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FLATLINE

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SEATTLE

WHEN BETH SPOKE, PEOPLE LISTENED.

She wasn't sure whether it was her predisposition, whether it was how she was raised and sent into the world, but when she spoke, people tended to listen. She was definitive with her words, assertive, never faltered and never hesitated—— when she cleared her throat and called across the corridor, there was no divine intervention or crack in her tone. Her voice was direct and final.

(But so, it seemed, were gunshots too.)

"Excuse me, sir..." was how the end began, "I'm sorry, you can't be in this part of the hospital. We're on lockdown."

To preface, she wasn't exactly sorry.

She'd never been the type of person who could apologise but did so with a cracked smile that was ripped straight off of her Mother's face. She stood tall and professional, barely hunched by the foreboding of the next ten minutes of her life, and continued to smile as the man across from her just shuffled from one foot to the other.

She stared at him, at the man with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets and no outward sign that he'd heard her. There was her falter, brief and confused and propelling her to speak once again—

"Sir..."

 She hated how formal she sounded. It dragged out painful memories of a childhood dressed up and pushed forwards, brown-nosing and dipping out the way of sharp, socialite elbows at eye height. Another pause and another moment of silence.

"Can you hear me?"

"I didn't mean to."

(For a man so wicked, his confession was so soft.)

With an odd feeling settling into her bones, she tilted her head to the side and tried to read his body language like a book. A complex book, the sort that had pages that stuck together and corners wrapped and a spine folded over and over countless times— but the words that she read made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.

"Pardon Mr...?"

The hospital was so quiet. 

She could hear the shuffle of his feet as he turned to fully face her, presenting nothing but a sad (ruthless) man with hard-cut eyes. They were light but frighteningly scathing as he seemed to see her for the first time— a moustache dipped with the movement of his lips and his hand twitched in his coat pocket.

"Clark," He said, and this time he spoke louder. The name rushed around the hallways around them and her breathing caught at the back of her throat, "Gary Clark."

She recognised that name / Where do I recognise that name?

There was something familiar there, but she could've sworn that they'd never met before. But, then again, there were so many patients in this hospital, so many people... it wouldn't be crazy to assume that she'd misplaced one face. She'd never particularly been good with names anyway.

But this man, those eyes... the way he stared at her, with eyes that cut her so methodically to the bone. She had a feeling that she'd definitely remember him. If not by his appearance but by his voice, from the way he held himself, the way he looked straight through her––

Out of all of the unkind eyes that had regarded her throughout her life, that feeling told her that his gaze would be very hard to shake off.

"Mr. Clark," She addressed him as her smile faded very slightly. "I'm happy to escort you into a safer area. The hospital is currently on lockdown, you can be out here—"

A tiny voice at the back of her head was trying to figure out where she knew him from, desperately pulling at strings in her subconscious with no leads.

"Why?"

That caught her off-guard.

"What?"

"Why is there a lockdown?"

He held her in place with his stare. It was stifling. She found herself straining to move words around her mouth, the movement suddenly far too exhausting for her to comprehend. Her tongue was dry, lips parting for a slight breath as her brow furrowed— she had to think about it.

The truth? She didn't know why the hospital was on lockdown, hadn't really stuck around long enough to find out. 

All she knew was that one moment she'd been standing in the ER, watching the Head Trauma nurse cut off any incoming ambulances and warn them all that they were locking the doors— and then she was here, standing in a corridor as she looked for a missing child that had gotten caught up in the chaos.

(A lump formed at the back of her throat as she considered it. Why was the hospital on lockdown?)

She knew the hospital code, had spent an hour tops last year rifling through the staff handbook teaching it to herself. She knew why the lockdowns were in place, knew that odds were one of the patients had gone missing or a kid had wandered a little too far down a corridor.

Of course, there were the more dangerous things too, stuff like violence, danger, tragedy, blaze and fire––

But, either way, she knew that things like that tended to not happen in a public hospital in Seattle, WA. A lockdown was, more than likely, for clearing the hall ways and keep patients contained. There was probably no danger at all.

"I don't know," She said, and she was honest. She cleared her throat and gently pushed her cell phone into her pocket. "But what I do know is that you could be in danger walking around out here—"

The man just stared at her, and, she was struck for the tenth time in the past few seconds, at how potent his stare was. 

"And what about you?"

