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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.
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.