((A/N: First fic or really creative writing of any kind in the last 6 years, so constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Dirk's POV.))

The first thing that registers in your brain is pain, because fuck you hurt. There's a dull throbbing in your brain, some light stinging on your hands and knees, and the holy mother of physical suffering in your shoulder. You make the mistake of using both your arms to push yourself into a sitting position and fuck, fuck that was a bad idea. Deep breaths. Calm down, take deep breaths. While your lungs rattle with barely suppressed panic—not cool man, you're supposed to be in charge here—it's a good thing to know that they otherwise appear to work. But why do you hurt so much? What happened? What is that god awful noise you hear? Where the fuck are you?

You realize that you can probably find an answer for the last one if you just open your eyes, and you do. The light is almost blinding at first, adding another overload to your senses, but it starts to fade after a few moments, much to your relief. You squint and shade your eyes with a hand and manage to make out a face up there—oh, Jake. Maybe he can tell you what happened, if he can stop—

—if he can stop—

Is he crying? Oh god, hes crying, fuck. You aren't sure you can deal with that, because you desperately want to hold him and tell him everything is going to be okay, shoosh, it's all good, but you don't even know what happened. You don't know that it's going to be okay. Still, you have to say something to him.

The first time you try, your throat is dry enough that it comes out as little more than a croak. Jake hurriedly undoes a tie at his belt and uncorks the old-fashioned waterskin he carries with him. You drink gratefully from it as he holds carefully it to your mouth, then when you're done you try to speak again, attempting to ignore those warm, rough hands wiping sweat from your face.

"Jake," please stop crying, "What the fuck happened, bro?"

He stares at you for a moment, disbelief obvious on his face. "What do you mean, what happened? The addled dingbat that you are, you took a spear through your shoulder! I thought it went through your blasted heart!" Oh, that's right. You were "adventuring." You, and Jake, and...

"Where is Roxy?" A tang of blood and another sharp pain on your lips causes you to lick them. "Where did she go, why isn't she here too? Did something happen to her?"

"She ran off to get more bandages, and a proper medical kit. You, um, blast, you're bleeding through the ones we have on your now. We didn't have enough to stop it, and I didn't want to leave you alone when there are plenty of perfectly frightful fauna traipsing about just ready for a meal, but we were afraid to move you too much becau—" His voice starts to rise in pitch and your ears begin to protest. You shove your hand against his mouth, careful to use your good arm.

"Shut up, English." Play it cool. Keep your calm, don't let him see how much it really hurts or he'll really freak out. "Bro, you're getting hysterical. Chill out for a moment." You cup his face in your hand, thumb stroking his cheek and wiping away his tears, and his own hands cover yours as you try to adopt a more soothing tone. "Shhhh. Breathe. Just breathe. Shooosh."

He takes a few large, shuddering breaths before meeting your eyes and cracking a weak smile. "I'm a downright mess, now, aren't I chum? I'm supposed to be looking after you, and you're the one taking care of me."

Ffffuck your shoulder hurts, but at least the pain has started to clear your mind, let you remember what happened before you lost consciousness. Jake had found some ruins a while back, saved them just so he could share them with you when he entered them for the first time. You'd gotten past the first few rooms fine, avoiding the swinging blades here, disabling the poison gas there. Then he'd gotten careless, triggered something, a trap. You had been the one to shove him out of the way, flashstepping across the room.

You crane your neck to glance at your wounds. You can still flex the muscles and feel everything fine, though you might wish the latter point wasn't true at the moment. There was a much smaller damage area than you expected. "It must not have been a very big spear."

"It wasn't meant for fighting, Strider. It doesn't even have to survive the first hit, as long as it does damage." He swallows. "You stopped it from going all the way through, but it definitely cut through some muscle and we don't know what else."

His breathing is getting harder again and you aren't really sure what to do, but you move your hand to the back of his head and tug his face down to yours. Eyes closed, you press your forehead to his and murmur comfortingly as you try to think of what to do next. A sudden bout of dizziness reminds you that you're still bleeding. Shit. Puncture wound, and you're bleeding out.

"Okay, Jake? Jake, I need you to listen to me. We need to stop the bleeding—" His breath catches, and you stroke his hair, forcing yourself to disregard how soft it is, or how your mouths are so close that you're practically sharing each breath. "I need you to apply pressure to the wound, do you hear me?" He jerks back and you open your eyes to see his startling green ones filled with worry and confusion. You cut him off before he can begin to speak. "Pressure will help stop the bleeding. I need you to do that for me."

He asks anyways. "But won't that bloody hurt?"

Yes, yes it will. Of course it will. Fuck, it hurts so bad already you're about ready to chop the thing off and be done with it, but you grit your teeth and steel yourself for what's coming.

"Do it. Bleeding out is worse. And don't let up unless you're wrapping more bandages or something, or you'll just jostle it and make it worse."

It takes him a long moment to convince himself that he can do it. He takes the hand that's been holding him in place and squeezes it before letting go and shifting to have a better position by your shoulder. Then, slowly, he presses down on your wound.

You can't help it. A tiny whimper escapes your lips. Before, you'd been doing your best to ignore it, focusing on Jake, trying to calm him down, taking comfort in him, but now the pain has free reign on your mind and fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck it hurts. Fiery daggers stab in your shoulder and neck while razor-edged lightening shoots down your arm. It takes a pretty hefty chunk of will just to keep yourself from yanking away or shoving Jake off of you. You dimly register him saying something, and someone else answering—female, Roxy?—before you let yourself pass out into the cool darkness tugging at the edges of your vision.