A/N: Thank you to Zettel once again for pre-reading. Any foreign language mistakes I blame on Google translate.
The smell of hospitals in winter
And the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters
But no pearls
All at once you look across a crowded room
To see the way that light attaches to a girl
"A Long December"
Counting Crows
December 3, 2012
Montreux, Switzerland
Woozy, still covered in her patient's blood, Ciel staggered against the man called Rome. He caught her elbow, then gently lowered her into the armchair. Her vision phased in and out, light to dark. In a daze, she watched Rome check the bandage affixed to the crook of her elbow. She followed his gaze. The balled gauze under the medical tape was still white. She wasn't bleeding badly, though her companion seemed worried she might start.
"Are you alright, Doctor?" Rome asked her.
She leaned her head against the fabric cushion, closing her eyes as the room spun. "It was…too soon…to give more blood." Her voice shook. "But…what choice did I have?"
Rome shook his head gently. "I admire your dedication, Doctor, but you are not a blood bank. You cannot single-handedly replace the spilled blood of every man, woman, and child in Europe."
Oh, if I only could! She pushed the thought aside.
"I am…blessed with O negative blood. I can replace…more than anyone else, in this situation."
She remained sitting, her eyes closed. She heard Rome moving, apparently going to her kitchen and fetching her a glass of juice. He touched her hand, alerting her to his proximity. Concerned eyes and a kind smile greeted her as he placed the glass in her hand. He waited, ready to hold it to her lips if her hand was unsteady. She sipped slowly. He stood back cautiously.
Her equilibrium was slowly returning. She was weak, but no longer dizzy or in danger of fainting. Her patient was sedated, so thankfully she had time to rest and regain her strength.
"I can't thank you enough for staying and helping me. You must be exhausted too." Ciel looked behind Rome, seeing the morning light behind the shade. It had taken all night to stabilize the man, to keep him from bleeding to death from his gunshot wound.
Her patient was lucky to be alive. The bullet had entered his side, narrowly missing organs and arteries. She had been able to extract the bullet, a feat she had triumphed about. Before she had made any attempt to assist, she had suggested hospital to Rome, fearing the man was hurt too badly for her help. Ciel's ability to transfuse him with her blood here in her practice had saved him.
Rome had sworn the hospital was too dangerous, not advisable. His tone had worried her, but she knew if Rome was part of the Halmstad Network, he knew better than to bring a hardened criminal to her for treatment. She awaited his explanation.
As if remembering what he owed her, Rome replied. "I couldn't just leave him here. Nor could I leave you with no one to help you." He sounded… obligated. Odd, if Rome didn't know him.
"But you have no idea who he is?"
Rome sighed, pursing his lips. "He used a code, an old code, that I used in the past with someone to whom I owe my life, and the lives of my family. That person has asked for my help only three times in ten years. This man would not have used it if he did not know her. She would not have given it to him unless she trusted him. She trusted no one, for good reason."
"But she trusted you?" Ciel said with a sly smile.
His eyes looked sad. "She defied her orders because she knew I was innocent. She risked herself to spare me. And then she saved my family. I owed her an enormous debt. When she came back to me for help the first time, her request wasn't even about herself. She was then risking her life for an innocent child. Actions speak when words fail, Doctor."
Ciel nodded tiredly, assured by his words. She felt more at ease.
"I have no right to ask it of you, since you've taken on great risk doing this, but…my…courier has been out of contact now for an entire week. I…"
Rome looked worried. "It's worse than you know, Doctor. Halmstad himself has been silent. For just as long. Anxiety is high."
Halmstad as well? Could it be connected? David was looking for Marseille. Would he have made the effort to contact Halmstad directly? Ciel had always believed David and Hammersmith were close, friends and not just associates, despite their age difference.
Her thoughts went to a dark place before she forced herself to stop.
"He left here a week ago in search of Marseille." Ciel was always the last link in the chain, the end of the line when operatives worked together. How much the others communicated with one another, the full extent of their interactions, Ciel didn't know. Only that the other end, the very top of the line, was Hammersmith. Or Halmstad, as this man would know him.
"You seek Dresden?" he asked hesitantly.
She felt compelled to tell him more, believing just the code name might not be sufficient for a successful search. "His name is David. David Travailleur. I don't know where he was going when he left here, but the last place he saw Marseille was Zurich."
