xxxHOLiC; barcode, part viii; doumeki, watanuki; r
fandom: xxxHOLiC
story: barcode
summary: like anyone else who does not have a soul, you cannot stand anyone who has too much of one [doumeki, watanuki, violence, creepiness, weirdness]
notes/warnings: lots of bleeding Doumeki. Watanuki in withdrawal. Um...yeah.
part one
part two
part three
part four
part five
part six
part seven
Sometimes there's a bad reaction to one set of nanomachines Kyle shoots in. The set is two shots, one in each eye, to ensure no change in vision and also to heal any cerebral damage quickly and effectively. A and Ichi-C reacted to the right shot, Ni-B reacted to the left. Ichi-B and Ni-C didn't react at all-though Ni-C could react yet still, he's still alive, after all.
The reaction, it twists something in the mind, makes something itch behind the eye, hot and painful. Made them go mad, fingers scratching at the eyeball, digging into skin, until they rip it out themselves.
Kyle's been working on those nanomachines, thinks they're better. He'd had A outfitted with glass eyes, but it really wasn't worth it. Especially since both Ni-B and Ichi-C failed as well, and that would have been such a waste of money. An eyepatch is good enough.
--
He wakes up when the cell door opens and the light makes It hiss.
Kyle tosses Shizuka in, shoves him and he sprawls across the ground, unmoving. He follows that with the bag that's been the first aid kit Kimihiro's whole life.
“He’s wounded and no good to me,” Kyle snaps, angry. “He’ll stay here until he’s better.”
Shizuka breathes, the sound wet and rattling in his chest. He probably has a punctured lung, most likely from broken ribs since there’s not a wound anywhere near his lungs. The nanomachines’ll take care of that, though; it’s the external wounds, the bleeding ones, that will be the most problem.
Shizuka’s breath rattles again, shallow and even and-
notawakenotawakenotawake-
The bag lands near his feet and he grabs it, fisting white fingers into the oilcloth.
“You can do that, right? This is part of your training.” Kyle turns and slams the door behind him and It flinches and pushes Itself against the corner.
He edges towards Shizuka, and strips off the remains of a bloody shirt. He’s bruised beneath, his back the worst, and there’s a gash running diagonal and deep just above the small of his back, ending perilously close to his spine. That particular cut is littered with splinters, and even Kimihiro, still riding a little high off the drugs in the last meal (two days ago? he’s not sure), can put together: explosion blasted him onto his back, wood cut into him when he landed hard obviously, cause wood doesn’t cut like that normally-
Shizuka was always better at the gathering facts thing, but he’s got that training too and he can’t forget that.
His vision goes fuzzy for a moment and he winces, closing his eye until it clears…he’s almost clean, now, and something like that would have to mean-
fuck.
And he realizes:
His hands are trembling hard, a mix of the last of the high and the beginning of withdrawal.
He turns the body (Shizuka, ohgod, Shizuka) over and his chest is bruised and scratched but nothing too bad and his cheek has a slice surrounded by purpling skin, cut deep enough to see the bone, cracked but knitting together slowly, and blood’s dried down his face and on his collarbone but it’s not bleeding anymore. Nanomachines’ll take care of that, he’ll tape it after he’s done everything else.
Strips Shizuka out of his pants next and it’s more bruises, more scratches except there’s a shard of metal in his calf, left or right Kimihiro can’t remember which is which, and that needs to get out first. He doesn’t know where that metal’s from, it could make him sick-
He pulls Shizuka into his lap and presses the ruined shirt against the gash in his back, and then, for good measure, wraps it tightly around his torso, holding it there with one hand, and with the other begins working the shrapnel out of his leg, slow and careful.
It comes out without much of a problem and a gush of fresh blood, and-
god he’s so pale
but still breathing, and the gash on his back is oozing blood with every beat of his heart and Kimihiro dumps the bag out next to him and reaches for the antiseptic.
Hasn’t done this in ages, really-usually it’s Shizuka fixing him, usually he comes to in Shizuka’s lap while steady fingers stitch up some wound or another. Well, he stitches up Shizuka pretty often, but cuts are one thing and this-this is another thing entirely.
‘S been ages since any of that has happened to 'em anyway.
How long’s he been here? He tries to think back, on Shizuka’s and Kyle’s visits, on feeding but his memory fuzzes and all he can think about are those first few missions when they were…young, when they were younger, and afterwards, panting and bloody and half-dead and high they’d come together and sleep in one bed and tangle around each other, one thing. Not two.
He finishes cleaning the wound and his vision goes blurry again and it takes him who knows how many tries to thread the needle and-he remembers:
They used to argue lots. Not usually real anger, but. It was funny. Sort of. Maybe-maybe it was-
It’s gone.
