Part V
So this guy by the name of von Goethe once said, "What does not kill me makes me stronger." It always made me wonder exactly how close to death this guy came or if he ever truly lost all the will to live. For to really understand, you have to stare down death, look his metaphorical, bad-ass self right in the eyes, and somehow still find a reason to go on living.
Darien stared at his ceiling. His ceiling. In his apartment. That still hadn't sunk in. They'd sent him home. Alone. Oh, Claire had spent a good hour going over everything, then left him with some pills for pain, a list of things to do and not do, stuff to eat and drink within easy reach in the fridge, and the rolling chair of doom beside his bed. Then she said she'd stop back later, around dinnertime, and see how he was doing.
How he was doing? They'd sent him home and abandoned him, just as he had both known and feared they would do. Hobbes had stopped by while Claire and Flannery were getting him settled, but he didn't stay very long, claiming he had work that needed doing.
"Bullshit!" It took him a moment to realize he'd said that aloud. "God damn it all!" He picked up the glass of water on the nightstand and flung it across the room to smash into the far wall, just to the left of his bathroom door. The glass was pretty darn tough; as fair-sized pieces bounced all the way back near his bed.
He been lying there stunned for the last several hours, but now he was angry. The 'Fish didn't want to pay for the cost of a hospital, so they sent him home, thinking he could fend for himself. The man truly did not give a damn. Apparently no one else did either. Claire bailed after only an hour, Bobby had stayed all of five minutes and Alyx...well, Alyx was doing exactly as he'd asked, he couldn't deny that. She was staying away, getting on with her life.
Getting on with her life. That thought made him pause. Maybe it was now time for him to get on with his. Or rather, with his lack of one. The bullet that had taken his legs had also robbed him of his life, as surely as if it had struck him in the heart. All that remained for him now was to finish the work that metal slug had begun. He didn't want to spend the next forty or fifty years lying here, abandoned, helpless, and alone, locked in his apartment with fifteen cats for company. Living off the pity of others and some pitiful excuse for a government pension while he wasted away into a shadow of his former self.
He was only slightly surprised that the action he was contemplating bothered him so little. He could only feel a sense of relief that he might actually be able to escape the dismal future he saw ahead of him.
He ran through his options. No gun in the house -- they still didn't trust him with one. A knife? No, too difficult -- he'd have to get to the kitchen to find one, and he wanted no part of that rolling hell machine. Well, he could always hold the pillow over his face and try to suffocate himself. That almost made him smile.
Looking about, he spotted the shards of glass lying on the floor nearby. The light glinting off them showed they should be more than sharp enough for what he needed. It was just a matter of getting to one of them.
Rolling partially on his side, he gauged the distance down to the floor. It wasn't all that far, he convinced himself after a moment, and he began to maneuver himself closer to the edge of the bed. This was going to be interesting; good thing he'd been working on his upper body the last few months. He shouldn't have lost much, if any arm strength over the last few days.
Once positioned, he leaned over the side and placed his palms flat on the floor. Dragging his legs, he walked his hands out and allowed himself slip off the bed. The muscles of his arms shaking with the strain, he shifted so that he ended up sitting on the floor. His legs came off the bed suddenly; hitting the floor with a solid thump that he suspected would have been painful if he could feel anything. Of course, if he could feel something, he wouldn't be doing this, now would he? He'd probably be off with Hobbes, and maybe Alyx, once again striving not to get his ass shot off for the sake of God and Country.
Well, he'd done enough for God and Country. It was time for someone else to have a turn.
Shifting sideways with his arms, he slid himself across the smooth floor until the piece of glass he'd chosen lay in easy reach. He picked it up carefully and examined it. Identifying the sharpest edge, he grasped the shard firmly, being careful not to cut his palm. A blood-slick piece of glass would be difficult to hold onto, and he didn't want to have to try this more than once. It would be difficult enough when he switched to do his right wrist.
Turning over his left arm, he dispassionately contemplated the network of veins running from wrist to elbow, debating which one would be best. He was no fool, and he'd been around the block more times than his so-called friends could know. Some of the things he'd seen over the years would shock the hell out of them, no matter how worldly, jaded, or cynical they thought they were.
