Whump Snippet: Fever
CW: referenced torture, referenced noncon, noncon stripping, sickness, nudity, forced bathing, vomiting, brief needle, intimate whumper, complicit caretaker
Word count: 3,591
***
“Still?”
“Yes, still,” Whumper seethed over the phone, beyond irritated at Caretaker for having taken the situation so lightly. “His temperature’s the exact fucking same.”
“Did you give him the ibuprofen?” Caretaker asked.
“Yes I fucking gave him the medicine, or else I wouldn’t be calling your sorry ass,” Whumper hissed.
He was standing over Whumpee, who was wrapped in layers upon layers of blankets on Whumper’s bed, his face barely peeking out from the top of the thickest comforter. His eyelids were sunken and purplish, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. And he was still shaking. God, why was he still shaking? Whumper clutched harder at the phone, trying to keep his composure. Whumpee couldn’t get any worse. Whumper wouldn’t let it happen.
“Has he gotten out of bed at all?” Caretaker asked.
Whumper pursed his lips. “Not since last night.”
“Jeez.” A pause. “Well, there’s still time to bring him up here. Hours are over, but I can close a little later if you’d like—”
“I told you, I’m not bringing him to the clinic,” Whumper said. “Too much of a risk. Whumpee, he—well—you never know with him. He could run.”
Whumper heard Caretaker sigh over the phone. “I’m sorry, you’re afraid your currently incapacitated, feverish hostage is gonna take off on you? After the state you left him in?”
“Not to mention the cameras,” Whumper added.
“Whumper, I’m risking my entire practice—hell—my entire life by letting you bring Whumpee into the clinic. And I’m honestly not worried anything will happen. Can’t you at least trust that?”
“No,” Whumper stated coldly. “I’m not coming to the clinic. You’re coming here. Bring whatever shit you need, but Whumpee isn’t leaving the fucking house.”
“I—fine,” Caretaker finally relented. “Let me just close up here and I can be at your house in about a half hour.”
It was all Whumper needed to hear. He hung up, set the phone down, and sat at the foot of his bed. His stomach clenched at the sight of Whumpee, who could already be mistaken for a corpse by how shallow his breaths appeared. Fuck. Whumpee better fucking survive this. With how much of a spitfire he could be, Whumper was shocked to see him in this condition. His Whumpee, knocked out by what started out as just the common cold? The boy Whumper spent months trying to tame? Impossible. And yet—
Whumpee moaned as an entire full-body shiver wracked his body. He clenched his teeth, rolled to the side, and let out a croak of a cry.
“A doctor is coming, sweetheart,” Whumper said, leaning forward to push sticky hair out of Whumpee’s face. “You’ll behave, yes?”
Despite his state, Whumper raised his eyebrows in surprise when Whumpee answered. “N-no…doctor…”
“Yes, a doctor,” Whumper challenged. “It can’t be helped, darling. It’s the fourth day of this. Surely you want to get better?”
He was satisfied when he caught the slightest nod in response. Good. At least he was conscious enough to be somewhat obedient.
—
“Good God, Whumper,” Caretaker said, standing over the bed as he took in Whumpee’s figure. “What the hell did you do to him?”
“I was only correcting his behavior. Besides, it only started out as a cold.”
“Did you—what—drown him?”
Whumper shook his head. “No, I left him in the snow overnight.” He reeled back when he saw Caretaker’s expression. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It was a few hours. And he was fine when I came to collect him after. He only had a cough.”
“And that was how many days ago?” Caretaker asked, going over to the desk to set out all his supplies.
“Four.”
Despite his feverish state, constantly swimming between a dark, cold haze and confusing dreams that left him sore and panicked, Whumpee was awake. He could hear Whumper talking to someone—he assumed the doctor he’d been told was coming to see him. The doctor he thought he had only dreamt about. It was strange to care so little about someone else being so close to him in proximity after having only been in Whumper’s presence for months. He knew that a small part of himself—the lucid part that only appeared in spurts throughout the day—was internally screaming, begging for him to cry out for help. After months of endless waiting, just before him was a chance. A real chance to escape. But his body couldn’t care less at the news. He was in so much pain, battling between sticky heat and the most freezing cold, that opening his mouth to even whisper the word ‘help’ seemed a chore too great for him to handle. But the words he heard next immediately roused him.
“We’ll have to strip him first,” Caretaker explained. “Take off all his layers. They’re only worsening his temperature. Then we’ll run a bath. Lukewarm water. I can set up an IV to deliver fluids. How much has he eaten recently?”
Whumper shook his head once again. “Won’t eat.”
“What has he had to drink?”
“He won’t drink either.”
