When tomorrow never comes.

Indie OC for the Walking Dead. Paavan Dasti, a former resident at Terminus. Please read about. FC: Naveen Andrews

[sayidjarrahs]

when people ask me what my sexuality is i’m just going to reply with this gif

[halseycon]

[acrosstheairwaves-blog]

Not as Bad || Zeba & Paavan

[zeba-ahsan]

Having regained her balance, Zeba smiled an open, genuine sort of smile at his small insight. She knew hardly anything about the man, Paavan, but had gathered that he’d spent considerable time over seas and probably the entirety of his childhood. “And what sorts of things would you draw with the stars?” she asked, pausing in stride to turn to look at him. It wasn’t one of the questions that had been burning at the tip of her tongue since they’d become companions — questions about his past and the source of his skill set, burned most brightly at the front of her mind— but it was a question none the less. 

Following his eyes down to the earth, she nodded in response to his encouragement, unsure as to what had prompted it. Nothing there but leaves and brush and moss. She waited half a step before falling back into stride, allowing him to assume the lead. The muscles in her legs were weary from their trek, and her heart burned in anticipation for whatever their destination for the night might have been. She knew he must be just as eager to make camp — to find a bit of water worth drinking, to share a few morsels of food, to simply sit and not move for a moment —  and so she swallowed back her desire to question his sudden surety on the matter.

"You know, I traveled to Pakistan with my parents when I was a child," she mused out loud. "Lahore, it’s such a tremendously busy city. But colorful — the people, and sights." She continued talking softly even as out of the corner of her eye she caught the sight of a familiar plant. Pausing just for a moment, she snapped a few sprigs of it and tucked it into her pocket. "My father’s whole family lives there still. They’re in the textile business.” Faintly, the sound of something, trickling water, maybe caught her attention. “Did you hear that?” she asked looking to Paavan, the anticipation clear in her her voice. 

[acrosstheairwaves-blog]

"Nothing truly spectacular," He mused upon her question, "Whatever I cold make them out to be. Sometimes they would simply be shapes - sometimes more." A glance over to her, offering the ghost of a smile, "When the sky grows dark - I can show you, if you'd like." It was something nonsensical, truly, but he was learning that those moments were needed more of all. Fighting each and every day to even stay alive had it's toll on everyone. If they couldn't find reasons to live - they'd never make it.

Eyes had traced skyward, scanning the line of trees now, hoping to see the break within them that would indicate the break in them, where the water lay. They were close, he was certain of it - and it was just a matter of finding it now, and they could rest. With any luck, the water wouldn't be contaminated. There were ways of filtering and purifying, of course, but Paavan was hopeful for a break in the day's events. Looking back over to Zeba as she explained about her family in the textile business - there was the sudden thought of just how things were overseas. Was it the same? Was it better? Was it worse? It was much more crowded over there - especially in the city that she had mentioned. Not wanting to bring that thought up, he was searching his mind for a proper response, when she had cut herself off. He paused in his gait, alert and listening for a moment a smile growing wide on his features as the sound had become clear.

"Just east of us." There was no reservation of the relief in his voice over the affirmation, "We're nearly there."

[acrosstheairwaves-blog]

You've got red on you. || Wynter & Paavan

[lxvingdeadgxrl]

"I should bloody hope so." she muttered. If she didn’t have to deal with another walker that day, she’d be so very, veryhappy. It wasn’t likely to happen, of course, seeing as most of the population had fallen victim to the virus or whatever the hell had caused the epidemic. It was actually far more rare to run into someone breathing and with their mind about them, so the fact she’d found someone, and to top it all off, someone who didn’t mind having a tag along, was kind of amazing.

The young woman kept her pace brisk, knowing full well the importance of being off of the streets come nightfall. She’d done the whole night trip thing before, she wasn’t keen on repeating it.

After a few moments of silence, Wynter looked over at Pavaan, figuring that a bit of conversation might make for a less awkward hike. “What do you think caused all of this?” she asked, her thumbs hooking through the belt loops of her jeans.

