Title: RUSH
Author: sangga
Email: sangga55@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: Don't own em, just get 'em on cheap rental.
Summary: "Sauntering, by clinical definition, is an aimless wandering, without destination." C/D angle.
Rating: R, for rude words, and what the Australian censor coyly refers to as 'adult concepts'.
Spoilers: Post-Impetus, at least.
Archive: Drop me a line.
Feedback: Always gives me the warm tinglies
RUSH
1. Behold
"And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,
That suck'd the honey of his music vows,
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason,
Like sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh;
That unmatched form and figure of blown youth,
Blasted with ecstasy: O! woe is me,
To have seen what I have seen, to see what I see!"
William Shakespeare – Hamlet
Sauntering, by clinical definition, is an aimless wandering, without destination. But he doesn't buy that. In fact, he's often realised that sauntering casually, letting long legs take him where they will, usually brings him to the place he's most been wanting to go.
Nice, how it works out that way.
The doors hiss. His face is already prepared into nonchalance.
"Hey, Keep."
"Unghmm."
She waves a fork, like a little flag. All he can see is her back, stylishly lab-coated, and how she's hitched her hair back out of the way. Getting stray hair in your takeaway is a drag.
He ventures closer, observes her multi-tasking. Chew, check the microscope, exchange a slide, spear another forkful, drop it back into the container to make a note, exchange a slide, check the scope, remember that there's something else you're doing…what was it? Ah, yes – eating. Tedious that. Take another mouthful –
He cranes his head a little, eyebrows raised, watching it all happen. There's too much going on for her to make eye contact yet. No, the slide goes under the microscope, not in your mouth. But she's had practise at this. It's really a fairly smooth operation.
He sees the contents of the takeaway container and blanches.
"I think the thing that all those years of juvie hall really taught me – I mean, apart from all the useful stuff, like picking pockets and locks – was that, whenever possible, it's always better to eat real food."
Her concentration breaks. She puts the slide down, and gives him a familiar look – droll, but ready to play.
"Are you referring to my lunch?"
He counters with dry seriousness, the doctor explaining the gravity of the condition. That's the game.
"I'm sorry, Claire, but it looks like dog chow."
"It is."
She's rewarded with a double-take. Having gained the upper hand, she slips him a wicked grin.
"It's leftovers from dinner. Pavlov had half, and I had half. So technically, yes, it's dog chow."
"Yuck." All pretence aside, he looks thoroughly disgusted. Then he shrugs, deadpan – back to the game. "Can I have my shot?"
The eternal game of wait and see. Banter, counter, rebuke, riposte, and can I have my shot now? She's familiar with the ritual by this stage, doesn't see any harm in it, and in any case, labwork does get a trifle dull from time to time. It's actually gotten to the point now where she likes to drag the game out a bit, see where it goes. Not that it's going anywhere, of course.
"Wait a minute."
She holds up the fork again to prevent his reply, then rifles through some notes ( that's just window-dressing, really), switches the slides again and sets her lunch aside, stands up.
"Right. What did you?… Oh yes. Right."
"Sorry to interrupt your lunch."
There's a smidge of genuine contriteness. She shrugs, makes a 'pfft' noise, flicks her fingers at the takeaway container like she might make it invisible all by herself if she had the facility.
"No problem. It was already cold, anyway."
"Cold dog chow – nice."
Now that one makes her crack a smile. Impish, on a tame scale "I can bring you in some tomorrow if you fancy.".
"Gee, I'm honoured, and…totally grossed out. Thanks, I'll pass."
He's gone the cool, debonair route, so she retreats into her professional persona. Nods her chin towards the Chair.
"Right. Sit. Give me a moment."
She doesn't watch him fold himself into the Chair, all lanky arms and legs, but instead focusses on the fridge, the vial, the syringe – the bits and pieces of the procedure that make it seem, although clinical, vaguely normal. She feels like an air hostess – are you comfortable in your chair, sir? here's your napkin and martini glass, is there anything else you needed? then I'll just stick this huge needle in your arm and inject you with a bizarre concoction of synthesized toxins and chemical inhibitors and we'll be landed before you know it…
She's readying the tray when she hears the swoosh and plop. The white missile sailing into the wastebasket at her feet is also a dead give-away. He's shooting hoops with her stationery, a look of sweet concentration on his face, tip of the tongue peeking out from between the teeth, arm raised, wrist back, ready to let fly.
With a tsk and a frown, she lets fly instead.
"Darien! Do you mind?"
"What?" All innocence. Hah.
