“I don’t understand why you’re in such a mood with me!” Fao exclaimed, exasperated. Ely had been off with him since he’d come in late the night before, and he’d finally lost it with her.
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s because you’ve done close to an 80 hour week this week! I hardly see you, and you’re supposed to be taking things easy! You’re not long after major surgery, or had you forgotten that bit?”
“I’m recovered, I’m fine! I got the all clear to come back to work.”
“You got the all clear to take it easy at work! You’re so bullheaded!”
“It’s not my fault the department is down two surgeons. I have to work otherwise we’d have no trauma cover! You know what it’s like.”
“Not to the point of working yourself to death. They can get locums in, you’re going to end up hurting yourself Fao!”
“I’m not going to hurt myself.” He snapped. “I’m fine. You can’t wrap me in cotton wool forever, let me life my fucking life!” He turned away from his girlfriend, grabbing his boots. “I’m taking the dog for a walk, I’m not having this conversation anymore.”
“Oh, so we’re just going to ignore it, then. Sounds about right, you ignore everything else.” Ely retorted sarcastically.
“Oh, charming.” He muttered, resting his leg on the edge of the bed to tie his laces.
Finn had been standing outside his brother's door for most of the argument. He'd been about to knock before the raised voices, and he'd hesitated. His stomach was still flipping though, and he knew he couldn't leave it. He couldn't risk being alone.
He knocked gently. "Fao? Ely?"
Ely frowned. “Finn? What’s wrong?” She called.
"Can I come in?"
Ignoring Fao, Ely crossed the room to open the door. “Are you alright?”
He shook his head. "Feel all wrong. Didn't want to be alone."
Leg still up on the bed, Fao twisted to look at his brother, concerned. “Finn?”
"I need help."
“Why don’t you sit down?” Ely said gently.
"Can't."
“Sit on the bed.” Ely told him.
She didn't get it. "Can't."
Fao twisted further, trying to work out what the hell was going on. Really, he should have known better, but he wasn’t thinking. Finn was always his priority. That was, until pain overwhelmed him, and he struggled to stay upright. “Fuck.’
Finn was too distracted to pay attention to Fao, grabbing at Ely to stop himself falling.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” Ely muttered, struggling to help Finn. “Fao, what’s going on?”
“Uh, I, fuck. Think I’ve done my hip.”
“The fuck do you mean done?!”
“Well, uh, it hurts.” He said weakly. “I think it’s dislocated. I’ll live. How’s Finn?”
"Ely." Finn managed between absences and myos. "'s Fao?"
Desperately trying not to keel over, Fao grabbed at the bed and tried to sit. “Ely, there’s midaz in my bedside drawer.”
“Why can’t the two of you just take it in turns?” She grumbled, grabbing Finn’s meds. “Fao, are you going to be alright?”
“I need help getting on the bed.” He whimpered.
Finn finally lost his fight against the seizure, slipping under and convulsing.
Keeping an eye on the time, Ely swore as Finn started to seize. But there wasn't a lot she could do, and so rushed to help Fao.
“You've got to be kidding me.” Fao groaned. The pain was immense, but he was more worried about Finn. He couldn't help manage the seizure, couldn't do much of anything. He was settled enough, and then pushed his girlfriend's hands off of him. “Sort Finn, not me.” He snapped.
Ely knew better than to argue with him, and wordlessly crouched next to Finn. They at least had pillows to protect him a little, but really it was a waiting game until they could give Midaz. She just hoped he resolved before then.
It did, thankfully. It still left him unconscious and out of breath, his tongue bleeding and running down his cheek. Finn didn't move, taking his time to come round.
Worried, Ely took a quick set of obs (as many as she could, anyway, and then left Finn to come round in his own time, propped up on his side. She turned her attention to her boyfriend, but one look told her all she needed to know.
If Missy can’t find a suitable companion, she will make one.
Summary: The aftermath of a run-in with an Ogron.
Whumptober Theme: Alt. 12 ‖ Water
Warnings: Kidnapping. Dark!Missy. MIHOW. Blood.
Word Count: 607
NB: soft... it approaches
Leaning heavily against the counter, you rinse the bitter tang of bile from your mouth under the running tap. Your eyes are closed; partly against the light that still makes your skull feel like it’s about to split open, partly because every glimpse of your bloodied face in the mirror sends you into a new fit of wooziness. The taste of pennies is thick on your tongue.
“Alright, that’s enough.” Missy touches your arm, coaxing you into moving. “Let’s have a look at you.”
With a firm hand on your shoulder she tugs you back until you collapse onto the ottoman behind you. The sudden movement makes your temples throb, but sitting down comes as no small relief. With your elbows braced on your knees you lean forwards and carefully cradle your head in your hands, fingers turning tacky with blood.
“Normally they’d ask you if you know what year it is,” she says drily, “but in the time vortex I’m afraid that’s not a straightforward question.”
