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Chapter 10
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Sloan reached into the shower and twisted the knob hard all the way to hot. The showerhead sputtered in hesitation and then pounded out in a steady rhythm against the tiles. She stepped in under the water, into the space no bigger than a small closet, and with one hand pulled the white shower curtain closed with a swish.
Three weeks. It echoed in her mind. Three weeks . . . and they were doing nothing.
There was nothing they could do.
Sloan tilted her head up to meet the scalding spray of water and clenched her eyes shut tight. She tried to pretend that she was back in her own apartment, in her own bathroom . . . that Tom was just in the next room, safe and waiting for her.
She attempted to summon his calm steady presence that could surround her and permeate her with one look:
Soothing . . .
Potent . . .
Overwhelming.
He had become such a vital part of her life in so short amount of time, and now . . .
It had been three weeks.
Sloan turned her back to the spray and opened weary eyes to stare at stained tiles, once glittering white, now slightly molded and yellowish.
No matter how hard she tried, no matter how hard she wished, the fantasy wouldn't stay for more than a few seconds. The hollow feeling in her gut and the tightness in her chest wouldn't let her forget that she was in this god-forsaken place and that she might never again see Tom alive.
And there was nothing she could do.
Sloan was sick and tired of being cloistered in hotel rooms.
She was disgusted by their inability to do anything to get Tom back.
She was paranoid and exhausted, but most of all she was feeling helpless and . . .
"Trapped," Sloan whispered out loud. She raised one hand and rested it against the tiles.
There was suddenly a soft knock on the bathroom door and then Ed's hesitant muffled voice. The guard must have let him in.
"Sloan, Walter had some food brought up." Ed paused and Sloan could just picture him on the other side of the door, uncertain and concerned about her, running a nervous hand through his hair. "If you're hungry, uhm, it's over there, ok?"
"Thanks," she said, not even sure if her answer made it through the paper-thin door.
Sloan's hand resting on the shower wall clenched into a tight fist and she leaned forward to rest her head against it.
She didn't want to go over there. She would just be met with their concerned and even pitying looks - their apprehension that only served to magnify her own.
She needed to be away from them for a while. She needed to obliterate the fact that she had just admitted out loud to them that Tom could be dead.
After three weeks, it suddenly welled up in her . . . the grief that she refused to fully express because that would mean she had given up on Tom being alive. It bombarded her until the flood of emotion was something bordering on desperation, instilling an irrational panic.
Gone for three weeks . . . he really could be dead.
Sloan took several rapid breaths of the steam filled air but the feeling refused to dissipate.
She tore the shower curtain aside and stumbled out of the tiny shower. But that wasn't good enough.
She needed air . . . fresh air.
She bolted out of the bathroom into the small bedroom, stumbling over to where she'd tossed her clothes on the bed. She was still wet when she hastily threw them on, locked the bedroom door so that they might not find out what she'd done, and headed out the window.
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The walls in the hallway outside of Sloan's hotel room, which perhaps had once been a cheery yellow, were now a color that could only be accurately described as dirty. The bright fluorescent lights overhead illuminated the sharp lines of the man's face standing guard just to the right of her door.
One hand hung loosely at his hip, the other casually resting on the gun holster strapped to his side. He was dressed in black slacks and a tan jacket, just long enough to conceal if necessary the fact that he was armed. But the casual clothing did nothing to dispel the image of a man who knew his job and knew it well.
Ed shifted his stance and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he took all this in along with the deceivingly relaxed attitude of the ex-marine.
"Sir?" the guard asked in a flat voice, noticing Ed's scrutiny and probably tired of the fidgety man standing outside Sloan's door for the past ten minutes.
"Uh, yeah?"
"Is there a problem, sir?" he asked, one eyebrow raising in a hint of annoyance.
"No," Ed shook his head furiously. "Um, no. No problem."
Ed took one last concerned glance at Sloan's door and then headed back to his own room.
No, Ed thought bitterly. There's no problem at all, except that my best friend is going through hell and she won't talk to me about it.
He'd heard the swift click of the lock on her door a minute ago so there was really no point in waiting any longer for Sloan to come out and join them for dinner. She obviously wasn't going to.
Reaching his door, Ed gave a weak smile to the guard stationed there and then quietly closed his door behind him letting out a troubled sigh.
He'd been out in the hallway since his hesitant prodding through the barrier of the bathroom door for Sloan to join Walter, Ray and himself for something to eat.
