Concrete Cold — eyes open to the sting of gravel pressed into their cheek, dried blood sticking their skin to the ground. Every muscle aches when they try to move.
Fogged and Bound — awareness trickles back with a burning neck, wrists cinched tight, fighting for vision as they realise they can’t move.
Hands First — they wake to someone slapping lightly at their face, murmuring “hey, come on, stay with me” — blurred voices and panic before the world comes back into play.
Public Humiliation — wake flat on their back in the middle of a crowd, strangers staring down, some filming, none helping fast enough.
Too Bright — harsh light floods in the second they pry their eyes open, head pounding, body strapped to a metal table.
Caretaker’s Lap — they stir to the feeling of a shirt under their cheek, arms around them, someone whispering: “easy, you’re safe, I’ve got you.”
Alone and Exposed — waking in an alley, shirt damp, ribs aching, with no memory of how they got there or why their hands won’t stop shaking.
Dragged Back — half-conscious, they wake only enough to realize they’re being carried, boots scraping the floor, head limp against a stranger’s chest.
Fever-Slick — waking mid-sickness, drenched in sweat, mumbling nonsense, too weak to push the blanket away.
Interrupted Nightmare — they jolt awake with a cry, not realizing the screams were theirs, throat raw, body fighting before hands pin them gently down.
Pinned by Weight — stirring only to feel a boot or a knee across their chest, air still cut off, the fight not finished after all.
Labored Return — they come to gasping, chest heavy, heartbeat wrong, every inhale clawing its way through cracked ribs or bruised lungs.
Disoriented — first thought: where am I? Second: why can’t I move? Third: oh fuck, someone’s watching me.
Forever obsessed with Character A finding out Character B is sick when B falls asleep against them and at first it's just cute and cuddly but then A realizes they can feel feverish heat radiating from B's face where it's pressed against their shoulder
When screams turn to strangled breaths, thrashing turns to trembling and twitching, because the whumpee is too exhausted, too broken for anything else.
When sobs no longer make a sound, because their throat is raw from screaming, so it’s just hitching breaths and silent tears from desperately squeezed eyes
When words, begging or defiant, lose meaning and turn into quiet, breathy groans, barely recognizable as “no"s
When thoughts wander and dissolve, unable to form, unable to even process whatever the whumper is saying, when every new blow comes as a surprise, because the mind is too clouded to anticipate what it knows is coming
An incapacitated character who is aware enough of their surroundings and the activity around them but too weak or out of it to actively participate- watching proceedings blearily from where they lie or slump, through half-lidded eyes and scarce able to lift their head, possibly unable to so much as speak; reduced to a mere spectator as others around them continue the action.
hi welcome to fic 16! it’s pre ot3 or gen or established, you pick. hope you enjoy!
They’re about thirty minutes into trudging through a swamp somewhere in central Canada when Illya says, quite conversationally and apropos of nothing, “I think I was injured. In escape.”
Napoleon stops moving, and Gaby slams into him from behind with a startled noise.
“You what?”
Illya shrugs, stops walking himself. Napoleon sees how he’s favoring his right leg.
“There was exposed metal, in the tunnels. I think it…got me.”
Napoleon tries to belay neither too much concern nor annoyance at Illya’s rather late notification. At least he’d said something, at least he’s still on his feet.
“Show us?”
Illya obliges, lifts his right leg out of the several inches of murky water.
The problem is immediately apparent. There’s a large tear in the fabric of his pants and beneath it, blood stands out against skin, mixed with mud.
Gaby draws in a breath. “This water is hardly good for it.”
Illya shrugs. “Cannot do anything about it now.”
He’s right, unfortunately. Unless the two of them who aren’t injured carry him, there’s nothing else for it.
“You can still walk?”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t hurt too much?”
“I only noticed it now. It’s not so bad.”
So it hurts quite a bit, then, both Gaby and Napoleon surmise.
