#i don't think the description is very graphic but better safe than sorry so here is lil warning

[factorialsotherfandoms]

[top disclaimer - I saw yesterday's whumptober prompt of worked to exhaustion and remembered a bit of my xcom2 with qsmp characters playthrough I keep meaning to type up at least tidier notes for. I haven't yet, but this is a pair of scenes 47 pages in to my 90 pages of notes. Hopefully enough of this makes sense... TLDR: Mike was kidnapped, there's been 2 awful missions in a row where many people get hurt, etc. Warnings for major character injuries, though there are no graphic descriptions.]

It's been a two days since Bogota. If Philza never sees another sewer again, it will be far too soon. Tiny scabs from where the Spectre sent its bugs all through his body still cover every bit of skin, and the larger lazer burns remain bandaged tightly.

Fit is visiting, looking even more exhausted than Philza feels. He's brought snacks, and gossip, and will not go back to bed no matter how much Philza suggests it. It's not like Philza would be lonely - Missa and Roier's mission had also been a bit of a wreck, the entire team of six also in the medical ward for the immediate future at least. Chayanne, too, is about, the young boy currently curled up and asleep on the foot of Missa's bed.

Must be terrifying for the kid, to be rescued from hell only to see both new parents in the hospital in a few days of each other. For Bobby, too; Jaiden was also on the mission with Missa and Roier.

Still, Fit is here, so they make small talk. There's not a whole lot happening on the ship, but they can pretend.

The curtain lifts up, and Philza expects either Chayanne or the Doctor. Instead he sees Cellbit, looking about as close to passing out as Fit. His uniform is smart but his hair is a mess from running his hands through it too often, his face is near gaunt, and his fingers shake where they cling to his tablet.

"Fit, Philza." Cellbit nods to them both.

Philza's wave comes with a wince, Fit's salute with an "oi there what's up?"

"I'm really sorry to interrupt, but we need you for something. Fit, that is. We need Fit."

"What is it?" Fit groans as he tries to peer at Cellbit's clipboard.

The paperwork is hastily tucked away, "there's an opportunity that's come up. We need you to go undercover and get some research done."

"You're fucking joking," Philza immediately cuts in, one arm protectively covering the largest of his wounds, while the other grabs on to Fit. "Cellbit, we just got back from Bogota. You know how bad Bogota was. There's no way in hell this is safe. And everyone who was in Kaduna? Can't it wait a week"

Cellbit at least has the decency to look genuinely apologetic, "if there was another option…"

"What is it?" Fit removes Philza's arm from his own. "I'm not really in top condition; if you just need shit blowing up, Vegetta's a little better off."

"Can't it wait until tomorrow?" Philza asks. "At least then our armour upgrades will be done."

"Phil," Fit's voice drops a little.

Philza knows what being scolded for being overprotective sounds like, but Fit is his friend. His friend, who he dragged through hell, and has been dragged through hell by, and he trusts with his soul.

"It's Mike," Cellbit says, and that has both of them shut up. "We think we have a lead, but from the glimpses our contacts got during the transfer... It doesn't look good. Here."

Fit is handed a tablet, and shown whatever evidence the resistance has found.

"Fuck," Fit whispers the word, rubbing at his face. "There's nobody else?"

Philza is handed the tablet. It's a very short video clip, slightly corrupted. Still it's very clearly Mike, bloody and disorientated and still fighting as he's dragged from one transport van to another. He manages to bite a guard, and for it gets cracked over the head, goes limp and is tossed into the van.

He hands the tablet back, and tries not to think about the implications, or how they probably don't have as much time as this needs.

Instead he runs through the options: Jaiden and the team she took to Kaduna are back, but every one of them is in hospital with him. Forever, Tubbo, and Aypierre are needed on the ship. Mouse is still exhausted, even more dangerous for psi ops than the rest of them to push it. Cellbit himself still has one arm in a sling, and probably should not have left medical yet. A couple of other people, but most are too inexperienced to be sent out in just a duo for what will likely be a multi-week stealth operation. There's Baghera and Foolish, both experienced, but neither is much good at hacking. Which. Will probably be needed, to confirm which facility has Mike, and for how long.

There's Pac, of course, and Philza would put Pac on being the other half of the planned team. Ever since Mike was captured best part of two months ago, Pac has been on one ground mission - and there have been a lot of ground mission. The problem is, without Mike, Pac can be... Not volatile, volatile is Mike when Pac is critically injured and dying on the floor and Mike is too terrified to let anyone past to stabalise him, but reckless. Only with his own safety, but that's a problem itself.

Add in that Pac was /also/ on the mission in Bogota, still recovering from the sheer exhaustion of the test... Philza really wishes anyone else were available.

"There's Pac," Cellbit offers, also frowning. "He found out and wants in."

"If Pac's going, you need to go." The words taste like ash on Philza's tongue. "If it were not about Mike…"

Cellbit nods in agreement.

They can't keep Pac from going after Mike, and the purpose of a mission is impossible to keep secret for long with thirty-odd people crammed into one airship. Forever wouldn't be willing to, either. And to get Mike back but have lost Pac... They cannot do that either.

And Pac needs a stabalising hand with Mike gone, someone to keep him from shattering completely. There's a reason every mission he's been on since, Fit has been there. There's good reason, and everyone knows it.

Fit misses Mike like a limb, too, Philza knows.

Fit sigh, and stretches, and rubs his face, "I hate when you're right. Do I have time for a nap?"

"You leave in twenty minutes, but it's a long flight," Cellbit does seem apologetic, for all he runs his hands through his whitening hair. "The real problem is it's in Australia."

"Fucking hell," Fit groans. "They really didn't want us finding him, did they?"

"But we did," Cellbit reminds them, with a flash of his slightly too sharp teeth. "And they won't keep him. Once we have the coordinates, Forever'll send someone to help you get in and out."

Philza and Fit share a look. Fit looks like the exhaustion has seeped into his soul. It's a danger, going out in the field so tired. To himself, to others, to everyone.

But sometimes, he supposes, there really is no other choice.

Fit breaks eye contact first, "I'll kit up and be at the hanger in ten. Who's briefing us?"

"Not sure yet. Forever's still working out the details, so probably him?"

"A'ight," Fit turns to Philza. "See you later, big boy."

Philza rolls his eyes to mask his concern. "Just don't fall asleep on the job."

