summary - With James having acted so strangely the night before, you couldn't stop worrying about him. So you decided to go talk with him, even if he was set on being alone. Luckily for you, you knew just where to find him. After all, he was your best friend.
wc [3.4k]
all chapters | <- Chapter 7 - Chapter 9 ->
The next morning, you sat with Marlene and Lily for breakfast, deciding you needed a break from the boys and all their sudden weird behavior. Your plan to escape them didn't seem to work very much though, since after only a few minutes Sirius was taking the seat next to you.
Marlene glared at him from across the table, recalling all that you'd told them about his interrogation over Sebastian to you last night.
"Lovely to see you too, McKinnon," he greeted sourly before turning to you. "Have you seen James?"
You frowned. "No, I thought he was with you guys."
"Well he's not. He's not in the dorm either. None of us have seen him since last night when he was in his weird mood."
You recounted how quiet he was the last time you saw him, hardly stopping to say goodnight before hurrying off to the dorms. You lowered your voice to a hushed whisper. "Have you checked the map?"
"Not yet," Sirius said back.
You thought for a moment, and an idea came to mind that told you the map wouldn't be needed. "I have a feeling I know where he is."
Without another word, you gathered up your things, and maybe a pastry or two, and took your leave out of the Great Hall. A confused-looking Sirius watched you all the while, but you felt as if you needed a moment alone with James anyway. Especially after seeing him look so closed off the night before.
It took a few minutes to make it all the way across the castle, but soon enough you'd made it down to the locker rooms next to the Quidditch pitch, somewhere you knew James frequented when he spent some time alone.
The hall was mostly empty, which you blamed on the fact that breakfast had only just been served, though you managed to catch one boy on his way out of the locker room.
"Hi," you greeted, and the boy stopped in his tracks to peer curiously at you, who clearly did not play Quidditch. "Do you know if anyone's in there?" You motioned towards the locker room behind him.
He followed your eyeline and, after a beat, turned back to you with the ghost of a smile creeping onto his features. "Looking for Potter?" he asked, his tone somewhat amused. You nodded, hiding your confusion.
"Yeah," he then added, tilting his head towards the door in front of you. "He's in there."
You gratefully smiled at him and mouthed a 'thank-you,' striding towards the locker room.
"James?" you called softly as you opened the door, all too aware that technically you weren't supposed to be in the boys' locker room, but figuring it would be empty besides James anyway. To your suspicions, you were right and there was no sight of anyone. That was, until you turned the corner and saw the boy you'd been searching for.
James was standing in front of his open locker, though he'd disregarded it the moment you'd stumbled upon him after what looked like his post-practice locker room state. That is—shirtless. Very shirtless, and practically glowing underneath the sweat from whatever Quidditch skills he'd been drilling.
"Oh, um," you began messily, eyes widening and trying their best not to so obviously take in any area beside his face, but the gleam of his bare and sun-kissed chest was certainly not making it easy. "I can come back-"
"No," James cut in, and the timbre of his voice echoing in the empty locker room had you pausing. "Stay."
You nodded, his voice soft but strong enough that you found yourself standing there, unmoving. He'd clearly not been expecting any visitors, especially not you of all people, to show up in the locker rooms. But if he knew you at all, and he did, he should've known you'd always find him even when he didn't exactly want to be found.
That fact and the unwelcome wandering of your eyes over his chest and abdomen, as if he wasn't staring straight at you watching you do it, had you feeling slightly guilty. You cursed yourself the moment you realized what you were doing, trying to salvage yourself as much as you could.
You cleared your throat. "You weren't at breakfast," you said after you remembered why you'd come to find him in the first place. Your throat felt tight, the spacious and brightly-lit room suddenly feeling cramped.
"I wasn't that hungry," James said simply, and if he felt at all off-put by his shirtlessness and your obvious fit of staring he didn't show it.
"You need to fuel your body if you're gonna be playing Quidditch all the time, James," you chided.
He shook his head at you, eyes maybe a little warm but probably slightly annoyed. "You sound like my mum."
You breathed in your laugh at the warm memories of his mother from every summer you spent with him. "I'll take that as the highest of compliments then, J."
