No Rest For The Wicked

But Not Always an Ally

Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending. ~Maria Robinson

When Darcy began the slow and arduous journey back from the realm of blissful oblivion, it was the warmth that was trapped in the cocoon of blankets around her that drew her dreary attention first. It had seeped completely through every fiber of her being, willfully calling her back to sleep. Exhaustion still clawed at her mind, so the detective decided the best course of action in that very moment was inaction. Burrowing deeper into the blankets, she was deep in the arms of slumber within seconds.

What could only be minutes later, Darcy found herself drifting unwillingly back into consciousness. Pain trickled its way up her arm, each limb stiff and protesting any movement. A rather unwelcomed jackhammering was beginning to take up residence in her skull. Being awake was really the last thing on her agenda at this point. Burying her face into the pillow, she tried to ignore the world for at least another hour.

A nagging thought that worked its way to the forefront of her mind refused to let her; why had she woken up in the first place? Judging by the brief light she had glimpsed coming through the window, it was already passed seven, but she just plain didn't feel up to moving. If her conscious self couldn't figure out what her unconscious had, then perhaps it just wasn't that important. A few more minutes wouldn't hurt either way.

That was her thinking anyway, until a clattering of what sounded suspiciously like dishware penetrated the comforter wrapped over her head. It wasn't a particularly loud crash, rather more of a gentle sound; an accidental bump of one dish against another. Shoving the blanket off, she was accosted by other sounds the cover had blocked. The soft tinking of dishes coming into contact with the counter, cupboards being opened and closed, and unhurried footsteps of whoever was moving about. It was all very...domestic. Relaxed by the unfamiliar yet comfortable feelings the sounds evoked, Darcy found herself starting to drift off yet again.

Until her half-asleep brain finally jump started at a supremely important question. Who the hell was in her kitchen?

Eyes snapping open, she bolted upright and went for her gun in one fluid move. Or it would have been fluid, had the blood not rushed straight out of her head and caused the room to spin out from under her. Cursing as the pounding in her head increased tenfold, it took a full minute of steady breathing before the hammering reached a non-skull splitting level. At least whoever was in her house was content to stay in the kitchen for now, as the string of sounds never once faltered. Once the blood flow even itself out, she reached out to the nightstand, wincing as the drawer squeaked. No change to the noise rhythm meant it hadn't been heard, she was in the clear.

Grabbing her personal pistol tucked inside the drawer, she dropped it as fire shot through her veins. Swearing, she clutched her injured hand to her chest. Through the shoddy wrappings she had put on the night before, she could see red fighting to bleed through the white. Her right hand was temporarily useless. Brilliant.

Awkwardly grabbing the gun in her left hand, she stood and slowly made her way to the open door, using the wall for support. Her body was just so damn tired; where was the adrenaline spike when she needed one?

Slipping out of the bedroom and down the hall--barely remembering to dodge the creaky board at the last second--she slowly rounded the corner, raising the gun as she did so.

Her brain promptly stalled, her jaw falling open as the scene before her tore at the edges of reality. It had to be a hallucination, it had to be. She'd finally snapped and lost it completely. Because Row was not in her house, he was not watching as the soldier dug through her cupboards, and he was most certainly not holding several bags with IHop stamped across the front with a very sour look on his face.