orifice | every saint has a past, every sinner has a future

Entry tags:

every saint has a past, every sinner has a future

He had lost track of time. How long had he been there--days? Weeks? Months? It all blurred together, time marked only what he began to see as nights--the periods when he was left in the small windowless room, given scraps of food and water, and was allowed to attempt sleep--and days-- the times when they took him and tried to get him to talk.

It was funny, really, in a way. Why capture the mute to interrogate? But he knew they expected him to divulge information somehow, and he also knew the ploy was more likely to get the Agency to negotiate with them. He wondered if they were recording any of it. He couldn't tell. His scope of vision was narrow here, focused only on his interrogaters--hidden by bright lights or darkness--and the pain they inflicted. They had told him he wouldn't truly know the meaning of pain until they were done with him, and he had to agree. They were extremely creative. Every day was a new experience, a new torture, exquisite in its intricacies.

But still he was alive. Perhaps that was their great genius, that they could do so much and keep him in the land of the living. He had considered the possibility of dying, but he dismissed it every time. He didn't have time for it. Not today. Not tomorrow. He had people waiting for him. One in particular. He refused to be killed by cowards who would not even show their faces.

He wasn't even sure what questions they were asking anymore, or even if they were asking questions at all. He was trying to exist only in that seperate place the Agency had trained him to go when under torture. It worked, at first, but then they had gotten creative and he was back in the present, feeling everything acutely. And when he thought he could be numb from it all, they let him rest, to come back fresh for the next time.

He existed only in a state of half-consciousness most of the time, and all that was real was the pain and his own thoughts, growing increasingly more scattered, increasingly more dull and disconnected. They wandered around in circles, and he lost track of which thoughts he had considered before and which were new.

He wondered how much longer he could last.

He wondered how many times he had wondered that before.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He'd been sitting on his hands. Sitting on his goddamn hands "Hold it, Clarke," they'd told him as soon as he'd gotten the news. We don't know what we're up against. Isaac had shouting back that they damn well knew what they were up against, had slammed his fists down on the Director's table hard enough to splinter the edge.

"They've got him," Isaac had said, and raw fury blanched over his features, weathery eyes becoming more and more sharp and angry.

The first tape trickled in an unaddressed manilla envelope clean of fingerprints and motes of dust that might give them any clue as to where Jack is held.

That night, Isaac listens to it over and over again with a glass of whiskey held in his hand and one of Jack's sweaters draped over his lap. He can't talk, Isaac knows, doesn't hear a word from Jack as the questions come, a barrage of them. He's perfect, can't speak, can't release a single secret. What he can do is growl or rasp, but the abuse they've given to him hardly merits that.

A second tape. And then a third. They come in the same packaging and Isaac listens to each and every one of them until he knows them line for line and doesn't even need to flinch when he hears something painful snap, fingers or a jaw, the wet sound of breathing in blood through the mouth. It comes to the point where Isaac has had it, when a small envelope is slid beneath his door in the small home that they've grown used to sharing. It's inconspicuous and Isaac moves forward to grab at it and to open the door.

It's as if no one had been there.

He opens it in the threshold, tearing into it with callused fingers and seeing nothing but a polite square of paper and a neatly scrawled address.

We've found him. Take action.
Quickly. X.

Taped to the back is a tooth, and it quietly reaffirms their suspicions that he's been moved from place to place. Isaac commits the address to memory, and flicks the paper onto the desk.

He is through with sitting on his hands waiting.

Isaac dresses hastily, an undershirt, a button down, Jack's sweater that he's been holding and clutching onto over the past two weeks. It smells old and of wool and it's itchy, but it's warm and the scent of smoke is apparent in the fibers of it, enough to feel like an embrace.

He holsters his guns quickly and dons a leather jacket on top of it--December cold can't touch him now as he storms out onto the street. It is a palpable sensation that radiates off of him as he slips into the dark car parked outside of their home that they keep when they aren't in transit, aren't traveling around the country or over seas. It's a dark Volvo, sweet and clean and shining and Isaac guns it, breaks the speed limit, cops be damned.

