Whumptober day 17, day 22
Oct. 26th, 2024 05:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gattycatI'd had a few more bits planned in this scene, but I don't know when I'll ever get around to adding them so I thought I'd just chuck this up as is.
Whumptober prompts
day 17: nowhere else to go
day 22: bleeding through bandages, 'Oh, that's not good'
Erich & Algy, wound tending, cw for quite graphic description (I think, ymmv), 992 words.
When von Stalhein turns up on Algy’s doorstep with a bullet wound under the ribs and a mess of blood-soaked cotton clamped to his side, the first thing he says is, ‘Don’t tell Bigglesworth.’
‘I am absolutely calling Biggles, immediately, without hesitation.’
‘Lacey -’ von Stalhein expends effort he does not have to spare to grab Algy’s arm and keep him in place. ‘Please.’
‘Good Lord, are you begging me?’
It is all von Stalhein can do to keep himself civil. ‘It appears so.’
It is enough to rattle Algy, and, after another assessing glance over his really quite injured state, he steps back and allows von Stalhein to stumble over the threshold.
The hotel room is smart and modern and full of wipeable surfaces, so Algy has him sit up on the desk where he can bleed freely. He lifts up his shirt to inspect the sodden mass of cotton - a spare shirt - and the mauled flesh below, but Algy bats his hands away, tutting.
‘Don’t touch it. I don’t know where your hands have been but I’m sure they’re filthy.’
He has produced a first aid kit from somewhere - Bigglesworth’s team, always so prepared - and after gently peeling away the soiled fabric, liberally applies the contents of a bottle of iodine, which stings like hell. Von Stalhein does not flinch.
‘Is the bullet still in there?’ asks Algy.
‘I assume so. I could not feel an exit wound.’
‘May I?’
Von Stalhein nods, and Algy gingerly works a hand over his ribs and side and back. For some reason, he expects his fingers to be cold, but they are not. Apparently, Algy runs hot, and his hands are like hot brands on his skin.
Or perhaps von Stalhein has simply lost a lot of blood.
‘Hmm. Yes, looks like it's still in there. This won't be pleasant.’
Von Stalhein closes his eyes. ‘I will be grateful for any assistance you are able to offer.’
Algy snorts. He takes his lighter and runs the flame over a pair of tweezers. ‘You might want to find something to bite down on.’
Von Stalhein unbuckles his belt and takes the leather between his teeth.
It is worse than he could have imagined. He can feel the tweezers digging around inside him, jostling against torn flesh and ruptured skin and a wave of nausea passes over him. It is only because he has not eaten in a day that he does not lose the contents of his stomach, but all the same his vision blacks and he feels too light, shivery.
‘Sit up or I'll have to tie you in place,’ snaps Algy.
Von Stalhein straightens; he had not realised he had begun to fall.
‘Is it - will it be long,’ he grinds out.
‘I've found the bullet. It won't come out easily.’ Algy pauses, draws back, speaks a little more softly. ‘Do you want to lie down?’
Von Stalhein keeps his eyes closed. Nods.
Algy helps him shift to lie on his back across the desk, wounded side presented for operation. When he starts to work again it is like he is yanking out a bone, an organ, something lodged deep inside that breaks him open as it moves. He cannot stifle the cry of pain, despite the leather he near bites through.
‘Sorry,’ says Algy. ‘There, it's out. I just need to get the fabric.’
Von Stalhein grips the side of the desk.
The tweezers return, moving around again, like a delicate scratch inside him, maddening, sickening.
‘Alright. Done.’
The sensation goes, and all he is left with is the familiar blessed pain.
‘Here.’ When he opens his eyes, Algy is handing him a glass of water and a handful of pills. He takes them both gladly.
‘Can you sit up now?’
Von Stalhein nods again, and once he is upright, Algy doused the wound with iodine again, before applying a dressing.
‘Do you not wish to know what happened?’ asks von Stalhein.
‘Not particularly.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
Algy does not look up as he works, methodical and thorough. He has practice at this.
‘Oh, I think I can fill in the gaps. You were your charming self to some of your hideous colleagues and they finally got as sick of you as I am, and decided to put you out of your misery.’
‘...Well. Something like that.’
‘Sadly for them, what they don’t know and I do is that you’re a cockroach. You survive any quantity of poison thrown your way and go skittering off into the darkness again.’
For some reason, the image feels like the tweezers beneath his skin, invasive and exposing and humiliating.
He chews the edge of his tongue. ‘There is no shame in survival. It is what we all strive for.’
‘Isn’t there? Somehow, I think if that were true you wouldn’t be so keen to tell me about it.’
This conversation has gotten out of hand. He changes tack.
‘You don’t strike me as one for the sacrifice play.’
‘Not if I can help it, no. Not much use to anyone if I’m dead. Funny, I always thought you were just waiting for a chance to die nobly, and it’s really put you out of joint that you’ve had to go on living.’ Algy ties off the bandages in a knot. ‘Or maybe you’re not that complicated. You’re just a coward like most men.’
‘Most men - including you?’
‘Oh, every time. If you’re not afraid, there’s no real way to be brave. It doesn’t cost you anything. I’m not sure the last time I was afraid, but it feels a long while ago. Don’t you think?’
Von Stalhein slips his shirt back on and buttons it with shaking fingers.
‘That’s Biggles’s secret, you know,’ says Algy, after a moment. ‘He’s terrified all the time.’
‘You’re mocking me.’
‘No. He’s frightened, or he’s angry, and it makes him sharp. Clever. I’m a blunt tool.’
Whumptober prompts
day 17: nowhere else to go
day 22: bleeding through bandages, 'Oh, that's not good'
Erich & Algy, wound tending, cw for quite graphic description (I think, ymmv), 992 words.
When von Stalhein turns up on Algy’s doorstep with a bullet wound under the ribs and a mess of blood-soaked cotton clamped to his side, the first thing he says is, ‘Don’t tell Bigglesworth.’
‘I am absolutely calling Biggles, immediately, without hesitation.’
‘Lacey -’ von Stalhein expends effort he does not have to spare to grab Algy’s arm and keep him in place. ‘Please.’
‘Good Lord, are you begging me?’
It is all von Stalhein can do to keep himself civil. ‘It appears so.’
It is enough to rattle Algy, and, after another assessing glance over his really quite injured state, he steps back and allows von Stalhein to stumble over the threshold.
The hotel room is smart and modern and full of wipeable surfaces, so Algy has him sit up on the desk where he can bleed freely. He lifts up his shirt to inspect the sodden mass of cotton - a spare shirt - and the mauled flesh below, but Algy bats his hands away, tutting.
‘Don’t touch it. I don’t know where your hands have been but I’m sure they’re filthy.’
He has produced a first aid kit from somewhere - Bigglesworth’s team, always so prepared - and after gently peeling away the soiled fabric, liberally applies the contents of a bottle of iodine, which stings like hell. Von Stalhein does not flinch.
‘Is the bullet still in there?’ asks Algy.
‘I assume so. I could not feel an exit wound.’
‘May I?’
Von Stalhein nods, and Algy gingerly works a hand over his ribs and side and back. For some reason, he expects his fingers to be cold, but they are not. Apparently, Algy runs hot, and his hands are like hot brands on his skin.
Or perhaps von Stalhein has simply lost a lot of blood.
‘Hmm. Yes, looks like it's still in there. This won't be pleasant.’
Von Stalhein closes his eyes. ‘I will be grateful for any assistance you are able to offer.’
Algy snorts. He takes his lighter and runs the flame over a pair of tweezers. ‘You might want to find something to bite down on.’
Von Stalhein unbuckles his belt and takes the leather between his teeth.
It is worse than he could have imagined. He can feel the tweezers digging around inside him, jostling against torn flesh and ruptured skin and a wave of nausea passes over him. It is only because he has not eaten in a day that he does not lose the contents of his stomach, but all the same his vision blacks and he feels too light, shivery.
‘Sit up or I'll have to tie you in place,’ snaps Algy.
Von Stalhein straightens; he had not realised he had begun to fall.
‘Is it - will it be long,’ he grinds out.
‘I've found the bullet. It won't come out easily.’ Algy pauses, draws back, speaks a little more softly. ‘Do you want to lie down?’
Von Stalhein keeps his eyes closed. Nods.
Algy helps him shift to lie on his back across the desk, wounded side presented for operation. When he starts to work again it is like he is yanking out a bone, an organ, something lodged deep inside that breaks him open as it moves. He cannot stifle the cry of pain, despite the leather he near bites through.
‘Sorry,’ says Algy. ‘There, it's out. I just need to get the fabric.’
Von Stalhein grips the side of the desk.
The tweezers return, moving around again, like a delicate scratch inside him, maddening, sickening.
‘Alright. Done.’
The sensation goes, and all he is left with is the familiar blessed pain.
‘Here.’ When he opens his eyes, Algy is handing him a glass of water and a handful of pills. He takes them both gladly.
‘Can you sit up now?’
Von Stalhein nods again, and once he is upright, Algy doused the wound with iodine again, before applying a dressing.
‘Do you not wish to know what happened?’ asks von Stalhein.
‘Not particularly.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
Algy does not look up as he works, methodical and thorough. He has practice at this.
‘Oh, I think I can fill in the gaps. You were your charming self to some of your hideous colleagues and they finally got as sick of you as I am, and decided to put you out of your misery.’
‘...Well. Something like that.’
‘Sadly for them, what they don’t know and I do is that you’re a cockroach. You survive any quantity of poison thrown your way and go skittering off into the darkness again.’
For some reason, the image feels like the tweezers beneath his skin, invasive and exposing and humiliating.
He chews the edge of his tongue. ‘There is no shame in survival. It is what we all strive for.’
‘Isn’t there? Somehow, I think if that were true you wouldn’t be so keen to tell me about it.’
This conversation has gotten out of hand. He changes tack.
‘You don’t strike me as one for the sacrifice play.’
‘Not if I can help it, no. Not much use to anyone if I’m dead. Funny, I always thought you were just waiting for a chance to die nobly, and it’s really put you out of joint that you’ve had to go on living.’ Algy ties off the bandages in a knot. ‘Or maybe you’re not that complicated. You’re just a coward like most men.’
‘Most men - including you?’
‘Oh, every time. If you’re not afraid, there’s no real way to be brave. It doesn’t cost you anything. I’m not sure the last time I was afraid, but it feels a long while ago. Don’t you think?’
Von Stalhein slips his shirt back on and buttons it with shaking fingers.
‘That’s Biggles’s secret, you know,’ says Algy, after a moment. ‘He’s terrified all the time.’
‘You’re mocking me.’
‘No. He’s frightened, or he’s angry, and it makes him sharp. Clever. I’m a blunt tool.’
