Disturbed Waters

AU notes: OC is an uptowner that is obsessed with the Running Man (and very much specifically McCone). Her analysis videos finds their way to the underground. After losing her job for turning down her boss violently, she ends up in the slums and links up with Molie and Ben and try to game the system. No Sheila and Cathy in this one. AU then mostly follows the movie with OC helping Ben survive, McCone lives, and Ben/OC convince him to help them kill Killian.

This chapter set on the train between Crothers and meeting Elton.

Cold Cold Man

She's faster than him. It saves Ben's life.

She gains the train first, grabbing hold of a handle and launching herself up with powerful legs. She anchors herself, twists back and reaches out for him; he grabs her hand and it hurts when his weight pulls against her shoulder.

She screams and pulls, he pulls and jumps, there's a sickening pop, and then she's stumbling backwards while he's gotten a hold on the handle instead of her and is pulling the rest of his body up and into the compartment.

Her shoulder is screaming at her. The train is jolting on the tracks and every vibration is agony.

"Well, that was a lot closer than we planned, wasn't it. Thanks for the hand."

She barely registers him speaking. Her world has never been smaller. The pain is a pulsating star blazing bright in the dark of the compartment. Her vision flashes white in the black.

"Hey, you okay?"

He reaches out for her, but luckily she is too far away for him to touch and jostle. He blinks in the darkness, and then digs into his pack for a light. He mutters in frustration as he searches for it, before finally pulling it out and illuminating their metal surrounds.

"Oh shit. What's wrong?"

She's turned away from him, so he can't see her deformed silhouette or the tears streaming down her face. The clanking of the train is masking her wheezing breaths.

"Sam?"

His voice is tight with concern now. He steps towards her, bringing the light. She's finally managing to gain some control over her body, and turns to him, her expression a desperate cry for help. Her bad arm is limp and sagging and the good hand is futiley grasping at it.

"Oh fuck. Fuck. Okay. That's not where it's supposed to be. Okay. Don't worry. We can fix this. I can fix this."

He looks around and quickly finds a place to set the lamp. Then he's reaching out with his hands, slowly.

She shrinks away and shakes her head in denial. Her brain is catching up with what she knows they have to do.

"It'll be okay. It'll be okay. I've done this before."

Her throat starts working again enough to let a hysteric laugh scratchily tear itself out of her throat. He winces.

"Let's get your arm out of your jacket," he tells her with the steady confidence of experience.

She's still in too much pain to offer a witty remark. She lets him come close. He undoes her jacket and slides it carefully off her body. She mostly keeps quiet during the process.

"Now we're going to lie down, nice and slow."

They both look at the floor. It is filthy but otherwise barren. Small blessings.

"Can a girl at least get a blanket?" She asks with a lingering trace of her usual sarcasm, voice mostly overlayed with pure misery.

He flashes her a forced grin. "Of course, I know how to treat a lady."

"Medically?"

"I told you, I've done this before. It's going to suck, but it's going to be okay," he says it as he opens up his pack to retrieve and unroll a thin thermal blanket.

It catches in the roaring wind as the train continues picking up speed.

"Maybe you could close the door first. Pretty sure ladies expect that."

Another grin, less forced, crosses his face at her pointed hint, before he turns and pulls at the door with a loud grunt. It strains his strong shoulders, that she well knows are corded with muscle. She viciously wishes it had been him pulling her up instead of the other way around. Then the door slams close, and it's them, the lamp's light, and unpleasant necessities.

He crouches down and readies the blanket for her. He places her doffed coat on top. She considers how she's going to lie down, but the pain is not receding, and the click clack of the train is a constant punctuation of agony. She slowly steps toward him and the blanket.

"Easy does it. Take it nice and slow," he tells her with an encouraging gentleness.

"Never figured you to talk a girl through it. Kinda had you pegged for meaningful looks, quiet moans, maybe a bit of light swearing at the end."

His demeanour abruptly shifts to restrained anger. He's not immune to her goading after nearly dying how many times recently.

His reply is scathing: "I know you're hurting, but fuck you. Now lie down and I'll straighten you out."

