Arcade Fire - Creature Comfort

Sia - Chandelier (Piano Version)

She flinched as the door opened - she thought Moran would still be confined to the infirmary - but otherwise didn't react, tears pouring down her cheeks, landing on the damp bandages of her arms, where they rested on her knees. "I'll be fine, Moran," she whispered, voice hoarse, hitching half way through. "Go back inside your flat."

He shook his head just a little. "Let me help you get cleaned up," he suggested quietly. "That's a bitch of a place to reach on your own."

She didn't have the will left in her to argue. "Alright," she said quietly , and after a moment she pulled herself together and stood, wincing, and turned to lead the way into her flat, shedding the rest of her ruined clothes as she went and heading for the shower.

He followed, shutting the door and heading for the bathroom with her, looking under the sink and finding some medical supplies. Gauze, tape, antiseptic...

Deep down, he was furious. Furious that anyone- even Jim- could do something like this. But on the surface, he was calm, quiet, collected.

She walked into the shower and turned it on, disregarding the temperature, and stood swearing and yelling under the stream until the water turned dark red to only a light pink, and then she got out again. She wasn't surprised that she was still crying. She sat on the toilet. "Clean me up, and then you should go. Anything more... You don't want to risk paying the price."

He walked over and put a towel around her, avoiding her shoulders. Then he pressed gauze to the initials carefully, working to stop the bleeding. He remembered vividly the pain of his own, identical injury, and couldn't imagine dealing with it now . Not with everything else. He wanted to offer to stay, but this was because she had sheltered him. Jim could do worse if he thought they hadn't gotten the memo. It would be better for both of them if he backed off now.

Some part of him almost missed the simplicity of the cell. Holding each other for warmth, no questions asked. It didn't feel like they had escaped, now, not really. They'd just been separated.

He cleaned the wound as gently as he could while still being thorough, giving her a break every once in awhile to catch her breath.

She appreciated the consideration for the level of pain she was going through. She wished she could show her appreciation - God, she wished he could stay - but she couldn't afford it. Neither of them could.

She was wrapped up in her own thoughts as he tended to her, trying to wrap her head around what had just happened. Some part of her had considered Jim to be above this, to have some level of respect for her, but this proved otherwise. She felt hollow, empty inside. If he touched her again she couldn't guarantee she wouldn't finally snap, and take his hand off.

He finally pressed a clean piece of gauze to her back, pushing her shoulders forward a little as he taped it so that movement wouldn't dislodge it. "Alright," he said softly. "That should hold for now. Let me know if you need anything." He stood carefully. His vision swam for just a moment, but then he steadied himself against the wall with a subtle touch. "Is that all?"

"Yes, that's all. Thank you, Moran. You're dismissed," she said quietly, shutting her eyes to block out a replay of not even an hour ago.

He nodded just a little, hesitating half a beat before heading out the door and out of her apartment, crossing the hall to his own flat. He had a lot to review from the past month, and Jim had sent him a curt note this morning informing him that he was working.

She sat on the toilet long enough for her body to start aching in new ways before she got up and went to bed, a new wave of crying hitting her every once in awhile. Before she passed out out of sheer exhaustion, she promised herself that if he ever tried to touch her again, she would make him sorely regret ever doing it in the first place.

Moran spent the next few days burying himself in his work. There were folders upon folders of reports to read through and sign off on, backlogs of security requests that required his (or Jim's) approval that the boss hadn't deemed important enough to deal with, and the slightly less tedious task of resuming his physical presence around the building. He delayed the last, however, at least for the time being. He needed to present an undaunted physical presence, but his appearance in the mirror wasn't quite up to snuff. Dark circles under red eyes in a pale face was not the impression he wanted to be leaving.

Luckily, Jim soon presented him with other tasks that made it easier to ignore the lingering doubts as to his sudden necessitated hermitage. Germany was putting pressure on Greece, and Jim was interested in preserving his smuggling operations there. This left Moran reading through situation updates and creating prospectives for the area, along with highlighting key German weaknesses and peculiarities that would allow their operations to continue regardless of the outcome.