[acrosstheairwaves-blog]

There was a soft chortle issued from the man, at Wynter's rather passionate agreement on the hope of not meeting any more of the dead that day. Logic reasoned that it wasn't likely - not when they were all so vastly outnumbered anymore. It seemed, even, that the dead roamed in packs - trudging so intently to the vast of... somewhere, initiating others into their ranks in the most violent of ways along the trail. The thought, always lurking in the darker moments, was that soon they'd be too overrun to fight them. Was this the inevitable end for everyone left?

Paavan was glad of Wynter's question, as it cut his own thoughts from welling up too grimly. He would've been surprised if anyone hadn't had the same question trace through their thoughts. What had started this all? Why had the world come to it?

"My only thought was a sickness." Paavan ventured, "Much like small pox or something similar, the way it was so easily spread." He had grown up in an area that was close quarters with humble means of sanitation. Colds, sicknesses, viruses, even lice or fleas -  was like a hairline trigger sometimes. Nothing like this, of course, the dead never rose from their rest before... but what else could it be? "And you?"

[acrosstheairwaves-blog]

Lockdown || Flashback || Zeba & Paavan

[zeba-ahsan]

Zeba’s words had hardly left her lips and she found herself turning her head back over her shoulder towards the man. Something in what she had said, his reaction to it had produced a tangible change in the air between them. Even as he closed in on himself, dropping his eyes to his own hands and inhaled, her own lungs seemed to struggle to process the air she had sucked in though her nose. His grief, for that was the emotion that came to mind as she watched him, seemed so genuinely human amongst the worry, impatience, and suspicion running rampant throughout the airport.

As he spoke, as his voice cracked, she became certain it was in fact, grief. Her hand stilled over the her phone where it sat next to clean cheek swab kits on the mayo stand. The family she had imagined to be waiting on him burned at her conscience.  ”To Allah we belong and to him is our return.” The traditional words of her childhood felt heavy and strange in her mouth. It’d been years since she’d recited verse for the Quran. Glancing back at the mayo stand, she slipped her phone into her pocket and filled a small paper cup with water from the plastic pitcher. ”Here, drink." She nudged the cup into his hand and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I am sorry. If there was a way —" 

There was no way to sneak in or out of the airport. Even if there was —Her brows pulled together as she contemplated how much to divulge; the man was already in pain. But pain wouldn’t change the truth. Whatever this was, it was far more than some viral epidemic. She’d heard whispers of the fevered coming back to life after falling into death-like comas, she’d heard the sirens over the national guard, and she had her suspicions as to what happened to those who were escorted out of the terminal.  

Lowering her voice, Zeba leaned over him and mimed like she was checking his pulse. “These broadcasts are everywhere — several stations aren’t even broadcasting live anymore. They’re just running on a loop.I am afraid that this isn’t just an epidemic.” Zeba felt her voice tighten as she stood up. She could feel eyes on her back. She’d spent too much time with him and was beginning to draw attention to herself. “Listen closely, tonight. Over their radios. You’ll hear.”  Standing up, she scribbled a fake pulse rate onto a clip board, which she set back down beside him.  

[acrosstheairwaves-blog]

At the woman's condolences for the words that Paavan was unable to voice, he simply gave her a small nod of gratitude. There was nothing else that he could possibly say that would present it situation any differently, or certainly not change it for the better. Swallowing hard, the lump in his throat burning as he did, Paavan was careful to try and hide the overwhelming emotions that were assalting him. The resounding affirmation that he would be unable to bury her, nor hold any formal ceremony for her passing. Would there be any rest for his love? Could her soul move on without it? According to Zeba there was no way of getting out of the airport. Not without being infected with whatever was going around -- which didn't seem like it was the lesser of two evils at the moment. This was severe and wide-spreading. Enough to shut down entire airports, at least.

His hands felt sluggish, taking the small water cup that she had pressed within them. Fingers wrapped around the curve of the paper, and raised it to his lips. The cool of the water offered no relief to the grief that coated his glands. Swallowing it down, he stilled for a moment, as she leaned in further, her hand pressing gently against his skin to check for a pulse. Her words had made his brow furrow, the news that she likely wasn't supposed to share with him. A loop. The transmission was simply playing on a loop? How long would they - could they - hold everyone there under the false pretenses that something different in the news would come about? Paavan had heard nothing of it on the plane on the way overseas, but perhaps there was a reason for it. Either they did not know of it yet, or the information was being kept from everyone as to not incite a panic.