He'd been the one to find his roommate, after all, unconscious and bleeding in the bathroom of their tiny apartment. Been the one to slow the bleeding from the deep cuts across his wrists, long enough for the paramedics to arrive. The one his roommate had screamed at in rage and anguish for his interference. Between that fun experience, his few abortive forays into Kevin's medical texts, and some of the nastier crap he'd seen in prison, he knew more than enough about the anatomy of death to do this right the first time.
In those younger and happier days, he hadn't been able comprehend the despair which had driven his roommate to attempt suicide. Life with the quicksilver gland, however, had long since enlightened him. In the first year or so of his sentence at the Agency, especially after a few of his brushes with quicksilver madness, he'd hit low points and had moments when he'd contemplated this path. But never, until now, had the hopelessness crashed in upon him so hard that he'd gotten to this point, with a blade of glass hovering mere inches above his skin.
Now, finally, he thought he truly understood. Making his choice, he set the piece of glass against one of the more prominent veins, preparing to press inward and slice up towards his elbow, exposing the vein for the full length of his forearm. He'd bleed out in a matter of minutes, even if he failed to make a matching cut on his right arm. He'd be long gone and stone cold by the time Claire showed this evening. Perhaps he'd even be long enough dead to render the gland unsalvageable. It was a faint hope, but one that gave him a bit of wistful satisfaction in this moment of total loss.
He tried to press the glass through his flesh, to start this ending he had chosen to write for himself, but then he paused as, for a long timeless moment, images assaulted him.
Bobby: Risking everything he held dear to go with a totally quicksilver-mad Darien on his insane hunt for Arnaud. Standing by his side against the Official, time and time again. Taking him down a peg or two when necessary. Commiserating with him when life sucked. Believing in him, when it seemed no one else would.
Claire: Her concern and care when he lay dying of Arnaud's magic flu. Helping him through the long month of blindness. Keeping his secrets, and going behind the Official's back to help him, at least when it came to getting the gland out. Teaching him some responsibility, even though it had been the last thing he'd wanted to be burdened with.
Alyx: Alyx, who he had learned, would do just about anything for him. Who accepted him for what he was and never once tried to change him. Who had promised him so many things, and delivered on most of them. To whom he had also made a promise, a promise that now lay shattered, like the glass he'd thrown across the room.
A shard of which he now held in his hand. He could feel the edge pressing against his flesh, digging in and breaking the skin. A single drop of blood beaded up underneath the sharp point of glass.
One quick motion and it would be done. Everything would be over. He would be free, would join the rest of his family in whatever lay beyond this life. He could walk into the arms of death, comforted by the knowledge that his fears, his despair, and his misery would be left behind.
'But did he really want to leave it all behind?' an annoying little voice in his head suddenly whispered. One small but tenacious part of his mind refused to surrender to pessimism, refused to believe that his friends, who had stood by him through so much in the past few years, would really abandon him to his fate. A faint flicker of life and hope guttered and flared within him, trying to beat back the encroaching darkness. The fear, the hate, the despair, the loneliness -- they were transitory, the voice whispered. He simply had to be willing to let go of them, instead of grasping onto them so tightly that they strangled him. Instead of letting them win.
He came back to himself with a rush. Looking down, he saw a thin trail of blood running around the curve of his wrist and dripping onto the floor between his knees.
"Ah, crap," he said in a shaky voice, as his resolve melted away. The moment was past, the decision overturned, but now he was afraid to move his hand. "Shit. Damn. And now, of course, when I finally decide I need help, no one is around."
He felt an icy...something settle over the hand holding the glass shard. For a shuddering moment, he thought it was death himself, come to finish the job. But then the something resolved itself into a hand, firmly holding his in place and keeping him from doing more damage to himself. A hand that had shed quicksilver onto the floor about him. Slowly, his hand was lifted away and the glass removed from his nerveless grip.
He lifted his head to see the last person he'd expected, even though the quicksilver flakes had given it away. "Alyx?" He wasn't too sure of his sanity in that moment.
She met his eyes. "Do you really want help, or should I just hand this back to you?" She lifted the bloodstained piece of glass to where he couldn't help but see it and was forced to acknowledge that he had actually gone that far.
