#like i felt pangs of phantom pain despite having my hand irl

[violetreminder]

Had a dream that I casually just cut off my hand bc I figured I could just reattach it no problem which I did like 5 minutes later but tbh it's still fucking me up idk why.

[upstartpoodle]

I love your Poldark stories. I was wondering, if you are taking any requests, would you consider writing a story on the following: George is seriously injured (either during the finale when he saves Ross, or afterwards when Ross and Dwight return from France) and is treated by Dr. Enys, who saves his life. He'll have the chance to thank Dwight for saving him from himself during his mental ill-health. Dwight, Ross and Demelza will see George as never before, perhaps giving way for reconciliation.

Hi, thanks for the ask! I’m always open to fic requests, and I’ve started writing a fic based on this prompt. I’d hoped to keep it as a one shot and post it fairly soon but, as so often tends to happen when I end up with ideas, it’s turned into a ridiculously long monster which will probably take me a while to finish since everything’s a bit hectic irl at the moment. I’ve put an extract of what I’ve got so far under the cut, just so I don’t end up leaving you waiting for ages. I hope you like how it’s shaping up! :D

                                                            ***

The first thing George noticed when he came to was that he was in no small amount of pain. He screwed his eyes tight shut, gritting his teeth against it, but he couldn’t quite muffle the discomforted groan, quiet and hoarse though it was, that escaped his lips. He tried to shift, to identify the source of the pain, but all of a sudden, a gentle yet firm hand planted itself on his shoulder, stilling his movements. With a soft murmur of protest, he peeled his eyes cautiously open. For a long, horrible moment, his vision swam and blurred incoherently before he image coalesced into the kindly but concerned face of Dr Dwight Enys.

“Try to stay still,” the doctor said, frowning. “You still have a long recovery ahead of you, I’m afraid, and I do not wish for you to aggravate your injury.”

“Wh—?” George attempted to speak, to ask—good God, who knew how many questions, but all his parched throat could produce was a kind of faint croak.

“Ah, one moment. I shall fetch you some water.” Dr Enys disappeared briefly from his field of vision. There was some clinking, and the sound of liquid being poured, before he returned with a cup of water in his left hand. His right moved to lift up the back of George’s head and, ignoring his patient’s quiet noise of indignation at being directed like a sickly child, raised the cup to his lips so he could drink from it. The cool liquid was a relief to his dry throat, but he was mindful enough only to swallow in small sips. Once he had taken his fill, Dr Enys set the cup aside and lay his head carefully back onto the pillows.

“Wh-what happened?” he asked faintly once the doctor had settled himself once again; though the water had restored his voice a little, he still felt weak and tired and altogether distracted by the pain which seemed to be coming from the region of his abdomen.

“You were shot,” replied Dwight, “by Ralph Hanson. Do you…recall the incident?”

Had George not been so caught up in precisely everything he did recall of said incident, he might have noticed something significant in the tone of the doctor’s question, but as it was, he was far too occupied with the sudden memories of racing to get to Nampara in time, of Ross and the Frenchman, of the gunshots and then Hanson—

“What? Are they—? Did I—?” He stumbled over several questions at once, unsure which he wanted the answer to first. Dwight opened his mouth to reply, but another voice cut across him and, for the first time, he became aware that he and the doctor were not alone in the room.

“If it is any consolation to your pride, you shot Hanson too. He will be fine, unfortunately.”

“Oh, good God” George muttered instinctively on hearing that voice. Into his vision, behind Dr Enys’ right shoulder, stepped a distinctly amused looking Ross. George stared at him, dumfounded. What was he doing here? Surely he wouldn’t be—? It was then that he realised, with a jolt of alarm as he took in his unfamiliar, somewhat rustic surroundings, that he hadn’t the slightest idea where he was. “Wha—?”

“You are at Nampara,” said Ross, correctly interpreting the look on George’s face. “We carried you in from the barn after you were shot.”

“Good God” George repeated, fighting back a wince as another sharp pang of pain shot through his abdomen. Well that was the last time he ever tried to do a good deed if his reward was to be trapped in a sickbed and subjected to the tender mercies of Ross Poldark.

