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celestial-toys · 29 days ago

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That I Would Be Good [1/5]

How to Help

You take note of the two people on this couch with you. These innocent lives you brought into this awful world, with no thought given to the consequences. Stereotyped them down into boxes and expected a perfect fit—naive enough to think you could bring a fantasy to life.

You really want to apologize for falling into the business of playing God.

- - - - - - -

In This Chapter

Moon attempts to care for you as you do a little bedrotting.

The boys debate over taste in entertainment as you cry over work stress.

Much to Sun's chagrin though it all may be, you're saved from a potential night spent sleeping with your dog on the cold, hard hallway floor.

Pairing: Sun x Moon x Reader

Word Count: 5,174

Contains: [AU - Real World] [depiction of depression] [crying] [arguing] [an episode of vertigo] [tension] [fear]

A/Ns: This is a songfic. Lyrics and title are from 'That I Would Be Good' by Alanis Morissette.

This fic is part of my AU “[Not] Made by Design”, the full series can be found here.

Lastly but certainly not least, this fic is dedicated to my friend Adrianna @roses-and-tears, whom I’ve been teasing with the existence of this fic for far too long. Thank you for your patience as I took my sweet time on this, and thank you for your patience with me in general. Your friendship means a lot to me, as does your endless support of my writing. I’m really grateful to have you in my life. Happy Birthday, Adri. 💛

That I would be good even if I did nothing.

Late afternoon sunlight slips through the slim crack between the drawn curtains covering your balcony doors. Over the past hours you’ve absently watched it grow from a bright yellow at noon to a vibrant orange now, the thin line cast across your bedsheets growing longer as the sun slips lower and lower. It serves as the only illumination in the room, all of your various lights and screens turned off in an effort to pretend that it’s an acceptable hour to be miserably curled up in bed, ignoring the world.

The occasional soft, muffled sounds of various housework being done by your—rightfully concerned, you suppose, yet surprisingly concerned, if you’re being honest—partners prevents you from ignoring the entire world, though. The subtle reminder that they’re here with you, that the house isn’t really empty, serves as a comfort that you aren’t sure you deserve. A small part of you wishes you truly were alone again, so at least you’d have a good reason to feel this way. You’d certainly feel less guilty about it too.

To their credit, they’ve handled this episode pretty well. Giving you space when you request it and proximity when you need it. Checking in on you. Keeping you clean, hydrated, and fed to the best of their ability in spite of your reluctance.

You just wish you could pull yourself out of this already.

You have work to do.

The mere thought of all that you’ve fallen behind on has you reaching up, grabbing at the corners of your pillow and tugging them down over your ears, eyes pinching closed in desperate avoidance.

Through the pillow you barely pick up on the muffled sound of soft knocking at your door.

You sigh, and manage a weak acknowledgment. “Yeah?”

Moon’s low voice rumbles through the barrier. “May I come in?”

You cough, clearing your parched throat. “...Yeah.”

The door swings open slowly and you squint, expecting the sting of the bright hallway light to hit, but it never does. You crack an eye open, releasing your hold on the pillow and tilting your head to watch him enter.

Your voice comes out more aggravated than you intend it to sound. “We got a bulb out in the hallway or something?”

Moon pauses halfway through closing the door behind him, his monitor swiveling around to face you. “Hmm?”

You clarify. “The light’s off out there.”

Understanding straightens the scrunched lines on his display that serve as his eyebrows. “Oh, no. The lights are fine, I just…” His monitor swings back around to align with his body as he gently pushes the door closed. “I’ve gathered that it hurts your eyes.”

The door quietly clicks shut and the light of his screen dims, adjusting its brightness to match that of the room. “The contrast, I mean. It being so bright out there when the bedroom is… so dark.”

A look, half-guilt and half-apology tugs at your features as you watch him approach the bed. “I’m sorry…”

His monitor clicks about 20 degrees to the right. “What for?”

His question is spoken so softly, so gently, and if you didn’t know better you’d almost believe that he really can’t think of anything you’d have to apologize to him for.

You know that couldn’t be further from the truth, though.

You’re about to acknowledge his ironic disdain for the darkness, but as you watch him reach down and experimentally lift the still-full bottle of water he refilled for you some odd hours ago, you pause. As his neutral expression curls into a small frown, you realize you should apologize for that, too. Your mind quickly offers up more and more things that you should apologize for, and within seconds your eyes are welling up with tears.

“Everything…” you say as you blink, letting them roll along your temples and—annoyingly—into one of your ears.

His monitor turns halfway toward you, but his false eyes don’t follow the motion, still locked on the bottle of water he’s thoughtfully swirling in his hand. His real eye must take in the state of you though, either that or his mics picked up on the emotion in your voice, because he passes the bottle into his left hand before turning and gesturing down toward the mattress with his right. “May I sit next to you?”

You nod, knowing he can see the motion even in the dim light, and you shift a bit from your dent in the mattress for the first time in… well, probably since Sun poked his proverbial nose in here an hour or two ago to make sure you were still breathing. Begrudgingly, you haul yourself up into a somewhat-vertical position, knowing if you don’t do it now Moon will coax you into it soon anyways. You pull your long sleeve down over your hand and use it to wipe at a few wet tear tracks.

Moon settles himself down on the mattress next to you, gently helping to pull away the sheets just enough to free you from your blanket prison as you halfheartedly reposition yourself. He rests the bottle on his left knee, monitor turning toward his right to face you.

“I don’t think that’s necessary. I think… a lot of the things you apologize for don’t even need one in the first place, and as for the things that do need one… well, you’ve already given them and I— …we’ve already accepted them.”

