#patata fic

[il-papa-patata]

Do You Need Me?

Secondo tries to rest after a long day, but can’t stop thinking of his lover and his new baby brother.

Domestic fluff, Secondo x Dionysia (OC), Baby Terzo, pretend parenthood, brotherly affection, big age gap between II and III, I is II and II’s father, Ghost is Ghosts AU

Rated T for sexuality

Cut for space

He stands from his desk, setting his hands on his lower back and stretching with a great groan. It must be around midnight – the candles are nearly burnt out, but the work is done, and that was all that mattered.

He snuffs the candles, shuts away his work inside his desk drawers, takes along his teacup to rinse for tomorrow.

It was the busy season, that's all. And he's glad for the work. But he would really prefer if it didn't take until midnight – he's a workhorse, but this was pushing it. Even his father had commented, lean and resplendent in his new retirement, that it seemed like too much.

But the worst of it was not seeing Nysie. Her whole days were filled – countless appointments with legions of demons – and it wasn't as though he really wanted to interrupt. And his new brother – Francesco; he hasn't seen Francesco since he was born, it feels like.

He could go down to the nursery and stroke his baby brother's hair, sing a soft song- but no, it could wait. He could go down to Nysie's room, find some comfort, some relief in her skin.

But no, he tells himself, you need to rest.

So he passes the nursery. Passes the House of Lust, its never-quiet halls.

He finds his apartment even in the dark. He would know it by heart, the room he's inhabited since he was a babe himself, nearly ninety years.

He sighs.

When it eases up, he would take Nysie out on a vacation. Tuscany. Perhaps even the ancestral estate, down in Sicily. He would take Francesco along, play at parenthood with Nysie, show her a little bit of what she'd always wanted but that he could never give.

It's just right now the work seems endless and without relief.

He sighs again, grumbling. He'd have to make time to talk to Judith and get some sort of spar in, work off this tension, this creeping fury. Maybe if she hit him enough it would feel better.

He opens the door, stepping into the small hallway. They are not immodestly sized rooms – nothing like his grandfather's extensive apartments: Nihil had a fondness for more in all its forms – but there's enough space for someone of his breadth and height.

He sets his teacup in the kitchen, pulling off his cassock, his waistcoat, undoing the throat of his shirt and rucking up his sleeves. When his arms are exposed, he flexes his hands into fists, watching the firm muscles shift beneath his skin. The tension would leave or be worked off. He knows that Petra would reprimand him later what with her slow and gentle dedication to Sloth. “Rest is rest-orative,” she would say.

He washes his face in the kitchen sink, uncaring if he removed all of his paint, just that it was off. The scratch of his bristly hair annoys him as he scrubs black out – he'd have to shave it in the morning, and even that was too much to ask from him, schedule as packed as it is. The idea just irritates him more. He's about to go out into the courtyard and start throwing things.

But it was not a particular good use of Wrath. Even Asmodeus, who tended to be a bit rasher than him, would call it unnecessary. He dries his face on the kitchen towel – groans at the smear of gray he leaves behind – another annoyance. Would he really lay in bed tonight consumed with this? Would this just be life for the next couple weeks?

He scrubs harder. It's already ruined. At least let him not ruin his bedlinen.

He strips completely. He could sleep in his shirt but something about the touch of linen would infuriate him tonight. He's not even sure he wants his bedsheets, or his blankets, or his pillows.

What he really wants is Nysie. Nysie calmed him. She would touch him and this irritation would disappear, she would ask softly if he'd help her please herself, he would lose himself in that. Lose himself at the gentle fingertips against his scalp, the sweet kisses she'd press to his lips and cheeks, all the ways she could touch him without it turning to curdling fear.

But she's just as busy as him. None the least with acting as nursemaid for Francesco – Checco's other father, the one who birthed him, apparently had declined to be the one to feed him. Unlike Domenico, his own father. So it was convenient to have her make a small pact with a currently-nursing demon, being part of the family already and always nearby. She was happy to do it – she had always wanted to be a mother – and it had even made her more popular with the bands of demons that came through her bedroom.

Although she'd always been popular with them. He understands why; if he was how other men were, if he could look at her, at anyone, with lust, he would be lost in her completely. She was just – what a visiting Catholic once described as “unlasciviously sensual”. So sweet-natured and warm-hearted that sex became an almost pure thing with her, with how enraptured she seemed, how every partner was given her full attention and love for that particular romp.

He's told her over and over that she doesn't have to stick with him. That if she wanted to have a child or have a family with someone else, someone who didn't crumble at the idea of being touched, she should. But she would always smile and pinch at his nose and tell him she didn't want anyone else.

He's embarrassed to admit it, but seeing her with Francesco in her arms – his already-beloved baby brother with the love of his life, the light of his soul –

It was just too much.

He wanted – he tried – to give an heir to the lineage. And he tried to have the heir with Nysie. But he just-

He still thinks of the bruises he left on her wrist. She would have let go at any word but no words could come out when he felt- for the first time- blind fear when she touched him. He grabbed- pulled. And she had went, lips parting, eyes wincing in pain. He'd begged her to stop, please-

She had, of course. She was terrified she'd hurt him. She hadn't, but something had, and he didn't want to look too close at it for fear of bringing back that choking terror.

So when time came on – his father was the one to have another child.

