23. Waking To Pine Needles
23
WAKING TO PINE NEEDLES
~NYX~
A tlas's scent pervades every breath I take, wrapping around me like a constant embrace even in the depths of unconsciousness. Pine needles, leather, mountain air – the combination has become as essential as oxygen during this strange week of drifting between awareness and dreams.
I've never slept so much in my life.
Six years of captivity trained my body to function on minimal rest, yet now it surrenders to exhaustion with shocking regularity. Each time consciousness tries to take hold, fatigue pulls me back under like a tide I'm powerless to resist.
But Atlas remains my anchor through it all.
His presence marks every brief moment of wakefulness – steady hands supporting my head as he coaxes water past my lips, gentle strength cradling me upright when weakness makes sitting impossible. The IV in my arm delivers vital fluids, but he insists on helping me drink as if each small act of care might erase years of clinical detachment.
Nights bring a different kind of comfort.
His body curls protectively around mine, radiating warmth that seeps into bones that seem permanently chilled. The silk wrap remains in place, but I've learned to read volumes in the way his breathing changes, in how his arms tighten fractionally when dreams threaten to drag me back to sterile halls and endless pain.
Sometimes, in that ethereal space between sleeping and waking, his voice breaks the silence. The humming starts so quietly that I often think I'm imagining it — a melody that carries notes of safety and belonging.
I doubt he knows I hear these midnight serenades, these moments when careful control gives way to tender comfort.
But now, surfacing slowly from another extended period of unconsciousness, I find myself facing questions that even Atlas's reassuring presence can't answer.
A week has passed since escaping Ravenscroft's sterile hell, yet I have no grasp on what comes next. The world beyond captivity remains a mystery filled with expectations I'm not sure I can meet.
Normal omegas seek packs, build lives, and heal from whatever traumas mark their pasts. They move forward with determination and grace, finding their place in a society I barely remember. But how does one simply step away from six years of systematic torture?
What alpha would willingly claim an omega so thoroughly broken by endless experiments?
The shadows stir at the edges of my consciousness, their silence carrying notes of uncertainty rather than their usual warnings. Their return gives me an odd sense of relief, despite the implications that their presence contributes to the idea of my sanity going to hell.
After everything I’ve been through, if the company of these voices means I’m labeled crazy, so be it. They’re a part of me now, their presence, warning, and hymns of loss and praise have helped me survive milestones I never expected to experience and achieve.
Even they seem unsure of my path forward in this world of freedom that feels more foreign than familiar.
My fingers trace the bandages wrapped around my torso, mapping the extent of injuries I can barely remember receiving. The bullet wound throbs with dull persistence, a constant reminder of how close death came to claiming its prize.
The medical staff speaks in hushed tones about miracle recoveries and inexplicable survival, but I remember nothing after collapsing in the forest.
Only fragments surface through the fog of trauma – strong arms catching my fall, desperate voices calling my name, the taste of borrowed breath forcing life back into unwilling lungs. The details blur together like watercolors left in the rain, creating impressionist paintings of memories I can't quite grasp.
I guess it doesn’t matter because, in the end, I’m alive.
I’ll recover. Heal. Carry the scars that are left behind, both physically and mentally from Ravenscroft’s captivity.
Atlas shifts beside me, his breathing pattern changing subtly as he senses my return to consciousness. His arm tightens fractionally around my waist, careful to avoid the worst of my injuries while still maintaining that grounding contact I've come to crave.
"Water?" His voice carries that particular gentleness reserved for these quiet moments between sleep and full awareness.
I manage a small nod, grateful when he doesn't immediately move to help me sit up. These first moments after waking often leave me dizzy and disoriented, my body requiring time to remember it's no longer in Ravenscroft's sterile halls.
It’s also a relief that he’s somehow managing to acknowledge my silent gestures. I know it’s a bit selfish, testing his other senses when I could just voice my concerns, but he told me he doesn’t like when people try to compensate for his obvious disability. Some are thoughtful, especially those who’ve known him the longest, but most do it almost disrespectfully.
As if to diminish his worth.
His patience speaks volumes about how well he's learned to read my needs over this past week. Where the facility's staff demanded immediate responses and compliance, Atlas offers the gift of time – allowing me to set the pace of each small interaction.
The shadows hum with approval, their song carrying notes of acceptance I've never heard before. They recognize something in his care that transcends mere alpha protectiveness or clinical observation.
This is different from the forced attentiveness of assigned guards or the cold efficiency of medical staff.
When I finally feel steady enough to attempt sitting, his support comes with practiced grace. One arm slides beneath my shoulders while the other maintains perfect balance, helping me rise without placing undue strain on healing wounds. The movement still pulls uncomfortably at stitches, but the pain remains manageable – more reminder than true agony.
The water he offers comes in small sips, his control preventing the greed my parched throat demands. I've learned this lesson over the past week – too much too quickly leads to nausea and setbacks.
His careful rationing protects me from my own desperate needs.
"Better?" The question comes pitched low, intimate in the pre-dawn quiet of what I've learned is a private medical suite.
The facility – Astrological Holmes Medical Center according to the logo adorning every surface – caters to a very specific clientele. The security rivals military installations, while the staff maintains discretion that borders on the invisible unless directly summoned.
I've gathered that Atlas's pack holds significant influence here, though the details remain carefully vague. I can only assume that’s the case, though they enjoy calling me Miss Blackwood as if I’m the reason they all have employment or something.
