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Febuwhump day 2: Solitary Confinement
Master list here.
Day 2: Solitary Confinement
Erich mostly, with a little Biggles; 900 wds; warning for mild self-harm & suicidal thoughts.
Erich was used to being alone, so being locked up by himself wasn't - shouldn't have been - that much of a problem, compared to the brutal interrogation he was expecting. It had taken a beating that left him half senseless, with one wrist broken, to get him inside. But once he was locked in, he was left entirely alone in a small square cell, with white-painted cinderblock walls and a light that never dimmed or went off. There was a pit toilet, a blanket on the floor, and a slot in the door through which, he eventually learned, food and a cup of water were inserted at intervals.
What a ridiculous situation, he thought as he sat binding his bruised and swollen wrist with torn strips of the blanket. Ridiculous was not really the right word, though. Ironic? After all the times that he had been taken for an associate of Bigglesworth over the years, now that he actually was - a friend, even, he liked to think, in his more optimistic moments - no one wanted the intelligence he had to offer. Not that he would have given it up in any case, and he spent some time contemplating ways to hang himself in the cell before he decided that perhaps he should see how things developed. He tried not to think the word "rescue", but it was there, dancing just beyond the edge of his mind.
But no one came - not Bigglesworth, and not anyone else. He hardly dared to sleep, and learned to spring to his feet quickly at the approach of footsteps, but there was never anything except the food thrust through the gap. It was minimal, dry bread, sometimes a little fish or soup, and a cup of water, which he learned to nurse through the hours until they came back. They had taken his watch, so he had no idea whether the food was brought at regular intervals or not.
The food made him think of Sakhalin, but this was pure luxury, compared to that. At least it should have been. He wasn't freezing; he had no work to do. Gradually, however, he began to find himself wishing for the variety of labor and beatings and occasionally seeing the outside.
The lights never dimmed, the concrete walls never changed, he had only his thoughts for company. He had not found himself the best of company for a long time now.
After the first few food deliveries, he bit the skin on the side of his finger and made a mark on the wall for each that he could remember, and then each subsequent one, keeping track of time in the only way he could. And the small marks stood out on the cinderblock walls, adding a mark of distinction to the otherwise unchanging room.
When he first heard Bigglesworth speak, he was drifting off to sleep in one of his sporadic naps, wrapped in the blanket, drifting in and out of stupified exhaustion. He sat up quickly - alone, of course, with nothing but the bare white walls, the pitiless light.
This had happened to him on Sakhalin, too. He'd heard Bigglesworth there as well.
He could not remember what Bigglesworth had said.
After a while, he wished for the oblivion of sleep, because Bigglesworth had advanced to threats and insults, and Erich could also see him.
"None of it was worth it, you know," the slim figure leaning against the wall told him, smoke curling from the cigarette in his hand. "Not for you. No one is coming for you, you understand that, don't you?"
The voice was exact, the words— he didn't wish to think of that.
Erich turned his head away, bit his hand, and carefully drew a mark on the wall in his own blood. He had almost forgotten what he was marking. But the pain helped ground him a little. He would have welcomed torture, by this point; it would have stopped the days from their endless slide, it would have given him something to push back against, someone to talk to who was really there.
When the door finally did open, slamming against the wall, he sat up blinking on the blanket. It was Bigglesworth - but that was not unusual; Erich had seen him, many times. Not quite like this, however. Always before, the hallucination of Bigglesworth had been neatly put together, sometimes in his usual jacket and loose tie, sometimes in an RAF uniform, or even the false uniform he had worn so long ago at Zabala.
This Bigglesworth was dusty and bruised in a battered flying jacket, his hair tousled, energetic and swift-moving and beautiful. He went swiftly to his knees in front of Erich, and he was saying something, but the words didn't make any sense.
Erich wasn't sure what to say, what to think. Even the touch of one of Bigglesworth's fine hands, light on the side of his face, was no proof; he had felt the touch of the other Bigglesworth, too. It was when one of those hands lightly cupped his own bitten and abused one, running a thumb gently across the uninjured skin on his palm; and then those gentle hands held his sore but healing wrist carefully — then, only then, he was willing to entertain the idea that this might be real.
Day 2: Solitary Confinement
Erich mostly, with a little Biggles; 900 wds; warning for mild self-harm & suicidal thoughts.
