Title: Message delivered
Genre: Gen
Character: Don, David, Liz, Colby, Nikki
Rating: PG-13
Challenge: January 2010, challenge no. 7 at lj comm hurt_don (What: drugs, where: warehouse)
Spoilers: General for season 5 and beyond
Warnings: Mentions of drug use, violence, low level swearing
Word count: 3370
Disclaimer: Own nothing, not being paid.
A/N: Blamed on a certain aspect of one of ALEO's latest stories that had a few of us obsessed. Shameless whump without plot, i.e. don't ask for more!! The story is told from two different perspectives. Thank you to Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain, Zubeneschamali and dreambrother89 for the beta.
Summary: Someone had clocked Don on the back of his head, or he'd been really clumsy and somehow clocked himself. In an empty warehouse.
The first blurry opening of his eyes told him that he was in a room, a big room, and it was empty, other than for him. His eyes slid shut and it was a while before he had the energy to drag them open again. The ceiling was high and the room just as empty as the first time he'd looked.
Warehouse?
He rolled his head against the wall, looking for an entrance or exit. It was off to the left, leading into what looked like another large room...and somewhere on the right of his head was a very sore spot. A hiss escaped his lips as he brought his right hand up to feel gently along the back of his head, fingers pushing through his hair—the strands stiff and clumped together—until he found the problem. The area was swollen and raised and he could feel broken skin and dried blood. Either someone had clocked him on the back of his head, or he'd been really clumsy and somehow clocked himself. In an empty warehouse. Half-naked. There had to be a joke in there somewhere.
Half-naked?
He looked down towards his chest again, giving his eyes a second to refocus from the blurriness induced by the movement, and confirmed that yes, that was right. His shirt had disappeared somewhere along the line leaving chest hair, scar and skin in its wake. And bruises. Lots of bruises, technicolour in nature. He thought he could see a boot print in amongst them all. And his body ached as well, now that he knew that it should be hurting. Okay, I definitely didn't do this to myself.
One good thing was that he still had his jeans on and the zip and button were still done up. Less on the good side was the dampness he could feel and the strong smell of urine. He must have pissed himself either when he'd been passed out or at some point in the time he couldn't remember before that. The thought was humiliating and he had to close his eyes for a few seconds, trying to just breathe.
What the hell happened?
Knowing that he couldn't ignore the world forever, he focussed again on his body and surroundings. There was bruising and cuts on his wrists, unmistakably from being restrained. A surge of panic flowed through his body at the thought and he pressed himself harder against the wall, his knees up to his chest and eyes searching the room again to make sure he really was alone. The thud of his pulse was loud in his ears and only got louder when he saw what his legs had hidden.
There was an empty syringe on the floor. He stared at it for a few seconds, his mind not wanting to process the implications, before frantically moving sideways along the wall, getting it away from his body. As much as he really didn't want to know, he had to know whether the needle had been used on him. A distressingly short search of his left arm found a puncture wound. He'd been injected with something, who knew what...and who knew if the needle had been clean. Considering how tired and unfocussed he still felt, it could have been a sedative of some sort. He preferred to think about what drug had been used rather than whether the needle had been used on someone or something else beforehand. Dirty needle... Another surge of panic and all he heard was white noise. He was light-headed, breathing too fast and shallow. He was going to pass out unless he got it under control. Forcing himself to drag in slower and deeper breaths, he calmed himself down until he no longer felt like he was going to faint. It was time to make a move, to try and get out of where ever the hell he was and get some help. His cell wasn't on his belt, so he already knew it wasn't as easy as just calling for it.
He used the support of the wall to push himself up, forehead pressed against it until the dizziness from being more than a foot off the ground subsided. Finally pushing off the wall, he started a slow journey across the room, grimacing at the uncomfortable feel of his damp jeans as they brushed his skin and the pain that moving caused in both his head and his torso. He paused at the doorway, trying to investigate the next room without putting himself in danger. Unlike the room he was in, it wasn't completely empty. There was a table on the far side of it, with some objects sitting on top of it.
