Dray pulls his cloak tighter around himself and curls further back into the corner of the alley. There’s been nothing but wind and rain for days, people choosing to stay indoors at all costs. The roads have been reduced to muddy streams. Some might even call it the perfect weather to stay inside with a book and a hot drink.

But Dray has neither of those things. No money and no proper winter clothing either. And his cough has gotten worse, settling itself down in his chest, leaving him gasping for air after a coughing fit. But it’s not like he has money for medicine, and no one’s going to just give it to him. He knows that much from the suspicious looks and even some mocking threats, though mostly people have just left him alone.

He didn’t mean to stay in this town long. It’s small- too small. People will definitely notice a stranger in their midst. But with the foul weather and people staying indoors, Dray feels like it will be safe to stay just a bit longer, maybe just until the body aches go away. So he lies to himself. He has to- if he wants to keep going. He’s fine, he’s not hungry. It’s not like he could probably keep food down anyway, so there would be no point in having any. It’s just a little cough. It will fade.

So he keeps his head down and stays holed up in between a barrel and the alley wall, the roof overhang of the building next to him barely keeping the rain off, especially when the wind changed directions and blew it straight into his face, drenching and chilling him to the bone. He would give anything to be able to be warm again.

The rain lets up some, it’s only drizzling now. Dray pushes himself further behind the barrel. People usually come out and around when the rain lightens. He’s not exactly too keen on his hiding place being discovered just yet. A little more sleep will help. Then he can go.

But when sounds of jeering and sharp yelps comes from the street, Dray can’t ignore. Stumbling to his feet, trembling with chills that wrack his thinning frame, he uses the wall of the alley to keep himself steady as he pushes forward towards the street.

The sight that greets him makes his blood boil. Two teen boys are waving sticks at a bedraggled muddy dog, trying to hit it as it growls and snaps at them half-heartedly. One of them picks up a rock from the ground and that’s when he comes out of the alley.

“Hey!” he shouts, hoping to get their attention and scare them off. His appearance is rather frightening after all, unshaved and unkempt, not to mention grimy and muddy.

His attempt to startle them works, but backfires. The kid instinctively lets the stone in his hand fly, only in Dray’s direction instead of the dog’s as both boys stumble back in surprise.

The kid’s aim was shit, Dray thinks, if he was actually trying to hit the dog, because the stone glanced off the side of Dray’s head, leaving a shallow cut. But head wounds bleed, and it must have scared the boys, because they turned and ran, leaving the dog alone. Dray winces and presses the heel of his hand to the cut and kneels down near the dog, reaching his hand out to placate him. Said dog wants nothing to do with anyone and snarls at him, teeth snapping dangerously close to Dray’s hand before running off down the street and out of sight.  

Dray sighs and sinks down against the building and watches the dog scamper away through the mud. “I don’t blame you”, he mutters. “I’d run from me too.”

Gotta love a whumpee’s voice that is crackly, creaky and broken from coughing

Even vigilantes get flus pt 1

Whitney sneezed, loudly and harshly. He was ready feeling dizzy and the sheer force of the sneeze caused him to sway and then stumble.

He righted himself only to realize everyone was, of course, staring at him. He felt his face get hot. His father had paused in his mission briefing and was staring at his second youngest son.

His brothers stared back at him too. Charlie, his oldest brother, stared coldy. Brady, the next oldest, smirked. Cole, cloest to him in age, looked bored. His cousin Rudy, who almost always followed Brady's lead, was smirking at him as well.

"Bless you. Are you alright?" His father asked.

Whitney nodded and tried to softly sniff back the congestion he felt gathering in his nasal passages. Truthfully, he didn't feel well. He had asked for a pre-mission med check, hoping to be pumped full of meds and maybe be given an IV drip before heading out, but his cousin Jessica, who ran medical was busy, and transmitted an all clear for him, without examining him.

"S-sorry Sir!" His voice was strained and talking made him cough slightly, though he made every effort to hide it behind his sleeve.

"Son, if you're sick, you need to stay behind and get checked by med."

"He already did that. He was given the all clear. Dad, I mean- Sir. We have a mission scheduled." Charlie said.

His father gave Whitney one more long look then nodded. "Let's load in."

