Whumptober Day 25: Disorientation
CW: Sick whumpee, emeto references, infection, medical whump, some references to institutionalized pet whump. Needles, track mark mention, IV placement (vague, non-graphic). Brief misgendering (out of delirium/not being able to see correctly, very brief/accidental). Includes hallucination referencing parental death.
TIMELINE: Immediately post-Infection
“Blood pressure is 100 over 60. That’s lowish, but not the worst it could be.” There’s a voice. He doesn’t know the voice. The words are familiar, though. Like a show on TV. “You got a temp?”
“One hundred three point four degrees,” Another voice says. They’re speaking so quickly he is struggling to follow them.
“Shit. That’s up from when his guardian called.”
“We need to get that fever under control. What did she say about history?”
“Threw up this morning and didn’t stop throwing up. Says he admitted he’s been hurting for two days - classic symptoms, pain started at navel and moved right and down. His fever was probably present from when he woke up, but.” There’s a pause. Chris blinks his eyes and sees, blurry and bleary, a sense of someone shrugging.
“Why didn’t he tell anyone?”
There’s a snort. “Kev. You know why.”
“Yeah, okay. I’m going to get fucking blacklisted from EMT work if we get caught, you know. What we’re doing is illegal.”
“We’re not gonna get caught. I’ve been part of lib life since I was seventeen, just trust me on this.”
Chris tries to speak, to ask them who they are, where he is, but his lips move without sound. He can feel the vibration of an engine, hear it rumbling, and the world around him is shaking minutely, bumping along on a road. With each bump and pothole, the screaming pain in the boy’s abdomen crests like a wave crashing the shore inside him, and he can feel tears running freely, blurring his vision when he tries to blink, to see.
Above him there is white inset with tiny round lights and his breath hitches. He tries to sit but there are straps holding him down, and his eyes widen, staring up in terror.
No. No, no, no, they said I wouldn’t go back, they said-
He breathes in shallow whistles he can’t seem to control. His stomach is churning, flipping with new nausea, the pain throbbing through his abdomen, behind his eyes, all the way to his toes and fingertips. “Wh, where, where, where-where, where am, am I-”
“Sssshhhh.” Chris flinches and twists as best he can to look up and behind him, the person he vaguely saw shrugging before is there wearing a dark blue uniform with letters that hurt to look at across a pocket on the front. A plastic-gloved hand presses to Chris’s shoulder to help push him back down. “Hey no, you gotta stay steady, there, kiddo. Don’t move, you really, really don’t want to strain your muscles right now. We’re about to check and make sure Yoder’s guess is right.”
Chris keeps blinking, but his eyes are blurring with tears so quickly he can’t get a clear look at the person’s face. He can move one of his hands, at least, and he lifts it to lay it over the person’s glove, feels the slip-slide of plastic and the warmth of them underneath. He shivers, then whimpers when the pain worsens in response. “Nat? Where… where is… Please-... please, sir, h-hurts-”
“Not sir,” The person says, gently, a bit of auburn hair falling over their forehead. Their voice is low, soft and soothing. “Can you see?”
Chris rolls his eyes back towards the ceiling. The light coming from the little circles in the roof of the vehicle is slightly yellowed. It isn’t cold. It has weight but isn’t cold. There is padded blue plastic lining the walls, something like a bench on one side and a jump seat, like flight attendants sit in on airplanes…
She holds his hands, so so tightly, as they bump around. He clings to her, breathing fast. She tries to smile at him and her eyes are wet. “Just remember, Tris, even when the flight is kind of bumpy, you don’t have to worry about a thing. The pilots do this all the time.” Her face is pale, though, and he sees her looking ahead, where a woman in a skirt is buckling herself into a special seat.
“Mom? What’s, what’s, what-what-what is, is that, why does does she have a different-”
“It’s called a jump seat, baby,” The woman says, and the plane bumps up and back down, and his mother’s breath comes shaky and uneven.
“I love you, Tris,” His mother says suddenly, and her voice catches. “Baby, I love you so much-... l-love you-... it’s okay, baby, it’s okay-” Her voice is getting weird and thick like she’s speaking through water.