She reels back from the venom, the motion an immediate regret. A tight few breaths lets her eke out a reply.

"Tch. Sorry, I guess I'll take the sweet talk instead."

She grits her teeth and lowers herself down, hissing as her arm moves with the motions. He supports her carefully as she lies back. Finally, she's on the blanket, panting, her eyes shut fast, her arm limp beside her. It throbs painfully with the click clack of the tracks.

He readies a sling and one of the small instant icepacks she'd insisted upon packing in their small first aid kits, what feels like a lifetime ago.

Then, despite the harshness of his last words, he comes to her injured side and grabs gentle but firm hold of her wrist with both of his hands. He pulls it straight down against her side, but keeps it parallel to the floor, ignoring her sounds of distress.

His grip shifts, as if to bizarrely shake her hand with double handed enthusiasm. But the enthusiasm is muted, as he only moves it up and down a few inches from the floor, as he, at the same time, slowly works to bring her arm away from her body, as if drawing a macabre arc on the floor.

Her arm is square out from her body, when he starts to slowly rotate it. As he does, he draws the arc up a bit further, just above her shoulder line. There is an unsettling and nauseating klunk as the joint slides back into place, and her sigh of relief is instant, and more of a drawn out moan than anything more refined.

"I take it back. Whatever I said. You know how to treat a lady real good."

"It's too bad you're not a lady."

She laughs weakly at that, but opens her eyes to look up at him gratefully; the easing of the pain is so immediate.

A smooth motion has him bending her arm at the elbow, and brought down across her chest. She lets out an exclamation of surprised pain.

"I would've warned a lady." He has the audacity to wink at her after she's caught her breath again.

Her eyes are tearing up again and it bleeds into her wet, tired, disbelieving chuckle.

"Do I merit a rag, at least?"

He stops and stares at her for that one. The sling is ready to slip it under her back. He blinks once, twice, then looks back at the sling, and he finally catches up to her crassness.

"Har-har. Just a dry one. Now try and sit up slowly."

She does, tensing her core. He slides an arm underneath her, pushing her up to a sitting position. He gets the triangle sling around her and secures her arm across her chest.

The jacket is next: He helps her get her good arm in a sleeve, then carefully drapes the other side over her shoulder, and zips it up, her bad arms still held close to her body.

"Such a gentleman," she replies, trying for false sultriness, but the adrenaline is wearing off, and it comes out just sounding exhausted.

"I'm a gentleman as much as you're a lady."

But he helps her scoot, blanket and all, against the closest wall. She focuses on her breathing as he rummages back in their packs, looking for the pain meds. When he finds them, he helps her with them. Her good hand is trembling too much. He gives her some water to wash them down. They'll need to find more water soon, she thinks, absently.

As she swallows it all down her throat feels thick and swollen. Surely she hadn't screamed that much?

"Don't worry, I don't kiss and tell," he says it off handedly, as he goes back to the packs, doing something she's too tired to suss out.

She glares at him. She hates getting delirious. But if she's speaking her mind without her own permission, she can do it with permission as well.

"You'd have to kiss it better to have something to tell."

He snorts at that, and keeps working at whatever it is. Eventually, he turns back to her. It's a protein bar, thoughtfully half unwrapped. He hands it over with a small flourish and the warm smile that had had her proposition him months ago, unsuccessfully, to her chagrin.

She takes the bar with her good hand and mutters lowly, "At least I got some chocolate out of you."

He says nothing, but smirks a little. Then he surprises her, leaning in close.

"Do you really want me to kiss it better?" His face is inches from hers.

She stops mid-chew. She knows he's teasing her, but that old pang of rejection bubbles up, briefly eclipsing the throb of her shoulder. Before she can answer, he ducks his head down and to the side to press a feather light kiss to fabric of the sling covering shoulder.

He leans back to appreciate her wide eyed expression, a smug expression on his face.

His tone is just as light and malicious as the kiss when asks, "All better, or do you want your ice now?"

She tries to glower at him, but the effect is spoiled as she has to finish chewing and swallowing down her food.

Her eventual reply is petulant but she feels she's earned it: "Ice, please."

