Ian Russell & Jonathan Crane (strawed) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-06-12 20:35:00 |
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Entry tags: | gwen stacy, scarecrow |
Who: Ian and Sam
What: Rescuing the sister
Where: Iris' apartment
When: Immediately after this
Warnings/Rating: It's Ian. There are bad things here that happen, and more bad things are alluded to. Tread with heavy caution and avoid if you must.
It had never occurred to Sam that Iris would call Ian.
Not thinking clearly, she'd just wanted someplace to hide. Someplace alone. No, that was a fucking lie. She'd wanted to run straight to Neil. She'd wanted to call him and just beg him to fucking fix everything. But the fact that they'd made progress managed to sift through the panic, and the perpetual fucking fear that he'd start seeing her as just some kind of fuck-up stayed her hand. She'd see him after, yeah? Once she was calm enough to actually have a conversation without trying to pull her hair out of her fucking head, then she'd calmly fucking call him, and she'd calmly explain that she was losing her shit. That she wanted a hit. That she wanted a razor. That she just wanted this fucking shit to stop.
Until then, Iris' empty place had seemed like a good fucking idea. And, yeah, it never occurred to her that Iris would call fucking Ian, not when her sister knew how Sam felt about the sonofafucking bitch.
She was pacing in the living room. She'd tried hiding in a closet, but the closed-in space had freaked her out. She'd tried huddling in a corner, but she didn't like the feeling of being trapped. She'd pulled her paints out of the guest room, and she'd coated the living room walls in thick, long swathes of gore-red. She'd paced, boxers and Neil's work shirt and no shoes, feet filthy from the walk over, cheeks tear and sweat stained. Her hair was a tangled mess, paint making the ends kiss the white shirt with red. And she looked like trash. She had none of Iris' refinement, and she had none of Iris' mad calm; she was a caged thing, pacing. She tried to tell herself to fucking breathe. Some guy had touched her. No big deal, yeah? No big deal. No big fucking deal.
She banged her temple against the wall, oil-paint red going everywhere and a bruise quickly blossoming beneath the paint that coated her skin. She knew there were knives in the kitchen. She knew there was money in the drawers. She hit her head again, because no. She wasn't going to fucking do that. She wasn't going to fucking do that.
Ian had wondered how long it would take before something happened, though he had been thoroughly prepared to act until something finally happened. When the call came through from Iris about her dear, sweet, mouthy sister, Ian had felt something akin to relief. It hadn't taken as long as he had feared, and the fact that she had managed as long as she did was something worth giving her credit for. Finding that breaking point, the edge to push someone over, it was something he truly enjoyed. The journey was much more interesting, Ian found, than the ultimate destination, and Sam had been no different.
He let himself into the apartment with his key, closing the door quietly behind him, the lock twisted to ensure their privacy for the moment. A sweep of his eyes over the living room, taking in the red pain that covered the vertical surfaces, one brow arching in silent question. She had been busy, it seemed, and it didn't take long to find the one responsible for it. A hand slipped into the pocket of his trousers, ensuring the syringe was still there, capped and ready to go with a heavy sedative to ensure her compliance, and then with careful steps, Ian approached Sam. He didn't say a word, quiet and steady in his approach, both hands held out in front of him to show that he meant no (apparent) harm. "Iris asked me to come check on you," he finally said to break the silence, his voice a low thing, warm tones that snaked around a person, soothed away the worries.
Sam didn't hear the door. Her ears were ringing from the blossoming pain in her temple, and she didn't hear the key turn in the lock. As far as she knew, only she and Iris had keys to this fucking place. She wasn't afraid of Iris, despite her fear for her sister's well-being. But she didn't even hear the door open, and she didn't hear it close and lock.
It wasn't until Ian entered the living room that she knew she wasn't alone.
She didn't know Ian. She had no idea that he was so fucking old. She had no real way of knowing it was him. But she knew. Somehow, before he even fucking mentioned Iris' name, she knew. Her previous feelings about not hiding in a corner seemed suddenly unimportant, and instinctively she backed up. One step, then another, then another, and then he said Iris had sent him to check on her, and she fucking froze.