Sleep was seldom an option, not with the games his subconscious liked to play in his dreams, so he lived off of coffee and decent food, and just enough painkillers to cut the burning agony that he was growing used to in his chest and side.

Jim left Harrison alone, for the time being. He didn't need her, and if he pushed her too much farther, she would be useless for at least a month. Sebastian, on the other hand, he needed, so he continued to send work and request updates, while he worked in solitude in his office, reading reports and writing letters to be sent by telegram, or by phone call. Down in the bunker, with no sense of the passage of time except for dates on reports, he probably went at least three days in one stretch without sleeping.

His connection in and out of the country (with relations to Greece, that is) was the Greek ambassador in parliament, but the man was hard to get a hold of. Slippery, and good at avoiding his messengers. That wouldn't do. He needed the man in order to have up to date information on the war front. He needed a path into Buckingham, and there was one man qualified over the rest to see to it. He sent Moran the mission when he had a spare moment, then went to bed for the second time in six days.

He got the mission in the early hours of the morning, up working after a series of night terrors.

For a moment, he just stared at the wax-sealed manila envelope, his exhaustion- and pain-clouded mind not quite putting together what was happening.

He stood a few moments later, leaving the packet unopened on the couch, and shuffled into the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee. He had no idea how many that was today. It had all blurred together.

He did most of the business one-handed, his left arm held carefully against his body. His chest was agony, and moving his arm just made it worse. He doused it in alcohol and changed the dressing day and night. Mostly he was just waiting for the inflammation to pass. For his body to fight it off.

He returned to the living room a few minutes later, the coffee pot in hand, feeling a bit more awake. He sat, pulling a few thick blankets around himself to ward off the chill (his room was always cold these days, it seemed). He refilled his mug, took a sip, and opened the sealed packet, a bit awkwardly with one hand. The few pages inside included a mission summary, two maps,and a list of the latest intel regarding the palace, and he started reading through it quietly, occasionally marking something on the page with a pen.

Eventually he sat back, and took a slow breath. He would need to go out tonight. There was no delaying that. He was utterly exhausted, loathe to do anything, but he was a soldier and knew better than to bend the knee to a little pain and a few nights' missed sleep. He stood, slowly, steadying himself on the couch, and went to prepare.

Lorna was struggling in her own way. It was difficult for her to sleep an hour straight without being jolted from her sleep by nightmares that now included Jim, and she spent most of her time trying to cope, sitting on the sofa with a bottle of gin, her radio always on. Silence was unbearable. But people were just as bad, and she couldn't let any of them see her like this.

It took him a while to get ready. He washed his chest with vodka, biting into his rolled up shirt to keep himself from screaming. He examined with curious dismay the red, tendril-like markings running up his chest and neck, down his arm, and down his torso. He had been waiting for them to fade, but instead they had only seemed to spread. He wrapped it all in fresh bandages.

The daily weather report had called for rain, and a lot of it, so he wore a long oilskin trench coat and a matching hat. They were a dark brown, just the right color to get lost completely in a rainy London night, just one man among the shadows, drawing no attention.

He made his way out of the bunker as quietly as possible, and stepped out onto the street. He was already shivering, despite a few wool sweaters he had managed to get over his bad arm, and the heavy coat. The rain was practically a wall as he stepped into it from under the overhang, and started his slow walk to Buckingham Palace.

Despite the coat, he was mostly soaked before he got even halfway there, shivering violently, which only made his chest shriek in angry, painful protest. He was nauseous, and it was difficult to keep his bearings in the downpour. Eventually he resorted to walking with an outstretched hand trailing along the buildings, helping to keep himself upright.

The world was blurred, and cold, and he was utterly exhausted, each step a fight against pain and misery. He kept his focus on one movement at a time. Step, step, move hand. Step, step, move hand again. He looked up occasionally, to confirm that surely this time he must be almost there, but found himself only a block or two farther than the last time he'd checked.

His heart was stuttering awfully, breaths short, body shaking, when he finally had to stop for a break, leaning against a wall in an alley that was a bit more sheltered than the street. He closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath, trying to regroup...

