Oct 9, 2025
Whumptober 2025
No. 9: “We’ll make it alright to come undone.”
Touch | Flashbacks | Scalding
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Whumptober 2025
No. 9: “We’ll make it alright to come undone.”
Touch | Flashbacks | Scalding
No. 9: “We’ll make it alright to come undone.” Touch | Flashbacks | Scalding
With John
Dinner
@whumptober 2025: No. 9: “We’ll make it alright to come undone.” Touch | Flashbacks | Scalding. With John
With thanks to @the-original-sineater for the read through.
~
He came home to find Scott collapsed at the kitchen table. In his left hand was a knife that at some point had had butter on it but that butter was now a semi-melted mess on the tabletop.
The bread Scott had been intending to butter was under his cheek.
John sighed. This was getting out of hand. Carefully he backed out of the kitchen, dumped his bag down and re-entered the kitchen. He stopped beside Scott and reached out before pausing. The barest touch would wake his brother but John also knew that Scott needed his sleep – what with getting everyone off to school and putting everyone to bed and everything else in between beside his own schoolwork – and John was torn.
In the end there really was no choice. If John didn’t wake him the arrival of the rest of their brothers in the next few minutes would, and he wouldn’t let them – Gordon – see Scott looking like that.
He’d never hear the end of it from the eight-year-old.
So he laid a hand briefly on Scott’s shoulder and bit his lip as his brother startled awake and fell off the chair.
‘John?’ ‘You fell asleep again, Scott.’ ‘Where is everyone?’ ‘They should be coming up the driveway now. I rushed ahead.’ ‘Thanks for the heads’ up.’ ‘Scott…you shouldn’t be doing all this…’ ‘Please John, not now. You’re not wrong but I’ve got too much to do.’ ‘How about I start dinner while you go sort out Flash Gordon and the Little Mermaid?’
Scott’s laughter was precious, and John smiled as he listened as Scott met Gordon and Alan at the door, scooping both up and probably spinning them around judging from the amount of squealing.
Shaking his head at their antics, John got out a pizza for dinner. And then paused. No – Scott deserved to have a proper meal for once. So he put the pizza away and pulled out pasta, milk, butter, flour and cheese.
It had been a while since he’d cooked, but macaroni cheese was simple enough. He put on the oven before putting the water on to boil then began to grate the cheese while waiting. Once the water was boiling he added the pasta and began to make the roux, cooking the butter and flour and gradually whisking in the milk.
Once it was smooth he beat in three-quarters of the cheese and set it aside so he could drain the pasta.
John was so involved in what he was doing that he didn’t hear Alan enter the kitchen. Didn’t notice him until he was halfway across the kitchen.
Scott had said to leave John alone in the kitchen but Alan always said hi to John when Virgil picked him up from school instead of John. So he’d crept in and waited for John to finish at the stove.
He knew not to mess around when there was cooking going on. So when John turned around from the stove Alan jumped out at him.
There was no choice. Either the water went all over Alan or it went over John. No contest.
John jerked and the water and pasta jumped out of the pan and all over him.
And he screamed. Alan screamed.
And the rest of their brothers came running.
Scott took one look at the room and snatched John up in a bridal carry, rushing him to the bathroom and putting him under the shower fully clothed.
‘Stay under the water, John. I’m going to call Grandma. Don’t take your clothes off, just stay.’ ‘Okay, Scott.’ ‘I mean it. Don’t move.’ ‘Pr-promise.’
Scott charged down the stairs and snatched up the phone, checking in on the others while it rang. Virgil was sitting on the floor with Alan in his lap. Their baby brother was asleep, tear tracks clear on his face. Gordon was being helpful and had been clearing up the mess, which meant that there was bits of pasta all over the place but at least the floor was dry.
‘Scott?’ ‘Grandma! We need you. John’s had an accident and spilt boiling water all over himself.’ ‘Ok Scotty. Cold water and I’m on my way.’ ‘He’s in the shower. Hurry, please.’ ‘Good job. Keep an eye on the red, make sure it’s not affecting his breathing.’
By the time Sally arrived John was sitting in a bath of cool water, shivering as he tried to hold his head up to allow the cool water to hit his neck and chest. It had been over 20 minutes, so Sally wrapped him in a blanket and carried him carefully downstairs.
Alan had been placed on the couch, his head now resting on Scott’s knee, which was the only reason he didn’t leap up at their appearance. Virgil was at the table attempting to help Gordon with his homework.
Sally sat John on the chair their Mom used to use and carefully looked at the redness on his neck and chest. She checked his breathing and asked him questions about how he felt. John’s quiet answers reassured her more than anything, but with such extensive burns over such a sensitive area Sally knew she needed to make sure.
‘Scott, look after your brothers until your Dad gets home. I’m going to take John to the clinic just as a precaution.’ ‘Ok Grandma.’ ‘Boys, listen to your brother.’
Scott eased out from under Alan and followed her to the car. He waited until John had been belted in before speaking quietly to his Grandma.
‘Will you call Dad?’ ‘Won’t he be home soon? It’s almost six – I thought he’d be home by now.’
Scott flushed and looked away.
‘Scott? What aren’t you telling me?’ ‘Dad rarely gets home before 10 pm these days…mutter, mutter.’ ‘Speak clearly, Scott.’
She used the voice that no grandson would dare to disobey and, still staring at the ground, Scott spoke more clearly.
‘Dad rarely gets home before 10 pm these days, if at all.’ ‘Really. Then perhaps I should call him. Don’t worry, Scotty. Everything will turn out alright.’ ‘Sure, Grandma.’
He turned to leave but Sally stopped him with a hand on his arm and one on his cheek.
‘Trust me, Scott. We’ll make it alright.’
Her confidence gave Scott courage and he felt lighter than he had done for months. That in turn infected his other brothers and the usual homework and chores seemed to take no time at all. Scott decided that distraction was needed – he knew he wouldn’t be sleeping until John was back and he doubted Virgil would either. With any luck Gordon and Alan would drop off to the strains of Finding Nemo…
~
Sally waited until they were on a clear stretch of road and John was beginning to drop off from the warmth of the blanket and the shock before she dialled her son.