You swore you saw his lips quirk up at the nickname at the end of your warm sentiment. Maybe he was thinking of your summers together then, too, or maybe he was still questioning why the hell you'd chased him into the locker room. A silence passed over you both for a moment. You were still standing by the door, him at his locker some feet away, wordless.
"But seriously," you continued, taking an intentional step closer to him as you spoke. "You okay?"
James's eyes lifted from where they'd been settled off somewhere in the distance, meeting your own for only a split second. "You really love asking me that question."
You tilted your head at him, knowing he was only being avoidant. "James."
His expression revealed little to nothing, and it was like he refused to meet your gaze from that point on. "I'm fine." Following through with his dismissiveness, James turned away from you then, his front to his open locker and his back, his very bare back, to you. He began putting away his things, the muscles visible to your eyes churning with each action. You ignored that on top of his aversion.
"Are you sure?" you asked. "Because I know that last night you didn't exactly seem 'fine' and all, or, I don't know, you seemed upset," you fumbled to voice. "And then I talked with Remus and he kind of mentioned that you might be upset because of me and-"
"He did?" You could see him tense as his words broke your rambling. Either you'd begun to melt his sudden cold exterior or you'd frozen it even further.
"Yeah, he did." You spoke slowly, words cautious. "Whatever it is, you can talk to me about it, I promise." You paused there, giving him an opening to respond, but he didn't. He didn't even turn your way, his back still to you as he began organizing whatever he had in his locker. Your worrying kept your mouth running. "And if I did something to upset you, then- "
"You didn't." James finally turned around, shifting your view of him from his back to his front, and you could see in his eyes that he was holding something back. He looked uncharacteristically shy, his voice coming out softly but withdrawn. "You didn't do anything to upset me."
"That's good to hear," you said, even if you didn't truly believe it. "But you're clearly upset about something. I mean, you're out playing Quidditch before half the school's even woken up."
He shrugged his bare shoulders. "I do that all the time."
"Without telling any of the boys?" you questioned. "Sirius didn't even know where you were. We were gonna use the map."
James stared at you silently for a second, as if he was considering something up in that brain of his, but he stopped the action with a slight shake of his head and another shrug. "Look, I don't know what you want from me." His tone was growing more irritated with every word you pulled from him, and it was starting to not only annoy you but hurt you.
"I just want you to tell me what you're upset about-"
"I'm not upset, alright?" He practically cut you off, shutting his locker door with a jarring echo, but the sound was less alarming than the flinch you noticed in James's face. You shifted your gaze downward. Maybe you'd been too distracted by his reserved front or his unexpected shirtlessness to notice the bandages on his wrist.
Your brows pulled. "What's wrong with your wrist?"
James's eyes darted to yours at the question, and then down at his wrapped wrist as if he'd forgotten all about it. Knowing James and his unruly way of living, you reckoned he probably had. "It's nothing." He threw the shirt he'd most likely recently taken off over his shoulder, apparently ready to ignore your prying all over again.
You stared him down disbelievingly. "James."
He paused his endless movement to offer you a better answer with a sigh. "It started bothering me a few days ago during practice." When you continued frowning down at the injury, he added, "It's no big deal. I hardly notice it."
"You just flinched." You narrowed your gaze. "Now stop being all mysterious and let me at least look."
Giving in to your doting, James took a seat beside you on the wooden locker room bench, his legs facing the opposite side of yours. The skin of his shoulder brushed against your own, which you ignored.
Ever-so-carefully, you picked up James's hand and laid his wrist in your palm. His skin was surprisingly soft, something that contrasted the material of whatever bandage he'd used to cover his injury that'd clearly been chafing angrily against his skin. You eyed the messy bandage work and suppressed any urges to scold him, figuring he was already sitting here against his will.
You glanced up at him from where you sat, only a few inches between the two of you, and looked at him for approval to do more. His eyes searched yours for a beat, maybe in question, and then he nodded.
Steadily, you used your other hand to begin unwrapping the greying gauze, focused on the sound of your own tight breathing and the steadiness of your hands working the bandages. They'd definitely needed rewrapping if not just being thrown out and replaced altogether.
The silence in the empty locker room was distracting you, or maybe it was the fact that James sat so silently next to you, watching your every move. In your peripheral, you could see the hard plain of his chest rising and falling as you worked on his wrist. You chased the view away, lowering your head more until all you could see was your hands and his.
