#so they just tried to do a quick saline patch but its not helping much

[friendofhayley]

.

[hookaroo]

Vocivore, Ltd. (19 of ?)

A OUAT WINTER WHUMP FIC

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging @ouatwinterwhump, @killian-whump, @sancocnutclub, @killianjonesownsmyheart1, and @courtorderedcake <3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL COVER ART BY @cocohook38 HERE!!!!!******

****ALSO!!!!!!!!!!!!Chapter 12 animation and art that will absolutely astound you!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!!!!!*************

Long bonus chapter for a coconut :) With apologies to @mathildia (but we do see her again a couple more times in flashbacks.) 

One day ago (Thursday)...

Z was dead.

Staggering into her hovel after an excruciating trip back in his Master’s arms, half-dead himself and bleary with anguish, Killian didn’t realize it at first. He made it to the butcher’s table and was gathering the strength to heave himself up before glancing over to where she sat slumped in a chair in the corner. Her eyes were open but blank, her head nestled against the seat back and the wall. As always, no injury adorned her body, but Killian knew that wouldn’t have been her cause of death. She would have succumbed to whatever neurological draining power the Master possessed which affected all of its slaves.

Killian couldn’t even summon the will to feel sorry for her, or honestly, even to be grateful for her efforts which had kept him alive this long. Perhaps when this whole thing was over--if, by some miracle, he lived long enough--he might look back and honor her memory. But at present, his only concern was how he could possibly survive to enact his plan without her brutal but necessary treatment.

In the few seconds it took for all of this to flash through his brain, a noticeable slick of blood had gathered on both sides of his mangled ankle, adding scarlet ribbons to the rusty brown already painting the stone floor. Stop the bleeding. That was the priority. He had access to her tools and knowledge of what to do; he’d even had some experience in his long and violent history. The question was, could he remain conscious long enough to get the job done?

Killian realized he was staring vacantly back at Z’s corpse, as if expecting her to rise from her chair and spare him the necessity of self-torture. But she remained still and silent. So he dragged in a labored breath, set his jaw, and limped drunkenly toward her row of yellow cabinets.

In previous encounters, he had generally been too involved with flopping up onto the table to notice her system of organization, and in any case, she’d usually had things mostly prepared before his arrival. This time, her tray was empty save for the dreaded disinfectant bottle and a tub of iodine, which may or may not hide a submerged selection of needles.

The first cabinet that caught Killian’s fall contained more than a hundred plastic pouches of saline. Nearly a score of them hung from hooks at the top, labeled and out of their original packaging, with pre-filled tubing already attached. Several large boxes were stacked at the bottom of the cabinet, containing still-sealed bags of the same. Killian made a face, but then changed his mind about dismissing the possibility outright. There was no doubt that the extra fluids had prolonged his existence thus far, and he had come to believe that Z had been adding additional medications, such as antibiotics; otherwise, he very likely would have succumbed to infection long since.  

One of the prepared bags caught his eye. In addition to the sticker label that had illegible names and dosages scribbled on it, there was a large number “3” drawn in black marker. “3” for Tripod? Killian tried to recall whether he had noticed that label on the previous IV bags Z had used on him, but he had always been too distracted with pain to be certain. Other bags were labeled with other letters, numbers, or symbols, and from his quick survey “3” made the most sense. So he snatched the bag off of its hook and tucked it under his left arm. He had certainly watched the process enough times; surely he could replicate it on himself?

The next cabinet contained additional sackcloth tunics, as well as wadded-up bandages. His nudity was the least of Killian's worries, but he did grab a handful of linen strips and a garment for warmth. Moving on.

Inside the cabinet next to Z herself, the top shelf held vials and vials of unrecognizable medications. A hasty survey revealed no morphine, Vicodin, or anything else particularly helpful in that regard.

It wasn’t worth the effort to get up on the table for himself. Killian tossed the supplies he had collected so far onto a clear patch of floor by the wall. Then he forced himself over to the chest of drawers near the sink. Therein he found the staple gun, as well as extra suture material, which he collected without allowing himself to dwell on it. There were refills for the stapler, but in all of his searching, he couldn't find any of the large straight needles she used for the IV treatment. How could she be so well stocked with everything else but that? He would have to report it to his Master so that it could set priorities for the next supply run...

Killian stopped and squeezed his eyes shut, but when he opened them again the scene before him continued to waver. Cold prickles attacked the area behind his eyes and shivered down the back of his neck. Reality and charade blended so that, for a moment, he forgot what he was doing there. He was running out of time.

Ultimately, it was a severe twinge from his ankle that brought him back to full awareness. He staggered toward the table where Z’s tray waited. Placing staple gun and sutures onto the metal surface, he then took the tray in hand. The iodine sloshed over the sides of the shallow basin on top, bathing the instruments in yellow stain.

He returned to where he had left the other supplies and slumped with his shoulder against the wall. It was the only thing that saved him from a painful collapse onto the floor. His skin left a bloody streak on the paint as he slid down and landed with a groan. After a few centering breaths he forced himself to focus, knowing that if he allowed himself to close his eyes and rest, he would probably never wake up. First priority: fluids. And the biggest obstacles to that would be his ability to set everything up one-handed, and then to actually hit a vein without any sort of training.