She fumed as it took three tries before Jeff answered.
‘Tracy Industries.’ ‘Jefferson Grant Tracy.’ ‘M-Ma?’ ‘Why are you still at work?’ ‘What do you mean? I’ve got work to do.’ ‘Jeff – sigh – there’s been an accident. You need to get home.’ ‘AN ACCIDENT!?! What? Who?’ ‘Calm down. It’s John and I’m taking him to the clinic. You should be home with the rest of your boys. They need you, Jeff.’ ‘I’m on my way. Thanks Ma.’ ‘Don’t thank me yet, Jefferson. We have much to talk about when I get home.’ ‘Yes, Ma.’
Promises of that discussion still ringing in his ears, Jeff broke the speed limit getting home, but it was worth it when he opened the door to find all his boys in the lounge. The vid they had been watching had finished ages ago and there was just static, but Scott was sat in the middle of the couch, fast asleep. Alan was on his lap, Virgil on one side and Gordon on the other, and Scott had his arms around them both, and they were all asleep.
His eyes softened and he broke into a smile at the sight, quietly and gently covering them and settling down in the chair to watch over them.
A blue eye barely opened, looked at him and then closed again, but not before a smile broke out on his face and Scott snuggled down a little. Jeff got up and kissed his eldest’s head.
‘Go to sleep, Scotty. I’ve got this.’ ‘’K Dad.’
And he did have this, Jeff realised. He’d been neglecting them, afraid that he wasn’t good enough for them. After all, he’d never been around to raise them – what did he know about raising children?
He’d forgotten that they were his boys. That he was a Tracy.
His comms rang.
‘Ma?’ ‘John’s going to be just fine. Surface burns only but they’ll keep them in for observation overnight to be sure.’ ‘Thank goodness. And thank you, Ma.’ ‘Don’t thank me. It was Scott’s quick-wittedness that prevented the damage. Jeff – you should never have left them in that situation in the first place.’ ‘I know, Ma. I know. I’ve been thinking about how to move forward and I have a proposition for you. One I think you’ll love.’ ‘I look forward to hearing all about it in the morning.’ ‘Thanks, Ma. And Ma?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Can you bring home breakfast? I think the boys deserve a day off school and should be involved in the proposition going forward.’ ‘That sounds like an excellent idea.’
Finally, Jeff felt that things were beginning to move in the right direction. Finally.
Whumptober 2025 - Day 09
This series looks so innocent but is so brutal
Diagnosis: Hyperpyrexia (Or Something Like That)
Dick is dying, and they don't even know why.
A retelling of that scene from Young Justice S3E22: Antisocial Pathologies
---
The first text comes late in the evening:
NW and BL have been dark for almost 24h. Sending in Aquaman.
It’s alarming but not completely unexpected. Missions go awry all the time. There are millions of reasons why Dick and Jefferson haven't responded, and not all of those reasons are of concern.
… or that's what Bruce tells himself, firmly overriding Bruce Wayne’s heart with Batman’s brain. Until there's a real threat, panicking does nothing.
The next text is hours later and well into the night. Batman is in the middle of an elaborate plan to shut down a recent string of arms deals coordinated by the Penguin.
Aquaman and Wyynde have them. I didn't get a good look. Stand by for hostage status.
Hostage status, Barbara says. Not agent status. Not rescue update.
Hostage status. Which means Dick and Jefferson were captured. And the need to stand by for a status is never a good sign.
Batman concentrates on his current task. He locks down his mind, blocking out Bruce’s concerns and worries.
Barbara calls him on a private channel forty-eight minutes later.
Calls.
“B, you got a second?”
Batman slams his fist into a thug’s cheek and kicks the other goon in the head. Then he grapples for the rooftops.
“Go.”
“Black Lightning is recovering well. Nightwing is… unstable.”
Batman doesn't ask if that's in the physical sense or the mental. “Where is he?”
“Premiere Tower.”
Literally on the other end of the country. A zeta tube will turn that four-hour flight to a thirty-second walk, but he’s also in the middle of something. “I’ll be there in an hour. Two hours. For now, give me details.”
Barbara hesitates. “He’s… I don't know, I saw him and called you. Dr. Jace is with him, but he's… barely responsive. Mostly just groaning. And his temp is through the roof. 104.1.”
There’s gunfire from below. The thugs have come around and are shooting at him like it’s a competition for who empties their clip first. Batman sweeps his cape in front of him, deflecting the spray, and disappears into the shadows.
“Keep me updated. And… keep him alive.”
“Believe me, Batman; I’m trying.”
---
Today could have gone better. Barbara isn't sure how, exactly, it could have gone better, but she's sure there was a way. She's been playing back her actions of the past thirty-six hours, wondering what she did wrong. Asking the now-obvious questions of, “Why did I wait so long to call for backup?” and, “What was I thinking, sending Dick and Jefferson into a death trap like that?” and, “Why didn't Batman know about the X-Pit?”
But even more than that, she needs to know the answer to this: “What the hell is wrong with Dick?”
“I don't know,” is the answer Dr. Jace gives the most, sometimes loudly in an organized panic and sometimes under her breath, spoken only to herself.
And all the while, Barbara holds Dick’s hand and hates how helpless she feels, asking herself those impossible questions.
“What's wrong with you?” Barbara murmurs to the man in the bed, his skin leeched of color and clammy with sweat. He doesn't answer, of course, merely groaning with a smattering of “Bruce?” and “Babs?” and, heart-wrenchingly, “Mom?” (Barbara isn't sure if that one hurts more or less than when he asks for Jason.)
Of course, every time Dick requests one of his favorite people, Barbara lies. She swears up and down that she is Tim or Alfred or Dick’s long-dead parents. Anything to calm him down. Anything to bring him comfort.
It never works.
So Barbara kisses his knuckles gently and grips his hand like he’ll fall apart if she lets go.
