TW for sexual assault y'all. Not shown but heavily implied

So I take off my face
Because it reminds me of how it all went wrong
And I pull out my tongue
Because it reminds me of how it all went wrong

And I cough up my lungs
Because they remind me of how it all went wrong
But I leave in my heart
Because I don't want to stay in the dark

- Of Monsters and Men - Organs -

She knew how long she'd been in the basement. Woman, not Man, had invented the 28-day calendar, after all. And, she had to hand it to her captor; unlike DeWitt, he used a fucking condom. It was the one thing she was thankful for in that godforsaken pit.

It was on the third month that she decided that she had to escape or die trying; she was wasting away in the dark, and the longer she waited, the harder getting out would be. She didn't even want to think about what Sebastian was going through.

She waited for an opportune time. For years, she'd been honing her sense of opportunity, the scent of escape. Riordan's big mistake was his slowly relaxing guard. In the beginning, with the memories of what she'd done to him relatively fresh, he'd been wary, he'd been careful, he'd brought in a taser and rope. Now, he let her take off his belt.

Fool move, you disgusting prick.

Shirtless, weakened, and near-starving, she whipped the belt across his too-familiar face, screamed in anger and watched the buckle break open his skin, tear it away from his skull, slice across an eye. When he was too stunned to fight back, she strangled him with the thing, sitting on his chest, bony knees pinning his arms to the ground, her teeth bared in a grimace.

She strangled him for far longer than really necessary. He was well and truly dead, she knew that. But caution made her make sure, made her confirm that this man wouldn't be what held back her escape.

She let go of the belt, fished the key out of his pocket, and fought with his corpse for the shirt before she crawled off him, eyes dry, heart steady.

Nuair a thosaigh mo chúl cliste

T'was cosúil le scian peann i mo chroí Nuair a thosaigh mo chroí a bleed Ansin, bhí mé marbh agus marbh go deimhin.

The walls were home. Soft, soft stone. His stone. He knew the bumps and cracks, knew the pits and gravel. His home, his place, his darkness.

Her staggered entrance into the lobby of HQ was fit for a movie. Wearing a man's shirt five sizes too big, without shoes, and with wounds covering almost every visible inch of her, including a long, thin knife wound that started at the outside corner of her left eyebrow and slanted its way down, across the bridge of her nose and her right cheek, ending in an odd little curl at the corner of her jaw. It had not been a fast wound. It had been slow, and deliberate, and with the precise intent of leaving a mark for everyone to see.

She ignored the several people in the lobby who rushed towards her, limping into the lift and hitting the button for the top floor, leaning back against the elevator wall with her eyes closed. At least she was clean. After all, it was gross raping a woman who hadn't showered in a week, and Lord Moran had had such delicate sensibilities. She spat on the floor in memory of the asshole, and left the elevator as the doors dinged open. She didn't knock on Jim's door, just walked right in.

He looked up as she walked in, and raised an eyebrow, looking her over, before nodding to the chair across from him. "Do have a seat before you keel over."

"Thanks," she said dryly, lowering herself into the chair with a long, pained breath. "I'm guessing he's not back. I think I was the least well-hidden. I'm not sure. Do you have, like, a pitcher of water or something in here?"

He hit the intercom. "A medic and a pitcher of ice water to my office," he said calmly before releasing the button. "No, he's not back."

"Damn," she muttered, slumping back a little in the chair, exhaustion weighing on her. Not to mention the fact that she hadn't been on such a comfortable piece of furniture in months. "I was kinda hoping I was wrong and you were going to just tell me that you guys couldn't find me, but I guess that was pretty stupid. He'd have known to look for his father. Whatever. I don't feel like I'm up to being particularly smart right now. Sorry I'm talking so much, I basically took a vow of silence in that hellhole and besides the homeless lady on the street you're like the only person I've seen in a long time worthy of conversation."

He didn't respond to her conversation, just pieced together information as she gave it to him. She and Moran had been separated some time ago, his father had something to do with it. Given what he knew of the elder Moran, however, it was unlikely he would take direct action against his own son unless pressured by someone. Such as the other Moran he'd seen entering the lower ponds of the political game lately.

Interesting.

Lorna drifted back into a tired silence, only moving again when there was a knock at the door and a medic bustled in. She sighed, sinking down into the chair a little sullenly. She was not in the mood to be prodded and poked. "Sara Moran... ooh boy, when I get my hands on her," she muttered, going limp as the medic cautiously began examining her arms. She raised gloomy grey eyes to Jim again. "Sir, I want to help get Moran back, but... these fuckin'.. the scars I'm gonna have... just tell me straight up if it's worth keeping me around afterwards. Rather know now."

He looked her over. It was obvious she wouldn't work again, not in grifting, at least. But he'd put too much work into her to just put her down.

"You'll shift to more administrative roles. Branch into hit work if you want to dabble in that again. I hate to see talent squandered. For the time being, tell me what you know about Moran's situation."

She let out a long breath, not sure whether she should be relieved. No. It's fine. You'll still have Moran. "I know he's alive. His.. half-sister, I think? She said she wasn't going to kill him, just... put him away. I would just bring her in and torture it out of her."

He shook his head. "She's high profile right now because of the elections. I don't want to bring the wrong kind of attention. You'll need to remember what you can and we'll go from there."

"I... I mean, that's it, really. I was bound and gagged in a chair and she talked at me and Moran for like, three minutes, and left, and then they knocked me out and I woke up someplace else. That's all I got, boss."

He sighed, leaned back in his chair, and watched the medic work. "We'll give it another week or so. If we don't find him by then..." He turned the idea over a few times. "Then I suppose we'll talk to her."

She nodded, wincing as the medic touched something that was still particularly tender. "Okay. Fuck, I hope they didn't just shut him away in some closet with no human contact. Solitary fucks anyone up, but Sebastian..."

"He is particularly susceptible," he said with a nod. "Unfortunately, I find it highly possible his sister is aware of that fact. I don't suppose you bothered to kill the elder Moran somewhere where your DNA wasn't all over the place? Never mind, I'll have it dealt with."

