tampered | log | ongoing

It's like an encore, his broken princess lying in pain and humiliation in the place she hates the most. There's nothing funny about how they've been here before; both in their world and in her mind. The sight of her when he'd finally arrived too late (but really what would he have done, read Sylar's aura to death?) was akin to being slapped in the face. With a brick.

Lorne's hand never leaves hers, even when he falls asleep for 15 minutes in the surprisingly comfortable chair by her bedside. He wasn't supposed to be in here, but there's something to be said about Lorne's Queenie side: it usually gets what it wants. After making one nurse cry and another call him a few choice names, she even got an extra couple of pillows. And a blanket.

He hums tunelessly to himself while tracing the lines of her palm, making sure that he doesn't break the contact. Even if she claims to hate it.

Thanks to Sylar, it's a good long while before Faith wakes up. The first hint is a change in her breathing; little hitches, a gasp. Then her hand twitches under Lorne's, the fingers clenching and relaxing, reaching for something that sure as hell isn't in this hospital room.

Her eyes are the last things to move. They flutter open, then squeeze shut again as Faith moans in pain at the light.

"What--" she coughs, painfully, the sound ragged. "Hell looks like a hospital room. Freaking figures."

He can't help it; Lorne chuckles a little before rising to mother-hen Faith. "Sorry kiddo, you still have to put up with me here, with the living." It feels wrong, to kid around, but at this point it's either light banter or collapsing. Or chewing her out, which really isn't his job. That's for him to argue over with Wesley later. Mom and Dad bickering away like they really have any influence on what she does anyway.

Lorne scurries over to the bedside table to retrieve a cup of water with a bendy straw in it. "Maybe you should clear your throat a little, Faith. Don't worry about talking or moving just yet."

"No shit? Thought I kicked it this time, for sure." Relief and disappointment mix together in her voice, because she's honestly not sure which one she is more: happy to be alive or disappointed this wasn't the one she couldn't win. Would have been a freaking nice blaze of glory, at least. But there's no point in worrying about it, now, and Faith relaxes back into the bed. "Pretty sure you'd say that either way."

Her voice just sounds more painful with each word, glass scraping over gravel. "The water sounds good."

Lorne brings the cup up towards Faith's face, moving the straw to her lips and shooting her a look that's meant to convey there is no arguing this. Of course, he knows better than to expect her to obey. Who's the badass slayer here, anyway?

"You kidding? Takes a lot more than that to put you out of the game," Lorne's tone of voice is as chipper as he can make it. He's a great actor but really, it's enough work just trying not to pull her to him and hug her as tight as he can manage.

She drinks the water greedily, not aware of just how thirsty she is until the first sip is down her throat. The straw makes it harder-- and, all right, the way her throat seems to find working a difficult task helps too-- but it still feels better than anything she can remember in a long time.

"Whatever, he stomped my ass worse than Blues Clues." They can both play that game. Faith is brash and uncaring and this is another day at the office, and he doesn't want to lock her in a box wrapped in cotton wool. They both put on a good show.

It had been anything but a carefree night, and hearing Angela's voicemail made him glad for once that he didn't have a blood pressure to sky rocket. There were a thousand thoughts going through his mind as he gathered his things, unsure of what he would find, until he caught Lorne's message halfway there.

It was tempting to continue onward, but Wesley wasn't really sure what was going on and he doubted he would find Sylar just hanging about at the scene of the crime, so he took the appropriate detour towards the hospital. This was the reason he hadn't wanted to stay at the mansion. When there was trouble, he was always the last to the scene. It was simply too far away, and he didn't have vampire or Slayer speed to help him out. Now that he was the only one staying at the mansion, he was seriously considering relocating once more.

He reaches the room just in time to hear the commentary about Illyria, but it doesn't bring a fond smile to his face. Instead there's concern over the situation and relief that she's alive, but it's buried so far beneath the cold anger and weary confusion that it's easy to miss.

Resting a hand against the door frame, he lets his gaze rest on Faith's broken body but a moment before turning his attention to Lorne. Tilting his head, he beckons for him to come out into the hallway.

Edited 2010-01-20 07:47 (UTC)

He's okay with playing the game forever, since it mostly means that not only is she alive, she's well. In her own Faith way, of course. "Oh sure, Bluebird was gentle."

Before he can continue on shoving oddly sarcastic positivity down Faith's throat, Wesley catches his eye. Lorne grabs the bed table, positioning it close enough to her head so that she might be able to drink from the straw without all that much effort. "I'll be right back," he says before striding out to join Wesley in the hallway.

