Chapter Text
trant didn't remember much after that. there were the sirens of an ambulance, the roar of a familiar MC, and various people shouting. he was being dragged away from jean and he thought maybe he was yelling or fighting or maybe he just gave up. someone was looking at his head, covering him with a warm blanket because of the shock.
gentle hands were on him then. it was kitsuragi guiding him to the kineema, firmly ignoring the medics calling after them. he thought maybe he saw du bois kicking something repeatedly. it didn't make sense in the moment.
he was bundled into the warm kineema and harry joined them a minute later, out of breath with a look of pure fury and heartbreak on his face. as kim drove too quickly through the streets, he caught snippets of conversation.
“—in time.”
“he lost a lot of blood, kim.”
“trant stopped a decent amount of it, considering.”
“clean shot through the throat–”
“didn't know he had it in him.”
“someone should call mikael’s mom.”
“i will. this is a delicate matter, harry.”
“i can be del–”
“--statement–”
“i can't lose him.”
“none of us can.”
he blinked and he was in a brightly lit room with uncomfortable chairs and a radio on in the background. it smelled sterile in a way that made his nose hurt. hospital.
“where's jean?” it barely came out but kim still heard him.
“trant–”
louder this time. “where's jean?”
a gentle but heavy hand fell on his shoulder. “surgery,” harry said.
“alive?”
harry nodded, but it was kim who said, “it's touch and go, but we believe you got to him in time. he’ll make it through.”
he was shaking again. had he even stopped to begin with? his head felt like it was split in two and his clothes were soaked with blood, skin caked in the stickiness of it.
“he was doing so well,” he whispered, looking at the floor. “he's happy. he's happy. the gloomiest man in the world is actually happy.” he laughed, but it was hollow and wet and devolved into a strangled sob. “we just moved in together.” he leaned forward, doubled over with his face in his hands. he cried, tears dripping to the floor.
harry met kim's eye over the broken man between them. the man who was always so composed and well put together, an endless spout of positivity, the solid anchor for the unit, was crumbling in front of them.
nobody spoke for some time. no one knew what to say, because there wasn't anything to say. even harry couldn’t fill the silence all they could do was wait.
“harry?” trant broke the silence after awhile.
“yeah?”
“were you kicking the man i shot?”
there was a brief pause before harry answered. “uhm. yeah. kicking the fuck out of him.”
trant nodded. “okay.” he stared at the blood on his hands. “i never killed someone before.”
“it sucks,” said harry.
“it was necessary,” said kim.
exhaustion seemed to take hold and trant leaned against harry. something told him he needed to be comforted. it was his best friend in the operating room. his best friend who could still die.
only when trant finally fell asleep did harry let himself cry.
the next few hours were excruciatingly slow. trant dozed fitfully, jolting awake every so often. flashes of jean laying half dead drenched in blood continued to cross his vision. he knew that those images would stay with him forever, regardless of the outcome. there would be countless nightmares and anxieties of it all for years to come.
he refused to get himself cleaned up. he didn't want to leave the waiting room for even a second in case something happened. he couldn't miss out on a single scrap of information. trant needed to be present for any news that came from someone’s mouth, be it good, bad, or devastating.
even harry tried to get trant to clean up a little bit, bringing him a wet cloth he stole from some cart. at that point, a damp cloth could only do so much. trant didn't try very hard but kept a grip on it just for something to hold on to.
trant wondered if harry’s voices were telling him anything. he didn't realize he asked out loud until harry answered. maybe harry could somehow hear him anyway.
“no.” he sounded frustrated that there weren't any voices, that the city was quiet as ever. “i've been trying, trant. i promise i’m trying.” he sounded sad and exhausted. “revachol doesn't know.”
trant seemed to understand and he brought his knees to his chest, filthy arms wrapping around his shins. “it could go either way.” jean was teetering on a precipice, the wind gently pushing him one way and then the other. the man had one foot in the pale and the pale didn't want to let him go.
the pale was endlessly fascinating to trant but no amount of research could ever truly let it be understood. he enjoyed the theoretical, the what-ifs of it all. the pale was never meant to be truly known. for a brief moment, trant hated the pale. he hated its refusal to coalesce into something tangible, its desperate need to remain an unknown, to pull people in year after year.
he didn't hate the pale. he never could.
kim left and returned with food for the three of them. while kim and harry ate (politely and ravenously, respectively), trant stabbed the food with his fork more than he actually ate it. he took enough bites to satisfy kim though, who approved with a simple nod of his head. he held the rest out to harry who hesitated before taking it. harry ate this portion a bit slower, in case trant changed his mind. he didn't.
harry filled the quiet with whatever he could think of. a radio show he heard two months ago, the old man who birdwatched from the roof of his apartment a few blocks from the precinct, the raccoon harry made friends with outside of his favorite frittte, that time jean drew a surprisingly accurate and detailed picture of a dick on a drunk harry’s forehead (an old memory!), the latest dick mullen book, kim's recent work on the kineema. it filled the time and trant didn't mind. kim would comment here and there but otherwise let harry go on as long as he needed to.
harry needed to ramble, trant needed something to fill the static in his head, and kim was the solid ground.
in the middle of a long-winded explanation of the history of this particular street of revachol, one that trant would ordinarily join in on with gusto, harry stopped mid-sentence. it was abrupt and it could only mean one thing.
trant and kim looked at harry simultaneously. trant’s heart began to pound, waiting to hear whatever it was the city was telling her chosen. his fingers grabbed the wrist of harry's shirt, pulling without meaning too. he didn't want to interrupt in case he destroyed the moment, but he needed to know.