She shrugged a little, sighing. "I doubt they'll find him for a while, you have time. Had me in a basement of an office of an old, abandoned factory. I'm flattered he bothered to turn on the utilities so I could have water," she snorted, though there was a duller look to her eyes now, a learned resignation. Defeat. In the end she'd taken his life, but he'd taken just as much from her. "Anyway, I'm not in the system. If they do find him first, all they're going to see is that he was holding someone prisoner down there."

"I'd still rather there be nothing for anyone to tie you to were you ever brought in," he muttered, watching the medic start work on the gash on her face. "You got older. "

"That's just insulting," she muttered, shooting him a resentful look, then hissing as the medic got a little too rough with the cleaning. "I have enough injuries without you going for my pride, too, thanks."

"I'm just prodding the wound. Mr. Moran already took an axe to it," he pointed out dryly.

"I'm telling you not to prod the fucking wound," she snapped angrily, jaw clenched. "No offense, sir, but fuck off."

He stared at her for a moment. "I'm going to be patient, because I understand you're injured and exhausted, but don't take that tone with me again. Adding the word 'respectfully' doesn't make it so." His voice was dangerously calm.

"If you want my respect, don't say shit that has absolutely no purpose being said other than to rile me up," she retorted, tense in her chair, hands curled into fists in her lap, where they were trembling, ever so slightly. She was at the end of her rope. Like a dog that had been kicked one too many times, she was a centimeter away from going feral. She had no doubts that she was wired enough to do serious damage to him, if not kill him, should she be pressed. The medic had shrunk back onto his haunches, looking nervous about getting between the two of them.

Jim smiled, but could see the tension and decided not to press further.

"I think that's all for today. Why don't you head to medical and I'll devote my attentions to finding Sebastian."

"Sounds good to me, sir," she replied wearily, heaving herself out of the chair and exiting the room, leaving the medic to scurry after her.

It was a week and a half later that they finally found him. One of Jim's agents followed Sara Moran to a farm a few hours outside the city limits, and an infrared scan picked up a living being in a root cellar near the back. It took two minutes for the information to reach Jim. He texted Lorna five minutes later.

We've located him. Extraction team leaving in ten minutes. Accompany them as advisory. JM

She was so relieved she thought she'd faint, but got out of her bed stiffly nonetheless, quickly replying.

Yes, sir. LH

The extraction team said nothing when she arrived in the garage, but she saw the looks. Hated them. Everyone who saw her had to pretend not to stare, not to be surprised. She knew that she was, over all, still beautiful, but no longer in a soft, alluring, disarming way. No longer in the way that let her drift by relatively unnoticed, or the way that could charm an aging man into handing her his fortune. Now it was with a way that drew attention and fear. Now people glanced away as soon as they spotted her, like they were trying to avoid looking at the sun.

The ride was long, and the rest of the team left her mostly to herself, tucked into the back corner of the van, trying to sit in a way that didn't hurt when the vehicle jostled her. When they arrived, she stayed behind as the rest of the team left, armed to the teeth. She was in no condition to fight. She waited for the signal, which came ten minutes later, after only a few gunshots. They led her down into the cellar, gave her the key they took off Sara, and melted back into the shadows. She unlocked the door, wrenched it open.

"Sebastian?"

"Ansin, bhí mé marbh agus marbh go deimhin... Ansin, bhí mé marbh agus marbh go deimhin..."

The words came from the shadows in the back corner of the tiny room, whispered over and over in a voice that was rough with use. They didn't falter when she called.

Her stomach sank. This was not a good sign. "I don't speak Gaelic, Sebastian," she sighed, stepping into the horribly enclosed space at a crouch and leaning to slip her hand under his jaw, tilting his face up to hers. "Are you alright? Can you hear me?"

His eyes looked in her direction, but didn't really seem to see her at first, and when they finally did focus on her, it was without any sort of recognition or comprehension.

"Ansin, bhí mé marbh agus marbh go deimhin..."

She swallowed, hard, and dropped her hand to his shoulder, heaving him up by his shirt. She couldn't break over this, not here, not now. He didn't recognize her. He wasn't even speaking right, for fuck's sake. She got him out of the tiny enclosed space and beckoned over a few of the team, handing him over - he didn't look strong enough to walk on his own. "Let's leave this place."

Sebastian made no struggle as arms gripped him and heaved him towards the van, still muttering under his breath. He smelled rank, like waste and rotten flesh, and under the rags of his clothes his body was covered in dried blood and inflamed, words standing out amongst the scratches.

On the ride back, she occupied herself with cleaning as many of his scrapes and... inscriptions.. as she possibly could, trying to ignore his quiet babbling, the same words spoken over and over again. The same words that she suspected were the ones carved into his skin.

She sent the text message as they pulled into the garage, letting out a steadying breath. She had to get him away from here for a while. There was nothing the infirmary could do for him that she couldn't. He's not fit for duty. I don't think he will be any time soon. Doesn't recognize any of us. Only talking in Gaelic. Permission to take him off-site while he get's better? LH

The response was immediate.

I want to speak to him first. JM

They pulled him out of the van gently, and a medic walked over with bandages, which was when things started to go downhill. The woman started trying to wrap up a bandage over his arm, and Sebastian leveled her with a fist to the face.

He was immediately back to docile muttering.

"Christ, Moran," she breathed, eyes on him as she absently helped the medic up. Then she turned back to the woman. "Just.. leave those with me. I'll try, later. No need for you to be pummeled. Alright, Sebastian, boss wants to see us. Let's go."

He didn't move until she pulled on him, and he followed along, walking slowly behind her, eyes on her hand on his.

"Nuair a thosaigh na héin a eitilt, t'was cosúil le longbhriseadh sa spéir..."

She still held his hand in the lift, because it almost hurt to think of letting him go, and towed him behind her as they exited, down the hall to Jim's office, where she knocked once and then entered, tugging Sebastian along behind her.

Jim looked up, and let out a quiet swear, standing and walking over to get a better look.

"Well, he held up well," he sighed sarcastically.

"Nuair a thosaigh na héin a eitilt. T'was cosúil le longbhriseadh sa spéir."

Jim tilted his head in interest. "Nuair a thosaigh an spéir a crack, t'was cosúil le fuip ar mo dhroim."

Now it was Sebastian's turn to look a little intrigued. He looked up, saw Jim, and though he didn't seem to recognize him, the man had caught his interest.

"Le fuip ar mo dhroim..."