You sigh. “I wish it were easier for me to believe you.”

His tone has an edge of resignation, or… defeat, in it when he replies. “...So do I, star.”

His simulated breath deepens a bit and in the quiet of the room you hear his cooling system kick down a notch due to his shift into physical inactivity. He passes the water bottle into his right hand, his gaze flicking down toward it and then up to you. “Can you take a sip of this for me, please?”

Now that you’ve actually tried to speak and realized how… gross your mouth feels, you take it from him without reluctance and take not one but several sips, greedily downing it as your body finally recognises its thirst.

Settling the bottle in your lap, you shake your head a bit at his offered hand. “I’ll hold onto it for now… thank you.”

You steal another glance up at his monitor and see a small, unexpected smile and kind crescent eyes. “Of course.”

As his hands fold neatly in his lap, you question him. “Is Sun mad at me?”

His expression fades back into one of concerned confusion. “Why do you think that?”

You shrug and take another sip of your water, downplaying your explanation. “…Dunno. Just feels like that sometimes.” You think for a moment. “I wouldn’t blame him for it if he was. Wouldn’t blame you either.”

Moon’s display swivels side to side on its axis, shaking his head in disagreement. “I don’t think he is. I mean… you know Sun. He’s cold. Not as much as he once was, but still colder than I am, at least. Distant. Quiet. But… I don’t believe that he’s mad.”

He shifts, leaning back against the headboard and stretching his legs out across the length of the bed, crossing them as he releases an imitation of a breath. Angling his screen back toward you, he whispers, “You wanna know what I think?”

You nod, eyes widening in curiosity.

“I think he’s just as worried about you as I am. He just doesn’t know how to show it, or what to even do with such an emotion in the first place.”

You frown, your mind automatically finding yourself at fault. “I—I did my best to train your AIs identically… I don’t—I don’t know what happened with his emotional processing—”

Moon cuts you off, redirecting your attention with a gentle hand on your arm. “That’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean to blame you. AIs…” his voice and expression both turn playful, “…we’re a dangerous thing. You never truly know how we’re gonna turn out.” He nudges your shoulder with his, and you fight back a tiny laugh.

A comfortable sort of silence falls over the dark room, and you break it with one more quiet question. “…What’s he doing right now?”

“Same thing as Zero is, actually. Sleeping.”

His features dissipate, display changing as he pulls up an image he’d apparently taken of the dog and the bot sprawled across the couch. You huff a laugh at the sight of the two of them attempting to fit together.

“He told me he was up all night, but wouldn’t elaborate on why. So I wasn’t very shocked when he crashed in the living room and asked me to bring him his cable earlier.”

You sigh and look away, half-amused and half-stressed. The image fades, Moon’s default expression taking its place. You take another swig from your bottle before leaning back and to your left, the pillow behind you sliding along the headboard until you’re pressed against Moon’s side. “I wish he wouldn’t strain his battery like that. Gonna have to bring him in for a premature replacement at this rate.”

Moon nods, humming a quiet concurrence as he raises an arm, carefully wrapping it around your shoulders, your silent request for comfort heard loud and clear.

---------------------------

Neither of you ever got an answer as to what had kept Sun up that night. But, if you’d been able to look inside his mind and see his most recent activity, you’d have found a messy assortment of browser tabs, each one’s title containing the keywords “depression” and “how to help.”

That I would be good even if I got the thumbs down.

You’re settled atop Sun’s lap on your too-small couch, back comfortingly pressed against his chest, legs stretching out across the cushions to rest on Moon’s thighs. He’s the only one out of the three of you that’s actually sitting on the couch properly, Sun instead opting for his usual lengthwise position, one arm draped along the back of the couch and the other wrapped around your waist.

One advantage of his mechanical body is that he can keep his head twisted 90 degrees to the left, facing the TV for as long as he’d like and never know the pain of a sore neck.

He seems just as invested in what’s on the TV as Moon is, and if the repetitive shifts in lighting and audio are anything to go by, you’re willing to bet they’re having another silent argument over what to watch. Too absorbed in the game on your phone to be bothered by the inconsistent ambiance, you brush aside the stray thought to remind them that they could each just watch their own show in their HUDs instead of fighting over the big screen. Their strange insistence on adhering to the “human” way of doing things is something for you to psychoanalyze another time.

You half-listen to the TV as it switches back and forth between what sounds like BBC Earth, and The (ironically named) Learning Channel, taking note of the way Sun’s body warms. His cooling system audibly kicks in, and the creator in you takes immediate notice, the attention to your phone waning as your concern over Sun’s internal temperature rises.

You pause your game, pulling in a breath as you prepare to interject on whatever silent argument is getting him so heated, but they beat you to the punch, their internal exchange suddenly becoming external.

“—Because we’ve seen it before! I already know everything I could possibly need to know about crabs!” Moon’s voice cuts through the background noise and you flinch a bit at its sudden volume.

Sun’s curled fingers splay out flat across your stomach, apparently trying to calm you and argue with Moon at the same time. “It’s not about knowledge! It’s about the implications! The metaphor!”

Moon’s monitor pivots away from the TV and over to Sun, his volume lowering a bit as his optics pass over your form curled against Sun. “What implications?”

You twist around a bit to get a glance at the screen when the narrator says something that catches your ear.

“Our spy becomes the crab's defender.”

The three of you turn and watch as a robotic imitation of a crab serves as a mechanical wall of defense between a vulnerable, soft shelled crab and a hungry stingray.

You feel Sun’s arm tighten around you.

Confused and unimpressed, Moon turns back toward his solar counterpart. “Mhm, that’s lovely, Sun, but what does it have to do with us?”

