Summary: Reginald Pye has a bad night that turns into an even worse day.
AN: Chapter 1 written for Whumpril Day 24: Sensory Overload
So this is a fanfic of my friend @biscuits-of-bagend's Regalph tennis AU. Y'all should go read Men Out of Time right now bcus it is so so amazing, it lives rent free in my head. And this fic will probably make more sense if you do 😅
Read on AO3
Chapter 1
Chapter TW/CW: Nightmares, grief, anxiety, sensory overload, disordered eating, nausea and minor mentions of vomiting
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Reginald Pye awoke from his restless sleep with nausea settling into his stomach and dread seeping under his skin. He'd had a feeling today would be difficult from the moment he lay down last night and he was rather resentful at being proven right.
But the world wouldn't wait for him to gather himself. A tennis match could hardly be put on a hold just because he'd jolted awake in tears at two o'clock this morning, calling out for Helen and trembling so violently he feared he'd fall apart.
He threw the covers off and dragged himself upright before he could dwell on anything. Just pull himself through the day and don't think about anything other than tennis. If he didn't think about having to eat breakfast or going near cars or the crowds of people then the cold shadow gnawing away at his insides would fade away (or, more likely, he'd just be able to ignore it until he found time to wallow in his misery in peace).
At least he'd get to see Ralph. That brought a smile to his face.
-
Reginald pushed his glasses up his nose with the end of his pen for what felt like the thousandth time. The sweat dripping down his face made it impossible for them to stay put, this was a losing battle and he knew it.
Just focus on Ralph. Focus on Ralph. Ralph. Ralph.
It was becoming a mantra repeated over and over as he kept his eyes on the man in question and scribbled down notes with shaking hands. His handwriting had devolved into an untidy scrawl as the match progressed and he could only hope he'd be able to decipher it later.
In an air conditioned building. In the shade. And the quiet.
The back of his neck prickled with the discomfort of heat and being surrounded by people. It was all he could do not to curl into a ball and cry like he would have as a young boy. He squirmed in his seat slightly, leg bouncing against the ground but tried his best not to draw attention to himself.
Focus on Ralph.
It took him a second to reorient himself, vision swimming a little as he sought out that familiar face. But the slightest wave of calm settled over him watching Ralph in his element and he stilled in his seat.
Ralph was surely feeling worse than Reg at this precise moment anyway, sprinting across the court with very little protection from the sun. Unlike Reg, sitting quietly in the crowd with his flat cap shading his face and having the audacity to complain while Ralph put himself through the ringer.
Reg felt a stab of guilt in his stomach, swirling together with the nausea until tears pricked at his eyes.
Deep breath. Focus on Ralph. Do your job.
He zeroed in on the match playing out before him and did his best to tune out the rest of the world. The blazing sun and the crowd around him wouldn't distract him. He refused to let them.
-
For most people, the end of the match would mark the end of the event. Not for Reg. Standing between him and the comforting solitude and darkness of his air conditioned hotel room was the dreaded press conference.
And an evening spent with Ralph. They had found themselves with the same night completely free of work responsibilities. Ralph had offered to show Reg the sights of the area and he had enthusiastically agreed. Of course he wants to make the most of the opportunity to see the only person Reg could consider to be his best friend, but the unending tremor running through his body and the crushing weight of the humid air against his skin seemed ready to put a stop to all his plans.
Stop being ridiculous, Reg. You're fine.
People vacated their seats around him, the reporters filtering out of the stands and into the conference hall, but Reg remained in his place for the moment. Once most of the crowd had dispersed and he wouldn't be shoved over by journalists chomping at the bit for the opportunity to retreat into the shade, Reg carefully and slowly rose to his feet.
Black spots marred his vision, his empty stomach flipped uncomfortably at the change in gravity and for a moment he wasn't sure whether he was starving for a meal or about to lose his nonexistent lunch.
This morning, he had sincerely intended to try and just force down a slice of buttered toast or a bowl of the plainest cereal he could find just so he wouldn't be running on fumes all day. However as he'd shuffled his way down the stairs and towards the hotel's breakfast room, he'd realised that he just couldn't face it today. The buzz of morning chatter and the clink of cutlery on plates was worming into his ears and turning his mind to static. Not to mention the smell of the food bringing bile to the back of his throat.
So he'd left the building without so much as a bite to eat and completely ignoring the fact that his most recent meal had been yesterday morning's breakfast. And that was only because Ralph had kindly sat by and coached him through his meal once again.
God, he couldn't wait to see Ralph.
He blinked a few times to clear his vision, that thought firmly settling him back into reality and spurring him on towards the conference hall.
He moved along with slow wobbling steps, trying not to draw attention to himself. His attempts proved themselves ineffective when Stevens approached, placing a firm hand on his shoulder to grab his attention.
"You feeling alright there, Reg?" he asked, quietly so as not to draw attention.
Once Reg's brain had finished sluggishly catching up to the situation, he nodded unsteadily and mumbled a less than reassuring, "Yep."
Stevens seemed unconvinced and Reg braced himself for an argument he felt far too fragile to participate in, but Stevens took pity on him. A firm pat to the shoulder and a hushed statement of "Call it a day if you need" were all he got before Stevens backed off to leave him to it.
Like hell would he do that. He'd push through, see Ralph and he'd be fine before he knew it.
He resisted the urge to slump down in his seat, sitting with proper posture and schooling his face into something nuetral and polite. The conference set off and Reginald sat quietly, knowing for a fact that he wouldn't be able to scrape together a question. For god's sake, he could barely even remember the events of the match. But still, he racked his brain trying to figure one out.
His intense focus did nothing but make his head throb and he was no closer to having anything nearly good enough to consider raising a trembling hand and trying to force clumsy words out of his mouth.
He hoped no one would notice his silence. Or the sweat still dripping down his face despite the fact that ample time had passed for him to cool down.
