Chapter Text
What is the worth of a single mortal's life?
Does it depend on the mortal?
Does it depend on the person's deeds?
Is life's only value as currency?
Or is each life of infinite value and worth sacrificing everything for?
"Don't move. Don't even breathe."
"Darling, you know full well that I don't have to breathe."
The corner Halsin and Astarion stand in is an incongruous isle of calm and quiet at the edge of the strained concentration that fills the operating theater. The table is completely obscured by the medical team. An obstetrician, his intern, an anesthesiologist, a midwife, and two surgical assistants work together to deliver this baby as quickly as possible. A neonatologist and a pediatric resuscitation team stand at the ready.
Against the tiled backdrop of the wall, Halsin's lumberjack shirt, cargo pants, and hiking boots look like he's been pasted into the wrong setting. Next to him, Astarion is a picture of casual elegance. Perfect silver curls, a deep-red turtleneck, an intricate statement pendant, dark-gray slacks with a slim belt — even the harsh glare of the overhead surgical lights can't put a damper on his appearance.
No one sees the two men that don't belong here, but everybody avoids the space they occupy. Such is the instinctive reaction of humans to their presence, especially when they remain invisible.
Their assignment today is somewhat unusual: Halsin and Astarion don't know which one of them is needed. The birth is a complicated one, with waters breaking almost six weeks too early. The baby is not in an optimal position; halfway through labor its heart rate drops dangerously, triggering the emergency c-section protocol.
"Time of birth: ten seventeen!" One of the surgical assistants calls out.
Astarion starts the timer. Six minutes.
The baby is passed to the pediatric team. The boy is warm with his mother's borrowed life energy, covered in vernix, amniotic fluid, and smears of blood — and not breathing.
The neonatologists work their frantic magic. Four minutes.
Halsin and Astarion wait. Their assignment, though atypical, is simple. If the child wants to live, if he makes even the tiniest sound before the timer runs out, Halsin is to help. If not, Astarion takes over.
In his peripheral vision Astarion can see the hard set of Halsin's jaw, the stress lines around his eyes. He's ready to pounce, to rush into action at the slightest sign that the newly arrived soul wants to stay.
One minute.
There's the tiniest of coughs, followed by a mewl barely above that of a newborn kitten, but it's enough. Halsin phases in and out of focus. A blink of an eye later he's standing over the baby, literally breathing life into him, tethering the soul to its tiny body. Another cough, as the boy's lungs unfold and fill with air for the first time, and finally, a loud, indignant cry.
Astarion stops the timer. The room lets out a collective exhale, as the tension lifts somewhat.
The pediatric nurse cleans the baby up, the surgeon stitches the mother's incision back together. Halsin fills out paperwork on his tablet.
"That's my last assignment for the day. You?"
Astarion fidgets with one of the silver rings adorning his slender fingers. "I have one more, but it's right here, in the same building, just two floors up."
Halsin looks at Astarion for a long moment, then stows the tablet away in his backpack. "Would you like my company?"
Astarion tries to sound not too eager. "If you're not too busy?" He knows he isn't fooling anybody, least of all Halsin.
"Of course. You know that I'd come with you even if I were." Halsin's smile is indulgent, like he knows exactly how eager Astarion is — because he does.
They take the stairs. Sometimes it's nice, Astarion thinks, to be able just to take the stairs instead of using one of the gadgets the Agency equips them with. It makes him feel almost like he belongs.
As far as the hospital rooms go, this one is actually quite nice. The walls are painted a cheery yellow, the high windows let in plenty of sunlight, and there's even a landscape art print on one of the walls. The scent of the flowers on the small dining table can't cover the bite of disinfectant and acetone.
The old lady in the bed is asleep, as is a middle-aged woman in the chair next to the bed. The hospital gown balloons on her chest, which rises and falls with slow, shallow breaths. The hand lying over the blanket is almost as white as the bedding.
Halsin sits down on the other side of the bed, pushes back a few thin strands of gray hair and takes her hand. The old lady stirs, takes a deeper breath, and immediately the woman in the chair is alert.
"Mama! I'm right here." She takes the other hand — just bones and papery skin, it looks like — and squeezes gently.
"Mina… my girl…" The voice is tired, barely above a rustling whisper. The old lady struggles to keep her eyes open. Her bleary gaze slides over towards Halsin and in the next moment her bloodless lips stretch in a wide smile of recognition.
Astarion takes a step forward. That gets the lady's attention; her eyes widen just a little as she lets go of Halsin's hand and stretches out hers towards Astarion.
"Jimmy… you came…"
"Of course I came, my beautiful love. Of course I came," Astarion says softly. He reaches for her, his own hand radiating barely visible black rays. Halsin's eyes are glued to his fingers, following their every move. Astarion gives him a quick sideways glance. Halsin knows to resist the allure of the black aura. Still, Astarion checks, just to be sure.
The moment the lady's hand touches his own, Astarion winces. The aura retreats, as if pulled back through his skin. The wrinkled hand falls down to the bed, limp and lifeless.
"Mama? Mama…"
Quiet sobs fill the silence. Astarion turns abruptly to Halsin, his voice low. "Let's get out of here, darling."
On the way to the employees' exit they gather their coats and put them on without breaking their walk. Astarion snorts at how much gear Halsin has in the various pockets of his heavy parka: a thick scarf, a knitted cap, windproof gloves — Astarion half expects him to pull out a pair of skis from some secret compartment. Next to Halsin he feels both overdressed and underequipped at the same time.