He undies her coat just enough to gently slide the pack between the sling and her shirt. When the cold seeps through, she lets out a long hissing breath through her teeth.

He finally slumps down beside her, on her good side, and hungrily works to devour his own foil wrapped dinner. While he eats, she manages to pull up her hood and lean her head against the wall.

She dozes then, somehow. Or if not dozes, slips out of time. It feels like a blink when she hears his voice next.

"Sam? Sam. I need to take that ice off now."

She doesn't manage a coherent reply but apparently it's enough to read as permission. Her shoulder is numbed enough she hardly feels him take the ice away.

"We should try and get some sleep," she distantly hears him say.

She nods at him and leans her head back again, eyes slipping close.

"Not like that, come on. You're going to freeze. And me too. Do you think you can lie down on your back, or do you need to sit up?"

She ponders this. After consideration: "Sit up, I think."

He nods and then says, "Let me sit behind you. We can sit on that blanket, and put the other on top. Should keep us warm enough."

She blinks her eyes wearily, but manages, barely. There's some pain for her as they re-arrange themselves, but finally they're settled. They're both wearing their coats. The second blanket is just big enough to be tucked around their legs. The rattle of the tracks is softened for her by his padded bulk.

The sling holds her useless arm close against her chest. His arms hold her securely against his chest. Her good hand has settled on his arms of its on accord. Her head is leaned back against his shoulder, turned into his neck, though separated from his skin by her hood. She'd dreamed of this, once. Maybe twice. She starts to dream now.

"You saved my life. Thank you," he says it with quiet seriousness. He's earnest. There's no jokes now.

She doesn't say anything. Doesn't know what to say.

He goes on: "I'm so sorry. We'll get you a doctor as soon as we can. Nobody saw your face. We'll get you clear and safe and sound."

He can't see the frown that forms on her face. But he can hear it when she says, "What are you talking about?"

"Tomorrow. We'll get off wherever, and we can get you to a doc. Your cover's still good. And we've got enough money."

"We don't have time for that. We need to make it to Elton's."

"You're not making it to Elton's."

"The fuck I'm not. You think I'll slow you down? I'm your cover, dipshit."

"Dislocated shoulders aren't something you walk off! I've seen guys forced back to work too early after one. They end up crippled. It needs at least three months to heal."

"It was as clean as it gets. Nothing is broken. You popped it back in proper right away. Painkillers will get me to Elton's. Then we can… regroup."

"You'll be singing a different tune tomorrow."

"Fuck you."

Throughout the heated exchange, they haven't moved. Too cold and tired. The harsh words are undercut by how he cradles her against him, and the shallow breaths he can hear by his ear.

He bites back his next words. Because she's hurting enough. Hurting because she saved him. And he knows she knows he's right.

Her next words are clipped when they come.

"We'll see where I'm at tomorrow. If it's… bad. We can split up. I'll get to a doc and then… go hide out. But if I can walk. Then we stick to the plan. Get to Elton's. He might have a doc he trusts. That would be better."

"Fine," he replies. It is not fine. He changes the subject: "We should ice your shoulder again before we sleep."

"Ugh. So cold. I'm cold enough."

He's kept their gear close; he can maneuver to pull one arm away from her to retrieve their remaining quick-freeze pack, despite her small pained sounds. He fiddles to activate it, careful not to shift her around too much.

She manages enough autonomy to partially unzip her coat for him, and he slips his hand inside. She shivers as she feels the frigid chill of his touch through her shirt. Then the icy numbness returns to replace the lingering pain, and she relaxes against him.

She must drift again, because she startles when she feels his hand slide against her to remove the cold.

"Frost bite won't help anything. Now sit up for a second."

She does, with his help. She feels his hands slide between her back and his front. She's a little confused until she hears the tell-tale sound of his jacket zipper. Then another zipper. Then some awkward movements she can't puzzle out.

Before she can ask or make a bad joke, his hand is back on her front. He's undoing her own coat all the way down. She shivers as the chill hits her. He carefully peels the jacket off her bad side, and then off her good arm. He quickly turns it around backwards, settling it over her as a blanket.

