Whumpay - Day 11

Whumpay - Day 1

Main Challenge - Mad Science - Strapped To An Operating Table Mini Challenge 1 - Torture - Tortured For Information Fandom - The Man from UNCLE (2015)

When the two telephone calls came, one after another with a twelve second pause in between them, Solo shrugged into his coat. Then sat back down in the armchair and looked up to the clock. Three o’clock. He would have to wait until nightfall, roughly three more hours.

Coat on, knee bouncing, and barely reading his paperback book, Solo waited the three requisite hours.

When the distant cathedral bell began to ring out six o’clock, Solo was out of his chair at the first toll, and out of the front door by the third toll.

When he stepped out into the chilly night air he forced himself to slow down, lit a cigarette, and begin a slow and circuitous route towards the dead drop.

Finally, he wandered into the abandoned brickyard. The city was quiet around him.

Ears pricked, Solo flicked his cigarette away, and crouched by a low, crumbling wall. He pulled out the specific brick. It grated pleasantly against its brothers. Solo retrieved the small package from the hollow and replaced the brick.

It was done. He straightened up.

Then the world exploded.

Bright light.

A blow to his nose. Another to a kidney.

Solo found his face pressed into the gravel of the ground. He could taste the brick dust. And the blood gushing from his nose and down his throat.

“Tie his hands.” Someone hissed.

Solo was grabbed and pulled to his feet.

The searing light was shone into his eyes again and Solo groaned. He panted around a mouthful of blood. His hands were roughly tied. Then, with a firm grip on each arm, he was frog-marched to a nearby car and shoved into the trunk.

The door was slammed shut. Complete darkness.

Moments later, the engine roared to life.

Solo caught his breath. He only had a few minutes to puzzle through this. The first order of business was to untie his hands. This was easy enough. They had made the mistake in tying them in front instead of behind his back.

As soon as his hands were free, he blindly reached out and explored the trunk’s locking mechanism as best as he could. The back of his head throbbed in time with his racing heart. The jolting car ride caused wave after wave of nausea and dizziness.

He vomited. His skull rang out, hot with agony.

Solo spat, groaned, and with shaky hands got back to work on the lock. They must have hit him pretty hard.

After a few minutes, and with the help of a lockpick he had in the lining of his coat, Solo popped open the trunk. He was careful not to open the trunk fully and eyed his surroundings. They were bouncing down an old dirt road with only trees on either side. Lovely. The middle of nowhere.

Well, no time like the present.

Solo thrust the trunk door open fully and jumped.

The guidance of 'tuck and roll' felt more like wishful thinking at that moment.

It was a whirlwind of pain.

Finally he found himself flat on his back, looking at the night sky. So many stars.

Solo rolled over and retched again but nothing came up. His head, obviously, was still very painful. He gasped for air, keening with every inhale.

The sound of screeching brakes and slamming care doors.

Shit.

The sound of boots pounding the dirt road. Towards him.

Solo tried to get his legs under him but fell, pain lancing up his left leg. He hit the ground, hard. As rough hands grabbed him again, he saw that his foot stuck out at an odd angle. Broken.

Time dilated. Solo could only focus on breathing. At one moment, he found himself in the backseat of a car, held upright between two men. The next, he was being pulled from the car, foot dragging on the ground. He screamed. And retched. His skull felt as though it would explode. Solo blacked out.

It was the grating agony of his ankle and foot that woke him. Blackness. Until Solo cracked his eyes. A dim room. He could not move.

A moment later he was a little more awake.

He was bound tightly to a table, the ceiling and it’s lone light-bulb looming over him.

The door at the far end of the room opened and two men stepped through; one was older with gray hair and rolled up shirt sleeves and the other was younger, fair-haired, and tall.

And then the questions began.

The haze of his broken ankle and throbbing skull covered Solo like a pall. He could not keep up. As soon as he understood what they were asking him, they were on to the next question. And when they did not get answers quick enough, they cut off his clothes and resorted to other methods of persuasion.

Why were you at that brickyard after dark?

They pulled a cloth over his head and drowned him in cold water.

Who planted the information you retrieved?

They put out their cigarettes on his bare skin.

Who do you work for?

They pressed hard upon his broken ankle and made him scream. They ground the bones against each other. His left lower leg was swollen and almost black with bruises.

Solo did not talk.

He fell into a stupor and woke only to pain. He wished for death. Anything but this.

