I spend way too much time thinking about Red Vs. Blue. Like how Doyle actually one-shotted a dude despite being panic-crouched.
Yeah. One-shotted.
kofiwidget2.init('Support Me on Ko-fi', '#46b798', 'C0C0G7J9');kofiwidget2.draw();
The RoosterTeeth UK store still has the psychoanalysis shirt in my size, but I have no friends over there who can proxy me that sucker. I am so incredibly frustrated.
I got to the Chorus Trilogy like a MONTH after they removed that shirt from circulation.
Vault 108 from Fallout 3 but all the Gary clones are voiced by the Mac OS Fred voice and the one really sing-songy āGaa~aaryā is still the Fred voice but autotuned
[ Mods asleep remember that almost no one knew jack dick about Doyle when he diedĀ and no one could think of anything meaningful to say because no one even knew what his goddamn favorite color or coffee order was. ]
[ Mods asleep remember that no one knew about Doyle and Emily. Remember that Emily refuses to reveal that information publicly even after he dies because she canāt ask him if heās ready to tell people anymore. Sheāll tell individuals, friends, but she wonāt make it public knowledge. ]
Little known fact, I and @airrichanā ship a very hellish fivesome of Grey, Wyoming, Sarge, Florida, and Doyle, specifically in contemporary settings/modern aus, and the language barriers are hilarious. Someone in this house says āchipsā and four people have to mentally translate that word to figure out what kind of chip weāre talking about here. The fifth is Sarge who I believe defaults to what Americans mean when we say it.
Both pre-existing couples (Florida/Wy, Grey/Doyle) picked up regional slang from their significant others and everyoneās aware of that but it will never not be fucking jarring to hear Wyoming say some shit likeĀ āwhat you sayinā?ā or calling sodaĀ āpopā (even though I believe British English did used to use that and Scotland still does). Hearing Emily sayĀ ātakeawayā orĀ ājumperā when she means takeout or a sweater isnāt nearly as funny. What is funny is hearing her or Butch say something and almost copy their respective husbandsā accents.
āJumperā is actually a fun one with Emily specifically because she normally uses the exact same word the way Iāve always used it, meaning a pinafore dress, but will occasionally use it to meanĀ āsweater.ā And Reggie and Butch confuse themselves withĀ āsweaterā on the regular. The word has lost all meaning for Reggie, it just meansĀ āthing you put on to be warmā now. All warm things with sleeves are sweater. Hoodie? Sweater. Cardigan? Sweater. Pullover? Sweater.
[ hey @fanvsfic Iām late to lunch with my mom and grandma so I can post this today enjoy it ]
Crossposted on ao3
Relationships: Donald Doyle/Emily Grey, Vanessa Kimball/Agent Carolina
Additional tags: Suicide, Doyle Lives au
Over an hour after landing at what the rebels have termed āCrash Site Bravoā finds General Doyle still in the back of the pelican, perched on a bank of seats with his unarmored head in his gloved hands. The ache from where heād hit it in the fall caused by the transport being jolted by the explosion has subsided, but the throbbing in his ankle. He canāt bring himself to look down at the discarded helmet at his feet, or at any of the plate armor heās wearing. Not yet.
Itās war , he tells himself quietly. These things happen. Not everyone makes it back. Heās seen it happen countless times, hundreds of soldiers whose names he had never known slain on the battlefield, scientists and medical staff massacred by Charonās mercenaries, each and every leader of the Federal Army before him either evacuated or dead, including the man heād worked for most of his adult life before the... abrupt promotion. Good god, he stopped keeping track of names years ago. There were too many of them after a while to even keep track of. He doesnāt even know how many of them had died for nothing but the benefit of a businessman somewhere beyond Chorusā skies, sacrificed for someone elseās gain.
And as much as it pains him, he canāt help but resign himself to the thought that maybe Armonia had been just another one of those sacrifices. That everything -- every one -- that Chorus had lost was for nothing. That it wouldnāt matter in the end.
No oneās been by to check on him. He assumes it simply to be due to no one noticing that heās gone, though he finds it just a bit more comforting to think that itās perhaps out of a kind of respect, or even more likely out of a somewhat mutual depression. Though he suspects that itās entirely to do with the loss of Armonia, and not at all with the loss of...