He gently pulls her down against him, and it's warm. It's so warm, with her back against his chest and only their shirts between them. His arms are still in his sleeves, and he wraps them back around her, keeping her makeshift blanket in place.

The whole ordeal takes only a minute. It takes five for her breathing to even out again. She wishes she could have something stronger for the pain. But the warmth is still such a wonderful change from him just spreading more cold.

He sounds a little baffled when he asks, "Are you humming?"

She would never call the sound she makes then a giggle, but it is what it is. She's had a day. She hums a little louder.

"I don't know that one," he admits with a smile she can hear.

"I'm probably butchering it. My phone there?"

"Do I want to subject myself to this?"

"I'm calling in my saved-your-life-and-am-paying-the-price token."

"Already? To make me listen to a song?"

"Yes."

"You're insane."

But he digs the phone out of her pocket. She digs her good hand out of her blanket, and manages to get the song going. She has to the turn up the volume to make it heard over the train. She gives it back to him to hold and snakes her arm back into the warmth of her makeshift blanket.

The song plays. He groans as he parses the lyrics, but he lets it play out. In the relative quiet afterward, he grumbles at her: "You always have a song for everything, don't you."

"That's our song now. I can't believe it took saving your life and dislocating my shoulder to get you to sleep with me. You are so hard to get, Ben. Those hunters don't stand a chance."

It's a mistake to bring up the chase. She feels it as soon the words leave her mouth.

His voice is dark when he asks, "You have a song for McCone too, don't you?"

She doesn't answer right away. Her fascination with the lead Hunter had never been a secret between them. It was a huge part of why she knew so much about the Running Man; Her dedicated obsession had had her making analysis videos that had manage to garner an underground audience.

When her life had turned upside down, those videos and connections were the only reason the collective had taken her in.

They were why Ben had come to her with his idea to try and game the system when the collective had gotten truly desperate for cash.

Her weird crush was also probably why Ben had shot her down so hard when she'd flirted with him early on. Or so she told herself.

She's proud of how steady and cold her voice is when she replies, "Of course I do. And I think it's a pretty funny song. And if you want to hear it, I'd be thrilled to put it on for you."

He lets out a bitter laugh.

"Forget I said anything. Let's just try and get some rest."

Sheer exhaustion and the lulling comfort of too long self-denied touch pull them both into a sleep too deep for dreams.

For extra credit, here's a medical description of an emergency method for relocating a shoulder! Don't try this at home kids.

The other person stands beside you on the side of your injured shoulder. Holding your wrist with both hands, they need to keep your arm straight and level with your body, with your forearm and hand facing downward.

Starting with your arm at your side, they slowly move your arm toward your head while also making a small circular or up-and-down movement. This is a gentle but firm pumping motion of about 2.5 inches up and down.

The other person continues until your injured arm is at the height of your shoulder, making a 90-degree angle with your body. At this point, they begin to rotate your arm in place.

They then move your arm closer to your head, but only until it’s at about a 120 degree angle, while slightly rotating the arm. If the technique was effective, your shoulder joint should now be in place.

Sheila Richards as Mrs. Lazarus. She watches her husband die on national television. She grieves, as she’s meant to. She goes through the motions of removing every presence of him from the house, of acknowledging that she can live, to an extent, comfortably. She has a daughter to raise, after all. And, in a sense, she’s moved on. She hasn’t remarried, but she’s continued.

And then, her husband has returned, smelling of death and explosives, and more than accepting of the fact that his wife has survived, to this point, on her own. He’s a symbol, and somewhat of a myth, and eternally grateful.

Unfortunately, the ‘betrayal’ in this story (as Lazarus is betrayed upon finding out that his wife had been ‘unfaithful’ to him… after his death) is Mr. Wet-Dog Evan McCone who just about loses his shit when he found out that -post crawling out of the rubble of an explosion, presumed dead- this man he’d been stalking for weeks (to kill) and this woman that he’d been stalking for weeks (to bitterly remind himself of the man he’d been stalking for weeks) forgot about him (they never knew him personally) and I like to think he has a miniature crash-out over the fact that the family he desperately wishes he was a part of does not give two shits about him for the moment.

And why should they?