He gets flipped off; Philza laughs, and lets them leave.

Two weeks later, Pac and Fit come back - not someone joins them, they come back. They have Mike's location, and an entry point, and the head cracking didn't kill him, but he's being tortured and there's talk of disposing of him soon. Philza wishes that was the worst of it, though, he really does; most people's injuries have recovered so getting a team together won't take long. It's serious, but they can handle it. Hell, he'll voluenteer.

No, the worst of the report is that Pac gives it alone; Fit was rushed straight to medical as soon as they land. He is alive - conscious even - but the wounds are still severe.

Didn't hear a Viper coming, Pac says, was caught and constricted and had his rib cage crushed. And then used a grenade to force it to let go, dropping it at his own feet to force the alien to let go. Pac had been hacking at the time, getting the info they needed, and didn't notice anything until Fit was snatched from the door.

Fit didn't hear it, or so Pac says, too tired, too caught up in exhaustion to hear the threat until it was too late.

And Philza, Philza wishes he was surprised.

#qsmp fanfic #alternate universe - alien invasion #is this xcom2 crossover fic when I still haven't written the reports up? #yes oops #what immediately follows this is rescuing Mike #and Fit is fine in a bit with near-future medicine plus alien drugs #he's less badly off than phil at the start of the fic #but its a thing #not all of the eggs are actually around yet - ramon is notably missing in this fic but it might actually be just chayanne and bobby atm #I forget the exact order of who was where #qsmp x xcom

[t4tmoreid]

(Tw rape and whole drama thing going on idk if that's a tw but just to be safe) I'm so confused with everything going on lmao. I'm aware my opinion is irrelevant but I agree that sometimes people get a little too carried away when writing it and sometimes it is like a 'wow this is hot' thing and can most definitely just be done (if central to the plot) in a way that doesn't involve graphic description. But also just my personal opinion here alpha/beta/omega thing just confuses me like I don't understand it at all lol (are they werewolves? What's happening?). But yeah that's my opinion, if you were curious, which you probably weren't but still lol

akshfks yeah i feel you the alpha/beta/omega stuff can definitely be confusing hahaha. if you're looking for an explanation, i think it's kinda one of those things where everyone who writes it will have a slightly different take on the universe so it can be really varied, but my understanding of it is that it's very loosely based on wolf pack dynamics? i think lol. so like it's not werewolf, but it's wolf adjacent i guess akjdhfks. there are other people who could explain it for you much better than i can, but the gist of it usually boils down to the dynamic between an "alpha" (usually portrayed as a dominant) and an "omega" (usually portrayed as a submissive).

i probably should've realized last night when i just threw around the "mean alpha hotch" thing that that might've been confusing to some people so sorry about that, thats my bad lol. i just brought it up because a lot of these people like to use the a/b/o universe and its dynamics as an excuse to write hotch as an extremely aggressive dominant "alpha" who takes advantage of spencer, a weak and submissive "omega," so a lot of the time this weird r*pe fic we were talking about will fall into that category, since this way people can use the excuse of "this is just what the a/b/o universe is!!" to justify writing and getting off on violent SA lmao

i think a/b/o as a whole is a bit of a different conversation though, to me at least. i think it's definitely possible to write a/b/o and explore that universe in a way that isn't creepy and r*pey, but in my experience the vast majority of people who write that sort of thing just use it as an excuse to be freaks akjhsfksdjsk so as a general rule of thumb i usually find myself being pretty weary of it

#ask #anon #cw rape

[sharkneto]

Five gets a bit drunk and has a small accident. It’s fine; he’s had worse injuries and he takes care of it, so why are Klaus and Diego making it into a bigger deal than it is?

Is this a classic “Five gets drunk and hurts himself” whump fic? You betcha. Ft concerned brothers Klaus and Diego.

#rated teen for five's bloody lil injury #and five swearing like a sailor #i don't think the description is very graphic but better safe than sorry so here is lil warning #tua #umbrella academy #the umbrella academy #tua fic #tua fanfic #umbrella academy fic #umbrella academy fanfic #number five #number five hargreeves #five hargreeves #klaus hargreeves #diego hargreeves #number 2 #number 4 #number 5 #ficblogging #sharkneto speaks

[imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl]

Stay With Me (Pt. 02 of 09)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon X Reader

Word count: 2.4 K

Summary: Daryl found you surrounded by the dead, stuck in the backseat of a car. You were wishing for death to take you away for quite a while now, but, as you slid back and forth into consciousness, there was only one thing keeping you alive. Him, the man with blue, worried eyes and kind voice. Your beaten up body was ready to give up, too wounded and broken to keep going. But this man, who went out of his way to save your life is the only thing in the world holding you up. And, because of him, you feel something you haven't felt in a very long time: hope. Wherever he's taking you, you want to get there, and not only to be buried. For what it feels like the very first time, you want to live. He takes you back to Alexandria, but even there, the nightmares and the terror from all the torture and pain you've been through keeps creeping closer, and Daryl, your hero, is the only one who can keep that all away.

Warnings: Mentions and description (not graphic) of past abuse; post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD); some violence at the end of the story (a little bit graphic, but not so much); blood.

<- Previous part (01)

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{The Walking Dead Masterlist}

I want to thank my awesome friend @jodiereedus22 , who helped me (and still does) a lot to get this story done. She's also a writer and she's amazing so please go check her work!!

×

Fear

As much as you're trying to stay alive, to live, if there's still a life worth living, you have to admit it's hard. It's harder than dying. Death doesn't hurt this much, you think. It's been only a couple of days since Daryl brought you here, and if it wasn't for him, and also Carol, you wouldn't be able to do more than stay in bed.

Your body will take long to heal, says Denise, who comes every day to check on your wounds. The talking soon started. You often overhear Carol in the hall, muttering about how you don't talk. About what happened before. They know your wounds were inflicted. It's quite obvious. But you do talk, just not to her. You have exchanged some words with Daryl, not much though.

Today, after Carol helped you take a bath, you pull the blankets up, over your shoulders. You would like to wear pants, but the wound on your left leg is too deep, Denise said, bone-deep. So she doesn't want anything covering it, not wanting you to move in your sleep and cause the fabric to pull and squeeze it. You don't complain though. This wound is the worst, you soon realized. It doesn't mean the rest is any better, but the leg... It kills you. The painkillers only work for a couple of hours, and you have to endure the pain until you can have the next dose.