As soon as Lorne's in the hall, Wesley quietly pulls the door mostly closed, leaving it open a crack just so they can hear if Faith needs something. He keeps one hand against the wall, mostly for balance than anything. It's obvious enough that he was drinking quite a bit before he got the phone calls.

"What..." A pause as he shoots a look through the window and lowers his voice considerably. "What on earth happened? And why in the bloody hell am I the last to know?"

"Ooh, don't you smell like a hobo that fell into a distillery. Really Wes, a bath and some coffee wouldn't hurt." Lorne sighs, dramatically, and barely contains the eye roll that he's starting to wonder isn't set aside specifically for Wesley. Lorne's not sure what pisses him off more, Wesley's state or his ire at being left out. He's starting to wonder if he shouldn't suck it up and move back into the mansion. Wesley seems to need the mothering as much as Faith these days.

"Angela Montenegro, one of the people Faith is friends with, left me a voice mail and I high tailed it over as soon as I got it. When I got there, I just saw Gab--Sylar and two others, who I assume were facing up against him. And Faith, unconscious and looking worse than..." he trailed off at the memory of Wesley carrying her into the Hyperion. "I don't know how Angela knew. You'll have to ask her."

Wesley had his own eye roll prepared for that commentary. Lorne's nagging was nothing new, and since the rest of their team was gone he supposedly had that many more shoes to fill. As if his own state really mattered in this sort of situation.

"Forgive me for not taking the time to gussy up before rushing out the door." Reaching up with his free hand, he rubbed at a temple. "And I faintly recall Angela. She was at Faith's party, yes?"

Pulling away from the wall, he turned to glance back the way he came. Two facing off against Sylar? Hiro was no longer in the City, and the only other one Wesley knew of who would take such action was Claire Bennet. Even with her power and one other person, would they actually be able to handle Sylar?

"You should stay with Faith," he muttered, wheels already turning in his head as he started to walk off.

Okay, he wants to play it that way, fine. Lorne steps forward to follow Wesley, barking out at him. "Hey!" His hand actually shoots out in an attempt to grip Wesley by the shoulder and turn him back. If he misses, he'll simply follow along to browbeat him. "I don't care if you did fall into a distillery, you're her watcher. Clearly that's not something you care about since you were so accurate in saying that you were the last one to know about this, even though Sylar's been on our radar since his return. But I'm sure the alcohol has nothing to do with that, of course."

Lorne takes a breath, because boy howdy is he not done. Nobody's here to stop him from laying into Wesley, so this time he's going to get it all off his chest. His voice does lower again, though. "Faith just got beat to within an inch of her life, Wesley. Not only is she your slayer, but she's our family. We're dwindling fast here, if you didn't notice, and it might be a good idea to keep her as close as we can. I don't care if she tells you she's ten by ten, she is not okay. And you are not leaving this hospital tonight, unless it's to go buy the girl some flowers for her to scowl at."

Wesley's quick to shake off Lorne's grip, though he doesn't try and make a move to escape the rant. Instead he simply stands there, arms folded while he frowns and listens rather unwillingly. It isn't often that Lorne loses his temper, and when he does, Wesley knows it's best to let him have his way.

But in this case, he wasn't folding easily.

"In case you hadn't noticed, I haven't been Faith's Watcher for a very long time. When she returns to Earth, she'll be under Giles' care, and I'll have been long dead. Just because I'm in the City while she is does not make me a Watcher again."

With a motion, he waves dismissively towards the room. "I realize you're fond of her, Lorne, but she and I are not family. When I can help her, I try, but she's made it rather clear she wants none of it. Right now she's being looked after by the staff and has you for company. She'll heal. Sylar, on the other hand, needs to be taken care of, and I need to make sure that there aren't two more mangled bodies brought into the hospital before the hour's up."

He's not sure what to do at this point. Lorne is surrounded by self destructive idiots and he's all alone trying to keep them from killing themselves and failing miserably. Gee, it's just like being at home.

"Last I checked," he begins quietly. He must've tired himself out already with his little outburst. "She's not the only one that's got things to make up for. I think that makes you much more alike than you like to think about. Watcher or not." It's a low blow, but Lorne really never was one to fight fair. He watches Wesley for a bit before continuing.

"And the both of you are my family, so for all I care, you're in-laws. I don't care if you hate each other, Wesley. You can help her now by going in that room and taking her hand and keeping your drunken mouth shut." He's finally gotten to the point where he's not asking and he's not telling. Lorne's just about begging. Trying to help them both, or at least make a start. "If she looks like this, you're going to come out looking like ground beef. Unless you've got a plan that involves stinky-breathing him to death?"

