✧ Broken ribs suck. You don’t just “walk it off.” Breathing hurts. Laughing hurts. Existing hurts. Characters with rib injuries won’t be doing heroic sprints.
✧ Concussions aren’t instant naps. Dazed vision, nausea, dizziness, maybe even personality changes, but they’re not going to collapse neatly like in the movies.
✧ Blood loss is sneaky. It’s not just about dramatic pools of blood. It’s dizziness, confusion, and the body getting cold as circulation tanks.
✧ Adrenaline lies. Someone can take a serious injury and not feel it until the fight’s over. That “I didn’t realize I was bleeding until later” trope? Very real.
✧ Twisted ankles are brutal. One bad step and suddenly running is off the table. Even walking hurts like hell. Perfect way to ground a chase scene.
✧ Burns linger. Even small burns hurt more than most people expect. Blisters, infection risk, constant pain, it’s not just a cool scar later.
✧ Dislocated shoulders = useless arm. Characters can’t keep swinging a sword or firing a gun. They’re basically fighting one-armed until it’s fixed.
✧ Shock is a thing. Pale skin, trembling, rapid heartbeat, and eventually disorientation. A character might not even realize how bad their wound is.
✧ Stitches aren’t magic. Getting sewn up is painful and recovery takes time. They’re not instantly battle-ready after a needle and thread.
✧ Scars tell stories. Some fade, some don’t. Some stay sensitive forever. Don’t forget the aftermath when the wound becomes part of the character.
Let his flesh not be torn, let his blood leave no stain
Though they beat him, let him feel no pain
Let his bones never break, and however they try to destroy him
Let him never die, let him never die
Best place for a whumpee to be: jail cell separate from but visible to a friend.
Medic and whumpee captured together, medic desperately trying to walk Whumpee through first aid before they pass out from blood loss, unable to get to them.
Leader whumpee getting beat to shit in clear view of their team and none of them can help.
Rivals/enemies captured together, watching the other get hurt and realizing in the worst way possible that some part of them cares for the other.
A character who could, and tries to, push through the pain, were that the only impediment to be overcome, but their leg(s) physically cannot support them, no matter how stubborn or stoic they are- their knees just buckle, the muscles aren't strong enough to hold them up, the mechanics of some vital tendon are missing, a wound has caused enough nerve-damage, there's a foreign object too cumbersome or lodged in too awkward a place, a bone is so badly broken it lacks the structural integrity- whatever the injury/cause, there is no way around the sheer physical incapability the pain accompanies- the character can mind-over-pain but they can't mind-over-matter.
Leader is deeply unhappy with Whumpee's recently lacking performance, lecturing them thoroughly on their actions. but when it seems like Whumpee's zoning out of the conversation instead of listening, glazed expression and no eye contact, Leader reaches out and grabs them by the collar, intent on forcing them to pay attention--
--and Whumpee's legs give out from under them, now held up only by Leader's fist.
"whumpee?" they say, much softer now, wide eyed, shifting to cradle them, to lay them on the floor. "whumpee!"
Constance is awakened by the sound of the front door banging open. It's strange, and worry worms its way into her still half-sleeping mind. d'Artagnan is usually so quiet when he gets home late, slipping into the house and taking his boots off right away so that his footfall is as gentle as possible as he makes his way to bed. Her concern grows as she hear urgent, overlapping voices. She can't hear well enough to pick out conversation, but she recognizes the voices as belonging to Porthos and Athos. She gets out of bed and pulls a robe over her nightdress, then lights a candle before heading to toward the front of the house.
"d'Artagnan?" she says sleepily. "What's--" The question dies in her throat when she lays eyes on the musketeers, and she's instantly wide awake.
Athos and Porthos are standing with Aramis propped up between them, his arms slung around their shoulders. He seems barely conscious, his head drooping toward his chest, dark curls tumbling down and partially obscuring what she can see is a bloodied face. There's more blood on his shirt, lots of it – far more than could have come from his face and head. d'Artagnan is kneeling in front of the fireplace arranging kindling to get a fire started, but pauses at the sound of Constance's voice, head snapping to look at her. His eyes are wide and frantic.
"We're going to need candles," he says.
Constance just nods, numb. She would never say so aloud, but Aramis has always been her favorite of her husband's companions. He's always treated her as someone capable, and isn't afraid to tease her the way he might the other musketeers. He's a friend. And now here he is, bleeding in her kitchen in the middle of the night.
"Constance!" d'Artagnan's voice isn't harsh or cruel, but it's sharp and it snaps her from her stupor.
"Candles," she says, and relief crosses d'Artagnan's features, just for a moment, before shifting back to determined focus.
