#red capes
2. Strangling - Darcie (tumblr/ao3)
3. Manhandling - Martha (tumblr/ao3)
4. Hostage - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
5. Betrayal - Darcie (tumblr/ao3)
6. Bruises - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
7. Sensory Deprivation - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
8. Severe Illness - Lois (tumblr/ao3)
9. Impact - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
10. Surgery - Darcie (tumblr/ao3)
11. Drowning - Darcie (tumblr/ao3)
12. Rescue - Lois (tumblr/ao3)
13. Burns - Darcie (tumblr/ao3)
16. Half-Blind - Mister Wilson (tumblr/ao3)
17. Infection - Mister Wilson (tumblr/ao3)
18. Sprained Ribs - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
19. Stabbed - Darcie (tumblr/ao3)
20. Kidnapped - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
21. Bleeding - Mister Wilson (tumblr/ao3)
22. Self-Harm - Darcie (tumblr/ao3)
23. Screaming - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
24. Broken Bones - Lois (tumblr/ao3)
25. Comfort - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
26. Adrift - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
27. Poisoned - Darcie (tumblr/ao3)
28. Bloody Hands - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
29. Insomnia - Lois (tumblr/ao3)
2. Strangling - Darcie (tumblr/ao3)
3. Manhandling - Martha (tumblr/ao3)
4. Hostage - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
5. Betrayal - Darcie (tumblr/ao3)
6. Bruises - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
7. Sensory Deprivation - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
8. Severe Illness - Lois (tumblr/ao3)
9. Impact - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
10. Surgery - Darcie (tumblr/ao3)
11. Drowning - Darcie (tumblr/ao3)
12. Rescue - Lois (tumblr/ao3)
13. Burns - Darcie (tumblr/ao3)
16. Half-Blind - Mister Wilson (tumblr/ao3)
17. Infection - Mister Wilson (tumblr/ao3)
18. Sprained Ribs - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
19. Stabbed - Darcie (tumblr/ao3)
20. Kidnapped - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
21. Bleeding - Mister Wilson (tumblr/ao3)
22. Self-Harm - Darcie (tumblr/ao3)
23. Screaming - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
24. Broken Bones - Lois (tumblr/ao3)
25. Comfort - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
26. Adrift - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
27. Poisoned - Darcie (tumblr/ao3)
28. Bloody Hands - Clark (tumblr/ao3)
29. Insomnia - Lois (tumblr/ao3)
Link to the Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/86760406
Title: Shot - Lois
Prompt: No. 31 ‘Hurt & Comfort’ - disaster zone, trauma, prisoner
Trigger Warnings: blood, war, gunshots
Word Count: 3193
Author’s Note: hoooooohohoho lads, this is going to be a fun one. It was the most research-intensive out of all of these one shots and I’m pretty proud of it. Please enjoy, and have a wonderful end to your whumptober! (This fic is based on that one part in MoS where Lois arrives on Ellesmere and meets Jed Eubanks, who mentions that he’s read some of her articles from when she was embedded in the 1stD. Lois replies with a light joke about getting writer’s block if she’s not wearing a flak jacket)
Lois didn’t hesitate.
Chief often quoted it as one of her strong points - Lois was always ready to jump the moment she smelled a story in the making, and that lack of hesitation had earned her more than a few recognizable awards in her field of journalism. Then again, Chief often quoted it as one of her weaknesses - Lois had a tendency to throw herself head-first into the insanity without actually thinking about the consequences, and while that usually won her the first page, it also won her front-row tickets to more than a few dangerous situations. Lois was starting to think that this was one of them.
The Planet had wanted a war correspondent in Afghanistan to cover the rising tensions and military progress over there - and Lois Lane, being the stubborn eldest daughter of the illustrious General Lane and a damn good journalist to boot, was the perfect candidate. Not being one for hesitation, Lois agreed immediately.
Within a month, her papers were in order, her kit and camera packed, the oath sworn, and tickets purchased. Things picked up pretty quickly from there, and two weeks later she was in the thick of it - embedded with a company of US First Division troops in a classified location somewhere south of Kabul, Afghanistan with the mission of ensuring village stability in the region. Lois fell into the routine like she’d been doing it her entire life, probably because she had.
Having grown up an army brat, she was plenty familiar with the inner workings of military life. Most of her childhood homes (and there were quite a few of those) had been very close and sometimes even on various US Army bases where her dad was stationed. Following training units around had been a favorite pastime and combat kit was weekend attire - of course Lois would take to wearing a flak jacket like it was a second skin.
Every morning embedded in a military unit was pretty much the same: get up before the sun had even considered it, put your kit on (not forgetting the bulletproof vest, helmet, backpack, water-carrier, camera case, and extra notebook and pens, of course), get some breakfast into you, locate the liaison to find out where Lois was and wasn’t allowed that day, then climb into one of the trucks for a bumpy, three-hour drive out to the nearest Afghan village.
Most, if not all, of the roads in that area were nearly unusable - asphalt would be riddled with potholes, and dirt tracks littered with craters from previously-detonated IEDs (that’s where the usefulness of military all-terrain vehicles came in). The entire region seemed to be made up of nothing but mountains, dirt, dust, and shrubs - somehow it seemed to Lois to be simultaneously both the coldest and hottest place on Earth, not to mention the dustiest and hardest to drive on. Still, the company typically made good time and arrived at whatever small town they were assigned to before noon to spend the rest of the day ‘ensuring village stability’ as the company’s captain aptly put it - it would become a phrase that Lois heard quite a lot during her embedding.
Such ‘stability’ could be ‘ensured’ in a lot of ways. The primary one was communicating with village leaders about the whereabouts of possible insurgents and finding out where outside assistance may be needed in day-to-day operations of the small town. This typically involved transporting water, screening the residents for diseases that the medic could treat, helping repair buildings or transportation, and generally providing the people with medicines and learning material. Whatever it was, Lois was sure to not be far behind, pen and notebook at the ready to take notes and often help where she could - there was, of course, a major language barrier to be overcome, but Lois had a knack for making herself understood wherever she went.
The primary subject of her articles submitted back to the Planet every Thursday was not the usual progression of US Forces advancements as nearly every other news provider was covering, but focused more on the background, unseen attempts to gain ground. The First Division that Lois was with didn’t see much action during her time with them, focusing instead on securing the alliance of the local Afghani people against the insurgents. This was done under the guise of what most outsiders saw as a humanitarian effort: what else would one call efforts to stabilize a village and protect the future of its people - except, Lois noted, an attempt to gain their support. It was, admittedly, more than a little underhanded… but at least it was working. None of what the Division was doing could be considered dangerous either to themselves or the people they were helping, and they weren’t (purposefully) drawing attention to themselves, so what could possibly be wrong with it?
There was nothing legally wrong with it - but then again, nothing in a warzone tended to be legal. Nothing in a warzone tended to be predictable either. They should have known that there would be some sort of retaliation against the Division’s efforts. In fact, they had known - they had just expected it to come in a form a bit more blatant than a covert ambush.
The company was about an hour into the three-hour drive back to base camp after a long day of digging irrigation wells for a nearby village whose usual source of water had dried up with the summer heat. Lois was thoroughly hot, tired, and covered in dust but she still took advantage of the precious free time to dutifully jot down her notes and observations into the notebook she kept on her person wherever she went. The rough jostling of the military transport made her handwriting even more illegible than usual, though Lois quickly realized that that might be the least of her worries when she heard a gunshot ring out farther down the caravan of army trucks.
Gunshots weren’t all that unusual in the presence of a military company - it was a normal, everyday sound to the point where Lois hardly looked up at the noise anymore. Sometimes she could even recognize what sort of armament had made the shot based on the sound, and right now she could definitely tell that whatever gun had just gone off in no way belonged to any soldier in her company - US servicemen typically didn’t carry high-caliber heavy machine guns in non-combat zones.
Lois didn’t hesitate.
She shoved her notebook and pen into the satchel at her side and tightened her helmet beneath her chin in the same moment that the soldiers in her truck reacted to the ambush. While Lois prepared to escape (being a non-combatant war correspondent and all), the servicemen prepared to counteract the threat, most of them re-checking their weapons and gear while another shouted into a radio communicator, requesting a visual on the perpetrator. They didn’t need one - a moment later the air was full of bullets as Afghani insurgents appeared on either side of the narrow dirt road, firing at the military caravan.
The small team of soldiers who had been riding with her were on guard in an instant, jumping out of the truck with their weapons raised to defend the company. More servicemen from other vehicles joined them, immediately moving towards the closest group of insurgents with the intention of disarming them, though oddly enough the revolutionaries seemed to ignore the very clear threat the US soldiers presented. That was the moment when Lois realized something terrible: the ambushers weren’t targeting the soldiers - they were targeting the trucks. Half-a-dozen well-aimed bullets could take out the lead vehicles’ tires and drivers, effectively trapping the rest of the company on the narrow dirt road, and killing the rest of the servicemen would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
Her driver must have come to the same conclusion, and the truck lurched forward as he put the vehicle into high gear in an attempt to get away from the scene. Lois thought for the briefest moment that he was making a cowardly escape and leaving his fellow soldiers behind before she realized that staying put was the worst possible idea. If her driver could get the truck to a wider part of the road, it would (a) give the friendly forces somewhere to retreat and regroup away from the insurgents, and (b) if the truck did get hit, the rest of the caravan would easily be able to pass it by without getting blocked by the large vehicle.
Against her better instinct but too hyped on adrenaline to think clearly, Lois stuck her head out of the back of the truck, gripping one of the roll bars as she leaned out just far enough to see the road ahead of them. Damnit, even as late in the evening as it was, it was effing bright out without her sunglasses on and the dust in the air obscured her vision, but Lois was pretty sure she could see a spot maybe a klick farther down the road which would work for her driver’s purposes. The one problem was that Lois was pretty sure she could also see a man who was definitely not a ‘friendly’ tossing something that looked suspiciously like an IED onto the dirt ahead of her vehicle.
Her suspicions were confirmed half-a-second later as the driver slammed on the brakes the same moment that the device exploded less than a meter away from the front of the truck. Lois would later swear that the detonation sent both her and the vehicle flying at least a few feet into the air, though she only remembered gripping the damn roll bar like her life depended on it (it probably did) only to have it ripped out of her grasp when the military truck rolled onto its side and she was thrown from the crash.
The ounce of self-preservation instinct that her father, General Lane, had somehow managed to drill into her head over the years, suddenly kicked in when Lois was very violently reminded that even if she had survived the bombing of her transport (‘survived’ was stretching it a little bit - she was ninety-percent sure she’d cracked a few ribs and had at least a mild concussion), there was still the issue of being smack in the middle of a violent firefight without so much as a Sig Sauer in her fist.
Huddled behind a rock not far from her wrecked vehicle (now conveniently on fire) with her go-bag clutched firmly against her aching chest, Lois could only watch in horror as insurgents appeared on the hills around the road and fired repeatedly on the US soldiers. The thought that this could not be happening hammered repeatedly through her head, drowning out any other coherent ideas she might have had as Lois searched for her liaison, the captain, somebody, anybody who could tell her what the hell she was supposed to be doing when half of the company was getting shot down before her very eyes.
Her silent plea was answered a minute later when one of the other US military transports pulled up a few meters away from her makeshift hiding place and someone shouted over the constant pock-pock-pock of bullets being fired for the lady-reporter to get her ass in the truck.
Lois didn’t hesitate.
She did her best to make herself as inconspicuous and small a target as possible as she sprinted towards the vehicle, trying ignore the hail of gunfire surrounding her (Lois swore to never again complain about having to wear the heavy flak jacket) as she scrambled into the back when her escape from the danger zone was suddenly halted by the extreme pain of a bullet tearing through her left calf at a speed of around one-thousand-seven-hundred miles-per-hour.
A scream left her throat before she had the chance to bite it back, but Lois refused to let the debilitating agony get the better of her, and with the last of her energy managed to all but throw herself into the vehicle. Panting hard, she rolled onto her back in the empty truck bed (both relief and horror sweeping through her when she realized that the only other occupant of the transport was the driver - all of the soldiers, and their medic, would be out attempting to quell the attack), another groan leaving her as Lois tried not to get too bruised by the bouncing of the truck on the dirt road as she tore her headscarf off from beneath her helmet and bound it tightly around the wound on her leg, which was seeping blood at an alarming rate.
Lois was one-hundred-percent aware that she was in some pretty deep shit as it was, but her day got even worse when she was suddenly confronted with one of the Afghani insurgents hanging off the back of her truck. The man must have managed to jump onto the vehicle when it slowed down to pick her up and hopped in the back while Lois was tying up her leg, though instead of targeting the driver, he made his intentions very clear by pointing his rifle at her.
Besides the very obvious threat of a gun in her face, it was at that exact moment that Lois realized something terrible. With her strawberry-blonde hair mostly hidden beneath her helmet and dressed in what consisted of about two-thirds of the typical US servicemen’s kit (minus the weapons, comms, and survival tools), she probably looked almost identical to the soldiers fighting outside. Conclusion: Lois looked nothing like a noncombatant and definitely something like an enemy, which was the reason for the bad end of a M16 assault rifle pointed directly at her head.
A moment later, as the man shouted something that was definitely threatening at her in Dari, Lois realized something else slightly less terrible - there was a pair of survival packs tucked underneath the benches lining the truck bed, and the one nearest to her had a holster attached to the side. A holster, which conveniently enough, contained what looked an awful lot like a goddamn Sig Sauer P320.
Lois didn’t hesitate.
She gritted her teeth as she kicked out with her good leg, getting lucky enough to nail the insurgent right in the balls without his gun going off at her head. While he was busy screeching in pain, Lois took advantage of the distraction to roll onto her side (ignoring her protesting broken ribs as she did) and yank the pistol out of its hiding place just in time to point it at the man in the same moment that he pointed his rifle back at her. Fear flickered in his eyes at the sight of a weapon in her hand, but Lois did not doubt that something as simple as another gun in the game would stop him from taking her life - and damnit, she still had some stories to write.
The pistol was cool against her palm, the safety was off, and her finger was on the trigger.
Lois didn’t hesitate.
V*V*V*V*V*V*V
She woke up in what she almost immediately recognized as a military triage ward thanks to the distinct scent of antiseptic and the clean, white bandage on her calf. Any normal person’s first thought would have been something along the lines of I should find a medic to ask for stronger pain meds, but Lois was anything but normal and the first thought that entered her head upon regaining consciousness was Oh, shit, I killed someone - will I be charged with murder under self-defense or will I be tried as a soldier in combat?
Lois contemplated her situation. She was more familiar than most with the process of military and wartime law, and considering that she was there as a war correspondent (so a non-combatant) she couldn’t exactly claim innocence as a soldier doing their duty. But then again, even if her assailant had been an enemy she hadn’t wanted to kill him, just get him off the truck and leave her be. That surely had to count as self-defense.
Before she could worry about the matter any further, a voice off to her right broke through her thoughts, “Miss Lane?”
Her head shot up (spinning slightly at the sudden movement - a sure sign of a concussion), and Lois turned on her cot to face the man, who appeared to be sergeant-ranked medic, if the insignias on his shoulder were anything to go by.
“Sergeant Hunsicker,” he introduced himself, stepping closer, “I came by to see how you were holding up and ask if you needed anything. And to check the wound, of course.”
“How bad is it?” Lois asked, nodding to her injured calf as the medic examined the bandage for any signs of bleeding or infection. He shrugged.
“You’re not as bad off as some of the boys I’ve had in here today, but you’re decently high on the list. Luckily, the slug missed the tibial vein and only the muscle was torn - you’ll have a bit of a limp, though you should consider yourself lucky just to be alive, Miss Lane.”
Lois couldn’t help but smile at his last comment - he had no idea how many times she had heard that before.
“You have a mild concussion and a few bruised and broken ribs on your left side, though none of that can’t be cured with a few weeks of rest,” the sergeant medic continued, “I expect you’ll be back in fighting shape within the month. In the meantime, is there anything you’d need? Supper’s about to start, if you want some of that.”
“I’d like a crutch,” Lois answered immediately - she wasn’t about to be bedridden just because of a damn gunshot wound. Unfortunately, the medic must have picked up on that and shook his head in response.
