A.N: characters belong to whoever makes ASHES TO ASHES, poem (slightly altered for artistic license purposes) to YEATS, NO SECOND TROY.
EXPECTATIONS
Today she looked aggravated and tired, as she slumped over her desk, poring over masses of paperwork scattered on the cluttered surface. She was early this morning, as only a couple other people had arrived, except for himself. He would have expected her to be very late at least, if she had turned up at all, given how much they had all drunken Sunday night. He had expected, in fact anticipated, that he would have to go to her place, to hammer the door down and holler at her to get to work, but she'd surprised him once more. She was an enigma, a curious mixture of haughty strength and fragile vulnerability, whereas he expected her to break down and cry like a woman on the first day. But she hadn't fulfilled those expectations; she'd fulfilled others he hadn't even known he possessed about her. And that punch! That was a thing of beauty, though it had left him considerably sore for a while afterwards. The way she sometimes waltzed into his office and stood up to him in her off-the-shoulder top, tight jeans encasing those long, long legs, and her leather boots, her curls wildly flying about as she got more and more agitated, made something in him awaken, something that felt like it had been dormant for a long time. He had expected her to come to him bawling her eyes out about all the tongues wagging when he'd told her to go home straight away that night, and instead it turned out she'd gone home much later, with someone else – he had expected her to wail at the unfairness of it all, and rant about her colleagues not minding their own business. He had equally relished and dreaded this expectation, because he had never been able to stand tarts who cried because it was an overt sign of their weakness, and he had no time or patience for weakness.
Instead, she surprised him once more, and managed to infuriate him whilst doing it, too.
There had been no tears of betrayal, no rants about her being a grown up girl, no demands that he put a stop to it at once, no pleadings, or sobs, or anything that indicated at all that she may be in the least remote upset about the whole thing. Instead, when he'd told her that there were rumours going round the CDI, she'd simply fumed that she didn't need to have him step in for her because she could handle it herself, and it wasn't her fault that her colleagues were more interested in her liaisons than getting their jobs done, and that she didn't care about what they thought anyway. She raved and ranted and beseeched him for leaving her there, that it was his entire fault. Anger immediately replaced whatever feeling of surprise he may have felt at the beginning, and he fired back as swiftly, arguing that he'd told her to go home, alone, stressing that last word. For a moment he simply let her talk her head off, in fact he watched her, mesmerised as she waved her arms in the air, huffing like an angry banshee, shouting that it wasn't as though she'd slept with an entire rugby team, and at first he didn't know whether he wanted to pat her back for the strength she was showing, reprimand her for daring to shout at him as the others watched (and he was sure they'd be watching and listening avidly), or shake the prickliness out of her.
Then anger mounted as he realised that she truly didn't care about her colleagues' opinion of her, and that's when he had to step in.
It was his business, when the force had no respect for her, their superior, and therefore they would have no respect for him, her superior, and he wasn't having that; the team needed to understand that there were boundaries not to be crossed and needed to have a healthy dose of respect for him and themselves to cooperate smoothly. Of course, she didn't let him have the last word, not for long. After delivering a passionate mini-speech about wasting time when they should instead concentrate on planning their cover for that night's fancy dress boat party, she stormed out of his office without a backwards glance and left him reeling in anger, without even giving him a chance to reply – which was probably her objective in the first place, so that she would come out the winner. DCI Gene Hunt, bested by a bloody tart who didn't know what was best for her, and who was too stubborn to bloody-well-listen to him! He seethed at her retreating form, grudgingly admitting to himself that she was partly right, and they shouldn't waste time having this talk.
It seemed inevitable, he thought.
She fired him up like no other…not in a dissimilar manner he liked to fire up his beloved Quattro. Not today though, by the looks of it. Despite the dress up and the hair and the make-up she generously applied to her eyes, she hadn't managed to disguise the tired, purplish shadows under her eyes, or the way they seemed to squint tiredly against the harsh light of the office. She hadn't noticed him yet in the corridor, looking in through the glass that preceded the double doors which he would soon push open with dramatic flair and walk through to make his presence known. He felt slightly mystified at the way he lingered in the semi-lit corridor, watching her every move, studying her form. What the bloody hell was he doing?! He didn't care anything special for her, he sternly warned himself. He didn't need to tread carefully with her just because she was a bird. She'd earned his grudging respect and a very, very faint semi-admiration, but he didn't owe her anything past that, he silently grumbled. But his brain was too quick and sharp for him, at times – it got away from him with irritating, stupid thoughts that ignited annoyance in his all too-easily riled gut. Fate, it seemed, had other plans for him.
