#so best to just try to weather this on my own. hopefully ill fall asleep soon

[kingdomkome]

.

[perfectpaperbluebirds]

A Darcy Day Off

As promised, I present ~6,800 words of a sick, miserable Fitz/willi/am Dar/cy. I’ve been working on this on and off for an embarrassingly long time so I’m glad to finally clear it out of my WIP folder to make room for new things. But honestly, it was a pleasure to write, and I hope some of you take pleasure in reading it as well!

Definitely he first chapter, and honestly the first 2 chapters are mostly exposition, so if you want to skip straight to the sickfic goodness and reduce the word count, head to chapter 3. But I had fun writing (and worked hard on) the banter and conversation in the beginning, so I opted to keep it. 

( @chezsnez @empresskaze @groundcontrol21 you all asked so nicely, so I hope this is what you were looking for! )

1.

���Darcy, dear, what’s keeping you? I thought we were to meet in the library for tea,” Elizabeth called. She found him still in his study, hunched over the desk. She danced to his side, planting a kiss atop his head. He leaned against her briefly in greeting.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I had more business to attend to today than I’d realized. Just finishing up now.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly, then his nose, trying to be rid of a tickle that had been infuriating him all day.

“Always at your work. I wonder our estate isn’t the finest run in Britain. And here I used to think people of high class such as yourself worried for nothing but amusing themselves all day.” She gently rubbed his neck where she knew he always got an ache when he wrote. He kissed her hand fondly.

“You are of such a class, too, now, my love. And how do you know it isn’t the finest? I’d be willing to wager a year’s salary this estate could be measured against parliament’s own estates and be proven worthy, if I have anything to say about it.”

“You pour your very soul into all that goes on here, and it’s one of the many things I adore about you. I am proud every day to be the mistress of such an estate. Only I wish you wouldn’t work so hard and take more time to enjoy the fruits of your labor.”

“Are you accusing me of ignoring you, dearest? Only say the word and I would throw all my responsibilities to the winds and devote myself fully to your entertainment.” 

He kept his tone light and playful, teasing her, but looked at her closely even as he did. Had he been neglecting her too much of late? He had had several pressing business matters on his mind these last weeks, and he knew he had been at his desk more than usual. Lizzie had not complained of course, and had been nothing but supportive and helpful, but the last thing he would ever want to do is make her doubt where his priorities lay, namely that she was foremost in his mind and heart, and in all things.

“Not at all, for you well know I’m quite fond of my own company. However, I can't help but worry about you. You put too much responsibility on yourself; you are positively careworn these days. I only wish your more lighthearted side could see the light of day now and again, and not just when we’re alone.”

“I am my truest self when I’m with you.” He kissed her hand again, then rubbed his nose. “I will always struggle being lighthearted while working. The two have never gone hand in hand in my experience; gravity and soberness were expected whilst doing business in my growing years under my father, and others. All the more reason I have need of your influence.” 

She kissed his head again. “Very well, I accept the mantle of helping you find levity in your working hours. If only so that the strain you put on yourself will not affect your health. You put on a casual, careless demeanor in public, but I know better. You bear the weight of the world on those broad shoulders of yours, and that is a burden no man is meant to carry, even by his own choice. So come now, and join your wife for tea. The letters can wait another hour or so, surely.

“Indeed they can.” He stood and stretched stiffly. The chill winter wind howled outside and the sound made him shiver, glad for the roaring heat from the fire nearby, and in every room in the house as he moved to escort his wife to the library. 

~~~~~~~~~~

The couple spent a pleasant hour or two in their favorite room in the house, chatting warmly at times, and sitting in comfortable silence at others. The relentless wind made Darcy feel sleepy and lazy, and he wanted nothing more than to take his wife’s advice and take the rest of the day to relax. He would have been content to remain here for the rest of the evening with his favorite person and simply read and chat and perhaps nap. But he had two more letters that needed to make the post tomorrow, and if he did not finish them now, he never would. He stood quietly and brushed his lips across his wife’s cheek. She nuzzled back, then watched as he lingered before the library fire longer than necessary, warming his hands and rear.

“Are you all right, my dear?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. I’ve developed a slight headache is all, and it makes the task of my remaining letters all the more daunting.”

“I can imagine. I wish you would take a day off sometime soon, so that you may rest for longer than a few hours at a stretch. I believe it would do you wonders. Winter is generally a time for peaceful contemplation, but it’s been a frenzy of activity for you these past months. You are overdue for some leisure, my love.”

“You are right, as usual. Sometime very soon, dearest, I will take a week or two off and we will spend all the leisurely hours together you could wish. Perhaps we’ll even have a romp outside in the snow. Within the next month, once this mess is more or less cleaned up. Would that suit you?”

“It would suit me very fine indeed. While you could never be accused of neglecting me, I have been missing my husband of late, most especially his smile. That has been the most absent part of you.”

“For that I am sorry. I don’t like to bring my business affairs into our life together. My lovely, patient wife. You are too good to me.

“Well and I could say the same of you, so there. Enough of that. Come kiss me again, then go to your work before you fall asleep standing up.”

“As you command.” He was truly in danger of this, as he felt his lids growing heavier all the time, so he forced himself to move away from the pleasant heat, going to her side and kissing her fully this time, savoring her sweet lips before reluctantly pulling away. “Away I go. See you soon, darling.”

 Mr. Darcy could not rid himself of the clinging fatigue for the rest of the evening. His remaining letters took longer than usual, and he knew they were not as well done as they ought to be, but at least they were done. When they were finished, he tossed his pen aside eagerly and stretched his stiff neck. Perhaps he should take those leisure days sooner rather than later. He really hadn’t been feeling his best lately, and the wintery weather that had had them in its grasp for weeks certainly wasn’t helping. Also, he missed his wife, though he had just seen her. He missed spending time with her, and not just in stolen hours here and there. 

Right now all he wanted was to curl up beside her in bed, and talk of sweet nothings, and perhaps make sweet love. Hopefully that would help shake this irritating headache. Yes, they were long overdue for quality time spent together. He would make arrangements for some time away immediately, hopefully as early as a fortnight from now. The thought immediately made him calmer as he finished up a few small things, then hurried to find her and begin the more pleasant part of the evening.

2.

“Heh-KERRR-CHOOOOO! Heh- heh- KITSHHH’CHOOOO”

A bellowing sneeze startled Elizabeth from her book the next morning, and the even louder one that followed caused her to go investigate it’s source. To her surprise, following the sound of the miserable sniffles led to her husband’s study, where she found him ineffectually wiping his dripping nose with an already-damp handkerchief. 

“My dear Mr. Darcy, is that you making all that racket? My heavens, bless you! I don’t know as I’ve ever heard a sneeze so resounding in all my life. Were you holding it in all morning for it to grow to such a volume?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he sniffled sourly. “It was merely a sneeze.”

She quirked an eyebrow, amused. “I would beg to argue. You sneeze particularly violently, my dear. Likely because, as I noted, you hold them in until you can’t anymore.”

“Well, since you are evidently the expert,” he muttered as he pressed on with his work, coughing softly. 

She rarely saw this severe, prickly side of him these days, and this, more than anything else, concerned her and made her know he shouldn’t be teased at present. He really must be feeling poorly. She moved to his side and pressed against him as she had the day before, rubbing his shoulder. He did not respond, physically or otherwise.

“You are unwell, my love. You should go take some rest. You quite look as if you have gotten the wrong end of this cold of a sudden.”

“I am fine. Don’t worry yourself. I am only in need of some tea and I shall be quite well.”

“I’d be happy to fetch you tea, but I’d be happier to fetch it for you in bed, or at least in your chair in the library. I fear these large windows will do you no favors with the draft.”

“I have many things I need to see to today. I cannot take time to rest. And all my files are here in the study. I haven’t been ill since I was a boy. I’m certainly not going to be ill now.”

Lizzie sighed and shook her head at the foolishness of males. “Have it your way, then. I’ll see you get some tea. Was there anything else you’d like?”

“Just a scone or two. Thank you, dearest.” He finally turned his gaze to her, and she saw true gratitude there, despite the reddened, watery eyes and dripping nose. “And forgive my rudeness when you came in. You startled me, but I should not speak to you like that. Please forgive me.”

“Of course you’re forgiven, and I am sorry I startled you. You know I only worry about you because I love you.”

“As I love you, my Lizzie.” He coughed wetly into his handkerchief. “Now please, if you’d leave me. I really do have much to do, and you are ever my truest distraction. I will see you this evening. And please know, I am doing all this so that we can have our time together very soon.”

“Yes, my dear.” She sighed softly and made her way out, stopping one of the servants to request her husband’s tea and scones. She gave explicit instructions for the type of tea and what was to be in it, things to soothe an aching throat and ward off fever. If he wouldn’t have a care for his own body, she would be forced to do it for him. She only hoped he would see reason sooner than later and take himself off to bed before he caught his death in that drafty study.

~~~~~~~~~~

Of course, Darcy was endlessly studious and conscientious, not to mention stubborn, and so he stayed in his study, or was running around with different servants and community members all day. He did his best to conduct his business as excellently as ever, despite how very unwell he was beginning to feel.

When their paths would cross later in the day though, she could see he was flagging. His cough had become quite the nuisance, and his nose and lips were raw and chapped. Dark circles began to show under his eyes, vivid against sickly pallor. Every now and again, she heard a massive, wet sneeze disturb the air from wherever he was. She gave him sympathetic smiles and little encouragements whenever she could, but what she truly wanted was to see him to bed and tend to his every need there. The misery on his face made her ache for him. If only he wasn’t so proud. And yes, stubborn.

She was quite relieved when he joined her at their evening meal, wearily announcing he was done working for the day, and she told him such. He was quiet and withdrawn for the remainder of the evening, aside from his frequent sniffles and coughs, and the occasional explosive sneeze, which never failed to make her jump, even as they became more and more frequent. 

Taking his lead, she also said very little, reading exhaustion in every line of his frame, especially as his sneezes and coughs harshened. If she had been another woman, and he another man (indeed, her parents came to mind), she would have said again that she wished he would take the day off tomorrow. But it was not in her to nag, and if she had he would only have become angry, or withdrawn completely. She had said her part this morning, and she knew he had heard her and remembered. What he did from here was his choice alone. 

She watched him unobtrusively as he dozed by the fire that evening, feeling such love in her breast for her dedicated, hardworking husband, but no small amount of worry either. They had been married nearly three years, and she had never once seen him ill. She hoped it was truly only trifling, as he kept insisting it was whenever anyone asked. 

They went to bed earlier than usual, her feigning equal tiredness for his sake, so he wouldn’t feel he was being a burden. But indeed, all she wanted of the rest of this day was to lie beside him in bed, perhaps rub his back, and just be near him for whatever he needed. To her delight, that is exactly what happened. He said very little, and asked for nothing, stifling sneezes now and again even as his frequent, chesty coughing fits worsened, but merely lay beside her and let her rub away at his aches and chills as he fell asleep.

3.

Darcy and Eliza were both early risers, and both loved to greet the day while it was still fresh and full of promise. Being the man though, Mr. Darcy was always up and about before his wife, for it took him far less time to dress, and there were several things he liked to see to before breakfast, though he never neglected to kiss her goodbye as he left.

Imagine her surprise then, when the next morning found him still soundly asleep beside her when her maids came in to help her dress at their usual time. The sound of their arrival woke her, but her poor husband hardly stirred. She hurried out of bed, calming the poor, startled ladies in hushed tones, assuring them they had done no wrong. They helped her dress and fix her hair simply and comfortably before Elizabeth shooed them out again, saying she wasn’t sure what they should tell the other staff, as she had no idea what mind her husband would be in when he finally woke. 

Lizzie sighed as they left. Now it would be all over the house that he was sick abed, and who knew what other irrepressible rumors. He would hate that. However, at present it was the truth so he would just have to deal with it whenever he woke. In the meantime, she picked up her book and read in the chair by the fire, wanting to be close when he woke.

That turned out to be shortly thereafter. He first began to toss and turn a bit, then he started to cough, then he nearly made her jump out of her chair with one of his tremendous sneezes. 

“Heh -KER- CHUUUUHHF!” The noise was thick and miserable-sounding, more than hinting at painfully clogged sinuses and a raw, scratchy throat. While he was mopping the mess from his face with his handkerchief, his lungs decided to take their turn at clearing themselves as well, and he erupted into a series of wet, strenuous coughs. 

She made her way to his side during this sad display, gently stroking his tousled hair as he quieted. He groaned softly when he was able and pressed into her embrace, still holding the handkerchief to his nose, eliciting a cluck of sympathy from his wife at his sorry state.

“My poor dear,” she murmured. “Your health is much worse this morning.”

“Mby head is like a lead weight od the pillow,” he croaked. “Fatigue weighs dowd mby limbs dreadfully.”

“Then you will not work today?”

“Mby wise wife advised that I look after mby body more, and today mby body tells mbe I must rest, so rest I shall,” he murmured sleepily. “As long as you’ll keeb mbe company?”

“I would love nothing more. This is perhaps not the leisurely day we had hoped for, but I’ll accept it just the same." She tenderly caressed his cheek, frowning as she felt it. "You are terribly feverish, darling." Yet she hardly needed to feel, for just by looking at his flushed, sweaty face and seeing him shake with chills, the fever made its presence known.

"And yet I'mb chilled to the bone. I had forgotten how beastly udpleasant it is to catch cold," he rasped with a thick sniffle.

"Indeed, it makes one feel for your poor sister all the more. It seems she is laid up with a cold every other week. Now, how does tea appeal to you? And perhaps some food? You hardly touched supper last night."

"Tea would be lovely. Mby abbetite still eludes me however. But, if only to please you, I would try sumb toast and an egg."

Lizzie had servants running for his requests in short order while Darcy tended to his nose, blowing it over and over, soaking through more than one handkerchief. His tray was delivered in record time. Seeing it arrive, Darcy slowly levered himself to a sitting position, pressing a hand to his temple.

"Mby head is throbbi'g," he mumbled.

Elizabeth pressed the cup of tea into his hands, looking sympathetic. "Drink some. It may help your head."

He did as he was bid, drawing his knees to his chest like a boy as he drank while she rubbed his back. However, another tremendous sneeze almost made him spill the whole thing. 

“Ah- ah- KITCHSHOOOOO! Ugh…” He sought his handkerchief desperately, and when Elizabeth handed it to him, he pressed it harshly against his streaming nose to stem the flow, groaning as he did. Elizabeth hastily took the teacup from his again, for it seemed in danger of being upended at any moment.

"Bless you! My poor dear, what can I do for you? Besides keeping a stack of handkerchiefs here for your poor nose."

"I would ask you to help mbe dress in a few moments," he said, his voice muffled behind the fabric as he tried to rub away the headache between his eyes. "While I will be as quick as I cad, I must speak to mby steward and give hib sumb idstructions for mby absence."

"Can you not write him instead? I fear for you going out in the cold, lest this settles in your chest."

"Mby head aches too miserably to do a probber job with writing. I fear I would forget somethi'g crucial. Ndo, I'll quickly  go dowd and speak to hib, and thed I'll return. Ndo going outside for mbe today, never fear."

She sighed and nodded, knowing he would not be dissuaded. "At least finish your tea and try some egg before you go so you don't collapse on the stairs."

"I'mb far from collapse mby dear, I assure you." His general appearance said otherwise though, as he had been miserably coughing into his handkerchief throughout the whole conversation, and had yet to stop shivering. However, she held her tongue and served him breakfast instead. 

Lizzie saw he made an effort to eat as much as he could, and though it was only a few bites, she was slightly placated. She knew he would not relax until he had set what affairs he could in order. So, after his tea was gone, when he rose and began to dress, she assisted him, for she realized the sooner he left, the sooner he would return.

"I'd rather not ri'g for mby valet, as I'd be worried I would sdeeze on hib," muttered Darcy, looking embarrassed as she straightened his jacket while he futilely tried to blow his nose, which only served to make him cough yet again.

"It's no trouble at all, dear. Only please hurry back. I truly worry for that cough." 

"I'll be back under your watchful eye as quick as I cad, dearest," he murmured, grazing her ear with his lips as she slipped an extra handkerchief in his pocket. With that, he was gone, his boots thumping down the hall wearily.

~~~~~~~~~~

Time dragged as she waited for him. While she knew he could take care of himself and she didn't need to be here the moment he returned, she also knew he would want her to be. Her husband was a strong man, but at times like these, he depended on her, and she was not about to disappoint him. So, while there were plenty of things she could have seen to around the manor herself, she waited in his sitting room with her needlework, keeping the fire high. 

Finally she heard him in the hall. She rushed to open the door as he shuffled in, looking spent. 

 "Darcy dear! I expected you an hour ago!"  she said, helping him shed his coat. Suddenly she felt his shoulders hitch under her hands as his breath scissored:

"Ktt-tsshhEEW!" The wet spraying sneeze was his response, only partially stifled by the sodden handkerchief he held. She blessed him worriedly as he again mopped his face.

"I'mb sorry, dearest," he finally managed. "I was stobbed many tibes between mby study and here to answer questions. I cabe as quick as I could."

He fell wearily into the chair nearest the fire with a deep groan and a deeper cough. He bent to try and remove his boots, but his efforts were hampered, as his nose streamed dreadfully if he bent over. He had to keep a hand pressed to his face as he tried to undo the fastenings with the other. 

Elizabeth knelt in front of him and gently pushed his hands away, loosening and removing the boots herself as he leaned back in the chair, sniffling wetly. 

"Thagk you, mby love," he croaked. 

"Here, have some more tea, I've just had Mary bring some. There, now what suits you best? Shall we cover you warmly and sit here by the fire, or would you like me to fetch you some soup? I won't ask if you want to call for Dr. Bishop yet since I know what you'll say, though I have half a mind to."

"There's ndo need for the doctor," replied her husband. "Whad I most want right now is to lie dowd and sleeb sumb few hours yed. Mby mind is sluggish. I cad hardly grasp on a thought except how exhausted I amb."

"Then take my arm and let's get you to bed, poor man. I imagine some more sleep will do wonders for you."

"I don't need help walki'g mby dear, I'm not invalid, only full of cold." Even still, he took her proffered arm as he stood and rested a hand on her shoulder warmly as she led him to the bedroom.

"That may be, but I'll see you there myself just the same to make sure there's no distractions along the way." She kissed his hand and caressed it fondly as they made their way to the bed. She helped him remove all the clothes she had helped him don not long before and replace them with his nightshirt. While he clearly needed to sleep, he also seemed loath to let her out of his sight. He remained sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment with her pressed against his side. She scratched his back fondly. 

“You should lie down, dear. You’re more asleep than awake.”

Instead, he wrapped his arms around her unexpectedly, burying his face in her abdomen with a weary sigh. Elizabeth was slightly startled, but gladly reciprocated the embrace, burying her face in his hair. Her husband was an affectionate man, but not usually physically so. This gesture from him, while not at all unwelcome, was unexpected. 

“I feel terrible,” he groaned, barely audible, leaning most of his weight against her. “Mby body runs amok with mbe.”

“So it seems. I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t wish this cold of yours on anyone.”  

She held him for a few peaceful moments. Just as she was about to again suggest he lie down, for it seemed he was in danger of falling asleep against her, his back twitched violently and he tried to pull away.

“heh-GIHH’CHOOOO! Hehht-kk’CHOOOOOF!” 

Neither had time to react as poor Mr. Darcy sneezed thickly, his face still pressed against his startled wife. She couldn't suppress a little gasp as he pulled away, stammering apologies and wiping his traitorous nose. 

She was silent a moment appraising the state of her dress, then an unladylike snort of laughter escaped her, sending her into a little fit of giggles even as she comforted her overwrought husband, pressing him gently back against the pillows. 

“It’s all right, my love. Such things happen. ‘Tis only a dress, and I have plenty more. It seems neither of us are coming away from this cold of yours unscathed. But there now, you’re completely spent. You can hardly keep your eyes open, red as they are. Take some more rest, my love.”

“You’re too good to mbe,” he croaked, fighting against his heavy eyelids but already nearly asleep, the handkerchief still in his limp hand on the bed.

She reached out, caressing his face and brushing hair from his brow. “No more of that. Close your eyes and sleep, for how else do you expect to get better?” She clucked her tongue softly again. “You really are painfully warm, poor man. It is most worrisome,” she said, more to herself than him.

“I’ll be alright,” he mumbled, the last word turning into a snore as he finally gave in to the needs of his body.

~~~~~~~~~~

4.

That was to be the last interaction Mr. Darcy would remember for quite some time. He fell into a deep sleep then, and everything that happened over the next few days would be blurred flashes in his mind at best, hazed by illness and fever.

Of course, the same could not be said for Elizabeth. After he fell asleep, she left him and tended to some of her duties around the manor (after changing her gown, naturally). She did not want to hover in the sickroom, both for her sake and his, so she forced herself to stay away for several hours, knowing he would ring if he needed something.

Still, in the late afternoon she returned, unable to stay away any longer. He was exactly as she had left him, snoring softly. He didn’t seem to have moved at all in his sleep, which was most unlike him. She again went to feel his forehead, sensing something amiss. He was much warmer than before. A knot of worry pulsing in her heart, she tried to shake him awake. He opened his eyes and seemed to look at her, but she could tell he wasn’t truly awake, and didn’t respond when she spoke to him, only grunted and coughed, trying to roll over and sleep again. 

Without further ado, she sent for Doctor Bishop, pacing the halls outside Darcy’s rooms until he arrived, wringing her hands in worry and opening the door to check on her husband every few minutes, to ensure he got no worse.  

The doctor arrived quickly, heading right into the sickroom. He did a thorough examination, listening to Mr. Darcy’s heart and lungs, checking his pulse and 100 other things. Darcy woke briefly a few times, but only managed answers of a word or less before he dozed off again. His large frame looked somehow both bigger and smaller than it should, curled up limply on the bed, with only his breathing as evidence of life. After he was through, the wise doctor scrutinized his patient, deep in thought. Elizabeth remained silent, waiting with baited breath. Finally the doctor turned to her. 

“You said he’s been overworking himself and run down lately, yes?”

“Yes, doctor. Business has been troubling him of late.”

“Hm. So it seems. Well, overall his vital signs are normal for a man with a cold. I see nothing overly alarming, excepting the high fever. That is a touch worrisome, but can at times be seen in such cases. No, I don’t fear any illness has befallen him except what you’ve said, a bad cold. I think he’s simply exhausted, and this cold has caught up with him and brought everything down at once. I’ll wager the fever will subside in a day or two, and the rest in the days after that as long as he gets the rest he sorely needs. I shan’t prescribe him anything except what he already has here with you, Mrs. Darcy. Let him sleep as much as he wants, keep him hydrated and don’t cover him too warmly, and I think this will run its course soon enough.”

It was as if great weight fell off her shoulders as he spoke. “Oh, thank you doctor! Indeed, I shall do just as you say, and make sure he does as well.”

“Please do. The stubbornness of the Darcys is well known to me, for my father and his father have been treating this family for generations. I’ll come round to see him every day until I’m satisfied he’s on the mend, if that suits you.”

“Oh, yes please, and thank you kindly. You have my deepest gratitude, sir.”

“My pleasure, madame. Until tomorrow.” He tipped his hat and was gone.

With a huge sigh of relief, Elizabeth collapsed on the chair at her husband’s bedside. After a moment, she found his hand under the quilt and held it, needing to feel his touch, even if in unconsciousness. After a moment, he unexpectedly squeezed it. She looked up to see his eyes were fluttering closed, but his face was angled toward her now. She took a moment to appreciate that fine face, though currently his nose, cheeks, and eyes were matching shades of red against the sickly pallor over the rest of him.

She sighed and softly kissed his hand. “Get well soon, my dear.”

He certainly took his time doing so, or so it seemed to Eliza. Either she or Georgiana were at his side at all times. He slept constantly, barely waking even to drink water. He spoke hardly at all and asked for nothing. He would intermittently shake with chills, or else sweat profusely. He sneezed in thick, messy fits, several at a time, but then would go hours between, until the sensation again overpowered and woke him. He coughed more often, since that it seemed he could do even as he slept. 

Yes, he slept, but he was overall restless. Noise in the room roused him. He stirred when he was touched. He stirred when he coughed. He woke when he sneezed. His sleep didn’t seem peaceful, which was perhaps why he never fully woke, because he wasn’t fully resting. 

The first night, Elizabeth slept in her own rarely-used bedroom (she much preferred sharing his), wanting him (and herself) to rest as much as possible. The second night though, she was achingly lonely, missing his touch, his voice, and his smile. So, she crawled into her usual place beside him in his bed, pressing herself against him. She found herself cold, as she had been since he was ill from the worry, so his warmth was more than pleasant. 

She herself relaxed immediately as soon as she was against him, but more surprisingly, so did he. He didn’t wake and hardly stirred when he felt her, but his breathing quickly deepened and he relaxed more fully as they rested against each other. Basking in the sensation of enjoying one another’s touch, they both slept the whole night that way. 

~~~~~~~~~~

More than 48 hours after he first fell asleep, Darcy finally woke up completely. Naturally, it was a sneeze that did it. 

“Heh’gihh’CHUUUHFF! AHHGK-CHOOOF! … ow….”

Something in the tone made Lizzie turn. She had been sitting facing the fire with her needlework, but glancing at the bed, she saw her husband sitting up, one hand to his temple, the other wiping his nose, and looking aware of his surroundings for the first time in 2 days. She dashed to his side, feeling his forehead at once.

“Bless you, dear. My, but it’s good to see you awake! Oh, and your fever is much decreased, how wonderful! How do you feel? Is your head hurting you? Here, drink some water, the doctor said you’re likely dehydrated…”

She wanted to prattle on, but she saw he was a bit overwhelmed, so she forced her tongue to be still. She gently grasped his hands, to calm him as well as herself, and kissed them fondly. She then handed him a glass of water, and he drank gratefully as she looked him over. He seemed a bit better, but he continued to look around in a dazed way.”

“Have I been asleeb long?” he finally rasped, his voice totally gone, and still stuffed tight with congestion.

“I would say so. It’s been two days darling.” She did her best to keep the worry and accusation out of her voice. He couldn’t help that he’d been ill.”

“Two days?! Good heavens.” He fell back against the pillows with a groan and a cough. “Ndo wonder I feel so sluggish.”

“Yes, but it seems you needed it. The doctor has been out every day, and he says you were suffering from exhaustion. Your body was taking the rest it sorely needed.”

“So it seebs.” He rubbed his eyes wearily.

“How are you feeling? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Sumb better, I thingk,” he said with a wet sniffle. “Less fevered. I am still weary, and will sleep another night soundly through, but I hope I’m on the mend now.”

“As do I.” She kissed his hand again, squeezing it tightly.

~~~~~~~~~~

5.

Mr. Darcy was indeed on the mend. He was moving about his rooms freely the next day, and 2 days after that, he was allowed by the doctor (and his wife, grudgingly) to resume his duties, though at a reduced basis, for his cough still lingered, along with some fatigue. Yet he was incredibly cheerful to be leaving his rooms, and everywhere he went, he had a spring in his step.

That same day he was freed found Elizabeth curled on the settee in her rarely-used personal sitting room, wrapped in a coverlet and trying to read. However, her dripping nose and throbbing headache prevented her from making much progress in the story. 

A barking cough burst out of her against her will, making her drop her book. With a feeble groan, she reached down to retrieve it, holding a handkerchief to her streaming nose. She had known she likely wouldn’t escape catching her husband’s cold, but that didn’t make it any less unpleasant. However, she was not about to spoil his first day of freedom with her own illness, so she was hiding here to avoid him as long as she could.

