Dust to Dust
Title: Dust to Dust
Fandom: Primeval
Characters: Ryan
Words: 780
Rating, Warnings: PG.
Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Primeval, no copywrite infringment intended.
Spoilers: Season one, but of course in full Denial.
AN: Written for the Denial team fest for
kerry_louise's prompt 'Somewhere in the Permian Tom Ryan digs himself out of a shallow grave... '.
AN2: Huge thanks to
fredbassett for another fab beta.
Chest heaving, lungs burning, pain… pain… pain...
There’s no conscious thought, the body works on survival instinct alone.
The back bows and the chest jerks upwards, dragging a head out of blood-soaked earth. Pain courses to a level that his mind cannot process. Lungs heave, pulling in air and his body convulses as dust and dirt are forcibly expelled.
Breathing… breathing… breathing... Pain… pain… pain... His body slumps back to the ground and the darkness claims him again.
The pain wakes him. It takes over his whole being, all consuming. His mind battles itself, fighting between the bliss of letting the pain drag him under again, and needing to rouse to survive.
Time means nothing and he rests, trying to pull together pieces of his fractured consciousness. Only sensation exists and he clings to every piece, forcing his mind to process, work, to patch together what is happening to him.
His mouth is dry, full of dust and the tang of the earth. There’s a weight on his legs, not heavy, but there.
It’s dark.
He blinks and his eyes are open. Stinging, watering, but open. And yet the dark remains. Night time, a part of his brain supplies.
The pain is seemingly everywhere, but he tries to focus, to concentrate, but he can’t distinguish. His mind manages to put the pieces together before he’s aware of it even trying. Pain and dark and dirt and the weight on his legs. Danger. It means danger. And memories suddenly assault him.
Danger.
Instinct joins the memories and the indistinct thoughts and he pushes his body to move. Pain hits every nerve in his body so hard and so fast that there isn’t even time for his parched throat to cry out before he is surrendered to the darkness again. A darkness blacker than the night.
His mind pulls wearily through again. The pain is more noticeable now in his chest, neck and arm. He can focus on where it is. He tries to move only his other hand and all he can feel is dirt. The ground is cool and he realises with a start that it is surrounding him; that is the pressure on his legs. Ryan knows he needs to move, his brain is trying to work through the fog of pain and something else that tells him he has lost too much blood, to come up with a plan, a way to get to safety. But for the first time fear stabs through him.
To get to safety means moving and moving means more pain; it’s one of the few certainties his mind can manage right now.
He almost laughs.
Lights stab through the darkness, sweeping systematically over the ground. He does laugh, dry and hoarse, a silent sound in the dark. It’s him. They are looking for him. The part of him that is aware enough realises that dark night, black uniform and half-buried will make him hard to find. The fingers he can move pull clumsily at the torch strapped to his thigh. Somehow he gets it free, but it falls from his grasp and into the dirt. He scrabbles with his fingers until they close around the comforting metal.
Ryan can feel the switch under his finger and he presses it. On, off, on, off, on, off. He isn’t attempting code, just on, off, on, off, on, off. The light illuminates the dust floating around him, disturbed by his desperate fight for the torch.
He hears shouts in the distance; words his brain can’t quite process right now. But it doesn’t matter. The lights move quicker, bobbing in random patterns, like the holders are running. Those on the periphery continue to scan and Ryan remembers that there are still dangers out here.
But none of that matters now. He is alive. He is found.
The lights and the voices are close now, on top of him. Hands touch him and he finally cries out as probing fingers touch torn flesh. The voices are urgent but one is soothing. Ryan doesn’t focus on the words, it takes too much effort, but the tones reassure. They sound decisive, in control. It feels good to have someone in control.
Somehow through the patchwork of his pain he feels a sharp stab to his arm and warmth spreads though him. Hands grab him and pull him free of the earth. His own hand clenches around a handful of dirt and he clings to it, smiling through the morphine and the remnants of pain that still winds its tendrils through his head.
It’s important.
He didn’t allow the earth to claim him, but he has claimed his piece of it.