"Why does everything seem centered in Zurich?" Rome muttered to himself.
Was it a coincidence? Zurich was an international crossroads, a bustling city. Ciel knew Halmstad had other doctors in his network. The injured people she treated were sent to her because of geography. It was foolish to think that all of her patients were connected in some way.
You are not the only one who thought that. She heard the nagging whisper in the back of her mind, hushed it to silence again. Only one problem at a time.
Rome studied her, his clear green eyes scanning her face. "You care for this man?"
She was searching for the words, looking to explain the bizarreness of the situation. Was it so plainly etched on her face? She startled, feeling movement against her leg. Ciel looked down to see Blanche rubbing herself against her leg. Was David ever coming back…or was the cat hers to care for forever?
Ciel's eyes stung and she blinked back tears. "He is a friend." There were no words beyond that; even if she weren't making a valiant effort to deny them, she could not describe the emotions tumbling inside her.
Rome nodded, although Ciel thought she saw doubt on his face, as if he didn't take her at her word. "I will do that for you. And for him. It could take some time, but I will stay in touch. You have my word."
"Thank you," she smiled. It was the best he could do, she understood. Right now, he was all she had. He departed with a silent wave.
Exhausted from both her voluntary blood-loss and lack of sleep, she rested in her armchair, until the morning sun turned to pale twilight.
She woke to the sound of screaming.
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Ciel jumped from her chair, momentarily disoriented, stumbling awkwardly towards the back room. The anguished cries of her patient were joined by banging, thudding, and the sound of multiple glass and metal objects crashing to the floor simultaneously.
She swung herself into the doorway of the room in time to see her patient flailing, the bedside table and the contents on the top now crashed and scattered on the floor.
"No, no, no," Ciel said in a rush, moving carefully through the mess on the floor to reach the side of the bed. He was going to tear his stitches, she thought. She reached for his arms, hoping to steady him. His elbow collided with her face, sending her flying backwards across the foot of the bed. Dazed, her cheek stinging, she moved forward again.
She reached from behind, wrapping her arms around his torso. In his shirtless state, she could feel the thick coating of sweat on his body. His skin felt unnaturally warm against her arms. He was muttering, in what sounded like American English, but it was gibberish, a string of words that together made no sense. Fever. A postoperative infection, she thought.
She had treated him with antibiotics immediately after surgery, before he had any symptoms of infection. He needed more than the preventative treatment.
Even in his weakened state, he was strong, fighting her, delirious and combative. In English, she shouted over him. "You're safe! Please, you will injure yourself further. Relax, please, relax."
He didn't seem to hear her, or understand her words. He continued to scream, raging, until after a time, his screaming inexplicably turned to tears, agonized sobbing that seemed to be coming from the depth of his soul. Ciel knew how unbearable sorrow, expressed in hopeless desperation, sounded. Delirium or not, he was in excruciating emotional pain.
Ciel kept her grip on him firm, unable to release him as he sobbed in her arms, his head bowed forward as she stayed behind him. In between heavy, breathless weeping, Ciel thought she could make out a word, a name, repeated over and over. Sarah.
She lost all sense of time as he wept, screaming in emotional agony. Eventually, the physical pain in his side overwhelmed him. He gasped, bending at his waist, curling on his side away from her arms. His moaning changed pitch, emotional pain twisting into physical pain.
Hours had passed while she slept after she had sedated him. He needed more pain medication and more antibiotics. She rushed to the cabinet where she stored her medication, quickly filling both vials and screwing on the needles while he moaned in agony, a distressing backdrop for her thoughts. He flinched when she injected him, but after that he laid still.
She checked the bandages, relieved that he hadn't started bleeding again, and resigned herself to sit vigil. She filled a basin with cool water and, using a washcloth, gently sponged his forehead while he tossed fitfully. Still unrefreshed, she dozed again when he slept, cramped uncomfortably in the wooden chair beside the bed.
Her dreams were filled with pictures, her imaginings of the woman—Sarah—whose name he continued to call in his sleep.
December 4, 2012
Montreux, Switzerland
The morning light shining on her face woke her. Both legs and one arm were numb and her back ached from the poor sleeping posture. She shifted, stretching to get her blood flowing again.
