a/n: ;) a lil' early update.
Forty-Eight
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The pain had come in a burst, at first.
Gradually, it had turned into a sharp point that pulsed uncomfortably, each pulse growing stronger, burning brighter, as her entire side seemed to be engulfed in flames. Panting hard, Quinn continued stumbling forward, anchored by Gavin's heavy arm currently wrapped around her torso, heaving her a few steps forward at a time. Adrenaline had pumped through her body for a good few minutes since they left the courtyard, but Quinn felt it swiftly wearing off.
There was a sticky layer of sweat welling out of her neck, her hair plastered against it. Her heart was thumping wildly, painfully, as the pain in her side had moved toward the middle of her chest. Breathing was half-impossible, and it felt as if no air got into Quinn's lungs despite the fact that she was gulping down as many shallow breaths as possible. Her body was going into shock.
Quinn pressed harder against the wound in her stomach, felt it made no difference as blood continued welling out of her. Out of the actual gunshot wound in her side.
I should've stayed behind the bloody desk.
As they rounded yet another corner, Quinn felt herself slowing down, despite Gavin's help moving forward. Her heart kicked up into another gear, beating almost impossibly fast. Sweat ran in rivulets down her face, eyes turning glassy as the shock firmly gripped hold of her body.
Gavin slowed beside her, movements reluctant. He was in full-on agent mode, eyes sweeping the street around them, muscles stiff in preparation of an attack.
"I can't — " Quinn started, felt her lungs seizing, snatching the words from her.
Gavin got the point well enough, eyes darkening. Maneuvering Quinn onto the slight staircase leading to the nearest building, he used careful fingers to lift aside the hand she'd had pressed against the wound.
Quinn winced, felt nausea swim in her head. Gavin's jaw ticked, expression shuttering as a cold anger took hold of his face. The wound continued bleeding, and Quinn continued to feel her body taking control of itself, shutting down in response to great shock.
It wasn't very fun to know all of the biological consequences when being shot, because now she knew exactly what she was experiencing. Through the haze of pain, Quinn focused her blurry eyes on Locke.
Before she could speak further, the pain intensified, swallowing her in yet another wave.
You could still run, Quinn wanted to say, the words clogging in her throat before she could push them out. You can still make it.
Locke didn't let her try to say anything, head merely snapping up as the sound of shouting became clearly audible from a block away. His eyes swept the street, caught on the lone car standing by the curb. He crouched lower, placed his lips by her ear as he spoke next:
"I'll be back in two minutes," Gavin said. One calloused hand cupped the back of her head, then Quinn noted a soft, careful pressure against her hair as his head tilted further her way. Then he was gone.
Quinn barely noted that any time had gone by, though she'd seen — through hazy vision — Gavin ram an elbow through the window of the car by the curb. Before long, he'd returned, those worried, dark eyes sweeping across her form.
His hands moved carefully, slowly, before they wound themselves around her back. They were slippery, wet with what Quinn knew was her blood, but firmly grabbed hold.
Quinn felt a dizzying wave of pain roll over her as he swiftly lifted her, securing her in his grip. Locke's eyes darted to hers, and something painful echoed in his face as she winced from his grip.
Before she knew it, she'd been carefully placed in the passenger seat of the car, half-sinking into the seat. Gavin slipped into the driver's seat, the car shooting away from the curb like a rocket loosing from the ground.
As he turned the first corner, Quinn's eyes blinked on their own accord, her hazy vision spotty.
When the wheels screeched around the second corner, the speed taking its toll on them, her eyes were half shut.
A few heartbeats after that, they closed completely. Darkness settled, soft and dangerous, and Quinn sank into it.
She woke in intervals.
Briefly, for seconds only, which offered her mere glimpses of her surroundings. It was nothing more than soundless, semi-hazy snapshots which barely allowed her to orient herself. She couldn't feel her own body, drenched in a lethargic state in which she was little more than an observer.
In some of the brief seconds she woke, she saw a familiar face. Her mind couldn't dredge up the name, too tired to properly interpret the sights in her field of vision, but she knew that face. She knew that she knew it, yet her mind didn't pull up a name, a story. Her panic, however, her rush of anxiety in those mere seconds — they dimmed, when her eyes locked with the steady look he gave her.
His eyes were dark, stormy smudges, but some part of Quinn knew they were simply a very, very dark green. The angular face, the sharp slash of his jaw, they didn't usually carry that soft shadow, the light beard. Tousled hair, inky black, curled down toward his ears. She knew him — wanted to reach out to that familiar face, to talk to him. However, she couldn't, still caught in a state where she could do little more than glance around before she sank back into the dark.