“Sorry, Miss Lane, but you’ve lost too much blood to be moving around so soon. Maybe if you’re feeling better tomorrow. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Get Lieutenant Doherty in here - I want to talk with him,” Lois demanded after a moment’s contemplation. The sergeant paused, confused, then nodded in acknowledgement of the order, temporarily forgetting that it was given by an injured war correspondent and not his superior, and jogged off to find the press liaison.
Lois allowed herself to relax slightly into the uncomfortable cot, grateful that the ambush had been quelled and most of the company survived - though this was by no means a time to relax and recover. A hundred questions were still racing through her head from the experience: how had the insurgents known to attack there? How had the US military not spotted them beforehand? Was there a mole in the operation? Wasn’t this supposed to be a no-combat zone? What had the insurgents been after? What was either side’s goal in this war?
Bruised and banged up as she was, Lois smelled a story, and there was no way in hell she was about to let a little hesitation get in her way.
Whumptober Day 30!
Link to the Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/86724184
Title: Hypothermia - Darcie
Prompt: No. 30 ‘Digging Your Grave’ - major character death, left for dead, ghosts
Trigger Warnings: hypothermia
Word Count: 1948
Author’s Note: Bit of an out-there interpretation, but I’ve always thought of Digging Your Own Grave implying the idea of dying alone since there’s no one around to bury you. Best way to die alone: hypothermia.
Stormkrigeren had plenty of experience training in extreme temperatures, and as long as she kept moving, could survive with little to no protection in conditions as low as negative-forty Celsius thanks to her unnatural durability and high core temperature. She ‘ran warm’, as Dr. Schreyer had once described it, but that was not to say that Stormkrigeren couldn’t get cold.
It had been about negative-five out last time she had found a thermometer, which was three hours ago outside a small pharmacy in a town twelve miles south of her current location. Chances were it was about the same temperature now, though a combination of wind-chill and honest-to-goodness freezing rain of all things (fuck, it was only early autumn), Stormkrigeren doubted that it could be much warmer than below eighteen.
Four miles to go. Four miles to the nearest goddamn gas station where she could maybe, maybe buy her next few meals and a Greyhound ticket to Fort McMurray. Four miles of hiking beside the highway late at night in the freezing rain with not even so much as a ski jacket - just a pair of good boots, cargo pants, and a thick second-hand pullover from a charity shop. Four miles to go, and Stormkrigeren was well aware that she was running out of time with Stage II hypothermia starting to set in.
It wasn’t an issue - or at least, it shouldn’t have been an issue.
Almost to the day she had been found, it had been common knowledge among her caretakers that Stormkrigeren was a hardy little thing and much stronger than any human child. She never cried when she was hurt, did not flinch away from needles or machines during medical exams, and hardly seemed to notice when she got a cut, burn, or bruise during her training with Mr. Wilson. Stormkrigeren simply ignored the pain, and would carry on as she always did without ever allowing herself to be hindered.
But now with the clear symptoms of Stage II hypothermia - drowsiness, loss of fine motor skills, decreased heart rate, lack of shivering - making themselves apparent, Stormkrigeren knew that she would need to start addressing the issue soon. There was still at least another four miles to the nearest form of shelter, (a roadside gas station, of all things) so for now she kept herself busy alternating between vigorously rubbing her arms through the fabric of her sweater, stretching her fingers and toes to keep the blood moving, and stomping her feet on the icy asphalt as she jogged farther north. There was, of course, the chance that the hard movements plus a slow heart rate could cause her to go into cardiac arrest (which was why many doctors suggested against rubbing or massaging a hypothermic person to warm them up), but Stormkrigeren had already been in what was likely an unhealthy number of situations that could have lead to a heart attack even at her young age and it’d never happened back then, so she doubted that it would happen now.
The storm hadn’t been that bad when she’d set out that evening - fuck, it hadn’t even been a storm then, just a light drizzle that looked as if it would let up soon. Sixteen miles in that would’ve been a breeze, and the distance was nothing compared to some of the sprints Stormkrigeren had done during her training. The weather had turned nasty less than an hour later, but that was not to say that she allowed herself to slow down in her steady jog north, even when the asphalt of the highway she was running beside began to turn dangerously icy. Stormkrigeren ignored the hazardous conditions and maintained her pace, keeping to the shoulder to avoid any drivers that were stupid enough to be out in a storm like this after the sun had set.
Do not stop - that was the rule. Do not rest until the task is complete.
By her estimations, Stormkrigeren still had another two miles to go until she could rest.
The rain vehemently refused to let up, pelting her from all sides and soaking her to the skin while covering everything in a sheet of thin, icy frost. It might have been pretty if not for two very important reasons: (a), it was already quite dark out and even with her keen eyesight, Stormkrigeren could hardly see shit, and (b), it was too effing cold to be pretty. So Stormkrigeren dutifully ignored whatever sights might have been visible and kept running at her slightly-unsteady pace, refusing to acknowledge that she was definitely starting to lose her coordination, evidenced by every time she stumbled on the frozen asphalt.
Do not stop.
Do not rest.
Stormkrigeren had stopped feeling cold a few miles back, her feet like bricks inside her boots, but still she did not stop. Keeping moving, don’t stop, don’t rest-
The gas station seemed to appear very suddenly - one minute, she was still in the dark rainstorm in the middle of nowhere, and the next she was stamping her feet on the ground beneath a sign boasting of low diesel prices bordering the tiny parking lot. Two very contrasting thoughts swept through her head at the sight of the low building, simultaneously setting her on edge and almost dropping her guard in relief. On one hand, here was someplace where she could warm up and rest and prepare for the next leg of her escape in relative safety - but the other side of the coin was her fugitive instinct screaming danger at the sight of a gas station. Places like this had cameras, and the last thing Stormkrigeren wanted was for someone to have proof of her existence.
Then again, places like this were warm and Stormkrigeren’s fear of being recognized was just barely outweighed by her fear of significant frostbite. It was late, she was tired, she was hungry, she was cold, and she had just run nearly twenty miles in a storm bordering on sleet - in short, she didn’t have the mental capacity to be too worried about anything. With that makeshift courage bolstering her up, Stormkrigeren crossed the small parking lot and entered the convenience store beside the pumps.
One of the first things she noted (besides, of course, the location of the four cameras that could possibly catch a glimpse of her face) was a small coffee shop near the back - one of those little ones that was just a counter with a barista behind it and no chairs or tables in sight. But, Stormkrigeren also noted that it did have hot, black coffee fresh from the pot.
She made her way across the virtually empty convenience store, keeping her face out of sight beneath her cap from the nearby cameras, employees, and a balding customer currently browsing a nearby aisle containing medicine, sports magazines, and juice concentrate. The barista noticed her the moment Stormkrigeren looked remotely interested in the coffee shop, and immediately perked up as she approached, “Hi! What can I get you?”
“Canni-”
Stormkrigeren stopped herself mid-sentence, recognizing that she was slurring a bit - that wasn’t a good sign, maybe the hypothermia had affected her mind more than she had thought. She needed to be fully awake and alert, and the damn cold wasn’t helping much.
“Can. I. Please. Get. A. Large. Black. Coffee. As. Hot. As. You. Can. Make. It,” she tried again, forcing herself to pause between each word and say her piece slowly and deliberately so that she didn’t muddle it again. The barista shot her an odd look but didn’t push the matter and started calculating the total at the cash register.
“Alright, that’s one large black coffee to go. Your total is two-ninety-nine, ma’am.”
Stormkrigeren proceeded to pull out the exact amount in loose change collected in the front pocket of her backpack while the basista bustled about finding a cup and filling with steaming dark brew straight from the pot. She secretly hated coffee with a passion - it was bitter and had always brought up bad memories ever since she’d turned thirteen, but it was the quickest way to raise her internal temperature which was her highest priority at the moment. Accepting the hot cup, she paid for her drink and thanked the barista before promptly downing half its contents without so much as scalding her tongue. Stormkrigeren had a brief coughing fit afterwards but her insides felt all the warmer for it, so that could only be a good thing.
She proceeded to absently wander around the gas station, occasionally taking slow swigs from her coffee and mostly looking out for something to replace her thoroughly soaked clothes - there was a pair of clean jeans in her backpack which were probably only a little bit damp, though her pullover would definitely need to be replaced for something both dry and waterproof. Doing all of her shopping out of local Walgreens and gas station convenience stores probably wasn’t the cheapest or the easiest way to live on the run, though Stormkrigeren made it work simply because while gas stations were rife with cameras, customers were significantly less likely to be identified by the employees compared to someplace that had greeters like Walmart or Costco. Admittedly, gas stations often didn’t sell clothes (mostly because very few customers came in looking for anything more than a sandwich), but Stormkrigeren was in luck as this one had a few sweatshirts emblazoned with sights from a local tourist attraction. It would have to do.
After grabbing a few other necessities - including a hothands packet, a box of tampons, and six microwavable breakfast burritos - she made her way to the cashier with her total already calculated in her head. The man scanned the purchases and confirmed her math while Stormkrigeren counted out a few ten-dollar bills, made the exchange, and did her best to look like she wasn’t shivering violently throughout the whole interaction. Fuck, she needed to sit down. But even if it was warmer than the outdoors, the convenience store was in no way safe - too many cameras around. Except, Stormkrigeren reminded herself, in the bathrooms.
She scooped up her purchases and thanked the cashier before making her way to the little girls room on the other side of the store, shoving open the heavy door with her shoulder to discover that luck was with her and the place was empty. Not only that, but there was a heating vent embedded in the wall relatively close to the tiled floor. Stormkrigeren nearly collapsed in relief when she saw it and wasted no time in sitting down with her back against it while she stripped out of her still-dripping pullover and long-sleeved tee beneath. With her cold and trembling hands, it took her longer than she would have liked to put on the new, dry shirt and yank her damp boots and socks off her aching feet, but once she did, it was bliss.
She didn’t care that she had close to no idea where she was or where she was heading or what she was going to do next, that someone could walk in at any moment, that the cramped space reeked of toilet cleaner and the odd papery smell she had come to associate with public bathrooms - all that mattered was that she was out of the cold. Stormkrigeren slowly allowed her mind to temporarily let go of the razor-sharp focus that kept her alive as she pulled on a dry pair of socks, wrapped her travel blanket around her shoulders, and snapped the hothands packet to activate it. For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to relax just the tiniest amount.
Whumptober Day 29!
Link to the Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/86685436
Title: Insomnia - Lois
Prompt: No. 29 ‘All Work, And No Play’ - “You’re still not dead?”, too weak to move, overworked
Word Count: 1289
Lois Joanne Lane was a night owl to the nth degree, though oddly enough, this was something of a recent development. Growing up in a military family, getting up with the sun had been a daily part of life and continued to be that way up until her second year of university when a combination of events including a midterm paper, a karaoke party, and what under highly specific circumstances could be considered a car chase suddenly revealed the truth: Lois got her best work done at one in the morning when there were no idiots around to bother her.
Her sleep schedule shifted drastically after that, and though it was a pain in the ass for a week or three as she tried to rearrange her classes to be mostly confined to the afternoon, it was around then that her professors discovered that damn, could this madwoman write. Lois rarely got to bed before two am, spending her evenings (and half of her nights) writing the articles, essays, reports, pieces, and works that would firmly establish her as one of the best journalists to come out of that university in nearly twelve years.
The habit continued, staying with her long after college and well into her first internship, then onwards and upwards to the bullpen of the world-renowned Daily Planet. Lois worked the typical nine-to-five bit in the office, ordered takeout (usually Chinese, but she had recently discovered an Indian restaurant on 5th and Barnes that had some mean curry), then began doing the investigative part of investigative reporting. Depending on the story, that could last long into the night but there would always be a bit of time and coffee-fueled energy left for Lois to return to her apartment and compile whatever notes she had procured into a nearly-legible Word document before passing out on her couch. The coworkers who didn’t call her ‘Mad Dog’ Lane for her tenacious passion for the work had started nicknaming her ‘Batwoman’, and to be perfectly honest, she couldn’t disagree with them. She loved working late and though it probably wasn’t the healthiest way to live her life, Lois found that she honestly didn’t give a fuck as long as it put her on the high road towards a Pulitzer Prize.
Unfortunately, being a night owl did not make Lois invulnerable to the bane of every writer’s existence - lack of inspiration caused by exhaustion.
She had been living off of four hours of sleep every night for a good week at this point, and it was finally starting to show - mostly in the bags under her eyes, but more worryingly in the fact that even a triple-shot espresso didn’t give her much more than a mild buzz. The worst had come to the worst: coffee had stopped working, and now Lois’ insomniac ass was just plain ol’ tired.
Most, if not all of her late night writing was done either at her dining room table or her couch, surrounded by piles of notes and empty coffee cups while the news played in the background to drown out any distractions while she diligently typed perfectly formatted Word documents containing what would hopefully be her next Pulitzer Prize-winning article. Even so, Metropolis Eight News played as loud as her neighbors would bear wasn’t enough to quite recreate the comforting bustle of the Daily Planet’s bullpen that had quickly become the tune to which her whole life danced. If she stopped her incessant typing long enough to think about it, Lois realized that her own apartment was quite lonely - and despite how much she told herself that she worked best when there were no idiots around to bother her, she still missed the company of fellow writers weaving the truth into their own articles and pieces.
Many of her coworkers at the Planet were constantly encouraging her to get a boyfriend, some even going so far as to set her up with dates which Lois really only went to for the free food. Cat Grant, who was well known for going through at least one man a month, also had a habit of catching Lois in the break room just in time to break into a long-winded speech about how a romantic partner would help get her mind off of work and teach her to have some fun.
(And help her sleep better at night, Lombard from Sports would add with what Lois assumed was his attempt at a ‘sexy’ wink. It honestly just looked like he had something in his eye.)
Lois was of the very firm opinion that there would be no significant others in her life anytime soon, and she wasn’t afraid to make that known throughout the bullpen - Lois J. Lane was officially unavailable and unofficially married to her job. That was about the closest she could get to telling Lombard to put his opinions about her home life where the sun doesn’t shine.
In the meantime, Lois was perfectly happy having her apartment to herself and satisfied any random urges she might have for a boyfriend with a weighted blanket, over-sugared coffee, and long showers. Speaking of coffee, her last mug of joe hadn’t done shit and her second wind was beginning to blow itself out… or maybe it was her third wind, though Lois knew that it could quite easily be her fourth - time tended to stop being real somewhere around one in the morning.
Setting her laptop aside, she got up to start the kettle boiling with the intention of brewing herself a nice, strong cup of black tea in hopes that her body would accept the caffeine she so desperately needed in a form other than coffee. She didn’t really expect it to work - she had already exhausted herself beyond any rescue besides sleep, though that would be just about impossible for Lois in her current state. Anyway, another caffeine hit was worth a try.
The next half-hour was spent waiting in vain for the tea to do its job and give her enough energy to maybe, maybe finish her article on the implications of a new tax law in consideration while Lois did her best to format one of her quotes from one of the city council members into something that would simultaneously grab her readers’ attention, accurately represent the situation and the council member’s statement, and still fit into a two-inch column of newsprint.
After a few minutes of useless effort, she redirected her attention to digging the tv remote out of its hiding spot between the couch cushions and turning the volume up a few clicks so she could hear the news a little bit better - not that she ever listened to the mud they broadcasted in place of real journalism these days - before she began to organize her mess of a coffee table slash workspace with a sigh. There were a pair of empty Starbucks cups that would have to go in the trash, along with a mostly-eaten takeout box of kung pao chicken and her pile of nigh-on incomprehensible handwritten notes for an interview she’d done that morning which Lois neatly stacked back into something that didn’t look quite as likely to topple over before collapsing back onto the couch. There wasn’t any point in trying to get more work when her brain was as frazzled as it was, though she was just as likely to catch even an hour of shuteye as she was to write a halfway-decent article at the moment. She knew for a fact that she wasn’t going to get a wink of sleep that night with her insomnia and tendency to overwork herself, but who needed sleep when they were in the running for a Pulitzer?
Whumptober Day 28!