Lorna stood to the side, looking at Sebastian almost pleadingly, just silently begging him to snap out of it, to return to normal. This was a nightmare.

Jim tried a few more phrases, but Moran seemed to be done responding, returning to muttering to the floor. Jim turned his attention to Lorna. "It's an old Irish children's rhyme. Why he's saying it, I've no idea, and he doesn't seem to want to talk to me in Irish, but that's what it is." He sounded annoyed, but there was the slightest touch of what could have been called concern in his gaze.

She rubbed her eyes, taking a deep breath. "Alright," she said finally, hand falling to her side helplessly. "What do you want me to do with him? I mean.. Christ."

He shrugged, turning away. "Get him out of here. You mentioned an apartment? Take him there. Get him cleaned up and sleeping. If he doesn't snap out of this I'll bring in specialists. If they can't do anything then we'll deal with him kindly and move on." He walked to his desk.

She felt too sick to say or do anything more than "Yes, sir," and tug Sebastian back out of the room, fighting back tears. She didn't know how, but she had to fix him. Had to.

It was a half hour later that she led him up the steps to his flat and unlocked the door, pulling him inside the threshold before shutting the door and sucking in a breath. "Alright. Let's get you in a shower, okay?"

He was looking around the room absently, running fingers over doorframes and walls, exploring. His eyes still didn't focus on much, and when she turned on the light he flinched away, shutting them.

"Sorry," she murmured, turning the light back out and snagging his hand again, heading for the spiral staircase. That was going to difficult for the both of them, but she couldn't remember if or where there was another bathroom. "C'mon, try to keep up. Fuck, I wish I knew fucking Gaelic... Not as weird as Welsh, but weird. That's why I never picked it up. Stubborn asshole I am... C'mon, up the stairs. Up, up," she urged, starting up them, him in tow.

He followed after her without much complaint, starting to mutter under his breath again, reaching to press solid fingers against one of her bandages.

"Ow," she hissed, jerking away from him a little. "Stop it, or I'll put you in a cold shower. Not going to be fun for either of us," she muttered, without too much bite, just grabbing one of his hands again and pulling him into the bathroom, where she started to gently peel off his bloodied, ruined shirt.

He sighed as she pulled the shirt off, helping her, hardly flinching as it pulled at his skin, starting to trace over the wounds on his arm again, scratching them open.

"Hey, no," she scolded, pushing his hand away from his arm. "No scratching. I'll put oven mitts on you, I will, just go ahead and test me," she huffed, giving him the sternest look she could manage and then working on getting him out of his trousers. "Fuck, Sebastian... if you're still in there, you gotta let me know, okay?"

He stepped out of his trousers, muttering something quiet in Gaelic and reaching out to touch her hair before getting out of his pants himself, apparently picking up on the direction she was going.

She took another steadying breath and turned to turn on the shower, fighting back the urge to dote on him, ask if he was alright, find a way to make him comfortable and safe again. When she judged the water hot enough, she gave him a small nudge towards it. "Get in."

He stepped in without complaint, closing his eyes and hissing in pain as it hit the infected wounds, but making no move away from it, eyes shut, lips still mouthing words under the rhythm of the water.

Lorna waited outside, trying to keep herself together. She didn't know how far his... insanity extended. Could he understand simple commands? Or, would he bother to heed them? She left him in the shower for about ten minutes, then reached in and shut it off. "Alright, I'll get you some pants, then it's time to take care of your scratches and shit. Don't hit me, please."

He sat down in the tub, still murmuring, but mostly just seemed fairly oblivious to her presence.

She returned a minute later, setting a pair of pants on the counter and coaxing him out of the tub so she could wrap him up in a towel and sit him on the toilet. Then she got out the first aid kit, and pulled out the roll of bandages the medic had given her, holding them up so he could see them. "I'm going to wrap up your scratches so you can't make them worse, alright? If you clock me, I'm going to be pissed. Cool?... Yeah, alright, not gonna get an answer..."

He saw the bandages and seemed to go on edge, muttering a bit faster, before tucking his arms protectively against his bare chest. "Ar bith."

She raised her eyebrows slightly, then sighed, setting the bandages on the counter. "Okay, going to guess that's a no... One second, I have an idea." She got up and swiftly left the room, coming back a moment later with a pen in hand, and picked up the bandages again, holding the next to each other. "Look, you can write the words on the bandages, yeah? C'mon. Work with me, please."

He seemed to consider her offer, looking at her face for a long time before slowly relenting, holding out his arms very grudgingly.

"Thank you," she sighed in relief, beginning the process of wrapping up his arms. At least he could still be reasoned with, to some extent. When she finished, she gave him his arms back and handed him his pair of pants. "Here. Put those on, I'll dress your other wounds in the kitchen. Food. Shit, I think I might know that one... Bia? Maybe? Probably butchering it. Shoutout to my third grade teacher for breaking down into Irish every time it looked even mildly gloomy out."

"Bia," he repeated, looking interested in her suddenly, and touching his fingers to his lips.

"Yeah, yeah. Bia. C'mon. Put the pants on and we can eat," she nodded, pushing the pants into his hand. Christ, was she going to have to get an entire book of Gaelic to communicate with him? Well, if it worked...

He got the message and pulled on the pants, standing up. He was badly emaciated, and looked eager at the thought of food.

Heartened by his responsiveness, she led the way back out of the bathroom without physically grabbing him this time, hoping he would follow of his own accord, and pulled out her phone as she headed for the stairs. God bless Google.

A few minutes later, she made him a bowl of chicken noodle soup, set it down in front of him at the kitchen island, and sat across from him, opening up Translate. If it worked, fantastic. If it didn't, at least she'd tried the easy way.

English - Irish

Can you read this? Are you understanding what I'm saying in English?

An féidir leat a léamh ? An bhfuil tú ag tuiscint cad mé ag rá i mBéarla ?

It took him a while to notice the phone, and then a while longer before he was willing to venture looking at the bright screen, pupils still blown wide from the darkness. He squinted, trying to see, and staring at the words for a long time. Finally he gave a short nod and returned to his food.

She sighed, leaving the phone where it was, in case he felt like being helpful. That answer mostly wasn't. She leaned back in the chair, lifting a hand to drag over her face and then swearing as she ran across the gash, which she kept fucking forgetting, and then sat there staring up at the ceiling, waiting in miserable silence for him to finish eating.

