![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Jul. 8th, 2006 11:48 pmHe's never, ever liked drugs: buying them, selling them, finding them, destroying them. In particular he's never liked taking them. It isn't that he's that much of a control freak: no, he always left that to Vicious who was control freak enough for about ten people. It's that he doesn't like what they do. Especially sedatives. He's used to being able to move. To jump up at a moment's notice; to think fast and act fast and react fast. Whatever Elaine gave him? Shit, he knows he probably needed it. He still needs it. But it makes him slow and sluggish and, for all intents and purposes, unable to move.
There was a lot of blood pouring out of him today. A hell of a lot; he knows bodies regenerate it but not this fucking fast and when he wakes up he's alone, the light on the nightstand on dim, a glass of water and a note propped up there for him. He doesn't reach for it right away, though, for three reasons: first, he's shivering. Blood loss, the rational part of him says loud and clear in his brain. Not enough blood to keep him warm. Second, pain shoots all the way up his left arm, from the tips of his fingers to the top of his shoulder and back down again. Nerves coming back to life, that same rational part of his brain informs him. Third, he can't fucking turn to move. That's his ribs talking, and their voice is the loudest. In fact, the only part of him moving is his eyes, and it's just enough to reassure him he's all alone.
That's good. That's really good: he needs time to himself. The past twenty-four, thirty hours have been pretty damn much non-stop and yeah, time to breathe sounds like a really good idea. Not much else he can do, actually.
He's thirsty. That water, just out of reach, well... he'll figure out a way to get it, but that will be in a minute. There's something he has to try first.
"Beth?"
Answer me, goddammit. Answer me.
All he hears is the echo of his whisper.
Fuck. He clears his throat and tries again. "Beth?"
Not a goddamn thing. Fuck the broken ribs, he thinks; he has to find out for himself. Rolling onto his left side, he pushes himself up with his right hand, shaky as hell but he doesn't give a shit: he moves one leg then the other till he's sitting on the side of the bed; he reaches for that glass of water and takes a sip, savoring the way it drips down his throat. Setting it down again he picks up Elaine's note and reads it.
DO NOT GO ANYWHERE.
It isn't like he has anywhere to go... or at least anywhere out of this room. He looks down at that busted-up left leg of his: whatever Elaine did to it is pretty fucking amazing, but when he puts weight on it... well, it reminds him that under any other circumstance, he might have lost that leg. Still, he can do this. He's moved around in pain before. Slowly, he stands and walks around the bed -- it takes a fucking eternity -- and stops in front of the closet. All he needs is one look; it will answer one question he has and whether or not it's a stupid question, well, he doesn't give a shit about that. He has to know the answer. Taking as deep a breath as his broken ribs allow, he opens the closet door.
And blinks hard: her stuff is still here.
Thank fuck.
It's easy to be insecure when you're all alone and there's no one to hear your fears, he thinks. And he didn't think she left intentionally, not at all. But a little voice inside him made him have to check. The baby basket on the shelf catches his eye; he moves forward and rests one battered and broken hand on its soft blue star-covered fabric and feels his eyes sting.
Please come back. Please. Swallowing hard, he backs away from the closet door and looks back at the bed. His ribs complain and his leg wants to collapse and his arm aches, but none of that hurts as bad as not knowing where she is or if he'll ever see her again and he can't stand it, he can't fucking stand that. His eyes fall on the box of medical supplies. Making his way over to it, he roots around until he comes up with the bottle of pills. Hatred of taking this shit aside, he opens the bottle and taps out just one painkiller and puts it in his mouth and swallows and moves as quickly as he can back to the bed.
He can't face this shit all alone, here in the dark of the room, without being able to do anything. The only viable alternative is to let himself sleep. This time when his head meets the pillow, he pulls two blankets up and over himself and then just settles back to wait for sleep to claim him.
It doesn't take long.
There was a lot of blood pouring out of him today. A hell of a lot; he knows bodies regenerate it but not this fucking fast and when he wakes up he's alone, the light on the nightstand on dim, a glass of water and a note propped up there for him. He doesn't reach for it right away, though, for three reasons: first, he's shivering. Blood loss, the rational part of him says loud and clear in his brain. Not enough blood to keep him warm. Second, pain shoots all the way up his left arm, from the tips of his fingers to the top of his shoulder and back down again. Nerves coming back to life, that same rational part of his brain informs him. Third, he can't fucking turn to move. That's his ribs talking, and their voice is the loudest. In fact, the only part of him moving is his eyes, and it's just enough to reassure him he's all alone.
That's good. That's really good: he needs time to himself. The past twenty-four, thirty hours have been pretty damn much non-stop and yeah, time to breathe sounds like a really good idea. Not much else he can do, actually.
He's thirsty. That water, just out of reach, well... he'll figure out a way to get it, but that will be in a minute. There's something he has to try first.
"Beth?"
Answer me, goddammit. Answer me.
All he hears is the echo of his whisper.
Fuck. He clears his throat and tries again. "Beth?"
Not a goddamn thing. Fuck the broken ribs, he thinks; he has to find out for himself. Rolling onto his left side, he pushes himself up with his right hand, shaky as hell but he doesn't give a shit: he moves one leg then the other till he's sitting on the side of the bed; he reaches for that glass of water and takes a sip, savoring the way it drips down his throat. Setting it down again he picks up Elaine's note and reads it.
DO NOT GO ANYWHERE.
It isn't like he has anywhere to go... or at least anywhere out of this room. He looks down at that busted-up left leg of his: whatever Elaine did to it is pretty fucking amazing, but when he puts weight on it... well, it reminds him that under any other circumstance, he might have lost that leg. Still, he can do this. He's moved around in pain before. Slowly, he stands and walks around the bed -- it takes a fucking eternity -- and stops in front of the closet. All he needs is one look; it will answer one question he has and whether or not it's a stupid question, well, he doesn't give a shit about that. He has to know the answer. Taking as deep a breath as his broken ribs allow, he opens the closet door.
And blinks hard: her stuff is still here.
Thank fuck.
It's easy to be insecure when you're all alone and there's no one to hear your fears, he thinks. And he didn't think she left intentionally, not at all. But a little voice inside him made him have to check. The baby basket on the shelf catches his eye; he moves forward and rests one battered and broken hand on its soft blue star-covered fabric and feels his eyes sting.
Please come back. Please. Swallowing hard, he backs away from the closet door and looks back at the bed. His ribs complain and his leg wants to collapse and his arm aches, but none of that hurts as bad as not knowing where she is or if he'll ever see her again and he can't stand it, he can't fucking stand that. His eyes fall on the box of medical supplies. Making his way over to it, he roots around until he comes up with the bottle of pills. Hatred of taking this shit aside, he opens the bottle and taps out just one painkiller and puts it in his mouth and swallows and moves as quickly as he can back to the bed.
He can't face this shit all alone, here in the dark of the room, without being able to do anything. The only viable alternative is to let himself sleep. This time when his head meets the pillow, he pulls two blankets up and over himself and then just settles back to wait for sleep to claim him.
It doesn't take long.
