The children are understanding how powerful they can be as young individuals. A good friend of ours is great at empowering individuals with life-saving skills and we were fortunate enough to work alongside him on our latest family affair. Together, we learned about how and when to apply CPR. All of us were able to train on adult and infant simulators. We were happily surprised to witness our son, strong enough, able to apply adequate chest compressions on the adult setup. Our little guy felt empowered knowing that he could possibly save the lives of his family members. Our daughter did not quite have the strength for the adults at this time but she was excited about working with the infants. We also learned how to properly use an AED, and the proper way to help one who is choking even if the one choking is yourself and no one else is around. Much of the great insight from our instructor comes from his lengthy personal experience. The lessons in how to apply the techniques we learned and the maintaining of situational awareness was taught in tandem. We were also placed in make-believe scenarios that helped us understand how vulnerable we could be at any given time. This was a great lesson that has brought us closer as a family. We recommend Learning these skills if you don’t already know. Also, If it’s been a while it’s a good excuse to learn it again because there is a difference between the way it is taught today than just few years ago.
***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***
Present (Friday, continued)…
Emma couldn’t hold back her tears as she crouched before the mutilated form of her husband. He’d been stabbed in the chest and through the hand, and his right shoulder hung grotesquely out of place. Blood caked his face and pooled in livid swellings from a recent beating. Red droplets dripped sluggishly off the tip of his nose and splattered, barely visible, onto the rust-tinged burlap on his torso. A haphazard mess of surgical staples did little to contain bone-deep lacerations on either side of his ankle. And a line of slowly oozing punctures trailed their way up both inner thighs until disappearing beneath the sackcloth smock.
She decided to take it as a good sign that everything still seemed to be actively bleeding. Killian did not appear to be moving at all; at first, Emma could not even see any sign of breaths. But as she reached out to seek a carotid pulse, she noticed a slight and labored rise and fall of his chest. Her relief caused a catch in her throat. He was alive… for the moment.
Suddenly overwhelmed with emotion and weighed down by the responsibility of keeping him alive until help arrived, Emma fumbled for the phone concealed in her pocket. If ever there was a time for magical healing… Once again, she strained to feel the tingle of light where her power dwelt, a reflex she’d already indulged several times since the Vocivore’s defeat. As before: nothing.
Well, no use bemoaning something she couldn’t change. Her free hand automatically came to rest on Killian’s arm, above the ring and stake, over an unraveling bandage. She was both heartened and dismayed when Killian flinched away from her touch with a whine.
“Killian, hey,” she soothed. “It’s just me.” She hit the button to call EMS, then put her phone on speaker. “You’re gonna be okay.”
She kept a careful watch on her husband while explaining to the dispatcher what was needed: essentially every ambulance and emergency vehicle in the United Realms. As sheriff, she knew they would take her seriously, as well as listen to any special request. So while she did her best to direct them to the scene, she also suggested that they contact David, who knew exactly the route they should take.
In the midst of rattling off her father’s contact info, while also absently holding pressure against as many of the puncture wounds as she could simultaneously reach, Emma felt Killian begin to stir. He shuddered as he tried to drag his eyes open.
“Try and hold still,” urged Emma.
“Swan,” he whispered, wincing.
His recognition of her brought tears to her eyes once more. Another good sign. “I’m here, babe. Just hold on; we’re going to get you all fixed up.”
He shook his head, breathing faster now, trying and failing to reach up and push her away with his stump. “You have to… go…” he groaned. “The monster…”
A flash of extreme pain crossed his face, and the words fizzled out, evaporating into frantic gasps for air.
Emma felt her own breath catch at his obvious distress. “Shhhhh, Killian, shhh… calm down. The monster’s dead; it can’t hurt you anymore.”
Every muscle in her husband’s body stood taut as he fought for air.
“He’s having trouble breathing,” she reported to the person on the other end of the line, as calmly as she could. She listened to the instructions but her attention was riveted on Killian. At long last, he managed to quell the panic and slow the gasping.
“D-dead?” he wheezed, sounding as if he couldn’t even define the word.
“Yep.” She used her shirt sleeve to carefully blot some blood that was trickling into one of his eyes.