"No, she wouldn't. She wouldn't do that. She wouldn't fucking do that," Sam insisted, any scrap of a doubt about who this man flying out the window with his use of Iris' name. She shook her head, red paint flying everywhere as it escaped the ends of her hair. The world spun. The room spun. "She wouldn't fucking do that to me."
Then she realized he was moving forward. "No, stay the fuck away. Stay the fuck away, or you'll be fucking sorry," she insisted, her gaze sliding toward the kitchen. Knives, there would be knives in the fucking kitchen. Her phone was in the buttoned pocket of Neil's shirt, but she didn't reach for it, didn't think to reach for it. "Stay AWAY," she screamed, moving in the direction of the kitchen without even thinking to hide her intention.
Ian didn't lower his hands as he continued to approach her, hearing every word, the way her gaze flicked towards the kitchen, it was easy to see the gears rolling behind her eyes. "If she thought someone needed assistance, and that I could offer that assistance..." Ian trailed off, coming to a halt just yards away moments before Sam screamed and ran towards the kitchen.
Predator and prey, he was used to this sort of thing, the thrill of the hunt, the chase, the spike of adrenaline that surged through him as he rushed towards her. There was no thinking, only doing, and she almost escaped him, but he was thinking clearly where she was not, longer legs, purpose driving him forward. Long, strong arms wrapped around her in a bearhug, pulling her in against his chest, her back to his front, pinning her arms to her side. "You need to calm down, Samantha," Ian urged her in a hot, harsh whisper, lips right beside her ear. "We don't want something unfortunate to happen, do we? You might upset Iris."
Sam shook her head, and she didn't fucking stop.
"My sister wouldn't-" But maybe Iris would. Maybe Iris would, and fuck, fuck, fuck.
When Ian moved, she moved faster, but it wasn't fucking fast enough. It wasn't fast enough, and she was crying by the time his arms closed around her. She was a litany of "NO, NO, NO, no, no, no." Louder, then softer, then almost fucking nothing at all. The bear-hug felt suffocating, and oh, fuck, she couldn't breathe. She knew, in her mind, that nothing was keeping her from breathing, but she couldn't fucking breathe. She gasped, sobbed, and her empty stomach threatened to turn the fuck over on itself. She heaved, wretched up nothing at all, and she shook her head and fought his grip. Elbows, arms, and the attempt to slam her head back against his face.
The threat. The threat. And she had no fucking clue what he wanted with her. She had no fucking clue why he was there. She wanted Neil. She wanted Joey. She couldn't even ask for either thing, too fear-frozen by the mouth against her ear.
She turned her head, and she aimed a bite at his cheek.
People reacted differently when it came to fear, but Sam was far beyond fear, instead stumbling through the terror-filled forest of her own thoughts and fears. Her words were largely ignored, the elbows taken with a grunt, arms tightening around her in answer. "Samantha," he murmured, and that was before she turned to try and take a bite from his cheek. Ian went still for briefest of moments, the stillness a terrifying thing, and then he was a creature of motion once more. One arm remained locked around her, but the other freed itself, coming up to curl in her hair, wrenching her head back sharply. "If you do not calm down," he muttered, his voice more strained than he would have preferred, but that happened when someone threatened to maul your face, "then I will be forced to take more drastic matters. I simply came here on request of your sister who was concerned about you for reasons unknown. Do not make me out to be an enemy when I simply wish to help you." He was all but snarling at the end, voice pitched low, a dark murmur. "And if you attempt to bite me again, you'll find yourself missing several teeth. I am not above violence to women." And this was why he liked his women more submissive, pliant, easy to mold into what he wished. Sam did not fit that profile in the slightest.
That crooning only made her panic more. "I WON'T CALM DOWN," she insisted, despite the fact that it was fucking stupid. She wouldn't just give in. She wouldn't just give up. She wouldn't just let him do whatever the fuck he wanted to with her. True to her word, she did go for another bite, because fuck that dark murmur, and fuck everything else. Giving in, behaving, would only make shit worse anyway. Being under his thumb, doing whatever he wanted, it was the worst possible option for her.