There was more iodine on the tray and floor than in the basin by the time Killian thumped it down onto the stone. He could see the expected needles in what was left of their interrupted bath and had a brief flashback to a work safety video he’d watched with Emma expounding upon the dangers of sharing needles. But he had no choice, and really, the odds of surviving long enough for bloodborne pathogens to become a concern were hovering close to zero.

With the tray safely on the floor beside him, Killian reached for the IV bag. His ankle throbbed mercilessly, and he didn’t even want to look at it for fear of passing out, but in his peripheral vision, he could see the blood welling. To his immediate left stood one of the cabinets, with a protruding knob at just the proper height to hang the pouch. A gravelly groan accompanied his blind reach; he hurt in too many places to twist or try and get up to his knees. Eventually, the small loop at the top caught on the knob, and Killian dropped his arm with a sigh of relief.

Now for a difficulty: popping a slender needle onto an equally tiny bit of plastic one-handed. He was normally fairly dexterous, and given enough practice, could master most tasks without the necessity of a second set of fingers. But he had neither the usual time nor steadiness as assets. Setting his jaw, he fished in the iodine remnants until locating one of the long needles so favored by Z. He did his best to grip it by the base and not touch either end as he gave it a final swish in the disinfectant. Then, holding the needle between thumb and forefinger, he grabbed the tubing between pinkie and ring finger. Once he had aligned the plug with the needle’s hollow base, he used delicate pressure to connect the two. It took more tries than he would have liked, due to uncontrollable interrupting tremors, but eventually, he had the two pieces in weak connection. He brought the setup carefully to his mouth, gripped the plug between his teeth, and used that leverage to insert it more firmly into the needle. Then it was just a matter of winding the little screw-on security apparatus, and it seemed ready to go. He held it in hand once more, opened the stopcock on the tubing, watched a small stream of liquid shoot from the hollow needle, then shut it off once again.

The only thing he had to use as a tourniquet was a linen bandage. This he tied with a slipknot before sliding it gingerly over his ring-and-stake accessory and up around his upper arm. He again used his teeth to assist, this time by grabbing the loose end of the bandage and pulling tight. It seemed to work all right; he could feel the tingly throb of his heartbeat in his forearm as blood backed up in the veins.

Feeling fainter by the second, Killian couldn’t afford to hesitate or spend much time locating a vein. He positioned the needle’s point just above a still-visible puncture mark mid-forearm from just a couple of days ago. At least that way he would be in the general area, even if he had zero inkling of what angle to go in.

Poking himself did not present that much of a mental hurdle. He’d done it before, when desperate times had required him to suture his own injuries: a skill which would, unfortunately, be called upon in a few moments. This needle was bigger in diameter and similarly blunted by regular use, but once he applied enough pressure, it popped through the skin with a familiar sting and then moved much more easily. He rooted around at a fairly shallow angle for a little while, knowing from past observation that blood should appear in the tubing once he entered a vein.

A combination of luck and persistence rewarded him with a result a few moments later, after he was already thoroughly tired of mutilating his own flesh. The area invaded by the needle burned, and a faint bruise was already visible over the moving steel. But then a definite spurt of blood curled up into the tubing, and Killian froze. He was in--but now what? The needle still protruded halfway out of his skin, and at an angle too steep to try and secure it as it was. But if he decided to move, he risked poking through the vessel and having to start over.

As delicately as he could manage, Killian decreased the angle and pushed the needle deeper. It made sense to him that the vein would travel at a relatively constant depth within his arm, which meant parallel to the skin. So by steadily advancing while at the same time changing the angle, he would hopefully follow the vessel’s path.

He watched as blood continued to mingle with the saline; its dilution was making it hard to tell for certain whether fresh was still coming in or not. An involuntary tremor spasmed through his fingers, and he cursed through gritted teeth. He had felt a very definite jolt of the needle within his flesh, the twinge of pain a possible sign of its dislodging. But all he could do was hope for the best. Another centimeter, and the base of the needle came into contact with his arm. There were still 3 or 4 millimeters of steel sticking out, but he could apply tape now to secure it. Very slowly, Killian released his grip, making certain that none of his fingers were tangled in the plastic tubing. The needle remained in place, shivering slightly with each pulse. Killian first loosened the tourniquet, then he reached for the stopcock and said a prayer as he opened the valve.

The blood-tinged saline flowed quickly into his arm as gravity sent fluid trickling into the drip chamber above. There didn’t seem to be any obstruction, and his forearm didn’t swell like a water balloon, which Killian took to be a very good sign indeed. Releasing the breath he’d been holding, he selected a roll of surgical tape, tore a strip off with his teeth, and gently smoothed it over the protruding needle. There. Now, if he were to lose consciousness, at least he was replacing the blood volume being lost through his open wounds.

Now for the ankle. It didn’t have to be pretty, or even thorough. It just had to get him through the next day or so. Prevent him bleeding out before having a chance to enact the plan.

Killian had hoped to give Emma more time. Without her contribution, he would fail, simple as that. But he could not last longer. 20 minutes ago, after being dumped into a heap outside, he had nearly lacked the strength to rise. He might have lay there until the luminous columns of Zeus’ domain replaced the mud and despair, and then all of this would have been for nothing. How many more times could he find a way to get back up? How long before his quivering muscles would no longer obey?