Killian finally managed to focus on Emma’s face for the first time, and though he still had an alarmingly dazed look in his eyes, he immediately fixated on a small cut on her forehead.
“You’re hurt.”
He looked as if he were about to raise his left arm despite the blade embedded in his chest. Emma held him down.
“Good to know your keen observational skills are still intact.” She rolled her eyes as he continued staring up at her in concern. “I’m fine. And you’re ridiculous.”
He gritted his way through another wave of intense pain and seemed to forget that she was even there. It was then that she noticed how much he was shivering; whether it was from the practically nothing he was wearing, or from shock, she didn’t know. How was she supposed to lay him flat and elevate his feet with his hand pinned to the frickin’ altar? More importantly, if he stopped breathing, how would she perform effective CPR in this position?
She pushed aside the thought that, with the paramedics at least 30 minutes away, any efforts at resuscitation would likely be futile.
Emma glanced back at Jones, who was gingerly unwinding the costume bandage from his wrist. He wouldn’t be able to provide much assistance, whatever she decided to do.
She felt Killian squirming under her hands and turned her attention back. He groaned and then, as if reading her thoughts, he hissed,
“Please, love… get me free of this… bloody thing…”
His fingers twitched in feeble emphasis. Emma bit her lip, reluctant. “I don’t know, Killian… that may not be such a good idea.”
“Please,” he said again, eyes screwed shut against the pain. “It’ll have to happen… eventually. And I think… it may make it… easier to breathe.”
“It will hurt a lot less after you’ve had some morphine,” she pointed out. But if it really did help him to breathe better…
“Please, Emma,” Killian grunted. “Just do it.”
The dispatcher on the phone asked for an update, and Emma explained the situation while she set squeamishness aside and studied the impaling blade. She had no way of knowing how long it actually was, or how much of it was embedded in the wood. Approximately three inches of sharp steel were sandwiched between the dagger’s handle and Killian’s palm. The heel of his hand and the underside of his forearm glistened with blood all the way down to the elbow. Pulling the dagger free would be inadvisable if she wanted to keep that trickle of blood from becoming a stream. The dispatcher concurred, advising that they wait, if possible. But Emma didn’t know how bad the stab wound to his chest was; he could even have a punctured lung on that side, so relieving the tension on the other side may well be the difference between life and death for him.
As she was agonizing over the decision, she sensed movement behind her, and when she glanced back, it was to see Jones staggering up the steps toward them. He was breathing hard, looked pale and sweaty, but didn’t stop until he reached the top. Grimacing, he knelt, landing hard next to his doppelganger, whose eyes snapped open as he cringed away. Expecting an attack. Emma squeezed his wrist in reassurance.
“Ahoy there, mate,” said Jones softly. He faked a scowl and added, “You know, I haven’t forgotten to be miffed at the pair of you and this insane plot of yours.”
Gratified by the hint of a pained smile on Killian’s lips, Jones turned to address Emma. “Suppose I should offer my help anyway.”
Emma eyed him critically. The Ace bandage was now wrapped haphazardly around his injured shoulder, loosely covering the patch of blood spreading on the sackcloth over the bullet wound. She raised an eyebrow. “Sure you’re up to it?“
Jones only gave a small, unconvincing twitch of his lips. Emma took her hands away from her husband’s injuries long enough to grip the ends of the Ace bandage, which were merely tucked under one another. She gave a sharp tug to tighten it and tied a more secure knot, hissing,
“What the hell happened back there?”
“Not a clue.” Jones closed his eyes in a brief concession to the momentary increase in pain, then nodded his thanks.
The dispatcher on the phone crackled an update in ETA: 20 minutes, give or take. A long time, in which anything could happen. Most of which would be bad.
Emma gave a sigh of resignation. Then she squared her shoulders.
"Think you can help stabilize his hand?” she murmured, and Jones’ gaze flicked to the afflicted limb.
“Yeah, of course.”