Link to the Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/86626177
Title: Bloody Hands - Clark
Prompt: No. 28 ‘It’s Not Just In Your Head’ - “Good. You’re Finally Awake.”, nightmares, panic
Trigger Warnings: blood
Word Count: 2225
The pub had once been an old storehouse - someplace to keep goods indoors and out of the unpredictable weather that often came out of nowhere on the northern edge of the Great Slave Lake. The building had been laying empty for years before someone came along and decided to turn it into the Bearcat Pub, only to give up halfway through the renovation and sell it to the likes of Weaver - who despite being a terrible businessman was pretty decent at getting things done. The storehouse was repaired, made watertight, and generally converted into a trucker bar now known by the name of ‘Cassidy’s’ after Weaver’s ex.
Time went by. Beer was made and sold, burgers and battered fish were added to the menu, and a fryer was bought for the kitchen to speed up the production of Weaver’s famous gravied crinkle-cut fries - though the damn machine tended to leak oil, becoming the reason that Jake was fired and thus a position for the role of busboy opened up at Cassidy’s Pub.
Jake wasn’t too happy about ‘getting the sack’ as he called it, and made that very clear to everyone in the restaurant as Weaver demanded that he clear out. A scuffle ensued between the ex-busboy and a regular patron over whether the discharge had been deserved, though Jake very quickly learned that he was in the wrong (not to mention at the wrong end of a fist) and hastily made his escape, shoving his way out the front door so violently he nearly knocked down the young man who had hardly mounted the porch steps.
“What’s going on in there?” the younger man asked, eyeing the disheveled Jake with surprise, and Jake eyed him back with a dirty look.
“None of your business,” he spat, and started towards his run-down truck at the far end of the parking lot when the dark-haired stranger called after him.
“Do you know if they’re still serving lunch?”
“Lunch is served till three,” Jake called back, who despite having recently been fired still felt it his duty to help out a potential customer as he turned back to give the boy some advice, “Listen here: that’s Weaver’s place, and you want nuthin’ to do with the man. Sure, the booze’s good and the poutine is the best in the province, but you blink wrong just once and you’ll be out on the street ‘afore ya know it. I wasn’t even in the damn kitchen when the fryer cracked, and look at me now!”
The younger man blinked, taking in Jake’s sudden rant with quiet contemplation.
“Well, if it isn’t your fault, couldn’t you just explain that to your boss?” he asked slowly, “Let’s go talk to… Weaver? That’s his name, isn’t it? I’m sure it’s all just a misunderstanding and can be cleared up pretty quickly.”
“Son, if you can talk some sense into that old rat-bastard’s head, I’ll buy your lunch myself!” Jake professed, and jogged after him up the porch stairs into the bar.
The young man chuckled and held the door for him, “My name’s Will, sir.”
The inside of the pub looked decently clean (considering the fact that it was typically populated with long-haul truckers and local miners), though it still reeked of stale beer, sweat, and the overpowering scent of fatty bacon frying on a griddle.There were a few customers sitting at tables scattered around the room, talking just loud enough to be heard over the radio in the corner on which a newscaster was discussing a recent hockey game and traffic alerts. An older, unkempt-looking man wearing a dirty apron stood behind the bar, simultaneously watching a sizzling pan of bacon and polishing beer glasses - the young man could tell by the way Jake’s eyes darted towards him that this must be Weaver.
Approaching the bar, Will straightened up a bit, adjusting his bag across his back as he coughed politely to get the bar owner’s attention.
“Mr. Weaver, sir,” he addressed him, indicating Jake standing a few feet away as he did, “I was wondering if I could speak to you for a minute about this man’s position as busboy. I believe there’s been a mis-”
Weaver stopped him with a raised hand, balancing the half-cleaned glass and cloth in the other as he looked the man over. A young kid - couldn’t be much older than twenty-five - and an out-of-towner to boot, if his American accent was anything to go by. He had a duffle slung over one shoulder and was wearing an old green jacket likely picked up from a charity shop somewhere, all pointing to him being a drifter of some sort, though judging by his language and recently-shaved face, he was likely an honest one - better than Jake, at least. He would do.
Weaver nodded once and went back to wiping the glass. “Alright. Job’s your’s, kid.”
Will paused in surprise, blue eyes opening wide as he made to protest but Weaver shut him up with a hard glare.
“What’re you waiting for? Closet’s by the men’s room - now get your ass back there and put an apron on, busboy!”
V*V*V*V*V*V*V
Winter set in quickly that year, and within weeks the territory had gone from receiving the occasional light frost to full-on snowstorms that often brought highway traffic to a standstill - not that it stopped any of Cassidy’s regular patrons from coming in for a pint. It was after one such blizzard that the leak was discovered: a bit of siding that had rotted away over the years and was letting snow into one of the walk-ins near the back of the restaurant. Weaver, who was not all too bothered about a bit of weather getting into a room that was already ‘cold as hell’s teeth’, was forced to reluctantly put an order in for the leak to be repaired before it got any worse.
Monday morning, a pair of part-time construction workers and someone’s brother showed up to inspect the issue and get started on fixing it up. Will, the new busboy who had hardly been working at the pub for more than two months, took a special interest in the repair work - partly because he had grown up on a farm in the middle of tornado country and had been replacing siding since he was eleven, and partly because somehow three men, a hammer, a nailgun, and a tablesaw sitting outside were still louder than a bar full of inebriated truckers.
His break time came around, and instead of sitting down with a glass of cola and a meal as he usually did, Will went around back behind the pub to see how the repairs were coming along. It was nigh on mid-afternoon now and the leak apparently fixed, though it would be another hour or two before the job could be called ‘done’ as there was still new weather/water-resistant paper to be installed and the siding to be replaced. Having nothing better to do, Will offered a hand and was soon put to work nailing weather paper to the side of the building with one of the workers while the other two measured and cut new boards to replace the rotted siding.
They had been at it for about half-an-hour when the accident occured. One of the men - Harold, Will remembered he’d said his name was - had been working the table saw when the plank slipped and the spinning blade hit his hand instead.
His scream brought everyone running, his friends immediately dropping their tools in favor of locating the very obvious problem - Harold was missing a finger, and what was left of it was bleeding profusely. One of the men yanked his phone out to dial 9-1-1 while the other tried to calm his injured buddie, reassuring him that everything was gonna be okay, they were gonna get him to a doctor and everything would be all right. Will was the only one of them who had the sense to grab a clean dish rag out of his back pocket and wrap it tightly around Harold’s stump, attempting to stem the flow of blood that was quickly staining the white cloth red, not to mention Will’s hands.
Will did his best to ignore it. He did his best to ignore the heavy metallic scent that seemed to linger in the air, and he did his best to ignore the crimson droplets scattered across the concrete beneath their feet, and he did his best to ignore the warm, sticky feeling dripping down his palms. Will did his best to ignore the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him every time he caught sight of the wound and focus instead on helping Harold sit down, constantly reassuring him that everything would be all right (even if Will himself didn’t feel that way). He found that he was trembling a bit now, hands shaking as the nausea settling in his stomach and he caught himself backing away - he would never admit that the sight of blood frightened him, that it sent him reeling and feeling as if he were about to pass out, but Will would admit that someone should let Weaver know what had happened.
He was up the stairs and in through the back door of the pub before anyone could ask where he was off to, his legs feeling unusually shaky as he made for the owner’s office. Someone had to tell Weaver, tell him that Harold had lost a finger, tell him that Harold was bleeding, tell him that Harold was covered in blood,andWill had blood on his hands…
A fresh wave of nausea hit him at the thought, and instead of continuing down the hall towards the office, Will found himself stumbling into the nearby men’s room. It was just as he had told Harold: everything was gonna be okay, everything was going to be all right. Only now instead of telling those words to an injured coworker, Will was chanting them to himself as he promptly lost the contents of his stomach into a grimy toilet, leaving bloody handprints on the bowl.
The ordeal left him trembling harder than before, and oddly enough, cold - Will never got cold, he hadn’t been cold in years… He didn’t really have the strength to wonder why, all of his energy sucked out of him by the mere sight of a little bit of blood.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, slumped on the floor of the bathroom stall and his vision swirling uncomfortably as he absently tried to rub the red liquid off of his skin. Nothing he did was working - it just continued to spread and it was getting everywhere and he couldn’t breathe- something about the whole ordeal shocked him enough that he was finally able to pull himself together, clarity hitting him like a tidal wave. Will still felt cold and shaky and weak, his pulse pounding in his ears like he had just run the longest race in the world when in fact he hadn’t stumbled much farther than fifty feet to reach the men’s room. Despite the nausea still churning in his stomach, he was just grateful he hadn’t passed out completely like the last time he had witnessed a bloodied wound. Grateful, and more than a little upset with himself.
Will had been nine years old the first time he fainted at the sight of blood. It was mid-summer, and he had been helping repair the old fencing along the property line when his dad cut his hand on a bit of barbed wire - Will had barely lost the contents of his stomach in the long grass before he promptly passed out. He woke up a few moments later, sick to his stomach with fright and both of his parents leaning over him worriedly, though his mom repeatedly reassured him that he was perfectly fine. Being so sensitive to others’ pain was nothing to be ashamed of, she told him time and time again.
And his mom would have been right, if only Will hadn’t been in a small town school, surrounded daily by rowdy sophomore quarterbacks and throwers with nothing better to do than tease the one boy who never played football. High school was torture, and for none of the usual reasons - every time someone walked past him in the hall with a broken nose or bloodied mouth from a lost tooth, Will would struggle for hours afterwards to hold himself together.
He hadn’t the slightest idea why the sight of a little bit of blood made him so sick - it wasn’t as if he would ever get hurt himself. In all of his twenty-six years on Earth, Will had never so much as gotten a cut or even a scrape much bigger than his fingernail, much less broken a bone. His fainting and nausea wasn’t caused by any particular medical problem as far as he or any doctors could tell. The only possible reason Will could come up with was very plain and simple: he was a coward, afraid of something that could do him no harm.
And looking down at his hands, still red with the blood of another man, that simple fact hurt more than any wound he could ever get.
Whumptober Day 27!
Link to the Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/86584666
Title: Poisoning - Darcie
Prompt: No. 27 ‘I’m Fine, I Prom…’ - passing out, vertigo, collapse
Trigger Warnings: puking, poisoning
Word Count: 1873
There was new protein powder in the kitchen.
It was still kept in the same clear generic plastic container, and had the same texture and color too, but it tasted different from her usual stuff. It wasn’t that even that big of a difference - her shake was only slightly chalkier and more metallic beneath the artificial chocolate flavoring. Stormkrigeren put it down to the milk she had used for it - the flavor could change occasionally between batches, but as long as it didn’t look or smell bad, it was usually all right. Not like she couldn’t simply walk off any mild food poisoning that might result.
Stormkrigeren quickly polished off her breakfast of protein shake and fruit salad, washing out her dishes in the kitchen sink before returning to the main Room to perform some warm-up stretches. It was an arms and core day, which were always fun because it meant she could use the punching bag. The bag was usually stored in a cupboard in the storage/kitchen room, but now Stormkrigeren brought it out into her main Room and hung it on the folding steel bar against the south wall in preparation for the workout. Sixty minutes of alternating sprints, boxing drills, crunches, pushups, kicks, and punches. Certainly not the most challenging fitness routine she had ever done, but it was hard enough to make her satisfyingly sore when it was finally over. Stormkrigeren wiped sweat from her forehead as her alarm went off, signaling the end of her workout, and ignored the tenderness around her middle when she did one last crunch before getting up. It hurt a bit more than it usually did - but then again, everything tended to cramp a little bit when her menstrual period was approaching.
Stormkrigeren showered quickly and changed into some clean clothes before pouring herself a glass of orange juice and getting back to work. It was some online organization for one of LexCorp’s foreign subsidies - they were preparing another shipment to New York, and she had been assigned to come up with an analytics report on the proposed method of transporting the cargo. A simple, but not monotonous or necessarily challenging task, but Stormkrigeren still struggled to concentrate and ignore the uncomfortable churning in her stomach. She ignored it, of course, and carried on somewhat-normally for another half-hour or so before the nausea set in.
Abdominal pain, nausea, cramping, and a distinct lack of concentration - all early symptoms of many different sicknesses, but Stormkrigeren’s caretakers had long ago ruled out the possibility of the subject contracting any normal human illnesses. The last time she had ever felt like this had been last year when Mister Wilson had conducted a few ‘poison tests’ to see how she could handle various toxins and gases. Her body had little to no reaction to most of them, but a few of the more potent ones… had felt an awful lot like this. With her headache pounding the way it was, Stormkrigeren could only think of one logical conclusion: she had been poisoned somehow. And she needed to remove said poison from her system as quickly as possible.
“Fuck,” she muttered, stumbling up from her chair and towards the kitchen door, “Fuckfuckfuckfuck, oh shit - didn’t fucking recognize it sooner…”
Her legs were already trembling from the effort of sprinting to the bathroom and gave way beneath her as she crouched on the tile, but she still managed to lift the spotless toilet seat before shoving any stray hair behind her ears. She had not been gassed or injected, that she was sure of - most fumes would cause respiratory symptoms before gastrointestinal, and she couldn’t remember experiencing any needles or sharp pricks since her weekly blood tests a few days ago. It must have been something she ate or drank, and the quickest way to get it out was to make it come back up.
Mister Wilson had taught her how. ‘Just for emergencies’ he said. Comfortable position on knees, hair out of the way, head forward and gentle pressure on the abdominal area. Index and middle fingers in pointer position, pressed into the back of her throat to trigger the pharyngeal reflex and induce vomiting. Remain calm and relaxed, do not panic, never allow yourself to panic.
She eventually managed it, and promptly lost most of the meagre contents of her stomach into the toilet, along with much of her energy. The ordeal left her cold and trembling from the forced effort, muscles burning just from the effort of keeping herself upright. Her vision was swimming now as she clutched at the toilet bowl and tried to brush any loose hairs out of her face, taking deep breaths to calm the panic in her chest. It hadn’t been enough, she hadn’t gotten all of it out, there was still some of the poison inside her-
“One more time,” she panted, giving herself a goal to cling onto when the whole world seemed to be falling apart, “Damnit, one more time, get it all out.”
It wouldn’t do any good, she couldn’t possibly get all of it out this way, but she at least had to try. Stormkrigeren pulled herself up into position, her body trembling from the effort and vision flickering in shades of dark and light. She could feel herself slipping - physically or mentally, she couldn’t tell - slipping, falling, cracking, shattering, and finally slumping to the floor as oblivion took hold.
V*V*V*V*V*V*V
Movement woke her - nearby, to her left, footsteps on smooth concrete. Heavy footsteps, likely male, moving closer, stopping right within arms reach and crouching down beside her.
Her eyes flew open the same moment that Stormkrigeren kicked off the blanket and aimed a blow at the potential attacker - only for Mister Wilson to easily catch her wrist long before it made contact.
Stormkrigeren blinked, taking in the sight of him leaning down beside her, the usual scowl on his face and both of her wrists caught in his grip. She knew him well enough to tell that he wasn’t necessarily angry that she had tried to attack him unprovoked - approving, more like, but he didn’t tell her so aloud. Instead he tightly squeezed her left wrist until she was forced to open the hand, into which he pressed a full waterbottle in a subtle order to drink up.
“Pulse,” he ordered. She obeyed, pushing herself up into a sitting position and tilting her head to one side so he could press two fingers against the side of her throat, taking a moment to analyze her surroundings.
She was on the floor of her Room’s kitchenette, shivering slightly on the cold concrete - which would explain the blanket that had been tossed over her. There was an empty bucket off to her right, likely put there by Mister Wilson along with the blanket, and a warm, spicy, sweet smell coming from the nearby hob letting off small clouds of steam. Rice pudding - the kind with nutmeg in it that her teacher sometimes made.
“Did Dr. Schreyer call you?” Stormkrigeren ventured, finally working up the courage to point out the one small irregularity in the entire situation - it was the medically-approved Lisa and not Mister Wilson who was legally required to nurse the injured Stormkrigeren back to health in the case of an emergency.
“Off duty,” came the reply, “Lee’s the only one in the Watching Room, and he didn’t call me - didn’t even know you were hurting till I arrived for your lesson and politely explained to the bastard that something must be wrong because you hadn’t put your punching bag away.”
