"Come on!!" Dylan let out a shout of exasperation that bordered on hysterical. She was starting to get really anxious. Her eyes flicked to the pale, thin man lying limply in the passenger's seat. He'd stirred slightly at the sound of her voice, which was good. It was great. It meant he had a fighting chance. Or at least, he would, if only the damned light would turn green. She was considering just flying through it and damning the consequenses, but she couldn't take the risk. She didn't give a damn about the police, it was just him that she was worried about.
Her teeth caught the fleshy red sponge of her lip between them in an expression of concern. She'd had reprecussions about sneaking the unconcious enemy-turned-ally away with her, but she'd reasoned that she'd never forgive herself if she just let him lay there in the alley to bleed to death next to Seamus. She felt a slight pang of something like regret when she'd seen her ex-boyfriend, his head at an angle that made life impossible, but there was nothing that could be done about him. They could come and take him away, zip him in a black bag and all that, but she couldn't let that happen to the other one. If she thought about that for too long, she would start crying, and she had to keep her head clear.
She'd pulled the thin blade from his chest with a sickening sound that, despite her frequent accquaintances with gorey situations, made her want to vomit. She knew that it would only make him bleed more, but she couldn't move him skewered like that. She'd been prepared for the gush of blood that soaked his jacket and her hands, but it didn't make her any less sick, or worried when it came pouring out, forming a thick, dark pool on the pavement. Fortunately, the blade had pierced him through the shoulder, a mere few inches away from his heart and lungs. He'd been lucky. How he'd survived the fall, she could only imagine. But then, he had survived both the car crash off the Golden Gate bridge and the explosion that she and her friends had only narrowly escaped, themselves. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised when she walked up and found him still breathing. But she was. Surprised and relieved.
He groaned when she moved him, and she found the noise comforting rather than disturbing. She knew it probably wasn't good to move him like this, that his back should stay level with his neck so that his spine, if it was severely injured, wouldn't go out of alignment. But she had no choice. She checked him as best she could, and when she was relatively confidant that neither his neck nor his back were broken, she gritted her teeth and lifted him as gently as possible.
He was heavier than his slight build would have suggested, but Dylan managed to get him into her car, employing a shirt that had been discarded into the backseat in a long-forgotten moment of wanton abandon to soak up the blood that was seeping slowly out of his back and onto the car seat. She had to get him to a hospital, and fast. Not only was his life at stake (which was, of course, the most important thing), but her friends would wonder where she was if she was gone for too long. They'd all gone back to their respective places of residence to change out of their grimy fighting gear and into something more glamourous for the premiere, planning on meeting back at the theater when they were finished. She wasn't much of one for primping, and they knew that. They would get suspicious if her absense was too lengthy.
Dylan looked over at the poor man, whose face and somehow managed to grow even whiter than usual. Her brows knitted together at the sight. It frightened her more than she could say. She didn't even know why, but she wanted so much for this man, this person who was practically a complete stranger, to not die. There was something...something she couldn't put her finger on. She had to keep him alive so that she could perhaps, one day, figure out what the hell it was, or it would drive her crazy.
When the light finally turned green, she pressed the gas pedal down as far as it would go, and silently prayed that she would make it to the hospital in time.
The blinding light of the hospital room vicously assaulted his eyes as soon as he opened them, and crushed his head in its cruel talons. He couldn't think, the pain was so intense. There was just the white light, all around him. He thought he was dying. He thought that this was surely the end. He gasped, coughing, dots of red appearing on his hospital gown. Someone stirred at his side, wiped his mouth, put a hand on his forehead.
It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to keep his eyes open, to discover where he was. He wanted so badly to close them, to return to the blissful black oblivion that he'd just come out of, but he forced himself to stay alert. His eyes darted quickly around the room, taking in his surroundings. Hospital. Sterile, harsh, alien. He wished he'd just kept his eyes closed. At least he wasn't alone.
He wanted to start screaming. Everything hurt. The pain in his head was alternating between throbbing and stabbing, dull, sharp, dull, sharp. His breathing became heavy as he started to panic. His lungs felt like they were going to explode. How did he get here? A small paper cup was brought to his lips and he obediently sipped the cold water inside. He tasted only blood.
"Are you in pain?" the nurse at his bedside asked him.
He stared at her for a moment before nodding a little too eagerly, and his head screamed at him in protest. The nurse pressed a button that was connected to a tube that went into his arm.
"Just press that whenever you feel intense pain."
It was already beginning to take effect. He felt liquid, at ease, the pain quieting down to a weak throbbing, and gradually fading into numbness. This was better. But he was still afraid. At least the pain had let him know he was alive, but now that it was gone...how could he tell?