"Yes," my voice comes rough from disuse, but the single word carries genuine gratitude. These small moments of care still feel surreal – acts of tenderness freely given without expectation of payment or submission.
His thumb traces gentle patterns against my shoulder, the touch grounding me in present reality rather than memories of clinical restraints. Every point of contact between us radiates careful consideration – calculated to comfort rather than confine.
"The others want to visit," he mentions casually, though I catch the slight tension in his frame. "Only when you're ready."
The others.
His pack.
The alphas who helped orchestrate my escape yet remain mostly mysterious presences hovering at the edges of my awareness. I've caught glimpses during brief periods of consciousness – Kieran's worried frown as he checks monitoring equipment, Dante's quick efficiency changing bandages, Vale's quiet presence from the wheelchair he currently requires.
But direct interaction remains limited as if they're allowing me time to adjust to freedom before adding the complexity of pack dynamics. Their consideration touches something deep inside, awakening omega instincts I thought were permanently destroyed by Ravenscroft's experiments.
"Soon," I whisper, not quite ready to face the full weight of their attention. "How's Vale?"
Atlas's slight smile carries notes of pride at my concern for his pack brother.
"Improving. The treatments here are helping with the spasms. Having you..." he pauses, choosing words with careful precision, "Having an omega present allows access to specialized care we couldn't get before."
The implications hover unspoken between us – my presence serves some vital purpose beyond mere rescue. The facility's requirements regarding omega involvement in treatment remain unclear, but I gather it's somehow essential to Vale's chances of survival.
That means if I don’t officialize being their Omega, will they stop Vale’s treatments?
The fact he’s able to function at least in a wheelchair is already a miracle from what the nurses were whispering, stating they were so close to having to put him into a medically induced coma when he was admitted with how crazy and long his leg spasms were in length.
Questions burn on my tongue, yet exhaustion already creeps back with a familiar weight. My body's demands for rest still override my conscious desire for answers. Atlas notices immediately, easing me back against the pillows with that impossible gentleness that never fails to catch me off guard.
"Sleep," he murmurs, lips brushing my temple in a touch so light it might be imagination. "We have time."
Time.
The concept feels foreign after years of existing in carefully measured increments between trials and torments. Freedom brings its own flavour of uncertainty – endless possibilities stretching before me like unexplored territory.
But Atlas's presence offers an anchor in this sea of unknown variables. His scent wraps around me like a shield against darker thoughts, while his careful touches map boundaries of safety I'm slowly learning to trust.
The shadows stir restlessly, their silence carrying questions that mirror my own uncertainty.
What happens when this bubble of recovery bursts?
When medical necessity no longer requires Atlas's constant presence?
Will this tenderness evaporate like morning mist, leaving me once again adrift in a world that holds no place for broken omegas?
His arms tighten fractionally as if sensing the direction of my thoughts. The gesture carries reassurance without demands, and comfort without expectation. Everything about his care speaks of patience I don't quite understand – as if he's willing to wait eternities for me to find solid ground in this new reality.
Exhaustion pulls harder at my consciousness, making thoughts scatter like leaves in the autumn wind. Atlas's heartbeat provides a steady rhythm beneath my ear, its consistency more effective than any lullaby. His scent surrounds me completely — pine needles and leather creating a cocoon of safety that makes resistance to sleep's call impossible.
Just before darkness claims me completely, his humming starts – that barely-there melody that's become as essential as his presence. The tune carries notes of protection and possibility, of futures I dare not name but desperately want to believe in.
The shadows join his song with harmonic whispers, their usual warnings transformed into something approaching peace. For the first time since entering Ravenscroft's sterile halls, their voices carry hope rather than caution – as if they too recognize something profound in Atlas's unwavering care.
My last conscious thought centers on the strange truth that's emerged over this week of healing: I feel more omega in Atlas's arms than I ever did during Ravenscroft's endless attempts to force proper designation responses. His presence awakens instincts their experiments failed to trigger, while his patience allows space for natural emergence rather than demanded compliance.
The realization follows me into dreams, coloring unconsciousness with shades of possibility I never dared imagine during captivity. Perhaps freedom offers more than mere survival. Perhaps this alpha who holds me with such care sees beyond the scars and trauma to something worth claiming.
Perhaps the shadows know better than my conscious mind – their song carrying a prophecy of belonging I'm not yet ready to acknowledge. Their harmony follows me down into healing sleep, mixing with Atlas's gentle humming until I can no longer distinguish between the two melodies.
In this moment between waking and dreams, surrounded by pine needles and leather, I allow myself to hope. Not for grand gestures or dramatic declarations, but for small moments like this – where safety comes freely offered and care requires no payment beyond simple acceptance.
The world beyond this recovery room still holds countless uncertainties.
Questions about my future remain unanswered, while the weight of past trauma lingers like shadows at the edges of consciousness. But Atlas's presence offers the foundation for whatever comes next – solid ground upon which to build an understanding of freedom's true meaning.
His heartbeat maintains a steady rhythm beneath my ear as sleep claims final victory. The shadows fall silent, their song complete for now, leaving only the ghost of Atlas's humming to follow into dreams unmarked by sterile halls or endless pain.
For the first time in six years, unconsciousness comes as a gift rather than an escape.
In this alpha's arms, surrounded by his scent and steadied by his care, even dreams hold the possibility of peace.