Not able to detect any danger, he continued cautiously on into the room, approaching the table. Recognising one of the objects on the table, he started into a lurching run. It looked like his cell, turned off, and he quickly turned it back on, slightly alarmed at how dizzy he felt after the short distance. The seconds before it came fully on and connected to a network felt like an eternity. There were a lot of missed calls and a few text messages, plus voice mail, but he ignored them all for hitting a number on the speed dial, the 'David' coming up on the screen a relief. It was his phone.
After one ring the phone was answered, but David's frantic voice was distant, the cell and his hand hanging loosely by his side, his gaze captured by the other objects on the table. His wallet was there, but that was not what had caught his attention.
There was a pile of photos, of him. On the street, walking; in his Suburban talking to someone on his cell; lying on the ground, hands restrained behind him; putting the contents of the syringe into his own arm (he did that?); bruised, bloody and unconscious, shirt removed. His hand shifted the photos of its own accord, revealing each new horror. Next to them was a piece of paper, three words written on it: "Back off Marvin".
He mechanically raised his cell to his ear, still not really hearing what David was saying.
"David?" He could feel laughter bubbling up inside him, mirthless yet still there. It spilled out, almost turning into a sob. "It was a message. Back off Marvin." He laughed again. All of this, for a message.
He was suddenly sitting on the floor, back against one leg of the table, phone still to his ear.
"Don? Don, you still with me? We're on our way, you just need to hold on."
The words finally penetrated. He needed to help them.
"It's a warehouse...I-I-I don't think there's anyone else here." He felt so damned tired.
"We've got you on GPS, we'll be with you in five, Don. Are you hurt?"
"Peed my pants." Don was really not sure why those particular words had come out of his mouth. They weren't any that he'd particularly wanted to share, not with the humiliation factor. Although, David was going to find out soon enough anyway.
"Um...It's going to be okay, Don. It's going to be okay."
"Bruises, sore head. Injected with something." That was the information he'd meant to share. "'m tired."
"Just stay on the line, Don. We're almost there."
"'kay." He leaned his head back against the table leg, allowing his eyes to fall closed.
What seemed like a second later the cell was gently taken out of his hand and he protested, opening his eyes. David was kneeling in front of him.
"Try to stay awake, okay? The EMTs will be here in a minute." David put his hand out and shook Don's shoulder slightly. "Don?"
Don tried to tune in to what David was saying, but it was hard. He could already feel himself starting to drift away again. "Yeah," he murmured.
"Shit." The expletive was off to the side and came from Colby, jarring Don back into the present again. "David, you need to look at these."
"Message," Don murmured.
David smiled sadly at him, squeezed his shoulder and then stood up and moved away. Liz replaced him.
"Just hang in there," she said quietly, her brow furrowed and the skin around her eyes tight with worry.
"Syringe...other room."
"We'll get it," she promised. "You'll be fine." She put on a false jolly tone. "You had us worried for a while there. Don't ever do that again."
He couldn't help but smile in response to her small grin, allowing his eyes to slide shut again.
Everything would be fine. It had to be. He just needed to sleep first.
Two days. Two days and still nowhere to start. David rested his head in his hands, trying to think of something that they might have missed. Some avenue of investigation they hadn't already tried, some indication of who the hell had kidnapped his boss. They had no starting point, no idea where he was grabbed in the first place. There'd been no phone calls of demand, no contact at all. Two days and Don was probably dead. He had to be realistic, as much as he wanted to hide from the truth like they were trying to hide it from Alan and Charlie. Who knew if they were going to ever find Don's body.
His mind was still a blank. David rubbed his hands over his face and then rested his chin on them, elbows on his thighs. Colby was looking at him, a sombre expression on his tired face. They'd taken turns napping, none of Don's team willing to be out of the loop on what was going on. Wanting to be there when they got a lead. The amount of manpower they had, FBI and LAPD, and they still had found nothing. Another day or two and the powers that be would have to start restricting the number of people involved in the investigation. David glanced at his cell sitting on his desk—easier to reach than on his belt—but it mocked him with its lack of news.
