#i need to be asleep tho lol

[ricky-mortis]

It’s the perfect place for a picnic!

[swordmaid]

dream gworllllllll 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

[whumble-beeee]

You Can Check Out Any Time You Like, But You Can Never Leave

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 14

Content: kidnapping/captivity, noncon drugging, recreational drug use, disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, past captivity references

* * * * * * * *

Excerpt from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters

[It’s a tale as old as time. You see it so very often in movies, books, YA love stories; The phenomenon known as Stockholm Syndrome, where a captive starts to develop positive feelings for their captor. However, Stockholm Syndrome is not a thing to be feared! Humans are very social creatures, after all, and control over another’s emotions is one of the most powerful thing’s a person can possess, super or not!

This is why you, villain, need to beware it’s the lesser-known counterpart: Lima Syndrome, where the captor becomes sympathetic or develops feelings for their captive. These disorders often develop side-by-side, so be wary and be vigilant! Developing Lima Syndrome may lead you to make rash decisions about your captured hero, cloud your judgment, allow your hero to take advantage of you, or even allow them to escape! Do not let your captured hero control you like you control them. You are jailor and prisoner. Nothing more.]

* * * * * * * *

Declan gawked at the Villain Brand tattoo staining Stan's back. The one he could finally see unimpeded now that he'd literally pinned the guy down and stripped him. The one Stan had fought so hard to hide.

“Holy shit…”

The ID number. He knew that number from so long ago. And Level 4 super. Manipulator power type. Social Designation Black.

Supervillain: Incarcerated for power-related crimes.

… and blue.

Test subject.

He fucking knew it.

He knew it.

It was that girl. That one from the raid that happened, what… ten years ago now? Longer? The one he’d found hiding with the toddler. One he saved, one he couldn’t. Fuck, man, he’d risked everything for that toddler. A little sister. A moment of weakness, or what some would call a moment of strength.

Stan had a little sister. Chloe. That was her name. That was the toddler’s name too.

She was still safe. She was still alive.

Thank fuck. 

Declan hadn't even realized at first because, well, the guy was a dude now. And an adult. There were no records on him, period, so he couldn’t go back to look before now, and his superiors certainly never deigned to tell him anything. Thanks Lana, fuck you Vaughn.

Though he’d been suspicious for a while. It all just clicked into place with that last piece of the puzzle: why Stan had no records, why he didn’t legally exist, the way he fought back no matter how impossible the odds were, that nagging feeling that he knew this kid from somewhere, the similarities between his and the girl’s powers, not to mention those weird looks he kept catching out of the corner of his eye, the way Stan has said something about protecting ‘her’ in his fit earlier, the concealment of his transness, the recognition in Stan’s eyes since the start–...

Oh.

Declan smiled.

Oh, Stan already knew. 

He knew, and he kept it to himself.

On purpose.

That conniving little fucker.

 “What? What holy shit?” Stan squirmed weakly under Declan, demanding his attention back as always, stuttering like he did always did whenever he got scared or angry. He even tried briefly to twist around to look at the man seated on top of him, only before immediately giving up and laying his head back down on the floor.

Declan rolled his eyes and held back a chuckle at the poor little guy as he tossed out some half-assed excuse he didn't even bother remembering, then grabbed his phone to take a picture of the brand. He’d definitely have to bring the uh… dishonesty up. But later. Stan was much too high for any of that right now. 

Though it did feel a little bit gross to take a picture of Stan like this while he was drugged, especially with how much he’d fought Declan about the brand earlier and especially after Declan had forcefully stripped the guy. But Declan needed proof.

None of it even mattered in the long run, anyway. Declan still had a job to do.

“Yeah… maybe you should…” Stan retorted loosely into the floor. “Not… Aheh, uh, throw me… to–... walls anymore…” 

Declan nearly burst out laughing.

Yeah. Maybe.

Maybe Stan should consider that next time he's being a little shit.

He pulled the white shirt back over Stan's head with some large amount of difficulty, and probably much more swearing than necessary since Stan may as well have been a floppy fish weakly squirming against the floor at this point. Then picked him up with one arm under the stomach, tugged the oversized white shirt down over his skinny little twink body, and then, with a sigh, let him drop unceremoniously back onto the floor and went to retrieve a plastic water bottle from his little plastic grocery bag, patting himself on the back for a job well done. He’d successfully de-bindered Stan without seeing the kid’s stupid man tits. Hooray! All that work to specifically pin him down on his stomach so they'd be hidden from Declan’s gaze, all because of Stan’s incessant fighting about it before. The things I do for my captures, he thought.

