“Clint, report! Are you okay?!” There was a note of panic in Steve’s tone over the comm.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Clint gasped. “Not the first time I’ve been thrown through a window. Just give me a minute.”
“You know that you don’t build up an immunity the more you get thrown through windows, right Barton?” Tony asked dryly.
Clint snorted, but didn’t bother answering. He lay his head back carefully and took several deep breaths. His whole body hurt and he glanced down at a few shallow cuts from the broken glass, but they weren’t too severe. He had managed to protect his head, so though the wind was knocked out of him he seemed to have avoided a concussion. All in all, it looked like he had gotten lucky when that hostile had thrown him through that window.
He placed one hand on the ground and went to push himself back up into a sitting position… and a raw cry of agony tore it’s way up this throat. It happened so suddenly that it took Clint’s brain a long moment to really comprehend what was happening, the pain actually hitting him a moment after the involuntary scream.
“Clint?” Natasha demanded.
“On second thought…” Clint ground out as he twisted to look down at his side. His stomach clenched as he spotted the jagged piece of glass roughly the width of his hand buried who knew how deep into his side just above his hip. “Maybe I could… use some help…”
“I’m on my way,” Natasha said immediately.
Clint swallowed thickly as he rode out the waves of pain that were now ripping through him. He sucked in air, but it seemed like it was never enough and soon he was panting and sweating as his vision swam around him.
Was this what dying felt like?
“Clint!” Natasha gasped as she finally appeared in his field of vision, dropping carefully to her knees next to him as her gaze swept over him, looking desperately for what was wrong.
“My side,” Clint murmured, his hand going to where the shard of glass was sticking out of his body.
Natasha visibly paled at the sight. That wasn’t comforting. Natasha had a strong stomach and wasn’t easily scared. But for just a moment before she seemed to remember herself and blank her features… she looked absolutely terrified.
“We need med evac, right now,” Natasha said tensely into her comm., her hands hovering unsurely over the wound. “Bruce, can you pinpoint our position and bring the Quinjet around?”
“Um, Natasha, flying this thing is not my strong suit…” Bruce pointed out slowly.
“I can fly Legolas to the jet,” Tony pointed out.
“No!” Natasha snapped. As Clint looked at her, he wondered why her hair looked so much brighter all of a sudden. And her face kept blurring in and out of focus. “We need to move him as little as possible.”
“I’ll get to the jet and fly it over,” Steve said. “How bad is it?”
Natasha’s eyes shifted up to Clint’s face. He was sucking in labored breaths, but he suddenly felt so tired. He blinked heavily as a shiver ran through his body. Why was it so cold? And why was it getting so dark?
He was fading away. It felt like he was floating outside of his body, leaving the pain and panic behind. Just before he lost all consciousness though, he heard Natasha’s voice floating to him as if from a great distance.
“It’s bad.”
XxXxX
The first thing he was aware of was the annoying beeping of a heart monitor. He winced as the noise seemed to drill into his skull.
“You with us, Clint?”
Clint squinted his eyes open, grimacing at the painfully bright light of the hospital room. He glanced around. The entire team was packed into the small room, all staring down at him. It felt a bit strange, but also comforting to have his team here with him.
“Wha’ ‘appened?” Clint rasped through an oxygen mask.
“You scared the shit out of us, that’s what happened,” Natasha said with a small, strained laugh from where she sat perched on his bedside.
“My bad,” Clint murmured with a light laugh, his eyes already feeling heavy again.
“Get some rest, Clint.” He wasn’t completely sure who said it as he was fading away again.
They would never admit to him how close he had come to dying that day. They would never tell him about the desperate favors that Tony had called in, about the dangerously experimental procedures they had performed in order to bring him back from the brink. They would never tell him that under normal circumstances there was no way that he would have survived.
But the Avengers would never let him go that easily.
The second the pellets surround him, he knows he's doomed. Asgore is much too injured to survive even the smallest of attacks. The child in front of him looks shocked as the pellets swiftly close in, cutting through him like paper.
The glass missed him by an inch when it was thrown and Hannibal heard it shatter against the refridgerator door.
“Are you through?”
Will’s hands were covered in blood as he let out short breaths that seemed to echo in the room around them. “No.”
Hannibal didn’t move. “We have plenty of glasses, or even a vase.”
“You think this is funny, don’t you?”
He steeled himself for Will’s anger. Perhaps this time he’d stab him succesfully, or even grab a fork. The scar from the last attack was still fresh on his skin.