Emma shuffled around to the other side of her husband’s legs, closer to the impaling dagger. With a stifled grunt, Jones made room for her. Killian watched, motionless apart from his short, gasping breaths. Forcing herself to turn away from the pain in his eyes, Emma reached for the dagger’s handle. Behind her, the detective gently wrapped his hand around Killian’s wrist.
In response to the hissed intake of air to her right, Emma caressed Killian’s cheek. “You sure?”
Her husband’s eyes betrayed just as much fear and reluctance as anguish, but he managed a shaky nod. Emma tightened her grip on the dagger. “On three, then. One…” She heard Killian gasp a preparatory breath, saw him squeeze his eyes shut. “Two…”
On impulse, ignoring the blood and sweat staining his face, Emma initiated a furious kiss, at the same time yanking with all her strength on the trapped blade. The unexpected touch of intimacy worked as a distraction for approximately half a second, as a dazed Killian attempted to reciprocate. But then he was pulling away, howling his agony against her cheek. Emma cursed and braced her free hand against the altar as leverage; long seconds later, the dagger popped free of the wood, inevitably jerking inside Killian’s hand despite efforts to keep it still. Though a smear of crimson revealed where a short length of steel had slid free, enough remained within his flesh to hopefully stem the worst of the bleeding.
“It’s done; it’s out,” Emma breathed, reaching for his head and cradling him against her shoulder. She nodded at Jones and, moving in slow tandem, they lowered the impaled limb to rest awkwardly on the floor beside him, the dagger’s handle mere inches from his hip. And Killian’s muffled groans were sweet music, proving his continued existence, his ability to draw enough breath to express his pain.
Even from her strange angle, even through the stained sackcloth, Emma could see the wrong position of his shoulder joint. She cringed and stroked the back of Killian’s head. Then she gently pulled away, asking,
“Any better?”
Killian rested his head back against the altar and squinted up at her, nodding once but not wasting the energy to speak.
“Not touching that shoulder. Sorry.” She spared a glance at Jones, who had sat back and was now massaging his chest despite the length of metal still burrowed into his arm. He grimaced agreement with her decision; even if either of them had the expertise to pop the joint back into place, it had been long enough for swelling and tightening of the tendons and ligaments to make an attempt not worth it.
“Do you want to lie down?”
At first, it looked as if Killian were considering the suggestion. Theoretically, lying him flat could be advisable for multiple reasons, and might make it easier for him to relax, but Emma wanted to leave the choice up to him. In the end, whether he thought he would find it harder to breathe, wanted to avoid the pain of changing positions, or feared the possibility that once he lay down, he may never get up again, Killian answered with a feeble shake of his head.
Emma peeled her jacket off and rolled it into a tight bundle, which she carefully slid behind Killian’s head as a makeshift pillow. Her proximity allowed her a better view of the bulky new collar and its set of screws which, up until now, she’d been hoping weren’t actually drilled into his neck. That explained at least some of that morning’s screams. Emma scowled, feeling sick; she’d granted that villain far too easy of a death.
Killian didn’t look any more comfortable, but grimaced his gratitude at her before suddenly catching sight of the slumped monster corpse in the distance. He seemed to grow somehow even more pale, warily watching the Vocivore for any sign of movement.
“It’s dead?”
Emma rested a reassuring hand on his shin, inadvertently leaving a bloody handprint on a relatively unscathed portion of skin. Killian’s eyes were locked on his tormentor, as if his vigilance were the only thing keeping it subdued.
“Shot it myself,” she growled. “So unless the damn thing can regenerate its ugly, pervert brain, we’re finally done with it.”
As she said this, she realized it may not have been the most comforting thing for Killian to hear: they still had a lot to learn about the creature, and the possibility, however slight, of the Vocivore coming back to life gave her a momentary chill. She could only imagine how it made Killian feel.
“Listen,” she said, “Jones and I both have our weapons and will keep an eye on it. But I don’t think we need to worry about it.”
“And those slaves over there?” added Jones, his voice only slightly stronger than Killian’s had been. “They’re lost. Directionless. The first sign of renewed purpose, we’ll know to be on the alert.”
Emma stole a glance in the direction the detective was looking and saw the slaves, some of whom had been holding her captive just moments before, hunched on their knees, faces in hands. One or two lay stretched out flat, silent and still.