He shook his head slightly. "I can't think of anything that we've missed."
Colby scooted his chair over closer. "You need to get some sleep," he said quietly.
"Yeah, I will. When Nikki wakes up," David replied. His cell rang and he instantly turned to it, answering almost before he'd seen the name on the screen: Don. His stomach lurched as he answered. "Don?"
Colby's eyes widened at the word, out of his chair and at David's desk in a second. David's desk phone rang and Colby answered it, writing down something on a piece of paper. GPS coordinates, now that Don's phone was on. They were up and moving, David still listening intently to his phone. There'd been no audible reply on the phone, just some more distant sounds that could be breathing or sounds of distress. David didn't think that Don's phone was close to his face.
"Don? Can you hear me?"
Liz and Nikki fell in behind them as they got in the elevator, Liz having quickly woken Nikki. Colby was also on the phone, probably checking whether any LAPD units were close to where Don's cell had been located.
There was still no answer.
"Don, it's going to be okay, we know where you are, we're on our way." Maybe he could hear them and just not reply. "You just need to stay on the line. It's going to be okay."
The relief came crashing in when Don finally replied. "David?" The sob that followed was more disturbing than how out of it and rough Don sounded. "It was a message. Back off Marvin." Don laughed, almost hysterical. Marvin. That was not a name that David wanted to hear.
"Don, are you okay?" There was no reply, other than harsh breathing. Shit. "Come on man, you just need to hold on. Talk to me." They were in the car, Colby behind the wheel. They exited the parking lot with a screech of tyres.
Colby glanced across. "He spoken at all?"
"Yeah," David replied, putting his hand over the mouthpiece. "He said it was a message, back off Marvin. He's not replying now, but I still can hear him breathing."
"Shit." Colby's expletive was heartfelt.
"Don? You still there? Just stay with me. We're coming to get you."
There wasn't much traffic, but the cars that were there moved quickly out of their way, Colby taking corners at speed.
He could still hear the breathing, but Don's lack of response was starting to worry David more. With no idea how badly he was hurt...
"Don? Don, you still with me? We're on our way, you just need to hold on."
There was another few seconds of just breathing and then Don's response came.
"It's a warehouse...I-I-I don't think there's anyone else here."
Don was lucid enough to assess his surroundings, but his voice wavered, unsure and exhausted. David gave his teammate a thumbs up to indicate that he'd finally got a reply.
"We'll be there in five," Colby said, guessing that he'd probably want the information.
"We've got you on GPS, we'll be with you in five, Don. Are you hurt?"
"Peed my pants."
David closed his eyes briefly, not wanting to know how bad it was going to be when they got there. The fact that Don had admitted it said a lot about his state of mind, but that it had happened... Yes, he'd been gone for two days and probably with people who didn't particularly give a crap about letting him near toilet facilities, but still, it was disturbing.
Not sure what to say, David settled for generic comfort. "Um...It's going to be okay, Don. It's going to be okay."
Another few seconds and Don spoke again, sounding even more weary, close to passing out if David was any judge, but giving him information he needed. "Bruises, sore head. Injected with something. 'm tired."
All he could offer was a connection to them, to safety. "Just stay on the line, Don. We're almost there."
"'kay." The word was quiet, sleepily spoken. Don's breathing was slower and more regular.
He put his hand over the mouthpiece again and passed on the information. "Warehouse, he thinks he's alone. He's got bruises and a head injury and he's been injected with something. He's pretty out of it. I think he's unconscious now."
David left out the mention of peeing his pants, it'd be pretty damn obvious when they got there. Don's breathing was fainter, but still regular, his hand probably having dropped with being unconscious, depending on how he was sitting or lying.
The final few minutes passed and Colby pulled the car up outside a warehouse, Nikki stopping abruptly behind them. An LAPD cruiser was waiting and they quickly geared up, not knowing whether what Don had said was true. While there were no other vehicles, the area appearing deserted and abandoned, getting themselves killed wasn't going to help Don.