“No, I do not. I am running out of patience for your petulant outbusts. If you wish to tell me what you’re feeling do not hesitate.”
“This is a joke,” Will laughed, “This whole thing is a joke. You’ve got me locked in this fantasy house that looks WAY too much like your old one. You bought me clothes, pretend I’m going to magically become your fantasy murder husband and yet all I want is to get away.”
“If that is what you want then why have you done nothing but attack me instead of the windows?”
Will glared at him. “WE WERE SUPPOSED TO DIE!”
Hannibal stepped forward slowly, careful in case Will threw something else, and stopped just inches from him. He admired the way Will’s eyes seemed to shine in the sunlight as it streamed from the windows.
“And yet we did not. I spent weeks taking care of you at your bedside. I wished for you to wake and was more than happy when I saw your eyes open again. But instead of gratitude you have been nothing but a child. Go, Will. Go home to your wife, tell her you murdered a man and loved every minute of it. Tell her how much you want to feel it again. Tell her....”
Will grabbed the front of his shirt and pushed him against the kitchen counter. The blood that dripped from his hands was coming too fast and Hannibal knew he was at risk but did nothing.
“Wake up!,” Will hissed, his eyes shining with tears, “I’m not yours.”
Hannibal smiled. “Keep telling yourself that, Will. I’m sure it makes you sleep better at night.”
They stared at each other for what felt like ages before Will let him go. Hannibal saw all the fight go out of him and led them to the bathroom where he patched up the cuts on Will’s hands. He wrapped them both slowly in gauze and looked up into his eyes.
“I love you still,” he whispered, “Despite your denial. I look forward to the day you finally give in. My bed is cold without you.”
He left Will alone in the bathroom to ponder his words.
It would be soon, he knew.
But the wait would be worth the pain they both had to go through in the meantime.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
@whumptober2019
@badthingshappenbingo
Whumptober 2019, Alternate Prompt #1: "Wake Up!"
Bad Things Happen Bingo: "Fighting From The Inside"
Micah had practically delivered Morgan into their hands, had all-but delivered him to them on a silver platter, and they had still managed to mess up. Had managed to let him escape, get away, get back to camp.
But he was sick. Helpless. Weak.
And you know what they say. 'If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.'
Micah couldn’t believe it.
He’d practically delivered Morgan into those O’Driscoll’s hands, and still, they hadn’t managed to kill him!
It had taken some work, too. Getting Pearson to go into town when he knew those O’Driscoll boys would be there. But the man was a damn fool, and in the end it had all worked perfectly. Morgan had gone up on that cliff, where that carcass was, scaring away the vulture and signalling to the O’Driscolls that he was there.
And they’d gotten him, too. That’s what got Micah.
If they hadn’t been able to capture him, he’d have been angry, sure. But it was understandable. He was a strong man, Micah couldn’t deny it. And when cornered, as he would have been, he could fight as good as any wildcat.
But they had captured him, taking him back to one of their camps. Had even shot him, managed to keep him captive for days. When he’d come back, he’d been messed up to all hell, starved and beaten and septic, but they hadn’t been able to kill him, had even failed to keep him captive!
If you want something done right, he decided, you have to do it yourself.
When Arthur had failed to wake up after the first night, his fever spiking despite Hosea and Grimshaw and Reverend and Strauss’ best efforts, they’d taken up a vigil. No one wanted to leave him alone in case he took a turn for a worse, and would spend their turn on the rotation laying wet rags on his forehead and coaxing water down his throat to try and replace what he sweated out.
It was pathetic, if you asked Micah. Morgan was a burden, and should be cut loose. Left to suffer alone, or die. If you needed someone else to take care of you, then you were too weak to run with his gang.
But it wasn’t his gang yet, it was Van Der Linde’s, and so he had to obey, had to pretend to be concerned over Morgan (but not too concerned, of course, if he acted too concerned they’d be alarmed by his change in personality), as he bided his time.
And his time came.
He’d been sitting by the fire, keeping an eye on Morgan’s tent. It had been three days since he’d staggered in and, while he wasn’t doing much better, he hadn’t gotten worse. He’d woken up, once or twice, slurring nonsense, shaking and trembling and trying to get away from whoever was sitting by his tent, only settled when Reverend pumped another dose of morphine in his arm to sedate him.
It was MacGuire’s turn on the rotation, and while he and Morgan were pretty close, Micah knew that MacGuire was an awful guard. He couldn’t sit still to save his life, couldn’t read to pass the time, would be bored to near tears without someone to talk to.
