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Biggles prompt ficlet: TW self-harm
Tumblr prompt: I know some people are sensitive about this subject - but I suddenly thought of how Biggles would react if he saw self-harm marks/bandages around Erich's wrists (or anywhere I suppose) and he'd instantly fly into his little protective lecture!
TW for (non-graphic) self-harm in the following ficlet!
"It is truly a disappointment to find you here, von Stalhein," Biggles said, as he was strong-armed through a storeroom door by his rigid and unsmiling captor. "This clumsy gang of cack-handed louts can't have been in much of a position to accept your advice. If not for you, we should have rounded them up easily, but their plans really haven't a single iota of originality, it's a wonder they managed to pull off a bank robbery at all --"
Still talking, he felt the gun slide away from his spine the instant he was through the doorframe, and twisted round abruptly, because Biggles had given no parole and could see no reason to allow von Stalhein to slam and lock the door, especially as the building might be on fire shortly. Biggles seized the wrist of von Stalhein's gun hand, prepared to twist the gun out of it and throw his captor to the ground.
He was unprepared for the sharp gasp of pain, as well as the stickiness and bulk he felt in his brief grasp. The gun slipped from von Stalhein's fingers; he felt back, staring at Biggles with a briefly stricken look. Then he lunged for the gun, but Biggles did too. Von Stalhein was uncharacteristically clumsy, and Biggles straightened up with the Luger in hand.
"The tables have turned, I see," Biggles said. But there was no sense of triumph, not with von Stalhein looking at him as the stricken look turned dull, his arm lowered at his side, the sleeve spotted with blood, and Biggles's next words came naturally to his lips. "Are you hurt? You seem to be off your game."
Von Stalhein drew away with a sharp intake of breath. "You have me at your mercy, I hardly need to suffer an interrogation as well," he said with what seemed a self-conscious approximation of his usual stiff pride.
"You are hurt," Biggles said, because von Stalhein was holding his arm awkwardly, almost pressed against his front, and I hurt you.
Biggles, without really thinking about it, and still keeping the gun trained on him because he was not a fool, took von Stalhein gently by the upper arm and steered him to sit on some burlap sacks in the cell.
As he sat down awkwardly, von Stalhein said to no one in particular, "This is not how this is supposed to go."
"May I see?"
Von Stalhein's arm lay in his lap. Biggles carefully touched his sleeve. There was no resistance from von Stalhein, but he could feel the bulky bandage beneath it, swathed round and round the arm, with blood seeping through to leave sticky spots on the cuff. The clumsiness of the bandage made it clear that it was self-applied, a right-handed man bandaging himself awkwardly with the left.
There were not very many ways a man could get wounds like that. Defensive knife wounds, or torture, it must be one of the two, and Biggles found his nerves growing taut, wondering who in the sorry gang of reprobates could have laid a blow like that -- who would have dared?
"Who did this?" he asked, and von Stalhein jerked a little, as if coming back from a dazed state, in a way that Biggles knew all too well from dealing with shell-shocked men in both wars. Torture it was then, and his jaw set and clenched. "Tell me, I'll make sure things don't go well for him. There is no excuse for such matters, especially in peacetime."
Von Stalhein drew his arm back sharply, a galvanized jerk bringing him back from wherever he had gone in his head. "No excuse? I'm sure it's so in your world." He spat the words, his face pale. "It was a mistake, too much liquor, too many -- careless thoughts, but I expect you have no tolerance for that either. The perfect Bigglesworth."
The fingers of his bandaged hand had gone to pluck at the other sleeve, almost automatic, just a slight brush of fingertips.
"I don't understand," Biggles said.
His anger began to fade, because it had no target -- as it seemed von Stalhein's defensive anger didn't either. Biggles sat down beside von Stalhein on the sacks, laid the gun beside him, and reached out carefully to brush his hand against the opposite sleeve, where von Stalhein's injured hand had been reflexively plucking. Instantly von Stalhein went still.
"What is this?"
As if Biggles's touch and soft question was a command, the long, slim hand turned, laying upright in von Stalhein's lap, and Biggles saw the white, healed scars on the underside of his wrist.
"Oh," he said, a soft intake of breath.
Von Stalhein wrenched his hand away. His face was pale and set. When Biggles tried to take his cold fingers, von Stalhein fought him wordlessly, his face white and his eyes bright with tears that would not fall. His chest heaved as if he had been running, or was preparing to run.
Biggles let him go, and without saying anything, wrenched up his own sleeve -- and there were the scars, very old, very pale, from the first war, healed to faint white ribbons now.
Von Stalhein stared, his escape attempt falling apart and his heaving, half-sobbing gasps growing weaker, fading to more normal breathing.
"I know what that is," Biggles said. He kept his voice even. He put his sleeve down, and when he took the cold fingers in his own, the hand stayed put, even curled a little. "I had Algy, then. I -- I think the others are done mopping up the gang upstairs." The faint sound of a crash and a muffled explosion punctuated his words. "If you want to come up, there's tea -- half-cold. There are sandwiches -- if Ginger's left us any." A faint smile that von Stalhein didn't return. "We'll certainly have a few questions about your gang, but you don't need to answer them. You can just have a cup of tea and leave, if you like. It will be a little while before the others are back at the Auster, if you want to ... to just sit somewhere for a while."
He got up and offered a hand. After a long moment, not quite looking at him, von Stalhein clasped it with his left, uninjured one, and got up.