“Fluids will be acceptable then. But we’ll have to encourage him to take as much as he can orally. Then I’ll run a few tests, see if I can figure out exactly what’s causing the sickness.”
“What sort of tests?” Whumper asked.
“The standard stuff: a blood test and a urine sample, maybe a simple physical. But getting his temp down is priority. Go ahead and remove the blankets.”
The word echoed in Whumpee’s head, bouncing painfully off the walls of his skull.
Strip.
Whumpee didn’t want to strip. Stripping meant pain. Stripping meant an entire map of skin to be cut, to be beaten. Stripping meant baths where he was forced to sit leaned against Whumper’s chest between spread legs. Stripping meant being pushed onto the bed, knees forced apart—
“Nuh…no…!” Whumpee moaned as his blankets were pulled off of his body, taking with them the warmth that kept him barely sane. He looked up only to be greeted with shadows, silhouettes above his head. He felt something cold under his shirt.
“I know, I know,” Whumper said gently, followed by the snips of scissors against fabric. His shirt was being cut off. “You’ll be warm again soon, sweetheart, I promise.”
But Whumpee only cried when hands found the top of his sweatpants and began to pull downwards. He gave a sad attempt at a kick, only to be met with a pitying giggle from Whumper. But the cold seemed to sting him back to life. Before his underwear could be taken, Whumpee pushed himself to sit up, wrapping arms around his knees as he shuffled to the head of the bed. Before him he could see…was that the doctor?
He was about Whumper’s age and blonde. Surprisingly wearing actual scrubs. Was this…a real doctor? Who made house calls? How could Whumper allow such a thing?
“Ah, it seems introductions may be in order after all,” Whumper said with a smile. “Whumpee, this is a dear friend of mine, Caretaker.”
“Acquantaince,” Caretaker clarified.
Whumper chuckled. “Hm, yes. An acquaintance who, for a time now, has owed me a favor. He has so graciously agreed to come help me take care of you.”
Whumpee glowered as best he could at Caretaker. Of course Whumper would never have called a regular doctor. How could he have been so stupid to believe he had a chance at escape? His fever had fed him many lies throughout the days, but, this one sliced a little too deep.
“Don’t touch me,” Whumpee murmured, eyeing Caretaker.
“Darling, don’t be like that,” Whumper said, folding his arms. “Didn’t I tell you to behave?”
But Caretaker interrupted Whumpee’s chastisement. “I’m…just here to help you.”
“I d-don’t want h-help,” Whumpee stuttered through the cold.
“I’m so sorry about him,” Whumper said. “It seems this sickness has brought out his defiance.”
Caretaker shook his head before turning to Whumpee. “I’m not surprised. Would you be more comfortable if Whumper took your temperature instead of me? You would need to remove your underwear, and lay on your side.”
“...What?” Whumpee asked, heart hammering as his stomach churned. God, was he going to throw up?
“Rectal temperature, love,” Whumper clarified with a quirk at the edge of his lips. “It will help give Caretaker the most accurate reading.”
“No!” Whumpee immediately screamed, as loud as he could make it. “No, I—! We can just do the forehead one, we—that’s what we’ve been using this whole—!”
“I’m afraid this isn’t up for debate,” Whumper said, beginning to stalk forward towards his victim.
Tears he had long since believed to be beaten away stung Whumpee’s eyes as he forced himself into the corner against the wall. His stomach churned painfully at the thought of being completely naked again. In front of a complete stranger, no less. He put out his palms in defense as he attempted to buy himself time and convince Whumper to let him forego the process.
“Please, please,” Whumpee urged, “Please, Whumper, I—I don’t w-want this, I’m fine. It’s just a f-fever, it’ll g-go away. I’ll…I’ll eat, I’ll drink something, just….,” his last word was barely a whisper. “Please.”
“You are anything but fine,” Whumper replied firmly while Caretaker scratched the back of his head, obviously uncomfortable to be in such a situation. Whumpee imagined he didn’t have many patients to be unwilling captives.
“At least let me do it myself,” Whumpee cried. “I’ll g-go into the bathroom, and just—”
“Whumpee,” Whumper said, putting a knee on the bed before him. “If you keep arguing I’m afraid we are just going to have to force you. You don’t want that, do you?”
Whumpee could see how this would play out. He would fight back, of course. Not because he wanted to (although he truly, truly wanted to) but imagining himself in such a compromising position in front of a complete stranger would force him to react despite a fever-bitten body. He would bite, scratch, and kick, whatever he needed to do. But he knew he was weak, and it would only take seconds before he was wrestled out of his underwear and forced onto his stomach. Even if he could escape the room somehow, he wouldn’t be able to run far. It wouldn’t be the first time he was forced over a table or a countertop. And then—Whumpee blanched at the thought. A hand leapt to his mouth to keep from gagging.
