Freedom (2/?)
Apr. 4th, 2005 12:29 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
rainweaver13.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
vigorliTitle: Freedom 2/?
Author: Rainweaver13
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando/some Sean
Summary: A highly trained empath's first case is a shattered mystery man.
Rating/Warnings: Slightly sci-fi AU. Suitable for adults who can deal with adult language.
Disclaimer: This is complete fiction. To the best of my knowledge, neither Orlando nor Sean Bean are empaths, nor has Viggo ever been a battered amnesiac. It's something I dreamed up. It has no relation to reality, and I'm not making any money from it.
Bloom, Orlando, Emp. C1
Case #723, John Doe 439
Consultation: Senior Empath Sean Bean
Orlando settled into his usual position at the side of Sean’s desk, opening himself with a smile for the polite, professional mind touch that let Sean know he wasn’t bringing any extra baggage to the meeting. Sean’s touch was, as always, warm and solid. Sometimes Orlando wondered what he felt like to Sean, but it would be the height of unprofessionalism to ask.
“You had your first meeting with your John Doe yesterday.” Rarely was anything a question with Sean, so Orlando simply nodded. “Tell me your thoughts.”
“His mind is an incredible chaos. I couldn’t find a single stable area to start from, but the session was artificially shortened.” Orlando ran his fingers around the edges of the plastic folder with the pitifully small amount of info he had on John Doe. “I didn’t get much time to work with him.”
“The disruption involved his artwork, I’m told.” Sean leaned back in his chair, utterly relaxed. Orlando could feel the whisper-light touch of Sean’s mind on his, a constant non-intrusive presence.
“He was upset about his crayon, yes,” Orlando said, letting his flash of eagerness show clearly. “The one clear read I was able to get from him was a sense of fury and betrayal over the crayon. He obviously saw that specific crayon as some form of torture.”
“So you did some checking around.” Sean flashed one of his rare and therefore treasured bright smiles. Orlando felt like he’d won a prize, or a pat on the head like a particularly good dog.
“I did. And found that he always gets upset when he’s given a light-colored crayon. So I sifted through what I’d read from him and realized he’s upset because he can’t see the light colors on the paper.”
“Excellent work, Orlando. One session and you’ve already made as much progress as the medicals have in six weeks. At least we know one solid thing about our mystery man now.”
“I think… I think I might be on to something else,” Orlando said eagerly, sliding forward on the chair and placing the folder on Sean’s desk. “I spent much of last night going over these papers he’s been making every day and-“ He glanced over at Sean, biting his lip for a moment. “I don’t think these are complete gibberish, Sean. I think he’s trying to write something. I think- this is just a feeling, but I think he thinks he is writing something.”
Sean reached for the folder and turned it around so he could examine it carefully. “They certainly look like gibberish. What makes you think otherwise?”
Orlando leaned over and flipped through the papers until he found the most recent purple one. “Look at that for a minute.” He ran a long, slender finger over the purple markings. “Scrawls, yes. But if you look carefully, you see that the scrawls are generally repeating. Some variations, yes, but overall they’re the same scrawls. I think they’re words.”
“In some other language?” Sean sounded dubious, one blond eyebrow arched.
“Maybe in no language at all. Maybe there’s a disconnect between his brain and his motor function. He thinks he’s writing words but he’s just making marks. It’s just a guess.” Orlando watched Sean anxiously. It was a bold theory, and he might very well be told to leave it be.
Sean flipped thoughtfully through the rest of the papers, coming at last to a chip slotted in the back page. “What’s this?”
“Ah…It’s a splice of some sleep tapes I requested.” Orlando could feel himself starting to blush slightly. He was beyond his stated parameters on this part, and Bean might very well smack him down on it.
“You’re interested in watching your John Doe sleep?” Sean seemed amused more than anything, picking up the chip and slotting it into the player at the side of his desk. He tilted it so they could both see the picture.
“Something one of his watchers said caught my curiosity,” Orlando admitted, watching the short clip he’d already watched at least a dozen times.
“Tell me about it.”
Orlando took a deep breath, then reached over to touch the screen lightly as the image came up of John Doe, restlessly asleep under his paper sheets. “This is during the part of sleep when his drug load is the lowest,” Orlando explained, watching the screen. “This doesn’t happen every night, but it’s often enough that the watchers had begun to talk about it.”
