The mission goes south - of course the mission goes south.
Your whumpee takes a brutal hit intended for one of their teammates. (Maybe they jump in front of the bullet. Maybe they shield them from an explosion, drink from the poisoned cup, or take a knife intended for the teammate)
After neutralizing the enemy, the teammate is immediately at their side:
[“Oh god, stay with me!”]
It’s bad. Bad enough for an extended hospital stay, and for the whumpee to spend a nerve wracking amount of time unconscious. When they inevitably do wake, however, they’re confused, disorientated and in alot of pain. They’re so used to waking alone, that they’re shocked to find their bed lined with people - the team.
[“Hey bud, how’re you feeling?”
“Wha- what are you-.”
“We’re here to look after you, dumbass.”]
During the whumpee’s recovery, each teammate sacrifices their comfort to help where they can. They keep watch at night, fetch water, prepare food and change bandages. They give kind words of encouragement, and reassure the whumpee they’re not a burden. As the whumpee drifts in and out of consciousness, they hear fragments of conversations: quiet apologies, whispered promises to stay with them, and heartfelt confessions about how they’re family, now and always. For the first time the whumpee, who has always kept a distance, begins to realize how much they truly mean to the team.
[“Just rest, we’ll do everything else. We have everything covered, all you need to do is sleep.”]
Finally, the whumpee feels what it means to be cared for, to have a family - one that would go to any lengths to protect them, just as the whumpee would always protect them.
heya! this fic is for the wonderful @thecolourblood - sorry it took a minute but i hope you enjoy! it's set during 3x08 and is canon compliant :) (title from ginasfs by fall out boy)
He knows what’s coming. He’s been braced for it since he got out of the car, his body tense, though he’s trying to look relaxed. Like he doesn’t know what’s going to happen.
He turns to face her as she approaches. He knows how this needs to go, knows the part he needs to play. Most of all, he knows that this is all pretend. But the look on her face when she walks towards him - it scares him, a bit. He has never seen her look quite like this before.
“This is where he used to work,” he says to her, to break through the silence that feels like it is suffocating him. She says nothing in return, just keeps walking towards him.
“Can you hear me?”
She continues approaching, absolutely silent apart from her footsteps. And then she stops walking, maybe two meters away from him, and just like that she draws her gun and shoots him in the chest.
The bang of the shot echoes horribly off of the disused metal. Pain explodes from the point of impact, knocking the breath out of his lungs with the force of a sledgehammer being driven into his chest. He falls to the ground and the movement seems at once to take forever and no time at all.
“Don’t…”
He looks up at her, panting, not even sure what it is he’s saying. He tries to breathe. Tries to remind himself that everything will be fine. But fuck, it hurts.
She points the gun at him again, as if she is going to finish him off. She seems impossibly close, standing over him like this. And then she pulls the trigger.
A second round of pain explodes in his chest, worse than the first, so intense that for a second he cannot see or hear a thing.
He blacks out.
--
He wakes up with rocks digging into his back, which is far less painful than the feeling in his chest. It hurts just to breathe. For a long moment he lies there on the cold, uncomfortable ground, trying and failing to push the pain to the back of his mind.
He needs to move, though. They don’t have a lot of time. And so he steels himself as best as he can and forces himself to his feet.
This hurts horribly. For a second he feels like he might just collapse right back down to the ground, but he knows that he can’t.
He has to get to Sofia.
And so he breathes through the pain (though, of course, breathing itself hurts) and wills his eyes to focus. When he feels sufficiently in control of everything, he makes his way to the car and starts driving.
--
Everything that happens at the ruins is a bit of a blur, overridden with worry and with the searing pain in his chest that refuses to let up.
He shoots Paarma. Sofia asks him what the fuck took him so long. He jokes, asks whether she wants to try how it feels to get a bullet in her chest. Tries not to let on that it still hurts - they both know she’d done what she had to. He does not want her to feel guilty.
The van and the smoke. The trees blurring past him. Emil.
This is what matters, really. He’d let himself get shot again, as many times as necessary, to save the kid. The pain is worth it a thousand times.
--
After, they go to the hospital. Normally Sofia would fight tooth and nail for her right not to go to the hospital, but this time it’s different. This time there’s Emil.
All three of them get checked out, though Sofia and Sakari try to wave off the doctors’ attention. It’s no use, though, and Sakari supposes they should probably set a good example for Emil in any case. They both give in. One doctor takes Emil and Sofia off down a hallway, and another leads Sakari in the opposite direction.
In the exam room, he sees the effects of his being shot for the first time. After a rather arduous and painful battle with his jacket, shirt, and vest, Sakari finds himself looking down at a livid bruise, more red than purple. It extends across his entire chest, with two darker circles indicating where the bullets had struck.
It makes him feel faintly sick to look at, and seeing the source of his pain only makes him more aware of how much everything still hurts. He looks away.
The doctor gently prods at his ribs. He knows she’s trying to be gentle, can sense that her touch is light, but he sucks in a gasp of pain anyway. This hurts, too, and he’s left clenching his hands into fists and closing his eyes to stop them from tearing up.
“Sorry,” she says, continuing to feel his chest. “I’d like to send you for x-rays. At least three of your ribs are fractured, if not broken, and my guess is that several are bruised as well.”
“What can you do about it?”
“Not much, unfortunately. The injuries will heal on their own in about six weeks, as long as you’re careful and monitor your breathing.”
Sakari nods, though he doubts that his definition of ‘careful’ will align with the doctor’s.
“We can give you medication for the pain, of course,” she continues, as they make their way to an x-ray room.
“No, thank you.” He won’t mess with that. Especially not now. He can’t.
“Okay,” the doctor agrees, as they arrive at the room. “Now, if you’ll wait here while I get a nurse…”
--
After the hospital, the three of them go to Sakari’s room at the Hotel St. George. While Sofia gets Emil to sleep in the bed, Sakari stands alone in the dark living room and stares out at the lights of the Helsinki night.
He tries not to think about anything. About the things he has lost. About everything that has happened in the past few hours. About the burning pain in his chest - two of his ribs are broken, two are fractured, three are bruised. He can’t decide if knowing this fact makes the pain better or worse.
“He fell asleep,” Sofia reports, joining him by the window. Sakari looks up from his phone, where he’s just received a message, and makes a report of his own.
“JP sent a message that Emil’s grandpa will recover. They performed an angioplasty.”
“Heart attack?”
“Yeah. He’d gone after Paarma.”
There’s a beat of silence. Sofia looks out of the window. Sakari feels compelled to say something else.
“Did you know Paarma worked at the lime mill for 20 years?”
“That place where I shot you?”
He huffs a laugh and refuses to wince at the pain it causes. He wants her to know that he understands. That he’d do it again, for Emil, for her, in a heartbeat. “Precisely.”
“I didn’t know that.”
A soft, comfortable silence falls between them. Sofia steps closer to him, very slowly. He watches her, doesn’t move at all. This feels so different to her earlier approach, before she’d shot him. He lets his eyes close. And she kisses him.
It’s wonderful. Unhurried and gentle. He reaches up and lightly touches her face, barely even registering the way that his chest burns at the change in his breathing.
And then Emil calls for his mom, and they break apart. Sakari opens his eyes again. They look at each other for a second that feels impossibly long.
“I’m coming,” Sofia calls. She looks at Sakari again, looks away, and goes to check on her son.
Sakari watches her leave. A ball of warmth is making itself felt in his chest, and it scarcely even hurts.
Ben soured at Arthur's barking tone. It was true -- the boy was immortal and could withstand such a shot -- but it still slowed them down regardless now that it was essentially just Ben against two farmers. Although hardly experienced for combat, farmers were often good shots due to needing to defend their land from predators. While Ben grudgingly handed Arthur his knife, he prayed that Squinty and Smelly were the exception to this rule.
Muttering to himself, Ben removed his cravat and promptly wrapped it around Arthur's wound, tying and pulling tight with the hopes of stemming the blood flow. "Try not to baby the wound," he encouraged. "If you don't move your arm, your shoulder might lock up and heal that way."
It was no secret that musketballs could shatter through bone, and in that moment, Ben wasn't certain how the blonde was faring. Holding up a finger, he leaned over toward the edge of the table, then slowly peered around the edge.
Bang!
With a startled hiss, Ben jerked back around just as an explosion of wood shards erupted by his head, scraping and embedding into his cheek as the musketball smashed through the wall overhead. One round down...
Promptly leaping up from behind the table onto his knees, Ben fired a shot and jerked back down behind the table, hearing the pained shout of Smelly as his trajectory made its mark. "Got one," Ben muttered to Arthur. "The other might still be armed...now's your best chance."
Nodding to the knife, he then pulled free a paper cartridge and ripped it open with his teeth, reloading his flintlock with the hopes of beating whomever laid in wait.
Honor Bound 4 - 9 (Taking the bullet) @badthingshappenbingo
Requested by anon... and taken very metaphorically here.
~
This is a series. Start here, continued from here.
This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, and Honor Bound 3.
AO3
Cw: dissoci@tion, pain medication, self-hatred, trauma survivor blaming another survivor, death mention
~
Isaac dragged his feet as he made his way to the kitchen. The smell of meat and bread and garlic swirled around him, and his stomach growled. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had an actual hot meal.
He turned the corner into the kitchen. Gray, Edrissa, Finn, and Ellis were busily slicing bread, checking on meat in the oven, sautéing vegetables. Isaac licked his lips. His mouth watered.
“Uh, hey guys,” he said softly.
They all turned and looked at Isaac. Gray and Finn smiled at him. Edrissa’s eyes flicked to his, then down to the floor. Ellis pursed their lips and turned back to their pan of onions and peppers cooking with garlic. Isaac tore his gaze from the food and looked around for Vera. She was on the couch with Tori, her arm tight around Tori’s shoulders. Sam sat on her other side, pale, cradling their arm in its sling as they smiled tightly at Isaac.
