#sponge bath

He takes stock of himself but he doesn’t feel any new pain. There’s hardly any pain at all, it’s been days since Harrison cut into him. The most recent sutures have healed, leaving behind just the dull ache as his body tries to complete the closure layer by layer within. 

It’s not until his heart shoulders off the initial disturbance, on its own descent, that he figures it out. For the first time in as long as he can remember, the monitor doesn’t echo back the stubborn, persistent metronomed proof that he continues to survive this hell. His heart beats alone. 

Nothing but empty, cold air. 

Something whispers over the skin of his left arm and it takes all his focus not to tense every muscle. His other arm rests against his side. 

No heart monitor and no restraints? It must be a dream or a hallucination. 

His desperate, fracturing mind conjuring a tender ghost from the past. But the air is cool against his skin, his body heavy where it meets the table, anchored by his weight. Heels, hips, shoulders, the back of his head; it feels so real. 

The touch comes again, light as an exhale over his skin. 

He stays perfectly still, eyes closed. Doesn’t even try to see if he could move because he doesn’t want to break the illusion.

The third touch is so light, it’s all-consuming. 

His mind drives after the feeling. Willing it to turn back and meet him where he expects it, can embrace it. Instead, the sensation vanishes and takes his last restraint away too. 

He opens his eyes carefully, as if the stroke of his eyelashes against the cold air could ripple through the room and disrupt whatever waits to be seen. 

It must be a hallucination. His spectre looks like Harrison but is completely unrecognizable. 

A new drug, one Harrison didn’t even bother allowing him to witness being doped with. Poison lacing reality with lies. He’s high out of his mind, there’s no other explanation. 

Harrison—“Harrison”—stands over him, same white coat as always, same scrubs underneath. 

What’s impossible is how tranquil he looks. Completely at peace, not a line visible on his face, not even to smile. His serenity runs so deep, it resonates in the air around him and doesn’t need to be named by such an insignificant expression. It’s clear in the perfect symmetry of his posture, the gentle bend in his neck, the balance and grace of his movements. 

For an endless moment, all he does is drink in the differences as other-Harrison stands over him. Even the light in his eyes is changed, familiar brown revealing that all along they’ve been secreting away an undercurrent of ochre, warm to the core. 

He keeps perfectly still, isn’t sure he wants to move, if he even can. Especially since Harrison doesn’t seem to realize he’s awake. 

As wrong as this whole thing feels, disturbing it is an even more unsettling idea. 

Harrison lifts a sponge out of a basin and he braces himself for the sting of ice-cold water but it’s neither hot nor cool. Like it’s been measured to the exact temperature of his skin. Harrison slides it over his stomach. In methodical, meditative sweeps, washes his whole torso. Focused entirely on the task, never a glance spared to see if his work is observed. 

His mind somersaults under the touch, thoughts racing like goosebumps through his head. Second to the strangeness of Harrison is everything else about this situation. 

He’s naked. 

Harrison is bathing him. 

How much has Harrison already washed? How much of this aching softness did he miss? How much more will he have to endure? Is he supposed to be awake? Is he supposed to be able to move? 

He doesn’t want any of the answers. 

Harrison starts for his shoulder and he lets his eyes slip closed. Surely Harrison will notice he’s awake in such close proximity. The idea of being caught sets his heart racing and he wonders if Harrison will catch sight of his pulse sprinting in his throat. Or detect the shift just by touching his skin. 

But Harrison continues from his shoulder down his arm. The path of his sponge, slow and thorough, painfully familiar surgical precision. It could simply be careful maintenance of a delicate and valuable piece of machinery, vital equipment. A possession needing upkeep in order to perform. Thoroughbreds need to be curry-combed and brushed, hooves carefully cleaned and inspected after a ride. Even a dog needs to be washed if it runs through mud.

If only it were that. 

He peeks one eye open. 

Harrison doesn’t look up from where the sponge slides along the crease of his elbow. 

He opens his other eye. 

Something simple, dismissible, understandable. 

Instead, each whispered brush of Harrison’s sponge feels like it’s painting him into existence. Right here on the table. The only anchor that’s ever mattered. Binding him to his bones, to the ache and cold. Every new touch is the first touch, all others before forgotten. Until he’s ringing with it, alone.

Harrison sweeps down his side. 

He wants to roll into it, bend toward it. It’s all he can do to suppress a shudder, to maintain his breathing. 

He’s more relaxed than he’s ever felt. 

Keeping still is nearly impossible. 

