fic: A Million Numbered Doors | Part One (Alex + Amber)
Title: A Million Numbered Doors
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Alex, Amber, OFC (also Alex/OFC, Alex/Lucy, Meredith)
Rating: R
Warning: Graphic violence, rape, sex, drug use, language and serious amounts of angst
Word Count: 10370 (in two parts)
Spoilers: None
Summary: A relatively soonish AU future fic where the stories of three different characters combine into one shocking turn of events. (Most of this is told from Alex's point of view. But, there are significant moments told from the point of view of both Amber and the OFC, Megan)
Author's Notes: Inspired by a late night viewing of 21 Grams. Blame the ambiguous non-linearity on Alejandro González Iñárritu. And if it still doesn't make any sense by the end then, my apologies! This is an experiment, okay? Thanks go to rorylie, abvj and leobrat for various reasons!
Disclaimer: At my user info. page. Title and cut text from Truth, Alexander Ebert
The garish neon lights of The Strip blink and blur into the background as he leans his weight against the chipped wrought iron fence in front of him. The activity no less chaotic now, as the sun begins its heavy ascent into day-time, than it had been when he'd arrived at this spot some three hours earlier.
Where the elapsed time has evaporated to, he has no awareness.
A cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth. A thin stream of acrid smoke curls around his left ear, settles heavily on his lashes. An unbearable weight.
The almost fluorescent white of the cast on his right wrist is at odds with the filth etched into his denim jeans. Too many days past being in need of a wash to be fashionably worn in. He bounces the plaster against the iron paling. Relishes the agony that pulses through his elbow, spears him right between the eyes.
Uses the sensation to bring about a re-focusing of sorts. He has not come here to wallow. There are things that need to be done.
Must be done before a return to Seattle can be given anything more than a fleeting thought.
Lucy.
And; I'm sorry.
Sub-vocalised. It will have to do for now.
A figure in his periphery nods out an innocuous greeting. Could be, good morning. Could be, nice day for it. Isn't actually either of those things. There's a worn backpack slung over his right shoulder. The baseball cap on his head appears new; touristy and cheap. Just the right amount of tacky.
Fabulous Las Vegas.
Oh, the irony.
“You get it?” His voice sounds rough. The cigarettes and the almost complete lack of use combining readily to give it a much deeper tone. He almost doesn't recognise himself.
Almost prefers it that way.
The man nods again. Fast and sure and perhaps a little put out by the doubt that coats those three syllables. Justified really. He had doubted the man's success. Doesn't bother pointing out that his reasoning was more to do with his own shit outta luck existence than anything else.
“All of it?” Still dubious.
Another nod. He feels something that tastes a lot like the end flood his mouth then. Coat his tongue and teeth with its heady tang.
He leans over the fence. Drops a folded newspaper heavily onto the park bench on the opposite side.
“It's all in there.”
He brings his plastered arm up to his mouth. Uses swollen fingers to clamp around the ashy cigarette. Draws back deeply until there's no where else for the cloudy air to go. Loathes the suffocating sensation almost as much as he craves it in the same stuttered exhale.
The man drags the baseball cap from his head and runs his fingers through the close cropped hair that is now exposed. A nervous twitch of sorts. “You sure about this?”
It's his turn to nod. Slides his gaze, sand-paper rough, all the way to the left without bothering to turn his head. “I didn't hire you to care. If it's all there, then we're done.”
“You might not like what you see...”
A warning. Barely concealed. He laughs. Coughs thickly around the remnants of smoke in his lungs.
“And wouldn't that make for a nice fucking change.” Bitter and unapologetic. He already thinks he knows what he'll find... Proof.
The man shrugs, a silent suit yourself as he retrieves the discarded newspaper, slips the concealed envelope out from between the sports pages and peers briefly inside. Double checks the contents are as they should be.
The backpack he'd been toting slides to a gentle rest on the bench, falls into the spot the newspaper had been in only moments earlier. There's more than just a little hesitation in the movement, as though the man is still not entirely convinced handing it over is such a good idea.
“Good luck, yeah?” A question, like he's not really sure luck is what he's looking for.
He nods back one final time. Accepts the words for what they are and nothing more. Watches with only a momentary pang as the man shuffles off, heads back in the direction he'd originated from not five minutes earlier.
He reaches over the low fence and loops his uninjured fingers through the backpack's straps. It's surprisingly heavy as he hauls it up, settles the weight onto his own shoulders. Barely notices the addition amid all the burden that already sits there.
He hears footsteps then, more deliberate than those of the myriad tourists that have filed passed, procession-like. Small hands snake around his mid-section. Pale arms that work their way under his sweat stale shirt. Warm against his chest as they wrap across his rib-cage. Hold all his shattered pieces into some semblance of order.
“Hey. Everything okay?” The soft words whispered in a smoky sigh that settles against the pulse point somewhere below his left ear.
He closes his eyes then, the bright morning sun orange red through paper thin lids as he nods again. Feels the familiar movement become his default setting once more.
“What you doing out here?” Not suspicious he thinks. Genuinely curious. An interesting turn of events.
“Nothing.” He twists to face her then, forces a degree of nonchalance he absolutely does not feel, “Let's go...”
*
The baby kicks under her hand. It's painful in an oddly satisfying kind of way and she groans, rolls her eyes, grins. Murmurs non-sensical syllables under her breath and refuses to meet the gaze of the man staring out at her from the kitchen.
Wonders, distractedly, how the worst thing that has ever happen to her could also be the absolute very best...
*
The pit is filled to bursting with the results of tourist bus versus concrete balustrade. The boards have all been cleared of non-emergent surgeries and the operating staff having spent the last nine hours painstakingly piecing the wounded back together.
So far the casualty list stands at two. And really? It could have been a whole lot worse.
He slings off the latest pair of surgical gloves and delivers them with a secure shove into the hazardous waste bin to be destroyed. His left knee aches all the way to his back teeth as he washes his hands, scrubs off the stench of death and dying that gets harder and harder to remove as days become years.
He catches a glimpse of her rounding a corner at the end of the corridor. Drags his hands over his face in an attempt to scrub away at the exhaustion no doubt etched there as he makes his way in her direction.
