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oneshots/short series taglist: @whumpsday @jumpywhumpywriter

Everyone on their previous team took it for granted. That Whumpee would jump before a bullet, or a sword, or a dagger. They took full advantage of Whumpee's healing power, and there was never really a discussion about how maybe that wasn't all that ethical, how maybe heroes should've had a stricter moral code, and really, Whumpee didn't mind, Whumpee was just glad to be useful, it was fine if it hurt—

"Whumpee, move!" their new leader screamed, but it was too late. The bullet embedded itself in Whumpee's back, and they stifled a groan, knowing their new team would likely also think the noises were annoying. "Fuck! Everyone, pull back! Whumpee got shot!"

What?

Their previous team would've just carried on as usual. That was Whumpee's purpose: to take one for the team. To take two for the team. To take ten for the team. To take and take and take until they were nothing but a bloody heap on the floor, barely breathing, but always regenerating.

Before they knew it, Caretaker had picked them up in a bridal carry to rush them back to the team vehicle. But the battle wasn't over yet. Villain was still at large, and Leader and the team needed to stop them, and Whumpee was helping in that, they had done well, so why—

"Shit, Whumpee," Medic said once Whumpee was gently set down on their stomach. "You'll feel a pinch — it's a local anaesthetic. I'll need to dig out the bullet."

"Can you work while I'm driving?" Leader asked, already starting up the engine.

"I'll try."

None of this made sense. They abandoned an entire mission because Whumpee got shot, and now they were wasting anaesthetics on them?

"It's okay, Whumpee," Caretaker said quietly, just barely audible over the sound of the engine. They were holding Whumpee's hand like they were something precious instead of expendable. "I'm sorry this happened. You'll get better, okay? I should've paid closer attention to you out on the field."

"I don't get it," Whumpee finally said. They felt some pressure around the wound, but no real discomfort; they assumed the anaesthetic was working as intended. "Why are you all... Why are you..."

"Why what?" Caretaker asked gently.

"This is my role in the team. To take bullets. To act as a shield. This has always been my role."

Caretaker furrowed their brows. "Whumpee, what are you talking about?"

"With my previous team, it was all so natural. We never really had a talk about my role, but it was just... sort of obvious. I'd heal. They wouldn't. So I was cannon fodder."

Caretaker looked horrified. "You'd heal, sure, but it'd still hurt."

"I'm used to it."

They looked even more horrified. They squeezed Whumpee's hand. "Monsters, the lot of them. On this team, we look out for each other. Even if you heal. Even if you think it's useless."

Whumpee couldn't find the words to explain what they were feeling, so they kept quiet. But deep down, deep in their heart, there was something dangerous blossoming. Something they shouldn't have felt towards a teammate, or an entire team, when they knew their power made it so that they would always be required somewhere else. Maybe they'd be moved in a week, maybe a month, maybe a year. But they'd be moved.

So why?

"Help you with…?"

"To fall asleep. I can't. I can't do this anymore. I don't know if it's leftover adrenaline, or what, but I can't fall asleep. It's been 3 days. Please. Don't you have something? A sleeping pill? A sedative? Anything?"

"Well, I have my prescription sleeping medication…"

"Give it to me!"

"One isn't really supposed to give away their prescribed meds… Why don't I make you some chamomile tea, with some honey, maybe—"

"I've drunk so much tea in the past 3 days that I've been going to the bathroom every ten minutes. It doesn't work. I need something stronger. And if you're not giving me the meds, I'm gonna go into your liquor cabinet and drink myself to sleep."

"Okay," Caretaker said quickly, throwing up their hands in defeat. "Okay. You can have one pill."

Whumpee got up from the armchair and followed Caretaker into the kitchen, where they opened a cabinet and took out a box. They waited eagerly as Caretaker popped out a pill into their palm and handed it to them.

"One pill. That's all. You don't get more, and if it doesn't work, I'll simply take you to a—"

Whumpee wasn't paying attention to the rest of the monologue. They immediately downed the pill and went to lie back down in their bed. To them, this was the magic potion, this was the thing that would finally end their waking nightmare.

They snuggled up in the guest bedroom bed with their several pillows and closed blinds, closed their eyes and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Nothing was happening. They were half-asleep, but not really asleep. They heard when Caretaker opened their door to check on them — maybe to see if their breathing had stopped from the pill. "I'm awake," they mumbled into a pillow.

"Oh," Caretaker said quietly. "So it's not working?"

"I dunno… I'm woozy… But I'm not sleeping…"

"Maybe this is a weird idea, but—"

"Can you lie down with me?"

The straightforwardness of the request probably surprised both of them. Whumpee wasn't this direct of a person when they weren't running on fumes. And Caretaker was basically a stranger… And yet.

"Yeah. I was about to suggest something similar."