But for moments- well, he can pretend he wasn't afraid, and that he and Nysie – beloved Nysie – had had a child, and that they were both wonderful. He can cradle his brother to his chest and coo lullabyes, spin with him until he giggles. He'd been the one to anoint his brother, to welcome him into the fold. At times it was too much. His heart would burst.

He smooths his hands over his face, sighing.

It would be a bit longer until he saw them. This work would get done. Then he would see them. Then he would see them.

He comes into his bedroom and casts the clothing aside, rubbing his face more, working out a small headache that decided to take up residence in his temples. He drifts to the bed – with its comfortable velvet curtains hung up now that it was getting cooler – and-

He startles when he puts his knee down because someone is in the bed-

Oh.

It's a smaller form. Curled around a tiny baby.

The tension dissipates immediately.

Nysie sleeps soundly, Francesco held close into her chest, carefully placed. Her pale hair is loose along his pillows, her face relaxed in sleep. Francesco sleeps easy, his stubby hand pressed against her arm.

The anger evaporates, boils up into steam that condensates back into a burning in his nose, just the edge of tears.

He kneels on the bed, gently shakes Nysie's shoulder.

“Mm?” she groans, twisting to face him. “Mm, hi.”

“Hi,” he murmurs, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice, “How long have you been here?”

“Mmmm, a few hours? Francesco couldn't sleep and I-” she casts her eyes down, “Missed you.”

He pulls up the covers, sliding in behind her, her back to his front. Wraps his arms around her waist. She giggles softly, stroking his forearm gently.

“I missed you too,” he murmurs behind her ear. She shivers and ducks her head, exposing a delicate nape that he bites at.

She shrugs back into him, nuzzling up against him. He dutifully kisses that exposed neck, the lean shoulders.

“I thought you'd work all night,” she murmurs.

“If they made me work all night,” he growls, nipping her earlobe, hands wandering to her belly, “I might just defenestrate someone.”

She giggles again, nuzzling into the pillows as he strokes her belly, her thigh – lifts the hem of her nightshift.

“Do you need me?” he murmurs.

She sighs a pleased note at his fingertips over the crease of her thigh. “Mm,” she sighs, “I'd like to...”

“But?”

“But I would feel bad handing off Francesco in the middle of the night just so we could have some privacy.”

“Give him to Luciano,” he snarls against her shoulder, both his hands up her nightshift, stroking her soft skin, “Man doesn't take his own child enough for my tastes.”

She giggles, fading into a moan the more he touches her, “I think Nico was an exception rather than a rule.”

“Maybe so. But even still.”

She shimmies against his hands, sighing softly. He retreats, resettling the hem of her nightshift.

“I would love for you to lay me out and have me in the middle of the night like a secret treat,” she says, gently stroking Francesco's downy hair, “But I'd just be thinking of this little one.”

“Mm,” he hums, swallowing against the aching warmth underneath his ribs.

Francesco stirs, pressing himself into Nysie's chest and nuzzling gently.

“Ah, speak of the devil,” she murmurs, shifting onto her back and pulling Checco over her, pulling her nightshift down to let him feed.

He marvels, places his hand on Nysie's stomach, props himself on his elbow.

He think to ask many things – does that feel good? Does Francesco eat often? Is she tired? – but he says nothing, instead just watching the muscles of his baby brother's jaw move, watching the gentle smile that passes onto his love's face.

“Berto,” Nysie says, after a moment, “Umberto.”

“Mm?”

“You're staring.”

“Oh.” He leans close, nestling his chin against her shoulder, watching his brother eat. “Sorry. Just curious.”

Her hand comes to his head, brushing her thumb against the brief swath of hair, stroking evenly.

“You can drink too,” she giggles, “If you're so interested.”

His face fills with heat. “No, that's-”

She giggles again, kissing his forehead. “Blushy Bertino,” she sing-songs.

He scowls up at her, but the grin doesn't fade.

He swallows.

Shakes his head, softly.

“Another time. When I can enjoy it.”

Her eyebrows raise, but a smile melts onto her face. “Hm,” she hums, sidling up along him, tucking herself against him. “Once work slows down?”

“I was thinking of a vacation,” he murmurs, rubbing out the heat of his cheeks into her shoulder, “Visit the ancestral seat.”

“I'd like that,” she murmurs, the two of them watching Francesco eat.

“You never came with us when we were younger, did you?”

She shakes her head, yawning.

“It's nice,” he mumbles, catching her yawn. It's been a long day already, and tomorrow would only bring more. But there was this promise now – this promise of their holiday, of just him and her and perhaps Francesco, time to relax.

They'd sleep in. They'd have a lazy, late breakfast every day. They'd walk the gardens of the estate, visit the local town, take a nap if they got sleepy, stay up late into the night, talking like they were children again. She would run ahead of him in the road and turn back, smiling her broad smile, unchanged by time and death, and hold her arms out for him to pick her up and spin her.

He would be with her for a little while.

He drags his hand up to her waist, quietly humming against her skin, her familiar skin.

Funny how just that made all this bearable.

His eyes slip closed, his whole body sagging into the soft warmth of her.

Tomorrow the world would start anew. But for tonight, he's comfortable beside her.

It's all he needs.

[il-papa-patata]

Cinnamon Bread

Swiss pretends to be asleep while Mary feeds a stray cat that came in through the window.

