SUMMARY: Always going in the wrong direction for the right reasons.
CHARACTERS: Wilson, one OFC, two OMC, and Oreo
RATING: R for language and themes.
WARNINGS: Details the aftermath of events in Bad Company, a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
NOTES: The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the orginal event in Bad Company; the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.
How Wilson Got Away
"Your fly's open, Doctor," he says, "and you can call me Mycroft."
Grey Eyes' words are still racketing around in Wilson's head when he's heaved out of the limo and onto the cold concrete. They bounce and carom, shiny little pinballs along his neural pathways as he tries to make sense of them. The fact that he can do nothing to break his own fall doesn't help with his comprehension, and he hits the ground with a thud. The pain is excruciating; broken bones, bruised and lacerated flesh scream in agony, and for a moment Wilson thinks he's screaming too. Through the pain, he's dimly aware of the limo door slamming shut, and the purring roar as the big car pulls away. He can't be sure of that, though. Nothing's clear right now, except for a primal urge that's ringing desperate alarm bells in his mind.
Trick or treat. Coming back for me, Wilson thinks through a bitter fog. Something they'd do. Come back and hurt me some more.
He lays there for a moment, then slowly, gingerly raises himself on his forearms. He's not sure if it's a good or a bad thing that he doesn't pass out. A few feet away, his wallet lies splayed open, limp and empty like the skin of some small flayed animal.
Get away, the primal urge whispers.
It's hard to think in a straight line; his thoughts are scattering like charms from a broken bracelet. Very carefully, he begins to crawl deeper into the alley, away from the street.
Get away. Hide.
Every movement is agony; every breath causes his body to resonate with pain. The fractured ribs grind and scrape together, the broken collarbone makes it virtually impossible to put any weight at all on his left arm, and so he tilts awkwardly to the right like an unbalanced top. There's a terrible, dull ache deep in his gut letting him know he's probably bleeding to death internally, but he can't stop now. There's only one overriding concern, driving everything else into a blurry, humming sea of background noise.
Wilson continues crawling, inch by searing inch, deeper into the alley. His breath saws in and out of his throat in rasping gasps; occasionally a whimper escapes his battered lips but he tries to stay quiet. If he makes too much noise they might find him.
If they find him they'll take him back to the barn.
The gravelly concrete pokes hard little nubbins into his forearms and knees, but it's a tiny little hurt, lost amidst all the other big hurts and so he ignores it. His mouth is so horribly parched; he'd sell his soul right now for just one single sip of water.
Has House already sold his?
He shoves the thought away. He needs to keep going as long as he can. Already black dots are starting to trace little photo-negative comet trails across his line of sight; he's not going to get much farther.
Just a little more—
He has to stop, he has to. His back is hurting so badly his legs feel numb and half-paralyzed, but he keeps going. He's aware on some level that he's dragging himself through garbage, through puddles of rainwater and oil slicks. Wilson hovers for a moment over one of the rain puddles and attempts to lap at the water, but he's in the wrong position and his broken jaw won't allow him to purse his lips to try drawing it up.
So fucked, he thinks, and the words slide around his brain like so many loose buttons. So, so fucked. He puts his right elbow in a pile of what must be dog shit, but it translates to Wilson's brain as cow flop and lends new impetus to his tortured efforts.
Wilson manages, after a halting, crab-like fashion, to crawl a few more feet. Then he really does have to stop, because even though he's flat on his belly, his cheek pressed into the rough, dirty tarmac, he's falling a long ways down into a sickening, swirling tunnel of darkness.
When he passes out, he's crept deep into the alley.
"Come on, Oreo," the young woman says wearily. "Do your business. Be a good boy."
Oreo doesn't want to do his business, though. The small black and white dog keeps looking around, scenting the air. His owner sighs; she shifts her aching feet and begins composing a mental grocery list as she waits. Yogurt, bread, toilet paper should've changed my shoes after work carrots potatoes yogurt wait—
Her train of thought is derailed when Oreo suddenly lunges forward. "Hey!" she yelps, teetering on her heels, but the dog is straining at the leash, pulling her down the nearby alley. He doesn't stop until they're both at the blind end of the passageway.
She looks down in disgust at the man sprawled on the filthy pavement.
Another homeless guy. Neighborhood's really going downhill.
There's something different about this one, though. His suit, even dirty and torn, is obviously of high quality, and his shoes are expensive and recently shined. Oreo is whining, licking at the man's ear. "Oreo, bad boy," his owner says automatically, and tries to tug the dog away. It's not until then that she gets a clear look at the homeless guy's face. "Oh my God," she whispers, and quickly backs away, dragging the dog with her. She fumbles for the cell phone in her pocket.
"911?" Her voice is high and thin, on the verge of hysteria. "I need to report—I need to report—oh, God, there's a guy, and I think he's dead."
Wilson is vaguely aware of a warm, wet tongue on his face. His brain tries to process this, and fails. Somewhere close by a woman is crying, shouting in a thin, hysterical voice.
"—and I think he's dead!" she screams, and Wilson attempts to wrap his mind around this new information.
And that's as far as he gets before slipping back into unconsciousness.
He swims back up to semi-awareness one more time when he feels people touching him.
There are hands on his arms and legs, turning him over, patting him down and straightening his limbs. Wilson screams, but all that comes out is a hissing moan; his ribs are so badly broken he can't draw a full breath.
He tries to get his hands and feet under him and skitter away, but they hold him down and that's even worse—they're going to beat him again, torture him to death while Grey Eyes watches. He'd said they'd only keep him for twenty-four hours but everybody lies.
In a last, desperate act he swings his right fist and catches one of his tormentors square on the nose.
"Shit!" the man yells, backpedaling, and Wilson flinches, waiting for the expected punishment.
Instead of a savage blow, however, there's a different response—the cold pinprick of a needle sliding into his left forearm, where someone's pushed the sleeve up.
Then he's being lifted, and Wilson rises into the air and keeps going, flying, flying into a sky so twilight blue and welcoming, away from the hurt and the pain and the constant, aching terror. Soaring away from barns and horses and cows and those grey, grey eyes.
He could fly like this forever.