It's a nightmare.

It's only worse when you try to sleep.

Whenever you close your eyes, the memories overcome you. Keeping your eyes open in the darkness isn't much better. That's when you realized you don't have to be asleep to have nightmares.

“(Y/N).” Daryl's voice gets your attention, and you roll to lay on your back. He comes in, looking down at you, worried. As usual. “Carol told me ya don't wanna to go outside.”

That again. “No.” You mumble. Carol wants you to get some sunlight, on the porch. But you rather be in here, away from people's eyes.

“Why?”

Breathing heavily, you push yourself up, biting your tongue when pain takes over. Moving backward, you release the air you were holding when your back reaches the headrest.

“Ya need it. To soak in some vitamin D.” He furrows his eyebrows in the end, and you wonder if he's just repeating Carol's words. “Nobody here will hurt ya. Trust me.”

“Would you stay with me?” Your voice still sounds weak for not using it. Looking at your hands, you wonder if you should even ask this of him.

“Wouldn't ya feel more comfortable with Carol?”

Slowly, you shake your head no. Carol has been very kind, but still... You can't bring yourself to feel safe around her. Not completely.

“You don't have to.” Despite the constant need to be around Daryl, to feel safe, you can't force him to be around you. It's not fair. Clenching your hands into fists, you close your eyes. The thought of leaving this room without Daryl makes your whole body shake, tremble. “You don't have to. But I'll stay here. I-if someone out there sees me they will–”

“Hey, hey.” You feel the mattress moving, eyes opening, terror creeping over at the feeling of someone near you. But when you find Daryl's blue eyes, your whole body slows down, and you have to fight back the urge to touch him.

“I'm sorry.” The words come out, but not the sound.

There's a battle inside you. Maybe your mind is way too wrecked, as far as your body, and it's struggling to take a grip on reality. The only thing you know is that you can't go outside without Daryl. He will protect you, keep you safe from anyone who tries to hurt you. And without him... You're an easy prey. You always have been.

“That's not it. I just... I don't get why ya want me around.”

You don't understand him, why he sounds so... Sad. Desolated, even. You haven't noticed until now, but looking further, you recognize something in his eyes. Something you're sure people can see in you too. Pain. Suffering. A past that almost killed you, not only physically.

“You're my hero.” Whispering, you tell him, wondering if you've been looking for too long into his eyes. “I... I know you'll keep me safe.”

“C'mon then.” He finally says after almost a minute of silence.

You're starting to move, pushing your right leg to the floor with a groan when Daryl gestures for you to stop before picking you up. He's careful with the blanket, keeping it around you. A moan escapes your lips when a sharp pull makes your leg burn.

“Ya ok?” Eyes closed tightly, you nod. “Sorry.” He mutters before he starts walking. You finally get a look at the house. The walls are a light pale blue, with not much for decoration. Downstairs, the living room feels cozy, with two couches and a fireplace.

“You got her out!” Carol exclaims, causing you to cling more onto Daryl, heart racing suddenly. “It's good to see you down here, (Y/N).” She gets in your sight when Daryl turns a bit, coming from the kitchen with a smile on her face.

“Gonna stay out there with her.”

“That's good.” She happily nods. “The sun will warm you up.”

You know you should say something. Or smile. Somehow respond to her kindness, but you just can't. You just rest your head on Daryl's shoulder, a hand tugging on the collar of his shirt.

“Alright, let's go.” You're relieved when he starts moving again. Until you're outside.

The sunlight casts a soft, golden light on the street, and a cold wind messes with your hair. This is beautiful, peaceful if you consider the world you live in. But your eyes start looking for any signs of people, anxiety building up as Daryl puts you down on a wooden chair. When he let's go of you, your hands immediately grab the edge of the chair, so hard the muscles of your arms burn.

“Hey.” He calls, kneeling in front of you. “Relax.” Daryl takes both your hands, removing it from the chair. “I'll be right here with ya.” He then stands up, stepping back to lean against the white wooden railing.

With your eyes locked on his, you rest your back on the chair, taking a deep breath. It's good to be out, and the sunlight falling on your face and neck feels nice. You can't remember the last time you enjoyed it, the last time you even had the chance to just sit in the sun. Opening the blanket, you allow the sun to illuminate the skin of your arms. But your eyes start following the bruises, purple and greenish, the grazes and the scratches...

“Daryl.” An unknown voice gets your attention and you turn your head at the source. A man climbs the steps, and you start breathing fast. His beard reminds you of one of them. The one who smiled as he sliced your skin. “Is this (Y/N)?” His eyes fall on you.

How does he know your name?

When he steps in the porch, you look at Daryl, reaching out your hand. It takes a while until he understands, until his hand touches yours. Through the corner of your eyes, you see the man coming closer, and you need to hide, to run away.

In a jolt of adrenaline, you pull yourself up, almost stumbling down, your body finding no other way but to collide against Daryl's chest. A groan leaves your lips as you lose your breath and hide your face. Both your hands grab his shirt, all your weight on the right leg.

“Hey, ‘s alright.” His chest vibrates as he speaks, but you don't move, you just want to disappear, to stay away from whoever this man is.

“I don't get it.” The man says, making you flinch, tears already rolling down.

When your leg gives upholding you up, you almost fall, but Daryl is quick to hold you up. “ ‘S alright. C'mon.” He takes you in his arms again, and you hide your face on the crook of his neck, eyes tightly shut, as if it would make you disappear.

Your body shakes when a sob comes, the image of that bearded man filling your mind. ‘You'll beg me to do this to you in no time. You'll learn to enjoy the blade slicing your pretty skin open.’ He said, laughing, giggling. He holds you down, his body making it impossible for you to move.

“(Y/N).” Daryl's voice brings you back, and you notice you're in bed again, still holding on to him. “Look at me. Hey.” His hand comes to your face, but you can't open your eyes. “Ya need to listen to me. Yer safe here, I promise.”

“No.” You mumble, forcing yourself to look at him, his face close to yours, foreheads almost touching. “H-he looks like that man. He... He...” A hand comes to your side, to the cuts under your breast. “I need you to stay with me.” It comes out as a cry, voice cracking, sobs out of control. If he let's go of you, you'll break down. “Please. Please.”

“Slow down.” You feel his arms around you, and you curl up against his chest. “ ‘M right here with ya. Calm down.”