"Help. Please." He barely heard himself. Part of him wanted to be angry at her, for not doing as he had asked. For not keeping her promise. Still, holding his hand, she must have caught the gist of what he was thinking. What his roiling, bouncing, flip-flopping emotions were driving him to.
"I promised to stay away if it would make you happy. Somehow, I don't think this qualifies." She set the glass down on the floor, out of his reach, and then wrapped her arms about him and drew him into a much-needed hug. For both of them.
Darien just shuddered and buried his face against her shoulder, his arms curling around, up under her hair. He held on for dear life. For long minutes he did nothing but shake, as all the emotion he'd been holding in for days finally found its way to the surface. He released one long, drawn-out sob, and then held her even tighter. He had no idea how long they sat there, with her straddled across his thighs. Her hands ran through his hair in random patterns, doing an amazing job at calming him, at bringing him back to reality, to himself.
When he finally found himself calm enough to think again, he lifted his head to look at her. She had tears running down her cheeks, too, but she was able to meet his eyes without flinching. "Alyx, I..."
She silenced him with a finger on his lips. "Not now." Leaning away from him, she brought his hands in front of her. He froze when he realized most of his left arm was covered in a thin sheen of blood. He paled, feeling suddenly nauseous. She applied pressure to the wound, which was still bleeding sluggishly, with the fingers of one hand, while the other came up to caress his cheek. "Easy. Breathe slowly. You're fine."
She took his right hand and had him take over applying pressure; he was too stunned, to frightened, to do anything but what she wordlessly directed. She kissed him lightly and got to her feet. Following her movements with his eyes, he watched her carefully make her way through the broken glass and into the bathroom. Her light gray T-shirt was darkened with blood from mid back up, most of it hidden under her hair. She came back out a minute later; her hair now twisted up out of the way, with various bits first aid gear in her hands. She paused in the doorway; with a thought, the shattered remains of the glass lifted into the air and found their way to a nearby trash can with barely a sound.
When she returned to his side, the first thing he noticed was that she was wearing that god-awful orange nail polish on her toes again. For some reason, this struck him as the funniest thing he'd seen in ages. Unable to hold it in, he burst out in hysterical laughter. Every time he thought he'd gotten control back, he'd look at her, see her standing there with her eyebrows raised, and break out into another round of giggles. It was several long minutes before he was able to gain control of himself. He'd been laughing so hard that tears were running down his cheeks and he was having a hard time breathing.
She squatted down in front of him and took his hand back into her own. "Mook," she admonished whimsically. She quickly cleaned the area around the wound and disinfected the small, deep cut, then applied a bandage with clear, waterproof medical tape. When she was done, she reached up and brushed his hair off his forehead. "Better?"
Darien nodded, not quite sure of his voice.
"Good. Now you are going to take a long, relaxing bath and turn yourself back into a human being." She paused, looking him over. "If you'll let me help."
For an instant, Darien wanted to yell at her to get away, that help of this kind was not what he needed, but he bit back the harsh words. "Yeah. Guess I could use some."
She got to her feet and got the rolling chair of death, which she parked beside him and locked the wheels. She must have seen the look of combined disgust and hate on his face. "Would you rather crawl?"
He looked up at her sharply. It wasn't that she'd been cruel; in fact, her voice was soft. "I don't want to be like this at all."
"I know, but you are for now." She stepped away. "I'll start your bath; come on in when you're ready." And with that, she picked up the first aid supplies that she hadn't used and left him sitting there on the floor staring after her. Seconds later, he could hear the sound of running water.
He just sat there for several minutes, feeling lost. She stuck her head out of the bathroom. "Look, you figured out how to get out of that bed on your own. I think you can manage this." Then she disappeared from sight again.
Grumbling under his breath, he moved the short distance to the wheel chair and, after a moment to decide exactly how he was going to attempt this, levered himself up into the thing. He made the minimal adjustments necessary, unlocked the wheels, and rolled himself across the room. It was a tight fit through the doorway, but he did it. He frowned at Alyx, who was waiting patiently by his sink. To Darien's mind, climbing in the chair was like admitting something was wrong, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.
She ignored his glowering. "Do you want help and, if so, how much?"