When she next woke, she didn't see the familiar man. Instead, she saw a white, glowing ceiling. No, no — she blinked, slowly, noted that there was a wide lamp fixed in what was, otherwise, a blank ceiling. She couldn't turn her head, couldn't crane her neck, and so she had no other view of the room.
It all faded when another person appeared in her vision, a mere stranger, clad in a long white coat. She felt nothing at first, barely noted the look the stranger cast over her, but then a prick of pain ricocheted through her arm, before the darkness welcomed her back.
When Quinn woke again, the ceiling was no longer white. It was a muted beige, which didn't exactly tip her off as to how the rest of the room looked. Carefully, she attempted turning her head, craning her neck. She felt nothing at first, but then slowly, oh-so-slowly, muscles strained as she turned her head.
Eyes swept the room from a new angle. Her head had tipped to the side, still half-sunk into the soft pillow, but now her eyes were hungrily roving over what she could see, with a vision significantly clearer than it had been the previous times she'd been awake.
She noted the doors, first — the wide, wooden-framed doors that were little more than portable pieces of glass. They were shut, now, but she could still see the view — a massive blanket of blue glimmered, edged with white as it frothed onto a bed of soft yellow sand.
The sea. And sand — and the whirling, white shapes of gulls circling above, among the smudges of grey clouds. There was a scattering of wispy, green strands of grass closer to the doors, before a rickety wooden fence rose from the ground, separating the beach from a cobblestone-paved path which led right to those doors Quinn was intent on fixating on.
When the darkness claimed her again, she fell back to sleep with her eyes on the view through the doors.
The next time Quinn woke, she was sad to see that curtains had been drawn to cover the view of the doors. Her heart sank, wishing to once more find the semblance of peace she'd caught when gazing at that picturesque view. Intent on finding it, Quinn carefully moved her head again.
As it rested normally on the pillow once again, it felt as if she'd flipped a switch. Suddenly, feeling bloomed all over her body — the majority of it pain. Quinn bit her lip, fought back the groan of pain, but couldn't escape the wince as the pain swept through her body. It was dulled, somehow, and it poked at her hazy head to remember when she'd last been in pain.
And that was the moment it all slammed back into her. Prague, Kat, Cam, Willa —
Her throat closed, eyes welling as she thought of Willa's glassy stare. Her mind flipped through the memories so quickly she felt half-sick, nausea roiling in her stomach. As her stomach turned, Quinn straightened up to bend over the bed, but swiftly found that the movement made a shocking pain burst in her abdomen.
The groan was not squashable now. Her head swam. She forced her body to remain completely still, unmoving, to let the flow of pain pass. When it did, slowly, Quinn could focus on moving again. Before she could do little more than carefully swing her legs over the side of the bed, she heard the creak of a door. Floorboards creaked, in turn, before the door clicked shut.
Quinn's head snapped up. Her eyes caught on the figure in the room — the man from the blinks of consciousness.
"Gavin," she breathed. Her heart beat, hard, the recognition dawning swiftly.
He wore his trademark scowl, those dark eyes swimming with turmoil, eyebrows furrowed. He'd shoved his hands into his pockets, veins straining in his arms as if he were clenching his fists. Quinn leaned back, carefully reading his expression.
He looked angry.
"I hope you weren't thinking of getting out of bed."
His voice was quiet, nothing but a low timbre sweeping her ears. Still, he remained right by the door, eyes leaving hers briefly to dip lower. Quinn followed his gaze, noted the oversized shirt draped on her. She swept it aside, carefully touching the edges of a wide swath of bandage wrapped around her torso.
"Where am I?" Quinn asked, felt pressure rise in her throat again as the sight of the bandage merely reminded her of what had happened.
"France," Gavin replied, tone stiff.
His hands lifted out of his pockets, crossed above the muscled planes of his shirt-clad chest.
"France?" Quinn echoed. Some part of her mind pulled up the memory of him telling her about his aunt's place, a safe refuge in France.
Despite it, her mind couldn't fathom how they'd gotten from Prague to ... here, especially when the last thing she could remember was the bullet ripping into her stomach.
"It was our best bet," Gavin continued, jaw ticking. The scowl remained in place. Quinn felt her heart throbbing, and this time it wasn't due to the pain.
"How?"
Gavin knew Quinn asked how they'd gotten here.
"People. Favors." He shrugged, tone remaining stiff and cold.
"But how?"