She'd rather be fucking dead, and maybe he'd just kill her-
The thought was like a fucking beacon, a lightbulb. Death would be better, death would be better, and she fought with the power of someone who wasn't bothering to try to stay in one piece anymore. Scream, and flailing hands, and a maelstrom and youth, and fuck everything. She didn't give a shit what Iris wanted, not now, not anymore. And yeah, so she was acting crazy, but she didn't even fucking care. She wanted to be left alone, and if this was her future, then she'd rather find a blade or a needle. She'd rather anything than this. She didn't think that Joey would come looking, not when he thought she was fucking nuts. Lou was busy, and Neil wouldn't think to look for her, not if she didn't hit him up, not if he didn't know something was wrong, and why would he fucking know? He wouldn't.
Her hair, where he gripped it, screamed, sending pain against her already bruised temple, and her knees threatened to buckle, but she was all fucking teeth, feral and unthinking. "You sent that shit. I know you sent that shit," she insisted, repeating those two sentences over and over.
Screaming, thrashing, another bite even as he wrenched her head back, and Ian took it all in stride as someone who was used to out of control females who meant him bodily harm. He had promised Iris, after all, that he would fetch the young woman back to his home in Summerlin, and Ian was not the sort of man to reign in on a promise made. The litany of accusations continued, and with a shift of his body, Ian had her sandwiched between himself and the wall, giving him enough of a pause to pull the syringe out of his pocket. The man in the back of his head had plenty of information on drugs, different cocktails to cook up, and it had been absolutely nothing to get his hands on this little cocktail. Something for the psychosis. Something for anxiety. Mix it up with a nice sedative. The results left one very compliant, behaved little mouse of a girl.
Ian hummed softly as he pulled the syringe from his pocket, and with a grunt as he shoved her hard against the wall, the needle slid home into the muscle of her shoulder, his lips against her ear once more. "Shhh. Stop fighting and this will be much easier on you," he cooed, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. The drugs would act fast, subdue her in mere moments, so her flailing limbs were no longer of a concern to him. The syringe was pocketed and both arms were around her again, a lover's embrace threaded through with dark intentions. "I just want to take care of you, Samantha. That's all."
She knew, as soon as she felt the needle's bite, that she was fucking done. Even panicking, like she was at being pinning against a wall, she knew it. She knew it, and it scared her so fucking badly that she actually stopped fighting, even before the fucking thing kicked in. She punched the wall in front of her twice, hard fists and bruising, and she whispered no over and over, though she knew it was completely fucking pointless. The drug-warmth started a second later, and she tried to focus around it, tried to keep herself. She thought sleep would drag her down immediately, but it didn't. First came something even more fucking terrifying - calm. Not Xanax calm, not a heroin high-calm. No, just fucking lack, and it made her breathe so fucking fast that the world went black from the hyperventilating. The sedation hit next, and the combination made her heavy, useless limbs. Her last fucking thought was that whatever he had, whatever he'd stuck her with, was fucking terrifying, and she wasn't even sure she'd be able to fucking tell anyone about it if she woke up.
She slumped against him. At least, for just then, it wasn't a concern.
The hummingbird flutter of her heart, the short, hard breaths as panic set fully in, Ian listened and felt it all, waiting until she had grown lax against him, until he was the only thing holding her up. And even then, he waited, brushing long fingers through her hair, back away from her face, the touch of a father to a resting child. And once he was sure she would not be stirring into action anytime soon, Ian hefted her into his arms, cradled against his chest like a child, but he didn't make to move from the apartment immediately. No, he went to the bathroom instead.
No one would know what happened in the time that passed then, behind the locked door of Iris' bathroom, but when they emerged sometime later, Sam was freshly bathed, hair damp, braided back from her face. He said nothing as he then carried her from the apartment, the door closed quietly in his wake, to deliver her to her worried sister in his Summerlin home.