The Great Below

The Celebration

When the door opened, Raul was ready with the security desk phone in his hand. Dominic had called from his office, where he likely watched them on the closed-circuit television. Alex scowled, allowing Raul to tuck the phone between his ear and shoulder, as he still carried Octavia in his arms.

"So it's two obedient employees, is it?" Dominic asked.

"Looks like it," Alex replied. Nick had led Victor into the room with a hand flat on his back, and Victor walked stiffly from his time in the trunk. "He broke into a hotel, but it's clean now. No one saw us."

"A hotel," Dominic repeated. "So that's what he wants. Put Victor in his room and I'll deal with this in the morning."

All of them watched while Nick directed Victor downstairs using the slow, condemned-man gait caused by the cable ties. The car ride had hardened him; he shared no more meaningful glances or clever taunts as he was taken away.

#

Dr. Townsend cleaned and re-bandaged her cuts. Octavia reached for Alex's hand and squeezed tight as a short string of stitches closed the worst cut on her leg. Her blood joined the canvas of old stains on the Infirmary floor. She swallowed a bitter, powdery aspirin, then Townsend gave her a bottle of liquid anesthetic and cotton balls.

"For obvious reasons," he told her, "I can't give you anything stronger. Sorry."

She nodded, thanking him. Octavia was going to accept the pain, itching, and all else that came with it because she had chosen to go with Victor on his awful escape fantasy. She'd barely put up a fight. Greedily, she had wanted his protection, and now she had it. Now she wore it.

#

Alex carried Octavia to his own private quarters without asking, relieved when she didn't argue. He flipped on the bedside lamp and went to the stereo, hoping that some music would distract him enough to help him sleep on the floor. Octavia made a slow but stubborn shuffle to the bed to sit down, while Alex ran his fingers down the upright CD holder, each case clacking in turn, before selecting Radiohead's Pablo Honey. As he started the disc, Octavia hissed in a painful breath behind him. "What is it?" he asked.

"Ah, it's nothing," she groaned. "I caught one of the stitches on the coverlet."

The sound of guitars poured softly from the speakers as he turned. "Do you need the anesthetic? We could apply a little more."

She moved her bottom to the edge of his bed, spreading the blanket apart and exposing the red-and-white mosaic of her flesh. It was exactly what Alex hoped to avoid. He turned away too quickly and bumped his knee against the dresser. Then he remembered what he'd left there inside the top drawer, nestled among the folded socks. He lingered, scooping out a fresh bottle of vodka, and brought it to her.

"I saved this. I actually grabbed it to celebrate your first job. I wasn't sure how it was going to go," he said.

She hadn't moved. She sat with the bloodied blanket crumpled around her and watched him, scrutinizing the bottle in his hand, mascara streaked down both cheeks. "I thought you didn't like the drinking."

"I don't like the drinking. I understand the drinking."

One long, white arm reached out to take the vodka from him, the other handing him the anesthetic. His eyes drifted for a moment, against his better judgment. Her wounds intruded on the overall picture, as sharp and jagged as the feedback on Radiohead's guitars, but they didn't define her. In the future they would be thin, pink scars and nothing more. She still had skin like alabaster with a hint of a blush on her face, and shining black hair draped over her shoulders. She was forbidden and exciting – exactly why he should have left her in her own room for the night.