Alive Beneath the Snow, 3/5
Title: Alive Beneath the Snow, chapter three
Fandom: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
Rating: T/PG-13
Word Count: 4,970
Main Characters: Fictional Rockapella (Sean, Scott, Elliott, Barry)
Supporting Characters: Vic the Slick
Summary: As the situation grows more dire, Elliott goes to release his anger and pain upon the one who got Sean into this mess.
Will be posted to 10_hurt_comfort.
Chapter Three
The three conscious friends did not leave Sean's side for the rest of that night. None of them intended to sleep, but their bodies were not willing to endure such treatment, especially after the long airplane ride. Elliott finally slumped back against the chair on Sean's left side, his eyes insisting on closing. Scott covered him with his own coat before sitting next to him with a sad sigh.
Barry was standing at the window, his arms crossed as it began to grow light outside. The sun was not able to withstand the force of the clouds, though it struggled with all its might. The last rays reached from inside and between clouds, as if desperate for someone to help them stay visible. Then they vanished as the clouds increased and grew darker in color.
He looked away. The display reminded him too much of Sean's predicament. He was fighting so hard to live, but the poison was growing in power and fighting back to snuff out his life. He could only pray that Sean's spirit would not vanish as the sun had.
". . . What did you and Sean talk about?"
He started, looking back at Scott's voice. The blond was keeping an arm around Elliott's shoulders, half-asleep himself. His eyes were sagging.
Barry sighed, shaking his head. ". . . We talked about how good people sometimes have to sacrifice themselves for criminals," he admitted. There was no reason to keep it from the others.
Scott frowned. "But you had no idea . . ."
"It was a cruel, ironic foreshadowing," Barry said, gripping his arms. "I didn't think it was going to come true."
Scott stiffened, but then went slack, still embracing Elliott as he settled further into the seat. "Poor Sean," he whispered. "He doesn't want to die. . . ."
"And he's getting worse." Barry gazed at their silent, motionless friend. Sean had not awakened or even stirred since their conversation. His heart monitor was still racing, increasing in speed, it seemed, almost every few moments.
The rest of the machines were beeping or whirring or making an assortment of various sounds as they kept track of other activity. ACME had developed their own technology for monitoring the brain, which offered less discomfort and was less troublesome to set up than the previously established methods. It had been proven to be just as effective, if not moreso. At the moment, Sean's brainwaves were clearly displayed on the accompanying monitor, showing that he was still holding on. Barry turned to glance at it now, praying that the presence of brain activity would remain.
Elliott jumped a mile, his eyes flying open. He breathed heavily as he took in the scene, looking from the ceiling to Scott, and then to Sean and to Barry. At last he looked back to Scott, his breathing settling back to normal.
Scott swallowed hard. "Hey," he greeted, speaking quietly.
Elliott's eyes were filled with anguish. "Sean's not any better, is he?" he said.
Scott shook his head. "No," he said. "He . . . he almost acts comatose. . . ."
Elliott's shoulders slumped. ". . . I was dreaming," he said. "Sean was dying. . . . He died. . . . And we were still trying to get him back. He was still trying to come back, too." He massaged his temples. "It was horrible. . . ."
Scott hugged Elliott close, shuddering at the new images plaguing his mind and mixing with the ones he had envisioned on his own. "Sean's not going to die," he said.
Elliott returned the embrace, gripping at Scott as if he was a lifeline. "I was praying constantly up to the time I fell asleep," he said. "But he's getting worse. And if there's still no antidote . . ."
"There's an antidote."
They looked up, starting as the doctor entered the room. In his hand he held both a filled hypodermic needle and a small vial. He was flanked by two nurses, who quickly went to monitor Sean's condition and position. Elliott and Scott moved their chairs over so as not to be in the way.
"Was it just finished?" Barry spoke, stepping aside too.
The physician nodded. "And I don't know if it will even work," he said, giving Sean's still form a regretful look. "The poison must be very far advanced by now. From our studies of it so far, it's supposed to kill within thirty hours. He's already held out longer than that."
Elliott clenched a fist. "And he'll keep holding out," he retorted. "You know Sean---he doesn't give up."
"And he never will," Scott said.
The doctor sighed. "Poison can conquer the strongest men," he said. He walked over as the nurse rolled up Sean's robe's sleeve. The second nurse cleaned a spot on his arm, then stepped back to let the physician administer the medicine.
"All we can do is wait and see," he said then, carefully sticking the needle into Sean's flesh and injecting the contents. "If the poison has significantly weakened his body, he may not be able to handle the antidote's properties."
Elliott stared. "You mean what's supposed to help him might kill him?!" he cried.
The older man paused, then slowly nodded as he stood up straight. "I'm afraid so," he said. "And it might not even be able to eradicate the poison."
"It will be enough," Barry said. "Along with Sean's will."
He prayed he was right.
****
The next hour passed even more unbearably. They watched Sean, and the machines, desperate to see some sign of improvement. But the antidote did not seem to be helping much, if at all. Sean's pulse rate was not slowing in the least. As soon as the antidote had entered his bloodstream, his heart had beat faster.
"It really might be too much for him to take!" Scott said in alarm. He was leaning over, gripping the bed railing.
Elliott shook his head. "It can't be," he plaintively said. "He has to be able to pull through. . . ." He gazed at their dear friend with sorrow-filled eyes. "Sean? Sean, can you hear us?"
Barry stood by, his arms crossed. He was growing more tense and unsettled by the moment. The longer this dragged on, the more his hopes sank. But he could not give up on Sean. He walked closer to the bed, turmoil in his eyes. He had been praying almost constantly, but Sean was not getting better. It was so wrong, to see him laying there, so sick. . . . And all because of Vic stealing that statue. . . . He gripped his arms tighter, anger flashing across his face.
Without warning Sean half-rose off the bed, his eyes flying open as he gasped in pain.
Elliott gasped too, reaching for him. "Sean?!" he exclaimed. Scott and Barry moved to grab him too.
But Sean was sinking back before any of them could take hold. His eyes fell closed as he hit the pillow again, the heart monitor beginning to slow---and not in an encouraging way.
Elliott cried out, gripping at Sean's robe. "No!" he burst out, staring into the slackening face. "No . . ."
Scott was right beside him, his hands trembling as he grabbed up Sean's wrist. "It's slowing too much!" he wailed. "He . . . he's dying. . . ."
