Playlist: Nancy Sinatra - Bang Bang My Baby Shot Me Down
The thought continued nagging over the course of the next two days. Jim was too busy with his research to pay Moran much heed, and he was grateful for it, mostly keeping to himself and drinking to keep himself steady. Finally, in the early hours of the third morning, he was done waiting. He stood up from where he'd been trying to sleep, and showered and dressed. A half hour later, he headed down to the sub-basement, emotionless and steeled for whatever he was going to find.
Every single moment she'd been left in there had felt like a step further into hell. The restriction started to feel tighter, the drops started to feel harsher, and with every passing minute it felt like a weight was pressing further into her chest, pinning her there, helpless. Early into the second morning her tears had run dry, and she was left feeling like a scream was caught in her throat. Screaming would do her no good.
She flinched hard when the door opened, and let out a harsh breath through her nose as she reopened the raw skin on her wrists. It's not me, it's not me, it's not me.
He walked forward slowly, taking in the trembling figure on the table. He stopped when he was by her head, waiting a few moments before he spoke. "Tell me what information you gave them about us."
"I didn't- I didn't tell them anything, Sebastian," she breathed, surprised to find that there were tears in her eyes again. She shut them, clenching her jaw. "Moran, please, i-it's not me. Please."
He observed her quietly, impassively, ignoring the part of him that was dying to let her out, to clean up the wounds which were inflamed and to get her food and water, dammit... He watched as she flinched under another drop, and pulled a knife out of his pocket, walking over to an already existing cut on her thigh which was starting to scab over, obviously infected, the skin around it bright red. He flipped the knife open, pushing it slowly into the wound, digging it into the inflamed flesh. "What information did you give them?" he repeated.
She screamed, her voice breaking painfully as she yanked against the restraints. "NOTHING!" she sobbed, her breathing coming hard, the stress that had been building up in her for the past two days starting to reach the breaking point. "Please, please! It's not me, it's not me, Sebastian, IT'S NOT ME!"
He wanted to believe her, and he almost pulled away, hands tense on the knife as she screamed. "We know it's you," he growled, twisting the knife a little. "That isn't a question anymore. What did you tell them?"
"It's not, it's not it's not it's not!" she pleaded, the dripping water completely forgotten, all her focus on the agony burning through her leg like hot iron. "I didn't tell them anything- Moran, Moranplease, please stop," she begged through a broken sob, desperate for this to end, for the misery to stop. "If you think it's me just kill me, please."
He couldn't do this anymore. He didn't doubt a word coming out of her mouth- had no reason to. He'd seen people completely broken down before. She was there. He withdrew the knife carefully, dropping it as soon as it was free. "Okay, Lorna. I believe you. We're done. It's alright." He walked forward, pushing the dispenser away almost angrily before starting to undo her bindings. "Let's get you out of here, okay?"
If anything, she cried harder, yanking her hands down as soon as they were free and sitting up to bury her face in her hands, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes until it hurt, just trying to stop shaking like a leaf. She couldn't believe it was over. Almost literally couldn't.
He made no move to impede her movement, giving her a few minutes of sitting there, a chance to breathe. Then he spoke. "Let's get upstairs," he said quietly but firmly. "Get you cleaned up."
After a moment she unfolded herself, sliding off the table and catching herself on it just as quickly as her leg buckled under the stress, her breath hitching. Even without Moran's interference it had hurt like a bitch, and she'd felt feverish, even under the constant drips of cold water. Without a word to him she headed for the door, sniffling and wiping tears from pink cheeks.
He followed her carefully watching to make sure her legs held up. He called for the elevator when she got there- there was no way she'd make it up the stairs. He took off his jacket and put it around her carefully to hide her injuries. They were still trying to stay under the radar, and having some nosy old woman calling the police was the last thing they needed.
She walked into the lift as soon as it opened and leaned heavily against the wall, letting out a long breath. "Since we don't have an on-hand infirmary, I might need to go to the ER," she murmured, eyes shut as the doors slid closed. Her voice was hoarse. "I think I've had a bad enough week without losing a leg to infection."