He was not looking forward to the indefinite amount of time he’d have to keep doing this.

“We don’t know how long, love,” Lana had said over the phone, “That fiancé of his doesn’t believe he’s dead, and you better believe he'll raise hell about it, the poor man. There’s probably going to be some extra ‘convincing’, paperwork, you know how it is. He can’t be here. Just hold onto the little guy until we get everything cleared up.”

So that was that. No argument. Just indefinite babysitting of a very unwilling baby.

Declan walked back over to hold the bottle out to Stan before he even fully agonized himself back up off his stomach, and yet somehow, miraculously, he still managed to do that skitter backward that he always did when Declan got even remotely close to him

He crouched down and shoved the bottle into Stan’s hands. “Drink,” he ordered. “Not too fast though.”

Stan looked in bewilderment at the bottle. Almost like he couldn't believe something so sacred could just be thrust within his grasp like that. Then his brow furrowed. He popped open the cap and sniffed it, then glared angrily at both the container of liquid and the person who’d given it to him. “Don’ want your stupid–”

“It’s not drugged. You haven’t drank water in almost three days, you’re gonna die. Drink it, NOT–!”

Half the water already disappeared, drained down Stan’s throat. Declan scrambled and snatched the water out of his grasp. “Not too fast! Christ, you’re gonna throw up!”

“But– But…” He smacked his lips, shook himself off like a dog from the water that spilled on him from Declan’s snatch, then gaped for a moment around the room as he once again seemed to remember the concrete and the chains that held him prisoner. “Fine. Who cares? Protein bar’sss-ssstupid anyway.”

Eh. Fair enough. To be honest, after the like, eight protein bars Declan’d had over the past few days, he was also pretty sick of them. He’d get them both some actual food later. 

With that task half-done, he stashed the half-empty bottle in his back pocket. “You can have the rest in a bit,” he told the wet cat of a human he was still inexplicably in charge of. Stan’s shoulders drooped. He just nodded, eyes affixed to one specific spot on the empty opposing wall.

Declan looked around at the mess of torture implements strewn about the room. Anything else he needed to do before they left?

Oh… 

Yeah, right.

“You need to go to the bathroom, runt?”

Stan's eyes shot up to his captor, then settled there for just a moment. Then drifted away into the middle distance for a longer moment. Narrowed his eyes slightly. Declan just about took that as a signal that he needed to save Stan from an apparant stroke when his head shook a slow and conspiratorial ‘no’. 

Declan rolled his eyes, already producing a hairpin out of his hair to click open Stan's ankle fetter, then pulled him to unsteady feet and guided him out the door to the dinky little bathroom at the end of the hallway. Stan didn't even struggle as Declan held him up, too busy ogling at the apparent novelty of being out in the hallway without running for his life.

“Five minutes,” he told Stan, depositing the vacant-stared man in the bathroom. Then he shut the door, started the count somewhere in the back of his mind, and went back to the torture room to clean up so they could finally head home.

God, he felt like shit.

Almost as bad as the kid looked, actually, which was saying something because little Stanny looked pretty fucked.

He was just tired. They both were, actually, that's why Stan had to be drugged. Sure, Declan enjoyed putting him in his place, but after the fifth time, after nearly three days of this, after almost two nights of no sleep, another prospective sleepless night of driving, double the usual amount of G to compensate for that, probably not enough food or water himself, and Stan still testing his patience at every turn… yeah, Stan needed to stop. For both their sakes. Mostly his own, if he valued still having at least one working knee.

Declan meandered over to Stan’s shredded former grey button-down and swooped it up off the ground, inspecting the damage Vaughn caused with those shiny steel surgical scissors of his. The shirt couldn’t even be recognised as a shirt anymore. Just a mess of crumpled fabric lying miserably on the floor, kinda like Stan had done for most of time he’d been here.

Vaughn was gonna rip that poor kid apart.

It wouldn’t be neat and clean like the persona that creep worked so hard to maintain, either. He usually waited until at least the drop-off before shining his true colors as a giant fucking creep in the safety of his creep-ass torture lab. Never directly in front of Declan, and certainly not outside of his jurisdiction like this. Sure, Declan was a piece of shit, but that man’s shittiness truly defied all modern interpretations of physics.