It took another moment to fully unwrap his wrist, your perturbation only heightening each time a new inch of bruising skin was revealed. You held the uncovered limb in your hands, frowning and fighting back a gasp at how not-fine the injury seemed.
"Merlin," you whispered, taking in the redness that'd come from both the bandages and the visible swelling. Slowly, you bent his hand forward ever so slightly, and even that action had James tensing in your hands, the small inhale he took more than audible to you from next to him. "You're telling me you hardly noticed this?"
James gave another aggravating shrug. "It only got this bad this morning. Must've slept on it wrong."
"Or maybe it was from you overworking it out on the pitch just now." You gave him a look. "You're lucky it's your non-dominant hand."
You scanned over the injury for another second and then placed his wrist on your lap gingerly. You turned to get your wand out of your bag but remembered the pastries you snagged from the Great Hall for him.
"I brought you food from breakfast, for after I finish with your wrist." You nodded to your bag. "I even got a chocolate croissant. Your favorite." You felt your lips tugging into a smile. Godric, you really did sound like a mother.
"You didn't have to," James insisted delicately, though you saw his eyes soften momentarily.
"I had to pay you back somehow for all the food you sent up to my room the other day. I never got to thank you."
James shook his head. "I got your thank you note."
It took a second for you to recall the scribbling of your quill against napkin, something you'd done in a hurry in your dorm but meant every word you wrote. You felt your cheeks warm at the memory and under James's gaze that you swore you could feel dancing across your face.
You focused back down at his hand that rested on your lap, taking ahold of your wand and pointing it steadily at the discoloration around his wrist. You certainly were no Madam Pomfrey, but you'd learned some basic healing spells over the years from being the boys' honorary on-hand nurse every time they came back still achy after full moons.
Even with that knowledge, you knew not to try anything too experimental on James's sensitive wrist. Delicately, you lifted his arm again before softly muttering the most appropriate healing spell you could recall. His arm felt especially heavy in its limpness, but you could tell James was still tense. You moved the fingers that held his arm back and forth slightly, a soothing gesture as you dragged the tip of your wand over the bruises. The pointed wood grazed over red-and-purpled skin but left it void of discoloration as it moved.
Your lips parted at the sight that never failed to seem brilliant to you, no matter how many nights you spent alongside your friends in the nurse's wing as she tended to them. You didn't look up to see his expression, but you could feel James's fingers soften in your grasp, hear his breathing shallow.
You worked on his wrist with your wand for another minute before you were satisfied, moving it around slightly and humming softly at the lack of discomfort he seemed to have. For safe measure, you lifted his arm from atop your thigh again and began rebandaging it, more neatly this time. Your fingers grazed against now healthy-colored skin, his long fingers limp in your hold but seeming more alive now that the wrist they were attached to was stronger.
You closed off the bandage, tucking in what needed to be tucked and scanning over your work once more for good measure. You leaned forward slightly to make sure the bandage wasn't twisted on the side of his hand you couldn't see and felt a soft and featherlike something brush against the top of your forehead.
Taken out of the intense focus you'd had on his wrist, you looked up to find the culprit of the feeling. It'd been one of James's curls that'd brushed against the top of your head, a sensation nauseatingly familiar, but you were more concerned with the way he was looking down at you.
Looking didn't seem a proper word for it, maybe studying or staring a better fit, but all train of thought had gone off the rails when you met his eyes. They were hazel, you knew that fact better than you knew the back of your hand, but now they seemed to sink into a deeper color, something heavy behind the way he was looking at you. And maybe you were only imagining it, but you could've sworn his gaze was angled to an area near your parted lips.
You blinked in alarm as your breath caught in your throat, not knowing what to do with all the weight of his stare but feeling like moving was impossible anyway with the way he seemed to suffocate you, all without moving a muscle. You were so close to him, close enough to see the heavy rise and fall of his very bare chest and every movement in his face. His breathing was thick, and yours was getting heavier by the second. Something shuttered inside of you as your brain recalled the only other time he'd looked at you in this way, right before he kissed you over Spin the Bottle.