And Barry could not stay calm any longer. "Sean!" he boomed, his deep voice filled with anguish. "You can't stop fighting. You have to live!" He took hold of Sean's shoulder, his fingers digging against the motionless limb. "You have to live!"
For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then Scott stiffened. ". . . His heart's stopped," he choked out. "He's not breathing!"
Elliott looked to the brain monitor, freezing in disbelief and horror. "And it's not picking up any brain activity," he choked out.
The equipment beeped loudly, sending a Code Blue alert to the medical personnel outside.
The color drained from Barry's face. He straightened, hastening to the door and pulling it open. Doctors and nurses were rushing to the room, bringing the crash cart with them. Barry backed away from the door, letting them enter.
"You'll have to leave the room," a harried nurse told him as well as the panic-stricken Scott and Elliott.
Dazed, the two curly-haired men went to Barry. He led them into the hall, his hands shaking as he laid them on his friends' shoulders. Sean would be able to be revived. The doctors would be able to restart his heart and his breathing. He would fight the poison alongside the antidote and emerge triumphant. And he would get well. . . .
"Excuse me," a nurse said in quiet sympathy as she emerged from the room next-door. "You can't stand in the hall here. You'll have to go out of the ICU."
Barry gave a single, stupefied nod, taking Scott and Elliott with him through the double-doors and into the main corridor. None of them spoke. What was there to say? They clutched each other for comfort.
It was impossible to tell how long they were standing there, waiting and praying in desperation. Every second was a year, a minute eternity. The ticking clock across from them was growing loud again, drowning all coherent thoughts and all other sounds.
Somewhere far away, a telephone rang. A nurse answered, speaking into the receiver. A patient coughed in a nearby room. The intercom beeped, requesting assistance in Room 115.
Across the corridor from the ICU, the doors of the operating room opened. The doctors pushed a squeaking gurney into the hall, wheeling it to the intersection of the T formation made by the hallways. But instead of proceeding to the other, short end and the ICU, they turned, maneuvering the stretcher down the long section. Scott turned, gazing at the unconscious patient with blank eyes. It was an agent he did not know, a man not much older than Sean. The left side of his face was swathed in bandages. A frown crossed the blond's features. What had happened to him?
He did not have a chance to ask. The procession went past, turning the next corner and disappearing from view---though the squeaking wheels of the gurney persisted in announcing their presence.
But all of what they were seeing and hearing might as well be in another dimension. An invisible film stretched between them and the rest of the world. In this world, there was only them and the clock, stretching into infinity.
Tick . . . tick . . . tick. . . .
Tick.
The ICU doors opened. All eyes turned to the solemn nurse.
". . . He's dead, isn't he," Scott rasped.
Elliott's stomach dropped. Barry's grip tightened.
The nurse sighed, stepping aside to allow them entry. ". . . We revived his heart," she said, leading them back to Sean's room, "but he's completely unresponsive." She pushed open the door.
The doctor looked to the stunned friends. "There is no recorded brain activity," he said, nodding to the monitor. "Of course, we can't be absolutely certain he's brain dead, considering the poison, but right now it doesn't look good for him at all. These machines seem to be the only things keeping his body going."
Elliott blanched. "No!" he snapped. "That isn't true! He's still fighting!"
He stared at the machine's blank lines, his heart doing a somersault. Sean would not . . . he could not! Had Elliott fallen asleep during the last moments when Sean was truly alive, albeit unconscious? He could not believe that. And the antidote . . . had it been what had brought Sean to this?
Scott and Barry came closer, sickened as they looked at the screen. The nurse walked over to them, looking as well.
"Before, he was breathing on his own," she said. "Now, this machine is breathing for him. If it's taken away, he won't have anything."
Barry clenched a fist. "What are you going to do?" he asked, directing the question to the doctor.
The older man sighed. "We'll run some more tests," he said. "He can't be officially declared brain dead until we're sure the poison is out of his system---if it even can be removed---and until he's been examined by at least two doctors." He hesitated. "But . . . if it's found that it's irreversible, I'm afraid you'll need to consider . . ."
"NO!" Elliott broke in, his eyes flashing.
All eyes turned to the normally-shy, but now fiery, man as he stood facing the physician. Elliott moved to get in between the medical staff and the machines connecting Sean to life.
"Sean wants to live," he said. "What right do we have, to consider taking that away from him? There's still a chance he could wake up. You said you have to run some more tests and examinations before anything's decided for sure. Okay, fine. But I've already made my decision here and now."
Scott moved to stand next to Elliott, his eyes filled with the same determination. Barry was right behind him, the identical look in his own eyes. But there was something else present as well---a warning for the doctor not to push it and try to change any of their minds.
The physician sighed---a sound of defeat, but also of sadness. "Alright," he said. "We won't talk about it right now."
"We won't talk about it ever," Elliott said. It was so horribly surreal and unreal---standing here and listening to what was basically in his mind, the proposition to kill their friend. And the anger he felt towards the one responsible for the entire mess was increasing to the point that he knew he could not control himself. He had to go confront the sleaze.
He ran to the door. "I hate him!" he spat, hauling it open and tearing into the hall. "I hate him!"
Scott looked after his closest friend in alarm. "El!" he cried, grabbing in vain for the other's sleeve. He knew where Elliott was going. And of course Scott felt the same. But did he dare leave Sean to follow Elliott and try to calm him down?
"You go," Barry said, his eyes narrowed in concern. "I'll catch up."
Scott nodded in gratitude, hurrying out of the room in pursuit of Elliott.
Barry exhaled, looking back to the doctor. The other man looked back, genuine sadness in his eyes.
"None of this should even be happening," he said.
Barry gave a grim nod. "No, it shouldn't," he said.
He looked to Sean, so haggard and helpless in the bed. Had their leader and resident joker really left his devastated body behind? He never would have, if he had been given a choice. But Barry wanted to keep believing that there was still a chance.
If he could not . . . it would have been him running out that door, filled with hatred.
****
Elliott was barely thinking straight by the time he got to the holding cells. It was easy enough to find Vic's; the creep was whining about having fallen to performing manual labor and that it would ruin his hands.
"Come on!" he begged, gripping the cell bars as he looked for the nearest sentry. "Have a heart, will ya? These hands weren't meant for heavy-duty stuff!"
