argentum_ls (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
argentum_ls) wrote2012-08-01 09:42 am
argentum_ls) wrote2012-08-01 09:42 am
Fanfic: Silence [The Listener]
Title: Silence
Fandom: The Listener
Rating: PG
Length: 800
Author notes: For the Communication challenge at![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fan_flashworks and for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
angst_bingo prompt: head trauma. This is also my first fic in this fandom.
Warnings: None.
Summary: After an injury, Toby experiences quiet in his head for the first time.
White flares behind his eyes, a flare that is both infinite and instant, and just when he thinks it’s about to end, it starts over. He rests in that flare forever, no other thought crossing through the brightness. The flare is emptiness and endlessness, and there’s no room for anything else in the utter silence it creates. Never has there been so much quiet in his head.
He blinks.
The consuming white disappears. A doctor is standing over him. She clicks off the light she had been shining in his eyes and steps back from his bed, the sleeves of her white coat swishing across the sheet.
“It’s good to see you awake,” she says. Her brown eyes are tired and strained, yet the relief that passes over them is sincere. She has long black hair with the side locks pulled back from falling into her face, and she smiles at him like he’s someone important to her. His body and head ache in ways that suggest much greater pain being suppressed behind powerful drugs, and he briefly wonders how he knows what that feels like.
Though he tries, he can’t turn his head. He wants to get a clear look at the room, even though the smells of antiseptic and flowers leave no doubt where he is. He’s stuck on his back, staring up at the ceiling save for what he can bring into view as he rolls his eyes around. Then the doctor asks another question, and it’s not so much that he doesn’t hear it as it slips from his memory as soon as he does. He doesn’t know if he answers it.
He blinks.
The doctor is replaced with a stout man wearing a dark blue paramedic’s uniform. The man is standing next to the bed, kneading his fingers together, his leg jittering so hard that the vibrations shudder through the frame. He’s also dark haired and dark eyed and dark complexioned. “Thank Allah,” he says. His leg stops jittering. “Olivia said you should make a full recovery; she’s a great doctor and all, but I had to see it for myself.” He sucks in a deep breath, then seems to run out of words and is left staring at the bed for a long, silent stretch that quickly becomes uncomfortable.
He tries to speak, to offer some kind of reassurance and discovers then that his throat is blocked. He manages a rough gurgle before it occurs to him that the blockage is a breathing tube, and if one of those is being used, he shouldn’t be fighting it. The breathing machine next to him compresses and depresses with regular whooshes that he’s long since tuned out. He’s surprised by how scared he isn’t, though he thinks that might change when he’s able to think better.
“Everything is going to be OK, right, buddy?” the guy asks. “Everything?” The guy sketches a circle around his temple with one finger and raises his eyebrows meaningfully, only the meaning isn’t clear at all.
Before he can puzzle it out he blinks.
The room is darker when he opens his eyes again and he senses that a lot of time has passed. The occupant in his room has changed yet again. This time it’s a tall black man with short cropped hair and a stern demeanor. He’s wearing jeans and a sweater and is watching from the foot of the bed. He stands up straight when he realizes that he’s being watched back. “You gave us a scare there,” he announces. Fuzziness swallows some of what he says, then clears up for the next: “I want you to know that everyone’s looking out for you. You need to concentrate on getting better.” It’s an order from a guy used to giving directions, and there’s no doubt that this one is meant to be followed, too.
The man licks his lips as if to buy time while searching for more to say. His eyes travel up the bed, but come to a stop right around the top edge of the sheet. “In case you’re wondering,” he continues, “Oz is fine. Not a scratch on him. He helped hold down the gunman until the police could arrive.”
None of what’s been said sounds familiar, and for the first time he finds himself wondering who these people are, what they’re talking about, whom they’re talking to. He’s not able to answer their questions or concerns, has only an inkling that he might not be able to. It’s a tiny thread of thought, one he doesn’t yet feel strong enough to follow.
He blinks.
