(closed @cain-douglas)
The thing about being an interrogator is that Derek knows how much a body can take, can read the signs of when to press and when there’s nothing left but to pull back. It’s a skill he’s honed through years of work and more than a few close calls, all of which means he now knows the exact moment when he’s officially, completely fucked.
It’s something to do with his pulse, how it shudders and slows, temperature dropping so fast it takes all his resolve not to black out, and he knows he’s got moments, not minutes. There is a hole in the side of his body, deep enough he can see something shiny and white that might be bone, even amongst all the dark black wet of the blood. He’d been impervious to the fire raging around him, the stupidity of his own temper out of control– burn the whole fucking thing down, god he’d messed up– but his powers could do nothing against the rubble of an entire building collapsing around him at speed, a dying animal enacting its final revenge. In the chaos, part of the ceiling’s wooden support had made a serious attempt at boring its way towards his heart via his ribcage and for a while there he’d looked like a cheap TV vampire, in leather with a big wooden stake sticking out of his chest and, okay, oh, oh-- he’s dying.
Except that as an interrogator he also knows that dying is a process, not a moment, so he’s still moving, stumbling down hallways that didn’t seem nearly as long on the way in and up an agonizing set of stairs, and then he’s out, looking for alternate shelter, following that old animal need for privacy and darkness to lick his wounds, reassess. His instincts take him to another abandoned building half a block down, not far enough but it’s the best he can do, as his legs finally give out on him a few stumbled feet into the lobby. Derek can feel cold, dirty floor against his skin where his jacket’s torn off him, hear the sirens coming down the street, and he’d always expected to die alone but it still comes as a disappointment to realize this is how it happens.
Worst of all, it’s his fault. He hadn’t even told Luca to wait up for him, hadn’t wanted her involved an inch more than she had to, and now no one’s coming for him. That’s the thing about working behind people’s backs— it makes it harder for them to save your ass when you make amateur mistakes in the heat of the moment, when you let emotions overtake your judgment. Years of experience and practice, and he’s going to be taken down by the same shitty, impulsive decision-making that had gotten him in trouble as a cocky, self-destructive 20 year old, thinking he could handle anything, and all by himself.
… Except he’s not that 20-something anymore, with no one and nothing to lose, so he’s just going to have to figure something the fuck out, isn’t he. Christ. What a pain in the ass it is, having people to care about, people he’d really fucking miss if he were dead. Derek can’t feel his hands, but he’s got to get his phone open. He’s got to get to his speed dial, hit the first number in the list. He can’t do it, but he has too so he does.
Someone picks up and Derek’s mouth is moving, and he really hopes that means he’s rattling off the address of this particular middle-of-nowhere building, but for all he knows he could be reciting a cake recipe. It’s taking most of his focus to keep the cheap flip phone from slipping out of his blood-slick fingers. “—third door from the left, it’s going to be locked but— fuck, figure it out, get here fast and don’t tell anyone.”
The last words come out a half-growl, and if there’s a reply he doesn’t hear it, letting the phone finally drop as his head thunks back to the cool concrete of the floor. Finally, he blacks out.