Whumptober Day 9

Victor curls up in a ball on Chaia and Maria’s sofa, his teary eyes glued to the television screen. “No,” he whispers.

Maria sits down next to him and grasps his hand. “I’m here.”

Victor leans his head against her shoulder. “I haven’t been able to reach my mom all day. She was there.” He points at the television screen. “She was celebrating her birthday at that community center.” He turns his head and sobs into her shoulder.

Continued from here

(I’m sorry)

CW: Blood, impalement, presumed death, burns, strong language (and equally strong anger to fit), restraints

August groaned as he started to wake back up. His arms and especially his wrists were burning. He tried to move but moving caused the pain to tear down his arms. He screamed involuntarily, now trying to keep still.

“Hey.”

August opened his eyes.

“Ready to watch your friend die?” A grin split Azari’s face as he stood wielding a wooden stake.

Morgan lay face-up on the floor a few feet away from August.

August was disoriented and didn’t have time to process or react before Azari sank the stake into Morgan’s chest.

For a moment, August still couldn’t process what had happened.

“What? No response? You don’t care about them at all?”

August’s vision flashed as anger surged. He started kicking and thrashing, no longer caring about the pain. “No! Let me go! Let me out— I’m going to kill you— You son of a bitch— Fucking coward!” August wasn’t looking at anything. His vision was hot white and red as he struggled to break the chains holding him to the wall.

“Well! There’s the reaction I was looking for! You’re rather feisty, aren’t you?”

August yelled, drowning out Azari’s voice. Everything became nothing as August’s world was drowned in rage. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to get attached to Morgan.

But he did. And now the worst had come to pass. Just like it always did.

August lost sense of time. He didn’t even think about how long he had been struggling until he felt his heel connect with something that hadn’t been there previously. August didn’t hesitate. He kicked again and met the same result.

“Damn you— cut it out!”

August hesitated. That wasn’t Azari’s voice.

“Calm yourself. We are here to help you.”

August jumped. The second voice belonged to a woman with an unfamiliar accent and came from directly next to his head.

“Just breathe. Please try not to kick my friend again.” Said the woman.

August didn’t exactly intend to calm down, but he was confused. Before he was able to detangle what was happening, he found himself released from the cuffs.

“Who are you?” August scrambled to his feet, voice hoarse from screaming. The woman was far from human She had no nose, but she had pointed ears and many eyes. Her skin was grey.

“My name is Latira. My friend is James.” Latira gestured to a man who had his hand over his nose. Blood was leaking down his face as he glared at August.

August glanced at Morgan and his rage came flooding back. “Where is Azari.” He demanded. “Where is the other vampire that was here?” He scanned the room and saw Azari in the corner, knocked out with burns from the silver all across his face and up one of his arms where the sleeve had come back.

August lunged.

“Woah! Hey, calm down!” James caught August and held him back.

“Let me go! Let go of me— I’m going to kill him!” August kicked and fought but somehow James managed to hold on. “He killed them! He killed them— let me go!”

“Chill out!” James yelled, holding on tighter.

“Your friend is still alive.” Latira said calmly.

August froze. What?

August dead-weighted, slipping away from James and rushing to Morgan’s side.

Latira was right. Morgan was still breathing. Azari had missed Morgan’s heart.

Without taking time to think, August pulled the stake out of Morgan’s chest. Morgan gave a weak cough, drawing up the slightest amount of blood.

“Morgan? Morgan, you’re going to be okay.” August tentatively lifted Morgan into his arms, ignoring his own pain and the slick coating of Morgan’s blood on his arms. August looked up at Latira and James. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

“We heard you screaming from outside.”

“Yeah. You were being really loud.” James said. “That guy thought he could stop us when we came down here, but the dumbass didn’t realize I’m a werewolf.”

“You’re a werewolf?” August stood quickly. Vampires and werewolves weren’t exactly on good terms.

“Chill. I don’t care about petty feuds. I don’t even belong to a pack. I went rogue seven years ago.” James grinned.

