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Whumpcember day 1: Hypothermia
A few weeks ago I posted about Whumpcember (daily h/c-adjacent prompts for December) and it turned out that writing bite-sized iddy fic is exactly my speed right now, because I've written several of the prompts and plan to post them on the appropriate days. (I don't think they'll all be Biggles, but that's mostly what I've written so far.)
Full list of prompts here on Tumblr.
Day 1: Hypothermia
Today's offering is a coda to Out of the Cold (Biggles, 6K, gennish), aka the one where they fall down a glacier crevasse. This coda is a bit shippier than the original but still not really full-on relationship.
Also posted on Tumblr.
The occasional shivers still running through von Stalhein's lean frame had eased, and as they did he leaned into Biggles, as if seeking something unconsciously that he dared not ask for when he had all his usual faculties about him. Biggles rested a cautious hand on his hip, and felt no pulling away.
Biggles was warming up himself, sinking into the lassitude that often follows cold and pain and danger. In their shared sleeping bag, he allowed himself to give in to the moment and enjoy it fully: the warmth, the feeling of safety, the touch of von Stalhein's lithe body against his.
He was not aware of falling asleep, but he must have slept because he was jostled awake when von Stalhein moved against him. Biggles opened his eyes to darkness; night had fallen. He was warm through and through, and felt no discomfort except a slight, lingering weakness in his hands from the cold they had been exposed to.
Von Stalhein stirred again and gave a low grunt of dismay or pain, having evidently run into the problem of moving without jarring his injured leg.
Biggles sat up. The air in the tent was sharply chilly. There was a little light coming in through the flap where one of the others was on night watch with a lantern. They had all worked together so long now that Biggles trusted someone would be.
"Do you need anything?" he asked quietly, as von Stalhein stilled. "Do you need to go outside?"
There was a pause, and then a quiet response: "No, I don't. I was seeking a more comfortable position, that's all. Don't trouble yourself."
"Since we're awake anyway, do you mind if I look at your hands?"
"My hands?" von Stalhein repeated, as if the words made no sense to him.
"As cold as you were, there might be frostbite. I'd like to check."
Biggles leaned over to light a camp lantern. Von Stalhein blinked at him sleepily in the light, but he made no objection, and placed his hand into Biggles's to be examined. As if hypnotized, he watched Biggles press on his slightly reddened and puffy fingers. Biggles could feel a slight heat, but when he asked if it hurt, von Stalhein answered in the negative.
His leg clearly did, though; he looked drawn and tired. As Biggles rummaged to get him another painkiller and a canteen to wash it down, von Stalhein asked quietly, "Why are you doing this?"
"I wasn't going to leave you there, Erich," Biggles said. He passed over the canteen and a couple of Phenacetin tablets. Von Stalhein took them without even asking what he had been given. "May I see your leg for a moment? Then we can go back to sleep, but let's make sure the bandages aren't cutting off the circulation."
"I can at least see the utility of pulling me out of that crevasse," von Stalhein said. He handed back the canteen and watched with tired puzzlement, not offering any objection, as Biggles pulled back the sleeping bag to check on his leg. "But this seems ..." He hesitated, evidently lost for words. "Excessive," he finished.
The colour of his lower leg and foot looked good, and the toes were warm. Biggles pressed on his instep. "Can you feel this?"
"Yes," von Stalhein said, with a tired hint of impatience. "The leg is not my biggest concern. What are your plans for me?"
Biggles pulled the sleeping bag back into place. It was a valid question and one he didn't have a good answer for. "You are not a prisoner. If you'd like to leave in the morning, you may, of course. But I'd suggest at least letting us give you a ride to a place with doctors and shops, rather than abandoning you with a broken leg on a glacier."
"And then to England for a trial, I expect."
"No," Biggles said quietly. "That's not my intent at all. But we can discuss those matters in the morning. For tonight, just sleep. My friends will be on guard. It's safe."
"Safe," von Stalhein said slowly. It was clear that, as the pain in his leg eased, he was slipping back towards sleep. "You think that I—safe—" It was as if there was a sum he was trying to add up, and it seemed that in his present drowsy condition he couldn't make it work out.
"If you'd like me to unzip and restore the bags to their usual condition so you can have your own, I'll do that," Biggles said. "It will mean moving you a bit."
"No need," von Stalhein said. He had pillowed his head on his arm; his eyes were closed, as if he was in the process of succumbing to a deep exhaustion far beyond even that of the peril, pain, and difficulty of the day—as if he hadn't truly slept in years. "I'm fine, don't worry about it."
Biggles extinguished the lantern and, with relief to escape the chilly air, slipped back into the comfort of the double-large sleeping bag warmed by two bodies. Von Stalhein's rhythmic breathing suggested that he had already fallen asleep. He was keeping to his own side of the sleeping bag, so Biggles rolled onto his side, with his back to von Stalhein, to grant him the space he seemed to want.