Domestic fluff, stray cats, fake-sleep, oh my god they were roommates, Mary is Special Ghoul AU

Rated T for nudity and sexuality

Cut for space

It can't be later than six am, but he wakes up to Mary speaking quietly.

it's a lovely morning -- a Sunday, which meant doing absolutely fuck-all; warm and summery -- you could smell summer on the air, the smell of grass and leaves; and the sun, shining through his apartment window along the now-rumpled bed. Mary wasn't one for making the bed in the morning, but then neither was he.

Mary was... well, more and more, he was a cuddler. And it was kind of sweet, Mary's long foot finding the inside of his ankle at night, hands tucked against his chest so bent Swiss sometimes worries that he'll break his wrists. The soft sound of Mary's breathing, always with its soft, telltale rasp. The more comfortable he got, the more Swiss might expect him to touch during the night, and wake up with Mary draped over him, or even a few times, wake up to Mary kissing him gently and sweetly before smirking and telling him, "I'm hungry."

But today is different. There's something magical in the air, the way the sun shines or perhaps the smell of overnight rain, or maybe the fact that Mary stands at the foot of the bed, absolutely naked, and holding a cat.

Swiss blinks. Doesn't dare move.

Mary's body is long and lean, although the man isn't very tall -- he's got these thighs, though, and these arms, and an ass that fits in Swiss's hands perfectly. He shifts, swaying his hips as he holds the cat to his chest.

"Well, then," he says, in his articulated voice, a voice that hit certain syllables with just a little bit of force, like ocean waves against the side of a boat, "Let's feed you, eh? Bet Switzy has some tuna."

The cat stares up at him, its long face inquisitive. It's a sleek thing, a swirled tabby, warm brown.

It leans up, and flicks its tongue against his sharp jaw, forcing giggles from Mary. Mary sticks his tongue right back out.

That's... adorable.

Mary chuckles, wandering out of the bedroom, bumping his forehead with the cat's, "You look like a piece of cinnamon bread."

The cat meows, and Mary play-bites the cat's cheek, saying, "You'd be good with butter, Mr. Cinnamon Bread."

Swiss doesn't move. Even though he wants to get up, and come behind Mary and kiss his nape, pull out the tuna for him, say good morning. Swiss lies there, under the heavy cotton blanket, and just listens.

"If I were him," Mary hums, "Where would I put... the tuna."

The cat meows, and Mary says , "Oh, you want down, huh. That's fine."

The sound of little paws on their -- er, his -- hardwood floor. Then of cabinets opening -- it's the one beside the sink, down below, he wants to say. The sound of the cat prancing around.

And then the cat, leaping onto the bed and onto his chest.

Swiss panics for a moment, the cat happily kneading at his chest --

Mary runs in after the cat and Swiss just has to pretend to be conked out.

"Cinnamon bread," he chides, voice quiet, a little edge. Swiss hopes his fake-sleep isn't too noticeable -- he's always been a bad actor outside of dancing, hopes it isn't too noticeable that he isn't breathing right. "I know he's comfy to sleep on, but he needs to rest."

Mary scoops the cat off his chest.

"Very rude, Herr Zimtbrot," he scolds, his voice sounding like it's turned away, "You know I want to cuddle him too, but he was out late last night."

"Band practice," he sighs overdramatically when the cat meows, acting like the cat was asking him more. Swiss is glad Mary's facing away because he's pretty sure a grin is plastered across his face. "Didn't even invite me. Said I should 'spend some time relaxing.' Hmph. Then he's got the fuckin' nerve to come home so sleepy it's adorable, and-"

Mary's voice goes a little soft, quieter. "And it was... nice. To take care of him. He's so... nice to me, so... it was- good, to help him shower. Tuck him in."

It was nice. To come home and have Mary cuss him out when he fell into his arms, but still drag him into the bathroom and run the shower over him. Mary didn't ask if he'd fucked anyone, but Swiss had been ready to say -- I didn't -- even though band practice could turn into a bacchanal real easily. Even though he had definitely seen Copia's arm around Aether and Dew's waists.

Mary had cussed him out the whole time, but he had even washed his hair, thin fingers precise, loosing it from its near-permanent bun. It's still loose and damp around his neck, now, drying in the morning sun.

The cat meows again. Mary must settle on the edge of the bed, perched lightly. Then there's a long moment, his face tightly steeled into sleep-blankness, where Swiss doesn't know exactly what happens.

Swiss feels Mary's lips touch his skin -- just lightly, just right above his eyebrow, the barest little touch.

It takes goddamn everything not to leap up and kiss this man silly. It takes a second everything to keep his face, his breathing even.

The cat meows again, a little more insistently.

"Okay, okay," Mary huffs. "Tuna."

Swiss has to let out a shaky exhale, like the moment after getting offstage. Has to touch the place where Mary kissed him -- resist the urge to flutter his feet like an entrechat, grin like a maniac. Mary might have pulled the door behind him but it wasn't closed all the way, and the cat could barge in again and expose his ruse.

