The Occam's razor job - Chapter 34 - 1
Title: The Occam's razor Job
Characters: Nate Ford, Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Parker, Sophie Deveraux, Patrick Bonnano
Fandom: Leverage
Spoilers: The Lonely Hearts Club Job, The Boy's night out Job
warnings: Dead people, language, violence, medical bullsh*t, extreme violence in later chapters, and extreme angst
Disclaimer: I do not own blah blah blah
Special, special, special, special thanks to trappercreekd for Betaing :D
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“Get up and get dressed. I need you downstairs.”
Nate left immediately after shaking him, and Hardison had no time to tell him that he was dressed. He peeked at Parker who was sleeping on the other side of the bed; the pale light that was coming through the window showed him it was early dawn.
He crawled out of the bed, feeling beaten and tired, though he knew he had slept more than in three last nights together. He took his shoes and silently went down stairs, trying not to think about all the reasons for being woken up.
At first he thought Nate had called him because of the good news, because Eliot’s eyes were open and his head turned to him when he touched the wooden floor. Yet, the words he wanted to say stood clenched in his throat when he went closer and heard how labored Eliot’s breathing was even with the mask. Sophie was sitting beside him, and he realized what the two of them had been doing all night at the moment he saw that his eyes were completely glazed, and his hair almost wet from the sweat. Eliot didn’t know at whom he was looking. She turned around and he saw her face and red, tired eyes.
“You should have wok-” he started, but cut off his words when Eliot flinched at his voice and narrowed his eyes. Nate was beside the bed in a second, stopping any possible move, giving the him sign to stay quiet and go away.
Hardison made a bee line to the kitchen with worry twisting in his gut with renewed strength. He nodded good morning to Betsy who was sitting at the table and going through the newspapers like nothing unusual was happening. He needed Orange soda, and he needed it fast. He put his shoes on in front of the fridge, before opening it, and it was good he did it, because he would drop them and make a noise. He found himself staring at dark red bags full of blood. God, that was too much. He yelped, staggered backwards, and landed on his ass on the floor.
“Of all the movies in the world, I had to wake up in fucking Twilight. It’s so… disgraceful,” he whispered to himself, suppressing the urge to run into bathroom and throw up.
“You want some IV?” the disinterested voice above him startled him; Betsy was elbowing the counter, looking down at him.
“No, god, no, needles-” he swallowed and put his head between his knees.
“Get up and get it together.” Nate joined Betsy. “You have to go to Eliot’s place and get the phone he sent all of details to last night. It seems this shit isn’t finished yet. He managed to tell me something he forgot yesterday - we have to find one man.”
“What, where, who-” he struggled to his feet.
“He is better, Hardison,” Nate said a little softer. “The night was pretty bad, but the fever is going down, and he recognized us. He knew where he was, and what happened.”
“If this is your idea of ‘better’, I really don’t want to think about the night,” he murmured.
“He’s just exhausted now; if he wakes up again and tell us more details, I’ll direct you with further steps, but I’m afraid it won’t be-”
“I’m coming too.” Parker passed them, completely dressed, diving into the fridge and emerging with the orange bottle. Hardison gratefully snatched the soda from her hand.
“Not a good idea,” Betsy said calmly.
“And what is he supposed to do, ring the bell? It’s Eliot’s place so we can expect no booby traps for the amateurs, he would have a hanging antitank mine instead of a girdle on the door.”
“Good point,” Nate sighed. “Hardison, set up complete communication, and go. I need that phone ASAP.”
Hardison cradled his bottle and sighed.
“And don’t forget to be careful.”
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***
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Someone was arguing. They took care to keep their voices low but the whispers were distressed, nervous and troubled. Eliot forced himself to understand what they were saying, though it was an immense effort with almost no success; sentences were entering his mind but they were scattered there as if he released them into a shredding machine. His attempt to collect quickly the spoken words ended with fiasco because when he thought he managed to connect two or three of them, another fifteen was said in a hurried whisper, messing up everything and leaving him clueless.
He simply gave up; he was too tired for that shit.
The next time he drifted closer to the surface he heard them again. This time he took off the mask from his face, carefully testing his breathing; it was better than he remembered, and he was able to open his eyes. That proved to be a very successful tactic, because he could read their faces and gestures, and that brought the meaning of the words.
“We are losing time!” There was nothing gentle in Sophie’s voice now, it was hard and worried. “We have to wake him up!”
“We’ll find him. Let him rest.” Nate was turned to the screens and he couldn’t see his face; he was watching something that looked like phone menus.
“We’ve been trying to find him for the last three hours, and he said it’s urgent!” she snapped.
“A little less hissing, and a little more paying attention to your surroundings would be clever,” Betsy’s voice was coming from the dining table and he slowly turned to look at her. She smiled. When he looked ahead him again - damn, why it was so difficult - Sophie was in front of him.
“Good, you’re awake,” she smiled. Nate sighed behind her. “I’m sorry to bother you, but we need a few answers. Do you understand me?”
He thought about it, while she patiently waited. “No,” he carefully said.
They were alone again, he noticed. There was no sign of Parker and Hardison, and he couldn’t remember if he saw them during the night. He stared at her, trying to focus, not wanting to hear anything more, too scared to ask about them. The last thing he remembered before everything went black in that corridor were explosions and shooting… and Sophie was talking to Nate, he clearly heard her name at one point. If Sophie was at the computers, Hardison was out of the van. Somewhere in the building. Nate said they would come in to get them out. Shooting. Explosions. Forty Mexicans and twenty Chileans, and Parker and Hardison among them…
“Hey, hey, stop that!” He wasn’t doing anything, yet a strong hand grabbed his shoulder and shook him. Shit, that hurt. “Wherever you are, you need to come back.”
“Where are they?” he whispered, clenching his teeth. “What happened?”
“Hardison is checking your car to see if there was someone else in it besides Tapia.” Thank god, Nate knew what he meant. “Parker is with him, they’re both okay. Eliot, do you remember what you told me last night?”
Which fucking last night? “Few hours ago,” Nate continued, obviously reading his eyes.
Who cared about that? He didn’t remember anything. They were alive, that was enough for now. He wanted only to close his eyes again, he had no strength for talking. Or listening, or thinking.
That damn hand snapped him from the fog again.
“Eliot. Please. Focus for just a second.” Nate sounded tired now, and he forced his eyes to open. “Who the fuck is George, where is he, and why we have to save him?”
Crap.
He stared at them, trying to connect everything, and not succeeding. They saw he was thinking and they patiently waited. He didn’t remember saying anything about George, about anything else for that matter, but he obviously sent them to chase… Jesus. It was a shame his breathing wasn’t yet good enough for a sigh.
He glanced around him. “Soph… give me that small pillow.”
He carefully took it with his left hand - moving the right one was too painful - and put it on his face. He had never heard someone actually managing to perform suicide by the pillow, but there was a first time for everything.
“What the hell are you doing?” Nate snatched the pillow from him, suddenly sounding worried. Again.
“Killing myself,” he whispered. “It’s not like… I have any other way to do it.”
“George, Eliot! Cut the crazy and talk. Who is he, where can we find him, and what’s happening?”