He realized that his hand had been balled into a tight fist for a long while. He unclenched it slowly, stiffly, and looked down to find a lock of strawberry-blonde hair laying in the palm of his hand. His eyes went wide and he felt his heart leap, almost painfully. The morphine couldn't reach him, there.
Slowly and shakily, he brought the golden strands up to his face and breathed their scent in as much as he could. Thank God, something familiar in this strange place. He ran it teasingly across his face, letting it ghost across his open lips and tickle his nose. He rubbed it against his cheeks, which were now wet with tears. She had brought him there. He would probably be dead if not for her, the Angel he'd kissed on the rooftop.
But now where was she? Why had she left him there? His eyes darted wildly around the room, hungry for some other evidence that she had been there. If she'd left her coat, or her purse, maybe she'd only just stepped out for a minute. But there was nothing but the silky strands of hair wrapped around his lithe fingers.
He had to get out of there, and back to her. He had to. He knew where she lived; he'd followed her home countless times. He was always watching her from the roof of the building next to hers, always wishing he could do more than just watch and want in the darkness. And then, on the roof, he'd finally worked up enough courage to do what he'd been wishing he could do, all along. He kissed her. The thought came into his head, she was right there, in his arms, and he finally did it. They'd just sort of come together. She didn't pull away. She received him rather warmly. He'd wanted to say something, to tell her, but he hadn't gotten the chance. He couldn't let her slip away, again.
He waited till the nurse had left him, then he disconnected his IVs, forced his legs to swing over the side of the bed, and grabbed the robe that was hanging on the wall. He rummaged in some drawers near the bed, his fingers stumbling through the collection of cotton swabs, gauze pads, bandages and oversized popsicle sticks until he found what he was looking for. He pocketed the syringe, removed the bag of painkiller from the IV, and tucked that in the robe pocket, as well. He had to shake his head to keep it clear. He was moving far too slowly. His limbs felt like lead weights. He could barely feel them making contact with the ground as he stumbled awkwardly forward. He wanted to close his eyes, to block out all the blurry shapes and distant noises and just sleep, but he couldn't. He had to do this. He couldn't stay here. But he couldn't walk. Tears of frustration began to brim his eyes, blurring his vision and burning his throat. He didn't know what to do. He twisted the lock of hair around his hand more tightly and brought it up to his cheek, drawing strength from it, reminding himself of the urgency of his mission. He had to get to her. He had to tell her...
Dylan brushed her hair with care. Her scalp still ached where her hair had been yanked out, nights earlier, first by him, then by herself. She'd felt terrible about having to leave him, like that, so she'd gritted her teeth and ripped out a little something for him to remember her by. She knew that would let him know what he needed to know, better than any written note or message left with the nurse.
She hadn't been able to go see him, yet. Something was stopping her. She'd never liked hospitals, or visiting people in them. They were always so different, just laying there, doped up, moments from death, unable to remember who she was... She did not have good experiences with hospitals. She'd gotten the number of the hospital, and called every day, just to check on him, to see if he was alright. She didn't think she could handle it if he wasn't. What if he died? She didn't want to think about it. With all that had happened in the past week, her nerves were in no shape to take something like that. She knew that she should go see him. She felt like he was her responsibility, even though she knew it wasn't really true. She hadn't felt responsible for another human being in a very long time, and she was trying to keep it that way.
A loud buzz interrupted her thoughts and hair brushing. She put down her brush and cocked her head to the side, wondering who it was. The girls always called before they came over. She hadn't ordered anything. Who would it be?
She padded barefoot over the carpet to the door and pressed the "talk" button on the speaker. She hoped this wouldn't turn into something where things would get broken and she'd have to get all dirty. She'd just gotten out of the shower.
"Hello?" she asked, her fingers crossed that it was just one of the girls, or Bosley. "Who's there?"
She pressed the "listen" button, and all she could hear on the other end was static. Scowling and uncrossing her fingers, she tried again.
"Seriously, who is it?"
She listened again, and could hear the faint sound of laboured breathing, this time. She was just about to get really pissed and threaten to call the cops if whoever it was didn't fuck off when she caught the tiny, almost inaudible sound of her name being said in a whisper. She gasped, suddenly realizing she knew exactly who it was.
He spilled out of the wheelchair and into her arms as soon as she opened the door. His head lolled back against her chest and he looked up at her face. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was parted in surprise.
"What are you doing here? Why aren't you at the hospital? How did you find me? Oh God..."
