Everything ached, and he was cold, despite a heavy pile of blankets. He tried to move.
"Don't." The word was a command, issued too late.
"Rgh!" Death wasn't supposed to be painful...and he should have been dead. But if Gren was dead, how could he explain the horrible throbbing, searing through his ribcage? He dropped back, breath hitching as the rise and fall of his chest brought torture in its wake. There was no point. At this rate, death would be rescuing him in minutes. But the creeping weakness that previously threatened to sap him had, if anything, receded. Maybe he was dead, after all. But in that case…he must be in hell. Angels didn't get gut-aches. Or…did they?
Gren found that his eyes no longer resisted the urge to open, and so the lids drew back, gaze focusing blearily upward at an institutional tiled ceiling. That wasn't right… "God."
"I told you not to move."
That voice.
Just a little sluggish and dragging; its bearer eternally tired. The tone low; the words imperceptibly slurred. An alto sax, played by some unfortunate all-night bar musician in the early hours of the morning.
But of course, only Gren would appreciate the analogy. One person had that particular voice, which he recognized immediately.
"Are you an angel?" He asked the shape at his bedside, not turning his face from its scrutiny of the patterns in the ceiling tile.
"An angel, fallen from heaven." The shadow replied.
"Then I suppose…that makes you a devil." His mouth quirked, breath rattling hollowly.
"You'd know. They're your words."
"Why am I still alive…?"
"Your ship was floating outside Titan's gravitational field. You were hurt." Vicious answered, simply. To Gren-who previously spent years in the man's company-it was explanation enough. He'd been rescued-whether he liked it or not. And probably taken to Titan, though this wasn't quite the way he'd wanted.
"Why did you…come after me, Vicious? Didn't you already…have what you wanted?"
Silence reigned. To be honest, Gren had expected nothing less. "Have some…other job that…you want me…to go down for?"
"Don't talk anymore."
"Why? Afraid I'll…hit a nerve?"
"No. You're having a hard time."
"Oh." Defeated, Gren was quiet for a moment, but for the grating of his breath. Then, "Don't expect me…to thank you."
The sliding rustle of canvas drew the bedridden man from his fascination with the ceiling tile. His head turned just in time to catch the corner of Vicious' cloak, slapping against the doorframe as he exited the room.
"…Damn."
-
Don't expect me to thank you. The Red Dragon syndicate agent looked anything but professional at the moment, slumped against the wall outside Gren's hospital room. He crossed his arms tightly over a broad, sleekly-muscled chest, gaze connecting dully with the polished tile floor.
Tiles on the ceiling…tiles on the wall…tiles on the floor. What the hell is it with tile in hospitals? Vicious' eyes narrowed, venting his anger on the unfortunate linoleum. He'd dragged that ungrateful bastard out of space and saved his ass. So what if Titan only had one tiny hamlet, and an even tinier hospital? Was the Blue Crow any better?
He's ungrateful because you put him here. And not just because you brought him here.
Fuzzy-edged and thorny with cold, deadly anger, the memory emerged.
"You're in the way."
Missile cocked. Launched.
He'd only meant to put the ship out of commission…it hadn't been his intention to nearly kill Gren. Get him out of the way-that's what it was for.
The bomb in the briefcase? That was his order. He didn't like it, but for once, he wasn't a law unto himself. There was no honor among thieves. And if Gren was disappointed with his opal and decided to let it slip who'd exchanged it for Red Eye…the syndicate would've killed him anyway. Slowly.
Still, it was a coward's method of murder. One would think that Vicious, of all people, would never stoop to that level.
Not cruelty. Not power. Just…cowardice.
The stars chided him again, enclosed beneath the roof of the dingy TCH ward as he was.
Coward.
There is no honor among thieves…