“He… it…he…” he stuttered. Then reached for the pillow again, but Sophie growled at him. Fuck. She actually growled. Sophie. God, she must have been in total distress by now.
“He…it…” he forced himself to concentrate on talking. “George is a plant. In my room. In the hospital.”
Three simultaneous long breaths were taken.
“A plant,” Nate said carefully, lowering his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Texas mountain laurel.”
“A laurel,” Nate repeated, still not raising his head. “And what… and from where… what is the nature of the danger from which we have to… to save him?”
“I drugged him… morphine. His soil has to be changed,” he planned to add a description of washing the roots, but his voice betrayed him, thank god. Too many words in too short a time.
Sophie was watching him with an unreadable expression in her eyes, and he was grateful when her hand stopped Nate’s next question. “That’s enough,” she said softly. “Don’t try to talk anymore, okay?”
He wasn’t planning to talk at all, he tried to point out, but she put the mask back on his face and smiled. “Sleep now.”
The last thing he heard before everything went black was Nate’s sigh and ‘abort the mission’ whispered into the comm.
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***
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Nate wasn’t happy that he had to leave Parker and Hardison alone on watch when they’d returned, but both him and Sophie needed rest. Betsy too; she refused to go upstairs with Sophie and decided to stay on the sofa, just in case, and that eased his worries a little. Knowing she was near them, and that they had to be careful and quiet not to wake her up, gave the chance of a few hours without further crisis.
He thought he would be relieved because they couldn’t hear the beeping upstairs, but the silence was making him restless. Thinking about all the info from Eliot’s phone wasn’t helping either because his mind was going all around the town after his steps, filling the holes he had until now. And feeding his fears, too. The more he knew, the more he understood the state Eliot was in. His breaking apart was not caused only by shock and bleeding out, and it couldn’t be solved just by transfusions and care.
“He reacts very badly to Parker and Hardison,” Sophie’s voice showed him she wasn’t able to sleep, and that the same thoughts were on her mind too.
“What do you mean? He didn’t know where they were, if this is what-”
“No, I’m not talking about what he asked,” she turned around to face him and hugged the pillow, resting her chin on it. “Since we came here, every time he heard their voices, he went into tachycardia. They are disturbing him. We don’t... or at least, not that much.”
He thought about it, then got up and went to the stairs to check.
Hardison was with his laptop, Parker was watching cartoons, Betsy was sleeping and the beeping was regular.
“It must be painful to leave a situation without control.” Sophie welcomed him with the smile, but he knew she was only half teasing. She was checking him the same way she checked Eliot’s temperature through the night, with light, gentle touches. Yet this time, he left the bait hanging.
“It’s too early to see anything certain. He spoke a few sentences, and he is not completely present yet,” he said.
She said nothing.
He sighed. “He is better, he is calmer, not in shock anymore, and his thinking seems to be relatively normal. Maybe he won’t even remember everything he said or thought after we left Villacorta.” He had to say that - it was a possibility after all - but his own words sounded empty to him.
“Of course, you’re right,” she purred softly. “But, what would be your first steps if you were lying in a bed and wanting to leave it?”
He went through all the disconnecting and removing of everything that Eliot tried through the night, and sighed again. “Leaving the bed doesn’t mean leaving… everything,” he said quietly.
“It doesn’t. But if you want to know for sure what he does feel - and that, my dear, is the only important thing here, not what he thinks - you have to watch what he does when he is unconscious, not what he shows, thinks, or says when he is awake.”
“He trusted you when he was unaware of anything,” he pointed out. “Parker and Hardison haven’t done anything nearly so bad as you did to him, in that conversation.”
“Because the problem is not what someone did to him,” she put a hand on his face, and smiled. “The problem is what he has done to them, that’s what troubles him. He couldn’t stand hearing their voices, Nate. Your team is falling apart.”
“Give him some time. Maybe time is only thing that’s needed to settle this.”
“The time, Nate,” she whispered. “is the only thing that we don’t have.”
He thought about all the implications of her words. And thought.
“The irresistible force meets an immovable object,” he said finally.
“What?”
“When the paradox stops being the paradox?” he smiled. “The immovable object doesn’t have a chance… because we have two irresistible forces ready to unleash on him. And all the time we have, we have to give to the two of them. We must wait, and act only if Parker and Hardison fail.”
“Fail in what? They don’t even know the problem exists.”
“Oh, they’ll soon find out. Maybe I’m wrong… but they can’t fail in being themselves.”
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***
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Time was a very confusing category, but somehow he knew the cartoons were shown in the morning. The first thing that he saw, in fact, weren’t jumping pictures on the screens - though his bed was placed so he could look almost directly at the screens - nope, the first thing was George, resting on the table near the beeping monster, in a huge white vase with the Leverage logo on it. He looked pretty satisfied with himself, he noticed absentmindedly. Traitor.
The first thing he did was remove the mask. He kept it near, in case he needed it again, but he had to breathe on his own.
He wasn’t sleeping. They arranged this silence so he could rest, and they took shifts to watch over him, but he didn’t plan to follow their arrangements. Nate, Sophie and Betsy were sleeping for now, and he could expect them back soon, which meant all of them would be here, awake, around him, the noise would grow, and they would start to cruise around him. Trying to talk, trying to ask questions, trying to… whatever. He couldn’t do it. He calculated to be solidly knocked out when they gathered.
He forced himself to stay awake by staring at the cartoons, clearing his mind of every thought that could attack him. Hardison was coming every ten minutes to check on him, and he was closing his eyes at the first sound of his chair moving, pretending to sleep, opening them as soon as he would return at the table. His steps were cautious and slow, hesitating.
It wasn’t easy to look at the screen without seeing the blond head that was the only part he could see of Parker behind the sofa; she was probably sitting curled under Betsy’s legs. If she was able to curl, that meant that her leg wasn’t… he stopped his thoughts and concentrated on the singing frogs on the screen.
He was too weak to think about anything else for now, and he certainly couldn’t allow any change in his heart rate that would draw attention to him. No shootings, no images of the night, no faces, everything had to go for now. It would have to wait until his mind was clear again and able to think about it. To think about everything.
The singing frogs would keep him awake until the next shift woke up, and by then, he would be completely drained, unable to think, feel and hear anything. That sounded like a good plan… except this time, he had no idea what to do. He couldn’t keep himself in oblivion forever.
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***
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The eleventh time Hardison went to check on Eliot he didn’t return to the table, he stayed by the bed. He did his usual checks; rhythm of breathing, pulse, all the tubes, the readings on the Pleurevac, and everything looked normal, no change. Yet, he sat in Betsy’s chair and looked at him.
“I know you’re awake.” He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe because he could feel the silent attention and awareness in the air that grew stronger when he was near, though Eliot’s eyes remained closed.
“I just want to ask you if you need anything. I’ll leave you to rest,” he continued when no response came. “Betsy said we can’t give you anything to eat yet, but you should drink something at this point.”