“He’s right. Leave the guard duty to us; you just focus on hanging in there until the medics come.”
Emma did not like the bleak hopelessness with which he reacted to her statement; she knew he was doubting his odds of surviving that long. But he rested his head back and soon had his eyes closed, either deciding to put his trust in her words, or simply too weary to do otherwise.
She tried to remain quiet as she reached across his body for the loose end of the bandage around his left wrist. It appeared to be the same one supplied by Storybrooke General; if its sole purpose was still to cover the wrist ring, it would be of better use staunching some of the oozing injuries on his legs.
“Killian?” she asked, some time later. “How far is Z’s and would you be able to tell me how to get there?”
Her husband didn’t respond.
“Babe?” A gentle finger on his cheek elicited no response, but he did pull away slightly when she got too near an inflamed abrasion by his eye. His breaths were shallow and quick but regular, and he seemed somehow balanced enough even without much supporting him upright. She was torn between staying to monitor his condition and heading off to see what she could find in the way of first aid supplies.
Watching through half-lidded eyes, Jones reluctantly sat up straighter, rousing himself from a pain-driven daze to offer,
“I’ll keep an eye on him, Emma. Go do what you need to do.”
The detective was hardly in a fit state to offer that kind of service; Emma wouldn’t have been surprised to watch him be the next one to pass out. But, grunting, Jones got to his knees and made his way to Emma’s side, dutifully nudging her hand away so he could take over the task of applying pressure. With a stubbornness so much like her own Killian, he even went so far as to use the scarred remnants of his left wrist to cover an additional wound, yielding nothing to the anguish that surely wracked his shoulder with the effort. Emma flashed him look of exasperation before clambering to her feet.
“Five minutes,” she promised, then jogged her way out into the desolate afternoon light.
*****
His Master loomed overhead. Large and menacing. A claw was embedded in his shoulder, another in his hand, severing tendons, removing sensation and function from each remaining finger. Killian whimpered, shifting under questing tentacles pressed hard into burning thighs. Emma, the rescue… all a wonderful, horrible hallucination. How much longer would his suffering drag on?
Tentacles dug deeper, and Killian thrashed with all of his remaining strength. He knew his Master demanded obedience, but he couldn’t do it. Not again.
A startlingly good impression of his own voice floated down from above. “Hey, easy! Easy there, mate; it’s only me.”
Nearly hyperventilating now despite unprecedented agony in his chest, Killian continued to struggle; opening his eyes seemed a monumental task and he would only see that hideous face staring down at him anyway. He had no idea what his Master was up to, or how the creature had managed to mimic his voice, but it hardly mattered.
“Killian, mate; I promise I’m not trying to hurt you. I swear. In truth, I intend to wait until you’re fully recovered. And then… well, after that, all bets are off. You bloody wanker.”
Those words sounded nothing like any his Master had ever said before. Perhaps he was hallucinating this as well? Killian groaned quietly, then peeled his eyes open.
Detective Jones sat beside Killian’s knee, holding pressure on some of the punctures to his inner thigh. The man looked utterly spent, had a blood soaked bandage wrapped carelessly around a shoulder, and wore a grim expression, but his eyes were soft. Upon locking gazes with Killian, the detective flashed a wan smile.
“That’s it. See? Nothing to fear now.”
Killian remained unconvinced that it wasn’t a dream. He scanned the desecrated church, feeling dazed and slightly drunk; his eyes would not follow a steady path and he couldn’t make sense of everything he was seeing. He winced and tried to relieve some of the strain on his shoulder, to no avail.
“If you’re looking for Emma, she’s just stepped out for a bit,” Jones told him. “In search of bandages and a blanket.”
“Emma…” croaked Killian.
“She’ll be back soon,” soothed the detective, hiding a wince himself as he shifted his weight. “And not much longer until other help arrives as well.”
Killian brought his focus back on the face identical to his own, blinking heavy eyelids and fighting massive disorientation. “How…?”
Jones gave a wry grin. “Your Swan confessed. I know everything now. You great bloody git. You know your in-laws are going to murder you as well?”