Vera met his gaze with the shadow of a smirk before her smile fell, her gaze moving over his face, taking in the stoop of his shoulders. The shame in his eyes. Her eyebrows pulled together and she leaned forward.
Tori tensed, and Vera froze. Vera leaned back, her eyes still fixed on Isaac in a silent question.
Isaac bit his lip and shook his head. His cheeks flushed as Vera’s mouth fell open. Her gaze searched his face, a sadness in her eyes that made Isaac’s stomach churn. He stared at the floor and turned to the others.
“Can I, um, help with something?” Isaac said weakly.
“Almost done,” Gray said, their voice sounding as light as Isaac had heard it since the family had reached their house. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
Isaac flushed deeper. He heard Gavin come into the kitchen behind him. Isaac froze.
“Hi, Gavin,” Gray said, their gaze now on Ellis. Ellis’s shoulders were tense as they stirred the vegetables, turned firmly away from Gavin and Isaac.
“Hey,” Gavin said quietly. Isaac shot a glance at him. His shirt was right side out now.
Oh, shit. I didn’t even mention that to him.
“I’ll set the table,” Isaac ground out. He jerkily walked to a counter before he realized he didn’t know where the plates and silverware were. “Gray—”
“Plates are there,” Gray said as they pulled a pot roast out of the oven, set it down, and pointed to one of the cabinets above the counter. “Cups right next to them. And silverware…” They pointed to a drawer right next to Isaac’s hand. “…you were already on the right track.” They took out a knife and sliced the pot roast into large pieces
“Okay,” Isaac murmured. He pulled the drawer open and took out nine forks and knives. He turned to the other cabinet and saw Gavin already taking down the plates. Isaac met his eyes for a moment, then looked away miserably. Gavin set the plates on the counter and took down some cups as well.
“Dinner’s ready,” Gray said. They stepped away from the counter and gestured to the line of food. “Help yourselves.”
For a moment, the only sound was the vegetables still sizzling faintly in the pan. Edrissa stepped forward with a shy glance at the others. She took a plate and took a large slice of pot roast, a scoop of sautéed onions and multi-colored bell peppers, and a slice of bread. She stepped away and made her way to the table. As if a spell was broken, Finn and Ellis stepped forward and began loading their plates with food.
Isaac turned back to the living room and made his way to the couch where Tori, Vera, and Sam sat. Vera gently guided Tori to her feet. Tori’s gaze seemed to waver between here and not here, her mind threatening to disappear into a place no one else could follow. Vera’s arm tightened on Tori’s shoulder and Tori looked up, dazed.
“I’m here,” Tori said softly.
“Good,” Vera said, sounding more than a little relieved. “Let’s go eat, babe. Then we can go to bed if you want.”
“Sounds good,” Tori said as she unsteadily made her way to the kitchen.
Isaac held out a hand to Sam. “Hey Sam,” he said gently. “Need help?”
Sam cradled their right arm and shuddered, their face going pale, sweat breaking out across their skin. “Um…”
Isaac took a step closer, his eyes fixed on their face. “Your arm?”
“My everything,” Sam ground out between their teeth. Their breath came heavy. “It just… it just hurts.” They trailed off into a whimper.
Isaac looked over his shoulder at Finn, who was carrying their plate to the table, their other arm around Ellis’s shoulders. “Finn?”
Finn looked up and placed their plate on the table. “Yeah?”
“Can they… um…” Isaac swallowed hard. “Can they have another pill?”
Finn glanced into the kitchen, at the clock set into the oven. “Yeah,” they said, and pulled the bottle out of their pocket. “No problem.”
“Sam,” Isaac said softly. “Let’s get you to the table, so you can take your pill.”
Sam moved to get up and stiffened. Their whimper hit Isaac in the chest like physical pain, making his ribs ache even more with each breath.
“Um…” Sam’s hand squeezed into a fist. “I don’t think I… um… I’m not very hungry. I might just—”
“You need to eat, Sam,” Isaac said, and held out his hand again. “Come on. You need to eat, or you won’t heal.”
Sam’s lips trembled. “Isaac—”
“I’ll carry you, if that’s what you need,” Isaac said, his voice sharp. “Or I’ll take a plate to you. But you need to eat.”
Sam raised their head and met Isaac’s eyes. The dull pain there made Isaac’s stomach heave, and the familiar wash of my fault my fault my fault broke over him. He forced it down. That isn’t what they need. My hatred for myself has never helped them.
“What do you need, Sam?” Isaac murmured.
Sam’s eyes shone with tears for a moment. They blinked and looked down. “I need to stop hurting,” they huffed, the words coming out twisted.
“Okay,” Isaac said gently. “Let’s get a pill in you, and a little food, and you can lay down and go to bed if you want.”
“I can’t sleep like this,” Sam said bitterly. “I haven’t really slept.”
Isaac bit his lip as he looked down at his little sibling, his heart clenching as his gaze moved over the sling on their arm, the flakes of blood still in their hair, the dark circles under their eyes, the way they flinched slightly with every movement. He drew in a deep breath. “Well,” he said weakly, “You could always just ask Finn to tell you about the clotting cascade and that’ll put you right to sleep.”
Sam looked up at Isaac, pain still making lines around their mouth, around their eyes. Their lips slid into a smile and their shoulders shook with a weak laugh. They winced and shuddered. They took a slow breath in.
“Okay,” they said softly. “Dinner. Then the clotting cascade.”
“Let’s get you to the table,” Isaac said gently, holding out a hand. “And I’ll grab your plate.”
“Okay,” Sam said as they took Isaac’s hand and painfully pulled themself to their feet. They swayed slightly, and Isaac’s hands went to their shoulders to steady them. “Not too much, though. I’m really not that hungry.”
“No problem.” Isaac guided them gently to the table and helped them into a seat. Everyone else was already seated with their own steaming plate in front of them. “Thanks for waiting,” he mumbled.
“Of course,” Gray said, and smiled at Isaac. Isaac walked quickly to the kitchen to grab a plate for him and Sam. He placed a small slice of meat, a few peppers, and half a slice of bread on Sam’s plate. His he piled until the plate was full. He made his way back to the table and set Sam’s plate in front of them. He sat in the empty chair next to them at the end of the table. He looked up and realized he sat exactly opposite Gavin. Isaac flushed deeply and stared at his plate.
Everyone began eating at once. Next to Sam, Finn and Ellis dug into their food with an enthusiasm that was almost impressive. Sam took the pill Finn had placed at their spot and began picking weakly at their food. Vera and Tori ate quietly, unconsciously leaning towards each other. Edrissa’s gaze moved over each of them with every bite, although she shot glances down the table at Gavin every few seconds. Gavin ate with his head bowed, his eyes down, not looking at anyone else. Gray pensively watched them all.
For a while, no one spoke. The only sounds were the clink of silverware against plates, the satisfied chewing, the sound of Sam’s labored breaths. Isaac inhaled his food. The more he ate, the more he realized just how hungry he’d really been.
He was bent over his plate when Sam said quietly, “Um, Isaac?”
He paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Yeah?”
“Um, would you mind…” They glanced at the slice of meat, untouched.
“Oh.” Isaac’s stomach churned. My fault my fault my fault my fault—
STOP.
“Yeah,” Isaac said, and leaned over to cut the meat into bite-sized pieces.
“Thanks,” Sam said quietly, and continued eating.
Everyone was silent again for a while, the food disappearing from their plates. Isaac glanced up. Edrissa’s and Ellis’s eyes were shifted down and away from Gavin at the end of the table.
“Um,” Gavin said weakly. Isaac glanced at him. “Thank you for dinner,” he murmured.
Ellis scoffed quietly. “As if you weren’t fed the good shit when—”
“Ellis,” Vera and Gray barked at the same time.
Gray glanced at Vera and just slightly leaned back, their mouth twisting in a bittersweet half-smile. Vera turned her gaze and her fury on Ellis.
Ellis was already backpedaling. “All I’m saying is—”
“Tell me what you’re saying,” Vera snarled. “Tell me what the fuck you were going to follow that with.”
Ellis bristled, their eyes flashing. “I don’t know why the fuck you’re getting so butthurt at me,” they spat. “He’s the one who—”
“He’s the one who got us out,” Vera said fiercely, flinging a hand in Gavin’s direction. Gavin was bright red, and he stared at the table. “If not for him, we’d all still be there. He’s the only reason we escaped and if Colleen had killed him, or if he’d gotten away when they took us, we would have fucking died in that house.”
“I can go eat in my room,” Gavin said miserably, tears welling in his eyes. He stood up and reached for his plate. “I can—”
“Sit the fuck down,” Vera ground out through her teeth. “I’m not gonna set a fucking precedent of you being unwelcome with us. You’re part of this family.” Gavin sat down heavily, his eyes wide and fixed on Vera.
“He hurt Tori!” Ellis screamed, jumping to their feet. “He hurt Sam! He hurt…” Ellis swallowed thickly. “He hurt Isaac,” they hissed. “How can you defend him? How can you fucking sit there and—”
“Because I know what he did to save us!” Vera said, getting to her feet as well. “I know what he sacrificed. I know he did all that shit to make Colleen trust him. I know as soon as she did, the day she did, he got us all out. He didn’t let a suffer a moment longer than he had to. And if Colleen found out, Gavin would have died. His own mother would have killed him, and made him watch us die first.”
“How can you justify—”
“Because that’s what Ryan did!” Vera cried, and her voice twisted into a sob.
Ellis’s mouth fell shut with a snap. Their face flushed a deep red.