It isn't long until Isaac is under gunfire and doesn't care. He knifes, he guns, he breaks faces in gruesome ways. One man's eyes gush out from under his thumbs as he presses in sharply and hears him scream. Another, he eviscerates and dispatches quickly. The door they guard so heavily is a lone one in a corridor with groaning steps and flickering lights.

All that he does is lift up his foot and kick with force enough to break bone, to dent inches of metal, causing it to crack on its hinges and bringing automatic rifles to cock from inside. He can hear them and he's more than ready, face spattered in blood, some of it dripping into the weave of Jack's sweater against his torso, but he's close and he's never felt more alive.

This is the hardest part. The waiting. When he's in the small room at least he's alone, with sleep to comfort him, and when they're working at least he knows a little of what's coming next. It's the in between time, when he's tied to the chair, or the table, or whatever, and he's waiting for them to start.

There's almost a camaraderie between them now. They respect his tenacity, and know full well he won't and can't give them information. And he respects their absolute genius when it comes to causing pain. He almost wishes he could compliment them.

He's in the chair today, not even bothering to sit straight. He keeps his head bowed, eyes down from the bright light they shine on him to keep him blind and just idly listens, not really processing the sounds he's hearing.

The noise starts, and when he first notices it, it's very far away, but steadily grows nearer. He wonders if maybe he's actually dreaming in his dark room instead, the sounds are like the ones from his nightmares. But they persist, and he begins to think maybe this is what they have planned for today.

Rescue doesn't cross his mind. It hasn't for a while.

Edited 2013-04-30 03:20 (UTC)

Isaac makes no noise as he kills, at least not verbally. There are men who fight and there are men who slaughter and that is what Isaac does, brutally and swiftly. They shoot and he grabs a man close to him, presses him from to back so that the rounds fill him up good with metal before he throws him down as they're reloading.

It takes two thundering shots from his gun before they drop to the ground as well, mid-load.

He turns quickly to the chair, doesn't move towards it just yet, only looks.

There is a long silence and for Isaac it is half to listen for Jack's breathing and half to listen for anyone else who dares to come down the hallway, littered with bodies.

He swallows. "Jack."

Now he's certain he's dreaming. He only ever hears that voice in his dreams, a half-remembered comfort, the name belonging to it escaping him at the moment. He'd lift his head but he's comfortable right here, actually. If he's asleep he wants it to last, not tempt fate by pushing the dream to see the face that speaks with that voice.

They'll be here for him any minute. Just give him another moment... Just let him hear that voice one more time.

Edited 2013-04-30 03:43 (UTC)

Isaac takes a slow step, boot loud against the floor. His guns holster easily just under his arms. The knife slips out of his boot soundlessly.

"Sorry," he says. Sorry it took so long. Sorry I couldn't be here. Sorry I couldn't fucking protect you from this shit. He looks around briefly before falling into a crouch and cutting Jack's wrists loose from the chair, feeling his weight already slumping forward, tired and abused. He catches him with one arm while tucking the knife away and breathes slowly. Deeply. The rage should subside, it should go away. Jack's here, Jack's the one who can pacify him, put the hand between the eyes of the beast and stroke it calm.

He adjusts, shuffles, removes his leather jacket and drapes it over Jack's slanting shoulders.

"We're getting out of here."

This isn't how it goes. It's different. His hands are free, and he finds himself leaning against someone, hearing the voice again, and there's an empty sort of ache that fills him and it's so different from the daily pain, but it's familiar. Familiar like a favorite pair of shoes you haven't worn in a while and slip on to find out how comfortable they are, and wonder why you haven't worn them for so long.

He's awake, isn't he. This is real.

He focuses some of his precious, limited energy on lifting his head.

