Chapter Text
Noel is falling.
Noel could not breathe and he was falling.
Noel was dying, he could not breathe, and he was falling. If he wasn’t pressing a palm to his throat in a poor attempt to staunch the wound, air ripped from his lungs with every passing second, he would have laughed.
It was familiar in the worst way; the vertigo of passing through the planes, the sensation of losing the self only to be thrown back together. He shuts his eyes tight against the tearing of wind, faintly wondering if he was truly being sent to Spain or whatever other hellscape that entity cooked up. Larson had been sent to the Dreamlands, would he be subject to that same fate? He doesn’t think he’d survive it, if he manages to survive this.
The world seems to snap into focus around him, reminding him once more that he was still alive despite his body’s desperate struggle for air. He pries open his eyes, slamming them shut again at the sudden brightness of the place between worlds. He wishes it would end already, spit him out wherever he was going to be thrown or kill him because, at this point, blood loss was going to do him in first.
As if an answer to his thoughts, he’s slammed against a solid surface, rolling once - twice before smacking against something hard enough to stop the momentum. He barely has the consciousness to groan, the sensation incredibly unpleasant with the hole in his throat. It’s with great effort that he slides an arm up, pressing weakly against the wound once more. Still bleeding, still shot through the throat. Fuck. His other arm he casts out, striking it against what he’d rolled against.
Smooth wood meets his palm, something he attempts to leverage himself up with. It doesn’t go well, grip weakening and hands slipping off with the threat of unconsciousness rearing its head. He lets go and falls back to cool stone, cold enough to make him shiver. Was Spain cold at this time of year? Was he even in Spain? Was he even in the same year ?
Too many thoughts. He couldn’t focus like this. He needed to…he needed help. He was going to die here if he didn’t move. Even as he laid there, he felt himself slipping away, much like his hand struggling to keep purchase with blood still leaking from beneath his palm. At least the pain had started to dull, which shouldn’t be a positive thing, but out of all the things he’d felt in the past few hours, it was the best. Dying really wasn’t a pleasant experience, and he’d had plenty of experience dying.
A door slams in the distance, jarring enough to make him open his eyes (when had they fallen shut?). There’s a set of footsteps moving at a frantic pace - not quite a run but certainly in a hurry. A sudden wash of cold air as another door is opened - still winter, then?
“Hello? Anyone in here?”
Even if Noel could speak, he doesn’t try, instead attempting to reach up for the…bench? Wooden benches surround him and the stone floor beneath him was worn smooth with the passage of many feet over many years. Overhead, he could just barely make out a raised ceiling, the glint of stained glass from the streetlights.
Was he in a church? That seemed ironic; he doesn’t think God can help him now.
The footsteps come closer, then a loud curse. Someone has come around the corner of one of the pews, finally spotting where he’d been dropped. He can’t quite get his vision to focus, something that should probably concern him more, but he can’t find the strength to keep his eyes open.
“Hold on, I’ll call an ambulance.” And they run now, back out that door and towards the nearest phone - he assumes. Noel knows the dangers of letting himself rest with how much blood he’d lost and the likely concussion from being thwacked with a pipe by Larson, but he was so damn tired.
Waking up again was unexpected. He should be dead. Maybe he was dead. He didn’t think the afterlife was filled with sterile white walls and the distinct scent of antiseptic, but what did he know? The King had never shown him a pleasant afterlife; maybe this was lulling him to a false sense of security. That would be pretty shitty, but he’d done worse.
“Noel?”
Charlie-
A sharp pain lances down his neck when he attempts to turn, so instead he forces his gaze to the side. As if realizing he couldn’t move his head, the man at his bedside moves to be more in his line of sight, dragging the chair over. He was sitting upright at least; that made it easier to keep eye contact.
“You might not remember me. We only met once,” the priest says, and Noel attempts to shake his head in protest - a motion he quickly stops as his vision swims. Of course he would remember the man who was crazy enough to knock out the Butcher with a bedpan. “Oscar. I was helping Arthur a few weeks ago.”
Noel blinks hard, thoughts not quite cooperating through the thick haze of whatever painkillers this place had him on - Arthur? He feels like he’s missing something. Where was Arthur? Was he supposed to be here? He opens his mouth to ask, but Oscar’s expression shifts to alarm.
“No no, don’t try to speak. Here, I have some paper for you,” Oscar says quickly, reaching over to grab a pad of paper and a pen from where it had been sitting on a table. Many questions were pushing for his attention, but, with how badly his hands were shaking, he knows he has a limited time before his body gives out on him. He didn't have the luxury to ask all of them, he'd need to pick the most important ones.
‘Dead?’
“You should be,” Oscar says bluntly, and it’s almost enough to make him smile. “Found you on your way to it in the church, but I called an ambulance which brought you here.”
Here. Where was here? Logically he was in New York, but it wouldn’t be the first time the King had pulled a trick like this. It usually wasn’t this comfortable, though. Maybe he was trying a new tactic, as if the other years’ worth didn’t do anything for him. Maybe that entity that had thrown him to the church had a similar method of torture. The uncertainty of it all was weighing on him.
