Fic post: Pinto: PG13: New York Rule.
Title: New York Rule
Rating: Certificate 15. Lots of swear-words. F-bombs. I reallly wanted to write Cert18, but it just wasn't in this one.
Pairing: Pinto (GOD AND THEY'RE NOT EVEN MY OTP AND I PAIR THEM SO MUCH.
Word count: 1,915.
Summary: Zachary Quinto was shipping off to the military in April. Then, he was mugged by some street thugs. Sent to hospital, he wakes up in a world drastically changed. Post-apocalyptic nuclear scenario. Inspired by photos of Prypiat, Ukraine. Largely the following photos, THIS.... THIS.... anddd THIS.
I owe passionera my soul.
Warnings: Light violence in this chapter, cursing, and HEAVY post-apocalyptic themes.
His mother laughed softly, laying her cool hand on his arm. She ran a tissue under her eyes, careful not to smear her eyeliner. His father grinned at him for a long moment before looking down at the training orders. “Oh, my boy… I’m so proud of you, you know that?”
The younger man laughed nervously, biting his bottom lip. He was sure he was a shade of red that had never before been seen in nature. They just beamed at him, and it made him feel so… on-display, so shy, so awkward.
“It’s just the Marines… it’s not like I got into Harvard.” He mumbled, tapping his foot quickly against the linoleum floor, eyes fixed on the contrast of the skin of his hands pressed against the cheap, beige plastic kitchen table. Then those gentle hands touched his burning cheeks, tilted his face up so Margo could look directly at him.
“What you have done is far more brave and beautiful than going to law school, or becoming a doctor. You’re fighting for each and every one of us. You know I had a… hard time accepting this… but I love you more than life, and whatever you want is what I want for you. Yes?”
“Right, right, Margo.” His father chipped in, still holding that goofy grin. “Son, your mother and I just want you to be happy… and come home safe, yeah?”
Margo nodded, dropping her hands to rest on top of her son’s, still clenched on the tabletop. “We love you so much, Zachary. You just go do what you have to do, and you come home to us right after.”
John nodded, resting a hand on his wife’s shoulder, the picture of domestic perfection. “We love you, son.”
Zachary sat up with a strangled scream, and his hands immediately flew to his throat at the pain it caused him. He coughed several times, almost screaming again at the agony that brought tears, unrelated to his dream, to his eyes.
“Holy mother of God…” He mouthed, deciding not to try to speak again.
Then he realized where he was.
The white walls were peeling in places, and dust rose into the air at his sudden movements. The lights were muted, apparently long-dead as they had dust over them as well. Blue-grey light streamed in from the windows on either side of his cot, and the door to the room was barely hanging on by one screw in the bottom hinge. He saw no light in the hallway either.
He felt the panic rising as he looked around for some sign of life- of anything. The white flash of a stack of papers on the bedside table caught his eye, and he grabbed at them immediately.
NAME: Zachary John Quinto
AGE: 20
DATE OF ADMISSION: May 1st, 2010
INJURY: gunshot wound to left temple. Suspected armed robbery. Recovery status: unkno
The chart fell to the floor and papers scattered across the tiles as his fingers flew to his forehead. He felt thick bandages covering the left side of his head and let out another cry that made his throat burn and threaten revolt. The world felt like it had stopped, and Zach was in full-on panic mode now, chest rising and falling rapidly as he grabbed onto the metal bed railings, looking down at himself. He was wearing a thin, standard-issue hospital gown, which didn’t help calm him down. He threw off the dusty white sheets, watching them pool on the floor on top of the sheets of paper. His legs. Thank God. Both still attached and very much present. He pinched his right knee and winced at the sharp pain, but, God, what a relief.
And so Zach did the only thing left he could think to do. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and gripped the railing to pull himself into a standing position.
He never made it.
He hit the floor as quickly as he’d pushed his hips off the bed. Suddenly he was in a crumpled heap on top of the bed sheets, feeling boneless, like the weight of the world rested solely on him. He cried out in shock and pain when the side of his face connected hard with the unforgiving, freezing tile. He clawed at the grout between the blocks, trying to find purchase to get up. But he couldn’t force his legs to work, couldn’t urge his knees to hold himself. He whimpered and settled against the floor, panting with the effort and the fear.
What if his legs would never work? What if they were broken? What if there was nerve damage? What if he would die here, alone and in the slowly-encroaching dark? How long would it take to starve-?
“Man, I felt like a fucking cunt!” He heard a loud voice, a distinctly male voice, echo from far down the hall, and a chuckle answered.
“Lydia will get over it, I’m sure. Just give her a fucking day or so, don’t keep bothering her. You nailed-“ A woman, definitely.
“Alright, yeah, yeah, I got it already. Not like it was unwanted. Look, find the east wing supply closet and stock up. We’ll meet back here in ten.”
Zach glanced around the room quickly again as the footfalls grew louder. This was his chance. The nurse would come and help him, the doctor would see him and fetch his parents- “Help! Help me!” He raised his voice as loud as he could, but it cracked and still made his throat burn.