Whitney followed the others. He felt an aching sense of dread and he was drenched in a cold sweat.

"You went to med? You never go to med. You must be feeling really rough." Cole looked over at him as they made final preparations. "I'm surprised Jess would dope you to the gills then give you an all clear with no driving restrictions." Normally they could still patrol while sick, but there would be some limits.

"She didn't see me." He was swallowing back nausea now. "Just sent an all clear." He coughed, sniffled back more congestion. "To answer your question..." He broke off coughing, but was still swung his leg over his motorcycle and kicking up the kickstand. "I feel like absolute shit." Then he pulled on his helmet.

Cole watched Whitney's shoulders heave with several deep breaths, before he followed the rest of the pack out one of their tunnels and onto the road.

* * *

The night followed their usual routine of all the patrollers constantly merging then splitting then reconvening in various groups. They stopped various crimes and did things here and there for their dad's investigations. He was always trying to work out who was manufacturing and distributing the latest street drugs, who was stealing and selling what on the black market, or investigsting this murder or that, that the deliberately overworked and underfunded police department couldn't solve.

Cole kept more of an eye on Whitney than he usually would. His younger brother was working as hardas ever, but he was definitely pretty sick. He was constantly trying to muffle or bury coughs and sneezes and rather than his usual cheerful banter, he spoke only when spoken to and as briefly as possible.

His performance didn't seem to be suffering for all that he might have been feeling great. Cole would have heard about it if he had been slacking. Brady and Rudy, especially, loved to complain about anything Whitney did wrong. And when they worked together, Whitney executed exactly as he needed to- granted he used a few more hand gestures than usual.

"Feeling any better?" Cole asked hopefully. The sun was just peaking over the horizon. They were likely just about done after they strung up these bank robbers.

In response, Whitney sneezed, then coughed, then sneezed twice more, which triggered another coughing fit.

"You're friend doesnt sound so good there." One of the robbers suggested helpfully.

Cole didn't respond, but he hurriedly finished tying the knots and then pulled Whitney away. Whitney was still on the throes of his sneezing-coughing fit. When it finally stopped, he slumped against a wall with a soft moan, then slid down its face until he was sitting on the ground.

He groaned softly. "S-sorry. Give me... minute. S'really hot." As if in direct opposition to that statement, he shivered violently. "And really cold." He wrapped his arms around his legs and shook with another chill. "S-sorry."

"Dude. Take a minute. Take a few minutes." He dropped next to his brother, slapped the back of his hand to his brother's forehead. "Shit dude, you're burning up."

"Don't get so-" another painful sneeze, he curled away from Cole. "Close. Don't want you to get... this." Whitney's eyes were starting to close of their own accord, his body started to tip forward, until he arrested the motion and forced himself to sit upright again.

"Black Tip, Thresher, this is Great White do you copy? Hammerhead and Goblin are pinned down in Sector G, quardrant 4, can you make the assist?"

Whitney pushed himself up, leaning heavily against the wall. He nodded to Cole.

"Great White, this is Thresher. Black Tip needs medical. I'm- I'm not sure..."

"Black Tip, give me a status report."

"Roger Great White, this is Black Tip-" He cleared his throat. "I- I can do one more." His voice was strained.

"Roger Black Tip. We'll call it a night after that." His father sounded almost sympathetic.

* * *

It was the longest two hours of Whitney's life. The fever raged, unrelenting. Every muscle ached and screamed. A headache pounded between every thought and breath. It was too hot and too cold.

He hung back, providing back up, even though usually he went in the front. Cole didn't say anything, a silent understanding passing between them. He was moving slowly. Earlier, with adrensline pumping, he had felt almost like his usual self. But that coughing fit had undone something inside him and every moment since had been a struggle. But his brothers had been in real trouble and they had to help them.

Cole had quickly been granted credit for the rescue, even while he protested that Whitney deserved credit as well. Whitney had retreated to a further corner where he sat down and wrapped his arms around himself just shook with aches and chills.

He hurt. Every muscle throbbed. Every fiber ached. He was freezing, except for his face and neck that it felt like he was standing too close to a bonfire.

And then he realized the group was gone. They must not have realized he was still there and thought he left. Or maybe they had forgotten him.