He hesitated, but took a breath, shaking his head. "I'll fix you up, we have equipment. We can't take you to the ER. You got nabbed on a fucking milk run. We'd be putting our heads on the block." He hit the button for their floor.
"S'long as I don't lose a leg, whatever," she muttered, wondering just how much booze it would take in this condition to get her unconscious. She hadn't had a speck of sleep in almost four days now.
"You won't," he promised, looking over at her as the elevator door opened. "Come on." He offered her a hand.
She sighed, pushing off the wall and glancing at his hand once before taking it, eyes finding the wall of the hall in front of her, like she wasn't touching him at all. "Let's go stitch me up, huh?"
He nodded in agreement, heading for the apartment and keying in, closing it behind them and heading for the bedroom, leading her to sit on the bed before going to get the medical equipment out of the bathroom.
It was weird, being in someplace... civilized, again. After being strapped to hard surfaces for so long, the mattress felt foreign. After a moment of sitting she got back up again to wiggle out of her ruined, bloodied jeans with a hiss, swearing as some stray threads caught in her open wound, then gingerly sat again, trying not to get filth on the sheets.
He returned a few minutes later, a few kits in hand. He set them down, then pulled out a capped syringe. "Penicillin. That okay?"
She nodded, lifting a hand to run a hand through her dirty hair. Christ, she needed a shower. And food. Food. Jesus Christ, how long has it been since I've eaten? She sighed, making a face down at the infected cut. "This is disgusting. Well, at least you probably helped the pus out the door with the whole fucking knife thing. The twisting - uncool, Moran."
"It's my job, I do it," he said evenly, pressing the syringe into her arm and injecting the contents, before starting to pull out the necessary things to clean her wounds. "This isn't going to feel great."
"Because the last week has been a real picnic," she muttered, leaning back on her hands, ignoring a twinge of pain in her side. Cracked rib or not, it wasn't her biggest concern. She sighed again. "Sorry. Not your fault. I'm just generally miserable."
He didn't respond, just set about carefully cleaning and bandaging her injuries. He didn't want to think about it, just get it over with.
She sat through it in silence, though it hurt like a bitch. And now she was occupied with where in the hell they stood. Well, it wouldn't be too long until he told her himself, in his usual asshole way, so she didn't have to think about it too much. She tried to shake the thought from her mind. Don't be so fucking bitter.
He stood after he finished wrapping the last injury, and started cleaning up the remaining equipment. "You need to eat and drink. I'll bring water, what sounds good food-wise?"
"I don't care. High calorie. Protein, if you can swing it," she huffed, letting her back hit the mattress. So much better than that fucking table. She wondered what Jim would say when he saw her. Probably something insufferable.
He nodded, heading out into the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later with chicken noodle soup and a bowl of canned fruit cocktail, as well as a huge glass of water. "Here," he said, setting the tray down. "Take it easy."
"Thanks," she mumbled, sitting up and immediately beginning to devour what he set in front of her. Five minutes later, she set down her spoon in her empty bowl and sat back against the headboard with her glass of water, trying to get the taste of canned pear out of her mouth. She kept her eyes on the glass, unsure how to act now.
"Right..." he said, nodding just a little. "I'll let you get some rest, then." He headed for the door, closing it behind him quietly. He considered heading to the couch to catch up on some much-needed sleep, but he didn't want to be out of line of sight of her door, so he sat down next to it. If Jim asked, it was added security in case she tried to make a break for it.
Rest. God, did that sound like a good idea. She downed the rest of her glass of water and set it on the nightstand before carefully leaning over to turn off the lamp. She had no idea what time it was, but she hadn't slept in four days, and the second she was curled up with her head on the pillow, she was out like a light.
Jim appeared about a minute after Moran settled down, leaning his shoulder against the hall wall and looking impassively down at Moran. "Not her, then. That's going to be quite the makeup sex."
"No, not her," he said, ignoring the second comment. "I'll keep looking. We'll find them before they cause any more problems." And I will personally give them hell. He didn't know what to say to Jim at the moment. He'd been loyal, unfaltering, in the last few days, but that was his job, and they both knew it.
