Hunted, wounded, and certain he won't survive another sunrise, a shackled man risks his life to save a widow from a violent attacker—only to find himself taken in and given the first safety he's known in years.
Warning: This will get very whumpy (in the best possible way) and there will be no cutting away from the hurt or comfort scenes. Adult themes may be touched upon in this story, these moments will be written with care and not gratuitous.
Part 1: In the Shadows - Hiding in a barn and barely clinging to consciousness, Wyatt is shackled, wounded, and running out of strength. When brutality erupts before him, instinct overpowers fear and the cost of that choice leaves him vulnerable and at the mercy of what comes next.
Part 2: A Light Across the Floor - In the aftermath of violence, Sarah is left with a shackled stranger bleeding on her barn floor. In the lantern light, fear loosens its grip, and compassion takes its place.
Part 3: The Shape of Darkness - Carried out of the cold and into the firelight, Wyatt’s true condition is finally revealed. As Sarah and her sister, Ruth, work to bathe and warm him, fear gives way to care, and every gentle touch uncovers just how much he has endured.
Part 4: A Quiet Made of Light - In a fevered state lost between pain and memory, Wyatt clings to a steady voice and gentle hands as comfort slowly pulls him back into the light.
Part 5: A Dim Moment Before Dawn - In the fragile hours before morning, Sarah keeps vigil beside the shadow of a man she barely knows. As the weight of violence and choice settles in, small acts of care become anchors against the dark.
Part 6: Light on Broken Things - As afternoon slips toward evening, Ruth is left alone with a man still caught between pain and memory. A flurry of questions pull buried memories to the surface, and what follows is the slow unraveling of a past shaped by loss. In the warmth of a small room, care is chosen, and a stranger becomes something more fragile—and more human.
Part 7: A Dark Shame - Weakness forces Wyatt to confront a deeper kind of helplessness—one that cuts deeper than pain. In a moment stripped of pride and privacy, quiet compassion answers where shame expects judgment.
Part 8: In the Light of a Dying Flame - Daylight brings no relief. Nightmares linger, strength falters, and Wyatt’s body begins to betray him in new ways. As Sarah tends to him through sickness and pain the fear she’s been holding at bay finally takes shape.
Part 9: Swallowed by Shadows - Fever-fueled terror sharpens into certainty, Sarah is forced to abandon help and choose between caution and belief. Care turns into concealment when two strangers arrive with a storm. Questions cut too close and danger draws near.
Part 10: Where Light Can't Follow - Buried in darkness, Wyatt’s past claws its way to the surface. Terror, memory, and fever blur until even safety feels like a lie. In the collapse that follows, only a single promise remains: he will not be alone.
Part 11: Darkness Without Edges - When old wounds tear open and Sarah is forced to become the source of his pain, the line between saving and breaking him vanishes. Blood, screams, and fever leave no room for doubt: sometimes survival demands more than either of them can give, and love—new or old—hurts just the same.
Part 12: A Place Light Doesn't Shine - Wyatt’s fever drags on, hope becomes something too distant to touch. Sarah holds fast, breaking under the weight of watching someone fade, while Ruth learns what it means to wait beside a dying man and choose belief anyway.
Part 13: The Shadow That Flinched - Dragged back into fevered memory, Wyatt relives the years the railroad stripped him down to labor and pain—whips meant for animals, shackles meant to break men, and a pole built to teach obedience through suffering.
Part 14: In the Flicker of Kindness - At dawn, Sarah holds Wyatt through grief that has no words, tending not just wounds but the man left beneath them. In sunlight, water, and borrowed clothes, he confronts a face he barely recognizes and a kindness he doesn’t believe he’s earned.
Part 15: A Shadow Soft Enough to Rest In - Coming soon...
In the days of the Wild, Wild West, a group of misfit teens sign on as Pony Express Riders.
Long post below cut
Spoiler Alert for Major Character Death!
The Kid (Ty Miller)
1x01; Beaten up in a fistfight
1x02; Fistfight with Jimmy
1x06; Severe smoke inhalation, coughing
1x07; Pistol-whipped, knocked down, stunned, bloody head wound
1x08; Tussle; kicked in the face, knocked down, bloody lip; shot in the left shoulder
1x09; Tied to stakes, dirt thrown on face; struck by an unknown missile, uninjured
1x10; Long hard ride
1x11; Punched by Jimmy, knocked down
1x14; Kicked in the ribs; pistol-whipped, unconscious; bruises on face
1x19; Shot in the right shoulder
1x23; Punched in the face; shoved to the ground; shot in the left shoulder, on the run while injured; passes out, unconscious for several days, bullet removed, sling
2x07; Punched in the face; slapped; punched and knocked out, bleeding from forehead
2x14; Blistered hands
2x15; Fistfight with Jimmy
2x16; Blistered hands
2x22; Attacks Jimmy, restrained, emotional angst; shot in the left side, dragging himself across the ground, helped to walk
3x03; Shot in the left upper arm, knocked from horse, bleeding, field care, sling; injury stomped on, passes out; hard ride while injured; helped to walk
3x09; Knocked off horse; thrown from horse, helped to his feet, limping slightly
3x18; Shot in the left shoulder, captured, tied to a tree, rough sling
3x21; Fistfight with Jimmy, bruises on face
James Butler 'Jimmy' Hickok, aka 'Wild Bill Hickok' (Josh Brolin)
1x01; Fall from horse x2; knocked over backwards by gun recoil; no injuries
1x02; Knocked out by Kid; fistfight with Kid; shot in the right shoulder
1x03; Fight, black eye and bruises on face
1x06; Coughing from smoke inhalation
1x08; Struck on the left leg with a baseball; tussle
1x09; Tied up; struck with a metal dipper
1x10; Near-drowning, coughing; shot in the left side, bullet removed without anesthesia
1x11; Knocked off horse, uninjured; pistol-whipped, unconscious, bruise/cut on forehead; almost hanged
1x13; Purposely shoots himself in the left shoulder; fight, knocked down repeatedly, bruises on face
1x15; Toothache; tackled to the ground and pinned down (played for laughs); pulls his own tooth
1x20; Slapped; punched and knocked out; passes out and falls from horseback; shot twice in the left arm
1x24; Shot in the right leg
2x01; Shot in the right leg, medical care
2x03; Pistol-whipped, unconscious
2x04; Punched in the stomach
2x09; Suicidal ideation throughout ep; angst, guilt; drunk, shoved to floor, kicked in the ribs; hungover; punched in stomach, shoved to the ground; shot in the right shoulder
2x14; Shot in the right shoulder, hard fall, cared for
2x15; Fistfight with Kid
2x19; Attacked; punched in the face (2.19 A Noble Chase)
2x22; Attacked by Kid
3x02; Knocked out by Jesse, helped to walk, holding his head
3x03; Punched, briefly unconscious
3x07; Tackled by Jesse; shot in the left arm; shot in the left leg, limping
3x08; Thrown from a horse onto a corral fence, limping (played for laughs)
3x11; Knocked from horseback by a branch, briefly unconscious, in pain
3x13; Coughing from smoke inhalation
3x14; Punched in the stomach and knocked to the ground
3x17; Fight; slapped in the face; blinded by dust
3x20; Emotional angst/guilt over a friend’s death; shot in the left leg, field bandage
3x21; Fistfight with Kid, briefly held underwater/drowned, coughing, cuts and bruises on face, cared for
3x22; Pistol-whipped by Jesse, unconscious
Louise 'Lou' McCloud (Yvonne Suhor)
1x01; Shot (grazed in the ribs), falls from horse, unconscious, carried, cared for
1x05; Roughly shaken; beaten on face, bloody
1x06; Coughing from smoke inhalation
1x08; Long hard ride; tussle
1x09; Tied up; falls with horse, uninjured; used as a hostage
1x15; Struck and knocked down multiple times, bloody lip; sexually harassed/assaulted
2x07; Beaten, unconscious, bloody lip, bruises on face
2x08; Deliberately falls from horseback, briefly pretends to be unconscious
2x15; Thrown from horse, pulled out of the way of being trampled, injured ankle, helped to walk, ankle bandaged
2x16; Kidnapped, almost hanged, falls roughly to the ground
2x22; Restrained, tied to a chair, beaten and bloodied, bound to a cross, bloodied wrists
3x02; Thrown off horse by Jesse, fight with Jesse
3x03; Thrown to the ground, holding her head
3x08; Falls from horseback
3x11; Past rape revealed; angst, emotional whump; knocked from horseback (it looks like she was shot but there’s no evidence of it later)
3x18; Shot in the left arm, field care
Buck (Running Buck) Cross (Gregg Rainwater)
1x03; Minor knife slash on chest; fistfight with Jimmy; emotional angst; struck multiple times with clubs; tied up, burned feet
1x04; Thrown from horse, uninjured; bound and gagged, hands tied above head
1x06; Coughing from smoke inhalation
1x08; Tussle
1x18; Lassoed off horse, falls hard, dragged; kicked in the ribs, yanked by his hair, 'tarred and feathered'
2x04; Horse rolls over on him, holding his left shoulder; sick, passes out, cared for
2x05; Fight
2x06; Punched in the face by Ike
2x20; Hands tied behind his back, on his knees, briefly manhandled; hands bound in front, yanked by his hair, manhandled, gagged, rope burns on wrists (brief); angst
3x05; Emotional whump due to his best friend's death
3x06; Emotional whump (still grieving his best friend); shot in the left arm, bandage, sling
3x08; Bitten by a sheep (played for laughs)
3x09; Thrown through a fence by a horse, helped to his feet
3x16; Emotional angst; thrown backwards and knocked out; fight; passes out
Ike McSwain (Travis Fine)
1x01; Kicked in the head by a horse, bloody head wound, cared for
1x03; Hands tied above head; cut on face; exhaustion, cared for
1x05; Shot in the right arm; falls from horse, head injury, unconscious
1x06; Coughing from smoke inhalation
1x12; Takes a hard fall from a horse; fight with Cody; uninjured
1x19; Shot in the left leg
1x23; Sneezing due to flower allergy
2x06; Beaten; coughing from smoke inhalation; knocked out; angst
3x05; Fight; shot in the chest, bedridden, cared for, dies
William F. Cody, aka 'Cody' (Stephen Baldwin)
1x01; Pulled off horse and pummeled by Jimmy, uninjured
1x06; Coughing from smoke inhalation
1x12; Takes a hard fall from a horse; fight with Ike; uninjured
1x13; Fight, knocked down repeatedly, squeezed, bruises on face
1x17; Shot in the right shoulder, bandage; multiple fights
1x18; Struck with a whip multiple times, fight, uninjured
1x23; Falls with horse into puddle, uninjured
2x04; "Thrown, trampled, lightning"; loses a tooth
2x04; Sick, cared for
2x12; Falls with horse, unhurt; shot in the right shoulder, rough bandage, bleeding, injury jostled; intoxicated, beaten, bloodied, carried
2x21; Shot in the left upper arm, knocked from horse, dragged to safety, bloody bandage, concerned friends
3x08; Hard fall from horseback while being dumb, limping
3x10; Fight, bloody lip; knocked out with a rifle butt, holding his head, briefly stumbling, concerned friend
3x22; Angst over a friend's death; shot in the left upper arm, fires a rifle while wounded, sling
Noah Dixon (Don Franklin)
Introduced in season two
2x01; Slapped in the face
2x07; Punched in the face by Jimmy, falls to the ground
2x13; Knocked out with a rifle butt, bleeding from forehead; chained up; punched in the stomach, winded; chained up again; punched, unconscious; gets tripped, falls to the ground, briefly holding right knee, struck in the stomach with a rifle butt, knocked down; punched in the stomach, knocked down, groaning in pain; shot in the left arm; fight, struck with a club multiple times
3x02; Falls over a short embankment, briefly blinded by dust; hit multiple times in a fight
3x04; Fight (punched, spattered with boiling water, struck with the blunt side of an axe, hit with a two-by-four, hit with a chair, kicked, thrown through a window), bleeding from cuts on face, cared for; shot in the left leg, on the run while injured, limping
3x08; Knocked off a fence, left arm in a sling (played for laughs)
3x10; Kicked in the ribs; fight
3x22; Shot twice, his friend doesn't realize how badly he's hurt until he dies a few minutes later
Aloysius 'Teaspoon' Hunter (Anthony Zerbe)
1x06; Struck and knocked down x2, bloody lip
1x22; Nightmares; shot in the right side
2x04; Sick; knocked out with a rifle butt
2x10; Hit in the head with a tennis ball (played for laughs)
2x14; Shot in the right shoulder
2x22; Hands tied; beaten and bloodied, helped to walk
3x02; Shot in the left shoulder, thrown from horseback down a hillside
3x03; Blister on foot, limping, in pain (played for laughs)
3x07; Shot in the left leg, limping, riding while injured; wound bleeding again; shot in the left shoulder, rough bandage
3x13; Coughing from smoke inhalation
3x14; Shot in the stomach
3x19; Fight, injured hand (brief); emotional angst
Jesse James (Christopher Pettiet)
TW: Minor Whump (the actor and character are both 15)
Introduced in season three
3x02; Fight with Lou; angst
3x07; Angst over his brother returning
3x09; Thrown from horse, almost trampled, dragged to safety, unconscious, cared for, bruise on temple; tastes alcohol for the first time, coughing (x2); hit/shoved; shot in the left shoulder, bleeding, helped to walk, cared for, bandages
3x15; Emotional angst over a friend’s death; dunked in a water trough
3x22; Emotional angst
U.S. Marshal Sam Cain (Brett Cullen)
Only appears in season one
1x01; Shot in the left leg
1x06; Punched in the face, knocked out, bloody lip
1x07; Shot in the right arm
1x16; Falls from a window, lands on a rake, uninjured
1x21; Angst; shot in the left leg, cauterizes the wound himself
A/N: Again, sorry for being late, I hope this is something like what you were hoping for.