“Whumper, I can tell him how to do it himself if he wants,” Caretaker murmured.
Whumper seemed to stop at the words before turning to Whumpee. “I assume you’d put up a fight if it were any other way?”
Whumpee, embarrassingly, nodded. “I…I can do it myself.” “Fine,” Whumper nodded. “I trust you’ll do it accurately and follow instructions? I’m afraid a suspicious reading may convince us to…try again.”
There goes the plan of running the thermometer over hot water until it reads a lower grade fever so Caretaker could just leave. Whumpee was beginning to grow furious at him. Whumpee wanted to understand why. How. How could he have met Whumper? How could he be okay with this? Did he realize how much power he held in his hands?
Whumpee nodded. “I’ll do it right.”
Whumpee was instructed to go into the bathroom with the door just slightly open. He listened to Caretaker’s instructions, who was standing outside: two fingers at the top of the thermometer to help insert it about an inch into the rectum, and to hold it there for a minute until he heard three consecutive beeps. Whumpee eyed the vat of aquaphor that Whumper had prepared for him, hating that he had to do this. But, just wanting to get it over with, he lubricated the thermometer and did as instructed.
When the beeps sounded, he removed it, just happy to have the feeling out of his ass. He supposed that was one good thing about having been sick: Whumper didn’t fuck him. But that was another thing. Whumper refrained from fucking him not because he was afraid of getting sick, but because it was “no fun” when Whumpee wasn’t strong enough to even attempt a fight back. The nausea instantly returned.
Caretaker’s brows furrowed when Whumpee handed him the thermometer. “Whumper, start the bath.”
“What is it?”
“One-oh-three point six.”
Whumpee shivered when he saw Whumper’s reaction: a stiffening of the shoulders followed by a purse of the lips. “It’s gotten higher.”
The pair turned towards Whumpee. Whumpee shed a tear at what he knew was going to come next.
He was unceremoniously forced out of his underwear (Whumper made a point to do it right in front of Caretaker when Whumpee initially asked to undress in private). Then he was forced to wait on the toilet, shivering, as the tub filled with tepid water. By the time he was lowered into it, his attempt at his earlier fight caught up with him and he lost all energy. The chills returned with a vengeance at being forced into the water, which felt nothing short of an ice bath. He trembled so much his jaw quivered, his teeth clicking against each other with fervor. His stomach lurched repeatedly, and he found himself helped out of the tub after several minutes when the nausea caught up to him. That’s when he stayed bent over the toilet, shaking and wet, still naked, while Whumper rubbed his shoulders and held his hair back. All the while Caretaker was asking questions as he was becoming more and more dazed.
How often do the bouts of shivering occur? For how long?
Did he feel any numbness or tingling in his extremities?
How was his appetite? Weak? If so, for how long?
When did he last urinate? Have a bowel movement?
By the final question, Whumpee was laying his head over the toilet lid with a towel wrapped around his shoulders, ready to fall asleep. It was as if he was being forcibly pulled into darkness, and he was willing to accept it. In his last few moments of lucidity, he could feel being carried back into the bed, clean underwear being pulled over his hips, and being propped up on pillows, Whumper taking hold of his jaw to force his head up when it lolled to lay on his shoulder.
And then he saw it: a needle, being slipped into the crook of his elbow. A tube extending to a pole by the bedside. Something clear inside the connected pouch. The taste of metal in his mouth. He let out a cry. Whumper shushed him softly and planted a kiss on his forehead.
And then he was gone.
—
He could hear a faint rustling first. The clink of something made of glass being set down. The turn of a page. That’s when the feeling returned. Soreness in his back, tugging at his abdomen from throwing up. Oh, right. He vomited. And had been given a bath. And had been forced to—
He groaned and opened his eyes. At first it was dark. Had the lights been turned off? But then it came into view, static prickling away to reveal the bedroom he was all too familiar with. And then brown eyes met blue. Caretaker.
“Hello,” Caretaker said, walking towards Whumpee to place the back of his hand against his forehead before drawing it down to his cheek. “How are you feeling?”
Whumpee coughed. God, his throat was dry. “Unwell.”
Caretaker chuckled at that, a kind, almost amicable smile pulling at his lips. “I’m not surprised. We’ve gotten the fever down by a degree, though.”
“Where’s Whumper?” Whumpee asked, eyes darting around to look for the man.
“He just stepped out,” Caretaker said. “I sent him on a run to grab some things that might be lighter on your stomach. Now that you’re awake, would you be willing to partake in some simple tests for me?” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I…assume it will be easier for you without Whumper in the room.”
Whumpee scoffed at that. “Fucking genius over here, folks.”
He was surprised when Caretaker actually laughed at that, covering his mouth as if it was impolite.