Slides his hands over her eyes from behind and pulls her back against his chest, buries his face into the mess of blonde curls. Locks her there resolutely.
She giggles and the sound catches in his palms.
“Hey, you...”
“Hey, yourself.”
She spins in his grip until they're face to face. Presses her nose against his chin as she leans into him, as wrecked perhaps as he.
“How long 'til you're done?”
“Ten minutes. You?”
“Give me half an hour and we're out of here.”
“Sweet.”
The sound of her rubber soled shoes echoes as she makes her way towards the elevator on their left. Stabs at the call button with the folder she has tucked to her chest before turning to grin at him suggestively.
Mouths back a silent Twenty nine minutes... He lip-reads the over produced syllables easily, raises his eyebrows in response.
Watches as she disappears into the void with a smile on her face that mirrors the one on his. Waits with baited breath for the other shoe to drop.
After all, it always does.
*
The sheet is pooled on the thread-bare carpet at the side of the double bed. Cheap motel quality. There's a woman asleep next to him. Naked. One arm dangles off the side and he contemplates reaching across to retrieve it.
Doesn't. Thinks fuck it and reaches instead for the shallow glass of bourbon on the bedside table.
It's barely 7am.
The over-head fan whirs monotonously above them. Struggles valiantly to shift air that is already stifling. A heady mix of heat and sweat. Sex and booze and cigarette smoke.
All his vices come once more to haunt him.
The bruising across her face reaches into her hair-line, disappears into the mess of dark brown that haloes the pillow beneath her head. It's more yellow and green than inky black and purple now. A stark reminder of the hours, the days that have passed.
His cell phone bursts to life in the pocket of his jeans that were discarded some time in the early hours. He rolls over and snags a finger through a belt loop. Retrieves the still ringing device and squints to decipher the caller identification.
Meredith.
Contemplates cutting the call but can't quite bring himself to. Some habits die harder than others.
“Yeah?”
“What the hell is going on?”
And he doesn't have anywhere near the energy required for this conversation.
“Look, I can't-” Can't breathe. Can't think. Can't talk to you right now. “Just, I'm sorry okay. Tell Lucy. Tell her-” Tell her anything. Anything is better than the truth. “Tell her I'm sorry.”
“Alex-”
Only this time he does end it. Snaps the phone shut decisively and slings it back in the direction of his jeans, still crumpled as they are on the filthy floor.
Tell Lucy I'm sorry...
*
The first he hears is that she's missing. Has been for seven months.
Seven fucking months.
Though they've only just figured out this piece of information in the last couple of days. Are only just sharing it with him now...
*
The listening device is uncomfortable. The background noise; music, conversation, laughter, buzzes around the constant messages she's fed from the surveillance van that sits in the emptied out alleyway behind the warehouse that is so much more than just a warehouse.
“You in position yet, Charlie Four?”
“Charlie Four confirming, we are in position.”
Most of the information isn't even for her. Nothing more than vague reassurance that things are, so far anyway, going to plan.
She pushes into the bathroom at the back of the make-shift dance floor, leans her weight against the stainless steel basin and blinks blearily back at her own reflection. Mascara barely clings to the tips of her lashes, any lip-gloss she'd applied in the hours leading up until now has long since disappeared.
She looks exactly like the junkie she's playing at.
And after all, practice does make perfect.
She drags the back of her hand under her nose. An automatic response that never really faded, despite the years that have ticked on by. Glances up just in time to notice a swollen belly round the corner before the rest of a young female body joins it.
Feels her heart sink to somewhere down around her ankles. Possibly even lower than that. Counts to ten with her breath firmly held and resolutely prays for silence.
Doesn't get it.
“Oh,” Tentative at first, before morphing into something resembling confidence. Assuredness. Like she's done this before. “Jackie, there you are! I've been looking all over...”
Jackie. The code-word.
“I got you a drink. Come find me on the dance-floor when you're done in here.”
Exactly to script.
Fuck.
The young woman exits again. Takes her pronounced baby bump and her un-lit cigarette with her. She follows her reflection in the tarnished mirror. Loses her momentarily between water spots. She looks to be no more than eighteen or nineteen. Rough though. Like she's lived more than just this life. More than just this one shitty night.
Maybe even more than a whole God damn string of them.
Fuck.
The bug in her ear bursts back to life. Resoundingly startles her out of the all-encompassing dismay that had threatened to descend. Forces her back into the bigger picture.
“You set, Decker?”
She sighs around her words as she tumbles out the confirmation her boss is seeking.
“Yeah, all set. Did you get the visual?”
A back-handed attempt at making sure they still want her to go ahead.
“Yeah, we got it. Doesn't matter. Make the drop. This ends tonight.”
“Right, got it. Moving out now.”
She inhales, drags her hand under her nose once more. Shudders against the physical pain of longing for what she craves. Doesn't bother lying to herself for fifteen brief, blissful seconds.
The music has been kicked up a notch, lights bounce off the mirrored walls, make it difficult to determine which way is up and which is all the way back down. The dance floor is only sparsely occupied, she can see her target, weaving slightly just to the left of the centre. A disco light flashes across her face. Blue and green. Ghost-like. Blank facial expression at odds with the gentle dance she's started.
She looks dead in that moment, and the sudden chill that settles deep in her bones has nothing to do with the whirring air con that has kicked into over-drive.
Something is off.
She can sense her back-up over to one side. Nods surreptitiously in their direction and moves her way into the gyrating crowd. Feels the beat of the music melt into something resembling her own aching heart beat.
Fingers seal around her arm; looks friendly enough to the outside observer. Matching smile, a little lopsided but apparently genuine. Eyebrows raise, a silent question that doesn't need words. She nods back her response. Slides her fingers into the sweat sticky palm of the younger girl, spins her round slightly so that the cameras she knows are in place can capture the moment cleanly.
There's something in her expression that makes her want to stop. To pull her away from the lights and the noise and ask her what the hell she thinks she's doing. Her free hand rests on the expanse of baby and belly that separates them. An unconscious action that sends nausea roiling through her insides.