Diluc sighed as he watched the man shiver in the tavern bed, he had no more blankets to offer him, no larger fire to warm him. He had done what he could to keep what little heat there was from bleeding away. It should have been enough, but it wasn’t.
The stranger’s body seemed to have forgotten how to hold on to warmth or life. Diluc placed a hand firmly on the stranger’s forehead, the skin beneath his fingers was cold, far colder than it should have been, even hours after leaving the cave.
“Stay with me,” Diluc said quietly, unsure if the stranger could hear his words.
The stranger offered no response, nor had he since Diluc found him in the cave, chained to the wall of the hidden chamber.
The memory of his body slumped forward, head bowed, the heavy Iron shackles held his limbs in place. Had it not been for the thin, trickle of blood dripping down his chest, Diluc would have thought he was dead.
He still might die before the night had finished.
Diluc wrung the cloth out in the basin and returned to his work, careful in the way he moved so not to frighten the stranger. He blotted the raw open wound across the stranger’s chest, as a small instinctive flinch rippled across his body.
Diluc paused, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest before continuing. He smeared a salve across the injury before wrapping a bandage around his chest, the strqnger’s weight heavy in his arms. The work drew a faint reaction, the stranger tightened beneath his hands, a sharp breath that came and went.
But he still made no sound.
Diluc gently laid his head back on to the pillow before reaching for another strip of cloth, turning his attention to the wounds left behind by the iron shackles. His movements slowed, his thoughts slipped again.
The chains had broken easily enough, but when they fell away, the man’s body swayed forward, unable to support itself. He began to fall.
Diluc stepped in before he could collapse completely. There was no resistance in the weight he held, no strength, no reflex. The man simply hung over his arm.
“You’re free,” Diluc said. There was no response.
The man’s head remained bowed, eyes barely opened, unfocused. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t reacted.
A distant sound echoed from deep within the cave, low and shifting across the stones. This place was not safe, they couldn’t stay here. Diluc glanced back towards the way he’d come and looked down at the stranger again.
“Can you stand?”
There was no answer.
Diluc exhaled slowly, of course.
The stranger shivered again, pulling Diluc back to the present as he tucked his freshly bandaged arm under the blankets. Cleaning and bandaging the wounds had taken time, washing away the grime of the cave revealed layers of injuries, some had healed poorly, others not at all. None of them were recent enough to explain the state he was in now. That, more than anything, had unsettled him.
The fire started to dim in the hearth. Diluc paused from his work to add new logs, revitalizing the flames. A warm glow filled the room. He lingered there a moment before turning back—he froze.
A pair of violet eyes were fixed on him.
Kaeya.
The thought of his younger brother flashed through his mind. The same thought that caused him to bring the stranger with him. Diluc intended to leave the stranger once they’d left the cave, but in the light, with nothing obscuring his features, the details were clearer.
The lines of his face etched by exhaustion. His hair, long and uneven, fell over his face, the vibrant blue shown through the grime. Too familiar. He brushed the tangled hair aside. The faintest trace of something familiar in his features drew him in.
He hadn’t tried to move, the stranger lay in the grass where Diluc had placed him. His eyes open. Dull. Unfocused.
“Damn it.” Diluc breathed.
He intended to leave the stranger there. He was safe. Free. That was enough. But something about his stillness and absence held him in place and something about him drew Diluc in.
Without any further hesitation, Diluc gathered the stranger in his arms and stood, his weight impossibly light. The man’s head tipped slightly against his shoulder, his breathing shallow but steady enough.
The memory settled as the stranger blinked. Diluc crossed the room in two strides and sat in the chair next to the bed.
The man’s lips parted, his breath catching. Diluc leaned forward immediately, one hand steading himself on the edge of the mattress, his gaze fixed on him.
“Hey,” Diluc said, low and even.
The stranger’s eyes shifted, slow and unfocused at first, before settling on him. There was no recognition, no fear, no understanding in his gaze, just a quiet, distant awareness that someone was there.
“It looks like it’s been a while since you’ve had something to eat.” Diluc said. “Do you think you can take some broth?”
The stranger’s eyes were still fixed on him, they seemed to be searching. Diluc thought he might not understand or answer at all. Then, faintly, almost imperceptible, his head moved, a small, shallow nod.
Diluc smiled and moved with measured care, sliding an arm behind the man’s shoulders and lifting him just enough to prop him against the thin pillows. The motion drew a weak reaction, a tightening in his frame, but no resistance. He didn’t fight it, but he didn’t help either.
He reached for the small bowl he had set aside earlier, the broth still warm from the hearth. It was a simple broth, thin and easy to swallow, something the man’s body might be able to tolerate. He set the bowl down in his lap and picked up the spoon and dipped it into the broth, letting the excess fall away before bringing it toward him.
The stranger’s gaze followed the movement, slow and unsure. His lips parted again as the spoon met them. Diluc tipped the spoon gently.
The stranger’s reaction was too slow, almost as if he’d forgotten how to swallow. Some of the broth slipped out of his mouth, trailing down his chin. What little entered his throat caught wrong, and he choked on it. A sharp, fragile sound breaking from him as his body reacted.
Diluc set the bowl aside immediately, his hands coming to steady the stranger, rolling him to his side as the coughing fit passed through him in uneven bursts.
“Just take it easy,” Diluc said, his voice controlled. “We’ll take it slower. You’re alright.”
The stranger’s breathing stuttered, then steadied, Diluc felt a small tremor grow beneath his hand, returning stronger than before. The stranger’s eyes squeezed shut briefly, as if the effort alone had drained what little strength he had.
Diluc waited for the stranger to relax, the tension easing from his body before reaching for the bowl again. This time scooping out less. He brought the spoon up slowly, giving him time to prepare.
“Just a little bit this time.” Diluc said, tipping the spoon again, slower this time.
The broth slipped into his mouth and the man swallowed. It wasn’t smooth, but there was no choking, no panic. Just his body remembering something it had long since forgotten.
Each spoonful was measured, deliberate, spaced with enough time for him to breathe and take it in without overwhelming him.
“My name is Diluc.” He said, offering another small spoonful. “What’s yours?”
The stranger stilled. His brow furrowed faintly, his gaze unfocused again as if turning inward, reaching for something just out of grasp, lost in the dark.
Diluc watched the effort, his confusion. His expression shifting, subtle but unmistakable, the faintest trace of distress breaking through the numbness that had settled over him.
Whatever answer should have been there wasn’t. His breathing quickened slightly, becoming uneven again, and his eyes grew glassy, unfocused in a different way now. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, clinging there for a moment before slipping free and trailing down his cheeks.
Diluc set the spoon back in the bowl and set it down, bring his hand to the stranger’s forehead, smoothing his hair back.
“Hey, it’s alright,” Diluc said, slightly alarmed be the reaction. “You don’t have to remember right now. It looks like you’ve been through a lot. Give your body time to heal and relax, I’m sure it’ll come back to you.”
The tension didn’t vanish, tears wouldn’t stop falling, the answer wouldn’t come. The stranger refused the next spoonful of broth.
“Don’t let it trouble you.” Diluc said after a moment, his voice measured and thoughtful. “We can use a different name in the meantime. Please don’t get upset.”
The stranger’s eyes shifted towards him again, red rimmed, but more focused this time, though still distant, still fragile.
Diluc held his gaze, deciding on the perfect name.
“Ka—” Diluc cut himself off. “My brother, Kaeya, had an alias he always wanted to use, Masato. He said it was a good, simple name.”
The name settled into the quiet between them. The stranger began to relax, his breath steading again. The tension that had lingered in his features eased, replaced by something soft, something quieter.
“M…Mas—” the stranger’s tongue tripped over the word, his voice meek and rough.
“Yeah, that’s it, Masato.” Diluc encouraged.
“Masato.” The stranger smiled, the corners of his lips curling slightly upwards. He held on to the name like a lifeline.
His eyes drifted shut not long after, the faintest trace of warmth finally beginning to take hold beneath the blankets. The exhaustion pulling him under now that his body had something to hold on to.
Diluc remained where he was, seated beside the bed, keeping watch as Masato slept.
Caretaker stumbles on a scene, Whumper is standing over an incapacitated Whumpee who’s crumpled on the ground. Caretaker starts to shout at Whumper, their whole body shaking, their anger is barely contained.
“What did you do?” “How could you do this?” “Say something!” “Do you even understand what you’re done?” “Answer me!”
But Whumpee is barely conscious. Dizzy. Drugged. Feverish. Half-aware. All they hear is the angry accusations. Caretaker must be yelling at them, they think this was their fault. Whumpee flinches, curling in on themselves, trying to hide their face.