Before the sinister voice in his head became too compelling to resist?

He would give her until tomorrow. Gamble that the next Session would not break him beyond hope, that his maimed body would make it that long, and that Emma would find a way in time.

Twice, the staple gun slipped between uncoordinated fingers before Killian finally managed to grab hold. It had better not require much effort to trigger. Fighting back nausea, Killian struggled to shift his weight. Repairing the ribbons of flayed skin would be like trying to piece together a document that had gone through a paper shredder. And he couldn’t even aim properly.

He hovered the business end over the lowest line of dark maroon, near his heel.

“You can’t just shoot the staples willy-nilly,” whispered Smee in his ear. Or maybe it was Dr. Whale. ”The skin needs to be pressed together first…”

“Sod off.” He squeezed the handle.

SNAP!

Killian cursed vehemently.

“Sir… you missed…”

“Bloody hell…”

SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!

“Maybe you should open your eyes for this… Captain?”

SNAP!

SCREAM FOR ME… MY TRIPOD… SCREAM FOR YOUR MASTER….

Hope—SNAP!—kidnapped—SNAP!—Hope—SNAP!—dead?—SNAP!—No?—SNAP!—No Hope—SNAP! SNAP!—No hope—SNAP!—No hope…

“Hook! That’s enough! Hook, stop!”

Killian wiped away tears. A haphazard mess of metal now drowned in the blood of his inner ankle, sometimes intersecting the wounds, other times burrowed into perfectly intact flesh. One more, maybe… right there…

SNAP! Dammit!

Close enough.

I ENJOY THE LITTLE UTTERANCES, TRIPOD, BUT CANNOT LIVE OFF OF THEM.

No hope… no hope… no hope…

“How ever will the pirate reach his outer ankle?”

Who was that, now; the Crocodile?

“Give me my hand back and I’ll show you.”

A true problem, that. Were he not injured in a dozen other places, he could possibly twist far enough. As it was, he could really only reach around from beneath and fire blindly.

“What’s the difference? It isn’t as if you watched what you were doing when you could see.”

*****

Enough cursing and arguing with the array of invisible onlookers got Killian through 13 jolting shocks on the other side of his ankle. In truth, he probably needed more, but the device had run out of staples and he couldn’t decipher how to refill it. With any luck, the stinging bits of metal coupled with a tight bandage would be enough to encourage clotting.

Sleep. He ached for sleep, almost hungering for it. The bag of saline was nearly empty, and he briefly considered swapping it out for a full one, slowing the drip rate, and lying down right there to give in to the temptation. But that would likely earn him an extra beating; one card stacked in favor of early demise.

22, 24 hours more. That’s all he needed. Maybe all he had left in him.

No hope. It was true, wasn’t it? No longer a mantra. A reality.

No hope. If they failed? What then? What would Emma be left with? Nothing. No advantage, no leverage, no hope.

Then he realized. He could leave one thing behind. Not much, but better than nothing. Without Z supervising her tools, it was his first opportunity to even consider doing it. He cast narrowed eyes on the tub of iodine at his side. He knew there was one in there; he’d sliced a finger on it while searching for the damn needle.

Screw sanitation. It was too late anyway. Killian reached out and, more by accident than design, flipped the tub all the way over. Brown-tinged liquid soaked the stone floor, metallic instruments clattered in a prickly pile beneath. He batted the useless tub aside and scoured the mess for the scalpel blade.

It took some doing to grasp it between thumb and forefinger, but at least he managed to snag a pre-loaded, curved suturing needle in the process. He was going to need that.

No scar marked the spot; he would be required to go on memory alone. Killian increased the volume of his internal chant as camouflage. Just there, left shoulder, below the collarbone. Correct? He pulled a deep breath and gritted his teeth. He had to be quick: looking down at such a severe angle, with the need for intense focus, was already making the world spin.

In one brutal movement, he stabbed the sharp tip of the blade into his flesh, then dragged it sideways, making a long but shallow incision parallel to the clavicle. The wound burned as it began to leak blood. Hastily, Killian placed the scalpel blade on his leg to give himself easy access. Then he wriggled his finger into the cut, squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of pain. It wasn’t that deep, surely? He should be able to feel it, a small oddity among the warm, slippery mass of skin and muscle.

His breath left him in a low growl as he probed deeper. The memory of pain seemed to be right in that area… but who could tell whether or not the current sensation was influencing that. He pressed harder, pointer finger now buried almost to the second joint. Forceps, if he could find some, might hurt less--might--but wouldn’t give him the ability to distinguish between flesh and metal.

There! Something dug into the pad of his fingertip, pointed and motile. Grimacing, he pushed against the object and felt an uncomfortable shifting within his shoulder. It was deeper than he’d anticipated, and lower down; how could be possibly grasp the bit of metal, much less extract it from its cocoon of flesh?

Blood spurted from the wound as Killian reluctantly removed his finger. He’d have to try and push it out through a secondary incision.

Another line of fire joined the first. It was lower down his chest, closer to his arm, where he approximated the other end of the capsule to be. He had meant to cut just as deep… but in reality, may have held back more than he had intended.

