Work Text:
Collections/Challenges: Whumptober, Day 17 (+ 31)
Prompt(s): “Tell me theres a hope for me.”, “Even with the smallest cuts, you can still lose so much blood.” | Bleeding out
Character(s): Jason, minor—Percy
Rating: Teen
Summary: It’s a nick. A barely there scratch, honestly, but with the way his blood is pouring out of his wrist you’d think they’d sliced his entire artery open.
Honestly, they probably had.
————————————————————
It didn’t hurt.
That’s all Jason could think—it didn’t hurt.
His wrist pulsed, blood spurting from the shallow cut, but there was no pain. He paused, staring down at the wound with a sick sort of curiosity. It wasn’t big—a small slice just under his wrist, but it was bleeding fast.
The demigod below him was panting heavily, dagger clutched in hand, still sat on the floor while Jason towered over him.
The man blinked, staring at Jason’s wrist like he couldn’t believe what he’d done. It was nothing more than a reflex—trying to get away from Jason. He couldn’t exactly fault the demigod, but…
Well, he’d never had his wrist cut before.
He watched the bright red blood quickly coat his arm, dripping off and onto the floor at an alarming rate. Before he could do anything—say anything—his knees were buckling underneath him. He narrowly avoided falling onto the demigod or stabbing him with his gladius, which he was only barely able to hold onto. He couldn’t take his eyes off the wound—even if they were hard to keep open and his vision was getting fuzzy around the edges.
The cut was so small, but he’d surely lost a pint of blood already. His artery was definitely nicked, if not completely cut through. Because of course it would be. With Jason’s luck, why would it not?
The other demigod finally stood up, looking at Jason’s swaying form with wide eyes. He backed away slowly, opening his mouth like he wanted to say something before he turned around, taking off without a word.
Just fucking great.
He couldn’t focus on that. He knew he needed to put pressure on the wound—stop himself from bleeding out—but he wasn’t sure he could if he wanted to. His body refused to move even an inch. His legs wouldn’t work, his arms were heavy like lead, and his head refused to lift itself upright and stay there.
Around him, the battle raged on. Monsters fighting demigods, demigods fighting demigods, demigods fighting the earth itself. No one was paying attention to him.
(Was he going to die?)
He debated calling out for help but when he tried his voice wouldn’t work. Instead, it clicked stupidly before refusing to cooperate, silencing him.
He sucked in a sharp, shaky breath. He could hear his pulse rushing in his ears, loud and steady despite the blood loss.
Jason wouldn’t admit that he was freaking out.
His mind drifted back to the prophecy, to that one line: “to storm or fire the world must fall”. (He doubted that this would count, if he died—it would be for nothing. If he died…)
He didn’t want to think about that.
He blinked and suddenly he was on the ground, lying on his side. His blood was going everywhere, staining his shirt and the grass under him a bright crimson. Every beat of his heart sent another spurt out of his body.
At this rate, he’d be dead within a few minutes.
(He didn’t even say goodbye.)
He wasn’t sure how long he laid there, but every second felt torturous and draining (in more ways than one). His breathing was growing laboured, his heartbeat picking up speed while his blood poured out of the tiniest cut you could think of.
It was almost funny—even with the smallest cuts you could still lose so much blood.
…
He felt weak.
He wasn’t shot or stabbed, yet he couldn’t even speak. He couldn’t get up.
It was pathetic.
But regardless, no matter what he did, no matter what he thought, his body refused to cooperate. He couldn’t do anything despite every cell of his body screaming at him to do something.
He wondered briefly if the blade was coated in some kind of poison or sedative—maybe that was why he felt paralyzed?
(It definitely wasn’t the crippling fear, the panic, the adrenaline crash, or the small part of him that had always wanted to do this.)
His vision blurred in and out while the time around him distorted. Seconds felt like hours, minutes felt like seconds. His head was spinning and his breaths were coming out short and choppy. He wondered how many pints he’d lost now—surely more than four. (But don’t humans only have 8? Shouldn’t he be dead by now?)
Before he could think too hard about the logistics of bleeding out, he felt arms around his shoulders, turning him onto his back. His eyes were half lidded as he stared up at the sky, wincing at the sharp tug of the wound.
Next to him there was someone—Percy—talking to him. He couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, but he was definitely talking.
(He wanted to ask how bad it was—if there was any hope left for him. Still, he knew he couldn’t ask even if he wanted to.)
There was a pressure on his wrist, a second hand bringing his right hand to the cloth covering the wound. Distantly, he realized he should probably hold it down with some pressure, and his hand clamped onto the injury with a surprising amount of force.
Above him, he could barely make out Percy’s smile. His vision was filled with dark spots, threatening to overtake everything he could see with every passing second. He tried to stay awake, tried to keep his eyes open, but it was useless.
The last thing he registered was the feeling of hands under his back and knees, his head lolling back—
Then nothing.