Fandom: Primeval
Characters: Ryan
Words: 780
Rating, Warnings: PG.
Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Primeval, no copywrite infringment intended.
Spoilers: Season one, but of course in full Denial.
AN: Written for the Denial team fest for
kerry_louise's prompt 'Somewhere in the Permian Tom Ryan digs himself out of a shallow grave... '.
AN2: Huge thanks to
fredbassett for another fab beta.
Chest heaving, lungs burning, pain… pain… pain...
There’s no conscious thought, the body works on survival instinct alone.
The back bows and the chest jerks upwards, dragging a head out of blood-soaked earth. Pain courses to a level that his mind cannot process. Lungs heave, pulling in air and his body convulses as dust and dirt are forcibly expelled.
Breathing… breathing… breathing... Pain… pain… pain... His body slumps back to the ground and the darkness claims him again.
The pain wakes him. It takes over his whole being, all consuming. His mind battles itself, fighting between the bliss of letting the pain drag him under again, and needing to rouse to survive.
Time means nothing and he rests, trying to pull together pieces of his fractured consciousness. Only sensation exists and he clings to every piece, forcing his mind to process, work, to patch together what is happening to him.
His mouth is dry, full of dust and the tang of the earth. There’s a weight on his legs, not heavy, but there.
It’s dark.
He blinks and his eyes are open. Stinging, watering, but open. And yet the dark remains. Night time, a part of his brain supplies.
The pain is seemingly everywhere, but he tries to focus, to concentrate, but he can’t distinguish. His mind manages to put the pieces together before he’s aware of it even trying. Pain and dark and dirt and the weight on his legs. Danger. It means danger. And memories suddenly assault him.
Danger.
Instinct joins the memories and the indistinct thoughts and he pushes his body to move. Pain hits every nerve in his body so hard and so fast that there isn’t even time for his parched throat to cry out before he is surrendered to the darkness again. A darkness blacker than the night.
His mind pulls wearily through again. The pain is more noticeable now in his chest, neck and arm. He can focus on where it is. He tries to move only his other hand and all he can feel is dirt. The ground is cool and he realises with a start that it is surrounding him; that is the pressure on his legs. Ryan knows he needs to move, his brain is trying to work through the fog of pain and something else that tells him he has lost too much blood, to come up with a plan, a way to get to safety. But for the first time fear stabs through him.
To get to safety means moving and moving means more pain; it’s one of the few certainties his mind can manage right now.
He almost laughs.
Lights stab through the darkness, sweeping systematically over the ground. He does laugh, dry and hoarse, a silent sound in the dark. It’s him. They are looking for him. The part of him that is aware enough realises that dark night, black uniform and half-buried will make him hard to find. The fingers he can move pull clumsily at the torch strapped to his thigh. Somehow he gets it free, but it falls from his grasp and into the dirt. He scrabbles with his fingers until they close around the comforting metal.
Ryan can feel the switch under his finger and he presses it. On, off, on, off, on, off. He isn’t attempting code, just on, off, on, off, on, off. The light illuminates the dust floating around him, disturbed by his desperate fight for the torch.
He hears shouts in the distance; words his brain can’t quite process right now. But it doesn’t matter. The lights move quicker, bobbing in random patterns, like the holders are running. Those on the periphery continue to scan and Ryan remembers that there are still dangers out here.
But none of that matters now. He is alive. He is found.
The lights and the voices are close now, on top of him. Hands touch him and he finally cries out as probing fingers touch torn flesh. The voices are urgent but one is soothing. Ryan doesn’t focus on the words, it takes too much effort, but the tones reassure. They sound decisive, in control. It feels good to have someone in control.
Somehow through the patchwork of his pain he feels a sharp stab to his arm and warmth spreads though him. Hands grab him and pull him free of the earth. His own hand clenches around a handful of dirt and he clings to it, smiling through the morphine and the remnants of pain that still winds its tendrils through his head.
It’s important.
He didn’t allow the earth to claim him, but he has claimed his piece of it.