Animus Anonymous

A/N: So... Chapter three. Enjoy!

Chapter Three

Shaun was really tired. Early morning light was filtering through the cracks around the curtains on his window, and he could feel the exhaustion setting in.

But he had a job to do. Readying himself for at least a few hours of work, Shaun sucked in a deep breath, and picked up a pen. He was interrupted before he even put said pen to paper, though, as he felt eyes on him. Desmond was awake.

With a small smile, Shaun put down his pen and walked over to a counter nestled in the back corner of his office. Hidden under the rubbish was a coffee maker. Old, but steady enough.

"Coffee?" Shaun offered, his back to Desmond on the couch.

"Err… Sure."

Shaun felt along the back of the coffee maker, looking for the plug. He found it, and plugged it into the outlet behind the table. Shaun flipped the switch, and with an angry hiss, sparks flew from the outlet, landing on the carpet and luckily, dying quickly. Shaun gave a shout of surprise as a spark landed on his trouser leg, and quickly started smoking.

"Fuck!" Shaun yelled, stamping his foot furiously, trying to eliminate the spark before it got out of control. However, it seemed to have a mind of its own, and, coupled with the extremely flammable material of Shaun's pants; it wasn't going to die anytime soon. With a sudden flare, the spark turned into a full blown flame, licking its way up Shaun's leg. His nerves were in full working order today, as Shaun could already feel the excruciating pain from his knee down.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He mumbled sharply, looking desperately around for anything to drench the flames.

Fire was spreading from Shaun's trousers onto the carpet now, and the rubber plant on his desk was going up in flames. The outlet on the wall was still sparking like fireworks, and the carpet in front of it had now caught on fire.

Suddenly remembering Desmond, Shaun looked over to the couch, and saw it empty.

"Desmond!" He shouted through the thickening smoke. "Desmond! Can you hear me?" Shaun coughed violently, having inhaled a mouthful of smoke. The heat was coursing up his leg, and he could feel his face getting scorched. Suddenly remembering grade school fire lessons, Shaun dropped onto his knees, getting out of the smoke, which now looked like a black wall above his head. He had to get out of here, and he had to get Desmond. The fact that his leg was going up in flames hadn't left his mind, and he was still furiously rubbing it along the carpet, trying to diminish them, but the fire was extremely resilient.

Somewhere, Shaun heard glass shatter. "Desmond?" He managed to shout before inhaling a thick cloud of smoke. He could feel it in his lungs, feel the tainted air as his heavy breathing continued. He had no idea if it was better to breath through his nose or mouth, so he settled on breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth.

Where could Desmond have gone? Was he already out? Shaun couldn't see anything resembling human form around him, but he could only see a few feet in front of him. Plus the fact that tears were rolling down his face from the heat, and his leg was screaming in pain, he wasn't exactly in his best observing mood, therapist or not. He had to get out of here. Now.

But he couldn't leave Desmond.

Listen, he told himself. Desmond is gone. Dead or alive.

But he was just here. It wasn't a big office. Just the main room and the small bathroom. He must have gotten out.

The orange wall in front of Shaun and the black ceiling above him was really messing with his sense of direction. He didn't know what way the door was. Suddenly, a thought struck him like a thousand pound anvil.

Am I going to die?

He was going to if he didn't get out of here. He could hear the fabric on his pants leg sizzling. The skin on his right leg was going to be cooked in the worst way. If he lived, that was.

C'mon, Shaun. Think. Find your surroundings. Get your sense of direction. You are not going to die because your coffee maker backfired. You don't even drink coffee.

Shaun started to crawl, hoping to God he'd find his way out. From somewhere behind him, he heard a thunk. He tried to keep going, but his pant leg that was still intact had gotten caught on a leg of his desk. Instead of feeling horrified, though, Shaun felt a smile break out on his extremely red face. Now he could place himself. He felt the dent in that table leg as well, where one of the moving men had dropped it when he had first moved into this office.

Praying that he was correct, and not just getting his hopes up, Shaun made his way in the direction he thought would get him out… and ran into a wall.

"Fuck!" He shouted, not caring that he inhaled a mouthful of smoke as he felt his body start to shake. His leg was on fire, his glasses were practically melting off his face, and he had no idea where the fucking door was. He was going to die in a fire started by a coffee maker. He had so much left to live for, so much left to do with his life. He never got to go to Italy. He never got to cross off the last movie in his "movies to see" list.

