I literally wrote this directly after seeing Oct.23's ep. It contains some spoilers, so if you havent seen that ep yet, beware. The title for this fic is actually a line taken from a song by the band Demon Hunter. I own neither PB nor DH. Okee...love much, read on, and...bunnies are fluffy:)
He woke up sometimes, thinking, swearing, that he heard her.
Even before the escape, within the confines of the cell, his eyes would crack open at the imagined sound of her voice.
It would only be a whisper then, his name being constructed out of the various soft sounds of the prison. The settling of the building in the middle of the night, the distant rattle of keys as the guard checked the cells, the creak of doors while they passed back and forth to switch out watch duty.
He knew upon looking around that it was merely a dream, or his mind playing tricks on him. He knew it was because he thought of her so much.
Too much.
But now it was different. Ever since they jumped those walls, any time he dared to doze off, he heard her.
In the brush of the woods, or in the car, any time his eyes closed and let his brain take a break, it was interrupted.
No longer a whisper, he realized, but a call. Sometimes a cry.
Always his name.
He even found himself answering, whispering back to her in a daze as focused the blurred dream world into reality.
Even today, standing in the cold water of the river with Sucre, awaiting the rise of the water, for just a moment he shut his tired eyes.
And although it was in fact Sucre that had called to him, for just a moment, his mind pretended it was her.
He longed to answer her cries.
But what he needed now, most of all, was patience.
Their time was soon to come, where he would respond to the call that burned his heart and soul.
She jerked her head upwards, looking into the setting sun. The cement wall she sat against struck an uncomfortable feeling in her back, causing her to bend back slightly to stretch.
She felt foolish to let her guard down.
The unfolded paper cranes lay in her lap, reminding her of her situation.
Any moment during the few minutes of rest she'd allowed herself, someone could have walked right up and shot her.
It could have happened, if she hadn't heard his voice.
He'd called to her again, his voice echoing in her ears, consuming her mind.
So many times she had imagined her name being spoken in the smooth tone that could only belonged to him. She recalled the many nights in her apartment, snapping to attention at what she thought was a voice. A whisper, deep and sultry, speaking only one word ever time she heard it.
For a split second she would allow a flutter of shock and hope to fill her gut as she scanned the darkness of her room, before remembering that the man in question was a few miles away in a prison cell, sound asleep, as she wished she could be.
But it was while succumbing to the morphine that raced through her veins she heard him the most.
Her name repeated in her head, in his voice, over and over until she finally awoke in a hospital bed with a breathing tube shoved down her throat.
During those times, it was always a soft sound, a whisper, with no emphasis on any emotion. Just her name, being spoken, it seemed, to catch her attention.
After the phone call, however, after hearing him speak to her with such despair and regret in his voice, the whispers that awoke her at night became louder. Not yells, not screams, but clear calls.
Desperate, longing…fearful.
As if he was begging her to hear him, and answer him.
Looking around her one last time, she folded the paper back into place, as best she could, and stuffed them in her purse.
This time his call had been a cry. It seared through her and made her heart race, pushing her to stand.
It burned through her soul, and gave her determination to begin walking.
To find a way to him, and answer the call she couldn't ignore.