The inside of Taina's wrist scrubbed along her forehead, dabbing at her hairline to wipe the sweat away. Blood under her skin throbbed hot; it unleashed a cool thrill. Adrenaline? Endorphins? Whatever. She wasn't going to act like she knew, and to be honest it didn't matter. All the same it had become something very familiar. Just like the fiery burn in her muscles, the aggressive pounding of her heart within her ribcage, and the perspiration that veiled her scar-ridden skin. The braid of hair dangling down lashed at her back, bare between the straps of her sports bra. Whipping like reins to urge her on. Maintaining the accelerated pace on the treadmill. Starting to run short of breath, her gaze deviated—a distraction. The gymnasium was a hub of activity. Granted, it was hard to find a time when it wasn't. Machines whirred. Metal clanked. Chatter and grunts filled the humid air. In the far corner, she found Gustave standing next to Gilles, and they both stood across from Olivier with an awkward amount of space separating them. And yet Taina was almost certain Gustave wouldn't consider it enough.
She still couldn't figure out which was stranger: Gustave disliking someone so strongly or someone disliking Gustave at all.
From across the gymnasium, she saw his head turn. A scowl contorted every facial feature—lips, lids, brows—but his sights scattered. Attention flittering back and forth and all around until he found her.
And then just like that, eyes bulging, he pivoted and shunned her.
Huh.
Taina glanced down at her white and blue runners and adjusted the earbud jammed into her right ear.
Well I suppose one of us has to feign disinterest in the presence of coworkers, she thought. Though normally it was her. Maybe he's giving me a break...
Emmanuelle came to a standstill in front of the treadmill Taina occupied. Her mouth moved, but saying what, Taina couldn't tell. With blaring music, she was too deaf. Hello, perhaps? Hi?
Either way, Taina nearly stumbled over her own feet.
"Oh shit, you're here." She ripped both earphones out at Twitch's semi-sudden arrival.
"What a welcome," Emmanuelle remarked with a smile.
Her hand flicked at the treadmill's speed dial, and only after the rubber slowed under her shoes did she roll her eyes. Even though she nudged the knob down to zero, she hopped off before it even stopped. A graceful landing on both feet, and then she grinned. "I mean it in a nice way."
"Uh-huh."
Taina hunched over. Blood rushed to her head—nauseating and painful, splitting her brain in two. She quickly snatched her water bottle and eased back into a stand. Slowly this time. Gripping the frigid, mauve stainless steel bottle, she took three quick swigs, screwed the lid back on, and dropped it back into her open gym bag. Taina tossed her MP3 player in next. "Whatever you want to start with," she said.
Emmanuelle shrugged. The gesture made her loose black crop top bounce with her shoulders. Both hands stretching up, she began bundling her brown locks into a tight, secure bun. "Weights?"
"Sure."
Learning at least somewhat of a lesson, Taina crouched down this time. Half zipping the black and white duffle bag up, tossing the strap over her shoulder, she followed after Emmanuelle on jelly legs. Weaving around ellipticals and bench presses. Striding past rowing machines over to the rack of dumbbells coloured a muted titanium and black.
"Finally," Emma said. "I feel like I've been waiting all afternoon to do this."
Settling in an open spot, Taina abandoned her duffle bag on the ground again. Thump! Within seconds, she got down onto one knee and began fiddling with the weight plates of her selected dumbbells—increasing the total by a few more pounds before screwing the pin in. "So what were you doing in R&D today?"
"Elena wanted a second pair of eyes on a modification she made."
"To what?" Taina asked. Tilting her head up, she smirked at the auburn-haired Frenchwoman. "Or is that top secret?"
"Just to Elias' shield. Nothing thrilling."
"Did he bust it again?"
Emmanuelle scoffed.
But Taina couldn't help but noticed she never actually answered the question. Getting into a stand, she huffed. Pulse, still not steady. But when did that ever stop her? A couple shakes of her body, and then she reached down and raised the dumbbells with an iron grasp. The muscles in her arms already started burning—subtle. Negligible, and yet oddly addicting.
"How long have you been going for?"
"Psh," Taina muttered. She wasn't certain. And she couldn't be bothered to check a clock either. "Two and a half hours maybe?"
"You're insane."
"I'm unoccupied," she countered. "I don't have patients or technology to tend to on a daily—"
Loud, discordant hollers reverberated through the gymnasium.
Low, and sharp, and many.
Taina's muscles slackened. The dumbbells sank through the air and nearly slipped out of her grip. She looked over at Twitch with a blank expression and bulging eyes. Emmanuelle nodded. They both abandoned their weight equipment onto the padded ground and followed their ears to the epicentre of the sounds. Even as the two of them wove through the machinery, she could make out shreds of the sight. People herded around the far side of the gym. An often used area—the mats. The makeshift ring. Boxing, wrestling, martial arts, fights. It all happened there.
And by the sounds of things, it was the latter.
Having been involved with many, the sight wasn't unfamiliar.
Operators were gathered into a semicircle, nudging and shoving at each other for a better view. Of what? Taina still couldn't tell. It was impossible to peek past the throng of their bodies. And the shouting. Cheers, reprimands, casual bets on the winners and the losers. A thrill—it always got her blood pumping. Whether she was an involved party or a spectator, the fights were irresistible.
I'm terrible, Taina remarked to herself as she advanced deeper.
