tampered | (no subject)

(no subject)

When; Monday, Dec. 8th
Rating; PG-13 for violence and language
Characters; Eden Mac Cionaoith

eiremagic and Kyle Brooks

justashow
Summary; Eden's cursed to a day that she'd rather not believe happened, and Kyle's the unfortunate bystander.
Log;

Eden was running. She knew that they were right after her; Belfast was dirty and cold and bombed out and she knew the streets better than anyone. But she couldn't lose them, and she didn't know why, and she didn't dare invoke her runes, not where people could watch, not when it was so cold and blood loss was probable. So she ran as fast as her boots could take her, right into an open square.

It was a bad idea but it was the only one she had, the only one that she could even fathom working. Even when there was violence in the streets and people dying and bombs going off, fools still came, fools still came to see or hear or witness and Eden didn't care as long as no one got in her way.

She saw the man No, stop, this isn't happening now, this happened before, stopstopstop with bags in one hand, and her own hand went to the handgun she had in her hand; she was small but she could move, and with a gun people usually didn't argue. She grabbed him by the arm and pressed the gun up against his neck. "Don' move, boyo. Just stay still, don' fuckin' move."

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Believe it or not, Kyle had been having a good day. More relaxed now that Jack was on the mend, and with a good night's sleep under his belt for the first time in a few days, he'd actually ventured out of the beach house to do some Christmas shopping.

With bags full of presents in hand, he'd started to cross the street when he was suddenly barreled into by a small figure, fingers grabbing his sleeve as he was pushed off-balance.

About to apologize for the collision, Kyle's words caught in his throat as he felt the cold muzzle of a gun against his neck.

"What...what are you doing?"

Okay, perhaps not the most brilliant opening but there was a gun at his throat.

Eden pulled him into the middle of the square. Something was wrong, but she couldn't figure out what it was; and the police were there, yelling and holding guns. She assessed her exit strategy and tried to keep from yelling. "I'll fuckin' kill him," she yelled, "So stay the fuck away!"

She pulled the man in front of her, her gun not moving. "Don' fight me, just don'. Fuckin'. Fight me."

Kyle had no idea who she was yelling at, since everyone around them look just as shocked and baffled by the tiny girl holding a gun on him as he was. The position was awkward and he stumbled to keep up with her as she dragged him, packages falling from his hands out onto the street.

"I'm not fighting," he said, trying for a calm, soothing tone. Unfortunately it came out a bit scared and shaky. "If you want money, just say so. My wallet's in my coat pocket."

His fingers twitched and he moved his hand down to said pocket.

Something - she wasn't sure what it was - was telling to stop, was telling her that this was wrong; it almost felt like a vision but there wasn't the telltale signs of fear, the impending horror of blacking out that a vision gave her. This would be a shitty time for prophecy, either way. She pulled him tighter, and when she felt his hand move, she reacted fast, pressing the gun against his shoulder and firing. She heard the screaming of the cops and her first instinct was to let go and run, in the madness.

It was the scent of blood that brought her back; back to the present day, back to the City, back to the man who she had just shot through the shoulder. While the word curse screamed through her she couldn't think of that. Instead she fought back the instinct to run or scream and just caught him, dropping the gun to the ground.

"What the hell," she swore, staggering back. She was tiny and he was bigger than her, and she would need a lot of space to make sure she didn't hurt him again.

The funny thing about being shot was that it didn't hurt until later. Kyle felt the impact of it long before he ever felt the damage of the shot itself. It felt like someone had kicked him-very hard-in the shoulder and it knocked the wind out of him.

He staggered forward to his knees, a look of utter confusion on his face. And then it started to hurt.

"Did you just shoot me?" Kyle asked, incredulously, not quite comprehending the spread of wetness across his shoulder blade, ruining his jacket. "Am I shot?"

Eden wasn't sure how to react at first, but she made him sit down, her hands pressing against the wound. One benefit of being her father's daughter was that she had never ever been afraid of blood; she had always accepted blood as a natural, everyday thing, one that she was so used to it was like breathing or eating.

"Sorry," she whispered in a quiet rush. "Fuckin'...I'm so bleedin' sorry." She felt the prickle of heat at her eyes, like tears, except she didn't cry. She just pressed her hands onto the wound. "Sorry," she repeated. "Yeh need..."

A doctor. A hospital. A place where he could get away from the crazy Irish terrorist reliving horrible Christmases gone by.