His arms are the only place you're safe. The only place you won't be hurt again.

“Daryl. Rick wants to speak to you.” Carol says, her voice low and soft, fading in the end.

“Tell him to wait,” Daryl mutters, a hand caressing your hair.

“I'll get her some water.”

“Alright.” He answers, pulling away. “(Y/N), look at me.” Blinking a few times to push the tears away, you meet his eyes. They look like the sky during summer, or like the ocean, steady and calm. “That was Rick. A friend of mine. He's been with us since the beginning, he would never hurt ya.”

“I... I...” Stuttering, you try to catch your breath. You don't know what to say, you just need to stay away from anyone who isn't Daryl. “Don't let him come here.”

“I won't. But I need ta’ see what he wants.” You immediately shake your head no, not wanting to be left alone. “I'll be right there.” He gestures at the door. “I'll be right there in the hall and then I'll come back ta’ stay with ya, 's that alright?”

No, it's not. “Ok.” You tell him, not hearing your own voice.

The cold creeps over your skin the moment he let go of you, so you pull the blankets closer, eyes on his back, on the wings... Until they disappear. Carol comes soon after with a glass of water, sitting on the bed and handing it over to you.

“Drink, (Y/N).” She urgers and you do as she says, hands shaking as you take a sip.

Daryl's low voice reaches you, along with another voice, from that man. Rick. He said he's name is Rick. You never learned the name of the one who cut you, they never allowed you to know anything about them. It was part of the torture, probably.

“She needs to be introduced to the group. They need to know who she is. Who she was before, you know that.” The man says, his voice coming from the hall outside the bedroom.

“She's wounded. Ya don't know how much.”

“I get it, but we take no exceptions. We can't. She's been here for days.”

“(Y/N) doesn't even talk yet.” Daryl raises his voice a little, annoyed. Your eyes are on the open door, waiting for him to return. “Something happened to her. People hurt her.”

“She speaks to you, doesn't she? I heard her–”

“She's not ready yet!” His thunder voice makes you shake a little, and you exchange a glance with Carol.

She gets up, moving to the door. “Could you take this downstairs?” She asks them, stepping back in and closing the door.

You start moving backward, a groan of pain escaping when your sore muscles complain. You wait for it, the noise of the door closing once again, soaking out the light, the click of the locks that imprison you in complete darkness. The cold that hovers over as you wait for the next day. The next one. The next torture.

“Don't.” Daryl's voice cuts in, a force of itself, pulling you away from the memory, back to reality. Daryl holds the door before it closes. “Keep it open.” You don't know how exactly he knows it, but you're happy he does.

Carol nods, returning to sit on the bed. “You two have something going on that I don't know about.” She mumbles, and you look down at your hands.

“She needs time and she'll have it. If Deanna wants to throw her out, tell her I'm out too.” Walking fast, he's soon back in the bedroom, gesturing for Rick to leave. Daryl's angry. You've never seen him angry. “Carol get out.” He mutters, not bothering with her eye roll. He stands beside the bed, and you reach for his hand.

“I'll talk to Rick. Put some sense into his head.”

He doesn't answer, sinking down on the mattress in front of you. His expression softens when you look into his eyes, the anger from seconds before vanishing. “Ya need to talk.” He begins, keeping his voice low. “Ya need to tell me what happened to ya. Who did this to ya.”

Blinking a few times to push the tears away, you look at your hands, clenching them into fists.

“If ya tell me, I will tell the group. Ya won't have to ever say it again.”

The last thing you want is to revisit all that happened. Your mind already does that, a lot, bringing you back to the place where you learned what real fear is. What pain and suffering are. The place where your worst nightmares had to flee. They were nothing compared to what happened there. And speaking of it is far worse. It brings it back to life all over again, make it happen all over again...

But it's better to tell Daryl then than to anyone else. This Rick or this group Daryl talks about. No, that you couldn't. If you tell Daryl, he'll understand. He'll keep you safe, keep you from ever going back there.

“Alright.” You mutter, taking a deep breath, feeling as your ribs ache when the air fills your lungs. Bracing yourself, you start.

×

@funeral-7 @heyyy-hey-babyyy @twdeadfanfic @soraitmnt @winchester-angel @bvbwestfall @shawtygonemad

#daryl imagine #imagine daryl #daryl x y/n #daryl x reader #daryl x you #daryl fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon x reader #imagine daryl dixon #the walking dead x reader #imagine the walking dead #the walking dead imagine #the walking dead fanfiction

[emachinescat]

Explosion + Hands + Jack

A MacGyver Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat ​

@febuwhump ​ day 22 - burned

Summary: A bomb Mac is disposing of goes off prematurely – and Mac’s hands pay the price. Or, the time when Jack has to be Mac's hands. 

Characters: Mac, Jack

Words: 2,945

TW: Relatively graphic description of burns

Note: This story is based loosely off a scene from classic MacGyver. Also, please take the vague MacGyverism with a grain of salt. I did some research (and also wrote this before Mac made the same thing a different way on the newest episode), but I also took some creative liberties.

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, or re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this!

"These have to be the stupidest bad guys I've ever met," Jack griped. He sat in an old dining chair, ankles lashed together with rope and hands tied behind his back. MacGyver was his mirror image, tied similarly, in another chair, back to back with his partner. Their bound hands had been connected to each other, so every time Mac moved, working the ropes, Jack's arms jerked with him.

Even though he couldn't see Mac's face, he could clearly picture the raised eyebrow in his mind's eye as Mac responded dryly, "And you're… complaining about it?"

A cramp ran through Jack's upper back, and he instinctively rolled his shoulders. Mac squawked indignantly as Jack's movement impeded his progress. "Hey, watch it! You almost made me stab myself!"

"Sorry." Jack paused for a brief moment, trying not to think about why Mac was working so feverishly to cut through the thick ropes with his knife – seriously, they hadn't taken his knife before they'd tied them up! – without cutting himself or Jack. "You about got it, hoss?"

Mac's voice was strained with concentration when he responded. "Just … about," he grunted. "Keep talking."

Jack smirked. "Can't get enough of hearing ol' Jack's wisdom, huh?"