The sleeping man rolled onto his back, sheets wadded around his stomach and long hair tangled over his face. After a moment of stillness, his hands turned on the mattress, palms down, fingers gracefully curved, and his fingers began to move. Sometimes the hands stayed on the mattress, sometimes they moved up onto his abdomen, and a couple of times they lifted into the air for a few moments and hovered there, still moving. Then they would stop, clench into fists, and he would roll away to one side or his stomach and curl into protective mode again.
“Looks like he’s playing a keyboard,” Sean said, interested.
“That’s what I thought, too. Maybe after a few sessions, if things are going well, I might bring him a small keyboard. See what he does with it.”
“Be careful. If your theory about writing is correct and he thinks he’s writing but it’s coming out gibberish, it could damage him even further if he thinks he can play music and it comes out all wrong.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
Sean slipped the chip back into the folder, closed it and handed the folder back to Orlando. “You’re doing a good job so far, lad. Just don’t become obsessed with it, right?”
“I know. I remember all the lessons.”
“You’re the only one who does, then.” Sean laughed. “You can have two more weeks with just John Doe, then we’ll add a second full-time case. Something for you to work toward.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, Orlando. You’re showing a lot of promise. I’m just glad to have a top-notch empath like you on my team. Now get back to work. It’s time for my morning tea.”
---------------------------
47
Why does nobody listen to what I say? Where am I? What is this place? What happened to me? Me. Me. Who the fuck am I anyway? Who am I? I am who. Am I who. Who I am?
Why can’t I remember who I am? I see me in the shiny not-mirror. I know I am a man. I have blondish brown hair. I have blue eyes. I have bruises and scars. I have this hard thing on one arm that I can’t remember the name for. I should know that word. My fingers aren’t hurt and that’s good, but I don’t know why. Why is that good?
Who are you people? Why do they talk crazy to me? If they would just talk right and stop drugging me, I could figure out who am I and why I’m here and why I’m alone. Should I be alone? Along. Aloud. A cloud. A clone. A clown. Town. Brown. Down. Sound. Wound. Mound. Ound oun ou ou ou ou o o o
----------------------------
Bloom, Orlando, Emp. C1
Case #723, John Doe 439
Session 2
The beginning is a duplicate of yesterday. He is huddled in a corner, wrapped around himself for protection, this time with one of the thin paper sheets pulled tight around his thin body. He is just beginning to rouse from the drugs as I enter and take my seat in the same spot as yesterday.
His crayon today is a strong royal blue, and I have a gift for him if we can reach any level of trust. But the lead will be his today. I’m determined to simply wait and let him come to me.
He wakes with a need for alertness that’s almost painful to watch. The drugs keep him, well, drugged, but he clearly feels threatened and wants to come immediately to full attention when he wakes. It can’t happen, and he sways, putting a hand out to catch himself against the wall when he starts to stand.
He’s losing too much weight, the nutritionist told me. If he doesn’t start to eat better soon, he’ll have to be fed intrusively by any way that’ll work, regardless of his wishes. That’s another thing I need to somehow try to communicate to him. If I can manage to communicate with him at all.
Just like yesterday, he’s picked up the sound of me murmuring into my throat mike and zeroed in on my location. I’m opening myself to him, just a whisper of a touch, to see if I can maintain contact.
He is a maelstrom of fear and anger. Those two emotions outweigh all others. But I can also read despair, an enormous sadness and underlying it all a sense of simply being lost. He has no idea what’s going on. Oh, there’s a flicker of relief, maybe even gladness. Pulling my attention back to the physical world, I see that he’s started his careful prowl after the paper and crayon.
He thought they wouldn’t be here today, after his outburst yesterday. Well, I’m glad I could keep your one pleasure here, John Doe. I find myself smiling at him as he darts back to his corner with his treasure, and he turns to look at me.
For a startled moment he stares at me, then he cautiously holds up the blue crayon and offers the fastest, faintest possible ghost of a smile. I open to him at that moment and read gratitude and, behind it, apology. He’s sorry for hurting me yesterday. And now he’s watching as I continue to talk, his brow furrowing as he tries figure out, I suppose, who I’m talking to.
Then he drops to a crouch, and starts scribbling on the paper, now and then looking up at me as if to make sure I’m still there. I read fear from him still, and frustration, and anger. He scribbles until he’s covered one side of the sheet of paper and then stands slowly, one hand on the wall to keep him steady.
He’s got the paper and crayon in one hand and the paper sheet clumsily wrapped around him held up by the other hand and he’s making his way very slowly toward me. He’s hanging close to the wall for support, and it’s only now that I realize how weak he is. The drugs are starting to kick back in and he’s shaking his head like a dog with water in its ears, trying to clear the effects.