“I don't get it,” Dr. Jace finally says, turning away from the vitals and watching Dick carefully. “I’ve run every lab I can think of, and nothing is causing this. Negative for TBI or meningitis. White blood cell count is normal, so there's no infection. He’s been out of the X-Pit and actively cooled for over an hour, so it’s not heat exposure. His labs are overwhelmingly healthy.”
“But he's not,” Barbara says immediately. The moment she says it, she wishes she could take it back.
“I know that,” Dr. Jace sighs. “Obviously.” She shakes her head and heads for the door. “I’m going to check on Jefferson. If anything changes - and I mean anything - yell. I’m not joking.”
Barbara knows. And she really wishes she didn't. “Of course.”
“B-Babs?”
“Right here,” Barbara promises, attention snapping back to Dick. She rubs circles into the back of his hand with her thumb. “I’m right here.”
Dick grunts, eyes shut tight. The sweat rolling down his skin intermingles with two deep rivulets, carving their way down Dick’s face with salt-ridden tears.
“Oh. Hey.” Barbara grabs a tissue and wipes away the tears. She wishes she knew what else she could do. “You’re safe, okay? Granny is gone. You’re safe.”
Dick either doesn’t hear or doesn’t understand. He whines, chest heaving from the mere effort of breathing. When Barbara lays two gentle fingers on his neck, she feels the fluttery, skittish pulse under his skin.
“You’re okay,” she says, despite nothing being further from the truth. “You’re okay.”
---
“‘Psychic damage?’ ‘X-flu?’ You realize how ridiculous this sounds, right?”
“I do,” Dr. Jace replies, folding her arms and narrowing her eyes. “And you realize that I was the chief physician for the Royal Markovian family?”
“And I once did heart surgery with a steak knife and the tweezers from an Operation game,” Bruce counters, not backing down an inch. “Your former title doesn’t impress me. Tell me what his labs look like, not some made-up diagnosis.”
Dr. Jace sniffs. “Frankly, there’s nothing to tell. His labs are unremarkable. CT came back clean. Yet his temperature is up to 105, and he has no idea where he is or what’s going on. There’s no ‘real’ diagnosis to give.”
“Hyperpyrexia, unspecified,” Bruce replies.
“That’s not a real diagnosis either.”
“Dr. Jace!”
Dr. Jace turns immediately, sprinting back to Dick’s room. Bruce follows close behind, stomach sinking.
“He just started- I don’t know! He just-” Tim is completely lost for words, trying to keep his brother’s flailing limbs from hitting him.
“Seizure,” Dr. Jace replies, running to the medicine cabinet. “Someone get ice! A lot of it!”
Bruce is about to grab it, but Jefferson and a few others are by the doorway, announcing that they’ll grab the ice, and Bruce is left to try to keep Dick from knocking himself off the bed.
“Someone hold his arm still,” Dr. Jace orders, a syringe in hand.
“Here,” Bruce does as she asks, and she pushes the medication through the IV on Dick’s arm. He continues to shake for a few seconds, and then the tremors die down.
“Dick?” Tim asks hesitantly.
Dick groans. He’s still completely out of it.
“What happened?” Barbara asks, not for the first time this morning.
“His temperature’s up to 107. With a temperature that high, he’s at a high risk for seizures, brain swelling, organ failure, coma…”
The word “death” is unsaid but heard by everyone in the room.
“Ice?” Jefferson and Conner have returned, and they help pack it around Dick. Dick shivers and tries to push them off, but he’s too weak to do any real damage. And isn’t that a scary thought? Nightwing, too weak to move a five-pound bag of ice.
Bruce tastes bile.
Dr. Jace and the Bat-family stay in the room, watching as Dick’s temperature slowly ticks down from 107.1 to 105.4.
“I’ll run labs and a CT again,” Dr. Jace announces. “Call me if things change.” She sounds exhausted.
“Take a break, Doctor,” Bruce tells her. “He’s stable for now. We’ll keep you updated.”
Dr. Jace rolls her eyes and walks out. “Yes, ‘Dr. Wayne.’”
Bruce shuts the door behind her. He just… They all need a minute to breathe. A moment without people spectating their family emergency.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier,” Bruce tells Barbara.
“I know.”
“What did Dr. Jace say is wrong?” Tim asks hesitantly.
“Nothing,” Bruce reports back. “She’s claiming every test and scan is perfect. I seriously doubt this round of labs will say the same.”
“... Dad?”
Bruce’s stomach races to the floor. Dick isn’t asking for him. He’s only called him that twice, and in both situations, Dick was under severe duress. Bruce knows he’s asking for his real dad - his birth dad - but considering John Grayson isn’t going to show up anytime soon, Bruce strides to Dick’s side.
“Hey, chum. How are you feeling?”
“Don’ feel so good. Can we go home?” His clammy hand reaches out, finding Bruce’s wrist.
Gross, Bruce thinks.
“Real soon,” Bruce says.
Looking up, Bruce realizes that both Barbara and Tim are watching them, their eyes revealing the tragedy of the moment.
A beat passes, and Tim clears his throat. “What should we do? What can we do?”
“We should transfer care to the Cave. Or a hospital, at least,” Bruce says. “Jace has been a royal physician for decades. She was giving out bandaids and treating the flu, not… whatever this is. She’s out of practice.” Honestly, Bruce would’ve made the suggestion earlier if Jace hadn’t stayed in the room for so long.
“Alfred would flip if he had to manage this,” Barbara counters. “Dick needs an ICU.”
“Yeah.” Bruce moves to massage his temples, but Dick is holding onto his wrist with far more strength than he seemed to have before. He leaves his hand where it is. “I know. I want to talk to everyone first, if we can.”
“I’ll keep an eye on Dick,” Tim offers. “You can give me a summary later.”
Bruce frowns, eyes crinkled with worry and brow creased in pity. His poor, poor boys. Even now, Tim has a hand resting on Dick’s ankle, like he’s afraid he’ll die if he loses contact for a second. Though it would be best for everyone to be present, Bruce allows Tim this grace. It’s the least he can do.
