Chapter Text
Blood was not an unfamiliar taste to Noel.
There was a small, ugly part of him that had even grown fond of the sweet sugary copper flavor—if he could taste it, it meant he was still alive.
He was still alive.
“You are!” A voice he did not recognize—feminine, bubbly, something not quite right about it, like it was overlayed with radio static and warped glass—said cheerily. “It’s quite impressive, really.”
Noel’s fingers dug into a thick carpet.
He opened his mouth, lifted his hand, let the blood pooling behind his teeth and underneath his tongue spill out into his open palm. It was thick, hardly even watered down by saliva, bright red with freshly oxygenated cells.
He’d been shot.
He’d been shot, and then–
“Don’t think about it too hard, dear.” Hands cup his cheeks. Hands? Yes. Hands. Even though they are big, even though there are too many joints and bones, even though those long fingers wrap around his head like strangle vines, they are hands. “This place isn’t meant for that, even for you.” There is a pause, then a gasp, something between the tolling of church bells and the pop of gunfire. “Oh, goodness–you have such beautiful eyes. I’m jealous, Noel, really.”
One of those hands slipped down to his chin, the bones in those long fingers rolling and clicking like dice.
“You do still prefer Noel, don’t you?” The voice asked while that hand tilted his head up.
Noel blinked slowly.
A pair of iridescent eyes met his own, wide and bright and hypnotically beautiful.
Blood rolled down his throat.
Noel sputtered, gagged, and tore himself away from those razor thin hands. His lips and teeth were sticky. His throat felt like it was glued shut. Noel gasped. Tried to heave in a breath. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t.
“Oh, yes, we should get that fixed up shouldn’t we?” The voice hummed thoughtfully.
Musically.
Even in his hivebrain panic Noel was reminded of piano keys, of a sweet little melody Arthur had played for him once, nothing more than a handful of notes plucked out by delicate fingers. There had been a piano in Noel’s apartment, a cheap one that the previous tenant hadn’t bothered to take with them and Noel hadn’t bothered to pay to remove. John’s eyes had lit up when he saw it, and Arthur had gasped so softly a moment later, asking even softer if Noel would mind. Noel didn’t mind. Noel never minded when it came to Arthur. He said so. And John’s eyes had filled with a honeyed warmth, and Arthur’s smile had been as sticky sweet as nectar, and when Noel had kissed them he had the taste of summer on his lips for days after.
Now all Noel could taste was his own life slipping away from him.
“Ah! Yes, here we are.”
Noel heard a lock click.
A doorknob twist.
Hinges creak.
“Hellloooo?” The voice called out, strangely, Noel thought, like a cuckoo clock.
“Helen?” A different voice answered, sounded genuinely surprised and a little afraid. “What are you–oh good lord–”
“You’ll take care of him for me, won’t you, Archivist?” Those elongated hands were back on him, hauling him to his feet in a grip that was surely leaving bruises behind. A bubble in his throat popped. Noel choked, sputtered, gagged and heaved. Blood welled in his mouth. He spit it out, coagulated bits sticking to his gums and teeth. He could taste gunpowder. “I’ve only known him for a few minutes, but I’m really quite fond of him already.” Those long fingers grasped his chin, tilting his head back up. “Doesn’t he have just the prettiest eyes?”
“Wait, I–”
“You’re such a love, really.”
Noel was shoved forward.
He stumbled past a raised threshold, tripping over it. He crashed into a desk, knocked off a cup of pencils and a few other things. Noel wasn’t sure. His vision had grown hazy. Blurry. He couldn’t make out much more than shapes and colors. Hands caught him, small and scarred, but they did not have the strength to keep him up. They tumbled down with him, crashing to the floor in a heap of long gangly limbs.
“Helen–!”
“Ta-ta, Archivist!”
A door clicked shut.
Noel felt sick.
The hands that were holding him were shaking, trembling like a leaf in the wind. “I–oh god–” the voice belonging to those hands was shaking too. “I–Martin can–Martin–” there was a hitched breath. Noel was not sure if it belonged to him or whoever was keeping him upright enough to not choke on his own blood. “Martin!”
Noel’s head lolled back.
“No, no, don’t–Martin!”
Fingers from that scarred hand tangled into his hair, tilting his head back up in some vain effort to keep the blood from rolling down his throat. Noel wasn’t quite sure how successful it was. He wasn’t quite sure it mattered. He couldn’t swallow it. Couldn’t spit it back out. His eyes were so heavy. Everything was so heavy.
“What?” Another voice. Muffled. Until it wasn’t. “What are you–Jesus Christ–Jon, what the hell–!?”
“I don’t–Helen just–”
“Helen–?” The other voice cut itself off before it could even really begin. “No, you know what, I’ll ask questions later. Just–get him out of your office and I’ll call an ambulance–”
“I–he’s kind of heavy–”
“Then I’ll get him out of your office and you call an ambulance–”
Noel was jostled into another set of hands.
He blinked.
He didn't open his eyes after that.