"Oh, like stealing Lincoln's nose off Mount Rushmore?" Elliott retorted as he came to stand in front of the cell. "Or what about Alcatraz? The Leaning Tower of Pisa? No, carting off buildings isn't heavy-duty at all."
Vic blinked in surprise. "Hey, it's the little guy," he said. "So what're you doin' here? Got a deal to propose to lighten my sentence? Or maybe you're finally getting interested in some of my wares. I can even give you a cop discount."
Elliott took out the keys, unlocking the door. "Get out of the way," he said.
Vic backed away. "Wow, what crawled up your leg today?" he said, studying Elliott with an apprehensive eye. He had heard that the shy one was occasionally prone to fits of anger when something was done to someone he loved, but Vic could not think of anything he had done that should be the cause for so much rage.
Elliott pulled the door open and stepped inside, blocking any escape attempt. "I hope you're grateful," he snapped.
"Grateful?!" Vic exclaimed. "For this dinky place? I guess it's better than prison, but I know the drill. I'll be going there before long."
Any shreds of Elliott's nerves left intact were bending. He stepped closer, drawing himself up to his full height to be nose-to-nose with Vic.
"Because of that stupid statue you just had to take, Sean's on life support!" he screamed.
Vic stared at him, dumbfounded. "Huh?" he said with a blink. "So he's dyin' or somethin'? How is that my fault?"
Elliott grabbed handfuls of Vic's jacket, which he would be wearing until arriving at the prison. "The statue was full of poison," he hissed. "Sean helped you when you were in trouble and it scratched him!"
"Ohhh. I get it now," Vic said, still in the same unconcerned tone. "Wow, I didn't know that kitty could pack such a punch. Boy, am I glad I didn't have it facing me. A torn jacket is a small price to pay."
Elliott's eyes widened, then flashed. With a pained cry he thrust Vic from him, shoving the salesman to the floor. Even as the creep yelped in surprise and shock, Elliott was lunging forward, punching, hitting, and striking. As every blow landed, some of the pent-up hatred and pain he had been carrying landed as well. But it was not enough. It was never enough. Sean was still laying in the ICU, with the doctor believing there was little to no hope. His childhood friend, his partner in mischief, his leader. . . .
"Help!" Vic screamed, flailing in vain desperation as he tried to push Elliott away from him. "He's gone loco! Help! Police brutality!"
Elliott landed a punch squarely on Vic's nose. Blood spurted in every direction, landing on the floor, on Vic's clothes, and even on Elliott's face. He blinked, falling back as the crimson dripped down his cheek and onto his fists. He had been locked up in his own world, not even consciously aware of the full extent of his actions. Now he could only give the blood a dumb stare.
Vic was holding his nose, alarm and pain in his eyes. "You broke my nose!" he cried, his angry, terrified voice sounding nasal and muffled.
Elliott could not even reply. He continued to stare at the blood as he clenched his fists tighter.
He had hurt someone.
And there, kneeling in that cell with one of V.I.L.E.'s most dangerous agents, he began to sob.
The sound was chilling. And as Scott skidded across the floor and came to a halt in front of the cell, his heart twisted. "El," he whispered. Elliott did not look up.
"Elliott!" Scott cried louder, running through the doorway and hugging Elliott from the side. "El, I'm here. I'm here. . . . I . . . I should've got here sooner. . . . I'm so sorry. . . ."
Elliott slumped into Scott's loving, worried embrace, reaching up to lay his hands on Scott's. He was at the end of what he could take. He was broken.
That was the scene Barry saw as he at last joined the others. He stared from Scott and Elliott to Vic, cowering on the floor and wailing about his nose. Clenching his teeth, Barry strode into the cell and directly to Vic's side. Reaching down, he grabbed up the crook by his jacket and set him on his feet.
"Let me look," he said, his voice commanding and leaving no room for arguments.
Shaking, Vic took his bloodied hand away from his face. Barry examined the injury, his eyes veiled and his expression quietly angry.
"You have a bad nosebleed," he said at last. "Your nose isn't broken."
Vic blinked. "Really?" he said. "Gee, that's a relief. I was afraid I'd have to have all kinds of plastic surgery to get my schnozz back into shape. That crazy guy, he went ballistic! I mean, he's blaming me for what happened to your other buddy or something."
Barry's eyes darkened. "So do I," he retorted.
"Oh, come on," Vic said as he tipped his head back to try to stop the bleeding. "How could I know that'd happen? I had no clue the statue was stuffed full of some kind of deadly substance. And it's not like he had to climb up there to save me. But since he did, well . . . better him than me!"
Elliott fell silent, looking up at Vic in disbelief. Scott was gawking too.
And Barry's patience was at an end. He grabbed Vic by his coat again, lifting the sleazy salesman into the air as he struggled and yelped. Barry paid no attention. He threw Vic across the room, where he hit the wall with a loud crash before landing with a bounce and another yelp on the cot.
"Sean is sacrificing himself for you!" Barry roared. "He's dying, all because of you. Doesn't that mean anything to you?!"
Vic trembled, daring to look up at the furious man from where he was cowering anew on the cot. "But h-he . . . he didn't know he'd be doin' it!" he said.
"You should feel horrible anyway," Barry growled. "If you had any semblance of a conscience, you'd be pierced through to your very soul!" He stepped closer, grabbing a tight bunch of Vic's shirt as he hauled the wretch up to be eye-level with him.
"Even if Sean had known, he still would've done it," he said now. "He did know he was risking his life by trying to save you from that old balcony. He could have fallen and broken his neck, but he risked everything so you wouldn't break yours. Is that such a trivial thing to you?! Are you that far beyond feeling?!"
He gave Vic a violent shake before shoving the criminal hard into the mattress, his strong hands holding him in place. Vic looked up at him in terror.
"What're you gonna do?!" he whimpered.
Barry glowered. Somehow, as much as he wanted to lose himself right now, he had to get his emotions under control. "I know what I'd like to do," he said. "But I won't do anything to make Sean's sacrifice be in vain."
He let go of Vic as he straightened up. Without waiting to hear what Vic would reply, if anything, Barry looked to Scott and Elliott.
Scott swallowed hard. "I . . . I'll get a medic," he said quietly, helplessness washing over him. Even though he had not lost control, he had felt like it, especially after Vic's last crack. But Barry had beat him to it. And seeing their usually calm and collected friend completely snap had shocked him.
