#no one look at my other fucking post I am NOT attempting proust okay

[essektheylyss]

I AM attempting to read at least four books this weekend and that IS ridiculous but alas, here we are.

[nekojitachan]

The Waiting Game

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Okay, so, still working on GiY ch16 (over half done) and then I’m trying to figure out if I’ll do the A/B/O fic or try more Not in the Stars (or maybe even post bits of the Cat!Neil on here), but for some reason I wanted to get this started just so I can throw it in the WIP pile and have a feel for how it’ll go.

Warnings - suicidal thoughts and suicide attempt in the first part (not very descriptive), and vague mention of Andrew’s past.

*******

Andrew counted down the minutes until Johnny would come to unstrap him from his bed, alone in his room at Easthaven Hospital and high on the latest drug cocktail Proust had forced on him. Hmm, something a little different than last time, something that made his thoughts skitter about and concentration fracture and rage burst into tiny bubbles of laughter which floating through his veins until he wanted to claw them out but his hands were strapped down.

Bah.

At least, for the next two hours and twenty-seven minutes. Then he’d put the piece of metal he’d oh-so carefully hoarded and sharpened the last few weeks to good use and slice open those veins and let those annoying bubbles float free and no more laughter, no more drugs, no more anything.

He was done with it, was done with it all. Done putting up with Tilda, with her abuse and neglect (he didn’t know which was worse), with being foisted off to foster homes and the men who would hurt him whenever she fucked up her life more than usual, only to be dumped back on her when she lied well enough to convince Child Services that she had her act together (what a load of bullshit). Done dealing with his homophobic, ‘Christian’ uncle who didn’t believe him about Drake and the others, about Aaron, who locked him up for being a ‘fag’ and a liar’. Done dealing with Proust, who was more messed up than most of the patients in Easthaven. Done with everyone telling him that Aaron didn’t exist.

He was done with everything.

Just a little longer.

He’d taken to humming ‘itsy bitsy spider’ for some reason when there was a strange tension in the air, a feeling similar to right before a powerful thunderstorm was unleashed, and then his ears popped in a painful manner as two figures appeared out of nowhere – literally, one moment they weren’t there and then the next they were. Still strapped to the bed, Andrew tensed at their presence, even when they stepped out of the shadows to reveal themselves to be two young men about the same age as himself dressed in dark jeans and sweaters, one tall and one short, one with black hair and one a redhead, both with pale eyes and handsome features.

The tall one frowned as he turned to his shorter companion and let out a spat of what sounded to be French but not quite; there was something odd about the language, something not quite right. The shorter companion kept his gaze on Andrew, a slight smile on his sharp-featured face, and replied calmly in the same language.

When tall, dark and bitchy started up again, Andrew clicked his tongue. “You’re rather boring for a hallucination,” he called out. “And rude. At least speak English.”

That made tall, dark and bitchy shut up in a hurry and glare at Andrew, while short, redhead and gorgeous merely smiled and nodded once. “Our apologies,” he said in English, his voice a pleasant tenor with a British accent. “My partner’s confused at the moment, as this is a bit of a detour for us.”

“Detour from what?” Andrew asked, curious despite himself (were those eyes blue? A pale blue?), then scoffed when the redhead merely continued to smile while his ‘partner’ glared. “Hmm, these drugs are even more potent than I thought.” What the hell had Proust given him this time?

Oh well, not that it mattered much anymore.

The redhead spoke in the odd language again, clearly to his partner even though he continued to regard Andrew, and after a brief argument where Andrew picked up the name ‘Kevin’ be mentioned, tall, dark and bitchy vanished into thin air.

“Hmm, nice trick. Can you pull a rabbit from a hat, next? How about a pack of cigarettes?” Andrew wouldn’t mind one last smoke before he kicked off the mortal coil, so to speak.

The redhead continued to regard him silently for several seconds (his eyes were pale blue, like the one vase in Cass’s house, or the knitted sweater Miss Nelson had given Andrew when he was eight years old). “You’re going to try to kill yourself tonight, in less than two hours,” the stranger said in that quiet, accented voice.

