Prompt: What if?// Fic: Breathing
Fic: Breathing
Author: penguinfighter
Pairing: Shawn/Booker
Word Count: 776
Rating: PG-13, gore, angst, not happy
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Note: Blame the gallon-and-a-half of Coca-Cola and playing with the-booker, just a What if? situation story.
The hospital hallways would've been just as perfectly clean as they always did had it not been for the trail of blood, the fake psychic noted. The flowers read "Get Well Soon" but who was he kidding? Five shots were a bitch to survive, even for him. He shouldn't have turned on the TV to tune into that Miami Vice marathon, then he would've never seen the Breaking News.
The Booker had been caught in the act by an overly cautious art collector and got five bullets in his body for his trouble. So Spencer made the logical choice: visit him before that happened. Passing off for a doctor, the fake psychic sneaked into Intensive Care and saw a pitiful sight: the once-lively art "dealer" hooked up to enough tubing to make a miniature replica of the local water park. Shawn took a chair from the other patient and sat, hoping his presence would wake Booker. "Hey Booky," he whispered while he set aside the flowers. The thief groggily opened his lackluster eyes and grinned lopsidedly. " 'ey yourself...where am I?"
"You're in the hospital...you're the new subject for the robot assassin program run by the CIA," Shawn said with a weak smile, trying to ignore the dried-up blood pools and focusing on the chuckling Carlton. "I am?" the Booker asked before he coughed up a bit of red. "Then explain to me why I'm feeling cold..."
Shawn died a bit inside as he picked up the bed's chart. "Actually, you got shot five times six hours ago. The bullets destroyed a good chunk of your liver, your kidneys and nicked your stomach...you have massive internal bleeding so the people here are giving you 16 hours before they ship you off to the hospital freezer." Then they'll bury you in a common grave...a travesty since you deserve so much better... Shawn kept that part to himself but the tears still flowed silently.
"Oh...that sucks," Booker murmured almost to himself as the news sank in. "Goddamn, I should have been more careful," he hissed; he knew the proprietor had a gun! He should've brought a weapon!
Shawn was about to agree with him when an idea lit in his mind but he instantly shot it down. I am NOT doing that!, he scolded himself but he knew he was capable and more; the scar on the thief's left arm was evidence to that fact. It was a lose-lose situation no matter how he looked at it: let Booker die a miserable and drawn-out death or, as Gus's research called it, sire him. Sure he lives but I don't wish this on anybody! I can honestly say that is the most selfish thought I've ever had! Besides, he doesn't kill!
Shawn snapped out of his mental tirade when he heard the dying man, "Make me..." "Make you what? A smoothie? 'Cause I don't think you're allowed to drink heavy fluids..." "Make me into your *cough*" Booker didn't need to finish the sentence; Spencer understood it clearly. Make me into your flesh and blood. "You'll hate me." "I'll decide that when the time comes," Carlton assured the demon as he caressed his face with his stained fingers. The exact thought process had gone through the thief's brain; he'd become just as damned as the pseudo-psychic. "But for now...I really want to live."
Two hours later, Shawn had drawn out four bags of his own blood, leaving him starving but willing. He also brought in a severely intoxicated wife beater for the bar across the street. The fake psychic hid the man under the Booker's bed in order to allow the nurses to switch out transfusion bags on the thief's IV. "I've never done this before," Shawn stated awkwardly, causing the Booker to laugh with difficulty. "Well, there's a first time for everything," he stated as the deeply scarlet fluid entered his blood vessels.
Shawn really wished he knew how to handle morphine when he saw exactly how excruciating the process was: the Booker was thrashing about in pain as his body changed. He could see the signature claws and teeth come through as the dying man's heartbeats raised up to unbearable speeds. Fifteen minutes later, everything became disturbingly quiet except for a dissipating labored breath.
"...Booker?" Shawn almost didn't dare ask for the fear actually killing him. The thief's blue eyes snapped open, his pupils slit within electric blue irises. He slowly sat up on the bed and with a slight smile, he asked his familiar, his sire, "I'm hungry."
The fake psychic sighed relieved as he pulled out the unconscious domestic abuser...I'd give up anything to hear your breathing again.