Jesus, this is fucked up...
A door behind her bursts open then, and the thumping music fails to consume the sound of gunshots. Semi-automatic weapon fire. The spray of arterial blood flicks across her face. Not hers. Not hers either. They're both still standing. Frozen in a mirrored tableau of one another. The girls eyes go wide in their sockets. Unadulterated fear as her mouth drops into a perfect O.
A fist connects with her cheek-bone then. Her world explodes into a bright white light and while the image of the young girl fades from view she knows without doubt it will remain seared into the underside of her eyelids.
*
The Las Vegas police call him long distance, tell him they've found her, tell him that they were probably too late all in the same run-on sentence.
“We're very sorry to have to tell you this, Mister Karev...”
He leaves within the hour. Makes his way to the airport in a blur of not enough sleep and too much unbridled terror. Drinks coffee that scalds the roof of his mouth and tries not to think about the fact that he'd never imagined his first trip to Vegas would be anything like this one is going to be.
*
Undercover, deep. Three quarters to losing herself completely into a world that is infinitely more familiar to her than the one she occupies now.
There is cocaine under her fingernails. She can feel it there. Knows without even having to look. Itches to touch the tip of her tongue to her acid tangy skin. Creates viable excuses and explanations even as she knows she won't do it.
Not this time. Maybe not ever again.
The revelation is a physical agony that slides right through her. Top to toes.
The low-level dealer, Sanchez (and aren't they fucking all?), walks back into the room, a balding man in his fifties with too much money and not nearly enough class to spend it wisely. His suit is ill-fitting and reeks of stale sweat. He runs a stubby hand across her shoulders suggestively and it's all she can do not to shudder under his touch. Plasters a sly smile on her face instead.
“I hear there's gonna be a party...”
*
He chain smokes three cigarettes whilst standing in the centre of a car parking space designated for the disabled. Lights the next from the dying embers of the last and tries his best not to vomit in the gutter.
*
There is a tube jammed between her teeth. A machine forcibly pushes oxygen into her lungs. He takes all the equipment in like it's alien technology he's never laid eyes on before.
If they didn't have her name slotted into the metal grid above her bed he could almost convince himself it was all one devastating mix up.
Mistaken identity or some other load of crap.
She looks old. Older than he thinks she could ever really be. World weary in the worst kind of way.
He's been given the short hand version of events. Figures he's remembered maybe half the details. Seems to get stuck on several of the more pertinent facts and can't quite map out a path that leads around them.
At least, not yet.
“Mister Karev?”
He startles. Not at all used to the salutation. Spins around on his heel wildly and only just manages not to crash to his knees in the process. An apology is lost in the blur of his movements and the jagged sawing of his breath through his teeth.
In and out. Out and in.
“Sorry? Excuse me?”
The nurse is small. Petite he guesses, to be polite. Bouncy pig tail still neatly held in place. Her eyes are wide and he can't help but wince as she flinches back from him slightly. Can only imagine what he must look like to her.
He forces a deep breath. Closes his eyes for a beat before re-opening them with what he hopes is the ghost of a genuine smile. “Sorry.”
She smiles back and nods her head and he figures he's done okay, all things considered.
“I was just letting you know that Dr. Cartman will be here in a minute to explain exactly what's going on. I mean, I know- they told me, the police, they mentioned you're a surgeon. You probably already know but, yeah. Dr. Cartman wanted me to make sure you knew she was coming up.”
He nods mechanically. Has already figured out the worst of it. Knows there will be no good news here. He retrieves her chart from the foot of her bed. Flicks through the pages on automatic pilot. Crunches the numbers and decodes the jargon and only just manages not to put his fist through the plasterboard wall.
*
She regains consciousness in the back of the surveillance van. It's already on the move. Heated debate rages around her and she keeps her eyes closed for longer than she probably needs to, clings to the notion of solace that the darkness holds.
Takes the extra time to catalogue her woes.
Her face feels like it's on fire. But if she keeps her breathing slow and shallow then her ribs don't protest the movement too viciously.
Resigned to facing whatever it is that comes next she lifts a hand to her cheek. It comes away sticky slick and the memories flood back.
“Megs?”
She struggles against hands that are pushing her back down. A desperate attempt to get upright. To get out.
“Megs, shhh, it's okay. Stay there. Seriously, Decker. We got you out. Didn't even blow your cover.”
She recognises the voice, her reluctant partner. Feels his fingers splayed out across her chest, keeping her in place.
“The girl? Jesus, Carlos, what happened to the girl?” She's breathless, panicked. Speaking has re-ignited the agony in her face. Ramped up the pounding in her chest.
“They took her. God, it went bad, Megs. The intel was bad from the start we think.”
“Where? They took her where? Are we on them?” The questions tumble out of her in quick succession. No time for answers before the next one hits the tip of her tongue.
“They got the jump on us. Took out Sanders from DEA before we had time to process what the fuck was going down.” His hands are working at a thread on the knee of this jeans. Almost like he doesn't know what else to do with them. “We got an id though, from the bathroom shots. Amber Karev. From Iowa originally. She's nineteen. Just.”
“Shit.”
“We don't know where she is but we're working on it. I'm so sorry.”
“Shit!” She scrunches her face up. Relishes the white flash of pain that the movement brings. Uses the sensation to steel her for what must come next.
*
There's a drug store pregnancy test tucked into the side pocket of her purse. She cuts a line of chalky powder from what little remains of her stash. Uses a maxed out credit card that was never hers to begin with to smooth it into a fine, white line.
Rolls a bank note into a perfect cylinder and snorts the lot in one go.
Vows to at least open the box and maybe even read the instructions tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
*
He disconnects the call and retrieves his bag. Can feel his head still nodding dumbly to words that have iced the blood in his veins to frozen solid. Shoves back out of the resident's lounge and almost flattens Meredith in the process.
“Alex?”
He takes another step or several before the sound of her voice registers through the thick fog of memories and accusations and recriminations that are seconds, seconds, seconds from drowning him.
“Alex, are you...?” She trails off as he turns back to her. Isn't yet convinced he'll be able to form the words she seems to need.
