She didn't fall back asleep again that night, for which she was almost grateful. But when the sun started streaming in through the window with the tell-tale orange of dawn, she was exhausted. She sighed and closed her eyes against the sunlight. She'd made it another night. Her eleventh since killing the elder Moran.
Sebastian woke up as soon as the light hit his eyes, hissing in pain and a bit of sleepy panic, covering his eyes quickly and rolling onto his side.
"Sorry," she whispered, reaching out to brush him with her fingers. "I should get you a blindfold. Help protect your eyes."
"Why is it so bright?" he groaned, rubbing at his eyes to dull the pain.
"It's dawn. The sun's coming up. Your windows happen to be at a great angle to catch it rise. Or, you know, not so great, as the case may be," she murmured, then got to her feet with a grunt, muttering a swear as she almost kicked the open bottle of liquor over and got onto the counter so she could pull the shades down. "Better?"
"Yes," he sighed, curling up on the floor. "The sun didn't used to be that bright..."
"No, it did," she shook her head, picking the bottle off the floor and putting it on the counter so she wouldn't spill it before heading for the fridge. "Your eyes just used to be a lot more accustomed to it."
He had memories of sunrises. Lots of sunrises, from big windows or from the top of a roof, lying on his stomach, hand on something cool to the touch. Death.
He listened to her move around, trying to formulate. "I've killed a lot of people."
"Yes," she said calmly, pulling a carton of eggs out of the fridge that she'd had sent to the flat ahead of them. "So have I. Less, though, I think. I'm not sure how many people Jim's killed by his own hand. Has to be more than one, certainly."
"I tried to kill him. We're enemies," he said calmly. "I tried to kill you, too. Now you've taken me here. I don't know what you want from me..."
"You're not enemies," she sighed, getting out a frying pan. "He's your employer. But he was being a mega dick - I don't care if he hears me say that - and you kinda lost it. He had you put in prison for three months, as a stunt. I stopped you from killing him. There was some shit that happened after that, but you guys worked it out. We brought you here because we want to help you. And, you know, in doing that we help ourselves. Jim gets his chief of staff and bodyguard back, and I get back... hm. Not sure what to call it. You're not a labels kinda guy."
He tucked his knees up against his chest, considering that. "What's wrong with my eyes?" he asked finally. "I don't think this is normal."
She let out a long breath, cracking open a few eggs onto the frying pan with an accompanying sound of sizzling. "We... the extraction team and me.. we didn't think to cover your eyes before taking you out of that cellar. The doctor says we'll know more about your condition in a week. Hopefully it'll heal."
"Ah..." he said quietly, sighing quietly. There was too much information, he wasn't sure how to handle all of it. He needed time to process. "Who was I? Before?"
She was silent for a beat, unsure how to answer. "..Your name is Sebastian Moran. I don't know what your middle name is, or if you have one. Not sure how old you are, let alone know your birthday. You're ex-military. Dishonorably discharged, but that's a whole story by itself. You're a sniper. A really good one. But you know your way around a lot of weapons, not just rifles." She got out a spatula to prod the eggs. "You're a bit of a hardass, but honestly, I'm not sure if you'd be alive if you weren't. With most people, you're as cold as they come. Used to be that way with me, too."
He nodded just a little. "Doesn't sound like I was very pleasant. There's so much to take in... All I have are pictures but they don't mean anything..."
"It'll come back to you. You're already getting some of it back, in pieces, right?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder at him. "And we've barely been here a day. That's good progress."
He sighed, closing his eyes, considering what she'd told him. He had no reason to trust her, no way to tell if she was lying. "Am I free to leave?"
She glanced back at him again, frowning. "I- I guess? But you're literally legally blind at the moment, so I don't know if that's a good idea... And you might run into somebody who knows you, but you don't know them. That could be..bad."
"Right," he sighed, leaning back against the cabinets, rubbing his hands over his arms and frowning in annoyance at the bandages, starting to wind them off.
She got a few plates out and carefully scooped out a few eggs each for the both of them, setting them down on the table. "Alright, breakfast. Get your protein. I'm worried you're literally going to fall apart on the floor."
He stood, leaving the bandages piled neatly on the floor, and followed her voice to the plate, reaching out to take one as carefully as he could, trying to judge the distance of the blur. He wasn't hungry, but he'd eat anyway.
"Do you want a fork?" she raised her eyebrows, eating her own with one across from him. "If not, it's cool. Just... offering." He didn't seem to trust her. She couldn't blame him, of course, but she was disappointed.
"Ah..." he sighed, nodding a bit. "Probably for the best. Not used to it."
"So.. yes?" she raised her eyebrows, sliding a utensil his way just in case. "Sorry, your pattern of speech is a little different to what I'm used to from you."
He nodded, feeling around and picking it up, turning it over a few times and holding it a bit awkwardly as he returned to eating. It took him a few frustrated attempts of trying to get the eggs up to his mouth without them slipping off before he gave up, tossing the fork aside with a clatter and returning to finger eating.
She decided not to comment, just wolfing down her eggs in silence. If he had any more questions, he was free to ask.
He sat back a few minutes later, wiping his fingers off on his shirt and starting to trace them over the words carved into his skin slowly, eyes closed, pressing his long nails in just enough to break open the new scabs.
"Hey. Don't do that. You're going to make it worse. I don't want you getting really infected, okay?" she sighed, reaching across the table to grab his hand.
He frowned, pulling his hand back. "They are my words," he said firmly, resuming his task. "They stay."