“Can’t murder… a corpse… mate…”
“No, no… you’re not getting out of it that easily.” Jones checked that his hand was still covering the wound before continuing. “You’re obligated to stay alive; otherwise, who will we exact our vengeance upon?”
Killian’s eyes fluttered closed against his will. “The Crocodile… it was his gadget… made this possible.”
Jones laughed once. “Okay, I’m not averse to that idea… but as I understand it, he’s only one third of the responsible party.”
Killian could not keep up the conversation. He was in too much anguish and found his concentration slipping. Jones seemed to sense this and fell silent, but after a moment of quiet, he murmured,
“I understand, mate. I do. And I can’t say I would have done anything differently, given the opportunity you had.”
Killian made an attempt at a grateful smile. But a sudden stab of pain took his breath away, stifling any chance at a reply. Through the gasping breaths that followed, he thought he heard the scrape of the off-kilter door being dragged open, but it could have been his imagination, as well.
It wasn’t. Killian heard footsteps, urgent and self-assured, scuffling along the well-worn paving stones of the sanctuary in a manner very distinct from the ominous clicking he had grown accustomed to fearing. From an impossibly great distance, the garbled voice of his beloved called out,
“How’s he doing?”
“Still with us,” reported Jones, similarly remote. “I was just telling him how much trouble the pair of you are in.”
Killian shuddered at the arrival of another being; it was so deeply ingrained that even the fuzzy outline of Emma’s calmly worried face could not overcome the instinct. Her gentle touch on his knee sent a shock of pain and fear sizzling down to his toes. He hissed, then stammered an apology. Emma ignored the reaction. She had in her grip a ragged brown blanket, which she unfurled and gently spread over his lower body.
“Almost,” she promised in a whisper. Unrolling other scraps of fabric intended as temporary bandages, she added, “I’m pretty sure I heard sirens out there. This is almost over.”
Even in his near-stupor, Killian somehow made sense of the words. He exhaled once, closed his eyes, and began to silently weep.
1. Fist: Make a fist around the epi-pen, don’t place your thumb/fingers over either end
2. Flick the blue cap off
3. Fire. Press down into the outer thigh (the big muscle in there), hold for 10 seconds before removing (the orange cap will cover the needle). Bare skin is best but the epi-pen will go through clothing. Avoid pockets and seams.
- Ring an ambulance even if everything seems to be fine!
More info for those who have asked -
Bare skin is best, but epi-pens go through clothes so don’t stress too much over that
Always, always ring the paramedics after using an epi-pen or even have someone else do it straight away. Another dose may be needed which paramedics can administer.
Location, location. Apologies if outer thigh was a bit vague! If you stand up and allow your arms to hang by your side where your fingers fall against your leg is a great place.
Legal issues, in Australia first aiders are protected by a Good Samaritan Act whereby the provision of reasonable assistance to those injured or ill is protected by law. I’m unsure how this translates to around the world but I’ll do some research
Thank you all for reblogging and getting this message out there, and also for sharing your stories! A lot happened while I was asleep but you definitely made my day and could very well have saved someone else’s just by sharing some information and getting educated! Thank you!
Firstair-breather featured on the blog…and she’s a beauty!
The venom of the banded sea krait (Laticauda colubrina) has hemotoxic, myotoxic, and neurotoxic properties.
In simpler terms: it ravages red blood cells,destroys muscle tissue, and wrecks nerves.
The effects? Muscle pain, weakness, difficulty moving, and immobility. Paralysis may also set in, beginning with symptoms such as drooping eyelids, lockjaw, and slurred speech, before progressing into breathing difficulty, seizures, or coma. Death results from ventilatory failure.
Unfortunately, the diagnosis of sea snake bites is often delayed. Symptoms may appear hours after the bite, and the bite itself can often be missed due to the snake’s tiny fangs (and the tiny puncture wounds it makes).
First aid treatment involves pressure immobilization and placing the bitten area in a dependent position (*cough* below the heart). However, sea snake anti-venom does exist, and must be administered ASAP. Watching out for potential respiratory failure in bite victims would be good too.