Whumpee flinches at Caretaker’s words, curling in on themselves, trying to hide their face as they cry, “I’m sorry… please don’t be mad.”
Caretaker doesn’t realize the misunderstanding until it’s too late. “Hey—hey, no… I’m not angry at you.”
Even after they’re rescued and safe, Whumpee still constantly mumbling apologies, flinching and shying away from Caretaker’s touch, afraid they are still mad at them.
A/N: This is the first time I've used another creator's original characters to use in a story for them. I hope I did them justice. Thank you for letting me play with Victor, Midas, and Arkady for a while.
Warning: This story intended for an adult audience. NSFWhump
Victor’s first mistake was ignoring the cough, shortness of breath, and the sharp pain that settled deep in his chest—his second was trusting a white coat. His body lay sore and bare beneath a sickly yellow, fluorescent light that flickered and hummed overhead, the sound burrowing into his skull.
He felt emptied of strength, resistance, and dignity. His wrists and ankles were strapped to the metal bed rails, the leather cuffs biting into skin made too sensitive by whatever drug had been pumped into his veins.
Even his chest felt confined, the burn marks tight on his skin. Each breath shallow and burning as the pneumonia burrowed deep behind his ribs, making him fight for each breath.
Time slipped like water, falling from his grasp and pooling uselessly in the corners of his mind. He tried to piece together the last clear thoughts he could remember—going to a small clinic for treatment, the receptionist smiling too brightly, the doctor recognizing his name, but the memory slipped away the harder he reached for it.
His gaze fixed on the IV stand, the bag hung empty, whatever poison it held was already flowing through his veins.
The door opened with a soft click.
Victor stiffened. The movement barely registered beyond a tremor that rippled through him. His muscles felt disconnected, as if signals from his brain had to travel through syrup before reaching them.
The doctor’s shadow fell over Victor as he approached the IV pole. “Look at that, empty.”
Victor’s head bobbled as he forced his tongue to move. “Don’t!”
The doctor didn’t acknowledge the demand. He removed the empty bag with practiced efficiency and replaced it with a full bag.
“I adjusted the concentration,” the doctor said. “You were becoming too… obstinate.”
🔞 🔞 🔞 🔞 🔞 🔞 🔞 🔞 🔞 🔞 🔞 🔞 🔞 🔞 🔞 🔞 🔞 🔞 🔞
Victor could feel the moment the fluid began to enter his veins, the cold sensation bloomed outward, spreading like ice crystals up his arm, climbing into his shoulder, and chest. A tremor ran through him, his fingers twitched against the bed cover, his body tightened involuntarily, back arching as a raw sound tore from deep in his chest.
“The stronger dose should make you more agreeable.” The doctor smiled, enjoying the way his patient’s body lifted off the bed and contorted.
The cold deepened into a burning heat as it traveled, pooling low in his abdomen, curling around his spine. His thoughts began to blur at the edges, as though they were dissolving in water.
A memory, sharp and sudden, flashed through his mind.
*
The doctor leaning in too close, voice low, “you know all his secrets, don’t you?”
He held up a black and white photograph of Midas in front of his hotel, a year etched into the corner. 1884.
“Where is he?”
*
The memory slipped.
“N—no,” Victor slurred, his eyes rolled back in his head as he lost the ability to focus his vision. His body slumped back into the bed, heavy and useless.
The doctor pressed two fingers near Victor’s groin near his right hip, searching. Victor flinched at the icy touch, the sensation amplified by the effects of the drug.
His breath fractured into a helpless gasp as the doctor located the femoral artery and held pressure there, counting while timing against his wristwatch. Victor tried to twist away, but the restraints held.
“Your pulse is elevated,” the doctor murmured to himself, almost pleased. “You’re responding beautifully. Just remember what happens when you get too excited, it’s just as unpleasant for me as it is you.”
The lie settled over Victor like something sticky and invasive—the doctor’s enjoyment over his experiments was painfully obvious.
Victor’s heart began to beat harder. His lungs protested the effort; the burning in his chest flared, but started to feel distant, dulled at the edges as the new dose spread deeper. Even the panic felt distant now, it was muted, as if it was happening to someone else.
The room tilted.
The fluorescent light fractured into shards of yellow. The hum overhead deepened into something vast and endless. His skin felt too tight, too aware of the air touching it, of the doctor’s fingers still pressing into his inner hip.
His thoughts were slipping again.
Midas, he wanted Midas.
How long had it been since they last parted ways after the fight? A name, more intimate, surfaced like a bubble through murky water.
Vasha.
Despite his best protests, Victor’s body began to relax.
“That’s better,” the doctor said softly.
His touch lingered a moment longer before sliding across his lower abdomen, the chilling touch too close to a place not meant for anyone but Vasha.
Victor tried to cling to the last fragment of resistance, but it was already dissolving as the drug moved deeper, wrapping around his mind, smoothing away any fight.
And this time, it did not feel like it intended to let him surface again.
***
Knuckles ground into the center of Victor’s chest, forcing a ragged breath from his lungs. He opened his eyes; the world smeared into blotches of light and shadow.
Slowly Victor’s eyes drifted shut again.
“Stay with me.” A voice soothed, as the feeling of grinding knuckles against his sternum continued.
A hand gently brushed his cheek, across the burn on his chest, then circled a nipple, teasing it with the gentle scrape of a fingernail before continuing down across his abdomen.
“Va…” Victor’s mouth couldn’t form the word.
Victor flinched as a cold hand came to rest high on his exposed, parted thigh, fingers caressing his tender skin. A shudder worked its way up his body, his teeth chattering, eyes rolling back in his head.
“Victor.” The voice said sternly. “Focus on me.”
“Va…sha…?” Victor moaned. His eyes tried to find the familiar silhouette and red hair.
Midas wasn’t there.
“Grigorios Montgomery. Tell me more about him.” The doctor’s hand drew a tender circle on his inner thigh, his thumb grazing purposefully against the sensitive skin of his manhood.
Victor gasped, his body responded before his mind could object, nerves lit raw and electric by the drug in his veins.
“The hotel. He keeps you there, doesn’t he?” The doctor urged. “Where is it?”
“He—” Victor’s tongue felt too heavy. “Grand… Conifer…”
“Good. Tell me about his other ventures.” The doctor continued to advance, his hand glided between Victor’s legs, teasing the rim of his anus before slipping a gloved, pre-lubed finger past the tight muscle.
“Statesman Auction House… rare antiques… one-of-a-kind—” The words tumbled from Victor’s breathless lips, fractured and broken; it was a betrayal he couldn’t stop. His chest heaved in effort; hips twitched involuntarily as waves of sensation and shame crashed together.
No.
No, no, no.
This wasn’t right. He didn’t want this.
“Does he still own you? Does he not bite you often?”
Own?
The word struck somewhere deep.
His lungs seized. The pneumonia clawed deep, each breath shallow and raw. He coughed weakly, gagging on the phlegm.
“There was… fight…” he choked. “Left.”
“Mm.” The doctor sounded pleased, his inserted finger curled, searching. “And yet here you are. You didn’t wonder far from your master.”
Hot tears slid sideways down Victor’s temples into his hairline. He was betraying Midas just as his own body was betraying him.
An eye for an eye.
“You are very obedient.” Victor could hear the smile cross the doctor’s lips, his finger rubbing the walnut sized gland while his erection rested against his thigh.
Victor tried to disappear into himself, praying the darkness would pull him under so his mouth would stop answering, body would stop responding, mind stop remembering.
The air quickly shifted as the door opened, even Victor could feel a presence enter the room. Heavy. Silent. Immense.
“Speak of the devil—” the doctor began as he placed a needle against Victor’s neck. His finger continuing its assault.
“Take your hands off of him.” A voice demanded, low and controlled, an anger quietly waiting below the surface.
Victor’s eyes refused to focus, but he knew that shape. Even drowning in the drug’s fog, he knew.
“Vasha?” Victor murmured. He tried to turn his head away, but it felt like he was moving through tar.
“What did you do to him?” Midas’s voice barely above a growl.
“Testing the lengths of his obedience.” The doctor laughed. “Even though you’ve been separated, he still has your scent all over him. Fascinating bond. Victor, tell me a secret, one he buried deep.”
The doctor’s incessant finger tapped and stroked the sensitive bulb at a quickening pace. Victor’s body contracted, every muscle tense, he pulled against the restraints.
“Bramwell… Aster Fitzalan.” Victor exhaled in between gasps.
Midas stiffened at the name that had been buried for centuries—the doctor noticed his reaction and continued with his questioning. “Tell me more.”
“Guh…” Victor tried to resist, his throat clenching, back lifting off the bed as the doctor pushed up suddenly on his prostate and began ferociously rubbing it. “Magh—el… Herc—Tangier… Kasbah gate.”
Midas watched helplessly as Victor’s body began to convulse violently, hips jerking, seed spilling. He looked like he was drowning, his breath gasping and choking, short and wet.
“Enough, he can’t breathe!” Midas stepped forward.
“Don’t move!” The doctor bellowed, inserting the needle deep into Victor’s neck, thumb on the plunger.
Midas froze.
Victor’s wild gaze drifted around the room, trying to find some form of comfort. He saw it then, the way Midas was looking at him, his stoic face might as well have been drenched in horror. He could see Victor’s betrayal—the stains on the bed, the erection that hadn’t fully relaxed, feed marks on his neck. Did he hear what he had said too, the information he freely gave up?
“It took a lot to break him, but I finally figured it out, he responds better to pleasure than pain. It took some time to find the right formula and stimuli of course and there were some—unintended side effects—but overall, it was a success.”
The doctor took his eyes off Midas for an instant, looking over his patient’s body, proud of his work. A flash of dark green and red crossed Victor’s vision, the doctor’s assault stopped, the needle was ripped from his neck, his finger wrenched free from his abused body.
The doctor was slammed into the wall with a sickening crunch, broken tiles crashed to the floor.
“What. Did. You. Do.” Each word was colder than the doctor’s hand had been.
What did I do? Tears blurred Victor’s vision as they overflowed and spilled down his cheeks. I betrayed him.
There was a choking sound, then a sick crack, then nothing.
Stillness swallowed the room.
Victor tried to inhale and instead erupted into a violent coughing fit. It tore through him, stealing the air from his lungs. Pain flared white behind his eyes, panic clung to his throat. He couldn’t move his head enough to stop from gagging.
Leather tore and metal snapped. The pressure around his wrists and ankles was suddenly gone. Strong hands caught him before he could fall sideways off the bed. In a swift motion, the IV was torn free from his arm. A blanket wrapped around his bare skin, thin but shielding.
Familiar and impossibly strong arms scooped him up as if he weighted nothing at all. Victor sagged against Midas’s broad chest. He could feel his heat through his dark green shirt.
“Mm… so…” Victor tried to apologize, his words dissolved into another coughing fit, his body finally succumbing to the illness that had gone untreated.
“Don’t speak,” Midas said.
The night air hit his face a moment later. Cold and freeing. The world tilted as he was set into the passenger seat, the warmth that once held him was gone.
The door slammed.
The engine of the sports car roared to life as it sped off into the night. A growing flame spread inside the clinic, quickly swallowing the building. Midas’s eyes flicked up at the rear-view mirror, satisfied at the impending destruction.
