Chapter Text
Leaving him wouldn’t be killing him, Iris reasoned with herself. Walking away, jumping into the driver's seat of the stolen truck, and riding off as if nothing had transpired wouldn’t be wrong. Calling the cops, tearfully recounting the events of her early day, and standing by until they arrived wouldn’t be a disservice to anyone, least of all herself.
No, all of those things, those options, those choices—they’re all reasonable. Painfully reasonable.
So to call her stupid, to think she’d lost it, for discarding all such ideas would be similarly justifiable.
A phlegmy cough cut through Iris's inner turmoil as she loaded—or rather, did her best to do so—the nameless man into the stolen truck. Her arms were wound tight around his midsection, squeezing more than necessary as she walked backward on unsteady feet.
The man, Richard, Andrew, likely neither, let out another devastating sound as she began to climb into the truck herself, dragging him along with her. It was something in between a cough and a retch. Drowning in his own blood, she guessed.
The sound continued up until she was sat, back straight, in the driver’s seat, and he slouched in the passenger seat. Her arms unwound from his torso. Untangled from one another momentarily.
Finally , she thought, letting go of a breath that must have been lodged in her throat since their meeting had turned sour. She spared a glance in his direction, their chests similarly rising and falling. His was distinctly more erratic, however, on account of the blood she was sure had been backtracking into his throat and, every so often, breaching his airway and filling his lungs.
A glass half-full, or a glass half-empty? Maybe he didn’t care either way. His wide eyes, however, the shapes of a full moon, suggested otherwise.
He managed to sputter again, a spray of blood painting the dashboard in red speckles. Better get going . The nearest hospital was, despite being the nearest, miles and miles away.
Before Iris could deliberate any further, she reached for the seatbelt on Richard’s side, stretching her body across the console. Their clothes brushed for a brief moment, no skin to her relief, and as soon as she heard the soft click of the seat belt locking, she skittered away, landing heavily in the driver’s seat.
Sure, she’d had to be far closer to get him into the truck, but her adrenaline had still been at an all-time high then, pumping through her blood at lighting speed and electrifying her nerves. She’d scarcely realized what she’d done until they were in the truck and the high had all but settled into staticky pin-pricks.
Even choking on his own blood, even bleeding dry onto the pleather seats, there was no telling what he might do. Could still do.
All the same, she’d made her choice. Not a reasonable one, but a choice, nonetheless.
She allowed herself one final sigh before she brought the car to life with the turn of a key, a great rumbling roar telling her as much. She quickly put it into reverse with a trembling hand and maneuvered them to be heading in the direction of the hospital. Back on the road, on the move.
Her eyes roved across the tree line and counted the fading brush strokes on the pavement as the truck stuttered along—the only sound to fill the silence the rumbling engine and the sputtering of the man next to her. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Iris felt the tenseness in her muscles ease up just a little bit. Relax.
And it was then, as she was peeking at her Apple watch, checking for a signal, that he spoke. Richard. Andrew. The nameless man. “Thank you,” he croaked with a tilt of his head in her direction, his gaze following the motion. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second as a result, grey on brown, and her muscles formed back into solid blocks of concrete. “So-o-o unoriginal.”
Iris almost laughed at that, and then a word, strung up in bright lights, beckoned her from across the way: hypocrite .
A flare of annoyance stirred, presenting itself in a soft huff. Her nose wrinkled, and her hands tightened around the wheel. He was still staring at her, practically burning a hole through the side of her head, when she bit back. “The world takes what it wants.”
“Broken doesn’t have to mean hopeless.”
“All you do is repurpose stories,” she ground out, “like a used fucking car salesman. You dress it up nice, shove it down someone's throat, and they buy it for some damned reason.”
Iris couldn’t see him now, refused to. Despite that, she’s sure he had rolled his eyes. It seemed a perfect moment to do so, and going down the checklist chock-full of all the things she’d learned about him, in character. She found herself hoping that he had. That she’d annoyed him.
“I guess the spiel worked on you to–” all of a sudden the car jerked toward the left, hard and fast. It propelled Richard forward and forced the seatbelt to dig into his ribs. Iris was quick to right this wrong, though not without giving Andrew a sideways glance first. He’d slammed into the door as well, which appeared to be the final straw. He was coughing up his insides again, a thick globule of blood and saliva dripping down his chin.
A second spray of blood and a few choked-up breaths later, they were as prim and proper as they could be. Richard was, anyhow. Iris had been just fine throughout the little hiccup. “Point taken,” he slurred.
She really should have given this more thought.
–
They’d just pulled into the parking lot, the drive having been fairly silent since Iris had, in a way, knocked some sense into Richard. That’s if you discount the increasingly ragged gasps for air paired with wet wheezing coming from the man. He’s dying , she notes with a tug on her lip. He should be dying alone , comes the next thought.
She presses hard on the gas pedal, then, no doubt exceeding the meager 20 mph speed limit. She’d already gone this far, she reasoned with herself. No sense in turning tail and letting the effort go to waste.
It was with a screech and the frantic cursing of medical staff that she pulled up to the emergency doors. There was shouting, a bang on the hood of the vehicle, but Iris ignored it all. With ever-trembling hands, she fidgeted with Richard’s seatbelt, eventually unbuckling him with a frustrated grunt.
“He needs help!” she shouted over the two men present, stumbling out of the truck.
A blonde and a brunette, the latter clean-shaven and the former not so much. Their hands reached for her, their voices muffled as they were lost in the sea of panicked thoughts bouncing around her skull.
She had one thing, and one thing in mind: keeping him alive. Richard, Andrew, the nameless man. She rounded the back end of the truck, the slick-backed blonde following her while the long-haired brunette rushed the other way.
She couldn’t tell if they were concerned for him, her, or the reckless driving.
Her hand slid along the rusted truck, stopping at the handle to the passenger door. She pulled, unsure as it came swinging out, and subsequently Richard’s barely conscious self. Her body moved before she could give it a second thought, let alone a first, and she came crashing down onto the pavement as Richard slid into her arms. Andrew.
Richard , Iris finally decided. It was the name he had first introduced himself with and subsequently denounced before catching her off guard with that stupid taser. Another thing to annoy him with. She likes the thought of that.
Her head bounced off the ground once, a groan following the rough landing. It was decidedly not the worst thing she's been put through, though. Far from it.
“Help him!”
And they did. Finally, and swiftly furthermore.
They began by whisking away the delirious man and next by pulling Iris to her feet. Although she had only been standing just a moment ago, she found her legs to be unsteady, struggling to find purchase on the solid ground.
The adrenaline, she figured, had gotten to her again. However, she felt peculiarly more tired this time. Unlike the static that had consumed her following getting Richard situated in the truck, she could barely feel anything at all now. Her limbs were distinctly light, and yet oh so heavy as they limply swung at her sides. If it wasn't for the arm around her shoulder, she would have collapsed to the ground by now, or so Iris believes.
“She doesn’t look too good either; let’s get her inside.” A woman this time. When had she gotten here?
The last thought Iris cared to have before being manhandled through the entrance and into the cold staleness of the hospital had something to do with hoping Richard survived. She didn't let herself linger on that for long, to say the least.