Due to obvious name fluctuations Tailgate has been named Temperance Gate. I figured it would be super weird to find someone named Tailgate outside of American Football Country. Other changed names will be posted with their arrival. Please enjoy.

The little girl who had fallen into a coma unexpectedly all those years ago was not so different from the young woman lying on the permanent resident bed in what the nurses referred to as the Stiffs Ward. Her snowy white hair and pallor skin reminded those unfamiliar to her face of a blanket of snow and lifeless stillness of a winter's morning. Her parents, long too grief-stricken to visit their daughter in the hospital, knew she was the very opposite of her looks. She was light and life personified, her crystalline blue eyes shimmering bright against her soft moonlight pale face.

However, now her twentieth birthday, she was just a Snow White cursed in an eternal slumber thanks to an unknown poison. Nurses routinely checked her health figures, no longer lingering to notice her unique beauty. She'd become a faded ghost living in a hospital bed. Even so, abnormalities can sometimes arise in the best of ways.

Looking to get away from the constant chatter of the desk nurses Doctor Robert T. Ratchet had taken a seat on the opposite side of the girl's private room, watching as the record breaking June snow caked the hospital's internal square garden. He smiled to himself as he raked a hand through his rich red hair. He could die right then knowing he'd seen enough oddities for a lifetime. Or perhaps not.

Across the room a faint rustling came from the bed. Ratchet's eyes widened as he turned his head, nearly dropping his coffee. The snowy girl was shakily leaning up off her bed, eyes blearily blinking at the dull world around her. She winced when she felt her arm bend against the IV that had been in her arm since she was nine. She licked her lips, muscles in desperate need of a workout. She felt like she'd taken a nap so long that her body felt just as exhausted when she passed out. However, she realized after her blue eyes focused that she was, in fact, not in her bedroom.

"Wh-what?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Ratchet sad, jumping up and setting the coffee down. He had no idea what had woken the girl, if she was sick, if this was a temporary reprieve from her slumber, or if he needed to call a shock counselor. Was Rung still in the building? Christ. "Um… do you know where you are?"

"What? What? Oh… um…" She trailed off, coughing to clear her throat. "M-my voice… is that my voice?"

"Um… shit…"

When Rung had heard the news he nearly hurdled over his desk with the young woman's file in glee. He hadn't gotten the chance to help someone adjust over an eleven year gap before and it was always on his career check list. Ratchet was shaking as he tried to explain, furiously sipping on black coffee and painting a picture with words and dramatic hand motions.

"Her parents stopped visiting her when she turned fifteen. Christ, I'm not even sure why they kept paying for life support, but… Rung, she fell under when she was nine. She's hit puberty, grown, stopped, and become a woman in her sleep. Eleven years have passed and the first thing she worries about is that her voice sounds different!" He explains, rubbing his temples as he trashes the empty cup.

Rung nodded and smiled, the girl's folder tucked beneath his arm. He smoothed his ginger and peppery hair flat against his head from the side, straightening his jacket as Ratchet opened the door. However, there was a surprising lack of residency in the room that the girl had slept in for over a decade.

"Now, forgive me if this seems… blunt. But don't recently revived coma patients stay in their beds?"

Ratchet was already way ahead of his friend, running to the nurse's center desk to roar like the highly caffeinated beast he was. But that still left the question, where was she?

Out in the hospital courtyard a beautiful statue of the ever patient Holy Mother stood with her stone arms outstretched and welcoming, head bowed and veiled around her soft, understanding expression. The old war-hardened soldier stared up at her face and sighed. He recited The Lord's Prayer in his head as he sipped on the coffee cup, licking his lips clean. The snow was cool and chilly against his greyish, yet naturally tanned skin. It was strange, such a heavy snow in late June. What omen did that forecast?

The bitter man thought about the last time something strange beyond comprehension had happened. It was right before he was going to leave for the Pilot's Academy for the World War. He'd had no family to begin with and was a perfect picture of health despite his naturally mature and sullen expression. His face, carved by high cheekbones and deep set eyes, was so menacing that his fellow pilots said he could take down the armies with his frown.