Streetlights streaked past the window in dull lines of gold. Victor watched them without recognition or understanding distance or direction. Each passing light made his stomach lurch. His body became hot, sweat beading on his skin. His head lolled sideways, he tried to swallow but couldn’t.
The nausea rose fast and vicious. He doubled forward in the leather bucket seat, dry heaves shook his body. Nothing came up but bitter air and broken coughs.
“Breathe,” Midas ordered sharply, pressing the accelerator harder.
The command cut through the fog just enough.
In.
Out.
In.
Another wave of dizziness rolled through him, the lights blurring into one continuous ribbon. Midas reached over, placing his hand on Victor’s forehead, a glowing heat radiated into his palm.
“Close your eyes and try to rest.” Midas’s hand swept down, falling gently over Victor’s lashes, encouraging his eyes lids closed.
“How’d you get yourself into this mess?” Midas asked to the night.
“Ran out of caffeine.” A small voice answered dully.
***
Cold air slipped through the thin threads of the blanket, waking Victor. Before he could gather himself, arms slid beneath him and he was lifted from the seat.
He recognized the building even through the haze.
The Grand Conifer Hotel.
This wasn’t how he planned to return.
Midas pushed his shoulder into the ornate revolving door, it spun with a soft whoosh.
A dim glow from the grand chandeliers spilled over them and reflected off the polished marble floors.
The lobby was quiet, save for several small groups of well-dressed late-night drinkers lounged by the bar, a glass crashed to the floor and a hush fell over the patrons.
Victor raised his head weakly, he saw them. Woman dressed in long sequence dresses, men in tuxedos, their smiles faded, eyes looking at him, tracking them as the red-haired hotel owner strode across the lobby.
Victor’s stomach twisted. They could see him, the thin blanket wrapped around him didn’t feel like enough to shield him. He curled inward immediately, clutching at the blanket with weak fingers trying to bury his face in Midas’s chest.
His body began to tremble.
“Mr. Montgomery!” The night clerk stepped out from behind the front desk, Midas didn’t break stride. “Sir, there’s an urgent—"
“Not now.” Midas’s words were calm, but his tone ended the conversation immediately.
Midas turned his head toward the bar, aware of the sudden silence.
Across the lobby the patrons were still staring. The women leaned into one another, whispering while a man had half risen, curiosity overcoming decorum. Even the bartender had stopped mid-pour.
The clerk followed his gaze and stiffened. “Do you want me to close the bar?”
“No,” Midas said firmly. “Put their drinks on the house, they can stay as long as they like. Don’t answer any questions about this.”
The clerk nodded, “yes sir, of course.”
Midas turned away without another word, already moving towards the elevators leaving the clerk to hurry back and announce the good news to the patrons.
The elevator doors opened with a quiet chime. Midas stepped inside, sliding his key card that unlocked access to the top floor.
The doors slid closed, shutting out the prying eyes in the lobby. A quiet, broken sound slipped out before Victor could stop it, his shoulders trembling as tears began to slide down his cheeks, soaking into Midas’s shirt.
Midas said nothing at first. He simply shifted his hold, drawing Victor closer against his chest.
Victor hated he couldn’t stop sobbing, the humiliation burned worse than the fever.
Midas gilded his head down, his voice low and close to Victor’s ear. “Hey, don’t worry about them, they won’t remember anything by morning. Free drinks tend to do that.”
Victor choked out a small laugh in between sobs. He pressed closer despite himself, hiding his face completely now. The steady warmth of Midas’s chest and the slow, powerful rhythm beneath it gave him something to focus on besides the memory of the staring eyes.
His trembling eased only slightly as the elevator continued its climb, before it slowed. A soft chime sounded as the doors slid open to the presidential suit on the top floor.
Midas lowered Victor carefully to the bathroom floor. Victor sagged against the base of the tub, his head lolling sightly as he tried to shift into a comfortable position, eventually sliding to the floor, curled on his side.
Midas pulled his phone from his pocket as he turned the taps, hot water began to rush into the tub, the sound filling the tiled room as steam slowly started to gather in the air.
“I found him,” Midas’s voice was low. “He’s out of it, but alive.”
Victor heard his voice through the fog in his head, but struggled to understand what was being said, though the phrase medical experiments was not lost to him.
“I’d like you to take a look at him.” Midas’s tone stayed even. “Yes. As soon as you can.”
The call ended as simply as it began. Midas slipped the phone back into his pocket, turning his attention back to Victor who had pulled the blanket tight around his body. The only part of him that was visible was his fingers that were clinging tightly to the fabric. His nails were broken and bloody, probably from gripping at the bed over the last few weeks like he was doing now.
Midas crouched next to him and started to work his hand loose, peeling the blanket back from the sores on his back.
“No…” Victor reacted immediately, his fingers grabbing, tightening, trying to keep the blanket wrapped around him, the protest was weak, but desperate.
“Victor.” Midas’s voice stayed calm. “I’m going to get you cleaned up.”
Victor shook his head faintly, holding on to the only dignity he had left.
Midas signed, “if you don’t let go, I’m going to cut it off you.”
Victor’s grip slowly weakened as his fingers loosened, the blanket slipped free and Midas drew it away.
He went still.
Victor’s flesh was pale, except for the angry sores across his shoulder blades and hips, two square-shaped marks marred his chest and side, bruises circle his wrists and ankles where restraints had cut into his skin, no doubt from pulling away.
More bruising spread across his ribs, hips, and thighs. Dried blood streaked the side of his neck where the needle had pierced and where another vampire had fed—multiple times. There was more blood from the puncture in his arm from the IV had been torn free.
Midas’s eyes drifted lower as his inspection continued below Victor’s waste. His jaw tightened at the dried blood between his legs, the irritated skin, and bruising. There was no mistaking what had happened there.
He had lost weight, his ribs now visible when he breathed.
Two and a half weeks. That’s how long it took to find him after he disappeared. It was too long and he had been so close.
Victor shivered under Midas’s gaze; his teeth began to chatter audibly. Without a word, Midas gathered him into his arms again. Victor’s body sagged against him as he began to lower him into the water.
A cry escaped Victor’s lips before he could stop it, his body jerking violently as the warm water struck every wound all at once. The burns, bruises, punctures all flared painfully as the heat reached each injury.
“Easy.” Midas held Victor steady, one arm supporting his back as he writhed weakly, trying to pull away.
Victor gasped through clenched teeth, his breathing ragged as the initial sting slowly dulled into a deep aching warmth. His body sagged again, relaxing into Midas’s arms.
Midas grabbed a washcloth, dipped it into the water, working soap into the cloth before bringing it to Victor’s skin. Carefully, he pressed the cloth to Victor’s forehead and slid it down his face, neck, and shoulder, washing away sweat, dried blood, and the scent of the other vampire.
His movements were steady, intimate, passing the cloth across his chest, along his ribs, abdomen, and down his thigh, erasing the filth the doctor left behind. Victor shifted, making small sounds, his eyes shut.
Midas lifted Victor from the bath and wrapped him in a thick towel, drying him slowly. When he was finished, Victor was carried into the bedroom, and laid carefully onto the bed.
Midas settled into bed next to Victor, wrapping an arm around him, drawing him close. Victor’s breath remained uneven, as Midas rested his hand lightly against Victor’s back, holding him steady as exhaustion fully pulled him under.
For the first time since arriving at the clinic, Victor’s body began to relax.
***
Victor lay on his side, he could hear a pair of voices talking in the distance. Low. Controlled.
He didn’t open his eyes right away, they were too heavy.
“He’s been sleeping for the past 14 hours.” The voice was unmistakable, even through the fog.
Fingers forced Victor’s eyes open, a bright light shone in his eyes, he tried to turn away, his hands weakly attempting to push the light away.
“Pupils are fixed and dilated. No apparent signs of head trauma, it might be an effect of a drug.” The tone was neutral. “Hey, Victor. It’s Arkady, can you hear me? I’m just going to check you over, let me know what hurts.”
Victor moaned, the words refusing to form.
The warm comforter was pulled back without ceremony, cold air settled on Victor’s bare skin. He flinched, trying to cover himself with his hands as he brought his knees to his chest.
“You’re ok Victor, stay still.” Arkady said, gloved fingers pressing lightly near the oozing sores on his back. He exhaled slowly.
“What are those?” Midas asked.
“Pressure sores. They’re from lying in the same position. Judging by severity, I’d say a week or more.”
A cold metal disk was placed on his back, Victor flinched.
“Big breath in.” Arkady said, listening intently. “Ok, now out.”
Victor did as he was told, his chest starting to tighten.
“Breath sounds are diminished in the bases. He has crackles as well. He likely has pneumonia.”
“He has been coughing a lot.” Midas said.
Victor forced his eyes open and tried to focus. Through heavy lids he could see Midas standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, face creased in worry.
Arkady pulled a pocket watch from a vest pocket and held Victor’s wrist, counting the heart beats. “Heart rate one-fifteen.”
Victor’s eyes fluttered closed, a memory rising until it trampled over the present.
*
“Your heart rate is high,” the doctor sneered. “Are you scared?
The blood pressure cuff tightened around Victor’s arm. He jerked against the restraints as the pressure climbed, the cuff constricting around the tender skin of his upper arm.
The doctor squeezed the rubber bulb again and again, each pump forced the cuff tighter.
Victor sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. The drug burning through his system made every sensation sharper. Pain flaring like a spark across raw nerves.
“It’s too tight.” He gasped.
The rubber bulb squeaked softly in the doctor’s hand as he gave it another slow squeeze, the cuff constricting harder.
The pressure felt like it was crushing into muscle and bone, his fingers digging into the mattress, a cold tingle crept down into his hand. Victor writhed against the straps, breath shuddering as the pain sharpened into something unbearable, his arm burning with a hypersensitive fire.
“Please—” Victor rasped.
“You’re not being very cooperative Victor.”
*
“Stop!” Victor screamed as Arkady released the cuff’s pressure.
“One-seventy over one hundred, heart rate one-forty-two.” Arkady said flatly, pulling off the blood pressure cuff. “Victor, you need to calm down.”
“No…” Victor pleaded. “Don’t—don’t leave it…”
Arkady glanced up briefly, brows furrowed as he scanned Victor’s face. His pupils were wide, breath coming quicker now.
“Heart rate up to one-sixty-four,” Arkady’s fingers tightened around Victor’s wrist as he placed the stethoscope to Victor’s chest. “Rhythm is irregular.”
“What’s wrong, what’s happening to him?” Midas asked, moving closer to the bed. “Those numbers are high, right?”
“Too high for his condition.” Arkady said, sliding an arm behind Victor’s shoulder and carefully rolled him onto his back. Victor gasped weakly at the movement, panic flashing across his face.
“Easy,” Arkady murmured, his voice steady. “Focus on breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth.”
With a quick movement he reached into the open medical bag beside the bed and pulled out a small AED.
Victor’s eyes widened.
“No…” His voice filled with terror.
“Victor, your heart’s not beating properly, it can’t keep up this rhythm. I’m going to have to stabilize it.”
Arkady peeled open the adhesive pads, placing one on Victor’s chest, the other on his side. The pads matched up with the burns. The AED powered on with an electronic chime.
“Analyzing heart rhythm,” the unit announced.
*
“S—something’s wrong…” Victor gasped. “My heart.”