Enjoy!
Author: penguinfighter
Pairing: Shawn/Booker
Word Count: 776
Rating: PG-13, gore, angst, not happy
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Note: Blame the gallon-and-a-half of Coca-Cola and playing with the-booker, just a What if? situation story.
The hospital hallways would've been just as perfectly clean as they always did had it not been for the trail of blood, the fake psychic noted. The flowers read "Get Well Soon" but who was he kidding? Five shots were a bitch to survive, even for him. He shouldn't have turned on the TV to tune into that Miami Vice marathon, then he would've never seen the Breaking News.
The Booker had been caught in the act by an overly cautious art collector and got five bullets in his body for his trouble. So Spencer made the logical choice: visit him before that happened. Passing off for a doctor, the fake psychic sneaked into Intensive Care and saw a pitiful sight: the once-lively art "dealer" hooked up to enough tubing to make a miniature replica of the local water park. Shawn took a chair from the other patient and sat, hoping his presence would wake Booker. "Hey Booky," he whispered while he set aside the flowers. The thief groggily opened his lackluster eyes and grinned lopsidedly. " 'ey yourself...where am I?"
"You're in the hospital...you're the new subject for the robot assassin program run by the CIA," Shawn said with a weak smile, trying to ignore the dried-up blood pools and focusing on the chuckling Carlton. "I am?" the Booker asked before he coughed up a bit of red. "Then explain to me why I'm feeling cold..."
Shawn died a bit inside as he picked up the bed's chart. "Actually, you got shot five times six hours ago. The bullets destroyed a good chunk of your liver, your kidneys and nicked your stomach...you have massive internal bleeding so the people here are giving you 16 hours before they ship you off to the hospital freezer." Then they'll bury you in a common grave...a travesty since you deserve so much better... Shawn kept that part to himself but the tears still flowed silently.
"Oh...that sucks," Booker murmured almost to himself as the news sank in. "Goddamn, I should have been more careful," he hissed; he knew the proprietor had a gun! He should've brought a weapon!
Shawn was about to agree with him when an idea lit in his mind but he instantly shot it down. I am NOT doing that!, he scolded himself but he knew he was capable and more; the scar on the thief's left arm was evidence to that fact. It was a lose-lose situation no matter how he looked at it: let Booker die a miserable and drawn-out death or, as Gus's research called it, sire him. Sure he lives but I don't wish this on anybody! I can honestly say that is the most selfish thought I've ever had! Besides, he doesn't kill!
Shawn snapped out of his mental tirade when he heard the dying man, "Make me..." "Make you what? A smoothie? 'Cause I don't think you're allowed to drink heavy fluids..." "Make me into your *cough*" Booker didn't need to finish the sentence; Spencer understood it clearly. Make me into your flesh and blood. "You'll hate me." "I'll decide that when the time comes," Carlton assured the demon as he caressed his face with his stained fingers. The exact thought process had gone through the thief's brain; he'd become just as damned as the pseudo-psychic. "But for now...I really want to live."
Two hours later, Shawn had drawn out four bags of his own blood, leaving him starving but willing. He also brought in a severely intoxicated wife beater for the bar across the street. The fake psychic hid the man under the Booker's bed in order to allow the nurses to switch out transfusion bags on the thief's IV. "I've never done this before," Shawn stated awkwardly, causing the Booker to laugh with difficulty. "Well, there's a first time for everything," he stated as the deeply scarlet fluid entered his blood vessels.
Shawn really wished he knew how to handle morphine when he saw exactly how excruciating the process was: the Booker was thrashing about in pain as his body changed. He could see the signature claws and teeth come through as the dying man's heartbeats raised up to unbearable speeds. Fifteen minutes later, everything became disturbingly quiet except for a dissipating labored breath.
"...Booker?" Shawn almost didn't dare ask for the fear actually killing him. The thief's blue eyes snapped open, his pupils slit within electric blue irises. He slowly sat up on the bed and with a slight smile, he asked his familiar, his sire, "I'm hungry."
The fake psychic sighed relieved as he pulled out the unconscious domestic abuser...I'd give up anything to hear your breathing again.
Enjoy!