He really was so soft-spoken, as if he was perpetually out of breath or had so little drive to be anything but quiet. The question made something at the back of her head spin, as if the tiny part of her that prided herself on being logical and intelligent, had been alerted to something. (What? She couldn't tell. Just something.) A clammy palm twisted against her coat.

"If you'd just follow me, sir—"

She tried to ignore it, just as she tried to ignore the response that was slowly climbing its way through her body. She felt her heartbeat in her tongue and tried to swallow it down, like a bitter pill, but she was getting the feeling that something was just not right about this–– and there it was, lurking at the back of Gary Clark's empty stare.

"What about you, doctor?" So quiet but with the ability to make her breath catch at the back of her throat. It was the way he said Doctor, as if there was some amusement to be found in the two letters embroidered on her coat. He was standing oddly, shifting weight from either side, "Aren't you in danger too?"

To that, she couldn't respond.

She stared at him as he stared back. The prolonged eye contact, the way he stood with absolutely no fear of what was allegedly lurking these halls— she felt her eye twitch. She didn't like the way he looked at her, the way he seemed to search for something within her, as if he was tirelessly looking for a reason to do something. Her eyes, ever so briefly, dropped to the hand buried in her pocket.

"I said I didn't mean to," He said, and maintaining eye contact was suddenly very hard. She didn't have to have a doctorate in Psychiatry to know that this situation was a lot worse than she'd initially thought. "Before, when you asked—"

"Okay," She said, and she sounded breathless. She wondered whether he could hear the way her heart rate picked up against her rib cage. "Okay—"

"I didn't mean to hurt them."

Something at the back of her chest cracked. 

(Hurt.) 

She could feel the shift and the release, the sudden knot that built and twisted. 

(Hurt.) 

Her jaw slackened slightly and she wondered whether this was the sort of moment they spent your whole life warning you about. 

(Hurt.) 

Or, at least, wasn't this the sort of sick moment of realisation that made your stomach curdle and your skin go slick with sweat?

 (Hurt.) 

The moment where she looked into this man's eyes and suddenly everything made sense to her, every single second of tension and unease?

She'd made a career out of danger. She'd monetised the way people handled it, how moments like these would haunt them for years— it took her longer than she would have liked to admit to recognise it. And the signs were all in the breath he took as he stared her down.

Hurt, fuck, okay. that was a strong word.

She'd heard it in so many forms over the years, so many iterations. To 'hurt', she'd figured years ago, was one of the most brutally human things a person could feel. Feeling pain, feeling sickness, feeling agony... yeah, that was what paid her bills. But, to hurt, to actively cause that feeling in another person, that was something that made her pause–– Then there was that word too...

Them.

Suddenly, she could feel the silence. A light breath, a very gentle shudder as it passed her lips. It was hard to chip his name out between her teeth––

"Mr Clark—"

"It's just this place," He, however, had no issue with speaking. She hesitated to even blink and yet, here this man was, his words filling the space around them as she held her breath, "This hospital... it does things... it makes me feel things..."

"I don't think it's––"

"I didn't mean to shoot those people, doctor."

At first glance, Gary Clark didn't look like a murderer.

To the eye, he was personable. He was, by face value, yet another face on the street. He was dressed in a heavy coat, unassuming, quiet. His boots were heavy, the sort that would make a sound louder than his voice, but his shoulders were hunched. His hair was washed, neatly parted, and he'd recently shaved. It reminded her of a corpse scrubbed down and laid out on a casket.

He'd put care into his appearance today. She saw a watch on his wrist as he went to wipe his brow (the other hand stayed firmly in his pocket.) and was struck by it, for just a few moments.

What a morning routine to have, She thought to herself, to dress specifically to kill.

(Personally, she'd always just been partial to a pastry and a coffee, but, she guessed, to each their own.)

"I didn't mean to do it," He repeated, and he said it as if this was a confessional. For the briefest window of time, she was a priest and there was a wall between them— he shook his head, his brow furrowed. "I didn't mean to..."

"Mr Clark," Her voice was strained. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been able to feet her pulse in every inch of her. "It's okay... I understand—"

If she looked closely enough, she could see some form of twisted agony within him. It lined his face as she, very gingerly, showed him her palms— it was such a small, subconscious movement, propelled by the suspicion that she knew exactly what was hidden in his pocket, just out of sight. The metal seemed to sing to her, just like this whole building did and this feeling in her bones. His eyes raised to watch them, haunt her fingers as they tried so desperately not to tremble.