“Because that’s what Ryan did,” Vera said, quieter. Her eyes shone with tears. “He… he did the same fucking thing. Ryan made those sacrifices for me, too. That’s why I can defend him,” she said as she threw a glance at Gavin. “Because I know what it took for him to do that.”
Isaac turned his gaze on Gavin. Gavin trembled and kept his eyes fixed on the table.
“I’m not justifying anything,” Vera said in a wobbly, tear-filled voice. “I’m not. He hurt us, and we’ll carry those scars forever.” Vera’s gaze shifted to Tori. Tori sat back in her chair, her lips pressed together. Gavin whimpered softly. “But he…” Vera’s mouth twisted. “He did what he had to do. We all did. And he got us out. He risked his life every day, and he got us out.”
Vera sat down and swiped the tears from her eyes. She took in a deep breath and shook herself. She sniffed as she looked at the ceiling, blinking rapidly against the tears still in her eyes. Finally, she looked at Gavin.
“Thank you,” Vera said softly.
Gavin shuddered and heaved a sob. He pressed his face into his hands.
Ellis swallowed hard and sat down, their gaze fixed on the table. Finally they looked up. “I… I’m sorry,” they rasped.
Gavin shook his head, his face still buried in his hands. “No,” he whimpered. “Please don’t.”
“Gavin,” Isaac said softly. Gavin’s hands tangled in his own hair and he pulled. “Gavin,” Isaac said a little louder. Gavin lifted his head and stared at Isaac, his cheeks stained with tears. “Thank you,” Isaac murmured.
Gavin’s face twisted and he covered his mouth against a sob. “Isaac—”
“Thank you,” Sam said at Isaac’s side. They bit their lip as they looked at Gavin, their breathing shallow and harsh. Gavin raised his eyes to Sam and held their gaze desperately, like they could pull him out of the depths. He met their eyes like a man being promised salvation while teetering on the edge of hell.
“Thank you,” Finn said. Ellis pulled away from them, confusion and rage twisting their features.
“Gavin,” Tori whispered. Gavin shuddered and looked at the table again.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered.
“Th-thank you,” Tori said softly. “For not, not letting her k-kill me,” she rasped. She looked up and took Vera’s hand. “Or Vera. Or any of us.”
“Thank you, Gavin,” Gray said gently, “For saving our family.”
Edrissa looked to Gray, and then Gavin. Her mouth was a hard line. She stayed silent.
Gavin looked around the table at them all, with eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears. Finally, his eyes returned to Isaac. Isaac felt himself burn under Gavin’s gaze.
Gavin had saved them, but he hadn’t done just that. He’d seen Isaac’s scars. He’d been with Isaac in his brokenness, touched him where he’d been hurt, held him, even though he knew what Isaac was. Isaac was beaten, and broken, and Gavin still wanted him – still loved him – anyway. Gavin had seen Isaac in his lowest moments, and he still desired Isaac.
And Isaac wanted him, too. Nothing would stop that, now. Not fear, not Gavin’s past, not the world that howled for Gavin’s blood. Now that Isaac knew it, there was no going back. He’d protect Gavin, stay by his side. He’d give his life for Gavin if it was asked of him, like Gavin tried to do for him, like he tried to do for Sam. Gavin was Isaac’s family. Gavin was the one Isaac wanted. He’d proven himself in every imaginable way.
Gavin’s eyes flicked down to the table again, and his head bowed forward. “I just…” His lips trembled and his eyes squeezed shut. “I just wish I could have done it… sooner. I wish I could have…” He took a steadying breath and raised his gaze to look around the table again. I would have taken it all if I…” He whimpered softly. “…if I could.”
“What you gave is enough,” Isaac murmured.
Gavin’s eyes snapped to Isaac’s. Isaac wet his lips to speak.
“Isaac,” Sam rasped. He tore his gaze from Gavin and looked at Sam. Their face was drawn with pain, and they held their arm against their chest. Their skin was sickly pale.
“Oh. Sam. What do you need?” He reached out to Sam and stopped inches away, unsure of where to touch them.
Sam swallowed hard. “Can you, um…” They whimpered. “I n-need to, um, go lay down. Can you help me get, um, cleaned up, and help me go to bed? I just…” They bit their lip and blew out a slow breath. “It hurts,” they whispered.
Isaac lurched to his feet. “Yeah, Sam,” he muttered. “Absolutely.” He guided them up from the table and turned them towards the hall. “Gray, is it okay if I clean up my—”
“We’ll handle it,” Gray said gently. “We’ll handle the cleanup. You help Sam.”
“Okay,” Isaac murmured. He wound his arm gently around their waist, and winced when Sam hissed at the pressure against their lash marks. Isaac helped them as they stumbled weakly to the bathroom.
Fandom: Thunderbirds
Rating: Teen
Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort
Characters: Scott, Virgil, John
Waking up bound in a dark room is never good news, but the absence of the brother he saw shot in front of him just makes it worse.
Another @badthingshappenbingo this time with the square “Taking the Bullet” - featuring Virgil (as requested by @gumnut-logic).
I’m still taking prompts for non-Scott TAG characters for the other squares! I have at least one character per prompt for most of them now, but I’m always up for adding more (sometimes it’s that addition that gives me the spark I need!)
Scott’s eyes snapped open. It was dark, the sort of gloom in a house after sundown when no-one bothered to turn the lights on. Nothing moved, a stillness in the air unnatural to a man who had grown up with someone else always nearby – brothers, roommates, squadmates – telling him that he was alone. Completely and utterly alone, the only sound his own breathing – bordering on ragged, a panic stirring in the back of his mind from a source beyond his grasp.
He was lying on his side, crumpled as though he’d fallen, but when he tried to move he found that assessment to be inaccurate. A loud clang reverberated through the space – must be quite small, to echo that loudly – and his leg stopped short as something yanked on his ankle. Cautiously sitting up, he found that his arms were wrapped around behind him, something that wasn’t coarse like rope or metal like handcuffs binding his wrists together. Some sort of plastic, zip ties, maybe, although if that was the case there were a lot of them.
A chain on his ankle and wrists bound. Scott shuddered, nightmares rearing their ugly, monstrous heads, but this wasn’t the same. Not quite, and he focused on the differences to drive the nightmares back down into the box he tried to keep them locked up in. He wasn’t in uniform – in any uniform, he was alone, and he wasn’t… wasn’t there. He’d never been there since, the one country Thunderbird One never attended.
Slowly, he wrestled the box shut again, nightmares lashing out at the draw of the familiar even as Scott convinced himself it was different. It was different, he’d been in New York, catching some fresh air after a meeting with stuffy investors who were trying to claim that as they were investors in Tracy Industries, and the Tracy family were International Rescue, surely that meant they were investors in International Rescue, too? That wasn’t how it worked, International Rescue weren’t funded by Tracy Industries but rather out of their own pockets, but some investors were greedy and wanted their fingers in that pie, too, never mind that International Rescue was non-profit.
He’d been in New York but this wasn’t New York – or at least, wasn’t any part of New York near the offices. Too quiet, no traffic to be heard, and the city never slept.
Masked men, outnumbered, and-
Scott surged to his feet, bound hands be damned, only to crash back down as the chain on his ankle pulled taut. He landed painfully on his shoulder, a cry forcing its way out past clenched teeth, but that didn’t stop him and he pulled himself up again, this time managing to keep his balance.
He was alone, and while that had been a comfort, a defence against the rising nightmares moments earlier now it was a source of a whole new terror, because in New York he hadn’t been alone. Virgil had been with him, snatching some downtime and some time with just the two of them, but Scott was alone now and where was Virgil?
His eyes had adjusted to the gloom enough to find the door and he lunged for it, clattering to the floor just short when the damn chain pulled taut again. He tugged at it, jarring his leg again and again, but the metal wouldn’t give.
The door opened suddenly, bright white light streaming in and leaving him blinking furiously, blinded. A silhouette stood there, tall and muscular. No defining features were visible, and Scott snarled at them.
“I see our sleeping beauty’s awake at last.” It was a modulated voice, cobbled together from various electrical sounds. Scott couldn’t even tell if they were male or female. “You’ll only hurt yourself if you keep that up; the chain won’t break.” Even with the electronic edge to the voice, the contempt was clear in their tone. “Be a good little detainee and you’ll leave here in one piece.”
Defiant, Scott tugged at the chain again. “Where is he?” he demanded. “What did you do with him?”
They laughed and turned away, pulling the door closed. Scott let out a strangled yell and launched himself forwards again, feeling something give in his ankle before he crashed to the ground again, landing on his chest and getting a mouthful of dust. In front of him, the bright light had narrowed to a sliver as the door almost closed, hovering in that liminal state between open and closed for just a moment.
“We only needed one.”
The door shut, a click loud in the sudden silence – soundproofing, he noted absently, but that didn’t matter because we only needed one and there had been a gunshot, a yell of pain, a body hitting the floor.
Virgil had gone to get a drink, no point both brothers going inside the coffee shop just down the road to pick up some to-gos and out of the two of them Scott was more recognisable so he’d stayed outside, lurking behind the offices on private, Tracy-owned land while Virgil made the run. Virgil was also only there to kill some time, dressed in his favourite flannel and jeans combination, while Scott was in full CEO regalia of several-thousand-dollar suit and sharply styled hair. Virgil had refused to give him some solidarity by wearing his own suit, because all of his little brothers were a pain like that, not that Scott didn’t understand. He wouldn’t wear it if given the choice, either.