“Ah yes, an arrhythmia, an unintended side effect of the drug…” The doctor said, his fingers searching the crease of Victor’s groin, pressing deep to feel the femoral artery. “Only one way to fix it.”
The doctor wheeled over an old machine, turned it on and pulled the paddles, rubbing them together with glee.
Victor tried to pull his arms free, but the restraints held him flat against the mattress.
“Don’t—please…” Victor wheezed.
*
Victor’s trembling hands reached for the leads, Arkady caught his wrists before he could tear them off. “No… no, please…”
“Stay still, let the machine work.” Arkady watched the readout on the screen before reaching into his bag again. He pulled out a syringe and small vial of clear liquid.
Midas stepped closer to the bed.
“Shock advised.” The AED announced.
“No—please—don’t—” Victor begged, tears filling his eyes as he looked directly at Midas, his body shaking, terror etched into every feature. “Vasha, please.”
“Victor, I’m going to give you something to help you relax.” Arkady slid the needle into Victor’s arm, pushing the sedative into his veins.
“No more…” Victor slurred, his eyes glazing as his body began to relax.
*
The doctor placed the paddles on either side of Victor’s pounding chest. The metal freezing against his skin.
“Hold still,” the doctor said mildly.
The machine whined as it finished charging. Victor’s heart lurched beneath the paddles, a frantic, broken rhythm that made his vision swim. Tears blurred the lights above him.
“Please—”
The doctor pressed the buttons.
The shock slammed through Victor’s body like lightning. His back arched violently off the bed, every muscle seizing at once as the current ripped through his chest. A strangled cry tore from his throat.
He collapsed back against the bed, gasping, his whole body trembling. The doctor watched the rise and fall of his chest, feeling the pulse in his femoral artery. Victor’s heart stumbled, still unstable.
“Unfortunate.” The doctor signed as he placed the paddles against Victor’s chest. “Again.”
*
Within seconds the fight drained from Victor’s body. The frantic tension melted from his limbs, his hands falling weakly back onto the sheets. His breath slowed. His distant, glassy eyes fixed on Midas, a tear streaking down his face.
Arkady turned back to the AED and pressed the button to deliver the shock.
Victor’s chest jolted off the bed.
“Normal sinus rhythm.” The AED announced.
Arkady sat back with a sigh, put the stethoscope against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm. “What mess did you get him into now?”
“Me?!” Midas said. “I don’t know who this creep was.”
“Was?” Arkady raised a brow.
“Was.” Midas confirmed.
Arkady nodded his approval before turning back to Victor, the urgency drained from the room, replaced by Arkady's steady movements. Wounds were checked, cleaned, treated, and bandaged, Victor lay limp beneath his hands, breathing shallow but even, the sedative keeping him suspended somewhere in the twilight between sleep and consciousness.
Midas stood silently nearby, arms folded, watching every movement.
Arkady slid one arm beneath Victor’s shoulders and another beneath his hip, shifting him back on his side, taking pressure off the sores on his back.
Victor groaned faintly as he was rolled back onto his side.
“Easy, just rest now,” Arkady said quietly, tucking a pillow behind Victor’s back to keep him from rolling onto his back. He pulled the comforter up over his shoulders.
“He’ll sleep for a while,” he said. “The sedative should wear off in a few hours.”
Midas nodded, his eyes fixed on Victor. “How bad is it?”
“Pneumonia, mid-grade fever, pressure sores, dehydration, puncture marks from large gauge needles near his joints, minor bruising everywhere…” Arkady trailed off, watching Victor sleep.
“He’s under the effects of some kind of drug, God knows what it did to him, there’s some altered mental status, it’s most likely what caused his heart arrhythmia, judging by the burn marks, he’s been shocked a few times without any gel protection. I would say he was tortured.”
“He was questioning Victor—he told him about Bram.” Midas said flatly.
Arkady stiffened at the name.
“Said he responded better to pleasure than pain.” Midas continued after a long silence, the memory settling over him.
Arkady rubbed his fingers against his temples, hesitant to continue. “The blood and irritation around his urethra and anus indicate multiple catheterizations and sexual abuse. This so-called doctor really did a number on him.”
“I should have burn him alive.”
“Yeah, well, hindsight is always 20/20.” Arkady said, raising to his feet, “I’m going to get some rest. You should too.”
Midas didn’t answer.
“Yeah,” he said dryly, already heading towards the couch. “That’s what I though. If he wakes up just try to keep him calm.”
The room settled, Midas listened to the soft rasp of Victor’s uneven breathing, pulling the chair closer to the bed and sat down.
Victor lay curled slightly beneath the sheets, he looked younger now that the tension had drained from him. The sharp panic that had twisted his face earlier was gone, leaving only exhaustion behind.
Midas leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.
That was too close.
He had come so close to losing him.
Having lived centuries, Midas had grown very accustomed to things being replaceable. Business. Money. Cities. People—but the thought that Victor had almost been taken from him carved a wound cold and unfamiliar through his chest.
The fight that started all this replayed in his head. It was stupid. He regretted his part in it, and the words that made Victor flee the hotel.
The day settled back into night, Midas shifted in the chair, resisting the urge to sleep. He had failed Victor before, he wouldn’t let him down again.
Victor’s skin began to grow flush as his fever crept higher. A bead of sweat slid from his forehead. Midas slipped a thermometer under Victor’s tongue. 103.7 °F. Arkady had warned him this would happen.
With a deep sign, Midas stood and disappeared to the bathroom, returning with a damp washcloth.
Victor sifted faintly when the cool cloth touched his forehead. A small, tired sound escaped him.
“Shh,” Midas soothed as he smoothed the damp cloth across Victor’s skin, pushing pale blond strands of hair away from his face.
“Always causing trouble,” he muttered under his breath, flipping the cloth and laying it on the back of Victor’s neck.
Victor’s brow furrowed slightly as he shifted against the pillow, a faint cough catching in his chest. His eyes fluttered open as his lips parted.
He blinked slowly, trying to focus on the figure that loomed over him in the dark room. Frameless words tumbled from his lips, a plea.
Midas understood it immediately, grabbing a glass of water from the nightstand.
Victor tried to sit up, wincing as his body refused to move.
“Let me help.” Midas said as he slid an arm behind Victor’s shoulders and lifted him just enough to bring the glass to his lips. “Drink.”
Victor obeyed automatically, taking a few small swallows before his body sagged again, his head falling against Midas’s shoulder. Midas eased him back against the pillow and returned the glass to the nightstand. When he turned back Victor was watching him, tears sliding down his cheeks.
“Please…” he breathed. “Don’t be mad.”
Victor’s eyes drifted shut before Midas could respond. His breathing slowed again, uneven but settling into the fragile rhythm of sleep. Midas brushed his thumb once across Victor’s cheek, catching one of the tears before it reached the pillow.
“You always assume the worst of me, Vitenka,” he murmured before exiting the room and tending to a matter in the lobby.
***
Victor was positioned on his side, eyes shut, back exposed as Arkady peeled away the dressing along his back.
“You know,” Arkady said mildly, “most patients who are asleep don’t flinch.”
“Leave me alone.” Victor mumbled.
“No.” Arkady’s voice was even.
“He shouldn’t have brought me here. I shouldn’t be here.”
Arkady didn’t respond immediately, instead he focused on applying a thin layer of ointment before covering the wounds with fresh gauze.
“You nearly died,” he said finally. “Would you rather he just leave you there or drop you off on the corner like an abandoned puppy.”
Victor gave a weak, humorless breath before stifling a cough.
“I betrayed him.” Victor finally said. “I don’t deserve him.”
Before Arkady could reply, the door opened and Midas stepped back inside.
Arkady felt it instantly beneath his hands—the subtle tightening of Victor’s back muscles, the way his shoulders stiffened.
Arkady stood up quickly, “I need to retrieve something from the car.”
Midas frowned slightly, watching him leave. “You took the train here.”
Arkady shut the door behind him without another word, giving Victor a brief, quiet look before leaving the room.
Midas sat on the edge of the bed, his back facing Victor, shoulders hunched, head down. The silence settled between them. Victor’s mind raced with what to say, what Midas was thinking, where they would go from here.
“Midas—”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
Victor froze.
“Please.” Tears were already gathering in Victor’s eyes. “I didn’t want to. I tried not to. I didn’t want him—he—I just—”
“Victor.” Midas shook his head.
“No, I knew what I was saying. I knew I shouldn’t—but couldn’t—I just couldn’t stop. I’m so sorry.” Victor covered his face with his hands.
“Victor.”
“It’s my fault—I shouldn’t have—please.” Victor rambled breathlessly, curling his fists over his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Victor could feel the bed shift as Midas stood up.
“Please don’t leave me.” Victor cried, curling tighter into himself. “Vasha, please.”
Hands grasped his wrists, gently bringing them down to his chest. Victor opened his eyes, Midas was lying next to him.
“I would never leave you.” Midas said.
“But I told him. I told him your secrets.”
Midas’s expression softened as he pulled Victor to his chest, his arms wrapping protectively around him. “You are more important than all of my secrets.”
Victor pressed his forehead into Midas’s chest, his breath hitching as the words finally reached him. For a moment he couldn’t speak, his fingers curled weakly in the fabric of Midas’s shirt, clutching it like something solid in a world that had spent weeks tilting beneath his feet.
“I ruined everything,” Victor whispered hoarsely.
“Why would you say that?”
“He knows now. I told him your past, what you’ve done, where you—” Victor choaked on a cough, Midas holding him tighter as his body tensed from the sharp pain.
“Secrets can be managed, loose ends can be tied,” Midas said after Victor grew still. “And in this case… a dead man tells no tales.”
A faint, broken laugh escaped Victor before dissolving into another cough.
“You think I care about information and secrets more than I care about you?” Midas asked.
Victor hesitated. “…Yes.”
“How have we known each other for so long yet you still manage to misunderstand me?”
Victor sat with the question, pressing against Midas’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm beneath his ear. For the first time in weeks, his body began to relax on its own. The trembling in his hands eased, his breathing slowed.
“I’m sorry,” Victor whispered, the words soft.
“You’ve said that already.” Midas said, a glimmer of a smile crossed his lips.
“I mean it.”
“I know.” Midas said, adjusting his hold, pulling Victor closer. “Rest now, I’m not going anywhere.”
Victor’s fingers tightened faintly in his shirt again. Midas reached for the washcloth and laid it gently across the back of Victor’s neck again, cooling the heat of the fever that was still clinging to him.
Victor sighed at the relief as the room grew quiet again. His breath deepened as his grip on Midas’s shirt slackened.
Carefully, Midas adjusted the blanket over Victor’s shoulders and settled back against the pillows, one arm still wrapped securely around Victor’s back.
“Stubborn priest,” he said, allowing his own body to relax as well. And when sleep finally claimed him—he didn’t let go.
Omgg thank you for this awesome gift!! I've read it multiple times while kicking my feet. It also has a surprising amount of caretaking by Arkady, chef's kiss! The way you write Victor's emotional agony is A++… Also how do you know that pneumonia is my favorite sickness for whump?
And you are absolutely correct, Midas does own assets in Morocco
A growing flame spread inside the clinic, quickly swallowing the building.
Yesss, this is so him
Arkady stood up quickly, “I need to retrieve something from the car.”