Edited 2010-01-20 17:22 (UTC)

It was a low blow, and it made Wesley's gaze harden considerably. If Lorne thought his list of mistakes wasn't something he thought about nearly every moment of every day, then he was sorely mistaken. Being forcibly reminded yet again was certainly enough to sober him up, but it came at a cost.

"I do not hate her." No more than he hated himself, at least. "This is not about her. This is about Sylar. And so far there's no record of him being able to resist magic. Do you think I haven't been preparing for this? I warned him long ago that whenever he made a wrong move against Faith, I would be there to take him down. This is what we do, Lorne."

Edited 2010-01-21 06:40 (UTC)

He's inappropriately harsh at times, though he does feel badly about it on occasion. This would be one of them, and Lorne's face drops into something resembling mild chagrin. It isn't like he hasn't done things he regrets - he just needed Wesley to pause, give him a moment to scramble for anything to keep him here.

"Is head on the right way to do that? He'll take you apart by pieces and laugh while he's doing it." He shudders a little at the memory of what exactly is inside Sylar's head. Pretty voice, pretty face; ugly possibilities in that head. "At least go in and say hello and pretend like we're normal for a moment."

Edited 2010-01-21 17:59 (UTC)

One would think that taking the day off from work meant that Angela wouldn't show her face around the hospital. If she could have, she would have stayed in the safety of her own apartment behind a locked door and an illusion of safety. But even Angela knows that's a foolish notion made only for fools. She can't not see Faith. Technically, she's already seen her today, all battered, bruised, and tortured. Her spirit won't settle until she sees Faith put back together like a more successful Humpty Dumpy.

The hospital seems so silent even with the normal hustle and bustle of nurses dispensing medicine and doctors checking up with their patients. Angela's been standing just outside Faith's door for the last ten minutes, taking a moment to collect herself and not replay the broadcast that brings tears to her eyes. No matter how much she's seen in her line of work, there's always one thing that shocks her into remembering the cruelty of life.

Trying not to cry again is no use anyway. Her eyes are glistening, bloodshot and puffy. Just pushing the room's door open enough to get a peek at Faith laid up in the bed is enough to upset Angela again.

"Come on, I don't look that bad." Yes, she really does, but Faith is clinging onto rational thought by a frayed, frayed thread. It's easier to make a joke out of it, even when her voice sounds like her throat's been recently closed to crushed.

...Which it has, come to think of it.

"You staying or going, babe?" And it's an honest question, now.

Angela gives her a look of distress that softens into one of worry. How can Faith be so flippant when she just finished getting herself thrown around like a ragdoll? She's sitting there looking like a first aid kit exploded on her and Angela just can't understand her sometimes.

Angela steps inside and closes the door behind her with a quiet click. A few more steps and then a handful more has her dragging a chair closer to Faith's bed. She sits down unceremoniously and replies, "Get used to me being here."

Because she's not leaving until security drags her out.

Some of it's the death wish, some of it's being a Slayer. Most of it's just being Faith. She's done this enough to know it's pretend none of it can touch her or she breaks down. Hurts someone. Maybe both.

"I keep hearing that. Whatever, no skin off mine." She also doesn't plan on staying long, so it's not like Angela will have to stick around forever.

Whatever it is, it worries Angela. Her and Faith aren't close friends, but once somebody's a friend of Angela, they're a friend for life. Angela'll go to the end of the world for her friends and that includes Faith. There's no pretending nothing can touch Faith for Angela. All the bumps and bruises, the broken bones and cuts, won't let her. She wouldn't want to either. Damage like this is proof that Sylar is a psychopath who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. All the stories Claire could have told Angela wouldn't be as vivid as actually seeing his handiwork.

"Don't talk." She would give Faith a pen and a pad to let her needs be known but with those broken fingers, Faith won't be writing the Great American Novel anytime soon. Angela gently pats her hand, making soft soothing noises, "Don't talk so much."

This is why Faith doesn't do friends, not in the bullshit Lifetime movie ways. (Well, that and she's a violent antisocial freak with control and attachment issues.) Slayers die, it's what they're all best at. Nobody to leave behind means she's just better at her job, is all. And people caring about her only means people leaving.

"Heard that one before, too." But she falls silent, leaning back into the pillows with a soft, pained grunt. Whatever painkillers they have her on are not cutting it, and she can't wait to get home and grab a bottle of Jack.