"It's more like white noise, but if it makes you feel better…"

"It does." Jack continued on his earlier line of conversation. "I'm just sayin', man, these lunatics didn't leave nobody here to keep an eye on us, and they left Angus MacGyver tied with regular ol' rope with his SAK in his pocket and a room stock fulla toys he can use to escape." When he spoke, Jack's Texas drawl was thicker than usual. He'd noticed that his accent got more pronounced when he was nervous or in a rough situation. He'd mentioned it to Mac once, and his partner had quickly informed him that it was more than likely a coping mechanism, Jack's way of unconsciously trying to keep himself calm. Jack disagreed. He was convinced that his cowboy twang got heavier in nerve wracking situations because he was actively channeling the spirit of Clint Eastwood and his mind and body were preparing him to do some insanely awesome hero stuff to fix the situation.

"Yeah, well… they also left a bomb in the room," Mac reasoned. Jack could feel the sawing motion as Mac carefully made his way through the rope. Any other time, Jack knew that he would have cut through it in half the time, but with all four of their collective hands gathered together in one bundle of scratchy rope, Mac had to move slowly, methodically, so he didn't cut either one of them. Normally, it wouldn't be a problem for him to take his time, but as Mac had so helpfully pointed out, there was the matter of a ticking bomb just out of arm's reach. And they had no idea how much time was left.

Jack tried to paint their situation in a better light. "It's just a little one. The explosion won't even be all that big."

"No," Mac agreed, "but with all the gasoline they scattered around us, I think it's a safe bet that the size of the explosion won't matter, since we'll burn with the warehouse."

A snap, a sigh of relief, and then Jack felt Mac move in the chair, and knew he was bending forward to untie his feet. As soon as he was free, Mac pelted forward so quickly that he pushed the chairs back a couple of inches, Jack and all. He didn't stop to untie Jack – no time – but he did leave the SAK in his palm. Jack immediately started sawing at his own ropes.

He was still working when he heard Mac swear loudly from somewhere behind him. A queasy dread settled in Jack's gut.

"Talk to me, Mac!"

"No time!" Mac spat, and Jack knew, heart stuttering, that his partner wasn't just saying that he had no time to talk – there was no time on the bomb.

"I can't disarm it!" Mac yelled, his voice growing farther away as he ran, presumably with the bomb in tow, away from Jack. "I'm going to try to contain it!"

Jack continued to cut at the ropes – almost there! He heard the sound of something metal being pried open, and he remembered that there was a large dumpster near the door of the warehouse, one of those industrial ones. Hope rose cautiously within him. Mac had done similar things before; there was no reason why it shouldn't work this time!

The one thing that he didn't factor in, however, was the bomb's timer running out before Mac could close the dumpster.

He heard the explosion, a terrible, anguished scream, and then, the worst sound of all – low, uncontrollable, rocking sobs of pain.

Jack cut himself three times in his haste to get free, but he made it to Mac's side in less than a minute. What he saw made his stomach curdle and his hands shake as he pulled Mac back, further from the smoking dumpster.

Mac had curled into himself on the floor, his hands gnarled before him in pain. Once they'd moved a safe distance from the mostly contained bomb, Jack took a closer look at them and nearly vomited – not from the blood or the burns themselves, but from the knowledge that these were Mac's hands that had been caught in the explosion, burned, blistered, and bloody almost beyond recognition. Jack knew he should be grateful that all of Mac's fingers were intact, but it was hard to feel thankful for anything when Mac's hands could serve as a suitable stand-in for ground beef.

Mac's head was low, chin flush against his chest, his shoulders trembling in pain. Jack remembered when Mac had sustained first and second degree burns pulling his dumb ass out of a crematorium. Jack too had been burned on the bottoms of his feet, and the healing process for both Mac and himself had been one of the most painful experiences either of them could recall in recent memory. There had been debriding, cleaning, bandages, antibiotics, and, in Mac's case, a few sessions of physical therapy.

This was so much worse.

"Mac, buddy," Jack entreated, trying to keep his voice steady for his partner's sake. His accent was slathered liberally on every syllable, his voice gentle and quiet, like he was approaching a startled horse. "I need you to look at me. Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Mac didn't respond, just heaved in a great gulp of air, and the breath rattled in his lungs like the last throes of a dying man. The sound clenched its icy fist around Jack's heart. He reached out, placing his index and middle fingers carefully beneath Mac's chin and lifting his kid's head to look him in the eyes. What he saw there nearly killed him.

Jack had been Mac's overwatch for a long time, and he'd seen the kid in a lot of less than ideal situations – roughed up, sick, shot, you name it. But never had Jack seen the level of fear and pain blazing in Mac's eyes as he did now. Tear streaks ran down his face, which was sooty and a bit red, especially around his forehead, but the burns on his face were superficial. Definitely first-degree. He'd managed to shield his face and eyes from the blast.

But his hands… Mac had to have just let go of the bomb to drop it in the dumpster for his hands to look like that but still be basically intact. Jack moved his hand from Mac's chin and cupped his partner's face in his hand, gently brushing a tear away, trying to get Mac's attention on him, to calm him down. "Mac, talk to me." He had no idea how he was keeping himself from crying right alongside his friend. "I need to know you're with me."

Mac hiccuped, took a deep breath through his nose and made a visible effort to calm himself down. When he spoke, every bit of the agony Jack saw in his face translated to his voice. "I–I'm okay."

Jack chuckled, but there was no humor to it. "I don't believe that for a second. But you will be, ya hear me?"

Mac nodded shakily, a low, keening whine building at the base of his throat like a wounded hound dog. He choked out, "It h-hurts."

"I know, bud. Can I see your hands?"

Mac shook his head, pulling his hands closer to his body. "Not yet. We n-need to find a way out of here f-f-first." Mac's teeth had started chattering, which sent a whole new wave of fear tearing through Jack's body. If Mac was going into shock, they were really out of time. And as much as Jack wanted to get a better idea of the damage, figure out what they were working with, he knew Mac was right. In all the chaos and worry, he'd almost forgotten that they were still locked in the warehouse with a smoking dumpster slowly turning the air against them. From where they sat on the floor, the air wasn't bad yet, but they needed to kick it into third gear – it wouldn't stay that way for long.

"Okay," Jack agreed. "How do we get out? As I recall, they've padlocked all the doors from the outside, and this whole place is made of steel. Can you figure out how to make something to bust those doors down?"

