an_alien_sky (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} an_alien_sky) wrote,@ 2005-11-13 00:44:00 |
|
the raised red line **Seven Kingdoms Outtake**
a start to another short, after "Shadowed Soil"
---------
It had started when he was shivering and nude in the hospital emergency room. Jonathan had lain there, clutching the thin blanket around him, staring at the IV and blood transfusion lines going into his arm, exhausted and barely coherent, trying to answer all the questions as best he could as the doctors poked and prodded at him. Jonathan had looked up, and had seen Stephen lying on the next gurney, incoherent, babbling and thrashing. The pain around the singer was a dull red throb, and it screamed at him, crying for him to do something about it, and he couldn't. Jonathan could only lie there, exhaustion holding him pinned to the gurney, and he wanted to beg the red pain to forgive him, to leave him alone.
It didn't. Mercifully, Jonathan lapsed into unconsciousness.
A couple days later, Jonathan was still in the hospital, still under observation, and he lay curled up in the bed in a tight ball. The police detectives had just left, and Jonathan just wanted to sleep. He really wanted to just go home, but the doctor wouldn't allow it yet, and Jonathan couldn't explain how he knew he was fine, just as he couldn't explain why the hospital was making him worse, not better. He was surrounded by sick and injured people, all around him, and he knew it; his Healing senses told him so, over and over and over, until he wanted to scream from the pressure. But he was stuck here until the doctors let him go, and Jonathan wasn't feeling up to trying to fast-talk his way out.
There was more noise at the door. Jonathan sighed and looked up as he uncurled and stretched.
Ross stood in the doorway, looking uncertain, then edged into the room. He was in street clothes, not a hospital gown.
"They're letting you go home," Jonathan said. He couldn't help the resentment in his voice.
"I was home yesterday," Ross said. "Smitty and Neal, too." He pulled up a chair and sat down near the bed. "Me and Smitty were raising too much hell and the nurses got sick of Neal's pickup lines."
Despite himself, Jonathan had to smile. "Maybe I oughta try that."
"Don't count on it."
"I'm in better shape than you are." Jonathan sat up carefully, mindful of the IV that the doctor had insisted on leaving in his arm.
"Right," Ross snorted. "I just had bruises and light burns, mister. They found you and Steve in huge pools of blood. They're gonna use any excuse they can to keep you here and run your bills up."
"Ross, come on. I'm fine."
"You looked in the mirror lately?"
Jonathan was about to snap back, but the bassist only stood and fiddled with the bed table, pulling its top back to expose the mirror inside.
"Here. Look."
A sun-burnt, bearded, shock-haired stranger stared back at Jonathan from the mirror. Not that Jonathan cared; it wasn't any different than how he'd looked in L'shahn, except here he'd had a chance to shower. "Yeah, so?"
Ross only reached and gently touched the side of Jonathan's neck. "There."
A raised, red line was sliced across Jonathan's throat. Jonathan touched it, staring. Memory was vague and cloudy, of a flash of metal and burning pain...
"I saw...I saw what...what did that," Ross said quietly. It sounded as if he was struggling to get the words out. "Back...back before. You know where I mean. You lost a lot of blood."
Jonathan nodded.
"Steve...was...was shot. He's got broken bones on top of the burns, too." Ross tried for a few seconds to get the rest out, couldn't, gave up. "I think that C-Cat s-set up something so the docs would know how serious you two were."
"Broken bones," Jonathan echoed.
"Hip. Leg. Some ribs," Ross said. "Doctor said it looked like someone beat him up with lead pipes and torched him with a flamethrower." A sort-of grin. "That's almost the truth."
a start to another short, after "Shadowed Soil"
---------
It had started when he was shivering and nude in the hospital emergency room. Jonathan had lain there, clutching the thin blanket around him, staring at the IV and blood transfusion lines going into his arm, exhausted and barely coherent, trying to answer all the questions as best he could as the doctors poked and prodded at him. Jonathan had looked up, and had seen Stephen lying on the next gurney, incoherent, babbling and thrashing. The pain around the singer was a dull red throb, and it screamed at him, crying for him to do something about it, and he couldn't. Jonathan could only lie there, exhaustion holding him pinned to the gurney, and he wanted to beg the red pain to forgive him, to leave him alone.
It didn't. Mercifully, Jonathan lapsed into unconsciousness.
A couple days later, Jonathan was still in the hospital, still under observation, and he lay curled up in the bed in a tight ball. The police detectives had just left, and Jonathan just wanted to sleep. He really wanted to just go home, but the doctor wouldn't allow it yet, and Jonathan couldn't explain how he knew he was fine, just as he couldn't explain why the hospital was making him worse, not better. He was surrounded by sick and injured people, all around him, and he knew it; his Healing senses told him so, over and over and over, until he wanted to scream from the pressure. But he was stuck here until the doctors let him go, and Jonathan wasn't feeling up to trying to fast-talk his way out.
There was more noise at the door. Jonathan sighed and looked up as he uncurled and stretched.
Ross stood in the doorway, looking uncertain, then edged into the room. He was in street clothes, not a hospital gown.
"They're letting you go home," Jonathan said. He couldn't help the resentment in his voice.
"I was home yesterday," Ross said. "Smitty and Neal, too." He pulled up a chair and sat down near the bed. "Me and Smitty were raising too much hell and the nurses got sick of Neal's pickup lines."
Despite himself, Jonathan had to smile. "Maybe I oughta try that."
"Don't count on it."
"I'm in better shape than you are." Jonathan sat up carefully, mindful of the IV that the doctor had insisted on leaving in his arm.
"Right," Ross snorted. "I just had bruises and light burns, mister. They found you and Steve in huge pools of blood. They're gonna use any excuse they can to keep you here and run your bills up."
"Ross, come on. I'm fine."
"You looked in the mirror lately?"
Jonathan was about to snap back, but the bassist only stood and fiddled with the bed table, pulling its top back to expose the mirror inside.
"Here. Look."
A sun-burnt, bearded, shock-haired stranger stared back at Jonathan from the mirror. Not that Jonathan cared; it wasn't any different than how he'd looked in L'shahn, except here he'd had a chance to shower. "Yeah, so?"
Ross only reached and gently touched the side of Jonathan's neck. "There."
A raised, red line was sliced across Jonathan's throat. Jonathan touched it, staring. Memory was vague and cloudy, of a flash of metal and burning pain...
"I saw...I saw what...what did that," Ross said quietly. It sounded as if he was struggling to get the words out. "Back...back before. You know where I mean. You lost a lot of blood."
Jonathan nodded.
"Steve...was...was shot. He's got broken bones on top of the burns, too." Ross tried for a few seconds to get the rest out, couldn't, gave up. "I think that C-Cat s-set up something so the docs would know how serious you two were."
"Broken bones," Jonathan echoed.
"Hip. Leg. Some ribs," Ross said. "Doctor said it looked like someone beat him up with lead pipes and torched him with a flamethrower." A sort-of grin. "That's almost the truth."