You tried to chase the fluttery, dizzying feeling away, but it stayed fixed in place within your stomach. Did he know how he was looking at you right now? Like he was deep in thought, but as if his mind was blank, hypnotized. Like you'd entranced him. Like he didn't mind. Like he wanted to ...
The door to the locker room slammed open, and you'd never turned your head so fast in your life. You were sure James did too, but you were too busy staring at the unfamiliar strawberry-blonde boy standing in the doorway to be sure.
"Crap, I'm so sorry Captain," rang the short boy nervously, eyes shot wide as he took in the proximity of you and James, his shirtlessness, and most likely the flush in your face. James stood up and you followed suit, noticing the distance he'd already put between the two of you. "I didn't know you were in here. I just came for my broom polish. "
James cleared his throat, curtly nodding at the boy. "It's alright, Crembley." His voice took on the assertion of a levelheaded Quidditch Captain and showed no sign of the unstableness you were feeling from beside him. You didn't know how the hell he did it.
That thought, along with seemingly hundreds of other ones, ran through your head whilst the kid James addressed as Crembley ran through his things in the locker by the door. All you could hear was the shuffling of his things and the ringing in your ears as you waited. Daring to look over, James's head was perched downward in the silence, and he didn't show any signs of discomfort besides the subtle tick of his jaw.
It felt as if an eternity had passed before the boy found what he needed, carrying a round container in his hand as he closed his locker and walked back towards the door. "See ya Captain," he smiled thinly, probably noticing the thickness in the air. He nodded to you politely as well, albeit awkwardly, before taking his exit, leaving you and James alone in the locker room once more.
The silence was deafening. You looked down at your shoes and then at James, who somehow seemed like he was standing even farther away from you than before. You took a breath in to speak before you even knew what you were going to say, but James beat you to it.
"You should go." His voice cut through the silence and echoed through the room and your head unwelcomingly, tone low and sober.
You blinked at him, brows pulling into a line. "What?"
"I mean," he continued, seeming to correct his blunt tone before you could question it. "You're gonna miss Transfiguration."
His explanation didn't have you feeling any less confused. Your forehead creased and you squinted at him and his tense, broad shoulders. "So are you. James, what-"
"I'll meet you there, okay?" he still hadn't looked at you fully, eyes pitched somewhere too low or too shifted to either side of you to be truly at you. You didn't know what was going on, the questions you'd been trying to get answers to still swirling across your mind, unanswered. You tried to force him to meet your eyes, at least give you that respect, but he wouldn't. As you stared at him and the unwavering projection of his hardened gaze, you gave up trying to shift it.
"Okay."
Your heart throbbed in your chest, tired from the work it'd been put through in the span of a single minute. You suppressed the feeling, gathering your bag and throwing it over your shoulder. You took steps towards the door and James, but paused, remembering something.
"Here." You reached into your bag, pulled out the pastries you'd brought for him concealed by a napkin, and held them out for him to take. For a second, he didn't move, and you thought he might reject your offer entirely from whatever mood he'd been consumed by and send you on your way. But he was still James, the one you'd known since forever, and he took them from your hand timidly.
"Thanks," he said, almost a whisper, and he met your eyes then for only a second. You didn't miss the flush of his cheeks that you were sure matched your own, no matter how much he tried to ignore it. His eyes were guilty and quiet and a muscle in his jaw worked as he looked down at the food in his hand. He kept his gaze on it as you pushed open the locker room door and rushed away, feet moving you as your mind stayed stuck in the locker room, replaying its scenes like they would make anything that'd just happened clearer.
Summary: when you got injured the Doctor tries his hardest to distract you from the probable inevitable
Warnings: injuries
You let out a cry of pain as the Doctor slowly removed your shirt. The material was saturated with your blood and it seeped from your wound and onto the mattress.
“How bad is it Doc?” you asked
“Now then, love,” said the Doctor, “don’t use words like that.”
You looked down at your side and winced. The Doctor looked back up at you and gave you a scolding look.
“Don’t look, love.” he said
“Hey I’m the one who got injured. I know what happened. I just want to see.”
The Doctor leant up and stroked your face. He paused and looked down before wincing. He had accidentally stroked your face with his blood covered hand. You smiled at him weakly.
“It’s bad isn’t it.”
