. (afrit) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-05-28 10:32:00 |
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Entry tags: | door: dc comics, sam winchester, supergirl |
Who: March & Ford → Sam and Kara
What: A hospital break
Where: Hospital → Sanctuary
When: Recently
Warnings/Rating: None
March intended on preparing. He intended on planning, so he could just up and leave once Ford showed himself, but planning didn't go real well. He blamed the drugs, but he had trouble keeping his eyes open, even when he didn't mash the morphine button for hours. It was sleeping, either way, and the only thing that changed was how much hurting he was doing in the interim. And he knew it wouldn't help him or Ford if he was screaming on the way out of here.
But staying wasn't any kind of option for March.
His doctor's visit, the one he'd gone to before seeing Ford, hadn't turned up anything good. Most folks didn't know the difference between HIV and AIDS, and March wished he was one of them. But he knew, and he knew what that difference meant. He knew he wouldn't be leaving this damn hospital anytime soon, if he stayed in his bed like a good patient. He knew his compromised immune system meant this would come with a slew of complications, and he'd be damn lucky if he ever got his guts back to normal. And even then, it was just a matter of time for him. He'd crossed a line that there wasn't any crossing back from, and there wasn't any turning back.
But that didn't mean giving up was on March's agenda. This, at least, he could fix. And, maybe, he could lengthen things out some with the hotel, so long as he didn't lose Kara and her healing abilities. And he damn well hoped the computer was right about the green in the bullet being the reason she couldn't heal up. The cops had asked question after question about that bullet, and March knew they'd just keep on asking. He didn't intend to be around the next time they came calling.
March was trying to come up with ways to smuggle the morphine pump out, when sleep dragged him back under. He was sheet pale in the hospital room, only beeping, and the light behind the bed, and the sign at the door warning folks off in bright red.
Ford was a wreck. Ever since he and Sam had decided to help March and get him out of the hospital and to his door, Ford had been afraid. He kept telling himself I can’t get arrested and Sam would always reply You’re not going to get arrested in this strangely arrogant, undeniably soothing, halfway aggravated voice he probably used on scared kids who had seen ghosts. Sam was worried but not afraid, certain but not confident. If it had been Dean in there, Sam would have bluffed his way in. He would have disabled the internet hardline and he would have used some fake badges and a tie to work his way past the security desk and into a hospital room. If it had been Dean, Sam would have set the place on fire if necessary.
Ford wasn’t Sam. Even if he gave Sam as much control as he could give--which wasn’t much, as Ford clung to consciousness in a way neither Ford nor Sam could really understand--the stutter made talking past anything next to impossible. Even Sam couldn’t find his way past it entirely. Ford was also far more memorable than Sam was, something Sam didn’t bother trying to explain since he didn’t think Ford would believe him if he tried. That significantly narrowed their options. With a peculiar ruthlessness that Ford hadn’t expected of him, Sam put a plan together that centered around chaos.
Stolen credit cards paid for scrubs and transportation. A data hardline took the morgue offline, the only entry and exit Sam could safely deactivate without endangering the lives of innocent patients. A smoke bomb under the hood of a car in the temporary parking lot diverted the attention of security, and Ford was so scared that he would be found and arrested that Sam effectively took over to get them to the right room. Sam hit call numbers in several surrounding rooms, diverting the bare bones nursing staff in case they responded too quickly to a disconnected monitor.
Where Ford would have hesitated, Sam pushed them right past the red sign and into the room, dragging a bed on wheels behind him. Gaze obscured by thick glasses with no lens, he stood differently on his feet than Ford did adding at least two inches to his spine, and he’d ruthlessly slicked all Ford’s hair back away from his face to keep the heavy dark curls and distinctive blue eyes from being immediately recognizable. Looking at March in the bed had risen Ford’s fear to something like a fever pitch, and Sam asserted further control. He moved around the edge of the bed, picking up the clipboard with its sheet and glancing down it as he went for the monitors. He started pulling leads out of their hovering machines.
March woke up two tugs in, but he didn't open his eyes right off. He knew it was Ford. Smelled like Ford, even if the shuffle of feet wasn't quite right, but he was willing to overlook that given the circumstances. March might have done some healing of criminal folks, but he'd never done anything like this himself, and he realized three tugs in that Ford hadn't either, and that he wouldn't be good at pulling leads like that. He dragged open unfocused eyes, olive and moss and confusion. But the confusion melted away a second later, replacing itself with a real warm smile. "Sam," he said knowingly. Ford was always a pile of scared; this wasn't a pile of scared. And having had Sam in his head before meant March was real comfortable with the big man's ability to get things done. It had been another Sam, sure, but it was all the same in the end when it came to doing this kind of thing.