Mac's eyes, glazed with pain, darted around the warehouse, which had until very recently been one of the stashes of the cartel that had captured them. "Uhhh…" His voice broke, and Jack saw Mac's hands twitch in a painful spasm out of the corner of his eye. Fresh tears welled up, and Mac blew out a shaky breath. "Okay. Yeah. We should b-be able to make a blowtorch to c-cut us out of here."

Jack shot Mac a dubious look. "You're not makin' anything hoss, and I sure as hell don't know how to make a blowtorch. Think you got it in you to walk me through it?"

Mac didn't look so sure, and Jack's stomach flipped as he saw how much the trembling had increased. Still, MacGyver was never one to admit defeat, and he nodded. His voice was thick with pain, dry and raspy, but he managed to walk Jack through a collection of basic supplies, all of which were readily available in their current space – an empty syringe, a thumbtack, pliers, lighter fluid, and Jack's own lighter, which the bad guys had left on him. Seems the only things they'd actually taken were their prisoner's phones.

By the time Mac had coached Jack through the process of actually building the DIY blowtorch, an incredibly precise and delicate venture that Jack barely managed with his sausage-like fingers, smoke was beginning to gather in earnest, and Mac was shaking so badly that he sounded like he was working a jackhammer when he talked. But Jack had finished it, and to his shock and utter relief, it worked – he'd not doubted Mac, of course, but his own ability to bring Mac's idea to fruition – and Mac had offered a pained, crooked smile at him, and said, "S-s-see, we m-make a p-p-pretty good t-team." Then, whether from pain or shock or hyperventilation, he passed out, and Jack only spared enough time to check his vitals before he used his lighter-turned-blowtorch to cut his way through the steel wall of the warehouse.

It was a slow process, and Jack burned himself no less four times, but at last he'd carved their escape route. The men who'd left them here to burn had gone. Jack hoisted Mac onto his shoulder, taking extra care not to jostle his mangled hands, and set out in search of a phone – he knew there was a gas station a few miles away.

Mac just had to hold on until then.

***

24 Hours Later

Jack was there when Mac woke up from his first surgery.

Jack was always there when Mac woke up in medical.

Mac peered at him through groggy, drug-hazy eyes and gave his partner a weak smile. "Hey, Jack."

Jack fought the urge to pull the kid into the tightest bear hug he'd ever experienced. Only a glance down at Mac's heavily bandaged hands lying delicately on his chest kept him where he was, in the cushioned hospital chair that played at being comfortable but really wasn't after ten minutes. Jack had been sitting in it for nearly sixteen hours, give or take, not counting bathroom breaks and coffee runs. Others had stopped by at various times, too – Matty, Bozer, and Riley chief among them – but right now it was just Jack and Mac. The way it had always been.

The way it would always be.

"Hey, kiddo. How're ya feelin'?"

Mac thought about this for a long moment, his brow furrowed in concentration like he was trying to figure out some complicated equation. Finally, he answered, "Weird."

Jack threw his head back and laughed, though what Mac had said in no way warranted the kind of reaction he was getting. It was like all of the stress and fear and uncertainty and trauma of the last day were riding the shockwave of that almost manic laugh.

Mac's eyebrows creased further in concern. "What's so funny?"

Jack scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve, not sure if his eyes were watering from laughing, or if he had started crying somewhere along the way. "Nothing, hoss. What feels weird?"

"Floaty?" Mac answered uncertainty. From where Jack was sitting, Mac looked all of seven years old, tucked into the hospital bed in the Phoenix recovery ward, hair messy, eyes tired and confused.

Jack patted Mac on the shoulder, and Mac stared at the hand like it was the most surprising thing he'd ever encountered. Damn, they had him on the good stuff. He told Mac as much.

Mac's eyes were already drifting shut, the pull of the drugs too strong. "You go to sleep," Jack said softly, unable to keep himself from brushing a stray lock of hair from Mac's reddened forehead. "We can talk more when you wake up."

Mac, for once, did as he was told.

***

Jack spent the night at Mac's side, of course, despite Matty's urging that he go home and get some sleep. He wouldn't have been able to sleep, anyway, even if he had been in his own bed. He couldn't stop thinking, stop remembering. When he looked at Mac now, he saw pristine white bandages and the kind of tentative peace that could only come from whatever drugs they had him on – probably morphine and a cocktail of antibiotics, if he had his guess.

The problem was, Jack knew what lay beneath the bandages. He had seen, once he had finally found a phone and called for help, the extent of damage that had been done to Mac's hands up close. And it terrified him.

Even now every time he closed his eyes, even to blink, he could see his kid's hands, covered in burns, some so deep that Jack swore he could see tendons. They were bloody and blistered and the angriest shade of red Jack had ever seen.

He also saw, whenever his body betrayed him and he started to doze off, the way that MacGyver had writhed and twitched and moaned even while unconscious as Jack tried to examine them. His mind dragged him back to the Phoenix chopper, where a medical team immediately gave Mac painkillers and started debriding the burns. Mac had woken up then, thrashing and screaming the most terrible, guttural, animal screams, and Jack had been forced to hold him down while the medics worked, and he'd cried alongside Mac, and after they'd landed and Mac had been rushed in, Jack had found the nearest trash can and puked his guts out.

Even now, one surgery down, it was far from over. The doctor's prognosis had been hopeful, but cautious. Mac should be able to gain control of his hands again, should be able to build things and destroy Jack's phones and return fist bumps and high fives, and open doors and climb and pick things up and shoot hoops and anything else he wanted to do… but it would take time.

Six surgeries, minimum, to repair damage to tendons, do skin grafts. Mac's hands would always bear some scars, even though Phoenix had flown in the best surgeons in the country to rebuild the hands that usually did the rebuilding. And the few sessions of physical therapy he'd been through the last time he'd burned his hands were child's play to the PT he had in store in the coming months.

Jack sure as hell hoped the world would hold it together until MacGyver healed. He knew that it might as well have ended if Mac hadn't made it out of that explosion alive. Jack's world would have, at any rate.

But, Jack reminded himself as he watched the steady rise and fall of Mac's chest, despite all of the pain and physical therapy and surgeries in his future, Mac was by far the strongest person he knew. He had no doubt that the cautionary "should" the doctor placed on Mac's recovery was more of a "will definitely," because Mac didn't let anything slow him down for long.

So Jack had to be strong, too.

"I'll do it for you, Mac," he said aloud. He carded his fingers gently through mussed blonde hair.