Erich was used to being alone, so being locked up by himself wasn't - shouldn't have been - that much of a problem, compared to the brutal interrogation he was expecting. It had taken a beating that left him half senseless, with one wrist broken, to get him inside. But once he was locked in, he was left entirely alone in a small square cell, with white-painted cinderblock walls and a light that never dimmed or went off. There was a pit toilet, a blanket on the floor, and a slot in the door through which, he eventually learned, food and a cup of water were inserted at intervals.
What a ridiculous situation, he thought as he sat binding his bruised and swollen wrist with torn strips of the blanket. Ridiculous was not really the right word, though. Ironic? After all the times that he had been taken for an associate of Bigglesworth over the years, now that he actually was - a friend, even, he liked to think, in his more optimistic moments - no one wanted the intelligence he had to offer. Not that he would have given it up in any case, and he spent some time contemplating ways to hang himself in the cell before he decided that perhaps he should see how things developed. He tried not to think the word "rescue", but it was there, dancing just beyond the edge of his mind.
But no one came - not Bigglesworth, and not anyone else. He hardly dared to sleep, and learned to spring to his feet quickly at the approach of footsteps, but there was never anything except the food thrust through the gap. It was minimal, dry bread, sometimes a little fish or soup, and a cup of water, which he learned to nurse through the hours until they came back. They had taken his watch, so he had no idea whether the food was brought at regular intervals or not.
The food made him think of Sakhalin, but this was pure luxury, compared to that. At least it should have been. He wasn't freezing; he had no work to do. Gradually, however, he began to find himself wishing for the variety of labor and beatings and occasionally seeing the outside.
The lights never dimmed, the concrete walls never changed, he had only his thoughts for company. He had not found himself the best of company for a long time now.
After the first few food deliveries, he bit the skin on the side of his finger and made a mark on the wall for each that he could remember, and then each subsequent one, keeping track of time in the only way he could. And the small marks stood out on the cinderblock walls, adding a mark of distinction to the otherwise unchanging room.
When he first heard Bigglesworth speak, he was drifting off to sleep in one of his sporadic naps, wrapped in the blanket, drifting in and out of stupified exhaustion. He sat up quickly - alone, of course, with nothing but the bare white walls, the pitiless light.
This had happened to him on Sakhalin, too. He'd heard Bigglesworth there as well.
He could not remember what Bigglesworth had said.
After a while, he wished for the oblivion of sleep, because Bigglesworth had advanced to threats and insults, and Erich could also see him.
"None of it was worth it, you know," the slim figure leaning against the wall told him, smoke curling from the cigarette in his hand. "Not for you. No one is coming for you, you understand that, don't you?"
The voice was exact, the words— he didn't wish to think of that.
Erich turned his head away, bit his hand, and carefully drew a mark on the wall in his own blood. He had almost forgotten what he was marking. But the pain helped ground him a little. He would have welcomed torture, by this point; it would have stopped the days from their endless slide, it would have given him something to push back against, someone to talk to who was really there.
When the door finally did open, slamming against the wall, he sat up blinking on the blanket. It was Bigglesworth - but that was not unusual; Erich had seen him, many times. Not quite like this, however. Always before, the hallucination of Bigglesworth had been neatly put together, sometimes in his usual jacket and loose tie, sometimes in an RAF uniform, or even the false uniform he had worn so long ago at Zabala.
This Bigglesworth was dusty and bruised in a battered flying jacket, his hair tousled, energetic and swift-moving and beautiful. He went swiftly to his knees in front of Erich, and he was saying something, but the words didn't make any sense.
Erich wasn't sure what to say, what to think. Even the touch of one of Bigglesworth's fine hands, light on the side of his face, was no proof; he had felt the touch of the other Bigglesworth, too. It was when one of those hands lightly cupped his own bitten and abused one, running a thumb gently across the uninjured skin on his palm; and then those gentle hands held his sore but healing wrist carefully — then, only then, he was willing to entertain the idea that this might be real.
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And of course Biggles shows up again to rescue him, all dusty and messy and kind <333
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(Disheveled rescuer Biggles is truly one of my favorite flavors of Biggles, and I have many.)
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This is excellent whump, poor Erich with his hallucinations of Biggles being mean to him, longing for the mistreatment of Sakhalin just because it would break the monotony, and not quite daring even to hope that he might be rescued </333 but of course Biggles comes for him, looking and behaving exactly as he's supposed to. I love this.
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Loved it ♥♥♥♥♥
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