"Mind leaving that morphine line in?" March asked hopefully. He was too gone to worry about how the heck they'd deal with the key that adjusted flow and forced a reset if power was lost. He just wasn't real sure he could get to Passages without losing consciousness without it. Sam or no Sam, he was damn sure Ford needed him awake. March wouldn't put it beyond the boy to panic and leave him on a sidewalk, should he spook.
He didn't tell Sam to mind anything that might look like it was bleeding; he didn't think he needed to tell Sam that.
Sam inspected the bank of machinery in front of him, bent slightly because he was used to bending, and not necessarily because he couldn’t see. “N-no t-t-time,” he said in a quiet, clipped voice. Sam was more forthright when he dealt with Ford’s speech impediment; privately, Sam thought the syllables got in the way probably because Ford could not entirely let go, a psychological scar too deep for him to gloss over. Sam noticed that some of the usual security measures weren’t in place; maybe the nurse had just been here. He cranked up the morphine just a few notches, willing to accept that it might make March pass out, but he was pretty sure he could get him to the door before he got anything close to dying.
He rotated away from the machines once everything was disconnected, and paused a moment to watch the small window beyond the red sign. One pleasantly cool hand with rough prints slid briefly into the hair just above March’s left ear, and Sam was embarrassed enough to consciously pull back in their shared minds, and give Ford a little more than just one hand. Ford’s frightened expression surfaced like a leaf in a stream just once, sending ripples over his features that in no way marred its appearance, and then he withdrew again, blue eyes growing low and calm. Sam pulled away and glanced down at March’s face, awkward. This two minds one body thing was fucking weird.
At least it wasn’t at all like being possessed. “Just hang in. N-n-not far.” Fuck, that was annoying, it took three times as long to say something. Ford said, Let me, and he carefully slid two arms over the sheet and under March’s body, wrapping him up carefully, doing his best to avoid jarring him.
March was about to argue that they best make some time, but then Sam kicked up the flow of the pump, and March's protests faded in a mash of button and a thankful groan. It made his stomach turn in knots, the rush of liquid, but there wasn't anything in it to be sick over, and he just fell back heavily against the pillows and watched Sam working on the machines with fuzzy-hazed eyes.
The touch was unexpected. Touching wasn't a real big thing in March's life these days, and no one here wanted to touch him without a good set of gloves on. It was normal, and he accepted it, but it wasn't the easiest thing for a boy grown up on smiles and fingers against sunkissed skin. The touch made his unfocused eyes go wide, pools of black in mossy green, and he shot Sam a confused look. He saw the embarrassment on the other man's face, and he chuckled some, though the sound came out all sandpaper and hissed air. "You work different than me and Kara," he said simply, no judgement, just observation. He'd ask about the touching later, when it was just Ford, because he sure as hell couldn't figure out why Ford had any interest in touching him, not after what had happened.
"Not like I can go much of anywhere," was March's assurance when he was told to hang on. And careful or not, he groaned when he was lifted, the movement excruciating enough to make it clear the morphine was only masking hell, not making things better. Sweat dotted his brow, and consciousness went, came, went, and came. With every reawakening, he realized this was the right thing, because damn if he could imagine weeks or months like this, weak and with someone needing to lift him. Thankfully, thinking into the future wasn't something he could do right then. Everything was immediate, and he settled his sweaty cheek against Ford's shoulder and just wished for the damn best.
Very, very carefully, with his heart working in his chest under March’s left ear, Ford lowered March onto the gurney they’d brought with them. He tucked in the sheets, and as lights began to flash outside the high, solid window, he took his arms out from under March’s knees and shoulders as if the man was glass. He was murmuring something under his breath, something very quiet and without form meant to soothe, something that was decidedly not Sam’s style.
Sam was having trouble. Ford wanted to be involved, to lift and touch and protect, but he was emotional and unpredictable, and he was getting in the way. So far Sam had managed to keep Ford’s fear from having any physical effect, but with Ford moving and not thinking, it was going to be sweat and shaking and just standing there clutching at March and sheets. Then they’d be caught and arrested, and March was probably going to catch something and die in the next six months. There was a strangled sound of mingled surprise that came from one or the other of them, and Sam shoved Ford’s mental presence back and out of the way. Had the two men been standing there, the blow would have laid the younger man out flat before he knew what hit him.
