localhandywolf | (no subject)

He makes it back to HQ. Limping, trailing blood and half-clinging to the buildings for support, Armand still makes it back to the warehouse that never looked so much like home. The winds were against him, too, which explained why, when he finally came across some of the Pack, they look surprised.

“Armand-”

“Don’t. They took Russ.”

One of the other werewolves starts to speak before her companion, lanky and blond and from New York, narrows his eyes and asks,

“Where?”

“South. I don’t know, Alistair. Just follow the nice trail of blood I left you.”

Perhaps luckily for all involved, that’s when Armand faints.

--

Pain. Spinning, jagged, up and down and fuck it hurts it hurtsfuckohDieu

“Please keep the torch still.” Heather.

Calm and quiet and it’s okay, it’s Heather and she pulls at something that twists and burns and Armand

SCREAMS

before the blackness crashes back down on his consciousness.

--

It’s dark. Cold and warm, cold against his face and warm on his leg on his chest at his side where she is curled, watching him.

Warm from pain, sick from pain, he forces a smile and says, “Hey, Jay,” and then shuts his eyes again. It’s easier, to fall back into his mind.

Journey just rests her head on her paws and says nothing.

--

The next time that he wakes up, it’s daylight and Journey is gone. Heather is there instead, but more importantly the pain is nothing more then ache. Of course, his mind is clouded, fuzzy, and he feels something like a drowning man trying to reach the top of the lake, the top of understanding.

“He’s not back, is he?”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"No."

Heather is rinsing her hands in a small basin of water on the table next to him; the dressing on his leg is fresh and clean.

He lifts up hand, runs his fingers through his hair (well, kinda, there is only so much you can do lying flat out on your back).

Still. Move on, next question...

"How badly was I shot?"

"Not as badly as you could have been. Missed the bone."

"Well, that's...something."

It's a little hard to think, through the painkillers. Which are, it should be said, starting to wear off now.

"Yes."

She wipes her hands dry and comes over by his bed.

"And as long as we can keep it from getting infected, you'll probably even be able to walk."

There is pause.

"...I'm a big boy now, Heather, you don't have to sound all happy and optimistic."

Dry, meet sarcasm.

"I'll try to restrain myself," she replies, cool, and puts her hands in her pockets.

"How do you feel?"

"Like I'm on drugs." He turns his head to look at her. "Nothing seems quite real. The leg is aching, though. A bit."

An apologetic sigh. "Sorry about that. We only have so much of the strong stuff."

"No, it's...fine. Bearable."

He isn't going to complain, in any case.

"All right.

"What can you tell me about what happened?"

"I didn't see much. Heard a scuffle, came around the corner at a run, so Russ with a couple of people - pretty sure it was more then one, but the light was in my eyes.

And, one of them shot me. Next thing I know, I'm starin' at the sky."

"No idea who they were, then."

He snorts.

"No really, no. Couldn't see, can't remember that much beyond getting shot."

"Well."

Philosophically -- "Shit."

Armand shuts his eyes.

"Got it in one, sister."

"We'll follow our noses, then. And by we I mean not you, understood?"

There is a long, long pause.

Finally,

"Yeah, I know." This is a lie, and they both know it, but for now it hurts when he shifts a little, let alone try and walk.

"Good."

She gives him a wry look and covers his hand briefly with hers.

"Get better. We need an Alpha."

He turns his hand palm up, and squeezes her's.

"Don't fancy the job, babe?"

Back to dry -- "No."

Armand grins at her, and then shuts his eyes.

Faintly,

"Glad to...fuck. Hear it. Um. Might want to let Gwen of the Wasteland know, too."

"Russ's little clubowner?"

Pause.

Then, musingly -- "Maybe I'll send Journey to tell her."

"Yeah, sure..."

Somehow, Armand can't quite remember why this would be a bad idea.