āOh dearā¦ā
āWhat is it?ā
āAre you ready?ā
ā... Iām afraid I wonāt be joining you after all!ā
ā... What?ā
ā... thereās no longer a way to overload the reactor from the control panel with enough time to leave. But, I can still trigger an explosion! Iāll just have to do it manually!ā
ā... manually?! No, you donāt, just--just stay low, we can come to you.ā
āIām afraid that just wonāt be possible! I appear to be surrounded, and thereās just no time for anyone else to get down here without tipping off Charon that somethingās not right!ā
Emily was a doctor . A non-combatant. He knows she can likely count the number of times sheās fired a gun on one hand, maybe both of her hands, and her standard-issue sidearm (that came with being an officer and as strongly as Emily objected to carrying one, there just wasnāt anything either of them could do about that) was in such a pitiful state of disrepair that it was hardly safe to use -- sheād had plans to convert it into a tranquilizer gun, heād discovered. She should have never been down there in the first place. She should have left Armonia with her staff and patients, long before she could have ever even had the chance to suggest this. He should have told her to leave the city, she would have listened -- need to keep up appearances, after all, she wouldnāt have blatantly protested or outright disregarded an order where the others could have seen her do so.
The whole thing had been her idea, once theyād realized that Charon would leave the city if they knew that he had. Sheād been trying to buy them time, sheād been meant to lead the mercenaries around, lose them, and then overload the reactor controls and slip out of the city before the reactor blew. Theyād switched plate armor, so that sheād be able to not only catch the piratesā eyes, but pass as him from a distance, while moving quickly through the city. She was several inches shorter than him, and was noticeably slighter, so it wouldnāt be enough to fool someone up close, or to trick Locus if she crossed paths with him, but it would buy them the time they needed. She would keep the mercenaries distracted, lead them in circles. Theyād switched her hardlight shield into his armor, it ran better and covered a larger area, standard issue for Federal medical personnel in order to shield patients in the field, and heād given her his better-maintained sidearm, so that sheād have a fighting chance should she be cornered.
It feels⦠almost unreal. He⦠still canāt believe it. It had all been going according to plan, but thenā¦
āEmily -- Y-You canāt--!ā
āIām sorry, General Doyle! I know it isnāt perfect. Oh... there we are. The timer on this detonator barely lasts a minute. You need to get out of the city while you still can!ā
Kimball throws her weapon to the floor of the Pelican as she speaks, shouting now, even though the other general knows it wonāt do any good. āDamn it, Grey! Donāt--ā
āChorus needs you both. When this war ends, theyāll need skilled leaders more than theyāll need another doctor. Youāre no good to Chorus dead!ā
He just stands in quiet shock, gripping hard on a grab bar close to the bay doors as he hears that cheerful voice on the other end of the line, so matter-of-factly explaining, rationalizing, her situation as if it was a simple lab experiment. He can hear Kimball shouting over the radio, but a private message over his own comm. line drowns her out.
ā... Iām so sorry. If there were any other wayā¦ā He hears her breath hitch, hears her voice shake. And it breaks his heart to know that thereās nothing he can do. ā... look in my left-side storage pocket. I left you something just in case. I love you.ā
He doesnāt have time to answer her, doesnāt have time to tell her that he loves her, doesnāt have time to say goodbye or anything else: thereās a deafening roar of an explosion, one that shakes the transport. But he isnāt sure if itās the impact or the grief that snatches his knees out from under him and sends him crashing to the floor .
Emilyās ājust in caseā had turned out to be the very same things Locus had brought him after the massacre at her outpost, just about. Except, sheās left him both of her identification tags, with her ring neatly dropped onto the ball chain and hanging beside them.
ā⦠Doyle?ā a voice asks from somewhere outside his vision. He tucks the tags back into the pocket from whence theyād come: he doesnāt want anyone to see them. ā⦠oh, youāre still in here.ā
Tired blue eyes crack open finally at the sound of someone calling him, catching sight of the helmet at his feet. He closes them against the tears as they start again, and he swallows. He knows that voice. He knows precisely whoās speaking to him, and he also knows full well that he canāt exactly ignore the speaker. But he just canāt bring himself to look up. It takes a great deal of effort simply to speak aloud.