The white that flares behind his eyes washes out everything, sweeping over him like a rush of water to distort and drown. All that’s left is emptiness and silence.
Fandom: The Listener
Rating: PG
Length: 800
Author notes: For the Communication challenge at
fan_flashworks and for angst_bingo prompt: head trauma. This is also my first fic in this fandom.Warnings: None.
Summary: After an injury, Toby experiences quiet in his head for the first time.
White flares behind his eyes, a flare that is both infinite and instant, and just when he thinks it’s about to end, it starts over. He rests in that flare forever, no other thought crossing through the brightness. The flare is emptiness and endlessness, and there’s no room for anything else in the utter silence it creates. Never has there been so much quiet in his head.
He blinks.
The consuming white disappears. A doctor is standing over him. She clicks off the light she had been shining in his eyes and steps back from his bed, the sleeves of her white coat swishing across the sheet.
“It’s good to see you awake,” she says. Her brown eyes are tired and strained, yet the relief that passes over them is sincere. She has long black hair with the side locks pulled back from falling into her face, and she smiles at him like he’s someone important to her. His body and head ache in ways that suggest much greater pain being suppressed behind powerful drugs, and he briefly wonders how he knows what that feels like.
Though he tries, he can’t turn his head. He wants to get a clear look at the room, even though the smells of antiseptic and flowers leave no doubt where he is. He’s stuck on his back, staring up at the ceiling save for what he can bring into view as he rolls his eyes around. Then the doctor asks another question, and it’s not so much that he doesn’t hear it as it slips from his memory as soon as he does. He doesn’t know if he answers it.
He blinks.
The doctor is replaced with a stout man wearing a dark blue paramedic’s uniform. The man is standing next to the bed, kneading his fingers together, his leg jittering so hard that the vibrations shudder through the frame. He’s also dark haired and dark eyed and dark complexioned. “Thank Allah,” he says. His leg stops jittering. “Olivia said you should make a full recovery; she’s a great doctor and all, but I had to see it for myself.” He sucks in a deep breath, then seems to run out of words and is left staring at the bed for a long, silent stretch that quickly becomes uncomfortable.
He tries to speak, to offer some kind of reassurance and discovers then that his throat is blocked. He manages a rough gurgle before it occurs to him that the blockage is a breathing tube, and if one of those is being used, he shouldn’t be fighting it. The breathing machine next to him compresses and depresses with regular whooshes that he’s long since tuned out. He’s surprised by how scared he isn’t, though he thinks that might change when he’s able to think better.
“Everything is going to be OK, right, buddy?” the guy asks. “Everything?” The guy sketches a circle around his temple with one finger and raises his eyebrows meaningfully, only the meaning isn’t clear at all.
Before he can puzzle it out he blinks.
The room is darker when he opens his eyes again and he senses that a lot of time has passed. The occupant in his room has changed yet again. This time it’s a tall black man with short cropped hair and a stern demeanor. He’s wearing jeans and a sweater and is watching from the foot of the bed. He stands up straight when he realizes that he’s being watched back. “You gave us a scare there,” he announces. Fuzziness swallows some of what he says, then clears up for the next: “I want you to know that everyone’s looking out for you. You need to concentrate on getting better.” It’s an order from a guy used to giving directions, and there’s no doubt that this one is meant to be followed, too.
The man licks his lips as if to buy time while searching for more to say. His eyes travel up the bed, but come to a stop right around the top edge of the sheet. “In case you’re wondering,” he continues, “Oz is fine. Not a scratch on him. He helped hold down the gunman until the police could arrive.”
None of what’s been said sounds familiar, and for the first time he finds himself wondering who these people are, what they’re talking about, whom they’re talking to. He’s not able to answer their questions or concerns, has only an inkling that he might not be able to. It’s a tiny thread of thought, one he doesn’t yet feel strong enough to follow.
He blinks.
The white that flares behind his eyes washes out everything, sweeping over him like a rush of water to distort and drown. All that’s left is emptiness and silence.