He turned around and looked at the heart monitor; it slowed down slightly. He wasn’t a fool, he knew it wasn’t relaxing; it was the immense effort to hide an annoyance, that went in the opposite direction. When he turned to him again, his eyes were open, but there was no annoyance - he would welcome that glare - nope, his eyes were just terribly tired. At least they weren’t glazed - or empty, he thought, swallowing, trying to dismiss the memory of his waving a hand before his eyes, with no reaction in return.
“So…” he started. Damn, he wanted to say so much, but he knew if he started he wouldn’t stop for hours, and it would finish in turns of hugging him and strangling him, with babbling about the fear, curses and probably very girlish crying. “… water or juice?” he said to his friend, in the fucking first talk after everything went to hell, to a man for whose life he feared for four days, and who was finally safe, with them again. This was awkward. Yet, he just couldn’t babble as if nothing happened, nor did he want to upset him with feelings. He didn’t want to upset him with anything, terrified by this weakness that leaked from his eyes. He had seen him beaten before, barely able to walk, in pain and tired, but this… this was a shadow of death still present, hovering over his shoulder.
His eyes might be weak but they never left him and he flinched, not knowing what Eliot was looking at, what he was searching for in his face.
“Okay. Bring me some water,” he finally whispered, and Hardison sprang from the chair to the kitchen.
Eliot’s eyes were closed again when he returned, but he heard him and forced them open. Damn, it looked like such a fucking long and tiresome process, seconds went by until he managed to focus on him again, and his fear grew.
“You have to be upright to drink,” he murmured, playing with the remote of the bed until he found the option to lift just the upper part behind his back. Maybe he should have waited for Betsy to wake up, he thought when the sudden movement drained the little color Eliot had in his face. He wasn’t on painkillers, Hardison remembered too late, and controlled his growing panic at the thought he maybe did something that he shouldn’t have done. If there was a reason Betsy kept him lowered, and he just… damn. “You okay?” he asked, not daring to go that step closer, too scared to even check the readings.
It took few seconds for his eyes to lose the glaze of pain, and for his breathing to continue. “Fine.” Eliot whispered. He carefully went closer.
He put the glass in his hand, watching the concentration he needed to simply hold it in place, but he clenched his teeth to stop himself from helping him when Eliot had to hold it with both hands to avoid spilling the water. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, and he took just one sip.
The beeping started to jump. Hardison crossed his arms, telling himself that he was just pissed because he was in this condition; this was expected. He changed his mind when the shaking spread to his shoulders, and when he clenched the glass to keep it upright. Fuck that shit. He cleared his throat, not quite able to erase the fear from his voice. “I think it’s enough. You should calm down now.”
“You think?” Eliot hissed the response, breathlessly, and Hardison quickly looked for the mask, lying beside him on the blanket. He cautiously came closer and reached for the glass.
“I’ll take it now. You should put the mask back on.” Damn, the beeping was now as fast as it was when he brought him here, and he swallowed the panic once more. He took the glass and put it on the table, too scared to touch him, or to lower the bed, even to give him the mask. “Don’t freak out again, okay? And don’t move. You shouldn’t move.”
Fuck, he said something wrong, he could tell, but he had no clue what; in a second Eliot's face was bland and closed like Hardison had never seen before.
“Don’t worry. I won’t freak out. And won’t move.” His voice, in awful contrast with his rapid heartbeat, sounded leveled and controlled. “Take it away… I have to rest now.”
“Well, finally.” The dry voice behind him caused Hardison to turn sharply; Betsy was standing behind him, looking pretty pissed off. He should have known the change in beeping would wake her up. He raised both hands in the air, and ran away, leaving Eliot to deal with her.
But he noticed the relief in his eyes when she came, and it stabbed him; she should be the enemy here, not a savior.
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***
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“I want t-to go to the hospital,” he said to Betsy as soon Hardison was far away enough not to hear anything. He was shaking so hard that his teeth clattered.
“I would ask you why, but it would mean you would have to explain it to yourself first, which you won’t allow, so I’ll just pretend you didn’t say anything. Or that you’re just whining.”
He stared at her, trying to untangle her words.
“I can think,” he said slowly. “You d-don’t have to test me with this sort of… shit.”
“Of course,” she grinned and sat on the bed. It was an immense relief to see someone who didn’t have fear in their eyes, and who came close to him without any hesitation.
He thought about a different approach. “Why am I here in the first place, and not in the hospital?”
“They had to bring you here, there was no other choice. Hospitals are now a kill zone for you, with all the casualties from the night gathered there. I thought you hated hospitals.”
“I do.” But much less than this… this. He should have chased Nate away and stayed on the stairs. He shouldn’t let him trick him into moving at all. He should… he blinked, trying to stop that useless thinking. What ifs were always in vain. But he could bet now that they were as much just as delighted with his being here as he was.
Betsy was watching his thinking, and he had learned that her silence was always dangerous. Her hands were not shaking just because she had to come within his reach. She didn’t fear that he could freak out and kill her. But it could change; she knew nothing about that night. If she knew, she maybe would act just like Hardison did. He stopped himself when he almost glanced at the table where Hardison was sitting at his laptop again - he knew this would happen, but it didn’t hurt any less because of it.
Just for a second he thought to leave it that way, to have someone who wouldn’t feel uncomfortable near him, but at this point lies were absurd. “Do you know what I did…” fuck, he needed to take a break to finish the sentence. “…when I got out of Mass Gen?”
“Nate told me the basics. Why?”
“Do you know how many people I’ve killed?” This time he took a breath before speaking, and managed to say all of it at once.
“Damn. You were killing? I could never tell,” she shook her head. “It’s an awful, awful thing. You should be ashamed of yourself.” She shot him a dark look and smiled. “Can we skip this crap now, and concentrate on your staying alive?”
He just stared at her. Okay, maybe his thinking wasn’t as bright as he thought; she kept smiling. He cleared the fog from his mind and thought about a more clear explanation, but she raised her hand.
“My son is a cop, Eliot. I know everything that happened. I know that Patrick’s entire unit had your description and orders to get you out if they noticed you; not to arrest you,” she paused, her gaze still fixed on him, but her voice was soft when she continued. “And Nate told me you did what you intended to do. I suggest you try and remember what that was. And if it was worth it.”
“Hah!” the voice behind her stopped her next sentence; Parker had just appeared by the bed. “You’re awake. Good morning. Good morning, George,” she glanced at the plant and smiled.
He stared at her, trying not to search her posture to see if she was having trouble standing, he just looked at her face. Yep, it was worth it. Every damn step during the night was worth this smile, no matter it was sent to the plant and not to him.
When Parker looked at him again, she sighed and worry creased two vertical lines between her eyebrows. “You won’t go psycho all over again, right?” She didn’t wait for his response, she looked at Betsy. “Maybe you should drug him like in the hospital. I told Nate we should cuff him to the bed, but he didn’t think it was necessary; not even when he almost killed Sophie.”
He tried to take one deeper breath, but he failed miserably. The only thing he managed to do was to draw Betsy’s full attention on himself. He clutched the blanket to stop shaking and fixed his glaze in neutral, feeling her eyes probing him.
“I can’t walk, Parker,” he said, trying to sound as pleasant as he could. “You should feel safe… as long as you’re out of my reach. I don’t even have a gun.”