Of course, there would be more of one once the truth showed itself.

"If you hear anything else..." He started, wanting to make that request, but the movement of the other officials had caught the corner of his eyes. She had spent a long enough time with him, and probably stuck her neck out more than she should've, "I wish you luck." Paavan amended, "Thank you."

[sparksnv]

The rain was a blessing. Water was something that everyone praised within the group. Beside her, she could hear the rhythmic count of Paavan’s voice. They weren’t exactly acquainted but they also weren’t strangers. Regardless they’d been paired up together. The blonde broke the silence.  "Do you have any bottles?"

[acrosstheairwaves-blog]

Pausing for a moment to think - researching his original assessment of supplies that had been found in the house that they had bordered, Paavan shook his head. “Not that we are not already using.” Bottles were one of the first things raided now. But they had the barrels, at least, “There were some flower vases in one of the cabinets. Those should suffice for smaller containers for now.”

[acrosstheairwaves-blog]

In time || AU || Zeba & Paavan

[zeba-ahsan]

If Zeba were not a grown woman long since cut off from the loving judgments of her mother, she was quite certain she’d have been scolded for so openly staring at what was so clearly a private moment of intimacy between the father and son. She knew that the proper - the respectful - thing to do would be to avert her eyes, to find something within Emaad’s chart to busy herself with until she was again needed within the room, but try as she might, she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from the precious moment. Instead she watched with a swelling of emotion lodged in the back of her throat and burning at the corners of her eyes.  It wasn’t that Mr. Dasti’s tremendous relief was particularly new or unique. In fact, it was fairly status quo as far as parents with children in the Trauma Ward were concerned. Rather, it was something about the entirety of it all - the near futile surgical attempt to save the mother’s life taking place in the operating room, the way the boy had cried out for his Ummi and Baba, the look in this father’s eyes that suggested his son’s presence was the only thing keeping him grounded, and the quiet reassurances he had murmured to Emaad in a tongue as familiar to Zeba as breathing - that struck a cord somewhere deep within her.

When Mr. Dasti’s question broke the crystalline layer that had settled over the moment, it took Zeba a long moment to realize that he was addressing her. Clearing her throat and shifting Emaad’s chart from one arm to the other, she stepped forward next to the bedside and offered the man a small, and what she hoped to be comforting smile. “Thus far, we’ve done very minimal assessment of your son’s condition. Without parental consent —”

Her eyes glanced down to where Emaad’s tiny hand was still clutched within his father’s much larger ones. She very rarely discussed her patient’s conditions while in the room, and the near-robotic quality of her words tasted bitter on her tongue. “I’m sorry,” she offered, laying a quick, comforting hand on the man’s forearm before withdrawing it. “Given the circumstances - ” the severity of the crash and the condition of the boy’s mother - "we’re very pleased with how well Emaad is doing. I know this may all seem confusing and scary considering the oxygen mask, but he was having a little bit of trouble oxygenating his blood appropriately on his own." 

At the mention of the oxygen mask, Emaad perked up, repeating to his father what he’d told Zeba only moments earlier about superheroes and masks. 

”You’ve been such an incredibly brave little superhero," she interjected almost reflexively, smiling warmly down at the boy before returning her attention to the older Dasti man. "There is one simple blood test we’d like to do before making plans to take a few images of his chest - radiographs, potentially a CT scan. Mostly likely we are going to find some bruising within his lungs, but we’d like to make sure it’s nothing more serious before beginning treatment." 

Having at least scratched the surface of what she needed to discuss, Zeba paused and glanced up into the man’s eyes. What she saw there once again tugged at her heart. “I know this is a lot of everything from all directions all at once, but Emaad is very stable right now, if you want a moment alone with him. I can find you some tea, or something. The cafe makes a decent cup of jasmine, surprisingly enough.” She wasn’t sure what had prompted the offer other than her own need to offer the man a small measure of comfort, but she waited genuinely for his response.

