Destroyer (Vol.II) - Do No Harm
(Content: past abuse, whumper turned whumpee, living weapon whumpee, PTSD, guilt, comfort, medwhump, captivity, implied addiction, needles, stitches, wound care, reluctant caretaker)
Delta made it about halfway down the hallway before he realized there was no earthly way he’d be able to do this. The realization stopped him dead, dramatic, the steps coming to an abrupt halt. One hand moved against the concrete wall for support as he lowered to the ground, head bowed forward over bent knees, asphyxiated. Air returned to him passively; he was too far gone to focus on it. Years of psychic pain had resurfaced all at once. Some kind of ancient fear. He remembered what it felt like to drown.
He had to clamber back upright, claws dug into divots in the wall. The other cell laid a few meters down. From where he stood, he could see the beginnings of the window. It was pale green on the inside; an aquatic, unnatural light. It was a two-way mirror. If he were to stand in front of, Delta would see Paris in the flesh, for the first time since they last tried to kill each other. The prince would not be able to see him back. Delta didn’t believe it, though. He felt sure that somehow the glass would fail. He’d be recognized. He’d be seen, and known, and he could not stand it. There was no way he could even bring himself to look through the window.
He turned around, back down the other end of the hall. There were living people here, ones who had no idea what he’d done, nor what he intended to do now that he was here. For a few grateful seconds, he was innocent. All his effort went towards not passing out outright.
~
APOLLO: Hello?
DELTA: did you know
DELTA: please be honest
DELTA: lun knew and they tell you everything so i find it really hard to believe that you wouldnt
DELTA: but i dont understand how you could keep this from me. if thats true then i really dont get it
DELTA: i dont understand any of you anymore
APOLLO: What?
APOLLO: Is everything okay?
DELTA: no
APOLLO: What’s going on?
DELTA: did you know that paris was alive
DELTA: galatea has had leads on him for years apparently they just didnt fucking do anything about it
DELTA: lun knew
APOLLO: I?
APOLLO: Um. Okay, give me a second.
APOLLO: It’s 4AM here, I need to go outside.
DELTA: did i wake you up
APOLLO: Yes
DELTA: im sorry
APOLLO: Its okay! Its going to be fine.
APOLLO: No I did not know about any of that. I was pretty sure he had just died somewhere along the road and Id yet to see anything to suggest otherwise
APOLLO: Though I was never following that case particularly closely, to be honest with you.
APOLLO: If Lun knew anything then they did not tell me about it. I can call them after to see what’s going on but this is the first I am hearing of it
DELTA: okay
DELTA: i believe you i guess
APOLLO: Are you okay?
DELTA: no
DELTA: i dont know what to do
DELTA: can you come over
DELTA: please
~
It was a two hour ride. Nothing could happen in the meantime, no matter how much Delta was prodded to act. He felt like he was holding his breath the whole length of it.
When Apollo did arrive, he looked as awake as he’d sounded over the phone. He had to have left immediately after the call ended. His hair was still tousled from sleep, and the ever-present circles beneath his eyes looked a little bit darker tonight. Delta felt immediately humbled — not unlike he had been in those early days. It was so kind. Delta melted into the first touch he got, the hand cupping the side of his face, until he sank into the embrace full-bodied. Like always, Apollo was warm.
Confused, though, which made Delta regret the accusation. Confused about what had happened, and about what exactly he’d come for. Delta realized he didn’t quite know either. Away from the others, when it was just the two of them, he tried to untangle the thoughts.
“…Said it’s my choice now,” Delta managed. Then, clarifying: “I had a tantrum. I don’t know. I don’t understand why no one would tell me in the first place. I had a right to know. I should’ve had a say in it.“
“Levon’s pretty sensitive over you,” Apollo said softly. It was unclear who he was defending.
Delta shrugged. He twirled strands of hair between his fingers in a nervous tic, the kind he never would have even been allowed before. History bore down on him like a great weight.
“What did you want to do?” asked Apollo.
“I was going to kill him,” Delta admitted freely. “I think I’m going to. I’m just scared.”
After a bit of hesitation, he added:
“I haven’t gone to see him yet. The girl he was caught with, Lorelai, said the people here have been starving her. So he’s probably not doing that well either.”
Delta trailed off without conclusion.
“Well, that’s illegal,” Apollo supplied helpfully.