The venom of some species of cone snail (Conus spp) is made up of over a hundred unique toxins that target ion channels and can result in the rapid paralysis of prey.
This deadly cocktail is delivered via a harpoon(the second image) concealed in the snail’s proboscis (the long, finger-like thing you see in the clip above).
Human envenomation can result in severe pain, discoloration of the affected area, swelling, and numbness. Nausea, muscle weakness, blurred vision, and paralysis may also occur.
Severe cases can result in respiratory failure, cardiovascular collapse, and death within two hours.
As with its fellow mollusk, the blue-ringed octopus, first aid for cone snail envenomation involves pressure immobilization on the affected area. Further treatment is supportive, since no anti-venom for cone snail venom exists.
A gender related to Mikan Tsumiki and her aesthetic. Fict comes from fictional, Aestheti comes from Aesthetic or Aesthetigender (aesthetic based genders).
Those who identify with this gender may feel he align with Mikan’s aesthetic, have a bit of gender envy from her, or feel like she represents a bit of their gender. They may also feel like their gender is related to soft colours, hospital aesthetics, nursing equipment and first aid.
The flag is made up of mikan’s main colours, pink for her dress, purple for her hair and white with a red stripe for the nurse’s apron she wears
Impector.. pushed Springer roughly… through the door opening. “Hnn.. Arg,,,” WHAT IS THIS? 
This is a Korean meme. A fan girl gets caught by her teacher while writing a fan fiction. It’s just perfect for First Aid in the beginning of the Bullets.
Summary: Loki never gave a damn about getting stitched back together after getting torn apart on missions, but there’s something about the way you do it…
Warnings/Notes: Whoops! Sorry this is so late. I, uh… may have gotten sucked into the world of Minecraft.
New but Retroactive Reminder for this and all of my fics: I do not, have not, and will not give anyone permission to copy/paste, translate, or otherwise take or modify this story to post it anywhere else. You can find my stories here on Tumblr or under kaeorin on AO3, but nowhere else. This does not apply only to fics which hold this disclaimer–NONE of my works are to be stolen or modified. Additionally, please remember that Liking a post on Tumblr does not increase the author’s exposure. I don’t run your life, but readers should be reblogging the works they like.
Never Fret None
Ordinarily, Loki was not much for wound care. He healed so quickly, after all, that the worst he usually needed to do was think about wiping away some of the grime to make it easier for his skin to knit back together. Even when he was badly hurt, he knew that, as long as he could lie down and sleep through the night, if he woke up in the morning, all would be well again. Fighting beside the Avengers meant that he rarely faced down the kinds of foes that he’d once survived. Mortals could not tear him apart. Even the enhanced mortals, or the types of enemies they tended to drag in from outer space, could not cause any truly lasting damage. So, when even the super-soldiers found themselves limping towards the infirmary after returning from an especially-disastrous mission, Loki did not bother. He could wash himself at the sink, or in the shower, and collapse into bed while his body did the rest of the work.
But you didn’t like that.
You. You sweet thing, you precious fool who’d gone and gotten yourself involved with Loki of Asgard. You worked with the Avengers, though—thankfully—you seldom went out on the kinds of missions that made Rogers bleed. Once he’d accepted his place in the Tower—or at least accepted that there was no way he was going to escape this place—it hadn’t taken very long at all for you to catch his interest.
You were mortal, like everybody else, but you wore it differently. There was something in your eyes, in your face, in your posture, that had always intrigued him. You did not carry yourself the way so many other mortals did: blundering about from moment to moment, completely oblivious to what else existed beyond their comprehension. You seemed to understand more than you’d ever say aloud. Strangest of all: when Loki’s curiosity became too much for him and made him corner you in one of the many labs in the Tower, you did not look at him with even a trace of fear in your eyes.
Tonight, he felt a familiar surge in his chest. Irritation, mostly, but also tender love. He’d been wounded on this latest mission. It wasn’t bad enough to cause any lasting damage, but it was certainly bad enough to be visible. It’d catch your attention, and it’d make you worry.
He hated when he made you worry.
