A/N: Again, sorry this has taken me so long. I thought being on vacation as going to make writing easier. Apparently not. I also thought this was going to be a single vignette. My muse had other ideas, and I wanted to get this out tonight. It's shorter than the last chapter by a lot. But, it will be more reminicant of Control, since Seb is once again finding himself in trouble. For my friends in countries with LOGICAL temperature systems, 90F = 32C (305 K) and 120F = 49C (322 K). Yes, I am a chemist and unit crazy, but I also wrote this, so review it, maybe?
He woke up in a house that was both strangely quiet and unbearably hot. It's the fourth day since power has been out, and
before the sun has moved high into the sky, the still air is stifling. The air may be laden with moisture, retaining heat in the air and making it feel heavy, but his throat is as parched and dry as the Sahara. His mouth tastes like something has died in there.
He drops his boxers, and pads to the bathroom naked. The soft plush carpet provides relief from his feet sweat. (He can't believe that his feet sweat. His body does unbelievably disgusting things.) The bathroom floor is a few degrees cooler than the plush carpet.
He brushes his teeth with one hand as he pees. It's minty fresh and cool. The water he gulps after he spits is icy against his tongue and cheeks. It cools him, but it doesn't do much to sate his thirst. He thinks he could drink a river, and still feel parched.
He takes a long, cold shower to wash away the sweat from the night before, and then returns to his room to dress. He picks light weight clothing and boat shoes. He glances at the wind-up alarm clock his father pulled out from somewhere, squinting to read the analogue device, and realizes how late he is.
He throws the dark blue pen cap on his bed, and fishes a pen nib from the pill bottle beside his bed. He screws on the needle, and squirts out a dose to prime it, so there's fresh insulin in his pen. He injects without looking or thinking, just counting clicks as he dials up and dials down, the needle already in his side and possibly leaking. The insulin pen and pill bottle land in his workbag, which already holds his lantus. He's been carrying his insulin with him everywhere, hoping that if he keeps it in the air-conditioned car for more time, the heat sensitive protein will last longer.
He drives slowly to his father's office. The traffic lights are still out, turning every intersection into a four way stop. Luckily, fewer people are on the roads, if they can help it. \
The parking lot at his dad's office is crowded. The government building his father works in has been turned into a temporary heat shelter for the neighborhood. Kids who a few days earlier had joyfully occupied the swimming pool now huddle in the cool to escape the oppressive heat. He gratefully accepts the paper cup of water someone thrusts into his hand. There hasn't been enough time for the medicine in his body to do it's work, and he drinks thirstily.
Before 11 am, he's back on the road. His father has ordered him to go to Lima, where the power has been on for a few days. He has a small leather overnight bag in the trunk, and a pile of case files secured in the seat beside him. He pulls into a gas station, running of a smelly diesel generator. He runs into pee, taking the pile of plastic bottles to the recycling bin. He leaves his bag in the car, and taps the lock button on the car door.
Inside the gas station, he does his best impression of Sea Biscuit. He uses the few crumpled ones in his pocket to buy a bottle of soda. He needs the caffeine. He wishes he had more money in his pocket. He knows he could down the bottle in a single gulp. He wishes he had the money to get another.
As he steps out of the gas station, the heat hits him like a tank. He just wants to get to … somewhere. He doesn't know if it's the heat, or the fact that his blood sugar is still high, but he is exhausted. Maybe the caffeine will help. He tries to ignore the way the sugary sweetness and carbonation makes a foam in his mouth, leaving him parched.
He tries the black handle of the door, gingerly at first. The handle lifts, but the door doesn't budge. He tries again, praying that the heat has simply caused the rubber of the door jam to get sticky, but no amount of force can open the door.
He looks longingly at the keys, sitting in the driver's seat, and his phone in his cup holder. Never mind the bottles of fragile, heat sensitive insulin sitting in the interior of his car. They will go bad quickly if they get about 90ºF. The interior of the car could easily reach 120.
His mind is racing. If they will let him use a phone, he'll be lucky to get out a call. AAA is a logical choice, but the card with the number is inside is wallet. His wallet is locked in the car. He could call his father at work, but he's not sure he can come up with the number for the office. John's cell phone is out of commission, too. Not that he knows that number well, either.
Panic is rising in his chest. His heart races, and tunnel vision threatens to take over. He cannot do this. He cannot do this. He cannot do this. He wants to curl and just let himself bake in the heat.
Somehow, a series of black, faded numbers on the inside of his arm catch his eye. He doesn't know whose they are. He doesn't know why the numbers are written on his arm in sharpie, rather than safely in his phone. He doesn't care, as he fights to push back the fog.
His two quarters clink into the phone, and he shifts it to his ear. He presses in the number, thanking any passing diety that it's a local number.
The phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Then, there's a click, the pick up of the reviever and his money being deposited into the phone.
"Hello? Hello?" A woman's voice has picked up.
"Hello. This is Sebastian, Sebastian Smythe." Somehow, he follows his father's instructions to introduce himself without thinking. His voice betrays him, though, shaking.
"Sebastian?" The person on the other end asks, "What do you want?" He recognizes a certain quality to the voice. It's a unique combination of high and sweet, and yet egged with a whisper of huskiness. If he were into women, it would be a voice that would drive him wild.
The next words cost him everything he has. "Can you come help me, Quinn?"
There is a thump on the other line, and a pause. "Where are you?" she asks.
He gives her the address, and the pay phone number as he hears to warning clicks. He gets out the last digit, before the money runs out.
There's static, and then a prerecorded voice tells him that he needs to hang up and try his call again.
He returns the phone to its cradle, and sinks to his knees on the hot concrete. He leans against the white-painted cinderblock walls of the gas station, and lets his vision on cloudy again. He doesn't know how long he leans there, waiting before he slowly wipes the salty tracks from his face, takes another foamy, dehydrating sip, and goes inside to the cold. He needs to relieve himself again.