Part of her inwardly flinched at the mention - she was always supposed to put her punching bag away when she finished a routine, that was the rule, and somehow she had completely forgotten and broken that rule. There would be punishment for her negligence, there was no doubt of that, but she had no idea what or how severe it would be. Stormkrigeren found herself tensing in preparation, waiting for her teacher’s gentle hand on her pulse to turn into a fist for the inevitable blow. But Mister Wilson only frowned and muttered something to himself about her heart rate being too slow as he removed his hand to return to his place at the stovetop. Stormkrigeren let out the smallest sigh of relief when he stepped away, keeping her gaze trained on him at all times as he continued to rhythmically stir the pot before he finally spoke up.
“What do you think it was?”
“Arsenic?” she hazarded a guess, thinking back on all the symptoms she had shown before losing consciousness. Mister Wilson nodded.
“Likely. I’ll ask Luthor about it when I get the chance.”
It suddenly clicked and Stormkrigeren realized why her teacher was acting more protective than usual, rare worry lines creasing his usually grim face.
“You… didn’t put it there.”
“No,” he answered in a low growl, still stirring the bubbling pot, “But part of me wishes I had just so I wouldn’t have to address that bastard about running poison tests on my student without my permission.”
Mister Wilson snorted softly in annoyance and moved to grab two bowls from a nearby cupboard, “Of course, with the way you’re looking, you’re going to be out of commission for a few days till your body flushes it out. Won’t even be good for some light training, I’d expect - and no, you’re not ‘fine’. You were out like a light when I found you.”
Stormkrigeren swallowed back any protests she had about being well enough to train, knowing that her teacher would shut the argument down immediately with solid logic. Her body needed to recover first before Mister Wilson would even consider letting her do a few minutes of sparring practise, but the best she could do for herself at the moment was restore any fluids she had lost (vomiting tended to be very dehydrating).
She quietly drank from the waterbottle he had handed her earlier, the cool liquid soothing her burning throat as she watched her teacher at the hob. Mister Wilson had finally decided the porridge was thick enough and turned the heat off in favor of scooping rice pudding into the two bowls he had grabbed before finally moving to sit down nearby on the hard concrete floor with a low sigh.
“See if you can keep that down,” he muttered, passing her the smaller portion, which Stormkrigeren took with a grateful nod. It probably wasn’t the best thing to eat after having recently survived an attempted poisoning, but it was comfort food and might help to calm the twisting tension that lingered inside her since the ordeal. She followed orders and ate the pudding slowly, watching her teacher pull a pack of playing cards and an assortment of foreign loose change from his pockets.
“Ever played poker?” Mister Wilson asked, shuffling the cards.
“No, sir.”
He sighed, mildly annoyed and resigned, then smiled softly to himself as he moved a little closer to sit facing his student.
“I came all this way to give you a goddamned lesson,” he chuckled, laying out the cards, “Might as well teach you something.”
Whumptober Day 26!
Link to the Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/86534524
Title: Adrift - Clark
Prompt: Alt. No. 15 - Anxiety
Word Count: 1798
Clark liked taking the ferry.
Not only was it the quickest way to travel between Metropolis and Gotham across the bay (besides flying, of course) but it also had a nice view of Stryker’s Island and the inside of the boat had the second-best seating Clark had ever come across in public transportation, only topped by the comfy padded bus seats on Route 8 through Metropolis. The crowd on the ferry was always just enough passengers to be considered ‘a lot’ but also polite and orderly in a way that didn’t make such a gathering uncomfortable, and the little booth benches on the boat’s second floor were the perfect spot for him to get a bit of work done during the forty-five minute trip. Lois was not as big a fan of the ferry as Clark was, but he chalked it up to the fact that she had lived near a coastline nearly her entire life whereas the Kansas farmboy still got excited at the cry of gulls and the smell of the ocean.
He had just finished covering a story in Gotham - something about a change in import regulations at the harbor and the effect they would have on shipping charges - and Clark managed to catch one of the last ferries home before they stopped for the night. It had rained a bit that morning, though now the stormclouds had descended and covered Hobb’s Bay in thick fog only abated by a very light sea breeze. Visibility would be down, the ferry captain announced over the PA as the boat left Gotham Harbor, but the radio towers and instruments were operating fine so they would only be a few minutes behind schedule due to reduced speed.
That was fine by Clark - it gave home more time to compile his notes from the interview in Gotham, and he had a snack that he always kept in his bag in case he got hungry. Even with the delay, it wasn’t going to take more than an hour to reach the Metropolis side, then maybe another half-hour by subway to get home around five-forty-five which gave him just enough time to break out the Korean dumplings and start a pot of rice before Lois got back from work. He knew that neither of them had any urgent projects, so maybe if they finished their respective articles before nine they could put on a movie…
Clark knew none of those domestic fantasies of a nice night at home with his girlfriend would come to fruition the moment he heard the soft clunk of what must have been one of the ferry’s propellers, followed by a significant decrease in the boat’s speed - it wasn’t hard to tell that something was wrong.
He considered himself to be a curious person, but unlike Lois, he wasn’t much of a snooper or eavesdropper. Much to both her and Chief’s displeasure, Clark typically preferred to wait until the whole story played out before he started asking questions, and by then he had already missed his chance at breaking the ‘breaking news’. Lois often urged him to take a more direct approach: if he saw something, he should say something. Now Clark could clearly see that the ferry was in a bit of trouble for some reason or other, and he knew that, of course, the quickest way to find out how or why it was in trouble would be to talk to the captain.
A bit reluctantly, Clark grabbed his bag and got up from his seat to seek out the wheelhouse, which wasn’t too hard. After rapping politely on the door and enquiring to the man who answered whether the captain was in, he was presented to an older man who looked genuinely tired with the whole situation and in need of a cigarette as he introduced himself as Captain Pokorny. The captain, after seeing Clark’s press pass, reluctantly gave him admittance into the wheelhouse where most of the ferry’s crew was currently gathered in discussion, and explained the situation.
A propellor - one that had been showing signs of wear-and-tear and was supposed to have been fixed in the last maintenance check-up - had somehow either jammed or broken off of the boat completely, leaving only one working engine that the captain was reluctant to complete the trip on in case it overheated from the strain, which was highly likely considering how old the boat was. In short: they were a little bit stuck.
There was no danger of the ferry sinking in Hobb’s Bay - that would require a leak of some sort, the captain explained - they were just unfortunately stranded and adrift in the open water until the Coast Guard could arrive to give them a tow back to harbor. There was, of course, the chance that the Gotham or Metropolis Harbor Police would show up first, but the general sentiment in the pilot house was that ‘those boys take as long crossing the Bay as it takes to drive damn around it’.
Clark dutifully recorded all of this information, writing it down for a potential story to turn in at the Daily Planet when he got the chance, and asked a few more questions about what the maintenance schedule was like, what sort of improvements the crew thought could be made to the ferry system, and how long before the Coast Guard was expected to arrive.
Having got his answers and what he considered to be a pretty solid basis for a human interest story, Clark thanked the captain and returned to his favorite seat on the ferry’s second floor to wait out the estimated hour or so until help arrived (the Coast Guard had been alerted and would be on their way soon, the radio officer had assured him, but were caught up with an incident involving some missing fishing boats further north).
Clark dutifully transferred his notes from the moleskine notebook he had taken to always carrying with him to the backup drive on his phone so that he could at least have both a physical and digital copy of his work - a skill taught to him by Lois, who was well-familiar with the importance of keeping backups and often kept up to five copies of her stories on various flashdrives, dropboxes, and in desperate times, even her own notebook (a dollar-store composition pad in the bottom of her emergency go-bag). And speaking of her, it occurred to Clark that he should probably let his girlfriend know that he would be a little bit late, except there was one issue: cell service in Hobb’s Bay was patchy at best and straight up non-existent on a normal day, so instead of giving Lois a call and getting the chance to hear her voice, he had to satisfy himself with a short, explanatory text that would hopefully go through sometime soon.
The funny thing was, he could resolve the whole situation all by himself if it weren’t for one tiny issue: Clark was on a boat packed with passengers, and there were just a few too many curious eyes around for the reporter to vanish and Superman appear without somebody noticing the change. No private corners to turn his cape, no hidden closets for him to conveniently step into - even the bathrooms were out of the question considering the ever-present line leading into them. In short, Clark was just a little bit stuck where he was.
He would not say that he had anxiety, he was far too level-headed for that. It was just that sometimes, if he was a bit stressed or under pressure or hadn’t eaten or slept in the past few days, he had the tiniest bit of trouble with keeping his thoughts from wandering to some… unpleasant scenarios.
The boat could sink. The weather could get worse. The Coast Guard or harbor police could get lost and never find them. Or if they were found, the rescuer wouldn’t be able to do anything. To put it plainly, there was the possibility that Clark wouldn’t get home that night simply because there were too many watchful eyes on a ferry in the middle of Hobb’s Bay.
It was a shout from the ferry’s upper deck that caught his attention and pulled him out of his unhealthy downspiral of anxious thoughts. Said shout was followed by many running steps, someone gasping and another praying under the breath as onlookers gathered on the floor above. Clark was obviously curious, and mounted the stairs with a group of passengers ascending to see what the commotion was about, and he was met with the sight of lightly-drizzling fog surrounding the boat, still uncomfortably thick but now punctuated by a sharp flash of color in the mist - a bright red cape drifting on the breeze nearby.
She spotted him immediately - of course she would, he’d have expected nothing less considering how overprotective she was - but made no sign that she recognized him besides a hint of a smile as she observed the gathering crowd, and a slight raising of the eyebrows in his direction as if to teasingly ask ‘what sort of fuck-up have you found yourself in now’.
The uncomfortable ball of ice that had been forming in his chest suddenly got a bit lighter at the sight of her, and Clark found himself almost sighing in relief. She was here, everything would be all right now, he didn’t have to worry anymore - but that wasn’t to say she couldn’t use his help. Clark gave her a quick summary of the situation in hushed tones, knowing that not even the crowd surrounding him would hear while she would pick up his voice with ease.
Once he had explained the issue, she gave him the slightest of nods in acknowledgement, her gaze sweeping the boat itself in a quick glance as she located the problem, assessed the ‘fuck-up’ she had come to rescue him from, and allowed herself to drift on the light breeze just close enough to the boat to ask to speak with the captain about giving them a tow.
The anxiety that had been settling uncomfortably in Clark’s stomach released its hold slightly, and a little more when the captain arrived and an arrangement was worked out between him and Superwoman over the issue of getting to harbor. A Coast Guard vessel was already en-route but it was agreed that the Kryptonian would be allowed to tow them across the rest of the Bay to Metropolis with the CG acting as backup in case something else broke. All in all, the ferry would only be delayed by about ninety minutes and have Clark back on dry land in less than that without having dented his enjoyment of taking the boat in the slightest.
Whumptober Day 25!
Link to the Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/85120435
Title: Comfort - Clark
Prompt: Alt. No. 8 - Comfort
Word Count: 1181
He was in his usual spot when she got back to their shared apartment - center chair at the dining room table with his back to the bookshelf, focused entirely on his computer screen and notes spread out in front of him, and absently clutching an untouched mug of tea in his hands. The only unusual thing about the whole situation was that he hardly noticed when she came in, which was more than a little odd considering that he could hear heartbeats on the other side of the planet.
“Hey, Smallville,” Lois piped up in greeting, dropping her purse on its hook and slipping off her shoes. It was the sound of her voice that finally caught his attention, and Clark blinked slowly as if dragging himself out of his thoughts before registering her presence with a small smile.
“Oh. Hi,” he responded, getting up out of his chair to help her with her coat, “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. How was the interview?”
“Eh, went as expected. Nothing really exciting - the whole situation turned out to just be some ‘accidental’ misfiling which turned out to be deliberate because of all sorts of very interesting reasons which you can read about in the Thursday morning edition,” Lois explained with a hint of sarcasm before turning her attention back to him, “How about you? You’re looking a little pale, are you feeling okay?”
Clark paused at the question, thinking it over for half-a-second longer than she would have expected before brushing it off with a quick shrug, “I’m fine. Just a little tired.”
“Alright,” she nodded acceptingly, albeit reluctantly. She knew something was off about him but she didn’t want to intrude, so the best thing she could do at the moment was let it go and hope Clark either opened up about it later or eventually worked whatever was worrying him out of his system. Deciding that now would be a good time to change out of her work clothes into something a bit more comfortable to write in, Lois headed for the bedroom, sparing a glance at Clark’s workspace on the dining room table as she passed by. His notes were meticulously organized, as usual, but the Word document open on his computer hardly had two sentences in it and both had apparently been written yesterday, not to mention the forgotten mug of tea nearby which had already gone cold. Somebody was struggling with writer’s block, she quickly surmised.
When Lois returned a few minutes later, having changed into some loungewear and let the stress of working at a well-known newspaper begin to dissipate, she found Clark back in his spot, still clutching the cold mug and staring at the near-empty Word file.
“I’m going to make some tea,” she announced, “Do you want some?”
He opened his mouth to politely decline and explain that he already had some before noticing that his own cup still clasped in his hands was uncomfortably cold - a glance at the clock confirmed that he had made it nearly forty-five minutes ago and had never gotten around to even taking the first sip.
“Sure,” he relented, setting the cup aside, and Lois put on a smile to hide the worry in her eyes. Something was wrong, and she could only hope that he told her what it was sooner rather than later.
Setting the kettle on to boil, she pulled mugs and tea bags from a nearby cupboard to prepare for brewing - green tea for herself, and chamomile for him - and turned the television in the living room on to one of her favorite news channels. Lois always worked best with some background noise, and careful experimentation had revealed that the news was both the most monotone and informative drone for writing investigative articles, closely followed by true crime podcasts. Clark had gradually come to tune out her work-noise as well, though with a bit more difficulty considering his enhanced hearing, but every time she offered to turn it off he would politely tell her it was all right. He himself had now moved to sit on the couch with his computer and a few choice notes, though still with an oddly distant look in his eyes.
Once the tea was done brewing, she passed Clark his mug, grabbed her laptop and purse, and made herself comfortable next to him on the sofa with the intention of getting some work done before dinnertime. But despite her efforts to focus on transferring her interview notes from her composition pad to her computer, Lois found herself paying a bit more attention to the news story than necessary. The anchorman was giving an updated report on a flash flood in the Philippines while playing footage of the damage done. Multiple small towns had been affected by the rising waters that had begun to threaten the area early that morning but Superman had arrived in time to help evacuate many civilians from their ruined homes to higher ground. The emergency responders had been working hard all day to rescue and give medical treatment to as many people as they could, and an hour before had announced that the worst of it was over. Thanks to Superman’s help, the casualties were way lower than anyone had expected considering the population of the flooded region - as few as thirty-two individuals had been severely wounded, four were still unaccounted for, and only six had died. The anchorman went on to say that it was a miracle the numbers were so low, and they had Superman to thank for that-
“Can you turn it off?” Clark spoke up over the newscaster, “Please?”
Lois complied immediately, turning the tv off with a click of the remote before turning to him to see what was the matter, but a first glance revealed nothing except that his tea was getting cold again, the Word document open on his computer was still untouched, and Clark had dejectedly slumped an inch or two deeper into the couch beneath him, still staring at the dark television screen.
“Are you okay?” she asked gently, well aware that she had already asked him that and not at all surprised when Clark simply nodded in response. It was fine if he wasn’t in the mood to talk, knowing him he would probably open up later and let her comfort him through whatever he was dealing with, but he surprised her by choosing to do it then.
“I-I know it’s difficult,” he said at last, reluctantly meeting her gaze, “I know that I can’t possibly help or save all of them, but…”
Clark trailed off, staring off into space again as Lois reached over to rub slow circles between his shoulder blades, hoping to calm him down.
“But think of all the people you did save,” she reminded him, “They are alive because of you, Clark. And even if you couldn’t do enough for all of them, you did do your best, and that really is all that you can do.”
“I know,” he answered softly, “But it still hurts.”
Whumptober Day 24!
Link to the Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/86424658
Title: Broken Bones - Lois
Prompt: No. 24 ‘One Down, Two To Go’ - self-induced injuries to escape, flashbacks, revenge
Trigger Warnings: broken bones
Word Count: 862
Author’s Note: I’m sorry, it’s honestly not my best work, hopefully tomorrow will be better - enjoy!