Although…

Declan pulled out his phone to stare at the picture of the hero brand again. Proof of his suspicions. Proof of identity. Proof of both their past misfortunes. Proof that also happened to contain evidence of the brand new abuse Declan had caused over any old scars that had long since faded. With Stan’s now bare back sporting a very mottled score of blacks and dark, painful blues and tender purples and even some fading greens and yellows and reds of all kinds: dark, smeared, and caked burgundy blood, or the bright, raised welts. Definitely a couple of broken ribs in there too. Not to mention all the distress peeking out from under that damn collar, the probably several concussions, the emotional turmoil, the mental distress that danced across his face every time Declan so much as stepped in his direction.

All of that was his doing, huh? Not Vaughn’s, save the missing shirt and the single clean slash running along his jawline. 

Declan.

He twirled his gun around his middle finger, relishing the way it fell so cleanly back into his grasp, the thump of the wooden grip against his hand and the shining, perfectly balanced metal.

Oh well.

Those were just their roles;

Hero and villain. 

Predator and prey.

Bounty hunter and captive.

Stan knew the rules of the game. He'd been given a choice to comply every time. Every time. And every time, he chose to fight. 

So Declan didn’t feel all that bad about it.

Four minutes gone by.

He needed to get back.

He did one last check over of the room, put the chain away, placed the chair back, got all the rope and weapons and even Stan’s crapped-up shirt, and put it all in his plastic bag. Then he went ahead and put on his hat and bandana again, because he’d be damned if he broke any more of the rules that kept him alive in this business for ten years and counting. Then headed back down the hall to the bathroom.

And to a not-at-all-surprising Stan who was agonizingly slowly and painfully and single-mindedly mading his way down the hall. Step by wall-assisted, unstable, limping step.

Did he even go to the bathroom?

Declan wasn’t going to check that. Stan could suffer if he didn’t.

“Stan! Really, runt?” he called out, tromping over to the captive. Stan jolted violently and loosely spun around with a loud squeak, except his feet forgot to move along with the rest of him and sent him crashing and clawing into the wall for any semblance of support. A look of pure unadulterated fear cascaded down his features. No defiance. No anger. Just wide-eyed, breath-taking, heart-pounding, fist-clenching fear.

Declan didn't even say anything. Stan stumbled backward as Declan got closer and landed wrong on his bad leg, enough to cause a cry of pain that almost unbelievably slowly turned into a battle with gravity that ended with Stan crumpled on the floor. Stan groaned and yelled in frustration. Then slapped his hands over his mouth, eyes wide, shaking. For a moment, Declan could only see the lurching of his body as he curled in on himself, then the shaking turned more into heaving, shallow, impossibly quick breaths, and as Declan got closer, it became very clear that it wasn’t just crying or whatever, but laughing, quietly cackling while clutching at his bad knee, whispering “ow, ow” to himself in between giggling heaves.

Declan took a deep breath. He didn’t have the heart to punish him about the escape attempt, if you could even call it that. Or the energy. Pick one.

Stan’s gaze shot up to him, straining against the stupid collar that rendered the admittedly very powerful super helpless. Tears shone in his red and dilated eyes, sparkling in the fluorescent light, a smile stretched and cracking across his face like a long-rotted jack-o-lantern still left out three weeks after Halloween.

Then dropped completely.

“Please don't hurt me,” he whispered, shuddering.

No.

No, he begged.

Like something out of a horror movie.

Some weird sense of subdued panic and revulsion wove through Declan’s chest, a feeling he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before. Then just a sense of overwhelming weariness at the pitiful sight.

They both needed a break, didn't they?

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he conceded softly, pulling the half-empty water bottle back out of his pocket and placing it into Stan’s shaking hands. “Not now, anyway. Drink the rest of this, yeah?”

Stan simply clutched it, never once moving his unfocused and bloodshot gaze from his jailor. Declan sighed, grabbed the bottle and carefully twisted the cap off, and even more carefully lifted Stan’s death grip up to his lips so he could drink. The whole ordeal reminded him of taking care of a drunk friend, way back when. Except they weren’t friends. 

After a tentative pause and an immensely encouraging and monotone “it’s not poisoned, don’t drink too fast,” from Declan, he swallowed the first tentative sip. 

His entire body untensed, practically melting into the wall. He drank until the entire bottle disappeared in his shaking hands, head lolling all the way back to let gravity gift him those last few drops as it crushed to practically nothing

“Ya done?” Declan asked languidly. 

Stan nodded.

