you're a one man shift in the weather

I don't like the Clinic. I'm not too fussy about the whole Compound in general, honestly, but there are answers we need -- sooner, rather than later. I rely on Ellen to get us there in one piece, still disoriented enough from the events of the past few days, real or dreamt up, to get a good grip on my surroundings. My hand rests on her elbow, the other tucked against my chest, hastily wrapped to stop the bleeding from my altercation with the floor. I stop us once we're inside, the familiar stench of antiseptic clogging my nose.

I just hope whoever's in knows what the hell they're doing.

"We need a doctor."

I wake up slowly, a luxury I haven't been afforded in days. Above the smell of exhaust and dust lies the more tantalizing one of fresh baked bread and laundered cotton sheets and the surprisingly nice floral of the hotel shampoo used the night before. The scraping of brooms over the cobblestones outside nudges open my unseeing eyes, and I sit up in the bed, careful to not jostle Ellen.

It's been a whirlwind of two days, but we're finally in Paris. Natasha and I had had this planned out for months before I ever showed up on Tabula Rasa, this strange little failsafe in case, for whatever reason, I decided not to stand trial and prove my innocence. Maybe I'll go back, eventually, but I need to get my bearings. I need to sit back and think -- plan. If Ellen is stuck with me here for good, there are steps we'll need to take, provisions we'll need to consider, and I can't do any of that if I'm stuck in a trial for months on end. In the meantime, I can splurge on a hotel and better clothes than the ones hastily grabbed for a transatlantic flight, and treat Ellen to something nicer than front row seats to my latest battle with the Hand.

I reach a hand to smooth back her hair and press a kiss to her forehead, breathing her in and finding comfort. My back protests at the movement, but I push ahead, uncaring. I don't have use for my injuries anymore. We're safe.

"G'morning."

I'm jostled awake by the truck taking a sharp turn left. My body lurches forward off the hard, metal bench, and the whole box rattles as we hit a pothole. My head snaps back. I hiss, reaching up to soothe the bump, but zip ties bite into my wrists. I'm bound, groggy, whatever drugs they pumped into my system still clogging my senses. Even so…

The darkness has shape.

Over the rumble of the engine I hear two men conversing in muffled tones, the plexiglass between me and them robbing some of the nuance from the conversation. I make do. The guy from Joisey's cursing out Mr. Brooklyn for being a lousy driver with a creativity found only in New York. My head agrees with him. I'll have a lump there for sure by morning…

If I make it to morning.

Groaning, I straighten my posture, letting my shoulders relax back to remove some of the strain on my wrists. My mouth is dry save for the blood dripping out at the corner, metallic and warm. I've been roughed up some, obviously, but I doubt the two morons in the front had anything to do with it. They reek of polyester, cheap coffee and flop sweat: Feds. No, these guys didn't touch me. All they did is seize an opportunity. Only question is, what opportunity. I don't remember a damn thing except for--

The Island.

Was it a dream? The drugs, perhaps? Hadn't I always suspected that none of it was real? Just the byproduct of a cracked mind? An induced hallucination, populated by friends and fictions and the first woman since Milla to accept me as I am? Ellen, with her sweet voice and warm touch, just a figment of my imagination--

No. No, that can't be it, goddammit. I can still smell her for Christ's sake, the barest hint of lavender wrapping me up like a hug. I breathe in deeply and focus, pushing past the drugs and the distractions. I need to get out of here, I need to--

Another pothole. This one brings me to my knees with a grunt that's lost in Joisey's colorful swears. Swaying, I twist my body around to press back against one of the walls of the box, searching for something sharp to start at this damn zip tie, catching, inexplicably, another whiff of lavender. Adrenaline's flooding the drugs out of my veins, my hearing getting sharper by the second, the world around me gaining dimension, and that's when I realize--

I'm not alone back here. Her heartbeat's faint but steady, slowed by sleep and drowned by the incessant rattling. It's the first time I've heard it, but I know without a doubt--

"Ellen. Ellen, wake up."