[4th of march] oh let it free that caged on fire thing
It's early in the morning, barely two hours after midnight, and Henry has a busy day ahead of him, busy enough that if he had any common sense he'd be asleep and not lying awake and refusing to stare at the ceiling of his new apartment. Apparently, he doesn't have any common sense.
So he rolls over in his narrow, single occupant bed and lies on his side, waiting for sleep with resignation. If he ends up staying up all night because he can't stop feeling lonely, so be it, he'll stay up all night and drink a pot of coffee when the sun comes up.
He's wearing the necklace that matches Alex, just a piece of metal on a cord, something any man these days could get away with wearing, and now he touches it and feels better. It's sentimental to feel like this, and he knows he'll adjust, but this apartment seems lifeless in comparison to Alex's home. Too quiet even with the sounds of the traffic outside. He wonders-
-why it sounded like his second story window opened, and how he could have missed a window while he was checking to be sure they were locked. He doesn't waste time berating himself for it or being upset. That would be conterproductive. He stays still and he listens to two people (he thinks it's two) enter his apartment and shut the window behind them. They're barely loud enough to hear at all, and they haven't spoken yet. Henry slips off the side of his bed farthest from his bedroom door and crouches there in the darkness.
He's thinking of odds. There's no phone in this room, not even his cell phone (charging in the kitchenette, damn it), and he eliminates the idea of yelling immediately because there's no lock on his bedroom door. On the bright side, his bedroom is at the end of the hall, and the door doesn't draw attention to itself. All his valuables, what few he has (and isn't that unusual, but maybe this is a crime of opportunity), are outside of his bedroom, and to him they're not worth the possibility of being injured by doing something like trying to scare them off. They might run, they might not. He doesn't have the burning desire to find out.
There are soft male voices in his living room, too soft for him to make out what they're saying or even what language it's in, and when they start to come closer Henry rethinks his plan and the situation. He's not worried about whys, not yet, only that there are two men in his apartment who don't belong there.
By the time they open his door, he's as ready as thirty seconds allowed him to be.
Henry hits the first one in the face with his lamp and lets it fall broken to the floor as his would-be assailant curses sharply in unaccented English. His partner shoves him aside roughly, and starts to bring his club (baseball bat) up from his side, but he wasn't expecting Henry to be on his feet like this, and he grabs his wrist, twists it sharply, and punches him; it's then he realizes he's wearing a ski mask, but before he has time to think about that the back of his head is clipped by the other man's bat, snapping him forward and then almost bringing him to his knees as it slams home on his shoulders and draws a sharp, pained cry from him- but he's lucky, he missed-
Henry twists and lunges at him almost blindly in the dark with his spinning head, and makes contact at his midsection before his momentum takes them both to the floor. His attacker cracks his own head on the edge of Henry's dresser, aluminum bat jerked out of his hand by the fall and his shock, and Henry doesn't waste any time scrambling after the thing-
There are still two of them, though, and he now knows at least one came prepared in heavy boots that catch him in the stomach. The pain is sharp enough to make his upper back feel like a dull throb, and he's kicked onto his back next, feels something - rib? - give under the third kick, the fourth stomp, but his hand has what it was looking for, and he sits up without screaming to slam the bat into the other man's hip, knocking him sideways, and then he's on his feet again, fighting the compulsion to double over- he's been in fights before, he's been in wars, and he'd been waiting for this, for this and the poison in his dinner and the snake in his bed. He hits him again as he starts to raise his arm to defend himself, and he's darkly satisfied to hear him scream. He gets in two more blows (the man is flat against the wall, grabbing at the bat, helpless, he's clearly never broken an arm before, has no discipline) before he thinks of the other, and he starts to move before he grabs his ankle and sends him back down to the floor, flat on his back, and the room is pitch black where it was only dark for a few dizzying seconds, there are footsteps and words in a language he's never even heard before, has he?
When he comes to he's alone again, with an empty hand and the distinct sense that something inside of him is broken or burst, or both. And Hephaestion doesn't understand, because by all rights he should be in his bed, sleeping off his fever, not sprawled on some cold floor-
The memories hit him harder and faster than his assassins ever did, and when he sits up to hunch over his knees and snarl (scream, or start to cry) through his teeth, eyes clenched shut, it's not because of his pain now. No.