Lois would admit that it was her fault she had, from what she could tell, broken her arm in three different places. Or at least it was mostly her fault - if her most recent interviewee hadn’t pulled a gun on her and forced her to get into the waiting car, she wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.
Hostage situations were relatively common in Lois’ line of work - investigative reporters tended to get into all sorts of trouble with their findings, but were also considerably valuable. This wasn’t the first time Lois had been shoved into a car with no explanation of where she was being taken or why, but she had a bad feeling about the whole situation. Best to get out of it quickly, and the quickest way out was through the passenger door when the car had slowed to a stop at a red light.
The dumbass should’ve hired a driver who could actually remember to turn the child lock on.
Lois was already in a full sprint before her would-be interviewee even had the chance to shout in surprise, and she had managed to cross the road just as the light turned green and the car pulled away with the man still yelling from the backseat to chase after ‘that damned reporter’. She wasn’t taking any chances, so quickly slipped into a narrow alley between two buildings where the car certainly couldn’t follow, keeping pace down the block and out onto another side street when a sharp turn and a bit of wet grass sneaking it’s way over the sidewalk sent her tumbling. She swore she felt her left arm twist and possibly even snap as she landed on her side, but Lois wasted no time wondering what the hell she had broken as she was back on her feet and searching the area for a place to hide and phone the police before her captor could catch up.
Ten seconds later, she was hiding behind a dumpster and doing her utmost best to quiet her hard breathing and racing heart. It took Lois a solid minute to calm down enough to notice two things: (a) she had left her goddamned purse in that idiot’s getaway car, and (b) her left arm was hanging at a bit of a weird angle against her side. The amount of adrenaline pumping through her veins would dull the pain for a little bit, but there was no doubt in her mind that it was going to start hurting soon - she knew from experience that broken bones tended to hurt, and they hurt even more when you had two… no, three of them.
Well, shit. What a wonderful way to end an interview with yet another corrupt CEO on their blatant embezzlement and money laundering.
Her blouse certainly couldn’t be saved after a tumble like that but maybe her arm could, and it would certainly hurt a lot less once she could get all the bones set back where they belonged.
Okay, she told herself. Okay. Her work-bag had been left in the car, and her phone along with it, so she couldn’t call the police or Perry to come pick her up and take her to get her arm checked, but that wasn’t to say Lois couldn’t do so herself.
Breathing slowly to calm her nerves, she gingerly squeezed her wrist and winced at the bolt of pain that shot up her arm at the pressure but was able to note with some satisfaction that the bones weren’t too badly broken, perhaps only sprained. Better to wait for a doctor to take a look at it rather than try to set a semi-broken wrist herself.
One glance at her forearm and she knew that it was much worse off - the skin was already beginning to bruise, not to mention that it both looked and felt like the bones inside had been snapped neatly in half like glow sticks. Careful not to apply too much pressure, Lois felt along her arm until she came across the very clear compound break near her elbow and swore under her breath - this wasn’t going to be comfortable.
Ignoring her screaming muscles and the unsettling sensation of the two broken bone-ends grinding against each other inside her arm, Lois positioned her hand to put pressure on one side of the break while holding the other half of the bone in place. She would have vastly preferred for an actual doctor to set the broken bones, but she also had about zero ounces of patience in her system at the moment and just wanted to get this over with. Gritting her teeth, Lois pushed.
It took everything in her not to yelp when the break rubbed against itself and back into place with a sickening pop, but luckily it did not require a second attempt to set it - she would just have to be careful not to jostle it too much on her way to the hospital. Unfortunately, Lois was still left with two more broken bones also vying for her agonized attention.
“One down, Lo,” she muttered to herself, “One down, two to go.”
Whumptober Day 23!
Link to the Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/86363698
Title: Screaming - Clark
Prompt: Alt. No. 7 - Screaming
Word Count: 744
He woke up struggling to breathe.
Panic enveloped him immediately, and he tried to sit up only to be sharply reminded of the restraints binding him down and digging into his chest and ribs. His already-labored breathing quickened in place as it occurred to him that something was wrong, he couldn’t move, it wasn’t supposed to be this dark-
It took him a moment to realize that the screaming he could dimly hear over the sound of his own pounding heart was also his own, his voice hoarse from shouting out in a fear of something he couldn’t quite remember. It was too dark, too quiet, General Zod was nowhere in sight… and it was only then that Clark realized with relief that he was in his own dim bedroom and not the prison-ship Black Zero.
The adrenaline still coursing through his bloodstream kept him gasping for breath, but he was awake enough now to recognize that the room was exactly as it had been when he had gone to sleep, though a few hours had passed if the dim moonlight peeking through the blinds was anything to go by, and his blankets were considerably messier than he remembered. Even though he knew that it was just a nightmare that had woken him and not an angry Kryptonian intruder, Clark couldn’t help but scan the apartment for anyone who wasn’t supposed to be there and he found it empty besides himself.
Just a nightmare, he told himself as he tried to relax a little bit only to be surprised by how taut he still was even when awake. It was just a nightmare, he had nothing to be afraid of, but he could still feel the alien restraints pinning him down and his throat was raw from screaming…
Clark briefly wondered how much he had been screaming in his sleep, guiltily imagining having woken the neighbors up before his train of thought was suddenly broken by an incredibly jarring buzz shattering the silence of his bedroom. He flinched in surprise at the sound, frantically searching for the source of what he was almost entirely sure was a chainsaw close by before he recognized his phone on the bedside table, chiming brightly with a new message. Sighing in relief but now dealing with even more panicked adrenaline than he had a moment before, Clark unlocked it to see the familiar image of Darcie’s profile picture next to a notification signifying that she had recently texted him.
Are you hurt? the small words read, written in her typical overly-concise style that Lois both admired and detested for being so on-the-nose. Clark’s phone pinged again in his hands a moment later, the first text followed by a second message stating, I heard you scream. Is there someone in the apartment? Do I need to come home?
I’m fine, he typed in return, Just a nightmare - no need to come rushing back.
The little bubble indicating that Darcie was typing popped up, and stayed there for an unusually long time before finally responding, Are you sure?
Was he sure? Was he really sure? Clark knew that she could be there in under twenty seconds if he asked her to, all flustered and windblown as she alternated between telling him what a wuss he was and interrogating him about what was really a minor situation. She would probably march around the apartment checking all the locks and windows for signs of an intruder in her sharp well-intentioned but admittedly-overprotective way before forcing him to down a cup of tea and get back in bed. He knew that Darcie meant well and was genuinely concerned about him but he also knew that she had a terrible habit of brooding over the slightest threat to his safety, which apparently included nightmares - a night that he should have spent sleeping and her working would turn into an awkward situation once he had to admit that he had called her home over a bad dream. With a sigh, he shook his head and typed up his response.
Yes. I’m going back to sleep now, he sent, Goodnight.
Clark set his phone aside and switched off the light, pulling the covers up over his head just as the device pinged a final time. He didn’t bother checking what Darcie had said in response but knowing her it was probably either a poor attempt at Sleep tight orCheck the lock on the front door.
Whumptober Day 22!
Link to the Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/86312209
Title: Self-Harm - Darcie
Prompt: No. 22 ‘They Made Me Do It’ - cursed, demon, obsession
Trigger Warnings: self-harm, blood
Word Count: 1451
It was a defense mechanism of sorts - nothing could hurt you if you hurt yourself first. The pain would keep you awake and alert, the pain would make you want to avoid enduring such agony again, and the pain reminded you of your place in the world.
Darcie was painfully well aware of her place in the world. There was a word for it: protector. And there was also a way to be it: following orders.
Darcie, unfortunately, had not followed orders. She had not obeyed, she had not stood still while being inspected, she had fought back - and that was unacceptable. So, of course, she deserved punishment for that, so that she remembered to never do it again.
It was an accident, she told herself as she slipped out of their darkened motel room and out into the hallway, carefully and quietly closing the door behind her. It was an accident - she hadn’t meant to move when Clark leaned close, she hadn’t meant to strike out when he put his arms around her in what Darcie was now realizing was supposed to have been a comforting embrace, and she hadn’t meant to let her eyes burn the way that they had. It was an accident, she told herself, but she still had to pay for it.
The motel was quiet this late at night, only interrupted by the hum of a vending machine and the distant voices of the receptionist chattering with the manager in the office at the end of the hall. Darcie had no trouble getting outside, suppressing a shiver as she did - winter was approaching quickly and she had been more focused on separating herself from Clark than remembering to grab her coat. She wasn’t going back for it now. She deserved to be uncomfortable, to be in pain, so Darcie forced herself to feel the cold and start running.
The town was small and lit only by streetlamps and the occasional bright store window illuminating the sidewalk this late at night, so it was relatively simple to escape the urban area without being seen. Small neighborhoods gave way to sparse forest dotting the tundra where the only light came from the stars but Darcie refused to allow herself to enjoy the sight of the heavens overhead. She was focused entirely on her singular goal - find a decently-sized boulder, and make it hurt.
She had no idea how long she walked - maybe it was only a few minutes, but considering that her legs were starting to burn just the tiniest bit when she finally slowed down, it likely was closer to a couple of hours. The air was crisp and cold and burning in her lungs, clouding the air with every breath she took as Darcie paced through the copse of evergreen trees, her boots tramping on rocks as she searched. The forest-dotted tundra had become a low ridge at some point, freezing earth and broken stone dividing the trees from each other, and it was on that ridge that Darcie found her goal.
There was a large boulder, maybe the size of a truck if she had to guess, on the low end of the cliff and perfect for her plan, so she wasted no time in scrambling down towards it. The rock was hard and cool and rough to the touch - some form of slate or smooth sandstone, though it was difficult to tell by the light of the stars alone. Honestly all Darcie cared about was the fact that it was both breakable and a pain to do so.
She rested her fist against its sloping side, lightly pressing in before cocking her arm for a sharp blow. It had been badly aimed on purpose, and instead of hitting the rock head on her knuckles glanced against it in what should have been a painful scrape… but it wasn’t. Her hand didn’t hurt - hell, it wasn’t even bleedingorraw - but her boulder of choice was looking a little worse for wear in the spot where she had struck it.
Huh.
It was seemingly impossible, but considering the events of the past few days and just how much she was learning about herself by simply being around Clark, she had to admit that she wasn’t all too surprised to discover that stone could be broken while she remained unharmed. It was a change, a big one, and Darcie wasn’t sure if she liked it - she preferred life and pain to be predictable, and this certainly was not.
She hit the boulder again, harder and with better aim, and this time she felt the familiar grinding pain that one expected when they punched something hard, though it still hurt far less than she was used to. Oddly enough, there was now a decently sized bit of stone missing from the boulder where she had hit it, pulverized by the impact.
Another hit, harder and faster and a little to the right. Finally, burning pain blossomed in her fist as the stone fell away like dark chalk stained red by her blood, a dent made in both herself and the boulder. And even though it hurt, damn, it felt good.
She hit the rock again, and again, refusing to pull her punches when her bare knuckles hit rigid stone and throwing her weight into each blow. More power, more strength, more dust at her feet, blood on her hands, and pain paying the price of her transgressions as she continued to throw punches into the dark wilderness night.
She had known Clark for exactly a week, and so far had been able to keep her unforgivable mistakes to a minimum - until tonight, at least. It was her fault that he had gotten dragged into this mess, her fault that her Hunters would be after him now, and her fault that she had hurt him when she was supposed to be protecting him. She had failed at her purpose, and no matter how many times Clark tried to reassure her that it was all right, he was okay, it was only a bruise, that did not change the fact that she had failed.
Failure was inevitable, but that did not mean it was in any way acceptable. A lot like mistakes.
“Mistakes are inevitable - they are part of what makes us human,” her Teacher had once explained after a particularly difficult hunting session in the Rooms, “You, unfortunately, are not. So don’t you ever think for a moment that even one mistake will be tolerated for even an instant.”
She had failed, she had made a mistake, and since Clark refused to dole out the universe’s punishment for such a crime, she did it herself in the form of broken bones and broken stones. Bones to remind her of the frailty of her existence and obedience, and stones as a representation of what she must become in order to succeed. Mister Wilson’s damned ability to read meaning into everything he did was beginning to rub off on her - in all honesty, Darcie had just wanted something to punch.
She only stopped because her once-large boulder was now a pile of dust and rubble at her feet, and the stone that remained was not worth the effort of crumbling any further. It didn’t matter anymore - her bruised and bloodied hands were proof enough of her fulfilled punishment. Darcie took a moment to examine them, noting with some frustration that she had broken a few fingers and sprained her left wrist (those would take some time to heal) but interestingly enough, the skin on her knuckles that she could have sworn had been scratched, torn, or beaten into a bloody pulp when she first began her rampage was already beginning to scab over - odd, she had never healed this fast before.
She decided not to waste what precious patience she had worrying over it and shook herself instead, a small cloud of rock dust coming loose from her clothes and hair, though she should have expected that. Picking herself up and stretching to relieve the tension still clenching her shoulders in a fighter’s pose, she kicked absently at a nearby chunk of rock that had survived her assault and was still a half-way decent size, unsurprised when it crumbled instantly under her half-hearted blow. She wrinkled her nose in its direction and rubbed her eyes tiredly in a useless attempt to get the gritty feeling coating them to go away, doing her best to ignore the exhaustion finally catching up with her.
Damn, she needed a drink.
(And maybe, it occurred to her about two-thirds of the way through her hike back to town, maybe she needed a hug.)
Whumptober Day 21!
Link to the Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/86259070
Title: Bleeding - Mister Wilson
Prompt: No. 21 ‘That’s Where The Blood’s Supposed To Be’ - bleeding thru the bandages, pressure, blood-matted hair
Trigger Warnings: blood
Word Count: 1421
Slade liked to think of himself as a man of extreme patience, which was a necessary skill when one regularly did stakeouts that could last for days, if not weeks. He knew how to set events into motion and step back to allow them to play out, he knew how to wait for things to come to fruition, and he had plenty of experience keeping his mind occupied instead of letting impatience rule his thoughts.
This, unfortunately, was a situation that could have greatly benefitted from a bit of patience but was instead treated with blatantly dangerous haste.
‘If it’s bleeding, don’t goddamn make it bleed any more.’
It was supposed to be an easy kill - take out the target before they crossed the border. That had been easy enough - a sniper rifle and a rooftop conveniently close to the road the target would take had done the trick perfectly. A single well-aimed bullet put sixty-thousand Euros in the bank - Deathstroke had successfully completed another contract.
Slade wasn’t an idiot, and had taken the time to check the surrounding area for any bodyguards or paid mercenaries guarding his target’s route, though his search had only turned up two soldiers-for-hire parked only a short ways from his planned hiding spot. They were marksmen as well, if the guns in the trunk were anything to go by. Throats slit, bodies buried in a gutter, no longer an issue. He should’ve charged extra.
An hour later, Slade was pulling a trigger from the cover of a rooftop overlooking the road. A second later, the target was dead in the backseat of a Land Rover now full of panicking bodyguards. And a second after that, Slade realized that the two men he’d killed earlier in the day had a friend who wasn’t a bad shot himself.
The enemy bullet found a weak spot in Deathstroke’s armor, between two plates of kevlar covering his torso beneath his left arm. High-calibre armaments were nothing to laugh at, and Slade swore as he felt the slug pass through him at high speed, snapping a rib in the process and cracking two more, but that wasn’t enough to stop him from rolling over the injured side, aiming his rifle, and returning the assailant’s shot with what should have been a neat bit of lead through their skull. He didn’t bother checking - he had more pressing issues at hand.
Slade had first-hand experience with the dangers of bleeding out from an unattended wound, and unfortunately sniper bullets tended to leave some pretty nasty holes. He could already feel his own blood pooling inside his armor, ribs protesting with every gasp he took as he pressed a hand against the injury only to glance at it a moment later and find it covered in sticky gore. Even his enhanced healing factor would have some trouble with the blood loss if he didn’t put a stop to it soon.
Cover was the only thing he had in mind as Slade quickly strung his rifle over his back as he dismounted the roof and scrambled down the wall into a shady alley below, scanning the area for passersbys or witnesses to the Deathstroke’s presence. Moving quickly, he located a low building that appeared to have been abandoned - luck was with him, and the first door he kicked open revealed an empty store room, so Slade wasted no time as he grabbed the first aid kit out of his pack.