Her mouth dried as she noticed the dark red stains on the tips of his shoes.

"They made me do it," He interjected, and there was torture there too. His face twisted as her fingers curled. "This place— these surgeons— they made me do it. All those people... All those patients dying because of them..."

She could do nothing but stand and watch.

"They made me do it," It seemed to be the only thought that he could hold onto, repeating it over and over as she could only think of psychological theory. That was her job, right? To stare at this man and recognise the agent thought process that was going on in his head. "They kill so I kill too—"

And then he drew his hand out from his pocket.

Her eyes latched onto the gun as it glinted almost tauntingly in the harsh overhead light.

Oh Fuck. That's all she could think as she watched him look down at it. Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck—

Her hands raised higher and she found herself unable to look away from the weapon in his hand. She followed it, just as a shadow followed anything. (Is that what I'll be reduced to? She asked herself as she watched his jaw clench.)

"You're a psychiatrist, right doctor?"

It was an accurate observation, his chin inclined in the direction of her coat. The words were written there, all in cursive, declaring her as a psychiatrist for Seattle Grace Mercy West Hospital, the exact building that right now was beginning to feel a whole lot like a tomb.

"You talk to people... Do therapy with them?"

The tremble started in her fingertips.

"I am," She said, her voice hoarse as she realised he was expecting an answer. She swallowed what felt like sand. "Yes I... I do, Mr Clark."

"I had plans," He said, "I had people that I wanted to kill... just four people... I didn't mean to kill the others—"

"It's okay," She repeated her words from before, incisors buried into the side of her cheek to stop herself from shaking completely. She was trying to keep her cool as best as she could, stand tall despite how desperately every part of her wanted to fold. "It's okay—"

(Fuck that, a dry voice in her head said, this isn't okay at all. Who the fuck brings a gun to a hospital and starts shooting doctors?)

A plan meant premeditation, she didn't have to be any sort of expert to know that (although she had watched a fair bit of Criminal Minds and knew that, right now was probably the time to haul ass and get as far away from him as physically possible.)

A plan meant that, as far as he was aware, he had a mission to carry out; one that, from the expression on his face, she guessed was far from over.

A plan meant strategy and critical thinking and all of the other red flags that meant this wasn't as mindless as he was trying to get her to believe— he didn't point the gun at her but she still watched it so closely, heart in her mouth.

"You need to understand that I didn't want this," Gary was talking so candidly that it made her eyes burn. "I only came here to kill the ones who killed my wife. But I can't... I can't find them—"

His mouth twisted and she watched the rage bloom in him. She recognised it as she recognised her own, something explicitly wild and destructive.

"Who?" She asked, and she hated herself immediately for asking. "W-Who are you looking for?"

There were so many surgeons in this hospital and she so desperately hoped that she wasn't related to any of the people who he believed wronged him. As she begged silently to a higher power she didn't even believe in, his brow furrowed and he looked up at her, his eyes hard and dauntless.

"Doctor Webber..." The way his name sat on the man's tongue made her stomach curdle. "He let them do it... He just... He let her die."

Richard.

"Doctor Grey..."

Lexie.

"And Doctor Perkins."

Oh god.

That last name made her chest burn as if he'd just gone ahead and shot her anyway— now she recognised this man, now she recognised the case. This man, enraged with grief, had sat in a psychiatrist's office for weeks receiving grief counselling as he fought for reparations in Derek Shepherd's legal case—

Oh fuck, the realisation made her heart clench, Derek.

"Your colleague sat there and tried to convince me that she was dead, doctor," A shiver ran down her spine as she watched Gary's face twist with so much disgust. It was as if the image he had of Charlie in his mind was so far from what she had in her own heart. "Doctor Perkins helped them. He had a duty to give me peace of mind. He was supposed to help me and he helped them! He aided them!"

His voice raised and she watched his thumb toy with the trigger.

"Mr Clark," She said quietly, "I'm so sorry for your loss—"

"They killed her," Gary said, his voice breaking very slightly as his head lowered to look down at the gun, "Every one of them... they killed my Alison and they face no consequences—"

"I am so sorry—"

"But I got the Chief," And the words froze her to the ground. Gary said it with almost pride, a corner of his lip upturning as he admired the murder weapon. "I looked Doctor Shepherd straight in the eye—"

Derek.

