Fic: Waking Up - [Part One.]
Title: Waking Up
Author: Lyrical12
Pairing: Luke and Reid
Rating: PG-13, may change
Disclaimer: Not Mine
Warnings: Angst, violence/injuries/medical descriptions
Summary: FIX-IT FIC. A man wakes up in London with no memory. Who is he? How did he get there? He knows only one thing - He doesn't kill people. He saves them.
A/N: It's actually kind of absurd that I'm posting this now - I came up with the idea for this fic three years ago, right around the time the show was ending. A lot has changed since then - I've started college (pre-med track, on my way to becoming a doctor like Reid), fallen in love with other characters, and haven't really been active in the LuRe fandom in a long time. But the tragedy of these two characters has always stuck with me, which is why I wanted to write this fic in the first place - I wanted to figure out some plausible (at least, by soap opera standards) way for them have the happy ending I so desperately wanted for them. In August/September of 2010, I was listening to the One Republic album Waking Up quite a bit - hence the title. A great deal of the songs on the album struck as fitting Luke and Reid's story, and gave me solace in my sadness over what happened. But one song in particular, "Good Life," gave me the idea for this fic. The premise is slightly crazy, but like I said, soap opera rules - and I promise it will all make sense in the end.
Anyway, I wrote this first part back in 2010/2011, and haven't worked on it much since. But I keep coming back to it in my head, and I just couldn't let it go. I spent too much time thinking up a canon-compliant, logical way for Luke and Reid to have their happy ending, and it's time for me to properly write that story.
[Part One.]
At 8:00 am on that London morning, Piccadilly Circus was already filled with busy commuters making their way to work. None spared so much as a glance for the figure huddled, apparently asleep, on the steps of the Shaftesbury fountain, save for a young woman sitting outdoors at a café across the way. As she skimmed her newspaper, her eyes flickered to the shape at the base of the memorial every so often.
To passersby, had they even bothered to notice, the mass curled under the fountain would have looked like just another of the pitiable homeless that often sought a night’s sleep in the public plaza. However, closer inspection of the form revealed several incongruities with this assumption. It was a man - young, clean-shaven, and, well, clean. No disagreeable scent would have met the senses of anyone sitting too close, and his clothes, though generic enough, were unsoiled and free of holes. Despite this apparent hygiene, though, the man was undeniably frail looking, and exceptionally pale. While he did not exactly appear homeless, he certainly did not look in full health either.
On the other side of the Circus, a hefty man dressed in black climbed out of a car, carrying a brief case in one strong hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He leaned against a doorway casually, sipping his drink, dark eyes scanning the busy concourse. His gaze fell upon the woman sitting at the café, and seemingly having found what he was looking for, the man settled himself comfortably to wait, half obscured in the doorway.
The morning stretched on and shops began to open, the famous video displays and signs flickering images to the thousands of commuters passing through. The woman at the café had long since finished her newspaper, and not a drop remained in the man in the doorway’s coffee cup. Still, they both remained, having barely moved from their places. Nothing changed until, a little past 10, the man on the steps began to stir.
There was very little noticeable change in the woman watching from the café, but she tensed slightly, becoming more alert as her gaze focused on the fountain. Her own watcher across the street noted this subtle shift in demeanor and straightened up a bit, waiting attentively for what would happen next.
Which, as it turned out, appeared to be very little. The woman merely continued to observe, and the man awaited an opportunity. He was not very concerned with what the woman was watching, and therefore had not taken note of the man by the fountain. The woman, on the other hand, was now gazing intently, her eyes trained on what was unfolding on the memorial’s steps.
*
It was the strangest feeling, really. Almost like swimming up from crushing depths, nearing the surface after too long underwater. Like emerging from a cocoon of smothering, endless blackness, into… light? Knowing? Knowing. He felt consciousness knocking, requesting permission to return fully into the waking world. Acquiescence was inevitable as the knob turned, the door swung open, and the man opened his eyes.
Then promptly shut them again, as light flooded his long dormant retinas and his brain screamed at the over-stimulation.
Wincing, his breaths coming in gasps, he slowly started to take stock of his surroundings. Awareness warred with disorientation as he registered that his cheek was pressed against cool stone and that there was a trickle of water very nearby, mixed with the louder but not quite as near bustle of city sounds. The physical connection of his body against a very real and solid surface helped to ground his untethered mind until he dared to attempt opening his eyes again.