Sure enough: As soon as you caught sight of him, he watched your face light up with a brilliant smile—only to fall with concern and fear when he moved close enough to let you see his uniform. You rushed to his side and reached out to touch him. Your hands fluttered in the air around his torso for a few moments, looking very much like butterflies trying to determine where they could land. It was too much for him: he grasped your wrists in his own filthy hands and forced you to press your touch against him.
“I’m fine,” he said in a low voice. Often, that tone of voice was enough to soothe your fears. There had been countless nights already, where he’d pulled you out of nightmares and coaxed you back to sleep. His fingers in your hair and his voice low in his chest, they worked like magic on you. Those nights, he couldn’t help but lie awake and marvel at that: at the way you allowed a monster to hold you in the depths of your fear and the way you could let him convince you to ignore whatever it was that was frightening you. Tonight, he watched the lines in your forehead lessen—but not disappear entirely. “I mean it. Stop looking at me like that. I’m alright.”
“You’re bleeding.” You did not pull your hands away from him, not even when he released your wrists to cup your face in his hands. You allowed him to tilt your head up a bit, guiding your eyes back to his face. When he caught your gaze, he smiled despite himself. You looked so serious. It was precious to him.
“Barely. I’m already mostly healed just from the flight back here. I just need a few hours, and I’ll be perfect once more. Stop worrying; you’ll make yourself sick.”
It was easy to want to look after you, far easier than he’d ever thought possible. Maybe it was related to whatever had made you so glaringly different from the rest of the mortals, but you were the first person in a long time that Loki had felt the desire to protect. Maybe that was why he was so irritated by your concern during times like these: You shouldn’t have had to worry like that, and especially not over someone like him.
Perhaps he’d lost a little more blood than he’d initially realized, because for a moment he truly thought that you might allow him to make you stop worrying. But then those lines in your forehead deepened again, and he watched the way you set your jaw with determination. You slipped your arm around his waist and tugged him towards the elevators.
As soon as the door had closed behind him in his room, you set to tugging his clothing off of him. Your touch was cool, almost professional, but that didn’t stop him from cracking jokes.
“Darling, if I’d known that that was all you wanted, I would never have made you wait so long. All you had to do was ask.” He reached to take hold of one of your hands, but you evaded his touch with a carefully-practiced ease. He didn’t have to look down at himself to know what he looked like; the despair in your eyes as you took in the sight of him was enough.
He was wounded. He knew that damn well. There had been too many foes, and they’d fought too fiercely. His chest and sides were littered with bruises, scrapes, and more gaping wounds than he would have liked. Briefly, he took the time to wish he’d lingered on the jet just a little bit longer, in the hopes that those wounds might have closed up a little more before you could spot them. Your touch grew light again as you drew your fingertips down his chest. When you traced one particularly-nasty cut trailing from his breastbone to his navel, he couldn’t stop the shiver that rippled through him. That one had healed up quite a bit on the flight home, but, before it did, it’d been pouring blood like a waterfall.
This time, when he reached to take your hand, you let him. He pressed your touch a little more firmly against his skin and held his hand against the back of yours to keep it still. “I’m alright,” he promised once again, holding your gaze. He’d come back to you, as he always had and always would. He didn’t say that last part aloud.
You nodded slightly and set your lips in a thin line before gesturing towards his washroom with your chin. “Let’s get you clean,” you said in a voice that held a few too many ghosts for Loki’s liking, but it could have been worse. He bit back his attempt at a crass joke and followed you silently instead.
The water felt nice enough. You’d gotten the water to the perfect temperature and helped him under the spray before stripping down yourself so you could join him. The water—warm, but not boiling—eased the worst of the aches in his muscles even as it stung the exposed flesh of the cuts.
By now, Loki had taken many showers with you. You’d washed his hair more times than he could have counted. Secretly, he loved the way he had to duck his head down a bit for you, and of course he loved the feeling of your fingers through his hair. He fell silent as you worked. It might have been fun to rile you up with things that would make you want to hide your face—or scowl up at him directly—but he also didn’t want to ruin this. You washed the suds from his hair, careful as ever to keep it from stinging his eyes, and when you’d finished looking after his hair, you picked up the soap.