"Good," he snorted. His eyes wandered to the door. "I'm giving her a raise. Money soothes a lot of aches. And I'll not make the mistake of this being what does test her loyalty."
He nods in agreement. "Give me the figures and I'll let her know next time she wakes up. Unless you want to tell her personally." He felt empty, cold. It was almost refreshing.
"Not necessary. Just tell her to check her email," he shrugged, stepping away from the wall and turning slowly on his heel to head back the other way. "If you're worried about her running away, lock the door," he added over his shoulder, smirking, then disappeared around the corner.
He decided to pretend he hadn't heard that piece of logic, and closed his eyes, intent on catching a bit of a nap.
Lorna woke up an indeterminate amount of time later. It felt like too soon, but now that she was conscious, her unwashed state was bugging her enough to keep her from falling back asleep. Groaning, she rolled out of bed and limped into the bathroom, fumbling around in the dark to turn the shower on and strip out of her rank hoodie and underwear. The shower was painful, unsurprisingly, so she only stayed in long enough to clean her hair before she stumbled back out, similarly fumbling around in the dark to turn the shower off. She patted herself mostly dry and shuffled into the bedroom to feel around for the dresser, where she pulled out clothes that felt soft under her fingertips, and pulled them on. Why she hadn't bothered to turn on a lamp in the first place, she didn't know, but now it seemed like a bit of a moot point. She hesitated before she got back into bed, and sighed. You're a fucking masochist.
Yeah, well, shut the fuck up.
She turned for the door. When she opened it to find him sitting right outside, she jumped, then swore. "Jesus. What're you lurking outside for? Just fucking come in, asshole."
He glanced up as she opened the door, tensing, but she made no move to attack so he relaxed. "I wasn't lurking," he muttered, studying her carefully. "I was just keeping an eye on things. Figured you wouldn't want me in there."
She turned away, rolling her eyes, and headed back to bed, leaving the door open. "Don't make me change my mind. Actually, if you're going to make me, shut the door."
He didn't know where in hell this invitation was coming from, but he certainly wasn't going to watch it pass by, and stood, heading through the door after her, closing it quietly behind him.
She got stiffly back into bed, silently curling up under the covers and letting out a long breath. It would be easier if she just tried to pretend that the last couple days hadn't happened. She didn't know if she could do it, but she had to at least try. For Christ's sake, they'd been fighting even before she'd gotten fucked up by not one, but two, different networks, the last thing that this - whatever the fuck this goddamn was - needed was tension born from fucking torture.
He walked over quietly, sitting down on the side of the bed she'd left open, reaching down tiredly to pull off his shoes before he laid down. He made no move to go any closer to her, amazed that he'd gotten this far and in no mood to push it.
She just curled up where she was and went right back to sleep, deciding that as long as he was close by, further deliberations on such a confusing topic could wait.
He closed his eyes as well, exhausted, and fell asleep in a matter of moments, for the first time in days.
She woke up what felt like a long, long time later, her limbs tangled up with his, face buried in the crook of his neck. She sighed, not bothering to move for a long comfortable moment, just soaking in the irrational warm feeling her gave her.
He had woken a while earlier, and had considered pulling away from her so that she didn't wake up uncomfortable, but he really, really didn't want to, so he'd just lay still, pretending to be asleep and waiting for her to wake up, to gauge her reaction.
She moved away after a moment, when a startlingly clear image of him standing over her with his knife popped into her head and she had to clamp down on a sudden well of fear in her throat. Pretending that it hadn't happened was looking a little more difficult. She sat up and half slid out of bed before her inflamed leg told her very clearly that she was not going to do that, and she just sat on the edge of the mattress, raising a hand to rub her eyes. How in hell they moved on from this, she didn't know. Really, how the hell she moved on.
He opened his eyes when she pulled away, saw the way her body tensed and her expression locked down. He sat up, getting out of bed and walking into the bathroom to give her some space. He knew they were going to have to talk about this at some point, but he didn't want to. Didn't want to have to justify why in hell he'd taken a knife to her.
