A/N: OMG, my life is a mess, lol. In no particular order, my troubles include relationship (breakup/new one/etc--still trying to sort everything out), health (killer flu--lost my voice now and can't work!--along with another problem), school, and all 3 of my computers breaking down. Luckily I managed to salvage all my stories from the computer I was writing on. I'm updating on another computer right now and it's more difficult to do than before; so please bear with my now slow updates. I haven't abandoned any stories.
Thanks, you guys rock! I will post this note on all stories that are in progress.
SPECIAL NOTE FOR THIS STORY: This chapter concludes Prisoner Y. There is a sequel coming soon--Prisoner X. Keep your eyes peeled for it if you liked this one ;-)
-6-
He is breathing heavily, his bare hands tearing into the dirt. He has broken fingernails, cut himself on concealed rocks, but he must get deeper. Six feet, at least. He will
not accept less for her, because the wolves will not.
He has considered the infant, looking at her stomach, but can't bear to cut the skin open. Especially since she is only three months along. From the biology courses he's
taken, he knows it would be just a small curl of flesh he could hold in his palm, something he isn't equipped to develop like she is.
Was.
He breathes harder, his hand encountering a large rock, and he rips it out, running on pure adrenaline now. He has to. When it runs out, he will succumb to the horror of
what he has seen, become weak and unable to finish his task.
To bury the dead.
He notes that the rock is flat, and he uses it to dig. He breathes harder and harder, his lungs burning for oxygen. Then he realizes that there are two sets of breathing,
and the other is shallower.
Stopping, he turns to look at X.
The hole in her forehead is gone, and her face has color to it. Also, her hair is almost an inch long, and before his eyes he can see it growing, along with her flesh. Filling in the hollows.
He's never seen a pair of breasts grow, before, but he considers it to be the best thing ever. He drops the rock and scrambles to her side, sweat running down his
nose in rivulets. "X? X? Are you…"
She doesn't answer. He reaches out and pinches her nostrils, something his nanny used to do when he wouldn't eat something.
Her lips part.
"X!" he says, his heart beating in his ears. He can't wrap his mind around it. He must be dreaming. There's no way this could happen in real life.
He must still be back at the camp, feverish.
"…urr…" she says, her eyes opening slowly. She looks at him, her eyebrows drawn together. "Wha…"
"Oh my god," he says, touching her face. Her throat. Looking for her carotid artery. He needs to feel her pulse, now, under his fingers, telling him that this is real, that
she is really alive. Like pinching, to check if he is dreaming. She pulls her head away in resistance, her eyelids half closed.
"Jesus."
He buries his face against her breasts and listens. Da-dump, da-dump, da-dump…it is real. Her fingers are on his scalp.
"You…you are bleeding," she says, sitting up, still holding his head in mid-air.
"It's nothing."
She pauses. "The bullet has clipped the axillary artery. You are quickly losing blood and will die of blood loss without medical attention."
He stares at her. "Well…well…I've got nothing. What do we do?"
"You require first aid." X wipes blood off her face. "We will need to…"
Now that she has mentioned it, and now that the adrenaline has worn off, he's starting to feel it. He feels weak, and confused. "Uh…how did…" he collapses in a bloody heap,
his hand waving in the air.
"…whazzit…" he sighs and opens his eyes from his dreamless sleep. He is lying in a very sterile white room—a hospital, a real hospital—with a sheet over his waist and legs,
and multiple tubes hooked up to his body. There is a breathing tube down his throat and he begins to gag, trying to fight past it for air.
"Remain calm." Fingers, at his lips, prying the apparatus out. He opens his bulging eyes—it's X, her long hair falling over her shoulders and onto his chest as she struggles to
remove the equipment. A second later it is out and he takes a deep breath of air, a gasp, trying to ignore how horrible his throat feels.
"Awwrk…urr…" he says, not a very intelligent comment. Her fingers move down his body, removing monitoring nodes. She is speaking again.
"We must leave. I did not tell them the truth but they are suspicious…I heard them speaking in the lobby, well after you were admitted. Hurry."
He cranes his neck, looks at the huge gauze bandage on his shoulder. "Am I going to be ok, off this shit?"
"Yes. Hurry." X straightens, and he realizes she is wearing clothes, real clothes. He's only ever seen her in a paper gown. She has a black, oversized t-shirt and a pair of jeans,
low on her hips to accommodate her front.
