OK - a bit outside of my usual format, but my brain kept insisting it go this way. Kind of stream of consciousness for a lot of the story, and yes, kind of the choppy style is intentional Hope it works for you.
It was as if his mind was refusing to accept delivery on messages he didn't want to receive.
No. He wasn't going to think about what was happening. He'd respond to it, but he wasn't going to think about it. Not yet. Denial. That should do, and he fully intended to stick with that option for as long as possible. Problem was, that wasn't how he worked. He'd seen, and caused, far too much pain and too much death to allow delusion to be part of his world. As much as he'd like to deny, that card wasn't there for him to play.
The echoes of the explosion still rang in his ears. He didn't imagine it would ever go away. He'd been the target all along. An elaborate scheme, concocted by an old enemy. Make him hurt. No, make him suffer. Take away his world. The team was lured in. Trap set, with him just far enough away to be totally useless to them. All he had was the taunting voice on the phone – "you'll never get to them in time. You'll hear them scream, smell the burning flesh, but you'll be too late to do a damn thing." Scramblers disabled the earbuds – no communications. No way to warn them they were about to die. No way to admit his responsibility to them, to acknowledge his failure. No way to let them know how sorry he was – not that it would matter to them.
He tried to get to them. Ran faster than he ever had before, than he ever imagined he could. The pain in his chest was only partially due to his pounding heart and bursting lungs. He knew he was screaming to them, trying to be heard from an impossible distance. He had reached the warehouse, just steps from the entrance when everything that mattered in his life ended.
The force blew him back. He didn't register the sensation of slamming to the ground. His brain had already started to numb him in shock and denial. Heat drifted over him. Warmth was supposed to be comforting. It was supposed to help. All it did was make him feel how suddenly cold he was – frozen inside. The sounds were the worst. He could hear the screaming, the shrieks of agony. At least, he thought he could. But that made no sense. No one could have survived that blast. He was surrounded by nothing but splintered wood that seconds earlier had been the death trap his friends walked into – because he had sent them there. The voices, the screams from the flames, called to him. Calling his name. Calling for him to join them, beckoning him in. Oh please God – they weren't real. It was all in his head – in had to be. Their deaths were bad enough – please don't let them be suffering like that.
He knew he should try to sit up, but couldn't convince himself it was worth the effort. Stretched out on the ground he could focus on the sky and not deal with the carnage that surrounded him. His brain would allow him only a few seconds of denial, a few seconds to ignore the nightmare. That was all this was – another terror to populate his restless nights. The ash, smoke and soot around him belied the deceptions he told himself.
Sirens. Another slap from reality. He should leave. If he stayed, there would be questions, official questions. He had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with anyone official. They would want to know who, and why and all of the other details he wasn't ready to face. This wasn't the time. He had other priorities. He had a job to finish. The team wouldn't approve of it – they wouldn't approve of the plan already forming in his head. But they weren't there to object; weren't there to stop him. That was the whole point.
"Don't go down that path." "Don't go back to being that guy." "Don't get yourself killed." None of that mattered now. Nothing mattered now. No – one thing mattered. He could dress it up and call it justice or retribution but the truth was not that noble or respectable. This was complete blood lust. Vengeance in the purest form. It was all he could focus on now.
He pushed himself to stand, fighting off vertigo, the blurred vision and the pounding in his head. He barely made two steps before collapsing. Putting weight on the leg broken from the blast sent knives of pain through him. He dropped in agony, unprepared for the trauma his body received. He hadn't allowed himself to accept that he might have been injured, and with no chance to convince himself it was mind over matter, his body reacted. The shriek of pain and immediate collapse caught the attention of those around him. Were the first responders arriving here already? They were beside him in seconds, talking to him, calming him – or at least trying to. He knew they were speaking, but he couldn't concentrate on what they were saying. All he could hear were the voices already haunting him. He wanted out – he needed to get away from them, from here. He had more important things to deal with. He could feel himself being tended to. Gently prodded and lifted to a stretcher. No one was listening to him; they didn't even seem to hear him speak. But they were watching him – closely. OK - he could go along for the ride. At least it would take him from this place. He could easily slip out in the confusion of an ER. Grab some crutches and quietly slip out to take care of business. For now though, he'd let the strangers think they were in charge.