[acrosstheairwaves-blog]

The surge of concern that had traced up Paavan’s spine, at the mention of such minimal treatment subsided just as quickly as it flared as soon as she had spoken about consent for it. Lina was in no condition, certainly, she needing immediate and emergency surgery -- and he still fast upon his way there. They had done all they could to keep his little boy alive, still bound with constraints of law. With his eyes closing for a moment, a silent prayer and gratitude that it was not anything more serious that they couldn’t handle before he had gotten there, as his lips once more touched Emaad’s tiny fingers. Pulling back slightly, eyes tracing the mask that rested on his son’s face, as it was explained, he had to smile at the little boy’s optimism. 

When the doctor responded in their native tongue, it had taken him a moment to register that she was speaking it. Glancing up to her, then back to his son, he nodded, not wanting to lessen the moment for his son. One of his hands moved to smooth down the wild mess of curls, before he added softly, “I am proud of you, and now it’s time to be brave some more. Alright?” With the responding nod from Emaad, and a muffled answer that he would try, Paavan’s eyes then found the doctor again, eager to know what all needed to be done.

“Yes, yes of course." He would be agreeable - his medical training being very basic, whatever she could do for his son, would be much more than he would be. Even in his anxieties of the entire situation, he would trust her judgement, if it meant that his little boy would be alright. Paavan found himself surprised at the offer, but a small look back to to Emaad was all it took for him to nod. Just a moment, for the pair of them could have together. “Yes, thank you.” With a quick thought, and perhaps a desperate one, Paavan was up from his vigil, giving Emaad the small hand signal that he would be right back, before he had made his way to Zeba, close enough that his voice could be low enough for Emaad not to hear him, “Please - do you have any news on my wife?”

[sayidjarrahs]

sayid is being a puppy again

[alwaysxrunninxarchive-deactivat]

Kyleigh knew the question would come eventually, whether from Paavan himself or this Gareth guy. To be honest, she hadn’t really been doing much. Other than searching for her mother and getting into trouble. She wasn’t even sure herself is she knew what it was she wanted to be doing in that life.

"Nothing really. I mean, I was looking for my Mother here in Atlanta when this all happened," she replied as they continued to walk along. "Before that, I had no clue what to do with my life. What about you?"

[acrosstheairwaves-blog]

Paavan wasn't sure why this woman would need to look for her mother, but he had enough propriety to know that it was probably best not to ask. If she did not readily wish to supply the information, that was just as well. He knew what it was like, not to talk about what already passed. It had taken his wife years to learn about Paavan's life before he had come stateside.

"I had been overseas, just before this all started. Military." Paavan offered as an explanation, "I had gotten leave only to be stuck at the airport because of the Outbreak."

[zeba-ahsan]

His hands were strong and capable. This she’d known already — their survival out on the road, if you could call the overgrown path through the Georgian woods that, had been testament to the fact. But his physical hands, too spoke of a life of labor and skill. She allowed her mind to wander the past he rarely spoke of as her fingers traced the lines and callouses of his palm. She owed him her life many times over, she was quite certain.Her own life — books and university, had scarcely prepared her for this nomadic life.   

A thin beam of moonlight shown through a crack in the boards nailed over the window and cast a soft bluish light  over the sofa. In its glow, she could just make out the way his eyes twitched beneath his lids. She knew the sorts of dreams she’d taken to having since the dead had began walking, and hoped his were of a sweeter variety. It was something of a gift to see him in this deep a plane of sleep. When his own hand tightened within her own and his head shifted towards the arm of the sofa, she froze not wanting to disturb his sleep. But more so, unsure if she wanted to be there at his side if he woke. It would be a difficult thing to explain, she imagined, the fact that she’d grown used to his proximity while on the road. 

He did not wake, though, and Zeba let out a small breath of relief. Letting go of his hand, she leaned back a bit and hugged her legs up from the cold floor below to her chest. As she sat there, reveling in the peace, she could feel her own lids growing heavy and fought the urge to slip off to sleep. 

[acrosstheairwaves-blog]

If he could have witnessed the way that she froze, Paavan would have done anything to quell her thoughts of uncertainty. Not that it was prudent for him to do so, but it was undeniable now, that he too, had grown quite comforted by her company. For a time, he had thought that it was because she had been the first person to still treat him as a person, since Lina's passing -- but as time wore on for the two of them, the months of hiding together, traveling together, he knew that it was more than that. There would always be love for his wife in his heart, there was simply no replacing, but to say that Zeba hadn't settled there in her softness would be untruthful.

