Chapter Text
"Chop, chop, my dear. Clock is ticking and you were supposed to be off fifteen minutes ago."
Magnus looks around the ward, choosing to ignore Cat's frantic poking at the tablet in her hand, a seemingly inefficient way of trying to get it to cooperate.
"Does it look like I'm about to get out of here anytime soon?" she replies, her tone bordering mockful. Magnus pointedly ignores that too — she'd promised to accompany him to the Pandemonium after her shift. Even if Magnus knows he is being a tad bit selfish for even asking her in the first place, it doesn't diminish his desperate need for a friend. Or more, the need to not be alone. It's that time of the year, when there is an itch inside him, that feeling of slowly suffocating.
He shrugs this feeling off, of course. Shove it down deep, carefully sealing the lid because then it is not there, yet constantly at the back of his mind. He's also aware that Cat's already suspicious, she would never have agreed to accompany him in the first place otherwise. Thankfully, she has the delicate touch of knowing when to prod and when to leave Magnus to deal with his own demons. She trusts him to come to her when he needs to— he always does.
"No need to get snappy," he mutters, and he can feel rather than see Cat's eye roll.
Magnus' eyes land on a bed he can see through an open door across from the nurses' station. He's well aware he shouldn't stare, but there's something about the person lying in that bed that immediately intrigues him. Magnus cranes his neck a little, enough to be able to see around the curtain. It seems to be a male, and he's hooked up with all sorts of tubes and machines Magnus knows nothing about.
"He's a John Doe." Cat bumps her shoulder against his.
Magnus shakes his head lightly and, to his horror, he feels himself flush with the heat of getting caught. "Who?" he asks, shifting his stance slightly against the counter behind him, trying to look casually nonchalant about the whole thing.
Cat tries — and fails — to hide a smile and shakes her head before nodding in the direction of the man on the bed. "The man over in that bed, the one you were staring at."
"I didn't stare," Magnus denies indignantly.
"Yeah, right," she scoffs. "You didn't even hear me when I was talking to you."
Magnus' eyes travel back to the man on the bed. "John Doe, you said?"
"Yes." Now, all the teasing is gone from her voice, as she sighs before putting down the tablet for a second. "He came in two days ago, no ID and badly injured. We're simply glad he's not suffering from any fatal injuries. We're still waiting for him to wake up."
Something stirs inside Magnus, a flutter he hasn't felt for many years now. "So, he's all alone?"
Cat nods.
Magnus swallows and the words are out of his mouth before his mind can neither register or stop them. "Can I sit with him while I wait for you?"
Cat raises a surprised eyebrow, but is wise enough not to comment on Magnus' sudden interest. "Of course," she says instead. "And you know, feel free to talk to him. I don't care what research might say. In my book, talking to comatose people always helps their recovery."
Now it is Magnus' turn to nod, although he never lets this stranger out of his sight. Almost reverent, he leaves Cat and pads into the room, pulling up a chair next to the bed.
Up close, Magnus catalogs the injuries on the man's face. His hair is tousled under a bandage wrapped around his head, both eyes are swollen shut, and a deep purple color is spreading down over the cheeks and jaw that are seemingly thrice their size. The nose is a little crooked underneath the swelling. Both lips are split several times and chapped in a way Magnus knows must sting.
"Hi," Magnus says, a little nervously. He berates himself for being ridiculous. He knows how to hold a conversation, and being the one doing all the talking has never been a problem before. And yet, he silences after that greeting and sits there, taking in the beeping sounds of the machines. He watches the slow and steady rise and fall of the man's chest as the machine keeps him breathing.
"This is a little awkward," Magnus chuckles. "You don't know me, but I thought I might keep you company, at least for now. I have this thing against people being alone in hospitals. My friend has a theory as to why, but I won't be bothering you with her nonsense," he blabbers before snapping his mouth shut.
He doesn't continue, a small sigh escapes his lips as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he studies the man.
"Who are you?" he whispers, and can't resist reaching out to stroke a strand of hair falling over the badly swollen and bruised eye.