“Right. Let’s just keep going, then.”
“Tell us if you need to stop.”
Illya, predictably, keeps silent the entire rest of the journey. It takes perhaps half an hour, but feels longer thanks to the continual worried glances Gaby and Napoleon keep taking when they think Illya isn’t looking.
After this seemingly endless journey, they end up back in the small town they’re staying in, damp and muddy up to their knees. It’s dark out, now, so at least no one can notice.
Inside, their safe house is cool and inviting. The three of them get straight to business, leaving horribly wet and muddy shoes by the door with futile hopes that they’ll be dry by morning.
They locate themselves in the bathroom. It’s a well-rehearsed routine by now, this is. Illya perched on the edge of the tub, having struggled out of his ruined pants. Gaby and Napoleon taking turns washing their hands under blisteringly hot water.
“This’ll hurt,” Napoleon warns, approaching Illya with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He doesn’t even want to imagine the amount of bacteria and various foreign particles that must’ve made their way into the wound.
Napoleon takes a second to be grateful that at least Illya’s had a tetanus vaccine—one less thing to worry about, though even without that, there’s still plenty of opportunity for infection.
Illya positions his leg inside the tub, so that the runoff hydrogen peroxide won’t go all over the floor, and Napoleon gets to it. No point in delaying it.
He washes out the wound thoroughly. Illya tenses his muscles when the liquid first hits his skin, but otherwise doesn’t indicate that he’s felt anything.
Gaby takes hold of his hand anyway, and though he’ll never say it aloud, she knows he appreciates it.
Napoleon follows the hydrogen peroxide up with warm water, rinsing the open wound for a couple of minutes. He follows this with another round of hydrogen peroxide, exhausting their supply.
This done, they switch places, and Gaby applies an antibiotic cream while Napoleon takes hold of Illya’s hand with his own now-damp fingers.
Gaby is similarly thorough with the ointment, carefully spreading it over perhaps a larger area of skin than strictly necessary. She finishes the job with gauze, wrapped tightly around Illya’s leg and fastened with quite a lot of tape.
When the job is finished, they all sit together in silence for a moment. There’s a calm feeling to this, now that the damage has been dealt with, now that there is nothing to do but wait and hope that they’ve done a good job.
They clean up with no real hurry, finally washing mud and sweat off of skin, dressing in comfortable and clean clothes.
Tomorrow, they’ll have to move out, stuffing feet into damp boots and pulling on muddied coats. Tomorrow, they’ll find out whether Gaby and Napoleon’s medical treatments have done enough.
Now, though, there is nothing more to do.
They move to the couch, radio switched on and limbs tangled together, and rest.
thanks for reading! i am posting this on mobile which i don’t normally do so pls lmk if it looks fucked up lol
omg im absolutely obsessed with the way river is so unsure if lamb is serious or not in the last drive the wedge ask. would you be willing to share another snippet with lamb or maybe frank?
THANK YOU it's one of the things that makes me the most bonkers about this lmao is the like. the association that happens in river's mind post-rescue with frank and lamb and how it casts so much... doubt on lamb sometimes, even beyond lamb already being a cantankerous asshole. it's like he thinks in that clip - lamb has never been violent to him before but things just feel so much less certain now. how can be trust that he won't be? it's so fun to me.
as thanks for asking and also an apology for taking a couple days to answer, have TWO clips, one with lamb and one with frank :)
this is um. well. snippet. clip. this is a.......... rather long piece from river's time in captivity sldfjs and then down under that ive got a clip from after his return, from the same conversation the last clip with lamb is from. this is. well it's frank, so content warning for. frank. and generally just. violence/trauma.
drive the wedge, frank:
Frank is looking at him. His eyes are hard and cold and they don’t waver for a moment. They bore into River’s with enough intensity that it nearly makes River flinch backwards just to see them. He just barely manages to stifle the instinct — it’s a close enough call that his hand, the one gripping the arm of the chair, flexes and the chain of the cuff around his wrist rattles.
