sunnydalealum | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Columbia University
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
4:02am

It's about four in the morning, that dead time even in college dorms, when the door to Mark's room softly creaks open.

Leland's moving carefully in the near-darkness, stepping lightly across the somewhat cluttered floor; it's almost soundless when he pulls the chair away from the computer desk, settles slowly into it. His hand is steady as he reaches to turn off the speakers before waking up the computer.

The screen, once it powers up, is the strongest light source in the room.

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And Jonathan freezes, all too aware of the gun.

"You don't want to do that, Leland."

Andrew slowly raises his hands to shoulder height, and steps back and to one side.

Between Jonathan and the gun.

"Okay. Okay, here's how it's gonna play." There's the tiniest, tiniest unsteadiness to Leland's voice, like the tremor that presages an earthquake.

"Whoever's in there. Tell them to back off."

"Whoever's in there, Leland", Jonathan says, trying not to let his own voice tremble, "we didn't put them there."

"Shut up," he snaps, and jabs the gun forward for emphasis. "We're all going to walk out of here, together. And then..."

He trails off, and behind the gun his face looks white and sick.

Almost gently: "And then what, Leland?"

There's a short silence.

"You don't know, do you. You've got no way out of this." Andrew's voice is low and steady. "One way or another, this ends for you tonight. But you can still --"

"Shut UP!" Leland shouts, his voice cracking.

And fires.

The bullet hits him high in one shoulder, slamming him back and into the milk-crate bookcase. Books tumble and thump to the floor around him, making more noise than the sound of the silenced pistol.

Leland's eyes are as wide and shocked as his own must be. The pain's astonishing, incredible; there can't possibly be enough room inside him for all of it. Pulsing out from the sledgehammer blow of the impact in slow liquid waves, any moment now it'll overflow and spill out of him.

Like all that blood, softly pattering down from somewhere.

Oh, Andrew realizes, as very far away he feels himself slide to the floor. Oh, hey.

We've been here before, haven't we.

"Andrew!" It's panicked, terrified, just from the sight of the blood before he even gets a closer look, and Jonathan forgets all about Leland and drops to his knees at Andrew's side.

Inside Jeff's room, Claire does a jarred double-take in the direction of all the noise. Two things become very clear to her now, one being that she feels as cold as the slightly damp plastic floor under her legs. The other is that whatever just happened, it is bad.

Her chest tightens painfully with fear, and she rises slowly. Her hand shakes against the porcelain sink. Her knees feel like jelly.

Wells is hurt. Dead?

She can't move, frozen stiff from the fear and nausea. What happens now?

Edited 2008-09-28 20:41 (UTC)

What happens now?

Leland's frozen, staring, the gun still held out in front of him.

You don't know. You've got no way out of this.

He sucks in a gasp of air and lurches past the two figures on the floor; moving too fast to stop himself, he rebounds painfully off the corridor wall and makes for the suite's front door, with no clearer destination in his mind than out.

Jonathan barely notices. He's too busy trying to stop the bleeding and simultaneously remember how his favourite healing spell goes.

Andrew blinks up at him, trying to focus.

Hey, he tries to say. It's okay. It's not that bad, it just hurts.

Gray fog drifts in slowly from the edges of his vision.

Jonathan examines what he can see of the wound, hastily, and meanwhile projects heal! through his selyn field, so at least the bleeding will slow.

"He didn't --"

There's a nasty bubbling sound to Andrew's gasp of breath.

"You," he tries again. "Not you."

"Stop talking", Jonathan says automatically, then relents. "No, he didn't get me."

His mouth is twisted in a grimace of pain, but one corner of it tugs upward in a sincere attempt at a smile.

"Good."

"Sssh", Jonathan says more firmly. "You're gonna be okay but you have to stop talking."

"'Kay."

The bleeding's already slowing, and the grayness at the edges of his vision stops encroaching but doesn't recede yet.

"'s this mean y' don't hate me 'nymore?"

Jonathan flinches visibly, if Andrew could see.

"I guess it does."

And, finally, he remembers the spell.

A small sigh, still with that thick liquid sound to it.

Andrew's eyes drift closed.

Jonathan checks his pulse, hurriedly, and then starts to almost gabble the words.

Andrew's body jerks as though with electric shock as the spell starts to take effect, his back arching, his lips pulling back from clenched teeth.

The wound begins to glow.

Jonathan takes heart from that, and keeps going.

When he's done, the bullet hole's closed enough to stop bleeding entirely; it's little more than magical first aid, and the wound isn't wholly healed by a long way, but Andrew's not going to bleed to death.

For a moment he just lies there, eyes still closed, gasping in breath as though he's just run up four flights of stairs.

Then, very slowly, he opens his eyes and looks up.