ā... unfortunately.ā His unconscious choice of words spikes emotion in his chest, but he swallows it, shuts his eyes against it. He can⦠he can deal with that later. ā... do⦠do you... er⦠do you need me for something?ā
Vanessa is quiet, the silence heavy in the air between them. For that long moment, heās sure sheās about to begin shouting, telling him that of course she needs him for something. But she never does. Instead, her response is quiet. Almost⦠concerned. ā... It can⦠wait.ā
ā... ah⦠are⦠erm⦠are-are you certain?ā
ā... yes.ā Her footsteps approach his position slowly. Carefully. Once she stops walking, he hears the sound of a helmet seal breaking, and feels her sit down next to him. When she doesnāt say anything further, he finally forces himself to open his eyes again, to turn his head and look at her. Vanessaās face, so young still but aged prematurely around the eyes by the stresses and horrors of war, is normally tired and sort of angry-looking, or at least, it has been the few times heās seen it. And she still looks tired now, but⦠the anger is gone. Her curly hair is coming out of the hurried little bundle she appears to have put it into to keep it out of her face. He can see the very badly-faded lock of what was once ice-blue hair that hangs somewhere in the middle of the right side of her head, itās come out of the bundle completely and is hanging down away from the other fugitive tendrils.
ā... Sarge told me you two seemed close,ā she finally says.
ā... closer than he knows, I believe. I⦠spent quite a lot of time in her medical bay, after all, quite, er⦠quite prone to fainting spells. We⦠got to be⦠yes, quite⦠quite close.ā He swallows. ā... I shouldnāt have let her go. She never should have been out there, she⦠she should have left with her patients.ā
ā... you heard her on the radio. I⦠really donāt think you could have said anything to stop her.ā
āYouāre⦠entirely right. Emily is⦠w-was ⦠a very willful individual. One of the many things in my life I had absolutely no control over. But that⦠always seemed to work in my favor. If Iād managed to find my spine for two minutes maybe I couldāve⦠talked some sense in herā¦ā
Kimballās hand settles on his wrist, and he pulls his hand away. As a reflex, he stands, shaking his head wordlessly, intending to physically move away from her -- from the conversation. He doesnāt get far on trembling knees and his sprained ankle, though, and winds up crumpled on the floor of the pelican about three feet closer to the bay door than heād started. And itās there that he stays.
Good god, heās pathetic.
Kimballās beside him in a moment, but doesnāt move to touch him yet, just stands beside him and waits for his next move. When he doesnāt make one, she takes a knee beside him. He finally manages to look up, face lined with years of worry and etched deeper with fresh sadness, eyes tired and empty and heartbroken, brimming with restrained tears. He canāt manage to say anything yet -- just stares. Stares, then turns his eyes almost sheepishly to the floor.
Kimball sighs. ā⦠Look. I⦠I donāt⦠I didnāt know Doctor Grey as well as you did. So⦠Iām not going to sit here and pretend to know what sheād really want. But⦠if you two were that close, then I can promise you that she wouldnāt want you to think that way. She wouldnāt want you to blame yourself. I understand how hard this is for you--ā
ā Do you.ā The statement -- absolutely not a question -- is uncharacteristically harsh. The bark of a much larger dog than heās previously shown himself to be. And it absolutely does not come with an immediate retreat and profuse apology, though neither does it come with an aggressive posture. Itās more addressed to the floor than to the other general. ā Do you understand.ā
āYes, I do!ā Kimball snaps back. āYouāre not the only one whoās lost friends because of this war.ā
⦠friends. Right. Of course she couldnāt have known: he and Emily had been very careful to keep that information private. If anyone has figured it out, heādāve assumed it was Agent Washington: most of the soldiers at the outpost avoided Emily like the plague and probably assumed that he, while possibly afraid of her, felt bad for her that she was so isolated.
He doesnāt correct her. It doesnāt matter now.