Sam took a plastic mask out of his pocket, not connected to anything at all. He set it lightly over March’s face, askew so it wouldn’t block his air. He made it so that the patient was unrecognizable, then he took the clipboard and pushed the gurney out.
March was only vaguely aware of all that happening. He gained a little of himself back once he was settled on the gurney, and there was enough consciousness there to think for a moment about the quiet murmur and the gentleness. He had the fleeting thought that he really had to ask Ford if he'd been tested, but holding onto thought was hard just then, and he wasn't managing it real well. He had no damn clue when Sam shoved Ford out of the way, because by then he was busy trying to breathe without that annoyingly drying oxygen, and he was just concentrating on focusing his way through the pain and not letting his thoughts get real morose. He wondered, eventually, if Sam had stolen an ambulance. It would be just like Sam to steal a damn ambulance. He smiled behind the mask, and he maybe laughed some. He hadn't thought about the morgue, and that was probably a real good thing, seeing as death was too prominently on his mind just then.
"You should come listen to me play," March said, muffled behind the mask, and it made not a lick of sense, but it was the morphine and pain talking, and there wasn't much he could do about it. "Not when there's no one around, but someplace real. Singing too." And March hadn't done anything like that in ages, since life had turned him raw and all alone in that big old apartment in Turnberry.
Sam could and would steal an ambulance, but when you stole things like ambulances, people noticed, and when people noticed they started searching. Ideally, by the time anyone started looking for March after the mess in the parking lot and the suspension of security and service in the morgue, March himself would be able to work out the legalities. Or so Sam hoped. Otherwise he was going to keep Ford in the door until they could find him a good lawyer.
“Was real w-wh-when n-n-body was’round,” Ford muttered back, letting Sam do the thinking and obviously not noticing when his eyes and expression didn’t echo what his mouth was saying.
Moving with purpose, but not hasty, Sam pushed March on the gurney down the hall, into an elevator, and down to the morgue. Moving a sheet-covered body through an occupied facility was intensely obvious had anyone been present, but Sam timed his exit well and he had taken down the security and the vaguely criminal but cooperative driver was waiting at the loading bay. Ford’s strong, careful grip conveyed March into the rented van (here we say ‘rented’ when really we mean, ‘illicitly borrowed from a private medical transport company repairshop, they’ll never miss it’). They were soon moving, and Sam was watching the driver to make sure he obeyed the traffic laws as they moved in a path parallel to the Strip, toward Passages.
March hadn't thought even a lick on how he was going to explain this all away after, assuming Kara could heal up right. He had no way to explain away a miraculous recovery, which meant he'd have to play sick, but that would only hold as long as no doctor saw him. Maybe his medical license and all those damn prescriptions he'd sold would do him a bit of good. He knew plenty of MDs that bought paper they shouldn't have been buying. But none of that was coming to mind just then, because nothing mattered but breathing through this hurting and getting himself to the hotel quick as could be.
Ford's muttering made March laugh, which made his belly hurt something awful, but there was a smile beneath that mask he wore. "It's different with folks all around and lights flashing," he said of being on stage. He missed it more than a little, and he would have sounded wistful over it, if he hadn't been so drug-slow, like molasses gone thicker with aging.
All that jostling into the rented vehicle made March lose consciousness, blood seeping through the bandage on his stomach, but not dripping or getting anywhere beyond the white of his gown. He stayed like that the whole ride, pale and paler and not opening his eyes even once. And maybe there was trusting in that, because he was sure that if anyone could get him where he needed to be, it was Sam. Ford helped some, he knew, but he remembered Sam (his Sam) as being real capable. Ford was young and sweet, but he wouldn't have been able to do this on his own.
Ford might have had something helpful to say in response to the lights and folks, but it would have taken a long time to get through a conversational sally about how he did his best work there, and Sam didn’t have time. Ford lost his grip completely when he saw all that blood, but Sam just pulled on a fresh pair of first aid gloves and applied a field dressing over the gown. Sam was a lot more careful than he was normally, but he also didn’t let it get in the way of handling the situation. Ford couldn’t even think about getting sick, he was more mesmerized by the idea of someone, a person, a person he knew, bleeding to death in front of him. Sam had seen it too many times. There was absolutely no question that Ford wouldn’t have been able to get March out the front door.