"That could be important, you know. I've been taking notes all morning, and now you're… Oh, for pity's sake –"
She snatches for the paper ball in his hand, unscrews it, scans it, and then, irked, thrusts it back at him. Glowering.
"Don't tell me – just doodles, right?" He's making light of it all, because he knows it was just doodles – he checked. See, not so dumb after all.
She opens her mouth, thinks better of it, closes it.
He checks her face to get the okay. Come on, it's her lab. He always tries to be a well-trained houseguest.
"So – fire away?"
She can't think of anything to say that won't come out sounding like a tiresome, boring-adult rebuke, so she just nods and waves a hand. Turns back to fiddling with the tray-on-a-stand near his arm. The ball flies past her ear to land with a satisfying papery thunk inside its intended target.
Darien holds up both hands to quell the sounds of a screaming audience.
"Thank you, thank you. No applause, folks, just throw money."
She can't help it. He always manages to force her to grin, even when she thinks she's totally fed up with the 'terminal adolescent' thing. She sometimes feels like her own adolescence finished when she was five. So in a way, when it's not being overdone, it's refreshing. She gives him a dose of eyebrow, for tweaking her strings, but her voice is more relaxed.
"All done?"
"Yes, ma'am." He's penitent, but irrepressible.
"Arm, please."
He sticks his arm out obligingly. She notices the tattoo, it's sections stained with red. When she glances up, he's watching her eyes, the hint of concern there. This in turn makes him mirror her worry – except his usual reaction when he gets worried is to mouth off.
"I really used to play basketball, you know."
She taps the syringe, watches the bubbles float up, then lets her gaze rove over the rangy length of him – allowable, in this situation. Regards the syringe again, voice dry.
"I'd never have guessed."
"Yep. Might have gone major, if I hadn't been such a screw-up."
She watches carefully as the needle slides in, over the faint marks of old scar tissue, and when she's safely in the vein she pulls on the plunger and sucks back blood into the hub.
He's not watching the operation, it's all old hat. The only thing he's aware of nowdays is the tickle of her fingers on his arm. Still talking, he's looking over into some corner in space, and when she's sure he's completely distracted, she'll give him the shot.
"Anyway, it was kind of good experience for when I was in the pen. There was even a team, in Soledad. Good, too. One game, I remember, there was – unh!"
He gasps and jerks, eyes and mouth going wide. Claire looks up immediately.
"What is it?"
He looks into her eyes, shocked, still holding a breath. It trickles out of him slowly as she pulls out the needle, pressing a piece of gauze into place automatically. When he gets his arm back, he pulls it sharply away, folds it in against his chest.
"Darien, what is it?"
Dry-mouthed and stammering. "What the hell did you put in that?"
"What? Nothing! Just counteragent." She peers at him, confused.
He frowns. This is not fun. This isn't supposed to be how the game ends.
"Well, I just got a rush off it."
Non-plussed, and accusing – it has to be her fault. He sure didn't do anything wrong. Just showed up, stuck out a vein, same as usual.
"What?" He must be imagining it. "That's not possible. You can't have."
"Hello – can, and did." Annoyed, that she doesn't take him on his word, stinging like the tail-end of the sensation in his arm. "What, did you slip some secret herbs and spices into the new batch?"
"No!" She's really confused now, a little flustered. Checks over the vial, then grimaces at him. "Wait – show me your tattoo."
It's all green, so there's no disaster, no fault in her method, no incorrectness in the data, no lapse of concentration. The liquid was definitely counteragent. Now she's bothered.
"Well what happened?"
"Like I told you. Got a buzz."
"A buzz?"
He rolls his eyes. Was she really this protected as a youth?
"You know. Like a…a…" How is he going to put this?
"A rush," she states for him. She understands. Not that protected.
"Yeah."
"And you've never had this reaction before?"
"No."
She considers the vial, all the equipment again. Very odd.
"Well, there doesn't seem to be anything wrong… I just don't understand it."
Darien frowns and flops back on the Chair.
"Great. That makes two of us." He can't think of a better comeback, still feeling the jolting aftertaste of the shot.
She pats his arm, trying to reassure.
"Darien stay where you are. I'll try and find out what's happening. We'll need to run some tests on this."
She swings into full doctor mode, begins bustling. Ticked-off, the prospect of a lazy day ruined, he throws up his hands and looks to the ceiling.
"And my life is complete."
oOo
Nothing's coming up. It's been days of decanting, and blood work, and scope-work, and there's nothing. She can't figure it out, which really plagues her. She should be able to figure it out. She's just about to put it down to a freak occurrence – some reagent on his arm, some minute detail in the transfer… A one-off.
