Could you write a prompt with a whumpee with a leg injury (maybe a stabbing or something) who has to completely act like nothing’s wrong because they’re walking back home with their friend who is already suspicious and they can’t let them know (for some reason)? Sorry that this is uber-specific.
No 4. Dead on Your Feet
Hidden Injury | Waking Up Disoriented | Can’t Pass Out
The night air hit Whumpee’s face in a rush. Their eyes flickered close, soaking in the warmth for a single moment before they had to keep moving. Whumpee followed Caretaker into the street, sprinting to a nearby alley that they could only barely see through the tears blurring their vision.
Their leg was a cacophony of pain. Blood had seeped down a good half of their pant leg, blessedly invisible against the black fabric in the dark night. Each step felt like it sent shards of glass into their bone, as though the knife was still embedded there. It wasn’t, which created more problems, as now they were bleeding out a lot faster.
“Whumpee, hurry up,” Caretaker hissed. Whumpee winced at how strained their voice was, even in a whisper. Maybe now that they’d finally gotten the job done, Caretaker would get some rest.
“Sorry,” they breathed back, fighting against a limp as they reached their friend.
Caretaker glanced back at Whumper’s base where it loomed behind them, jaw twitching in the dim light the street lamps provided. “If no alarm has been raised by now, we probably have until that guard you knocked out wakes back up. Are you okay walking back home?”
Whumpee furrowed their eyebrows. “Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?” They took another step and briefly found themselves unable to breathe. Lovely.
“Just making sure,” Caretaker said slowly, eyes just a little too perceptive. Whumpee stayed on the inside as they moved into the street, hugging the buildings and the shadows that clung to them. Their ragged breaths seemed to give life to the walls towering on either side, making them tilt and sway, the ground swelling.
Their shoulder hit the brick wall hard.
Caretaker turned towards them, face shadowed in the hazy streetlight. “Whumpee?”
Whumpee screwed their eyes shut, using the wall to push themself back upright. “Yeah. I’m good. Just tired, I guess.”
They didn’t get a response from that, only Caretaker watching them, a silhouette in the dark that Whumpee would give up everything for. Their leg was a dead weight beneath them now, heavy like lead and filled with glass that bit deep into their skin, their muscle, their bones, with each hesitant movement. Whumpee locked their knee when putting weight on it (wouldn’t want to be caught limping, would they?).
The world was still spinning. Whumpee leaned their head back and looked at the sky for a moment to try and disguise it, to hide the tears building in their eyes as sure as the headache embedded in their skull. “The sky is beautiful tonight,” they whispered. Not that they could see it.
Caretaker let out a small breath. “Yes, it is.” Their tone was softer now, and something gentle stirred in Whumpee’s chest.
“We should get home before Whumper wakes up,” Whumpee continued in that same soft tone. “You need sleep.”
“Is that honestly what you’re worried about right now?” Caretaker snorted, but there was no malice behind it. “You look exhausted yourself. But we deserve to celebrate tonight.”
Whumpee’s tears receded and they dropped their head back down. Their throat burned with the effort when they spoke. “Yeah. You’re right.”
Caretaker deserved to have a night of celebration more than anyone else. Whumpee wouldn’t take that away from them for the world. They walked on in silence, Whumpee’s hands burrowed deep in their pockets. Their fists were clenched against the pain, but beyond that, their extremities were getting very, very cold. They were almost surprised there wasn’t ice crusting along their fingertips, despite the warm night. Best to just keep moving.
Their vision was shifting in and out of focus, flashes of black coming in when they were certain they hadn’t blinked. They were shaking from the effort of keeping their leg moving, now. Their muscles were growing stiff around the weeping wound. Still, they kept their back straight. They kept their knees locked. Their breaths grew more and more labored, burning their lungs, but their breaths were there.
Then their leg buckled underneath them, and none of it mattered.
The world swung back into place slowly above them, circling and circling like water going down the drain, long after Whumpee had gone still. A muffled ringing filled their head. A noise was lingering beneath that, thick and soft like whoever it was was yelling through a mattress.
Why did it all hurt so much?