Hours passed. Maybe even days. He lost track. He did not care. It was eternity either way.

So when he felt the shackles around his wrists removed and someone beginning to work on the shackles about his ankles, he lay there quietly and let them do as they wished.

He gasped when the band about his broken ankle fell off and the blood began to flow again under the bruised flesh.

A warm hand was pressed to his cheek. Gently. That was odd.

“You are awake?” A soft voice.

Maybe he had gone insane. Or maybe this was a new way to torture him.

Solo opened his eyes and saw the blurry face of Illya hovering there.

He certainly hadn’t expected that.

Solo licked his cracked, dry lips. “It’s difficult to tell.” He rasped. In the harsh light from above, Solo could see the lines about Illya’s mouth tighten.

“Come.” Illya began the process of helping Solo off the operating table. “We must go. Where are your clothes?”

Solo had begun to violently shake, his muscles cramping hard, as he tried to stand. He could not speak through the shivering and only shook his head.

Another frown from Illya.

Solo became afraid. The shivering made him ache. The room spun about him. If he was not helpful, would Illya leave him behind? If he was too slow, would Illya decide he was just too much trouble to rescue?

Solo swallowed hard against a dry throat.

Then he straightened up. He tried to still his shaking. And he only leaned on Illya for a little support. Finally, he was able to speak. “They cut them off me. They’re gone.”

Solo felt rather than saw Illya nod. “I have a blanket in the car.”

“Let’s go.” Solo hissed.

Solo had one arm across Illya’s shoulders, while Illya held Solo close to him with a warm grip on his waist. Illya’s hand on his bare, bruised skin was so warm. And gentle. Together, they limped slowly out.

Solo stared only at the floor was they went, focusing on keeping his balance and moving as fast as he could.

He didn’t want to be left behind.

The cold night air hit him and Solo suppressed another bout of violent shivers, groaning with the effort to stay upright.

“Nearly there.” Illya murmured softy, his voice rumbling against Solo’s bruised chest.

Illya sounded almost like he was trying to comfort him.

Solo heard a car door open and he was lifted inside, laid across the backseat. The door closed. Then the other back door opened, another gust of cold wind, and Illya slipped in beside Solo.

“The blanket.” Illya whispered as he laid something warm over Solo’s bare limbs.

Maybe Illya said something else. Solo wasn’t sure. His ears were ringing. And he was sinking. He was falling. He felt the warm hand on his face again. Then nothing.

Merry Whump of May - Day 6

“It's a long story.”

Knife Handle

Gagged

Under the table

(Original characters/story)

@themerrywhumpofmay

They awoke to pain. And drowning.

Omen opened their eyes, gasping, choking. Their eyes stung with water and their head throbbed. Skull felt split open. Can’t. Move. Can’t. Breathe.

Within a moment, Omen realized that their hands were bound behind them. Their ankles were bound together. And there was a gag in their mouth. 

They were wet but they weren’t drowning. Small mercies. 

Omen squinted up at the man holding a dripping bucket over them.

“Good.” He said and set down the bucket. “I was beginning to think that I’d bludgeoned you a little too hard.”

The man was dressed in a fine, dark doublet and hose that were stained lightly with travel. He moved to sit down at a nearby table.

Omen flexed their calf. He had missed the knife in their boot. Interesting.

Omen eyed the room. 

This was some sort of cottage. The floorboards creaked and were caked with dust. The fireplace had been lit but was belching smoke, meaning it hadn’t been cleaned recently. There was a lit lantern on the single table. And the window to the outside, beside the only door, spoke of midafternoon or late morning. The sun was bright and the trees swayed in a breeze, creating a shifting dappled effect on the floor. 

Omen could only hear the crackling fire and birdsong from outside. They were alone. 

Their possessions were tossed to the side, laying haphazardly on the floor. But nothing had been searched yet. Caey was safe. For now. 

Omen was laying on the floor, so that when the man sat down, he was still looming above them.

“I’ve been looking for you for a while.” The man took a swig from a waterskin. “You’re difficult to find, girl.”

Omen winced at ‘girl’. It shouldn’t have bothered them. That was the least of their problems right now.

The man continued talking. “I’d been hearing rumors for a while of a girl fighting in the False Queen’s little band. A girl matching the description of someone I killed several years ago.”

Omen’s belly turned to ice and they stopped breathing.