His finger wormed its agonizing way back into the hole. Seconds later, a nasty twinge told him he’d located his target. The lower incision continued to bleed freely; his whole left chest and flank were now stained red. With a snarl of pain, Killian pushed as hard as he could against the metal capsule, attempting to guide it toward the exit hole. He could feel it shifting, tearing through muscle fibers and subcutaneous tissue with its tapered end. A small bulge appeared in his skin, slightly below the second cut. Hissing curses, he lifted his stump, not caring if he dislodged the needle in his forearm. He hated using the wrist ring and all of the pain that it brought, but it was his only option.

Though still bandaged from his short stint in the hospital, the end of the stake protruded slightly, and he used this to pull on the skin of his chest. The incision gaped a little wider, ultimately stretching over the place where the capsule was stuck. More pressure, more tearing, accompanied by a yell of pained effort, and then the metal point appeared, covered in bright blood. Killian sucked in one more steadying breath before savagely thrusting with his finger; at the same time, he drove the wrist stake in toward his ribs.

The metal capsule popped free of his flesh and landed between his legs, leaving a ruddy trail as it rolled along the stones. Panting, Killian removed his finger and held the bandaged wrist against both incisions, then snatched the capsule up with a bloodstained hand before it could skitter out of reach. Blasted thing. He scowled at it, eyes slightly unfocused, shivering with exhaustion and pain. Where to hide it?

Within a bandage was the logical place. His wrist, simply because it was easy to reach. Hopefully, the Master would not bother with the wrapping until an opportune time presented itself.

Suture shoulder. Maybe ribs. Put on sackcloth. Then barn and sleep.

Tomorrow would be the end.

[imaginemycroftholmes]

Hey could you do an image with Mycroft and his wife while she is giving birth to their first child ?

Onboard the U.S.S Heartsteel the medical bay was in an unholy trinity of distress, fear and panic as Ambassador Holmes and his wife were preparing to give birth.

No one outside their race has truly witnessed how they bring life into the world much less how they were conceived turning every decorated doctor on board into a second guessing ensign from the Academy.

It wasn’t that unusual considering that the Federation had only just begun communication with their planet a year ago but still it was a nerve wracking experience for the crew aboard the floating starship.

“Do we even know if their kind needs to be placed in water after they come out,” questioned Dr Kal, one of the finest doctors to serve in the fleet, “ I need to know these things or else we might damage the babies!”

“Wait-I thought Lt. Miguta translated that there was only one baby,” piped up one of the nurses.

Kal waved her claw around dismissively, “The day I trust Lt. Miguta’s translations on a new species is the day I get my horns clipped and paint them yellow.”

“Now Kal you know that Miguta is doing his best despite the circumstances and I don’t appreciate you talking ill about my crew,” D’Morge chided at the old doctor, “We all know that he’s had his share of blunders same as everyone else on this ship but so far he’s the only one of us that seems to have a hang on what Ambassador Holmes and his wife are even suggesting.”

“Captain he almost got us imprisoned on M’Bega 9 because he accidentally insulted the high priestess and then had us nearly kill ourselves by miss-translating those barrels from the Quan as something safe for consumption. That kid is the worst linguist the Fleet has every had,” Kal ranted. Her claws on full display as was her coloring at her ridges sending any nearby nurses to back away lest they burn under her radiating body heat.

Truly Kal had a beef with the young lieutenant but Captain D’Morge could not stand for any bad blood between his crew members. Putting two green suction cups between his brow he sighed.

“Again, Kal I understand why you’re pissed at him but now is not the time to start fighting when he’s literally the only one that has been able to help so far and we need this birth to go smoothly. Their planet is the only one in galaxy that produces those little insects that could save the Federation from shedding more blood and the fact that their kind can adapt like no other we’ve encountered before.”

Careful not to put his section cups on any of the dark patches of Kal’s skin D’Morge says intensely, “I cannot stress this enough doctor but we need them more than they need us. If we screw this up we are most likely not only going to lose our jobs but the fate of every species known to our galaxy so for the love of your  people and mine please do not harp on Miguta and throw him off. Understand?”

Dr. Kal is still purple in some places but nods all the same. She may be an Watari full of righteous rage but even she knew that if the captain was telling her to cool it for the fate of the Federation than she needed to suck it up. “Understood Captain.”

D’Morge gave her an small smile. “Good, now what’s the status of the Ambassador’s wife?”

“Nothing like anything we’ve come across and its driving my machines crazy,” Kal complains.

“Crazy how?”

Rather than waste her voice Dr. Kal beckons the captain to follow her to the birthing part of the medical bay where Ambassador Holmes was seated next to his bedridden wife and Lt. Miguta standing somewhat awkwardly on her left talking to them. 

Despite the sweat on her brow and the redness creeping on her skin the Ambassador’s wife seemed in good spirits as did her husband. Holmes was stroking her hands lovingly and murmuring low in their strange language.

It sounded so alien to their ears but nevertheless very soothing.  

“Are they supposed to get red like that?”

“Miguta says that its perfectly normal under stress but like I said earlier I’m relying on that idiot’s word entirely,” Kal grumbles.

“Kal…”

“Dr. Kal,” called a nurse Solin frantically, “ Dr. Kal, you have to see this!”

Without much delay both the captain and the good doctor ran over to the worried nurse hovering over the body scanners.

“What is it nurse?”