“I-” He gags then. Dry heaves once as the hallway spins around them. Kaleidoscope bright. Her fingers circle his wrist. He twists away from her, closes his eyes against the hurt, the utter confusion reflected back.
“My sister.” And even the very words themselves are foreign. Choking. “I have to go.”
*
“Where'd she get the junk?”
“Mister Karev-”
“I said, where did she get the fucking junk? Tell me who got her the drugs. I want-” The anger in his veins is palpable. He can taste it at the back of his throat. “I want-”
The rest of the sentence dies on his lips. He wants a lot of things. The name of a scum-bag drug dealer is not necessarily one of them.
“Just... forget it.”
He drags his hands down his face. Can feel the staccato thud of his pulse. His one constant companion it seems.
“Forget everything.”
*
She first sees him in the waiting area at the hospital. She's going against direct orders, both from her boss and from her partner, shouldn't even be there. Needs to see for herself though that the girl they have is the girl. That the protection detail is rigid despite the dismal prognosis.
There's a cup of coffee still full to almost over-flowing at his feet. His left leg bounces and his head is folded into in his hands, fingers kneading into the tissue at the back of his neck. There's a cast around his right arm. Looks news-ish. It's what grabs her attention to begin with.
He looks up, catches her gaze with his. Locks onto eyes that seem to scream all the things he could never say with her own reluctant stare.
And it's that moment she'll never forget.
But, for now, he's another nameless, faceless family member of another nameless, faceless patient. It won't be until later that the pieces fall resolutely into place.
And, by then, it will all be too little too late.
*
It's easier than it should be to get the information he needs. The Las Vegas back alleys and side streets full to over-flowing with people only too eager to make some quick cash.
He hears a name murmured around the place. A guy who gets shit done. Jamaican dude with a southern drawl. Can't miss him, apparently.
Mick.
He wants whatever intel is available. Has heard rumours of a drug bust that went wrong a few days ago. She might have been there. She might not have been.
There might be photos, he's been told. But the cops won't show them to him. Not yet anyway.
He can't wait for not yet. Whatever the fuck that even means.
*
Thirty three weeks they tell him.
Thirty three weeks.
They'll keep her on life support for as long as they can. She's brain dead. Overdosed. It was too late. She arrested in the ER and they did everything they could but... it was too late.
He knows the speech.
They've done the scans. The neurologist has made her call. There's no McDreamy here to work magic. Nothing more they can do but wait. Wait and pump her full of steroids. Speed things along an inch or two just in case.
Thirty three weeks.
And what then?
They don't ask him out loud but the question is inherent in every conversation they engage him in.
And what then, and what then, and what then...
He wakes up with his fist in his mouth. Stifles a scream into the cheap pillow beneath his head and reaches for his cell phone. Dials a number he's not considered calling in years. Disconnects hurriedly in a panic, lest she actually answer.
And oh, God, how much does he want her to answer.
He rolls off the mattress. Finds unsteady feet just in time. Stumbles back into jeans that needed washing days ago, leaves the chain in place and cracks the motel door to open. Peers out into the blinding night. Three am and not even close to dark. He needs coffee. And cigarettes. Hasn't smoked since he was sixteen and suddenly it's like he can't think about anything else.
Tucks his wallet into his back pocket and slides once again into shoes he hadn't bothered to unlace. Washes his face one handed with icy cold water straight from the tap and doesn't bother to dry off.
*
He pulls her hips up to meet him. Grinds heavily through the tight denim that still covers his crotch. Itches for it to be gone.
Doesn't think he's fucked a cop before. At least, not knowingly.
Her tongue pushes his teeth apart. Far enough but not too far. Forces its way into the back of his throat expertly.
She's done this before, the quick and dirty, and, of that, she is leaving him in no doubt.
He shuts his eyes and pictures blonde curls in place of her mane of wavy dark brown. Shoves back at the knowledge that he's undoing every good thing to have happened to him recently and tries to convince himself it's all just a part of his plan.
Doesn't even get close to succeeding.
*
At first she refuses. Point blank.
The look she gets in reply is more than clear.
Eighteen months of ground work. No is no longer an option. And maybe it never even was.
She shrugs, tells her boss, her partner, she's not doing anything until she's showered. The stench of the failed op is like grime on her skin. Clinging to the messy dark curls that fall across her shoulders.
She sits in the bottom of the shower at headquarters, chin on her knees. Lets the water pound against her back and neck. Feels the heat leach into the bruising on her face. Already more than iridescent. Tomorrow will not be fun.
She's not sure how she's going to cover it all up to be honest. Wonders if she'll even bother trying.
The x-rays gave her the all clear. Ibuprofen for the inflammation, codeine for the pain. Ice packs when she gets the chance.
She works her fingers through the knots in her hair, inhales the sickly sweet smell of shampoo until she gags. Tilts her head back and opens her eyes wide into the water, accepts what is next to come.
*
He can hear the traffic on the street below. An ever present hum.
The backpack he'd collected that morning is in the centre of the bed and he's eyeing it off cautiously. Knows without truly needing to think about it that there can be no turning back from here.
The inevitable end.
He stands abruptly, moves with deliberate strides across the room and pulls the bag towards him. Yanks down the zipper in the same vicious movement. Several envelopes spill out onto the un-made sheets. Bright yellow against a dull white background.
A piece of cloth is visible, chocolate brown and textured. Like a bath towel. He runs his fingers over the material reverently. Steels himself for what he'll find inside.
It's been decades since he spun the barrel of a handgun. Felt the snap and jolt of it all settling firmly into place. Locked and loaded. This one is completely different, he notes briefly. Wraps his uninjured fingers around the trigger instinctively. The weight of the weapon, oddly familiar despite the obvious discrepancies.
And it turns out there are some things that you never forget, no matter how much time has elapsed.
He looks up, catches his reflection in the mirror across the room. Raises the gun left handed and with the barest hint of a tremor. Aims at his own face.
Blanks out the ever present images of Reed. And blood and brain matter and--
“Bang.” The word nothing more than a whisper. “You're dead.”