His hands are shaking, shaking and he can’t get them to stop enough to actually do the stitches and butterfly closures won’t do it here-
“K-mi-ro.”
It’s a hiss and a voice and enough to make him jump especially when he realizes-
It.
He looks over and pulls Shizuka to him, his hand pressing hard on the leg wound. Warm blood is all over his thighs, from his back.
It’s crawling forward, unchained right now. Sometimes they chain It up but usually It’s got free reign of the cell.
“W-what-what d-do you want?”
Its greasy hair is longer than It is tall, has to be, pure black and still in Its face, one metal hand scraping along the stone and the other with fingernails like claws. There’s a collar around Its neck, a loose one, almost delicate, more like jewelry almost than anything else, but it’s dirty and tarnished and can’t be anything but a collar.
And. It’s not wearing what they always thought were blankets, many of them, but elaborate white robes so dirty they're almost brown. Thick, fancy, long draping sleeves, layers and layers of cloth, torn and ragged, but he can tell it's good cotton and linen under the dirt and come.
“I-“ It says, whispers. Its gold eye doesn’t look hungry like it sometimes does. Looks…odd. Can’t read it well. Doesn’t know what it means. “I…know.”
It has a hard time speaking.
“Wh-what?” he demands. “Get away!”
“St-stitcshhhh,” It says, the ch sound dragging out. “Know.”
His hands are shaking hard, even pressed against Shizuka’s skin. He’s breathing even more shallowly now and when he feels for a pulse, it’s week. Blood squelches out from under his fingers. “No-“
“Won’t. Hhhhurt. You.” It shakes Its head. “Nnno.”
Lucid. Its eye isn’t crazed, there’s not wide sharp grin on Its face.
It crawls closer, next to them, and holds out its metal hand, sleeve sliding back. The hand doesn’t tremble, not even slightly like a normal person’s might, and now this close, it’s not a metal hand, but metal fused to skin, veins of silver, every finger almost entirely covered with steel, copper wires trailing all over the place, disappearing into the sleeve.
It takes a deep breath. “P-please.”
His hands won’t stop shaking, the only thing keeping him grounded Shizuka’s pulse, softer still, but steady.
He hands It the needle, and It takes Shizuka’s leg gently and wipes blood away with its robes and makes each stitch with careful perfect deliberation. It is shaking too, Its entire body trembling violently except that metal arm.
But It’s not slow. It finishes with quick efficiency and ties off the thread and that metal hand pours more antiseptic on it and tapes gauze over the wound and then helps Kimihiro turn him over and with that same metal hand It picks out the splinters in Shizuka’s back and stitches that up as well, pausing only when Shizuka shifts and groans, a deep exhale dribbling blood down his chin. And then It shrinks back, quickly and violently, to press Itself against the wall, again.
It is always hungry for sex or food or love, or angry, violent, or terrified, cowering in Its corner. But--but for a moment, It was none of that.
It was lucid.
Kimihiro looks at It, eyes wide, Shizuka's chest rising and falling on his thighs.
It stares back, hair mussed enough to see both eyes, the milky white one and the golden one, and both are terrified and full of tears. Not lucid anymore.
Shizuka groans, mutters something like Kmirghhh.
“Thank you,” Kimihiro says. Supposed to say thank you when someone helps you, he knows that. It flinches.
He turns Shizuka onto his back again and his eyes open, a darker, warmer gold than Its eye.
“Kimi…” Shizuka says, hoarse. There’s a can of water in the first aid and he offers it to Shizuka, who drinks gratefully. “I-“
“Been awake long?”
“When. My back. Stitches.” Kimihiro helps him sit up, turns him so they face each other, presses Shizuka’s forehead to his shoulder and takes bandages, wrapping his torso to help stabilize his ribs. He presses a gauze pad to the wound on his back and tapes it there, like It did with his leg, to keep it clean.
He can feel warm ragged breath against his shoulder. “An explosion,” Shizuka says. “The west balcony of the ballroom. Kyle said someone planned it to kill him and the king and Fei Wong Reed and so they didn’t go out there. Fifteen people died, for sure, maybe more.” He pants after all that, digging his hands into the pockets of Kimihiro’s ragged pants.
Kimihiro finishes wrapping his ribs and pulls Shizuka closer to him. Even though his breath is still wet and blood drips out of his mouth every time he opens it, he’s alive.
“But,” he says, painfully clean now, head not yet pounding for another hit, “But then why wouldn’t they stop the blast?”
