered himself onto his knees, got to his feet with some difficulty.  A whirlwind of purple and green ripped past him, South taking down two or three soldiers at a time with each burst from her SMGs.  Carolina’s kick had overbalanced her and York saw her come out of a controlled roll, momentum carrying her back upright.  Wash was standing only a short distance away, feet planted as though one with the concrete, turning side to side as he took down targets one by one with his rifle.  Outside there was the sound of serious destruction - probably Maine, but it could be Florida - sometimes it was very difficult to guess between the two, which was a little frightening if he’s honest.

A shared glance with Carolina ended with them both running for cover.  It was one thing to fight with your hands tied behind your back when your life is on the line, it’s another thing to do it when you have half a dozen elite soldiers fighting on your behalf - then you’re only a distraction and a liability.

They ducked behind a metal shipping crate, and crouched there, listening to the sound of the firefight.  “So…”  York began, working his shoulders and wrists, trying to find some relief where his restraints were digging too long into his skin.  “That was close.”

“As soon as they took the bag off my head, I saw Wyoming perched up high, looking through one of the windows.  I wanted to give them a little extra time to set up - I figured if there was a gun trained on you instead of me, they’d be less likely to rush in prematurely.  We got really lucky that things played out the way that I hoped.”  Gunfire ended abruptly, leaving only booming echoes that lingered like smoke.  Carolina leaned carefully around the corner.  

The other Freelances were gathering in the warehouse now, Wash and Maine breaking off from the others, peering behind boxes and through doors.  Carolina stood to join them just as York realized something.  “What do you mean if the gun was trained on me…??”  Carolina smiled back at him over her shoulder.

He stood and followed her out, but stopped short when he saw the interrogator still on his knees.  There were long scratches down his throat from his panicked attempts to find a way to breathe, but the marks were growing pale as his skin went blue.  South saw him and snorted with disgust, pushing him over with her foot, before turning to search through a crate.  There was one last crack of a rifle that delivered the man a more merciful death, and a crunch of glass as North dropped through a skylight, landing easily on his feet.  North’s visor followed his sister before he shook his head and hurried over to join them.

“You guys okay?” North pulled off his helmet and his glance passed over their faces, lingering at each spot of blood.  He turned Carolina gently by one shoulder, saw the rope binding her wrists.  “Wash! “

“Christ, I'm right here,”  Wash appeared at North’s shoulder.  “Don't yell.”  He caught sight of the rope, and without another word pulled out a knife and set to work.

“We’re fine.”  Even as the words left her mouth though, Carolina turned to look at York, as though she wasn't totally sure.

“I'm good- handsome as ever.”  York tried to grin, but the swelling in his face made it difficult.

“Yeah, pretty much.”  North’s voice was light, but his eyes were tight with concern as he examined the damage. “What happened?  You try some of your jokes on them?  Use one too many puns?”

“How in the world did you get captured so quickly anyway?”  Wash grunted, and the rope fell away.  Carolina rubbed at her wrists as Wash began work on York’s bonds.

“We dropped through cloud cover directly in front of an unscheduled convoy.”

“I got hit by a car!” York added cheerfully.

“We took out about half of the personnel unwise enough to leave their vehicles - “

“-but once we were forced into CQC, some asshole decided he didn’t care how many of his buddies he took out with us and tossed in a grenade.”  The rope fell away and York sighed in relief.  Wash sheathed his knife and disappeared through a side door.

“We didn’t take the full brunt of it, but it was bad enough.”  Carolina kept a close eye as York found a bare bit of wall to put his back against.  He tried to rub some of the pain away, but where the rope cut the deepest his skin was weeping clear fluid and stung like blazes.

“Well, on the bright side,” said North, taking in their surroundings, “they took you right to our objective site.  Very considerate.”  There was a crash that echoed through the warehouse and the sound of South and Wash swearing.  North sighed and followed the noise through the door.

“You sure you’re okay?”  Carolina didn’t look convinced.  

“Yeah.  But I think,” York stretched his neck and grimaced, “I want to sit down. Just for a little while.”

“Stay here and I’ll come back for you before we leave.  Maybe.”  She hovered long enough to catch his smile, then turned to follow North.  York let his legs fold up, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor.  

The team worked quickly, searching the depot, gathering all portable electronic devices that might contain usable data.  South tore hard drives out of anything that looked like it had one.  Florida appeared and broke open crates, leaving the contents for Carolina and North to inspect.  Someone had already called for extraction, and Wyoming waited on the roof, as a signal and lookout.

The sweep was completed in less than five minutes, with 479er touching down shortly after.  When Carolina returned to get him, York was carefully leaning his face to the wall, letting it absorb some of the heat from the swelling.  He noticed she was wearing her helmet again and lit up.  “You found them?  Finally I can get the healing unit going.”

Carolina handed him a bag.  It made an unfortunate crunching noise.  “Sorry York, yours was...pretty thoroughly destroyed.”