It's three days later when he returns – busy at the office. He's looking rather average. Hobbes has to help him in the door, he's in first-stage headache-o-rama. No smell-o-vision. Just sharp, lancing pain.
He staggers at the entrance, and Hobbes catches him, looks up with an appeal.
"Keep…"
She's at the phone, and turns at the sound of them coming through.
"Yes, they're here. Yes… No – look I have to go." Hangs up abruptly, then quick-steps to the refrigerator.
Darien is clutching at his skull and panting. She fumbles the vial for a second, giving directions.
"Move him – in the chair."
Hobbes struggles his partner up onto the seat, watches for a worried second. Nothing's reached critical mass just yet, and the Keeper is already prepping the syringe, so he bobs his head towards her, then back at the door.
"You okay? I got Golda double-parked…"
Too busy for chit-chat, she nods, dismissing him peremptorally.
"What? Fine. Go. Darien –"
Snapping her fingers in front of his face, no games today. He's not too out of it yet to be aware.
"What?"
"Hold still."
"Is Bobby gone?"
He looks blearily towards the door. She knows what's on his mind, nods as she moves the tray closer.
"Yes." Curt. Does it bother her? Keeping little secrets is her job…
He glances at the needle, glances at her. The worst part of anxiety is not knowing whether you need to be anxious in the first place.
"Do you think?…"
She shakes her head, unable to give any concrete answers, in spite of all her research.
"I'm not sure. But we don't have a choice really."
"Great. Fine." Grunting, as a lash of pain makes him see red spirals. "Just give me the shot."
She pulls his arm down, watching his fingers curl up as the headache worsens, checks the syringe, taps the vein, swabs, slips in the needle.
Darien is staring at the syringe, she realizes. He looks strangely…hungry. Unnerving. His eyes flick up, sees her watching him – his face tints guiltily. She feels bad. It's not his fault, after all. She's supposed to be responsible for all this, and if she'd only managed to work out what was going wrong, then none of this would be a problem…
She sighs, then pushes the plunger in slowly.
His expression changes. Goes slack, mouth softening. The grimace of pain turning into a look of pleasure, his head rolling back, eyes closing as his back arches up gently.
Then she's the one feeling guilty, guilty for watching him, like she caught him getting out of the shower or something.
Or something.
But she's a professional (hah - a professional what? voyeur?), his doctor, and she needs to keep tabs on his reaction. So she tells herself. Feels her cheeks pink delicately.
His breath is coming in short, soft gasps – it's stronger this time. His head falls to one side, exposing a tanned expanse of neck, where she can see the vein throbbing electrically beneath the skin.
Then it's over. He's in a light sweat, but that might have been the headache. When his eyes blink open to look at her, to see her observing him, she starts, then fumbles around methodically, withdrawing the needle and replacing it with gauze.
Instantly, he's embarrassed. For both of them. His released arm goes up to cover his eyes, voice a mumble.
"Sorry."
She swallows, and reaches for professional courtesy.
"You have nothing to be sorry for. You're having a reaction to the counteragent and I can't figure out why – I'm the one who should be apologising."
"Sure."
"Darien, it'll be alright. Whatever this is, we'll sort it out and stop it."
He closes his eyes. There's a pang there that he doesn't like to put on display. Because for an insane second, he's not sure if stopping it's what he wants.
oOo
Conversing later over test results. He balances on the edge of the lab counter. She's frowning at her notes.
"So I've checked everything I can think of, but nothing's been changed."
"Well something's changed. You've seen what it does to me."
"Yes, but there's nothing here that tells me why you're reacting this way. Your blood chemistry, the counteragent itself, are all exactly as they were."
He sighs and unkinks his neck. When all the possible explanations have been ruled out, the only solution left must be…
"I'm developing a tolerance or something, right?" The idea of becoming a full-blown junkie, with all the implications, has him more panicked than he wants to admit.
Claire shakes her head. She's done the graphs on that.
"I really don't think that's it."
"Then what the hell is it?"
She expels a long breath, and the bad news.
"I don't know. I'm going to need to run more tests."
"Great." Picking at his fingernails grimly.
She's been weighing up her options, and this seems to be the last one available. She broaches it gently.
"Darien, I want to administer the counteragent under controlled conditions. Hook you up to the monitors, try a scan – the works."
"Wonderful."
"It should help me work out what's going on." That's the light at the end of the tunnel, the dangling carrot.
"Should help you… Okay." Relenting, he shrugs. "You're the doc."
He trusts her, with the medical stuff anyway – that's good. She nods as she explains the procedure.