Because he did care, his brain silently crooned, and the sound sounded mocking to his own inner ears. He shouldn't forget how he felt about her at times, especially when they were sat close together at Luigi's, when he stared complacently into her mildly drunk (or at times heavily drunk) eyes, which squinted up at him sultrily from her lashes. Indeed, he couldn't forget how quick he was to defend her reputation when Ray was going on about her and that Moore fella, when they'd had that dynamite bomber case during the Royal Wedding Week.
A phantom bitterness resurfaced in him from the deep, as though called on by that memory.
How he'd thought about it after Ray had left, her going out with that boisterous East-end businessman, probably having a jolly good time and getting stupendously drunk. He didn't see why that should be anything to him, but it was, and the feeling of bleak resentment or fleeting loneliness that surged up in him overtook him completely until everything else was forgotten, until he'd collapsed on his bed, much, much later. Then unbidden, came another memory, of him and Ray and Chris careening through the streets in the Quattro, looking for her, after she'd walked out of his office, shouting another one of those passionate little speeches of hers.
Now that he was cross-analysing his actions and emotions, he recoiled in instant dislike. What on earth had he been doing, driving around like a bloody fool, looking for a bloody woman?! The feeling of resentment intensified ever so slightly; what business had she to make him care so much he transformed into a loony, sick puppy wandering around the streets after it had been kicked, beseechingly looking for her? What had he been doing in the last couple of days, running after her and constantly wondering and thinking about her?
What the hell was he just standing there for, doing that, right now?!
With the usual stern scowl fixed firmly on his face he stalked into the office and came to rest in front of her desk. He planted his fists on the few available inches left free on her cluttered desk and leaned forward slightly. His voice sounded like the usual forceful bark, which suited him just fine. He puffed out his chest slightly and cocked his head arrogantly, his smirk turning into a slight sneer.
"Morning, DI Drake."
For a moment she appeared not to hear him, or even be aware of his presence, she was so engrossed into her work. Curiosity sparked briefly in him, and he silently wondered what could be consuming her attention so strongly. Then she shifted her weight and her neck began to crane up until her eyes met his, the resulting angle of her posture uncomfortable because he was, after all, very tall. Hard, mocking grey eyes met the unexpected softness of her blue ones, and his gaze narrowed imperceptibly. She replied with a curt 'good morning', but did not go back to her work as he expected her to – it was simply a routine they had seemed to establish without really thinking about it. He was wrong, once again. She didn't dismiss him with the usual cool shoulder (and a very lovely, cool shoulder, it was), instead carried on staring up at him, an inquisitive look crossing her face. She remained quiet, as though simply content to go on looking up at him without saying a word, but something told him (maybe her body language) that she was itching to do something else, fighting some internal battle, as though she was literally warring with herself. Her eyes now looked dark and full of wary secrets, like she carried a heavy load, and could tell no one about it.
Her gaze unnerved him and he barked at her to get him a cuppa and bring it to his office. He smoothly slid upright and walked to his office without a backward glance.
He shut the door after him and leaned against it for a brief moment, feeling confused and affronted that a mere woman's gaze could make him act so out-of-context…as though she was stronger than him! He wrinkled his nose in disgust, a reflex, more than a reaction. What a ridiculous concept!
He sat down at his desk and started going through the last papers of a case they had solved at the back end of the previous week. After a few blessed minutes of silence and relative peace, his door opened again and she walked in with his coffee. She set it down, rather more forcefully than necessary and some of the liquid sloshed over the side, and when he turned to look at her, he found the usual Drake staring at him from her haughty position, as though she actually had enough power to challenge him – in itself an amusing and ridiculous idea. Perhaps it was just the light, or perhaps he had become so attuned to her moods that it wasn't hard to spot, but he could have sworn that the other, unnerving woman he'd spotted earlier on, when they were alone, was still there, lurking behind the shadows, watching, waiting, hiding.
With a dry chuckle, he took a sip of the coffee and hummed in satisfaction, muttering a snide remark about how it was a woman's job to provide this stuff for the men, because they inevitably did it better, and had plenty of time to spare to do it and get it just right. He settled more comfortably into his chair, gleefully anticipating her angry retort, gearing himself up for the usual sparring competition which excited him so much, and which he could only get with her, because she was the only (foolish) one who dared to challenge him on anything.