She just stayed there for a few minutes, wondering how the hell she was going to occupy herself today, keep herself distracted. It bugged her, how much she depended on him right now. She wasn't going to be running any marathons anytime soon, and like hell did she want to even see Jim. What a fucking mess.
He returned a few minutes later, having cleaned up and shaved. "What do you want for breakfast?" he asked unobtrusively, staying a few feet away.
She shrugged, looking down at the bandages on her wrists. The skin underneath them hurt still. "I don't care. Whatever's available. Some ibuprofen would be nice."
He nodded, returning to the bathroom and coming back a few seconds later with the bottle of pills and a glass of water. "Here. I'll go figure some food out."
"Thanks," she murmured, taking them and throwing back a few pills, eyes still carefully avoiding him. Fuck, would this even get better with time?
He didn't let her aversion bother him, or at least, that's what he told himself as he headed for the door and out into the kitchen. He needed to make something simple that her coming-off-starvation body wouldn't have a problem with. Beans and toast would be a good start.
She carefully got to her feet as he left, walking to the dresser while putting as little weight on her leg as possible, and eventually managed to change into some real clothes before giving up on the whole standing thing and sitting back down on the bed. It was silly, that she behave this way. He'd done what was necessary. She knew that. She did. Fuck, the only other thing she knew was that she couldn't, and wouldn't, bring it up.
He returned ten minutes later with beans and toast, and a banana, and orange juice. "Here," he muttered, setting the tray down and handing her a spoon for the beans. "Try to eat everything, but don't make yourself sick."
"Yeah, I know the deal," she replied quietly, shifting uncomfortably at the awkwardness in the room before ducking her head and starting to eat, her shoulders tense.
"Right," he said, nodding. "Okay, well, let me know if you need anything." He could tell he was making her uncomfortable and didn't feel like prolonging that state, heading for the door and back into the kitchen to find his own food.
She didn't relax much after he was gone, though she did manage to stomach all of her food while only feeling mildly nauseous. The lack of windows in the room weren't helping her out much, either. A few minutes after she'd finished off her food she carefully picked up the tray and got out of bed to half-hobble to the door. God, she hoped Jim was in his own room.
He looked up as her door opened, and sighed, standing to walk over and take the dishes from her. "Is it too much to ask that you not walk around on your injured leg, please?" he asked with a hint of sarcasm to cover the concern.
She made a face at him, leaning against the door frame, just a little stubbornly. "I've kinda had enough of being chained in place on various horizontal and vertical surfaces. I'm stiff, okay?"
"That's great and all, but you're also bleeding," he pointed out with a sigh, nodding to the bandage on her leg, which was starting to show spots of red. "Figure out where you want to camp for a while, and then I'll change your bandages."
She groaned, but turned back into the room and limped her way into bed, though it was clear she had no problems being sullen about it. For once, there was literally no way any of this was her fault. It gave her a lot of emotional leeway.
He followed after her, walking into the bathroom to get what he needed. He returned and sat next to her, starting to carefully unwind the bandage on her leg. "How's the pain?"
"Tolerable. But more towards the edge of 'I'm probably going to drink half that bottle of bourbon so I'll just sleep through this awful day,'" she snorted, grimacing a little as the gauze unstuck from her bloody leg. "And that's not me asking you to stop me. That's me telling you I'm going to do that, so hide your own liquor."
"Fair enough," he said, shrugging a bit. It wasn't like he was setting a great example anyway. "Might just join you. In the endeavor, not locale," he clarified.
Lorna opened her mouth to tell him she didn't care where he did it, and then shut it again, finding that she did care. She didn't know which direction she was leaning, but she certainly had feelings about it one way or another. She cleared her throat, a little awkwardly.
He paused a moment, too, before bending down to grab his booze from under the bed and heading out the door. He had work to do for Jim before he got wasted.
She pushed the med kit to the other side of the bed and leaned to grab her bottle from the nightstand, unscrewing the cap and flicking it carelessly across the room. She wasn't going to be needing it.