Harrison dips the sponge in the basin again, squeezes it out. The trickle of water echoes, thunderous in the empty air. Harrison cradles his wrist in one hand and passes the sponge over the back of his hand. His palm. Methodically twists over his thumb, washing each of his fingers in turn. Nothing missed, nothing overlooked. Surgically precise, cold. 

He wonders if this is what Harrison looks like operating on him. 

Cutting him open, tearing him apart. Serene and wholly at peace. Destroying the very fabric of his being in the name of innovation. And now bathing him with that same kind of ease, like they’re one in the same.

The thought is as terrifying as it is other. Something unnamable and dangerous that he can’t look at head-on but that wedges itself inside his ribcage, spined and barbed, digging in to make its presence undeniable. 

He wants to destroy it. Crush this living thing like a moth caged in his palms. Trapped and writhing, uncomfortable between them. Wings beating like a heart. He can’t stand to let it go on, suffering alone. It will never survive, released into the open air. 

Harrison lays his hand back down and picks up the basin to walk around the foot of the table, breaking the spell.

The bitterness of the poisonous hatred filling his head, his chest, almost takes his breath away. His desire to annihilate this unnameable thing. Pretend it never existed. A ghost without a name. 

Harrison starts repeating the whole process on the other side. At least now he knows what to expect. 

It’s no easier to bear.  

He tries to distract himself by staring at the ceiling. Counting the familiar tiles. Counting the lights. 

His eyes fall back to Harrison. 

Again 

and again. 

Until he’s desperate to forget this version of Harrison and the alien air around him. 

He can’t stop it from flooding his mind like poison, staining and burning itself into his memory. It’s impossible to keep his eyes closed. It takes all of his focus to keep himself still, to suppress the urge to twitch and jerk, just to see if he can. The fact that he can open his eyes, that he’s breathing on his own, thinking clearly—unreal Harrison aside—makes him think that he could move but that it’s very important he doesn’t.

Harrison continues to his hips. 

Sweat prickles on the back of his neck. He definitely won’t be able to fly under the radar anymore. 

There’s a good chance Harrison will hurt him for spying like this, on the care of his own body. For intruding to meet this version of Harrison he’s never been allowed to see. Affronts to Harrison’s person are usually punished with violence. Three broken fingers for a slap to the face, for calling him a sadist. 

As Harrison moves the sponge lower, he braces himself. 

What if—

What if—

What if—

He imagines the worst possible physical reaction he could have and the equal or amplified retaliation Harrison will rain down. 

But there’s nothing different about the precise and careful way Harrison cleans between his legs. His touch is neither hurried nor lingering. It carries the same methodical attention used everywhere else and doesn’t feel any different either. 

He’s relieved, numb. 

He’s roaring and writhing, poisoned, blood-curdling, somewhere else. Far, far out of reach, alone. 

The minutes ache forward, blurring together. He can’t remember what brought him to awareness anymore. How long he’s been the silent, invisible observer to this task, a ghost. Harrison continues to his legs, routine immersing him to the point of reverence. Like he’s done this a hundred times. A practiced mantra, a prayer, followed until it’s leading the way. 

He thinks he’s glad to have missed the weight and repetition that wore this path so deep. The feeling that there is no other way this could go, no other order or process even considered besides the one Harrison follows. He doesn’t like to feel its density, existing outside his awareness as something so established, almost named. 

Harrison cleans his feet like he cleaned his hands. 

He wonders if he was ever ticklish. Nothing about this touch is ticklish, light as it is. There’s something about his skin that welcomes it, everywhere. Nothing but cold left in its wake. 

He wants to claw the feeling of predetermination out of his cells. 

Harrison’s expression never changes, immortal calm like he’s carved from stone. 

Was every step of his life leading to this? Fate, destiny, piss poor luck. None of it was ever under his control and in the end he’s here. All paths led to this one, a master architect mapped it out, one thread to follow. Harrison uniquely equipped to take him apart not only in body but in mind. 

Cutting him open, bathing him. It aches to consider the two acts in parallel, in convergence. They can’t exist on the same plane, let alone in the same person. He can’t even begin to reconcile this version of Harrison with the one he’s used to. The one who looks at him, speaks to him, listens and questions. Hits and hopes and waits. 

What possible name can he give to this kind of creator? 

Nothing is delicate enough to braid or knot or burn this thing born them. Alive and writhing, it evades interference. The moth again. Its existence is impossible and the fleeting, vulnerable life of it will pass. If not now, soon. It’s pulsing poison through his veins. All of this has an expiration date and it’s never in his control. He’ll die here, aware or not. Perhaps just like this, witnessing it all like a ghost. Alone in the cold, through to the end. 