“These readings are off the charts,” Solin exclaimed showing them the readings. “All of them. Pain receptors, hormone levels, brain activity, blood work-by our standards the Ambassador’s  wife should be dead.”

Kal could only hum as she surveyed the readings as Solin continued to gush about the strange data but even D’Morge knew what she was thinking. Their kind are truly something to be feared and revered.

“How can she even stand to be smiling,” Solin yammered on, “how can she even take that much pain and why is her mate so calm about it? Does he even know?”

Now for Solin’s kind the males generally harbor the offspring until they are ready to materialize via transporter from the womb as did most species once inducted into the Federation or through pod incubation.

It was the safer way to ensure growth to endangered populations and encourage to those who were fertile or unable to procreate normally to do so at a higher frequency. 

To have natural births was pretty much an outdated system that none of them could stand to do anymore without horrific consequences. Live birth was simply to archaic and dangerous that most  generations didn’t understand the process anymore much less learn it.

Captain D’Morge had tired to see if Lt. Miguta could convince them to do the same for the Ambassador’s wife but it seemed that they were content to do this their way.

 “Nurse Solin please center yourself,” Captain D’Morge urged the young nurse, “we can only afford so many people to be panicked at this moment and I would like you not to be one of them.”

Solin did not look too terribly quelled but her antenna did not seem as ridged as it was before. “I still think that they’re crazy.”

“Given on how they reacted to us tossing those gold boxes into the compactor I think that they think we’re crazy too,” D’Morge offered as Kal handed tugged on one of his limbs.

“Captain you need to see this,” she urged.

Looking down at the body scanner cautiously D’Morge could not hide his astonishment. 

“What is that?”

“I believe captain that it is their baby-moving downward.I’m not entirely sure what it means but I’m sure that it means we’re about to find out how their kind is born.”

The medical bay turns into a hush in acknowledgement of what is to come and it sends collective chills down their spines.

 “By Timor I hope we’re ready.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Kal concedes, “it’s either we wing it and fail or succeed.”

“Um, Captain?”

Captain D’Morge turns on his heel faster than he thought at the sound of that voice. “Lt. Miguta, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be with the Ambassador and his wife to let us know when she’s ready to give birth!”

Miguta looks nervous as he shifts from foot to foot. “Well that’s just it sir, they’re fixing to give birth right now.”

“NOW?”

“Outta my way,” Dr. Kal command, “doctor coming through!” 

Both the captian and Miguta race after her to the receiving bay while the rest of the medical bay crew start to work furiously at their scanners.

Upon opening the door they are greeted with a sight of Ambassador Holmes holding his wife’s hand in what looks to be great pain as his wife’s color fluctuates from white, red and blue.

“What’s happening,” Kal demands at Miguta as she tries in vain to figure out anyway she can help.

Miguta talks hurriedly at Holmes and he responds tersely back not at all like the nice sounds that he had portrayed earlier. His wife was grunted and growled unlike anything the captain or doctor had heard before and it frightened them terribly.

Her hand white as it gripped her husband’s hand and strained against the bed in a way that seemed uncomfortable.

“Um, Ambassador Holmes says that she needs something called an epidural. Something like a pain blocker so she doesn’t break his hand and not break,” Miguta explains, “its really hard to understand him captain because his wife is distracting him with his hand.”

“If she needs a hand I shall definitely give her mine,” D’Morge quickly offers three of his strongest suction cups. His kind may have odd appendages but they were stronger muscles than even the most trained Kinshia.

Ambassador Holmes gives a skeptical look at the suction cups but in a move that could almost be described as ‘its your funeral’ he conceded to migrate the suction cups to his wife’s hand in order to free his own. 

“SON OF A MONGREL LARK’S G-”

“CAPTAIN,” Kal injected quickly, “COMPOSE YOURSELF!”

“Easy for you to say,” D’Morge grounded out darkly. It felt like the ambassador’s wife was purposely trying to tear his suction cups apart on a cellular level that was unheard of by brute strength alone. “And get that information quick Miguta or I’ll have you stranded on the next starbase when this is over.”

“Yes sir!”

Lt. Miguta talks some more to both the Ambassador and his wife in fats tones.

“He says that any pain blocker that has cortisone with lidocaine, orbupivacaine, and saline would be good right now and to hurry because depending on how tired she gets this could last a full rotation!”

“Are they mad? Those chemicals are killers. I’m not injecting her with that” Kal declares only to be growled at by the Captain.

“The hell you will because I’m not allowing the Ambassdor’s wife to crush my suction cups into oblivion! Miguta get the recipe from the Ambassador and get it whipped up and ready to inject now!”

Miguta works furiously to translate under pressure and deliver the message to the other officers in the medical bay as Kal tries in vain to make them comfortable.

She watches as Ambassador Holmes despite the obvious pain in his hand looks loving at his wife and makes what sounds like encouraging noises to her. His wife on the other hand seems torn between looking mad at her mate and happy.

An odd thing to witness given the current times but endearing none the less. 

The ambassador makes a noise at Kal to which she can’t understand until he gestures to the cooling solution gel at the opposite bedside. “You want this,” she points curiously.

The ambassador nods and holds up his hand for the item to which Kal is not going to bother questioning things anymore and just forks it over.

Gently Holmes spreads the cooling agent at his wife’s inner thighs and lower back in a way that is almost reverent if not frantic as Lt. Miguta comes back with the pain blocker solution.