“What did I-”
“I know but please, tell me.”
“It’s… it could be better hun.”
“Thank you.”
You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. Immediately you felt someone lightly slapping your cheek.
“Don’t close your eyes for me, babe.” came the Doctor’s familiar voice
“Tired.”
“Oh no, I need to see them.”
“No you don’t.”
“Yes I do. No one quite has eyes like you do.”
“Flirt.”
“And you love it.”
You rolled your eyes and relaxed back against the bed. You took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. You could feel yourself getting colder, your vision blurring. You looked over at the Doctor who you assumed was looking for some sort of alien medical… thing.
“What are you looking for?” you asked weakly
“Something that’ll help you.”
“I thought… I thought you knew that you couldn’t save everyone.”
The Doctor paused and looked over his shoulder at you. He pressed his hand against your forehead and leant over. His other hand tilted your chin so you were looking up at him.
“I know I can’t save everyone,” he said, “people… die. But you’re… you’re different, love. Sometimes it’s hard to let go of people you love.”
“Love?”
“Love, love.”
“Trying to distract me?”
“Is it working?”
“Well I- ow!”
You yelped as the Doctor poured something onto the gash on your side. You looked down as you skin knitted back together and you looked up at him and said,
“You did that deliberately.”
“Did I? Now get some rest.”
You lay back down and shut your eyes. The exhaustion had suddenly come back over you but for different reasons. Yes, you were still weak from the blood loss but you now knew you weren’t dying.
“It was good,” you said weakly, “that talk about love. Good distraction.”
You drifted off to sleep and the Doctor stroked your head. Once he was sure you were asleep he leant down and pressed a kiss against your forehead. He stayed there for a bit, savouring the contact, before whispering,
Whumpee is still unconscious, which of course makes a bit easier for Caretaker to clean them up. They gingerly peel off their shirt, dried and fresh blood soaking it.
Whumpee's torso is a bloody mess.
Cuts and burns, not even a pattern. Just so many wounds. Caretaker looks at Whumpee's still face, cleaning up the dried blood on it first. They still look bad, but not as dead.
Everything is a bloody mess.
The bed, their hands, the cloths they use to clean up everything and get a better view on the wounds, which Caretaker cleans if needed. The older ones need more attention to not get infected, newer ones are bandaged to stop the bleeding first.
A sigh escapes Caretaker when they are finally done, washing their hands and getting something fresh to change into. They ask one of the team members to help them move Whumpee to a clean bed.
Hunter grimaces, but he tries to pull it off as a grin. “No, I can’t even feel anything.”
Crosshair snorts. “You’re such a liar.”
“If you truly did not feel anything, I would be concerned,” Tech puts in. When he sprays disinfectant over the broken skin, Hunter hisses and tries to pull his hand away, but Tech keeps a firm grip on Hunter’s wrist. “Please hold still.”
“I thought you couldn’t feel anything,” Crosshair mutters with a grin.
“Kriff off,” Hunter growls.
“Which reg did you punch?” Wrecker asks.
Hunter shrugs.
“Well, why’d you punch him?”
“Not worth talking about,” Hunter says.
“Oh, so you just punched some random reg in the teeth for no reason,” Crosshair says, rolling his eyes. “If you’re going to keep lying, Hunter, at least make it convincing.”
Hunter glares. “I’m not lying.”
“Then tell us what happened.”
“And then what?” Hunter asks, “You and Wrecker try to find these regs and pick a fight? No. Not happening.”
Tech begins wrapping Hunter’s hand. “Perhaps we can come to a compromise. You tell us the circumstances, but not the parties involved.”
“Why does it matter?” Hunter cries, “It doesn’t matter!”
“Because whatever the issue was, it was worth being outnumbered and fighting back,” Tech replies simply, voice remaining level. “If it matters to you, it most certainly matters to us.”
Hunter takes a steadying breath. “I didn’t punch anyone. I punched a wall,” he bites out. “It was stupid.”
Shocked silence follows the confession, his brothers exchanging glances.
Finally, Tech asks dryly, “And what did this wall do to offend you?”
“It was because of the evaluation this morning,” Crosshair says. He leans forward. “What did those long necks say?”
