The sound of a calloused hand slamming against polished wood rang out through the courtroom. The attention of all its current inhabitants snapped towards the sound and the blue-suited attorney who made it. His eyes lifted as a glare full of fire stabbed through the witness. The heat from such a gaze caused her to sweat. The pressure was too much.
This was it. Phoenix thought to himself. He threw out his hand, index finger pointed out like the barrel of a gun ready to fire. He quickly called the witness out on the clear fabrication in her tale.
The day’s trial was like any. A poor bastard’s corpse found and fingerprints of all kind lay across the scene. Phoenix’s client was suspect number one, as their prints were found and no alibi was set in stone. But, if his client was telling the truth, then there was a snake in the grass to look out for.
Phoenix had spent the day before investigating the scene front to back. Lifting every rock and searching every corner. From what he could find, it definitely seemed like things were pointing off into a different direction. Now all he had to do was lead the court down that same road.
It was his life's work. He was used to it all by now. Including all the pain that came with it.
Of course, Phoenix found himself to be quite accident prone, and where those injuries did become nothing more than a mild annoyance, it wasn’t the only pain that cursed his routine. Over the years, Phoenix had found that his back was in constant torment. Though, he could never really recall why. Maybe too many days spent as a child watching Signal Samurai. Maybe the years hunched over law books in college. Whatever it may be, the pain was near constant.
Where the pain itself never left, its intensity did fluctuate. Some days felt more like a dull ache that was easily forgettable as long as he kept moving or didn’t let himself slouch too much. However, moments like these were the ones that really caused him agony.
As he stood in the courtroom, going through the motions, the pain in his back ignited to an almost unbearable degree. The feeling continued into his sides and stomach, his chest and neck also feeling the repercussions. All he could do was breathe and push through the suffering. Especially with the eyes that currently laid upon him.
Across the floor, standing as prosecution, was Miles Edgeworth. Miles was very observant. Keeping things from him was near impossible. He was also a worry-er. He wouldn’t show it on his face or be very vocal about it, but it was the truth. He very easily fretted over those he cared for when they were in any sort of pain or trouble. Even if he wasn’t always sure how to help.
Phoenix knew he couldn’t clue Miles in on his current aches or the prosecutor would force him to be benched. How he'd do it was unknown but Miles could be pretty scary when he was determined about something. Phoenix had been on the end of that a few times. Both out of a sense of anger from an argument and a moment of concern for his well being.
Despite his attempts to hide it, he could tell Miles was looking at him like a puzzle. Phoenix couldn’t help the slight stiffness of his form. The heavy breathing that interlaced with his words as he attempted to will the pain away. Miles had to have noticed at some point. Still, Phoenix had a trial to win. And so he kept on standing and presenting his case.
When the ‘Not Guilty’ was declared Phoenix let out a sigh of relief as he slumped against the wall behind him. He smiled tiredly as his client cried and rejoiced out of the corner of his eye.
Another bolt of agony shot through his spine and the surrounding muscles. He stifled a groan and stood back straight. Phoenix looked around to quickly check if the action was caught by his courthouse rival, only to find the man was gone.
Phoenix counted himself lucky, for once, and decided to start for his own exit. Once all his papers and things were piled into his arms he made his way to the door. His client took the moment to thank him eagerly and promised to pay him as soon as he could. Phoenix thanked him but wasn’t the most hopeful of that last remark. It didn’t matter too much, he supposed. An innocent man was free and all Phoenix wanted to do now was go home and take a much needed shower.
As he stepped down the court steps towards his bike, he noticed Miles walking towards him. He straightened his back and gave a smile. “Prosecutor Edgeworth,” he greeted with a humor pulling at his features.
“Wright,” Miles responded as he stopped before the attorney and crossed his arms. “What are you hiding from me?”
Phoenix paused, taken aback by the sudden question. “Hiding? What do you-”
“You’re injured,” Miles stated. As if the question was only for formality. “Did something happen during your investigation? What is it that’s injured?”
“Wh-what?” Phoenix sputtered out. “No! I’m fine.”
Miles’ eyes thinned in distrust.
“I’m fine, Miles. I swear,” Phoenix sighed out, his hand going to rub at the back of his neck. “It’s just some back pain. It’s nothing really.”
“Nothing?” Miles hissed out, almost offended by the play of ignorance. “Do you think I’m blind or stupid? You could hardly stand properly in court today. It sounded like you had fractured a damn rib.”
Did he really sound that bad? Phoenix really hadn’t noticed he’d been so obvious. He frowned and let his hand fall from his neck. “It’s just my back, seriously,” he said again. His hands rose in surender. “Sometimes my back just hurts. It’s fine, really.”
Miles spent another solid minute glaring at him. As if looking him over for any evidence of wounds or a lie. Finally, he gave a sigh. “Fine. Either way, I’m driving you home.”
“Actually, I rode my bike here,” Phoenix explained, ponting his thumb back towards where the racks sat.
“I’ve already requested for Gumshoe to take it back to your place.”
Phoenix did a double take at that. “You wha- Wait, what?” He shook his head. “It’s pad locked how did-”
Miles looked at him as if Phoenix was attempting to insult the prosecutor’s intelligence. His arms uncrossed with a huff. “The code is your birthday.” Miles shook his head and held up a hand to stop whatever Phoenix had hanging from the tip of his tongue. “Nevertheless, as dramatic as you can be; your pain tolerance is exceptionally high. Whatever state your back is currently in clearly is no state to be riding a bike all the way home if it can draw such reactions.”
Phoenix couldn’t tell if there was an insult or a compliment hidden in all of that. Or possibly both. It was clear Miles wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer. Especially since he’s forced Phoenix into a position with no other real way home. With a groan and a mumble of “fine”, Phoenix was ushered into the fancy red car by the other.
The drive home was quiet, but not a comfortable one. Phoenix wondered if the car had heated seats as hot as his felt under the judgemental side glances he was getting from Miles.
Phoenix couldn’t help the pained sigh that left him as he tried his best to flatten his form against the back of his seat. The pain in his back flaring up extensively as he sat still. At least some pressure was taken off it but it still wasn’t much.
“With the way you’re acting, I’m unsure if I should turn towards the nearest hospital or not,” Miles grumbled.
Phoenix snapped to look over at him, instantly regretting the sharp turn of his form. “It’s fine. I probably just slept on it wrong,” he tried. It wasn't really a lie. It was actually very possible his sleeping position did have something to do with the heightened pain he currently was dealing with. However, he also knew that was not the only factor. He knew his back was just, unfortunately, like that.
“You said it ‘hurts sometimes’,” Miles pointed out.
Phoenix could tell his court voice was slipping in a bit at the edges. He could also tell he’d slipped up. Not that Phoenix didn’t catch himself doing similar things in social situations. He supposed the thing about taking the wild out of animals could be said the same of court and lawyers to its own extent.
