a/n: Episode Tag: Episode #103 (3rd episode) — spoilers.
With all of his strength, Scott tried to break the bonds that held him. But it was no use, they were way too strong. He tried to reach the explosive device strapped to his chest, to see if there was a chance that he might be able to defuse it. He knew the basics for defusing a bomb; he had taken the crash course for his training. He couldn't see it properly though, couldn't quite reach the wires.
He screamed in frustration and fear. He got the his finger tips into his pant's pocket, just barely getting the cell phone pinched between his fingers. He pulled it all the way into his hand and turned it on, looking down at the lit up screen. His fingers were poised to dial, but he didn't know any numbers. This wasn't his phone and the numbers that he needed weren't programmed into this one. Scott didn't know the Crib's number by heart, nor did he know Michael's or Grant's. The only number he did know was that of a dead man's.
Scott didn't know how much time was left on the bomb, but with every second there was a beep. And with every beat, Scott was sure that it was going to be the end forever, but then another beep would come. His heart rate was fast and he was sweating profusely, he was scared and he didn't want to die. He pulled against the restraints again as he felt his vision blur and squeezed his eyes shut. He felt a tear leave his eye and drip down his cheek, his vision clear again when he opened his lids.
Before in the hotel, Scott didn't have time to cry—he didn't think that he would actually cry before the end now, either. But last time he had a little girl and a group of people to save, and that also included his own ass. But now there was no one else to save, he was tied down and alone, with a ticking time bomb strapped to his chest.
He looked down at the phone and dialed the only number on his mind. It rang and it rang, and Scott thought that by now the number would be disconnected—to his surprise and relief, it wasn't.
"This is John Porter, and if this is Damien then you better leave a fucking message this time!"
Scott snorted despite the current situation; John never did change his voice mail since they were partners. They had been more than just partners, they had been friends and were brothers. It hadn't been that they had lost contact when he was kicked out of the military, it was that Scott couldn't take what John might have thought about the fact that drugs were found in his locker—even if they were planted and him being dishonorably discharged was bogus. Even though John never did look at him differently, he knew that now after hearing his voice mail.
"Hey, John. It's Damien. I know this is stupid, you're already gone . . . and soon I will be too. But I just wanted to hear your voice one last time. And I'm sorry that I ignored all of your calls over the years. I was just afraid that you might have looked and thought about me differently after what had happened. It scared me too, that you trusted me enough to finish the mission that you started. But I failed—I failed the mission and I failed you, John."
Scott's voice cracked as he felt a lump form in his throat.
"It looks like we're going to see each other sooner than I thought—I never did put a bomb being strapped to my chest into the calculation."
He gave a strained laugh, sure that amid the beeping there was a sob mixed in there somewhere. The phone slipped from his fingers and fell to the dirt ground, out of his reach. He looked down at it, his arms straining against the rope as he tried to lean forward. He jerked back against the back of the chair, out of breath. There was no point in struggling anymore, the bomb was going to go off any second and there was no one on there way to save him—he was expendable after all.
OK, now Scott knew that he had to be dead now. That the bomb must have gone off, and he was dead because the only person that called him by his first name was John. Scott looked back over his shoulder were he was sure the voice had come from, but the only thing back there were hay bails. He turned back around and he was sure that he had a stroke, because standing right in front him was John Porter. Scott looked up at him, with wide eyes, his face even paler than before when he realized that he had a bomb strapped to his chest.
"Fuck, I'm dead, aren't I?" he breathed out.
"Chill," John said. "You're acting like you've seen a ghost or something." he shook his head as he realized what he just said. "Any way, you're not dead, Damien." John looked alive, better than he did when Scott last saw him in that video—the only thing that gave away the fact that he was dead, was that he was ever so slightly transparent—and Scott was only able to notice that due to the ray of sunlight leaking through a crack in the wood.
"I'm acting that way because I am staring at a ghost." Scott corrected. "So I'm either dead or going fucking insane being tied to a chair with a bomb strapped to my chest."
"You're not dead!" John told him, cuffing him on the ear.
"Ow!" Scott exclaimed. "What the hell?"
"See?" John said smugly, his hands going on his hips. "If you were dead, that wouldn't have hurt."
"Fine." he ground out in return. "But I damn near will be soon enough."
"Not if I can help it."
"How the hell are you supposed to do that when you're dead?" Scott asked.
John shook his head. "I thought that you were more open minded than that."
"Well, I'm pretty sure that I'm open minded enough to see a fucking dead man!" Scott yelled.
"Just shut up for a minute and watch, would ya?" John ordered him.
Scott snapped his mouth shut, and glared. Despite the fact that he was in this current situation, and that John was dead, they were bickering like the good old times. Scott watched as John stepped forward and knelt down in front of him. He placed his elbows on Scott's knees—Scott's toes curling in his shoes as he actually felt the contact—using them as a support as he touch the explosive. Scott watched with wide eyes as John's fingers went actually went through the fucking plastic casing. The bomb gave a long beep before it stopped making noise all together.
John looked up at Scott, a grin curving his lips. "With three seconds to spare."
Scott's eyes were wide. "Does that mean that you can get me out of these restraints?" he asked hopefully.
"There's no time for that." John told him, using Scott's knees to push himself up.
"What do you mean?" Scott asked, slightly worried that maybe the bomb wasn't disarmed.
"Stonebridge is going to be here soon." John told him.
Scott nodded. "Fine, but what about you?"
"Don't worry." John told his friend. "I won't be going too far."
John reached out and ruffled Scott's hair. Scott would have usually pulled his head back from the contact, embarrassed at the gesture; but now he leaned into it, cherishing every single second that John touched him. Finally, John pulled back, his hand dropping to his side as he took a step back from Scott.
"Wait!" Scott called. "I'm—I'm sorry."
John furrowed his brow. "For what?"
"For leaving," Scott told him.
"Damien." John shook his head. "I was never mad at you for that, I know that those drugs weren't yours."
Scott looked at him, his eyes suspiciously shiny. "You promise to come back?" he asked.
"You finally left a message." John grinned. "So I guess that I can stop by every now and again."
Scott grinned back. He wished that he didn't blink because when he opened his eyes again, John was gone.