A face appeared right above them, blocking out the golden streetlights. Whumpee stared blankly. They were terrible at reading lips, and for some reason Caretaker was just mouthing words. Or—no, they were speaking. Whumpee just couldn’t hear them.
After a moment, Caretaker seemed to realize this. Their face was creased deeply in worry, and Whumpee felt a spear of guilt thrust into them at the realization that that was their fault.
“‘m sorry,” they forced out. Caretaker froze. Their expression changed, tightening. When they spoke again, it was very deliberate, so that Whumpee could make out what they were saying.
“Can you hear me?” The lips said. Whumpee shook their head, closing their eyes as the world dipped around them. Caretaker waited until they were looking again. “Where are you hurt?”
Whumpee hesitated, tears rising to their eyes again. They didn’t want Caretaker to have to deal with it.
Something like anger swelled in Caretaker’s eyes. They grabbed onto Whumpee’s chin, forcing their gazes to meet. The intensity of Caretaker’s expression cowed them, and one of their shaking hands reached down towards their leg, then slumped down in defeat.
Instantly Caretaker was down beside it, ripping away the soaked pant leg. Whumpee was pretty sure they screamed as it came away from the wound. They didn’t have time to think about it, though, because they promptly passed out.
When Whumpee woke up, their hands were warm, and their clothes were dry. It took them a moment to process anything else.
Slowly, they opened their eyes, rubbing the sleep from them. They didn’t remember going to bed.
“You’re awake,” a strained voice said. Whumpee sat up, wincing at a pain in their leg. Caretaker was sitting at their bedside, face like stone and eyes red and bloodshot.
Another sleepless night on their part. Whumpee could have drowned in their guilt. Their hands felt out the lump in the covers where their bandages were.
“I passed out,” they remembered. Their voice was weak.
Caretaker took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“I don’t—” they started, then deflated under Caretaker’s hard eyes. “I thought I could make it.”
“Clearly.”
“I’m sorry.”
“…I don’t understand.” Caretaker crossed their arms over their chest. They hadn’t accepted Whumpee’s apology. Whumpee waited for them to continue. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Whumpee’s eyes dropped. “I. I didn’t want you to worry.”
“I’m worried now, Whumpee.” Their voice was sharp as a dagger. Something dark flared across Caretaker’s face, receding just as quickly. Whumpee knew it was still there. They just nodded, morose.
A thin silence stretched between them. Whumpee’s head started pounding, and they leaned back against their pillows.
“I went for a walk this morning,” Caretaker said suddenly. “When you were still asleep. I was tired of sitting here.” They swallowed, brows lowering over their eyes. “You left a trail of blood last night, did you know that? I could follow your footprints all the way back to Whumper’s. And last night I didn’t even notice.” Their voice broke off suddenly, and for the first time Whumpee noticed tears in their eyes. “Why didn’t I notice?”
Whumpee hugged themself. “It’s not your fault.”
“No, it’s not my fault that you decided to just ignore your stab wound. It is my fault that I noticed something was wrong and I didn’t do anything until you were bleeding out on the ground.” Caretaker’s voice was raised now, and they cut themself off with a grimace. Their voice was soft the next time they spoke, but still shimmering with anger. “Were you going to tell me?”
“Caretaker…”
“No. Answer the question, Whumpee.”
“…no.”
All the air seemed to leave Caretaker at once. They slumped over, elbows resting on their knees and face in their hands. Whumpee had never seen them brought so low.
“Why?” they asked again, and it sounded almost begging.
Whumpee didn’t have an answer. They just sat there battling back their tears, because Caretaker deserved to feel upset without Whumpee stealing the moment again.
When Caretaker lifted their head up, their eyes were wet. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. I am going to go get you some food and medicine. When I get back, I am going to be calm, and you are going to have some damn good answers for me.”
They stood up while Whumpee cringed and nodded. As they got to the door, Caretaker looked back.
For Rookie, who prompted: "I woke up like this- confused, hungry and a serious case of bed hair."
Sabo’s head hurts. No, wait, his head feels like a small indie rock band has their bass turned up 200%. Inside his skull. He hears a low noise and realizes that it’s his own voice, but it doesn’t sound right. A few attempted words later, Sabo realizes why; it’s raw, and is similar to the distorted noise an old recording makes. Or maybe a squeaky toy. He plays around with it a bit, more out of surprised amusement, before his head demands to be taken care of.