Midas frowned slightly, watching him leave. “You took the train here.”
WHEEZING
I’m so glad you enjoyed it, I was definitely nervous about torturing your child, Victor, after all, who knows these characters better than you. I was pretty tickled though that I was able to get all your favorite tropes in there, a crazy “doctor” just worked so perfectly! This was also my first noncon fic, but after reading Retail Therapy I thought it would be well received.
I didn’t get a chance to read anything with Arkady in it to get the feel of his character, so I took well dressed physician and ran with it, and made him the bridging reasonable character. He was definitely my biggest risk.
Pneumonia is just a classic illness that has a bit of all the good symptoms. I’m so glad you got Morocco, I was worried I broke his line up too much, but I wanted something old and exotic and not necessarily a place that always gets attention.
Again, I had a blast playing in your universe with your characters!!
A/N: This is the first time I've used another creator's original characters to use in a story for them. I hope I did them justice. Thank you for letting me play with Victor, Midas, and Arkady for a while.
Warning: This story intended for an adult audience. NSFWhump
Victor’s first mistake was ignoring the cough, shortness of breath, and the sharp pain that settled deep in his chest—his second was trusting a white coat. His body lay sore and bare beneath a sickly yellow, fluorescent light that flickered and hummed overhead, the sound burrowing into his skull.
He felt emptied of strength, resistance, and dignity. His wrists and ankles were strapped to the metal bed rails, the leather cuffs biting into skin made too sensitive by whatever drug had been pumped into his veins.
Even his chest felt confined, the burn marks tight on his skin. Each breath shallow and burning as the pneumonia burrowed deep behind his ribs, making him fight for each breath.
Time slipped like water, falling from his grasp and pooling uselessly in the corners of his mind. He tried to piece together the last clear thoughts he could remember—going to a small clinic for treatment, the receptionist smiling too brightly, the doctor recognizing his name, but the memory slipped away the harder he reached for it.
His gaze fixed on the IV stand, the bag hung empty, whatever poison it held was already flowing through his veins.
The door opened with a soft click.
Victor stiffened. The movement barely registered beyond a tremor that rippled through him. His muscles felt disconnected, as if signals from his brain had to travel through syrup before reaching them.
The doctor’s shadow fell over Victor as he approached the IV pole. “Look at that, empty.”
Victor’s head bobbled as he forced his tongue to move. “Don’t!”
The doctor didn’t acknowledge the demand. He removed the empty bag with practiced efficiency and replaced it with a full bag.
“I adjusted the concentration,” the doctor said. “You were becoming too… obstinate.”
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Victor could feel the moment the fluid began to enter his veins, the cold sensation bloomed outward, spreading like ice crystals up his arm, climbing into his shoulder, and chest. A tremor ran through him, his fingers twitched against the bed cover, his body tightened involuntarily, back arching as a raw sound tore from deep in his chest.
“The stronger dose should make you more agreeable.” The doctor smiled, enjoying the way his patient’s body lifted off the bed and contorted.
The cold deepened into a burning heat as it traveled, pooling low in his abdomen, curling around his spine. His thoughts began to blur at the edges, as though they were dissolving in water.
A memory, sharp and sudden, flashed through his mind.
*
The doctor leaning in too close, voice low, “you know all his secrets, don’t you?”
He held up a black and white photograph of Midas in front of his hotel, a year etched into the corner. 1884.
“Where is he?”
*
The memory slipped.
“N—no,” Victor slurred, his eyes rolled back in his head as he lost the ability to focus his vision. His body slumped back into the bed, heavy and useless.
The doctor pressed two fingers near Victor’s groin near his right hip, searching. Victor flinched at the icy touch, the sensation amplified by the effects of the drug.
His breath fractured into a helpless gasp as the doctor located the femoral artery and held pressure there, counting while timing against his wristwatch. Victor tried to twist away, but the restraints held.
“Your pulse is elevated,” the doctor murmured to himself, almost pleased. “You’re responding beautifully. Just remember what happens when you get too excited, it’s just as unpleasant for me as it is you.”
The lie settled over Victor like something sticky and invasive—the doctor’s enjoyment over his experiments was painfully obvious.
Victor’s heart began to beat harder. His lungs protested the effort; the burning in his chest flared, but started to feel distant, dulled at the edges as the new dose spread deeper. Even the panic felt distant now, it was muted, as if it was happening to someone else.
The room tilted.
The fluorescent light fractured into shards of yellow. The hum overhead deepened into something vast and endless. His skin felt too tight, too aware of the air touching it, of the doctor’s fingers still pressing into his inner hip.
His thoughts were slipping again.
Midas, he wanted Midas.
How long had it been since they last parted ways after the fight? A name, more intimate, surfaced like a bubble through murky water.
Vasha.
Despite his best protests, Victor’s body began to relax.
“That’s better,” the doctor said softly.
His touch lingered a moment longer before sliding across his lower abdomen, the chilling touch too close to a place not meant for anyone but Vasha.
Victor tried to cling to the last fragment of resistance, but it was already dissolving as the drug moved deeper, wrapping around his mind, smoothing away any fight.
And this time, it did not feel like it intended to let him surface again.
***
Knuckles ground into the center of Victor’s chest, forcing a ragged breath from his lungs. He opened his eyes; the world smeared into blotches of light and shadow.
Slowly Victor’s eyes drifted shut again.
“Stay with me.” A voice soothed, as the feeling of grinding knuckles against his sternum continued.
A hand gently brushed his cheek, across the burn on his chest, then circled a nipple, teasing it with the gentle scrape of a fingernail before continuing down across his abdomen.
“Va…” Victor’s mouth couldn’t form the word.
Victor flinched as a cold hand came to rest high on his exposed, parted thigh, fingers caressing his tender skin. A shudder worked its way up his body, his teeth chattering, eyes rolling back in his head.
“Victor.” The voice said sternly. “Focus on me.”
“Va…sha…?” Victor moaned. His eyes tried to find the familiar silhouette and red hair.
Midas wasn’t there.
“Grigorios Montgomery. Tell me more about him.” The doctor’s hand drew a tender circle on his inner thigh, his thumb grazing purposefully against the sensitive skin of his manhood.
Victor gasped, his body responded before his mind could object, nerves lit raw and electric by the drug in his veins.
“The hotel. He keeps you there, doesn’t he?” The doctor urged. “Where is it?”
“He—” Victor’s tongue felt too heavy. “Grand… Conifer…”
“Good. Tell me about his other ventures.” The doctor continued to advance, his hand glided between Victor’s legs, teasing the rim of his anus before slipping a gloved, pre-lubed finger past the tight muscle.
“Statesman Auction House… rare antiques… one-of-a-kind—” The words tumbled from Victor’s breathless lips, fractured and broken; it was a betrayal he couldn’t stop. His chest heaved in effort; hips twitched involuntarily as waves of sensation and shame crashed together.
No.
No, no, no.
This wasn’t right. He didn’t want this.
“Does he still own you? Does he not bite you often?”
Own?
The word struck somewhere deep.
His lungs seized. The pneumonia clawed deep, each breath shallow and raw. He coughed weakly, gagging on the phlegm.
“There was… fight…” he choked. “Left.”
“Mm.” The doctor sounded pleased, his inserted finger curled, searching. “And yet here you are. You didn’t wonder far from your master.”
Hot tears slid sideways down Victor’s temples into his hairline. He was betraying Midas just as his own body was betraying him.
An eye for an eye.
“You are very obedient.” Victor could hear the smile cross the doctor’s lips, his finger rubbing the walnut sized gland while his erection rested against his thigh.
Victor tried to disappear into himself, praying the darkness would pull him under so his mouth would stop answering, body would stop responding, mind stop remembering.
The air quickly shifted as the door opened, even Victor could feel a presence enter the room. Heavy. Silent. Immense.
“Speak of the devil—” the doctor began as he placed a needle against Victor’s neck. His finger continuing its assault.
“Take your hands off of him.” A voice demanded, low and controlled, an anger quietly waiting below the surface.
Victor’s eyes refused to focus, but he knew that shape. Even drowning in the drug’s fog, he knew.
“Vasha?” Victor murmured. He tried to turn his head away, but it felt like he was moving through tar.
“What did you do to him?” Midas’s voice barely above a growl.
“Testing the lengths of his obedience.” The doctor laughed. “Even though you’ve been separated, he still has your scent all over him. Fascinating bond. Victor, tell me a secret, one he buried deep.”
The doctor’s incessant finger tapped and stroked the sensitive bulb at a quickening pace. Victor’s body contracted, every muscle tense, he pulled against the restraints.
“Bramwell… Aster Fitzalan.” Victor exhaled in between gasps.
Midas stiffened at the name that had been buried for centuries—the doctor noticed his reaction and continued with his questioning. “Tell me more.”
“Guh…” Victor tried to resist, his throat clenching, back lifting off the bed as the doctor pushed up suddenly on his prostate and began ferociously rubbing it. “Magh—el… Herc—Tangier… Kasbah gate.”
Midas watched helplessly as Victor’s body began to convulse violently, hips jerking, seed spilling. He looked like he was drowning, his breath gasping and choking, short and wet.
“Enough, he can’t breathe!” Midas stepped forward.
“Don’t move!” The doctor bellowed, inserting the needle deep into Victor’s neck, thumb on the plunger.
Midas froze.
Victor’s wild gaze drifted around the room, trying to find some form of comfort. He saw it then, the way Midas was looking at him, his stoic face might as well have been drenched in horror. He could see Victor’s betrayal—the stains on the bed, the erection that hadn’t fully relaxed, feed marks on his neck. Did he hear what he had said too, the information he freely gave up?
“It took a lot to break him, but I finally figured it out, he responds better to pleasure than pain. It took some time to find the right formula and stimuli of course and there were some—unintended side effects—but overall, it was a success.”
The doctor took his eyes off Midas for an instant, looking over his patient’s body, proud of his work. A flash of dark green and red crossed Victor’s vision, the doctor’s assault stopped, the needle was ripped from his neck, his finger wrenched free from his abused body.
The doctor was slammed into the wall with a sickening crunch, broken tiles crashed to the floor.
“What. Did. You. Do.” Each word was colder than the doctor’s hand had been.
What did I do? Tears blurred Victor’s vision as they overflowed and spilled down his cheeks. I betrayed him.
There was a choking sound, then a sick crack, then nothing.
Stillness swallowed the room.
Victor tried to inhale and instead erupted into a violent coughing fit. It tore through him, stealing the air from his lungs. Pain flared white behind his eyes, panic clung to his throat. He couldn’t move his head enough to stop from gagging.
Leather tore and metal snapped. The pressure around his wrists and ankles was suddenly gone. Strong hands caught him before he could fall sideways off the bed. In a swift motion, the IV was torn free from his arm. A blanket wrapped around his bare skin, thin but shielding.
Familiar and impossibly strong arms scooped him up as if he weighted nothing at all. Victor sagged against Midas’s broad chest. He could feel his heat through his dark green shirt.
“Mm… so…” Victor tried to apologize, his words dissolved into another coughing fit, his body finally succumbing to the illness that had gone untreated.
“Don’t speak,” Midas said.
The night air hit his face a moment later. Cold and freeing. The world tilted as he was set into the passenger seat, the warmth that once held him was gone.
The door slammed.