An indecipherable emotion jolted through Andrew and wiped the manic grin from his face. “How the fuck do you know that?” Was he going to take the makeshift knife away? Rat him out to Proust? “I’ll gut you if you-“

“Don’t do it tonight, it’s not the right time,” the redhead continued, cutting through Andrew’s threats. “Wait two more nights,” he insisted as he stood there in the weak beam of moonlight that flowed through the small, mesh-reinforced window of Andrew’s room. “Two more nights will be better.”

The small bit of rage that Andrew had managed to work up was swallowed by the meds and curiosity. “Why?” he couldn’t help but ask. “Why then?” Why wasn’t the young man telling him not to commit suicide?

Perhaps this was some sort of drug-induced hallucination after all.

The redhead flashed him a grin as he began to poke around Andrew’s room, not that there was much to see considering the strict rules at Easthaven. “Because this isn’t your proper time. Wait two more nights, and that time will begin.” He opened a drawer, stared into it then closed it. “You’ll get the answers you need then, too.” He turned around and leaned against the small dresser as he stared at Andrew. “You’ll get nothing if you end things tonight.”

“That’s it?” Andrew clicked his tongue while he tugged on his wrist restraints once more. “You’re a pretty pathetic hallucination if that’s all you can come up with to make me postpone things two more days when I’m all set.”

“Hmm, true.” The stranger bowed his rather pretty head (at least Andrew’s subconscious was giving him something nice to look at before his end) in acknowledgement before he held up his right hand with two fingers extended. “Something for each day, is that acceptable?” When Andrew nodded, he smiled, which made Andrew tell his hormones to go fuck off, it was just his imagination throwing him a visual bone before he died. “I’ll do something to make your last days here a bit less difficult, and I’ll owe you a favor, a small one.” Judging from the flat look to his eyes, Andrew had better accept those terms.

“Oh, I suppose that’ll do,” Andrew sang out. “Though you’re not much fun for a figment of my imagination. The magic tricks would liven things up a bit.”

The redhead smiled, his expression lopsided, as he stepped away from the dresser. “I’m not known for my sense of humor. Remember, two more days, and when the time comes, you can ask a favor from Abram. A small one.”

“Who the hell calls their kid ‘Abram’?” Andrew mused aloud, but before he asked the entire question, ‘Abram’ was gone.

That was Andrew’s life – a gorgeous, mysterious redhead appears in it, only to turn out to be a figment of his imagination and right before he offed himself. Still, hallucination or not, he’d made a promise so he intended to keep it, and didn’t go for his improvised blade when Johnny finally showed up to undo the restraints.

When he found out in the morning that Proust was out sick with the flu? He didn’t stop laughing for over a half an hour, which the staff put down to his new medication. There was some talk about altering the dosage, but in the end, they strapped him back down for a few hours and left him alone.

He was fine with that.

(Well, not with being restrained, but with the ‘left alone’ part.)

The two days went by quickly, and part of him hoped that Abram would show up again, especially when he retrieved the blade from where he’d stashed it behind the dresser. After several minutes with no odd tension in the air, Andrew shrugged then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal his scarred forearms, and only hesitated a moment before he put the makeshift knife to use.

It hurt, but not any more than what he’d already endured in the past. He welcomed the darkness when it finally dragged him under.

Andrew had planned things so he shouldn’t be found for several hours, so he was understandably confused when he woke up on a comfortable bed in a room unlike any he’d seen so far at Easthaven, dressed in what appeared to be orange scrubs yet were soft and more form-fitting, without any pain in his arms. When he tried to move, he found his body paralyzed.

“Oh, you’re awake!”

It seemed that he wasn’t entirely paralyzed, as he could turn his head to see a woman who appeared to be in her thirties with light blonde hair pulled into a bun approach his bed, a friendly smile on her face; she was dressed in orange ‘scrubs’ as well and a white lab coat.

“Where am I, and why can’t I move?” Andrew asked as he tried to sit up again.

“I’m sorry but it’s standard protocol,” the woman explained as she touched some sort of computer panel near Andrew’s bed. “All new patients are, uhm, similarly restrained until they’re informed about what’s going on. The others will be here in a moment.” She gave Andrew a nervous smile. “I’m Abby, Abby Winfield, and you’re all right. You’re safe here.”

