Work Text:
The doctor guided him to the door of the medical wing, grip on his arm firm but gentle. Well, Jack supposed it was gentle, because at the moment it felt like a vise, like she was crushing his arm in her hands, even though he knew that wasn’t true. So, her grip had to be gentle, and Jack reined in the howl of pain that threatened to erupt, knew that wouldn’t be appreciated in the long, echoing hallways of the base. He had heard other soldiers scream in pain before, and the sound tended to reverberate down the long, smooth walls, eerie and magnified.
“We’ll let you know when you’re next injection will be,” the doctor said, releasing him. He swayed slightly but managed to stay upright. Her voice was too loud in his head, with a strange quality to it that sounded like audio feedback right below the level of her words. Jack wanted to cover his ears but knew that wouldn’t do anything, would be too unprofessional.
“Yes, ma’am,” he heard himself say, and his voice was so quiet, almost breathy, like it was coming from the top of a mountain and had gotten lost in the trees on the way down. He watched her nod at him before turning around and going back through the swinging double doors of the wing and leaving him alone.
Jack turned and faced the hallway. The walls were a uniform, nearly featureless gray, brightly lit by stark lights overhead. A few doors dotted the walls, all of them locked. Jack knew. He had fallen against every single one of them in the past as he’d walked down this hallway towards his room. Today would be no different.
Taking a deep breath (which hurt, oh god, it was agony, had he dislocated a rib during the injection process? Was it stabbing into his lungs?), Jack began walking down the hallway. Well, it was more like falling, honestly, and he quickly veered towards one of the walls, leaning against it for support.
His quarters were a seven minute walk from the medical wing, but that was on a good day. He knew from experience that on days like today, his quarters were actually a minimum thirty minute walk away. Today felt like it was going to be longer..
Jack tried to concentrate on his steps, on putting one foot forward, then the other, incrementally making his way down the hall without collapsing. He felt nauseous, even though he hadn’t eaten anything for over twenty-four hours--a requirement before any injection session. Pausing, he threw up, a thin watery bile that burned his throat and nose as he retched. Grimacing, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to step around the puddle as carefully as possible.
God, his skin itched, like it was crawling over his body, stinging and terrible. Jack wanted to scratch, knew he could barely get the strength in his fingers to do so, scraping uselessly at his arms as he stumbled forward. He just had to--had to keep moving, that was all. Just had to keep pushing forward.
The symptoms worsened the farther he got, dizziness and a splitting headache throwing the world into endless motion around him, like he was on a spinning amusement park ride and couldn’t get off. The hallway spun and undulated ahead of him, making the nausea worse, and his stomach rumbled ominously. There was nothing left to vomit up, though, and Jack kept moving on. He swore he could feel his muscles and bones stretching, thickening, shifting inside him, like he was undergoing some sort of parody of a werewolf transformation right there in the hallway. He took a step and stumbled, fell to his knees, his feet suddenly unresponsive to his brain.
The door to his quarters was so close, just a few hundred feet more, and Jack crawled, dragged himself along like an infant, clothes sliding against the polished floor with soft noises, ssshhhh, sssshhhhh , like he was back in the library in middle school and Ms. Schlottmann told him and Henry Johnson to be quiet.
Unbearable heat and freezing cold flashed through his body, leaving him shivering, like his bones were hollow, could barely support his weight. He alternated temperature at random, felt his shins burning like he was experiencing growing pains again, but this was so much worse than puberty. The heat zipped along his nerves, scorching them into dust, and the cold came behind it, slower, like an army advancing on the front lines. It was all he could do to reach a hand forward, drag his body, his mind a maelstrom of pain. Please , he thought, pleasepleaseplease . He wasn’t sure what he was asking for anymore.
There was a door in front of him. Jack tried to push it open, failed. His head thumped against the solid surface in defeat. Everything was still spinning, even when he closed his eyes. He tried to lay himself on his side so he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit if he threw up again. He was just going to--just going to rest for a few moments, build up enough strength to push open the door. Heat ripped through him, a desert storm in his bones, and he whimpered, gritting his teeth. Just a few more moments.
The door opened--had Jack done that? He couldn’t remember telling his body to do that, but he couldn’t remember much at the moment. Its hinges squeaked slightly.
“Shit, Jackie,” he heard a voice say above him. He knew that voice, recognized it from somewhere--it thundered through his head, too loud, too close even though it came from far away. Jack winced, curling his body into the floor. If he made himself smaller, everything would hurt less, right?
He was picked up, the change in equilibrium sudden and jarring. Jack leaned over as much as he could in the person’s arms, throwing up again onto the floor. Guess there was still something in there he thought hazily. The person holding him cursed. Jack finally recognized the voice.
“S’rry, Gabe,” he slurred, his tongue too big for his mouth.
“S’all right, Jackie,” Gabriel said. “They fucked you up good this time, huh?” His arms felt cool and strong against Jack’s overheated, oversensitive skin. He whimpered an agreement, unable to do more.
“Let’s get you in bed,” Gabriel said, carefully placing Jack on top of his mattress, the sheets and blanket already pulled away. Jack cracked his eyes open. Gabriel’s face was blurry but there, not spinning alongside the rest of the room. Jack closed his eyes again as Gabriel covered him with the blanket.
“I’m gonna put a glass of water next to you for when you wake up,” he heard Gabriel say. His skin was still crawling, but Gabriel couldn’t do anything about that. “I’ll try to be here too, but I can’t promise anything.” He made to leave the room, the door clicking open softly.
Jack gathered his strength, forced himself to roll over, pushing down the gasp of pain that accompanied the action. “Wait,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “Please--” he cut off, coughing, a string of bile dripping from his stinging lips. “Please stay,” he finally said, looking at Gabriel through cracked eyes. Gabriel crossed the room again, dragged a chair next to Jack’s bed. Jack extended one of his hands, sighing as Gabriel took it in his own calloused palm.
“Thank you,” Jack whispered, closing his eyes. He hoped sleep would come soon. He heard Gabriel take out a book, thumb stroking along the ridge of Jack’s fingers where they were held in his own. A hot and cold flash came and went, left him shivering in their wake.
“Go to sleep, Jack,” he heard Gabriel say. Like he had been waiting for the order, Jack drifted off.
He woke to Gabriel sleeping in the chair, their hands still clasped together.