Part Two | Since this I've changed some, different kinda fighter...
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Alex, Amber, OFC (also Alex/OFC, Alex/Lucy, Meredith)
Rating: R
Warning: Graphic violence, rape, sex, drug use, language and serious amounts of angst
Word Count: 10370 (in two parts)
Spoilers: None
Summary: A relatively soonish AU future fic where the stories of three different characters combine into one shocking turn of events. (Most of this is told from Alex's point of view. But, there are significant moments told from the point of view of both Amber and the OFC, Megan)
Author's Notes: Inspired by a late night viewing of 21 Grams. Blame the ambiguous non-linearity on Alejandro González Iñárritu. And if it still doesn't make any sense by the end then, my apologies! This is an experiment, okay? Thanks go to rorylie, abvj and leobrat for various reasons!
Disclaimer: At my user info. page. Title and cut text from Truth, Alexander Ebert
The garish neon lights of The Strip blink and blur into the background as he leans his weight against the chipped wrought iron fence in front of him. The activity no less chaotic now, as the sun begins its heavy ascent into day-time, than it had been when he'd arrived at this spot some three hours earlier.
Where the elapsed time has evaporated to, he has no awareness.
A cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth. A thin stream of acrid smoke curls around his left ear, settles heavily on his lashes. An unbearable weight.
The almost fluorescent white of the cast on his right wrist is at odds with the filth etched into his denim jeans. Too many days past being in need of a wash to be fashionably worn in. He bounces the plaster against the iron paling. Relishes the agony that pulses through his elbow, spears him right between the eyes.
Uses the sensation to bring about a re-focusing of sorts. He has not come here to wallow. There are things that need to be done.
Must be done before a return to Seattle can be given anything more than a fleeting thought.
Lucy.
And; I'm sorry.
Sub-vocalised. It will have to do for now.
A figure in his periphery nods out an innocuous greeting. Could be, good morning. Could be, nice day for it. Isn't actually either of those things. There's a worn backpack slung over his right shoulder. The baseball cap on his head appears new; touristy and cheap. Just the right amount of tacky.
Fabulous Las Vegas.
Oh, the irony.
“You get it?” His voice sounds rough. The cigarettes and the almost complete lack of use combining readily to give it a much deeper tone. He almost doesn't recognise himself.
Almost prefers it that way.
The man nods again. Fast and sure and perhaps a little put out by the doubt that coats those three syllables. Justified really. He had doubted the man's success. Doesn't bother pointing out that his reasoning was more to do with his own shit outta luck existence than anything else.
“All of it?” Still dubious.
Another nod. He feels something that tastes a lot like the end flood his mouth then. Coat his tongue and teeth with its heady tang.
He leans over the fence. Drops a folded newspaper heavily onto the park bench on the opposite side.
“It's all in there.”
He brings his plastered arm up to his mouth. Uses swollen fingers to clamp around the ashy cigarette. Draws back deeply until there's no where else for the cloudy air to go. Loathes the suffocating sensation almost as much as he craves it in the same stuttered exhale.
The man drags the baseball cap from his head and runs his fingers through the close cropped hair that is now exposed. A nervous twitch of sorts. “You sure about this?”
It's his turn to nod. Slides his gaze, sand-paper rough, all the way to the left without bothering to turn his head. “I didn't hire you to care. If it's all there, then we're done.”
“You might not like what you see...”
A warning. Barely concealed. He laughs. Coughs thickly around the remnants of smoke in his lungs.
“And wouldn't that make for a nice fucking change.” Bitter and unapologetic. He already thinks he knows what he'll find... Proof.
The man shrugs, a silent suit yourself as he retrieves the discarded newspaper, slips the concealed envelope out from between the sports pages and peers briefly inside. Double checks the contents are as they should be.
The backpack he'd been toting slides to a gentle rest on the bench, falls into the spot the newspaper had been in only moments earlier. There's more than just a little hesitation in the movement, as though the man is still not entirely convinced handing it over is such a good idea.
“Good luck, yeah?” A question, like he's not really sure luck is what he's looking for.
He nods back one final time. Accepts the words for what they are and nothing more. Watches with only a momentary pang as the man shuffles off, heads back in the direction he'd originated from not five minutes earlier.
He reaches over the low fence and loops his uninjured fingers through the backpack's straps. It's surprisingly heavy as he hauls it up, settles the weight onto his own shoulders. Barely notices the addition amid all the burden that already sits there.
He hears footsteps then, more deliberate than those of the myriad tourists that have filed passed, procession-like. Small hands snake around his mid-section. Pale arms that work their way under his sweat stale shirt. Warm against his chest as they wrap across his rib-cage. Hold all his shattered pieces into some semblance of order.
“Hey. Everything okay?” The soft words whispered in a smoky sigh that settles against the pulse point somewhere below his left ear.
He closes his eyes then, the bright morning sun orange red through paper thin lids as he nods again. Feels the familiar movement become his default setting once more.
“What you doing out here?” Not suspicious he thinks. Genuinely curious. An interesting turn of events.
“Nothing.” He twists to face her then, forces a degree of nonchalance he absolutely does not feel, “Let's go...”
*
The baby kicks under her hand. It's painful in an oddly satisfying kind of way and she groans, rolls her eyes, grins. Murmurs non-sensical syllables under her breath and refuses to meet the gaze of the man staring out at her from the kitchen.
Wonders, distractedly, how the worst thing that has ever happen to her could also be the absolute very best...
*
The pit is filled to bursting with the results of tourist bus versus concrete balustrade. The boards have all been cleared of non-emergent surgeries and the operating staff having spent the last nine hours painstakingly piecing the wounded back together.
So far the casualty list stands at two. And really? It could have been a whole lot worse.
He slings off the latest pair of surgical gloves and delivers them with a secure shove into the hazardous waste bin to be destroyed. His left knee aches all the way to his back teeth as he washes his hands, scrubs off the stench of death and dying that gets harder and harder to remove as days become years.
He catches a glimpse of her rounding a corner at the end of the corridor. Drags his hands over his face in an attempt to scrub away at the exhaustion no doubt etched there as he makes his way in her direction.