Her eyes settled on the sleeping form of her patient. Last evening, her attention had been focused on his injuries, and the darkness had shrouded him in mystery. In the morning light, she felt she was looking at him for the first time.
He laid on his back with the blanket pulled up to cover his chest. His complexion had improved from cadaver gray to his natural pale olive. Dense, dark brown curls were flattened against his forehead. He was no longer sweating, the fever thankfully broken overnight.
Her eyes lingered on the strong lines of his jaw and the gentle slope of his nose. He looked to be about her age, around 30. Dreamily, she was unaware that she was staring until she admitted to herself how handsome he was.
She was still staring at him when he finally opened his dusty hazel eyes and fixed his gaze on her face.
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Pain pulled Chuck from lavender-scented dreams to wakefulness. The room was unfamiliar and his memory of how he'd ended up here was absent.
He felt surrounded by Sarah, the way she smelled. Her perfume. Every part of him ached for her.
He caught his breath when he realized he wasn't alone. A young woman with blue-black hair and deep brown eyes sat beside his bed. Her eyes shone with sympathy.
He saw a red bruise on her cheek…and disconnected flashes of memory returned.
"I…hit you…didn't I?" His voice was thick and scratchy. He felt a twinge of dismay, guilt for causing her harm. "I'm…sorry," he breathed.
"An accident. It's alright." She smiled gently.
Her accent sounded French. France? No, Zurich. I was in Zurich. Swiss German.
After a pause, he asked, "Where am I?"
"Montreux. Switzerland. French Switzerland. On Lake Geneva."
Lake Geneva? Two hours from Zurich. How…?
He thought of Parsons, the train, the truth serum, the fight and the gunshot…
He felt the pain in his side, the pull of the stitches in place to repair the damage.
"Is this…the hospital?" He looked around the cramped, cluttered room, noticing the peculiar anatomic diagrams of a cat and a dog.
"I'm a veterinarian," she said softly.
"O…kay," he sighed, confused.
"I'm Dr. Grisel. You can call me Ciel. But more importantly, who are you?"
Chuck sensed the sharp caution in her tone.
He was surprisingly breathless from just the few words he'd spoken. It seemed a lengthy conversation was necessary, but he had no strength for it. He made a split decision to tell the truth. In the end, what difference did it make? "My name…is Charles Bartowski."
"What is the last thing you remember, Mr. Bartowski?"
"You…can call me…Chuck. You're…Ciel, right?"
Chuck watched her brows furrow. "You're lucky to be alive…Chuck." She said his name oddly, unused to the American nickname. "Please, do not overexert yourself."
"Being…shot." His voice cracked. "In Zurich." At her puzzled face, he added, "The last thing…I remember."
"What were you doing in Zurich?"
"I was…chasing someone. I needed help…in Zurich. Things…went bad."
What he had said so far corroborated Rome's explanation. "The man you…asked for help…he brought you to me." Chuck's face contorted in confusion. "He said he followed you. He brought you here, to me, and saved your life."
Chuck closed his eyes as a wave of pain washed over him. "I knew…he was a good man."
"He said he helped you…because of the woman, your…mutual acquaintance. He trusted her, so he trusted you."
Chuck kept his eyes closed, crushing them tighter as the anguish mixed with the physical pain. Lavender.
"Was that Sarah?" Ciel asked, holding her breath as she waited for the reply.
His eyes opened wide as he turned his head in surprise. The doctor's eyes filled with tears.
"You were delirious from a high fever. You were…inconsolable, screaming for her all night. But…I could just tell…you were calling for someone you knew would never come."
Chuck closed his eyes as the tears streamed down his temples. The long rage had cooled to a frozen sadness, and he no longer had any strength to suppress it. It gripped him like a heavy frost. "Yes. Sarah. She's dead. She…was my wife."
He felt her hand on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry."
"I'm…looking for the man who killed her. The man who shot me…worked for him." The man I killed.
Ciel gasped, reeling back in her chair at his words. "Nicholas Quinn…killed your wife?"
Chuck's mouth gaped open. "How do you know who he is?"
Chuck watched her cover her mouth with a trembling hand as her tears fell. "He was responsible for the deaths of my husband and my two-year old daughter."