Mary finds the tuna with an exclamation of "Aha." Then the sound of the can opener -- the kind of shitty one he has, but it's better than Mary taking one of his knives to the can (Swiss shudders at the idea of a knife wound while naked, Mary's usual blade sunk deep into his femoral artery)

Mary does come back in, and Swiss has to pretend again to be asleep. Relax your brow, people don't usually sleep with their brows clenched tight, you look like one of the kids in the creche when they're playing hide and seek right now-

Mary lingers, again, perches again on the side of the bed. Takes Swiss's hand where it lays -- keep it limp -- and gently strokes his thumb over the knuckles.

"Switzy," Mary calls.

He's not really sure what to do. So he just... lies there longer.

Mary harrumphs gently. Leans in further. "Switzy-baby," he singsongs, still rubbing his thumb against his fingers. Leans in closer.

It's like he's missed an entrance. Like he isn't sure if he should wait until the next measure or just go in, try to catch up.

"Schweizerost," Mary tuts, and then whispers, "If he doesn't wake up in two seconds I'm gonna kiss him 'til he can't breathe."

Well. That certainly decided that.

Mary's lips meet his. Of the many, many attractive things about Mary, his mouth had to be at least top five of the list. He was a good kisser, a little wild -- when they first started kissing, Mary used to leap right into heaviness, but these days he was slowly edging from gentle little pecks to full, open mouthed kisses. Swiss has to admit it got him going more than anything -- Mary's hot breath, how gradually there was more teeth, more tongue, until they were wanton and spit-stained, the both of them.

It's hard to not kiss back, especially when Mary runs his tongue over the seam of his lips, snakes a soft hand under the heavy cotton blanket to stroke at Swiss's bare inner thigh.

Slowly, Swiss allows himself to return the kiss. To respond to that devilish tongue. To place his own hand on Mary's firm ass, give it a squeeze.

Mary giggles, then, and pulls away. When Swiss finally opens his eyes, Mary is there with a smile that twists his face into something young and joyful, the morning sunlight caressing his sharp cheekbone.

"Good morning, Switzy. Are you gonna sleep in all day?"

Swiss swallows, missing the weight of Mary intensely, "What, do you want me to make you breakfast?"

"Mm," Mary hums, stretching his arms above his head, definitely showing off a little. Mary is very elegantly put together, albeit in a way that looks like he's cut out of clay. Swiss worries a little too much about how much of his ribs he can see at any given time. "Nah, if you're up for something, I can make it. You still look tired."

"I thought you refused to get up early," Swiss says.

"Well, if it wasn't for you, I would wake up at ten. But someone forced me to get some rest last night and now I'm wide awake."

Mary puts on a pair of loose pants -- Swiss's pants, ones that were worn and unwashed -- over his bare legs, stretching up again, showing off those arms but still, those ribs.

"What do you want? Eggs? I could get more dressed and go down to the kitchen and see if Aether's made pastries."

"Eggs sound fine. Thanks," he smiles, sitting up. It's weird to feel his hair down against his neck.

"What are you going to pay me, for my loving breakfast in bed?" Mary grins, sauntering over in a move Swiss can only recognize as a burlesque move, lot of hip-shimmies. It looks very good in the soft silk-cotton of his harem pants. Mary perches again, kind of too angular to be feminine but becoming something else entirely.

"I dunno," Swiss says, smiling and pulling himself inwards to rest his head on one of his knees, staring at Mary, "What do you want?"

"Got a lot of ideas," Mary snarls, a grin spreading along his face, exposing sharp canines. It's unfairly attractive, and Swiss reaches out a hand to worry the divot underneath his ear, to which he gives a huffy little laugh.

The cat strolls in, licking its teeth joyfully. Mary notices his eyes shift away, and he turns-

"Shit," he yelps, jumping up from the bed and scooping the cat up, hiding him from view.

Swiss wonders what to say at this point. If he should play very dumb or just a little dumb, or just come clean that he was awake longer than Mary might think.

"You wanna bring that slice of cinnamon bread over here?" He settles on. Better to be truthful.

The color that rises into Mary's cheeks is very cute. "When were you- when did you wake up?" He sputters, brow furrowing. It looks like Mary might really be mad about this. Swiss winces.

"Since you decided to feed him," Swiss admits. The color only redoubles on his cheeks.

"I can't believe you let me do that!" he whines.

"It was nice," Swiss smiles, "Like a dream. I wake up to you talking gently to a cat, your glorious ass nude in the morning light, like- That's a dream! I've had that dream!"

Swiss doesn't miss the way Mary's mouth twitches up, almost - kind of - a smile. "You were eavesdropping."

"On you and a cat," Swiss says, "And you were so sweet."

Mary turns, harrumphing as he strides to the open window and gently sets down the cat. "I'm sweet all the time."

"Mmhm," Swiss agrees, reaching for the hair tie on his nightstand, pulling his hair away from his neck.

Mary whines, "Aw, there goes your pretty hair."

"Still here, just away from my neck," he laughs, "I liked you taking care of me too. Thanks, if I didn't say it enough last night."

"You said it about thirty times, so you're fine," Mary says, scratching the cat's chin as it prepares to depart again, looking back at him, "I'm still mad at you."

Swiss smiles, rests his head on his knee again, "Will you forgive me if I make you those potatoes you like?"

Mary's face brightens. "Fuck yes-" he schools his face back down, "Er, I mean- You're still going to have pay me for the rest of breakfast."

Swiss laughs and finally gets up. He's just as naked as Mary was, and Mary watches him come over with open lust on his face.