He stops in his tracks as he makes it to the door, and turns over his shoulder to see Vanessa leaning against a wall not very far from him, a cup of coffee still gently steaming in one hand. He just gives a bit of a nervous chuckle, reaches up to rub at the back of his neck. ā⦠and here I thought I was being quiet.ā
āYou were. But I know you by now.ā She stands straight, taking a long sip of her coffee, and makes her way closer to him, which isnāt hard, considering that he doesnāt move. āIād offer to make you some eggs, but I get the feeling youād say no.ā
āH-Huh?ā
āNothing. You got somewhere to be?ā
āAh, er⦠well, I⦠yes, I do. But⦠but I--ā Heās caught. He knows heās caught. Heās got no excuse. So he just slumps. āIām sorry, I donāt mean to just⦠disappear like thisā¦ā
Vanessa laughs , and of course itās not malicious. It never is, with her. At least not to him, not anymore. Theyāve⦠come quite a ways in the several months since the war ended. āYou at least gonna tell me who it is? I feel like you owe me that much.ā
āI-Iā¦ā
āIām joking . What you do once you leave here is your business.ā
He stammers further, as if looking for an excuse even though one isnāt required, but eventually shuts his mouth and looks down, clears his throat to reset his stammer. Itās been dreadful these past few months, after so many years of speech therapy and an entire adult life with little discernible trace of the horrible thing. But⦠well, heād been warned that the stress and trauma could bring his speech impediment back.
He is, however, thankfully spared from answering as Vanessa continues to speak. ā⦠Iām happy for you. You know that, right?ā
āEx⦠e-excuse me?ā
āYouāve been⦠down. Really down. Iāve noticed. And I get it. You⦠weāve all been through⦠well, a lot. You, me, Chorus⦠and⦠you know, some people havenāt been able to come back from that and be happy and connect with people again. Itās good to see that youāre finally getting back out there.ā Thereās that teasing smirk again. āEven if it means I get to see less of you.ā
ā Please donāt say it like that. Iā¦ā
āLike what?ā
āLike this is your apartment and⦠a-and Iām sneaking out after something illicit !ā Itās quite a bit louder, and quite a bit harsher, than heād like, but the jokes -- and he knows sheās joking -- have made him uncomfortable for quite some time, and⦠well, today of all days he just⦠he really, really canāt take it. In his frustration, he twitches, his fingers flex, and he drops his helmet to the floor with a loud clatter that snaps him out of his moment of unprompted rage . ā⦠I-I⦠Iām so sorry, Iā¦ā
Vanessa is, of course, unfazed. āDoyle, Iām gay . You very much arenāt my type. Well, youāve kinda got the right hair color, but otherwise--ā
āI know that! Iā¦ā He just shakes his head. He knows that. Heās known that for nearly a year now, since he first caught her eyeing Agent Carolina while the former freelancer was making use of the weight room at the training facility. āI-I know that. Iām sorry. This⦠this is just a very⦠strange day. For me, I⦠Iām very sorry. I⦠I need to go. I, er⦠finished the last of the major projects Iād been working on, those are on my desk.ā
āCool. Iāll get to them in the morning, Iām about done with mine.ā
āThereās no rush.ā
ā⦠mind if I ask what youāre headed out to do?ā
ā⦠not at all. Iā¦ā He pauses, stoops to pick his helmet up, and straightens again, tucking it securely under his arm. ā⦠itās⦠ah⦠anniversary.ā
āAnniversary?ā
āYes.ā He doesnāt elaborate beyond that. Itās another brief moment before he turns away from her, and puts his helmet on, with shaking hands. ā⦠good night, Vanessa.ā
She doesnāt say anything further, simply watches him leave. Once the door closes behind him, heās off down the back staircase -- heād normally take the lift, but thatās not⦠heās better going down stairs than up them. It also allows him to avoid people. Not that thereās anyone left in the building at this hour, he and Vanessa are almost always the last to leave.
He sees a familiar, teal-armored someone lurking in the lobby once he emerges from the stairwell, and he gives her a polite nod. āHello, Agent Carolina. Er⦠waiting for Vanessa?ā
She gives a noncommittal sound of acknowledgement.
āShe should be down soon, but I can key you into the lift if you like.ā
ā⦠Iād appreciate that. Thank you.ā
He nods a bit, tosses his head toward the lift and turns to lead her to it, keying in the code and letting her in in order to send her up to the offices. Once he bids her a good evening and the doors close, he sighs, and turns to head out of the building.
