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“Look at me.”
“Please, look at me.”
“Dan, just look at me, please.”
Dan doesn’t look at him. Just keep staring up at the ceiling. His mouth downturned in a small frown. Herbert rests the taller man’s head on the back of his hand. He's staring at Dan’s pale cheek. Stiff. Unaware. Uncanny.
Why wouldn’t Dan just look at him? Herbert had whispered more than enough apologies into his ratty mullet. His hair wasn’t it’s usual soft, shimmery self, but more… antiseptic, dry. Like Dan had been washing his hair with hand sanitizer since the last time Herbert had run his fingers through it. He's depressed, probably. Sick, maybe. That's why he's so pale. Herbert thought about asking Dan why his hair felt so strange, but fuck, he couldn’t even get him to look his way.
“Please, Dan. I’m sorry for anything and everything I’ve ever done, the experiments, my carelessness. Just please fucking look at me,” He croaks, his fingers reaching out to grasp at Dan’s thick shoulder, shaking it slightly. Dan doesn't respond. Just feels so ice cold. Herbert itches to clamber on top and wrap himself around Dan, to take his thin fingers in his own hands, to complete their two halves.
But Dan wouldn’t look at him. Herbert racked his brains, desperately trying to think of anything he’d done wrong that he hadn’t apologized for. Herbert’s almost certain he already apologized for virtually killing Meg, but felt the compelling urge to whisper a gentle sorry, my Caro into his shoulder anyway.
He’d do anything. Anything for Dan to snap out of his trance. Anything for Dan to look at him. The winding clock on the wall taunted Herbert, reminding him of how long it’d been since Dan had looked at him, holding up a lime-green syringe. Those big, reproachful green-grey eyes leaking. Stormy, Herbert liked to call them. Dreamy, even. A true glimpse into what Dan was like inside. He’d always scoff and call Herbert a hopeless faggot. Don’t say that, I’m not fucking gay, you’re just all I have left. But Herbert had watched him examine his eyes in the bathroom mirror, seemingly pleased with the description.
That was weeks ago.
Herbert studied Dan’s profile as the minutes ticked by, his unchanging face causing Herbert to feel more and more nauseous by the second. He’s still rigid. Being awfully cruel. Stern. Why couldn’t Dan just forgive and forget? He should give Herbert one of his famous smiles. Just a little one. Maybe a smirk even. A bubbly laugh.
Dan must be cold. That’s why. That has to be why. Herbert stands up, looking around the desecrated lab for an emergency blanket. It’s stashed in an unlocked closet. Hiding for needed use. This justifies.
“When you’re warm, you’ll look at me,” Herbert whispers, more to himself than Dan. He gently drapes the space blanket over Dan’s bony shoulder. And waits. But nothing happens. Dan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even lift a finger. Herbert purses his lips, quickly grabbing at one of his hands before Dan could move—
Dan is ice cold.
Herbert couldn’t stop the hard exhale crawling out his throat. Impulsively, taking Dan’s hand between his two. Just to play with the frozen fingers.
Dan isn’t looking at him.
“Jesus, Dan, you’re freezing.” He whispers, looking up at Dan’s face, expecting to at least see a small smile curling on his lips. “Are you OK?”
But Dan’s eyes keep staring straight up. Motionless. His mouth still gaping, hanging open. There’s crusty gauze over his left temple and swaddled bandages under his head. He doesn’t know how they got there.
“Dan, you didn’t tell me you hurt yourself again,” Herbert mumbles, slinking over to his head. Dan’s eyes didn’t follow him, nor did they blink. His gaze is locked on the ceiling. “Dan, you’re worrying me.”
Dan still isn’t looking at him.
So he gives Dan a vigorous shake. Just for good measure. Radio silence. He's still getting the cold-shoulder. His own fingers trail over Dan’s limp bicep, then his frigid forehead. He always looked so young when he slicked his hair back. Less tired, more jovial. Like he was letting Herbert in.
So why was he pushing Herbert out now? What had Herbert done so wrong to garner such treatment? There must be some sort of absurd reasoning for his displeasure. Maybe the dishes weren't done. Or Herbert accidentally mixed the colors and the darks when doing the laundry. He's made that mistake one too many times.
“Dr. West, your hour is up.”
Herbert glances from Dan’s unchanging face. “My hour?” he whispers as if he was afraid to disturb Dan further. He didn't even know there was someone else in the room. Well. He’s been dissociating a lot recently, ever since…
“To spend with Mr. Cain’s body. Your lawyer requested it in exchange for the key to your basement?”
Herbert swallowed. Mr. Cain’s body? Had Dan's father died? When? How? Oh God, how was supposed to break it to Dan? He wished the man would’ve been more sensitive when breaking the news, Dan is lying right fucking there—
Herbert blinks and suddenly sees.
Dan’s head is lolled to one side, his face blue, neck purple. His eyes are unfocused and bloodshot. They’ve lost their sparkle. That cocktail mix of puppy-dog love and homophobic anxiety. That glint of beauty that gives Herbert an excuse to stare at them for hours and hours on end, entranced. The bandages under his head are saturated with dried blood, and there’s a clear T-cut on his chest from routine autopsy. A serpentine incision across the back of his skull, for neurological study. Deep, purple, bruises, halfway through the process of fading, were now etched permanently on Dan’s long, pale throat. A living corpse had put those bruises there.
