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Mar. 6th, 2009 01:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeTitle:
Fandom: Burn Notice
Word Count: Fucked if I know
Characters: Victor
Rating: PG-13 for swearing
Summary: What happened after.
A/N: Spoilers for the Season 2 finale of Burn Notice
He didn't know what happened. One minute he was trying to breathe out of a sucking chest wound, the next minute, water.
Cool water. Not cold, cool. Happy water. Good water. Nice, buoyant, floating along. Peaceful. It didn't hurt anymore. Nothing hurt. He could just drift peacefully along...
"There!"
Fuck.
He coughed. Choked on seawater and coughed some more, and then choked, and then the peaceful was all over. Coughing exacerbated the wound (wound? singular? wait, hadn't Michael shot him?) and made him gasp for air more which made him choke on the water more which made him struggle harder to breathe through a partially collapsed lung which made him...
... suck down air. Air.
"Fuck!" Words. Air made words.
"It's not him." Those were not his words. Those were the words of a stressed off, extremely pissed-off Fiona Glennane. "Dammit! They said he jumped. They said he was right here..."
"He's here, okay? He's here somewhere, but it's a big ocean, and you can't just zip out..."
"They gave us the coordinates. They said they gave us the exact..."
Victor coughed. Actually, he couldn't do much more than cough. "Excuse me..." he managed. Fiona ignored him. Predictably.
"Fi, maybe we should take Victor in..." Sam didn't sound all that enthused by the idea. "I mean, he's hurt real bad..."
"If we take him in, we waste time we could be spending looking for Michael." She gave him one brief dismissive glance. Victor supposed he should have been grateful for that much. "He's dead already, anyway."
"Thanks," Victor coughed. Blood and sea water. Yuck.
"Fi, even if he is out here, thirty minutes to get this guy back onto the dock, leave him there, call an ambulance to come get him, that's not going to mean the difference between life and..."
"Yes, it could, Sam!"
"She's got a point."
No one listened to him.
"Look. There's a Coast Guard boat, okay? We'll just..."
Victor had an opinion about the Coast Guard, but he never got to share it, on account of passing out.
When he woke up again it didn't hurt anymore. By comparison, at least, it didn't hurt. He was dry, he was warm, which was an improvement on how he'd spent the last couple hours he'd been conscious, and it smelled like hospital. He hated hospitals.
Victor opened his eyes. The room was that institutional white-beige color that said volumes about the cheapness of hospitals, and he was strapped to the bed. Not handcuffed, strapped. Which meant they probably hadn't figured out who he was yet. The straps were unexplained, but the important thing was that he could breathe again without hearing his lung tissue flap around in his chest. That was a plus.
"What's going on?" he asked, out loud, just in case there was someone in the room. It came out hoarse, throaty. His throat hurt. "Can I get some water?"
No one answered. All right, so no one was around. That wasn't that bad. It meant that no one was waiting for him to get up so they could read him the contents of his jacket, threaten him, arrest him, interrogate him, or lecture him on how grateful he should be that they saved his life. Actually, Fiona and Sam were probably out rescuing Michael. He missed having friends he could count on, sometimes. Or having anyone at all.
All right, no one around. He was in a white room, no black curtains, in a hospital. Strapped to a bed that felt like cheap mass-produced and rough-spun cotton. His mouth was dry but not too dry, which meant he probably wasn't that dehydrated, and he had tubes and needles in his arm, which was probably why. He would have to have been out for a couple of days to be feeling this good after he'd taken a round to the chest. So someone had cut him open and stitched him back up again, and then kept him sedated for the next day or two. Not that he minded, he probably wouldn't have given himself a chance to heal otherwise, but it was making him increasingly agitated.
Which was probably why they had sedated him.
Victor let his head fall back onto the pillow again. Getting healed enough to get out of here would probably take another twenty four hours, but then, oh yeah, he was out of here. He was going to find out what happened to Michael, among other things, and what he needed to do there. From the sound of it, Michael's friends hadn't known if he was alive or dead, which was a plus. Carla's people were gone, or they'd be coming after both of them.
Mostly importantly, he had to find out if "Victor" was dead. Because if Victor was dead, well, it was just time to fade away. Disappear. Start over somewhere else, somewhere new. If Victor was dead...