Sam glanced up to make sure their driver was going the right way, feeling strange without the soft warmth of his hair over his ears, but the ex-cabbie with the habit appeared to have been a good hire, and he got them where they were going. Sam pushed open the doors, but instead of hauling the gurney out he left it where it was and picked up March like he weighed nothing at all. Now was the time for haste, not caution. The cabbie started to complain about payment, but Sam just forced out the two words “glove compartment” sharply enough to get past Ford’s tongue, and Sam took March and all the evidence that he had been in the back of the van out together, the bedding, gloves and plastic stripped together into a near-weightless plastic bag on March’s lap.
Ford’s shoulder hit the front doors hard, and the two (three) of them were inside the dusty halls and moving under a confident stride.
Jostling was bad, and there wasn't a damn thing March could do to remain conscious. He didn't open his eyes for more than a second until they were at his door, and even then it was necessity that had him reaching out a hand as the door changed itself to something sweet and smooth with their approach; he almost cried. March's door, when it was where it ought to be, and not in Smallville or Gotham, didn't have a knob, and there was no key that fit in the damn thing. It was smooth, unbroken metal, incongruous with the old hallway and the wallpaper folding over on itself in the corners. Steps led to the door, born out of the hallway, and water could be heard lapping, the smell of salt carrying real plain if you stood still and sniffed the old air long enough.
March groaned, and he reached for the small sunstone that was hanging from his neck, red and like salvation on a twisted strip of medical gauze he'd stolen for the purpose. It wasn't pretty, but it was functional. The sunstone came free of the paper gown, and the door edged red with lights that hadn't been visible before. It hummed, and then the thing slid on open.
Beyond the door, the entryway was pure white, almost medical looking in its pristineness. The walls were marred, and the floor was seamless. There wasn't a hum of sound beyond that lapping of water, and March dropped the sunstone against his chest and tugged on Sam's shirt. "Go on, son. It doesn't bite."
Too late, Sam thought that he should have taken March into his Door, and not the DC one. While his America was not safe at all, at the Bunker he could better protect her, and he knew more of what to expect. Sam couldn’t become an expert on the entirety of the comics universe, there were simply too many universes, too many possibilities. Instead he contented himself with a general background of anybody that he saw mentioned on the journals, whether casually or otherwise.
Ford was incoherent with worry and fear for March. He wasn’t thinking about anything except all that blood, going over how impossible it would be to lose that much blood, and wailing with anticipatory despair about how anybody bleeding that much must be dead, now or later. Sam ignored him. He was used to people panicking while he kept a steady head, completely in understanding that sometimes sanity was hard to find when the people you cared for lost humanity and became bodies struggling to stay whole.
Sam didn’t hesitate once March opened the door. He pushed Ford’s body and their burden inside in one long stride, his grip confident and his calm utterly intact.
It was immediate, the change, as it always was. The door behind Sam slid shut, and the cool air inside rushed them a moment later, after Sanctuary scanned who accompanied Kara and determined what the required atmosphere was. Kara's eyes didn't open immediately, but her skin didn't have the same greenish tinge it had when she'd been kicked. Her breathing was steady and even, as Sam held her in his arms, and the blood at her stomach had already stopped seeping through the tatters of her suit.
"Identify yourself, human," said a very proper, very posh, very male voice. It seemed to come from nowhere, and it seemed to come from everywhere. Eventually, the ceiling in front of Sam opened to reveal a black circular sphere on a sliver of metal. It had a red light that shone directly on Sam and Kara, and it blinked as it waited for Sam to identify itself.
"Taking your time is unwise, as my scans indicate residual Kryptonite in Kara," the butleresque voice continued harmlessly. "If you insist on delaying, I will remove the breathable oxygen from your location." It almost sounded happy at the prospect.
Sam was hesitant to put Kara down. He didn’t know what he was looking at, because his general idea of the Fortress of Solitude was a lot of ice and not much else. He hadn’t actually read any comics, just read some descriptions, so he couldn’t be absolutely sure they were on safe ground. He was also unarmed, with his hands full of prone Kryptonian, so if he had to defend them he wasn’t sure what he would do.
Sam was marginally reassured by the robotic voice. It was exactly the kind of thing an ancient advanced civilization would do, stick an AI in there to scare off intruders. “I’m Sam Winchester, and she asked me for help.” This was not technically true, but March did, and with he and Ford so close, Sam wasn’t real good at separating out the difference. When he said it, he meant it. He did not put her down.
“Shit. How much residual Kryptonite?” He started moving forward again, looking for a flat surface.