Unfortunately, it’s also the most he can do. His poor, poor boys.
---
Tim hums a nameless song, watching the vitals monitor dutifully. He doesn’t fall asleep, even if he’s really tired and the bed he’s resting his elbows on is really comfy. If Dick’s fever spikes again, Tim needs to know immediately.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Tim notes, tracing an “R” into the back of Dick’s hand. “I missed you. But it’s… kinda hard to plan family dinners between meta-trafficker raids and foiling Granny’s plans and all that.”
Dick mumbles back, and Tim strains his ears, trying to form words with the syllables he’s given. When he comes up with nothing, he goes back to talking.
“I was thinking, we’re due for a game night or something. A movie. Anything but patrol or missions. It’s… It’s been too long.”
“Ugh. Tim?”
“Dick!” Tim grabs his arm. “Hey, look at that! You’re awake!”
“Yippeeeeeee,” Dick groans. “What’s… What’s happening?”
“Aquaman pulled you out of the X-Pit.”
“Oh. Right. The-”
There’s shouting outside. Dick jerks upwards, ice bags sliding off the bed and splitting against the tile. Little cubes of it go everywhere, skittering across the floor.
“Relax!” Tim urges, though he’s more than a little curious about what they’re yelling about. Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound good.
“Wh’s… What happened?” Dick nods at the door.
“Not sure. Lay back down.”
“No,” Dick grunts, twisting so his legs hang over the edge of the bed. “Gotta… It’s my fault they’re yelling.”
Tim puts a hand on Dick’s shoulder, keeping him on the bed. “You’ve got a fever of 104 and are completely delirious, and you think everything is your fault. Just get some rest, okay? Bruce will be back in a minute.”
“No,” Dick insists. “Listen.”
Begrudgingly, Tim does. It’s muffled, but one voice, angrier and clearer than the others, rises above the din.
“Did Dick recruit me from Markovia just to keep me in the fold??”
Oh. Okay. Maybe this is Dick’s fault. Partially, anyway.
“Please, Tim,” Dick rasps. He sounds horrific and looks five times worse. Only an idiot would try to get up in his condition.
Tim, meet Idiot.
“Whoa!” Tim has to rush to keep Dick from taking an elegant swan dive off the bed and onto his face. “What are you doing?”
“Gotta-” Dick coughs. Tim can feel the heat coming off him in waves. “Gotta explain. He’ll listen to me.”
“I seriously doubt that, dude. Sounds like he’s not listening to anyone.”
“Tim, if you don’t help me, I’m going to keep getting out of bed.”
It’s not a false threat. He’ll do it. Over and over until he finally falls and breaks his stupid nose.
“Alfred should have left us all a long time ago,” Tim realizes. “Well, you and Bruce. I’m an excellent patient.”
Dick snorts. “Mr. I-Have-No-Spleen-And-Write-Case-Reports-When-I’m-Bleeding-Out.”
“One? Horrible name. Two, the spleen thing is a disability and not my fault, so quit shaming me for it. And three, the case report thing happened once.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dick says dryly. “C’mon. Just let me talk to them, and then I’ll go right back to bed.”
Tim has heard that one before, but he doesn’t have the energy to make the argument. “What-ever, dude. Your funeral.”
“I want ‘We Are the Champions’ to be the procession music. And funfetti cupcakes with blue frosting at the reception.”
“Dear god, just shut up,” Tim mutters, pulling Dick’s arm over his shoulders and hauling him to the door. He’s even weaker than Tim expected, knees shaking and barely holding any weight at all. “Just be glad it’s me here and not Alfred. He would not encourage this.”
“Oh, I’m not…” Dick pants, breath already gone after four steps. “... not brave enough to… ask Alfred.”
They make it out the door and into a crowd of chaos. Jefferson has his back to them, absolutely laying into Bruce and Kaldur’ahm. “That’s not an apology!”
“I’m not going to apologize for putting the mission first,” Bruce replies coolly.
“What good is the mission if we lose ourselves trying to fulfill it??”
“Jeff,” Dick croaks out. He leans heavier on Tim, and Tim ignores the spike of fear that evokes. “I think the person you’re really angry with is me.”
Tim thought Jefferson had already lost it. But he was wrong. Because now? Now, Jefferson loses it.
“You’re damn right you are! Mr. I-Don’t-Join-Teams Grayson, calling me up for some secret freelance op backed by the leader of the Justice League? Getting backup from a Bat drone? And thinking I wouldn’t notice?? You’re a real piece of work. You all are.”
“Jeff, I can explain-”
“Save it, Dick,” he grits out. “I know everything.”
Tim shifts, pulling on Dick’s arm to keep him from slipping. He’s holding less and less weight by the second. They really don’t have much time before he collapses.
“Dick, let’s-”
“No,” Dick says, voice stronger than it’s been since the X-Pit. “Jeff, I’m sorry for not telling you. I am. But if we’re going to beat the Light, we can’t do it splintered like we are. The teams don’t like to work together, so we had to find a way to make it work.”
“Sounds to me like you’re not sorry at all,” Jefferson replies, eyes narrowed. And he’s right. Most apologies followed by a “but” aren’t exactly genuine.
“I-”
“Just stop,” Jefferson sighs. “I’m gone.” He looks around the room, checking the balcony above their heads for movement. “Where’s Helga?”
Garfield speaks up, eyes tenuously bouncing between Jefferson and Dick. “Uhh… she left a while ago with Violet and the Markovs.”
“Yeah, I don’t blame her. Probably didn’t want them to see all this.” He shakes his head and walks off, disappearing behind the elevator doors.
“Wait, Jeff-” Dick doesn’t finish whatever plea he was going to make to convince Jefferson to stay. Instead, his eyes roll up in the back of his head, and he goes completely boneless.
“Dick! Dude, I can’t-!” Tim loses his grip, and the pair goes down together.
