[HC Bingo] Medical Intervention – Villainous – Dr Flug, Black Hat

[thecrazyalaskan]

Title: Medical Intervention

Author: TheCrazyAlaskan

Fandom / Setting: Villainous

Characters / Pairings: Dr Thomas Flug, Black Hat (implied / if you squint Paperhat-y)

Word Count: 870

Rating: T

Warnings / Notes: TW: needles, implied / referenced dysphoria; written for Round VIII of the Hurt / Comfort Bingo: Needles / Piercings

Summary: The irony of being so terrified of needles and yet needing to use them to make the transition work is far from lost on Flug. He wants to think that one day he'll get over it, but for now, he has to pull some help.

 

Y'all can have transman Flug when you pry him from my cold dead fingers.

Enter your cut contents here.

Alright. Just… just a little stick.

 

Flug held the syringe in one hand, eyeing the pale fluid within. God, the irony was thicker than the testosterone itself—he needed it to make the transition really work, but he had to fight with himself every week to make it happen.

 

He swallowed hard. His chest felt tight, but it wasn't because of his binder. Just do it already, you've already wasted enough—

 

Three sharp knocks on the door pulled him, none too gently, from his thoughts. "Just whenever you get a minute, Flug—hate to be an inconvenience."  

 

The "now" wasn't even implied, but understood all the same. "Just a minute, sir," he called, setting the syringe aside and wriggling into his jeans before answering the door.

 

His boss fixed him with a look that… well, it wasn't withering but it almost felt like it. His boss—Black Hat, the (self-proclaimed) world's greatest criminal mind, as put together as ever, even at seven thirty in the morning. Flug wasn't surprised, although he was a little jealous. "Like I said, Flug—" Coming from anyone else the tone might have been conversational— "I'd hate to be an inconvenience."

 

"Sorry, sir," Flug mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, the paper bag over his head crinkling softly. "I'll be down in…" Shit, there was never a solid number for this process. "As soon as possible."

 

"Care to bring me up to speed on the delay?" Had he been sitting behind his desk, his folded hands would have been resting on it.

 

"Just…" It was impossible to lie about this sort of thing. Flug sighed and pulled the paper bag from his head. His features were remarkably feminine, which was the whole reason he opted to keep his face covered to begin with (not to mention the biggest source of his dysphoria). "Trying to administer some hormones, sir."

 

Black Hat's eyes narrowed as he eyed Flug almost critically. "You hate needles," he noted.

 

"Believe me, sir," he mumbled, "the irony is far from lost on me."  

 

"We don't have time for this—" Black Hat shouldered past him, pausing to shrug out of his coat and drape it over the footboard. "I'll just do it myself."

 

"Uhm, sir—" Flug closed the door, locked it without thinking, then thought about how it might look and unlocked it again. "Is that—You don't have to—"  

 

"If we're getting anything done today, I do," Black Hat said shortly, already unbuttoning and rolling up his shirtsleeves.

 

Flug might have protested, but he knew from intimate professional experience that doing so was pointless. Instead, he mumbled his thanks and moved to sit, then lie facedown, on the bed as Black Hat picked up the syringe and inspected the needle. "It's a twenty-three gauge," he supplied, hoping to be even marginally helpful, despite the phobia.

 

"I gathered," he replied, deliberately tapping the side of the syringe. Flug watched the process with nothing less than fascination—his skill spoke to practice, but he wasn't sure he was ready to ask about where he'd gotten it.

 

"Right—" The syringe aspirated, Black hat settled on the edge of the bed as easily as if it were his own. "Where am I sticking it?"   

 

"Not in my ass, if that's what you're implying," Flug grumbled into the pillow, feeling rather than seeing his boss' cheeky grin. "Shoulder, please—" He shrugged loosely, hoping the action indicated his deltoid. "Right into the muscle."

 

Black Hat's fingers probed briefly before finding the appropriate muscle and stretching the skin over it taut. "Quick question, Flug—what's your favorite color?"

 

The question was apropos of nothing, and entirely too chatty to be considered typical Black Hat behavior. Flug's brown furrowed, unseen in the pillow. "I beg your pardon, s—" He yelped in equal measure of pain and surprise as the needle pierced his skin, and again at the pressure of the testosterone being injected into the muscle. "Shit—!"

 

"Some people say it hurts less if it's a surprise," Black Hat noted drily as he withdrew the needle, "but I think we both know that's bullshit, don't we?"

 

"No kidding," Flug grumbled, rolling over and sitting up. His hand automatically lifted to the injection site, his fingers applying enough pressure to stave off the dull ache that always followed a dose.

 

"I'll leave that for you to dispose of—" Black Hat set the syringe deliberately on the nightstand before standing and unrolling and re-buttoning his sleeves— "and expect you in the lab in fifteen minutes."

 

At this point, fifteen minutes was more than enough time. "Absolutely," he agreed. "Thank you s—"

 

The sentiment barely left his mouth before his boss was out the door, the swish of his long coat serving as a farewell. That didn't surprise Flug in the least (he suspected that a lot of human mores and interactions, if they didn't bore Black Hat to tears, were simply irrelevant to him). No, the surprising part, he mused as he disposed of the needles in the appropriate sharps container, was… well it was either the skill with which he'd administered the shot, or the fact that he, in his own… very unique, at times terrifying way, cared enough to do it at all.