Constance hurries back to the bedroom, flinging open the cupboard where the spare candles are kept. Reaching down to grab the bottom edge of her robe, she lifts it to create a makeshift pouch and then sweeps the candles into it before rushing back into the kitchen.
They've cleared the table and Aramis is lying on it now, naked from the waist up. Her breath catches at the sight of the ugly, bleeding gash that stretches across nearly his whole chest, deep and ragged. One of the musketeers—a quick look at the others tells Constance it was Porthos—has taken off his cape and tucked it under Aramis's head as a makeshift pillow. It's obviously an attempt at offering some sort of comfort, and the tenderness of it makes Constance's chest ache a little.
"I've got the candles," she says. "Where should I put them?"
d'Artagnan looks at Porthos. "The desk in the corner. Can you bring it over here?"
Porthos nods, moving without question to do as instructed. He lets out a loud breath of effort as he lifts the desk, a few random objects clattering onto the floor as he does. He brings it to the table where Aramis is laid and sets it on the ground opposite the fireplace with a grunt.
"You can put them there," d'Artagnan says, but Constance is already moving, setting the candles down on the wooden surface.
"Shouldn't he be at the surgeon's?" Constance says as she begins lighting the candles one by one, sharing the flame from her already lit candle.
"We tried there first," Porthos says grimly, "but he'd already been called away to help with a difficult birth."
"I can stitch him up," d'Artagnan says. "Aramis has taught me well, and I've borrowed a needle and catgut from the surgeon's."
Constance isn't sure borrowed is quite the right word, since she highly doubts the catgut will be returned, but she doesn't mention it.
"His needlework is almost as neat as Aramis," Porthos is saying, and the comment is enough to rouse a response from Aramis. She hadn't known he was conscious and aware enough to hear their conversation, much less answer.
"Not even close," he croaks, voice strained and exhausted-sounded, but still carrying that signature bit of mischief. Porthos almost smiles as d'Artagnan makes a small, protesting noise.
"I've the water and bandages," Athos says, drawing all of their attention as he enters the small room. He's got an armful of cloth in one hand and a pot of steaming water in the other.
d'Artagnan nods his approval. "Good, bring them here."
Constance watches as, just as Porthos had when moving the desk, Athos follows d'Artagnan's instructions without argument. She knows they've all grown close in the last few years, that d'Artagnan has earned their trust and respect a hundred times over, but still: he's the youngest, and more often than not they treat him as such, teasing and playfully talking back any time d'Artagnan tries to take charge. It's a testament to the seriousness of the situation that Athos and Porthos are doing as they're told.
"Alright, Aramis. I'm going to clean the wound, and then I'll stitch you up good as new. This is going to sting. Do you need something to bite down on?"
"No," Aramis says with a jerky shake of his head. He looks a little pale, but determined. "No, I'll be alright. Can I get a drink first though?"
Porthos pulls a flask out of his pocket, holding it up to Aramis's lips and tipping it up so he can drink. Aramis gulps the alcohol down, then coughs, and Porthos hastily pulls the flask back.
"Easy," he says. "You alright?"
Aramis nods, tight-lipped. "Fine. I'm ready."
d'Artagnan dunks one of the bandages in the hot water then pulls it, sopping, from the pot and wrings it over Aramis's chest. Aramis winces, pulling in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. d'Artagnan repeats the process until the blood is mostly rinsed away, the water trickling down Aramis's sides nearly clear instead of the dark pink it had been at first. And then he threads the needle.
"I may need you two to hold him down," he says.
"You may not," Aramis says with a glare. d'Artagnan shoots a glare right back.
"I'm good, Aramis, but not so good that I can stitch up a moving patient. If you don't keep still, they're going to hold you down."
Aramis's eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn't argue further.
"Good," d'Artagnan says. "Constance, can you hold one of those candles closer, please?"
Constance nods silently, picking up a candle and moving to Aramis's side, holding the candle so that the warm yellow glow illuminates the wound across his torso. She swallows, but doesn't look away. Between growing up with older brothers and having musketeers for friends and a husband, she's seen too many injuries to be squeamish about it, and anyway she needs to concentrate. The candle needs to be held steady if she's going to actually be of any help.
"Porthos, your flask," d'Artagnan says, holding a hand out. Porthos hands him the flask and d'Artagnan splashes some of its contents on the needle before pouring the rest over Aramis's chest. Aramis jerks slightly, jaw tightening. Constance knows from experience that alcohol on an open wound burns, though she's only ever had it happen by accident with small nicks on her hands. She can't imagine the pain Aramis is in, but she can see it written all over his features.
And d'Artagnan hasn't even started the stitches yet.
"I'll try and be quick," d'Artagnan says gently. "Deep breath."