"So I'll need you to come in earlier than usual for your shot. Just before you hit three segments green. That way we won't have to worry about you going red-eye. I've asked the boss to hold you off any major assignments this week, so barring unforseen disasters, you'll need to come in by Friday."
His face flattens at mention of the Official. "So what'd you tell –"
"That I'm conducting a series of routine precautionary tests, part of your regular quarterly check-up." And she explains it with the same cool exterior she used when she explained it to the Official.
"Oh." His shoulders relax.
She gives him an encouraging smile. "So, we should have some answers, or at least some more complete data, by the weekend."
He frowns, not completely convinced.
"And this is going to help, right?"
"I'm sure of it." How sure is that? She makes her voice sound confident, for his benefit.
It seems to work. With a hitch of his shoulder, he swings off the bench.
"Okay then. Guess I'll see you Friday."
That's only four days away. She sits in her chair, watching him go, and makes a mental note to try and find some kind of anti-blush makeup for her face between now and then.
oOo
Four days, and then three, and then two, and then one…
And then none at all. He sits in the Chair, waiting with tightly reined impatience while she arranges flasks, tubes, notes, tray. Stuffing around with wires and the machines behind and at left flank. Not much longer, but then some.
Steadying the nerves. He pulls a coin out of his baggy pockets, and begins running it over the tops of his fingers, somersaulting over and back, and over and back. Bomb disposal experts often do leatherwork to relieve stress. Darien only has his fingers to play with.
Claire comes up from behind his shoulder, looking very efficient, a gaggle of wires streaming out of her fist.
"Open your shirt, I need to put these on."
More sticky tabs going onto his chest, a matching set for the ones at his temples. He feels like a piece of performance art. That done, she bustles away to do something else.
All this anticipation, so when's the big climax?
No – scratch that. Rephrase.
She snags his attention by dotting her pencil towards him, involved in examining a paper read-out.
"Yeah?"
"Do something. I need to check the monitors."
"'Do' something?"
She flicks the pencil again.
"Quicksilver something. Anything."
He shrugs, looks at the coin in his hand. Suddenly a point of liquid mercury pools in his palm, blossoms up to cover his fingers, slithers over the coin. His visible lower arm shifts, the coin is tossed, and by the time it lands back in his hand the quicksilver has flaked away from both. A magic trick. Would you like to see it again? In slow motion, this time?
Claire is immune to conjuring – she's already checking over the read-out.
"Perfect. Okay, we're ready."
Finally. Everything has been tagged and wired and ordered to the nth degree. She clears her throat, rolls the tray over to his side.
"Alright. Here we go. Don't worry about what happens when the counteragent is going in –" What happens? Oh, that. Right. "- just let me record exactly what's going on. And hopefully we'll get something out of all the data."
"Hopefully." Her echo, looking sideways quizzically.
"Yes – hopefully."
She prepares the shot. Tra la la – everything under control here, folks, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to see…
His arm is already in place. She checks the tattoo, then swabs, and slips the needle in. Then glances up at him.
He was watching the shot, watching it all happen, but he just can't do it. It's…it's personal. Sure, he's seen her dancing around her own bedroom in a bathrobe, but this is different. He turns his head away.
Her voice turns it back again.
"Darien." Gently, the old 'this will hurt me more than it's going to hurt you' line. "Darien, you have to look at me. I'm sorry. But I need to keep an eye on your responses."
His face darkens, but he swivels back in her direction, keeping his eyes firmly focussed on a point somewhere over her right shoulder, nods unenthusiastically.
She sees him tense-up as she readies her fingers.
"Darien."
"What?"
"Stop worrying. You'll screw up my readings."
Is that all? He snorts unhappily.
Her face softens compassionately. "It'll be fine. Maybe – maybe nothing will happen." Which she knows is an out-and-out lie. Twice is no coincidence. But she's trying.
"Maybe," he mutters grimly.
"Darien. Relax."
He nods mournfully, then makes an effort. Sighs out a breath, lets his shoulders dip.
She nods in reply. Then steels herself. This is the first time she's really allowed herself to watch what happens. She's already fighting the blood-rush in her cheeks. Having a pale complexion is a bitch.
She sighs, then pulls back to get a flash in the syringe. Got the vein. Okay…
Narrowing her gaze as she meets his eyes – this somehow makes her feel more professional, more detached. A clinical concern. He's staring at the syringe fixedly, expectation and anxiety and fear running together to form a thin gruel of sweat, tiny beads at the hairline.
Fingers working on automatic – keep a thumb on the gauze at the entry point to prevent a bruise, depress the plunger slowly…
Slowly…
Nothing happens.