“Does it usually hurt to this extent?”
“Miles.”
“Wright.”
A pause snaked around them.
“Fine,” Phoenix finally huffed out and leaned back again. He shifted again to try and get his back pressed as flat as possible against the seat. “Sometimes I have problems with my back. A few pills and a hot bath and I’m right as rain. Happy? Gonna make some jab about being an old man?” He mumbled out the last part. In retrospect, he actually doubted Miles to make such a comment. Maya, however, would have jumped at the opportunity with little hesitation.
“No,” Miles responded with a glance to the other from the corner of his eye. “I will, however, mention that constant pain to this extent is something you really should get checked with a professional.”
Phoenix gave a humored huff. He leaned his arm against the door and looked at the other. “Why, if I didn’t know any better I’d think the big bad Demon Prosecutor was worried about me.”
“Surprising to everyone, I’m sure.”
Phoenix only responded with a quiet chuckle.
“I’m serious,” Miles began again. “You looked in agony today.”
I felt it. Phoenix thought to himself. Not that he would say that outloud. “It wasn’t that bad. Just,” he paused. He gave a shrug. Lying wouldn’t be in his favor. For one, Phoenix was pretty fifty-fifty on his ability to weave a convincing tall tale. Not only that, but lying to Miles had an even lower success rate. Whether he commented on it or not depended on the situation; though, with how he was acting at the moment Phoenix would surely be called out if he tried.
“I believe your inexplicably high pain tolerance might be hindering your ability to accurately assess your injured state.”
Phoenix blinked at him for a moment. “I think I can tell the difference between a bad back and getting knocked unconscious by your whip-happy sister.”
Miles shook his head, keeping his eyes to the road while still tilting his face slightly towards the other. “That’s not what I mean,” he explained. “If you’re used to the pain- or any pain for that matter- it can be much harder to tell when something is seriously wrong. Like I said before, you would benefit from having a professional look into the matter.”
Phoenix gave a hum of acknowledgment to that; not really sure how else to respond. Honestly, Miles had a good point. Maybe he should get it looked at. But then there were the other factors in play. Getting the time off to do it and the money too. Plus the possibility that something was actually wrong and he’d have to get it fixed or treated only made the thought less desirable. Not that he enjoyed feeling like his muscles were on fire, more that the whole ordeal of going through so much hassle felt like too much work for what was just a bit of pain here and there.
Thankfully, he was saved from continuing the conversation when the sight of his apartment building neared. Miles stopped the car right out front, letting Phoenix grab his things and move for the door.
Before he could fully climb out of the car, Miles took the other’s hand in his own. Phoenix paused and looked back at him.
“I’m serious, Phoenix,” he said. His tone felt softer and much more personal than normal. Not that Phoenix would be able to expand on those thoughts if asked. “I… would rather you not be in pain. Whether you believe it is something you can ‘handle’ or not.”
Phoenix tried to meet his gaze, however, Miles pointedly kept it to the side as he spoke. The faintest hint of color dusted his cheeks and Phoenix couldn’t help but give a small smile in return. “Thanks,” he finally responded. “And for the ride home too.” Phoenix ran his thumb across Miles’ knuckles before pulling his hand away completely. The action didn’t go unnoticed by the prosecutor in the slightest. “See you in court,” he chuckled in parting.
“Good day, Wright,” Miles replied, still keeping his gaze elsewhere.
Once the car door was shut, Miles took no pause before speeding off and out of sight. As Phoenix walked to his door, it was no longer just his back that felt a warm ache pass through it. As tended to be the usual in regards to Miles Edgeworth.
Whumpee was so cold. So cold they couldn’t think. So cold that their teeth hurt. They had been cold for so long, they couldn’t remember ever being warm. They would do anything to be warm again. But they were too cold to move.
And tired. Whumpee was so tired. In the back of their mind, they knew that meant that the hypothermia was getting worse, starting to enter dangerous. But they didn’t care. They were too cold and too tired to care.
Whumpee knew that if they didn’t get moving soon, if they didn’t get out of the freezer Whumper had locked them in, it would be too late. They had tried when they were originally locked in to break down the door. But it was no use. They knew if someone didn’t find them soon, they were done for.
Yet, they didn’t care. They wanted nothing more than to close their eyes and sleep. Their shivers slowed and stopped. Their shaky, shallow breaths slowed. They were so tired. They promised they could close their eyes for a few moments, and then get up. Get moving, trying to generate some heat.
As Whumpee’s eyes closed, the screeching of a metal door opening came. But they were too far gone to care. They didn’t respond to the opening of the door. They didn’t respond to the bright light coming into the darkened freezer. And they didn’t respond to the sounds of life beyond.
“WHUMPEE!”
Caretaker’s voice was so distant, Whumpee barely heard. But they tried to claw their way back. They wouldn’t let Caretaker see them like this, lose them like this. But they couldn’t fight the darkness sucking them under. They couldn’t find the strength to respond to Caretaker. Or to even open their eyes. Whumpee sunk deeper into the dark and everything faded away.
Fire ignited their skin. Everything was too hot. Too uncomfortable. Burning. Whumpee felt set aflame. And it hurt. They moved to throw off the fire, but a hand kept them down.
“No, Whumpee, no! This is keeping you alive.” Caretaker’s voice was still distant and tinny.
“Hurts,” Whumpee cried as they tried to open their eyes. Brightness burned into them. Whumpee tried to squint through the pain, but couldn’t. They closed their eyes again, tears leaking from the corners. Why would Caretaker let them burn?
“I know. I know. But you have to keep the IV in. And the blankets on. It’s what’s keeping you alive.”
Whumpee stopped as they listened to Caretaker’s words. And the emotion in them. Caretaker was sad. “Ok.”
Caretaker brushed Whumpee’s bangs off their forehead. Whumpee flinched at the heat of their touch. “I’m sorry, Whumpee.”
“‘sokay.” Whumpee replied sleepily. “Tired.”
“Sleep. Sleep, we’ll talk when you wake up and feel better.” The sadness was still apparent in Caretaker’s voice, but Whumpee was too tired to be able to do anything about it. They nodded and let themselves drift again.
Usually, the kid is bouncing off the walls in the final minutes before a fight. Usually, Tony has to remind him that their enemies won’t be very intimidated by his endearing puppy dog energy. Most of the time, Peter ignores him and goes into battle with a cartwheel and a shout.
Today, it’s different.
Peter is leaning against the back of the quinjet, his mask clenched tightly in one fist and his arms circling around his stomach. His gaze has a distant, faraway quality to it that unnerves Tony, especially because Sam is sitting just two seats over. In no universe would Peter spare an opportunity to talk anyone’s ear off, let alone Sam Wilson’s.
Tony takes the vacant seat beside Peter, but Peter doesn’t even look at him. He stares unblinkingly at the opposite wall until Tony nudges his shoulder. “Hey, you alright kiddo?”