Sun’s volume drops as you feel his body mimic a sigh. “More than your stupid ‘Thousand Coupons and Counting’ show does, that’s for sure…”

You feel your phone buzz in your hand, the darkened screen lighting up once again and drawing your attention away from Moon’s rebuttal.

“Oh, come on, that’s not even the name...”

Their petty quarrel quickly becomes background noise as your focus zeroes in on the message preview in your notifications.

[ Hey, sorry to bother you at such an hour, but I finally had time to relay your most recent proposed alterations to the client’s requested design… ]

Your stomach drops as you tap to open the message and are met with a bullet point list of complaints and questions relayed from the client through one of your colleagues. You’re grateful that your team has a dedicated customer relations department because if you had to communicate with this particular client directly, you may be out of a job.

Your mood quickly grows sour and defeated as you scan over the list of criticisms, your colleague’s addition of a sympathetic [😕] at the end of their message doing little to soften the blow. You’ve spent countless hours trying to find work-arounds and alternatives to this client's unrealistic requests, the head of your team insistent that you find a way to please them lest you cost the company a “substantial potential profit.”

Clenching your jaw, you fight to keep a level head. You fight the urge to type out a hasty response, one you know would be full of childish, whining complaints about the inconvenient timing and the client’s unrealistic demands. You then fight the subsequent urge to just turn your phone off, and maybe hurl it through a window for good measure.

“Why would we need to know that? When will we ever need to afford fifteen 2-liters of Mountain Dew and ten jugs of Tide on a tight budget?! Who shops like that?!” Sun’s rapidly rising voice is enough to finally break through your swirling thoughts. The sound of your boys arguing, as ridiculous as the topic may be, only adds fuel to your emotional fire.

You fight the urge to cry, and you fail.

Clicking your phone screen off, you curl further in on yourself and press your temple against the back cushion of the couch. Moon’s voice dies down halfway through his retort, his attention quickly drawn to your sudden display of emotion. Sun’s focus falls on you at the same time, his sensors instantly picking up on the shift in your breathing and increase in your heart rate.

Moon’s body shifts, turning toward you and leaning closer as the hand he’d had resting on your knee begins to pet up and down the length of your shin in a gentle bid for your attention.

Sun aggressively whispers to Moon as the hand he’d had resting on the back of the couch comes down to hover anxiously over your head. “You idiot, look what you did!”

Moon mirrors his hushed tone. “What I did? You’re the one being unreasonable!”

You shake your head and clear your throat before cutting in. “This isn’t… about that.”

Sun’s hand comes down to awkwardly pet down your hair as you lean away from where you’d head-butted the couch cushion. “What… is this about then? What upset you?”

You turn your head, pressing your chin against your shoulder to dry the tears that had trailed down and converged there. You internally debate over how to explain yourself before giving up shortly after, opting instead to silently pull the message back up on your phone and hand the thing to Sun for him to read.

He takes in the message’s contents with typical robotic speed before handing the phone over to Moon, an unreadable expression on his display. Moon scrolls back up, reading the list of complaints and releasing a sigh as he hands the phone back to you. “They’re being unreasonable.”

You nod in agreement, releasing a sigh of your own. “Can’t tell ‘em that, though.”

Your words hang in the air as a contemplative silence falls over the room, and it’s then that you idly note that one of them must have muted the TV at some point. With their debate over taste in entertainment quickly drawn to a close, you suddenly feel guilty. “I’m sorry…”

“What for?” Sun’s voice questions over your shoulder.

“Ruining another evening…”

Moon scoffs, his retort lighthearted with a dose of rare sarcasm. “Oh, of course! How dare you interrupt our ‘important’ television debate with your silly little real-world problems.”

You glance at him, cracking a small smile, but it doesn’t last. Sighing, you lean further back into Sun, letting your head fall back until it’s resting on his shoulder. From the corner of your periphery, you see his head pull back and tilt down to get a better look at you.

“It’s not even just this one client, it’s… I mean- it is, but… fighting over what is and isn’t possible… nowadays it just reminds me of how I fought with the team over your designs. Reminds me of all the ways that I let you down. All the ways I failed you.”

You watch a frown form on Moon’s display, and you’re about to apologize for dredging up the past again, but Sun’s hands are quick to distract you. Reaching down and around you, he takes the phone from your hand, moving slowly enough to give you time to resist his attempts should you choose to. Meeting no resistance, he cradles the phone in your lap, and watching over your shoulder, opens the message once again and begins typing out a response.

[ Please remind them that while we are always eager to please, there are certain limitations to what sorts of ideas we can bring to life. Link them to our Product Design FAQ page if you haven’t already. I’ll review their comments and look into potential alterations first thing Monday morning, when our business hours resume. Thank you. ]

Moon’s curiosity got the best of him, leaning across the length of the couch to get an upside-down look at the phone screen. Rotating his faceplate 180 degrees, he hums in approval before leaning back, head slowly completing a 360 and righting itself once again.

Sun’s thumbs pull away from the keyboard and he requests your approval in a low voice. “That sound good?”

You want to ask him why he’s helping you. You want to ask Moon why he isn’t mad. You want to ask them why you’re even still employed, why you even deserve the job you’re apparently so bad at. You want to apologize for everything under the sun.

You really want to apologize for falling into the business of playing God.

But you don’t. You re-read the message and let out a soft, resigned sigh, nodding. “Better than any response I’d be able to come up with tonight. Thank you.”

You raise a hand, tapping the send button, and then watch as Sun puts your phone on do not disturb before clicking it off once more. You point to the coffee table and he places it there, and Moon reaches for the TV remote at the same time. As you quietly readjust yourself in Sun’s hold, Moon offers you the remote with a soft question. “What would you like to watch?”

