A/N: Second fill for my Bad Things Happen Bingo card, this time for: I Will Only Slow You Down.

I recently got into HxH, and I love these two so much. I absolutely do have some fluff in the works for them, too, but, for now:


To Safety

The first thing Shoot becomes aware of is the jostling. His mind is fogged, his eyelids are heavy, but he's moving somehow – carried along roughly by something. Someone, hopefully. If something has him he's probably in trouble, in which case he should –

Pain hits him, then, and he sucks in air on a strangled gasp. His leg is the worst, radiating hurt through the rest of him with every throb, but there's also an all-over soreness that makes it hard to assess exact damage.

From somewhere around him (above him?) among all the jostling and the distant whoosh of air as he moves, he hears a familiar grunt. He's aware enough now to feel arms cradling him, and to separate the way they flex to secure him from the overall bumpiness of their path. A person has him, then. Someone he recognizes. That's good.

Opening his eyes, he still doesn't see anything. He tries not to panic and blinks them a few times, attempting to shake the dredges of unconsciousness from his system. It works, although it takes him a while to be able to tell, considering the lighting wherever they are is awfully dim.

Once his eyes adjust, he catches sight of a strong jaw, lots of tanned skin, and thick foliage blurring past in the background. His brain makes the connection for him before he can start to think about it.

"Kn'ckle…?" It's just a whisper, which apparently means his voice isn't really working, either.

"Shoot!"

Their bumpy journey gets even rougher at that, and Shoot clings to whatever he's holding onto with his right hand to keep from falling. His whole body tenses, sending a fresh wave of stinging pain from his thigh. Hissing through his teeth, Shoot tries to relax his muscles and trust that he won't be dropped. It doesn't work.

"S-sorry!" Knuckle says. "I tripped."

Shoot grunts, not trusting his voice to be capable of more than that at the moment. Now that he knows that it's Knuckle who's carrying him, he recognizes the rhythm of his running and adjusts himself as best he can to which steps the pain will flare up on. The uneven terrain makes it difficult, but having even something small to focus on helps bring Shoot's mind back online.

'Whatever he's holding onto with his right hand' turns out to be Knuckle, too, of course. Shoot has his arm wrapped over broad (and bare – he doesn't have time to be mortified by this, but he is nonetheless) shoulders, his fingers digging into skin and muscle as he holds himself in place. Knuckle's got him in a princess carry, of all things – one arm under his knees, the other supporting his back.

…The position really isn't doing Shoot's embarrassment any favors, although with all his aches and pains, it's easier not to mind.

They skid to a sudden stop, and Knuckle's hold around him tightens so much that Shoot becomes acutely aware of several new bruises – as well as the fact that his legs are thoroughly slicked with what must be blood.

That would explain the throbbing in his thigh.

As Knuckle stands still, chest heaving to catch his breath, Shoot lifts his head to look down at himself, and immediately wishes he hadn't. He thinks he might be sick, and feels the blood drain from his face, probably going to join the rest of it gushing out of a deep gash on his thigh. He sees shredded skin, torn muscle, and something white peeking through that he has a sinking feeling is bone.

Slightly above the garish wound, something black is wrapped and tied tight around his leg – a tourniquet, his mind supplies. Trickles of red escape regardless, but he imagines it'd be much worse without that. As it is, his clothes are soaked, and even his sandals are stained.

He's aware of tacky, drying blood elsewhere on his person, and finds himself counting off other cuts as he wiggles around in Knuckle's easing hold. Panic is threatening to overwhelm him, especially as he can't remember what happened to get him in this state in the first place. The more injuries he takes stock of, the worse they all hurt. Especially his right thigh, pinned between his left and Knuckle's torso, leaking blood over the both of them, and –

"Sorry," Knuckle pants, "sorry, we'll get moving soon. I'll get you outta here, I swear."

Shoot has no idea what he means. Why is Knuckle panting, anyway? His endurance is top notch; ordinarily he can run for days without getting even slightly winded.

The key word there is 'ordinarily', probably. What happened to mess up 'ordinarily'? There must be something, and it creeps at the edges of Shoot's memory like vines climbing up a –

Vines. That's it.

As soon as Shoot remembers that detail, facts flood his head all at once…accompanied by the sudden, deafening sound of rustling leaves. Which, 'ordinarily' isn't deafening, but in these circumstances….

"Shit," Knuckle spits.

Mentally, Shoot echoes the sentiment.

And then Knuckle is running again, and all Shoot can do is hang on. Knuckle's gait is uneven as he trudges over thick tree roots and navigates dense underbrush, and every step jolts right into Shoot's throbbing leg. He bites his tongue to keep quiet.

