(no subject)

[takecourage]

She's already takenn it by the time she knows she's fucked up. It isn't the first time that she's injectedd -- she tried a lost everything when she was a teenger didn't she? -- but this drug, dreamed into being, is stronger than she expects and she's taken too much, more than she took when she got fucked up with Rue, and, suddenly, it feels like the whole world is at the end of a long tunnel, and she's falling away.

Her phone is in her hand. She doesn't know how it got there. There's one number than she knows how to dial.

Comments

[more_magic]

Technically, he's not supposed to have his phone out when he's at the front desk, some edict handed down by the senior staff all in the name of enhancing the visitor experience, but in practice it's a policy that's roundly ignored by most. In a concession to the rule, if not an acquiescence, Darlington usually keeps his tucked just out of sight, ringer off, left on a pad of paper to muffle the vibration when a text comes through. This last week or so, of course, it's been largely unnecessary--no one in this city other Alex would text him, and with each day he's realizing that's less and less likely to happen again--but the habit's been formed and it's one that's difficult to break.

He doesn't yet know how grateful he'll be for that.

Catching the light of his phone screen out of the corner of his eye, he glances over, everything in him freezing when he sees the name and the picture. It's one he'd taken at Darrowfest, when he hadn't thought she was looking; Alex limned in the golden light of sunset, sitting on a blanket with her chin on her bent knees, serene and beautiful and utterly content. He reaches for it, grabs it, ignoring the whispered there's a group coming hiss of Andrea at the computer next to his with a regrettably dismissive flap of his hand. When he lifts the phone to his ear, it takes effort not to sound too hopeful.

"Alex?"