“Oh, and you also shot the General, if you recall. He is dead. Personally, I would have rather you killed the other one, but we mustn’t be greedy.”

“Good God!” This was the most vehement curse yet. In response, Ross’ eyebrows travelled up his forehead at lightning speed.

“Well, I am glad to see that that bullet has not addled your brain at least, George” he said drily.

George scowled at him. Somehow, he doubted Ross would have been any more coherent if he had woken up to discover that he had been shot by a former business partner and the man who had come far too close—he shuddered to think—to becoming his father-in-law, taken to the home of his longstanding rival to recuperate, and—as if that had not been enough—had killed a man.

“And I see that your close encounter with death by Frenchman was still not sufficient to bestow you with any measure of tact” he replied caustically, before he could quite stop himself. He half expected Ross to fly into a rage at his words, but instead the man’s usually frowning countenance broke into a wide grin as he, much to George’s bafflement, let out a loud snort of laughter.

“Now that sounds more like the George Warleggan I am acquainted with,” he said. “For a moment, I was afraid I had broken you.”

“I assure you, Ross, if anyone were to succeed in destroying my faculties, it would not be you” he retorted, pointedly avoiding Dr Enys’ gaze, lest he think of another doctor, of beatings and ice baths, of waking, frightened and sore, to the feeling of unyielding leather restraints biting into the skin of his wrists, of the wind whipping through his dishevelled hair s he stood at the edge of the cliff, wanting desperately for it all to be over—

He hissed through his teeth as the pain of his bullet wound once again chose to make itself known. Despite the unpleasantness of it, a part of him was grateful for it—at least it distracted him from those horrible phantom pains and memories that, no matter how hard he tried to bury the incident, he could never quite seem to forget.

“Unfortunately, the rest of me does not appear to be quite so intact” he remarked, a little wryly, in the hope to distract the two men from his momentary relapse—though Ross, to his understanding, was unaware of what had occurred, the doctor would probably be able to guess at the discomfort such a line of conversation would cause him at the very least.

“Your wound was quite serious,” Dr Enys replied with a frown. “You caught a fever from it after the initial surgery. We were concerned for a while that you would not…”

He trailed off, but George caught his meaning nonetheless. He swallowed convulsively.

“How long have I—?,” he began. “How long has it been since—?”

“Five days, more or less” replied Ross grimly.

“Five days? But I— Hanson…what has—?” He tried, without thinking, to sit up, only to be reminded by the sudden sharp pain in his side why that course of action had been inadvisable. Once again, Dr Enys placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down onto the bed.

“What has happened?,” supplied Ross. “Very little so far. Hanson has been recovering from his wound, but I intend to make sure that he shan’t remain in comfort for much longer. Nor his brother.”

George nodded slowly. He wanted to mull the situation over, come up with some sort of solution—Merceron would know what he had done by now and was surely even at this moment attempting to realise some form of retaliation—but the tiredness he had felt deep in his bones when he had first awoken was beginning to overcome him. Fortunately, Dr Enys seemed to have sensed this, as he jerked his head at Ross in a clear shooing motion. Surprisingly, the man left with little fuss, leaving the doctor and his patient alone.

“Would you mind if I performed a quick examination?,” Dwight asked. “I should like to be assured that you are on the road to recovery before I depart to Killewarren.”

George had never liked being touched—with a few notable exceptions—and that was truer than ever in the wake of the…incident with Dr Penrose. Still, he couldn’t very well refuse, and so he gave the man a sharp, curt nod of assent, preparing to endure his pokings and proddings as quietly as he could.

To his credit, the doctor was quick about his work, and was soon declaring himself pleased by his findings.

“All things considered,” he said, “you seem to be much improved. Nevertheless, it will set my mind at ease if you were not to be moved for the duration of your recovery.”

George, now caught fully in the grip of his exhaustion, could not manage much more than a disgruntled “hmm” in response, heavy eyelids fluttering closed.

“Now, I am aware that this situation is hardly ideal, and I—” Glancing down at the bed, Dr Enys cut himself off. His patient was already fast asleep.