It was a long day, mostly spent working on hunting down the damned mole and watching his supply of liquor slowly sink as he did his best not to think about anything. Finally, however, it started to get dark, and he allowed himself to speed the process a little, the room getting blurry around him. He closed his laptop, then his eyes, letting the darkness overtake him.
She was almost relieved that he didn't seem to be coming back. Even when she was this drunk, it was hard to fight down the fear, that sudden instinct to shrink back. And it warred with the opposing instinct to seek comfort from him. Suddenly he didn't feel safe anymore. Surprised to find herself tearing up, she leaned over to turn out the light, curling up in a ball underneath the covers. She would have to be good enough.
They were screaming. Visceral, gutted, throat-gouging screams. He knew them, he caused them, but not in these voices... Never in these voices. O'Hare was the loudest, and suddenly he was standing in front of him. The scarred man with a bullet through his head. His mouth was closed, expression passive, but every few seconds he flickered and his expression distorted into a mess of agony. Before he could blink it would return to normal. He cringed away, trying to back up, but he couldn't, his hands drawn forwards, clawing at the bullet wound, making it grow wider until O'Hare's face was crumbling away beneath his fingers, bloody... He tried to scream, tried to pull away, heart pounding loudly, but the screams only grew to compensate.
He couldn't see properly, the edges of his vision dark, just enough clarity allowed him that he could see what was immediately in front of him. But there were more screams, from figures in his peripheral vision, never quite stepping forward enough, and a new voice was raising up now. Screaming, begging.
"STOP! PLEASE, MORAN, STOP!"
Lorna.
He tore angrily at whatever held him, only to find himself free and armed, the knife in his hand. It was dripping blood, too much blood. A drop touched his skin and it hurt, scalding his skin. He screamed and tried to drop the knife, but it was no use. Suddenly Lorna was in front of him, soaking wet, water dripping in rivulets out of every orifice, eyes locked on him, full of terror. Her mouth was open wide, water bubbling forth, and she was choking on it, but still she screamed, and the water started to tinge red.
You did this, Sebastian... You ruined me...
Her face flickered for a moment to that of O'Hare.
There was pain in his hand and he looked down, and the blood was touching him again, crawling over his skin, searing him. He could smell rotting, putrid, burning flesh, and screamed again, his voice joining the others as he tried to drop the knife. The blood began to cover him in a coat, burning everywhere it touched like it was boiling. It crept up his arm, then over his shoulder, his torso, until it had covered his body and was encroaching in his mouth-
He woke with a start to the taste of blood. He gagged as he fell off the couch with a thump, spitting out the blood as his heart raced fast enough to make him light-headed. He dropped the knife in his hand like it was molten, gagging and spitting, until his head cleared enough for him to realize he'd bitten through his tongue. He had an unwavering grip on the carpet, his body trembling.Lorna...
The closest she could get to sleep in the bed was a doze. She'd been trying for hours, still feeling weighed down by the alcohol, and eventually had turned into a cocoon of blankets on the bed, trying to feel secure again, to get back some sense of well-being that had been taken from her. It was so hard. Every time her doze would start to sink down into unconsciousness the ceiling of the basement room and the grimy tank above her appeared on the back of her eyelids, shortly followed by Moran's blank face, the one she knew he used when whatever he was thinking wasn't conducive to his work. It killed her, the fact that she knew she was being so unreasonable. There was no other way he could have acted, no other way the scenario could have gone, once she was suspected of treason. That didn't change the fear, though.
He staggered to his feet. He wasn't sure if he was drunk or drugged or injured, but at the moment thinking was difficult and he didn't have time to figure it out. He needed to find Lorna. His eyes narrowed down on a door and instinct- little else- propelled him in that direction. He pushed the door open with hands that still shook, fumbling for a switch to illuminate the pitch blackness.
The light was blinding, but a moment later he saw her, lying in the bed. He moved forward slowly now, taking her in, trying to gauge her condition.
She shifted unhappily as the lights came on, jolted from another brief dip into sleep, and turned over to squint at him. She sat up abruptly, sucking in a slightly fearful breath. He had blood half across his face, down his chin and flecked on his shirt. "What the fuck's going on?"
