Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: Spoilers for 5x15 and vaguely for the rest of the season in terms of canon character deaths. Meant to fit in a few weeks/months after the events of the season finale. Set in the Sentinel/Guide trope universe where Tobin is a Sentinel: a person with enhanced senses. And Nicholas is a guide: a person that helps a Sentinel control their gifts and keep them from 'zoning' or hyper-focusing on one sense and thus vulnerable. The connection or bond between a sentinel and guide is a soul deep and almost spiritual thing that is generally considered pre-destined. Much like the soul-bond/one-love trope.
Warnings: *Contains: slash, adult language, adult content, drug use/allusions to addiction, possible consent issues – could be considered dub con due to the trope but nothing serious, mild classism: Sentinels often have a privileged status over that of guides despite the fact that there is a shortage of guides per Sentinel, thus guides are hugely prized. Please see original chapter for other information and warnings. – This chapter is also told in Rick's point of view.
Metronome (the piece of me I wish I didn't need)
Chapter Four
He was eerily fascinated by the process as Tobin shuddered, one hand pressing against his temple. Pain etching itself across his expression like a chisel through granite as the man shoved himself through the small gap in the trees and into the secluded little hollow. Barely stopping long enough to sit down before shaking fingers were fumbling inside the folds of his pack as the Sentinel brought out at least half a dozen jars and vials and set to work.
The process would have been practiced – easy - if Tobin hadn't been as bad off as he was. And all they were getting were just the echoes. The backwash of shared discomfort that coasted through him as every action, every pause, every twitch and grimace transmitted to the world just how much the man was suffering. It pulled at him. Pulled at all of them. It was instinctive and coarse. Like the pity that comes part and parcel with watching a wounded animal flail and kick – its leg caught firm in a hunter's trap. Morbidly rapt before you shake yourself free of it and spring into action.
And while he'd never considered himself the most empathetic of people, he couldn't deny that the sheer sight didn't have his back up. Every time a vial slipped between his fingers. Every time the man shivered – muffling muted little grunts of pain into the forearm of his jacket - he had to stop himself from tossing everything to the wind and confront him right then and there. Willing to do just about anything to make it stop. Feeling gritty with it as the others shifted behind him.
Guilty.
It wasn't until he seemed to have the mixture finished – littering the ground with mostly empty vials and plastic bottles of finely crushed pills - that Tobin half fell off the log he'd been sitting on. Movements jerky and ill-timed as he used the scoop of his hands to dig out a shallow pit – fumbling with his lighter once, twice, dropping it, then again before the tatter of dried moss and kindling finally caught fire.
The man's reaction to the soft flare up made him catch his lip between his teeth. Keeping his hand up – fisted and tight – to make sure the others held their ground as Tobin cried out. Shuddering through a strangled sob as he clutched his eyes and shuffled away.
Christ, he had no idea the man was so bad off.
He'd talked to Tobin just yesterday about shoring up a section of the wall.
He'd given no sign.
Nothing.
Tobin's chest heaved, keeping his head in his hands as he muttered inaudibly to himself, shoring himself visibly – inch by inch – until a ragged sort of calm slowly descended. A breathing exercise, right from one of the Tower's official handbooks. Tobin didn't move again for another five minutes, unsticking his lids slowly and making his way back - half-blind – to the fallen tree he'd been using as a chair.
The fire crackled – low but well fed as Tobin finally raised his head – eyes a livid blood-shot he could see even from the distance, before looking carefully around him. Head cocked like he was trying to make something out before his expression fell and he looked away. Surveying the remaining area quickly before turning back to the matter at hand.
It wasn't until he started filling a medical syringe with the opaque blue solution that Glenn and Deanna raised their eyebrows significantly at him. The question there was silent, but no less vocal.
Now?
He shook his head, making a quick decision. The man was too unstable to approach right now. Too volatile. He was barely holding it together as it was. Any interference from them before the Sentinel had calmed down a fraction was only going to make the situation worse. As much as he hated to admit it, they needed him docile. The drug would do that for them. They'd have to worry about the consequences later.
He considered looking away when Tobin shrugged awkwardly out of his jacket. Rolling up the sleeve of his plaid shirt to his elbow – taking a ragged looking Sentinel-friendly under layer with it, often used for Sentinels who were sensitive to touch – to reveal an irritated span of track-marked skin and paling veins.
Just off to his right, Glenn muffled a curse.
Christ, no one deserved this.
He felt the firm of his teeth pull at cracked lips. Tongue flirting with the acrid tang that started seeping from one of the splits as he forced himself to keep on looking. The cop in him quickly added everything up. Comparing text-book stats to personal experience. Judging by the damage, just on that arm alone, that Tobin had been using for a long time.
It occurred to him gradually, more than anything he'd experienced in his life so far, that this was what desperation looked like. It was the tremor in Tobin's fingers. The sweat trickling down from his temples. The unstable downturn of his lips on a mouth he'd rarely heard an ill word from. It was looking into the face of someone you knew and seeing, well, a void.
Worst of all, it felt worrisomely familiar. Like once upon a time he'd been exactly where the man was standing, maybe not in the same circumstances but it was the same feeling. The same stench of over-stretched sanity. The same looming realization that there was no way out of the hole he'd managed to dig for himself - too busy trying to ignore what the world was trying to tell him. Only in this case, Tobin was as close to blameless as you could get, and he was suffering silently anyway.
He hadn't come to Deanna for help – Pete - anyone.
He hadn't let on that anything was wrong, not once.
He had to have sensed the presence of the two Guides within the walls, the ones Deanna had mentioned.
Even if he'd been drugged up to the gills the entire time, he would have felt their pull.
Why hadn't he gone to them for comfort?
What he was going through was downright inhumane.
Jesus, why hadn't the man just said something?
Why-
He shook his head. The heel of his boot grinding itself deep into the loamy soil. Hating himself for drawing it out as Tobin pinched the pink on his ruined forearm. Skin glowing - an angry wounded red - raised like welts between the marks of old injections and dying veins.
But he had to be sure.
They had to be sure.
A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Glad you guys are liking it so far, stay tuned for the next chapter!