He started slightly as she swore, almost spilling soup, before edging a little away and returning to eating, eyes slipping shut.

It was hard not to wallow in self-pity. At least in the three months she'd been getting beaten and abused she'd had human contact. But him... She wasn't even sure if he understood his own name anymore, and she had to get him back before Jim decided time was up.

He finished his food and started at it for a while, before taking the spoon and absently starting to cut into his hand with the corner of the handle, beginning a new word, expression untroubled.

She glanced his way when she saw his movements change, and lurched across the table, snatching the spoon from him. "Hey! No! Don't scratch yourself! I thought that was clear!" she scowled, taking the pen from earlier out of her pocket and slapping it down on the table in front of him. "You want to write, use that. No skin. Only on the bandages, okay?" she reached to tap his bandaged arm, looking down at him with furrowed brows - which hurt like a motherfucker. "Just nod, or something, please."

He looked a bit startled by her intervention, but accepted it for what it was and took the pen, starting in where he'd left off with the tip of that instead.

"No," she repeated, lifting his right hand so he wasn't drawing on his left, and shifting it to his arm. "On there. No skin."

He snorted in frustration and dropped the pen.

"Ní féidir liom a bhraitheann, ní féidir liom scríobh."

"Christ, okay, I got.. write, I think? And some kind of negative, so..." she let out a long breath, running a hand through her hair. So, what, he needed some kind of feeling? If he was normal, if he wasn't batshit crazy, she knew what to do to give him some, but this? She had no idea what to do. "Look, just..." she huffed, reaching out to place a hand on his arm. "I can't let you hurt yourself. I can't."

He didn't respond, just leaned into her touch a bit, and laid his head on the table, losing interest. A minute later, he was asleep.

She sighed, getting up and walking into the living room to grab a pillow off the couch, and back into the kitchen to slide it under his head. Even emaciated as he was, she couldn't have picked him up at her best. After a moment of just looking down at him, trying to ignore the ache in her chest, she turned and moved back into the living room, where she curled up on the couch, and made herself fall asleep.

He woke to screams, close by, penetrating. Screaming familiar words, over and over and over. His words. His words screaming, close to his ear, loud, and the world was so so bright and he was alone...

Feel. You need to feel.

The words had been forbidden but he had old favorites and wasted no time, slamming his elbow into the closest hard thing he could feel and concentrating on that, trying to ignore the screaming of his words that just got louder and louder... the pain was beautiful, distracting, stopped his breath in his chest and he rocked around it, the screaming present but ignorable. He missed his darkness.

Lorna startled awake at the screams, rolling off the couch with a pained shout herself before forcing herself back off the ground, stumbling into the kitchen to find him on the floor, the pillow to the side. She rushed over, fell to her knees with a sharp inhale, found his face in her hands. "Sebastian, Sebastian, it's okay, shhh, it's okay, it's okay, you're not in there, you're alright, shhhh..."

Among the screaming was a voice. The voice that was so familiar... but the words had little meaning, or he didn't care enough to hear them and they trickled away into the air before he could sort them out. One stuck out, however. Sebastian. That was familiar. That name had whipped and scoured his back as a child. No, Sebastian. Wrong, Sebastian, and with each toll of the word had come another blow. But he hadn't understood pain then. He was one and the same with it now, with the pain. With the Sebastian. So it belonged to him. The word, like the other words. It was a pain word. But the voice- the voice that had forbidden the other words- allowed this one. Sebastian. His word. He stilled. The screaming words stopped.

She pulled him half into her lap, relieved he'd quieted, relaxed a little, running a hand through his shaggy blond hair, as much to comfort herself as it was to comfort him. "Christ, Seb, you scared the shit out of me," she whispered, resisting the urge to press a kiss to his forehead. He didn't know who she was.

"Sebastian," he said quietly, trying it out, testing if it was allowed. He still didn't know what these people wanted. It was best to play it safe.

"You just saying it for the sake of it, or are you finally putting a stop to the nickname? Honestly surprised I got as much out of it as I did," she murmured, brushing hair out of his eyes. "Do you want me to cut this for you? I don't think I've ever seen it so long. Kinda digging it, but I could go either way. You can't understand a word I'm saying, can you?"

No stern tone, so he was alright, then. "Sebastian," he repeated a bit more cheerfully, leaning against the warm soft thing that he took to belong to the voice.

"Yeah, that's your name," she chuckled, then sighed, resting her hands on his collar, thumbs still making absent patterns on his skin. "And since you don't seem to know who I am, I'm Lorna. I used to be really pretty, and then some asshole fucked me up, and I'm a different kind of pretty that I can't use to my advantage anymore. Guess the same thing can happen to models, too, though, so I can't pout too much. That's what the booze is for, amirite?"

He reached up to find the source of the sound, eyes closed as he pressed his fingers to her lips gently, feeling them move under his hands before he started to trace the rest of her face, filling in the details.

She let him explore without restrictions, just relishing the touch of someone she cared about, and then it hit her like a rock to the face, and she drew in a sharp breath. "Oh no. Oh, fuck. Seb, can you see?" she breathed, looking down at him, guilt welling up in her throat. "Oh my god, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I should've- I wasn't thinking-" she had to cut herself off as the tears welled up, her hands trembling on his chest.

He flinched away slightly in surprise as her tone changed so suddenly, and pulled his hand away, worried he'd done something wrong. "Brón orm, brón orm..."

She didn't need to understand the words to hear the apology, and leant down to kiss his forehead anyway, shaking her head. "No, no, it's not you, you're alright," she said soothingly, though she had to lift an arm to brush away a few tears that were escaping their confines, then reached for his hand. "It's okay. Hm... uh... Tá... sé fíneáil."

He relaxed slowly, uncertainly, but didn't reach up to touch her face again, sitting up out of her lap slowly, hands smoothing across the floor until they found the edge of the blurred mass that was the table leg.

She got up with a long breath, raking a hand through her hair and looking around the kitchen. It may be too late, now, but she'd do what she could to keep the damage from getting worse. She walked to where the corner where the oddities were - the car keys, the letters, and; there, sunglasses. Even if she ended up looking like a complete idiot giving them to him, she had to try something. She walked back over and knelt in front of him, tapping his shoulder in case he couldn't tell. "Hey, hold still. I'm going to put this on you. I don't know if it will help, but... fuck, I don't know what else to do," she sighed, and carefully slid them into place on his face.

