Solace
by wordsthatfail
Rating: R for language
Characters: Jack; mentions of Audrey
Spoilers: Set post-Day Five, pre-Day Six
Summary: He has to believe in something.
Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine; the
words are. Please don’t take legal action —
lowly copy editors aren’t worth suing, anyway.
Take her hand, she will
lead you through the fire
and give you back hope
— “Mary,” Sarah McLachlan
He can’t breathe.
The pain rips through him, sharp and hot and oh Jesus
Christ —
* * * * *
He jerks awake in his dim cell, muscles knotted and nose
filled with the stench of his own filth.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he
passed out or when he was carried back here; here,
time loses all meaning and though he’s tried to keep
count, he’s not sure if he really wants to know how
many weeks or — fuck — months have
passed.
And Christ, he hurts everywhere. He hasn’t
even moved yet, but he can feel the scratchy linen of his
shirt glued to his back with dried blood.
He wants to vomit.
But he forces himself to take slow breaths, as deep as
his cracked ribs allow, and manages to sit up, his jagged
fingernails scrabbling against the dirty concrete floor.
He slumps one aching shoulder against the back wall and
listens, waiting for the inevitable sound of footfalls
outside the steel door.
This — endless rounds of questions and pain and
waiting, again and again and again — is merciless
and suffocating and Jesus, he just wants it to end.
Please.
He closes his raw, swollen eyes, not sure what he’s
asking for. Rescue — fuck, not likely —
or ...
No.
He refuses to die here. He won’t give the Chinese
the satisfaction of breaking him, not mentally or
physically. He just has to figure a way out of this.
But goddamn, he’s so tired. So fucking tired.
Eyes still closed, he can almost see Audrey, but her
features are indistinct, blurred. She’s smiling,
touching his wrist, her lips are brushing his and —
No.
He can’t bring her here, not to this place, this
hell. He won’t.
He swallows, tasting blood and grit and greasy water. The
pad of his thumb gingerly traces Our Lady’s grime-coated
cheek on the inside of his bruised, scabbed forearm.
He hasn’t believed in a higher power for a long time,
but he has to believe in — in something, for
Chrissake.
Please.
He stills his thumb; he doubts anyone’s listening.
Then he decides it doesn’t matter, anyway — he
can hear footsteps approaching.
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