The anger was returning; he couldn't, and perhaps didn't want to, stop it. "I'll manage," he growled at her. She gave him a quick nod and just left the room, leaving him to try and figure out how to strip and get into that tub on his own. "Shit," he muttered.
All right, start at the top. Shifting, he was able to pull his shirt off without too much trouble. His lower back was a bit stiff, but nothing like yesterday before the massage. Tossing the shirt in the direction of his hamper, he the reached back and felt the bandage that covered the bullet wound, and the stitches he was sure to have from the removal. It was the tape on his wrist that made him realize he'd already run into a problem he couldn't handle.
"Um, Alyx?"
"Yes?" she called from somewhere in his apartment.
"Do I need to put something over my stitches? They aren't supposed to get wet, are they?" He didn't want her mad at him again, or for her to make him feel foolish. He might not be directly suicidal any longer, but he still hadn't dragged himself up out of the depression. He was barely willing to admit that he was going to have to deal with this situation.
She stood just outside the doorway. "First off, there are no stitches, and second, yes, it needs to be kept dry for now."
Apparently that was all the help she was going to give at this point and he fought back the urge to snap at her. To yell that he couldn't do it himself even if he were perfectly fine. It was too damn awkward a position. "Would you mind..."
She nodded and fetched the clear waterproof tape. Standing beside him, she said, "Lean forward." He complied, and she quickly covered the area. She patted him on the shoulder to let him know she was finished. "Anything else?"
He swallowed hard. Anger warred with embarrassment. "Not right now."
Her look softened. "I'll be nearby, just holler if you need anything." She returned the tape to the counter next to his sink and left him alone again.
He suddenly realized there was a necessary bodily function he had to deal with before climbing into that tub. He glared over at the toilet. "Ah, crap." Trying not to think about what he was doing, he simply went one step at a time. There was no way in hell he was going to ask for help for this.
When he relaxed into the bathtub about ten minutes later, he was feeling a weird sense of accomplishment. Slumping down a bit more, with his eyes closed, he let the hot water and bubbles -- yes bubbles -- soak away the aches and discomforts the day had imposed upon him. He was slowly realizing that maybe he could actually do this. He didn't have to like it, or the situation, but maybe he could do it.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there before he realized he was getting rather thirsty. He could feel the sweat running down the sides of his face. Opening his eyes, he saw Alyx leaning against the doorframe, watching him with half-closed eyes. She had changed out of the blood-soaked shirt and into one that was obviously his. Not that he cared about the shirt. With a shock, he remembered his rather undressed and incapable condition and blushed bright red with embarrassment. "Uh, could you go? I don't really need you seeing me like this."
"Like what? Naked? Please. Who is it with a penchant for walking about my place with very little on?" She wasn't laughing and wasn't accusing. In fact, she seemed rather tired. Stepping into the room, she handed him a bottle of beer.
"Thanks, but I don't think I'm supposed to." He didn't need Claire bitching at him later.
"Don't worry about it." She urged it at him and he took it with a mental shrug. After examining the bottle for a moment, he took a long drink, easing the dryness of his throat. She sat down with her back against the side of the tub and her knees drawn up to her chest. "Talk to me, please."
He took another large swallow of the beer and hoped the alcohol would kick in soon; he needed the false courage. "Alyx, I didn't want to force you into taking care of me. You have a life, and you don't need a cripple to complicate it."
Alyx shook her head. "Damn it, Darien, did I force you to help me when my mind was scrambled?" She didn't give him a chance to answer. "No, I didn't. You helped because you cared, because we were... friends. Without your help, I'd probably be in some government nut-house, drugged to the gills to keep me from hurting anyone. I owe you my sanity, my life." She lowered her chin to her knees. "Do you think I could do any less for you? Do you really think something this...this insignificant could change how I feel? If you'd rather see this as a return for a debt I owe you, fine, but please don't send me away. Not without a good reason." Her voice became softer. "I need you, Darien."
Darien suddenly felt like a complete fool. "Ah, hell, Alyx. I didn't know what else to do. I don't want your pity."
"Pity? Why the hell would I pity you?" He could tell she was close to losing what little hold she had on her emotions. He had hurt her terribly, and still she had found it within herself to be willing to help him, even though he was convinced it was the wrong thing for her to do.