Apart from his wheezing breaths, Knuckle is silent as he flees – which, as far as Shoot recalls, is probably pointless. The creature giving chase is so large it may as well be omnipresent. Escaping is a longshot at best and impossible at worst, and he's ever-inclined to expect the worst.

Still, Knuckle runs, cradling Shoot close like so much precious cargo. It's almost annoying. Shoot can't wrap his head around why.

Reorienting to Knuckle's rhythm, Shoot squirms in his hold, ignoring the all-over flare ups of pain. He lifts himself enough to peer over Knuckle's shoulder, and behind him he sees an infinite number of rustling leaves, accompanied by thick, vine-like plant life. Trees shudder and shake around them, only to be enveloped in the encroaching curtain of darkness.

Not a good view, all things considered.

"Knuckle," Shoot murmurs, sinking back down into strong arms, heart pounding in his chest despite not doing any of his own running, "we need to…."

"I know!" Knuckle says.

…Which is funny, because Shoot isn't even sure how he meant to finish that sentence.

By the sound of it, though, Knuckle has managed to catch most of his breath. He takes several long sprints forward and up, bouncing off of tree trunks until he's leaping from branch to branch. Higher ground. It's a good idea, Shoot thinks –

– At least until Knuckle's body jerks, and his arms slacken, and Shoot doesn't have much time to react before he slams back to the ground. Everything explodes into pain pain pain – he can't think or even breathe

A loud cry from Knuckle is the last thing his mind registers before it fizzles out completely.

x

Wet.

There's…something wet dripping on his face.

Shoot scrunches his brows and turns his head away to try and avoid it, but the drip proves steady, this time hitting his cheek and rolling down towards his mouth. By the corner of his lips, he tastes salt, mixing unpleasantly with the already-present iron flavor of blood.

As if triggered by the realization that he's definitely bleeding, pain floods in, coming from so many sources that Shoot doesn't bother to count them all.

'Oh, right,' he remembers, 'I was just thrown out of a tree.'

Moving his head is a chore now that he has sensation back, but he manages to turn it with a groan. He squints up at whatever's dripping on him, because that's the easiest curiosity to satisfy right now.

Knuckle's face blurs into existence. It's twitching like it wants to scrunch up in anguish, and a steady stream of tears leak from watery grey eyes, landing on Shoot's cheek.

That explains the salt, then.

But…where are they? What's going on? They were being chased, right? But they're stopped now? That's not good. If they linger too long, it'll catch up….

"Wha's," is all he manages when he tries to speak. His throat is dry and his tongue feels too heavy where it rests in his mouth. Clearing his throat only produces a tiny, strangled sound, and when he swallows it sticks oddly.

And then Knuckle must snap out of something, because strong arms wrap around Shoot and haul him close. Too close. Way too close.

It seems Shoot still has some blood left that isn't busy leaking out of his body, and all of it rushes to his face at once. His face, which is currently becoming well acquainted with Knuckle's bare chest –it's shuddering with restrained sobs, and Shoot can feel the muscles flex, can smell Knuckle's sweat –

"I'm sorry," Knuckle blurts above him. "I'm so sorry, I dropped you. I didn't mean to, but she grabbed my ankle and I –" he pauses here to sniffle wetly "– fell."

(She. Of course he gave a pronoun to the plant abomination on their tail. He's probably already named it, too.)

"S'kay." Shoot shouldn't have opened his mouth. Now he can taste Knuckle's sweat. His face flushes ever darker, and he brings his hand up to tap against whatever part of Knuckle he can reach. It's all he can manage, and fortunately it gets the point across.

"Sorry – sorry!" Knuckle doesn't sound any less frantic as he apologizes again, but when he leans down to resettle Shoot it's with the utmost care. His arms slip out from under him, and Shoot misses their warmth even as he's grateful to feel his blush receding.

…Although, in exchange for that, he regains full awareness of all the pain he's in. What a day.

Above him, a few tears escape Knuckle's eyes in rapid succession, slipping down to plop onto Shoot's nose.

He feels like he should offer more reassurance, but Shoot can only grunt, not sure what he means by it. Being dropped wasn't actually okay, after all. His right thigh is on fire, and the rest of him is stinging at various levels of soreness. He's pretty sure he has a concussion now that he didn't before. Possibly an extra broken bone or two, as well. Definitely more cuts and bruises.

But Knuckle didn't mean to.

…Though, Shoot is positive that Knuckle also hadn't meant to startle the huge, sentient plant creature (that they were only supposed to observe) into a panicked, angry rampage, either.

"S'fine," he mumbles in the end.