He emanates frustration and that ominous grief as he nears me, then a new thread joins in – fear of rejection. Holding the paper and crayon out at arm’s length he extends them toward me. I’ve inadvertently let myself open up to him too much and abruptly I can feel the pain in his body, the exhausted ache in the arm extended to me.
I reach out slowly to take the paper and crayon, careful not to touch him.
“Thank you,” I say quietly and clearly.
He licks dry lips and clearly tries to form a word, but nothing comes out. He tries again and manages… a sound. Just a sound. And suddenly I feel a great blast of frustration, and his jaw sets like granite.
I send a feather-light brush of calm toward him. He doesn’t seem to notice where it comes from, but I can feel the calm having some effect. While it’s working, I very slowly raise the gift I’ve brought him: A pair of paper pajamas with velcro closures.
He eyes the small bundle warily, blinking against the fog trying to crowd back into his mind. As open as I am to him right now, I can feel the drugs as well, feel how they blunt the edges of his thoughts, take away any shred of clarity he’s managed to assemble. I pull myself back into the physical world to find him staring at me as best he can, blue eyes wary and scared and still willing, maybe, to take a chance.
He reaches out carefully and takes the pajamas, bringing them back against his chest. I offer him a smile. “I’m Orlando,” I say, as gently as possible.
I can feel that he understands, that he wants to respond. The frustration is thick around him. He points to my other hand, the one holding the crayon.
I hand it back to him and place the paper on the folder across my knees, blank side up. He takes the crayon, leans over warily, keeping an eye on me, and carefully scrawls something on the paper, then looks up at me with a ghost of hope on his face.
I look at the paper.
It’s gibberish.
“I don’t understand,” I’m forced to say, and his face crumples. He drops the crayon and backs away, stumbling, across the room, to his hiding corner. He’s still holding the pajamas against his chest, but he pulls the paper sheet up over him so he’s hidden from sight. But I can feel him.
He feels like despair.
Author: Rainweaver13
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando/some Sean
Summary: A highly trained empath's first case is a shattered mystery man.
Rating/Warnings: Slightly sci-fi AU. Suitable for adults who can deal with adult language.
Disclaimer: This is complete fiction. To the best of my knowledge, neither Orlando nor Sean Bean are empaths, nor has Viggo ever been a battered amnesiac. It's something I dreamed up. It has no relation to reality, and I'm not making any money from it.
Bloom, Orlando, Emp. C1
Case #723, John Doe 439
Consultation: Senior Empath Sean Bean
Orlando settled into his usual position at the side of Sean’s desk, opening himself with a smile for the polite, professional mind touch that let Sean know he wasn’t bringing any extra baggage to the meeting. Sean’s touch was, as always, warm and solid. Sometimes Orlando wondered what he felt like to Sean, but it would be the height of unprofessionalism to ask.
“You had your first meeting with your John Doe yesterday.” Rarely was anything a question with Sean, so Orlando simply nodded. “Tell me your thoughts.”
“His mind is an incredible chaos. I couldn’t find a single stable area to start from, but the session was artificially shortened.” Orlando ran his fingers around the edges of the plastic folder with the pitifully small amount of info he had on John Doe. “I didn’t get much time to work with him.”
“The disruption involved his artwork, I’m told.” Sean leaned back in his chair, utterly relaxed. Orlando could feel the whisper-light touch of Sean’s mind on his, a constant non-intrusive presence.
“He was upset about his crayon, yes,” Orlando said, letting his flash of eagerness show clearly. “The one clear read I was able to get from him was a sense of fury and betrayal over the crayon. He obviously saw that specific crayon as some form of torture.”
“So you did some checking around.” Sean flashed one of his rare and therefore treasured bright smiles. Orlando felt like he’d won a prize, or a pat on the head like a particularly good dog.
“I did. And found that he always gets upset when he’s given a light-colored crayon. So I sifted through what I’d read from him and realized he’s upset because he can’t see the light colors on the paper.”
“Excellent work, Orlando. One session and you’ve already made as much progress as the medicals have in six weeks. At least we know one solid thing about our mystery man now.”
“I think… I think I might be on to something else,” Orlando said eagerly, sliding forward on the chair and placing the folder on Sean’s desk. “I spent much of last night going over these papers he’s been making every day and-“ He glanced over at Sean, biting his lip for a moment. “I don’t think these are complete gibberish, Sean. I think he’s trying to write something. I think- this is just a feeling, but I think he thinks he is writing something.”
