Title: Some Unholy War
Author: clarahow // agentroxylancelots // charleybradburies (will be posted after challenge)
Fandom: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Characters: Gazelle (mostly pre-Gazelle, as Giselle), Richmond Valentine, & some unnamed OCs
Pairing: Gazelle / Valentine - can be seen either as platonic or pre-romantic
Length: 785w
Rating: M
Summary: She is strong and fast and free, free of the human restraints of pain and pleasure and yearning. She is empty.
Content Notes: Focus on disability / References to drugs (inc. alcohol), violence & Phantom Pain / self-deleterious internal monologue / some vulgar language
Author Notes: The gist of this was an idea I had in my head after seeing the film, but there are a couple of people on Tumblr who verbalized some similar thoughts {x, x} which inspired me further, and then when this challenge (#116: Refusal) came along I jumped at the opportunity to expand on the idea. Oh, and the title comes from the Amy Winehouse song of the same name, which only vaguely fits the fic but I don't even care.



Giselle doesn’t cry.

Giselle Zidane does not cry. She is strong and fast and free, free of the human restraints of pain and pleasure and yearning. She is empty.

And yet it is no mystery to her why she is crying now.

She is empty. She is lost. She is weak and hideous and disfigured.

These legs are metal. They are not hers, let alone her. She can barely feel them, but she can feel her wounds still. "Phantom pain," the doctor had explained - the legs that failed her before are taunting her, and the legs that are failing her now are laughing along with them.

When she is finally released from the hospital, after nearly a year, her treating doctor gives her a referral to two top-notch therapists that she shouldn’t be needing to see - one a purple-label-wearing shrink and the other a sleazy physical therapist - and a prescription for three months’ worth of heavy pain medication that she shouldn’t be needing to take.

She waits the hour at the pharmacy for the prescription to be filled, and she buys four bottles of whiskey and a case of beer before leaving. The cashier gives her an odd look, so she turns her smile sweet and tells her it’s for a party, and the woman gives her an even odder look, glancing oh-so-not-subtly down Giselle’s frame.

Of course she doesn’t believe her. What sort of party would a freak like her be invited to? None, that’s what kind.

She can’t drive anymore, and she endures yet another taxi ride back to her flat. Even walking from the car through the lobby to the elevator hurts like fuck and she hates it.

She collapses onto her bed and takes the damn legs off.

She runs her ugly fat fingers - with her no longer manicured nails - over the stumps. The places in the middles of her thighs that she used to like. She used to enjoy wearing tiny skirts that barely covered her - dancing around, drinking around, sleeping around, feeling sexy. Being sexy.

Now she was back to 5’5” and had these horrific contraptions to contend with.

She takes nearly a week's supply of the pain medication and downs as much of the whiskey as she can manage, and cries herself to sleep.

She wakes up in pain - her legs, in pain. The things weren’t even part of her anymore and they still fucking hurt. What fucked up causality had her ending up like this?

She used to not feel anything. And now she feels - oh, she feels. She can’t stop feeling.

But it’s only pain.

---

When she took the damned job, she hadn’t expected it to be this public. She’d barely even heard the name Valentine before coming here. Now she can’t stop hearing it.

Everything is about him in this mansion. No one even knows her name here, and that’s probably a good thing. It means people give her a little less thought, even though she still senses everyone’s eyes on her like flies. She wants to swat them off so badly, but she can’t. She’s here for the job, for the money, the money she needs for her therapies and her drugs and the drugs, the only things that keep her moderately sane, keep her able to walk at all.

Her legs still aren’t a part of her, and they’re still the parts that hurt the most.

Valentine mistakenly calls her Gazelle the first time they’re properly introduced, nearly two weeks after she’s started working for him, and he’s the first man that she’s met since the accident whose subdued lust doesn’t leave his eyes after he scans her up and down. He shakes her hand more enthusiastically than anyone she’s ever met before, and invites her to lunch with him.

She’s preparing herself to fend off sexual advances when one of the butlers shows up with piping hot McDonald’s and she realizes she has no idea what she’s in for.

He doesn’t touch her once. Doesn’t say anything rude that he gives her ten seconds to take seriously. Waits until they’ve been talking for over an hour to ask her about her legs. Claps to summon a butler to bring her a massive box of Kleenex when she starts to tear up.

“Ya know, girl, I could fuckin’ help with that,” he says eventually. He waits for her to look him in the eye before continuing.
“I could make you some fuckin’ dope legs. Some killa legs. Legs that look so fuckin’ sweet they kill, girl.”

She asks if he’s opposed to making legitimately weaponized prosthetics, and he gives her an enthusiastic, open-mouthed smile.

“You gon’ be my Gazelle.”

She smiles back.