bprd_agent_red | (no subject)

(no subject)

It was dark, and cold, and he was lost... so lost. And then--

It's over, the battle won. The abandoned building is gone, along with the influence of its maker.

He'd been lying in the rubble he'd fallen with, half buried in stone and splintered wood. Now he's laying on his side by the lake shore in a patch of rushes, his legs in the water, his eyes closed.

He still has the horns of Anung Un Rama, but the crown of fire is gone, and his stone hand is cold now, no longer glowing with fire from within.

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She's got a death grip on his shoulder, leaning over him; she sinks down into a crouch beside him. "Okay," she says breathlessly, her throat tight, "that's okay; we'll sit here for a minute, til you feel better.

"Think you can make it inside if you lean on me?"

He nods, though he's not sure at all if he can.

"Just... gimme a minute."

Drawing in deep, unsteady breaths he tries to pull himself together for her. Head bowed, he catches site of the strange little barb sticking out of his arm. Clumsy, he reaches to pull it out.

"S'this?"

"--Don't!" She lunges and grabs his hand, pulling it away. She sags back onto her heels again. "I don't know; I don't know if we should touch them."

His hand opens immediately when she tells him 'don't', and he lets her pull it away.

He stares at his arm dumbly, but doesn't try to remove the thorn again.

"It hurts."

Which, doesn't happen a lot to him, not often, not with something so small.

Leaving it alone, he pulls in a slow breath and looks to her.

"I'm ready to go home."

Holding an arm out to her, he tries to get up again.

Liz slides under the crook of his elbow and slings her right arm around his back, raising her left hand and pressing it against his chest. It's not particularly graceful or sure-footed, but between the two of them, they shove Red up on his feet. He's clearly standing under his own power as much as he can but he's leaning heavily on her, and Liz shuts her eyes and clenches her jaw against the stab in her shoulder, and she pushes back against his weight.

They sway and she adjusts her stance and grabs a tighter grip on what's left of the back of his shirt. "Okay?" she asks, tense.

He closes his eyes, riding another wave that tries to knock him, and keeping his feet this time.

Dragging in a slow breath he nods, and reopens his eyes to look at the way they have to go.

"Yeah."

Shuffling forward he walks with her, using her for support much more than he wants to, but too exhausted and weak to hold his own.

Their slow, unsteady trudge toward the bar gives Liz plenty of time to think about where they're going (I'm ready to go home, he'd said), as much as she really just wants to focus on left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.

When they've almost reached the back door, she says, "Just a little farther, okay? The infirmary's close."

He keeps his head down, watching his feet to make sure they keep moving one in front of the other, and that he doesn't step on her.

Lifting his head, he sees they've reached the bar, and is silently grateful.

"I'd rather have a beer and a smoke," he says, cracking a thin smile.

He almost asks about going home again, then thinks of the horns. Maybe it is better if they stay here.

Getting through the door is tricky, but they manage and continue on to the infirmary.

Liz half-smiles at the crack, quick and not entirely mirthful, and says, "Later," as they drag through the bar and into the back hallway.

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