“Dick!” That’s Bruce’s voice, and Tim can hear the uncharacteristically loud snaps of his shoes against the tile. He falls to his knees beside them, pinching Dick’s shoulder to try to rouse him. “Are you okay, Tim?”
“Yeah,” Tim breathes. “Fine. What should we-?”
“Hospital,” Barbara says, rolling over to them. “I told you, Alfred would have a fit. This is not something we’re equipped to handle.”
And for once, everyone agrees.
---
“-doesn’t… doesn’ look like th’ Cave.”
“Cause it’s not, you big goof,” Barbara sighs. “You’re in the hospital. We’ve been over this.”
Dick hums. “Right.” His glassy eyes search the room. There’s zero recognition in them. He doesn’t remember a second out of the last two days here. “I ‘member.”
“Liar.”
“Hey, the coffee shop was out of almond milk, so I got you oat instead.” Tim hands Barbara a coffee cup and then takes a long sip of his own.
Barbara hums. “I suppose that's fine. Maybe. What did you get?”
“However many shots it takes to fill a trenta cup.”
“You're going to have a heart attack.”
“One can only hope,” Tim replies wistfully. “Sorry, none for you, Dick. If you want, I can ask the nurse about injecting espresso into your IV bag.”
Dick grumbles but doesn't reply. Barbara's not certain he understood any of that.
“How’re you doing, man?” Tim asks, tapping Dick’s foot to get his attention.
“Just… really cold,” he murmurs, but the vitals monitor suggests otherwise. In fact, Barbara is tempted to ask the nurses to bring back the ice. His temperature only recently got low enough to remove it. “Where’s B?”
“Out stopping Granny,” Tim replies, and the desolate sob that evokes from Dick makes his shoulders hunch. “He’ll be back as soon as he’s done,” Tim swears.
But Dick just gasps like he finally came to the surface after a month underwater. “I- I can't get it out of my head.” He's shaking, voice pained and expression pinched.
Barbara runs her thumb back and forth across Dick’s hand. “Can't get what out of your head, Dick?”
Dick winces, whining from the back of his throat. “Granny,” he whispers like a curse. “She… She made me…” He lets out an inhuman keen and a choked off sob. Tears flow freely, and Barbara's heart breaks in two. He would never want Tim to see him like this. Even with Barbara, he can be a brick wall. But actively crying, begging for help? She doesn't know what Granny did to him, but whatever it is, she's going to pay for it.
“Oh, no, no, no,” Barbara tuts in a high pitched tone, like she's soothing a baby or a frightened puppy. “It's okay, Dick. You're here with us. You're safe.”
“No, you- you don't understand,” Dick moans. “You're not… not safe around me.”
Tim shifts awkwardly beside Barbara. “We’re all okay.”
“I…” Dick looks between the two, eyes red and expression stricken. “I hurt you. I killed you. Over and over and-”
Barbara's heart breaks all over for him. “That wasn't real, Dick. You never hurt us.”
“You don't get it,” Dick replies, louder and more insistent. “I did. It was real to me. I thought that was you and Bruce and…” He buries his face in his blanket. “And I still killed you. I peeled off your skin and dug out your hearts and kept you alive just long enough to-” His voice chokes off into a sob. It's a sound Barbara has never heard Dick make before. A sound she’s never heard anyone make before, so desolate and heart-rent that it makes her hate Granny even more than before.
Before Barbara can respond, Tim sits on the edge of the bed and pulls Dick to his chest. He’s a little hesitant, a little awkward, but it's a clear replication of something Dick has done for him in the past. He shushes Dick softly and rubs circles between his shoulder blades.
“You're safe, Dick,” Tim tells him. “We’re right here. I’m breathing, and so is Barb.”
Barbara squeezes Dick’s hand, and he grips back with the intensity of a vise.
“I’m sorry,” Dick murmurs feverishly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn't want to. I told her I wouldn't, but then she…” He never finishes the sentence.
“We're right here,” Tim promises. “We aren't going anywhere.”
Dick sniffles, but he relaxes slightly, safely surrounded by those who will love and protect him to the end.
caught in a bad dream
an F1 RPF Landoscar Omegaverse whump collection by papayabrain
For Whumptober 2025
No.9: Scalding
Chapter summary: Lando tries to make dinner while he’s sick, but it goes a bit wrong.
Rating: T
Word count: 2,048
Warnings: Lando gets scalded by hot water, but it's not graphically described (I am very squeamish)
Read on AO3 | or read below 👇🏼
~
Lando wished he hadn’t woken up.
His head felt sore and heavy, all fuzzy like it was stuffed with cotton wool and weighed down by his barbells. Even thinking was hard. Breathing through his nose was impossible as his sinuses were congested, and he shivered with chills despite how much he was sweating.
A cool palm brushed over his forehead as he stirred, and Oscar’s voice filtered through his blocked ears.
“Nah, he’s out of it. I can still come in. I’ll probably get hit with it in the next few days, but it might not get me this bad. I can do stuff for us for now, and he can take over when he’s better.”
“Osc?” he rasped, coughing violently. A tissue was thrust into his hands, and he was helped to roll over onto his side so he could blow his nose and breathe easier.
“Yep, cheers, Andrea. I’ll see you soon. Hey, Lan, I’ve got you. I’d say good morning, but it’s clearly not.”
He whined, feeling absolutely miserable. Oscar was sitting at the edge of the nest, all dressed for work, coaxing him into drinking some electrolytes. At least some liquid made his throat feel less inflamed.
“You’re staying here on bed rest today. I’ve got some stuff on the bedside table for you: some meds, tissues, drinks, crackers, and protein bars. Extra blankets are on my pillow if you need them. There’s a wrap in the fridge for you if you can stomach it, but don’t worry if you can’t. Call me or your mum at any time if you need anything else, okay? Little Cisca is sick too, so she can’t come over here, sadly.”
Lando wasn’t fighting any of that as he flopped flat on the bed again, curling up so he was in the fetal position. He’d give his mum and sister a ring later anyway, so they could comfort each other.
