bat winged man eating lion (mortale) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2016-01-16 04:20:00 |
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It was like being pulled up through ice water. Sudden, painful, shocking, hazy nothingness and then— surfaced, soul gasping for air. Everything in pieces, not yet put back together where they lay scattered across the bed, beneath the hospital gown and bandages, under the needles protruding from his arm. The world shifting. Unclear, but clearing in portions. Castor opened his eyes, grain dancing across his vision where it focused dazedly on the ceiling. He couldn't grasp a single shred of clarity, the first wave of concern the suffocating restriction of everything. Like being in a skin two sizes too small, his tall frame tucked awkwardly inside. He couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow, move, speak. What the fuck was happening? With the disorientation seeping in cold, he struggled to shift his hand on the blanket, managing only to knock the heart monitor off his index finger. The steady beeping turned suddenly to a shrill, piercing cry as the machine protested and the screens declared a flatline. Curled in the chair near the bed, Grace was startled from uneasy sleep by the sound, her breath catching as her chin jerked up from her shoulder. No. She was on her feet in moments. But he was moving, Grace realized as she stepped closer, his eyes open, and her heart leapt to her throat for entirely different reasons. "Castor?" He was so pale, he'd looked frail and more breakable with each passing day as his shallow breathing and the electronic beeping became the only indication that he was still with them, still somewhere in his body. No indication that his spirit was strong enough to fight his system's desire to shut down for good. She prayed he knew how much they needed him, that somewhere in his mind, he knew half of his crew was waiting for him to wake up with an avalanche of fear poised over their heads if he didn't. It seemed that he was as strong as she hoped and prayed. The relief that washed over her left her light-headed, and she reached for the heart monitor to clip it back to his finger. And Castor, despite being conscious, gave no indication of recognizing his own name, nor that she was present at all. His most immediate world was a vacuum, sucking away the air — so he reacted to it: with fear. He drew in a sharp breath, the very first deep breath for days, unable to control the way that hand spasmed and trembled against the sheets. Every movement that followed — the bend in one knee, the baring of his throat — was just an effort to get away, away from the constriction, the bed, the room. "Hey, hey," Grace's voice was soft at first, attempting to soothe, but then it turned sharp, cutting through the quiet to reach him. "Hey! It's okay, Castor —" Her hands pressed to his chest, avoiding the bandage but trying to keep him from fighting, from doing damage to himself. He was shaking and struggling to breathe, and Grace pressed her palm to his cheek, turning his face towards her. Her lip caught between her teeth, hard. "It's me, it's Grace — you're safe, you're in the hospital. Look at me, Cas. Just breathe." Pleading with him to listen, to use her as his anchor. But instead of taking real heed of her words, he could only hear them, process them as being spoken to him through the tunnel vision. He knew her, he knew Grace, and yet the body reacted before the mind could take that into consideration. His eyes met hers: Castor was there, but he wasn't. Even so, an attempt to lift his hand to lay it over hers succeeded, if only so that he could have something real to cling to while the rest spun out of his control. It didn't last: it fell away just as unexpectedly to grasp for the IV in the opposite arm in half-desperation, half-confusion, fingers looking to yank. Her eyes caught the movement just in time, and she didn't hesitate to pull his wrist away. "No, honey, you have to leave that in. You need it." He was always so much stronger than her, to the point that he obeyed only because he knew better than to defy her. It was disconcerting to find him resisting, and yet so easy to subdue. That was disconcerting, but the void in his eyes — that was terrifying. "Markus?" she tried tentatively, softly. Hazy blues snapped up toward her face, the name pulling him, at least briefly, from out of the fog. The disorientation was clear in that gaze, as was another truth: that he recognized her. Castor couldn't force his questions out where they began to settle in his mind, but he could manage, for now, a soft whisper of "Grace". Her breath of relief was more of a sob, but she managed a desperate smile for him, then. He'd earned it. "Yes, that's right. It's me, Grace." Her thumb stroked his cheekbone gently as she nodded. "Markus — you're at the hospital. You lost a lot of blood, but you're stable. We were just waiting for you to wake up and tell us you're okay." She reached out with her free hand to pick up the cup of water