And yet, hands settling on the shoulders of operators, she nudged them aside and wormed her way through the pack without hesitation. Bumping Gridlock out of the way. Pulling at Jackal's shoulder to create a gap for her frame to slip through while gasping on air inundated with the amalgamated stench of dying cologne overpowered by perspiration and body odour. She broke to the surface of the crowd.
What the—
Standing at the herd's cusp and at the edge off the mats, every muscle froze.
Jaw dropping, eyes bulging—stunned.
Gustave threw a cross punch at Olivier's face. The taller man ducked back and dodged the strike without an ounce of hesitation.
"Hey!" Emmanuelle shouted from behind her.
Then she uttered something in quick French. The words bleeding together, Taina could barely parse them apart. Something about training, but either way, the both women stood idly by and observed. And both Olivier and Gustave shook off her words like water.
Taina's pulse raced faster and faster even though she found herself perfectly still and paralyzed in place.
"Just sparring, right men?" Castle called out.
He was already toeing the mats sprawled out along the floor with arms crossed, a grimace on his face. Ready to referee—if one didn't know him. But Taina knew he was waiting.
For things to escalate.
For things to go too far.
For blood to be drawn.
And, arms strewn around her sweat-coated body, she breathlessly waited for the same thing.
While Olivier was dressed suitably for the gym—white t-shirt and shorts—Gustave was out of place in his navy GIGN coveralls.
Gnawing on the inside of her lip, her gaze shifted. Both of their hands were bare. Unprotected and exposed, and the skin, agitated. Likely sore from the collisions already made to each others bodies—Olivier's chin bore a dark mark while an angry red blossomed along Gustave's angular jaw.
This is already out of control.
The writing was on the wall. Like a locomotive running away on its tracks, the situation was spiralling out of control until they reached a breaking point.
Gustave threw another vicious punch, but there was no contact.
Focused too hard on striking to follow through, her brain analyzed unwarranted. Taina felt her nails dig into the skin at her waist, unable to stop herself from diagnosing the landscape.
Chaotic, haphazard.
Olivier's arm lashed out, and his balled fist landed one, quick jab to Gustave's left cheek.
Someone gasped—maybe Gustave.
Maybe her for all she knew.
He stumbled back a step, jerking away from the hit. Posture collapsing, jaw clenching. His hand rushed to the fresh red mark marring his face. A thin layer of skin had been scraped off, tiny bits of blood beading in its place like pores.
"Let's take it down a notch!" Miles called out as a warning.
And it was one Olivier either didn't hear or willfully chose to ignore. He swiped one hand up over his face of furrows and frowns. Wiping the sweat away, his fingers then combed through thick golden locks in disarray and shoved them back from his pale eyes. His thin lips moved, and Taina barely heard him muttering over everyone else's chattering.
Low. French. Impossible for her to comprehend.
And it set off a catastrophic explosion within Gustave.
A grim sound hissed passed his clenched teeth, some kind of animalistic growl.
Gustave lunged forward. His entire body, lurching. One balled fist rose into the air. Then he attacked. His knuckles collided with Olivier's face with a sickening crunch.
Someone screamed.
Lion recoiled. Head flinging back, blonde locks flinging with him. Blood already rushed from his nose, but his right arm thrashed—reflex. Instinct.
Revenge.
A violent right hook landed on Gustave's face.
And then the floodgates of the entire gymnasium broke loose.
Miles charged at Gustave. Both arms hooked under his shoulders, and Castle hauled him back, making his combat boots stumble, away from Olivier. Taina jumped into the middle of the brawl, losing herself between them and widening the gap separating them. Mauled by instinct and rage. She shoved Olivier backwards. Both hands on his chest, feeling every savage, ire-laden rise and fall against her palm.
Pulse rushed at Lion to intervene too. He approached from behind. Grabbing his collar, holding him back.
Even despite that, Taina gave Olivier one more shove. The venomous glare on her face nearly bounced back in his blue irises.
"How come I don't get invited to fights anymore?" A signature snarky but sly comment bled into a threatening hiss.
Wishing she could fight.
Craving nothing more than to beat the grin off his sweat-misted face until he lay crumpled into a helpless ball of flesh and bones while begging for mercy. Blinded by rage. Adrenaline licked at her senses. A cool thrill, jolting through her veins.
Do it, something screamed.
And she could. So easily.
Taina, still forcing Olivier back off the mats, glanced over her shoulder.
Furrowed brows etched wrinkles into Gustave's forehead as he leered at Olivier. Wordlessly smiting his very existence. His breaths, haggard and sharp, unable to catch up with him. Blood dribbled from the split skin of his lower lip. The red moved slow as he bled, and it took its time gliding towards his chin. Harsh fluorescent lights of the gymnasium turned some of the blacks and greys of his hair into nothing but white. Glimmering as he raised his head. By the look on his battered face, she couldn't tell if he was going to cry or scream.
It was only when his rich, brown, and wounded eyes flickered over to her that she received an answer.
And it hit her like a ton of bricks.
Reddened and watery—reflective like glass or the surface of a pond—he glanced down instead. Blocking her vision, completely avoiding her. Gustave wrestled his way out of Miles' grasp: shoulders and arms thrashing about until he broke free. His hands brushed out the fresh creases in his navy uniform and smoothed out the coarse fabric, and then with nothing else, he stalked off.
The crowd of operators separated. Parting, making way for him to pass.
Taina watch him retreat, getting lost behind people and tall, black machinery until he fled the gymnasium through the heavy doors and disappeared from sight. Another rush of murmurs filled the dead air around her. Head lashing back, she found herself staring up at Olivier's bashed face. He reached up and used the edge of his wrist to wipe the wet redness from his lips. She glared. Wordlessly shooting daggers at him, looking him up and down, and then for a split second an renegade smirk broke upon her lips—deriving a sick satisfaction at the injuries plaguing his body.
