Entry tags:
Whumpcember day 5: "I hate you!"
Previous days:
Day 1: Hypothermia (Biggles)
Day 4: Shortness of Breath (Biggles)
Full list of prompts (on Tumblr)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scioscribe suggested an idea that fit today's prompt (mostly by accident) and I took it and ran with it. Biggles again, gen(ish), 1400 words.
Also posted to AO3 - "Gold from Sand"
Day 5: "I hate you!"
When Biggles finally managed to get to von Stalhein, he was pale, almost bluish, under the straps and wires and rubber cups of the device. He was stripped down to his shirtsleeves, his shirt and hair clinging to him with clammy sweat. Biggles tore off wires and straps, unwilling to leave him in the machine a single second longer than necessary. Some of the wires were taped to his skin, and as they came away with small rips and smears of blood, Biggles realized they had actually been buried in his flesh.
Across the room, Algy was holding a gun on their mad scientist. "Now tell us in small words what this thing does, and what it's doing to our, er—" He paused, clearly unsure how to describe von Stalhein even now that they were, technically, allies. "—associate."
"It's a rehabilitation machine," the scientist snapped. "Stop acting like I've done anything wrong."
Algy stepped closer, threateningly, into his space. "A rehabilitation machine that does what?"
The answer was more subdued as the man began to realize that he might have made a serious mistake. "The subject is punished with his worst fears. It doesn't actually hurt him."
Biggles, having more than a few fears of his own, wasn't so sure about that. As he tore at the wires, he gazed down at von Stalhein's pale face and wondered what sort of horrors Erich was being tormented with. They certainly had no shortage of nightmares, all of them. Von Stalhein's eyelids jerked as he dreamed, his long lashes sweeping his cheek, and he jerked occasionally in the grip of whatever terrors the machine had afflicted him with.
"Erich," Biggles said. He had finally gotten it all off; now he grasped von Stalhein's shoulder and gave him a shake. "Erich, wake up, it's not real, whatever it is."
Von Stalhein abruptly came awake with a tremendous, convulsive jerk that brought him halfway off the leather seat in which he had been reclining. Where his back had touched, the seat and his shirt were soaked with sweat. His eyes opened wide, frantic and almost blank, and then focused on Biggles. Recognition seemed to bring no relief; he jerked away violently, almost falling off.
"Erich. Calm down." Biggles grasped his shoulder again, and this time von Stalhein let him. His heart was beating so rapidly that Biggles could see his pulse jumping in his neck.
"Would you care to fill out some paperwork about your experiences?" the scientist called across the room.
Von Stalhein took a deep breath and then lurched off the chair with deadly intent on his face. Biggles stepped in the way to stop him, and again there was that strange shying off, an uncharacteristic reluctance to meet his eyes. Behind him, Algy snapped, "You, sit down and shut up; Ginger'll be back soon with handcuffs. Biggles, need any help over there?"
"No, we're all right," Biggles said quietly, planting a hand in von Stalhein's chest. "Why don't you sit down for a minute."
Von Stalhein nodded dazedly. He was swaying a little, but when Biggles reached to give him a hand, he pulled away and sat down shakily on the nearest seat that wasn't the leather chair with its wires and buckles. He rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.
Biggles would have stayed, but he was drawn away by Bertie returning with questions about the other machinery in adjoining rooms, and then they needed to get the scientist and his assistants hustled outside and cuffed for the Yard. It was a few minutes before he could return to von Stalhein, bringing a flask of lukewarm coffee from the plane.
Von Stalhein was up, his colour looking better, though he remained subdued and quiet. He accepted the flask wordlessly and sipped from it while staring at the chair and its draped wires.
Biggles was uncertain how to proceed. He now regretted being so careless with the wires; bloodstains dotted von Stalhein's crisp shirtsleeves. "Do you need a doctor? We can arrange for—"
"I do not," von Stalhein said, his voice clipped. He reached for his jacket, draped over the back of a chair, and put it on with rapid, jerky movements, hiding the spots of blood dotting his shirt.
"We can—"
"Bigglesworth." Von Stalhein looked directly at him now, for the first time since Biggles had freed him; his normally clear gaze was muddled, unhappy. "Let it alone."
*
Biggles found him a bit later, sitting on the grass some ways from the entrance to the hidden lab. Scotland Yard was all over it now, and Biggles didn't blame him for wanting to seek a bit of privacy. He could tell that he had been noticed—von Stalhein, even distracted, was far too sharp not to have seen him coming. Biggles sat down near him. The silence was more companionable than awkward, so Biggles spoke after a little while.
"You were only in there for a few minutes before Algy and I found you," he said quietly. "I won't ask what you saw, but I know it must have seemed a lot longer. The things we've all been through—I know how it stays with the mind."
"You," von Stalhein said.
"What?"
"You. I saw you." Von Stalhein turned, a strange half-smile on his face, and rested one elbow on his knee. He was not exactly looking at Biggles, but rather past him.