But it didn't come.
Instead she carried on looking at him, and after a brief turning up of her mouth at the corner, in what could have been construed as a grimace, she turned on her booted heels and left just as silently as she'd entered.
He narrowed his in annoyed speculation.
What was up with her, today?
A minute later the office became noticeably busier and noisier, signifying that all the others had started to arrive, and many struck up conversations with each other, about work, about football, about a case they were working on, and some (he shuddered) about their bleeding mothers! He could see from his desk that Ray and Chris were hanging about at their desks, amicable chatting over a cup of tea, and that Shaz was studiously ignoring them – they were probably talking about man-stuff, he decided. That prospect inexplicably pleased him; he'd had enough of bloody women for the rest of the morning, and he resolved himself to the fact that they were beings on a completely different level to men, and could therefore never be understood, should they be studied (not that he did. He did NOT study her!)
With a barely repressed growl he thundered at them to get over here, and settled with watching them bolt up out of their seats and curry to comply. He sent a meaningfully dark glance at the DI and Chris obligingly veered off to tell her they were having a meeting in the guv's office.
They worked with the utmost professionalism for the rest of the day, going about the streets of London, clearing up the 'scum of the earth', as he called it.
He was pleased with himself for various reasons, because they had managed to clear up some crucial information on a new gang committed to the fire-arm black market, they had arrested those three individuals who had went round to elderly people's homes in the guise of gasmen checking the gas pipes, only to steal all their valuables and even attack the owners once they'd been left inside, and won the footie match against the neighbouring CDI, which was always an occasion for celebration. He was pleased, with today's work, and because he hadn't given DI Drake more than the cursory after-thought since their strange encounter that morning, which suited him just fine; he'd had enough strangeness from women to last him through the week, and now all he wanted to do was to say goodbye to his colleagues, only to find the most significant number of them once more, piled inside Luigi's later on.
And that included Drake.
This thought made him rise out of his seat and discreetly check around the main office area, having suddenly realised that it was all quiet. Ray was the only one left, going through paperwork from that last 'case' they'd had from today, a cigarette hanging distractedly from his slightly gaping lips, surrounding his head in a hazy cloud of smoke, making the very air about him uncertain. Hunt subconsciously swivelled his eyes to his right in the office, inconspicuously looking for a certain person … only to come up short, empty-handed. He ignored the swerving feeling of disappointment, and brutally told himself not to give a monkey's. It was none of his business if she decided to go home without telling him or even saying goodnight. He'd just make sure to give her extra paperwork duties tomorrow. He was, after all, quintessentially a speedily retaliating man, sure of his power and ways, unstoppable in the face of bureaucracy or petty issues like equality and fairness.
He turned the lights off in his study, grabbed his coat and his keys, and as he passed by Ray's desk, they chatted quickly and promised to see each other at Luigi's for a round of drinks. He got into his car and fired away into the dark, cold London streets, a lot more preoccupied with things he shouldn't even think about, than he was comfortable analysing. By the time he got to Luigi's, the restaurant was noisy and hazy with the faint lights reflecting off the smoke of several patrons' cigarettes.
There was a big group towards the back of the restaurant, the usual police officer tables with their back to the large mural, where all the men were boisterously toasting each other's teamwork, and the general feeling of camaraderie and riotousness was a welcome distraction. He pulled up short at the bar, getting another bottle of Chianti, chatted to Luigi for a couple of minutes, then headed to the table, where he was met with raised glasses and loud cheers and calls of welcome from the men. He was absorbed with the general group's chatter, that at first he ignored the tingling in his neck, thinking it was just the reaction of his body meeting with such a warm temperature after being outside. When the tingling, instead of decreasing with the wine he drank persisted, in fact got gradually more irritating, he began looking around the dimly-lit restaurant, looking for the source of his physical reaction. That's when he spotted her, sitting on the other side of the bar, slumping on her stool over onto the countertop.
All his good mood left him, and his mouth pursed slightly, as he studied her for a couple of seconds.
He could just about see her face, partly hidden by her bouncy, soft curls, and the haziness of the atmosphere thanks to the smoke; she stared into down into her drink as though there might be something in it that might give her the answers she were looking for. Her posture, though at first glance completely relaxed, was that of someone who was too tired to sit up properly anymore, who couldn't bear to carry a load placed onto their shoulders. She looked just about done for, defeated.