"I am Sanctuary," the butleresque voice said. "You may set Kara down in the room to your left, fifty feet ahead. I am programmed to handle medical situations," he assured. "I will verify your claim after," he said, inflection and threat in the final word.
Ahead, there was a long hall of smooth walls, but a length of wall snicked open to reveal a door. Inside, there was a large, smooth, flat surface. Robotic arms descended from the ceiling, and medical trays dotted the room. The equipment on the trays, however, included no knives or medical tools available on Earth.
"You do not need to worry, Sam Winchester of Earth. I am Sanctuary, and I serve Kara." The robot sounded like he served no one, despite the polite claim.
Sam immediately took a left after several long strides, not even out of breath and clamping down on his growing unease with physical effort. He kept a firm grip on Kara and glanced down to make sure she was breathing every couple seconds. He brought her through the door, and he eyed the ceiling. Not for the first time, he wished he was armed.
Carefully, he eased forward, and dodging a skeletal arm from an angle at his head, he slid Kara down on the flat, alien surface. She looked exceptionally young, and he frowned down at her in concern. “Kara?” He didn’t actually expect her to respond. He realized that he could have told her to leave Gotham to Gotham, and while he was guilty, he couldn’t help but wonder how many lives she had saved while there.
Sometimes, Sam clung to his naivete.
“Well, right now I’m the one helping her, how am I supposed to know you’re the real deal?” Sam was pretty sure the robotic voice was actually there to serve Kara, because he didn’t think March would take him through the door into this place otherwise. There was also the fact that the big S logo got them through the door, and that was a pretty strong indicator. Sam believed in the relevance of symbols. All the same, he wanted to know just how dedicated this ‘Sanctuary’ was.
Sanctuary was dedicated enough that arms slid out from the wall behind Sam. Silently, they snaked through the open door, and they pulled Sam out of the room with an unforgiving grip.
"I am sorry, Sam Winchester of Earth," Sanctuary said, though he didn't sound sorry at all. And there was no breaking down the door and no getting into room that housed Kara. The sounds from beyond the smooth, seamless door were quiet sounds - whirring, hissing, air and whispers. But there was no screaming, and there were no sounds of discomfort. Sanctuary, after its unconvincing apology, said nothing more.
The walls throughout the structure, should Sam go wandering, were all equally smooth and equally seamless. The front door couldn't be found, and there was no way to break through anything at all, not even to return to Passages.
It took roughly a half hour.
The doors opened, and Kara was struggling to sit up on the flat surface. The robotic arms were gone, and the medical trays had been tucked away into the unbroken lines of the walls. Her suit was repaired, and she swung her legs, as if to test them for functionality. Finally, she turned toward the door. "Sam? Are you here?" she asked, and she sounded tired and completely human, like a teenager that had undergone something bad and yearned for familiar companionship. Her feet slid to the floor, and she braced her hands behind her on the table.
Coming back to Sanctuary was getting harder. Here, she had no powers. Here, she weighed less, and she felt more. Here, she needed food and sleep, and aches and pains were aches and pains. She wouldn't heal here, not when she was so far away from the yellow sun. But Kryptonian medicine was advanced, and she would be strong enough, after sleep and food, to get to the surface of the ocean and heal entirely.
But just then, all she wanted was a hug.
Sam swore a blue streak when the robot yanked him out of the room. He was too surprised about the unexpected versatility of the mechanical limb to make a concentrated effort at resisting before he was thrown bodily out the door. He told Sanctuary to fuck off with its apology, a very typical Winchester thing to do, as was the slam of one fist against the now-smooth surface of the door obscuring Kara from the rest of the facility. He made himself calm and listened long enough to note that he could hear everything going on within even if he couldn’t see or feel a door, and it didn’t sound like Kara was distressed.
Sam, therefore, could do nothing but pace. He noticed the absence of doors, and figured regardless that he could eventually make a way out if he absolutely had to, even if it was to physically chip at the rock. Failing that, in exactly a day he would revert back to Ford. If he could avoid it, Sam wanted a regular way out of this place; he didn’t like burning his bridges--and a safe entrance into the DC world was valuable. Sam figured the latter would definitely come in handy one day.
By the end of the twenty minutes, he decided he wasn’t ever coming back into this place again. It was like being on the inside of an eggshell, and he didn’t have any cell service. He watched the journals for a while, thinking he could write to Dean if this went on much longer, but in the end he just waited.
There was still no door in evidence when he heard the voice, and he scrambled up to his feet from the accordion lean he’d taken against one of the smooth walls. “Yes. I’m here,” he said, and his voice had a strained quality. He stared at the place where the medical chamber had been.