Rolling out of bed, Sabo stumbles towards his closet, his eyes shut in protest of moving. His hand hits the wall, though he could have sworn that there was a door here. Squinting, he stares at the expanse before him. No door.
Huh.
Still squinting, Sabo looks around. Perhaps his closet moved?
No, wait, perhaps his bed moved?
As he looks around, though, he began to realize that there is something terribly wrong. First, where is his nightstand? Or dresser? For that matter, where did his closet even go?
The doors seem to have completely disappeared.
Were his walls always that odd color of beige?
Rubbing at his eyes, Sabo double-checks that he hasn’t hallucinated the change. Nope, still there. Huh.
Is this even his room?
The thought makes sense, and Sabo feels somewhat relieved that his room hasn’t suddenly changed, ‘till the thought that holy shit he’s in some room he isn’t familiar with hits him with enough force to temporarily displace his headache.
That might explain the lack of clothing on his body.
No, hold on. That’s the opposite of an explanation. Why is he mostly naked, in someone else's room, with what he can only assume is a terrible hangover?
A hangover sure makes sense.
Groaning, this time with a lot less amusement, Sabo returns to his hunt for clothing. There’s a small dresser in the other corner, so he ambles begrudgingly towards it.
The first drawer has… an odd collection of pineapple related items. Pineapple sunglasses, pineapple bags, pineapple slippers, pineapple gloves - this is a bit of an obsession. Why would anyone own this many pineapple related items?
The second drawer has even more pineapple items.
Thankfully, the third drawer doesn’t. No, it just holds an odd collection of gold jewelry and shiny rocks and pretty gems. They all glitter in the morning light, making Sabo’s eyes ache. He shuts the drawer quickly, cringing at the rattle it makes.
With a resigned sigh, he goes back to rifling through the top drawer. Thankfully, he hadn’t imagined the bright pineapple shirt tucked away in the corner. It’s big and painful to look at, but it’s clothing. At least if he runs into someone, he won’t have to worry too much.
So, of course, the first thing he does as he steps into the hallway is run into someone. Literally, unfortunately, and the burnette does not seem pleased, if his irate scowl is anything to go by. Sabo tries to mumble an apology and dart around him, but the guy stands his ground and grabs Sabo’s arm roughly.
“Who the hell are you?”
Sabo isn’t sure what to say, so he does the only thing he can think of.
“Who the hell are you?” he asks with as much authority as someone wearing only boxers and a bright pineapple patterned shirt can. The effect is entirely ruined by his squeaky voice, but he rolls with it.
The brunette bristles.
“I don’t live in this house, you!” He shouts, pointing an accusatory finger at Sabo. Sabo blinks, not entirely sure how to take such loud and confusing information. It’s only years of faking not being hungover that keep him from cringing at the noise.
“That’s good to know. So who the hell are you, again?” At least his voice doesn’t squeak this time. Sabo studies his shirt, frowning at the gaudy pattern. Geeze, who would wear this? And why was it the only article of clothing in that entire room?
“I the hell am-” the brunette starts, but catches himself. Sabo unsuccessfully hides a snort behind his hand. Who is this kid?
“Ace.” Well, at least he’s got a name now. “And I live here, and you don’t, so who. The hell. Are you?”
Sabo shrugs, wincing at the pain that creates, and scratches at his head. He’s never been hit over the head by a sledgehammer before, but he’s pretty sure this is what it feels like. Where’s the kitchen? He needs water, and some aspirin, and a large cup of coffee.
Oh, coffee. That sounds like heaven.
Trying to shuffle past the kid turns out to be more effort than it is worth because he roughly slams Sabo into the wall. Ouch.
What a violent kid. Did no one teach this child some manners?
Sabo shuts his eyes to try blocking out the pain in his head and ringing in his ears. What had he done last night? He hasn’t been in this bad shape since… since he dove off of a building while running from some very mad gangsters. Or had they been reporters? They have the same cold blood.
