A/N- I'm really sorry that this took so long, but I do have some down time coming up, so maybe I'll get to write more frequently then. =] I really hope you like this one, as I loved writing it, even if it did kick my butt.
Warning!- This story is T+, and it comes out in this chapter. You have been forewarned.
Thanks to both IceDragon19 and Pheek for helping me with this one. I have no idea where this would be without you guys.
If it looks familiar, I probably don't own it.
It was inevitable, she knew that. The adrenaline had seeped slowly out of her body and her limbs felt it. She wasn't flying, she wasn't sitting in some tree, she wasn't in danger, and she wasn't running. The fact that she was safe had sent a burst of warm fire through her, warming her heart, her core, her very soul, and it was spreading through her limbs like syrup, warm and sweet. That warmth (something she hadn't felt in so, so long) and the safe feeling and the tired but happy smiles of everyone in the room (including the ruffled, dirt-smeared couple that had come flying through the ceiling into the room, guilt swimming in their eyes but small smiles on their faces when they saw her) was ever-so-slowly putting her to sleep.
She fought it, but the fingers carding through her hair and the constant yawns that broke the comfortable silence and the comfy chair won, and eventually her eyelids don't just droop but stayed shut and everyone else smiles because they know she deserves it.
None of the others leave, though, pulling out cots and laying down, but most of them don't sleep, just doze, and all of them are still sleepily focused on the girl whose quiet snores make them all think of Danny.
She doesn't know what triggers it this time. Last time it was the dagger, the other times were reminders, this time the only forewarning she has is a foreign feeling in her chest before her dreams of smiling faces and warm, safe feelings fade into memories and the fear and white-hot pain take over.
Pain. Sharp, hot-cold agony.
Everywhere.
Her hands are clenched at her sides, fingernails biting half-moons into the gloves that he hadn't taken from her yet, and she's straining against the metal bonds that are tearing her wrists to pieces. Her toes curl, her ankles yanking in vain against the metal chains.
Chains. He had to use chains.
The incisions made on her chest are still partially open, green-red blood is spilling from the Y-shaped wound in sluggish streams. She can feel the air hit it, feel the semi-still blood dry on her skin and the rest run like crimson glue down her body. He'd left to get "bandages" like he hadn't brought them in the first place and now she's… she's…
She couldn't get mind off the wrongness of it all. Of the pain of being ripped open. Of the pressure of someone's hands inside her chest. Of the feeling of foreign, metal objects touching and probing and cutting and breaking her insides. It's everywhere in her head and it's swirling like storm clouds behind her eyelids and she can still feel it. She can feel everything, the foreign pain, the intruding agony. There is no end or beginning or concept of time because it's tearing through her mind like a knife and the pain's making her think that, maybe, this might be what breaks her. What drives her insane.
She knows she's shaking. She knows there are tear tracks on her cheeks. She can't help any of it, though. She doesn't have enough dignity left to have the pride to care.
Even so, she won't let him win this. She won't. She can't.
There's nothing she can do, though. The agony's ripping through her with the force of a hurricane and the only thing she can do is scream. And she does, she screams and screams and screams until she hoarse and she doesn't know if she's screaming from the pain or at Vlad or at the world. She tries to break away; she thrashes and kicks but nothing ever works, the only thing she accomplishes is to reopen the wound and quicken the pace of the sickly mixture running over her skin.
So she stops. She can't stop the shaking or the tears or the half-moons being cut into her palms or the bloody rings around her wrists and ankles, but the fight leaves her in a sudden rush that leaves her reeling. All the energy, all the will, all the fight leaves her and she doesn't have enough left to bring it back.
What is there to fight? She's alone. He left, leaving her with her thoughts and her pain and herself, and there's not another soul in this horror house.
The first thing she does when she wakes up is look down. There are scratch marks on her skin right on top of the thick, Y-shaped scar that she knows will never heal quite like the others have. Bright red and raw and painful, they stand out like neon signs over her ghostly pale (she laughs to herself, but it doesn't hold one wit of humor) skin. They don't surprise her. She knows she was clawing at her chest like she was trying to peel her skin off. But, just like the memories, she can't help that either. She laughs a little bit again, but it's as humorless as the last one and self-depreciating to go right along with it. She can't do anything about any of this.
That's when she notices the others; the hands hovering inches from her face, from the scar and the scratches. Their eyes scared and worried over dark circles and bags that show that they slept even less than she has. They're close, invading her personal space and hands almost on her skin.
She has to remind herself forcibly that she's safe, that she's not at Vlad's, that they're only invading her space because they're worried, not because they're going to hurt her. She has to relax all the muscles in her body and force her arms from being bared over her chest before she even thinks about looking back up. She takes a deep breath, trying to erase weeks (years) of tension before glancing back up at the group who has, blessedly, taken a couple steps back.
She doesn't blame them, not one bit, but she doesn't know if she's ready for that many layers of personal space to be broken so soon. So, well, she's extremely relieved that they've all backed up slightly.
