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Helicopters were loud. That was the most coherent thought running through Spectre's mind while he stared at the assembled men who had just risked life and limb...well, Peter had just risked limb...to save him.
Peter still had an arrow through his shoulder and though Jerome was injured as well, he was patching Peter up. Saul had helped Thomas' arm and now he was speaking to the pilot while Flynn nursed his bruised throat and bleeding head. Their field doctor was dressing Spectre’s wounds and Thomas was doing that hovering thing he did. That hovering thing Spectre loved, because he knew it meant Thomas adored him.
Morphine was racing through Spectre's veins and he loved absolutely everyone in this helicopter and he wanted to tell them all. He didn't though, because moving his lips was hard.
“He’s got some wounds on his back,” the doctor informed Thomas as they sped their way towards a safe house they could hunker down in before returning to London.
Thomas hadn’t noticed in their haste to get away, but he watched as the doctor turned Spectre over a little, revealing deep gashes all across Spectre’s already scarred back. They had clearly been made by a whip. When Spectre was laid back down again, Thomas looked into Spectre’s glassy eyes. “Babe, what did they do to you?”
“Mmm. Drank rain. ‘parrently that’s bad.” Spectre’s words slurred and he was clearly having trouble speaking. It was clear Thomas understood every word, however.
“I’ll get you water,” Thomas said quickly. Something you learned in first aid was that you never gave a victim water or food while you attended to their injuries because it didn’t help them at all if they were slipping into shock. Still, Thomas had clearly decided the rules could go fuck themselves, because his husband hadn’t been given real water in weeks. And Spectre was grateful.
“Okay, Babe. Here.” Thomas moved to prop Spectre up so that the doctor could attend to his wounds at the same time as he drank his water. Thomas held his husband against him, and he tilted a bottle against his lips. At first, Spectre had trouble making the water go down, and he sputtered and the water ended up coming right back up all over his front. It was as if he had forgotten to swallow and Spectre looked up at his husband with apologetic eyes. He hadn't meant to make a mess. He hoped Thomas wouldn't cover his mouth again.
"'m sorry," Spectre whispered. Thomas just wiped the mess away calmly and he tried again. When Spectre managed to swallow, he was quite sure nothing had ever felt as good as drinking that water in the helicopter, even if the helicopter was loud. He clamped on to the water bottle so tightly, Thomas was afraid that to pull it away would cause his husband some kind of harm.
“Go easy, Spectre. You need to be careful.” And even though he didn't want to, Spectre complied and Thomas slowly pulled the water bottle away from his husband’s lips. Immediately Spectre grimaced at the pain in his back and his broken rib while the doctor saw to his wounds. It had gotten through the morphine.
Thomas leaned down and he kissed Spectre’s head. “You’re going to be okay now, Babe. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Thomas said it was going to be okay. At that moment, Spectre didn't remember that Thomas had held his hands over Spectre's mouth while he had had metal ripped out of him. He didn't remember that this could all be a terrible vision sent to him to make him feel even more lost when he broke out of it. All that mattered was his husband and those words. It was going to be okay. Thomas said it and Spectre believed it.
Spectre pressed his face up against Thomas’ chest and it was there he started to sob. The poor man hardly had the energy to put his entire body behind it, but he tried his best. He lay there in Thomas’ arms, shaking, while the doctor finished patching him up. And when he was more bandage than man, he was given another shot of morphine which seemed to take effect immediately. Memory returned. Spectre finally turned his tear-stained face upwards and he frowned at his husband. “You held my mouth closed,” he said, his voice slightly accusing.
“We were trying to avoid a crowd,” Thomas grumbled, since their efforts had been in vain. At least they were all okay now. Or they had the chance to end up that way.
"They held my mouth closed," Spectre explained. "They...when they whipped me. For the rain."
Thomas hung his head, but there was nothing he could do about it now. “Oh, Babe... I’m sorry. God, I'm so sorry.” He needed to change the subject, because they couldn't deal with this here. Not with Spectre half mad from pain and deprivation. What Thomas had to do was make Spectre feel he really was with people who loved and would protect him. “Are you hungry, Babe?”
At that, Spectre began to cry again. Hunger was a sore subject for him and right now he was so much more than hungry. Thomas wasn't going to keep him that way. That was what he had needed to hear. Spectre struggled to sit up and though he failed, Thomas pulled the angel into his lap even despite whip wounds and broken ribs, and he held Spectre like an overgrown infant. Spectre’s face rested against Thomas’ cheek and even as he cried, he tilted his face upwards so he could kiss his husband’s cheek. Then he managed to whimper, “need food. Please. I need food.” He needed food now more than he had needed almost anything in his twenty-eight years of life.
Thomas knew exactly how that felt, and he was quick to comply, even as they wended their windy way over the Carpathian Mountains. He retrieved a thermos of soup and he fed it to Spectre and Spectre cried throughout the entire experience. He was being taken care of. Treated with love and kindness. He had food and the arms of his husband, and morphine which was awesome.
Thomas would take care of him and nurse him back to health. Being held in his arms was like a miracle. Thomas kissed the Spectre's forehead with every bite. So when Spectre finally fell asleep in Thomas’ arms, he looked, despite everything, utterly content.