Peter jumps a little. Then, when his eyes register Tony, he relaxes again, his posture dull. “Oh, hey. Yeah.”
“Yeah, no. Asking was just a formality. What’s up?”
Peter smirks a little. “Did you just say ‘what’s up?’”
“Gotta problem with that?”
Peter pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, his small smile growing. “No.”
“Good,” Tony says, then nudges him again. “So? Spill the beans, Spider-kid.”
“It’s nothing,” Peter says. “I just have a bad feeling, I guess.”
An ember of concern flickers to life in Tony’s gut. “A bad feeling?”
“Mhm. But it’s probably nothing.”
Tony looks more intently at his kid. Physically, he looks fine, albeit a little pale. His knee is jumping rapidly, his knuckles bone white from where they clutch his mask. Not for the first time, Tony feels a deep, stabbing guilt for involving Peter in this whole mess in the first place. “You can sit this one out, you know.”
“No-” Peter objects, straightening in his seat. “No, it’s fine. I want to help.”
“I need your head clear.”
“It’s clear,” Peter promises. “I’m sorry.”
He’s torn. “Pete…”
“I’m fine,” Peter says. This time, he’s firm. “Just forget I said anything.”
After a long pause, Tony folds. “Okay. But we’ll stick close together. How’s that sound?”
To his surprise, Peter relaxes a little. “That sounds great, Mr. Stark.”
“Okay, then.”
The quinjet lands and Peter pulls on his mask. The city outside is overrun with aliens. Again. As soon as the back doors open, the safety of the quinjet dissipates. Chaos leaks in. There’s no time for further debate.
Tony lowers his faceplate and follows his kid out into a warzone.
------
Two, grueling hours pass.
Tony’s taken more hits than he’d like to admit and has been saved by Peter by twice that. Despite his uncertainty on the quinjet, the kid is more than holding his own.
Peter webs up one of the bigger aliens to the side of a department store and Tony shouts him praise. The kid spins, and even through his mask Tony can tell he’s smiling.
And for a moment, Tony thinks the trouble has passed.
Then an alien rips between them, throwing them both to the ground. By the time Tony stands, Peter’s already gone. He follows the trail up and finds the alien on a direct route to the rooftop where a camera crew is poised over the lip of the building. They must’ve been filming their fight, Tony realizes. Idiots.
Peter shoots a web at the alien, catching it on its scaly back. He digs his heels into the brick of the building as the camera crew above scatters, loose brick raining down to the street below. The alien screeches as Peter shoots more webs, securing it to the building. It twitches feebly as Peter twists his neck to look down at Tony, his shoulders dipping when he sees that Tony is standing.
It’s a moment of distraction for both of them. Neither of them see the second alien come. It flies in fast, colliding with Peter head on. The impact must knock him out because as the alien barrels further down the street, Peter drops from the side of the building like a stone.
“Peter!” Tony yells, his repulsors engaging long before his brain processes the hit. But even with his suit’s intuition, there’s no way he’ll make it in time.
Peter hits the pavement. Hard. He lays crumbled on his side on the sidewalk, everything about him eerily still. It reminds Tony of the time he’d approached Peter on the airstrip in Germany, and his stomach does several Olympic-level backflips.
Get him out of the street. Get him out of the street. “Any spinal injuries?” Tony asks FRIDAY through his mask.
“None detected.”
Without wasting any more time, Tony grabs Peter around the shoulders and drags him into the cover of the department store. The lights are dim and flickering, the front window shattered. He pulls Peter away from the debris and drops to his knees, his hand immediately reaching to peel the mask off the kid’s face.
When it comes free, Tony falls back into a shelf, his vision whiting out and his chest constricting down to an impossible size. On a secondary level, he recognizes he’s having a panic attack. But he doesn’t truly comprehend it.
Because Peter… Peter…
“Kid,” Tony wheezes, curling his fingers around Peter’s shoulders. “W-w-wake up.”
The entire right side of Peter’s face is stained with blood, gorey and dark. He doesn’t respond to Tony’s movements. He doesn’t even look like he’s breathing.
He looks dead.
Tony hyperventilates, clutching Peter’s still form like a lifeline. He knows he should check his pulse, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He doesn’t want to find nothing.
“FRI- oh god. F-FRI? Is he… Is he?”
It’s the most agonizing three seconds of his life. “He’s alive, sir.”
“Jesus Christ,” Tony gasps, bringing his cheek down into Peter’s chest. Sure enough, he can hear his kid’s heart. It’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard, and he remains that way until the static in his body eases and his breathing returns.
“Boss,” FRIDAY says. “Peter has suffered a severe head injury. Now that your panic attack has passed, it is imminent that Peter receives immediate medical attention.”
Tony lifts his head back up. His cheeks are stiff with salt, which is strange, because he doesn’t remember crying. He nods feverishly. “Right. Right.”
Biting back a sob, Tony picks up Peter and cradles him to his chest. The kid is absolutely pilant in his hold, his blood-soaked head tipping back against Tony’s elbow. The sight burns Tony’s throat with bile. He raises his head and steps back into the street.
Peter had a bad feeling about the fight, and I did nothing.
“FRI,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Take us home.”
------
Everything is a blur when they land at the compound. FRIDAY must have called ahead, because there’s a team of medical professionals waiting for them on the landing pad. They take Peter out of Tony’s arms and he stands there, numb, and watches unblinkingly as they wheel him away.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there. Shock, his mind supplies. You’re in shock.
All he can see is Peter’s still, lifeless face.
The sun is close to the horizon by the time Tony comes back to himself. He takes a quick step forward and nearly falls, his legs aching from standing too long. But they carry him anyway, his newly found determination outweighing his fatigue.
When he steps inside the compound, his suit falls away. He catches himself on the wall, exhales deeply, and pushes himself toward the medical wing. Cho is waiting for him at the threshold, as if she’d been waiting for him.
“Tony,” she greets. “It’s about time you came along.”
“I’m sorry…”
“Sit down.”
Tony does, worry building up within him like a dam threatening to break. “How is he?”
Cho’s expression falls, and Tony nearly slips into his second panic attack of the day. “He sustained a lot of damage to his brain. He’s in a coma.”
“What?” Tony asks. His voice is distant to his own ears. “A coma?”
“It’s important that he sleeps while his brain heals. There’s no telling how long it will last, or if…”
“If he wakes up at all,” Tony finishes, choked.
Cho doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to.
“Can I see him?”
“Of course.”
Tony follows Cho to Peter’s room as if in a dream. When they enter, the air shifts, becoming heavier. “Oh,” he says, sagging against the doorframe. The entire right side of Peter’s face is covered in thick bandages already dotted with blood. He’s hooked up to about every machine imaginable. There’s a tube down his throat.