Her eyes flick down to check the dosage line – then dart back up again when she hears his tight inhale. His eyes have widened.
Dammit. Twice is no coincidence.
And third time's the charm. She watches him blink unsteadily, fight against it, breath stuck in his throat. Then his eyelids go heavy, flutter down, and she knows who's won.
His breathing becomes imperceptible, mouth yielding, lips forming a silent 'oh'. In stasis, for a moment. Then she eases the plunger in a little further, and his chin lifts, neck lengthening, head going back to press against the cushion.
She doesn't need to look at the monitor to know that his heartrate has escalated – she can feel it, under the skin of her arm, near her elbow. Swallowing, she tries to stop her own pulse from mirroring. Pushes the plunger slowly. Watches his breathing as it starts coming faster, shuddering into staccato ins and outs.
He makes a noise, a quiet gasp, and his head rolls to the right, then back to centre. It registers in her brain that he's still aware of her presence, that this is restrained thrashing. She checks the dosage counter – barely halfway – and her fingers are coldly slippery on the plunger when she thumbs it in again.
The extra measure slipping into his bloodstream seems to erase his consciousness of an audience. His shoulders push back, one knee jerks up. Her eyes travel to his bare feet - his heels are kneading the padding of the Chair. His other hand, on the armrest, grips tightly, knuckles white. Outside time, outside awareness, his face has become pliant, gentle, a contrast to his body, which is twitching in tiny, convulsive spasms.
And she realises that her own breathing has become hot, rapid, small.
The-the periodic table starts with hyrdogen. Helium. Lithium…then – um, …Berryllium. Boron.
She watches a perfectly formed droplet of sweat roll along his breastbone, trickle into the brown hollow of his stomach.
Carbon. Nitrogen. Oxygen…
The plunger has two lines to go. He makes another inarticulate groan, squeezes his eyes shut tightly, his lips trembling. His head falls forward as his hips push into the Chair –
And then it's over, and his gasps are becoming quieter, more gentle. Everything is coming to a slow, shuddering halt. His shoulders relax, and he eases his head back. His eyes are still closed.
Which is probably a good thing. Claire extracts the needle, tapes the gauze, busies the tray away to the countertop, and takes a long, blinking breath. She has a strong urge to press her cold fingertips to her cheeks, but that would be excessive. Instead, she begins putting instruments aside, for sterilization.
She hears him sigh out a hoarse breath behind her, his rasping whisper is not intended for her ears.
"Ah, crap…"
The first rule of good doctoring is always reassure the patient. She fixes a blank face, turns around to look at him, keeping her fingers in steadying balance behind her on the countertop.
"So. I think that went…quite well."
He glances up from massaging his eyeballs behind closed lids. Sarcasm writ large.
"Claire…"
"No. Really." She moves quickly to check the reams of print-out, presses the appropriate buttons on the machines. "We have a lot of information now, and I just need to collate it and study it. It will take a few days, of course, but I'm sure that –"
"Claire."
" – and once I've managed to examine the evidence it'll be a simple –"
"Claire."
He's risen from the Chair now, monitor tabs ripped away exasperatedly. It's like a glimmer, the barest hint of darkness unleashed, and she remembers suddenly why she's always so careful. Being self-contained is her best defense.
"What?"
Mastering frustration with a conscience-stricken sigh, he jerks a thumb at his chest.
"It's me, remember? Just…can you fix it?"
The unsettled note in his voice makes her frown. But she can't be handing out false hope like placebo candy. It's not only unprofessional, it's unfair. She assumes a calm, rational expression, eyes kindly, because most people find that comforting.
"I'll call you. First thing I know. I promise."
That's all the candy she's going to dole out, and it will have to do. He nods wearily, then turns to leave, buttoning his shirt.
She's about to swivel around again to her precious instruments, when she sees Darien look back. His shirt is crooked – he's mismatched the buttons, she realizes.
"Claire? Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
He frowns softly as he considers the question.
"Why do you put your bathroom scales up on top of the lid of the toilet?"
Her mouth opens, shock, disconcertion, self-consciousness warring on her face. A hint of déjà vu.
What did you see, exactly?
Then she understands. This isn't the game. This is something else. A kind of 'I've shown you mine, now you show me yours' turn-around that cements an alliance. An alliance of personal details, of confidential knowledge. Of secrets. And he needs to know. To allay his fears.
Stammering. Quiet. Blushing. Because it's silly, and stupid, and insane, and she can't believe she's giving her tacit agreement by replying.
"Because…because Pavlov drinks the toilet water."
He stares, then nods.
"Okay. Thanks."
Then leaves.
oOo