Questions cascaded out of her mouth in a stream of unintelligable noise as she dragged him into the elevator, taking care to avoid contact with his injured shoulder. The muscles in his arms burned and his hands were sore from propelling himself all the way from the hospital to her apartment. Thankfully, it hand't been too far, raw need and desperation acting in lieu of the strength necessary to maneuver the wheelchair. He needed more morphine, but they were moving again before he could say anything.
She laid him gently on the futon mattress sitting in the corner of the room. He heard the click of the door, much louder in his head than it really was, and then a rustling as she knelt beside him. It sounded like she was crying, but he couldn't see her. He was slipping. He fumbled for the syringe and the bag of liquid is his pocket and holded them out to her, his hands shaking. There were a few moments of silence and stillness, and then he felt the needle piercing his skin, entering his vein, felt the liquid spreading through his body. A soft moan escaped his chapped lips as the pain dissipated. He felt warm and safe knowing she was there, watching over him. This was where he needed to be, not that hospital. Here, he could sleep soundly, breathing her smell, all around him.
His eyelids fluttered closed and he finally succumbed to the exhaustion that had been threatening to envelop him since he'd left the hospital. She whispered his name and brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes, but he didn't hear her or feel it. He didn't hear or feel anything, and he didn't mind.
"Anthony..."
There wasn't any pain. He'd transcended above something so trite, so easily described as physical, human pain. He may have felt pain, if he'd been able to feel anything, at all. He was barely aware of his position, flat on his back, under a blanket, the occassional damp cloth swabbing his pale face. He faded in an out, flickering like a low flame, threatening to go out at any second, but always brought back by that Voice, that angel whisper.
He gave no thought to where he was, or who was speaking, or even if the Voice was real. He didn't move or think, or scarcely breathe for hours and hours. It had been nothing but blackness for longer than he could remember. Blackness, breif blurry images, dark shapes framed by a bright light, hushed voices, smells, both familiar and not. Fragrences that frustrated him, spiralling out of olfactory reach as soon as they'd wafted past his nostrils, filling him with that sense of longing, that feeling of "I can never get enough" that he so often associated with Dylan. Before these things registered in his brain, before he could piece these fractured bits of information together, the nothingness swallowed him, and he had no choice but to surrender.
As time passed, the nothingness let up bit by bit, and he began to dream. His dreams were both terrible and wonderful. He dreamed about things that had been and things that never happened. Things that he'd wanted to happen and couldn't bring into being, no matter how he'd tried, and things that already had come to pass, but that he could not prevent.
"Anthony..."
The Voice came back to him, came breaking through the dark fog of his nightmares like golden rays of the sun, warming the coldest and darkest corners of his mind with its unseen brilliance. This sound, and it alone, was bringing him out of it, out of himself, out of the clutches of death and the lingering threads of morphine that held him suspended between asleep and awake.
Now the nothingness was almost completely gone, and he'd begun to get more curious about the owner of this Voice. It was more than just a voice, but he couldn't put the pieces together in his bruised mind. But now that the numbness had given way to something more tangible, something more real and believable, the usual questions had begun to form in the back of his mind, and eventually, to burn his tongue. Words rarely did that to him. Nothing ever seemed so important to him. Nothing ever felt like it was deserving of vocalization. He always found some other way to express himself, if he found it absoultely necessary to do so, which he usually did not, at all. Words were so passe. Silence was so much more effective. But it would not serve him, now. Now, as he lay prostrate, confused, half-alive, words were the only thing that had been keeping him there. He prepared to speak, but his throat constricted, and instead of words, he errupted into a fit of violent coughing. He felt a calming warmth daubing his mouth, then his forehead. He swallowed, and the urge to cough was gone, along with the urge to speak.
He realized that his eyes were still closed, and that he was too afraid to open them. What if there really was no one there, and all this time, the Voice had been a figment of his imagination? What if it was just his malfunctioning brain playing back the kind voice of one of the nuns that cared for him as a boy; some of the only kind voices he'd ever heard? What if he opened his eyes and he was alone? He didn't know if he could cope with that, not now. But if he didn't open his eyes, he would never know...
He cracked open his eyes, blinking as they adjusted to the light, which was dim, but still achingly bright in contrast to the everlasting blackness that there had been. There was a dark shape interruping the yellow glow, but he couldn't discern who or what it was. It made him a little nervous, but he couldn't do anything about it. He shivered, automatically intimidated by how oppressingly near it was, how indistinguishable its features were, despite its obvious nearness. He could feel its warmth, smell its scent. It was that which saved him from panic. He swallowed. There was this heavy, dry feeling in his throat and extending down into his lungs. It was as if all this time, he'd been wanting to drink water, and had been smoking one cigarette after another, instead.