He knows that face.

He's seen it before.

He opens his mouth but his throat is ravaged by the shouts and grunts and yells of what feels like an eternity of agony, and all that comes out is a rasp growl that makes his vocal cords feel like they're on fire.

But he's remembered the name and he wants to say it.

Isaac.

Isaac.

He hears it, the soft murmur, the syllables of his name and the strangled "I" sound from Jack's throat. His head turns as he shifts the collar of the jacket up a bit more to guard him from the cold. "Yeah," he says. He acknowledges the sound, knows fully well what it means as Jack makes out his entire name.

It happens quickly.

He presses his lips to Jack's softly and he tastes like blood, but he can't help himself. His lips are chapped and split and brutalized and when he pulls back it's to put their temples together softly.

"We're going home," he whispers as he slowly eases him onto his back. Their walk to the car should be quiet as Isaac has slaughtered the entirety of the small complex.

The kiss hurts, but the pain is different. It's sweet, it's a clear reminder of who he is and who Isaac is and that this is real, that they're together again, that for the first time in a long time, he can know for certain things will be okay.

Home. They're going home.

He's not even sure he remembers what it looks like.

Jack doesn't notice the bodies, he's too busy concentrating on the fact that he's alive, he's going to stay alive, and Isaac's here, and they're going home and he doesn't know if he can even process it all, it's too much for him to handle.

Shit he feels like he's going to pass out.

Isaac can feel it in how slack he is against his back, how his arms are draped over his shoulders. He picks his way through the hall and out into the dark of the night. It's quiet save for the sound of cars passing by the streets, a trash can rustling somewhere with some kind of scavenging animal--a cat, a raccoon.

Isaac is still careful, keeping his eyes out, his hands hefting Jack up until he can open the passenger side of the car. He wants to keep an eye on him, at least until he can get him home safe and his wounds tended to. He slides him inside, leaning the seat back slightly to keep him comfortably reclined as he drives.

"Stay with me," he mutters, pushing a bit of Jack's hair from his face, finding his eyes as best he can before pulling back and heading around to the driver's side.

He's trying, but his head is reeling and everything hurts in a way it hasn't before, the ache of old injuries and tortures plaguing him. He's never had time to concentrate on them like this before. The agony has always been inflicted on him, in the present, the here and now, and when he was in his room they usually kept him drugged to keep him quiet.

Now it feels like each and every old injury is haunting him, reminding him of how they happened, and even Isaac's gentle handling feels rough on his abused body.

But he needs to try to stay awake. He needs to try. Isaac asked him to, so he needs to try. He concentrates on his breathing, slumped over on the car seat, inhale, exhale. The seat cushions are softer than anything he's sat on in a long time and it feels too soft, and it almost feels torturous in and of itself. Then again, nearly everything feels like a torture right now.

He just wants to sleep. But he can't. He mustn't.

He slips into the car, starting it up and glancing around before making his way out into the street. It's quiet--late at night, and he sighs, shakily. Jack. He's here. He's okay. Every now and then he slows the car, looking over at him, cataloguing, periodically, what he can see. Cuts on his face, the blod at his mouth, the flinching that he makes whenever he goes over a particularly rough bump in the road. He tries to make the ride, comfortable, really, but it's not easy feat.

Eventually, however, they make it back and Isaac is careful and silent about pulling up.

He takes a minute to look Jack over, lean in a bit from his seat to carefully lay a hand on the side of his face. His eyes try to meet his as he strokes a thumb over an unmarred piece of skin, frowning.

"You're back now... you're safe." He pauses. "I'm going to get out of the car and into bed, okay?" Jack could do with a shower and maybe more, but for now Isaac will tend to his wounds as best he can and let him rest.

Jack barely notices the car ride itself. He has no idea where they are, and he's not trying to figure it out. It takes too much energy, and all his energy is being concentrated on keeping himself conscious. The bumps in the road help, but he can feel the way the edges of his mind are slipping away and he's losing the ability and the desire to keep himself grounded and awake.