"Desmond!" Shaun shouted one last time, hoping that at least he had gotten out alive. Pain was coursing through him at what felt like a million degrees. He had visions of the flesh burning off his dry, blackened bones as the fire consumed the whole building. He saw the firemen in their offensively yellow suits tsking their disapproval at Shaun's faulty coffeemaker, sharing knowing glances with each other.

"If he had only gotten rid of that piece of junk, he would still be alive right now." Fireman One would say, shaking his head.

"Yep. It's certainly going to make me think twice about my own coffeemaker at home." Fireman Two would answer grimly, secretly relieved it didn't happen to him.

"Well," Fireman One would say, hitching up his uniform, "Let's clean up this Bar-be-que gone bad."

"Fuck you guys!" Shaun shouted, chasing the visions of generically handsome and grizzled and heroic Fireman One and Two out of his head. He would be the butt of jokes for years. That wasn't how he wanted to be remembered.

Just as Shaun was about to truly give up hope, he felt a weight on his burning leg. His first thought was, Thank God I can still feel anything.

His second thought was, Desmond?

Desmond had appeared out of nowhere, holding what looked like a wet towel over Shaun's now un-burning leg, and one over his mouth.

"Can you walk?" Desmond asked Shaun, who nodded weakly. Desmond could tell that Shaun could walk, but not walk well. He set his mouth, and leaned down to pick Shaun up, fireman style. With a surprising quickness, he navigated the smoky room, feeling his way toward the door. Desmond threw it open, set Shaun down, and slammed it shut. The fire was contained in the office for now, but they needed to move fast to avoid a sudden flare up.

"Come on," Desmond grabbed Shaun by the arm, pulling him toward the stairs.

"Elevator?" Shaun mumbled, stumbling after Desmond, almost completely out of it.

"Nope. Electrical might be screwed up." Desmond informed him. "Come on!" He encouraged Shaun as he stumbled, tripping over his own feet.

Shaun was in extremely bad shape. Desmond wouldn't be surprised if he began to cough up ashes soon. He was probably already sick from smoke inhalation.

"Shaun, you've got to work with me," Desmond pleaded. "We've got to get out of here and call the fire department."

When Shaun didn't respond, Desmond grabbed both of Shaun's hands, leading him into the stairwell and down the stairs. Desmond knew he couldn't carry Shaun down four flights of stairs, which was why he was leading him as sharply as he could.

Four flights of stairs later, Desmond and Shaun burst out of the building. They could see bright flames out the window.

Still leading Shaun, Desmond dragged him across the deserted street to a pay phone. He let go of Shaun and patted his own pockets, looking for a quarter, but came up empty.

"Shit," He mumbled, checking his back pockets as well. "Shaun, do you have a quarter with you?"

Exhausted as he was, Shaun reached into his own pocket and withdrew a quarter.

"Thanks," Desmond tossed it into the slot, and dialled 9-1-1.

Shaun fell into Desmond's side, struggling to stay awake.

Desmond explained the situation quickly and calmly, asked for an ambulance and a fire truck, and he hung up and pulled Shaun to the curb where they both sat down.

"Shaun," Desmond said slowly and clearly. "Can you tell me where you are injured?"

Shaun blinked slowly, took a deep breath, and muttered, "Leg…"

Desmond reached down and, extremely carefully, raised Shaun's pant leg. Shaun groaned in pain, and Desmond clenched his teeth. It was an ugly burn. Bleeding and cracked.

"Stay here." Desmond ordered him, standing up. He rushed across the street into the building again, and came out a minute later with a cup and towel. "This is going to hurt, probably." Desmond took the wet towel, and wrapped it around Shaun's leg. It sat there with a hiss, and, horrified, Desmond saw steam rise up.

Shaun gasped, tears coming to his eyes.

"Fuck," he whispered.

"It's okay," Desmond said quietly, dipping his fingers into the cup of water. He started to paint the water all over Shaun's face like a painter wit his brush on a canvas. He heard skin sizzling beneath his own seared fingers, and frowned, nervous.

"Mmm," Shaun's eyes were closed, but, much to Desmond's surprise, a slight smile was on his face. "That feels good."

Eyes wide, Desmond felt an unwarranted blush creeping up his cheeks. He had to clear his throat before speaking.

"Good."