The engine of the sports car roared to life as it sped off into the night. A growing flame spread inside the clinic, quickly swallowing the building. Midas’s eyes flicked up at the rear-view mirror, satisfied at the impending destruction.
Streetlights streaked past the window in dull lines of gold. Victor watched them without recognition or understanding distance or direction. Each passing light made his stomach lurch. His body became hot, sweat beading on his skin. His head lolled sideways, he tried to swallow but couldn’t.
The nausea rose fast and vicious. He doubled forward in the leather bucket seat, dry heaves shook his body. Nothing came up but bitter air and broken coughs.
“Breathe,” Midas ordered sharply, pressing the accelerator harder.
The command cut through the fog just enough.
In.
Out.
In.
Another wave of dizziness rolled through him, the lights blurring into one continuous ribbon. Midas reached over, placing his hand on Victor’s forehead, a glowing heat radiated into his palm.
“Close your eyes and try to rest.” Midas’s hand swept down, falling gently over Victor’s lashes, encouraging his eyes lids closed.
“How’d you get yourself into this mess?” Midas asked to the night.
“Ran out of caffeine.” A small voice answered dully.
***
Cold air slipped through the thin threads of the blanket, waking Victor. Before he could gather himself, arms slid beneath him and he was lifted from the seat.
He recognized the building even through the haze.
The Grand Conifer Hotel.
This wasn’t how he planned to return.
Midas pushed his shoulder into the ornate revolving door, it spun with a soft whoosh.
A dim glow from the grand chandeliers spilled over them and reflected off the polished marble floors.
The lobby was quiet, save for several small groups of well-dressed late-night drinkers lounged by the bar, a glass crashed to the floor and a hush fell over the patrons.
Victor raised his head weakly, he saw them. Woman dressed in long sequence dresses, men in tuxedos, their smiles faded, eyes looking at him, tracking them as the red-haired hotel owner strode across the lobby.
Victor’s stomach twisted. They could see him, the thin blanket wrapped around him didn’t feel like enough to shield him. He curled inward immediately, clutching at the blanket with weak fingers trying to bury his face in Midas’s chest.
His body began to tremble.
“Mr. Montgomery!” The night clerk stepped out from behind the front desk, Midas didn’t break stride. “Sir, there’s an urgent—"
“Not now.” Midas’s words were calm, but his tone ended the conversation immediately.
Midas turned his head toward the bar, aware of the sudden silence.
Across the lobby the patrons were still staring. The women leaned into one another, whispering while a man had half risen, curiosity overcoming decorum. Even the bartender had stopped mid-pour.
The clerk followed his gaze and stiffened. “Do you want me to close the bar?”
“No,” Midas said firmly. “Put their drinks on the house, they can stay as long as they like. Don’t answer any questions about this.”
The clerk nodded, “yes sir, of course.”
Midas turned away without another word, already moving towards the elevators leaving the clerk to hurry back and announce the good news to the patrons.
The elevator doors opened with a quiet chime. Midas stepped inside, sliding his key card that unlocked access to the top floor.
The doors slid closed, shutting out the prying eyes in the lobby. A quiet, broken sound slipped out before Victor could stop it, his shoulders trembling as tears began to slide down his cheeks, soaking into Midas’s shirt.
Midas said nothing at first. He simply shifted his hold, drawing Victor closer against his chest.
Victor hated he couldn’t stop sobbing, the humiliation burned worse than the fever.
Midas gilded his head down, his voice low and close to Victor’s ear. “Hey, don’t worry about them, they won’t remember anything by morning. Free drinks tend to do that.”
Victor choked out a small laugh in between sobs. He pressed closer despite himself, hiding his face completely now. The steady warmth of Midas’s chest and the slow, powerful rhythm beneath it gave him something to focus on besides the memory of the staring eyes.
His trembling eased only slightly as the elevator continued its climb, before it slowed. A soft chime sounded as the doors slid open to the presidential suit on the top floor.
Midas lowered Victor carefully to the bathroom floor. Victor sagged against the base of the tub, his head lolling sightly as he tried to shift into a comfortable position, eventually sliding to the floor, curled on his side.
Midas pulled his phone from his pocket as he turned the taps, hot water began to rush into the tub, the sound filling the tiled room as steam slowly started to gather in the air.
“I found him,” Midas’s voice was low. “He’s out of it, but alive.”
Victor heard his voice through the fog in his head, but struggled to understand what was being said, though the phrase medical experiments was not lost to him.
“I’d like you to take a look at him.” Midas’s tone stayed even. “Yes. As soon as you can.”
The call ended as simply as it began. Midas slipped the phone back into his pocket, turning his attention back to Victor who had pulled the blanket tight around his body. The only part of him that was visible was his fingers that were clinging tightly to the fabric. His nails were broken and bloody, probably from gripping at the bed over the last few weeks like he was doing now.
Midas crouched next to him and started to work his hand loose, peeling the blanket back from the sores on his back.
“No…” Victor reacted immediately, his fingers grabbing, tightening, trying to keep the blanket wrapped around him, the protest was weak, but desperate.
“Victor.” Midas’s voice stayed calm. “I’m going to get you cleaned up.”
Victor shook his head faintly, holding on to the only dignity he had left.
Midas signed, “if you don’t let go, I’m going to cut it off you.”
Victor’s grip slowly weakened as his fingers loosened, the blanket slipped free and Midas drew it away.
He went still.
Victor’s flesh was pale, except for the angry sores across his shoulder blades and hips, two square-shaped marks marred his chest and side, bruises circle his wrists and ankles where restraints had cut into his skin, no doubt from pulling away.
More bruising spread across his ribs, hips, and thighs. Dried blood streaked the side of his neck where the needle had pierced and where another vampire had fed—multiple times. There was more blood from the puncture in his arm from the IV had been torn free.
Midas’s eyes drifted lower as his inspection continued below Victor’s waste. His jaw tightened at the dried blood between his legs, the irritated skin, and bruising. There was no mistaking what had happened there.
He had lost weight, his ribs now visible when he breathed.
Two and a half weeks. That’s how long it took to find him after he disappeared. It was too long and he had been so close.
Victor shivered under Midas’s gaze; his teeth began to chatter audibly. Without a word, Midas gathered him into his arms again. Victor’s body sagged against him as he began to lower him into the water.
A cry escaped Victor’s lips before he could stop it, his body jerking violently as the warm water struck every wound all at once. The burns, bruises, punctures all flared painfully as the heat reached each injury.
“Easy.” Midas held Victor steady, one arm supporting his back as he writhed weakly, trying to pull away.
Victor gasped through clenched teeth, his breathing ragged as the initial sting slowly dulled into a deep aching warmth. His body sagged again, relaxing into Midas’s arms.
Midas grabbed a washcloth, dipped it into the water, working soap into the cloth before bringing it to Victor’s skin. Carefully, he pressed the cloth to Victor’s forehead and slid it down his face, neck, and shoulder, washing away sweat, dried blood, and the scent of the other vampire.
His movements were steady, intimate, passing the cloth across his chest, along his ribs, abdomen, and down his thigh, erasing the filth the doctor left behind. Victor shifted, making small sounds, his eyes shut.
Midas lifted Victor from the bath and wrapped him in a thick towel, drying him slowly. When he was finished, Victor was carried into the bedroom, and laid carefully onto the bed.
Midas settled into bed next to Victor, wrapping an arm around him, drawing him close. Victor’s breath remained uneven, as Midas rested his hand lightly against Victor’s back, holding him steady as exhaustion fully pulled him under.
For the first time since arriving at the clinic, Victor’s body began to relax.
***
Victor lay on his side, he could hear a pair of voices talking in the distance. Low. Controlled.
He didn’t open his eyes right away, they were too heavy.
“He’s been sleeping for the past 14 hours.” The voice was unmistakable, even through the fog.
Fingers forced Victor’s eyes open, a bright light shone in his eyes, he tried to turn away, his hands weakly attempting to push the light away.
“Pupils are fixed and dilated. No apparent signs of head trauma, it might be an effect of a drug.” The tone was neutral. “Hey, Victor. It’s Arkady, can you hear me? I’m just going to check you over, let me know what hurts.”
Victor moaned, the words refusing to form.
The warm comforter was pulled back without ceremony, cold air settled on Victor’s bare skin. He flinched, trying to cover himself with his hands as he brought his knees to his chest.
“You’re ok Victor, stay still.” Arkady said, gloved fingers pressing lightly near the oozing sores on his back. He exhaled slowly.
“What are those?” Midas asked.
“Pressure sores. They’re from lying in the same position. Judging by severity, I’d say a week or more.”
A cold metal disk was placed on his back, Victor flinched.
“Big breath in.” Arkady said, listening intently. “Ok, now out.”
Victor did as he was told, his chest starting to tighten.
“Breath sounds are diminished in the bases. He has crackles as well. He likely has pneumonia.”
“He has been coughing a lot.” Midas said.
Victor forced his eyes open and tried to focus. Through heavy lids he could see Midas standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, face creased in worry.
Arkady pulled a pocket watch from a vest pocket and held Victor’s wrist, counting the heart beats. “Heart rate one-fifteen.”
Victor’s eyes fluttered closed, a memory rising until it trampled over the present.
*
“Your heart rate is high,” the doctor sneered. “Are you scared?
The blood pressure cuff tightened around Victor’s arm. He jerked against the restraints as the pressure climbed, the cuff constricting around the tender skin of his upper arm.
The doctor squeezed the rubber bulb again and again, each pump forced the cuff tighter.
Victor sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. The drug burning through his system made every sensation sharper. Pain flaring like a spark across raw nerves.
“It’s too tight.” He gasped.
The rubber bulb squeaked softly in the doctor’s hand as he gave it another slow squeeze, the cuff constricting harder.
The pressure felt like it was crushing into muscle and bone, his fingers digging into the mattress, a cold tingle crept down into his hand. Victor writhed against the straps, breath shuddering as the pain sharpened into something unbearable, his arm burning with a hypersensitive fire.
“Please—” Victor rasped.
“You’re not being very cooperative Victor.”
*
“Stop!” Victor screamed as Arkady released the cuff’s pressure.
“One-seventy over one hundred, heart rate one-forty-two.” Arkady said flatly, pulling off the blood pressure cuff. “Victor, you need to calm down.”
“No…” Victor pleaded. “Don’t—don’t leave it…”
Arkady glanced up briefly, brows furrowed as he scanned Victor’s face. His pupils were wide, breath coming quicker now.
“Heart rate up to one-sixty-four,” Arkady’s fingers tightened around Victor’s wrist as he placed the stethoscope to Victor’s chest. “Rhythm is irregular.”
“What’s wrong, what’s happening to him?” Midas asked, moving closer to the bed. “Those numbers are high, right?”
“Too high for his condition.” Arkady said, sliding an arm behind Victor’s shoulder and carefully rolled him onto his back. Victor gasped weakly at the movement, panic flashing across his face.
“Easy,” Arkady murmured, his voice steady. “Focus on breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth.”
With a quick movement he reached into the open medical bag beside the bed and pulled out a small AED.
Victor’s eyes widened.
“No…” His voice filled with terror.
“Victor, your heart’s not beating properly, it can’t keep up this rhythm. I’m going to have to stabilize it.”