He carefully writes out another word, pushing it towards Oscar.
‘Spain?’
Oscar’s brows furrow, looking from the paper to Noel’s face with confusion. A sinking feeling hits his chest, like he’s just failed a test he should’ve passed.
“No, no we’re in New York,” Oscar says slowly. “You must still be woozy from the painkillers.” He seems to mutter it to himself more so than to Noel.
Okay, that’s one question he absolutely needs answered, but now Noel scribbles out another frantic message. ‘Year?’
“Still 1934.” Oscar rubs at his face, “I could’ve sworn one of the nurses talked to you already. Do you not remember?”
Faintly, the memory of a nurse seeing to him as he woke up from surgery. A debrief, but there was no way for him to ask questions. The date and year were carefully told to him just before he was given another dose of painkillers.
Of course he remembered , but he wouldn’t be a very good detective if he didn’t follow up on all the information. He couldn’t always trust his memory - that had been proven time and time again in the Dreamlands. Although, for how little he knew the man, he trusted Oscar’s word. All his questions scatter, however, as he takes a closer look at the priest. Something was missing from the last time he saw him.
‘Arm?’
Oscar looks down at the sleeve that had been carefully pinned up to his shoulder, expression becoming tense. “Nothing you need to worry about; you’re the one who showed up half dead in the church.”
‘I’m getting better.’
It was almost laughable: his first lucid moment out of surgery wouldn’t be considered ‘getting better’ by most people. Noel was used to getting up after being knocked down; he had no other choice than to get going.
“This is the first time you’ve been able to respond to me in over a week,” Oscar retorts, going to stand.
No, wait– He doesn’t want to be left alone yet. He needs to find out what happened to Arthur and the Order, he needs to know if anyone had found the carnage from the god and god fragments having a pissing match and fuck he never got to tell his commanding officers what he was doing they’re going to be pissed-
“Noel.”
Charlie-
He blinks. Blinks again, realizing that he has Oscar’s arm in his hand, breath coming too hard too fast. It hurt but it helped, he was alive, he wasn’t alone, he was okay.
“I’ll be right back. I need to tell someone you’re awake,” Oscar explains gently. When Noel doesn’t immediately let go he gently lays his hand over his own. It was warm, making Noel realize how cold he was. It was winter in New York after all, and laying with these thin blankets certainly wasn’t doing him any favors. He lets go of Oscar’s arm, letting the man place his hand back to his lap. “I’ll be just a moment.”
Noel lays back, wincing at the soreness of overworked muscles. Whatever they had him hooked up to was strong, but there was a faint pounding behind his eyes that threatened to worsen into a migraine. If he thought too hard about swallowing, he felt like he was going to choke.
The bandages were thicker on one side of his neck than the other, he found as brought his hand up to investigate. He knew he’d been shot at the base of his throat. At the time, he couldn’t tell whether or not the bullet had gone all the way through. He still couldn’t quite tell through the haze of painkillers.
Footsteps outside the door, Oscar giving him a careful look as he returns, the nurse following behind him looking similarly concerned.
“Mr. Finley, I’m your primary nurse, Helen. How are we this morning?” she asks, holding her hand in a thumbs up, then a thumbs down. Giving him the option. After a moment he gives a thumbs up. There wasn’t a great way to show that he couldn’t quite tell if he was alive or not, so that was close enough.
“That’s good,” she says optimistically. “Would you mind writing down your name and age, please?”
He starts to write Charlie on instinct, frowning when he realizes. He gets as far as the ‘a’ before he scribbles it out. He pretends not to see the way Oscar looks at scratched out partial words. The “Noel” is shaky, the “Finley” even more so. 08-16-1892 - 42 years old
“Alright, Mr. Finley. Do you remember where you are?”
Ah. That’s what this is.
‘New York’,
“Right, and the year?”
‘1934.’
“And do you remember where you were before you were brought to the hospital?”
That one was a bit harder. If he went by technicality, he had been in the headquarters for the Order of the Fallen Star. But if it was directly before the hospital then it would’ve been…
‘A church, Oscar found me.’
Helen seems relieved at this, giving Oscar a reassuring look. “You seem to be remembering things fine, Mr. Finley. It’s common after surgery and physical trauma to be disoriented. Now that you’re coherent, however, we should go over some details together, alright?”
“I’ll take my leave then,” Oscar says, although he still doesn’t seem convinced of Noel’s mental state. If Noel had his wits about him, he thinks he’d be offended. “I have some things to take care of at the church. I’ll come back tomorrow, Noel.”
Noel can only watch him go. Despite the nurse still standing there, he felt indescribably alone. He really didn’t want to be left alone, but he has a feeling that if he asks Oscar to stay, he wouldn’t be able to - not that he really wants to ask either.
“Do you remember waking up from surgery, Mr. Finley?”
‘No.’