She bit down on her bottom lip to stop it from trembling. Air got caught so tightly at the back of her chest, threatening to split her wide open— it was hard to describe the overwhelming grief that clenched her so tightly in its fist—

Derek.

(A very brief image flashed across her head: the man she loved like a brother, crumpled and bleeding on the floor of his office.)

Mark, Beth thought to herself, her heart aching beyond comprehension, Oh god. Oh God. What about Mark––?

"I didn't mean to kill those other people," He said, and she couldn't find it within herself to believe him.

Her whole body was cold as she tried to will herself... to stop thinking about the fact that somewhere out there, Derek was dying, that Charlie was just waiting for his moment, and Mark was just...

"All of those doctors... nurses... a security guard—"

She needed to do something. God, she needed to do something––

"They just got in the way," His voice continued to twist, twist further and further away from something human, "Everyone just got in the way––"

What could she do? Could she beg for her life? For their lives––?

"But you don't help people— you just kill people—"

She knew that running wasn't an option.

(How ironic as it seemed to be all she'd ever done.)

"My name is Doctor Beth Montgomery," She said, and the words were so faint, so different from what they'd first been. It was as if he'd reduced Beth to a quiet, shakable woman who hadn't already ridden through hell, "And on behalf of this hospital... please... please believe me when I say you have my condolences—"

"I don't want them, doctor," He said, and it was with resentment, "You can keep your damn condolences. I won't take them from killers."

"I am not—"

"Shut up."

Beth flinched.

"Let's just talk," She said, regardless, "Let me just talk to you—"

(In retrospect, maybe it wasn't the best idea to try and reason with a killer; a highly distressed killer too. She held onto his bunched brow, toed the lines of his face and found herself trapped in the curl of his lip as his distress so quickly turned to rage. She'd always been good with words, always knowing when to say and how to say it, but the letters got stuck in her throat as the gun wobbled up towards her.)

(She didn't know much about moments like these, but she'd really had liked Criminal Minds when she'd watched it with her fiancé. She'd also read a lot, digested a lot of articles while tending to patients who had been through this exact thing–– she knew how to handle the aftermath... but the moment?)

Oh fuck, Beth thought to herself, I'm going to die, aren't I?

She stared at it, transfixed to the spot as she'd once stood frozen under a lovers palm. It was cruel to her just as he had once been. Now, her whole body ached to move, to run, to run just as she always had— away from love, away from home, away from feelings that didn't settle right—

"I don't need another goddamn shrink," Gary's voice was callous and twisted. The tension in his jaw and the shake of his hand made her skin crawl. "I am not crazy— I am not a crazy man—"

"I never said that," Beth chipped between clenched teeth, "I never said—"

"You all play God here," He said. He said it so loudly that she felt the whole building tremble with it as if they were both just standing in a house of cards. "You run around and you play God and you kill and you torture— there is nothing good in this place."

Her breathing hitched.

She could remember how she'd once felt the same about this place. She'd looked at this building and everyone in it, how people seemed capable of bringing such pain into her life, of treating her with uncivil, unclean and unkind hands.

She fucking hated Seattle and she'd tried something beautiful out of it––

Yeah, fuck this, Beth thought to herself, standing at the end of a gun isn't very beautiful.

Gradually, her hands twitched higher.

"We can talk," She said, fighting to keep her voice as level, "You are not crazy, Mr. Clark. You–– you are grieving. We can talk... We can just talk––"

"You're not listening," Gary said, his voice scathing, "None of you will fucking listen––"

Beth couldn't help it, she spoke right into the barrel of the gun, eyes unmoving from the metal in his hand.

"You're all the same––"

Tightly, she inhaled through her nose.

"You're all trying to protect these people––"

She tensed her fingers, trying her best to not betray how badly her hands were trembling.

"You're all monsters––"

It was then, that she saw something out of the corner of her eye.

It appeared in a flash, almost like a dream–– a flash of blonde, a pale face around the corner further down the hallway. Beth had been so focused on Gary Clark and the immediacy of danger, that she'd almost missed it. But, then, she'd made eye contact, fleeting, fearful, sudden––

Oh.

Lexie Grey was staring back at her.