No one was there to see as he slowly slumped to the ground, just one more wet lump amidst the trash bags and bins, and didn't move again.

He would have been left there to die in the cold, wet alley if the woman on her way home from taking care of a couple of children hadn't taken that shortcut, and hadn't tripped over him in the dark. She skinned her palms on the pavement, muttering extremely mild swears under her breath, and turned, crouched, to see what she'd tripped over. A year or two prior, she might have screamed in surprise at finding a pale, seemingly dead man on the street, but the wartime had been hard for all, and instead she shifted over to try and find a pulse on his limp wrist. It took her a second to find the right spot, and another to confirm that the weak little push against her fingers meant that he was still alive, if only barely. She got up, gathering up her skirt in a hurry, and jogged out of the alleyway, making a beeline to the street corner a block down, where there was a police box available for use.

Within half an hour, the paramedics had loaded his still form onto a stretcher and taken him away in an ambulance, and she returned to the journey home, soaked to the bone and freezing, but relieved that she had done her part to save a man's life. Trying their best was all anyone could do, these days.

Jim was agitated. Moran had been reported as leaving at about 4:30 that morning, and now, more than sixteen hours later, there was still no sign. He should have been back by ten, eleven at the very latest. Or at least sent a message, checked in.

He shifted a little in his chair, before finally taking a breath and reaching out for the button he had avoided all week.

"Harrison. My office."

Lorna's stomach curled with dread as her scratchy intercom spoke over the news bulletin on the radio, and she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She waited a few moments, to get herself under control, and then stood and got dressed. Five minutes later, she knocked on his door, her palms sweaty, heart beating unsteadily.

"Come in," he called, sitting behind his desk, looking at the decorative map of London on his wall, thinking. He didn't look up as she entered. "Moran has been missing for at least ten hours."

She was relieved he wasn't looking at her, because she certainly couldn't bring herself to look directly at him. She kept her eyes on the wall. "Missing? Was he sent out or did he disappear from the bunker?" she asked, her voice emotionless.

"Sent out to case Buckingham Palace for an operation later this week," he said, standing up and looking over the route. "It was raining heavily. Get people on it. I want him found."

"Yes, sir. Am I dismissed?" she asked, desperate for him to let her go, to leave his presence. Anywhere was better than here.

"Yes," he said, waving her out. "Go. Keep me updated."

She left and immediately sent out a notice to the intel, grifting, and hits department, all setting them on a search for Moran, both on the ground and by phone, checking morgues, hospitals, and bars. It was three hours before they found somebody matching his description at a hospital a few blocks from Buckingham. As soon as she found out, she called Jim's office.

He picked up the phone on the first ring. Few people had his direct number, and he was only expecting one call. "You found him?"

"Found someone matching his description at a hospital near Buckingham, sir," she said, already dressed and ready for the outdoors. "Sounds like they found him passed out on the street - he hasn't regained consciousness since they found him. He's listed under John Doe."

"Good. Find out what happened and get him back before he wakes up. God knows what he'd say if they medicate him." He hung up before she had a chance to respond, done with the conversation.

She was glad he'd hung up first, putting the phone back on the hook and leaving her apartment, and then the bunker, catching a cab outside and asking for the hospital. She was there in twenty minutes, and she wasted no time asking the woman at the front desk about the John Doe they had brought in. Of course hospitals were always eager to identify people. It was wartime. Who knew how many unclaimed souls had died in this building. She put on the role of a scared sister, and they led her right to his room, giving her his prognosis. Blood poisoning. Of all the fool things...

She asked for a minute alone with him, and when the nurse left, she picked up the clipboard at the foot of his bed and flipped through it, looking for information about him. She ripped out the pages that did, folded them up tight, and slid them into her bra. Better not to leave anything behind, even if he wasn't here under his real name. She doubted they had copies of his file yet. She sat down in the chair by his bed for five minutes, just in case the nurse forgot something and came back, but once the room was clear, she stepped back out in the hallway, eyes doing a quick sweep before she saw an employees-only door. Definitely a smaller room, judging by the doors neighboring it, so likely not for doctors, and too big to be a supply closet - some kind of lounge or locker room for the nurses, then. She quickly crossed to it while the coast was clear, and slipped inside silently, pleased to see it was clear. Locker room. Just what she'd hoped for.