But he woke later in the night to find that von Stalhein, though to all evidence still asleep, had moved against him and was warm against his back, breathing evenly against the nape of his neck. Biggles leaned against him a little, and sank into a deeper sleep.
Full list of prompts here on Tumblr.
Day 1: Hypothermia
Today's offering is a coda to Out of the Cold (Biggles, 6K, gennish), aka the one where they fall down a glacier crevasse. This coda is a bit shippier than the original but still not really full-on relationship.
Also posted on Tumblr.
The occasional shivers still running through von Stalhein's lean frame had eased, and as they did he leaned into Biggles, as if seeking something unconsciously that he dared not ask for when he had all his usual faculties about him. Biggles rested a cautious hand on his hip, and felt no pulling away.
Biggles was warming up himself, sinking into the lassitude that often follows cold and pain and danger. In their shared sleeping bag, he allowed himself to give in to the moment and enjoy it fully: the warmth, the feeling of safety, the touch of von Stalhein's lithe body against his.
He was not aware of falling asleep, but he must have slept because he was jostled awake when von Stalhein moved against him. Biggles opened his eyes to darkness; night had fallen. He was warm through and through, and felt no discomfort except a slight, lingering weakness in his hands from the cold they had been exposed to.
Von Stalhein stirred again and gave a low grunt of dismay or pain, having evidently run into the problem of moving without jarring his injured leg.
Biggles sat up. The air in the tent was sharply chilly. There was a little light coming in through the flap where one of the others was on night watch with a lantern. They had all worked together so long now that Biggles trusted someone would be.
"Do you need anything?" he asked quietly, as von Stalhein stilled. "Do you need to go outside?"
There was a pause, and then a quiet response: "No, I don't. I was seeking a more comfortable position, that's all. Don't trouble yourself."
"Since we're awake anyway, do you mind if I look at your hands?"
"My hands?" von Stalhein repeated, as if the words made no sense to him.
"As cold as you were, there might be frostbite. I'd like to check."
Biggles leaned over to light a camp lantern. Von Stalhein blinked at him sleepily in the light, but he made no objection, and placed his hand into Biggles's to be examined. As if hypnotized, he watched Biggles press on his slightly reddened and puffy fingers. Biggles could feel a slight heat, but when he asked if it hurt, von Stalhein answered in the negative.
His leg clearly did, though; he looked drawn and tired. As Biggles rummaged to get him another painkiller and a canteen to wash it down, von Stalhein asked quietly, "Why are you doing this?"
"I wasn't going to leave you there, Erich," Biggles said. He passed over the canteen and a couple of Phenacetin tablets. Von Stalhein took them without even asking what he had been given. "May I see your leg for a moment? Then we can go back to sleep, but let's make sure the bandages aren't cutting off the circulation."
"I can at least see the utility of pulling me out of that crevasse," von Stalhein said. He handed back the canteen and watched with tired puzzlement, not offering any objection, as Biggles pulled back the sleeping bag to check on his leg. "But this seems ..." He hesitated, evidently lost for words. "Excessive," he finished.
The colour of his lower leg and foot looked good, and the toes were warm. Biggles pressed on his instep. "Can you feel this?"
"Yes," von Stalhein said, with a tired hint of impatience. "The leg is not my biggest concern. What are your plans for me?"
Biggles pulled the sleeping bag back into place. It was a valid question and one he didn't have a good answer for. "You are not a prisoner. If you'd like to leave in the morning, you may, of course. But I'd suggest at least letting us give you a ride to a place with doctors and shops, rather than abandoning you with a broken leg on a glacier."
"And then to England for a trial, I expect."
"No," Biggles said quietly. "That's not my intent at all. But we can discuss those matters in the morning. For tonight, just sleep. My friends will be on guard. It's safe."
"Safe," von Stalhein said slowly. It was clear that, as the pain in his leg eased, he was slipping back towards sleep. "You think that I—safe—" It was as if there was a sum he was trying to add up, and it seemed that in his present drowsy condition he couldn't make it work out.
"If you'd like me to unzip and restore the bags to their usual condition so you can have your own, I'll do that," Biggles said. "It will mean moving you a bit."
"No need," von Stalhein said. He had pillowed his head on his arm; his eyes were closed, as if he was in the process of succumbing to a deep exhaustion far beyond even that of the peril, pain, and difficulty of the day—as if he hadn't truly slept in years. "I'm fine, don't worry about it."
Biggles extinguished the lantern and, with relief to escape the chilly air, slipped back into the comfort of the double-large sleeping bag warmed by two bodies. Von Stalhein's rhythmic breathing suggested that he had already fallen asleep. He was keeping to his own side of the sleeping bag, so Biggles rolled onto his side, with his back to von Stalhein, to grant him the space he seemed to want.
But he woke later in the night to find that von Stalhein, though to all evidence still asleep, had moved against him and was warm against his back, breathing evenly against the nape of his neck. Biggles leaned against him a little, and sank into a deeper sleep.
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