There’s another sound. Left side. Close. Eliot forces his eyes open against the glare and the sting of the smoke. A shape, then a movement, halting and tense. Then screams.
He jerks upright, a stitch in his side doubling him back over as he stumbles over ruined plaster and wood, before he loses sight of him in the smoke, before he loses his bearings again. Big, heavy, steps like he's wading out, the melted soles of his shoes slipping on debris. His head pulses, making his vision swim, he tries to focus but right now making his body do the things he fucking needs it to do feels like listening to a radio as you drive out of town. Things fading in and out, warping. He fiddles with it to tune back in and gets a wash of noise.
He keeps drifting further out of his body, hauling himself back in by the fistful. Clenched hands and he’s falling down, almost forgetting to open them to break his fall. Hauling himself forward on his elbows to let the guy know he’s here, like he couldn’t possibly have missed Eliot crashing down next to him, rasping out breaths that don’t make it even halfway to words. Some hero. Some rescue.
His ankle feels wrong. He reaches down. His hand comes up wet. Oh. It doesn’t even register as pain. His head feels like it’s full of static now. Out of range of signal. He wants to laugh but he just chokes.
He rolls onto his back and he can see the hole the guy punched through the floor on his way down. He can see the broken balustrade where he hit next. He knows which direction the stairs are now, but it doesn’t matter. He’s pretty damn sure he’s not going to get there. He actually manages to laugh this time.
“Stairs,” he says pointing
“Back, over…” he waves, sucks in a tight breath “there’s tile, then plates, broken, on the ground, I mean. Then…” he doesn’t remember, “Go. Keep going. Then the door to the stairwell.”
“I’m gonna,” he shakes his head, “But I don’t think I’m getting out.”
He gets a good look at the way the guy is holding himself, he looks back up at the ceiling, thinks about it for half a goddamn second. Shame hits him like a fist. “Oh, fuck. Can you— can you move?”
CW: oh haha injuries, implied blood, implied broken bones, dissociation, hopelessness
He jerks upright, a stitch in his side doubling him back over as he stumbles over ruined plaster and wood, before he loses sight of him in the smoke, before he loses his bearings again. Big, heavy, steps like he's wading out, the melted soles of his shoes slipping on debris. His head pulses, making his vision swim, he tries to focus but right now making his body do the things he fucking needs it to do feels like listening to a radio as you drive out of town. Things fading in and out, warping. He fiddles with it to tune back in and gets a wash of noise.
He keeps drifting further out of his body, hauling himself back in by the fistful. Clenched hands and he’s falling down, almost forgetting to open them to break his fall. Hauling himself forward on his elbows to let the guy know he’s here, like he couldn’t possibly have missed Eliot crashing down next to him, rasping out breaths that don’t make it even halfway to words. Some hero. Some rescue.
His ankle feels wrong. He reaches down. His hand comes up wet. Oh. It doesn’t even register as pain. His head feels like it’s full of static now. Out of range of signal. He wants to laugh but he just chokes.
He rolls onto his back and he can see the hole the guy punched through the floor on his way down. He can see the broken balustrade where he hit next. He knows which direction the stairs are now, but it doesn’t matter. He’s pretty damn sure he’s not going to get there. He actually manages to laugh this time.
“Stairs,” he says pointing
“Back, over…” he waves, sucks in a tight breath “there’s tile, then plates, broken, on the ground, I mean. Then…” he doesn’t remember, “Go. Keep going. Then the door to the stairwell.”
“I’m gonna,” he shakes his head, “But I don’t think I’m getting out.”
He gets a good look at the way the guy is holding himself, he looks back up at the ceiling, thinks about it for half a goddamn second. Shame hits him like a fist. “Oh, fuck. Can you— can you move?”