How they’d got past security, he didn’t know, but one minute he’d been alone and admiring what little he could see of the sky in the middle of the city, and the next there had been five assailants grasping at him, creasing his pressed suit and brandishing guns in a way that screamed untrained. Untrained gunmen were dangerous, trigger-happy and not quite in control. As far as kidnapping attempts went, it was pretty rubbish. Scott should have been able to drive them off long enough for security to appear, and after a little bit of excitement it would all be over. It was hardly the first time someone had tried to jump him in the middle of a city – it was an occupational hazard of being rich.
Security hadn’t arrived, but Virgil had, dropping two coffees and a paper bag of baked goods that had smelt heavenly at the scene before making a move towards the nearest assailant. He wasn’t military trained, but he was Kayo-trained and there shouldn’t have been any issues.
Except these people weren’t trained gunmen, and in the chaos a shot had gone off before either of them could relieve that particular person of their gun.
“Scott!”
He hadn’t been in a position to see the gun in question, see where it had been pointing, but a flannelled shoulder had barged him, knocking him off balance, and a moment later they’d both been on the floor and Virgil’s red flannel was the wrong shade of red, a frayed hole in the fabric. It had been in the back, somewhere shoulder-ish. Bad, Scott’s mind had supplied, breaking through the sudden numbness and compelling him into action.
Too slow. The numbness had frozen him in place a split-second too long and he’d been dogpiled, muzzle of a gun digging painfully into his shoulder – metal warm and the smoky scent of gunpowder trailing it – and a prick in his neck.
Now he was in a room – small, featureless except for the chain linking his ankle to the wall and a thick, soundproofed door – and Virgil wasn’t. Virgil, who had taken a bullet pushing him out of the way, who wasn’t needed, who had probably been left to bleed out in that small area behind the offices where no-one went because it was private, Tracy-owned. Virgil, who would not have been left if they’d thought he could talk, maybe even shot again after Scott was down to make sure he couldn’t.
Scott shuddered again and changed tactics, heaving at his wrists, rubbing them together for friction and ignoring the burn of his skin. He didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious, how long the drug had kept him down for, but Virgil needed him – if he was still alive, the voice that said all the things Scott tried to ignore muttered in the back of his mind – and he had to get out.
Warm liquid trickled down his hands, and idly he noted that his suit was probably past all repair, but he kept pulling, grit his teeth through the pain he ignored because he had to.
There was no give in the bonds at all. Not zip ties, then, because Scott had been trained to break free of those years ago. Something stronger, more durable, more than a match even for a frantic man whose mind was clouded by fear for his brother.
That wasn’t working. There had to be something, anything, he could do. He was still in his suit-
His suit. A plain business man’s suit that wasn’t as plain as it looked because Brains never let any of them go anywhere without at least some inventions shoved up their sleeves – literally. The laser cufflinks wouldn’t be any use – he couldn’t reach them, and even if he could, without being able to see where they were aiming there was a high chance he’d laser himself. Scott wasn’t that desperate. Not yet.
The comm unit in his lapel, however…
It took some contortionism, his shoulders and wrists screaming out in pain as he was forced to hold them in an awkward position until his chin could just about reach far enough to depress the patch.
“Scott!” John responded immediately, before Scott could even get a word out. He sounded panicked, harried in a way John rarely was. “Scott, are you okay?”
“Virgil,” he grunted, wheezing as his muscles trembled. “Is he-”
“We’ve got him,” John cut him off. “He was lucky – a clean shot that missed anything fatal. Hospitalised, but he’ll be fine. Kayo’s with him.” Scott sighed in relief. Kayo wouldn’t let anything else happen. Virgil was safe, alive, and their assailants were fools. If, he thought with some irritation, fools with access to a dark room with an embedded chain in the wall. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Scott lied, feeling the warm liquid seeping from his wrists and the throbbing of his ankle. “They haven’t touched me.” That was the truth, at least. “Where am I?”
“Downtown. I’ve got someone working on extraction now. Do you know their motive?”
Someone? That was ambiguous.
“They haven’t been particularly chatty,” he shrugged, trying for a nonchalance he didn’t really feel. “There hasn’t been a ransom?”
“Nothing so far,” John confirmed, and Scott could hear that he shared his unease. No ransom meant they weren’t after anything from the family – no money, nothing IR. The statistics of recovered kidnap victims were low – alive, at any rate – and without even a ransom to imply they were considering it, Scott’s future was looking bleak.
“How long until your someone’s getting me out of here?” he asked, and there was a bit of fear in there, now, because Scott knew he was valuable for more than just money. Information was a popular currency, and he knew a lot of classified information. Unfortunately, the fact that he knew some wasn’t so classified.
“Working on it,” John repeated. “Hang tight, and don’t cut the line. I’ll mute my end if you get company.”
“F.A.B,” Scott agreed, more than a little relieved, although he did his best to hide it. He wasn’t alone, but John was untouchable, up in Five. They couldn’t use him against him.
“Do me a favour and don’t do anything that’ll get you injured,” John continued. “You might need to run for it.” Scott glanced down at the chain bolted to the wall, and the ankle that wasn’t going to want to bear his weight for very long.
“I’ll do my best,” he replied. “But if you want me running, your extraction’s going to need some chain cutters. I’m bolted to a wall.”
There was silence for a moment. “Noted,” John eventually said. “What else?”
“Hands are tied, some sort of strong plastic, I think,” he reported. “A knife should handle that.”
There was another silence and this time Scott could feel John judging him, putting two and two together in that way he had. “Help is on the way. Stop trying to escape and wait for it.” Busted. “We don’t know what they want with you so don’t give them a reason to hurt you.”
Now that he knew Virgil was going to be okay, and that someone – ‘someone’, probably Penelope, if Kayo was on guard duty with Virgil – was working on getting him out, Scott could manage a little patience. Probably. He still wouldn’t be happy until he’d seen Virgil for himself. John had an annoying habit of understating things if he thought they’d be a distraction.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he allowed. Depending on what they wanted, that might not be avoidable. He shifted to get a little more comfortable, swallowing the hiss as his ankle protested. “The sooner your extraction gets here, the better.”
“They’ll be there as soon as they can. Just hold on.”
Still no clues who he was waiting for, but Scott didn’t get a chance to ask. The door slammed open, blinding him with bright light again and he hissed involuntarily, fighting the instinct to turn away.
John, thankfully, had the sense to not comment, and Scott hoped he’d muted comms as he’d said he would.
The silhouette was different to the last one – a little shorter and wider – but the voice was the same, electronic not-voice. “Good morning.” Morning? It had been mid-afternoon when he’d been attacked; how long had he been unconscious for? “I hope you enjoyed your nap.”
Okay, that was cliché, although still annoying. Scott glared at him. “What do you want?”
They advanced, carefully measured steps, but Scott refused to scramble back, keeping his gaze steady even as his heartrate jumped. Fingers, nondescript and gloved, cupped around his throat, pressure barely-there but still setting his nerves alight.
“I have what I want.” The electronic voice purred, and more fingers spidered their way up his face, trailing along the line of his jaw in a touch that should have been tender but did nothing except alarm Scott. His alarm only grew when it stopped, relocating to cup his cheek in a mockery of Grandma’s caring touch, and a thumb tugged at his lower lip.
He snapped at it, jerking his head to dislodge the touch, but the hand on his throat tightened, fingertips pressing uncomfortably on his jugular.
“Feisty,” they observed, although they didn’t pull back. Scott tried to yank back, escape the hand, but the grip was too tight. “You’ll make a wonderful addition to my collection.”
“What collection?” he demanded, voice coming out strangled by the grip on his throat. The hand returned to his cheek, thumb once again tugging at his lip, and he let out another strangled snarl.
“You’ll see,” they sing-songed. “There’s a lot of use for a man like you.” The pressure on his lip disappeared and the fingers glided along the line of the jaw again. Light, barely there, but sending spikes of alarm all through Scott. “Oh, that’s a nice look,” they commented and he realised something must be showing on his face. “I like it. But there’s something that would make it better.”
They clicked their fingers, the noise sharp and unexpected enough to make Scott flinch, and then there were more footsteps. The silhouette this time, from what little he could see past the one still gripping his throat, was larger than even the first person, probably around about his own height.
“The spider ring would look best, I think,” they said. Before Scott could work out what that meant, there were fingers gripping his hair, tilting his head back so far it was painful, fingers in his mouth yanking his lower jaw down with more strength than he could fight. Something with the cool, sharp taste of metal was forced into his mouth, and with both assailants holding him still he couldn’t dislodge it as a strap went around his head, pulling tight and catching some strands of hair painfully.
By the time they released him, his mouth couldn’t close and he glared balefully at them, trying not to panic about what was happening or the implications behind it.
“Oh yes, that looks very good,” they mused, and there was a flash and click of a camera. “Enjoy.”
Scott tried to snarl at them but the noise came out slightly dampened. Both assailants – captors – ignored him and left the room, leaving Scott with a rising sense of dread and panic.
“John?” he tried to call as soon as the door slammed shut, but the damn gag got in the way, leaving a muffled mmmn? the only thing to escape.
“Scott?” Thank goodness John was smart, but Scott had much more on his mind than his brother’s intelligence now. Being kidnapped for ransom was one thing, information another, but this… whatever this ‘collection’ was, it put a chill all along his spine.
Get me out of here now, he tried to say, but all he managed was a fresh chorus of mmphs. John was a genius, but even he wasn’t going to be able to translate that. Scott cast around for something else he could use to communicate, beyond thankful that he still had his comm. The chain caught his eye, and he shuffled awkwardly, trying to reach it with his bound hands.
“Scott, ETA for extraction is fifteen minutes,” John told him. Either he understood gagged-speech after all, or he just knew what Scott needed to hear. He made grunts that hopefully got the F.A.B. across. “Stay calm. Breathe through your nose.” Scott knew that, but it was easier with his brother’s steady voice in his ear. “For clarification, it’s eighteen hundred hours local time. You’ve been missing for less than two hours and it most certainly is not morning.”