Content, she gave him one last shove backwards. Sack of shit.
She spun around, catching one last glimpse out the corner of her eye of Olivier stumbling, and marched off the mat. On the outskirts of operators, Taina found Twitch, who appeared lost in her own expansive world. Arms weakly crossed, clinging to herself. Her shoulder were slumped, making her black top appear baggy on her figure, and a solemn demeanour seemed to weigh her body down: her lips, brows, shoulders. And yet in that glum expression, Taina found no traces of surprise or shock. A knowing expression.
And that bothered her.
Taina brushed past Emmanuelle, tugging at her elbow and forcing her to follow in the direction of their neglected weights. "What the fuck was that all about?" she uttered.
It was only then that shock made an appearance. "He hasn't told you?"
"Told me—? No." She hauled Emmanuelle back to where their gym bags had been abandoned. Once they came to a standstill, far away from all other colleagues, Taina couldn't stop her voice from wilting. "Told me what?"
Trying not to feel offended or upset even though she kind of was.
Even though she had no right to be.
Being someone where people had to dig deep in order to get anything out of her, it made no sense to be upset that he hadn't willfully divulged everything about his acrimonious dealings with Olivier.
And yet the notion lit an agonizing fire under her, and she quickly began striding away.
"Where are you going?"
"To talk to him."
A sudden vice on her shoulder made Taina freeze.
Emmanuelle quickly sidled up to her. Face to face, she let Taina go. Dainty fingers tucked fraying chestnut strands back from her worried face and then she shook her head in response. "Maybe not right now."
"What do you mean not right now? You know what's up with them?"
"Too well."
Taina scowled at the cryptic answer. Lips twisting into a purse, brows knitting together into a glare. What the hell does that mean?
If Twitch knew, it was likely because either Gustave told her or she was there. The horrible part of her mind clung to the latter option. It made sense, she reasoned. Gustave was GIGN. Olivier was GIGN, and so was Emmanuelle. It would stand to reason that they could all be involved in the same incident. That concept alleviated her mind more than the former and the runaway train of thoughts that came with it. Jealousy's a bad look, she reminded herself. But it was hard to ignore. Him telling Emmanuelle something personal was one thing—to be expected. But it begged the unnecessary question: who else knew? Who else had he told? Who else amongst their Rainbow colleagues and who outside of them? And why hadn't he told her? Over the months it felt she had ripped every single strip of flesh back and exposed everything from deep inside herself. Each bad decision. All the blackened and rotten parts of her. Peeling and peeling until there was nothing left to hide her.
Is that not good enough?
Am I not good enough?
Maybe that was the problem, something malicious in the dark corners of her mind told her.
What if he didn't think he could tell her?
What if he didn't trust her enough?
What if he didn't think she had earned that trust?
What if he was right?
Eyes wrenching shut, she shook her head. As if the violent gesture could flick such pervasive notions away. With Emmanuelle saying nothing, Taina hunched forward, eyes widening, urging her to say something. Anything.
"Well?"
"It's complicated."
"Make it uncomplicated."
Twitch sighed. "It's not my experience to share, Tai."
Taina huffed at the unhelpful response. One slow deep breath—she didn't know when the cadence of them had calmed down, but her heart still bashed away in her chest. Fast. Violent. Petrified.
"By all means, go talk to him," Emma said, flinging one arm out in the direction of the gymnasium doors. But then she pursed her lip in rumination. "Just... if he needs space, it's usually just best to give it to him."
Another scowl surfaced on Taina's face—a completely different nature this time. A foreign defensiveness.
I know that...
I know that, right?
Taina shook her head again. Flicking the braid back over her shoulder, she took one lunging step over her gym bag. The lid, still gaping open. Clothes and phone and headphones and water bottle all still exposed, but her surroundings had faded. Hushed. Just white noise and monochromatic blurs. Her fingers clenched and unclenched—cold—on her march. To the edge of the gym. Out the doors. She moseyed down the corridor with a dozen racing thoughts and only one known destination.
~
Gustave flung open the door to medical bay with one brutal elbow, easily ignoring the dull pangs it caused; the savage headache and split lip more than dwarfed that pain. He gave the door a shove, and by the time it slammed home, he was plopping down into the wheeled stool of his desk. White noise hummed in his ears—monstrous gnats taunting him. He plucked two white latex gloves out of the opened box sitting up by on his desk. Readying them, he stared at his hands. Smears and speckles of crimson dressed the skin there. Spreading between the digits. Under his nails. Sinking into the lines and whorls of his fingerprints. Was it his? Was it Olivier's? There was no way to differentiate the two—they were the exact same.
We're not the exact same, Gustave thought. I'm nothing like him.
And yet their blood muddled together into one united mess of red upon his hands.
Gustave slipped one skin-tight glove on to conceal that fact. The latex snapped into place around his wrist, fingers wriggling in deeper until the glove sat right. He pulled the second glove on as well, and then just like that, he was out of a task.
Now what?
One meagre stack of paperwork covered the top of his desk. Other documents were scattered there too—medical profiles, Mira's notes for a fresh review of Finka's adrenal surge, a blood analysis form. Amongst either miscellaneous things like an old cup of coffee, pens, an amethyst geode hosting a tree of metal and wires, clipboards, a water bottle he meant to refill but never got around to. The endeavour to bury himself in work and strangle out all emotions was trumped by a sudden and primal desire to scream. To knock everything aside. To throw it on the ground and have a tantrum like a petulant child, and he hated himself for it.