“We have to inject this into her lower back in order to help her,” Miguta says handing the hypo injector to Dr. Kal.

“Just in her lower back?”

“Holmes said he would guide you.”

“CAN YOU JUST INJECT THE DAMN THING I CAN’T FEEL MY SUCTION CUPS.”

Indeed the Captain’s green suction cups were turning a very worrisome pale green so Kal quickly set forth to inject the solution.

Holmes had been very careful in trying to move his wife forward that even Miguta had to step in and help but the application was tricky.

“He wants me to stick the hypo there,” Kal kept trying to confirm as Miguta translated.

“Yes there.”

“But there’s too much bone there for me to get to the nerve endings.”

“Look, Holmes says to do it there so we have to! You need to trust me!”

“Boy it will be a hot day on Anmari before I trust you-”

“JUST DO AS HE SAYS!” screamed the Captain that even had the Ambassador’s wife flinching.

There’s a hiss from the hypo and a groan from the wife before she releases his suction cups and slumps on the bed.

“Lomar above please tell me we didn’t kill her,” Kal pleads until she opens her eyes and gives a worn smile.

Even ambassador Holmes looks more at ease as the chemicals kick in and besides the captain whimpering over his suction cups the room’s atmosphere is more tranquil. 

Again the Ambassador whispers to his wife and she in turn looks lovingly at him until there’s a grunt, a movement and shrug and then grunt again.

“What’s happening?” Kal demands frantic and unsure of what to do.

“He says she’s pushing the baby out and that we need a blanket and scissors to cut the cord when it comes out,” Miguta explains as he fetches a towel and hand held mini laser.

Both work quickly and diligently together as the captain is still shivering on the floor.

“He says we need a warm light for the baby to be under.”

“Nurses get on it.”

“He says we also have to give the baby some injections to help booster its immune system.”

“Nurses see if you can access their planet’s data base on what that is stat.”

“ Computer time?”

Approximately 13:04:26 ship rotation it sounds off as a foreign noise starts to materialize in the room that is coming from neither the captain or ambassador’s wife.  

“What is that?” Kal says as the Ambassador helps expel the baby from between his wife’s legs.

“That,” Miguta says cheerfully, “is their baby.”

Kal can’t say that its a pretty thing but then again she can admit that she has a bias for her own kind. Noticing that now both are crying Kal looks to Miguta and asks, “Is it okay?”

There is some talking to which Miguta confirms, “Yes the baby is okay. They are both just overwhelmed by the magick of it all.”

“What in Yarmil is ‘magick?” 

Miguta shakes his head. “I do not know but if I were to guess it would be the experience of it all like when my younger sister was brought home in her pod.”

The two of them watch as Holmes kisses both wife and child fervently. How he holds them both so gently and murmurs in that strange tone again.

“What is he saying?”

“I love you. I’m so proud of you. You are so strong. I’m the happiest man in the universe and our aughter is beautiful like you.”

“What is a ‘aughter’?”

“Again I do not know but we’ll wait to ask that until we get better communicators at Federation central. I know I’m not the best linguist and I sure don’t want to screw up again by offending them.”

Kal puts a friendly claw on the young lieutenant’s shoulder. “Now I wouldn’t say you’re the worst either. Look what you did today! You helped me monitor and deliver the first live birth in centuries. Not a lot of people can say they did that.”

Miguta doesn’t look convinced but Kal retracts her claws something very rare for for her species to do. “Listen, I know I’m hard on you and I shouldn’t be since I only know the common tongues and nothing else but you are not worthless and after today you’ll go on to be the galaxies greatest. I just need to remember that you are doing your best and as long as you’re working toward getting better I need to lay off. In fact, feel free to tell me off when I’m coming at your back.”

“Oh but I couldn’t-”

“Hey, doctor’s orders,” Kal insists, “You have to follow them.”

Miguta looks embarrassed and pleased until he hears some faint murmurs from Holmes again. 

“What’s he saying?”

“Ambassador Holmes and his wife want to know if the Captain is alright.”

Looking down the Captain did indeed look like he was still in immense pain on the floor clutching his three suction cups. 

“By Timor Captain compose yourself,” Kal groaned trying to aid the man up and out of the room, “it couldn’t have been that bad.” It’s a slow process as Miguta stays to keep the Holmes company but she manages all the same.

Not even past the door frame Dr. Kal is bombarded by nurses alike.

“Doctor you have to see these readings!”

“Doctor the pain levels were something never heard of before!”

“Doctor the amount of strength in her one arm was that akin Quagmire in battle lust!”

Kal looks down at D’Morge and concedes, “Okay maybe it was that bad.”

“My Kori how can their kind even stand to do that let alone have more than one offspring?” 

Dr. Kal gives them a disbelieving look. “I don’t know but given what I witnessed in there we definetly do not want to make an enemy of them. Keep them happy and send me all data on the happening after that you may all step off rotation. Lt. Mo’Roack will have the com until D’Morge feels better. Understood?”

“Yes Dr. Kal.”

[hookaroo]

A Captain’s Heart (30 of 32)

Chapter 1 Chapter 29

Rated T for language and graphic descriptions of injuries.