“Not staying?” he slurred, as Oscar tucked the blankets around him more, his alpha rumbling in comfort.
“I can’t, I’m so sorry.” Oscar kissed his forehead and stroked the stray curls away. “There’s marketing stuff to do they can’t put off, plus it’s my sim afternoon.”
“Kay, don’ worry.” He couldn’t expect his alpha to take the day off to look after him when it would mean the team would be down both drivers at the factory. He was just grateful it wasn’t a race week, else he would have probably spent the day crying.
“I’ll see if I can get off early, but I can’t promise it. Just stay wrapped up in here and rest, okay? I’ll sort everything out tonight. I love you.”
“Luv you too,” he got out, before burrowing himself beneath the blankets. He felt Oscar kiss his head before his footsteps left the room.
He was asleep again before he heard the flat door close.
The day passed slowly, with Lando in and out of sleep, using his phone when his head didn’t hurt so much to call his family, and nibbling on some of the snacks Osc had gathered for him by the nest.
His mum seemed to think it was a strain of flu that was only affecting omegas, and Siskin had cried, wanting Lando in the family nest with her. He promised to visit once they were both better.
His alpha messaged a few times to check in, and Lando could only react with love heart emojis as his brain couldn’t process a reply.
The few times he’d had to use the bathroom hadn’t been very fun, having to lean up against the walls and practically drag himself along. It seemed that the cold and flu meds made him sleepy, and just getting around the flat was proving difficult.
Around the middle of the afternoon, he woke up and felt a bit more awake, and he was too overheated to stay inside the nest.
Struggling into a t-shirt and changing his boxers, he grabbed his phone and padded out of the room into the kitchen. He couldn’t be bothered to put on any socks, and he grimaced at the feel of the unswept floor. The chance of him slipping over with his reflexes shot was too high anyway, and the last thing he needed was to have to call in an emergency because he’d been a clumsy idiot.
The kitchen was cooler, not too surprising given he’d been snoozing beneath the mountain of blankets in his nest for hours. It was an overcast day, so there weren’t any sun rays streaming through the windows, but the natural light was enough that he could comfortably move around.
There was a zip hoodie over one of the dining chairs, and Lando’s omega purred at the thought that Oscar had left it out on purpose. It would be easier to shrug on than a normal hoodie, and it was also clearly one of Osc’s, so it would swallow him up. His alpha had broad shoulders and was on average a size bigger in their clothes.
Being too overheated, he didn’t put it on, but he did sit down in the chair it was resting on, unlocking his phone.
Osc had sent him some selfies of him in some new team gear he was modelling, and Lando found himself whining as he felt sad over missing the day. His alpha looked delectable in shirts and jackets, the McLaren branding suiting him like he was born for it. Lando might prefer him in Quadrant branding as it felt like staking a claim for all to see, but it was unfortunately a bad image for his individual driver brand; the same went for him stealing Oscar’s hoodies in the paddock.
Didn’t mean he couldn’t wear it in the privacy of their apartment, though, and boy had they had fun with that before.
Another text notification popped up from Osc, saying he wasn’t able to leave yet, so he’d be home at his usual time. Lando did mope for a short while before he looked around the kitchen, and considering he was already here and feeling fairly lucid, he could make a start at dinner. It could be a surprise for his alpha, his omega chirping at the idea of still being good, even while sick.
Shrugging on the zip hoodie as he was getting goosebumps, he put on a quiet country playlist as he started rooting around the cupboards. He returned to the nest briefly to retrieve his meds, water bottle, and tissues, taking another dose as he took things slow so he didn’t exhaust himself or get dizzy. The zip hoodie smelled like his alpha and felt like a gentle hug, and he was able to hum along to his songs as singing made him cough too much. It was slow going, but he managed fine overall.
Everything went wrong when he had the pasta and bolognese sauce both bubbling on the stove.
He was standing in front of it, on his phone, as Osc had finally messaged that he was on his way home. The MTC was barely 5 miles from the Woking flat. The place used to be Osc’s in his rookie year before he’d moved in with Lando in Monaco, and they’d agreed to keep the flat to use when they needed to be in the factory on consecutive days to avoid travel fatigue from the flights. It was a godsend on days like today, when Lando wasn’t having to wait hours for him to come home.
Yawning, he missed the pot of pasta bubbling over, boiling starchy water seeping over the rim with a hiss. With his reactions slower in his drowsier state, he didn’t even move until the pain registered, as the scalding water collided with his right foot. He jumped violently, swearing and howling.
“Fuck! Ow!” he whined, hopping out of the way and leaning against the nearby counter, injured foot hovering above the floor. His heart was in his throat, and he knew he had to get his foot under some cool water as soon as possible, but he couldn’t stop staring at the stove. It needed to be turned off to prevent everything from getting worse.
His head throbbed and his foot stung, but he didn’t dare to look to see how bad it was, fumbling in his pocket for his phone just as the flat door opened.
“Lando? Are you cooking?”
“I was trying,” he gritted out, holding onto the counter for dear life so he didn’t fall to the floor. His legs were shaking, and he didn’t trust his ability to get back to the table.
Osc entered the kitchen and took in the scene, the pasta pot still bubbling over on the stove. Then he took one look at Lando and made a beeline for him.
“No!” Lando stopped him. “Turn off the stove first. Please! There’s boiling water everywhere, just be careful.”
Oscar’s alpha was rumbling at the omega’s distress, and he kept half an eye on Lando as he turned on the lights so he could see the state of the floor better. Lando watched as he dove into a drawer and got out a bunch of tea towels to place on the floor. The towels sank into the floor immediately, soaking up the worst of the spillage, and Osc was able to nudge them with his foot enough that there was somewhere he could place himself steadily to be able to turn off the hob.
Lando felt his chest heave in relief, the anxiety over causing a fire seeping into the floor with the towels.
Oscar was by his side in a flash, a strong arm around his waist to keep him upright as he sagged against him. “Are you hurt?”