"I'll do it," Elliott said. "I did a horrible thing."
Scott stared at him, not because of his words, but because of how he had said them. He sounded deadened and numb.
"El . . ." Scott reached for him, his fingers only grasping air as Elliott turned to walk up the hall and return to the infirmary. His hand dropped to his side as his shoulders slumped. They were all at their wits' end.
Barry laid a hand on Scott's shoulder as he wordlessly moved to follow Elliott. Scott walked with him, hurrying to catch up to Elliott. The poor brunet was trudging ahead, nearly at the point of collapse. He looked over his shoulder, giving a wan smile as Scott ran up next to him.
"Maybe this is why Sean is dying," he said sadly.
Scott froze. "Huh? What are you talking about, El?!" he gasped.
"I . . . I've been praying so hard for him," Elliott choked out in despair. "But I've been so full of hatred. . . . Maybe that's why it hasn't worked. . . ."
Scott stared at him. "El . . ." He drew an arm around his friend's shoulders. "We've all been praying."
Elliott shook his head. "But maybe if even one person is feeling so hateful, it would cancel everything out," he said, the horror and worry growing in his soul. "Maybe if . . . if I left, went upstairs or something . . ."
Barry came up behind them, gripping Elliott's shoulder. "I can't speak for Scott, but I've been feeling the same way you have," he said. "I was able to control myself until Vic said that right to my face. . . ." He gritted his teeth.
Scott's eyes darkened. "I've felt just the same," he said. "I . . . I just had to try to not lose control . . . especially when you were so upset, El . . . And you, Barry. . . ." He looked down. "I think I was too stunned to really do anything at first, and then you were already doing it."
Barry grunted. "I shouldn't have thrown him," he said. "Even though he deserved every bit of it."
"He needed to hear what you said, though," Scott said. "Not that it'll make any difference."
Elliott looked to first Barry and then Scott, his brown eyes filled with pain and sorrow. ". . . Maybe . . . if we all try to overcome the way we feel, we could do more to help Sean," he said. "I won't believe he's already gone! I can't! And . . . and what the doctor will want us to do . . . especially if the second doctor comes up with the same thing . . ." He shook his head. "I can't make a decision like that! I can't pull the plug on Sean. . . ."
"None of us can," Scott said, hugging Elliott with one arm.
"We won't," Barry said, his voice firm. "Not unless . . . unless Sean comes to us and tells us he really is . . ." He shook his head, trailing off as they reached the infirmary.
Elliott looked to the first nurse they passed. "A doctor needs to go tend to Vic the Slick," he said in soberness. "He . . . got kind of roughed up."
The nurse blinked. ". . . I'll send someone," she said. Then she stared at him.
Elliott turned red. "What . . ." He raised a hand to his cheek. The blood was still there. "It's . . . not mine," he said in realization.
She seemed to understand. But she kept looking at him.
". . . I gave him a nosebleed," Elliott admitted at last. "I'll probably get suspended for it. . . ."
Scott gripped Elliott's shoulder. "We'll explain the whole story," he said.
Elliott shook his head. "I deserve to be suspended," he said. "What kind of agent am I?"
The nurse looked at him with compassion. "You're under so much stress," she said. "Everyone here knows how kind you are."
"Of course they do," Scott said. But he planned to let Greg and the Chief know himself before they could hear the story secondhand and get it mixed up. He would not let anything happen to Elliott---or to Barry---if he could possibly stop it.
"If you get suspended, I will, too," Barry said now. "Do you think I deserve it?"
Elliott looked to him, stunned. "No," he said in disbelief. "You just . . . couldn't take it anymore."
Barry gripped Elliott's shoulder. "Then don't be so hard on yourself," he said.
Elliott nodded, subdued. Barry was right, of course---but it was a lot easier to have compassion on his friend than it was to have it on himself.
". . . Is there any news about Sean?" he asked with little hope.
The nurse shook her head in sympathy. "A second doctor has been sent for," she said. "He should get here before long. And there's other tests to run. . . ."
"But you don't believe the results will be any different," Barry supplied.
She gazed down at the open file folder in her hands. "No," she admitted. "I really don't."
Barry gave a single nod, guiding Scott and Elliott past her and back to the ICU. As they arrived back at Sean's room, Barry pushed open the door with a heavy heart.
Sean was laying exactly as before. He looked asleep, but the machines around him testified otherwise. The ventilator breathed, his chest slowly rising up and down with the life-giving oxygen. His heartbeat was steady, his brainwaves blank.
Elliott sank into the chair next to the bed, gazing forlornly at his oldest friend. "I'm sorry," he choked out. "I'm so sorry. . . ." He reached and took up Sean's limp hand, holding it between his own as he leaned forward, resting it against his forehead. "You shouldn't be laying here. They shouldn't be saying you're gone. . . ."
Scott and Barry came to the bed as well, Scott taking up Sean's other hand. Barry rested his hand on Sean's shoulder.
"Please, Sean," Scott said, gazing at their dear friend. "If you're still here, let us know. . . ."
But the only answer was the lonely beep of the heart monitor and the ventilator inhaling and exhaling.
Elliott shut his eyes tight, clutching the motionless hand. "Please save him," he prayed with all his heart. "I . . . I know we've been letting hatred take over our feelings, but Sean doesn't deserve to suffer for that! I . . . we're trying to get over what we feel towards Vic. . . . We're trying . . ." He trailed off, shuddering as he held Sean's hand between his.
The fingers gave a weak, nearly imperceptible twitch.
Elliott gasped, opening his eyes as he sat up straight. "Sean?!" he exclaimed. "Sean?!"
Scott stared at him. "What is it?!" he cried.
Elliott shook his head. "He's still here!" he said, looking from Scott to Barry and back to their comatose friend. "He is! He tried to squeeze my hand!"
Barry stared too, hardly daring to believe. "There's still no recorded brain activity," he said, glancing at the monitor.
"I don't care! He tried to move!" Elliott declared.
Scott looked at Sean in sudden, joyous awe. "I'll get the doctor!" he said, leaping up and rushing to the door. "Doctor!" he exclaimed, unable to keep from grinning. "Doctor, get in here!"
Elliott had felt something; Scott was convinced of it. Sean was trying to wake up, to let them know he was there.
