Chapter Text
He does not feel pain any longer. He watches idly as the people walk around him, passing in blurs of white coats, red trailing behind them. They speak to him, but he does not hear it. They press a needle to his skin, but he does not feel it. Fire burns in his chest, and he feels something, but he does not know what.
He thinks he dreams. The world around him is either dull and dark or white and wispy. Flashes of color across his vision, people passing, but no one pays attention to him.
Once, someone leans over him, their lips drawn into a snarl - or a smile? He watches them, feels his vision going dark again, and tries to speak, but finds he cannot.
They snap a finger in front of his face. He does not blink. They smile and fade away.
His world goes dark again and he wants to cry, please, I don't want to stay in the dark.
Sometimes, he sees a flash of green. It never speaks. It hovers for a time, then zips away.
He does not remember the attack. They explained it to him later, but it did not make sense. They tell him his wife stole his files, and gave them away. That she tried to kill him. He doesn’t remember it. He does not remember them.
He was dead. He was so, so cold, and he was dead. A pinprick of heat in his chest, but so cold.
No, that's only a nightmare.
Do you have dreams when you die?
Is it oblivion, dark and cold and silent, or do you spend all of eternity in fabrications created by your dying mind, addled by shock and horror and resignation? Do you dream of your wife, a sweet smile on her lips, or your murderer, a silver blade in her hand?
Your love or your hate?
That's.. that's not right.
It can't be the same person. It shouldn't be. Why would she do that?
What have you done?
He took a breath, gasping as it dragged against his sore throat, remembering the pain. In his chest or his neck? No, both. It was both.
Why?
He is gone, but not. Alive, but not. Something about it is off, a sense of wrongness inside him that twists and turns like a knife in his chest as he remembers what has happened.
He should not be here. He should not be alive.
When he finally opened his eyes, he saw only white ceiling tiles. Machines beeped around him. Something was on his face - he couldn't quite figure out what it was. He lifted his hand. An IV hung from his arm, taped in place. He touched his fingers to his face and found only hard plastic. Something is in his mouth. A demon has forced its way down his throat, clawing at the flesh to cram itself inside him, taking hold of his lungs and squeezing all the air out -
He flailed, the machine’s incessant beeping turning frantic as he tried to pull the mask from his face, gasping for breath. Cold, skeletal hands grabbed his wrists and pressed them to his side, adjusting the mask back over his face. Talon. Talon! Talon had him.
What have you done to her, he tries to say, but the demon in his throat steals away the words. The world around him fades, darkness pushing in on the edges of his vision and enveloping him. Where is she?
They removed the tube after he woke up the next time. He took his first breath in what felt like decades, wincing at the pain in his throat. His hands had been strapped to the bed, but they were in the process of removing them, leaving just the faintest red impression on his wrist.
They adjusted the bed, helping him into a sitting position as the sedatives wore off. He stared at his hand, the whorls and spirals in his fingertips transfixing him. He could swear they were moving and shifting, changing by the second.
He stayed in the bed for what felt like days, drifting in and out of sleep, sometimes waking to nurses bringing food or to an empty room.
Once, when he was awake, the door slid open. He watched, still clinging to the last grasps of sleep, as a doctor in a long, white lab coat strolled in.
“Gérard,” Angela said kindly, her head tilted to the side. “How are you feeling?”
Angela? No, he was at.. Talon, wasn't he? Or a hospital? Or - where?
“Where..” He coughed, every breath feeling like he was swallowing sandpaper. “Where am I?”
Her smile widened at his words. “Don't worry. You're in a safe place.”
“Where?” He insisted, before going into another coughing fit.
Her smile had fallen, just slightly not right, like a neon sign hanging lopsided. “A classified facility.”
Are you Talon, too? No, not ‘too’. That meant Amélie was - no.
“Am - Amélie?”
If her smile had been hanging off the building before, now it had fallen and crashed onto the asphalt. Still glowing, just barely. “She’s not been found yet, but don't worry. You’re safe.” As she spoke, she moved to his bedside, sitting neatly in the chair beside him.
They took her again. They’d stolen her away again to give her more scars and lost memories and questions she didn't know the answers to.
He tried to straighten himself, sitting up taller, and locking eyes with the doctor. His voice was rough, but he forced himself not to cough. “F- find her.” Please. Help her.
“I promise you, we’re working on it.” She righted her smile and set her hand on his, in what was meant to be a reassuring gesture. “How are you feeling?”
He pulled his hand away from her and touched it to his neck - a flash of silver danced across his vision. “What happened?”
“Gérard, we’ll talk about that later, for now-” She seemed almost uncomfortable with the topic, but trying to push him away from it proved to be like herding cats.
“Angela, please.” He finally had to burst into another coughing fit. The very air he breathed tickled - not quite the right word -it felt like swallowing glass.
She sighed softly, looking away. Surgeons tend not to be the ones to break the news to their patients, he thought, a tinge of bitterness worming its way into him.
Finally, she spoke. “Gérard.. you are, officially, dead.”