Edited 2010-01-21 01:33 (UTC)

Whether or not Faith does friends is of no importance to Angela. Anybody--barring them being Sylar--needs somebody in their life, whether it's to post bail or keep vigil next to a hospital bed. And she's not planning on leaving anytime, so right now, unless Faith can run on those injured feet of hers, she's stuck with Angela.

All this time, since she'd walked into the hospital's gift shop, Angela's been holding a small stuffed dog, an eerie likeness to Faith's actual Dog. The doll does a little dance on the bedside table, coming to a stop center stage. "I have real thing with me. You don't have to worry about him, just about getting well."

It's a couple of hours after Chase checked her in and got her stable before he has time to look in on Faith. He's on call and the ER has become a melee of traumatic teddybear injuries, all in need of at least a few minutes attention.

He's flicking through her file when he does arrive, injuries he assessed himself with some confusion. Running into a wall doesn't quite cover the state she's in, although the back of her head would suggest she got to that at some point. It's the breaks that confuse him. Stress fractures can come in as clean as these, but rarely as symmetrical. Two fingers, ribs fifth metatarsal on both sides. Those would have to have been calculated. Tricky to pull off.

It's not that he's surprised she might have pissed somebody off, more that she made it one of the few people able to act the feeling. Certain possibilities come to mind, and are put aside for now as he pulls back the sliding door, leaning his head into the room with less trepidation than he would on one of her good days. Right now, laying into anybody is going to hurt her more than it hurts them.

"Heard you were back with us. How are you doing with the pain?"

"Oh, I'm great, Doc." Even her sarcasm is subdued, although that could just be the way forcing words out past a throat that's pretty close to screaming in pain is a battle. "Never been better."

Lorne's stepped out-- probably to eat or something since he's been sitting with her ass for hours, and Faith feels a tug of guilt because she's sure as hell not worth that kind of devotion-- so she feels safe enough being honest.

"So, set me up with some drugs, and I'll get out of your hair."

"I'm not trying to exchange pleasantries, I need to assess how the drugs you're already on are helping you. I'd imagine with your constitution you can tolerate higher doses." Chase indicates the tubes tracing up from an arterial line to the IV stand by her bedside as he crosses to it, keying in a new code on the dispenser.

"But you're alert, that's good. If you had to rate your pain levels between one and five right now, what would it be? "

Faith shifts uneasily. This isn't the conversation they're supposed to be having, not now.

"Look, I'm serious. I'm fine. Bottle of pills and a ride home, that's all I need." There's an edge of panic to her voice, high and reedy. The last time she was in a room like this, the world went ahead and ended without her. The only man she could ever call father died, and just like Diana, she couldn't stop it. "I'm a Slayer. I'll heal without this crap."

Even Slayers need a hospital for shit like this, but Faith's not thinking that way right now. It's just a steady stream of getoutgetoutgetoutgetout, and the monitor hooked up to her heart rate should be going insane right about now.

"You're on three miligrams of IV morphine every five minutes. There's nothing you'd get in a bottle that..."

He notices the rate spike as he's talking to her, before the monitor starts sending out little warning pips, and leaves what he's doing to get over by her bed. Pupils bright and responsive. Jaw clenched. Pulse looking like it's about to beat right through the taut veins in her neck.

"Try and regulate your breathing for me? You've got nothing to worry about. Nobody's going to get in here for as long as we need to keep you."

"It's called Jack Daniels, Doc." That's from between clenched teeth, and her fists clench in the sheets, nails digging into palms until the little half-moon indentations she leave behind well up with blood.

She can't be here. All other thoughts are slowly leaving her head, draining away like water out of a broken cup. She needs to get out, away from the wires and machines and light.

"I told you, I'm a Slayer." Her tongue is suddenly thick in her mouth, making the words harder to say. "You don't need to keep me here at all, all right?"

Just the fact that she's curling fists around broken fingers tells him that she's past anywhere he can talk her down from, and he doesn't want to be dodging when her impulses switch from tensed fear into all out panic. He's quick to find the port at her wrist, reaching to the side of the bed and sorting blindly through cart drawers until his fingers close around the bottle and syringe. Decaps the ativan with his teeth.

"Just for a little while. In the mean time I'm going to give you something to help you rest easier, so I can help you. Okay?"