Peter still had an arrow through his shoulder and though Jerome was injured as well, he was patching Peter up. Saul had helped Thomas' arm and now he was speaking to the pilot while Flynn nursed his bruised throat and bleeding head. Their field doctor was dressing Spectre’s wounds and Thomas was doing that hovering thing he did. That hovering thing Spectre loved, because he knew it meant Thomas adored him.
Morphine was racing through Spectre's veins and he loved absolutely everyone in this helicopter and he wanted to tell them all. He didn't though, because moving his lips was hard.
“He’s got some wounds on his back,” the doctor informed Thomas as they sped their way towards a safe house they could hunker down in before returning to London.
Thomas hadn’t noticed in their haste to get away, but he watched as the doctor turned Spectre over a little, revealing deep gashes all across Spectre’s already scarred back. They had clearly been made by a whip. When Spectre was laid back down again, Thomas looked into Spectre’s glassy eyes. “Babe, what did they do to you?”
“Mmm. Drank rain. ‘parrently that’s bad.” Spectre’s words slurred and he was clearly having trouble speaking. It was clear Thomas understood every word, however.
“I’ll get you water,” Thomas said quickly. Something you learned in first aid was that you never gave a victim water or food while you attended to their injuries because it didn’t help them at all if they were slipping into shock. Still, Thomas had clearly decided the rules could go fuck themselves, because his husband hadn’t been given real water in weeks. And Spectre was grateful.
“Okay, Babe. Here.” Thomas moved to prop Spectre up so that the doctor could attend to his wounds at the same time as he drank his water. Thomas held his husband against him, and he tilted a bottle against his lips. At first, Spectre had trouble making the water go down, and he sputtered and the water ended up coming right back up all over his front. It was as if he had forgotten to swallow and Spectre looked up at his husband with apologetic eyes. He hadn't meant to make a mess. He hoped Thomas wouldn't cover his mouth again.
"'m sorry," Spectre whispered. Thomas just wiped the mess away calmly and he tried again. When Spectre managed to swallow, he was quite sure nothing had ever felt as good as drinking that water in the helicopter, even if the helicopter was loud. He clamped on to the water bottle so tightly, Thomas was afraid that to pull it away would cause his husband some kind of harm.
“Go easy, Spectre. You need to be careful.” And even though he didn't want to, Spectre complied and Thomas slowly pulled the water bottle away from his husband’s lips. Immediately Spectre grimaced at the pain in his back and his broken rib while the doctor saw to his wounds. It had gotten through the morphine.
Thomas leaned down and he kissed Spectre’s head. “You’re going to be okay now, Babe. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Thomas said it was going to be okay. At that moment, Spectre didn't remember that Thomas had held his hands over Spectre's mouth while he had had metal ripped out of him. He didn't remember that this could all be a terrible vision sent to him to make him feel even more lost when he broke out of it. All that mattered was his husband and those words. It was going to be okay. Thomas said it and Spectre believed it.
Spectre pressed his face up against Thomas’ chest and it was there he started to sob. The poor man hardly had the energy to put his entire body behind it, but he tried his best. He lay there in Thomas’ arms, shaking, while the doctor finished patching him up. And when he was more bandage than man, he was given another shot of morphine which seemed to take effect immediately. Memory returned. Spectre finally turned his tear-stained face upwards and he frowned at his husband. “You held my mouth closed,” he said, his voice slightly accusing.
“We were trying to avoid a crowd,” Thomas grumbled, since their efforts had been in vain. At least they were all okay now. Or they had the chance to end up that way.
"They held my mouth closed," Spectre explained. "They...when they whipped me. For the rain."
Thomas hung his head, but there was nothing he could do about it now. “Oh, Babe... I’m sorry. God, I'm so sorry.” He needed to change the subject, because they couldn't deal with this here. Not with Spectre half mad from pain and deprivation. What Thomas had to do was make Spectre feel he really was with people who loved and would protect him. “Are you hungry, Babe?”
At that, Spectre began to cry again. Hunger was a sore subject for him and right now he was so much more than hungry. Thomas wasn't going to keep him that way. That was what he had needed to hear. Spectre struggled to sit up and though he failed, Thomas pulled the angel into his lap even despite whip wounds and broken ribs, and he held Spectre like an overgrown infant. Spectre’s face rested against Thomas’ cheek and even as he cried, he tilted his face upwards so he could kiss his husband’s cheek. Then he managed to whimper, “need food. Please. I need food.” He needed food now more than he had needed almost anything in his twenty-eight years of life.
Thomas knew exactly how that felt, and he was quick to comply, even as they wended their windy way over the Carpathian Mountains. He retrieved a thermos of soup and he fed it to Spectre and Spectre cried throughout the entire experience. He was being taken care of. Treated with love and kindness. He had food and the arms of his husband, and morphine which was awesome.
Thomas would take care of him and nurse him back to health. Being held in his arms was like a miracle. Thomas kissed the Spectre's forehead with every bite. So when Spectre finally fell asleep in Thomas’ arms, he looked, despite everything, utterly content.
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