She put something on his face, and the almost blinding glare that had existed since he'd left his hole relented. He let out a quiet sigh of content.

"Go raibh maith agat..." he murmured, reaching up to adjust the glasses slightly.

Jim sighed and flipped his phone in his hand for the fiftieth time before deciding he was tired of waiting for an update.

Progress report? JM

Pleased that he seemed to be a little more comfortable, she was just about to sink into a chair before her phone buzzed on the counter. She sighed, and picked it up. Jim. Fantastic.

He's stopped saying the children's rhyme. Still only talking in Gaelic, though, and he's not talking much. I wouldn't get a lot of it even if it were opposite. His vision's suffered from being taken out of the root cellar without eye protection, but I got some sunglasses on him and he seems a little less blinded. LH

Jim stared at the message for a few moments, then whipped the phone across the room. It shattered on the far wall.

Sebastian traced the words under the bandages with fingers that knew the pattern while she seemed distracted, grounding himself slowly.

Lorna sighed, setting the phone down when there seemed to be no response imminent, and turned to the pantry to walk in and heave open one of the freezers, leaning in and digging through until she found a couple of steaks that looked a good size, and retreated back to the kitchen. She needed to get protein into him, and then Vitamin C, and they could work from there.

He heard her leave, and tensed, breaths starting to become quicker. What if she didn't come back? He wasn't sure where in the blur she had disappeared to. Then he heard something clang and headed after it as quickly as he could without slamming into anything, which was far less quickly than he would have liked.

She dropped the steaks onto the counter, turning a little as she saw him make a rather shuffling move across the kitchen. "Are you alright? I'm making food. Bia?"

He just walked closer until he could see her form.

"Ró-chiúin..."

"Something about quiet, I think? Heard that one a lot from my teacher, believe me," she snorted, filling up the sink with water and putting the packages in to thaw. "...Too quiet? That it? Yeah, I can see that being an issue. I can put some music on, if you want. You know - cha cha cha cha, cha."

He smiled a little, and then reached out to put a few fingers on her shoulder so he could keep track of her. His stomach cramped and he sighed. "Food..."

She was thrilled. English. That was a good sign. And good progress. But he was flighty, and she wasn't going to risk showing him any kind of loud emotion. "Steak sound good? I'm not as good of a cook as you, but I'll manage alright. You're a medium-rare kinda guy, yeah?"

He traced words on her shoulder and didn't bother responding, the words slipping past again.

His silence wasn't too disappointing. He was close, and touching her, and considering his deeply-rooted distrust of any and all people save maybe her and probably Jim, he had a big bubble of personal space. But if he was comfortable with her, that meant that he didn't just lose the memories. They were there, somewhere. She just had to root around until she could find them.

It was about twenty minutes later when there was a crisp knock on the front door. Jim came striding in a moment later, a woman on his heels who looked polite and friendly, odd company for the mastermind.

"Tá mé thug dochtúir. A bheith fós."

Moran stiffened, shifting until Lorna was between him and the newcomers, grip tightening on her shoulder.

Lorna was a little stiff, herself. Was he really this impatient? How long was he going to give Sebastian before he wanted to put the sniper down? "So you gonna translate that for the slow class, or..."

"She's a doctor. I'm not having him lose his sight because some imbeciles didn't know enough to cover his eyes," he snarled. Sebastian backed up further, crouching into a defensive stance. Jim sighed impatiently.

"Calma síos! Tá mé anseo chun cabhrú, ar mhaithe le ag fuck ar."

Jim," she snapped, reaching a hand back towards Sebastian, brushing his shoulder. "He has no idea who any of us fucking are. You can't come in here and start shouting shit, he sucks back into his shell like a deep-sea fucking worm, alright?" she huffed, reaching back further, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"If I may, Mr. Moriarty," the doctor said quietly, stepping forward. Jim was fuming, but remained silent. "If you wouldn't mind translating for me..."

"Very well."

"Mr. Moran, I'd like to take a look at your eyes, if that's okay..."

Jim let out a spew of Irish, but Sebastian didn't respond.

Lorna sighed, turned, nudging him slightly to get him out of his defensive posture. "Hey, let her have a look, okay?" she murmured, patting his shoulder. "I'll go get you a shirt while she's doing that, and then I'll cook. Food. Okay?"

"Food," he sighed, relaxing a little at her voice and allowing the woman to approach, still looking uneasy. She reached out carefully to touch his face, and he flinched away slightly, but stayed put as she carefully shined a red light into his eyes.

Lorna was gone and back by the time the woman was finishing up, taking one of his hands so she could press a balled-up white t-shirt into it, making sure he had a good grip on it before returning to the sink, fishing out the vacuum wrapped steaks. Better to busy herself with this than worry about the prognosis. Guilt started the crawl its way up her throat again.

"Alright," the woman sighed, sitting back. "Unfortunately I can't tell you too much yet. Cases like these have a lot of variance. A lot of it is going to depend on him and his body, how well it repairs itself. There is damage, I can tell you that much. If I had to guess, he can't see more than vague shapes, if that. Legally blind, but not completely so."

Lorna took a deep breath. "He's tough. He'll be alright," she murmured, mostly to convince herself. She tossed the steaks onto a frying pan.

She nodded, standing. "Just try to keep him rested and relaxed. And if he starts to become a little more cognizant as you're used to him, try to help him to adjust to the idea."

"Okay. That won't be fun, but... if it has to be done.." she shook her head, poking the sizzling meat with a fork. "Please show yourselves out. The longer you're here the more tightly he'll be wound."

She nodded, placing her card on the counter. "If anything changes or you have questions, call me. If you can get him to wear a blindfold without panicking, please do." She headed for the door, but Jim stayed put.

Lorna glanced over her shoulder with a frown at Jim, raising an eyebrow. "What is it?"

He looked oddly hesitant. "I'm going to stay. See how he does. Translate," he said firmly, though he didn't seem to be behind the words.

She looked uncomfortable with that, but turned back to the steaks. "Fine. But if you say I look old again I will whack you with a frying pan, boss or no."