Jerking open one of the top drawers of his desk, he slipped an arm inside and rummaged around blindly. Fingertips scraped over various unidentifiable objects until they found a small box. He selected the item. Withdrawing it, Gustave gave it a quick survey to confirm.
The cherry red and pearl white box proudly proclaimed Marlboro in black writing.
Thank Christ.
It was a terrible vice he had meant to rid of for good. And if someone were to ask, he'd claim he had, but there were moments, and sometimes the pandemonium in those moments were too much for him to take; so he took it out on something else.
Gustave flicked open the red lid with one thumb, and he quickly selected a cigarette from the pack. Securing the box shut again, he tossed it back into the open drawer and rifled through it for a lighter.
Knock, knock.
He blinked twice, shattering a bitter reverie holding him captive.
'Someone is knocking at the door,' his mind tried to tell his body. Yet he just sat there—cigarette in one hand, lighter in the other. Feeling fire and acid burn against his tongue like a wraith. Tantalizing. Calling for him.
Knock, knock, knock, knock.
"Fuck off," Gustave mumbled under his breath.
And yet, rather than ignoring the persistent and gratingly annoying rapping at the door, he forced himself to stand up. The wheeled stool croaked in his absence. He unhooked the lab coat hanging beside him from the wall. Both arms slipped through the sleeves, hands still clenched around the smoke and lighter until he dropped one into either pocket. Adjusting the collar of the stark white coat, he marched over to the door with slumped shoulders and aggravated steps. The obnoxious knocking continued in an unending tempo until he ripped the door open to find the only person he expected to find there.
Taina, brows furrowed, still had a balled fist in the air from knocking. Her hazel eyes bulged in surprise at his presence and then soften at the sight of him, aching for him.
"God," she uttered. Her fingertips danced down the side of his cheek, avoiding the blood seeping down his skin and, beyond any comprehension, alleviating the scowl contorting his face.
Even though his blood was boiling.
Even though he was seething with hatred and frustration and anger and a small dose of pain.
Gustave jerked away from her touch—instinct—but catching himself, he tried to hide it. He took a couple steps backwards with the visceral reaction. Opening the door wider, wordlessly beckoning her in.
Taina slipped in through the narrow opening of the door, and the moment she moved past him, he secured the door shut once more. She cut thoughtlessly through medical bay. Without a care: walking over to his desk, helping herself to its contents. Delicate yet mighty fingers plucked the lid off a crystal clear jar of cotton swabs. Its lid clattered against the wooden desk. She withdrew one single swab and spun back around to face him. Her grim stare unsettled him. Eyes, intense and deep. Step after step, she quickly evaporated the gap between them, utterly unmoved by the frown still marring his face. Taina prowled closer like a panther, and when they were toe to toe with no more space left to offer, her arm casually wafted into the air. The end of the cotton swab grazed over his chin to wipe away a bead of blood still oozing from his busted lip.
"Our roles have reversed." Gaze hyper-fixated on the wound and thoroughly avoiding his, she said, "I'm not used to being the medic in this situation. I'm usually the one getting into fights."
Gustave's brows sank low, lips screwing into into a frown. Permanently affixed to his face—even as Taina sighed.
Realizing that humour wasn't working she shook her head, "I'm sorry, I just— I suck at this shit." He watched her bite down on her lower lip, and he noticed her hand start to tremble as she dragged the cotton swab back up his chin to the edge of his bottom lip. A savage throbbing sensation followed suit. The tip came away damp and red. The sight of it tainted his tongue, worsening the foul metallic taste inside mouth.
Finally her eyes flickered up. They hosted a comforting warmth, which struck through him like a bolt of lightning.
Taina asked, "Are you okay?"
He scrubbed his hand down the side of his face, where he felt an abrasion begin to burn under the pressure of cool latex. "Yes."
She shook her head and pursed her lips. Inching forward just a little bit, her hand reached out to touch him as she asked once again, "Are you okay?"
"I said yes!"
She recoiled at the vicious razor-like tone in his voice, and that tone ravaged him from the inside out; it seemed to slice his tongue and impale his gut. Shock painted her face—bulging those eyes, rosy lips pinching together—and her slender throat flexed at a thick swallow. Taina gazed down at the tainted cotton swab still in her hand. She twirled it in between her finger and her thumb while muttering, "I'm sorry."
The only thing warring against his bubbling rage—his regret. Regret for letting his hatred get the best of him. Regret for losing it, for snapping. At her of all people, which only filled him with more hate. Gustave buried his hands within the pockets of his lab coat. There, every finger balled into a quaking fist. Clenching, unclenching. The knuckle of his index finger knocked against the plastic lighter. Even the thought set him on fire. His lungs ached with a strange pleasure, his lips stung, his tongue—riddled with tingles. A desperate craving.
"I'm just worried about you," she whispered, voice on the verge of cracking. "Will you tell me what happened?"
"I don't want to talk," Gustave said, and then he quickly stepped around her somehow tiny-looking frame. "Excuse me."
He quickly walked to the door, leaving Taina behind in the middle of medical bay. The door tore open, and even after departing down the hallway, the thud of it banging against the wall was audible. He marched through the empty corridor. Jaw clenched, anxiety sending his heart racing, his fingertips caressed the smooth curves of the cigarette in his pocket. It beckoned him. His pace hastened, and the moment the side exit door was within reach, the side of his body slammed into it. Full force, enough to unlatch the metal and heave it open.
