Chapter Text
there were hands wrapped around his neck, pressing down on his throat and squeezing. he was already in bad shape – a blow to the head, a broken nose, several broken ribs, he was stabbed somewhere at least twice, probably more, and less than a minute away from death by strangulation.
jean vicquemare was going to die and for the first time in his miserable fucking life, he didn't want to. he was doing so well. he was a lieutenant in his own right, recently moved in with his boyfriend and his son, had a solid and stable relationship with his best friend. his health was good and he cut back on his drinking and stopped doing drugs (mostly). he was happy. actually fucking happy.
and now he was being murdered.
he fought and he fought like hell. kicking, punching, scratching. none of it worked. the man choking the life out of him was too strong and jean was growing weaker by the second.
he was dying and all he could think about was trant. that brilliant blonde somewhere in the dilapidated building, knocked unconscious. he'd have a concussion and a lump on his head when he woke up, but he would wake up. he would wake up and stumble until he found jean blue in the face with a crushed trachea and no breath left inside him. it would be the image that haunted trant for the rest of his life.
jean’s struggling slowed as the man strangled the life out of him. his head was being slammed against the ground but he couldn't feel it. he couldn't feel anything. his vision was going black.
every day of his working life, jean saw death. he saw countless murders, both brutal and quiet. he saw just as many suicides, in just as many brutal and quiet ways. accidents, natural causes, exposure. he had seen every death imaginable. he thought of them all and some stuck with him for longer than he could ever want.
but he had also thought, in detail, of his own death. depressed and suicidal for far too many years. he always knew he wanted to die. there was always, every day of his damned life, a voice in his mind that reminded him how easy it would be to end his life. too often it was front and center and he quieted it with drugs and alcohol and overworking himself to the point of exhaustion. he focused on other people so he could ignore his own mind telling him to end it all.
he hoped he would feel relief at death, a welcome home and a warm embrace. or perhaps nothing at all. he was always too much of a coward to do it.
but now this was it. this was death and he hated every second of it.
he didn’t want to die.
something loud cracked nearby. it didn't register, not for a long moment. there was a heavy pressure on his chest but the iron grip on his throat slackened until there wasn't any at all. he laid there, his entire body beginning to shake as he drew in wracking breaths, bringing air desperately back into his lungs. it hurt and the pain alone could have killed him.
sensation began to come back to his limbs and he could feel the warm spread of blood pooling around him. he touched it, fingers dipping into the warmth of it. he didn't know whose it was. what was that sound? he couldn't piece it together, lack of oxygen to his brain making him unable to connect even the simplest things.
so cold yet he was covered in a layer of warm crimson.
someone was there and the heaviness over his chest disappeared. it made breathing a little bit easier but it still burned. were there a dozen needles shoved down his throat? it felt like it.
a face blurred in front of him. it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his life. he reached for the beauty, fingers red with someone's blood. whose blood was that? the angel was talking. the angel was scared. it didn't make sense.
“you're going to be okay,” it was saying. it was trying to smile but it felt wrong. he felt the flutter of hands on him as if trying to find a safe place to touch him. there was no part of jean that wasn't battered or bruised or broken. “jean, stay with me. help is coming.” there was a pressure and a brief searing pain against his head before it disappeared into the all-consuming pain of everything. “please. look at me.” so jean looked, though his vision was fading again. his eyes kept falling closed but that voice kept pulling him back. they were begging for him to stay alive.
his head hurt. was he bleeding from his head? he was bleeding from a lot of places. “don't leave me.” the angel was begging again. angels don't plead. “you promised you wouldn't die on me.” he was fading quickly, stuttering breaths. there was pain everywhere.
he was thinking of someone. who was it? god. no, not god, but damn fucking close. his final thought before closing his eyes was trant.