Biggles left the gun on the pile of sacks. Neither of them, he thought, needed it just now.
TW for (non-graphic) self-harm in the following ficlet!
"It is truly a disappointment to find you here, von Stalhein," Biggles said, as he was strong-armed through a storeroom door by his rigid and unsmiling captor. "This clumsy gang of cack-handed louts can't have been in much of a position to accept your advice. If not for you, we should have rounded them up easily, but their plans really haven't a single iota of originality, it's a wonder they managed to pull off a bank robbery at all --"
Still talking, he felt the gun slide away from his spine the instant he was through the doorframe, and twisted round abruptly, because Biggles had given no parole and could see no reason to allow von Stalhein to slam and lock the door, especially as the building might be on fire shortly. Biggles seized the wrist of von Stalhein's gun hand, prepared to twist the gun out of it and throw his captor to the ground.
He was unprepared for the sharp gasp of pain, as well as the stickiness and bulk he felt in his brief grasp. The gun slipped from von Stalhein's fingers; he felt back, staring at Biggles with a briefly stricken look. Then he lunged for the gun, but Biggles did too. Von Stalhein was uncharacteristically clumsy, and Biggles straightened up with the Luger in hand.
"The tables have turned, I see," Biggles said. But there was no sense of triumph, not with von Stalhein looking at him as the stricken look turned dull, his arm lowered at his side, the sleeve spotted with blood, and Biggles's next words came naturally to his lips. "Are you hurt? You seem to be off your game."
Von Stalhein drew away with a sharp intake of breath. "You have me at your mercy, I hardly need to suffer an interrogation as well," he said with what seemed a self-conscious approximation of his usual stiff pride.
"You are hurt," Biggles said, because von Stalhein was holding his arm awkwardly, almost pressed against his front, and I hurt you.
Biggles, without really thinking about it, and still keeping the gun trained on him because he was not a fool, took von Stalhein gently by the upper arm and steered him to sit on some burlap sacks in the cell.
As he sat down awkwardly, von Stalhein said to no one in particular, "This is not how this is supposed to go."
"May I see?"
Von Stalhein's arm lay in his lap. Biggles carefully touched his sleeve. There was no resistance from von Stalhein, but he could feel the bulky bandage beneath it, swathed round and round the arm, with blood seeping through to leave sticky spots on the cuff. The clumsiness of the bandage made it clear that it was self-applied, a right-handed man bandaging himself awkwardly with the left.
There were not very many ways a man could get wounds like that. Defensive knife wounds, or torture, it must be one of the two, and Biggles found his nerves growing taut, wondering who in the sorry gang of reprobates could have laid a blow like that -- who would have dared?
"Who did this?" he asked, and von Stalhein jerked a little, as if coming back from a dazed state, in a way that Biggles knew all too well from dealing with shell-shocked men in both wars. Torture it was then, and his jaw set and clenched. "Tell me, I'll make sure things don't go well for him. There is no excuse for such matters, especially in peacetime."
Von Stalhein drew his arm back sharply, a galvanized jerk bringing him back from wherever he had gone in his head. "No excuse? I'm sure it's so in your world." He spat the words, his face pale. "It was a mistake, too much liquor, too many -- careless thoughts, but I expect you have no tolerance for that either. The perfect Bigglesworth."
The fingers of his bandaged hand had gone to pluck at the other sleeve, almost automatic, just a slight brush of fingertips.
"I don't understand," Biggles said.
His anger began to fade, because it had no target -- as it seemed von Stalhein's defensive anger didn't either. Biggles sat down beside von Stalhein on the sacks, laid the gun beside him, and reached out carefully to brush his hand against the opposite sleeve, where von Stalhein's injured hand had been reflexively plucking. Instantly von Stalhein went still.
"What is this?"
As if Biggles's touch and soft question was a command, the long, slim hand turned, laying upright in von Stalhein's lap, and Biggles saw the white, healed scars on the underside of his wrist.
"Oh," he said, a soft intake of breath.
Von Stalhein wrenched his hand away. His face was pale and set. When Biggles tried to take his cold fingers, von Stalhein fought him wordlessly, his face white and his eyes bright with tears that would not fall. His chest heaved as if he had been running, or was preparing to run.
Biggles let him go, and without saying anything, wrenched up his own sleeve -- and there were the scars, very old, very pale, from the first war, healed to faint white ribbons now.
Von Stalhein stared, his escape attempt falling apart and his heaving, half-sobbing gasps growing weaker, fading to more normal breathing.
"I know what that is," Biggles said. He kept his voice even. He put his sleeve down, and when he took the cold fingers in his own, the hand stayed put, even curled a little. "I had Algy, then. I -- I think the others are done mopping up the gang upstairs." The faint sound of a crash and a muffled explosion punctuated his words. "If you want to come up, there's tea -- half-cold. There are sandwiches -- if Ginger's left us any." A faint smile that von Stalhein didn't return. "We'll certainly have a few questions about your gang, but you don't need to answer them. You can just have a cup of tea and leave, if you like. It will be a little while before the others are back at the Auster, if you want to ... to just sit somewhere for a while."
He got up and offered a hand. After a long moment, not quite looking at him, von Stalhein clasped it with his left, uninjured one, and got up.
Biggles left the gun on the pile of sacks. Neither of them, he thought, needed it just now.
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