Harrison cuts him open with the same peaceful attention as bathing him; or he bathes him with the same serene consideration as cutting him open. One in the same; two different realities. He doesn’t want answers. 

All that matters—

Harrison’s teeth snap together, the movement echoes through the rest of his face. Muscles in his cheeks tensing, brow furrowing. 

His heart beats like a wing behind his ribs. 

Harrison knows. He knows, he knows, he knows. 

Harrison’s gaze snaps to his, eyes dark and as familiar as coming home; the only living thing he looks up to now. 

He almost stops breathing. Except he didn’t do anything to raise the alarm. Nothing changed. Not a hitch in his breath or a twitch in his fingers. 

Nothing at all prevented Harrison from noticing before. 

It’s impossible he didn’t know all along. 

An even deception. Holding onto pretense for fear of what might lie in its ruins. 

Or the entire thing was intentional on Harrison’s part. It would mean he should be able to move his limbs, that Harrison was just waiting for him to be the one to give up the ruse. 

Wave the white flag.

The air crushes from his lungs. The awful, haunting feeling growing where it implanted itself inside his chest. Roots inching deeper, poison spreading. It’s unfathomable. 

He closes his eyes. 

Removes his awareness, his participation, in the whole raw, binding, undoing exchange. 

Just in time for Harrison to run the sponge over the hollow at his throat, where his pulse skips and jumps. Tracing his neck to his chin before curving up his jaw. Harrison ghosts across his forehead, down his nose, anointing each cheek in turn. Even his ears and behind them. 

He expects pain, or discomfort at least, when Harrison moves behind him to attend to the crown of his head. 

Harrison’s touch is gentler than a sigh. 

He wants to choke, break, scream, wants to pull it under his skin. He doesn’t move, can’t move, doesn’t want to know if he ever had the choice. Wishes he’d never opened his eyes. That this poison spreading through his veins had already killed him. That he was the ghost. 

Even if that would mean never catching the moth, ending it. Alive and fragile somewhere in the air between them, wings beating like a homeless heart. 

Harrison finishes his task unhurried, unobserved. Just like every other time.  

And leaves. 

He’s cold, alone. 

masterlist (harrison is at the bottom; maybe when he gets to 20 posts i'll make him his own...)

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nick-pascal @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess

@meetmeinhellcroutons @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump

@wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings @vivisectophile

@peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump

@aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @pigeonwhumps @batfacedliar-yetagain

@whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @light-me-on-pyre @whumps-and-bumps

@i-eat-worlds @hellodecisionparalysis @heartfullofhoney @alternateminds @taterswhump

@handsinmotion @arobear @dj-subwoofer @deluxewhump @wildliferehabstudent

When they arrived to the makeshift medical unit, pieced together on one hour’s notice in the middle of the night in the Consulate, he didn't speak. He also didn’t speak when he was led down the empty, dark hallway, or when his clothes were removed, or when every inch of his battered skin was photographed.

Now, with a nurse at his side, running a wet cloth over his body again and again, seven, eight, sometimes ten times before satisfied with each patch of skin, he still doesn’t speak.

“Mr. Lewis?” the physician asks, approaching Derek cautiously. Derek’s head lifts in acknowledgement, but his eyes do not.

“You need to drink,” she urges. She lifts his free hand and places a mug of water inside of it, then guides him to take a sip. He does not fight it, but immediately coughs the water back up. The doctor's lips are tight, but she sets the mug to the side.

The boy that Agent Grant collected from within the prison gates was unrecognizable from the pictures in his file. The ghost of the smiling, vibrant boy he had not expected, but hoped for, was deposited at his feet without a moment of hesitation. The guard inclined his head sharply toward the gate, handed the agent a well-loved backpack, and turned on his heels back toward the prison. They hightailed it down the gravel road and into the night, with a singular objective of getting Derek Lewis onto U.S. territory while they worked to understand the implications of everything that had gone down.

The nurse lifts his hand now, turning it over, and works to wipe away months of caked-on filth. 

“When did you last access a shower?” he asks, his thumb brushing over Derek’s wrist, presumably to get a handle on what is bruising and what isn’t. 

“I don’t know,” Derek whispers. Agent Grant writes it down. It’s not of particular interest, but he’s been tasked with writing down everything, and so far that has been nothing, so he takes what he can get.