So it was only a matter of time until he cracked, walked out to ‘piss’ and take a long, long breather.
And by the time MacGuire would come back, Micah would be back by the campfire as though he’d never left.
And he was right. MacGuire had only been on shift for an hour (and he’d seen him walk off to piss before going inside), excusing himself to take a piss. Micah had waited a few minutes, until MacGuire should have been back, and then some, before standing from the fire, looking around to make sure no one was watching him.
They weren’t—it was late at night, so only a handful were awake. Dutch, probably planning in his tent (and some part of Micah stung that he hadn’t been summoned for it, although it did work for his own plans), Smith off on guard, Macguire somewhere in the woods, or maybe snuck off to his tent.
So, stepping lightly, he approached Morgan’s tent. The flaps had been closed towards the campfire, left open towards the lake to let in the cool breeze that came off the water into his tent, hoping that it would help lower his fever. He slipped inside, eyes already adjusted to the dark, taking a look around and nodding when he saw that no one would be able to make out his shadow inside the tent, the only source of light a lamp that flickered, given so little fuel that it threatened to go out.
The air reeked of sickness, of rot and disease, and it would have made a weaker man’s stomach churn. Morgan’s wheezing breath filled the air, the sound incredibly satisfying, and the faint light from the lantern illuminated the pained lines on his face.
There was a pillow near the chair, left there for Matthews when he sat vigil, worrying over his ‘son’ (he curled his lip at the thought), and he picked it up, tossing it from hand to hand. Yes, this would work. And no one would be able to tell, would think he’d just stopped breathing.
He approached Morgan, unable to help but to grin at the sight of him. Oh, even in sleep he looked in pain. His brow was furrowed, hair matted with sweat and dirt and who-knew-what-else, Grimshaw and Matthews had tried to wash it as best they could but there was still blood in it, face flushed with his nasty fever and mouth hanging open slightly, panting for breath.
‘Well,’ Bell thought, ‘he won’t have to fight much longer.’
He brought the pillow up, bringing it up to Morgan’s face, only to pause.
Oh, he wanted to look him in his eyes as he died, watch the light fade from those horrid blue eyes. Morgan, out of all of them, deserved to die suffering. Not in his sleep, fading away as his heart stopped.
Bringing his hand up to hover it over his mouth in case he yelled, though he doubted he could with how weak he was, he set the pillow down beside Morgan and slammed the heel of his palm down on his bandaged shoulder as hard as he could. “Wake up, Morgan!”
The reaction was immediate.
Morgan’s eyes snapped open, glazed with pain or fever or morphine or some mix of the three, arching up—or, at least, trying to, only managing to barely twitch. He cried out in pain as best he could, but Micah didn’t even have to cover his mouth, the sound barely even a wheeze, a frog’s croak from low, low in his chest.
“Wakey wakey Morgan,” Micah grinned, taking in the alarm on Morgan’s face as he saw him looming over him, cloaked in shadows and haloed by the slight amount of light given off by the lantern. His face had crumpled with pain, no longer numbed by sleep, crashing over him in waves of agony, and he croaked as he tried to speak, to demand of Micah what he wanted.
Micah didn’t stop, didn’t wait for any pretty words, instead pressed slowly down on his shoulder, watching him gasp, squirming weakly like a fish on a hook, helpless to do anything but struggle, before pressing the pillow down on his lower face, making sure to cover his mouth and nose, leaving his eyes bare so he could see them.
They were clearing, still hazy with pain but his pupils were no longer blown wide, instead shrunken into tiny pin-pricks by pain. His arms twitched—no, arm, the one with the worst of the infection was limp, useless—as he desperately fought against his own body, weak from illness, starvation and dehydration, to grasp the pillow and shove it away, to turn his head to the side and catch a breath he so desperately needed, but Micah had him thoroughly pinned, and he was so weak, all he could do was twitch, adrenaline thrumming through his veins, heart thrumming in his ears.
Micah grinned, pressing harder, shoving down and hearing his nose break, the man grunting, right hand clenching in the sheets. Oh, seeing Morgan so weak, at his mercy beneath him… if only it were Van Der Linde.
There would be time for that later, though, so he hummed, watching Morgan twitch beneath him, wild-eyed as he desperately tried to breathe, the rough fabric of the pillow scratching his face, smearing blood that Micah realized he’d have to wipe up before walking out, and the sound of shattered cartilage moving around was loud in his ears. Morgan’s breathing was rasping against the pillow, and he pressed down harder, making sure he wasn’t getting any air, that his desperate attempts to breathe were just that: attempts.