"I...can I help yeh to a doctor?"

Yeah. Because that wasn't pathetically laughable.

The Doctor? Kyle watched the redness drip down, idly thought about how this would just ruin the fabric, and snapped back to the question at hand.

"But I don't want to kiss him," he said, dully. "Wait, where's...? Why did you shoot me? Wait, wait, I need the first aid kit."

Except he was in the street, not at the beach house which meant the first aid kit wasn't readily available. He peered at Eden through a haze of rapidly spreading pain and shock.

"Who are you, anyway?"

Eden recognized shock, even when she didn't want to. It wouldn't be big magic to hold the blood steady so she could help him; she wouldn't even have to sacrifice for that, but she refused to do it, to pull magic from this man's blood, to infect him with it. She'd already shot him. Wasn't that enough?

"Eden," she said softly. "I'm Aohdan." Her real name slipped out, along with a string of Irish curses. She shook her head - panic wasn't an option - and she released him quickly to take off her sweater and press it against his wound. "Yeh're not goin' to kiss anyone, come on, I'm goin' to take yeh to an 'ospital."

She could hear her accent lessening, becoming less noticeably from Belfast and more from Cruachann, but she didn't care what this man found out about her anymore. She pulled him half onto her, her arm around his waist. "Come on. Come on, then."

It was something she used to say to the sheep, when they were being stubborn. "Come on. Come on, then."

"A...Aohdan," Kyle repeated, but he didn't attempt the curses after it. The strange syllables were almost like Welsh. "It's pretty."

He was feeling a little light-headed but that was okay, because the pain lessened. At least until she attempted to haul him to his feet. Then it came back with a vengeance and he almost retched in the street, his vision going grey.

"Stop stop stop," he chanted, panting with the effort of remaining conscious, his feet slipping on the pavement. "You can't lift me. Where's my phone?"

He'd had it just before she ran into him, he knew that. Maybe it was back with his packages?

"It's a boy's name," she said mechanically, looking around for a dropped phone, and not finding it - there was too much panic. She took out her phone and handed it to him. "Here. Use mine, I never use the bloody thing."

She pulled him closer. "I can lift yeh. I'm stronger than I look, just lean on me, I'll get yeh to the 'ospital," she told him, taking a step. "Don' worry. Yeh'll be okay."

He took the phone and stared at it a few minutes before registering that he actually needed to dial a number. And then he couldn't remember what Ianto's number was. It had been in his phone's address book.

Finally, Kyle gave up trying to remember and just punched in a general text to the Network. It would have to do.

The girl took another step with him and Kyle groaned as the movement pulled at the fabric of his jacket.

"I'm sure you're very butch and everything..." He swayed against her, almost knocking them both over. "But I'm not going to...be all here soon. And I think I might squash you."

Normally if someone she was carrying called her butch, she would have dropped them like a hot pan. This one she didn't drop, but she did set him down. "Alright, alright. Yeh want me to stay?" She didn't want to stay - her instinct was to run, but she didn't run, either. She waited, instead. "Yeh want to bleed out here? I'll leave yeh to it, too."

There was an edge of hysteria to her voice.

Maybe it was because she was young and reminded him of Dawn. Or maybe he was just loopy from shock, whichever the case, something about her panic made him want to soothe her.

He waited until she set him down and then reached out with his good arm to pat her shoulder.

"It's okay," he murmured. "I called 'anto. He'll come. But maybe you shouldn't stick around. He'll be grumpy that I got injured."

And he tried to offer a reassuring smile.

"Curses, right?" At least, he hoped it was a curse. If she'd stuck around this long afterwards, it wasn't likely she'd been planning on shooting him in the first place.

She nodded, carefully, shaking a little. She tied the sweater tight, pulling it so it wouldn't loosen. "If yeh're sure." She took a deep breath. "Just. Don'...promise yeh'll call if they don' show up?"

Not like she was going far. She stood and shook, watching him. "Curse," she reassured him, and ran into an alley, lifting herself to the fire escape where she could see him. She remembered, barely, to pick up her gun as she ran.

He winced at the impromptu tourniquet but didn't complain, holding the arm still for her while she worked.

Then he promised to call if no one showed, even though he was absolutely certain it wouldn't be necessary. He had called Ianto, afterall.

He watched her flee the scene and contemplated lying down, but thought better of it. He sat instead, trying to hold his arm up as much as he could, and to stay conscious until help arrived.

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