"Alyx, come on. You'll still be working at the Agency while I'm rolling about the beach collecting soda cans to make ends meet." He sounded resigned to the situation at this point, and closed his eyes, not wanting to look at her.
"Darien Fawkes, you can be such a thick-headed idiot at times." His eyes snapped open at her words and exasperated tone. "You really didn't listen to one word Claire said, did you?"
"I'm not stupid," he snapped. "I know what this means." Using the bottle, he waved at his legs, which were propped carefully along the sides of the tub. "I'm paralyzed. That's not something you fix."
"You are wrong." She pushed herself to her feet. "Your condition is temporary. You were just too busy wallowing in self-pity and hurting your friends to bother listening." She grabbed a couple of items, including a face cloth and the body wash he liked, and put them in easy reach for him. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
Before he allowed himself to think about what she had just said, he finished the remainder of the beer. Bringing one hand up to rub his forehead, he noticed the bandage she had so recently applied. Blood had soaked into it, reminding him of the dangerous step he had very nearly taken. And for nothing, if what Alyx had said was true. He did remember Claire saying something about him getting full use back with some work. He wasn't sure what that meant, though. His confused contemplation was interrupted by pain, as sharp as electric knives stabbing their way down his legs. Gritting his teeth, he groaned, trying not to either smash his head back into the tile of the wall or slip down under the water, where he might not be able save himself before drowning.
He heard something smash to the floor elsewhere in the apartment, but could not do anything about it until the pain subsided, leaving the muscles of his legs twitching in reaction. "Al..." he cleared his throat. "Alyx, you okay?"
Her voice sounded as shaky as his had. "Yes, just give me a minute."
When she appeared a few minutes later, with another beer for him, she looked dead pale.
"Alyx?" he asked as he took the beer from her.
"I'm fine, but I killed another glass." She backed away a couple of steps, shaking a bit. "I have to finish dinner." She practically ran from the room, and he wondered what the hell had happened.
She never dropped anything, or if she did, it would never hit the floor. Her abilities saw to that. Whatever had happened had to be major, to his way of thinking. He fingered the ring that lay against his chest and drank about half the bottle, the effects of the first already erasing the last vestiges of pain from his back and legs. Maybe he should consider getting out soon, before he found himself unable to.
Bracing his arms against the lip of the tub, he shifted to sit up a bit more and, after another sip, set the bottle on the floor. Picking up the face cloth and soap, he worked on getting himself as clean as he could manage. Not that he was all that dirty after soaking in the suds-filled water all this time, but after days of nothing but sponge baths given by orderlies in the hospital, it was a pleasant change. What he really wanted to do, though, was wash his hair. He looked up to the shelf where his shampoo and conditioner sat, and knew he'd never be able to get them. At least not easily.
Alyx appeared just then, seemingly by magic. "Need some help?"
"Yeah, if you don't mind." When she smiled, really smiled, it was like a huge weight fell away from him. He pointed up at what he wanted and she moved to get it for him. She handed the items to him, but instead of taking them from her, he grasped her wrist. "Alyx, I'm sorry." He tugged lightly, and she allowed herself to be drawn down to crouch next to him. "I forgot my promise to you, and I... I shouldn't have. Especially now."
"What do you want from me, Darien? You know I'll do anything, within reason." Her look was frank, her words nothing less that the truth. "If my being here hurts you more than it helps, I'll go."
"Stay," he said softly. "For as long as you want." Releasing her wrist, he removed the bottles from her hands and set them aside.
"For as long as you want me. You should know that by now." She gave him a lopsided grin. "Finish up; dinner is almost ready, and you're turning into a prune."
He found himself returning the grin.
A couple hours later, he was once again sitting on his bed, though this time he wasn't staring at his ceiling or thinking dark thoughts. He had to admit he was feeling better. Between getting clean, actually doing his hair for the first time in days, and then eating a real meal -- he kept forgetting how well Alyx could cook -- he almost felt normal, like himself.
He set aside the book she had handed him when he'd finished eating and turned to watch her as she cleaned up a bit in the kitchen. She was humming quietly to herself as she worked. Looking up at him, she paused. "What?"
"Nothing. I just like looking at you." He grinned. It was true enough.