These things, however, would be difficult enough for him to voice, even without  the fact that he had once been entirely devoted to someone else. Their days were numbered. It was an unfortunate fact, and those numbers were always in the red. With the lack of food, make shift shelters, and the dead intent on making them their next meal -- being attached to someone like that had it's definite downfalls. So silence was his manner on the topic, only allowing the thoughts to swirl around the sands of his dreams. 

It was the crick in his neck that prodded through his dream, more than anything. A soft sound, something like a groan issued from his lips, and he stirred again, eyes opening slightly not really enough to focus on much of anything, before they swept over the surroundings, it taking him a moment to process where he was again. That was, until he had seen Zeba on the floor beside him. Shutting his eyes tightly, and opening them up again, his brows furrowed in question, not trusting his voice just yet to say anything without the sleep making it scratchy.

[butterflycaps]

[marymorstan]

gifset meme + favorite character (lost)  ➟ sayid jarrah / “i have no life- they took it from me.”

[discardtheoldregimes-blog]

Hello. Hi. I am trash and have been binge watching Bates Motel, rather than being caught up on the Walking Dead. Therefore, my drafts have accumulated and replies pretty diddly-dang slow lately. Whoops! I’m sorry, and I will be looking into working on them here soon. I’ve started a job that requires me to be up at gross hours of the morning, but I do still have nights were I can stay up from time to time. Next one of those I get, I’ll be catching up on the show, and working on Bentley’s  Paavan's drafts.

Thanks for your understanding and patience!

[acrosstheairwaves-blog]

In time || AU || Zeba & Paavan

[zeba-ahsan]

Zeba’s memories of her own hospital stay as a young girl were little more than incomplete wisps in the dusty corners of her mind. What little she could remember was the kindness of the doctors and nurses who appeared to fiddle with the lines running into the back of her hand, who sat with her at night when the hospital room grew to big and too dark for her to remain brave, and who always reminded her that her parents loved her and would always be right back. Her stay hadn’t been a long one, only long enough to assure that her heart was healthy and that there wouldn’t be any post-operative complications, but she’d remembered these things and carried them with her through her life as as she chose her career. 

Glancing over to the hospital bed where Emaad was now sitting quietly as a nurse went through a script of basic questions with him, Zeba found some small measure of solace in the fact that his father was at least now on site. The weight of her work phone dropped down into her lab coat pocket and she patted its silhouette through the starched white material. Having to make potentially life and death decisions for a child when parents were not available was not something she ever cared to do. 

"Thank you Miss, Julie," Zeba said to the nurse in a soothing voice as she sat down on the boy’s bedside. "I can take it from here." She smiled and nodded meaningfully at the woman. "Do you know what I just heard?" She hid the feeling of concern that she felt from her face. The boy’s color was once again ashen. There were no obvious external injuries, but her concern was for his lungs. He was going to need prompt imaging — radiographs, maybe a CT scan to figure out why he was so oxygen dependent. 

In response to her question, he took a long, tight breath and shook his head. 

"My boss just told me that your Baba is here and on the way up to see you.” She lovingly brushed an unruly curl back from his face. “But I’m going to need for you to be brave and lay back and wear this mask for me, ok?” She eased his small shoulders back and slipped the oxygen mask back onto his face, waiting a beat to see if he’d fight it now that he was more alert to the situation. 

But he didn’t object. In fact, a small smile slipped over his face as he mumbled something about superhero’s and masks in what sounded very much like Arabic — the dialect was difficult to assess through the oxygen mask, but this base commonality made her heart swell. Her hand lingered over his head from a moment before she slipped it away. 

Just then, there was a knock at the trauma room door. Zeba looked up from the child to see a man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in military fatigues — or at least the pants, with an army duffel clutched in his hand as if he’d just got in from some assignment somewhere. Even quicker than her heart had swelled up in her chest, it sunk down into the pit of her stomach. The man had the same unruly curls as his son, except they were pushed back from his face in such a way that highlighted the empty, stricken look in his eyes. This was certainly a far cry from the homecoming he’d likely spent months dreaming of.

