pain_train | SANCTUM INBOX

That wasn't the answer. Failure to follow orders. Her mouth goes dry. Failure.

Why did his voice crack?

Don't question. Soldiers don't question. They obey. So obey.

But she can't obey.

"Sir." There is nothing. No memory beyond what she had grasped in her vision jazzy and incomplete and now it's gone anyway. The tension starts creeping back into her, the heartrate displayed on the monitor going up slightly. Her mouth is dry. She's afraid. Soldiers aren't allowed to be afraid. Failure. "I do not know."

She does know what comes next. Failure to follow orders. "Do you wish me to report for assessment now, sir?"

"No," he says. He doesn't know what telling this will do but he knows how badly her being in this state is affecting him. He has his heart in his throat and he swallows thickly before continuing. "I know the answer. You've been injured. You're in the hospital. You spent your time with me. You don't need an assessment. You will never have another assessment again...if I can help it."

She does look at him then, meaning it to be furtive because his voice, what's wrong with his voice, command doesn't sound like that, there are no orders to it.

And then she can't look away. He looks familiar, like a friend, but she has no friends (soldiers neither have nor need them) and he's not in uniform and his eyes. She knows them, they're beautiful (beautiful things don't matter) and why isn't he smiling, it's so good when he smiles, but she doesn't know him, but she does--

Wrath looks back toward the ceiling. She flexes her fingers slowly, tries to speak through a suddenly very dry throat. "I do not understand, sir." Something is wrong, very wrong. Wrong with her, she can't remember, and she's scared, she shouldn't be scared, she never feels anything except the far off glow of anger that never quite seems to go away. "What are your orders?" This time it's her voice that cracks on that last word.

Edited 2014-11-04 18:43 (UTC)

There's a glimmer of recognition in her eyes, but then it's gone, and when she looks away again he presses his lips into a hard line. He'd been avoiding it, afraid it would jolt her too suddenly out of this state, but now he touches her hand—just resting his fingers against hers, not grasping. "Remember me," he says.

Her breath hitches. It's an order that makes no sense, she doesn't know him, she doesn't know anyone but the other soldiers, it's unnecessary. No, she does, she feels the pull of that recognition but it's ethereal as smoke and she doesn't know him. She doesn't know anyone, she doesn't need to.

But his eyes. She knows his eyes even though she shouldn't.

So she must look at him, because she will obey. Obedience first and always. She looks back toward him, searching out his eyes (she knows those eyes, she could drown in them, it's all stories and pain and laughter, but who laughs?) And then the things that make his face, brow line and jaw, the straight nose, and she knows these things knows them, it's like an evaporating dream.

Her lips move in a silent 'Sir?' Her head feels strange, like everything is sliding away and she can't grasp it. Her fingers twitch against his, and then she suddenly grips with desperate strength.

He has a name. She knows the name, like she knows that little point of contact at her fingers.

This is important, I wrote it a thousand times in my own palm. Whispered it. Prayed it.

She tears the name from the inside of her own head and speaks it raggedly, "North?" Yes. Yes that's it. She sucks in a breath, and she's shaking, can't breathe, can taste her heart in her throat only it tastes like cinnamon. "North, something's wrong."

"I know," he says. He squeezes her hand tighter, threading their fingers together as before. "Focus on me, okay, focus on me, and...?" And something. Something had to happen now. He bends his knees to bring himself closer to her face and places his free hand on her cheek.

And the change in angle changes something else. The bracket that holds her arm in traction flashes an image at him. He blinks and flinches away; he'd seen her, killing him, back in the tower. "Don't let it," he whispers, standing again. "Don't let it take you over."

Wrath holds onto his hand, white-knuckle tight. Focus on North, she can do that, that's easy, he's so close and he has petty eyes and why is it so hard to breathe?

What does she remember? She remembers driving her fist into the side of his head. She remembers him crushing her against the floor. She remembers him feeding her pie. And their hands, like this.

But it's all a jumble, and everything smells strange, and it's the emotions and sensations that come through. So she knows the taste of pie, and the sharp pain of breathing against the ribs he broke, and the exhilaration of finally tearing his helmet off and seeing his face in a startled moment before she let him pin her, and warmth, she remembers warmth too, and their hands together like this. But what it all means, the equations that firm this into linear sense are far more difficult. She presses her face into his palm, the little bit she can, and that's not familiar, is more like a dream but his eyes. She knows his eyes.

Even as she clings to his hand, her arm jerks against the frame restraining it and her eyes go wide. She knows these things too, the details fuzzy but the sensations still sharp. Restrained, can't move. She doesn't even have the name of the place on her mind, but the animal fear of it chokes her. How is he here?

"North you have to go. You have to go. They're going to get you, and I can't--I can't--you can't help me you have to go."

He strokes her cheek with his thumb. "I'm not leaving you alone." He isn't; he won't.

Wrath jerks her arm against the restraints again, then breathes raggedly against his palm. "No, no, no, no," she moans. "You have to go. You have to stay safe, North, please, they're gonna start any minute, and I don't matter anyway if they already have me." Because it's just matter of time, she believes, until the drugs start, and that damn taste of honey, and her eyes have tears in then again but she's angry, she's actually just angry, "It's not fucking fair. I don't want to forget you!"