He doesn't notice it when they stop, but when Isaac's hand is on his face his eyes manage to travel up and meet his, though the man seems to swim in and out of focus. He's saying something. It takes longer than it should for the words to work their way through Jack's mind but when he finally comprehends them, he manages to quirk his head in a tiny nod.

Okay. Back. Safe. Bed. Okay.

It's not the best of solutions, but love blinds us. Isaac doesn't quite understand the concept in truth, maybe in time he'll realize what this is. It's genuine care. For now? It's just companionship and the heat of the moment and the need to see that Jack is lying down safe and sound and still breathing and maybe cleaned up a bit.

He'll probably wake up and realize that a hospital was a better idea but for now... well... for now he's like this. A bit possessive, a bit pissed off. At the Director, at the agency itself. He hauls Jack up cautiously over his shoulders, supporting him at the waist and taking the brunt of his weight.

He's lucky they only live on the second floor or they might have actual problems.

He's also lucky it's the damned dead of night or things might be a slight bit worse, aka witnesses.

Either way, he makes his way up to their apartment and fumbles, opening the door with his keys and making his way slowly to the bedroom where he finally sits Jack down... ultimately letting him lay down to slowly take a real inventory over his injuries, up close and personal.

Even with Isaac carrying most of his weight, Jack still has to drag his feet up the stairs, and it's taking a little more of his energy and concentration than he really has available at the moment. But they make it, and when Jack is sitting on the bed at last he slowly slumps over, lying down and quietly marveling at the feeling of a mattress beneath him, and blankets and sheets.

He lets out a hoarse sigh and turns his face into it, smelling it, feeling it, and he blinks slowly, breathes deeply, and is finding it much, much harder not to fall asleep.

His injuries are extensive. His captors knew their business well, but there are marks all over his body, stripes and dots and slashes, thick and thin, large and small. The worst of it has been bandaged, with enough care to keep him alive, but many wounds need serious attention. His hands are stiff, and several fingers are splinted. He's filthy, a layer of blood and dirt and sweat coating his skin and his clothes, matted into his hair.

It is impossible for him to move without jarring an injury. He is always in pain.

Isaac doesn't particularly want to leave him there on the bed, but his mind is running a mile a minute. A small niggling part of him urges him to take Jack to the small hospital that he knows, the one where they won't ask questions about the signs of being pushed onto heavy drugs, the unusual and brutal cuts and bruises, the fact that Isaac is covered in blood, most of which is definitely not his own. But the rest of him? It yearns for Jack, wants to see him relaxed before he does anything else, craves his safety by his standards.

Maybe it doesn't think of what is best, but rather what it wants.

He returns to the room, a closed box under one arm with standard staples for disinfecting and binding and holding together for the time being. In his hands, he's holding a bottle of water and an already wet cloth to wipe away some of the blood that's caked onto his skin in patches.

Sitting down beside him on the bed, he presses the cloth gently to the side of his face.

Jack blinks slowly at the touch and his gaze slides to Isaac's face. He's incapable of focusing completely, but he holds it as long as he can before it starts to hurt his head and he has to close his eyes and shift his glance. His eyes travel down and he notices for the first time what Isaac's wearing.

Without much regard for what Isaac's doing, as he has trouble focusing on more than one thing at once, Jack reaches out his hand slightly and rubs the back of it on Isaac's sleeve for the half moment he can manage to lift his arm before it has to fall back on the bed.

It takes a long time to process.

That's his sweater.

Isaac why are you wearing his sweater you got blood all over it.

He liked that sweater.

He leans over him slightly and dabs carefully at his mouth, wipes away the blood to uncover the damage. It's long and stretched silence between them as he wipes carefully along his face, under his jaw, folding and moving over his forehead, down his nose (probably broken). It's going to be okay, it's going to be just fine, and he isn't sure if he's thinking it to calm himself or Jack, who doesn't seem to particularly care about much right now.