If he pushed, he might have been able to convince you to let him look after you as well. You also seemed to like it when he washed your hair for you. Your hair did require a bit more upkeep than his did, and it was always a whole production when you washed your hair, but it was more than worth it to see the quiet bliss settle in on your features. But perhaps tonight was not the best night. His wounds seemed to bother you more tonight than they had in the past: perhaps, tonight, it would be kind of him merely to allow you to do what you felt you needed to do for him, and worry about repaying you later.
So he stood there under the spray as you looked after him. Your gentle hands, they washed the dirt and blood and filth off of him. He was pleased to see that most of his wounds, even the deepest ones, had stopped oozing blood. You had to have noticed the same thing: he caught the way you trailed your fingers along one. As it so often was, your touch was heart-breakingly tender. There was so much love in you, you perfect thing, and it never occurred to you not to give it all to him. That was yet another thing which made him need to protect you. You could defend yourself, but he wanted to be the one to do it so you could go on loving the way you did. Here and there, when you weren’t actively washing him, you permitted him to bring your hand up to his lips to kiss your knuckles. When he did, you looked up at him. Slowly, you began to smile again.
Once the two of you had dried off, you led him to the bed and dragged out your first aid kit. The shower itself had gone a long way towards healing his wounds. The simple act of cleaning away all the foreign material made it easier for his skin to heal back together. Of course, he knew you’d never allow him to go to sleep without this ritual. You brought out antiseptics and gauze and bandages, and cared for him with a solemn, thoughtful look on your face. He did not interrupt you, not even when the crease in your brow called out to him, begged him to soothe it away with his lips.
He’d never get over it. When you took care of him like this, it always seemed to hurt so much less than when others did it—or even than when he did it himself. Was it the love in your touch which lessened the sting? Was it some quiet, hidden magic that only you possessed? Whatever it was, it made it so much easier to sit still while you cleaned and dressed his wounds.
Those moments were also some of the only moments where Loki didn’t have to fight to hold his tongue. When you were working on him like that, and when he was watching you, it was like his brain fell still. For once, thoughts and images and memories did not wash over him in an endless deluge of information. Words did not press at the tip of his tongue, did not fight to spill past his lips. Your touch, and your concern, and your presence made it possible for him to exist. He could sit quietly in his own skin, certain in the knowledge that you were right there with him. Did you know what you did to him? Could he ever find the words to tell you?
When, all too soon, you packed your supplies away again and offered him one of his sleep-shirts, rather than taking it, he reached out to crush you against his body. You made a quiet sound: a startled sort of squeak that made him smile even as he pressed his nose against the top of your head. This was why he continued to do what he did, out there in the world. Out there on the Avengers jet. He did it because it meant he’d be able to come back here, to you, and touch you and hold you.
It was hard to know exactly how long the two of you stood there, wrapped up in one another with the rest of the world having fallen away. He could feel the muscles in your arms trembling from how tightly you were holding him. Even that did not make you let go.
After some time, Loki pulled away from you—just enough—and nodded towards the bed. It was late. He knew that worrying tended to wear you out, so he wasn’t overly surprised when you just nodded back at him and climbed under the covers. The sight of you in his bed was something he’d never get used to, and never get tired of. He allowed himself a few moments just to stand there and watch you make yourself comfortable among the sheets that smelled of him. By the time you looked up at him with heavy lashes, it didn’t take much to get him to join you.
Careful not to aggravate any of his wounds, you curled yourself around him as soon as Loki joined you under the covers. The softness of that, and the wordless thoughtfulness of that, made his chest feel tight. You did not make a show of your love, it was merely a part of who you were. Had he ever known anyone like you?
You rested your head on his shoulder, tucked carefully beneath his jawline, and he couldn’t help but turn his head to press his lips to your forehead: a dozen or more tiny, choked-up kisses because he couldn’t figure out how else to say what he needed to tell you.
You understood. He could tell that you understood from the contented sigh that you let out against his throat. And from the way you tightened your arm (as carefully as ever) around his middle.
He slept. During the night, his skin and body healed just as he’d expected—but his mind was also beginning to heal. Thanks to you.