The LAPD officers remained outside while the FBI agents entered the building, ensuring that there would be no nasty surprises when they did go to exit again. A message might be more effective with half a dozen dead law enforcement officers. A criminal who was stupid enough to mess up an FBI agent to send a message might be stupid enough to go further. Of course it always had the opposite effect of what the criminal intended—there was no faster way to bring law enforcement down on your enterprise than to threaten or hurt one of their own. They would not be intimidated.
The warehouse was made up of three large interconnected rooms, plus some small offices leading off of the first room. From what David could see of the rooms, they were empty, no furnishings or signs of use other than some reasonably fresh footprints in the dirt and dust leading towards the large second room, but they still moved cautiously, clearing the small offices before moving to the next room. Approaching the doorway he could see that the room wasn't completely empty. There was a wooden table, close enough to the doorway and far enough to the right that it had been out of view from most of the first room. Don was on the floor, leaning against the table leg furthest into the room, almost slumped onto his side. His eyes were closed and he was shirtless, his torso covered in bruises.
David gestured that he was going to go to Don, and the team moved into the room, the other members quickly finishing the sweep and moving into the next room before returning. Don's appearance looked worse the closer David got. The bruising was extensive and he thought he could see a boot print in amongst the mottled colours. They'd stomped on his chest. A flare of anger rose at the realisation; it could have killed him if a rib had fractured and done some damage. Could still kill him. The acrid smell of sweat and urine hit him when he got within a few feet and the raw flesh and bruising around Don's wrists indicated that he'd been bound at some point. There was fainter bruising on Don's face, but for some reason they'd largely left it untouched.
David knelt down in front of Don, putting two fingers to his neck to check his pulse. His skin was cool but his pulse was regular and relatively strong. Don didn't stir at the touch.
"Don. Don, you with me?"
David thought he saw a faint flicker of Don's eyelids in reaction, but he wasn't sure. The cell was still in Don's hand, held down near his side. Gently uncurling Don's fingers from it, David placed it in the evidence bag that Liz silently offered him. That got a response, Don making a noise of protest and finally opening his eyes. Typical. Him and that cell are attached at the hip. The only thing that'd bring him around quicker would be if I took his watch away. Don's gaze was unfocussed and the skin around his eyes crinkled with pain as he grimaced.
"Try to stay awake, okay? The EMTs will be here in a minute." David put his hand out and shook Don's shoulder slightly, seeing that he was already starting to drift off again. "Don?"
"Yeah," Don murmured, but his eyes were already at half mast, sliding shut again.
David knew he was fighting a losing battle trying to keep Don awake, but he had to try.
"Shit." The word jarred David's head up, looking to the right to try and see what on the table had prompted Colby's reaction. "David, you need to look at these." The sheer disgust and anger in his tone told David that he probably really didn't want to see what Colby had found.
"Message," Don murmured. David turned back to him to see that he was a bit more alert. A brief squeeze of Don's shoulder and a sad smile, and David got up, not even having to gesture for Liz to take his place.
It was hard to contain his own reaction to the photos spread out on the table, but David did. A seething and boiling anger was roiling in his gut at the sight of the cruelty that had been inflicted on his boss. The worst was the photo of Don lying unconscious on the ground, bruised, bloody and shirtless, but it was eclipsed by the photo with the syringe. Don had been forced to inject himself with who knew what drug, with a needle of who knew what origin. The loss of control, humiliation and sheer terror that he had to have felt... David took a few deep breaths, looking back down at Don on the floor. He was still alive, unconscious again after telling Liz exactly where they could find the syringe, but alive was all that mattered.
Marvin wouldn't know what hit him, David would guarantee that. He would pay for what he'd done to Don.
--FIN--
A/N: I did say it was whump without plot... I will be finishing off posting the Numb3rs/Medium crossover I've been writing today, so anybody with any interest in a fic with the following summary should check it out. It's posted in the Numb3rs crossover section.
Summary: They say that friends help you move, but true friends help you move bodies. What happens when Allison has a dream about Don and Charlie?