“It looks scary,” Cho says, “but it’s to help him.”
Tony can’t look away. “He told me he had a bad feeling,” he whispers. “Before the fight. I should’ve never let him off the quinjet.”
“There’s no point in blaming yourself,” Cho says, laying a hand on his arm. “That’s not going to help Peter now.”
With a final squeeze to his arm, Cho turns and leaves. Tony stands in the threshold of Peter’s room for a long time, his heart sinking in quicksand. Then he moves. He sits by Peter’s bed. Slowly, carefully, he grabs the kid’s hand and hangs on tight. “I’m right here kiddo,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”
And after that, he can’t quite find the words to say.
-----
Over the next two and a half months, Peter has a visitor everyday. Most of the time, multiple.
Tony spends all of his free time in Peter’s room. May, too, when she isn’t working. Ned and MJ swing by after school most days and play cards over his lap. The rest of the team, to Tony’s surprise, also spend a good deal of time sitting with Peter. They sit and tell him stories about missions gone wrong and sometimes, Tony catches them saying how proud they are of him.
The city mourns the loss of Spider-Man, and everytime Tony sees a news article talking about it, it breaks his heart.
Ever since Peter had gone down, life had stopped for Tony.
But now, today, two and a half months later, Peter’s finger twitches.
It’s such a small motion, but it takes Tony’s breath away. He leans forward and stares intently. “Peter?”
Nothing happens for a moment, but then he moves again. This time, his whole hand.
“Pete? Buddy, can you hear me?”
And then the most wonderful thing happens. Peter groans, shifts his head, and opens his eyes.
Immediately, it brings Tony to tears. He collapses against Peter’s side, clutching the blankets tucked over the kid’s chest and holding him close. There’s a light pressure on his back. Peter’s hand, he realizes.
“Oh kiddo,” Tony says, tilting his face up. “I sure missed you.”
Peter’s still half asleep, his eyelids drooping and unclear. “Where’d I go?”
“It doesn’t matter right now. You’re back.”
Hit by his own words, Tony reaches for the nurse’s call button and presses it. Peter may be awake and relatively lucid, but that doesn’t mean there aren't any other complications to check out.
“I really love you kiddo. You know that, right?” God, he’s been waiting months to tell him that.
Peter blinks at him. Then, he smiles. It restores every aching inch of Tony’s heart. “I know. I love you too.”
Though Peter is largely uncoordinated, Tony guides him into an embrace. He holds him tight with the intent of never letting go. My kid, he thinks. My stupid, brave, wonderful kid.
They’ve been through a lot of storms together, some more scary than others.
Pre-Relationshp Geraskefer for @febuwhump 2022!! Day one: head wound. Jaskier gets a concussion during the battle of Voleth Meir. While he's unconscious, Yennefer tries not to let her anxiety run away with her, Geralt accidentally eavesdrops, and the two realize their priorities are one in the same.
5368 Words. Can also be read here on ao3! Rated T for; a total of 9 uses of the word 'fuck'. I am being very strict about the rating here for some reason.
Other tags include: Hurt/Comfort, Everyone needs a hug, Yennefer is nervous about hurting people with her returned, chaos, Geralt gives advice he Cannot take, Geralt and Yennefer need to patch things up for a child AND a bard, No One Gets Left Behind, and Geralt is a fucking Tease when he wants to be.
After the cacophony of battle, the silence that drapes itself over Kaer Morhen is paralyzing. Jaskier can feel the cold mountain air lick the back of his legs, hears it whistle against the bloodied stone.
It’s a miracle, he thinks, that he’s alive at all, let alone unharmed. His head feels heavy and his vision swims— must be the nausea, must be the smell of death in the air, must be the alcohol he hasn’t entirely shaken off. He squeezes his eyes shut, sucks in a tight breath and clenches his teeth. Somewhere in the hall, he hears Geralt tending over Ciri, knows others are moving around him. His thoughts swirl, his head throbs. Distantly, Jaskier remembers the crack he’d heard, remembers when his head had hit the ground, the blackness that had engulfed him for a moment, and wonders if that’s bad— but when he tries to shake off the thought, he finds his body won’t cooperate. He stands there, or really it feels like floating, until eventually his eyelids creak open of their own accord.
One of the other witchers— Lambert, Jaskier thinks he remembers, is beside him now and he feels himself speaking, hears it like an echo.
“Just one big happy family, eh?” He thinks it sounds like him. He thinks he feels something tickling the back of his neck.
“No,” the witcher responds bluntly. Jaskier nods.
“Right, yeah.”
And then Jaskier falls away from the world, and he’s not really thinking much of anything at all.
***
The bard sways for a moment, and before Lambert can ask what’s wrong, he’s crumbling. “Whoa!” Lambert says, catching him and setting him down slowly. “Geralt!” he calls, but it’s Yennefer who runs over first still breathless and shaky after emerging from the portal.
“Fuck, Jaskier? Jaskier, come on,” she says as she kneels on the cold floor in front of him. Lambert is handling him a bit gruffly, looking for a wound, a bite, something to have caused Jaskier to collapse. Yennefer instinctually goes for his head, gently replacing Lambert’s hand with her own. She tries to pour what little confidence she has right now into keeping herself steady, cradling his neck. She can see now the deep rims beneath his eyes, his skin a ghostly pale, his cheeks more sunken than she remembers. Without the glint in his eye to distract her, it was clear how worn thin he really was.
“Might just be squeamish, or exhausted,” Lambert is saying, but not to her— she turns and looks up to find Geralt, his eyebrows pinched, his eyes wide, staring down at the unconscious Jaskier. Yennefer shakes her head just as she finds it— a trickle of blood, a small gash on the back of his head.
“Head wound,” she says softly, and locks eyes with Geralt. “I could heal him, but— I’ve just gotten my chaos back. I’m not sure it’s worth the risk; healing is delicate. I can close up the wound without issue, but that’s about all.”
She sees Geralt swallow thickly and nod. “He probably has a concussion. He needs rest. I’ll get him to his room—”
“Oh, shut up,” Lambert mutters. They both turn to look at him, and he just gives a nod of his chin to the hall behind them where Ciri and Vesemir are trying and failing to talk to one another. Coën lingers in the back, looking like he means to start cleaning but can’t move himself to start.
“Go. You have things to do. I’ll lay him in his room, you take care of yours.”
“Stay with him until he wakes up,” Geralt says with a sigh. “I’ll be there soon.” Lambert gives him a thin smile, and carries Jaskier gently away from the destruction of the great hall.
Geralt watches them go, something twisting in in his chest. He’s mine too, he’d wanted to say, but what right did he have? He’d told Jaskier to go, he’d left him behind. Things between them were alright, but he knew there was some… rebuilding to be done between them. Standing at the bard’s bedside until he woke would be too much too soon, he thought. And while Jaskier was unconscious, Ciri was still very much alert, and all of his priority should turn to her.