He got a small nod in response. Delta bit down on his claws, staring off into space. He buried his face in his hands, so that the next words came out muffled:
“…I can’t even look at him.”
“I can.”
The offer was immediate. Delta looked up in muted surprise. He hadn’t expected it. He didn’t know what he really wanted Apollo here for in the first place, besides some vague need for comfort. And the idea of Paris anywhere near anyone he cared about made him prickle with awful energy. But Apollo seemed unbothered by it. Not even inconvenienced. Too calm, in a way that made Delta suspicious. It brought a new anxiety into stark light.
“Don’t hurt him," Delta begged.
“I took an oath!” Apollo raised his hands in mock offense. That oath couldn’t have counted for much, knowing what Apollo had already done in his defense. Nevertheless, the reassurance came across clean and sincere.
~
Paris didn’t know how long he had been in the cell. He would have guessed hours, but with nothing at all to indicate the time passing, and his own tenuous grasp on reality, it might have only been a few minutes. Who could say?
He studied the reddened skin around his nails. It had been a while since his hands were chained in front of him rather than behind, the longest he’d had in a while to observe them. Little cracks played along the skin from where they’d been stomped on. Cracks in the nails from malnutrition. The central scar from where the knife had been driven through his palm now dominated the landscape. Unlike the others, it was several years old, and as healed as it ever would be. The sight was familiar, of course, but the reminder made him anxious in the new setting.
He was probably going to die here. He knew it. They acted with the abandon of people who knew they wouldn’t see the consequences of it. They’d kill him soon, and there’d be no other witnesses. Or they could toss him back to Nezu, who he knew was still looking. That would be worse. Paris told himself he would find some way to kill himself before that happened, but the thought only made him sad, in a way it never had before.
He wondered if Levon would come to see him off. That wouldn’t be too bad. There was something dignified about it. It was certainly more dignified than just passing him off to his underlings, waiting for one to get too enthusiastic with the shock collar. Paris would have preferred the ceremony of the firings squad. He didn’t expect it, though. Levon probably wasn’t coming back. That was the first and last time Paris would ever see him.
Someone twisted in his heart. There would be a last time for everything. There already had been, and he hadn’t known it. Involuntarily, he began to run through the list. The last time he’d see Vi, a few weeks ago, her head resting against Lorelai’s forearm in the warm light of the patio lantern. The last time he’d see Beatrice, drunkenly kissing his cheek at the last house party. The last time he’d see Annalise, the morning he was captured, disappearing down the dirt road with her backpack on. The last time he’d see Jay, the same morning, helping him to load his own equipment up into the ship. He had squeezed at the back of Paris’s neck, in the same spot the metal collar now touched the skin. It hurt too much to think about. Paris pressed his damaged nails to the wound of his palm, looking for something else to replace the pain.
The last time he’d seen Lorelai, they were dragging her off into a separate cell. What if he never saw her again? What if he did?
The last time he’d seen Delta, he was kneeling at the base of the throne. His bones were broken in three places, and he was wincing with each breath. What was the last thing Paris had ever said to him? Formalities, probably. Orders. Get up and Stay and Behave. But what was the last thing he’d really said?
I hate you.
Paris pressed the wound harder.
He jumped as the door opened.
It wasn’t anyone he recognized, but then again, he’d been blindfolded a lot. The new person had the same barely concealed contempt written across their face, which Paris could not help wanting to recoil from at this point. He was tired. No matter how much he told himself to be still and take it, for dignity or karma or otherwise, no matter how much he intellectualized it, he could not help his body’s involuntary avoidance of pain. It wanted for that part to be over. Paris told it not to get its hopes up.
Instead, he eyed the visitor. Behind golden spectacles, his eyes were narrowed. A single white fang — alarming — bit into his lower lip. One bronze-colored hand still rested lightly against the door handle, as if ready to retreat at any moment. Then he sighed, detaching, instead kicking up the metal seat by the table and sliding into it.
“I’m going to treat your wounds.” He said decisively. “No hitting, okay?”
Was that a promise or a condition? Paris couldn’t tell. If it was the latter, he couldn’t move his wrists up from the table anyway.
“…Okay,” he agreed.
Paris stared back fully untrusting, not liking the new game. The other seemed to be studying him too, as if unsure where to even start. Paris could feel each injury on his body, but without access to a mirror or even the ability to move freely, he couldn’t see all of them for himself. The medic seemed to take notice of the gash along his shoulder. There were smaller cuts along his arms, and probably on his face, but none were anywhere near as deep or as wide. He watched the medic’s nails tap indecisively along the tabletop, until his gaze settled onto his neck.