“What they always say,” Hunter mutters. “Veiled threats, letting me know without directly telling me that if we fail…there’s no point to us. We are experiments that can be thrown away as soon as we aren’t useful. I know they’re just trying to scare me into making sure I keep our records up, to make sure I push you guys in training and simulations. But I’m so kriffing tired of being objects to them.”
“We might be objects to them,” Wrecker says, “but we know better.”
“Wrecker is correct,” Tech says, adjusting his goggles. “Despite the Kaminoans best efforts, we are not exact copies of a desired product. We are individuals. It is a miraculous defect in what they perceived as a flawless design. Even the regs show variance. Whether they acknowledge it or not, it is a fact.”
Hunter glares at the floor. “Facts don’t keep us from being decommissioned, Tech.”
“No, but being the best does.” Crosshair stands up. “And we are the best, and we’ll keep being the best.”
Wrecker laughs. “Yeah, we are! We’re the best squad Kamino has ever seen.”
A grin tugs at the edge of Hunter’s lips. “Yeah, we are the best, aren’t we?”
“That is also a fact,” Tech agrees. He takes Hunter’s injured hand, examining the white bandage already tinged pink with fresh blood. “Next time you forget that, may I recommend a punching bag as a viable alternative to a wall?”
Hunter chuckles. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.”
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Have some wound cleaning ronance for your Wednesday morning!
“Shit,” Robin gasped, looking over her shoulder. “Is it dead?”
“I only shot it twelve times,” Nancy mumbled. “If it’s still not dead, we have a big problem.”
“Right. Right right right—”
“Robin, your shirt.”
Nancy lifted her torn up shirt without thinking twice about it to see the source of the blood. There was a series of three inch gashes in the shape of claws. Not good. Blood seeped out steadily.
“It’s just a scratch,” Robin said pleasantly as if it were a paper cut. “I’m fine!”
Nancy unzipped her backpack. In the last several months, she had rebroken bones, made splints, given stitches, administered pain medication. Who knew her calling was nurse now rather than journalist or detective? She fished out the needle and black thread. She was almost out, but there should be enough for Robin.
“W-what are you doing?”
Nancy took out disinfectant. She was too focused on trying to remember steps she had read all too recently to answer.
“It’ll sting, but you can’t get an infection,” Nancy said finally. She started gently soaking a rag with the disinfectant. “That’ll be worse than the initial injury.”
“O-okay.” Robin sucked in a breath. “Do it.”
With that, she swiped the rag over the claw marks. Robin barely let out a whimper.
“Now, you need—”
“Get that needle away from me!!” Her voice had reached that fearful, worrying pitch again.
“Robin,” Nancy said softly, patiently. “I’m trying to help you.”
“That’s what they all say,” Robin babbled. “And next thing you know, you’ve had a hundred needles in you and everyone disappointed in you that you’re broken and no reason as to why.”
Nancy paused, mid-threading the needle. She looked at Robin’s face for the first time since she opened the first aid kit.
“Did someone tell you that?”
“What? No!” Robin let out a high pitched, half formed laugh.
“Robin.” Nancy finished threading the needle, but didn’t let it pierce her skin yet.
The quiet look shared between them did more to calm Robin than words ever could. It was then Nancy took notice of the piercing pair of sparkling blues staring deeper into her than she’d allowed anyone in a long time. She cleared her throat and began stitching, taking that as permission.
“Anyone ever tell you how pretty you are?” Robin blurted, her voice tinged with pain.
“Did you hit your head too?”
Pretty? When was the last time someone had called her that? She spent half her time covered in blood, drenched in sweat, dressed like she was going to war. None of that screamed pretty to her.
“Yeah, yeah that’s definitely it.”
“Just a bit…more…”
Nancy leaned in and cut the thread with her teeth, bringing her lips close to Robin’s skin as she did so. The girl shuddered in response and finally pulled down her shirt, but Nancy grabbed her wrist mid-pull.
“I gotta bandage this too,” she reminded her. “And then we’re done.”
“Yes, Nurse Nancy.”
Nancy made quick work of the gauze and finally drew back from her patient, admiring her work before remembering she needed her shirt back over her body.
“Well…there we are. Simple as that.”
“Yeah.”
Steve yelled out that he found Will, tearing them both out of their spell and into action once again.