And they would never give up on him, no matter what the medical people said.
Fandom: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
Rating: T/PG-13
Word Count: 4,970
Main Characters: Fictional Rockapella (Sean, Scott, Elliott, Barry)
Supporting Characters: Vic the Slick
Summary: As the situation grows more dire, Elliott goes to release his anger and pain upon the one who got Sean into this mess.
Will be posted to 10_hurt_comfort.
Chapter Three
The three conscious friends did not leave Sean's side for the rest of that night. None of them intended to sleep, but their bodies were not willing to endure such treatment, especially after the long airplane ride. Elliott finally slumped back against the chair on Sean's left side, his eyes insisting on closing. Scott covered him with his own coat before sitting next to him with a sad sigh.
Barry was standing at the window, his arms crossed as it began to grow light outside. The sun was not able to withstand the force of the clouds, though it struggled with all its might. The last rays reached from inside and between clouds, as if desperate for someone to help them stay visible. Then they vanished as the clouds increased and grew darker in color.
He looked away. The display reminded him too much of Sean's predicament. He was fighting so hard to live, but the poison was growing in power and fighting back to snuff out his life. He could only pray that Sean's spirit would not vanish as the sun had.
". . . What did you and Sean talk about?"
He started, looking back at Scott's voice. The blond was keeping an arm around Elliott's shoulders, half-asleep himself. His eyes were sagging.
Barry sighed, shaking his head. ". . . We talked about how good people sometimes have to sacrifice themselves for criminals," he admitted. There was no reason to keep it from the others.
Scott frowned. "But you had no idea . . ."
"It was a cruel, ironic foreshadowing," Barry said, gripping his arms. "I didn't think it was going to come true."
Scott stiffened, but then went slack, still embracing Elliott as he settled further into the seat. "Poor Sean," he whispered. "He doesn't want to die. . . ."
"And he's getting worse." Barry gazed at their silent, motionless friend. Sean had not awakened or even stirred since their conversation. His heart monitor was still racing, increasing in speed, it seemed, almost every few moments.
The rest of the machines were beeping or whirring or making an assortment of various sounds as they kept track of other activity. ACME had developed their own technology for monitoring the brain, which offered less discomfort and was less troublesome to set up than the previously established methods. It had been proven to be just as effective, if not moreso. At the moment, Sean's brainwaves were clearly displayed on the accompanying monitor, showing that he was still holding on. Barry turned to glance at it now, praying that the presence of brain activity would remain.
Elliott jumped a mile, his eyes flying open. He breathed heavily as he took in the scene, looking from the ceiling to Scott, and then to Sean and to Barry. At last he looked back to Scott, his breathing settling back to normal.
Scott swallowed hard. "Hey," he greeted, speaking quietly.
Elliott's eyes were filled with anguish. "Sean's not any better, is he?" he said.
Scott shook his head. "No," he said. "He . . . he almost acts comatose. . . ."
Elliott's shoulders slumped. ". . . I was dreaming," he said. "Sean was dying. . . . He died. . . . And we were still trying to get him back. He was still trying to come back, too." He massaged his temples. "It was horrible. . . ."
Scott hugged Elliott close, shuddering at the new images plaguing his mind and mixing with the ones he had envisioned on his own. "Sean's not going to die," he said.
Elliott returned the embrace, gripping at Scott as if he was a lifeline. "I was praying constantly up to the time I fell asleep," he said. "But he's getting worse. And if there's still no antidote . . ."
"There's an antidote."
They looked up, starting as the doctor entered the room. In his hand he held both a filled hypodermic needle and a small vial. He was flanked by two nurses, who quickly went to monitor Sean's condition and position. Elliott and Scott moved their chairs over so as not to be in the way.
"Was it just finished?" Barry spoke, stepping aside too.
The physician nodded. "And I don't know if it will even work," he said, giving Sean's still form a regretful look. "The poison must be very far advanced by now. From our studies of it so far, it's supposed to kill within thirty hours. He's already held out longer than that."
Elliott clenched a fist. "And he'll keep holding out," he retorted. "You know Sean---he doesn't give up."
"And he never will," Scott said.
The doctor sighed. "Poison can conquer the strongest men," he said. He walked over as the nurse rolled up Sean's robe's sleeve. The second nurse cleaned a spot on his arm, then stepped back to let the physician administer the medicine.
"All we can do is wait and see," he said then, carefully sticking the needle into Sean's flesh and injecting the contents. "If the poison has significantly weakened his body, he may not be able to handle the antidote's properties."
Elliott stared. "You mean what's supposed to help him might kill him?!" he cried.
The older man paused, then slowly nodded as he stood up straight. "I'm afraid so," he said. "And it might not even be able to eradicate the poison."
"It will be enough," Barry said. "Along with Sean's will."
He prayed he was right.
****
The next hour passed even more unbearably. They watched Sean, and the machines, desperate to see some sign of improvement. But the antidote did not seem to be helping much, if at all. Sean's pulse rate was not slowing in the least. As soon as the antidote had entered his bloodstream, his heart had beat faster.
"It really might be too much for him to take!" Scott said in alarm. He was leaning over, gripping the bed railing.
Elliott shook his head. "It can't be," he plaintively said. "He has to be able to pull through. . . ." He gazed at their dear friend with sorrow-filled eyes. "Sean? Sean, can you hear us?"
Barry stood by, his arms crossed. He was growing more tense and unsettled by the moment. The longer this dragged on, the more his hopes sank. But he could not give up on Sean. He walked closer to the bed, turmoil in his eyes. He had been praying almost constantly, but Sean was not getting better. It was so wrong, to see him laying there, so sick. . . . And all because of Vic stealing that statue. . . . He gripped his arms tighter, anger flashing across his face.
Without warning Sean half-rose off the bed, his eyes flying open as he gasped in pain.
Elliott gasped too, reaching for him. "Sean?!" he exclaimed. Scott and Barry moved to grab him too.
But Sean was sinking back before any of them could take hold. His eyes fell closed as he hit the pillow again, the heart monitor beginning to slow---and not in an encouraging way.
Elliott cried out, gripping at Sean's robe. "No!" he burst out, staring into the slackening face. "No . . ."
Scott was right beside him, his hands trembling as he grabbed up Sean's wrist. "It's slowing too much!" he wailed. "He . . . he's dying. . . ."