Was anyone looking at him? His eyes darted side to side, seeing everyone focused on the players. As they should be. So why could he feel people's gaze on him, judging and sneering? His breath hitched for a moment, heartrate spiking even further and molten hot dread bubbling in his stomach.
Someone had to have noticed by now, the way he was shrinking in on himself and how loudly he was breathing or how hard his heart thumped in his chest. There was an itch under his skin and he needed to get out.
But he couldn't. He was trapped in his seat and hanging onto a calm professional outward appearance by a thread. There was nothing to do apart from wait it out. Maybe he should have taken Stevens up on his offer to bow out for the rest of the day, but then he wouldn't see Ralph afterwards.
He dug his fingernails into his palms, breaths rushing in and out of his lungs until his head was spinning far worse than it had all day. He wished to sink into the ground and hide for the rest of time where no one could see him.
But something cut through the buzz of everything around him.
"Well, the way I see it-"
Ralph's voice. Answering a question, giving his typical short and to-the-point answers as has come to be expected for questions coming from reporters not named Reginald Pye.
The sound rumbled through him and settled comfortingly over him. His chest loosened and he took a deep breath. The words Ralph was actually saying didn't quite register in Reg's head, but just the fact it was Ralph speaking soothed him regardless.
His tense shoulders relaxed and his expression smoothed out into something that no longer resembled a scowl. Ralph's words wrapped around him and muffled the distress and discomfort for a while.
And even when that voice left his side as the world carried on without Reg, the calm lingered in his chest for long enough that he was able to simply coast through the rest of the conference without processing a thing that was happening around him.
Before he knew it, the shuffle of people leaving their seats and the soft buzz of conversations starting around him indicated the end of the conference. Reality came back into focus, sound pierced into Reg's senses again and he all but shot to his feet and rushed outside as calmly and quickly as he could with shadows at the edges of his vision and his legs threatening to give out.
He didn't exactly enjoy being back out in the blazing heat but at least there was less people out here, less chatter and noise and things happening around him. He breathed in deeply through his nose, locked his knees to stop his legs shaking and tried his best to convince himself he was calm.
is there such a thing as a beta but instead of reading for line edits or plot notes, they just read my work and recommend what tags to put on ao3 outside of like. warnings.
Lulu's Totally Unofficial Guide to the Top 10 Freeform Tags to Add to Your Fanfic
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Reginald watched the smoke drift through the air, curling out the window towards the clouds. It was the only time he saw sunlight nowadays, leaning out the window with his lungs full of smoke. He couldn't even tell if it cleared his head or muddied the water of his thoughts even further at this point. All he knew was that the raging turmoil turned to fuzzy noise in these stray moments.
He really should finish up soon. Lux wouldn't be happy at all the light streaming into the corridor. The little creature seemed to fear the sun and open sky more than he did.
Maybe fear was the wrong word, for the both of them. Lux would stare at those stray sunbeams from afar, hackles up like an agitated dog, but the look in its eyes was one of admiration and longing. Respect, apprehension, yearning. Yes, that was it.
And as for Reggie himself? Well, he couldn't bear showing his face to the world at this point. He was no stranger to being a social pariah, that's for certain. But the looks he got in the street, hushed whispers he couldn't quite catch...well, they crawled under his skin nowadays. He knew what they thought and he hardly blamed them.
An antisocial widower who shut himself in a run down theatre, day in and day out, hardly saying a word to anyone when he did emerge. And the sole survivor of a mass disappearance in the very place he spent all that time. He knew how incredibly suspect it all was, but that didn't make the way people looked at him like he was something monstrous easier to bear.
It didn't really matter anymore. Nothing much mattered to him since Helen passed. He was a dead man moving through the world on borrowed time. He didn't have the will to do much more than let his life pass him by, so he let the glances and murmurs go on and tried not to think about it. Really, he'd say he was waiting.
Waiting. It felt cowardly to admit. A man with conviction would act, not merely wait.
This probably wasn't the situation his father had imagined when he would say as such to a younger Reginald. But still, he felt it applied. He was dead all the same, and yet he clung to his miserable life and waited for Helen.
He missed her, that much was obvious to anyone.
He took another drag of his cigarette, the sulfur scent in his lungs helping blur out his thoughts.
Helen had never liked that he smoked and he hardly blamed her. He'd done his absolute best to kick the habit but...well, it helped when his mind began to spiral out of control. The same thought screaming in his mind over and over, like the crackle and screech of the wireless when it wasn't tuned to the right station. Demanding attention, drowning out every other thought while his skin itched to do something to shut it up.
Helen knew he found solace in nicotine, didn't begrudge him for that fact. But she didn't like it in the slightest.
Hadn't liked it, he should say. Still forgetting after all this time, still gave him that odd squirming twist in his stomach when he corrected himself.
He brought the cigarette to his lips, taking a deep inhale before sighing the smoke into the air, a soft cough following the stench of ash. It wasn't doing much to calm his mind anymore.
He hadn't been in his car since that day. Hadn't even touched the keys. He didn't trust himself behind the wheel. People lost sight of the fact that vehicles were dangerous machines, small slips could shatter someone's life in a second. He couldn't bear the thought of inflicting that pain on another and he had some bone deep certainty that he inevitably would if he ever started up the engine of his car again.
He wasn't sure if it was the nicotine making him ill or his own thoughts.
It was your fault.
Ah...that one again.
The last time he saw Helen was a Saturday. A quiet gentle morning, waking up to the sunshine and drinking tea in comfortable silence until the dog followed them downstairs, running in circles and fishing for affection. Repairs at the Palazzo meant Reggie was home for the day, an unexpected development but a welcome one.
A necessary trip to the store reluctantly pulled her away. He had offered to come with her, something about giving the dog a walk while they were out but...well, Reg's aching knees were acting up. He didn't have to say it, she saw the grimace on his face when he got out of bed this morning. Besides, the dog had climbed into his lap after he'd settled into his armchair and did not look enthused at the prospect of being disturbed. So she leaned down to kiss Reginald on the cheek, gave the pup a little pat and off she went, alone.