December 4, 2012
Bern, Switzerland
Jennifer poked the long lit match down to the charred wick near the bottom of the white candle, satisfied when she felt the flame ignite the wick. The scent of phosphorus stung in her nostrils as she pulled the match away and gently pursed her lips to blow it out.
Third candle from the left on the top row. That was the signal. She turned, adjusting the scarf to cover her hair, and walked to sit in the tenth pew, as she had been instructed.
Before she left Ciel's home, the kind doctor had ensured Jennifer had a place to start in the seemingly impossible search for her missing infant. Ciel had been reluctant to condone the departure, considering her courier hadn't spoken with her in almost a week. Jennifer had felt badly about leaving Ciel alone, but the doctor had given her the name of the man who ran a local tavern, a man named Otto Laurent.
Ciel hadn't explicitly explained, but Jennifer knew, just like the woman called Marseille, the one who had contacted David, Otto was part of the same underground network. She had gone first in search of Otto, trepidacious because David had started with the same man and had now disappeared.
It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. The only thing that mattered was finding her daughter.
The picture of the baby's face, so clear and crisp in a sea of otherwise hazy faces and voices, was burned in her memory. Her whole body ached, empty and ringing hollowly for her loss.
You don't remember the specifics, I know. But you are a skilled fighter…lethal. Trust your instincts to protect you, for your muscle memory to fill in the gaps where the facts are still lost.
Ciel's advice. The doctor had seen Jennifer's skills up close, and though Jennifer only had vague memories of why she knew what she did, there was no doubt she had a plethora of skills at her disposal. The knife tucked carefully against her thigh felt comfortable and familiar, like an appendage.
She met with Otto. He gave her a place to be, a time, a person, and instructions. So she was here this morning at the Bern Cathedral, waiting for a man named Andros Berlinger. She had followed Otto's instructions, and now she sat in the pew, waiting for Berlinger to make himself known.
"Hast du ein Gebet gesprochen?" The voice came from behind her, asking if she said a prayer.
"Für meine Tochter," Jennifer replied. The German, for my daughter, flowed without effort.
"Come with me. We will walk." Pristine English, a German accent almost imperceptible.
Jennifer followed the man down the main aisle of the cathedral, bundling herself in her coat as she faced the winter wind as they stepped through the door.
"The church is safe, but too quiet for conversation." He set his pace to walk even with her, shoulder to shoulder. "I am Andros."
"Jennifer." Ciel had briefly explained her memory loss to these people, necessary to explain how the situation came to be as it was. Anything more than the basic gist was superfluous.
"The child is approximately six weeks old, female, is that correct?"
"Yes." Originally she merely nodded, then added the shaky word to be certain he understood.
"It is…how do you say it…like finding a needle in a haystack." He smiled. "Fortunately, I have a magnet. It's still tedious, but not impossible."
Jennifer's heart skipped a beat. The man sounded hopeful.
"The Schengen Area in Europe does not require documentation to cross borders. Only on the way in…and the way out. An infant would attract attention, so papers, even falsified papers, would need to be in place. It gives us a place to start."
"But…what if she was born in Europe…in the Schengen Area?" Jennifer asked.
"We would be in trouble. But how it was explained to me…I don't think that's possible. The time delay as Otto described it to me doesn't make sense. What would make sense would be if you had been transported from the Far East to Switzerland. Korea, Vietnam, Japan…"
Japan. Hearing it made her instantly nauseous. An echo of pain, the memory of pain like an ice pick boring into her skull, assaulted her. She gripped Andros' arm to momentarily steady herself.
"Japan," Jennifer whispered. "Japan…sounds correct. At least…part of it."
"A place to start. My magnet. It narrows it down. But I must warn you, it is still a painstakingly slow process. We have so little to go on."
Her memory loss was to blame. Jennifer thought of her accumulated past as a giant fresco, obscured by layers of mud. Small portions had come into focus, crystal clear, but how they fit into the whole scene, she couldn't comprehend.
"Whatever you can do, I appreciate. I don't know if this means anything. The last person I remember talking to…in…Japan…or wherever I was…was British. It's not much better than your needle, I'm afraid, but it's all I remember."
"It will take time, my dear. I know that's the last thing you want to hear, with such a young child, separated from her mother. You must have patience."