Arkady peeled open the adhesive pads, placing one on Victor’s chest, the other on his side. The pads matched up with the burns. The AED powered on with an electronic chime.
“Analyzing heart rhythm,” the unit announced.
*
“S—something’s wrong…” Victor gasped. “My heart.”
“Ah yes, an arrhythmia, an unintended side effect of the drug…” The doctor said, his fingers searching the crease of Victor’s groin, pressing deep to feel the femoral artery. “Only one way to fix it.”
The doctor wheeled over an old machine, turned it on and pulled the paddles, rubbing them together with glee.
Victor tried to pull his arms free, but the restraints held him flat against the mattress.
“Don’t—please…” Victor wheezed.
*
Victor’s trembling hands reached for the leads, Arkady caught his wrists before he could tear them off. “No… no, please…”
“Stay still, let the machine work.” Arkady watched the readout on the screen before reaching into his bag again. He pulled out a syringe and small vial of clear liquid.
Midas stepped closer to the bed.
“Shock advised.” The AED announced.
“No—please—don’t—” Victor begged, tears filling his eyes as he looked directly at Midas, his body shaking, terror etched into every feature. “Vasha, please.”
“Victor, I’m going to give you something to help you relax.” Arkady slid the needle into Victor’s arm, pushing the sedative into his veins.
“No more…” Victor slurred, his eyes glazing as his body began to relax.
*
The doctor placed the paddles on either side of Victor’s pounding chest. The metal freezing against his skin.
“Hold still,” the doctor said mildly.
The machine whined as it finished charging. Victor’s heart lurched beneath the paddles, a frantic, broken rhythm that made his vision swim. Tears blurred the lights above him.
“Please—”
The doctor pressed the buttons.
The shock slammed through Victor’s body like lightning. His back arched violently off the bed, every muscle seizing at once as the current ripped through his chest. A strangled cry tore from his throat.
He collapsed back against the bed, gasping, his whole body trembling. The doctor watched the rise and fall of his chest, feeling the pulse in his femoral artery. Victor’s heart stumbled, still unstable.
“Unfortunate.” The doctor signed as he placed the paddles against Victor’s chest. “Again.”
*
Within seconds the fight drained from Victor’s body. The frantic tension melted from his limbs, his hands falling weakly back onto the sheets. His breath slowed. His distant, glassy eyes fixed on Midas, a tear streaking down his face.
Arkady turned back to the AED and pressed the button to deliver the shock.
Victor’s chest jolted off the bed.
“Normal sinus rhythm.” The AED announced.
Arkady sat back with a sigh, put the stethoscope against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm. “What mess did you get him into now?”
“Me?!” Midas said. “I don’t know who this creep was.”
“Was?” Arkady raised a brow.
“Was.” Midas confirmed.
Arkady nodded his approval before turning back to Victor, the urgency drained from the room, replaced by Arkady's steady movements. Wounds were checked, cleaned, treated, and bandaged, Victor lay limp beneath his hands, breathing shallow but even, the sedative keeping him suspended somewhere in the twilight between sleep and consciousness.
Midas stood silently nearby, arms folded, watching every movement.
Arkady slid one arm beneath Victor’s shoulders and another beneath his hip, shifting him back on his side, taking pressure off the sores on his back.
Victor groaned faintly as he was rolled back onto his side.
“Easy, just rest now,” Arkady said quietly, tucking a pillow behind Victor’s back to keep him from rolling onto his back. He pulled the comforter up over his shoulders.
“He’ll sleep for a while,” he said. “The sedative should wear off in a few hours.”
Midas nodded, his eyes fixed on Victor. “How bad is it?”
“Pneumonia, mid-grade fever, pressure sores, dehydration, puncture marks from large gauge needles near his joints, minor bruising everywhere…” Arkady trailed off, watching Victor sleep.
“He’s under the effects of some kind of drug, God knows what it did to him, there’s some altered mental status, it’s most likely what caused his heart arrhythmia, judging by the burn marks, he’s been shocked a few times without any gel protection. I would say he was tortured.”
“He was questioning Victor—he told him about Bram.” Midas said flatly.
Arkady stiffened at the name.
“Said he responded better to pleasure than pain.” Midas continued after a long silence, the memory settling over him.
Arkady rubbed his fingers against his temples, hesitant to continue. “The blood and irritation around his urethra and anus indicate multiple catheterizations and sexual abuse. This so-called doctor really did a number on him.”
“I should have burn him alive.”
“Yeah, well, hindsight is always 20/20.” Arkady said, raising to his feet, “I’m going to get some rest. You should too.”
Midas didn’t answer.
“Yeah,” he said dryly, already heading towards the couch. “That’s what I though. If he wakes up just try to keep him calm.”
The room settled, Midas listened to the soft rasp of Victor’s uneven breathing, pulling the chair closer to the bed and sat down.
Victor lay curled slightly beneath the sheets, he looked younger now that the tension had drained from him. The sharp panic that had twisted his face earlier was gone, leaving only exhaustion behind.
Midas leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.
That was too close.
He had come so close to losing him.
Having lived centuries, Midas had grown very accustomed to things being replaceable. Business. Money. Cities. People—but the thought that Victor had almost been taken from him carved a wound cold and unfamiliar through his chest.
The fight that started all this replayed in his head. It was stupid. He regretted his part in it, and the words that made Victor flee the hotel.
The day settled back into night, Midas shifted in the chair, resisting the urge to sleep. He had failed Victor before, he wouldn’t let him down again.
Victor’s skin began to grow flush as his fever crept higher. A bead of sweat slid from his forehead. Midas slipped a thermometer under Victor’s tongue. 103.7 °F. Arkady had warned him this would happen.
With a deep sign, Midas stood and disappeared to the bathroom, returning with a damp washcloth.
Victor sifted faintly when the cool cloth touched his forehead. A small, tired sound escaped him.
“Shh,” Midas soothed as he smoothed the damp cloth across Victor’s skin, pushing pale blond strands of hair away from his face.
“Always causing trouble,” he muttered under his breath, flipping the cloth and laying it on the back of Victor’s neck.
Victor’s brow furrowed slightly as he shifted against the pillow, a faint cough catching in his chest. His eyes fluttered open as his lips parted.
He blinked slowly, trying to focus on the figure that loomed over him in the dark room. Frameless words tumbled from his lips, a plea.
Midas understood it immediately, grabbing a glass of water from the nightstand.
Victor tried to sit up, wincing as his body refused to move.
“Let me help.” Midas said as he slid an arm behind Victor’s shoulders and lifted him just enough to bring the glass to his lips. “Drink.”
Victor obeyed automatically, taking a few small swallows before his body sagged again, his head falling against Midas’s shoulder. Midas eased him back against the pillow and returned the glass to the nightstand. When he turned back Victor was watching him, tears sliding down his cheeks.
“Please…” he breathed. “Don’t be mad.”
Victor’s eyes drifted shut before Midas could respond. His breathing slowed again, uneven but settling into the fragile rhythm of sleep. Midas brushed his thumb once across Victor’s cheek, catching one of the tears before it reached the pillow.
“You always assume the worst of me, Vitenka,” he murmured before exiting the room and tending to a matter in the lobby.
***
Victor was positioned on his side, eyes shut, back exposed as Arkady peeled away the dressing along his back.
“You know,” Arkady said mildly, “most patients who are asleep don’t flinch.”
“Leave me alone.” Victor mumbled.
“No.” Arkady’s voice was even.
“He shouldn’t have brought me here. I shouldn’t be here.”
Arkady didn’t respond immediately, instead he focused on applying a thin layer of ointment before covering the wounds with fresh gauze.
“You nearly died,” he said finally. “Would you rather he just leave you there or drop you off on the corner like an abandoned puppy.”
Victor gave a weak, humorless breath before stifling a cough.
“I betrayed him.” Victor finally said. “I don’t deserve him.”
Before Arkady could reply, the door opened and Midas stepped back inside.
Arkady felt it instantly beneath his hands—the subtle tightening of Victor’s back muscles, the way his shoulders stiffened.
Arkady stood up quickly, “I need to retrieve something from the car.”
Midas frowned slightly, watching him leave. “You took the train here.”
Arkady shut the door behind him without another word, giving Victor a brief, quiet look before leaving the room.
Midas sat on the edge of the bed, his back facing Victor, shoulders hunched, head down. The silence settled between them. Victor’s mind raced with what to say, what Midas was thinking, where they would go from here.
“Midas—”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
Victor froze.
“Please.” Tears were already gathering in Victor’s eyes. “I didn’t want to. I tried not to. I didn’t want him—he—I just—”
“Victor.” Midas shook his head.
“No, I knew what I was saying. I knew I shouldn’t—but couldn’t—I just couldn’t stop. I’m so sorry.” Victor covered his face with his hands.
“Victor.”
“It’s my fault—I shouldn’t have—please.” Victor rambled breathlessly, curling his fists over his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Victor could feel the bed shift as Midas stood up.
“Please don’t leave me.” Victor cried, curling tighter into himself. “Vasha, please.”
Hands grasped his wrists, gently bringing them down to his chest. Victor opened his eyes, Midas was lying next to him.
“I would never leave you.” Midas said.
“But I told him. I told him your secrets.”
Midas’s expression softened as he pulled Victor to his chest, his arms wrapping protectively around him. “You are more important than all of my secrets.”
Victor pressed his forehead into Midas’s chest, his breath hitching as the words finally reached him. For a moment he couldn’t speak, his fingers curled weakly in the fabric of Midas’s shirt, clutching it like something solid in a world that had spent weeks tilting beneath his feet.
“I ruined everything,” Victor whispered hoarsely.
“Why would you say that?”
“He knows now. I told him your past, what you’ve done, where you—” Victor choaked on a cough, Midas holding him tighter as his body tensed from the sharp pain.
“Secrets can be managed, loose ends can be tied,” Midas said after Victor grew still. “And in this case… a dead man tells no tales.”
A faint, broken laugh escaped Victor before dissolving into another cough.
“You think I care about information and secrets more than I care about you?” Midas asked.
Victor hesitated. “…Yes.”
“How have we known each other for so long yet you still manage to misunderstand me?”
Victor sat with the question, pressing against Midas’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm beneath his ear. For the first time in weeks, his body began to relax on its own. The trembling in his hands eased, his breathing slowed.
“I’m sorry,” Victor whispered, the words soft.
“You’ve said that already.” Midas said, a glimmer of a smile crossed his lips.
“I mean it.”
“I know.” Midas said, adjusting his hold, pulling Victor closer. “Rest now, I’m not going anywhere.”
Victor’s fingers tightened faintly in his shirt again. Midas reached for the washcloth and laid it gently across the back of Victor’s neck again, cooling the heat of the fever that was still clinging to him.
Victor sighed at the relief as the room grew quiet again. His breath deepened as his grip on Midas’s shirt slackened.
Carefully, Midas adjusted the blanket over Victor’s shoulders and settled back against the pillows, one arm still wrapped securely around Victor’s back.
“Stubborn priest,” he said, allowing his own body to relax as well. And when sleep finally claimed him—he didn’t let go.
Black Hand (1950)- Giovanni first gets his leg broken standing up to the bad guys then when he’s trying to save his girl’s little brother he gets caught kicked about just threatened in general and at the end he fashions his escape via lite cigarette and explosives.