His breath catches at red spreading over the front of her shirt, and the plane stops tumbling through the air because she’s sitting with her back against a wall under a photo of the three of them last Christmas and her blood is on the wall behind her in a spray and Tristan starts to scream and he paints with blood on a cold white wall and the plane is hurtling through the air and his mother is gone and his father is gone and his life is gone-
The headache hits him and the thought he was having dissipates under the pain, one more piece of him throbbing. “K-Kind... kind of… can see... hurts-... Mom, I’m, I’m sorry, Mom, I didn’t stay, stay hidden, I’m sorry-”
“Sssshhhh. You’re okay, you’re okay.” The person squeezes his shoulder, just a little.
“What the fuck was that about?”
“Rescues do this. Don’t ask.”
“That’s fucking eerie, man-”
“I said don’t ask. We don’t ask them, they don’t tell us. It only makes it worse if they try to keep thinking about it, so just… forget he said anything. He probably already has.”
The headache slips back, and the pain in his stomach is stronger again. Chris hears a low voice from somewhere slightly further, relaying information, speaking in a monotone that is just soft enough that Chris can’t understand it.
The person with the nice voice and pretty auburn hair is talking to him again. “Here we go. Tori’s going to help me get you some paperwork going and we’ve kind of got a system to get you in without the docs picking up on anything. Don’t worry, kiddo. You’re not the first we’ve pulled through this.”
“Th’ first…” He can’t keep his thoughts straight. Can’t understand what any of it means.
“Well, one good way to check,” The second voice says, and Chris turns to stare upwards at a man who gives him a tight-lipped smile. “Sorry, kiddo.” He presses both hands down on Chris’s abdomen, on the right side of his navel. Briefly, the sharp pain fades, and Chris’s breaths slow, just for a second. “All right, let’s check his response.” The man pulls his hands back.
Chris, strapped down to the table, arches his back in a nearly perfect arc as best he can, screaming hoarsely as the pain rushes back in, even worse than before. He is buried in it - he drowns in the waves of agony, like and unlike the pain of the shock collar, like and unlike the worst pain he’s ever felt.
His scream ends, and the two people in uniforms look at each other. “Well, that’s a fucking sign, isn’t it?”
“Check the heel. Okay, kiddo, we need to test one more thing to know for sure, okay?” The hand squeezes, one more time, at his shoulder, and then pulls back. “I’m going to prep fentanyl-”
“I don’t know, that pressure’s low for fentanyl.”
“... no, you’re right, it is, but... it’s our best option for controlling pain until we get there. It’s riding a line, but I think 100 over 60 can handle it.”
“You sure?”
“Confirm first, we’ll decide after that.”
“Got it.” Chris has only just settled back into the swaying nausea of hurt when there’s a flat, blunt impact against his bare heel - and he sobs, whimpering at the way pain rockets through him from his abdomen, spiraling like blades beneath his skin down his leg and up his side, gripping his heart. He jerks away but he’s strapped down too tightly to move. He wants to curl up but they just keep hurting him. They’re handlers, and this is fun, and once again Chris is the trainee and they’ve tied him down so he can’t stop them.
He starts to cry, hot tears running down his face, and the man who hit his heel says something to the other person but he can’t hear them over the rushing of his own blood in his ears, the pain inside him has taken him completely. He isn’t being good enough, that must be why they’re hurting him. He wasn’t good, and he is being punished, and the handlers have something they want he’s not giving, but he doesn’t know what, and he can’t… he can’t see…
“Please,” He whispers, groping blindly as much as he can. “Please, please, please, stop, please, I’ll, I’ll, I-I’ll do anything, please make it stop, I’ll b-be good-”
There’s a pause.
“Christ. Give him the fentanyl, Kev.”
The man’s voice is shaken. “... yeah, let’s do it. Uh, yeah, yeah. Right.”
“You handle the IV,” The first person says, the one who seems to know Nat. “Can you get him set up?”
“Dunham, I-”
“Just breathe, Kev. Let’s get his IV in.”