"Don't rip open your scabs. I mean it," she scolded, frowning. "If you want to keep them when you're a little healthier you can get them tattooed for all I care. For now, humor me."
"The words are the pain. They can't be separated," he said firmly, almost angrily. "Without the words there is silence."
"If you don't want silence, you talk to me, yeah?" she asked sharply, taking a deep breath. "I'm serious. Stop hurting yourself. Or if you don't want to talk to me, I'll put some more music on. The television. Whatever."
He let out a snarl of frustration, starting to mutter blackly in Irish.
"Look, d'ya want a drink?" she sighed, leaning back in her chair to snatch the bottle back off the counter. "Cause I'm having one."
"No," he snarled, standing and heading out of the room, fingers trailing the walls, blood trailing down one arm slowly.
Lorna slid off the chair and scooted back into the spot she'd occupied the previous night, taking a long chug from the bottle, and getting ready to be right soused.
He felt his way around the first floor for a while, ignoring the man, Jim, he could hear breathing and typing in what he assumed was a living room. The place was too big. He knew he couldn't leave, but maybe he could find a place where they wouldn't find him.
Finally he stumbled upon it, in a room far from the other occupants. It seemed like a closet, but it was small and empty, and with a little work he could probably jam it closed. Without hesitation he climbed in and shut the door tightly, quietly. Finally, in the darkness, he would be left in peace with his words.
She drank irresponsibly, as she felt she could, given that Jim was in the flat and he was just as capable of caring as Moran as she was. She drank until it was a lot harder to think, and the pain was a lot harder to feel.
He traced the words until they came alive again, broken open fresh, disconnecting his skin and connecting his mind with his body, pulling him together like stitching. Confusion faded. It didn't matter who he had been. He was the words.
It was around dinner time that Jim found his motivation returning to him, and he stood, walking into the kitchen to consider Harrison, who was pissed sideways. "You told me yourself that that wasn't going to help," he said dryly.
"Wrong," she snorted, shaking her head. "I told you that I probably shouldn't revert to this level of alcoholism. Well. Too bad. I feel like shit. I'm going to drink until that stops."
"Brilliant plan, truly," he said sarcastically. "And who's going to take care of dear little Sebastian? Me? Ah, yes, that will go very well. I was born a nurturer, did you know?"
"Fuck off," she hissed, taking another sip from the bottle. "You're an international crime lord. I think you can handle one fucking afternoon of babysitting. Why the hell else are you still here? I'm a wreck. Leave me alone."
"Babysitting isn't my job," he returned with quiet anger. "You want him babysat? I'll put him in the med bay at headquarters. But my guess is that he'll do nothing there but panic and get worse, and at the end of the week I'm going to be putting a bullet in his skull. You want him to live so badly? Clean up your act. You can fall apart later."
She slammed the bottle down and lurched to her feet, flipped him the bird, and staggered off to find Sebastian, seething and furious.
He watched her go, before walking over to put the liquor bottle back in the cabinet. He found a padlock in the junk drawer and closed it around the handles. No one here needed alcohol at the moment.
It took her near 20 minutes to find him, drunk as she was, in a place this big. "What the fuck are you doing in the goddamn linen closet?" she slurred, leaning heavily on the door frame, then stepped in and closed it behind her, thumping back against the wall and sliding down to sit.
"It's dark and alone," he said quietly, wrinkling his nose at the waft of liquor smell that accompanied her. He resumed his task of carving his words into the wall, having completed his work with his body for the time being.
"Jim scolded me for leaving you alone, so, here I am," she sighed, letting her head thunk against the wall, to stop the room from spinning, then pushed off and crawled drunkenly into his lap, making an unhappy noise as she found him bloody. "C'mon, Tiger stop pickin', huh? Please?
He shifted in surprise when she climbed on top of him, unused to so much contact. She had said they were lovers at some point, but the sudden transition was disarming. He sat very still.
"The words have to stay."
"Ugh, fine, I don't want to argue about it while I'm smashed," she mumbled, burrowing into his neck with a long sigh. "I don't want t' think at all."
It took him the next few minutes to slowly relax his muscles, shifting a bit to get more comfortable when it became apparent she wasn't moving. He eventually leaned back into a pile of towels, warm and fairly content, arms stinging pleasantly. "How long have we known each other?"
She hummed for a moment, trying to think. "It's been... what, maybe three, four years? Five, even? I don't know. Time isn't real."
"Oh," he said quietly, nodding a little and trying to remember. He wished he could see her face. That was starting to bother him more and more. In the dark, though, it didn't matter.
"Mm. I remember meeting you. You pushed some idiot down a flight of stairs and into me. I about stabbed you before I realized who you were."
He frowned. "Why would I do that?" He had a vague memory, perhaps. Anger, soft flesh and clothing as he shoved...
"I think he told you that he'd give you respect when you showed that you were 'actually dangerous'. I'm not sure. I got the wind knocked out of me," she chuckled, slinging her arms around his bony shoulders. "I was terrified. I'd only ever seen you from across a room, or down a hallway. I dunno if you even knew who I was yet."
"I don't either... What happened?" he shifted an arm around her, almost instinct. She was warm and comfortable.
"I think you made a joke about my taking a man falling down a staircase and into my chest surprisingly well for my size. You called me shrimp from then on. Not sure how long it took you to get my real name in your head, but I did get you to drop the nickname."
He smiled at that. The nickname had a sort of fondness attached to it somewhere. "Shrimp."