It was a promise he intended to keep.

#febuwhump #febuwhumpday22 #macgyver 2016 #angus macgyver #jack dalton #mac #jack #burned #burns #mac whump #hurt mac #burned mac #jack whump #tied up #captured #protective jack #caretaker jack #explosions #bombs #relatively graphic description of burns #burned hands #hospitalization #mac in the hospital #friendship #bromance #caring jack #drugged mac

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Virgil the Wee Vampire Part 4

Logan and his Many Questions

Summary: Many questions are asked.

Content/Trigger Warnings: fear, intimidation, being trapped, non-graphic description of an injury, self-injury, blood, alcohol mention

2354 words

Chapter 1: The Hungry Little Vampire

Masterpost

More stories

~~~

Logan grabbed his notebook and a pencil. Now that the vampire was fed and in better shape, he wanted to know things. "If you don't mind, Virgil, I have some questions," he said, turning to a blank page.

Virgil was completely silent. Logan looked up.

"Virgil?"

Still, no answer. The little vampire in the jar was staring in Logan's direction, an odd expression on his face.

"Virgil?" Logan questioned again. He lifted his hand, and Virgil's eyes followed it. "What's the matter?"

Suddenly, Roman knew. "Logan, you giant nerdy fool," he said, snatching Logan's pencil away.

"Hey!" Logan protested, reaching for it. Roman held it above his head.

"Now, now, Logan," he chided. "This is a very pointy piece of wood, and that is a very little vampire. No wonder he's frightened."

Logan gave him a confused look for a few seconds before remembering a common thread in most vampire lore. The stake. He sighed and got up. "I'll get a pen."

Roman threw the pencil at him as he departed.

Now that Logan and his pencil were gone, Virgil seemed to unfreeze. He looked up at the other two, wary but not completely terrified.

"I have a question too!" Patton said. "Am I going to turn into a vampire?"

Virgil blinked at him in bewilderment, and Patton gazed back. Finally, Virgil said, "What?"

"You bit me," Patton reminded him. Virgil nodded slowly. "Is it going to turn me into a vampire too?"

Virgil looked up at him for several more moments. Realizing that Patton was serious, he shook his head. "No."

"That's a relief," Roman said, his shoulders relaxing.

"I think being a bat would be fun," Patton countered with a small pout.

"You hate the sight of blood," Roman reminded him gently.

Logan came back with a pen and sat down in his chair again. Virgil eyed him warily, but didn't look nearly as terrified as before.

"Hi, Virgil," Logan said gently.

After a pause, Virgil answered, "Hi."

"I have some questions for you," Logan said, uncapping the pen.

Virgil frowned. "What kind of questions?" he asked.

"Oh, all sorts," Logan said. "You're the first vampire I've ever met, and the lore is generally contradictory, so of course I'm curious."

Virgil didn't say go ahead, but he didn't say no, either.

"Why did you bite Patton?" Logan began.

The tiny vampire curled up tighter around himself in the jar, looking like he wanted to become even smaller. "I'm sorry!" he cried. "I was starving."

Logan realized the problem. "It’s okay," he said gently. "We're not going to punish you." Virgil looked up warily, and Logan gave him a careful smile. "Are you still starving?"

Virgil shook his head.

"That's good." Logan made a note. "When did you last eat? Before you bit Patton last night, I mean."

There was a pause as Virgil concentrated, trying to remember. Then, he finally said, "Two… two days."

Logan was taken aback. Virgil hadn't just been very hungry, he'd been literally starving. "Are you still hungry now?"

After a moment’s hesitation, the vampire nodded. Logan frowned thoughtfully. He’d used the smallest of Patton’s shot glasses (amusingly, they had never held alcohol while in Patton’s possession, though they had frequently been filled with jello), which held about an ounce, and filled it half full. So the vampire had gotten roughly a tablespoon of blood. Certainly, he would need more than his usual serving size while recovering from almost starving to death, but how much did he usually drink, and how much more would he need now?

"Do you know how much blood you drink on an average day?" Logan asked. Virgil stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. Oh well. It had been worth a try.

Logan moved on to his next question. "Will Patton suffer any ill effects from being bitten?"

"He already told us I'm not going to turn into a vampire," Patton chimed in.

"Good," Logan said with relief. He continued to watch Virgil, waiting for his answer. "Any other ill effects?"

"I-I don't know," the little vampire stuttered. "I don't… I don't think so? He should be fine."

As he wrote that down, Logan made a mental note to keep an eye on Patton's health in the coming days anyway. "We've been making sure to keep you out of the sunlight," Logan continued. "That's why all the blinds are drawn and it's so dim in here. Can you confirm that this is necessary?"

Almost before Logan had finished the question, Virgil was nodded quickly, his eyes wide and panicked.

"Alright, no sunlight for you," Logan said, making a note.

"What… what time is it?" Virgil asked warily. And a bit wearily too, Logan noticed.

Logan looked to the clock, but Roman beat him to it. "Noonish," he said. "Sleepy?"

Virgil nodded, and Patton declared, "Lo, no more questions for a while. He needs sleep!" Turning to the jar, he asked kindly, "How do you usually sleep?"

"Hanging from my feet in a cave."

"Not in a coffin?" Roman asked, and got a confused look in return.

Logan couldn't resist one more question. "Patton mentioned that you were a bat earlier," he said. "Can you change easily back and forth? Do you prefer to sleep in bat form?"

Virgil nodded to both questions.

Logan nodded thoughtfully, eyeing the jar. "I imagine it's not very comfortable in there," he said, and saw Virgil shake his head. Logan paused, thinking about what he wanted to say next and doing his best to not be too blunt about it. "We don't know you well enough to trust you out loose yet," he said at last. "But perhaps we could make you more comfortable."

"Dragon's old terrarium is bigger than that jar," Roman offered. "It's no cave, but you can hook your toes in the mesh lid, and I can drape a blanket on top so it's dark."

"What's a… a turr-air-um?" Virgil asked cautiously.

"A glass box," Roman explained, gesturing the size with his hands. "It used to have a bunch of rocks in it for my lizard, Dragon, but I moved them all to his new terrarium and it's empty now."

Virgil looked between the three of them for several long moments. Finally, he said, "Okay."

Roman ran off to get the terrarium. While he was away, the two humans left looked in at the wee vampire, who gazed back out at them. He looked far less frightened than he had before, but still nervous. Patton gave him a comforting smile.