She spoke, and it took him so much longer than it should have to process that fact, and then go about deciphering what she'd said. But once he did it was like his brain had been kickstarted, and things started falling into place. Right... Harrison is fine ... He took a step back. "Sorry... I... I thought I heard something..."
She didn't look like she believed him for a second. "Why the hell are you all bloody?" she shook her head, taking a deep breath. It's fine, he's not here to get you. It's fine.
He reached up to touch his face then, and was unable to help the slight start when his fingers came away coated red. "Bit through my tongue..." he muttered, forcing himself to separate dream from reality. "You're.. are you alright?"
"No, I'm not alright," she muttered bitterly, raking a hand through her hair. "I was just tortured. Again. By two completely separate parties. There is nowhere left for me to be fucking alright."
"Right..." he said, nodding just a little and dropping his hand, before heading to the bathroom to rinse his face off, not sure what else to do. Christ he was exhausted. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, eyes bruised, cheeks hollow, face stained with blood, and looked down again.
She rubbed her eyes as he went into the other room, trying to lock down the violent upset that was threatening to spill over. She reached for the mostly empty bottle of bourbon, and knocked back the last dregs.
He walked back in a few moments later, taking a slow breath, tongue still throbbing. "Right. Sorry for... I'll leave you be, then." He wandered towards the door, before stopping and turning to look at her. "I had a nightmare. I just... I know you aren't alright. That wasn't how I meant it."
She shrugged a little hopelessly, a little darkly. "Yeah, I just... I had to say something. I can't bottle up all of this. If I do I'll just end up killing myself or something."
He rubbed his eyes, but nodded a little. "It's fine. That's fine, I didn't want... I didn't want any of this. But if you need to yell or whatever that's fine."
"I don't want to yell at you, Sebastian," she sighed, flopping back onto her back. "I can't fucking blame you for what happened. You were doing your job. I'm just a fucking unreasonable bitch. And my coping skills aren't equipped to handle this."
"That makes two of us," he mutters quietly, taking a slow breath. "I know it was my job. A lot of things are my job. That doesn't make it any easier, I get that."
She was silent for a moment, unsure of what to say next. Her leg was bothering her, and that wasn't going to make it any easier to fall asleep. "I can't sleep," she said eventually, her weariness clear in her voice. "It's not even nightmares. I just... can't get to sleep."
He nodded just slightly. "Is there any way I can help? Or would I just make things worse?" Despite everything, his voice was practical. He felt anything but.
She let out a shuddering breath, trying to keep herself under control. "I honestly don't know, Sebastian. I really don't."
He nodded a little, crossing his arms across his chest, the closest to hugging himself he would allow. He was on edge, her nervousness not helping anything, but he needed to be here. He decided direct was the best approach. "Are you afraid of me?"
"Yes," she whispered, her breath hitching a little. She couldn't look at him. Didn't want to see what his expression would be. "I've always been, for different reasons. This is just- it's just fresh."
He nodded, not letting his expression change. "If you want me to leave, I will. I can minimize contact. I don't want to, but I'd understand that request."
She shook her head a little, trying hard to keep herself from breaking down into tears. "No, that's... that's not what I want," she shook her head, swallowing hard, glancing at him and then away. Then she held out a hand towards him, a small gesture, but a significant one. She always came back. He'd done worse things to her, with worse intentions. She always fucking came back.
He took a slow breath, staring at the hand. He wanted to walk over and take it, so badly. But she couldn't even look at him, and that twisted somewhere deep in his stomach. "I don't want to scare you," he said quietly, voice still even. "Normally I just take what I want, damn the consequences, but..." He shrugged.
She dropped it to the covers, where it fisted into the sheets. Her eyes stung. "Sebastian, just.." she shook her head, raising a hand to wipe angrily at her tears as they spilled over. "Just come here, please. Please."
Sebastian, stop, please, PLEASE...
He shook off the voice in his head, walking slowly forward to stand in front of her, though he didn't sit, taking slow breaths, forcing his expression to remain neutral.