He nodded. “My foot. Didn’t wanna fall over or sit on the floor. Reaction time is shocking."
"Okay, come on, we've gotta get you to the bathroom,” Osc said, placing Lando’s arms around his neck so he could pick him up bridal style.
Once in the bathroom, Oscar carefully guided him to sit on the edge of the bath, using his torso as a rest, running his foot under the cool water. His alpha’s arms surrounded him, and he began to scent him, Lando relaxing further against him even if he couldn’t smell him. Being sick sucked because he was missing out on their familiar comforting scents, let alone anything else. The cuddle was helping, though, keeping him warm as the adrenaline wore off.
He yawned again, his body longing for another good nap. Osc shook him awake.
“You can sleep once I start wrapping it. So far, it’s looking mild and not too bad. Hopefully, it’s just a first-degree scald. I’ll check in with Jon and Kim.”
Lando groaned, tipping back his head to look up at Osc upside down. His alpha kissed his forehead and stroked a hand through his curls as his omega purred again.
“I just wanted to make dinner for you,” he pouted, whining, “and now I’ve ruined everything!”
“Hey, shhhh, don’t worry about it, okay? We can order from somewhere if you’re up for eating, or I can just make some soup if you wanna sleep it off. Thank you for trying, though. You really didn’t have to while you’re sick, and I told you to stay in your nest, but I do appreciate it. You’re adorable, and so thoughtful, my darling.”
Lando hiccupped, his tears coming out thick and choking. It felt like a very delayed reaction to everything, and didn’t that sum up his fucking day?
Their trainers agreed the scald was mild and should heal quickly, and Lando didn’t complain when Oscar carried him to the sofa in the living room so he could wrap it, and he could nap while the alpha changed the sheets and blankets in the nest.
Oscar did make him soup as Lando found his appetite was non-existent, and when he’d tried to push Oscar away later that night because he hadn’t showered, his alpha gave him the most tender sponge bath, and Lando had cried once again.
Feeling fresher and well looked after, sleep took him so easily he didn’t get a chance to wish Oscar goodnight, his injured foot resting gently on a pillow.
~
<< No.8: Self-Inflicted Injury | No.10: ALT 13 Innocent Bystander >>
Touch Me
They survived. They washed up on shore and made it onto the boat Chiyoh brought. They sailed to Cuba and the property Hannibal had there. They recovered from their wounds, rarely able to leave the other's side for physical and emotional security.
Now, Will Graham leaned against the counter in their home and drank a glass of water in the middle of the night. He shared a bed with Hannibal so he knew he would hear footsteps on the stairs soon when the sheets got too cold. The tile was cool on his bare feet, comforting on his overheated skin. The sun had long since set but the air was still warm around him and would stay that way.
"Will?" The worried call was followed by the patter of Hannibal coming to find him. Will left their bed like this often but Hannibal sounded as terrified as ever. He thought Will had left for good every time he woke up alone.
"Just getting a glass of water," Will assured when Hannibal stepped into the doorway, "Didn't mean to wake you."
Hannibal padded up to him, looking almost childlike in his silk pajamas. "Of course not. It is not your fault I am a light sleeper."
He said that every time. Will knew better. He was not just a light sleeper, he was anxious. Hannibal was never one to telegraph his fears, but Will had always been the exception. He felt so much more of everything for Will, it was harder to hide.
"I'm not walking out, Hannibal. Where else would I go?" Will echoed a line from their past, stored in their memory palaces with the rest of Randall Tier's remains. He set down his glass as Hannibal approached.
"I know. You have nothing to prove to me," Hannibal promised even as his eyes flooded with twin relief and terror. They both knew Will had everywhere to go and nowhere to visit alone. Hannibal cupped his cheek gently. "I trust you."
Will smiled gently under the touch, cool like tile on his face. Hannibal had been affectionate with him since they met and that hadn't changed after they were reunited. He could hardly go an hour without a hand on his waist as Hannibal passed, fingers in his hair when they sat together or a shoulder rubbing his while they cook.
"Let's go back to bed, I got my water."
"You are perfect," Hannibal whispered into the air between them, which had gotten smaller as they spoke. Though it was entirely unrelated to their conversation, Will was hardly surprised. Hannibal had been nearly as vocally affectionate as physically. Will couldn't count the amount of times he'd been called remarkable or clever, "Do you understand?"
"The place was made for Abigail in your world. Do you understand?"
This is the first 500 words of the 3k word fic I put on AO3 because that's way too long for Tumblr.
Any whump-tober youve not been asked and Lady Penelope please? Any universe :3
No. 29: “I hope you see the sun someday in the darkness.”
Fainting | Broken Dishes | Last one Standing
Poise.
It was what the Lady of the house required. Poise, calm, deportment, charm, and wit that, if required, was sharp enough to cut another to pieces, but they wouldn’t notice the bleeding until you’d already turned away. Looking at the three masked men in her formal sitting room and all of sixteen years old, Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward desperately clung to that poise and comportment with both hands as she stood with arms crossed, considering the trio with what she desperately hoped was believable as cool and confident detachment. “The alarms are already sounding,” she informed them. “You triggered them when you broke in through the formal dining windows, and my father’s security team will be here any minute.”
“Good thing that this won’t take long at all then,” the leader of the trio sneered as he raised a boxy-looking pistol. “C’mere.”
“No.”
The silver tea pot was heavy, full of freshly brewed Darjeeling, and right at hand, so she snatched it up and flung it at the leader. Just as she’d hoped, the lid came flying off and doused him in scalding hot tea. He went down screaming and the other two started into action, but she was already moving.
Though it isn’t at all proper, a lady should always be able to run in well-fitting heels.
A vase was next. Heavy, antique St Louis lead crystal, with a narrow neck that made for a perfect handle to turn it into a club. As Goon #2 and #3 chased her around the couch she grabbed it, threw the flowers into the face of Goon #3 and shattered it over the head of Goon #2. He howled and went down, but Goon #3, having cleared his face of water and foliage, snarled and pulled a switchblade from inside his denim jacket.