Finally, the dark shape that was hovering over him, the owner of the voice that had been calling him, came into some semblance of focus.
Dylan. He remembered, now. He'd stolen some morphine and a wheelchair from the hospital and escaped to her apartment. And now he was here, with her. He was so relieved, he could have wept.
He reached up with a trembling hand to touch her hair, which was hanging down around her face in long, soft waves. She smiled and touched his face. Her hand was warm. He closed his eyes and sighed. He was so happy. He couldn't remember being this happy in a long time. But he couldn't stay awake.
Dylan frowned as his hand slipped down and landed with a small thump on his chest as he passed out again. He'd been going in and out of concsiousness for the better part of the night. She threw a glance over her shoulder at the clock on the wall. 2:30. She was glad she didn't have to get up early for anything, tomorrow.
She was getting tired, but she wouldn't dare leave his side to retreat to her own bed. She simply put aside the washcloth, cup of water that he hadn't touched, the remaining morphine and the syringe, and laid down beside him. She snuggled up to him as best she could without causing him discomfort. He looked so different in the hospital garb, his hair coming un-gelled and hanging limply in his too-pale face. He was about as suave as a dishrag, at this point, but he was still somehow attractive. Aside from always falling for the bad guy, Dylan had also been partial to lost puppies, and the look he'd given her when he opened his eyes that last time definitely fell under the lost puppy category.
She sighed and kissed his shoulder lightly. He was going to be alright. She was going to take good care of him.
Dylan awoke to the startling sound of high-pitched screaming. It took her a few moments to slip out of sleep and wake up enough to realize that the terrible shrieks weren't the stuff of nightmares, but were actually coming from the man laying next to her. She kicked herself for falling so deeply asleep.
"Shh, shh, it's okay," she said in a hushed voice, stroking his face lightly. His pale blue eyes were wide open and tinged with red, his mouth was opening and closing like a fish who was trying to breath above water. Cold sweat poured from his forehead and soaked the pillow his head rested on. She placed both hands on the sides of his face and willed him to look at her. It took a few moments, but it eventually quieted him. She leaned forward, very slowly, and placed a tender kiss on his clammy forehead.
"What do you need, Anthony?"
He stared at her with that same lost puppy look from before, as though he were begging her to pull the answer from his brain so that he wouldn't have to speak. He gestured limply to where the morphine and syringe lay, beside the cup of water. It wasn't clear which he wanted, so she picked up the syringe, first.
"This? Is this it?"
He nodded, but gestured again in the same place.
"This, too?" she asked, picking up the cup. Again, he nodded. She lifted his head very gently from the pillow and brought the cup to his lips so that he could drink.
The water was room temperature by now, but he didn't care. His throat was so dry, he would have swallowed anything if it would have made it better. The water broke upon it like rain on a cracked desert. It felt wonderful. Now, he had only his pain to reckon with. Thank God he'd thought to filch the morphine. He was no stranger to pain, but this was much too intense to try and endure without the aide of some kind of painkiller. He couldn't ask for much better than morphine.
There was a prick at his skin as the needle broke through it, followed by the familiar rush of warmth throughout his broken body. When the rush of uphoria had passed, he opened his eyes and saw Dylan looking down at him, a look of warmth in her eyes that reached deeper inside him than the morphine could. He nodded his thanks and took her hand in his, squeezing it gently. He should probably tell her, now, while he was still awake, while he had her undivided attention, while he could still think mostly clearly. He licked his lips to wet them and opened his mouth, but the words never came. She leaned forward slighty in obvious anticpation, but she was never rewarded with the sound of his voice, only a frustrated sigh that escaped his lips at his faliure to launch the sentence he'd meant to utter up on the roof. She sighed, as well, and he felt even worse. She must have been able to tell, because she leaned over, placed the hand that he wasn't holding on his cheek, and kissed him on the lips.
Her lips were so warm, so full of life. Kissing her was like drinking warm, sweet cider. Its heat passed through his lips, trickled down his throat and spread all throughout his limbs and various other extremities, making him pleasantly tingly, all over.
She felt like she was kissing a corpse. It was oddly arousing. She didn't pull away from the icy mouth that had glued itself to hers. Instead, she leaned into the kiss, heating it up, chasing the cold away with her passion as it fused with his. She squeezed his hand tightly, suddenly wanting nothing more than to throw herself on top of him, but knowing that it would break him. Now, she had a new incentive to nurse him back to health. She couldn't wait.
To be continued...