Caretaker walked further into the room and lay down next to Whumpee. They weren't touching, but Whumpee remedied that pretty quickly. They turned over and cuddled up to Caretaker, like Caretaker was just another pillow, but warmer. They told themself it was in pursuit of sleep, so it was fine.

Deep down, they were starved for human contact that didn't hurt.

"Uh, Whumpee—"

"Just don't say anything to ruin it," they pleaded. "I just want to sleep. Please."

Caretaker tentatively put an arm around Whumpee, holding them. "Okay."

"No," they said, forced out more like, because truth was, they were starving. But if Caretaker thought it was too much, if Caretaker thought them undeserving, then they wouldn't eat at all.

"Not in a mean way," Caretaker added. "You just... never used to eat so much."

Memories of Whumper beating them senseless for taking an extra apple popped into their head.

They had to stay thin.

"No, you're right. I'm not hungry." They pushed the plate away.

"Come on, eat some. Just... maybe not all of it."

Whumpee stood up from the table. "I'll be in my room." Trying to convince myself that my stomach eating itself is good, that it's proof of my success.

"Whumpee—"

More staring. More stammering. You can't bear to look at Freddie. But she's asking so sincerely, there's no way you can deny her. She has a right to know, anyway. She's in danger.

But how can you tell her without telling on everyone in the facility?

"Back at home," you start slowly, carefully, "I had a sort of... mother-figure." Okay, not bad. Believable. True, in a way. "She was... strict. She didn't want me wandering outside, or making friends, or..."

"Not a very good mother-figure," Freddie interjects.

"She was! She was. She had her reasons. Anyway, in the dream, she... found out you took me in. And she wasn't happy."

"Mmm."

You risk a glance up at her. She seems to be deep in thought.

"So... Okay, so... Hm. Your name is #064. You don't seem to be mentioning a real mother, but a mother-figure. And I'm fairly sure you just confirmed you lived in that awful facility."

Have you really given away so much already? Oh dear. Oh no. "No, home, home is a different place—" you try, you fumble, but she sees right through you.

"It's okay," she says. She smiles. "I'm not judging."

She definitely is.

But that's not the worst part. You are giving away the game. You are giving away vital secrets of the organisation. You are being a traitor.

"Why are you even so interested in the facility?" you ask quietly. She never told you why. She just showed up, started asking questions, bribed you with a salami sandwich and a warm bed, and now you are here. Telling her about the facility. Like an idiot.

She takes a bite of her sandwich. You don't touch yours. Your appetite is long gone, replaced by anxiety.

"One time, I saw them kidnap a child," she says easily.

But that's... not right. The facility doesn't kidnap people. They take in orphans. Give them three meals a day and a bed, and to repay that kindness, you and the others try to be good at what the facility teaches you. #065 and the others, they were all orphans. No family. No name. No nothing. Your handler has told you the story several times: you were abandoned in the hospital, your mother never claiming you. You've never heard of anyone being kidnapped.

"That's not... That's absurd."

"Unmarked van, two women in all-black clothing, snatched up the kid like it was nothing. I called the police — they were wildly unhelpful. I ran after the van as long as I could, to see where they'd take the kid. I only had to run two streets down. Van passed through a gate to the back of the facility."

"That can't be right."

She takes another bite. Still so nonchalant. Like this doesn't even faze her. Even if it were true— no, especially if it were true, she should be freaking out about it.

"Saw it with my own two eyes," she says, not bothered by you not believing her.

"Why are you so calm, if you think there's a facility in town that kidnaps children and trains them to be—"

You cut yourself off. Idiot. Stupid. You almost said it out loud.

"Trains them to be what?"

"Ah..." You scramble for a word. "Self-sufficient."

She gives you a sceptical look, but doesn't press you on it. "Because I finally have someone who can help me bring the whole thing down," she says.

Oh.

Is that supposed to be... you? You're the thing that'll bring the facility down?

"But you're wrong," you insist. "They wouldn't kidnap people."

"How did you end up in there?"

"I'm an orphan. They took me in. That's what they do."

"So it's an orphanage. Why didn't they give you a name?"

You shouldn't have told her your name.

"#064 is my name."

"What's up with the prosthetics?"

"Ah..."

"And why did they kick you out with injuries that would make a grown man bed-bound for a week?"

You can't answer all these questions. Your head hurts. Freddie seemed so happy-go-lucky at first, so soft, so affable, but now she's staring you down like you really are her golden ticket.

"I... I..." You don't know what to say.

"Oh, look at the time. I'm gonna be late." She gives you another smile, like nothing happened. "Finish your breakfast. I'll be back by five." She stands and puts her plate in the sink. "Make yourself at home while I'm not here!"

With that, she leaves.

~

Villain glanced down at their wound. Blood was seeping through their fingers. Their nervous — they were trying to hide it, but they were definitely nervous — eyes finding Hero's again. "Fine," they spat, like it physically hurt them. "Take a look at it, doc."

