* le sommeil éternel.

‘ i’m assuming you don’t mean that quite literally, ’

while he’s still submersed inthe abundance of documents randomly scattered across his desk, he takes a moment to process the information, blinking once – twice – heavily befuddled with the soldier’s abrupt insubordination. certainly, he expected such snarky remark coming from anyone else but jack. ‘ what troubles you, my friend? i consider my approach fairly – unforeseeable. if you think you have a plan potent enough to surpass mine, then i am all ears. ’

i have a few ideas concerning gérard’s survival that i can’t quite put in order. i’m leaning towards amélie not doing a proper job due to her reconditioning and leaving him still somewhat alive -- barely clinging to a sliver of life, but i’m still not 100% sure about whether i should go with that or not. so, basically:

she tried suffocating/poisoning him and somewhere in the middle of process she felt like she was slowly slipping away, so she departed, leaving him there, thinking that the job was done. it wasn’t, however. gérard, still in shock from the altercation, managed to drag himself toward the medical quarters where he asked for help. i am not sure what kind of poison she’d use or how potent said substance would be, but i like to think that he had to be put in some kind of induced coma to keep him away from further damage. slowing down his metabolism until they could come up with some antidote ( thank u jay ). only a few people knew of the escapade. in the morning, gérard lacroix was presumed dead. 

during the coma, his lungs collapsed and he was forced to undergo surgery. one of them was replaced with a bionic alternative, wich failed since his system rejected the apparatus. later on, while still in the comatose, both of his lungs were replaced ( and although they were not entirely proficient ), they lasted up to the current date. 

he’s browsing through personal effects, completely unaware of the event he’s more or less missing. the pocket calendar he so often checks is nowhere to be found, most probably lost somewhere underneath the papers flooding his desk. he is more lost than the moon in the winter, as the saying goes. 

the voice he’s so infatuated with, affectionate and endearing as always, a tune he could listen to in any moment of dire, tears through the unquiet silence that has settled in the desk’s expanse. he turns on unprepared heels, swerving if ever so lightly when she soundlessly approaches him. a treat – oh, he has forgotten once again, how puerile – awaits before him, his wife expectant, her umber eyes mirroring the genuine glee pouring through her veins.

the air abounds in a projected kind of awkwardness, yet that is not enough force him to wince or shy away. instead, with just as much eagerness, with amassed passion, as if to sate a ceaseless flame, he throws an arm about her middle, hooking her in a heartfelt embrace. ‘ you spoil me, you know that? ’

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