Gavin shot Quinn a look that almost hurt her more than the pain from her wound.
"It doesn't matter. Rest up, Quinn."
He whirled around, exiting through the door before Quinn had a chance to ask another question. She sank back into the plush pillow, a fresh pain sweeping through her head.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the door, Gavin's head thumped against the wall. He'd told Quinn the 'how' hadn't mattered, but to him it bloody well did.
*
Quinn slept horribly. She awoke, in the middle of night, and felt a scream trapped in her throat. The nightmare had played her fears expertly, half-replaying the events in Prague. Only this time, it hadn't been Kent taking the shot.
It had been Katya. Then Willa, both of their eyes cold and vengeful.
You deserve this, they'd hissed, you know it.
And in the dream, Quinn had tipped her head back, welcoming the now-familiar burst of pain as the bullets were fired. When they were done, it was Gavin who held the gun, materializing behind it. With dark, empty eyes, he fired. Then came Kent, the swell of blond hair framing the face bearing a hateful expression.
It's only a matter of time, Quinnie, before you lose. Might as well give in now, before you hurt anyone else.
The words scraped against Quinn's conscience, but they still weren't what had made her fly out of bed in a fit of sobs, inches away from screaming. It had happened when Kent wasn't the one holding the gun in her nightmare — it happened when Quinn had recognized herself, calmly holding the gun.
But she hadn't fired at herself, not at first. She'd seen herself shoot Mr. Grace, seen him fall and plead for his life. Then she saw herself coldly shoot him again, before urging him to flee if he wished to save his life.
And you still call yourself the good guy, Quinn?
It was her own voice, now, echoing back at her. It scraped and ripped at her mind, made fear grow steadily. She froze, even in the nightmare, as her own self continued berating her. Within moments, the dream-version of Quinn carried a gun.
Might as well do it myself, spare your friends the pain of carrying your burdens.
The gun had lifted, the aim focused squarely on her head. The dream-headshot had ripped Quinn out of the grip of the dream, cold sweat drenching her back. She gasped, heaved, gripping at her throat to get air into her lungs. When that didn't work, she stumbled out of the bed, uncaring of her wound and the pain which welled.
A few unsteady steps made her grip onto the glass doors, hands flailing to grip the metal handles despite the thin film of cold sweat dotting her palms. When she managed to drag them down, the doors clicked open softly.
Quinn burst through, felt her head swim, heart beating hard, vision dizzying.
It eased off, slightly, when she found herself stumbling onto a wooden deck. The sea glimmered beneath a fat moon, broken by a thin line of white, frothing foam by the edge of the sand. It lay dark, now, abandoned.
Bare feet scraped against the wooden deck as Quinn heaved another gulp of air into her lungs, squeezed her eyes shut despite the fantastic view, focused on pulling her own mind back to her. She felt as if her head was a mix of puzzle pieces, and she hadn't the energy to put it back together into a coherent picture.
Heart squeezing painfully, Quinn kept her eyes closed as she continued gasping for air. Despite the fresh air, it still felt as if her throat was little more than a thin tube, incapable of getting any oxygen whatsoever into her lungs. Her wound burned, pulsed, in time with her frantic heartbeats.
Quinn sank to her knees, shoulders hunching inwards as she felt tears rise to her eyes, sobs wrenching themselves out of her chest as it all — the entire, painful mess of it all — settled. It settled, painfully, a tempest of turmoil which grabbed the puzzle pieces of her mind and scattered them all over the place, leaving her with nothing but the memory of what it was supposed to look like.
Palms flattening against the sandy deck, Quinn fought against a veritable tide of emotions. In the midst of it, two firm hands landed on her shoulders. Thumbs gently, slightly, swept her shoulders. The caress was nothing but a gesture of comfort, until those hands slipped from her shoulders to her cheeks.
Quinn dragged in a sharp breath, felt actual air finally, finally, fill her lungs. Her eyes fluttered open, lashes sticky with tears. Gavin met her teary gaze. His brows were furrowed, face pinched as if he was in pain, mouth a flat line. His previous stiffness was forgotten, the swell of anger over her taking the bullet shattered when he'd seen her broken figure. The scowl was nowhere near him, now, and neither was the attitude, the cold, stiff looks. There was nothing but patience, and calm, in those dark eyes.
He looked at her as if he'd remain there, on his knees, gently cradling her face, for years on end. He looked at her as if he'd stop the rush of time in an attempt to give her the all the moments she needed to find her footing again.