“Good. I’m gonna tie your hands behind your back now, and then we’re goin’ out to my car, and we're leaving.” He explained slowly. “If you can behave yourself, you can sit in the passenger seat. Otherwise, you’re goin’ in the trunk. Agreed?”

“B-but-but–”

“Agreed, chiquito?”

Stan looked around the room as if desperately searching for the answer. Then nodded.

“Great. Also, that's what she said,” he chuckled

Oh, he was definitely delirious.

Stan didn’t even fight him this time as he yanked the man up and turned him around to cuff him. He barely even stood, practically limp, swaying on his feet, with the only thing keeping him standing being his single locked knee and Declan’s occasional shoves that kept him from leaning too far in any one direction.

Declan didn’t like drugged Stan. Even if it was funnier, easier. He'd rather Stan fight him, because that'd at least show he's able.

Though the real Stan would be back in another 12 hours or so, and by then he’d probably be missing drugged Stan just as much.

He pressed the captive into his side for support without even checking if he could walk on his own, because he obviously couldn’t, then made a mental note to get Stan a temporary cane later. He felt so small, so… nonconcrete, pressed into Declan’s side, forced to rely him to do something as simple as walking. 

So squishy. Fragile. Breakable. He almost couldn’t believe that the person giggling and drooling into his precious leather jacket was the very same as the one he’d spent night and day staking out to find the perfect way to capture, making sure he accounted for every detail, everything that could possibly go wrong, because in every scenario if things didn’t go exactly according to plan, Stan would absolutely crush Declan into a fine paste before he let him get anywhere near him.

He couldn’t dwell on those differences now. He couldn’t mourn the fates of all the people he captured. It broke the rules, the rules that kept Declan alive, and it wouldn’t be fair to all the supers that came before Stan; Those who never had anyone to mourn them, and those forced to continue living in a special type of hell even as their loved ones mourned their deaths, accepted it, and moved on. Even as their own selves died, and yet their bodies kept on living anyway.

He couldnt dwell on it unless he wanted to become one of them himself. Metaphorically. Literally. Who even cared anymore? He was too tired for this. Not thinking sounded like a great idea right about now.

Declan shoved Stan into the passenger seat of his truck, practically threw him, actually, then rummaged through the glovebox until he found the little baggie filled with those special little white pills and popped one in his mouth

Wonderful. Great.

He buckled Stan’s seatbelt for him after a brief confusion when Declan told him to, but he realized he couldn’t and got very upset and scared and started shaking again before Declan just went ahead and did it for him.

Declan slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition, relishing the rumbling sound of the motor reverberating through his chest as it roared to life. His head already felt clearer. The world a little brighter, despite the bright crisp orange of the setting sun dyeing the sky an ever-darkening, gorgeous mixture of hot pinks and burnt oranges and burning reds, spanning unimpeded except by whisping grey clouds breaking the harmony of the dusk-washed light. Then the stars, near invisible speckles, sparse at first, teasing even, until they slowly and inevitably beckoned forth the darker violets and deep indigos and what looked to be the purest of blacks broken up by the sprinkling of the purest white stars, soon to be a cavalcade too numerous to ever count.

So big, all-encompassing. 

Light years away, unencumbered by the existence of humanity.

Even Stan couldn’t help but stare in the silence.

Deeby let out a deep breath.

“Alright, bud. Let’s head home.”

* * * * * * * *

Next

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy | @pirefyrelight | @cakeinthevoid | @painsandconfusion | @books-are-everything

@paperprinxe | @tippytappytyping | @chaotic-orphan | @notactuallyluska | @lumpofsand

@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees | @whumpwhittler | @thelazywitchphotographer

(A special thank you and welcome to all the new people who joined the taglist! Y'all are genuinely so wonderful :D If you'd like to be added or subtracted from the taglist, don't be afraid to ask!)

[joelletwo]

giving up on going to bed proper tonight i am Not getting everything i need to do done in forty minutes [adjusted for time it took to write this post. 30 minutes]

[toastsnaffler]

taking an extra half an amfexa before I leave work bc [redacted] (popular artist) is playing my city tn and I'll need it to cope with how awful the traffics gonna be when I'm on the bus 💀

[bunnihearted]

🏥🦷

[aleki-lives-here]

[spacedlexi]

rereading my violentine oneshot and realizing i actually wrote more than i remembered

also i Will be breaking the 10,000 words mark

[cargopantsprentiss]

Trying to write when your brain feels like a partially dissolved bath bomb because you’re taking so many drugs to not be in pain that you’re asleep half the day is not good in case you wondered

[keenawatchesagt]

that was a golden buzzer? hello?