The guy’s probably been yelling at him since shoving him against a wall, judging by his red face and the fact that he’s mid sentence. Sabo groans. He doesn’t want to deal with all of this, too, while hungover. He rolls his head back against the wall and manages to make his headache worse.
“ACE! What are you doing!” That’s a new voice.
The owner of the new voice is an older blonde, with hair that is unique in a way that can only be described as the top of a palm tree. Huh.
“Marco! There’s a strange guy in our apartment!” That’s a turn around. Sabo’s pretty sure that the kid was trying to threaten him a moment ago.
“Yes, I know, I’m the one who brought him heeee…” Palm Tree trails off. “Where did you get that?”
That sounds suspiciously dark.
“Found it. Dresser.” It’s awfully hard to talk when an arm is pressed against your chest, Sabo realizes, staring down at the offending limb. Surprisingly, the freckles splattered across the guy’s face are also scattered over his arms. Sabo wonders idly how far they go.
Palm Tree seems to step out of his stupor and hurries towards them, pulling Freckles away from Sabo. Freckles is cute when he’s pouting. Totally not fair.
“How are you feeling?” PalmTree asks, one hand out to keep Freckles back. He’s rather attractive up close. The droopy eyes and birds’-nest hair oddly work for him.
“Death.” That’s the appropriate answer in such situations. Sabo knows, because Koala has taught him many, many times.
Palm Tree, however, makes a sympathetic noise that Sabo is not expecting. Most people roll their eyes. Or shake their head.
Most people do not gently press the back of their hands to his forehead.
Sabo would jump back, if he wasn’t already against a wall. He would also protest, if his voice would work, and would allow more than a few broken syllables at a time. Since neither of these things happen, his reaction seems to be to make a high yelp. He does not, in fact, blush like he is twelve again. It is totally not because Palm Tree is even more attractive when concerned and really, really, really close.
How can someone’s eyes be such a light blue? They’re practically clear. Almost gray, but not quite. Icy blue, maybe? Yeah, like a frozen lake in the middle of winter.
“-ey, hey!” Sabo snaps back to attention, and by snaps, he means he literally snaps back and bangs his head against the wall. His vision swims for a moment.
“Hay is for horses.” Why, oh why, is that the first thing that comes out of his mouth? Curse Hack and his terrible punning. Puns will be the death of him someday. Someday.
“He seems fine to me.” Freckles crosses his arms and huffs. Is he jealous? That’s… really cute. How does someone look cute while being jealous? That’s just unfair.
“That does not sound like someone who is fine, Ace.” Palm Tree seems to be the one in charge. He carefully picks up Sabo, whose protests are ignored.
Sabo is brought to a very comfortable, large couch that may or may not be a color. There’s just nothing he can think of to describe the exact shade of brown-orange-yellow-white that this couch is. The more he stares, the more Sabo is convinced that the color just doesn’t exist.
“Are you hungry?” Sabo’s going to say no, but his stomach answers differently. Odd, he doesn’t feel hungry.
A glass of what looks like water and a couple of pills he’s assuming are painkillers appear before him. He downs them gratefully while Palm Tree goes off to find food. Freckles stares at him from across the room. It’d be unnerving, but Sabo just, doesn’t have any cares anymore.
This is going to make one hell of a story to tell Koala when he gets home.
“You know, you’ve got a serious case of bedhead going on.” Sabo thinks that Freckles might be trying to sound snarky, but he’s obviously amused.
He attempts to comb through it with one hand, but gives up once he realizes keeping his hand above his head is much too much effort. Freckles snorts.
“You just… you just made it worse,” he giggles, then straightens and tries to act all tough again. How endearing.
“Ace, are you hungry too?” Palm Tree calls from the kitchen, and Freckles heads away, towards the smell of food. Sabo honestly hopes that they have coffee. He would kill for some coffee.
The blonde one - Pine Tree? Something with a tree - brings over a tray of what looks like delicious pancakes, with a multitude of toppings. Freckles frowns at Sabo. He stuffs several plain pancake into his mouth, the horror, without breaking eye contact. Sabo ignores him in favor of dousing his pancakes with fruit and syrup and whipped cream. After all, there’s food and coffee and two rather attractive men wandering around him.
Whatever he did last night, it was worth every second.