Jennifer's eyes burned with unshed tears. Who was taking care of her? Who was raising her? Six weeks…would she even know who I am anymore? Desperation seized her anew.
"I'm going to Zurich. It's where the plane landed, where the courier met the plane to take me to Montreux. My daughter wasn't…with me…but…there's a chance someone knows something. I have to start there. I can't just wait."
"No, I understand. I do. If you must go to Zurich, I will give you an address. A man who can help you." He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and scribbled an address. He tore off the paper and handed it to her. "Please, be careful, frauline."
Frau. She thought about it, but didn't correct him. She was married. That caused an ache every bit as painful as the one she would feel when she thought of the baby. How is it possible to miss so badly someone I can't remember? She wished she had an explanation.
She gazed at the address on the paper. The words on the paper were unfamiliar, but yet she found she could picture the street where this place was. Was it real or imagined? Had she been to Zurich before? She guessed she would find out.
December 7, 2012
Montreux, Switzerland
To her surprise, when Ciel walked to the doorway of Chuck's room, she found him awake, sitting up in bed. His eyes were hooded from sleep, but he was alert. He was feeling better, she thought with an internal smile.
"Good morning," she said softly as he gave her a silent, crooked grin.
His smiles were lifeless, and it saddened her. She knew he was making an effort to be kind, genial, thankful for all she had done for him. But the agony roiling inside him, previously so fully on display in his delirium, still shone behind his eyes. She offered silent, compassionate understanding, though it troubled her to realize he now seemed to regret his life had been saved.
In only the few short days she had known him, she knew he was different from anyone else she had encountered. In fragments, he had explained what he could, about his past and the reason for his presence in Europe, in Switzerland. The story he told, even truncated as it needed to be, did not match the man she was nursing back to health. In flashes, she would see it, the unbridled rage that turned his hazel eyes dark and stormy. But as quickly as those moments would occur, they would disappear, replaced by a restrained sadness that he wore like a heavy coat. What man with a past as he had described to her could behave as he did?
Each time she would start thinking that way, she would get this feeling that there was something she had missed, something she should have deduced, but her distraction was all consuming. She had begun to despair, certain that after over a fortnight with no contact, something dreadful had happened to David.
Chuck pulled the shirt from the foot of the bed and pulled it over his head. Ciel watched him be cautious with his wounded side. Each day, the movement seemed less painful, a positive sign he was healing.
She moved to the side of the bed, lifting the hem of his shirt to examine the bandage. She had cleaned the wound last evening, and was encouraged by the fact that there was no trace of seepage or pus around the incision.
"Thank goodness, you are healing well."
"You saved my life, Ciel," he murmured.
She clicked her tongue and shook her head. "Your contact saved your life…when he followed you and decided to bring you here." She crossed her arms in unconscious defiance.
"You gave me your blood."
"I would do that for anyone," she added quickly.
He lifted his face and gazed at her. "I'm certain you would. Maybe even for a dog or a cat."
She blushed hotly, immediately uncomfortable under his scrutiny. "Human blood doesn't work for dogs or cats," she muttered, her gaze shifted to the floor.
"Why are you taking care of dogs and cats when you are obviously a skilled doctor?" His expression was open, his eyebrows raised in anticipation of her response.
"It's a long story."
"You can tell me."
Even in heartbroken anguish, he was still charming, disarming. She never spoke of her past, determined to keep the tragedy of her past from invading her thoughts. But he fascinated her, on the verge of obsession. He had a quiet desperation about him, an anxious restlessness exacerbated by his debilitation; and yet she could sense his fundamental gentleness, even when he trembled with cold rage.
She sat beside him on the bed and crossed her arms tightly across her body. "I lost my license to practice medicine in France, where we lived."
He didn't say anything, his intent gaze urging her to continue.
"My husband and my daughter were killed in what the French government called a terrorist attack. A man drove a truck into the crowd…at a parade in Paris. Felipe's parents were visiting from Barcelona. I had to work." She swallowed hard, her voice breaking on the words.
She continued in a strangled voice. "The bastard driving the truck survived and they transported him to hospital. He killed 18 men, women and children—my entire family included." She took two heaving breaths. "I made the decision to treat him last, not first, though the severity of his injuries dictated otherwise. And I made sure I told him why while I watched him bleed to death."