It was with tentative steps that she made her way out of the room, but she picked up momentum as she neared him. She threw her arms around him in a hug that was indicative of a teenager that was still struggling to grow past years the hotel had taken from her. For nearly a week, she'd wanted nothing more than to be home again. She'd wanted her mom and her dad, and she'd wanted the hurt to stop in the most basic and childish of ways. Her arms wound around Sam's upper arms, because she couldn't reach his shoulders, and her grip was no stronger than any girl's grip would have been, the impact of her body when she hugged strong and without any superanything. Her temperature was cold, not regulated by the sun, and she sniffled when she pressed her cheek to his shirt. "I am so tired," she said in Kryptonian, forgetting about translation entirely, but the weariness carried in her voice, muffled and young against his shirt.
"Your room is ready, Kara," Sanctuary informed them, continuing to speak in English out of respect for their visitor. "Should I ready a room for Sam Winchester of Earth?"
He had no idea what she said, but it didn’t matter all that much. He was visibly relieved to see her in one piece, even looking so tired--and to be honest, it was strange seeing her in that red and blue outfit. He had a crazy idea that it was a Halloween costume for one quick second, but then he saw the stuff it was made of, he couldn’t say what exactly it was, but it was no Halloween costume. She was more of a blue-red blur coming at him--not scary fast, just fast. He deflated inwards as he opened up his arms and caught her into his chest.
He gave her a hard hug, and Sam was good at the deep reassuring hugs that went on a long time. He had a fresh, recently-showered male smell, and he was still getting used to the idea that all that blood on his shirt didn’t matter. She seemed whole and unhurt. He held on to her. “You okay? The AI said he was going to take care of you but...” Sam trailed off, completely ignoring the AI’s offer, which he did not plan on taking up. There was no way he was getting a wink in this place. He’d sooner sleep in a ditch.
She stepped back reluctantly, putting just enough distance between them so she could rub her belly. She winced when she touched a sore spot, and she stopped and dropped her hand to her side. "I am okay. I will have to leave here to heal. We are below the ocean, far down, and the sun does not reach here. I need the sun to heal," she explained. She shook her head. "I am too tired to make the swim." she added reluctantly, leaning forward just enough to sag against him, her weight almost nothing at all here, where strength didn't add solid pounds to her small frame. "If you help me to bed, I will make Sanctuary allow you to leave," she offered, expecting that he wouldn't want to be trapped there.
She motioned down the long and seemingly endless corridor, where a break in the smooth wall existed three-quarters of the way down. In the room, a smooth surface like the one in the operating room was covered in a pink blanket and pillow. A bottle sat on a stand, and there were numerous pictures on the wall, all of her family and friends, salvaged from her sunstone.
Sam watched her move out of his embrace, recognizing the stiff way she moved with far too much personal experience. He wondered if healing wounds pulled the same way, if the forming scars felt the same on muscle you had to work back. Maybe she just flew out there in the sun and all that would go away. Magic sun and a machine that could take bullets out of you; now that would really be invaluable. Sam could almost hear Dean saying that he wanted one.
Again Sam put an arm out as she tipped forward again, holding her up carefully as she spoke. They were at the bottom of the ocean? Sam couldn’t decide if Dean would find that cool or not. Sam wanted to ask where and how far down, but he decided all that could wait. He smiled at her. “It... is a little alien to me,” he said, speaking of the smooth walls and the strange voice.
Sam picked her up once more, bracing her back under her shoulders and bending over to retrieve her knees, before making his way down the hall toward the room she indicated. He smiled again to see all the pink. “Are you going to be okay in here?” he asked, setting her down and giving her a frown of concern as he stepped back and pulled absently at his bloody shirt.
She smiled a bittersweet and tired smile when he said everything was alien to him. "I hear that often," she said honestly. It made her think of Damian, which just made her cheeks flush with embarrassment, all the more noticeable for the pallor of her skin.
When he set her down, she nodded. "I will be safe here. You should return through the door and remove that shirt. It is contaminated," she said, her science caste upbringing making her aware of the dangers of March's condition, even if such diseases had been completely eradicated from her world.
She curled up on the flat surface, blanket wound around her red and blue, and the pillow bunched beneath her blonde hair. "Tell Ford thank you?" she asked, before she closed her eyes.
"Sanctuary, open the exit for Sam," she added, as the smooth wall across the hall slid open to reveal Passages' hallway.
She was asleep within seconds.