damien harrington, human x-ray machine (seesthrough) wrote in invol_rpg, @ 2013-01-04 21:45:00 |
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Everything hurt. It was simple enough to say; Damien was in pain. He’d been moved to a medical intake room in the safehouse, and then prodded and poked until the doctors seemed to be satisfied that whatever was wrong with him wasn’t contagious. He’d been unable to do little more than grumble throughout the process, still weak and feverish, and then he’d been left to try and sleep it off while they attempted different methods of getting rid of the sickness. The fever was a little weaker now, but nothing else had improved. He was on an IV, with no idea what it was that was being fed into his body again, and annoyed about it. It took his mind away from the scarier facts. That it was something Anthony couldn’t heal. Anthony hadn’t been able to heal them. Damien had been healed by the boy once before, but this time Anthony’s power had no effect on him. Despite his weakened state, he’d insisted that he be able to call his family as soon as they would let him have a phone. He’d been given a new IVI one, but he hadn’t even looked at it yet in his haste to find one that would connect him to his family. Head pounding, still shaking and shivering, Damien had finally had that call that he’d longed for. Once it was finished, a long conversation where he struggled to find words to deal with a hysterical eleven year-old, he felt a little more peaceful. Still ill, still unable to stand and barely able to sit up, but at ease for the moment. He wasn’t sure how safe it was, he couldn’t fully relax. There’d been fighting and he wasn’t sure how to process it, let alone the fact that he was outside of those cold walls. He relaxed his eyelids, arm still hooked up to the IV, and tried to let go for a moment. It was no use, he was still tightly wound and feverish. It wasn’t going to be that easy. Searching for something to do, a distraction that might take the edge away from his current state of mind, he took the new IVI phone from the bedside. About to turn it on, he looked up as he heard the door open. The other times that the door had opened, it had been to take one of them. But no, he shook that thought away with a weak movement of his head. That had been then. It wasn’t happening any more. “Hey.” The voice was plaintive, softly hesitant. Very much unlike what Damien had probably come to expect from his new girlfriend--if he even still thought of her that way at all. In a way, Savannah felt as though he shouldn’t. He was alive, and that should have overridden everything, including any thoughts of her--much less what she was to him. Indeed, for the moment, it was all she cared about. The redhead slipped almost noiselessly into the darkened room, her breath held--as if breathing too hard or too loudly would be damaging to him. He was fragile to her now, something that she could barely touch. Certainly something she couldn’t fling herself onto, like she had after they’d emerged from the nightmares. But he was alive, and she wasn’t going to let anyone or anything change that. No one was going to hurt him, not anymore. But as he came into view, Savannah realized how little time she’d taken to prepare herself for the sight. He looked as though he’d lost some weight--his skin didn’t quite rest on his cheekbones the way it had before. His eyes looked almost as though they belonged to a pair of hollow sockets, rather than eyes per se. Despite the tubes extending from and around him, it was the eyes that made Savannah’s breath hitch painfully in her chest. Unconsciously, she found a hand flying to her heart, where it thudded--too quickly to be at rest, too irregularly to simply just be alert. There was a chair next to the bed, and she settled into it with a light thud, her free hand extending toward the one that rested most closely to her, ignoring the needle and bandages that covered the skin she desperately wanted to feel. It wasn’t warm, like she remembered--it was hot and clammy, not entirely unlike the treacherous sensation Savannah felt welling up behind her eyes. “Hey,” she whispered again, hoarsely. Something was lodged in her throat, making it difficult for her to speak. His fingers left the phone, his other hand reaching awkwardly across to cover hers. His hands encircling hers, he looked up with his best attempt at a smile. "Fuck, I'm so glad to see you," he told her, squeezing her one hand gently with both of his. Even if everything felt strange, including the way that his own body was reacting to whatever the kidnappers had put in him, her presence was something that changed it all. He was calmer, at least for the moment, and the quiet didn't seem so engulfing and terrifying. They'd all had their quiet moments in the cell, alone with the darker thoughts. Damien hadn't thought he'd ever see anything else again, let alone Savannah. But she was there, and he squeezed her hand again with a little more determination. “You alright