She had to tug him down by his shirt, making him sit and then crawling into his lap, crying silently. It wasn't fair that they'd had to go through this. But it was what it was, and it wasn't going away.
He wrapped his arms around her once she was there, continuing to focus on his breathing, forcing himself to keep steady. He couldn't break here, she was already crumbling.
"I'm sorry," she murmured a bit unsteadily, doing her best not to get the waterworks all over his shirt. "I know you don't.. like this stuff. I'm sorry."
"Shut up, Harrison," he muttered, burying his face in the top of her head. He was so glad to have her close again. Safe... she's safe...
She turned into him, burying her face in his chest, finally breaking down into real, quiet sobs. It was okay. This hadn't been broken again, he wasn't leaving. This wasn't his fault. How many times has he saved your life? "Please stay," she whispered, sniffling a little.
He nodded just a little, tucking his legs up a little and holding her pressed close to his chest. "I'm so fucking sorry," he breathed. "I wanted to stop."
"I know. I know, it's okay," she shook her head, curling her fingers into his shirt, leaning into him harder, relieved to find that the warmth of him was still comforting, that she still fit against him like a puzzle piece. She closed her eyes, taking a shuddering breath. "It's over. Never again."
"No," he agreed softly. "Never." He felt her start to cry in earnest, but made no move to pull away, not in the least uncomfortable. He was fighting joining her, though he'd never admit it, his throat convulsing painfully.
She was relieved to find that the fear that had struck her that morning didn't materialize again, that he was a comfort again. She still loved him.
She wore out quickly, coming back down to just light sniffling, and shifted a little, indicating that she wanted to get horizontal. She couldn't fight against his core strength.
He didn't object, laying back, keeping her close to his chest even then. He didn't want to let go for fear that she wouldn't come back.
She just burrowed into him, breathing in his familiar scent, slowly calming herself. She didn't know how long they lay there in silence before she spoke, her voice quiet. "How long do we have to stay here?"
"I don't know," he said after a moment. "Jim will tell us when we can leave."
She nodded, letting out a long breath into his shoulder. Facing Jim again was not going to be easy. But crowded into this little flat, there wasn't a lot that she could do to avoid him forever. At least now she knew she could at least look Sebastian in the eye.
They lay that way in silence for a while. Eventually he started tracing absent patterns on her hand with his thumb, breathing slow and relaxed.
After a long time, something swam to the surface of her mind that felt like it needed saying. "I was worried that you would think I'd turned traitor," she murmured, shifting a bit to adjust the weight on her leg. "Not for, you know, the torture reasons... Just, so soon after a job like Ford... I didn't want you to think that I could do the same to you."
His grip on her tightened a little, and he was silent for a few minutes. "I can't say the thought never crossed my mind," he said finally. "Trust is... punished in our circles."
"I know. I don't.. expect you to trust me. I'm not asking you to. I guess I was just realistic enough to realize what you would think, and just stupid enough to worry about something like that in the middle of being kidnapped," she snorted softly, nestling into him a little more, slinging an arm over his broad side. "Mallory offered me a lot of money to switch sides. I told him to stick it where the sun doesn't shine."
"Good, because you wouldn't survive a day once you'd taken it," he said quietly. "And that would have been very annoying."
"I thought about taking it, just to get out of the chains and be able to make a break for it, but I was worried about that, and the fact that they might haul me a long way away before giving me free rein at all," she shrugged. "Waiting for them to make a mistake or for you to show up were safer bets. Christ, was I glad to see you."
"Likewise," he said, nodding a little. "It was good to be out in the field again, to be honest. I've spent too much time on the wrong end of the manhunt and knife recently."
"Yeah, tell me about it," she chuckled, then yawned, stretching out a little. "I'm going to try to sleep while the alcohol in my system is still numbing my leg, 'kay?"
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Go for it." He tucked the blanket up around her a little more firmly. Maybe with her here he could sleep better as well.
She nodded, already dozing off, and quickly fell asleep, feeling a lot more secure than she had in days.
He fell asleep a few minutes later, his grip on her not weakening for an instant.