The pain in her fingers is nothing compared to the overwhelming need to be out; she'd take a swing at Chase if she could make her body work the way it's supposed to. She feels slow and clumsy, like nothing's put together right. Everything's too bright and sensitive, the walls pressing in around her and cutting off her air. Out, outoutoutoutout, that's what it all boils down to.

"No, not okay. I'm out of here." Her legs twitch, in preparation to try and swing out of the bed.

He's quicker, pushing the dose through Faith's IV port before her legs can work up the energy to take her anywhere. Her feet hitting the floor might be enough to make her rethink any plans, but he'd rather not risk dislodging the bone further. Clean breaks are something to be grateful for, where she's got them.

No chances taken, he moves to prep a second syringe, watching the first take effect. Somewhere between it knocking her out and her knocking him out for giving it to her would be ideal.

Whatever he just injected her with moves pretty quick, and Faith can feel it spreading through her body, slowing everything down and keeping it there. Glaring up at Chase with all the heat she can manage, her hand moves towards the IV, with clear intent to just rip it out. (He used a needle, shot something into her veins, and everything is just muddled enough she can summon up outrage and fear because she doesn't touch needles, doesn't leave them lying on a dirty carpet and pass out on the couch. She's not like that, never will be.)

She's leaving, and that's it. The drugs only slow her down, they don't keep her trapped.

They both reach for her right arm at the same time, Faith's dulled reflexes putting her about even with Chase on his best day. Lucky that the doctor has both hands free, one to twist and hold her back, the other to administer a second shot to her system. If she can hold onto the adrenaline of the panic attack through this much sedative then she must have the the constitution of a bull elephant, and for all her claims to the contrary, Chase doesn't think she's quite on that level.

Dropping the fill syringe to the ground, he gently brings her left arm back across her body and lays it down.

"It's okay to be scared, plenty of people don't like spending time in hospital. But don't be stupid. Nobody here wants to do anything but get you better and get you out as soon as possible; you're not going to be doing yourself any favours if you rush it."

One eye on the bed he resumes the business he started, keying in a new dose on her morphine dispenser and writing out instructions to have it kept at that level, alternating the sedatives so her system can't get too used to what they're pumping through it. If his own heart is beating slightly faster, at least there's no monitor to show him up.

"I'm increasing your pain medication, you should feel some relief in a couple of minutes, but I'm going to need you to let someone know if you start feeling nauseous at any time. Then we can take a look at getting the swelling down in your feet so they'll have you in surgery."

"I'm not... scared." She has to fish for a moment for the right words, concentrating on keeping them in line. The hospital room has gone pleasantly hazy, a little wavery around the edges, and while Faith is sure she should be furious right now that anger keeps slipping away along with the words; it leave her feeling hollowed out but calm. "Just don't need this."

She lays back in the bed, disoriented a bit, eventually just closing her eyes and breathing. She's aware of Chase messing with things next to her, but not aware enough to care.

"Don't need surgery."

"You need surgery." He runs his tongue between his lips, dotting the i's on the medication form and setting it down for now. "Sure, you'll heal without it, but you'll heal badly. You want to walk with a limp for the rest of your life? You'd also highly increase your chances of snapping it again any time you gave something a hard kick. But, fine, if you don't think you'll need your feet in future, feel free to turn it down. In the meantime-"

This sentence cuts off as Chase crouches by the end of the bed, getting something hooked up. A hand holding some stylish looking blue slippers eventually waves into sight, "Got you some new shoes."

"I'm a Slayer," she repeats, mulishly stubborn. She doesn't want to be here, doesn't want any of this. She'll be fine-- or what's under that, buried in the places that don't have words, she should have just died-- and any opinion to the contrary is just bullshit.

But it's just easy now to sink into whatever he dosed her with, not hurting and not caring. Faith was always the weak one. "Whatever." And she lets her eyes close, lets herself go. She can fight them on this later.

Edited 2010-01-21 01:42 (UTC)

Claire doesn't show up until later in the day, after she's done in the pediatric ward and is on her way out. Her red purse is slung over one shoulder, her fingers around the strap in a way that belies no hesitation or nervousness. She's calmer now, more in control of her own emotions and her own mindset, feels better but not best, and she can't deny the surge of anger that she feels as soon as she slides the door to Faith's room open and peers inside.

It's quiet, which is something that she's always associated with hospital rooms, and Claire's tennis shoes seem loud and squeaky against the hard flooring as she enters. She settles at the end of the bed, light from outside flooding through the windows, relatively sunny despite the night's disposition, and Claire says in a steady, raised voice, "Faith."

She has a reason for being here, but she's not sure what it is yet.

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