He managed to unlock his chestplate with shaking hands, ignoring the fact that he was already showing symptoms of shock with his rapid heartbeat and shallow breaths. It was apparent even before taking off the second layer of armored bodysuit that the wound was bleeding heavily given the amount of blood already soaking the chainmail, and Slade immediately got to work preparing a gauze compress to stem the flow.
Stop the bleeding, he told himself as he pressed the gauze against his side. Maintain pressure on the wound. Don’t stop putting pressure on it, don’t let go. Ribs hurt, lungs hurt, but nothing was punctured as far as he could tell, he just had to stop the damn bleeding.
Things like this took time and patience before the wound would begin to stop spurting blood long enough to take some stitches, but Slade knew that he was running out of both. His keen hearing picked up the sound of footsteps outside, too slow and stealthy to be just some random passerby - it was then that Slade realized he had to get moving.
Carefully locking his armor back on, he crept towards the nearest door opposite where he had heard the sound, took a deep breath to steel himself to run, and kicked it down. He was back out on the street in an instant, staying low and on the run as he ducked behind cars parked up against the sidewalk to hopefully stay out of sight of his pursuer who had no doubt heard the sound of crashing wood indicating Slade’s escape. It was getting later in the afternoon, so there were certainly more people out and about than there had been earlier when Slade had mapped out his surroundings pre-kill, but still not enough of a crowd to hide a tall man in a menacing black-and-orange armored suit - he just had to keep moving. He could hear quick footsteps behind him, and a glance over his shoulder confirmed that it was the same man who had shot at him not ten minutes before, intent on finishing the job as both of them picked up the pace. Running at a full sprint, Slade’s ribs were burning in agony, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if the wound was bleeding even worse than before considering how fast his heartbeat was now.
He took a chance, springing behind another parked car to duck through a broken fence and out behind another small building before securing himself in a shaded alcove just out of sight of the main alley - a convenient little spot he had noticed during his initial scan of the area. Mentally berating himself for sighing in relief at the moment of pause, he allowed himself half-a-second to catch his breath and check on the wound. Slade swore under his breath when he pulled back his armor just enough to see that sure enough, even the top layer of gauze he had tied around his torso was already quite red with his own blood. Damn.
He didn’t have any time to spare in changing the bandage or even putting an extra piece of gauze on it, his assailant already closing the distance to Slade’s hiding place, and it wouldn’t be long before he was found out. Readjusting his rifle over his shoulder, he kept on running.
Hardly twenty paces later did he realize that, bloody hell, the shock must have really gone to his head if Slade was this dumb. Running from the attacker til it either came to a fight or he passed out from blood loss was going to get him nowhere - the only way Deathstroke was getting out of this one was to fight fire with fire. Give the man a taste of his own medicine with his own gaping wound to worry about.
Taking no advantage of a nearby fence, Slade quickly mounted it, ignoring his grinding ribs as he used one of the beams to spring up to a gutter and scramble up onto the second story of the building it was attached to. From there he found himself sprinting over the rooftop to another house, jumping across the gaps between structures with a speed that belied his injury. He needed someplace that was relatively covered from most angles, difficult to get to directly from the ground, and had a good view of the alleyway his assailant had been chasing him down. A short search later and a solution presented itself in the form of a rooftop veranda overlooking the street below, decently out of sight of anyone on the ground but workable for Slade’s purposes.Moments later, he was scrambling into position, pulling his own rifle from his back in a swift motion to simultaneously aim and remove the safety from the gun just as his unknown attacker rounded the corner into his line of sight.
Finger on the trigger, Slade took a deep breath, and put a neat bit of lead through their skull. He didn’t have to bother checking if he had hit his mark this time.
Whumptober Day 20!
Link to the Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/86205241
Title: Kidnapped - Clark
Prompt: No. 20 ‘Lost & Found’ - trunk, trapped, under water, solitary confinement
Trigger Warnings: blood
Word Count: 3324
If it had been a Thursday, Clark wouldn’t have had to ride the bus home. His pa came into town on Thursdays to get groceries and talk with the other farmers at the barber shop or Sullivan’s repair barn, and then he’d pick up Clark from school and they’d drive home together - sometime’s Pa even let Clark drive the truck. But it was not a Thursday. It was a Wednesday, and Clark had to ride the bus home.
Clark had always hated the bus - it was full of rowdy, bullying kids, it smelled, and the seats were somehow more uncomfortable than his stiff wooden desk in Mrs. Brigham’s class. But now after the Accident, Clark hated it even more.
The Accident, as it was called in the Kent household (though the rest of the town referred to it as the Miracle), had happened five months ago. Clark had been riding the bus home from school (it had been a Tuesday) when oncoming traffic and a blown tire caused the bus to swerve into the Arkansas River where it passed under the highway. Lots of moms said that angels must’ve been watching the bus because it didn’t land in the middle of the river but close enough to the bank that the driver was able to get everyone to safety with almost no injuries. That’s why it was called the Miracle. The only problem was that unless Clark himself was an angel, the moms were all wrong.
He remembered it clearly - Clark had a sharp memory like that. He had been trying to ignore Pete, the would-be bully of the ninth grade, when the bus swerved and splashed down in the deepest part of the river, immediately filling with water. Some of the girls had started screaming and Clark himself had been frozen with terror, gripping the stupid seat like his life depended on it because for all he knew, they might die in a few minutes. It was only when he saw the dent he left in the metal that Clark realized that he could do something about that.
So Clark Kent, the quiet kid who never got anything less than an A- and always had his nose stuck in history and philosophy books, the one that never got in trouble with the teacher and the only boy in his grade to not have gone out with a girl, surprised the entire freshman grade of Smallville High School when he pushed the bus out of the river. He might have been proud when they all turned to stare at him, but instead Clark had been downright terrified.
He didn’t like to think about it. He still didn’t quite like to think about what happened afterwards either. He just wanted to go home and pet his dog, and then tomorrow he could ride back from school with his Pa. So he hefted his backpack, boarded the bus, and took his usual spot next to the window where he could watch the fields go by on the four-mile ride home.
Unless the bus was very full, Clark usually sat on his own, mostly because no one wanted to sit next to that kid. The bus was not full today, so it was a bit of a surprise when Whitney Fordham of the twelfth grade sat down next to him.
“Whatcha up to, Kent?” Whitney asked casually, adjusting his letterman jacket as he did. Clark did his best to ignore the fact that Whitney was in the aisle seat and blocking his way off of the bus, and simply shrugged in response as he watched the older boy out of the corner of his eye
“Watching the wheat. Mister Shelley at the gas station says it’ll be ready for harvest by the end of the month.”
“You doing anything this evening?”
“Just homework and chores,” Clark shrugged again, glancing back out the window when he felt something hard and cold bump against his side. He turned to see what it was only to immediately recognize that Fordham was holding a pistol beneath his jacket, and said pistol was now covertly pressed against Clark’s ribs.
Clark swallowed hard and didn’t move.
“You’re going to get off at the Bravermans’ place,” Whitney told him in a low voice, “I’ll be right behind you. You’re going to do exactly as I say, else I’ll start using this gun for what it was made for - and not just on you, Kent.”
Okay. Okay, the Bravermans lived about half-a-mile from here. Clark just had to keep very still and not do anything to piss Whitney off and maybe Whitney wouldn’t shoot anyone if Clark did what he was told. He wished it was a Thursday. He wouldn’t have had to ride the bus if it’d been a Thursday.
The bus slowed and came to a stop at the end of the Braverman’s driveway, and Clark obediently followed Whitney when the boy stood up alongside Kelsie Braverman, the only person who was genuinely supposed to get off here. She shot the pair of boys an inquisitive glance when they exited the bus outside her house, but recognized Whitney as a friend of her brother and thought nothing of it when they followed her up the driveway.
Clark watched Kelsie run inside the house as he was herded by Whitney and his pistol towards a nearby tractor shed where two boys he recognized from the football team were lounging in the shade. They exchanged a silent nod with Clark’s captor before leading them ‘round the back of the shed to where an old station wagon was parked. Fordham waved the gun towards it, signalling that Clark was to get in. Knowing better than to argue with someone holding a pistol, he obeyed, silently clambering into the back seat just as the two senior boys from the football team got in next to him - one on his right and the other on his left, trapping Clark in the middle.
It was at that moment that he noticed there was someone in the driver’s seat, and they turned to face him with a grin - a grin Clark had become very accustomed with, mostly because he was constantly avoiding it.
“Relax, Kent,” Kenny Braverman told him, smirking as he drummed his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, “We just want to talk, that’s all.”
Clark folded his arms over his chest, partly to show Braverman that he wasn’t going to be shoved around this time and partly because he was starting to feel a bit claustrophobic with the two linebackers squeezed into the car on either side of him.
“What do you want to talk about?” Clark asked quietly, bunching his shoulders as he leaned forward in his seat so the boys wouldn’t press so tightly against him.
“We heard ‘bout what you did at the river back in April,” Whitney answered as he climbed into the passenger seat, fixing Clark with a hard stare, “You’ve got a bunch of people fooled, Kent. Even my mom, and that lady ain’t easily fooled.”
That earned a round of chuckles from the linebackers and another smirk from Braverman, who continued where Fordham had left off, “What Whit is saying is that we know what you did. You covered up your trick pretty well, I’ll admit, and you were clever enough to let a few witnesses see just to make sure the rumor spread.”
“What rumor?” Clark asked skeptically, and Braverman’s smile instantly turned sour.
“The rumor that little Clark Kent is strong as hell’s teeth and not to be messed with. And that is where we’re going to prove you wrong.”
Clark paled visibly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I-I don’t know what you mean, just let me out of the car, Kenny-”
“What, so you can go around spreading more lies? I’ll tell you what I mean, Kent,” Braverman growled, “I mean that we won’t stand for any more of this ‘Clark pushed the bus out of the river’ nonsense that’s been going around at school. It’s a lie, a barefaced lie, and we don’t like liars or pretenders or freaks - which if the story is true, you would be all three. The lie makes you look strong, which is how we know it’s a lie because Clark Kent isn’t strong. He’s a puny momma’s boy who can’t even throw a fuckin’ punch-”
“Kenny,” Fordham interrupted, “We gotta go, man. We’re wasting time here.”
Braverman shot his friend a look that could curdle milk, to which Whitney lowered his eyes and started fiddling with his pistol, but luckily the conversation didn’t progress any further as Kenny put the car into gear.
“Where are we going?” Clark asked timidly as they rolled down the driveway, and Braverman grinned wolfishly at him in the rearview mirror.
“Somewhere where we can prove how strong you ain’t.”
The words sent a shiver down Clark’s spine, and he realized that the last time he’d been this scared had been the day he’d pushed the bus out of the river. The car pulled onto the highway and they drove along in tense silence for a bit, their prisoner still tucked uncomfortably between his captors, before someone pulled a joint out of their pocket. A minute later it was lit and passed around the car to everyone but Clark, who was secretly gagging from the strong smell and doing his best not to breathe it in. Kenny took the fewest drags from the cigarette because he was driving, but that didn’t stop him from laughing with the other boys whenever they made a stupid joke or pointed out roadkill on the side of the highway as they chattered excitedly - apparently the marijuana made him easily distracted.
“Man, you’re in for a treat!” Whitney laughed loudly over the sound of the radio about twenty minutes into the drive, swiveling in his chair to address Clark with wide eyes as he exclaimed, “I’ma aim for your balls when we get to the field - you’re gonna cry for sure. How ‘bout that, strongboy?”
Oh, Clark thought. Oh. He had sorta hoped that they’d just throw him in the creek like they’d done with Brian Melbourne back in eighth grade, or maybe lock him in a shed somewhere so he could break out after they left, but this sounded worse. They were gonna beat him up bad, it sounded like, maybe even shoot him - and Clark seriously doubted they’d give him a ride home when it was over. So, he reasoned, he had to get away before they got to wherever they were going. And the only way to do that was to stop the car.
Pa sometimes let Clark drive the harvester. He always said Clark would do just fine - and Clark did do just fine - but if for some reason he needed help or the brake was being fiddly again (old farm equipment was like that, and it was always repaired quickly and temporarily), he just had to pull it onto the field border where the long grass and rough ground would slow it down some. He figured the same would go for cars.
Clark leaned forward in his seat about, his knees tucked up against the central console and his arms resting on top of it in a way that made it look as if he were only trying to get comfortable between the two large boys taking up the majority of the back seat - though that may have been one of the reasons he moved, it was mostly so that he could reach the steering wheel. Braverman was distracted, the cigarette in his mouth and his window rolled down as he pointed out some coot’s farm where the harvest workers sometimes sold beer to teens if you asked nicely and had plenty of cash on hand. Clark didn’t hesitate to take advantage of Kenny’s preoccupation, and quickly leaned forward to grab the wheel and yank it as far to the right as he could.
The result was instantaneous. The station wagon spun off of the highway and onto the grass beside it, sliding down into a ditch before something hard hit the front of the car and Clark was thrown back in his seat with his eyes shut tight against the flying glass from the shattered windshield.
He wasn’t sure how long it was before he opened his eyes to piercing sunlight shining in through the back window of the station wagon and wispy smoke filling the front of the car, accompanied by the eerie silence of four unmoving bodies. It’d… it’d worked, the car had stopped - mostly because it had run into a telephone pole on the side of the road and nearly crushed the hood in two. Clark’s very first thought was that he had to get away, he had to get out of the car, and so managed to shove the unconscious linebacker to his left aside enough for him to reach the door handle and wiggle his way out of the car, hardly noticing how hard he was breathing. It was only when he stumbled outside onto the side of the road that he realized what he had done.
Oh, Clark thought. Oh.
It felt loud - very loud, just like when his mom said he was having a sensory overload - and even the comforting rustle of the grass in the wind was overwhelming to his ears. The car was still trying to run, the engine choking and sputtering and making an awful smell that didn’t do much to cover up the scent of blood that lingered all over the vehicle and all over Clark and all over his hands-
Clark spent the next two minutes losing the contents of his stomach in the grass, and the next two minutes after that trying to wipe the football player’s blood off of his hands. He’d… he had hurt them, it was Clark’s fault they had crashed and they were bleeding and he… he didn’t know what to do… he-he hurt them… he had to get help.
The boys hadn’t bothered to blindfold him during the ride (not that it would help much, considering that Clark could see through just about everything he tried), so he had a pretty decent idea of where he was and he knew that the Coopers lived about a half-a-mile east of here. The Coopers had a phone, maybe they would let him call the police.
Clark was a good runner. It took him less than three minutes to reach their property line and sprint up the driveway, panting hard as he mounted the porch steps and paused a moment to calm his breathing and brush his dark hair out of his face before ringing the doorbell. He could hear the chime ringing throughout the farmhouse, followed a few seconds later by approaching footsteps before Missus Cooper opened the door.
“Oh, you’re Martha’s boy!” the woman beamed, instantly recognizing him, “Lord, I hardly recognized you without your church clothes on. Cole, isn’t it? Or Clem? Nevermind your name - what on Earth are you doing out here?”
“My name’s Clark Kent, ma’am,” he answered patiently, “I was wondering if I could borrow your phone for a moment, it’s a bit urgent-”
“Sure, honey! Why don’t you come inside, the landline’s just in the kitchen.”
Clark thanked her and stepped inside, politely wiping his shoes on the mat before following her to the back of the farmhouse.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Missus Cooper started as she pointed out the wall phone to him, “What are you doing out this way? We’re a bit far from the Kent farm - are you calling for a ride home? David could always drive you back if your folks are busy.”
Clark paused in the middle of taking the receiver off the hook and glanced in Missus Cooper’s direction.
“I was walking home from a friend’s place, ma’am,” he lied sheepishly, “I’m calling the sheriff’s office cause I seen a car go off the road half-a-mile back. Looked like the Braverman’s station wagon but I-I ran here to call for help ‘stead of checking-”
“Land sakes! Ain’t Muriel, I hope,” Missus Cooper exclaimed, her anxiety over Clark being far from home immediately forgotten as she started going off about how Muriel Braverman was such a dear friend and she would be absolutely sick with worry if anything had happened to her, but Clark didn’t hear much of what the woman said after that as he was busy dialling 9-1-1, still wishing that it had been a Thursday.