... well, that just opened up all kinds of interesting possibilities.
Fandom: Burn Notice
Word Count: Fucked if I know
Characters: Victor
Rating: PG-13 for swearing
Summary: What happened after.
A/N: Spoilers for the Season 2 finale of Burn Notice
He didn't know what happened. One minute he was trying to breathe out of a sucking chest wound, the next minute, water.
Cool water. Not cold, cool. Happy water. Good water. Nice, buoyant, floating along. Peaceful. It didn't hurt anymore. Nothing hurt. He could just drift peacefully along...
"There!"
Fuck.
He coughed. Choked on seawater and coughed some more, and then choked, and then the peaceful was all over. Coughing exacerbated the wound (wound? singular? wait, hadn't Michael shot him?) and made him gasp for air more which made him choke on the water more which made him struggle harder to breathe through a partially collapsed lung which made him...
... suck down air. Air.
"Fuck!" Words. Air made words.
"It's not him." Those were not his words. Those were the words of a stressed off, extremely pissed-off Fiona Glennane. "Dammit! They said he jumped. They said he was right here..."
"He's here, okay? He's here somewhere, but it's a big ocean, and you can't just zip out..."
"They gave us the coordinates. They said they gave us the exact..."
Victor coughed. Actually, he couldn't do much more than cough. "Excuse me..." he managed. Fiona ignored him. Predictably.
"Fi, maybe we should take Victor in..." Sam didn't sound all that enthused by the idea. "I mean, he's hurt real bad..."
"If we take him in, we waste time we could be spending looking for Michael." She gave him one brief dismissive glance. Victor supposed he should have been grateful for that much. "He's dead already, anyway."
"Thanks," Victor coughed. Blood and sea water. Yuck.
"Fi, even if he is out here, thirty minutes to get this guy back onto the dock, leave him there, call an ambulance to come get him, that's not going to mean the difference between life and..."
"Yes, it could, Sam!"
"She's got a point."
No one listened to him.
"Look. There's a Coast Guard boat, okay? We'll just..."
Victor had an opinion about the Coast Guard, but he never got to share it, on account of passing out.
When he woke up again it didn't hurt anymore. By comparison, at least, it didn't hurt. He was dry, he was warm, which was an improvement on how he'd spent the last couple hours he'd been conscious, and it smelled like hospital. He hated hospitals.
Victor opened his eyes. The room was that institutional white-beige color that said volumes about the cheapness of hospitals, and he was strapped to the bed. Not handcuffed, strapped. Which meant they probably hadn't figured out who he was yet. The straps were unexplained, but the important thing was that he could breathe again without hearing his lung tissue flap around in his chest. That was a plus.
"What's going on?" he asked, out loud, just in case there was someone in the room. It came out hoarse, throaty. His throat hurt. "Can I get some water?"
No one answered. All right, so no one was around. That wasn't that bad. It meant that no one was waiting for him to get up so they could read him the contents of his jacket, threaten him, arrest him, interrogate him, or lecture him on how grateful he should be that they saved his life. Actually, Fiona and Sam were probably out rescuing Michael. He missed having friends he could count on, sometimes. Or having anyone at all.
All right, no one around. He was in a white room, no black curtains, in a hospital. Strapped to a bed that felt like cheap mass-produced and rough-spun cotton. His mouth was dry but not too dry, which meant he probably wasn't that dehydrated, and he had tubes and needles in his arm, which was probably why. He would have to have been out for a couple of days to be feeling this good after he'd taken a round to the chest. So someone had cut him open and stitched him back up again, and then kept him sedated for the next day or two. Not that he minded, he probably wouldn't have given himself a chance to heal otherwise, but it was making him increasingly agitated.
Which was probably why they had sedated him.
Victor let his head fall back onto the pillow again. Getting healed enough to get out of here would probably take another twenty four hours, but then, oh yeah, he was out of here. He was going to find out what happened to Michael, among other things, and what he needed to do there. From the sound of it, Michael's friends hadn't known if he was alive or dead, which was a plus. Carla's people were gone, or they'd be coming after both of them.
Mostly importantly, he had to find out if "Victor" was dead. Because if Victor was dead, well, it was just time to fade away. Disappear. Start over somewhere else, somewhere new. If Victor was dead...
... well, that just opened up all kinds of interesting possibilities.