He thought she had never looked lovelier.
Before he knew what he was about, Hunt excused himself from the loud-mouthed group and made his way towards her. For some reason unknown to him, the image of her slumped onto the bar, all alone, nursing a drink as though it was her salvation plucked at his heart strings with some unidentified, soft emotion. He signalled to Luigi, whom was looking worriedly at her, no doubt trying to cheer up, and he instantly served him the same drink Hunt had requested nights weeks ago when she was too drunk to have more alcohol: the stupidly over-priced fizzy water.
He sat down onto the stool next to hers and silently took her full glass of red wine away from her lax hands, replacing it with the fizzy water. Luigi diligently offered some food, which she refused, but Hunt made Luigi leave it in front of them, bullying her into eating some of the nibbles with him. She'd had too much to drink, again. Except this didn't look to him like it was one of the those happy-go-drinking times – there was something that dragged her down, and she'd started drinking. Hunt wiped a hand across his tired face and simply looked at her, taking in the nerveless fingers that toyed with her hair, studiously avoiding his penetrating eyes, though he brought his stool intimately closer to hers an she was fully turned towards him from the bust upwards.
When she chanced a look into his eyes, he discovered that they were bright but heavy-lidded, like they usually were in these circumstances – though he didn't peg the brightness down to alcohol, more to … he stopped fumbling with his drink immediately, subconsciously leaning forward closer to her, almost as though it would help him observe this strange creature sat next to him, her eyes and body sending him a range of signs that he was too tired or too bull-headed to acknowledge right now.
It almost looked like she'd been crying.
He examined the curve of her neck and her shoulders, noticing that they were no longer haughtily, proudly lifted, like an elegant swan; they described her current state of mind perfectly. And now he understood why she'd chosen this particular spot, away from all the others. She was having a 'weak moment', and desired that unimportant individuals witness her in this state. He didn't count himself within that group.
"You all right, Drake?"
His voice was gruff and uncharacteristically gentle at the same time, his eyes softened imperceptibly to the casual view of the beholder.
She opened her mouth, gazing sightlessly at the ceiling, then closed it again, and if at all possible, it looked like her shoulders sagged even further. It looked like she couldn't find her own voice, and gave up immediately. She still resolutely looked everywhere but into his sharp eyes, impatient with their wish to analyse her uttermost depths, and understand her better. He put his large, strong hand on her arm and impatiently pulled her round towards him, and she made the mistake of glancing up quickly into his eyes, like a terrified mouse, trying to read that inevitable fate into its predator's eyes. He pounced in that one moment their eyes met and he kept her gaze mesmerised into his own. It was like she was a jumpy little doe, caught into the road, staring frozen into the terrifying headlights that shone on her mercilessly.
"I am perfectly pissed, guv." Her perfectly poised accent was lost in the slurred words.
Hunt was not fooled by her attempt to derail away from the real core of her problems, and huffed impatiently.
"I can bloody see that, you silly creature; I wasn't talking about your trip down booze-land. Don't make ask you twenty bloody questions, just spit it out, will ye?"
Some of the old fire seemed to fan the heat in her eyes; he was just about to declare that she was firmly her bloody-ray-of-sunshine self, when it quickly went out, and for the second time that day, the light, or lack of, in those normally sparkling blue eyes, disturbed him. She gulped down her drink, perhaps not even noticing that it wasn't her wine anymore, just fizzy water, and brought her index pointing up, as though signing something important.
When she spoke again, hunt was utterly mystified, and wondered fleetingly, if he wasn't looking into madness.
"Why should I blame her that she filled my days with misery, being high and solitary and most stern? What could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?"
She looked at him once more, the slightest challenge in her eyes, as though daring him to understand that craziness that seemed to engulf her, possessing her, drowning her, and he understood, in that one instant, her, like he had never done. Drowning, that's what she was doing. She was drowning.
And now, he felt like, he too, was about to step into unchartered waters, way out of his depths – like, he too, may join her, and drown. He, unlike her, fought madly with claws and teeth to return ashore. He managed.
"Have you run mad, woman? What crazy nonsense are you muttering? Are you on your bleedin' cycle or something?"
Her eyes were feverish bright, when she answered him.
"How could you but not understand, said she, if all you do is holler and shout, as I am drowning on dry land?"