Isaac catches the brush of knuckles, looks down a little startled and gives a withering smile.

"... Sorry. I just..."

He laughs a little and shakes his head, using his fingers to push back some damp hair off of Jack's forehead. There's no point in it now... he'll wash it later. It isn't his, after all, and Isaac had been reckless and perhaps a bit too over the top.

Oh well.

Nothing gets your blood singing like love and rage.

He's fading fast. The events of the night, even though his part in them was minor, were too much for his already incredibly fragile mental state, broken from the torture and the drugs still in his system.

His focus slips, and fails to stabilize. He's staring off into space now, but his breaths are slow and even. He's just on the cusp of passing out completely, staring out into nothing as his mind empties of thought entirely.

The hospital room is cold. He can feel the slight breeze from the ventilation system shifting in and out, keeping the air from going stale. Every now and then a nurse pops in, shuffles over to check Jack's vitals, write a few things down, open the windows. She does a fair job.

They keep him rigged up to a drip of fluids, pain killers and other things to ease away the aches. His face is looking a little better at least, less swollen, cuts scabbing over.

Isaac's been here for a handful of days after bringing him here for the care that he (actually) had needed. After some sharp scolding that made Isaac feel as if he were back in preschool and some paperwork filled out to keep things under wraps, he's here sitting at Jack's bedside. His body is slouched in a somewhat uncomfortable position and the nurse must have come in at some point to cover him with his own coat as he'd fallen asleep there.

Awake now, he just stays still beneath it, eyes half-lidded as he waits for Jack to do something besides curl his fingers or make a hoarse sound in his sleep.

Jack has been dreaming. Nothing specific, nothing deep or meaningful, just a lot of nonsense, jumbled memories and interpretations of them and so on.

When he starts to wake up, he doesn't remember any of them.

He's comfortable. It's the first thing he notices, as he slowly swims back to consciousness. He's actually comfortable, the pains quieted to a dull ache and a bed.

Jack opens his eyes and realizes he has no idea where he is or how he got here. He remembers the torture, and frowns. It's a haze of some vivid memories separated by fuzzier ones, but it's all bad. But at the end... it's just a jumble of confusing images and...

As he turns his head to look around the room he's in, he sees Isaac.

Oh.

Well that explains how he got here.

He blinks, and can feel the wall the painkillers make in his mind, preventing him from really being coherent.

It's a too-familiar feeling at this point, though he suspects that the painkillers are the most benign drugs he's had administered to him in recent times.

Right now everything is just kind of warm and comfortable and the memories of terrible things is a little far away.

And that's okay? Yeeeaaaah that's okaaay.

He hears the slight shifting on the pillows, the turn of a head. It makes him open his eyes just a bit more to see Jack there.

And he cracks just a bit of a smile.

"Hey there..."

His voice comes a bit hoarse and he clears his throat, moving his chair a bit closer. His hand reaches out just slightly to the one that isn't poked fulled of needles for various things. It's a careful touch, one that avoids wounds and bruises as best it can.

Jack's eyes slide down to look at their hands, and he sees how his are bandaged, how his fingers are carefully splinted, and there's a far-off distant memory of how they were broken. But it is so very far away, and Isaac is right there. Jack turns his hand over and brushes his thumb, the one part of his hand that isn't bandaged, against Isaac. It's stiff, it doesn't want to move, but he does it anyway, wanting only the reassurance of Isaac's reality, his presence in the room.

He remembers, in that distant way, how many times he had seen Isaac, only to realize he wasn't there.

But now he is.

Isaac takes a breath, staring down at the motion. It takes some effort on Jack's part, he knows, and he stops it gently with his other hand. "Baby steps now," he chuckles, trying to take the edge off just a bit as he uses his index finger to stroke Jack's hand back. It's the softest touch he's found himself capable of--in fact... he's only ever been able to be careful around Jack, slow and deliberate and... maybe a bit kind.