The younger surgeon was over Gary's shoulder, a pair of doe eyes that flashed wide, horrified at the image in front of her. Beth could only wonder what it looked like from the other side. Did it look how bad as it felt?

She could only imagine how it would've been reported over a police radio: A brunette, white woman, about 5'7, hands held upwards in a pose of surrender, jaw clenched apprehensively and body tensed, standing opposite a balding, middle-aged man with a gun–– what gun? Fuck, Beth didn't know guns. How was she fucking meant to know fucking guns––?

There was panic written in Lexie's flushed cheeks. Beth could read it just as she was now reading the red flags over this whole hospital.

Oh fuck, Lexie thought she was going to die too.

Oh fucking fuck fuck fuck fucking fuc––

"My full name is Elizabeth."

She wasn't speaking, and then she was. Her voice fell through her lips and she didn't recognise it. It was as if someone else was speaking through her, forcing letters and syllables to her lips with urgency. Her breath had forced her shoulders upwards; no, in the tradition of a Montgomery, this man what not see her crumble. She would stand tall, her chin would be lifted and she would not grovel–– she would, however, strategically plead for her life.

She'd been told by a patient who had stood in this exact position that they'd watched this episode of Oprah. Apparently, some psychiatrist who was only a psychiatrist for the TV, had said you were supposed to sell yourself.

Make them believe, had been her patient's exact words as they'd been able to make eye contact across her desk in Cleveland, Ohio, Just make them believe you're human... they're you're worth keeping alive.

If it meant giving her whole life story in front of her ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend, then so be it.

"Elizabeth Theodora," Her eyes flickered in between him and the gun, whole body feeling stiff and uncooperative. She knew wouldn't be able to turn and run even if she tried. "I'm thirty-six, I'm originally from Connecticut and just––, uh, my middle name comes from my grandmother–– She was a school teacher and... uh, there's a library named after her in my hometown... in Riverside... I, uh, I used to spend a lot of time there when I was a kid..."

How fucking impossible it was to fit your whole life story into someone's patience.

"My favourite colour is red..."

(Red like blood, huh, are you gonna bleed?)

"I'm a vegetarian..."

(Yeah, well, you're going to be worm food.)

"And, I, uh, I've got a sister and a brother," Words were fast and erratic. She couldn't think fast enough. "I miss them a lot we don't, uh, we don't talk much but–– I miss them. Addison, we uh... We don't talk and that's... I regret not... I really, really miss them––"

"Doctor––"

"I also have a fiancé, see?" She kept going, undeterred by the way his glare got stronger. She moved her hand around to show him the ring, watching as it sparkled almost maliciously in the light, "I have a man that I love a lot... I love him a lot and he loves me and–– and we're supposed to be married. He loves me–– people love me, okay?"

I know, I don't believe half the time either, but somehow, for some reason, people care––

"Shut up!"

Beth found herself breathless. He'd yelled it. He'd yelled it with such fury and pain that the gun in his hand had jolted and she'd been so convinced that she was a goner. She'd flinched too, a complete contortion in every muscle in her body. Her eyes had closed by mistake, but when they opened, she saw him–– an image that, if she survived this, she knew would haunt her.

He really did have a killers eyes.

I am loved. I am loved. I am loved. I am loved. I am loved. I am loved. I am loved. I am loved. I am loved. I am loved. I am loved. I am lo––

"Where are the doctors?"

"I don't––"

"You do," He insisted, "I can see it–– You know–– You fucking know–– Don't lie to me. All you people ever do is lie––"

"I don't know."

"Where's Doctor Grey?"

At the mention of her, Beth's eyes found her. Beth had always been able to find her one was or another–– now blonde, clearly shaken and horrified. She looked so small, grasping a cart so tightly. Beth was able to watch the exact moment of terror as she processed what Gary had just demanded. And, oh, what a demand it was... but then came this look of acceptance.

There must've been a giveaway in her face, between the very quick flicker of Beth's eyes between the two.

"See. You know," He was furious, "Where the fuck is she?"

Beth felt her eyes water.

She was the villain here, Beth knew that. She'd become the sort of person people expected wicked things from–– Lexie seemed to accept the people they were, that they'd hated each other over a man that neither of them seemed capable of having. Beth watched Lexie accept that Beth would now sell her out just because of how things had worked out.