That I would be good if I got and stayed sick.

Flicking the light off, you make your way out of the bathroom and down the hall. Zero trails directly behind you, the dog insistent as always that you be accompanied on the long, arduous journey from the bedroom to the bathroom and back.

Perhaps, this time she could sense something that you couldn’t, because no more than a few steps into your short trip back, something quickly begins to feel… off. Closing your eyes and coming to a halt in the middle of the hall, you feel your stomach drop as you register the dreaded, familiar feeling of the world starting to spin around you.

Attempting a deep breath, you open your eyes and immediately regret it, disoriented and beginning to grow a bit panicked at how quickly this came over you. Muttering a soft “fuck… not again…” you reach out, placing a hand on the wall in an attempt to steady yourself. You try to at least make it back to the bedroom, but a terribly familiar hint of nausea makes itself known, and you suddenly aren’t sure if you should try for the bedroom or the bathroom.

Your body ends up deciding for you, a wave of lightheadedness teaming up with the dizzying sensation and quickly convincing you that taking a seat right where you are isn’t such a bad idea. As you slowly slide down the wall, butt thumping against the floor, you shakily call out. “Guys?”

Within five seconds, two round screens with wide digital eyes peek out from the bedroom’s open doorway. Stumbling over one another to get out of the room as soon as they see you on the floor, they question you in tandem. “What happened?!”

Clearing the short distance in a few strides to reach you, they both crouch down, one on each of your sides, Zero nervously pacing back and forth between them.

“I… I don’t know. It just hit me again out of nowhere.”

Moon’s faceplate clicks back and forth rapidly, a few degrees to the right, then a few degrees to the left. You close your eyes again, unable to look at him for long. You don’t have it in you to tell him that the motion itself is a dizzying sight. Sun seems to gather as much from his quiet observation, reaching out and roughly pinching the edge of Moon’s display, bringing the lunar bot’s anxious fidgeting to an abrupt halt.

“Vertigo?” Sun wastes no time in getting straight to the point, as usual.

You press your head back against the wall with a quiet groan. “Uhuh.”

“Can you tell us what—exactly—you’re feeling right now?” Moon questions you softly as he subtly struggles to pry Sun’s iron grip off of his head.

“Uhh… dizzy… lightheaded… getting kinda nauseous…”

Sun’s hand gravitates toward its favorite spot—that being around your neck—and since you don’t see it coming, you flinch.

He sighs, thumb finding its home on your pulse. “…It’s just me. You should know by now that I’m not gonna hurt you.”

You huff a humorless laugh in spite of your current state. “Yeah, well, I should know a lotta things by now.”

Sun doesn’t humor you with a snarky response, too focused on the current matter at hand. “Your pulse is pounding. Fast.” He’s quiet for a beat before tacking on a question. “Do you not feel it?”

You scoff. “Of course I do, Sun. I’m just used to it. It’s just doing that ‘cause I’m…” you hesitate, but honesty slips out of you rather easily in this state, “...scared.”

Concern seeps into his voice. “Of me?”

This time there’s a bit of humor in the laugh that he draws out of you. “No, Sunny… not you. Not this time.” You press the heels of your hands into the floor, searching for something grounding. “...It’s this. I’m scared of this. Whatever’s happening to me.”

Moon chimes in. “It’s gonna pass. It always does.” He places a hand on your knee. “And we’re right here. Gonna help you through it, just like always.”

You dare to crack your eyes open again, and find his screen blessedly still, light dim. “Still scares me though… don’t know why it’s happening.”

Sun retracts his hand from your neck. “We’ll figure it out. First priority is getting you situated somewhere more suitable. Do you want to go back to bed?”

You mull it over, wishing your nausea would decide to either get worse or get gone already so you could make up your mind. “I… wanna get back in bed, but… I don’t know if this nausea is gonna get worse or not.”

Sun almost shakes his head, but stops just short of it, not wanting to mirror Moon and make things worse. “You know we have a bucket dedicated to solving that very problem, so you can cross that off of your list of concerns. Besides, if it gets worse and you change your mind, we can always take you to the bathroom, easily.”

Sighing, you allow his reasoning to override your anxious, indecisive mind. “Yeah… okay. That’s fine by me, as long as you’re sure you don’t mind.”

Moon answers for both of them. “Of course we don’t.”

Sun leans back on his heels. “If that was the only thing keeping you, then why don’t we move this to the bedroom?”

In spite of your current state, you can’t help but crack a smile, unable to resist the opportunity to tease him. “Goodness, Mr. Sun. Too eager to even buy me dinner first?”

It takes the solar bot a moment to process the implications of your words, but the way the concerned expression on his face swaps to an empty black screen is enough to tell you that he got the joke—and that perhaps—he didn’t like it.

His voice comes out deadpan as he suddenly stands, distancing himself from you in more ways than one. “Ha-ha, very funny. If you’re feeling well enough to joke around then perhaps you don’t need my help after all.”

Moon grabs ahold of Sun’s ankle as he attempts to walk away, mirroring the iron grip the solar bot had recently had on him. “Come on, Sunny, don’t be like that…”

Sun gives a sharp tug on his leg, but Moon’s grip doesn’t relent. Even without a face nor a voice, you can still sense him silently telling Moon to not test him. You know better than almost anybody that their physical strength is perfectly matched to one another. They could stay locked in a stalemate until their batteries died if either of them truly desired it.

As amusing as it may be to push Sun’s buttons, even you know when something’s about to go too far, so you make the call to break it up. “Ah, let him go, Moon. He’s put up with enough of my shit for one night.”