And Barry could not stay calm any longer. "Sean!" he boomed, his deep voice filled with anguish. "You can't stop fighting. You have to live!" He took hold of Sean's shoulder, his fingers digging against the motionless limb. "You have to live!"
For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then Scott stiffened. ". . . His heart's stopped," he choked out. "He's not breathing!"
Elliott looked to the brain monitor, freezing in disbelief and horror. "And it's not picking up any brain activity," he choked out.
The equipment beeped loudly, sending a Code Blue alert to the medical personnel outside.
The color drained from Barry's face. He straightened, hastening to the door and pulling it open. Doctors and nurses were rushing to the room, bringing the crash cart with them. Barry backed away from the door, letting them enter.
"You'll have to leave the room," a harried nurse told him as well as the panic-stricken Scott and Elliott.
Dazed, the two curly-haired men went to Barry. He led them into the hall, his hands shaking as he laid them on his friends' shoulders. Sean would be able to be revived. The doctors would be able to restart his heart and his breathing. He would fight the poison alongside the antidote and emerge triumphant. And he would get well. . . .
"Excuse me," a nurse said in quiet sympathy as she emerged from the room next-door. "You can't stand in the hall here. You'll have to go out of the ICU."
Barry gave a single, stupefied nod, taking Scott and Elliott with him through the double-doors and into the main corridor. None of them spoke. What was there to say? They clutched each other for comfort.
It was impossible to tell how long they were standing there, waiting and praying in desperation. Every second was a year, a minute eternity. The ticking clock across from them was growing loud again, drowning all coherent thoughts and all other sounds.
Somewhere far away, a telephone rang. A nurse answered, speaking into the receiver. A patient coughed in a nearby room. The intercom beeped, requesting assistance in Room 115.
Across the corridor from the ICU, the doors of the operating room opened. The doctors pushed a squeaking gurney into the hall, wheeling it to the intersection of the T formation made by the hallways. But instead of proceeding to the other, short end and the ICU, they turned, maneuvering the stretcher down the long section. Scott turned, gazing at the unconscious patient with blank eyes. It was an agent he did not know, a man not much older than Sean. The left side of his face was swathed in bandages. A frown crossed the blond's features. What had happened to him?
He did not have a chance to ask. The procession went past, turning the next corner and disappearing from view---though the squeaking wheels of the gurney persisted in announcing their presence.
But all of what they were seeing and hearing might as well be in another dimension. An invisible film stretched between them and the rest of the world. In this world, there was only them and the clock, stretching into infinity.
Tick . . . tick . . . tick. . . .
Tick.
The ICU doors opened. All eyes turned to the solemn nurse.
". . . He's dead, isn't he," Scott rasped.
Elliott's stomach dropped. Barry's grip tightened.
The nurse sighed, stepping aside to allow them entry. ". . . We revived his heart," she said, leading them back to Sean's room, "but he's completely unresponsive." She pushed open the door.
The doctor looked to the stunned friends. "There is no recorded brain activity," he said, nodding to the monitor. "Of course, we can't be absolutely certain he's brain dead, considering the poison, but right now it doesn't look good for him at all. These machines seem to be the only things keeping his body going."
Elliott blanched. "No!" he snapped. "That isn't true! He's still fighting!"
He stared at the machine's blank lines, his heart doing a somersault. Sean would not . . . he could not! Had Elliott fallen asleep during the last moments when Sean was truly alive, albeit unconscious? He could not believe that. And the antidote . . . had it been what had brought Sean to this?
Scott and Barry came closer, sickened as they looked at the screen. The nurse walked over to them, looking as well.
"Before, he was breathing on his own," she said. "Now, this machine is breathing for him. If it's taken away, he won't have anything."
Barry clenched a fist. "What are you going to do?" he asked, directing the question to the doctor.
The older man sighed. "We'll run some more tests," he said. "He can't be officially declared brain dead until we're sure the poison is out of his system---if it even can be removed---and until he's been examined by at least two doctors." He hesitated. "But . . . if it's found that it's irreversible, I'm afraid you'll need to consider . . ."
"NO!" Elliott broke in, his eyes flashing.
All eyes turned to the normally-shy, but now fiery, man as he stood facing the physician. Elliott moved to get in between the medical staff and the machines connecting Sean to life.
"Sean wants to live," he said. "What right do we have, to consider taking that away from him? There's still a chance he could wake up. You said you have to run some more tests and examinations before anything's decided for sure. Okay, fine. But I've already made my decision here and now."
Scott moved to stand next to Elliott, his eyes filled with the same determination. Barry was right behind him, the identical look in his own eyes. But there was something else present as well---a warning for the doctor not to push it and try to change any of their minds.
The physician sighed---a sound of defeat, but also of sadness. "Alright," he said. "We won't talk about it right now."
"We won't talk about it ever," Elliott said. It was so horribly surreal and unreal---standing here and listening to what was basically in his mind, the proposition to kill their friend. And the anger he felt towards the one responsible for the entire mess was increasing to the point that he knew he could not control himself. He had to go confront the sleaze.
He ran to the door. "I hate him!" he spat, hauling it open and tearing into the hall. "I hate him!"
Scott looked after his closest friend in alarm. "El!" he cried, grabbing in vain for the other's sleeve. He knew where Elliott was going. And of course Scott felt the same. But did he dare leave Sean to follow Elliott and try to calm him down?
"You go," Barry said, his eyes narrowed in concern. "I'll catch up."
Scott nodded in gratitude, hurrying out of the room in pursuit of Elliott.
Barry exhaled, looking back to the doctor. The other man looked back, genuine sadness in his eyes.
"None of this should even be happening," he said.
Barry gave a grim nod. "No, it shouldn't," he said.
He looked to Sean, so haggard and helpless in the bed. Had their leader and resident joker really left his devastated body behind? He never would have, if he had been given a choice. But Barry wanted to keep believing that there was still a chance.
If he could not . . . it would have been him running out that door, filled with hatred.
****
Elliott was barely thinking straight by the time he got to the holding cells. It was easy enough to find Vic's; the creep was whining about having fallen to performing manual labor and that it would ruin his hands.
"Come on!" he begged, gripping the cell bars as he looked for the nearest sentry. "Have a heart, will ya? These hands weren't meant for heavy-duty stuff!"
