The cell is very still, without Simon in it.
They knew that would be the case. It's not like there's any point in denial, after all, not when they watched the death sentence being carried out themselves. Denial is a form of coping, a way to run from emotions too painful to bear, and it's been a long, long time since they felt anything at all.
So they lack the words to describe exactly what the sensation of standing in Simon's old cell is. It's not cold, exactly; cold they know about, cold they understand. It's more like an echo, hearing something that isn't there when they turn towards it or a touch felt just on verge of sleep and waking. There's no one there, they know there's no one there; Bobby Fulbright's face has the advantage of associated emotions that lead everyone around them to assume that the Detective must be grieving for the failure of his redemption of Simon Blackquill. And no one wants to be around pain. It's as if others think emotions are contagious and want to avoid catching the epidemic by means of quarantine.
It's helpful, at least, and they are very good at taking advantage of incidental benefits. It's slightly easier to think when they can set the mask of assumed emotions aside, let the shiver of tears fade into cold distance while a dead man's voice whispers from the corners of the room. Taka is gone, freed this morning, but Simon left his extra jacket folded over the chair, a collection of books against a shelf, a bed he took the time to make neatly before he left for the last time. They imagine there's heat still lingering in the dark sleeve, enough to feel through Bobby Fulbright's white gloves when they touch the fabric, an afterimage lurking in the small mirror hanging in the corner if they don't face it full-on. Simon is everywhere here, seven years of bitterness and revenge and life carved into the walls and written in the worn covers of the books and the faint scratches in the table. He's more present than they are, even in death his existence lingers in the signs of humanity they have been careful to excise from every aspect of their actions.
Maybe emotions are contagious after all. The space is hot, hotter than it should be, hotter than it has ever felt even when it was filled with the faint sounds of Simon's mouth under theirs, Simon's skin pouring warmth into their borrowed fingerprints, Simon's breathing dragging hard with the sound of half-repressed pleasure. They can remember that, can remember him better than their own history; it's easy to fit into the shadow of nostalgia hanging over the bed, to narrow shoulders to the width of Simon's and angle their knees out to match the position he tended to prefer. When they angle a hand against the bed to press against it's as separate from their body as if it were cut off, moving without any conscious thought as they crawl into the abandoned past-tense of Simon Blackquill's existence. Everything shudders into memory; the heat flushing their skin is Simon's, not theirs, the whimpering moans in their ears are in Simon's voice, and laid over it all is the knowledge of victory, the sure certainty that this perfect living creature will be, has been crushed beneath the weight of their actions, destroyed by something that barely exists at all. The power of that flushes their thoughts warm as much as Simon's memory burns their skin, physical pleasure stolen from the other's body while the mental satisfaction of destruction beats out a crescendo in their thoughts.
There's no one in earshot to hear when a dead man's voice whimpers with pleasure, when a borrowed body shudders with borrowed satisfaction. And there's no one to see when they sit up and turn sideways to the mirror to see Simon Blackquill's eyes staring out from the cover of a detective's mask.
"Simon," a voice says. The reflection's mouth moves in an echo of the words, the lips tighten in a smile as relieved as it is pleased. "Simon, why are you crying?"