Shizuka pushes himself closer to Kimihiro, if that’s even possible. “Dunno,” he whispers. “I-don’t know.”
previous| next
story: barcode
summary: like anyone else who does not have a soul, you cannot stand anyone who has too much of one [doumeki, watanuki, violence, creepiness, weirdness]
notes/warnings: lots of bleeding Doumeki. Watanuki in withdrawal. Um...yeah.
part one
part two
part three
part four
part five
part six
part seven
Sometimes there's a bad reaction to one set of nanomachines Kyle shoots in. The set is two shots, one in each eye, to ensure no change in vision and also to heal any cerebral damage quickly and effectively. A and Ichi-C reacted to the right shot, Ni-B reacted to the left. Ichi-B and Ni-C didn't react at all-though Ni-C could react yet still, he's still alive, after all.
The reaction, it twists something in the mind, makes something itch behind the eye, hot and painful. Made them go mad, fingers scratching at the eyeball, digging into skin, until they rip it out themselves.
Kyle's been working on those nanomachines, thinks they're better. He'd had A outfitted with glass eyes, but it really wasn't worth it. Especially since both Ni-B and Ichi-C failed as well, and that would have been such a waste of money. An eyepatch is good enough.
--
He wakes up when the cell door opens and the light makes It hiss.
Kyle tosses Shizuka in, shoves him and he sprawls across the ground, unmoving. He follows that with the bag that's been the first aid kit Kimihiro's whole life.
“He’s wounded and no good to me,” Kyle snaps, angry. “He’ll stay here until he’s better.”
Shizuka breathes, the sound wet and rattling in his chest. He probably has a punctured lung, most likely from broken ribs since there’s not a wound anywhere near his lungs. The nanomachines’ll take care of that, though; it’s the external wounds, the bleeding ones, that will be the most problem.
Shizuka’s breath rattles again, shallow and even and-
notawakenotawakenotawake-
The bag lands near his feet and he grabs it, fisting white fingers into the oilcloth.
“You can do that, right? This is part of your training.” Kyle turns and slams the door behind him and It flinches and pushes Itself against the corner.
He edges towards Shizuka, and strips off the remains of a bloody shirt. He’s bruised beneath, his back the worst, and there’s a gash running diagonal and deep just above the small of his back, ending perilously close to his spine. That particular cut is littered with splinters, and even Kimihiro, still riding a little high off the drugs in the last meal (two days ago? he’s not sure), can put together: explosion blasted him onto his back, wood cut into him when he landed hard obviously, cause wood doesn’t cut like that normally-
Shizuka was always better at the gathering facts thing, but he’s got that training too and he can’t forget that.
His vision goes fuzzy for a moment and he winces, closing his eye until it clears…he’s almost clean, now, and something like that would have to mean-
fuck.
And he realizes:
His hands are trembling hard, a mix of the last of the high and the beginning of withdrawal.
He turns the body (Shizuka, ohgod, Shizuka) over and his chest is bruised and scratched but nothing too bad and his cheek has a slice surrounded by purpling skin, cut deep enough to see the bone, cracked but knitting together slowly, and blood’s dried down his face and on his collarbone but it’s not bleeding anymore. Nanomachines’ll take care of that, he’ll tape it after he’s done everything else.
Strips Shizuka out of his pants next and it’s more bruises, more scratches except there’s a shard of metal in his calf, left or right Kimihiro can’t remember which is which, and that needs to get out first. He doesn’t know where that metal’s from, it could make him sick-
He pulls Shizuka into his lap and presses the ruined shirt against the gash in his back, and then, for good measure, wraps it tightly around his torso, holding it there with one hand, and with the other begins working the shrapnel out of his leg, slow and careful.
It comes out without much of a problem and a gush of fresh blood, and-
god he’s so pale
but still breathing, and the gash on his back is oozing blood with every beat of his heart and Kimihiro dumps the bag out next to him and reaches for the antiseptic.
Hasn’t done this in ages, really-usually it’s Shizuka fixing him, usually he comes to in Shizuka’s lap while steady fingers stitch up some wound or another. Well, he stitches up Shizuka pretty often, but cuts are one thing and this-this is another thing entirely.
‘S been ages since any of that has happened to 'em anyway.
How long’s he been here? He tries to think back, on Shizuka’s and Kyle’s visits, on feeding but his memory fuzzes and all he can think about are those first few missions when they were…young, when they were younger, and afterwards, panting and bloody and half-dead and high they’d come together and sleep in one bed and tangle around each other, one thing. Not two.
He finishes cleaning the wound and his vision goes blurry again and it takes him who knows how many tries to thread the needle and-he remembers:
They used to argue lots. Not usually real anger, but. It was funny. Sort of. Maybe-maybe it was-
It’s gone.