He sits up and helps her pick needles out of his forearm. He notes that there is a bandage conveniently covering his tattoo.
She walks to the chair, reaches into a bag and then tosses something at him. A bundle—clothing. He scrambles to get them on, still light-headed. "How long have I been out?" he asks.
"A week." X looks serious. "They decided they will confront you as soon as you are out of critical care. The machine has a sensor to alert the nurse, which is why we must leave immediately."
"Jesus Christ. Let's go."
He heads for the door.
"No. Here." X is by the window, struggling with the lock, the bag now slung around her shoulder at her side. She makes a fist, and he watches in astonishment as two blades of metal
slide out, about six inches long each. Very sharp. She slides one through the lock, and the window bursts open.
"You can't be serious." He finds her eyes. "Okay, fine, you are…but…X…my shoulder is completely busted…"
"Hold onto me," she says, putting her leg through the window.
He steps towards the window. "But you're pregnant," he says, saying the word aloud for the first time.
"It does not mean I am not capable," she remarks, her arm outside the window. She ducks her head, reaches around and stabs the outer wall; he hears a crunch as she jams her claws
into the stucco surface. "Are you coming?" she asks.
He copies her, stepping out into nothingness.
"Climb onto my back," she instructs. "And hold on."
-x-
They are sitting on a bench in the park, watching the sun as it sets, slowly, illuminating the backs of geese grazing on the grass.
X looks as if nothing ever happened, how she must have appeared before the camp. Her hair is long and silky with a just-brushed sheen and some slight curls; her cheeks are full, her eyes
bright and intelligent. She seems to glow, too, from within.
Fuck me, he thinks. Although he's always been interested in girls, he's always made fun of love. It's stupid, he thought, how his friends for allowing themselves to be wrapped around their
girlfriend's pinky finger like a piece of string. He'd been disgusted. Now he's not sure what to think, but he's aware that he couldn't be happier than he is at this particular place in time.
They got away.
X watches him warily. She's obtained make-up, and her eyes are lined in black, her lips painted with a dark, purplish color. He likes the way she looks without it, but he can't say he doesn't
like this as well. She's definitely not one of the little cheerleaders he used to lust over at his school.
"We must part ways," she says, her lips curled in a frown. "Two separate targets are harder to track, should we be pursued. I will be leaving tomorrow."
"No!" he says, aghast. "X—no fucking way!"
"It makes tactical sense," she says. "Do as I suggest, and leave. Travel as far as is possible. Do not return to your home, by any means."
"Out of the question."
"It is not a question." X looks ahead of her, annoyed. "Do you not trust me? I have been correct about everything up to now—"
"Not that! I don't care if it's dangerous! I—I don't want to live without you," he admits in a small voice, feeling stupid. "You have no idea…X…I made it through the last few months of that for—"
"No." X glares at him. "You cannot think like that. We must separate. Perhaps tomorrow is not soon enough."
"You love me, too!" he argues, realizing she's never said it. He's never stopped to wonder if she cared, he just felt it. "You wouldn't care about keeping me safe if you didn't!"
"No." X presses her lips together in a firm line for a moment. "Not only will it be unsafe, but you will slow me down."
"And the kid? That's not going to slow you down at all?" he asks.
She wavers. "No. It will not."
"X…please, don't." He reaches over and takes her hand; her lips part and she looks down at their joined appendages. "I can't get over this without you."
"…" she continues to stare. "You must."
"I can't," he says, gripping her hand hard. "Please?"
X doesn't answer for a while. Finally, she does.
"You would be in danger," she says.
"Of course," he says. A slow grin splits his face. "My life would be pretty boring without it." He squeezes her hand, and realizes that, no matter what she's been through before, no
matter what he's been through, they are just two teenagers whose pulse increases over hand-holding. He presses her hand to his boney cheek and watches her dark-rimmed eyes.
"Alright." She looks displeased with herself, for giving in. "I do not feel right about this, but alright. We must strategize. We—"
He leans over and silences her, like he's always wanted to do when she's being so serious and technical (but couldn't, for fear of exposing them). She doesn't push him away, instead
her hand with its black-painted fingers cups the back of his head, and the other slowly, instinctively slides up his side. Over his ribs, prominent like a washing board as it's only been a
little more than a week since the internment camp. A week spent mostly in the hospital, on IV fluids.