"You feel up to doing some therapy?" He heard the hesitation in her voice.
"Uh, I guess. What do I have to do?" He had no idea what his recovery would entail, and would have to trust in Claire to disseminate the information he needed.
"Start simple; flex your feet, first the right and then the left." When it was obvious he didn't understand, she continued, explaining. "You need to remind yourself how to do it. To help reestablish the connection between your thick head and your legs." She was trying not to smile at her word choice, but he knew she was just being silly. "You were very lucky, Darien."
Concentrating, he attempted to do what she suggested, but because he could neither feel nor see any reaction, he was unsure how successful he was being. "And how is this lucky?"
"Well, considering the shot should have gone straight through and most likely killed you, I'd say you were damn lucky." He froze at her words and turned to look at her. She was currently out of sight, putting some pans away in their cabinet, based on the sound effects.
Pulling himself back together, he continued trying to flex his feet. "And? There has to be something else. There always is."
Alyx sighed as she came back into view. "The quicksilver makes your system unique. It appears to be...oh, enhancing the nerve function. Which is why you keep getting those shooting pains through your legs. Your body is trying to reestablish the connection, like a foot after falling asleep, only magnified a bit."
"Goody," he muttered as he glared at his right foot, demanding that it flex for him.
"Darien, that pain is the best sign you could hope for. It proves the nerves still function as they should, are still sending the necessary signals." She turned away and retrieved a glass, which she filled with some white wine. Then she turned off the kitchen light and joined him on the bed. "That's what a lot of those tests Claire was doing were for. To see if the nerves were still working. There are some other therapies that will help speed up the process as well." She looked him in the eye. "It'll just take some work on your part."
"How long?" He knew he shouldn't ask, was afraid of the answer.
"Claire's guess is about a month and you'll be walking without assistance."
He shook his head; positive he had not heard her correctly. "Not possible. Not with spinal damage."
"Normally no, but your damage was mostly created by secondary causes and, like I said, the quicksilver changes the equation." Alyx set the glass of wine down on the nightstand. "Have a little faith."
Faith was not something he was real big on, but he didn't bother telling her that. She knew him well enough by now. Switching to his left foot for a while, he was trying to convince it to flex when the pain returned. He almost failed to notice it, though, as he watched his foot actually move, much to his total astonishment. When the pain finally passed, he looked over at Alyx, who had moved to support him when he'd tried to fling himself backwards in reaction. Maybe... maybe a little faith wouldn't hurt.
"Please tell me you saw that." He couldn't keep the astonishment out of his voice, nor the hope.
"Yes, I saw it. You starting to believe now?" She had moved so that she was right beside him, talking softly right into his ear. One hand still rested lightly on his back.
He turned to face her. She was just inches away, close enough to smell her shampoo, the wine she'd been drinking, the subtle scent that was her. One of his hands snaked up to rest on the back of her neck and pulled her closer, eliminating the last of the distance between them. He pressed his lips against hers with no demands, no intention other than to seek and perhaps give a bit of comfort through a more intimate touch. She resisted at first, but the gentle caress of his fingers on her neck and his feather light touch on her lips wore away the last of her hurt. He knew it instantly, felt her entire body soften and relax, but chose not to take advantage of it. He pulled away and rested his forehead against hers.
"A month, huh?"
"Uh, huh. You'll see. You'll be back to your old troublemaking self in no time." There was amusement in her voice and her eyes. "I promise."
Those two words were enough to make him truly believe that he might actually make it through this with both his mind and body intact. That he might very well walk again, work again, and be worthy of her again. Maybe this... experience was nothing more than a reminder of his mortality, a reminder to value what he had, a reminder that there were people out there who cared for him no matter what. A reminder of how easily it could all be lost. Once upon a time, he'd thought he could fall no lower when he found himself in prison for life. He'd been wrong. In one hellish day, weeks later, he'd lost both his brother and the life he'd known. In return, he'd gained friends and a family of sorts in the Agency, though it had taken him a long time to realize it.
No, things weren't perfect, but things never were. Perfection would be awfully dull. Maybe it was time to stop seeing this life as the imprisonment it had been for so long -- admittedly self-imposed to a degree these days -- and to just start living.