His hands are shaking, shaking and he can’t get them to stop enough to actually do the stitches and butterfly closures won’t do it here-
“K-mi-ro.”
It’s a hiss and a voice and enough to make him jump especially when he realizes-
It.
He looks over and pulls Shizuka to him, his hand pressing hard on the leg wound. Warm blood is all over his thighs, from his back.
It’s crawling forward, unchained right now. Sometimes they chain It up but usually It’s got free reign of the cell.
“W-what-what d-do you want?”
Its greasy hair is longer than It is tall, has to be, pure black and still in Its face, one metal hand scraping along the stone and the other with fingernails like claws. There’s a collar around Its neck, a loose one, almost delicate, more like jewelry almost than anything else, but it’s dirty and tarnished and can’t be anything but a collar.
And. It’s not wearing what they always thought were blankets, many of them, but elaborate white robes so dirty they're almost brown. Thick, fancy, long draping sleeves, layers and layers of cloth, torn and ragged, but he can tell it's good cotton and linen under the dirt and come.
“I-“ It says, whispers. Its gold eye doesn’t look hungry like it sometimes does. Looks…odd. Can’t read it well. Doesn’t know what it means. “I…know.”
It has a hard time speaking.
“Wh-what?” he demands. “Get away!”
“St-stitcshhhh,” It says, the ch sound dragging out. “Know.”
His hands are shaking hard, even pressed against Shizuka’s skin. He’s breathing even more shallowly now and when he feels for a pulse, it’s week. Blood squelches out from under his fingers. “No-“
“Won’t. Hhhhurt. You.” It shakes Its head. “Nnno.”
Lucid. Its eye isn’t crazed, there’s not wide sharp grin on Its face.
It crawls closer, next to them, and holds out its metal hand, sleeve sliding back. The hand doesn’t tremble, not even slightly like a normal person’s might, and now this close, it’s not a metal hand, but metal fused to skin, veins of silver, every finger almost entirely covered with steel, copper wires trailing all over the place, disappearing into the sleeve.
It takes a deep breath. “P-please.”
His hands won’t stop shaking, the only thing keeping him grounded Shizuka’s pulse, softer still, but steady.
He hands It the needle, and It takes Shizuka’s leg gently and wipes blood away with its robes and makes each stitch with careful perfect deliberation. It is shaking too, Its entire body trembling violently except that metal arm.
But It’s not slow. It finishes with quick efficiency and ties off the thread and that metal hand pours more antiseptic on it and tapes gauze over the wound and then helps Kimihiro turn him over and with that same metal hand It picks out the splinters in Shizuka’s back and stitches that up as well, pausing only when Shizuka shifts and groans, a deep exhale dribbling blood down his chin. And then It shrinks back, quickly and violently, to press Itself against the wall, again.
It is always hungry for sex or food or love, or angry, violent, or terrified, cowering in Its corner. But--but for a moment, It was none of that.
It was lucid.
Kimihiro looks at It, eyes wide, Shizuka's chest rising and falling on his thighs.
It stares back, hair mussed enough to see both eyes, the milky white one and the golden one, and both are terrified and full of tears. Not lucid anymore.
Shizuka groans, mutters something like Kmirghhh.
“Thank you,” Kimihiro says. Supposed to say thank you when someone helps you, he knows that. It flinches.
He turns Shizuka onto his back again and his eyes open, a darker, warmer gold than Its eye.
“Kimi…” Shizuka says, hoarse. There’s a can of water in the first aid and he offers it to Shizuka, who drinks gratefully. “I-“
“Been awake long?”
“When. My back. Stitches.” Kimihiro helps him sit up, turns him so they face each other, presses Shizuka’s forehead to his shoulder and takes bandages, wrapping his torso to help stabilize his ribs. He presses a gauze pad to the wound on his back and tapes it there, like It did with his leg, to keep it clean.
He can feel warm ragged breath against his shoulder. “An explosion,” Shizuka says. “The west balcony of the ballroom. Kyle said someone planned it to kill him and the king and Fei Wong Reed and so they didn’t go out there. Fifteen people died, for sure, maybe more.” He pants after all that, digging his hands into the pockets of Kimihiro’s ragged pants.
Kimihiro finishes wrapping his ribs and pulls Shizuka closer to him. Even though his breath is still wet and blood drips out of his mouth every time he opens it, he’s alive.
“But,” he says, painfully clean now, head not yet pounding for another hit, “But then why wouldn’t they stop the blast?”
Shizuka pushes himself closer to Kimihiro, if that’s even possible. “Dunno,” he whispers. “I-don’t know.”
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