Yennefer still knelt on the floor, shoulders rising and falling under exhausted breaths. Geralt reached out a hand to her, and after a moment of staring, she takes it, rising and dusting herself off though Geralt drops it quickly, pressing it to his side— every touch with Yennefer burned sweetly since his wish had bound them, and letting the feeling linger would only distract him. When he reached Ciri, he put his hands on her shoulders, made her look at him, despite the pain that was urging her to look at the floor.
“Let’s get some air.”
The two headed out into the cold, Yennefer following close behind, and Geralt tried not to focus too hard on the steady rhythm of Jaskier’s heart, a distance away, beating despite it all.
***
Yennefer was the first to leave the cold, giving Ciri and Geralt some time alone. And, truthfully, to see Jaskier. Her feet carry her quickly, though she barely felt the steps, too lost in what-ifs. She finally comes to his room in the long and winding corridors; Jaskier lays atop his messy bed, a small torch burning in the corner, casting his face in shadows that made him look even more gaunt than she’d noticed him being. An unoccupied chair sits across from the door, just beside the bed.
“Has he woken yet?”
“No,” Lambert says, pushing off from the wall he leans against, arms still folded loosely against his wide chest. “Am I leaving you here with him?”
“Yes,” Yennefer says curtly and nods, turning her attention to the broken bard before her. She thinks of the alliteration herself and wants to roll her eyes because she can just hearhim in her head making a comment about it, but it just reinforces how distant he is right now even just lying before her. She sweeps an errant strand of hair from his face, and out of the corner of her eye notes that Lambert doesn’t move, just narrows his eyes and quirks his head. “Something I can do for you?” she asks, not looking at him. “Look, I know you don’t trust me,” she continues after a moment of frustrated silence, “but Geralt is busy with Ciri, I clearly have no place tending to your dead unless I’m asked, and he’s my friend too. I’m not going to eat his heart or anything. He needs someone to watch him.”
Lambert snorts a laugh, shakes his head and begins heading for the door. “Suit yourself.” Before he leaves, he turns to her once more, and this time, she looks up to meet his gaze. “You and Geralt. I get it now, at least.”
“Get what?”
“Stubborn, defensive, martyrs. Fit each other like a glove. But what about this one?” he asks, gesturing to Jaskier. “What’s he?”
Yennefer looked back at Jaskier. “…He doesn’t have to be anything,” she finally says, “but… he’s the only one who can stand us, most days.” Yen smiles and feels something tighten and quickly loosen in her chest. Must be the chaos getting reacquainted. “Anyone who can turn Geralt or I into a song has something special.” When she looks up at him again, Lambert is already leaving, giving her a sideways glance with raised eyebrows.
She rolls her eyes and looks back down at Jaskier. His chest rises and falls steadily, and still Yennefer is tempted to put a hand to his heart, to a pulse point, just to check. Just to ensure he was still here. It was unnatural, seeing him so still.
But that wasn’t true, was it? He’d been so still, so solemn since she met him again as the Sandpiper. He was elegant on stage and a klutz when they ran, but in the moments between he didn’t ramble on anymore, wasn’t flitting about just to give energy to silence. He’d been quiet and careful and steady. He’d aged years in months, just being away from Geralt. Being alone.
He’d been so alone, and so had she, and now he was— she felt tears price behind her eyes and rubbed them away. She wasn’t crying over this, not when he would be fine. It had only been… 10, 15 minutes since he had collapsed? And he was exhausted. He was fine. Everything would be fine.
But he would not be alone again. She would not leave him. Geralt would have to take Ciri, and she would have to catch up later, but leave Jaskier? Now, like this? Absolutely not. And if it made Geralt true her less… then fine. She would deal with it. She desperately wanted Ciri to be her first priority, but what sort of example would it set, leaving behind the one man both she and Geralt trusted beyond reason?
She shook the thoughts away, gods when had she started thinking so much, must be a side effect of the chaos returning, must be, just as the racing of her heart must have been as she gently checks the back of his head for the wound once more. It had sealed up nicely with the limited magic she’d performed, though she could feel a slight sweeping behind it. She combed her fingers through his hair, steadily working out the knots the drying blood was forming. God, did he need a bath. When was the last time he had bathed? Had he seen soap in the past few months? His hair certainly hadn’t seen the conditioning oils he used to be so fond of. What had it been— sage and lilies? Why the hell did she remember that? She moved her hand to cup his cheek, and though his eyelids fluttered a moment, they stayed closed. How could she remember anything other than the strange particulars of Jaskier she’d picked up over the years, at a time like this? Where he bought his lute strings, the stitches he preferred to mend his shirts. Things she’d learned in passing, things she didn’t even realized she had known.
Good things for a mortal enemy to know, she supposed. She’d tucked the knowledge away so someday she could use it against him, in a million petty ways, just to see those sharp blue eyes fill with surprise. Just to rile him up.
The minutes ticked on, and with each she wondered, a steady fear rising in her, whether she’d ever get to use that knowledge again, or if he’d just slip away here, another victim of her mistakes. The silence bored down on her, smothering her.
“You’re not talking enough,” she said eventually. “Which means I have to.”
***
“I should go check on Jaskier,” Geralt says to Ciri. They haven’t left the parapet, both taking in the cold fresh air, a stillness they know they might not feel again for some time. It’s not peace, Geralt knows, and has no idea when Ciri will feel that again— but he hopes she understands she’s not alone. Certainly not while he’s here. “You should rest.”
“I should help clean up,” she says softly. Geralt smiles at her insistence.
“Why?”
“Because— because they need help. Because it’s my fault.”
Geralt shakes his head. “It’s not your fault. It’s…” he sighs. “It’s not really anyone’s fault. Or it’s everyone’s fault, take your pick. But if you try and shoulder the responsibility alone, you’ll drown in it.”
“But it used me—”
“Used you, Ciri,” he stresses. “And you still fought back, you still came out of it. So go take a few minutes, go be with the people you did help save.”
As if on cue, Lambert comes and stands in the doorway. “You have a family here, Ciri. Letting people take care of you is a hard lesson, but you might as well start learning now.” He rises and walks to the door, nodding at Lambert who gives him a pat on the shoulder on the way out.
“Your witch is with him now,” Lambert mutters. “Hasn’t woken yet, but his breathing’s steady.” Geralt just nods as a rock twists in his stomach. He keeps heading for the door, listening for Jaskier’s familiar heartbeat to lead him to the room.
“Geralt!” Ciri calls after him before he makes it quite inside. “How did you learn it? Being taken care of.” Geralt turns back to face her for a moment and shrugs.
“I haven’t yet.”
Inside the great hall, Coën and Vesemir sit at a table, shaken and exhausted. Vesemir’s head sits heavy in one hand and his eyes are gently closed, squinting sometimes in pain. “She alright?” Coën asks as Geralt approaches.