“harry, back to us, please.” the words came from kim who had come to squat in front of his partner. unyielding fingers lightly touched harry’s knee. only then did harry’s eyes refocus.
“jean’s out of surgery.”
trant blinked. “alive?” it was a breath of a word.
harry nodded but didn't get a chance to say anything before a doctor was joining them in the waiting room. trant was immediately on his feet and the quickness of his movement made him veer slightly. harry was there to hold him up.
the doctor glanced at trant’s state for only a moment before speaking. “he was lucky you got to him when you did. it was a difficult surgery, but he is alive.” there were multiple departments involved, too many injuries for any one surgeon to handle. jean endured the resetting of bones, releasing pressure from inside his skull, closing the multiple gashes throughout and within his body. he lost too much blood to begin with and hemorrhaged more on the table. he coded twice.
stabbed three times, two broken ribs, one broken ankle and a break in the tibia on the same side. the damage to his throat was extensive but something time would heal. it could take several days for him to wake up due to the extent of his injuries and the damage to his head.
it was going to be a long road to recovery.
“i want to see him.”
“i’m afraid visitors are not allowed at this time. as i said, it is unlikely he will wake for several days. it is protocol. i suggest you all go home, clean up,” he looked pointedly at trant, “and rest. he needs to recover.” and before anyone could argue, the doctor turned toward the door he had come from.
harry was on him fast and kim, perhaps to trant’s surprise and relief, didn’t stop him. the doctor was spun and slammed against the door, a fistful of his shirt in harry’s fist. it had been several months since anyone has seen this kind of anger in harry’s eye.
for only a second did trant see the old harry. it made his stomach twist.
“no one cares about your fucking protocols,” harry hissed, his face uncomfortably close to the other man’s. “you will let special consultant heidelstam in to see lieutenant vicquemare. or maybe you’d like to see just how long it takes for you to wake up when i’m done with you.”
the doctor looked at kim, who simply gave a small clear of his throat. trant, on the other hand, looked distraught. he would do almost anything to see the man the team had just spent hours working to keep alive. protocols were there for a reason but he wasn’t willing to risk his own safety for them. his hands came up in surrender and kim’s fingers curled around the back of harry’s jacket. a quiet signal of enough.
harry pushed away from the man, who pointed a shaky finger at trant. “just him.”
trant looked at his friends with a quiet love. “thank you,” he muttered as he followed the doctor through the door. “i’ll keep you updated.”
the doctor was speaking to him, trying to keep his voice quiet. “it is going to be a shock when you see him. he is past the worst of it, but his body is working overtime to begin the healing process. remember, he is alive. the team worked very hard to make sure of that.”
trant, finally able to focus on something just a little bit, noticed that the doctor looked exhausted. he was there with jean the entire time, trant realized. not once did this man give up on him. trant had to be grateful for that. he took a breath and let it out slowly. “thank you, doctor. i– i understand the difficult position you were put in. ordinarily i would apologize for my friend’s behavior, but.” he gave a simple shrug. he had no apology to give.
they stopped so the doctor could speak with a nurse in hushed tones, explaining the situation. trant stood politely to the side, hands clasped together in front of him to hide their tremble. there was a quiet embarrassment settling into his chest about it all, but it was overshadowed by everything else. appearances meant nothing to him right now.
he would later, when things were settled down, send a letter of apology to this man beside him. and many, many letters of thanks.
they stopped outside of a closed door, dim light coming from beneath. “there is an arm chair that reclines inside. it isn’t comfortable, but it’s what we have for visitors. i have a feeling you won’t be leaving until he wakes and that your friends will join you at some point. he was given a private room with a private shower. please shower, mr. heidelstam.” there was no judgement in the doctor’s voice, just a quiet understanding. “i will have the nurse check on your head during her rounds with clean clothing. if you need to use the phone, find it at the nurse’s station.”
then trant was alone to open the door. all he had to do was open the door. turn the handle, push the door. his fingers gripped the handle but they were sweating and trembling and he was terrified of what he was going to see on the other side.
nothing could be worse than the last image of jean in trant’s mind. nothing would ever be worse than that. he rested his forehead against the door, willing himself to open it.
he inhaled slowly, held, and exhaled slowly. he did this several times while he ran through a list of what he was likely to see. jean would be more bandage than body, cast and gauze and frailty. he would look like a shell of himself. he would be bruised where trant could see and in places he couldn’t. he would look dead, in a way. he ticked each thing off in his mind, giving each bullet point a logical answer beside it. jean will look like this because of that. cause and effect, nothing more.
he turned the handle and quietly pushed open the door.