Just as she was thinking this, she heard his boots in the hall, and she suppressed another groan. He knocked softly, then peeked in the door, looking happy as well as confused when he saw her.

“Mary said I might find you here, but I thought she must be mistaken. Whatever are you doing? I was hoping to meet you for tea.”

She took a breath to answer, but instead the urge to sneeze snuck up on her. She shoved her elbow against her face, turning away from him to stifle the stubborn urge harshly:

“HXXT’GH! HNNKT! HXXTCH! Guh…” she mumbled at the end, which turned into a painful cough that she hardly had breath for.

Darcy was at her side in a moment, kneeling by her arm and feeling her forehead just as she had his so many times the past few days. Concern and regret crossed his face. “You have a fever, dearest. It seems I’ve shared my cold with you,” he said, stifling a little cough.

“You always were the gentleman, never failing to share with a lady,” she groused weakly.

His low chuckle was warm. “I’m truly sorry. Yet I heard you hardly left the bedchamber while I was ill, so I suppose it was inevitable.”

“Especially since you sneezed on me,” she mumbled, trying not to smile.

“Indeed,” he chuckled again. “I’m sorry for that as well. But now, enough talk. Rest your voice. Come up to bed and I’ll see you get some tea and toast.”

“Perhaps I don’t want to go to bed, did that occur to you? I’ve spent all week in that bedchamber and I’d prefer to not be forced to go back,” she muttered petulantly. 

“I can tell you’re feeling unwell, for you’re never so irritable. That more than anything tells me I must see you to bed immediately.” His tone indicated some teasing, but mostly seriousness. Without further ado, he scooped her up in one motion and stood, carrying her toward their bedchamber, a little smile playing around his lips. 

“Why you--! I’ve never been thus treated in my entire life. Put me down, you terrible man!” Yet she couldn’t keep from laughing, miserable though she was, which of course turned into a cough. She hadn’t felt so ill in a long time. In fact, the overwhelming urge to sneeze was coming over her again. She struggled weakly to free her arms from where he had them pinned, but it was too late: 

“Hhh’rrrrushh’eeeew! Herrr’CHEW! Hihhh’knn’CHOOF!” She sneezed explosively against his chest, covering them both in the spray. His steps paused as he looked down at her, open-mouthed, while she stared back, reddening in embarrassment, but slightly triumphant.

“...bless you, my Lizzie,” Darcy finally said, an odd smile on his face.

“Thank you. I’m terribly sorry!... But what choice did I have, when I can’t move my arms? Now we’re even, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” he chuckled again as he resumed walking. “And I suppose if you must sneeze on someone, it’s best if it’s me, as I can’t very well catch this cold again. But all the more reason for me to see you to bed. You look a mess. In the loveliest possible way, of course.”

“How charming you are, Mr. Darcy. You have quite a way of flattering a woman.”

He chuckled again, but by this time they had reached his bedchamber. He deposited her on the bed with the utmost gentleness, and proceeded to assist her in changing into more comfortable clothes. She shivered miserably as she changed so that her teeth nearly chattered. Darcy tucked her in warmly and quickly rang for some tea, then began to remove his own boots and coat. She watched him curiously, though with heavy eyes, for she suddenly she found herself exhausted. With pleasure she realized he planned to join her in bed. 

He did just that a few moments later, pulling her close against himself and wrapping her in his big, warm arms. She nuzzled in gratefully with a sniffle and a cough. He buried his face in her hair as they settled, coughing as well. 

“What are you doing, Darcy dear? I thought you had many things to do today,” she mumbled, already nearing sleep. “You’ve had so many days off yourself. You needn’t take another for me, though it seems we’re quite a mess still.”

“This has become the most important thing I must do today,” he yawned. “You were a saint to look after me this whole week, so now I must return the favor. I’m not likely to let an opportunity pass to spend time with you after these past weeks, for I’ve learned my lesson.  And I too am already weary, for this cold hasn’t quite left me. A nap would suit me fine, especially if I can warm you in the process.” 

When a servant arrived with tea, no one greeted him, and when he opened the door with the tray, he found it best to simply leave it nearby and duck out again, for Mr. and Mrs. Darcy were fast asleep. 

[wisteriashouse]

aflame (iii).

pairing: firefighter!rengoku kyoujurou x cook!reader

genre: fluff, modern! au

word count: 2374

iii. home visit

It’s absolutely freezing.

For the rest of the day after you had made up your mind to visit Kyoujurou’s house, you had been so nervous that you had proceeded to burn three eggs, serve a customer potatoes instead of tomatoes, and nearly set your stove on fire.

Kyoujurou would be disappointed.

Luckily for you, the customers had all happened to be your regulars, and so had been more interested about your ‘budding romance’ with Kyoujurou than getting upset. After an endless amount of teasing and you coming dangerously close to burning the pan, Aoi had finally decided to ban you from taking any orders.

“Just go and make some porridge for Rengoku-san. I’ll take care of the rest of the orders.” Aoi had said, shooing you out of the kitchen even as you had attempted to resist with all your might. “The dinner crowd has almost all been served, so I can manage the rest!”

And that’s how you had ended up here, with a large thermos of chicken soup and porridge in a bag, standing in front of an apartment complex in a part of town that you’d never been to before. Blowing on your chilly hands, you pull out the slip of paper from your pocket to check the address one more time. You swear that if you ever find out Shinazugawa-san has pranked you, you’re going to fill his ohagi with the sourest umeboshi you can find.

This is it.

The place looks rather well to do, you note as you step cautiously into the building, with nicely potted plants and ambient lighting in warm tones. You’re proud to say that you only missed the button in the elevator twice, both of which can be blamed on your freezing hands instead of how ridiculously nervous you feel the closer you get to his home.

“Unit twenty... unit twenty...” You mumble as you walk along the corridor, glancing up at the numbers on the doors. “Unit twenty should be right... here.” You stop before an apartment and glance up at the door.

Should you call him? What if he isn’t home? What if he’s asleep? Hesitant, you raise your hand to the doorbell and press once very gently, hoping that you aren’t disturbing his rest.

A few seconds of nerve-racking silence pass before there’s the sound of something falling over from inside the apartment, followed by a startled yelp of “aniki, you’re supposed to be in bed!”

Right, his message had mentioned a younger brother. You’d never really wondered if Kyoujurou had any siblings, but now that you think about it, he does seem to fit very well into the role of a big brother.

“It’s okay, it’s okay! Just focus on your homework, Senjurou!” A familiar voice calls out, and for a second, you desperately feel like running away as your nerves surge once again.

Your feet, however, stay rebelliously rooted to the ground.

Before you can take off at a sprint, the door swings open.

“Good evening, how can I help you–” Kyoujurou’s words trail off when he notices that it’s you standing at the door, wearing what’s possibly a painfully awkward expression on your face. He’s dressed in a pair of sweats and an oversized graphic tee with the words ‘Kimetsu Firefighting Crew’ on the front, his cheeks slightly flushed and hair thrown back in a messy ponytail.

He stares at you.

You try your best to smile naturally.

“G-good evening, Rengoku-san.” You manage to get out, trying your best not to stumble over your own words. Inside, you’re wringing your hands, wishing for the ground to just swallow you up whole. When his eyes lift slowly to meet yours, your breath catches in your throat.

How can one man look so beautiful even when he’s sick?

“Chef-san?” Kyoujurou’s voice is a little raspy, as though he’s spent the entire day asleep. It only serves to muddle your mind further with just how attractive he sounds. His eyes are wide with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

At his question, you swallow, nerves twisting uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach. “Well, you said you were sick and I was worried about you, so Aoi got your address from Shinazugawa-san earlier.” You hold out the bag, lips suddenly dry. “And you mentioned that you wanted to eat my cooking... so I brought some porridge and chicken soup over for you.”

Kyoujurou doesn’t answer for a few seconds, staring down at your proffered bag with his lips slightly parted. Unable to bear any more of this awkwardness, you thrust the bag into his hands with a forced ‘I hope you get well soon!’ and immediately turn on your heel in an attempt to flee. Before you can so much as take a step, however, you feel warm, callused fingers wrapping around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

“Wait.”

His skin is so warm against yours.

“Your hands are freezing. I’m sorry that you had to come all the way here in this weather.” Your heart thumps wildly, breath trapped in your chest like a fluttering bird as Kyoujurou encases your hands in his larger ones. He brings them to his lips so that his breath dances hotly over your skin, golden eyes flickering up to meet your gaze. There’s something unreadable in their depths. “This might sound selfish of me, but would you mind if I say that it makes me terribly happy?”

What?

“Oh, brother, who is this?”

Wide golden eyes meet yours from under Kyoujurou’s arm and your first instinct is to squeal at how adorable his younger brother looks. The only downside to his appearance is that Kyoujurou’s hand releases yours gently to take the bag; you miss his warmth immediately. “Senjurou, this is–”

“Older brother, you didn’t tell me that you were dating someone!”

“This is Chef-san from that eatery I was telling you about – wait, what?”

“Wahh, it’s you! Brother talks about you a lot, so I feel like I know you already!” The miniature version of Kyoujurou chatters, his voice surprisingly low for a child. Aside from his voice, he almost looks like he could be a carbon copy of Kyoujurou, except that the lines of his face are gentler, his eyes softer. Right now, they shine with excitement, reminding you of a puppy wagging its tail. “It’s nice to finally meet you! I’m Rengoku Senjurou, aniki’s younger brother.”

Rengoku-san talks about you to his little brother? Hopefully only good things, you think nervously.

“Nice to meet you too, Senjurou.” You give a wave of greeting, heart in tiny pieces from just how radiant Senjurou’s smile is. Is it a Rengoku family trait? “Have you had dinner?”

“Not yet, I was going to microwave some leftover stew after finishing my homework. I wanted to brew him a soup,” he points at his older brother, “but he forbid me because I have an exam to study for tomorrow. He was whining about wanting to eat your food earlier, so I’m really glad you came!”

A surge of happiness rushes through you and you have to fight to contain your smile. “It’s no problem, really. I hope you enjoy the food I made, there’s enough for the two of you if you want it.” Having done what you’d set out to do today, you take a step back and wave, your heart light in your chest. “Then, I’ll be going first.”

“Have you eaten yet?” Kyoujurou’s sudden question takes you by surprise.

“Well, no, but I was intending to once I got home–”

“It’s getting late and you must be tired from working all day. Eat with us, I’m sure there’s enough for three.” Kyoujurou says, and you glance at him with wide eyes. His smile softens as he looks at you. “Please.”

How are you supposed to be able to resist him when he does that? Silently, you nod your head, not trusting your mouth to speak.

“That’s great! I’ll go set up the table.” Senjurou takes the bag of food and disappears into the apartment with a little skip in his step. Both you and Kyoujurou watch him scamper off, before Kyoujurou suddenly lets out a gentle chuckle. “For a moment there, I thought the two of you had forgotten about me. He’s been excited to meet you for awhile, but it seems that you get along amazingly well with him already. Thank you.”

“He’s a sweet child, there’s no need to thank me.” You hum, then turn to smile shyly at him. “Well, are you going to invite me in?”

“Oh, yes! Shoes at the door, come on in.”

The initial step into the Rengoku household is full of trepidation, but the warm and homely environment puts you at ease almost immediately. The walls of the hallway Kyoujurou guides you down is decorated with multiple pictures of the Rengoku family since Kyoujurou’s infancy, and you have to stop yourself from gushing over how cute he was. Further down the hallway, the largest portrait hanging on the wall catches your sight – a beautiful woman with long dark hair, dressed in a traditional kimono, hands folded in her lap and a serene expression on her face.

You can’t look away.

“Oh, that’s my mother.” Kyoujurou says, suddenly, and you turn to see him staring at the picture wistfully, a small smile on his face. You nod quietly. “She’s very beautiful. Is she home?”

“No, she passed away from an illness when I was younger.” Kyoujurou explains in reply, and you immediately hasten to apologise, horrified.

“I’m sorry! I wasn’t thinking and ended up being insensitive!”

“It’s alright!” Kyoujurou reassures you brightly, grinning as usual once more. “You couldn’t have known. My mother was a lovely woman and a great cook, I would have liked to introduce you to her as well. Unfortunately, it seems that only Senjurou inherited her skills in the kitchen.” He chuckles a little at that. “I’ve never had much luck with a stove.”

You giggle slightly at his words, and Senjurou’s head suddenly pops out from behind the corner. “Brother, Chef-san, let’s eat! The food will get cold!”

The two of you share a smile, before following him to the kitchen.

After dinner, you insist on staying back to help wash the dishes with Senjurou, Kyoujurou shooed back to his room to rest in spite of his pleading to join the two of you. Perhaps it’s something to do with genetics, but the younger Rengoku son is remarkably easy to talk to, the two of you dissolving into casual chatter as you soap the dishes.

“Brother always talks about the new dishes you let him sample, I wish you could teach me how to make some of them too!” Senjurou tells you, rinsing some of the plates under the tap. You laugh. A corner of your heart flutters, unbearably shy at the thought. “Rengoku-san does? What does he say about them?”

“He says you’re the best cook in the world.” Senjurou babbles excitedly, and your face flushes at the unexpected praise. Sure, Kyoujurou has said that to you many times, but you thought that was just him being polite, or simply how he is to everybody. “And that your cooking is so delicious, it tastes just as good as Mother’s!”

You pause, turning to glance at Senjurou. The younger boy notices the shift in mood, the bright grin he’s wearing melting into something more nostalgic. “I was really young when our Mother passed away, so I don’t have many memories of her. But one day, Older Brother brought back some of your cooking to let me try, and he said it tastes just like Mother’s.” Senjurou’s gaze is gentle as he looks down at the soap suds swirling in the sink. “I feel closer to my Mother when I have your cooking, and I’m sure that Brother, who knew her for longer than I did, feels that even more strongly than I do.”

You look down at your soapy hands, lips pressed together in shock. Is that how much your cooking means to him? You never knew...

“Father was never around much after Mother died, so it was mostly Big Brother who raised me. He’s always taken good care of me, but because he’s so strong, no one really thinks that he needs support. Knowing that he takes comfort in your cooking makes me feel relieved. ” Senjurou continues, before he turns to look up at you with a hopeful smile. “That’s why... I hope you’ll keep cooking for him.”

“Mmn.” You hum, voice suddenly thick and your eyes prickling a little. A mixture of emotions swell in you. Senjurou suddenly looks alarmed, waving his hands. “Oh, I’m not saying that you have to or anything, I didn’t mean to force you to do something you might not want to – ”

“No, it’s alright. I love cooking for Rengoku-san too.” You smile at Senjurou and pat the top of his head. His face scrunches up cutely at your touch, before he beams back at you. “He saved my life, you know.”

Senjurou gasps. “Brother told me about it before! He’s so cool, I want to be like him when I grow up.” Suddenly, he glances at the doorway to the kitchen before leaning in close, hands cupped over his mouth conspiratorially. You bend down slightly to bring your ear closer to his lips, curious.

“You like Older Brother, don’t you?”

“W-Wha–” You panic instantly, nearly dropping the plate in your hands as you flail about. Senjurou giggles, clearly delighted at your response. “Am I really that obvious?”

Senjurou nods, and you bury your face in your hands, thoroughly embarrassed.

“Don’t tell him,” you squeak, unable to look him in the eye. Senjurou pats you on the head reassuringly.

“I won’t.”

A few more washed dishes later and a promise to teach Senjurou how to make baked sweet potatoes, you leave the Rengoku home with a heart far lighter than you’d come in with. On the way out, you catch a glimpse into Kyoujurou’s room – he’s curled up on his bed, arms wrapped around a pillow as he sleeps peacefully.

The sight alone makes the entire trip worth it.

[dibleopard-writes]

Make This Chaos Count

Fandom: The Island (2005) Characters: Bernard Merrick, Gandu Three Echo/Alpha, others Rating: Teen for language and brief violence Warnings: Terminal Illness, brief description of symptoms, murder, shooting, brief description of blood, infrequent strong language, CHARACTER DEATH, hospitals, mention of a car accident Additional tags: Angst, fluff and angst, cloning, pre-canon, canon compliant, technically

Word Count: 14,074 Also on Ao3 and Wattpad

Summary: Is it really stealing if you’re taking back something that was stolen from you in the first place? In the wake of his partner’s death, Bernard Merrick thinks not.

Watching the film isn’t really necessary since this is just the lead-up, but you should watch it anyway cause I’m carrying the fanbase on my back.

The study had an absent solemnity to it that Bernard Merrick wallowed in easily. He watched his own fingers tap against the red leather of the sofa. Tap. Tap. Tap. Along in perfect rhythm with the infernal ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

“Stop sulking,” said Steve, who had carefully selected a can of inexpensive beer from a cooler of vintage whiskeys. “Hey, at least I won't leave you a widower.”

Bernard glared at him. He had been hoping to leave the question of their marriage for another day. Still not legal, even after their decade of waiting. Hopefully they would get the opportunity soon enough. He had half a mind to march to the capital and write the bill himself. Steve never quite cared as much about that kind of thing. ‘I mean the tax thing would be nice but really it's just a piece of paper, right?’ He’d said so many times before, when there wasn't yet a deadline hanging over their heads. Bernard would nod, ‘Right’, and wonder if either of them were qualified to select wedding flowers. It was the small things.

“You know drinking will make it worse?” He unlocked his phone to the webpage he had found in the hospital lift. For the tenth time in three hours, his eyes glided over the concise little paragraphs, taking in none of them.

Steve rolled his eyes. “I'm drinking to cope, Bernie.”

“According to the NHS, less than fifty percent of people with cirrhosis live for five more years when they keep drinking.”

“Well then I'd better get all of my living done now, then, hadn't I?” He flopped down next to Bernard, threw one hand over his eyes. “And getting blackout drunk is first on my to-do list.”

Bernard sighed, knowing a losing battle when he saw one, and wrapped an arm around Steve. They still had time.

Months later, in that same room, papers lay on every available surface as well as many supposedly unavailable surfaces. At his desk, Bernard had a sizable stack of documents balanced on his lap and was holding a file in one hand, typing and scrolling with the other. So far his computer had coped with keeping fifty-seven tabs open with only minimal lag. Most were various healthcare websites, some for hospitals nearby, others for the most successful hospitals, and the rest for the best options in their price range. Tinny hold-music was playing from underneath one of several empty mugs; the last few days had seen him drink coffee and tea indiscriminately and, in one memorable instance, simultaneously.

“Man!” There was a crash as several thick hardbacks fell from their perch on the stair banisters outside. Steve’s hand emerged around the door, one foot poised over the paper-covered floor. “You say I’m a slob! What do you call this?”

“Try not to move anything; I've got it all where I want it.”

Steve poked his head around the door, still balancing on one foot, to give him an unconvinced look. “Is this still the same thing as last time?”

Bernard could only meet his eyes for a split second. “What else would it be?”

“Bernie, you can’t keep using your sick days to go looking for something that doesn’t exist. What if you actually get sick?”

“I wouldn’t be as sick as you,” replied Bernard, typing more aggressively than strictly necessary.

“Low blow, man.”

“Listen, I think I’ve found a few that could work.” The printer by the door thunked and juddered before deliberately whirring out webpages in glorious black and white. “There’s a research group in Italy working on artificially grown organs, and a firm in Japan that’s trying mechanical versions. Also, I have a hospital on the line about donation and three more to call by five o’clock.”

Steve took the pages and flicked through them half-heartedly. Bernard couldn’t see him from behind the door but he heard the sigh. He’d been hearing that sigh with increasing regularity. It signalled something in the area of pity, which rankled him more than he liked to admit. He wasn’t the one who had been falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon; he wasn’t the one who became nauseous every other meal; he was not the one with an expiry date hanging over his head. If anyone was worthy of pity, it was Steve, and Bernard refused to subject him to that indignity.

“You know they won’t give me a transplant when I’m still drinking?” said Steve. He did know. He hated it. “Ethics, and all.”

“Then stop drinking, for God’s sake!”

“Bit late for that, don’t you think?” And he could hear the smile in Steve’s voice, the dry humour. “The withdrawal would probably kill me before the liver.”

A sigh of his own, signalling something in the area of anger.

“Look, just– I’ll find something. I’ll find something. I promise you.”

“Promise yourself; you seem to need it more than me,” Steve put the pages on top of the printer, voice somber. His hands were shaking. “Just don’t run yourself into the ground, okay? I need you.”

Bernard nodded, unseen, “Of course.”

Steve’s footsteps retreated in time with the hold music. Bernard stared at his screen, at the file in his hand, at the forest of paper around him, seeing only the potential futures in his head.

“Steve?” He called.

“Yeah?”

“Could I take a genetic sample from you? Just in case?”

“Anything for you, Bernie.”

...

    It was snowing. Bernard Merrick was dressed for the weather in the loosest sense: a long coat, a scarf, but with business shoes and no hat. The frigid air nipped at his ears and the snow soaked through his trousers as he knelt in front of the freshly turned earth, which was only just beginning to turn white. 

Steve Gandu had not been a religious man; there was no church, no service, no stone angel, just a funeral, a wake with a noticeable lack of alcohol, and Bernard paying vigil until the sun set or he collapsed from cold, whichever came first. Who did you pray to, he wondered, when neither of you believed much in an afterlife but you liked the idea of someone keeping him safe, now that he was out of reach?

    It was a strange thought to have, and unproductive. He let it become numb and fall away from sensation as his fingers had.

    The last few months had been bad. He’d been bad. Steve had been coping as well as he could, but was also bad when it came down to it. His eyes had lost their life before the rest of him, the whites yellowing as they became more and more drowsy. Sometimes he’d wake up confused, or blood would end up in places blood shouldn’t be, and Bernard would find him with a can of something foul scrounged from who-knows-where. Those were bad days. 

On bad days Bernard would find himself gravitating towards the study even after he’d promised to leave alone the ‘mad scientist pipe dreams’, as Steve occasionally referred to them. Not all of them were mad. Every now and then there was a spark of brilliance among the paragraphs of otherwise uncreative research papers. He’d pursue the thread until he found the end, which was usually before anything left the realm of theory, a brick wall few were willing to take a sledgehammer to. Ethics, funding, feasibility. All seemed negligible in the early hours of the morning, but apparently biochemistry did not occur before dawn.

Steve would look at him sadly, once he would return to bed, eyes red from screen strain. Bernard would smile at him, and they would both be too tired to do anything about it but sleep.

There was no one left to smile sadly at him anymore. No one to sigh dramatically when he brought up a new idea he’d found, or make snarky comments about death and inevitability and karma. It was just Bernard Merrick and the snow.

The house was empty which meant he could slam as many doors as he wanted. Papers flew as he swept into the study with a crash. They didn’t matter, they hadn’t helped him. Disorder could reign among them until he screwed them up and set them alight in the garden. It could all burn.

His snow-sodden shoes made the print underfoot bleed. Memory stick, wallet, change of clothes. That was all that mattered. Car keys, they mattered too. Only the things he needed to get out and not come back, at least for a night. Toothbrush? Yes, and toothpaste. Nothing else.

Articles were stuck to his shoes as he left the house, door locked only due to a chance remembering in the fervour. He noticed the papers only once he was in the car and threw them into the passenger seat. 

Where to go? Simple enough: work. They did good things at work, things he could use. He would stay in his office. He would find an answer among all of the meaninglessness around him. He would make things better. He would fix everything. He would. He would.

...

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was entirely natural. It’s practically indistinguishable from the real thing. Bravo, Dr Merrick.”

A small crowd had gathered around the plexiglass container. Visually, the contents was unremarkable, if visceral: a wet, reddish mass that was ever-so-slightly pulsing where blood-filled tubes pierced the surface. Beyond the visual, it was the culmination of the department’s collective careers, brought to fruition by Merrick’s own contributions.

Months of work, years for some, and now they had a liver.

“Thank you, Dr Wilson, your feedback is greatly appreciated.”

It was a liver. A real, organic liver grown entirely in the labs.

Grinning, someone slapped him on the back. “You know, Merrick, I think this makes up for all that time off. I bet this’ll be on the other side of clinical trials before the year is out.”

“Just need to consolidate all the data,” added another, “And we’ll breeze through peer review.”

Before all this, he’d expected livers to be bigger, somehow.

“Saving lives, Merrick, this is what it’s all about. This is why you join the industry!”

Adrenaline-fueled conversation filled the room, most of it only half directed at him. His reflection in the plexiglass stared back at him, tight-lipped. Behind the reflection, the liver glistened. It had been made with the genetic material of some poor sod who still had years to live. They’d stopped drinking, presumably, to make the whole venture worth the investment.

The liver wouldn’t bring back Steve. It would save a life – and many more by its legacy – but it couldn’t bring back Steve. It was just one liver, and that wasn’t enough anymore.

“Merrick.”

Trial eighty-one looked up at him with beady eyes; its distinctive black-spotted ear flicked disinterestedly. Only a day old, and it appeared identical to the photos of the original mouse, which had died of old age around the time that trial thirty-seven had woken prematurely and drowned, still half-formed.

“Merrick.”

Trial eighty-one had so far avoided the pitfalls of its predecessors. It had taken sixty attempts to make the switch from accelerated aging, and another twenty to iron out the kinks in developing a physically mature specimen from the initial stem cells. Maybe this time he had succeeded.

“Merrick!”

He blinked. “What?”

“I was being serious yesterday, we need to watch ourselves or we’ll get–” Merrick’s supervisor reached the desk, moving through the jungle of pipes and cables. “Is that–?”

“That,” said Merrick, not taking his eyes off trial eighty-one, “Is our first mature clone to survive twenty-four hours out of the growth-support system.”

“Oh my god. Merrick–”

“I know, I know, but I think we’ve done it.”

“You’ve done it.”

“Well, yes, but it’s on behalf of the company, of course. This is our research.”

“No, no. You don’t– Merrick, the boss needs to talk to you about this. We’ve had people– This is a major thing – way beyond the scope of the project – and we can’t just–” She gestured at the mouse, “Do that. Not– not here.”

“You seem to be overlooking the fact that I just did,” smirked Merrick. His supervisor dug her hands into her face.

“Listen, just– the boss needs to talk to you. Now.”

“Of course. I think I’m just about finished here,” he replied, gently scooping up trial eighty-one and putting it in a small enclosure.

“Yeah, I think so too. You’d better be up there ASAP.”

His new lab was in an unassuming building in the outskirts of the city – the industrial sort of outskirts, filled with warehouses and trainyards all in various states of rust. The main entrance looked more like a side-door, painted in flaking blue, opened from the inside with a crash bar designed for fire exits. In the corridor, the plaster was flaking off the walls, coating the exposed pipes in pale dust. The few rooms he had been allotted for his exile, however, had been repainted and retiled upon his arrival. It still wasn’t the old labs, but it was clean, it was big enough, and it was his.

There had been an ultimatum: he could no longer work towards human cloning while openly under the company’s employ. Covertly, however, with reduced funding and a team only of those who volunteered for a supposed career suicide, he could continue. He would owe the company money for their investment, but their name would be kept from any research papers and, by extension, any controversy.

The deal was fine by Merrick. At least, it would be if some of the supposed volunteers were actually trustworthy. He could have sworn that one of them was reporting on him to someone a phone call away. Another was far too eager to know the ins-and-outs of the process. Merrick kept his office locked.

A small menagerie of animals had come and gone by the time he felt ready to take on the endgame. The success rates were climbing, and their equipment was no longer as foreign as it had been – not to mention bigger.

It was after hours. Everyone else had left and Merrick was staring at the completed designs for the final growth-support system. 

Could he do it? 