“What do you need?”
“A urine test,” Caretaker said, pulling out an orange cup from behind him. “Simple enough, just—”
“Pee up to the line. Got it,” Whumpee said.
“Yes,” Caretaker confirmed. “I already took your blood while you were asleep. So one less of a needle.”
Whumpee frowned at that. “How long was I out?”
Caretaker shrugged. “Six, seven hours? I put a sedative in the IV to help you sleep. Among other things to hopefully help the pain.”
Whumpee’s heart picked up at the words. “Did you…I mean, did Whumper—”
“No one touched you,” Caretaker said, already horrifyingly aware of what Whumpee was asking. “All we did was change out the blanket when it got wet. I promise.”
I promise. What a…strange…thing to say. Whumpee would have pegged any friend of Whumper’s to be just another punishment waiting to happen. But Caretaker? God, Whumpee almost felt like he could trust him had he met him anywhere else. It was strange for him to take the cup and be helped out of bed (vertigo hitting heavily as he did so). Caretaker held him gently, only when necessary, helping pull the IV pole along. And for the first time in months, Whumpee locked the bathroom door behind himself while Caretaker stood outside of it. He relished in the firmness of the click. He almost wanted to unlock it just so he could hear it again.
He did his business, pissing for the first time in a day and a half before giving the cup to Caretaker and being brought back to bed. He was still cold, but whatever Caretaker had put through the IV was working. They chatted for several minutes. About normal things. If you could call the effects of hypothermia normal (which Caretaker suspected was what caused the onset of fever. “Rewarming is a tricky process. Do it wrong and you’re facing a whole different beast”). And when all seemed safe, and Whumper was still gone, Whumpee said his words.
“You could do it now, you know.”
Caretaker looked up, his smile fading. “Hm?”
Whumpee shrugged. “You know. Call 9-1-1. Save my entire fucking life. Let me see my family again.”
Caretaker seemed to blanch at that, taking in a stark breath before immediately looking away. “I…I can’t do that. I’m sorry.”
“But why?” Whumpee asked, trying to sound normal in the fear that desperation in his voice would cause Caretaker to shut down the conversation. “You—you know what Whumper does to me. What he did to cause all this in the first place. How are you okay with that?”
“I’m not,” Caretaker said abruptly. “I—let me be clear. What Whumper does to you is…disgusting. Abhorrent. But he and I have a very…complicated relationship. He’s guilty of many things, one of them being what he does to you. But I…,” his eyes went glossy. “I’ve done things, too.”
“So, what, you only have interest in saving your own ass?” Whumpee asked, unable to stop the tears from beginning to appear. “There’s no way you could just…just give me the phone for one goddamn minute just so I can…go home again?”
Caretaker took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”
Whumpee stared, stunned, tears streaming down his face with ease as he watched Caretaker’s guilty expression force him to turn away.
“So…that’s it, then? You’re gonna make me better just so Whumper can keep beating the shit out of me?”
Silence.
“Can you at least…,” Whumpee hiccuped. “Can you at least tell me they haven’t lost hope?”
This caught Caretaker’s attention. The man looked up. “Your mother…she searches for you every day.”
Whumpee collapsed into tears, bent over as his lungs ached for recovery from the horrible croaking erupting from his chest. He hiccuped, wiping away the wetness just for it to be replaced until he was reduced to sobs. Caretaker shuffled forward, putting a hand on Whumpee’s shoulder. But Whumpee shrieked, pushing the hand away before scooting to the other side of the bed, wishing that he was still sedated. And then, a voice caught his attention.
“How touching.”
Whumper closed the door behind him, tilting his head as eyes darted between Caretaker and Whumpee, who was still experiencing a fit.
“I’m sorry, Caretaker, but it seems Whumpee needs to be alone for a moment,” Whumper said. “Could you and I have a chat outside?”
Caretaker’s eyes widened, but he jumped away from Whumpee with a hasty nod.
“Get the fuck out!” Whumpee screamed, aiming his voice at Caretaker. “Get him out!”
Whumper nodded. “Of course, love. I hate to see you so upset.”
And Whumpee was. For the first time, he had never felt more rage in his life, which was saying something. And this time, it wasn’t aimed at Whumper. It was aimed at Caretaker. The one man with the power to save him, the device in his pocket with the three simple numbers that promised Whumpee’s mother a son…gone. Refusing. Whumpee had never felt such a betrayal.
As the door closed, he screamed, tearing at his IV, ripping the needle out before burying his face into the pillow to cry. He cried for a very long time.
Once his breath became shallow and his sobs subsided, he felt a hand stroke down his bare, sweaty back.
“He’s gone, sweetheart. He won’t bother you anymore.”