V*V*V*V*V*V*V
The sheriff had come out pretty quickly and found that the boys had survived, though not without a few concussions, broken bones, and hefty fines for driving under the influence. Braverman swore up and down that Clark had been in the car and caused the crash, though no one believed him mostly because he was clearly high and Missus Cooper inadvertently provided Clark with a alibi by talking for ten minus solid about how he was the sweetest and most kind-hearted boy she had ever met and he had only been visiting a friend up the road. Pa had arrived not long after the sheriff, spoken briefly with the man about a few things including kids these days and was Marjorie getting along alright, it’d been a pretty bad flu season hadn’t it, and finally had gotten permission to take Clark home because the boy obviously hadn’t taken any part in the whole thing besides calling for help.
Clark had hidden himself in Pa’s truck the moment he showed up, hunkered down in the passenger seat with his sneakers kicked off onto the floor and his knees tucked up to his chest while the adults talked. It didn’t take long for it to be sorted out, and Pa soon returned to start the old engine up and get them on their way home, though Clark noted that his dad took the long way back to avoid going past the crash.
“What happened?” Pa asked after a while, those being the first words he said to his son after asking if he was all right when he first showed up at the Coopers’ place, and Clark shrugged in response.
“Don’t wanna talk ‘bout it. Please.”
Pa nodded, reaching over to gently pat his back. “That’s alright, though you’ll have to tell someone sometime, Clark.”
Clark nodded into his knees and leaned against the window, lulled into a false calm by the familiar rumble of the truck. He hadn’t meant to hurt them, he’d just wanted to get away, he’d just wanted to go home and he hated riding the bus home from school…
“They threatened to start shooting if I didn’t get off the bus.”
“So you got off the bus?” Pa asked gently.
“Yeah… They said they just wanted to talk, s’all. Well, not really - I think they wanted to beat me up and Whitney kept waving his gun around and I thought maybe if I… if I got the car to stop long enough I could get away and they wouldn’t hit me ‘cause of the Accident.”
Pa was quiet for a long minute, keeping his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road ahead before he finally spoke up again, “That’s what it was all about? Why didn’t you fight back or run away? Might’ve been easier that way.”
“They had a gun, Pa. I didn’t want anyone to get shot,” Clark said in a soft voice.
Pa nodded, slowly and thoughtfully, “I’ll admit, son, I’m still not sure if you did the right thing back in April. But what you did today, not fighting back and letting those boys take you away even when you were scared just so that no one else would get hurt… I think you did the right thing.”
Whumptober Day 19!
Link to the Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/86145226
Title: Stabbed - Darcie
Prompt: No. 19 ‘Just A Scratch’ - bitten, bleeding, stabbing
Trigger Warnings: blood, physical abuse
Word Count: 1578
Don’t scream.
Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream…
She didn’t scream - she just grunted softly and waited for her Teacher to step away, leaving the blade embedded in her lower abdominal while she watched for the signal that she could begin. The first two minutes after receiving a major wound were always the hardest but Stormrkrigeren refused to allow the pain to get the better of her, standing patiently to attention as Mister Wilson glanced from his watch to the digital clock on the far wall of the Room, silently counting down the seconds.
She breathed slowly, carefully, doing her best not to disturb the knife still buried in her skin. It was bleeding profusely - as was to be expected from a stab wound - and most of the front of her shirt and a part of her pants were covered in the hot, sticky gore, yet Stormkrigeren had at least another minute before she could be allowed to treat it. Today’s lesson was in emergency medical self-treatment, and the goal was for her to successfully stop the bleeding and close the hole before she lost thirty percent of her blood.
Even if allowing yourself to be stabbed just so you could practice treating it was something that most, if not all, doctors would not suggest, Stormkrigeren knew that there was very little danger in the situation. She herself had recently passed her combat medic specialist exam, making her a certified emergency practitioner like Mister Wilson, and Dr. Schreyer (who was currently monitoring the lesson from the Watching Room) had a doctoral degree in paediatrics - if anything were to go wrong, either one of them could step in.
Nothing would go wrong. Stormkrigeren knew the procedure and was working in a sterile environment with everything she needed scattered in various corners around her Room (definitely not the most optimal situation, but done to increase the difficulty by forcing her to move around while injured).
Twenty seconds left now. Her stomach was throbbing painfully, but still she refused to so much as flinch at the discomfort and focused all of her attention wholly on Mister Wilson. Her Teacher was eyeing the stopwatch with his usual look of neutral annoyance, silently counting down the moments before she could begin. Stormkrigeren saw when he raised his chin and brought it down in a sharp nod in her direction, the signal that her two minutes was up - and that her time was running out.
She reacted immediately, pulling the knife out of her skin as quickly and cleanly as she could (biting her lip to hold back a scream as she did) while ignoring the sudden gush of hot blood that came with it as Stormkrigeren moved on to the next step - stopping the bleeding. Her previously-clean shirt was yanked over her head and folded into a halfway-decent makeshift bandage which she pressed firmly against the wound, knowing that she had to halt the flow of blood as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, moving around would slow the process down quite a bit, but she had to get the gauze and tape for the next step.
There were three unlabeled cardboard boxes containing exactly what she needed to treat the injury scattered around her Room. Stormkrigeren started making her way towards the nearest one, keeping her makeshift bandage pressed firmly against her stomach as she tried to walk without overusing her lower abdominals. Reaching the box, she pried it open with one hand and swore silently when she discovered that it only contained a bottle of sanitary saline solution used for cleaning wounds - it would be useful in a few minutes, but was not her first priority.
Stormkrigeren shoved the bottle into the hem of her loose training pants (which were quickly turning into a dark crimson instead of their usual gray) and took a deep breath to calm the painful throbbing in her abdomen as she hobbled towards the next box. This time, luck was with her and the contents were exactly what she needed: sanitary gauze and medical tape.
She wasted no time, immediately dropping into a sitting position that didn’t put too much strain on her core muscles and carefully removing her makeshift shirt-bandage to check on the wound. Damn, it was still bleeding pretty badly, though not as bad as when she had started, which was a miracle considering how much she had been moving around. No matter - she had the tools necessary to stop it, and Stormkrigeren got to work covering the injury with a decently-sized wad of gauze to soak up the blood, taping it in place in order to prevent it from moving around and to maintain constant pressure on the wound.
One thing was for sure: bleeding out was definitely the worst part of getting stabbed.
She eventually managed to staunch the flow, or at least slow it enough that she wasn’t too worried about losing any more blood as she stood up once more to move on to the next step sitting a few meters away on the floor. Reaching the third and final box, she ripped it open and quickly began sorting its contents - packing gauze, gauze sponge, bandages - everything she would need to finish tending the wound. Setting the tools well within reach, Stormkrigeren dropped back down to the concrete floor and laid down to begin the task. Even though she had put the new bandage on only a few minutes before, its purpose was temporary and by the feel of things, it had already done the job of stopping the blood flow decently well. Stormkrigeren carefully peeled the blood-stained gauze off of her stomach, and satisfied that the injury had mostly stopped bleeding, she got to work.
She managed to get it decently sanitized by squirting saline solution into the wound and the area around it, refusing to allow the stinging pain to register in her mind as she instead focused on getting the packing gauze damp with solution as well. Wringing the gauze out to get rid of any excess liquid, Stormkrigeren took a deep breath and began the hard part.
The packing gauze was for… well, packing. It was folded into dense, absorbent pads of gauze and carefully packed inside the wound to absorb any excess blood, filling the hollow space to prevent any organs or muscles from shifting uncomfortably during the healing process. Stormkrigeren had done this before and was ready for the pain of having something that was definitely not supposed to be there inside of her body, but that didn’t stop it from hurting. She bit back another moan as she slowly pressed the gauze into place, wincing as it refused to easily enter the hole in her skin - damn, it was being troublesome and taking much longer than she would have liked. But eventually the wound and the packing complied, and Stormkrigeren was able to move on to the next step: dressing the injury. That didn’t take long at all, only requiring her to put a few layers of gauze and bandage over the wound to soak up any extra blood, cover the patch with a decent amount of tape, and move on.
The final task to complete was to return the blade to her Teacher, signalling the end of the exercise. Unfortunately, Stormkrigeren had dropped it almost immediately after pulling it out a few minutes before, and she stumbled to her feet to retrieve it just as she realized a few other mistakes had been made on her part.
Her first, and most punishable mistake had been to leave the knife where it had fallen - in a real-world situation, an assailant could have grabbed it and easily used it against her a second time while Stormkrigeren was disabled by the wound. Her second mistake was not collecting all of the necessary medical kit in one fell swoop, wasting precious time to check on the wound that was obviously still bleeding every time she stopped at a box. And lastly, her third mistake had been almost inevitable, and that was the trail of blood spots dotting the usually-pristine concrete floor, clearly marking where Stormkrigeren had been and making an easy path for any assailants to follow.
There was one thing in her favor, and that was the fact that this particular exercise was based on timing and precision, not mistakes. Stormkrigeren silenced the fatal little voice in her head calling her a failure for missing such crucial errors with that thought, and quickly scooped up the knife from where she had left it to return it to her Teacher.
Mister Wilson silently accepted the blade, pulling a clean rag out of his back pocket to wipe her blood off of the steel before replacing it in its sheath and clicking the button on the side of the stopwatch - task complete. Stormkrigeren watched his left eyebrow twitch upwards at the sight of her time, but her Teacher made no comment on it and turned the device so that she could see the little black numbers indicating her success.
Twelve minutes, twenty-eight seconds.
Huh. Not too bad. Certainly not optimal, considering that a human could die from hemorrhaging in as little as five minutes - but then again, twelve-and-a-half minutes was pretty damn good for treating the wound herself. Not bad at all.
Though Stormkrigeren would admit that physical training would be nothing short of a pain in the ass - or stomach rather - for the next week or so.
Whumptober Day 18!
Link to the Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/86071141
Title: Sprained Ribs - Clark
Prompt: No. 18 ‘The Doctor Is In’ - “Now Smile for the camera”, doctor’s visit, CPR
Word Count: 969
Clark shut the bathroom door behind himself and took a deep, shaking breath to calm his nerves - not that it would help. It’d been a good half-hour since the accident but he still felt like his veins were on fire with the amount of adrenaline pumping through them, and the rest of him didn’t feel much better either.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, wincing when he saw the scrape on his cheek and the dirt coating his hair and blue Kryptonian suit. Slowly, because he was still pretty sore, Clark unclipped the cape from where it was attached at his shoulders and let the fabric drop to the tiled floor while he got the top-half of the suit off. His chest was painfully tight beneath the alien garment, and he quickly discovered why.
A large, angry-looking bruise covered a good portion of his left side, his skin clouded red and purple in the area of damage. To make it worse, without the support of the tight Kryptonian suit to hold it in place, Clark was pretty sure he could feel part of his ribcage shifting uncomfortably with every breath he took. This couldn’t be good.
It hurt, and though it didn’t hurt badly, considering that he rarely ever got hurt in the first place, Clark was in a bit of pain since he wasn’t all too used to it. He was about eighty-percent sure he had broken something, especially since the last time he had been in this much pain was when he broke his wrist during the battle with General Zod in downtown Metropolis (though that had healed quickly enough to not need any medical treatment besides being gentle with it). But this… this might need a doctor.
He was at the farmhouse in Smallville, so the nearest doctor would be Dr. Whitaker at the clinic a few miles away, though Clark’s parents had decidedly stopped taking him there for checkups when his first ‘powers’ started developing at age eight due to his Kryptonian physiology. There wasn’t exactly any physician Clark could trust with the knowledge of who or what he was, and even if he did know a trustworthy doctor there was still the issue of differences in treating Kryptonians and humans for injuries.
Scratch that, Clark did know a trustworthy doctor who knew how to deal with Kryptonian medical emergencies, and said doctor happened to be about ten feet away on the other side of the wall, currently scrubbing out the inside of the fridge while she cleaned the farmhouse kitchen.
Darcie had admitted to him once that she was a certified combat medic specialist, and though Clark still wasn’t quite sure what that meant, she had assured him that it was almost the same thing as being a doctor at the ER (or close enough that the actual difference would never be too much of an issue for him). He had seen her work once or twice before, and Clark had to admit, she was pretty good at administering emergency care in high-stress environments (such as ice-encased scout ships and downtown war zones). Long story short, Darcie could probably figure out why he was having trouble taking deep breaths.
Clark sighed tiredly and opened his mouth to shout for her (not that he needed to raise his voice since both of them could hear a heartbeat on the other side of the country), “Darcie?”
He had expected her to take a moment or two to set her cleaning tools aside and come ask what he needed, but to his surprise, the expected knock came on the door before her name was even half out of his mouth. Clark, being a gentleman, opened the bathroom door to see Darcie standing there with her dark hair tied up in a messy bun, a surprisingly domestic-looking sunflower-patterned apron tied around her waist, and a pair of bright orange rubber gloves covering her arms almost up to the elbow.
“I’m just grabbing the extra bottle of bleach,” she explained quickly, absently pulling one of the gloves off of her hand, “The one in the kitchen is empty and I know your mom keeps another under the bathroom sink- ”
Darcie stopped, blinking slowly as she took in the sight of him half-undressed, pretty banged-up, and smiling apologetically at her from his seat on the closed toilet. She stared back, her eyes widening ever-so-slightly when she noticed the large bruise forming on the left side of his chest, “How the fuck did you do that?”
Clark paused, chuckling nervously despite himself, “Um-”
His would-be answer was cut off as he groaned in pain, Darcie having moved to stand beside him and press her hands along his exposed back and left side in a quick rhythm until she located the damaged ribs near the bottom of his chest. A frown crossed her features when Clark gasped raggedly, and she pressed a little harder on the bones to confirm her suspicions. “Three of these are sprained, Boy Scout. You’re just lucky nothing broke. What did you do - collapse a building on top of yourself again?”
Clark couldn’t help but smile at her mother-henning, and put a protective hand over his throbbing side before she could poke him again. “It was just a flying accident, I promise.”
It hadn’t been anything serious - he’d just come into the headwind at the wrong angle and lost control, resulting in a crash into yet another mountainside (Clark was pretty good at flying, but he still hadn’t quite got the hang of dealing with sudden changes in weather). Darcie must have guessed as much and wrinkled her nose in response - the polite equivalent of rolling her eyes in his direction - and shook her head, “Stay put. I’ll get you an ice pack.”
Whumptober Day 17!
Link to the Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/86042734
Title: Infection - Mister Wilson
Prompt: No. 17 ‘Field Care 101’ - “Please don’t move!”, hemorrhage, dread
Trigger Warnings: blood
Word Count: 834
That was the one issue with an abnormally high level of enhanced healing - his body had close to no idea what to do with a simple infection.
It was partly his own fault - he hadn’t bothered to bind the wound up until an hour after he had received it, opting instead to separate himself from the site of the kill and leave both the car and its thoroughly-dead occupant abandoned on the side of the highway. He was paid to terminate targets, not clean up the mess.
Wait till the target was alone and vulnerable, slit their throat, and get back to the pick-up location in time to catch a flight back to the nearest form of civilization - quick and simple, basically a day trip compared to most of the contracts Slade took on. Or at least it should have been if not for two determining factors: he had admittedly underestimated the target’s unnatural speed indicating that they were likely metahuman, and he hadn’t noticed the dirty knife.
A mistake had been made. Slade had believed that the target was armed only with the hunting rifle slung across the backseat, and had been sure to act quickly enough that they were not able to use it, but he hadn’t counted on the target going for their knife instead. Slade’s blade at their throat, their blade in his thigh - one left dead on the side of the road, the other left with what should have been a minor wound quickly revealing itself to be more serious than originally anticipated. Well, shit.
He left the car where it was (things like vehicles were far too easily traced) and opted to walk instead to the pick-up location, leaving the injury he had gotten in the however-brief fight to fix itself up while he walked. Slade knew his body, and he knew that a knife wound of that depth could easily repair itself within six-to-eight hours even without treatment - best not to waste time or his sparse medical supplies on something not worth worrying about.