The walk home is short. Of course it is, his apartment -- theyāre all in apartments, even him and Vanessa, it was⦠it was the most efficient solution to the housing issue -- isnāt far from the offices. Not a long walk at all. Not quite enough time to let his thoughts run away from him. His apartment is in the basement of the building, so thereās no zoning out in the lift and staring into space while his mind runs unchecked. Just a short flight of stairs down into the basement hallway, then a few more feet to the only occupied apartment on this level -- thereās an empty one across from him, no oneās cared to move into it, it reminds a lot of them of the barracks, and he understands that. Itās not at all why he found this one comforting, in fact, it makes his skin crawl just thinking about it that way, but it had been the sense of solitude that had come with it.
And there it is. Once the door closes, all the sounds that come with existing beyond these walls cease entirely. No traffic noise, no humming of industrial ventilation keeping air moving through the hallways. He finally lets out a heavy, exhausted sigh, letting the tension drop out of his shoulders as he leans back against the door. It takes him an inordinate amount of strength to reach up and remove his helmet, and even more to reach and set it down on the table beside the door.
Itās slow going to change out of his armor, but he manages it. Manages to start dinner too. Heās not sure how much of it heāll eat, but heāll try. Heās just sitting down on the sofa when the chirping alert tone of an incoming call comes in from the radio console on the end table. He considers not picking it up, letting it ring out. But he doesnāt let it go, he reaches over and taps the button to answer. āYes?ā
ā Itās me .ā
āHello, Vanessa. Did I leave something at the office?ā
ā No, uh. Look, I feel bad about⦠you seemed upset with you left. I just⦠wanted to make sure you were okay .ā
āOh. Yes, Iām. Iām alright. Just a strange day, I told you.ā
ā ⦠Carolina and I are going to get some dinner, if you want to join us .ā
āAh. Already in for the night, actually. Thank you, though.ā
ā⦠what um. You mentioned an anniversary. Anniversary of what, exactly? ā
ā⦠I⦠well, erā¦ā He swallows. Heās⦠very carefully avoided discussing this with Vanessa. Heād had no reason to do so. When he speaks, his voice is⦠different. Far more tired than heād sounded before, an incredible feat, really. ā⦠did you know I was married, before?ā
ā⦠uh⦠no, you, um. You never mentioned that .ā
āMm. I asked her to marry me while I was having a panic attack. I-I thought one of us would die before we got the chance.ā Doyleās laugh is humorless, more like a scoff as he realizes how stupid it must have sounded at the time, though his fear would prove itself to be real several years later. āShe probably shouldnāt have agreed to it.ā
Kimball remains quiet for a moment, which he expects. He doesnāt hear Carolina in the background, but he knows she has to be there. ā⦠do you want to⦠um⦠tell me about her? ā
āI donāt want to intrude on your evening, Vanessa. If youāve plans with Agent Carolina, then you should keep to them.ā
ā Itās⦠um, itās okay. No, we⦠we can wait a minute. You um. You sound like you need to talk. ā
āIām alright.ā
ā Not even a name, huh? ā Her joking tone is back, and normally, itād be⦠sort of welcome. But it isnāt. ā Come on. Some good memories to balance out the sadness, huh? ā
ā⦠well, you did meet her.ā He reaches up and closes one hand around the identification tags heās kept wearing even after the war. One of them is his, the other Emilyās. Her ring settled right alongside them. āIād be surprised if you remembered her quite as fondly as I do, though, no one really seems to.ā
ā⦠who was she ?ā
He pauses. Heās not sure why the question stings so much. ā⦠right, I didnāt think y⦠y-y⦠didnāt think y-you did. Iām⦠not surprised. Emily could be⦠a bit off-putting. I admit that.ā
āEmily? ⦠wait, Doctor Grey?ā
āMm.ā He leaves that answer as it is for a moment. He hears Vanessa make a small sound of acknowledgement, but she doesnāt speak. His grip tightens around Emilyās tags, so much so that it shakes. ā... she deserved so much better. ... she wasnāt always l⦠wasnāt always li⦠l-like that. I⦠I di⦠didnāt⦠didnāt realize there was something wrong until it was⦠far too late to stop it. She deserved someone who could have helped her⦠before she got so bad. Perhaps if sheād been in her right mind--ā
ā... I donāt think sheād be very happy to hear you say that ,ā Vanessa says, thankfully cutting him off before he can really finish his thought. ā I think sheād be insulted to know you think she must have been out of her mind to do what she did .ā