What's done is done, and Shoot really isn't in a place to argue with the only other human in what's probably a hundred kilometer radius. Maybe more. He can't remember exactly how big and deserted this particular patch of ancient forest is.

(Not that he even wants to argue in the first place. The warmth and breadth of Knuckle's chest is all-too-familiar – never mind everything he's done to keep Shoot safe so far.)

Above him, Knuckle scrubs the tears off of his face, leaving it steely and determined. There's enough light seeping into wherever they're hiding that Shoot can make out details, and the picture Knuckle paints isn't the prettiest. He's sporting a plethora of cuts and bruises, and his shirt is missing from where it had been hanging loose around his elbows before. His white pants are stained dark red and brown, and even green in places. That signature pompadour of his is frizzy and drooping.

All-in-all, though, he looks far more healthy and hale than Shoot feels. He's sure he's a mess – probably a black and blue and red sack of bones, at this point.

The thought gives him an uncomfortable idea relating to their chance of survival, one that makes him squirm. Only as a last resort, he tells himself. Only if things get even worse.

To help convince himself that things won't be getting worse, Shoot presses his hand to the ground and tries to push his body up into a sitting position. Hopefully that will clear his head and get rid of the fog that clings to him.

Every muscle in him protests to the movement, of course, and he grits his teeth against the fresh onslaught of pain.

Knuckle springs to help him, and Shoot finds he doesn't even have the energy left to conjure up another hand or two to push him away. Instead he allows himself to be gently maneuvered until he's leaning against the wall of their hiding place.

Even that minuscule movement was enough to exhaust him, though, which…doesn't bode well. Stars dance in front of Shoot's eyes, and he focuses on steadying his breath and banishing them.

"Here."

He hadn't even realized that Knuckle had left his side, but he's back, now, crouching next to him and offering a large leaf. Cupped in his hands as it is, there's a small puddle of water collected in the middle. Shoot has no idea where it could have come from, and he's half afraid that it's actually somehow toxic – but he sucks it down when Knuckle tilts the leaf to his lips anyway.

There's only enough for a few mouthfuls, but the effect is immediate and greatly appreciated. Cool and refreshing, the water brings his vocal chords back online as his throat finally loses the scratchy, dry edge. Shoot saves the last sip to slosh around his mouth, spitting blood off to the side.

"Thanks," he says. His voice is still weak, but much smoother now.

"No problem." Leaf empty, Knuckle drops it somewhere behind him and lets his arms rest on his knees.

Now that he feels the most awake he has since before the incident, Shoot takes advantage of his new vantage point to survey their hideout. The walls have a sort of roughness to them, and the ground where he sits is hard. There's only one opening, and even then it's just barely the right size to fit a human through. He's thin enough, but he's sure Knuckle had trouble squeezing his broad shoulders inside. The thought almost makes him want to smile, despite their circumstances.

"Where are we?" he asks.

Knuckle brings up a single pointer finger to scratch at his cheek, wincing when he touches a scrape and pressing his palm to it instead. "Inside a tree."

Shoot blinks at him. "Off the ground?"

Knuckle nods the affirmative.

"…How'd we get away?"

This time, there's a wince from Knuckle. "Uh…I slipped out of her vines, grabbed you, and ran – er, climbed, I guess."

Well, that makes sense. Shoot has a lot more questions. Mostly to do with minor details that probably don't matter, but he's burning to know how Knuckle got away, for instance – certain vines on that creature are awfully sharp, he knows firsthand, so how is Knuckle so unscathed?

Shoot stares at his own hand, watching his fingers tremble. They're coated in dried blood. He can wait to ask specifics until after they're safe.

First thing's first: they need to get out of here. The plant may have lost interest in them, or they may have outrun it for now, but it's proven to be persistent, so it'll be back. Without outside help, the two of them aren't liable to get far.

So they'll have to call someone, assuming they're close enough to society to get service. Phone companies are pretty far-reaching these days. They can probably make it within range if they try, and of course, the first person who comes to mind to call is their mentor.

"Morel-san –"

"I lost my phone," Knuckle grumbles. A quick glance to his face confirms he's glaring at the floor.

So Shoot tries again, watching him carefully. "Mine is –"

"Smashed," Knuckle finishes for him. "You, uh…landed on it, when I dropped you."

"…Oh." Well. That puts a damper on that plan.

"Yeah."

Shoot watches Knuckle clench his fists, and then looks away, studying his own hand again. It rests in his lap, just above the gash on his thigh – which, now that he's looking at it, is mostly just a red splotch….

Carefully, Shoot nudges the fabric of his clothes away, revealing the still-tied tourniquet, and some new white fabric that attempts to be bandages. They're already soaked through, but it's covered, and Shoot suddenly remembers Knuckle's missing shirt.