He'd just needed to make sure . . . hell, he didn't know what he needed to make sure. Maybe just to let her know that he was here for her - he'd hoped that she would open up to them, to him.
But then again, maybe the hefty load of guilt that he was feeling, for letting Walter talk him into not telling Sloan that they had no intention of mentioning Tom to the press, had something to do with keeping him out there standing vigil, waiting for any sign that she would be okay.
Ed grimaced at the thought and leaned back against the closed door thumping his head several times against the hard surface.
"I'll have to add that to the top ten list of the stupidest things I've ever done," he berated himself quietly.
He'd had this rising feeling of dread since Sloan's behavior in their little meeting earlier, specifically her comment about Tom being . . .
Ed closed his eyes as he cut off the thought.
It wasn't that they hadn't all been thinking the same thing. It wasn't even the fact that Sloan had finally accepted such a possibility out loud, that had caused his need to stand sentry outside his best friends door waiting for her to appear.
It was the way she had said it. So matter of fact and completely devoid of emotion.
That wasn't like Sloan. Ed wouldn't be this worried if she had gone to the opposite extreme and thrown herself sobbing into his arms. Sloan had always turned to him for comfort . . . at least, before Tom.
But now Tom was missing, perhaps dead, and she'd drawn away from all of them, from him. He'd never seen Sloan like this. Not even when she'd lost her adoptive parents, not when she'd been the one to follow the bloody trail to Anne's mutilated body, a woman who'd perhaps been closer to her than anyone.
Then, she had grieved. She had shared herself with him and been active and determined throughout the whole ordeal.
Sloan was fiery and brilliant, tenacious and brave. The person Ed knew would have dragged him down the hall by his ear and lectured him for an hour for pulling a stunt like cutting her out of the decision about the press conference.
Instead she'd shut down and walked away.
"God, this is breaking her" Ed let out in a strangled voice and looked helplessly around the empty room.
And the worst part was that there was nothing he could do.
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Chapter 11
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Tom did a slow pan up the street, scanning for any familiar signatures from his position concealed in the darkened entrance of a closed office building. The light rain had stopped about fifteen minutes ago and the night streets looked clean, the air fresh. Tom took several deep breaths and slipped further back into the shadows.
The events that had led him here, scoping out the building where the team from Whitney might be staying was just pure luck. That in itself was a new concept for Tom.
His entire life, it had been drilled into him to discipline himself, to hone his natural abilities to perfection, because nothing should be left to chance. His mentor had always impressed upon him that, in his life as a chameleon, his skill would be the only thing he could and should depend on.
But this had nothing to do with his tracking skill or his intelligence - it was a fluke or some benediction from a God he had never believed in. Tom was left with no choice but to acknowledge that he had simply gotten lucky by stumbling upon the sight of Ray Peterson coming out of an apartment building with his wife and child.
The family had been flanked by what, to Tom's trained eye, was obviously an armed escort. So, he had stayed out of sight and followed them here to this hotel.
Tom had been scoping the hotel building for an hour now, unsure about whether or not Sloan was inside. He'd caught sight of Attwood's press conference shortly after he'd lost the tale from Lewis - there really wasn't anyway for him to miss it, it was everywhere. Government conspiracy and murder always made big news so they'd been rerunning the press conference throughout the entire day.
The sidewalks were relatively empty, this part of the city not exactly considered safe for pleasure walks after dusk. The neon vacancy sign at least gave Tom a fairly illuminated view of the front entrance to the hotel.
He had to make a decision soon, to either risk entering the building in search of the team or risk loosing this lead by leaving to find shelter for his weary body for the night.
Then he felt it, on the edge of his mind. Soft auburn curls, skin that tasted slightly like vanilla and smelled just as sweet, and the clearer memory of the inherent vibrancy of her emotions all flashed through his mind the instant Tom sensed the faint signature of Sloan's presence.
Whipping his head around he saw her slowly ambling down the street toward him, head down seemingly oblivious to her surroundings. Tom tensed and stretched his senses looking for the others, but they were no where to be found.
His brow creased in frustration and a bit of anger. Why was she out alone, unescorted and unprotected? Attwood wasn't foolish enough to believe that public awareness would give them immunity, was he?
Tom moved out of the covered entrance and took several steps in Sloan's direction, away from the hotel he'd had his attention focused on for the past hour. He stepped into a pool of light from a street lamp just as Sloan lifted her head and locked eyes with him.
Her step faltered and then she came to a stop.