He reached the chain and gripped it with fingers slippery with blood. Breathing as deeply as he could, he tapped out F-A-B on it in morse, followed by P-L-A-N?
“Nothing subtle,” John told him. “I’ve got the building schematics and approximate life sign locations, so they’re going to blast their way in. If the door is north, which wall are you against?”
Scott squinted at the door through the darkness. C-O-R-N-E-R, he corrected. S-E.
“Can you leave the corner and head further up the East wall?” John asked. Scott started to shuffle, reluctant to part his fingers from the chain and his only way of communicating with John, before realising the chain was embedded in the so-called South wall.
N-O, he tapped out. C-H-A-I-N-S.
“Understood.” John fell silent for a moment, and Scott hoped – trusted – that he was relaying that information to the mysterious ‘someone’. “Move as far into the corner as you can. They’re approaching from the South-West direction.”
A time and location. Scott steeled himself and began the shuffle to wedge himself into the corner, chain clinking and ankle protesting the whole time. Part of him felt uneasy – into the corner meant nowhere to escape if his captors came back first, but with the chain on his ankle he couldn’t move away fast enough anyway.
He stopped only when he felt the cool masonry hemming him in on both sides, and reached for the chains again. H-E-R-E.
“Twelve minutes,” John told him. “Try not to leave that corner if you can.”
F-A-B. Scott curled up as best he could with the chain still beneath his fingers. The gag was gathering saliva in his mouth, drool starting to run unpleasantly down from the corners of his lips, but he couldn’t lick it away or swallow, despite his body’s reflexes. He kept breathing through his nose and did his best to ignore it. Twelve minutes. He could do that.
John kept talking to him, for the most part not about anything important – the stars he could see, theories he was working on, distractions from his current situation – but updating him on the extraction whenever something happened he thought he should hear about. It wasn’t the first time Scott had admired his brother’s ability to do multiple things at once, but that didn’t lessen his gratitude for the skill at all. Holding a conversation was limited when one party was limited to morse tapping, so he let John carry it, only responding to a direct question with simple Y-E-S, N-O, or F-A-B.
“Thirty seconds,” came the warning. “Scott, curl up as much as you can and protect your head.”
He didn’t waste time tapping out an acknowledgement. With his hands bound behind him, there was little he could do to shield his head except turning his back on the South-West corner and hunching over as much as his bonds allowed.
“Ten seconds.” He closed his eyes and focused on keeping his breathing even and not choking on the saliva that trickled back towards his throat in the change of position. “Five… four… three… two… one.”
The explosion was loud, hunched shoulders doing little to protect Scott’s ears from the blast, but the ringing in his ears was nothing compared to the sight of two of his siblings scrambling through the hole in the wall.
His eyes widened.
“Target located,” Kayo said sharply, fingers pressing down on the iR of her baldric, but Scott only had eyes for his brother, one arm in a rough sling.
So much for being hospitalised, he thought as Virgil knelt down by his leg and produced one of Alan’s so-called tin openers, the laser making short work of a link in the chain.
“No time for the rest,” his brother said apologetically, grasping him by the bicep and hauling him to his feet with his one good arm. “We’ve got to move.” Scott didn’t miss the worried glance at his ankle, but there was muffled shouting from outside and the priority was getting out. He could run on it, and did, Virgil’s hand still firm on his bicep. Kayo brought up the rear.
No-one ever mentioned how difficult running with a gag was. Every instinct Scott had was screaming for him to breathe through his mouth, but the saliva pooling made him choke every time he mistakenly took a breath. Between him and Virgil, he was by far the better runner, but even with one arm in a sling, it was Virgil pulling him along, keeping him upright as he stumbled.
Behind him came louder shouts of alarm, all still through electronic voice modulators, but it wasn’t until Virgil skidding to a halt that Scott realised one of them had got round in front of them and cut them off. The gun was pointed straight at Scott’s chest, wavering slightly.
“I won’t let you go!” they declared. It was the smallest one, the one that had mentioned a collection and decided to gag him. “You’re mine! Mine!” The gun trembled wildly, and Scott glanced around, trying to find a way out without any more injuries. He couldn’t talk, the gag still there, digging in painfully after his dash for freedom, but he couldn’t let that stop him. There had to be something he could do.
He took a step forwards, towards them, slow – unthreatening.
It was the wrong call.
They screamed.
The gun went off.
Virgil shoved him sideways, knocking him over and forcing a cry of pain as he landed badly on his ankle as well as the same shoulder he’d knocked painfully in the little room.
More gunfire, and his captor – his tormentor, the sensation of the gag still in his mouth, chipping his teeth, corrected – fell. Scott didn’t care about that, more interested in his brother. Virgil was down, one hand clutching at his hip, where his jeans – he wasn’t even in IR uniform? – were quickly becoming red with blood.
Scott’s hands were still behind his back, but with no chain tying his ankle to the wall he could pull his legs up and rotate his shoulders enough to hook his bound hands past his feet so they were in front of him. His wrists looked terrible, and it seemed like some sort of electrical cord had been used, but that wasn’t important. Not with Virgil bleeding from a gunshot wound for the second time that day – both wounds that should have been his instead.
His suit was expensive, but it was already ruined so he grabbed for the shirt and tore it, bundling it up into a wad of fabric before leaning over Virgil and pressing it over the bleeding area. Virgil let out a groan of pain but Scott couldn’t reassure him, couldn’t do anything except keep pressing, keeping the pressure on as the once-blue fabric darkened. His fingers were already slippery from his own blood, but even if he couldn’t feel it, he could see Virgil’s own blood joining the red concoction on his fingers.
A glance at Virgil’s face saw his eyes drifting shut, clouded with pain, and Scott let out a scream of frustration as he pressed down with all his weight. His arms were trembling – pain, exhaustion, maybe something else entirely, he didn’t know – but he kept holding on, because it was Virgil and he couldn’t lose him. Couldn’t lose anyone else, and definitely not when it was all his fault, when those bullets should have hit him.
Hands covered his – calm, steady hands – and he looked up to see Kayo, eyes grim.
“The GDF are on their way,” she told him. Her eyes drifted to his mouth before looking down at Virgil – white-skinned, blood staining both their hands. There was a silent apology in them, an acknowledgement of the gag but an inability to do anything about it when Virgil needed them more. Scott focused on his brother’s face, watching as Kayo snapped at him to stay awake, tapping his cheek with one bloodstained hand as the other pressed down with Scott’s.
“’mwake,” Virgil slurred, although his eyes barely opened a sliver. “Sc’t?”
Worry about yourself, Scott tried to say, but it came out a mixture of mmphs and hacking coughs as more saliva ended up back in his throat.
“You’re worse,” Kayo said firmly. “Scott will be okay. John, where’s the GDF?”
“Two minutes out,” Scott’s lapel said, echoed by Kayo’s own comm. “What happened?”
“Virgil’s collecting bullets today,” Kayo told him. “Right hip, this time. No exit wound.”
“I’ll tell them to hurry up,” John said bluntly. “Hostiles?”
“Neutralised.” Kayo’s voice was grim, leaving Scott to translate that to dead. Normally he’d be upset about that, lethal force never the answer, but they’d shot Virgil twice, who knew what they’d been planning to do with him, and he was so tired even though he’d spent a large chunk of the past two and a half hours unconscious.
Scott just wanted to go home.
It was Colonel Casey herself who led the troops out of the GDF flyer two minutes later as they touched down, running over to them almost unprofessionally as she directed her soldiers to clean-up, aside from the medics who made a beeline straight for them. It was also the Colonel who pulled Scott back gently, out of the way of the medics, and brandished a small knife to cut the straps of the gag.
He coughed as she eased the metal out of his mouth, batting his hands away lightly when he tried to do it himself, hacking up all of the saliva that had been pooling and overflowing before swallowing painfully.
“Virg-” he started, but his voice broke and the Colonel hushed him, clearly more in godmother mode than military.
“My people are dealing with him,” she assured him. “He’ll get the best care; John’s already alerted the local hospital.” Scott lunged forwards anyway as his brother was loaded onto a stretcher and hurried away, almost falling over until his godmother caught him. The knife flashed again and the cables wrapped around his wrists fell away, revealing just how raw and bloody the skin was. “They’re waiting for you as well, Scott. Can you walk?”
Could he walk? He’d just run out of the building with who knew how many pursuers on his tail. He could hobble over to the flyer.
He dragged his way to his feet, only for his ankle – still with a metal cuff around it, even if it wasn’t linked to a chain anymore – to buckle. Colonel Casey caught him and tugged his arm around her shoulder. She didn’t insist he wait for a stretcher, however, but patiently helped him limp forwards, a supporting arm around his waist. The woman was much shorter than him, but showed no signs of struggling as she guided him up the ramp and got him settled in a jump seat by Virgil’s stretcher, foil blanket around his shoulders.
His brother was unconscious, but that didn’t stop Scott from reaching for him, trembling hand probing the arm in a sling. His hip had been bandaged, field treatment that would hold until he got into surgery, but it was the earlier wound that Scott wanted to see.
It was Kayo who caught his hand and gently tugged it away, pressing a clean cloth to his bloody fingers despite his protests.
“Kay-” he protested, but she was firm.
“Drink.” A lidded cup with a straw was presented to him, straw prodding at his lips. “It’s just water.”
“Bu-” The straw slipped past his lips.
“Drink. You’re a mess, Scott.” Kayo’s voice was soft but unyielding and he reluctantly obeyed. A gentle finger touched the corner of his mouth and he flinched away. “Hold still; it’s raw.” He’d barely registered that pain when there was his wrists, ankle, and Virgil, but it was noticeably soothed by the gel Kayo applied. “Can you hold the cup?” she asked, guiding both of his hands to it, and he grasped it. “Just while I get this off your ankle.”