Aramis takes a deep breath, and as he exhales d'Artagnan pushes the needle into his skin. Aramis manages to keep still, but he makes a small noise in the back of his throat and his eyes squeeze shut. The nails of one hand scratch against the wood beneath his hands and Porthos, who's pulled a chair up to the table, reaches forward, gripping Aramis's hand tightly in his.
"You can squeeze as hard as you'd like," he says, voice low, and Aramis grimaces.
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't hurt me. Besides, it's better than you tearing up your fingernails."
d'Artagnan doesn't stitch quite as quickly as Aramis, but he still works with a quiet efficiency that Constance can't help but be impressed by. She's even more impressed by Aramis. Most of the color has drained from his face and there's sweat beaded across his forehead, and tension is visible through his entire body as he forces himself to keep still through the agonizing procedure. But keep still he does. There are a few moments that Constance can tell that the pain is worse because his grip on Porthos tightens, his knuckles going white. In the end, though, he's right. Porthos and Athos don't need to hold him down.
"That's the last one," d'Artagnan says as he ties the final stitch. "I just need to bandage it up now. Do you think you can sit up?"
Aramis starts to push himself up on trembling arms, but doesn't get very far before his limbs give up and he collapses back against the table with a pained grunt. Porthos and Athos hadn't needed to hold Aramis down, but they do need to hold him up; each of them holds one of his arms and they lever him into a sitting position, keeping him upright as d'Artagnan wraps a dry bandage around Aramis's upper chest and secures it into place.
"Done," d'Artagana says. The word has barely passed his lips before Aramis lets out a long, audible exhale, his taut muscles finally relaxing. His eyes flutter closed and he lists forward, slumping bodily against Porthos.
"Is he okay?" Constance says fretfully, pulse picking up a little.
"He's exhausted," Athos says. "He needs some good sleep, that's all."
"Well he isn't going to get it on our kitchen table," Constance says.
She looks at d'Artagnan, chewing on her bottom lip. He looks like he could use a good night's sleep as well, but Aramis...d'Artagnan seems to understand her intentions, though, because he says, "He can sleep in our bed. If that's alright with you?"
"I don't think I'll be able to sleep anyway after all that," Constance says, and d'Artagnan smiles softly, reaching over to plant a kiss on the top of her head.
"Thank you, my love," he whispers.
"I can help move him--" Athos begins, but Porthos interrupts.
"I've got 'im." Before Athos has a chance to argue, Porthos is already bundling Aramis's limp form into his arms with surprising (or not, considering Porthos is also the one who had used his cape as a pillow) gentleness. He doesn't need to say anything for them to know that he's going to be staying by Aramis's side through the night. Once Porthos is out of sight and they hear the bedroom door close, Athos turns to d'Artagnan with a raised eyebrow.
"You did very well."
d'Artagnan looks down with a bashful half-smile. "Aramis is the one who taught me how to do it, so."
"Not just with the sutures," Athos says. "You took charge. I'm impressed." He looks up at Constance. "With you as well, madame."
"All I did was hold a candle," Constance says, suddenly understanding her husband's reaction as she suppresses a proud grin of her own. Athos usually plays the stoic. This kind of genuine appreciation from him is a lot.
"You did hold that candle very well," d'Artagnan says fondly. He kisses her temple, then turns to Athos. "Well, Porthos and Aramis are here for the night. Do you want to stay, too? You may as well."
Athos considers for a moment, then shrugs, pulling a chair out from the table and sitting. "I do think the two of you would be better company tonight than my own thoughts."
Constance smiles. She'd known when she married d'Artagnan what she was getting herself into, but she didn't fully comprehend to what extent it would feel like she'd gotten four for the price of one. She doesn't really mind, though. In fact, she wouldn't trade it for the world.
Leader leaned his hands on the table, squinting at the map sprawled across it and blinked a few times as it blurred in and out of focus.
"Leader? You were saying..?" Teammate Two prompted.
"Right," he started again, ignoring how the room span as he lifted his hands from the table. "So if we plant charges on...on the..." his voice trailed off, his thoughts slipping through his mind like sand. He dug his nails into his palms, willing himself to concentrate.
"You alright, boss?" Teammate One asked, their brow creased as they stepped closer.
"Fine," he dismissed as the team exchanged confused and concerned glances.
Just wanting to get through the briefing, Leader took a slow, deliberate breath before continuing. "If we plant charges on the w...west generator, that should... should buy us- enough t-time to... to..." Leader stumbled through his words, his sluggish mind unable to navigate the fragmented thoughts as another wave of nausea rolled over him.
He vaguely registered a muffled shout from Medic.
"'m fine," he slurred, reaching out for something to stabilize himself as his body swayed dangerously. He hadn't even realized he was falling until his head slammed against the floor.
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