āYou⦠y-youāre very right.ā Doyle shuts his eyes again. Good lord, heās absolutely awful. How can he think so poorly of Emily. And whatās worse⦠whatās worse is the part that heās forgotten in his grief. That his voice cracks and shakes on admitting, even after the usual throat clearing in order to stop himself from stammering. ā... her greatest fear was that she would lose her mind entirely, you know.ā
ā⦠I think thatās a perfectly rational fear .ā
ā⦠as did I,ā he simply says. ā⦠Iām⦠dreadfully sorry to have ruined your evening, you had⦠you had plans, didnāt you?ā
ā ⦠no, itās⦠i-itās okay. I donāt mind. Youāre upset, and you, um⦠itās not a problem .ā
āNo, I⦠you should enjoy your evening. Well, er⦠a-as much as you can after dealing with me, anyhow.ā
ā Wait, no, itās--itās fine, really .ā
ā⦠thank you for listening, Vanessa. I didnāt realize how much I needed to⦠āget that off of my chest,ā as it were.ā
ā Hey, listen, itās still early, Carolina and I can come get you, you can come have dinner with us. I donāt feel right leaving you alone like this. ā
āNo, thank you. Iām not much for company right now. I⦠think Iām just going to go to bed.ā
Doyle is never late to work. In fact, heās always early, settled into work for the day by the time Vanessa makes it in. So to see no trace of the man in the building after the rest of the staff is mostly in in the morning is jarring and almost frightening to begin with.
Vanessa has her suspicions.
Something about the dark office, the empty desk, the memory of just how tired Doyle had sounded on their call last night makes her feel sick and worried. She remembers how heād very uncharacteristically snapped at her before leaving work the day before -- heād apologized, true, but still⦠and last night had been⦠a hard date for him. Somethingās wrong. She knows it.
But she waits. She waits five, ten minutes before she canāt stand it anymore. She doesnāt bother with a call. She just rushes from her office and down the back stairs, because taking the elevator will take too much time. She barely stops to apologize to Matthews after knocking into him on her way out the front door, and itās hell to push upstream through the foot traffic for the two blocks between the offices and Doyleās building, but she manages it.
His building had chosen to go for non-powered doors, far easier to build than the heavy steel sliders, though with far less security. Which is useful for Vanessa, considering it only takes her two minutes to break the damn thing off its hinges.
Sheās only been to his apartment a handful of times, and every time, sheād noted how bare it was. Hardly looked lived-in. Sheād thought that it was because all he did was go to work and then come home to sleep, he didnāt take days off. He didnāt have a lot of time for decorating. But now⦠sheās not so certain thatās the real reason. Now⦠it sort of feels like he didnāt plan to stay long.
ā⦠Doyle?ā She shakes her head, reaches up and pulls her helmet off when she sees his still sitting on the table by the door. āDoyle, itās me.ā
Nothing.
āDoyle? You home?ā
Of course heās home .
Thereās only two doors in the apartment: she knows one to be the bathroom, which also has a door into the bedroom. So itās this second door she tries when she finds the one to the bedroom locked. And itās not only unlocked, but slightly ajar.
She had been afraid of what she might see once she reached his apartment. Her mind had given her a hundred possibilities: that lanky figure hanging from a ceiling figure by the neck, the coffin-sized bathtub overflowing with bloody water, a body slumped against a wall with gore smeared behind it and a gaping gunshot wound. Or worse, no trace of the man at all.
So when she sees the shadowed shape of a body in the bed, itās⦠both something of a relief, and sucker punch to the gut that knocks all the breath from her body. Sheās hesitant to cross the small room and turn on the overhead light, but she does, and it cuts off the third attempt to call the manās name entirely.
Vanessa knows he isnāt going to answer her.
He left the empty medication bottles on his bedside table. Two of them, both prescribed to him by Doctor Grey, but⦠obviously a little out of date.
Sheās seen her share of dead bodies. But all of them have gone out violently, or in mental anguish that still showed on the corpse. But Doyle⦠looks peaceful. Really like heād gone to sleep. No fear, no pain, nothing. Just⦠peace.
She looks for a note. She doesnāt find one.
