Re: NYC Streets: Helena/Seven
[His dreams are mostly made of pain, like hot wires glowing and strung through the marrow of his bones. Agony from the inside out, so that he can't sink into the rough-spun cotton cradle of unconsciousness without fighting to keep his eyes from slipping shut. He needs to be out there, needs to find... something. Someone? Fuck, fuck, there's something on the tip of his tongue besides the blood and mucous that is draining out of his damaged sinuses, a word that means dark and angry and saccharine and small, soft hands on his chest.
And he feels the slight rocking of the truck's cab as it shifts under a new source of weight, and he groans because it fucking hurts. The sound comes in the form of a bubble of blood on his lips. He is on fire, the wires, ohgod.]
Seven? ... you... don't... you... [He is not fully awake and he can't make all of it out, but some part of him registers the words and his eyes flutter open, though the lashes on one side of his face have been pasted together with blood and the other half of his features have already started to swell beyond recognition. His gaze is glassy and mostly vacant as he lurches forward in his seat, but one of his hands lifts with determined purpose and starts to grope around on the empty seat beside him. Of course, he doesn't realize that the semiautomatic pistol has slipped down into the footwell on the passenger side, and he doesn't know that he is hurt. Just that something terrible happened, somewhere -- but the knowledge escapes him and he wants to scream because he is so frustrated, so confused, and he needs his goddamned gun.]
L... Liam? [It takes him a tremendous effort, and the vowels come out thick and garbled in a mouth that trickles a constant flow of blood over his chin, down onto the front of his t-shirt, rust stains and steady warmth.]