Also on FF.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12937105/1/A-Captain-s-Heart

Tagging @therooksshiningknight & @killian-whump by request :)

Killian drifted back into a muddled awareness when he heard unfamiliar voices in the stairwell. All of his hurts assaulted him at once, and as he cringed, he struggled to make sense of dream-distorted reality.

“Down here,” directed Emma, her voice growing louder as she neared the door to his cabin. With difficulty, Killian managed to peel his eyelids open to a slitted squint.

Uniformed strangers - three men and a woman - flooded the room, carrying a stretcher and loads of intimidating equipment. Paramedics. Killian grimaced; the prospect of enduring their meddling seemed impossibly daunting, no matter how small a part he would play. Unconsciousness beckoned enticingly but would be kept at bay by inevitable pain.

“You said his name is Killian?” asked one of the men as the others staged the area with practiced ease. Emma nodded, and the man approached the bunk to the discordant accompaniment of plastic pouches being opened and velcro torn apart. “Killian, I’m Gary; this is Brett, Rusty, and Colleen. We’re here to help. Can you open your eyes for me?”

Killian obliged to the best of his ability; his weariness and the effects of the morphine were making him lightheaded, and his eyelids felt monumentally heavy. Gary flashed a penlight in each of his eyes, which didn’t help the feeling. Two of the others had positioned themselves nearby, and now one of them drew the blanket down around his waist, prompting painful shivers as his bare skin was exposed to the chilly air. Or, at least, the skin not currently covered by hasty bandages.

“Do you know where you are?” Gary was asking. Beside him, his colleague Brett was slipping a blood pressure cuff around Killian’s left upper arm, triggering jolts of pain through his injured shoulder with each slight movement. Another medic, Colleen, was working on fixing EKG leads to relatively-uninjured patches on his chest.

“My ship,” slurred Killian. The cuff around his arm began its inexorable squeeze; the increased pressure in the limb caused a noticeable intensifying in the throb of his blunted wrist.

“What day is it?”

Killian thought for a moment; the morning felt like such a long time ago, and he was having difficulty recalling the particular date. “The… third of October, I believe.”

“Do you know who the president is?”

That seemed an odd question. Killian watched the fourth man, Rusty, studying the foot of the cot. “Some git called Trump.”

Gary cracked a smile before nodding. “Killian, do you have any allergies that you’re aware of?”

“I… can’t…”

“Not that we know of,” supplied Emma, who was standing back out of the way but watching anxiously.

“Does this bed pull away from the wall at all?” interrupted Rusty. The blood pressure cuff relaxed with a hiss, and Brett quietly reported the reading. Feeling slightly overwhelmed, Killian shook his head in answer.

“How about medical conditions? Heart issues? That kind of thing?”

“No.”

Rusty cautiously slid his weight atop the bunk near Killian’s feet and then began an awkward shuffle forward until he could crouch in the small space between the wall and Killian’s side.

“Taking any meds?” Gary asked. Killian shook his head, and Emma jumped in.

“He… had a dose of morphine… about an hour ago.” She reported the dosage, and Gary raised an eyebrow as he made a notation. But he didn’t ask where such a drug had materialized from.

Killian’s gaze flicked again to Rusty, who was fiddling with bits of equipment laid out on the mattress near his shoulder. Noting the attention, Rusty flashed a reassuring smile.

“I’m going to be starting an IV line,” he explained. “I’ll warn you before the poke, okay?”

“So… what exactly happened, again?” asked Gary, and Killian searched helplessly for Emma. He had no clue what she had told them, and didn’t want to contradict her story. He felt Rusty taking hold of his tender forearm, and at the same time, Brett slipping a thermometer into his ear.

“I know it sounds crazy,” began Emma. “There was this wacko with swords. Thought he was some modern-day pirate or something. Of course, when he saw this ship, he couldn’t resist. Brought his boat alongside, climbed aboard, and forced my husband into a duel.”

Utterly ridiculous. But difficult to disprove, and many of the injuries did appear to be caused by a blade. Killian appreciated her thought process.

He felt the cold oiliness of rubbing alcohol along the inside of his arm, above the tattoo. Brett had noted his temperature and now was adjusting a pulse oximeter onto his earlobe.

“Was anyone else hurt? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Emma assured Gary. “There was no one else aboard, and as soon as the freak was satisfied in his pirate skill with a sword, he jumped back into his boat and sped away.”

“Big poke now, Killian,” warned Rusty. The needle bit into his forearm with a notable sting, and the pirate drew a slow, centering breath, managing not to flinch. The guy must have been using the biggest cannula in their arsenal, and Killian didn’t want to do anything that might throw off his aim; he had no desire to be stabbed again if he missed the vein.

“How much blood do you think he’s lost?”

“Hell if I know. Like, a lot.”

“Has he lost consciousness at all?”

“I don’t think so.”

“And how long ago did all of this happen?”

“Um, ‘bout an hour.”

“Anything to eat or drink since then?”

“Well, I tried to give him this electrolyte stuff, but he puked it up.” Emma turned toward the shelves near the head of the bed and found the extra bottle of rehydration solution.

It seemed Rusty had been successful in finding a vein, for he was now securing the IV tubing with adhesive plastic. Brett and Colleen were off near the table, fiddling with the stretcher.    