The lockers were cheap, and it didn't take much leverage to pop them open - she could have picked them, but she was running on a tight schedule, and the longer she was inside, the higher a chance of somebody catching her. The third locker was jackpot. Two minutes later, she was crossing the hall again in a nurse's dress and hat, her clothes in the trash can except for her large overcoat, which she had folded up. Now, to figure out whether or not he could get into the wheelchair in the corner on his own, or if she would need to lie to another nurse to get help in moving him. She moved to the bed, carefully taking out his IV, and then grabbed his shoulder, not particularly gently.

"Sebastian, if you're capable of waking up and getting into this wheelchair, it would make my life magnitudes easier."

At first there was no response, then his eyes opened, very slowly.

His vision was blurred, and he was so fucking cold ... Someone was standing over him, but it took him a few tries to focus, and even longer to place who it was she was looking at. Finally he managed a very confused, raspy "...Lorna...?" What the hell was she doing here? Where was here? He wasn't... He wasn't...

He started drifting off again, but someone shook him and he refocused. "What...?"

"Wheelchair. Get in it. Roll yourself on into it, then you can conk out again," she said insistently, pointedly nudging the wheelchair next to her so it hit the bed. "I don't want to bring somebody in to help move you."

He stared at the chair for a long moment, before finally piecing together what she wanted him to do, and shifting as best he could in that direction. His limbs were slow to respond, but eventually, with her directing his movements, he was able to flop himself somewhat awkwardly into the chair. He was short of breath by the time he got there, and closed his eyes. The throbbing pain in his chest was a lullaby that sent him back to sleep.

She placed the folded up overcoat in his lap and then wheeled him out of the room, for all appearances a nurse taking her patient for a breath of fresh air. She got in and out of the lift without incident, and once on the ground floor, stashed Moran in a room she'd pegged as empty earlier. Then she trotted down the hall to the front of the hospital, letting the anxiety she felt show on her face, and came to a sudden halt at the desk, slapping her hands down on the wood. "Ma'am!" She yelled at the startled woman, putting on a significantly lower class accent. "Ma'am, there's a man in the morgue demanding to get at the bodies! He won't leave!" she said tearfully, and the older woman looked absolutely taken aback, startled by her sudden appearance and the abrupt loud noises.

"A man in the morgue, you say?" She frowned, standing up, putting down the crossword puzzle she had been working on and straightening out her dress. "I'll handle this, don't you worry, dear," she said resolutely, and turned on her heel, headed down the second hall leading back into the hospital. Lorna inwardly cheered herself for correctly pegging the woman as a mother hen. The trick with getting people to ignore your face was to make up a situation so absurd they had no time to look at you properly.

Two minutes later, she rolled Sebastian out of the hospital and to a black car waiting on the sidewalk, where the driver got out and assisted her in moving him swiftly and efficiently into the back seat. She left the wheelchair on the sidewalk and got in, and then they were off. She let out a long breath, leaned her head back against the headrest, and closed her eyes.

Sebastian slid in and out of consciousness as she moved him. The world was constantly changing, and he could only piece together enough to know that he didn't know where he was, and that he was cold, and that he hurt.

He came to in a dim place, next, shaking and shivering, uncertain, blinking just a few times in the darkness. This place, he knew. Cold darkness, pain... God, no , he didn't want to be here...

His breathing was already strained, as was his heart rate, but both picked up, panic starting to set in as he forced himself to try to sit up, to take stock. Lorna was next to him. They had to get out...

She flinched a little as he moved suddenly next to her in the back seat, and she put a hand on his collarbone to keep him from sitting up too much. "Sebastian, calm down," she said gently, though she didn't feel very gentle at the moment. She still felt hollow. "You're in the car, we're on our way back to the bunker. You were in a public hospital. Do you remember?"