“She needs people now. She’ll want to be with you, if you can.”
“Probably best to get a bit of distance before… dealing with all this,” Coën agrees, and rises. “C’mon, old man, let’s get outside.” Vesemir sighs and looks up at him, and Geralt can see the weight of a second massive loss within these halls in his eyes.
“You go. I’ll catch up. And Geralt, go be with that bard. I don’t want another pointless death here if we can avoid it.”
Geralt just nod and goes as Coën departs in the opposite direction. ‘Pointless death’ rings over and over in his head. He hadn’t led Jaskier to his death, had he? It was a concussion. He would be fine. He’d had worse, probably. Well, he certainly had, Geralt had been there for them. How many times had he gotten kicked around for defending Geralt before Geralt could drag him out of the tavern? How often had he nearly broken a bone stumbling through a forest? That infection he had gotten from a sore in his boots years ago after insisting fashion ought to take precedent? The fucking djinn?
Geralt stalled for a minute in the hall as he tried not to remember what he’d said to the bard all those months ago. Every time I’m standing in shit... Ah, fuck. He knew there was a lot to make up to Jaskier, and now there was even more. He hadn’t had to bring Ciri to Kaer Morhen— though Geralt knew and trusted that he would— and he hadn’t had to stay once she’d arrived— but of course, he had. And now he was unconscious, with a head wound, cold and without proper clothes, and all because Geralt had asked. What’s worse, he thought, was Jaskier likely would have ended up here even if Geralt hadn’t asked. Just because… he was Jaskier. Even after months apart, months alone.
He wouldn’t leave Jaskier alone again. So much had changed— not just the stakes of the shit storm they found themselves in, but the political landscape of the continent, and Geralt’s feelings as well. He’d meant what he’d said on the mountain, but that was before he realized what a blessing Ciri was and before he understood that Yennefer and he… well. That needed work too. But she was alive, they all were, and as betrayed as he felt, this was better than the months where he’d thought her gone.
Jaskier’s heartbeat pulled Geralt to the room like a rope to a drowning man. He knew Jaskier was fine, he was following his heartbeat, but for some reason his heart still sped up with fear. How long had it been since he’d fallen— 15 minutes or so, he figured, which was longer than Geralt would have liked but not a death sentence. Just… more complicated.
And more complicated still was the sound he heard as he approached Jaskier’s room.
“…going to want me to describe it so you can write it into a song, but I’m actually quite bad at that. Maybe worse than Geralt. It was… orange? I’ll have to show you the memory, if I can. I don’t want to spoil you though, I’m not doing that for everything.”
Yennefer’s voice carried to him through the empty halls. Geralt stopped— well. That wasn’t what he’d been expecting to hear.
“You’re going to get such annoying songs out of all this. By the time all this is done, when Ciri’s older— you’ll already have made her a legend on the continent. If it goes to her head, I’m holding you responsible. I don’t think it will, she’s more clever than that. She’s— fuck. She’s so smart, Jaskier.”
He lingered. Yennefer’s voice continued to wander, talking to Jaskier soothingly, like they’d been friends for years, like they were— he knew he’d missed a lot, but this was baffling. Hadn’t they loathed each other? Sure, they’d both known to hold back around him but this was… kind. Had Yennefer suffered a head wound too?
“…but the hat was too much. I’m… sorry you probably can’t go back to that work for a while. You should be proud of yourself… though I hope you’ll start taking care of yourself more. You’ve been more drained than I realized. I’m sorry. For… everything, if I could have done more, Jaskier, I swear I would have. You don’t deserve all this, let alone everything you’ve been through the past few months. Promise I’ll take care of you now, though. Like you did me. Just getting even, that’s all.”
And this, coupled with the silence that followed, sent Geralt into yet another spike of anxiety. Jaskier hadlooked tired, and that was before asking him to make a mad dash across the continent with Ciri in tow. What work had he been doing?
Before he realizes he’s done it, he’s standing in the doorway. Yennefer’s back is to him, sitting on the edge of the bed where Jaskier lays. He watches, stunned, as Yennefer hand drifts from Jaskier’s shoulder, up to his neck, lingering on his pulse point, before coming to rest atop his heart. He wants to say something but— well, he barely knows what he’s seeing here. Suddenly Yennefer’s back is straightening and her hand shoots to Jaskier’s.
“I’m not leaving him behind,” she says, not looking at Geralt. “You and Ciri will have to go alone. I’ll catch up by portal when he’s well, after bringing him somewhere he’ll safe.”
“Hmm,” Geralt says, for lack of a better response. They both just… stand there, watching Jaskier in steady silence. Geralt’s eyes float where Yennefer’s hand clutches the bards, watches as she begins to do some sort of healing magic. He frowns. “Didn’t realize he cut his hands when he fell.”
“He didn’t,” she says coolly. “Fire fucker got to him.”
“When?”
“A month or so ago, I suppose. I didn’t have my magic so I couldn’t help him in time.”
“What did fire fucker want with Jaskier?”
“Information, Geralt,” Yennefer bit out. “Everyone knows who Jaskier is to you. Anyone who wants Ciri, who wants you, wants him.” She pauses, moving to his other hand. Geralt can’t see her face but he imagines the tight set of her jaw, just as she knows he will. “He didn’t give anything up, if you were wondering.”
“I know.”
“How could you possiblyknow.”
“He’s Jaskier. He… I trust him.”
She wants to laugh, to spit something out on Jaskier’s behalf, but there’s no use. She can hardly bring herself to be angry at anyone else after today. Besides; she knows it’s not what he would want.
“Yen. I don’t… I’m not leaving him.”
This is finally what gets her to turn to him. She watches his face take in the fact that she had quite obviously been crying not long ago, and hadn’t bothered to wipe away the evidence.
“I… owe him. And I need him. And if people are after him… the safest place would be with us. I don’t want to split off again. Besides. He needs people now, too. We all do.” Bringing Jaskier along, Geralt realizes, might even be the selfish thing. They would have to ask him. But Jaskier deserved the choice, to know Geralt wanted him. If Jaskier would have him at all.
Yennefer nods, and swallows. “Good. Fine then. We leave when he’s ready.”
“There’s plenty to be done in the hall, I won’t leave Vesemir and the others to deal with it alone. We can work on that while he rests.”
“Right.” Gently, she moves his other hand, any remnants of scars now gone, to rest on his chest.
“…He’ll be alright, Yen,” Geralt says, and she laughs, rueful and exhausted.
“He always is,” she manages. She hears Geralt walk into the room behind her, cross till he’s on the other side of the bed.
“Do you know about the time he had his clothes set on fire by a baker in Rivia?” He asks, settling into the empty chair. “And he put it out by jumping into the lake. Which was full of drowners.”