“All set here,” reported Rusty, holding the IV bag up so the saline could flow rapidly into Killian’s arm. Brett was quick to return to Killian’s side, and he took possession of the bag so that Rusty could clamber off of the bed.

“Okay. We’re going to take you to the hospital and get you taken care of, sound good?”

Killian clenched his jaw and nodded reluctantly. It was an exhausting thought in his current state: the noise, fuss, pain and humiliation. He wished he could just be unconscious the whole time, and only wake up once he was released.

“We’ll need to position the stretcher underneath you; it may be easiest to roll you toward the wall, onto your side, and go from there.”

With the assistance of Rusty and Gary, Killian grumbled his way onto his right side. While he worked, Gary asked,

“Is all of this from the sword, too?” He motioned in the direction of the lash marks covering Killian’s back, and Emma made a face. She knew they were too parallel and regular to be explained that way.

“He also had an old-fashioned… whip thing. One of those kinds with multiple strands? Guy was totally nuts.”

Gary made a noise of sympathy. “You’re going to have to give a statement to the police. Both of you. We don’t want this guy running around doing this kind of thing to unsuspecting sailors.”

And now all four paramedics were at Killian’s bedside, ready to roll him onto the stretcher. And even though they were cautious of his injuries, the process caused no small amount of pain, and he was in no shape to make any sort of objection for the next several moments. Eyes screwed tight, nearly whimpering with each breath, Killian lay docile, letting the professionals take care of tucking a blanket over him, strapping him in place, and situating the monitors and IV for safe transit.

Emma was hanging back out of the way, but once they had heaved him up and were making their careful way up the stairs and into the drizzle, she followed anxiously. Killian could hear her murmuring words of encouragement to him, but the outside light was too bright for him to even consider opening his eyes and seeking her out.

Some small part of him was impressed by their ability to keep him level while ascending the steep, narrow stairwell. And he couldn’t fathom how they were planning to get him off of the ship and into their ambulance. But all he could do was lie still and hope they didn’t drop him.

As it turned out, they were able to use the Jolly Roger’s own davit system, attached securely to all four posts of the stretcher, to lower Killian down onto the waiting watercraft floating parallel to the larger ship. Emma and two paramedics transferred over via ladder first, with the remaining two staying behind to supervise the stretcher transfer. Once they, too, had clambered over to the gently bouncing speedboat, the engine revved, and they all started for shore. Despite his pain, exhaustion, and dread of the upcoming hospital visit, Killian couldn’t help feeling a pang of nerves and regret, to be leaving his beautiful, sentient ship unattended in strange waters.

The trip to the dock took less than five minutes, as the sirens were on and they could go at top speed. One of the paramedics kept a hand on Killian’s shoulder at all times; the pirate still had his eyes closed and, thus, couldn’t tell which one it was. But he knew when Emma’s hand slipped inside of his. He knew the shape of those fingers, the tender strength with which she squeezed reassuringly. The warmth of her palm as compared to the freakishly cold fingertips. Killian did his best to squeeze back… but his wrist spasmed and the attempt quickly died.

There was no davit at the dock. The medics simply lifted the stretcher, careful not to lose their balance on the moderate waves, and slid it onto the wood, leaving Killian there until they could climb out themselves. A sizeable crowd had gathered: Killian could hear their speculative murmurings as they spotted the historic-looking ship in the distance and the bleeding, motionless man on the stretcher. Gary implored the bystanders to keep back and give them space. Killian was tempted to open his eyes, to seek reassurance from Emma and satisfy the instinctive need to learn about his surroundings. But he kept them stubbornly closed.

Soon, they were moving again, jolting slightly with the steps of those carrying the load. There seemed to be a wheeled gurney waiting nearby; shortly thereafter, Killian’s stretcher was placed atop the contraption, and the up-and-down motion of footsteps was replaced by vibrations from wheels over asphalt. Killian was being strapped in place even as they traveled. Though they were cautious, the sheer number of wounds meant that that it was nearly inevitable that the belts would intersect one at some point. Killian grit his teeth every time. And it didn’t help much.

The gurney tilted as it was pushed up a ramp, and for the first time, Killian slitted his eyes open. The light lessened as they entered the ambulance. Despite his many injuries over his lifetime, even since coming to live in Storybrooke, it was only Killian’s second time riding in one of the intimidating vehicles; usually Emma was able to either heal him or poof them straight to the hospital. The first time, of course, was that dizzying night at the town line, when the trauma of being hit by a car had contributed significantly to the haziness and confusion, so he barely remembered that journey. This time, though his wounds were arguably more severe, or at least more numerous, Killian was much more lucid and likely to remember.

Amidst the commotion of preparing for departure, Killian could hear Emma speaking calmly with one of the medics, though he couldn't quite make out their words. Suddenly, she was beside him, smiling down sadly with a comforting caress.

“They’re not gonna let me ride along. But I’ll meet you there, okay?”

She leaned down and kissed his forehead in an anxious farewell.

“We’ll take good care of him,” Colleen assured her. Killian could see that Emma was not overly reassured.

“I’ll be all right, Swan,” he murmured, his voice gravelly and weak. “Love you.”

“I love you too.” She squeezed his hand and then allowed someone to whisk her outside. Killian released a shaky sigh. Then he closed his eyes, resigned to his fate.

He would be able to keep his last vow to his beloved… wouldn’t he?