Moon releases his counterpart, and Sun mutters a quiet “That’s right.” beneath his breath, striding back into the bedroom.

Zero yawns into a whine.

You shakily reach a hand up to pet her and she bends down, slipping her head beneath it. Your voice is something close to jaded when you address the quiet lunar automaton still crouched beside you. “Well, now that I’ve successfully put everyone in a bad mood, I suppose it’s time for bed, huh?”

He’s his usual understanding self when he replies. “I know it wasn’t intentional, star.”

“Yeah, but… I know he’s sensitive. Should really get around to repairing that brain-to-mouth filter of mine one of these days…” You trail off, making an effort to stand, and regret it quite quickly as the world starts to spin again.

Moon’s hands brace you instantly, and a soft request fills your ears as you clamp your eyes shut again. “Let me carry you instead?”

“...Please.”

“Of course.”

The three of you make your way back to bed, and in spite of Sun’s previous statement implying he wouldn’t help you, you notice the way the room is already prepared for you. Bed sheets straightened, pillows situated, lights dimmed as low as they can go. The movie you’d paused is no longer waiting on the TV screen, the device having been fully turned off, and you know that Sun must’ve read somewhere that bright, flashing, moving images on screens can make your symptoms worse. (Who’d’ve guessed.)

He slips back out of your closet as Moon places you down in the center of the mattress, your just-in-case bucket dangling from his hand. His hands settle on his hips after he places it down near the nightstand, still-blacked-out monitor swinging slowly, surveying the room.

“Last time this happened, crackers and water seemed to take the edge off. Would you like to try that again? Do you think you can stomach it?”

He doesn’t mention his (over)reaction in the hallway, and you elect to drop it too.

“I… yeah. Guess I’ll try anything that might help.”

He’s out of the door and off to the kitchen immediately, and back with both items in hand by the time Moon gets you both settled in bed. Moon holds your water and you take the crackers as Sun takes his seat on the other side of you, Zero curling up at your feet. Your shaky hands fiddle with the packaging for a moment before black and yellow segmented fingers hover over your own. You pause, and Sun makes quick, silent work of parting the wrapper. You offer up a quiet “...thanks…” that receives no verbal reply.

A few crackers and a quarter cup of water later, you’re relieved to find your symptoms beginning to ease. It’s no magical cure, but you feel more stable than you did on your own out in the hallway, where you honestly might’ve slept had you been left to your own devices.

Two of Moon’s fingers press against your inner wrist. “Hmm… better, but not back to baseline. Are you still scared?”

You’re quiet for a minute, trying to search for the source of your fear. “Scared… that this is gonna keep happening at random, forever.”

Moon is quick to reassure you. “I’m confident that we’ll work out the root cause of these episodes one day.”

You mumble defeatedly through a mouthful of chewed cracker. “I sure fuckin’ hope so.”

Of course, it’s only once you’re content to let silence fall over the room that Sun speaks.

“You don’t need to fear it regardless. Even if this is with you forever. Because…” he releases a sigh, full of reluctance, but finishes his sentence nonetheless, “...it’s not like we’re going anywhere either.”

A/N: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. I'll be back tomorrow with part 2! You can also find my notes and commentary on this fic right here on Ao3. Links to the playlist and moodboard for [N]MbD can be found on this blog’s pinned post, as well as in the series notes on Ao3. Header Image Sources: x - x - x

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autumnalwalker · 2 years ago

Text

Empty Names - 11 - Afterparty

Author's Note: Sullivan makes largely-accurate-but-crucially-flawed assessments of his teammates, round two. And some more glimpses of what he's capable of doing besides standing off to the side making snide comments. Sullivan may be terrible and kind of creepy, but he's surprisingly fun to write. Word Count: 3,959 Content Warning: Mild body horror.

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost Next Chapter->

There are at least seventeen dining rooms in Bridgewood Manor. From the chandelier-lit and gleaming grand banquet hall whose long table with a throne-like chair at one end that seats dozens to a dim, cozy café with intimately curtained booths for two. The whimsy of tea tables on lilypads drifting across a pond while whole flowers grow suspended in the air contrasted with the stark modernist experiment in black and white and chrome. All are served by kitchens with staff constructed from the purchased memories of expert chefs, bargained as collateral in their youth and collected upon their retirement. Only the finest ingredients stock the stasis-locked pantries, indefinitely preserving the foodstuffs that only a centuries-old sorceress from still-older money could have purchased without blanching at the price that comes from the combination of quality, rarity, and need to transport across worlds.

Sullivan and his friend are sharing their dinner of water, a loaf of bread, a small wedge of cheese, and an apple apiece, sitting on the floor of a never-used guest bedroom.

“My friend, I dare say we struck gold with these recruits of yours.”

“You know that’s practically a pun coming from you?”

“I prefer to think of it as ‘being on brand.’”

“Honestly, I’m more surprised to hear you speak highly of them.”

“I only said ‘struck gold.’ It still needs extracted, refined, smelt, worked, and shaped into something worthwhile.”

“I think you might be overworking that metaphor.”

“No, what was overworked was your inspirational speech there at the end,” Sullivan says, shaking a still-unbitten apple at his friend for emphasis. “Then again, I suppose it’s comforting to hear that you’re still just as corny and over-rehearsed as ever in that department.”

“That was one hundred percent off-the-cuff, thank you very much.”

“That just makes it worse. You understand why that’s worse, right?”

“No,” they say around a bite of bread.

Sullivan slowly shakes his head. Void Without, they’re going to be the death of him one day.