One minute he was on the ground, the next in a small white room with monitors and people with worried faces. No one was talking to him. No questions, no give and take of info, no interaction at all. He heard the word shock mentioned once or twice as they spoke over him, past him as if he wasn't there. That was fine with him. He'd play the docile patient if it meant they left him alone. Alone, he could find a way out of this place.
And maybe they were right – maybe he was in shock. He didn't really remember getting to the hospital, or getting patched up at all. But he could feel the bandages, the weight of something – a cast? – on his leg. He heard the steady pulsing of the monitors. He tried to lift his head to look, or even just turn it, but he was too sluggish. Too weary to make the effort. Damn – that probably meant medications. That would hamper his escape from this temporary prison. No way of getting out until his head cleared. Okay. A couple of hours rest wouldn't hurt. He could use it to his advantage. He needed to be on his game; to be sharp for the job ahead. How the plan ended for him didn't matter. It only mattered that he could see it through to the end. It would be bloody and brutal, and he was fine with that. More than fine.
He'd have to figure out who he could trust. He'd need a few jobs done that were outside his areas of expertise. And for this job, he needed the best. Well, the best that was available. He couldn't have the best. They were gone.
The best hacker. The smartest guy he'd ever known. Had he ever told him that? He couldn't remember. Probably not. That wasn't who he was. Idiot. Now he never could. The best thief. Crazier than any other 10 people put together, but absolutely the best. The best grifter. Could con anyone, anywhere, anytime. Except a theatre critic. But take her off the stage and put her in the middle of a con and she was freaking brilliant. The Mastermind. Unequaled. If he'd been so inclined, he probably could have taken over the world. But he'd rather take down the bad guys.
What had ever made him think he belonged with these people? They were the best, and clearly he was not. If he'd been even half as good as they were, they'd be here now. And they weren't. Because of him. Because of his past. Because of his failure. He would make it right – or at least as right as it could be. It would never really be right again. Nothing would. If it meant his last breath, well he was fine with that too. He couldn't see much point in going on once this job was done anyway.
Damn sedatives. He couldn't concentrate. Couldn't plan. Wasn't even sure what was going on around him anymore. That was the problem with drugs. Yeah, they took away the pain, but they took away the control. He hated losing control. Everything was about control. The situation, the plan, the actions. If you weren't in control, then things could – would – go wrong. Very wrong. Fatally wrong. He couldn't afford to lose control. Couldn't afford to lose anything else. He'd lost too much.
OK – maybe if he closed his eyes for a minute he could centre himself. Regroup.
Faces. He can see their faces. They are looking at him. Counting on him. Beseeching him to come for them. He can't answer them. He has no voice. Can't tell them what he wants to say. What could he say? "I'm coming" – too late. "I'm sorry" – that fixes nothing. Worse than useless. Why are they even speaking to him? Don't they know what he did? Don't they know this is his fault? He killed them. He killed them all. Maybe they do know. Maybe that is why they are calling him. He should be with them. He should have died with them. He should have died instead of them. He has no right to be alive. And he won't be for much longer. They need to know that. He just needs to do this one last job. It won't help them. Nothing will. But it has to be done. It is the only way he can even come close to saying he is sorry. It isn't enough, but it's all he has left. Then he'll be with them. They deserve the chance to condemn him. To damn him.
He couldn't think about it anymore – not now. He was too tired. Too confused. There was just too much pain. Too much misery. Nothing was more important than this job and he couldn't even focus on that. He was going to fail them again. He had to come up with the plan. The perfect plan. Worthy of them. He could tell them he'd done his best for them, and that this time it was enough. They deserved nothing less. He had to fight the desire to just drift away. It wasn't time for that. He deserved that fate, but it wasn't time now. He was going to get past this exhaustion, this emotional and physical brick wall. He`d get over that, do what needed to be done. Then he'd face the consequences.
