Not mine, again. No one in their right mind would actually let me have characters.
i.
The descent into awareness happens anything but slowly, nothing approaching gentle, and ends with a spine-tingling jolt as his eyes fly open. He vomits bile and blood and hears bitter laughter somewhere in the haze. (sorry mom I hope that wasn't your shoes again but you know how bad I am with anaesthetic) Even ingrained and second-nature instincts like observation fall by the wayside when coming out of drug-addled hazes like this. (whoever made the call on drugging me is going to get a knee to the kidney fair treatment be damned)
There's very little to observe anyway, he finds after a few moments, because either his eyes still aren't working or he's in pitch darkness. His head throbs like someone's taken to it with a baseball bat and there is something sticky parting his hair at the back of his skull. (for hours mom yelled at me for not wearing a helmet)
It takes a little while for his senses to come back and resemble anything approaching functioning. It has always been like this with anaesthetic, anything that sedates him. All he can do is wait for it to pass and hope that when his ears stop ringing he can hear again.
Deep, even breathing is somewhere nearby and he uses his arms to slide backwards. A quiet curse escapes him as the rope binding his wrists catches on something sharp and snags, jarring his entire body painfully. He rolls and his back crashes against a solid surface and then it is only a matter of seconds before his knees are up to his chest and he snaps off a demand to know what is going on. (you can't try and use your FBI voice on me Donnie that's cheating now get out of the way and let me see or I'll tickle your hands)
A voice that sounds like gravel, rough and unpleasant, bites out an order to stay where he is and shut up unless he feels like being drugged again. He takes a deep breath, dragging air into his quivering lungs and stills against whatever it is that he's managed to get his back to. (what the hell is happening here) The voice must come from the air around him, he can't even see a line of light under a door and the thought is completely preposterous because he had to have gotten in there somehow.
It takes a little while but eventually his ears are working (like under water god I hate being drugged) again and the breathing is changing, becoming shallower and quicker. It sounds like whoever was unfortunate enough to get themselves stuck here with him is waking up. (did they grab someone else or am I just imagining things) Lowering his knees, he reaches out tentatively and tries to gauge where the person is. It's his responsibility to make sure no other innocents are caught up in whatever the hell this is and the purpose is stronger than the nausea.
A sharp intake of breath sounds before he manages to find anything and the rustle as a body rolls over quickly is all the warning he has before a stream of obscenities split the silence and light spills over everything. (holy hell what Ian where why oh shit) The familiar figure of the sniper is similarly bound, hunched half on his knees, half braced with his forearms and breath seizes in Don's chest.
The gravelly voice cracks like a whip, sharp instead of rough this time, and there's nowhere to go as shadows block out the light. He fights (you never did learn when to pick your battles Eppes) and thinks that maybe he lands his knees in someone's groin. He really hopes he did as he hears Ian's pained breathing. (you'll pay you will I promise)
Hard, cool metal bites into his wrists as he's hauled, still unsteady, to his feet. His memory is clearing but he doesn't know where the others aside from Ian are (the bust nothing ever went that wrong ever before there's no precedent what do I do now) and panic tightens his throat as his legs firm slightly underneath him. He calls out the sniper's name (Ian goddammit answer me) and receives nothing but a backhand across the face and vision that swims again for his trouble.
Wrenching against the cuffs is a bad enough idea that he doesn't bother trying while he blinks away the white spots in his eyes and stumbles along docilely enough while rage sets every cell in his body alight. (there you go Petey finally learning to pick my moment) He tries, strains, forces his every sense to try and get enough of a picture of his situation to get out. A sudden horrible thought makes his knees give a little and the only thing that keeps him upright is the surge of fury and bite of the cuffs around his wrists.
(if you hurt my team I am not even going to bother to make it look like an accident)
The only sound as they walk down a corridor that seems to never end is the quiet pad of feet against concrete and shallow, panting breathing and soft curses that make him think of the academy at Quantico, the crack of rifle fire, long days and nights in the wild and comfortable silence. He almost smiles but it turns into a snarl, a desperate gnash of teeth as the cuffs tear into his skin when he is shoved around a corner into another corridor he can't even take in before his vision swims again.