"I don't know."

Beth's emission was soft.

She hated the look of surprise that crinkled across the younger blonde's face.

"Where the hell is Lexie Grey––?"

For the first time in a very long time, a tear cascaded down Beth's cheek. She blinked furiously, trying to clear it out of her vision. Ever so briefly, she chewed on the inside of her cheek, willing herself to lie a second time.

"I d-don't know."

"Bullshit."

Well, Beth thought to herself, So much for being a pathological liar. Take that Mark.

It was surprisingly hard to lie while death was looking over your shoulder, that's all that Beth could allow herself to think in justification for what came next. As her hands continued their solemn tremble in thinning air, she looked at Lexie again–– she looked at the shocked, quivering woman who had once been her friend, her first friend, a woman who had been nothing but loyal to her––

In the same breath, she'd cursed his name, Beth sent a very silent message to her:

Tell Mark I'm sorry.

And then, with her eyes, she'd said:

Run.

Get out of here.

Get the hell out of here, Lexie.

Run.

(The less PG version was this: I'm going to be really fucking pissed if I die trying to protect you and you're going to fucking die two seconds later.)

(She, also, was going to be really fucking pissed if she got shot, too.)

But, she had a feeling that it didn't matter what her reaction was going to be, her fate was set in place, just like the click of the safety on Gary Clark's gun. All she could think, as he took long, shuddering breaths, was how Mark deserved to be happy. He deserved to move on, move on from her, move on from what they'd had. Besides, wouldn't it have been really shitty for the only two women he'd ever loved to just be gone, one by one?

He deserved a happy ending with Lexie. If this was it, if this was the final influence and impact Beth would have on his life, she was determined to make it something good.

Lexie held her gaze. The two women stared at each other.

For better or for worse.

And then, sensing the emergency of how Beth crumbled, Lexie turned on her feet. The blonde was gone before Beth could even fathom it. Within moments, Beth was alone, alone with a man who didn't seem to have any empathy at all. It was dead, just as Beth was pretty fucking sure Derek was, just as she was pretty fucking sure she was about to be––

"Look," She let out a breath, "We all have bad days, I completely understand––"

"You couldn't understand––"

"I have loved, Mr. Clark," Beth had always been a little bit too good with words. Her and Mark had had that in common. "I have loved and I have lost–– I've watched people die. I've helped people through the worst times in their lives–– I've seen what grief does to them. Mr. Clark, I understand––"

"Stop."

"For years I was in this really dark depression that I don't––"

"I don't need––"

"This isn't the answer."

"Stop it," He bellowed it. "Stop it, stop it. Stop it––"

Jesus Christ, Beth thought to herself, I hope I'm a hot ghost.

She'd always thought her death would be dramatic. She'd imagined it to be some extravagant affair, something big and grand that would perfectly cap off the absolute shithousery that had been her life.

A car crash, maybe? Something that was painfully in slow motion with splintered glass and cracking bones. A plane crash? A dizzying spiral clutching desperately to the arm of the person she loved. Hell, she'd even take a cardiac arrest or a nice accidental dive off the top of a building––

Anything but this.

This didn't feel too good.

This was a death in, quite frankly, the shittiest and most melodramatic hospitals in America, at the end of some crazy maniac with a ten dollar handgun. She'd traded in a chance to change the world to reopen old wounds, become strangers with her own past and get heartbroken all over again––

"I'm sorry," He said.

But he wasn't.

He wasn't because she was in his way.

If he was sorry, he wouldn't have shot her.

He pulled the trigger and the pain was fast. It was hot. It was fast. It was a fever she couldn't stomach. A glare that crumpled her in half and left her spinning to the ground. Fingers clutching at air, an engagement ring glimmering like a falling star––

Oh fuck, She thought on the way down, Oh fuck. Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh god––

It was funny how many people she'd watched die. She'd been a surgeon once. She'd been a sinner too. She'd watched people close their eyes, take their last breaths and let them out too. She'd watched their chests sink, their eyes roll and their hands pale and fall.

But this... this right here? This was different.

Because, holy shit, feeling the flatline was so much more bittersweet than just watching it.

welcome to flatline! 
  in which i'm way too passionate about a non-canon ship and would die for a tonne of different OCs. 

✧ if you enjoyed the chapter, please leave a vote and comment. thank you for reading!~ ✧