“Of course it was,” she snorts. “Idiot. It’s always something with his clothes. Did you see the hat he was wearing weeks ago?”
“Mm, no, I didn’t. Did I miss out?”
“Oh, terribly. It was ridiculous. The feathers were longer than his torso.”
Geralt chuckles. “Shame, really.” And after a few beats, “How did you… you two. You’re… close, now?”
Yennefer looks down at Jaskier. “Tell me more about how he got lit on fire?”
“…I should go before he wakes up.”
“He’ll want you here.”
“Will he? There’s some… tension there.”
Yennefer nods. “He will. This, you can trust me on.”
***
Everything, and he means it, everythingaches.
This is the first thing Jaskier is aware of; his world is painful and there’s not much escaping from it. The next thing is the low hum of voices.
It’s hard to decipher who’s talking, and harder still to understand what they’re saying. The voices are at least calm and pleasant, so he wasn’t worried about coming to more harm. Someone’s voice gets a little louder— saying his name? maybe? — and that’s probably good. He tries to turn his head to face the voice but find his head is actually the same weight as a dragon, possibly several, and he winces against the effort.
Then there’s a hand on his head, stroking his hair, and that has to be good. Another effort to turn to this other figure, though he finds it’s just as difficult. Pain shoots through him from the back of his head and outward, and oh, gods, what hell has he fallen into? He knows he shouldn’t panic but he feels his breath pick up all the same, and then there’s a large, weighty hand on his chest, and the hand stroking his hair moves to cup his cheek. His eyes still shut tight, lids too heavy to lift, he feels a warm sweet breath close to his face and suddenly, the pain subsides a bit.
“I don’t know how long that will last, but it should help him a bit,” Yennefer is saying on his left. Oh, Yennefer.
“Jaskier. Are you with us yet?” And that’s Geralt’s voice, which feels like it makes no sense. But of course it makes sense, it’s Geralt. His brain his swimming.
“What— where’m…” he manages to eke out.
“You hit your head during the fight,” Geralt informs him with a gentle rub of his hand to the chest. Jaskier’s… rather exposed chest. This is a lot to awaken to. “You’ve been out for a bit. What do you remember?”
“I… big fuckin… things. Whacking about. Magic shit.” Jaskier’s eyes finally creak open. Blissfully, there’s not much light in here to scald his corneas with. Yennefer, on his left, looks exhausted and relieved and he thinks her eyes might be a little puffy. Her hand moves from his cheek to rest beside his own hand, while Geralt to his right moves his hand to squeeze Jaskier’s shoulder.
“Good summary.”
Jaskier frowns. Why are they here? “Mm— you— you okay? Where’s the… short. The. royal… child.”
“Ciri’s fine, all considered,” Yennefer tells him. He can feel her hand just a heartbeat away from his. Geralt’s thumb rubs his shoulder. It would be overwhelming on a normal day, which he hasn’t admittedly had in many months.
“You?” He looks between them.
“We’re fine, Jaskier.” Geralt finally removes his hand from Jaskier’s shoulder, and he’s both thankful for it and misses the touch instantly.
“And my magic is back.” Jaskier’s head whips to her too fast, and he starts at the pain. “Don’t do that! You need to rest.”
“It’s back? It’s just… back?” She nods, and he feels a smile bloom across his face. “Yennefer, I’m so glad. I told you, you know. I knew it. You’re really alright? You both should… sleep, or something.”
Geralt shakes his head and rises from his chair. Which is the moment Jaskier realizes Yennefer was actually perched on the side of bed with him, she was that close. Oh. Well. Okay, okay. A lot was happening. “You’re the one who needs rest,” Geralt says, and Jaskier understands it, the shoe has dropped. Of course they were being kind to him— Geralt would have to speed off with Ciri, now that this place wasn’t safe. Yennefer would of course accompany, as Ciri needed someone to help her with magic. And Jaskier, needing to recover, would stay here, alone, with the other witchers he had barely greeted before yesterday in their destroyed, grief stricken keep. And he’d be there for weeks, and it would be too difficult, too dangerous for Geralt or Yennefer to contact him or come get him, so he would be off on his own again. And that’s what they needed to tell him, so here they were. Being kind. Softening the blow. What else should he have expected?
Jaskier nods, bites his lip and looks away. “Well. Alright. I’ll get to resting. All of you get… you know, get… leaving. I’ll see you some time, don’t worry about it.”
There’s silence, and Jaskier keeps his gaze steadily pointed out the door, so as to ignore both of them. They hadn’t expected him to pick up on it, he supposed. Well, he had, hadn’t he. His fists clenched and he sucked in a tight breath.
“…You’ll need… maybe a week or so to recover before you can safely get moving,” Yennefer says carefully.
“Great! Thank you for the… the timetable there.”
“And then a few weeks of being very careful, but you’ll be able to walk, or ride.”
“You’ll have to ride with Ciri,” Geralt says off-handedly. Jaskier hardly registers it. “So, we’ll leave… in a week, maybe a week and a half, depending on how you feel.”
“My magic will help, but you will have to heal on your own ultimately. I’d hate to scramble your brain more than it is. Once or twice a day I’ll give you some soothing, hopefully you won’t need more despite being on the road.”
Jaskier nods, just accepting it, until he really hears them and lets their words register in his mind. Something in his chest tightens, his throat feels hot, his mouth is dry. His eyes search the room, as though there’s something he’s missed. Finally, he looks at the both of them, and goes to say something but his jaw just hangs slightly ajar. He tries again, and again, looking between them, with their raised eyebrows and their slight smiles. Eventually, his brilliant, lauded, poetic mind comes up with the following; “…What?”
“We’re not leaving you here, Jaskier,” Geralt says, and something in him burns with righteous vindication, his fists unclenched, he feels like punching the air. Yes, he’d forgiven Geralt— when there’s love and loyalty, it’s unfortunately easy. But oh, that fire still burned in him, would for a long time. And now—
“Unfortunately, you are in fact stuck with us.” Yennefer’s eyes twinkle. “By something more powerful than destiny, or chaos, even.”
“…Oh?”
“Hmm. Choice,” Geralt says.
And, oh, well if Jaskier’s heart had been poised to take flight, now it was gliding on air.
“If,” Geralt continues, “if you’ll have us.”
Those may also be tears stinging the backs of his eyes. He nodded quickly—okay. Choice was nice.
It didn’t exactly fix anything. His lute was gone. His ability to be the Sandpiper was seriously compromised. So was his bardic reputation. And his reputation in general. Well, one in the same. He was still recovering over hurt from his best friend and muse and love, absolutely his love. And Yennefer wasn’t his enemy anymore, but the sheer fact that she was sitting at his bedside was sending his heart into a tizzy in a way he could only parallel to how he’d felt about Geralt, and thatwas going to be complicated no matter how it went. And Ciri was, what, 14? And he was dreadful with children. And his hands were still healing, scarring over in spots from where—
Wait. Jaskier frowned, and wiggles his fingers. He’d just clenched and unclenched those hands without the slightest twinge of pain a moment ago. He brings them up to look.