"Tiger," she replied with a chuckle, letting her head roll back a little before curling back into him, limbs loose and sluggish. She was really quite drunk. "I dunno how Jim nailed that one so well. Theteeth on you, I swear..."
"Jim calls me that?" he asked, surprised. "That seems... unusual..."
"Jim's not usual," she snickered, nipping the side of his neck, then cleared her throat, reaching to smooth a hand over the slight mark. "Sorry, sorry, really maybe a lil' too soaked. But yeah, you and him 'ave a strange relationship. Never really knew wha' was happenin' with you guys."
He started slightly as she bit him, surprised, though not necessarily in a bad way, and nodded just a little. "Maybe you are... By relationship, you mean...?"
"Just working," she shrugged, then made a thoughtful sound. "From contextual clues, I don't think you've ever been more. Dunno. I think we've both thought 'bout fucking him, though. Maybe I'm jus' saying that cause I'm drunk."
He shrugged a little, unsure. "I suppose..." He sighed, closing his eyes, thinking. "Why are you so drunk?"
She let out a long breath, closing her eyes, trying to keep herself from becoming upset. "My... my three months were a lil' different than yours, Seb."
"The man who hurt you," he remembered quietly, and held her a little closer.
"Yes," she whispered, trying to control her breathing. She wasn't doing a very good job of it. "I.. I want to forget it. All of it."
"No, you don't," he said quietly, rubbing her arm just a little. "That isn't good, either." But he tucked her into a spot under his chin where she seemed to fit.
"Isn't it?" she swallowed, trying not to break down. "These nightmares... I just... M' so tired of reliving it. Killing them's never enough. Never enough."
He didn't know what to do, her panic fueling his own, but he tried to keep it at bay, doing the only thing he could think of and rubbing her back slowly, starting to murmur his words as quietly and soothingly as he could.
She slowly calmed, listening to his heartbeat under the children's rhyme, the liquor still circulating in her system helping her relax back into him. It helped that he was comforting her the same way he always did. The same way he used to. "Gaelic is such a beautiful language," she whispered, eventually. "I always wished I'd learned it. Just.. never came up, you know?"
"Is that what it is?" he asked quietly, considering. "I suppose it would be. I'm... Irish..." He trailed off, then shook his head a little as if to clear it. It was hard to concentrate on much for too long.
She let out a hum, back in happy-drunk mode, and curled further into him. Even so emaciated, he radiated heat, and with the frequency that she was cold these days, it was very attractive. "I hope you get better soon," she sighed wistfully, "You're not going to get any inside jokes like this..."
"No," he agreed, yawning. He was used to sleeping every few hours or so. Bloodloss, malnutrition, and boredom did that to you. "I'm sorry I don't remember you."
"No need to apologize for little old me," she murmured, "I'll live. Or I won't. Whatever."
He sighed, and shrugged a little. "It's all very confusing. Sometimes I feel like I know you but..."
"I know," she sighed, "I know. I just don't know how to help you remember me all the way."
"Neither do I. But I'll get there." The words would help him think. They always did.
"I sure hope so," she murmured, then fell into silence, and then into a doze. If he wanted to keep talking, he was welcome to continue the conversation, but she didn't have the energy to do it herself.
"You shouldn't fall asleep on top of me in the closet," he said gently when he noticed her drifting, smirking just a bit and poking her. "Jim will think something's up."
She snickered, giving him another nip, fingers curling in his shirt. "Jim should just live on the assumption that if we're alone in an enclosed space together, something is going to be up."
It was instinct, really, that drove his next move. She bit him, so he leaned down and bit her back, teeth closing gently but firmly around the side of her throat. He pulled away a moment later, a bit confused, an apology on his lips.
She was already shifting to straddle him, running blunt nails down his shirt-covered sides, her breath already faster. "Fuck, Sebastian," she breathed, kissing him hard.
Her nails broke open carvings on his sides, blood seeping into his shirt, and he growled slightly against her lips, kissing her back hungrily, instinct taking over.
The last sober part of her brain spoke up, stating the dozen reasons why this wasn't a good idea, but the majority, the drunk majority, simply continued partying. "Christ, I love it when you do that," she moaned, trapping his lower lip between her teeth devilishly, and then smirking. "Sometimes I'm difficult with you just so you'll make that noise."
"I'll keep that in mind," he sighed, pushing his tongue past her lips and pulling her tighter against him.
She gave him all she had, so thankful to be close to him again, even if there were pieces of him missing, even if he didn't truly know who she was. She kissed him the same way she'd always kissed him; hungrily, impatiently. It didn't matter what he remembered in his head. His body would remember for him.
It did remember. His hands slid up her back of their own accord, scraped across her shoulder blades, gripped her arms tight before shifting to get a gentle grip in her hair, his teeth nipping her lip.
She arched into him, a shudder going down her spine at the hand in her hair. One that was both good and bad.
A strong grip in her hair, rough but kind, teeth scraping down her throat, a growl, vibration passing from his chest into hers-
Sharp pain in her scalp, balance suddenly thrown to the right, yanked into a hard chest-
His fingers in her hair as she cries, the only real feeling of safety she's ever known-
A hand holding, straining her head back like it's on a leash, the word 'bitch' ringing in her ears-
She let out a ragged breath, hoped it would lost amongst the other happier ones, and kissed him harder, trying to wipe the memories from her head.
Her reaction seemed... off. But he couldn't piece it together and then she pressed into him harder and the thought was lost amongst the others that were emerging.
Fucking her against a wall, her nails dragging furrows down his back.