A streak of black and white flew past the open doorway, and Zach barely made out the shape of a man against the dark of the hall. Not a doctor. Oh, God. Then the running footsteps cut off quickly, and he was alone in silence once more.
Then a head peeked into the doorframe, staring down at him.
Zachary watched the man tilt his head. First, one direction. Then, the opposite. He watched those blonde eyebrows knit together, then raise in surprise and knowledge.
The man was beautiful.
His short sandy blonde hair was messy, like his styling consisted of running his fingers through it whenever he woke up. He was wearing all black, from head to combat-boot-covered foot. Black jeans were tucked into heavy boots, leading up to his tight black liner tank top. And the ensemble was concluded by a black sub-machine gun in the man’s hands. He had a beautiful mouth, angelic features, but Zach factored that up to his utter despair and thoughts of a lonely death only moments before. Zach was even willing to give him a chance to explain the heavy artillery before he cowered in terror-
And then that captivating mouth opened.
“Too fucking right you need help, my brother. Too fucking right.”
Zach again planted his palms flat against the floor and tried to lift his upper-body, but he only groaned in pain and fell against the cold floor again. He heard, and felt footsteps move across the room and stop near his head, but he didn’t look up. Then that rough, low voice spoke again. “You contagious? I don’t need any fucking diseases, most specially not for some kid in goddamn hospital. Why’s your head bloody? You get attacked by someone?”
He heard the gun being laid to the floor about a foot above his head. He felt a hand move to his forehead, fingers working deftly at the old bandage. Suddenly, it was ripped from his skin, and he let out a loud shriek of misery. The mystery man gasped and rolled him over quickly, pressing his palm hard over where the bandage had been. Zach screamed again and his hands were immediately scratching at the wrist above him, trying to make the pain stop.
“Sorry, friend! I’m sorry! The bandage must’ve grown into your wound, it’s tore open, fuck, I’m sorry. Just, don’t move, I’ve gotta stop the bleeding, just… stop moving!” The blonde fought him, easily winning any struggle as he grabbed at the bedside table for bandages desperately. He grabbed a stack of gauze, pushing them against the opened gash, eyes wide at the pain he’d caused the man on the floor.
“I’ll just… I’ll wrap it, and you can be on your way, good as new, like nothin’ happened, yeah? Oh, god, I’m so sorry.” He repeated, chewing on his bottom lip.
“Where… where are the doctors, the nurses? My parents? Please, anyone?”
His only answer was a slow blink from the blonde man as he taped the stack of gauze to Zach’s temple.
“Oh, my man… I’ve got some terrible news to break to you…”
“Chris, we gotta go right fucking now!” A shout came from the door, echoing through the room. Zach looked up quickly, taking in the girl in the doorway. She was tall and skinny, hair pulled away from her face by a messy bun, and her skin, as dark as it was, seemed to glow just the slightest bit in the minimal light. She wore similar clothes to the man- Chris- a white tank top that hugged her curves, lighter blue jeans smeared with dirty and bloody handprints, tucked into menacing black boots that ended just below her knees. “Who the fuck is this cripple? Are you kidding me? We don’t have time for this shit! The Futurists are coming, they’ll be here any fucking second!” She was furious, and Zach almost recoiled in fear of her wrath.
“You gotta be kidding me- Futurists?! In sector six?! Why?! At the hospital? You’re sure? You saw them?”
Zach didn’t understand a single thing they were talking about, but he knew it was serious when Chris was scrambling to pick his gun up off the floor.
“Yeah, of course I saw them! They’ve probably come the same reason we have, to raid! They’re at the main entrance, let’s go. We’ll be shot on sight.”
“We can’t leave him.”
The tall woman stared at him, looking scandalised. She lifted a brow, but took his gun from him to free his hands. “You’re not joking. You really want to drag this asshole all the way back to sector three? Don’t expect my help. And I’m not letting you slow me down.” She glared down at Zach as the blonde man gingerly scooped him up, pulling him close. Zach forced himself to remain composed.
“Wait… the doctors! The nurses! What are you even talking about? Futurists? Sectors?! Where are we? Are we still in New York? Please…”
“Kid, whoever you are… you wanna stay very fucking quiet until I tell you to speak, or you’ll be dead before you can feel the bullet hit you. And this time, it wouldn’t get stitched closed,” the rough, but calming voice answered. He looked up weakly, and saw Chris give him a gentle smile as he carried him out of the room.
Zach panted hard, terrified and in a panic again, fingers clutching at the material of Chris’ shirt, as if clinging to him for support, for comfort, so he wouldn’t fall again, so he wouldn’t feel lost. His whole body ached from the hard collision with the hospital floor, and his mind was overwhelmed and overexerted. He felt the cool air run over his face as Chris tried to run down the hall while still holding onto him. And Zachary couldn’t fight it as his mind went dark, and everything was silence.
The song it was written to:
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