The second time Bastille woke up, Hazel was gone and his head was still killing him. His fingers curled instictively, as if he might be able to chase the warmth she’s left behind, but there was no telling how long he’d been asleep once more or how long she’d been gone. Everything was hazy around the edges, things moving slowly in the stillness, and then he let out a groan and tried to bury head under a pillow as the throbbing caught up with him. He could feel phantom traces of panic in his throat, and it burned to swallow, but it wasn’t as bad when he could think back to the drag of Hazel’s fingers in his hair or the soft lilt of her voice as she sang. He could only mourn her loss, the reassurance that he wasn’t dreaming that she was okay; cringing at the reminder of his fingers pressed into her throat, he forced his eyes open and exhaled noisily. Fuck, that hurt. He was tempted to just plunge himself back into the darkness, to give into the dizzying spinning in his head, but he forced himself to try to focus on the present. On breathing evenly.

It was probably not a surprise that he didn’t register any one else’s presence in the room. His thoughts were sluggish and dull, and he could barely think past the aching. Having tucked his head under a pillow in an effort to shut it all out, Cooper’s aura was muffled, blocked out; he might have jolted to realize the older man was there, but as it was Bast was horribly out of it. How many hours had it been? Some of the wine was likely still in his system, working its way out of his bloodstream slowly. Fuck.

[ [member=911]Dale Cooper.[/member] ]