"No," he said softly, his eyes uncertain as he stared around the car, slowly piecing together that he wasn't in the cell. "What... I don't understand..." He looked over at her, and frowned slightly. "What's wrong...?"

"Jesus, you're all kinds of fucked up, aren't you," she sighed, reaching out to put the back of her hand against his forehead. He was burning up. "You have blood poisoning because you didn't let our doctors take care of you, and instead passed out on the street. You have an extremely high fever. You're lucky somebody stumbled across you."

"Oh..." He said softly, nodding just a little, though he hadn't quite followed everything she'd said. He'd gotten 'high fever', though. That would explain why he was so cold. "Where are we going?"

"The bunker," she repeated. "Home. Just try to rest. Get some sleep." She was a little worried for him, just on account of how grey he was, but otherwise, she made sure she felt nothing.

"Okay..." he said softly, closing his eyes. Then he forced them open again, looking at her, frowning just a little. "Didn't answer... What's wrong?"

She looked away from him, out the window, biting the inside of her cheek. He didn't remember that either, then. "Nothing. Don't worry about it right now. Worry about yourself."

He looked at her for a little bit, and sighed, tired of trying to piece things together. It hurt to think. The words "Missed you..." spilled over his tongue, though he wasn't sure why they were so true, and he drifted off to sleep.

She felt her cheeks flush, and she looked over sharply at him, but he was already out. He couldn't have known what Jim had said to her, and especially not in the state he was in. So he meant it. She looked away again, manually shutting down the feeling swirling around her chest. She couldn't get close to him again. Not again.

He slept for the rest of the ride, only waking when the car stopped. People were shifting him, and he was suddenly very awake because someone grabbed under his arm, hand braced on his chest. The pain was breathtaking . He let out a noise that even he couldn't describe, somewhere between a howl and a shriek, his back arching as he clawed at the hand that had grabbed him and tumbled to the ground. He curled up on himself on the floor, shaking, and then he passed out again.

She and the driver got a couple of extra pairs of hands after she got clawed, and she stepped back to watch them put him on the stretcher and walk him down the tunnel through the side entrance. Going in through the train station or the law firm would be too much to ignore. She remained outside for a few minutes longer, face turned up into the misty breeze, then walked down after them, her hands in the pockets of her dress, her nurse's hat forgotten in the car.

Jim was waiting in his office for news, and only relaxed when word came that Moran had been brought in. The man had too much knowledge about the organization to be loose on the streets. He sent word for Harrison to make her way up to his office eventually, and went back to work.

She hung around the infirmary as long as she could, making sure things were set up in a manner that would keep Moran calm whenever he came to, and hovered while they followed her instructions, but then she couldn't delay any longer, and made her way to Jim's office. She took a breath, eyes shut, then opened them, lifted her chin, and knocked.

He looked up as she knocked, sitting back from his desk slightly. "Come in, Harrison."

She stepped in, closing the door behind her, and came to a stop in front of his desk, studiously staring at the wall above his head. "How can I help you, sir?"

He considers her quietly, smirking just a little. "Still giving me the cold shoulder, I see. No matter. Who did what to my bodyguard?"

She felt a slight welling up of anger in the pit of her stomach, but outwardly didn't react except for a tensing of her jaw. "He didn't take care of himself, properly, sir. He was found unconscious in an alley. Blood poisoning."

He frowned, then, leaning forward a little, eyes flinty as they studied her. "What is his condition?"

"Not great. He's running a dangerously high fever, and his recent memory is failing him. He doesn't seem to remember escaping Italy, or anything after. The doctors say that he'll probably make it," she said, robotically, eyes still locked in place above him. She couldn't bear to look at him.

He nodded just a little. "What is the source of the infection?" He could see her discomfort, but he didn't particularly care. She had a job to do.

She cleared her throat a little. "The brand, sir. It was what kept him away from the infirmary."

He nodded just slightly. The details of the brand had been vague, but he had pieced things together. "I'll discipline him later. Keep me updated in his progress. Dismissed."

She left without another word, got into the lift, and wiped away the silent tears that spilled over her cheeks.