Participants:
| Scene Title | A Safe Distance |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Aaron realizes there's a minimum safe distance that any evolved in the Lighthouse needs to abide with Gillian in her condition. |
| Date | May 16, 2010 |
Aaron and Gillian's Room — The Lighthouse
This room used to be a sanctuary of sorts, where Gillian would go to get away from things. It's become less of one these days. Especially these days. For one, she's rarely alone— for two, she's in a lot of pain. The pain killers they had to give her don't nearly help stop the burning that wracks her body. Occasionally, a surge of energy reaches out from her to pulse into the area, opening up the abilities of others, and threatening to make them lose control. Keeping Caleb, Colette and Magnes at a safe distance seems to be the biggest worry.
Lightning, lasers and a black hole are something no one wants right now!
Sitting up as much as she can, shoulders and arms and upper body all wrapped in fresh bandages, she flutters her eyes and looks around. "Jenny?" It's not the first time she's called out for her dead sister…
One of those who makes sure Gillian is never alone saw it fit to give her the whole bed— or most of it anyway. He pulled up a chair, instead, and apparently slept mostly on it, with his upper body sprawled at Gillian's bedside. It can't be comfortable.
Aaron stirs at the sound of the voice, though he isn't conscious until he gives his own wince from the throbbing behind his eyes. It's nothing compared to the pain he imagines Gillian must be experiencing, but it's enough to wake him up at the lightest of sounds. He issues a groan as he rises and straightens in his seat, his hair matted on the one side he was lying on.
"Gilly?"
On the bright side of things, it's not so much emotional pain as it is physical. Or perhaps that's not a bright side. Aaron could do something for emotional pain. Gillian's skin is flushed, the wounds are swollen, and she honestly needed a surgeon for most of them, especially the ones at her stomach. But there's just no way to transport her. Not right now.
"Aaron… hey." She says quietly, closing her eyes again. For a moment, she seems disappointed. She'd hoped it would be Jenny who was at her bedside, but— not right now. Maybe never.
As she instinctively moves one of her bandaged hands, there's a surge of energy, a dark purple glow that shines through the covers, before fading out of sight. "Hailey's okay, right?" she manages raspily, voice weak. It's not the first time she's asked. Not the first time it's been answered.
Aaron's brows furrow. "She's fine. Well, she has a broken leg and feels like shit about what happened, but she'll be OK. Physically." He can't say the same thing for Gillian, which makes him frown. "And children bounce back from emotional shit pretty well, from what I hear." Not that he'd know anything about getting over things, himself.
He pulls his chair closer — as though it can get any closer without being on top of the bed — and places a hand on Gillian's forehead. Somehow, he manages to not frown when he feels how warm she is. "I'd ask how you're feeling, but …" He already knows the answer.
He wants to be furious at her for wandering out there alone without telling anybody — should couldn't possibly have been any more reckless — but he can't be. Which hurts. It nearly makes him shake. Actually, it does make him shake. Not that that's hard. He hasn't been tending to his own needs as of late, opting to stay at Gillian's bedside in case she needs something, his own health be damned.
"I should have waited," Gillian says for him, even if he didn't say outloud what he thought. Every time she tries to move, the pain causes the knot to fall apart, so she just closes her eyes and lays back, trying to focus on it. "I'm not okay— I don't know what…" what's going to happen. At least she can breathe, which is probably more than she might have expected in this case.
"It hurts a lot," she says, tears beginning to rise up. If he touches her cheek to wipe them away, she's got a temperature. Fever and wounds isn't a good sign.
Hearing that Gillian knew she should have waited may not have the effect she intended, if only because Aaron's been thinking that very thing. Over and over. The hand that isn't on her forehead clenches and shakes as he tries to keep his cool. He seems to have a serious problem with anger, and lowers his head when she says she not OK. It's something he already knew, too. Something he doesn't want to accept.
He stands up from the chair and leans over her, brushing the tears away, trying to ignore the heat that's screaming at his pessimistic nature like some sort of taunting demon—haha, you came here and now she's gonna die and there's nothing you can do. When he leans over her, propping himself up on his elbow, he can't hide the horror in his eyes. The pain. The exhaustion. The total and utter lack of hope. Emptiness.
Aaron jerks away and throws his chair across the room. "Son of a…. God dammit."
The chair knocks into the bookshelf, knocking over the radio that she has, the books, a few of her journals fall out onto the floor, but the bookshelf itself doesn't break, not does the chair. It makes a loud crashing sound, one that causes a kid to shriek slightly out in the hall. Gillian actually moves, pushing herself up to look at him, to look at her bookshelf and the chair that got tossed. One item did start to fall, and hits the ground with a crash of cracking glass. A candle holder, with a scented candle inside.
"Aaron…" she says quietly, and then looks up in terror at a new sound, coming from the other side of the door. The bark of a couple dogs. Not bad dogs, the ones from the Lighthouse that once belonged to Eve.
A surge of energy comes from her again, as the knot flies open, seeking out those with abilities, including Aaron.
The barking doesn't do anything for Aaron either. He jumps at the sound, and is momentarily enveloped in Gillian's energy surge. The only benefit from that moment is that his head is no longer throbbing. That and everybody in the Lighthouse is sure to be a bit brighter in spirits now. If that's a good thing.
He quickly makes his way to Gillian's bedside again, kneels on the floor, and grabs her hand. "It's OK, they're the Lighthouse dogs, not the crazy kind." Though he has his own doubt about that. But that's mostly irrational fear. Or maybe only slightly less than rational fear.
"I'm sorry," he says.
It helps make her fear go away, but doesn't calm the dogs down, so much as the yell that can be heard, a soft girlish voice. One of the Lighthouse Girls is calling the dogs back, and they can be heard padding away down the stairs, no longer barking. It'd been a happy bark, not one of horror, but it still, if briefly, started Gillian enough to jump. The bandage on her arm starts looking wet again.
Both of her hands have bandages too, defensive wounds that caught teeth. Much smaller, allowing her to squeeze him gently. "It's okay." It does feel okay— even through the pain. The upset disappearing some, but not all.
"Maybe you shouldn't stay up here all the time…" she says, voice growing weaker, until there's this crackling, like electricity. It sparks around her hand, where they're touching, and she pulls some of the energy back out of him.
"Sorry," she says, as she realizes what she's doing and starts to let go.
Not that pulling the energy out reduces the damage already done. Aaron hesitates before letting her hand go. It hurts to do it, and it's a good thing Gillian doesn't have his ability to see what he's like inside. Not that Aaron can see himself in that special way. He can only imagine, and often wonders how much longer until he looks like that black hole of negativity he spotted last year.
"Don't," he says, but he can already feel the anger roiling again. He takes up her hands again in both of his and kisses them. "I'm sorry." They're the last words he utters before he flees the room. He tries to run away, but there's nowhere to run to.
And there he goes, fleeing the room. Gillian closes her eyes, laying back, and then glances warily at the door, hoping it's fully shut. Cause she just can't handle the dogs or the kids right now— she can't even handle one of her good friends.
There are some things she doesn't want others to see. And her possibly dying is one of them. Even if it means she has to do it alone.