For 10_hurt_comfort: Comfort Food
Title: Humble Pie
Author: dubiousmethods
Claim: Guerrero
Prompt: Comfort Food
Rating: G
Summary: Very occasionally, there's some honour among thieves.
Warnings: Death by fluff.
Notes: This started out as something that was supposed to be angsty and serious, but quickly evaported into silly amounts of fluff. Hints at some Guerrero!torture but doesn't go into any great detail. I figure the rest of the prompt table will be full of nothing else, so I can get away with one piece of ridiculousness, right? :D
Also, I'm not happy with this, not by a longshot. I tend to prefer to write narrative with a lot more gritty detail but with this I tried to keep it simple and focus more on the interaction between the characters. Reading it back though, I'm thinking maybe too simple? It hasn't been beta read either, so feel free to point out any mistakes/typos, what have you. I'll need to look back at this in the sober light of day and see what needs editing, what needs expanding and, let's face it, what's gonna need deleting so, until that's done and I feel less ashamed of it, I won't be posting it in the comm. Any observations, suggestions, or criticism is more than welcome! I'm still working on trying to get Guerrero's voice more embedded in the narrative without going overboard, trying to understand more of where he's coming from, make it more introspective. It's still very much a WIP.
-----
Guerrero shifts on the lumpy couch in the room adjacent to Winston's office, freeing the numbed arm that's been trapped against his side for -- he doesn't know how long. Even the uncomfortable sensation of blood rushing to his fingertips, that itching, burning, tingling feeling that makes him curl his hand into a tight fist, isn't enough to distract him from the throbbing behind his eyes. He shifts again, as though moving his head will provide him with the same relief that it did his arm.
It doesn't.
Bare feet brace against the armrest as the steadily pulsing ache flares into a harsh stab that shocks down his neck. The groan that he can't quite restrain is muffled against the pillow someone's slipped beneath his pounding head, and it's another moment before he slumps against it, gasping breathlessly. It's a moment longer before the vague memories, faded to black around the edges and missing scenes that Guerrero feels certain must have been vital, start to return. He knows there was a crowbar involved, somehow.
"Well, it's about time."
Guerrero cautiously turns his head to peer at the fuzzy shape standing in the doorway and, for one panicked moment he worries that whatever injury he's suffered has done more damage than he originally thought, only to realize as he rubs a hand over his face that someone's removed his glasses.
"Just what exactly did you think you were doing?" The figure, large, broad and unmistakably Winston, comes closer to the couch to peer down at him disapprovingly. "You put Chance in one hell of a situation. He had to drag your sorry ass all the way back here and --" Winston cuts off mid-rant, his already stern expression becoming noticeably sterner. Guerrero just closes his eyes against it, as though pretending he didn't see it will help to make it go away.
Except that that prompts Winston to force them open roughly and shine a light in his eyes. "Hey, are you listening to me?"
Guerrero shoves ineffectually at the hand grabbing his chin, slurring something to the affect of, "Le'me alone." His tongue doesn't seem to want to co-operate with his aching brain.
"Damn it, your concussion's worse than we thought. We need to get you to a doctor. Come on, you must know somebody we can trust." He's too tired to answer. "Guerrero?" A hand shakes his shoulder insistently. "Guerrero!"
"Mmph, s'cool. Just need t'..." He licks his dry lips dozily, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth. A flash of memory. A gun levelled at Chance's back. "'S Chance...?"
"Yeah, he's fine. He had some other things he needed to take care of," Winston tells him impatiently, as short with him as ever. Guerrero shouldn't be wasting his concern, not when he should know by now that Chance always pulls through one way or another. "You know how time sensitive this operation is."
Guerrero nods vaguely, still struggling to voice the words that are taking up what little space there is in his overstuffed head.
"Dude," he finally manages, squinting at Winston with a sort of detached confusion, brow furrowing. "My head hurts."
"What the hell did you expect? They clobbered you pretty bad." Winston shoves Guerrero's legs over none too gently, perching himself on the edge of the couch. "You're gonna feel pretty dizzy and nauseous for a while too. Just do me a favor and try not to ruin the upholstery, alright? I've just had this thing dry cleaned."
"Sorry for the inconvenience," Guerrero replies dryly, finding that the more he talks, the easier it starts to get. Guess it just takes a bruised brain a little longer to recall even the most basic things in life.
"Yeah, well, don't go making a habit out of it. We get enough heroics around here as it is."
Guerrero cautiously nods his understanding, though it's not enough to prevent the grimace of discomfort. A hand pats his knee in an unbidden moment of empathy, a silent thank you. A truce. A sigh. "I'll get you some ice."
Winston heads back towards the door and only when he gets up does Guerrero notice the black chef's apron that's tied around his waist or the powdery stain on the front of it.
"Hey, Winston?" He turns at the door, an eyebrow raised. "Do I smell pie?"
