(no subject)

[fifth_garde]

[He'd drove all night, habitually remembering to drink from the cold flask of cheap coffee he'd picked up from a diner and even more habitually to chew on aspirin. He had to keep the pain in his arm at bay, occasionally it would spasm causing him to jerk the wheel to one side. His eyes were aching, and either that was because of the exhaustion or the emotions which were rattling around in his head, both of which weren't things he was able to take care of right then.

He'd eventually caved in and put on the radio, listening to some random popular music station so he wasn't left with just his own thoughts. He didn't exactly enjoy the music but it was better than utter silence, every now and again he'd press a wad of napkins against his temple, which had crusted over but wasn't entirely finished bleeding yet.

Finally reaching the town he'd left Owen in earlier that day, or actually the day before considering it was now five in the morning, he could've simply ran but he'd either end up running into a wall or phasing half way through one and winding up dead.

He parked the car in the same car park he'd left the BMW and transfers the chest from one trunk to the other, after all he'd rather ditch Al's car for the stolen motor, regardless of the convenience of having a car with actual insurance papers.

Finally he drags himself into the corridors of the hotel, it seeming deadly quiet for the fact it was so early, he vaguely remembers Owen's room number having only seen it once before and slumps against the doorframe, tapping lightly on it and hoping Owen would hear.]

Owen? 's me... I mean, Five, y'there?

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[magicalmishaps.livejournal.com]

[Obviously, there has been no sleeping on Owen's part, and he had only been in bed for a few hours before Jason had called. Instead of sleep, he'd filled the first forty-five minutes with a frantic trip to the nearest twenty-four hour drugstore, where he'd tried hard not to arouse suspicion as he crammed supplies into a basket and hustled them to the till (he'd even had the foresight to use an American accent and pay in cash), then grabbed a taxi back to the hotel.

After that, the time had been filled with pacing. He'd turned the television on and off four times before pitching the remote at the wall in a fit of fruitless pique (the back had come off and the batteries had spilled out onto the floor, but it hadn't broken). He unmade and remade both beds with military precision. He scanned the news for any traces of what had happened to Jason and his Cepan. Mostly, he stewed in his own angst and guilt about not being able to help.

It was, in short, probably the worst five hours of his life since the night his mother had told him that his father and brother were dead, and that they had to run. At least that night he'd been able to do something-- his mother had been there for him to take care of, and they'd been on the move. Now he's alone, and caged in this... Stupid hotel room.

He's hyper-sensitive and keenly attuned to the environment, so he when he hears footfalls outside for the first time in three hours, he sits bolt upright and rushes to the door, yanking it open. He's exhausted, and stressed, and, truth be told, on the wrong side of panic, so when he sees Jason standing in the doorway, looking heartbroken and defeated and bloody, his stomach develops phasing powers of its own and seems to drop right through his body. It only lasts a moment, however, before practicality takes over.]

Inside, quick, before anyone sees you.

[He tugs him inside and shuts the door quickly, assessing his injuries.]

Where are you hurt?