Work Text:
After Billie leaves, there is no time to grieve or mourn. He still hears her everywhere, cajoling him, teasing him, laughing with him.
Still, his movements are mechanical and precise. His brain has kicked into autopilot because he knows that if he stops for even a second, he won't be able to carry on. He cannot afford to falter.
Which is why he values Thomas so much. Thomas has always been loyal, incredibly so. He has never seen anyone take to the mark better. Well, other than...
Thomas falls into place easily ad the second in command, a trait that he both appreciates and loathes. He is very careful not to take it out on his subordinate. Thomas can sense his boss's unease but never calls him out on it. He knows that Thomas is waiting for him to come to terms with the sudden change that has happened.
Thomas doesn't take on a red coat. There is no need to serve as a bitter reminder. Thomas is his own person, and though he considers Thomas to be more his equal than any of the other Whalers (other than her), there is an unspoken boundary that Thomas is unwilling to cross. Good, that is good.
There are times when he is fond of red. It is striking against the dark blues and greys of the rest of the Whalers. It keeps him grounded in the unstable reality that has become his life. On those days, it is a comfort and a shield against the world.
On other days, he is sick of the color. There is too much of it, on his jacket and on his hands. His hands never seem to be free of it, not after he killed her. The dark blue of Thomas's uniform is a comfort to see whenever the younger man appears in front of him. It mutes his world, returning the fleeting sense of control he has over his pounding heart.
Red reminds him too much of the feeling of the slick blood of Empress Jessamine Kaldwin dripping off of his sword, thrust through her sternum.
He looks down at his hands, and they are dripping with warm, coppery blood. He blinks once. The blood is gone.
He can feel the Outsider's eyes on the back of his neck, inky black pools that reflect no light. At least there is solace in the absence of color. But even he cannot fool a god. Good. Let the Outsider look. It can be no worse than the way he looks at himself in the mirror.
He takes a minute to look at the heavy canvas material hanging on a hook. He breathes in deeply and shrugs on his coat. There is work to be done.