“Can I…?” The question was perfunctory. He wasn’t really waiting for an answer. He stood up out of the chair and moved behind Paris, in a motion that made him extremely anxious. Before he could warn him not to, his hand had already moved to the collar’s lock, and a harsh shock went off into Paris’s body.
A soft gasp of pain escaped him. From the medic, a gasp of genuine surprise.
“Oh! I’m-“ He cut himself off. He’d started to apologize, then didn’t finish it. Paris shook for a few moments afterwards, trying to recover. He flexed his hands in the restraints. That barely helped, but it was still the most motion he was afforded. He was so fucking tired.
In a kind of embarrassed silence, the medic began to clean out the cuts and scrapes along his arm. The antiseptic stung slightly, but in a way that only grounded him. Paris didn’t really want anyone to touch him anymore; he flinched at every instance. But the resignation had already set in as far as touch went. At least this time he got something positive out of it. A soft blush rose into his cheeks.
Paris scrambled back all at once just as soon as the needle was produced. As much as he could with his wrists still trapped.
“Don’t,” he said automatically, with all the authority he could still force into his voice. He knew it sounded more like panic. He was panicked. He didn’t want it, and no one was going to listen to him, and no one would even care what it meant to him.
“Hm?” The medic titled his head in confusion. “…It’s just local anesthesia. It won’t hurt. You won’t even feel it.”
“Don’t,” Paris insisted. Like he fucking believed that for a second, like he’d let any of them inject him with anything.
There was nothing he could do to fight it, though. He felt his own heart in his own throat, nearly choking on the fear.
What he got in return was not quite an eye roll, but close. The medic looked off to the side, towards the mirror.
“You need stitches,” he said, softer.
“I don’t care,” Paris said. “You’re not fucking drugging me.”
A sigh. He placed the needle down on the table, reaching for a notebook instead. Paris eyed him nervously.
“Documenting refusal,” he explained. “You’re still going to need stitches. I can do it without anesthetic, or I can bandage it now and wait for you to change your mind?”
“Just do it,” Paris said quickly. He wouldn’t change his mind. The thought of any drug entering his body then made him nearly hysterical with panic.
The medic’s eyes lowered a little bit, clearly unhappy with this outcome. Paris couldn’t see why. What did it matter to him?
He got no explanation. The medic’s chair only scooted closer as the tools for suturing were laid out on the table. He held a small leather strap up to his mouth.
“Bite,” he instructed. Embarrassed, Paris obeyed. Likewise, his hand squeezed tight around the stress ball he was given.
“I’ll be quick,” the medic promised. For the most part, he was.
Paris still cringed as the needle first entered. It was such a viscerally unpleasant sensation to feel the thread run through his skin, against the already aching edges of the wound. The skin coming together felt unnatural. It’d felt unnatural coming apart, but he found the two did not cancel out. It just hurt. He blinked back a few tears; he knew his pain tolerance wasn’t what it used to be. Years without action had made him soft. Or maybe it was the opposite. More likely, it was the opposite. He was just tired, and at the limit of what his body could handle. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to pull away, but knew it wasn’t smart to. He held still and quiet as the needle entered again and again.
“All done!” The medic concluded, for a moment sounding oddly pediatric. Paris spit the strap out. He wanted to slam his head onto the table from sheer exhaustion, but was not physically able to. Instead, it only hung halfway. He didn’t release his grip on the stress ball.
“Thank you,” he muttered lightly.
He didn’t understand why Galatea wanted him in one piece at all. Paris understood so little about any of this, what he was destined for, what the point of it was. He didn’t trust in any healing intentions. Nevertheless, it was the most kindness he’d been shown by anyone here. He felt his eyes watering again, and could not tell the reason. He beat them back before they could turn to outright tears, but he knew he was dangerously close. He was so tired.
“You’re welcome.” The medic adjusted his glasses with lightly bloodied gloves. He started packing up to leave. Paris didn’t think he imagined the glances he kept throwing at him, though he couldn’t place why. Didn’t know what he was looking for, nor if he found it.
He left without another word, or any explanation. Paris sat back in the chair, not any clearer about anything, but grateful the stitches were in and that they had not been pulled too tight.
~~~
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