Penelope carefully backed away, still holding the remains of the vase like a bar brawler holding a broken bottle.
“You’re going to regret that, you little bitch!” Goon #3 snarled, brandishing his knife. “I’mma gonna ugly you up, right and proper!”
“No, you are not.” Penelope informed him, her voice as cold as the Arctic winds and just as cutting. There were footsteps pounding across the ceiling, the security people were coming, she just needed a little more time!
Goon #3 snarled at her and lashed out with his knife. Penny dodged left, right, slashed at him with the sharp, jagged crystal, and backed up towards the china cabinet. She needed more weapons! Throwing the glass at him bought her precious seconds, then Penny turned, snatched up a hideous mint-green soup tureen, and flung it at him just as the doors slammed back and people surged in.
Standing in the wreckage of the formal sitting room, her heart thundering in her chest, silk blouse sticking to her skin, three men down and bleeding and screaming by her hand… Penelope thought that it was quite understandable that she was struggling to hold onto her poise and all of a sudden she was feeling very light-headed and the room was spinning and everyone’s voices sounded like they were echoing down a long hallway and somehow she was now on the floor without the faintest idea how she got there.
Then her father was there, wrapping his arms around her so tightly she almost fancied she could hear her ribs creak, her head tucked against his chest. “Oh my darling, oh I’m so sorry, my darling Penny, I’m sorry, I’m so very, very sorry!” was murmured as he rocked her, like he would when she was very little and had had a nightmare. “This will never happen again, Penny, I promise. I’m getting you a personal bodyguard, someone who’ll keep that riffraff from ever threatening you again!”
Penny sniffled, it was most unladylike, but she had just taken out three men who wanted to kidnap her, so it was permissible. “And a dog, father? Can I have a dog too?”
“Of course, Penny.” Hugh held her closer. “Of course.”
Coming undone: coming home
Whumptober: Day 9 : Prompts: We'll make it alright to come undone, Touch, Flashbacks, Scalding
Flufftober: Prompt: Coming home
not feeling too happy with this one but I wrote it in less than two hours and I'm TIRED and in dire need of sleep. Might edit it after October is done though
Kaeya centric fic, 719words
Or : unravelling into a recently still estranged brother's arms
There's a sort of tingling in his left arm that just won't go away. Phantom memories going through his nerves.
He's telling Otto about something he needs to do sooner than later and he keeps getting distracted by it.
" -re you okay?", he catches the end of.
"Oh, why, yes ! So sweet of you to be caring about your captain, but, it's just I'm yearning for some calla lily's stew right now" he blinks with an assured smile, coming up with the excuse without even really thinking about it. "I'll let you off and I'll go eat my lunch, if that's fine with you?
"Sure, if you don't mind", Otto goes, clearly confused, clearly happy with that nonetheless.
"I really don't", he assures him.
His carefully crafted smile doesn't fall of when he turns around. It's a near thing.
He doesn't know what exactly is up with him today, but it's annoying as can be.
He goes toward his appartment, instead of toward the Good Hunter's.
He goes still.
His skin is burning.
Ashes are eating away at his vision.
It's like he's seeing, but without really being able to.
There's a seering feeling all over his body, suddenly, that he recognizes as pain. Hot, blistering pain.
His entire world is being destroyed and he's too young to do anything but listen to the man, and both his mind and heart are screaming at what he's seeing
and
,just like that, it's over.
He's left standing there: attempting to pull himself back together, barely grasping at what just happened.
Well. That hasn't happened before. Not since a long time, at least.
It does, again, the very next day.
One second, he had been teasing the way Diluc opened the door so warily, and the other:
Tingling. Scorching heat. Scorching pain, or scorching emotions. Maybe both of those together.
Immediately blinking back to reality.
He gasps in a shuddery, wracked mouthful of air.
There are hands, hesitant, hovering over his shoulders now.
"Diluc. Hi. I'm..", he goes to say he's feeling better now, trying to compose himself.
Their relation's still strained: they've been trying to repair it over the past months, but it's not that easy: a broken vase, if broken, isn't going to stick itself back together perfectly or magically. And there's still gonna be visible shatters, for one.
It kind of is going to work in the same way, for the link in between the two of them.
"Don't do that", the red haired man answers, cuts him, usually firm voice definitely off.
He's fine, really. Just.. Shaken. Still reeling. Not with his usual casual , composed expression.
"And what exactly are you implying I was doing?", he asks, going for playful. He's well aware it comes off as frazzled.
"I don't know. It looked like you were having some sort of.. episode. Are you fine? And don't pull any tricks when you answer this time", Diluc goes, uncharacteristically outwardly concerned.
He takes in another mouthful. It comes out as a more pathetic sigh than supposed.
"I.. don't exactly know what happened, in truth. I'm not lying!", he protests when Diluc huffs, skeptical. "I'm perfectly alright, physically. I am. You don't have to keep checking for any injuries", he affirms, daring to cross gazes.
"That's not why I was doing that.", Dilux answers, still going to pull his hand away.
"Oh", he goes, stilted, at the implication.
Diluc had been worried. He had reached out, willingly. And he hadn't taken his hand away as soon as he had believed Kaeya affirming he was fine.
Oh.
It feels like a huge deal.
They've been improving so much, steadily.
He's still reeling from the awful memory that just unpromptedly took over his mind. Sue him for that later, but he's not quite exactly thinking when he reaches out and engulfs the man in a sort of rushed embrace.
"Kaeya. What-", Diluc goes at first, even as his arms close up around Kaeya's back immediately after.
It's awkward. It's frazzled, their relation.
But it's the first time they've come into contact like such, willingly,for so long, almost casually, in years.
It feels like they're brothers again, maybe fully, for once.
Of course, there's still tension.
Of course, they're not entirely at ease.
It still reminds Kaeya of what he had and has still been remembering as home. It's a memory that imposes itself on him, but one he doesn't mind as badly, this time.