"Hi, big boy," Mary says, kissing the cat's head one more time before it leaves, hopping from the windowframe, "This my payment?"

"Down-payment," Swiss says, pecking his lips before going to pull on a pair of boxers and a shirt. "I'm making you potatoes."

Mary laughs, throws his head back. "Love those deliciously fried potatoes."

"Come keep me company, then, if you want them to be the best I ever made." Swiss pulls him close by the waist, coaxing him over to the right answer.

Mary just kisses him again.

[il-papa-patata]

Cold Earth, Cold Body

Mary visits a familiar place while they’re on tour. Swiss comes along as moral support.

Rating: T

Ghost is Ghosts AU, Mary is Special Ghoul AU, Established Swiss/Mary, mentioned Mary/Terzo, catharsis, gravedigging, mentions of death

It's just a little... detour.

Imperator packed the schedule tight around the Czech Republic, Hungary, Austria-

But...

There's some time, anyway. Just a day here.

Swiss follows behind as Mary weaves his way easy through trees, breath harsh in the winter air. The new winter coat – the Ghouls' standard wool coat with the black-fur collar – flares behind him as he moves, hanging open over his chest.

Swiss says nothing. There's no space to – there's a gnarl of trees, then a brief lash of fence; they aren't hurrying but Mary moves brisk and quick.

There's nothing to say. And Mary's been quiet since they stepped off the train and into that station – an old thing, not as old as Swiss but older than Mary. There's just. A tension.

Swiss knows why, of course, but it's not easier that he knows, and he's really just coming along to help out, although he feels like maybe it shouldn't be him, but Terzo along for this because he and Mary are made of the same stuff and understood each other better anyway-

Swiss focuses again.

Mary stops, teetering in his tracks.

“Ah.”

It's- well, it was a sturdy building at some point. Maybe. Swiss isn't sure, but Mary is, the way his mouth twists into something that's supposed to be a grin but fails to be.

It's this yard – surrounded by an old wrought-iron fence with a chain-link behind it, taller than Swiss. And then – walls, although there are more holes in them than there are walls, marks of graffiti and rubble and the roof all caving in.

Mary is scrambling up the fence before Swiss can think, and then he has to clamber up as well, landing on the other side of the tall fence with a heavy thud. And Mary again is not going slow, but he isn't rushing either, drawn forward by some invisible thread, a line that he follows like a bloodhound after a scent-

They venture inside. Here- rows and rows of old machinery, chairs thrown about haphazardly, some stacked in a pile – Mary moves past them all. There's signs of urbex around, which he thinks is fair – tags and ill-moved furniture and things with dust smeared off them in uneven clumps – but it isn't what Mary is after.

There's this area – solid holes punched in the roof that let in the thin, wintry daylight, but a surprisingly empty floor, all smooth, crack-your-head concrete.

“Ha,” Mary barks, moving further in, back into the corner of the building – the factory, Swiss thinks – to a spot on the concrete.

Now, here, it doesn't look like much. Just kind of a brownish smudge. But Mary is pointing with his not-grin and so Swiss ventures-

“Blood?”

Mary nods, his grin breaking uneven, pointing to himself.

“Oh,” Swiss says, as Mary sits down and lies out on the cold concrete, adjusting himself minutely until the blood form a halo around his head. And then almost proudly, in the way a child might celebrate first tying their shoes, Mary throws his arms out and kicks his feet up.

Swiss can't really find it all that funny.

Mary repeats the unfurling another two times, each a little more impatient, before he lies back fully, going limp against the floor, wet in places where it snowed recently. The sun shines through onto Mary's face – he turns his head away, hand limp on his stomach, almost-

And then turns back, looking up at Swiss and laughing, rolling back up to sitting, every part of him jagged and fragile at the same time.

Swiss takes his hands when Mary wiggles them and helps him up, only letting go once he's squeezed them gently, reminding Mary he's here too. Mary's weird grin falters.

He laces their fingers. Sways close to Swiss, rests his head on Swiss's shoulder.

So they breathe for a moment, in the wintry air, Mary's other hand fiddling with the buttons of Swiss's coat. Mary's hand wanders, stroking up along the seam of the coat-front, into the plush collar, up to stroke Swiss's face gently.

Mary's hands are cold, but Swiss leans into it, looking down at the ferocious man now looking up at him with quiet – but unflinching – warmth.

Swiss kisses him. Just gently. A press of his lips to Mary's, just warm, Mary's breath fanning out along his cheek as they readjust and kiss again.

Mary sighs.

Turns, and heads towards one of the holes punched in the walls, but doesn't let go of Swiss's hand, pulling him along.

They wander the grounds a bit – there's the start of a forest behind the building, with old elms and pines intermingled. There's clumps of snow around, albeit not that many. Most of it’s melted. The sun's warm despite the temperature, but Mary's ungloved hands are colder and colder.

Swiss wonders if he feels cold the same way, like a sunburn on the back of the neck, brilliant and bright. Swiss thinks many things were different after he died, but he can't really remember how he was before his death. He remembers his sister – remembers his carpentry, can still do everything he did when he was alive, still remembers watching over the neighborhood kids but-

He doesn't remember falling sick. He doesn't remember lingering as his skin blackened and swelled, until his body was consumed – he can look at his skin, blistered with the markings of where the buboes sat, and know it happened, but he can't remember a moment of it.