She frowned, tilting her head. “You’re strange,” she stated matter-of-factly. “I wanted to ask you something, but I’ll wait ‘till you start to sound normal again, okay?” Without another word, she simply turned around and went to Hardison. Who was, he noticed that just then, on his feet and alert while Parker was near him. He didn’t dare to ask Betsy what he had done to Sophie, and when.
“And what was this?” Betsy asked eying him with disapproval. “The girl was worried. I bet she’s worried more now. I don’t want her upset just as much as I don’t want you - she passed out last night, she’s weak. In case you didn’t notice, she was shot.”
“I noticed,” he whispered, wondering if the blanket would tear apart if he didn’t release his grasp. Finally one enemy defeated. “I’m the one who shot her.”
Much to his surprise, Betsy chuckled, and he raised his eyes to her. “You really know how to make your life interesting, don’t you?” Her eyes were bemused. “Now I understand what Patrick told me when he came to see you-”
“Patrick was here? Why-”
“He said he never saw a group of people so cruel and relentless in saving each other’s lives before, and that he was surprised any of you survived… well, the rest of you. Ruthless, that’s the word he used.”
He drew in a shaky breath. “I want to go to the hospit-” she put the mask on his face cutting off his words; he glared at her.
“Stop whining.” Her eyes were smiling at him, and he dared not to be offended. “You’re staying here. Now, you have two choices… either you pass out before I start to change your bandages, or during the process. I suggest the first option, for your sake.”
He hissed in annoyance. After all shit he had passed through, she couldn’t scare him with a little pain, nor she could divert his thoughts from the subject she didn’t want him to ponder upon.
Well, he was wrong.
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***
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The gunshots returned when he wasn’t able to control his thoughts, and he was aware that his plan to stay awake while they were sleeping had one big failure - he was too weak for experiments like that. He was forcing himself to stay awake for the bigger part of the morning, he barely stayed conscious through the changing of the bandages, and he couldn’t find enough strength to impose order on his mind any more. He was drifting in and out, caught in the night in full clarity, too exhausted to pull himself out of the permanent horror.
Everything was mixed together, people dying, all four of them in Marco’s Tavern, the Armenians and Villacorta, and all of them were screaming and dying, the noise too loud to hear anything except the painful thumping in his head. He overestimated his strength and he was paying for it with the last bits of his sanity. No one’s words or whispers could stop it this time. He would usually wait for the oblivion of unconsciousness to free him from this swamp that held him in its sticky grasp, and it would be welcomed, but he was too afraid now.
He didn’t remember attacking Sophie, it must have happened while he was out or delirious. If he slipped again, he’d do it again; only if he was awake he would be able to regain a little of the control he had left.
“Your hair still smells like blueberries and strawberries,” a voice penetrated the screams. “I guess that juice had conditioning qualities, it had to be nutritious. Are you sleeping?”
At the first moment he didn’t recognize the voice - he recognized his own brain-stopping-eyes-rolling reaction to Parker’s impossible way of thinking, and it helped in staying immobile, just breathing, keeping his hands still.
The blurred shadow formed into Parker standing in front of the bed, and her smile helped. Men dying under the fire disappeared.
“Will you teach me to shoot?” she asked quietly.
He froze. Fuck, no, Parker don’t... “No.” His voice gave way on that simple short word. He drew one sharp, ragged breath, clearing the images from his head. And not succeeding. He could clearly see her with the gun in her hand, the same pose she had when she aimed at him, but he wasn’t there anymore, just shadows that opened fire from all around. He closed his eyes, trying to stop the vivid picture that drew her right into his previous horror. They were supposed to be protected from that, that was his job, to keep them away from nasty things, from the guys with guns… Guns attracted the fire, Parker. A man with a gun is a target, an unarmed woman isn’t. He should say that, calmly, but his throat was clenched, his blood was still thumping in his head, and his hands started to shake again. He forced himself to open his eyes, trying to breathe slower and deeper.
Her expression changed; her eyes darkened and she hid her arms behind her back. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just thought it would be useful.” She shifted from one leg to another, taking her weight off the wounded one.
“You didn’t upset me,” he said through the gritted teeth, trying to smile, trying to stop the thumping. Useful, for god’s sake - that was the result of all this shit? Shooting was useful?! He did all this to keep them away from it! “It’s n-not useful, Parker. You shouldn’t-” he stopped when his voice cracked finally, when it became too complicated to speak and breathe at the same time. Calm down, idiot.
But the beeping couldn’t be controlled, that awful noise rose, and with every sound the fear in her eyes grew stronger. Fuck that shit, he couldn’t stand that fear anymore.
He simply threw away the clamps of his fingers, and alarms wailed through the room and painfully through his head, and even when he shut his ears with both hands it didn’t stop, it grew louder. Silhouettes gathered from all around, closing in on him, and he couldn’t move. He was lowered down, on his back, in the corner, and they kept hovering over him, reaching with their hands, and he had to close his eyes to stop himself from clearing his way right through them.
They are just worried, you don’t have to run, it’s just the noise…. he kept repeating it until he felt the cold plastic of the oxygen mask on his face, and until noise disappeared in a dull darkness.
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***
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The first thing that he saw when he opened his eyes was Parker, standing in front of the bed.
His life was really, really, a living hell.
He slowly glanced around; all of them were sitting at the dining table, at a safe distance. Great, just great… he could bet that Sophie and Nate were delighted when they’d been woken by the sound of the flat line. He noticed they had moved the table as close to the kitchen that they could - that put several more meters between them and the insane killer. He wasn’t surprised at all.
Parker waved her hand to attract his attention. “Gun.” she said solemnly.
“Yes, Parker?” he sighed, trying to guess if this was maybe some sort of flashback or some shit like that.
“Shooting, bullets?” she said hopefully, and he bit his lip to stop something that might, maybe, sound like whining. His head started to hurt. Great.
“Yes, Parker?” he tried again. Please, no thumping. Calm dawn. It’s just Parker.
“I just wanted to see if you’re reacting to those words. Maybe, if I make a list of words that upset you, I might-”
“Words don’t upset me, Parker. It’s okay. I’m just…” he stopped. She waited. “Tired,” he finished quietly.
“So, you’re strange because you’re tired?” Her face gleamed. “That’s great. I’m tired too.” and she turned and walked away.
God, he couldn’t stand this anymore, just… couldn’t. She was trying to act like the past few days didn’t happen, and he was too weak to brace himself against it. The normality of her weirdness was reminding him of everything he would have to leave behind, and the more his head was clear, the more painful it was. It would be easier if he wanted to leave… no, he had to.
He thought his control was crushing when he was out or delirious, and now he saw that he lost it completely when awake and able to think. He knew that the alarms would howl when he removed the clamps, but he couldn’t stop himself. The next time it might not be the alarms, it might be someone’s neck.
He had to turn himself out of this, to stop listening to them, to see them, to notice their fear and withdrawal, and just think about how to run away from them all. He knew it would be something like this, but he didn’t plan to be here - helpless and pinned to the bed, without any possibility of escape.
If his luck held, they would be too uncomfortable to be near him more that they had to, and those days would pass faster than he thought.