"The device is supposed to ..." Biggles hesitated. "Your worst fear is—me?"
Von Stalhein huffed out a breath and ran his hand over his face. "Bigglesworth, if you must know, it put me back in my memories of ... any number of our encounters over the years. But it ran differently this time. More true to what should have happened, perhaps."
"I don't understand," Biggles said, by now completely lost.
For a few moments he thought von Stalhein wasn't going to answer at all. Then von Stalhein said, "It's quite simple. In those altered memories, you told me what you really thought of me. That there was nothing worth saving, that I was not and had never been a good man—straightforward, really." He swallowed and then lifted a shoulder briefly in a shrug. "It may be that the device malfunctioned. I would have expected the war, as well."
Biggles was left speechless, not only by the content of von Stalhein's words but also their raw honesty. He had no idea how to respond.
When the silence stretched, von Stalhein stood up abruptly. "I expect you're ready to leave. I didn't mean to keep you."
"No, wait!" Biggles scrambled to his feet. "Come back with us to Mount Street tonight," he said impulsively. "We'll have a drink. I—would like that."
Von Stalhein turned around, hands in his pockets. The odd slantwise smile was back; Biggles could see now how unhappy it was, a crooked twist to his mouth with no humour in it. "I don't think I'm in the mood for a celebratory drink, if it's all the same to you."
"I don't mean that." Biggles took a step closer. "Listen, I could stand here and tell you it's not real, but I know you know that already. So come with me where things are real. You can sit in the corner and drink by yourself if you want to, or—Bertie would probably love to break out his backgammon set, it's some sort of family antique and none of the rest of us will play it with him." He was starting to sound a little desperate, even to himself. "I wouldn't say those things, but I know you know that, so come with me where you can spend this evening listening to something that isn't your own mind shouting at you."
Throughout this speech, the bleak twist to von Stalhein's mouth had gained some vestiges of actual humour, starting to turn up a little at the corners. "Will anyone object to having me along for their celebratory evening drinks?"
"No," Biggles said firmly. "They've come to accept you more than you know. Bertie really likes you, and Ginger and Algy are coming round. They all know you did more than any of us today, and they aren't cold enough to have no feelings about that. Come back with me—" He'd almost said come home. "—and don't be alone tonight."
"All right." Von Stalhein's voice was quiet, but at least some of the dismal unhappiness was gone from it. "I'll come and have that drink with you. But no backgammon; I despise it."
"I think Bertie will survive the disappointment," Biggles said, letting a smile slip free, and walked back with him to the aeroplane, side by side.
Day 1: Hypothermia (Biggles)
Day 4: Shortness of Breath (Biggles)
Full list of prompts (on Tumblr)
scioscribe suggested an idea that fit today's prompt (mostly by accident) and I took it and ran with it. Biggles again, gen(ish), 1400 words.Also posted to AO3 - "Gold from Sand"
Day 5: "I hate you!"
When Biggles finally managed to get to von Stalhein, he was pale, almost bluish, under the straps and wires and rubber cups of the device. He was stripped down to his shirtsleeves, his shirt and hair clinging to him with clammy sweat. Biggles tore off wires and straps, unwilling to leave him in the machine a single second longer than necessary. Some of the wires were taped to his skin, and as they came away with small rips and smears of blood, Biggles realized they had actually been buried in his flesh.
Across the room, Algy was holding a gun on their mad scientist. "Now tell us in small words what this thing does, and what it's doing to our, er—" He paused, clearly unsure how to describe von Stalhein even now that they were, technically, allies. "—associate."
"It's a rehabilitation machine," the scientist snapped. "Stop acting like I've done anything wrong."
Algy stepped closer, threateningly, into his space. "A rehabilitation machine that does what?"
The answer was more subdued as the man began to realize that he might have made a serious mistake. "The subject is punished with his worst fears. It doesn't actually hurt him."
Biggles, having more than a few fears of his own, wasn't so sure about that. As he tore at the wires, he gazed down at von Stalhein's pale face and wondered what sort of horrors Erich was being tormented with. They certainly had no shortage of nightmares, all of them. Von Stalhein's eyelids jerked as he dreamed, his long lashes sweeping his cheek, and he jerked occasionally in the grip of whatever terrors the machine had afflicted him with.
"Erich," Biggles said. He had finally gotten it all off; now he grasped von Stalhein's shoulder and gave him a shake. "Erich, wake up, it's not real, whatever it is."
Von Stalhein abruptly came awake with a tremendous, convulsive jerk that brought him halfway off the leather seat in which he had been reclining. Where his back had touched, the seat and his shirt were soaked with sweat. His eyes opened wide, frantic and almost blank, and then focused on Biggles. Recognition seemed to bring no relief; he jerked away violently, almost falling off.
"Erich. Calm down." Biggles grasped his shoulder again, and this time von Stalhein let him. His heart was beating so rapidly that Biggles could see his pulse jumping in his neck.
"Would you care to fill out some paperwork about your experiences?" the scientist called across the room.