"Brought you to the hospital not too long after I got you out of there... figured after a while they could do a hell of a lot more good here than I could do on my own but..."

He lifts his brows, sighing.

"But that's that... you're safe now."

His gaze travels to Isaac when he speaks, watches his eyes, his face, his lips as he forms the words.

Safe now.

He's safe now.

It's a concept he's really only processing for the first time now, warm in the fuzzy comfort of the painkillers. A small thought wonders if he'll be able to stand being sober again, whenever that happens.

He wants to ask how long he was there, how long he's been here. He has no idea what day it is, no concept of time whatsoever except that there's daylight filtering through the window and it's the first he's seen in... what feels like forever. He stares at it. He wants to touch it, wrap himself in it, but he can't move. Maybe it's better that way.

Jack looks back at Isaac, wishing he could talk. Wishing he could ask how long it's been. Wishing he could say thank you.

He watches Jack in his muzzy sort of haze, smiles just slightly as he looks over at the daylight. It's a pleasant butter yellow glow that spreads over the cold linoleum, warms the room, or maybe that's just him. When Jack looks back at him, it's a look that wants to speak and he knows.

Instead, he lifts a hand, carefully avoiding the stitches near his brow and smoothing some of his hair back. It's a private smile that he gives him, something intimate. He shifts, rests lips against an unmarred part of his brow, a soft kiss.

The touch interrupts his thoughts, and Jack closes his eyes, feeling Isaac's hand and lips and there's a soft sigh that escapes him.

But he wants to know.

It's a desire that cuts through the fog and pesters him, the question that plagued him in its wandering, redundant sort of way in captivity.

He turns his head just slightly until his lips are at Isaac's ear, and he manages to whisper, in a sound that is barely more than a breath,

"How long?"

He needs to know.

His lips thin just slightly and he continues to slowly stroke his fingers through Jack's hair.

"Three... four days. You've been in and out of it, but I doubt you remember much about it."

Isaac's eyes flick over his face before up at the IV, at the various needles sticking out of Jack like a goddamn pincushion and it burns him. He doesn't deserve to be laying here like this--broken fingers, mangled and torn. He swallows the rage, because it just promotes a lack of control, the kind he's worked years to gain. The monitor that beeps out the calmed rate of Jack's steady heart.

Jack frowns a little. That's not the whole answer he wants. He shakes his head slightly.

"There?"

He didn't know where he was, but that he can find out later. He doesn't even know what month it is, and that bothers him immensely, being so out of it like that. He keeps his eyes trained on Isaac, watching his face, his eyes as he looks around.

Isaac hesitates there and something even more profoundly angry glances over his face. He pulls back just a bit, returning to his seat but scooting it just a bit closer.

"... 'Bout a month or so..." he breathes out. "The agency wouldn't let me come and get you 'til they knew for certain."

Isaac's eyes don't leave his as he responds, honest in his words as he (usually) is. He can only imagine what the put Jack through, glimpses and assumptions based off of broken fingers and bruises that stretch like shadowy hands over Jack's ribs.

"Felt like forever."

Jack swallows.

It did feel like forever. He stares down at his hands, breathing slowly. He's safe now. It's over.

But that doesn't mean it didn't happen. The memories are still there, distant for the moment, but Jack knows that as soon as they take him off of whatever they've got him on right now they'll be right at the forefront of his mind, and whatever injuries he has left will be constant reminders.

He sighs and closes his eyes. Maybe he can just. Fade back into the drug-induced haze and not worry about it right now.

Isaac will just be here when you come back, you know? Because if you're going to slip into a drug-induced haze, there's not much for him to do except watch you creepily. He'll stick around, maybe pop out for an hour or two to return with a modest bouquet of flowers and a stupid semi-sentimental card and a notepad (for use when Jack can actually write.)