Grey clouds littered the sky. In the distance and a few feet beyond the building, raindrops softly fell. They darkened the pavement and turned the tarmac of the airstrip midnight black. Gustave tried to catch his breath—where it had gone? He wasn't sure, but nearly out of them, he sidled along the exterior brick wall. The rugged red surface clawed at the material of his lab coat, a little harmless melody of hisses matching the percussive precipitation. His figure froze in an arbitrary spot; leaning back against the wall, he heaved a sigh. Fuck, he cursed to himself. Gustave plucked the cigarette out of his pocket. He captured it between his dry lips, delicate. Like a kiss. Trembling fingers grabbed at the powder blue lighter next. Thumb, already on the red lever. He raised it into the air, blocked the wind with his other hand, and clicked thrice before a flame ignited. Yellow fire licked at the butt end of the cigarette until a small smoulder persisted on its own and the cigarette slowly began burning.
And then he inhaled.
Fumes hazed his mind and murdered all rational thought. He secured the cigarette between his index and middle fingers before he breathed out a white cloud of smoke. Gustave's eyes fluttered shut, and with nothing else to accompany him but the rain, he inhaled once more.
Creak.
The exterior door moaned on its hinges as it swung open.
God damn it...
Another sigh ruptured free. Lungs already intoxicated, he forced himself to open his eyes. Further down to his right, he caught Taina slipping out through the weighty, metallic door in the peripherals of his vision. Gustave huffed out the puff of smoke, thick, off-white, and sickly. It dissipated into the cool air and meshed with the stormy skies above before evaporating into nothingness. His focus anchored on the raindrops which drizzled down and pattered against the wet cement a mere metre or two ahead of him. Staring, he tried to ignore the approaching figure. Demure and quiet footfalls, never hesitating. Certainly never stopping. Thump, thump, thump, thump. After dropping the lighter back into his pocket, Gustave raised the cigarette back to his lips and sucked in.
"Stay over there," he muttered.
Taina suddenly tensed and froze in place at his gruff voice.
And then she took one single and overtly purposeful step forward, getting even closer to him. He didn't know why he expected anything else, but still nothing could stop him from clenching his jaw at her at such infuriating persistence.
In contrast to the bold movement, her voice was delicate when she spoke. "Why?"
"Because it smells."
"So?"
"It's also terrible for you."
Taina crossed her arms over her chest and, facing him, slanted against the brick wall. "General rule of thumb: if it's terrible I've done it before."
She loomed in the outskirts of his vision—dark hair and golden skin clad in a dark teal sports bra and deep grey athletic pants. Perfect for a sweaty and hot workout session at the gym. Not so much for standing outside in the rain. Deep brown eyes flickering to the right, Gustave couldn't stop himself from analyzing every detail, observing all: the sheen of perspiration misting her body; the sharp furrow of her brows. The goosebumps, which cloaked her bare arms as fragile gusts of wind blew—a chill she tried to conceal, but he saw it.
And he knew her.
Flipping like a dime, the remnants of rage shattered into shame.
Shame for losing control.
Shame for his inability to forgive, to unchain grudges.
Shame for being the sole reason Taina Pereira was standing outside shivering in the cold October rain.
The bitter facade fell from her face; compassion ruptured through her voice instead, and it wasted no time stabbing right through his heart. "Do you want me to leave?"
"I don't know what I want right now," he muttered, not even sure if she could decipher his words. "Don't worry about me. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. Your face is bleeding."
Gustave rolled his eyes. Those words on her voice instead of his own muddled his mind. One tap with his finger and a chunk of ash fell from the butt end of the cigarette. He took one more deep puff, holding onto it before unleashing the white cloud of smoke from his mouth. Arm stretching down, he lowered the cigarette still captured between his fingers, and just as he went to snuff out the end against the exterior brick wall, Taina's flung out her arm towards him. Fingers, wriggling—demanding.
Brows furrowed, he shook his head, not understanding.
Her intense gaze flashed down to the cigarette bad then back up at him. Give it, he could practically hear her saying.
Index and middle finger pressed together, he reached across his own body and extended the cigarette out to her. Avoiding her stare, he watched their hands instead: the wrinkles in his white latex glove where the cigarette was pinned, the curve of her wrist as she took it, the way her fingers effortlessly seized it from him. Oddly natural—he hated it. Every instinct in him reeled, longing to scream at her to stop. To tell her how awful smoking was for her health. How it could slowly kill her, but he merely bit down on his own lips and stared at the thin ring of burned and blackened paper wrapping the vice up.
I didn't even know she smoked, he pondered.
Though maybe, it occurred to him, she really didn't. Maybe in the dire moment she just needed it—needed something—in order to copy the same way he had.
"If you get to sound like me," Taina said, "I get to sound like you."
Gustave watched her raise the cigarette to her mouth. He tried not to notice the small speck of blood around the lip of the cigarette, only just dried of his own saliva.
All he could do was nod.
Taina sucked in, cheeks caving in, before pushing out the breath of noxious smoke. She offered the cigarette back to him, but Gustave shook his head instead. At that her bare shoulders bounced once in a shrug, and she rammed the burning end of the cigarette against the rugged red brick wall. It hissed, extinguished.
And then they both stared out into the distance.