She had another of Alan’s tin openers, and he sat still as she lasered through the metal, scant millimetres from his skin. Only when it landed on the floor of the flyer with a clatter did he move, putting the cup down on the seat next to him and returning his attention to Virgil. Kayo didn’t stop him from looking, but she caught hold of his hand again and continued to wipe away the blood from around his wrists, rolling up the sleeves of his ruined, bloodstained jacket to chase the blood where it had trailed in both directions.
“It’s going to be okay, Scott,” she promised, but he barely heard her.
Their arrival at the hospital had Virgil whisked away from him before he could even stand on his feet, and his attempts to follow were thwarted by Colonel Casey, who forced him back into the seat while Kayo vanished.
“You can barely walk,” she scolded, and two men appeared behind her, a stretcher between them. “You will be entering that hospital on the stretcher.” He protested, but she stood firm. “The longer you argue about this, the longer it will be until you see Virgil again. Stretcher, Scott.”
Scott glared at her, but there was no way he could get past her and her men on a dodgy ankle and they both knew it. At a gesture, the two men with the stretcher approached and, defeated, Scott had no choice but to let his godmother help him onto it. Firm arms made him lay down before they finally left the flyer. Colonel Casey accompanied him the whole way, probably to make sure he didn’t try and make a run for it, until he was delivered directly to the doctors waiting.
It was several hours before he saw Virgil again. The hospital room he had ended up in, one shoulder in a sling of its own, wrists bandaged and ankle set from where it had apparently been broken, had a second bed, which they had promised would be Virgil’s once he was out of surgery. It was that promise, and Kayo’s reappearance, that kept him in the room rather than attempting to escape. Mainly Kayo’s sudden presence on his bed, not quite sitting on him but close enough that it didn’t really make a difference.
“It’s not your fault,” she told him, hand on his shoulder – the one not in a sling, apparently dislocated.
“He got shot twice today, and both times were because of me,” he protested.
“And if the situations were reversed, he’d be the one sat here feeling guilty and you’d be the one in surgery for your second bullet of the day,” Kayo pointed out. “It wouldn’t have been his fault, and it’s not your fault.”
She was talking sense, but that wasn’t enough to calm him down, not when it had been his inattention, his misjudgement. Nothing would, and definitely not until he saw Virgil again. Not even John, flickering into view from her comm, or his other two brothers, roaring in from the other side of the world in Thunderbird Two and piling onto his bed for frantic hugs and assurances that he was okay, could get the image of Virgil, white and bleeding, out of his head, or the manta my fault, all my fault.
At one point, Kayo slipped away, taking John with her. Gordon and Alan kept him forcibly pinned to the bed in her absence, to Scott’s frustration, but when she returned there was a satisfied air to her, shared by John’s hologram.
“The organisation’s been shut down,” she informed them. “The GDF tracked down all the surviving members with John and Lady Penelope’s help” – otherwise translated as John and Lady P tracked them down and sic’d the GDF on them – “and all of their bases have been seized.”
“It was an organisation?” Gordon asked, eyes narrowed. Alan just curled up under Scott’s good arm and hugged him tightly.
“A sloppy one,” John said. “They only got away with it as long as they did because they never targeted a high-profile individual until Scott.” His disgust at that was clear, and Scott could well imagine that somewhere, heads were rolling.
“What were they even after?” Alan asked. “It can’t have been money or there would have been a ransom.”
“They had ties to the black market,” Kayo replied, a little too quickly. “Slavery.” She spat the word. “The GDF are now working to find all the victims and their buyers.”
That didn’t make sense, not from what his captors had told him, but Scott sensed the lie was for his brothers’ benefit. He’d get the truth out of them later, especially as that was the moment the doctors appeared, transporting a sleeping post-op Virgil into the other bed.
His siblings physically restrained him as he tried to get out of bed, at least until the doctors reminded him to stay in bed, promised that Virgil was fine and would make a full recovery, and left. As soon as they were gone, it was a different story.
“You should stay in bed,” John sighed, but it was a lost cause and they all knew it. Gordon was the one to help him up, the aquanaut as ever stronger than he looked, while Kayo guarded the door and Alan hovered on his other side, poised to move in if necessary.
Deposited into the chair by his brother’s bed, Scott reached out tentatively to look at the wound – both wounds. They were freshly dressed, no sign of blood, and Virgil’s skin was no longer white but somewhere closer to his regular colour.
He was going to be okay. Scott knew he wouldn’t fully believe it until Virgil opened his eyes, but his pulse was strong and even, and unfortunately Scott had seen his brother in a similar state enough times to know it meant he was on the mend.
Recovery would take a while for both of them, and despite Kayo’s words and attempted use of logic, the gnawing guilt was still there, would join the brewing cauldron in his mind where all the my fault thoughts churned away, from minor things like the time John broke his arm on a dare Scott had made him to world-shattering things like I couldn’t save Dad.
But for the moment, Virgil was alive under his hands, sleeping deeply almost as though it was any old night home in bed, and Scott could at least let go of the what ifs, if not the what happened. He hadn’t lost a brother. Not today.
[a time of heartbreak and distress]
[4,458 words]
[teen & up audiences]
[beta’ed by @meloingly. any remaining mistakes are my own]
[title from With You In Your Dreams by Hanson]
[the aftermath of tk getting shot by the kid]
[tk strand, carlos reyes, owen strand, judd ryder, grace ryder, paul strickland, marjan marwani, mateo chavez, michelle blake, gwenyth strand, alex]
[alex is his own warning, angst with hopeful ending, mentions of canon gunshot, mentions of a coma, mentions of hospitals, mentions of wounds, mentions of blood, HEAVY ANGST, alternating pov]
[written for @tarlosweek2020, day 3: talking about each other + first love confession]
[written for @theatrevicki, who asked for taking the bullet out of my bad things happen bingo card]
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a time of heartbreak and distress
Carlos is helping the man suffering from Alzheimer into the car, after his wife has hugged the fears away from him, when the 126 arrives. He frowns at the firetruck and the ambulance, not sure why they're here since the suspect is in perfect condition — if he doesn’t count Alzheimer, that's it.
“Cardiac event,” Michelle tells him as she rushes inside, following TK and the rest of them with her medical backpack dangling off her shoulder. “See you later?”
Carlos nods, unable to reply before she’s gone into the house. He turns toward his partner, who's now talking to the couple inside the patrol car, when the night air is pierced by the most unimaginable sound — something he wouldn’t have expected in a cardiac event call, after the police have already taken the intruder out of the house.
The gunshot cuts through the silence that's settled after the sirens have been muted and the situation has been controlled.
A gunshot Carlos wasn't expecting, something that has his instincts set into place. His hand goes to his holster before he can think of it.
And then it reaches his ears, something that's more worrisome than a gunshot in an otherwise safe environment, something that breaks his heart in two.
A name travels through the air.
“TK!” he hears in the distance, the echo of a feeling bursting in tiny millions of pieces as his ears ring with the name heʼs come to cherish as his own.
He draws his gun, signaling to his partner that heʼs going inside, firearm in front of him just as though it is a part of his outstretched hand. He quickly makes his way into the building, where there’s ruckus and noise and strangely a void big enough that he can hear his own thoughts.
The corridor is endless.
When he manages to get closer to the group of people pooling around someone on the floor, Carlos can't stop the mangled sound that escapes his parched throat. It's a wail, but it's a name, a prayer and an expletive, all at once — a wordless cry that pierces the air at the same time as Owen Strand clutches his son, red splashed everywhere on the wall behind them.
“TK!”
“TK!” his father screams, hands trying to assess his sonʼs state whilst fighting the urge to freak out. TK knows, because he's been on the receiving end of this very same treatment, less than six months ago, after he woke up from the dead.
But now TK doesn’t understand whatʼs going on. He was just using the battering ram to open the door, to enter the room where the man suffering a heart attack was, when—
Oh.
The pain spreads fast throughout his body all of a sudden, a shrill that deafens his ears and weakens his limbs. He has stumbled backwards, stuttering as he takes a step and then a fall, and his father's hands accompany him to the floor.
Breathing is harder with each second that passes, but he doesn’t understand why. He canʼt be dying. This doesn’t feel like the last time he died — this isn't the bliss he was looking for. This hurts like a bitch.
Carlos shows up and TK doesn't know what to make of it. It wasn't supposed to be like this — he wasn't supposed to go down during a rescue using the battering ram of all things. Taking the bullet is something that Carlos has to face from time to time — being a cop and everything — not something TK or any other firefighter has to endure on a daily basis. Falling from a burning roof, maybe.
Getting shot by a terrified kid behind a closed door wasn't anything TK would have ever expected.
He wants to reassure his father that he'll be fine. He wants to tell Carlos that they are still on for that rematch at the honky tonk dart pool next Friday. He even opens his lips, ready to speak, but the only thing that flows is a burst of blood he canʼt control, just as his limbs choose that very same moment to stop functioning and his head lolls back, almost colliding with the floor.
He sees the terror in his father's eyes, the determination in Michelleʼs stance, the confusion in Carlosʼ face.
And then suddenly everything is dark and the pain — the everlasting ache that reigns in his soul like a medieval king, with the knowledge that there’s nothing more powerful in the whole world, nothing overruling its tyrant dictums — that pain recedes and nothing hurts anymore.
The void is a comfortable blanket of darkness and blissful silence. So he allows himself to tip over the edge and plummet into the precipice.
He never crashes into the ground, forever trapped in a whirlwind where chaos doesn’t touch him. He’s free.