He sits back in his chair easily, glancing at the flowers and wondering if maybe it's too much...

It's too easy to slip away, and once he does, it's too easy to stay away. He swims in it, floats in it, but he can't stay there forever. He gradually swims back into consciousness, blinking his eyes open to see flowers.

What...?

He wants to reach out and touch them, but he can't even lift his arms. So he stares at them for a while.

Huh.

Kinda pretty.

Isaac notes that Jack is staring at... well the flowers. He huffs a bit, perhaps a little embarrassed because he bought him flowers and maybe that wasn't such a good idea, but he really didn't know what he was doing.

Well.

Then again.

He never really knows what he's doing until he goes and does it. He swallows a little, resumes to chuckle a bit against the stark quiet of the room.

"They're for you."

If you couldn't guess.

He looks back at Isaac and nods. He figured that part out.

Jack looks back at the flowers and smiles a little. They're nice. He likes them. No one's ever gotten him flowers before. It's a little funny that Isaac would buy them, but Jack likes plants, and they do break up the monotony of the sterile room.

Well. Just in case you didn't. He nods back and reaches a hand to gently run his fingers lightly over Jack's arm. His cuts are healing alright, it seems, a lot better looking than before. It puts the kernel of worry in the back of his mind at ease for now.

"How you feeling?" And there's a beat there as he furrows his brows. "Besides like shit." HIs fingers occupy themselves by gently stroking along his arm, thumb rubbing back and forth against his skin. He figures Jack will give him a sign that's good enough. He doesn't have to talk.

Hell, they rarely need to say a word to know what the other is thinking.

Jack's gaze slides down to watch Isaac's hand as it moves along his arm, the feeling of it slightly dulled in his mind by the painkillers. It's still nice, though.

He shrugs slightly. He'd feel a lot worse if he didn't have the drip, that's for sure. And he'd like it more if he could comfortably move more than just his head, but he's safe and alive and doing a little better so. That counts for a lot.

Lifting his hand up just a bit, he slides his thumb carefully over his fingers, splinted, bandaged. Jack was too cold when he last held him. The skin he can feel now is comfortable, much warmer. A better color definitely.

The shrug is reassuring, it's a movement, something that Jack's made few of. Consciousness in general is reassuring as he's been stone still for the majority of the time. It's good, he says silently with a quiet nod to Jack before meeting his eyes. They're still hazy from the drip, morphine keeping him steady, quiet, out of pain.

"Wish I'd gotten there sooner..." he murmurs, resting his head against the beside from his chair, fingers still gently touching Jack's.

Jack watches Isaac move, listens to him, frowns a little. He doesn't think it would matter when Isaac had gotten there. He shakes his head slightly. It's fine. It's okay. The point is he got there, that's all that matters.

They're safe now.

That's all that matters.

And then the phone in the room rings. Jack looks over at it. In his drug-induced haze he considers it blearily. Who would call the room? Seriously that's weird. Why is there even a phone in here anyway.

Isaac head jerks a bit towards the phone--the... hospital phone? He frowns a bit, giving Jack a quiet look before reaching over and picking it up. At once, Isaac regrets it because it is a series of furiously cold words ripping straight through his ear.

Where have you been. Why haven't you answered your phone. Wynand's status. Now.

He pulls the phone from his ear with a visible wince.

"Nowhere. Because it's dead--" He threw it out the window not long ago. "--and he's awake."

He slams the handset down with a furious sort of snap, huffing through his nose.

Jack watches blearily, feeling distant and high and wondering what it ever felt like to be sober. When Isaac slams down the phone, he blinks. He can guess who that was, and some part of him is surprised it took them this long to make contact, and surprised that they didn't send people over right away.

He's concerned about Isaac, though, with that reaction. Is he okay?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

every saint has a past, every sinner has a future

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

☞ where isaac should have taken jack but didn't because he's a stupid fuck: the hospital

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject