Rhiannon Lee (rhiannon_lee) wrote in low_tide, @ 2009-12-12 20:01:00 |
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Entry tags: | rhiannon lee, whistler |
Certain Connections
At first it felt like a dream. A horrible, terrible nightmare. Only he was brushing his teeth. Images flashed behind his eyes: blood, a long, jagged spear going through flesh. And he could hear her voice. Not calling out for him though.
When Whistler'd become conscious in this new world, things weren't right and he knew it. It wasn't readily apparent but soon the memories became clear. The first thought of his best friend had unlocked them. As in the dimension he'd come from, where part of him still was, the Agent had met up with the teenager who'd become his best friend. Their bond cemented, just as before. But something had gone terribly wrong, and it was his fault.
Hugh Everett posited a Multiple Worlds Interpretation, which suggested that a multiverse existed where all things that didn't occur in one reality took place in others, and then spun out in different branches. In this world, Whistler had killed a Slayer and, racked with guilt, irrevocably broke his friendship with Rhiannon in order to go into seclusion.
What hadn't changed was his connection to her. When she'd been injured, he immediately knew and nothing would keep him from the hospital.
He was a virtual stranger to the girl now lying on the hospital bed, IV drip attached to her left hand, but the better part of his nature decided that while the Slayer's bone and internal functions mended, he'd attempt to repair their friendship as well. He just hoped that the younger version of Rhiannon would find it in herself to forgive him.
He expected a machine that went ping!. He'd really wanted it, too. It would've been comforting.
Instead there was a silent crawl across the monitor, up and down, up and down. A steady rhythmic beat accompanied by numbers that indicated a strong heart rate. That had to be comfort enough.
But he really wanted for a machine that would bloody ping.
I want to wake up. At first, it was a thought she couldn't voice. After surgery, they left a tube down Rhiannon's throat, assuming she was like any other person. They dosed her with painkillers whenever she showed signs of coming around and pulled at the plastic piping. They didn't know the rate at which her lungs healed, or how much morphine it took to keep her knocked for six. Half the morning slipped past in a blur of faces and mint-colored scrubs. Each time they put a cuff around her arm to check her blood pressure, Rhiannon woke up and someone remarked what a wonder it was. Such a strong girl. They pulled out the tube and let her breathe on her own terms, but waking up was out of the question.
She tried anyway. Eyes blinked at the ceiling. Rhiannon's mouth moved in an effort to wet her lips, which felt papery. She rolled her head to the side and stared at the man in the corner. I'm dreaming. His hat wasn't on straight. She wanted to reach out and tap the brim, but couldn't do anything but drape her wrist on the bedrail and try for his attention. Dream-Whistler or not, she was happy to see him. All the people she left in Chicago ached in her heart, worse than any puncture wound from a baddie, and morphine couldn't do anything for it.
She scratched her fingernail on the plastic rail. Look up.
So lost in his own thoughts, Whistler didn't hear the faint noise at first.
He'd been in the room now for... twenty minutes? Twenty-five? He was pushing his luck. They didn't really allow visitors in the Intensive Care Unit, whether or not the patient was conscious. But he needed to know Rhiannon was going to be fine.
Scritttch.
The Agent looked up. Stared at the girl. "Did you--?" He stood up, moved closer to the bed. Her eyes were open. "Do that again." C'mon, kid. Show me how much of a fighter you are.
It was impossible to laugh, but she wanted to. The quickening in her chest stung. Instead of scratching the plastic, she laid her fingers on his hand, which felt so real it made her eyes water. No gentle pat, this touch. Using her fingernails, she pinched the living shit out of the thin skin. He was projecting and he didn't even know it, or maybe her dream was letting her listen to certain of his fake thoughts. "How's that?" she asked. Her throat sounded like laryngitis.
"Jesus!" he winced, but refused to move his hand. "A scratch would'a sufficed."
Whistler smiled. So much like the woman he knew, a feeling of warmth and pride rising in his own chest. The man twisted his body enough so that his free hand could just touch the chair he'd just vacated. He pulled it forward but didn't sit. Now his other hand was on top of hers. "Can't leave ya alone, can I?" he mumbled. "Get in all sorts o' trouble, you."
The hatted man glanced aside to see if there was a glass of water and straw, and sadly found none. Damned doctors.
Wuss, she thought. It wasn't until Rhiannon saw the chair move that it dawned on her: Whistler was real.
Not her Whistler, of course, but a version of himself, five years back. Underneath his hand, she turned up her palm and saw the tattoo on her wrist. It had let Rhiannon know upon arriving in Key West that Whistler'd been part of this life, too. The picture was of a night-blooming cereus flower, which symbolized to her what the Agent had made her, and why she'd never forget him on his travels. The irony of choosing a desert flower was lost on the teenager.
Why had he gone away?
Try as she might, Rhiannon couldn't clear her head enough to find the answers. She only knew there was distance -- loads of it -- even when she had a dream about the island and knew Whistler was living on it. Parking herself in a house within a mile of him hadn't impressed him at all. She guessed parking herself in a hospital bed did.
"Should've tried this before," she said, keeping her sentence short.
"Ha ha, very funny. I'm a lot things, but I'm not a wuss and you know it. I've seen all six Saw films without flinchin'." There was a softness to his face, lines of worry across Whistler's forehead. He always worried when Rhiannon went into a fight. She was one of the most capable Slayers he'd ever had the fortune to know, but he always worried when she went into battle. And this was the reason why. He couldn't bear to think of her hurt, vulnerable.