The Drip. No, not the Drip, no no no no-
Chris tries to beg - they have always loved his begging, and these new handlers will, too, he’s sure of it, he will beg them to let him keep Jake, he can be so so so good for them if they’ll only let him have Jake, if they won’t take his memory of Jake away. He can be so good...
He can’t make his mouth work any longer - it hurts too much, he can’t seem to force his brain and mouth to connect. He can’t do anything but cry, heaving wailing childlike sobs, and he is going to lose more people, all over again, he will never stop losing the people who love him-
Please, don’t take them away from me, please-
Mom, I’m sorry-
“Yeah, I’ve got it. You going to-”
“Hold his hand or something. He’s scared. They’re always scared.” The kind face, hazel eyes and auburn hair, slides back into his vision. Their voice softens and they brush a little hair away from his forehead. “Hey, you. We’re going to get you something to settle that pain, okay? Just hang on for me.” They turn away, briefly, voice raising above the rumbling engine, the low vibration, the rocking and swaying that neither of the two back here with him seem to notice like he does. “Amy, what’s our ETA?”
“Seven minutes,” A woman shouts back from the front. “Seven minutes and I’ve already confirmed Tori has a chart prepped to go. Before we stop I’ll make sure she’s ready to get us inside. She’s called in Mandela to do the surgery and you know the nurses wouldn’t tell WRU a fucking thing. Get that wrist bandaged over and we got this. Tori’s got our asses covered.”
“Gotta love that woman,” The person murmurs, turning back to Chris, smiling kindly down at him. “Look, we got you all set. Yoder-... uh, Natalie’s going to be there when you wake up, okay?”
What good does that do if they give him the Drip and he doesn’t know her anymore?
“Pl-please,” Chris whispers, managing to get his hand over the person’s, holding onto their wrist with the tightest grip of his thin fingers he can manage. Their skin feels blistering hot and he shakes, the world spinning around him. “Please, please, n-no, no, no no no, no needles, please-”
“I’m so sorry,” The person answers, soft-voiced and sincere. Handlers never say they’re sorry, Chris thinks. Handlers don’t apologize for hurting you. Handlers tell you you deserved it, or you wanted it, or you need it because you’re just a slut you fucking love this, but they never apologize. His hand is gently uncurled. He stares up into the person’s face, lost in the look of real compassion there. He has never seen someone who wears a uniform look at him like that. Like thy care. “This is just for the pain.”
“Jesus Christ,” The man says from the other side of him, and Chris turns, trying to see him more clearly. “I cut off the sleeve, Finn, it was too tight to roll up-” Chris hadn’t even noticed. “-and he’s-”
“Yeah, he’s a rescue, we talked about this, Kev, they’ll have a barcode-”
“No, he’s got track marks.”
They both go quiet, and Chris doesn’t know what the words mean together, although he knows them both separately. The silence draws out, and then the first person says, “They drug them. Heavily. You should always expect track marks on your rescue patients.”
“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t-... this is the first one for me.”
“No problem. Just keep that in mind. Does he have a usable vein or no?”
“Yeah, these are old. I can get him set. Just… shook me up a little, is all.” There’s a swipe of something cold along the inside of his elbow, sickeningly familiar. Chris is good - he goes very still, waiting for the needle to slide into his skin.
He is a good statue boy.
“I, I’ve lost-... please, please, please don’t make me lose, make me lose them,” He whispers. “Please don’t, don’t take him away from me, please don’t take Jake-”
There’s a sharp pinch, more indistinct voices as they speak to each other, and then his eyes roll up and his body shudders hard, rattling the table.
He feels himself thunk back onto the softly-molded padded plastic, a burst of ache as he bites his tongue. The world goes white around all its edges, he slips and slides inside his mind, breath slowing or going faster and he’s no longer in his body enough to know the difference.
Both of the people in the back of the strange van start cursing low under their breath.
“Shit, shit shit shit, check that blood pressure again-”
“Could be a syncope, Yoder said he’s terrified of needles, could just be a trauma response-”
“It could be, sure, or he could be crashing. Fuck!”