He tried the radio. "Pod, this is Black Tip, do you copy?" Is what he meant to say. But his voice was gone. And his head was spinning. He had stopped sneezing, as if his body knew it could no longer afford to expend that kind of energy. But he still coughed, softly and unproductively. They did nothing but make his throat hurt more and make his head pound harder.

He shouldn't be out in daylight. People would get a good look at him. That was a rule. No one should get a good look. He found an abandoned building near by. Likely squatters had been there until recently but he and his family had been making their rounds in the neighborhoods and likely they had moved to a different home.

It was filthy inside but at least no one would bother him. He was staggering as much as walking at this point. But he made it inside and crawled towards what had once probably been a sunroom or a living room.

He listened for the radio but everyone had only confirmed they were on route.

Then he heard it. His father. "Black Tip, confirm you're on route."

There was silence.

He would have radio'd that he needed medical, but he was too tired to speak, too tired to do anything more but cough softly and painfully.

There were several moments of squabbling and finger pointing as everyone tried to escape blame for forgetting him. He laughed, in a feverish delerium at that. He wasn't cold anymore. He was hot. Too hot. But that felt better than the cold.

He finally lost conciouness while they attempted to assign blame. He didnt hear his father telling them to stop. Didn't hear when his father roared that because of their incompetence one of their own could be in serious trouble. Trouble that could easily have been avoided. He missed them being told to continue home and that he, Great White, would go and get Black Tip.

He awoke instantly though when he heard the splintering of wood when his dad blasted his way through the front door. Not knowing who it was, he reacted on instinct. He moved as fast as he always did, and in a moment was in a crouch, gun at the ready.

When the door cracked open, his father found him, locked and loaded. He was trembling and sweating, down one knee, but he could make a good showing defending himself.

Luckily, he realized it was his father instantly. He felt himself crumbling but he was determined not to look weak now.

"Sorry Sir..." he croaked weekly. His arms hung limply by his sides now and he struggled to get to his feet. His body swayed involuntarily.

His father was instantly at his side. "Jeezus kid, what did you do to yourself?"

"I thought-" He choked on his own words and coughed raggedly

"That was rhetorical. You're a mess. Come on, let's get you on the plane and back to the base."

He half-walked and was half carried to his father's sleek jet. He barely registered when his father started an IV drip for him and handed him a Gatorade, but his hands were trembling too much to open it so he put it down wordlessly.

"You're a mess." The words rang in his ears. He had tried so hard to hold it together. And in the end he had failed.

He felt hot tears leaking from his eyes but turned away from his father so he wouldn't see, turning a sudden shuddering sob, into another ragged coughing fit.

* *** *

Neal wasnt one to admit, even to himself that he was ever worried or scared. And right now, he was both. He knew his youngest sometimes pushed himself too hard. And he knew that his oldest sons felt very threatened by their younger brother. He didn't understand it completely but he guessed it had something to do with the fact that his youngest was very talented and would likely soon start outstripping his older brother and cousin.

when the whumpee is so injured/close to death they can’t talk properly

The bed sheets are drenched in sweat. The ice packs have all melted. There’s blood on the pillow.

Lux’s curls are damp and limp against his forehead, his lips parted as he rasps out weak breaths. When he whines, Emory scrambles to find something to relieve his suffering - more ice, more water, blankets pulled over him, blankets pushed off of him. Lux’s body aches, but massages don’t help, the muscles all wound up too tight and trembling with shivers.

Keep reading

Aesthetic #37

Weak coughs getting weaker as the smoke becomes overwhelming and the whumpee struggles to remain conscious

Two words: Lingering coughs.

Long after the rest of their symptoms have receded, the whumpee just keeps on coughing, frustrated and tired as it still tears at their throat for weeks later. (Bonus points if they don’t realize they’re still coughing because they’re starting to come down with another illness.)

“Come on, let’s go home. I can patch you up there.”