Sean reached for the folder and turned it around so he could examine it carefully. “They certainly look like gibberish. What makes you think otherwise?”
Orlando leaned over and flipped through the papers until he found the most recent purple one. “Look at that for a minute.” He ran a long, slender finger over the purple markings. “Scrawls, yes. But if you look carefully, you see that the scrawls are generally repeating. Some variations, yes, but overall they’re the same scrawls. I think they’re words.”
“In some other language?” Sean sounded dubious, one blond eyebrow arched.
“Maybe in no language at all. Maybe there’s a disconnect between his brain and his motor function. He thinks he’s writing words but he’s just making marks. It’s just a guess.” Orlando watched Sean anxiously. It was a bold theory, and he might very well be told to leave it be.
Sean flipped thoughtfully through the rest of the papers, coming at last to a chip slotted in the back page. “What’s this?”
“Ah…It’s a splice of some sleep tapes I requested.” Orlando could feel himself starting to blush slightly. He was beyond his stated parameters on this part, and Bean might very well smack him down on it.
“You’re interested in watching your John Doe sleep?” Sean seemed amused more than anything, picking up the chip and slotting it into the player at the side of his desk. He tilted it so they could both see the picture.
“Something one of his watchers said caught my curiosity,” Orlando admitted, watching the short clip he’d already watched at least a dozen times.
“Tell me about it.”
Orlando took a deep breath, then reached over to touch the screen lightly as the image came up of John Doe, restlessly asleep under his paper sheets. “This is during the part of sleep when his drug load is the lowest,” Orlando explained, watching the screen. “This doesn’t happen every night, but it’s often enough that the watchers had begun to talk about it.”
The sleeping man rolled onto his back, sheets wadded around his stomach and long hair tangled over his face. After a moment of stillness, his hands turned on the mattress, palms down, fingers gracefully curved, and his fingers began to move. Sometimes the hands stayed on the mattress, sometimes they moved up onto his abdomen, and a couple of times they lifted into the air for a few moments and hovered there, still moving. Then they would stop, clench into fists, and he would roll away to one side or his stomach and curl into protective mode again.
“Looks like he’s playing a keyboard,” Sean said, interested.
“That’s what I thought, too. Maybe after a few sessions, if things are going well, I might bring him a small keyboard. See what he does with it.”
“Be careful. If your theory about writing is correct and he thinks he’s writing but it’s coming out gibberish, it could damage him even further if he thinks he can play music and it comes out all wrong.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
Sean slipped the chip back into the folder, closed it and handed the folder back to Orlando. “You’re doing a good job so far, lad. Just don’t become obsessed with it, right?”
“I know. I remember all the lessons.”
“You’re the only one who does, then.” Sean laughed. “You can have two more weeks with just John Doe, then we’ll add a second full-time case. Something for you to work toward.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, Orlando. You’re showing a lot of promise. I’m just glad to have a top-notch empath like you on my team. Now get back to work. It’s time for my morning tea.”
---------------------------
47
Why does nobody listen to what I say? Where am I? What is this place? What happened to me? Me. Me. Who the fuck am I anyway? Who am I? I am who. Am I who. Who I am?
Why can’t I remember who I am? I see me in the shiny not-mirror. I know I am a man. I have blondish brown hair. I have blue eyes. I have bruises and scars. I have this hard thing on one arm that I can’t remember the name for. I should know that word. My fingers aren’t hurt and that’s good, but I don’t know why. Why is that good?
Who are you people? Why do they talk crazy to me? If they would just talk right and stop drugging me, I could figure out who am I and why I’m here and why I’m alone. Should I be alone? Along. Aloud. A cloud. A clone. A clown. Town. Brown. Down. Sound. Wound. Mound. Ound oun ou ou ou ou o o o
----------------------------
Bloom, Orlando, Emp. C1
Case #723, John Doe 439
Session 2
The beginning is a duplicate of yesterday. He is huddled in a corner, wrapped around himself for protection, this time with one of the thin paper sheets pulled tight around his thin body. He is just beginning to rouse from the drugs as I enter and take my seat in the same spot as yesterday.
His crayon today is a strong royal blue, and I have a gift for him if we can reach any level of trust. But the lead will be his today. I’m determined to simply wait and let him come to me.
He wakes with a need for alertness that’s almost painful to watch. The drugs keep him, well, drugged, but he clearly feels threatened and wants to come immediately to full attention when he wakes. It can’t happen, and he sways, putting a hand out to catch himself against the wall when he starts to stand.