Staring her down over a shit poker hand on a plane, daring her to call his bluff. Laughing in triumph when she doesn't.
Holding her tightly after... something ... had happened, feeling her trembling slightly, adrenaline racing after the scare...
Making love to her, that rare time, no rush, no anger, and promising himself it meant nothing...
Both of them were distracted now, thoughts muddling up their movements, and she came to a halt first, dropping her head onto his shoulder, sucking in a harsh breath. "M' sorry. It's too.. too fresh for me. I can't do it. My head..." She swallowed, hands clinging to his shirt. "I can't separate them. And m'not drunk enough to forget it."
He didn't say anything, just pressed his lips briefly to her forehead before pulling her against his chest. "It's fine," he whispered. "More than. Fuck... I'm so sorry. You never should have gotten pulled into all of this."
"I don't know what you mean. I don't think I got pulled into anything," she mumbled, shifting so she was curled up in his lap again.
"Why didn't you tell me it was my father who did this to you?" he asked quietly, still holding her close. He could feel his pulse in the words as they bled.
"You remember?" she whispered, almost dreading that he did. Now he would feel compelled to take a full assessment of the damage done to her. He wasn't going to like what he found. "I didn't tell you because you were.. a little unstable. I didn't see any point in telling you."
"I'm not unstable," he said quickly, fiercely. "I'm just... different." He took a slow breath. "But... yes, that brought some things back. My father among them."
"I was never pulled into anything, concerning your father. I went after him under my own free will," she sighed, staring into the darkness of the closet. "He got his payback."
"Sounds like he got a lot more than his payback," he muttered, working up to a good seethe.
"I could have used a little less of it, to be honest," she tried, jokingly, but it fell flat. She took a deep breath, trying to keep herself from getting upset. "I can't work anymore. Not as a grifter."
"Why not?" he asked, stomach tightening in concern. He tried to think what might have been done to end that, but she felt whole...
"I'm going to have quite the scar on my face. We'll match. Even if they could fix that, I have too many on the rest of me, now. I'm a desk worker now."
He tried to remember what his own face looked like, and remembered suddenly, saw the three disfiguring scars over his eye and nose. He remembered the feeling of the gash in her face with new clarity. "Fuck..."
"Yeah," she said quietly. "Even if someone saw past that, I've too many on the rest of me. Your father was quite thorough in taking that from me."
He grit his teeth, taking a slow breath, anger flaring up wildly. A second later though it overpowered him and he let out a roar of frustration, driving his elbow back through the drywall in search of something solid to keep him grounded. It found nothing and his head thunked back, furious, defeated, feeling utterly helpless.
She remained still in his lap, thankful that he sounded almost nothing like his father. Riordan had looked enough like him to make everything that much worse. "Yeah, I'm afraid your coworkers might be a little less jealous of you now," she muttered, not even really trying to make her voice light. All of this was a nightmare. "I'm just... so relieved that it's over."
"Don't be stupid. You're gorgeous. You're always going to be gorgeous. I'm just... frustrated that you can't grift." He was quiet for a moment, then smirked weakly. "Perfect timing, anyway. Won't make a scrap of difference to me."
She let out a tired chuckle, then sighed. "Christ, I hope you get your vision back. I'm sorry. I should have been thinking."
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Me too." Blindness had always been his biggest fear. Jim had lorded it over him, threatened him with it, twisted the fear into him further. Blindness made him vulnerable, turned him into prey. Took away who he was. Christ... He suddenly felt like he was going to throw up.
She let out a long sigh, trying to keep the guilt from welling up in her throat, and nestled into him further. "Do you want to go get in a real bed?"
"Yeah," he said quietly, the life sorta drained out of his voice. He waited for her to shift out of his lap, then stood slowly. "Lead the way," he said meekly.
She opened the door, gently grabbed his hand, and pulled him after her to the guest bedroom, because he was blind and she was far too drunk to go up the stairs, and gently tugged him onto the bed.
He lay down, amazed that anything could be as soft as this, and for a moment he was distracted. But the question gnawing at his mind was hard to ignore. "Has Jim given a deadline yet?"
"For getting your memories back?" she sighed, resting her head on his chest. "Just vague mentions. Probably a week, or a little more. But that was when he didn't want you 'drooling and spouting company secrets,' and I think there's little danger of that now. You're... more yourself. That will assuage his fears."
"You do realize that I'm still useless," he pointed out quietly. "I'm... different... and at the very least I'm.. I can't see."
"What matters is that your memories are coming back faster than I could have hoped. Even if you're blind, you're still useful as chief of staff. It'll be okay," she said firmly, almost as if she was trying to convince herself. "It has to be."
"Don't kid yourself," he snorted. "If I am who you say I am- and I'm beginning to believe you- I have enemies. Lots of them. All who will be eager to take advantage of a fucking blind man."
"Almost no one knows where you are," she grouched, "And I'm still capable of killing people."
"I'm fucking blind, Lorna!" he shouted finally. "You're not always going to be here. If at the end of this week Jim thinks I should put me down... I'm not going to argue."
She fell silent, jaw clenched, stomach rolling unpleasantly. She wouldn't tell him that if he wasn't around, she had no reason stick around. She wouldn't guilt him into staying.
He took a slow breath, fingers finding his words and digging in, feeling the blood well up a little around his nails. He was quiet for a few moments. "I don't want to live like this. I'm worse than useless."