Von Stalhein took a deep breath and then lurched off the chair with deadly intent on his face. Biggles stepped in the way to stop him, and again there was that strange shying off, an uncharacteristic reluctance to meet his eyes. Behind him, Algy snapped, "You, sit down and shut up; Ginger'll be back soon with handcuffs. Biggles, need any help over there?"
"No, we're all right," Biggles said quietly, planting a hand in von Stalhein's chest. "Why don't you sit down for a minute."
Von Stalhein nodded dazedly. He was swaying a little, but when Biggles reached to give him a hand, he pulled away and sat down shakily on the nearest seat that wasn't the leather chair with its wires and buckles. He rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.
Biggles would have stayed, but he was drawn away by Bertie returning with questions about the other machinery in adjoining rooms, and then they needed to get the scientist and his assistants hustled outside and cuffed for the Yard. It was a few minutes before he could return to von Stalhein, bringing a flask of lukewarm coffee from the plane.
Von Stalhein was up, his colour looking better, though he remained subdued and quiet. He accepted the flask wordlessly and sipped from it while staring at the chair and its draped wires.
Biggles was uncertain how to proceed. He now regretted being so careless with the wires; bloodstains dotted von Stalhein's crisp shirtsleeves. "Do you need a doctor? We can arrange for—"
"I do not," von Stalhein said, his voice clipped. He reached for his jacket, draped over the back of a chair, and put it on with rapid, jerky movements, hiding the spots of blood dotting his shirt.
"We can—"
"Bigglesworth." Von Stalhein looked directly at him now, for the first time since Biggles had freed him; his normally clear gaze was muddled, unhappy. "Let it alone."
*
Biggles found him a bit later, sitting on the grass some ways from the entrance to the hidden lab. Scotland Yard was all over it now, and Biggles didn't blame him for wanting to seek a bit of privacy. He could tell that he had been noticed—von Stalhein, even distracted, was far too sharp not to have seen him coming. Biggles sat down near him. The silence was more companionable than awkward, so Biggles spoke after a little while.
"You were only in there for a few minutes before Algy and I found you," he said quietly. "I won't ask what you saw, but I know it must have seemed a lot longer. The things we've all been through—I know how it stays with the mind."
"You," von Stalhein said.
"What?"
"You. I saw you." Von Stalhein turned, a strange half-smile on his face, and rested one elbow on his knee. He was not exactly looking at Biggles, but rather past him.
"The device is supposed to ..." Biggles hesitated. "Your worst fear is—me?"
Von Stalhein huffed out a breath and ran his hand over his face. "Bigglesworth, if you must know, it put me back in my memories of ... any number of our encounters over the years. But it ran differently this time. More true to what should have happened, perhaps."
"I don't understand," Biggles said, by now completely lost.
For a few moments he thought von Stalhein wasn't going to answer at all. Then von Stalhein said, "It's quite simple. In those altered memories, you told me what you really thought of me. That there was nothing worth saving, that I was not and had never been a good man—straightforward, really." He swallowed and then lifted a shoulder briefly in a shrug. "It may be that the device malfunctioned. I would have expected the war, as well."
Biggles was left speechless, not only by the content of von Stalhein's words but also their raw honesty. He had no idea how to respond.
When the silence stretched, von Stalhein stood up abruptly. "I expect you're ready to leave. I didn't mean to keep you."
"No, wait!" Biggles scrambled to his feet. "Come back with us to Mount Street tonight," he said impulsively. "We'll have a drink. I—would like that."
Von Stalhein turned around, hands in his pockets. The odd slantwise smile was back; Biggles could see now how unhappy it was, a crooked twist to his mouth with no humour in it. "I don't think I'm in the mood for a celebratory drink, if it's all the same to you."
"I don't mean that." Biggles took a step closer. "Listen, I could stand here and tell you it's not real, but I know you know that already. So come with me where things are real. You can sit in the corner and drink by yourself if you want to, or—Bertie would probably love to break out his backgammon set, it's some sort of family antique and none of the rest of us will play it with him." He was starting to sound a little desperate, even to himself. "I wouldn't say those things, but I know you know that, so come with me where you can spend this evening listening to something that isn't your own mind shouting at you."
Throughout this speech, the bleak twist to von Stalhein's mouth had gained some vestiges of actual humour, starting to turn up a little at the corners. "Will anyone object to having me along for their celebratory evening drinks?"
"No," Biggles said firmly. "They've come to accept you more than you know. Bertie really likes you, and Ginger and Algy are coming round. They all know you did more than any of us today, and they aren't cold enough to have no feelings about that. Come back with me—" He'd almost said come home. "—and don't be alone tonight."
"All right." Von Stalhein's voice was quiet, but at least some of the dismal unhappiness was gone from it. "I'll come and have that drink with you. But no backgammon; I despise it."
"I think Bertie will survive the disappointment," Biggles said, letting a smile slip free, and walked back with him to the aeroplane, side by side.