Dan isn’t ignoring Herbert.
Dan is dead.
The realization hits Herbert harder than a blast of buckshot. Literally kills him. He stumbles back, mouth suddenly filled with bile. Aims away from Dan’s delicate face. He barely makes it before he’s bent over, dry heaving. Has he eaten today? Nothing's coming up. Just jaundiced phlegm. Swallowed spit.
The random guy’s there. Hand on his back, trying to steady Herbert as he gags and shakes. Just for sympathy. He might be the autopsy technician. Who knows.
Herbert’s coming to. Slowly, composes himself. He quickly remembers why he came here. Just has to slip the re-agent into Dan’s veins. Just has to bring Dan back. Then they can go somewhere. Anywhere. They can be free, with nobody investigating them and their work. They can be happy.
“Can I have five more minutes, please?” He whispers, not trusting his weak voice to speak any louder. “Alone.”
His voice sounds raw enough that the stranger bristles, retracting his arm. The man nods before turning to leave. “Yes, um, of course. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Slam. That’s the door. Then Herbert crouches next to Dan’s ear, his lips brushing over the bloated skin. Maybe Dan’s body is a few days old now. He can’t exactly remember. Everything’s been hazy since Hill flew in with batwings. All he knows is the vile of green liquid that he’s about to inject into Dan’s antecubital. That’s what’s most clear.
“Please, don’t hate me for this, Danny.”
Press. He’s pressing on the plunger. It’s flooding Dan’s bloated system. He hasn’t been embalmed yet. Hasn’t even reached active decay, though. His body is fresh. It should work. In seconds, Dan should spring forward and snap all his lazy bones into action. Hopefully not as angry and enraged as their previous experiments were.
240-seconds post-injection. 4 minutes. No reanimation yet. Not a single sign of life. Dan isn’t responding to the serum. His body must be too far gone for the re-agent to kickstart his heart back into action. Herbert’s eyes are pricking. He’s panicking. He can’t control it. He’s crumbling on the inside. His five, extra minutes are almost up. Shit. This can’t be the end. Not like this. Please not like this.
260-seconds. Nearing failure. Nothing’s working. There are tears flooding down Herbert’s cheeks, dripping onto Dan’s torso. He’s fucking sobbing. Compulsively. It’s a disgusting cry. Because Dan isn’t moving, isn’t breathing. His chest isn’t rising, just to fall again. There’s no finger twitching. Just stiff agony. Rigor mortis and cadaverine stink. Purge fluid leaks out of Dan’s broken nose. The only reaction he’s gotten is normal corpse behavior. Fuck. Not yet. Please, not yet. Please.
280-seconds. The doorknob begins to turn. Dan just needs more time. Can’t let this end just yet. Herbert shoves himself against the metallic entrance. Holding it back. The man is shouting at him from the outside, bashing against the almost barricade. But the resistance won’t give. Open up! Open the door! You're still under arrest, sir! You'll be escorted from the premises!
Dan doesn’t rise from his slumber. Doesn’t blinks his eyes a few times like Herbert expects him to. They’re still frozen and crusty from being shut for far too long. He's lifeless. Really gone. So Herbert drops the syringe curled around his finger and steps back. Let’s the man push through the door, trampling him. It's over. Get on the fucking floor! Hands above your head! Stop thrashing!
Dan is dead.
Herbert feels like dying too.
He’s still not used to it. Crying. The physical after-effects of it. His whole head feels sort of clogged and cottony. He shuts his eyes and rubs the lids. Can’t begin to fathom the loss of his partner, boyfriend, fuck-buddy, whatever, yet. Doesn’t even register Lt. Chapman slinking towards him, smirking. Arrogant. There are six police officers behind him. Guns ready. Yet, he still can't shake the sickening notion out of his head. Can't focus on pressing matters.
Dan is dead.
Nothing matters anymore.
Herbert falls into a fog of dissociation. He flutters his eyes a few times. They’re still raw and sore from angry tears. His nose is kinda stuffy like he’s got a cold, and there’s a dull band of pressure around his sinuses and forehead that reminds him of a hangover. He’s being dragged out by several security guards. Being handcuffed and shoved into the back of a cop car. His Miranda rights are being listed, but he can’t seem to hear them. He should be fighting, but he isn't.
Dan is dead.
It's over.
Lt. Chapman is laughing at him. Saying I hope you like wearing straight-jackets, West. It’s infuriating. Herbert wants to strangle him. Wants to kill. But he doesn’t. He can’t. He just trembles as Chapman buckles his seatbelt, muttering something wicked in his ear, slamming the door shut, after. Then they drive. Past the police station. Towards no discernable destination. The cuffs are so tight his wrists are starting to bleed. It’s scary. It’s really fucking scary. But who is Herbert supposed to tell about it?
Dan is dead.
Fuck.