Slides his hands over her eyes from behind and pulls her back against his chest, buries his face into the mess of blonde curls. Locks her there resolutely.
She giggles and the sound catches in his palms.
“Hey, you...”
“Hey, yourself.”
She spins in his grip until they're face to face. Presses her nose against his chin as she leans into him, as wrecked perhaps as he.
“How long 'til you're done?”
“Ten minutes. You?”
“Give me half an hour and we're out of here.”
“Sweet.”
The sound of her rubber soled shoes echoes as she makes her way towards the elevator on their left. Stabs at the call button with the folder she has tucked to her chest before turning to grin at him suggestively.
Mouths back a silent Twenty nine minutes... He lip-reads the over produced syllables easily, raises his eyebrows in response.
Watches as she disappears into the void with a smile on her face that mirrors the one on his. Waits with baited breath for the other shoe to drop.
After all, it always does.
*
The sheet is pooled on the thread-bare carpet at the side of the double bed. Cheap motel quality. There's a woman asleep next to him. Naked. One arm dangles off the side and he contemplates reaching across to retrieve it.
Doesn't. Thinks fuck it and reaches instead for the shallow glass of bourbon on the bedside table.
It's barely 7am.
The over-head fan whirs monotonously above them. Struggles valiantly to shift air that is already stifling. A heady mix of heat and sweat. Sex and booze and cigarette smoke.
All his vices come once more to haunt him.
The bruising across her face reaches into her hair-line, disappears into the mess of dark brown that haloes the pillow beneath her head. It's more yellow and green than inky black and purple now. A stark reminder of the hours, the days that have passed.
His cell phone bursts to life in the pocket of his jeans that were discarded some time in the early hours. He rolls over and snags a finger through a belt loop. Retrieves the still ringing device and squints to decipher the caller identification.
Meredith.
Contemplates cutting the call but can't quite bring himself to. Some habits die harder than others.
“Yeah?”
“What the hell is going on?”
And he doesn't have anywhere near the energy required for this conversation.
“Look, I can't-” Can't breathe. Can't think. Can't talk to you right now. “Just, I'm sorry okay. Tell Lucy. Tell her-” Tell her anything. Anything is better than the truth. “Tell her I'm sorry.”
“Alex-”
Only this time he does end it. Snaps the phone shut decisively and slings it back in the direction of his jeans, still crumpled as they are on the filthy floor.
Tell Lucy I'm sorry...
*
The first he hears is that she's missing. Has been for seven months.
Seven fucking months.
Though they've only just figured out this piece of information in the last couple of days. Are only just sharing it with him now...
*
The listening device is uncomfortable. The background noise; music, conversation, laughter, buzzes around the constant messages she's fed from the surveillance van that sits in the emptied out alleyway behind the warehouse that is so much more than just a warehouse.
“You in position yet, Charlie Four?”
“Charlie Four confirming, we are in position.”
Most of the information isn't even for her. Nothing more than vague reassurance that things are, so far anyway, going to plan.
She pushes into the bathroom at the back of the make-shift dance floor, leans her weight against the stainless steel basin and blinks blearily back at her own reflection. Mascara barely clings to the tips of her lashes, any lip-gloss she'd applied in the hours leading up until now has long since disappeared.
She looks exactly like the junkie she's playing at.
And after all, practice does make perfect.
She drags the back of her hand under her nose. An automatic response that never really faded, despite the years that have ticked on by. Glances up just in time to notice a swollen belly round the corner before the rest of a young female body joins it.
Feels her heart sink to somewhere down around her ankles. Possibly even lower than that. Counts to ten with her breath firmly held and resolutely prays for silence.
Doesn't get it.
“Oh,” Tentative at first, before morphing into something resembling confidence. Assuredness. Like she's done this before. “Jackie, there you are! I've been looking all over...”
Jackie. The code-word.
“I got you a drink. Come find me on the dance-floor when you're done in here.”
Exactly to script.
Fuck.
The young woman exits again. Takes her pronounced baby bump and her un-lit cigarette with her. She follows her reflection in the tarnished mirror. Loses her momentarily between water spots. She looks to be no more than eighteen or nineteen. Rough though. Like she's lived more than just this life. More than just this one shitty night.
Maybe even more than a whole God damn string of them.
Fuck.
The bug in her ear bursts back to life. Resoundingly startles her out of the all-encompassing dismay that had threatened to descend. Forces her back into the bigger picture.
“You set, Decker?”
She sighs around her words as she tumbles out the confirmation her boss is seeking.
“Yeah, all set. Did you get the visual?”
A back-handed attempt at making sure they still want her to go ahead.
“Yeah, we got it. Doesn't matter. Make the drop. This ends tonight.”
“Right, got it. Moving out now.”
She inhales, drags her hand under her nose once more. Shudders against the physical pain of longing for what she craves. Doesn't bother lying to herself for fifteen brief, blissful seconds.
The music has been kicked up a notch, lights bounce off the mirrored walls, make it difficult to determine which way is up and which is all the way back down. The dance floor is only sparsely occupied, she can see her target, weaving slightly just to the left of the centre. A disco light flashes across her face. Blue and green. Ghost-like. Blank facial expression at odds with the gentle dance she's started.
She looks dead in that moment, and the sudden chill that settles deep in her bones has nothing to do with the whirring air con that has kicked into over-drive.
Something is off.
She can sense her back-up over to one side. Nods surreptitiously in their direction and moves her way into the gyrating crowd. Feels the beat of the music melt into something resembling her own aching heart beat.
Fingers seal around her arm; looks friendly enough to the outside observer. Matching smile, a little lopsided but apparently genuine. Eyebrows raise, a silent question that doesn't need words. She nods back her response. Slides her fingers into the sweat sticky palm of the younger girl, spins her round slightly so that the cameras she knows are in place can capture the moment cleanly.
There's something in her expression that makes her want to stop. To pull her away from the lights and the noise and ask her what the hell she thinks she's doing. Her free hand rests on the expanse of baby and belly that separates them. An unconscious action that sends nausea roiling through her insides.
Jesus, this is fucked up...