"If you think I'm doing this for fun—" they started, but when Villain actually took their hand away, and they got a look at the wound, their whole trajectory changed. "Holy shit!"

"You did this!"

"No, I— I did? I didn't mean to, I—" they stammered. Had they really injured Villain so badly? This looked... lethal.

"What, you suddenly don't want to help anymore?"

"Don't act like you weren't trying to prevent me from helping two seconds ago!"

"Can you do anything about it or no?"

Hero's eyes were flicking between the wound and Villain's face. "I can try?"

Villain let out a humourless laugh. "Oh, that's very reassuring. I definitely won't die today."

"Okay, let's not act like the wound is undeserved—"

Villain suddenly hissed in pain. "Fuck," they said emphatically. "Just do something! It fucking hurts!"

Whumpee thought of home. They thought of Caretaker. Back then, when it belonged to them still, they would make pancakes together on Sunday mornings. Only on Sunday mornings. It was their special pancake day.

They thought of their parents. Their siblings. What would they have said, if they knew it didn't belong to them anymore? Would they be horrified? Whumpee had been, when they first realised. The horror was gone by now. It was just a faraway extension of their faraway mind, thrown around and broken in more ways than Whumpee could count.

Whumper was screaming at it. Only it, because their mind was far from the basement. It didn't respond. Whumper only got angrier.

For a moment, Whumpee was it again. Back in their body. The pain was unbearable.

And there they went, floating away again, probably losing consciousness for a time.

When they next came to, they were alone. It hurt, just like it always did, but it was nothing but a low hum. A bit of background noise to the real deal: their thoughts. They thought of Caretaker again. Did they go on to make pancakes every Sunday, even after their kidnapping? Or did they leave the habit behind? Whumpee wondered which they would've preferred.

It stirred. Their treacherous body. It ached and screamed, but Whumpee wasn't there, they told themself they had no right to it anymore, no right even to the pain. It stirred again. It retched.

Whumpee knew that Whumper would be angry. They tried to rein it in, but the damage was already done. So they let their thoughts wander instead, leaving it to deal with its own filth. It had become so easy to let themself go, to allow themself the privilege of retreating into a far corner of their mind, only ever coming back up for air when it was absolutely necessary.

The door opened and closed, and it was beaten again for making a mess.

"S-Sorry," they stammered.

"Caretaker this, Caretaker that, do this, say that, I'm tired. Why can't you just shut up, like in the earlier days?"

The... earlier days? When they were a scared, shaking mess in the corner of their bedroom, afraid to utter a word, lest they be beaten for it?

Caretaker preferred that?

"What do you mean?" they asked quietly, hoping Caretaker would clarify. But they doubled down instead.

"You were so quiet, so agreeable, I didn't have to listen to you blabber on and on about stupid shit. Now all you do is talk and talk and talk. Shut up."

Whumpee felt like they had been punched. Repeatedly. In the face.

They had been getting better, that was why they talked more. They felt safe around Caretaker. They hadn't even considered that Caretaker was that fed up with them.

They didn't respond. They just stood up and went back to their room, to be alone, to not disturb anybody.

They could be quiet again. They could go back to being well-behaved.

Whumper had been right. They had made Whumpee better by 'training them'.

"I..." They sniffled. "Yes. I'm sorry."

"Look, I know I offered that you can stay with me until you feel well enough to stay on your own, but this is becoming a chore. Like, a big one. You keep breaking down at every little thing — heck, sometimes you don't even need a trigger. You just break down bawling. This isn't sustainable."

Whumpee sniffled again, wiping their face. "I'm sorry. I'll— I'll do better."

"No, Whumpee. I think this is it. You need to move back into your own place."

They froze. "What?"

"I can't keep doing this every day. I'm tired. You need to move."

"But I— I—"

"I'm sure it's scary right now, but it'll be better for you in the long run. Better for everyone."

Better for you, they thought bitterly.

"So you're... kicking me out."

"Don't say it like that. I'm encouraging your independence."

Whumpee stood on shaky legs and walked back to their room. "I'll... pack, then."

Caretaker followed them. "Don't act like a kicked puppy. You'll make me feel bad."

So they weren't even allowed to feel bitter. "Okay," they said quietly.

"I'll come visit you."

"You don't have to."

"It's what friends do."

"How is any of this friendly?" Whumpee snapped. "I'm just— I'm sick, Caretaker! I have severe PTSD from that stupid— that stupid—"

"Let's not get into all the diagnoses. We're still friends, I just can't house you."

Whumpee felt like they were going to break down again. "Please get out while I pack."

Caretaker sighed. "Fine, if you want there to be bad blood."

"I— I don't, I'm just... I'm angry. I'm scared. But you don't care about that, do you?"

"I do. But again: this isn't sustainable. The fear will subside."