and straw that had been waiting nearby for this moment, just in case. She'd refilled it and emptied it often, just for something to do while she watched over him. "Here," she offered, bringing the straw to his lips, "it'll help your throat." Days unconscious and he'd barely be able to speak above a whisper, even if he wasn't so weak. But three days unconscious was enough for Castor to forget what function a straw had. After some moments of staring, he at last caught on, sipping as instructed and very nearly choking in the process, as if he hadn't expected the water that came up the straw. And he hadn't— even the most obvious, once involuntary things seemed tedious in that moment. As his vision started to flicker like bad television reception, he leaned away, heaving in air all over again. "Grace," he tried again, something difficult (impossible) to say on the tip of his tongue. She set the water aside without looking. She couldn't tear her eyes from his face, like he might slip away again at any moment and this — this could be all the time they had. But that wasn't true: he would be fine, everything was going to be fine, because it had to be. "What is it?" Carefully, she settled down at the edge of the bed, sitting close enough to feel his solidity, to grant him some of her warmth. He still felt so cool to the touch. The clarity was fleeting — his eyes tracking her movements while still not processing the situation as a whole, gaze semi-focused when he drew it back up. Whatever he'd meant to say slipped beyond reach, leaving him with one piece of the puzzle he had yet to put back together, if he even knew where to start. "Star?" Of course he was most worried about the crew. "Star's fine," she told him, her smile softening somewhat. "She got a little scraped up in that fight, but she's not too worse for wear. And everyone else is fine. We caught our bounty, no one else got hurt. They're just worried about you." She let go of his face, sitting back slightly; instead, she took his hand, wrapping his cold fingers between her warm palms. "You were out for three days," Grace added, quietly. The number didn't garner much of a reaction. Castor's thoughts were stuck on their pilot, on the facts as Grace had rattled them off. What bounty? He didn't remember who they'd even been sent to apprehend. He remembered the whip of chopper propellers. He remembered a scream. He remembered— Caught in her palms, his hand twitched. But she could see the rising panic in his eyes, and she leaned forward intently. "Markus. Look at me." He did, eventually. She adjusted her grip on his hand; carefully, she brought it up to press against her breastbone. "You're okay. You're safe now. We've got you." He, who had faced down his father alone, who they'd found lying on his back in a pool of his own blood, all alone — Her vision blurred, and her lashes fluttered as she blinked back the heat in her eyes. "Trust me," she told him with a weak smile, "I'm supervising everything everyone is doing to you, and if anyone dares lay a hand on you in here without my permission, I have no problem shooting them for coming near you." Castor redirected his gaze at those words, tracing it along his captive hand, over the curves of her wrist and thumb. These smaller details he could grasp, but the bigger picture eluded him, and he didn't know how it was possible to feel both safe in her grip and unsafe in the room, trapped by all (but one person) that was unfamiliar. He licked his lips; he inhaled a shuddering breath. "I—" Exhale. "Couldn't." I couldn't shoot. I couldn't pull the trigger. I failed. Most likely what he did not expect to hear in response: "Good." Grace's word was stout, determined. "Because you're better than him." They'd heard, after all. She had no doubts. He did, however, and most of them reflected in his eyes, though he was too tired to let them spill. Too unfocused, still, to tell her how he'd once thought that, and now couldn't be certain. Hadn't he done what he thought was right for his family? Hadn't he sacrificed his happiness for theirs without hesitation? Or was this the price to pay for that, a bullet inches away from his heart? Was it, in the end, confirmation that he had done what was right, that bad people didn't change for the better — that sometimes, bad people like his father could become worse? He settled back against the bed, staring into nothing while the cogs slowly began to turn. Grace watched him, and she felt the pain in her chest tightening as his gaze drifted away from her. Taking a deep breath, she squeezed his hand again and leaned forward to kiss his forehead, gently. "I'm going to get the doctor," she told her captain quietly, setting his hand down on the bed as she slipped away. "Don't go anywhere, okay?" It was a lame joke, but she smiled at him, anyway. That smile wasn't returned, though there was some semblance of recognition of her joke: that first hand waggling weakly against the sheets, heart monitor swinging. No, he wouldn't be going anywhere, and neither was she, once she returned. |