"Virgil," Logan said, and the vampire's gaze snapped back to him. "If you will move to the other end of the jar, I'll refill that glass for you."

It was impressive how fast Virgil could move.

Logan opened the jar, careful not to tilt it, and took the shot glass out. As he closed the jar again, he warned gently, "Patton, you're going to want to look away again."

Patton gave him a wide eyed glance, and then turned his face studiously to the wall.

Logan got the first aid kit out again before removing the bandage from his finger. The injury had sealed itself, but it only took a bit of prodding to get it to start bleeding again. Logan held his finger over the shot glass and let it drip.

"How hungry are you, Virgil?" he asked. The vampire tore his eyes away from the shot glass to fix them on Logan's face instead.

"A lot."

"If I were to fill this as full as it was before, could you drink it all?"

Virgil's nod was immediate.

"If I filled it to the brim?"

This time Virgil's nod was less immediate, but only by a fraction of a second.

Logan squeezed his finger to make it bleed faster. Before long, the shot glass was nearly full, and Logan adjusted his grip, now applying pressure to slow the bleeding instead. A few last drops fell into the glass, and Logan wrapped his finger back up. Once it was secure, he put his forearm over the top of the jar to hold it still and unscrewed the lid with his uninjured hand. Last time, Roman had opened the jar for him, but Logan wasn't about to ask Patton to do it. He set the shot glass, filled nearly to the brim, inside the jar. Although Vigil was eyeing Logan's blood hungrily, he stayed back at the base of the jar until Logan had pulled his hand away, and for that he was thankful. Logan refastened the lid and pulled back.

"Bon appetit," he said, throwing away the older, bloodied bandage. "Patton, I'm bandaged, but don't look at Virgil yet."

"'M not looking," Patton said, his voice quivering slightly. He kept his back towards Virgil's jar.

Virgil darted over to the cup of blood, drinking it just as quickly as before. Logan wanted to tell him to slow down, but he doubted that the vampire would listen.

When Virgil had about half drained the glass, Roman returned with the terrarium in his arms and a folded blanket tucked under one arm. "It was under some stuff," he explained. Then he saw Patton's tense form, and what Virgil was doing. "Oh." Roman set his load on the table and knelt in front of Patton, taking his hands.

Patton immediately relaxed a bit, smiling at him, and Roman felt his heart warm.

"Hey, Pat," Roman whispered.

"Hi," Patton whispered back.

"Doing okay?"

Patton nodded, if a little shakily. "It's just a lot," he said.

"Yeah, I get it," Roman said soothingly. "Don't look at him. Just look at me. Okay?"

"Okay."

Roman smiled up at him. Not his charming grin or his dazzling, 'look at me, I'm so great' smile, but the soft, vulnerable smile that only Patton and Logan got to see. The one that said, "I love you, so much. If you ask me to, I will battle a dragon-witch to the death for you. But, even greater than that, I will make you soup when you're sick, I will hold your hand when you are afraid, I will sit beside you when you're lonely, and I will hold you tight and never let you go."

Patton looked back into Roman's eyes, and he felt safe. "Thank you," he whispered.

Roman squeezed Patton's hands. "Of course."

After several long seconds, Logan announced, "Patton, it's safe to look."

Slowly, Patton turned. Sure enough, the shot glass was empty and licked clean. There wasn't even a single drop of blood on Virgil's face. (there had been, several in fact, but he had gotten it all into his stomach now.)

Virgil looked across at the glass box Roman had brought. Pointing, he asked, "Is that the turrium?"

"Terrarium," Logan said. "Yes."

Roman took the lid off. Then he hesitated. Just like last night, he didn't want to touch the vampire, again concerned about being bitten. But on the other hand, he didn't want to just let Virgil transport himself from one container to the other. He looked pleadingly at Logan, hoping he would know what to do.

Logan did know what to do. Or at least, he had an idea. He got up, getting a clean hand towel from the drawer. "Virgil," he said gently, crouching by the jar. "We're going to have to move you now. I promise to be very gentle, and I won't even handle you directly, alright?"

Virgil looked a lot less wary than he had earlier, but he still seemed a bit afraid. "Can't I just fly over?" he asked hesitantly.

"No, sorry," Logan said. "The whole trust thing again. We would have no way to guarantee you'd actually go to the terrarium, rather than flying off or attacking one of us."

"W-well, I don't have a guarantee you won't… crush me, or something!" Virgil protested, his worried face turned upwards.

That made Logan pause. The little vampire had a point. He set the towel aside. "Mutual risk?" he offered. "I can carry you in my hand; I'll promise not to squeeze you, and you promise not to bite me."

Virgil shuddered, but he agreed to it. Roman opened the jar for Logan, and Logan carefully slid his hand in through the opening. Virgil took a step away at first, but then stood still and allowed Logan to wrap his hand around him. Carefully, Logan picked him up and brought him out.

It was astounding. If he didn't consider himself obligated to move the vampire to the other container without undue pause, Logan would have been severely tempted to simply hold him for several minutes, marveling over the way the tiny man felt in his hand. The vampire was looking quite anxious, however, and Logan lowered him into the terrarium, releasing him at the bottom. Roman put the lid on almost before Logan had taken his hand out.

"Hang on," Logan said, grabbing the towel. He lifted the lid and dropped it in. "For a soft surface. You can hide in it if you want, or make a nest, or use it as a blanket."

Virgil approached the towel, touching it with one hand. "Thank you," he said softly.

"Where are we going to put his tank?" Patton asked. "Back in the bathroom?"

"How about the coat closet?" Roman suggested. "It's nice and dark in there, and we don't actually use it this time of year."

They all looked back at Virgil, who flinched a little. Realizing they wanted his opinion, though, he asked, "Can I still have a blanket on top? In case of sunlight?"

"Of course," Logan said, grabbing the blanket Roman had brought.

"Then okay."

"Shall we check back around sunset?" Logan asked, unfolding the blanket to drape it over Virgil's terrarium.

"Yes."

With the terrarium covered in case of any sunbeams in their path, Roman carried it to the coat closet and set it on the floor.

"Okay little guy, you're all set," he said. "Sleep well."

There was silence from within the tank, and Roman stood up. Then, as he was turning to go, "Thank you."

~~~~~

Chapter 5: What Happened at Sunset

~~~~~

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