“I was contracted to kill a highborn lady suspected of aiding the escaped False Queen. And I did so. She was easy to identify due to a mark on her wrist, a brand. A very-”

The man roughly reached down and yanked on Omen’s bound arms.

They cried out through the gag. Arms pulled into a painful twist, shoulder sockets screaming.

“A very distinctive mark.” The man breathed, looking down at Omen’s wrist.

The wrist that bore the brand that he spoke of.

The man, the assassin from all those years ago, released Omen’s wrist, letting them fall back to the dusty floor.

“So, you lived.” He murmured.

Omen grunted around the gag. 

The assassin leaned down and pulled the gag out. “Where is the False Queen?”

“Fuck off.” Omen spat.

He popped the gag back in, wound back his foot, and kicked Omen in the stomach. Hard.

Omen struggled to draw breath. The wind was knocked out of them. Before they could recover, there was another vicious kick.

A blow to their nose. Stars. Blinding pain. Watering eyes. Blood streamed down their face and trickled into their throat. Metallic and hot.

Omen writhed, crying out through the gag.

They arched their back. Reached with bound hands into their boot. Felt the slim, bone knife handle, warm with body heat. Good. 

They grasped it and hid it behind their body, working on the bonds as best as they could.

The assassin paced around the cottage.

Omen sliced their fingers and hands. The knife was sharp. Blood made the process slippery.

“I’m going to ask you again.” The man circled back around to them.

The rope was cut. The bonds loosened. Omen pulled free.

“And if you say-”

Omen hurled the knife. It stuck neatly in the assassin’s shoulder.

He bellowed. 

Omen rolled away, under the table, and began to attack the rope that bound their ankles. Halfway through, the assassin came at them, their own bone-handled knife in hand. Omen scrabbled back with their legs untangled and the rope in hand.

They leapt on the man.

Spat blood in his face.

And it was quick work after that.

Several minutes later, Omen stood. Head throbbing, nose swollen and bleeding, and ribs maybe broken. They wiped off the knife and placed it back in their boot.

They limped over to their pack and belongings. With cut and bleeding hands, they prepared to leave. The diadem still lay within their pack. As soon as they touched it, Caey spoke into their thoughts.

“You look terrible. What happened?”

Omen snorted and spat blood onto the cottage floor. “It’s a long story.”

Fringe S03E10 (The Firefly)

The Official Sicktember 2024 Prompts List

Event FAQ Text Post [Link to Post]

2024 Prompt-Based Resources [Link to Post]

Past Prompts Text Post [Link to Post]

How to Submit Content Post [Link to Post]

Sicktember 2024 AO3 Collection [Link]

Announcements [Link to #Event Notice]

** Text Version of the 2024 Prompts Can be Found Below.

“I’m not hungover, I’m just sick” (Or vise versa)

Too Much of a Good Thing/Overindulgence

Campus/Con Crud

“Great. I Got a Cold for My Birthday.”

Rogue Organ (tonsils, spleen, appendix, gall bladder ect…)

Dizziness/Vertigo

Borrowed Hoodie

“The closest doctor is probably hours away from here!”

Overdramatic Patient/Caretaker 

The Sniffles ™ 

Medieval Treatment

“You’re not fine, you’re throwing up/coughing up a lung”

Mononucleosis

Clean Sheets/Fresh Pajamas

"Who decided __ is ‘sick people food?’"

Toxin/Poison

Brain Fog/Spaced Out 

“My body is one big ache”

Hypochondriac Tendencies 

Medication Bribery

Anaphylactic Response

“You didn’t use my cup, did you?”

Under a Spell

 Tales From the Waiting Room

Summer Flu

Heart Condition/Cardiac Arrest

“This is non-negotiable"

Pulling a ‘Ferris Bueller’

Sick on a Road Trip

Past Prompt of Your Choice! 

Alts

Hospital Bed

“I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

First Aid Kit

Flushed Cheeks

Doctor's Note

"Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell; And in the lowest deep a lower deep, Still threat’ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven."

Paradise Lost - John Milton

Merry Whump of May - Day 1

(The Man From U.N.C.L.E. 2015)

@themerrywhumpofmay

“You should not be here.”

This was the first thing that Solo said to Illya in two weeks.

“Too bad.” Illya whispered and finished uncuffing Solo from the metal chair. The dim bulb above made it hard to parse Solo’s expression, as did the bruises. 

