A/N: Again, I apologize for the delay. I pulled an all nighter on Monday, and it really hit me last night, when I was planning to write this. But… all three crises have been dealt with. Now, I just have two classes and two finals between me and the end of the semester. Oh, I'll point out also that driving low is almost as dangerous as driving drunk and illegal.
He sucks his left pinky and he stares at the LED screen counting down in his lap. The last time five seconds lasted this eternity, he'd been trying to remember the name of Viola's twin in Twelfth Night.
The electronics crystalize into the number, 68. He's not technically street legal. , the instrument is only accurate within about 20% of the reading. So, he could actually be a very legal 83. His actions justified, he starts the car.
He pulls away from the college dorm and heads north.
He feels zen-like as he weaves through traffic, driving five miles over the speed limit. Zen-like and reckless. For once, his brain is turned off, and he's focused almost entirely on the road, and making it back to Dalton.
His driving gets more erratic as he approaches his destination. A well-dressed mother in a minivan gives him the finger as he passes her. He can't decide if its because he's blasting Spring Awakening, or if its because he's about to cut her off. Probably both.
When he pulls into Dalton, his hands are shaking, again. He reaches for the little black case in the glove compartment, and uses it to make another hole in side of his scarred finger. He sucks away the coppery, salty blood as he waits for the result.
His left knee bobs up and down, with a nervous vibration. But, long after his nerves should have calmed the shake, his leg keeps jumping as though a perpetual motion machine propels it. The movement is beyond his conscious though.
It doesn't actually matter what the number is, he realizes after a beat. The Warblers decimated his emergency supplies in the car, and they have not been replenished.
The number blinks to life. 48.
Adrenaline pumps in his veins as he walks across the parking lot. Inside he is trembling. But, like every Walk of Shame he has taken in his life, he makes this one with his head held high and a smirk on his face.
He makes it back to his room at 7:32 am, and locks the door behind him. Its only now, that he's alone, he lets the tight hold he's had go. The tremor he has held inside can no longer be contained, and he sinks onto his bed.
He fishes for the paper rolls of sweet tarts he keeps in the second drawer of his night stand, but his fingers close on empty paper curls.
He stares ahead, trying to get his thoughts to coalesce. Instead, his knees come to his chest, and his whole body rocks back and forth.
When Nick and Jeff come in from breakfast five minutes later, he's stopped shaking. Hypoglycemia has taken control of him, body and mind.