He needed a phone.
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Characters: Nate Ford, Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Parker, Sophie Deveraux, Patrick Bonnano
Fandom: Leverage
Spoilers: The Lonely Hearts Club Job, The Boy's night out Job
warnings: Dead people, language, violence, medical bullsh*t, extreme violence in later chapters, and extreme angst
Disclaimer: I do not own blah blah blah
Special, special, special, special thanks to trappercreekd for Betaing :D
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“Get up and get dressed. I need you downstairs.”
Nate left immediately after shaking him, and Hardison had no time to tell him that he was dressed. He peeked at Parker who was sleeping on the other side of the bed; the pale light that was coming through the window showed him it was early dawn.
He crawled out of the bed, feeling beaten and tired, though he knew he had slept more than in three last nights together. He took his shoes and silently went down stairs, trying not to think about all the reasons for being woken up.
At first he thought Nate had called him because of the good news, because Eliot’s eyes were open and his head turned to him when he touched the wooden floor. Yet, the words he wanted to say stood clenched in his throat when he went closer and heard how labored Eliot’s breathing was even with the mask. Sophie was sitting beside him, and he realized what the two of them had been doing all night at the moment he saw that his eyes were completely glazed, and his hair almost wet from the sweat. Eliot didn’t know at whom he was looking. She turned around and he saw her face and red, tired eyes.
“You should have wok-” he started, but cut off his words when Eliot flinched at his voice and narrowed his eyes. Nate was beside the bed in a second, stopping any possible move, giving the him sign to stay quiet and go away.
Hardison made a bee line to the kitchen with worry twisting in his gut with renewed strength. He nodded good morning to Betsy who was sitting at the table and going through the newspapers like nothing unusual was happening. He needed Orange soda, and he needed it fast. He put his shoes on in front of the fridge, before opening it, and it was good he did it, because he would drop them and make a noise. He found himself staring at dark red bags full of blood. God, that was too much. He yelped, staggered backwards, and landed on his ass on the floor.
“Of all the movies in the world, I had to wake up in fucking Twilight. It’s so… disgraceful,” he whispered to himself, suppressing the urge to run into bathroom and throw up.
“You want some IV?” the disinterested voice above him startled him; Betsy was elbowing the counter, looking down at him.
“No, god, no, needles-” he swallowed and put his head between his knees.
“Get up and get it together.” Nate joined Betsy. “You have to go to Eliot’s place and get the phone he sent all of details to last night. It seems this shit isn’t finished yet. He managed to tell me something he forgot yesterday - we have to find one man.”
“What, where, who-” he struggled to his feet.
“He is better, Hardison,” Nate said a little softer. “The night was pretty bad, but the fever is going down, and he recognized us. He knew where he was, and what happened.”
“If this is your idea of ‘better’, I really don’t want to think about the night,” he murmured.
“He’s just exhausted now; if he wakes up again and tell us more details, I’ll direct you with further steps, but I’m afraid it won’t be-”
“I’m coming too.” Parker passed them, completely dressed, diving into the fridge and emerging with the orange bottle. Hardison gratefully snatched the soda from her hand.
“Not a good idea,” Betsy said calmly.
“And what is he supposed to do, ring the bell? It’s Eliot’s place so we can expect no booby traps for the amateurs, he would have a hanging antitank mine instead of a girdle on the door.”
“Good point,” Nate sighed. “Hardison, set up complete communication, and go. I need that phone ASAP.”
Hardison cradled his bottle and sighed.
“And don’t forget to be careful.”
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***
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Someone was arguing. They took care to keep their voices low but the whispers were distressed, nervous and troubled. Eliot forced himself to understand what they were saying, though it was an immense effort with almost no success; sentences were entering his mind but they were scattered there as if he released them into a shredding machine. His attempt to collect quickly the spoken words ended with fiasco because when he thought he managed to connect two or three of them, another fifteen was said in a hurried whisper, messing up everything and leaving him clueless.
He simply gave up; he was too tired for that shit.
The next time he drifted closer to the surface he heard them again. This time he took off the mask from his face, carefully testing his breathing; it was better than he remembered, and he was able to open his eyes. That proved to be a very successful tactic, because he could read their faces and gestures, and that brought the meaning of the words.
“We are losing time!” There was nothing gentle in Sophie’s voice now, it was hard and worried. “We have to wake him up!”
“We’ll find him. Let him rest.” Nate was turned to the screens and he couldn’t see his face; he was watching something that looked like phone menus.
“We’ve been trying to find him for the last three hours, and he said it’s urgent!” she snapped.
“A little less hissing, and a little more paying attention to your surroundings would be clever,” Betsy’s voice was coming from the dining table and he slowly turned to look at her. She smiled. When he looked ahead him again - damn, why it was so difficult - Sophie was in front of him.
“Good, you’re awake,” she smiled. Nate sighed behind her. “I’m sorry to bother you, but we need a few answers. Do you understand me?”
He thought about it, while she patiently waited. “No,” he carefully said.
They were alone again, he noticed. There was no sign of Parker and Hardison, and he couldn’t remember if he saw them during the night. He stared at her, trying to focus, not wanting to hear anything more, too scared to ask about them. The last thing he remembered before everything went black in that corridor were explosions and shooting… and Sophie was talking to Nate, he clearly heard her name at one point. If Sophie was at the computers, Hardison was out of the van. Somewhere in the building. Nate said they would come in to get them out. Shooting. Explosions. Forty Mexicans and twenty Chileans, and Parker and Hardison among them…
“Hey, hey, stop that!” He wasn’t doing anything, yet a strong hand grabbed his shoulder and shook him. Shit, that hurt. “Wherever you are, you need to come back.”
“Where are they?” he whispered, clenching his teeth. “What happened?”
“Hardison is checking your car to see if there was someone else in it besides Tapia.” Thank god, Nate knew what he meant. “Parker is with him, they’re both okay. Eliot, do you remember what you told me last night?”
Which fucking last night? “Few hours ago,” Nate continued, obviously reading his eyes.
Who cared about that? He didn’t remember anything. They were alive, that was enough for now. He wanted only to close his eyes again, he had no strength for talking. Or listening, or thinking.
That damn hand snapped him from the fog again.
“Eliot. Please. Focus for just a second.” Nate sounded tired now, and he forced his eyes to open. “Who the fuck is George, where is he, and why we have to save him?”
Crap.
He stared at them, trying to connect everything, and not succeeding. They saw he was thinking and they patiently waited. He didn’t remember saying anything about George, about anything else for that matter, but he obviously sent them to chase… Jesus. It was a shame his breathing wasn’t yet good enough for a sigh.
He glanced around him. “Soph… give me that small pillow.”
He carefully took it with his left hand - moving the right one was too painful - and put it on his face. He had never heard someone actually managing to perform suicide by the pillow, but there was a first time for everything.
“What the hell are you doing?” Nate snatched the pillow from him, suddenly sounding worried. Again.
“Killing myself,” he whispered. “It’s not like… I have any other way to do it.”
“George, Eliot! Cut the crazy and talk. Who is he, where can we find him, and what’s happening?”