It was dark, raining, and just the right amount of warmth for Taylor. He knew that when Alex found him she’d be pissed, but he didn’t care. He needed to get out of that place, it reminded him everyday how much he had to depend on her. The nightmares were one thing but now with the panic attacks too, everything was just getting to be too much. He didn’t want to need her to live, or to help him get over everything he’d been through. He wanted to shut her out, to push her away, but she was the only person he had. The only person that could bring him back from his dark places, but tonight he needed something else, something Alex couldn’t help him with. He never wanted to be weak again and right now he just want to feel alive again. He wanted to feel like he was in control of something, anything. He knew Alex wouldn’t like what he was about to do but he needed this, he need to feel something. 

Taylor wasn’t in the nicest part of town and the local bar at the core of it was the one thing he needed right now. He walked up to the bar and ordered the strongest drink they had. He wasn’t much of a drinker but for what he was about to do he would need it. He threw it back as soon as it was handed to him and he immediately started to cough, regretting only slightly in his decision. He asked the bartender for another and continued the process for at least two more rounds. He was definitely drunk now. Black out drunk though, no. He questioned himself if he would have another, but he knew he didn’t need it. 

He turned in the bar stool to face all the huge biker men you’d expect to be in a shady bar across the tracks and looked for the biggest one he could find. As he scanned the room he noted about seven men, the bar wasn’t that full for a Tuesday night. He clutched the empty glass in his hands and took in a deep breath as he stood, swaying ever so slightly, and chunked it, knocking one of the dudes right in the head. The smallest of the bikers immediately dropped to the ground as all the others gathered around him. Taylor smiled, knowing what he just started, as the men straightened and turned to stare him down. He grounded himself ready for a fight as they approached. His vision was blurring slightly from the alcohol as he tried to dodge one biker’s fist from connecting to the side of his head. It obviously wasn’t smart to have drank as much as he did  when the fist knocked him sideways. He hit the ground hard, putting him in a daze as he laughed. 

“Something funny, tough guy?”

Taylor didn’t say anything as he continued to laugh as he watched them glance at each other in confusion. The men figured he was crazy as the biggest man grabbed the front of his shirt lifting him high off the ground.

“Well, I’ll give you something to laugh about!”

Taylor was hauled through the front doors of the bar and thrown out into the street. He rolled a few times before getting on his hands knees to get up before a foot connected with his rib cage, tumbled him over into a puddle. He coughed sucking in the rain as he struggled to get air in. The men surrounded him each taking a turn between punching and kicking him everywhere they could put in a decent blow. Taylor didn’t cry out, didn’t yell, didn’t scream or cry, he just huddled tighter and tried to protect his face as well as his manhood from taking significant damage. They wailed on him for several minutes and when they started to let up Taylor slightly uncoiled himself. 

“Not so tough now are you?”

Taylor didn’t reply as he trembled both from pain and from being wet and cold. The man that liked to talk grabbed him by the shirt again lifting him up. Taylor was dizzy and half blind as blood trickled down his face that hung limply, but he listened. “I don’t ever want to see your face here again.” Taylor smirked at that as he watched the man raised his fist and nail him right in the left eye before dropping him back down in the puddle he’d grown to like.

He thought to himself and smiled rolling flat on his back. He successfully completed his mission, he had discovered what it felt like to feel alive again, to feel anything again. He felt his breath come out if very short rapid painful breaths, his left eye swell shut, his head throb to the beat of his rapid pulse. He was happy, well maybe not happy. What’s the word? Satisfaction. He felt satisfaction.

He laid there for several moments before he heard a familiar voice, Alex’s voice.

“Taylor, Taylor is that you?”

 He placed a trembling hand over his ribs and slowly sat up. She ran to him and knelt down placing both hands on each side of his face as he stared down in shame.

“What the hell Taylor, you scared the crap out of me! I’ve been searching everywhere for you and I find you here looking like this! I can’t believe–.”

He stopped her from talking when he placed a hand on hers and looked into her worried eyes. His voice was low and raspy as he whispered, “I know, and I’m sorry. I-I just…forgive me?”

“Taylor…”

“Please,” his voice came out in a wheeze, “I won’t do it again.”

“Alright, fine…yes. Come on, lets go home. I can patch you up there.”

Breathless

A coughing fit that leave the whumpee breathless and hunched over. Coughing deeply and harshly over and over trying to clear their airway. They finally stand up and list to the side where they catch themselves against a wall. A few steps and they’re still staggering, blinking hard to dispel the fog in their eyes. Thankfully a firm hand wraps around their arm and another around their waist and they remain mostly upright.