there?” he asked her, releasing his hold. He had so many questions about what had happened, and what he'd missed. No one had filled them in yet, too busy making sure that they were well, and Damien had no idea if there'd been anything other than their small group of people. “Jack, Kier, Daisy - are they okay?” he asked suddenly. He'd seen all of them, but he didn't dare to ask after Vanessa and Astrid. “Are you okay?” he turned the third question to her before he gave her a real chance to respond to the first or second ones. Savannah looked away, trying to bite back her watery smile. Of course he couldn’t just sit the fudge down for a while and relax, even when he was sick. Even when he’d just been rescued from what could have been his death. His first questions were of other people. You don’t deserve him, she chided herself inwardly, pointlessly. She knew. She’d known that for a long time. “They’re--all right,” she told him, swallowing. She wanted to hold him to her, to shield him from the rest of the white, sterile room. Or at least, to slide under the sheets next to him, nestling her comparatively cool body against his overheated one. “We found Astrid an’ Vanessa awhile back.” Realizing how her sentence could be construed, she added quickly, “We found ‘em tied up in a side room, an’ we thought we had alla y’all, but we looked and y’all were already gone.” She remembered very acutely the cruel rush of hope she and Carter had felt, when they’d been told--and then the savage crash that came immediately afterward, the news that the rest were gone. They’d been too late. “I’m okay.” She forced a smile at him over their clasped hands. She was, compared to him, and it would have been selfish to answer with anything else. “Been lookin’ for you for a while, though.” He nodded slowly, heartened by her smile. It was forced, he could tell that much, but seeing her try made a lot more difference than he could tell her. She'd been looking for him, and that made a difference too. The others were safe, but she was too. It had hurt to think about her when he'd been there, especially in those difficult times when he'd imagined that they were all taken. She'd been safe, and he was glad of that. “Thank you,” he told her quietly. “I'd hug you, or whatever, but I feel like shit. Probably look like it, someone had to help me wash and all. Just as well, you wouldn't like me if I stank like shit too,” he tried to joke. It was feeble, and he knew it. The room was cold and bare, and Damien tried to focus on her instead of anything around himself. With the hand furthest away from her, he reached for the phone again. It was something easy to talk about. “They got me another one of these already. Wasting no time in making me an IVI boy again, right?” he asked her, turning the thing on even as he watched her. She'd been crying, and he was too scared to ask her why. Savannah kept her gaze locked on the phone in front of him, suddenly remembering in a rush of shame the deluge of texts she’d sent to him that night, and the litter of texts she’d sent since. She hadn’t stopped to think at first--what if they’d already had him? What if the texts she’d sent afterward were alerting the kidnappers to the fact that the IVF was on their trail? You could trace phone activity to the locations in which calls had been made; she knew that. Had she--had any of them been responsible for any torture or hurt, or even death that the kidnappers had inflicted? God, she was so stupid. So fudging stupid. She hadn’t even thought. The skin around the edge of her eyes itched slightly, where she’d rubbed it raw. They’d all been separated, which likely meant Damien didn’t know how many of the others had been taken, or even who they were. She felt a heavy pang of guilt--did it have to be her that told him Marine was dead? Mal? He’d been through so much; he’d barely escaped with his life. Did he have to know at all, yet? “Well, you’re not wastin’ any time checkin’ your texts, so apparently, you don’t mind.” She grinned wryly, a little more sincere in this smile than the last. It was a distraction, and a welcome one at that, and Damien smiled as he pulled the phone up. The damn thing didn't stop beeping for around thirty seconds, and he thumbed his way through a couple of messages and tried to recognise which numbers were which. A wry quirk of his lips into a smile at Remy's, relief upon seeing some from Hailey. Numbers that he didn’t recognise, and then - a deluge. A mass of messages from Savannah's number. His smile grew a little, still weak, as he scanned them quickly. Threats if he didn't pick up the phone, messages to say that they were coming to find them. He felt an odd tight sensation in his chest, unable to articulate how he felt upon reading them. His face fell, a struggle to push away the emotional gut response to reading those messages. He didn't know how or why he'd been lucky enough to have someone care for him that much, and it seemed difficult to be able to show that he cared just as much. She'd