He doesn't know what he's thinking when he gets to his feet and limps out, doubled over and shaking, to find his phone. He's functioning on his instinct, on practicality, and he when his cell phone is in his hands he dials a number blindly and slides down the nearest wall to the floor.
So he rolls over in his narrow, single occupant bed and lies on his side, waiting for sleep with resignation. If he ends up staying up all night because he can't stop feeling lonely, so be it, he'll stay up all night and drink a pot of coffee when the sun comes up.
He's wearing the necklace that matches Alex, just a piece of metal on a cord, something any man these days could get away with wearing, and now he touches it and feels better. It's sentimental to feel like this, and he knows he'll adjust, but this apartment seems lifeless in comparison to Alex's home. Too quiet even with the sounds of the traffic outside. He wonders-
-why it sounded like his second story window opened, and how he could have missed a window while he was checking to be sure they were locked. He doesn't waste time berating himself for it or being upset. That would be conterproductive. He stays still and he listens to two people (he thinks it's two) enter his apartment and shut the window behind them. They're barely loud enough to hear at all, and they haven't spoken yet. Henry slips off the side of his bed farthest from his bedroom door and crouches there in the darkness.
He's thinking of odds. There's no phone in this room, not even his cell phone (charging in the kitchenette, damn it), and he eliminates the idea of yelling immediately because there's no lock on his bedroom door. On the bright side, his bedroom is at the end of the hall, and the door doesn't draw attention to itself. All his valuables, what few he has (and isn't that unusual, but maybe this is a crime of opportunity), are outside of his bedroom, and to him they're not worth the possibility of being injured by doing something like trying to scare them off. They might run, they might not. He doesn't have the burning desire to find out.
There are soft male voices in his living room, too soft for him to make out what they're saying or even what language it's in, and when they start to come closer Henry rethinks his plan and the situation. He's not worried about whys, not yet, only that there are two men in his apartment who don't belong there.
By the time they open his door, he's as ready as thirty seconds allowed him to be.
Henry hits the first one in the face with his lamp and lets it fall broken to the floor as his would-be assailant curses sharply in unaccented English. His partner shoves him aside roughly, and starts to bring his club (baseball bat) up from his side, but he wasn't expecting Henry to be on his feet like this, and he grabs his wrist, twists it sharply, and punches him; it's then he realizes he's wearing a ski mask, but before he has time to think about that the back of his head is clipped by the other man's bat, snapping him forward and then almost bringing him to his knees as it slams home on his shoulders and draws a sharp, pained cry from him- but he's lucky, he missed-
Henry twists and lunges at him almost blindly in the dark with his spinning head, and makes contact at his midsection before his momentum takes them both to the floor. His attacker cracks his own head on the edge of Henry's dresser, aluminum bat jerked out of his hand by the fall and his shock, and Henry doesn't waste any time scrambling after the thing-
There are still two of them, though, and he now knows at least one came prepared in heavy boots that catch him in the stomach. The pain is sharp enough to make his upper back feel like a dull throb, and he's kicked onto his back next, feels something - rib? - give under the third kick, the fourth stomp, but his hand has what it was looking for, and he sits up without screaming to slam the bat into the other man's hip, knocking him sideways, and then he's on his feet again, fighting the compulsion to double over- he's been in fights before, he's been in wars, and he'd been waiting for this, for this and the poison in his dinner and the snake in his bed. He hits him again as he starts to raise his arm to defend himself, and he's darkly satisfied to hear him scream. He gets in two more blows (the man is flat against the wall, grabbing at the bat, helpless, he's clearly never broken an arm before, has no discipline) before he thinks of the other, and he starts to move before he grabs his ankle and sends him back down to the floor, flat on his back, and the room is pitch black where it was only dark for a few dizzying seconds, there are footsteps and words in a language he's never even heard before, has he?
When he comes to he's alone again, with an empty hand and the distinct sense that something inside of him is broken or burst, or both. And Hephaestion doesn't understand, because by all rights he should be in his bed, sleeping off his fever, not sprawled on some cold floor-
The memories hit him harder and faster than his assassins ever did, and when he sits up to hunch over his knees and snarl (scream, or start to cry) through his teeth, eyes clenched shut, it's not because of his pain now. No.
He doesn't know what he's thinking when he gets to his feet and limps out, doubled over and shaking, to find his phone. He's functioning on his instinct, on practicality, and he when his cell phone is in his hands he dials a number blindly and slides down the nearest wall to the floor.