"Understood," he said, smiling again, slipping back into his usual, easy self as if the uneasiness have never showed itself.

Moran stayed near Lorna, but kept his ear cocked to the new voice, which also seemed familiar.

Before, Lorna had chattered on to fill the silence, half for Sebastian and half for herself, but now she was quiet, unwilling to Jim any sort of fuel to comment on, and she only spoke when she was finished with the steaks, setting a couple plates down on the table and guiding the mostly blind man down to sit again. "If you have trouble cutting it, let me know," she murmured, getting out utensils and pressing the handles into his hand.

Jim let off a quiet stream of Irish, translating, and Sebastian tilted his head in interest, before starting to cut into the steak, putting a large piece in his mouth and chewing ravenously.

"Christ, that's handy," she muttered, then dug in herself - she was almost as malnourished as Sebastian was, and even though she'd had a week and half's head start on rectifying the matter, she still devoured whatever was put in front of her. Eating with Jim there was a little unnerving. It felt a bit like a witch was watching her fatten up. She wondered what on earth had compelled him to stay.

"I figured it might be useful," he nodded, sitting back, attention mostly on Moran as the man wolfed down the steak. "What the hell were you two doing, letting your guard down like that?" he asks, voice more exasperated and tired than angry.

She let out a long breath, giving her steak a dejected prod. "We were both drunk, and this place was only a few blocks away. It's my fault, either way. I wanted to get out of HQ for a while, eat-in. Stupid of me."

"Not stupid, but getting drunk out in public was. You both know better than that. Now we may have lost Moran." He stared at the man who had finished his steak and was turning his knife over in his hands, reaching out to take it before it became an issue.

"Yeah. I know," she said quietly, returning to eating, even though she no longer felt hungry.

"An bhfuil tú a aithint dúinn, Sebastian? Tá mé Jim. Tá sí Lorna. Táimid tar éis obair le chéile le fada an lá."

Moran looked up at his name, and tilted his head a little. "Tá sé cloiste agam do chuid focal ... do guthanna roimh. A bhfad ó shin."

Jim nodded. "He says our voices are familiar, but that's about it."

Her eyes tightened a little, but that was the most of her reaction. She nodded a little, finishing off her steak. "Ask him if he remembers how he got in the root cellar."

Jim nodded a little, and translated, listening as Moran asked a question, and they exchanged a few phrases. "He didn't know what I was talking about at first. He calls it 'the darkness'. Says he 'became the words' there. Nonsense."

She ran a hand through her hair, sighing. "Solitary really fucks people up... I don't know what to do with him now, honestly."

"Neither do I," he sighed, rubbing his eyes. "What might jog his memory?"

"I don't know," she huffed, leaning back in her chair, looking weary. "I don't think just talking to him's gonna do it, do you? And we can't show him shit. And I'm not putting a gun in his hand when he's like this..."

"No. For once, I agree with you. Threats won't work here." He sighed. "He seems to trust you. You'll be in charge of his recovery. If I'm useful, translating, then I'll stay. If not I will request that you update me every hour or so."

"Until he starts using more English, you're useful. It seems like communicating with him in Irish is almost as hard as it is," she shrugged, rubbing her eyes. "I figure our best bet is sense memory. Food, the smell of laundry detergent, that sort of thing."

He nodded in agreement, looking over at Sebastian, who was tracing fingers over his bandaged arms again.

"Cén fáth a bhfuil tú ag carve na focail?"

Moran looked up and without hesitation responded "Mothaithe, tá siad mo chompánach."

"Right, well, not that this conversation isn't enlightening, but I'm going to start rooting around this place, see if I can't find something that will bring something back to him," she snorted, standing up. "Holler if you need me, blah blah blah."

"I was going to translate, but if you're going to be sarcastic about it," he muttered, before switching back over to Irish and returning his attention to Moran, who had shifted to sitting on the ground, leaning back against the table leg, eyes closed.

Lorna nodded, sparing one last glance to Sebastian before getting up and heading for the other room. She was going to scour the place. Damn if she was going to let him get put down like a dog.

It took her three hours working her way through each room of the spacious apartment before she found something. Music. Lots of it. Country music. "You fuckin' kidding me? This is what you listen to? No wonder you despise pop," she muttered under her breath, looking through the CDs and vinyl he had, and picking one that she knew. Can't Hardly Stand It - Charlie Feathers. It took her a little while to find where he'd stashed the record player, and then she had to remember how to use it, but when it finally worked, she jumped a little. He had speakers installed through the entire house.

Sebastian jumped, too, but only a few seconds later he smiled, nodding along slightly. "Is breá liom an t-amhrán... Charlie Feathers." Jim nodded in agreement, watching closely. It was on the second chorus that Sebastian started singing along, quietly, but very solidly in English.

Lorna eventually made her way back downstairs, even though stairs were still hard on her, and wandered back into the kitchen, and immediately felt relieved. English. That was a good damn place to start.

A few songs later the record eventually hit it's stopping point, but Sebastian kept singing quietly to himself, switching between Irish and English seemingly at random, sometimes in the middle of lines, eyes closed.

She sat at the kitchen table in silence, just watching him, hoping that this really had helped, that he would get better. If he didn't, she wasn't sure what she was going to do.

Eventually he stopped singing, and Jim considered him for a moment before saying "Sebastian, le do thoil éisteacht what I am saying. Can you understand me?" Moran looked up at the Irish, but didn't blink at the transition to English.

"Tá."

Jim nodded. "Is féidir leat in English?"

There was a moment of silence, before he said "Yes."

Lorna let out a quiet breath of relief. "Well, that's one thing solved. I was worried I was going to have to call my third-grade teacher, ask for some speaking tips."

"Seems like he pays better attention if you start in Irish, but that will hopefully wear off," he muttered, eyebrows furrowed as he considered the sniper.

"Hm. I'll try to keep that in mind. Look up a few catchphrases, maybe, to get me started," she murmured, running her fingers absently back and forth across the tabletop. "How did you know where this place was, by the way? Or is that a stupid question?"

"I know- and have access to- all of his apartments save one. He's my bodyguard. I need to know where he is." He glanced at the man now tracing the grain of the wood on the table. "We used to have drinks in his eastside flat after victories."