A door behind her bursts open then, and the thumping music fails to consume the sound of gunshots. Semi-automatic weapon fire. The spray of arterial blood flicks across her face. Not hers. Not hers either. They're both still standing. Frozen in a mirrored tableau of one another. The girls eyes go wide in their sockets. Unadulterated fear as her mouth drops into a perfect O.
A fist connects with her cheek-bone then. Her world explodes into a bright white light and while the image of the young girl fades from view she knows without doubt it will remain seared into the underside of her eyelids.
*
The Las Vegas police call him long distance, tell him they've found her, tell him that they were probably too late all in the same run-on sentence.
“We're very sorry to have to tell you this, Mister Karev...”
He leaves within the hour. Makes his way to the airport in a blur of not enough sleep and too much unbridled terror. Drinks coffee that scalds the roof of his mouth and tries not to think about the fact that he'd never imagined his first trip to Vegas would be anything like this one is going to be.
*
Undercover, deep. Three quarters to losing herself completely into a world that is infinitely more familiar to her than the one she occupies now.
There is cocaine under her fingernails. She can feel it there. Knows without even having to look. Itches to touch the tip of her tongue to her acid tangy skin. Creates viable excuses and explanations even as she knows she won't do it.
Not this time. Maybe not ever again.
The revelation is a physical agony that slides right through her. Top to toes.
The low-level dealer, Sanchez (and aren't they fucking all?), walks back into the room, a balding man in his fifties with too much money and not nearly enough class to spend it wisely. His suit is ill-fitting and reeks of stale sweat. He runs a stubby hand across her shoulders suggestively and it's all she can do not to shudder under his touch. Plasters a sly smile on her face instead.
“I hear there's gonna be a party...”
*
He chain smokes three cigarettes whilst standing in the centre of a car parking space designated for the disabled. Lights the next from the dying embers of the last and tries his best not to vomit in the gutter.
*
There is a tube jammed between her teeth. A machine forcibly pushes oxygen into her lungs. He takes all the equipment in like it's alien technology he's never laid eyes on before.
If they didn't have her name slotted into the metal grid above her bed he could almost convince himself it was all one devastating mix up.
Mistaken identity or some other load of crap.
She looks old. Older than he thinks she could ever really be. World weary in the worst kind of way.
He's been given the short hand version of events. Figures he's remembered maybe half the details. Seems to get stuck on several of the more pertinent facts and can't quite map out a path that leads around them.
At least, not yet.
“Mister Karev?”
He startles. Not at all used to the salutation. Spins around on his heel wildly and only just manages not to crash to his knees in the process. An apology is lost in the blur of his movements and the jagged sawing of his breath through his teeth.
In and out. Out and in.
“Sorry? Excuse me?”
The nurse is small. Petite he guesses, to be polite. Bouncy pig tail still neatly held in place. Her eyes are wide and he can't help but wince as she flinches back from him slightly. Can only imagine what he must look like to her.
He forces a deep breath. Closes his eyes for a beat before re-opening them with what he hopes is the ghost of a genuine smile. “Sorry.”
She smiles back and nods her head and he figures he's done okay, all things considered.
“I was just letting you know that Dr. Cartman will be here in a minute to explain exactly what's going on. I mean, I know- they told me, the police, they mentioned you're a surgeon. You probably already know but, yeah. Dr. Cartman wanted me to make sure you knew she was coming up.”
He nods mechanically. Has already figured out the worst of it. Knows there will be no good news here. He retrieves her chart from the foot of her bed. Flicks through the pages on automatic pilot. Crunches the numbers and decodes the jargon and only just manages not to put his fist through the plasterboard wall.
*
She regains consciousness in the back of the surveillance van. It's already on the move. Heated debate rages around her and she keeps her eyes closed for longer than she probably needs to, clings to the notion of solace that the darkness holds.
Takes the extra time to catalogue her woes.
Her face feels like it's on fire. But if she keeps her breathing slow and shallow then her ribs don't protest the movement too viciously.
Resigned to facing whatever it is that comes next she lifts a hand to her cheek. It comes away sticky slick and the memories flood back.
“Megs?”
She struggles against hands that are pushing her back down. A desperate attempt to get upright. To get out.
“Megs, shhh, it's okay. Stay there. Seriously, Decker. We got you out. Didn't even blow your cover.”
She recognises the voice, her reluctant partner. Feels his fingers splayed out across her chest, keeping her in place.
“The girl? Jesus, Carlos, what happened to the girl?” She's breathless, panicked. Speaking has re-ignited the agony in her face. Ramped up the pounding in her chest.
“They took her. God, it went bad, Megs. The intel was bad from the start we think.”
“Where? They took her where? Are we on them?” The questions tumble out of her in quick succession. No time for answers before the next one hits the tip of her tongue.
“They got the jump on us. Took out Sanders from DEA before we had time to process what the fuck was going down.” His hands are working at a thread on the knee of this jeans. Almost like he doesn't know what else to do with them. “We got an id though, from the bathroom shots. Amber Karev. From Iowa originally. She's nineteen. Just.”
“Shit.”
“We don't know where she is but we're working on it. I'm so sorry.”
“Shit!” She scrunches her face up. Relishes the white flash of pain that the movement brings. Uses the sensation to steel her for what must come next.
*
There's a drug store pregnancy test tucked into the side pocket of her purse. She cuts a line of chalky powder from what little remains of her stash. Uses a maxed out credit card that was never hers to begin with to smooth it into a fine, white line.
Rolls a bank note into a perfect cylinder and snorts the lot in one go.
Vows to at least open the box and maybe even read the instructions tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
*
He disconnects the call and retrieves his bag. Can feel his head still nodding dumbly to words that have iced the blood in his veins to frozen solid. Shoves back out of the resident's lounge and almost flattens Meredith in the process.
“Alex?”
He takes another step or several before the sound of her voice registers through the thick fog of memories and accusations and recriminations that are seconds, seconds, seconds from drowning him.
“Alex, are you...?” She trails off as he turns back to her. Isn't yet convinced he'll be able to form the words she seems to need.