"Mr. Dasti," Zeba began in a tempered voice a she rose up from Emaad’s bedside. "I’m Dr. Ahsan, the pediatric trauma specialist on your son’s case." 

[acrosstheairwaves-blog]

When they had come to the pediatric ward of the hospital - even the brightly coloured decorations and friendly looking posters that were about the walls, held no positivity for the distraught father in that moment. Perhaps it was because of all he had seen in his time of service, but each thought of his wife and son being hurt only became more and more vivid in the imagery, only adding to the guilt and helplessness that was welling up inside of him. The rational side of Paavan knew that there was nothing that he could've done, in any instance of the situation - but all that overclouded that thought, was that they had been on the way to the airport to see him. If they hadn't... Paavan forced the thoughts from his mind, trying his hardest to remain calm and collected over this all - it wouldn't do well to try and make decisions or have life-altering choices with panic and despair being his constant.

Arriving at the correct door, his knuckles automatically connected with the wood, his eyes already focusing on his son, laying in the bed with a mask over his face. Vision blurred, and his eyes became prickled and hot, at the sight of him, but Pavaan wanted to keep that from Emaad - not wanting the little boy to see the fear in his father, not wanting him to feel it in his heart as deeply as Paavan did in that moment.

Swallowing hard, blinking even harder, he stepped into the room and finally let go of the bag that he had been carrying much too tightly throughout the hospital. The doctor had been addressing him, and his eyes had barely flickered over to her before quickly returning back to his son. Emaad had weakly turned his head in Paavan's direction, giving him the smallest little smile from behind the mask that he wore. It was in that moment, that something cracked within the man. A small choking noise had escaped him before he could help it, and he moved to be by his son's bedside, kissing Emaad's forehead before kneeling to be level with him, and both hands wrapping around the boy's much smaller one. It was only then, that he looked back over to the doctor in the room - too bereaved to even have an ounce of embarrassment or reservation in his emotions.  

"Thank you." He started, wanting her to know his gratitude for watching over Emaad, while he had still been on his way there. While he didn't know how extreme his son's injuries were, or what it would take to get him stable and healthy - Paavan was grateful. He was there, and he was alive. Of course, the next piece of conversation, he didn't know how to start - or even how to handle the weight of it. But he would. He had to. The thought of his wife or son in pain was too much, and whatever it would take to help both of them - Paavan would do all that he could, and allow the doctors to do as they needed. Distracted for a moment by tiny fingers tightening around his own, Paavan looked back to the boy, and gave him soft reassurances in his native tongue, taking one hand away to sooth down the curls that framed his small face.

"What needs to be done for him?" The question felt thick in his mouth, as he looked back to Dr. Ashan, desperate to keep them from watering any further.

[acrosstheairwaves-blog]

In time || AU || Zeba & Paavan

[zeba-ahsan]

"Alright, move him on three," Zeba instructed as the paramedics transitioned the small boy from the back of the ambulance to the awaiting gurney. The act of counting was more habit than productive as her words were swallowed up by the commotion in the emergency bay. She had been working with this paramedic team for the near-year since she had begun working with the Peds Trauma unit, and in that time they’d learned to read each other’s unspoken cues. Behind her, the whirring of the helicopter blades that had brought the mother in from the crash site not but ten minutes ago effectively served to drown out even her own thoughts as she began her initial assessment of the boy. "I’m Dr. Ahsan," she shouted over the din as the gurney began to move. "I want you to squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

On most days, Zeba loved her job. Children were more than just little grown ups and deserved specialized care that reflected that fact. Days like this though, when the parent was also - she pushed the thoughts about the child’s mother from her mind. This boy was her patient and where her focus needed to be. Glancing up, her eyes caught the paramedic’s at the head of the gurney who gave her a reassuring nod.

The boy’s face was ashen, and his breaths were short and shallow. “Emaad,” Zeba said the boy’s name after checking the chart, “I need for you to squeeze my hand, now.” The pulse oximeter clipped to his tiny finger beeped out and the screen flashed yellow, the display reading 89%. “Laura, let’s get him into an oxygen mask until we get inside.”

