If anyone hurted you, I don't know what I would do--
Who: atrumcanis + cowboy_newsie
When: forwarded dated to the 17th of December, after Jack's rescue
Where: Skye Hospital
Summary: Jack, newly rescued by Batman, is in the hospital following his stint in Black Mask's basement. There's no way in hell he's just going to lay there without company.
Fourteen days, and every one of them better measured by the beats that made them up, the tiny flicks of the minute hand around the face of a clock, ticking away time, ticking away hours and hours, three hundred thirty-six hours, fourteen days. Most of them spent outdoors, always looking, always with his throat tight and his eyes burning hot and his hands, shaking, betraying him. Fourteen days, and any of those hours not spent outdoors was spent in the firehouse, staring at the ceiling, staring at the wall, staring at the bottom of his glass.
Waiting, really, always waiting. Jack was here. Jack was here, for all that they said he wasn't, for all that everyone told him that he had gone home or he was dead or asking are you afraid? Jack was here, and all despair was suspended by that single sustaining thought. There were weaker minutes in those days, and the longer that they stretched, the weaker they were, until--
You're right. He wasn't Ported home. He was taken.
Don't do anything stupid.
If Sirius shuts his eyes, he can see that first text. He can remember the way that his mouth tasted--dry, closed up, and the wave of dizziness that wracked his body and made him sit down, right there on the curb. You're right, and that word, taken, taken taken taken, and nothing else mattered then, there was only Jack and finding Jack.
Later--not so long from now--Sirius will regret that it wasn't him that found Jack and saved him. It was meant to be him. Later--soon after that regret, born from it, just one more stroke of that minute hand--he will be angry with whoever it was that rescued Jack, the nameless faceless mask. Any gratefulness will be muted.
Later, all of this will matter. Right now, there is only finding Jack, because only when he sees him will this be real. As soon as he knows, he goes. The hospital; Sirius hates the hospital, hates the clinical cold hallways and the crisp antiseptic smells, the way they make his nose burn. But they're keeping Jack there, and so he Apparates to the lobby and then climbs the stairs, slipping past nurses, and any guards will be distracted by sudden noises and smoke and anything, anything to get them away--and any doors will be unlocked--even Jack's door, the one that he stops in front of, staring hard at the neat little numbers stamped out beside: 707. He will remember those numbers for days later, three hundred thirty-six hours later and more.
Sirius goes in, and shuts the door behind him. The sound of the lock is obscenely loud in the silence of the room. He shuts his eyes and opens them again--it's dark--but he finds his voice, rough with disuse.
"Jack."
When: forwarded dated to the 17th of December, after Jack's rescue
Where: Skye Hospital
Summary: Jack, newly rescued by Batman, is in the hospital following his stint in Black Mask's basement. There's no way in hell he's just going to lay there without company.
Fourteen days, and every one of them better measured by the beats that made them up, the tiny flicks of the minute hand around the face of a clock, ticking away time, ticking away hours and hours, three hundred thirty-six hours, fourteen days. Most of them spent outdoors, always looking, always with his throat tight and his eyes burning hot and his hands, shaking, betraying him. Fourteen days, and any of those hours not spent outdoors was spent in the firehouse, staring at the ceiling, staring at the wall, staring at the bottom of his glass.
Waiting, really, always waiting. Jack was here. Jack was here, for all that they said he wasn't, for all that everyone told him that he had gone home or he was dead or asking are you afraid? Jack was here, and all despair was suspended by that single sustaining thought. There were weaker minutes in those days, and the longer that they stretched, the weaker they were, until--
You're right. He wasn't Ported home. He was taken.
Don't do anything stupid.
If Sirius shuts his eyes, he can see that first text. He can remember the way that his mouth tasted--dry, closed up, and the wave of dizziness that wracked his body and made him sit down, right there on the curb. You're right, and that word, taken, taken taken taken, and nothing else mattered then, there was only Jack and finding Jack.
Later--not so long from now--Sirius will regret that it wasn't him that found Jack and saved him. It was meant to be him. Later--soon after that regret, born from it, just one more stroke of that minute hand--he will be angry with whoever it was that rescued Jack, the nameless faceless mask. Any gratefulness will be muted.
Later, all of this will matter. Right now, there is only finding Jack, because only when he sees him will this be real. As soon as he knows, he goes. The hospital; Sirius hates the hospital, hates the clinical cold hallways and the crisp antiseptic smells, the way they make his nose burn. But they're keeping Jack there, and so he Apparates to the lobby and then climbs the stairs, slipping past nurses, and any guards will be distracted by sudden noises and smoke and anything, anything to get them away--and any doors will be unlocked--even Jack's door, the one that he stops in front of, staring hard at the neat little numbers stamped out beside: 707. He will remember those numbers for days later, three hundred thirty-six hours later and more.
Sirius goes in, and shuts the door behind him. The sound of the lock is obscenely loud in the silence of the room. He shuts his eyes and opens them again--it's dark--but he finds his voice, rough with disuse.
"Jack."