Ever so slowly, he cracked his eyelids wider and wider, filtering the light in gradually until he could squint reasonably without pain. He frowned as he took in his surroundings, his brain processing the images that were being transferred to it until a semblance of recognition graced his consciousness.
So. He was lying at the base of some sort of fountain, in what appeared to be a public square, in a rather busy city, and he had absolutely no idea how he had gotten there or what he was doing in such a place. Lovely.
Deciding it would probably be best to change his current position, considering that the stone of the fountain must be utterly filthy, the man shuddered internally and gingerly attempted to push himself into a sitting position. By the time he had maneuvered himself upright, he was all but gasping from the exertion and shaking with the effort the simple act had required.
What the hell? He wondered, and anxiously began to take an inventory of his body. Working methodically, he slowly moved each body part until he was satisfied, and slumped, head throbbing, with his back against the fountain’s basin. While everything appeared to be functioning properly, he felt weak and shaky, as though his muscles had atrophied from long disuse.
He shook his head, perplexed, and frowned around at his surroundings again, trying to place himself. Gazing up at the fountain, he studied the statue of the winged archer adorning its top. Anteros, he realized. The god of selfless and mature love. Though often mistaken for immature, cupidic brother Eros, he knew this particular statue depicted the more staid Greek god, and dawning realization set in as he realized precisely where he was. A scan of the plaza confirmed his suspicion - this was Piccadilly Circus, in the heart of London.
Despite the confirmation of his location, he still couldn’t figure out what could possibly be going on. He rubbed weakly at his eyes, trying to make sense of things. How had he gotten there? What was wrong with his body? Had he been drugged?
He struggled distractedly, trying to focus. He was missing something. A panicky feeling started to set in, and he took several deep breaths, attempting to think rationally. But he couldn’t get his mind to stay on his current predicament. It was flitting around his surroundings, hyperaware and taking in too many insignificant details...
A woman was getting up from her table at a café across the street. Opposite, a burly man was emerging from a shadowy doorway. His head was spinning. The woman was carrying a newspaper, the man a briefcase. Why couldn’t he think?
The woman was crossing the street, passing right by him. There was a taxi waiting on the other side of the fountain. She didn’t look at him, but his nerves prickled as if somehow she were intensely aware of him. He didn’t understand.
Now the man was reaching for his briefcase. He pulled a dark, tubular object from it. . The woman was passing right in front of the fountain. Something was wrong. Think!
The large man had his gaze trained on the woman. He was raising his arm. She was precisely in front of the fountain. Watching this playing out, his brain finally clicked into gear and with a sudden, horrible clarity, he knew what he was seeing.
“No!” He shouted, his voice an anemic rasp. He retched on the word, his raw throat cracking. “No!” He tried again, but the cry of his weak voice went unnoticed. He struggled to get up, to do something, why wasn’t anyone doing anything? But in a split second, it was all too late.
He barely registered an oddly muffled crack, and the woman in front of him crumpled, red blossoming across the front of her blouse. Suddenly, he was moving, some gut-wrenching instinct sending him stumbling down the steps towards the fallen woman. His long-unused muscles groaned in protest, but unable to spare them more than a fleeting thought, he managed to reach her as fast as he could.
“Call 911!” He shouted hoarsely to the gathering crowd, already forming a circle around the scene. Shit, this is the UK, he realized, and called again, “An ambulance! Call an ambulance!” Or something, he groaned, and quickly scanned the shooting victim. Airway unobstructed, he noted, but her breathing was shallow and labored, her eyes closed. His fingers deftly probed the wound, and he tore a strip of her skirt to press against the bleeding hole.
At the pressure of his hands, the woman shuddered and gasped, her eyes opening just enough to lock onto his face. He stared at her, trying to think of something to say but unsure how to offer comfort, until he noticed that her lips were moving and she was trying to say something. He leaned closer, and her ragged whisper reached his ears.
“You’re safe now. Lancelot-” she paused, then forced out, “That is the key. I’m sorry.” Her body seemed to relax at having told him this, and her eyes fell shut against consciousness.
“Hurry!” he called desperately, realizing there was nothing more he could do as her breaths faded slower and slower. At least the dolts gaping from the crowd seemed to have their cell phones out to dial emergency services, he noted bitterly, as his fingers scrabbled for her pulse. Hard-to-locate and sluggish, it was clear to him that the woman was fading fast. He continued applying pressure and even as the woman’s heart stopped, he began chest compressions, knowing it was futile as blood sloshed out of the wound. Head bent he kept going, until the distant sirens grew louder and came to a stop.