August hesitated. In a way, August was a bit like a rogue wolf. He didn’t answer to anyone in the vampire community— indeed, he was damn near the oldest member of the vampire community. It would have been odd to submit to those so many thousands of years younger than him. Like James, August didn’t really care for the feud between vampires and werewolves, but just because he wouldn’t join the feud didn’t mean he wanted to trust a werewolf.

What other choice did he have, though?

“Thank you.” August gave a short nod. “You’ve just saved both our lives.” His expression hardened. “He’s still going to die, though.” August nodded at Azari.

“You do not have the authority to make that decision.” Latira said, her voice still very calm. “That is a choice that is left to the vampire council— if I understand your culture correctly.”

“Three things.” August sneered. “One, the council will sentence him to death for his crimes anyway. Two, I am older than every single member of that damned council. And three, I am going to be the one to kill him. Also, unless you’re a vampire, your words hold no official meaning.”

“I am older than the earth itself.” Latira maintained the same calm as she had the entire time thus far. It was starting to infuriate August. “I have connections with the vampire council. I do not believe in violence, but I do believe in justice. If he is to die, that is to be sentenced by the rightful leaders of his community.”

August wanted to tear her to shreds. “So in other words, go to the council or you’ll tattle? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes.”

“You have no idea how our community works! If you think for a secondthat you can stand in the place of our leaders, you’re wrong. I would rather kill you than go to the council and let them take this vengeance away from me! Fuck off!”

“You need to leave.” James interrupted. “I don’t partake in the feud, but if you’re gonna threaten Latira, I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

“Like you think you could take me!” August snapped, turning to James. “You may be a werewolf, but I’m not as weak as Azari is. I’ll break your bones like they’re nothing.”

James just laughed. “Maybe on a good day. Not with injuries like that and a hurt friend!”

August could feel his frustration building. “Get out of my way.” He growled.

Latira and James moved aside, allowing August to exit.

August stormed out of the house, ignoring the terrified stares of people on the street as he carried Morgan out.

“Do you need help? Holy shit, what happened?” Asked a man who ran over to August and Morgan.

“Leave me alone.” August hissed. The man did. August was pretty sure he heard at least three people call the police before he reached his own house again.

Whumptober, Day 9 - Kakashi/Sakura

Prompt:Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated (presumed dead, (blind) rage, tears)
Fandom:Naruto
Characters:Kakashi/Sakura
Words:754
Author’s Note: This was requested by anonymous. I hope you see and enjoy it! (Story below the cut)

Angry streaks of lightning provided fitful light as rain rattled the window casement. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance. Sakura curled on the couch, a blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon. A dull pain in her lower back warned that she hadn’t moved in hours, but she couldn’t bring herself to shift position. It felt like too much effort. She welcomed the storm, wondered if she could step into it and simply stop existing.

A sharp pang flared to life in Sakura’s chest, one that she’d grown intimately familiar with. She hadn’t known that heartache could be a physical sensation, that it would hurt with the same symptoms of a heart attack. Thick bands squeezed her lungs until drawing breath cost more than it supplied. It wasn’t until she hiccuped through another bout of tears that she realized she’d been crying, again.

Sakura had thought the tears would run out eventually, but her body seemed to find new reserves every day. She’d held it together through the funeral, through the carefully veiled apologies and offers of support, through the crass remarks from people who didn’t know. It hadn’t even been the picture of Team Seven that did her in when she got back to her apartment: it was the orange book lying on the table, a scrap of paper marking Kakashi’s place. She’d dashed it against the wall in a fury, then clutched it to her chest as the tears fell. Sakura hadn’t been sure they would stop.

For years, Sakura had dealt with grief as an abstract emotion, something she helped other people through. It was necessary in her line of work. She’d felt it before, of course, but not like this. Those instances were a puddle beside an ocean; the water closing over her head. She hadn’t been to work or left the apartment in over two weeks. Ino had brought food and a shoulder to cry on, and Naruto had tried his best to be optimistic, but Sakura shunned it. Tsunade had tried to shame her into honoring Kakashi’s memory by pushing through the grief. Sakura hadn’t answered the knocks since.