He doesn't remember dying, although it definitely happened.

Mary stops. Grips his hand tight.

At first, Swiss doesn't know what he looks at. There's a sort of depression in the earth, although it's not that noticeable.

But then Mary lets go of his hand and picks up a stone sitting by the dip in the earth.

“Ha,” Mary says again, “Ha- hahaha!”

Mary laughs. Mary laughs and laughs.

It's sharp and barking, but not the way his laugh normally is. This is different. This is worse.

It sounds like he's choking, the laughter worming its way around the usual rasp in his lungs, half-cough.

And then it forgets to be laughter at all. And Mary starts to sob.

Mary clutches the stone to his chest, sobbing and sobbing, heart-rending hiccups and inhuman keening, his usually sharp face crumpling.

Swiss is there. Pulling Mary into his chest, steadying the man. Running his hands down Mary's back, tucking his head into his shoulder.

It takes a little bit. The two of them in this old factory yard, on the edge of this deep forest. The factory is old and broken, but the forest old and whole, still thriving – perhaps like them. Mary just sobs, looks at the stone occasionally, his tears restarting. But eventually he stops, taking deep lungfuls of winter air and wiping at his tear-striped, blotchy face with his cold hands.

“You okay?” Swiss murmurs, reaching up to cup Mary's cheek, stroke at his sideburn.

“Ha,” Mary hiccups, face smeared with eyeliner, “Ha, yeah, I'm okay now. Thanks.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Mary sighs out another deep breath. Looks up at Swiss. Then down at the stone.

“You remember how I told you I died? How I had TB and my friends – my comrades, who I didn't think liked me that much – ha – ended up burying me?”

“Yeah.”

“It was here.”

“I guessed.”

“That brown spot was – I think now they'd call it a lung hemorrhage. I drowned in my own blood while I was sleeping,” Mary laughs, just once, “Fuckin' awful way to go.”

“You remember it?”

“Yeah. Every second. Thinking how unfair it all was. How much I'd miss. How of course I was gonna die from the thing that killed my family but I couldn't have the dignity of dying with them.”

Swiss just strokes Mary's temple again, hums.

“My- friend, Esther. The one I was in love with. She'd tried to sing me to sleep. And she- when she thought I was asleep she told me she loved me, but why would I believe-”

Mary stops. Lifts the stone and settles it into Swiss's hands.

In a brief, but beautiful handwriting, worn with age but still marked on the stone –

Mary Goore. 1863-1890. Our dearest friend and the one who gave us our name – the Repugnants. We lost today what can never be replaced. May his memory be a blessing.

“I spent-” Mary warbles, resting a hand on his throat, “So much time so sure... I crawled out of this grave and I was consumed with the need to go to Italy, to meet Copia, to- to start over. To find purpose. What else had I come back for but that? I was so sure that they all just moved on after I died, that they didn't care. Like they were burying a stray dog.”

Mary holds out his hands for the stone, and Swiss hands it back to him.

Mary sets the stone back down by the impression – no, the grave, worn down and made natural by 130 years of weather, and turns back to Swiss, coming over to him and kissing him again.

This is different.

They'd been together a long time. Swiss was quite proud to feel like – like yes, he understood Mary, and he could get at the man's depths, and they could meld together-

But this is different.

Mary's mouth is warm, and his hands are covered in grave dirt, and when they pull back for air, Mary's eyes are electric, even surrounded by washed-away eyeliner.

Mary smiles.

“Whoa,” Swiss says, pulling Mary close by the waist and kissing him again, a bright thing, “That's a lethal smile, sweetheart. Gonna knock me out over here.”

“Shut up,” Mary sighs, leaning up and lacing his arms around Swiss's neck, kissing him again.

The whole jagged line of Mary is finally – relaxed. One hundred thirty years of them knowing each other and Mary is loose and pliable and molding up along the curve of Swiss's chest, and Swiss is pulling him closer and groans when Mary sags into him.

“Hehe,” Mary giggles, nipping at Swiss's lower lip.

“Hehe,” Swiss replies.

“I wanna fuck,” Mary murmurs.

“Here?” Swiss darts his eyes to the old grave, to the winter-bare trees, to the plumes of mist that haze around their mouths.

Mary also seems to realize this, cheeks fading into a pretty pink.

“You don't want to fuck a dead man? Engage in some necrophilia?”

“Is it necrophilia if both parties are dead though?”

Mary's brow furrows and he focuses on one of the buttons of Swiss's coat, pulling back a bit. “Hm. Is it? Legally?”

“Might be. Laws are weird about us.”

“Damn, ain't that true.” Mary settles back, his cold hands on Swiss's cheeks. “We'll make some bureaucrat hard with this write-up then. Once we get back. It's cold.”

Swiss just chuckles, clutching Mary close again and kissing him some more.

[il-papa-patata]

Not So Scary Mary

You wake up from a nightmare in Mary’s apartment. He’s unexpectedly helpful as you try to fall back asleep.

Mary Goore/gender neutral reader, nightmares, Freshly Washed Mary

T for language

You bolt awake.

The dream tumbles after you, the heat of it dissipating but lingering in the clamminess of your skin, the way your heart pounds. You search for anything – details about the dream, anything to grasp onto, to laugh at – you always laugh at your nightmares after they happen, or at least try to – but this one just lingers, vibrant red and sicking to your skin like sand in all the wrong places.