The doorway to the first trauma suite flew open as they passed. If Zeba wasn’t accustomed to the sort of environment there in, it would have looked like chaos as the trauma team worked on the mother. “Any word?” she called out to the resident who had just stepped out, cell phone in hand.

The line of his mouth thinned as he shook his head. “We’re just waiting on the husband.”

His face of impending defeat remained in her mind as she wheeled the boy, whose color had improved dramatically on the oxygen, into the peds unit. Thanking the paramedics and issuing orders to her nursing staff to begin baseline diagnostics, she leaned over the boy. Removing the mask, she offered a small smile. “Hey Emaad, you with us now?”

The boy whimpered, the sudden realization that he was in a strange place surrounded by strange people clear in his wide brown eyes. “Ummi?" he cried. "Baba?"

Zeba brushed the boy’s curls back from his forehead. “No, baby" she cooed softly as her clinic phone beeped from her lab coat pocket. "Your baba will be here soon.” Stepping away from the boy she flipped the phone open.

“Dr. Ahsan?” the voice on the phone spoke. “Dr. Ahsan, Mr. Dasti is here. Dr. Hansen is speaking with him about the wife, now.”

[acrosstheairwaves-blog]

It was as if all the light in the world, had been suddenly snuffed out.  Paavan stood there, his grip too tight on the strap of his duffel bag, almost afraid that if he loosened it, even minimally, he would unravel with it. Everything - everything in his life was hanging in a very precarious balance - and what they could do in the here and now, was all the hinge.

When he and Lina met, Pavaan was thoroughly convinced that a life with her was much more than he would ever possibly be deserving of. It had taken time for him to even be comfortable with the idea that their coffee meetings that strayed longer and longer could be construed as dates. Or that anything between them that was more than simple friendliness was prudent. But Lina was patient. She had seen in his eyes something that he had long since forgotten, and she kindled it, cherished it, and allowed him to believe that there was still a man within him. Buried, somewhere within the harsh memories and war-toughened exterior, it was there. Now, the man was wishing for some of the armor back that he once wore so well - now he was wounded in a way that he didn't know how to heal and leaving it in the hands of the doctors who were taking care of his wife and child.

Within minutes of him coming to the desk, a doctor had come to greet him, and explain everything that had been going on, in his absence. There was a better understanding of the crash itself - the car having been totaled, T-boned in an intersection. It hadn't been Lina's fault at all, and now, it seemed that she was paying the ultimate price for it. Or for him. Pavaan couldn't thread a thought completely, his brain seeming to be hyper-aware of everything all at once, and nothing at all at the same time. There were terms that he didn't understand, that the doctor had said, but from the sound of them, they weren't anything good. He wanted to ask questions, better understand - but it was as if his tongue had suddenly lost all ability to move. To curl around words, or press gently against the back of his teeth insisting in the phrasing of his confusion. The only certain thing that he had learned about Lina in those few moments, was that she was currently in the OR - and they were doing all that they could.

His heart seemed to twist, even at the positivity of the words - the tone was grave that it gave away the hope of the outcome. Feet were heavy, as he was beckoned to follow the doctor now, his thoughts desperate to keep away the darkness, as he listened that he was needed to make a few decisions regarding his son's care as well, with Lina unable to answer them. He had been told that Emaad's condition was less severe, but still needing attention. Even his nod was wooden, thoughts barely able to keep up as they walked towards the pediatric unit to meet with the doctor in charge of his son's care.

"May I see him, at least?" Pavaan asked, finally finding his voice again - needing that confirmation that he was there at all. That this wasn't some terrible exhaustion-induced dream, and that he could wake up - still on the flight back home, and them waiting for him at the gates just as it all should have been.

[acrosstheairwaves-blog]

In time || AU || Zeba & Paavan

[ zeba-ahsan ]

Just as anyone else would, as the muffled sounds of the Captain's voice crackled over the speakers that they had arrived at the terminal and they would begin de-boarding the plane momentarily - Paavan began to gather his small belongings up. The crumpled napkin stuffed inside the plastic cup from the last in-flight meal had been thrown away as the flight attendant walked by with the trashcan, and he had glanced out of the window from his seat, to see the familiar skies of his home now. Having been departed for months now, training at a facility to work on the operating systems and radio bases that the army used he was glad to have a break and spend time with his family again. Of course he and Lina would talk on the phone or over video chat - Emaad joining them, when the timezone allowed for him to still be up late at night - but it was never enough.