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Maybe I am loosing it after all, Sloan thought to herself. Because the person standing in that glowing patch of light looks exactly like Tom.
Since leaving the hotel unobserved, she'd spent her time alternately wandering aimlessly and stopping to cry until no more tears would come. Her throat was sore, her eyes burned but what was really bothering her was the fact that her grief now apparently had her conjuring hallucinations.
First irresponsibly sneaking out like some teen and now I'm seeing apparitions, Sloan thought and let out a strangled laugh.
But then if she had to come to terms with never being with Tom again, perhaps this wasn't such a bad development. A sad wistful smile tugged at her lips. It was almost worth it to embrace this kind of insanity if she could just see him again.
But then the specter moved, taking a step toward her further into the light. Reality snapped back into place in that one moment and Sloan instantly stiffened, her eyes going wide.
Dreams didn't move like that, not her dreams. He was twenty feet away and coming closer. She could see the weary lines on his face now, the way he hugged the dark trench coat around him just a little too tightly as if he was cold.
But it couldn't be Tom, a voice screamed in her mind. Tom was . . .
No. She brutally cut off that thought.
She couldn't think about the possibility of Tom being dead right now, not with his mirror image making his way steadily nearer.
But Tom had been missing for three weeks, he wasn't just going to show up one day and surprise her. So, this man steadily making his way toward her couldn't be Tom.
So, Sloan reacted in the only possible way she could. Her body was in motion before her conscious mind had even fully processed the decision. She spun around and bolted from the thing wearing her lover's face.
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Tom saw Sloan take off in the opposite direction down the sidewalk, terrified. Her panic glowed around her and left bright sweet smelling traces. It lingered behind in the air, a clear trail for a dominant in pursuit of its prey.
A strong sense of déjà vu flowed over Tom. This was indeed familiar - the hunt, the inevitable capture.
But this was Sloan and those feelings were swiftly followed by a bolt of shock so strong he almost doubled over.
She was fleeing from him. Sloan hadn't shown fear toward him since . . .since that night she had held a poker on him after identifying what she thought to be his dead body.
Bitter understanding swiftly knocked the other emotions away. Sloan thought he was an imposter.
Tom made a split second decision - he had to get them off the street. There weren't many people about but he still couldn't afford to make a scene . . . to provide any opportunity for someone to be able to recount his face to some seemingly friendly stranger, of either species, who could come around asking questions later.
Tom bolted in pursuit of the fleeing woman. He was in front of Sloan in an instant and before she could utter a sound he grabbed her.
One hand held her face against his shoulder muffling her gasp and the other circled around her lower back. He pressed his face close to her ear and whispered to her, trying to reassure her with his voice.
"Shh, it's alright."
Sloan remained stiff in his arms, her panic scorching his senses, but she couldn't scream. The tight hold immobilized her and the one person across the street, who happened to glance their way, must have assumed they were simply an affectionate couple in an embrace.
Tom waited for the pedestrian to pass on further down the street and then took several steps to the right, partly lifting Sloan off the ground until they stood next to the front entrance to some small fix it shop. The old dusty place, with windows on the second story boarded up, wouldn't have any security.
He pressed her up against the crickity door with his body when he had to free his one hand to break the simple lock.
As soon as they were inside and the door closed behind them, Tom released his hold on her.
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As soon as she was free of his suffocating embrace, Sloan scrambled back from his touch in the darkness, knocking over several small stands as she went. Small clocks crashed to the floor, their glass fronts shattering and springs snapping.
Sloan barely registered the noise as her hands fumbled around and then managed to grab one of the clocks and fling it at the dominant pursuing her. Her breath came in gasps as the silent man simply moved his head, avoiding the blow and kept coming after her - further and further into the store, away from the door she could see just over his shoulder.
Sloan only halted her panicked retreat when she came into contact with the hard surface of a wall. She pressed herself up against it, hands spread against the paneling.
Far removed now from the meager light from the street filtering through the dirtied windows, Sloan could barely make out any of his physical features anymore . . . except his eyes. She kept her gaze locked on them.
This was her worst nightmare come true.
Ever since that night when she'd mistook a cold corpse in an alley for Tom, she'd had this little nagging fear in the back of her mind about what it would be like to come in contact with one of Tom's siblings . . . or one of his clones.
Would they want to kill her? Would she have to stare into the face that she trusted, that she loved and see eyes filled with icy hatred or worse, bland indifference bent on a mission to murder her - to do the job that her Tom had been unable to follow through with?