"I know," she whispered, glad he couldn't see her face, see the tears that were threatening to spill over. "I understand." And she did. Grifting was gone, now. The administrative work, the handler job, it was child's play, nearly worthless. No reason to stay. No reason to fight.
He closed his eyes, lay back in the bed, and tried to imagine what the words must look like. He had scoured them into every part of his body. They owned him, kept him whole. They were his one certainty in all of this. The words would remain.
He fell asleep thinking them over and over.
She never fell asleep. The alcohol wore off and she lay there in silence for a long time, trying to keep her head empty, full of white noise. That only worked for so long.
She returned to the kitchen, fumbling in the dark for the liquor cabinet, swearing violently when it wouldn't open, slamming her hand against it once with a thud and the sound of shaken glass, and fell to her knees, face in her hands, body trembling with silent sobs. I just want to forget.
Jim heard the commotion, and stood, walking slowly into the kitchen, observing for a long time. He finally shook his head a little, and walked back into the main room, picking up his phone. It was time for him to intervene.
The tears hurt; the gash on her face was just fresh enough for the salt to sting. But she held onto the pain, pressed her hands harder against it, a ragged sound finally escaping her. She wished with every fiber of her being to not remember the last three months, to just be unconscious without the nightmares, wished it until her lungs seized up and her teeth hurt from the grinding. Maybe Sebastian not recovering was for the best. Maybe it would be easier if her head was no longer in one piece.
Sebastian wasn't sure what time it was when he woke up, but he knew he was alone. He was starting to relish time alone. It was like the darkness, and he could make his words in peace. He sat up on the bed and started to carve the words out carefully, teeth grit and nostrils flared at the pain, relaxing slowly as it cleared his mind.
It took him about an hour to finish his words, and then he got up carefully and headed for the door, hands sliding over the walls to find his way into the main room.
Jim was waiting. "Sebastian," he said calmly. "Have a seat. Harrison, get in here."
It took her a few moments, but she appeared in the doorway, pale and haggard, and blood streaking down her arms from where she'd clawed bloody furrows into them. Her eyes were unfocused.
"Sit," Jim said sharply, pointing to a spot next to Moran. He waited until she'd lurched over, and straightened his jacket. "Neither of you are remotely fit for duty. However, neither are you, Harrison, in any sort of condition to provide the care that Moran is in need of. As such, I'm committing both of you to the infirmary in a private room. You will be allowed to share a room if you wish, but if that proves a problem I will reverse that decision. I'm having specialists brought in. This is non-negotiable."
"Fine," Lorna rasped, staring off into space. As it was, she was feeling a little unreal at the moment, and she was loathe to make that feeling go away by meeting eyes with anyone. "Sebastian can decide the second part. He used to like his space."
He sighed, thinking. He would likely not be allowed to create his words while in an infirmary, unless he had an ally... "I'd like to share a room."
She nodded, blankly. The circles under her eyes had gotten worse. Everything was getting worse. She had no idea how to tape herself back together and keep pieces from flying off.
"That's that, then. A car will be here in an hour. Do try not to bleed out before then." Jim turned away, walking out of the room.
"Is he always that pleasant?" Sebastian sighed.
"That was actually shockingly nice, for him," she sighed, absently rubbing her stinging forearms on her trousers, trying to wipe some of the blood off, and fell silent again. She felt too empty to speak.
"You're worse," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," she whispered, folding her hands together in her lap, making herself smaller without really trying. "There's nothing keeping me together anymore, now that I found you. I think I'll get worse."
"Normally I would be helping you," he said quietly. "But I'm not. I'm sorry. I should be."
"You don't need to be sorry," she sighed, giving up and putting her head in her hands, exhaustion clear in every part of her body.
He couldn't see much more than her slumped shadow, but reached out to touch her shoulder carefully, rubbing it slowly. "I wish I could make you better."
"I appreciate the thought," she replied quietly, leaning into his touch a little. She wished that, too. Not a lot of her wishes came true.
"I'm sorry I changed. You dealt with so much more than I did... No one hurt me in the darkness." He traced out one of his words on her shoulder carefully, gently.
"I think they're equally shitty, just vastly different genres," she shook her head, letting out a long breath. His touch was, at least, still soothing. "I honestly don't know which I'd have chosen, if given the choice."
"Neither," he said, laughing oddly and leaning back against the couch. "What are your words?"
"Words?" she frowned, then made an 'o' with her mouth. "Oh. I don't have any. I don't think I'd use words. Just memories."
"What are your memories, then?" He asked. "And what did you do to your arm? I can smell blood, not all mine."
"Sex, mostly. Maybe I'd throw in some heroin. And I..." she looked down at her bloodied arms. "I scratched them up. Not really on purpose. It was them or my scalp."
He nodded a little. "You shouldn't do that. They say I'm crazy 'cause I do that."
"I didn't mean to do it. I just... Jim locked the liquor cabinet. I didn't know how to cope. Still don't, really."
He sighed, thinking. "When we get to the infirmary, they're going to take away my words."
"I'm sorry," she sighed. "You can say them, if you want. I don't mind. As long as you throw in some decent conversation once in awhile."
"If you help me keep my words, I'll help you find alcohol or something," he offers.
She was silent for a moment. "What do you mean by keep?"
"Keep them," he said, as if it was obvious. He held out his arm and dug into a letter until it bled. "My words."
She let out a long breath, running a hand through her hair. "No... no, I'm sorry, Sebastian. I'm sorry. I want you to heal more than I want the alcohol. You're the only thing keeping me going, I can't just... give up."
He deflated a little. "No one understands. The words are what keep me together. Without them my brain falls apart..."
