When Neal wakes up, he's not with Daisy. That's the first thing that registers. He'd fallen asleep with his arm around her shoulders, half to comfort her if the Gull started shaking again and half to keep himself anchored and sane.
He sits up fast and regrets it immediately, clutching at his head as the room fades out and his ears start ringing. He can't tell if he wants to throw up because he's dizzy from the blood loss still or if he's dizzy from lack of sleep. Apparently even being finally, finally unconscious isn't enough to make up for what the Gull spent two days doing.
Neal eases himself out of the bed, still wearing pajama pants he borrowed from Raylan and not much else. He scavenges a shirt from the room's dresser and pulls it on carefully, moving slow. What he wants to do is run out the front door and make sure at least Daisy and Elena are all right, but two days awake after getting attacked by a vampire do not a healthy body make.
He braces himself against one of the walls as he comes down the stairs, trying to ignore both the hollowed-out sleepless feeling in his chest and the fact that he's straining to hear strange whispers that aren't there. Instinct says the moment he stops listening for them, they'll be back. Instinct can screw itself.
He makes it to the bottom of the stairs, stands there for a moment, and then beelines for the kitchen. Not quickly but with purpose. He saw the moonshine in there, and he can't make himself feel much more like shit--might as well feel like shit and be drunk at the same time.
Evening
He checked in with people, both on the phone and in person, though mostly on the phone. He started the day tired, and the effort of talking would have been enough to exhaust him all on its own. But he's been on edge all day, waiting for the building to start shaking, for the screaming wind to come back, for the whispers to start up again. Even after almost twelve solid hours of relative peace, he still can't stop expecting it.
He's wrapped himself in a blanket from the couch and settled in with his back against the wall next to the fireplace. Whether he thought better of it or was talked out of it, Neal didn't get drunk earlier.
no subject
When Neal wakes up, he's not with Daisy. That's the first thing that registers. He'd fallen asleep with his arm around her shoulders, half to comfort her if the Gull started shaking again and half to keep himself anchored and sane.
He sits up fast and regrets it immediately, clutching at his head as the room fades out and his ears start ringing. He can't tell if he wants to throw up because he's dizzy from the blood loss still or if he's dizzy from lack of sleep. Apparently even being finally, finally unconscious isn't enough to make up for what the Gull spent two days doing.
Neal eases himself out of the bed, still wearing pajama pants he borrowed from Raylan and not much else. He scavenges a shirt from the room's dresser and pulls it on carefully, moving slow. What he wants to do is run out the front door and make sure at least Daisy and Elena are all right, but two days awake after getting attacked by a vampire do not a healthy body make.
He braces himself against one of the walls as he comes down the stairs, trying to ignore both the hollowed-out sleepless feeling in his chest and the fact that he's straining to hear strange whispers that aren't there. Instinct says the moment he stops listening for them, they'll be back. Instinct can screw itself.
He makes it to the bottom of the stairs, stands there for a moment, and then beelines for the kitchen. Not quickly but with purpose. He saw the moonshine in there, and he can't make himself feel much more like shit--might as well feel like shit and be drunk at the same time.
Evening
He checked in with people, both on the phone and in person, though mostly on the phone. He started the day tired, and the effort of talking would have been enough to exhaust him all on its own. But he's been on edge all day, waiting for the building to start shaking, for the screaming wind to come back, for the whispers to start up again. Even after almost twelve solid hours of relative peace, he still can't stop expecting it.
He's wrapped himself in a blanket from the couch and settled in with his back against the wall next to the fireplace. Whether he thought better of it or was talked out of it, Neal didn't get drunk earlier.
He's well and truly drunk now.