John is tired of being still.
Scott's been relaying IR's progress, and despite them making his extraction a personal priority it's taking Virgil an age to stabilise the building enough for rescue crews to enter and he's not the only one trapped in an odd pocket of the building. Personal, after all, isn't always the same as important.
John's been stuck in this awkward position for hours now; his legs are cramping, and his butt is numb, his head is pounding and his arm... well, the less he thinks about that the better. It shoots jagged fire when moved and unfortunately even breathing is enough to do that now. He tries not to breath too deeply, keeping it shallow and light.
He's tired of being still, and he's also just plain tired. Lethargy pulls around him like a blanket, weighing down his shoulders. Maybe he can sleep, and when he wakes up this will all be over.
No such luck.
"Good afternoon, this is your 3am check in." Gordon pipes through the comms, sounding ridiculously cheery all things considered, voice bouncing around the enclosed space.
"Is it really 3am?" He can usually tell when Gordon is joking, but there is a fuzziness sitting behind his eyes which makes John unsure of his own instincts, and unsure of how much time has passed.
"More or less. In this time zone or another." John can just imagine Gordon leaning back in his chair, feet up on the console, cheeky grin plastered all over his face. Water canteen in one hand, sandwich in the other. No, that's just his own hunger and thirst imposing into the mental picture.
"So helpful Gords." John lets his eyes drift close, just for a moment. If it were really 3am he deserved a nap.
"I aim to please. I do want a sit rep from you though."
"My situation is, as it has been for hours, 'uncomfortable'." Beyond uncomfortable. There is dust or something in the air, making his eyes itch and water. His arm begins to bleed again – just a little, just a trickle – when he palms his eye sockets. The relief from the itching is only momentary and now his vision is slightly blurry; the tiny space zooming in and out of focus like an old style camera lens.
"Would sir like room service? The special tonight is grilled salmon."
"Leave me alone if you're just going to be an ass."
"Can't do that Jonny-boy."
"I'm sure even you can work out where the off switch is."
"Wow, harsh. But I have strict instructions to bother you until I am satisfied with your current condition." Gordon puts on a pompous voice, the same he uses when he's doing an impression of one of Penny's more dour great-uncles. It's funny then, not funny now.
"That's right, takes a direct order to want to spend time with me." Bitterness and hurt break through the tiredness to put a sting in John's words that he would have usually buried.
There is a pause. Gordon doesn't have an immediate retort.
John leans his head against the elevator wall, luxuriating in the silence, the metal cooling against the thrumming heat in his skull. If he could just stretch he'd feel so much better. Shake out the knots crunching in his legs and shoulders.
Maybe not stretch his shoulders; one arm a fiery slash and the other a dull insistent ache from where he fell when the elevator first stopped. Or was it...? No, it was later. That's right. He has no concept of time trapped in here, that's all, and things are starting to get muddled. His head full of fluff.
The last time he felt like this was when he had the flu – three days of fever and chills, bad dreams and confusing time skips as he dropped in and out of sleep. That was three or four years ago now, when Alan was little more than a baby.
No.
That's not right.
Ten years ago. It might have been ten years ago.
It was the winter after they went skiing and they played hide and seek in the snow. He had huddled up against a snow drift just like this, the freezing air cooling his cheeks red and flush from running. Waiting for Scott to come and find him.
Scott is going to come and find him.
Maybe he should find a better hiding place than this.
He shifts, to get up and run behind a tree, but the movement triggers waves of fire from his shoulder. It's so surprising it steals his breath away.
John opens his eyes again, barely, the shadowy forms of fallen steal replacing the forest he had been imagining.
"I'm sorry about that. I didn't mean it and shouldn't have said it." Gordon. That's Gordon's voice. Where is he? Is he hiding? Another shift, to look around for his brother stirs the pain again and this time he gasps, sharp and shocked.
"Don't be so melodramatic." Gordon is going on. "It's just an apology, I can admit when I'm wrong."
"Wha' you 'rong about?" John is struggling to make out the words, Gordon's voice muffled. He must be under the snow.
No.
That's not right.
That's not...
"About what I said at the benefit."
"Wha' you sa' at the 'fit?" John's forehead crinkles with thought, but he smooths is again quickly – it hurts too much. He can feel each muscle pulling on the others, pulling over his bones. His tongue feels too big for his mouth, getting in the way and making him mumble.
Gordon might say something else, but a blizzard of snow and static buries him deep.