Obviously, he could do it, but could he do it with so many suspicious eyes on him? Was it safe to make this final step in the lab, which had less-than-stellar security? What would happen if the spy reported to an ethical committee? Or if his work was stolen and misappropriated? What would happen to the clone, if anyone knew about it?

Finding out was not worth the risk, he decided; he would have to find another way.

He took the design sheet, downloaded the digital backup, and put a coil of tubing in the boot of his car. None of it would be missed, and now he needed it in his own hands – his hands alone.

...

It took two months to gradually assemble everything in his basement, and in that time he finally got used to being alone in the house. He’d never been superstitious, but he couldn’t help but shiver every time he had heard the boiler knock on the walls or passed the cold spot halfway down the basement stairs. There were two new locks on the door and he hadn’t opened the curtains in the front room since he had begun to work on the project at home.

In the lab, the construction of the new growth-support system was months behind, interrupted by small, hard to find mishaps that threw the entire system out of balance. Two loose bolts one day, a punctured tube another. Poor luck, said one scientist. A sign, said another. Merrick simply tapped the desk irritably and said that there had better not be any bad luck tomorrow. Often, there was. Funny how things happened like that.

He had requested a new genetic sample for the lab’s first test, claimed the one he was originally planning to use had been damaged in the freezing process. Now, in the safety of his basement, he carefully placed Steve’s sample into the analyser. The computer whirred for a few minutes and he watched, drinking the fifth coffee of the day, forcing his hands not to shake from caffeine or otherwise. Readings flicked onto the screen. The sample was safe. It would work. Just another month, and he could hear Steve’s voice again.

A few taps of a keyboard, and the arduous process of creating the first human clone began. He pulled up a chair, his eyes not leaving the system until he fell asleep hours later, still sitting upright in front of the foundations of a human skeleton.

...

The clone was not Steve. Perhaps that should have been predictable.

It did not have his memories, it did not have his wit, it did not have his rough-around-the-edges smile or his world-weary optimism. But it did have his eyes, and, once it learnt to speak, it had his voice, albeit stilted as his never was. It was a newborn in Steve’s body, with Steve’s brain if not his mind.

It was not Steve. It was a facsimile. However, it was Steve enough to put the thrill of success through Merrick’s nerves. The clone was a second iteration of Steve, similar but different. Manufactured. Gandu Two Alpha.

Good enough. He would always be good enough.

After the initial birth, as it were, after fluid splashed across the floor, soaking his shoes and the air was filled with gasping and begging and “breathe, breathe, breathe,” after choked sobs in two voices had abated, after eyes had opened, clouded with unfamiliarity, after Merrick felt the blow of being a stranger to those eyes, after he locked the pain away with viscous practicality and helped dry everything down, after all of that, he left the basement. The deed was done. It was alive.

That night he cried himself to sleep, back in the bed they had shared for the first time since Steve’s death, and the clone remained alone downstairs.

Eventually, he collected himself. The morning was spent teaching the clone to walk and then helping it up the stairs into the kitchen. There was no conversation, only Merrick’s monosyllabic encouragement and the clone’s attempt to catch the eyes that looked anywhere but its face.

In the days following, when Merrick wasn’t at work, he was guiding the clone – someone had thought of another term, a euphemism, but that was what it was: a clone – through human experience. The messy basics, initially, hygiene and eating and drinking, but then speech, abstract ideas, self-sufficiency. He set boundaries but allowed free roam around the house, not that he could have done much to stop it. Alcohol had long been banished from the house, so he needn’t worry about that, and he had long forgotten to pay the cable fee, so there were few opportunities for the clone to see something Merrick wasn’t ready to explain. The basement was locked again, cleaned and relegated to the back of his mind.

A finger gently prodded Merrick in the sternum, eyes questioning, brow furrowed with the intent seriousness of a three-year-old with a mission. 

“Yes, this is me, Bernard.” 

“Bernard,” confirmed the clone’s achingly familiar voice, “Me.” 

“No, no, you’re you, I’m me.” Merrick took the unnaturally soft hand in his own and pointed it at the clone. 

“Me?” Repeated the clone. 

“Yes.” 

The clone smiled, somehow managing to make it too wide, even if Steve had always smiled more than Bernard. It was strange that Merrick was more aware of those little details now than he had been when the real thing had still been right in front of him.

“Bernard?” The clone’s hand hadn’t moved from where Merrick had put it.

Merrick pointed to himself. “I’m Bernard. That’s my name.”

A nod of understanding, clarity, then, “My name?”

The clone wasn’t completely dopey, not anymore; it knew what it was asking. Perhaps last week it would have been a case of parroting, but now the clone was beginning to attach meaning to words. It took a few tries, sometimes from different approaches, but slowly things were clicking into place and comprehension was dawning.

Still, the gaze was fixed on Merrick. Still, Merrick found it difficult to meet.

“Bernard.” Not a question. Deliberately so. “My name?” A demand, skewing strangely into an English accent, imitating Merrick’s own tone.

What was its name?

He had named it on the documents, but the thought had been fleeting in his mind, where he mostly thought of it as ‘it’ or ‘the clone’ or, if he was feeling particularly morose, ‘not him’. The name was comfortingly clinical, distant and inhuman. He could shorten it to just ‘Gandu’ but that was a step too close to calling the thing ‘Steve’. If he couldn’t look it in the eye, he couldn’t call it by his name.

“Your name is Gandu Two Alpha,” he said, ignoring the way it felt strangely final, as if this, of all moments, was the one he couldn’t turn back from.

“Gan-du Doo– Gand-u… Two Alv– Gon–” The clone stopped with a huff, frown morphing into one of frustration. Apparently ‘Gandu Two Alpha’ was more of a mouthful than ‘Bernard’. Who’d have thought?

“Me,” decided the clone.

    ...

By the time the lab’s version (which had been completely dismantled and reassembled in an effort to fix several loose connections, twice) was ready for its first trial, Gandu Two Alpha had mastered basic speech and was gradually learning to spell. If it tried, it could probably work its mouth around its name, but it seemed content with writing ‘me’ instead, and if Merrick hadn’t wanted to push Steve’s name onto the thing, there was no one meaningful to judge.

Work, however useless it was becoming, was still taking up half of Merrick’s day. From what he could tell, the clone spent most of that time pottering around, inspecting inconsequential little details. Merrick had hidden all of the photos of Steve in a box under his bed, but it was only a matter of time before the clone got curious enough to venture there. Already, it had blindly reorganised the bookshelf in the front room, presumably by spending hours taking each book out, scrutinising every aspect of it, and then forgetting where it had originally been and putting it back at random. At least it hadn’t moved everything around in the kitchen.

Every now and then, Merrick would catch himself smiling as he watched the clone stumble through life. It was still painful to see that face with none of Steve behind it, but he found himself growing used to the differences and the clone had a captivating innocence to him– it– that was more endearing than Merrick wanted to admit. The smile that the clone often gave him when Merrick came back at lunch was not Steve’s smile by any stretch, but it was earnest and the fact that Merrick was the cause of that smile somehow made it better.

The clone had all of its own little eccentricities: an accent that was a strange mesh of the one its mouth was adapted to and the one it heard Merrick use; a fascination with water (Merrick had once come home to all of the taps running and the clone staring into the bath); and an insatiable sweet tooth that earned Merrick a wild grin anytime he made jam on toast. It was easy to forget that the clone was ever intended to be Steve, and that somehow made it easier to be around him– it. They had a strange little harmony between them that hummed beneath the heartbreak and the stilted navigation of conversation.

It was nice, and Merrick learned to accept that it was.

One evening, they were sitting at the kitchen table playing Scrabble – Merrick had decided to put the clone’s memory and spelling skills to the test – when there was a knock at the door. The clone jumped, skewing the tile he was placing. He realigned it with deliberate precision, eyes darting between the board, Merrick, and the hallway.

“Over,” he read.

Merrick smiled, rising, “Good, v is quite high scoring. I’ll be back; I just need to see who this is. Stay here, okay? Don’t follow me.”

“Okay. Is it work?”

“Usually I go to work, not the other way around,” Merrick replied, dryly. The clone tried to smile, but the anxiety of the unfamiliar made it flicker. The door knocked again, more loudly.

One of Merrick’s peers from work was behind the door when it opened. “You’re a hard man to get hold of, Dr Merrick. You keep your phone on silent or what?” He didn’t, he just let the calls ring through. They were never worth his time.

“Ambrose, what brings you here?”

“Oh, nothing much, just that some of the guys were working overtime and got the system up and running,” he grinned. Ambrose was a relatively young man, the kind instilled with that insufferable swagger that made Merrick want to put him on admin duty for a month. “We need a sample, preferably before the thing falls apart again.”

“And you came to me at eight o’clock in the evening because…?”

“Well, we need your go-ahead before we can make any decisions about this sort of thing, y’know? You are the one in charge. And you still haven’t got back to me with that new sample you were talking about months ago. After the first one got... damaged...?”

Ambrose’s eyes were fixed on something beyond Merrick’s shoulder. Urging himself not to sigh too heavily, he turned around to see the clone standing in the kitchen doorway.

“Good morning,” called the clone.

Ambrose swallowed, nodding. “Evening.” Then he looked back at Merrick. “Is that–”

“No.”

“I thought he was de–”

“No.”

Ambrose grinned in a way that Merrick didn’t like. This was the problem with normal humans: they always had an ulterior motive. At least Two Alpha was always genuine or, failing that, a terrible liar. This time Merrick did sigh. “You’d better come in.”

Ambrose didn’t hesitate, his attention fixed on the clone, who smiled nervously back and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Oscar. Oscar Ambrose. What about you?”

“What about me?” Their voices moved into the kitchen as Merrick worked on relocking the door.

“What’s your name?”

In his mind’s eye, Merrick could see the frown on Two Alpha’s face as he worked on recalling it. The last lock clicked into place.

“Gandu Two Alpha.”

Ambrose shot Merrick a disbelieving look as he entered. “Dr Merrick–!”

Merrick glared at him and played his turn on the Scrabble board. Resolute. Two Alpha mouthed the spelling to himself, expression somewhere between indignance and admiration. It was a long word by his standards and Merrick had so far been playing five letters maximum.

“Work on your turn. Ambrose and I need to talk upstairs. Stay here. Really, this time.”

“I did stay here; I didn’t leave the kitchen.”

Cheeky brat. Merrick rolled his eyes, unable to maintain his stern facade. Ambrose was still staring, so he dragged him up to the study by an arm. 

As soon as the door was closed, Ambrose was talking. “‘Two Alpha’? What sort of name is that? Is he actually an agnate, you really did it? Wait–” He stopped dead, processing something. “Are you the reason the system keeps breaking? You want the tech all for yourself!”

Merrick thrust the desk chair across the room. “Sit.”

Ambrose’s legs gave way as he sat. Behind his back, Merrick’s own hands were shaking. “None of what you’ve seen or heard today will leave this house, understand?”

A skeptical narrowing of eyes. That damn arrogance, even as the man was slumped in Merrick’s shadow. As if there weren’t an innocent life at risk, sitting downstairs and playing Scrabble, unaware of what damage loose lips could do to his entire way of life. Irreverent bastard.

He lunged forward, pinning Ambrose’s wrists to the armrests. “I said: do you understand?”

Ambrose nodded unconvincingly and then winced when Merrick leaned into his hands. Merrick spat, “Yes, I sabotaged the system. No, it was not to hoard it. None of you can be trusted, not with him, so I did it myself. I needed you to be delayed.”

“So he’s your…”

“His genetic donor was my partner, yes, not that that’s any of your business.”

“And… Sorry, I can’t get over that name–”

“It’s better than Human Trial One.”

Ambrose gave a conceding nod, “Point taken.” Then, “Hey, could you ease off a bit? I can’t feel my fingers.” Merrick pushed into him, perhaps taking too much pleasure in the way he folded at the pressure, before moving to lean against the desk. Hissing, Ambrose tried to rub the pain out of his wrists. “God, you don’t do things by halves, do you?”

Merrick glared.

“Okay, okay, whatever, water under the bridge, doesn’t matter, but– do you know what this means? It works! You’ve made a human agnate! Have you– have you done any testing? Like, genetic analysis? Is he one-for-one identical?”

The main negative to having someone in your house, Merrick decided, is that you couldn’t walk out. “I haven’t taken any samples. Cognition has been my main focus, if not his survival. He seems accurate enough, physically. He has no memories, though, and he’s had to learn everything practically from scratch.”

“Sucks. Bet you were hoping for a carbon copy, memories and all, huh? Hang on, have you…” 

Merrick could see the way his mind had turned and was unimpressed. Let him wade through the embarrassment, Merrick wouldn’t fish him out. “Have I what?”

“...Kissed him?” Ambrose’s shoulders were hiked up to his ears. Idiot.

“Mentally, he is a child, Ambrose, get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Sorry, sorry. Had to ask, though, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t.”

Ambrose sighed as if Merrick was the insufferable one. “Look, I think we’re overlooking just how massive this is. If we could make this on a mass scale, we could– I don’t know. This is the kind of thing that very wealthy people would pay a lot of money for.”

“Millions of dollars for… an organ transplant?”

“Millions of dollars for an organ transplant with a wait-time of days, maximum, practically zero chance of the body rejecting it, and it would be up to the client to decide whether or not they should get a transplant – no lifestyle changes necessary just to tick boxes. That’s millions of dollars for twenty more years of life. Maybe more! If I were the kind of person who had a billion just lying around…”

Steve hadn’t had a million, let alone a billion dollars collecting dust in a drawer somewhere. If he had – if either of them had – would it have made a difference?

“Hell,” continued Ambrose, “at that point immortality is within reach. Imagine that, Merrick! Once the surgical world catches up, you could just keep going forever!”

“And we just keep harvesting from the agnates,” His voice was far more somber than he intended it to be.

“Yeah, I mean, if you think about it, the net result is positive. In terms of life, that is. If you count them as real people, which– which I wouldn’t, legally. Not if we wanted to sell anything.”

At some point, Merrick realised, he had begun to think of Two Alpha as a ‘he’. Somewhere else – before or after, he didn’t know – he had begun to care for him as an individual. Perhaps it was latent love for Steve, or perhaps it was an independent affection for someone who was slowly learning who they were as he guided them along. Either way, something in the back of his mind reared at the idea of Two Alpha being killed for parts. 

If Two Alpha had existed before Steve had died… 

Part of Merrick wanted to say that he wouldn’t have sacrificed him, that he’d have kept both for as long as possible and accepted Steve’s death when it came. The rest knew that he wouldn’t have given himself the chance to care for him – Two Alpha would have been on the operating table before he knew how to cry for help.

Sometimes Merrick hated himself.

“And we could do it on that scale?” It was hardly a question.

“You’re the one to ask.”

“We could.” He ignored the sound of the kitchen tap being turned on and off, on and off. “If we had enough money to do so.”

“Well that, my friend, is where you’re lucky I was the one to find out.” Lucky was a strong word. Merrick didn’t feel very lucky. Oblivious to it all, Ambrose continued, energised and far too loud for the time of evening, “I’ve got some sway with one of the banks, and if we proposed the project to, say, the Department of Defense, I’m sure they’d be more than willing to make an investment. I can handle all of the marketing, networking, whatever, you’d just have to get the science going.”

“You’re saying we start a new company – not research-based – to sell organs grown in…” He wanted to say sentient beings, or humans, but already he could tell that it was a dangerous train of thought, “Agnates?”

“I doubt the boss wants us to do it with his funding. Breaking off is the only way to go.” It was a valid point and Merrick had already been one bad day away from walking out and never returning, but starting an entirely new business venture had never been on the table – he was a scientist, not a businessman.

“Why should I agree to this?”

“Why not?! Millions, Dr Merrick, why would you turn that down?”

“Agnates are hardly cheap on the production end, not to mention upkeep.”

“They’ll pay for themselves, you know they will. What’s your problem with this? Your real problem.”

The real problem? As if he would spill his emotional turmoil to the kid with the supposed business skills. No. Merrick lied, “I feel you’re underestimating exactly how much time, money, and resources this will take.”

“And I feel you’re underestimating how worth it it will be.”

Sighing, Merrick took off his glasses and began to clean them, using the distraction to sort his thoughts.

Two Alpha had never left the house. He would never need to know exactly what Merrick was doing if he agreed to this plan. Merrick could create hundreds of agnates and keep Two Alpha safe for himself, all the while he would be saving lives like Steve’s from preventable deaths. If he just didn’t talk to them, if he didn’t stimulate their individual development beyond the physical, didn’t allow them to be much more than walking organs, they wouldn’t really be people. Not like Two Alpha. They would just be insurance policies, clean and clinical.

He put his glasses back on. They were smudged.

“Fine. I’m in.” Ambrose’s grin returned and Merrick wondered if he’d regret putting this much trust in the man. “But we’re doing this my way. I don’t want any surprises, understand?”

“Of course, Dr Merrick.” He held out a hand. “I think this is the start of something incredible.”

Merrick shook it. “I want you in my office tomorrow morning; we need to plan this properly.”

Ambrose was already moving back downstairs, “Nine AM, sharp, Dr Merrick.”

“Make that eleven.” God knew he wouldn’t be able to cope with the man so early in the day. He unlocked the front door and waved Ambrose out.

“You won’t regret this!”

“Make sure of it.”

With the door finally closed, Merrick could acknowledge the headache worming its way into his eye sockets. He needed to sleep this off.

“Is he gone?” asked Two Alpha, standing by the kitchen door, just barely behind the threshold. His weight was shifting from foot to foot anxiously. 

“Yes. I trust you haven’t run the taps dry?”

“No,” the clone smiled, “There’s still water in them, look!”

Merrick put a glass under the tap as Two Alpha demonstrated, nodding seriously. “Very good. And did you play your turn?”

“Yup, error. I had a bunch of R’s.”

He drained half of the glass and stared at the board. “Do you want to continue? It’s getting late.” 

Two Alpha seemed to disagree with that assessment, but he also seemed to have hit his energy limit for the day because his objection was broken by a yawn. “Maybe,” he conceded. “What was Oscar Ambrose doing here?”

They left the Scrabble untidied on the table, climbing the stairs to the guest room that Two Alpha now occupied. 

“He just wanted to talk to me about work, nothing to concern yourself over.”

“He seemed nice.”

If only you knew the things he is planning, Merrick thought, before saying, “I suppose he did.”

Two Alpha nodded, content in his first assessment of any human beyond Merrick. “Goodnight, Bernard.”

“Goodnight.”

...

    In far less time than was reasonable, Ambrose had wrangled the lab’s growth system and plans out of the company’s possession – easy, he claimed, when they had refused to have their name on any of it – and into the asset pool of the newly christened Merrick Biotech. Soon enough, they had enough investors to buy land in a barren part of the Arizona desert, specifically an abandoned missile facility complete with underground silos and outdated wiring.

    “The missiles were Titan II’s, you know?” said Ambrose, unlocking the facility for the first time. “They were going to be replaced, that’s why they were decommissioned, but the replacements were never produced.”

    “Fascinating,” Merrick lied. He had never been to Arizona before, but the desert reminded him of Steve, beautiful in that rugged, slightly unforgiving sort of way. Even after only fifteen minutes of direct sunlight, he could feel his skin burning.

    They stayed in the nearby motel for days at a time, returning home for a few weeks at most before something else required their supervision. Two Alpha remained at the house, alone. Merrick found it more anxiety-inducing than he anticipated, unused to no longer being able to check in every few hours.

    One morning he came downstairs to see Two Alpha intently scribbling on printer paper, seemingly trying to cover the whole sheet in graphite.

    “You don’t always come back,” he said, not moving his gaze from the table.

    “Of course I do,” replied Merrick, surprised by the sullen attitude, “I’m here now, aren’t I? So I must have come back.”

    “But not always.” Two Alpha had the look on his face that betrayed his frustration when he couldn’t convey his thoughts properly. It used to be an almost permanent fixture but months later his communication had improved to the extent that Merrick struggled to remember the last time he saw it. “Sometimes you’re not here when I go to sleep or when it’s morning and I don’t know what to do. Sometimes you come back and it’s good and you don’t go for ages. But then you do go and you don’t come back.”

Merrick sat next to him, put an arm around him. “I’m sorry. Work has changed. It used to be nearby but now it’s far away, so I have to stay there for a few days every time. I try to stay here as much as I can, I promise.”

Two Alpha stopped scribbling, eyes distant with thought. “What’s promise?”

It was always jarring to find the little gaps in Two Alpha’s knowledge, the oversights and the things that seemed too obvious to miss. Each one would be filled, however, and Merrick took care to do it well.

“A promise is when you say something and you mean it. If you promise to do something, you should always try your very best to do it. Don’t make them lightly and don’t break them.”

“Do people break them anyway?”

“Yes, some people. That just means you shouldn’t trust them when they promise things. Especially big things.”

“Do you break promises?”

Yes, he thought, though his promise to Steve was not one he wanted to talk about. “I try not to,” he said instead, “But sometimes I get carried away and make promises that I could never hope to keep.”

“Big promises?”

“Yes, though I don’t think anyone expected me to actually fulfil them. Except myself, maybe.”

“And you promise to stay here as much as you can?”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been doing.”

Two Alpha refused to look him in the eye and returned to his paper. “... I’m not sure it’s enough.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t promise much more.”

An understanding nod. “The promise would be too big to keep.”

“Yes.”

Two Alpha processed the conversation and Merrick waited. Eventually, Two Alpha sighed and leaned into Merrick’s hold. “But you’ll come back eventually. You won’t always be gone.” Two statements, more self-reassurance than anything.

Merrick nodded. “I… May be able to get you a phone. So that you can talk to me when I’m far away.” It was a risk, of course, a hole in the protective wall of isolation that Merrick had erected around him, but it would put both of their minds at ease. He could try to put restrictions on it, to prevent internet access and unwanted calls. A curated library of apps would help keep him occupied while Merrick was alone. Yes, it was worth the risk.

“That would be good,” Two Alpha agreed.

    ...

The phone proved its worth but also highlighted Two Alpha’s loneliness. Previously, it had been relatively easy to forget that every hour Merrick spent away was another for Two Alpha to kill at home. On Merrick’s first day away after buying the phone, Two Alpha called almost hourly until Merrick had to tell him to ease off while he was working, after which the calls came every three hours on the dot.

On his second trip, three weeks later, Merrick was flicking through the channels in his motel room when the fourth call of the day came through.

“Hello?” Even after so many of these calls, his voice still raised as if there was any question as to who was on the other end. It felt silly. Distant.

“Hi, Bernard.”

Usually it was at this point that Two Alpha would choose an arbitrary conversation starter, anything from the weather to where paper came from. Instead, there was quiet. Merrick pulled the phone from his ear, checked the call was still working, then put it back and asked, “Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” came the voice, strained in the way voices were when their face was pressed into a pillow. “We don’t need to talk. I just…” There was a staticky sigh. “We can just be together like this.”

Something hurt beneath his collarbone and he pretended it had nothing to do with the creeping guilt rising in the back of his mind.

“Okay,” he replied, voice strained in the way voices were when emotion pressed into them. Strange how such abstract things had such physical symptoms.

Steve had liked these moments, the ones where the conversation had run dry and there was nothing but companionable silence. Nothing owed, no performance, no give and take, just being near someone you loved. That was what he lived for. He enjoyed the rest of it, sure, but this– this was what the it all amounted to. When he had explained this, half-asleep on Bernard’s shoulder,

Beyond Steve, however, Merrick found people’s presences grating. They were always watching too intently or not listening enough or putting far too much thought into the act of existing near him. It made him hyper-aware of every infuriating aspect of the situation, on guard and tiring. Steve made it easy to drift, semi-conscious, relaxed. With Two Alpha he had never been truly on edge, rather wary of his own tongue slipping, saying something that would break the translucent illusion he now lived in. As such, the silence of Two Alpha was comforting in a completely different way; no chance of error when there was uncomplicated quiet between them.

Merrick lay back and allowed himself the calm.

Construction was underway at the facility, installing new wiring and digging out new space. He didn’t pretend to know much of what any of it meant, why any of it was happening the way it was, but the schematics that he had been talked through seemed sound enough to his inexpert eye. Ideally, he’d be able to let the construction team do their work and stay home, but such projects were never without their hitches and Ambrose was never without his impatience.

“I know you have your hang-ups about this whole thing,” he had said that day, having dragged Merrick into an unpainted office, “But we need you to be here. Like, really be here. Whatever’s going on in that head of yours can’t take up so much of your attention; yesterday you signed off on a cement order that was ten times under what we need – if I hadn’t caught it this morning we’d be another week behind schedule.”

“You said I wouldn’t have to handle any of this.”

“Cross-checking numbers hardly needs a business degree, Merrick! Your head isn’t in the game. I’m here a week more than you per month. What’s your excuse?”

“Well, unlike you, I have responsibilities at home.”

“What? The agnate?”

Merrick had clenched his teeth and tried his hardest not to glare too venomously – the last thing he needed was to get over-defensive. That way lay exposing himself to a man who would not hesitate to attack such weakness in the name of the bigger picture. Ambrose took his terse silence as a confirmation.

“The agnate can manage by itself – it has so far. This is so much bigger than that, this needs you to put the effort in. What difference will it make to the agnate? You just won’t be around three goddamn weeks a month – who do you know with that sort of time off? It doesn’t happen! This is work, so treat it like work. Prioritise.”

“My private life is just that: private,” Merrick had replied, enunciating sharply, “You would do well to remind yourself of that, Oscar.” And then he had left, wondering if he regretted using Ambrose’s first name. In the end, he decided that he didn’t, which was the easiest problem to solve.

The entire conversation had been repeating in his head like a blinking indicator, only silenced once the underlying issue was confronted. It was true that his total working hours had tanked after leaving the company and it was true that he rarely had more than seventy-five percent of his brain focused within those hours, however there was an entire life hinging on his own and it did so far more directly than the abstract lives that Merrick Biotech could save.

Two Alpha hated being alone and Merrick was loath to extend that time anymore than he had. Already, Two Alpha was navigating more negative emotions than he had ever felt and Merrick could only guide him so well with an entire week of absence looming over both of them, let alone two. The dependence could be called unhealthy if not for Two Alpha’s age.

Still, the tension was undoing them both, the phone simply a loosened valve to release the pressure before something exploded. A coin-sized valve in the Hoover dam, more a weak spot for the pressure to crack than any real aid. Perhaps Two Alpha needed to learn to alleviate the tension by himself, reduce his dependence just enough that there wasn’t such a weight on Merrick’s shoulders.

But how to do it?

He would need to do some research – out of work hours – but he should let Two Alpha down slowly before he could let himself get caught up in radical solutions. Gradually easing him off calling so regularly would help. That was a simple enough step to take.

The phone told him that the call had lasted over ten minutes, most of which was dead air. Their silence hadn’t yet been broken. He sighed.

“Hey.” Thinking about it, he’d never addressed him as Two Alpha. Perhaps it was a bit too inhuman. But was now really the time to think of a more endearing name? “You know that I get charged per minute?”

“For what?” The voice was soft, the tension melted away. Merrick hated the way that his couldn’t do the same.

“For these calls.” Silence. “So– so I’m going to have to go now. We can talk tomorrow. Or not talk. Up to you.”

“Oh.” Soft again, but not in the same way. Damn it. “Okay.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Bernard. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, instinctively, though he didn’t quite know what for. In the moments it took for him to wonder, the line went dead.

...

Merrick stayed in Arizona for three days longer than he had originally planned, if only to get Ambrose off his back. Two Alpha had kept his calls to twice a day, morning and evening and kept both strictly within ten minutes. Merrick supposed that his words had gone deeper than intended and Two Alpha was hyper-aware of the time and money Merrick was using to talk to him. It was charming, in a bittersweet kind of way.