He looked, and saw her. Through the turmoil, the tempest in her head, the storm that was sweeping those pieces of her aside whenever she tried putting them together again.
"Breathe, Quinn." His voice was soft, now, not a hint of his sharp tone, "Do it with me. Come on. In, out."
And she found that her throat, which had seemed to turn into a thin tube, could properly breathe again. Not perfectly, not at first, but the gentle press of his hands on her cheeks anchored her to something other than the chaos in her head.
"Breathe. Again, Quinn." His eyes sharpened, fingers splaying out along the side of her face. He kept them there, remained crouching in front of her, until she had a semi-steady rhythm of breathing going again.
When she improved further, felt her heart backing off its fierce rhythm, felt her head stop pounding, Gavin kept his hands there. Unbeknownst to Quinn, he'd felt gripped by a similar turmoil from the moment he'd heard her staggering steps out onto the deck of the beach cottage.
Quinn's right hand reached up, clamped around Gavin's wrist. Her eyes met his, the glassy look slowly easing off, becoming less prominent. Her throat was dry, and she found that even though she knew she could talk, she didn't know what to say.
Gratitude swelled, overflowed. The tears she'd subdued threatened to start their flow again as her eyes swept his tired face, noted the patience that remained in his eyes, the understanding.
Noting the way her eyes cleared, Gavin shifted slowly, throat bobbing as he noted the grip she had on his wrist. He didn't drop his hands from her face, though, content to let his thumb brush softly against the ridge of her cheekbone.
"I know how it feels."
Quinn's eyes widened, briefly, some small part of her mind coming back together, whirring with the implications of what he'd said.
"After my first gunfight — I had my first anxiety attack." Gavin's head bowed, briefly, before he lifted it again to hold Quinn's quiet stare.
Her eyes didn't move, stayed anchored to his.
"I was young. Nineteen, maybe — freshly deployed. I had trained for it, thought I was prepared for it. I wasn't, though. Not really."
Gavin didn't chuckle, though he thought his younger self had been laughably naive. Quinn merely kept her eyes fixed on him. The sound of gentle waves rolling over the beach settled her further, and so did his hands holding her face. Her very self had been in a free-fall, and Gavin had effectively stopped it.
"And I still had one, even though I'd trained for it, even though I had been what they deemed to be sufficiently prepared."
Quinn's eyes never stayed. Gavin glanced, briefly, toward the roll of waves further away. Moonlight shifted across his face, as if it was a spotlight meant solely for him, casting light against the curves and lines of his face.
Quinn's heart clenched, though not painfully, as her eyes trailed his face. His eyes swung back to hers, fingers pressing slightly into her face as his thumb once more swept along the planes of her cheek. Softly, carefully. Quinn felt the spin of her mind cease, the noise stopping. All she heard was the gentle roll and crash of waves onto the beach, the gust of the wind sweeping along the angles of the house.
His throat bobbed again, eyes dipping to her lips. Gavin forced his eyes to lift, to focus on pressing words out of his throat.
"But you can't prepare for it, Quinn. Not really." His lips quirked, very slightly, softening the face that was usually so shadowed.
"How do I stop it?" Her voice was small, and Quinn hated it, hated knowing that a dream had reduced her to this mess, hated that she couldn't stop it.
"You take a breath, and then another one." His thumbs swept across her cheek again.
"For how long?" Quinn swallowed, hard, attempted to squash the threat of tears. She hated it, hated it, hated it — this feeling of weakness she'd sworn herself to never feel again, to never let it rule her as it had when she was younger.
"For however long it takes." His answer was as honest as he could be, eyes shifting as he met her stare, " — but tonight, at least, it's over."
With that, his hands slipped from her cheeks to the side of her head. He tipped forward, carefully, the moonlight playing across his face. Quinn's eyes closed, softly, and she let the sound of the ocean fill her, the smell of beach, the light scent of Gavin's cologne.
He continued to lean forward. Soft lips pressed against the top of her head, one hand cupping the back of her head. Quinn's arms raised, winding themselves around his neck. She let her head tip onto his shoulder, burying her face in the soft fabric of his shirt.
One of his hands remained at the back of her head, while the other rested on the top of her back, hand splaying out across her shoulder blades. Slowly, he bowed his head until it rested in the bend between her neck and shoulder.
His grip tightened, almost imperceptibly.
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a/n: how are we doing?
qotc:
1. how do we feel about the chapter?
2. think there's a quinn x gavin -moment- in the future? ;)
3. what is happening with tibble? with sarraf?
xo, cleo
ps. have a terrific day!