She did something to raise the upper part of the bed he lay on, so he could see that he was in a room full of monitors and touch screen panels, was in something that looked right out of a science fiction movie. Just as he opened his mouth to tell her to let him go or else, three people entered the room through a sliding door – an older man with dark skin and grey-shot black hair, a younger man with similar features but a lighter skin tone, and a middle-aged woman with grey-shot brown, curly hair. The two older adults wore a mix of orange, white and black, while the younger man wore all black and had something on his left cheek.

“He’s up at last?” the old man called out as he approached Andrew; his orange shirt was sleeveless, which left the tribal flame tattoos on his forearms exposed. “It’s about time.”

“Let me go before I break everything in here, including the four of you,” Andrew gritted out; he realized as the anger at being helpless in front of strangers (let alone still alive) built inside of him that the damn drugs were no longer in his system.

He began to suspect that he might not be in Easthaven anymore, and that Abram wasn’t a hallucination.

The young guy (was that a ‘2’ on his cheek?) shook his head. “There’s protocols we have to follow and-“

“Andrew – may I call you Andrew?” the woman with the brown hair asked as she held up her hands in a placating manner; she gazed steadily at Andrew in a way that made him focus on her and eventually nod. “Thank you. It is practice to keep all new recruits restrained at first, but I can tell that you don’t like it. If you promise to behave while we explain things to you, I’ll undo them.”

“Betsy, I don’t think that’s-“

The woman – Betsy, apparently - waved aside the others’ concern and continued to gaze at Andrew until he nodded in agreement. Once he did, she looked at Abby until the woman (a doctor?) did something with one of the panels, and suddenly Andrew could move again. He slowly tested out his arms and legs then sat up some more while he pulled back the left sleeve of his shirt.

The wounds he’d inflicted on his inner forearm were gone.

Abby noticed what he’d done as she slowly approached the bed with a glass of what appeared to be water. “The nanites healed your injuries as well as removed the drugs from your system. Here, you’re probably thirsty.” When he merely stared at her, she set it on the small table near the bed. “It’s just water, I promise.”

“You’ve met Abby, and I’m Betsy Dobson,” Betsy explained as she went to stand at the foot of Andrew’s bed. “This is David Wymack and Kevin Day.” She motioned to the old man first and then the young hothead; Andrew’s eyes narrowed at the mention of ‘Kevin’. “Kevin was the one who went back to your time and brought you here after you attempted suicide.”

“My time,” Andrew murmured while he thought about how Abram and his partner had appeared out of thin air, how Abram had mentioned it not being Andrew’s ‘proper time’.

“Look, kid, time travel is real,” Wymack said with what was probably meant to be a kind expression. “You’re not in the twenty-first century anymore, but the thirty-seventh. Long story short, shit started to go down by the end of the twenty-first centry and the world got fucked up. While some things are better now, some things aren’t and the population is one of them. After some geniuses figured out a stable way to travel through time,” Andrew noticed how Kevin twitched right then, “others came up with the idea of going back for things that wouldn’t be missed. Sometimes that’s items, and sometimes that’s people.” He looked Andrew up and down. “You’re one of those people.”

Andrew realized that he didn’t crave a cigarette any longer and wondered if those ‘nanites’ had fixed that for him, too.

“Aah, did we break him?” Wymack asked Betsy after a minute’s silence.

“No, from the research I’ve done on him, Andrew’s the taciturn type, especially in a situation like this. I’d say that he’s taking everything in so he can make an informed decision,” Betsy said as she continued to regard Andrew.

He gave her a two-fingered salute in return and picked up the glass of ‘water’, from which he took a careful sip; when nothing adverse happened, he cleared his throat then spoke. “So who are you?” he asked Wymack, since the old man seemed to be in charge.

The question made the old man stand up straighter and fold his tattooed arms over his chest. “David Wymack, leader of the Foxes, which means nothing to you, I know. What I do with Abby’s and Betsy’s help is find kids like you who deserve a second chance and bring ‘em here, then put them to work on that whole ‘going back in time for items that won’t be missed’ thing.”