“I asked if you were allergic to anything,” Frank says, slow and clipped. “If I’m going to be feeding you for the foreseeable future, then I need to know if I’m going to kill you with what I’m putting in front of you, River. Are you. Allergic. To anything?”
There’s a dangerous tone to the question and River knows that he isn’t going to be allowed to get away with not answering it. Still, the words stick in his constricted throat and his mind practically makes an audible sound as it whirs, trying to figure out how to parse what Frank said. I need to know if I’m going to kill you with what I’m putting in front of you. That wasn’t I need to make sure I won’t kill you. Everything about River’s life, including its very continued existence, has grown very precarious these days, and it makes the need to consider whether that was meant as a threat a very pressing one.
Maybe it was a threat, maybe it wasn’t. Does he tell the truth? The debate wars on in his head, seconds ticking away at a glacial pace, all the while River is acutely aware of the strict, violent man staring at him and waiting for an answer. His body aches in steady pulses, injuries layered over one another reminding him of the consequences if he crosses wherever Frank has drawn the arbitrary line of disobedience and disrespect today.
Instinct tells him that Frank is about to speak again before the words actually leave his mouth — maybe it’s something about the pattern of his breathing or how his face shifts, but River knows that it’s coming just in time to force out an answer before he’s asked a third time and made to pay for it.
“Yes,” he says, too loud. A wince makes the bruises creeping up his jaw and splashed across his cheekbone, blacking one of his eyes, throb. It was a mistake, the way he said it. River knows that it sounded afraid, and it is always a mistake to let these fucking people see his fear.
“Yes what?”
The second question is even worse than the first had been. River hadn’t wanted to tell them whether or not he was allergic to anything, and he wants even less to give the answer that he knows is expected to this one. It’s not even so much a question as it is a demand, a reminder that he knows what he is expected to do and that it is in his best interests to comply.
River doesn’t want to fucking comply. He stares down at the surface of the table, at the partially-cleared plate he doesn’t think he can bring himself to touch again, and remains silent. His teeth grind together and his bruised jaw aches.
Out of the corner of his eye, River catches the movement a second before fingers seize hold of his hair. Pain lights up in his scalp, sharp and loud, and he barely bites back a yelp as Frank wrenches his head over, forcing eye contact. River’s eyes water and his face hurts and he just— He can’t do this. He just can’t. More than anything, more than keeping his dignity intact, more than preserving his pride, more than standing up to this monster, River just does not want to be fucking hit again. It’s happened so many times and his entire body is begging for relief, crying out for just a little bit more time without another bruise beat into his skin.
“Father,” River yelps, quick and obedient, when the grip on his hair flexes and Frank's other hand begins to lift. He’s exhausted and he hates himself more than he could possibly describe but he does what he is expected to do, repeats, “Yes, father.”
Calmly, almost casually, Frank’s fingers release their iron grip on his hair. His hand doesn’t retreat right away, though. Instead it lingers, coming down to settle lightly, gently on River’s bruised cheek and then give it a tiny pat. It doesn’t hurt at all and River flinches.
“That’s my boy,” Frank says, satisfaction so thick in his voice that River wishes he would choke on it. His hand leaves then, finally pulling away and returning to pick up a fork as if nothing has changed. As if he’s still just discussing errands at a Wednesday night dinner with his sons.
---
and now lamb:
“I said sit,” Lamb repeats, once he’s settled. His voice is firm and commanding but not angry, and River— River almost flinches.
The factors ping around the inside of River’s head, the hamster running frantically on some shitty squeaky wheel in there trying to do the desperate math and figure out what’s going to happen. He feels like he knows, but he can’t… There’s something keeping that hamster on that fucking wheel, counting things up and trying to piece them together.