“He… it…he…” he stuttered. Then reached for the pillow again, but Sophie growled at him. Fuck. She actually growled. Sophie. God, she must have been in total distress by now.
“He…it…” he forced himself to concentrate on talking. “George is a plant. In my room. In the hospital.”
Three simultaneous long breaths were taken.
“A plant,” Nate said carefully, lowering his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Texas mountain laurel.”
“A laurel,” Nate repeated, still not raising his head. “And what… and from where… what is the nature of the danger from which we have to… to save him?”
“I drugged him… morphine. His soil has to be changed,” he planned to add a description of washing the roots, but his voice betrayed him, thank god. Too many words in too short a time.
Sophie was watching him with an unreadable expression in her eyes, and he was grateful when her hand stopped Nate’s next question. “That’s enough,” she said softly. “Don’t try to talk anymore, okay?”
He wasn’t planning to talk at all, he tried to point out, but she put the mask back on his face and smiled. “Sleep now.”
The last thing he heard before everything went black was Nate’s sigh and ‘abort the mission’ whispered into the comm.
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***
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Nate wasn’t happy that he had to leave Parker and Hardison alone on watch when they’d returned, but both him and Sophie needed rest. Betsy too; she refused to go upstairs with Sophie and decided to stay on the sofa, just in case, and that eased his worries a little. Knowing she was near them, and that they had to be careful and quiet not to wake her up, gave the chance of a few hours without further crisis.
He thought he would be relieved because they couldn’t hear the beeping upstairs, but the silence was making him restless. Thinking about all the info from Eliot’s phone wasn’t helping either because his mind was going all around the town after his steps, filling the holes he had until now. And feeding his fears, too. The more he knew, the more he understood the state Eliot was in. His breaking apart was not caused only by shock and bleeding out, and it couldn’t be solved just by transfusions and care.
“He reacts very badly to Parker and Hardison,” Sophie’s voice showed him she wasn’t able to sleep, and that the same thoughts were on her mind too.
“What do you mean? He didn’t know where they were, if this is what-”
“No, I’m not talking about what he asked,” she turned around to face him and hugged the pillow, resting her chin on it. “Since we came here, every time he heard their voices, he went into tachycardia. They are disturbing him. We don’t... or at least, not that much.”
He thought about it, then got up and went to the stairs to check.
Hardison was with his laptop, Parker was watching cartoons, Betsy was sleeping and the beeping was regular.
“It must be painful to leave a situation without control.” Sophie welcomed him with the smile, but he knew she was only half teasing. She was checking him the same way she checked Eliot’s temperature through the night, with light, gentle touches. Yet this time, he left the bait hanging.
“It’s too early to see anything certain. He spoke a few sentences, and he is not completely present yet,” he said.
She said nothing.
He sighed. “He is better, he is calmer, not in shock anymore, and his thinking seems to be relatively normal. Maybe he won’t even remember everything he said or thought after we left Villacorta.” He had to say that - it was a possibility after all - but his own words sounded empty to him.
“Of course, you’re right,” she purred softly. “But, what would be your first steps if you were lying in a bed and wanting to leave it?”
He went through all the disconnecting and removing of everything that Eliot tried through the night, and sighed again. “Leaving the bed doesn’t mean leaving… everything,” he said quietly.
“It doesn’t. But if you want to know for sure what he does feel - and that, my dear, is the only important thing here, not what he thinks - you have to watch what he does when he is unconscious, not what he shows, thinks, or says when he is awake.”
“He trusted you when he was unaware of anything,” he pointed out. “Parker and Hardison haven’t done anything nearly so bad as you did to him, in that conversation.”
“Because the problem is not what someone did to him,” she put a hand on his face, and smiled. “The problem is what he has done to them, that’s what troubles him. He couldn’t stand hearing their voices, Nate. Your team is falling apart.”
“Give him some time. Maybe time is only thing that’s needed to settle this.”
“The time, Nate,” she whispered. “is the only thing that we don’t have.”
He thought about all the implications of her words. And thought.
“The irresistible force meets an immovable object,” he said finally.
“What?”
“When the paradox stops being the paradox?” he smiled. “The immovable object doesn’t have a chance… because we have two irresistible forces ready to unleash on him. And all the time we have, we have to give to the two of them. We must wait, and act only if Parker and Hardison fail.”
“Fail in what? They don’t even know the problem exists.”
“Oh, they’ll soon find out. Maybe I’m wrong… but they can’t fail in being themselves.”
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***
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Time was a very confusing category, but somehow he knew the cartoons were shown in the morning. The first thing that he saw, in fact, weren’t jumping pictures on the screens - though his bed was placed so he could look almost directly at the screens - nope, the first thing was George, resting on the table near the beeping monster, in a huge white vase with the Leverage logo on it. He looked pretty satisfied with himself, he noticed absentmindedly. Traitor.
The first thing he did was remove the mask. He kept it near, in case he needed it again, but he had to breathe on his own.
He wasn’t sleeping. They arranged this silence so he could rest, and they took shifts to watch over him, but he didn’t plan to follow their arrangements. Nate, Sophie and Betsy were sleeping for now, and he could expect them back soon, which meant all of them would be here, awake, around him, the noise would grow, and they would start to cruise around him. Trying to talk, trying to ask questions, trying to… whatever. He couldn’t do it. He calculated to be solidly knocked out when they gathered.
He forced himself to stay awake by staring at the cartoons, clearing his mind of every thought that could attack him. Hardison was coming every ten minutes to check on him, and he was closing his eyes at the first sound of his chair moving, pretending to sleep, opening them as soon as he would return at the table. His steps were cautious and slow, hesitating.
It wasn’t easy to look at the screen without seeing the blond head that was the only part he could see of Parker behind the sofa; she was probably sitting curled under Betsy’s legs. If she was able to curl, that meant that her leg wasn’t… he stopped his thoughts and concentrated on the singing frogs on the screen.
He was too weak to think about anything else for now, and he certainly couldn’t allow any change in his heart rate that would draw attention to him. No shootings, no images of the night, no faces, everything had to go for now. It would have to wait until his mind was clear again and able to think about it. To think about everything.
The singing frogs would keep him awake until the next shift woke up, and by then, he would be completely drained, unable to think, feel and hear anything. That sounded like a good plan… except this time, he had no idea what to do. He couldn’t keep himself in oblivion forever.
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***
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The eleventh time Hardison went to check on Eliot he didn’t return to the table, he stayed by the bed. He did his usual checks; rhythm of breathing, pulse, all the tubes, the readings on the Pleurevac, and everything looked normal, no change. Yet, he sat in Betsy’s chair and looked at him.
“I know you’re awake.” He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe because he could feel the silent attention and awareness in the air that grew stronger when he was near, though Eliot’s eyes remained closed.
“I just want to ask you if you need anything. I’ll leave you to rest,” he continued when no response came. “Betsy said we can’t give you anything to eat yet, but you should drink something at this point.”
He turned around and looked at the heart monitor; it slowed down slightly. He wasn’t a fool, he knew it wasn’t relaxing; it was the immense effort to hide an annoyance, that went in the opposite direction. When he turned to him again, his eyes were open, but there was no annoyance - he would welcome that glare - nope, his eyes were just terribly tired. At least they weren’t glazed - or empty, he thought, swallowing, trying to dismiss the memory of his waving a hand before his eyes, with no reaction in return.