She calls whoever she needs to. Reports it. Suzy, the medic-turned-doctor, who Emily had trusted with her patients. Jensen and Smith, theyāre⦠cops now, they have to be called. She stays while they look around, tells them what she knows. What he said. How he didnāt leave a note that she can find. They find heās holding a set of military ID tags, with a gold ring dropped onto the chain. One of them is his. One of them is Doctor Greyās.
When they finish up, she goes back to the office. Sheāll⦠have to think of something to tell the people now. It occurs to her to check his office on the way by, check his desk for the projects heād said heād finished. Sheāll have to clean it out anyway. She finds the files right where he said theyād be, but on top of them is something else: a piece of paper, marked with his flowing, elegant handwriting. Not messy, not hurried. Absolutely clear to read.
Iām very sorry I lied to you, Vanessa. I didnāt want to waste your time with a long goodbye. You had an appointment to keep, I had dinner plans. But if youāve found this, then I suppose that you already know what those plans truly were.
Do you remember what I said, at the skirmish in Armonia? The outpost that was destroyed? It was our primary command facility, and the location of our field hospital. Where Emily was stationed. After the massacre there, Locus reported it to me in Armonia. He put her ring into my hand, and told me that heād found her lying in the snow. That sheād already bled to death by the time heād gotten to her. There was nothing he could have done. I still wear her tag. And her ring, on the chain.
Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was what I thought she must have looked like by then. And when it came to light that Locus had been lying to us⦠I was hoping that heād lied about her too. And he had, which in all honesty came as nothing short of the most intense relief I think Iāve ever felt. I thought back then that I didnāt know how Iād ever get along without her. When you met me in Armonia, I was greatly considering letting you take your shot and end everything. I didnāt want to live without her. Iād considered doing it myself, but I couldnāt have done that to the soldiers.
Please donāt be upset with yourself. Or anyone else. Of course no one saw the signs. I made certain there werenāt any signs to show. I didnāt go a romantically poetic route and go all the way to the old Armonia site and let the radiation get me if the medication didnāt because I didnāt want to be stopped by some soul on the street and distracted. I didnāt want it to be loud and messy, or dramatic. I wanted this to be over. Rather appropriately, I am just so tired. Iāve been an insomniac since I could spell the word. I just want to sleep. This has been months in the making, Vanessa, there was never anything you or anyone else could have done to stop it.
Tell people whatever you like. Tell them the truth, tell them I was too weak to go on, too selfish to live without the woman I loved. Lie to them and tell them the trauma of war took its toll in other ways and I wasnāt strong enough to take it -- well, that partās sort of true, I suppose. Or donāt tell them anything. It doesnāt matter in the slightest.
Do me a favor, would you, and make sure that whatever happens to me, they leave me with Emilyās things. There was nothing of her to bury but her plate armor, and Iāve had that since it happened. If we canāt be buried together properly, Iād like to do whatever we can .
She doesnāt know how long she spends standing there, reading and rereading the paper in her hands. She doesnāt know how long her radio chirps for before she notices it, and answers, her voice shaky and broken.
āYes?ā
ā General Kimball? Itās uh. Itās Smith, maāam. Thereās kind of a crowd out here, some reporters. Uh. What do you want us to tell them? ā
She pauses. āDonāt tell them anything. Not yet. I want to handle this properly.ā
Suzy comes to visit around dinner. To check in on her, mostly, see how sheās holding up, but also to deliver some news.
Preliminary results of the autopsy say that it was the medication overdose that killed him, sheās confident to call it a clonazepam overdose right now. But thereās something else. Sort of an ultimate cliche, really.
His medical records all indicated a rather weak heart. But the heart sheād seen when sheād checked him over had been⦠different. There had been some swelling, she says, a specific swelling of the left ventricle that indicated something called takotsubo cardiomyopathy . Itās stress-related, and rare, and it mostly affects women between sixty and eighty. Dying from it is nearly unheard of, but if it goes untreated in someone with such high stress, well, it can cause other problems. If heād ignored it, or had never noticed, it could have contributed to heart failure.
Itās the common name that almost, darkly, makes Vanessa laugh. Some people, Suzy tells her, call it broken heart syndrome .
āThe physical broken heart didnāt kill him,ā Suzy clarifies. āBut by all accounts, it was probably going to.ā