Finally.
Finally, he arrives at the hospital.
Carlos has never resented his job more than in the past two hours, when heʼs been trapped under the weight of the paperwork that comes with a firefighter being shot on site — the amount of words heʼs had to write down, after combing the scene with a heavy heart and shaky hands, is akin to the pain he's been feeling ever since he's watched TK dying in Michelleʼs hands.
She’d been able to bring him back, on the somber corridor where TK had met a fate more horrid than anything heʼd ever deserved.
Carlos had been unable to provide any help despite his training.
And now, after two hours fighting panic with only his partnerʼs hand on his shoulder as reassurance that everything has the potential to be okay, Carlos is finally stepping into the hospital, heart in his throat, fingers balling painfully at his sides, suddenly perfectly aware that maybe this isn't his place to be.
TK and him, they arenʼt anything, after all. Carlos is just another first responder who wants to check in on the 126 and their fallen member, the one to keep on with the jinxed destiny the original team had faced so many weeks before. He needs to remember that, a reminder in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Michelleʼs, because otherwise he might combust in grief.
Judd and Mateo look up at him when he approaches them, a question ready at the tip of their tongue, quelched by a quick glance from Paul. Carlos is grateful to have someone in his corner — someone who's seen them together, who's been witness to their dynamics, who knows the depths of sorrow Carlos is going through.
He stops short from crossing the threshold to the room, when he sees Owen Strand sitting in that uncomfortable chair beside the bed, reminding Carlos that there’s no place for him here. He almost backtracks, but Captain Strand stands up and offers an opening for him to stay — an understanding light in his tired eyes as he steps outside and beelines for the chapel.
And Carlos sits there, drawing circles on TKʼs skin that are meant to soothe himself rather than the firefighter lying on his back, unconscious, unaware of the pain.
Paulʼs hand lands on his shoulder, and it's all Carlos has in himself not to cry openly in front of everyone.
“Heʼs a fighter,” Paul says in a low voice, silence broken by Mateoʼs sniffles. “Heʼll get through this. Heʼll be back with us in no time.”
“I didn’t know you were friends,” Marjan points out. There’s no judgment in her voice, only a curiosity Carlos can't fulfill right now.
“We are,” he grits out. Heʼs managing to keep his tears at bay by biting the inside of his cheek, but he knows he wonʼt last much longer. “He is—TK will pull through.”
It doesn’t feel right, to be talking about TK when he is right here, when Carlos can touch him but nothing he does elicit any reply in TK. He wishes he could say all the things he longs to say, if only heʼd be allowed to — how TK lights his days, how he hopes he brings some color to TKʼs life, how whatever they have going on between them has grown from a fling to a fully formed feeling that has taken Carlosʼ heart hostage.
But TK wanted them to remain a secret — not because he was ashamed of them, but because he wasn't ready to let the world know that heʼs mending his soul. That Carlos can be a medicine TK hadn't anticipated.
So he turns towards the bed once again, swallowing the words and the tears and the strife, and wishes for the best.
“Weʼre all waiting for you, TK. Please, wake up.”
“Wake up,” his father is saying at the same time as he shakes TK out of slumber.
TK groans as he opens his eyes to meet his fatherʼs stern gaze. “What?”
“Where were you last night that you came back with a busted lip and bloodstains on your clothes?” his father demands, an edge of despair in his words.
Owen Strand has never been a man to shy from his problems — except when facing them would have saved any of his two marriages, that's it — so TK hadn't expected anything but straightforwardness from his father.
“Isn't it a bit early for the third grade, dad?” he asks, one arm slinging in front of his eyes.
“Itʼs way past noon on your day off, TK,” his father replies. “Iʼve just come back from my last shift, and Iʼve found a bloody t-shirt on the laundry basket and when I come up here I see you're still in bed looking like you've fought for your life. What happened, TK?”
He sighs. It’s obvious, now, that he canʼt lie to his father. He had hoped to be able to mask his wounds before his father came back home — it was supposed to be a quick relief, get in, throw some punches, get out. He hadn’t counted on the fight to break straight under his nose. He hadn’t counted on the police to raid the place. He hadn't counted on being processed.
He hadn’t counted on Carlos Reyes.
“Itʼs fine, dad,” he attempts to appease his father. “Iʼve got nothing broken, and no one got arrested.”
“That’s not the word on the street, TK,” his father counteracts. He manages to sit up in his bed and hugs his knees close to his chest. “Why were you at a bar alone, so late at night?”
And it all comes crashing down, dawning its truth on him as though his soul is the spur where the wild ocean breaks its tides.
His father is worried. Heʼs terrified, because TK is a reckless man, a bullet gone astray. TKʼs going to be the death of his father, if the dark bags under his eyes and the paleness of his skin are any kind of indication.
“Iʼm sorry,” he says, and he is. He really feels truly sorry. “I wasn't in a good place, last night. But I am, now.”
“Are you?” There’s more to that question than what anyone overhearing their conversation might understand. TK knows there’s this underlying fear that he's using again, the nuance in the question sending a new wave of guilt through his body.
“I am,” he says. “Everything is a bit gray, still, and I might have butchered one of the few friendships I had made here, but I am better.”
“Friendship, huh?”
TK recalls the look on Carlosʼ face the night before — the worry and the guilt and the pain and the unbelievable knowledge that he might have made matters worse by just saying one single word. He knows there might not be a second chance for them, that heʼs probably killed the only possibility he had at having a healthy relationship with someone.
But it's too soon. It’s too much. And Carlos doesn’t deserve the burden that TK holds in his heart.
It's for the best, he knows that.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says. “But I'll be fine.”
“I don't want to talk about it,” he says. “But I'll be fine.”
Michelle doesn’t buy it for a second, Carlos knows that much, but she’s clever enough to sit back on the chair across the waiting room, where Carlos has been staying for the past forty hours, give or take, unable to leave TKʼs side and profiting from his day off. “I take it things changed from weird to normal after a few dates.”
Carlos looks around to make sure no one else from the 126 is around, and thankfully the team is still inside, visiting TK and trying to avoid the prohibition of staying more than one visitor at a time.
“Not here, Michelle,” he tells her. “No one knows, and I am not comfortable outing whatever this is to them.”
“Is TK ashamed of you?”
Carlos shakes his head. He doesn’t think so — if that were the case, TK wouldn’t have asked him for help to cheer Paul up together. It’s more about privacy and the baggage TK carries within his soul, a burden Carlos knows he canʼt help with until TK decides to share it with him.
“Iʼm not sure I can tell you anything.”
“Does it have anything to do with the fact that Owen practically begged me not to give TK any opioid-based anesthetic or painkiller?”
Carlos winces. It’s not his secret to tell, and he doesn’t know much apart from what TK has been sharing with him in bits and pieces since that night at the precinct. It still isn’t his place, but he's saved from having to answer by Owen Strand stepping into the waiting room looking freshly showered and accompanied by a middle-aged blonde woman Carlos doesn’t know.
Judd leads the team out of the room at the sight of their captain. Carlos looks at Michelle with an arched eyebrow before exchanging a glance with Paul as well. Owen Strand looks exhausted but somehow defeated, as though heʼs received bad news.
“Iʼm sorry, guys,” he starts. The woman by his side squeezes his arm in support, and Carlos is happy that Owen Strand has someone. “Iʼve been told that they wonʼt allow anyone who's not me or TKʼs mother in his room from now on. It seems we are too many and they don’t care that I want you to be here for him.”
He’s looking straight into Carlosʼ eyes as he speaks, like he knows Carlos has a secret reason to be here that goes beyond having hung out with TK a couple of times — that the team knows — or being here as part of Michelleʼs support system.
“Iʼm sorry,” Owen repeats. “But I can't do anything.”
Judd nods as he takes an almost sobbing Mateo closer to his chest. “Do you think they'll allow us to go in again and say a few words to him? Just a quick see you later until he gets better and is able to come back to work.”
Owen nods his approval and the team goes back inside. Carlos can see them touching TKʼs arm, whispering something, and trickling out of the room with the same defeated rictus on their faces that Owen has.
Carlos stands up when Michelle gets out after her few seconds with TK, ready to leave with her. Captain Strand stops him with a hand on his arm and a soft smile as he says, “Officer Reyes, I was hoping you could give my boy some reason to wake up.”
“Me, sir?” he whispers. He wants to scream that there’s nothing he wants more than that, but he knows he canʼt. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
“I don’t know almost anything going on in TKʼs life, as it seems, but I know he came back happier when he was out with Paul and you.” Owen sighs. “Please?”
Carlos can't say no, not when he himself wants to be the reason why TK comes back — heʼs realized in these two days that heʼs already fallen for TK, the only thing he had sworn not to do. Neither of them is ready for this.
He wants to have the chance to find out if TK has ever felt the same about him.
Carlos nods and enters the room, fear gripping his heart as he steps closer.
He sighs at the unmoving figure lying on the bed, tubes and machines hooked on him as heʼs still unable to breathe for himself. Carlos reaches out, carefully avoiding the elements that keep TK alive, and grabs his hand. He caresses its back drawing small, nonsensical patterns that soothe him more than they do TK, given that TK is still unconscious with an undefined prognosis of waking up.
And then, he says the only thing that he can think about. The only reason he can give TK.
He hopes it's enough.
“I love you.”
“I love you,” he practices in front of the mirror, his reflection mocking him as he tries to tame his hair, tonight much more of a rebel than any other day. “I dream of spending the rest of my life by your side. Alex, will you marry me?”
He checks the clock on the wall for the ninth time in the past five minutes, and sighs in frustration when he realizes it's still so fucking early. He tries sitting down on his bed, but his legs bounce and his feet twitch and he has to stand up, too nervous to sit still and too chicken to try and get to the restaurant an hour and a half before the time heʼs told Alex to be there.