"You can find another way to keep yourself together. You're a tough son of a bitch, Moran," she murmured, gently taking his hand. "You'll think of something. I'll try to help keep you grounded. You can teach me the rhyme, maybe."
"No!" he shouted, yanking his hand out of her grip and standing up. "No, no, NO! I need my words! You... just... it doesn't matter! Nothing fucking matters but the words!"
She flinched, hunkering down tense and on edge, jaw tight, eyes on his feet, ready for a blow that wasn't coming. "Sorry," she whispered, swallowing hard.
He heard the fear and tension in her voice, and instantly his expression changed. He sat on the floor, giving her the height and power, and put his hands on his head. "No, no, sorry sorrysorry... It's me... I know... I know I'm different..." He put his head on his knees. "I'll break open the cabinet. We can bring alcohol with us. Or I can find more there. Whatever you want. You just have to help me keep my words. They'll kill me, Lorna... If they take my words away I'll die."
"Fine, I'll help you," she sighed, reluctantly. "But don't break open the cabinet. They'll just confiscate whatever we bring."
"Thank you," he whispered, relieved. "Whatever you want. I'll help. I will."
"I don't know what I want," she shook her head, eyes closed. "I just want my head to be quiet for a little while."
He laughed. "My head is too quiet. You can have it." Then he sighed, and looked up, finding her dark blur among all the others. "When you know what you need, I'll help."
"Okay," she murmured, and leaned back against the couch, letting out a long breath. "I'm going to try and sleep a little. Wake me when the car comes."
He nodded, leaning against the couch and tracing his words quietly, reciting them in his head.
The ride to the infirmary was uneventful. Even without his memory he knew better than to bolt from Jim, and Lorna seemed to be of the same mind.
Lorna didn't pay much attention until they were led into their room. It was clear that it was hardly used - the decorations were far too nice, and there wasn't a speck of wear on the place. It was probably reserved for any long stays that Jim or someone of their rank would have to take. Comas, maybe. Or something like this. She paused by the door, looking over at Jim. "What kind of specialists are you bringing in?"
"Mental," he says, barely looking up from his phone. "A therapist for Sebastian that specializes in cases like his. She worked with those Chilean miners. And a woman to work with you, as well. She's worked with women in similar cases to yours."
She nodded and walked further into the room, sitting on a small sofa shoved into a corner, because it felt like the safest place in the room, pulling her knees up to her chest. She hoped that they weren't going to get standard infirmary food. That stuff was vile.
Sebastian put a hand on the wall, feeling around carefully until he made it to something soft, which proved to be a bed.
"You'll also be seeing more of the woman I brought in to look at his eyes. I'm not happy with the amount of improvement I've seen so far."
"I don't think anyone is," she sighed, looking wearily at Sebastian before switching her gaze to Jim. "So I'm confined to this room?"
"You'll be allowed some monitored time outside once you're deemed well enough, but other than that, yes. There's a full bathroom through that door."
She nodded, and pointed at the landline phone on the table between the two beds. "Can I order thai?"
He sighed, rubbing his eyes. "You may order thai. That phone goes through the front desk. They will dial and connect you."
She nodded, but didn't move. It was mostly for later. "Thanks," she murmured, instead of acting. Then she stared at the wall across from her, hoping he'd leave.
He looked at them both one more time, then did just that, heading out the door without another word. It closed behind him, and there was the sound of a lock clicking into place.
She took a deep breath, trying to keep herself calm. You're not in that basement again. You're not being held here against your will.
Sebastian leaned back against the wall next to the bed, starting to trace his words again, just to get used to the space. "What's it like here?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" she murmured, looking over at him. "How does it look?"
He nods. "The room. What's it like?"
"It's nice," she shrugged, looking around. "I suspect the paint's not even lead-based. And it's a good color. Nothing that reminds me of vomit. I don't think it's used often. Too much money in here. I can tell from here that the mattresses are good quality."
"What color is it? Are there chairs? How big is it? I can't see anything..." He sighed in frustration.
"It's... maybe two feet square bigger than your, frankly, enormous kitchen," she started, eyes roving the room, looking for details for him. "I'm sitting on a leather sofa against the wall that looks like it's come straight out of a high-end therapist's office. The walls are a mint green, and the light fixture is simple, but you know, elegant. Haven't seen the bathroom yet. Carpet's nice. Plush. Uh... the bed's are fitted with red sheets. A little odd, but I guess they don't show blood."
He nods just a little, pleased by that. His words would show less. "Thank you. I'm sorry. I think I'm used to inspecting rooms closely. Any windows?"
"One. It's small, near the ceiling. I'd have to stand on the bed, on my tiptoes, to see out it," she sighed, not happy with that fact. She went stir-crazy without a view of the outside. "No one could get an angle on us by rifle."
He smiled a little at that. "Thank you." He was quiet for a bit, before asking "Do you feel safe?
"In this room, or with you?" she asked, leaning her head back against the wall.
"Both. I meant right now, but the second one is a good question too, now that you say that." He got to the end of one arm, to the partially carved word on his hand (before Lorna had taken his knife away) and finished it out with his nails as best he could.
She was quiet for a minute. "I don't feel safe. Not locked in this room. It feels like he's going to come through that door any minute. This room is nothing like that basement, but that feeling of being trapped..." she let out a shuddering breath, shaking her head. "I don't distrust you, and I still love you, but it's... you're not who I know, not really. I trust your instincts. I don't know if I trust who you are, right now," she sighed, shaking her head. "I'm just fucking relieved that your face doesn't make me afraid. I was worried it would."