Thunder rattled the door in its frame, then came a second time. Sakura frowned at the sound, taking several heartbeats to realize that it was someone knocking. She wrapped her arms around her ears to shut the noise out. There was no one out there that she wanted to see, no one who could erase the pain of her loss. The sound stopped, only for the door to swing inward. Icy wind and rain swirled into the apartment and lightning silhouetted a figure in the door. Sakura’s lungs seized.

Kakashi limped into the room, silver hair slicked to his forehead by the damp. Sakura threw off the blanket and rose on shaky knees. “You’re dead.”

“Not quite,” Kakashi chuckled. “It turns out that rumors of my death have been greatly—”

Kakashi’s words died in a whoosh of air when Sakura punched him. The man curled forward in pain, but caught the second attack in his hand. Sakura’s open palmed slap staggered him to the side. Tears or rain blinded Sakura, but her hands connected with Kakashi’s armor and chest. A sob lodged in her throat. “I went to your funeral. I saw your name—”

Arms closed around Sakura, trapping her fists against Kakashi’s chest. The embrace made it hard to breathe, but somehow didn’t feel tight enough. “I’m sorry,” Kakashi murmured.

“You’re sorry?” Rage and relief fought a knife-edged battle in Sakura’s chest. “You’re fucking sorry?”

The grip around Sakura tightened, and Kakashi kicked the door shut behind him with one foot. “Yes,” Kakashi answered, releasing Sakura and taking a step back. “If I could have let you know sooner, I would have.”

“Don’t ever do that again,” Sakura growled, accenting every word with a sharp poke.

Kakashi winced and wrapped an arm around his middle. “Okay,” he agreed, sagging forward. “But, we should talk about it later. I’m pretty sure you reopened at least two of my wounds and added a few more.”

A flush heated Sakura’s face as she pulled Kakashi toward the couch. “It’s no less than you deserve,” she grumbled, but the heat had gone out of her words.

Lowering himself to the couch, Kakashi nodded. He closed his eyes and relaxed against the cushions, entire body going lax. Sakura smoothed her hand over his forehead and drew a deep breath in preparation for healing. It felt like the first one she’d taken in weeks.

Whumptober, Day 9 - Kakashi/Sakura

Prompt:Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated (presumed dead, (blind) rage, tears)
Fandom:Naruto
Characters:Kakashi/Sakura
Words:754
Author’s Note: This was requested by anonymous. I hope you see and enjoy it! (Story below the cut)

Angry streaks of lightning provided fitful light as rain rattled the window casement. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance. Sakura curled on the couch, a blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon. A dull pain in her lower back warned that she hadn’t moved in hours, but she couldn’t bring herself to shift position. It felt like too much effort. She welcomed the storm, wondered if she could step into it and simply stop existing.

A sharp pang flared to life in Sakura’s chest, one that she’d grown intimately familiar with. She hadn’t known that heartache could be a physical sensation, that it would hurt with the same symptoms of a heart attack. Thick bands squeezed her lungs until drawing breath cost more than it supplied. It wasn’t until she hiccuped through another bout of tears that she realized she’d been crying, again.

Sakura had thought the tears would run out eventually, but her body seemed to find new reserves every day. She’d held it together through the funeral, through the carefully veiled apologies and offers of support, through the crass remarks from people who didn’t know. It hadn’t even been the picture of Team Seven that did her in when she got back to her apartment: it was the orange book lying on the table, a scrap of paper marking Kakashi’s place. She’d dashed it against the wall in a fury, then clutched it to her chest as the tears fell. Sakura hadn’t been sure they would stop.

For years, Sakura had dealt with grief as an abstract emotion, something she helped other people through. It was necessary in her line of work. She’d felt it before, of course, but not like this. Those instances were a puddle beside an ocean; the water closing over her head. She hadn’t been to work or left the apartment in over two weeks. Ino had brought food and a shoulder to cry on, and Naruto had tried his best to be optimistic, but Sakura shunned it. Tsunade had tried to shame her into honoring Kakashi’s memory by pushing through the grief. Sakura hadn’t answered the knocks since.