[daz4i]

i took a shower i ate i'm trying to distract myself. so why am i still so sad that i can't think

[catboydan]

fiance got me a kindle for my birthday <3

[wikiangela]

me: I'll write a short and sweet fic of Buck Eddie and Chris decorating a Christmas tree

also me: spends the first 700 words (so far) talking about Shannon <3

[nyxronomicon]

Had the absolute worst fantasy about Toji last night (he was guilting me for scrolling through my blorbos like tinder when we both knew he'd be the one I fantasize about)

[bmpmp3]

more fashion dreamer pics! more Dave plus I made my OC Meena (that one of many OCs i made off a dream LOL) as a second muse! i dont have a very close hair colour for her vaguely pinky creamsicle colour i usually paint her with rn so she just has fully pink hair for the time being jhkfldskjrf also raven showed up at my showroom! and some isaac fits because they say shit like %#^[#!{%#% so i always wanna talk to them LOL

can u tell "flirty" was my favourite style in style savvy DS vhjbelkfrfe

[set-phasers-to-whump]

caretaking

prompt: concussion

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

hi hello here's me giving illya another concussion :) this one was written for an anon, hope you like it!!!! note: it's set pretty early into their partnership (i simply love exploring that dynamic lol)

This is not the first time that Illya has been pistol-whipped. It is not the second or the third, either. The crack of metal against his forehead, the sharp, hot pain, the immediate rush of blood down his face, none of it is new. 

He’s used to this sort of thing - he lets his opponent get a hit in, lets them think he’s content to kneel and not fight back, and then strikes out. 

It is no different this time. He stays on his knees, biding his time while his angry captor rants at him, feeling the hot blood steadily drip down his skin. And then the right moment arises, and he lunges at the other man, taking him down silently and with practiced ease. The man is dead before his head even touches the ground. 

Illya stands up, the gun with his own blood darkening its metal in his hand. He wipes blood out of his eyes, takes a steadying breath to ward off the dizziness that usually accompanies a pistol-whipping, and sets off to find his partners. He hopes that they have had easier jobs of achieving their parts of the mission than he’s had. 

Fortunately, they have. Both of them are waiting for him at their agreed meeting spot a few streets away, none the worse for wear. 

“Everything is okay?” Illya asks, before either of the others can get a word in about the blood on his face. 

“I’ve got the disk,” says Gaby, holding up a green plastic container and shaking it. 

“I’ve got the codes,” says Solo, patting his jacket pocket. “And you’ve got blood all over your face.”

“I know. It’s fine. I have the key.”

“You know, a bloody face generally isn’t fine, in my experience.”

“In mine it is.”

By an unspoken mutual agreement, they begin walking, sticking to back alleys and unpopulated streets. “What happened?” Gaby asks, as they round a corner and step beneath an especially bright streetlight. Illya squints, the brightness making his head throb unpleasantly. 

“Nothing important.”

“Are you injured?” Solo asks. 

Gaby hits him on the arm. “What else does blood mean?”

“It’s fine.” Illya says, and hopes he doesn’t sound angry. He tries not to be angry when they ask after him like this. He’s getting better, he thinks, but their behavior is still foreign to him. He still doesn’t quite understand it or know what he is supposed to do with it. 

Both of his partners sigh in unison. Illya has learned that this is never a good sign in regards to being left alone. 

“You’re bleeding, Illya. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

His head throbs again. He can feel his thoughts starting to go fuzzy and forces himself to concentrate. He’s had enough concussions to know the signs, but this is nothing he can’t handle. He’ll just have a headache for a few days. It isn’t important. 

“Really, I am fine.”

“At least tell us what happened?” Solo asks, as they come out into the service yard behind their hotel. 

Illya, hoping to get his insistent partners to stop their questioning, relents. “I got hit.” He shifts his jacket slightly to show them the gun that he has tucked into his waistband. “No big deal.”

“I’m sorry,” Solo says, putting an arm out to stop Illya when he reaches for the handle to the back door. “What I’m hearing is, you got pistol-whipped?”

Illya shrugs. “Yes.”

“And that’s fine to you?”

Illya gives him a sarcastic smile and then pushes past him, opening the door. “I have a hard head.”

It’s the middle of the night by now, and no one is inside the hotel when the three spies, one streaked with blood, step through the back door. 

“Good night,” Illya says, as they reach the empty staircase. His room is on the second floor, and both of them are down on the first. He is looking forward to a quiet, restful night, with nothing to bother him but his head. 