Vaguely, he registered the emergency personnel approaching the woman’s body but still went on, until, as if out of a dream, he felt a hand on his shoulder and a kind, accented voice murmuring, “It’s all right, sir. You’ve done all you could. You can stop now.”
Numbly, he pulled back his hands, stained red with the woman’s blood. “Right,” he said heavily, then stumbled as he attempted to get up, body heaving with exertion.
“Easy there,” said the paramedic, catching him and leading him over to the open ambulance. He sat there, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, watching the police arrive as if through a fog, distantly observing as they cordoned off the scene and examined the body.
Lancelot? He wondered, perplexed, what the woman could possibly have meant. Inexplicably, she had seemed to know him. You’re safe now. He shook his head, unable to understand. Lancelot, that is the key. It had seemed important to her, to tell him this with her dying words. And so he held on to it, letting the word fill his thoughts. He would remember.
An officer approached him and he forced himself back to the present, giving a nod to the policeman’s query as to whether he could answer some questions for them.
“Alright then,” the officer began, flipping open his notebook. “We’ll start with an easy one. What’s your name?”
He stared blankly at the policeman, his mind a blur as his thoughts spun, leaving the source of that earlier nagging feeling at the tip of his consciousness. “I-” He finally realized, looking up and meeting the police officer’s gaze.
“I don’t know.”
*
Across the street, in a doorway that happened to offer one of the few blind spots from surveillance in the area, a man holding a briefcase smirked. His target had been taken care of, no one had noticed him, and he was confident that the police would never be able to track him down - a job well done.
He strolled off, plagued only by the thought of the man by the fountain. His presence complicated things, but his assignment had been to take care of the woman. He had completed this task cleanly, though the man threw an irksome wrinkle into the carefully-planned operation.
He crossed the street, considering his options, and passed right by the scene just in time to hear the policeman’s question and the man’s response.
Well, that takes there of that, he thought, satisfied. As far as their client was aware, his organization had fulfilled their contract. The man was no longer their concern.
He continued walking, not giving the matter another thought.
Author: Lyrical12
Pairing: Luke and Reid
Rating: PG-13, may change
Disclaimer: Not Mine
Warnings: Angst, violence/injuries/medical descriptions
Summary: FIX-IT FIC. A man wakes up in London with no memory. Who is he? How did he get there? He knows only one thing - He doesn't kill people. He saves them.
A/N: It's actually kind of absurd that I'm posting this now - I came up with the idea for this fic three years ago, right around the time the show was ending. A lot has changed since then - I've started college (pre-med track, on my way to becoming a doctor like Reid), fallen in love with other characters, and haven't really been active in the LuRe fandom in a long time. But the tragedy of these two characters has always stuck with me, which is why I wanted to write this fic in the first place - I wanted to figure out some plausible (at least, by soap opera standards) way for them have the happy ending I so desperately wanted for them. In August/September of 2010, I was listening to the One Republic album Waking Up quite a bit - hence the title. A great deal of the songs on the album struck as fitting Luke and Reid's story, and gave me solace in my sadness over what happened. But one song in particular, "Good Life," gave me the idea for this fic. The premise is slightly crazy, but like I said, soap opera rules - and I promise it will all make sense in the end.
Anyway, I wrote this first part back in 2010/2011, and haven't worked on it much since. But I keep coming back to it in my head, and I just couldn't let it go. I spent too much time thinking up a canon-compliant, logical way for Luke and Reid to have their happy ending, and it's time for me to properly write that story.
[Part One.]
At 8:00 am on that London morning, Piccadilly Circus was already filled with busy commuters making their way to work. None spared so much as a glance for the figure huddled, apparently asleep, on the steps of the Shaftesbury fountain, save for a young woman sitting outdoors at a café across the way. As she skimmed her newspaper, her eyes flickered to the shape at the base of the memorial every so often.
To passersby, had they even bothered to notice, the mass curled under the fountain would have looked like just another of the pitiable homeless that often sought a night’s sleep in the public plaza. However, closer inspection of the form revealed several incongruities with this assumption. It was a man - young, clean-shaven, and, well, clean. No disagreeable scent would have met the senses of anyone sitting too close, and his clothes, though generic enough, were unsoiled and free of holes. Despite this apparent hygiene, though, the man was undeniably frail looking, and exceptionally pale. While he did not exactly appear homeless, he certainly did not look in full health either.