Thunder rattled the door in its frame, then came a second time. Sakura frowned at the sound, taking several heartbeats to realize that it was someone knocking. She wrapped her arms around her ears to shut the noise out. There was no one out there that she wanted to see, no one who could erase the pain of her loss. The sound stopped, only for the door to swing inward. Icy wind and rain swirled into the apartment and lightning silhouetted a figure in the door. Sakura’s lungs seized.

Kakashi limped into the room, silver hair slicked to his forehead by the damp. Sakura threw off the blanket and rose on shaky knees. “You’re dead.”

“Not quite,” Kakashi chuckled. “It turns out that rumors of my death have been greatly—”

Kakashi’s words died in a whoosh of air when Sakura punched him. The man curled forward in pain, but caught the second attack in his hand. Sakura’s open palmed slap staggered him to the side. Tears or rain blinded Sakura, but her hands connected with Kakashi’s armor and chest. A sob lodged in her throat. “I went to your funeral. I saw your name—”

Arms closed around Sakura, trapping her fists against Kakashi’s chest. The embrace made it hard to breathe, but somehow didn’t feel tight enough. “I’m sorry,” Kakashi murmured.

“You’re sorry?” Rage and relief fought a knife-edged battle in Sakura’s chest. “You’re fucking sorry?”

The grip around Sakura tightened, and Kakashi kicked the door shut behind him with one foot. “Yes,” Kakashi answered, releasing Sakura and taking a step back. “If I could have let you know sooner, I would have.”

“Don’t ever do that again,” Sakura growled, accenting every word with a sharp poke.

Kakashi winced and wrapped an arm around his middle. “Okay,” he agreed, sagging forward. “But, we should talk about it later. I’m pretty sure you reopened at least two of my wounds and added a few more.”

A flush heated Sakura’s face as she pulled Kakashi toward the couch. “It’s no less than you deserve,” she grumbled, but the heat had gone out of her words.

Lowering himself to the couch, Kakashi nodded. He closed his eyes and relaxed against the cushions, entire body going lax. Sakura smoothed her hand over his forehead and drew a deep breath in preparation for healing. It felt like the first one she’d taken in weeks.

No. 9 - RUMORS OF MY DEATH HAVE BEEN GREATLY EXAGGERATED

@whumptober2021

@whumptober-archive

presumed dead | (blind) rage | tears

“Do we have to do this?” There was more than a hint of hesitation to his tone.

“We don’t have a choice. I need you to trust me.”

“But what about Fao-”

“Harrison. Please. Do this for me. Finn? He needs to die.”

Things hadn’t been the same at the Daniels, everyone moping around and just not doing much at all. Harrison and Steve had paid their respects and then quickly left, making various excuses. Jess, on the other hand, hadn’t even shown up. Her apartment was locked, and hadn’t any signs of anyone living there whenever Fred had sent someone round to check on her. Her brother promised he’d seen her, relieving some of their worry. Besides, they had so much more to worry about.

Fred hadn’t believed it at first, none of them had. But, they’d seen the body. Steve had assured them it was Finn and there was no foul play, so that was that.

Life had to go on, they didn’t have a choice but to. There was a small wake organised, closed casket, and only for the closer members of the gang. It was more formality than anything, a sign of respect for Finn, something that a lot of the previous members hadn’t been privileged enough to get.

Since Finn’s side operation had gone sideways, Steve and Harrison had gone to ground. Sure, they attended what they had to with the Daniels, but the more they could keep out of the way, the better. The cops had been far too close to arresting one of them, and they couldn’t have it. They couldn’t have Fred finding out that way, and they doubted he’d be able to get their charges cut too. Steve had to be careful too; the hospital was already suspicious of his police record.

Harrison had work to do, anyway. A loner with no alliances, he was often contacted for various other jobs. Fred knew that too, as did Finn, and always held him at arm’s length. After all, someone with such switching loyalties was just asking for trouble. He was useful for finding moles, often recognising men from other rival gangs. His alliance with Fred was stronger than most realised though, and it wasn’t ever a coincidence their names would end up on Fred’s desk, and then their bodies in the river.

Fred had organised a raid on a nearby warehouse, a front for a rival’s drug ring. While none of what he did was exactly legal, he did have standards, and spent a lot of time making sure others by their turf did the same. Certain weapons and forged documents were often passed without much guilt, but drugs were different. They had their outreach programmes, and often took a large chunk of their community help.