His partners, unfortunately, have other plans. “Sorry, no,” Gaby says, she and Solo both following Illya up the stairs towards his room. “You have a head injury.”

“It is barely a scratch,” Illya lies. He has been steadily getting dizzier for the past several minutes, and there’s an insistent nausea pressing at his chest. He wants very badly to simply lie down and fall asleep. 

“Then we’ll be quick,” Solo says. “Besides, we might as well enjoy our last night here. I happen to know the hotel provided you with a rather decent bottle of scotch.”

“How do you know that?” Illya asks, and then the door to his room is opening in front of him. 

He looks to Solo, who grins and holds up Illya’s room key. Illya snatches it back from him with a practiced scowl, and with nothing else to do, steps inside with his partners at his heels. 

Gaby takes charge, pushing him towards the couch and telling Solo to get the first-aid kit which all three of them are required to carry. 

As soon as Solo brings the kit, Gaby, without waiting to give Illya any time to protest, begins to clean his face with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol. Her movements are sure and quick and Illya closes his eyes and forces himself not to react, both to the sting of the alcohol and to the feeling of someone else touching his face. 

This done, Gaby stares intently at him. Solo joins in. Illya refuses to look back at them.  

“That’s a pretty deep gash,” Solo says. “Are you feeling okay? Are you dizzy at all? Nauseous?”

“Concussed?” Gaby adds, in case Solo’s questions had not been obvious enough. 

Illya shakes his head, which is not a good idea. Everything spins. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

“Illya, are you okay?”

He opens his eyes and looks at the concerned faces of his partners. He feels angry. At himself, mostly, for showing weakness. At them, a bit, for being so insistent, even though he has been slowly learning that this is simply how they are. 

“I’m fine.”

“You’re pale.”

“It’s the lights.”

“You look…off.”

“I said, I am fine!” Illya snaps, shooting to his feet. Immediately, black spots fill his vision and his ears start to ring and he only just manages to stop himself from throwing up right there on the hotel floor. 

He shuts his eyes and doesn’t move. Steady hands push him gently downwards until he’s sitting back down on the couch. He keeps his eyes closed and folds himself over so that his head is nearly resting on his knees and just tries to breathe and waits for this to pass. 

His partners’ hands are still touching him, even after several seconds. This prolonged contact is new. Despite his slight discomfort with the sensation, it is grounding. He knows where he is. Who he is with. All he has to do is sit and breathe and wait for his head to stop spinning, wait until he does not feel like he is going to pass out.

Eventually, he feels steadier. Very slowly, Illya sits up and opens his eyes. 

Solo is crouched next to him with a hand on his knee and another on his back. Gaby is on the couch on his other side, one hand on his back and one on his arm. 

“How are you feeling?” Solo asks, and his voice is as gentle and quiet as Illya has ever heard it. 

“Okay,” Illya says. “Not so dizzy.”

“I think you might be concussed.”

“Yes.” He supposes he cannot very well deny it now. 

“And you were planning on, what? Hiding it from us?”

“The mission is almost over.”

“You don’t stop being hurt just because we’re not actively working.”

“It is not so important.”

“Of course it’s important,” Gaby says. “You’re our partner. Whether we are on a mission or not.”

Here it is again, that alien, confusing concern. Illya finds that he is too worn out to fight it off, to think about what it means. He stays silent. 

“Why don’t you get some rest?” Solo asks, squeezing his knee. “We’ll stay, wake you up every couple of hours.”

Illya blinks at him. No one has ever offered to stay. He doesn’t need it. But…

“You aren’t allowed to say no,” Gaby says. “It’s protocol.”

He does remember their medical training. He had simply assumed he would be able to ignore it when necessary. Apparently today he has no such luck. 

“Okay,” he agrees, since there is nothing else for him to do.

Both of them smile at him, which is a bit strange. And then their hands are guiding him again, and he doesn’t have it in him to shrug them off. 

He ends up lying down on the couch, legs slightly bent so that he can fit. Solo drapes a blanket over him - Illya has no idea where he’d gotten it from - and Gaby turns off the light. 

“See you in a couple hours,” Solo says. “Sweet dreams.”

Gaby touches his cheek, quick as anything. “Good night, Illya.”

“Good night,” Illya mumbles, and at last falls asleep. 

thanks for reading! this could probably be better edited but i am tired so i am gonna go to sleep lmao. hope you liked it! <3