Arms crossed over her chest, Taina slanted back against the wall too. Barely glancing over, he could see the uneven and jarring ridges of the brick stabbing into her bare shoulders. Errant strands of mahogany hair snagged on the abrasive exterior. His gaze averted elsewhere, and he instead glared at the sky painted a dozen shades of grey—smoke, slate. Raindrops whispered as they softly battered Hereford Base: the walls, the trees, the concrete. Their entire surroundings, engulfing then in gloomy precipitation. Barely under cover of the eavestrough, droplets ruptured against the ground and spattered onto the toe of his black boots.
It took a minute, but eventually he found his voice again. "Emma didn't tell you?"
"She said it was your story to tell, not hers." Taina looked over suddenly, rubbernecking, but that familiar face had gone completely blank. "She was there?"
An odd brightness infiltrated her voice, something hopeful and curious. Gustave's hands clenched at his side. Squeezing together until they trembled and then releasing only to begin the process anew. No immediate response made itself apparent. 'Why would Emmanuelle say that?' some naïve part of him wondered, but the rational part of him knew the answer. Emmanuelle had been there, but the events—the repercussions it had—it affected her in a vastly different way than it had him. And even Olivier. Its effect on her was a direct result of its effect on them, caught in between them all this time. In the hell their disdain forged.
"All three of us were," he muttered.
"Where is there?"
"Nigeria."
"And when?"
"2015."
Taina nodded, more at the vast openness before them than him.
"The Ebola virus was running rampant in West Africa, and I was on a mission there with MSF." Those words even breaking upon his lips ruptured a thousand sensations—memories, images, smells, feelings. They all slaughtered him one by one: drowning in his own sweat within protective gear, an unending stench of blood, excrement, and vomit, the sick and infected being dumped out of cars or abandoned at the gates, dead bodies in the treatment centres, staff digging graves in patches of barren dirt to make room for more. His lids screwed shut, but blinding himself never stopped the images from flashing behind his eyes and in the dark. Always there. "Doctors I had gone on missions with before. Doctors I looked up to, ones I grew up with. Ones I convinced—"
Gustave's eyes ripped open, unable to tolerate the burning sensation any longer. His head tilted back against the cold brick with a rough thunk. There he let his eyes glaze over.
Numb.
"I thought we would get it under control. I thought we could," he said. "But the French Army sent the 2nd Dragoon Regiment for CBRN defence. He was leading the squadron."
Taina nodded, a silent gesture urging him to continue.
He continued in a hushed voice—as if he were whispering back to the gentle rainfall.
"Hell broke lose. The entire centre became chaos. The exhaustion... corners were cut, or precautions were missed or—" Gustave shook his head. The causation, the factors, they didn't really matter. All that mattered was that they happened. "Some of the doctors and nurses got infected. MSF and the army were back and forth on how to proceed. I wanted to treat them like patients. He wanted them quarantined separately to treat themselves like doctors. Even though they were ill. We were going to discuss it—I remember leaving the centre. I had barely even finished the decontamination process and by the time I saw him..."
His insides wrenched. Like every organ was ripping apart, and his knees began buckling.
"In a second they were condemned to death," he uttered, seething, "and it was by his choice, on his whim."
"I'm so sorry, Gustave. That's horrible." Head hanging down, her voice was hard to hear over the thrumming of rainfall. She fidgeted: right hand, restless, tucked strands of hair behind her ear and she crossed one ankle over the other as her weight slanted against the wall. And then with nothing left to do, she lifted her head and captured him in her sights. "Was it really— It was just a whim?"
Gustave felt his jaw clench at the question. Sharp pains, splintering up the side of his face and into the centre of his head. Like rusted knives stabbing through his brain.
Taina's sympathy came as no surprise to him.
Neither did the rationality of the question, the fragment of doubt.
But in that question, he still heard unmistakable disgust. Disgust at the mere concept. At the presumed truth of the matter sourced from him and nobody else. And Gustave found himself at a loss for words. Yes, something in him screamed. It was inexplicable and careless, impulsive and dangerous without thought. Though perhaps that was simply easier to believe than the alternative; it was certainly easier to cope with. Like water, the mind follows the path of least resistance, and his tormented mind had long ago set its course and flowed down the path of bitterness and resentment. There was no other option.
"Maybe not," he mumbled.
The words spewed out from his mouth. Toxic like poison—desperate to be purged from his body, and yet while utterly despising each and every one of them, something desperately yearned to keep them contained or buried deep within.
"Maybe he didn't do the completely wrong thing. But maybe there was another way. Maybe I could have done something," he barked, voice escalating until he was suddenly shouting in the drizzle. "Maybe they didn't have to die!"
Nipping, cool winds whipped at his throbbing face, aggravating the still open cuts and raw scrapes upon his flesh. It lashed at his eyes as well. Fuel to a fire already causing water to bead in the corners, and then as if on a precipice, every ounce of composure plunged in a free fall. His lip, split and starting to scab over, quivered. All vision blurred; the grass, the colourless, cloud-ridden skies, and even the ground under his feet—nothing but a mess of lifelessness. His head sunk, face hiding in shadows and disheveled hair, and the tears finally broke free. He wrenched his eyes shut as hot trails streamed down his sore face.
Why did he get to decide whether they lived or died?
Why were their lives deemed an acceptable loss?
Why?
Gustave shook his head. "They didn't have to die."
Taina inched closer while still allowing space between her and him with his defeated posture. "I'm sorry."
"I don't know," he muttered to no one and for no reason in particular. "It's been years. He's been here for over a year."
You should be used to this by now, something deep inside reprimanded him. You should be over this by now.