“My advice, drop the speeches. You’ve always done better with the more de facto leadership of being the one to step up and take responsibility for getting things moving than as a formal role.”

“I’ll take your word on that. Heh. It’s not like I’ve been able to learn from experience.”

Sullivan nearly drops the apple. Did they just make a self-deprecating joke about that? Oh, no no no no, changing the topic right now.

“But as I was saying,” he resumes without a trace of fear, “the kids have potential.”

“I’d hardly call Eris and Lacuna ‘kids,’ and barely Ashan.”

“Oh please, you and I are both older than the three of them put together and I married a woman with anecdotes older than the country we do most of our work in these days. They’re kids.”

His friend freezes for half a second, awful recognition flickering across their face. They open their mouth to speak but the moment passes, their expression returns to an easy casual smile, and whatever they were about to say is replaced by “Do go on then. You almost never speak well of anyone, so this should be good.”

That was a close one. Sullivan curses himself for bringing up their age. Is he really that out of practice from so short a time apart? He continues on as if he noticed nothing.

“Well, obviously there’s wizard boy being a proper anchor world mage twisting thermodynamics to fuel spells from a magic system where that shouldn’t work just because it makes sense to him.” He starts rhythmically tossing the apple in the air and catching it again. “It’s not every day you find a mage who actually thinks to make tactical use of his power source’s side effects instead of tunnel visioning on actual spells. Not to mention his capacity for power draw and output exceeds even my expectations. If he can figure out a way to internalize a more efficient channeling schema and diversify his repertoire we’ll have a true rarity on our hands.”

“So that’s it? Just another rare and valuable artifact for the collection?”

“If one wants to set a strong foundation for the sort of organization you’re looking to build then one must needs start with the best of the best to inspire the next generation. He has the potential to be that. And besides,” he rolls the apple down his arm, behind his shoulder and into the other hand, “he’s demonstrated a truly classic willingness to throw himself into the fire to save his comrades. He’s a good fit for you.”

Not that Sullivan or his friend needed the help back there, but the kid couldn’t have known that.

“That is the sort of thing I would have done in his place, isn’t it?”

“More like ‘have done repeatedly.’ Maybe you’ll get to ease off and take turns now. He’ll make a good right hand for you. With me ever as the left, of course.” He begins contact juggling the apple, noting with satisfaction how his friend’s eyes follow it. “The techie meanwhile: adorably spineless. She’ll probably just do paperwork for us all day if you let her, but - credit where it’s due - I underestimated her usefulness when you said you were bringing her on as our fifth.”

“You’re referring to the remote glyphs. She was reluctant to talk about that when I brought it up.”

“Oh she’s definitely not supposed to have those,” he chuckles. “The records of what she was working on before she got sacked were thoroughly scrubbed, but having seen it, there’s not much else it could be. It’s hilarious how skittish she is about anything she’s actually good for, but I’m sure that with the right push she’ll make good clay for you to shape into whatever you want her to be.”

“I’m not interested in ‘shaping’ anyone. These are our teammates we’re talking about, our friends, not a bunch of shiny new toys to play with.”

“Call it ‘inspiring’ her then if it makes you feel better. She’d probably like the clay analogy though. Given today’s revelations and her circumstances I’d be willing to bet she’s got at least a decent theoretical grasp of any transmutation related topic you care to name. It’s an obvious case of someone who doesn’t know who they want to be but knows it’s not who they are now. Show her like you showed me. It should be easy enough; it’s obvious every time she looks at you that she thinks the world of you.”

“Just like it’s obvious she’s terrified of you? Seriously, what did you say to her when I wasn’t around?”

Sullivan clasps his apple-less hand over where his heart should be and gasps in mock indignation. “Why, I was nothing other than my usual charming self.”

“That’s what worries me. You were being antagonistic enough while I was around; I’m not completely blind to how you are when I’m not.”

The apple’s returned to its original hand when Sullivan pulls it away from his chest into an exaggerated shrug. He cheated that particular sleight-of-hand, but that’s one of the perks of being him.

“I was just stress testing them. If they can’t take a bit of light provocation now, how can we expect them to hold up a year from now in a real high-stakes situation with tensions running high? Besides, if I’d really been trying to antagonize anyone there would have been bloodshed.”

His friend sighs. “I know, I know. But for once, could you at least pretend to get along? I really want this to work out.”

Sullivan stops playing with the apple. “I know, and so do I. That’s why I did it. But since you asked, I’ll… show some restraint.”

“Thank you. Building up team trust and understanding is going farther than just learning to tolerate each other.”

Sullivan peels a bit of skin off the apple with his teeth instead of answering. The taste is so-so. Better as a prop than food, especially for one who doesn’t need to eat.

“I notice you didn’t mention Eris,” his friend says after a few bites of their own meal.

“Muscles? What’s there to say? Every team needs its resident brute and she fits the role. Big, simple, strong, durable, and resorts to physical force at every opportunity without thinking the consequences through. But, as they say, ‘when all you have is a hammer…’” He traces a ring around the apple’s stem with a finger and then rips out the core with one tug. “It’s cute though how protective she gets of the techie,” he continues as he tosses the de-cored ring of fruit to his friend. “Pound of gold says the two of them are sleeping together by the end of the year if they’re not already. Muscles will probably be obsolete once the other two come into their own, but she’s a good shield until then and - as we’ve seen - putting her in danger’s a good way to motivate the techie. Not that you would ever do that intentionally of course.”

His friend pauses, apple halfway to their mouth, and gives him a flat look.

“And not that I would either, don’t worry,” he assures them while lazily swinging the apple core by its stem. “Besides, it’s not like I’ll be going into the field with them again anytime soon.”