He was hoping that Two Alpha hadn’t noticed his extended stay, and as such he hadn’t brought it up. He would be back soon enough.

On the morning of his last day, the phone rang at eight o’clock exactly.

“Where are you?”

“I’m at work.”

“You can’t come back?” 

“Unless there’s an emergency,” he lied. Two Alpha had clung to his promise, used it to reason his way through Merrick’s absence. It felt cruel to exploit that trust, break the promise, but the semantics of whether or not he truly could have returned earlier saved him from complete self-hatred.

“No, no emergency. Is there an emergency with you?”

“No, why would there be?”

“I dunno.”

The rest of the conversation was subdued, though Two Alpha often tended to grow withdrawn in his loneliness until Merrick returned and he bounced back. Nothing abnormal. No reason to be concerned. None at all.

Hours later, when Merrick was digitising spreadsheets at something resembling a desk, the phone rang again. He frowned at it and picked it up with a speed he would never admit to being panicked.

“Mr Merrick?” asked an unfamiliar voice.

“Yes?”

“I’m calling from St Luke’s Hospital about a patient we’ve just received from a recent motor incident. You were the only emergency contact.”

“What?” he croaked.

“Unfortunately, the patient had no ID and was unable to provide a name. Are you able to come to the hospital at this time?”

No. No. It couldn’t be–

“I– I’m in Arizona, I can get there in– nine hours? Where did you find him?”

The matter-of-fact tone of the answer didn’t help calm him as the caller listed an address barely ten metres from his house. Already, the spreadsheets were abandoned in the wake of his strides to the nearest exit.

“What condition is he in?”

“I can’t tell you much without you here to confirm your identity and relation to the patient, but his prognosis is poor. What did you say his name is?”

Merrick hung up. That was not a question he would ever be able to answer, not to anyone other than Two Alpha himself. Even then…

No. Now was not the time.

He ran.

...

Since the 2007 American Transport Initiative, high-speed maglevs connected major cities down each coast and across the southern states, drastically reducing travel times on even cross-continental scales. Unfortunately, there was still a two hour drive to the Phoenix station – perhaps once the system was more established he could petition for another to be built in Tucson, the drive was easily the most grating experience of his life – a four hour trip along the Latitude Line, and another three hours of sporadic stop-starting up the Eastern Seaboard. His loose interpretation of the speed limit in Arizona cut thirty minutes off his prediction but the extended adrenaline high made the journey feel like aeons.

He was already hammering the open door button when the train hummed to a stop and squeezed through the moment the doors allowed him. No one batted an eye at the sight of yet another smartly dressed man rushing with no regard for those in his way and he wouldn’t have noticed if they had. The route to the hospital memorised on the journey, he was a gale force wind weaving between the crowds.

Merrick practically collided with the reception desk, making the receptionist jerk back in her rolling chair.

“I’m here for–” he gasped, caught his breath again, “For a man. Admitted about nine hours ago, no ID. I was called–”

The receptionist typed in the number he showed her once he fumbled his phone over the desk. “Well, the numbers match but we’ll need a proof of identity for you and also what relation you have to him.”

“I’m– I’m Bernard Merrick. I’m all he has, he has no family– except– except me. Please, I need to see him.”

“He has no name on the record, do you–”

“Where is he?”

“Just follow the blue line, he should be in room six. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

Merrick just about managed, “Thank you,” before he was moving again. Blue line. The signs blurring past identified it as the route to the ICU but the blurring was in his head as much as his vision. All he could see was the line. It was all he needed to see.

There was a man standing outside room six. Merrick almost missed him in his determination to pass through the door, but he stepped in the way, placing a hand on Merrick’s shoulder. The hold was probably meant to have some compassion to it, but all he registered was the firmness keeping him from entering.

“Mr Merrick, I presume? Please, a word before you go in.”

There must have been something wild in his eyes when they met the man’s face, because the grip on his shoulder became tighter.

“I’m Dr Colby; I’ve been looking after the patient since his arrival in the department. He is… gravely wounded. Honestly, I’m amazed he’s lasted this long. When you go in there, please, be gentle. The state he’s in may be shocking to see, but you must stay calm, for his sake.” Colby caught his eyes as they darted to the door. “Breathe, Mr Merrick. And… prepare yourself – it is unlikely that he’ll recover.”

Blood was rushing through his ears but those final words rang through his mind clear as anything. They couldn’t be true, the doctor was just pessimistic; he’d seen too many deaths in his career, he was seeing a ghost where there wasn’t one. Two Alpha would make it through. 

Nevertheless. “I need to see him.”

“He has been somewhat aware of his surroundings, so he may be able to talk to you. The best we’ve got from him is what we believe to be his first name, Alf, right?”

Merrick nodded, no longer feeling tethered to reality.

“The worst injuries were elsewhere – his heart has been… erratic. Try to keep any conversation from working him up. Just be there for him, okay?”

Frustration bubbled up – I know, that’s what I’ve been trying to do – but it was distant, as if it hadn’t accompanied him all the way from Arizona. All he could do was croak, “Please.”

Colby nodded solemnly and opened the door. Behind was a small room made smaller by the abundance of machinery, most of it feeding back to the pale shape on the bed. Merrick moved in, suddenly slowed as if moving over sacred ground.

“Hey,” he said, softly, and the eyes opened and his own began to sting. Two Alpha’s eyes were bloodshot to the extreme that the whites of one had become rust-dark. They looked up at him drowsily.

“...Bernard?” His voice was raw, from disuse or pained screaming Merrick couldn’t tell. He took the hand that tried to lift itself off the bed, weighed by the IV line. The fingers were cold but they wrapped around his, fitting like Steves’ had, positioned like his didn’t. 

“Yes, it’s me. I’m here.” Merrick had taken Steve’s left hand, at the end, traced the ring there, covered the back of his hand with his own. Now, he was on Two Alpha’s right, and the hand was upturned, nothing to trace but those lines he didn’t know how to read. Life line. Heart line. Fate line. Illegible.

“Good… I was… worried about you.”

“Worried? Why should you be worried?”

“You didn’t come back. I know you said–” Two Alpha’s voice caught on its raw edges and on the shortness of breath. Perhaps it caught on something else, Merrick could hardly judge. “You said that you would always come back, if you could, and you couldn’t always because of work but– usually you’re back after seven days, sometimes it’s eight. So I waited and– you were away for ten days, no coming back, so I thought–” He sniffed, a thin tear track catching the light to become visible. “I know– I know it wasn’t– you were still on the phone. Looking back, I shouldn’t have worried ‘cause you were still answering, but– I thought maybe something had happened so I went out, the way you go when you leave. To find you.”

He was openly sobbing now, the monitors around him grumbling at the strain it put on his respiratory system. Merrick knew that if he turned his attention to himself, he would see the same sorrow and regret on his own face, but he didn’t, his focus purely on the man on the bed. The man who, if he was willing to admit it, did look terrifyingly delicate. 

It was only in comparison to the clinically white sheets that Two Alpha’s skin looked at all alive. There were bandages covering half of what was visible, bruises covering what remained. Every movement, down to blinking, was measured, pained, subdued. All except the crying.

“I don’t remember– I walked for a bit, I think, then–” He tried to screw his eyes shut as if to block out the sensations still wracking his body, but the bruising was too much to do more than furrow his brow.

“It’s okay,” said Merrick, beginning to stroke the hand with his thumb. “It’s okay. I’m here now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. I should have kept you informed, that’s my fault.”

Two Alpha simply opened his eyes to look at him grimly. There was a depth, a weight to him now that there hadn’t been and Merrick desperately wished to relieve him of it. He met his gaze, unflinching, and let it hurt.

After a while, Two Alpha whispered, barely audible over the machines, “What’s going to happen to me?”

Merrick wished he could offer some spiritual belief, some promise of heaven or of rest. He wished that his first thought in response hadn’t been death, that clinging to his hope of Two Alpha’s survival wasn’t as hollowly delusional as it suddenly felt. He wished that he had anything to say that wasn’t a lie.

“I don’t know.”

“I– I never thought about it. ‘Cause I can only remember being alive, and you being alive too. But, now that… There must have been a time when I wasn’t alive, right?” He watched, a warped half-pride at working it out in his eyes, as Merrick nodded. “So… I think that maybe it’ll happen again. ‘Cause I feel like I’m… running out.”

Merrick felt himself slump forwards, head on their hands, his breathing refusing to work normally. It couldn’t happen again. Was it inevitable? If he tried again, would he be forced to watch this face die again, inhabited by yet another person with his own quirks, his unique endearing traits, a new name? A different death; illness, injury, what else? How many cooling hands would he have to hold for daring to pursue a different, kinder fate?

“You’re okay,” he said into the sheets.

“It hurts.”

Pulling his head back up, he moved one hand to Two Alpha’s shoulder, holding as lightly as he could to avoid causing any further pain. “I know,” he said, “But I’m here now. I’m here as long as you need.”

A weak smile. “Thank you.”

As he returned the smile, he pushed all of his sincerity to the fore. “I love you.”

It wasn’t the same love he had for Steve, but it didn’t need to be, because this was Two Alpha and he was enough. Love was the thing tearing him down from the inside, no regard for dignity, undeniable. Two Alpha deserved to know. If Merrick didn’t love him, he’d have lived his entire life unloved.

“Thank you,” Two Alpha repeated, “I love you too.”

With that, tears finally fell, landing on Two Alpha’s arm. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“It’s okay,” he added, echoing Merrick’s speech the way he had when he was still learning. How long ago? A year? He was so painfully young… “You’re okay.”

All Merrick could do was repeat, “I’m sorry.” You deserved better.

“I think, maybe…” mumbled Two Alpha, eyes becoming drowsy, “Maybe it’ll just be like… those times on the phone. When we don’t talk… and we can’t see… but we’re together anyway. I’d like it, if it was like that.”

“Perhaps it will be.” The tears made his voice wet, but the words didn’t taste of cruel deception. It sounded like a good afterlife, for one invented by a clone with barely any life lived to speak of.

A twitch of lips, probably intended to be a smile. “I’m glad you came back.”

“Me too.”

Then Two Alpha closed his eyes and his breathing slowed. The fingers in his hand slackened their grip. Merrick didn’t take in much after that, even as the flatline drilled through his skull and medics bustled around him. What did any of that matter, anyway?

The important thing was that face, tranquil despite the wounds, motionless again. The important thing was Two Alpha and the heavy silence between them. He half expected to hear the click of a phone disconnecting.

...

This time the aftermath had no storm to it. He didn’t march home, threatening to burn everything in sight. He didn’t go to work and start shouting at Ambrose – though he probably deserved it. No, instead he began to make a list of criteria for the new facility. If they were going to have half an army of walking organs biding their time underground, they would need to do it properly.

The plan as it stood was to teach the agnates hygiene, nutrition, exercise, but nothing that would constitute a normal education. Speech would be necessary, reading less so but perhaps convenient. They would simply need to keep themselves healthy until their time came. Minimising contact to just staff members was also outlined in the initial protocol, though it sat uncomfortably with Merrick. He had no better plan, however. If they could communicate with each other, they would eventually catch on that some disappeared and never returned.

It would be easier, he found himself thinking at least once a day, if they never woke up and could just remain in those gel sacs until they were needed. Unfortunately, all of the animal trials proved it impossible or at least too much effort to be a better option. Once the agnates reached the end of their growth cycle they would wake up regardless of whether they had been taken out, occasionally drowning if they weren’t removed quickly enough. And if they were kept unconscious from there, they would atrophy – brains never finalising their development quite right, muscles never developing, digestion system shutting down without ever being used properly. Unfit for transplant donation.

The investment required to keep them in any fit state was major either way, but at least there were fewer fatal risks when they were allowed consciousness. So, living beings. Care to be taken to do it right.

From his list, Merrick found a sense of purpose in monitoring the construction efforts, making sure everything was as it should be, compiling another list of potential scientists, maintenance workers, caterers, making sure there was enough accommodation in the area, streamlining the growth-support system, getting a small team of lawyers to handle NDAs.

Maybe there was a storm, but he had found the eye more quickly than last time – a numb haven where he could work until he collapsed, ignoring the chaos beyond.

“We need a test run,” Announced Ambrose, walking into the break room where Merrick was lamenting the lack of kettle.

“A test run?”

“Yeah, like your guy, just to make sure everything works. We’ll give it a better name though.” Though Merrick was the one who had garnered a reputation for being cold simply by virtue of his general demeanor, Ambrose could be downright cruel. Not that Merrick had discussed Two Alpha at any length; he wasn’t a masochist.

“And do you have a genetic sample ready?” He asked in lieu of dignifying his jab with a response.

“No, ‘cause I’m not familiar with collecting that kind of thing, but I was thinking we should clone me.”

Merrick simply looked at him, disbelief readable enough without any expression. When Ambrose failed to elaborate, he collected his mind enough to ask, “You?”

“Yeah. Me.” The poor man. His brain must have been damaged from inhaling fumes from the construction. Or perhaps there was unhealthy amounts of radon this far underground. That would need to be checked. “All great pioneers of science end up trying their stuff on themselves, it’s practically a rite of passage. Besides, I can’t sue myself if it all goes wrong, now can I?”

“The legal team still needs to finalise the consent forms…”

“We don’t need it if I own the company!”

“You don–”

“Sorry, if we own the company. Point still stands. Bet this is why all those scientists do it.”

Should Merrick really stand in the way of such a misled endeavour? It was one thing to clone a dead partner, it was another to clone a man who was still alive and in regular contact with the project. Still, it would be interesting, for data collection purposes. Far too much of their current plan was based on hypotheticals. On one hand hubris, on the other… 

“I’ve heard the physicists get on just fine without it,” he said.

Ambrose waved a hand dismissively. “Physicists.”

Merrick made a conscious effort not to put a hand to his eyes, turning instead to what passed as a kitchenette. “And what do you intend to do with your agnate?” 

How did people make tea without a kettle? Would he have to microwave a mug full of water? Was that even legal?

“Dunno, figure it’ll be an insurance policy like the rest. Maybe teach it how to do my paperwork.”

“I’m sure that will pay back the millions it will take to do it.”

“Investment, Merrick, I know you’ve heard of it.”

“And I’ve yet to see the benefit.”

“You’re taking jabs at me ‘cause nothing’s happened while I’m telling you to make something happen!”

He sighed, “If you really think it’ll be of benefit to us, be my guest. Just don’t make the decision lightly. If I find out that you thought of this five minutes ago–”

“You wound me, Dr Merrick, when have I been anything but thoughtful with this venture? This is a great idea – what do we have to lose? It’s the same thing we’ll be doing in a few months anyway, just contained so we can troubleshoot any issues. A prototype!”

This was not a battle that Ambrose was about to lose. Merrick hardly knew which side he was even on. Why not humour the man? 

“Give it a week so I can train the skeleton crew on the initialisation and get everything calibrated,” he said, giving up on tea and instead filling his mug with cold water, “Make sure you’ve thought it through. If you want to go ahead, I’ll get your sample on Thursday.”

“Great!” exclaimed Ambrose, already halfway out of the room, “You won’t regret this, Dr Merrick!”

“You keep on saying that,” Merrick mumbled to the empty doorway. Mug water wasn’t as nice as glass water, he decided, but that hardly mattered.

...

In the end Ambrose went through with it. He dubbed the endeavour ‘Project: Pelasgus’ in the files, though Merrick could think of several more accurate titles, ‘Narcissus’ for one. Was he in a position to pass such judgements? Perhaps not, but there was no one else around to do it and Ambrose was in severe need of someone to temper him.

A great chamber had been hollowed out near the base of one of the old silos, fitted with a surprisingly expensive drainage system and the equipment needed to keep up to twenty-five growth-support systems, only one of which had actually been installed. Merrick viewed the room with much the same strange discomfort as he did the version in his basement, which was probably rusting with neglect. It was the discomfort of an ugly yet unregretted truth and he didn’t like how much of his life now had that tint to it. Sometimes, among the haze of work and his general distaste for Ambrose, he wondered if he too considered the whole affair to be ugly. Then he would decide that Ambrose had no such depth to him and, if anything, thought it cool.

When, eventually, Pelasgus was up and walking, Ambrose holed him away in the large office that was by now his own small apartment. Apparently there had been a scene regarding the staff seeing the agnate’s naked body – more out of concern for himself than the agnate – but Merrick could not bring himself to watch the security footage back to scan for any other red flags. This was Ambrose’s agnate, Merrick had had his chance already.

Which wasn’t to say that he hadn’t been tempted to stick his foot in.

“Check this out.” A memory stick collided with his forehead as Ambrose entered, no knocking as always.

Merrick remained motionless at his desk. “What is it?”

“You need to watch it. I showed Pelasgus a mirror this morning.” He didn’t know how he could say that name so seriously; it was ridiculous. Ambrose picked the memory stick up from where it had fallen, removed the one already in Merrick’s computer, and plugged it in before any preventative measures could be taken.

“I was using that!”

“Hope you save regularly,” replied Ambrose, unrepentant, “This is more important, anyway.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Just watch the damn video.”

The video began with a scene featuring Pelasgus having a simplistic conversation with two technicians that had probably been dragged in from the corridor, camera jerking about until the agnate was centred in the frame and Ambrose moved into view.

“Hey, Pelasgus, can you tell me these guys’ names?”

His response was a dubious look, as if the agnate knew it was a stupid question. Ambrose had probably introduced him to them ten minutes previously. 

“Clyde and Bill.”

“Which is which?” asked Ambrose, to the tune of an even more unimpressed glare.

“Clyde,” poking one, “Bill,” poking the other. Both technicians, wearing matching dusty coveralls and stony expressions, seemed to share the agnate’s attitude.

“Good. You two can go about your business.”

Clyde and Bill seemed all too happy to comply. How the agante had mastered complete disdain so early, Merrick didn’t know. It was almost impressive. Apparently these thinly veiled tests were a regular occurrence and consistently skewing beneath his capabilities.

“Now,” continued Ambrose, moving to uncover a mirror he had leaned against the wall, “Who’s this?”

“You,” said the agnate to his reflection. Then he paused, mind visibly working as he watched his reflection move with him.

Ambrose apparently grew impatient and stepped beside the agnate, grinning. “You.”

A frown creased the agnate’s face as he watched their two reflections, identical if not for their expressions and clothing.

“You look like me,” explained Ambrose as if the agnate hadn’t already worked it out.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I made you to. You’re a copy of me, a clone.” 

Merrick fought the urge to bat him around the head. No subtlety. He had mentally run through the scenario of Two Alpha finding evidence of Steve a hundred times, preparing for each a gentle way of responding to any range of reactions to the inevitable revelation of Two Alpha’s origins, and Ambrose had just barreled through it, no awareness of any of the variables Merrick had mapped a route around.

“A copy?”

“Damn right.”

“Why?” hissed the agnate, half in shocked confusion, half in indignant outrage.

“God, you sound like Merrick saying that–”

“I stand by that statement,” interjected the Ambrose watching over Merrick’s shoulder.

“I had lots of reasons. You’re just the first in a line of agnates that will revolutionise our ideas about illness and the human lifespan. Not to mention that it’s breaking scientific boundaries and starting a whole new industry!”

“How?”

“How what?”

“How does me looking like you change our ideas about illness and the human lifespan?”

At this point Ambrose seemed to spot the hole he had dug himself into. The chances of Pelasgus knowing the meaning of everything he was saying was unlikely, but there was no way that he would misunderstand what being an insurance policy entailed.

“Uh, well, there’s something to being able to create an adult human without the physical development of childhood…” Ambrose rambled as he walked back to the camera.

“What’s childhood?” Merrick had to stop himself from snorting. Ambrose was out of his depth, that much was clear.

The video cut out as he began, “You know what–”

Amused, Merrick looked up and saw that Ambrose’s ears had turned faintly pink.

“So you see, Pelasgus can differentiate between two different faces and identify that we look alike. It even seems to understand the general idea of cloning.”

“Perhaps you should provide some support with that,” Merrick said, as if there was any chance of it being a bad idea, “I can’t imagine that’s an easy pill to swallow.”

Ambrose waved a hand dismissively as he plucked out the memory stick. “It’ll be fine. Introduce the idea early and it’ll be normal. The rest’ll have to come to terms with it.”

“Will they? I was under the impression that we weren’t disclosing that to them.”

“What? You’re saying we should just lie?”

Sighing, Merrick pulled up the document he had been working on. Pelasgus was going to be a psychologist’s nightmare by the time Ambrose was through with him. He almost wanted to move him into his own office, but that was probably just the grief-echoes talking. Ambrose would turn it into a situation anyway, and Merrick was here as a scientist, not a caretaker.

“If your Project doesn’t see any issues arise because of this, we can consider telling the first generation. If.”

Grinning in the disconcerting way that he did, Ambrose strode backwards to the door. “You’re a pessimistic man, Dr Merrick,” he jeered before spinning into the corridor, exclaiming, “Self-recognition! Incredible!”

...

Conversation with Pelasgus would have been easy to avoid if Ambrose didn’t insist on keeping him in his office rather than in the purpose-built accommodation that would benefit from the prototype’s test run. At any given moment, Merrick was at most only half convinced that Project: Pelasgus was actually intended to be a true prototype and not a vanity project. Either way, Ambrose left them in the same room together far too often for Merrick’s liking.

The agnate had gradually accumulated a sort of static around his person that crackled every time Ambrose waltzed in. Existing in the same room as the two of them made Merrick exhausted and often left him with a pounding headache. Ambrose, of course, was too wrapped up in his fantasies of power and wealth to notice.

When he wasn’t there, suspicion was still thick in the air, which Merrick supposed was not helped by the small library of sci-fi and murder mystery films that was strewn about the TV. Although he had decided not to involve himself, he couldn’t bring himself to truly ignore the agnate. Initiating conversation felt a step too far, but throwing what he felt to be a comforting look in the agnate’s direction, or offering him coffee from Ambrose’s machine was fair game. If no-one did it, something would snap, so why not the only person in the godforsaken facility who didn’t look at him like either a freak of nature or a point of fascination.

Occasionally the agnate would say something and they’d talk until Ambrose returned and transformed the air into electricity. He’d often choose far heavier topics than Two Alpha had. Or at least topics that were heavy in context.

“Do people not like me because they don’t like Oscar or is it because I’m a copy of him and they don’t like that?”

“No consideration that they dislike you for your own merits?” Merrick asked, dryly. It was probably less than sympathetic but the agnate seemed to be on his wavelength about such things. The equally dry look he got in response affirmed this.

“How likely do you think that is? I don’t want to talk to them, but that’s because they already don’t like me. So do you think it’s because I’m a clone or because I’m Oscar’s clone?”

“Honestly? Given the people who work here and Oscar Ambrose’s general demeanor, it’s probably a bit of both.”

The agnate swore.

“Quite.”

...

At some point or another there was an incident in which Ambrose was mistaken for his agnate – or was it vice versa? – which had sent Ambrose into a somewhat vindictive frenzy, culminating in him commissioning an entirely new security system featuring RFID keys and a tech-filled bracelet that was quickly locked around the agnate’s wrist to prevent any further misidentifications. It would be amusing if not for the ire that was now constantly palpable between the two of them and the new glint in the agnate’s eyes. 

Apparently there had been an argument and Ambrose had started shouting.

“Do you even know what being an insurance policy means?!” a security officer had quoted when he offered to show Merrick the footage, finding it to be far more hilarious than it was. “It means you’re here for parts! I own you! The moment I get sick or injured, you’re done and I live on! Don’t start thinking you can go around being me. Don’t think you’re on my level. You hear?”

Subsequently, Merrick tried to keep himself away from the administration and management block, instead investigating a way to keep the commercial generations from ever even considering the possibility of their grim prospects. Evidently, the truth had a negative impact. Who knew?

...

Merrick was taking one of his unfortunately necessary brief visits to his own office when it happened. All he had in warning was a percussive commotion sounding from down the corridor, then Pelasgus was in his room, knocking the door as he passed it and appearing noticeably ruffled.

He stood up. “What–”

“Please,” gasped the agnate, “I don’t– I–”

The uncharacteristic desperation was written over his entire body, shaking and wide-eyed. Footsteps thundered on concrete and the agnate began to stumble forwards.

Merrick was halfway around his desk when the dark uniforms of the security team filled the doorway.

“Dr Merrick! Move away from the agnate, he’s dangerous!”

He froze as he spotted the firearms in their hands, the blood flecked on the agnate’s trousers. Slowly stepping backwards, he asked in a voice that thankfully didn’t shake, “What’s going on?”

“It killed Mr Ambrose, sir, we caught it on the cameras.”

The agnate step forwards again. “I–”

The reaction was instant. One, two, three shots. Merrick jerked back as the agnate toppled over. A member of security rushed over to usher him away from the rapidly pooling blood.

“Sir, are you okay?”

He nodded, still trying to process. It was hard to ignore the shape on the floor even as he was guided out of the room. Everything had happened in the space of a minute and now… 

“We’ll get someone in to clean up. You should find somewhere else to be.”

“How did this happen?” he asked.

“The agnate attacked him. Unarmed. Slammed his head against the desk, I think. Blood everywhere. We’re gonna cordon off the area until this is sorted.”

“Christ.” He needed a drink, though he didn’t own any alcohol. One of the maintenance workers would have something under the board, surely?

...

Death was one thing, seeing a man get shot was another. Nightmares plagued him. Faces in double, growing resentment, blood. The sensation of falling, over and over again. Two Alpha flatlining as he entered the room, moments too late. Pelasgus trying to retake control, fighting the man keeping him trapped. Ambrose dismissing and dismissing and dismissing.

Merrick found himself unable to sleep, spending his increasing waking hours reorganising the accommodation sector. Isolation was evidently asking for trouble, so the agnates would need regular contact. He couldn’t exactly hire people for them to talk to, so they would need to talk to each other in order to build proper social networks. But then how would staff be able to take them out of the active population for donation without arousing suspicion? How could he keep them from trying to find a way out? How, how, how?

In the end he hired a writing team to fabricate a world-ending event that had turned everything outside the compound into a dangerous hellscape unfit for living things. A Contamination. One that hadn’t reached a single small haven in the middle of the ocean, where a chosen few would be sent to repopulate humanity in the outside world. He didn’t want competition inciting violence within the group, so the method of selection would be presented as truly random, a lottery.

This all necessitated bringing in a further team to imprint artificial memories: the life before the Contamination, which they could hope for on the Island and make the staff’s memories of real life seem unextraordinary; and the devastation that the Contamination caused.

It was all quite elegant, in the end. Everything was explained neatly. The agnates would keep themselves contained, not needing to trust the word of the staff since they had memories of exactly what they were being told about. Perhaps this was the sort of lie that Ambrose had wanted to avoid, but Ambrose was dead by his own stupidity, so Merrick could continue as he wanted to.

He ordered the construction of new exercise facilities, various forms of entertainment, and a rudimentary educational curriculum all to keep them occupied so that they wouldn’t be bored into unpredictable behaviour. A techie had suggested that they get the clones to do some of the manual labour involved in maintaining the growth-support systems and hydroponic farms, which filled in the impression of ‘work’ given by the false memories and Merrick’s staff having obvious jobs.

Yes, all very elegant.

Now all that remained to be done was the agnates themselves.

...

The first generation was called Alpha.

Merrick watched as the first batch of samples got loaded into the system. Most of them were high-ranking officers in the Defense Department. A few were from notoriously flagrant billionaires. One was the only remaining genetic material from Steve.