Lorna nodded, deciding not to comment. She had to wonder what had changed over the years that they'd stopped going back to one of Sebastian's flats for drinks. Oddly, she'd seemed to have taken Jim's place, in that respect. But since she had no desire to know what he thought of her and Moran, she kept the question to herself. "Honestly, I could use a drink. But it's not even three. Probably shouldn't revert to that level of alcoholism yet."

"No," Moran agreed quietly, nodding slightly to himself. Jim smirked. "Well, there you have it."

She smiled. She had no idea what was going on in that head of his, but it was good to hear him say something that made sense.

There were another few minutes of silence before Moran asked "Why am I here?"

"Like, existentially, or... Sorry, not funny. You might need to clarify a little more, though."

"Why am I here," he said again, rapping knuckles on the table.

She nodded a little. "This place is actually yours. One of... an adjective between several and many. We brought you here because... well, I don't think the normal place we stay would be good for you."

"The darkness?" he asked curiously, turning his head in her direction.

"No, no, that was... an anomaly. That was a root cellar. Your, uh... long lost half-sister tossed you in there. We lived in a place like this, before that. It was smaller, but I guess you can't really tell right now. But you don't remember your time before the root cellar, and that... concerns us."

"Why?" he asked, fingers still tracing over the wood grain again and again, as if he were memorizing it.

"You're..." she trailed off, unsure how to continue. "Well, I care about you, and Jim's invested. Neither of us want to see you.. lost."

"Tá caillte mé?"

"No, you're not lost yet," Jim sighed, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. "You're just being an idiot."

"No, he's not," Lorna retorted, giving Jim an exasperated look. "He was in solitary, in pretty much cave darkness, for three months. My captivity was a different but mostly equal level of shitty, but it was the kind of fuckery that didn't make me lose track of... everything. Then there's his father, who we can blame literally all of this on," she growled, then cut herself off, because there was too much anger gathering up in her, and she didn't want to alarm Sebastian.

"I'm tired," Moran said finally, deciding to ignore most of what he'd just heard and closing his eyes, putting his head on the table again.

"No, no, c'mon, let's get you on the couch, at least," she sighed, getting up and walking over to him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

He sighed, but stood slowly out of his chair. The white shirt that had once fit with an attractive snugness now hung loose on him, draped across bony shoulders. He shuffled after Harrison as she guided him towards the couch and lay down with a sigh, hands prodding the softness curiously for a few moments before he drifted off.

She returned to the kitchen with a sigh and sank back into a chair, rubbing her eyes. "If you have a nutritionist on payroll, or can find one soon, I'd appreciate it. I can't be responsible for coming up with a meal plan for someone that emaciated."

He nodded. "It wouldn't be a bad idea for both of you to be on some sort of structured diet," he agreed. "I'll get someone by tomorrow." He glanced into the other room, and shook his head a little. "If I have to put him down, I'm going to be furious," he said calmly.

She sighed, resting her cheek on her hand, looking towards the other room. "You have to put him down, I don't know if I'll stick around. No reason to."

He was quiet for a beat. "You realize what that would mean for you," he pointed out.

Her eyes flicked back to him, dead calm. "I didn't say you were going to have to send someone after me. I'll do it myself."

He nodded at that, unaffected. "I'd hate to lose two assets, but I can't stop you, so that's that. Would you rather we keep him around then? Drooling on his shirt and spilling out company secrets, not recognizing you, with the vision of a newborn cat?"

"I'm not saying that," she sighed, shaking her head a little. "I'm not trying to.. manipulate you into keeping him around, if he doesn't turn back into who he was. I'm saying that if he's lost, there's no reason for me to stay. The only thing that kept me going before him was the job, and that's gone now."

"I could still use you," he sighed. "Very well. Especially if we lose him. I'll need a chief of staff. If I can avoid bringing someone in from outside, that's all the better."

"Boss... it isn't about whether or not I have a purpose," she shook her head, letting out a huff and leaning back in her chair, hands in her lap. "I am.. not a happy person. I know you don't care, but it's part of my explanation. Grifting was an escape. I could be someone else for a day or two. Someone happier. I'm not an alcoholic for the fun of it, I'm an alcoholic because it's a rather flimsy band-aid keeping me from going back to heroin. The fucking ecstasy of that shit..." She sighed, falling silent for a moment. "But grifting is gone, now. The alcohol will never be enough to fill that hole. Moran is the only thing left to me that makes me feel like I'm alive, and not a walking corpse."

He sighed. "Yes, yes, all very heartfelt. Like I said, do what you like. I couldn't care less. I'm here because waiting is boring. Things will resolve, one way or another, and I'll move on."

"Cool," she shrugged, grabbing her phone from off the table and pulling her knees up to her chest in the chair. She didn't want him here; he made her on edge. But there was nothing to do about that but ignore him.

Jim stood, walking over to the other room to watch Moran as he slept. His thoughts kept turning to when he had thought the sniper would die, months ago now. The panic and anger and... pain... that had gripped him. Now the thought of potentially putting the man down put an illogical and uncomfortable knot in his stomach. The truth was he could care less. A lot less. He usually did. But something about the man on the couch...

He sighed and left the pointless train of thought where it was.

Eventually she got up and passed him, limped up the stairs, and crawled into bed, feeling cold and a little bit lost herself, and fell asleep, despite the time of day. Her last thought was a hope that she didn't have nightmares while there was no one around to make her feel safe again.

Jim spent the night in the armchair, keeping an eye on Sebastian- purely for curiosity's sake, he told himself- but it was mostly boring. Aside from quiet muttering in Irish, the sniper stayed asleep.

Her hopes, of course, were not heeded by her subconscious mind. She came back down the stairs at 3, not even looking once at Jim as she passed him, and walked into the kitchen, rifling through the cabinets until she found the liquor. She grabbed a bottle at random and sat down on the floor with it, pressing a hand to her mouth, trying to keep herself together, silent.

Oddly enough, the small sounds seemed to rouse Moran out of his sleep, and Jim made no move to stop him as he ghosted towards the noise, barely and by pure luck avoiding catastrophic shin contact with the end table. He stopped at the kitchen door, heard the hitching breaths. "Are you alright?"