Well, all except one of them, but she doesn't mind it nearly as much as she thought she would. Blue eyes (so much like hers, exactly like hers) stare at her, and they're swimming with guilt and worry and love and sadness and tears. She doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what to say to these people who took her in and love her and make her feel safe. She doesn't know how to deal with the sad, concerned eyes (they don't hold pity, they know that's not what she wants, what she needs), so she glances back at the person in front of her.
His eyes are what do her in. She takes one look at him (so worried, so guilty) and she does the only thing she can think to do.
Mindless of her injuries, of the pain, she throws herself at him, arms going around his neck and she can feel his around her waist. She's crying, really crying (about this, about everything) and she can't help that either. She's sobbing about the pain and the injustice and the fact that she knows as well as he does that now Vlad's coming for him and the memories still playing out behind her eyes, and she can only hear one thing.
"I know, Dani, I know." And his voice is thick with tears and guilt and sadness, but it's strong and she's safe.
She lets loose a few tears because of how foreign that warmth feels.
He can still feel the tears on his shirt, the damp patch of fabric on his shoulder that seems to weigh a ton. Her head is resting on the other one, falling asleep after her tears had run dry and her breathing had slowly evened and her eyes no longer held that trapped, terror-stricken darkness that made her pale blue eyes look almost black in their grief, even if they did hold that haunted, hunted look that made him clench his fists and tighten his hold on her.
It's like his very soul is on fire. The anger sweeping through him like a tidal wave and for a moment the only thing he can make out is the top of her head in front of the crimson-white haze that's blurring his vision. He didn't think he'd ever be this mad, angry enough to lose control, but here he is, barely holding back the plasma that wants to form in his palms, the rings attempting to form around his waist, the power building at the back of his throat, the urge to leave, to find him.
He can't though, so he just makes sure she's comfortable, his heart hurting seeing her position, curled up and defensive and hiding against his chest. She's always been so strong. They both were, both so hard-headed and stubborn and proud and had such hero-complexes (they could see that in each other, but never admitted to it themselves) that they only let the others see them in pain when it was strictly necessary, but now she's here and there are tear stains on her cheeks and his shirt and it's breaking his heart. She's not supposed to look like this, so haunted and hunted and hurt. She's not supposed to have these memories, whatever they are. She's not… She's not…
She shouldn't have to be afraid. Of anything.
He hears the others around him, the small rustling of fabric, the quiet buzz of chatter, but he tunes them out. He knows he shouldn't. He should be talking to them, apologizing, something. But he can't. He can't turn and talk to them with her barely asleep in his lap. He can't face Tucker when the plasma wants to build between his fingers. He can't.
He just can't.
He sighs and looks at the group of people in the lab. His mom is curled up in a chair, and he can see the worry lines around her eyes and mouth. He's not used to seeing her look this old (and she does look older, like the last few weeks have aged her years, and he feels so guilty about it all); she's so full of life that she always looks young, but it's drained after today (Has it really only been a day?). Tucker's on the table, white bandages covering most of his body and Danny feels his heart twist painfully. The guilt combines with the anger and he almost thinks his heart will break beneath it all. Sam is leaning against the table Tucker's on with her legs curled up on a pull-away cot, dark circles under her bright eyes. He can hear his name when they speak, but it's their conversation and he won't break their privacy by asking.
But he doesn't miss it when they attempt to get his attention. "Hey, Danny?"
It's Tucker, and it takes all his will power to look him in the eyes, but he does (and he hopes he can see the guilt there, the sadness). "Yeah?"
Sam finishes the question for him, "How is she?"
He takes a deep breath, hoping this doesn't wake her up. "She's asleep, but..."
He hopes that, this time, her memories stay far, far away.
Sam sighs, but her eyes are softer than anyone outside of the room would give her credit for. "She's got you. Maybe that'll be enough to keep them away."
She doesn't have to say memories. She doesn't have to say that it won't always work. She doesn't have to say that he needs her as much as she needs him right now. She doesn't have to say any of it, they understand her. They knew what she was saying by the look in her eyes, the set to her jaw. Tucker doesn't say anything, and neither does Danny. They don't have to.
None of them delude themselves by saying it'll be alright. They respect one another much too much to lie like that.
It doesn't stop them from gravitating closer, though. The cot Danny had sunk into ends up beside Sam's beside the table that Tucker's lying on over all his blankets and pillows and cushions. Dani ends up with her head in Danny's lap and her legs tangled with Sam's. One of Danny's hands is running through Dani's hair and the other is intertwined with Sam's. Tucker's got one hand hanging over the edge of the table and it's resting on Sam's hair. When Danny turns to Tucker, the starts of apologies on his lips, Tucker waves him away with forgiveness in his eyes. Sam turns to them with a sleepy smile and ends up nodding off on Danny's shoulder.
And with the first rays of dawn breaking over the clouds many stories above them, the feeling seems just a bit lighter. Nothing's been fixed, nothing is okay, but the air has lost that bitter tang and they have each other. They know that Vlad's coming, but even the barely veiled terror can't take away the sense of family.