Such a myth—that time could heal all wounds. It couldn't. Could it lessen them? Sometimes. Could it erase them? Never. Scars remained. Aching memories, echoes of pain, they were always there buried under the surface. Only oblivion could erase those wounds. The void. And until that end, any given day a thousand thoughts would rip off the invisible scabs of bloody, bloodless wounds.
For over a year and a half, Olivier Flament had been a Team Rainbow operator. A privilege, an honour. And Gustave couldn't help but wonder if without that choice—without those actions in Nigeria that killed people so dear to him and ended so many other valuable lives—would that still be the case? Sealing the fate of medics and nurses in the throes of an epidemic had gotten him employed with an elite international counterterrorist unit, and it had placed Olivier directly into a position where he could do it again. Where one choice could leave someone else dead. Who will be the next victim of Olivier Flament's choices?
His Rainbow colleagues?
His other GIGN friends?
His love?
"Sometimes I look at him, and all I see are their faces," he whispered, unsure of where his voice had returned from. It was broken and cracking on syllables beyond all control. "I don't know. I know he will never regret it."
"He might—"
"He won't," Gustave blurted, head shooting up and eyes narrowed at Taina for reasons he couldn't explain.
Brows furrowed and face blank, Taina's lips shifted, jaw adjusting. Biting the inside of her cheek. A nervous tick he had observed from her on more than one occasion. Her chest rose, lungs inflating with air, and then she huffed out a discontented sigh, shoulders slumping the entire time. The wind whisked dark locks across her face. Perfect for avoiding his stare. Taina was far from the optimist—especially out of the two of them—but maybe it was less a matter of her giving Lion the benefit of the doubt and more giving him some kind of hope to cling on to.
At that thought, Gustave shook his head again.
I don't need it.
Hacking a cough to clear his throat, he wiped the scowl from his face and forced a meek smile instead. "And I know I'll never forgive him, and perhaps that's simply the way things will always remain. Fights and all. No matter how many joint sessions Harry makes us have."
His lids sealed shut once more. Their surroundings, completely blacked out until the hot burning sensation subsided and the last surge of tears had concluded. One deep breath in, and his head shot up and his eyes slipped open again. The wind heaved and tugged on the trees in the distance. Their greenish yellow-touched leaves shuddered upon every gust. Dark tufts of clouds swirled through the atmosphere, ominous and a sickly grey. He forced his mind to focus once more on the patter-patter of rain rather than the savage thumping of blood crashing through his veins. Pulverizing him with every beat.
Thump. Failure.
Thump. Death.
Thump. Hatred.
Thump.
Taina's arm stretched out, bridging the remaining distance between them, and her cold fingers slipped around his hand. Clasping onto him. Holding onto his hand, she flashed a weak little half-smile. An expression of sympathy more than anything else.
Gustave peered down at his hand in hers. Her skin was frigid; even through his glove, he could feel it. Her bronze skin appeared pallid in the silvery light. Even more so against the snow white latex coating his digits, and her ink black nails clashed with the occasional streak of red. His glance wandered. Goosebumps still infiltrating her flesh and running up the length of bare her arm. So much exposed skin—her shoulders, her abdomen, her chest. Face to face, he noticed her jaw was starting to tremble on occasion. Teeth chattering.
"You're freezing," he whispered. His thumb scrubbed back and forth along the back of her hand before letting go. "We should get you inside."
Her head bobbed—a feeble nod. Still, she twisted around and started making her way to the side door of the building both of them had exited through. Shoes softly crunching against dirt and pebbles, they walked. As Taina guided the way, Gustave slipped his arms out from the white lab coat still clinging to him and draped it over her shoulders. She uttered nothing, but after one stalling moment, he saw the white fabric tighten around her body; it conformed to every angle and curve. Even though he couldn't see, he could easily picture her—wrapping herself in the garment the same way she would envelope herself in their bedsheets during early mornings when the window had been left ajar.
The strumming of rain and whistling of wind subsided with each step until the thick metal door slammed into place behind him.
And then there was nothing.
No rain.
No wind.
Just their shoes clacking against the linoleum floor, his accelerated pulse, and staggered breaths. Detached, the sway of her braid as she walked ahead hypnotized him. Dancing between her shoulder blades, licking at the skin of her back. It all hazed time into an indecipherable mess, and at some point, he broke from the reverie and found himself standing in the centre of medical bay. Taina loitered at the door, neither entering or exiting—hesitating.
Gustave wandered back over to his desk where the silver and black stool had been left dislodged and the stack of papers untouched. He sank down into the seat, propped both elbows up on the desk, and smothered his face in his hands. Every gloved digit, still frigid from the elements outside and reeking of the engrained odor of chemicals and powder. His palm made the scrapes on his face pulsate through the flesh and deep under the skin. Aching. Behind him, he heard the door shut. A subsequent click followed suit—the lock securing in place. Taina then trudged forward slowly, taking time to shed the lab coat hanging from her figure, nudging it off either broad shoulder and folding it over one arm. Inching forward, ever on the move, she only came to a standstill at his side. But the universe had fallen away from him—time, sensation, her presence, and even his own. He never noticed how close she was standing until she placed a hand on his back.
His head jolted up, but even when his hands fell away, he couldn't see. Tears muddied all vision. He bit down on the inside of his lips, clamping them together—desperate to stop himself from trembling again.
But he was breaking.
He could feel it.
His insides, his gut, ripping apart. Heart, eviscerated by his own guilt and shame-ridden thoughts until everything fell to pieces. All efforts to hold himself together became demolished when he craned his neck up and gazed at Taina.