"Don't worry," Knuckle says, "I'll get you out of here."

Warmth floods Shoot's chest, even as he winces. "I –"

And then their tree lurches forward with an ear-splitting creak, and they both slide unceremoniously towards the opening, slamming into the opposite wall.

Shoot can't help the cry that escapes him, just as he's sure Knuckle can't help the litany of swears pouring out of his mouth. The tree continues to tip at an alarming rate, and the thunderous sound of rustling leaves now has them surrounded.

Through the renewed throbbing in his leg, and the way Knuckle scrambles against him, Shoot is frozen with the thought that this definitely qualifies as a worsening of their situation.

Head spinning from blood loss as well as hitting the ground too hard earlier, Shoot suddenly can't catch his breath. He reaches out and clutches hold of Knuckle's arm, even as their tree lurches down at least two meters. They can't be far from the ground now.

"I'll get us out," Knuckle insists, even now. "I hit her with APR, remember? So it's only a matter of time until she's outta juice –!"

They don't have time, and Shoot wants to scream that at him until he understands. Doesn't he get what's happening here? He tightens his grip on Knuckle's arm, hoping that it hurts.

Looks like he has to break out that last resort after all.

"Leave me…here," Shoot forces through clenched teeth. He sucks in a few gulps of air, distancing the pain and the dizziness and his fear, trying to focus on the issue at hand. Knuckle can get away. Knuckle will be safe.

Knuckle, scrunched up against the inner wall of the tree, gawks at him. "What?"

"I said –"

"No!" Knuckle inches closer, falling on his knees. He tugs his pants up on his hips, and Shoot is reminded of constricting black leather around his thigh – Knuckle must have used his belt to slow the bleeding. Funny that he's only realizing that now. "I won't!"

Shoot sighs; it comes out shaky. He doesn't want to die, but if Knuckle tries to save him he'll get them both killed. "Leave me here," he repeats, voice stronger now with his resolve. I'm dying, anyway, he doesn't say. An odd sort of calm envelopes him, steadying his words. "I'm slowing you down. You can get away."

The tree jerks downwards again, and it's a testament to how far up they are that vines aren't yet creeping into their hiding place.

"I won't," Knuckle repeats. There are tears in his eyes, now, and Shoot wonders what kind of troublesome training partner he's ended up with here. For one of their first missions together, this sure has gone terribly.

"Yes," Shoot argues. "You have to." He's rapidly losing energy, and maybe he isn't as calm as he'd thought. Maybe he's just panicking so much that he can't feel it anymore. The backs of his eyes are burning.

"Shut up!" Knuckle has to shout to be heard over the groaning of the tree and the rustling of the leaves and the new slap, slap of vines whipping out to urge the tree down.

"Bring back help, then," Shoot hisses, as a final plea. Because he's seen that level of sympathy and care in Knuckle's eyes before. Usually it's aimed at an injured animal marked for death, and Shoot isn't sure he likes how it feels to be on the receiving end.

It's the confirmation of the fact that he'll be dead by the time Knuckle makes it back, and it doesn't escape either of them.

Knuckle sniffles, and he's crying again, tears rolling down his face to drip off of his chin. "Shut up," he says again, tone almost pleading.

That makes something tighten in Shoot's chest. He really, really doesn't want to die. "You're not being reasonable," he squeezes out of uncooperative lungs, the wood shuddering where he's pressed against it.

"And you're not being fair!" Knuckle snaps. He scrubs at his cheeks with the backs of his hands. "This is my fault," he says, "let me fix it."

Then he leans in close, and before Shoot can protest, he's scooped back up into Knuckle's arms. The sudden change in position renews the screaming protests from his injuries, and he gasps with the pain, but Knuckle hoists him up all the same.

"Don't," Shoot grunts. This won't work, this won't work, this won't work!

Knuckle shakes his head, holding so tight to Shoot that hanging on isn't necessary. On shaky legs, he stands up as much as he can in the relatively tight, tilting space. He has to be standing on the wall more than the floor by now.

"Leave. Me." Shoot puts all the energy he has left into those two words.

Again, Knuckle shakes his head. "I won't."

And then Knuckle raises a foot, stomping down with enough force to splinter the entryway open wide enough for them to fall through.


A/N: This was originally supposed to be a oneshot, but during editing I came up with an idea for an actual ending. So I miiight end up tacking that on as another chapter when it's finished? Um. We'll see.

In unrelated news: tomorrow marks the ten year anniversary of the first fic I ever posted online anywhere. Time flies, man.

Thanks for reading!