#plot: one last bite

He has had a lot time to himself lately. He spent most of it in front of the TV, feeling incredibly lazy but with no other alternative he was forced to keep doing it.

He watched a lot of shows he and Darcy send each other messages about. It was nearly as good as watching them together.

It was a pale comparison to cuddling close on the couch and sharing popcorn.

He has grown anxious the more time Agent Black spends away from home. At work, most likely. But he wansn't allowed to follow yet, bound to stay away from "food".

Jackson feels likes he's being shown the cold shoulder.

He had been running for a steady ten minutes when he heard a woman scream nearby. Not just scream but cry. (It had been a very shrill scream) She was most likely in distress, getting mugged or raped or murdered- and he turned the corner to run towards her before he even made the decision to help.

He runs up the street, trying to determine where the scream could have gotten from, when she cries out again. It sounds closer now, most likely the gap between those two buildings. Running into a dark street was ever a good idea, but that woman needed his help. He slows his steps as he runs towards a dead end of a building wall connecting the two buildings and the metal fire escape ladder from the right one that needs to be repaired.

A woman is crouched down in the corner behind some garbage cans and he walks towards her cautiously slow, both hands raised to show he means no harm. “Hey! Did you scream earlier? Do you need help?” He had been walking steadily forward until he was close enough to peer down, to get a look at her face she was hiding behind her bangs.

He wakes and for one horrible second he doesn’t remember where he is, what he is, who he is. Then the fragments of his dream lose their hold and leave him cold and shivering from the nightmare.

He would usually put on clothes and leave his apartment now and (listening like a creep for a sound from Darcy’s Apartment to judge if she’s awake for a surprise midnight visit to play cards and if not) going for a run around the block. The simple motion of running always calms him. But he’s not at home, he’s with his handler in his big guest room that’s nearly as big as his whole apartment. He gets out of bed and puts on a pair of socks before walking down the hallway, taking each step carefully slow so he won’t make a sound.

It feels as if he’s doing something forbidden, with the way he’s sneaking around and for half a minute he feels the need to break rule number one rise in him.

He knows he won’t be allowed to actually go out and take a run. He could eat someone at 4 am. But he doesn’t feel homicidal at all. He’ll eat before he goes, he decides. He’ll be back before Agent Black even knew he was gone.

The light in the fridge is unnaturally bright and he stares at the blood bags for half a minute before finally taking one out. It looks very clinical and that’s just what he needs to not think about what he’s drinking out of a glass in measured portions until it’s all gone and the blood is rushing in his body.

He feels more awake and alive than he had when he’d woken up, but he still needs that exercise.

He writes a little message on a post-it. “Gone for a run, I’ll be back B4 you know it.” Just in case he’s busted. He’ll just remove the post-it from the door again when he’s back.

He normally has more patience than this.

The clock is barely moving, he checked the time at least five time in the past minute and every time he's dismayed to see it's still another ninety minutes.

Grinding his teeth together until his jaw hurts, he forces his focus back onto the screen.

South Park has lost his attention ten minutes ago, but at least it takes his mind off of his cramping stomach - with it's annoying voices and random songs and horrible jokes and hidden meanings.

Kicking out his feet bunches up the blanket he'd thrown off earlier even more, covering them up to his ankles. After a few seconds even that's too hot and another kick throws them off. 

The scratchy voices are now singing again and he's had enough, he needs something. Anything. Jumping up from the bed he's stalking to the bathroom and throwing open to door hard enough to make it clatter against the door stopper.

Turning on the water in the sink he puts his whole head under it, letting the ice cold water flow. Some of the water runs down his neck into his shirt and along his arm but he doesn't care.

The cold makes him calm his nerves a little, but it doesn't lessen the burning hunger as if his stomach is eating itself, leaving a hole behind. Clutching his stomach, he keeps his head under the water a little while more.

He had not lived long in the apartment but to him it had already been ages, used to deploy and only briefly visit home and his girl between.

With Darcy one flight of stairs above him it had been surprisingly easy to call his cubicle in New York "Home".

He wondered when he'd be allowed back home alone, without supervision and the fear for lives. And when he'd be allowed the watch re-runs of Xena. And to watch Darcy eat half a pizza.

Not willing to let himself be depressed over the food issue again, he shoulders his backpack and gathers all his courage and curiosity and looks around Kiwi's home.

This will be where he lives for the time being. Might as well get used to the rooms and make a mental map.

He finds an unoccupied power socket in the kitchen area, the fridge reveales itself to be fully stocked and Jackson briefly wonders why, before he shrugs and closes it again.

Digging in his bag for his phone charger, he plugs it in with a cry of victory. Finally he's able to charge the damn batteries. They have run out in the hospital before he could have even used it - the screen had obviously been replaced and the casing had a few scratches more, flaking away the blue color to show the silver underneath.

He had also had to put in his security code again, meaning it had either been shut down completely, or knocked silly in the fall that shattered the screen.

Watching Futurama was a fun way to distract him for hours a time. Even if he felt slightly silly lying on the hospital bed with his DVD player and watching cartoons.

His handler had excused himself a short time ago and Jackson was both relieved and troubled that he's not in the room.

It had been strange, not using the bath room and not eating all day, but drinking blood every so often. A lot of time he would have usually used to eat or use the bathroom was now open to him - and doubled his boredom.

At least he had his own clothes now. And he had felt something in his pants pockets that his thoughts had occupied for hours now. With his handler gone, he finally pulled it out.

The snickers bar looked worse for wear, as if he'd washed it with his clothes. The wrapper was discolored and ripped at the edges. But it was a bar of chocolate - and he hadn't been allowed "normal people food" for days. Other than "It's not for you now, anymore" he hadn't got a straight answer why he shouldn't just eat a pizza between waiting for his regular blood packs.

Sitting up, he rips open the wrapper and takes a big bite out of the chocolate bar. Throwing the bitten off chocolate around in his mouth, he tries to get a taste on it. 

It had been fairly old, maybe that's why it tasted this weird ... Shrugging he swallows it and raises the bar to take another bite.

He already had his teeth into the bar, when suddenly his mouth waters and nausea kicks him in the stomach so hard, he falls off the bed in his haste to get to the bathroom.

He can't get the door open quick enough, the warm fluid of vomit already fills up his mouth and is still rushing up, he can't hold it anymore. He throws up right as the door opens, falling to his knees.

There's a lot of blood, some of it clumpy, some of it so watery it runs through the tiles. And in the middle of it, pieces of his chewed up chocolate bar. 

It looks as if someone had been shot, blood everywhere - he's partially lying in it, and he can't seem to stop coughing up even more, until he's sure his whole body is turned inside out, the entire contents of his blood on the bathroom floor.

The last on his - admittedly very short - list was Ashe. He found her number quickly after scrolling another few seconds and hits call after a short second of hesistation.

He wouldn't want her to feel excluded, even if she probably heard everything from Amara by now.

After phoning Amara, obviously the next Number he'd recognize would be Lisa's. He wonders for a second why the Nickname is in a directory but then discards it as irrelevant.