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Febuwhump day 15: "Who did this to you?"
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Day 15: "who did this to you?"
Biggles and EvS, 400 wds
Biggles was dimly aware that he was lying on his side, a cold concrete floor under his cheek. His sideways view of the floor and the small room in which he was being held kept blurring, going in and out of focus. Everything hurt, a hot throbbing in his face, his ribs, his entire body. He knew he had to sit up, to move. He was going to escape; they had carelessly left him untied, so this was his chance. Soon. He simply needed to rest for a moment first.
But the sound of the door opening galvanized him, an instinctive urge to avoid more hurt that made him jerk upright; then the world swam and he felt himself falling sideways. There were swift, slightly uneven steps, and a pair of hands, strong but not rough, caught and held him. Biggles slumped into the grasp holding him upright, blinking as his head swam. His eyes were puffy and swollen, blood running into the left one, and yet he found himself unable to look away from a pair of steely blue-grey eyes that latched onto his.
"Von Stalhein," he said thickly, trying to sit straighter.
"Bigglesworth." There was a sharpness to von Stalhein's crisp tones, some unfathomable emotion that drew Biggles further out of the grey haze trying to envelop him. "You were to be held and questioned, not -- this. Who did this?"
"Your associates," Biggles said, fighting his way past the blurring mental haze and his thick tongue. "On your orders, I was given to believe."
"No," von Stalhein said, between his teeth. "No, not on my orders." He eased Biggles against the wall. Biggles went with it, feeling dazed and looking up at him. Somehow all of his urgency to flee had faded; he found himself gazing at von Stalhein's face, narrow and handsome and suffused with fury that did not seem to be directed at Biggles at all.
A hand went behind his head, and Biggles winced as von Stalhein's fingers touched the bruises from where his head had been repeatedly slammed into the wall. The hand immediately dropped lower, held him carefully at the base of the skull, and supported his head as von Stalhein gave him a drink from a canteen. Biggles sipped carefully; the water stung the cuts in his mouth. He felt confused.
"Stay here," von Stalhein told him. He wrapped Biggles's fingers around the canteen, supported his hand until he could hold it, and then let go. "I'm going to have a word with my -- associates."
Day 15: "who did this to you?"
Biggles and EvS, 400 wds
Biggles was dimly aware that he was lying on his side, a cold concrete floor under his cheek. His sideways view of the floor and the small room in which he was being held kept blurring, going in and out of focus. Everything hurt, a hot throbbing in his face, his ribs, his entire body. He knew he had to sit up, to move. He was going to escape; they had carelessly left him untied, so this was his chance. Soon. He simply needed to rest for a moment first.
But the sound of the door opening galvanized him, an instinctive urge to avoid more hurt that made him jerk upright; then the world swam and he felt himself falling sideways. There were swift, slightly uneven steps, and a pair of hands, strong but not rough, caught and held him. Biggles slumped into the grasp holding him upright, blinking as his head swam. His eyes were puffy and swollen, blood running into the left one, and yet he found himself unable to look away from a pair of steely blue-grey eyes that latched onto his.
"Von Stalhein," he said thickly, trying to sit straighter.
"Bigglesworth." There was a sharpness to von Stalhein's crisp tones, some unfathomable emotion that drew Biggles further out of the grey haze trying to envelop him. "You were to be held and questioned, not -- this. Who did this?"
"Your associates," Biggles said, fighting his way past the blurring mental haze and his thick tongue. "On your orders, I was given to believe."
"No," von Stalhein said, between his teeth. "No, not on my orders." He eased Biggles against the wall. Biggles went with it, feeling dazed and looking up at him. Somehow all of his urgency to flee had faded; he found himself gazing at von Stalhein's face, narrow and handsome and suffused with fury that did not seem to be directed at Biggles at all.
A hand went behind his head, and Biggles winced as von Stalhein's fingers touched the bruises from where his head had been repeatedly slammed into the wall. The hand immediately dropped lower, held him carefully at the base of the skull, and supported his head as von Stalhein gave him a drink from a canteen. Biggles sipped carefully; the water stung the cuts in his mouth. He felt confused.