A solid hand connects with the back of his head and he snarls properly as it lands against broken skin and bruised flesh that sends a rush of pain through his entire body. (I am going to do to you everything they taught us not to do) His vision is dim enough considering the substandard lighting and these constant blows are making it even harder to concentrate.
The gravel voice laughs at him, a bitter, unhappy sound, (laugh now just see what kind of sounds you make when I get my hands around your throat) and tells him that there are only two of them and four opponents and does he really think fighting is going to do any good?
He snaps off that he'd like to see those odds again in a fair fight without the use of chloroform. (really really really really hate sedatives) That doesn't seem to cause a reaction in the man he's dubbed Gravel because there is silence as they continue moving.
When they halt all of a sudden his knees aren't beneath him anymore, they're hitting the concrete with a sickening thud, his arm is up behind his back and bones aren't supposed to bend that way. (broken wrist leg clavicle concussion and a summer without touching bat or gloves) Breathing takes a back seat to swallowing a scream of agony as his lip splits beneath his teeth.
(reckon you can twist these odds for me Charlie I could really use it right now)
All he knows for sure through the haze of repeated blows and all-consuming blurs spinning past his eyes are the brief glimpses he gets of Ian's steely eyes from a few metres away that promise him nothing other than that he won't leave him willingly.
It isn't much, but gives him strength enough to spit the blood in his mouth at the man's face when he bends close to ask how the chloroform sounds now.
(it sounds marvellous, scum)
ii.
His entire body is a throbbing ache. (toothache appendix broken bones a knife in the chest has nothing on this)
There have been three more chloroform doses that he remembers since the van and the stone walls do no favours for the smell of stale vomit. He supposes he should be grateful that they remember to leave food and water sometimes otherwise he might have vomited out organs instead of mostly bile.
Ian's eyes are softer when there is no one else there and they provide pinpricks of hope in the dim light while he slumps against the walls and doesn't even bother fighting his bindings any more.
The steely eyes and low even voice that are gradually becoming their own distinct entities do what they can to steady his world when it tips on its axis. (Ian's here too remember he has to watch what they do to you) Ian tells him that Gravel and his cohorts will have the not inconsiderable wrath of every law enforcement agency in LA to contend with because the abduction and assault of two federal agents and attempted murder of four more (Colby Liz Nikki David they're still alive it's okay they aren't here to see this) will have put them on every radar in existence.
He isn't sure but he thinks he believes Ian when he says that the others are okay. They had cover and each other and that might have been enough. He and Ian were the ones who made the mistakes.
(Colby will break your fingers and Liz will make you eat your own eyes) Laughter bubbles from his throat sometimes and he can't control it.
He croaks out the Ian's name when he can, to reassure himself (reassure us both) that he isn't alone in the dark when shadows creep in the corners of his eyes and he loses feeling in his hands from where they're pressed against the cool stone.
Eventually he manages to roll and crawl and drag himself across the room and stop, breathing hard and tasting blood, against long, bent legs. Still bound hands explore tentatively and strong, callused fingers find them, squeeze in response, as the voice, Ian, says his name (I can't forget my name I can't I can't I can't I can't) calmly and apologises for not being able to come across himself but his ankle is bound to the wall.
A bitter, wet laugh escapes his throat because his legs have been unbound for what might be days but then again it isn't as though he's much of a threat at the moment. (harmless hapless helpless hopeless)
The voice (Ian is the only link home) doesn't make any promises, which he appreciates. He knows it (tone pace modulation every last inflection) too well to not be able to tell truth from lies and he knows that any promises (not the one where he'll stay, watch, keep hold of sanity, that one he'll keep) will be lies.
iii.
The lines between reality and nightmares keep blurring and he wakes screaming, trembling, coughing, (don't sleep don't let them get you) and Ian's voice is calm and steady from somewhere above him as fingers that have saved his life more times than he can count twist in his hair and ghost across his neck.
Blood and vomit and fear are all he can smell in the prison of stone but he can hear enough (please don't stop talking Ian) that hope isn't entirely gone as fingers squeeze his face painfully.
Still there, hope is still there when he hears the thudding heart that matches his because two is much better than one.
Part II isn't far behind.