They sat quietly by his bed, watching for any indication he was coming back. The monitor showed periodic spikes in brain activity, in breathing and heart rate. It showed he was still in there, somewhere. At some level, he was still there. Restless, agitated, suffering. They needed to reach him. He`d been catatonic almost since arriving at the hospital, since a panic attack and seizure, in the ER. The doctor had said he`d been incoherent, muttering "my fault" and "killed them" just before the seizure. Not surprising. He'd been slammed into a wall by the force of the shock wave emanating from the explosion that had destroyed the building they'd been in a moment before. He didn't know they'd gotten out. They tried to tell him, but couldn't. They'd heard his shouts. Didn't know what he was saying, but the tone left nothing to the imagination. The fact the comms weren't working had already raised suspicions. Eliot screaming and running was all the confirmation they needed to head for the nearest exit. One he couldn't see. One he didn't know they'd found.
They didn't know how Eliot knew about the bomb, or why he running toward certain death. OK, that part wasn't true. They knew exactly why. And what was horrifying was the realisation they couldn't stop him. Parker tried to let him know – tried to come from behind the coverage they'd found when she saw he was going to enter the building. Hardison grabbed her and pulled her back just as the blast erupted. She wouldn't have reached Eliot in time, and likely would have ended up dead herself. He couldn't let that happen. It would have destroyed him, and destroyed Eliot. The very thing he was risking his life to prevent would have been his fault. Even for a man who hid his emotions so deeply, the pain of that reality would have been too much to bear.
They'd watched as the force picked him up and tossed him like a rag doll into the wall of the next building. They'd seen him crumple to the ground, then force himself up, starring at the carnage. He tried to move forward and failed, collapsing once again. Then time lost all relevance. Everything took just seconds, but seconds took forever. They'd talked to him, begged him to stay with them, to come back to them. He didn't see them. He thrashed, he mumbled, he rambled. He fought them. It all made a sad, tragic kind of sense. He didn't know they were there with him. Didn't know they were safe. They had to find a way. To give him a reason to come back. Before they had the chance he was gone – transported to trauma care, where things had gone from bad to worse. Catatonic, the doctor told them. Physical and psychological shock. No shit!
And while he was oblivious on a physical level he was mentally hyperactive. Nightmares, hallucinations, delusions, all controlling his mind. But to him, not a delusion – to him it was reality. A reality to distressing to deal with. A reality that pulled him further and further away from them. They had to find a way to break through to him, before he was gone forever.
He could feel them staring at him. They hadn't stopped. They wouldn't. Why should they. They were calling him to come with them, and he didn't argue they had that right. Why couldn't he make them understand he wasn't ready? He had to finish things first. Then he would face them. Face their disappointment, their wrath, their loathing. Someone else had to pay first, and then he would take his punishment, whatever they wanted. But he was not going to let them down a second time. Why couldn't they understand that?
In the 12 or so hours they had been with him he'd shown no signs of coming back. His vital signs were stable. Not as strong as they could be, but stable. His brain wave activity was another matter. He went from barely there, not reacting to any stimuli, to tossing and trashing on the bed. The hospital had brought in restraints, but the team refused to allow him to be bound. If he woke up strapped down, captive, the results wouldn't be pretty. Even a subconscious awareness of the act could be enough to keep his mind locked away from them. As it was he flinched and fought every touch from diagnostic exam to the gentle brushing of hair from his eyes. No contact was welcomed.
In between the extremes of stillness and violent lashing out was the almost constant fluttering movement of his eyelids. More than once he opened his eyes, but there was nothing but a blank stare, lasting only a second or two before they closed again. The final flutter that would bring him back never came. And so they waited.
TBC