"I look like my father," he realized, nodding a little, gut twisting slightly at that. He closed his eyes. They were useless anyway. "Can I help you feel safe?"
"I don't know," she whispered, swallowing hard. It killed her that he was so close and yet not completely there. He came and went in waves; sometimes he seemed more like himself, and then it passed the next minute. "I just... I need time to pass quicker. The faster the memories fade, the easier it will be."
He sighed, shook his head a little. "I can't do that. Don't go to the darkness. Time is too slow there." He considered starting on his other arm, but he was tired. "When you were drunk you crawled right into my lap. If that's a safe place for you, that's okay. If not, that's okay too."
She was silent for a little while, staring up at the ceiling, then got up in silence and walked around the empty bed to his, crawling into his lap and curling up, taking a deep breath. He was still the same. He had to be.
He heard her coming and wasn't surprised when she crawled on top of him, just wrapped the arm not covered in fresh blood around her gently.
"Thank you for not hating me."
"Why would I hate you?" she murmured, relaxing into his warmth. "You haven't done anything to me."
"I got different," he said quietly. "I can't take the bad shit away anymore. My father hurt you, and on top of all that, I'm so useless that you have to take care of me even though I should be taking care of you. I've done a lot to you." He rubbed her back.
"None of that is your fault, Sebastian. What would be the point of holding any of that against you? I have enough strife in my head without railing against you for things you had no control over. I mean, you're still you, deep down. Amnesia can't change that."
"I should have been better," he sighed, hugging her gently. "Maybe that's why I hate the darkness so much. There's nothing to fight but myself."
"You have always relished fighting other people," she snorted, rolling her eyes, then sighed. "I don't think you like to hear your own thoughts for too long. You need to occupy yourself or you start to corrode. I'm the same, except its just memories, and I fix it with substance abuse."
He nods a little. "I'm glad he's dead. My father," he said quietly. "Thank you for killing him."
"I didn't kill him for you," she shook her head, her voice quiet. "I put him in the hospital for you. I fucked him up in his own home for you. But I killed him because I couldn't let him go."
"I know you didn't kill him for me," he said, shaking his head a little. "But still... thank you." He kissed the top of her head gently. "Sometimes it's hard for me to think right. The times when it's easier I promise I will help you if I can. The times it isn't... I'm sorry if I'm awful."
"It's okay. And thank you," she sighed, nestling into him a little. "I'm not exactly... 100% together a lot of the time. I start to break down fast, and then it's just a matter of time."
He hugged her, and sighed. "Weird what so little time will change..."
"I just can't believe we made it out of it alive. So far," she muttered, looking mournfully down at the words scrawled into his skin. She knew now that she couldn't stop him from doing it, and if it kept him from disintegrating, she had no right to interfere. She closed her eyes. "I never asked Jim what happened to your sister."
"My sister?" He thought for a long moment, trying to find the memory, but there was nothing and eventually he gave up. "Neither did I, I don't think. I don't care. He'll deal with her."
"I want her strung up from the London fucking Eye," she growled, "I want them to have to identify her body with dental records. I want her to be the cold case of the fucking decade. I don't care that she's a politician. That doesn't give you a free pass. Not to someone as fucked up as me."
"Why...?" he asked, surprised by the anger. The details of what had happened were still... fuzzy would be too generous. Missing was better.
"She's the one who had us snatched off the street. She's the one who threw you in that root cellar to rot. She's the one who gave me to him," she hissed, not angry at him, angry with the woman. It was all her fault.
He nodded just a little at that, pieces coming together. "Oh... right. So we kill her."
"That's putting it mildly," she snorted. It was strange, being the one thirstier for blood. He was usually always so keen to get his hands soaked in red.
He nodded a little, not objecting to that in the least. "Let's ask Jim to save her until you're better and can play with her."
"Mm. That sounds good to me," she murmured, nodding slightly. She smirked a little. "My hunger for vengeance is probably a little unhealthy. I wonder my therapist will have to say about it. Probably something unhelpful."
He nodded just slightly. "They don't know anything. Just ignore them."
Lorna sighed, falling silent, just listening to his heartbeat. She hoped that at the very least, the eye specialist would be able to help Sebastian.
It was about an hour later that the lock clicked and the door opened, one of the infirmary doctors walking through. "Good afternoon, Ms. Harrison, Mr. Moran. I'm going to be giving each of you a medical evaluation, if that's alright."
"Alright," she sighed, shifting out of Moran's lap and onto the bed, not particularly looking forward to all her injuries being marked down on a clipboard. But fighting them would do nothing to help her. The sooner she got better - and that meant cooperating with them - the sooner she wouldn't be locked in a room.
He nodded a little. "Alright. I'll ask one of you to go over to the other bed. The curtain there will give you both a little privacy, okay?" Moran stood, then sighed, frustrated.
"Where is it?" The doctor didn't blink, just walked over to the bed. "Over here, Mr. Moran. You have a clear path."
"Sit," she huffed, rolling her eyes, and tugged him back onto the bed before getting up and crossing to the other bed, shaking her head. "I'm not blind, I can do a little bit of moving around, it's fine."
"I'm not blind, either," he snapped. "It's just foggy. Once I know what something is I can find it."
She let out a long breath. "You know I don't mean it that way. It's just an expression."
He bared his teeth slightly but sat, listening to the shtink of the curtain as it closed.