"Oh, like stealing Lincoln's nose off Mount Rushmore?" Elliott retorted as he came to stand in front of the cell. "Or what about Alcatraz? The Leaning Tower of Pisa? No, carting off buildings isn't heavy-duty at all."
Vic blinked in surprise. "Hey, it's the little guy," he said. "So what're you doin' here? Got a deal to propose to lighten my sentence? Or maybe you're finally getting interested in some of my wares. I can even give you a cop discount."
Elliott took out the keys, unlocking the door. "Get out of the way," he said.
Vic backed away. "Wow, what crawled up your leg today?" he said, studying Elliott with an apprehensive eye. He had heard that the shy one was occasionally prone to fits of anger when something was done to someone he loved, but Vic could not think of anything he had done that should be the cause for so much rage.
Elliott pulled the door open and stepped inside, blocking any escape attempt. "I hope you're grateful," he snapped.
"Grateful?!" Vic exclaimed. "For this dinky place? I guess it's better than prison, but I know the drill. I'll be going there before long."
Any shreds of Elliott's nerves left intact were bending. He stepped closer, drawing himself up to his full height to be nose-to-nose with Vic.
"Because of that stupid statue you just had to take, Sean's on life support!" he screamed.
Vic stared at him, dumbfounded. "Huh?" he said with a blink. "So he's dyin' or somethin'? How is that my fault?"
Elliott grabbed handfuls of Vic's jacket, which he would be wearing until arriving at the prison. "The statue was full of poison," he hissed. "Sean helped you when you were in trouble and it scratched him!"
"Ohhh. I get it now," Vic said, still in the same unconcerned tone. "Wow, I didn't know that kitty could pack such a punch. Boy, am I glad I didn't have it facing me. A torn jacket is a small price to pay."
Elliott's eyes widened, then flashed. With a pained cry he thrust Vic from him, shoving the salesman to the floor. Even as the creep yelped in surprise and shock, Elliott was lunging forward, punching, hitting, and striking. As every blow landed, some of the pent-up hatred and pain he had been carrying landed as well. But it was not enough. It was never enough. Sean was still laying in the ICU, with the doctor believing there was little to no hope. His childhood friend, his partner in mischief, his leader. . . .
"Help!" Vic screamed, flailing in vain desperation as he tried to push Elliott away from him. "He's gone loco! Help! Police brutality!"
Elliott landed a punch squarely on Vic's nose. Blood spurted in every direction, landing on the floor, on Vic's clothes, and even on Elliott's face. He blinked, falling back as the crimson dripped down his cheek and onto his fists. He had been locked up in his own world, not even consciously aware of the full extent of his actions. Now he could only give the blood a dumb stare.
Vic was holding his nose, alarm and pain in his eyes. "You broke my nose!" he cried, his angry, terrified voice sounding nasal and muffled.
Elliott could not even reply. He continued to stare at the blood as he clenched his fists tighter.
He had hurt someone.
And there, kneeling in that cell with one of V.I.L.E.'s most dangerous agents, he began to sob.
The sound was chilling. And as Scott skidded across the floor and came to a halt in front of the cell, his heart twisted. "El," he whispered. Elliott did not look up.
"Elliott!" Scott cried louder, running through the doorway and hugging Elliott from the side. "El, I'm here. I'm here. . . . I . . . I should've got here sooner. . . . I'm so sorry. . . ."
Elliott slumped into Scott's loving, worried embrace, reaching up to lay his hands on Scott's. He was at the end of what he could take. He was broken.
That was the scene Barry saw as he at last joined the others. He stared from Scott and Elliott to Vic, cowering on the floor and wailing about his nose. Clenching his teeth, Barry strode into the cell and directly to Vic's side. Reaching down, he grabbed up the crook by his jacket and set him on his feet.
"Let me look," he said, his voice commanding and leaving no room for arguments.
Shaking, Vic took his bloodied hand away from his face. Barry examined the injury, his eyes veiled and his expression quietly angry.
"You have a bad nosebleed," he said at last. "Your nose isn't broken."
Vic blinked. "Really?" he said. "Gee, that's a relief. I was afraid I'd have to have all kinds of plastic surgery to get my schnozz back into shape. That crazy guy, he went ballistic! I mean, he's blaming me for what happened to your other buddy or something."
Barry's eyes darkened. "So do I," he retorted.
"Oh, come on," Vic said as he tipped his head back to try to stop the bleeding. "How could I know that'd happen? I had no clue the statue was stuffed full of some kind of deadly substance. And it's not like he had to climb up there to save me. But since he did, well . . . better him than me!"
Elliott fell silent, looking up at Vic in disbelief. Scott was gawking too.
And Barry's patience was at an end. He grabbed Vic by his coat again, lifting the sleazy salesman into the air as he struggled and yelped. Barry paid no attention. He threw Vic across the room, where he hit the wall with a loud crash before landing with a bounce and another yelp on the cot.
"Sean is sacrificing himself for you!" Barry roared. "He's dying, all because of you. Doesn't that mean anything to you?!"
Vic trembled, daring to look up at the furious man from where he was cowering anew on the cot. "But h-he . . . he didn't know he'd be doin' it!" he said.
"You should feel horrible anyway," Barry growled. "If you had any semblance of a conscience, you'd be pierced through to your very soul!" He stepped closer, grabbing a tight bunch of Vic's shirt as he hauled the wretch up to be eye-level with him.
"Even if Sean had known, he still would've done it," he said now. "He did know he was risking his life by trying to save you from that old balcony. He could have fallen and broken his neck, but he risked everything so you wouldn't break yours. Is that such a trivial thing to you?! Are you that far beyond feeling?!"
He gave Vic a violent shake before shoving the criminal hard into the mattress, his strong hands holding him in place. Vic looked up at him in terror.
"What're you gonna do?!" he whimpered.
Barry glowered. Somehow, as much as he wanted to lose himself right now, he had to get his emotions under control. "I know what I'd like to do," he said. "But I won't do anything to make Sean's sacrifice be in vain."
He let go of Vic as he straightened up. Without waiting to hear what Vic would reply, if anything, Barry looked to Scott and Elliott.
Scott swallowed hard. "I . . . I'll get a medic," he said quietly, helplessness washing over him. Even though he had not lost control, he had felt like it, especially after Vic's last crack. But Barry had beat him to it. And seeing their usually calm and collected friend completely snap had shocked him.