On the other side of the Circus, a hefty man dressed in black climbed out of a car, carrying a brief case in one strong hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He leaned against a doorway casually, sipping his drink, dark eyes scanning the busy concourse. His gaze fell upon the woman sitting at the café, and seemingly having found what he was looking for, the man settled himself comfortably to wait, half obscured in the doorway.
The morning stretched on and shops began to open, the famous video displays and signs flickering images to the thousands of commuters passing through. The woman at the café had long since finished her newspaper, and not a drop remained in the man in the doorway’s coffee cup. Still, they both remained, having barely moved from their places. Nothing changed until, a little past 10, the man on the steps began to stir.
There was very little noticeable change in the woman watching from the café, but she tensed slightly, becoming more alert as her gaze focused on the fountain. Her own watcher across the street noted this subtle shift in demeanor and straightened up a bit, waiting attentively for what would happen next.
Which, as it turned out, appeared to be very little. The woman merely continued to observe, and the man awaited an opportunity. He was not very concerned with what the woman was watching, and therefore had not taken note of the man by the fountain. The woman, on the other hand, was now gazing intently, her eyes trained on what was unfolding on the memorial’s steps.
*
It was the strangest feeling, really. Almost like swimming up from crushing depths, nearing the surface after too long underwater. Like emerging from a cocoon of smothering, endless blackness, into… light? Knowing? Knowing. He felt consciousness knocking, requesting permission to return fully into the waking world. Acquiescence was inevitable as the knob turned, the door swung open, and the man opened his eyes.
Then promptly shut them again, as light flooded his long dormant retinas and his brain screamed at the over-stimulation.
Wincing, his breaths coming in gasps, he slowly started to take stock of his surroundings. Awareness warred with disorientation as he registered that his cheek was pressed against cool stone and that there was a trickle of water very nearby, mixed with the louder but not quite as near bustle of city sounds. The physical connection of his body against a very real and solid surface helped to ground his untethered mind until he dared to attempt opening his eyes again.
Ever so slowly, he cracked his eyelids wider and wider, filtering the light in gradually until he could squint reasonably without pain. He frowned as he took in his surroundings, his brain processing the images that were being transferred to it until a semblance of recognition graced his consciousness.
So. He was lying at the base of some sort of fountain, in what appeared to be a public square, in a rather busy city, and he had absolutely no idea how he had gotten there or what he was doing in such a place. Lovely.
Deciding it would probably be best to change his current position, considering that the stone of the fountain must be utterly filthy, the man shuddered internally and gingerly attempted to push himself into a sitting position. By the time he had maneuvered himself upright, he was all but gasping from the exertion and shaking with the effort the simple act had required.
What the hell? He wondered, and anxiously began to take an inventory of his body. Working methodically, he slowly moved each body part until he was satisfied, and slumped, head throbbing, with his back against the fountain’s basin. While everything appeared to be functioning properly, he felt weak and shaky, as though his muscles had atrophied from long disuse.
He shook his head, perplexed, and frowned around at his surroundings again, trying to place himself. Gazing up at the fountain, he studied the statue of the winged archer adorning its top. Anteros, he realized. The god of selfless and mature love. Though often mistaken for immature, cupidic brother Eros, he knew this particular statue depicted the more staid Greek god, and dawning realization set in as he realized precisely where he was. A scan of the plaza confirmed his suspicion - this was Piccadilly Circus, in the heart of London.
Despite the confirmation of his location, he still couldn’t figure out what could possibly be going on. He rubbed weakly at his eyes, trying to make sense of things. How had he gotten there? What was wrong with his body? Had he been drugged?
He struggled distractedly, trying to focus. He was missing something. A panicky feeling started to set in, and he took several deep breaths, attempting to think rationally. But he couldn’t get his mind to stay on his current predicament. It was flitting around his surroundings, hyperaware and taking in too many insignificant details...
A woman was getting up from her table at a café across the street. Opposite, a burly man was emerging from a shadowy doorway. His head was spinning. The woman was carrying a newspaper, the man a briefcase. Why couldn’t he think?
The woman was crossing the street, passing right by him. There was a taxi waiting on the other side of the fountain. She didn’t look at him, but his nerves prickled as if somehow she were intensely aware of him. He didn’t understand.
