(on_thecouch) "You're fading out. Can't hear what you say."
Critical
Smell was constant. But everything else came and went. And never together.
Oxygen, clean sheets, gun oil, leather. He lay still, so still and his brain tried to form pictures based on scent. An older man with his own face. His body was fogged over by medication. He was disconnected from any form of feeling. Sound was the only thing to accompany scent, but it gave a different picture. One his mind shied away from. Heartbeats, one faster than is should be and so close. Another, slower and not his own. The click-hum of I.V pumps, not quite in sync with each other. Breathing. His own, soft, hitched and unsteady. Someone near by, calm and steady. And farther away a mechanical click-whoosh of a machine breathing for someone. He focused on the stead breathing until the fog rolled in.
Oxygen, clean sheets, medical tape, gun oil, leather, coffee. The mental picture of place was still shrouded and he was happy to leave it that way. The man with his face in his mind had a cocky grin and a leather jacket. He could almost taste the coffee. At least once he got over the horrid taste that was already there. Blood, battle ground dirt and anesthesia. He gagged a little and the hurt dragged him back under.
Oxygen, clean sheets, medical tape, isopropyl alcohol, gun oil, leather, coffee, engine grease. The man had callused hands, from long years of working with cars and weapons. He knew his own would never toughen up quite that well, despite the lifetime of weapons training. He healed and repaired to quickly. But not this time. This time he hurt. He could feel it on the other side of what ever this fog was. He took stock. Pillow under his head, mattress, burning sharp digging pain at the center of his being that was a dull relentless pounding throb at the edges of the borders of his body. Clean blankets tucked heavy and warm around him. His ears felt stuffed with putty and his tongue and the roof of his mouth had a slimy feel to it like overly wet glue. An oxygen canula under and up his nose. The IVs in his hands hurt in a way that wasn't physical pain. Who knew what was burning through his body from them. The hand resting warm and solid on his wrist didn't match. Nor the animal warm body pressed to his side. They make his feel safe. Protected. He slipped back into the warm darkness.
Oxygen, clean sheets, medical tape, isopropyl alcohol, sterile plastic, gun oil, leather, coffee, engine grease and family. His eyes blinked open just barely, his own eyelashes blurring everything. He let them close again and then after awhile of rest he gathered the strength to open them again. White pillow, night stand. IV tubing and monitors. His father's chest at his eye level. His eyes fell shut.
The picture was whole when his mind surfaced next. Or it was until he tried to understand it. He was in a hospital bed. That much he could figure out. This was accompanied by a feeling of panic that was held at arms reach by some sort of medication and the knowledge that he had his father to one side of him and Jinx to the other. Everything within the borders of his body ached and hurt with the beat of his heart. He remembered the waiting room but after that reality slipped away from him.
He blinked at his father for a moment while his brain woke up enough to understand that he'd have to ask a question if he wanted an answer. What he settled on was 'Did I have a seizure?' But apparently his body wasn't up to making that request of his mouth. What actually came out was "N'hu?"
Muse: Alec McDowell/X5-494
'Verse: wayward_au
Fandom: Dark Angel
Word count: 639
Smell was constant. But everything else came and went. And never together.
Oxygen, clean sheets, gun oil, leather. He lay still, so still and his brain tried to form pictures based on scent. An older man with his own face. His body was fogged over by medication. He was disconnected from any form of feeling. Sound was the only thing to accompany scent, but it gave a different picture. One his mind shied away from. Heartbeats, one faster than is should be and so close. Another, slower and not his own. The click-hum of I.V pumps, not quite in sync with each other. Breathing. His own, soft, hitched and unsteady. Someone near by, calm and steady. And farther away a mechanical click-whoosh of a machine breathing for someone. He focused on the stead breathing until the fog rolled in.
Oxygen, clean sheets, medical tape, gun oil, leather, coffee. The mental picture of place was still shrouded and he was happy to leave it that way. The man with his face in his mind had a cocky grin and a leather jacket. He could almost taste the coffee. At least once he got over the horrid taste that was already there. Blood, battle ground dirt and anesthesia. He gagged a little and the hurt dragged him back under.
Oxygen, clean sheets, medical tape, isopropyl alcohol, gun oil, leather, coffee, engine grease. The man had callused hands, from long years of working with cars and weapons. He knew his own would never toughen up quite that well, despite the lifetime of weapons training. He healed and repaired to quickly. But not this time. This time he hurt. He could feel it on the other side of what ever this fog was. He took stock. Pillow under his head, mattress, burning sharp digging pain at the center of his being that was a dull relentless pounding throb at the edges of the borders of his body. Clean blankets tucked heavy and warm around him. His ears felt stuffed with putty and his tongue and the roof of his mouth had a slimy feel to it like overly wet glue. An oxygen canula under and up his nose. The IVs in his hands hurt in a way that wasn't physical pain. Who knew what was burning through his body from them. The hand resting warm and solid on his wrist didn't match. Nor the animal warm body pressed to his side. They make his feel safe. Protected. He slipped back into the warm darkness.
Oxygen, clean sheets, medical tape, isopropyl alcohol, sterile plastic, gun oil, leather, coffee, engine grease and family. His eyes blinked open just barely, his own eyelashes blurring everything. He let them close again and then after awhile of rest he gathered the strength to open them again. White pillow, night stand. IV tubing and monitors. His father's chest at his eye level. His eyes fell shut.
The picture was whole when his mind surfaced next. Or it was until he tried to understand it. He was in a hospital bed. That much he could figure out. This was accompanied by a feeling of panic that was held at arms reach by some sort of medication and the knowledge that he had his father to one side of him and Jinx to the other. Everything within the borders of his body ached and hurt with the beat of his heart. He remembered the waiting room but after that reality slipped away from him.
He blinked at his father for a moment while his brain woke up enough to understand that he'd have to ask a question if he wanted an answer. What he settled on was 'Did I have a seizure?' But apparently his body wasn't up to making that request of his mouth. What actually came out was "N'hu?"
Muse: Alec McDowell/X5-494
'Verse: wayward_au
Fandom: Dark Angel
Word count: 639