“That’s not too surprising,” Helen replies quickly. “Again, very common after undergoing anesthesia. I’m going to fetch Doctor Adams to explain things to you; no need to stress yourself trying to remember.”
Noel counts the steady beep of the heart monitor waiting for the nurse to return. He makes it to one hundred and twelve when he hears footsteps again.
“Good to see you awake, Mr. Finley,” Dr. Adams greets kindly. “Helen went to check with the front desk; I’ll give you a bit of a review of things until she returns. You’ve been in the hospital for three days now, one day for surgery and two so far for recovery. You were shot in the neck. Fortunately, it was a clean wound through the trachea which minimized the amount of repair we needed to do, however there were some complications with how much blood you’d lost already. Along with a moderate concussion, you’ve had a rough few days,” he says sympathetically.
‘Anyone asking for me?’
At this point he's surprised he hadn't been bothered by anyone down at the station. He can't remember the last case he'd been working on for them, was it Charon? The Butcher? Thinking about it made the pounding behind his eyes increase in intensity.
“Not that I know of, but that’s one of Helen’s intentions with speaking to the front desk,” he replies. “I see you have something to write with, but I have to warn that this may be more of a permanent solution. During surgery we were able to clean and pack the wound, but the muscles surrounding your vocal chords were damaged. They will repair themselves over time, but along with the tissue damage already created by the bullet, there is a chance you may never talk again.”
Noel had been mentally preparing himself for it, but it was still unpleasant to hear. He hopes his expression is schooled into something neutral, hands finding purchase on the thin blanket in his lap. The doctor looks sympathetic at least.
“Vocal therapy is an option, but you’ll have to wait for the tissue to heal - you’re looking at around two months of vocal rest. I would recommend gradual introduction after that–no more than twenty words at a low volume. Our physicians will be able to give you a more structured routine for regaining your voice once you’ve fully healed from the surgery.”
‘Thank you, doctor. ’
“Of course.” Dr. Adams stands, taking a moment to mark something on the chart hanging at the end of the bed. “I’ll take your vitals for now. We have to monitor for infection after surgery and with such a high risk wound, but you should be out of here by the end of the week.”
Noel didn’t even know what day it was anymore, but he nods and lets the doctor take a look at the wound on his neck, giving recommendations for dosages to the nurse as she returns.
“There was a message left for you at the desk,” Helen says, handing him a slip of paper before she begins changing out his IV and the drip of whatever drugs were being pumped into his veins. He’s only able to make out the name of his supervisor before his focus is harshly redirected to the bandages being removed from the wound. Instead he stares at the wall and tries very pointedly not to think about how he can feel the hole in his throat when he swallows.
“You’re good for now, Mr. Finley. I’ll be back in a few hours to drop off your lunch,” she says, before heading out.
Noel is now in the unenviable position of being left alone with his thoughts. Clouded thoughts, heavy thoughts with the drugs dampening the ache in his throat, but still - thoughts.
Not being able to talk…
He knew a guy who had damaged his vocal chords in the war - remembered how he had been on vocal rest for what felt like months and his voice still never turned out the same. Even surgery hadn’t fixed it when they made it home.
The thought of never being able to talk again stung. Noel wielded his voice in so many more ways than just getting ideas across. It wasn’t just a casual thing with him, it was his shield, his first line of defense. When he had first found himself back on Earth after the Dreamlands, the first thing he did was go up to someone and ask if it was all real, if he was awake because, despite all the King’s tricks, he knew from the bottom of his soul that he was finally out. Lorick had gotten him out but he needed someone to tell him, to confirm what he needed to know.
They had looked at him with thinly veiled concern, the downturned sneer of someone assuming he was drunk, but he hadn’t even cared because they had said, “Yes sir, you’re on main street,” and hurried off before he could even thank them.
There had been no one real in the Dreamlands, he knew that, and talking to people - the grocery store clerk who definitely didn’t care why he was buying peppers and pasta, the librarian who nodded along to his commentaries over the novel he was returning, the officer on the corner who didn’t give two shits about how much the city had changed since the last time he had been here - was a such a relief, he could never tire of hearing his own voice. It had been proof that he was here, that he was alive, that it was real . He could just walk up and talk to somebody, and that’s all the relief he needed.
That was gone now.
The days pass in a haze of being woken at odd hours, asked the day and year, then allowed to sleep again. Oscar does stop by a few times, even bringing him a set of clothes when he finds out Noel’s had to be disposed of. Couldn’t exactly get brain matter out of cotton.
Oscar reads him the note that had been left, a simple request to stop by the station when he is released. Noel would be surprised that he hadn’t been visited personally by his supervisors if he didn’t know how short staffed they were. Sometimes he thinks they did that on purpose.
By the time he’s released, he’s made a thousand mental lists. Foods that were no longer appealing after attempting to swallow them, ways to verify he was awake and in New York without alarming the nurses, things he could no longer do with a fresh hole in his throat. His hand has steadied, at least, the notepad quickly filling with snippets of conversation.
At least he was alive, or at least…
That’s what he keeps telling himself.