Voice not angry. Expression not glaring, still just that terrible oh, I see look. Lamb is sitting down and River is still standing and there’s a desk between them and there’s no extension cord or belt in sight. And still — What do you suggest? All morning, all day, River has been a fucking terror. Something else, too, something that superimposes Frank over Lamb sometimes when River can’t quite pry them apart.
There’s an audible sigh and River just barely manages for a second time to suppress a flinch. “Look, alright, what you’re feeling right now? It is not about what’s happening here,” Lamb says, and his voice keeps that steady tone that brooks no argument but also seems to levy no threat. “Some part of you has gone back there. I need you to hear and understand that I am not Frank Harkness, and so you and me are going to sit down and you’re going to come back to here before we talk any more about your assignment today.”
“Roddy, that’s not fucking helping!” Shirley sneered, and River thought she might strangle the tech expert if her hands weren’t currently covered in River’s blood.
“What? It’s not,” Roddy said, offended as he turned a shade paler.
River didn’t need to be told things were dire; the pain and the large amount of blood staining his jeans were enough to tell him that. Well, that and the bullet hole in his thigh.
“Give me your belt,” Shirley yelled at the tech whiz, holding her hand out impatiently, leaving one still pressed against River’s wound.
“It’s Gucci,” Ho scoffed.
“I don’t give a shit. If you don’t give it to me right fucking now, I’m going to strangle you with it.”
It would be quite amusing to watch Shirley threaten Roddy’s life if River wasn’t also concerned about bleeding to death.
“You’re buying me a new one,” Roddy said as he reluctantly unbuckled his belt before sliding it from his jeans but holding on a second too long for Shirley to rip it violently from his hand. “That hurt!”
“Oh, does that hurt?” River yelled, pressing harder to the bullet wound in his thigh while Shirley wound it around his upper leg. “I’m sorry my gunshot wound led to a little rope burn!”
River groaned in pain, his vision going white as Shirley tightened the belt around his thigh, just above the hole in his pants, before inserting the empty clip from his gun into it and twisting.
“Fuck! Did you have to tighten it that much?” he asked once he recovered, his breath coming in heaving gasps.
“If you don’t want to bleed out, I did,” Shirley answered, and that was fair enough. “Where the fuck is the ambulance?”
As if on cue, Marcus returned, paramedics trailing behind him.
“Thank fuck,” Shirley said, waving them over. “Took you fucking long enough.”
“I couldn’t make them appear faster now, could I?” Marcus argued.
“Look at him, he looks half dead,” Shirley replied.
“I can hear you,” River slurred.
Shirley ignored him and turned to the paramedics checking her watch, “I just applied the tourniquet a few minutes ago.”
River found it more difficult to follow what they were saying as he realised the pain in his leg had begun to lessen. That had to be a good thing, right? Only now was he suddenly freezing, his body beginning to shiver slightly as the first paramedic, a man around his mum’s age, knelt beside him.
“Does he have any medication allergies?”
“Fuck if I know,” Shirley answered.
“No,” River said, his voice quiet.
“What was that?” the other paramedic, a woman a few years younger than him, asked.
“No,” River said, attempting to be louder.
He was getting tired now, and the paramedics were here, so maybe he could rest his eyes a bit.
“Wait!” he said, his eyes flying open as a surge of adrenaline coursed through him. “You should leave. Lamb–Lamb’ll be mad. Go.”
He tried to lift his hand and shoo them away, but his limb wasn’t cooperating. He tried again, his hand merely twitching on the blood-stained concrete beside him. Well, that was annoying. He tried, but he couldn’t make them move now; it was up to them if they didn’t want to be fired.
Again.
He let his eyes slip shut, the pain now almost gone, though he was colder than before.
“River, wake up!”
“Tired,” he mumbled.
The other voices blended together. Some he knew, some he didn’t. He hoped they were listening to him. Roddy Ho’s unmistakable voice was the last thing he heard before he succumbed entirely to the darkness.
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