“I-” He gags then. Dry heaves once as the hallway spins around them. Kaleidoscope bright. Her fingers circle his wrist. He twists away from her, closes his eyes against the hurt, the utter confusion reflected back.
“My sister.” And even the very words themselves are foreign. Choking. “I have to go.”
*
“Where'd she get the junk?”
“Mister Karev-”
“I said, where did she get the fucking junk? Tell me who got her the drugs. I want-” The anger in his veins is palpable. He can taste it at the back of his throat. “I want-”
The rest of the sentence dies on his lips. He wants a lot of things. The name of a scum-bag drug dealer is not necessarily one of them.
“Just... forget it.”
He drags his hands down his face. Can feel the staccato thud of his pulse. His one constant companion it seems.
“Forget everything.”
*
She first sees him in the waiting area at the hospital. She's going against direct orders, both from her boss and from her partner, shouldn't even be there. Needs to see for herself though that the girl they have is the girl. That the protection detail is rigid despite the dismal prognosis.
There's a cup of coffee still full to almost over-flowing at his feet. His left leg bounces and his head is folded into in his hands, fingers kneading into the tissue at the back of his neck. There's a cast around his right arm. Looks news-ish. It's what grabs her attention to begin with.
He looks up, catches her gaze with his. Locks onto eyes that seem to scream all the things he could never say with her own reluctant stare.
And it's that moment she'll never forget.
But, for now, he's another nameless, faceless family member of another nameless, faceless patient. It won't be until later that the pieces fall resolutely into place.
And, by then, it will all be too little too late.
*
It's easier than it should be to get the information he needs. The Las Vegas back alleys and side streets full to over-flowing with people only too eager to make some quick cash.
He hears a name murmured around the place. A guy who gets shit done. Jamaican dude with a southern drawl. Can't miss him, apparently.
Mick.
He wants whatever intel is available. Has heard rumours of a drug bust that went wrong a few days ago. She might have been there. She might not have been.
There might be photos, he's been told. But the cops won't show them to him. Not yet anyway.
He can't wait for not yet. Whatever the fuck that even means.
*
Thirty three weeks they tell him.
Thirty three weeks.
They'll keep her on life support for as long as they can. She's brain dead. Overdosed. It was too late. She arrested in the ER and they did everything they could but... it was too late.
He knows the speech.
They've done the scans. The neurologist has made her call. There's no McDreamy here to work magic. Nothing more they can do but wait. Wait and pump her full of steroids. Speed things along an inch or two just in case.
Thirty three weeks.
And what then?
They don't ask him out loud but the question is inherent in every conversation they engage him in.
And what then, and what then, and what then...
He wakes up with his fist in his mouth. Stifles a scream into the cheap pillow beneath his head and reaches for his cell phone. Dials a number he's not considered calling in years. Disconnects hurriedly in a panic, lest she actually answer.
And oh, God, how much does he want her to answer.
He rolls off the mattress. Finds unsteady feet just in time. Stumbles back into jeans that needed washing days ago, leaves the chain in place and cracks the motel door to open. Peers out into the blinding night. Three am and not even close to dark. He needs coffee. And cigarettes. Hasn't smoked since he was sixteen and suddenly it's like he can't think about anything else.
Tucks his wallet into his back pocket and slides once again into shoes he hadn't bothered to unlace. Washes his face one handed with icy cold water straight from the tap and doesn't bother to dry off.
*
He pulls her hips up to meet him. Grinds heavily through the tight denim that still covers his crotch. Itches for it to be gone.
Doesn't think he's fucked a cop before. At least, not knowingly.
Her tongue pushes his teeth apart. Far enough but not too far. Forces its way into the back of his throat expertly.
She's done this before, the quick and dirty, and, of that, she is leaving him in no doubt.
He shuts his eyes and pictures blonde curls in place of her mane of wavy dark brown. Shoves back at the knowledge that he's undoing every good thing to have happened to him recently and tries to convince himself it's all just a part of his plan.
Doesn't even get close to succeeding.
*
At first she refuses. Point blank.
The look she gets in reply is more than clear.
Eighteen months of ground work. No is no longer an option. And maybe it never even was.
She shrugs, tells her boss, her partner, she's not doing anything until she's showered. The stench of the failed op is like grime on her skin. Clinging to the messy dark curls that fall across her shoulders.
She sits in the bottom of the shower at headquarters, chin on her knees. Lets the water pound against her back and neck. Feels the heat leach into the bruising on her face. Already more than iridescent. Tomorrow will not be fun.
She's not sure how she's going to cover it all up to be honest. Wonders if she'll even bother trying.
The x-rays gave her the all clear. Ibuprofen for the inflammation, codeine for the pain. Ice packs when she gets the chance.
She works her fingers through the knots in her hair, inhales the sickly sweet smell of shampoo until she gags. Tilts her head back and opens her eyes wide into the water, accepts what is next to come.
*
He can hear the traffic on the street below. An ever present hum.
The backpack he'd collected that morning is in the centre of the bed and he's eyeing it off cautiously. Knows without truly needing to think about it that there can be no turning back from here.
The inevitable end.
He stands abruptly, moves with deliberate strides across the room and pulls the bag towards him. Yanks down the zipper in the same vicious movement. Several envelopes spill out onto the un-made sheets. Bright yellow against a dull white background.
A piece of cloth is visible, chocolate brown and textured. Like a bath towel. He runs his fingers over the material reverently. Steels himself for what he'll find inside.
It's been decades since he spun the barrel of a handgun. Felt the snap and jolt of it all settling firmly into place. Locked and loaded. This one is completely different, he notes briefly. Wraps his uninjured fingers around the trigger instinctively. The weight of the weapon, oddly familiar despite the obvious discrepancies.
And it turns out there are some things that you never forget, no matter how much time has elapsed.
He looks up, catches his reflection in the mirror across the room. Raises the gun left handed and with the barest hint of a tremor. Aims at his own face.
Blanks out the ever present images of Reed. And blood and brain matter and--
“Bang.” The word nothing more than a whisper. “You're dead.”
Part Two | Since this I've changed some, different kinda fighter...