“I’m not brain damaged.” The words come out weaker than you’d hoped. “I got hit by an Ogron. I’m on the TARDIS. You’re Missy.”
“Three for three,” she observes, with a slight edge to her voice. “Could be worse. Look at me.”
Her fingers are under your chin before you can respond, tilting your head so that your face is no longer hidden. You wince, clamping your eyes tighter, as the pain flickers back to life.
She sighs heavily. “Open your eyes.”
“I’d rather not,” you protest meekly. “Doesn’t feel great.”
“Open your eyes or it’s about to get very Clockwork Orange in here.”
You do as she says, cautiously peeking out through lowered eyelids to acclimatise yourself. Somebody - whether it was Missy or the TARDIS herself - has dimmed the lights, and you let out a soft breath in relief as you open your eyes properly.
“There we are.” A strained smile spreads across her painted lips. “Can you see? I mean, as well as you humans ever can see.”
“Think so.” You look left and right, feeling juddering pain shoot through your temples with the movement. It’s bearable. “Can I close them yet?”
“Not quite. Stay still. Look straight ahead.”
Looking straight ahead, while physically more comfortable, means staring directly between her startling blue eyes. You swallow hard and try not to watch them flitting across your face.
“Probably fine,” she mutters, mostly to herself. “Still need to check, though.”
Holding you steady, she fumbles in her coat pocket and retrieves a penlight. Your vision is quickly blotted out by a beam of blinding white light that makes you flinch and close your eyes. She chuckles.
“Well, your pupils contracted, so that’s good.” Patting your cheek lightly, she straightens up. “Minor head injury. You’ll live. Looks worse than it is.”
You fold a hand across your eyes again, waiting for the after-image of the penlight to fade. “Great. Thank you.”
“It’s fine.” Her voice is tight as she switches the tap back on. You frown at the sound. For a long moment, all you hear is the sink filling with warm water; then, quiet and sharp, she says, “you could have died today.”
“I could have died plenty of times,” you mutter, bristling at her tone. “Never bothered you before.”
"Hmm.” The question is flat; hollow. “Didn’t it?”
You freeze. Your fingers cease their futile rubbing of your temple and you carefully lift your head, eyeing the back of her coat.
“I didn’t think so.”
“No.” She looks down at the sink, busying her hands with a washcloth that she wets and wrings out aggressively. “No, neither did I.”
After what feels like hours the van eventually stops and Tobias is carried into a building, down a flight of stairs. He still can’t see since his captor hasn’t bothered to remove the duct tape from his eyes. Or his mouth. Or his wrists and ankles. The man doesn’t talk to him at all, he only drops him onto the floor and leaves the room, locking the door from the outside.
Tobias doesn’t know how long he’s been lying on the cold stone floor by now, but there’s one thing he knows for sure - he’s thirsty. So thirsty. When was the last time he had something to drink? The evening before he got captured? No. He had planned to make some Mac and Cheese for dinner, but then he fell asleep on the couch until past midnight. After waking up he set off for the store, bought some stuff, got back into his car - and had a gun pressed to his head. So he hadn’t drunk anything since… early noon? The mere thought made his throat go dry and he desperately wanted to lick his lips the way he always did when he was nervous. Or thirsty. Goddammit, he couldn’t think of anything else but the sore feeling in his throat and it bothered him to no end. Breathing also got harder the more he thought about the things to come. What was this guy up to? Whoever kidnapped him wouldn’t have made such an effort to leave him to die in his basement, would he?
He almost falls asleep, but eventually he hears the sound of an opening door, followed by footsteps that stop right by his side. As soon as he senses the other person’s closeness, he starts thrashing about and screams behind his gag until it is finally removed, as well as the tape wrapped around his eyes. For the first time he is able to take a look at his captor - a man whose looks are so ordinary, you wouldn’t give him a second glance if you passed him on the street - medium size, medium weight, short light brown hair, unremarkable eye colour.
‘Well?’ he asks, looking down at Tobias with a smirk on his lips.
‘Let me go!’
‘Most certainly not. But if this is the only thing you desire, I may as well leave again…’
‘No!’ he rasps, looking up with pleading eyes as he realises that this might be his only chance to get something to drink for a long time. ‘I need… water…’
‘Sure, I’ll get you some.’
Without further questions he walks away and returns a few minutes later with a large bucket in his hand that he places in front of Tobias.
‘Get up and drink,’ he orders.
Slowly, Tobias pulls himself up onto his knees and bends over the bucket, sipping the cold water with an expression of utter relief. He doesn't care about the way he might look right now, he only wants to get as much of the precious liquid as possible into his stomach since he doesn’t know if it will be taken away from him again. When he stops drinking, the man reaches for the bucket, lifting it off the ground.
‘Please,’ Tobias begs, ‘Don’t take it away again…’
Without warning, the bucket’s contents get poured all over his body, leaving his clothes and his hair soaking wet.