“Don’t be crashing don’t be crashing don’t be crashing, come on kiddo, stay with me, don’t be crashing-”
Kiddo
“Could be the fentanyl, maybe his bp was too low to pull that off, oh shit what if we fucked this up, Finn-”
Little man
“We didn’t fuck this up. Okay? It’ll be okay, he’ll be fine. I’m checking his pressure again. Amy, what’s the hold up, we need to move!”
“Almost there, Dunham, I swear! Just hold him together until we get there.”
“Doing my fucking best, Amy!”
It’s okay, Tris
You’re okay, sweetie
It’s all right, baby, you’re okay, Mommy’s got you.
Chris takes in a breath, and blinks his eyes open one more time as something cool seems to pass through him, the throbbing agony fading, just a little. The world slows around him in its dizzying spin. He looks blearily up at the person, the handler or not-handler, who apologized. “Please… please…”
“I know,” They say, softly. There’s pressure, of some kind, but Chris is drifting now, his eyes moving without focus over the little circles of light. The two people move around him in some kind of strange dance that both of them know but Chris doesn’t, and that’s okay - he wouldn’t be able to dance like this, anyway. He’s dizzy but not sick with it, and that’s kind of funny, but he can’t remember how to laugh or why he thought that was funny at all.
Compression somewhere on his arm. It doesn’t matter.
“70 over 40. God damn it.”
“Okay, let’s get that B.P. stable and check once more time before we get him inside to see if it’s up. Temp check?”
A pause, a sensation Chris can barely understand, and then more swearing. “His fever’s not fucking going down. Jesus fucking Christ-”
“Okay. Keep it calm, Kev.” The voice is even and steady, and Chris feels the barest brush of fingers over his shoulder. “We have got to stabilize this kid. Mandela can’t operate if he doesn’t stabilize. Come on, kiddo, don’t crash on us, come on come on come on-... Amy, confirm with Tori that we’re covered, please?”
“Tori is ready and waiting for us, Finn,” Amy says, a disembodied woman’s voice that swirls in a fog around Chris’s thoughts. “They’re prepping surgery, we can get him straight in. Mandela was close by and she’s already in the O.R. They’ll get him off your hands as soon as we stop, Tori’s got a new team called out to give us a break so you can tell his guardian the plan. Guardians will be in the E.R. waiting room, there’s two of them. They’re wearing-”
“Amy. We saw them when we picked him up, remember? Plus I’ve known Yoder for years.”
“... Right. Sorry.”
“You’re good. Tori really thought of everything, huh?”
“Christ, I love that woman,” The man - Kev - mutters. “Just… love her.”
“Didn’t I tell you? Tori’s on top of it. She’s been doing this longer than I have, she’s actually who got me into it at my last job. I was into the movement young but just, you know, flyers and stuff, little bit of sneaky shit. When I met her was after I got kicked out of the Army-”
“You got kicked out of the Army?”
“It’s a long story. Technically I’m not allowed over the Canadian border anymore, either. Anyway, when Tori got a new job, I just… kind of followed her here.”
“What, you weren’t born elbow-deep in La Resistance?”
“Ha, ha. Oh, here we go. Okay, kiddo, time to fix you up good as new.” The vehicle slows, and slows, and then there’s a hard turn, and Chris’s eyes close.
When the pain fades a little more, he finds he is too tired to open them again. He slips away into a warm and drifting darkness where the pain can’t reach him anymore.
I love you, baby boy.
Hold on.
I’ve got you.
You’re going to be just fine.
He hears something, high-pitched beeping noise that seems to be fading as the world around him fades. It’s all dark now, and warm, and he’s going to be okay.
She brushes fingers over his face, and he can barely hear the voices of the people inside the ambulance with him as he sinks into the darkness.
“Shit shit shit, not again-”
“65 over 35-”
“Fuck, I’m gonna have new gray hair after this-... come on come on come on-”
“Finn!”
“What, Amy?”
“We’re here.”
---
Finn Dunham and Tori (mentioned) belong to @whump-tr0pes and are used with permission. Thanks to Athena as well for her help making this sound remotely realistic!
Tagging: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @slaintetowhump , @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout , @doveotions , @pretty-face-breaker , @boxboysandotherwhump , @oops-its-whump @moose-teeth , @cubeswhump , @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-tr0pes @whumpiary