Author: dubiousmethods
Claim: Guerrero
Prompt: Comfort Food
Rating: G
Summary: Very occasionally, there's some honour among thieves.
Warnings: Death by fluff.
Notes: This started out as something that was supposed to be angsty and serious, but quickly evaported into silly amounts of fluff. Hints at some Guerrero!torture but doesn't go into any great detail. I figure the rest of the prompt table will be full of nothing else, so I can get away with one piece of ridiculousness, right? :D
Also, I'm not happy with this, not by a longshot. I tend to prefer to write narrative with a lot more gritty detail but with this I tried to keep it simple and focus more on the interaction between the characters. Reading it back though, I'm thinking maybe too simple? It hasn't been beta read either, so feel free to point out any mistakes/typos, what have you. I'll need to look back at this in the sober light of day and see what needs editing, what needs expanding and, let's face it, what's gonna need deleting so, until that's done and I feel less ashamed of it, I won't be posting it in the comm. Any observations, suggestions, or criticism is more than welcome! I'm still working on trying to get Guerrero's voice more embedded in the narrative without going overboard, trying to understand more of where he's coming from, make it more introspective. It's still very much a WIP.
-----
Guerrero shifts on the lumpy couch in the room adjacent to Winston's office, freeing the numbed arm that's been trapped against his side for -- he doesn't know how long. Even the uncomfortable sensation of blood rushing to his fingertips, that itching, burning, tingling feeling that makes him curl his hand into a tight fist, isn't enough to distract him from the throbbing behind his eyes. He shifts again, as though moving his head will provide him with the same relief that it did his arm.
It doesn't.
Bare feet brace against the armrest as the steadily pulsing ache flares into a harsh stab that shocks down his neck. The groan that he can't quite restrain is muffled against the pillow someone's slipped beneath his pounding head, and it's another moment before he slumps against it, gasping breathlessly. It's a moment longer before the vague memories, faded to black around the edges and missing scenes that Guerrero feels certain must have been vital, start to return. He knows there was a crowbar involved, somehow.
"Well, it's about time."
Guerrero cautiously turns his head to peer at the fuzzy shape standing in the doorway and, for one panicked moment he worries that whatever injury he's suffered has done more damage than he originally thought, only to realize as he rubs a hand over his face that someone's removed his glasses.
"Just what exactly did you think you were doing?" The figure, large, broad and unmistakably Winston, comes closer to the couch to peer down at him disapprovingly. "You put Chance in one hell of a situation. He had to drag your sorry ass all the way back here and --" Winston cuts off mid-rant, his already stern expression becoming noticeably sterner. Guerrero just closes his eyes against it, as though pretending he didn't see it will help to make it go away.
Except that that prompts Winston to force them open roughly and shine a light in his eyes. "Hey, are you listening to me?"
Guerrero shoves ineffectually at the hand grabbing his chin, slurring something to the affect of, "Le'me alone." His tongue doesn't seem to want to co-operate with his aching brain.
"Damn it, your concussion's worse than we thought. We need to get you to a doctor. Come on, you must know somebody we can trust." He's too tired to answer. "Guerrero?" A hand shakes his shoulder insistently. "Guerrero!"
"Mmph, s'cool. Just need t'..." He licks his dry lips dozily, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth. A flash of memory. A gun levelled at Chance's back. "'S Chance...?"
"Yeah, he's fine. He had some other things he needed to take care of," Winston tells him impatiently, as short with him as ever. Guerrero shouldn't be wasting his concern, not when he should know by now that Chance always pulls through one way or another. "You know how time sensitive this operation is."
Guerrero nods vaguely, still struggling to voice the words that are taking up what little space there is in his overstuffed head.
"Dude," he finally manages, squinting at Winston with a sort of detached confusion, brow furrowing. "My head hurts."
"What the hell did you expect? They clobbered you pretty bad." Winston shoves Guerrero's legs over none too gently, perching himself on the edge of the couch. "You're gonna feel pretty dizzy and nauseous for a while too. Just do me a favor and try not to ruin the upholstery, alright? I've just had this thing dry cleaned."
"Sorry for the inconvenience," Guerrero replies dryly, finding that the more he talks, the easier it starts to get. Guess it just takes a bruised brain a little longer to recall even the most basic things in life.
"Yeah, well, don't go making a habit out of it. We get enough heroics around here as it is."
Guerrero cautiously nods his understanding, though it's not enough to prevent the grimace of discomfort. A hand pats his knee in an unbidden moment of empathy, a silent thank you. A truce. A sigh. "I'll get you some ice."
Winston heads back towards the door and only when he gets up does Guerrero notice the black chef's apron that's tied around his waist or the powdery stain on the front of it.
"Hey, Winston?" He turns at the door, an eyebrow raised. "Do I smell pie?"