“Hey hey hey buddy, take it easy. Breathe. You’ll be ok. Let’s go sit down, eh?”

unreality, lost

“He’s almost all used up,” Someone says. Lux hears only fuzzy muffled blobs of sound. He’s curled forward in the chair, bound to it as always, blood dripping onto his pants. It drips, and drips, and drips. Lux’s eyes won’t focus on the splotches of red.

Someone slips their fingers into his hair, and tips his head back. It makes the blood start dripping down over his lips and off his chin - they tip his head too far back, maybe looking at the track marks on his neck, and blood starts sliding down his throat. Lux coughs weakly, trying to push against the hand holding his head back, but it holds firm, and he stops trying. Takes wet, shallow breaths, and coughs on his blood, until the hand in his hair leaves and he can let his head fall again.

“One more time.”

He hears that. It’s said close to him. One more time.

Please, he thinks, please, make it an easy one. Nothing scary, nothing sad. I’ll give my magic, I will, don’t make it painful.

The woman’s already in his mind. She hears him. The needle slips into his skin, and she asks, while he’s lucid a moment longer, You’ll give the last of your magic? You want it to be easy, and you’ll do it?

Yes, yes, I’ll do it, one more time. One more time… one more…

This time, instead of being guided to see something terrible, he hears, The one who loves you the most, the one you feel safe with.

Gentle, white-gold light shimmers before him, and Lux smiles. His eyes tear up above dark circles in his pale skin, his trembling body relaxes, and he grins.

“My little light,” She says, and just like when he was little, Lux scrunches up his nose a little. Her warm, soft hand cups his cheek. He has no idea where she got it, but she tucks a little yellow flower in his hair.

“Mom,” He rasps, staring up at her with the deepest awe, and peace. “Mom…”

“I love you, Lux.” She smiles like honey. Her hands cup around his right hand, the one he knows that they pressed a gem into, for him to charge with his magic. “Honey, one more, and you wont hurt anymore, you won’t be cold, or sorry. You’ll be warm and safe forever.”

“Okay, Mom,” Lux answers, easily. “I wanna… I can do that.”

He starts forcing out his magic, again, and it hurts deeply and wrongly, but she strokes his hair and shushes him and holds his hand. “It’s okay, baby, it’ll all be okay.”

“Be okay, ‘ll be okay…” Lux gives a final shove of his magic, and he looks up blearily at her - but she’s gone - no, no, where is she - the warmth, her smile, it’s all gone, and all the people who were in the room, they’re against the walls, unconscious. His magic. He was trying to do what they wanted. He was - one more time -

“Come back,” He pleads, to the empty space before him. “Come back, pl’se, please, come, come back…” He started crying, when he saw her, and now he’s sobbing, hiccuping with the force of it. 

“Please, please, please…”

were you worried about alex, after this drabble by @friendlylocalwhumper? 

good. you should have been.

It’s been several hours of helping Lux breathe, of waiting for the antibiotics to kick in, of making sure his temperature doesn’t reach dangerous levels, of keeping him as comfortable as possible.

It’s not much magic, every breath. But they add up, hundreds of them, and as the day drags on, the scratchy feeling grows in Alex’s throat, the smell of blood gets stronger in his nose, and his head begins to pound. Alex doesn’t meet Anders’ eyes, as Anders changes out the cool cloth on Lux’s forehead, holds Lux’s hand, murmurs reassurances. He doesn’t want Anders to ask him if he’s still okay.

One last exhale, and a shock runs up Alex’s arms, numbs his fingers as his magic shorts out entirely. The pressure at his temples becomes suddenly unbearable.

Lux’s eyes go wide, with that existential terror that only a lack of air can provide. His lips form a weak I’m sorry. His lungs wheeze and crackle, the muscles in his neck flare with the effort of sucking in oxygen.

He can’t stop. Not yet.

“Anders,” Alex says, “help me keep going.” He wishes, fuck, he wishes he could stop, he’s exhausted, like he hasn’t been since he left the feds. But if he stops, there’s a risk they lose Lux. And they are not going to lose Lux.