"I'm sorry," he repeated in a whisper. He wasn't sympathetic, but empathetic.
"I have to live with that. What I did. Even though I know if I was there again, I would still do what I did." She bit her trembling lower lip. "They told me…I wasn't supposed to be that man's judge and executioner. That I took an oath to…do no harm." A long buried rage exploded to the surface, turning her voice savage as she growled, "But…to see your child lifeless, broken…" she sobbed, still growling, "you cannot keep such an oath. He deserved to suffer for what he did. I will gladly burn in hell for that."
Chuck put an arm around her shoulders, tucking her tenderly against his chest, a comforting and friendly embrace. She rested her head against his chest, weeping until the rage cooled.
"Trust me. I completely understand," he assured her. Just like her, he had traded a part of his soul to seek his vengeance.
She helped you because she is atoning for that sin, he understood.
He had more left to destroy…and no time to atone.
December 8, 2012
Zurich, Switzerland
For the third day in a row, Jennifer saw the sign on the door of the music shop. Geschlossen, though the hours listed below the sign indicated the shop should be open at this time, on this day. She pressed her hand to the glass, shielding from the glare, peering inside. It was dark, empty.
For the third day in a row, she saw the wall of mahogany violins and her head pounded. She knew she had been here before, long ago. She knew what the backroom of the store looked like. She could see the shopkeeper–tall, white haired…only his features were blank in her mind.
Deja vu and disorientation overwhelmed her.
A baby was crying in her arms…tears were streaming from her eyes. She was younger, with long blonde hair…and the baby was older, heavy, perched on her hip…
Not my baby…my sister. What does that mean? How do I know that?
Jennifer believed the shopkeeper, a man she thought she knew, could help her. If only he would return. All she could do was keep trying.
Defeated, she turned to walk back to her hotel, only a block from the store. Halfway back, she passed a coffee shop. She could see the television mounted on the wall over the counter. They were watching the news, she noted. Drawn to the pictures on the screen, she opened the door and entered, anxious to hear what the reporter was saying.
She understood German effortlessly. They were still searching for the vehicle in the footage, the reporter said. The camera froze on the license plate of the car. But the entire scene held her transfixed. It was security footage. Blurred for a general audience, Jennifer watched the film as a man stepped from the sidewalk and was struck, full speed, by the vehicle.
Even on the fuzzy camera footage, Jennifer recognized the victim. He was David, Ciel's courier.
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Jennifer waited at the nurse's station. She knew how to blend in, to not attract attention to herself. That was accomplished by appearing confident, acting like she knew where she was going, with a clearly defined purpose. Only one nurse sat behind the counter. The Med-Surg floor where Sarah was investigating was busy. Jennifer awaited a patient page that would leave the station vacant.
She didn't have to wait long. The nurse hurried past her and disappeared down the corridor. Looking both ways to ensure she was alone, Jennifer rushed behind the counter and accessed the computer. The nurse's haste meant she left her workstation open, unguarded by password. She typed in David's first name, all she knew. How many Davids were admitted?
A lot, she thought with dismay as the long list scrolled down. She narrowed it down by age. The list was shortened to only ten. Only one was in the ICU. David Travailleur. Jennifer scanned his information, his diagnosis. It was him, it had to be! She made her way up the elevator to the fourth floor, the ICU.
They would only allow family to see him, Jennifer thought. She would have to sneak into his room, a difficult task for a patient that needed intensive care. Jennifer's presence on the floor would be questioned. Would she have to prove she was related to him? Could she bargain with the nurse?
David was French, she recalled. If she was a close friend or relative, she would speak French. She approached the nurse's station.
"Excusez-moi, mais je cherche la chambre de David Travailleur?"
"Êtes-vous de la famille, mademoiselle?"
Time to bargain. "Il n'a pas de famille. Mais je suis un ami cher. S'il te plaît."
"Je pourrais avoir des ennuis." The nurse was worried about breaking protocol.
"Il pourrait mourir. Il n'a personne." Unfortunately, that was too close to the truth, how serious his condition was. He could die alone in the hospital.
"Chambre 117. Seulement cinq minutes, mademoiselle."
The first door down the nearest corridor.