called him and called him, and he wished that he'd been able to pick up. “I'd have said the same,” he told her finally, after looking through them once again. “I'd have done the fucking same if they'd even tried to get you,” he promised, voice forced as he struggled to regain control of himself. He was too weak to sit up, and too tired to keep composed. He put the phone down, and reached for her hand again, all weak smiles and lame attempts at jokes forgotten. Savannah swallowed, and swallowed again. But at last, it was too much. She was crumbling, finally--after days upon days of keeping her composure. And then, for the first time in front of Damien, she was crying. You are SO FUDGING SELFISH, she screamed at herself inwardly, even as the tears leaked out like a salty waterfall, trickling down pale cheeks and leaving wet, sticky trails. Almost angrily, she reached up to brush at her skin with the back of her hand, willing herself to stop--but after days of lying awake at night thinking about him, days of leaning heavily on Carter, days of brushing off people’s apologies to her, as if maybe, just possibly, he was already dead--Savannah was giving in. She’d been strong just long enough to get home, and now she was. Right now, Damien was home. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, extricating her hand from his to cover her face in shame. She felt her face screw up into what was undoubtedly a very unattractive picture, and her fingernails dug into her skin desperately. Maybe the pain would force her to stop. “I thought--” she fought to articulate how terrified she’d been, how much it had hurt not knowing, but she didn’t deserve to wallow in her own pain. Not when so many others were hurt worse. Not when he was. “Lord alive, I’m so fudging selfish,” she managed hoarsely, the self-loathing cry muffled behind her fingers. He didn't know how she would've reacted, but he hadn't bargained on her crying. "No - fuck no," he protested, struggling to sit up. He was pathetic, weak and unable to help her and frustrated with himself for it. “Savannah?” he asked, further distressed by seeing her like this. “Fuck, Sav, it's okay. It's okay,” he tried to reason with her. What would he have been like, if the roles were reversed? Mad, restless and inconsolable. Terrified. “Savannah, tell me,” he insisted, preferring that she explain what she’d thought. Seeing him struggle to sit up to comfort her only further served to remind her how desperately she needed to pull herself together. She couldn’t have him worry about her, not when he would have so much to worry about. Not when she would have to have the worst luck in the world to experience even a fraction of what he had. She was lucky. Lucky that she was alive, lucky that her boyfriend was alive. Lucky that her best friend had been rescued. Angrier with herself, Savannah closed her eyes and managed to take a few deep, shuddering breaths. Focus, she told herself. Just fudgin’ focus, you idiot. “I’m--I’m just so glad you’re okay,” she managed, lowering her hands at last. Her cheeks were flushed and likely blotchy, and she reached up to brush away more tears, looking away from him. “Don’t worry about me.” The words came out in a cascade she couldn’t stem. “I didn’t get hurt, and I didn’t get kidnapped, and I’m alive and so’re you, so don’t help me make this about me, because it’s fudging not.” She took another breath, steeling herself. He had to know sooner or later, but God, she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to hurt him more than he’d already been hurt. “I’m cryin’ because--because it’s not all over for you. Not even now.” A fresh tear trickled down her cheek, melding with the other moisture that had begun to dry. “And I don’t wanna tell you, but you need to know, an’ I hate that.” Fear overwhelmed concern. What did she mean, it wasn't over? They were all back, even Astrid and Vanessa. He'd spoken to his family. He even had messages from friends, hell, Savannah was there and that was one of the greatest moments of relief that he'd had in recent memory. “Tell me what?” he prompted her in a low voice, as he tried not to think of all of the other horrible things that could have happened. God, why did this have to happen? The knot in Savannah’s stomach grew--the knot that had formed there as soon as she’d heard the fateful news. She leaned forward and took his hands in hers, the anger sliding from her face like a mask. She couldn’t feel something so savage and negative, not when he was so gentle. “It wasn’t just y’all,” she began, loathing every word. “It--there were three groups, y’all in Canada, but there was a group in Europe an’ one in Indonesia.” She pressed her lips together for a moment, composing herself. “It was hard findin’ the European group.” He looked up at her, stomach sinking. The hopes he’d held only moments before deflated suddenly. This was serious, and he couldn’t quite bring any of his worries into words. But they were all fine, weren’t they? Damien looked to her for