Harrison had agreed to go with them, an apparent favour to Fred. It was a simple enough mission for him; in and out, with just a hint of murder.

While the rest of Fred’s men dealt with the ring, Harrison slipped away. He was quiet on his feet, appearing behind his mark and quickly dragging him away. It was a swift and practiced end, though it still made his stomach twist. It wasn’t the first man he’d killed, and he knew it wouldn’t be his last. He dumped the body, hoping it would just be seen as a casualty of the raid. He strolled casually back to the rest of the fight, took a few men out that were too close and gaining on Fao, and then hopped back in Steve’s van. He’d done what he’d had to do, he wasn’t being paid for more than that.

Ever since Finn’s… Death, Fao hadn’t trusted anyone in the family. Something was going on, he knewit. He could feel it. He’d know if Finn really was gone, he’d feel it. And with Harrison sniffing around, it felt even more like something was amiss. Fao enjoyed the other man’s company, he always had done, but with Finn gone it really felt like something was going on.

Even with his suspicions, Fao had been acting recklessly. Too much alcohol, too many cigarettes. He was easy to provoke, always getting into fights, and he was happy enough to go out with Fred on this mission. It would give him a reason to get his blood up, to punch people and get away with it. He saw Harrison take out a couple of people getting too close to him, and then he just… disappeared. Gone, and he wasn’t there when the fight was over. Something had to be going on.

The raid had gone smoothly for everyone involved. Fred had silenced a rival, and Harrison had taken his mark out. It wasn’t fully finished, he knew that. It would be a few weeks before they were sure it had had the correct result, but it was a move in the right direction.

It was nervous waiting, Harrison flitting from boss to boss and finishing what he had to. When he got the call it was over, he was more than relieved. It had gone on for far too long, though luckily not as long as they’d originally planned for. Arrangements were made, weapons changed hands, and time moved on. He’d done what he needed to, murdered people he never thought he would. He never wanted to be involved like that again. He said his goodbyes to Fao, thanked Sheila and Fred for their offer to stay, and disappeared into the early evening.

The evening dragged into night, with Fao irritable and unable to sleep. He wasn’t sure who else was up, and he didn’t really care, but he headed downstairs after a few hours of tossing and turning, lighter and cigarettes in hand.

He wasn’t going to bother turning the lights on in the kitchen, but they were already on when he got downstairs, and he could hear someone moving around in there. He’d thought everyone was in bed, but maybe not. Now on his guard, he edged into the room, footsteps light on the wooden floor.

He’d not expected to see Fao so soon, and not like this. He cleared his throat. “Don’t shoot.”

Fao froze, barely believing what he was seeing.

“‘don’t shoot’?! Don’t fucking shoot?! I’ve half a mind to, now. What the fuck, Finn?!”

He laughed uncomfortably, placing the bag of crisps back on the table. “Shh, you’re going to wake everyone else up.”

“You come back from the dead and the first thing you say to me is don’t shoot?!”

“I - I’m sorry.” He softened. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“I thought you were dead, Finn.” Fao said, his voice cracking. “We had a funeral.”

“It had to be real.”

Fao’s hands curled into fists at his side. “Why? What was so awful that you had to disappear without telling me? Maybe the alcohol has caught up with me and I’m seeing things. One too many concussions. I need you to explain what’s going on, and yesterday.”

“Why don’t we take a breath?” Finn backed away slightly, his hands raised. “I’ll make coffee, we can get mum and dad up.”

“Harrison knew, didn’t he?”

“Get some biscuits, relax a bit, y'know?”

“That’s a yes, then. Who else knew? Was I the only one?!” Fao stepped closer.

“Harrison had to take me out. There was a mole, he was going to end up hurting one of you.”

“And what, you couldn’t speak to me? Your brother.Who else knew?!”

“Just Steve.” He backed further away, his back hitting the cupboards. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?”

“I didn’t want to!”

Fao closed the distance between them and grabbed Finn’s shoulders, slamming him hard into the cupboards behind him.

Finn groaned, but didn’t fight back. “Ow?”

“I could fucking kill you!”