Jennifer recognized him the moment she entered the room, though a mask was strapped over his mouth. He had no obvious signs of head injury, not even a scar on his pale face. Both legs were casted, elevated in a hammock. She knew he had been struck by a vehicle moving at high speed. She found the clipboard at the foot of the bed, quickly scanning the doctor's notes.
Both legs and pelvis broken. Spleen removed after internal bleeding. High risk of pulmonary embolism.
She had to get in touch with Ciel, as soon as possible. Her heart clenched, knowing how traumatized the young woman would be by how badly he was hurt. How awful she would feel if he died and she never saw him again.
As she continued to regard his form, the aching in her chest only worsened. Jennifer could barely breathe.
She was in the jungle…desperate…then devastated, fearing she had lost him…
Chuck.
The name was the epicenter of an earthquake that shook her body. No face, only a fuzzy outline. But Chuck…Chuck was her husband. And at some point in the past, she had feared losing him in a situation not that different from this.
A scratchy, hushed sound interrupted her reverie. David's lips moved, his breath fogging the mask. His eyes opened wide in recognition. He was definitely saying something, but the mask was distorting the words. Jennifer pulled the mask from his mouth, lifting it gently.
"Ciel…danger. Baby…Vienna."
Speaking those few words exhausted him.
"My baby?" she asked. He blinked once, precisely. Yes. "Who? Who is after Ciel?"
She had to lift the mask again to hear him. "Quinn." David lost consciousness.
For Jennifer, it was as if she had shifted worlds. She was no longer in the hospital room. She was in a dark, windowless room filled wall to ceiling with computers that blinked in different colors. She could hear the whizzing of the fans meant to cool the units and the room.
I'm not yours. Chuck will find me.
Not in time. I promise you, not in time, if at all. He could have prevented this if he had given me what I wanted. But he wouldn't share. So now I take it piece by piece…and every piece takes a bit of you with it.
She staggered into the hallway, trembling so badly she needed to lean against the wall to keep her knees from buckling.
Fire burning inside her skull…
Her memory… her baby…both taken by the same man. She couldn't remember his face, but the sound of his voice haunted her.
He had nearly killed David. And now he was after Ciel.
December 8, 2012
Montreux, Switzerland
Ciel stuffed her hands deep in her pockets as she made her way down the sidewalk. She had run her usual daily errand, taking the veterinary samples to the post office to mail to the reference lab in Kornwestheim, Germany. Chuck promised her he would rest while she was gone, a brief 15 minute walk.
Ciel was shocked to see a woman standing on her front stoop. From a distance, Ciel could only tell she was tall, with brown hair.
Jennifer! She was back? Ciel worried the woman had received some horrible news and had returned to the only place she knew to go. Ciel quickened her pace towards the door, calling out the woman's name.
Ciel was about six feet away when Jennifer turned half her body, her index finger pressed over her lips. She had a gun in her hand. Did she see Chuck inside, thinking he was an intruder?
"Jennifer, wait!" Ciel called, bounding up the stairs two at a time. Jennifer opened the door, the gun pointed before her just as Ciel caught up to her. "There's–"
"Arret!"
Ciel opened her mouth to explain, but the bizarre scene as it slowly played out held her transfixed, speechless.
Chuck stood near the kitchen, his back to them. The mug he held in his hand crashed and shattered on the floor, the amber liquid inside spreading on the floor in all directions. He disregarded her warning, pivoting slowly, oblivious to the spilled tea on the floor as he sloshed through it. His eyes were open so wide she couldn't see his eyelashes and his skin was an impossible shade of white. He shook like he was having a seizure.
"Sarah?" A choked whisper.
Sarah?!? Sarah? Ciel was flabbergasted.
She watched as Jennifer, no Sarah, she amended in wonder, crumpled, then pitched forward and collapsed into Chuck's arms.
A/N: Just a bit of theory here. In the last two episodes (like the rest of the series as well) we do not know what Sarah is thinking. We are left to believe what she says as fact--she doesn't recognize him at all. The Intersect set Sarah back to the time before she knew Chuck, but Quinn's interference skewed any natural memory recovery, and prevented the same method they used on Morgan early on from working. She was a spy, but also his wife. Quinn made sure she only remembered being a spy. Without that interference, I believe her memory would have returned more quickly, more substantially. That is my premise, my explanation for all that follows beyond this point. I'd love to hear what you think.