‘Everything in life comes with a price,’ the man utters, his voice emotionless as always, as he walks out of the room and closes the door behind him while Tobias is left shivering violently in the freezing cold.
Written for:
@sambuckyevents - Day 2: domesticity
@whumptober2019 - Alt 12: waterlogged
@buckybarnesbingo - K4: hurt/comfort
@star-spangled-bingo - snuggling in bed
Characters: Sam Wilson / Bucky Barnes
Tags: PTSD, Nightmares, Aftercare, Hair brushing
Word count: 890
Summary:
Bucky has a nightmare. Sam looks after him the best way he can (despite the early hour).
Also on Ao3
_____
Sam sighs as he looks at the glowing red lights of the clock.
04:37
Firstly, that is an absolutely ungodly time to be awake. Too late to be last night and too early to be today, and the sort of time he’s seen rather more than he’d like to recently. Because secondly, and more to the point, it means that Bucky has been in the shower for coming up on half an hour.
It’s a routine he’s become unfortunately familiar with in the months since he and Bucky started dating. Bucky has nightmares most nights – not surprising, really, given what he’s been through. Sam has learnt the different types of nightmares: the ones where he is still and rigid, the ones where struggles and tries to get away, and the thankfully rare ones where he strikes out. And when Bucky wakes – breathing heavily, eyes wild or damp with tears – Sam has learnt the routines he uses to bring himself back under control.
Occasionally, Sam can convince him to talk, or at least let him hold him. But usually that comes later, and Bucky prefers to deal with the immediate aftermath alone. Sometimes he walks a perimeter, checks the doors and windows, checks his weapons, checks that they are as safe as he can make them. Sometimes he goes running or heads to the gym, working off the adrenaline and desperate energy. Sometimes he needs to find a space, small and dark, where he can feel hidden and protected. But most often, he will head to the bathroom and stand in a shower as hot as he can make it, trying to wash the feeling of blood off his skin.
Sam finally hears the water turn off.
04:43
33 minutes. Not as long as sometimes, but still not great. He’s glad that he upgraded to an instant hot water system just before the whole mess with SHIELDRA went down. He doesn’t want to think about Bucky having one of his post-nightmare showers going cold on him.
A few minutes later Bucky exits the ensuite, squinting slightly as Sam sits up and turns on the lamp.
“How are you feeling?”
He shrugs, the grey bathrobe Sam gave him for just these nights rustling as he moves. At first glance he looks good, limbs loose, face pink and flushed. But Sam can still see the tightness around his eyes, the way the robe is held close around him, how his hair is still tangled and dripping.
“Hey honey, I think you forgot something.” Bucky looks at him in confusion so he gestures at his hair. Sluggishly, Bucky reaches up and pinches a lock, pulling it close to peer at it. He blinks as it drips water onto his nose. It would be adorable, if he wasn’t so clearly out of it.
“Yes, you forgot to dry your hair. Go get a towel and a comb, and I’ll deal with it for you.”
It takes a moment for Bucky to process the instructions. Then he disappears into the bathroom again, returning with the items to sit beside him on the bed.
Gently, Sam pushes his shoulder to turn his back to him and gathers his hair into a bundle. Wrapping the tail in the towel he squeezes the moisture out, unwrapping and moving to a new part of the towel as it becomes sodden. When that is as dry as he can make it, he wraps the corners of the towel around his hands and firmly pats the hair on top of his head, around his ears, down to his forehead, carefully keeping his hands clear of Bucky’s face.
Tossing the now-soaked towel over the bedpost, he takes the comb Bucky offers him. Sam works his way up from the ends, patiently untangling a few inches of damp hair at a time. Every time the comb catches, he pauses to tease the fine strands apart. When he does a full round without finding any knots he feels them both settle. Now comes the fun part.
Reaching the comb all the way forward, he drags it back; one long stroke from roots to end. Repositioning the comb slightly to the right, he repeats the movement. And again. And again. Long, sure glides, scratching at his scalp with just the right amount of pressure. Bucky tilts his head back slightly, relaxing into the sensation. It is almost meditative: breathe in, place the comb, breathe out, pull it back, breathe in, place the comb, breathe out, pull it back.
05:21
A final stroke, and Sam puts the comb down. Bucky is a boneless puddle in front of him, left with barely enough control to hold his head within Sam’s reach. A little encouragement and manoeuvring soon has him lying flat under the covers; he is asleep even as his almost-dry hair hits the pillow. Sam smiles as he looks down at his boyfriend. As much as he hates Bucky’s nightmares, he loves that he allows him this, that he trusts Sam enough to let him to soothe him into sleep.
05:26
Well, Steve might be willing to call this morning, but Sam is determined that it is still night. Turning off the lamp, he follows his boyfriend’s example; lies down, wraps an arm around him, and goes back to sleep.
