Sarah Carter steps over the man sprawled naked in the hallway, silent and staring ahead, and at first its like she doesn't see him at all. She finds the blanket tossed over a chair in the rec room, and when she comes back with it, he's still there like she knows he'll be. She tosses it over him, not out of any sense of modesty, but because he's wet and she knows he'll get cold.
She crouches down at his side and rests a hand on his arm and waits for him to catch his breath.
'Getting his breath' was easier said than done. Adam lay still with his cheek resting in water that was warm from heaving out of him moments before, and he closed his eyes, before he tried to look, tried to register her. He knew it was a her. He could smell her.
He was covered.
He tried to say something, but all that came out was a raw-throated croak. He'd heard Ros and now he couldn't see her.
Stand. Adam tried to get his hands underneath him and failed. He still couldn't lift his head, couldn't look her in the eye, and that bothered him. You could tell a lot about someone from their face.
He shook his head and, out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn he saw something slightering.
"The clinic's only a few yards away," she murmurs, soothing and still almost toneless. In a moment she'll go and find someone to help her move him, but she doesn't want to jar him too much and he seems to be breathing just fine, despite all the water she'd seen him vomit onto the concrete.
Her voice was so familiar, and Adam groped for it. He managed to lift his head a bit a couple of inches and moved one hand until it brushed her knee. He'd heard Ros screaming his name.
She'd said clinic. There wasn't a clinic at the Dorchester, not unless he was missing something.
"Sarah," she says, curling her hand around his, his skin damp and cold, "Sarah Carter."
She could go into the explanations of where they where, but it was hard enough to understand under normal circumstances and Sarah's grasp on the details were still rocky at best.
Her fingers curled around his were something; they reminded him of Fi touching in the dark, and, somehow, he curled his fingers, holding her hand.
"You...sound like someone I know."
Her name wasn't important. Moscow Rules. False names and you keep moving.
He was in the Dorchester. He was in the Dorchester, and Anna had tried to kill him and, somewhere, Ros had been screaming, and Fiona had told him he had to go back.
She can't see all of his face but she knows she's never met him. At least not before, and probably not after. Even the voices and faces in the dark, she remembers. His is new.
"Come on," she murmurs, carefully turning him onto his side. Having his face pressed to the concrete couldn't have been pleasant.
He could look up at her now, on his side. He could almost feel the strength coming back into his limbs, almost, his hands and his feet. What the hell did Anna give him? Against her shoulders, her pale hair looks like snakes, and he could swear it was moving.
"Sarah," she says, shaking her head slowly and giving his hand a squeeze. She doesn't see much point in arguing with him though. Sarah sees lots of things that aren't real, people who aren't there, and if he thinks she's someone else, who is she to tell him differently?
"Okay, Sarah," said Adam, and he almost smiled. Or he thought that he did. They were always giving fake names. It didn't exactly matter what they were calling each other that particular day.
He was still holding her hand, and it helped. When they tortured you, one of the worst things about it was the fact that, between the moments of pain, the unspeakable pain, they locked you on your own in the dark, and nobody touched you kindly.
"Tell me when you're ready and we'll try and get you to your feet," she says, sitting patiently at his side. She could feel his body relaxing, the life draining back into him and his eyes were starting to clear. She sees the twist around his lips and she returns it with a faint smile of her own.
She crouches down at his side and rests a hand on his arm and waits for him to catch his breath.
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He was covered.
He tried to say something, but all that came out was a raw-throated croak.
He'd heard Ros and now he couldn't see her.
He'd heard Fi, and he couldn't see her either.
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Sarah's strong and she can muster up enough adrenaline to get him down the hall to the clinic, but it won't be an easy trip.
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He shook his head and, out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn he saw something slightering.
He closed his eyes and shook his head again.
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She'd said clinic. There wasn't a clinic at the Dorchester, not unless he was missing something.
"Ros?"
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She could go into the explanations of where they where, but it was hard enough to understand under normal circumstances and Sarah's grasp on the details were still rocky at best.
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"You...sound like someone I know."
Her name wasn't important. Moscow Rules. False names and you keep moving.
He was in the Dorchester. He was in the Dorchester, and Anna had tried to kill him and, somewhere, Ros had been screaming, and Fiona had told him he had to go back.
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"Come on," she murmurs, carefully turning him onto his side. Having his face pressed to the concrete couldn't have been pleasant.
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And her face.
He knew why her voice was familiar.
"Sam. You're Sam."
Moscow rules.
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He was still holding her hand, and it helped. When they tortured you, one of the worst things about it was the fact that, between the moments of pain, the unspeakable pain, they locked you on your own in the dark, and nobody touched you kindly.
It helped.
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He had a feeling he wasn't in the Dorchester any more. Maybe he'd been out for longer than he thought.
Maybe, Ros...
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He made a soft sound of distress, and turned his face against the concrete floor.
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