“Healed those up for you,” Yennefer says. “Just getting even.”
“Of course,” he mutters. She’d left the callouses from his lute. Oh. He tries to clear his throat and then continues coughing.
“I’ll get you water,” Geralt says, and he’s out the door. Geralt of Rivia, the witcher, the white fucking wolf, was going to get him a cup of water while he lay in bed with a head wound. Oh.
“…Thanks,” he says roughly, and watches the witcher walk out the door. “I feel like I missed something. How long has it been? Several weeks? What’s going on,” he asks Yennefer. She smiles, and it’s intoxicating, so he keeps going. “It’s terminal, isn’t it. That’s what’s happening. It’s all over, just say it Yennefer.”
She bites her lip to hide a smile and takes his hand. “I’m so sorry to say it Jaskier. But it’s true. You have a deadly case of idiocy. There’s no cure.”
“You wound me,” he says with fake outrage, “I am already suffering and still you put me through more pain. How cruel, how dare—”
“The water is poisoned too, hope that helps,” Geralt says dryly as he enters, handing Jaskier the glass. On the bed he slowly rises, propping himself against the meager excuse for a headboard. He sips slowly, the cool water cutting through him. He feels another tendril of exhaustion wash away from him.
“Good fuck that’s cold. Mm, the other option is that this is all a dream. Which feels possible. I don’t know how to tell if I’m dreaming. Someone say something to help me know if I’m dreaming.”
“You’re not dreaming,” Yennefer says. “Would your head hurt if you were asleep?”
“How should I know! Maybe I just won’t remember it hurt when I wake up. Geralt, say something you would only say if this were real life.”
“This is real life.”
“Well! That’s no help at all! Say something you’d only say if I were dreaming.”
Geralt seems to consider this for a moment. Yennefer rubs her face. “This will end poorly.”
“No, it won’t. Well, maybe. Geralt, think of something I wouldn’t imagine you saying to me! Some complicated witcher thing, or no, I won’t have a way to know if you’ve just made it up. I don’t know. Say something big!”
“I love you,” Geralt says simply, at which point Jaskier yelps in surprise and his glass goes flying, spilling all over Yennefer and shattering against the stone. Geralt gives a shit eating grin and Yennefer groans, rising as she magically whisks away the water.
“That—that clears up nothing, actually.”
“I could try again.”
“Don’t you dare! Yennefer is saying to Geralt, who has his hands raised in surrender. It wouldn’t last for long, Jaskier knew, this levity and playfulness, and his throbbing head reminded him it truly all was an uphill battle from here. Even still, it would be together, and by choice, and it was going to be more than enough.
now you’ve suggested your favourite, whumpiest prompts, it’s time to vote!
the suggested prompts have been shortened from 540 to just 80 of the best prompts and will be open for 5 days for you to go and vote for your favourite 28 - 1 for every day of febuwhump.
the top 28 become the febuwhump prompts, and the next 10 most popular will be the alternates.
Matt Hardy breaks up with his long term girlfriend Lita, believing that his little brother Jeff and Lita came up with a plan to beat him at the last nights PPV. Jeff tries to console her before the brother vs brother match later in the night. P1.
(tw: yander whumper, caught, manhandling, implied threat to break bones)
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Whumpee clutched the small strip of paper in their palm. Shielding it, even though Whumper was downstairs.
It was fraying at the edges where they had folded and unfolded it a thousand times. They regretted now how they hadn’t taken care of how they folded it - now the crease cut straight through the center photo. Right through Caretaker’s chin.
Still, Whumpee could see their smile. And that made them smile.
They grinned, staring at it. That picture was their favorite one. There were five photos on the flimsy, colorful photo-booth strip.
They still couldn’t believe Caretaker let them keep it.
They had been sneaking out for years. Not really sneaking. Whumpee wouldn’t ever be so….disobedient.
But.
When they went out, they’d tell Caretaker where they would be. They’d set up places to meet. No matter how many times Whumpee stayed awake all night, terrified Caretaker wouldn’t show up in the morning, Caretaker had never failed them.
They were always on time. Waiting with coffee and a bright smile.
The same smile Whumpee loved to stare at.
This little paper got them through the long days between visits. Of course, they couldn't tell Caretaker about Whumper. They couldn’t tell Caretaker why they couldn’t come over. Why they were so hard to contact. Why they could meet so rarely.
But Caretaker, always so sweet, never asked questions. They trusted Whumpee as Whumpee trusted them.
Whumpee was so glad Caretaker had let them keep the photo strip. It got them through the long, bloody time between those perfect sunshiny days.
“Whatcha got there?”
Whumpee flinched hard, almost dropping the photo strip. They managed to fold it quickly, tucking it tight into their palm with shaking fingers.
They stood quickly, legs trembling, and turned to face Whumper.
“N-nothing. I’m ju-st…sitting….”
Whumper didn’t look convinced. They grinned, stepping forward. “Oh come on, what do you have?” Their eyes are light. Playful. Safe.
Whumpee scootched their hand behind their hip, scratching their head with the other to draw Whumper’s eye away from it. “Really - I don’t have anything.”
Whumper’s paused for a moment.
Their grin faltered. Their eyes narrowed just a fraction
Whumpee took a shaky step back.
“Whumpee,” Whumper advanced. “You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?”
They swallowed thickly. Their trembling legs barely stayed under them, carrying them backward another step. “N-no, Whumper.”
“Then why are you shaking.” It wasn’t a question.
Whumpee stammered, trying to find the words. Any words. Anything at all.
“Whumpee…”
Whumpee gasped as Whumper’s hand shot out, gripping their wrist. “Let me see.”
“N-no!” They tried to yank their arm back, but Whumper’s grip ground into their bones.
Whumper’s eyes were dark now. They shoved Whumpee against the wall.
Drywall cracked behind them, sending puffs and fragments of dust into the air and pattering onto the floor.
They tried to struggle away, but Whumper kept them pinned to the wall by an arm at their collarbone. Their other hand gripped their wrist harder.
Whumpee squealed, trying to keep the photo strip curled in their fist.
Whumper’s grip tightened. It bent at the little bones. Straining. Forcing Whumpee’s fingers to uncurl until they gave into the pressure.
The folded sheet clicked onto the floor.
Whumper shot them a glare before bending down to pluck it off the ground. Whumpee rubbed their wrist, cowering against the wall. Staring intently at the ground, afraid to look up as Whumper unfurled the photo strip.
Silence.
Silence for far too long.
Whumper’s fingers tightened around the paper. “Well…looks like someone made a little friend.”
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---sorry i forgot the tags when i first posted this!
Thanks @febuwhump for putting together this event!!!