“So…” he started. Damn, he wanted to say so much, but he knew if he started he wouldn’t stop for hours, and it would finish in turns of hugging him and strangling him, with babbling about the fear, curses and probably very girlish crying. “… water or juice?” he said to his friend, in the fucking first talk after everything went to hell, to a man for whose life he feared for four days, and who was finally safe, with them again. This was awkward. Yet, he just couldn’t babble as if nothing happened, nor did he want to upset him with feelings. He didn’t want to upset him with anything, terrified by this weakness that leaked from his eyes. He had seen him beaten before, barely able to walk, in pain and tired, but this… this was a shadow of death still present, hovering over his shoulder.
His eyes might be weak but they never left him and he flinched, not knowing what Eliot was looking at, what he was searching for in his face.
“Okay. Bring me some water,” he finally whispered, and Hardison sprang from the chair to the kitchen.
Eliot’s eyes were closed again when he returned, but he heard him and forced them open. Damn, it looked like such a fucking long and tiresome process, seconds went by until he managed to focus on him again, and his fear grew.
“You have to be upright to drink,” he murmured, playing with the remote of the bed until he found the option to lift just the upper part behind his back. Maybe he should have waited for Betsy to wake up, he thought when the sudden movement drained the little color Eliot had in his face. He wasn’t on painkillers, Hardison remembered too late, and controlled his growing panic at the thought he maybe did something that he shouldn’t have done. If there was a reason Betsy kept him lowered, and he just… damn. “You okay?” he asked, not daring to go that step closer, too scared to even check the readings.
It took few seconds for his eyes to lose the glaze of pain, and for his breathing to continue. “Fine.” Eliot whispered. He carefully went closer.
He put the glass in his hand, watching the concentration he needed to simply hold it in place, but he clenched his teeth to stop himself from helping him when Eliot had to hold it with both hands to avoid spilling the water. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, and he took just one sip.
The beeping started to jump. Hardison crossed his arms, telling himself that he was just pissed because he was in this condition; this was expected. He changed his mind when the shaking spread to his shoulders, and when he clenched the glass to keep it upright. Fuck that shit. He cleared his throat, not quite able to erase the fear from his voice. “I think it’s enough. You should calm down now.”
“You think?” Eliot hissed the response, breathlessly, and Hardison quickly looked for the mask, lying beside him on the blanket. He cautiously came closer and reached for the glass.
“I’ll take it now. You should put the mask back on.” Damn, the beeping was now as fast as it was when he brought him here, and he swallowed the panic once more. He took the glass and put it on the table, too scared to touch him, or to lower the bed, even to give him the mask. “Don’t freak out again, okay? And don’t move. You shouldn’t move.”
Fuck, he said something wrong, he could tell, but he had no clue what; in a second Eliot's face was bland and closed like Hardison had never seen before.
“Don’t worry. I won’t freak out. And won’t move.” His voice, in awful contrast with his rapid heartbeat, sounded leveled and controlled. “Take it away… I have to rest now.”
“Well, finally.” The dry voice behind him caused Hardison to turn sharply; Betsy was standing behind him, looking pretty pissed off. He should have known the change in beeping would wake her up. He raised both hands in the air, and ran away, leaving Eliot to deal with her.
But he noticed the relief in his eyes when she came, and it stabbed him; she should be the enemy here, not a savior.
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***
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“I want t-to go to the hospital,” he said to Betsy as soon Hardison was far away enough not to hear anything. He was shaking so hard that his teeth clattered.
“I would ask you why, but it would mean you would have to explain it to yourself first, which you won’t allow, so I’ll just pretend you didn’t say anything. Or that you’re just whining.”
He stared at her, trying to untangle her words.
“I can think,” he said slowly. “You d-don’t have to test me with this sort of… shit.”
“Of course,” she grinned and sat on the bed. It was an immense relief to see someone who didn’t have fear in their eyes, and who came close to him without any hesitation.
He thought about a different approach. “Why am I here in the first place, and not in the hospital?”
“They had to bring you here, there was no other choice. Hospitals are now a kill zone for you, with all the casualties from the night gathered there. I thought you hated hospitals.”
“I do.” But much less than this… this. He should have chased Nate away and stayed on the stairs. He shouldn’t let him trick him into moving at all. He should… he blinked, trying to stop that useless thinking. What ifs were always in vain. But he could bet now that they were as much just as delighted with his being here as he was.
Betsy was watching his thinking, and he had learned that her silence was always dangerous. Her hands were not shaking just because she had to come within his reach. She didn’t fear that he could freak out and kill her. But it could change; she knew nothing about that night. If she knew, she maybe would act just like Hardison did. He stopped himself when he almost glanced at the table where Hardison was sitting at his laptop again - he knew this would happen, but it didn’t hurt any less because of it.
Just for a second he thought to leave it that way, to have someone who wouldn’t feel uncomfortable near him, but at this point lies were absurd. “Do you know what I did…” fuck, he needed to take a break to finish the sentence. “…when I got out of Mass Gen?”
“Nate told me the basics. Why?”
“Do you know how many people I’ve killed?” This time he took a breath before speaking, and managed to say all of it at once.
“Damn. You were killing? I could never tell,” she shook her head. “It’s an awful, awful thing. You should be ashamed of yourself.” She shot him a dark look and smiled. “Can we skip this crap now, and concentrate on your staying alive?”
He just stared at her. Okay, maybe his thinking wasn’t as bright as he thought; she kept smiling. He cleared the fog from his mind and thought about a more clear explanation, but she raised her hand.
“My son is a cop, Eliot. I know everything that happened. I know that Patrick’s entire unit had your description and orders to get you out if they noticed you; not to arrest you,” she paused, her gaze still fixed on him, but her voice was soft when she continued. “And Nate told me you did what you intended to do. I suggest you try and remember what that was. And if it was worth it.”
“Hah!” the voice behind her stopped her next sentence; Parker had just appeared by the bed. “You’re awake. Good morning. Good morning, George,” she glanced at the plant and smiled.
He stared at her, trying not to search her posture to see if she was having trouble standing, he just looked at her face. Yep, it was worth it. Every damn step during the night was worth this smile, no matter it was sent to the plant and not to him.
When Parker looked at him again, she sighed and worry creased two vertical lines between her eyebrows. “You won’t go psycho all over again, right?” She didn’t wait for his response, she looked at Betsy. “Maybe you should drug him like in the hospital. I told Nate we should cuff him to the bed, but he didn’t think it was necessary; not even when he almost killed Sophie.”
He tried to take one deeper breath, but he failed miserably. The only thing he managed to do was to draw Betsy’s full attention on himself. He clutched the blanket to stop shaking and fixed his glaze in neutral, feeling her eyes probing him.
“I can’t walk, Parker,” he said, trying to sound as pleasant as he could. “You should feel safe… as long as you’re out of my reach. I don’t even have a gun.”