Digging it out of his pocket, Paavan turned on his cellphone to text his wife that they had landed. In the time that it took to start up, and find signal among everyone else doing the same -- it was a few moments for his phone to register the three missed calls, and a voice mail that was waiting for him. The number was unrecognized in his phone, but still, the sense of urgency was apparent with their attempts to reach him. Brow furrowing for a moment, his thumb hovered over the button to dial out to voice mail, then decided that it would better wait, until he was off of the plane, and be somewhere that he could listen to it properly - without the background noise of everyone talking to whoever was on the other line of their own cellphone about their trip, their flight, or arrangements else wise.

The device was slipped back into his pocket until he had gotten off the plane, his carry on bag slung over his shoulder as he made his way towards baggage claim. All the while, the weight of his phone seemed to be heavier with each step. Finding a quiet area, he withdrew it again, letting the people gather around the conveyor belt without him - he could always get his bag, once the crowd had dispersed a bit anyway. However, as soon as the automated voice had prompted, and he pressing the responding keys for the voice mail to play - his bag was all but forgotten. Everything was nearly forgotten, even the ability to stand properly. If there hadn't been a column near the man, he would've surely fallen to the floor in the sudden rush of adrenaline and anxiety that washed over him.

A hospital. His wife had been taken into the ER, perhaps a half an hour prior - something about bleeding - and his son was in emergency pediatric care. Suddenly, the entirety of the airport had become blurred beyond reason. A car accident - no doubt on their way there to greet him. The message had stopped long before he lowered his phone, Paavan simply standing there for a moment, not even knowing how to process all that he had just heard. All at once, his brain had caught up with him, and he was immediately heading towards the baggage claim, only muttering the quickest apology, as he had bumped into someone as he reached for his army-issued duffle.

From there, it was hailing a taxi - and heading towards the hospital as quickly as they could manage - all with a prayer on his lips for his wife and son. As soon as he was able, he was thrusting money into the driver's hand, not worrying about change, and out of the car in a bound towards the door. Reason would have told him that there was no rush - if either of them were in surgery he wouldn't be able to see them - but there was no reason. Only guilt. Grief. And terror.

"Please, My wife. I need to see my wife. My son...  They were taken in - car accident - Lina Dasti -- " Paavan was trying to grasp at anything but frantic as he addressed the woman behind the counter.

[acrosstheairwaves-blog]

You've got red on you. || Wynter & Paavan

[lxvingdeadgxrl]

"Amen to that." The woman muttered. As much as she missed being able to talk with someone without the fear of zombies mucking it up, she’d learned that things had changed. People didn’t just stop to shoot the shit anymore, no, you only interacted if you had to, out of necessity. Sure, there might be idle chatter once securely absorbed into a group, but otherwise, it just didn’t happen.

The whole zombie apocalypse thing had changed people, forced them to harden themselves. It was a kill or be killed world out there…

"Alright." she added, securing her bat to her pack once more. She kicked the walker, and it’s victim once, just to be sure, then started down the road with her new companion. "I really hope, and I know it’s near bloody impossible, but I hope that’s the only one we have to deal with today." the misplaced Brit murmured.

[acrosstheairwaves-blog]

He was glad of Wynter's thoughts. While there was a part of him that hoped to find a place where people still acted and treated others as people - even without the Outbreak, he had had his share of the cruelty of man. He had taken part, long ago, too. And from then on, he had been trying to redeem himself. Wash his hands of the blood that he had spilled -- had even found peace. Love. A wife, a home - family on the way. A still small voice within his thoughts always told him that he was unworthy of such a life... and this, the end of all things, seemed much more fitting a fate for him. Shaking his thoughts, Pavaan secured his own weapon and glanced over to the young woman as she checked the bodies. "We can always hope." He replied, the ghost of a smile hinting at the corners of his lips. "Perhaps we've filled our quota for the day."