every saint has a past, every sinner has a future

[unkindly]

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.

Comments

[unkindly]

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.

[stomped]

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."

[unkindly]

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.

[stomped]

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."

[unkindly]

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.

[stomped]

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.

[unkindly]

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.

[stomped]

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.

[unkindly]

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.

[stomped]

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.

[unkindly]

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.

[stomped]

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.

[unkindly]

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.

[stomped]

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.

[unkindly]

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.

[stomped]

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.

[unkindly]

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.