“You should have left.” Solo stood slowly, arm wrapped around his chest. He leaned over and spat dark blood on the floor before speaking again. “Why didn’t they bring you in?”

Illya jerked his head towards the door, holding out a pistol.

Solo took it.

Illya took the lead and left the room. “They tried.”

He heard Solo wheeze out a laugh softly behind him.

They finally got outside and Illya led the way to the first car he spotted, halfway down the street from the warehouse. It was unlocked. But no keys. 

While Illya hotwired the vehicle, Solo eased himself into the passenger seat, groaning in pain.

The engine rumbled into life.

Illya slammed the door closed and caught sight of Solo’s face. His head was back against the headrest and his brows were furrowed. The harsh light of day brought the bruises into sharp relief. Yellowing greenish contusions that were healing. And darker, reddish purple for newer ones. 

Illya gripped the steering wheel hard and set his foot against the gas. “Are you ready?”

“No.”

“Good.”

They sped off into the sunset.

An hour later, sun down and surrounded by dark trees, Illya pulled the car to the side of the road.

“We have arrived at milepost-” Illya turned and noticed his companion was asleep. “Solo.”

No answer.

Illya reached out and just barely touched his shoulder when Solo gasped awake. He pressed as far away from Illya as the car door would allow.

“Solo.” Illya retracted his hand and filed that reaction away for later. 

“Y-yes.” Solo relaxed a little. “What?”

“We have arrived at milepost 8. This is where we start walking.”

Solo sighed. “That sounds like the last thing I want to do.” His voice was hoarse.

Illya left the car and circled around to Solo’s door and opened it. “Too bad.”

Solo unfolded himself gingerly from the car. “Where-” He stopped to breathe. “Are we going?”

“Remote cabin.” Illya retrieved two bags from the side of the road from underneath some bushes, damp with dusk dew.

Solo limped over and took the map, compass, and bag Illya held out to him. “How remote?”

“We will arrive by dawn if we make good time.”

Solo swore, coughed, and swore again as he slung the bag over his shoulders. 

Illya paused for a moment and looked his partner up and down.

“What?” Solo asked. Hunched over. Already panting. 

“Can you?”

“Can I what?”

“Make good time?”

Solo straightened up immediately. Even in the darkness of night, Illya could see his jaw was set. Eyes gleaming.

“No pain, no gain.” Solo grated out. 

“That does not make any sense. Follow me.” Illya led the way into the dark trees.

A few hours later, Illya stopped and waited for Solo to catch up. “Water.”

Panting, Solo nodded.

They both drank from the canteens in the bags and caught their breath. The forest was thick with trees and brush and the hillsides were steep with slippery pine needles and rocks. It was slow going. Slower than Illya had hoped. But it could not be helped. 

He watched his partner take out the map and compass. 

“Flashlight?” Solo wheezed.

Illya stepped over and flicked on his flashlight.

Solo took a small step back, map shaking in his hands.

“Th-this is the location?” He pointed at a small pen mark in the middle of the map.

Illya stopped where he was. “Yes.”

“Right.” Solo sighed, held the compass into the flashlight’s beam, turned a pace or two to the right. “We need to be going this way.”

“We should take a break.” Illya did not want to push Solo too hard. The way he was favoring his chest suggested a broken rib. Or more. And that could not be all. The point of rescuing Solo was not to kill him in the process. 

“Sit down.” Illya urged his partner.

“No.” Solo pocketed the compass and map again. “Sorry, but if I do that, I won’t get up again. We keep moving. Unless, you need a break?”

It was dark but Illya could hear a little smile in Solo’s last words. At least he felt well enough to needle Illya. 

“We keep moving.” Illya agreed. 

The first tatters of dawn were showing when they reached the cabin. They were cold and damp from a mist that had settled into hills. Feet wet from fording a few streams. They trudged inside. It was bare bones. Cool and musty. A fireplace. A table. Kitchen sink. Bed in the corner. 

“This is honestly worse than the warehouse.” Solo drawled, panting. He dropped his bag to the creaking wooden floor planks.

“Be grateful.” Illya sniffed and set down his pack on the rough table. “You are safe here.”

“Yes, safe from a hot bath.”

“There is a gas generator and well-water. This is better than most hotels.” Illya dryly said.

Solo edged closer to the kitchen windows and stripped off his jacket and damp shirt slowly and painfully.

Illya stayed across the cabin, despite how much he wanted to help.

Finally free of the shirt, Solo let it drop to the floor and looked down at his torso. In the dim dawn light from the grimy windows, Illya could see a mess of mottled bruises, the worst of it dark like thunderclouds over Solo’s ribs.

Illya realized Solo was falling before Solo did.

A brief moment. A sway. Eyes glazed. Eyelids fluttering.

Illya strode across the cabin and caught Solo as he went down, head hanging limply. The heat coming off Solo’s body was concerning. And he was slick with sweat. 

Solo’s faint only lasted a moment.

He began to thrash in Illya’s arms, pushing away. Frantic. A rough sob tore from his throat.

“Stop.” Solo’s voice was barely a whisper. “Don’t.”

Illya did not drop Solo to the floor but lowered him as carefully as he could as Solo struggled. And then he backed away.

“Sorry.” He muttered.

Solo propped himself against the kitchen cabinets, panting, eyes wide and wet. Tears threatened to fall.

“Sorry.” Solo coughed. “I don’t-”

“It is fine.” Illya cut him off. “They beat you. I know. I am sorry.”

Solo just breathed and shook then closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“You are safe now.” Illya knew there wasn’t anything he could say that would fix this. But he tried. “You rest. I keep watch. I will keep you safe.”

A few tears hit the wood floor, soft sounds, the only sound. 

“Thanks, Peril.”

Whumpay - Day 6

Main Challenge - Mad Science - Russian Roulette Mini Challenge 6 -Torture - False Execution Original Work - Down in Goldonna

Alana hugged Ziggy tightly. It was over. Thank goodness. They could go home for the night and get some sleep. But she felt something strange; Ziggy’s hand was reaching around her waist. Alana drew back a little. And Ziggy almost skipped away from her embrace.

He waved something at her. In the dim light of the nearby streetlights, Alana saw a soft and supple sheen. She reached to her belt. Her revolver! Ziggy had her revolver.

As he stepped back he stopped in a pool of light. His grin was broad and crooked. And his eyes- Alana’s stomach dropped. She felt the blood drain from her face.

His eyes were black. Ziggy was possessed. But how? And by who?

“Ziggy?” Alana called out to him, hoping she was mistaken, hoping this was some sort of prank.

“Ziggy’s taking a nap right now. He’s so tired.” The Thing said with Ziggy’s voice. It stretched with his body and ran Its hands over Ziggy’s chest and waist. “I’m in the driver’s seat for a little bit.”

Alana fixed her eyes upon the revolver and darted forward. This Thing may be in control of Ziggy, but it also had Ziggy’s weaknesses. Ziggy was underweight. Ziggy was unconditioned.

The Thing danced back, grin growing wider somehow.

“Ah, ah.” It chided.

Instead of pointing the revolver at Alana it pressed the barrel to Ziggy’s temple. “Don’t do anything stupid.” It warned. “Or I will kill him.”

“You wouldn’t.” Alana raised her hands to show she wasn’t going to try anything else.

Alana’s mind raced. How could any being possess Ziggy without his permission? Was this even possible? And then, everything fell into place. “You’re the shadow he talks about. I’ve seen you before, hovering over him. What is your name?”

The Thing opened up the cylinder of the revolver and began removing the rounds. Alana couldn’t see exactly what he was doing in the patchwork darkness.

“A name?” It chuckled. “Why should I have a name?” It tossed a handful of rounds over Ziggy’s shoulder.

“How did you do this? Did he let you in?”

It spun the revolver’s cylinder back into place. It placed the barrel of the gun back to Ziggy’s temple again. “I’m tired of this.” It whined with Ziggy’s voice.

Alana felt her hands begin to shake. “Wait, please don’t-”

“I’ve removed all the rounds except for one.” Using Ziggy’s legs, it walked forward, towards Alana and into another pool of light. Its black eyes glittered in Ziggy’s pale face. “Let’s play a little game.”

Alana tried to keep her voice calm. “We don’t have to do this-”

“Oh, I think we do. You don’t seem to understand who’s in charge here.”

“Ziggy is your vessel! Why kill your vessel?”

“Everytime you answer incorrectly, I pull the trigger. It’s a one-in-six chance, right?”

“Please, don’t-!”

The hammer clicked. Empty chamber.

Alana could not breathe. She could not breathe. She wanted to scream. Her friend was about to die in front of her.

“One-in-six chance, right?” It asked again.