He’s losing too much weight, the nutritionist told me. If he doesn’t start to eat better soon, he’ll have to be fed intrusively by any way that’ll work, regardless of his wishes. That’s another thing I need to somehow try to communicate to him. If I can manage to communicate with him at all.
Just like yesterday, he’s picked up the sound of me murmuring into my throat mike and zeroed in on my location. I’m opening myself to him, just a whisper of a touch, to see if I can maintain contact.
He is a maelstrom of fear and anger. Those two emotions outweigh all others. But I can also read despair, an enormous sadness and underlying it all a sense of simply being lost. He has no idea what’s going on. Oh, there’s a flicker of relief, maybe even gladness. Pulling my attention back to the physical world, I see that he’s started his careful prowl after the paper and crayon.
He thought they wouldn’t be here today, after his outburst yesterday. Well, I’m glad I could keep your one pleasure here, John Doe. I find myself smiling at him as he darts back to his corner with his treasure, and he turns to look at me.
For a startled moment he stares at me, then he cautiously holds up the blue crayon and offers the fastest, faintest possible ghost of a smile. I open to him at that moment and read gratitude and, behind it, apology. He’s sorry for hurting me yesterday. And now he’s watching as I continue to talk, his brow furrowing as he tries figure out, I suppose, who I’m talking to.
Then he drops to a crouch, and starts scribbling on the paper, now and then looking up at me as if to make sure I’m still there. I read fear from him still, and frustration, and anger. He scribbles until he’s covered one side of the sheet of paper and then stands slowly, one hand on the wall to keep him steady.
He’s got the paper and crayon in one hand and the paper sheet clumsily wrapped around him held up by the other hand and he’s making his way very slowly toward me. He’s hanging close to the wall for support, and it’s only now that I realize how weak he is. The drugs are starting to kick back in and he’s shaking his head like a dog with water in its ears, trying to clear the effects.
He emanates frustration and that ominous grief as he nears me, then a new thread joins in – fear of rejection. Holding the paper and crayon out at arm’s length he extends them toward me. I’ve inadvertently let myself open up to him too much and abruptly I can feel the pain in his body, the exhausted ache in the arm extended to me.
I reach out slowly to take the paper and crayon, careful not to touch him.
“Thank you,” I say quietly and clearly.
He licks dry lips and clearly tries to form a word, but nothing comes out. He tries again and manages… a sound. Just a sound. And suddenly I feel a great blast of frustration, and his jaw sets like granite.
I send a feather-light brush of calm toward him. He doesn’t seem to notice where it comes from, but I can feel the calm having some effect. While it’s working, I very slowly raise the gift I’ve brought him: A pair of paper pajamas with velcro closures.
He eyes the small bundle warily, blinking against the fog trying to crowd back into his mind. As open as I am to him right now, I can feel the drugs as well, feel how they blunt the edges of his thoughts, take away any shred of clarity he’s managed to assemble. I pull myself back into the physical world to find him staring at me as best he can, blue eyes wary and scared and still willing, maybe, to take a chance.
He reaches out carefully and takes the pajamas, bringing them back against his chest. I offer him a smile. “I’m Orlando,” I say, as gently as possible.
I can feel that he understands, that he wants to respond. The frustration is thick around him. He points to my other hand, the one holding the crayon.
I hand it back to him and place the paper on the folder across my knees, blank side up. He takes the crayon, leans over warily, keeping an eye on me, and carefully scrawls something on the paper, then looks up at me with a ghost of hope on his face.
I look at the paper.
It’s gibberish.
“I don’t understand,” I’m forced to say, and his face crumples. He drops the crayon and backs away, stumbling, across the room, to his hiding corner. He’s still holding the pajamas against his chest, but he pulls the paper sheet up over him so he’s hidden from sight. But I can feel him.
He feels like despair.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-04-04 05:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-05 01:18 am (UTC)Rain
no subject
Date: 2005-04-05 06:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-04 05:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-05 01:19 am (UTC)We can all take turns hugging Viggo. I'm sure he wouldn't mind. ::innocent blink::
Rain
no subject
Date: 2005-04-04 06:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-05 01:20 am (UTC)Rain
no subject
Date: 2005-04-04 07:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-05 01:21 am (UTC)Rain
no subject
Date: 2005-04-04 07:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-05 01:23 am (UTC)Glad you're enjoying the read.
Rain
no subject
Date: 2005-04-04 07:37 am (UTC)Adrienne
no subject
Date: 2005-04-05 01:24 am (UTC)Rain