answers, but he was scared as to what they would be. “Who?” he asked in a hushed tone, unable to even finish the question. “What happened - tell me,” he pleaded. His insides froze at the thought that others had been through hell, and they needed to be okay. He didn’t dare put any names to his worries. Savannah didn’t let go. She couldn’t. She had to, in some small way, hold onto him--remind him that she was there. But her lips were pressed together so hard they were becoming white, the blood draining from them. As the blood was no longer running through the veins of too many, many people. They deserved to have their memories shared. “Erik,” she began, her throat tightening. “An’ Alyosha, they--they were placed on a train in London. It exploded.” She remembered the nausea that had overwhelmed her when she’d first heard, the urgency with which she’d clapped a hand over her mouth and run off to retch in private. “Myra got--got shot during the rescue. And Mal an’ Marine--” Her voice broke. Generous, enigmatic Marine. Marine, the only person at IVI she’d shown New Orleans to, the girl who’d let her travel without ever leaving her bed. “An’ Marine,” she finished, raggedly. Her face worked, crumpling even as she fought to keep her composure.. Damien’s grip on her hand tightened. It was still feeble in comparison to how Damien would usually hold anything, but there was an edge of desperation to his grasp. He drew in one shaky breath, listening to her words. They seemed wrong, horribly wrong, and he didn’t want to hear them. Savannah didn’t need to tell him any more, her silence explaining what she couldn’t. His breath caught in his throat, and he broke eye contact with her to stare a little over her shoulder. Something in his insides seemed to grow colder and then burn, the sudden news taking him by shock. He caught her eyes once again. Questions of how, and why, all died before they reached his lips. “Savannah,” he spoke her name quietly, with a small shake of his head. “No,” she responded, more sharply than she’d intended. “No, I don’t--I can’t tell you; I barely even know anything,” she amended, closing her eyes as the tears squeezed through. It wasn’t any use; they would have fallen sometime. “It’s just comin’ out now. We’re all learning, but I just couldn’t keep it from you. I’m sorry,” she whispered. It could’ve been you. The feeling of helplessness was one that Damien had grown accustomed to over the past days, but he still hated it. He pulled gently at her arm, unable to offer reassurance when he was still processing the facts himself. It’d been just about two weeks ago that he’d emailed Marine, wished her a Merry Christmas. Fin’s friend. Classmates. Savannah’s tears meant that he was close once again to losing all composure. “Stay here?” he asked her, jaw set as he struggled to keep control. Savannah couldn’t resist, despite it all, a watery smile breaking out. “If you think I’m gonna go anywhere after this, you’re frickin’ insane.” Gingerly, she brought his hand to her lips and kissed it, wishing she could cool him by sheer force of will. Anthony hadn’t been able to cure him, which meant--which could mean any number of things, including that they didn’t know how to cure it. But he had to get better. He had to fudging get better, because they’d already lost so much. “We’re gonna get you better first.” She leaned over him, fixing his face with red-rimmed blue eyes. “Okay? Before anythin’ else you do, you’re gonna rest.” Savannah wanted him to promise, or at least to show some sign of understanding. She was beginning to see that he was giving to a fault, but he couldn’t give just yet, not until he could stand up and move around on his own. “You’ve been through a lot.” God, it was so easy for her to say that, when she didn’t have any real idea. Resting was one of the furthest things from his mind. After weeks of being cramped into that small room, and cold concrete walls, he wanted to be outside. But even the little bit he’d seen before being escorted to the medical area had been overwhelming. It was bright, it made his eyes ache. They were aching now, but it was from something else. Damien was struggling with it, even as he was there. Safe, warm. With someone that he cared about greatly. He had his life, but it only made his stomach turn as he thought about the news that she’d told him. “I’m sorry,” he offered quietly, frustrated at his own state and the thoughts in his head. She couldn’t hear them, but he apologised anyway. “Fuck, I’m so sorry,” a little louder, a lump in his throat as he tried to speak. It was a slight one, but she heard the hitch in his voice regardless. And strangely, that was what Savannah needed to pull herself together--the show of emotional fragility, however small, from someone else. Suddenly not caring that he was sick, that she might catch it, she bent over him, sliding her hands gingerly behind his shoulders in a half-embrace. They were bonier than she remembered. “No,” she whispered, pressing a kiss into his hair. “I am.” |