It's not your bed, and not your apartment, so when you spring awake, you can't reach to the same places you do normally, can't reach beside your bed for the old dog plush you got for your sixth birthday, with its flopsy ears worn down over the years and the nose almost gone. You can't take one of the old-man hard candies from your nightstand and suck it against your teeth until you feel its warm flavor all the way down your throat, some sort of normalcy in the face of terror.

You can, in this place, reach for Mary Goore.

Who is already awake.

He's already half-up, blearily wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. You feel bad – the man barely sleeps as it is, and yet here you are waking him up with something like this-

You forget how pretty he is with all the makeup wiped off.

He looks up at you, hazel eyes almost silver in the darkness, face thin and sharp, lips full and parted. Despite your rude awakening, his expression's clear, face neutral and maybe even a little concerned.

“S-sorry,” you stutter, the heat of the dream clinging to you like spiderwebs, “Just a nightmare-”

“Hey,” he says, resting his long hand on your shoulder, “S'okay. You want some water?”

“Y-yeah.”

He dips over to his side of the bed and hands you a still mostly-full water bottle, crinkled along its edges. He pulls his knees up as you drink, resting his head on one, just watching you drink down some of the cool water. The night's chilled it a bit, and it eases some of the nightmare heat inside you.

You cap it again when you feel you've had enough and try to hand it back, but he just shakes his head, holding up a hand. You put it back on your side.

“You wanna talk about it?” he offers, reaching out and smoothing a hand over your lower back.

You do.

You do- but...

But what would there be to say? You can't even remember the dream – you could talk about how you sometimes just have these nightmares but it strikes you that Mary might think you're being a little bitch about it-

On the other hand, Mary is surprisingly good about this kind of thing. He always has been.

“I just... have nightmares. Sometimes.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, still stroking your lower back, “Anything about?”

“N...no. I don't think so, anyway. It's just... red when I wake up.”

“Red?”

“The color of your eyelids when it's sunny out.”

“Hm,” he hums, reaching his arm around your waist and leaning his head against you. His hair is clean – you washed it yourself – and it's fluffy where it brushes against you, all soft and wiry. “S' a tough one. Are you scared after 'em?”

You swallow.

You don't want to tell him that his mattress is the only thing that feels safe right now, that you had shivered putting down the water bottle, like it was a raft in a great tumultuous sea, as though his hastily thrown-on sheets were going to keep you safe. That even the moonlight outside twists into something horrid, the lamp you've tripped on six hundred times, the display from the old cassette-clock he convinces you still works becoming something else entirely. You don't want to tell him how long it takes you to feel normal back home, how his apartment – no matter how familiar by daylight – is scaring you.

He doesn't say anything when you fall silent. Instead, he just wraps his arms around you and pulls you back down into the sheets, guiding your head down against his chest, your nose against his ribs and your browbone against his collarbone.

“Shh,” he hushes, so softly, “It's okay.”

“Mare-”

“Shh. I've got you. It's okay. Nothing's gonna get you while I'm here.”

...Oh.

How long have you been wanting to hear that?

To not only be soothed but protected. You don't doubt for a second if anything actually tried to hurt you that Mary would launch at it, ready to fight it off or even kill it.

You sag into his hold, worming your arms around his slim waist, pressing your face more fully into his chest. He's warm, and unexpectedly soft despite how bony he is, and he hushes you quietly, stroking your nape slowly.

“You're...” you mumble, “Surprisingly good at this.”

“Eh, yknow.”

“No, really- you're... good at calming people down. And- you're nice.”

Mary laughs. “Well, my reputation gets outta hand sometimes. People don't believe I can be this feral and nasty and still be nice.”

You try to look up at him, face clean, hair fluffy. You knew he was sweet – you wouldn't be dating him or cuddled into his chest in his apartment if you thought otherwise, but-

No. You see it, here in the dark. The warmth of Mary. The little patient smile.

“You like being nice?”

Mary purses his lips, looking up at the window. “Well, who doesn't?”

“A lot of people think you don't.”

“Do you think that?” he asks, burying his fingers in your hair.

“No,” you say, “You love being nice. But-”

“But...”

“...oh. No, I get it now. The feralness is the niceness. It's-”

The desire to protect, to include, to be warm and to laugh – the violence and the trashiness and all that was that. A reflection, a complement to the kindness and the warmth and his barking laughter.

Mary smiles. His eyes glimmer slightly.

“Hmm,” he hums.

You tuck your head into his chest again, suddenly way too shy at that warm expression. It was usually a smile he smiled at you when he thought you weren't looking, but you'd never caught the full brunt of it, not from two inches away, and not with his arms around you and his legs tangled with yours.

“But yeah, I think you'll be okay.” He murmurs. “I had a lot of nightmares at one point too.”

He pulls you a bit closer, cocooning you against him. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm. Got out of a shitty life, but all of it chased me. Drank a lot to try and keep all of it away but it didn't really work. Anything I didn't deal with during the day, I dealt with at night.”

You breathe for a moment. You never know whether to ask more or not, when he talks about times before anyone here knew him, before he popped into the city covered in blood and screaming.

You choose to say nothing this time. If he tells you, he'll tell you.