He wouldn’t interact with Gandu Three Alpha out of course, he had learnt that lesson. Three Alpha would just be another face in the crowd, making friends, finding himself, living. But Merrick would be able to see his face, hear his voice. Steve and Two Alpha would live on through him. He would never be able to talk to them again, but he wouldn’t forget their face. It would be a silent phone call, staring at a photo across the room.

That was all he needed.

[nicklangfordmuse]

MONDAY | baby daddy verse

Monday morning and it was the day that Martin visits the gym for apparently an important meeting. He isn’t sure what it is about yet but his heart raced. Apart from his heart jumping out of his chest, he was still coughing and feeling a little ill. But today isn’t a day for that. Today is about showing strength and leadership so he really pushed his best with a couple of medicine and a kiss from his fiancé and son. He also gave Katrina another kiss for an advance congratulations for her first day of class. Hopefully, this will be another week filled with good news for the family.

Going into work, everyone can tell that Nick looked sick. And while he did, there’s still that strive in him to keep going, which everyone appreciated. He started his day as usual, going through paperworks. Martin is expected to arrive around lunchtime or after that. While waiting, Nick decided to assist on the field work and help train a couple of people. After a while, Lydia came up to him.

“Martin’s here. He said you’re going out for a lunch meeting.” She informed him and Nick nodded, going back inside his office to put a jacket on before meeting Martin out.

“Hey. Lunch meeting?” Nick asked and Martin nodded at him with a smile before realizing how his voice sounded. “You okay, Nick? You sound...terrible.” Martin said, not trying to be offensive. Nick shrugged his shoulders at him and chuckled. “I’m fine. Just...a little under the weather. But I’m good.” Nick assured him so he just nodded at him and lead him out so they could have lunch.

As they got there, they started talking about personal stuff, asking about each other’s lives and everything going on. Nick told him about his family, keeping the engagement news out of the light for now. Martin even told him about a few personal things which they bonded over. Close to finishing their food, Martin finally brought up business.

“I really appreciate your work at the gym, Nick. I really do. I mean, you’ve brought House of Fitness farther than how I expected it to go.” He started which Nick thanked and nodded him for. “I was told yesterday that...you brought it a number of teachers to register for the gym?” He asked and Nick nodded. “Yeah, well, those are teachers from my son’s school. We’re neighbors with one of them and they started this goal for the school year to work out and take care of their bodies and health too, apart from taking care of the kids.” He shared and Martin nodded. “That’s...thats very nice to hear.” He said, clearing his throat and wiping his lips with the napkin. “Again, I really appreciate all the effort but...” Here it goes. “We’ve noticed...some absences in your record. A lot of...cut hours per day. And I have to say, it’s...actually affecting...the work space.”

“I’m...I’m doing my best and trying to keep my family together at the same time. I don’t...I don’t get it. Are you firing me?” He asked, chuckling to lighten the situation. “No, no, no. That’s not what I’m saying. What I’m trying to say is...maybe...you’re gonna need some help.” Martin said and it was quiet. Silence filled the room and Nick just looked at him like he wanted a further explanation of things. Help? What kind of help?

Suddenly, like a perfectly time movie scene, Brock came in the restaurant and Martin waved at him to come over to their table. “Hey, man.” Brock told Nick with the biggest grin like he just got the best news of his life. He sat down beside Martin and it looked like the two of them has the news Nick was waiting for. “Brock...has showed excellence since we started the gym. He has grown and helped the company so much like you have and...it was time to reward strong efforts and dedication like his. So...I promoted Brock to a managerial position just like yours.” Martin finally explained.

Nick looked at them, hoping he wasn’t hearing this like it sounded. “Like...an assistant manager?” He asked and Martin pressed his lips before shaking his head. “I am assigning the both of you as co-managers of the gym. That way...you’ll have the help you need around the place.” At this point, Nick felt his head become lighter and his chest slowly drowning. He wasn’t getting his job done right so they got a replacement for him. Someone better. “You can manage your time properly, you’ll have two to three days off a week. We’ll balance your schedule well so you’ll have time to take care of your family like you wish. It’s...gonna pay less because you’ll share the position but you’ll have better time management and the stress on your shoulders would be lessen.” He explained before noticing how pale Nick was starting to look. “And look, you should start taking care of yourself. You’ve been sick since yesterday, Lydia told me.”

“Hey, man. I hope you don’t...see this as a competition. Come on, we’re one team. Remember? It’s been you and me since the beginning. We became friends since the gym started. I can guarantee you, we’ll make this gym far better than how we envisioned it from the start.” Brock assured him, hoping Nick wasn’t taking this to the heart.

Nick was quiet at first before realizing how he should react. This should be a good thing. He’ll have help and he can have more time with his family. “Uhm...yeah, man. Of course. We’re a team.” He repeated. Martin smiled, glad that Nick took this the way he hoped he would. Nick started coughing again, feeling his body slowly sinking down the seat. “You okay, man? You worked out too much yesterday with those teachers.” Brock said and Nick shook his head. “I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just...a little cough.” He said before coughing hard again and Martin knew what to do with this. “Look, take the rest of the day off. We’ll count your hours for today complete but...you can go home. Get some rest and come back stronger tomorrow. Let’s give today to Brock, shall we? Put his managerial assets to the test.” Martin joked which made both him and Brock laugh. Nick felt powerless in that situation and all he could do was nod and smile weakly.

After a while, they headed back to the gym and Nick was getting his things from the office. Suddenly, Brock entered and he was carrying a box of his own things. This is really happening. They’re even sharing an office now. “Hope you don’t mind. I’ve always wanted to put a frame of my loved ones on a desk.” He said, chuckling and Nick just nodded. “Hey, man, really. You should get some rest. I have everything handled here. No worries. Just...let me know when you get better so we can discuss a few things I talked to Martin about. Ya know, managerial stuff.” Nick pressed his lips together before nodding, feeling very ill now. “Okay. Uhm...I’ll...see you soon.” Nick said as he headed out to his car to drive home.

The place was empty. It was so quiet and Milo had only approached him a little and went back to his little bed. Nick still kept coughing, feeling worse than how he did earlier. He just sat on the bed, his mind going blank as his body was slowly falling into the trap of illness. And yet, he couldn’t stop remembering the meeting. He was given a partner to share the position and yet, he felt like he was being replaced. Nick couldn’t get the job done and this was just making him feel useless. Like he’s not good enough. The last time he felt this heavy was when he couldn’t find the desire to go to college as Katrina did. And he made the decision to leave the love of his life for her dreams to come true. He couldn’t let her go down with him so he just left so he’d go down alone. A tear fell from Nick’s eyes as he closed them and the coughing started again. It became chilly that he felt like he needed to lie down and cover himself with a blanket for heat and protection from his insecurities. After a while, he suddenly passed out. His body finally gave up on him and the simple cough became a terrible flu, causing him fever, body pains, cough and colds.

Nick slept throughout the afternoon and when the time to pick up Shawn came, he missed it. He complete missed it because he was terribly ill in bed. It had been an almost an hour since Shawn was finished with school and all of his friends had gone home already. He was left there waiting and Victoria saw him. “Shawn, you’re still here? Where’s your dad?” She asked and Shawn shrugged his shoulders, looking like he was on the verge of tears. “Wait here. I’ll call up your parents.” She said, getting the logbook of contact numbers and seeing his parents’ numbers there. She first tried to call Nick but there was no answer. After two more failed tries, she decided to call Katrina. Three times and her calls were just sent straight to voicemails. The boy’s parents were unreachable.

“They’re not answering and they’re the only contacts you have here.” She told the boy and Shawn looked really sad. “I wanna go home.” He whined a little and Victoria could understand his frustration. Shawn was the only one left in school. “Okay. Uhm...I’m...not sure if this is allowed but...I can bring you home. I can drop you off at your apartment as long as your parents are there. Is that okay with you?” She asked and Shawn looked unsure at first but seeing as she’s the only one right there who knows where he lives, he just nodded at her. Holding his hand, they went to the road to get a cab and go home. Shawn was just quiet, wondering why his dad didn’t pick him up. When they arrived at the apartment, he saw the truck there. “Daddy’s truck.” He told Victoria and that gave her the idea that Nick is indeed home. “Alright. Let’s ring the doorbell and see if he’s really home.” She said, going to the front and ringing the doorbell. No movement but Milo started barking. “Milo!” Shawn said, trying to peek at the window. “Milo is there.” He told Victoria, trying to peek at the window again. “Milo, open the door.” He told his dog but it was obviously useless.

No person was opening the door still and Victoria was growing nervous. Ringing the doorbell twice again, Nick felt his eyes flew open at the realization that he had been asleep for a while. Someone was ringing their doorbell. Slowly, he tried to get up but he was just in so much pain as he kept coughing more. He tried to reach for his phone but even that was so hard to do.

Victoria was starting to feel hopeless and she had one last option in mind. If this door is open, then her problem is solved but if it’s locked, then she’s got a lot on her plate than she expected for today to go. Twisting the knob, she pushed the door open and it she was surprised that it wasn’t lock. That was very unsafe. Closing the door behind them, they were greeted by the big dog and Shawn ran to him for a hug. “Milo! Where’s daddy? He didn’t pick me up!” He said, realizing the dog was looking at Victoria. “That’s Ms. Victoria. She brought me here and she’s nice.” He told the dog and Victoria waved at the dog, trying to show him that she’s a good person. “I’m gonna go upstairs and look for daddy.” He said but Victoria shook her head. If the door is unlocked and the apartment is quiet, who knows what’s happening there, right? “Wait. I’ll...I’ll go with you. I can’t leave you unless I know you’re with your dad.” She said, locking the door first before holding onto Shawn’s hand again as they went upstairs. They went to Nick’s room and as they opened the door, they saw him coughing his lungs out and he looked very ill.

“Daddy! Why are you sleeping? You didn’t pick me up from school!” He complained, unaware of what’s happening to his dad. “Baby, I’m sorry. I’m so...so sorry.” He apologized, his voice deeper, really showing how sick he is. “Victoria. You...brought him home?” Nick asked, surprised by the presence of their neighbor. “I was calling you and...his mother and I wasn’t getting answers. He’s the only one left in school so...I decided to bring him here. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.” She apologized but Nick shook his head a little. “No, no. I’m actually grateful...that you did that. It’s all my fault. I’m sorry.” He said and Shaw was just beside him, trying to understand why he was still in bed. “Bubba, daddy is...very sick. I’m sorry I didn’t pick you up. But...I can’t have you near me right now, baby. I don’t want you getting sick too.” He said, pouting at his son and hoping he understood. “Can you go stay with Milo in your room first?” He asked and he nodded with a pout. Shawn got off the bed and went to his bedroom to take his shoes off and play with his dog.

Once alone, Victoria could see how sick he was. “You probably have a flu. Have you taken any medication?” She asked and Nick shook his head. Victoria moved closer and got a hand over his head before quickly taking it off. “Ooh, you’re burning. That’s not a good sign.” She said, looking around. “Do you have...a thermometer around? And I’m gonna need a towel and...some warm water.” She said as Nick coughed more, feeling the ache in his body. “Bathroom. Drawer.” He said, figuring she just wanted to help. His body was in so much pain and his mind is still racing from his bad news. Victoria went to the bathroom and got what she need, putting a thermometer on Nick to check his temperature. Using the wet cloth, she gently patted his face to cool him a little. Nick laid there helpless but still grateful. At one point, he saw that it was Katrina taking care of him like this which made him smile for the first time today. Victoria saw this and smiled back at him.

“I have some medicine in my bag. You should take it, every four hours.” She said, getting the thermometer and her face squinted as she saw the result. “Too high. If this doesn’t go down after the medicine, I feel like you should go to hospital.” She suggested and Nick shook his head. “I can’t...leave Shawn here. I have to get up. Now.” Nick said, trying to but he just moaned at the pain of trying to get up. “If you could.” Victoria said, seeing he was still wearing his gym shirt. “Also, you should’ve changed your shirt. You work at a gym so I’m sure that’s full of sweat.” She said, getting up before suddenly feeling like she’s too nosy. “Uhm...is there...anyone I can call? Like...Shawn’s Mom? Where is she?” She asked and Nick shook his head at her. “It’s her first day teaching ballet. I can’t distract her today. Not today.” He said, letting out a breath. “Can you try calling Daria? She’s Shawn’s sitter. I just need at least someone watching over Shawn until Katrina gets back.” He said and Victoria nodded, getting Nick’s phone as he gave it to her. “Uhm...do you...want me to get you a shirt? So you can change?” She asked and Nick nodded, pressing his lips together. Pointing at a shirt on the desk, Victoria got it and gave it to him. “Do you...need help?” She asked and Nick felt so shy. “It’s okay. I think...I can do it. Just try to call Daria, please.” He asked and she nodded, going out to the hallway to make a call.

Once he was alone, Nick slowly got up, trying to take in the pain as he tried to change his shirt as quickly as possible. Getting the medicine, he took the water bottle from the table and drank it. Laying back down in bed, Nick was still in pain but he knew he’d be in so much more when Katrina finds out that he failed to pick up Shawn from school. Closing his eyes, he quickly opened it again when he heard Victoria come back in the room. “Okay. I spoke with your sitter and she won’t be back in town till tomorrow. So...anyone else we can call for you and Shawn?” She asked as Nick thought about it. If she called Rachel, Katrina’s gonna know about this and he wanted to be the first to tell her. So...no one, basically. Nick shook his head at her and Victoria nodded, pressing her lips together. “Uhm...well, I just live next door so...I can stay with Shawn if...that’s cool with you. I mean, until...his mom comes back.” She suggested and Nick pouted at her. “That’s not your job. I don’t...want to put more burden on you.” He said, feeling bad for abusing her kindness today. “No, no. Really. I just...want to help. I mean, we established yesterday that we’re also..neighbors, right? So...neighbors are kinda friends too. Plus, I can’t leave the little boy alone here so...that’s gonna be on my conscience too.” She explained, moving closer again and feeling the need to gently wipe Nick’s face of the wet cloth. Closing his eyes, Nick let out a breath. “Thank you...for being here.” He whispered and Victoria smiled, patting the cloth over his neck too. “Give me two hours. I promise I’ll be down to check on you two. Just...put Lion King on and he’ll be set.” He suggested.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Shawn was bothered by the fact that his dad didn’t pick him up from school. Not only that but he was alone upstairs with his teacher. Thankfully, the landline was transferred to this apartment and it has Nick and Katrina’s numbers both on speed dial. Pressing 1, Shawn waited for his mother to answer. It took a while before he heard his mother’s voice. “Mama!” He said but then, he realized it was directed to voicemail. After the beep, he spoke again. “Mama, it’s Shawn. I’m home but...daddy didn’t pick me up. Because daddy is sick.” He paused, pouting to himself. “Where are you, mama? Can you come home already? I miss you.” He said, taking another long pause before hanging up the call. As he sat on the couch, he saw Ms. Victoria coming down the stairs.

“Hey. So...your dad is very sick but...he told me to stay with you until he comes down. Is that okay? We can watch the lion King while we wait.” She suggested, remembering that it was the key word. Shawn nodded at his teacher and Victoria smiled at him, turning the TV on so they can watch while Nick is trying to rest upstairs.

[minyoongijjangjjangmanboongboong]

Sweet Dreams Chapter Two

Lucid dreaming: The process of being aware that one is dreaming. Some researchers believe that in lucid dreaming, the individual may be able to change the outcome of the dream or control their degree of participation in the imaginary (dream) environment.

Description: Lee Eunbyul has been plagued with hellish nightmares since she was a child. Not the sort of nightmares you may be familiar with. There are no monsters to evade, no serial killers to outrun, no auditoriums of classmates in front of whom to stand naked. Instead there is just…darkness. Endless darkness. With professional help, the dreams come less frequently. But after moving away from home to live with her sister, Eunbyul’s nightmare returns, only this time it’s different. This time…she’s not alone.

What would you do if you had the chance to change the outcome of not only your dreams, but your life?

Genre: Romance, Drama, Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn

Pairing: Namjoon x (f) OC

Word Count: 7.3k

Tags: Non-Idol!Au, Producer!Namjoon, Bookstore Clerk!Seokjin, Potter!Jimin, Producer!Yoongi, Dancer!Hoseok

Warnings: Frequent mentions of mental illness, infrequent swearing and mentions of alcohol

A/N: Hello! I’m trying out links for this chapter to see if Tumblr eats it, since I don’t know if links are working now. But anyway, here’s chapter two! Thank you guys for reading and I hope you enjoy this chapter! Please don’t be shy and send feedback, critique, questions, theories, and comments my way. I’ll be sure to respond to all asks I receive within a day of receiving them!

And again, if you want to follow my Twitter, my username is @/plzpunchmebts. I’m super active over there and hopefully in the future I’ll do some livestreams/chats with you all!

- Mercury

Previous Chapter – Next Chapter

Masterlist

Weekly updates: Sunday, 1PM (PST)

Namjoon

I rubbed my eyes as the breaking morning light filtered in through the swaying curtains beside my bed. Sighing, I pushed myself up onto my forearms, then onto my legs, then onto my feet. I padded over to the window, stifling a yawn, and grabbed the frame. I’d left the thing open all night, having fallen asleep too suddenly to remember to close it properly, and now mosquitos flew in lopsided circles around my lamp. Also left on overnight. I groaned and pulled the window shut, shooing the mosquitos with squinted eyes. I checked the clock on my black wall. 4:03 AM.

Quietly, I followed the scent of coffee and sauntered out into the living room where Yoongi sat, legs crossed on the couch, flipping through a book on Greek mythology with one hand and holding a mug in the other.

“Morning,” I said, like every morning.

“Mm,” he replied, like every morning.

I suspected Yoongi hadn’t even bothered to go to sleep, and the purplish bags beneath his eyes didn’t help. The apartment was spotless as usual. Yoongi wasn’t one to let mess pile up, and I was grateful at least for that. What he lacked in socializing, he made up for in peace and cleanliness. I slipped along the cool wood floor and wandered into the kitchen, pouring myself a generous cup of coffee from the pot Yoongi had left on.

“Crazy dream?” asked Yoongi. I found the heart of his question in the words he didn’t say. You never wake up before noon. You okay?

I hummed and settled down at the table, running my finger along the polished trim. Everything in this apartment was pristine, lined with precision and placed with care. That’s how Yoongi was. Even before we met at his studio, he struck me as the diligent type.

I guess I felt like I could learn something from someone like him.

With a sigh I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t remember.”

“Hm,” said Yoongi with a gruff cough, pausing to flip the page in his book.

And that was that. With a few words exchanged between us, I was left to watch the morning sun arc across the blemishes sky outside the wall of windows facing the ocean. I was left to think.

Sometimes I wished he was more talkative…

The bus rattled down the sun-drenched street and I watched buildings pass by in silence. Normally, I’d have worn headphones but at Yoongi’s request, I’d left them behind so he could work on a beat at home. I rested my head against the window and shut my eyes with a heavy sigh. Why don’t you just talk to him? Those were the words replaying in my mind. Hoseok always was startlingly astute, in an oblivious sort of way. Of course, my friend of twenty years could say something so blasé like that without knowing what it meant for me. Tell him you wanna write music.

Just tell him.

A pang rang through the bus, signaling the approach of my stop, and I gathered my backpack and cell phone, standing with my hand on the rail overhead. “Ah, sorry,” I mumbled as an older woman stood beside me, stumbling with the unsteady stall of the bus.

She turned to me with a weathered smile and patted my arm. “Thank you,” she said, gently sliding down the aisle with both arms swung out as if she could fall over at any moment.

I watched her, uneasy, as she made her way to the exit. But as she exited, someone else entered and in their haste, they brushed a shoulder against the old woman’s chest, knocking her back slightly. I jumped, rushing to catch up to her, as she grabbed hold of the rail beside the exit. I placed a hand on her forearm to steady her, and again she offered a smile.

“Hey,” I shouted, turning to see the perpetrator was staring at the scene, eyes covered with a ball cap, short, curling black hair sprouting from underneath.

Upon closer inspection, the hapless bus-rider was a young girl, although with her face downturned it was hard to tell much about her beside her unimposing height. I scanned her from head to toe. Narrow shoulders, drowning in a shirt three sizes too big, shorts just barely visible underneath the hem, tanned legs and dirty tennis shoes. But my eyes lingered on her hands. Small, balled into fists, her index fingers were digging into the skin of her thumbs, picking as she stared at the old woman in the exit.

“I-,” she began, and her voice was almost too soft to hear over the engine.

“You gonna pay?” asked the bus driver, eyeing her impatiently.

The girl jumped and turned to him, swiping her pass and shuffling with her shoulders pinched and her head down until she found an empty spot. The spot I’d taken before. I sighed and stepped down toward the woman, offering my arm to help her out onto the street.

“Oh thank you, son,” she said once the both of us were safely on the sidewalk.

Sparing no time, the bus sped off down the road. I watched it for half a second before returning my attention to the woman with a smile. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, bowing. “Sorry about that,” I added, and I wasn’t sure why I apologized for that stranger. It wasn’t my apology to make, anyway.

She shook her head. “No, that’s alright,” she said with a simple smile before turning on her heel and waving goodbye. “Take care, sweetheart!”

I returned the smile along with the wave, but something wasn’t sitting quite right with me. As I turned on my heel towards the studio a block down, it hit me.

That girl on the bus was oddly familiar.

“How’s the project coming along?” asked Jisoo as he stood over my shoulder, gazing at the monitor with his specs sliding down the bridge of his nose.

I cleared my throat and nodded. “It’s good. The music will be automatically triggered when the player walks past this line, so I made sure to line it up properly,” I said, pointing with an index finger at the screen.

Sound design in video games was laborious work, and even more so when the sound is music. Footsteps, fighting noises, slashing sounds: those could be left to the programmers without a second thought. But music? That was the sort of thing that had to be implemented by somebody who understood dramatic tension, timing, placement. Of course, should the programmers decide they don’t need the help of an indie commercial freelance company for their music design, they could probably do a great job. But contracting us was a convenient way to take nonessential work and pass it to someone qualified to handle it.

In my case, overqualified.

“Good,” said Jisoo, but it was clear he was only half-listening as he stirred his coffee with a grimace. “That scene gonna be ready by tomorrow?”

“I mean…,” I began. It was the first I’d heard of such a short deadline. Quietly, I settled my nerves and met Jisoo’s eyes through the glare of his glasses. “Sure,” I said, reluctant.

His face split in a smile, wrinkles around his lips deepening as he ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Great,” he said, patting my shoulder once. “We’re counting on you, Joon.”

Joon.

I swallowed hard and cleared my throat, turning back to my computer with a tense smile. “I’ll get to it then,” I said as he gave me a thumbs up and meandered down the hallway, out of my tiny, shared office.

I sighed, resting my cheek in my hand, and stared at the screen. Tiny characters idled in a wide, green field, awaiting my command to test if I’d placed the song correctly. I already knew I had. Of course, I should have been grateful to have a job in the first place. Albeit unfulfilling, the work gave me a steady income and despite the well of disappointment in my chest whenever Yoongi left to work in his own studio with real musical artists, I shouldn’t have been sighing all the time.

“Yikes,” said Jungkook from beside me, a young programmer who’d snagged the job at our company straight out of college.

He eyed me from his desk, only feet away from mine, and pushed his headphones back to rest against his collarbone. He was still a kid, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to work on games for the rest of his life. Really, working with a producing company was probably the best option for him. And every day you could see it in the way he moved that he was passionate. His round, inquisitive eyes were always landing on something new on his monitor, nimble fingers always typing away.

I doubted the kid had ever been apathetic about anything in his life.

“Yeah,” I breathed, glancing out the window to my right. Fresh sunlight poured in from outside. A fine day…

“You really gonna get it done in time?” he asked, refocusing on his screen as he popped a convenience store sausage in his mouth. He chewed on it, never looking away from the monitor, eyes alight.

I shrugged and leaned back in my chair. “Guess I gotta,” I said, still watching the day. In the distance, just below the horizon, I watched the train tracks as the afternoon train chugged by, windows glinting in the light. “It’s a crime to be inside on a day like this, though,” I remarked with a sigh.

Jungkook chuckled. “That’s what old people say,” he said, still munching.

I rolled my eyes and propped my headphones back up against my ears. “Everyone seems old to you,” I said. “Because you’re still a baby.”

Jungkook furrowed his brow and shot me a petulant look. “I’m a grown man.”

I chuckled and nodded, waving my hand to dismiss him. “Sure thing, big guy,” I said, continuing to set the music trigger just so.

The evening sun had long descended by the time my feet hit the pavement outside, and my hands and mind were exhausted. I wrung my wrists a little as I sighed into the nighttime air. The city was quiet, quieter than Seoul at any rate, and as I meandered toward the bus stop the simple sound of my cell phone ringing had me jumping. I fumbled with the phone for a moment as I fished it from my back pocket and slowly peered down at it.

Hani, displayed the screen and I raised my brows.

“Hello?” I asked as a white hatchback sped past, kicking up dirt on the street.

“Joonie,” she whined, and I could tell she was drunk. “I miss you.”

I gripped the bridge of my nose and nodded once, shutting my eyes against the yellow glow of the streetlamp overhead. “Uh-huh…”

“Come get me?”

I felt my chest constrict just a little. My mistake for answering in the first place. My mistake like always. “Where are you?” I asked carefully.

She mumbled something, words slurring together, before returning her attention to our phone call. “I’m at that bar by the beach. The pretty one.”

I knew the one. Sighing, I nodded. “Be there in ten,” I said, not awaiting a response as I pocketed the phone and began jogging down an alleyway, following a straight path to the shoreline.

Hani was right about one thing, anyway. The bar was pretty. In the summertime, when the air is fine and the clouds don’t linger too long, the beachside bar opens its windowed doors and extends its seating to the patio, right along the sand. The entrance was nestled deep beneath a canopy of light, sun-bleached wood beams and curling greenery, twinkling lights glowing on strings that wrapped around the entire patio.

Didn’t need to be a genius to know where she was. Quietly, I maneuvered around dancing bar patrons milling about in the gaps between tables and lounge chairs and made my way inside. The interior was dark. Not my style, really. But Hani always liked it here, which meant I spent plenty of drunk nights here. I approached the bar on the far wall and that was when I saw her.

Back on display from the low cut of her black dress, her brown hair waved over one slender shoulder and I saw her smile in profile. Perfect teeth, full cheeks rosy with alcohol and youth, eyes half-shut as she slapped a man’s arm. Gently, I approached her from behind and placed a hand on the small of her back, creating a wall between her and the man beside her. Her bright eyes landed on me and her smile went wider. She laughed, a loud, reverberating sound that pierced my ears even over the bumping music. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around my shoulders and held tight, standing to her feet.

“You’re smashed,” I remarked as I smelled the alcohol on her breath.

She giggled, running her fingers along the skin of my neck. “Hm…,” she mumbled, eyes shut as she swayed in front of me. “Let’s go walk on the beach.”

I placed my hands on her upper arms and guided her hands back to her sides, fixing her with a pointed look. “No, Hani we’ve gotta get you home-,”

“I wanna walk!” she shouted, the famous Hani pout on her ruby lips.

I swallowed hard. “No-,”

“I’m walking with or without you.”

And with that, she swung around in a grand circle and, with crossed arms, stomped across the bar and onto the patio where she paused, back still turned, and waited for me. Of course, she didn’t mean it. She just wanted me to go with her. And she knew how to bend me to her will. She always did.

I sighed, pressing my index fingers firmly against my temples. I didn’t need this today. Or any day, really. But as I opened my eyes I saw her peering at me over the slope of her shoulder and was powerless once again. Wordlessly, I rolled my eyes and followed behind her as she giggled and led the way out onto the sand.