“You have a lead then?”

“That remains to be seen, but as you pointed out yourself when you got the call for this job, a bizarre accident on a known smuggling route just weeks after a cross-world smuggling ring got wiped out and robbed is enough of a coincidence to be suspicious. I’ll be checking on our lighthouse-dwelling acquaintance to ask him if he knows anything about this ‘pulse’ our sole survivor mentioned. After that I still need to have an interview with said survivor to make sure there aren’t any other details he’s forgetting, sort through the salvaged luggage and cargo for anything incriminating, and grease whatever appendages on whatever politicians in Crossherd I need to in order to get all those pod people out of my garden and back to Culescu.

“Suffice to say, that all should keep me occupied for some time, and even if it turns out to be unrelated to your initial case there should be some positively delicious secrets to be dug up in the course of looking into why this happened. Assuming you want me to find out, of course.”

“Go for it. If there’s a chance something or someone intentionally caused this disaster then we need to know. I’m guessing that ward monitor you had me plant at the lighthouse still hasn’t picked up anything?”

Sullivan shakes his head. “No one’s been in or out of there except us and Cabetha’s crew, and at this point I don’t think anyone’s going to be. Either that or whatever it is they’ve been doing to keep from leaving a trace is even more paranoid in its thoroughness than I thought. I’ll retrieve it when I’m back out there tomorrow morning.”

His friend nods. “In the meantime, I was planning on seeing if I can track down Jero and talk xem into helping wake up the passengers.”

“Xe’s still on-world, last I checked. Let me know when you’re bringing xem by so I can get xem through security. You bringing wizard boy along with you?”

“No, I figure we can let him and the others rest for a few days while you and I wrap things up on this quest.” They smirk a little as they say that last word and Sullivan lets them have this indulgence without comment. “I take it you’re fine with him staying here that long?”

“Whatever faults I may hypothetically have, I have always been an excellent host. I’ll not remove a guest who hasn’t done anything to deserve it. I’ll see to it that the staff keeps him and our other guest from getting lost without me.”

“Thanks. Speaking of Ashan though, any idea what’s with the tattoo on the back of his neck?”

“Tattoo?” Sullivan asks, his surprise nearly causing him to miss the falling apple core he’d just tossed into the air. Barely catching it with his teeth, he pulls it the rest of the way into his mouth and swallows it whole.

“I just caught a glimpse of it when he was pulling his hair back. You were busy with the radio and I think Eris was distracted by seasickness, so I suppose it makes sense if neither of you saw it. It looked like a glyph of some kind. Thought you might have recognized it if you saw it, having lived with Carnette and all.”

Sullivan smiles wide. “Now that is some interesting gossip.”

“Please don’t sneak into his room while he’s sleeping to examine it”

“Fine,” he concedes with a huff and a roll of his eyes.

*******

It’s approaching midnight and - to his own surprise - Sullivan’s been true to his word and not spied on any guests in their sleep. Not for the first time lately, the thought crosses his mind that he might be going soft.

He pinches the ivory candle floating in front of him to snuff out its black flame, dropping the interior of the spherical mirror chamber into darkness and releasing the ghost he’d spent the past half hour cross-examining from the infinite reflection of its corpse. He claps twice and soon he feels the subtle shift in the air from the chamber opening. He gathers up the cadaver and candle in his usual fashion, takes a hold of the silk rope that’s been lowered to exactly where protocol dictates, and allows himself to be lifted out. The pull of gravity returns, a trapdoor slides shut with a soft wooden swish-thunk, a carpet unrolls with a whump, and old wooden furniture creaks as it returns to its proper alignment.

As he lets go to drop into the plushly upholstered chair now beneath him a buzzing electric chandelier flickers to life, revealing the recreation of a nineteenth century occultist’s séance parlor around him. Dark red velvet curtains (expensive) lining the walls, crystal ball (mundane) nestled in a pillow on the table (mahogany) in front of him, ouija board (fake) on one side, tarot deck (fake but good for introspection) on the other, human skull (real) on a nearby pedestal, cabinet of curiosities (fraudulent) behind him, and eldritch communion incense (distressingly real) resting cold and unburnt in a tentacle-shaped holder.

It had been another one of Carnette’s little jokes, setting up this hackneyed facade on top of the actual necromantic summoning chamber of her own design. There was always one of those to go through anytime Sullivan wanted to get into the tools and mechanisms she’d left behind. Daily reminders of her just as constant as the blue metal wedding band on his finger.

Sullivan’s no mage himself - and never could be in this world cluster - but he could still manage his fair share of rituals, especially with the help of his dearly departed wife’s implements, reagents, and grimoires. Using one of the bodies of the Culescun crew members he’d discreetly gathered up while his video feed was off to summon the associated ghost to verify Dis!ma*s’s story had practically been child’s play with the mirror chamber doing most of the work for him. Truth be told he’s feeling disappointed, both at how little a challenge it was and at how little new he learned. Just because the ghost had corroborated the story Dis!ma*s had told them that didn’t mean there wasn’t more going on that neither of them knew about, nor did it mean there wasn’t still something the live one had left out. Never trust a sole survivor. Sullivan’s been one enough times to know.

As he removes the ivory candle from his person and places it in a candlestick he contemplates repeating the process on the ship’s resident flesh-shaper. On the one hand, the other two were just grunts and someone of higher station might know more. On the other hand, it’s not every day he gets his hands on a body with a skill this rare and it had been dead long enough before he got it into stasis that there’s not enough essence left lingering for both summoning and… personal indulgence.