She actually looked like she was expecting an answer from him, this time, squinting her eyes up into his face, her gaze glazed. Hunt's face became blank, though his eyes betrayed a deep concern for her mental health. She had been ruffled a bit earlier on that afternoon, after a crazy punk shite almost ran her over with his car. He pushed her out of the way and they both tumbled painfully on the hard tarmac, the breath knocked from them, though relatively unharmed.
Maybe he should have had an ambulance come down and take a look at her, maybe see if she'd knocked her brains when they fell.
His answer came in the form of a shout, predictably.
"Oi, Luigi! Bring your lumpy arse over here, pronto!"
The portly, balding little man hurried after them on his way back from serving a table.
"Is the signore Hunt wanting something else? Maybe a nice, juicy steak? Do I give orders to the kitchen?"
"Bloody hell, no, make me the strongest coffee you can muster and do it quick; I think I'm about to lose this one," he viciously stabbed a thumb in the air of her general direction, "in her state of drunken mad ravings. 'Urry up!"
Luigi turned concerned warm eyes on the woman, who was all but swaying ever so slightly on the stool, her face crumpling into a mask of misery.
"Are you feeling all right, signorina? I always say to you, don't drink too much! A pretty girl like you, wasting herself on alcohol, it is shameless, why I –"
Hunt growled in impatience and raised his voice.
"Never mind the bloody chit-chatter, man, get me that coffee!"
Luigi hurried to comply with his orders, shaking his head sadly at the state of the poor, poor woman, staying all alone, without a strong man to look after her…
"Witless idiot." Hunt muttered under his breath, darkly staring at the retreating figure of the jolly man; it was a ruse, an excuse not to look at her again, to avoid seeing that look in her pretty eyes, lest he be pulled down with her again. He decided that coming over here to talk to her might not have been such a good idea, after all. With a snort of disgust, he turned to her and grabbed her arm to keep her upright, stopping her from tumbling head first into the tables behind them, cursing her foolishness tonight for whatever it was she was trying to do.
"Now you listen to me, Bolly, you better belt up and smarten up right quick, before I toss you out onto that bony arse of yours! Yer' gonna drink your coffee like a good little woman, and then I'm going to take you home before you get another clever plan to get bollocked tonight. Is that understood?!"
His voice thundered in her ears, but by then the music, the laughter and the lusty catcalls made it impossible for anyone else to hear them. When the coffee arrived, he shooed Luigi away and forced her to drink the scalding liquid; not that it was hard, because at this stage, though she bravely tried, she didn't put up much of a fight. He paid Luigi their dues, took her things, his car keys, and solicitously began steering her towards the stairs to her flat, trying to make it look like he was merely doing the gentlemanly thing by accompanying her, and not like he was supporting her weight and keeping her upright, all the while muttering words of encouragement into her ear.
"We're almost there now Bolly, just keep trying to place one little foot in front of the other, that's right, it's a bloody marvellous dance, one, two, three, one, two, three…"
If anyone stared at them as they walked away, he never noticed it, because his concentration was focused solely on getting her to remain standing and walk on her own two feet; he thanked God she was wearing the leather boots instead of those ridiculous, prossie-red high heels (the ones that, coupled with a skirt or a dress that showed off her perfect pins to his smoothly-raking gaze, made his blood boil up), otherwise it might have been a little harder to make it look like she was walking perfectly fine and cheerful as you please, rather than mind-numbingly drunk.
When they got to her flat, she fumbled about helplessly looking for the keys, then trying to fit them into the general direction of the lock; Hunt pressed her to him and grabbed the keys out of her little hand and opened the door single-handedly, trying to balance her up. He shouldered his way inside, shut the door, then proceeded to steer her towards her sofa, like he'd done one other time, on her very first night out drinking with the lads. In the end she stumbled about so much that he had to pick her up (the memory of doing this after they'd just met her flashed into this mind) and swung her into his arms, then set her onto the squashy cushions. He straightened up with a grimace, none-too-steady himself, though nowhere near as pissed as she was, and started looking for the handy little blanket he'd used last time. In his confused state of mind, he did not linger over the notion that he remembered doing all these things so vividly.
She was passed out now, out cold. Her skin had a pallor to it he did not like at all, and her hands felt cold in his, though her pulse beat steadily, if somewhat sluggishly.