The power he had over this strong, monster of a man, the Van Der Linde Gang’s infamous enforcer, the workhorse, the muscle, had excitement racing in his veins, his lips peeled back from his teeth in a nasty grin, and Arthur was sure he’d never be able to unsee it for as long as he lived, however long that may be.
Morgan’s struggles, as weak as they were, were weakening, the lack of oxygen going to his brain. The veins in his eyes were bursting, going bloodshot, and despite his best attempts to look Micah in the eye they were beginning to drift shut, black gathering at the corners of his vision, warping and fading, Bell’s face turning into something truly inhuman as his vision faded out, twisted in an expression of excitement and hatred.
Where… where was everyone? He hadn’t been too lucid in… how long had it been since he’d escaped? He didn’t know, but he knew it had been some time, from the few seconds he would wake up, be aware of his surroundings, of someone sitting nearby him, or coaxing him to drink water, laying a wet rag on his head.
Where… where were they?
He tried to call out, in the end, he did. But he didn’t have the air, or the energy, and the pillow was covering his mouth and muffling the grunts and wheezes he managed to make. Even if he had had all the air in the world, wasn’t being smothered under a pillow, he wouldn’t have been able to, was too weak to speak in anything more than a whisper. ‘Hosea… Dutch… Charles… Javier… Susan… please help me!’
Morgan went limp beneath him, but Micah knew not to let up, that the man was only unconscious, as his eyes went shut and stayed that way. He held the pillow over his face still, much easier now that Morgan wasn’t trying to turn his head, bracing himself on the one hand, reaching over with his other to press his fingers against his pulse point, feeling his heartbeat flutter like a butterfly trapped in his hand, leaning the majority of his weight down on the pillow, counting off one minute, two, as the pulse weakened and slowed until, finally, it stuttered to a stop.
He counted off, again, one minute, then two, before slowly pulling the pillow off. Micah pressed, feeling for Morgan’s pulse, before looking to his chest, making sure it wasn’t moving. He spat on his fingers before holding them under his nose, counting off another minute before pulling them away when he didn’t feel any air cool them.
Arthur Morgan, he grinned, was dead.
Now, though, he had to clean up the scene. Make sure it looked like he had finally perished from the infection, stopped breathing in his sleep.
So he cleaned the blood from his face as best he could with a dry handkerchief, knowing better than to wet it, knowing that it would speed up the decomposition. Pried his fingers from where they were twisted in the blanket, laid them out at his sides, stepping back to make sure it didn’t look like there’d been any sort of struggle.
Forgetting about the blood on the underside of the pillow, he set it back where he found it, before sticking his head out from the tent, looking around before slinking back to the campfire, grabbing a beer as he went and humming cheerfully.
Sean MacGuire returned to the tent just before his shift ended, flopping down on the chair just before Hosea stepped inside to sit by his son’s bedside. They had started the rotations so Hosea would get some rest, but by the black bags under his eyes and the paper-like color of his skin, it was clear they hadn’t been successful. He nodded his head at Sean, who vacated the seat so Hosea could take his turn, grabbing the pillow off the floor and tossing it onto the chair before slumping down onto it, dropping his head into his hands, sighing wearily.
How had this happened? How had things gone so wrong? How could they have let their boy get so hurt, have to rescue himself?
...why was it so quiet?
Hosea jolted upright, face blanching as he stared at the man lying still—too still—on the cot, eyes locked on his chest as though he could will it back into motion.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Charmed (TV 2018)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Harry Greenwood/Macy Vaughn
Characters: Macy Vaughn, Harry Greenwood, Mel Vera
Additional Tags: graphic depictions of injuries, whumptober 2019, Prompt: Wake Up, whumptober 2019 wake up
Series: Part 4 of Charmed Reboot Whumptober 2019
Summary:
As he finished the cherry tomato he popped in his mouth, Leon turned away from the salad he was making to give Piers his full attention. “What's up, baby sniper?”
“I'm not that much younger than you.”
“Young enough. Did you need something?”
“I, uh, wanted to talk to you about something. They're both distracted with grilling, so I thought now would be a good time if that works for you.”
“Why do you sound so nervous? I don't think I've heard you talk to me like this since you got over the whole agent married to your captain thing.”
“It's... personal. I'll understand if you don't want to talk about it, but I just need to talk to someone that understands.”
“Understands what?”