Now the man was reaching for his briefcase. He pulled a dark, tubular object from it. . The woman was passing right in front of the fountain. Something was wrong. Think!
The large man had his gaze trained on the woman. He was raising his arm. She was precisely in front of the fountain. Watching this playing out, his brain finally clicked into gear and with a sudden, horrible clarity, he knew what he was seeing.
“No!” He shouted, his voice an anemic rasp. He retched on the word, his raw throat cracking. “No!” He tried again, but the cry of his weak voice went unnoticed. He struggled to get up, to do something, why wasn’t anyone doing anything? But in a split second, it was all too late.
He barely registered an oddly muffled crack, and the woman in front of him crumpled, red blossoming across the front of her blouse. Suddenly, he was moving, some gut-wrenching instinct sending him stumbling down the steps towards the fallen woman. His long-unused muscles groaned in protest, but unable to spare them more than a fleeting thought, he managed to reach her as fast as he could.
“Call 911!” He shouted hoarsely to the gathering crowd, already forming a circle around the scene. Shit, this is the UK, he realized, and called again, “An ambulance! Call an ambulance!” Or something, he groaned, and quickly scanned the shooting victim. Airway unobstructed, he noted, but her breathing was shallow and labored, her eyes closed. His fingers deftly probed the wound, and he tore a strip of her skirt to press against the bleeding hole.
At the pressure of his hands, the woman shuddered and gasped, her eyes opening just enough to lock onto his face. He stared at her, trying to think of something to say but unsure how to offer comfort, until he noticed that her lips were moving and she was trying to say something. He leaned closer, and her ragged whisper reached his ears.
“You’re safe now. Lancelot-” she paused, then forced out, “That is the key. I’m sorry.” Her body seemed to relax at having told him this, and her eyes fell shut against consciousness.
“Hurry!” he called desperately, realizing there was nothing more he could do as her breaths faded slower and slower. At least the dolts gaping from the crowd seemed to have their cell phones out to dial emergency services, he noted bitterly, as his fingers scrabbled for her pulse. Hard-to-locate and sluggish, it was clear to him that the woman was fading fast. He continued applying pressure and even as the woman’s heart stopped, he began chest compressions, knowing it was futile as blood sloshed out of the wound. Head bent he kept going, until the distant sirens grew louder and came to a stop.
Vaguely, he registered the emergency personnel approaching the woman’s body but still went on, until, as if out of a dream, he felt a hand on his shoulder and a kind, accented voice murmuring, “It’s all right, sir. You’ve done all you could. You can stop now.”
Numbly, he pulled back his hands, stained red with the woman’s blood. “Right,” he said heavily, then stumbled as he attempted to get up, body heaving with exertion.
“Easy there,” said the paramedic, catching him and leading him over to the open ambulance. He sat there, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, watching the police arrive as if through a fog, distantly observing as they cordoned off the scene and examined the body.
Lancelot? He wondered, perplexed, what the woman could possibly have meant. Inexplicably, she had seemed to know him. You’re safe now. He shook his head, unable to understand. Lancelot, that is the key. It had seemed important to her, to tell him this with her dying words. And so he held on to it, letting the word fill his thoughts. He would remember.
An officer approached him and he forced himself back to the present, giving a nod to the policeman’s query as to whether he could answer some questions for them.
“Alright then,” the officer began, flipping open his notebook. “We’ll start with an easy one. What’s your name?”
He stared blankly at the policeman, his mind a blur as his thoughts spun, leaving the source of that earlier nagging feeling at the tip of his consciousness. “I-” He finally realized, looking up and meeting the police officer’s gaze.
“I don’t know.”
*
Across the street, in a doorway that happened to offer one of the few blind spots from surveillance in the area, a man holding a briefcase smirked. His target had been taken care of, no one had noticed him, and he was confident that the police would never be able to track him down - a job well done.
He strolled off, plagued only by the thought of the man by the fountain. His presence complicated things, but his assignment had been to take care of the woman. He had completed this task cleanly, though the man threw an irksome wrinkle into the carefully-planned operation.
He crossed the street, considering his options, and passed right by the scene just in time to hear the policeman’s question and the man’s response.
Well, that takes there of that, he thought, satisfied. As far as their client was aware, his organization had fulfilled their contract. The man was no longer their concern.
He continued walking, not giving the matter another thought.