Alex.
He knows they haven't been spending that much time together lately. He suspects his boyfriend resents him and his line of work — Alex is an office guy, someone with a nine to five job and a nice apartment where he loves watching shows and cooking. TK loves his job — being a firefighter is his whole life — and all his boyfriends before Alex have always come second. Alex is different, though.
In the beginning, Alex complained all the time about TKʼs odd hours and him putting his fire family first. But lately, after those first few months, Alex has accepted TKʼs lifestyle and he even encourages him. Long gone are the days when TK ended up patched up after a rough shift and Alex wasn't there. Now, TK is more careful when it comes to the job because he loves Alex. He doesn’t want to put him through hell for being reckless while saving lives.
TK can see himself spending the rest of his life with him.
Two hundred and twenty-seven minutes later, TK is stumbling out of a club in one of the worst areas of New York, his once pristine white sneakers covered in mud, his shirt untucked and rumpled. Secured in his hand there is a small bag that holds all the poison his soul craves, but he still isn’t sure.
His heart is broken and his mind is screaming, and there is not an ounce of silence inside of him until he reaches his apartment.
His heart is broken and his mind is screaming, and there is not an ounce of silence inside of him until he reaches his apartment.
He hasnʼt wanted to leave the hospital, but it seems the doctors have been crystal clear to Captain Strand. Only family is allowed to visit now, and even though Carlos has the inkling that the woman who walked into the waiting room with him isn’t family, he knows he canʼt stay.
They are nothing, and yet Carlos feels his world has shrunk to the size of a golf ball with TK on that bed.
The last words heʼs exchanged with Owen Strand ring in his ears. He takes off his shirt blindly as he recalls the sadness in Captain Strandʼs eyes, the weakness heʼs felt in his limbs — something he doesn’t think is linked to his son being in a coma. He knows what it is, heʼs known since the moment TK did, but he's also aware that Owen Strand has wanted to keep his illness a secret from his fire family.
“Iʼm sorry,” heʼd told Carlos one last time. “I wish I could find a way for you to stay.”
“Itʼs okay, Captain Strand. Hospital rules.”
“But I wish there was a way, Officer Reyes. TK needs his friends, his family, the colors you've all brought into his life.”
The mention of that bit of information about TK — the reminder of what they almost had before a bullet took that future from them — hurts Carlos more than anything else.
He shakes his head at his reflection on the mirror, the image of a sad, pale man mocking back at him.
He remembers the words heʼs told TKʼs father, out of politeness when all heʼd wanted had been camping out in that hospital room until TK woke up. But Carlos doesn’t want to dwell too much on his own pain — undeserving as he is, because he's been too much of a coward to press the right buttons to make TK take a stance on their relationship — so he tries to forget that whole conversation.
His words echo in his mind though.
“Your son needs his father, too.”
“Your son needs his father, too.”
His motherʼs voice reels recrimination and something akin to resignation. TK keeps playing with his firetruck, feigning an indifference he doesn’t really feel. He doesn’t want to hear his fatherʼs excuses for having missed his birthday.
He just wants his dad to be here, with him, singing songs and blowing off the candles. He wants the dad he had before summer ended and something everyone calls nine-eleven happened. TK knows something bad happened a few months ago — his father went out for a shift after dropping a kiss on his forehead and wishing him a good day at school, and then he didn’t come back for days. Mom had been crying, TK had noticed.
His dad had been the only dad coming back home from his firehouse.
TK knows he should be happy he still has a father — his best friend Cole doesn’t anymore. But he barely has him anyway, so he isn’t sure why he should be happy. During Thanksgiving, his mom had made a speech about being grateful that they still were a family.
TK doesn’t know if having a dad who runs off to console someone elseʼs child counts as having a family.
Now, three weeks later, his dad has missed his birthday and TK is sure that this is the last straw for his mom. She has been crying when she thinks TK doesn’t see her, and she’s been talking to her friend Jack, a lawyer just like her, about things like divorce and custody. TK doesn’t understand those words but they don’t sound nice.
It feels weird, as though heʼs being pulled from different sides, every time his parents argue just like right now. He isn’t sure how to feel. He thinks heʼd rather his father hadn't come back home that day, because ever since he hasnʼt had a father.
Owen Strand has been a ghost, walking the corridors in their East Avenue apartment without seeing any of them — not his wife, not the son he once upon a time used to take to the zoo and to the movies and to Central Park to feed the ducks and play ball.
Deep inside he knows nothing will ever be the same.
Deep inside he knows nothing will ever be the same.
Carlos is getting ready for his shift when Michelle calls. He hasnʼt been able to sneak off work since he doesn’t have a reason to — whatever is going on between TK and himself, it’s not official. They're nothing but fuck buddies at best, and that isn’t excuse enough to skip work and rush to his bedside, even if that's what he longs to do.
“Michelle,” he answers his phone breathlessly, as though heʼs been running.
“I thought youʼd like to know,” Michelle starts, no pleasantries whatsoever. “TKʼs awake.”
Carlos feels a weight being lifted from his soul at her words. He breathes in deeply, somewhat shaky. “Is he—” He canʼt finish his own question.
“Apparently there arenʼt any side effects. Apart from the fact that heʼs been shot by a kid, heʼs fine.”
“Okay,” he says, then he falls silent for a long time. He muses about what this means now — how this shapes whatever they had into something new.
“Carlos,” Michelle speaks softly into his ear, the phone still pressed against his flesh. “Are you coming to visit him? Heʼs got at least a couple more days there.”
Carlos ponders his options. He’s declared his love for someone he doesn’t really know that well when said someone had been unconscious. He isn’t sure TK would welcome him, an intruder during his recovery, even though theyʼve been improving whatever they had.
He’s been feeling like an outsider every time heʼs stepped into that hospital room, even though Captain Strand has always welcomed him with open arms. But that hasnʼt been TKʼs doing — Carlos is aware that he might face TKʼs rage when he realizes that the lid on the box that held their secret has been lifted.
“I don’t think so,” he finally replies. “If TK asks for me, I will. But I doubt he will.”
“Carlos, you love him,” Michelle tries to kick some reason into him. “And maybe he hasnʼt realized it yet, but he loves you too. Your place is by his side.”
Carlos shakes his head even though Michelle canʼt see him. “Nowʼs not our time, Michelle.”
He hears Michelle sighing in exasperation at the other end before she speaks. “You’re wrong, Carlos, but I know you better than to try to convince you. There's no need to suffer like this, but I take it love isn’t easy these days.”
Carlos smiles. “No, it isn’t,” he acquiesces. “But it's worth it. He’s worth it.”
“He better,” Michelle tells him. “He better not break your heart. Heʼd have to answer to me.”
“I didn’t doubt it for one second.”
“See you soon?” Michelle asks. When he hums in reply, she continues. “Take care, Carlos.”
“You too, chica, you too.”
When he hangs up, he feels a smile fighting its way across his face. He might not go visit TK while he is at the hospital — he knows TK would be embarrassed that their secret has been outed without him allowing it — but at least now there is a future where Carlos can explain to TK his reasons for rushing to his side when he first heard about the incident.
Written for the @badthingshappenbingo prompt “taking the bullet”. This is a modern AU in which the Mighty Nein are a gang in a war with the Cerberus Assembly.
Caleb came to with a groan, curled on his side and clutching his head. He could hear voices around him talking in hushed whispers and a part of him wanted to shush them, to grumble about how he’d been sleeping and that he was tired and sore and needed all the sleep he could get. But then the pain flared in his head and he became aware of the wet sticky sensation on his face and neck. He lifted a hand to investigate but lowered it with a hiss the moment his fingers brushed his forehead. He expected Nott to grab his hand and tell him that he was safe, just like she always did. He expected Jester or Caduceus to encourage him to open his eyes, to ask him if he knew his name and where he was. He expected Beau to grumble about how stupid he was, all the while hovering anxiously over him.
But no one came and that was when he started to panic. What if everyone else was seriously hurt, or worse? What if Ikithon had gotten him? His breathing sped up as he forced his eyes open against the burning lights, lifted one hand to shield them. “Nott?” he croaked. “Beauregard?” He sat up with a struggle and forced down a wave of nausea as the world began to spin before his eyes. Once more he closed his eyes and tried to breathe through his nose, clutching the edge of his jacket in an attempt to ground himself.
When the nausea and vertigo were somewhat at bay, he opened his eyes. He glanced left and right, and that was when he saw it.
Everyone huddled around a still human figure.
Beau.
Caleb pushed himself to his feet and staggered over to the group. As he got closer, he could hear Yasha talking softly. “Don’t look at it, Beau. Just breathe, Jester and Caduceus are going to help you.”
He sped up to reach them, only to freeze the moment Beau came into view.
Her skin was pale, her eyes dull and barely focused on Yasha. There was blood on her lips, on her hands, all from a gaping wound on her left side. Jester had pushed Beau’s shirt up and had bandages pressed against it, biting her lip as Beau whimpered and struggled to get away. The monk was shaking from the pain, her hand engulfed in both of Yasha’s huge ones.
“What happened?” Caleb whispered, too afraid to speak loudly in case he distracted Jester or Caduceus in their hurry to save their friend’s life.
Nott appeared at his side, tears in her eyes. “She pushed you out of the way,” she sobbed, grabbing both of his hands in hers. He let her pull him to his knees and bury her face in his chest, wrapping his arms around her while staring numbly at Beau.
There was so much blood and Beau looked so weak, her head cushioned on Fjord’s lap and her breaths coming in shallow gasps.
She was in good hands, he reminded himself. She would survive this, just like she survived everything else thrown her way. She would survive this.