Would her last sight be of a twisted form of the man she had so easily fallen in love with?
Now, trapped and alone, it seemed that that's exactly what her last moment would be like. Sloan's fingers unconsciously flexed against the dark wood behind her, trying to claw out an escape route, when the figure less than four feet in front of her finally spoke.
"Sloan."
The sound of her name came toward her in a hoarse whisper and Sloan thought that it almost sounded tentative . . . but that wouldn't make any sense.
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A murky, drowning emotion filled Tom as he realized that Sloan wasn't responding to his voice. She stood backed up against the wall staring at him like some frightened animal, like that night he'd gone to her apartment to fulfill the order of cleaning up after Lynch's mess.
Tom's mind scrambled for someway to convince her of who he was - that he had no intention of harming her. He could never harm her.
His mind filled with the memory of the last time they had been able to really spend time together outside of the whirlwind of events connected to the lab. Memories of the week before the incident with Kevin, before things had begun to snowball with the geno-genesis serum . . . they'd made love for the first time that week.
Only they would know about what had happened when he'd shown up at her apartment that day. She'd ditched the security guards to go jogging that morning and when he'd arrived she'd been embarrassed over getting caught. Tom had ended up patching up a skinned knee for her and the rest of the day spent languidly in her bed.
"Sloan," he began, trying to sound calm but inside bordering on desperation to break through her fear. "Listen to me . . ."
"What do you want?" she said, defiance in her voice, but closing her eyes, breaking away from his gaze.
"It's me, it's Tom."
"No," she whispered, furiously shaking her head. "Tom's gone, they . . ."
"The others, are they back in the hotel? Why are you out alone?" He interrupted her and then added the statement that he hoped would convince her.
"You snuck out the fire escape again didn't you? You never could get used to having constant security."
"Sloan," he whispered again and something seemed to dawn in her.
Her eyes opened wide and a moment later she took a step away from the wall. The grating, glowing emotion of fear dissipated around her like mist.
"Tom," she gasped. "Oh my God."
And then she was in his arms running her hands over his face, over his shoulders, anywhere she could reach.
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Sloan couldn't clearly see him but she could feel and she needed to reassure herself that this was real . . . that he was really here and alive.
"How?" she choked, her hands still in constant motion.
Tom couldn't explain right now so he settled for a half-truth.
"I got away," he said simply in a voice full of emotion.
"How did you find me?" Sloan quickly asked, her tears pooling in the crook of his thumb and forefinger as he cradled her face.
"I followed Ray. It's all over the news."
Sloan buried her face in his jacket then and began to let out big racking sobs as she clutched him to her. Tom tightened his arms around her and closed his eyes. Letting out a sigh, everything seemed to loosen in him in that moment. He was with her again, that's all that he focused on.
They stayed like that for a long time until Sloan's trembling ceased and she eased her grip on him to raise her eyes to his in part wonder part joy.
Tom opened himself to everything she was feeling for a few precious minutes, ran his hands through her damp hair - she must have been out walking when it was raining - and wiped the remaining tears away with his thumbs.
All too soon though, instinct brutally snapped back into place when a pedestrian passed the storefront. Easing slightly out of the embrace he said in a low voice, "We can't stay here."
Sloan instantly tensed again and looked around, scanning their surroundings and finally settling her gaze on the front door with apprehension.
"Come on," she grabbed his hand and began pulling him toward the exit, "we have to tell the others."
Tom didn't budge though and she turned back in confusion.
"No, Sloan," he said firmly.
He'd lost his tail from Lewis once, but they were no doubt searching for him. The Council had given him her life as a sort of peace offering but Attwood and the others, they would still be vulnerable prey.
And then there was Walter's former boss who would also be out on the hunt for him.
"They'll be looking for me. I don't wanna place anyone else in danger."
That wasn't the only reason though, he didn't want to have to evade all the questions from Attwood and Peterson right now. They would want to know about his miraculous appearance and he wasn't about to explain Lewis or the Council to them. Not now, at least. Perhaps never, a little voice in his head added.
Tom tightened his grip on Sloan's hand and continued, "You'll probably be safer with them as well."
Sloan's reaction was immediate and blazing. She eliminated the small distance between them and grasped the lapel of his jacket with her free hand.
"I'm not letting you leave," she said roughly.
"I have to find some place to rest," he argued in a soft voice, "and I can't go back with you now."
"Then I'm coming with you," was the adamant answer he received. "You're not going anywhere without me."
To Be Continued