He doesn't get an answer, of course, the only sound in the room is the one coming from the machines keeping this stranger alive. Magnus glances over at Cat, who still has her nose deep into the tablet. It's fine, all of a sudden. Magnus feels rather comfortable sitting here. If his presence gives this man a chance to wake up, who is Magnus to deny him that? It's not like he doesn't have the time.
"Very well," he says, the words ringing out into the silence, "let me tell you about how I ended up here, at your bedside, instead of a dancefloor."
He launches himself into a story, ignoring the feeling of being completely ridiculous for speaking out loud like this. If he can help this man, he will. End of story.
~~ || ~~
Slowly, he's coming back to consciousness, it's almost like a rusty old train coming to life. It's not his first time waking up from unconsciousness, but it's a first to be met with darkness — complete and utter darkness. His mind is light, almost as if it is stuffed with cotton candy and as the fog slowly recedes around his thoughts, he figures out he's not in pain. At least not a pain he's used to. This is more of a phantom feeling, something unreal.
He opens his eyes, but nothing happens. It's almost as if his body refuses to obey his mind. He switches focus, trying to lift his hand to rub his eyes, but there's still no response.
By now, his heart should be racing. He should be able to feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins — but there's nothing.
He takes a deep breath to steady his mind, but it turns out to be more of a metaphorical one.
He can't breathe.
And it's not like he's slowly suffocating, no, it's more about him not controlling his own breathing. He holds his breath but to no avail. He is simply existing in this darkness.
It's dark, he can't breathe, and he can't move.
He won't panic.
He can't — he's trained better than that.
Figuring out what's happened to him, that's more important. That's the only way he can get out of here.
From wherever he is — where he doesn't even have to think about something as fundamental as breathing. Nothing they had done recon for, no scenario they'd played out, had ended like this.
It shouldn't fucking be able to happen. They had failed.
Maybe it was a mistake, maybe it was set up, a trap. He's furious with himself for letting it happen.
The sound of footsteps reaches him and his mind instantly zeros in on that instead. He hasn't lost all of his senses.
Good to know.
Now that he's listening intently for more sounds, there are ones other than footsteps around him. They are all unfamiliar, but also not. There's a beeping, constant and regular, so is that whooshing sound. Everything coming from his left. In the distance he hears doors opening and closing, and what sounds like low voices chattering.
A stool scrapes the floor somewhere close to his right, his mind immediately on high alert again. If someone is about to sit down, they must know him. Maybe he'll get some answers.
"Hi," an unfamiliar voice says.
Fuck.
His mind is not only dropping by the unfamiliarity, it also unhelpfully registers how deep and smooth this new voice is. Which should be troublesome, because he doesn't know this person. He should want to fight — this might very well be the one responsible for putting him in this state. And yet, for some reason it immediately makes him feel at ease.
It's like the air around them settles into a calm he's never experienced before. Against all of his natural instincts and better judgment, he decides to trust this person.
Hi.
Assessing what he learnt so far, he assumes there's no way the other person can actually hear him. But hope is still there, lingering.
What happened to me?
A silence stretches out between them.
Can you hear me?
When there's still no answer, even if he knew, something inside him breaks. There's no easing into it, it crashes into him with the subtleness of a freight train: he is in fact trapped in his body somehow.
"This is a little awkward," the other person chuckles. The velvety voice stutters a little, but from what he can gather, it's a man talking to him. "You don't know me, but I thought I might keep you company, at least for now. I have this thing against people being alone in hospitals. My friend has a theory as to why, but I won't be bothering you with her nonsense."
Hospitals?
Where are the others?
Where am I?
Questions are popping into his head with a concerning speed — it's a good thing, though. It's keeping him from spiraling entirely. If he's in a hospital, where are the others? And what had happened to them? Is he the only one in this state, or are they all in the same situation?
If so, how the hell is he supposed to get out of here?
"Who are you?" the voice whispers then.
That is at least a question he knows the answer to. Even if it's to no avail, he can't help but answer.
Alec. Alec Lightwood.