“I’ll find you an enhancer,” says Anders, solemnly.

The little topaz gem Anders brings doesn’t stop the pounding in Alex’s head, the feeling that his skull might split at any moment. It doesn’t stop the coughs as blood starts to cover his sleeves. But it lets him keep going. And that’s all that matters.

Alex wills himself far away in his mind, letting the magic stream out from his very life force, out of his heart, out of the corners of his mind. Magic, to a warlock, is as essential as any vital organ. Drain it completely, and Alex cannot live.

Let Lux die, and Alex couldn’t live with himself, so it’s a lose-lose-lose situation, he guesses.

Another hour. Alex can’t see, anymore. His vision is dark spots and bright lights and moving colors. His fingers clutch the topaz. He can’t see Lux’s face, but he can feel the rise and fall of his chest, can feel the infection in his lungs retreating.

That’s okay. He doesn’t need to see, to cast.

Another hour.

When Lux’s fever finally breaks, and his breath grows stronger, Alex collapses against the armchair. He’s done it.

Lux’s first question is whether he’s okay, and fuck, Alex doesn’t want to know how bad he must look, for the guy who almost died to be asking him if he’s okay. He can picture himself: grey, pallid skin, blood coming from his nose and lips, deep lines under his eyes. “M’fine, Lux. How are you feeling?” he manages, and then stands up on his own power, to prove it. Starts to walk out of the room.

And promptly collapses; his legs go first as a puff of air leaves his parted lips, then he loses consciousness entirely.

~

He passed out. He passed out while he was healing someone, didn’t he, and that means he’s going to be whipped, he’s going to be whipped so badly.

He can’t see, but he feels breath on his face, hands on his shoulders “… Please don’t hurt me…” he moans almost inaudibly.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” says Anders, but Alex only hears harsh, low sounds, can’t make out words, and he begins shaking in absolute terror. He won’t be able to stay awake for the punishment. He’ll have to count, again, and again, until they get bored of it, and then they’ll — they’ll —

“Can — can keep going —” Alex mumbles, shaking. His head hurts so much that he’s holding back tears, and he knows the pain’s about to get so much worse.

He’s scooped up, carried off, to be punished.

~

“You watch out for him,” Taryn had told Anders.

“I will,” Anders had promised. “It’s his choice, how far he goes.”

Her brother makes terrible choices, she thinks now, moving quickly towards Alex as he’s carried out of Lux’s room by Anders, moaning in a hoarse whisper. His voice is barely intelligible, but she thinks she can make out don’t hurt me.

Fuck, he thinks, he think’s he’s there…

“Give him to me, Reyan,” she says, for all the world like she runs the Resistance her own self. And Anders obeys. He places Alex down on his own bed - the other one is occupied by Lux - and leaves him with Taryn, going to get the oil that they’d given Alex when they were first rescued from the hell hospital.

“Please…” Alex moans again.

“Okay, Alex,” Taryn says. Her voice has turned soft, barely more than a whisper, in contrast to the harsh tone she’d used with Anders. “I’m here, it’s me, Taryn.”

She moves the pillow gently under his head, pulls the blanket over his tense, shaking body. She pulls off one of the other pillowcases, and uses a flutter of magic to turn it warm and smelling of lavender, then wraps it over Alex’ forehead where she knows he must be in terrible pain.

“Thanks —“ he whispers thickly, and the effort of speaking sends him coughing, tasting blood.

“Shh, Lex, you don’t have to talk, just relax, I’m here.”

When Anders returns with the oil, Taryn finds each hand under the blanket, covers Alex’s wrists and his fingers. Another flick of magic, and the oil’s vaporizing from the night table into warm mist that streams over the bed past his nose and mouth, like incense from a candle. That done, she positions herself next to him, his head in her hands, lightly rubbing at the back of his neck. His skin is cold, his muscles twitching under her fingers. She raises her hand to summon another blanket from the closet, and covers him in that as well.

“Tare —“ he mumbles hoarsely, his eyes unfocused, his eyelids heavy.

“You’re okay, Lex,” she says. “You’re okay. Sleep. I’ll be here.”

This will be the last time, she decides as he drifts off.

She won’t, can’t, let him do this to himself again.