It only took her a few steps to remove her strappy heels and fan her long hair out behind her with a huff. “Too hot,” she mumbled, adjusting the strap of her silk dress. “I’d go naked if I thought you wouldn’t hate me for it,” she teased with a glance my way and a cheeky grin.

“I wouldn’t hate you for something you did while you were drunk,” I said, crossing my arms as I matched her slow, stumbling pace.

The beach was serene, only a few people wandering through the sand. We walked parallel to the crashing, navy blue waves and each step took us further and further from the businesses lining the north side of the beach. We were getting close. Just around that cliffside, if we clung to the rocks, we’d emerge on the other side. All alone there.

“Joon?” she asked, staring up at me with round eyes.

“Hm?”

“Did you hear anything I said?” she asked, furrowing her dark brow.

I clamped my mouth shut and let my eyes fall to my feet on the sand. “I…sorry,” I said with a sigh.

“We’re almost there, aren’t we?” she asked with a nod. “I’ll forgive you this time because we’re almost there.”

I inhaled sharply through my nose and turned my eyes toward her. She was bathed in silver moonlight, fair skin glowing. Beautiful. “Why were you out drinking?”

“Am I not allowed?” she asked with a smirk.

I sighed. “It’s a weekday, Hani.”

“And I don’t have work tomorrow so what’s the harm?” She groaned and shook out her hands with a disgruntled huff. “You’re so stiff. This is why I broke up with you.”

There it was. “Hani, you need to go home.”

“And you never fight back,” she mumbled. “Making me the bad guy for saying anything in the first place.” She examined her hand for a moment, pouting.

“I don’t think it’s good for us to keep seeing each other,” I said carefully, choosing my words with care. I watched her expression go from sulky to petulant in a blink. She turned to me, eyes sharp. “It’s not healthy.”

She scoffed. “Why not?” she asked. “We were friends before we started dating, weren’t we? Why can’t we be friends now?”

“Because I don’t see you as just a friend and I think you know that,” I said, scanning her.

She opened and closed her mouth like a hinge before settling on closed and turning her head toward the shoreline. She stopped walking, crossed her arms, and watched the water for a long, silent moment.

“They’re finalizing it,” she said quietly as her eyes went distant. “My parents.”

I blinked at her. “They’re…really?”

She nodded. “That’s why I’m out tonight,” she said, voice soft against the water. “Mom called this morning and told me. Like it was nothing for her.”

“Hani…”

“Like it’s easy,” she said, wiping beneath her eyes with her free hand. “I texted Sooyoung but she didn’t reply. She saw it though. Just…didn’t reply.”

Gently, I came to rest beside her. I thought about wrapping an arm around her small, trembling shoulders and holding her close. But the intoxicating scent of her rosy perfume even from this distance was enough to keep that idea at bay. Instead, I simply rested my palm against her back and gave her a pat.

“I’m worried Sooyoung is gonna start up again,” she said with a sigh as she scratched her nose. “Like she did last year. I dunno…a divorce is a big deal for someone her age. She’s sixteen now, you know? Did I tell you that?” she asked, peeking up at me with glassy eyes.

“I know, Hani,” I said, smoothing my palm against her back.

She sniffled and nodded. “Yeah.” She sighed. “I don’t want her to be stupid like me.”

“You’re not stupid,” I said softly, shaking my head.

She smiled, but it wasn’t all there. “You don’t have to lie. I make stupid choices. Like tonight. Calling you. I just…I want her to grow up without making the mistakes I made, you know? I don’t want her to be twenty-four, drunk, crying on the beach with her ex-boyfriend.” She shook her head. “Or worse.”

“Stop thinking about all that, okay?” I said, patting her back once more before dropping my hand. “You need to get home.”

She eyed me sidelong, long eyelashes stained white against the moonlight. She was calmer now, more reasonable. Softly, she sighed and nodded her head. “Okay,” she said.

I nodded and turned back toward the bar, but I’d only taken one step when I felt her small hands wrap around my sides, clasping at my stomach. She rested her cheek against my back and my whole body went stiff. I felt her chest against me, her arms firm around my torso. And just like that, she held onto me. Like a life preserver, keeping her afloat. And it might have felt nice if it wasn’t so cruel.

“Thank you, Joonie,” she said softly against my back.

I cleared my throat and patted the top of her hand. “Let’s…let’s get you home.”

Hani: Thanks for everything tonight, Joonie.

I stared at my phone screen, holding it right above my face as I lie on my back in bed. I sighed and let my felt hand fall against the comforter, squinting at the phone. The message sat like an omen before me, like the promise of something I didn’t dare to hope for. I knew better than to respond. I knew better than to answer her call in the first place. I knew better than to meet her for coffee or dinner or movies after we ended. I knew better than to respond.

Namjoon: Of course. You know I still care about you.

Hani: I know. I care about you too :-)

I felt my chest constrict. How stupid. I slid my phone to rest on my nightstand and caught the time out the corner of my eye. 11:15. I had to be up early tomorrow to work on the game. Really, I should have been asleep an hour ago.

And here I was. Still stuck where I’ve always been.

I shook my head, giving my chest a few hard pats. If I thought about it too long, I’d end up moping. Instead, I simply stayed there, resting against the plush of my pillow, staring up at the ceiling until my heavy eyelids drifted shut and my breaths came more slowly.

Huh. I glanced around the depthless blackness and blinked a few times. Lucid dreaming again? I furrowed my brow and gave my jaw a scratch. Well, Hani hugging me probably did something weird to my brain. I stretched my torso this way and that, cracked my knuckles.

“Good timing,” I said to myself as I took a sweeping look around. “What’ll it be tonight?” A smile crept across my lips as I rubbed my palms together.

“Namjoon?”

I jumped, a scream escaping me from someplace deep in my chest, and whipped around in a half-circle towards the source of the voice. And that’s when I saw her. My eyes went wide, gaping, as the memories came flooding back in a wave that nearly bowled me over.

Standing in a baggy sleep shirt and too-big patterned pajama pants was the girl from the night before. Eunbyul. Her hair was a mess of black curls waving around her chin, furrowing her strong brow at me. Like the night before, she possessed a sad, quiet kind of charm. With slightly downturned eyes and clothes that looked like they might swallow her whole, she was the sort of person you wanted to take care of. The kind of person you worried didn't take care of themselves.

She pushed round-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose with a sniff and gave me a squint, face flushed. Had she been crying again? Was she scared again? She remembered my name, but did she remember everything else?

Suddenly, my heart was racing and so was my head and anxious questions began swirling around my mind, impossible to ignore. But when I spoke, none of them came out. Instead-

“You’re here again,” I said, unable to stop myself.

She blinked at me and for a long moment, we simply locked eyes. Neither said anything, perhaps both of us being too wary of the other to speak. But after an endless silence, she cracked a crooked smile, revealing bright teeth and a pleasant pinch in the apples of her cheeks.

She chuckled, rubbing the bare back of her neck. “Ah, uh…yeah. I guess,” she said, voice soft. She had a peculiar sort of voice, breathy, almost uncertain. I was certain I’d recognize it anywhere.

I opened and closed my jaw a few times, struggling for words, before simply settling for a laugh. “Well, uh…hi,” I said with a smile.

She returned it, albeit hesitantly. She crossed her arms over her torso and her eye went hazy with thought. “Say, did you remember the dream from last night?” she asked, brows knit as she met my eyes once more.

I shook my head. “Not until I saw you.”

She set her lips thin and fixed me with a serious upward glance. “Same here.”

“Huh…”

She paced around in the dark for a moment, mouth pursed in thought, pausing every few paces to adjust her glasses. “I wonder why…”

I chuckled. “Well,” I began, taking up the space beside her and matching her pace, stride for stride, “the memory is unreliable. Some people can’t remember their dreams at all unless they write them down right away.”

She halted her pacing and crossed her arms, looking up at me. “This feels different though, doesn’t it? Like…I don’t know, like the memory of the dream just got wiped completely.”

“If you’re gonna keep getting hung up on all the details that don’t make sense, you’re gonna be here all night,” I said, then laughed. “No pun intended.”

She scoffed. “How can you be so blasé about all this? Aren’t you…freaked out?” she asked, voice getting quieter as she lost her steam.

I shrugged. “None of this adds up anyway. So why not just enjoy it?” I asked, cocking a brow with a smile.

“It’s…it’s not that easy, you know,” she said, then sighed. “You’re…I guess you’re more adaptable than me.”

I paused a moment, scanning her. Her somber eyes were set on the nothing beneath her bare feet, arms wrapped around her torso like she was holding herself together at the seams. I swallowed hard and thought for a moment, focusing hard on a memory.

When I opened my eyes we were standing in the middle of an empty footpath, blooming trees and bushes creating a blanket that stretched on before us. Vibrant pinks, oranges, and yellows dotted the foliage that sloped downhill before us, like a mural. Down the path, a pond and a few traditional buildings. The sun was tempered by gently rolling clouds, and the sky felt limitless overhead.

And there were no people besides us.

After all, my brain couldn’t conjure all the faces I saw that day.

She blinked at the scenery around her, wind rustling through the trees, caressing the baby hairs along her temples. Her eyes went wide, lips forming an O, and her hands fell to her sides as she whirled around a few times, looking at the view from all angles.

“What-,” she began, then looked back at me, wild. “Namjoon, what’s all this?”

I smiled and stretched my arms out wide, embracing the abundance around me. “The Garden of Morning Calm,” I said. “I came here when I was a kid. Back when I lived in Sangdo-dong.”

“You lived there too?” she asked, brows high.

I nodded, taking a few easy steps down the path. She jogged to reach me, still staring up at me, imploring. “Yeah, when I was young. Anyway…I just…,” I began, feeling sheepish under her disarming gaze. I glanced away, toward the horizon line, and cleared my throat. “This place makes me feel calm, so I figured maybe it would do the same for you.”

She slowed down a little, watching me from behind for a moment before catching up once again. She stumbled a little over her pajama bottoms. “I-it does,” she said, catching herself before she tripped. She kept her eyes down, watching her feet carefully, as she found her pace beside me. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” I said with a sigh. “I know I must seem…kinda nonchalant about all this but….” I shrugged and took a deep breath of the fresh, autumn air. “I dunno. This place…it’s pretty incredible.”

“Funny,” she said with a soft chuckle. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve been terrified of this dream but…you’ve been enjoying it, huh?”

I smiled. “It’s like a little vacation from life, I guess,” I said, and I almost regretted it. Way to go, I thought with a cringe, saying something sad like that to a stranger…

But to my relief, she simply offered a pensive hum and a nod. “I never thought of it that way.”

I blinked at her, silhouetted against the fall foliage and vibrant sun, and saw in her expression nothing but a pensive quietude. Like I could have said anything she she wouldn’t have thought I was strange. I felt my cheeks warm a little, and cleared my throat.

“Up here is a gazebo,” I said, pointing up ahead.

She squinted down the path and smiled softly. “Nice,” she said.

I chuckled. “Those glasses…you weren’t wearing them last night,” I said, reaching out to guide them up her nose again. “The nose pads are too far apart.”

She jumped a little at my touch before settling and squaring a look at me. “Well, they’re old,” she said with a little purse of her lips, crossing her arms as we neared the gazebo. “I didn’t want to be a bother when I got them fitted, so I just said they were fine.”

She led the way inside, ducking her head just a little as she crossed the three-stepped threshold into the structure. Crawling greenery stretched out across the exterior, and some of the vines reached through the cracks in the ceiling, but it felt nice in the shade. Gently, she took a seat and exhaled, patting the tops of her pajamaed thighs. She glanced up at me as I stood in the center of the rounded room and raised her brows.

“You gonna sit?” she asked, taking a peek at the space beside her on the dark wood bench.

“Ah…sure.” I quickly joined her, aware of the slightly awkward space between us. Despite being in this dream together, we were strangers after all. What could we really talk about?

“I had an appointment today in Sangdo-dong,” she began, watching her bare toes. “With my therapist.”

“Therapist?” I asked, then shook my head. “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.”

She chuckled. “Not like either of us will remember this in the morning anyway,” she said with a shrug. “But…yeah, a therapist.”

I inhaled fresh air and sighed slowly. I knew I shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t pry, but she was right anyway. What’s the use in holding back in a situation like this? “What for?”

“Anxiety,” she said with a sigh. “Since I was young. Before the dreams even.”

“Ah,” I said, nodding. I eyed her, careful not to say something insensitive, and saw again that thoughtful, distant look. “How did it go?”

“Not well.”

“Oh…”

“I told him I’ve been struggling trying to figure things out, and he told me I needed to spend more time thinking on it,” she said with a scoff. “Imagine that. Thinking more about something I think about all day.”

“What’re you struggling with?” I asked, and regretted it right after. Too far, definitely. She’d fix me with a glare and we wouldn’t speak anymore. She’d be rightfully put off.

“Trying to find something that makes me feel like a person,” she said with a single nod.

And with that, my heart rate slowed. Such a simple sentence, but it packed a punch. “I understand that,” I said.

She glanced at me. “How?”

“Well…sometimes it’s easy to get swept up in the swing of surviving and forget what it is that makes you feel alive,” I said, and against my will my mind returned to the beach last night, staring at the slope of Hani’s shoulder, her eyes glittering. I cleared my throat and leaned back.

She smiled. “Seems like you need to talk more than I do,” she said, raising her brows.

I swallowed hard and focused on my clasped hands. “Just…someone from my past.”

“You don’t have to be vague with me,” she said with a laugh. “Like I said, I won’t remember anyway.” She seemed…lighter tonight than she had before. Almost like something bobbing in the water, coming up for air and staying there, suspended.

“My ex,” I said, sighing. “She’s…she’s difficult.”

Eunbyul raised her brows. “You fighting?”

I smiled. “No, no. Nothing like that, just…we can’t seem to get a clean break, you know? Like…we can’t move on from being around each other. Even though it’s unhealthy,” I said, then shook my head. “I’m sure you get it.”

“I don’t,” she said, stretching her torso this way and that before settling and meeting my eyes, innocent. I furrowed my brow, and she maintained her gaze. “I’ve never dated.”

“Huh?” I asked, surprised.

She laughed. “I don’t really know how to interact with people,” she said with a nod. “Or maybe…I can interact if there’s no pressure. Like right now. If I don’t feel like I’m in the way or being a burden.” She waved her hands. “Anyway, tell me more so I can understand.”

I blinked at her, at the round, flushed apples of her cheeks, the flashing whites of her eyes as she turned her head to look at the trees swaying before us. “Um…,” I began, thinking. “Well…we’ve been friends for a long time. So breaking up was tricky, you know? What was our relationship supposed to be from then on? Did we go back to friends? Did we cut ties? Did we slowly distance ourselves?”

“Ah,” she said, nodding. “I see.”

“I think…for me, the healthiest option is to completely remove her from my life, you know? It’s no good for me to keep spending time with her.” I wrung my hands a little and sighed. “I can’t figure out where the boundaries are anymore.”

“Have you talked to her about it?” asked Eunbyul, poking her big toe against the wood floorboard.

“I…kinda.”

“Kinda isn’t really good enough,” she said, still poking, eyes transfixed on her foot, hands gripping the bench seat. “In relationships, you have to be explicit to avoid misunderstandings. Communication is the most important thing,” she said, then chuckled. “Although I’m not the authority on all that.” She paused her poking and met my eyes with a gentle, knowing smile. “If you don’t know where the boundaries are, you gotta place them yourself.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but my thoughts evaded me the longer she looked up at me, strands of waving hair falling behind her glasses, touching the tops of her eyes. It looked like she expected something from me. Not a response or a reaction, not really anything like that.

It seemed like all she expected was for me to understand her.

I nodded. “That’s…shockingly astute,” I said with a laugh, rubbing my jaw as I finally broke the tense eye contact.

She smiled and leaned back against the bench. “I wanna try showing you something,” she said, standing to her feet and padding gently toward the center of the gazebo. She turned to me. “Just…try to see it in my head?”

“See it, feel it, hear it, smell it,” I said, then smirked. “Taste it, if you can.”

She laughed and nodded. “I’ll…I’ll try tasting it then,” she said as she shut her eyes tight.

For a moment, nothing changed. Just the same gazebo, the same scent of damp wood and crisp air, the same sunlight stretching in shafts between branches. But after a few moments, I saw something on the horizon. The sky was bleeding from cerulean to navy blue, stretching slowly overhead. The scenery went fuzzy before disappearing entirely and emerging again, morphed. The geological features began to sharpen as Eunbyul simply stood there, eyes shut, a charming wrinkle between her brows as she concentrated. And, before I knew it, I was standing in the middle of a desert I didn’t recognize, midnight sky above and orange sand underfoot. I scanned the area and saw open space in every direction, rock stacks eroded over time standing erect around the horizon. In the sky was a portrait of stars, so many I couldn’t possibly count them, and small shrubby bushes punctured the iron-red ground as it extended endlessly.

Eunbyul opened her eyes and, without sparing a single moment, broke into an infectious grin that pulled her eyes nearly shut and exposed her canines. She turned around a few times before laughing and clapping her hands. “No way!” she exclaimed, and her voice echoed through the canyon.

I smiled. “What’s this place?” I asked.

She turned to me with a wild, breathless smile and I felt my heart kick up. Just a little. A warm desert wind swept through the valley and kicked up dust, playing with the ends of her dark hair. “I went camping once on a vacation to the US. With my family. This was my favorite night. Nobody around, just us,” she said with a nod, bending her neck so she could stare right at the sky. She pointed. “See all the constellations?”

I raised my brows and glanced up with her. Indeed, it seemed the stars, although innumerable, were positioned perfectly. I recognized the Big Dipper, dangling in the sky like it was pouring stars onto black and blue canvas of sky.

“Do you know a lot about constellations?” I asked.

“Gaeul taught me on this trip,” she said, grinning, then snapped her fingers and pointed at me. “Sorry, Gaeul is my sister.” She was still smiling like mad, and her eyes were alight for the first time since we met.

I nodded. “Tell me something about them,” I said, smiling gently as I sat down on the dusty earth.

She joined me, holding her knees close to her chest, and pointed at the sky. “That’s Ursa Major,” she said, and I followed her eyes to the big dipper. “The ladle is just part of the bigger constellation, you know? It’s supposed to look like a bear.” She laughed, and the sound was soft, almost like an exhale. “In Roman myths, it’s all about Jupiter and Callisto and jealousy and turning into bears, but I like the Korean myth better.”

“What’s that?” I asked, dropping my eyes from the sky to her.

“There was a widow who had seven sons, and became fond of a widower across the river. Her sons wanted to help her cross the water, so they each put down a stone for her to walk across. The mother didn’t know her sons put the rocks in the water. But she was grateful so she blessed the stones and when her sons died, they became stars,” she said, smiling so softly it was barely there. Just a tilt of her lips.

I watched her as she spoke, barely lit by the moon and the stars, eyes aglow. It was familiar, like before with Hani. But this felt decidedly different. Everything was different.

If only I could remember it in the morning…

“That’s a beautiful story,” I said with a smile.

She turned to me and nodded. “I think so too,” she said, then sighed and gave my shoulder a pat. “You’re a good person, Namjoon. I can tell.”

I chuckled. “And you’re not as bad at socializing as you think you are.”

She smirked. “I told you,” she began, leaning back on her palms with a sigh. “Low stakes make it easy to say what you want without being scared.”

“I wonder why we keep ending up here together,” I pondered idly.

She smiled. “You’re the one who said not to get hung up on the details that don’t make sense,” she said, then turned her head to look at the stars again.

“You seem awfully easygoing,” I remarked with a laugh.

She grinned and her eyes went small again. “I see what you mean now,” she said, sighing. “About this being like a vacation from life.”

I watched her for a moment before I felt something tugging. Just like before. And, from the way her eyes got round and her shoulders pinched, I was pretty sure Eunbyul felt it too. We locked gazes, neither one saying anything, and struggling against the pull in my chest, I reached out my hand, extending it toward her.

She blinked at it before, wordlessly, she took it in both of hers and shook it up and down. “Until next time,” she said with a serious look my way.

I nodded, letting my hand fall against the dirt. “Until next time.”

I awoke with heart palpitations. Blinking rapidly, I rubbed my face and patted down the sweat that had begun to dot my forehead. I glanced toward the clock on the wall. 4:03 again. Grumbling, I turned over onto my stomach and smashed my face against the pillows, yanking my blankets over my head.

“Stupid brain,” I mumbled into the sheets, exhaling long and slow.

I tried to force myself back to sleep, tried to will my brain to power down like an old desktop computer. I rolled onto my side, curling my legs up toward my chest. When that didn’t work, I thumped over onto my back once more and spread my arms wide, like I was physically begging for the embrace of unconsciousness. Long seconds ticked by, marked with the sound of my clock, always ticking like a metronome.

“Ugh,” I groaned, sitting upright with a frown. I glanced around the room and saw my phone still sitting on the charger. If I wasn’t getting back to sleep, the least I could do to sate my hyperactive brain was scroll mindlessly through Twitter.

I grabbed for the phone and unlocked it, but before I could tap the little blue app icon, I noticed a new text message in the bottom corner of the screen. I raised my brows and opened it. Sent at 2:39 AM.

Hani: Call me please.

Panic.

I jumped up and sat on my knees, typing her number in by heart. I pressed the phone to my ear and listened with bated breath to the dial tone. It was taunting me, every painfully slow drone and the endless pauses between. I counted five rings before they stopped altogether and I was met with nothing but radio silence.

“Hani?” I asked, frantic, breathless.

She sniffled on the other end and I collapsed against my bed with relief. “Hey.”

“Jesus, what’s wrong?” I asked, words stumbling into one another like a clumsy line.

“Sorry, it’s just…,” she began, then sniffled again. “It’s Sooyoung.”

“Fuck, Hani, is she alright? Is she safe?” I asked, heart hammering.

“Yeah, yeah she’s fine,” she said. “God, I’m so sorry. I keep doing this.”

“Hani what happened?”

She paused a moment before taking a shaky breath in. “She called me drunk.”

I was silent, just listening to the arrhythmic pattern of her breath. “Hani…”

“It’s fine, I called my folks and they found her in the basement. But…fuck, I dunno I got, like, a glimpse into her future,” she said, then paused. “And it looks a lot like mine.”

“Hani, are you alright?” I asked carefully, resting against the pillows with furrowed brows. “Have you slept?”

“Can’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Joonie,” she said with a sigh. “I just…Joon, could I…could I maybe come over? Watch a movie or something?”

I stiffened. Bad idea. Horrible, terrible, really bad idea. Blurring more lines, crossing more barriers…at this rate, I’d be heartbroken until the day I died. It wasn’t like I was her only friend. She’d always been popular, and even when we were dating she’d go to Joohee before she’d ever go to me with a problem. Why now did it seem like she needed me so profoundly?

If you don’t know where the boundaries are, you gotta place them yourself.

I felt my stomach pang a little. Where had I heard that? Gently, I patted my chest in the hopes of settling my heart down. I knew what the right decision was. It was painfully obvious to anyone that I couldn’t let her come over, let her cross the threshold and reenter my intimate space. I knew the implications.

I sighed and braced myself, holding the phone close against my hot cheek. I shut my eyes, ran a hand through my unruly hair, and nodded my head. “Um…,” I began, opening my eyes only halfway to stare with disappointment at the clock across from my bed. “Yeah, Hani. Of course.”

[too-cool-for-facebook]

Ghost Adventures!

I had a fun thought experiment while trying to fall asleep.

What if I had “Ghost Powers”?

And not necessarily like Danny Phantom - he could shoot laser beams and stuff, and that’s not what I’m really going for

So what would these Ghost Powers entail?

When I so choose, the ability to:

be invisible

be inaudible

pass through solid objects

fly / float

turn objects & living beings invisible if I touch them; or leave them visible and make them look like they’re floating around on their own

said objects & beings I’ve turned invisible, as long as I’m touching them, retain my power of also remaining inaudible and can pass through solid objects. Once I release them, they return back to normal

*Note on invisibility: What I mean is that photons, instead of bouncing off me, would pass right through me, leaving no shadow. This does bring up the problem of, “But if light doesn’t hit your retina, you won’t be able to see!” Well let’s pretend that’s part of my powers - I can see even though others can’t see me. Also I can hear myself and any object I’ve touched.

What are the limitations?:

If I fall asleep or fall unconscious, I can’t use my powers. Ex.: If I’m invisible and then fall asleep, I will become visible again

If I am startled, I’ll revert back to normal (become visible/audible). (Hopefully I’m not flying in midair when that happens)

My powers are dependent on my energy level. If I haven’t eaten or am not well-rested, my power is diminished, especially my flight, because that takes a LOT of energy

If I touch a person and turn them invisible, they can now see me / hear me, but only as long as I’m touching them

Cats (Felis catus) can always see me no matter what

I didn’t think about this until now, but smell - I don’t think I can cover up my smell, meaning any animals, particularly dogs, would know I’m around

If any part of my body (hair, blood, spit, etc) is no longer connected / contained within the rest of my body, the fallen part immediately becomes visible

I cannot permanently make something invisible/inaudible

I cannot make objects float on their own. I have to physically pick them up, therefore I can only take what I can carry. On that same note - weight does not diminish. Just because something is “ghostly” now, doesn’t mean it no longer is heavy. I can’t pick up airplanes

I can still leave prints on anything I make contact with - footprints, fingerprints, even DNA

I’m still mortal, and still must eat and sleep, and am still susceptible to illness and injury and the range of human emotions

I think that’s about everything I thought of.

So with these newfound powers, what’s the very first thing I decide to do?

TO DISNEYLAND!!!

I myself could fly to California, but that would take a lot of energy. Easier to ghostly enter an airport and get aboard an airplane and let it take me to CA, and then from there fly to the park.

Then I thought about, “What do I do about sleep? I’d have to be somewhere safe because I’m vulnerable when asleep.” So then I came up with: a hotel. For free. All I’d have to do is use my ghost powers to go from room to room until I find one that’s unoccupied and make camp.

But what if someone checks-in to the room while I’m in it? Easy - bolt and latch the door. When they try to get in, it will undoubtedly make noise. And if they’re really frustrated, they’ll probably knock, at which point I’m awake and can turn ghost, grab my backpack, and get the hell outta there.

Now what about the backpack? I was pretty sure (and I just checked and am right) that backpacks aren’t allowed. My solution? Fly up to the hotel’s roof and leave it up there - and then hope like hell no employee is doing work on the roof that day. For added security - putting the backpack in a large garbage bag in case the weather turns foul

Getting into the park is easy: Go Ghost. I could fly in, but that’s not as fun. I want the experience of walking through those front gates.

And as soon as I get in, find an inconspicuous place hidden from view and then turn non-ghost again. Then I can wander the park to my heart’s content. (Def first stop is the Disneyland Railroad. You just gotta).

What about food though? While doing this thought experiment, I concluded that if I can turn things invisible, then easily I can acquire food. If I’m in a gas station and grab a muffin and a bottle of milk, they’re going to vanish and I can just walk through the walls with them and eat them later, disposing of the trash away from prying eyes

That’s a little harder at a theme park. What if I want soft serve ice cream? I could make the bowl disappear, but the ice cream that’s pouring out of the machine would still be visible - and that’s bound to freak some people out. So I’m still going to need money to pay for some things.

So wait, where does the money come from, I wonder? Because if I’m a ghost and can fly, do you really think I’m gonna stick around my job? Fuck no! I CAN FLY! I’m going wherever the hell I want to!

So if I’m not working a job, where do the munnies come from? I guess I could always steal it...