She frowned, tilting her head. “You’re strange,” she stated matter-of-factly. “I wanted to ask you something, but I’ll wait ‘till you start to sound normal again, okay?” Without another word, she simply turned around and went to Hardison. Who was, he noticed that just then, on his feet and alert while Parker was near him. He didn’t dare to ask Betsy what he had done to Sophie, and when.
“And what was this?” Betsy asked eying him with disapproval. “The girl was worried. I bet she’s worried more now. I don’t want her upset just as much as I don’t want you - she passed out last night, she’s weak. In case you didn’t notice, she was shot.”
“I noticed,” he whispered, wondering if the blanket would tear apart if he didn’t release his grasp. Finally one enemy defeated. “I’m the one who shot her.”
Much to his surprise, Betsy chuckled, and he raised his eyes to her. “You really know how to make your life interesting, don’t you?” Her eyes were bemused. “Now I understand what Patrick told me when he came to see you-”
“Patrick was here? Why-”
“He said he never saw a group of people so cruel and relentless in saving each other’s lives before, and that he was surprised any of you survived… well, the rest of you. Ruthless, that’s the word he used.”
He drew in a shaky breath. “I want to go to the hospit-” she put the mask on his face cutting off his words; he glared at her.
“Stop whining.” Her eyes were smiling at him, and he dared not to be offended. “You’re staying here. Now, you have two choices… either you pass out before I start to change your bandages, or during the process. I suggest the first option, for your sake.”
He hissed in annoyance. After all shit he had passed through, she couldn’t scare him with a little pain, nor she could divert his thoughts from the subject she didn’t want him to ponder upon.
Well, he was wrong.
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***
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The gunshots returned when he wasn’t able to control his thoughts, and he was aware that his plan to stay awake while they were sleeping had one big failure - he was too weak for experiments like that. He was forcing himself to stay awake for the bigger part of the morning, he barely stayed conscious through the changing of the bandages, and he couldn’t find enough strength to impose order on his mind any more. He was drifting in and out, caught in the night in full clarity, too exhausted to pull himself out of the permanent horror.
Everything was mixed together, people dying, all four of them in Marco’s Tavern, the Armenians and Villacorta, and all of them were screaming and dying, the noise too loud to hear anything except the painful thumping in his head. He overestimated his strength and he was paying for it with the last bits of his sanity. No one’s words or whispers could stop it this time. He would usually wait for the oblivion of unconsciousness to free him from this swamp that held him in its sticky grasp, and it would be welcomed, but he was too afraid now.
He didn’t remember attacking Sophie, it must have happened while he was out or delirious. If he slipped again, he’d do it again; only if he was awake he would be able to regain a little of the control he had left.
“Your hair still smells like blueberries and strawberries,” a voice penetrated the screams. “I guess that juice had conditioning qualities, it had to be nutritious. Are you sleeping?”
At the first moment he didn’t recognize the voice - he recognized his own brain-stopping-eyes-rolling reaction to Parker’s impossible way of thinking, and it helped in staying immobile, just breathing, keeping his hands still.
The blurred shadow formed into Parker standing in front of the bed, and her smile helped. Men dying under the fire disappeared.
“Will you teach me to shoot?” she asked quietly.
He froze. Fuck, no, Parker don’t... “No.” His voice gave way on that simple short word. He drew one sharp, ragged breath, clearing the images from his head. And not succeeding. He could clearly see her with the gun in her hand, the same pose she had when she aimed at him, but he wasn’t there anymore, just shadows that opened fire from all around. He closed his eyes, trying to stop the vivid picture that drew her right into his previous horror. They were supposed to be protected from that, that was his job, to keep them away from nasty things, from the guys with guns… Guns attracted the fire, Parker. A man with a gun is a target, an unarmed woman isn’t. He should say that, calmly, but his throat was clenched, his blood was still thumping in his head, and his hands started to shake again. He forced himself to open his eyes, trying to breathe slower and deeper.
Her expression changed; her eyes darkened and she hid her arms behind her back. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just thought it would be useful.” She shifted from one leg to another, taking her weight off the wounded one.
“You didn’t upset me,” he said through the gritted teeth, trying to smile, trying to stop the thumping. Useful, for god’s sake - that was the result of all this shit? Shooting was useful?! He did all this to keep them away from it! “It’s n-not useful, Parker. You shouldn’t-” he stopped when his voice cracked finally, when it became too complicated to speak and breathe at the same time. Calm down, idiot.
But the beeping couldn’t be controlled, that awful noise rose, and with every sound the fear in her eyes grew stronger. Fuck that shit, he couldn’t stand that fear anymore.
He simply threw away the clamps of his fingers, and alarms wailed through the room and painfully through his head, and even when he shut his ears with both hands it didn’t stop, it grew louder. Silhouettes gathered from all around, closing in on him, and he couldn’t move. He was lowered down, on his back, in the corner, and they kept hovering over him, reaching with their hands, and he had to close his eyes to stop himself from clearing his way right through them.
They are just worried, you don’t have to run, it’s just the noise…. he kept repeating it until he felt the cold plastic of the oxygen mask on his face, and until noise disappeared in a dull darkness.
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***
.
The first thing that he saw when he opened his eyes was Parker, standing in front of the bed.
His life was really, really, a living hell.
He slowly glanced around; all of them were sitting at the dining table, at a safe distance. Great, just great… he could bet that Sophie and Nate were delighted when they’d been woken by the sound of the flat line. He noticed they had moved the table as close to the kitchen that they could - that put several more meters between them and the insane killer. He wasn’t surprised at all.
Parker waved her hand to attract his attention. “Gun.” she said solemnly.
“Yes, Parker?” he sighed, trying to guess if this was maybe some sort of flashback or some shit like that.
“Shooting, bullets?” she said hopefully, and he bit his lip to stop something that might, maybe, sound like whining. His head started to hurt. Great.
“Yes, Parker?” he tried again. Please, no thumping. Calm dawn. It’s just Parker.
“I just wanted to see if you’re reacting to those words. Maybe, if I make a list of words that upset you, I might-”
“Words don’t upset me, Parker. It’s okay. I’m just…” he stopped. She waited. “Tired,” he finished quietly.
“So, you’re strange because you’re tired?” Her face gleamed. “That’s great. I’m tired too.” and she turned and walked away.
God, he couldn’t stand this anymore, just… couldn’t. She was trying to act like the past few days didn’t happen, and he was too weak to brace himself against it. The normality of her weirdness was reminding him of everything he would have to leave behind, and the more his head was clear, the more painful it was. It would be easier if he wanted to leave… no, he had to.
He thought his control was crushing when he was out or delirious, and now he saw that he lost it completely when awake and able to think. He knew that the alarms would howl when he removed the clamps, but he couldn’t stop himself. The next time it might not be the alarms, it might be someone’s neck.
He had to turn himself out of this, to stop listening to them, to see them, to notice their fear and withdrawal, and just think about how to run away from them all. He knew it would be something like this, but he didn’t plan to be here - helpless and pinned to the bed, without any possibility of escape.
If his luck held, they would be too uncomfortable to be near him more that they had to, and those days would pass faster than he thought.
He needed a phone.
.
.