It was the fever that forced him to reconsider. While a normal human would take close to a day to start revealing serious symptoms of infection, his unnatural metabolism cut that time down to sixty minutes - sixty minutes before he noticed he was panting a bit too hard, sixty minutes before he realized he was limping too much, and sixty minutes before he realized that infection had already set in.
Nothing too bad, he told himself, as he continued his march roughly southwest across the tundra, mentally calculating the hours and miles left until he reached his destination. An infection would slow down his healing factor and ensure that he recovered from the wound later than expected, but that wasn’t a big deal. Whatever parasite or pathogen or, god forbid, poison had gotten into his system from that dirty knife, his body was sure to finish it off quickly. So Slade paid the pain in his thigh no mind, and kept on moving.
He stumbled once, then a second time, and after the third unprompted trip to the cold ground, he decided that it was allowable to take a short break and check on the leg. First glance indicated that pathogen was most likely - the area around the wound was red and swollen while the injury itself was seeping both pus and blood into the leg of his pants. Nothing too bad, he told himself, nothing he couldn’t take care of.
Slade decided to allow himself ten minutes to clean it out with fresh snow and tie it up with a few strips of gauze to slow the seeping. Closer inspection revealed that oddly enough, his healing factor had patched up most of the torn muscle beneath the injury already and despite the obvious infection, he was healing faster than usual. Healing, but not recovering all because some idiot couldn’t keep their knife clean.
He knew from experience that antibiotics wouldn’t do much to help - his metabolism processed them too quickly and it would require a dangerous overdose to achieve the desired effect. Rigorous cleaning with alcohol or wound spray would be a bit more effective, though likely a bit too harsh on the slowly-closing wound and tender muscle beneath. Slade knew that there was nothing for it - he would just have to let his body run its course and get rid of the infection in due time.
The wound throbbed continually and he was starting to develop a serious limp as the muscles locked up in response to the stress, but Slade had never let it stop him before and he wasn’t about to let it stop him now. He ignored the pain as best he could and kept moving, marching steadily towards the pick-up location where he would maybe - maybe - let someone a bit more knowledgeable than him in medical issues take a look at the infection festering just beneath his skin. Then again, it wasn’t too bad, he told himself.
Whumptober Day 16!
Link to the Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/85991755
Title: Half-Blind - Mister Wilson
Prompt: No. 16 ‘On A Need To Know Basis’ - recovery, scars, aftermath
Word Count: 1179
Author’s Note: sorry for the late post! It’s been a long day
“What happened to your eye?”
“Nothing,” he snorted, “What the hell are you talking about?”
She tilted her head to one side, watching him in a way that bordered between suspicious and something half-heartedly endearing as the Project stared up at him. He let her stare - it was likely the most interesting thing she had seen all week, and it wasn’t like he cared. Or at least that’s what he told himself.
“Is it going to grow back?” she asked, ignoring his flat denial of the situation. At least somebody was in a talkative mood tonight.
Resisting the urge to rub at the bandage covering his right eye, he sighed and set down the rope he had been using to demonstrate a few essential knots to her, huffing in annoyance as he responded, “No, Storm, it’s not going to grow back. That’s what typically happens with shit you need the most.”
“But my fingers grew back,” she pointed out, holding up her left hand to prove her point and drive home the fact that yes, the missing knuckles of her index and pinkie that had been the casualties of a past sparring match had indeed returned, though only after a few weeks and a bit improperly at that. The joints were heavily scarred and ever-so-slightly twisted - not enough vitamin D, he supposed - but that didn’t stop her from spinning a blade over her hands nearly as fast as he could.
The similarities between Teacher and Student didn’t stop there. Both Mister Wilson and the Project qualified as ‘metahumans’ - individuals with unusual traits or abilities that set them apart from normal Homo sapiens, made them something better, something stronger, something to be feared. The term applied to Mister Wilson for more than a few reasons, though it was primarily due to his enhanced reflexes, strength, and healing ability. Not only was he significantly faster and stronger than the average human, he also recovered from injuries quicker and with less scarring. For a normal human, a broken femur usually repaired itself with careful medical guidance in about twelve weeks - last month Mister Wilson had recovered from one in twelve days.
Project Stormkrigeren was even more frightening. Despite the fact that she had spent the entirety of her short life in a laboratory to be studied on a daily basis, not much was known about the full extent of her abilities but a few things had been discovered: her strength and speed rivaled his own, her senses were extremely heightened, especially her hearing which was far beyond human capabilities, and on top of all that, was almost impossible to injure and healed faster than Mister Wilson himself. Bruises, scratches, and burns were rare occurrences, and blades sometimes seemed to slide off of her without doing any harm. Wounds that could have killed a man only inconvenienced her for a day or two, and last year a skull fracture that he had partly expected to put her in a vegetative state had caused nothing more than a migraine that cleared up in a few hours. She was, in short, just a few degrees shy of being invincible - and she hadn’t the slightest idea.
Mister Wilson, on the other hand, while also having an intense healing factor that made him significantly harder to injure, was well aware of his limits. Broken bone? That would take a week or two to heal. Most organs and muscles? Maybe a month to be back to functioning properly. Nerves, heart, lungs, and brain? Depends - could take years, or could never return. He’d never lost anything significant before, at least until now.
A bit of skull, a bit of gray matter, and an eye.
The bone was already nearly healed - a bit tender and thin, but there. As for the small chunk of his frontal cortex that was now missing, it was taking a bit longer and Wintergreen had insisted that Slade take at least a week of bedrest to decrease the possibility of a stroke or some other brain hemorrhage. Slade, being Slade, had decided to go see what his student was up to instead - partly because he was avoiding Wintergreen and partly because he did not want to find out what the Project was capable of getting up to when left alone with nothing to do. And the eye… the eye wasn’t coming back. Plain and simple.
The sudden loss of half of his field of vision should have been only a slight issue - Mister Wilson had done his best to train himself to depend on his other senses more than sight, but that was a little difficult when the only thing alerting you to the presence of a silent opponent was their movement. Even with one working eye, he felt blind and exposed and vulnerable. He did his best to hide it, though even Stormkrigeren could tell that he was the slightest bit off balance still struggling to gauge depth and positioning when half of the world had suddenly gone missing. Mister Wilson found it more than a little disconcerting, and he fucking hated it.
The Project had been waiting attentively for his arrival that morning, head held high, arms folded behind her back, and the stitches from her ‘punishment’ last week already out as she prepared herself for either a harsh rebuke or a sparring match. She already knew about the eye, she had seen the lack thereof during her failed escape but had refrained from pointing it out until Mister Wilson had solemnly declared that they would be practicing with knots instead of blades today - he did not tell her it was because he could hardly walk straight, much less fight, though she was an attentive little thing and he was sure she already knew.
“Can you…” the Project began, breaking his reverie and suddenly reminding him that she was sitting on his right, completely invisible besides the sound of her hands tying a string of knots in the practice rope.
“Finish what you start, Stormkrigeren,” he replied slowly, resisting the urge to snarl as he did.
“Can you… still fight? Without the eye, I mean.”
That was the big question: could he still see enough to carry on with what he had been doing for the past fifteen years? He sure as hell couldn’t shoot at the moment - his right eye had been his aiming one - and though his sense of balance and depth might be a bit skewed, those would return with practice. But all things considered, his unnatural strength and lightning-fast reflexes had not been affected, only how he saw them.
“I have no fucking idea,” Mister Wilson answered simply, “But I’ll be damned if I don’t try.”
Stormkrigeren, oddly enough, shot him one of her rare, small smiles and ran off to fetch his bag containing their sparring blades. There was certainly the chance that she would beat him this time, especially since he was getting older and losing eyes while she was getting stronger and nigh-on impossible to pin down, though he had never let that stop him before.
Whumptober Day 15!
Link to the Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/85925320
Title: Fever - Lois
Prompt: No. 15 ‘Feed A Cold, Starve A Fever’ - delirium, fever dreams, bees
Word Count: 1043
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
Of course she wasn’t - her head was throbbing painfully and she likely had a fever over a hundred, but there was no way in hell she was going to tell him that. Instead, Lois put a hand on her hip and shot him a look that sent most men packing as she hissed, “I’m fine, Mother Hen.”
Clark, not being anything like most men and well familiar with Lois’ temper, simply blinked unperturbed back at her, “The fact that you’re miffed proves you ain’t - you’re usually pretty composed at work.”
Omigod, he’d used the a-word - this man couldn’t be real. And who the hell said ‘miffed’ any more when everyone knew the proper word was ‘pissed’?
“Who said I wasn’t composed?” Lois shot back, though she couldn’t help but straighten her posture and brush a loose hair behind her ear (ignoring how warm her forehead was as she did) in response to his words.
“I’m just worried about you, that’s all,” he responded calmly, “Do you need anything? Or if you’re feeling poorly, I’m sure Chief would let you work from home if you-“
“For the last time, Clark, I’m fine,” she snapped. Deep down, Lois knew that she was being an ass and Clark was in the right, but when had she ever let a little fever drag her away from work?
She had been feeling a little under the weather when she woke up that morning - nothing big, just a small headache and slight chill. It was probably just PMS, so Lois self-medicated with Tylenol and switching her second cup of coffee for water instead before heading to work. Unfortunately, now that she was at the DP offices and not the comfort of her apartment, she was quickly discovering that her symptoms were not PMS (it would be another week before that became an issue) and more than likely some form of the flu that was making itself evident as a fever. Even worse, the Tylenol was wearing off and Lois’ sick brain had forgotten to bring an extra dosage with her to work. Long story short, the headache was coming back worse than before and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.
Bidding Clark a terse ‘see ya’, she left him to work his magic on the break room coffee maker while she marched off to the ladies room, doing her best to ignore the fact that the usually comforting racket of the bullpen was now prodding fun at her migraine.
The restroom was devoid of occupants, and Lois let out a small sigh of relief at that as she turned one of the many sinks on to splash cold water on her face. Ugh, how hot was her fever if freezing water felt this good?
Lois herself off with a paper towel and stared at the mirror, hands gripping the bathroom counter in a death hold as she leaned towards her reflection. She didn’t look too bad - sure, she was a little flushed and the dark circles under her eyes were showing a bit under her usual amount of just-enough-makeup-to-look-like-she-tried, but no one would notice if she kept her game face on. No one but Clark.
Damnit, only a momma’s boy would fuss over a fever, and a slight fever at that. Lois loved his mom but couldn’t Martha have taught her son to be less… Caring? Helpful? Worried? An absolutely adorable studmuffin of a man who was genuinely concerned about her wellbeing?
Even so, Lois was careful to check that Clark was out of sight before hastily exiting the bathroom and heading back to her desk. The man was the light of her life, but he was also incorrigible and had an adorable tendency to worry about her - unfortunately for him, Lois was not in the mood to be fussed over. And luckily for her, Clark was pretty sensible on top of his other traits and knew to leave her well enough alone when she was working.
She rubbed her eyes tiredly as she settled back into her familiar office chair, putting on what could be considered her ‘leave me the fuck alone, I’m busy’ face and habitually scooting forward so she could reach the notes on her desk only to discover that they had been neatly stacked and placed off to the side. In their usual place on her ‘disaster’ of a workspace sat a pair of ibuprofen pills and a mug of hot, steaming, freshly-brewed chamomile tea with the bag still bobbing sedately in the water - no doubt the work of her ever-loving boyfriend.
Still feeling a bit spiteful but too headachey to put up a fight, Lois downed the medication and sipped quietly from the tea as she rearranged her notes, stopping briefly to shoot a glance in the direction of Clark’s desk. Predictable as ever, the man was sitting perfectly composed at his station, fingers on the keyboard yet his eyes on her - he even had the audacity to grin consolingly when Lois returned his gaze. Ugh, no wonder Darcie called him a boy scout.
She was about halfway through her drink and two-thirds of the way done sorting her paperwork when Lois remembered what she usually would have dismissed as an inconsequential fact: the bullpen’s breakroom only had black tea. So the only good reason for there being a cup of chamomile in front of her was either that Clark had bought it from a cafe across the street (which she doubted, considering that the mug had the distinct Daily Planet logo emblazoned on the side and was a dish rarely found outside of breakrooms), or whoever wrote the stocking list for the tiny drink station each week had had a change of preference. That had to be it.
Thirty seconds later, it suddenly occurred to Lois that Clark, being Clark, probably had a tea bag packet or two in his work bag specifically for occasions like this. Another quick glance in his direction confirmed it - Clark’s grin had only gotten wider, and that could mean nothing good. Lois sighed, and might have commented that one couldn’t get much more Smallville than that, yet pointing it out would only encourage him to prove her wrong.
Whumptober Day 14!
Link to the Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34210837/chapters/85874512
Title: Crash - Lois
Prompt: No. 14 ‘Under Pressure’ - crush injuries, beaten, force
Trigger Warnings: blood
Word Count: 830
Considering how icy the roads were, how bad the visibility was, and how notorious taxi drivers in that part of town were for considering the speed limit a recommendation and not a law, she really should have seen it coming. Lois hadn’t taken notice of any of those issues, her head full of notes and interviews and plans for another article she would get to writing the moment her ride arrived at the Daily Planet offices, taking just enough care to avoid the slushy parts of the sidewalk and hail a cab before giving the driver the address of her workplace. She really should have noted the dangerous roads and hazardous conditions, but neither of those even remotely occurred to her until the moment she found herself staring at a pair of headlights a bit too close to her backseat window for comfort, and a moment later the same headlight were close enough to be, well, painful.
The entire situation became clear in a moment - slippery roads, reckless drivers, a combination of bad weather and bad timing - but by then she was already bleeding out after nearly being crushed in a car accident on Barnes and Fifth.
Drop breaths, Lo, deep breaths, she told herself, though her ribs protested each and every movement. She was still conscious, she was still alive, and the fact that she could feel pain in just about every part of her body was pretty good evidence that she hadn’t snapped her spine or been paralyzed on impact. The taxicab rocked and screeched a second time as another car succumbed to the ice, skidding into her vehicle at an uncomfortably high speed, and Lois yelped as the impact shoved the crushing front passenger seat further into her stomach. Trapped as she was, it was only a matter of time before this accident became a pile-up and she was crushed to death inside a damn Metropolis City Cab.
She could hear the taxi’s engine still fighting to stay running with each gasoline-rich rumble, almost drowning out the sound of her driver groaning in agony - with the steering wheel shoved tightly against his chest, the man could hardly breath, much less escape the wreckage. The roads would only get worse as the blizzard swept through the city, and with it increased the chances of getting hit by another car while decreasing the chances of emergency responders getting there anytime soon.
She was almost immediately corrected as the car door that had been shoved into her side by the initial crash was suddenly ripped off without notice, and she might have fallen out into the road if a strong hand hadn’t caught her. There stood a very familiar figure in a blue alien suit and bright red cape, glancing over her injuries in an instant - and, she noted, paling slightly at the large gash ripping through her coat to her arm below which was admittedly covered in a bit more of her blood than most people would consider healthy. She very nearly told him she was okay, don’t look at it, just carry on and get her out of here, but Clark, no, Superman composed himself before she could get a word out and gave her one of his trademark gentle smiles.
Don’t worry, ma’am, we’re going to get you out of here, he assured her - in Superman’s voice, she noted, not Clark’s, though the endearingly concerned look in his eyes was all too familiar. He made quick work of the mangled door pinning her leg and ripped off the strangling seat belt to help her out of the cab. Lois hardly had a chance to notice the sharp stab of pain shooting through her calf when she put weight on what had to be a broken ankle before Superman surrendered her to a team of paramedics who had arrived on the scene shortly after him, and in the bustle of excitement surrounding what had quickly becoming a five car pile-up, the last she saw of him before she was ushered into an ambulance was the swirl of his red cape in the snow as he moved to rescue another victim.
One of the paramedics was trying to get her attention, holding up fingers in front of her nose and asking all sorts of ridiculous questions like what was today’s date and how many fingers could she see and who was Lois’ emergency contact. She very nearly told the woman to call Clark before remembering that the chances of him picking up were just about nonexistent at the moment, so she rattled off Perry’s number instead. Not that it would matter - chances were both the editor and her boyfriend would be waiting impatiently for her arrival at the hospital, the former drilling her with questions about Superman’s arrival at the scene of the crash, and the latter asking if she was all right all while giving her that trademark gentle smile with that endearingly concerned look in his eyes.