She had drunk the strongest coffee Luigi could make, and yet she was still out stone cold, completely unfeeling to the world. Muttering darkly about brainless tarts, Hunt ransacked her cabinets, trying to find something that could help him in this situation. His movements became quick ad efficient when he settled into a well-known routine.
He grabbed a bowl, filled it with cold water, one of the kitchen towels and went back to the sofa, where he then dipped the towel into the water, wrung out all the excess, then sponged off her forehead. He cursed, and put his hands under her armpits to raise her up, prop her against his chest, where she slumped like a rag-doll, her head lolling about over his shoulder. He quickly peeled off her white leather coat and cast it aside carelessly, then removing the pillows to have her completely horizontal once she lay down again. He turned her so that she was lying onto her side, rather than on her back or her stomach, and brought her arm and leg up; if worse turned to worst, she'd be ready to puke everything back up without risking to choke in her own vomit. He then thanked whatever God was out there for his hindsight, because, minutes later, that was exactly what she did, and the ordeal began.
He found a plastic bucket in her cupboard just in time for her to puke her guts out. He resorted to rubbing circles on her back, encouraging her with softly spoken words – it wasn't rough, gruff, hard as nails DCI Hunt who was with her now, but a completely different man, one whom usually hid behind his working persona.
When she started crying, or moaning in distress over the painful churning in her gut, he quickly shushed her, sponging off the beads of sweat from her clammy forehead, silently cursing himself, her and everyone else in the bag, for reducing her into this state, like a common walk-the-streets prossie, or sniff-it-up gal. like the kind of scummy tarts that littered certain unsavoury neighbourhoods in the city. He befouled the luck that brought him here, now, taking care of her, though, if he was completely honest with himself, he would not have entrusted the thankless task to Chris, that lobotomised Essex girl Shaz, or any of his subordinates, much less Raymondo, who would probably just try to beat it out of her, pounding her back to get it all out.
He stayed by her side that night, as she swam in and out of consciousness, first ranting and raving about incomprehensible things, like she'd done downstairs, then vomiting all the alcohol that was toxic to her system – and that was a lot. He felt at times dismayed that she had let herself drink so much, angry with himself and the others for not noticing her and stopping her from going down this road, bent on killing herself. He cursed and cussed and grumbled and stomped his feet, and pounded his closed fist a lot, that night, when it looked like she was getting so bad she'd need an ambulance. He'd cross over the space to the coffee-table in a heartbeat, fingers outstretched towards her phone to call the emergency, when she'd call him back, her voice broken and scared and pitiful, not unlike that of a scared, sick little girl who needed her parent to look after her. That bewildered emotion that he'd felt before in the restaurant as he'd looked at her dejected figure, threatened to engulf him completely many times during his nightly vigil by her side. It took him a while to give it a name, and even longer for him not to recoil or even accept it and move on. it was strange and intense and gut-wrenching and beautiful and frightening all at once, this new feeling, this alien emotion that stirred him and drove him to distraction as she fell deeper and deeper into some unknown, dark pit into which he couldn't see.
It was tenderness.
Just as his actions had been dictated by arrogance and a desire to have a cleaner society, so were they now driven to care for her in the name of tenderness.
It was tenderness that gentled his voice, as though speaking to a highly-strung, frightened mare, it was tenderness that softened his touch on her brow, on her back, as he wiped her tears away and held her hand, as he smoothed her wild, lank hair out of her face.
It was tenderness that told him to speak soothingly into her ear, though he doubted she heard him past the delirium, as she transited from thrashing wildly against invisible captors, to freezing up completely, as though trying not to make herself seen, and finally to broken, whispered words that he did not comprehend. But it was done now, and he was so engrossed into it, that he forgot feeling uncomfortable, or anything but concern for this woman, who lay on her sofa, too sickly to be moved to her bed, as she spoke, at times to him, at times to unseeing people that he gathered she saw in the room with them, long into the dark, cold night.
He soothed her, wiped her brow, rubbed comforting circles onto her back, held her up when she heaved her guts out into the provided bucket, and alternatively listened to her talking to someone (he liked to think she was lucid enough to think it was him she spoke to), and him doing the talking; he kept this up until twilight, and the sky began to lighten up, the stars shining less brightly, the moon retiring over the city. Soon, the sky would turn a peachy-yellow hue to welcome the coming of the rising sun. By dawn, she lay, completely still and exhausted on the sofa, her arms limp, her hair devoid of any volume or life, her face a sickly pallor of not quite green.