“Y-yes.” Alana grated out, holding back a sob. “One-in-six chance.”

“Good. Now, who is in charge here?”

“What?”

Another click. Another empty chamber.

Alana heard herself wail and bit it back, trying to get her breathing under control.

“Alana,” It came real close to her, so close she could smell the shampoo Ziggy used in his hair. “Who’s in charge right now?” It whispered with Ziggy’s soft voice.

“Y-you.”

“Good. When I need something from you, what will you do?”

“I’ll do it, I’ll do what you want.”

“That’s right. You are so good at this, Alana.”

“Fuck you!” Alana sobbed. Her legs were shaking beneath her.

Another click.

“That wasn’t very nice.” It sighed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“And when Ziggy wakes up, what are you going to tell him happened here?”

Alana hesitated.

Another click. Another chance. Time was slipping through her fingers.

“I’m sorry! Please! Stop! I’ll tell him what you want, whatever you want!”

“You’ll tell him he fainted. You won’t mention me.”

“I’ll tell him he fainted-!”

Another click. Oh god. One left.

“I won’t mention you!”

Ziggy’s body suddenly went limp, and as though in slow motion, he fell backwards to the grassy ground. The revolver bounced out of his hand. Alana rushed up and grabbed the gun then knelt beside Ziggy. She patted his cheek.

“Ziggy!” Alana choked out. “Ziggy, wake up.”

She opened up the cylinder and looked at the six chambers.

His eyes opened slowly. Focused on her. “Alana?”

There were no rounds in the gun at all.

“Yeah, it’s me. Are you okay? You fainted.”

The gun had been empty.

“I fainted? Why are you crying?”

Mediwhump May - IV/Cannula

(Original characters/story)

@mediwhumpmay

“How-” Tate cleared his throat, his voice rough with a sore throat. “How far is it now?”

Troy craned his neck to look at the IV bag behind Tate’s bed. “Not even close.”

Tate sighed and closed his eyes. “Sorry. You can go. You don’t have to stay until they discharge me.”

“Shut up.”

“I mean it, I-”

“Kid, I’m staying. Sharon knows where I am. Julia’s in bed. I’ve got nowhere to be.”

Tate sighed. 

Troy added. “I want to be here.”

“Bull.”

The room was quiet but the rest of the hospital outside was loud with beeps and talking and fast-paced steps, despite the fact it was close to midnight.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” Troy asked. 

“Is it close to halfway?”

Troy didn’t bother looking, but kept his eyes on Tate. “Not even close.”

Tate grimaced as he swallowed. “I don’t know. Didn’t think I was that sick.”

“Your blood sugar was low. When did you last eat?”

Tate sighed. “What are you? My dad?”

Troy waited. 

Tate thought back to the past day. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Just half a bagel. He lowered his eyes to his hands in his lap. “I ate breakfast.”

“Jesus, Tate, what the hell? I can’t work with you if you aren’t taking care of yourself.” Troy stood up and ran his hand through his hair. 

Tate touched the spot where the IV entered his arm, wincing. “I had a bad day.”

“All it takes is one bad day!” Troy’s face was red. 

“I’ll do better.” Tears started in Tate’s eyes and he wiped them away. He really didn’t want to cry in front of Troy. Not after all this. Fainting and being taken to the hospital was humiliating enough. 

“I’ll do better.” He repeated.

“I’m sorry.” Troy crouched down by Tate’s bed. “Hey, kid, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled.” 

“You can go.” Tate wiped his eyes one more time. “It’s fine.”

Troy nodded. “I know. But I’m gonna stay.”

“It’s fine.” Tate mouthed, finger tracing the tape that held his IV in place.

“Hey.” Troy nudged Tate’s shoulder.

Tate looked up.

Troy nodded at the IV bag. “It’s almost halfway.”

Tate smiled and swallowed hard.

Troy put the back of his hand to Tate’s forehead. “Fever’s down.”

“Thanks, dad.” Tate rolled his eyes. 

“I’m not old enough to be your dad, kid.”

“Well, you’re acting like one.”

“Can’t help it.”

“Pizza after this?” Tate asked, unsure of Troy’s response. “Oh, hell yeah, I’m starving.” Troy settled back into the angular hospital chair.

Tate smiled and leaned his head back against the bed. “Awesome.”

“You’re paying though.” Troy grunted.

Tate grinned.

—Why is his pain so slutty?