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

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

no subject

no subject

no subject