Reginald wouldn't consider himself clingy, it was unbecoming behaviour after all. However on morning's like these, when it was just him and Helen in eachother's company for hours, it was all he could do not to wrap her up in his arms and never let go. The warmth and love of being close to her never lost its luster. So, he'd considered delaying her just a few moments, requesting just one more kiss before she left. It wasn't out of the ordinary for him to ask. The thing is, he hadn't gotten the words in order in his head in time. In the seconds it took to formulate a sentence, she was already out the door.
Oh well, he'd thought. There's always later.
Reginald supposed he must be superstitious to some degree, because he knew it was that very thought that had doomed her. If he had stalled her for just a few moments then that reckless idiot behind the wheel of their car would have passed by before she could even cross the road. It had been right there and he'd let it pass him by. He could have done something.
It was your fault.
He really should be getting back inside, Lux would start hounding him any minute now.
It was your fault.
The recurring thought rattled in his brain, nausea swirled in his stomach.
"Oh Reggie!!" Lux's sing-song voice echoed down the hall.
It was your fault.
He should put out his cigarette. He briefly considered snuffing it out against the bricks of the building but...well, he felt rather guilty for thinking that. The picture house often felt like it had a soul to him, he couldn't bear the thought of "hurting" it, as silly as that may sound. Besides, the flood of incoherent anger his brain responded with put a stop to that idea.
How could you even consider-
It was your fault.
You don't deserve the bloody Palazzo if that's how you're gonna treat it.
It was your fault.
It was your fault.
It was your fault.
He stubbed out the cigarette on his hand on impulse.
The burn sent a shockwave through his bones
His brain went blissfully quiet.
Oh.
It had been a long time since he'd done that. Back before he'd married Helen, palms stinging near constantly while he struck another match, lit the next cigarette.
Maybe Lux would ask questions about the burn on his hand or maybe it would just look at his nicotine stained fingers and figure it out.
He discarded the burnt out cigarette and shut the window.
i found this list and kinda fed into it each time i got the flu or a migraine, and u know what, it's just me revealing just how much i love the caring threads and the soft threads and the fondly exasperated "let me help you" threads! use at your pleasure, DO NOT ADD TO THE LIST NOR EDIT IT! i will be changing it accordingly!
" i found you passed out in the kitchen. you wanna stop working yourself so hard? or do i need to keep hitting the gym to carry you to bed every day? "
" you're burning up. "
" your neighbour called me and said you could use a nurse. looks like they were right, too. "
" you were told to take it easy, so... yeah. this is kinda on you. "
" you took a sick day. you NEVER take a sick day. so yeah, i got worried, and i figured i'd come over and keep an eye on you. "
" you texted me a long and incoherent text that held about 90% of the emoji list and about four different languages. figured it wouldn't hurt to drop by and see how you were doing. "
" how long have you been sick for? and don't lie. "
" you look like hell. "
" i brought you some soup; let me heat some up for you? "
" okay. it's time you went to the hospital. "
" hey… hello there, sleeping beauty. you gave me a bit of a scare yesterday. how are you feeling? "
" i swear, if you even think of getting out of that bed… "
" you know when i said to call if it's an emergency? a fever is most DEFINITELY considered an emergency! "
" if you think you're going to work like this, you better think again. "
" don't worry. my family swears by this remedy; just let it work its magic and you'll feel good as new in no time. "
" I don't care about getting sick. i'm not leaving you until you're back to full health. "
" you didn't stop to think that this might happen when you're burning the candle at both ends? "
" yeah, I can play the role of nurse AND say "I told you so" at the same time, actually. "
" you better drink every last drop of this tea, no matter how disgusting it is. "
" i told my boss it was an emergency so they've given me a full week to look after you. "
" quit being so stubborn and get into BED! "
" what part of doctor's orders hasn't sunk in yet? bed rest! for the WEEK! "
" right, where do you keep your saucepans? i'm going to make you my famous noodle soup. it's a cure-all, i'm telling you! "
" hey, unless you're going to the bathroom or the sofa, I don't want to see you out of that bed. got it? "
" when are you gonna start letting people look after you, huh? "
" i know, i know, i turned off all the lights once i figured you had the migraine. you want some tea? water? "
" don't be mad, but i saw your fridge, and... it frightened me. so i've taken you back to my place, and i'm gonna get deliveroo to bring some groceries to your place tomorrow. okay? "
" i know your appetite is a little off, so i ordered in a whole tonne of options. just try a little bit of something, please? for me? "
" i've brought half a pharmacy, enough movies and boardgames to last us a decade, and every single snack i could fit into the basket at the grocery store. so sit your butt down, eat your soup, and try and make the most of your bed rest for the next week, will you? "
ACTION PROMPTS ( SEND THE FULL LINE! and feel free to reverse if u wish! ):
[ TOUCH ]: sender gently rests a hand against the receiver's forehead to check their temperature.
[ DAMP ]: sender presses a cool cloth against the receiver's face, neck and forehead to try and lower their fever.
[ BLANKET ]: sender wraps another blanket around the receiver to try and stop them from shivering.
[ SPOON ]: sender gently coaxes spoons of soup into the receiver's mouth to build up their strength after an illness.
[ CARRY ]: sender, finding the receiver weakened/unconscious on the floor, immediately lifts them up and carries them back to bed.
[ AROUND ]: sender keeps a protective arm around the receiver to help them walk without the risk of stumbling or collapsing.
[ STAY ]: sender decides to stay by the receiver's bedside after learning that they're sick.
[ HAIR ]: sender smooths back the receiver's hair in a soothing gesture to try and help them go back to sleep.
[ TILT ]: sender tips a bottle of water up for the receiver to sip from.
[ HUM ]: sender hums/sings to soothe a sick receiver back to sleep.
[ BACK ]: sender gently rubs the receiver's back, either to soothe them or warm them while they're unwell.
[ SHARE ]: sender climbs into the receiver's sickbed with them, wrapping their arms around them to offer warmth and comfort.
[ SHOWER ]: sender, learning the receiver has a high fever, takes a cold shower with them in order to lower their temperature.
[ WAKEN ]: the receiver wakes up in bed, having been found unconscious by the sender and carried into the bed from the floor.
[ QUARANTINE ]: the sender and receiver, both being sick, decide to quarantine together and spend the recovery period with each other.
"You're next." the creature from the film had whispered. But Reginald didn't flinch. He shook and trembled but he did not flinch. Something in his mind had unsnapped and he watched that thing advance on the projection room like it was still merely a film rolling on the screen.
And when the threat came, he closed his eyes and thought of Helen. The creature had demanded films and when he refused, it did its best to make him scared. But he couldn't bring himself to be scared of death when he already felt like a ghost.
The cartoon had laughed, muttering about "not being convinced" and "trying something else". And then its attention was drawn to the film canister Reginald was clinging to like a lifeline.
-
And it showed him the one thing that would have swayed him. This time, when it hounded him for films, he played the reels. Because he would remember his dear wife stepping from the screen, holding her in his arms once again after so many lonely years, dancing with her like they were young again.
And he could have that again and again as many times as he wished. As long as he kept this creature happy. It was worth it.
Even if the moment she faded away, it felt like the day he lost her all over again.
-
That first time, she had disappeared and his heart sank, a pit formed in his stomach and he couldn't stay on his feet. He tried to catch himself but he collapsed ungracefully to the ground, aching bones jarring with the impact.
And he cried. Ugly loud sobs that tore violently from his chest. He could feel the eyes of the creature in the projector room watching him, seething with quiet annoyance. It sat there raging as Reginald fell apart all over again.
When he fell silent, he didn't move for the longest time. Years ago, he'd been sat on a bench staring into the road at the passing cars, stuck in place. Now, he was crumpled on the ground in an empty picture house, unable to lift himself to his feet as an angry god watched.
It felt like hours before he dragged himself back to the projector room, with nausea so intense that he shook from the feeling. At Lux's request, he set a reel spinning in the projector with trembling hands. He somehow knew Lux would have no sympathy for his current state.
The film played on the silver screen, Lux would be satisfied for a short while. He pulled the reel from the other projector, the one that he'd kept safe for years and was so grateful that he did so. Oh so gently, he returned the film to its can. He picked it up and held it close. He leaned on the wall, sliding to the ground and hugging the can to his chest.
His breath caught and a fresh flood of tears reached him. In the years since he lost Helen, he'd cried less and less. Not that it had hurt any less, but feeling the same pain day after day, he ran out of the will to cry. But seeing her smile again, being able to hug her so tightly and hoping he'd never have to let go only for the illusion to fall apart, his heart was ripped from his chest all over again.
It was almost too much for him to bear.
He held the film can even tighter, metal edges digging into his chest as if it would quell the sickness squirming in his stomach like a wild animal.
He rocked himself back and forth, the motion managing to soothe him just a little. The rhythm of it took his mind away from his situation and brought his anxieties down for the moment.
Peace was something he didn't feel often nowadays, but this was the closest he'd felt to it in a long time. Simple motion, the whir of the projector in his ears and the chatter of a happy-go-lucky cartoon on the screen. It was an echo of peace at the very least.
Unfortunately, it wouldn't last. He could practically see the film playing out behind his closed eyelids as he listened.
It began to near the end.
His heart beat ratcheted up.
A charming melody played as the film closed out.
His tears fell down his face quicker.
The projector clattered as it ran out of film to play.
The nausea swirled inside him, twisting and clawing its way up his throat.
"Oh Mr Reginald Pye!" Lux drawled in a sing-song voice, footsteps marching their way up the cinema stairs as it approached.
Reginald trembled, doing his best to sink into the ground beneath him.
The door swung open with a loud thud, crashing into the wall beside it and rattling the entire room.
He flinched violently, curling himself up in a weak attempt at protecting himself. The sight of that thing filled him with cold sickly fear. It had never layed a finger on him but just the knowledge of what it could do had his mind racing and his stomach churning.
Until he promptly vomited onto the tile, one hand braced against the ground to keep himself upright and the other refusing to let go of the film can. It was mercifully brief, he didn't eat much nowadays. He gagged helplessly for a few moments, ribs aching from the motion, before he managed to catch his breath with a sour taste lingering in his mouth and shame prickling at his neck.
"Aw, poor Reggie Pye." Its mouth drooped in an over exaggerated frown, the contortion of muscles still managing to look impossible on the 2D imitation of a face.
It stepped closer, beginning to box Reginald in. He could only shuffle backwards across the ground, pressing himself into the corner just to get away from it.
But he had nowhere to go and the space between them would run out.
He closed his eyes and waited.
For something.
He didn't know what.
Maybe the nightmare would end.
But when was Reginald ever that lucky?
A hand brushed his face, gentle and...almost tender. An unwilling warmth bloomed in his chest, warmth he had felt mere moments ago when Helen held his hands and kissed him.
He didn't need to open his eyes to know it wasn't her. These hands were cold, a distant incorporeal quality to their touch despite being so very real.
(Because this thing had to be real. If it was real, so was Helen)
Either way, those hands held him. Lips touched the crown of his head and all Reginald could do was sob while something deeply horrifying and leagues beyond his comprehension whispered empty comfort in his ear.
It was a stupid mistake that had gotten him into this mess, really. He should have known better.
But how could he have known they had Kryptonite?
A slight slip that gave away his cover and a blow to the back of the head was all it took to lose the upper hand.
-
The first thing he became aware of when he woke was the rumbling of a plane engine rattling the floor beneath his feet.
His eyes snapped open. Darkness. Unrelenting darkness. Pushing aside how disconcerting that was, he took stock of his other senses. His head throbbed and his ears rang, warm sticky blood clinging to the side of his face. Cold metal digging into his wrists gave away the fact he was restrained, arms pulled up towards the ceiling and his feet chained to the floor. His feet could barely reach the ground, chains pulled taut to strain his arms. He strained to hear something, but all he got was the whir of the plane.
An experimental tug against his bonds had panic rising in his chest. The metal refused to break, not even so much as creaking under the force.
Oh no.
He began to fight against the restraints in earnest, a rare fear taking hold. Sure, the bumbling reporter Clark Kent was an anxious individual but when he was Superman, he'd never been on the backfoot like this. He could break free, he could always break free, he just had to-
"Superman. I wondered when you'd wake up."
The voice sent a chill down his spine. He hadn't even heard them enter the room. The lights remained off, obscuring the individual from view. All he got was that smooth threatening voice hissing at him.
"What do you want?" Despite the darkness hiding his face, he still glared in the direction the voice came from, not letting the facade slip for a moment.
A sickening laugh echoed off the walls.
"Nothing, nothing at all."
"Forgive me if I don't quite believe that." He barely repressed the urge to roll his eyes. "You've gone to all this trouble, I'd like to know why I'm here."
"Of course, of course. It's nothing much. I'm looking to run a little experiment."
The lights flickered on. Clark didn't stop to look at the person's face, his attention drawn to the metal gauntlets they were wearing. Something about them made him sick to his stomach.
"There's not a lot of test subjects around for weapons made with Kryptonite, you see."
He caught glimpse of an eerie grin before he was struck in the stomach. Instead of taking the blow with ease, the metal punched into the soft skin and knocked the air out of him, leaving him gasping.
He once again attempted to pull himself free but that only earned him a harsh slap to the face. The rough edges of the gauntlet cut into his skin, yielding more hot blood.
"Good luck with that. You think I wouldn't forge the chains with Kryptonite too?"
"Of course..." Clark muttered dryly. His attitude seemed to aggravate them, another fist hurling itself at him. It landed squarely in his chest and he grit his teeth against the pain. Okay, message recieved. Be quiet. It wasn't like he was used to anyone being able to deal any damage. Somehow each hit still managed to catch him off guard, brain glitching at each hint of unfamiliar pain.
At least they just seemed content with pummelling him for now, who knows what else they had in store for him.
-
Clark could almost say he was getting bored of this, if not for the fact that his body was screaming in agony. Well, maybe agony was a bit far. Really, how would he know? The first time he's truly been hurt is when a maniac kidnaps him, chains him up and "experiments" on him.
This experiment thus far had only seemed to entail using him as a punching bag.
He bit back a scream when a hit landed harshly against his bruised ribs, not that any part of him could be described as unbruised at this point. His face was probably the least damaged but even then, he was certain it wasn't pretty. Even if it wasn't as black and blue as the rest of him would be. It almost felt like they had done so on purpose.
As Clark struggled to get his breath back, he heard a sentence that made his blood run cold.
"As fun as it is to watch you struggle against a beating, I think it's time for something else, don't you?"
Clark shook his head desperately, not wanting to know the next thing they had in store for him. They chuckled. The sound made Clark gag, nausea already rolling in his stomach.
Another hit landed against his torso. He heard the crack of his body breaking under their fist, pain bloomed from his ribs and he screamed.
And by the time he caught his breath and looked up, they were gone. For how long, he didn't know, but he appreciated the reprieve.
Finally alone, his exhaustion creeped through him, able to make itself known in the stillness and quiet. He fought against it as best he could but against his will, an uncomfortable sleep found him.
-
He was disturbed from his ineffective rest by hands on his shoulders. He blinked and squinted and came face to face with his captor unclipping his cape from his shoulders.
"Decided to join us, have you?" They pulled the cape away with a theatrical flourish and something in Clark's stomach sank upon being separated from it. His wrist jerked in its restraint in a reflexive effort to take it back.
"Forgive me for having to revoke you of that." they frowned in mock sympathy. "You'll soon see why."
Something about that sent a chill down Clark's spine. A few possibilities sprung to his exhausted mind and his breaths sped up, abused chest rising and falling rapidly.
His captor disappeared from his view, meandering casually across the room behind him. Their calm demeanour didn't do anything to ease his fear.
The silence didn't help either.
He waited, stewing in dread.
His patience was rewarded by the sound of an almighty crack and pure agony slicing across his back.
The overwhelming pain seized through him, every muscle tensing as a strained scream was pulled from his lungs.
Something about it sent his brain into blind animalistic panic. He pulled uselessly on his chains, thrashing like something feral trying to escape.
He was struck once more, doubling both the pain and his need to get away despite the situation being so...helpless.
A firm hand on his shoulder and a hissed whisper of "I'd stay still if I were you" prompted him to freeze up, a cold chill of anxiety rushing down his throbbing spine.
He anticipated another strike. It never came. Instead, the hand on his shoulder travelled across his back, fingers tracing the still covered skin until it found the lines of pain across it. He whimpered, more out of fear than anything else.
Fingers dug in, clawing at him through his suit (a layer of separation he was grateful for) and he couldn't help but cry at the bolts of pain crawling through him. The scientist was rambling away, he didn't hear a word of it.
And the process repeated. The crack of the whip, sometimes once, sometimes twice, often until he lost count. Then they would poke and prod and scratch and widen the wounds. And the scientist would whisper to him, talking slowly and sweetly as if he were a dumb animal in need of reassurance, all the while continuing to torment him.
He sobbed and screamed until his voice was coarse and broken.
Blood soaked into his suit, sticking to the wounds.
He was pretty sure he vomited somewhere along the line, only aware of his bruised ribs spasming and a sour taste in his mouth.
His vision slowly went hazey, bloodloss and panic clouding him.
-
The chains clanked, shaking his sore limbs. He snapped awake, but he wasn't met with that damn scientist. Instead, he saw a young scared face interfering with his restraints with shaking hands.
"Don't say anything." she whispered. "I'm getting you out."
Why? What are you doing here?
He tried his best to ask, but not a word escaped his damaged throat. Besides, the guilty look in her eyes was all the answer he needed.
The chains around his wrists released and he crrumpled to the floor. All the tension in his muscles collapsed and a high pitched pained noise escaped him. He whined, tears springing to his eyes once more.
"We're still in the air but, uh...y - you'll be fine, right? Flying and all that. You'll be out of here before they notice you're gone." she babbled at him, trying to help him to his feet.
Vulnerable and exposed as he was, the absence of his cape sent his mind even more off-balance.
What's the scientist's name? What do they look like? Where are we?
All of those were very important questions to ask.
"Cape?" he croaked, the sound scraping along his throat. He winced, both at the sound and the soreness.
The cape was fixed back to his shoulders wordlessly before he was guided away from where he had been strung up like a puppet.
They took it slow through darkened rooms, clearly avoiding...something. Truly, Clark couldn't take much of it in. He merely leaned on her and tried to mitigate the pain each step forward took as best he could.
Finally, they reached the door. It was a set of two doors, sort of like an airlock on a spaceship. The woman typed in a code on the wall before yanking the door open. She carefully deposited Clark inside, sinking to the floor with him when it was clear he wouldn't stay standing. He whimpered with pain the whole way.
"Sorry Superman, I can't do much else now. I'll open the door for you and hope I'm not caught." she smiled, so so sadly.
I'll come back for you. I'll save you. I'll stop them.
He wished so badly to comfort her but with his voice broken and his face bloody, he just held her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, hoping his eyes said what they needed to.
She blinked the tears from her eyes, stroked the one stray curl of hair from his face and rose to her feet.
"Goodbye Superman." she closed the door behind her and that was the last Clark saw of her.
The door leading to the exterior of the plane swung open in no time and he went tumbling down towards the snow.
Summary: Superman's fight with Lex Luthor's little experiment has left him worse for wear
AN: Chapter 2 written for Whumpril Day 14: Lost/Found
So I was planning a rewrite of Superman III and IV bcus they suck so so so bad and realised that Superman IV had major whump potential so here's some self-indulgent whump based on it.
Read on AO3
Chapter 2: found
Chapter TW/CW: None
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The phone rang and rang, the sound making Lois more anxious as each second passed. This wasn't like Clark. He was a no show at work, no one had heard from him, he wasn't picking up the phone and there had been no Superman sightings all day.
She slammed the phone back down and returned to her desk. She hadn't spoken to anyone other than to ask after Clark, hadn't even seen today's headline because as soon as her eyes landed on Clark's empty desk, she'd gone for the nearest phone.
As she made her way back, her eyes landed on a copy of today's newspaper.
Is Superman Dead?
She snatched up the paper, eyes scanning over the words, waiting for this to be another one of those overblown headlines designed to mislead.
A photo of the Statue of Liberty stared back at Lois, Superman's cape hanging from her torch.
Her stomach sank, her grip tightened and crumpled the paper. Dread and worry were quickly subsumed by anger at their new editors. As far as Lois was concerned, they had no business printing something like this. Speculative fearmongering drivel that profited on uncertainty. This was not the honest Daily Planet she had signed up for.
Before she could think, she was storming across the building into the editor's office, throwing open the door without knocking.
"Okay, this time you've both gone too far!" they both turned to look at her in utter shock as she held up the paper for them to see as if they hadn't both seen it already. Seen it and approved it and given the okay for the Daily Planet to become something entirely different.
"You can print your stupid rag without Lois Lane."
As she threw the damned paper down on the desk, her eyes fell on the heap of fabric folded next to it. Bright red with a blazing yellow shield embossed with an S.
Superman's cape.
Clark's cape.
That was a step too far. She didn't want to know how they got their hands on it but it wasn't theirs to have.
"And you certainly have no right to this." she hissed at them. She pulled the cape from under their noses and walked out the door before they could say a word to her.
By the time she was back to her desk, the rage had calmed a little. She could think more clearly.
Clark. Something was wrong with Clark.
Seriously wrong.
First order of business, return his cape to him. She knew he'd be grateful he found it. His Superman costume was something very dear to him, if him wearing it at all time was anything to go by.
She turned to walk out the door.
She probably shouldn't walk down the street obviously carrying Superman's cape. If she was followed back to Clark's home, his cover was blown. Everyone would know.
Actual first order of business, wrap up the cape so no one could see it. Then go to Clark's place.
She wasn't even sure he'd be there but it was her best bet at the moment. Besides, if something had happened to him, what are the chances he'd even be able to fly all the way up north to his Fortress.
It was a disturbing thought, something being able to bring down Superman like that.
She picked up the cape, now wrapped in paper, and speed walked out the door. She just hoped she wasn't too late already. She just had a horrible feeling.
Summary: The Brigadier is injured on duty, the Doctor swoops in to save him. Not that he needs it
TW/CW: Injury, mild description of a dislocated shoulder, minor reference to internalised homophobia
AN: Written for Whumpril Day 12: Dislocation
Title is from Bottom by McCafferty
Read on AO3
"Brigadier!"
The Doctor came running immediately. Unnecessarily, might he add. It was just a minor fall. Out of a window. An upstairs window. His shoulder was smarting from the impact but nothing more.
He intended to simply clamber back to his feet and dust himself off, however that plan was quickly put to a stop when he was unable to move his arm, the pain spiking and richocheting through when he tried. He hissed sharply through his teeth.
"Alistair, are you quite alright?" The Doctor was kneeling over him, concern written across his face. But he couldn't focus on that for the life of him. Not with the Doctor leaning over him, sunlight shining through a halo of his white curls.
But the Doctor had asked him a question, it would be rude not to deign him with an answer.
"Perfectly." he said with a strained voice as the Doctor helped him sit up. His mind zeroed in on the Doctor's large hands on his arm, pain and discomfort fading to the back of his mind. The occasional jolt of pain made itself known, but his arm was oddly numb. That was likely cause for concern but...
The Doctor was chattering away in his ear and poking and prodding at his shoulder but none of it was making its way to Alistair's brain. It was too busy examining the Doctor's face for whatever reason. The creases around his eyes that gave away a penchant for warm smiles, lips that never stop talking unless he were deep in thought or laser focused on something with that intense stare-
"Alistair!" The sudden rise in volume cut through the odd haze in his mind. He felt warm, lightheaded. He'd say he wasn't fond of it if it weren't for a fluttering in his chest, a rosey feeling that insisted all was right with the world.
"You dislocated your shoulder, my dear. I need to set it back in place."
My dear. The words did something awful to Alistair's heart, a swooping lifting feeling combined with the unpleasant skip of a beat and followed by something sick and afraid twisting in his stomach.
He could only nod in answer.
The Doctor brought Alistair to lean against him. Alistair was braced between the Doctor's torso and arm, hand resting against his chest and the other gripping his arm.
He had to hold his breath, the contact making him dizzy. Although part of him, the rational no-nonsense part that seemed unusually quiet at the moment, questioned the necessity of it. He'd been taught the procedure for a dislocated shoulder, basic first-aid training all all that. He didn't think this level of contact was strictly warranted.
Not that he would say that out loud.
Because the Doctor would be outraged.
One shouldn't find himself thinking he knows better than his scientific advisor, as the Doctor would tell him.
That was the reason.
Not that they weren't prone to butting heads-
"This might hurt."
His shoulder snapped back into a place with a jolt of agony. He jerked away on instinct, a sharp breathless gasp of pain leaving his throat, but the Doctor held him firm.
And when he caught his breath, the Doctor brought him to his feet and gave a reassuring pat on his good shoulder.
"I'd say take it easy, but I know you better than that."
And with that, he went striding off, all flowing capes and bravado. The Doctor's touch lingered under Alistair's skin.
Okay so the plan rn is to write as much as possible and whatever I have by the 30th is what I post. The only ones I'll work on after that point are the multi-chapter fics
Edit: I'm emotionally attached to the prompts so I'm gonna finish all of them 😭😭 I'd feel bad, they'll be sad if I don't finish them
Summary: "Now fly." Luthor hissed, venom in Clark's ear as he wheezed through the pain
Or, a look at Clark and Lois' POVs during the whumpy scenes in Superman Returns
AN: Chapter 1 written for Whumpril Day 11: Grounding (kinda)
Fic and chapter titles from Line Without a Hook by Ricky Montgomery
Yeah so I read the prompt wrong and wrote an entire chapter based on Grounded (as in...can't fly) and didn't notice until too late. Sorry. Hope this doesn't break the rules of the challenge haha
Read on AO3
Chapter 1: i broke all my bones that day
Next ->
Chapter TW/CW: Blood, drowning, stabbing
"Kryptonite!"
The word echoed across the sickly island as Superman lifted his stinging palms off the ground.
Blood on his hands.
Blood on his hands.
His blood.
"You're asking yourself-" Luthor's voice was far closer and accompanied by a swift kick to the side. Clark cried out in pain, unable to catch his breath as blow after blow landed against him.
And Luthor was still talking but he couldn't even begin to wrap his head around what was being said with the pain richocheting through his bones. He was knocked onto his back before being struck upside the head. His skull crashed into the rock, jolting through his head and down his neck.
Then the boot tried to stamp down on his neck and he reached up to catch it, weakly struggling as it tried to collide with his body.
But then Luthor's lackies got involved. Grabbing, pulling, dragging him across jagged Kryptonite crystals by his hair while he screamed. They seemed to delight in the sounds, toxic sleazy grins leering down at him as they overpowered a god.
One of them seemed rather overzealous, ripping Superman's limp form out of his peer's grasp. Clark fought as hard as he could against the strong grip, Kryptonite draining every reserve of energy he had.
His efforts were proved to be in vain when he was lifted from the ground and tossed as if he weighed nothing at all. He collided with a solid wall of crystal, hearing an almighty crack which could have been the black cliffs behind him or his own bones. He could hardly tell anymore.
Grasping for breath, dizzy with pain and desperate to flee, he began to crawl. Hauling himself forward by his hands just to get away. He could hear the laughter, the sound worming its way through him and manifesting into nausea in his stomach.
Footsteps approached slowly, mockingly, letting him think he was making progress when he truly had no chance of escaping in this state.
A heavy foot forced him down, stepping heavily until the only noise that left him was an agonising breathless wheeze. Still, he continued his desperate crawl through the puddles until two rough pairs of hands hauled him up by his shoulders.
It was all happening so fast, he could barely keep up with it. He was sure he could hear a woman screaming as fists rained down against him, but that could just as easily be his imagination.
And then he was suddenly dropped again, allowed to continue his pathetic escape attempt while they continued to laugh and jeer and kick.
And just as he dared to hope he was making progress, he was stopped dead in his tracks by a hand gripping him by his hair. His head was forced down into the rainwater collecting across the island, not even getting the chance to take a last breath.
Blinding panic, built in him the longer he was held down, body thrashing and bucking against the restraint. His lungs burnt, his heart pounded.
His lungs lurched as they tried to take a breath against his will but he held firm against it. The hand keeping him down didn't let up. The seconds crawled by as his struggle grew weaker.
His instincts won the fight and a mouthful of water flooded his lungs. His fighting went from fierce to frantic, flailing like a wild animal. He wanted to scream but there wasn't a sound he could make.
The grip loosened slowly and he dragged his face out the puddle as fast he could, coughing and gasping. He gagged, sore ribs protesting painfully against the movement, body expelling water so he could just breathe.
He caught his breath, the world began to stop spinning, it had all stopped. His aggressors backed off and that fact filled him with dread. Either way, they let him struggle forward. He could almost see over the edge of the cliff.
An arm grabbed him, pulling him up off the ground and a horrific stabbing pain drove into his side. It burned through him, acidic and unrelenting. The blade was twisted deeper and it shoved a strangled agonised scream from his chest, squirming helplessly against Luthor's grip.
"Now fly." Luthor hissed, venom in Clark's ear as he wheezed through the pain
He was released and he stumbled forward. Each step, he could feel his muscles moving around the sharp object lodged in his side. Gravity was pulling him inexorably down as he staggered towards the cliff. He did his best to stand up taller, ready to take off into flight.
His weakened form toppled forward and he plummeted towards the ocean.
He hit the freezing water at full force and the impact knocked him breathless.
He sank into the dark seas, unable to fight the waves.
Summary: Superman's fight with Lex Luthor's little experiment has left him worse for wear
AN: Chapter 1 was written for Whumpril Day 10: Bandages
So I was planning a rewrite of Superman III and IV bcus they suck so so so bad and realised that Superman IV had major whump potential so here's some self-indulgent whump based on it.
Read on AO3
Chapter 1: home
Masterlist | Next ->
Chapter TW/CW: Blood, minor injuries, illness, fever, fatigue, fainting
Home...
Hot blood trickling down the back of his neck, the comforting weight of his cape absent from his shoulders and a sudden overwhelming exhaustion trying to drag him to the ground.
All he could think was that he needed to get home.
Clark could hardly be described as flying at the moment, hovering weakly as he was. The only thing keeping him afloat was the knowledge he'd barely be able to put one foot in front of the other if he did touch down to Earth. So, he crawled his way through the thick city smog, laser focused on his destination.
The wound burned with pain, gathering at the base of his neck and rippling through his nerves.
This isn't right, his mind screamed. Something is very very wrong.
"It's fine." he mumbled the words out loud to himself, as if that would quell his mind. The knot in his stomach wouldn't untangle. The feeling of warm blood clinging to hot skin and sickening nausea compounding together to spike his anxiety.
Maybe, he tried to convince himself, maybe this is just what injuries feel like. Maybe this is what a normal man would feel.
Even if he knew that wasn't true, even if he remembered the feeling of getting beaten by someone far stronger than him and it was nothing like this. Despite all that, he would try to convince himself all was well.
Almost there. He wasn't even sure why he needed to be home, he just knew everything in his mind screamed at him to hide.
Finally, finally, he found the building he was after. He tried his best to land gracefully on his apartment's balcony, gently lowering himself to his feet. His legs held, albeit shakily.
He took a single step forward. His legs buckled underneath him and he barely just caught himself before his head smacked into the ground. Maybe it wouldn't have done any damage, maybe it would. He didn't want to find out. Something surely had to be wrong and whatever it was had deteriorated him quickly. But he could figure it out later. For now, he had to get back on his feet.
Carefully, as not to jostle his aching bones, he began to lift himself to his feet once more. Bracing his arms against the ground and taking as deep a breath as he could manage, he slowly pushed himself up. He wobbled for a few moments before collapsing back onto the floor. The impact sent shockwaves though him and he couldn't suppress a pathetic pained whimper.
Maybe he could just lie here for a moment. That wouldn't be so bad. The cold rain-damp concrete was soothing against his heated skin. Besides, he'd be fine any minute now. So he lay there on his balcony, bleeding and shivering, waiting for the strength to drag himself inside.
-
He was not going to crawl into his apartment. He refused. Because he was alright. That being said, he was dragging himself along the wall to get inside, legs unsteady and untrustworthy as they were.
Clinging to the bricks under his hands, he edged his way forward. Slowly. Oh, so slowly. Head spinning, stomach rolling, he lurched forward a single step. He just hoped no one could see him. He wasn't one to be protective of the untouchable all-powerful image he'd been assigned, but a slight feeling of shame still clung to him.
He practically fell through the door into his home, catching himself on the frame. He found himself cursing his current condition outloud, despite his usual aversion to such strong language.
He'd just...never felt this incapable before. Never felt as powerless and on the back foot as he did in this moment. That...thing was still on the loose and all he could do was weakly drag himself home. He should be out there doing something, the entire city would surely notice his absence.
Well, there wasn't much he could do when he could hardly walk.
A spot of blood slipped off his neck and dropped, pooling and soaking into his carpet. Okay, first order of business. Deal with the still bleeding wound. There was a first aid kit in his bathroom (for anyone more easily damaged who may visit. And it helped keep up appearances, Clark was the exact kind of anxious man who would be prepared for anything that could go wrong).
It took some effort to make his way to his bathroom, stumbling and wobbling as he was. He ended up with a few more drops of blood on the carpet to show for it before he finally made it.
His reflection was an odd sight. He was unusually pale and the blood staining his neck was unsettling. He was sure the wound wouldn't look so bad once he cleaned up the blood.
He was quite quickly proven wrong. Bloodied tissues and disinfectant wipes piled up around the sink, as clean as he could possibly get it still bleeding as it was. And yet it still looked brutal, skin ripped open by vicious claws.
So he elected to dress the wound and get on with his day. With shaking fingers, he clumsily taped gauze over the cuts, the edges poking out and oozing blood over the crisp white. It was the best he could manage, it would have to do.
His skin burned under the bandage, everything feverishly hot and unbearable. Suddenly, he couldn't think of anything other than wanting to be rid of the fabric clinging to him. The fingers of one hand scrabbled at the collar of his Superman suit while the other gripped the sink with white knuckles, keeping him on his feet while he peeled the blue fabric away from his body.
His mind was so...foggy, unable to think in a straight line. He discarded the costume in a corner of his bathroom, he could deal with it later. He couldn't think of the myriad of reasons not to leave it in the open like that. He was sure there were some, but if he couldn't remember then he needn't bother, right?
With a fortifying breath, he stumbled his way back to his living room. One clumsy foot in front of the other, he wobbled across the floor. Just get to the sofa, that was all he had to do.
Weak legs could only carry him so far, he fell to the ground shortly before reaching his destination. He landed with his legs on the ground and his torso leaning against the couch. A pile of aching bones and fatigue on the ground.
He began to slump towards the ground, black dots crossing his vision as he shivered on the carpet.
Come on Clark, up you get.
It's not difficult, you just need to get back on your feet.
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