“They'll fade. I make a mean cup of chamomile, though, if you can't get back to sleep.”

“Chamomile? You?”

“Yeh.”

He doesn't elaborate further, although you want to press it a bit.

But you figure you're wired as it is, and the proof's in the... tea, so you nod.

He helps you up, slowly – reaches over the side of his bed for a discarded hoodie which he drapes around your shoulders. It sits a little weird there, but it's comfortable, a nice protection against the chill of the night.

The two of you move into the kitchen, past his second-ish-hand couch. He has a stool obviously pilfered from some bar against his counter, and he perches you there as he goes puttering about.

You breathe deeply.

His house- well, his apartment- smells like him. Something old, something like dark hair warmed by the sun, the smell of smoke, this faint peppery thing. You never thought you'd get used to it – at its worst it's boldly organic, almost gross – but like this, settling around you and into your clothing and skin, it's pleasant.

Mary sets the kettle going – you didn't expect him to have one, and it's tiny, but it's enough for two cups of tea. He pulls down two mugs – one that looks like it's real china, a delicate porcelain thing, and the other a sturdy, obviously corporate mug for a bank.

You aren't sure which confuses you more.

“You worked in a bank?”

“Mhm,” he hums, spooning a bit of honey into it, “Kept the building running.”

“Don't you have an arrest record?”

“Didn't then. Helped pay for my first move.”

“Huh.”

He takes down a canister – it's beautiful, covered in intricate, sparkling cloth, a little thing. He pulls off the lid, and a second lid, and smells the contents. “Still fresh.”

He puts the leaves into two small steepers – both shaped like flowers – and covers them over with the freshly boiled water.

He leans back against the counter, humming quietly. You can't pick out the tune, but it's something kind of familiar. Most people knew his growl, but he had a perfectly nice voice when he sang.

He comes over to you, taking your hands in his and swaying your hands back and forth, humming softly. It's kind of weird – like he's playing with a puppet or trying to get you to dance – but you laugh anyway, bouncing your hands along with whatever he's singing, placid-faced and jaunty in his little galley kitchen.

“You're cute,” you tell him, and he sticks out his chin, frowning deeply while still playing with your hands.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Imma kick your ass.”

“Try me,” you grin up at him, “You're the one singing love songs and dancing with me in your kitchen.”

He flushes, pouting slightly. “Whatever. Can't even hold my sweetheart's hands without someone accusing me of being cute?”

“You really calling me your sweetheart and trying to convince me you're not cute?”

“Shush.”

“Really though,” you say when he lets your hands go, settling your feet up on one of the bars on the stool, “You're such a contradiction sometimes.”

“Con-tro-dik-tee-on? Whazzat?”

“Don't play dumb,” you smirk, “You aren't stupid no matter how much you pretend. You read those academic texts like they're gonna disappear every time your friends bring them over.”

He purses his lips. “Hey, I'm a high-school dropout, you can't be mean to me.”

“What was the title of the last one? A Critique of Foucauldian Governmentality?”

“I'm frankly surprised you remembered that, but yes, and it was a very good article I will have you know.”

“You seemed super into it.”

“I am a slut for Foucault, so.”

You giggle.

He hands you the bank mug, scooping out the steeper with his fingers. He takes up the fine porcelain cup, and even though it's a bit of a contrast – its delicate, blush-pink glaze and gilt handle matching the still-slight flush on his cheeks and the warmth of his eyes in the quiet light of the kitchen – it's not a mismatch. Mary was like that, you think, just a collection of things that didn't seem to go together but felt natural when they were united.

You bump your ankle against his knee, and he shuffles over to you, standing in between your knees. You sip the tea as he does, commenting, “But I like it.”

“Like what?”

“That you're contradictory. Sweet and violent. Depraved but also-” you reach up with your free hand to stroke his jaw, chuckling when he sags into the touch like an eager street cat, “Surprisingly innocent.”

“You want me to show you that depravity?” he growls, grinning and fixing you with a stare that turns your guts to mush.

“Another time, maybe.”

The stare breaks and his expression melts into a little smile. “Aw, okay.”

“I mean, not that I don't want to fuck in your kitchen at 2:54am, and I don't think you're working tomorrow, but...” You shift, sipping more of the tea, “Still feeling kind of fragile.”

“S'okay, you don't gotta qualify why you're not up for it. All I need's the 'no'.”

He dips his head and rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes and continuing to hum, the pretty, petal-like cup held close in his hands. You think you might want to lean up, to kiss his plush lips, but you don't. It's too late, and the chamomile is working, and your shoulders are slumping. You'd probably fall asleep kissing him.

Maybe another time for that, though. That sounds really nice.

He notices. Of course he does. And without complaint, he sets your cups on the counter and picks you up, cradling you against his shoulder. You feel like a kid again, passed out in the car, the same comfort of being brought inside and tucked in.

He sets you down again on the mattress, huffing a breath when he loses his grip on you. He gently pries the covers out from under you, settling them over your shoulders, batting away your hands when you try to help.

He climbs under the covers too, tugging his pillow closer and shimmying up alongside you, tucking his ankle against yours. You're drifting now, the chamomile and the quiet of his apartment and that familiar scent of him all lulling you back to sleep, but you still feel it when he gently kisses your forehead, smooths his fingers along your scalp, and murmurs, “No more bad dreams, now.”