Nevertheless, he had mastered flying better than anyone to come before him. Even his teachers found it abnormal how comfortable he was around planes of any shape and size. He could fly them like there was air in his veins, they'd claimed. Each time he got behind the wheel of a jet his heart was flooded with a sense of confidence and comfort that seldom filled him on the ground. The sky just felt right.

When it came time to paint each of the pilot's unique insignias on the sides of their planes all of his fellow pilots demanded he paint his training camp nickname Cyclonus on the side. "You're a damn storm up there. A grade A cyclone," they'd nod in agreement. And so the name stuck. The moniker the orphanage had given him long ago had blurred with time, only that name remaining. Luckily he never had to explain this lengthy story because his face was not a friendly one.

And yet, toddling through the thickening snow in bare feet, clinging to a rolling IV pole with shaking legs, was a young woman who didn't seem at all scared of him as she approached. Finally, unsticking the pole from some unseen tile spaces under the snow, she smiled widely at the man.

"M-mind if I sit?" She stammered, face tipped in pink from the cold swirling in the air. Cyclonus returned to staring at the statue and sipping his drink, not entirely saying no. The girl took this as an apathetic 'I won't stop you if you want to sit down' sort of answer. "G-gosh, it's cold. Winter came really fast this year, huh?" She trembled, entire body vibrating to keep warm. The older man cocked a brow sharply, wondering if it was a joke. "S-so are you here to visit s-someone? O-or are you a d-doctor?"

"What's it to you?" He asked bitterly, taking another long sip before swiping his thin lips clean expertly.

"Ah… w-well nothing I suppose. Just trying to make small talk."

"You have no shoes, you're wearing a hospital gown and a thin sweater you're trying to pretend still fits, and you're in such a state of shock you probably don't feel the cold," he noted, scanning the girl top to bottom. He sighed and sat his cup down on the ground. He slid his thick wool pea coat off his angular shoulders and gently rested it around the ghostly girl's shoulders. "What year is it?"

"Two thousand and three?" She asked, pulling the smoky smelling jacket around her tightly. This, however, made the old pilot's eyes nearly bulge. His deep red eyes watched the confused look on the girl's face, realizing what the situation was.

"Two thousand and three… how old are you?"

"Nine."

Cyclonus sucked on his lips as he looked around. No one was coming into the garden because of the cold, even if she was being searched for, and the snow was only turning into a blizzard by the second. He stood, leaving the cup on the ground and offering his hands. "What?"

"Your feet are turning blue. You need to be carried inside before you get frostbite and hypothermia," he said, growing more impatient by the second. She nodded and let the tall man lift her into his arms. He certainly was an odd man, but she could slowly feel a painful numbness in her feet. He was right, whatever he said.

As they walked inside the chapel doors towards the elevators, the girl kept talking, mind putting some things together.

"It's not two thousand and three, is it?" She asked flatly, earning an equally deadpan response.

"No."

After getting lost in the pediatric ward and being redirected by a nurse on watch for the girl to the 'Stiffs' ward Cyclonus and the tiny girl rounded the corner towards the hall near her room. Dr. Ratchet, eyes once more nearly popping from his skull, stormed up to the man much taller than he was.

"Who the hell are you and what did you do with her?" He snapped, Rung not far behind. "Do you have any idea what could have happened by taking a coma patient? Are you even allowed here?" Rung, knowing Cyclonus, placed a hand on his fellow medical friend's shoulder.

"It's alright, Ratchet. Cyclonus wouldn't hurt her. Now," he said, gently nudging Ratchet aside to face the girl. "Ms. Gate, my name is Dr. Rung. Do you know where you are?"