It was the time for shivers now, shivers that wracked her frame, shivers from the sweat of the illness and the cold.
He gathered her up in his arms once more and brought her into the bedroom, where he gently lay her on the bed. He then disappeared in the search of her bathroom, which he used once he found, then started running the shower. Once he was satisfied with temperature of the water, and he had secured her robe, he returned to her and silently gathered he up once more. Her feeble, garbled protests only served to gentle his touch even further as he stripped her of her sickly, sticky, damp clothes, only leaving her in her bra and knickers for modesty. Hunt then proceeded to hold her up and lather some scented soap onto her clammy skin, gently avoiding her intimate parts, rubbing soothingly slow on the parts that hurt her the most, like her stomach, which must feel very, very sensitive by now.
There were bruises on her legs and arms and a couple on her waist and hips, he surmised they were from when she'd landed on the tarmac after he'd pushed her out of the car's way.
When he was done, he turned off the taps, gathered her in her towelling-robe and took her back into the bedroom, where he proceeded to pat her dry as softly as his rough hands were accustomed to, then dressed her in a pair of pyjamas he found under her pillow. She was calmer now, but not necessarily stronger. He resigned himself to spending the rest of the night here with her, and after dragging a chair closer to her bed, he settled himself as comfortably as he could be, then proceeded to close his eyes in utter exhaustion.
He hadn't known that looking after someone sick could be so draining, and it wasn't an experience he cared to repeat anytime soon.
He didn't know whether he truly slept or he was simply in that conscious near-unconscious state, when it began all over again.
She didn't stir or make a single noise, she was so immersed, trapped into her nightmare. The only thing he knew was that one minute his eyes were closed, trying to find some sleeping solace from the gruelling work he'd been put through during the night, and the next he was staring down into her face, and he felt his heart sink in his chest. Her breathing had turned from deep and slow to forceful and painfully hurried, as though she were choking. He thought for a second she was going to puke again, but he soon understood what was happening, and as he was wont, took control.
She was having a nightmare, and in the nightmare, she was falling, falling from the warm safety that had encased her into the waiting coldest, dampest pits well below the harbour, where Layton had kidnapped her, only it wasn't Layton staring at her with an ugly look on his face, it was the clown, always the clown that persecuted her, and he encased her in a coffin made of clear-cut glass, speaking to her in his macabre voice, his breath frosting up the glass as though touched by ice, his cruel, expectant eyes drilling into her head. She wanted to rise up and scream, but a hand clamped on her throat and her breath was squeezed from her, choking it back with a garbled sound.
In the bedroom, Hunt was trying to soothe her, debating whether he should wake her up or not, hating this feeling of weaknesses and insecurity and doubt the situation made him feel; he didn't like feeling out of control. Her face, starkly white against the deep red pillow, was frozen into a horrible rictus of terror, her frame convulsing, until suddenly she arched up into the air and opened her mouth, and a terrible, terrible rattling sound filled the bedroom. Hunt stared at her, frightened out of his wits, urgency paling his face, making his hands tremble as he caught hold of her and rested her across his lap. He was on the bed next to her now, trying to shake her awake, calling her name, ordering her to wake up, telling her she was safe here with him, that he wouldn't let anything hurt her, and still she arched away from his touch, as though terrified by it, her mouth producing that horrible sound, gaping open into a silent scream. When he finally managed to calm her down enough to put her under the covers again, she began whimpering when he tried to get back to the chair, and he interpreted that as her telling him that she didn't want him to move, though she was technically not awake. He toed his boots off and sat on the bed next to her, resting his back against the headboard, one hand caressing her arm soothingly, and her cries quietened down.
Christ, he was tired.
He needed to retreat into himself and figure this whole thing out, try to make sense of it somehow, his brain demanded it, because it threatened to shut down, but her need for him to be there for her, coherent, was stronger, and so his fears were pushed down deep inside him, for now. Hunt had no experience of any of this, how to look after someone, how to comfort them, or protect them from a dark, scary monster in their head, but he tried his best, that night, with his colleague not-so-mere-a-colleague-anymore.
He'd walked into the CDI that morning and now he would walk out of her flat, when she could be trusted to fend for herself again, into a world he feared, because strange, and alien, and uncomprehending, a topsy-turvy realm where there was no arrogance, no reassurance, and no control, and no secure sense of power for him.