"No," she breathed, clapping a hand over her mouth as a sob welled up in her throat, her entire body shaking. She took a long swig from whatever the bottle was, then pressed her head back against the cabinet, not bothering to wipe away the tears that were rolling down her cheeks and onto her shirt. "I-It's okay, just.. go back to bed."

He walked forward slowly, listening to her, finding her blurred shape in the gloom. He slid his hands along the counter, hands finding a drawer that they remembered, even if his mind didn't. He crouched in front of her, holding the steak knife out handle first, expression genuine. "The words help."

She took it from him, but only to put it back on the counter above her, shaking her head, sniffling. "They- they're not going to help me. I've been cut into enough without doing it with my own hands, Seb," she shook her head again, drawing her knees up to her chest and leaning her forehead into them, breath shuddering. "Three months. And I always knew what he was going to do the next day, I always got to dread it, count the days until the worst one in the cycle and then do it all over again. Three months. He died in three minutes."

He frowned, trying very hard to understand all of her words, but his concentration still wavered. "Someone hurt you?"

"Yes," she whispered, lifting her head only to take another drink before setting it back down. "Many, many times. Different ways. Some worse than others."

"Why?" he asked quietly, reaching out to touch her face again, tracing the cut he felt before.

"I hurt him first. Months ago. A long time, now. I hurt him pretty bad. But I was angry. He... he'd been very cruel to a friend of mine," she replied, almost soundlessly, trembling ever so slightly under his touch.

His hand traced down her neck, stopping at the ridge of a scar that ran from beneath one ear to beneath another.

"...I hurt you..."

Her teary eyes flicked up at him in the darkness, sharp beneath the water. "I dared you to," she replied quietly. "I dared you to kill me. But you didn't do it. What do you remember?"

"You tasted good," he whispered. Memories were jumbled, coming back in flashes.

The knife was hot in his hand as it trembled against a soft throat. Blood hit the ground in thick drops.

In the alley, the woman struggled in his grip. He bit down, ripped her throat out with his teeth, blood dripping down his chin as he dropped her lifeless body. He couldn't see her face.

Still the knife hesitated, dug in, trembled, repositioned, started a new cut-

Blood across his tongue as he licked the knife-

The knife clattered to the floor at the same time it plunged into a heart-

Moran curled into a tighter crouch, pressing his head to his knees, hands covering his ears as he trembled, breaths coming short.

She slid the bottle to the side with a clumsy push, moving to him, getting on her knees and gently prying his hands away from his head, pulling him close, through hitched breaths and hard swallows. "Shh.. it's okay. It's okay," she murmured, sliding a hand into his hair. "We've... we've done some fucked up shit, Sebastian. But it doesn't matter. Bloodlust or survival, it doesn't matter. It's okay."

The world around him was melting into dark shadows, prey calling him, his body trembling as the words burned on his arms and in the air and on his tongue, his head on her chest as he tried to keep claws on reality, but reality was finding new meanings, and his claws sunk into bodies and skin, and blood, so much blood...

"Lorna, get away."

He didn't know who Lorna was, but the word was important. Somewhere deep in him had shoved those words forward to his confused tongue and he had spit them out bitterly.

The words made something in her tense up, sink into cautiousness, but she merely leaned back a little, frowning, running a thumb across his too-sharp cheek. "Hey, are you alright? Can I do something?"

"I... I can't... I killed you," he whispered. "I killed you so so many times. I want to do it again."

"No, no, you've never killed me," she murmured, brow furrowed in the dark. "I'm alive. You've done a lot of violent things to me, but I never died. I even liked some of them. It's alright. Just take a deep breath."

He tried, the air rushing in but doing nothing as he shook. "No. No you're alive. It's okay. Why did I try to kill you? So many times I killed you... I killed you because you were dead..."

A tiny bit of realization nipped at her ankles. "I.. have a vague idea of what you might be talking about. I think you might have been trying to save yourself."

He sighed, rubbed at his eyes, trembling. "Who are you?" he whispers.

"I don't know what you're asking," she shook her head. "Are you asking who am I to you?"

"Why would I care who you were to anyone else?" he muttered, hands gripping his hair.

"We live together. It used to be just casual sex, but... I don't know. We started caring. I think the time we spent locked together in a room, as prisoners, is what really sealed the deal," she whispered, letting out a long breath. "I love you. You're the only person I've ever loved."

"Then why would I try to kill you?" he asked, trying to process. He didn't remember her. "Why don't I remember you?"

"The one and only time you've tried to kill me was because you didn't want to admit that what we had was beyond an employee-employer relationship," she replied quietly, shrugging a little. "I was angry, so angry that you wouldn't let me help you, and it just... snowballed. I don't know why you can't remember me. You can't remember Jim, either. You had to be coaxed back into English," she reminded, soothing a hand down his back.

He shook his head, pulling away a little. "I don't understand. I don't. I don't... Who hurt you? I can hurt them. I need to hurt someone.'

"I already killed him. I'd offer rough sex, but I don't think either one of us is capable," she sighed. "Jim can have somebody brought in."

"No, nonono this is wrong. I'm wrong, my head... I'm all wrong..." He hissed.

"You're just a little fucked up right now, it's okay," she murmured, trying not to sound too worried.

He closed his eyes tightly, and though the words were forbidden he started murmuring them anyway, over and over under his breath, the familiar cadence and rhythm smoothing away his terror.

She pulled him close again, in silence this time, pressing a kiss to the top of his head and rocking him, eyes squeezed shut. It'll be okay. Everything will be okay.

He eventually drifted to sleep in her arms, lips stilling, body falling slack against her.

She remained there, back against the cabinets, cheek resting on the top of his head, and cried in silence, willing Jim to stay out of it, to leave her alone while she was vulnerable. Maybe, for once, she'd get her wish.

There was blood in the water, but for once, Jim didn't have the motivation to go track it down. He was almost concerned for himself. His cruelty was rapidly deflating in this situation, which was completely unheard of. He wondered if he was sick. He sighed, dropped the idea, and pulled out his laptop to find a nutritionist.

Seems like the whole damn world went and lost its mind
And all my childhood heroes have fallen off or died
Fake tears, real living, fake tears
But the alcohol never lies, never lies

- Fall Out Boy - Stay Frosty Royal Milk Tea -

Playlist: Charlie Feathers - Can't Hardly Stand It