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It's been three days.
Three days since they last heard from you.
Three long days of replaying the memory of the shock and surprise on your face when the ledge you were on crumbled apart and the storm of smoke and dust swallowed you whole.
There hadn't been time to cancel the teleportation, hadn't been time to reach out, hadn't been time to regret. You were gone.
Just like that.
Immediately Choi Han and the others prepared to return, but Cale pulled them back.
Not now. Not like this.
Not when their enemies have surely swarmed the area after their narrow escape. Returning immediately would've put more of them at risk and Cale would not permit that.
He told them he trusted your abilities to survive. He told them to believe in you. High profile searches would only put you more at risk by alerting their enemies that you were missing. (He hated how clinical it sounded, hated how his thoughts remained clear even when it felt like all the blood in his veins was being drained away.)
A plan was quickly hatched and under a cloak of Invisibility to hide their tracks, Choi Han, Beacrox and Ron took on the dangerous task of returning to enemy territories to scour the ruins for signs of life. As much as he wanted to join the search himself, someone had to stay behind to reassure the young ones, and though it hurt to admit it, Cale knew he would only hinder rather than aide their search efforts. The last thing he'd want is to jeopardise their chances of finding you.
Cale was sure you weren't captured. Their enemies would've flaunted the fact had that been the case. And you weren't dead, for even the combined efforts of their best fighters and assassins, no body was found. If you managed to escape, they all knew you'd lay low and play it safe until you could find a way back or contact them, to reassure them of your status.
No news is good news. This he kept reminding the others, kept reminding himself, even when every passing hour felt like a dagger was being twisted further deeper into his heart.
(You could be injured, crippled or trapped and slowly withering away. There are so many different ways a person can survive and remain in a state worse than death, but he didn't tell them. He couldn't share his morbid nightmares and thoughts that continue to haunt his waking moments.)
(Perhaps he had damned you after all when they didn't return for you immediately.)
Three days.
Three days.
Cale's beginning to realise he's going to have to call off the search. The thought itself drained all the energy from him and he retired to his room earlier than usual, waving off questions of concern.
"I'm fine."
In the silence of his room did he finally allow himself to drop the facade.
The memories swarmed him like water rushing from a broken dam and he lurched towards his desk, overwhelmed by the onslaught of thoughts he'd kept back until now.
"Fuck." He kicked open the alcohol stash by the table and settled down to drown away his miseries.
For the first time, he cursed his strong alcohol tolerance which impeded his attempts to blur the day's horrifying details from his mind.
It was useless. His records would never let him forget. Not his past, not the people he's failed, not you- another broken record to add to his repeating list of nightmares. The ruins have nothing more left to give, either you've left on your own or have been moved by others. Worst case scenario, you're too deeply buried and have probably been crushed by the weight of the rubble. Sooner or later, an empty grave will be erected, because the longer an unanswered question remains, the worse it'll hurt. Some closure must be had for the people who stay behind. It's the same old drill all over again.
The bottle smashes into the opposite wall, the sound of broken glass was jarring and he glared at the red stains that dripped down.
Where had he miscalculated? Had he gotten too arrogant after having successfully smacked his enemies in the back? Had he gotten lax?
His face remained remarkably dry for all the stinging in his eyes. An ugly feeling was building in his gut that clashed with an irrational fury that boiled in his chest. He felt so much and didn't know how to deal with it, except to drink and drink and drink - until the nauseousness took over and the world swam, until the burn in his throat became hotter than the sting in his eyes.
Eventually, he stilled, the alcohol in his bloodstream finally kicking in to rein in the maelstrom of emotions in his being. For having felt so much in the last few hours, the numbness was both a balm and a curse.
"Wow, you look like shit."
He breathed out a dark laugh and immediately reached to pour himself another cup.
At least he could still talk to you in this moment of weakness. He missed doing that. "I am trash after all." he mumbled.
He looked up, squinting against the moonlight to find your silhouette occupying your favourite spot on his window ledge. The familiar image sent a pang of agony through his chest, and he took a deep drink. It was one of the many spaces you had carved out for yourself over months, and now that you're gone, he found it unbearably empty. His drink addled mind couldn't define your features in the darkness and was only capable of providing a shadowy form of yourself. But perhaps that was for the best, your disappointment would've hurt too much.
If only he put more effort into dreaming your ghost, perhaps he could convince himself that you're really there, frowning at him as you tend to do whenever he uses that term.
"You keep calling yourself trash. You know it's quite insulting to us who chooses to follow you."
He laughed bitterly. "And look where that got you." He threw back his cup.
The wind sighed through his open window, carrying your voice to his ears. "It's not your fault."
"I know." He wasn't looking for consolation. Wasn't looking for forgiveness either. He just...
He wished he could offer more to your phantom, but in the end, these illusions were as fragile as his current mental state. A way for the human brain to deal with grief when it becomes too much. It'll never be the same as talking to your real person, but he wasn't ready to banish your ghost by debating 'what could've been's.
"Cale."
Part of him considered ignoring it, entertaining his delusions can't bode well for his sanity, and the truths he wanted wouldn't come from a false imitation constructed from his memories of you.
"Cale."
Weak. He looked up, watching with wary eyes as your ghost stood from the ledge, outlined in silver from the moonlight, painting a visage so unreal, it made the breath in his throat catch. With every step that brought you closer, something in his chest shuddered on the verge of breaking. Something didn't feel right.
He frowned. Do ghosts limp?
Finally, only the table separated him and his phantoms, the air in the room felt light. Cale felt dizzy, nauseous as he stared, wordlessly, up at you.
Cold hands held his face, fingers brushed lightly under his eyes. He took in everything, dirt, blood, bruises and all. Shakily, his hand rose to touch the hand on his cheek.
"Hey," you cracked a tired smile and suddenly, the tears that had been absent abruptly burst forth. "Don't write me off just yet."
He surged from his seat, so violently that his chair crashed backwards and the sound made you flinch- vaulted over the table, reached for your face, with perhaps too much strength as you winced, but he had to make sure- His eyes drank in the sight of you, his fingers smudged the dried blood under your ears -you could be suffering from a concussion, your wounds need to be dressed properly to avoid infection- and he realises he's dissociating because his brain cannot process the fact that you're here, you're alive, after three long forsaken hellish days, in his arms.
"Shit." he breathed out, dropping his forehead on your shoulder as he held you to his chest.
"Yeah." You agreed, and he almost wept when he felt your arms around him, rubbing his back gently. "I missed you too."
He choked out a laugh and squeezed you tighter, and because he can, because you're here, he held you and kissed you until your lips went numb.