"Alright, Ms. Harrison. I've got a medical report here from when you brought in a few weeks ago. Does everything here seem accurate?" He handed her the clipboard.
She read over it for a minute - it was a long, awful list - and handed it back, nodding. She didn't want to read everything he'd done to her for longer than she had to.
He nodded just a bit. "Then why don't you let me take a look, see how things are healing. Have you been putting the gel that was prescribed on your burns?"
"I was, until we got Moran back. Then I was a little busy," she shrugged, sighed, and gingerly pulled her shirt off. "They hurt more than the cuts."
"That's common with burn wounds. Do you have the gel here or should I have someone bring another bottle?" He walked around to her back, examining the wounds closely.
"I don't have any on me, no," she shook her head, twitching a little as a small draft brushed over her back. "Better just to get another one." She still hadn't asked how bad the scarring would be. She already knew she couldn't go back to her old work, and she didn't really want to know how disfigured she'd be.
"I'll get you one today," he promised, nodding a little. "They're healing well. Burns are always slow. A few more days and I'm going to ask you to start keeping them bandaged as well. It shouldn't be too painful by that point, and it will allow them to heal faster."
"If they heal faster, I won't argue," she sighed, fiddling with her shirt, balled up in her lap. She didn't like being seen like this. Hated it, in fact.
He nodded just a little. "Go ahead and get dressed," he said, walking around to look at the gash on her face. "The stitches seem to be doing well. If you keep healing at this rate you'll be on track to have them out in a week or so."
She nodded, relieved that at least she hadn't gotten a infection. The infection on her leg had made that scar a lot worse than it would have been, and she was fucked up enough. She pulled on her shirt as soon as he was done looking at her face. The one and only benefit of Sebastian's vision being too foggy to see her was that he couldn't see the extent of the damage.
"Alright. Unless you have any questions, I'll take a look at Mr. Moran," he said, stepping back and removing his gloves.
"I don't have any," she shook her head, scootching back and leaning against the wall, falling into silence. What a nightmare.
The doctor nodded and walked over to Moran, taking a breath. This should be interesting.
"Hello, Mr. Moran... How are you feeling today?"
"Fine," he said, voice revealing nothing. He didn't like this man.
She watched carefully, ready to step in if it started to escalate. As it might, considering it was Moran, but without the majority of his memories. The doctor had a rather strained smile on.
"I'd give you an eye exam, but you have a specialist coming in later today, and... I rather not test your patience."
"Very considerate of you," he said dryly. "Then your point here would be...?"
"To check your vitals," he replied calmly, although with just a tinge of nervousness. "You're very thin. Need to make sure everything is still working as it should."
"Check away," he said, spreading his arms slightly. As long as they left his words alone, he had no objections.
The doctor hesitated as he took Sebastian's wrist, looking down at the repeating words, and took his pulse before speaking. "Mr. Moran... I'm going to have to ask you not to carve yourself up like this."
"You're free to ask that," he said, nodding a little. "Seems a reasonable thing to ask."
His eyes tightened a little. "...I see. Well. Your vitals seem to be doing fine, but I'll check up on you every day. If that's all, I'll leave you two alone."
"That would be appreciated," he said, giving the man a cold smile and wiggling his fingers in a farewell wave.
The man beat a hasty, but dignified, retreat, and the two were left to their own devices again.
He listened to him leave, and almost immediately began to work away on his left arm, carving the words again, half out of need, half out of spite. "Are you okay?"
"Not really," she sighed, giving a dejected shrug. "But I really haven't been for a long time. I'm about the same."
"Okay," he said, nodding a little. "You can come back over here, if you want to."
She got up and returned to his lap without speaking, trying to keep her mind blank, boxed up. If she let anything through the cracks it was going to eat her up. She knew she was being vain - but she'd spent nearly her entire life as something desirable, had been able to use that as a tool, as protection. Now, though.. For fuck's sake, stop being so fucking shallow. Shut up. Shut up!
He settled her against his chest, deciding that she probably wouldn't appreciate him working on his words while she was there, and left them be for now. "I remember you more now, y'know."
"Yeah? Good. I was worried I was going to have to pantomime the entire course of our relationship using sock puppets," she smiled, looking down at the bloody words on his arm. At least if she was on him he stopped. "What do you remember?"
"I remember playing poker," he said, thinking. "I remember us drinking, a lot... I thought you died. I remember that... that was... bad. Very bad. But you didn't, so all's well that ends well..." He turned over the next bit, wondering if he should say it. But she had already, so it must be okay. "I remember I love you."
"That hits most of the important parts," she said quietly, feeling like a weight had dropped off her chest. Somehow she felt less isolated.
He reached up to run fingers through her hair. "I understand though, if you don't want to be around me anymore later, if I'm still different."
"Ditto," she sighed, closing her eyes and just appreciating the gentle touch in her hair. "Except I know I'm going to be different. But you... don't worry about it. You can't change enough that I'd stop caring about you the way I do. Maybe it'd be a little frustrating, sometimes, but," she shrugged, "Shit happens."
"You couldn't, either," he says firmly. "Not if memory serves. Which admittedly at the moment it's a little odd..."
"I hope you're right," she sighed. But she couldn't help fearing that he wasn't.
He leaned against the wall. "Get some rest, maybe. Sounds like we have a long time in here."
She nodded, eyes still closed anyway, and slowly relaxed, mind eventually quieting enough that she could drift off to sleep.
He sat where he was a long time, listening as feet walked by the door, murmuring his words quietly so as not to wake up Lorna.