A series of rapid beeps emits from his breast pocket. What to do about that morsel is a decision that will have to be tabled for another time. It was hard to tell with how they blended together, but at a rough guess Sullivan would say about twenty. Roughly twenty people have just crossed the bounds of the perception ward around Lachlan’s lighthouse. More than he’d anticipated - even before he gave up on anyone showing - but not, he thinks, more than he can handle.

This morning it had taken the carriage roughly forty minutes to make the trip from the front door of the Manor to the base of the cliff below the lighthouse.

Alone, Sullivan figures he can make it in five.

He stands and his skin ripples and writhes from that which is beneath it.

Space warps and compresses to a single point in his vision.

He takes a step and is out in the hallway.

Another step and he’s at the far end.

A turn, a step, another hallway.

Cross rooms and repeat.

The internal labyrinth of Bridgewood Manor is not conducive to this mode of travel.

He doesn’t bother waking his friend or Ashan.

Outnumbered as he expects to be, he may do some things they wouldn’t approve of.

He’s faster alone anyway.

And he hates to disturb his friend’s rare sound sleep.

One minute.

He steps out the door into the night air.

One step to the edge of the forest.

Three steps to the correct tree.

He lets himself settle for a moment so as not to confuse the security.

A brief transit north through the dark of the bridge.

Still faster for the master of the house alone than it would be with others.

Rise from the weathered wooden floorboards to stand in an arctic wind.

No longer a storm but still enough to rattle the remains of the old collapsed cabin.

Two minutes.

The twisting beneath his skin resumes.

One step down to the shore.

Practically a leisurely stroll down the winding coast.

Faster than the wind whose bite is but a tickling nibble to him.

Three minutes.

The boom echoes across the water and off the cliffs from kilometers away.

The pillar of fire erupts high enough to pierce the perception ward.

The lighthouse’s last light.

He picks up his pace.

Four minutes.

The receiver in his breast pocket beeps twenty three times.

The beeps are more spread out this time.

He swears and rounds the bend in the coast.

The dragon and the bone ship are long gone.

A single, strained step takes him across the bay and to the top of the cliff.

The receiver beeps once with his passage.

He stands at the base of the lighthouse.

It looks like the door’s been kicked in and then lit on fire.

Five minutes.

He steps to what’s left of the top of the lighthouse. The glowing red metal grating of the widow’s walk bends beneath his weight and begins blackening and cracking the leather soles of his shoes as he perches at the edge of the hollowed out tube. There’s light to be seen down there from the molten stone walls; not much, but enough to show that naught remains inside but swirling smoke and ash.

Sullivan stills that which is beneath his skin before opening is mouth wide (but only humanly so), sticking out his tongue, and breathing in the char on the air. Plenty dead here, but nothing remotely recent. Annoying, but curious. He stands up straight and looks around, taking full use of the high vantage point as he blinks his eyes to cycle through spectrums and filters.

A quarter of a kilometer inland, well outside the bounds of the perception ward, he spots the last fading wisps of a spatial distortion marking a mass teleport. Even from here he can tell there’s not enough left to trace the destination. He gives a whistle of appreciation for whoever was skilled enough to break space that cleanly. Turning his reconfigured gaze back to the burning hole that was once an alchemist’s workshop he notices a previously unseen current toward the bottom. May as well check that out.

Casually, he rolls up the hems of his tailored pants, breaks apart the brittle and crumbling ruins of his shoes, peels off his flaming socks and steps over the ledge. He falls twice the height of the lighthouse tower into the hollowed-out depths of the cliff before the shock of his upright landing sends a boneless ripple through his body. The cavern he’s landed in is low and wide. As above, so below remains nothing but cooling molten rock, ashes, and smoke. Oh, and an entrancingly toxic mix of fumes from whatever alchemical concoctions the fire was meant to dispose of. A shame the fire vaporized the equipment as well. If he could condense this into a cologne the scent would simply be to die for. Not that he’d have many places he could get away with wearing it, but he’s sure it would be a hit in the few that he could.

Alas, he has a job to be doing, so he’ll have to satisfy himself with the short-term sensation of the gases that burn his face and nose just as surely as the floor is burning his bare feet. He follows the invisible current of warping space to the gasping remnants of a collapsed bridge near the wall. Had he arrived any later it would have been gone completely. It’s visible now, up close, refracting the orange veins of light emanating from the wall more than what mere heat distortion could accomplish and gathering the ubiquitous fumes into a slowly swirling vortex.

Sullivan sticks a hand into that vortex, hardly feeling it as his palm is shredded and his nails are plucked. Not passable - no surprise there - and routed through multiple proxy destinations. Clever and thorough, as befits an alchemist worthy of the name, but not so clever that one worthy of the name of Bridgewood can’t get a feel for the general area of the final destination. More importantly, he can feel the last traces of the alchemist’s “footprint.” The man escaped before he set his home to blow up in the faces of unwanted guests. Lachlan always had been the sort of man who’d rather destroy his own secrets than share them. Not quite Sullivan’s style, but close enough that he can respect it.

He withdraws his arm with a smile and massages his wrist while his hand returns to a pristine and manicured state. Now this was a lead. And even better, his friend wouldn’t need to be sad and blame themself for the man dying under their watch. He’d been worried about that when the the two of them first found the bodies aboard the Culescun ship, but fortunately Dis!ma*s’s timeline of the crew having died before his friend even got the call to investigate seemed to be enough for them to compartmentalize and rationalize it all as a success.

But best of all, it had been ages since Sullivan had a proper manhunt, much less one promising to end in a conflict with a large force backed by significant magical firepower. He’ll need to expedite his other plans for the next few days because this is going to be delicious.

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