“What it's like to be infected. I've talked to my therapist about it, but they can't understand like you can. The feeling of it. I dream about it all the time. I wake up Jake all the time with my night terrors. He asks if I want to talk about it, and I do. It's just... I don't think he'll really understand, not like you. That's what I need. Someone else that's been through it.”
“I've talked to Chris about it before.” His fingers anxiously fiddled with the salad tossers that were still within reach. “He's been part of this since the beginning. The things he's seen these viruses do... But you're right. He's never been infected. He doesn't have that experience. It's not the same.”
“How do you deal with it?”
“Poorly.”
“You're dealing with it better than I am.”
“That doesn't mean I'm handling it well. You have a therapist. I've never had a therapist, unless you count the government assigned ones that they only provide to clear me for duty, which I don't. In my mind, you're dealing with it better than me. I've just been forced to deal with it long enough that I function.”
“Do you still have nightmares about it?”
With a heavy sigh, Leon turned away from Piers to finish making the salad while they spoke. “I have nightmares about a lot of things. Racoon City, losing Chris, being stuck doing this the rest of my life. That is a nightmare in a pile of nightmares that never seem to end. I don't think it will ever go away, or any of the others.”
“Has it gotten easier?”
“There are days that are easier than others, but there's always something new. There's always a nightmare, and the missions don't help. Chris has a close call with an infection, and he just brushes it off. It's happened a million times before. What's one more?”
“And you?”
“Last week, I woke up screaming every night.” His fingers tightened on salad tossers as his vision tunneled and blurred. “It's not the pain of being infected that sticks with you. It's losing control. I've spent so much time training my body to maintain control in all the shit we get thrown into. Being infected takes all of that away. It turns your body against you. Turns your mind against you. It takes everything from you.”
“Leon?”
The gentle press of fingers against his hands slowly pried away the salad tossers and set them in the bowl. He felt the sensation of his body being led away from the counter, then the unexpected feeling of a cool breeze blowing. It took a few blinks for his vision to return to normal and to regain control of his body. With a heavy sigh, he leaned into Piers's warmth as he focused on calming down.
When he felt stable enough to stand without support, he straightened up from leaning against Piers. “Did that help answer your questions?”
“I understand why Jake gets so worried now.”
“Do that often?”
“He found me standing at the stove staring at a pot that was boiling over.” Piers released a low, hollow laugh that sounded all too familiar to Leon's ears. “He thought he was going to have to rush me to the hospital. He was sure I got burned. We've agreed that I don't cook without someone there.”
“Smart. The last thing you need are third degree burns from making mac and cheese.”
“Why would I be making mac and cheese?”
“Why not? It's quick and easy and it tastes good. I can make you some.”
“There's no need for that. Are you okay?”
“This isn't my first rodeo.”
“You didn't answer my question.”
The firm expression on Piers's face reminded him so much of Chris that he couldn't stop the fond smile that tugged the corner of his lips up. “I'm fine. If it was bad, you would know. It just throws me off for a bit. Nothing I can't handle.”
“Did they used to be worse?”
“Yes, and no. Even now, I get some that it takes Chris hours to help me out of, or I'll wake up in the middle of the night and lie there like that for hours until I come back. But, it's not all of them. Some pass quickly.”
“How do you get out of it?” There was more than curiosity in Piers's eyes as he spoke-it was almost desperation. “It's like you said. The worst thing about getting infected was losing control. When the memories cause that to happen, it's like I'm losing control all over again and there's nothing I can do about it.”
“I don't know what will help you. For me, it was having Chris around. He would just talk and hold me and make sure I knew he was there. Overtime, it got easier for me to focus on that. It's like he anchors me when I start to lose control.”
“Jake tries. He always tries, but it just... I want to. I want to talk to him. I want him to make me feel better like he normally does. It's like I'm a stranger in my own body. I can't do anything.”
He placed a comforting hand on Piers's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “It takes time. There's nothing you can do to force it. You'll get there. I'm sure you'll get there faster than me.”
“If... if it happens, can I call you?”
“Of course. You've got my number and Chris's. I'll answer if I can.”
“Thanks, Leon.”
“You're welcome. Now, back to the kitchen, baby sniper. We still have sides to finish.”
Kat is concerned. Toriel has had bad nightmares before, but none like this. Usually, it’s easy for her to wake her up. Tonight... It seems almost as if she’s being forcefully kept asleep.
Still. She keeps trying, silently pleading with whatever is out there for Toriel to wake up.