My first thought was just nick it from the nearest cash register, but then I immediately realized, no, that would get the cashier in trouble and their lives are hard enough as it is. So where to get money?

The bank’s always a good place. Just ghost in, grab a stack of 20s out of the vault, and fly away. No more than a stack at a time. Too much gone missing will cause alarm. Also, I could hit every bank in town, grabbing one stack from each. Just make a day out of it.

But then that posed the problem of where to keep the money. If I’m going to my bank and depositing all this cash (while cash has mysteriously gone missing from local banks), I think it’s going to raise a few flags. So maybe only deposit a few handfuls of it at a time, and bury the rest of it in a big mayonnaise jar out back or whatever

But here’s where limitations on my powers could pose a problem. What if I leave fingerprints in the bank vault? What if a strand of hair gets left behind and now they’ve got my DNA? But that’s a long and complicated line of thought, and I don’t wanna ruin my fun, so we’ll act like that doesn’t happen

So back to Disneyland: Money’s not an issue. I can buy food. And I thought, “Ah, you know what? I’ll stop by the Rainforest Cafe!”

But then I realized something that I didn’t even think about - loneliness. I’d be by myself. And wandering around by oneself is relaxing and all, but when it comes to having meals, especially in a place where the atmosphere is the real selling point, I dunno. Eating by myself is just really lonely and makes me sad.

In theory, if I can turn anyone invisible, I could ostensibly bring someone to California with me. Major problem with that: TRUST NO ONE. As soon as my powers are revealed to ANYONE, they risk being exposed to EVERYONE. You ever seen Death Note? That in my opinion was Light Yagami’s biggest fuck up was revealing how people were being killed. Also (oddly enough a statistic from Death Note), the more people involved in an operation, the more likely it is to fail. More moving parts means the easier it is to break. If I just keep it to me, my chances of safety are increased / risk of exposure decreased

So unfortunately I’m going to have to deal with a lot of loneliness. I don’t even think I’d be able to post things on social media, because then I’m leaving a trail. If all the banks in my hometown get robbed, and then I’m at Disneyland and suddenly the experience a rash of shoplifting (because yes, I’m contemplating jacking that giant expensive snowglobe), a clever detective could put two-and-two together. Still, they’d have a hard time figuring out how I dunnit, but why even take the risk?

But again, we’re getting too serious when I wanted this to be a fun exercise

So I wander the park, I ride the rides, I get my Dole© Pineapple soft serve ice cream at the Tiki Room - and the best part is, I can take all the time in the world. There’s no time limit. I can mosey about as long as I want. As long as I can always find an unoccupied hotel room to sleep in, I’m good.

OH SHITBEES! I DIDN’T EVEN CONSIDER! I COULD STAY IN A DAMN DISNEY HOTEL!

IF I GO TO ORLANDO, I COULD STAY IN THE CINDERELLA SUITE IN THE DAMN CASTLE INSIDE THE PARK!

(Of course then again, I get the feeling they don’t have electricity running to the room at all times, only when guests stay there; which fun fact, that room can’t be booked, no matter how much you’re willing to pay. It’s by invitation only. So if it’s dark in there, it’ll certainly be spooky)

ANYWHO...

I guess that’s all that can be said about this trip. I’m not gonna do a play-by-play of my fantasy Disney trip. It’s just a starting point for a very liberating daydream. Food’s not a problem, money’s not a problem, housing’s not a problem.

Really the only problem is if I get sick or injured. But if money’s not a problem, I can afford healthcare now. So yeah.

And who says I have to stop at Disneyland? I could travel the whole world and see everything!

And it’s not all selfish. Who says I can’t drop a stack of twenties in front of a person who’s homeless? Or a crate of food?

Oh what’s that? There’s a person abusing / beating their partner and/or child? Lemme just phase my hand right into your chest and clench you heart artery and give you a heart attack :) I could go full-on Kira given the chance

A child’s been kidnapped? Welp, yoink! SURPRISE! THEY’RE INVISIBLE NOW! And I fly them back home and drop ‘em off

You get the idea.

There’s a lot I could do with Ghost Powers

[onceuponaprincessworld]

CaptainSwan Neighbors Au

Hello CS fandom! I made a new list and it’s a long one because there are so many great stories with that trope. It includes stories where our favorite couple are neighbors. Hope you enjoy! 

If you are intrested you can find my other lists here.

Multichapter Complete

With Affection, @phiralovesloki

Emma Swan isn't a middle schooler. So why is she receiving notes from a secret admirer? She's also definitely not a romantic person. So why is she writing back? Modern!AU Captain Swan, with side orders of Snowing and Frankenwolf. Updated with second epilogue.

Knock, Knock, @charmingturkeysandwich

Emma Swan has made the best of her crappy apartment ever since she became best friends with her neighbor, Ruby. But when Ruby moves out and a loud Brit takes her place, the thin walls and lack of space are suddenly not so endearing. After a particularly stressful day, Emma decides to confront the nightmare next door, and entirely against her better judgment, she might just be making a friend.

The Pirate Next Door , @the-captains-ayebrows

A handsome stranger moves into the apartment right next to Emma Swan's. Emma isn't ready for romance, but what harm could come of making friends with the charming self-proclaimed "pirate" whose bedroom shares a wall with hers?

Unbreakable, @xemmaloveskillianx

What if Hook was able to go with Emma and Henry when they left to escape Pan’s curse? With no memory of each other or Storybrooke, Emma and Killian meet in New York as complete strangers, both with broken pasts, and both with clean slates for their future.

Sign of Attraction, @hooklineandswan

Some day she was going to find a way to kill him without leaving a trace. Hopefully it would happen before he drove her insane. 

In the Name of the Brother, @tnlph

Killian Jones not only finds out about his father's death, but about the brother he never knew he had. Rather than let another Jones boy grow up without a father, Killian takes the boy into his life. He'll do all he can to be the man for his younger brother that his older brother had been for him.

Lend me some sugar, I am your neighbor, @kittennharington​

Killian and Emma knew each other in middle school before she was taken away to a new foster home. They meet each other again years later as neighbors in an apartment complex. Contains smut.

Can You Feel it Right Now?, @cutieodonoghue

When Emma Swan agrees to let her annoying neighbor Killian Jones join her to go to the grocery store, the last thing she could have ever anticipated is becoming his wife over the course of a conversation with some people from his past.

Some Sort of Neighborly, @shipping-goggles

They're not neighbors, not exactly, and they're not friends either. It's pretty hard to find reasons to bump into the woman who lives next door to your best friend, especially after your only interaction with her has been waking up on her couch one Saturday morning. Sequel to Rude Awakening.

Look What the Cat Dragged In, @athenascarlet

There are only a couple things Killian Jones knows about his neighbor, Emma Swan. She's a bail bonds person and she's attractive. Also, she apparently has a cat. And he apparently is now her cat sitter.

The Reason, @xemmaloveskillianx

he three of them share a laugh before they all look to Emma. She has yet to comment on the new addition because she isn’t sure what to say. She usually doesn’t like change, they have a good thing going there, just the four of them. Plus, they all know him and she doesn’t, but she trusts their judgement, and she’s sure any brother of Liam can’t be all that bad.

So, with a shrug and a smile she says, “Welcome to Storybrooke, Killian Jones.”

Make Some Noise, @fyeahcaptn

Emma doesn't hate her neighbour per say, she barely knows him. Killian Jones an irritating, insufferable ass who's far too cocky and confident for his own good but seriously, would it hurt him to keep the shower to a normal time like an actual human being? Before she kills him. Modern!AU.

Pay It Forward, @acrobat-elle

Breaking your ankle is one thing. Breaking your ankle three days after you moved into a fifth-floor walkup is something else entirely.

Wip

A Helping Hand, @hookedonapirate

My girlfriend just dumped me and I've gotten piss drunk and somehow managed to get into your apartment instead of my own. I'm trying to masturbate my feelings away and boy were you surprised.

Breaking the Hinges, @piratesails

When Killian Jones decides to spend his night off relaxing in his apartment, the last thing he expects is a beautiful blonde woman bursting through his front door. 

Neighborly Affection, @hookslovelyswan

Emma Swan's new neighbor, Killian Jones, is the talk of the neighborhood, and living next door to him is almost more than she can stand, especially since the man doesn't seem to own a shirt! But the tug she feels toward him is inexorable, and the genuine feelings that develop between them...quite unexpected. 

One-shot

Transatlanticism, @mahstatins

Emma Swan went to Britain looking for family. It should have been a Hallmark movie, a Christmas miracle waiting to happen. Instead she’s stuck in a grimy London ‘flat’, with the worst next door neighbor in the world.

Well, maybe not the worst.

What a Year (for a New Year), @high-seas-swan

Killian Jones, Boston Bruins right winger, needs a break from the questions and concerns over his career-threatening injury. He thought Storybrooke would be the perfect place to escape to. What he didn't expect was Emma Swan, her kid and a holiday season he never knew he needed.

Subtle and Nuanced, @phiralovesloki

Killian Jones has an unusual relationship with a neighbor in which they exchange notes via cat. He’s also slowly falling for his flower shop’s newest customer. Surely these two things are unrelated.

Tim Finnegan's Wake, @icecubelotr44

"You live in the apartment next to mine and you're always blasting music while I'm trying to sleep but you've been silent for the last two days, are you all right?"

Emma Swan never minded the music. Not until she broke her ankle and her shift moved to days. Now she just wants to sleep. But Killian Jones doesn't seem to notice. So when the condo next door goes silent, she's understandably concerned. When she finds Killian after he got the phone call about his brother he never expected, they'll have to figure out if everything is as it seems.

Smoke and Mirrors, @lifeinahole27

I was burning scented candles and fell asleep. You’re my neighbour who bashed the door down when my smoke alarm went off. 

The Perils of Firemen and the Food Network, @shireness-says

Emma Swan is not a cook. But maybe, with the help of her upstairs neighbor, she could be - if her feelings don't get in the way.

Keep On Fallin' , @resident-of-storybrooke

Emma Swan may be a successful bail bondsperson, but when it comes to her love life not so much. After several failed blind dates Emma is ready to give up, but Mary Margaret convinces her to give it one more shot. Is Mr. One Shot going to be the one? Or is she willing to risk taking a chance with her blue eyed gorgeous neighbor?

For the Story, nothandlingit     

If there's one thing Killian Jones is ruthlessly stubborn on, it's not letting Emma Swan know how many coffee/hot chocolate/bear claw combinations he's had to gift on to unsuspecting strangers when she doesn't show up at the little bakery near their apartment building. Turns out accidentally running into each other costs some money. A CS AU week submission - beloved tropes.

The Worst/Best Christmas Ever, @captainhookcaptainfreedom

When their flight home is cancelled, Emma is convinced that she and Henry are going to have the worst Christmas ever. However, their next door neighbor, Killian Jones, has different ideas.

That Guy Next Door, @a-fictional-life

M-rated AU one shot just cos it’s Saturday…

You Make Me Better, @ilovemesomekillianjones

CS Neighbors AU where Emma is a nurse and Killian is her definitely-faking-it hypochondriac neighbor who uses illnesses and injuries as an excuse to talk to her.

walking the high line, @losttalongthewayy

Captain Swan NYC neighbors AU – It’s Emma Swan’s 28th birthday and she finds herself stuck helping her upstairs neighbor —the very one she’s sure she hates.

seven for all mankind, @arexnna

“we’re neighbours and we do everything together and spend all our time together and that’s normal, but someone pointed out how we’re essentially dating, but we aren’t, are we?”

Postcards and Shower Songs, @nightships

Emma often finds herself wondering whether it's possible to hate a stranger. Despite never having met or seen him before in her life, she knows exactly two things about Mr. K. Jones — he gets a ton of mail from all over the world and he plays extremely loud music when he wakes up in the morning.

Too Hot (Hot Damn), @this-too-too-sullied-flesh

Emma just doesn’t know what’s hotter--the weather and the fact that the air conditioning is out in her building, or her neighbor.

The Savior's Spatula, @imhookedonaswan

Killian Jones hears his neighbor Emma screaming from her apartment, being the gentleman he is he grabs the first thing he can find to go try to save her.

how not to meet your neighbor…, @startswithhope

Here’s a bit of modern AU nonsense, starring Killian and Emma…

The Sabbatical (or how Emma Swan brought Valentine’s Day back), @lenfaz

Killian Jones abhors his neighbors. He really does.

Two-Shots

The Favor, @madjm

AU. Emma Swan doesn't do relationships, but her annoyingly attractive neighbor, Killian Jones, might change her views. Captain Swan. Previously on ffnet.

The Not So Neighborly Noise, @optomisticgirl

After an exhausting day, one which started with her annoying neighbor waking her up with his singing, all Emma Swan wanted to do was sleep. Little did she know when she crawled into bed that night that everything she thought she knew was going to shift dramatically. Can a closed off woman give a man a chance to prove her wrong?

Ten Minutes, @hookedonapirate

“The game's simple, really. In fact you, my love, don’t have to do a thing,” he ends with a click of his tongue, his silky accent sending shivers down her spine.

“Don’t call me that,” Emma warns him, but honestly her heart is thumping and her interest is highly piqued, “but please do go on.”

“It’s called Ten Minutes. You give me ten minutes to do anything I want to you—touching, teasing, kissing, biting, whatever I want. You so much as moan or make any sound of pleasure, you lose.”

Emma bites her lip at the idea of him doing all those things to her and feels heat creeping into her cheeks. “And if I win? What do I get out of this?”

“If you win, I will never bother you again.”

A grin spreads across her lips. “Okay, you totally made this game up, but sure, I’ll play along,” she decides confidently. She has no doubt she’ll win, so why not? Emma sits up and places the bottle on the floor, glancing over at him again. “You’re on, Jones.”

We Can Feel So Far (From So Close), @once-uponacaptain

Waiting until your best friend left for a cross country tour was a fine time to realize you're in love with him. Captain Swan.

Stray Hearts, @piratesails

He’s insufferable, and nothing, not even the fact that he’s laughing with childlike glee as he cuddles a litter of stray kittens, will change Emma’s mind about Killian Jones. Or, that’s what she thought, anyway.

Three-Shots

Please, Please, Say You Feel it Too, @cutieodonoghue

modern au; Emma pawns her son off to her neighbor Killian. Romance ensues. (Daddy!Killian feels abound!)

Spider Slayer, @startswithhope

"This is totally awkward considering before this the only interactions we've ever had have been casual nods to each other in the hallway but there's a huge fucking spider in my bath tub and you seem like the friendly neighbor type please help me."

[badcowboy69]

Feeding Knowledge to a Fever

This was an abandoned WIP of mine.  I found it semi started in my files and thought it’d be nice to modify it and finish it. So, here ya go. Simple and pure fluff between my courier six Travis Blackfox and @zoey-and-dakota‘s sole survivor Riley White.  This story takes place in the early part of their relationship and will be Travis’ first time experiencing the chill of fall in the Commonwealth.  It’s also short compared to what I usually write....it’s five pages.  It’s also very safe for work.  Thanks for reading and as always reblogs, comments, and questions are always welcomed!  Thank you!   Under the read more thing due to length.

The sun had just set on Diamond City allowing the chill of autumn to slowly creep in.  The scent of burning wood billowing from chimneys filled the air as the residents began to settle down for a long evening.  At the dwelling called Home Plate, Riley White and his partner, Travis Blackfox, were prepping for a peaceful night together as well.

Today was game night for the couple and the fun usually lasted until the wee hours of the morning.  After that, if they weren’t too tired or drunk off their rockers, they were prone to find something a bit more physical to do before succumbing to sleep.  While Travis made his way upstairs to get his deck of Caravan cards, Riley began to brew a fresh pot of coffee to not only warm them, but help give their energy a boost.    

“Coffee’s almost done, Travis!” Riley called moments later while he brought out their coffee mugs and the sugar bowl.  He waited for Travis’ typical ‘a’yup” response, but got none.  “Did you hear me?  Coffee’s about ready.”

Still not getting a reply, he set the mugs down on the bar and went to the bottom of the stairs.  He looked up towards their loft bedroom, but saw and heard no movement.  “You ok?” he inquired.  

A soft, pained grunt hit his ears making him arch an eyebrow.  Ascending the wooden stairs, Riley took a quick glance around the dimly lit room and spotted his shirtless lover sitting slumped on the bed.  “Travis..is something wrong?  Are you alright?” he asked with mounting concern as he made his way to Travis’ side.

Travis shrugged and the very act made him groan and lean his elbows heavily on his knees.  “Ain’t right...came on all of a sudden.  Been feeling shitty, but I’ve been fighting it.  Throat hurts...head...feel weak.”

Riley took a seat next to him and gently placed his hand on Travis’ bare shoulder.  He gasped in surprise feeling how hot his partner's flesh was.  “Shit, babe, you're burning up, “ he said in concern while placing the back of his hand against Travis’ brow.  “Possibly got yourself a fever.”

“Thought I was just getting over tired so’s that’s why I ain’t said nothing,” Travis muttered while leaning wearily against Riley.  “I'm sorry.”

“Sorry?  You've done nothing wrong.  Listen, let's get you tucked in.  I'll get you some aspirin and bring up our coffee.  We'll stay snuggled and warm here the rest of the night.  How does that sound?  Would you like that?”

Travis slowly nodded and flopped onto his side with a grunt while he squirmed to get under the covers.  Riley stood and and helped cover his partner with the quilt.  He pulled it up over Travis’ shoulders and tucked it around him comfortably.  Inclining his head forward, Riley gently pressed his lips against Travis’ warm brow.  “Try and relax.  I won't be long.”

Heading downstairs, Riley sought out the small medical bag he kept behind the bar.  Digging through it he found the pill bottle and shoved it in his pocket. Getting an idea he grabbed a flask off the counter and filled it with some whiskey.  Not only would alcohol help Travis wash the meds down, but it would help relax and further warm him.  Taking a quick swig from the flask, Riley stuffed it in his other pocket then went to prepare their coffee.

After sugaring it how Travis liked, Riley added a dollop of cazador honey (brought back from his visit to New Vegas) to help soothe Travis’ throat. Carefully gathering the steaming mugs he next made his way upstairs to his ill partner.  “I’m really sorry you aren’t feeling well.  I’m sure this northern weather isn’t exactly something you’re used to right yet,” Riley commented as he placed a mug on the little table next to where Travis lay.  “Hopefully these aspirins will help.  My experience in doctoring isn’t exactly too high up there, but I most certainly won’t cause your demise.”

Travis twitched his moustache and grimaced over Riley’s attempt at a little joke.  “That’s mighty kind of you,” he rasped while taking the aspirins and flask from him.  Travis popped the pills in his mouth then took a few deep swallows from the flask before he handed it back to Riley.

Taking a mouthful of alcohol himself, Riley went to his side of the bed and set his mug down on the nightstand.  “The best thing for you now is to rest and let those meds work on you.  Getting something warm inside of you should help even more.”

“Like you?” Travis jested and wished he hadn't as he began coughing.

“Glad to see you haven't lost your sense of humor,” Riley smirked as he stripped down to his boxers.  Flipping back the covers he crawled into bed and gathered up his coffee, gently blowing on it before taking a sip.  “I think I’m going to catch up with my journal entries.  I am a little behind with that.  Is there anything else I can do for you before I start, or are you set?” Riley asked while reaching for his book and pencil.

"Well... I'd love hearing a pre-war story...love hearing your voice...relaxes me," Travis said as he gingerly sipped his coffee.

"A story?  Travis, you need rest, not listen to my ramblings," Riley replied as he reached over and absently began stroking Travis' hair, letting the black strands sift through his fingers.  Travis shifted his position and gazed up at Riley, his blue eyes shining eagerly.  Riley sighed and gave a soft chuckle.  He could never quite tell Travis no, especially when it came to talking about some pre-war topic.  "Fine.  What is it you'd like to hear about?"

The ends of Travis' moustache lifted to a weary grin which quickly disappeared as he began to cough.  "The old west," he grunted while taking a mouthful of coffee.  "Cowboys mostly...I wanna know about all that stuff.”

Riley inwardly groaned.  Even though history was right up his alley, cowboys wasn't a topic he was totally savvy with.  Hopefully the limited knowledge he did have would be more than enough to satisfy his own cowboy.  "Well," he began slowly, not exactly sure how to start this pre-war history lesson.  "The word cowboy comes from the Spanish word vaquero as I’m sure you might know.  Buckaroo, from what I gather, is English speaking people back in the day not knowing how to say vaquero correctly.”

Taking a sip of his coffee, Riley took a moment to ponder what information he could even tell Travis that would be new.   Travis had a decent knowledge of the pre-war west thanks to his vaquero ghoul friend Raul.  There was also a small assortment of books dealing with colonizing the west up in the penthouse that he knew Travis read countless times.  For that matter, Mister House no doubt had plenty of discussions with the courier about such things.

Furrowing his brow, Riley considered asking if there was a more generalized topic Travis was interested in.  The western subject was rather vast and varied and Riley honestly had no clue where to start.  Fortunately, Travis unwittingly helped the situation.  “How's about the cowboys in movies?  Was the west much different in how it's portrayed on holotapes?”

“Movies?  Ummm...oh!  Hell yes!  Western movies hardly came close to accurately depicting the true life of cowboys.  In fact movies had it where basically anyone wearing a Stetson was considered a cowboy.  White hats were the good guys while black hats were the bad.”

“Reckon I'm a bad cowboy, huh?”

Riley smirked and took a swallow of his coffee before reaching for his flask.  “Not even close,” he grinned as he poured the whiskey into his mug.  Seeing Travis had his mug held out to him, Riley poured the remainder of the alcohol into it then settled back comfortably against the covers.

“Anyway,” he continued.  “Cowboy life was almost always shown as a glamorous one.  Huge herds of prime cattle, champion horses, the finest gear.  Real cowboys were usually poor men simply trying to make a buck or two.  Movie cowboys were also portrayed as dashing, clean cut white men.  In reality most cowboys were people of color and that included Native Americans.  Speaking of Indians, they weren't even portrayed by Natives in movies or television shows, but rather they were mostly Italians.”

Travis snorted, “That's mighty stupid.  Why'd they go and do that for?”

“Mighty stupid as you said, but it's a story for another time.”  Riley paused from his banter to finish the last of his drink.  Glancing to his left he noticed Travis looking as if he were finally fading from the waking world.  As Riley placed his empty mug on the nightstand he asked, “How are you feeling, Travis?  Do you still want me to continue?”

Travis nodded while staring at the remainder of his drink.  He swirled the contents around before downing it.  “S-sure,” he said behind his hand as he tried to stifle a yawn.  

Riley smirked and took Travis’ mug before he ended up dropping it.  Gathering his ill cowboy in his arms and making him comfortable, Riley continued with his unusual history lesson.  “One interesting fact about the life of a cowboy is there were a lot of gays joining the roundups.  Back in those days folks had to hide their sexuality.  No one cared what people did out on the range as long as the job got done.  Many gay men knew it was the one way they could be themselves without being judged.”

Snuggling down against Riley’s chest, a soft sound escaped Travis’ throat making Riley wonder if he had fallen asleep at last.  A few moments passed and Riley was about to reach for his journal again when the dozing Travis suddenly started to caress over his arm.  “Y’all finished?” he drawled.

“I could be if you’d like me to be,” Riley chimed as he tightened his arms around his lover.  Travis shook his head no and voiced his interest in hearing more of what Riley has to offer.  “Don’t force yourself to listen to me ramble.  You need rest.”

“Ain’t forcing nothing...one more story, then I’ll go to sleep.”

“Very well.”  Riley began to sift his fingers through Travis’ hair while trying to think of a random tidbit of information on the Hollywood version of cowboys. “Here’s a little bit of trivia.  The reason cowboys used to sing sad, lonely songs was mostly for soothing the skittish cattle they watched over.  I’m wanting to bet that style of songs was where country music came from eventually.  In Hollywood the singing bled into a lot of the shows and almost every actor was now a country singer or vice-versa.  Gene Autry is one such actor.  Roy Rogers and Dale Evans were a very popular duo and…”

“They're from that song!” Travis excitedly interrupted.

“What song?”

“Let's ride into the sunset together!  Part that goes something like I'll be your Dale.  I'll be your Roy.  I know you heard it back in Vegas.”

Riley thought about it for a moment and suddenly recalled the sweet little country song.  “I seem to remember you most certainly did like it.  You blasted it and Big Iron every time they played.”

Travis nodded against him when his entire body suddenly relaxed.  The minor burst of energy gone thanks to his pending illness.  “Y-yeah...I like that song.  Riley...can I...can I be your Dale and you be my Roy?”

Chuckling, Riley rested his chin on Travis’ head.  I’d love that, but you do know the Dale they’re referring to was a woman, right?”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Uh-huh!  Husband and wife team...very popular and beloved.  They had a big ranch named the Double R Bar and were in plenty of films...even had their own television show.”

“Dale’s a dumb name for a girl,” Travis grunted as he began lightly caressing his hand over Riley’s arm.

Riley felt Travis’ touch falter every few seconds showing the cowboy’s fight to stay awake was finally coming to an end.  “How about you forget about the name thing.  Let’s keep the song as I’ll be your Riley and you’ll be my Travis.  Does that sound good?  Would you like that better?”

A series of unintelligible sounds came from Travis before he lifted his hand up to wave off the conversation.  “S’ok...I’ll be Dale...ain’t...uhhh...ain’t shavin’ and...and ain’t wearin’ no dress, though.”

Riley blinked behind his glasses and couldn’t help but chuckle and shake his head at the odd reply.  Apparently Travis was suffering from a mild bout of delirium brought on by either the fever, exhaustion, or the bit of alcohol he consumed with his coffee.  Maybe it was a combo of all three.  “Fine.  No dress.  You haven’t the legs for one anyway,” Riley jested while bowing his head down to give Travis a tender kiss on top of his head.

He waited for a response, but got none.  It was then he felt the steady breathing and weight on his chest indicating that his partner finally passed out.  Smiling to himself and hugging Travis to him, Riley said quietly, “Sleep well and get well fast my little buckaroo.”

Fin~

[captusmomentum]

Excessively detailed asks: 1-19 odds only for Inan, 20-38 evens only for Tace plz :D

fuck me running this is a lot OKAY HERE WE GOOOOOO

INANALLAS

(heads up the pronouns are gonna jump around here bc inan uses they//them and she/her so hopefully doesn’t get too confusing rip)

1. What does their bedroom look like?

Surprisingly Clean. They’re exactly the type you’d expect to be super messy but thanks to living in such small spaces like aravals all their life they’re very good about keeping things in come kind of order. This stands even for modern verses, they’re very good about it. In verses they’re inquisitor they actually rearrange the room a lot, putting their bed on the balcony and making the main floor more of an office/living room as well as creating panels to help block out some of that sun bc HOLY SHIT WINDOWS, they also have a panel set to block the view of the bed which is really just wedged between it and the railing. The little bed alcove is very cozy and the main floor is much more functional and better for have friends up :D In modern aus, like say amd, they’re one of those people who’re like ‘ live in an apartment that’s only 90ft big :D’ and when they show you how it’s like part science miracle and part acrobatics bonanza. Like look at any tiny home or tiny apartment type show/place/thing and thats’ how they Roll. Mainly bc they’re fucking Broke AF, creative/innovative and well trained by dalish life for it. So bedrooms are usually like, lofts and shit like that which can mean it’s not much more than the essentials of Snoozing. 

3. Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often?They do! Inan works out pm everyday in pm every verse. Their style of magic is very, very very physical so it requires a lot of working out and training even in verses where they’re not constantly murdering ppl like canon ones they gotta get diesel for magic. In most verses they primarily do a variety of martial arts (or just one elf/dalish one? depends on how deep into worldbuilding you wanna get here honestly) and then things like running, weight lifting general kinda fitness exercise things. I imagine in modern verses and such (maybe more canon ones too tf do i know) that places like Arlathvhen’s there’s like, a sort of pow wow/olympics type event that goes on and clans have people representing them and Lath was disqualified for cheating bc she’s Weak in the temptation of Victory so Inan is the Obligatory Contender in at least some of the mage events, usually like, dueling bc it’s ironically her specialty. So she really does have to stay sharp when in verses where there’s no fighting bc she’s gotta bring home gold for clan Lavellan. 

(if u wanna get a sense of how inan fights it’s a LOT like pm anyone from avatar the last airbender/Legend of Korra especially Korra and Katara(atla) )(apologies about the katara vid and that shit music there’s So Little out there sobs)5. Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)

Inan isn’t the most organized or together person which is combined w/ their dalish upbringing is why they’re Hyper Organized. Things have places and they go there ALWAYS otherwise they’ll never be found again ever. Also lots of labels. Their own living spaces are more organized than their work spaces, generally bc other ppl touch things or put things on their desk. Every time someone touches their things they have a small heart attack bc it means that something CRITICAL might have been moved and will never be found again. Seriously they are held together only by the power of their aesthetically pleasing organization and labeling. So school is Really Fun in modern aus (read: i’ve considered having them be a high school dropout for Various Reasons).7. Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time

They Dream of wasting time. They Long to waste time. Everyday they pray they can waste time. Usually a lot of her time goes into things like Clan Stuff, Magic Stuff and Work Stuff so any chance they get to dick off they do. They fave method in modern verses is tv or youtube but in canon-y verses its Tavern w/ Bull or Tavern w/ Sera, the 2 people most likely 2 not call her out for Ditching Shit. Drinking w/ Dorian and/or Varric is very high on the list in all verses.9.Makeup?

Naaaahhhhhhhhhh. Generally too lazy for it and doesn’t like feeling of it on her face. Also it’s a real Bitch bc she’s always got tats on like 70-90% of her face and freckles (which she actually likes) so like foundation’s a Nah but you can’t do things like cover her dark circles w/o foundation otherwise the difference is Too Obvious like it’s just a Disaster. She can be convinced to wear it at special events and things but someone else has gotta do it. 

11. Intellectual pursuits?Some and very disorganized. Generally answering any Burning Mystical Questions they have regardless of worth or importance, debating (fighting) about topics involving analysis in books and things, Fade Stuff, Learning Elvhen. They don’t really actively pursue a lot of things bc they’re doing so much shit normally, they really only pursue it when the interest strikes. Also, proving that the occult is Real and Valid.13.Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general?hoooooooooo boy dksjlgjfdsgfk, pansexual demisexual/grey-asexual is probably the best description. they don’t know they just like people and they don’t think about it they don’t think about Sex Stuff or ppls orientations it’s all W/E IDK and while they’re not prudish or squeamish about it they will run screaming for the hills things get too raunchy. Sex –especially sex involving them– has them looking for the nearest exit, not necessarily bc they’re sex repulsed but they are Extremely Anxious and Scared of interpersonal interaction so kissing is yiKESSSSSSSSSSSSS15.Biggest and smallest short term goal?Hmmmmm that’s really hard. Biggest is usually like: Not Die. Smallest is something like: whatever is next on to do list. They live a life of unnecessary extremes. 17.Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dressGoth mori/strega fashion vibes. Lots of skirts and layers and looking very much like a peasant wizard. Usually they just dress for the weather and put on as many layers as they can to feel safe and protected (and snuggly). There’s a lot of similarities in their logic about it with Uthvir but with miles of soft fabrics instead of spikes. Usually darker colors with an emphasis on blues. There’s not too much in the way of ritual around it since they’ve tailored their wardrobe so they can grab things put them on, and look good w/o any real effort.

 here’s the for inan fashion stuff 

19.What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

Usually they go through a very specific ritual when going to sleep since they’re a dreamer to help keep that shit on lock which involves a lot of emptying of the mind and relaxing and preparing to deal with Fade Shit. If they don’t it’s just existential dread, anxiety and depression shit and panic. So they don’t not do the thing…….

TACE

20.Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them?Tace wasn’t really sick much more than the normal amount and kinds as a kid and was the kind who conks out the whole time and doesn’t say, try to get up and play. As he got older and his dreamer abilities started to kick in he reacted to it like someone who was very sick, fevers, hot and cold, sweating. slept too much or not enough. He began to have trouble keeping food down and lacking an appetite which he still has problems with to this day along with sleep trouble and exhaustion. 22.Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?either doodles of dicks and such or a rude, raunchy or somehow unacceptable letter to someone whether he knew them or not he wrote for a laugh with no intention of sending. He’s very mature24.Is there one subject of study that they excel at? Or do they even care about intellectual pursuits at all?He actually excels in a lot of things, he’s a pretty gifted mage. He just Hates the Circle and all that academia type shit so regardless of his skill in them he doesn’t want to do them. He thinks intellectual pursuits are on a whole a waste of time because they’re mainly just there to make people feel more important and fancy.26.Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t workout?NOPE. NONE. past maybe ‘consult with that statue of Eleni Zinovia back in Ferelden about what to do w/ my life’ and ‘get a boyfriend’. 28.Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy?hoooooo that’s Rough. Probably Banal though he’s more a father figure. He wasn’t very close to his other mages and hated the templars. Later when he meets Keshet and Shalev I guess they become his best friends which is...... very gay and lame.

Worst Enemy is Cullen and Meredith but Meredith is dead so fuck youuuuuuuu Culllleeennnnnnnn.30.Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies)Boy This Sucks [Drinks like a monster even more than usual] 

he’s pretty desensitized to tragedy but also a shambling mess so it’s really just his usual self but like 1000000000000000% worse for a while

32.Thoughts on material possessions in general?

MORE PLEASE. he loves shit give him all the stuff he wants to lounge in a gaudy parlor on a opulent chaise. He never got to have much in the way of possessions in the circle so he lots shit now. also he’s just a material little shit.

34.Thoughts on privacy? (Are they a private person, or are they prone to ‘TMI’?)He doesn’t care about other people’s privacy pretty much at all and loves getting into people’s shit but he’s VERY intense about his own privacy. He’s deeply protective of himself and his things and privacy. So he’s a wildly hypocritical guy.36.What makes them feel guilty?Not fucking much. He occasionally feels bad about how he’s treated someone but it’s not often and he’d never say it out loud. just kinda adds it to the pile of fuel for self-loathing.38.Would they consider themselves a Type A or Type B personality?

He’d be a Type A if it weren’t how his life has gone so I guess he’s like, a burnout Type A. 

[sickfics101]

ANOTHER KLANCE FIC. Take it. :V  Prompt from here!

Summary: Keith gets stranded in an unknown city on a cold day with no way to get home. He calls Lance to come pick him up, not knowing that Lance is already sick and should be resting instead.

Last bus: 10:45PM

Next bus: 6:15AM

Keith stares at the sign. His shoulders sag, his breath leaving him in a cloud of white.

He’s doomed. He’s stuck in a city miles away from his own house, and he’s just missed the last bus of the night.

Shivering, he brushes the snow off of a bench and sets his bags down on top of it. His fingers feel like they’re turning to ice, so he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, trying to keep his body from shaking too badly.

This is all his fault. He’d been the one who had been insistent on coming all the way here. He’d taken a bus after lunch, travelling miles and miles from home just to reach this obscure city–it was the only one that happened to have motorbike parts he needed, and he’d planned his trip so he could navigate using his phone and get back before it got dark.

As it turned out, he’d ended up getting miserably lost in the city, and his phone had died on him due to the cold weather. After spending hours wandering around, he’d finally found his way back to a train station on the other side of the town.

And the last bus left half an hour ago. Just his luck.

He doesn’t know anything about this city, doesn’t have anywhere to stay for the night. It’s too far to walk back, and it’s too cold to sleep out here.

He glances up. The snow slants as it falls from the gaping sky, snowflakes turning gold in the sparse light of nearby streetlights. Shivering, he pulls his jacket closer around him, the spare change in his pocket rattling from the movement.

Change. There’s a payphone across the street.

Keith hates bothering people, especially when it’s this late at night. There are not that many people that he trusts enough to bother in the first place, and most of them are unavailable. Hunk is out of town, Shiro and Allura live too far away, Pidge doesn’t have her own car yet. But maybe if he asks nicely enough, he can convince Lance to drive him back.

He picks up his bags, wincing as his fingertips brush against the frigid bench railings, and starts off to cross the street. This is a bad idea, he’s sure, but he’s tired and cold and he can think of nothing better.

He just really, really wants to be home.

Lance has been feeling off all day.

He’d wakes up with a slight headache and a slight case of the sniffles, but he ignores it and goes about doing work like he always does. But apparently, this is the type of illness that hits really quickly – by noon, his head is pounding and the room is spinning.

Everything is too cold. He shivers, pulling the zipper up on his jacket. Who decided that this was an acceptable building temperature? It really isn’t.

He makes it through the morning–at least, until he runs into his section commander in the kitchen. He’s pouring himself a cup of coffee, but the exhaustion from the past few days is really getting to him: his hands are trembling and he can barely hold the cup still.

His commander takes one look at him and shakes her head. “Go home, Mcclain.”

But he really needs to get things done today. The work deadlines are coming up, and he can’t afford to fall behind. “No, Commander Smith,” he starts, before clearing his throat. “I assure you that can work through this. I promise–”

He’s cut off by a harsh fit of coughing, which lasts for longer than it should. When he finishes, he realizes he’s spilled some of the coffee in his cup, and Miss Smith’s disapproving frown has shifted to an outright scowl. “I wasn’t offering, it’s an order. Go home.”

“But deadlines–”

“This is not debatable. You look like you’re about to fall over, and I’m almost certain you’re contagious.”

Lance’s shoulders sag, and he nods, just once. He is feeling pretty bad, and he doesn’t want to get his coworkers sick. “I’ll clean up the spill and leave,” he concedes.

“Good.” The commander turns on her heels, starting out the door, before she comes to a halt again. “I don’t want to see you here tomorrow, got it? Get some proper rest.”

And so now he’s at home, six hours before his shift ends. He’s been trying to work at home, anyways, but the harsh lighting of his laptop screen is making his headache worse, and it’s almost impossible to concentrate when he’s feeling this shitty.

Sighing, he closes the device, plugging it into the charger, and makes his way over to the bed. It’s not a long walk, but he’s exhausted and dizzy, and the world is tilting in ways that makes the trip more difficult than he should be. When he finally gets there, he sprawls himself over the sheets face-first, but immediately starts shivering and has to sit up again to crawl into the covers.

His whole body feels off. Maybe he’s worse off than he’d thought.

He stifles a sneeze into a cupped hand, and then turns over onto to his side, letting his eyes drift closed. He’ll just sleep this off. Hopefully he’ll be better by the time he wakes up the next morning.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t wake up the next morning, but rather late into the night, to the sound of his phone ringing on the bedstand. He picks it up, staring blearily at the blinding screen. Unknown caller ID. He frowns, almost opting not to pick it up. Whatever stranger is calling him at this hour really needs to learn how timezones work.

He presses answer anyways. All of a sudden, a warm, familiar voice is flooding into his ears: “Lance?”

“Keith?” He’s more than a little surprised to hear his boyfriend on the line. “What’s up?” he manages, his voice still groggy from sleep.

“Thank god you picked up,” Keith rambles. He sounds frantic. “Can you come drive me home? I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m stuck here and I don’t have enough change to call a taxi.”

“You what?” Lance pushes himself upright, blinking back exhaustion. “I… I thought you were taking public transportation home?”

“I got lost. I missed the last bus.”

“Keith, it’s almost midnight. You want me to mess up my sleep schedule and drive for an hour just to come get you?” Lance teases, smirking into the phone. He’s already out of bed, phone tucked in between his ear and his cheek while he searches the closet for his jacket.

“What? I didn’t… didn’t m-mean that...” Keith’s voice wavers on that note. He really sounds shaken up about this. “...but you’re right. Sorry for bothering you. I’ll, uh, f-find a way...”

“You’re lucky I’m the best boyfriend in the world,” Lance says. “Tell me your location and I’ll be there.”

A pause. “Thanks, Lance. Really,” Keith says, sounding better already. He relates the name of the station he’s at, and Lance listens, holding the phone at a distance away from him as he stifles sneezes and coughs as quietly as possible.

“I’m in the car. Be there in 45,” Lance says, “is it snowing where you are?”

“Uh… yeah. It’s… it’s snowing pretty hard.”

“Make sure you keep warm, okay? If there are any open shops nearby, go wait there.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t get lost again.”

“Okay.”

“I need to hang up now, alright? I’ll be there soon.”

“...Okay.”

Keith is asleep on a bench across from the station when Lance finds him. He’s surrounded by a mountain of bags, wearing only a light jacket that definitely isn’t meant for weather like this.

Lance stops his car at the curb, rolling down a window. “Keith?”

Keith stirs, his head tipping upwards at the sound of his name. A fresh layer of snow has settled on top of his jacket hood, but it slips off as he stands up, hastily brushing stray snowflakes from the folds of his clothing.

He moves all of his bags into the trunk, then slips into the passenger seat. Even in the warmth of the car, he’s still shivering, and Lance mentally curses himself for not bringing any extra clothing for him.

“Didn’t I tell you to keep yourself warm?” he asks, an eyebrow raised as he starts the car again. “You could’ve waited in a shop or something.”

“I didn’t want to get lost again,” Keith explains, zipping up his jacket with trembling hands.

“Oh my god,” Lance huffs. “you could’ve just printed out a map before you left home.”

Keith frowns, fishing his dead phone out of his pocket. He stays motionless for awhile, staring down at the unlit screen with an expression that looks like betrayal.

“I was going to use my phone, but it died on me.”

“That’s why you charge it before you leave–”

“I did! It died from the cold, not from low battery.”

“That’s unlikely.” Lance lifts one hand off the steering wheel to stifle a few coughs into his fist. “Was it really that cold outside?”

“Well... yeah.” Keith puts his phone away and leans back again, crossing his arms. “It snowed all day.”

“And you couldn’t have checked the weather?”

“That wouldn’t have–” Keith stops abruptly, his mouth slamming shut. Lance is about to ask him if something’s up, but Keith beats him to the chase: “Are you cold?”

That catches Lance off guard. “What makes you think that?” He scoffs, because yeah, he’s cold, but Keith doesn’t need to know that. “Are you changing the subject because you don’t want to talk about how much of an idiot you are–”

“No, it’s not that.” Keith cuts him off, sounding distracted. Lance takes advantage of a red light to steal a glance at him, only to realize that Keith is already scrutinizing him closely. “You’re shivering.”

Shit. Uh. “I’m not,” Lance lies, trying his best to stop his body from trembling. He hadn’t even realized until Keith pointed it out.

Keith raises an eyebrow. “You’re not?”

“Okay, maybe I am slightly cold,” Lance concedes, absently wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “Why? Aren’t you?”

“No.” Keith blinks, tugging at his scarf so that it unravels a bit, “it’s nice and warm in here. It’s a bit too warm, actually.”

“Yeah, well. Staying out in the snow for half a day probably messed up your sense of temperature.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Keith turns his head to stare out of the passenger window. Lance pinches the bridge of his nose, stifling two sneezes into his hand while his boyfriend isn’t looking.

The silence that follows is unexpected. Lance clears his throat quietly, ignoring the sharp pain that surfaces as a result. “Did you find the components you needed?”

Keith perks up at that. “Yeah, I actually did.” He’s usually a quiet person, but when he’s passionate about something, he can talk about it for hours. “I needed a particular set of brakes, right? It turned out that the shop I was at ran out of stock, so I had to go all the way to the northern end of the city…”

Lance just listens quietly, too tired to say a word. His head is pounding, and he can’t quite keep up with everything that Keith is saying, but he likes hearing the sound of his boyfriend’s voice. It’s nice.

He drives quietly for awhile, caught in the warm, comfortable haze of the words he hears but doesn’t process. Then, suddenly, he realizes that the Keith’s voice has turned a couple degrees sharper:

“–Lance? You still with me? Lance!”

His name turns from static to sound in his mind, and he blinks, snapping out of the trance. “Sorry, I zoned out. What’s up?” His voice sounds awful. He hadn’t realized how so much congestion had accumulated in such a short amount of time.

“I asked if you could pull over for a sec,” Keith reiterates. “I have something I need to get from the back trunk.”

“Oh. Sure.” Lance maneuvers the vehicle carefully to the side of the street. “Go ahead.”

Keith slips out of the car and shuts the door behind him. Lance leans back in his chair, his posture sagging, and waits as a particularly harsh coughing fit runs its course. No wonder he was sent home. He’s really feeling like shit right now. Driving isn’t exactly the most strenuous activity, but the 45 minute trip here has somehow sapped all of the energy from his body, and his headache from this morning hasn’t let up at all.

To his surprise, a few seconds later, his own car door is pulled open. “Keith, what are you–” he starts, but his sentence cuts off sharply when Keith sets a hand onto his forehead.

“You have a fever,” Keith states, as bluntly as ever.

Lance shrugs noncommittally, drawing away from his touch. “I thought you were getting something?”

“I wanted to check your temperature, but I knew you wouldn’t actually pull over if I phrased it that way.”

“Oh.” Lance blinks, slightly disoriented. “That’s... true.”

Keith is reaching out again, but this time, Lance doesn’t have the energy to move away. His fingers are cold, but not icy, and they feel inconveniently nice on Lance’s too-hot cheeks.

“You’re burning up.

“Or,” Lance counters, “maybe your hands are just too cold.”

Keith removes his hands, and Lance almost wants him to put them back again. “Did you go to work like this?”

“I got kicked out,” Lance admits sheepishly, looking down, “my section commander sent me home.”

“I can see why.”

He scowls. “Shut up.”

“Why did you drive here anyways?” Keith demands, changing the subject. “You should be resting.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “I went home early, I’ve been resting all day–”

“That isn’t enough. Don’t you always lecture me about how sleep debt is a thing? You’ve barely gotten any sleep all week.” Keith pauses, frowning, and Lance deflates a little. It’s true. He’s been so busy with work lately that he hasn’t really been getting proper rest.

“I’m… sorry?” he offers, before twisting away to cough a few times into his hand.

Keith huffs a sigh, resigned but affectionate. “Here, let’s switch seats. I’ll drive.” He takes Lance gently by the forearm and leads him out of the car. As soon as Lance is outside, he can’t stop his body from shivering anymore–it’s utterly frigid. How the hell did Keith manage to spend half a day in this weather?

Thankfully, they’re not outside for long. Keith lets Lance to get settled in the passenger seat, then slips into the other side of the vehicle. He sets the car into motion again, and Lance just stares blankly out of the windshield, wondering how this situation has managed to turn around so quickly.

He’s starting to drift off again when Keith’s voice breaks the silence, steady and warm. “I wouldn’t have called you to pick me up if I knew you were sick.”

“I still would’ve come,” Lance says.

Keith shoots him a glance, skeptical. “What?”

“I still would’ve come to get you,” he repeats, sniffling. His eyes are already halfway shut. He’s so tired.

“Why?” Does Keith really not get it yet?

“Because it’s for you,” Lance says, even though that much should be obvious.

For awhile, Keith doesn’t respond. But when Lance opens his again, he’s smiling.

[tsaritsa]

a strange fate with wandering limbs / ch iii

this story can also be found on ff.net or ao3.

FIRST CHAPTER PREVIOUS CHAPTER NEXT CHAPTER

On June 19th, Riza Hawkeye falls asleep at approximately 11.28pm. On June 20th, she doesn't wake up.

Heymans Breda will honestly say this is the worst week of his life, and he's had some really shit ones in his lifetime. The week his mother died is up there - she had been fighting a particularly awful type of cancer and by the week of her death the skin just hung off her bones like ill-fitting clothes. But it was a death that his whole family had come to terms with weeks ago as the doctor’s predictions grew more and more dire. 

But this? Captain Hawkeye’s death and the implications that go with her death make this situation much worse on so many levels. 

Nothing compares to the scream? Wail? Howl? That is General Mustang saying the Captain’s name over and over again like it will suddenly wake her up. It is a guttural, visceral, hurting noise that reminds Breda of nails on a chalkboard. It is unnatural, and Breda has had a lot of experience with the unnatural over the years. It is not right. Nothing about this is right – as soon as they realised that the Captain hadn’t shown up for work Breda had a bad feeling. The woman was rarely sick, and when she was Mustang would already know (he and the other men had their own ideas about how he found out about that). The office had watched them leave, and the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

He wished he hadn't volunteered to go with the General. He also wouldn't wish this on anybody. But here he was, sitting in Captain Hawkeye’s kitchen on the phone with the emergency services operator while he waited for the ambulance to arrive, furiously trying to ignore the guttural cries coming from the bedroom. 

Both he and the emergency services operator know that there is nothing that can bring her back. She was unnaturally still, and Black Hayate wouldn't dare go in the bedroom. Breda might not like dogs much but at least this one is smart enough to understand that his owner is beyond saving at this point.

He still can't get over the fact that she's dead. Captain Riza Hawkeye, who fought through the Ishvallan Civil War and the Promised Day and came out relatively unscathed, is dead. He had been talking to her just yesterday at work. 

It suddenly occurs to him that he will never hear her voice again, and that sets him off again. 

"Are you there, Mr Breda?" asks the operator. Breda wipes at his eyes. 

"Yeah, I am. Sorry."

"That’s fine, Mr Breda. I've just gotten notice that the ambulance has arrived, they'll be arriving at the apartment shortly. Is your..." the operator struggles a little here, probably able to hear Mustang’s cries just as well as he can.  "Is he still with her?"

"Yeah,” Breda sighs heavily, trying to calm himself enough to answer a single question without sobbing. “I think they'll have a hard time separating the two of them."

"I see. Hopefully it can be done with little stress."

Breda hears voices now, and heavy footsteps. A medic pokes his head around the front door. 

"You called for an ambulance?" he asks. 

Breda nods, and thanks the operator before hanging up the phone. 

"She’s in there but-" he's interrupted by another cry. Breda gestures to her bedroom. "Her comm- her friend is in there and he's...not taking it well."

The other medic shakes her head. "We wouldn't expect anybody to take it well. Do you think he will be violent?"

Shit. "I’m...not sure," he replies. "He’s a state alchemist and he's...I’ve never seen him like this."

The first medic sighs and digs in his kit, bringing out a needle filled with some fluid. "This is a tranquilliser," he explains to Breda. "We’re going to use it on your friend because the last time we got in an alchemist’s way they nearly took my arm off. You alright with that?"

Breda holds up his hands in surrender. "Do what you need to do," he says quickly. "Do you want me in here or...?”

The two medics look at each other before looking at Breda. "Stay out here," the woman says. "Less chance you'll get injured."

Breda nods, and settles himself back down on the chair. There’s quiet voices coming from the bedroom and Breda hopes that the man can control himself for a moment before-

“NO! YOU WILL NOT TAKE ME FROM HER SHE’S M-”

The medics come out a minute later, carrying Mustang and lower him onto the couch. “He should be out for a few hours,” the woman says, opening a box and passing it to the man who ducks back into the bedroom, returning moments later with the used syringe. “But I would recommend moving him somewhere else – he is obviously quite distressed. Setting him off again could be dangerous.”

Breda nods shortly, watching as the man leaves the apartment at a quick pace. “Where’s he-?”

“We need a stretcher,” she replies simply, presenting him with forms and a clipboard. He tries his best not cry again.

She leaves in a black body bag, with the medics throwing a pitying glance at Breda and Mustang, who was still passed out on the couch. Hayate whines from where he is under the couch, big black eyes focused on Breda. It is a little unnerving.

Carefully, feeling like he had aged a hundred years, Breda closes her bedroom door, resting against it and breathes deeply. Both his CO and XO are out of action. That puts him and Havoc in charge. He needs to call them.

Now.

Eventually, he sits down by the phone again and punches in the familiar number. It doesn’t even ring once before Fuery picked up.

“What’s happened?” was all he asks.

Breda sighs heavily. “Captain Hawkeye has gotten a cold. Her neighbour Louise said it’s nothing to worry about. The General has admitted he might also be under the weather.”

There is the briefest of pauses before Fuery responds. “First Lieutenant Havoc will be notified. I will make the necessary arrangements here. Anything I else I need to know?”

“I might go to the bakery by Parkview General on my way back,” Breda says, watching the General carefully. “Or possibly to a tea shop on Pinewood Avenue – would you like me to get you anything?”

“No, I still have plenty of tea here. Thank you for the offer.”

There is a click as the call ends, and Breda puts down the phone, hanging his head in his hands. Havoc wouldn’t take long to get here – he drove like a maniac at the best of times. How long did they have until other people made the connection? At the most, a few hours – but that was assuming people weren’t already talking about what happened in the office this morning.

Fuery could make the necessary calls within that time from his apartment – he’d grab what he needed from Mustang’s office and be gone before anybody would notice. He was good like that. Unassuming and quiet, always dropping off the radar of others’.

It has only been seven minutes when he hears Havoc striding down the hallway, and he wipes at his face for what feels like the billionth time. There’s a knock at the door, and Breda is too exhausted to walk.

“It’s open,” he calls out, and Havoc enters and takes one look at Mustang on the couch before locking the door behind him quickly and pulls Breda into crushing hug.

“Fuery said Louise-”

“He did-”

“Fucking hell,” Havoc mutters darkly, slapping Breda on the back as he pulls back and looks to where Mustang is. “We’re going to Madame’s?”

Breda nods. “I haven’t called her yet, I-”

Havoc shakes his head firmly. “You’ve done more than enough Breda. Go wash yourself up – you look awful. I’ll call her.”

He nods, before ducking back into her kitchenette and turning on the tap. The water is blissfully cold, and he can barely hear Havoc over the sound of the water hitting the pewter sink.

There’s a moment where Breda thinks he might be ill. It passes, but then –

Breda promptly vomits his breakfast into the sink.

It’s a few minutes before he feels like he can move without feeling faint. Havoc has sat on the couch next to the General’s limp body patiently waiting. Breda can’t understand how he can remain this calm.

“You ready to go?” asks Havoc, stubbing out the cigarette he was smoking on the ashtray next to him on the side table. Breda knows that Hawkeye doesn’t – didn’t – smoke. He’ll have to come back here and remove what incriminating evidence he can find tomorrow.

“Yeah,” he says eventually, moving away from the sink. “You okay to carry him?”

Havoc nods, and makes short work of throwing Mustang over his shoulders. They walk down to where he parked the car at the back of the apartment complex, Breda watching carefully for anything out of the ordinary – and any eyes where they shouldn’t be. East City is largely under the Madame’s jurisdiction, but when it comes to the General it is safer to assume that no rules apply.

Havoc covers him with his coat before sliding back into the driver’s seat, and turns the ignition. “Let’s get the fuck outta here,” he mutters, quickly merging into traffic.

It’s largely silent in the car as Havoc makes his way across town.

“Havoc,” Breda begins, fiddling with his keys uneasily. “How is- how can- the General, he didn’t take this well. And there’s still the- the funeral too.” He chokes up a little here. “Do you think he’ll manage to keep himself together enough to attend it?”

Havoc sighs. “Mate, I don’t know. So long as he’s with Madame I don’t think he’ll-” he cuts off here suddenly, an awful look growing on his face – Breda realising a second after.

He and Havoc look at each other uneasily. 

"You don't think he would-"

"He’s not that stupid-"

There's an awful silence looming over them and Breda will kick himself if he loses another colleague this week.