“Go ahead.”

“Don’t be an ass.” He grumbled, and moved to pull him in for a hug. “I never want to lose you again.”

Finn hesitated before wrapping his arms around Fao. “It’s been hell.”

“You’re telling me.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, dickhead.” He mumbled. “I really need that fucking cigarette now.”

Their hug was interrupted by the hallway light flicking on and the sound of the safety flipping back on. Fred and Sheila stood in the doorway, staring in shock at the pair.

“I need a fucking drink.”

Fao laughed hoarsely. “I think we all do.”

“I brought wine?” Finn offered, holding up a bottle after rummaging through his bag. “Jess and I didn’t finish it.”

Fao reached for it. “Wine will do.”

pherryt:

Caught in the Net

Notable tags: No Archive Warnings, presumed dead, reunion

Fandom:Witcher
RatedG
Words:3108 
Ship:Aiden/Coën/Lambert 

Summary:
After two years of looking, Coën and Lambert had finally had to concede that Aiden was dead but when Aiden’s swords turned up out of the blue - minus the Witcher - they started the search all over again. They hope that this time, the search will bear far better fruit, but Lambert is afraid of the real reason Aiden’s been missing all this time.

Aiden wouldn’t have faked his own death just to get away from them, would he?

written for the Witcher Flash Fic @octinary

Also,amusing mishap post while writing 

Caught in the Net

Fandom:Witcher
RatedG
Words:3108 
Ship:Aiden/Coën/Lambert 

Summary:
After two years of looking, Coën and Lambert had finally had to concede that Aiden was dead but when Aiden’s swords turned up out of the blue - minus the Witcher - they started the search all over again. They hope that this time, the search will bear far better fruit, but Lambert is afraid of the real reason Aiden’s been missing all this time.

Aiden wouldn’t have faked his own death just to get away from them, would he?

written for the Witcher Flash Fic @octinary

Also,amusing mishap post while writing 

Whumptober Day 9!

Link to the Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/85569358

Title: Impact - Clark

Prompt: No. 9 ‘Rumors Of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated’ - presumed dead, (blind) rage, tears

Word Count: 1355

It hit him like… well, like a locomotive barrelling at full speed down the tracks, except in this case it had been flying through the air. He should have noticed it, he should have heard it or seen it or moved just a little bit faster to avoid getting hit but Kal had been entirely focused on her - she could have withstood a direct missile strike, couldn’t she? He should have noticed it, he should have glanced away from her still form for even the briefest moment… but he didn’t have even the faintest clue about what was coming his way until it hit him, and by then it was too late.

Kal dimly remembered waking up covered in broken concrete and rebar, every bit of him battered and bruised and severely protesting the fact that he was alive. It hurt, and he had no idea why, though the crumpled boxcar half-pinning him to the ground might have contributed. His head was spinning, and the only coherent thought he could come up with besides the fact that he was in pain was the fact that it was a miracle he wasn’t dead. Kal didn’t have long to contemplate why - he lost consciousness again soon after.

Pain woke him the second time, sharp and firm against his chest, and he weakly batted at the cause in hopes that it would go away. It didn’t, and he yelped when it intensified, forcing him to open his eyes with a low groan, “What the hell-”

He blinked, weakly rubbing at his eyes to get the gritty and dusty feeling coating his whole body out of them, and was met with the sight of an equally dust-coated Jaora standing over him. Her fist was pressed against his breastbone in what he dimly recognized as the position paramedics sometimes used to revive patients who weren’t fully alert, and she was looking him over with the same concise, assessing stare he recognized as a sign that she was checking for internal damage. He was about to open his mouth and ask her what on Earth had happened, was she okay, where was Faora and that other guy, why did he hurt so much, when she beat him to it.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” she demanded with a frown, her already over-protective demeanor skyrocketing to new levels now that he was injured, not that Kal could blame her. With regular exposure to sunlight, he was extremely durable and almost impossible to injure, so the fact that a flying piece of train had managed to knock him unconscious was just the tiniest bit concerning, not to mention that the impact had left him feeling more sore than he had since… well, since yesterday when he had started coughing up blood on Zod’s ship.