The entire hospital could have heard the girl's scream when she heard she'd been in a coma for eleven years. She was twenty years old, many feet taller than when she'd fallen asleep, hence the wobbly footing, and the worst part was that it didn't seem her parents were coming. Rung had explained that due to the lengthy amount of time that she was asleep her guardians had kept her alive and showed love only by such, but that it was simply a natural reaction to grief. The girl, Temperance Gate, did not take this as simply as the doctor had explained.

"I want to go home."

"I can have your parents contacted and they can help you-," he began only cut off by another firm 'I want to go home'.

Thus, properly fitted with a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from the girl shop, Temperance went to search for that dark, tall man. She felt her feet tremble with each step, still adjusting to use and height, but she was confident enough. If she got stuck perhaps another dark, mysterious man would carry her back to her room.

The world had become so curious in the past eleven years. Everything seemed so shiny and new in the future, clean and designed in a way that was simpler and yet more beautiful. Nurses smiled and her beaming face, the young woman's optimism absolutely infectious. People were noticing her radiant, rare beauty once more.

Sure enough, sitting back on the bench and sighing at a cup of coffee sat the tall, dark man. He sipped it bitterly and crossed his legs at the thigh, regal in every sense of the word. His rich purple hair, braided and resting on his shoulder, suited him perfectly even in the dull light of the now settled snow. His jacket had been replaced and was heating his lean frame once more.

Feeling gutsy she snuck up behind him, hands at the ready to pounce as she bit her lip to keep her from laughing. However, the plan fell flat.

"Back again so soon?" She let the sigh of disappointment rush out of her as she skipped around the unoccupied side of the bench and plopped down, hands between her legs to keep warm.

"I get to go home today."

"Congrats," he said flatly.

"My parents haven't visited me in five years so can I live with you?"

At this proposal he spit his drink, red misting the snow. Temperance's eyes widened, body stiffening as she stared at the crimson spatter marked sharply against the white of the blizzard. Then, slowly, she turned her eyes to the man. He was wiping his lips furiously, eyes glowing red and sharp at her. Suddenly the cold of the summer winter didn't bother the girl, it was how intensely Cyclonus was glowering at her. She opened her mouth to speak, the man grabbing her by the collar and yanking her forward. Her glassy blue eyes were bulging, heart pumping fast and hands shaking as she held them up innocently. "S-sorry I… I didn't m-mean anything offensive by it. Swear, I can wait for my subpar parents to pick me up a-and I-I… I'll tell no one, I sw-swear. Please, man, uh, sir… I just w-woke up from the longest nap anyone should e-ever have. Let me live at least through the night, huh?"

Cyclonus licked his lips and stared at the girl in his clutches. He could have torn her throat out to compensate for his shed lunch, but something about her. Maybe it was that striking pallor or her overwhelming optimism, but spilling her blood felt almost like a sin. He himself had sinned enough to stand toe to toe with Lucifer's reputation, but this girl felt absolutely off limits. Eyes dimming and shoulders relaxing he threw her back in disgust, kicking over the snow to hide the blood against the snow.

Temperance sighed with such relief that her mind felt dark and heavy, just like when she'd fallen asleep when she was little. Part of her mind screamed to stay awake, but the sight of so much blood had gotten to her. Besides, there was a man with glowing red eyes, purple hair, and cheekbones so sharp they could cut her hand if she slapped him to drive him away looming over her.

Seeing the girl falling Cyclonus dove and caught her just before she hit the ground, his own knees now soaked with icy slush as he slid her back onto the bench. He growled in frustration, thoroughly peeved by her presence. However, as he settled her back against the bench he saw that her wristband had already been marked through for checkout and her back held a small rope string gym sack full of her meager belongings. She was going with him or she was going to sit in the lobby of the huge hospital nervously awaiting the people who hadn't bothered to fluff her pillow or refill the flower vase in five years.

Another sigh of anger and Cyclonus pulled the deadweight onto his back and stood, to make his way towards the chapel door. Why did he get stuck with the one thing that actually came equipped with guilt?

I hope this is worth reading past the first chapter. Inspired by the amazing Silverdart's Fall Out fic found on AO3.