-x-
They are in a room, a dark room, sitting at a small table and looking at each other. There is a device on the table, a metal detector, as well as a tray of instruments, and some
bottles of fluid. As well as a book on brain surgery.
"This is going to hurt like hell," he says, trying to be a man about it. It's hard.
"It will only be your scalp. I will apply the local anesthetic, if you wish. It is not necessary, really, because your brain does not have sensory receptors." X looks at him. "It is
necessary. There may be a tracking device."
He looks down. "What if you hurt something?"
"I won't," X says firmly. "My hand is steady. Are you prepared?"
He closes his eyes and nods. "Just do it."
X gets up, turns on a light and places it on the table. "Do not move, at all. The only way I will misjudge the incision is if you flinch."
"Okay. Wait." He's thought of something. He grabs her hand as she rubs anesthetic on his temple, right in front of his ear.
"What's your name? Your real name, I mean? I want to know…in case I…" he looks at her with pleading eyes. The first thought he had, when he saw her being shot. He must know.
X hesitates. "Laura," she says, her voice quiet.
He studies her. It's like learning God's true name. If there is a god at all, which he severely doubts. "Laura," he repeats, trying the name out. He likes it, he decides. Another way to
describe the entity he's entwined with. He releases her hand.
"Go ahead," he says.
He keeps his eyes open as she makes a fist and releases her claws into the air, then brings them to his head very carefully and begins to cut. He keeps his eyes wide open, flexing his
fingers, as the book instructed; he keeps his head pressed to the makeshift brace on the chair. It is vital that he doesn't move.
They are removing the microchip.
X—Laura—holds a tiny magnet near his open flesh, to attract the microchip that might allow the camp to locate them.
The removal of X's chip, by bullet, allowed her to heal. By theory, this means he will be able to use his powers again, too. He shouldn't be excited about this, but he is. He knows he can't
ever use them again, though.
Unless they get cornered.
X leans over momentarily. Clink. He stares at a white piece of shiny substance in the sterile tray—bone. His bone. He shifts his eyes away, trying not to freak out. He wishes he could keep
them closed, but he's scared that if he does, he won't open them again. So he doesn't.
"There," she says suddenly. She leans over again and holds, between her rubber-gloved fingers, a tiny grain of rice. Metal rice. It drops to the pan with a clink, and she reaches for the
piece of bone again, along with the materials she will use to fuse it to the rest of his skull.
-x-
He wakes up, late at night, sweating. Tense. He's just had the dream, where X's head is pressed against his neck, her arms around his ribs, keeping his spine warm. His neck is wet—from
the hole in her forehead. Blood. She is cold. The dream shifts, so he's seeing her slumped against the tree, sporting the same injury.
The dream goes on. It's red, and loud, and in his head.
When he wakes up, he's the one holding her, and she's warm, her heart beating under his hand. He slips his hand down, to the swell, holds it there to make sure it's still beating, too.
"Is something wrong?" X murmurs, her head turning.
"No," he lies, his face pressed in her shoulder, the bandaged part of his head away from the pillow. His eyes are wet. He saw all the people he couldn't save, and would never be able to.
"You are crying," she remarks, turning over.
"I am not," he says, trying to sound annoyed.
"My neck is wet," she says. "Y—Julian—you must let it go. It is not necessary to regret the casualties at the camp…it was not your mission to protect them."
"I still feel like shit!" he says. "They are—were good people—who—didn't have to die." His voice cracks on the last part. "I just stood there and watched."
"There is nothing you could have done. You must put your regret aside." X's voice is firm, stern. She is afraid he will not do what needs to be done if they are cornered. She is afraid he will
allow himself to be captured, to help others. To be a martyr. X knows there is no place for martyrs in this world, knows it very well.
Although there are things she does not know. Such as depths of emotions as the boy demonstrates, at times. She doesn't know what it is to be a martyr, having nothing she would die for.
She has a thought, then reaches down and presses his hand to her stomach. "You must focus. The…infant will require your attention. You cannot allow yourself to be distracted."
He blinks.
"Okay," he says. His fingers tighten slightly on her stomach, and he pulls her closer, burying his face in her neck.
"I love you," he says.
She pauses.
"I love you, too," X says, sensing it's what he needs to hear.