“That’s okay,” the nurse tells him, dipping the washcloth in the clean water, wringing it out, and wiping away what can be wiped away. “What about food?” he asks next. No one is under any illusion that Derek wants to talk, but getting him comfortable answering questions may be in his best interest. “When was the last time you ate?” 

This time, Derek does not look up. “I don’t know,” he whispers again.

“Are you hungry?” the nurse asks, as the doctor tilts Derek’s head down. Gloved fingers press into dark, matted waves, and Derek’s body curls in on itself, just for a second, before he realizes what’s happened and forcibly adjusts his posture.

“It’s okay,” the nurse whispers, moving to his other hand.

Derek nods, and they finish cleaning him up in silence. His hair is shaved, because it’s the only reasonable way to deal with both the matting and the lice. He’s photographed again, now clean, which he flinches his way through but does not protest. This time, the focus is solely on the injuries. On the scars that run the length of his back, on his wrists and ankles, on his neck. There won't be an investigation, nor will there be restitution, but it may help someone in the future to have these, so they take them. Derek is silent through it, but his suffering, well hidden just an hour ago, is clearer now.

He’s given an IV, because every time he drinks, he vomits. He’s given pain medication, he’s given anxiety medication, and finally, to everyone’s relief, he is given clothing. 

He dresses quietly, but he trembles he does, and when he’s led to a cot in the adjacent room, he whispers a hoarse, “Thank you,” before collapsing into it. He’s asleep before he can be offered a blanket, so one is draped over him, and the doctor explains to Agent Grant that between the shock, the medication, and the clear sleep deprivation, it’s neither surprising nor alarming that he sleeps now.

By the time Derek Lewis’s family is called, it’s mid-morning. The Ambassador has arrived, and there’s an air of both celebration and frenzy within the Consulate. This has been something of a win for many of them, and a long-overdue one at that.

The next thing Whumpee remembered, they were coming to propped up in someone’s bed. Their head was screaming, and their skin itched and ached. They felt like a clay pot cracking and preparing to fall apart in desert heat. Even so, Whumpee could feel something wet and freezing being pressed to their neck, just below their ear. The feeling disappeared but quickly came back an inch or so away. The sudden cold on their hot and aching skin made Whumpee wince even as their brain told them to stay still. 

“It’s just me” Caretaker murmured from somewhere very close to Whumpee. They continued to dab Whumpee’s neck with what they could now distinguish as a sponge for a minute until Whumpee managed enough control over themselves to crack their eyes open. 

They were in Caretaker’s room. The lights were out and the curtains were drawn only allowing dim sunlight to filter through. The room was spinning, but it at least was staying proportional now. And Caretaker’s face, mere inches from their own, was only contorting in the usual ways. 

Caretaker leaned away when they saw Whumpee’s eyes open and dipped the sponge in a bowl of water sitting on the bedside table. They rang it out and began to dab at the other side of Whumpee’s neck making them wince again. Caretaker’s face was a mixture of concern and displeasure and Whumpee tried not to stare at them and they continued to wipe the sweat off of their face and neck. 

“Is this your shirt?” They asked in a raspy voice after a moment. They had just noticed they weren’t in the same clothing they had been in when they passed out. 

“You sweat through your own” Caretaker told Whumpee in way of a response. “The cut on your arm has a nasty infection.” 

Whumpee glanced guiltily down at their left forearm. It was splayed out next to them on a seperate pillow. Caretaker had removed the bandage, but there was a warm compress over the deep cut Whumpee had been trying to hide. 

Right. That’s what had happened. They hadn’t told Caretaker about the injury. They didn’t want them to worry. The infection hadn’t been that bad the last time they had changed the bandage. They had cleaned out the puss and made sure to dry the wound before putting on a new bandage. Had they applied the antiseptic? They couldn’t remember. 

“Are you going to give me a lecture?” They rasped, glancing back at Caretaker, who surprisingly gave them a half smile. 

“Eventually” They said fondly “When your fever breaks. I want to make sure you  remember it.” 

Whumpee nodded and instantly regret the movement. They squeezed their eyes shut against the room that was beginning to spin again. Caretaker continued to brush the sponge down Whumpee’s arm while they stroked Whumpee’s sweaty head with their other hand, gently encouraging them to take deep breathes until Whumpee didn’t think they were going to pass out again. 

“I’m sorry” Whumpee rasped when they opened their eyes again “I should have told you about the cut.” 

“I told you, I’m saving the lecture for later.” Caretaker said. “For now lets get you cleaned up, and then I’m tracking down some antibiotics.”