"I'll do it," Elliott said. "I did a horrible thing."
Scott stared at him, not because of his words, but because of how he had said them. He sounded deadened and numb.
"El . . ." Scott reached for him, his fingers only grasping air as Elliott turned to walk up the hall and return to the infirmary. His hand dropped to his side as his shoulders slumped. They were all at their wits' end.
Barry laid a hand on Scott's shoulder as he wordlessly moved to follow Elliott. Scott walked with him, hurrying to catch up to Elliott. The poor brunet was trudging ahead, nearly at the point of collapse. He looked over his shoulder, giving a wan smile as Scott ran up next to him.
"Maybe this is why Sean is dying," he said sadly.
Scott froze. "Huh? What are you talking about, El?!" he gasped.
"I . . . I've been praying so hard for him," Elliott choked out in despair. "But I've been so full of hatred. . . . Maybe that's why it hasn't worked. . . ."
Scott stared at him. "El . . ." He drew an arm around his friend's shoulders. "We've all been praying."
Elliott shook his head. "But maybe if even one person is feeling so hateful, it would cancel everything out," he said, the horror and worry growing in his soul. "Maybe if . . . if I left, went upstairs or something . . ."
Barry came up behind them, gripping Elliott's shoulder. "I can't speak for Scott, but I've been feeling the same way you have," he said. "I was able to control myself until Vic said that right to my face. . . ." He gritted his teeth.
Scott's eyes darkened. "I've felt just the same," he said. "I . . . I just had to try to not lose control . . . especially when you were so upset, El . . . And you, Barry. . . ." He looked down. "I think I was too stunned to really do anything at first, and then you were already doing it."
Barry grunted. "I shouldn't have thrown him," he said. "Even though he deserved every bit of it."
"He needed to hear what you said, though," Scott said. "Not that it'll make any difference."
Elliott looked to first Barry and then Scott, his brown eyes filled with pain and sorrow. ". . . Maybe . . . if we all try to overcome the way we feel, we could do more to help Sean," he said. "I won't believe he's already gone! I can't! And . . . and what the doctor will want us to do . . . especially if the second doctor comes up with the same thing . . ." He shook his head. "I can't make a decision like that! I can't pull the plug on Sean. . . ."
"None of us can," Scott said, hugging Elliott with one arm.
"We won't," Barry said, his voice firm. "Not unless . . . unless Sean comes to us and tells us he really is . . ." He shook his head, trailing off as they reached the infirmary.
Elliott looked to the first nurse they passed. "A doctor needs to go tend to Vic the Slick," he said in soberness. "He . . . got kind of roughed up."
The nurse blinked. ". . . I'll send someone," she said. Then she stared at him.
Elliott turned red. "What . . ." He raised a hand to his cheek. The blood was still there. "It's . . . not mine," he said in realization.
She seemed to understand. But she kept looking at him.
". . . I gave him a nosebleed," Elliott admitted at last. "I'll probably get suspended for it. . . ."
Scott gripped Elliott's shoulder. "We'll explain the whole story," he said.
Elliott shook his head. "I deserve to be suspended," he said. "What kind of agent am I?"
The nurse looked at him with compassion. "You're under so much stress," she said. "Everyone here knows how kind you are."
"Of course they do," Scott said. But he planned to let Greg and the Chief know himself before they could hear the story secondhand and get it mixed up. He would not let anything happen to Elliott---or to Barry---if he could possibly stop it.
"If you get suspended, I will, too," Barry said now. "Do you think I deserve it?"
Elliott looked to him, stunned. "No," he said in disbelief. "You just . . . couldn't take it anymore."
Barry gripped Elliott's shoulder. "Then don't be so hard on yourself," he said.
Elliott nodded, subdued. Barry was right, of course---but it was a lot easier to have compassion on his friend than it was to have it on himself.
". . . Is there any news about Sean?" he asked with little hope.
The nurse shook her head in sympathy. "A second doctor has been sent for," she said. "He should get here before long. And there's other tests to run. . . ."
"But you don't believe the results will be any different," Barry supplied.
She gazed down at the open file folder in her hands. "No," she admitted. "I really don't."
Barry gave a single nod, guiding Scott and Elliott past her and back to the ICU. As they arrived back at Sean's room, Barry pushed open the door with a heavy heart.
Sean was laying exactly as before. He looked asleep, but the machines around him testified otherwise. The ventilator breathed, his chest slowly rising up and down with the life-giving oxygen. His heartbeat was steady, his brainwaves blank.
Elliott sank into the chair next to the bed, gazing forlornly at his oldest friend. "I'm sorry," he choked out. "I'm so sorry. . . ." He reached and took up Sean's limp hand, holding it between his own as he leaned forward, resting it against his forehead. "You shouldn't be laying here. They shouldn't be saying you're gone. . . ."
Scott and Barry came to the bed as well, Scott taking up Sean's other hand. Barry rested his hand on Sean's shoulder.
"Please, Sean," Scott said, gazing at their dear friend. "If you're still here, let us know. . . ."
But the only answer was the lonely beep of the heart monitor and the ventilator inhaling and exhaling.
Elliott shut his eyes tight, clutching the motionless hand. "Please save him," he prayed with all his heart. "I . . . I know we've been letting hatred take over our feelings, but Sean doesn't deserve to suffer for that! I . . . we're trying to get over what we feel towards Vic. . . . We're trying . . ." He trailed off, shuddering as he held Sean's hand between his.
The fingers gave a weak, nearly imperceptible twitch.
Elliott gasped, opening his eyes as he sat up straight. "Sean?!" he exclaimed. "Sean?!"
Scott stared at him. "What is it?!" he cried.
Elliott shook his head. "He's still here!" he said, looking from Scott to Barry and back to their comatose friend. "He is! He tried to squeeze my hand!"
Barry stared too, hardly daring to believe. "There's still no recorded brain activity," he said, glancing at the monitor.
"I don't care! He tried to move!" Elliott declared.
Scott looked at Sean in sudden, joyous awe. "I'll get the doctor!" he said, leaping up and rushing to the door. "Doctor!" he exclaimed, unable to keep from grinning. "Doctor, get in here!"
Elliott had felt something; Scott was convinced of it. Sean was trying to wake up, to let them know he was there.
And they would never give up on him, no matter what the medical people said.