"Stay here," von Stalhein told him. He wrapped Biggles's fingers around the canteen, supported his hand until he could hold it, and then let go. "I'm going to have a word with my -- associates."
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The water was helping, clearing his mind and putting new heart into him. Biggles gripped the canteen in his hands and knew it wasn't only the water that helped. It was one thing to be alone, a prisoner, in pain. It was another thing to have felt kindness, care, gentleness, and from a source so shocking that if it wasn't for the solid metal between his hands he might have thought it was a hallucination. Strengthened more by the latter than the former, he was soon able to sit up, and feel at the tender places on his head, wipe the blood from his eyes and contemplate standing up. Amazingly, his watch had survived: it was just past noon. At nightfall Algy would know he wasn't coming back and would arrive at this disused air base in force. At worst, all he had to do was survive until then. At best--at best he could get away from here and clear this whole nest of crooks up before then.
He did not place too much weight on the strange visit from von Stalhein. No doubt when he returned to his fellow criminals he would be reminded of his abiding hatred for Biggles and the British; he might remonstrate with them for excessive cruelty but Biggles could hardly expect more from the man than that brief surge of decency.
When he heard heavy footsteps approaching, Biggles stood up just inside the door. The metal water canteen was not much of a weapon, but a hard blow with it might incapacitate a jailer long enough to escape. But as the steps neared he realised it was several men all at once, and rather than give away his meagre weapon and reveal his recovery, Biggles lay down again on the floor, hiding the canteen beneath him. Perhaps this would give him another opportunity.
But the door was only opened for a moment. Biggles squinted up at the brighter light from outside, and saw two men dragging a third between them, while a fourth stood guard. He did not understand their words, but the angry tone was unmistakeable as they threw their newest prisoner in. The man tried to keep his footing, but a rough kick sent him falling heavily to the floor. Another contemptuous shout and the door was slammed and fastened behind them.
Biggles sat up. "Hello," he said softly. "Did you--" and then he recognised his fellow prisoner. Erich von Stalhein, his face grey with pain but still snarling, propped himself up on one elbow and glared at Biggles.
"I must have been deranged," he growled. Blood was running from a split lip, doing nothing to reduce his savage aspect. "They can beat you to death for all I care."
Biggles didn't answer directly. It was all too apparent what had happened. Von Stalhein had gone to remonstrate with his colleagues as he had promised, but his intervention had rebounded on him. Small wonder he was angry. Biggles offered a somewhat dirty and bloodstained handkerchief, and the canteen.
"There's some left," he said.
Von Stalhein didn't take it. He was still breathing hard and in the grip of some strong emotion that Biggles wasn't entirely sure was anger. "You see what you've brought me to," he carried on. "When I try--when I behave the way you think I should--when I do what an officer and a gentleman would do--and this is what I get for it!"
"Yes," Biggles said softly. "Some people don't like it when others have standards. But it's not the way I think you should behave that matters. It's the way you think you should behave."
The words did nothing to reduce the fury in von Stalhein's gaze, but Biggles met it squarely. "You!" was all von Stalhein said. He took the canteen, but not the handkerchief, and it was left to Biggles to shuffle closer on the cold concrete floor and hold the cloth to his bleeding lip. He caught von Stalhein's face with his free hand, holding him still as he staunched the bleeding, remembering the oddly gentle hands on his own injuries not long ago.
"I'm sure we'll be out of here in no time," Biggles said. The bleeding had stopped and he withdrew the handkerchief carefully, but he didn't move his other hand at once, for von Stalhein was leaning against him and seemed to be wholly unaware of that fact.
"Yes," said von Stalhein, still with an intensity of emotion that was no longer anger, "yes, I'm sure we shall."
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The bleeding had stopped and he withdrew the handkerchief carefully, but he didn't move his other hand at once, for von Stalhein was leaning against him and seemed to be wholly unaware of that fact.
nnnnggghhhh I love this image, it's so lovely; especially Erich accepting Biggles's comfort but not seeming wholly aware that he's doing so. And I love his emotional pivot now that he's been petted a little and they're facing what comes next together!
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This was lovely ♥
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