“Getting hit by that, I guess,” he shrugged in response despite the painful twinge in his shoulders, pointing at the boxcar which had skidded to a stop only a few feet away after ramming him to the Sears. Jaora spared the thing which had nearly killed him a very brief glare before nodding sharply.

“Good, you didn’t miss much. You should go sit over there until you’ve recovered enough to walk - we need to get moving.”

Kal didn’t protest and clambered to his feet to follow her instruction. The spot she had indicated was directly beneath a bit of collapsed roof, lit by cold, midday sun shining in through the broken rebar, and he gingerly settled himself on the ground to soak in the light. Absently rubbing at what had to be a pretty large bruise forming across his chest (mostly from getting hit by the railway car and partly from Jaora trying to wake him up), he slowly took stock of his surroundings. Kal hadn’t been the only thing dashed to pieces - the boxcar had apparently crashed into the Sears, dragging him along with it as it turned the appliance section of the store into a pile of rubble. The crushed washing machines scattered across the floor were evidence enough that the piece of train had been travelling at a pretty dangerous speed. Luckily it seemed that no one had been around when the impact occurred, leaving Kal to be the only casualty, and he felt it.

His entire right side was throbbing with pain, the muscles protesting every time he moved, and Kal swore he could feel bones shifting beneath his skin when he took a deep breath - he wouldn’t have been surprised if half his ribcage had been shattered into little bits. Luckily he hadn’t suffered any major external injuries and all of his blood had managed to stay inside him, though it would be a miracle if he wasn’t bleeding internally. To be honest, he was just grateful that he couldn’t see any of the damage that he most certainly felt.

Thankfully enough, his Kryptonian metabolism and unusual ability to heal much faster than any human had already kicked in, and sitting in sunlight helped to speed it up even further. Kal was by no means a scientist of any sort but simple experimentation growing up had taught him a few things: he was difficult to injure, healed frighteningly fast, and seemed to get more energy from standing in the sun than he did from sleeping or eating. Even the weak winter sun shining in the gray sky overhead was enough to ‘recharge’ his cells and begin to heal his broken bones, though the energized warmth on his skin felt almost as odd as the impact to begin with. It… buzzed, if that was even the right word for it, leaving him tingly and warm and a bit energetic. The closest thing he could compare it to was being wrapped in a blanket fresh out of the dryer while having a sugar rush, not that he had had one since he’d been a little kid.

Kal wasn’t sure how long he sat in the patch of light, leaning against the boxcar which had very nearly killed him as he soaked up the sun and did his best to recover quickly from the ordeal, but it was long enough for his elevated senses to return and start taking in little details, like the smoke and dust of his hometown in the sky, the distant sound of police sirens, and the way Jaora’s shoulders twitched as she stood nearby, listening for dangers he himself couldn’t hear.

Upon meeting her only a few months before, Kal had quickly figured out that it was nigh-on impossible for her to be anything but alert, even in her sleep. Her existence seemed to be composed of constant watching, constant listening, constant moving, maintaining some sort of momentum as she kept abreast of what she would refuse to describe to him but Kal got the sense that it was likely ‘threats to our safety’. Before today, he might have dismissed her alertness as paranoia since to his knowledge nothing had ever threatened his safety… except maybe the boxcar which had nearly ended his life. Jaora, of course, was either panicking or throwing an internal hissy fit about it if the way her shoulders were tightening beneath the cape was anything to go by.

Panicking, Kal realized, because he had probably scared the bejeebers out of her and she had been genuinely concerned for his life when that boxcar hit, or upset that she hadn’t been there to save him. Still, even though Jaora was standing stock-still a few feet away and apparently nothing more than unusually tense, Kal had never seen such an intense reaction out of her - she hadn’t expected this, she hadn’t prepared for it, she hadn’t… expected him to survive.

“Did… did you think I had died?” he whispered, knowing full-well that she would hear him. Unsurprisingly, Jaora tensed up immediately at the last word, turning on him with a swiftness he could only attribute to adrenaline - or panic. She never did tell him which one it was, only shot him another one of her dangerously inquisitive looks. Finally, she pursed her lips and slowly shook her head.