They stand on the porch outside, enjoying the sunny day. Despite the cold of early March, Astarion leaves his dark gray coat open and lets the frigid air seep through his turtleneck.
Halsin smirks at him. "No extravagant designer jacket today?"
"It's a Chesterfield coat. Even I have to respect the classics."
"You'll get cold."
As if to illustrate Halsin's point, a drop of icy water from a melting icicle hits Astarion with surgical precision on the back of his neck. He yelps and wipes it away hastily, then inhales as much of the fresh air as his lungs will hold.
"I don't mind, for now." And he doesn't. By virtue of his line of work, he spends a lot of time in the hospitals. The smells that linger there aren't something he's willing to carry around with him for longer than absolutely necessary.
Halsin reaches out and brushes one of the silver curls behind his ear. Astarion braces himself for the usual scolding about him not wearing a hat, but it doesn't come.
"How much did it hurt?" Halsin quietly asks instead.
"The old lady? Not at all." He pauses. "Only a little. She had a good, long life, without any big regrets. She wasn't afraid to go." Astarion smiles at Halsin, then tilts his face towards the sun as he adds, "Thank you for coming with me. Crossing over is always easier for them when you are there."
"I'm glad I could help. I'm a little curious, though: do you look like her Jimmy?"
Astarion grins. "Not even close." He's seen the picture of Jimmy in the dossier: an average man with a receding hairline and kind eyes behind thick glasses. He looked like an engineer or a STEM teacher, if Astarion had to guess.
He turns to Halsin. "Who do you think she saw in you?"
"I don't know. A deceased parent? A grandparent, maybe? Someone they loved and trusted in their early life, someone who would make them less afraid of crossing over."
Behind them, the door opens and closes again with a loud crack. The obstetrician they've seen earlier is now standing right next to them, oblivious to the fact that he is not alone on the porch. The sweat-drenched scrubs are still visible through the unzipped front of a nondescript down coat (synthetic filling, Astarion estimates). The medic sticks a cigarette between his lips and fumbles with the lighter in the wind gusts, then finally takes a long drag.
Halsin observes the smoking man, then takes a look around to examine their surroundings. The air around them shifts a fraction; in the next moment, a large icicle breaks off from the roof, hits the surgeon on the hand, and crushes his cigarette before smashing on the porch. The man is left staring at the thin red line on his hand, a wordless chiding delivered by a sharp edge of ice. He looks up in disbelief at the roof, where more icicles sparkle in the sun, and chokes out a shocked Could've fucking killed me! With one last long glance at the crumpled cigarette he goes back inside.
Halsin's lips curl up in a tiny satisfied smile.
As they start walking back to their hotel, Astarion gives him a curious look. "Darling, why did you do that?"
A faint blush colors Halsin's cheeks, as if he's been caught with his hand in a box of honey cakes. "Noticed that, did you?" He stretches out a hand and brushes along a few branches in passing. The buds of the new leaves seem to swell just a little more where he touches them. "Smoking a pack of cigarettes a day causes about one hundred and fifty permanent genome mutations within one year. And that's just in the lung cells. The number is much higher if we take the other affected organs into account. Each and every one of these mutations is a potential starting point for a cascade of genetic damage that leads to cancer."
It never ceases to amaze Astarion how many little facts like this one Halsin remembers. "That is all highly fascinating, but it doesn't answer the question I have actually asked. Why?"
"Astarion, did you notice his new intern? The one with blond wavy hair?"
Astarion gives a noncommittal shrug in response. "What about her?"
"He can't teach her everything he knows if he dies from lung cancer two years from now, can he? She has a conservative Estimate of Lives Influenced in the range of four hundred thousand."
Astarion stops in the middle of the sidewalk. "Four hundred thousand? As in, a mid range six digit cELI? That's quite rare, even for an obstetrician."
"If she makes it through her first year as an intern," Halsin explains, "she will write several books. Inspiring stories about ordinary people. About the beginning and the end, and everything that happens in between. If she publishes, her real LI score will be closer to one million."
They walk in silence for a few minutes after that. Astarion contemplates this new information. Such a high cELI always attracts attention from the Agency. For the sake of the young woman, he hopes that she doesn't become an instrument in the Agency's plans.
"Does the surgeon really smoke that much?" Astarion asks as he buttons his coat up. Enough airing out.
"Yes. A pack a day, on average. Sometimes more." Halsin sighs, a mix of disapproval and resignation clear in his voice. "He is a middle-aged male in a country with an above-average percentage of smokers. He works in a high-stress field, arguably one of the worst in this regard. A pack a day isn't so unusual, under these circumstances."
"But that is going to change." Astarion words this as a statement.
"Yes. When his shift ends today, he will stand on that porch and smoke one last cigarette with his left hand while examining the four stitches on his right. He'll never touch another cigarette in his life."
Astarion's relationship with the living may be complicated, but he recognizes talent when he sees it. "He'll deliver plenty of babies. Even I have noticed that he's rather good at what he does. Credit where credit is due, I suppose."
"He has decades of experience. That boy's chances would have been a lot worse if someone else had been operating today."
Astarion moves a bit closer to Halsin and links arms with him. They walk in comfortable silence for a while.
"You were pretty amazing in there, darling. I love watching you work." Astarion considers his next words carefully. "For what it's worth: I'm glad the soul chose you."