“You’re kidding.”  York opened the bag.  The vizor was blown out, only a jagged amber edge left. It was scorched black, with gold only showing through in scratches. There were holes through the helmet, edges of metal puckering outwards.  “What the hell did they do to it?”

“No idea, but if I had to make a guess, I’d say a grenade.  I think you got blown up in effigy.”

“Rude.”  

“C’mon.”  Carolina held out a hand.  “We’re ready to go.”   

It hurt more to stand up than it had to sit down and every joint and muscle was adding its own little trill to a symphony of pain.  Despite his protests, Carolina pulled his arm over her shoulder and ordered him to lean against her.  She kept her other arm tight around his waist to support him and York was dismayed to find how much he needed it.  

Carolina led him through the warehouse and out a back door to where the Pelican was waiting. They made their way up the ramp, and York finally waved her off so he could take a seat.  The hold was nearly a quarter full of bags of possible intel and evidence, and as the Freelancers piled in, another one or two were added to the haul.  Florida and South were the last to arrive, and York could smell the accelerant, hear the rush of the fire they had started to cover their tracks and destroy the weapons stockpile they’d uncovered.  The hatch closed and the Pelican took off.  

Once they’d passed out of the planet’s atmosphere and into smoother flight, Carolina and Wash joined him.  Carolina removed her helmet and sat on the floor while Wash carefully parted her hair, searching for the wounds responsible for the dried blood that was now flaking off onto her armour.  When he found one, he carefully used a swab to disinfect it, and moved on.  Carolina sat with her eyes closed, occasionally hissing through her teeth at a particularly deep cut, but for the most part appeared to almost enjoy it.  York watched them, holding as still as possible, grateful for the calm ride in space.

When they were finished, Wash turned to York, grimacing as he examined his face.  He did a quick full body exam, checking for broken bones and other injuries, and wrote down whenever he found a spot that made York wince, or swear.  He asked a few questions, wrote down the answers.  By the time he was done, he had a full page of notes.  Wash sighed and rubbed at his eyes.  “I’m going to call ahead and let the med team know what’s coming up.”

“Sure, whatever.  But don’t forget to get me some painkillers before you go.”

“Um.”  Wash’s shoulders hunched, and York knew bad news was coming.  “No pain meds, I’m afraid.  Concussion protocol.  They could put you at increased risk of bleeding.”

York stared. “But it’s a six hour ride back to the Mother of Invention! And I don't have a concussion!”  Wash and Carolina shared a glance.

“York,” Wash said carefully, “Look at your head. Look at your face. That many blows to the head, we're sticking to the protocol.”

Carolina came to Wash’s rescue.  “Go make the call.  I got this.”  Wash took off and Carolina patted the floor in front of York’s seat.  “C’mon.”

York gingerly lowered himself to the floor as Carolina stood and disappeared for a moment, returning with emergency blankets.  She sat on the floor again and wadded up the blankets, using them as padding next to her leg and over her lap.  “C’mon,” she repeated, and York didn't resist as she eased him down.  He laid on his back, trying to find a position that hurt the least, and felt her run a finger gently down the swollen side of his face.  Carolina made a tiny sound, nearly a moan, as though she was the one who was hurt instead of him.

“That bad?”

“Your head looks like half a grape.”

“But I’m still handsome?”

“Yeah.  For a grape.”

That got a smile out of him, which was bad, because smiling hurt.  Carolina wasn’t smiling though.  “After the grenade, I didn’t even have a chance to get up before they were on top of me.  I could see you though.  You killed another five before they took you down.  And once they did, three of them stood over you, beating you with their rifles, again and again..”

“My armour took most of it.” York cut in quickly, but Carolina shook her head, her finger stroking gently over his cheek again, the coolness of her hand pleasant against the heat.

“Not once they got your helmet off.”  She froze for a moment, her finger resting against his skin.  “Forget the warehouse, I thought you were going to die right there.”

“But I didn’t.” York tried to smile again and gave up - it hurt too much.  Carolina’s hand moved to his forehead, brushing along the edge of his hair.  York relaxed under her touch and closed his eyes.

“Wake up.”  Her voice was gentle, but the tiny smack on his uninjured cheek not so much.

He opened an eye indignantly.  “What was that for?”

Carolina’s eyes twinkled.  “Concussion protocol.”

“Wash!”

Wash’s distracted voice came from the cockpit.  “Hmm?”

“Is she supposed to be hitting me?”

Wash’s head appeared in the doorway.  “You falling asleep?”

“....maybe.”

Wash looked at Carolina and she smiled.  “Just practicing.”  Wash turned back to York with a grin.

“Actually, you can sleep.  We just need to wake up in a few hours, just to make sure you aren’t getting worse, showing signs of brain damage.  Well, more than your usual.”  He shared one more smile with Carolina and disappeared back into the cockpit.  

York fidgeted, trying to snuggle back into the blanket.  Carolina trailed her fingers over his forehead again, and he looked up at her.  “If you’re going to keep slapping me, I can think of better places for you to do that.”  That earned him a laugh.

“No more slaps for now.  At least, not for two hours.”  

York closed his eyes and fell asleep under her touch.