How could this world's version of him walk away like that?
"Save your voice," he responded. Now he chose to sit down, but his hands didn't move. Whistler didn't want to break contact. "It'll be okay, kid. You heal fast. You're special."
Save her voice? For what, a better opportunity?
Rhiannon smiled. "I remember when you first said--" She cut herself off, afraid of calling up memories that weren't his, too. The morphine wasn't capable of keeping her down, but it could turn her tongue's words into jibberish, or make her say things better kept quiet. She willfully shut him out. I remember, but you don't. God, stop thinking. Turning away, she looked at the door and the staff beyond it, seated at their round nursing desk. Had anyone bothered to look in her wallet for family, housemates? Would Connor be at the house, wondering where the hell she spent the night? She needed to make them promise to call.
"Just don't go again. Okay?" Rhiannon returned to his face. "I mean it." Even if he wasn't her Whistler, she decided she didn't care. All those years ago in the hellverse, when she found that version of him dead, it hadn't hurt any less. People, she thought, were more or less the same.
Whistler smiled at the Slayer's request. "Promise." He opened himself to her in that moment, hoping she'd feel that his words held weight, even if this wasn't his Rhiannon. "Been a lot o' places, but it ain't home if you're not there, Rhi Rhi."
He took a quick glance over his shoulder, to the desk beyond. They'd usher him out soon enough so he didn't tire out their patient. "You get outta this bed, maybe you and I can go for a beer and catch up. You are legal now, right?" the Agent joked.
"Yes!" The vehement response left her a bit winded. She swallowed instead of coughing.
Unfortunately, a nurse heard the sound of conversation and padded into the room on her rubber-soled shoes. "You shouldn't be here," she tsked and began fidgeting with the tubes that connected Rhiannon's IV to the bags above it.
"Please don't." Rhiannon reached out and squeezed the nurse's plump forearm. It seemed as if the request made headway. The nurse gave her guest a five minute warning and left the hospital room.
Rhiannon plucked at the cover, which had rough spots and pilling. "I'm twentyyyy..." The words drifted. What? One, two? She couldn't remember the right answer to describe her physical self. That tickled her. "Seven," she lied. Her hand flopped like a drunk person's gestures. "Plus or minus five."
Whistler chuckled heartily. "Twenty-seven? Jesus, the birthdays I've missed. You must be doin' somethin' right, Rhi, 'cuz ya don't look a day over nineteen." He knew how to needle his best friend. And that's when it hit him; despite the change in worlds, and that he was in a sense a copy of the man she knew, the Agent had been and would strive to yet again be her best friend.
"You got someone to look after you when they kick you out?" he queried. "I'm sure they're gonna insist on someone keepin' an eye out for the first few days. Got a houseboat on the marina; it ain't much but I could squeeze ya in."
"I live with Connor," she said, trying to keep her eyes open a bit longer. Rhiannon followed the IV line from her wrist to the bag and watched it. Plink...plink. "You don't... you don't know him, do you?" Stupid question, you know he doesn't. She noticed how the afternoon light sliced through the window blinds and made his hat appear alternating shades of brown. Dust motes floated in the air around him. "Angel's son," she clarified. He'd know him by reputation if not directly.
Yeah, I'd had lunch with him once, back in Las Vegas. Told him that his father guarded the Deeper Well. But that was another life, at a time yet to come. Bloody time travel; it made Whistler's head hurt. He thought back through this lifetime and realized this incarnation of Whistler had yet to meet the young man. "The Destroyer, right?" the Agent asked. "Word gets around."
This was another incident of the worlds branching into new directions. In his dimension, Rhiannon wouldn't meet Connor for another year. He found it interesting that the Destroyer was also in the Keys. That brought the unofficial tally to four: two slayers, a hybrid and a son of two vampires. Worth investigating? Well, Whistler was a retired private investigator in this reality...
"And word is," the Agent added, "Connor's a decent young man."
Rhiannon did laugh this time. "Young man," she repeated. When was the world gonna get the memo? He was older than her. The laughing spun her head a bit. "You would think he was a kid," she said, hating how off-the-planet she sounded. Her legs felt stiff, so she bent each joint in turn, wanting to stand up and walk out the front door, gown and all. "Didn't... make a difference when it came to me."
"When he can grow facial hair, we'll talk." Whistler couldn't resist the jab. He glanced again outside the door. Nurse Ratchett was giving him the evil eye. The Agent squeezed Rhiannon's hand. "They're gonna kick me out," he mourned. "They don't know you like I do. But, uh, I'll swing by again tomorrow if they haven't discharged ya.
"If ya want me to." The man held his eyes on hers. Please say 'yes'.
Yes. Rhiannon squeezed his hand back. "Okay." She didn't want him to go, but he should. She was too foggy to censor anything, and her brain's signals to her mouth were getting scrambled. Thank god Whistler was slow as molasses. She craned her neck and looked at the bag again. Plink... plink. Everything was fuzzy around the edges. There was something she needed to remember. Ask for. She touched her temple in a misguided effort to scratch her cheek.
"I missed you," she said, closing her eyes. Fucking nurse had done it again.
Whistler reached over and brushed a bit of hair from Rhiannon's forehead. "Not half as much as I missed you." As he watched Rhiannon fade into a drug-induced sleep, he could hear the Slayer's usual retort in his head. And it made him smile.