“And if I don’t want to join your gang?” Andrew asked as he held on to the glass; it didn’t feel normal, so probably some sort of polymer, but it was still a potential weapon if thrown.

“Then once Abby gives the all clear, we help set you up on your own,” Wymack told him without any obvious tells that he was lying. “But you came as a recommendation, so….”

Before Andrew could speak, Kevin jumped in, a tablet in his hand which he appeared to read from. “Andrew Joseph Minyard, born 1984 in Oakland, California to Tilda Mary Minyard, nee Hemmick, no name listed under ‘father’. Indication of above intelligence IQ but never formally tested, five stints in foster homes while your mother faced charges of drug possession or child abandonment. When you were thirteen years old, the two of you moved to Columbia, South Carolina to live with your maternal uncle, where you sent to multiple counselors for ‘anger management issues’ until being admitted to Easthaven for destructive and delusional behavior shortly before your eighteenth birthday.” He looked at Andrew as he set the device on a table. “I came for you when you attempted suicide; you were close to death so it was easy to leave a body double we’d prepped for the event, especially since we know they won’t be thorough in an investigation into your death considering the circumstances and the institution in question.”

There had been looks of pity sent Andrew’s way from Abby and Wymack at the brief summary of his lousy life, which he ignored. “Why me?” That was what he wanted to know; he could ignore the improbability of the whole ‘time travel’ thing for the moment, he wanted to know why him.

Why bother to waste so much time (ha) and energy on a broken piece of flesh like him?

Why had Abram showed up the other night for him?

“Because someone like you won’t be missed,” Wymack said as he rested his knuckles on a table and leaned forward. “Your family will be eager to put your death behind them and move on, and Easthaven too – just another statistic they’ll want to bury.”

Harsh, but true; only Nicky would miss him, Andrew knew. And no one would listen to Nicky.

“It’s been worked down to a science, you could say,” Kevin explained as he rubbed the back of his left hand, which Andrew just realized was covered with a fine mesh of gold wire melded into his light brown skin. “The best types of people to retrieve from the past – those whose families won’t look into their deaths or disappearances, or those who die in accidents resulting in unrecoverable bodies or bodies easy to replace with copies.”

“And if we’re to be perfectly honest, bringing forth people with some sort of mental or physical trauma is thought to be ideal, as we’re taking them from an undesirable place and giving them a new beginning,” Betsy added. “I’m not fully onboard with that, but it’s also in part why you were selected.”

Andrew gave her another salute for that then thought about his options; no one said he could go back to his own time, which really, not a good idea (Proust, Luther, Easthaven). The only ‘good’ thing back there was Nicky, who was just as fucked up as him thanks to Luther.

Here? Where the mysterious Abram said was ‘his time’? He was free of the drugs, of Easthaven (of Proust), had people who appeared willing to be honest with him and to offer him a job (of stealing things from the sound of it, not that he cared). A new beginning.

He also was owed one favor (a small one) from the mysterious Abram, who so far had kept his word.

Andrew clicked his tongue as he folded his legs. “There better be decent benefits with this gig, and I refuse to wear orange.”

Abby and Betsy smiled while Kevin appeared offended and Wymack sighed. “Somehow I knew you’re going to be a difficult one.” He nodded once to Abby then straightened up. “Let me know when the midget’s cleared so I can have Kevin show him around.” He sighed again when Andrew gave him the middle finger.

Andrew fell back against the pillows while Abby chided Wymack about being rude and Betsy offered to provide him with information about his new ‘world’, and thought about how no one had mentioned why he’d been brought to the Foxes’ attention. No one had mentioned Abram and his bitchy partner.

*******

I guess I get to it when I get to it.

One thing - years ago I read this short story in some sci fi collection where there was a character who’d been brought from the past to the future and whose job was to go into the past to steal things before they were destroyed. So that’s the inspiration for this story. I wish I still had that book (it’s the only story in it that really stayed with me), but sadly, with moving about it was handed off to a better home.

There’s reasons for Neil as Abram and Jean with him (just partners!), and obviously end goal as Andreil. I’m having fun with the small twists here.