And there he found furrowed brows. Woeful lips pressed into a line. Cheeks touched by crimson. Beautiful, familiar eyes sparked with gold and flecks of green which fought back tears of her own.
He found solace, love.
Sweet relief.
A thick sob ripped from the back of his throat. Raw and visceral, and he collapsed to the side, body crumbling into her. Face buried into her waist, he wept. He felt her strong arms slip around him. Around his back, fingers digging into his back as she held him tighter, giving him support and keeping him from crashing to the floor. Her other hand slipped through the hairs at the back of his head and cradled him closer. Scalding hot tears glided down his face; they smeared over her bare abdomen and the hem of her sports bra.
Gustave's voice dwindled into nothing but a whimper, and the words barely dribbled past his lips. "I still miss them."
"I know," Taina whispered, and her embrace tightened.
His skin stung—sore from the salt. From the beating. A savage headache reverberated between his skull and devoured his warring thoughts. Thoughts that told him he was right, that his rancour and sorrow were justified. Thoughts that told him to be reasonable: to get over it, move on. To not let the events of Nigeria and it's every gracious consequence endlessly maul his work and career into ruin.
"It's okay to miss them, Gustave."
Eyes shut, he nodded against her. Every inhale and every exhale she made consumed him; he felt her breaths. Heard them. Experienced them, rising and falling with Taina's chest until she moved.
Both arms unravelled from around him, and she slunk down to one knee. But her hands never strayed from him—gripping his waist to steady herself as she kneeled, meandering up his chest, over his heart. Her palms glided along his uniform and smoothed out the wrinkles in the navy polyester until she captured his face in her hands. Cool fingertips extinguished the flames blazing in his flesh. Her thumb stroked line across his cheek, avoiding the scrape, but his tender skin still ached. Warm ripples, radiating from the inflamed and aggravated wound.
He peered down at her. Taina's eyes welled with an affection and sympathy witnessed so rarely by others, and catching fragments of his own reflection in them, something akin to a smile tugged at his lips.
"I know there's nothing I can say to make it better," she said. With a sigh, she shook her head. "Even if there was, God knows I wouldn't be able to figure it out but—"
"You don't need to say anything."
Gustave swivelled in his seat in order to fully face her. His fingers hooped around her wrists, and he nudged her hands away, a feeble gesture which made way for him to sink down closer and bundle her up in his arms. The weak pain in his knuckles from repeated impact became stifled. His heart, finally—slowly—became less panicked. Taina eased into a stand. Their limbs never untangled though, indulging in each other's embrace. Arms locked around her waist now instead, he nuzzled his head upon her chest. There he became swept away by the bellowing percussion her heart sang to him.
"Being here is enough," he whispered. "More than enough."
He felt Taina's fingers rustle through his hair. Back and forth, combing through the roots. A comfort, and a warmth invaded his cheeks alongside a shy smile which tugged on his lips.
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"I should have just told you," he uttered after heaving a sigh, words dancing along her collarbone. "Long ago."
Her chest, pillowing his head, vibrated as she hummed in contemplation. "It's not easy. Believe me, I get it."
"I think I hoped it would be something I didn't have to..."
"Confess?" she said, completing his sentence while nodding sympathetically.
"Confide," he corrected.
His head drifted up, rising off her. A rapid motion, sparking a throbbing, dizzying head rush that could have easily left him nauseous were it not for her touch anchoring him to reality and the sight of her face conquering the muddied and fraying peripherals of his vision. At that one word, Taina beamed back down at him. She allowed her hand to drift, and her middle finger tenderly flicked away a small tuft of hair flopping over his forehead.
"Are you going to be okay?"
He nodded. "I'll get myself patched up and get back to work."
"Excellent," she said, "because I have no business playing nurse."
Gustave's hand wafted into the air and curled around hers. Seizing it, taking hold. His tongue gazed his lower lip—testing for any traces of fresh blood. The razor sharp, bitter taste of copper: shockingly absent. Only then did his head stoop down and settle his inflamed lips faintly against the back of her hand near her wrist. The skin, still cool. Like fresh silk caressing him, kissing him back.
"You'd be a great nurse."
"I one thousand percent would not."
Peering up at her, he chuckled. "You head back to the gym. Hopefully everything's calmed down in there now."
Her hazel eyes rolled at that, almost as if she hoped that weren't the case. Like it would be an excuse to pick up where he had left off. Though he hardly cared, it would be hard not to feel at least some ounce of sympathy for any man or woman who found themselves at the mercy of Taina and her wrath. Though the learning curve was steep, and he had gleaned a wealth of knowledge about her—the true her—over time, one thing had made itself blatantly obvious from the moment she returned back to base from Bolivia: do not fuck with the people Taina Pereira loves. Part of him was certain it was only a matter of some recovery time before the off-handed offers to beat the life out of Olivier would become routine. And he smiled awaiting that moment.
Taina snaked her arms around him one final time and drowned him in a loving embrace. "Thank you for telling me," she whispered against his forehead.
"Thank you for listening."
Breathing her in, ridding his lungs of the toxic fumes he had inhaled before, his eyes fluttered shut. A pleasant blackness—the void. Nothing but the rain, the musical cadence of her voice, and the percussive drumming of her heart. Soothed, he nodded at nothing. Je t'aime, he thought, as if she could hear those thoughts. Like they were an SOS broadcasted over some radio signal for her ears only that would grant him deliverance each and every time.