Maybe she'll kill them this time. (Has she tried before? She can't remember. Be nice to the officers, Wrath. No, fuck the officers, she'll tear them apart with her teeth.)

"I'll call Whiskey," he says urgently. His hand goes from her cheek to securely grip her shoulder. "We won't let them in, him and me. They won't get you. They won't get me either. I'll stay here—whatever it takes."

"Whiskey?" Of course North could call Whiskey, they were all in the militia together, but--the mention of Whiskey makes her think hospital, and that's the smell too, disinfectant with no honey. She darts a furtive glance around and it's not what she expected (what did she expect?) but she focuses on North again, on his eyes.

She can remember his eyes. She can remember.

"Where--where is this? Where are we?"

"The medical center," he says. "You're safe here. You're safe." He hopes this calms her; her heart rate has been elevated for a good few minutes.

That actually does calm her. She knows the medical center belongs to Whiskey. Whiskey... he takes care of her, doesn't he? Trust and comfort, she knows that. He's her friend.

She makes an effort to slow her breathing, closing her eyes for a moment.

"The medical center. So... I had another injury." Yes. She remembers breathing against cracked ribs. North pinning her. "Is your head okay?"

And then... she fell. Her body jerks against the remembered terror and exhilaration and she pants out a couple of breaths, then tries to breathe deeply again. "Why were we fighting?" They work together. Will work together. It's still a jumble but she's trying to sort it out.

He moves his hand from her shoulder and brushes her hair back off of her ear, ignoring the question about his injury. "It doesn't matter," he says. "That's over. We're friends now; you know that, right? I take care of you. I won't hurt you."

"But it was a really good fight." She closes her eyes for a moment at that touch. She wants to remember that too. So much care in a simple touch, and it makes her feel warm and a bit strange.

"You do," she agrees. "You take such good care of me. You... feed me pie." Deep breaths. She lets her grip on his hand loosen a little, just so she can try to rub her thumb lightly over his, and that feels right.

Edited 2014-11-04 21:09 (UTC)

"I do. And I'm going to make it so you can paint, and I'm going to spend as much time here as I can." He pauses and licks his lips. "And you take care of me too. You make me happy."

"I do?" How she could take care of him at all while in traction--that's right, she'd broken almost every bone in her body this time, that was why she couldn't move--is something of a mystery to her. Have they known each other longer?

Does it matter? He's here now.

Wrath meets his eyes again, and smiles. "Then you should smile," she says quietly. "You have a really cute smile." She disengages her hand just enough to poke him in the palm with her index finger. "Beep."

That's her. With a relieved, quiet sigh his expression gentles into a small smile. "That's my smile button," he teases. "Good thing you found it."

Wrath grins. "Hah. You thought you could keep it hidden forever." But rather than engage in further poking, she nestles her hand--still a little fear-chilled--back in his.

"I put it where you'd least expect it," he says. He glances at their hands, looking pleased, then says, "I brought you breakfast."

"Clever. My first guess was your big toe, but for all I've seen for myself you might not even have feet."

"Breakfast? It must be love. You don't want me to starve." The words are tossed off casually as teasing, nothing more. She's more focused on contemplating the idea of food right now. It's not a good idea. Her stomach still feels strange and cramped up from the stress. Which is annoying, since North always brings the best food. Her lips twist wryly for a moment. "I... should probably try to drink some juice first. Then breakfast."

Because throwing up while immobilized? Not fun. And not a thing her friend needs to see her doing, either.

He laughs. "No, my big toe is a kicking button."

It might not be love proper yet but it's certainly somewhere on the spectrum. And that doesn't scare him off, not at all. "I'm just trying to make Whiskey's life easier so you don't get banana pudding on the ceiling again," he teases. "Are you sure you don't want milk? I brought you a danish."

"Oooh. I'd better not step on your feet when we go dancing then." Because this is your punishment for being friends with Wrath, North. You will get taken out dancing whether you like it or not. And you will discover that she is enthusiastic but absolutely terrible at it.

She laughs. "But if Whiskey doesn't have anything to bitch about, he'll lose the source of his power! I'm just trying to help." Yep, totally.

Milk... Milk sounds good with a danish, for sure. But stomach cramps. She licks her lips. "Juice first," she says firmly. "And if I... If I don't get sick then definitely milk. With the danish." She grins. "Thank you. You didn't have to."

Edited (Swype errors) 2014-11-04 22:20 (UTC)

"You're welcome; you know you are."

He releases her hand to turn to hit the call button—and another image flashes across his vision. He hadn't caught the source the first time, but it seems to be reflecting off the bracket that holds her in traction. He flinches, a slight turn to his head, trying to keep the light from winking off of the bracket into his eyes. This time it's her—her who wins grappling match, her who manages to throw him through the window; it's him who falls ninety-nine stories to the ground.

His brow narrows slightly, and he turns back toward her. "Wrath," he says. "Look up at the ceiling for a minute."

She glances toward the door, then looks up at the ceiling. She trusts him. Her tone goes flat, serous, all business. "What's wrong?"

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